Greystock Magazine vol 1 no 1 Nov 2014

VOL 1 — No. 1

NOVEMBER 2014

a division of Greystock News + MagazineChurch Farm School

1001 East Lincoln Highway (US 30)Exton, Pennsylvania 19341

FOR ALL INQUIRIES TO THE [email protected]

CONTACT THE [email protected] Kim ‘16

Executive Editor, Greystock News + Magazine - Edward Kim ‘16Editor-in-Chief, Greystock Magazine - Jeremy Shields ‘16

Faculty Advisor, Greystock News + Magazine - Mr. Robert WarfelCFS Marketing and Communications Manager - Ms. Stefanie Claypoole

STAFFMohammed Bappe ‘15

Muzhi Liu ‘16Mohammed Emun ‘17

Andrew Richards ‘17Alejandro Zuleta ‘17WanTierre Harris ‘18

Typefaces used: Proxima Nova, Adobe Garamond Pro, Garamond Premier Pro Dis-play, Museo Slab, Myriad Set Pro

Copyright © 2014 Church Farm School. All rights reserved. The works or opinions expressed in this periodical do not necessarily reflect the views of Church Farm

School, its faculty, staff, or administration, and are the sole, creative works of their authors. Reproduction, disribution, or alteration of this document without the

express consent of all necessary parties prohibited.

ContentsGrowl of the Griffin 08Muzhi Liu ‘16

The Words 10Matthew Hohn

CFS Icons Reimagined 13Stephen Zarycranski ‘16

Gone Girl Review 16Stefanie Claypoole

In 2045, What Has Become of CFS? 18Tristan Spivey ‘16

Chapel of the Atonement 19Edward Kim ‘16

Beowulf 20Duane Cardino ‘16

Untitled 21Brandon Bustamonte ‘17

At the Foot & Northern Lights 22Edward Kim ‘16

Nineteen 23Andrew Richards ‘17

Through the Doors 24Jeremy Shields ‘16

Sign 25Stephen Zarycranski ‘16

the

GROWLof the

GREYSTOCK MAGAZINE ISSUE ONEGRIFFIN

November 2014

When I first set foot on the Church Farm School campus in September 2011, I realized the need for publications that would allow the student body to express themselves creatively—through writing, art, video and other multimedia. Because students make themajority of our community population, it is essential that their talents and voices are heard.

With Mr. Warfel stepping in as the faculty advisor for both the Literary Magazine and Greystock News, we decided to try something different. In September, we brainstormed ideas of how to continue the two clubs. One of the biggest points made was that we are in a new generation where our talents no longer are limited to writing, but art, design, film, and other media as well.

Greystock Magazine is the product of our discussion. We have discontinued the Literary Magazine, which has had a variety of titles, and in its place, are beginning a new tradition. Greystock Magazine will be the one place for everything entertainment and culture. From traditional stories and poems to all new athletic highlight videos and movie reviews, it will all be here. As a division of Greystock News + Magazine, having a new magazine will also allow for the seamless connection between our two student periodicals.

Great things are coming. On behalf of our team, I hope you enjoy our inaugural issue of Greystock Magazine. The team behind it has done some extraordinary things, and I can’t wait to see how our magazine grows.

All yours,

Edward Kim ‘16 Executive Editor, Greystock News + Magazine

Jeremy Shields ‘16 Editor-in-Chief, Greystock Magazine

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Cover IllustrationGrowl of the GriffinMuzhi Liu ‘16

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The Wordsby Matthew Hohn, English Faculty

Thirty-one years ago I scoured the fresh and fertile land that gave inspiration and life to so many. Now, such land is gone and all that remains is a dilapidated sign that reads, “arm Scho.” I wondered where the others had gone—both people and letters—and why this place now smelled of debris and foliage.

“Welcome to Brazen Woods, sir!” said a woman stepping out from the shadows.

“Excuse me?” I snarled with disgust that surely conveyed my confusion.

“Welcome to Brazen Woods—the world’s first and most unashamed palace of inspira-tion.”

