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201

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ank you to Fr. DePorres Durham, O.P Mr. PeterGroom,ary Marcotte, Mr. Art Chiapetta, The English

ent of Fenwick High School, Father Michaelkels O.P, Mike Inzano for photo work beyond the

f duty, Jake ODonnell, and Christie Spisak, forly Sunday morningwork.Moderator: Mr. JohnPaulett

FenwickHighSchoolOakPark,IllinoisApril2011

Editorial StaEditors

Designers

ProduceMelanie Kogo

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ckRafferty

MomoChapa 1

GraceDuggan

2

Stephen

Jake

ODonnell

3

FelipeAlvaradoNicole

Stark4

Abbe

y

Sturw

old

5

TaylorSojaAbbey

Sturwold

14

JanConcepcionMadeleineNicholson

7

MadeleineNicholson

MarlenaOrtiz

8

AnneKowalskiMarkYeakey

10

StephenJa ODonn

9

MarlenaOrtizJulieTentler

ChristieSpisak

MelanieKogolAbbeySturwold

AllieWilliamsJohnKovak

ClaireKelly

MichelleVillegas

12

MichaelMcLean

Katyana

Palafox

11

NicholeGushurst

AbbeySturwold

6

Theresa

Steinmeyer

WilliamDeMaio

15

JulieTentler

Lauren Visco

17Angel

Rivera

16

Jenna

Sullivan

Claire

Kelly

18

AllieWilliamsAbbeySturwold

MomoChapa

19

KendallLivingstonGabriellaBomben

20

Jen

Concepcion

MarinaSinnott

23

PatriciaNeroAbbeySturwold

22Daniel Murphy Kevin Bugielski

21

AndrewSchroederMichaelInzano

24

MelanieKogol Liam Douglass

25OliviaCaputo

AbbeySturwold

26Michael

McLean

AbbeMo

13

Tierney

VrdolyakJosephJacobs

AnnaMariani

28

Sam

Nicholson

Gianna Marchetti

29

Stephen Jake ODonnell

William

DeMaio30

27

FelipeAlvarado

AnnaDemesBiancaMariotini

MichelleVillegas

JakeODonnell

PaigeNelson

TheresaSteinmeyer

MadeleineNicholson

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I stand highab

ovethesurfac

e

BelowmeIseeblu

e,

My friendsbelow

me

all

did

it,

Is it the right thingto

d

o?

I will admit, itwould

bef

un,

Jumpand

fall, I just might,

Yet

o

nething

still holds me bac

k:Fearalw

ayscomes with height.

Fearis

with us for are

ason

Itstobeovercome,Its

atestofourstrength of m

ind

,

AndsoIstepup, an

djum

p. Photograph by Momo Ch

Poem by Jack Rafferty

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Heavy weight pressing down,Metal imprisonment, there is no way out.This raging dragon is rearing to roar.It climbs upward, ready to soar.

The top of the tower, the peak of the mountain,Heaping over the edge,Clasping the cold, lifeless metal,

That will either keep me alive or bring me to death.No more objections.This is it. There is no turning back.Surrender to this metal monster,And release my hands of this life pleading clench.

Free falling down, wind dancing besidTwirling, spinning, out of control.An entirely different feeling this time

Not of angst, but the freeing of my so

Artwork and Poemby Abbey Sturwold

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Be Quietby Taylor Sojae quiet. And listen to the silence of the water. Listen to the silent swish and the timid magic

our bath, or the pool, or your kitchen sink; the spray of your backyard hose or the wave of i

he water balloon breaks over your head. The sound brings solitude. It brings reflection, and c

emplation, and nothing, all at once. Clear your thoughts and silence your heart-to listen wit

our soul. Listen to the indescribable nothing that comes as you cover yourself in a flowing, c

inuous blanket. You can hear nothing but the movement and see nothing but the bubbles thare your own breath. Your own life.

t washes away the dust, and oftentimes the smiles; leaving you with only those things that ar

more permanent. You are left only with raw memories, distilled down to the deepest emotions

he moment. All the rest; the dust and details, get washed away, but are never gone. They are

lowing around you- or maybe someone else by now; waiting for you to drink them up again.

When youre thirsty.

ecause often its not enough to survive on only that which is substantial; solid. We need the wer. We need to see, feel, and taste the beauty of the little things. So as water washes away all t

s simple, and leaves us to contemplate what is left in a complicated silence; it also brings us

ack. It brings us back to the truths of our lives; the things that are easily forgotten and easily

aken away. What we lose is always returned. As we slide underneath the surface of the water

et go of those trivial things, both good and bad. We lay submerged, left only with our raw joy

ingular misery. Our lives. But as the pain starts to grow; as we run out of air, we can always

up, we can set the hose down; we can run out of rainstorm. We can walk into the kitchen and

glass of water. We can drink back in the little things; we can cancel out the silence.

