Tapestry 2015ARCHMERE ACADEMY

Tapestry 2015

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Tapestry 2015

ARCHMERE ACADEMY’S LITERARY AND FINE ARTS

MAGAZINE

Archmere Academy 3600 Philadelphia Pike

Claymont, Delaware 19703 302-798-6632

www.archmereacademy.com

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Tapestry 2015TABLE OF CONTENTS

Droplets I Have Seen, photograph, Christopher Deeley ’15 …………………..………......................... cover The Dragon, sculpture, Maggie Maurer ’15 …………………………………................................…….... 3 Tenacity, Keelin Reilly ’17 …………………………………………………………….….................…...... 4 Twins, mixed media, Katie Maurer ’15 …………………………………………......................…............... 4 Unbreakable, Sophia Cipriano ’16 ………………………………….....................................................…… 5 Study in Positive and Negative Space, photograph, Anna Fournaris ’15 …………………….….........…… 5 Tainted, Danny Bannon ’15 ……………..........................................……..................................………..… 6 Sunshine, photograph, Kelley Lucey ’15………………………………...............…………......……..….... 7 Always, Alexandra Fields ’15 …………………………………….................................................…..…...... 7 Smyrna, Trent DiNardo ’15 ………………………………….........................................................…..….. 8 Grapes, photograph, Abigail Smack ’15……………….........................................………………………... 8 Life is… Keelin Reilly ‘17 ……………………………………………....................................…....………. 9 Color Studies, photograph, Sanjana Malik ’17…………………………...............……………….......…... 9 Riffing Twenty-One Pilot’s “Ode to Sleep,” Christian Kraft ’15 …...........................................…..….….. 10 Champagn Eyes, photograph, Makala Wang’17 …………………........................................................... 10 Madness Calls, Andrew Hurst ’15 ……………………………………...........................................…..….. 11 Marty, photograph, Thomas Diamanty ’15 ……………….…….............................…………..........……. 11 Self-portrait, charcoal drawing, Idana Tang ’17……………...................................………...…….......…. 12 Broken Metronome, Christian Kraft ’15 ……………………….......................................……….......…... 12 Reflection in a Bubble,photograph, Sarah Disabella ’15 …………………………......…………....…..… 13 Pops, Matt Olsen ’15 ………………………………………………………….......................................... 13 Philosophical Heaven, Michael Pinto ’15 ……………………...........................................………...……. 14 Weight Room, acrylic painting, Sophia Cipriano ’16 ………................................................…….....……. 14 One Life, Sophie Singh ’17 ………………………………….....………………....................................…. 15 The Bird, Keelin Reilly ’17 …………………………………………………............................…..…..…. 16 Red Roofs, digital photograph, Regan Bice ’15 .……………………...................................................…. 16 Watercolor Portrait, watercolor, Joseph Singley ’16 ………………………………............………..….… 16 A Satire: In the Style of Heller’s Catch-22, Katie Maurer ’15 ……….......................................…....…..… 17 Fanta Naranja, watercolor, Christine Ford ’16………………………......................................…….…..… 17 Reflection on Lincoln in the 150th Anniversary Year of the Civil War’s End,, Keelin Reilly ’17 .............. 18 Trumpet Sounds, digital image, Megan Clements ’17 .………………………………....…………...……. 18

The Dragon Maggie Maurer ’15

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Tenacity

The world hums with lifeThe smallest seed contains all the miracles of the earthEvery day it growsCells divide one by oneEarth pushed aside and gravity defiedLeaves unfurl to take in the sun’s goodnessFlowers open, trunks growAnd the smallest seed has become the largest tree

Keelin Reilly ’17

Twins Katie Maurer ’15

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Unbreakable

Shiny and brand new,Like the penny face up on the sidewalk crackWe enter life optimistic and lucky.Then we get trampled on,Walked all over,And spent,But on hopes and dreams for our futures,Not yet willing to learn from past mistakes.The future seems as bright as the sunAnd as close as the stars,Yet just beyond our reach.Then the downward spirals and hardshipsCrash into us like meteors upon the pale face of the moon.We feel dejected,Lost,And drowning in the wishing well Of what was once our hopes and dreams.Failure is not the end,But rather the start of something new,For in not trying againLies the true form of defeat.Self-defeat is the only true failure that exists.The coin that sits behind glass has no story to tell,No hardship to overcome,No memory of the sweet taste of perseveranceAnd better yet,Victory.These scuffs and scars are proofThat we are made of somethingTougher than the strongest steelUnbreakable.Is that all you got? We taunt failure and lossWith the attitude of We just don’t care.

