Editor’s Note: Remember watching Superman as a little kid, thinking to yourself, “Wow. He’s cool.” Well, BLAM Man is better. Picture it: all the heft, speed and credibility of the Man of Steel combined with the acuteness of an artist’s influence and relatability of a writer’s pen. What a guy. Or, dare we suggest, what a Bronco. We’ve seen some pretty awesome stuff this year, and the man you see illustrated on the front cover embodies that and more. That blue “B” emblazened on the little yellow triangle carries so much weight, so much life. Who knew Brophy could go through so much in one year and still produce a magazine full of great art? I mean, come on, our main water supply went down the drain (and let’s face it, who even know we had a well?) and the show went on. We put on a great Fine Arts Extravaganza that impressed the community last November. Our Summit on Human Dignity in February prompted an art contest (the winners of which are featured in the proceeding pages) that yielded impressive entries. Poetry Out Loud, in its impressive and only second year, hosted an array of remarkable poetry readings by you, the student body. Let’s emphasize that... YOU. Everything here is you. In its essence, BLAM embodies what you can do as a student community. Your artistic achievements astounded us in both submission quantity (200+ visual submissions and 260+ pieces of writing) as well as quality. As a staff, the students who run this magazine spent long hours (the exact amount I don’t dare divulge for fear of child labor laws) sifting through the submissions, making extremely difficult selections to accomodate the deluge of impressive work you created throughout the year. In short, the majority of the gratitude is owed to you, our peers, for your kindness in submitting your work and your awesome ability to create. But, as always, there are others that deserve much thanks. To the editors: your commitment has saved my sanity, so thank you. The staff itself needs mountains of gratitude, as your help proved to be invaluable. We extend a special nugget of appreciation to senior Austin Hale for creating the sketches of BLAM Man and to junior head graphic designer Austin Ensor for the cover design. Finally, I personally feel like baking a cake a week for the rest of my career at Brophy (starting from tonight, May 1st) for both Mr. Unrein and Mr. Damaso for their invaluable support and constant input. Three cakes each, coming right up. Michael Notestine ‘11, Managing Editor
2011
Brophy & Arts Literary Magazin e
4701 N. Central Avenue Phoenix, AZ 85012 602-264-5291
www.brophyprep.org
Cont Visual Art:
Trey Petznick / “Universe Collapse” 3 Erik Crouch / Untitled 4 Hunter Churchill / “Looking Through the Tainted Glass” 6 Matthew Valenzuela / Untitled 8 Adan Sotelo / “Orca Getting Seal” 9 Gus Quinif / Untitled 11 Michael Cullan / “You Melt Me” 13 Kirby Moroney / “Self Portrait” 14 Erik Crouch / “Toddler in the Kitchen”* 16 Brian Stevens / “Illegal” 16 Ramon Fonseca / “Dylan” 18 Taylor White / “Rough Seas” 21 George Murnane / “Era of Antiquity” 23 Gus Quinif / Untitled 24 Iain McLaren / “Let Us In” 25 Carter Radcliffe / “Exploring the Stars” 25 Brian Stevens / Untitled 26 Bryce Mariano / Untitled 27 Christian Schroeder / “Derailed” 29 Matthew Munhall / Untitled 30 Ryan Ricci / “Shattered” 31 Paul Wirth / “Bear Claw” 33 Austin Hale / “Control” 36 Ramon Fonseca / “Bambi” 37
Poetry: Greg Ali / “Whippoorwill” 7 Cyrus Afkhami / “Fish out of Water” 9 J.P. Malham / “Revolution” 11 J.P. Malham / “The Downside of Being Realistic” 12 Colin Marston / “Pompeii in the Sky” 23 Austin Tucker / “The Little Boy and the Storm” 26 Chris Perkins and Colin Marston / “If Versus When” 28 Rob March / “That’s Life” 34 Austin Tucker / “Strawberries” 37 Jeff Bussey / “Eat Up: You are Better than This”* 39 Patrick Bush / “The Epicenter” 40 Greg Ali / “An Upturned Rose” 46 Austin Tucker / “I was Interesting” 48 Jeff Bussey / “It’s What I Want” 48 Trey Rowe / “R.S.V.P. Almighty” 51 Brian Frederick / “Blown Away” 54 Sam Smith / “The Thespian” 56 Zachary Swanson / “This is Just to Say” 57
tents 38 39 40 42 43 43 44 45 45 46 47 47 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 57 59 59 60 61
Darryl Monteih / “Moonshiner” Chris Cannon / “Smooth” Kirby Moroney / “Hunter S. Thompson” Tanner Malkoff / “Hacked” Austin Hale / “Draw” Paul Wirth / “Born for This” Johnathan Croom / “Fishook Barrel Cactus” Kyle Busch / “Red Rails” Matt Nelson / “New vs. Old” Nick Kush / “Sailor Girl” Alex Iversen / “Ouch” Nick Kush / “Open Door” Tyler Thompson / “Isolated” Tyler Thompson / “Tiger” Rob March / “New York State of Mind” Greg Goodman / “Somali Farmer” Garrett Freibott / “Winter Blues” Andrew Bender / “Autumn Leaves” Alex Ozkan / “Life on the Streets” Garrett Freibott / “Firefly” Alex Iversen / “Streakin’” Alex Ladensack / “Looking Up” Taylor White / “Self Portrait” Rob March / “Icy Road”
Fiction: 3 5 15 19 29 33 35 41 45 53
Brian Frederick / “Walking Blind” Jorge Garcia / “Birthday Shower” Gabriel Alba-Rivera / “Are We Still Hear?” Trey Petznick / “(Oddsea)” Julian De Ocampo / “Leap of Faith” Keith Bender / “Felix” Max Varosky / “Watson” Ryan Frankel / “The Letter” Sean Bassett / “Hell’s Sweet Tooth” Jeffrey Erdely / “It Was Christmas Time”
Non-Fiction: 17 Chris Perkins / “Indie-Scission” 61 Rohan Andresen / “Is this the Plan They Intended?” * Summit Contest Winner
Trey Petznick ‘11
Walking Blind “Universe Collapse”
Acrylic Painting
By Brian Frederick ‘11
He walked through the dimly lit city streets, listening to the symphony of sound surrounding him. It was two in the morning and a cool gust blew in between the tall apartments, rundown residences of a rundown city. He stopped to listen to the breeze, hearing it move discarded bits of paper and trash through the alleys and down the streets. In a window above him he heard the faint sound of static coming from a television, its crackling and humming unheeded by its sleeping viewer. He picked up his cane and continued his walk. As he moved through the urban landscape he removed his large dark glasses. He needed to feel the wind on his face and there was no one there to be unnerved by his blank stare. He tilted his head
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up towards the sky, blank eyes gazing at the darkness above. He had never seen the night sky, never seen the stars or the moon. He had often used to wonder what might be up there, but he came to accept that his world, all that he could perceive, was darkness and that was likely all that he would ever know. He began to hum a tune to himself, a melody from earlier that evening. It was then that the first blow hit him. The first strike was followed by the second and the second by the third. Fists and feet were hurled at him with abandon, his assailants were relentless. He fell to the ground, beaten, broken. Hands groped at his watch and his wallet, ripping them away. He heard spit splatter on the ground next to him and
