o r d s

a s t W
o us L
F a m
Cornerstone Submission Form
Doug Fuchs
 Table of Contents
In Which There are the Last Words of Famous People .................................................. 2
The Final Letter .............................................................................................................. 3
On That Bench ............................................................................................................... 5
Deep, Dark and Blue ...................................................................................................... 6
Rising (Deep, Dark, and Blue, Part 2) ............................................................................. 6
A New Day ..................................................................................................................... 7
Run ................................................................................................................................. 7
To be Human ................................................................................................................. 8
The Piano ...................................................................................................................... 8
Marching Band ............................................................................................................... 9
The Edge of the Woods ............................................................................................... 10
Save Me....................................................................................................................... 11
After ............................................................................................................................. 12
Life is Simple ............................................................................................................... 12
No More ....................................................................................................................... 13
Tiger Painting ............................................................................................................... 14
Tunnel of Trees ............................................................................................................ 15
Florida Sunrise ............................................................................................................. 15
Lake Torch ................................................................................................................... 15
Icy Road....................................................................................................................... 15
Waiting Line ................................................................................................................. 16
Pittsburgh Panorama ................................................................................................... 16
The Brain ..................................................................................................................... 17
Well-Organized Mind.................................................................................................... 17
Love ............................................................................................................................. 18
Crossing of Tranquility ................................................................................................. 19
Ferris Wheel ............................................................................................................... 20
Colors of the Wind ....................................................................................................... 21
Blue Tranquility ............................................................................................................ 22
Palm Tree .................................................................................................................... 22
Rock Island ................................................................................................................. 22
The Lighthouse ............................................................................................................ 22
Roll on Rollercoaster .................................................................................................... 23
Up Close and Personal ............................................................................................... 23
Going Green ................................................................................................................ 23
The Cheese Stands Alone ........................................................................................... 23
Paradise....................................................................................................................... 23
Untitled ........................................................................................................................ 24
Pinky Promise .............................................................................................................. 24
There’s Ryan on the Couch.......................................................................................... 24
Summer Skin ............................................................................................................... 24
Celebration .................................................................................................................. 25
La Belle Tour Eiffel....................................................................................................... 25
Annecy, France ............................................................................................................ 25
Hand ............................................................................................................................ 25
My Musical Love .......................................................................................................... 26
An Unfamiliar Reality.................................................................................................... 27
We’ll Survive ................................................................................................................ 28
Ode to Roommate........................................................................................................ 28
Shadowing ................................................................................................................... 29
I Like the Rain .............................................................................................................. 29
Sleep ........................................................................................................................... 30
Wash Me Away ............................................................................................................. 30
Grandpa Birdwatcher ................................................................................................... 31
The Chills and Thrills of Winter .................................................................................... 31
Lost and Found ............................................................................................................. 32
Seeing a Soldier Off ..................................................................................................... 33
The Peculiar Disappearance ........................................................................................ 35
Artificial Love ............................................................................................................... 37
Acknowledgements and Staff ....................................................................................... 40
Copyright © 2011 Cornerstone
In Which There Are the
Last Words of Famous People
Adam McConville

“The nourishment is palatable,”

Millard Fillmore allegedly said.
He ate his soup and in three hours
He was, regrettably, dead.
On his last night, Teddy Roosevelt
Did shout, “Put out the light.”
Close to the end of the Civil War,
While fighting Confederate resistance,
General Sedgwick, perhaps foolishly, said,=
“They couldn’t hit an elephant at this dist…”
Oscar Wilde bid his life ‘Adieu’ in just one line of prose;
“Either that wallpaper goes or I do.”
“Am I dying or is this my birthday?”
Lady Nancy besought
Of those who stood around her;
Alas, her birthday it was not.
As looming death did call, Lord Winston Churchill
Drily observed, “I am bored with it all.”
When asked what she had want of
Before drawing her last breath,
Jane Austen told her sister,
“I want nothing but death.”

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The Final Letter
Anonymous

As I stand on the beach where my father had always brought me as a child, I feel
my toes sink into the thick, damp sand. Looking nostalgically towards the incoming
storm clouds, I remember the last time I was here.
September 1942. Each day I read newspapers proclaiming the ongoing war over-
seas. My brother had left home as soon as he was of age to fight. His absence left a
cold feeling of desertion in my heart, but that feeling faded with the need to support my
now desperate family. The only place in the world I could see any light, any good, was
the beach, the beach with my father. It was our place. On the hardest days, when my
mother sat in her rocking chair, out of tears, but never short of despair, my father took
me to the beach. There we would walk. Sometimes he told me stories of a wonder-
ful future where things are different, better. Other times, words weren’t needed. The
simple presence of the other’s company was enough. “Don’t ever leave me,” I begged
once. He only smiled at me, and we kept walking.
One day, he asked if we could sit down, and we did. The sun was setting be-
hind gray clouds, ever darkening. The beach was silent, save the meager rolling of the
small waves. I could hear them growing into stronger crashes as the storm progressed,
but at that moment, they were soft enough that I could hear my father’s breathing. A
soundless breeze blew hair into my face as I stared into my father’s unreadable expres-
sion. I’d known this day was coming, since the day my brother left. I knew my father
wouldn’t be far behind. I was prepared for this moment. “I’m leaving,” he said, quite
simply. But through all of that simplicity, I heard the weight of the world in his voice.
He wanted to say so much more, but he was wise enough to keep it short and quick, to
avoid too much despair on my part.
I didn’t cry; I stared out into the ocean, above to the oncoming clouds, down at
the sand, and finally to my father beside me. I looked at the man, still in the prime of
his life, yet one hundred years old. I looked at the man who had raised me, who knew
me better than anyone else. I looked at the man I trusted. And so I trusted him with
this. Through the pain of him leaving us, I trusted that he had made the right choice.
The next day, mother and I saw him off. We then moved in with our cousins where we
counted on the monotony of each passing day to keep life simple, expecting no more
and no less for the day after. He wrote to us, and I treasured each letter. As one year
passed by, and then the next, he had less and less time to write to us. Still, I didn’t feel
any resentment towards him. I loved him for all he had done for me. I respected him
and the decision he made.
Today, I stand on the beach for the first time since he left, holding the last letter I
ever got from him. It’s been unfolded and refolded countless times, and the ink has all

