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Home , Algor mortis, Necromancy, Shield wall

Phantasmagoria

Spring 2021 To our readers:

We as a staff recognize that this year has been new and difficult for everyone. There have been many changes in our lives with online schooling and new classroom requirements. The traditional Tome School magazine is no exception to change. We have hit many setbacks in creating this magazine, but we have also grown and adapted just like the Tome School community. This year, our entire magazine is online and in full color!

We are also proud to introduce to you our theme which reflects the year that we have experienced together:

Darkness to Light

Despair to Happiness

Bleakness to Hope

Similar to how our year began with worries of health and ended with hope because of vaccines, Phantasmagoria shows through not only the content but also the colors how everything may start out bleak, but in the end, everything will be all right.

We hope that you enjoy our magazine and thank you for all your support!

Phantasmagoria Staff 2021 Phantasmagoria Co-editors:

Taylor Fisher

Sadie Lewin

Staff:

Zoe Ebersold

J Lucatamo

Cavender McCoy

Natalie Millham

Kaitlyn Mulcahy

Logan Price

Christina Rasa

Jade Tusha

Advisors:

Mrs. Bohn

Mr. Wirdel

Front Cover Art:

Emily Hubbs

Back Cover Art:

Katy Bullerman Contributors

Melia Abbott (Grade 8) Christina Mulcahy (Grade 8)

Katy Bullerman (Grade 9) Kaitlyn Mulcahy (Grade 10)

Sam Busseau (Grade 9) Anthony Polizzi (Grade 7)

Zoe Ebersold (Grade 11) Logan Price (Grade 9)

Madison Hess (Grade 8) Beth Rasa (Grade 8)

Emily Hubbs (Grade 10) Christina Rasa (Grade 10)

Nellie Hudson (Grade 11) Morgan Reynolds (Grade 8)

Cameron Lewandowski (Grade 11) Olivia Russell (Grade 8)

Sadie Lewin (Grade 10) Alexis Senn (Grade 10)

Andrew Li (Grade 10) Elle Turner (Grade 8)

J Lucatamo (Grade 9) Jade Tusha (Grade 10)

Ms. Mercaldo (Tome teacher) Mr. Wirdel (Tome teacher) The Results of Being Traumatized

The arson was over. But what loathing I still had inside of me diminished as I spotted a struggling, suffering figure. I sprinted across the burning rubble to the hurting man. No, he was more of a boy trying to be a man than an actual man. He had a warm, glow to his eyes as he struggled to take my hand in his. I hadn’t meant to hurt anyone; I just wanted to scare them, and tell them that I am human too and can commit just as much damage and trauma as they had caused me. But hurting someone? That was far out of my realm. The boy gazed at me with eyes that tugged me closer. That face. I knew this boy. He wasn't much older than me, but a raggedy beard concealed his small lips. I pulled my gaze away to look at his wounds. He was trapped under a massive metal support pole with a large pool of blood surrounding his dying body. He reached, with great difficulty, into the left breast pocket of his bleach-stained janitor uniform and handed me a folded yellow document. He smiled and shook his head, whispering, “The adoption papers to be with me. You know, you were always my favorite.” His eyes lost their luster, and his face turned a ghastly white as he went limp. I was terrified. Terrified of those eyes, and how quickly they lost their gleam. Terrified at what I just had done. But most of all, terrified at who I had done it to. How could I act so selfish? All those years of driving away foster parent after foster parent with resentment for losing him. He would have told me to cut out the nonsense, and that it isn't the foster families’ fault anyway. Before the fires, he was always the only one who could calm me down. And now, well… now my own act of anger and hate was the end of him. I collapsed at the edge of what used to be the building and broke. “Brother…” Sadie Lewin Grade 10