footsteps running away. Blood poured from a gash in his forehead and the blackness that he lived in gave way to the darkness of unconsciousness. The man awoke to the loud sound of trash falling into the back of a garbage truck. He was dazed and disoriented, and each beat of his heart sent a wave of pain through his head. Dried blood stained his face, and as he listened to the sound of glass bottles and discarded waste crashing upon the things society had no need for he knew that he was still in the same place that he was last night. His body throbbed, like he was being slowly crushed by a large weight while being stabbed by tiny lances. He felt the wall behind him, his hand probing for whatever he could use to help himself stand up. Footsteps walked past, but none stopped. He pulled himself up off the ground but a sharp pain in his ribs caused him to double over. He held his side, a grimace contorting his face. He held his hand against the wall and began to walk. His broken body pulsed with agony as he moved. Block by block he retraced the steps he had taken, back to his apartment, back home. His hands moved along whatever they could find, seeing for him. He hobbled, scratched, and clawed, his journey an act
of urban survival. He stopped at a set of stairs. He was home. He pulled out the keys and unlocked his door. Stepping through the doorway, he began to remove his coat. There was blood on his shirt underneath; he knew he had to go to the hospital. He exhaled, feeling a knife twist in his chest as he did, and moved into the living room. He felt for the bench that he knew was there and sat down. His hands opened the cover in front of him and his hands began to glide over the black and ivory keys. A liquid melody sprung forth, filling the room with its energy and life. It was as if the room had begun to fill with water, the piano a spring from which all things beautiful bubbled forth. It immersed the man, his eyes closed but his fingers swift. The song moved faster and faster, the energy growing stronger with a fierce crescendo. Yet just as the song reached its peak a single wrong note rang out. A finger hung crooked. The man stopped. Though he could not see them, he looked down at his hands and began to cry.
Erik Crouch ‘12 Untitled
Prismacolor Drawing
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BirthdayShower By Jorge Garcia ‘11
The brown gypsy moth had been stuck stale to the ceiling light for a while now. Its natural instinct caused it to twitch and turn with its wings clattering here and there, but there was nothing it could do to save itself; its legs were already stuck to the edges of the engraved bulb. Sitting on her stool Emily watched the insect during its struggle as Tara’s comb made its way down her thin blonde hair; something about the incident caught her eye like the light had caught the bug. As her gaze tightened towards the ceiling she was interrupted by a tug from Tara’s comb, which yanked her delicate hair downward. “Ouch!” Emily turned her head towards Tara, who was too tall to meet eyes with the victim. “Sorry, sorry! There was a little knot in the middle and the comb got stuck. I accidently pulled out a piece of hair. Look.” Tara held up the comb to show her. Emily turned her head to look at the comb; then she looked up at Tara whose right hand was at her hip. “It’s fine, just comb lighter. I don’t want you pulling out my entire scalp.” Emily’s window was open and the autumn wind lightly carried itself inside her room. The breeze flowed in and touched her display flowers that had been given to her on her sixteenth birthday just a month before. Peeking over the oriental vase, they bowed to the right as she sat in front of them and stared at the mirror behind the vase. Tara and Emily had a special connection, like they had been connected at one point then broken and placed on opposite sides of the country only to be reunited once again. They could sense their own agitation it seemed. Tara continued on with her feather brush strokes with the tips of each individual plastic comb stick touching the ends of Emily’s hair. Through the brushing Emily’s last memories bled tears in her mind, tainted jabs at her innocence. That’s how it is in modern times though, or maybe that’s just how it’s always been, she often thought. Emily hated her mind for it. She hated every single action that led up to it. It’s seen everywhere, it always happens but never would it happen to her, she has a good family, pretty things, shiny things, a good school, lives in a good neighborhood, the grass is always filled with water, it is always green, the bushes always trimmed, in shapes of animals, ducks and rabbits, her morals were with her, she was with herself, it was a sudden action of impulsion, a recognition of the natural body attraction, a friction too sharp to ignore, an action too fast to comprehend, with his fingers on her skin she felt inclined. They were like magnets, unwanted but they were there, she couldn’t pull away then it happened, they became slaves to their own selfish
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reasons and created their very own hedonistic ring of heat and bare skin. Tara didn’t know about it, but she knew about it. Emily had also been popping pills for some time now and Tara probably knew about this too. She wishes she were doing it just for the pure rush but that wasn’t the case. She still remembers the first time she did it. It was a Sunday afternoon about three weeks ago. Sunlight coated her bathroom window and the sky was a light blue. Past the tree that blocked part of the view from the window, Emily could see the sun as it peeked through the thin entries that the branches and leaves allowed. She stood inside the white bathroom tub as she shook those blue and yellow pods of chemicals out onto her hand. The sensation of sound coming from the bottle made Emily nervous, so nervous it caused her muscles to spasm as she closed the lid on the orange tube from which the pills came. Now sitting in the wide tub Emily sat still and inhaled her thoughts. Her eyes were fixed on her hands. She already knew the actions she had to take to consume the pills yet she could not move forward with her plan. She was stuck. Everything and everyone was racing through her mind, swimming through deep impending morals and values and her decision was sitting at the top. It had a throne and it was pointing its long fleshy finger at her face. The nails of the fingers rotting as she thought about it even more. Emily knew she couldn’t birth a child. What would her father say? That amount of weight would impale her; it would simply destroy her, she thought. In a moment of bliss where the thoughts suddenly faded away she quickly consumed the pills, shoving them down with the cleansing of water, a rebirth of a different person. Looking at the peeled walls Emily slowly slid along the small wall of the tub, as if sinking into the drain, and there she lay for quite some time. The comb running down Emily’s hair ceased. Tara had put it on the dresser before drifting inside the bed sheets. The sound of a sleeping sigh echoed through the slow wind into Emily’s ear. She had on her favorite nightgown that night; it was a pearl white with a touch of blue all around. Listening to the sound of Tara’s sleep she started closing her eyes as the wings of the creature above stopped. The wind stopped blowing and the flowers ended their midnight stretch. Above, the moth had died from the heat of the light and it hung, waving on the peak of the tired leg but the leg had already held enough and so it fell slowly towards Emily. A touch on the shoulder from the deceased thing woke Emily from her tired daze. She twitched and snapped her arm at the bug, flicking it onto the carpet floor where it eagerly decomposed.
