The Quill (2011) - St. Ignatius College Preparatory

The Quill 

The Literary Magazine of St. Ignatius College Preparatory, San Francisco, 2011

Dear Readers, 

We invite you to step into this year’s Quill. A full year has passed since our last issue, and we are excited to present our longest 

literary magazine ever, where over one hundred different worlds eagerly beckon you. Robert Frost wrote that “poetry is discovery,” 

and within these pages lie fairy princesses, shoelaces, and sailboats, all waiting to be discovered. 

Too often flashy primetime television and trivial text messages steal us from the quieter beauty of art, but now you have an 

opportunity to relax. In your hands you have not the works of poets and artists long dead, but the creative ideas of your fellow 

Ignatians. On the pages before you, the emotions of our student body blend into one melting pot of literary genius. 

For now, ignore that show and ignore that text, because this collection of student expressions requires your full attention. We 

invite you to step into the world of SI’s imagination and discover something new—after all, poetry is discovery. 

Welcome back! 

Anna Sheu 

Editor-in-Chief 

Cody Warner 

Editor-in-Chief 

Cover Art going clockwise from top left: 

1) Beyond the Beyond • Emily Lynch ’11 • Art 

2) Soundwaves • Olivia Raggio ’11 • Art 

3) Untitled • Maya Sommer ’13 • Art 

4) Mondrian Face • Terilyn Choi ’13 • Art

The Quill • 2011 

The Literary Magazine of St. Ignatius College Preparatory, San Francisco 

Published by the English Department 

with cooperation from 

the Fine Arts Department 

Editors-in-Chief 

Anna Sheu 

Cody Warner 

Production and Design Editor 

Giovanni Briggs 

Art Editor 

Megan Hoff 

Tom Altmann 

Lorena Arriola 

Deanna Beaman 

Mira Bollman 

Camille Martin 

Conor Cannon 

Jeremy Chan 

Kate Christian 

Kerry Crowley 

Editorial Board 

Tom Curran-Levett 

Filippo D’Asaro 

Stephanie Darden 

Katie Dobberstein 

Morgan Edwards 

Victoria Elias 

Brian Fung 

Katie Girlich 

Kathleen Hayes 

Jacqueline Hazelwood 

Megan Hoff 

Caroline Hoyem 

Paul Hwang 

Rena Kolhede 

Ted Niemira 

Luke Pappas 

Cole Priest 

Alena Shikaloff 

Faculty Advisors 

Ms. Elizabeth Purcell 

Mr. Jim Dekker 

Ms. Carole Nickolai 

Faculty Support 

Mr. Carlos Gazulla 

Mr. Paul Totah 

Ms. Katie Wolf 

www.siprep.org/english • email: thequill@siprep.org

4 • The Quill 2011 

Solace in a Forest • Houston Garcia ’12 

Photography

SAINT IGNATIUS COLLEGE PREPARATORY 

2001 37th Avenue 

San Francisco, CA 94116-1165 

(415) 731-7500 

To the SI Community, 

In a perfect world we would honor the artists, poets, and writers as celebrities, the most valued citizens in our society. 

With pens and brushes and computers in hands, this tribe of creators observes the world of the particular and of the 

grand to discover what it means to be a human. The next awesome step is creation. Skillfully these innovators create a 

mirror for us to view life as they perceive it; in it they reflect truth and beauty. These talented men and women shape 

their insights into the perfectly phrased line or the well-constructed image, and we respond with our hearts and our 

minds to the masterworks offered to us. Great artists ask the right questions that startle us and invite us to examine what 

we truly value. Artists and poets deserve a king’s treasury. 

As you turn the pages of The Quill, prepare to be amazed! At SI we have a community of artists talented beyond 

compare. Hundreds of students from every grade level submitted superior literature and original artwork that satisfies 

and inspires. They demonstrated their passion and dedication to art as they brought their ideas, mere flickers in their 

brains, into a physical reality so that we, the audience, could envision life anew, reconsider our attitudes, take a leap of 

faith. We will remember their visual images and their emotion filled stories and poems long after we close the pages of 

this literary magazine. The SI community honors these visionaries in The Quill because they are the voice of SI, the voice 

of our city, the voice of our time. 

In addition to those who are now the published poets and painters, I would like to thank the Editorial Board who 

selected the many incredible entries for this year’s Quill. With careful planning and keen aesthetic sensibilities, these 

individuals have produced the lengthiest and most beautiful edition of The Quill. We are also grateful to Ms. Purcell, 

Mr. Dekker, and Ms. Nickolai who moderate and encourage The Quill staff. Countless hours and love went into the 

production of the world’s best literary magazine, and our gratitude has no limits. 

Enjoy every page of The Quill, 2011. 

Sincerely, 

Kate Denning 

English Department Chair 

The Quill 2011 • 5

Beyond Here Lies 

Beyond here lies nothing. 

The broad folds of a midnight-blank stiffened sky, 

is the sole thing that is true and remains. 

But when we are so privileged 

to see our dead sky shift, 

the dam gives birth 

to delicate light, 

and we realize 

beyond here lies everything. 

David Melone ’13 

Just a Baby • Noelle Langmack ’12 

Photography 

6 • The Quill 2011

The Old Ballerina’s Death 

She discovers herself on an old stage. 

It feels familiar, 

but the curtains are worn, 

only patches of the red velvet remain. 

A single spotlight illuminates the platform. 

Cautiously, she steps into the light. 

For the first time she notices what she is wearing, 

a simple leotard, tights and her old pointe shoes. 

Hesitantly, she spins into a shy pirouette. 

Her muscles feel ages younger. Again. 

She spins again and again. 

Her tight bun begins to loosen, 

strands slowly unravel. 

quickly, quickly, quickly. 

She cannot stop, she will not stop. 

Her troubles, prayers, hopes, dreams! 

They all disappear. 

And then she stops. 

Breathing heavily, she leans on her knees for support. 

Looking up, for the first time, 

she sees the audience. 

Not one seat is empty, 

every chair is filled with a familiar face. 

Smiling, loving, encouraging. 

And for the last time, 

in their honor, 

she begins to dance. 

Gracefully twirling towards the Light. 

Taylor Warrington ’13 


Reverie 

Ready to go 

Breathing breathing 

Have to hold on 

Stronger stronger 

Move up the mountain 

Climbing climbing 

Almost to the top 

Faster faster 

I made it, just breathe. 

I’m at the top of the world. 

Everything that’s there, I feel. 

I smell the sharp scent of trees in the gentle wind, 

I see the sparkling water spread out before me, 

I’m under the wide expanse of cloudless sky. 

Can I stay here forever? 

No I must leave. 

Back to the ground 

Falling falling 

I open my eyes, only to realize 

It was only just a dream. 

Natalie Onken ’13 

Westbound 

He took my heart on the westbound train. 

I don’t know where he’s taken it. 

Neither does he. 

I have half a mind to go after him and take it from him. 

But I wouldn’t be able to. 

I want him to have it. 

He can keep mine forever, 

As long as I have his. 

He took my heart on the westbound train. 

I’ll wait until he catches the eastbound one. 

Stacey Ward ’12 


When Mr. Summerton bought the little blue cottage on 

Morrill Lane, he simply assumed the miniature door 

under his home was for storage. He trudged down into 

his damp, musty basement countless times to try to force the tiny 

bronze knob to budge, but it never turned. After two weeks, his 

efforts to break through the mystery of the minute door ceased. 

That was, of course, all before tonight. 

Mr. Summerton awakes drenched in a cold sweat, his heart 

beating wildly, images from the terrifying dream flashing through 

his mind – a hideous face overwhelmed by watery, expressionless 

eyes and lined with patches of matted fur; yellow, cracked claws 

longer than daggers and just as lethal; stained teeth dripping with 

warm blood. He attempts to regain control of his breathing, mind 

still fuzzy. Suddenly, he hears pattering footsteps echoing from the 

Uninvited Guest 

Timeless • Phoebe Boosalis ’13 

Photography 

hallway. Each step drives an icy needle of fear into his heart. 

As he removes the covers from his bed, Mr. Summerton 

shivers despite the warm air of the night. He creeps through the 

shadowy hallways of his home with his heart pulsating in his throat. 

Turning the corner into the kitchen, he glimpses something from 

his peripheral vision and raises his only means of defense, a rusty 

letter opener. A foot covered in matted brown fur disappears behind 

the door leading down into his basement. Mr. Summerton follows 

hesitantly and opens the chipped door a tiny crack. He quickly 

scans the dark room through squinted, bloodshot eyes, stopping 

at the little wooden door with the bronze knob. His heart was 

pounding. He was sure he had seen the door knob turn. 

Catherina Kolhede ’12 


Your Beat 

Famished, you feed off my energy 

Solitaire, you fight alone 

Your big, brown eyes tell nothing of your past 

Your screams are too low 

Branded across your face, 

My image burns the eyes of all who see 

Inked across your mind 

I’m all you know 

Written across your heart, 

That constant beat gives life to the empty You wish it would stop, 

Locked away in that grey ice box 

Powerless without my key 

You look out your window 

Trying to grasp a fragment of freedom 

But you know deep down 

You could never leave home 

Rachel Yan ’14 

Piano Work 

Click with a snicker 

Feelers flicker 

Knuckle the keys 

Pounding on sea 

Crescendo arrests 

Pitches contest 

Rattling riffs 

Hands stinging stiff. 

Scales stream, surmise a reservoir, disguised, 

Currents flow down wrists, 

Arpeggios accompany 

Triplet rivulets 

Half-dream faded, 

Rolling legato unraveled, 

Seeps, into bone and nerve 

Shadowed passions rattled. 

Do reim the ivory, 

On this, a quarter rest, 

Through echoes of a broken chord, 

Now bleeding from your breast. 

Candy Janachowski ’14 


Ascent • Ian Moore ’11 

Photography 

Me and Hip Hop 

October 12, 1995, day i was given birth to yeah thats right i’m alive 

and don’t deprive, me of my future talents, I grew up around shattered windows, broken ceramics all on the floor, this was ma 

life as a baby I know right who could ask for more, As a kid wanted to be the best, better than all the rest, not a day passed 

by when hip hop took a rest, around my style, took me awhile, to get accustomed to the game, never ashamed, of the music 

I listened to in my brain, went insane, went i heard those rhymes, for the first time, summer of 99, ma mama thought it was 

crime, i was small but i knew i fell in love with the beats, the sounds, the rhythms, and to me so round like a circle not a prism, 

from then on I was hooked, even when it shook my body into pieces, sound so pleasant like a babbling brook or sleeping nieces, 

this was me in the past this is me right now, I live for these feelings with ma bass so loud, take everyday step by step, inch by 

inch, i’m guna rep ma rep then sink and clinch. 

Andy Sandoval ’13 



Don’t worry – she won’t die • Nathalie Rodriguez ’11 

Art

Noise-Cancelling Headphones 

I could really use a pair of some noise-canceling headphones. 

They’re all the rage, I’ve heard, these days, 

But yes, the noise outside has become a little too overwhelming, 

A little too distracting, biting, distressing, a little too overwhelming. 

For starters, the perpetually repeating, perpetually pounding thump of my alarm clock must go, 

Forget those baggy eyes, but please – give back my sleep, give back my sanity! 

Simply one extra hour, or maybe two? That’s all I ask, I’m begging you. 

Even the snooze button surrenders in this day after day nightmare, 

But I bet it’s nothing that these headphones can’t handle. 

Just, please – please don’t leave me in this never-ending battle. 

Or what about all the jibbering and jabbering of class lectures, 

Quickly filling the precious minutes of my hourglass with empty air bubbles, 

Or the recurring frustration and exasperation, incessant grumbles and groans of Mom and Dad, 

Honestly, my room, posture, manners are tolerable, even satisfactory to everyone but you, 

Or what about those college counselors, with the heavy downpour of stress they bring, 

Or the malicious rumor that just started burning, the racist remark that just came hurling? 

I could really use a pair of some noise canceling headphones. 

But wait, just a second, I’m curious to know – just how much noise does it cancel? 

There’s humility in the homeless man, as he begs down the street, 

Fortitude in the student as he stands up to confront the “elite,” 

Confidence in the teenager as he bravely asks out his crush of one year, 

And courage in the boy, as he declares his homosexuality without a hint of a blush. 

What about these noises? Are they noises? They could be simply sounds. 

These noise canceling headphones, I must be completely assured, 

Will stick to only noises of blubbering and blabbering, nothing less, nothing more. 

I say, Let the voices of tenacity, audacity, and spunk be heard strong and loud, 

With that, I am off – for there are some noise-canceling headphones to be found. 

Caitlin Lee ’12 


Elemental Haiku 

Fire 

Flames flash through the dark 

It burns a path of scorched earth 

A sign of passion 

Water 

Waves crash against rocks 

Quenching the thirst of all life 

A wet way to live 

Air 

Gusts blow through the land 

Sweeping across the bare plain 

Blows things everywhere 

Earth 

Gaia, the source of life 

Residence for growing plants 

Smooth on the bare foot 

Justin Eng ’13 

His test reads positive. The doctor says he’s positive. 

There was no mistake. There’s nothing left to do. 

He can only wait. He doesn’t even remember the 

silly drunk mistake. How could something so good put his 

life at stake? No protection, sealed to his fate. Sealed by a kiss 

and now he feels the pain. HIV running through his veins. 

But now his lips are sealed; he doesn’t see a reason for talking. 

Wondering now. 

Aren’t we all just dead men walking? 

Death We Have In Common 

never do it. Feeling to guilty and they’d all be stuck watching. Still 

Hungry. 

Aren’t we all just dead men walking? 

The baby who took his first breaths. Heart ticking like a bomb, 

implanted in his chest. Tik-tok. But it’s more like a timer or a clock, 

counting every sec. He’s too young to talk. So he’s crying. Maybe 

its because he knows we spend our lives dying. It’s not something 

worth defying, but don’t stop yourself from trying. 

And see that little girl sitting on the corner? Asking for 

some food, but nobody takes her order. So she bottles all 

her anxieties, pains, and fears. So thirsty that she drinks her 

own tears and pride she swallows. No matter her situation 

she never ever wallows. Despite her own strength her bottle 

remains hollow. Her glass is half empty and so is her stomach. 

It’s getting tempting cause she feels like she’s been punished. 

Noose around her neck and she’s ready to plummet. Imagines 

herself hanging. From the streetlights, feet dangling. She could 

It might seem existential, but this knowledge is empowering. 

We move on to greater purpose and fertilize flowering. Circular 

Logic. Everything goes around. Fear is lost and meaning is found. 

I’d rather be a dead man walking, than a dead man beneath the 

ground. 

Aaron Gallagher ’11 


Please laugh the hardest 

Please laugh the hardest you’ve ever laughed my angel said to me 

But in a matter of decades I ran out of jokes, you know, like the silly ones that come from joke books and from surprises. 

Next the angel told me: sing so loud then that everyone hears your voice; 

well, piece of cake, la dee da, I’m like Beyoncé in Dreamgirls, yeah that’s right – you better “Listen”, the world seems to 

echo off of my notes. 

But then I lost my voice from years of straining to reach the highest ones, the most pure of sounds, the most deep 

connections to each person’s soul. 

And then my angel said to me, you must love so much that no one will ever forget you again. 

And I said, yes, I can do that, just watch me. I’ll love so that you’ll think I was born a heart and nothing else. 

I’ll love the world, 

and see the playful and inexplicable rays of each person’s soul, 

I’ll smile worthily and I’ll live angel, 

I’ll live. 

Monster 

I am a monster 

I am the follower that kills in God’s name 

I am the other man that uses his aka 

I am the napalm that burns all matter to ash 

I am the bullet that wants to solve a culture clash 

I am the cancer-causing mutation-making uranium 

I am the disease-dealing people-purchasing cranium 

I am the shrapnel embedded in the kid’s thoughts 

I am the tear in the treaty, starting up battles long fought 

I am the mustard gas, shriveling and burning 

I am the hopelessness, designed to kill all yearning 

I am the Zyclon B, robbing the breath from your lungs 

I am the man who’ll make you talk after I cut out your tongue 

I am the mob mentality that delivers you from your mind 

I am the land mine, just waiting for the right time 

I am the bloodied wall, marking the outlines 

I am the scattered remains of those on the sidelines 

You blame me like some kind of vagrant mobster 

But don’t you remember me, Daddy? 

You created me 

I am your monster 

Kevin Crouch ’12 

Nicole Wong ’12 


I Am No Stranger 

There she stands majestically, 

watching as I cross the gateway to my dreams. 

With one glance she sees the memories I hold in my soul. 

From rummaging the streets of Killanena in search of food, 

to witnessing the mass deaths of kin, 

she sees the famine of my country. 

Through her piercing eyes, 

she sees my aspirations for an education, a better life. 

With open arms she holds me tenderly to her heart, 

welcoming me into a new world. 

I am no stranger, 

she has seen me before. 

Upon embarking I meet a woman, 

with pristine eyes reminiscent of a serene lake from Shanghai. 

Her copper eyes penetrate my memories, 

reminding me of the family I left behind, 

of the daughter who pleaded, “Baba don’t leave.” 

Her sharp gaze strengthens me, 

as she rekindles the passion in my heart, 

reminding me of the opportunity present in this land, 

Through her torch she lightens my journey, 




As I step on new terrain, 

She sees me, 

a mere ant among her colossal city. 

Nothing but a mestizo running away from his country, 

a country filled with constant rains of artillery, 

a Gahenna that swallows indiscriminately. 

She feels the pain in my heart, 

of my dear pueblito I left behind. 

She sees my perseverance, 

my motivation for a peaceful life. 

