SLS "The Pendulum" 2026

The Pendulum 2026

St. Luke’s School

New Canaan, Connecticut

Editors’ Statement

As we grow up, so much is revealed to us. The relationship between emotional ambiguity and factual reality becomes clear. With every year, day, hour, even second that passes, we take in our surroundings and various external stimuli; our brains transform it, illuminating what was once concealed.

The theme of the 36th edition of The Pendulum is Illumination. It is meant to evoke the growth and discovery our artists and creators have experienced this past year. Any form of self expression unearths and conveys aspects of ourselves that would otherwise remain hidden.

Writing acts as the perfect outlet for these revelations. Weaving strings of words together unlocks pieces of the soul. Reading such writing can have the same effect, as we’ve discovered while immersing ourselves in each piece of this year’s wonderful collection.

The students at St. Luke’s School are constantly experiencing illumination, and we’re excited to share a fragment of this phenomenon!

St. Luke’s School is an independent day school located in New Canaan, Connecticut. Our student enrollment is drawn from the Fair-

field, Connecticut and Westchester, New York counties and surrounding area. Our student body consists of 210 Middle School and 371 Upper School students at the time of publication.

The Pendulum is an Upper School extracurricular club that meets on a weekly basis. The staff of The Pendulum conceives of and votes for a theme each year, then requests submissions of art and literature from the Upper School students. Works are juried anonymously by the staff of The Pendulum as to whether or not they would be suitable for publication.

The Pendulum is printed in an edition of two hundred copies and distributed on campus and is also available online through the website Issuu.

- Madeline Brown and Isabel Loeffler-Kaplan

A Day in the City

Archer Knight

I walk onto the street with my bag on my back.

The streets aren’t the cleanest; they have dirt and grime.

I’m feeling quite hungry—I think I might want a snack.

Endlessly wandering around the streets, because it’s snack time.

Oh, look—it’s a cart; I hope they have pretzels or maybe a hot dog.

I take mine with mustard; it costs two dollars and a dime.

Dang it—this guy just ran into me while he was on a jog.

Now I’ve got mustard on my awesome, brand-new shirt.

Couldn’t even yell at him; he scurried away like a small frog.

At least when he ran into me, it didn’t hurt.

It’s great—I didn’t get food on my stylish Jordan kicks. It could be worse; mustard is tastier than dirt.

I look around and see tall buildings made of bricks.

I see skyscrapers, stores, and even Central Park.

Can’t forget why I’m here—it’s to root for the Knicks.

One Eyed Girl

Madeline Brown

He was searching for oregano deep in the woods when he saw her. A girl. Crumpled face-down on the earth.

He took measured steps until he was staring down at her battered body. He kneeled down and placed his hands on her side, rolling her onto her back. She was dressed in white— creamy, filthy, disgusting.

The front of her dress was streaked with dirt, and a gauzy blindfold covered her eyes, stained with crimson splotches where they should have been. Her hair tangled in long strands around her face, and her arms purple and yellowing.

Propping her up, he took a bottle of a deep blue liquid from one of the pockets of his leather satchel and opened it. He held it under her nose, and she jolted awake, breathing heavily.

Noticing the arm around her back, she asked “Who are you?” without turning around. Her voice echoed throughout the forest, haunting the ears.

“Jamie,” he said, “You?”

“Lyra,” she paused, “Are you going to hurt me too?”

“I won’t. I promise,” Jamie answered.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because you’re just like the others. Crazed. Fanatical!” She spat.

She turned around to face him, and reached out to find his face amidst the evening light. Once she was sure she was looking in his direction, venom leeched into her voice. “Why are you helping me?”

“Look, I’m not going to hurt you, and I’m not gonna take you back to Ashland either,” he murmured.

“Prove it.”

He pressed the handle of a dagger into her hand. “The dress has pockets, right? Put the knife in there. If I was going to hurt you, I wouldn’t give you a weapon to hurt me too.”

up there.” He tried to take her hand but she pulled back.

“I can’t use the damned thing if I can’t see, now can I?” She responded, slipping the weapon into her pocket.

“I thought you said you wouldn’t take me back there,” she said, hands starting to shake once more.

Jamie sighed. “My house is on the edge of the forest, far from town. You’ll be safe.”

He scoffed. Classic. “Fine.” He walked toward the nearest tree and picked up a long branch off the ground, fallen from a storm. Placing it into her hand, he said “You can use this to guide you. Do you trust me now?”