Photograph by Abbey Sturw

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by Liam Douglass

On the top of a precipice

Stands a solemn sentry.

A lone tall soldier at the peak.

Whirling, he beams to sea.

The weather-beaten soldier toils,

Insures those out at sea

From ruining on the rock-bound face

Safe home to stray from thee.

Photograph byMelanie Kogol

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Adimlylit

manor,lon

emanatp

iano

Playingsongsofb

lueandmi

dnight

Softrainfalls,bu

tthehall

mirrors

Reflectnothi

ngbutthecoldtwilight

AllHallowsEve,a

quietOctober

Acandelabrasitsat

opthepianoadimsp

otlight

Asangelsabovesing

theirlament

Marblefloorsechowiththequiet

Atragicstoryonlythesilencecantell

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Slice, slice, slice. Chop, chop, chop. Mix, smash, add a pinch of salt. I sit quietly in my brightly lit kitchendoing homework as my abuelita makes dinner. Her hands move easily as she sets out the deep green poblano

peppers on the counter and begins the laborious task of holding each one over a slow fire until the pepper beginspeeling its outer layer. She carefully holds each pepper over the open fire as if she were creating a beautiful piece ofart. Chilles rellenos, poblano peppers stuffed with panela cheese, are a family favorite, and one of my abuelitasspecialty dishes.

The process starts in the cold vegetable aisle at the Mexican grocery store. My abuelita puts each poblanopepper on trial for its life, making sure that it is in its deep green prime color, and that it is of good size. She picksthe ripe tomatoes, ready to be made into sauce, and the freshest panela cheese. She says that the ingredients areoften the secret to any great meal. So, now as I sit here enjoying the smells of the fresh tomatoes and the sound of

the hot oil sizzling, my abuelita tells me that I must learn the family recipes to pass on to my children. And so,just like that Im out of my chair, math homework forgotten, and I watch magic happen before my eyes.Abuelita explains that first she does the busy work, chops up the tomatoes and onions and begins to heat the oil.She hands me the eggs and a bowl for me to separate the egg whites from the yolk. She watches as I beat the eggwhites until they begin to rise, all the while telling me stories of her mothers cooking, and the secrets that have beenpassed down through generations. Like this one, she says as she sprinkles water over the egg whites and mixes inthe yolk, while the whites stay risen. Incredible! I tell her. I make a mental note to write down this incrediblefamily secret. Who knew adding water to egg whites helped them rise even more when you add the yolk? Next,we take each pepper and hold it over the burner until the first layer of the pepper starts peeling off and we cantake the entire layer off easily. While I finish peeling off the skins my abuelita begins slicing open each pepperand carefully stuffs it with fresh panela cheese. Then we submerge each stuffed pepper into the magical egg batterand then into the hot sizzling oil, watching carefully so as not to overcook the pepper. My abuelita and I do thisquietly and in full concentration until all the peppers have been stuffed and cooked. Then we move on to thesauce. My abuelita explains that the sauce is where you make it or break it. It has to be red and rich so that itlooks appealing, but thin enough that it doesnt overpower the tasty green poblano peppers. She blends the cookedtomatoes and a few pieces of onion with a few pinches of salt and water. I watch in amazement as she pours thegleaming red sauce into a pan over the stove, hoping that someday I will be able to cook with her ease and

confidence.The stuffed peppers, or, as my family calls them, chilles rellenos, were delicious. As my abuelita and I

served dinner that night, I realized that sitting down to eat a home cooked meal every night is a such a fantasticgift in my life that very often goes unappreciated. I love the warm smell of the house after dinner and the tasteof fresh ingredients in every meal, but most of all I love my family; the laughing, teasing, and fighting that goeson at dinner every night. The true secret family recipe isnt written in a cook book or passed down through somemagic cooking genetics; its our love for each other, and of course, the chilles rellenos.

by Michelle Villegas

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barefoot in the snow

with soppySoppy socks on.

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Artwork by Angel R

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I see

You

Me

They

We

Sitting here

Won't you stay

Sitting there

They just left

Sitting anywhere

We are all

together

But why does this

have to be

So complicated?

Because

I

You

Me

They

We

Are all

One.

-Claire Kelly

The 21st Cent

by Jenna Sull

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Some Simple Instructionsby Olivia Caputo

When the hustle and bustle of civilization deprives the heart of solitude,

visit Mother Nature, for She holds the key.