Through her shadows she protects me, 




Charmaine Garzon ’12 


Grounded 

Being grounded is not my idle time 

Sitting on my bed playing the same games 

Now taking a break, struggling to rhyme 

Switching between text messages and AIMs 

When my phone is taken and my laptop 

I play with my dogs, listen to some tunes 

Practice my driving, making complete stops 

Wishing to fly off on a huge balloon 

Passing West Portal Park, kids flying on swings 

Parents and children on agreeing terms, 

I want to go back, with simpler things 

Time flies as fast as the passing of germs 

Back to my house, feeling jailed for so long 

I still don’t think I’ve done anything wrong 

Melissa Olcomendy ’13 

Sail • Isabella Cunningham ’11 

Photography 


Time 

in a sigh 

flies by 

goes high 

disappears 

into the dark, dank thing 

called yesterday 

seen only in memories, pictures, videos 

clings to today 

loses grip 

lets go 

escapes 

into the night 

of the night before yesterday 

when all was quiet 

silent 

after the glass settled 

the people huddled 

the animals slaughtered 

after the bombs dropped 

the cities destroyed 

the enemies sated 

before the creation 

the cremation 

the invasion 

the devastation 

of the yesterday 

waiting for today 

for hooray 

for someone to say 

Okay 

still waiting for 

Time 

Andrea Pruden ’12 

The Bell Tolls 

The Bell tolls, the bell tolls, 

It heralds us on Sunday morn, 

The sound, it rolls and rolls. 

The birds fly above in shoals, 

As crowds below eat bread of corn, 

The bell tolls the bell tolls. 

Water fills the sacred bowls. 

All shops around are closed, forlorn, 


The people come to fill their souls 

And sing as when their Lord was born, 

The bell tolls, the bell tolls. 

Transfixed in pain, His hands with holes. 

His life, it kept our souls untorn, 


So as he leaves, each breath extols; 

His soul is light; his face is worn. 

The bell tolls, the bell tolls, 


Chris Danison ’14 


Free Verse 

They say that free verse is an art. That it requires as much 

skill as the poetry of Eliot, Keats, or Dickinson. But I 

contend the opposite. I think someone could just write 

a paragraph and then go through it hitting the Enter key and it 

would come out looking like a “work of art.” Let’s try! Here’s a 

description of some blackberries: 

Yesterday, I walked through a field of blackberries at dawn. I 

saw the dewy berries hanging from the plants, ripe with juices. I 

saw the berries in a pie being served to hungry children on a late 

summer afternoon as a light breeze blew against the open screen 

door. The thorns crunched underneath my feet. I was at one 

with Nature, perfectly connected. But then I was pulled away 

from the moment, because of the buzzing in my pocket. Someone 

was calling me, on my Blackberry. 

Ok, we got it? Slightly boring, maybe, but a rather “poetic” 

paragraph, one could say. Now, let’s see it in “free verse.” 

Yesterday, I walked through a field of blackberries at dawn. 

I saw the dewy berries hanging 

from the plants, ripe with juices. 

I saw the berries in a pie being served to 

hungry children on a late summer afternoon 

as a light breeze 

blew 

against the open screen door. 

The thorns crunched underneath my feet. 

I was at one with Nature, 

perfectly connected. 

But then I was pulled away from the moment, 

because of the buzzing in my pocket. 

Someone was calling me, 

on my 

Blackberry 

I’m a poet, and I don’t even 

Understand it! 

Will Setrakian ’11 


Complimentary Colors 

As Green turns to Brown and Gold fades away 

The sun seems to signal the end of the day. 

Burns that hint at an old wild flame 

I said I would change, You said please stay the same. 

I’ve tried fanning coals but couldn’t get a single spark 

You can’t see Gold when you’re standing in the dark. 

Lying in clouds, but white pillows disperse, 

Coming down now, but I’ll had that it hurts. 

Caught in a moment, eternity lost 

Innocence gone, can’t remember the cost. 

The sweet words whispered in the night of that park 

You can’t see Gold when you stand in the dark. 

Blue skies, Blue oceans, and Blue raindrops 

I would drink your tears if it would make the pain stop. 

You’re like the sibling that I lost, like a sister and a mother 

You make me better and more beautiful, a Complimentary Color. 

I gave you my hand and I gave you my heart, 

So come walk with me let’s not be apart, 

You can still feel Gold when you can only see dark. 

Aaron Gallagher ’11 


The Promised Land Uncovered 

The journey over; but our hardships, not yet gone. 

Our faces strained with grief, but our spirits still live on. 

None of them familiar, yet I know them all by name: 

Maria, Clyo, Anastasia, Rusty, Joel, and James. 

We have gone and risked it all; all for a better life. 

Poverty, war, or family all augmented to our strife. 

Our eyes gleam with hope like miniature fireworks, 

as we take tender steps into San Francisco or New York. 

This is the Promised Land, a place of milk and honey. 

The roads paved with gold, each tree filled with money. 

Yet hidden around the corners of America’s Hollywood and Vine 

We notice a dash of discrimination, and other things malign. 

Get away. Move them out. Make way for our hopes and dreams. 

Education and prosperity, a place where justice reigns supreme. 

Won’t let the shadows of the past ever compromise our future, 

as we seek new lives and fulfill that eager sense of adventure. 

And what now, when I am senescent? Where do my hopes lie? 

They are fulfilled in my children, in the adverse fate I once defied. 

She looks at me, her mother, with a blank and awkward stare, and 

I wonder does she know the journey that paid her passage’s fare . . . 

Sydney Bernardo ’12

I Hear Tranquility Singing 

I hear tranquility singing, hidden away 

In a place reserved for those who listen 

I hear the bay, splashing with each ebb and flow 

I hear a pond, echoing with every bird’s gentle decent 

I hear the fishermen casting and reeling in their lines 

I hear a breeze whistling around me 

I hear tranquility singing, hidden away 

I see tranquility waiting, hidden away 

In a place reserved for those willing to look 

I see the setting sun shining through weeping willows 

I see clouds chasing each other through the sky 

I see water glistening at the top of every ripple 

I see the beauty every one else ignores 

I see tranquility waiting, hidden away 

I feel tranquility present, hidden away 

In a place reserved for those who are open 

I feel every blade of grass as it fights against me to rise 

I feel safe hidden away in plain sight 

I feel transcended from the industrial modern day 

I feel freedom within as I lay in the grassy hill’s embrace 

I feel tranquility present, hidden away 

I smell tranquility wafting, hidden away 

In a place for those who are there 

I smell the salty air as it rises up 

I smell nearby plants as their pollen floats by me 

I smell nature as it envelops me and pulls me in 

I smell my surroundings as they bring back distant memories 

I smell tranquility wafting, hidden away 

Taylor Evans ’12 


Masked Childhood • Kelsey Krook ’11 

Photography 

Wishes 

Sometimes 

I wonder 

Where they have all gone 

Every wish 

Every hope 

Every prayer 

Floating around 

Like eyelashes 

Or the feathery hairs of dandelions 

When you close your eyes 

Does a breath of wind 

Scatter them about 

Pieces of the sky 

Floating angelically 

Where only the birds can see 

Or maybe they just fall 

From your fingertips 

Spinning lightly 

To the ground 

After a while 

They will get crushed 

By loud, careless feet 

They will be 

Pushed 

Into cracks in sidewalks 

Buried 

Beneath the soil 

Until they coalesce 

And start to form 

Every wisp of hair 

Every vein 

Crawling up leaves on trees 

Our every thought 

And hold the earth 

In their delicate hands 

If someone 

Were to pick apart the sky 

Would they find 

All of our wishes 

Tangled up 

Like wind-blown hair 

Sometimes 

I just wonder 

Where they all go 

Or if they only dissolve 

Into breaths of air. 

Lily McMahon ’14 


Chances are 

Her dark red hair streams from the passenger side of 

the rusty pickup truck, and she leans out of the car, 

screaming from the exhilaration that comes from being 

seventeen and alive during a perfect summer day. 

He turns up the car radio, and Tim McGraw streams 

through the speakers. “This is my favorite song!” she screams, 

the rural highway swishing behind her head. He turns his 

head and looks at her, singing the chorus, trying to capture the 

memory of seeing life at its fullest. 

Opportunities seem to abound, and their chances of 

escaping Orick, Humboldt County, California seem not like 

dreams but like reality. Maybe he’ll end up going to Cal, he 

thinks, smiling to himself. He’s always wanted to see the crazy 

hippies in San Francisco, and he’s sure that Lily would like 

shopping at a fancy department store. 

Lily looks over at Ren, and she thinks that maybe, just 

maybe, she won’t end up working at the Kwik Mart like her 

mom, now that she’s met him. He’s her ticket out, her way to 

get out of Orick. He has goals, dreams, aspirations. She smiles and 

leans in to rest her head on his flannel-covered shoulder. 

Chances are… she thinks, pondering her future. 

But their chances don’t turn out that way. 

Ren ends up joining the army a year later. 

He comes back on leave, to face a wife and baby and the 

resentment that grew for a year and a half. 

Lily doesn’t end up shopping at Nordstrom’s. She buys her 

clothes at Wal-Mart and comfortable sneakers for her long shifts at 

the Kwik Mart. 

And when Ren lies next to Lily at night, or when he’s sweating 

from the hotness in the base in Kandahar all he can think about is 

that summer afternoon and how their chances seemed so bright. 

Camille Vinogradov ’12 

Splash • Hailey Falk ’13 

Photography 


Pictures, Not Poems 

If a picture speaks 1000 words 

Why then can I not draw a picture? 

To speak the words 

That I would need to write 

so many times over… 

How do I write about the red gold sun 

that blazes like a fire 

Or about the newborn flower 

that blossoms in the early morn 

to express the life only seen through a picture 

So 

If a picture speaks 1000 words…. 

Why am I writing this? 

Rebecca Ash ’13 


The Final Moments 

A sudden shiver rushes down your spine as a creaaaak sounds underneath you. 

You turn your head and look down the narrow staircase, 

The crooked steps vanishing into the darkness below. 

The walls close in and produce looming shadows all around. 

Just a few more steps until you reach the small, white door. 

You turn the rusty knob and push the door open. 

The smell of old furniture drifts out towards you, 

A smell that brings a bit of warmth and comfort, 

A smell that brings you back in time, 

A smell that brings the memory of a 5 year-old girl, 

Lying in a soft bed under the covers, reaching out to her mommy, 

Seeing her mommy smile, feeling a soft kiss planted on her cheek, 

Smelling her mommy’s sweet perfume, and hearing the words, “I love you.” 

Little light protrudes as you head towards a small toy chest sitting in the corner, 

A chest with old toys and pictures, full of laughter and joy. 

You smile when you pick up a dusty picture frame with Mommy and Daddy 

Beaming up at you, 

Their eyes laughing without a care in the world. 

A large shadow moves along the wall next to you. 

Your mouth goes dry, scanning the room frantically. 

Suddenly, the door bangs shut and from behind it, a pair of yellow eyes. 

Coldness pierces your skin and the world turns silent, spinning around you. 

Glass shatters at your feet, and breath escapes your lungs. 

A shape lunges towards you, 

But you swerve to the door. 

You turn the knob but the door is stuck. 

A cruel laugh fills the room. It knows. 

You shake the door again and again, screaming for help. 

Its footsteps move closer and closer. 

Sweat pricks your body like a thousand knives and a lump forms in your throat, 

Shaking the knob again and again, tears blurring what was once just a plain white 

door. 

It comes forth another step. 

Finally, the door swings in and you leap out, reaching for dear life! 

But air rushes out of your chest, and you can’t move. 

Coldness wraps around your throat and drags you back into the dark. 

No one can rescue you now, no one can save you. 

The door slams shut once more. 

All you can see is a pair of yellow eyes, 

The eyes of a monster. 

A sight that stops your heart from beating, 

A sight that brings you back in time, 

A sight that brings the memory of a 5-year-old girl, 

Lying in a soft bed under the covers, reaching out to her mommy, 

Seeing her mommy smile, feeling a soft kiss planted on her cheek, 

Smelling her mommy’s sweet perfume, and hearing the words, “Goodbye.” 

Valerie Chiang ’13 


Two Worlds Collide 

Remembering a time of long ago, 

I see myself in my baby blue tutu, pale pink tights, 

Ballet flats with the pink ribbons criss-crossing my little legs, 

My hair tight in a bun. 

I am as graceful as a delicate white swan. 

I nervously wait for my cue on the stage. 

As I look out into a fairly old aged crowd, 

I am alone. 

As the soft, classical music starts, 

I pirouette, leap, and twirl. 

Even as a nine year old, 

I am swept up in a tradition of pointing and flexing ballerinas. 

I travel years later to a street corner 

Ballet shoes have transformed into bright, high top sneakers 

Baggy sweat pants have replaced tool tutus. 

Calmly observing the teenage audience, 

I am not alone. 

Once I hear the bass kick, 

I pop, lock, groove, and break. 

The rhythm grabs me 

Fast, booming beats connect with my soul. 

Pride in the new generation inscribes hip-hop dance. 

Over time, one world prepares me to navigate to the next. 

Dance is my way of expressing freedom 

Emotions depend on the day 

Suggesting vibrant or pastel colored outfits, 

High tempo beats or slow instrumentals. 

Dictating the rhythm of the music, 

Flexibility, balance, stamina, and focus of dance. 

I can be who I want to be, 

Unique. 

Julia Murphy ’14 


A Mystery Experience 

Have you ever had an experience that scars you for 

life? Well, I’ve had one… 

It was a cold and dreary afternoon. Bobby 

had just finished his basketball game and was driving 

home to take a shower before going to the championship 

game after-party. Always white, clean, and fresh smelling, 

I was tucked into the corner of Bobby’s duffel bag 

and, caught up in the excitement of winning the state 

championship game, Bobby forgot about me! Me! The one 

thing that has always been there for him in those agonizing 

times of sweat and pain! 

So there I sat for hours. As Bobby celebrated with 

friends, I stayed in the duffel bag all alone with nothing 

but a pair of basketball shoes, polyester shorts, and a 

cotton t-shirt for friends. Suddenly, a cold hand woke me 

by surprise. Bobby’s little sister Vanessa picked me up and 

threw me into a large wicker basket. I tried to attract her 

attention by thrashing and screaming, but it was as if no 

one could hear me. 

Although I tried very hard, I could not figure out 

where Vanessa had thrown me. My surroundings were 

unfamiliar as a powerful musty stench overpowered my 

senses. Forcing myself not to breathe through my nose, I 

examined my new environment, feeling out of place and 

terrified to death. I turned one way and came face to face 

with a somewhat cartoon looking cat, which I swear I’ve 

seen somewhere else before. After ten minutes of trying to 

figure out where I’ve seen that hideous orange cat before, I 

turned the other way only to have something else scare the 

socks off me: a dark blue impenetrable material complete 

with a possibly life-threatening zipper and buttons with 

brass knuckles suddenly surrounded me. However, I 

somehow managed to escape this menace by running at 

full speed, jumping over piles of cotton reeking of sweat 

and dodging piles of cloth stained with everything from 

tomato sauce to paint. 

Just when I thought the worst had passed, I found 

myself surrounded by another impenetrable material, 

but this time in black. Why is nothing white in this new 

world? Exhausted and close to tears, I just closed my eyes, 

dreaming of my old world in Bobby’s duffel bag with my 

other clean, white, and fresh smelling friends. Five minutes 

later, I slightly opened my eyes, seeing that I was lying on 

several familiar items—they were the same size as me, the 

same shape as me, but definitely not the same color or 

smell. I tried calling to them in our native static language, 

but I only heard my own pathetic echo. 

What is this place that has turned my friends into 

gray, smelly, lifeless monsters? Somebody help me! I’m so 

lost inside this basket. I’m just a clean white sock; what did 

I do to deserve this torture? 

Megan Lau ’13 

God 

Is there really a 

Floating above 

over us? 

With a red pen and lightning bolts ready? 

Listening to our every thought? 

Watching our every move? 

sitting with his hands on his face, 

in what has become of us? 

Is he outraged at what we’ve failed to do? 

Is he all merciful and kind as the Bible claims? 

Does he really care? 

Or, like the rest of the world, has he lost all faith 

And interest 

God? 

watching 

Is he 

disappointed 

in me? 

Katana Collado ’14 


What Lies Ahead? 

Breath fills my lungs and escapes through my nose, 

Heat in my cheeks radiates through my face, 

Lips chap, 

Eyes blink, 

I’m here. 

Covers surround me, holding me in, 

The vent, softly hissing, lets in fresh air, 

Clocks tick, 

Light shines, 

I’m here. 

A brittle wood plank spans the whole world across, 

Most people balance, walking along, 

Body and mind as one steady force, 

Each proceeds calmly, pursuing a goal. 

But what of we people who look to the sky, 

Who try to conform but quiver in fear, 

Whose minds cannot silence wavering thoughts, 

Of creation and life and what lies ahead? 

Journeying on, we fall off the edge, 

Frantically tumbling down to a mass, 

Of turbulent water with towering waves, 

Drowning, we struggle, fighting for air. 

Weak from our wrestle, we must carry on, 

Dripping and slipping and trying to numb, 

Our wandering minds, our questions and doubts, 

We smile our hardest and stifle the pain. 

Imagine the force in the core of the earth, 

Or glimmering stars in the depth of the sky, 

The world through the view of different eyes, 

I wonder and hope that I’m still really here. 

Clouds overwhelm me, eight inches thick, 

Spinning, swirling, pushing me down, 

I try to escape but can’t send them away, 

Screaming inside, I try to walk on. 

