full.connection
4701 N. Central Avenue Phoenix, AZ 85012 602.264.5291 www.brophyprep.org
table.of.contents visual.art: On the Inside Cover
“Love you Robb” by Parker Middleton ’10
1 2 4 5 7 8 9 11 12 13 15 16 17 18 19 21 22 23 24 25 29 30 31 33 34 35 38 40 41
“Iguazú Falls” by Tommy Williams ’11 “One Step at a Time” by Nick Giancola ’12 “Just Breathe” by Kevin Murney ’10 “K103” by Kevin Marusiak ’10 A photo by William Martin ’12 A prismacolor by Luis Mattei ’10 “What’s Good Burg?” by Kevin Marusiak ’10 “COFFEE” by Dalton Reed ’11 “Water for Life” by Hunter Churchill ’12 A photo by Wade Hoyt ’12 “Life” by Hunter Smith ’11 “G!ng3r Kidz” by Andrew Ahearne ’11 A photo by James Matwijkow ’10 “Sunny Days” by Nick Giancola ’12 “Cityscape” by Dalton Reed ’11 “Other Portraits” by Connor Shores ’12 “Vacation” by Trey Petznik ’11 “Contact” by Andrew Ahearne ’11 “Touch” by Sean Harris ’11 “Single Engine” by Ryan Hickey ’11 “Time’s-A-Wastin’” by Colin Prenger ’11 “Concentrate” by Adam O’Connor ’12 “Sadness” by Graham Smith ’10 An oil stick painting by Luis Mattei ’10 “Freedom” by Esteban Obregon ’11 A reduction print by Will Marston ’10 An oil stick painting by Gus Quinif ’12 “Who’s There?” by Parker Middleton ’10 “Slavery” by Nic Espinosa ’11 & Chris Rosales ’11
poetry: 3 5 7 8 10 10 11 11 14 15 16 17 18
“The Reality” by Greg Ali ’12 “Leader’s Heir” by Sam Smith ’11 “As the Sullen Engines Swing” by Liam Martin ’10 “Secrets” by Chris Rosales ’11 “Oh Glorious Burger” by Will Marston ’10 “Surrey Hill” by Jordan Brewer ’10 “Goodbye, My Friend” by Ulises Araiza ’11 “The Wall” by Matt Gerveler ’13 “A Light in the Darkness” by Trevor Laity ’13 “Life” by Andrew Grossnickle ’13 “Mutual” by Julian De Ocampo ’13 “Counting Down the Days” by Edmund Hubbard ’10 “My Grass Roots” by Adam Fishman ’10
20 21 22 23 24 26 33 34 34 36 41
“On the Streets” by Jonathan Londono ’10 “Ode to my Ghetto Blaster” by Cooper Davis ’10 “The Beauty of a Rose” by Emmanuel Rodriguez ’12 “Dysfunctional Repetition” by Gary Williams ’11 “The Happiness Machine” by Liam Martin ’10 “The Young” by Ross Kloeber ’10 “Mother Knows Where the Hurt is” by John Borst ’11 “A Short Poem about Faith” by Brad Lowe ’12 “My Journey of Fate” by Jerasimos Moschonas ’11 “Running” by Matthew Xuereb ’10 “This or Nothing” by Jeff Romine ’10
fiction: 1 2 12 27 27 27 28 28 28 29 31 37-39
“Second Chance” by Brad Lowe ’12 “Up Chuck” by Travis Fidel ’10 “Death” by James McElwee ’10 “A Tortured Man” by Mark Dolinar ’10 “Four Cripples and a Talking Head” by Alex Pearl ’10 “A Bee’s Dream” by Chase Henry ’10 “Restless” by Luis Saucedo ’10 “The Reason” by Austin Tucker ’11 “Steel Sweet Home” by Jean-Luc Cavnar-Lewandowski ’10 “Testing Time” by Eddie Chavez ’10 “The Accident” by Anthony Carli ’10 “Life With Bethany” by Nicholas Longo ’10
essay: 41
“They Just Do It” by Keith Bender ’11
editors’.note The 2009-2010 school year brought Brophy into a new era of collaboration: a full connection. This relationship between the student body and its newfound technology has driven us to a level of connectivity that is completely wireless across campus. Now every student possesses his very own tablet, his own wireless connection to each other, his teachers, and the Web. This theme has gripped BLAM, and we have worked hard to represent this school-wide connection for our 2010 issue. The year that brought us that full connection has been a busy one. The fine arts community represented in this publication enjoyed the very successful Fine Arts Extravaganza and the opening of the Brophy Art Gallery in Romley Hall. Arranged by your classmates for the Brophy community to enjoy, the sixty-six works presented here showcase the best of what you, the student body, have submitted. But this publication would never have made it into your hands without the help of some genius people. To Austin Ensor and Enzo Galicia, we owe gratitude for their astounding graphic design skills. For the rest of the BLAM staff, thank you for your dedication. And finally our faculty moderators deserve our thanks: Mr. Damaso, Mr. Unrein, and Mr. Middlemist. Editors-in-chief: Michael Notestine 2011 Jeramy Moschonas 2011
U “Iguazú Falls” by Tommy Williams
W
e’re entering our 17th day of hiding; the cave grows smaller with each day. But for the first time in a long time, my head is clear. I can think about things. Some things, I don’t want to think about. My senses are strong. Living in the dark has given me a keen sense of hearing and smell. The rocks in the cave are smooth. I feel them every day. Father and I scarcely talk anymore. He still blames me for what happened. The only sounds that permeate the cave are droplets of water seeping through leaks. I almost look forward to these. Something other than just the footsteps of father and I is a nice change of pace. We can manage to find food in the cave; it’s bitter, but we eat it. We have to, if we want to stay alive. I miss people. Back in New York, I kept to myself as much as possible. Avoided eye-contact. Pretended like I didn’t see the homeless man on the corner. Now I would give anything to talk to him. I miss my dog. When I came home, he would always jump on me and start licking me. I felt loved. They say you never realize what you have until it’s gone; too bad you never really appreciate that statement until it really happens to you. Everything is gone.
