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Sonnet#2 thisPlaceNearaHighway ettingDowntheShield TheMeeting KatieAdams TinaCamaj sonDeFran ReginaD AnticlimaxCet YouSeparationEtCet Inhabitantsof hatGlittered BrendanEathorneTessGarciaGennaHealyJim HurleyWillMenchacaSusiePilibosianAnnie ReedChaseSmithKaliSmithLukeStoychoff All NightWarpedAccountsMe orialDaySparkTheSenior LifeDuringWartimeTh DeathofHeely2014 2015

Bloomfield Et Cetera 2014/15

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2014/2015 anthology of Bloomfield Hills High School student writing and art, published by the staff of Et Cetera, Bloomfield's Literary Arts Magazine

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Page 1: Bloomfield Et Cetera 2014/15

Sonnet#2

thisPlaceNearaHighway

SettingDowntheShield

TheMeetingKatieAdams

TinaCamaj Madi-

sonDeFran

ReginaD . AnticlimaxCet

YouSeparationEtCet

Inhabitantsof

ThatGlittered

BrendanEathorneTessGarciaGennaHealyJim.

HurleyWillMenchacaSusiePilibosianAnnie

ReedChaseSmithKaliSmithLukeStoychoff

All

NightWarpedAccountsMem

orialDaySparkTheSenior

LifeDuringWartimeThe

DeathofHeely’s20142015

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2 3

Anticlimaxby Brendan Eathorne

The beach had been cleared of people since long before the break of day. High winds car-ried the sand through the airwaves, peppering everything from the high grass to the shore. The waterfront was covered in rows of rising and falling dunes, marking the coastline in a swelling array. Emerging from its earthen mound, a single defiant ant surveys its newly barren surroundings.

Naive to the condition of the beachhead, the ant advances inland, only to see its wiry legs lose their footholds and tumble down the face of a dune. Motionless in the valley of the sandy swells, the ant hesitates before righting itself and contemplating its next move. Without consideration of consequence, the ant tries to claw its way past the first crest, finding the desolation of the bottoming valley to be far worse than the despair of being defeated in the conquest of the steep hill. The ant slips and is reversed back to its position, unflinching as its aspirations slip along with its footing in the loose rocks and sand.

The ant meanders through the hollow in the land, making its way along the basin between two hilly dunes. The low-land cuts diagonally to the shoreline, and the ant comes to touch the edge of the tide, where it can walk upon solid sur-face of wet sand. The ant drops into a shallow crater, one that lays unevenly in the earth. Past the divot in the sand lays another, then two more. The ant follows closely along this path, slipping into each one only to cross it and progress upon the next. Some filled with seawater, others with broken shells and hard-packed sand. Each pit is evenly paced, though become farther apart as the ant advances steadily.

The ant approaches a stiff slipper of powder blue thread, its edges whitened and rumpled by the Pacific salt. Another lays half-sunken in the unsettled sand at the lip of the sea, each surge of the waves filling and draining and replenishing the foam that spills over its heel. The ant idles in the paltry shade provided near their worn, rubber soles, complacent beneath shoes of canvas, absent of feet.

The tide washes in and carries the ant away.

Photograph by Genna Healy

Welcome to the 2015 print edition of Et Cetera! This is the inaugural issue of Bloomfield's literary arts magazine, and within its pages you will find short stories, essays, poems, and photographs from some of BHHS's most creative minds. Enjoy!

The sun, awake once again,Casts its array of grey shadows upon the floor.

They call for you.So you obediently rise from your place of comfort

To begin the day, while the shadows continue to lengthen.–

You proceed to mask your soulTo prepare for the days events,

For it is hard enough to send it out into the worldBut even harder to do so without its coat.

–Wary of rejection, this protected soul survives,

But does not prosper,Yet you choose to hide it anyway

And gently concealAll that gives rise to the spirit known as “you."–

Lips pursed, in frigid disaffection,You step into the light

And let the sun cast your own shadow:The only remaining essence of “you."