Her realm is isolated from civilization.

It is here that one sees the sizzling stars in the night sky.

It is here that one smells the scent of the sunflowers.

It is here that one listens to the roar of the raging, rapid wind.It is here that one tastes the fresh fruit from the tree.

It is here that one feels the frigid caress of the cold air.

For these beauties are not emphasized in society.

Before seeking out Natures Queen, simplify all fractions twice.

Mother wants one to bring nothing.

She has no demands.

All excess baggage is toxic in her opinion.

Let ones heavy hair hang loose.

Let ones molded money stay behind.

Let ones fancy fashions be of no value.Let ones chaotic computer shut down.

Let ones beastly breakfast reduce to a piece of unbaked bread.

For She does not require these so called goods.

Follow the soothing sway of the flowers.

For although the invisible wind is difficult to follow,

it is still the most trusted path to solitude.

Leave behind the superficial and unneeded,

and climb the tall trees.

Trust the mischievous mountain.

hotograph by

Michael McLean

Photograph

Abbey Sturw

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The eyes are the windows to the soul

show true life and wisdom's fate

give a heart bursting full

even when others leave some hate.

A classic turn of people to hide

when others also screen their face

able not to see the opposite side

and then stare at their disgrace.

Belief is all that's true to touch

a faith considered to be myth.

One may say there's nothing much

and then go through a Labyrinth.

Look once more into eyes

a founding place to believe.

Another's own shall not defy

and no one will ever want to leave.A deep sense of the purest kind

lies in allies, nowhere to be seen.

The use of complexions lie and riddles find

in order to pay a handsome fee

for the truth we all seek.

The windows to all our souls

are never too meek or weak

and lay on the burden it hulls.

Can't run away from our own windows

or then we turn all of our lives to a close

for in the end we direct our shows

and decide on the happiness or the woes.

Photograph by

Abbey Sturwold

By Patricia Nero

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A cento is a poem composed from lines compiled from verses of m

Different worksusually by the same poet. The cento creates a p

Collage. By creating tension, the cento looks for new meaning in po

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The crimson leaves dancespinning through shadows and

Landing in piles.Felipe Alv

Being here in silence,The TV softer than thoughts,We both know its real.

Anna Demes

sleeping is so niceblankets piled up to my faceill go to sleep now

Claire Kelly

raindrops dance and pranclittle butterflies join too

party in the sky

Melanie Kogol

Tonight is the night:Keep warm and remain inside

The blizzard is here.John Kovac

t gleams in the day,Shines through the night at me.Your beautiful smile.

Bianca Mariottini

Snow falls to the groundpefully there's a snow day

now it's time to playPaige Nelson

Open starry skiesFeels like ev'rythings alrightFleeting Happiness

Stephen Jake ODonnell

La madrugadatraer la bellezadel mundo, cielo

Marlena OrtizWind is whispering,Cool, white snow is falling down,And I sit and watch.

Christie Spisak

Near raw winter dBlack dots roam through my brain

ProbabTheresa Steinm

Ready to burst free.Open up and see the world.With all your petals.

Abbey Sturwold

Little toeswiggle

Onbabycaterpilla

Upthe flower's ste

JulieTentApple stores, crowded,pushing and shoving your way,through the mass unknown.

Allie Williams

In solidarity with our brothers

And sisters in Japan

twork by Madeleine Nicholson

gentle breeze that s

through the treetops

scent of an orchid

Michelle Vill

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In Remembrance

By Sam Nicholson

Is freedom really free you ask?That simply cannot be.

Just look at all our soldiers graves.

Is freedom really free?

They battled through the days and nights.

This was for you and me.

At Arlington you shall question,

Was freedom really free?

Today we battle on and on.

These words ring true and clear.

The bravry of our soldiers is,

The reason freedoms here

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by Stephen Jake ODonnell

Someday I will become angelic withWings of Gold and eyesight like God who reigns.Under the Sun, there is a place, lovely,Beautiful, and adorned with mighty gems.What Buddha said is really true: One must

Let life be lived, impermanent, with Bliss.The softest bed may give good rest, but whenYou're scared it may always be a failure.What must I do to live? To love? Now, howCould I get past these Earthly attachments?A Goal: To live in mind and not Body.My form confuses me. What is this pain?The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.Alone in the barren desert, I amFearless. My God will protect me always.

0 = 0 is truly "0 = 1 - 1" or "0 = 2^(4) - 4 * 4".

Beauty can only be created with ugliness, but it is beautifulthat either can exist at all.

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