It’s now the 18th day. Father and I are beginning to talk again. I had forgotten how deep his voice was. It was weak though. There was pain in it. He talked about leaving the cave. I would like nothing more, but I know we must stay here longer. On our 30th day we left the cave. The light was blinding, I felt like it breathed new life into me. The officer took off our handcuffs; I was ready to start my new life. We were in jail, we were criminals. Everyone deserves a second chance.
Second Chance by Brad Lowe
Up Chu c k by Travis Fidel
B
onnie looks like an angel on that swingset. Her legs pump and pushtextbook form. Her bright white dress repels the dust that fills the air. Everything and everyone around her are nothing but a fast-motioned blur. There she is, innocently smiling with her short blond hair blowing more and more as she increases speed. I watch and am just as frozen as the red popsicle I am eating. Kids whiz by and kick up sand left and right. It lurks in my size 4 shoes, filling my socks and finding a new home between my toes. A soccer ball hits me in the back and bounces me back to reality and out of the love trance I was just in. She is my first crush, and not once have I told her how much I like her. Goosebumps sprout on my arms and legs as the very thought of that moment plays in my mind. Today is the day. I have waited long enough and I need to let these feelings of mine out. I throw down my popsicle stick and start walking over to
the empty swing seat next to her. It’s now or never. I hop on and eventually work my way up to her exact same speed. I can’t help but smile. “Hey, Charlie, let’s jump off on 3! 1-2-3!”
We land in perfect harmony. As the sand is now overflowing out of my shoes, I look over at Bonnie, and she looks back at me. “Bonnie…I…I-bloooah!” “AHHHH!” It turns out her pretty white dress does not repel everything. The popsicle that I have just eaten finds its way to her new bright red dress. I am “Up Chuck.”
“One Step at a Time” by Nick Giancola
ping, The droo olding on, h s, g n a h excess, d It sags an read to cover the th a ll, f e o w h s is for the w demeanor sags a ope, the for h ago r looking no longe ve arrived so long a h ld u o sh , h g wn, in whic the dripp the terrain of a fro n w r, o a d ping ary te e mouth, f the solit wling, slip fluids: cra aginary sounds o its way back to th erture, d im p n the to fi hed a thrashing relief for the parc fighting, ts Eventually รงade of a momen ragging, round, the d tch the g for the fa d feet scra e strength, re lo co d e th s of mu th to mak more step, the brick e ago, e of a brea the gasp th to take just on ad died a long tim g h n l u re the st hose so a body w ught, to move dro th e g n th re st of flow, the ime, e, the lack lif f itted no cr ted, o the lack in who had comm had not commit e a h ill h v is a w f o ly n gaze ld o the dead of a crime he cou soul of himself, re and nocent u in lt is cu s him, o e h he, w hates th s all that surround as well a e dropping, th g go, the lettin s fall, rie o m e have m em, ity with th , n sa ll a g ive d takin a s e k ach, ta the heart of an empty stom s e n fi the con g acids, setting in ts in the bubblin ain, it si n ag se ri e b waiting to drawn, the n sheet, the draw nt face, au g , ld the co living, d and the a e d e th t, of o n r e d n they wo not, they care all, of , but most xtent of the pain e e th t o n d n ta rs e , they und the drink e, I tak the drink sip I steal, emning , number, the cond nameless faceless, screen, e th h tc a while I w ash across the tv given, fl s honor wa if such an e emptiness, th l I fee ss cry, The painle numb to heal, o to , ound From a w ctions are limited an envelope, Yet my a llars dropped in w do d to the fe The reality. Numbere
R the
eality by Greg Ali
“Just Breathe” by Kevin Murney
Leader’s Heir by Sam Smith
I have fought with my rockbound father Since I could raise my sword, But my boyishness Has been my Moby whale. If I am to be the heir I must slay the old régime. My father, I care for and he I. He is the pillar of society. The crowds will part at the sight of his Intimidating, yet fair and loving, smirk. When I was novice to the world, My leader’s wise whisper set the laws Of this the life boat that he has allowed me to occupy, “You can only duel fairly.” This was contrary to our battles. He would always defeat me through Dishonest conquering of his single son. Even his despicable foes would be Treated with equitable and powerful swiftness. This pillar is decaying; its rock bottom eroding. The cracks becoming harder to patch. As his rock dissolves, the rock on my
Ba Hi Th Hi He Th Is W He Hi O In Hi M Hi An M M An Ho Of Gi
“K103” by Kevin Marusiak Back has to be heavier on myself. His snowy beard as white as ever. This is my chance to strike. His back is toward me I raise my weapon, “Father.” He faces me with eyes that test my spine. The cool beads run down my face. I send my complete armada of intelligence. With swift power, we evenly match each other. He examines if my heart is that of a captain. His sly undefeatable ways challenge me. O Captain, No Captain. In an instance the silver hair is cut. His era finally laid to rest. My father was called to his fathers His gift to the world was my examen And expecting nothing less than leadership. My skin is thick and rough. My scars are evidence of my strength And many years of colossal goals. However, these are hidden by the shadow Of my intimidating, yet fair and loving, smile Given to me by my father.
A photo by William Martin
As The Sullen Engines Swing by Liam Martin
How sad must be the scientist upon his throne of steel, How lonely must his worship be, the worship of the “real.� For when he comes to pray before the altar of his God, He only finds the elements with which the earth is shod. And when he looks up to the sun whence shines a piercing light, He only sees the wavelengths and the coming of the night. And when he cries his terror to the godforsaken skies, He is answered by a silence that is greater than his lies.
eSc ecrets ret s
by Chris Rosales
ecrets
Lost in a dream-in a deep, conscious sleep. Dreaming secrets to share, dreaming secrets to keep. A new story to tell, a new story to fear. Full of silent shouting, full of loud tears. Drowning in chains, bound by shackles so fair. Dreaming a dream? Or a vivid nightmare? The dream was so sharp. The dream was so cold. With bright, dancing colors. With sounds, new and old. Sleeping to dream, or dreaming to sleep? Dreaming a nightmare, a secret to keep.
A prismacolor by Luis Mattei
“What’s Good Burg?” by Kevin Marusiak
O h G l o r i ous
Burger by Will Marston
Oh, Double-Double, cocaine of my inner life Mountains of leafy greens and bulbous red fruit Two layers of savory juicy loins Smelling of the perfect woman. Thy aroma tingles my nostrils This uncontrollable bliss Fills every inch of my addiction Oh, Double-Double. Every day is glorified with your presence For you complete me. I wish I could cleanse my soul in your secret sauce And parade in your toppings. The world should some day know Cheese, lettuce, tomato, sauce, Onions, patties, potato bun, Oh Double-Double, I like being an addict.