Jade Tusha Grade 10 Beyond the Mountains

As a child, I was always repulsed by : the way bacteria begin to eat the decedent’s tissues as soon as that elusive, indefinable spark of life departs; the way the dead smell, with the odors of putrescine and cadaverine overlapping to form a wholly offensive olfactory experience; the way that maggots become visible just hours after the onset of . However, my early life nonetheless left me with extensive knowledge on the subject. My family has been overly concerned with the mechanics of death for centuries; it is a legacy passed on just as surely as our surname. My father was an eccentric who spent most of his time reading books of dark or conducting morally dubious experiments on animals bound shortly thereafter for the butcher. His ancestors, too, were more often than not morticians, funerary officials, body snatchers, or members of similar occupations, ranging from the mostly respectable to the wholly illicit, but almost invariably connected in some manner to death. Because of this legacy, I was expected from a young age to have a more than passing knowledge of death. Perhaps unfortunately for my mental well-being at the time, I never felt the positive fascination with it that I observed all around me, but I nonetheless grew to know a fair amount regarding death and its surrounding circumstances. It was having already acquired this knowledge that I left my childhood years behind me, and with them, my parents; at the age of thirteen, I went to live with my cousin. The daughter of my father’s brother, she too had been enveloped in the family obsession with death. However, to me her opinion on it seemed to be far more adjacent to my own than to those of my other relatives. From this somewhat morbid beginning our friendship blossomed, and we grew quite close. She studied alchemy instead of the cessation of life, and applied it not only to the dying but to relatively healthy patients as well. In fact, her stance on death had seemingly transformed in the last few months to be even more distinct from those with which I was more familiar. To put it bluntly, she had recently expressed a desire for personal longevity bordering on obsession. I feel ashamed to admit it, but I fear that the family’s closeness to death may have had an adverse effect on her psyche, for her thoughts on the matter, which she has excitedly though discreetly shared with me, are indubitably heretical. She speaks not of the which is said to be granted by the mythical philosopher’s stone of old, nor does she speak of an endless youth such as may be accomplished by the rearrangement of cells. She was invariably hesitant to outright say the word, but it was clear to me that her ideas centered on the art of . This knowledge of her private interests is what caused me to have such conflicted emotions when I received the news of her death. She had been travelling back from a neighboring town, where her skills as a doctor had been requested, when she was apparently overcome by a sudden heart attack, whereupon she collapsed dead in the scarce-travelled road. A friendly woodsman then found her body, and it was identified the day before yesterday. And so her was arranged for the next day. I attended, of course, for she had been like a sister to me. However, it was a closed-casket service, and I was never permitted to see the body, and so doubts began to ferment inexorably within me, for I had never known my dear cousin to fail in anything that she truly wanted to accomplish. And so, thought I, she surely would also be able to evade death through the art of necromancy, if she had so determined. I returned to the church late at night in the hope that my cousin may still live, and found to my dismay that she had already been interred in the family tomb. I had not been informed of this beforehand, and so I naturally assumed that she may also have expected to remain above ground for longer, in the event of sudden death, and I thought that perhaps this unexpected event may interfere with her postmortem plans. Our town’s is surrounded by ancient trees and vines that have been slowly encroaching on its borders for innumerable years; as a result, there is now a leafy canopy that stretches over the graves and shields the tombs from the light of the stars and the moon. This particular night, a stifling fog had washed in from the nearby foothills, lingering and growing denser as the day grew cold and dark. I stood behind a large stone grave marker just inside the cemetery gates. The necropolis stretched out before me, obscured by the gray mist as it whirled silently along the ground, lapping over gravestones and hiding them from sight in a slow but inescapable wave. I shivered, subconsciously pulling my cloak closer around myself as I was suddenly struck with a vivid image of all the trapped souls within these tombs, their lamentations and ululations forever unheard by the living as they lingered on indefinitely in their own dessicated corpses. The moment passed, and I returned my attention to reality, hurrying forward through the mist to stand in front of the family tomb. I removed the key from my pocket, feeling as I did so the brush of my fingertips against paper and pencil, which I realized I had forgotten to remove; I had used these earlier to note a few key phrases from the funeral, particularly the mentions of the decedent’s circumstances of death, on which I had later planned to ponder further. Reaching out, I unlocked the tomb’s outermost door. Stepping through the dark arch left behind in its absence, I struck a match to light the lantern hanging on the wall beside it, then closed the door behind me and turned and headed deeper within the mausoleum. Mere moments later, I arrived at the internal vault door. As I undid the deadbolt and stepped inside, the flickering lamplight fell on numerous shallow alcoves, many filled with coffins, some still empty. My movement ceased in front of the latest addition to the vault, on which was a plaque engraved with my cousin’s name, and I set down the lantern a few feet away and slid out the coffin with a grating screech of wood on stone. As I reached down to open the lid, I found that my hands trembled slightly in my nervousness. Despite my faith in my cousin’s abilities, I was not entirely sure that she had yet found the secret of successful necromancy—she was, after all, still quite young, and may not have put much thought into what she would do if she were to suddenly die. Despite my hopes, it was entirely possible that I would open this casket and find nothing more than a corpse. After a few more anxious moments of hesitation, I removed the lid and peered down at the coffin’s contents. There lay my cousin, eyes closed and hands folded. Her skin was as flat and unblemished as if she was still alive, but her complexion was pale, and her breathing, if present, was imperceptible. I called out her name, and could not contain a reflexive jolt of surprise when the body, which had been just as still as if it were inanimate, began to move. My cousin’s lips stretched into a smirk, and her eyes opened, clear and without any sign of the milky white appearance which accompanies the rapid decay of the eyes of the dead. “I see you’ve arrived at last,” she said, with an imperturbable calm that could more reasonably be expected to be heard at the commencement of afternoon tea, or some other such routine task. “You’re alive!” I joyously exclaimed, with a more appropriate tone of shock and excitement. She replied in the affirmative, sitting up, with the same calm manner as before. I was somewhat taken aback by this, for I knew her as a fairly excitable person, who at times expressed effuse interest even in things commonly viewed as boring and tedious. However, I thought that she was perhaps responding so strangely due to being overwhelmed by her death and subsequent , and so disregarded her strange tone. Although I was of course overjoyed at her continued life, I was also immensely curious as to how she had seemingly evaded death. When I asked her about it, I received a most unexpected response. She assured me, with the same placid tone and a mildly demeaning sneer, that she had never been dead in the first place. “I have no interest in necromancy, as I have led you to believe. I am well aware of what you think about our family and its connection to death, but in my trips to other towns I have seen what you have not. The obsession with death which you have observed and tried to spurn is not limited solely to a single family. No, it has spread like a disease over the centuries, and it has infected this whole town—more than that, it has infected every town this side of the mountains. But I have heard tales, whispered anonymously yet fearfully in the dark, of civilizations on the other side, civilizations that focus on art and science instead of death and decay. And having heard of this place, this utopia, if you will, I find that I can no longer tolerate being away from it. I will depart at once.” “I am confused, cousin,” I admitted. “Even if that is so, why make everyone think you were dead?” “Oh, that’s quite simple,” she responded. “I wished to cut all of my ties to this rotten civilization, so that I would be able to go to a better one without any regrets.... I can see by your expression that you do not understand, but I suppose I’ll forgive you for it, just this once. You always were simple, and I can tell that even now you are struggling to comprehend the situation. You probably think that I would have had fewer regrets if I had not faked my death, and instead said goodbye to my dear friends and family, and told everyone where I was going.” She waited for my nod of confirmation, then continued. “There are, I concede, some people who would prefer to do that. But I am not one of them. I will live the rest of my life believed to be dead by my family, by this town, by this whole system of towns, and to me this is a satisfactory state of affairs. No one will seek to find me, nor to learn more about this untainted civilization beyond the mountains. Not even you, dear cousin, for you will tell no one of this tale.” She had stood up a while ago, and was a few feet away from her coffin, facing me. Her expression, which had until now been fluctuating between a smirk and a sneer, now became entirely blank. “As you know,” she said flatly, “this town makes a habit of exhuming its dead a year and a day after they are buried, for superstitious reasons. Because of the chemicals specific to this type of soil, it is extremely rare for someone to not be reduced to a by that time, and this skeleton will be displayed for a day before being reinterred. If a relatively important tomb such as mine were to be opened and found empty, it would be a cause of disturbance.” She paused again, and began to look a little sad. “As you also know, we are about the same height and build. Our genetics are similar because of our familial relation, and therefore so will be our bones. I am sorry to say this, for I truly do care about you, dear cousin, but you will not be leaving this tomb alive.... Do not fear that your disappearance will be noted. I have arranged so that it will be thought that you drowned yourself out of for my death. There will be a semi-decayed body found in the lake in a week or two. It will be believable, since we were so close, and since I arranged to be buried in the same attire that I predicted you would wear to check if I had somehow resurrected myself. Besides, you are not important enough that your supposed body will be investigated further.” She sighed, looking around the room, at the coffins in their alcoves, at the lantern, and at me, frozen in disbelief a few feet away. I have always had a rather sickly constitution, and never did I regret it more than at that next moment, when I was so easily overpowered and shoved into the recently vacated casket. Before I could escape, the lid was replaced and latched. “It’s not airtight,” I could faintly hear my cousin say from the other side. “And, well, I suppose there’s no real harm in telling you this, so I might as well. You might be wondering why I made this so excessively complicated, when I could have just arranged for my own disappearance to look like a , and the answer is really very simple. It’s because it was fun.” That was the last thing I heard her say before she put her coffin, with me in it, back in its alcove and left the mausoleum, presumably taking the lantern with her. However, I suppose I should be grateful for one thing that she overlooked, which is that, due to my occasional paranoia, I had brought another, miniature lantern with me, hidden beneath my cloak. I was eventually able to light it, with some of my remaining matches, though it has come at the cost of accelerating my rate of suffocation. I have used the light thus granted me, along with the paper and pencil I had from the funeral, to record my tale. I am already beginning to feel faint from the lantern smoke and lack of oxygen, and I no longer have any hope that I may survive, but I have nonetheless endeavored to transcribe events as closely as possible to how they happened, in hopes that the truth about my death, and my cousin’s life, may eventually come to light.

