Hannah O’Malley — Photography

     A senior Biology major with an Education concentration, Hannah is thrilled to share some of her favorite photos as her undergraduate work comes to an end. Photography is one of her favorite hobbies and her love for it has stemmed from watching her Dad capture brilliant sunsets and happy moments she will cherish forever. Taking pictures reminds her of how incredibly beautiful the world is.











Empty Schoolhouse Blues

By: Taylor Morton ’13

Candle dripped its spots of wax on the dusty floor
Candle dropped its blobs of wax on the dusty floor
Nobody’s around to burn the candles here no more

Saddle shoes and mary janes echoed in the hall
Saddle shoes and oxford shoes echoed in the hall
And a faded Blessed Virgin fallen off the wall

Candid vows and valentines passed from hand to hand
Sacred vows and valentines passed from hand to hand
Dried out bunch of daisies in an old tin can

Candle left its spots of wax on the dusty floor
Candle left its blobs of wax on the dusty floor
Nobody’s around to burn the candles here no more

Paintbrush Monster

By: Rachela Forcellese ’12, Staff Writer

     My brother has always had a wild imagination. Growing up, he was always the one who entertained everyone. He danced, he sang, he even dressed up. If people would watch, he would make them laugh. Cute, small, and blonde, everyone ate up his routine, while I was the brooding, dark-haired child that followed all the rules and was too shy to even answer the phone at home. Now, it’s funny to think that I am the one trying to make it in showbiz, because Hollywood had Tony’s name written all over it when we were young.

     Once he ran through the women’s department of a JC Penny’s with a pair of women’s underwear on his head. He deemed himself “Panty Head.” Another time he bought a Spice Girls shirt with all of his hard-earned allowance. My mom only let him wear it underneath denim overalls.

     But sometimes his imagination got the best of him. He wasn’t in total control of his own powers yet, and that is how the Paintbrush Monster came to be.

     When we were younger, our family lived at our beach house in Ocean City each summer. My parents are schoolteachers, so we were lucky enough to have them to ourselves every summer. We lived in Ocean Pines, which wasn’t directly on the beach. It was in a wooded area where old people went to retire.

     The thing about Ocean Pines was that it was heavily wooded and very dark at night. Most of the houses were old and run-down, ours included. It just seemed like a place where a spring break horror movie would begin. As an irrational and immature ten year old, I was acutely aware of this. The house scared the hell out of me at night, and I was stupid enough to pick the downstairs bedroom when we moved in. I thought it would be cool to have my room on a different floor than my parents. I wasn’t much of a rebel, so this felt daring. The one time I rebelled against my parents as a kid was when I bought Shaggy’s album behind their backs. My mom thought “Wasn’t Me” was far too inappropriate for a fifth grader. So, I went to Target and bought it without her knowing. Scandalous, I know.

     Anyway, every night in that beach house was horrifying for me. It was too dark and too woodsy and I was much too far away from my parents. My brother made fun of me for it as much as he could. That was, until he met the Paintbrush Monster.

     Earlier that week my parents had bought him a Barney necklace. It was a little plastic sphere with water and glitter inside of it along with the purple dino that he loved so dearly. He wore it around his neck every single day. He even slept in it against my parents’ wishes.

     One night he slept in it and woke up in tears; the necklace had gone missing. Apparently he had woken up in the middle of the night only to see a paintbrush the size of an adult person at the foot of his bed. It had razor sharp teeth that chomped at him, and most importantly, the tip of its brush was covered in red paint….or blood. The monster allegedly grabbed the necklace from him and ran away. He told this story to my parents while he ferociously cried. They tried their best to console him, but nothing worked.

     For the next couple of days, my parents tried to find his necklace. They checked under his bed, in the closet, in his drawers. It was nowhere to be found. Meanwhile, Tony lived in fear that the Paintbrush Monster would return.

     We never did find his necklace. And to this day if you ask my brother, who is now eighteen and a freshman in college, about the paintbrush monster, he will tell you the same thing:

     “Yes. He was really tall, had sharp teeth that were constantly chomping, and red paint on his bristles. He stole my Barney necklace. And he was real.”

Having Gone Casual

By: Kristine Sloan ’12, Staff Writer

She cupped herself a cozy post-haste
when the moment realized a pile of warm whites
loaded and laundered. Trade you that love mug
for a late date, but blind and wandering.
Here’s to a night on the ungrounded town
and our penchant for increasing small talk:
the science of astrology maintains original
emphasis on predictions, the color wheel
is one more chart to reconsider,
Q&A’s are typically priced as buy one,
get one. What do moon beams
and beverage steam have in common?
The phone line died for your final whispers.

Untitled

By: Kristine Sloan ’12, Staff Writer

Such simple marble is unmoving faith,
is some ancient still modern mind
made to burst and break. So I’ll crack this sphere
into a concrete world decayed, a fine powder
I’ll smear into my skin. Call myself sculpted.
Call myself failed metamorphic. No oracles
to prophesize grids of earth obeying.
Through these walls, speech: dito sa lupa
para ng sa Langit.
I used to believe
that any word could be mine, any prayer
pocketed for later. I begged the silence
by breaking the mirror and returning
to dirt; they said digging down was a sin,
but here I’ll find the color of my skin.

