2014 Table of Contents

Class of 2014

American Dream - Keeana Abreu ‘14

Weigh the Gold Abby Bennett '14

Strangers Jake Bosse ‘14

What Home Feels Like - Olivia J. Campochiaro, ‘14

A Minute Worth a Thousand Years - Tommaso Centemero ‘14

Ode to the Wolf (of Wall Street) - Michaela Clark '14

Quietly Running - Michaela Clark '14

Serene - Jennifer Cole ‘15

Untitled - Rachel CW ‘14

Obey - Reilly Fallon '14

Having a Choice - Olivier Frenette ‘14

Ivy's Speech - Ivy Han, ‘14

Untitled Atupele Machika ‘14

It's Just a Game - Nico Manganiello '14

Friend or Faux Liberty McKnight '14

Time - Liberty McKnight '14

Ode to the Best Memories I Have - Charlotte Middleton '14

Ode to Nikola Tesla - Peter Miller '14

Ode to a Star  - Brittany Myrick '14

The Ones Who Need Not Do - Lorenzo Puopolo '14

Food Always Puts Me in the Perfect Mood - Lorenzo Puopolo '14

The Sandpit Thomas Roberti ‘14

Home - Amanda Small ‘14

The Right Way - Donita Sharkey '14

The Beautiful Summer Snow - Xinyi Sun ‘14

Metastasized - Janelle Tardiff '14

One Last Game of Chinese Checkers, Memere -  Janelle Tardiff '14

Quietly Running - James Uccello '14

Being Homesick - Jun Wang '17   

The Grand Piano - Zhuoyang Wang, '14

The Magical Morning - Austin Wildes ‘14

Come Back - Xinyuan Xie '14

 

Class of 2015

Clowns - Zach Abisalih ‘15

I Hate the Beach - Sarah Brouwer '15

Introduction to Thank God it’s Friday (T.G.I.F.): a Short Story - A. Delafield Donatelli ‘15

Arrow - David Enyedy, 15

Through The Desert - Jiani He ‘15

The Bay - Chen Liu ‘15

Farm Life - Field Peterson ‘15

Skating on a Lake - Eli Ross ‘15

The Scent of Love - Ye Tao ‘15

 

American Dream

There’s a core in every family,

 Its nucleus or control center. 

That place happens to be here. 

In this chaotic jungle.

 

It’s where we all were raised.

Where we learned how to count in Spanish, 

Speak in Spanish and nearly breathe in Spanish.

            

Located smack-dab in the middle 

Of a rundown mill city. 

            

This was the life she dreamt of,

In her secluded home 

In paradise.

Over forty years ago, 

this was her version of the

American Dream.

Keeana Abreu ‘14

Weigh the Gold

Your future is not something you can mold.

Don’t hope when hope yields hurt.

Everything you do is controlled.

 

Avoid the pain by numbing with cold,

Throw your singing heart into the dirt.

It’s just fool’s gold.

 

We have all heard stories told

Of passionate tries that subvert,

That mock, that scold.

 

No. This is your future. Take hold!

Put on your clean white shirt.

Go forward, speak up and be bold.

 

Don’t let anyone have you cajoled

Into admitting it’s not worth the hurt.

Fight back post-pain twofold.

 

Everything you do is controlled

By you and only you. Now don’t revert.

Don’t let the pessimism take hold.

Maybe it’s not for fools. Weigh the gold.

Abby Bennett '14

Strangers

Tony’s Pub is pretty small; there were about seven people when he arrived, but he still grabbed a seat at the bar so he could watch the T.V., which was playing the college basketball game. I came over to him and asked what he would wanted to drink. 

“Just a beer, please. Also, can I just get a cheeseburger with some fries, please?” 

“Absolutely.” I brought him his beer, and he thanked me as I told him his food would be ready in about ten minutes. As a bartender, I get to interact with people daily and I can usually tell how people are feeling, and because of this, I got to hear about this guy’s whole day because I asked if he was doing all right. 

He’d been sitting in the airport going on two and a half hours now, because his original flight to Washington D.C. had been delayed, due to inclement weather. He arrived at the Raleigh Durham Airport at two and got through Customs within in an hour, just to find out about his delay. He began killing his time by wandering aimlessly throughout the airport, walking into any store that piqued his interest. He went into the PGA Tour Shop, then found his way into the Sunglass Hut, while buying a smoothie, in the meantime, from one of the little snack stations. He managed to kill some more time until dinner, when he decided to sit and eat at this pub near his gate, Gate 9. 

After I brought him his food, I watched him eat, and his body language said a lot about his emotional state. He ate very slowly and kept his head down, for the most part. Occasionally, he would lean his head against his hand and rub his face almost as if he was tired or fed up with something. He finished his food and I removed his plates. When I came back from the kitchen, I asked him if he wanted anything else

“I’ll take another beer, please.” 

“Of course, sir.” I filled another glass from the tap and started walking over to him. Then I paused, because I noticed him watching something. It was a young girl and her mother.

 The child looked like she was almost in tears, while the mother was talking on the phone. The mother put the phone to her shoulder and bending toward her, started getting angry. It looked as if she was yelling at the little girl, because she was practically talking with her hands as people do when they get angry. The daughter was just taking it, looking very sad and ready to cry. The mother put the phone back to her ear for maybe five seconds, and then put it back in her pocket as if she had just told the person on the other end that she needed to go. She then grabbed her daughter’s arm with one hand, and started pointing at her with the other, as if she was scolding her. Then she started walking away, gripping her daughter’s arm. 