Zoe Ebersold Grade 11

Jade Tusha Grade 10

A Single Bullet

I peered out of the frosted pane of my living room, gawking at the sight unraveling around me. Like many other members of my community, Mother, Father, and my eight year old sister, Evangeline, were being taken away by the Gestapo to a concentration camp in Germany. I despised the Gestapo, with their shiny black boots that crunched through the fine, fresh snow, their brown uniforms decorated with shiny medals and badges of “honor,” not to mention the band on their arms, emblazoned with that hateful symbol, the black swastika of Adolf Hitler. Their faces were stone cold and strict, as if they were prison guards. I saw one of them take my best friend, Emmie, and line her up against the fence. With the thunderous shot of a rifle, she was gone. My ears were ringing, and I felt fear start to take hold of me, clawing at my insides and threatening to escape my mouth with a scream. I choked it all back, and kept watching. Emmie’s stiff body lay in the ground, adjacent to her father, the rabbi at our synagogue. Mother and Father were loaded onto a truck with our neighbors, however, I saw no Evangeline. Terror grasped me, and I made the worst mistake of my life. I bolted out the door, and cried out in Polish, “Leave my family alone!” The soldiers all spoke German, a language I knew very little of. One of the older, tougher men pointed at my necklace, and my face paled. The golden Star of David hung a delicate golden chain around my neck, in direct view of the Gestapo. The same man who spotted my necklace dragged me to the fence, with me kicking and screaming to let me go. Once I was at the fence, I looked and saw Evangeline standing in the far back of the truck, clutching a stuffed rabbit toy Mother bought for her before the Nazis came. Mother was a weeping mess, sobbing on the shoulder of Father. I saw Emmie’s body and felt tears slip down my frostbitten face, stinging me. I gasped for breath, the cold winter air filling my lungs and chilling me to the bone. One of the privates, who was lean and young-faced and had not been touched by the terror and brutality of the he called his comrades, fumbled for his gun and unsteadily pulled it out of the holster. Before the realization of my situation hit me, the private pulled the trigger.