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but worn off. A year has passed since I received those final words. His handwriting looked
shaky and unstable, his words telling of disease and injury but hopeful recovery. For a
while, I, too, was hopeful.
We never got another letter. I hate not knowing, and I hate the endless wondering that
I can’t ignore. I hate the unanswered questions. The open end to my father’s story came
abruptly, without warning. Since then, things haven’t felt the same. When he left, he left
me with a damaged and dangling heart, but his words kept that heart from hurting too badly.
When his words no longer existed, it felt as though my heart didn’t either.
As I take an uneasy breath of the salty air, I remember him. I remember all the times we
shared. I remember the days we spent together and the night he left. As I’m thinking, I look
up at the sky and out to the sea. Dark clouds are closing in around me, and the waves are
growing larger and wilder. Instinct tells me that being so close to the waves is unsafe. My
vision blurs, and I try to walk backwards, out of the water, but I’m shaking. Then I fall.
Trembling, I wipe my stinging eyes. I reach into my pocket to pull out the paper, to grasp
desperately onto the last piece of my father I have left. The letter is gone. I run frantically
back into the water, picking up my steps as the dense wetness slows me down. It’s dark out
and the storm is steadily progressing—just like the storm that came in on the last day I was
here with my father.
In the ocean and without much light, my efforts are hopeless. The waves crash around
me, urging me out of the water. As I hesitantly decide to give up on the letter, I suddenly see
a yellow piece of paper floating a few feet away. Without thinking, I dive for it. As I do, a
wave larger than the others folds over top of me. The salty water fills my mouth, my ears,
my nose, and burns my eyes. I can see nothing. Arms flailing, I’ve forgotten about the letter
momentarily and wish only to breathe in air again. I start to grow tired and my body starts to
fail me in my desperation. I close my eyes and stop struggling.
What happens next, I can’t quite explain. Against the blackness of my eyelids, I see
the silhouette of my father, outlined in a white light. Against all odds, he’s smiling. I try to
hold on to this moment, even though I know it’s probably a product of my weary mind. As
he retreats from my vision, I try to yell, I try to ask him to stay. No sound comes from me.
“Don’t ever leave me,” he says as he disappears, and I open my eyes.
I am back on the beach, and the letter, drenched with water and almost unrecogniz-
able, is in my hand. I stand up shakily unable to grasp what’s happened. How did I get
here? How did I get the letter? Was what I saw nothing but the result of my distressed
imagination? I arrived at this beach looking for answers. Instead, I have more questions.
As I start to leave, I take one last look at the storm. The deepening clouds darken the beach,
and the chilling wind leaves me breathless and shivering. My clothes dripping and my mind
drained, I begin the walk back home.

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On That Bench
Ethan Gower

I remember sitting on that old wooden bench, looking out at the blue-green sea and
the white waves crashing and frothing up on the rocks. I remember the breeze that rolled
up from the ocean, carrying the mist and the salt with it. It howled and whipped around me,
sitting on that old bench. I remember that cold, salty spray wetting my face as I sat on that
bench. That bench, starting its slow, slow journey into decay, sitting at the top of the ridge,
the gently slope down to the sand, down to the sea.
Many times I must have sat there, too many to count. I had been coming to sit since
I was nineteen. I came to think and to clear my head after a stressful day. I came to let my
thoughts wash out with the tide and to let them drift away in the wind. It was cleansing, to
have all my troubles wiped clean by the sea, by the wind, by just sitting on that old bench. I
always sat; I never walked down the slope, across the beach. I never walked to the water’s
edge and let the waves crash around me, draw me in. I never swam in the sea, never broke
the tide with my feet, never dove into the surf. I’m not saying that I regret not jumping
headfirst into the sea, not in the slightest. Some people prefer a dip into the cold sea to help
them clear their minds, but not me. I’ve always preferred to sit pensively on that old bench.
One day in particular stands out to me, even after all these years. I was sitting on the
same old bench, thinking as I had done many times before. The sea was alive, turbulent;
the waves crashes high upon the shore, throwing spray almost up to where I sat. I remem-
ber tasting the salt on my lips as the clouds on the horizon painted the sky gray. Dark, black
clouds, rolling closer, eagerly hit the coast. The sea danced and spat underneath these clouds
as they poured rain from their dark bellies. I sat and watched them grow closer and closer,
watched them until lightning split the sky and thunder crashed through my chest. I let the
rain fall down around me, drenching me, soaking my clothes. The wind whipped off the sea
with a fury now, bringing with it the rain that the sea kicked up by the storm. It hit my face
and stung my eyes, but I still sat, watching the raging sea. I found the storm calming, though
it swirled around me ferociously. It matched the thoughts swirling in my head perfectly and
washed them away in the shower just as perfectly.
I sat through the entire storm, watched the sea go from calm to boiling and return to
calm. I didn’t move once. I sat and watched the sea until my clothes had dried and the sun
began to peak out from behind the lingering clouds. And I continued to sit, reveling in the
peace in the wake of the storm, until there were no signs that a storm had even ripped past
the coast. I sat until the sun rested on the horizon, making the blue of the sea twinkle blood
red, until the last sliver of the sun sunk into the sea. I sat through it all, mind cleared as al-
ways after I stare into the sea.
There, on that bench.

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Deep, Dark, and Blue
Tessa Fraicola

Silence interrupted by crashing waves

The waves tug at my feet dragging me in
Fish flee from their deep underwater caves
Lovely colors stretch across bodies and fins

Coral grows and seaweed reaches upward

Every kind of creature my eyes can see
Fish with short noses and ones like a sword
Ones that swim slow; some swim like a fast bee

The clear blue ocean: a quiet escape

An escape from the noise so far above
Seaweed wraps around my legs like a drape
Tugging, pulling, trying to get out of
Dragged farther down into the deep, dark blue
Bubbles surface with the last breath I drew

Rising (Deep, Dark, and Blue, Part 2)

Tessa Fraicola

Water burns as it rushes in my lungs

Try to pull away, but to no avail
This can’t be happening; I am too young
Something approaches, maybe a large whale

Happy memories flash throughout my mind

I think of my family and friends
My sight begins to fade; did I go blind?
I go real still as it all starts to end

I feel tugging and thrashing as I rise

A strong arm wrapped around my fragile waist
Then I hear my parent’s sudden cries
Today I still remember what I faced
I am grateful for every breath I take

And happy for every day I wake

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A New Day Run
Anonymous Lauren Miedel

Tonight Run faster

I’ll stare at the ceiling Keep your pace
And wish to be good Don’t fall
enough You have it
And wish to know the an- You don’t need them
swers They don’t deserve you
Silently wondering. You don’t need the pain
Keep going
Tonight You can make it
I’ll think of all I’ve done Don’t stumble
And remember the blurry Through the door
past In the street
And remember the harder Past the trees
times Feet hitting the pavement
Impatiently hoping. Loving the feel of the wind
This morning Sprinting so fast you fly
I will wake up too early Not caring who you leave
And see the sun shining You are better than them
And see the light stream- Not vain
ing in Just, right
Quietly considering. Hold on
Let go of all your worries
This morning You can outrun all your prob-
Something as simple as a lems
breath I promise
Of the crisp cool air Just run
Will remind me that Today
Is a new day.

