A Prisma Color drawing by Andrew Opila ‘09
Cover Design by Enzo Galicia ‘10
TABLE OF CONTENTS VISUALART 2 2 3 4 5 7 10 12 13 15 16
Andrew Opila ‘09 Nick DeSantiago ‘10 Chris S. McKenna ‘09 Sabi Megwa ‘09 Andrew Opila ‘09 Hayden Bennett ‘09 Andrew Opila ‘09 Joseph Dizon ‘09 Nick Gliemli ‘09 Sabi Megwa ‘09 Sabi Megwa ‘09
POETRY 1 3 4 6 7 9 14 14 15 18 20 21 23 30 31 32 33 35
Nathan Landreville ‘09 Michael Notestine ‘11 Michael Notestine ‘11 Hayden Bennett ‘09 Hayden Bennett ‘09 Sabi Megwa ‘09 Ryan Ricci ‘12 Ryan Ricci ‘12 Jordan Bohannon ‘12 Ted Unthank ‘09 Sabi Megwa ‘09
Alice’s Inquiry by Austin Tucker ‘11 e/0 by Ruben Favaro ‘09 Unc by Matthew Berkley ‘09 Bathrooms by Alex Barr ‘09 Me, the Rock by Christopher Rosales ‘11 The Hive by Nic Espinosa ‘11 Heart of the Beating Base by Jerasimos Moschonas ‘11 The Assembly Line by Jorge Franko ‘09 Young Father by Buwa Ijirigho ‘09 Little Boy by Michael Mirasola ‘09 Cleansing by John Graham ‘09 Slight Congestion on the Information Superhighway by Keith Bender ‘11 Firebird by Eric Villanueva ‘11 Inside by Chris Perkins ‘11 Fires of Dresden by Nick McKee ‘09 Wake Up by Bryce Muzzy ‘10 Snow Princess by Victor Cervantes ‘09 Epidemic by Anthony Carli ‘10
NON - FICTION 11
18 19 20 22 24 27 29 31 33 35 BC
Unlike the Messiah by Tarek Firzli ‘09
FICTION 25
Sibling Royalty and the Tale of “Streaking” Seven by Jack Anger ‘09
A Prisma Color drawing by Andrew Opila ‘09
A l i c e‘s Inquiry by Austin Tucker ‘11 Life as wonderfully insane as Wonderland, colorfully collaborated into a curiouser dream. Insomnia as peculiar as the un-birthdays at hand; an elegant enemy aerating through mental esteem. Disappearing smiles of an amatory Cheshire Cat obsessively berating informality in vernacular. Simple curiosities that are tackled, re-shackled, and re-vat, twelve second bursts we elucidate as spectacular. A caterpillar adorned in a haze of smoke and color, “Who are you?” he asks incisively. My answers are merely questions of the obscure; avoid clear answers to abate reality. Alice and I stuck at the fork in the road. The same person, “Which road do I take?” “Where you want to go, you two do not know, therefore it can’t matter the decision you make.” Believing six impossible things before breakfast, today to contemplate the beautiful. She walked through a door to get into the garden; I walk to your heart to get out through the Arden.
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Barbed Wire by Nick DeSantiago ‘10
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e/0
now im lost he cries now im lost again he cries by Ruben Favaro ‘09 sixteen(ths) or seventeen(ths) (watt/what)(s) difference (who) (does) it make(s) (with) the air around (h)im the (atmo)sphere ablaze (re)defining (or at least trying to) that which allows him to (conquer/create) un(defined)( )real(ity) (t)his (is) chaos (incarnate) engulfing (h)im now ((n)on(e)) existent now im lost he cries now im lost again he cries
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A Prisma Color drawing by Chris S. McKenna ‘09
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Unc
by Matthew Berkley ‘09
Don’t look at his broken battered teeth Yellow and red gums that scream mercy
Don’t think of the jails he’s been in and out of Or the house he’s never had or the internet he’s never surfed Try to see him as the man with a smile that lit up the room Or as the man that took his sister’s son to the courts Think of him as the man who took care of his baby sister When their parents died Who sees the world at my fingertips and urges me to take it With passion and pride That makes the sweetest red drink I know And needs a smoke to clear his mind in the middle of the night
A pencil drawing by Sabi Megwa ‘09 4
A Prisma Color drawing by Andrew Opila ‘09
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I’ve had more collective and beautiful moments in bathrooms, post shower lay-abouts than the concept of god, making me happy.
bathrooms. it’s ironic to think that in such a place with a unconstructive opinions could possess more minutes of my time than my own heart, in such a place where we wash, we clean, we hide. wash. clean. hide. re-invent. I sit here with spotlights in my eyes and a towel on my hip vulnerable. like shoe polish on an overstocked shelf hoping to make life better. my mind is distraught, flustered, disturbed, hysterical, troubled, distressed, anxious, unhappy, forlorn, forsaken, forgiven —forgotten.