“Do you live alone?” Her hands stilled, suspicion creeping into her voice.

“Barely,” she muttered. “I’ll take you home, patch you

“No, but my dad’s out—he’s a pastor. My mom and sister help with the service.”

She frowned. “Okay.”

He took her hand again and she let him take her through the woods, until they eventually arrived at his cottage. They walked through the creaky gate, approaching the mahogany door.

“Watch your step,” Jamie warned, as Lyra’s stick made contact with the elevated porch. Still holding Jamie’s hand, she warily stepped up to the door. Jamie unlocked it with the bronze key around his neck.

He guided Lyra through the house, to the side tower, where all the herbs and other ingredients were stored. As he locked the door behind them, she was hit with an amalgamation of incense, pungent enough to make her nose wrinkle.

“Why in the name of the Gods do you have so many herbs? Are you a witch or something?”

“Well, yeah. My parents have been teaching me since I was a toddler. Plus, that’s gonna help me help you.”

“It better,” she said.

“Wait a second, I’ve gotta check the book,” he explained, dropping her hand.

“The what?” She said, but she could already hear him clomping up the stairs, hurrying to get whatever the “book” was.

He returned with a thud, the book slamming into what must have been a table. Pages flicked with certainty.

“Found it. The way to fix you.”

made that very clear. The Gods “needed” them.

Jamie fell silent.

“How?” Lyra didn’t believe for a second that she would get her eyes back. The High Priest had

“I knew it,” she started. “I

KNEW you were a goddamned liar and you wouldn’t be able to help me and that—”

“Lyra!” he yelled. She stopped.

“When I said “fix you,” I didn’t mean I could fix your eyes. That’s beyond my skillset. But I can give you a new eye. Well, not new, you already have it, but I can open it for you.”

“You know what, fine! Yeah, I’m living a goddamned pagan fairytale, in a goddamned pagan town, with a bunch of goddamned pagan crazy people! The hell’s your point?”

“What the hell are you going on about?”

“What I was going to say was that we’re pagan. The fairytales are real. I can open your third eye and you’ll see the physical realm, but you’ll also see the metaphysical simultaneously. It could be a bit…overwhelming.”

“Have you ever heard of the third eye?”

“Of course, but that’s just a pagan fairytale.”

“You’re a living pagan fairytale,” he countered, viscously.

She sighed. “Any sight is better than no sight. What’s the ritual?”

“I don’t think you’ll like it.”

Since she couldn’t watch him, Jamie explained it to her as he completed each step. He had

all the necessary herbs and oils: thyme, mugwort, rosemary, valerian, and three drops of his mother’s conjuring oil. He crushed everything up into a paste with a mortar and pestle, and drew the third eye sigil on her forehead.

He chanted “Oculus occultus, subter, te voco ut expergiscaris, emergas.”

Lyra’s forehead pulsed. There was a visceral rip, and she fell to her knees, screaming. “You didn’t say it would hurt!” She cried, clawing at her forehead. Jamie didn’t reply, in awe like always at the third eye’s opening. Hers was a subtle lilac, and it locked on him in a rage.

She got up and slapped him, furious. “That’s what you get for omitting that detail!” she snarled. Jamie turned red. “Well it worked, didn’t it?! You have to go, I can give you enough rations to last you a few days, but you’re gonna have to figure out a way to fend for yourself. Goodbye and good luck” he added, shoving a tied sack into her arms.

With a brief “Thanks,” Lyra fled the tower’s back door for the forest, where Jamie hoped she’d live, and never return.

As soon as Lyra left, Jamie heard the creak of the front gate, and prayed Lyra had run far enough. Heavy footsteps thudded across the floor of their house,

until someone tried to enter the tower with no luck. A key clanked and the lock turned.

“Jameson, what are you doing locked away in the tower?” His father, Ashland’s high priest, asked.

“Making spell jars, just like you asked Dad,” Jamie said, quickly turning to pour a spoonful of oregano into a tiny glass bottle.

“Have you seen the sacrifice?”

“No, sorry.” “It happens every damn gibbous. We prepare the vessels perfectly, take their eyes, drain the blood into the chalices and the Gods drink, but the girls disappear every DAMN time!” The High Priest slammed his hand on the table, making it shake.

Jamie nodded his head. “Yeah, that is odd.”

Ghosts

Charlotte Cowles

I’m seeing the ghosts everywhere.

The fragmented Broken sad, sad versions of you

i’m seeing ghosts

Everywhere I see you.