Muse 2 – Death

By: Sarah Gumbel ’12

Long time would I rest my head at the corner of your chest and neck,
would trace the muscle taught road of your stomach, with my fingertips.

Softly would I sigh as you curled your long glass fingers, smooth and white,
you would hold me, the paleness of your skin offset by the blue of your eyes.

Your eyes would be the color of stars, and your skin the color of stripes, minus red,
Red was reserved for the color of your lips, and those who had as of yet, tasted life.

Remembering the Lost

By: Jenna Moore ’12, Copy Editor

     I don’t remember what day it was, but I remember where I was and what I was wearing the day that my uncle died. I can still picture the way my father appeared at the door of the gym as I was playing in the Hoops for Heart basketball tournament, and when I saw him, I just knew. All I could think of was how my uncle would have shaken his head at the jumpshot that I failed to block. I don’t remember the year, but I remember that a week before that moment we had laid my grandmother to rest. I don’t remember visiting her in the hospital, but I remember when the news came that “MomMom’s gone,” I was heading to a basketball game and sharing my favorite candy bar with a friend who hadn’t really wanted it, but took it to be nice.

     January and February are still stained. I remember the way that my mother cried, the way I saw my father embrace her and just hold on. I don’t remember where I was when she came home, but I remember the way she just let the tears sit on her cheeks, the way I felt them on the top of my head and the way my own fell towards her feet. I remember seeing my grandmother for the last time, the way she was missing her glasses and I told my mother that it didn’t even look like her, so maybe it wasn’t, and my mother just held onto me and told me that she didn’t want her glasses in heaven. I don’t remember seeing my uncle a last time. I remember not being sure that they weren’t just hiding somewhere, waiting for me to seek them, until I stood at their memorials with my mother. Sometimes I don’t remember how to get to the funeral home, but I remember the gold lettering emblazoned on gray marble with their names and those significant years of birth and death.

     I remember being told that maybe I should go visit them, talk to them, and I remember not being able to tell my mother that I didn’t know the way, because to me they were still at my grandparent’s house waiting for everyone else to arrive for dinner. I don’t remember when I visited last. I can’t go to their graves without wanting to be sick, without crying. I don’t like imagining that they are in a box, inside of another box, inside this massive wall where I can’t see them and can barely remember their faces. I prefer to remember my uncle standing on the sidelines of a soccer game as he coached, yelling at the referee for a poor call, or my grandmother sitting in her chair by the sun reading a Nora Roberts book as we come through the door. At the graves, I always feel like I’m being watched, as if they know that I’m finally there and that I haven’t been when all they want is a little company. But I always put a kiss to my fingers and my fingers to their names when I leave.

     Sometimes, when I get hungry for a snack, I remember the way that my grandmother pulled fresh rolls and butter out of her purse on the sidelines of my brother’s soccer game. I don’t remember the snacks that she brought to other games, but I still remember being in awe of how she managed to keep the rolls warm, as if she were secretly a fairy. I don’t remember the last time we had cream of chicken, but I remember the way her house smelled on those rare occasions that she made it. I remember she always made cream cheese swirled brownies for dessert, and would save two corner pieces for my mother and me so we wouldn’t fight over them.

     I remember that my uncle came to my elementary school one day and that it was spring. I don’t remember what special day it was, but it had to have been special because the rest of my family was also there, and with pizza. I remember that during recess he protected me against a bully I had been having trouble with. Sometimes, I wish he were still around to take care of my bullies. I don’t remember if my brother was there that day, but I know that he took over for my uncle as protector. I know that he’s been a protector ever since. I don’t remember much about my uncle, except that I know there are certain things in the house that used to be his. There was a Mickey Mouse towel that my mother would take to the beach for a couple summers after he passed. I remember not being able to use it, because it was my mother’s comfort, but I don’t remember if he was ever at the beach with us when he was alive. Old, quiet air hangs around my grandparents’ bedroom at the beach house. There’s a sacred silence within those walls, heavy with memory. I can feel it the first moment I walk through the door, smell it in the mustiness of a house closed up all winter, and hear it early in the morning when my father is the only one up.

     The back bedroom is the worst, the one that my grandparents shared. The furniture is the same as I remember from when I was little, with rubber bands and pens still in the top drawer of my grandmother’s bureau. Old coats of hers still hang in the closet, so when I go to fetch the vacuum I can smell her in the sleeves. I remember the one time I forgot Ellie, the teddy bear she gave me, in my room when we left the house for the last time that summer. I don’t remember the fit of anxiety I must have had, but I remember that she brought Ellie back home to me.

     I don’t remember getting Ellie, but I know that it was on my first birthday. I remember holding her so tightly when my grandmother died that I did not care if I was twelve or twenty-two, because I wasn’t letting go of this bear. Ever. I remember thinking that I’d be so old at twenty-two that surely I wouldn’t want a bear, and now I’m twenty two and thinking twelve is so young to ever want to give her up.

     There are things that have stayed with me. There are things that I have lost. I don’t remember the way my grandmother’s neck smelled when I hugged her, or how tall my uncle was, the way his voice sounded. But my hands are my grandmother’s hands, and my brother, when you look at him quickly, is my uncle, come again.