Elaina Koros ’12 


Almost Famous • John Moran ’11 

Art 


Heritage (Child of the Americas) 

I’m a cowboy in Las Trampas, New Mexico, 

Going on a cattle run in 1935. 

I’m alive on dusty dirt streets, sweltering in the sun and adobe brick 

With blood centuries old, flowing upstream from the New World to Spanish fleets. 

I am unincorporated and rural like the northern mountains 

Whose shadow I toil in constantly amongst cattle and rocky pine. 

A cross between javelina and machine, 

I will withstand the frozen winters and arid summers 

With my spirit shouting “carry on” to my mind 

While my body is still around. 

I’m the little girl sifting through the rubble of 1906. 

I’m standing on bricks and watching the fire, 

Living to tell the tale a century later to new generations. 

I am watching a nation unfurling, fueled by gasoline, space shuttle engines, computer chips, 

And canopied by the linen sheets and clotheslines of Potrero Hill. 

I was cultivated in turn of the century San Francisco streets 

And breathing still in the next millennium. 

I’m a sentinel here after all these years 

Until I wear away and beat out rhythm 

As a memory in my family’s heart. 

I’m the Irish American man living in Northern California 

But sleeping on a patrol boat off the Pacific’s shores, 1944, 

Dreaming of the daughter I will not see until 1946. 

Either floating on that dark water or drifting south to Menlo Park, 

I’m living like a satellite at one moment, 

And becoming its starry trajectory in the next. 

Eleven years after I leave, my blood will fuse with another stream; 

The fruit is a child who bears my name. 

I’m a fragment of somebody else’s life 

Who was never a part of mine, born after my time. 

But most of all I’m a modern breed, 

Wrapped up in overpasses and ocean mist. 

I walk in valleys of telephone wires, city skyline spires, and painted Doelgers; 

Soldier of wars yet to be fought, father of children yet to be named, 

With the bones of my ancestors laying in the graveyards 

Of Colma, of Eureka, California, across cities, across oceans. 

I’m star spangled desensitized - 

Futuristic hybrid of tame and wild, 

And I’m the stanza in the future poem 

Of my great-great grandchild. 

Matthew Caracciolo ’12 


Rows and Rows of Cotton Fields 

The angry sun whips on my back 

licking at me with its scraping rays 

pounding out my pride 

pounding out my freedom 

Salty sweat slides down my face 

lingers on my chin for a moment 

before splattering into the cotton fields 

rows and rows of cotton fields 

My back is darkened 

my legs weakened 

my hands bronzed 

my head drained 

Rows and rows of cotton fields 

swallow all the land 

all the beauty 

all the freedom 

Rows and rows of cotton fields 

I am tied to them 

chained to them 

kneeling down to them 

My head is drained 

tired 

weakened 

hollowed 

My head is drained 

all the joy has gone 

fled 

from the rows and rows of cotton fields 

The sun cracks on my back 

I buckle over 

into the fields 

the rows and rows of cotton fields 

Camille Edwards ’14 

Inspired by “The Negro Speaks of Rivers” by Langston Hughes 


Lost: meaningful artifacts 

If found: Please return it to my part of history 

I am a child of the Americas, 

A dark-skinned Blasian. 

A great-granddaughter of the pre-colonial America 

A child of three continents, an infant of the conquered. 

Who am I? 

I could be the heir of Pocahontas. 

The daughter of the infamous Sitting Bull. 

My grandmother’s tears could have been on that trail. 

My brothers are the trees. The birds are my sisters. 

And the Earth is my sanctuary, my temple, my provider. 

Who am I? 

I could be the Kenyan prodigy. 

The sister of the medicine man. 

The grand-daughter of the wise griot. 

African Dance: the origin of all dances. 

I am not dance. Dance is in me, dance describes me. 

I stomp to the fast urgent words of the drum, I jazz to the swift melodic voice of the Harlem Renaissance. 

I am a Pacific Islander. 

A product of Tarlac. 

Guava, Mangoes, Ube, Macapuno are the fruits of my body. 

Like the moon, I inhale all of the dreams, nightmares, and fears faced by the abundant grains of sand 

Like the sun, I exhale the shining, living, successful example craved by the yearning, hungry waters 

I am a Native American Black Filipino. 

I am many ethnicities. But I am only one. 

To Filipinos: I am Black. To Blacks: I am Filipino. 

I have two homes, but neither can I call home. 

Search the ever flowing waters of the Pacific, the lost land of the Kikuyu, the Trail of Tears. 

You will not find it. 

Lost: meaningful artifacts 

If found: Please return it to my part of history 

Stephanie Darden ’12 

Inspired by the poem “Child of the Americas” by Aurora Morales 


The American Dream: Denied 

The nation has always tried to follow the rules 

Even while the world was on top, looking down on us as fools 

Then we made a run to be the best 

Giving hope to those that were never like the rest 

Fresh off the boat 

Receiving hospitality quicker than a homeless man receiving a coat 

Everybody wanted to be the “American” 

More pride than a Maryland Terrapin 

The “American Dream” was being chased 

Lives being renewed, pasts being erased 

Some chased till they hit heaven 

And others finally hit the jackpot, call it lucky sevens 

Legacies were created 

The present being torn down, while the future was already painted 

Yet, being number one wasn’t the acquainted 

Being the land of the “free” is wrong because as a nation, we fainted. 

Some fail to understand why the nation is hated 

Maybe because we fail to realize why the nation was created 

Fail to realize that the nation was built by minorities 

And yet after all of the work, we are denied entrance by the discriminate majorities 

Does the nation not realize that we are the so-called land of “opportunity?” 

The melting pot of the universe, yet lacking unity 

People from all over, struggling from everything but freedom 

And our nation intervenes, but doesn’t greet ’em 

From the southern border to those clinging to life on a raft 

Our nation sits there and denies we ever laughed 

We never tend to realize who actually “works” for this nation 

They are the unexpected, the ones that were born chasin’ 

The ones working long hours and getting paid less than minimum wage 

They are the words to nations every page 

They are the everlasting movement 

They are the immigrant... 

Living to work and working to live 

Is what my very own grandfather did 

Tryna play the game of life while odds weren’t on his side 

Tryna find the roller coaster to the top, he was in for a ride 

At first needed 

And then told the capacity has been exceeded 

He continued on a journey that would never stop 

Because of the denial to reach the top 

Working for himself without even knowing he helped build a nation 

Filled with hearts and minds that would die chasin’ 

Crossing back and forth so many times, he lost count 

Overcoming so many struggles, most would never think to amount 

Finally made a life as a citizen 

All of the pain overcome with his family being the medicine 

Yet, died watching his own people being torn to nothing 

While the nation sat there and never said something. 

Anthony Frias ’12 


She Did Not Remember Dying 

It is worth noting what Caroline did not remember, given 

what she did remember. She did not remember her red, 

mascara stained, puffy-eyed reflection in the mirror of the 

bathroom after glancing down and seeing the pink negative sign 

on the plastic stick held in her left hand. She did not remember 

frequently making love to her husband the weeks before, or 

how in her mind, it was “making children,” not “making love,” 

for there was no love to make between them. Caroline did 

not remember her father lifting her up by her right leg onto 

the gorgeous black creature towering before her on her 14th 

birthday. She did not remember naming the horse Tulip after 

her mother’s favorite flowers – the flowers that decorated the 

church for the funeral service she attended the week before. 

Caroline did not remember hearing her name, “Caroline Emily 

Ryan,” echoing throughout the gymnasium as she walked up 

the four steps onto the stage in her long blue graduation gown. 

She did not remember seeing the man before her snap back 

his finger on the trigger of the Smith & Wesson 9mm semiautomatic 

that stole her last breath. She did not remember 

dying. 

What Caroline did remember was the nerves bursting 

through her swimsuit as she carefully took a step onto the 

plastic, grimy starting block after hearing, “Next event: Girls’ 

100 Yard Freestyle,” over the static-filled loud speaker. For a 

moment, she remembered feeling what seemed like a small 

earthquake, but then looked down and saw it was only her 

nervous legs. She remembered adjusting her goggles one last 

time before taking her starting stance. Caroline remembered 

placing her right foot in front and curling her toes over the 

rough edge of the block. She remembered her fixated glance 

on the still blue water only feet in front of her, imagining the 

cold shock of water mixed with the hot rush of adrenaline. It 

excited her. Smiling as she took her mark, she remembered 

reassuring herself of the pace she was told to follow. First lap is 

to build without breathing; second lap is to pick up my kick; 

third lap is all out; final lap is everything I got left. The buzzer 

sounded and Caroline remembered diving in the pool, eyes 

closed with her body in perfect streamline under the water. She 

remembered the invigorating feeling of bursting through the 

surface and taking a breath, accelerating her kick to the point 

of her shins and calves becoming engulfed in a fierce burning 

sensation. She remembered racing. 

Genevieve Feiner ’11 

Inspired by “Bullet in the Brain” written by Tobias Wolff 


Bloom of Spring • Stephanie Wong ’14 

Art

The Dream 

This night I dreamed the strangest dream, 

I know not what it meant, 

Yet in it, do I feel, a deeper darker meaning. 

Let me relate, and you shall judge, 

What indeed I had been dreaming, 

And tell me friend if I be wrong, 

And this just a little jest. 

It began like this in my own room, 

Amid my books and dreams, 

And out my window, upon the fence, 

A little bird was singing. 

Perplexed was I, for you see, the day had long since passed, 

So I listened closely, to hear the song it sang. 

But upon my shift of weight, 

I found myself falling, 

And through the blackness I did go, 

Till at last I came to ground. 

But this ground, my friend, was as gray as dust, 

The place as still as death, 

But in this place there was one spot, 

One very bright green spot, 

And to this I went, my curiosity too great, 

And touched that one green dot. 

Alas! Not one thing happened, all was just a prank, 

Till I found, once turned around, that I was down for count. 

In ruins lay the things of past, and those of the future too, 

All that remained was the twisted present, 

But gone was the usual air. 

I imagine a silent tear rolls down, 

But perhaps that was just me, 

Then ’twas all gone, and I was left alone 

With my books and dreams and the old same home, 

But the bird silent and gone. 

Where that bird went only he knows, 

But I have a feeling I know where, 

Because you see that bird of mine, 

Lives right over there. 

Ella Nicolson ’14 

Thoughts of Apollo 

Immersed in space, I am completely alone 

As the daunting thoughts haunt my aching bones 

What is silently lurking now has grown 

And violently explodes like an open combat zone. 

I ponder and wonder about this puzzling place 

Nurturing my developing curiosity about the human race 

Along with all the erratic things it’s had to face, 

It feels like an exhausting boundless chase. 

I search for impeccable simple truths 

That I thought I had in my beatnik youth 

Once a fine flower now locked in bantam booth 

Never to emerge like a vile and sinful sleuth 

The silence that’s near ignites my fear 

Because being lost and alone seems quite clear 

And with that thought I form a tear 

As I gaze across the illuminating atmosphere 

My thoughts start to belittle my common sense 

I muse about Urania, her inspiration of the galaxy is dense 

With vague childhood memories, blurry, no clarity, unnerving 

suspense 

I quietly mourn that little white house with its little white fence 

Suddenly a fierce and fiery flash of bright light 

Like a cunning but chivalrous knight 

Creates a lasting and eerie fright 

As I fall wordless into the spell of the toxic night 

Caroline Stewart ’14 


Just Walk Away 

The bright lights on the ceiling 

Create spots on the shiny floor. 

We put our bags down and jog down the court. 

Just the usual warm-ups. 

They laugh and talk about last week’s practice. 

“She hits like a beast.” 

“I wanna set like her.” 

“I hated that sliding drill.” 

I do my squats in silence 

Noticing how heavy my body feels. 

I think about hours from now, 

When this whole day is done. 

Happy thoughts, only happy thoughts. 

The air fills with laughter, 

Cheers erupt around the room. 

More voices next me to talk, 

“I’m so excited. We’ll take ’em down.” 

“We have to win this guys, the JO’s are coming up…” 

That’s when I notice they have gone to the middle, 

Huddled up, to talk strategy. 

I slowly walk over, sighing. 

Then, the whistle blows. 

I find myself standing on the court, 

Feeling nothing, no excitement, no sweaty palms, nothing. 

The ball soars over and lands right next to me. 

“FOCUS.” 

“THERE ARE OTHER GIRLS WORKING TO GET 

YOUR SPOT.” 

“WHY ARE YOU STANDING THERE?” 

Why am I standing there…? 

Four years of standing there, 

But it feels like I’ve stood there forever. 

Reputation? Afraid to move on? 

I really don’t know. 

But I take a chance, and finally do what I want 

And not what everyone else wants. 

I walk off the court, pick up my bag 

And smile, my heart feeling lighter and lighter. 

I do what I’ve wanted to do for so long, 

And just walk away. 


Drucker Court 

Its surface shines 

And defines with lines 

What I can barely put in words. 

A senior, fourth season with SI, 

And those three before gone and passed by, 

Yet the seats of this bench still seem 

To pull me in like a bad dream. 

Positive, positive, 

I must be positive. 

But those fantasies of USF and me a hero 

Wither as the clock tick-tocks and strikes zero; 

Jersey comes home cleaner than clean, 

Joyous in victory, yet absent in self-esteem. 

Practice, practice, 

I must go practice. 

But how can I try much more 

When I fail to make the box score? 

Friends and family atop the stands in anticipation 

While I am glued to the bench in aggravation. 

Write, write, 

I must write. 

Left alone with these emotions to fight; 

Left alone with this eloquent might. 

I say to myself, 

On Drucker Court it won’t be me, 

That star you all shout and hope to see. 

But I will always have 

A.M.D.G. 

Cody Warner ’11 


Tap Tap Tap 

I 

hate this song why is this even on my iPod—way to cut me off bro I was about to merge— 

PREPARE TO STOP—tap tap tap—hum whistle hum hum—why am I so hung up on that it 

was just a comment—gotta get that spot cannot park across Sunset—at least go the speed limit 

I have a test to study for—whistle hum whistle whistle hum—Oh I can see the Farallons from here 

I love these clear days makes this road worth driving—what would it be like to just take a boat out 

there walk around the islands—they’re always out there looming mysterious—tap tap tap—hum 

hum catchy song lyrics—I’m not gunna be prepared for this test—not enough time never enough 

time—PREPARE TO STOP—what the hell why can’t I just have all the time I want—the light’s 

green buddy—didn’t get enough sleep but didn’t have enough time for homework didn’t even go 

on Facebook yesterday too much to do—what was that movie with the kid and the watch and the 

time-stops and all that—tap tap tap—that would be hella sick stopping time—at least I didn’t have 

morning practice like crew right now that sucks—need to study need to study—not enough time 

never enough time freakin out man—hello I have the right of way I almost hit you way to be an 

idiot—way to go Universe for making days so short I need more time—tap tap tap—they won’t care 

they probably forgot it was just a short small-chat comment it wasn’t even weird stop thinking about 

it it doesn’t matter—MUNI bus is the most annoying thing oh my gawd—more catchy song lyrics— 

oops probs shouldn’t’ve taken that turn so fast—need to find a spot—not enough time for studying 

not enough time for anything not enough time for life—tap tap tap—sweet spot thank you masters 

swimming—hum hum tap—I should have enough time—parallel park ready go alright let’s start 

that over success yee haw—this clock is wrong what time is it anyways—they really don’t care no one 

would care I wouldn’t care—tap tap tap—what is time anyways—oh snap forgot to lock the car great 

I was inside already—hum tap hum hum—yea sure a second is precisely the half-life of some obscure 

element but why who cares that means nothing to me—tap tap tap—all I hear is the ticking of my 

watch the bells before class my alarm clock why why why—tap tap tap—time is an illusion—tap tap 

tap—tap tap tap—tap tap tap—username password—tap tap tap—LOADING—tap tap tap—yea I 

have enough time—tap tap tap tap tap tap tap… 

Meg Summa ’12 

Ferris Wheel 

Buy your ticket, take your ride, how high will you soar? 

Ferris wheel can lift you up and make you beg for more, 

Far above the world again, high, distorted view. 

Round you go in circles, it’s your latest love and you. 

Soar to heights undreamt of, and hope it lasts forever, 

But Ferris wheel is a sideshow, and it’s Cupid at the lever; 

Wheel has many nuts and bolts, some strain at this height, 

You ride it to the apex, and pray they’re fastened tight. 

Far above the Earthly crowd, fuelled by fresh devotion, 

Ferris wheel is breathtaking – spinning Love in Motion, 

Don’t think of the last ride where some rusty bolts were found, 

Which made your lovely Ferris wheel come crashing to the ground. 

Why must rides come to an end, why do wheels break down? 

One day, king of all the world – the next down on the ground, 

When you hit the earth again, please, exit the ride, 

You’ve had your thrill, now move along – and hide your hurt inside. 

Victoria Eng ’11 


Lisa • Gina Pasquali ’11 

Art 

“Of course, when everything is already going to shit, I 

get pulled over – damn it!” she said to herself while 

glaring through the side mirror anticipating the 

policeman’s lumber toward her car. Her hair was slightly out of 

place, and her slightly-wrinkled clothes draped over her tired body. 

Hoping to avoid any suspicion, she had been speeding to get home 

by six. After what seemed like an eternity, the policeman finally 

got to her window. Without error, like a nervous rehearsed line, he 

asked “license and registration, ma’am?” She reached over, opened 

the glove box, and began searching for the requested items. Rifling 

through an assortment of items, she carefully pulled out baby wipes, 

Another Lateness 

hand sanitizer, napkins, perfume, and her ring, making sure not 

to drop any of them. She finally came across the package holding 

her registration. As she handed it to the policeman, she looked 

at him for the first time, mesmerized by his soft eyes and young 

age, debating if he would let her off. The thought passed quickly, 

because at this point she just wanted whatever was going to happen 

to happen quickly. She needed to rush home, cook dinner, and 

put together an explanation for another lateness – all in between 

daydreams of her most recent destination. 