Isabel Loeffler-Kaplan

When I taught you to write, Hardship enveloped into metaphors, Emotions scratched line an itch

With the ink of a purple pen, I kept waiting for you to tell my story, but You kept dotting your “i”s with hearts, while keeping yours out of it. You wanted to make something great

Because maybe it would mean That you were.

But you knew that “great” never carried “you”, And you can squish letters together until they suffocate, But only god can spindle them, Making braids fall from heaven

Like a pen’s endless ink unraveling from a tower, You thought the paper would greet you gently, with a curtsy or a bow,

But you’re not so glamorous now

Stuck behind blank page lines like prison bars

With no more hearts on your “i”s

Or for your eyes to behold

Not that you’d ever let yourself c.

In Light and Stone

Bhhavya Somaya

Beneath the gray skies, clothed in ancient pierre,

Rests Notre-Dame, unmoved by time’s demand.

She stands tall above the Seine; in awe we stare Our feet held forever still upon this holy land.

The river winds below, a quiet silver thread,

Mirroring the light that trembles on the stone.

Through arches high, where whispered prayers are spread, The breeze drifts softly, carrying tales unknown.

Under the gathering clouds, dark and bruised above, Her towers pierce the sky, giving way to the divine.

A sudden sun ignites the spire we know and love,

Painting placid Paris with a hue of gold to shine.

So let us pause and take a breath beneath her art,

For though she may not forever stand, she lives in us by heart.

Looking Away

Isabel Loeffler-Kaplan

The sky was blue like his eyes: Deep and vast and unexplored,

But the minute you tried to reach into them, You never got anywhere. You’re like a kid

Jumping and falling just to jump and fall again.

His friends would treat you like a visitor, Exchanging nods—unsigned contracts, You stuck your head in the air, Like a soldier going to battle.

But he’d always have the higher ground, With his head in the clouds.

You’d leap while he never bent. Your hand always slipped from his,

Till your knees scraped the gravel, And you realized the blood was only on Your fingertips.

You looked up to the sky

And saw your reflection in his gaze. You thought limits were mythical

Until you realized they’re self-made. And looking away isn’t cowardly

If it allows you to be saved.

A collection of works

I. The Collector’s Guide

I am from bottle cap pins,

From frantic crafts coupled with hot glue and grit,

From late night matcha lattes,

(More beige than green with milk)

Providing much needed, cobbled-together caffeine.

From the “Are you sure’s?” And “Can you handle its’?” Of my parents, More so my mom than my dad.

From pokey, imperfect wire,

Wrapped around multi-colored rocks, rough and raw.

From the chugga chug of my sewing machine,

Oscillating between fabric laid flat,

Connecting and uniting like magic.

From collections of little bits and pieces: mini collectibles, crystals, costumy jewelry.

(Emma loves the rose quartz, but only the pinkest pieces).

From the mess on my desk, on my bench, in my head.

The ideas and unfinished projects strewn all around that I swear I’ll get to eventually.

Creativity comes from destruction, after all.

From loud metallic music, my father’s rock and roll that he Grew to love in college and passed down to me,

Base heavy as boulders and sounds layered as thin as a knife’s edge. He still plays songs for me.

New finds, old finds, borrowed and blue.

I’m from the chiselled stone of my mind, Laden with lines, images, and entire moments.

I etch them there daily, and there they stay.

I.

Have you ever met with giants?

It’s now or never.

Dog runs, Time off,

II.

Confronting history. What you said about Slices of time

477 miles 2 weeks

40 games

III.

“And I am pretty sure it…” cares less. Volatility Levels were back down They rose sharply Peaked in the summer—

Treacherous Bodies of water Warming At that point

IV.

The trend represents The decision.

V.

He feels numb.

I need my family here. My biggest sense, actually, right now, isn’t joy. One answer, Money.

VI.

At times, one web touches another: Dedicated, Died because of misinformation. You’re either with this movement or against it.

VII.

The coordination, Trying to funnel

Fitter, faster, Bigger problems.

Internal rules and

New information.

VIII.

The freedom to be you

Outside a job; After parties,

Teetering on collapse.

III. Dye for Dying

I remember… undyed hands, because you didn’t trust red box dye. Passionate discussions, and your well-loved hoodie, with the tear where the cuff ran over the back of your hand. Black and blue, red and black, I look back and swear your love felt laced with hate. Jealousy want craving yearning desire need. at what Cost? Empty promises, curled up like burning paper—ashen transformation, painful, hot, unsustainable—

school-bought cookies, viscerally graphic tees and unwashed jeans.. Inattention and desperation swirling in olive branches, rotting ones constantly extending and breaking down unable to bear the sickness unfurling from inside. Impromptu and highly necessary tutoring sessions, always for you, never for me. Instability emotional oscillation your codependent lover. And you told me everything. Too much. I wanted a break. So I broke. We don’t talk anymore.