Y H E IL R R L U S by Jordan Brewer
C’mon Sandra, better smile than that Sun perfectly shining Sitting and gazing adoringly A perfect spring day Your favorite brown jumper Avoiding glasses, trying to look pretty No matter to the photographer
Wind blowing through your disheveled hair Beaming, looking back at the camera Sitting on that Surrey hill, Living your days.
Goodbye, My by Ulises Araiza
Friend
My soul can take no more. My heart is weak, My body frail, From your monstrous torture.
Or so I thought. I knew no better; No one ever told me who you really were.
When I tremble, when I shudder, I know you do not care. Why, God, have you given me this condemnation? I want to run away, I want to be free, But I am not yet strong enough to spread my wings. Neither sticks nor stones shall break my bones. From your throne up high, You claim to be ruler of all. You say you are the Messiah, the anointed one. But I say you are Beelzebub, Lord of Hell. Oh! When will this end? Under you, my life is like a pebble: Small, useless, unimportant. No one cares for me in this Hell.
L L A W
For too long I have endured your agitation, Your bloodcurdling fermentation. I am what you most deplore.
I did not know you cared. You never showed any affection. Perhaps you never learned how to, Perhaps you felt it would make you weak. You monster, you atrocious, spineless charlatan; You thief, you conniving Son of Satan. If only I had realized you meant the best, I would not have been afraid. To you, great Lord of Hell, I say goodbye. To you, who made me cry, I say goodbye. To you, merchant of death, I say goodbye. To you, my greatest friend, I say goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye I say to you.
the
by Matt Gerveler
There is this thing that sleeps in my home, will not convey nor act, My soul can takeItno. It just lies there in its slumber, And will not meander away. Some say it is a guardian, or maybe just a sleeping giant, And that it is there to safeguard you, It averts the evil of the world outside, And lets you live in peace and quiet retreat. But I have heard others speak of the evil it hides, For it will not let you out, And if you do attempt to get out, it will just silently laugh, And I have heard the rumors that it may be the bars of your cell.
“COFFEE� by Dalton Reed
D
r cell.
Death by James McElwee
I want to die. I don’t remember when exactly this feeling started, but my wish was about to be granted by whatever force controls our lives. I guess that’s what happens when you piss off drug dealers. It started a lifetime ago, I was at a very prestigious art school, wanted to be an artist, change the world. What a joke. Drug use was fairly prevalent among us shut-in painters, sculptors, and photographers. I held out for a while, but ended up using the smaller stuff, sometimes doing some psychedelics with some people good at caricatures, now I know why. Eventually, as they always say it will, I progressed into heavier drugs, cocaine mostly, heroin if I wanted to start a riot. Eventually I dropped out of college and bummed around for a while, selling old paintings and stealing new ones from my old school to make a quick buck. It’s a terrible feeling ingesting more drugs than food for an entire week. After about two months I was thrown, forcibly, from my crappy little apartment complex. Hell, my habit was so bad that my methaddicted land lord told me to get help.
“Water for Life” by Hunter Churchill
Eventually my old school figured out that there wasn’t a magical art stealing fairy flying around and changed the locks, probably cost more than what I was stealing, one small comfort. I was cut off, so like any other logical progression I took to stealing what I couldn’t buy. Stealing from drug dealers, who was I kidding? My first attempt came out all right, just a few bruises. My second time went even better; I just snuck up on the guy while he was waiting for me. Third, fourth, fifth all went well. I was getting overconfident. I never really thought about not using the same drug dealer, so, the cocky little shit that I was went back to the first guy I ever stole from. He had smartened up and came prepared, saw it was me and shot me. Prick shot me right in the stomach. Which brings us back to the present, where I am currently lying on the ground, bleeding, waiting to die. And realizing for the first time that I want to d—
A photo by Wade Hoyt
L
in
the
Darkness
ight
A
by Trevor Laity
Hello darkness, my old friend I’ve come to ask for your help again I just don’t know about things anymore It’s like in my heart there’s a growing war What do I say now? What should I do? Should I let her back in, hoping she’ll love me true? Maybe love and joy can go arm in arm Maybe third time, fourth time, fifth time’s the charm Or do I move on, shut her out, end it all before it starts Should I pick up all the pieces of the mirror that’s my heart? I keep telling myself “It’s not that way,” I want to believe the things she’ll say But how can I tell her I don’t know what to do? Should I just flat out say, “I don’t want to be with you?” But that’s a lie, I can’t say that, I know it’s not true Because to be honest, I still sort of do But I know I shouldn’t, I know it’s not the best To be with a girl who puts a hole in my chest That hole, in the shape of a heart, I can feel I’m doing all I can to get it to heal But the damage is done, she’s made her mark Without her in my life, now it’s all dark But I look up, I look around and I see Someone walking over here, and she’s smiling at me She’s cheering me up, she’s making my world bright In the pain, in the darkness, I have found a light
by Andrew Grossnickle
Lif
It’s a fragile thing to behold in our hearts. It can come and go in the people we have known, When it shows radiantly we become alert, Even in a big world we can feel hurt and alone. It’s full of mystery and fear. It would be impossible without support, When we need help it all becomes clear. It’s a rollercoaster, so thrilling and short.
e
We are made by God, by his gentle hands. He has the power to take and give as he chooses. One day we will walk with him on the soft beach sands. Life isn’t a game, we can’t win or lose. It is our choice, We live and rejoice.
”Life” by Hunter Smith
“G!ng3r K!dz” by Andrew Ahearne
by Julian De Ocampo Was my escape a crack of doom? I left without a sound Thinking life could soon resume Left lost among the desert plumes And so we fell on stony ground Devoured by the lion’s den Drawn to false cures that you’ve found We blend into the crowds of men Our work undone, once tightly wound Foiled by fate, yet again
Counting
Down
the
DAYS
by Edmund Hubbard Everyday was just the same Hanging out playing stupid games. People were cool but they’d never change, Nothing would get out of frame. We wanted to get out of here Get away from all this fear, When we all finally broke away I knew things would never be the same. People were always moving away Every night and every day. I never knew what to say Goodbye would come out anyway.