Bathrooms
I am my only friend willing to give everything I’ve ever wanted by substituting it for everything I’ve ever been.
by Alex Barr ‘09
a face that has not been through much, an amateur to the world Mark Twain and Jack London. but I can collaborate words into counterfeit wisdom.
my heart stretches from the outer banks of my overstocked medicine cabinet to the countless thoughts of worship and love to every being in my life. I cannot deny the fact that I am—flawed because if he is love, then he is obviously as fouled up as I am. I’ve served countless years serving at my expense, proclaiming promise rings as excuses. but I will not despair and I will not let down because cracked mirrors and wet towels, still mean something to me. these moments, are the only things in my life that come free. salvation has put me into obligation. hopeless romanticism, is for those who are fragile and life—starts from moments like these.
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A photograph by Hayden Bennett ‘09
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The life of mine as a slingshot A sling shot my parents wield. Protecting me from life itself, Guarding me like a shield. It gets harder to hold me back; They pull and strengthen their grip. Pulling, pulling, pulling even tighter. But soon their clasp will slip. They try to resist release; Won’t let go of their youngest stone. They fear what’s out in the world Don’t want to launch me into the unknown. After pleading to loosen up, They begin to ease the hold. Yet still afraid of conditions Fearing heat, fearing cold. Letting things like weather Keep me from living life. Forgetting they’re launching a rock A strong weapon like a knife. They start to understand As I explain that they should let go. By gradually releasing the rock It will fire out nice and slow. The harder they pull on the slingshot, The faster the rock will fling away. By propelling me out slowly, I can fly into life day by day.
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The
Hive. . .. . .. . . .. . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . .. Eve r I am y mor n A d a stud ing I w ron e; th ent, I a ake u p an m ew dI ork go t er b ow ee o ork f th . eH ive
by Nic Espinosa ‘11
. usiness , erness public my b d il w e e in th plays to the ot a be is I am n l hive that d rm bees; a fa r eds e u t e a b An my ne o those t f s o r e e t n ca I am o e that ate hiv ! A priv e I go o owledg ut For Kn So bor and sit in e in v But it g, so mono ery flower; is my tonou job, I s A full am ti Gathe me student ri . From ng the Kno wledg the m any d e I go to iffe a And w t least six fl rent flower s; o h It take en I skip o wers a day ne s note , Of my absen ce
ueen, ’s; like a q her name: l o o aight A h c My s and str do in , s I r , la o u d I ic Things ts, extra-curr or p s y la P e ; gs don r fame All thin … I mean he f For my s day in, rk o w e h out, S bees rks day f those other es; o w u o She colleag e more To mak my peers and ees… b re rophy Who a ch of B n u b a Just
Oh man! Don’t I hate those other bees! That rival hive just down the street! It’s not that I have anything against them personally, Just that their chemical signature makes me act wild and crazily!
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fly not d l u sho I?” s I idn’t g n wi y d ttle roph i l B y h m t into t i w I go “ say ey eply, h T st r I ju
Born to collect but Also born to make; I collect the pollen And then what do I make? Honey: They tell me this is crazy for a bee But someday I might leave for another hive, another queen. And when I do, all that knowledge that I’ve gathered for the natural bee life span of four+ years (college and grad school!) Will be made into honey.
I solemnly sw ear to contribu te To society afte r all my bee-es que Espionage! To spread my hone y around The world for others to enjo y. A doctor, A plastic surgeo n, a grocery st ore cashier; Wherever I re side my honey will be at my si These societal de. contributions, A bee’s daily ab lutions, to get all that Pollen off that turns into the, Honey
A pencil/Prisma Color drawing by Andrew Opila ‘09
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Unlike
by Tarek Firzli ‘09
For me, a new chapter started when I was sold to the String Shop of Arizona, where I lay for I am not sure how longtime is hard to keep track of in a drawer. This process was not new to me, in fact, from when I was made by Thomas Fawick and a few other specialists that created the different parts in Europe in 1955 , I have changed partners many times, my last one just decided to move up to a ‘better’ violin, so now again I find myself gathering dust in a drawer... About a year ago my violin teacher told me that I needed to get a new violin! He said the price range should be 10001500 dollars, so I worked it out with my parents that I would pay 550 of that with money from my own account and they would pay off the rest as an early birthday gift (my only birthday gift).
