Mount de Sales Academy’s Upper School Literary Magazine Page Break
Volume 14: 2021-2022
Table of Contents Art Cover Art - Roxanna Davis, A'nna Wilcox She’s a Pirate- Lily Livingston………………………………...6 Left Brain_Right Brain- Ella Hawkins………………………...7 Blue Lewis- Ella Hawkins………………………………….…..8 Creation- Sophie Bolan….………………….………….………9 Springtime- Ace Taylor……….………………………………10 Ruby- Ace Taylor…………………………………….….…….11 The Fall- Roxanna Davis……………………………………..12 Self Portrait- A’nna Wilcox…………..………………...…….13 Sunflower Witch- Mary Clare Clark………………………….14 Hanako Haruki- Caitlyn Arnold……………………………....15
Writing My Rights- Brittany Cardenas ……………………..……….16 Home- Jackson Kinross ……………………………..……...18 Never Forever- Kennedie Owens…………………..………19 Finding Me- Deven Jackson…………………………....…...20 Point Break on the Isle of Solitude- Harris Noland….....…22 Scathe- Harris Noland………………………………..……...23 Gone- Arianna Johns………………………..……..………..24 Winter Roses- Kennedie Owens…………………..………..26 Forgotten Town- Noah Silver……………………..….……..27 Fowl of the Grieving- Madeline Jones…………..……….…28 The Night Terrors- Johniya Barnes……………..……….…31 Happiness- Roxanna Davis……………………..……….….32 el sol, la lune, and me- Elaine DeGuzman……..……...….33 Blue Train- Caitlyn Arnold………………………..….…...….34 What’s So Easy About Pie?- A’nna Wilcox ……....……….35
She’s a Pirate By Lily Livingston
Left Brain_Right Brain By Ella Hawkins
Blue Lewis By Ella Hawkins
Creation By Sophie Bolan
Springtime By Ace Taylor
Ruby By Ace Taylor
The Fall By Roxanna Davis
Springtime By A’nna Wilcox
The Sunflower Witch By Mary Clare Clark
Hanako Haruki By Caitlyn Arnold
My Rights in This Country By Brittany Cardenas
I believe in my rights in this country. I believe that I should be treated the same as my fellow classmates. Just because I am a proud Mexican-American, a short girl, with straight black hair, and chocolate colored eyes, doesn’t mean that I cannot be treated the same as those who have pale skin, dirty blonde hair, and ocean blue eyes. Not just because of my religion, but because of what I was taught and told growing up, I believe that we are all the same in the eyes of God. I believe that I should have the same respect as anyone else. I want to be respected no matter my opinions, the pigment of my skin, and the language that I speak. I want to be called by my name, not beaner, alien, or daughter of aliens. My name is Brittany Cardenas and although all of those names are true, I still believe that I should be called by my name. I have dreams just like everybody does; I have the dream to graduate from Mount de Sales, go to med-school, earn my fellowship at a great hospital, to become a neonatologist, get married, and become a mom. I believe that I should get the opportunity to make my dreams come true wherever I want. I believe that I should be treated like any other American. I do not want to be told that I should go work in a restaurant to sweep the floors or clean the bathrooms as my future career.
Many people think that because I am a Latina girl, I won’t achieve anything, that I live in a low class society, and that I am not smart enough to be in a private school. I work so hard to maintain all A’s, to make my parents proud, so they can know that I am so grateful for all the sacrifices. I believe that I should get the opportunity, like any other citizen of the United States of America, to receive an equal education. I believe in my existence in this country, in the respect that I deserve, and the happiness that I should have. I should live in happiness and peace because this is the land of the free. This is what I believe in.
Home By Jackson Kinross
After a long day at work I finally made it home. I look under my door mat to see a single shining key sitting there. Really should hide it better; some creep could walk in at any time. I make my way inside, and I am greeted by the sight of a small dog staring at me. Strange, I don’t remember ever getting a dog. I pick the small puppy up and it bites my hand. I drop it, and it runs through the front door. Blood starts rushing out of my hand and onto the carpet. I run to the kitchen and grab a rag to clean it. How stupid of me; I should’ve known that a random dog wouldn’t be friendly. I walk back to the door and lock it. Hopefully, no more mutts can come in now. I walk back to the kitchen and I run my hand through the warm water. Suddenly, I hear the door start to jingle. Out of instinct, I grab a knife from one of the cabinets. Then the door itself opens. I prepare myself. I thought I would have time to hide before the owner gets home.