R
NEVE
FO
RG
When we were gone I stopped and thought About all the good times I forgot. As more friends left and came I knew things would never be the same.
ET
As I look back you can probably see My friends meant so much to me. And as I walk away from this place I know things will never be the same.
E
V LO
A photo by James Matwijkow
My Grass Roots
“Sunny Days” by Nicholas Giancola
A summer’s day To be wet and wild, Rusty’s golden glow Brings about our smiles.
O Sammy’s full flow He couldn’t be higher, The shirt he’s wearing Sports his favorite, the Flyers.
The sun so bright Squints Ali’s eyes to a shut, The sting of chlorine Will cleanse our cuts.
A summer’s day It went by so fast, When seeing this image It isn’t the past.
Linda’s young cheeks So happy and sweet, The sensation of warmth Beneath our bare feet.
by Adam Fishman
St
t h g i l ar
How dazzling they are Sitting in the sky afar Watching us from above Oh how we still love The stars and the moon Enjoy them now, for soon They will vanish with the dawn And those with just a yawn Would miss the sight by Jonathan Mah Of starlight Oh moon, kill the sun For our troubles here are done Let me gaze into your night sky For just a moment before saying goodbye Promise me you will never fade away And my love for you will never sway Please just make your departure slow And I will never let you go Oh starlight
On by Jonathan Londono
the S treet s
Look away from his heart now. Stiff and broken, small hands Curled in like a dog in the snow: Needing someone to cover the body with a blanket An hour to play. Think not of his past, His hands held the stick, Behind a thick haze of violence Made the dirt cry In the city, his bare feet Father, son, and holy spirit Touch robble and cigarette butts That scrape his skin.
“Cityscape� by Dalton Reed
Guard him, the boy in the city, Admired on the streets In a house, holding hands with his brother. Keep his hands giving Bread, water, and love, Bringing the violence down Abides with his wish Of sweeping away the hate.
O Ghetto Blaster, You are the most hood of any boom box No other has your swag nor your size With lights, knobs, buttons galore you stand out both speakers bumping to the tunes N’ stuff your ghetto beats pulsing throughout the halls I prop you up upon my shoulder high, for all to witness your pure majesty Those who we pass by stare at us in awe To get them pumped is our assignment now You cannot escape the noize we will bring
Ode to My Ghetto Blaster by Cooper Davis
Ode
Yo u to
by Kyle Stanford
“Other Portraits” by Connor Shores
Ode to you, I give my soul You are everything in which I behold My life, my dreams, my thoughts, my passion Unto you I sacrifice my action Ode to thee, bless’d are we For you have given this all Emotions, growth, the power of learning O how we find, our faith which is left blind Rejoice, this just may be the end to the human industry Overgrown wasteful, our lives we find tasteful History has shown us the need for our greed Finally, we realize our own disease
I come to you with change and a passion Yet you look at me, like I am nothing more than an attraction This is where my heart lies, to the world as a sacrifice for you But you look at me with disgust, like I am something totally new Without change, this is the end to our lives For you truly do not realize, your own damn disguise We all have a calling, don’t you see For without one, you are your own enemy
I beg don’t you see, for I hope that I may bleed For I may become the sacrifice in which you read My life will end in nothing more than death and sadness But my passion is for you, to one day find true happiness I learn to love you daily, but the pain I’ve caused makes you angry Love at first you find, yet hate you turn and hide You look at me, but you cannot see, for fear of what you cannot be Point the finger how you dare, for justice you think you wear My life is what you find, my actions lay in your mind For this world is ours to see, the beauty is what we want to be Sacrificed by all, the fall is where I am called The masterpiece is what I am after, for this world is nothing but a disaster
“Vacation” by Trey Petznik
The Beauty of a Rose by Emmanuel Rodriguez
What lies beneath a rose? Anything else besides its pose? A beauty so unique, yet so easy to critique, What is seen by the eye, No wonder people always cry, When judged by first glance, Not even given a chance, To allow people to see, What lies beneath a rose.
H “Contact” by Andrew Ahearne
Dysfunctional Repetition by Gary Williams
God-given talents wasted Because being different no longer means Unique And fluidity becomes lifeless motion. Dysfunctional Repetition. The foundation of truth and beauty has changed Protecting self from the world and denying The pursuit of happiness. When creativity is placed on hold for one’s self-image A front, a lie, an awkward tale of hopeless dreams and hidden passion Where the need to feel “accepted” carries its heavy burden. Conforming beautiful, individualized, human beings To cardboard cut-outs confined to someone else’s identity. Reducing any hopes of becoming anything above average Eliminating the future and recycling the past of Dysfunctional Repetition.
The
s s e n
by Liam Martin
Life is a flame that burns alone against an endless night, A song that turns the streams to nymphs and stars to candlelight, A wind that wakes a weary world and calls the moon to shine, And summer days, And fresh-clipped grass, And dandelion wine.
i p p a
Certainty is a cold high word kept boxed up on a shelf, Eternity is a mirthless blade that mutilates the self, And beauty is a setting sun that Flashes and then flies, And hot fast crickets leaping as the light leaks from the skies.
H
Now! Is the only time that ever was or e’er will be, A forever that is woven out of pain and ecstasy. The tales we tell were always told, Our songs were always sung; Elderly men were always old— Young boys will always be young.
Machine
“Touch” by Sean Harris
h T
o Y e
o Y e
g n u by Ross Kloeber
O the young, exuberant Joyously at play to all extent With skin so fair, that small pink face These idols of the human race Scraped knees On their marvelous journeys What little consequences they must ponder Every object incites their wonder Like the shaving cream of their father Or the origins of their favorite treats Chasing one another through the streets Having mama put them in their sheets O how I envy the youthful Only worried about their own bellyful Seldom do they care about their future, In their few decisions. Oh how are they so sure? In those small minds, they are right and we are wrong Nobody stopping them from breaking into song O the young, blissful and unaware How I envy them I swear
“Single Engine� by Ryan Hickey
The future is
d! sn a e r ap!
