Sheltered in Place
Tom Painting, JH teacher
I keep coming back to this: A small cabin on a remote bay in the Thousand Islands. An eleven-year old boy on a fishing trip with his father. The boy stands on the shore. A mist rises from the water, a fish flops. An aluminum rowboat nudges the dock. Up the short rise from the water the boy hears the creak of a screen door. His father steps onto the porch, holding two fishing poles and a tackle box, a lit cigarette between his lips. In very few years a laundromat will open at the far end of the bay, dumping enough phosphate-laced wastewater to ruin the fishing for a generation. The unfiltered Camels will eventually kill his father. And while many things come to no good, this carefree childhood memory remains pristine and perfect.
case sensitive
my thoughts
secure in the cloud
case sensitive
my thoughts
secure in the cloud
Art by Ellie Bond, grade 12
Art by Addison Kerwin, grade 12
Mother
Emma Schwartz, grade 12
You took too much and now a smog filled mucus runs through her pores
Dust oozing from her eyes
You took too much and now a slippery oil swims the folds of her brain
You say you aren’t to blame
But when I cough a thousand floods, I feel your grasp emerge
You forced your world into her woods
As you thrust it into mine
With coat hanger fingers, you had her symphonies of sunsets,
The fires just a whisper in my mind
Yet through these whispers, Mother told me he’s a trickster
All I felt was your gaze
I felt it glare holes through my bones till I crumbled into ash
And now
I burn in words you cannot hear
She screams in flames you cannot feel
Now, I feel her fire like a mother’s hug
And that is how I know
You took too much.
Dust oozing from her eyes
You took too much and now a slippery oil swims the folds of her brain
You say you aren’t to blame
But when I cough a thousand floods, I feel your grasp emerge
You forced your world into her woods
As you thrust it into mine
With coat hanger fingers, you had her symphonies of sunsets,
The fires just a whisper in my mind
Yet through these whispers, Mother told me he’s a trickster
All I felt was your gaze
I felt it glare holes through my bones till I crumbled into ash
And now
I burn in words you cannot hear
She screams in flames you cannot feel
Now, I feel her fire like a mother’s hug
And that is how I know
You took too much.
Resurrection
Faven Wondwosen, grade 9
I look outside to the tree I’ve known my entire life
My window panes look like reflections and
To some extension that tree is looking back at me
I think we are the same thing
Disturbed silence echoed in the shaking of hands
Shaking fists opened palmside
Up to the sky, grasping at life
But aren't all trees dead on the inside?
Heartwood stopped pumping
Syrupy sapwood shielding in sweet covered safeguard
Hard to be dead when you look so alive
Body crucified on your own limbs
Nails hammered through hands
Crown of thorns, bleeding wildfires
Scorched in flames of my own creation
Genesis never looked so much like desolation
Breath fueling damnation
Living feels like burning sometimes
Open fire on something wounded
Killed for mercy, as if death is a luxury
Blood seeped into soil
Joining with living bones to create something unholy
Life not entirely human
Ghosts in the wind, murmuring prayers to those who need them
Hoping beyond the great that something will bring them back
To feeling
Branching veins pumping hellfire
Bursting in streams of light
Colors reaching to the sky and staying, leaving something bright behind
Living feels like burning sometimes
But that is so much better than feeling nothing
A deep hollow cavernous in empty skin
Cold thickness pumping something toxic
Numb limbs that won’t grow to be magnificent
I know what it feels like to be swallowed
Deep sea, dark underneath, feet slipping on slick teeth
gaping, waiting for something to change
Still and slow, a statue in an overgrowth
What use is art with no one to see it?
What use is life when the person doesn’t live it?