Kick us down, spit on us,Watch us get back up and not back down.Each of us is as rareAs the double printed coin, The mess up and mistake,Worth more than the banal and trite. We break the moldAnd illuminate the sky like shooting stars,Unbreakable in the fact that we are uniqueDue to not only the hardships we face,But how we reactAnd what we make of our life.So, how will you view your worth?That is not for me to say,But rather for you to determine.

Sophia Cipriano ’16

Study in Positive and Negative SpaceAnna Fournaris’15

Miller, while pointing a soft, but sharp finger at our group demanded us to walk to the back of the room and publicly changed our cards. Public shaming is bad enough, but on the Kindergarten level, it’d be the talk of the hallways for days. Four students with consequences all at once was a rarity; usually groups of three were the maximum. I decided to fight it. After all, I had tried with all the verbal guile in my practical body to quiet them down. I protested, I’ll admit, with a bit of a whimper in my voice. I tried to balance the necessity of maintaining my record nonverbally with the assertion of the gravity of the situation. Miller was having none of it. Her militant grimace and forcefully thrusting finger ordered me to change my card. My utopian worldview had prevented me from seeing the fallout from egregious sovereignty. Once more, I tried to plead my case one last time, but the dictator of the class would hear no plea, and enforced it by threatening a red card if I continued. A man with his back up against the wall does regrettable things. I bit the bullet. I changed the damn card. Her towering stature at five feet four inches combined with the menacing tones of beige and gray (grey, to her) in her wardrobe overpowered my conviction to maintain perfection. I felt grief overcome me; I had let down my classmates, my parents, and myself. Most men say that in their lives they only have a handful of real cries. That came later, but in the emotion and sorrow of the moment, one salty, dreary tear rolled down my rosy cheek. The tear dived onto my baggy trousers, which were now tainted like the purity of my soul. Centuries of heinous tyranny have plagued humanity since the conception of society. Young and reasonable Danny Bannon on this fateful day shared the misfortune of oppressed masses throughout history. An overworked monarch belittles the individuality of his/her citizens. With the sad epiphany that the world is inequitable and unrighteous, the students and I lined up to walk down to the cafeteria for lunch. It was pizza day at lunch, though, so none of that tyranny stuff mattered.

Danny Bannon ’15

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Tainted

Foul and indecent actions of nefarious conduct from those who lead us have crippled human society since its conception. I, goody-two-shoes Danny Bannon, wasn’t expecting such oppression as I rolled into kindergarten class as he had everyday before that. A big kiss from mom, a hug for my brother, a moment to collect my thoughts before heading into the classroom, and I was ready to get to work. This was no average day of school, however; it was the fabled hundredth day of school. Running out of meaningful things to learn about, we took the day to celebrate this monumental achievement. Some background: in the back of the room, there was a chart hanging on the wall with the name of all the patrons and a set of cards accompanying it: green for good, yellow for warning, red for a meeting with the principal, and the dubious purple card. Straight out of a Shyamalan film, the purple card meant a call home to the parents. This exhausted the option of hiding all discipline from your parents. Double trouble would be on the horizon. One time Tony Delvecchio got a purple card and he was spotted crying in the corner of the playground the next day. This was no joke. Being the pragmatic businessman I was, I never got into any kind of trouble. This is no understatement. My green card stood proudly in front of the signals of poor behavior, collecting dust from lack of use. Recently our table configuration had been adjusted, as had been periodical throughout the year. This time, however, I was a bit weary of the characters at my workstation. I hung out with these cool cats at recess, but I preferred a more professional crew at my assistance. Mrs. Miller stuck me with Tony Delvecchio (yes, THAT Tony Delvecchio), Mikey Chesterbrook (who transferred to public school in 2nd grade), and Maddy Harris (whose “y” became an “i” in middle school). I was sharing a table with Greentree Elementary’s most wanted. As the festivities of day 100 began to conclude for the morning portion, Miller ordered us to our seats. Her short, feathered hair matched perfectly the rest of the early childhood department. I had always seen her as the kind of woman who spelled “gray” with an “e” and “theater” with “re” and never thought twice about it: kindhearted, but certainly not authoritative. This opinion changed radically after this celebratory day. My table, as I had feared, was chatting up a storm, and I was stuck with no umbrella. I pleaded with the pranksters, “Guys, stop! She’s going to yell at us! You don’t want to have to change your cards, do you?” But I was just a man, meek and humble. My harbingers of disaster were merely white noise to my tablemates. My attempts to quell the storm were futile, and when it rained, it poured.