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The Piano
Emily Gregg
Grandma owned a magic loom,
A warp of slender silver strings,
Encased in elegant mahogany.
Here, she would weave her melodies.
A brilliant fabric of sound,
Fabric of beauty.
Beauty birthed from beauty.
Enchanted wood fragranced with pol-
ish,
Three funny feet wearing stylish, brass
shoes,
And a long, white veil along the top.
Shy and simple bride of modest melo-
dy,
Masking her blushing beauty.
I hear the major and minor chords,
Grandma lacing a harmonious weft,
By her graceful, skillful fingers.
How I wished my fingers to fly!
So I’d weave music too,
Weave beauty too.
Burlap, all I could achieve,
On Grandma’s loom for silk.
Clumsy, clumsy fingers!
Stumbling, tangled in threads of dis-
cord.
How could I ever become the next
master weaver!
The next beauty weaver!
Throwing a punch at the 52 white teeth,
Mocking smile laughing at my mis-
takes!
Hot tears falling on ebony and ivory,
While frustration fuels a fire,
Beneath my furrowed brow.
Ugly furrowed brow!
Grandma brushes back my hair.
A cooling kiss against my forehead,
A graceful finger traces my nose.
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And she reminds me once again,
These aren’t the only keys that
unlock beauty.
Leave, Search, Strive, Explore,
Discover, Beyond.
I must find my own loom,
And become my own master
weaver.
To Be Human
Brandon Yusko
Share with me your thoughts,
Your ‘how to make it better’,
Your sense of adventure,
Question of life,
Cry out to the truth,
It listens.
Is it not a gift to love?
Speak your words so pensive,
Your help me understand,’
Your willingness to experience,
Feel without bounds,
Your presence warms the soul,
Make it laugh.
Each spacious sky I cherish!
Chase your mind’s temptations,
Your’long to find the answer,’
Your forever dreaming heart,
Embrace the rains of being,
Let’s find out together,
It’s waiting.
Marching Band
Jaqualynn M. Anderson

1, 2, 3, HIT!
5, 6, 7, HIT!
Cover Down!
Guide Right!
These can only mean but one thing. . .
Band, but not any band, Marching Band.
This life we all now live.
The sounds of whistles,
The clicks of snares,
The music played so loud,
Our steps all in unison.
Practices to Parades,
From Parades to Half Time.
They are all moments for us to shine,
Uniforms adding the drama we need.
From the 30 to the 50,
Playing 20 notes per step,
The Flags adding our beauty,
The Batons adding complexity.
Banner, Band Front, Clarinets, then Piccolos,
Flutes, then Trombones, to Baritones, and Mellos,
Bari Saxes to Tenor Saxes, Alto Saxes to Trumpets,
To Tubas to the Drumline,
Marches the Entire Band.
There, on that bench.

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The Edge of the Woods
Caitlyn Comm
There is a place where the backyard ends.
Where a child’s small world extends.
Across the bridge and through the weeds,
Tall buttercups thrive and a waterfall feeds.

Up current-smoothed rocks we climb, we climb.

We conquer the hill wrapped in wild cat thyme.
Once a dirt road, the path we now take
Has become twin brown mounds kicking up in our wake.

We know we are close when we top the last peak

The edge of the woods marks the place that we seek.
It’s distinctive round shape stands apart from the rest.
We glance up at the sky as the moon starts to crest.

While the sun disappears and the nightlife begins,

The tree’s main attractions spread sleepy wings,
For we did not come this far just to see
A perfectly circular mushroom tree.

The excitement we felt has built up to this moment

When the bugs come alive to fulfill our enjoyment.
They light up the sky like so many small stars,
Those fireflies dance like green creatures from Mars.

But after a while yawns escape our young mouths,

And with a sad little wave we returned to the house.
Though the next time we ventured beyond the backyard,
The stump in its place broke my poor little heart. bugs come alive to fulfill our enjoy-
ment.
They light up the sky like so many small stars,
Those fireflies dance like green creatures from Mars.

But after a while yawns escape our young mouths,

And with a sad little wave we returned to the house.
Though the next time we ventured beyond the backyard,
The stump in its place broke my poor little heart.

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Save Me
Justin Croushore

Would you take me in? Give me a chance

Would you be my Warrior? A chance to fix it all
My protector? To confess my mistakes
My savior? To let you go

Save me from myself You gave me all this

Stop time in its tracks And so much more
Make this be forever Only three words come to mind
Let this be real At the mention of your name

As sweet as a dream Nothing could make me happier

I forget Or more sad
You really exist Than you can
I can actually touch you Save me

This is both Save me from love’s pain

A gift and a curse Cut the bond
So amazing, so deadly Keep me safe
Save me Keep my heart whole

Save me from time Save me from it all

Death himself Chase the nightmares away
Take the knife away Brighten the dark
And give me new life Hold me tight
Save me, save me, save me. . .

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After
Megan Fair
The glimmer of blue and red lights,
a road coated in puddles and miniature streams.
People walking.
Cars fill the streets in long lines.
Everyone pointing.
Pointing.
Pointing at loss.
A nauseated stomach.
Devastation for the loss,
Loss of home,
Loss of memories,
Possessions
Dreams.
Tears.
Packed bags.
Sadness.
Hope.
Hope in the form of kind, sympathetic faces and offers of shelter and aid.
Hope for a better tomorrow.
Blue and red lights.
Looking for the light at the end of the tunnel.