“You”by Annie Reed

Photo by Genna Healy

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4 5

The door crashed to a close. Ryan fiercely jumped upon his bed. His mind could notbegin to comprehend what he had just discovered. His bed felt like a cloud floating away fromreality. There was nothing he could grasp onto but his pillow. Everything had shattered as if hisworld was a glass vase that had just dropped. Ryan's muscles were stiff and his head was aching. With wet eyes, he sat up in his bed.He looked at himself in his dresser mirror. The bags underneath his eyes were a dark purpleshade. His eyes were blood shot red from continuous sobbing. The tears had been for nothing.There was nothing Ryan could say or do to change his parents minds. Their decision was not up to him.

Separation by Susie Pilibosian

He managed to stand up and twist the door knob. He walked to the balcony in the upstairshallway. From there, he could see his parents down below in the dining room. Profanity wasscreeched throughout the house and tension was everywhere. The expressions on their facesstung Ryan, and every hurtful word which they spoke was like a gunshot going off. The constantthrob of his brain was too much for him to handle. His emotions were bubbling inside. What washe to do? What could he possibly say? When he heard the word “hate” come out of his father”smouth he exploded. Ryan screamed. He was blasting out words with as much power as a rocketship launching into outer space. Both his parent”s facial expressions changed to commiserate himand looked up at Ryan in regret. He bolted back to his room, and this time he didn”t even botherclosing the door. When he shut his eyes, he felt nothing move. Nothing changed. Ryan could not escape where he was. He was a prisoner locked within his own twisted and conflicted emotions. He was a boy wandering throughout the woods, lost and hopeless.

Photograph by Katie Adams

I could still hear the highway echo over the emerald hill.My melancholic disposition

Couldn”t contest the romantic purple of the sunAnd the way she seduced me to lay on the grass alone.

–But even so, considered in a poetic fashion,A child would argue it was peace of mind,

That which whispered back to me.Relax, I said to nobody,

And Nobody answered with a smile.–

When I stood:The skyline looked closer than the trees in front of me.

And, sharing in the way we watched them sway,Rested his arm on my shoulder,

Wishing me goodbye as I fumbled for my keys.

The Nature begged me to whom I would swear,I answered shortly with the nightly sky;

The stars and moon and comets they all shareWith you, the reason heaven”s satisfied.I swore to all the snow fall in the north,To all the crying clouds in every storm.

I looked through glasses I had never wornStill seeing you as clear as summer warm.

The mountain tops I reach in every dream,The clouds I shape outside to silhouettes,

All this, it is like you, to wind I sing,Alive, existing with a wgreat intent:

You”re here so that the sun will always riseAnd so the moon will wax and wane the sky.

The humdrum buzz of the dish tankThe restless rapping

Tapping of the waitress’ fingersThe loose scratch of a patron’s wrist watch

On his jacket zipperAnd soothing sounds of dropping ice

Forming frozen wastelandIn the dispenser down the hall.

–“Fries with that,” maybe, one says,

And his servers penScrawls along her leaf.

His voice is raspy, familyIdle

Enjoying smart phonesAnd the quiet peace of early afternoon.

–Turners scrape on stove tops,

Knives against a straighter, coarser edge, andThe Red Hot Chili PeppersGo on again, unannounced,

Behind the chattering,And otherwise flattering,

Of orders outside the kitchen walls.–

Gentle laughing, spilling drinks,Schedule complaints.

Cut, done, we stayed too long, andGathered ourselves around the spirits

Sharing their warm indifference.

Sonnet #2

Inhabitants of this Place Near a Highway

Poetry by Jim Hurley

Photo by Genna Healy

The Spirit Scene

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We poofed into a cloud of glitter

And dusted ourselves all over the city

Because we thought it deserved something special

Parents kept dying and turning to glitter

But the children didn”t mind because they liked the way it shimmered

And because they knew a sparkly city was better than one full of sinners.

The glint of the glitter shone day and night

Little specs of mirrored dust

When the children came outside, they saw nothing but themselves

In the reflection of the shine that cradled their new lives

In the vision of all that glittered.

-a poem inspired by the Heidelberg Project

All That Glittered

I came here with the seagulls I'm a born city-dweller but the water crashesin a way the late night sirens can”t.