Rachel Hinds ’11 


A Glimpse of the Moon 

The sky is dark 

The quiet of the night is upon us 

I catch a glimpse of your face 

As we sit on the porch of our home 

I see the light shine on you 

I catch a glimpse of your heart… 

The stars twinkle 

As I lift my face to the sky 

And in the black of the night 

The moon glows a pure 

Flawless white 

My gaze lowers 

To the motionless lake 

And though it looks like glass 

I know that if I touched it 

I would break its perfect stance 

As would the rain if it started to come now 

Like tears upon an angel’s cheek 

Ruining its beauty 

And yet perfecting the scene 

The moon’s reflection 

Bleeds into the lake 

Spilling a silver 

Godly substance 

I think it will shatter the icy stillness on the surface 

But it doesn’t 

Though I can almost feel the chill of the cold water… 

My eyes slowly drift back to your face 

The moonlight still shining in your eyes 

Lighting up your face 

The angles in your cheekbones touching gently 

Perfectly… 

Like an angel… 

And you complete the image 

A tear roles down your cheek 

But you hold your gaze unwavering 

And I catch a glimpse of your heart 

I catch a glimpse of you 

I catch a glimpse of the moon 

Ella Presher ’14 


Honor Among Students 

I see you working over there. 

I know you’re cheating; this I’d swear. 

I know you don’t want to get caught. 

Succeed in that field you did not. 

But I won’t say a thing to you, 

Nor to teacher, to whom it’s due, 

Nor to a single friend of mine, 

Your honor I shall not malign. 

Your honor is that of a teen. 

I would not send you to the dean 

For I would surely cheat as well 

Had I not studied for a spell. 

Because I’ve cheated once before, 

I see you, yet I shall ignore. 

Nick Lawrie ’12 

5-10 minutes 

It is a fact 

That within 5-10 minutes of waking up, you forget 90% of your dreams 

Within 5-10 minutes, what was once so vivid and real 

Blurs. 

Within 5-10 minutes, what just made sense 

Doesn’t. 

Within 5-10 minutes, your subconscious mind 

Dulls. 

Within 5-10 minutes, symbolism 

Is lost. 

Within 5-10 minutes, what was just everything 

Is nothing. 

Within 5-10 minutes of waking up, you pour yourself 

Coffee. 

Jane Pera ’13 


Last Lights off the Black West 

On the corner of Haight Street, a man stood singing a song 

and playing the guitar. He shivered as he sang soft, yet 

passionate lyrics about some age-old lover. Ever since I 

moved to San Francisco, I’ve noticed the sounds of the city—the 

street-musicians, the rumbling of an approaching Muni, the everpresent 

chatter—sounds that were absent from my childhood. 

Growing up in Wyoming, there was an eerie silence to 

the country nights… Something about the fact that a yell would 

echo on forever scared me, made me want to escape. My friend 

Sheryl and I would do everything we could fill to that silence. 

Sometimes we would bring pots and pans into the street at 

night and bang them around just to mess up the stillness. Other 

nights we would stand on a neighbor’s rooftop and yell as loud 

as we could. Maybe we liked the adrenaline rush from getting 

chased home by the awakened neighbors. Or maybe we wanted 

the attention. Maybe we wanted to know what it felt like to be 

worried about—to be cared about. 

The sound of Kate’s boot tapping on the cement 

filled the night. She leaned forward from the fence and 

squinted down the highway, where she could barely make out 

a figure approaching. Recognizing Sheryl’s pigtails, Kate ran 

towards her. 

“Finally,” Kate said. “Did you bring ’em?” Sheryl 

nodded. 

The girls hopped the fence, landing in a field of 

sugar beets. They stopped to listen for any noise, but there 

was nothing. 

They walked through the field, searching for 

constellations in the sky, and when they arrived at the barn, 

climbed the creaking ladder to the roof. For a moment, 

the two girls sat, legs dangling over the edge of the cracked 

shingles, watching a car’s headlights disappear into the night. 

“Ready?” Sheryl asked, unzipping her backpack. She 

pulled out a string of 500 Gram Cakes and lit the white string 

on the end of the fireworks. The girls scooted to the opposite 

corner of the roof. They waited, but nothing happened. 

“Must be a dud,” Sheryl said. She lit another match 

and aimed the fireworks down toward the shingles, trying to 

catch the flame. 

“Ahhh!” Kate screamed as the fireworks shot out of 

Sheryl’s hands and into the barn below. 

The girls looked at each other, eyes wide, and ran to 

the edge of the roof. They jumped from the barn and tumbled 

into the plants as a bright light illuminated the ground 

beneath them. 

“Run,” Sheryl said, “Run!” The girls ran for the 

highway, without looking back at the flaming barn. A siren 

sounded from somewhere down the road. 

“Shit,” Kate panted. “Get down.” They dropped to 

the ground and lay completely still. Kate glanced upwards 

and saw a policeman hobbling through the field, talking on a 

walkie-talkie and shining a flashlight in the opposite direction. 

The mechanical voice from the walkie-talkie 

disappeared behind them as they jumped up and fled towards 

the highway. 

“See you tomorrow,” Kate panted, and they split 

up, heading in separate directions. Kate ran farther and father 

down the road, and when she turned around, the flame in the 

distance was barely visible. She listened for the cop running 

towards her or for more sirens, but heard nothing. She 

collapsed in front of the road-side fence and sat, just listening. 

The night filled her ears, and she screamed, then pushed 

herself off the cement. She ran home. 

Looking back, I think mostly I was jealous of the 

quiet—of its perfection, its purity. I couldn’t stand knowing 

that I would never have that sort of stillness at home. That 

night I vowed to never stop long enough to hear the silence, 

to let it get to me. 

Theresa Martin ’11 


A Forever Frozen Lake 

When one looks inside himself, 

He sees a forever frozen lake. 

All he can see is winter’s big mistake. 

He can’t let anything go inside on the shelf, 

To be saved from the frigid ice, 

Which now brings pain not once, but thrice. 

Sam Bernstein ’14 

Found a Fault, Bound to Fall 

A silent, subtle inhibition 

Of dark-born hopes and wild addiction 

It smells so free, so clean, so warm 

So sweet, so calm it takes its form. 

Hear the storm with haste approaching 

See the signs your life reproaching 

The signs, those signs your mind preys witness 

The pain that hurts without forgiveness 

What now? Those signs call out 

False loving 

A worrying that your life means nothing 

Here there is a hope of beauty 

A thing of peace; to achieve, my duty 

This sign that mocks my life and taunts 

Of a life worth living and objects to flaunt 

And it haunts my soul to think to leave 

The family I love and without I’d grieve 

But I must do something 

Existence means nothing 

No hope and no life 

No freedom, this strife. 

I set the signs on fire, they go down in flames 

Just to rise like a phoenix and the pain remains. 

So I pack my bags and walk through the gates 

To enter a new life when I land in the States. 

Ben Richman ’12 


What is Poetry? 

What is poetry but the death of 

creativity, the angsty woman’s love 

tragedy, the death of naiveté, of child, 

bits of awe toward unmapped wild? 

Cringing, I loathe those rivers of “freedom,” 

those serpents of “evil” – tidbits of “wisdom.” 

Nay, it’s only prose with excessive white, 

a love of the return key, a lack of bite: 

omission of word, omission of form, 

the sprinkling of simile like a freakish storm. 

An iceberg concealing neither truth nor meaning 

which simply leaks forth the demeaning 

demeanor of these gutless artists as they 

cook their themes and purposes way 

too long in a smoking microwave 

of wit, with little avail for us readers to save. 

Gregory Disse ’11 

I Don’t Want To Grow Up 

Surrendering childhood is truly betrayal, 

The adult world locks out fairy tales. 

No mischievous brownies bring laughter, 

Events won’t end with happily ever after. 

In my world, fairy spells and wizardry are rich, 

An old hag is either a wise crone or witch. 

Turquoise-tailed mermaids fill the deep blue seas, 

Whilst chivalrous knights are eager to please. 

The Seelie Court flourishes in the golden rays of light, 

Whereas the Unseelie fey thrives in the shadows of the night. 

Dreams of glass slippers and frightening kelpies, 

Dazzling princes on white horses choose to help me. 

Wishes on stars do come true, 

So that I may not ever feel blue. 

I shall not depart from my Neverland, 

For it is my own heartland. 

Growing up shall never do, 

I’d rather be silly forever than for fairy tales not to be true. 

Helena Le ’14 


A Message in a Bottle 

A delicate leaf of simple intricate lettering, 

A painted picture shrouded in plain sight 

Sheltered from even the first sign of life 

Floating, falling through waves of thought, 

Ripe raging rapids of confusion 

A helpless cork to plug nature’s breath. 

A message in a bottle 

Like soundless music yearning to be heard, 

A call to Artemis, the plea of her servant Brother Wolf 

Is a voice crying aloud, crying for days over the ocean, 

Make-believe truth, a need, a despairing wish 

Like a fish flopping on land. 

Desperate, not yet noticed. 


Your eyes, magnificent golden globes of glory 

Stolen from the only stars of heaven’s night sky. 

Your smile, a warm welcome which makes my breath 

Escape my lips and takes it away. 

A dream, it’s whispering inside of me, my love; 

Words that cannot be expressed by tongue, 

Awestruck with mesmerizing love. 


A sunset calligraphy silhouetting beyond the horizon 

Waiting for care and attention, 

Like a baby anticipating its Goodnight Moon. 

A shunned bird streaking the soft periwinkle skies, 

Sun-kissed feathered angels’ wings flying free. 

To the world, only a background scene 

A disregarded beauty, a sum better than all of its parts. 

To the sender, a message in a bottle 

Lets go of loneliness. 

A frustrated searching for realization, a chase for the truth 

Not far away, right in front of you. 


A secret, an S.O.S., a splendor, a lovesickness. 

Searching for land, a dove that 

Delivers. 


Endearing waves of chaos 

Needing interpretation, decipherment, extraction. 


A mystery, a vociferous silence 

Unless you, my love, my hope 

Just listen. 

Camille Villadolid ’14 


The Story of Pressure 

Now this right here is a song ’bout pressure 

everybody feel like they got to be fresher 

than the next, even if it means to drink, smoke, and have sex 

let’s examine the life of two young teens 

and see how this pressure is one of the worst fiends 

in our life, ’cause it’s always causing strife 

First lets talk about a girl named Ruth 

nice and smart, but in her youth 

she grew up with a wrong view of the truth 

freshmen in high school, got invited to a party 

so young but already sipping on that Bacardi 

wants to be cool so of course she says yes 

not aware that this will cause much stress 

goes with the fella into the parents room 

this will be the source of eternal gloom 

the next week at school, Ruth is now real cool 

but unaware of how she became a fool 

cause even though that night was so great and wild 

month later she finds out she’s about to have a child 

she doesn’t know what to do, an abortion maybe 

wish ’pac was alive, he’d see not only Brenda’s got a baby 

Switching it up to David got to give him a holla 

because he wants a girl to think he’s a balla, needs to come up with the almighty dolla 

tons of pressure on him so his thinking is becoming whack, resorting to selling crack 

and that’s not his knack so he got jumped and the thugs stole it from his pack 

so now David’s lyin’ on the street, bleeding like he’s some raw meat 

a victim of an act of deceit 

on life support while he’s lying in the ER, his girl is sad and tells him his behavior is bizarre 

because she would’ve loved him if he told her how he feel, no need to conceal but now 

there’s no time to heal. 

So for everyone who are sad because they can’t boast 

Because honeys don’t play them close, like butter played toast 

Just be yourself because that is “cool”. There’s really no need to act like a fool. 

Chris Anderson ’13 



Heaven and Earth • Xavier Russo ’11 

Art

STD: Sexually Trendy Disease 

Do you have a friend? 

Then just share the wealth. 

It’s the latest trend, 

Who cares about your health? 

Why wear a rubber? 

Just pass on the disease. 

Give it to your lover, 

It’s the most popular gift throughout the seven seas. 

Just listen to their names, 

They sound so fancy. 

Chlamydia has no shame, 

She rode along with Nancy. 

Now are you really living, 

If you don’t have a disease? 

It’s the gift that keeps on giving, 

Since you can regift it with such ease. 

You’re a sexual Ahab, 

Now aren’t you happy. 

You hooked the great white crabs, 

And boy are they snappy. 

So you have creepy crawlies, 

Downstairs in your hair. 

I can’t wait for next week’s stories, 

How you gifted it without a care. 

Hopefully they’ll keep it going, 

It’s the most famous chain letter. 

The numbers keep growing, 

And the disease just gets better. 

Anthony Ayllon ’12 


Imprint • Christina Yap ’11 

Art 

Kaleidoscope • Olivia Neagle ’12 

Art 


The Gerald Dohrmann ’34 Poetry Award 

LOWER DIVISION – HONORABLE MENTION 

Laces 

In the beginning you lived with the trees. 

You lived with the branches, with the roots. 

You lived where the sunlight collected like dew, 

and the wind rolled your soul open. 

You lived where the night sky did not end as it wrapped around your eyes 

and where the sun never set to say goodbye. 

And it was perfect. 

And you lived with your shoes untied. 

But your mother saw. 

She saw the laces as trip-wires. 

Snares. 

And she worried for you 

and tied you in. 

You were silenced. 

And it seemed that the wind stopped rising, 

the sun cut and glared, 

and the night was lost. 

And as the years bit down harder, 

you were completely uprooted. 

Now you live in commute. 

Now you live domesticated. 

Now you live with double-knots. 

Where did the miracles go? 

They retreated into the forest. 

Behind the wind. 

Between the stars. 

With the roots. 

And they wait for you to let your laces slip. 




LOWER DIVISION – PRIZE WINNER 

Synesthesia 

On one canvas colors traverse 

Invisible to the eye but not the mind 

It is a Beautiful curse 

Painted by music the sounds immerse 

Showered with purple rings, they shine 


Dancing with each other, hues converse 

While passionately spinning they become entwined 


Flawless coordination no need to rehearse 

As one, the sights and sounds combine 


The shapes and shades are so diverse 

Except all but one is blind 


Splashing tears tint disperse 

Elusive details define 



Julie Olsen ’14 

synesthesia: a condition in which one type of sensory stimulation creates perception in another sense, most notably in the form 

of color (Britannica Encyclopedia). 



UPPER DIVISION – PRIZE WINNER 

Manhattan Hotel 

Warhol on the walls, music in the ceiling – 

West 23 rd bound up in city stars. 

There are kids in windows, singing on fire escapes, 

But Jane just leans against the Chelsea walls in an ocean of smoke. 

Around her feet lay the ashes of the boys she’s spurned, 

The powder piles higher with every heart she serenades. 

Thought I passed her on the street a couple days ago, 

Or maybe I just saw her ghost lurking in the subway tunnels. 

She spends her days on the street 

And spends her nights at the Chelsea, 

Straight from one of those old songs about the girls who lose it all. 

She’s lost in limestone and yellow cabs, 

And now the radio can’t even resurrect her thoughts of home. 

I hear organ swells with the sound of her voice, 

But all she hears is the rush of the pipes 

And the footsteps in the halls. 

Jane rides the train past stacks of windows and iron beams, 

And with the constellations of city lights blending together, 

She’s overwhelmed by the sudden onslaught of memory. 

Erasing hazy visions of the courtyards, glass pyramids, 

Rain-soaked hills and side streets she loved long ago, 

She rides through Manhattan’s glass canyons until the final images are erased. 

And on the West 23 rd , 

Wrought iron balconies squeeze the bricks and the infrastructure. 

They bear down on her lungs, squeezing, 

Asphyxiating, and choking until there’s nothing left – 

Nothing but the cracks in the sidewalk, the frozen Christmas trees, 

And the cascading stone bridges that would’ve gotten her out. 

And even though we’re both still breathing, 

There is nothing we can do for each other now. 




UPPER DIVISION – HONORABLE MENTION 

Stars 

As you sit by the warm, glowing fire, 

Holding tightly the brown, leather-bound book, 

Wishing deeply you didn’t have to look 

To see the way my quirky attire 

Never did quite fit me right, or recall 

How the time we spent seemed to fly away, 

And have memories of our past replay 

Until the salty tears begin to fall. 

The pages open and I appear, you 

Laugh as our granddaughter layers my hair 

In the bows and ribbons that she could spare, 

Then turned to see the day we said “I do.” 

Your dress, as pearl white as your hair is now, 

Radiates off the glowing skin of youth, 

As beautiful as is now, that’s the truth, 

It has been since the day I said that vow. 

All the memories flood back in your mind 

Of how I was the man whom you would embrace 

And loved the beauty of your changing face. 

And I am sorry my death was unkind 

I remember the life that we shared too, 

And when you look outside that window of ours, 

You will find my face among the bright stars, 

Happily, with love, watching over you 

Tessie McInerney ’11 


Vespa Paris • Phoebe 

Boosalis ’13 

Photography 

Girl and Hula Hoop • Julie Olsen ’14 

Photography 


What Is Sig Figs 

What is significant 

An existential belief 

The magnificent 

A want of relief 

No drug in the world 

Nor ignorant pleasure 

Can make my mind swirled 

Of that extreme measure 

That which is infinite in calculation 

There’s no other convenient value in adoration 

Yet the undefined can be human error 

Such as that of the star struck starer 

If for instance I ceased to exist 

My soul, entire living dissolved within mist 

What of the grief of those earthbound 

After my body’s thrown on the ground 

But would those around me really care and come 

After the inevitable death I should succumb? 