Never Forever By Kennedie Owens
The paint no longer matched your picture, The inside could not rely on what appear, From the winter mountains painted blue, To the midnight wolf you could never hear. The amber seas of your picture, Looked off from the start, But I missed the note to look twice, Before you touch what tears you apart. When your skies moved blue to black, You told me to just wait and see, Not tell me about how your frame is tilting, That you’re not the person you sought to be. All along i couldn’t see, The plastered colors couldn’t sing my song, Didn’t seem to savor my thought, Art isn’t designed to hang on walls long.
Finding Me By Deven Jackson
Imagine a perfectly healthy nine-year-old boy playing on the ground with his toys, not a care in the world. Suddenly, he can’t get up because his left leg is trembling and shaking violently. That nine-year-old boy was me, and in the following days, I would come to find out that I had had a seizure due to a malignant tumor that had grown over the sensory nerves on my brain. At the ripe old age of nine, I was rather forcefully thrust into a world that was made up of doctors, nurses, operations, medications, and the possibility of death. I was forced to come to terms with real-world everyday problems that I thought I had years of mistakes and experience to prepare me for. I had to worry about small crucial things, such as wondering if I forgot to take a pill before I left, or did I bring extra meds, what was my last white count, and was I too close to that man that coughed? I also had huge things on my heart such as mourning my friends that didn’t make it, and wondering if I would ever walk again, or talk without a stutter or lisp. When it felt like my world was falling apart and that I was going to drown in this new and almost extraterrestrial life of tubes and wires, I had to reach a point. I was around twelve years old when I had to decide whether I’d let myself succumb to the feelings of dread and sadness that had ever so slowly crept into my heart due to this unjust and cruel disease. Or would I allow myself to be the strong, passionate, and independent person that I had always wanted to be in spite of the sickness that had dominated so much of my early life?
At this turning point, I did make a decision and allowed myself to become the person that I had tucked away for so long. I finally allowed myself to ask the questions that I had feared as a result of my religious upbringing. During my battle with cancer, I was thrust into a Christian-dominated world, which made my experience with coming out even more difficult. With my future being so uncertain, yet having gone through so much, I was able to be true to myself and my closest friends and come out of the closet as and identify myself as a gay teen. Having watched so many friends pass away at such a young age and with the possibility that I might relapse, or that I could pass away, I did not want to live a life in which I was untrue to myself and those that mean the most to me. I attribute my level-headedness to my necessary and accelerated maturity. Through less than ideal circumstances, I have been able to build myself into the person that I am today. Everything that has happened to me has made me “a good man to have in a storm.” The strength and compassion that I had to instill in myself will ensure that I stand up for myself and others, always. I know that I can bend but won’t break in the face of the many challenges that life has ahead of me.
Point Break on The Island of Solitude By Harris Noland
I sat half-drunk, in fourths, on the night that God cried Gazing listless at the fading peaks atop what some call home As the last shard of heaven fell down from the sky She sang, a song more beautiful than any I had ever known Wooden stairs begged as I worked the winds of hell Her song guiding my aching bones to a light fall in the sand I caught sight of flesh wrapped tight around a slender shell Into shock I fell, lending kisses to line her hand Once serene sounds descended to waves of pain She laughed as she pulled me close and opened her face Skins pushed together, blood curdling within both frames I saw the last of mine as all I once knew began to fade A light in the dark, it called my name Paralyzed on the only night I wished to become lucid The light began to flicker, everything moved away Darkness hugged tightly, I fell to the abyss
Scathe By Harris Noland
Paved over is the line between asleep and awake Shadows taunt the receptors of an appalled frame Limbs glued together with a dark velvet paste
Forced dormant, allowed only to see, nothing more The figure slowly creeps out of the darkness Floating through traps set to increase delay Sprinting now, something has stirred the mind of the beast One last glimpse caught before the transfer begins Pure, uncircumcised rage rips flesh from bone Repairing the damage with excrement of only the finest citrus Red corrupts the iris and soon the sclera Extensive tension lacking release makes for a delightful evening in hell A newly vehement current produces waves of a corrosive red Choleric existential agony forcing her way through a narrow tube She breathes in deep following each cage-rattling expulsion One too many marks the coming of the void
Gone By Ariana Johns Where do we go when we die? a castle a chapel a Cloud in the Sky? my loss it’s guilt it builds it’s greed silence consumes quietly, it feeds consolation common words you think that I need agreed better now? a soul finally freed? No pain No strain death beats the brain You lied they died nowhere left for my love to reside Tell me... What train do we ride When we die? Can love truly transcend the Sky? these thoughts continue to rot
corrupt disrupt a volcano erupts Yet, time it clears demands that my greed concedes. tears are gone gone goes the hate my grief, it abates gates? Love abounds? clears the crowds Crowds time clears the clouds Clouds a Cloud in the Sky? a Chapel a Castle Where do we go when we die?