I had no idea what this woman wanted, and atop my apparent and outward frustrations, her attire was even testing my tolerance—a true indication of my unstable nature. I wanted so badly to inform her that the 1980s had come and gone with a sense of fashion that was con-sidered, even then, tacky and repulsive. Alas, I held my breath and closed my eyes, searching for some sort of redemptive fuel that would allow me to engage in a less provocative, more civil-minded manner.

I gathered myself, stood upright, and inquired, “Excuse my direct nature, but what has become of my beloved Church Farm School? And what—“ Before I could so much as utter my follow-up question, the woman of the woods shot a gesture my way that was so alarming even the squirrels ran for shelter. What happened next would alter the geograph-ic blueprint of what we had come to call Earth.

“NOW YOU’VE DONE IT!” she moaned, drawing the attention of her fellow forestry friends. I panicked, moving quickly in my mind’s eye but remaining stuck in actuality, unable to render any bodily movement.

“What’s going on?!?” I shrieked in disbelief. The abundance of trees began to sink into the surface of the planet and the sky presented an

ominous red hue.“You said the words,” she cried. And as

her lips moved I finally caught a glance of her narrow nameplate. Maybe this was my subconscious effort to grab onto someone or something while everything else was elusive and falling apart. The ground below us gave way to ceaseless shaking, convulsing, and general terror. I was skating so quickly to find some reprieve from the world that was now collapsing on all fronts—never had I seen or imagined such a scintillating scene of sorrow and sensation.

“Sir, are you awake? Can you tell me your name?”

I felt powerless and stunned after the fall—remembering only the rampant fear that moments ago had engulfed my being.

They began to uncover me from the ruins and remains of tree limbs, stone, and soot. For a moment we all witnessed the internal workings of our habitation, recognizing the sheer force and terror our planet was capable of conjuring. In ways, we were fortunate, but the devastation left in its wake made our next step clear: find others. Find some glimmer of hope.

I screamed for the woman with the elu-sive nameplate as they unearthed me, but she seemed to have disappeared as quickly as our recollection of what life had been like before the catastrophic event that placed us in our current predicament.

She was nowhere, but the people surround-ing me were in awe, as if I held some sort of glow that they were unexposed to until that point.

“Who is she?” one asked. The others stood back, placing trust in or at least relinquishing power to this barrel-chested man who held a small canteen, a rather large shotgun, and a booming voice.

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“I will repeat: who is she?” This time he seemed demanding—almost threatening.

“The woman …” I muttered. Waves of silence then hit the crowd.

“What did she look like?” he asked with thinning patience and a curiosity that suggested he might have known or at least seen her.

“She was tall, dark-skinned … uh, she wore a funny hat … you know, one of those with a fan inside its top to keep you cool.”

The group stood baffled. Some even dropped to their knees and cried silently. Others hugged, embracing what was left in the world we now reluctantly inhabited. There was a silent agreement reached in that mo-ment, and we proceeded, cautiously, together. I was unsure of the group, particularly the demanding man, but my options were less than appealing, so I continued to place one foot in front of the other.

I never did ask if they had known her—for some reason it just wouldn’t have felt right to do so when we had all been through so much.

We traveled for hours in search of anything, anyone, or in my case, any glimmer of the woman who still saturated my mind’s eye. She was so elusive despite the fact that I had seen her only hours ago. What became apparent was that few, if any other people, actually survived the great shattering of our previous world, and my mind raced uncontrollably as this thought expanded and repeated. The tall oaks that once lined the roadway leading to the 31-year-old broken, tattered, and half-missing sign still reading “arm Scho” were now nothing more than grand logs waiting to be utilized. And that is exactly what we did.