I know what it feels like to be swallowed
Freezing and tricked into sleeping
This art does not imitate me
Otherwise it would be a blank slate
Because some days, i think i have nothing to give
Some days I think i am just as useless as art without people to view it
Some days I think i am a white canvas
My artist too weary to make something of me
Bone tired and broken
Stained hands open waiting for brushes
Rushes of times passed behind broken glass eyes
Praying that they can go back to something that feels just a little like burning
Funny how pain can sometimes be better than nothing
Some days i think flames don't feel so bad
Compared to the days where vacant ache
Burrowed in my living dead bones
The days where i can't care enough to break through soil
A grave made of my bedposts and
Shrouds made from closed curtains
Some days i think flames don’t feel so bad
In the aftermath of fire
There is always something to be reborn
Newly hatched from ashes, blackened from all darkness
brightened from newness
After three days, there is always resurrection
Life feels like burning sometimes
But fire cleanses
Baptized in flame and risen from blackness
Fire is burning,
And warm and light
Life feels like burning sometimes,
But that is so much better than feeling nothing
My window panes look like reflections and
To some extension that tree is looking back at me
I think we are the same thing
Disturbed silence echoed in the shaking of hands
Shaking fists opened palmside
Up to the sky, grasping at life
But aren't all trees dead on the inside?
Heartwood stopped pumping
Syrupy sapwood shielding in sweet covered safeguard
Hard to be dead when you look so alive
Body crucified on your own limbs
Nails hammered through hands
Crown of thorns, bleeding wildfires
Scorched in flames of my own creation
Genesis never looked so much like desolation
Breath fueling damnation
Living feels like burning sometimes
Open fire on something wounded
Killed for mercy, as if death is a luxury
Blood seeped into soil
Joining with living bones to create something unholy
Life not entirely human
Ghosts in the wind, murmuring prayers to those who need them
Hoping beyond the great that something will bring them back
To feeling
Branching veins pumping hellfire
Bursting in streams of light
Colors reaching to the sky and staying, leaving something bright behind
Living feels like burning sometimes
But that is so much better than feeling nothing
A deep hollow cavernous in empty skin
Cold thickness pumping something toxic
Numb limbs that won’t grow to be magnificent
I know what it feels like to be swallowed
Deep sea, dark underneath, feet slipping on slick teeth
gaping, waiting for something to change
Still and slow, a statue in an overgrowth
What use is art with no one to see it?
What use is life when the person doesn’t live it?
I know what it feels like to be swallowed
Freezing and tricked into sleeping
This art does not imitate me
Otherwise it would be a blank slate
Because some days, i think i have nothing to give
Some days I think i am just as useless as art without people to view it
Some days I think i am a white canvas
My artist too weary to make something of me
Bone tired and broken
Stained hands open waiting for brushes
Rushes of times passed behind broken glass eyes
Praying that they can go back to something that feels just a little like burning
Funny how pain can sometimes be better than nothing
Some days i think flames don't feel so bad
Compared to the days where vacant ache
Burrowed in my living dead bones
The days where i can't care enough to break through soil
A grave made of my bedposts and
Shrouds made from closed curtains
Some days i think flames don’t feel so bad
In the aftermath of fire
There is always something to be reborn
Newly hatched from ashes, blackened from all darkness
brightened from newness
After three days, there is always resurrection
Life feels like burning sometimes
But fire cleanses
Baptized in flame and risen from blackness
Fire is burning,
And warm and light
Life feels like burning sometimes,
But that is so much better than feeling nothing
Photograph by Yi Jiang, Paideia parent
|
CaptiveElizabeth Doyle, grade 8
My window like a barricade
blocking the enemy that eludes capture I am deceived by the leaves that undulate to the melodious tune of the calling wind Beauty is soon submerged in a pool of sirens that evoke reality The world has surrendered |
A Sheltered Space
Catherine Dwyer, grade 8
The ancient wooden door creaked closed behind her, and an echo sounded through the room. Matteo stood in silence with his worn paintbrush in hand. He set his brush on a stand and wandered over to the window. His smock was drenched in various vibrant colors that wrapped around him. At the window, he took a moment to observe the world he was accused of hiding from. He considered his art studio to be his safe place. Below him, cobblestone streets lined an uneven pathway to the center of town where a market was held. The small town known as Caprina, Italy lived under the radar, remaining hidden from tourists. The sun rested in the highest point of the sky, and the faint sound of the ocean could be heard. Matteo listened intently for each wave that crashed upon the sand.