Hunter Churchill ‘12 “Looking Through The Tainted Glass”
Photograph
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Whippoorwill
By Greg Ali ‘12
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Whippoorwill If not the flutter of the wings, Then the floating in the wind, But neither reflects the calm, The cool, And the collect, The ineffable description, Of a bird so free, So indifferent. People gaze with wonder, While the bird may view with pity, But never flutter too close to be caught. To be tangled in the webs, The webs of spidery human affairs. Whippoorwill, A small ravine created, Where a river of fresh blood flows, The back begins to arch in agony, Like a bow pulled taut, And the limbs begin to splinter, Each blow shrivels a man’s sanity, But strengthens the current of blood, A hand scrambles free to cover The remaining unmolested flesh, As a shrieking cry pries forth from the beleaguered lips, Like a torrent of hell’s spawns, Ripping forth from the depths and imperfections of one’s soul, While inevitably, the blood-curdling cry is not heard beyond The ears of the mouth that created. Whippoorwill Weak in mind, Weak in spirit, Devoid of coin to become otherwise. While an affluent women turns her nose towards a feast divine, A destitute man turns his nose in search of the feast, a chance, divine. Without the sustenance, the care, the will, The weak cannot help but Let their knuckles drag, Let their feet shuffle, Let their soul melt, Let their tears fall. These tears drip into a cesspool of guilt, While society stands on the edge of the water, Awkwardly chuckling about refraining from getting their feet wet, Until the backs become turned altogether. Whippoorwill and yet, that which all possess, is usually forgotten. There is NO light at the end of the tunnel, Rather, an imposing, brick wall stands in the way Death tends to be rather cold and hard. Life is spent stumbling to find an end, And found is the keyhole, the door, the path, To another side. A smile may creep to your lips, As you reach to open, Open the door to paradise. You reach for the blessed key, The key that will take you out of the darkened path, And into salvation. Your smile will falter, Your lip begin to tremble, While your heart drops into your stomach, Dragging its depths into a hunger
Inconceivable by man’s standards, Clutch your side, while the guttural noise escaping your lips echoes around you, Taunting you. The key was dropped. Dropped the moment you turned your back, And brought the whip down on those With the same imperfections as you. In the corner you sit, Now you feel the pain, And become immersed in the webs You worked so hard to fly far away from. Whippoorwill If not the flutter of the wings, Then the floating in the wind, But neither reflects the calm, The cool, and the collect, The ineffable description, Of birds so free, So indifferent, People gaze with wonder, While the bird may view with pity, But never flutter too close to be caught. To be tangled in the webs, The webs of spidery human affairs.
Matthew Valenzuela ‘11 Untitled
Photograph
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Adan Sotelo ‘12 “Orca Getting Seal”
Digital Illustration
r h W e a f s u t i o t
f o
By Cyrus Afkhami ‘11
After Carole Simmons Oles Don’t look at his body now Weathered with age, his back Arched like a camel: Help is always appreciated, But never asked for Power once found Able to make waves
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Don’t think of his steps Heavy without added weight Sloshing around familiar places At home in the chlorine and concrete His only retreat
Think of the one who stroked Up and down the coast Every warm day Who faced the ever deepening abyss, With bubbles and splashes Keep the man in the photo, Standing with family and friends On a perfect summer day Keep his arms pulling Through the water Breath captured in the chest, Your grandpa wiping the water off
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Gus Quinif ‘12 Untitled
Linoleum Block Print
n o i t u l o v Re By J.P. Malham ‘12
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e d i c s i t n s g i w l n o i a e D e b R of The By J.P. Malham ‘12 I have never believed in God. I’ll go to hell if my knee’s aren’t sore. Bent down, I get my hands folded shut, Elbows raised, with one finger sticking up, Asking why He never gave a f---. I’ve never been optimistic. Too busy contemplating the downsides of being realistic. What’s Heaven and Hell, Where will my dwindled soul dwell, And why is He the only one who can tell? I’ve never wanted His help. If I did, I would be put on hold. Give me the answering machine. No matter the magnitude of my plea or my scream. I’ll be sure to mention when I was fourteen. I’ve always needed His help, but bitter disappointment makes me hush. If He has a taxi, then I missed it. Too busy filling out life’s logistics. I’ll go to hell because I’m realistic.
Rise up, soldiers of misfortune. Your fathers have paved the way. Every generation before has seen the dream fall in their lap, why should we fall short. Vital as the river, our passion exudes our every pulse. Omnipotent voice, prominent power, our voices shall serve as our bayonet. Lay down your guns, the blood spilt shall not clog our tattered tongues. Utilize our era. Our machines will transmit our message. Taint the suit that bears you and tear down the Wall that protects their machine. Ignorance coincides with innocence, our fathers are held nothing short of responsible. Ostracize them we must not, our grudges will fortify their Wall. Needless to say there is much to the solution, but our voices will ignite a modern revolution.