IV. Want.

Despite all of your strifes, strictly going

With all of your pain, you do not discern

Although I would never curse one knowing

The blood to your heart has started slowing

I look to my left, with nowhere to turn

Despite all of your strifes, strictly going

The gnawing in my stomach is growing

When will it truly be my turn to learn?

Although I would never curse one knowing

Through your cold flesh, my needle is sewing

Gripping the needle tightly, my hand burns

Despite all of your strifes, strictly going

It screams, but I prevent it from doing

I remember it was not mine to earn

Although I would never curse one knowing

Upon your wounds, I am gently blowing

It wants to be free, writhes and screams, it yearns

Despite all of your strifes, strictly going

Although I would never curse one knowing

Days

Spencer Weil

Some, you forget completely, while others stay with you like a song, that you can’t get out of your head. You must choose how you spend each one, gloomy or cold, warm or bright, either let them fade to a blur, or live them to remember.

Time won’t ask if you’re paying attention, it just marches, quiet but constant. One will become a memory, and the next will take its place. There’s no telling what the present holds: A gift for your determination. Never knowing which will stay with you, So live them as they might.

5.5

Bhhavya Somaya

It was my first time.

I didn’t know where to begin,

But I’ve never been good at idling, At standing still.

I like to jump at things, Often without knowing Where I’ll land.

Above me, lead climbers

Swept across the steepest of overhangs and the insurmountable 5.14’s, as if the air bent to their will.

I watched from below, star-struck, picturing myself in their shoes, Someday.

You started me on a 5.5.

It was humbling, my forearms burned, and my feet searched for balance.

Harder than I expected, but I didn’t dare to let go.

Because somewhere between fear and gravity, I found that joy again. And I’m not done climbing.

Two guys stand toe-to-toe in a hallway of REDA Robotics Corp.

Inside they are gears and metal, but they don’t know that. The following is REDA’s test of their new irrationality programming in their everlong pursuit to make the robots indistinguishable from humans.

Mr. F: Hey, why don’t you shut up!

Mr. K: I don’t know. Maybe offer some reasons why!

Mr. F: My pleasure! First reason: I told you to!

Mr. F: Alright! Second reason: Your mother told you to!

Mr. K: Not convinced! Give me another!

Mr. K: No she didn’t!

Mr. F: She did!

Mr. K: If she did, why don’t you call her and ask!

Mr. F takes out his cell phone and dials a number.

The phone rings while the two are looking at each other. Still ringing. Still ringing. They’re still looking at each other.

Still ringing.

Mr. F hangs up the phone.

Mr. F: Mr. K won’t shut up!

Mr. F: It went to voicemail.

Mr. P: Did you offer him some reasons why?

Mr. K: Hey, how come you have my mother’s phone number!

Mr. F: Yes!

Mr. P: And?

Mr. F: I have everybody’s phone number!

Mr. K: I wasn’t convinced.

Mr. P strolls into the room.

Mr. P: What’s all the hub bub about?

Mr. P: Well gee wiz fellas that is certainly a pickle… Mr. K, do you have a counter proposal?

Mr. K: I would suggest that Mr. F shuts up!

Mr. F: Mr. K can explain since I explained it to Mr. P!

Mr. P: Oh wow! Hostile situation here. Maybe we should get a second opinion.

Mr. K: Thank you! Mr. F suggested I shut up.

Mr. P looks out the doorway.

Mr. Y: Well, did he offer you some reasons why?

Mr. P: (into the hallway) Hey! Mr Y! Come here we need a second opinion!

Mr. K: Yes he did.

Mr. P: He wasn’t convinced.

Mr. Y enters holding a cup of coffee.

Mr. Y: That’s quite a pickle.

Mr. P K & F: (Together) Yep.

Mr. Y: What’s the problem Mr. P? (sees Mr. K and Mr. F) Oh hey guys! Mr F AND Mr K: (together) Hello.

Mr. Y: What were the reasons?

Mr. P readies an answer, but realizes he doesn’t know the answer. He looks at Mr. K.

Mr. K: The first was because he said so.

she didn’t pick up.

