The Bolles Bugle

Original Poetry

Su Ertekin-Taner, Creative Director June 7, 2021

I remember when we used to Cup our hands like spoons and weave our hair like weeds Plant apple seeds in the backyard and watch the supposed trees recede Cloth the new action figurines with our own...

I like to tell myself that my incessant fear of performing comes from the recitals I endured before
I even started attending school.

Realities of Now

Ian Peiris, Online Editor June 7, 2021

As a self-obsessed, youthful child, I feared change like a Californian living on the San Andreas fault. I feared the adolescent force my parents warned me not to become: the unremitting power of the developing...

My Dad and Me

My Dad and Me

Taylor Ford, Copy Editor June 7, 2021

My dad has a hard time expressing his feelings and helping others with their feelings. So going to him when I’m feeling down is not a thing I usually do. However, one time, my dad came to me and seemed...

I am rock climbing at summer camp in 2017 before sixth grade.

Summer Camp Blues

Sara Wasserman, Contributing Writer June 7, 2021

I've never viewed my experience with change as positive. Ever since I can remember, I've wanted things to stay a specific way, and when that way changes, sometimes I don't know where to turn. Whenever...

I watch a long-worn statue with a broken off hand, still peering over the
deat at a Savannah cemetery.

Praise the Mutilated World

Ava Sickler, Design Editor June 7, 2021

Praise the mutilated world. The world for all its faults and scars is a beautiful place— it has to be, for it is all we have. What does it mean to be broken, or wrecked? Nothing is perfect, untouched,...

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