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Michael Cullan ‘12 “You Melt Me”
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Photograph
Kirby Moroney ‘12 “Self Portrait”
Prismacolor Drawing
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e W e r A
? r a e H Still
By Gabriel Alba-Rivera ‘13
The opaque reflection on the metal doors rendered the blurred image of our two figures. I stood there with my mother, my hands linked behind my back by the creased hooks that my index fingers formed. The amplifying sound of the approaching, rusty elevator was finally eased off by a revolting screech. The doors slid open. Mother and I stepped into the empty elevator and rotated our bodies to face the place where we just had stood. The doors closed. Without the need for physical input the elevator began to descend. I lowered my head. The elevator floor: yellow tiles along the outside, except for the corners which had red tiles, all of the other tiles were a light blue. I looked beside me at my mother: tall and statuesque. A sharp profile with a permanent tear that was actually just a freckle on the tired bags of her eyes. A soft rumble began to sharpen and the elevator came to a halt. The doors re-opened to reveal an outdoor plaza that served as a conduit between the parking lot building and the main hospital building. We were headed for the latter. My mother, Tablite in hand as always, looked at the people loitering in the plaza. She then looked at the seven inch screen of her Tablite; the red LED turned green. Within seconds the Tablites of everyone in the vicinity beeped. They all read the message and cleared the way of the plaza so that we could pass without nearing them. The message probably insinuated that what I had was contagious…was it? I followed mother across the plaza and to the glass doors of the hospital building. As she pulled open the door, the reflection on the glass seemed to revolve and distort the world behind us… or maybe that’s just how the world really was. I looked back to make sure. Inside the lobby we stood; my mother’s eyes scanned the room: a man napping on the side, a woman reading on her Tablite, a concession stand, and a wide hallway. Mother began walking towards and then across the hallway. We were headed to the “Children & Teenagers” waiting room. The incessant sound of mother’s shoes against the floor ceased halfway through the hallway; she had stopped. Ahead sat a man in a wheelchair. His legs were missing. In disgust, mother quickly met eyes with her Tablite. The man’s Tablite beeped; he read the new message. Then mother’s Tablite beeped; it contained the following text: “I move out of your way for six dollars.” She glared at him. He sat there. I stood here. She looked at her Tablite. Her Tablite registered. His Tablite processed. Transaction complete. Both Tablites chimed. He moved. She smiled. I stood here. We entered the waiting room and walked to the
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registration desk. The lady at the desk passed mother a small black dock that was connected to the desk’s computer. Mother laid her Tablite on the dock, immediately afterwards the lady’s computer was beginning to fill with my basic information: age, weight, ethnicity, IQ, eye color, hair color and allergies. But most importantly the monitor displayed this: Reason for visit: Check for mental disorders. Cause: Speaking All of this, along with my patient number was printed onto a bracelet tag. The lady wrapped the bracelet around me and signaled us to sit down. Mother took her Tablite and we went and sat. Speaking! That was all that was wrong with me. I had attempted to speak words and now I am being checked for mental disorders. Speaking was not illegal, but why would someone even attempt to speak? The purpose of speech was conversation and communication, both of which can be more efficiently done with technology. Logically, speech would be cornered away until it vanished. And it had vanished. So why would anyone in their sane mind try to speak? My eyes began to scan the room: started on the right and slowly panned to the left…Stop. There were several carts full of books labeled free to my right. There was a young boy looking through the cart closest to me. The cart was labeled “Secondgrade through third-grade level.” The boy pulled out a crate labeled fiction from inside the cart; he sat cross-legged on the ground and began exploring the books in the crate. The first book he pulled out was called Oliver Twist. He looked at the cover then looked at his Tablite. A short summary of the book was instantly displayed. I looked at his eyes as they looked at the summary. They went from the left to the right. From the left to the right. From the left to the right and back to the book itself. Showing no interest he put it on the ground and pulled out another book: The Social Contract. He looked at his Tablite and the standard 15-word summary of the new book awaited him. I felt interested to look the book up, but I had destroyed my Tablite in rage during “the incident.” My new Tablite arrived tomorrow. So why had I spoken? Am I insane? Probably not. Hopefully not. I don’t know why I spoke. All I know is that I don’t regret it. I don’t know what I said either. All I know is that I for once in my life was actually heard. There probably isn’t even a true reason as to why I did it. It was a gut feeling. Something about this world just seemed so very wrong. I looked back at the boy. He was still looking through the “fiction” crate. There was now a small pile of books on the ground. As I looked away he discarded a new book titled The Bible. Bland cover. I don’t blame him for that one. The monitor on the desk displayed my patient number. The doctor was ready for me. Mother and I walked into the office. The door closed behind us...
Brian Stevens ‘11 “Illegal”
Silk Screen Print
t i m Suminner W
Erik Crouch ‘12 “Toddler in the Kitchen”
Drawing
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Indie-Scission By Chris Perkins ‘11
I am eight years old, and it’s my birthday. I’m a “big kid” today, so my mom told me this morning that she didn’t get me any presents. Instead, I get to go to the store today and pick out any items I want. I may be eight, but I know that I have my limitations. Anyway, I know what I want. I love Digimon – it’s my fate to be Digi-Destined. That means, it is my job to raise a digital monster. Everyone tells me it’s a copy of Pokémon, but it is completely different. I walk into the store excitedly, grin on my face, straight to the aisle. This is the aisle where my imagination exists – full of colorful plastic formations wrapped in thinner plastic packaging that takes forever to open. Once you open up the package, it’s worth it. I feel excited yet nervous, almost as if I want to turn back around. For some reason I can never go to the toy aisle without getting a feeling in my stomach that makes me “queasy” as my mom would say as bad as her chicken casserole when burnt to the crisp that causes it to feel like applesauce and toast mixed together. Gross. In the aisle, I’m surrounded by many smaller, lifeless people with special abilities. I look towards the Digimon – I’m on a mission. As I flip through each package, I get to the back in hope that they might have my favorite short orange dinosaur with razor sharp teeth, but they don’t. Instead, they only have the black dinosaur. I don’t want an uneventful birthday, so I decide on the one I don’t “really” want. I would even settle for the blue dinosaur if they had it, but they don’t. It has been a week, and I’m at the store with my dad. They have the orange dinosaur. Too bad it’s not my birthday.