Sounds too solemn, doesn’t it? 

What of the gorgeous day that is seemingly shit 

When challenges met do not go premeditated 

Or during the time when anxiety’s not sedated 

The infirmary can certainly incinerate 

And the flames invigorate…The Devil’s ravishing rhapsody… 

Maybe the mean reds have got you 

And the world you’re in prevents what you can do 

The deep restlessness within amounts to melancholy cacophony 

And desires sought are blown away 

In the wind, you try to find right words to say 

But intimidation inhibition annihilation 

Results in alpha decay 

You may pray, or selfishly smoke green hay 

Or wait wistfully for the song of a jay 

But what really makes the day? 

The grade? The laid? 

Or the graft of those who got it made? 

Do these vowels and consonants bring bliss like summer shade? 

Or are they of detest and of quality you bade? 

It’s all just vapid, insipid, and falsely intrepid 

Gilded as a ring can be, something that you know is not me 

The bitterness of chrysanthemum tea like the look of a B or D 

The thought of she…the isolation induced from the surrounding sea… 

The thought that is not tantamount to society 

Yes, E 

That’s a good letter, that’s a spoonful of sugar! 

To sweeten your heart, the empty part, to help and aid you… 

GO FIGURE 

Christopher Abrigo-Mendoza ’12 


They Never Really Had the Answers 

They told us to love… but did they ever mention that we could get our hearts broken? 

They told us to try our hardest… but did they mention that often our efforts would go unnoticed? 

They told us to be ourselves and that we’d always have friends… but did they avoid mentioning that friends aren’t always 

chosen for quality? 

They told us that if we played hard enough, we would make the team… but did they mention that there would be hundreds 

who were just as good? 

They told us that in life hard work pays off… but did they mention those who never work and still get so much? 

They made us think that life was fair. They made us believe that being good people would never betray us. And yet whoever 

they are, we defied them. We broke their advice, shattered their lessons… for they, they never really had the answers. 

Yana Yasevich ’13 

Untitled • Olivia Raggio ’11 

Photography 


Fully Alive 

I lean out my window 

The brisk air 

The darkness 

Hits my face. And yet, 

My eyes reach, 

Search, find, 

Twinkling, blinking, flickering 

I long to explore, 

For each light serves 

A purpose; 

Individual, pieces of the landscape. 

I realize 

The brightest are missing 

Not lost. 

They are here. 

Asleep, in prayer 

Shining 

Unaware of his necessity 

And yet, 

I turn my head from a landscape 

Awaiting its brightest children 

To wake up 

And be Fully Alive. 

Shane Slosar ’12 

7926 Miles Away 

How many chances do you give your dad, 

Who was there the day you came into the world, 

Who promised to care for you, to love you, to provide for you, 

And to hold you when you’re sad, 

But then one day picked up and walked away? 

You forgave him for leaving. 

You gave him a chance to make it all right, 

But instead of having a presence and holding your hand, 

He only left you with more you couldn’t understand. 

Every year is another chance for him to make amends. 

Every year you realize it doesn’t matter how many emails he sends, 

You can’t depend on him, you can’t rely on him, and you can’t count on him. 

He’s too self-absorbed. 

You forgave him for walking out without a word of why, 

But as you continue to wait for answers, you stop caring about his lies. 

Not only is he not here, 

He’s not even near. 

In fact he couldn’t be farther away. 

Eileen Deasy ’13 


The Chase 

Pitter-patter pitter-patter 

The mouse runs to the door. 

Pitter-patter pitter-patter 

The cat crawls on the floor. 

The mouse is fast 

He scurries for the door. 

But the distance is vast, 

And the cat is guarding the floor 

Faster than light 

The mouse, he runs away. 

Too lazy to fight 

The cat does not give way. 

Changing directions with a turn of his feet, 

The mouse scurries back to his former hiding space. 

The cat, undistracted by the outside sleet, 

Turns the stalemate into a chase. 

Slowly losing distance and speed, 

The mouse skids to a halt. 

The cat, surprised by the yield, 

Stops and looks for a fault. 

The mouse turns its back on the cat, 

And takes one look back. 

The cat, slightly puzzled by the rat, 

Charges and trips over a crack. 

The mouse leaps to the side 

As the cat slides by. 

The cat, not happy with its new ride, 

Tries to stop on the fly. 

The mouse scampers to the door, 

Quicker than before. 

The cat previously guarding the floor, 

Is not there anymore. 

Out the door in a flash, 

The mouse runs free! 

Recovering from his crash, 

The cat is too dizzy to see. 

The chase is over 

And the cat is done. 

The chase is over 

And the mouse has won. 

Justin Eng ’13 


Flowers are like People 

Full of budding potential 

in need of warmth and attention 

Products of their environment 

Some are given protection from 

weeds and frost 

but others are left to wither 

and continue the cycle of neglect 

Their fading beauty 

provides a serene front for a broken home 

A glint of yellow is out of place 

in a sea of concrete 

Breaking through a small crack 

only to be crushed by commuters from downtown 

Many bloom 

and land in a haven 

Arranged in a perfect garden 

no petal or leaf trimmed out of place 

But the insects always come 

gnawing away at the perfection 

Madeline Pertsch ’12 

Forget 

“I cry because I remember,” he told me. 

“Our great flaw as a people is not that we don’t act against what’s wrong in the world, but that we 

too easily forget what we’re here for.” I took a step back. And I thought – Why do I have such a 

short-term memory? I choose not to dwell on my past… 

“Every day in your past has shaped you, made you who you are today. Good or bad, to forget it is 

to commit suicide.” 

I stood speechless. At key points in my life as a seventeen-year-old high school student I remember 

feeling full of myself, feeling on top of the world, feeling called, feeling amazed, feeling let down, 

feeling…… 

And I missed feeling. 

“You can keep on living aloof. You can keep on jumping from one fleeting moment to the next, 

holding on to what’s in front of you. Or you can open your eyes and get in touch with the real you, 

the guy that’s been with you all along.” 

I felt my walls come up as I opened my mouth and spoke for the first time, “Forget it.” 

Nathaniel Nunez ’11 


Through gentle whispers 

Through gentle whispers 

Does the fruit of Eve tempt me 

Slowly I give in 

A foolish monkey 

Climbs high among the treetops 

And thinks himself tall 

Tires screech, windows break 

A hellish nightmare breaks loose 

Driver’s Ed: complete 

Winter turns to spring 

Thus is the cycle of life 

Everything renewed 

Hard work beats talent 

When talent does not work hard 

Strength of will prevails 

Who can save me now? 

I stand up here scared, alone 

I leap with my faith 

I walk across deserts 

Yet feel the cold clutch of Death 

Close around my throat 

You see the world’s joys 

Yet are tricked your youth 

Pain shall teach you truth 

He whose ignorance 

Guides over his mind, I say 

A blind man sees more 

Danny Casey ’13 


Dear Ana 

I’m not perfect, not even close 

My hair is horrendous and my nose isn’t straight 

I fail my tests and my GPA is an absolute mess 

I got caught smoking pot and I downright hate 

How I can’t stop thinking about 

Every mistake that I’ve ever made 

I talk way too much yet I still can’t express 

Just how much I hate the absolute mess 

I’ve made of the life that I’m living. 

But I know this is true: 

All would be forgiven 

And my words would be heard 

And my mind would be sound 

If only you would help me 

To lose 

One 

More 

Pound. 

Amen. 

Deanna Beaman ’12 

The Power of Uniqueness 

Upon the shore 

There crash the waves 

Vying for the sand 

Throughout the trees 

There span the vines 

Stretched across foliage and land 

Within the grass 

There crouch the lions 

Preparing for the kill 

Across the plain 

There rests the zebra 

Amiable and still 

Below the surface 

There exists an earth 

Untainted and pure 

Between the pages 

There lies a message 

Different and premature 

Within our selves 

There sparks an idea 

Revolutionary and bold 

One abstract thought 

One understood concept 

Beginning to unfold 

Seize the day 

Embrace the passion 

Let this idea ring 

A silenced opinion 

Deprives the world 

Of the Uniqueness it deserves to bring 

Katie Toepel ’14 


Right now three doors are closed shut. 

Two people behind Door One. 

There’s a man who 

clicksclicksclicks 

Away on his computer 

Fixing moments of other people’s lives 

More invested in their memories 

Than his own 

He always leaves for the unknown 

Wanting to explore 

Unknowingly abandoning something more. 

There’s a woman too and she 

clacksclacksclacks 

Away on her computer 

She chatters on the phone all day 

From six in the morning to ten at night 

Even with these ridiculous work hours 

The clicking man doesn’t argue 

But shrugs and says, “Alright.” 

Click Clack Tap 

A ghost sits behind Door Two. 

During the late hours 

I can hear him 

taptaptap 

On his computer too 

Busy with his own life 

He departs like the clicking man 

And doesn’t return for another week 

I learned to not chase after him 

But turn the other cheek. 



My ear is pressed against Door Three 

Listening to the 


Of those three strangers in those three rooms 

Father Mother Brother 

Have I lost you to the machine? 

A creation for time 

But a thief of my ideal familial dreams 


I scream those three little words 

That I know can break the spell 

But 


Overrides me and it’s official 

This fantastic machine has become my hell 

Oh can’t you hear me 

Oh won’t you listen 

To what I have to say 


But these damn closed doors 

Keep getting in my way 

So let me try this once more 

Speaking a language you know for sure 

Maybe this will make our family values anew 

Just let me say… 


(I love you.) 

Monica Yap ’11 

Reality 

Ask me what reality is. I’ll tell ya. 

Reality’s the death of sanity, the death of humanity. 

Reality is Hurricane Katrina and its destruction. 

It’s the sadness a child has to feel. It’s the pain families have to endure. It’s the hunger thousands face. It’s the 

problems we choose to ignore. It’s the strength we lack to fight our battles. 

That… is reality. 

But daddy, I have a different reality. In my reality, I see birds chirping. I see a flower blooming. I see a rainbow after 

a pouring of rain. I see the pride that a father has for his little girl. I see the faith I have that God will 

always help me. I see never-ending possibilities. 

And in my reality, I don’t let mistakes or sadness bring me down. 

Because, daddy, reality is what we make it. 

Yana Yasevich ’13 


Self Portrait • Angela Yip ’13 

Photography 

Gifts 

Dig out those gifts hiding in the soul, 

Stress should fade at the end of day; 

Discover the truth in its whole. 

Though intelligent men endlessly pursue one goal, 

Their holy spirits will not wilt away 

Dig out those gifts hiding in the soul. 

Drunk men swell with desperation, sucked into black holes 

Of eternal darkness, too late to stray. 


We who asked the Lord to console 

Never saw our goodness on display, 

Dig out those gifts hiding in the soul. 

When blind desperation takes control, 

Wise decisions are apt to sway 


And you, my friend, living on that empty bowl, 

Dejected with your shattered hopes, I pray, 

Dig out those gifts hiding in the soul, 



Isabella Cai ’14

I 

like right angles. They’re uncomplicated. When my sophomore 

geometry teacher explained them, they made perfect sense to me 

I like to think of myself as a right angle: precise and neat. 

I don’t like things that don’t fit into my plan of getting into Vassar 

University. 

But when I met Jace it was like everything that I had wanted 

for so long vanished. We met at the used bookstore on Clement. He 

was older, and had gages in his ear and a tattoo of an Irish cross on 

his left arm. He was nothing like any of the boys in my advanced 

Spanish classes, who wore Sperry’s and drove their dad’s BMWs to 

lacrosse practice. 

I remember the way he picked up the book I had carelessly 

dropped and said, without humor, “You’re wearing a lotta pink”, I 

looked down at my North Face vest and sweatshirt, both a vivid hue 

of magenta. “I… I guess I am.” 

“I’m Jace.” 

“Ellie.” 

From then on, it was like I was living a Taylor Swift song, 

sneaking out late, hanging out on his motorcycle, except our song 

was a death metal one by Gorgoroth. He had dropped out of 

Lincoln to help his dad at the repair shop, and he always had black 

grease stuck under his fingernails. 

Then, one day, he came to my track meet. I saw Jace just as 

I was about to run 800 meters. He was sitting next to a bunch of 

baseball players and swimmers, they in their in matching varsity 

jackets and he in his used flannel work shirt. Jace told me he would 

I thought you’d be here by now 

Fire! From the Dark: 

(If life is fuse then you are spark) 

All my love and all my life 

I see ablaze in the west tonight. 

All the pain and happiness, 

All things Human more or less, 

I feel as though they all are mine 

When flame and water do combine. 

Slay the day and stall the night 

Stop and stay I need your light, 

I beg you this small favor sun, 

Stop the cycle, halt the run. 

I do yet hope this is the time 

That orb will be appeased by rhyme 

Make obeisance and comply 

To stick around and light the sky. 

That I might not see all things die. 

That I might not see all things die. 

meet me at the Daly City IHOP afterward. I was late by half-anhour. 

Jace was waiting there, a cup of black coffee in his hands. “I 

thought you’d be here twenty minutes ago.” 

“I got busy”, I said, sitting down folding my napkin in my lap. 

“You were good.” 

“Thanks.” 

“I really didn’t like those baseball players watching the game. 

All they seemed to talk about was the hot sophomore and how the 

new Commons vegetarian food blows.” 

“Well that’s them, not me.” 

“I know but it’s like you live in this bubble full of other kids 

who are privileged and born into… God, I don’t… being total jerks? 

It’s like all you worry about is if you can get a 2400 on your SAT, 

making your 800 meter time faster, being better, stronger than the 

person next to you instead of just – living.” 

“That’s not such a bad thing to aspire to, Jace. We’re not all 

going to suffer like you.” 

“Give it up, Ellie. Who are you trying to please? Your parents? 

The college admissions people? SI? Or is it really for yourself? Not 

everything’s going to fit into your perfect right angles.” 

He got up and left me in the IHOP with a black coffee and a 

head aching of the possibilities of a life made up of questions that I 

still can’t answer. 


Nick Brunner ’12 


The Barn 

Early morning quiet engulfs the shadowy brick- red structure in stillness 

As the fingertips of the bright morning sun 

Reach over the white- tipped peaks 

And cast a peachy glow over the grand expanse of the valley. 

Tiptoe through the smooth, heavy wood doors 

And into the peaceful horsy darkness 

Sleepy, half- open eyes adjust gradually revealing 

The calm swaying of the horses’ dark figures, 

The cold grey steel corners of the stalls, 

The neatly arranged hay stacks, 

And the tack patiently waiting to be used. 

The aroma of the barn rises to awaiting nostrils: 

Horse, hay, leather, manure. 

A soft whinnying and snorting comes from the stalls 

As the horses lift their heads 

And look up with their huge, gentle, trusting eyes. 

Lifting the golden hay over the stall, 

The fresh, earthy alfalfa flavor envelops the barn 

As the crunchy sweetness of the carrot treats tickle horsy tongues. 

Reaching out, the warm, steady horse coats 

And the worn leather of the halters 

Both so soft against the roughness of the hay 

And the coolness of the carrots. 

Emerging from the barn, 

The sounds of the day sift into now- alert ears. 

The distant bark of waking ranch dogs, 

The steady rumble of tractors, 

And the “chk- chk- chk” of sprinkler lines 

Flow together harmoniously 

As the horses trot out to meet the day. 

Alison Simon ’13 


Magnetic Temptation 

I hear my refrigerator deceitfully singing, tempting me in dangerous ways. 

It whispers taunting, quiet-shhh-phrases that go on till daylight, never quitting until its goal is fulfilled. 

I see the artichoke lying on the top shelf, staring me straight in the eye. 

The burrata cheese as fluffy as can be, having a rendezvous with the heirloom tomatoes. 

The crowds of arugula making their way back to their shelter, as the lettuce embrace their fellow brothers and sisters. 

The delicious, tangy balsamic vinegar standing as it rests against the walls of the enclosed world. 

Each young grape singing for one purpose, their crispy texture completes them, 

creating a barrier between their furrowed grandparents and themselves. 

Milk and warm apple pie possessed by the night– freshly squeezed orange juice launching the start of the day. 

All at once, singing with their rich goodness, turning into a whisper, 

trapped once again until the next temptation. 

Susanna Shidlovsky ’12 

War Really Isn’t That Bad… 

I miss you, honey, and our little girl 

Just as much as you two miss me. 

But don’t worry, our lives are really quite the same 

You step foot on the sand every morning, as do I. 

You stand under the sun for hours, as do I. 

You watch the waves crash on shore, as do I. 

You walk around looking for shells, as do I. 

You hide-and-seek behind the trees, as do I. 

You run around playing games of tag, as do I. 

You collect sticks to make little fires, as do I. 

The only difference lies at the end of the day 

Where you rest in a bed, waiting for dawn, 

And I rest on the rocks, waiting to die. 



Each New Day 

Soon the Dawn of the Sunrise weeps golden Tears of Joy 

causing the overflow of Life to runneth over 

the Cliff of Uncertainty 

plunging into the Canopy of Dry Soil 

where Bones of Unpeaceful Unrest 

await to ressurect. 

The Waters of Youth gush throughout 

the Cracks of Eternity 

Destroyed Memoirs are restored to 

Prosperity; not in value, but in beauty. 

The Calling of the Wind combines the 

Warmth of the West with the 

Bitter Chill of the East to produce 

flashes of Thunder which precedes 

the approaching Nightfall and the boom 

of the roaring Shadow of Space 

AND soon the Dawn of the Sunrise weeps… 

Christian Solares ’12 


Geyserville • Sarah Stinn ’11 

Photography

The Captain 

The troops march along with their heads held high, 

A beloved Captain keeps their spirits in the sky. 