At the top of my to-do list areSwitzerlandDenmarkNorway New ZealandIceland and every peninsula surrounding the Adriatic Sea.

The hustle and bustle push me to thrivebut the seagulls just flysandwiched between the two great blues.Have you ever seen a bird call a cab?I didn't think so.

Just the thought of being one with natureused to make my mouth taste like sandand yet, here I amI am here with the gullsbecause the ocean ripples at a steady rate

Seagull's Song

Poems by Tess Garcia

Photograph by Tina Camaj

In today's society, it is easy to pretend. So easy, in fact, that it has become difficult to depict what is real from what is fake. Take social media, an outlet for editing our lives to “perfec-tion" (even though no such thing exists). We get to choose what to show; we get to decide what to say; we get to control what others see. The ultimate result being the portrayal of a persona that does not accurately represent us because we leave out the messy stuff, we PRETEND that it is not happen-ing.–Emily Dickinson once wrote, “I like a look of Agony, Because I know it's true." At first glance, this may seem rather gloomy but if we really consider what she is saying there is, sadly, some validity behind this statement. Returning back to the social media example, how often do you see a friend post a picture of them crying or a picture of them at their most vulnerable moment? This is probably a rare occurrence. How often do you see a friend post a picture of them smiling or a picture of them making a silly face? Probably too often! It's so popular that all of that goofiness starts blending together. Individuality begins to emerge into a united force of superficiality, but it doesn't have to be that way.–

Social media along with addiction (drugs, alcohol, eating, work, keeping busy, etc.), can be metaphorical “capes," as Glen-non Doyle Melton, New York Times Bestseller, has said. We put them on to act as a shield, a shield against our struggles, our flaws, anything we fear the world will see and judge us. Whether we realize it or not, we put a cape on almost every day in order to avoid confronting who we are and what we are feeling.–We all know that avoiding is more hurtful than confronting. Take Rachel Brathen, otherwise known as “yogagirl" on Ins-tagram, as an example. She has recently released her new book, maintains a highly viewed blog, lives on an island with her husband and dogs, teaches SUP yoga, and travels the world. She's an inspiration to me and to many others. However, her life is not perfect and she lets her “fan-base" know that. Rachel lost her best friend several months back but her pain remains present, she recently wrote: “... sadness. It just arrives. No warning. Big tears, snotty nose. Heavy memories. It's too much. Remember it's almost been a year and nothing makes sense and cry some more." Her pain, that struggle, is something that res-onates with everyone. At some point, we have all experienced grief, it's something that connects humanity. Rachel Brathen doesn't hesitate to let others in; the results of doing so have made her life full of love.–Although it may not be easy to be vulnerable, to let the world see each and every crevice, it is necessary in order to bring meaning and depth to your life and to formulate LOVE. I'll leave you with these lyrics from Leonard Cohen's song “An-them":– “There's a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in."

Photo by Kali Smith

Setting Down the Shield\by: Kali Smith

Page 5: Bloomfield Et Cetera 2014/15

ARTIST GUIDE

Top row, from leftGenna Healy

Regina DiMaggioTina Camaj

Bottom row,Tina Camaj

Katie AdamsRegina DiMaggio

Middle row, largeRegina DiMaggioMiddle row, small

Tina CamajGenna Healy

(Name color corresponds with

frame color)

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Warped AccountsAvert your eyes, and keep walking Away from the faintly glowing streetlight Emanating an electronic buzz While flies fly around it, their dirty haven

There is to be nothing expected From the warped concrete With heat waves radiating in the sun The particles of roadAt the foot of the liquor store

Dead men walk the streets Do their corpses fall on the sidewalk or the grass? To rot in vain during a long hot summer? Or to fertilize the apple blossoms trampled? In the wild wood Surrounding the community college

Poems by William, Menchaca

First,The providential inkwell had spilled

Leaking ink all across the horizonSwirling together with roseate bands

And soft lines of light blueIt was beautiful to behold

–The moon was there too

Not yet lit to its full brillianceAnd was suspended, in the south-west sky

It watched as the colors of the new sunset faded awayDrowning in the Writers ink

–And so in the void there was nothing

Save the white orb, glowing brilliantly in the skyWithout the taste of effortless beautyBut with the sentiment of preservationStanding as the vanguard of luminance