! O M BLA
A Tortured Man by Mark Dolinar
S
itting in his nine by eight foot cell he knew he was far away from where he once was. Twenty two, a recent college grad looking to become a heart surgeon, until he was accused of killing his wife one lonely day in La Jolla, California. Six months he had already spent Four Cripples and a in this cell, alone and scared. Just Talking Head replaying the memories over and over again in his head of his past by Alex Pearl life outside of his cube. Whenever CAN SOMEONE TURN ON THE Jason’s six foot frame would stand LIGHTS” shouted the nearup to stretch he would touch both deaf man, stumbling over the ends of his cell, leaving his figure sofa. left in an awkward position. His “Aaaaahm” said the man without bed felt like nothing more than a a tongue, frustratedly wheeling his piece of cloth with a few random way through his surroundings after springs placed inside, while his prison issued attire only made him having tripped on the rug. become more depressed as time “Well, don’t look at me,” said the went on. For the first time in his man with his feet stuck to the life Jason was alone, an extrovert floor, “it’s not like I can reach the from a young age, now trapped switch.” in a manmade cage hoping to be set free. “Pffft,” said the man with two eyepatches, “You guys are Until this point in his life, Jason had pathetic. I have to put up with this never really been in trouble, he was every day. Here.” He moved to a graduate of Harvard who was the wall with ease and flipped the able to balance a rigorous school switch. “I’m not really considered schedule with an impressive social ‘handicapped’ when the playing life. He had learned from a young field’s leveled. It’s nice. Shoulda age that you could either take life kept the lights off.” too seriously or you could have “Aaahm,” grunted the man fun and actually live. Though he without a tongue, regaining his tried to follow this path in life by balance and glaring at the sightless being a professional surf border, man. his parents pushed him in the
“
other direction trying to make him become a doctor, which forced him to be secluded in his studies. In a way prison was a blessing for Jason, because his parents no longer had control of what he did, the prison guards did.
“YOU REALLY SHOULD TURN NEAR ME IF YOU WANT TO SAY SOMETHING TO US” bellowed the near-deaf man, re-adjusting his sport coat and hiking up his trousers, “IT’S NOT LIKE EVERYONE CAN HEAR YOU YOU KNOW AND YOU KNOW I READ LIPS PRETTY WELL”
A Bee’s Dream by Chase Henry
C
ool, crisp air lifts Steve higher and higher, far above the town. Everything seems so tiny from this high up. Homes become the little doll houses that his sister plays with everyday. Sidewalks are simply trails that the little ant people follow on their way to work. The trees become small blobs of green, sprinkled throughout neighborhoods. This is Steve’s paradise. Flower hopping gets old. Steve lands on a fresh looking Calliopsis flower. He protrudes his sticky tongue to get the sweet nectar from within the yellow flower. Steve does not notice a young child approaching him. In an instant, the child snuffs his life out. Steve feels nothing. He breaks from his dream. Ten seconds pass before Steve realizes he’s home in his bed. Just then, his radio alarm goes off.
!
Restless
by Luis Saucedo
I
couldn’t fall asleep even though I was more tired than I had ever been before. More tired than I was after going 40 hours without sleep, and more tired than the week of two a days at football camp. I wanted nothing more than to fall into the warm, appealing embrace of rest, but I could not fall asleep to save my life. The foreign room I had taken refuge in was not that dark, and I could still see all the unfamiliar trinkets that oddly decorated the room around me, the trinkets that made it uncomfortable. They were mementos of someone else’s life, events that had made them who they were, not the things that brought me comfort, not the things that make me who I am. The twinkle of the glow in the dark stars that covered the walls were irritating in comparison to the family pictures that cover mine. The ornate dressers were large and imposing when compared to my modest one. Even the calendar made me uncomfortable because it made it so clear that the night was that of April 25th, a night when I should have been sleeping in my own bed after a long night of dancing at prom, but instead I was in an alien environment trying to find comfort, but it was no where present. Everything about the room was wrong, and the walls were talking so loud that they drowned out rest’s peaceful calls to me.
Steel Sweet Home
The Reason
by Jean-Luc Cavnar-Lewandowski e studied his new surroundings. The walls were painted a clean expected white and the furniture looked new. The rug had recently been cleaned but Jacque could smell the stains in the membranes of the fibers. He was happy to be out of that horrible box and had already contemplated a quick escape yet something about this new home kept his attention. He had learned long ago that you could never rely on people—even the one’s you love the most will leave. He lowered his mouth and licked his paw, tasting the new flavor of this home. He was suddenly conscious of the 4 pairs of eyes behind him, analyzing his every move, waiting in anticipation. He turned his head to look at them and the older man cocked his head in response. The older woman said,
by Austin Tucker moved, drew myself back. I needed to understand. There she was. Just sleeping. Autumn. My body ached. I rubbed her back and I could feel her heart beat. She rolled over and stared:
“Why don’t you show him where his food and poddy are?”
The day flew by. Two thirty again and I sat back up.
H
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I
“I’m disposable. Do what you will. You understand.” This was absolute. She was right. I dug my nails into her skin. So deep I could feel her pulsate. She smiled. I died inside. I kept going. I shook while I ripped her apart. Bit by bit. And she kept smiling. She bled all over me. I cried and I couldn’t stop crying. I sobbed. I couldn’t hold it back. Then the smile faded. I woke up at nine twenty-two. My fingers felt lined with her blood, but there was none anywhere. My chest was dry, my sheets were white. She was gone. Again.
“Hello. It’s Autumn again.” She smiled. I cried. Her fingers ran across my face again.
“Time’s-A-Wastin’” by Colin Prenger
S
weat slowly begins to slide down beside his eye. The pencil, tapping, up down up down. Chris holds the writing utensil in his right hand as his fair hand strokes through his brown hair, woven out of frustration. The words on the paper in front of him blur and confuse his eyes, which become as red as the numbers displayed on the ticking clock overhead. There are only three students left in the class. Two of these students sit in the back, separated by two rows of desks. Chris sits alone, at the front of the room, standing out as he always does. His white collared shirt suffocates his chest as his anxiety rises and steals his breath. A glance at the clock reads 11:58. “Oh no,” is murmured from Chris’s quivering mouth. Thoughts race through his mind. Images of the
by Eddie Chavez
previous night, pictures of family, scenes of various movies, and visions of people screaming at one another fly in and out of his brain, uncontrollably and involuntarily. “One minute!” yells the professor who continues to read his newspaper, unaware of the amount of perspiration his nearest student has acquired. Without any thought, Chris begins to scribble and write rapidly and without direction. He imagines the past 30 minutes in fast-forward and then reflects the scene on his answer sheet, jotting down all he can in the remaining time. He does not let his arm rise to clear the sweat on his forehead for he believes he will not finish. His wrist begins to cramp and slow but his heart is beating faster than ever. His tired eyes, riding the rollercoaster of his lines, squint in an attempt to focus. “Just a few more—” “Time! Pencils down.” “Damn…” As Chris opens the door to leave the classroom he is approached by a fellow student. “How’d ya do?” “…I passed.”