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The first time I went there with my mom, we drove right past the secluded little shop, and had to turn around and approach from a different direction. It was difficult to get to because it was the corner shop on the intersection, and the entrance was only a few feet from the crosswalk. Once we got to the front, where there were only about four parking spots, I realized that the place looked like it was a house before it became a string shop. I walked inside with my cheap 2005 Yamaha Violin and I instantly loved the place. It was full of interesting and rare violin making books, ones that you definitely couldn’t get from Amazon, and had a room to the right, directly after I walked in, that was filled to the brim with stringed instruments, so much that I didn’t want to move too much for fear of knocking something over. The man who probably owned the shop was a balding, whitehaired figure, with thick black-rimmed glasses. He wore a denim shirt and regular khaki pants. But how he walked and moved around the instruments made it abundantly clear to me that he knew them. He had fixed them, played them and possibly made them. He knew how to handle them but he was not careful with them, as if he knew the exact amount of stress they could take before they broke.
the
Violinists are married to their instruments. I read this in the book by Tony Faber called Stradivari’s Genius telling the story of six of the master’s instruments, and all who had played them. He told them as if the violin itself had a soul and memories, as if it remembered all of its experiences, and humans were but a fleeting footnote to the immortality of a well-kept instrument. Being a violinist, I somewhat understood what he meant. He is telling us of the sentimentality attached to the works of art and music, like an object passed on as an heirloom but with some tinge of individuality that comes from the dissimilarity of the scroll, or the chipped varnish, or minute mistakes in the purfling. In a way, that violin whose varnish is chipped and whose scroll is not perfect is the one that I want, and what I wanted when I bought my violin, because unlike the flawless Messiah Stradivarius, there is a story behind each individuality, or flaw.
While I had seen some nice instruments on SharMusic.com, my teacher said not to go to the Internet because I could not try out the instrument, could not feel the instruments in my hands and choose based on all the aspects of the instrument, so instead he recommended going to the String Shop of Arizona.
I told him what I was looking for. He barely responded, a man not made for frilly words, he directed me to a back practice room. As he walked away I had full trust that he would find the 11
best match for me. On the way to the room, I passed his work room and was astounded, it was full of the most unfamiliar tools but the most familiar instruments scattered about, there were some small oval-shaped pieces of metal, many hand made clamps, some chisels that were curved at the tip and some I cannot describe. I quickly realized that the disorganization was not of the fool who doesn’t know what he is doing, but of the expert who knows too well.
think it is. By now we have been together for about a year and a few months, and in that time we went from being 7th chair second violin in our orchestra as a junior to being 7th chair first violin now in senior year, which is 8 chairs up. I have played a lot of music, though not near as much as she, who is 54 to my 18. Since I bought her, I have fallen in love with the instrument and the music, gone to lessons and learned many new skills and techniques with her and with her I feel like it would be wrong to not play each day... but my skill still pales to the calm, cold skill of Heifetz, to the devilishly fast techniques of Paganini, or to the passionate playing of Elizabeth Pitcairn. Though each may have, or had a Stradivarius, I don’t
Messiah It was only fate that the old man picked me up from my drawer, and only fate that the boy needed fate needed a violin that matched my price tag. To be honest, he wasn’t that good at playing until I got there. But I must admit I was glad when he said that he liked me the best and though he wanted to take me and that Stradivarius copy that was 2000 dollars, home to try, he had all but made up his mind on me, and I think we both knew. He took me to meet his teacher, named Victor, he was short compared to Tarek, had slightly graying hair, and tan skin that was not young, but not yet wrinkled. His eyes however were so kind, and when he smiled it was a true smile. The teacher told Tarek to go into another room and played both of us, then asked Tarek which one he thought was better, Tarek picked me, and Victor agreed. The teacher told him to take the deal while the boy could, because I was worth at least 3000 dollars if not 4000, and he also flattered me by saying that I was better than his own violin. It is always a great day when you know that you will finally find a partner again, and in the back of my mind that day, I wondered whether it would be a good match. I must say that I owe my violin with much of my success. I feel that we connect very well, and that is more important than a non-musician would
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A painting by Joseph Dizon ‘09 12
believe that is what makes one able to be great, nor is it the price of the instrument that matters, for if it was, I would never have found the perfect instrument for me, who I would not trade for a Stradivarius. It is about the right instrument for each person; because whether one calls it a marriage or whether one has some stupid scientific reason, there is no doubt that there is something between an instrument and player.
As for me? Well, he may indeed sell me, or he may keep me till the day he dies. A child of his may take me if they do play violin or he may give me to an aspiring young violinist he meets. Eventually, however, the saga of me, the Fawick violin, and the Violinist named Tarek will come to a close and I will find myself gathering dust in an attic or shop somewhere waiting for another chapter in my story to begin with someone else, but I will never forget all who came before.