Our mothers would have been proud. Over a period of three years we built a new society—outlining roles, rules, systems, and procedures that stabilized our efforts, brought order to the chaos we experienced, and provided purpose for our existence. We did not anticipate the hardship of finding and preparing food. The local markets and restaurants had always done that for us. We did not recognize the challenges inherent to producing clean water—others had taken care of that. We left behind our jobs as bankers, teachers, lawyers, contractors, and so forth. We forgot our titles, rank, status, and pay. In short, we forgot and then discovered our new selves. We created new order, wrote new law, governed new territory, and spoke new stories. At the center of our time togeth-er were two things: struggle and love. The

new world we had developed nearly did not happen—we almost killed one another before we found and held one another. We nearly deceived each other before we believed in each other. We were selfish before we could be self-less. We were children before we knew better. And even when we learned, we still fought impulse and poor decisions—but we overcame our flaws together.

Now the structures we had built were sound and ready for something—though we were not sure what that would be; however, as we stood atop the vista overlooking the vast farmland, we simultaneously saw nothing and everything. We fell in love with this sight while at the same time feared its presence.

The man I once feared now passed his can-teen my way.

“Hell of a sight, isn’t it?” he murmured in awe.

Overjoyed and overwhelmed, I could only muster a cautiously optimistic smile. I thought: What now? Where will we take our vision?

Finally, amid the vast nothingness of our new world, I found time to consider the time and words that I had shared with the woman of the woods. As I stood powerless against the scenery we had purposefully created, my thought was interrupted.

“I found this just moments after the great collapse,” stated the once intimidating man that now stood as my friend. I took hold of the small, metallic object that he held out in front of the orange sun. It read the name I had wanted to see for so long: Hope. The narrow nameplate had rested in his presence for more than three years, and knowing this, I was instantaneously filled with anger, uncertainty, jubilation, closure, and other ineffable feelings. I stared solemnly at what remained of her—a rugged and trampled representation of her time served at Brazen Woods—and I tried my best to make sense of the situation. After what felt like only seconds, I looked forward. I was ready to confront the man that held onto my hope for so long, though I wasn’t sure what I would say.

As I finally pulled my head up from my compilation of emotions, the man and his crew, now our crew, proceeded to walk toward the sunset and away from my side, leaving me alone amid the great structures we had built together. Trying to say something—any-thing—I found no air in my lungs to assemble any words. I was in awe of the moment that I

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had anticipated for so long— I was unable to speak. Just then, as the sun dropped along the horizon, the man responsible for saving and perplexing me turned back my way one more time:

We knew who you were that day. We found a pamphlet in your belongings that outlined a blueprint of what was called “The Church Farm School.” We had no idea what this school was or what it meant to you, but as you were lying on that hot, barren ground, void of any family or assurance that life would be okay, we decided to help. I held onto the nameplate that matched the only word you seemed to know—Hope—and until today I did not know why. But why I held onto Hope for the past three years became quite obvious as we stood beside one another as brothers this morning: We needed each other as much as we needed any kind of hope—we were, we are, and will continue to provide hope for another, particu-larly in times of great peril. I pray that you can understand, or at least accept my decision to withhold what seemed so dear to you in a great moment of loss and confusion; however, I pray that you might also view our time together as fulfilling and redeeming. Now that we have rebuilt what once was, we hope that you can rest easily, holding onto Hope, quite literally, once again. Whoever she may be, she seems likely lost in flesh but remains in spirit—and her nameplate, simple as it may be, gave me strength to help recreate this special place. May you in time restore it to its original glory.

And with that he turned and continued following the crowd of unspoken yet caring friends and family. And as they passed over the hills in the distance that surpassed the naked eye, a fluttering of a female figure careened overtop those very same structures, unraveling closer and closer as it approached the place we had built. As she loomed I ran down the spiral staircase and met her at the entrance of our es-tablishment. We gazed intently at one another, seemingly studying every movement and won-dering if we had actually found the last person we had seen or spoken to prior to the demise of our former world. Then, with courage that rivaled only my fear, I stepped forward.

“Hope?”

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“The Words” by Mr. Matthew Hohn is a submission for

Greystock Magazine’s first writing prompt:

What will be of Church Farm School in the year 2045?

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CFS IconsReimagined

a photo essay series by Stephen Zarycranski ‘16

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Chapel Behind Bell Stephen Zarycranski ‘16

LeftChapel InteriorStephen Zarycranski ‘16

BottomChapel ExteriorStephen Zarycranski ‘16

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SilosStephen Zarycranski ‘16

Above CFS Griffin Stephen Zarycranski ‘16

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Copyright © 2014 20th Century Fox Pictures. All rights reserved.

