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If Clouds are

Full of Water

“If clouds are full of water,

they pour rain upon the earth.”

Ecclesiastes 11:3

Wheaton Academy Literary Journal

2012

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Editor’s Page Dear reader,

We have organized this journal in a manner that connects all the pieces into a

general narrative. The journal is pieced together in a way that resembles the idea of

following a dream. The progression of this idea starts with an internal struggle

between following a dream or letting it pass. After beginning to follow a dream, one

will come to face the pain that comes with such a journey. Amidst the pain and

struggle one will begin to reminisce on the easier times, or conversely, become

discouraged and abandon that dream. However, in the end hope makes itself known

in order to motivate the dreamer to once again pursue his or her passion. Thank you

for taking this journey with us.

Sincerely,

Renatta Gorski, Davis Wetherell, Michele Howley,

and Matt Browning

Faculty Advisor

Matt Browning

Senior Editors

Davis Wetherell

Renatta Gorski

Michele Howley

Special Thanks to:

Lukas Eklund, Mark Kram,

Jessica Austriaco, Anna

Borromeo, Caroline Lauber, Katie

Bracy, Chase Froese, Hannah

Bickford, Katie Cerny, Greg

Toreev, David McCordic, Jessie

Daniels, Gloria Sari, Mr. Sean

McCallum, Mrs. Catherine Tilly

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Table of Contents

Shattered Glass……………………………………………………………..………..7

Gabe Partain

The Unnamed Dream…………………………………………………….…………8

Kenny Hass

Ball of Dust……………………………………………………………….…………9

SaRang Chung

Hitler……………………………………………………………………………….10

Rebekah Heubner

Academy Island…………………………………………………………………….11

Bethany Albright

Lines…...……………………………………………………………….…………..12

Gabe Partain

Jonah’s Poem: A Pantoum…………………………………………………………13

Mat Camerer

Beach………………………………………………………………………………14

Shiloah Frederickson

Wedding Cake……………………………………………………………………...15

Lauren Spitler

Self Portrait………………………………………………………………………...16

Damaris Dunham

The Field……………………………………………………………….…………..17

Jesse Carmody

Shape…..……………………………………………………………….………......18

Anna Nuemayer

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Untitled..…………………………………………………………………………...19

Kirsten Ryken

Sketch……………………………………………………………………………....20

Kenny Hass

Looking Out…………………………………………………………………….…21

Adjustments…………………………………………………………………….….22

Grace Xander

Frozen Current…………………………………………………………………..…23

Niklaus Proferl

January Afternoon……………………………………………………………..…...24

Adeline Teevans

Weak Ankles………………………………………………………………...……...25

David Fisher

Returning Home, or Maybe Leaving………………………………………..……...26

Michele Howley

Passing Estate……………………………………………………………...………27

Michele Howley

Fog……………………………………………………………………...…………28

Liz Rubenic

Fame is Worthless……………………………………………………...…………..29

Davis Wetherell

Gaining…………………………………………………………………...………..30

Michele Howley

Don’t Forget…………………………………………………………..…..………..31

Kayla Cervenka

Lime Light…………………………………………………………..……..……….32

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Conclusion………………………………………………………………....………33

Michelle Kelley

The Glory of War………………………………………………………...….……..34

Drew Sandberg

Stained Glass……………………………………………………………...………..35

Blythe Todd

Growing Hope……………………………………………………….…..………...36

Jessie Garmon

Scottish Woman Begging………………………………………………..…………37

Michele Howley

Contrasting………………………………………………………….…..………….38

Luke Benda

Untitled………………………………………………………….…………………39

Kirsten Ryken

Beauty of a Youthful Dream………………………………………………….……40

Emma Bolton

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Shattered Glass By Gabe Partain [Digital Photograph]

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THE UNNAMED DREAM

By Kenny Hass

I bit the dirt and slept away, And my torn shirt was out, exposed I froze and looked on what I’d done, Regret my heart, the choice I chose. Alone I walked under the moon, A dream swing swang inside my head, It sounded like a marching tune, A tune they came to, marching dead. I turned to go, but in the night The darkness grows and eats the light, The cool, and red, and dark, and dead, Woke me up, alive, in bed.