Winter Roses By Kennedie Owens
She was born from the earth, But raised by a hurricane That carried burdens of hollow scars, Hidden within her sickly veins. Inside her lonely city, There was a girl known by the rain, Who held on to winter roses, That were dimly labeled with pain. They thinned her delicate beauty, Of the graceful figure within, And broke the shelves of her wrist, That weighed her veins thin. It created permanent scars, That she held close to her heart, Scared to bring out to heal, ‘Cause of the fear to restart. But every winter rose, Will have the ache to keep you tight, To secure you within its city’s stem, Until the night whispers no longer feel right. If you hang on so tight, It is not the fear of falling so low, Just the keeper of a fragile heart, Of someone that is afraid to let go.
Forgotten Town By Noah Silver
The fluorescent, cerulean lights twitch in the pitch-black gloom The pale moonlight shines on the midnight wanderers Trees are blown in the breeze like swaying giants lost at sea Neglected, chalky buildings tower over the open road Blue hydrangeas add color to the eerie, ashen town The rumbling from distant trains forms a melody in our heads The bright gas station sign blares in the distance Midnight wanderers disappear into the black void that is the night sky
Fowl of the Grieving By Madeline Jones
Edgar Allan Poe is famed for his macabre poetry and melancholy tone. Undeniably his most famous work, “The Raven” tells the tale of a mysterious fowl whose presence reveals the nature of grief. Readers learn of this strange encounter which, shallow at first, gradually becomes more deeply entwined with the speaker’s subconscious. By contrasting darkness and light, Poe warns the reader of the ways in which grief, uniquely displayed in this poem as a coveted emotion, can distort the mind’s perception of reality. Throughout the entirety of “The Raven,” there is a contrast between dark and light imagery. The image of darkness is initially introduced in the first line with the idea of a lonely, dreary midnight. Poe also ties in the concept of emptiness by using the phrase, “it was in the bleak December” and the line, “Darkness there, and nothing more.” At the end of the poem, the Raven itself becomes the central image of darkness, as the speaker describes its shadow enveloping his soul. The speaker also describes the bird with words like ebony and grim which illustrate an eerie ambiance that is emphasized within the speaker’s moments of fear. In contrast to these dark images, Poe also includes hints of warmth. The image of fire is dotted throughout the poem in phrases such as, “As each separate dying ember” and “all my soul within me burning.” During what can be considered as the internal turning point for the speaker, the theme of heat is more strongly represented. The line, “To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core” and the repetition of the phrase “the lamp-light gloated o’er” reinforce the theme in this stanza.
After recognizing this contrast, readers can begin to look at it metaphorically. The speaker is grappling with grief and has a daunting choice: sink deeper into his own sadness and never let himself heal or accept Lenore’s death and move forward. These two choices seem to be symbolized by the contrasting themes of darkness and light. For example, when the speaker opens his door and stares into the darkness, he whispers Lenore’s name. This represents his denial of Lenore’s death, whereas in the next stanza, after receiving no answer, the speaker metaphorically comes back to the light. This could be perceived as the light of his chamber or the light of his soul through the line “all my soul within me burning.” Either way, his return both figuratively and literally closes the door on his brief moment of denial. The speaker seems to waver between reality and his grieving mind’s perception of it throughout the poem. In the first and third stanzas, he reassures himself that the knocking is only a visitor, and he claims it is only the wind in the sixth stanza. This contradicts his earlier assumption that the knocking is Lenore. His self-reassurance unites with his deep denial as he repeatedly emphasizes Lenore’s absence. He describes Lenore as “Nameless here for evermore” early in the poem, which indicates that he knows she is dead, but he does not necessarily believe she is gone. He also says, “She shall press, ah, nevermore!” referring to the chair he is sitting in. Whether these efforts to ground himself are conscious or not is proven to be irrelevant; grief inevitably consumes him. Burying himself in books, the speaker seems to somewhat successfully distract himself from his grief at the beginning of the poem. It becomes increasingly clear, however, that his pain demands to be felt. He is reminded of Lenore’s death at every turn, and he becomes volatile in response. In the final stanzas, the speaker interprets the Raven’s response as God offering him relief from his despair as seen in the phrase “‘thy God hath lent