He started talking to himself, “This day shall not go to waste. Beauty like this must be captured!” He shuffled over to his canvas and picked up his brush, dipping it into the lead paint. Once the brush made contact with the canvas, Matteo’s hand glided to the sound of the breeze. The summer day was the melody to the song his hand followed as it flowed across the canvas. His finished product was not at all what he expected, though. The canvas was drenched in dark, gloomy paint with navy blue swirls and one red blotch of color in the center. It was unnerving to look at, and Matteo couldn’t understand why he would paint such an image. The canvas resembled an infinite void that could swallow Matteo whole. Matteo, intrigued by how his piece was capable of making him feel so uneasy, thought it best be displayed in a museum. Matteo stepped away from the aura of the painting and moved back to the window. Another day had passed, and the sun began to sink below the horizon. A stream of majestic pinks, fiery oranges, and golden yellows dominated the evening sky. Matteo decided to retire early and head to bed.
Late in the night, Matteo’s deep slumber was suddenly interrupted after a rumble of thunder shook his loft. Disoriented, he stumbled into his studio and flung open the decaying shutters. There was no moonlight, for dark, ominous clouds filled the once fiery sky, and rain catapulted down. As Matteo gathered his thoughts, he noticed something was off. His canvas had been wiped clean. The extravagant void of darkness and mystery had disappeared. Before Matteo could come to understand the mind-boggling predicament, a knock on the door sounded. It was gentle, but it seemed to echo through the loft. Matteo slowly crept over to the door, cracking it open just enough for his eye to peek through.
“Hello,” a faded voice said. She wore a loose, flowing dress that was the color of ash. A bright red necklace rested on her chest. Her hair was thin and long, running down her back. She was terribly thin, and her eyes were a deep shade of brown, almost black. Her skin was pale and pasty; it appeared as if she had never seen the sun. Matteo had opened the door fully by now, and they faced one another. The woman said with more composure, “I am Malvolia. You don’t know me, but I believe you had something of mine, and I want to make sure you never take it again.”
Matteo had never seen this woman before, but he felt a definite, unexplainable connection to her. He moved aside, and Malvolia gracefully brushed passed him, smelling of lilies.
“I want to know what I took of yours?” Matteo inquired. Malvolia’s laughed, leaving Matteo uncomfortable and perplexed.
“You are an artist, correct?” Malvolia then met Matteo's gaze and said, “Take me to your studio now.”
Matteo didn’t meet her eyes, for he stared at her feet, puzzled by the accusations of thievery. Instead, Matteo said, “My studio is just down the hall on the left. Tell me, why are you here? I am an innocent man who did not take what you believe I stole.”
“You are a thief.” With that, she sauntered down the short hallway and glided through the wooden door into the studio. Her eyes darted around the room and stopped when they landed on the blank canvas. She grinned, her dry lips almost appearing to crack, exposing her dark yellow teeth. Matteo pranced after her and watched as Malvolia approached the canvas.
“Yes, yes!” she sighed, “It worked!” Matteo stood in awe and horror. The storm outside began to pick up, and the shutters swung open and slammed closed as the wind howled. Malvolia turned to face Matteo and said, “You did it, you painted my soul, and now I have it back.” Matteo began to understand the error of his ways. He was standing in the room with death. Malvolia's eyes turned the color of pitch, her pupils disappearing. “Finally, I am one again.” Malvolia crept over to Matteo, who appeared a lot smaller. “I must take you now. If you ever paint again, you might trap me on that canvas, and I can’t allow that.”
Matteo froze in fear and cried out, “Don’t take me! I am not who you think. I am an artist Please spare me!” With that, Malvolia led him by the collar to the open window and shoved him out. He landed with a thud on the cobblestone street below, his neck snapped. Matteo’s inert body sprawled out on the ground as the rain pelted down.