Life is Simple
Morgan Stoner
Life is actually- quite simple-,
It has its lines-vines- and tryng times-,
But in the end what happens to all of us one may see-
Is that even the best of us- even a hard working-frantic farmer- shall die- on the drop
of a dime.
So when it all comes down to the simple facts-
Why does one go through life- with many regrets?
And why the senseless and tiring motions, if what we have is a gift?
And why must we buy- and buy- until our life in one giant debt?
Because- life is quite simple-
In fact, we are only human as one may see-
And with selfish acts- come selfish needs-
To prosper- grow- and enjoy simple things like the sand between your feet-
Because when it comes right down to it- we’re only human- and selfish indeed.

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No More
TJ Ohler

The phone rang and rang

When I answered my life changed.
No more innocence
No more was my happiness

They told me her kidneys failed.

I listened but spoke little
My heart burst and pain prevailed
For I no longer had a mom to cuddle.

Forever. Gone Forever.

My snide remarks no longer clever
No more smiling eyes
No more o f the petty arguments.

Ringing through my ears that doesn’t cease

She held me at birth and left so soon
And tomorrow mourn the deceased,
Wrapping myself in a cocoon

A cocoon that shields me from the loss

That crawled and embossed
My skin with a painful memory
One I want no more

As this cocoon I built drifts away in the wind

I know one simple truth that has not dwindled
She loved me as much as I loved her
Mother and son, forget no more

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Tiger Painting
Andee Stynchula

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 Icy Road
Aaron Gettemy

Florida Sunrise
Aaron Gettemy
Lake Torch
Aaron Gettemy

Tunnel of Trees
Aaron Gettemy

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 Waiting Line
Cody Miller

Pittsburgh Panorama
Cody Miller

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 The Brain
Caitlyn Comm

A Well-Organized Mind
Caitlyn Comm

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Folio Copy
Love
Darien Jeffries

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Crossing of Tranquility
Michael Brooks

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Ferris Wheel
Kaylee Merkovsky

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Colors of the Wind
Kayla Lent

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 The Lighthouse
Megan Fawcett

Blue Tranquility
J.C. Abdallah

Rock Island
Brandon Farrell

Palm Tree
Brandon Farrell

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 Up, Close, and Personal
Roll on Rollercoaster
Briana Martz
Briana Martz

Paradise
Briana Martz

The Cheese Stands Alone

Briana Martz
Going Green
Briana Martz

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Summer Skin Pinky Promise
Kayla Ali John Tieh

There’s Ryan on the Couch

Ryan Zidek

Untitled
Kailey Miller

Cornerstone 24

Folio Copy
Hand
Dolan Facchine

La Belle Tour Eiffel

Angela Petrosko

Celebration
Jaqualynn Anderson

Annecy France
Amy Jo Sarracino

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My Musical Love
Jaqualynn Anderson
Notes, my joy And with all my heart

Ledgers, my mind I play it too

Lyrics, my words Loving my musical love

Instruments, my voice And how I play my music

Music is my life Depends on you

The steady beats My Musical Love

The controlling tempo Play for me

An overwhelming sound I’ll play for you

It leaps into my ear Sing a tune

And then into my heart I won’t give you the cue

When I hear music Please, love, please

I feel loved Your music inspires me

When I hear the beat As I have to you

I feel joyous Your voice, a song in itself

When I hear those lyrics A tune that always flows through it

I feel invincible Your heartbeat, a beat like a drum

When I hear those notes You are music within yourself

My heart pounds and pounds Now, express it

So many rhythms My Musical Love

Endless melodies to explore Never stop playing

The undefined notes Never stop playing your own tune

May I see the score? My Musical Love

I want to learn how to play Inspire me

I want to learn how to say My Musical Love

Every day, every minute I shall love always

I hear music all around My Musical Love

No matter how quiet Loving always

I hear it sound My Musical Love

It’s in my head Never will realize

Never ending it is How he inspires

All your notes and rhythms All those desires

I hear your music Our love, a song within itself

With it, your voice

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An Unfamiliar Reality
Helana Zimmerman

Grey and green enclosed the town

Inching slowly toward the ground
Cries for caution blown away
By the citizens that day
Severity to them unknown
Started with a pelting tone
Hail plunged from the beastly sky
As serenity waved goodbye
Winds circled and took their form
Chaos proportioned with the storm
Destruction spread unstoppable
By any defense possible
By any defense possible
Alarms sounded from damage done
Crashes louder than a gun
Lights jolted out, and in the dark
A storm the sea, a funnel its shark
Caved in roofs and shattered glass
Resulted from the violence passed
Rising from the ground to view
Once a neighborhood now a zoo
Dark days follow for those involved
Until the chaos is resolved
The band of men built up to fight
Will soon restore the faded light
And in the aftermath of horrid strife
Comes construction of a new life

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We’ll Survive Ode to the Roommate
David Liotta Marlee Grant
The world is full of danger,
The poor and the diseased,
Where everyone’s a stranger, The smell of burning hair
And everyone’s unpleased.
and spoiled sour cream
Justice is scarcely found, wafts through the air,
Peace is lost in war,
And death, for many, comes around, inescapable it may seem.
Knocking at the door. The temperature is 48,
People turn their backs on life, no lower, yet no higher.
Kill it, and kill it still,
But we’re the ones who hold the knife,
The reason for my icy fate?
With no right to kill. Her tendency to perspire.
The legacies of our past, have vanished into air, She hates me, so I fill with fear
And memories thought to last,
Now aren’t even there.
as she shoots me that “innocent”
smile…
Our elders receive no respect,
They’re forgotten and left behind,
“Could you fetch me breakfast
We find no time to reflect, dear?
What they gave to mankind.
The walk there seems a mile.”
Our youths have no grasp of right and wrong,
These two they can’t discern,
It takes all my might not to say,
They have no goals to keep in sight, “I only have two arms!”
No morals they must learn.
Yet somehow, here I am today,
And the rest of us do not care, pouring her Lucky Charms.
About the trouble we are in,
We turn our cheek and wrongly dare, Trudging up the stairs once
To commit another sin. more,
We face violence every day, and problems lay unseen, cursing as I trip,
The goal in life fades away,
Our souls remain unclean.
I gag as my roommate yells from
the door,
Of all these things that aren’t right,
In a world that’s turning bad, “My toenails could use a snip…”
There’s still one thing to keep in sight,
One thing that must be had.
So does it truly surprise you
that when I lost my key,
Hope is what we need to live,
To fruit our lives anew,
I spent the night in a friend’s
To take and spread and get and give, room,
Through me and back through you

To carry on day after day,

Getting better and better still,
To love and care in every way,
To do good deeds and will.