“Concentrate” by Adam O’Connor
ACCI DEN T the
by Anthony Carli
H
e stumbled through the bathroom door, crumpled to his knees, and vomited the Hungry Man frozen dinner he had ingested earlier; the cardboard tray and fork were still sitting on the ottoman in front of a television. The cell phone he clutched leaked an irritating beeping noise, and a middleaged woman uttered the words, ‘If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and try again,’ and in an instant, she too was gone. He stumbled to the shower and turned it on. The frigid water sprinkled his face. Now he climbed inside its cold wretches and collapsed onto the metal floor. The near freezing water pierced his very core. He peeled off his clothes and dropped his cell phone as the torrent of water rushed it towards the drain. Now naked, he sat in the icy water. He was freezing. He shivered violently, his lips began turning blue, and blood stopped flowing to his extremities; hypothermia was settling in. At least he was feeling something though; he needed to feel something. His arms and legs almost stopped functioning, and he became numb. At this point, he struggled to get out of the shower, slipped, hit his head on the lip of the toilet, and blood spilled onto the tile. He stood up, and stumbled to his nightstand, where he produced a .357 magnum loaded with hollow-point rounds. He shoved the barrel into his temporal bone, and pulled the trigger. The bullet shredded in his cranial cavity, and his young face was literally blown onto his curtains. His naked wet body fell to the floor. Detective John Morrison explained to a woman who sat behind a desk; the Captain. “That’s what I could piece together.”
“Ok. Sounds pretty standard to me, we’ll rule it a suicide. Write it up, and leave it on my desk in the morning.” She was a strong woman, one with balls bigger than his. She had fought her way to the top of the precinct, but after witnessing so much atrocity, her compassion had been drained from her soul. Every crime was now a business. They were not people, they were bodies, and her melancholy attitude towards this murder truly displayed her indifference to the victim. “Has anyone talked to her yet?” Morrison said hoping to God that the answer would be yes. Unlike the Captain, he still had ounces of compassion, but with each dead body, it dripped onto the blood stained floor. He needed to
“Sadness” by Graham Smith become numb if he were going to survive in the homicide unit. “No.” “I’ll do that tomorrow too.” Morrison’s shoulders slumped as if he were holding a 500-pound weight. *** “Why would he do this? Why did he do this?” Tears began streaming down her red face, it was now contorted; an expression of confusion and sorrow overcame her. Her blue eyes were glassed over, her lips warped towards the ground, and
her cheeks did the same. Morrison struggled to keep eye contact with her. He sat, and fought to find the right words to say. Detective Morrison looked to the ground, stood up from his seated position at the foot of her bed, and spoke the words, “He thought you died in the accident.”
A
by John Borst It was four in the morning. When his mother came home; She’d been gone for three days. Where she’d been he’d not known. He went to the kitchen to see how she was. He wanted to speak, when he saw her he paused.
And
Her movements were wild, her eyes were ablaze. Her mind was engulfed in a drug induced haze. Her son walked in slowly; he said, “How are you?” She whipped around and screamed, “What should I do? “This whole house is filthy, you ungrateful shit! You’re just like your father, and I’m sick of it. I should have left you the day I left him.” Her son hollered back, “Mom you already did!”
Mother Knows where the Hurt Is
b
She tore through the laundry, she picked up his belt She cracked him so good; it took but seconds to welt. Though all through the beatings, he feared not the belt. It was only the pain of her words that he felt. He was too guilty to fight back, too horrified to run, He could only stand by while his life came undone. Her insults were honed, thrown direct as a dart, With each one she flung, it pierced through his heart. There’s only so much that a young man can bear, Now he wanted to hurt her, her heart, he would tear. He screamed “Mother, I’m sick of your razor-edged tongue You only talk to me when you want me stung, Now I’m sorry, dear mother, but your song is sung, And with those words, he yelled out, and he swung. She plummeted downward and fell to the floor, Before she got up, he ran out of the door. As he ran, he sobbed more than ever before. He hated himself yet he wished he’d done more.
An oil stick painting by Luis Mattei
A Short Poem about Sun rise, sun set Sun rise, sun set The son rose in the east, but set in the west. He shined light onto many, and many were blessed. But some shielded their eyes, and let the light be misdirected, And those men extinguished the son, which he willingly accepted. They didn’t forgive the shining son with multiples of sevens, And now the shining son was sent back into the heavens. by Brad Lowe
Faith
t.
ongue
“Freedom” by Esteban Obregon
My Journey of Fate
by Jerasimos Moschonas He abides in the night, takes refuge in ever-distant space and sands, This man of shadows, known as “Fate” always seems to have other plans, He is an olden crafty fellow, whose life is knowing the end result, When angels are sent to act, it is Fate whom they shall oft’ consult. For a whimsical week in the oddest of areas, I rummaged for inspiration, Fate guided my hands and my mind, and I thanked him in recognition, There and then, in the darkest of towns did I find my hope present, In a dream filled wonderland, which I entered with complete consent. Time has no relevance here, and success is as sure-bred as oddness, A figure in the limelight, a gorgeous guiding light, instigated fondness, I return a different man in the same man suit, a testament to change, Vastly relieved of fears, but pushed back into my lackluster range. “Why do I smile so?” they will most likely ask in contagious wonder, “You’ll never know,” these curious words will they constantly ponder, At this, some will be overjoyed and blissful, others, angry and irate, For the boy who couldn’t be himself, found himself with Fate. And finding I was wanted, I am now in all pursuits, unstoppable , And should I ever fall, my spirit is still unconquerable, So feast your eyes upon a new man, enlightened and fulfilled, I can breathe again, refreshed, like new soil, freshly tilled. Bring forth your painful challenges; I am wary of your bitter souls, Warned, you will be struck down, and join those for whom the bell tolls, And the finale makes me cry, for it is wonderful to be loved by one, Fate demands me once again, so I embrace him, and I will come.