He started talking to himself, “This day shall not go to waste. Beauty like this must be captured!” He shuffled over to his canvas and picked up his brush, dipping it into the lead paint. Once the brush made contact with the canvas, Matteo’s hand glided to the sound of the breeze. The summer day was the melody to the song his hand followed as it flowed across the canvas. His finished product was not at all what he expected, though. The canvas was drenched in dark, gloomy paint with navy blue swirls and one red blotch of color in the center. It was unnerving to look at, and Matteo couldn’t understand why he would paint such an image. The canvas resembled an infinite void that could swallow Matteo whole. Matteo, intrigued by how his piece was capable of making him feel so uneasy, thought it best be displayed in a museum. Matteo stepped away from the aura of the painting and moved back to the window. Another day had passed, and the sun began to sink below the horizon. A stream of majestic pinks, fiery oranges, and golden yellows dominated the evening sky. Matteo decided to retire early and head to bed.
Late in the night, Matteo’s deep slumber was suddenly interrupted after a rumble of thunder shook his loft. Disoriented, he stumbled into his studio and flung open the decaying shutters. There was no moonlight, for dark, ominous clouds filled the once fiery sky, and rain catapulted down. As Matteo gathered his thoughts, he noticed something was off. His canvas had been wiped clean. The extravagant void of darkness and mystery had disappeared. Before Matteo could come to understand the mind-boggling predicament, a knock on the door sounded. It was gentle, but it seemed to echo through the loft. Matteo slowly crept over to the door, cracking it open just enough for his eye to peek through.
“Hello,” a faded voice said. She wore a loose, flowing dress that was the color of ash. A bright red necklace rested on her chest. Her hair was thin and long, running down her back. She was terribly thin, and her eyes were a deep shade of brown, almost black. Her skin was pale and pasty; it appeared as if she had never seen the sun. Matteo had opened the door fully by now, and they faced one another. The woman said with more composure, “I am Malvolia. You don’t know me, but I believe you had something of mine, and I want to make sure you never take it again.”
Matteo had never seen this woman before, but he felt a definite, unexplainable connection to her. He moved aside, and Malvolia gracefully brushed passed him, smelling of lilies.
“I want to know what I took of yours?” Matteo inquired. Malvolia’s laughed, leaving Matteo uncomfortable and perplexed.
“You are an artist, correct?” Malvolia then met Matteo's gaze and said, “Take me to your studio now.”
Matteo didn’t meet her eyes, for he stared at her feet, puzzled by the accusations of thievery. Instead, Matteo said, “My studio is just down the hall on the left. Tell me, why are you here? I am an innocent man who did not take what you believe I stole.”
“You are a thief.” With that, she sauntered down the short hallway and glided through the wooden door into the studio. Her eyes darted around the room and stopped when they landed on the blank canvas. She grinned, her dry lips almost appearing to crack, exposing her dark yellow teeth. Matteo pranced after her and watched as Malvolia approached the canvas.
“Yes, yes!” she sighed, “It worked!” Matteo stood in awe and horror. The storm outside began to pick up, and the shutters swung open and slammed closed as the wind howled. Malvolia turned to face Matteo and said, “You did it, you painted my soul, and now I have it back.” Matteo began to understand the error of his ways. He was standing in the room with death. Malvolia's eyes turned the color of pitch, her pupils disappearing. “Finally, I am one again.” Malvolia crept over to Matteo, who appeared a lot smaller. “I must take you now. If you ever paint again, you might trap me on that canvas, and I can’t allow that.”
Matteo froze in fear and cried out, “Don’t take me! I am not who you think. I am an artist Please spare me!” With that, Malvolia led him by the collar to the open window and shoved him out. He landed with a thud on the cobblestone street below, his neck snapped. Matteo’s inert body sprawled out on the ground as the rain pelted down.