Among the pitch black obscurityThat is night

Night

There was something quite unsettlingAbout the calmness of the water

And the tide so very low So that the snails were left to dry

The air was eerily stagnant And the salt smell was rather thickThe rigging of the mastsMade no clamor across the ocean

And so smoke rose from the grillsAnd left a haze like

In the church at nightAs incense burned

It was as if the EarthRemained quietly reserved Watching as those bloodless bodiesPermeated our innermost thoughts

Memorial Day

Photograph by Regina DiMaggio

The soft drumming of rain on her windowsill wakes Sophie. She stirs gently, rubbing her eyes with her small, dimpled hands until she successfully rubs away any remaining hints of grogginess. The absence of a single shadow upon the floor tells her the sun has yet to rise. “Perfect,” she thinks. Sophie will be just in time for her meeting.

With a gentle thud, she plops out of the bed then scurries over to the staircase. Sophie could hear the pounding of her heart start to diminish as she encourages herself: “I’m ready. I’ve trained for this.” Careful to ensure her parents’ bedroom door would remain shut, Sophie whispered down the wooden panels of the staircase, leaping over the no-torious squeaky step just above the landing. Her wariness proved fruitful, for when she looked up from below, not a soul had stirred.

Sophie stood there, beaming in pride at her performance. With a flash of insight, she realized she was now in the clear. With that, a gust of wind hit her sail and the eager five year old burst into the kitchen. Not to her surprise, Sophie’s business partner sat, wait-ing for her at the head of the table. Sophie

scanned the kitchen and discerned that it was only 6:03 on this Saturday morning. She had made impeccable timing.

“What will we be having, my dear?” whis-pered her grandfather. After she was unable to answer him with anything but a wide-spread grin, he spoke once again. “I have just the thing,” he said, mirroring Sophie’s grin.

He stood, then headed to the fridge with trained steps. Sophie tapped her feet while she waited, growing more excited with each and every clink of the bowls and silverware. Finally he returned, accompanied by two bowls of chocolate ice cream. He handed her a bowl and quietly, but lovingly declared: “To good health!” With a giggle, she savored the taste but more so savored this memory with her grandfather. Together they laughed, read the funnies, and told stories before the rise of the sun. Making certain not a trace would be found, they washed away all evidence of their chocolate crime. And like Cinderella at midnight, Sophie scurried up the staircase, skipping the creaky step, and slid under the covers to wait for the rest of the family to wake.

The Meetingby: Annie Reed

Photo by Genna Healy

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chool is honestly why our world is failing, there is so much chaos in the world and I sit here learning about nonsense as my teacher jumps randomly from topic to topic trying to express the true reasoning behind her thoughts. I thought this as I looked out the icy window in my first class of the day. I’m not awake enough to understand the information so I let my mind wander, thinking about the chaos in the world and to what the future holds. “Marcus!” Mrs. Fawn calls to me in her angry yet hopeful voice. “Yes?” I reply in an innocent tone. “I know it’s hard to pay attention this early in the morning but you must…” I was already lost in thought again because I saw something out of the corner of my eye. I couldn’t figure out what it was so I let my imagination mold it into something even more unexplainable. The day went on slowly after that, I did my usual thing which was to get my work done in class and listen to my friends talk aimlessly and eventu-ally join in when something interest me. The most peculiar things interest me in conversations, such as the passion someone has about a random topic that no one would be interested in if the speaker didn’t have that passion in their voice. But everything felt so different that day and I could not understand why. I went to my advisory class to talk about how unclear the future is, and as Holden would say “chew the fat” with Geraldine, Troy, Merrick, and Brendan. I’m always down to talk about stuff like that and I know when I talk to this group of people they all bring their own unique aspects to our random life talks. Geraldine the eccentric girl who gets lost in trying to understand those impossible ideas that great philosophers and scholars are unable to understand. Troy, the athletic funny kid everyone wants to be, but only his close friends fully understand him, Brendan the reader, actor and kid that is truly nice, and Merrick the kid who always has a smile on his face and no one knows why, I’m never going to understand him and that is a part of his charm. But today was different. I didn’t feel like talking so I sat in a desk in the corner of the class room and put my headphones in. The image from earlier in the day appeared in my head again but almost clearer this time. In my life I have never experienced heart stopping fear, but the memory I crafted of the “thing” was just that. Then I laughed, I have been told I have a dad laugh and it washed away my fear instantly, I went over to my friends and started talking about books and completely forgot about the morning.