Madison Hess Grade 8

The Dead of Winter She laid there, cold and helpless, in the dead of winter. Her friends reluctantly left her alone to die in the snowy woods, but only because she forced them to leave her. At first, she attempted to keep running with the two fatal wounds, but eventually found it impossible, and collapsed into the previously undisturbed layer of snow. That’s when she forced her friends - a group of escaped prisoners who never did anything to provoke imprisonment - to leave her behind. The only warmth that the young girl feels is the blood flowing from the two bullet wounds: one in her side and one right below her heart. The only color in her pale face is in her cheeks, which are rosy from the cold. But even the light of pink in her cheeks is draining. She hears the sound of the soldiers stomping through the snow, closing in on her. Her eyes can’t seem to focus on one particular thing, and she is too weak to move her neck, so the last thing she sees is the trees standing tall, reaching for the white sky. She’s never seen a winter evening - or the outside world, since she’s spent all of her thirteen years imprisoned and researched - but she doesn’t doubt that she would’ve loved seeing the beauty of a fresh coat snow in December, if the circumstances were different. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. The soldiers’ boots smash through the snow. She wishes she could throw them back with her mind, to throw them as far away from her as possible, to give her a chance to rest in peace. And she would have been able to do such things with her mind - she’s done it plenty of times before - if her wounds weren’t so fatal. Finally, the grunting soldiers caught up with her, but they’re too late. Death reached the finish line first. Johanna became one with the dead of winter. Logan Price Grade 9

Jade Tusha Grade 10 Don’t Trust Me

Leave me before I leave you. I will wrap you up with the sweetest lies, tend to your every whims, and trade words of secrecy and kindness. I can be your pillar, be there to lean on when you are tired. Keep you up and above when you are sad. Be the support to your house of joy and pride. The day I am gone, the pillar vanishes, though, your screams will fall on empty ears. Let the catch you and have you learn why death is the best gift.

Andrew Li Grade 10

Jade Tusha Grade 10 October 14, 1066 (an alternative history) HASTINGAS

It is a chilly, Englisc October day in Essex. The mist chills, makes our clothes damp as we wait in the shield wall for the Norman to make a move. They have been sitting down on the beach here at Hastingas for hours. I wish they would get on with it. The sooner they attack, the sooner we will push them into the sea. We, the southern Eorls, huscarls, and fyrdmen arrived yesterday, obeying good King Harold’s summons, and we are ready to put our lives on the line for him, and Angle lande. I have never seen so many men gathered together in one place before. The northern Eorls, and fyrdmen have come all the way to the south to drive the orcs away from our shore, like they did the Norse up in Jorvik, at Stamford Bridge, but they are very tired, as they have marched close to 700 miles after fighting a vicious fight against Harald Hardraadi, and his . William the Norman made a big mistake in not taking the high ground here at Senlak Hill when he arrived. Now his men will have to force their way uphill to try to break our shield wall, and I do not think they can do it. We have too much weight, despite the men from the north being exhausted. The Norman orcs have been trying to damage us with arrow fire, but they have been aiming low. Some of our men have been wounded, but by and large, their arrow fire has been without much effect. Our archers, francisca throwers, slingers, and men have held fire until the come closer. We want to inflict as much damage as possible on them when they come up the hill. The shield wall, made up of a of interlocked shields is tight. We are packed so tightly that dead and wounded men cannot fall to the ground. This will make it all the more difficult for the orcs to break through though. The air smells of sweat, leather, wood fires, food, and metal, creating a smokey, acrid smell. Is that the smell of fear too? But, we do not fear the Norman orcs, as they have no reputation for being fighting men, and William is an upstart. His claim to be our king is made of air and holds no weight. Harold was chosen by Edward to be his heir, and he was duly elected by the Witan and crowned in Lundenceaster, at Westminster. Harold is our Bretwalda. William’s claim all rests on two alleged promises, neither of which can be proven. I clutch my shield for dear life, like hugging my mother. I keep it up and forward. It is my best friend, the friend who keeps you safe and sound. I put my helmet on securely, pull it down to its proper position, and grip my harder. I shove my left shoulder hard into the back of my shield, and plant my right foot into the ground as much as possible. When the Normans crash into us, I cannot fall down, as I will be trampled to death, and I doubt if that will gain me entrance into Walhealla. The Norman begin to move up the hill, rather sloppily; they are not in step, and that will dilute the power of their attack when they hit us. They should be formed in the Boar’s Snout, like a great wedge. Instead, their strength is diluted in a long line, with no focal point of attack. Grinulf, who stands next to me, mumbles a prayer to Woden, as the Norman line closes with us, and his family has not converted to the Christian God. The orcs have no idea how thick our shield wall is, because they are coming up an incline. Suddenly, Eorl Orgar shouts “...UP!” Immediately, we raise our spears to shoulder height, and dress the line, creating a hedge of spears facing the approaching Normans. From behind I hear “Fire!,” and a cloud of arrows, crossbow bolts, rocks, darts, franciscas, and spears pour into the Norman lines. We are encouraged as we see dozens of the orcs drop from our missile fire. Next, we hear King Harold’s voice over the commotion, shouting “advance at the steady march!” As one, we all start forward on our sinister feet (the left) and begin to move down the hill together, and in step, the ranks of the shield wall unwavering. Now the fyrdmen behind us are throwing stones, causing disruptions in the Norman line, and they in turn, begin to fall back under the hail of missile fire, even before they make contact with our shield wall. The Normans turn their backs while we pummel them with everything we can throw. At least 60% of the Norman infantry have suffered wounds, many of them mortal. “Gefuren bhutan!” our men shout …”get out!” The Norman footmen scuttle back down the hill to their own lines, bloodied and demoralized. King Harold shouts his praises to us, as war horns bellow, making us feel a renewed rush of courage. I am one of the King’s Huscarls, and thus a warrior by profession, and one of King Harold’s chosen men. All of us in the front of the shield wall are Huscarls, many of us armed with the heavy Saxon two handed broadaxe, designed to take down enemy cavalry. In the rear of the phalanx are the fyrdmen, fierce, but undisciplined peasant landowners, who are here to fulfill their duty to the king. We are packed in such a solid mass that those hit by arrow or missile fire remain propped up, as there is no room to fall. They are held up by the mass of our formation. Our line remains unbroken. Everyone maintained discipline and held their positions, anticipating the next move by the Normans. They continue to assault us with their infantry, slogging up the hill several more times before deciding to change tactics.