And on the day that hope prevails,

The human race will fly,
To row our boats and lift our sails,
As we reach and touch the sky!

Cornerstone 28
Shadowing
Brittany Jones

Black ink dribbles down upon the crisp white page,

Dots turn into smudges,
Smudges turn into stripes,
Attempts to eradicate are simply futile,
The shadows remain in a state of declination regardless of driven efforts,
Yet with an optimist’s soul those beclouded marks become relics,
Remnants of actuation,
Pieces of a backdrop in a world of color,
A flowing remembrance of the journey within the entity,
Allure of the future captivated in each stroke,
Every last mark becomes conditional to the masterpiece’s finality,
Constituting a window to their soul.

I Like the Rain

Anonymous

I like the rain.

I like the drip, drip, drip of raindrops. Raindrops on the roof of a house, on the roof of a
car.
Raindrops hitting the top of an umbrella, or on the hair on my head.
I like the thought of water falling down from the clouds,
Down
Down
Until it hits the humble earth. I like to look up to the sky when it rains. I let myself dive
into its beauty, if just for a moment.
I like the rain.
I like the smell of moist air, and the feel of damp grass between my toes.
I like that unseen mystery in every little raindrop’s journey.
I never tire of the sound of thunder, or the brilliance of lightning. I don’t shy away from
the wind, but rather, I turn to it. I soak in the story that the wind blows into my mind.
I like the rain.

Cornerstone 29
Sleep Wash Me Away
Robert Pokrzywa Jaqualynn Anderson

Brief Coma: Wash me away

Your details make sense to me Down a river of love
Drown me if you please
When eyelids cap the sky
I’ll be happy to do itBut only for you,
false sky my love
when consciousness is the Wash me away
ground Take me under
I float and I walk Or will you leave me afloat?
By-products of rest, Capsize me please, my love
deep grogginess My joy and happiness
the swamp Depends on you
Drown me, please, oh, please
the blackness
Wash me away
warmth inside Drown me in your river
Furious life within life, Make my boat leak
warmth inside Whether it fills slowly or fast
I lay and I wait It will be worth my death
the mental swamp and the The death of an old me
physical blackness! A birth of a new
No place I want to die, only for you
Drown me
NO PLACE Capsize me
No place for punctua- My boat and I are ready
tion So please, my love
Wash me away.
Substituting symbols with sap
The better earth
Oh, the lesser earth…

Cornerstone 30

Grandpa Birdwatcher
Hope Buskirk
Sitting in his wooden chair
With binoculars dangling from his neck
Watching the birds flit around the backyard feeders

Grandpa’s laugh is the sweet twinkling birdsong that he loves to hear

so much
His nose is round and red
Like the breast of a cock robin
He reminds me of a spring Santa
With his beard so snowy white.

Sitting in his wooden chair

Just outside the window
Now he flies with the birds.

The Chills and Thrills of Winter

Hannah Sofia Leszczynski

Quietly, so silently
Each snowflake falls.
They land without a sound,
And each comes gently down.
I stand upon the snowy hill.
So tall as a mountain cloud,
I fall. I look toward the grand scene
Of each icy cluster alit with the gleam
Of winter pasts, presents, and futures.
I’ve never been deafened by such a silence
Or so enchanted by a cold, pale land.
I venture out in thick, black gloves
To warm my frozen hands.
I wrap a scarf twice ‘round my neck
And slip into my boots,
For if there ever was a scene
As bleakly beautiful as this
I would not hesitate to bedeck
Myself in these wool knits.

Cornerstone 31
Lost and Found
Tessa Fraicola

As the hot sand whipped my face raw, I only felt numbness, as I stared
into the face of my angel. Her gaze was heavy and the constant whoosh of
her swaying wings sounded as if it were a tribal drum. Through her crystal,
blue eyes my confusion, fears and tears are reflected back to me.

When my numbness begins to fade, I absentmindedly asked “Why?”

That simple question, however, did not even begin to cover the mass of ques-
tions that swarmed in my mind. Questions like, “Why now? How did this
happen? And what happens now,” then spilled out of my mind and were spo-
ken in a jumble of meaningless words. After my rambling came to a halt, I
looked at the angel in hope that I might get some answers, but she only stood
still. Her statue-like posture made her appear to be almost frozen in time.

Once I had completely calmed down the angel stretched her beautiful,
snow white hand out toward me and said, “Come.” When I did not move, she
swiftly stepped forward, and gripped my arm with a strength I would have
thought impossible for a woman of her size. She whispered her apologies
into my ear and then proceeded forward. Slowly we began to ascend into
the heavenly white clouds that seemed to gleam with gold at the edges. With
one last look down over my small, dingy village, a single tear slid down my
face and fell into the sky.

This tear held all my thoughts of my lovely wife and my two young chil-
dren who would be expecting me home for dinner later that night, and my
thoughts of how they would feel when they realized I would not return. I knew
that they would know that I had never wanted to leave them and that if I could
I would be there every second of the day. I hope that they realize that I am in
a better place and that for the rest of their lives I will watch over them with all
my heart.

Cornerstone 32
Seeing a Soldier Off
Hannah Sofia Leszcynski

I remember that day vividly, that terrible sweltering day. I recall how
quickly my heart raced as it was slowly breaking and the tears swelled from
my eyes. He stood there calmly and decidedly, but I knew he was afraid in-
side. I could see it in the way he breathed. I don’t think he was scared of
where he was going but of what he was leaving behind. I gazed up at his solid
figure engraving the image in my mind of a tall, sturdy man with his hands
behind his back, a grim, resolute face, and a pair of broad shoulders to carry
the world upon. His dusty blue eyes stared wistfully at the sky, and in that sap-
phire sky, I knew I would find his face every day of every month until he came
home.
He was a good man with an even better heart, and I knew that he would
not change his mind. So many people loved him here in Ashton, North Caro-
lina, and he loved it here himself; but all the begging and crying in the world
couldn’t have kept him from leaving. He was the stubborn kind of person who
knew what he needed to do, and then he did it. There was no bargaining with
him. I won’t forget how handsome he looked in his clean, green uniform or
how perfectly it fit him. He made an excellent soldier, even before his service
had started. In my opinion, he was the only example of what a soldier should
be: loyal, kind, brave, and intelligent.
After staring at the clouds for what seemed like an hour, he shifted his eyes to
mine and his expression became warmer. I couldn’t stand there and look at
him without grimacing, desperately trying to fight back my tears as I thought
about him fighting in a different battle.
I had known him for only four years, but the years felt like an eternity.
Father Time has a funny way of working, doesn’t he? I existed for twenty
years before I met Jeremy, but once we crossed paths, it was impossible to turn
back. We unexplainably and uncontrollably merged in one direction. Now, it
felt like my heart was splitting in two and traveling across the ocean, only to
be lost at sea. Time fooled me once again as the last few minutes dwindled by;
I could not find the words for a proper goodbye as the shaky bus came rattling
down the road. Before I could open my mouth or my unstable arms, the bus
screeched to a halt.