A print by Nick Gliemli ‘09
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Heart of the Beating Base by Jerasimos Moschonas ‘11 Theodoros by name I go Black and white morality On a white space it flows But with lyrics soothes to grey With words like sweet risogalo Poured across the page It’s value worth more than any euro This music is seen in every age My life is timed by speed By second and minute Often I feel I do not lead Though I will not admit it Each note a happy moment Each bar about ten years With each Tri-tone a torment With each minor, tears I play all instruments And choose to include all They are cousins of Mozart’s No one too big, too small Personality in the melody And mind within the treble I know comedy and tragedy Crescendo, a bit of rebel I saw Giovanni die I saw Figaro wed I watched Tamino sigh I created Don José’s dread
The Assembly Line by Jorge Franco ‘09 The realization The habitual motion The assembly line Showers are taken Showers maybe not taken Cloth applied to skin Chewing and drinking Sure it is necessary Forgotten meaning Heart drops and screams start Sickening realization Children are awake Your life is now theirs Significance remembered
My music is forever this That solar slight of skill To feel the behooving bliss This is the space I fill 14
l l u f , o r f A
Pencil drawing by Sabi Megwa ‘09
YOUNG by Buwa Ijirigho ‘09
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FATHER
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n g r o w
ttoms ell bo b d form shoes d a n est and plat ch y b e a r ir ha , t hir l-c u f f e d s ckground Silk, bel Technicolor ba a ith w e m ds ar w to ng Strolli othed s identically cl With five friend k AM on the cloc flattened, 4:58 o ‘fr d, le ng ta Beard bag d spikes, duffel w Track pants an tside the windo ou n oo ar m sh di ud m Green and e Time for practic a blur here, room in here Bodies everyw perfect ‘fro sp s, se as gl e in w h, ot bo r Circula burns and chop side ttoms Aviator shades creased bell bo n, ow br t, ir sh l g woman’s hip ne Tan, silk flan ed over a youn ld fo ly ft so d lly an Arm strategica eek, lucid grin ch r he at g Gazin rs A smirk on he eek bones ffs and high ch pu ro Pig tail af othing smile d a smooth, so Glossy skin an m protruding Dainty r rounded boso he ith w se ou the foreground Low cut bl ally clothed in tic en id s nd ie Five fr
te track outfit ckground Green and whi aroon in the ba m sh di ud m d Green an sky d towards the Arms stretche the waist Tape ripping at ile, closed eyes sm er tt cu CookieA pencil drawing by Sabi Megwa ‘09 Determination
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le Litt y by Bo Mi ira
M ael ch la so 9 ‘0
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He wakes in the morning Gradually He ties his shoes, double knot. Frosted Flakes hit the spot. He catches the bus as most of them do, His grandma screams “how much you grew!” TV makes him laugh and school makes him bored. Sunday after Sunday, praising the Lord. He knows what he ought Thanks to his mom who taught Of patience and courtesy Even when you become distraught Always say please, even if You don’t really want it Always say thank you When you really could Have done without it His mom makes him dinner and breakfast, and lunch; savoring and appreciating each and every munch. He’s tucked into bed after a hard day at work. but even in his slumber: you can see his little boy quirks.
A photograph by Nathan Landreville ‘09 18
Cleansing by John Graham ‘09
He sits alone in front of me His curly hair askew Locks of an angel who is lost Within the underworld. His fingers small and fine Shine with glossless purity But are covered by the sins Of his actions. The only cleansing within his soul Are the salty drops of sadness that Fall from his eyes. His eyes are the color of diamonds, Vibrant and colorful spectra of light Standing out from the murky coat of mud, Piercing pupils of beauty within A filthy fortress of fear.
“I am putrid father, and I want to be cleansed.” His faithless cry for freedom Brings my ear to hear This youth of life, shrouded by death, Repenting his horrid actions And comes to faith for love and joy That only a pure man can have. So down comes water, a rainbow Of cold repentance, striking His shameful shoulders. Away the darkness goes, To reveal a cherub among children, A fairy in a realm of demons, Hope within Pandora’s Box. “I am cleansed, and never again putrid.”
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A photograph by Michael Notestine ‘11 19
A photograph by Michael Notestine ‘11
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Slight Congestion
the Information on
Superhighway Superhigh
by Keith Bender ‘11
Good morning Phoenix And here’s the traffic report Not so much of my forte But hey here it is anyway
This is KHBN with live on-demand breaking news Making news the most painstaking news is forsaking you, Take and choose the news that bemuses you Abuses you and confuses you.
Log on at the dot com because it’s a shame to miss, Feeling out of the loop is painful abyss, I’m your anchorman cameraman weatherman On your walkman calling the traffic jams.
Microphone to my face think I need Some living space but no cause I’m covering the senate race So tell me is your knowledge base aligned with the human race And are you content to concede, mislead, never proceed?