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BALL OF DUST By SaRang Chung

A ball of dust freed from the never-ending maze of a computer chip, Carried by the assembly line on the cold hallway, the doors open Lightly floating away with a drop of dandelion tear I let myself go to blend with the patches of plain green Surrounded by the untouched asphalt blackboard Beneath the feasting warmth of the sun Beneath the sweetened shadow of the trees Heavy-eyed footsteps lead me to the Secret Garden Under the roof of leaves Under the garden of petite blossoms Competing amongst themselves, trying to look taller Beside the majestic puddle of little suns Beside the arrogant pedals turning their backs To the bittersweet smell, the glorious sweat of the green pillars Smiling and holding their golden trophies high Embracing me as I sink with them on the earth

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HITLER By Rebekah Heubner Gentle Feet turned black in dim alley paths filled with ash. In a country filled with outward beauty, inner splendor diminished to dust. A lovely face found impure to a blue eyed monster. He sees not their longing tears but dark betraying eyes. Imprisoned and Starved, a deathly cycle became glorified. Their last breath intoxicated, while names clump as one genocide. He was told to chase his dreams, marching families into chambers. He ended lives with gas and blood, his beating heart with allegiance. An evil man followed his beliefs with a confident pistol in hand. This is more than I have ever done.

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ACADEMY ISLAND

By Bethany Albright

I sink down on the wooden bench On an island set in concrete. The green oasis traps me here, Away from plastic and hardware. A backdrop of green covers the Mountain of metal behind it. The sun glints off memorial plaques, Remembering heroes long past. Red leaves blaze out from a branch of green. Pink roses smile in the sunlight, But underneath they’re wrinkled through. Bees visit them despite the spots. The sun shines to warm half my face; The air’s cold hand chills the other. The flagpole clinks without rhythm, Announcing gusts of autumn wind. As I listen to nature’s song, A sharp wail cuts the air and grows. It grows and almost shatters air, But then fades away to quiet. The quiet is never silent. The wind still whispers to itself. The leaves still tell their secrets, and A cricket’s chirp prevents stillness. The wind and warmth beg me to rest, But voices calling crack the mood. The woodchips shift beneath my feet As I stand up and take my leave.

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Lines by Gabe Partain [Digital Photograph]

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JONAH’S POEM: A PANTOUM

By Mat Camerer

I was swallowed up. As I looked to my left, a wave crashed over my face. I was thrown overboard And I fell back to my doom. As I looked to my left, a wave crashed over my face, A wave kicked me up, flung me into the air And I fell back to my doom, Into the open mouth of the whale. A wave kicked me up, flung me into the air, Caught by the winds and carried Into the open mouth of the whale. “The Lord is nowhere.” Caught by the winds and carried The men grabbed me up and prayed, “The Lord now here.” And I splashed into the sea. The men grabbed me up and prayed, I was thrown overboard. And I splashed into the sea. I was swallowed up.

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Beach by Shiloah Fredrickson [oil on canvas]

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WEDDING CAKE By Lauren Spitler

Stacks of frosted cakes centered in a banquet hall. Guests draped in floor-length gowns and fitted suit jackets gaze on. Everyone watches as Mr. and Mrs. for the first time take the first slice. Pieces are cut from varying sides in hopes to maintain the look and balanced structure of the cake. Tiers begin to crumble and fall like the wall of a demolition site. On either side of a long darkly-stained table Mr. and Mrs. sit facing each other, accompanied by two men; two lawyers. The men dread the proceeding meeting as each one, dressed in stiff and uncomfortable suits chafing the skin where the collar lies, with tightened ties choking their necks, fight for their respective clients. The papers are drawn up for the couple to end the legal bind. Each bite, one bite closer to the death of I Do and 'Til Death Do Us Part. Plates are left with crumbs. The table in the center of the hall stands bare. The cake cannot last forever, not in its picturesque state.