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Always Gasping for air I could see my father struggling forth,the salty water burned my eyes that strained to see him, to see that he had not abandoned me to the hands of the waves that so desperately tried to take me away. 

Pulling my floaties up my arms, I did not know that he was the only thing that actually could save me. The warm sun, rainbow array of umbrellas, and dispersed laughter across the stretch of sand mislead me to believe that this was a place that could do no harm,

A place that would not cause my friend to turn away when I desperately needed help, a place that would cause my fatherto be there for me as he always had and always will.This makes me wonder, how much time until always is no longer something of the now?

Alexandra Fields ’15

SunshineKelley Lucey ’15

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Smyrna

Summer Tuesday morning. Here in the muggy swamplandsOf Middle DelawareI watch the osprey dive over the silver lake for fish.The man, armed with an axe in one handAnd a can of Natty in the other. I wondered,Which one my grandfather would be able to cause the most destruction with.

Donning a camouflage jacket from an era unknownAnd classic Levis and work boots,He proclaimed that we had some work to do that dayAnd he would need a lot of help.The sun was scorching and the horseflies ate our skin,But my God,Nothing could take the grin off the man’s face,When he was moving gravel in his new tractor.He looked over to me.

But then and there I knew that smile wasn’t just because a fancy, new piece of machinery.It was because I was there with him at his new place,With all the osprey, deer and man-eating bugs,He was with his right-hand man.And I was proud to be there asking myself smiling,“Did he really need any help down here?”

Trent DiNardo ’16

GrapesAbigail Smack ’15

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Life is…

A lonely walk on a cold winter’s dayA solitary trek up a granite mountaintopThe path twists and turnsThe foliage beside me slowly fades from green to dull brownBefore it disappears all togetherThe path becomes steeperThe rocks under foot are hard and unyieldingAnd yet I press onStumbling along, guided by an unseen handAnd suddenly, the top is reachedI stop and gaze out at the trail left behindIt seemed so long, and yetLooking back across the hardscrabble landI see it was in fact short I am out of breath from the short trek Unable to descend, I lull as the night closes in Faster and faster it gathers around meI fall to my knees, unable to breatheJust as the night reaches me and I take my last breathIt stops, as if frozen in timeThe night abates from around me as a warm light grows aboveI feel myself rising from the ground, throwing off my worldly waresThe path behind has been forgotten I have reached the end of the trailSalvation

Keelin Reilly ’17

Color StudiesSanjana Malik ‘17

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Riffing Twenty-One Pilots’ “Ode To Sleep”

And the trees wave their arms and the clouds try to pleadDesperately yelling there's something we need

Only a few make it out andA few travel far but theWind keeps them back in the darkness of treesThe mud puddles splash and waveThe vicious cold seizes theirLegs but they reach with all armsInching, gaining, but losing, andThey don’t give up hope as theSky hides itself and sends out the cloudsNothing achieved when they tryNowhere to escape toAs they gasp and they plead

Needing this desperatelyI call out to them, yelling,Telling them that there’sHope of something,Something that weSo desperately need

Christian Kraft ’15

Champagne Eyes Makala Wang ’17

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Madness Calls

I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't this.Madness crouches outside my window,Staring in.He's got on an old coat.An old coat and a big empty smile.

He looks like he forgot why he's smiling,But his mouth forgot how to stop.He doesn't seem mad out there.No, he almost looks...Lonely.

BANG BANGHis fist on the glass.He wants to come inside.Maybe I'll let him.After all, Madness just wants some company.