G O N E G I R L

R E V I E WA Movie as Good as Its Source Material

by Stefanie Claypoole

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If you know anything about the plot of “Gone Girl” (book or movie, take your pick), then you might think it an odd choice for an eighth wedding anniversary date with my husband, Ed. Did Nick Dunne really murder his wife, Amy, on their fifth wedding anni-versary or was she just, like the title suggests, “gone?” This “he said/she said”-style story was a gripping dissection of the dissolution of a happy marriage when I read it two years ago, and surprisingly (this is rarely the case), it was as equally jarring when I saw it on the big screen recently.

The movie, like the book, isn’t perfect (the ending, in particular, may prove too open-end-ed for some), but it’s pretty darn close. If you’re a David Fincher fan, which I am—“Seven,” “Zodiac” “The Game” and “Fight Club” are all part of our home DVD collection—then you were likely as excited as I was to hear he was tapped for the adaptation of “Gone Girl.” The source material is dark with seriously twisted undertones, and Fincher is adept at walking that fine line between funny and revolting: see Helena Bonham Carter’s performance in “Fight Club.”

Beyond Fincher behind the camera and the book’s author, Gillian Flynn, adapting the screenplay, the casting for the film was also dead-on. Ben Affleck is generally hit or miss for me as an actor (as a director, I’ve been really impressed). He has this smug narcissism going on that is perfect for Nick Dunne: a man who met his fairy tale bride in New York City, only to have his writing career (and ultimately, marriage) come falling apart with the recession. Forced to move home to Missouri to care for his ailing mother and run a dive bar with his

sister, Nick’s life and love for his wife unravels quickly. How Amy, played perfectly by the beautiful yet elusive Rosamund Pike, spends her days while Nick is at the bar is a mystery (especially to her husband, which becomes clear early on in the police interrogation).

Amy, an only child, may seem perfect on the outside, but there are hints early on that her parents use of her name and likeness for their children’s book series, “Amazing Amy,” might have had some repercussions. “I can’t fail to notice that whenever I screw something up, Amy does it right,” she tells Nick early on in their relationship. Amy’s version of events is told in voiceover and through diary entries for the first half of the film, with the narrative following Nick’s increasingly unsuccessful attempts to prove his innocence to the police, Amy’s family and eventually, the entire country who has become fascinated with the case in the age of 24/7 news.

“Gone Girl” has an extremely strong supporting cast, and, as all great mysteries do, keeps you guessing the entire time. Of course having read the book, I knew what lay ahead at each turn, even though Fincher kept it feeling fresh and new. More exciting was watching my husband think he had everything figured out, and then being shocked, over and over, with every twist and turn the film took. Be fore-warned, this is a heavy film for anyone whose relationship with their spouse is on shaky ground. While “Gone Girl” is clearly a worst-case scenario, its commentary on the cracks that can form in even the soundest foundations when “for better or for worse” takes a turn for the worse, is very, very real. Grade: A

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In 2045, What Has Become of CFS?by Tristan Spivey ‘16

A light breeze scattered the dust of Terriane Section 248B67 while the usual wub-wub-wub sound of the model B27 Crates Ruff could be heard over the barren wasteland. The sound be-came louder and more frequent upon arrival at a hill called “the Inch.” Previously used by stu-dents of the past for hanging out or sledding, the Inch had turned into a run-of-the-mill bar that could barely compete with a burger shop in terms of product selection, but had some-how made itself popular in the eyes of the area’s ruffians—it was a small town hideaway, to give it a name.

In the eyes of a criminal, this was the perfect place to stash their goodies and keep low if they needed to. This was a persistent problem for the officers of Section 249C67, as their communities were constantly ransacked by the barbarians from 248B67, and being out of their district the officers were unable to touch them. And after the riots of 2038, the law in 248B67 had all but perished.