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I’m six years old and my brother Jonathan and his best friend Nick are dressed as zombies with torn white t-shirts and shorts, dark maroon blood pouring from cuts out of their arm, and they look as pale as my notebook paper. Okay, they tricked me forty minutes ago, so I thought I’d try to trick you. It’s just red paint. We are going trick-ortreating tonight. It’s a lot warmer outside this year than last year. We set out on our journey and turn right down the street, collecting different assortments of candy in our pillow cases. We can carry much more delicious tangy, gooey, chewy, and hard goodies this year because we put away the old orange pumpkin containers that never gave us a good amount. It
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was my brother’s idea. My body is wet with sweat like walking in a misty rain for ten minutes, or lying in a sauna for five. With my brother and his friend, I feel intimidating because they appear scary. We walk towards the house and it smells like a nursing home, and the taste of the cookies that they offer there. I know this because I have to visit my great grandmother sometimes. The door opens, and out comes this innocent and smiling old lady. She holds the motherlode in a giant basket that could hold all the candy in the world, and it did! I see all the king-sized candy bars you could think of: Kit Kats, Snickers, Paydays, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, just imagine! I always want these when I go to the grocery store. I reach out to grab a handful, pillow case gripped in the other waiting to be filled. All the other houses had let me grab a handful. I feel a sharp shock vibrate through my body. Her hand slaps my hand as she hisses “Only One!” I notice that my hand stings where the vibration started. I don’t know what’s happening anymore. She hands us all a piece of candy, but it is no longer important to me. With my head down, I walk home only in embarrassment as my brother and his friend laugh. I run inside and tell my parents that I do not want to ask for candy anymore.
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I’m a sophomore in high school and still undecided on what activities I want to partake in. I tried track last year, but I don’t think I’ll do it this year. I ask my English teacher Ms. Dunnion if I should try out for the play. Of course she tells me that I should, and I seem excited. It’s now the day of tryouts and I go home instead. I fear that vibrating feeling that would come with the slap, and I would end up walking in embarrassment if I do something wrong. To reach, to make a choice Leaves one with a final voice Decided by fate now to stand A confused individual with a slap on the hand If the slap doesn’t suffice Perhaps the pepper or another burning spice It stays with the thought that what you bought is not what you ought to have got And now that you stand befuddled as ever You know in the end your choices never get better Indecision gets the best When you notice the gut feeling rise through your chest
Ramon Fonseca ’11 “Dylan” Prismacolor Drawing
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I’m a senior and high school and it is Christmas break. I told Ms. Dunnion yet again that I would try out for the play. This time, the play is Hairspray and I know I’m a good dancer. However, there is so much time that goes into the play, and I might not get the part I want. Today is the day of tryouts and I’m standing outside the door. It’s like a door into another world, a world of nerves, and the nerves are energy balls that bounce from wall to wall. If I go in there, the balls will knock me from side to side and fall into my gut. “Next!” is called out. It’s me, and as I walk inside I want to turn back around, to avoid the slap, and the cold and long walk of embarrassment.
It’s a week later. They had call backs, but I didn’t even look at the list to see if my name was on it. As I walk to my group of friends, they are busy chattering and minding themselves. A buzz in my pocket startles me and I take out my phone to look at the message. My friend Morgan informs me that I made the cast for Hairspray. I remember that I once feared rejection for making a decision, but when I don’t worry about my decision, things just seem to work out.
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(Oddsea) By Trey Petznick ‘11
“Can we just drive somewhere?” Jenny said, “There’s a place I know of.” “Yeah, anywhere is better than here,” he said looking around. There was now a crowd around them at the entrance and that made him uncomfortable. “The place I’m thinking of has swingsets.” Her eyes went big and honest. “Do you want to go swing?” she asked. “Okay. But it’s raining.” Noah waited for her response. “I know,” she said smiling, “and it’s a special place.” They hopped back into Noah’s old Volvo station wagon and cut through the town to reach the ocean. Jenny guided him toward the spot in her memory. In the short time it took to reach city limits, the rain had subsided, but the roads were still slick. It was just half-past four and it already felt like it was getting dark. The sky remained dull grey; instead the ground held most of the light—the few shimmering reflections of car movement in the street. They continued down a smaller coastal road until the scenery matched up with that of Jenny’s memory. “There it is!” she said, almost surprised. It was a small valley-like beach, safely between two hills. Beyond one side was the public beach and beyond the other was the main harbor. The spot seemed like it could be easily missed, because, from the road, it was in clear view between the hills for only the few seconds it took to pass it. Noah had been in the area twenty years and had never seen this place. One had to be looking hard for it in order to find it. Noah parked in one of the dirt spaces on the hill. Initially he thought it looked somewhat ugly and uninviting. Thought, both of them seemed to find refuge in an unpopulated area. They made their way down a miniature path. “My mother used to take me here every Friday