Cornerstone 33
 “So this is it,” I sighed.
“No, this is nothing,” he smiled wearily.
“This is goodbye,” I replied in a quivering voice.
“I’ll be back before you can count to ten. Try not to miss me too
much!”
He always made light of serious situations. In spite of myself, I
grinned. In that moment, I knew we wouldn’t seem so far apart after all.
I kissed him to express the words I could not say, and he understood
me with an unspoken telepathy between us. I felt his embrace loosen.
I heard his boots climb aboard the vehicle with heavy footsteps, but I
could not see him. This horrible bus had come to take him away from
me, but I could not see his face fade away through the tinted windows.
I couldn’t see him waving aimlessly to the crowd or the small flags in
the hands of young children losing a father, or a brother, or a grandpa.
I heard the sounds of gun shots, airplanes, panic, and of screaming
troops. The gentle summer sunshine became the glare of an explosion
in the desert afternoon. I could feel the adrenaline of a man fleeing for
his life and falling for mercy into the lifeless sands of a thousand gen-
erations. I did not know war. I was barely acquainted with hatred; but
war was a different matter. War was a matter of hating without a pur-
pose, hating because you were ordered to, and hating because it was
the only thing your life depended on. I couldn’t see my soldier sitting
on that bus, awaiting the doom of those heartless battlefields. How
could the man I know and adore fight such an ugly creature? Jeremy
was the definition of love, appreciation, simplicity, and wondrous beau-
ty. He couldn’t belong where dead men lie. But there he went fighting
battles because he felt like he ought to.
I’ll always look back with pride at the way he fought for things
without a moment of hesitation; he looked at everything head-on and
approached it fearlessly. He came face-to-face with evil each day, and
yet he remained an angel. He died battling the one thing he wanted
this earth to overcome; hatred. He may have lost his life, but he hasn’t
lost the war. Hatred may be one of humanity’s longest wars, and Jer-
emy made a significant difference. He left this world teaching me how
to love better than I ever realized. He was my reason for a small piece
of beauty in a smaller town on the east coast, and it took twenty-four
years for me to realize just how beautiful he truly was.
Cornerstone 34
The Peculiar Disappearance
A Fiction Noir
Emily Cackowski
The case of Ophelia Knellbrooke-Dawes began on a blustery, brisk evening in
early April. Soon after receiving his latest assignment, Detective Richard Phelps sat
in a dismal little coffee shop in the slums, sipping a half-cold cappuccino. His part-
ner, Charlie Ericson sat beside him. The two men stared down at a black-and-white
photograph of the missing Mrs. Knellbrooke-Dawes.
“Pretty broad,” Charlie commented, puffing at the stub of a cigarette.
“Rich broad,” Richard muttered with a scowl. “She was a model, the wife of
a famous photographer. He took the photo.”
“She looks pretty glum,” Charlie observed.
“People are saying their marriage was bad,” Richard said glumly, lighting up
a cigarette of his own.
“What’s this smudgy stuff here?” Charlie asked, indicating several round
shapes on the photo with a chubby, stained finger.
His partner eyed him, annoyed. “Those are balloons, Einstein,” he snapped
bitterly.
“Oh.” They sat in silence after that. Clearly Mrs. Knellbrooke-Dawes and
her husband’s partnership was not the only one that had taken a turn for the worst.
Richard sighed, staring out the window at the rain. As he took a long drag of the
cigarette in his mouth, he wondered if his life would always consist of those three
dismal things: coffee, cigarettes, and murder.
The two men paid their check and left soon after, heading for the shiny black
car parked out in the corner. Once both men were seated, Richard in the driver’s
seat and Charlie riding shotgun, the car rumbled to life spewing a cloud of thick,
choking exhaust and rumbling down the road to seek out their one and only lead.
They were searching for the abode of one Boris Baranov, rumored lover and sup-
posed kidnapper of Ophelia Knellbrooke-Dawes. He was also notoriously violent.
Charlie was nervously turning the photograph over in his fat, ugly hands. He
wanted a cigarette. He wanted to go home. He certainly didn’t want to waste his
night hunting for some gloomy, idiot broad. She probably deserved to be kidnapped
anyway. Meanwhile, the silence between the two men had grown unnerving, so
Charlie switched on the radio. It was set to some crappy classical station, and a
soprano’s wiry voice warbled through the speaker: “Oh, sweet mystery of life at last
I’ve found thee…”
Richard swore loudly and shut the radio back off--glaring at Charlie as he did
so. They sat in silence once more, until they had reached their destination.
They stood at the mouth of a dark alley with a single dim light glowing some-
where at the back of it. The rain had let up enough that both men could take a
Cornerstone 35


moment to light up their cigarettes. For a moment they stood, puffing away, and staring at
the stretch of shadowed street before them and that one dim, yellowish light. A chill wind
blew quite suddenly, ripping the photograph of Mrs. Ophelia Knellbrooke-Dawes out of
his hand. Richard watched it as it was carried away by the wind and scowled at his partner
again. With a shrug of indifference, Charlie asked sharply: “We going in, or what?”
Richard tossed his cigarette onto the sidewalk and ground it out with the heel of his
shoe. Then, with a sure step and head held high, he began the descent into the cold, dark
mouth of the alley heading to the light at the very end. Charlie followed at his heels swear-
ing and muttering.
After what seemed like an eternity of walking down the shadowy, damp alleyway,
Richard and Charlie stood before the source of the yellowish light. It was a doorway, left
wide open to the elements. Smooth jazz music warbled from somewhere deep inside, as
well as the distinct smell of hemp. The two men stood, staring for a moment, and then they
heard it: laughter. The rich, robust laughter of a merry man and woman. Richard’s eye-
brows shot up nearly to his receding hairline, and Charlie dropped his cigarette, and left it
lying, burning dimly on the wet concrete. There were two people inside; one man and one
woman. Could it be that the elusive Mrs. Knellebrooke-Dawes was there, and alive?
The partners moved swiftly into the little backroom, following the music. They burst
into the room of its origin flashing their police badges and glowering grimly. Two stunned
faces stared back at them from the other side of the room. The first was that of a woman
the detectives recognized all too well, the face of the girl in the photograph, and the other
was the unfamiliar face of a broad, bearded man. For a long moment, the four people
in the room stared at each other in a silence broken only by the music warbling from the
gramophone.
A gunshot was fired, followed by a second. Two of the four beings in that room were
never heard from again.