The weeks went by and I didn’t think of the thing I just kept going on with life. It’s funny how something so peculiar had little to no effect on my life. So like I said I went on with my life, visited some colleges and tried to plan the future that I was exited for yet didn’t want to

occur. After one of these college visits my dad was driving us home and we were stuck in a snowstorm. The lake effect caused the snow to be blinding and covered our car with its whiteness. We kept driving though, creeping along and that’s when I saw it. The thing was there again but I know I saw it this time. I felt a coldness in my body and watched as the snow slowly smothered the thing. As my eyes were open wide with fear and my breath shortened to quick gasps, I realized my dad didn’t see the thing and I thought I honestly might be insane. We survived the snowstorm and I went to my room to get ready for the day of school but the image of the thing was stuck in the back of my mind. The next day at school some of my friends had also gone on college visits but all I could think about was the thing, even as I talked to my usual friends I still felt

the thing there watching, not sure if it would attack at any moment.Later I went to my advisory class and saw my friends knowing that their curiosity and passion could fuel a fire. This idea of my friends caused the thing to leave me for the first time since I saw it in the snowstorm the other day. I relaxed knowing that these dreamers could shield me from the thing and I felt safe.

One day, the thing was gone for only one single day. I woke not sure of what I felt. As I started my car and adjusted my mir-rors I saw it. I sped off thinking that would save me and it did for a second. As my thoughts began to wonder again during my first hour, similar to the first day I saw it. i glanced to the window, now with melted ice slithering down, and I saw the thing. My mind went on to create the mon-ster, morphing the chaos in the world with the thing. It followed me through the day similar to before but yet so much fiercer. This continued throughout the day but feeling got stronger and stron-ger until my advisory hour. As I walked to my class I knew it could not step foot in the room because of my friends and their ideas would fend off the worlds miseries that the monster would bring. As I got closer to the room I knew I would destroy the monster after this. Every step closer to the room I got more con-fident and the monster shrunk knowing I would win and be free of its grasp. I entered the room, with hope and happiness that I had made it, I

was free at last. Me, Marcus, and the help of my small community could defeat this monster. I felt how truly small the thing was, as long as I had my friends, who challenged the world and themselves, I could win. I looked in the room to see them waiting to talk about life and the wonders of the world, but they weren’t there. I felt the fear grasp every corner of my body, the thing grew, it became more powerful as my fear combined to fear of the future I didn’t even know I had. Knowing I was defeated, I was unwilling to put any effort into sparking a flame in myself to create a dreamer that could save the world. I let the monster consume me knowing I had made the biggest mistake anyone could make in their lives.

S

Sparkby Luke Stoychoff

PART TWO

PART THREE

13

The seniorwas born as a freshmangrew in the crowded hallwaysand took flight through the classrooms.–Far away it feltyet nearer and nearer it camefrom writ/lit to IB English,from the back of the bleachers to the front,the land growing tired as the building crumbles,for when they leave the halls,so shall the halls leave foreverand the land will be fresh and newto turn a new leaf again.And so this is the legacy;this is the home that connects uswith the classes of the past and the beginningof an era which knows nothing but the future.–Still the senior rememberswhen the first step was taken

dressed upin nerves and confusion.She emergesfrom the darknessuntil now there is no feelingof the puzzle to be masteredfrom that day,the firstof many-