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O
My thoughts inside rage like such But I always know they’re a bit too much, Can’t stand to shock the audience, the director, the nation Translation: the revelation of my motivation proclamation and rumination Would result in my direct deactivation, Not quite emancipation but a deteriorating situation.
Telecast simulcast and unsurpassed. Every day I’m aghast at the opinions I’ve amassed Not only amassed but displayed disseminated and relayed. Media is my medium, ad tedium.
A photograph by Hayden Bennett ‘09
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Firebird
by Eric Villanueva ‘11 I come of avian heritage Ablaze! Head to toe of golden and scarlet plumage. Flying, moon in-tow, on counseling faces from comforting places. I go, go, go infinitely.
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And I go, go, go… Mystical, Mythical, both which I am Healing tears Helping men from jams Heaving wisdom to he who hears For what? Alone (for centuries) until bone. I go, go, go infinitely.
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Bennett ‘09
And I go, go, go… Building a pyre Trying to be the expected proper noun Reborn through bursting into fire To conform my life around standards of a silly town. I go, go, go infinitely.
Envoi Ashes to Ashes And dust to dust Giving myself to others got me stuck in this rut.
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Sibling Royalty and the Tale of by Jack Anger ‘09 See that kid over there by the punch bowl? No, not the good looking one, the 6’2 skinny nerd standing next to him. Yeah, the one with the sandy blonde hair that looks like he stuck a bowl over his head and cut the hair sticking out. The one with the oversized plaid suit that looks like a bunch of colorful squares and lines thrown together to make a huge mess of the 70’s. And what is with that red bow tie? It’s like a stop sign in the middle of an intersection that doesn’t belong. His goofy looking face is sprinkled with freckles that make it almost as red as his bow tie. His oversized ears and two buck teeth compliment the mess that is “Streaking” Steven. Now back to the handsome looking kid, the one talking to “Streaking” Steven. The 5’11 muscular kid whose hair is long and brown and falls to the right of his face covering half of his right eye. He is wearing a sleek black shirt and a black suit. The silver tie connects with his shirt to his brown eyes. He has the most perfect tan in school even better than all the girls. Man, he looks good. Hey I’m Greg, and that handsome kid is me, the most popular kid in school. Right now in this very moment however, I wish I was “Streaking” Steven. “So wait, you’re telling me that you are here with your freshman sister?” Steven says. “Yeah, you got a problem with that?” I respond Steven starts to walk away with a smirk across his face. He turns. “Well it’s Senior Prom and you’re with a freshman, who’s your sister...That’s gross.”
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“Streaking” Steven
He keeps on walking away as I yell after him. “Remind me to shove you into a locker on Monday.” He waves his hand into the air without turning around and disappears into the cluster of people dancing. I remember the first time I met Steven. I was six, such a good looking happy boy and I was playing kickball on the playground. Then the goofiest looking kid whose hair looks like a helmet walked into my life. “Hey I’m Steven! Can I play?” I didn’t give much though to it, “Sure you can be on my team.” That was a mistake. There were so many kids playing that day that Steven didn’t get to kick the ball until the last inning. There were runners on first and third with two outs and we were losing and it was Steven’s turn to kick. Slowly the ball rolled down toward the plate, and Steven swung his leg back and kicked it as hard as he could. It was actually a nice kick. It sailed into right field and I started to cheer. I was so proud of him. Then I noticed no one was running to first. I looked down and Steven was on the ground. “My foot, my foot, ouchie!” “RUN!” By that time the other time had grabbed the ball ran over to Steven and threw it at the helpless kid on the ground. He was out. I was so mad when the teacher blew the whistle to go inside to learn. My team had lost. “Here Steven, I’ll take you to the nurse.” I pulled him up from the ground and started to walk behind him, planning my payback. I made sure everyone was watching and that’s when 25
I did it. I grabbed onto his pants and pulled. They fell down to his ankles and his underwear with teddy bears was showing. Everyone started laughing and the lost game left my mind. I was in control now and it felt good. Or how about fourth grade with Steven? This time I was older and I was stronger. We were playing basketball and I was on a roll. I had been fouled so I stepped to the free throw line to take my two free shots. I take my first one. “Swoosh,” it goes in. I get the ball back to take my second shot and I begin to concentrate. I focus on the rim and the backboard lining up my shot. I am about to shoot when I hear, “Swoosh, Swoosh, Wee!” This wasn’t the sound of my ball going in the hoop. It was Steven on the sidelines playing with some stupid action figure trying to make it fly. “Swoosh.” “Hey Steven shut up.” I call over. He is silent but his sounds stick in my head. “Swoosh, Swoosh, Wee!” I missed my shot and I stepped off of the court. I got behind Steven and I pulled again. This time everything came down. “Hey everyone look, its ‘Streaking’ Steven!” The stampede of laughter made me strong again. Steven got what he deserved. I wonder if this is how it feels to be Steven when I make fun of him? I wonder if he feels like the kid alone at the punch bowl on his Senior Prom while everyone else is dancing in their hundred dollar dresses and their flawless suits. The joy on their faces as they flock around the speakers in the middle of the room, like they used to flock around me, is killing me. Why can’t I be like them right now? I want to move my hips to the directions given by the music being handled to perfection by the DJ on stage. I want to look up at the balloons and streamers painting the ceiling and think of how great this night is. I want to