Cornerstone 36
Artificial Love
TJ Ohler
Dear Reader,
I do not know who will acquire this, or if anyone ever will, but must tell my story.
Not the whole story from the beginning, but only the part of my life that forever changed
me and made me who I am. I wrote this as a teenager, hoping for someone to save me.
Maybe my grams, papa, mom, or even my father, but that never happened. I was alone
to deal with my future. This is my story, and though it’s only a memory of mine, I hope
it may help whoever reads this. If you are reading this now, I hope you don’t live in this
society I live. Maybe change has finally reached you, but if it hasn’t, know there are other
who feel your pain.
My grandma once told me of the olden days when love held no science or technol-
ogy. It was a place where pheromones weren’t artificially created and provided to arrange
marriages. Grams tells me all about how papa and her meeting in the little café in France,
while she was studying abroad. She weaves a story from her memories about this gap-
toothed smile and curly brown hair.
She tells me about his lavish gifts to her even in their first week of knowing each
other. “One day, Rosaline, he brought me a bouquet of white roses and told me I was a
gift from the heavens.” She smiles every time she says this,” I was flattered by his gift,
but I told him it was stupid for him to do so. We had only met several days before and I
went to school in California and him in New York. I wasn’t really willing to date some-
one long-distance. But he didn’t stop. I don’t know if it was the romantic city air with the
Eiffel Tower or just the romantic at heart your grandfather was, but he stole my heart that
week in Paris.”
At this point I would ask her to describe this ‘tower’ she talked about. The only ref-
erence I had to it was one measly picture my grams kept hidden from the Revolutionaries.
The people who took over after Democracy failed us in World War III. She hid it in her
shoe by folding it many times. Always she retells the fear she had as the Revolutionaries
tore through the house as papa and she watched their belongings be destroyed. They saw
all of their possessions that were deemed too joyous or non-modern be torn apart or taken
away. Grams and Papa were even patted down and searched for any contraband items.
Luckily, while they searched her, grams fell to her knees in sobs, stopping the Revo-
lutionaries from finding the photo of the Eiffel Tower. I would look at this little treasure
any time grams told the story of how she met my papa and married him in Paris. I’d run
my fingers along the creases that formed after she folded it. I would stare at this ling
fallen monument after the Quake of 2012. So much was lost that year, not just lives and
history, but freedom as well.
It seems to me that no one has free will. No one can love who they want because
it’s picked for you when you turn sixteen. And now here I am writing this on my sweet
sixteen (at least that’s what grams says they used to call it). By tonight I will know who
the Council, of head Revolutionaries in charge of the area, will choose for me. I will
spend the rest my life with, but what if I already have my eyes on someone special? What
if this isn’t what I want?
Cornerstone 37
 Maybe I want to be like Grams running into a complete stranger who sweeps me off my
feet and convinces me to marry him after only knowing him a few days. However, this is not
to be. I, Rose Lewis Marina, will marry a man I will not choose; quite possibly one I will never
love for my heart belongs to another. I guess tonight I will see.
*****
A crowd has already formed around the levitating, metallic platform, where Alfonzo Mar-
quette stands at the podium ready with the several doctors and nursing aids who will inject the
pheromones into the people whose birthday falls during this week.
Though this is a common event, the crowd grows quickly as I start my walk up the metal
stairs connected to the ground that leads to the floating floor. A banner hangs down from it.
The words “Love is science,” were spread across the black sign in a reddish-pink hue. Aussie
Bolt and my name are displayed in white paint under the words. Both of us will be injected with
pheromones in the next hour. Grams stands near the front of the crowd along with my parents
and Aussie’s father. Today is our big day. They wouldn’t miss it for the world.
Aussie waits on stage behind Marquette and the doctors. “Hey,” he said, squeezing my
hand in greeting. “Hi,” I reply. His hand stays intertwined in mine.
Marquette begins the proceedings. “Now that our two sixteen year-olds are here, we can
begin the ceremony. As you all know, this is the thirty-seventh year of the injection process.
Every week, teens’ birthdays that fall during the week are given the pheromone injections, bind-
ing them to their life partner.” People in the crowd look impatient at the explanation Marquette
must provide every week. “It is my pleasure to be the proctor of this process for the past six
years in our county. It’s time to begin. Aussie Bolt, please come forward.”
Aussie holds onto my hand and looks in my eyes. “I love you,” he whispers. I answer
back with, “I love you too.” I don’t think anybody notices this little exchange, but as my eyes
travel from him to the crowd I see Grams frowning. Ever since childhood, Aussie and I have
been close friends. We celebrated birthdays together, discussed English essays, and worked
on boring history projects together, building a tight bond. I always thought that luck would run
in our favor and allow the pheromone injections to link us together. However, now I’m not so
sure. What if he gets caught in some older girl’s grasp? What if someone is waiting for him al-
ready? The worst scenario: what if the pheromones make us hate each other and ruin our love
and our friendship? I have no control in the matter and neither does he.
The doctors and nurses surround Aussie like a pack of wolves waiting for poor Bambi to
come trampling through the forest. Without a moment of hesitation, they pull his arm up and
inject the scientifically-engineered pheromones into his arm. I see him wince and take a step
back. Before I can see more of his reaction, Marquette is calling my name to step forward.
“Rosaline Havens.”
With one little prick in the arm, the process I’ve been dreading for the past year is over.
My life will be different now. The crowd stares at the stage, waiting to see how things will turn
out. Will Aussie and I fall for each other all over again? Will I bind with the creepy mid-thirties
guy who lost his wife last week? Will it not work at all?
All of these questions run through my mind as I take a step back to where Aussie should
be standing. Unfortunately he isn’t there any longer. I twirl around looking for his straight
brown hair. The crowd has dispersed, allowing a small space for Aussie to walk through. His
steps are slow, almost hesitant, yet they still have a purpose. I feel an ache in my heart as he
walks farther away from me. Why aren’t the pheromones making me love him less?
His hand extends out and caresses someone’s face. I can barely see her through the
crowd. Only her blonde locks of hair are visible. She steps closer to him and smiles. I re-
member the girl now. She’s in the grade above us. On her ceremony day, she didn’t bind with
anyone. Now I see the look in her eyes and now it’s how I look at Aussie. But the worst pain of
all comes when Aussie turns my way. He stares at this girl I don’t even know, he only met her
minutes ago.