R U NNING
by Matthew Xuereb Going into the pond, not knowing what to expect, Not knowing what to take and what to reject. I start off small, not making a ripple, Learning to be invisible, believing their drivel. I take their shouts, their words, their hate, I make them work, they make me shake. I make them better, they abhor me for it, Waiting for them to leave, not afraid to admit. I grow to overlook what happened in workout, Hoping in time I wouldn’t burnout. I keep it in, not showing how I deal, They don’t see how they truly make me feel. As time goes on, they leave one by one, Like clockwork they fall and I had won. They don’t affect me, my fears ebb away, Not regretting the times I entered the fray. Now I am captain, and they are gone, Leading my runners, waking early at dawn. We grow, we win, we have what lacked, A leader to show them how to act. My time is up, I’m a little sad, Knowing, though, that we won’t be bad. I entrust my title to a worthy Jack, Sure that he will lead the pack. Now, just because I have left, Don’t you feel bereft. I will come back and see, The team that is a part of me.
A reduction print by Will Marston
Life With by Nicholas Longo
A
t the first hours of the morning, like almost every day of his life, Greg was welcomed to each day with the yelping, heart-attack inducing screech of his fifty-five year old mother, Bethany. With all of her grace and insanity, she would share her thick New Jersey accent over the phone to her son, who by now had endured many years of such a travesty. Luckily, Greg would also be spoiled with love by his long-time girlfriend, Chelsea. Chelsea always knew when it was time to get up, as she would wait for the phone to be shaken out of Greg’s hands by the violent growl of his mother’s voice. It was on one particular day, in the middle of March, when Greg’s mother mentioned something very new, and very unexpected. “Greg! It’s so good to hear from my boy so early in the morning,” she said, thick Jersey accent and all. “How would you, my baby munchkin, like to come up and visit me for a weekend?” “Mom, that would be…great. But, you know I have a girlfriend now right? She will be coming too.” “Oh sure! I just cleaned out the extra room so she’ll have a place to stay. We’ll have a great time!” The conversation continued with his mother emphasizing just how much Greg and Chelsea would be separated over their visit. In every physical and emotional way possible, Greg’s mom would stand between the couple as a massive Berlin Wall of sorts. Soon Greg would inform Chelsea of his mother’s joyous invitation—and soon she would agree and they would start driving towards quite an eventful weekend. They began their trek to visit Greg’s mom, which took all of an hour drive from their apartment in Philadelphia to his mother’s suburban mansion in New Jersey. “My mother can be very overbearing and opinionated at times. Just don’t be
Bethany offended—she’s like that with everyone. But I really wouldn’t worry, I’m sure there’s nothing about you she wouldn’t like,” Greg said, trying to comfort his girlfriend as much as possible. Chelsea didn’t know whether to be offended or flattered. “Thanks, Greg. It’s not that I’m worried to meet her, I’m just a little nervous that’s all.” “I’m glad. She’s actually a pretty entertaining sight to see. She never stops talking, and I can almost guarantee you she will be wearing one of her neon track suits when we see her. Bet me?” “Seriously?” Chelsea responded, laughing. “Now I know where you get your crazy sense of style from,” she said sarcastically, as Greg drove the car into his mother’s driveway. Greg parked the car, and kissed his girlfriend on the lips for comfort and encouragement. “Just smile, give her a hug, and you’ll be treated like family. I promise I won’t leave you alone with her, so there’s nothing to worry about.” Chelsea quickly glanced out of the window, and immediately caught a magnificent glimpse of Greg’s mother. Sure enough, she was decked out in clanking gold accessories, huge wavy hair, and, of course, a bright blueberry colored tracksuit. She ran up to the car and greeted her son with a huge smile, juicy kiss, and thick Jersey accent. “My darling junior mint! How I’ve missed you—and you’ve gotten so strong. Those muscles could crush a semi!” “Hi, mom! Chelsea and I make the gym a habit of ours. Mom this is Chelsea—” “I wore this track suit color just for you. It matches your eyes,” she interrupted, fully aware of Chelsea’s presence without even glancing at her.
An oil stick painting by Gus Quinif “Hey, mom—Say hi to Chelsea and her beautiful eyes.” “So that’s her name, Chelsea?” She said, and finally looked over at his girlfriend. “…Since when are brown eyes considered cute?” Greg was embarrassed by his mother’s behavior over the weekend, and tried his best to comfort Chelsea. Greg would not accept her reassurance that she was fine with what had happened, and had already confronted his mother over the phone about apologizing. The phone rang, and Chelsea went to answer it. “Hello?” she asked. “Chelsea? Is that you?” It was Greg’s mom, Bethany. “Listen sweet pea, don’t hang up. I want to… apologize…for everything that happened last
weekend. I’m such a…clutz….sometimes,” Bethany said. “No, don’t worry about it. I understand if you don’t—” “I know, I know. I’m sorry. To make it up to you, how about I meet you for lunch? Just us two, and we can talk everything over.” There was a long pause, during which Chelsea looked over frantically at Greg, not sure how to respond. “That sounds fantastic,” Chelsea said, knowing she would once again regret meeting with his mother. Chelsea arrived early at the restaurant for lunch and tried to organize her thoughts. After about thirty minutes, Bethany waltzed in with huge sunglasses and a sombrero-sized, pink sun hat. “Sorry I’m late! The traffic these days,” Bethany said. The restaurant was packed with many (Continued...)