Mr. P and Mr. Y mutter in agreement. “That’s a good point” “Certainly a good point” “a classic”

Mr. Y: You called his mom?

Mr. F: Sure.

Mr Y: On your phone?

Mr. K: The second was because my mother said so.

Mr. K: Yes.

Mr. Y: Did she?

Mr. K: I think he lied.

Mr. P: Why do you have his mom’s number?

Mr. F: I called her to confirm but

Mr. F: I have everyone’s phone number.

Mr. P and Mr. Y both recoil with confusion.

Mr. Y: Everybody’s?

Mr. F nods.

Mr. P: So you know all of our mothers’ phone numbers?

(overlapping:)

Mr. P: Oh man!

Mr. K: Wow.

Mr. Y: Nice dude!

Mr. P: I’d love to know her number. (whistles.)

(overlapping ends)

Mr. K: One problem at a time,

Mr. P.

Mr. P: Right, sorry about that…

Mr. F: I also feel that we are getting off track. I think Mr. K should shut up, and I’m not moving from this spot until he does!

He looks at Mr F with both concern and suspicion.

Mr. K: I think Mr. F should shut up as I stated in my counterpoint. I will also stay in this spot until he does!

Mr. Y: So… You know Ms. S’s number?

Mr. P: Well gentlemen I don’t see why we can’t all get what we want–

Mr. F: Yes.

Mr. Y: I’d like Mr. F to forget all

our mothers’ phone numbers.

Mr. Y leans over to Mr P.

Mr. P: That too… I propose Mr. K and Mr. F both engage in 30 seconds of shutting up. Sounds fair?

Mr. Y: (whispers) It was Y.

Mr. P: excellent choice Mr. Y.

They both nod and say yes.

Mr. K: Who gets to go first?

Mr. Y: I know how to handle this one. I’m thinking of a letter in the alphabet. Whoever’s closest wins.

Mr. P. readies his watch.

They all nod in agreement.

Mr. P: And your time starts…

Now! Mr K smiles and Mr F looks at anything aside from his satisfied grin. This goes on for thirty seconds. A very. Long. Thirty seconds.

Mr. F: G.

Mr. K: S.

Mr. Y points at Mr. K.

Mr. P: Time! Mr. F, your turn.

Mr. F gets ready to be proud of himself for 30 seconds for getting Mr. K to shut up.

Mr. F: Dang it!

Mr. P: Time starts… Now!

Mr. F chuckles in triumph as Mr K starts being frustrated and quiet. Another thirty seconds goes by (too slowly).

Mr. P: Time!

Mr F and Mr K shake hands. Then Mr Y and Mr P shake hands. Then they shake the hands of people they didn’t shake hands with yet. “That was swell, wasn’t it?” “Sure was, sure was!”

After they congratulate each other,

Mr. Y:

Mr. Y: Hey fellas, this kinda seemed like a waste of time. They look directly into the camera at the audience (Or you, the reader) for a moment before looking back at each other.

(overlapping)

Mr. K: No way!

Mr. F: You’re kidding!

Mr. P: Get outta town!

(end overlapping)

Mr. F and Mr. K start walking out of the room shaking their heads.

Mr. P: What was that Mr. Y?

Mr. Y: I don’t know. I guess I’m losing my head a bit.

Mr. P: You’re starting to sound like those guys in sector two!

Mr. F: Wanna grab some coffee?

Mr. Y: Ugh, don’t say that! I hate sector two.

Mr. K: I’d love to get some coffee. The two go to the right down the hall.

Mr. P: Don’t we all.

THE END

Social Anxiety

Isaiah Fields

This is what you do at parties, right?

The one question that persists

As I stand in the crowd of moving bodies

Brushing against mine, my fists

Balling up, grabbing at something, nothing.

They drift to latch onto my wrists

Trying desperately to keep my composure.

This is what you do at parties, right?

I stay in the crowd, showing none

Of the fear and familiar fragility

That I feel every time a room

Turns into frightening, flickering flashes

Spewing from the mouths of

Party lights flooding my eyes with blinding colors

This is what you do at parties, right?

Yet I continue to move to the beat,

Masked with a carefully crafted smile.

Make sure I’m not the one to keep

The mood of the party down.

This is what you do at parties, right?

No one notices when I leave to get water,

No one notices the tears in my eyes.

This is what you do at parties, right?

The one question that persists

As I sit alone on the grass

Brushing up against me, my fists

Balling up, covering my eyes from anyone, anything.