A young man stood outside the bar, sport-ing a generic polo with a griffin insignia over the left side of his chest. He had teal eyes and snow-white hair, but because he was cloaked in an unzipped hoodie, the rest of his face wasn’t completely visible. A hint of revenge and anger glinted in his eyes and sweat dripped down over his badge, which barely clung to his sleeve. On the badge, “249C67-487” glinted in the dull sunlight as he pushed open the door.

All the talking stopped in the room and the air seemed to sit still, only to be broken by the breath of the young man as he stepped closer and closer to the bar. His heart rate picked up and so did his respiration, but he eventu-ally arrived at the bar and ordered a glass of lemonade with extra ice and two bendy straws. The criminals mocked his order and broke out into a cacophony of laughter, some struggling to breathe, except for one man in the back,

who was too busy talking to himself to hear the young man’s comment.

“We ain’t got your lemonade here,” the bar-man lied while finishing his round of laughter. There was clearly a large batch of lemonade brewing in the back.

The boy cracked a twisted grin, spun around, and began to walk with heavy foot-steps to the largest group of men in the back, who were sitting at an exceptionally long an-tique table. A man with a tattered vest yelled at the young man, “We don’t need your business, Zxarkinian!”

The young man pulled off and almost ripped his hoodie with swift ease and screamed at the top of his lungs:

“I challenge you to a D-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-duuuuuueeeeel!” Then he whipped out a 45-card customized Blue-Eyes White Dragon Yu-Gi-Oh! deck.

His face showed that he had a long, light scar running under his right eye. His face was a soft tone of toasted beige, almost as if it were painted. But his features were soon blocked out by a chair that flew directly into his face. Determined, the young man threw his dueling disk, which is a portable board built for Yu-Gi-Oh! players, into the air, but instead of having it slide onto his arm the triangular disk’s elastic armband caught on a shard of wood sticking out of the rotting rafter. He stood looking straight up, dumbfounded, as his duel disk swung back and forth with an almost sarcastic range of motion. Even more laughter pursued. At that point the young man’s ego drove him out of the bar and back into the barren waste-land, with the mark of a large wooden chair across his face.

Tristan Spivey ‘16’s humorous submis-sion represents the

love of Japanese popular culture at Church Farm

School.

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RightChapel of the Atonement

Edward Kim ‘16

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Beowulfby Duane Cardino ‘16

The skies flashed with sharp lights as streaks of white and blue shot through them on that rainy day. A group of men were rushing up a mountain, trying to seek refuge in a temple that perched right atop the cliff. Among them were men of several trades and talents; each was a formidable warrior in his own right. The youngest and newest to the group was a man named Beowulf. He was a brutal fighter with great potential, but had yet to truly prove himself as an equal to the other men. Each one of them was pleased to see the temple in the midst of a storm, especially after what seemed like eons of travel. To their surprise, not a sin-gle soul was present to greet them at the gate. Their initial shock was compounded after they made their way through the entrance. They scoured the grand halls and the hidden prayer rooms and realized there were neither monks nor laymen present. In the sleeping area, there were signs of a struggle and stains of blood. This troubled the band of warriors, but the hardships of the day made the indoor luxuries irresistible.

A vulgar screech from Mannix broke the silence of night. At the base of his bed was a gruesome creature, gnawing on his feet. It had pale-brown vomit skin, razor sharp claws and talons, and a grisly set of fangs. The monstros-ity shrieked “Mother!” and dragged Mannix back with him to the shadows of the temple. The other warriors were at their feet, weapons drawn, but were not quick enough to save him. Beowulf was terrified. He had heard rumors from the last town they visited about an evil monster called Grendel lurking in a temple, but he did not share this with the rest of the group. For the next three days and nights the group reluctantly stayed in the temple, their only shelter from the unrelenting storm. Each night, Grendel would come to pluck and feed on another victim. On the fifth night, the seven remaining men decided that enough was enough and set up a trap for Grendel. Oldric,

the quickest, would be presented as bait while the others waited for the ambush.