smell the perfume of a girl that I could be here with and that I want to be here with as I hold her close and trap in the moment. I could have all of this if it weren’t for my prom devil, and her she comes now disturbing the grace of the dancers while disturbing my reputation at the same time. “Greg, Greg, Greg!” Everything about her makes me cringe. Her stupid frizzy auburn hair tied into a blob atop of her head. The forty year old white, stained, and oversized dress that my mom wore to her prom. The caked on makeup that she is wearing makes her look like a clown and the train tracks that are running across her teeth don’t help her at all. How is this girl my sister? “What,” I respond. “Please, please pleassssse can we dance now?” “No, I’m not dancing with you. I told you that. It’s bad enough you’re here as my date, I’m not going to make it worse.” “Greg, you should take your sister Lulu to prom as your date.” “Good joke, Mom.” “I’m serious. It would mean so much to me and your father to see you two all dressed up together having fun.” “No.” “Well seeing as that other girl turned you down and you don’t have a date, I’m not giving you a choice.” “You can’t do that to me!” “I can and I will, conversation over.” “Jeez, someone has an attitude problem. You better get that checked out or I’m not going to dance with you.” Lulu responds. “I don’t want to dance with you! You are my sister! Now go away!” She crosses her arms and puffs out her lips. “Fine be that way but by the end of the night you are going to dance with me.” Continued on next page 26
I think I’m going to kill myself by the end of the night. She walks away straight legged pounding the ground with each step. She walks by Madeline, the most beautiful girl in school. It was the moment of truth, two weeks before prom. I had it all planned out. I was going to sweep in unexpectedly with a dozen roses and ask Madeline to prom. She was standing by her locker putting on some lip gloss in her locker mirror. She was looking so good that day. Her blonde hair was straight, and it flowed over her pink tank top that was hugging her tan body. Her tan body. Her legs were long and sleek only covered halfway down her thigh by her white skirt. This was going to be so great. I grabbed the roses from my locker and briskly started to walk to her direction where my focus was set in stone. “Hey Greg guess what!” It was “Streaking” Steven. He had managed to wedge himself in between me and my path to Madeline. “I don’t care.” “I got an A on my AP Chemistry test!” “Once again, I DO NOT care, now move.” I tried to push him away but he was determined to tell me about his stupid test. At that moment out of the corner of my eye I saw my friend Carter walk up to Madeline and he started talking to her. She was smiling and giggling at his jokes. What was he doing? I interrupted Steven during his exposition of protons and neutrons and I said, “Why do you think we are
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friends?” “Cause we are. I know you make fun of me because you like me.” “Riiiiiight,” I said as I chuckled. All of the sudden Madeline screamed and threw her arms around Carter. He then came running to me and shoved Steven out of the way. “Move it Streaker. Hey dude, could I borrow those.” Before I knew it he snatched my roses out of my hands and gave them to Madeline. She screamed once again and gave him another huge hug. “Looks like they are going to Prom together,” said Steven as he picked himself off the floor. “You better keep a firm hold on those pants of yours,” I said. “Okay boys and girls it’s time to announce your Prom’s King and Queen,” the DJ announced over the microphone. This is my chance. The King and Queen get to share the last dance of the night together in front of everyone. Maybe I will get chosen and Madeline will get chosen too. There is still hope for us yet. Maybe this night will not end so terrible after all. “Would the following students please meet me at the center of the dance floor to accept their crowns and share the last dance.” Please be me. Please be Madeline. Please. “Greg Harrison, come on down!” Yes! I am Prom King, time to get my crown. Why is everyone silent but smiling? Shouldn’t they be clapping and cheering me on? I’m the Prom King, the most popular kid in school, give me
A digital illustration by Sabi Megwa ‘09 27