thee - by these angels he hath sent thee / Respite - respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!” One would assume that a grief-stricken person would welcome relief, but the speaker does not. He has a death grip on his grief because he fears losing all ties to Lenore. His hostility towards the Raven can be ascribed to this, as he fears God will erase the memories of his love. His attachment to the grief poses a threat to his own sanity. This festering grief produces within the speaker’s mind a twisted version of reality. When the Raven initially enters, the speaker is almost tickled by the bird. He even claims that the name “Nevermore” has “little meaning - little relevancy bore” which shows that this word does not affect him in any way. A few stanzas later, however, the bird becomes a lurid image of evil which is a stark contrast from its early comical persona. The speaker is steadily losing his grip on reality. The Raven is truly just parroting a word heard from another person, which the speaker states in the phrase, “‘what it utters is it’s only stock and store, / Caught from some unhappy master...”. The speaker, however, perceives this word to be a direct response to his outburst in the final stanzas which only fuels his downward spiral. Buried in the artfully written lines of “The Raven” is a cautionary lesson. Poe uses intricate imagery to set up a contrast that is deeper than the simple idea of dark versus light. The result is a speaker who is crafted to be an example of what happens when the opportunity to heal is not taken. Although this poem can be interpreted in many ways, a looming shadow, much like that of the Raven itself, hangs over every reader. It imposes a grim warning: grief is detrimental to the soul, and once a person sinks too deep, it can be impossible to return to the surface.
The Night Terrors By Johniya Barnes I hear the thrashing of rain,
Then I hear a loud pang and the sound is deafening I turn on the lights and expect to fight, so I put the titanium bat in my right hand I walk down the stairs and then suddenly I hear the loudest shriek I’ve ever heard in my life The blood is rushing through my ears, the tears almost drown me, and I’m frozen with fear. I walk down the corridor and hear the scratching on the walls, there are voices ringing throughout the hall. They call out to me saying “No, turn away, you’re in danger,” but curiosity always gets the best of me. All of a sudden the rain and the scratching and the voices stop and I think that I was just being paranoid and then I turn around to return to bed and suddenly, There's a void that sucks me in like a black hole, sucks every source of light in close proximity. All of a sudden, there’s a ringing in my ears, and it gets louder and louder till my head rolls back and my skull shatters into a thousand little insignificant pieces like a glass table. All of my nightmares and everything I’ve been afraid of since I was a child are facing me and looking at me straight in the eyes. Somehow, I’m no longer afraid of them because I know that they could never scare me more than I scare myself. Suddenly, I thrash back awake, and I’m in my bed, just a sweaty and heaving mess. The monsters are no longer visible, and the voices no longer exist. But since that night nothing has been the same, and I don’t think it ever will be.
Happiness By Roxanna Davis
I imagine the prospect of true happiness to be a pleasant one, though ‘pleasant’ isn’t the word I’m looking for. Perhaps it’s a contented state of being, or maybe a satisfied one. Satisfied with everything I’ve done? Still, it doesn’t sound truly happy. To me, being happy is something I feel for the rest of my life, at least, once I achieve it. If I achieve it, I suppose. I’ve been told, however, that happiness isn’t a constant state of being— it’s an emotion. Emotions are temporary and everchanging. I wonder why I can be happy one moment and sad the next, why one disapproving look from my parents turns that lighterthan-air feeling in my stomach to a rock weighing down my entire being. I’ve been told that emotions aren’t on different spectrums, but on one, all right next to each other. Therefore, what I desire isn’t happiness, but fulfillment— becoming whole. I think those are the words I’m looking for. Instead of trying to find something that seems so unattainable, something with so many qualifications, finding wholeness and fulfillment is doable. Perhaps it’s taking time out of my day to sit outside on a sunny day and feeling, just for a moment, like I am unburdened. Or maybe just drinking tea on a break from work. It only has to be comfortable, a start at something more. It only has to be enough.