Sadie Lewin Grade 10 That next move was to send their “knights'' up the hill after us. They rode light horses, not the usual big breeds of warhorses. They wore chain maille, and carried long spears. We hit them hard as they came up the hill, slingers, archers, and stone throwers taking a terrible toll on their numbers. After making slight contact with our shield wall, and doing little damage, they went back down the hill, leaving at least 30% of their number dead or dying on the field before us. We had had great fear of the Norman knights, but that fear proved to be unfounded, as they could not get through our row of spears, jutting out like a hedge in front of us. This failure was a hard blow for William because he had counted on them breaking our line. They did not come close. Throughout this melee, the Norman archers continued to try to find their range, but continually fired short, doing us little harm. It was not until William ordered them to elevate their trajectory that we started to feel the sting of their arrows. Men began to get hit all around me, but my shield held, and I was not harmed. We are the Angelcynn, and we do not break or flee from orcs. Once again, the Norman infantry came slogging up the incline, and once again we repelled them. By this time it was mid day and King Harold ordered us to counterattack. As one, our phalanx methodically moved down the hill, sweeping the Normans before us. William sent the knights up again,but they became confused and mixed up within the ranks of their infantry. Stabbing and hacking with our spears and scramasaxes, we drove them all back down the hill in confusion, many of them lay still on the ground, never to rise again. As we moved forward, the Normans tried to get into their longships to try and put to sea and escape, but we got amongst their ships with torches, and set fire to many, making escape impossible. Some managed to board their ships and pull off of the beach, but many were never to leave that place of slaughter. We had some Anglo- from Yorvik among us, and they drove the right wing of the Normans toward the center, creating a circular mob of leaderless men, cut off from their ships. I saw William, sitting high on his warhorse, and I threw my axe at him, never thinking that I would actually hit him,but the axe hit him full on in the face, splitting his head in two. His men cried in despair, as he slipped from his horse. I knew in my heart that we had won and our freedom was saved. With their leader dead, the Normans began to panic, running in many directions, and dropping their weapons. At this point, King Harold ordered the lightly armed fyrdmen to run the Normans down, which they did, stabbing them in their backs with their scramasaxes. ensued. By twilight, we had cut down the majority of them, and rounded up the rest to be sold as slaves to the Byzantines. We had saved our country, and our king, and given the Normans a severe beating. We were quite certain they would never return given that William was dead, and there was no one left with the desire to attack us. Even His Holiness, the Pope, who had supported William’s claim, accepted our glorious victory. The year after the battle fought at Hastingas, we subdued the last of the lawless Vikings of Scandinavia, and brought them together with our folk, creating a great northern kingdom, equal to anything that existed on the continent. The leaders of the Englisc kingdoms, Norway, Denmark, Sweden, Friesland Jutelande, and Normandy all swore fealty to King Harold. Hastings was a costly win for us though. Many good Aenglishmen were killed that day, including the king’s two younger brothers, the princes Griff, and Leofwine, as well as Ealdorman Orgar. But, we knew on that day that our ancestors were looking down upon us with pride, as Aengle lande remained free from Norman tyranny. I felt the of Offa II, Penda, Alfred, Aethelstan, and others by my side that night, and after the Battle of Hastingas, the sun set in peace over the land of the Anglecynn. Congratulations were sent to King Harold Godwinsson from as far away as Kiev, Novgorod, and Constantinople. Now everyone knows we are the ENGLISC, the descendants of Hengist and Horsa, and we do not run from the foe. Our banner of the white still waves proudly over this green and pleasant land, as it will throughout time eternal. We will be safe in our island home, and no one will succeed in invading us as long as our shield wall stands. “We shall fight them in the fields, we shall fight them on the beaches. We shall fight them on the hills, we shall fight them in the streets, We shall NEVER SURRENDER” to anyone, Norman or otherwise. Aengle lande will survive as long as even one angelcynn remains standing, shield and sword in hand. It is now 1076, and William and his orcs have never set foot on our land of freedom again. He may not be the warrior that our King Harold is, but he at least has the common sense to know when he has been decisively beaten.

Orc: Anglo-Saxon for “ savage” i.e. the Normans Aengle Lande: Shield wall: a Germanic variation on the phalanx formation of massed infantry with interlocking shields. Scramaseax: A single edged sword made popular by the Angles, Saxons, Jutes, and Frisians. It could be any size, from a dagger to sword length. Also used by the vikings. King Harold: King Harold Godwinnson, rightful king of the Englisc people Duke William of Normandy: An ambitious Norman duke, bent on controlling Aengle Lande. Walhealla: Valhalla, the mead hall of the Ese.

*Kudos to Sir Winston Churchill for the inspiration for the inspirational words at the end of the story.

Mr. Wirdel

Tome Teacher Falling Through a Tunnel With No Light at the End

Do you ever just hit Rock bottom? And think it can’t get any Worse. Until you start

F A L L L I N G

Farther and farther. Where does it end? Where am I going? Why is it so Jade Tusha Dark here? Grade 10

Will I ever get back up again…

Half of your mind will tell you yes. Others around you will tell you it will get better soon But- When is soon?

And then there’s every other part of your body, Your heart. Breaking from giving too much, Your stomach. Churning from everlasting, unwarranted guilt, Your soul. Wishing to keep falling because it can’t remember what standing feels like, Your body. Tiring itself out to try to help the rest of the p a i n g o a w a y

You want to stop falling, But You also don’t. Everyone always says there’s a light at the end of the tunnel But who said I was going towards it?