Andrew Hurst ’15

MartyThomas Diamanty’15

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Broken Metronome

Stan broke the gaze he and his book shared. “You know I love you.” To his elation, she smiled in delight. It wasn’t enough. “I know. It’s just tough when you go on these long trips.” Stan took pride in only a few things, including his wife and his job, though he had difficulty figuring out which he enjoyed more. She had often noticed. “I’ll pick something up for you,” Stan bargained, hoping that she would feel better about the trip. “Just keep me in your heart.” That’s really all she wanted, his love, a virtue that, from Stan, came in meager doses. He rustled the pages through his fingers, a feeling he frequently enjoyed. Even this comfort couldn’t revive the conversation’s tone. “How about I write to you every day. That’s what?” The life of her face withered. Stan would do anything to make up for his lack of presence, and she was prone to guilt. “That’s not what. I don’t want to inconvenience you.” Stan plead. “How about I send you flowers. That’s what?” She stumbled and collapsed next to him. Her arm enveloped his shoulders, a sign that she appreciated his efforts. “That’s not what. I’d prefer we used that money for a nice dinner for when you get back.” This back-and-forth normally surfaced when Stan prepared for a long trip, but he wasn’t quite satisfied with how it usually ended. His glance caught hers and the muscles in his face strained. Stan’s sudden diligence confused her, as well as himself, as he offered, “How about I cancel the trip and we spend the night right here instead?” Her eyes widened and her spine tingled. “That’s what,” she said.

Christian Kraft ’15

Self-PortraitIdana Tang ’17

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Pops

Similitude. Here, gathered around this thick, dated photo album,I examine the young, eager expression of my father.Wrinkled flannel shirt; he wears thick round glassesperched over his fervent smile.

Sporting his alma mater proudly on his hat,brown curls drape out the sides.He gazes down warmly,placing a diaper over another smaller set of brown curls.He had always been a comic.

But as years have faded so did those curls;that youthful smile has lived on though,visible in each of his sons as well.I love you, Pops. I can’t put that hair back on your head orrepay you for all that you’ve provided,but will others think of you every time I smile?

Matt Olsen ’15

Reflections in a BubbleSarah Disabella’15

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Philosophical Heaven

As I enter into heaven, the golden gates await me with angels at the gate. The gates open and the mind cannot fathom the reality of what it sees

My limited mind can only project the things which I knowAnd the thing which I know, is something

I know little of.

It is a Greek marketplace during the reign of Tiberius Glaber the Emperor.A time of thought, ideals and philosophies that were as prevalent as coin Created by one’s mind, then debated by one’s heart, and put to purpose

Aristotle, Plato, Qin Shi Huang speak in one tongueAnd I join in.

The music in the background is that of Mozart and his symphonies.The sky shines a single bright beam on the marketplace

The topic of government begins and with it voices Democracy seems to be the favorBut I propose a religious based

Monarchy.

My proposal is questioned by Genghis Khan the Mongolian Emperor.I explained that a monarchy based solely on wealth or power

Like his, would never work, but with higher guidanceTo trump earthly gain, corruption and greed

Would be no more.

As the daylight begins to fade, so does the crowd in the marketplace.They move into the coliseum light with fire in the hundreds

Two champions, Marcus Aurelius and SpartacusClash their swords.

They go back and forth and the crowd roars in excitement as the games continue. Miyamoto Musashi and Leonidas of Sparta sit on my sides Criticizing the swing patterns and strikes of the gladiators

A final blow is given to Marcus; he falls to the ground The crowd cheers for death. Weight Room

Sophia Cipriano ’16

We look up to the seat of honor and a man stands silencing the crowd. It is Jesus the Son of God, savior to the Christians His thumb goes up meaning, “Drop the sword”

The match is over and with itThe day, until tomorrow.

Michael Pinto ’15

"Hm." Silence. "Where did you get this?" “A drugman sold it to me." "Have you told anyone what's going on?" He shook his head once. "Alright. Listen kid, I'm gonna tell you something and I want you to take it directly to heart. I don't care how bad you think it is or how tough things are right now or how many people you think don't care. Your whole life you're going to have people putting you down. People are going to think they can walk all over you, they can destroy every aspect of who you are, take away your sense of worth. They're going to try make you feel that you've done something wrong simply by existing. You need to learn how to hit back, to remember that there's people in this world that care what happens to you, even if you haven't met them yet. “You are something amazing. You're a human. And just like every other human, you get an equal opportunity at life. To make a change. Leave your mark. Be remembered. Now, how on earth are you going to do that when you do things like this?" He waved the bottle.  The boy was silent. A single tear traced down his cheek. Finally, he cleared his throat. "It's just...I thought nobody really cared. Mom never asks about my day, Dad's always working or talking to Mom. I don't have any real friends at school. My teachers don't like me much. There's nobody." "Well now there's me," replied the man. "Every day if you want. How would you like a job here? Give you some time to get yourself back on track." The boy just stared at him for awhile with disbelief. Finally he said, "I'd like that very much, sir." The workers opened the old man's door. They hoisted up his weak body and shoved him along to the shooting ground. One by one, he heard each shot, heard the bodies in the line thud, each time getting closer and closer. He smiled and whispered, "For the Fuhrer." Then he chuckled. He could not stop laughing, an awful wheezing, dry, nearly dead breath, rattling his whole body. But he wouldn't stop, not now. What could the shooters do, when he was mere seconds from death anyway? "For the Fuhrer," he whispered again. "Thank you, sir," said the boy as he got up to leave, after another good half hour of talking."No, thank you. I needed an assistant." As the boy got up to leave, the man said, "I didn't catch your name?" "Shoot the old nut job to shut him up," he heard a worker mutter to the other. The old man laughed even harder. "For the Fuhrer," he murmured one last time between chuckles. "Adolf, sir. Adolf Hitler." A bang. Then, nothing.