el sol, la lune, and me By Elaine DeGuzman alone, in the depths of the dark night sky sitting anxiously just to hear silence through the window, la lune remains nearby begging and begging for mute acceptance; el sol floats to see all people dancing all doubts fade because it is a new day everything goes, with no time for weeping every day without stress and fear at bay; however, la lune guards the midnight space even alone, la lune grows great wisdom yet, el sol shines in the most painful place in its brightness, el sol can seem so glum el sol and la lune maintain the balance together they will find a tranquil dance
Blue Train By Caitlyn Arnold
Here I am, sitting on this train, This blue, blue train. It seems sad and dreary, Yet it is relaxing and tranquil. This train reminds me of a deep, blue ocean, Oh how the tide has risen! When will I get to my destination? Thinking about it, What is my destination? Could I be heading to the light at the end of the tunnel? It seems like a lot of people are going there. Or could it be the beach, that one with the blue sand, The one I have heard about? This train ride has taken me through many mountains and valleys. There is a presence around me. I feel calm and peaceful. Is it spiritual? The train is slowing, I wonder if I have reached my destination?
What’s so Easy About Pie? By A’nna Wilcox I used to bake a lot. Cookies, cupcakes, cakes, and yes, the occasional pie. I don’t know why I liked to do it; it may have something to do with my sugar addiction. Maybe it has to do with how I like control. In baking, everything is measured. There’s a right and a wrong way to do things, and I’m in charge. For me, that’s easier than trusting others to help, or experimenting with ingredients and proportions. Pie is particularly easy. You can buy a crust, buy the filling, put it in the oven, and cut a slice. Like a box cake mix, your main objective is to put everything together. But like cake, pie doesn’t always have to be easy. With pie, I know exactly what to do. And I do it right, and I’m happy, and they praise me. But there’s no “right” way to spend my afternoon after school. Yet I’m constantly looking around, looking for the answer. In school, there is always a right answer. There is a right thing to do. The teacher tells me, and I do it right, and I’m happy, and they praise me. But suddenly there is nobody telling me what to do. I’m looking, I’m looking around–tell me, please. Just give me the crust; I can put it together. The true issue is that I have to make decisions. I don’t know if I want control or I want someone telling me what to do. They seem contradictory, but isn’t that what it means to bake a pie? I only really make two pies. One is an apple pie: a mess of burbling, gushy sugar in a cast iron skillet. The other is a tourtiere: a French Canadian holiday meat pie, thick with spices and a warmth felt even when served cold. The apple pie is deliciously easy: a true project of assembly. Tourtiere is more of an art, as I usually make
the crust. Pie crust is actually a pretty hard pastry to make. You have to not only be very specific with your proportions, but how to add them together. And unlike a lot of baking, you have to improvise. You have to feel your crust: too warm, too dry? Like bread dough, you have to have a conversation. Listen, and respond. When I’m talking with that crust, I am alone. I’m not looking for instructions, I’m not hiding behind my dad. I decide when it’s right. I don’t know exactly what’s happening, but I trust myself, and I trust the dough. Pie can be easy, but I choose for it not to be. I make the crust so that I can have that conversation. Have that feeling of simultaneously having all control and none. Initially, I am lost in the myriad of choices. But I find control as I experiment, adding dashes of flour. And in the end, the challenge is conquered, but can always be continued. I’m trying to make my life that dough. I don’t know what to do at school, at home, for the next five minutes or for the next five years. Maybe I just need to talk with it, poke and roll and sprinkle, and feel my way to the end. Another easy thing about pie is that you can always try again. Make another one, make ten, if you want. But what I hate about decisions is that the slow and steady march of time makes sure every choice is final. If you add too much flour, that’s your crust forever. I suppose my goal is to then see myself as an apple pie. Once I’m in the oven, everything molds together, and the little mistakes don’t really matter, and the end product is something entirely new. And it’s delicious.
Page Break 2022 Staff Art Editor: Roxanna Davis Literary Editor: A’nna Wilcox Publicity Manager: Noah Silver Layout Editors: Sophia Bolan Deven Jackson Art Team:
Caitlyn Arnold
Sophie Bolan Brittany Cardenas Lily Livingston Kennedie Owens A’nna Wilcox Literary Team: Johniya Barnes Elaine de Guzman Madline Jones Kennedie Owens Publicity Team:
Caitlyn Arnold Johniya Barnes Sophie Bolan Brittany Cardenas Roxanna Davis Elaine DeGuzman Kennedie Owens A’nna Wilcox Cover Art: Roxanna Davis Faculty Sponsor: Ms. Eileen Carlson