Kaitlyn Mulcahy Grade 10 真の恐怖 (Shin no kyōfu)

I wait until dark. My goal is to run three and a tenth miles. I turn my music on, and start my run. The first mile goes by. All I knew was my time. The second mile goes by. I notice many shadows coming close to me. Is someone following me? I try to get closer to the light, but there are more shadows following. Andrew Li The lights create a slight blind spot. Grade 10 It somewhat blends in with the dark, making it seem like there is someone running toward me. Cars seem like they are chasing me. I run faster, my pace is off. I feel safe for a second when it’s beside me, I’m running too fast, it’s giving me a headache, but as it passes I just want to catch up. I want to throw up. Are they running from something too? Almost finished the third mile. The light on my foot looks like someone is behind me with a The beat of the music sounds like someone is flashlight. running toward me. The goal is over. The wind feels like someone is breathing on my I just need to make it home. neck. I can’t breathe. I run and run and run and run and run. Run run run run run run run. Don’t look back. I don’t want to feel this torture anymore. Never look back. Home, I see it. The music drives me insane, Run to the light. I want to take my earbuds off but I didn’t want to I made it. hear the sound of me running. I’m at home. It might not be me. My ears hurt.

Sam Busseau Grade 9 It Takes Two

I rubbed the black cord of the telephone wire between my thumb and forefinger as my eyes silently called Maria to turn to me, to give me a smile, to give me anything. I watched as her loose red 7-11 shirt had revealed a sliver of sun-kissed skin as her outstretched arms pushed a box of Snickers onto the top shelf. Such a simple action felt so tantalizing. Such a simple action made my heart flutter. Such a simple action made me realize just how hopeless I was. When the box hit its mark, her head spun to me; my call had been answered. A wink passed between our eyes, and my heart skipped a beat. No matter how long we knew each other, she would always get my blood pumping. Any expression from her warmed me. I just wanted to tell her about this feeling. About how she pushed my heart to its limit. About how she held my very soul in the palm of her hand. But most of all, I wanted to tell her how she tore me apart; that godforsaken wedding band on her finger was a dagger, sticking through my ribs. Jingling, the door shut behind our final customer for the night. Maria stepped to the door, and turned off the neon “Now Open!” sign. Locking the door, she turned to me, “Looks like we’re alone for the night!” I gave a small chuckle, “Uh, yeah.” “Here, Oliver, I’ll help you clean!” Maria jogged over to my register, and took the towel that I had just been reaching for. Coming around to my side, she joined my personal space. Her arms rested against the countertop, and they began wiping away the grime from the day. I stood barely an inch behind her, watching. Her presence made heat permeate my face, turning it to a ruddy shade. My heart was now racing, faster than before. I could feel my foot tapping on the floor, and my breathing quickened. She was close. I tried to step back, but I ended up awkwardly bumping into the wall. The sudden movement alerted Maria, and her eyes bored into mine. They were a lion’s. Mine were that of an antelope. Fear and excitement flooded from my head to my toes. My heart was about to fly from my chest. Maria threw the rag to the ground, and turned her body to me. I was still. Her gaze turned my thoughts to white noise. She pressed her lips onto mine. I couldn’t react. We fell.

I chased my husband into our living room, shouting, “Thomas, listen. There’s nothing going on between me and that boy! Please, believe me.” I tried to plead with him, but he would not have it. He had caught wind that Oliver’s and my relationship was not simply platonic, and he was angry. I felt hot tears well up in my eyes; I did want to tell the truth, but I was afraid of what he would do to Ollie. I couldn’t help it. I loved him, and I loved my husband too. Thomas cried, “Maria! I know the truth! Stop lying to me!” “If you know the truth, why do you want me to admit it?” “Because I thought you loved me!” His words pushed me to my knees. Thomas covered his mouth with his hand, and turned his back on me. We sat like that for a moment, in silence. Me on my knees, and him turned away. Hot tears began to flow from my eyes, and I could hear muffled sobs coming from Thomas. Even in this moment, I could not fully regret my actions. I loved Thomas, and I loved Oliver. Why was that so wrong? I whispered, “Thomas, I do love you.” There was no response. Louder, I repeated, “Thomas, I do love you.” He only shook his head. Now yelling, I called out, “Thomas! I love you! I truly do!” He turned back towards me, his eyes smoldering coals, “Then tell me the truth! Tell me you cheated on me!” My chest heaving, I simply stared at him. I could not admit it. I could not admit that I had forced myself on Oliver. I could not admit that this was all my fault. I could not admit that I loved another man. “Maria, if these past years that we’ve spent together are real, if you saying yes when I got down on one knee was real, if our love was real, tell me the truth. Show me that you loved me. Show me that you still love me. Please! I’m begging you!” I stared him in the eyes, our gazes locked. His face was one of absolute despair; the smoldering coals were doused and replaced with a river, and the current flowed down his cheeks. I felt that I was drowning in the river. I felt that I was dying. Sucking in a breath of air, I whispered, ”I’m sorry.” Thomas turned away once again, his sobs no longer muffled. He steadied himself on the wall, looking like a strong breeze could blow him away. With an agonizing silence, he stepped to the front door. Opening it, he looked behind him, and uttered a single word: “Goodbye.” The door slammed shut.