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Self Portrait by Damaris Dunham [oil on canvas]

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THE FIELD

By Jesse Carmody

Everywhere I look there is grass Brown and stiff now, but I know in a few short weeks It will be the most beautiful part of WA’s campus. I look up to see the big steel lights looming tall over the field, Standing watch like sentries day and night. They have always been and always will be there. To my left I can see the shed with the grill and garbage, Cans scattered under the covered patio. If I close my eyes I am taken back… Imagining the smell of hotdogs and hamburgers sizzling on a crisp September night. Chills run down my spine as I imagine myself lining up at center field, Hearing the first notes of the national anthem blast over the loudspeakers. A nervous energy consumes me like a morning fog as I size up the opponent and Beads of sweat trickle down my face. I run through the game a few times in my head. We lift up a prayer as a team for the game And then, like any fog, that nervousness lifts as I get excited and get into the flow of The game. Passes here, then a cross, a shot, a save. Repeat. The game is over, and everyone happily finds their way home The lights go out and I am left there. It is cold, but it doesn’t really matter. I stay there, staring out at the long field Green, thick, and strong. And just like that it turns back to what it was before Brown and stiff like the lights that overlook it. Covered in snow But it will always be there.

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Shape by Anna Nuemayer [Digital Photograph]

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Untitled by Kirsten Ryken [Digital Photograph]

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Sketch by Kenny Hass [pencil on paper]

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Looking Out [Digital Photograph]

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ADJUSTMENTS By Grace Xander

Our Father, which art heaven, Hallowed is his Name. A man adjusts his tie, And clears his throat. Thy Kingdom came. Thy will be done in earth His wife checks her mascara, Her eyes scanning the room. Like in heaven. Give us this day our daily food. A glance passes between children. A silent conversation. Forgive us our faults, As we forgive them that fault us. Young men and women Shift their weight from left foot to right. And lead us into temptation, That delivered us from evil The pastor smiles proudly and nods, His eyes glued to a spot on the back wall. For your kingdom is the, The power and the glory The congregation adjusts themselves To stand at attention. Forever and on, Amen.

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Frozen Current by Niklaus Proferl [Digital Photograph]

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JANUARY AFTERNOON

By Adeline Teevans

The sky is a swimming pool. Somebody took a paintbrush Full of white paint, And swiped it across the blue. It left streaks of white, That had no rhyme or reason. They just carried on their journeys. A ball of fire in the pool Reflected off the crying bleachers. The field reminisced Of the times players kicked its dirt. Now the only fans were pine trees surrounding That shivered in January.

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WEAK ANKLES By David Fisher

Everyone forgets that Achilles was a great warrior.

Because one weak ankle brought him down.

It’s just like when the dutiful and faithful husband

has an affair that destroys his family.

Now everyone says he was a horrible man

and that he was a terrible father to his children

and even a worse husband to his wife.

But does a spot of black make a banana rotten?

We tend to forget how he went to all his son’s soccer games

or his daughter’s dance recitals.

That glow in his eyes, like the sun bursting open the dawn,

whenever he saw his wife.

Or the smile on his wife’s face, like a rose in the sunlight,

whenever she saw her man.

What about the poems he wrote to his wife?

“From the day we met to the day we grow old

My love for you will never grow cold.”

To say that this man didn’t love his family

would be like saying Washington didn’t love his country.

Achilles wasn’t a failure because of his weak ankle

He just made one mistake.

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Returning Home, or Maybe Leaving [Digital Photograph]

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Passing Estate by Michele Howley [Digital Photograph]

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FOG By Liz Rubenic

A lonely cloud lay deep in the valley and as the shell of my vehicle mercilessly ran through it as a sword, its vast amount of tears clung to my windshield and died. Little cloud, o little cloud. Why are you so low? Why have you run away from your beloved home? Your tears have stained your Stunning white into dull shades of mist and grey. A forbidden romance with the ground, away from it you must stay. Misunderstood with raised brows and glares. Your family Above Do they actually care? They don’t understand the way your heart swayed, This love never considered. A dream far away The ground was attractive with its wide and warm core It was appealing to help heal your open raw sore The sneers ringing in your ears, leading to your self–doubt and shame, harbored heated unattached feelings from your icy domain. The illicit adoration still consuming your soul, made your pallid color blush when you felt the welcomed pull. The ground’s gravity engulfing your sorrows gave you courage to strive for a brighter Clearer tomorrow But, knowing deep within, it was not to last your family above was calling you back and as the tears welled within their fluffy soft cage you looked back with a desperate longing and floated far… Far… Away…

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FAME IS WORTHLESS By Davis Wetherell

A small collection of artifacts exist in a cold hallway,

Distant voices can be heard from nearby classrooms.

A sturdy wooden frame outlines the glass case and

The foundational piece resides on frozen stiff carpet.

Inside an elect group of men are depicted

In outdated black and white photographs.