An hour past midnight, the monster still had not shown. Exhaustion and weariness were taking their toll on the men. Then, as the hour was about to give, Grendel finally appeared and quickly slayed Oldric, who had not expected the monster to show so late. The warriors began to rush the beast, but Grendel was swift and managed to take out Godric without com-plication. Grendel anticipated the two warriors rushing at him from behind and made quick work of them.

The pandemonium finally ceased when Be-owulf mortally wounded Grendel. The creature managed to slip away into the lower parts of the temple, but the four remaining men gave chase. They eventually arrived at the lower part of the sanctuary, which contained a dungeon. Beowulf and the warriors had not yet ventured this far into the temple, but they rushed inside upon the discovery of countless human bones and skulls.

At the deepest depths of the dungeon, they found Grendel lying on the floor, dying from his wounds. However, a dark figure loomed over the choking body. Her demonic fea-tures emanated a macabre aura. The creature appeared horrified and angered at Grendel’s death, as if she were his mother. As fast as the lighting struck in the sky, she lashed out at the warriors. Her means of attack was brutal and relentless. She ripped the heart out of one man and sliced off the head of another. Around the neck of the third she maintained a firm, relentless grip, toying with him. This was Beowulf ’s chance. While she was distracted he took his sword and impaled it through her chest. She gave a blood-chilling wail, but not before she had squeezed the life out of the man in her grasp. The nightmare was finally over, but Beowulf stood alone. At the break of dawn, the slayer of evils departed the temple and went on his way.

Duane Cardino ‘16’s submission shows

the creative writing utilized in CFS’s English classes in conjunction with reading material.

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BothUntitledBrandon Bustamonte ‘17

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Above At the Foot Edward Kim ‘16

LeftNorthern LightsEdward Kim ‘16

NineteenAndrew Richards ‘17

This number is special to meit fills me with an abundance of glee

It represents prime and purityIt symbolizes passion and security

It keeps you from all dangerYet marks the final age that a person can be a teenager

The truth be saidIt is unique

May this be well readThat nineteen is sleek

Now to concludeThere shall be no feud

That as the frogs hop and birds flyI will always remember that number as life goes by.

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Each night I trudge up and down, up and down,Through the doors and back around,

Back around to nothing more than people and a bed.

I flip the switch, the lights go up,Through the doors I step.

Before me lies an altar,Behind I can’t assess,

Assess that which I’ve left behind,That which I’ve laid to rest.

All evening I pace up and down, up and down,Up the aisle, through the doors and back around.

And echoes sound from the ground below,From footfalls in the great chateau,

As the aisle gently grows,Grows from ceiling, toe to tip,

Ceiling rising, heightening, climbing,Reaching to the highest heights,Heights pervaded by the light,Light of switches, light of day,

Light of moonlight, all the same,Light that I can never reach,

Light that reaches down to me,Light that reflects from the golden cross,

A light that finds me, ever guides me,Through the doors and back around.

Atop the balcony my inhibitions mount anew,The voice within me screaming and the voice outside me mute.The former lacks constraint in these the confines of my mind,

The latter bound by inhibitions of a different kind,The kind that wrap around one’s ever shrinking will to sing,The kind that choke a voice ‘til words no longer can it bring.

But the pages of the hymnal sing the voices of the past,And the pages of my head intone the voices of the last.Suddenly I’m belting, voices ringing through the halls,

Resounding like the footfalls off the ground and off the walls,The voices of the hymnal meld with those behind my lips,

These voices I have ever heard and will hear yet again,Voices all in harmony, voices shouting key-to-key,

Voices in the perfect pitch, each so stunning, none remiss,Each solitary voice intoning one collective echoed bliss.

Through the DOORSby Jeremy Shields ‘16

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AboveSignStephen Zarycranski ‘16

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Thank youfor reading

GREYSTOCKMagazine

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Greystock Magazine Vol. 1 No. 1Copyright © 2014 Church Farm School. All rights reserved.

1001 East Lincoln Highway. Exton, PA 19341.

The works featured in Greystock Magazine are those of their respective authors and do not represent the opinions or views of Church Farm School, its staff, faculty,

and/or administration.