I stepped onto my front porch, my chest heaving with sobs. With a kid!? Was I not enough!? What did I do wrong!? Despite what my very being told me to do, I kept moving away from the house. Why was I not good enough? Why could she not just love me? My knees slammed into the asphalt of my driveway. What happened? I heard a bike clatter to the ground, near my head. I couldn’t bother to look up, it was probably just some neighborhood kid who heard my anguished wails. I planned to ignore him, but then I heard his voice. “U-uh. Sir?” It was quaking with fear. I looked up from my asphalt-pit of despair, and saw a familiar face; one that filled me with an ungodly hatred. It was Oliver. What is he doing here? I launched to my feet, grabbing Oliver by his throat. I screamed curses into the terrified boy’s face. Flecks of spit flew onto him as I let loose the rage that had been accumulating for so very long. Oliver just took it. His face was absolutely terrified, all but his eyes. A sad acceptance was in his eyes. It disgusted me. I threw him to the ground. “What in God’s name are you doing here?” I spat the words with poison. He climbed to his knees, “I’m here to… I’m here to say I’m sorry.” “You’re sorry? You’re sorry now? You’re sorry after you took my wife for all she’s worth and ruined my marriage, huh? You’re pathetic.” Now he simply kneeled on the ground. I stood tall above him. His head was at my feet. “Why should I forgive you?” My voice was thick and toxic, but the violence was gone. He looked up to my eyes, “You shouldn’t.” Silence overcame us. I wasn’t sure what to say. I remained quiet for a long while, wanting to kick him, stomp his head into the ground. I wanted to stab him with the dagger that was driven into me, but a new feeling began to show itself. It crawled from the inky depths of my heart, mind, and soul. It was a small light. A spark of understanding that lit a flame in my darkness. The fire spread, screaming that love was a powerful force, much more so than any man that I knew. It was Maria’s fault. It was Oliver’s fault. It was my fault. A cool breeze blew from my side, pulling Oliver’s words away, along with my anger. As it passed, I bent down on one knee, bringing my head level with Oliver’s. His eyes continued to meet mine, his sad visage was overpowering. I felt his pain. I felt his fear. I took his hand in my own, “It’s all our faults, kid.” Cameron Lewandowski Grade 11 Prologue to "The Flames of the Beautiful and the Evil" (a novella)

Her amber eyes glittered like polished gold in the moonlight as she rode through the thick pine forest that surrounded the blackstone walls of the massive palace of Lariosauro. She led her dusty gray stallion around to the south of the fortress, her light pink hair flowing behind her, and suddenly stopped just before the short space of garden between the forest and the castle. The princess dismounted and adjusted her rose-gold tiara, as it was beginning to fall off, and scanned the garden for any guards — thankfully it was deserted save for a few nightingales nestled in the hedges. “Are sure you’re ready, Lezabel? You know your fiance isn’t going down without a fight.” A soft voice called out from the tree shadows. “We’ve been planning this for months,” Lezabel replied to the figure still sitting on the horse. “Of course I’m ready.” Her silver dagger strapped to her pant leg glinted once more as she pulled on an elegant blue ball gown. Then, without hesitation, she hurried towards the ballroom on the other side of the garden.

Kaitlyn Mulcahy Grade 10

Jade Tusha Grade 10 Fog

Clouds ‘cause now I can see that should stay up in the sky it was all a lie I don’t like this fog and you were a big old waste of my time that has covered my eyes you never really liked my

jokes or my face and you and that’s why you never have drifted away had me over at your place i would have seen it sooner if the fog wasn’t it’s strange in but in a weird way my i’m thankful way for all of the lies

and all of the pain and now I can see that it was all a lie i’ve grown and you were a big old and you have too waste of my time the fog is gone you never really liked my and now I see you for jokes or my face you and that’s why you never had me over at your place Christina Rasa Grade 10 The blame Is still hard to trace We both made mistakes but I know we’ve both changed and I still can’t shake the feeling that you never cared I don’t think I’ll forgive you I don’t think that’s too unfair Christina Mulcahy Grade 8 What to Write

I want to write about the sky; The way it makes me feel; the things that fly, I want to take all the words that beauty describes and paint the sky in words that are mine. Even with clouds of gray and black, The sky is beautiful and never ceases to amaze me.

I want to write about the sea and the roaring waves that crash over me, I want to take all the words that mystery describes and paint the sea in words that are mine. I want to show her anger, Her depth, Her beauty in my words, Because the sea never ceases to amaze me.

I want to write about my feelings, The way I feel deep down inside I want to take every complicated emotion, Every feeling bottled and pushed aside, and put them in words that are mine. Even the ones I fear, Because they never cease to amaze me.

I want to scream to the world what words spring from my mind, The beauty I see and the emotions inside But no one cares how I paint the sky. So I keep it in and hide Because everyone has secrets inside. Elle Turner Grade 8 Alexis Senn Grade 10 Rain

His tears can mean many things. He may be melancholy, or He may be joyous. He may want to wash away the old and welcome the new. He might want to relay a message to you, letting you know that a new dawn is on the horizon, and good things are to come. No matter what it may be, there is one thing that you should never forget; Rain is always a good thing.

Olivia Russell Grade 8

Jade Tusha Grade 10 I Hate Poetry

First of all folks, rhyme is dumb; the day for its use will never come. I need not niggle about alliteration. This pen pays no heed to personification. Onomatopoeia whispers in one ear, then promptly zips out the other, my dear. And if I had a dime for every obscure allusion, I’d be another Ebenezer hoarding my cash profusion.

Oh Will, cruel Bard, your iambs ring so lame, and each sharp pun but dross to set aflame. Don’t even get me started on metaphor, for its pretentious poesy is a treacherous trapdoor. Even these line breaks, seemingly so simple, they’re a swindle. Oh did you hear it? A near rhyme was inserted… Can we make these toxic waters any more turbid? J Lucatamo Grade 9 The insipid similes you try to slide by me, their assonance as annoying as an evil flea, I crush and crumble them with my prosaic hand; its fingers that squeeze reluctantly stand for my loathing, my resentment, my hostility, so don’t mistake my synecdoche for metonymy. That’s quite enough of these couplets I say, as only jackals slurp the blood of the imagery I slay.