perhaps it is but a fleeting memory,and yet it has stayed with her every day since.–Later on, the days fill with meaning.Always the same, yet always different.Every one bore a change in her-affirmation, clarity, strength,confidence, determination, knowledge-the lives she”s touched blend togetherinto the trials and triumphsthat form her whole today.–Classes, days, weeksof a long but fleeting journey,the inheritance of tradition whichpasses on a spirit strong-here is where rivals came together withthe passion of enemies transformed to familiarityfor to hate is to waste the energy for love-our example extends to the ones to come,our phrases, our marks, our ideasuntil their source is forgottenbut are one with instinct, with tradition.–I am the senior that stands in the doorwith one foot in the other extended out;Looking fondly on days of the pastbut heart racing in awe of the future-I am speechless as I approach the stagefrom which I leave an adult.–I honor the freshmanthe same yet changedto the girl in the halls today;I drink to the sophomorewho laughed at the naïvetéof herself the year before;I raise a glass to the juniorwho stood tall in the faceof the future”s crushing pressure;I toast to the seniors,to the past 4 yearsof growth, of fun;I am the senior whose day has cometo walk the stage and be done.

The Senior by: Maddie DeFrancesco

Photo by Tina Camaj

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Kevin wanted to go to Vietnam. Kevin woke up every morning and put on a red bandana and camouflage threads and got on the bus. His dog tags jingle-jangled on the ride to school, and he sat up front with his back against the driver's seat. He gazed out the window through aviator sunglasses that turned Lake Forest Drive into Ho Chi Minh trail. The teachers accommodated. In algebra, he was to be called Fragman. English, he was Lurch. He wasn't fazed when a substitute would call ‘Kevin' for attendance, just peacefully raising two fingers aloft. He was the prized pupil of gym class calisthenics. Other students shook the climbing rope for him as he rappelled down, surely into some soaking rice paddy with his helicopter under heavy fire. Whenever it rained, Kevin wasn't there. The baseball coach would find him on the floor of the dugout, watching raindrops strike the mud puddles like mortar shells from the sky. If he couldn't escape class, his mind would, filling the woods beyond the windowpane with Charlie and lost patrols and tracer bullets. The fantasies were more than just that to Kevin. They were real. That's what Mr. Barnes told him. They were real. But they dis-appeared with the last men to fly out of Saigon forty years ago. “So we'll go back," the Fragman told his teacher. Mr. Barnes began laying out articles and photographs to confute Kevin's Vietnam warp. Happy villagers in National Geographic, quiet fisherman in Time; each found their way back to the teacher's desk with marker scribblings of commandos and gunboats belatedly stomp-ing out the Communist menace. Then conferences were called. Twice, three times a month, Mr. Barnes delivered a frank and biting comedown. The teacher called it a reality check. Kevin called it dishonorable discharge. Mr. Barnes would speak intently, standing above while his student dismantled a ballpoint pen, fixated on reassembling the springs and caps back into a polished black M16. Summer approached fast, and with it, a leave of absence for scholar and soldier alike. Mr. Barnes announced he had invited a mys-tery speaker to visit on the last day of class. It was one of those rainstorms that seemed to bore into roofs, the kind with spells of misty sunshine between showers, like moments of respite between bombardments from the sky. Kevin was late coming to class, having made a brief excursion to the baseball diamond. and the class listened to his combat boots squeak like trench rats down the lino-leum hall.

He stood in the corner of the room, beneath a world map rolled from the wall. His finger traced a line across the Pacific, all the way over to a thin flake, a toenail on the foot of Asia. He pressed against the map at this place, then covered it up with his palm. His other arm wasn't there. The empty sleeve was tied up into a knot at his shoulder, where a yellow division patch was stitched to the fabric. Kevin looked at the same patch, a replica, sewn by his mother upon his own green fatigues. That place, covered from the map, was Vietnam. That much Kevin knew. And the missing arm, maybe it was back there, in the jungle, somewhere beneath the old soldier's hand.

Turning to face the mimic at attention, the veteran clasped the hand that saluted him, and lowered it down to Kevin's side.