Cornerstone 38
 When his eyes finally drift from her, he sees me and doesn’t even smile. Now his eyes are blank
as if he doesn’t even know me. Cold and Hard. Tears fill my eyes. I feel a pain in my chest and know it’s
my heart breaking in two. Please just kick in already, I tell the pheromones that must be circling through
my bloodstream now. Please just kick in.
It’s hopeless though. My eyes follow Aussie and the blonde girl as they walk away down the
cobblestone path leading to the garden outside the Revolutionaries’ offices. I watch as each step Aussie
takes puts another hole in my heart. He doesn’t even take another look back at the girl he told he loved
in the very same garden he now is walking to with another girl.
A lone tear falls down my cheek as he fades into the distance; my heart still aching for his touch. He will
never love me again. I fall on my knees in front of the crowd. The tears now pour down my cheeks. They
feel like the pheromones washing out of my system. They couldn’t have worked. I wouldn’t care for him
like I do now.
Marquette pauses and takes a step back. “Ummm. I guess the ceremony is over folks. I’ll see
you here next week.” He pushes a button on the podium that drops the levitating stage fall lightly to the
ground. After the press of another button, the banner with “Love is Science” ejects and lays limp on the
ground. Grams steps forward and embraces me. “It’s okay darling. Everything will be okay,” she whispers.
“You’ll find someone soon.” She pulls me up off the ground.
As the crowd dwindles, my mother and father stare at me as if I’m an alien. “You embarrassed us
falling down on the ground like that,” father says snidely. Mother just shakes her head at me.
Grams holds me closer. “Shush now. She is already upset. She doesn’t need your negative energy.”
My parents stare at me and then at Grams. “She’s right. I know today was a big deal,” mom
comes over and pats my head. “You just have to control your emotions better. The pheromones will kick
in. There is no need to cry.” Without any more words, my parents walk away leaving my grandmother
and me standing there. Everyone, including Marquette and the doctors, has already left.
“You loved him, didn’t you?” Grams asks.
I nod my head. “I still do.” With that, she squeezes me into a tighter hug.
As she tries to console me with her words, my thoughts travel back to Aussie as he walked away
without another thought. The pheromones worked so well on him and not me. Maybe it’s a gift I will
treasure one day, or quite possibly the injection might not work on me. If that’s the truth, then maybe, just
maybe, I’ll be able to change this; change the way people view love as a science. People should be free
to love who they want to.
I shake off the tears and the pain for the moment. My heart with new resolve soars high. This is a
secret gift. The world needs a change. I separate from grams with a quick thank you and a smile.
I start to lead her down the same path Aussie went down only minutes ago. No, I will not pity my-
self with what I have lost. No one should go through what I felt today. It’s wrong and cruel. I remember
wishing this morning that I could go back in time and fall in love like grams did; however, that kind of thing
is in the past. It’s time to make a new future.
Maybe love won’t be the same as it was many years ago, but it can’t stay this way. Love is not a
science. There shouldn’t be a trick or scientifically-engineered serum that designates who you will love.
Love is supposed to be magical and free. When someone takes that freedom away, you need to stand
up to whoever oppresses this magical wonder.
People have created this artificial love that binds people together, but I do not believe for one sec-
ond that this is real. My heart aching for Aussie is real. It is the truth. No artificially produced love could
ever create feelings I have. I am sixteen but I know this to be true. Hopefully one day soon, the world will
know too.

Cornerstone 39
 Acknowledgements
People (and inanimate objects) that we would like to thank…
Caitlyn Comm for naming the magazine…
All of the students who submitted, giving us over 200 (223!!!) entries…
The school computers for pulling through in the end…
Quills, for allowing writing to be done at any time, in any place…
Mrs. Knopf, our organizer, leader, informer, do-it-all-er, savior of the world…
Mr. Westerlund, our technology guru (And Mr. Wasteland, because we love Spell
Check)…
Mrs. Staines, for encouraging HEP students to submit their work.
The staff who dedicated both time and brain cells to put this all together…
And pietoast, for not forgetting to be awesome…
The English teachers and Art teachers, for encouraging students to submit their creative
works…
The Norse gods, because we must thank them or else be zapped into an alternate dimen-
sion where we will be stuck forever.
Mr. Preston, for an excellent job printing our magazine.

Staff

Kayla Ali
Jackie Anderson
Emily Anthony
Kyla Baer
Julia Begeman
Bryony Brown
Hope Buskirk
Emily Cackowski
Caitlyn Comm
Megan Fair
Tessa Fraicola
Doug Fuchs
Mara Globosky
Mirissa Lentz
Adam McConville
Katie McFadden
Kaylee Merkovsky
Lauren Miedel
Christen Ross
Mollie Sweeney
Alaina Ventura
Brooke Waugaman
Cornerstone Contributors
JC Abdallah (12) Michael Brooks (11)
Dolan Facchine (12) Doug Fuchs (11)
Brandon Farrell (12) Ethan Gower (11)
Megan Fawcett (12) Kailey Miller (11)
Aaron Gettemy (12) Brandon Yusko (11)
Emily Gregg (12) Helana Zimmerman (11)
Brittany Lynn Jones (12) Kayla Ali (10)
Kayla Lent (12) Emily Ann Cackowski (10)
David Liotta (12) Megan Fair (10)
Briana Martz (12) Darien Jeffries (10)
Cody Miller (12) Hannah Sofia Leszczynski (10)
T. J. Ohler (12) Kaylee Merkovsky (10)
Angela Petrosko (12) Andee Stynchula (10)
Bob Pokrzywa (12) Ryan Zidek (10)
Amy Jo Sarracino (12) Jaqualynn M. Anderson (9)
Morgan Stoner (12) Hope Buskirk (9)
John Tieh (12) Caitlyn Comm (9)
Justin Croushore (9)
Tessa Fraicola (9)
Marlee Grant (9)
Adam McConville (9)
Lauren Miedel (9)