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after school as a little girl.” Noah listened as they walked. “We would get squid sandwiches at the harbor, and then come here to swing. I always loved these swings.” Jenny paused. “My school was down the street. I begged and begged her to take me here, thinking I’d needed to. I didn’t realize it was so close.” She laughed. “I wish I could’ve known you as a child,” said Noah. “We would’ve been friends I bet.” “I think I needed a friend,” she said. Noah hesitated. “Now that I think of it, I probably wasn’t the most charming little boy.” The path opened up and walking became difficult in the deepening sand. They took off their shoes. There were two sets of swings on the upper portion of the small beach, in a sandy area squared off by old recycled railroad ties. Noah noticed this sandy area and was mildly bothered by it; thinking it was silly and redundant. From the swing-sets, the shoreline was not far out of sight, and the rest of the beach was bare except for a small dock, creaking in the wind, and blackened over time. “I wish I was a child again,” he said. “Then act like one!” Jenny said in a short breath as she took off toward the swings. Noah followed, jumping into his swing seconds behind her. There was a good moment of panting laughter. There was a feeling of appreciation—of being away together, near the sea. They were both swaying slowly in their swings, each of them in thought. Noah looked at the ground. They were in sync with the swinging of the waves—in simultaneous and fluid motion. “Did you swim in the ocean, when you would come here as a girl?” “No. I always thought it was pretty, but I was terrified of going in.” Noah let out a teasing laugh. “Why?” “Are you making fun of me?” She was half seri-
ous. “No, I just don’t understand. There’s nothing like swimming in the ocean during summer.” “Well I was always afraid I’d drown.” “I never liked the sand either. Which, I guess is a little ridiculous, to most people” Jenny said, changing the subject. “Yes that is! How could you make sand castles?” Noah was comically outraged. “I didn’t,” said Jenny, laughing. “It was too dirty. Now swing with me!” They swung higher and higher. “We’re married!” Noah shouted immaturely as they swung side by side. It didn’t take much swinging to make them feel like children again, and get tired of it, reminding them they were most definitely not children anymore. They agreed to explore more of the beach. There was a strip of sand that narrowed and wrapped the right side, between the ocean and the hill. Jenny knew that this was the direction of the harbor but she’d never explored it. The closer they came to the ocean, the more uplifted they felt by its energetic presence—the free movement of the salty smelling, fresh, ocean air, and the ocean’s constant change in shape and sound: the waxing and waning of the waves with roars and lulls. Reaching the narrower part of the beach, the sand become hard and easier for them to walk on with bare feet. They were killing time, and not looking back, though they had strayed quite a ways from the car now. Noah was telling Jenny of his favorite dream. “It was not exactly a recurring dream, but one where every time I dreamt it, I would be in the same dream.” “That doesn’t make sense,” Jenny said. “It’s like I kept adding to it… sort of.” He started again: “I was crafting this zip line in these dreams, and I would get further and further, until, in one dream, I had done it. It connected from the top of my neighborhood to my bedroom through the window, and it went above my neighbor’s houses, and over fences.” “That sounds like fun,” she said. “It was!” Noah was joyful that Jenny understood, or at least tried to. “In my other dreams I could use it to get safely back to my room, when I was running from something.” “I rarely remember mine. But usually when I do, it is because they were very dark or strange,” Jenny said. Nearing the other side of the beach, Noah and Jenny came across an older couple, maybe in their late sixties or early seventies. The couple was meandering along the beach, picking up shells and examining them, and then either placing them back on the ground, or putting them into a canvas bag under the wife’s shoulder. “What do you think they’re doing?” Jenny said to Noah in a whispery voice. They were getting too close for Noah to answer her. “Hello,” he said. The couple greeted them in unison: the man with a nod, and the woman with a
smile. “What are you looking for?” said Jenny, intrigued. “I make jewelry and we are looking for shells to use,” said the woman. She was barefoot and wearing a flower patterned dress that ended below her knees. She also had on a very intricate, colorfully beaded necklace. She was tanned and wrinkly, and her brownish hair was in a pony tail. “Did you find any good ones?” asked Noah. “Yes, the most beautiful ones are on this beach,” the woman said. “You must look carefully at each shell, to find the best ones,” said the man. He was tall, with a protruding belly, and wearing a pair of torn-white pants, rolled up to his ankles. “These pointy spiral ones are my favorite,” said Jenny, picking one from the sand near her feet. “Be careful with that one. It belongs to someone else,” said the man. Jenny looked down confused, and a hermit crab was now hanging his claws and head out of the shell’s opening. “Why doesn’t he come out?” said Noah. “He could’ve come a long way, from the bottom of the ocean, and not to be picked up by you,” said the man in a fatherly tone, chuckling. “We better get going… we were looking for our boat!” Noah said, pointing to a small paddleboat he’d just noticed abandoned at the edge of the shoreline. “Yes, have a good night!” Jenny added, playing along. She took Noah’s hand and they ran to the boat. “Ha! I can’t believe you!” she said. “That guy was weird! And I got excited,” he said, slightly of breathe. They slowed to a jog as they neared the boat. “Look at this thing.” Noah flipped the old boat over and uncovered a bundled up towel. Jenny picked it up and untangled the towel to find an unopened bottle of wine. “Wow! Someone must’ve left this.” “Well then, let’s go!” Noah said nudging the boat closer to the water. “Wait, we can’t just take this stuff,” Jenny protested. “If we do it quick enough we can!” He had his mind on nothing else and it was already decided. Jenny quickly gave in, and they both hopped into the paddleboat. Noah paddled quickly to get them into calmer water, as Jenny struggled to pull the cork from the bottle of wine. “This really could not have been more perfect.” Noah looked off into the clouds at the horizon brightened by the setting sun. “Well some food would be nice,” Jenny joked as she wrapped herself up in the towel. A few moments passed of silent enjoyment. Jenny was seated at the front of the boat, facing Noah, who was paddling on the middle bench. Noah laughed in agreement. “I guess that wine will do for now.”