He leads them onward towards the final destination, 

Looking to send the enemy to an eternal damnation. 

The Captain, their Captain, who they walk beside, 

Is the reason for the war’s change of tide. 

He is known to all as the perfect man, 

He only has his men do what he himself can. 

He has earned the respect of all he knows, 

And in battle, his very being glows. 

The Captain, their Captain, whom they walk beside, 


Each man trusts him with their life, 

And for him, each is willing to take a knife. 

Never has there been one better in their eyes, 

Than the man who, it seems, can never die. 



But anything and anyone can change in time, 

Even a man who receives some dollars and dimes. 

You would never know with the men so determined, 

Their beloved leader was trapping them like vermin. 



Kieran Firlit-Ring ’12 



School Yard • Tessa Van Bergen ’11 

Photography

The Window to Another World 

Michael briskly grabbed his checked bag from the baggage 

claim, left the air-conditioned arrival hall, and entered 

the cluttered streets outside. The hot air was dry, and 

the smell of all the people rushing about was ghastly. Michael took 

out his BlackBerry from his suit pocket and checked his email – 

No New Messages. Out of the corner of his eye he watched a taxi 

attendant usher him to a car. The taxi was twice as hot, but there 

was at least no smell. 

“The Royal Crown Plaza Hotel,” Michael shouted to the taxi 

driver over the ruckus outside. The driver quickly nodded back and 

swiftly pressed down on the gas. 

As the car pulled away, Michael could see hundreds of native 

people waiting in the taxi line he had quickly skipped in the 

reflection of his BlackBerry – No New Messages. Michael gripped 

his phone as though it were his child. He continued to wait for 

the most important message of his life, from Corporate. Michael 

dropped the phone onto the seat next to him as anxiety took control 

of his muscles. Raise or No Job… 

The sunset outside finally was able to attract Michael’s 

attention away from the phone. He looked out the window and 

finally let the atmosphere of this foreign land sink in. The sun 

was beginning to lower itself under the horizon, while fields of rice 

swarmed by at the edge of the highway. As the city approached, 

Michael turned back to his phone. If he did not answer a 

verification from Corporate soon, the deal would End… – No New 

Messages 

He turned back to the window again. The taxi was nearing 

the end of a long beautiful overpass that showed off the glimmering 

skyscrapers, which represented the country’s rise to power. The 

magnificence of the skyscrapers gave Michael confidence that the 

deal would go through. Michael turned from the window and 

looked at his phone’s glowing display as it rested on the seat next to 

him – No New Messages 

In the top right corner of the screen, the phone service bars 

began to disappear. The taxi had entered a tunnel, and Michael 

began to worry again. As the taxi rushed through the tunnel, lights 

streamed by the window and created a light show on the seats of 

the car. When the lights abruptly stopped flying by on the seats, 

Michael looked out the window and saw that the cab had exited the 

tunnel and had entered a dirty slum. Dirty water silently gushed 

along the side of road. Trash and cigarettes littered every surface of 

the sidewalk. Graffiti covered every wall and house that zoomed by. 

Michael, disgusted by the sight, turned back to his phone display 

for comfort – No New Messages 

After the cab crossed a wide street, Michael spotted a mob 

beating up a kid carrying a bag of groceries and whose bike had 

crashed into a pole. The red rusty bike wheels were still spinning. 

Michael was shocked; he slumped back down into his seat, but did 

not look at his phone. He did not understand this sudden change 

in wealth. Storm clouds began to roll over the tops of the brown 

and grey buildings, which seemed to never have the potential to 

glimmer. 

As the cab began to pass a shabby corner market, Michael 

peered out the window and saw a wealthy man in a suit with his 

arm around a girl shouting at the poor storeowner. The storeowner 

looked weary and powerless as his head drooped towards the charred 

pavement. Michael was bewildered. He could not believe what he 

was seeing. 

Once Michael could no longer see dirty buildings towering 

next to the road, he looked out the window, hoping that some 

prosperity could be found somewhere. Instead the rain began to fall 

and a rough barren field came into view. He saw two very young 

boys in ragged clothes playing soccer next to a barbed wire fence. 

As the taxi drove by, Michael made eye contact with one of the boys 

who had just passed the rugged ball back to the other boy. The 

young boy looked mortified, weary, and uneasy. 

“Stop the car.” Michael opened the door and beckoned the 

two players to come over. The rain was pelting down, and the 

boys uneasily came over to the cab after a few minutes. Michael 

rummaged around his briefcase and found two energy bars left 

over from the trip. The boys, who looked half-starved and a little 

frightened, took the bars into the dirty hands, ran around to the 

other side of the taxi and jumped in. As the clambered onto the 

seats next to Michael, the commotion caused his shiny BlackBerry 

to fall down onto the muddy pavement. The cab doors were 

slammed shut, and the cab drove off as the phone began to vibrate. 

One New Messssssagggg…. The phone crackled and died from 

the downpour. 

Michael, to this day, has never regretted his decision. 

John Ruxton ’13 


1,460 Days 

A clot of Hawaiian shirts and sombreros in the cheering section 

Screaming “roll tide” at the top of their lungs 

They barricade the stairwell 

Clogging the hallways 

Breaking dress code 

Leading the school 

On top of the world in their minds 

The time of their lives 

The clock is ticking 

A final hoorah before the end 

Tired, sleepless zombies 

Roaming the halls, in their own world 

Seeking a purpose to it all 

College, exams, essays 

No vacancy no free time 

Searching for the end 

Doors closing, time is running out 

Options seem slim 

Hauling their burden around on hunched backs 

Searching for drive, motivation 

Wise fools, curious cats 

Feet in their mouths, 

Heads in the sand 

Thinking they know it all 

Making a mockery of freshmen 

Embarrassment to themselves 

So sure of where they want to go 

What they want to do 

Looking for power 

In a powerless bubble 

Then there is us 

Sophomore prey 

Paranoid squirts anxious to get to class 

Invisible to all 

Muffled murmurs, meaningless bumps, nothing 

A single blade of grass on J.B. Murphy 

A lonely chair in the Commons 

Just trying to fit in 

No matter how much we try, we make no sound 

Maybe no one is listening 

Kate Reardon ’14 


Lethargic Afternoon 

The ground is slick and fresh with the dew of the night’s rain 

and the pavement, gray and damp, smells of water 

and tells of a day bound to be lethargic. 

The branches of the trees once long and limber now droop 

as their swollen midsections are wrung 

of their duties as host. 

Leaves that were once green are now soiled by rain, 

their veins-now dead – harbour grays and browns 

brought by the weather’s malevolence. 

Conor Lane ’12 

Hex 

Sometimes you drone, 

You’re stuck in this hex. 

Just remember. 

You’re not alone, 

Scared of what’s next. 

Henry Callander ’14 

The Dream Lives 

America lived on 

As foreigners slept, 

A place of fortunes won 

And freedom kept 

Many came through the door 

Leaving all behind, 

Arriving, wanting more 

From a land undefined 

Fleeing distant lands 

Or stolen from others, 

They now join hands 

As American brothers 

As their children we have a need, 

Live on the dream and succeed. 

Anthony Ayllon ’12 


LOL 

From my chest, 

A warm buzz rises 

To the top of my head, 

Until my entire face glows. 

With a crinkle in my eyes and 

A flush of my cheeks, 

My lips slyly spread apart, 

To unveil my gleaming smile. 

My mouth stretches and twists so 

The goofy grin on my face erupts into 

a laugh. 

One that rumbles the air 

And shakes the trees. 

Melting down from my face, 

Flowing through my veins until at last, 

My whole body laughs. 

A shaking in my shoulders, 

And weakness in my knees. 

Stumbling and falling over, 

But I don’t notice. 

For I am laughing still, even harder now. 

My smile remains eternal as I turn silent 

Tears freely streaming from my eyes 

And I, clutching my sides, 

Roll over in the grass. 

My face, pressed into the earth, 

Laughs to the ground, 

To share our joke with the entire world. 

I exhaustedly flip over, 

My cheeks red and sore with joy. 

Looking up into the night sky, 

With a content sigh, 

My laughter dies, 

As does yours too. 

Until it’s just the sound of us breathing. 

And all we do is breathe together, 

Until the air is as calm as it was before... 

But yet our eyes meet again, 

And we laugh some more. 

Tatyana Diaz ’13 

Three Seasons 

Fall has fallen 

And the trees have fallen bare 

Nature becomes aware 

Of the callin’ 

Though the tides of passion 

Cannot always undo the past 

What can last accounts 

For the supply of emotional rations 

That supplement the hibernating soul 

Due on punctuality? 

Maybe, the inner ameliorates 

Yet still you become ghoul and brash 

Especially when your insatiable hunger defies 

The laws of self control, you lose patrol 

Deep woods entrenched upon 

Calls attention on the callin’ 

Which vigilantly awaits for your coming 

Its eyes piercing the red lividity within 

For the point where patience is inadequate 

For when the putrid past pounces 

For what extent do you submit yourself to this oozing? 

Still, winter blizzard rages on in response 

And, like sandstorm, pelts its matter 

One snowball after another 

Rolling and rolling over you like a steamroller 

Until you see your knees too weak to stand 

Within your heart, dissipation of band 

Snowballing has become too complex 

For your mind to understand 

You hope for the melting of winter 

That possibly you can become a new flower 

But nature tends to be sour 

Sending bees to make you hide and cower 

Yet you search for hidden power 

And to the tower you search 

For the bird perched on its roost 

Knowing the hidden entrance on daylight savings time 

You use the newly found spring potential to climb 

Overcoming the acrophobia, you finally meet your beaked friend 

Or foe of the callin’? 

You never know… 

Risks taken are lost from you 

And this is something you voluntarily attempt to do 

You have to overcome the callin’ 

To pick up what was left behind 

To pick up, the fallen 

Christopher Abrigo-Mendoza ’12 


Whispers in a Cloud 

Upon a flustered cloud you sit 

With sturdy limbs which once fell limp 

Proud and regal you remain 

Gone now all the twisted pain 

Just empty sky to contemplate 

But wait, can that be it – a gate 

It beams with golden twang 

Yet to human soul looks all the same 

They whisper, a word, a phrase, a line. 

You listen, intent, and calm, and oh so fine. 

A cloud concocted from a wave 

A luminescent sunrise in its wake 

The giant opens, then all in one 

Dust to brilliance swirls through a sun 

Give it the end to start anew 

You’ve since then known that loss is true 

Concealed in the brightness of a day 

You’re best to guide when darkness lay 

Again, a whisper, lifted from a cloud 

Vaporize the silence, bring in the loud 

For now you know of all things gone 

You watch from distance like Regal Fawn 

From nature a spirit set in tree 

Love conceals, contorts, essence of you 

To me. 

Shannon Foster ’12 

A Red Barn on a Foggy Morning • Rachel Yan ’14 

Photography 


Her Life’s Investment 

Brilliant little one, spinning like a top 

Thoughts too big to contain 

As time marches on she stays put 

Sacrifices need to be made 

Getting ready for tomorrow, her life postponed 

These aren’t supposed to be the best years, anyway 

She can’t waste her life living 

Her life can begin later 

She’ll thank herself later 

When is later, exactly? 

Ticktockticktock the doomsday clock 

Two by two they parade past 

Paintings come to life, all dressed up for the ball 

No dance partner for her 

She doesn’t have time for dancing, there’s work to do 

She’ll thank herself later 

Right? 

The years fade by 

Still she prepares, plans, practices 

It’s all for later, she’ll be grateful later 

They’ll wish they’d done like her later 

Around and around the merry-go-round 

Spinning, spinning 

Too dizzy, it’s hard to stand 

But she can’t fall, it’s not later yet 

She tears the pages out of the book 

To clutch them closer to her heart 

To press them to her eyes 

But they turn to paper 

She still hasn’t begun to live 

After all, once you pick a flower it dies 

She needs to wait for the right time, the perfect time 

Which is later, of course, never now 

That wouldn’t be sensible 

But the sand is gone, the top tips 

Maybe with more time it would have paid off 

She spent all her time planting 

The harvest would’ve been magnificent 

Then she could’ve lived 

She would’ve thanked herself later 

It would’ve all been worth it 

Right? 

Shannon Lindstrom ’12 


Answering the Call 

When the sun shines upon all our soldiers 

The bugle blows to wake them all up. 

Eager young men who look as large as boulders 

Men who wanted to see battle close up 

The sergeants make them go out on patrol 

The pale young faces prepare for the worst 

And the sergeants struggle to maintain control. 

And as they walked, BOOM! Bombs began to burst 

Their commanders planned to bring them backup 

A promise that the commander will not keep 

While the enemy begins to catch up 

Our strong young men retreat to their jeep. 

The small jeep was the young men’s savior 

Then a strong, stern man from squad Baker said 

“Go on, get out of here I’ll hold them off!” 

The four terrified young men then took off 

The four tired boys died before getting home 

Their innocence and their youth soon dies off 

Their old selves remain on the battlefield 

The four weary, battle-hardened corpsmen 

Will go through hell over and over again. 

Josh Moreno ’13 

Serpentine Ardency 

With fickle snakes of mirrored gold 

In white dawn eyes she’s spied her prey 

Still licking lips of cries untold 

In claws of red, his heart she holds 

She knows that she will get her way 


And as the midnight moons unfold 

Wings tremble, hunger boils, eyes grey 


But demons in his eyes behold 

He fires back through the blackest day 


She falls in pain; warm blood grows cold 

His once true soul he’s sold for pay 


Until the twilight sun grows old 

Inside love’s prison she will lie 



Julien R. Ishibashi ’14 


A Beautiful Tradition 

A man and his son and a yellow lab 

Bundled up in down jackets—weighted down with 

equipment 

Tired as they are, adrenaline energizes the pair 

The father yearns to pass on the tradition and his 

experience 

The son desires to join with past generations and those yet 

to come 

Heavy camouflage and subtle colors hide the group’s 

presence 

Animals waken—a raccoon scampers across the road 

On this new day men trudge through sloppy, brown marsh 

Through frigid knee-deep water that is like ink 

Battalions of vibrant decoys drift lazily past 

The journey ends on a small piece of land 

A perfect blind in the tules 

The father and son climb into cold, steel underground 

barrels 

Yet sit comfortably on small, padded stools 

Their minds set on the future, spirits only heighten 

Thankful men rest after the long walk 

Chatting and reveling in glorious stories past 

Each feels he is Homer telling the Odyssey 

Embellishing details in whimsical tales 

The men hope history will repeat itself. 

The father stokes a fire inside the dry barrels 

Flickering flames combat the icy air 

Warmth tantalizes the already shivering men 

Sleep attempts to cloud their eyes 

But cannot contain their excitement 

Greying at the corners of the sun 

Light scares away darkness 

Honks and quacks and whistles travel across the sky 

Whizzing wings dart over their heads intermittently 

The son gazes at the silhouettes 

Invigorated by the prospects of a good hunt 

The father looks at his watch – 5:43 – it is time 

The father hopes success will smile upon his son 

The son keeps thinking about that first opportunity at a 

duck 

The pair place shells in the guns and click them shut 

Stoically sit the pair 

Waiting for their chance at elusive birds 

The dog whimpers in his excitement 

Anxious to feel the thrill 

Of beauty on the final approach 

The sun creeps across the horizon 

Red, purple, orange, yellow, blue 

Brushstrokes paint a brilliant sky 

A picture-perfect moment 

Father and son will never forget 

A pair of ducks creates a flutter of wings and a zoom 

overhead 

Heartbeats stop for a quick second 

The father makes a resounding quack 

That echoes over the sheet of glass 

Causing the birds to tip their wings towards the noise 

The hunters come alive with exhilaration 

Hoping that the birds will come all the way in 

A glimpse above tules reveals the ducks’ colorful plumage 

Two beautiful drake mallards 

Fat and happy in the crisp air 

The decoys dupe the ducks 

Cup their elegant wings 

They commit 

Green heads, yellow bill, brown neck, whitish—grey body 

Orange feet come rocking in flight 

The hunters can see the birds’ oblivious eyes 

Grips tighten, safeties click 

Like clockwork the father prepares for what will come 

The son endures a nervous moment and hopes his aim is 

true 

Adrenaline hits the hunters 

The final approach 

Like tightly wound springs, hunters pop up in their blinds 

At the sudden movement, the ducks flare in crazy motion 

Guns shouldered, triggers squeezed 

Bright light erupts from both weapons 

Boom, boom, boom in the blood red sky 

Splash, splash 

“Turbo!” 

Like lightening, the dog bounds into water 

Making it choppy, retrieving both birds in succession. 

“Give!” the father forcefully commands 

The son brims with confidence and joy 

The first bird is in the bag 

The father feels his son’s happiness and pride swells 

within him 

A great day of hunting and the tradition lives on 

David Bustillos ’14 


Strings 

I’ve set out to find the answer to my problems. 

Those I know, they’ve gone and thrown 

out all that I valued and they’ve shown 

they don’t value me anymore. 

So today I leave to try somewhere new, 

to find someone to act, to copy, to be. 

It really doesn’t matter to me 

just as long as I have somewhere to go. 

I’m frightened, not tired. I’m lonely, not bored. 

They left me, I know, because I am, 

as they say, a no-good sham; 

a worthless pariah who dances on strings. 

This won’t be the last time I’m tossed. 

I know the next that I follow 

won’t mind if they dig me hollow 

and create a new them to showcase instead. 

I will be their marionette—assimilated, 

and answer to their every call, no matter how ruthless 

and when a new puppet renders me useless 

I will try to please them until I’m bent and broken and 

trashed. 