some props. “Here’s your crown kid. Are you ready to hear who the lucky lady is who you get to share your last dance with?” The DJ asks. “I think I know who it is going to be.” “Well good, and the Prom Queen is… Lulu Harrison!” Really? Honestly? My sister? This night sucks. “Why do you two have the same last name?” The DJ asks covering the microphone. “She’s my sister.” “Ah, dude that’s gross.” Now everyone starts clapping and laughing. I get it, another sick joke to top my night. Lulu accepts her crown and the music starts playing. Everyone circles around us as Lulu whispers in my ear. “I told you we would dance by the end of the night.” We start dancing as the song “Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey fills the air. “Just a small town girl.” I look around and everyone is laughing but the embarrassment makes me deaf and I cannot hear them. A kid is rolling on the ground holding his stomach as a popped balloon floats from the ceiling and lands next to him. Another one is pointing at me and covering up his mouth. Is that my Biology teacher? Awesome, he’s joining in on my execution. “Just a city boy.” The crown is digging into my head. I hate this crown, a symbol of my shame. There’s Madeline, the girl I should be dancing with laughing with the rest, holding my friend Carter’s hand who is laughing too. “Don’t stop believing.” Lulu leans in closer and I feel the grip on my left hand tighten. I feel her hips moving with my right hand, getting dirtier by the second with disgrace. She leans her head against my chest and the smell of my mom’s perfume haunts my
nostrils. I can taste it in my mouth. “Stop!” I whisper. “C’mon big bro, just go with the flow, you’re not dancing very well.” I need to find the rope when I get home. I can’t live anymore after this. The last chord lasts a lifetime until the music finally stops. My ears open up again and the sound of laughter rushes in. “Let’s get the hell out of here.” I tell Lulu. “No I want to stay and talk to people,” she says. I grab her by the arm, “No we are leaving now!” As we walk out we pass by the last person I want to see, “Streaking” Steven. He has the biggest smile on his face. He finally has something to hold against me. All those years I had pulled down his pants have finally caught up to me. He waits for us to pass and he turns, “Losers.” Normally, I would have run back and punched him in the face but I couldn’t do it this time. I continue to walk with my head down and the queen of my troubles at my side. I’m almost at the door, almost done with this night. Lulu turns to me, “Greg.” “What do you want?” “I forgot something can I go back and get it” “Hurry up I need to get out of here.” She turns and runs back to the crowd. She gets behind Steven and taps him on the shoulder. “Excuse me? Steven?” He turns around and instantly she seizes the sides of his pants and pulls them down. “It’s ‘Streaking’ Steven!” She runs back to me as the crowd howls with laughter and pointing. I feel a strange sense of pride for this girl who had caused me so much trouble and I put my arm around her. “Ya’ know sis’, you ain’t half bad.” 28
A photograph by Ryan Ricci ‘10
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by Chris Perkins ‘11 A man stares at the city Looks at the people that pass He becomes frustrated And starts to laugh
In the city There is one man Who can defeat the monster But at the cost of his own hand
The monster comes from within The city cannot react Before the people know it They have been attacked
In the end the man realizes To tame the monster inside He must look into himself And ďŹ nd true happiness that coincides
It haunts the streets Looking for the next one To devour the soul As well as feed upon The monster grows It seems certain not to be stopped With each aching hour Another piece of the city has dropped
insi ddee 30
FIRES OF DRESDEN
by Nick McKee ‘09
The Firestorm has just begun the city has burst in flames my dream is not to lose you just yet I want to live, I want to breathe I run through fire, blood, shrapnel, and debris Not even God could keep you from me Hell has become the place as the air raid horns start to raise your face is hidden in a crawl space I pull you out stuck between your sister and brother
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only to see your face covered in dried grout Face to face we have arrived the face I have kissed so many times it seems you look past my blistered eyes We’ve burst in flames The storm is here No goodbye my love, my hair inflamed We were born in Dresden but now you see You will die in Dresden, here with me
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WAKE UP by Bryce Muzzy ‘10 Wake Up America, land of the free Home of the brave Am I really free when others choose what me I should be? As we follow a knave, Cunning words wrap around us, Pleasing our ears. Yet as we fail to listen, they squeeze round us Stripping our freedoms by playing with our fears. An erupting of cheer As we the people Elect a new leader, just a grand puppeteer, To protect us and shelter us from the devils and demons Like truth and pain and choice and reason. They hide their agenda, yet people are talking. How do we not hear? Are we too busy tucking Our heads from the phantoms we fear? No need to look behind the curtain; Everything is fine. There is one thing for certain All will be clear in time. What can we do To the hand that feeds us? Keeping us afraid While their pawns move. Behind the scenes they plot and scheme For one more way to keep us in chains. Are we really that frightened That we trade freedom for shackles In order to feel the safety a sheep feels Walking to slaughter? It is in these times that I look to the horizon Thinking about all the lies we have submitted to Because the leaders are looking out for us sheep That I wonder, where do all these Brave Americans sleep?