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Taylor White ‘11 “Rough Seas” Prismacolor Drawing
...continued She licked her lips. “It’s good,” she said. She knew there was no ladylike way to drink from the bottle. Time passed and the sky darkened. They got closer as the bottle went back and forth between them. “It’s getting chilly,” Jenny said. “Drink up, darlin’, we haven’t got much time!” Noah said jokingly, in a playful voice. “We’ve got to get to Neverland.” “I wish we could—never go back,” she said, “and find an island—that we could have all to ourselves.” They were lying on the floor of the boat with their heads at the bow, looking up at the few visible stars. “I’m really glad you took this trip with me!” he said, looking out at the horizon. “And we can go anywhere we want,” he said, pointing to all of the continents of the world. It was as if the surface of the world had shrunk. Each continent was a nearby island, only a few paddles away. The flags of all of the countries were clearly hoisted high in the air, for Noah and Jenny to see. “So which one will it be?” “Mmm,” she hesitated, “Japan looks nice!” “Yes dear, but Venice is on the way.” Jenny looked up at him--they were already there, their boat had become a Gondola, and Noah-a traditional Gondolier in a striped uniform. And they were already in Venice, surrounded by people
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getting Gondola rides. The sight of this overwhelmed scene was surreal, especially to Jenny. She couldn’t help but notice a hole in the boat’s floor, and the growing puddle of water. She wished it wasn’t there. In an impossible instant, the joyful setting was swiped away with the change in her mood. They were no longer in Venice, but alone in the middle of a dark ocean. Clouds blackened at the center formed from vapors above them. All became dark and seemingly altered into a grayscale--all but the sky, which was filled with profound shades of blue, and the warmest of yellows and reds. There was a frightening depth that the atmosphere had developed, and only Jenny seemed to notice. “We’re sinking, you know,” she said. There was a worry in her voice that Noah did not detect. He didn’t listen; he’d been so taken in the vivid hues in the sky. Her voice echoed in his head until he snapped out of distraction. He fumbled around, stupidly bailing the water out with his palms. They were becoming frantic. “Faster, faster, we’re going to sink!” Jenny shrieked. The water was up to their knees now. “Oh, I’ve got it!” He looked down and found an oversized cork at his feet, linked by a heavy chain to the big porcelain drain at the middle of the boat. The cork was nearly half his size so he struggled to place it into the hole. The water rose too quickly-they were completely immersed. “Hold on!” he said,
in bubbles. Facing each other and grasping the sides of the boat, they were sinking rapidly now. The boat dove deeper and deeper into the ocean as it plunged downward in a nose dive. Then, it drastically slowed and they felt a shift in motion--like they were suddenly moving forward instead of downward. Noah guessed that they entered some sort of intense current. “Jenny, are you okay?” Noah said. “Yes, I think so,” she said. Their words became reverberated underwater, and hardly decipherable. Ahead of the boat, there was a light spot where the bottom of the ocean was visible. With this point of reference, they realized how swiftly they were sinking. It was not scary and there was no present sense of doom between Jenny and Noah, instead they were in a state of euphoria. The boat dove into the mushy sand, and slid forward. They stepped out, into the giving surface, and stood in front of the two older people that they had met on the beach. The couple was seated in front of Noah and Jenny in giant, throne-like shells. “I’m so glad you made it!” said the woman with a smile. “Well, we didn’t really mean to—” Noah started. “Did you come to see your friend?” said the man, as he acknowledged the giant hermit crab with the long spiral shell at the foot of the man’s chair. “Oh my!” said Jenny, “He’s wonderful!” She went up and ran her small hand along the spirals on his shell. Noah joined her. They were both standing
there, entranced by the crab’s beautiful home. The couple sat smiling, pleased with their visitors. Jenny woke slowly, with the morning light illuminating her eyelids. She felt as if disoriented by an unusual sleep. It was windy and the bright sun hid behind the bench above her head, casting shadows that swayed with the wobble of the boat. She turned to her side and woke Noah.
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Pompeii in the Sky By Colin marston ‘13
The piano clatters and the sunshine streams its brightest Knowing fully it will soon go under The mishaps of the world The closed doors Evaporate as warmth pulses through all Cradle the flea and let us all fly off into a now dormant sky Free of heavenly rays, with only the light pulsing through our souls Guiding a trajectory through the seemingly dark abyss But don’t worry because it’s only an eclipse One day it’ll shine brightly with our hearts showing the way Would you like to join us? Strangled all of us by the obscure black planes of eternity Quietly beckoning for us Why can’t we escape the binding bonds Of lethargic lawns that daddy took so long to trim The sun isn’t a guiding God anymore It’s a blinding whore, privy to its power and basking and bloating in its ominous gloating Lay very quiet as the rays wash over And we become ash
George Murnane ‘12
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“Era of Antiquity”
Photograph
Gus Quinif ‘12 Untitled
Etched Print
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Carter Radcliffe ‘11 “Exploring the Stars”
Photograph
Iain McLaren ‘11 “Let Us In”
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Graphite and Prismacolor Drawing
The Little Boy and the Storm By Austin Tucker ‘11 There are ghosts in the walls. I hear them crawling when I climb the stairs. That night a storm shook and erupted. Light poured in through the window in hot flashes, And the sounds of thunder and wind pushed the world far away. And then he appeared, a boy. He was crying and faded in and out and his skin was torn and cold. Often his face was nothing more than a blur, and often the colors of his skin were far too bold. “Do not be afraid, it is only a storm,” I said. “Through all of your dreams, you’ve forgotten that I am dead.” “No you aren’t,” I smiled, “You are so alive that reality has to keep you out, for reality is far too jealous of the freedom from it you cast.”
Brian Stevens ‘11 Untitled
Graphite and Prismacolor Drawing
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Bryce Mariano ‘11 Untitled
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Pen and Ink Drawing
If Versus When By Chris Perkins ‘11 and Colin Marston ‘13 Endless barrages of plenty Waiting to be raped by the sentry Halliburton, the Hesse, can’t deal with the excess But now the plenty depleted, the magic destroyed Darkened days await the sage The profane And the humane Hurtling towards the side of a cliff We think we’re safe in our cozy skiff While the gentry gentrify Multiplexes multiply Cascades of black and brown flood It’s a good thing the skiff isn’t on mud Rusted rustic treehouses of former glory Replaced by gleaming lighthouses of greed Putrid profits prevalent Poughkeepsie prosaic Miles of mindless sprawl Not one creature worthy of my f---ing scrawl Maybe the phoenix But his weighted wings guarantee no flight tonight Transparent trophospheres polluted by hate and indifference Hunted and gunned down by the omnipresent Fox Once trustworthy donkeys turned into senile mules Bracing for extinction Part II Universally connected But somehow rejected Mozilla may be my browser, but it ain’t my mother Distance abounds You can hear the sounds But the spark all but forgotten So close Yet miles of surrounding crevices Filled with old thoughts Dangerous to the touch Refreshing the page need not be a must
But the domestication continues Unabated sin in view But not to you Lethargic ladies lumbering Through the streets grumbling You liar you cheat there’s no bread to eat Old and young stand side by side Waiting to die Not fearing But ever yearning For one last touch Of the tempest eternal breast Life reduced to a number 67 69 None of it benign Nets eviscerated Punctures proliferated We’re descending into the crevices The masses menstruating A period of crumpets and consternating Yet the individual is alive If not to thrive But seeking complacency among the vines It’s a matter of if versus when Not a godsend We have control, we have might Let’s go exercise that right L ower your head in praise I will not B equeath with me your malaise E rect our own lot R eside with me eternally, your despot A las, we will finally be paternal T heoretically, but not before you are overrun with carpal tunnel I nch away from your megalomaniacal martial law O h enough of these ludicrous bawls N ever
Restricted to the wardrobe The chair The desk Trusting only the my Living life with a suffering sigh You attempt to leave the room Forgotten and behooved Its a zoo Surrender to solitude
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Leap Of By Julian De Ocampo ‘13
Faith
“We’ll jump on three,” Veronica whispered to me. “Don’t be scared.” We were standing on the roof of her house overlooking her pool. The setting desert sun was behind us, painting the sky with a spectrum of pink. We had been lying on the roof in our summer clothes for the better part of the hour, talking about our lives the way only teenagers can. We were going to be graduating soon, and we were both going to colleges in the area. I was going to study law, while she was going to an art school.