When they see me, worn and used, 

if they laugh at all that I came 

for, I understand because what I came for is shame; 

to be shamed forever more until my backbone grows. 

For you see, as long as I am who they want me to be, 

as long as I’m empty and they can mold 

me, it won’t matter how many times I’ve sold 

myself to a type or a shelf with a label and a case. 

I do not dare discover who I am. 

I do not dare question what I’m given. 

I‘m just a pawn in someone else’s mission, 

tied up tight with a short white ribbon. 

Kathleen Hayes ’12 


The Fate of Empires 

The sun-ripened sand both rises and falls, 

So like these cities of dreams I once knew. 

The innocent breezes mock the trees I recall, 

Murmuring advice or lies. Which is true? 

The deep sky complements the royal sea 

As these cities ruled the world together. 

But a horizon divides them to plea 

A fine line ‘tween them that never tethers. 

One day the tourists vacated the beach; 

All citizens leave to engage in war! 

And then I witness loads of garbage reach 

The shore; these once proud cities rule no more. 

Just like the blue waves will crust into white, 

These cities, once in splendor, now are slight. 

Chantal Nguyen ’13 

The Cook 

She reigns over the smallest room in the house. 

What is it today? 

Dark, double-decker chocolate cake? 

Perfectly symmetrical sugar cookies? 

Maybe just a taste… 

OUT NOW! 

Sent to jail with hunger and no trial 

And mind set on the hour to reunite with the sweetness. 

Joseph Pappas ’13 

The Stick 

The one you never see but you know is there 

The one you believed to be obsolete 

The one you never hear until it snaps 

Wreaking havoc upon your barefoot fleet 

The one if you had not neglected would not have cracked 

And left you scarred for as long as you could think back 

The event you could have stopped 

If you could not have had a selfish thought. 

Liam Mihelich ’14 


The Phoenix 

have to get out of bed sometime, Caroline,” my 

mother calls from the kitchen. I don’t reply, instead 

“You 

burying my face deeper into the sheets. 

“I’m not going to say it again—you can’t spend all summer 

locked up in your room like Quasimodo—it’s just not going to cut 

it,” she says. 

She comes into my bedroom and brushes the sheets away, and 

I groan. 

“I’m just as ugly as Quasimodo,” I say. She looks down at my 

legs, the shiny scars of the accident still visible. 

“Don’t be dramatic. I know your therapist says it will take some 

time to adjust, but really this is ridiculous. God, just do something 

other than mope around here all day watching reruns of Judge 

Judy!” 

“I don’t just watch Judge Judy, Mom. Sometimes I watch 

America’s Funniest Home Videos.” 

She rolls her eyes and continues sipping her coffee. “I’ll be at 

the office. Call me when you decide to get up.” 

I don’t get out of bed for another hour. But when I do, I go 

to my computer and check Facebook. I haven’t updated my profile 

in two months. Under Caroline Campbell’s name is the picture of 

John and me at Junior Prom before everything happened. 

I click John’s profile. His only reminder of the accident is the 

burn on his left arm. 

He came to see me once, at the hospital. His eyes searched my 

face, hoping to find a semblance of the bubbly girl he once kissed. 

Left behind was a marred freak, the only reminder of her previous 

beauty grey eyes. He left quickly, and later that night went to a 

dance and hooked up with five girls. 

I really don’t blame him. 

You know those reminders to buckle your seatbelt when 

driving? It’s crap. 

John was driving down the Great Highway, no seatbelt on, 

singing off-key to “Born in the USA.” I was too, except I had my 

seatbelt on. The fire happened quickly. It was something in the car’s 

engine we later found out. John was able to hop out quickly. I was 

not so lucky. The flames grew as I frantically reached for the eject 

button on the seatbelt holder and the car spun wildly out of control. 

Then I remember waking up, my skin pink and raw. 

I leave my computer, dejected, and stare at the mirror. My face 

is somewhat normal, however there are scars running across and the 

color of the skin beneath my nose is crinkly and different from the 

skin on my nose and forehead. 

My friends tried to visit me, but I wouldn’t let them come in— 

not after John’s reaction. 

I’ll never be the same. I want to wake up and be new— like 

the phoenix that my freshman English teacher one told me about 

during our unit on mythology. Dead and then reborn. But that is 

fantasy. 

My reality is the face I’m looking at in the mirror. 


Sacred Valley Peru • Grace Buckingham ’11 

Photography 


When Opportunity Knocks 

The past is hazy 

The present so clear, 

The future approaching, ever so near 

Shift of scene 

Change of fate, 

Opportunity knocks, don’t make it wait 

She stands there uncertain 

Not sure which to choose, 

Something to gain, something to lose 

Faith is still present 

Hope is there too, 

Confidence rolls in, without a moment to lose 

Armed with a smile 

And an open mind, 

She pulls open the door, in record time 

Opportunity knocked 

She answered the door, 

Amazing what the future, had in store 

The past is hazy 

The present so clear, 

And suddenly – the future is here 

Jacqueline Boland ’14 

It 

It, 

Behind every sound muttered, 

Behind every word uttered, 

Within every smile shown, 

Is secret. 

It has a purpose, 

A goal of one and of many, 

A dream so close to the heart, 

A desire for something to start, 

A wish. 

It is a means to an end, 

A way to bend 

Those rules that get in the way, 

A way to get what we want, 

A tool. 

It is a word, 

That can sever our ties, 

That can destroy the precious, 

And corrupt the gracious, 

An idea. 

It has torn down the foundations, 

Yet raised walls of separation. 

It has given us what we yearn for, 

Only after taking our souls. 

A weapon. 

It…is a lie. 

Xavier Sendaydiego ’11 


Daydream #97 

Another day has come and gone 

And there she sits in self pity alone. 

After the sky is dressed for the magic hour 

Angry clouds ruin the light and let rain pour. 

A torrent of rain falls down upon 

A lonely girl with no raincoat on. 

Already time to move onward, 

Although making progress is too hard. 

Absently perching on her rock, feeling dour 

Alone as her feelings devour 

An aching heart inside her chest 

And the pain can give her no rest. 

And so she sits in self pity alone 

As another day comes and goes. 

Mikayla Lim ’14 

The Weeds Within 

A fresh downpour hits the once-wicked land, 

Despite washing away the outermost layer of dirt and grime, 

The rain nourishes the weeds hidden beneath a lifetime of sand. 

The precipitation provides promises of hope and a helping hand, 

Relieving the city’s occupants of negligible crime, 

A fresh downpour hits the once-wicked land. 

But who is to say that history will not take its stand, 

That once will not turn to twice in just a matter of time? 


The coming of the rain is something that cannot be planned, 

Making the road slippery on an endeavourer’s climb, 

A fresh downpour hits the once-wicked land. 

In the end, the only evil torn from a tangled mane comes as a small strand, 

No one can predict if this wisp will be sublime, 


Torrents can only scrape at the crust, making it impossible to turn the inner spice bland, 

Never reaching the core of the eccentricity, nor banishing the inner slime, 

A fresh downpour hits the once-wicked land, 


Katie Spence ’14 


Think 

I wake up and think, oh what about school, 

I get in the shower and think, oh will I look cool? 

I get dressed and think, oh should I wear that? 

I eat some breakfast and think, will I look fat? 

I get in the car and think, hope I don’t get in trouble 

I pull up at school and wish I’d shaved my stubbles 

I sit down in class and think, I hope he doesn’t call on me 

I get up to leave and think, I wonder if she looked at me 

I go to my locker and think, oh no I’ll be late 

I start to move and think, oh this class I’ll hate 

I start going to lunch and think, how long I’ll wait 

I stand in line and think what will I create 

I look at the tables and think, oh where will I sit 

With the jocks or the nerds or the guy with great wit, 

I sit alone and I eat thinking why can’t I speak 

Hopefully Jesus was right, he cares for the meek, 

I get on the bus and look somberly around, 

I think how will I do tonight I can’t let them down, 

I get home and I rest, starting to dose, 

I lay down in my bed thinking in prose, 

I look up at God thinking about tomorrow 

Who will I ask for their Perrine book to borrow, 

I wonder where I should live on those ghastly grounds, 

And I realize with God that I should really live here and now. 

Berkeley Vogelheim ’13 

Mind-Travel 

Vivid depictions of my mind’s description, 

Written on paper with words not diction. 

Treading in a sea of foamy fiction, 

Finding the words to life’s greater mission. 

All alone I walk amidst an orange jungle’s vision, 

Rainbows are folly phantoms to a continuous prescription. 

Alive yet dead dry dreams find secretion. 

A voice that blooms people into completion. 

Conscience is timid in a bi-world position. 

Sleeping souls know now their intuition. 

The world denies its imagineless factions, 

Waiting for the renewal of a restful contraction. 

Eli Love ’12 


Fight The Light 

I look out my window into the vast unknown 

There people wander about and roam 

But they are false and impure 

Focusing only on the wretched pain they endure 

They become excluded from the brilliance and awe 

Of the magnificent sights I saw 

Terrific forms of radiant light 

Everywhere I look, left and right 

Beautiful stars, beacons at great height 

All my heroes compressed into one 

Guarding me until the second dawn comes 

But when the sky turns sick and pale I feel sorrow, not glee 

My heroes have abandoned me 

I must wake 

To face challenges I must take 

So I do not rage against the dying of light 

Instead I embrace it gently, until there is no white 

For only then am I truly home 

Free to wander and roam 

Safe from the terrors of the light 

The worries and stresses that give us no might 

And best of all my heroes have returned 

Never leaving their shift of endless night that I yearned 

Oh, what a sight 

As we lift off into the night like a kite 

The brilliance of the unknown 

Where I will never have to be alone 

So I fight the light 

With all my strength and might 

To take away the horrid curse of life 

To attack with a bite 

That is how I fight the light 

Max Schaum ’14 


Mountain Road 

Small, swaying flakes, crystalline 

Float amongst the frozen pines 

Carried by wind, then land at random 

And the breeze and the snow now act in tandem. 

Breath, a warm cloud of air 

A man extends his arm, and combs back his hair 

Picks up his pack, lighter now than once before 

Takes a passing glance toward the home he adores 

Swaying thrashing limbs of cedar 

Used to weather far much sweeter 

Old wood cracks, hits the ground, splinters 

Unprepared for this cold dark winter. 

The crunch of the snow, the breeze on his face 

The man eagerly resumes his old pace 

Hand to his brow, he gazes ahead 

And shivers not from the cold but amazement instead 

A long winding path tapers off and ends 

The road no longer turns or bends 

It leads but one way, to this end in the road 

Which ends at the mountain, where the sky has not snowed 

Calm and warm, the air surrounds him, he gazes in wonder 

At an emerald green mountain, with no ice or snow under 

A peaceful meadow, untouched by the frost 

Lies quietly in the shade, of a place believed lost 

Wearily, the man trudges forward, 

His heart beating fast, to the mountain he faces toward 

It has been miles since he slept, he’s never marched on stronger 

But to get what he has come for, he must march a little longer. 

John Carpentier ’12 


Mother Bear • Brian Weiss ’12 

Art 


To My Best Friend 

I hope you live to be one hundred, 

To live your life as you should. 

I hope you will age and grow, 

Changing with the leaves. 

I hope you’ll make many friends, 

And I hope that they’re all true. 

I hope you’ll find someone to love, 

And someone to love you back. 

I hope that you’ll have children, 

And watch them grow up soundly. 

I hope you will have grandchildren, 

So you can spoil them rotten. 

I hope you will be able to tell your stories, 

While sitting in an old rocking chair. 

I hope I’ll be there with you, 

Until I must depart. 

I hope you’ll be careful, 

And not get killed before your time. 

I hope all your scars will heal, 

And fade away gently. 

I hope that you’ll never be poisoned, 

And go on thinking clearly. 

I hope you won’t turn bitter, 

Thinking only of the wrongs. 

I hope your values won’t be disregarded, 

And you’ll stay true to your soul. 

I hope you won’t lock yourself in a cage, 

And you won’t forget the key. 

I hope the hardness of the times, 

Doesn’t stick to you like glue. 


Suffering just the same. 

I hope your love will shine, 

And the world will see your light. 

I hope you will do your best, 

And your effort will be recognized. 

I hope your turn will come, 

And your star will burst out finally. 

I hope you will graduate from college, 

And do what you love best. 

I hope that you keep on dreaming, 

And that all your dreams come true. 

I hope nothing will stop you, 

Not a hill, a stream, or a barrier. 

I hope you’ll believe, 

Especially in yourself. 


Standing in the shadows. 

I hope you’ll live to one hundred, 

With me right by your side. 

Ella Nicolson ’14 


Beautiful Rosa 

With one deep breath in I inhale you. 

With one blink of an eye, 

I fill a tear with all of our memories and slap the top of my Rosie 

cheeks 

With the saltiness pleasure of defeat. 

It hasn’t been a year, but yet it feels like an eternity. 

With one slight ingestion of circular pure tasteless mush, 

I digest you into my body and wax out all the evil with the Virgin 

de Guadalupe candle you lit every first Sunday of the month. 

You, a complex act of G-d’s creation molded into the life of a tiny 

little woman, 

who wore a tiny grey hat over her head every Wednesday to her 

doctor appointments 

You, a beautiful Rosa mistaken for the recipe of a bitter old soul 

confined in a small metal box deep under the ground. 

You, the mixture of emotions that not even a psychiatrist has heard 

of, it is unknown, 

just like the cure for the cancer that killed you is, unknown. 

You, 

You, 

You, 

Gone! 

Now, 

What’s left for me? 

As I walked up to the altar today, on the feast day of La virgin 

herself 

I saw you, 

Plastered on the wall with an illuminant ring of light shining 

around every crevice of your yellow moist skin. 

You had a smile, a delicate sweet smile looking down upon your 

husband as he sang songs to praise you. 

Rosa, a delicate sweet smile, you had as you lit that candle made the 

three Sundays after, worth living for. 

Living, as still as a stained glass window with glass pieces plastered 

into the form of Jean Brebeuf, 

I rip my heart out and give it to you! 

Rosa, even the matte colors of your jacket shone brighter than any 

ray of sun that hit the coast of San Francisco. 

You were not invisible. As much as you would had loved to be. 

Now Rosa, 

Can you tell me have you ever seen a rose grow from concrete? 

Have you ever seen a tear form from so deep into the heart that it 

does not water, it bleeds? 

Not even death can keep you quiet, 

Because every time I close my eyes my ears widen at 5:15 AM every 

morning and can hear your raspy last breaths that you took beside 

your lovely developed women using their snores as ear plugs. 

There was no candle. 

No candle, just simply light 

The light that slowly drifted you away into the night and took you 

on a trip to visit your new home. 

As you traveled, 

The strains of your pain shone right through the resistance of your 

smile as you tried to hold back your cries, 

“ayudale! ayudale!” 

You never once cared about yourself. 

You always put them first even at the last minute of your dying days. 

Rosa, just please if you can’t say anything else please can you tell me 

this: 

Are you comfortable now that you are alone with no pain? 

Can you finally put that candle out and use it on a worthy day? 

the next Sunday? 

or maybe even my birthday? 

Jessica Recinos ’11 

I Love you Grandma ♥ 


Day by Day 

Serenity • Isabella Cai ’14 

Photography 


It’s Sunday. I Skype with my brother while he is working in Nepal. We are on completely opposite 

sides of the planet, but I can connect with him in a matter of seconds. 

It’s a small world after all. 

It’s Tuesday. A magnitude 7.0 Earthquake hits Haiti along with considerable aftershocks. A 

15-year-old girl in Florida flips the channel to Glee and never gives the suffering Haitians a second 

thought despite the fact that Haiti lies close by in the Caribbean. 

It’s a big world after all. 

It’s Friday. Civil War and genocide continues its 7 year rampage in Sudan where families are 

violently torn apart and villages are torched. We promised “never again” after the Rwandan 

genocide and yet many people are oblivious to the current crises transpiring in Darfur. 

It’s a huge world after all. 

It’s today. The whole wide world, filled with the hungry, the lonely, the tortured, and the helpless, 

longs for someone to hear them. Almost half the world—over 3 billion people—live on less than 

$2.50 a day while millions of Americans spend $3.00 just on their morning coffee. 

It’s our world after all. 

It’s tomorrow… 

Erin Geraghty ’12

End War 

Stupid and 

Terrible for mankind, 

Obscene actions 

Permeate the mind. 

Wasted money 

And lost life, 

Ruin countries 

Substantiating all strife. 

Many try 

And many fail, 

Killing protested 

Everytime t’no avail. 

People die 

Every single day, 

All hoping 

Concord makes way. 

End war. 

Denis Shanagher ’13 

That Thing Called Love Which a Title Alone Cannot Sum Up 

Keeping someone in this life became my heaven on earth, 

Thought committing hurled people in to worlds of hurt, 

Believed I planted this relationship in unfertile dirt, 

And if I truly loved this someone, it meant to learn what it’s worth. 

Standing over narrow passages so unbalanced, unsteady, 

Chose to grip her hand in mine, realized I was ready, 

Blasted off into oblivion, she was tripping to admit it, 

But I knew that any love between friends would be admitted. 

Like a thief in the night, she took my lust for power and gold, 

Replaced it with the treasure of happiness untold, 

No matter where the future takes us, we’ll never get old 

Since the first “I love you” snatched the fear from my soul. 

Radiant as the sun, got that eternal burning heat, 

Connected my heart again, got it pumping and complete, 

No longer scared of anything, she’s now the hook to my beat, 

And when she laughs I always wave the white flag of defeat. 