well-dressed business people and East Coast socialites. The floors were of clean white marble, and resting on them were dark wooden tables. Mirrors covered the walls, and enormous light fixtures hung from the twenty-foot high ceilings. They sat at a table with a great view overlooking the river. The hostess gave them menus, and awkward silence followed as they perused the various appetizers and entrees. After a moment, Bethany was obviously the one to break the silence. “Listen, sweet pea, I want to apologize for the weekend. Greg told me how special you are to him, and I figure if he likes you that much, I better start getting used to you.” “Thank you…for apologizing. I know we started off on the wrong foot. And I’m glad Greg spoke with you—you know I really do admire him.” “Oh…so you like him?” Bethany questioned mysteriously. “Yes, very much.” “And have you, ever liked anyone else before Greg? Any other men?” “Well, I dated men before I met Greg, of course. But I’ve never felt the same way as I do with Greg.” Bethany did not respond. Instead, they sat there in silence, waiting for their meals to arrive. Once in a while, Chelsea would attempt to begin conversation, but Bethany would simply respond by smiling, or quickly end the conversation in some strange way. She was obviously disturbed by something Chelsea had said. Lunch had finally arrived, and Chelsea attempted to begin conversation again. “So, how’s your salad?” she asked. “Oh it’s wonderful. And yours?” Bethany replied. “It’s really delicious,” she said happily. “Hmm… Delicious like my Greg?” “…What?” Chelsea asked. “I know what you want. You’ve been going
around trying to seduce my son. And all for money!” Bethany’s anger and volume was building up to an unhealthy level at this point. “No, that was before Greg, Beth—” “You just come waltzing in here, into my house and my life and expect me to say nothing about it! You don’t even know what you’ve done, do you? Obviously there’s something else—” “I told you! That was before I met Greg. Seriously, pay attention!” Chelsea, replied, seriously aggravated at this point. “You must have been…stripping! You were a prostitution whore! Engaged nineteen times!” Bethany shouted. As she shouted these things throughout the restaurant, she had gotten up, poked her fingers in Chelsea’s face with her huge hair bouncing madly, and flipped a table. She actually started to flip the table over onto Chelsea, with drinks and food spilling all over the white marble floors. At this point, the surrounding staff had held back Bethany from mauling and tackling Chelsea to the ground. If anyone thought Bethany was a sight to see before, they were wrong until this moment. She was dragged out of the restaurant into a police vehicle, with her high heels clanking madly and enormous pink sun hat waving around. Greg returned home sometime after, and was met with the smell of dinner floating through the air. He heard no noise throughout the apartment and crept towards the window to find that the sliding door was open. He walked onto the large terrace, and found his girlfriend seated with dinner set delicately on the table. She cast a soft and seductive stare through her addictively attractive brown eyes, as if begging him to step closer. He responded by doing so, and moved so close that their noses were almost touching. Greg stared deeply into her eyes. He moved forward, as if to kiss her lips, but instead directed his attention to her magnificently small ears. With the slightest of ease, he opened his mouth and whispered, “I missed you… prostitution whore.” He gently winked at her, and offered a warm smile. She glanced upwards, with a soft twinkle in her eyes, and instantly knew what he meant.
“Who’s There” by Parker Middleton
Brophy’s Summit on Human Dignity 2010:
Gl balization This or
BLAM presents the 2010 Office of Faith and Justice Writing Contest winners
Nothing
by Jeff Romine
Our faces are pale, hands tattered and blistered. We are born into bondage. Assembly is our task, always going through the motions of creation. We feed the monster. Yes, this empire depends on us, just as we have grown to depend on it. Should one of us fail, another brick will be found for the wall. There is always someone who will do the job for less. And so we endure the conditions, no matter how demeaning. No matter how far they bend the framework in our souls for their own benefit. Because for us, it is this, or nothing. And they know it.
THEY JUST DO IT
by Keith Bender
I
t’s everywhere. It’s inescapable, even irresistible. How can you resist such fluid, graceful motion? Attractive athletes performing skilled maneuvers, sporting the latest in performance sportswear, fly across my television screen almost effortlessly. And this isn’t even the real show. It’s just a commercial, Nike’s one-minute spot shown multiple times daily during the 2010 Vancouver Winter Olympics. What more could an advertising executive ask for? This commercial has got it all: a legless sprinter, a female tennis player who looks more like a model, and plenty of diversity in both ethnicity and different sports. Why, it’s even got Lance Armstrong in it. An army of Nike-clad athletes, doing what they do best in the way we only wish we could. As I sit watching the Olympic games, I can’t help but wonder: what would happen if the laborers who made this all possible were to watch this broadcast, showing what is supposedly a global community coming together in the name of sport? Would the employees of factories that produce Nike goods in Indonesia gaze with pride upon the victorious Canadian hockey team, wearing uniforms made desirable by the recognizable “Swoosh” on the right shoulder? Or would they recoil with disgust, as their eyes fell upon the symbol of a corporation that binds them to poverty?
“Slavery” by Nic Espinosa & Chris Rosales
blam.2010.staff editors:
advisors:
Jeramy Moschonas ’11 Michael Notestine ’11
Mr. John Damaso ’97 Mr. Scott Middlemist ’87 Mr. Chad Unrein
staff: Andrew Ahearne ’11 Omar Alzein ’11 Rohan Andresen ’12 Austin Ensor ’12 Nic Espinosa ’11 Enzo Galicia ’10 Connor Genta ’11 Beau Peterlin ’10
Nick Giancola ’12 Matt Habib ’10 Brad Lowe’12 Stavros Moschonas ’13 A.J. Raglow ’11 Dalton Reed ’11 Chris Rosales ’11 Dan Valenzuela ’11
colophon The 2010 edition of BLAM was made using Adobe InDesign 2.0, Paint.net, and Macromedia Fireworks 8. The magazine’s dimensions are 5.5 inches by 8.5 inches. Cover text is Walkway Expand, and the body text is 8 point Candara with 9 point leading. The bylines are written in Segoe UI 8 point. The titles of the pieces vary in font style. The Brophy Literary and Arts Magazine is a student publication that provides an outlet for student writers, poets, and artists of the Brophy community. The BLAM staff is committed to working side by side with Brophy peers to present their works and further showcase student art and creative writing. We strive to balance Brophy’s dedication to excellence in spirituality, academics, and athletics with a passionate presentation of the fine arts. If you are interested in submitting your work to BLAM, please email your queries and submissions to blam@brophybroncos.org or speak with any member of the staff. To see more content, visit us at blam.brophyprep.org. © 2010 by Brophy Literary and Arts Magazine, 4701 N. Central Avenue, Phoenix, AZ 85012. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any manner without permission. All images and literary works are © the artists, reproduced with the kind permission of the artists.