And dear reader, clever friend, I’m not being ironic. Enjambment with all the other nonsense you’re seeing is doomed for the trash heap, each stanza forgettable. Truly, I vow it, my tone and my diction are wholly credible.

Ms. Mercaldo Tome Teacher Writing

I’m not the kind of person that comes up with one idea and changes the world. That title goes to Albert Einstein, the Wright Brothers, and Elizabeth Blackwell. I want to change the world and make it a better place. I want to stand up to all the bullies, so kids don’t have to cower in fear. I want to help the people who are kicked out of their homes and are forced to live on the streets. I want to save the lives of innocent people, who are forced to flee from their homes. But, I’m just a kid who has crazy ideas that won’t even come true. Every time I share my dream people laugh and call me names, so I tuck it away in my brain, never to be seen again. Every day I watch and write the hopes of fellow neighbors, the wishes of small children, and the promise that God has given us. I keep the hopes, dreams, desires, promises, wishes, and ideas for a better day in my writing, hoping that someday they will heal the world.

Morgan Reynolds Grade 8

Melia Abbott Grade 8 The Adaptive Athlete

In 1972, a young boy named Jay Leisener was born. Jay was a very positive guy, who always persevered through difficult times. From a very young age, Jay loved surfing and knew that he never wanted to give it up. Later in his life, a tragic moment would occur that would change his life forever. Jay was 17 and was hanging out with a couple of friends at one of their houses. They were all jumping around on a trampoline, having fun, and doing tricks. After some time, Jay did a backflip, an action that he didn’t entirely think through. When he jumped up to do the flip, he didn’t quite execute the flip correctly, and he fell off of the trampoline, landing on his neck. His friends watched this happen, and the next thing Jay knew, he was in the emergency room. This accident caused Jay to shatter the fourth and fifth vertebrae in his spine, instantaneously paralyzing him from his waist down. Not only did Jay lose the ability to walk, but he knew surfing as a hobby would now be a near-impossible task. After much time, he devised a plan to continue his much-loved hobby. In Delaware's Indian River Inlet, a team of supporters would push him into a wave and another would be ready and waiting to catch him. He called this team of people Team Surfgimp. Someone on the team even made a custom board that had straps that he could hold on to. The first time getting the team together, there were about eight members. He continued growing the team by putting up posters and hoping people would volunteer to support his effort to surf. For example, my mother saw a poster in Surf Bagel, a bagel shop, and she showed it to my dad. Inspired and willing to help, my dad joined the team. My father and many others joined the team until it had grown to more than 50 members. Every team member was inspired by Jay and wanted to strive to have his motivation. After getting together with Team Surfgimp and surfing adaptively for around 10 years, Jay got some horrible news. One summer, he was told by his doctor that all the surfing he had done had damaged his fragile body, and if he wanted to live a normal-lengthed life, he would have to go on bed rest for most of it. The doctor Beth Rasa Grade 8 warned if he chose not to go on bed rest, he would most likely only make it until the following fall. Jay made the decision to continue living his best life and following his dreams, despite what the doctor suggested. He got to travel across the country to California, where he got the opportunity to surf at his dream beach. There, he met his favorite surfer who inspired him to continue surfing after his injury. After fully living his life and inspiring so many others, his body soon gave out, and he passed away. Before he passed, he told his wife one very important thing. He said that he didn’t want to have a funeral, but a celebration of life, where people aren’t over his loss, instead they are retelling their memories with him and continuing his legacy. The most shocking thing said at the celebration was that before he passed, his wife asked him, “If you could go back in time, and undo that flip you did, would you?” “No!” He told them that his paralyzation had caused him to meet so many amazing people and that he wouldn’t give that up for anything. Now, every January, Team Surfgimp grants Jay’s wishes by organizing a fundraiser to raise money for adaptive athletes. With the help of many people, normally located at the Indian River Inlet in Delaware, he would get pushed into a wave and have a team of supporters be ready and waiting to catch him. . Many people may say that Jay lost the battle to his paralyzation, but if you were to ask me, I’d say he won. Due to his paralyzation, Jay was able to meet so many incredible people and follow his dreams. Jay was kind, uplifting, and never let a bad situation get in the way of his success. He inspired so many people to be more positive and better versions of themselves. His legacy will always live on, and everyone should always strive to “Live like Jay.”

Anthony Polizzi Grade 7 Sun and Moon

Streams of sunlight blind a passerby. Struggling through stress, powerless against its sweltering heat. The clock ticks, pleased by its tricks, but the daytime is fixed and shortened. We go go go and are so so so overcome by this thing we call Life. But the moon shines a light on this darkness that is night It says, “It’s ok to be tense, tossing through the turbulence; I’m here to help you.” Lessening the strain of all the pain we must endure. Time seems to pause… if only for a fleeting moment. The stars smile and sing a song of hope. Eventually, the day must come again but knowing that relief helps you through.

Sadie Lewin Grade 10

Kaitlyn Mulcahy Grade 10 Seashells

Each seashell is unique and special Not one is like another Some are colorful and bright While others are simple and plain But they have all been caressed by the Ocean And they have all been sculpted by the Waves

Beautiful stories unfold Stories of life Stories of pain Stories of sorrows Stories of joy Engraved in each shell But what happens when a shell washes up on the shore? It’s story does not end Nor does it begin The shell’s life simply carries on Coming in with the tide And being pulled out by the waves A never ending cycle

Nellie Hudson Grade 11

Jade Tusha Grade 10