Forty-five minutes and class was dismissed. The visitor closed his slideshow, said thank you, and left. Kevin had his bandana pulled down over his eyes. Mr. Barnes was smug. “War is hell," said the teacher to the student. Kevin tried to leave quickly but hovered at the door. “It didn't used to be."

That summer marked the worst drought anyone remembered. The hot sun drew out days deep into what was otherwise dusk, where children were put to bed long before shadows stretched themselves like the backs of Siamese cats in red evening light. Everyone's fathers cursed the heat and asked naughty favors of passing clouds. Everyone's grass laid down to die.

The dog days of summer were still barking when the school bell rang in September. The first roll call of the year was refreshing and nos-talgic all the same. Uncertainty of which, however, led up to Mr. Kurtz's calling of “Kevin?" to an empty seat. Some of us went out to the baseball diamond after class. Summer had left the field a mere sandlot. The dugout looked to be empty, but a little body clothed in khaki lay sprawled out on the pitcher's mound. We cried out Kevin's name and ran as fast as we could to his side. Pinned down in the dust, Kevin breathed a sigh of enormous re-lief. At last the rest of his bomb squad had arrived, ready to rescue him from the perils buried somewhere beneath the sand. The Gulf was new territory for him, and he had not yet mastered the art of desert warfare.

LIFE

DURING

WARTIME

a short story

by Brendan Eathorne

artwork by the author

Page 9: Bloomfield Et Cetera 2014/15

Your locks of hair flowing in the wind as you zoomed effortlessly through the middle school hallways let everyone know that you are the coolest kid in class. Still out of breath from the rush to the lunch line, kids would admire you standing dignified at the front of the line without a drop of sweat on you. Heely's, a potential breakthrough in the world of transportation, quickly went from number one in our hearts to being as hip as wearing jean shorts. This dramatic popularity decline leads us to wonder where this innovative product went wrong.

Heely's look like your typical skateboarding shoe but they have a detachable roller blade wheel on the bottom of the heel. This wheel can easily be clicked in and out depending on the terrain the user is facing. To use the wheels in the shoe you simply push off the ground and lift your toes up so only the wheel is touch-ing the ground. If you can roller skate then “heely-ing" comes

naturally. Heely's can be used to their optimal velocity by taking a few quick steps and rolling on hard floor or by pointing your toes to the sky to conquer a paved hill. The wheels roll smoothly allowing one to maintain speed and conserve energy for a long stretch of land. So with all of these practical uses and advantages over typical walking, why was this idea discarded as a familiar mode of movement?

The core of the problem that's thwarting the growth of Heely's is the fact that the company targets its product at younger kids which leads to two negative results. Children do not know how to use the product responsibly, and the concept of Heely's becomes seen as immature or out of style. Young kids lack the ability to analyze the con-sequences of their actions because their brains have yet to fully develop. The small wheel in the shoe makes it more inclined to catch on small cracks and rocks on paved surfaces. Parents gasp in horror as their child returns to their house covered in scrapes after trying to race down the slope their old, worn driveway. Suddenly Heely's are labeled as a dangerous product and what once was a casual shoe is now recommended to be worn with a helmet. Like every fashion product, as a person grows older, the less desirable that trend becomes. For the same reason that you don't see 40 year old gothic people, Heely's are quickly grown out of and are considered strange if you continue wearing them. In fact, you'll probably get stares if you are over the age of 12 wearing Heely's at the mall. So as we get older we must come to a conclusion. Should we surrender to the mindless flow of popular fashion or should we embrace items that increase productivity and revolutionize the way we live?

The Death of Heely’sby:Chase Smith

Photo by Annie Reed

16

THANK YOU.Et Cetera was made possible by the incredible support of various individuals. We would like to first thank our writers and artists. Without your creativity and confidence in your work, this magazine would not exist. We would also like to thank our administration. Mr. Hollerith, Mrs.

Schultz, and Mr. Sugg, thank you for not only approving the project, but encouraging it. Finally, but most importantly, thank you Ms. Krolikowski. You have been wonderfully generous, sacrific-ing time out of your busy schedule. Thank you for giving us thoughtful feedback and guidance.

We would have been lost without you.

Until next year,

Annie & Brendan