A photograph by Ryan Ricci ‘12 32
Yes!! I HATE HER
At age 7, I realized that mother gave birth to a beautiful girl Girl born December 24th, December 24th, Santa had come early Early, too early in the night Night that was cold and dire At age 7, I realized that mother left Left behind an AIDS child Child that was beautiful Beautiful with angel-like features Features that led me to her lovable core Yes!! I HATE HER
I despise her I am repulsed by MY MOTHER for just leavingleavingleavingleaving What you want me to tell you is that we’re gonna to be just fine What you want me to tell you is that my Snow Princess is gonna to be just fine Mother left when we weren’t looking My Snow Princess got sick when I wasn’t looking I became distorted and amiss when no one was looking “Look it’s snowing and the chipmunks are coming out” “Get away from them: they’re sick, they’re disgusting” And in this moment I just wanted to scream at myself At myself for being like them Them, who say this about her… Her who fell from the sky like snow Snow that is white and pure I don’t want people to treat her like an animal An animal: with fear, with disgust. No! No, diseased, she is not. She is not dying. Dying, she is not. She is happy. Happy, she is living. Yes, my Snow Princess has AIDS AIDS that kills Kills me Me who loves HER Her, who came from:
Snow Princess
I despise her I am repulsed by her for just leaving What you want me to tell you is that we’re going to be just fine What you want me to tell you is that she’s going to be just fine
by Victor Cervantes ‘09
Yes!! I HATE HER
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I despise her I am repulsed by THAT WHO--(whore) for just leavingleavingleavingleaving What you want me to tell y’all is that we’re gonna to be just fine What you want me to tell y’all is that my Snow Princess is gonna to be just fine I understand now why she left Left two children behind Behind to die Die from her embarrassment Embarrassment created by a WHORE I understand now why she is dead Dead to me ME who loved her Her who is, was my mother My mother who is killing me
A photograph by Jordan Bohannon ‘12
Yes, my Snow Princess has AIDS AIDS that kills Kills me Me who loves HER Her, who came from: Falling
Snow tranSCending
Blood Falls Heart Beats Pulse Stops Eyes Shut Hands Close Heart Yes!! I HATE ---
plummeTTing SnOH
DONE
I despise --I am repulsed --leavingleavingleavingleaving What do you want me to say What do you want me to feel I am dying Dying like my Snow Princess Snow Princess who lives Lives life magically Magically, like Pure snow
Transparent
Holy
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There is a disease, a worldwide epidemic. It creeps into your body, and crawls deep into your soul. And when you need strength the sickness oozes from all orifices. You are paralyzed, and darkness replaces the light That you have adored your entire life.
by Anthony Carli
‘10
The Epidemic
It is like a tyrant, taking everything you love. Your mind fills with terrifying images of death, of despair, Of atrocity, of tragedy, and of heartbreak. Your once beautiful mind is now corrupted by a sea of black. It pours into you like water through a sinking ship. Calamity ensues around your limp body. People are frantically trying to combat the ailment. As you watch the panic, others acquire the infection And share your torment. Their faces are contorted and full of misery. A lake of red expands around your body. It is as if the levee of your soul has broken. And you swear that you are in hell; As you watch flames engulf everything in their path, Mowing down your friends gracefully and with ease. The numbness expands across your body. The absence of pain is agonizing in itself; At least the sting gave the feeling of life; Which has been decimated by the virus. By now you lay motionless; and all the evil disappears. You have given your last salute, And led your last charge into battle. Now there is nothing left to do But surrender to an unbeatable enemy. For you have just died a hero On the battlefield in the barren desert. You made a sacrifice to those back home, So you may take their position on death row. But you gain little thanks from those you were martyred for, And now the only reminder of your life Is a flag folded on your mother’s mantle, And the sound of a 21-gun salute echoing in her head.
A digital illustration by Ted Unthank ‘09
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BLAM Staff 2009: Michael Johnson ‘09, ed. Andrew Opila ‘09, ed.
Jesus Aponte ‘10 Matt Benac ‘10 Beau Peterlin ‘10 Faculty Advisors: Mr. John Damaso ‘97 Mr. Scott Middlemist ‘87 Mr. Chad Unrein
Keith Bender ‘11 Nic Espinosa ‘11 Brian Frederick ‘11 Jerasimos Moschonas ‘11 Michael Notestine ‘11 Jeff Rightnowar ‘11 Christopher Rosales ‘11
Colophon
Brophy College Preparatory 4701 N. Central Ave. Phoenix, AZ 85012 602.264.5291 www.brophyprep.org
The 2009 edition of BLAM was made using Adobe InDesign 2.0 and Adobe Photoshop 6.0. The magazine’s dimensions are 5.5 in. by 8.5 in. Cover text is in Arial Black. The body text is in 9-point Sylfaen with 11-point leading. The titles of the pieces vary in font styles. BLAM is a collection of outstanding art and literature from Brophy students and is produced annually to celebrate these works and a year of creative accomplishments.
A photograph by Hayden Bennett ‘09
A digital illustration by Sabi Megwa ‘09