Sophie Singh ’18

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One Life

The old man sat, waiting for the concentration camp workers to come for him. He leaned his head back, and closed his eyes, reliving the memory one more time. He was a young man, about 26 at the time. He had recently settled down with his new wife, and opened a shoe shop. Business was booming; it had been a particularly busy day, and at 5:00, the last big crowd was trickling out. He was just wiping down his counter when the door banged open. Looking up, he saw a young teenage boy. "Sorry son, we're closed for the day." The old man inhaled deeply. He would never forget the look of that boy. He was about 14. Wild-eyed, panting from running. Scrawny, not particularly tall. Messy, dark hair, piercing blue eyes. He had the look of a teen who was not malnourished, but not well-loved either. "Please sir. I'm being chased...not by police, I promise! If you just have a spot for me to hide...I am so sorry. Please? It would only be for a few moments." Looking at the youth, the man felt a rush of pity. "Of course. Come here, behind the counter." Not a moment after the boy crouched next to his legs, the door banged open. A group of big, grinning boys dashed in. Their shining shoes and neatly combed blonde hair immediately convinced the man that they were from the upper class. They were wearing the same school uniform as the boy shaking by his feet behind the counter. "Excuse me, sir-- have you seen our friend? He's a small, dark-haired boy, and we’ve lost him." The biggest of the boys flashed a charming grin as he asked. "Afraid not boys. And I'm closing up. Sorry I couldn't be of more help." The words flowed easily from the man's mouth and his expression did not betray even a hint of emotion. The boys left the shop with a chorus of polite thank yous. The man squatted down next to the shaking boy.  "Was that them?" The boy's cheeks were tearstained and his fists were clenched. "Yes. Thank you sir." "Do you have anywhere to be right now?" "No, sir."  "Come in the back. I'll make you a cup of tea." After doing just that, the man sat down with the boy and gave him a box of tissues, noticing his still clenched hands were holding something.  "What's that?" The boy shook his head, but the man pried his hands open. In them was a small bottle. Poison. The man settled back in his chair and gave the boy a long look. "Pretty bad at school, huh?" The boy nodded.

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The Bird

I think I’ll be a birdNo more shouting, just songNo more anchors, just flightNo more obligations, just navigationExploring the vast openness of the worldAnd when all the demons of this earth stream towards me to invade my soulThen I will fly, free as the wind, light as a featherI think I’ll be a bird

Keelin Reilly ’17

Watercolor Portrait Joseph Singley ’16

Red RoofsRegan Bice ’15

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A SatireIn the Style of Heller’s Catch-22

“Who is Kilgore?” “Can we go fishing?” “Why is literature?” “That is like so profound. Hashtag retweet man.” “Where does the sled travel?” “Has anyone seen a pair of dice?” “Not again Milton.” “Poo-tee-weet!” The school year had progressed with loquacious chatter-heads and obsequious peers in correlation to her classes, each more perplexing than the predecessor. Naira S. Soy had gone to meet with Mr. Huckleberry just the other day about her paper. He’d deducted points for neglecting to use “y’all” within her essay, but he was busy as a cat on a hot tin roof, a line snaking farther down the hall than the Mason-Dixon line. The root of education is sweet, but the assessments are bitter. Even the clubs had become despicable in expectations. Lit club demanded all of Dostoevsky’s publications be reviewed. Mr. __ de Klingly required everyone to submit a minimum of three works for Tapestry within the week. Ms. Raku’d even coerced everyone to finish a project in art club! By the end of the 1st semester, Naira had accumulated more grievances than Martin Luther. Inspiring students to extinction indeed, Naira thought.