Two trophies perch on a shelf, their golden bodies

Are blanketed by grey dust.

Five wide lights highlight the pictures and trophies.

A boy passing by locks his eyes on his cell phone.

A significant speck is still a speck.

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Gaining by Michele Howley [Digital Photograph]

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DON’T FORGET By Kayla Cervenka Don’t forget why you’re here. Because after some time, your hair will turn gray, and all of the medals on your shelf will end up collecting dust in a box, duct taped to never be opened again. Don’t forget why you’re here. For the lost ones run around with their fancy, black designer shoes and their ties too tight around their cleanly shaven necks and they practice for speeches they will forget the next day and they work to add zeroes to the number that defines their status. Don’t forget why you’re here. For the leaves fade from green, to red, to brown. And before you know it, the minute hand will cease to turn. Don’t forget why you’re here.

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CONCLUSION By Michelle Kelley

The title, the plot, and the author are all important, but above all it’s the heartbreaking conclusion where the author makes his point about love or death, or how nothing lasts. This hides in other literature, waiting to be discovered, hinting and disguising itself among the words, punctuation, hand gestures, sounds until you arrive in English class and tear them open. and eventually she climbs down from the tower or maybe she gets rescued, either way she gets out of there. and Frost, Dickinson, Hemingway, Collins, Bishop, that guy who you love but can’t remember his name, (though it seems like it starts with an A) have all touched your heart deeply. How could you ever forget what happened to those characters you knew so well as if you were friends, and had been since birth?

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Lime Light [Digital Photograph]

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THE GLORY OF WAR By Drew Sandberg The young men march off in their clean-cut uniforms, oblivious to the imminent destruction their fate awaits. Each one is neatly trimmed and shining in the crisp, October air, a sharp contrast to the realities they will face. Flags of red, white, and blue wave proudly overhead, the rowdy crowd of friends and families who have come to say their goodbyes. Two soldiers with bloodied faces lurk through the dense jungle covered in mud. They wade in silence through knee deep water, a seagull flying aimlessly against the wind, or a young child trudging through thick snow, as if in a dream, or maybe a nightmare. Suddenly bright sparks of fire bring the soldiers back to life. Back at home it is around 5:30. The soldiers are fathers now, and after a grinding day of work, each one comes home to their average wives and carefree children. They sit around the table eating their dinner in silence. They can try to forget the violence, the terrors engrained in their memories, like old scars that mar the flesh, or broken bones that never quite heal, but what good would that be?

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Stained Glass by Blyth Todd [mixed media]

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GROWING HOPE

By Jessie Garmon

Right between the battered Amazon boxes And the molding banana peels spilling Over the side of the rusted green dumpster, Lies a weary-eyed man. He has come to know the dimly lit corner of 7th and Michigan Like a sibling. The 5 inch pot hole in the crooked sidewalk Is where he buries his Rain-beaten face. His 21 year-old shirt is a tattered blanket That an infant drags on the ground – Wrinkled and sooty. With a rapidly receding hair-line He appears to be aged, Yet it’s hard to perceive under the layers of dirt Permanently etched into the crevices Of his forehead. The muck under his nails is accumulating from Rummaging through the foul piles Of junk tossed at him daily by those who pass by. It’s always the same people who Arrogantly Mosey on past. They only see his weary-eyes, his tattered shirt and his grease covered face. Across from his dingy, hopeless corner he notices a single flower Sprouting Out from the weeds.

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Scottish Woman Begging by Michele Howley [Digital Photograph]

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Contrasting by Luke Benda [Digital Photograph]

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Untitled by Kirsten Ryken [Digital Photograph]

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BEAUTY OF A YOUTHFUL DREAM

By Emma Bolton

Summer’s dried up days leave behind an elderly dandelion, its grey hairs thinned out from its once thick blonde mane. A lawn mower’s attempt to vanquish the weeds before they can pass on their wisdom to descendants, has overlooked this one, allowing it to mature. A child comes skipping along, and hoping for a wish, she kneels down beside the aged flower. With her eyes pinched tight, she makes a wish, suddenly releasing it into the fibers of the tiny umbrellas that would carry her dream to some far off place. Carrying also the dream of a now bald dandelion watching clouds of seedlings filling the skies, and clothing the freshly mown grass. A chance to be young again.

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