Giddiness, happiness: absolutely unpredictable 

The surrounding of her presence orbits in patterns: elliptical 

Losing such a friend in this cold world: unthinkable 

These words signed and sealed: still hoping that they shippable. 

Popular culture says no, so I drift by night skies 

Stress, worries, future thinking finally meets their demise 

So far not planning on anything, I’d rather improvise 

Since keeping her in my heart is my only sought prize. 

Was it love at first sight? Well probably not 

Intended as a sentence lacking any sort of plot 

She put a bullet in my brain, like a sniper took a shot, 

And now the tracks disappeared, now riding on a plane of thought. 

So I’d rather pull her close into me, instead of shove her; 

Since when she blocks out the sun, there’s nothing above her; 

This light isn’t blinding, only a mix of every color: 

When the spectrum lies between simple intermingled lovers. 

Christian Solares ’12 


Nothing Left 

isn’t it?” she asked. 

“It can’t be real...” 

“Lovely, 

“I swear it is! Ugh, you’re all the same.” Her smile 

flipped so fast, my stomach turned with it. We were sitting on the 

curb by her bus stop, staring at the sky. She had pointed out a deep 

red sliver in the sky that merged into the east to a stunning swirl of 

night and day. It looked like a picture perfect cutout of the heaven 

I’d painted in my head when I was a kid. 

“What do you mean?” I asked. 

“Pessimists. The sunset is clearly in front of you; just accept 

it.” The smile returned with a sarcastic lift of her dark brow, and I 

let myself breathe ” “...All the same.” She hit my stomach with the 

same force that might be exerted by the wind to make a blade of 

grass bend, but I pretended it hurt anyway. 

“Ow...” 

The panic on her face was enough to make me cry. “Ah Crap, 

are you okay? I’m so sorry. I’m really really sorry. I didn’t know I 

could hit hard, reallyIwasjusttplayingar-” I started to chuckle. She 

was getting nervous again. 

Then I kissed her. There was something behind her kiss that 

made my lips pulsate with excitement or fear; I hadn’t decided 

which. 

“Call me when you’re home. The streets aren’t safe in this city.” 

I let go of her hand as she stepped on to the bus. The doors closed 

as she nodded, then made a face against the glass. 

I have always wondered if she knew what was coming then. 

My dad’s words echoed in my head as the bus turned the 

corner. “You sure about this girl?” he asked me after she first came 

for dinner. On the long drive to my father’s house the night they 

met, she had made me pull over by a cloudy lake. A small duck was 

lying on the shoulder of the road. As we got closer we could see the 

muddied red pool around him. She wrapped him up in her crochet 

hat, took him into her arms, and sat back down in the passenger 

seat without a word. I told her that there was nothing left for us to 

do. She looked down confused and she started to cry. Maybe she 

was a nutjob. 

I couldn’t help but picture her as I walked homeward. She was 

so beautiful. Sort of queer looking actually. Her hair was a gorgeous 

dark brown naturally, but today it was a bright red – the color of 

the sunset. Her nose was too small, and a little pointy. Her tiny 

lips matched the color of her pink cheeks and her ears were barely 

noticeable under her mass of ringlets exploding from her scalp. The 

silver piercing on her right eyebrow drew an unnecessary amount of 

attention to her mischievous dark blue eyes. The blank eyes that no 

one could read. 

Looking back, I understand why she cried over that duck. 

As I reached my alleyway where my empty and tired apartment 

waited for me, I looked up at the sun’s last push for beauty. The red 

had disappeared and blackness had begun to replace it. I waited 

until all the light had gone before I opened the door. 

The deep boom that came from behind me reverberated 

in every bone, through my skull, down my spine and out my 

fingertips. As if in a dream, my legs carried me as fast as they could 

as flashes of ducks and sunsets and pretty pink cheeks mocked my 

every move. They took me towards the bus route where I knew 

exactly what I would find – towards the last sliver of red I’d ever see. 

Kathleen Hayes ’12 

Untitled • Olivia Neagle ’12 

Art 


Family Feuds 

Rhythmic steps down the naked hall. 

A veteran, unable to release the habits of a past life. 

Big hands, coarse hands, hands that hold anger. 

Anger so strong it could destroy him, should destroy him. 

But she knows how to take a fall 

And then rise, denial in her eyes but a heart so strong 

Even I begin to wonder, is she capable of demise? 

A life rejected, but never forgotten. 

When the memories refuse to make their way 

to the back of his bleeding brain, driving him insane 

He shoots, with perfect aim 

And I scream his name until the flame burns out 

Dad! 

I shout. 

The Woe of Trees 

Caileen Viehweg ’11 

Hunger 

Stomach crying, clamoring 

Tears streaming down his face 

But not from the hunger 

From something much deeper 

He knows what is wrong 

He sees a path to repair 

But he’s unable to act 

Deprived of the chance to break free 

Depraved sivilization hungrier for him 

Than he is for food. 

He knows the outside looks in 

Like a dog fight 

Critiquing as the unfortunates 

Tear each other apart 

The dogs have no choice 

That’s all they have 

But he knows fully 

In the fibers of his being 

That they should have a choice 

That they should have more 

That he should have a choice 

That he should have more. 

Suffering unnecessarily 

Possessing the aptitude 

To lead, to change 

To make things right 

He knows how 

But what causes his tears 

Is that he also knows 

He can’t. 

Meg Summa ’12 

Like slithering snakes they shed their skins 

Every year when fall begins 

And so the unclothed giants 

Go naked for winter 

The coldest part of the year. 

Their life, pride, and beauty 

Lay scattered on the ground 

They stand starkly disheveled 

Stripped bare of their grandeur 

One piece at a time. 

But what does this mean for them? 

Surely death will pursue, 

At least a fleeting malady, 

But, miraculously, every spring 

Emeralds emerge from beneath barren stone. 

Catherine Summa ’14 


Idle 

I am told that the waves kill you 

I am told they reduce you. 

Blind mute deaf exhaustion. 

Swaddled in liquid iron. 

I am told they roll you. 

Tightly and evenly. 

Weight and gravity’s obsession. 

I am told they rip you. 

So swiftly you lose sensation. 

Cede and be emptied. 

But Idling offshore, 

the line of gulping tides 

release to the feet of the lighthouse. 

I belong to its fire. 

Idling offshore, 

the wind off the eucalyptus 

burns in my throat 

seeping like regret. 


I hear the sand 

shift between their toes. 

I know they are waiting. 


I decide 

to let go. 

For I trust 

that the tide 

knows my time 

better than I. 


Why? How? 

I do not understand why it happened. 

I do not understand how it happened. 

One second everything was perfect, 

the next, a disaster. 

I do not understand why it happened. 

I do not understand how it happened. 

One second they were tied, the next untied. 

I hate these shoes. 

Kenny Hatch ’12 


Sound • Emily Lynch ’11 

Art 


Dog Work 

I’ve got a collar to attach 

A belly to scratch 

A bowl to fill 

A monster to thrill 

A ball to throw 

Other dogs to watch below 

I’ve got to walk in the park 

Respond to a bark 

Hair to brush 

Cries to hush 

A beast to wash 

Fleas to squash 

Then fur to cut 

How I care for this mutt 

Dirty me, mud puddles 

Stand by me, old friend 

Run wildly, stay cheerful 

I know this love is not pretend 

Dog, lead me from here 

With a pull on the leash 

Guide me across the green grass 

Help me find peace 

Walk slowly, companion 

Caress me with your love 

Many wet kisses 

Like a gift from above 

Buddy, companion, soul mate 

Pal, chum, man’s best friend 

Damp snout, droopy ears 

I know this friendship has no end. 

Jackson Weber ’14 

Lands End 

You’re gonna need a jacket for where we’re going 

We’re gonna live forever, it’s just not showing 

I want to see Mars tonight, wanna see the stars 

We’re forged in hot water and speeding crashed cars 

We can always go here when the big cities flood 

It’s like the city’s blueprint written in our blood 

We’ll learn about our lives through the cracks and the riffs 

Someday they’ll bulldoze us over these cliffs 

You’re gonna need a lot of things where we’re going 

Lotta things you don’t have without even knowing 

We’re born in the hospitals years ago today 

They never would’ve thought that this is where we’d stay 

It’s the same old structure and the same reused lines 

It’s the same tired words and the same stupid rhymes 

If you fall the Gate will take you oh so swift 


Somehow we’re still here grounded, blame humanity 

VA clinic filled with that same insanity 

Overtures of overcrowding haunt our city 

The landslide inside my heart fills with pity 

I’m so lost within you and without you I’m lost 

I need you to give up and not count the cost 

My little colored boxes give me such a lift 


Look out at the skyline; it’s ours for the taking 

Six point five billion other lives in the making 

The universe hangs still tonight for the new day 

Our lonely blue planet is still miles away 

We’re blanketed in stars tonight, and I’m so warm 

You’re like a life preserver floating in the storm 

Have you smelled the scent of aging? Come have a whiff 




It seemed as if they had been together for eternity. He knew 

he was dying and never told her; he didn’t want to believe it. 

He knew she could tell when he began to change but still said 

nothing. His heart began to ache. He started to disappear. He was 

no longer happy, no longer human. His sickness took over and she 

became just a memory. Now he is gone. From above he watches her 

slowly perish with grief. His thoughts to her: 

Boy: As days pass I think of you 

You lay beside me in my memories 

I know your smell I’ve seen you smile 

I saw the ending before we’d begun 

I know what I’ve lost can never be found 

A day without you is a year without life 

365 days… eternity 

Your soul like the rising sun 

My soul like the falling moon 

Apart for all but one moment 

To be shared 

Full of tears 

Full of warmth 

Then gone 

The sky full of souls 

The earth full of lovers 

You…born to love 

I…born to die 

We… never to be together 

Lost Souls 

She had never been in love like this. She didn’t think life could 

ever be better. The world was brighter and she was happier. He 

brought out the best in her. But as the weeks passed he started to 

change. He became more distant and weak, something was wrong. 

She asked him, he said nothing. He dropped out of school, he rarely 

called her. One day he was there the next he was gone…forever. She 

finally discovered his secret. Anger, fear, and sadness overwhelm her 

and in a fury her thoughts race: 

Girl: As the cherry blossoms bloom an ornate pink 

My heart continues to burn 

Fire could not scar my soul as much as you have 

All I want is to be with you 

Why can moon and sun not share the sky? 

Why can humans and angels not be together? 

Why can moments not turn into years? 


Days turn to nights 

Nights turn to weeks 

Weeks turn to months 

Years and years and years 


Keyara Milliner ’13 


Hip-ocracy 

Green like the currency that feeds the greedy, 

No time has the Righty for the poor and needy. 

Believing his wealth will trickle down to the masses, 

While the faucet is off, only he will last it. 

Ignorance is bliss and White is virtue, 

Say no to that? Run away, he’ll shoot you. 

Frightened of “them” taking our jobs, 

An aspiring janitor wanting to clean after slobs, 

Only says “No!” to the southpaw leader, 

While hailing the hunter and damning the reader. 

He goes to church every Sunday; never forgets, 

Yet scowls at Asians, Latinos, and Blacks—you bet! 

Hypocrisy while celebrating Christ’s Resurrection 

How does he gaze at his reflection? 

Frank Kaniewski ’12 

Castle on a Cloud • Cori Martin ’12 

Photography 


The wasteland is desolate and bare, a place where colors 

no longer exist. Every step the man takes he knows not 

whether it brings him closer to somewhere or farther away 

from everything. He seeks not a town, not people, not family; all of 

those things are dead. He seeks purpose, a purpose to keep walking. 

The tattered garbage bags and blankets wrapped around his shoes, 

now two sizes too small, are worn thin and he feels wetness seeping 

in. He’s tired. He’s cold. He’s breaking. Each stride is a burden 

and his shoulders slump so low he is afraid they’ll up and fall out 

of their sockets. It’s been 741 days since the world went dark. He’s 

heard all of the reasons, heard all of the explanations why things 

turned out they way they did. “Oh it was a nuclear apocalypse!” 

another claims, “The sun went out!” He knows neither is true. 

There is no fallout from any bombs, and he doubts that if the sun 

went out, so would all the stars and the moon. He hasn’t seen stars 

in years, he forgets what they look like. No, it was neither of these 

explanations. He knows why. He knows. 

God abandoned us. He clutched the world in his hand, 

droplets of heavenly sweat corroding the surface of our existence; 

the crust melts away. He picked us up and threw us in the garbage. 

He knows this is true. God has done this before, he did with his 

wife and kids, his family and with the rest of his life, so why not 

now? 

The floorboards in the house retire her smirk. He didn’t mean 

to, it just happened. She pushed him, she drove him insane. Her 

blood seeps into the wood, dampening the copse. “Where had this 

anger come from? I have never been full of rage before? Why did 

this come over me? How could you let me kill her?” The man’s 

wailing sliced through the fog that had slowly crept over the house. 

They echoed for miles and his pain reverberated through animate 

and inanimate objects alike. 

The man trudges through the sod and ash of what used to be 

a bridge over a moderately busy river. The river bed shows signs of 

commercialism for there are goods and trinkets littering the mud. 

On the bank of the river, the corpse of a little girl clutching a teddy 

bear lay still. It could not have been there for very long, for there 

were pebbles and twigs forming an oval around her. Whoever she 

was with tried to give her a decent exit out of indecency. 

Losing Faith 

porcelain features 

innocence 

beauty 

my daughter 

The man wretches. Not out of sickness, but grief. 

“I’m past understanding, I just want to know where the hell 

you were when I lost everything. I’ve done nothing to deserve this. 

Just kill me, you seemed to have no problem doing it to anyone 

else…or in making me kill them…” 

Plodding along, the man grows weary. He sees a house in 

the distance. No, not a house, an abandoned mill. He warily 

approaches the house, knowing not what lurks inside. Like a mouse 

pondering how to go about retrieving cheese from a recognized trap, 

he sits. A good ten minutes pass before the courage is mustered to 

enter the mill. The wood is rusty and lichen and moss inhabit every 

pore. Nails and screws, vagabonds in the mess, lay scattered. At 

the far wall lay a skeleton. Strewn across the floor, the skeleton lay 

nearly intact with the exception of a few broken ribs and a broken 

skull. It was clear how this person met their fate. The assailant left 

no haste in the time between when he lifted his boot and when it 

met the skull. The skeleton lay reaching for a canvas sack tied with 

yarn; loosely tied yielding thought to previous prospecting. He 

undoes the yarn slowly, expecting to find something dangerous. 

Sweating for the first time in a long time in this eternal winter, and 

trembling he peers inside. 

Nothing is at the bottom of the canvas sack. Nothing, it’s bare 

and callous floor has been cleaned out. 

“This bag... this is the only thing that has given me hope in a 

long time… I prayed even. Shows how well he hears me.” 

The man slumps to the floor of the mill, his back to the 

splintered remains of the far wall. His tears hitting the creaking 

wood were the only thing making noise in the dissonance. The 

wasteland takes everything from the man. His family, his life, his 

god fell prey to the charcoal existence. 

I’m lost. Irreparably broken. I’m alone 

Alone, with not even a shadow as a friend. 

Conor Lane ’12 


so here you have it: 

two 

fast 

gas 

left 

lanes 

slow 

brake 

right 

which one’s for you? 

are you the 

65 50 

stressed relaxed 

A 

B 

change stay 

restless content 

? 

here it’s all equal and balanced for some time 

exit 

now what happens, when 

all 

the 

cars 

go 

in 

this 

lane 

? 

well, then i guess 

that 

lane slows down, slower than the slow lane, so 

people want to switch into 

this 

lane. now it’s the fast lane. 

wouldn’t you put your 

blinker on? 

but the real trouble comes in when 

too 

many 

people 

go 

into 

that 

lane. do they just switch 

back into the fast lane? 

i think the cycle just continues 

fast 

slow 

here 

there 

back 

forth 

tick 

tock 

Lanes 

so which kind are you? will you vacillate willingly between 

one and the other? 

or will you stay put and drive 3 below? 

the balance of 

you 

me 

us 

them 

yes 

maybe 

keeps this ridiculous cycle going going going going going 

go to the fastest lane, or remain in the comfort lane 

but really. it’s all about exploration, right? you don’t know 

what kind of person you are until you try the alternatives. every 

person who overuses his blinker has felt dissatisfied in the slow 

lane. it’s the curiosity experienced that makes every final decision 

final. 

Kate Christian ’11 


21st Century Monarchy: A Pantoum of the King of Food Banks 

This is my kingdom, 

I am their king. 

Bowing, dancing, singing, 

They celebrate my reign with gifts of food. 

I am their king. 

As I parade down the thick red carpet, 

They celebrate my reign with gifts of food, 

Beggars, homeless, the rich, and poor alike. 

As I parade down the thick red carpet, 

They turn their eyes away in respect, 

Beggars, homeless, the rich, and poor alike. 

I demand all that they have, from fruits to beans. 

They turn their eyes away in respect; 

They fear my wrath, my temper, my judgment. 

I demand all that they have, from fruits to beans. 

Satisfy my hunger. Ease my pain. 

They fear my wrath, my temper, my judgment. 

My people are quick to fulfill my every need, to 

Satisfy my hunger. Ease my pain. 

I would be nothing without this palace, my home. 

Night turns to day, and day turns to night. 

Their bowing, dancing, singing, 

Transports me to my fantasy where 

This is my kingdom. 

Megan Lau ’13 

Back Cover Art 

City of Color • Julie Olsen ’14 • Art 


SAINT IGNATIUS COLLEGE PREPARATORY 

2001 37th Avenue • San Francisco • California • 94116 • www.siprep.org

The Quill (2011) - St. Ignatius College Preparatory

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