Naira ran to the guidance office to acquire help from Ms. Guía. “What do you mean you can’t help?” Naira exclaimed with despair. “You tell me you’re quite stressed with this year’s workload, right?” “Yes! Just this week I’ve been allocated a ten-page project on the history of trade in the Mediterranean basin, fifteen college essays, finding the derivative of derivatives, reading all works by Charles Dickens, constructing a replica of the Empire State Building from Play-Doh, and fashioning a cotton gin capable of handling chocolate covered cotton (eco friendly, of course.)”

“… Sorry, did you say something?” Ms. Guía replied with a loud yawn. “Puede ayudar?”

“En Ingles! No hablo español,” she cried. “Look I’d love to allay your worries, but I can’t. There’s a catch. If you are stressed about school, you are exempt from doing the schoolwork. But if you are exempt from doing the assignments, you have no reason to be stressed and therefore must continue your studies. I’m sorry, but it’s out of my jurisdiction.” “Ah, homework! Ah, humanity!”

Katie Maurer ’15

Fanta NaranjaChristine Ford ’16

Standing in front of his fellow legislators in the Illinois House of Representatives, Abraham Lincoln most likely felt apprehension. He knew that many of his colleagues would likely disagree with and berate him. He did not back down, though. He faced the challenge in front of him and conquered it despite the harrowing odds, and as we know went on to become not only the driving force behind the removal of the greatest moral crime in American history, slavery, but also the steady hand that guided our Union through the most mammoth threat it has ever faced--the Civil War. Probability of failure did not enter Lincoln’s mind when he locked arms with these struggles, and it most certainly did not deter him from his support of what he knew was just. For this reason, Abraham Lincoln is often regarded as one of the greatest United States presidents of all time, and no one can deny the good he did for our country. If we want to replicate that good in our lifetime, however, we must follow Lincoln’s example. Man must rage on to support the just causes of our lifetime.

Keelin Reilly ’17

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Reflections on Lincoln in the 150th Anniversary Year of the Civil War’s End

“The probability that we may fail in the struggle ought not to deter us from the support of a cause we believe to be just.” Abraham Lincoln first uttered these words early in his political career, at a time when the country as a whole was reeling from the effects of the recent Panic of 1837. Following the ruinous economic policies of Andrew Jackson, the country had headed into an economic downturn as Martin Van Buren took office. Hundreds of banks closed and defaulted on loans as grandiose public works projects gathered dust. For all intents and purposes, the country was at a standstill, and looking at the citizenry, one beheld many a shattered spirit and crushed dream. Van Buren, recognizing this, came up with a ludicrous remedy involving pulling even more money out of the financial system and locking it away in the government treasury. It was this insanity that Lincoln was addressing with his speech to the Illinois House of Representatives in 1839. Realizing the damage that Van Buren’s Treasury plan would do to the already ailing economy, Lincoln made an impassioned plea to his fellow legislators not to support this plan. It is evident that, even as a young man, Lincoln passionately supported the causes he believed to be just. The majority of those in the audience would belittle and shrug him off, but this did not deter Lincoln. Lincoln would carry this insurmountable spirit with him the rest of his life. With it, he faced many more great challenges that threatened the soul of our nation, and it was that spirit that allowed him to rise above them in triumph. Lincoln’s powerful words still ring true today in the Age of Information. The technology that now exists would have baffled and astounded Lincoln, and as a society America has come very far from the horrid sectionalism and rampant racism that plagued antebellum and Civil War America. Despite all these great advances, however, the world is not free of struggle. Close to 9 million people remain jobless in the United States of America, and Islamic extremists cleave out a bloody empire in the Middle East. Russia continues to send troops into eastern Ukraine, and every year more and more species that have lived on this earth for millennia plunge into extinction with rising temperature and ocean levels. It sometimes feels as if man is fighting a losing battle, that the human race has finally run out of luck.

Trumpet Sounds Megan Clements ’15

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Tapestry 2015

Editorial StaffZoe Akoto

Sophia CiprianoLilly CooganKatie Maurer Taylor Tucker

LayoutKatie Maurer

Faculty AdvisorMr. Stephen Klinge

Art AdvisorMs. Jody Hoffman

Thank you to Mr. Jordan’s Creative Writing Class and to all who submitted work to Tapestry.

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