The man at the bar had been watching intently. I brought his drink over, and he just looked at me, almost with disbelief or like he just remembered something, and then he said, “I think I’m all set, actually.” He threw down twenty-five dollars and told me to keep the change, then got up and left.  I watched him as he walked out the pub and headed the opposite direction of his gate, almost as if he was in a rush or too late for his flight. But he still had close to another hour until his flight departed. 

Whether that guy just couldn’t bear seeing that little girl getting yelled at—it just pushed him over the edge after his long day – or if that scene sparked a bad memory; or maybe he just read the time wrong and panicked, I’ll never know, because that was the last time I saw that guy. 

  Jake Bosse ‘14

What Home Feels Like

You are sitting cross-legged on the couch in the living room with Grandma Cookie’s scratchy wool blanket bundled tightly around your shoulders. The room is chilly and the cold December air seeps through the poorly insulated walls. Luckily, Isabel is asleep on your lap, a surprisingly human-like snore erupting from her tiny pink nose. You scratch behind her ear and she rolls over contently, revealing her blubbery bald stomach. Although she acts like a diva, she is probably the ugliest cat you have ever seen. She keeps you warm, though, and her presence is comforting in this storm. The weather outside is unforgiving, but you feel safe. The fireplace crackles and pops as heat waves distort the old bricks, making them look as if they are melting. Bodhi lounges in front of the fire, purring, his paws outstretched. His black fur takes on an orange glow. 

    The smell of the oatmeal chocolate chip cookies you and your mom just baked drifts in from the kitchen. You begin to remember baking these same cookies with her when you were three. You were at the kitchen counter, standing on one of the dining room chairs, wearing only a pair of Care Bear Pull-Ups. You were rolling balls of cookie dough in your tiny hands, sneaking tastes when your mom had her back turned. You remember you mom’s favorite CD playing in the kitchen and her singing along in her botched Arabic that she once spoke fluently. She would pick you up and spin you around, calling you habibti, the Arabic word for “my dear.” The house was always filled with music when you were younger. She would put on Turkish Groove or Celtic songs or Neil Diamond, anything to get you dancing. It’s a bittersweet feeling, hearing music in the house now; it has been a long time. December is the one time of year the house isn’t so quiet, and you savor these short, precious moments. 

You start humming along to Bing Crosby’s hypnotizing bass-baritone voice as he croons your favorite Christmas song. The Christmas tree’s lights glow, and the melting snow catches gold flecks of light as the drops roll down the window. A smile spreads across your face as you admire the variety of ornaments hanging on the artificial branches. There is nothing generic about how the Campochiaro family decorates their tree, besides the fact that the tree itself is plastic. You spy the hand woven dolls from Haiti perched on branches; pieces of green-painted macaroni on a piece of cardboard, framing an image of your five year old face, chubby cheeks and nose blotchy red from the cold. There are the lifelike cardinals and chickadees carefully pinned on the twigs near the top of the tree, and, of course, you can’t forget the series of ornaments made completely out of bone that Grandma Cookie brought back from Papua, New Guinea. As untraditional as your family’s Christmas tree may be, decorated with the bone of who knows what type of creature, it is stunning to you. It is full of stories and traditions and memories that no other tree could ever share. 

Your mom is in the kitchen humming to herself as she takes the tray of cookies out of the oven. You smile and breathe in deeply. The smell fills the house in seconds, and your mouth begins to water. You hoist Isabel off of your lap and pull her into your arms. Like a child, she rests her paws over your shoulders and nuzzles your neck. She is heavy and the fur makes your nose itch but you can’t bear to put her down, so you nuzzle her back and she begins to purr, licking your cheek with her sandpaper tongue. Her breath is nauseating and you have to hold yours until she is done. You put Grandma Cookie’s blanket to the side and get off the couch, making your way over to your mom. You put your arm around her and rest your head on her shoulder. She smells of Chanel Number 5, cigarettes, and Chapstick.  You inhale, remembering her familiar scent. “Hi, Boo,” she says as she kisses your forehead and hands you a cookie. They are still hot and it almost falls apart in your hand, but you can’t resist. You take a bite; the chocolate chips melt in your mouth and stick to the corners of your lips. They are perfect, as always. You smile as you realize that this is what home truly feels like. 

  Olivia J. Campochiaro ‘14

A Minute Worth a Thousand Years

Lying on the hammock, I feel a breeze brushing my face. The cool air this evening is perfect. I can hear the sabias singing beautiful melodies; they fly around as if their world has no limits. The sound of the peaceful wind on the grass hypnotizes me. The landscape is worthy of a painting. The neighbor’s hilltop farm is covered with cornfields, all of it pulled together by the indescribable sunset. The sky is pink, with reddish shades, and the sun lies on the farm’s roof. The huge araucaria trees, in contrast with the sky, make me understand why Brazilian flora amazes the whole world. 

The hammock swings, and I am in heaven. My dog snores while he sleeps under me.  It’s a sweet snore, though; it does not bother me at all. I watch his belly going up and down while he breathes, he must be dreaming, dreaming with me. The wind brings the aroma of fresh lemons, from the loaded lemon tree nearby. I see the horses running in the fields, symbolizing the true meaning of freedom. Although I own them, they seem as wild as never before. I close my eyes and imagine myself riding one of them. Riding Paco, I can recognize him, the way he gallops. Shirtless, with no saddle, wearing a cowboy hat. There are no destinations for me. I just ride, with the wind blowing on my face. I can barely see the fence next to me, I go fast, careless. My hat falls off, and I don’t even mind, I keep going and going, I am unstoppable!

My sister runs out of the house and bomb-jumps into the pool. I open my eyes, water splashes everywhere, and my peace is interrupted. I don’t blame her, we have a pool for a reason. I feel good, though, renewed. It was a minute of peace, a minute of appreciation, a minute worth a thousand years.

                                                       Tommaso Centemero ‘14