They drift to latch onto my wrists

That pull my legs in close, and I close.

Little Friend (Villanelle)

Madeline Brown

I’m so glad I made you of paint and clay,

Formed you with the dust of stars from which we all originate,

And all my troubles, you wash away.

I delicately placed you on a little tray

As you don’t have the steadiest base.

I’m so glad I made you of paint and clay.

Seeing your snaggle toothed grin illuminates my day.

You always lift my spirits,

And all my troubles, you wash away.

You shine as bright as the sun, though of course I painted you that way.

Your little horns, dull to the touch, shimmer in shades of purple.

I’m so glad I made you of paint and clay.

On occasion you’d get tipped over, and on my desk you’d lay.

I’d pick you up and place you back, while you’d smile at me.

And all my troubles, you wash away.

Sometimes I want to give up, but when I see you my negativity is swayed.

I could never fail you, my first and greatest creation.

I’m so glad I made you of paint and clay,

And all my troubles, you wash away.

Editors

Madeline Brown

Isabel Loeffler-Kaplan

The Pendulum Staff

Advisors

Ashley Gangi-Petit

Jeorge Yankura

Staff

Charlotte Cowles

Eliza Raben

Liliana Finn

Acknowledgements

Editors: Maddie Brown and Isabel Loeffler-Kaplan

Maddie Brown ‘26 and Isabel Loeffler- Kaplan ‘26 are both seniors working as the 2026 Pendulum editors. As the student leaders of the publication, they are responsible for orchestrating meetings with the student staff and faculty advisors. In addition, they help make final calls on accepted works, formatting, design choices, and the theme’s application. Although the theme and initially accepted works are decided by the students, the editors direct it, ensuring cohesion between the chosen works and literature. During weekly meetings, the editors and staff review new submissions, give initial judgements on the work’s relevance to the theme, and suggest possible edits.

Faculty Advisor for Art: Jeorge Yankura

Ms. Yankura serves as the guide for all visual aspects of The Pendulum. She is an invaluable resource for building out the edition’s structure and ensuring

the theme is visually conveyed in the final product.

As a teacher of photography and digital design, she encourages her students to submit work, helping fill holes in the magazine that might otherwise be left empty. She is also extremely involved in the ultimate layout of the magazine, supervising and enabling its final development. For over twenty years, Ms. Yankura has guided The Pendulum, and it would not exist without her energetic support and immense attention to detail.

Faculty Advisor for Literature: Dr. Ashley Gangi-Petit

As the faculty advisor for literature, Dr. Gangi-Petit has helped identify the strongest works of literature submitted to The Pendulum and pinpoint what aspects of literature might best be paired with aspects of artwork. Since joining our team in 2024, she has consistently provided clarity with regards to literature and helped facilitate discussions around such pieces. Her positive

attitude, coupled with her meticulous approach to analyzing written work, has made our weekly meetings not only more scrupulous, but also more fun.

Technical Notes

The fonts used in this volume of The Pendulum include Playfair Display Italic Bold and Playfair Display Italic for headers, titles and author names, Adobe Hebrew Regular for text bodies and page numbers, and Adobe Hebrew and Adobe Hebrew Italic for individual artwork attributions.

Playfair Display is a serif-style typeface from the Playfair Project, led by Claus Eggers Sørensen, and is inspired by both the Scotch Roman typefaces and similar designs of John Baskerville from the eighteenth century. First released in 2011, this typeface features relatively consistent vertical height in both capital and lower case letters, making it ideal for printed material. The bold bodily shape and delicate hairlines make this typeface easy on the eyes and attractive to the reader.

Adobe Hebrew was created in 20042005 by John Hudson of Tiro Typeworks. This serif-style typeface was specifically created for contemporary

Hebrew business communications. The Pendulum staff was attracted to the shape and crisp nature of the letters in this type family.

The Pendulum layout and design was created using Adobe InDesign from the 2026 version of the Adobe Creative Cloud. The Pendulum was printed with a new Konica Minolta AccurioPress C14010 at Impression Point Printing in Stamford, Connecticut by alumni parent Robert La Banca. This state-of-the-art equipment uses an Intelligent Media Sensor to automatically detect paper size, weight, thickness and surface type and relays changes to the print engine to adjust registration on the fly for more precise output. This reduces material waste and reduces the environmental footprint. In addition, the Intelligent Quality Optimizer automates color control in a closed-loop system that constantly monitors and adjusts output. The paper used is Accent Opaque 80# for cover and text.