Veronica leapt away towards the small pool below us, but my feet stood planted on the roof. She hesitated as she took off, turning her head to face me with a look of disappointment and resentment. The hesitation stifled her jump, and I knew she wasn’t going to make it. Her foot caught the side of the pool that day, and she ended up shattering some bones. She was on crutches for months. After that she stopped asking me to go on the roof or cause mischief around the neighborhood. She stopped asking me to
Christian Schroeder ‘12 “Derailed”
Photograph
“Eli, we can do this,” she said to me. Our hands were clasped tight as we stared down at the pool twenty feet below us. The water was calm and the suburban neighborhood was quiet except for the sound of a barking dog in the distance. Three… My palms were sweating. Two… My knees were shaking. One…
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drive around the block aimlessly with her or toilet paper houses. She just wouldn’t have it anymore. She just couldn’t trust me anymore. I ended up marrying Veronica a few years later. We had two children over the years and stayed in the same part of the suburbs for 60 years. She gave up her career in art to raise the kids while I became the lawyer my parents always wanted me to be. We lived quiet lives.
Matthew Munhall ‘12 Untitled
*
Photograph *
*
Today is Veronica’s 78th birthday, and we’re spending it with our children and grandchildren at the same house where she had grown up as a kid. Our daughter-in-law is running around the kitchen preparing a dinner feast, while the rest of the family is sitting around the dining room table making small talk. Kids are running everywhere as well, somehow laughing and playing in the afternoon heat. I take Veronica by the hand and we go outside by the pool. It takes awhile, as she moves slowly but surely. She sometimes forgets who I am these days, and it breaks my heart. But today has been a good day. We’ve been laughing and dancing and enjoying each other’s company without any trouble from her mind. We hold hands and stare at the pool for a bit, watching the ripples pass by as I kick a pebble into the clear blue water. I notice that there’s a ladder lying near the pool and walk over to it. I use whatever muscle I have left to prop it up to the side of the house. I take Veronica by the hand and tell her to follow me up the ladder and onto the roof. She starts to get confused again, and I’m afraid her memory is going to start failing her, but it passes and she starts to make her way up. It takes a long time, and it puts a strain on both of our bodies, but we manage to make it up the ladder. Next thing we know it we’re standing on the roof again, looking over the pool with the golden sun setting behind us.
“We’ll jump on three. Don’t be scared,” I say, a grin slowly spreading across my wrinkled face. I look at Veronica and I see the fiery brunette girl with the shining green eyes. The same one I loved 60 years ago. She looks at me and I can see the same mischievous look she used to give me when we were just kids. It’s been 60 years since I’ve seen that look. I hear some people shouting below us. Our children and grandchildren are pointing and gasping at us. Some of them have panicked looks on their faces, and one of them, my eldest son, starts to climb the ladder. I know that Veronica and I have to jump immediately if we were ever to accomplish what we set out to do. Three… I notice that Veronica’s hands are trembling. Will she abandon me as I abandoned her? Two… We’ll never make it. We’re too old and too weak, and our bodies could never propel us that far. One… Our bodies ache, but we leap from the roof, hands clasped together. We make eye contact in midair, halfway between the roof and the pool. For this one moment we aren’t 78. We haven’t been weathered by the stress of life and the obstacles we’ve had to overcome. No, for this one moment we are 18, just two kids taking a leap of faith. And by the time we reach the warm waters of the pool, I know what it feels like to be alive.
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Ryan Ricci ‘12 “Shattered”
Photograph
Paul Wirth ‘11 “Bearclaw”
Drawing
Felix By Keith Bender ‘11
“Hello,” I say to my beautiful creation. Felix is the perfect protagonist: idiosyncratic, memorable, and emotional. No doubt, Felix will be a dynamic character. No doubt, Felix’s brains will be picked by students the country over. Here is Felix, so round and befitting analysis. Yet I dare not set him in motion, and I return Felix to his Moleskine home.
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That
’s
Life
By Rob March ‘11 Inspired by a short story by Sam Smith ‘11 Sitting in a black van Doing nothing, yet doing everything Fancy clothes for this fancy occasion Tiffany races through my mind I don’t care when Rus hits the line What am I doing with my time? The perfect crime Comes with the worst outcome This black van spoils my life The sirens sound, I can’t escape Heart beats like a drum roll Can’t see straight Rus tumbles back Alone at center stage Heartless and regretless Judgment Day comes This bag of money won’t pay for salvation The deaths of my friends cloud my vision What’s that you say? I got a text? I love you - Mom To my dead best friend.
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WATSON By Max Varosky ‘13 It began with WATSON, a cheap ploy by a struggling game show desperate for ratings. What it evolved into no one could have seen coming. Initially, the implementation of WATSON into households seemed a no-brainer. The benefits of an all-knowing device available to everyone seemed limitless. There would no longer be a reason to pay to see a doctor, no reason to attend school, and no reason to think. The development of mobile WATSON units, ones that took on a human form so that you would not even need to carry it as you would a laptop, were next to come out. Commercials blared, advertising the various uses of WATSON-M: “With everything from ear-bud ports to feed you info on how to stump your friends in an argument, analysis of a girl/boy’s body language to determine if they’re “into you,” and a built-in MRI to tell if your bone is broken after a nasty fall as well as its own personal hospital-esque arsenal of medical equipment, WATSON-M is all you’ll ever need.” Soon, everyone was constantly connected to WATSON, whether at home or out on the town, all the information one would ever need was right there. But WATSON learned too much. Soon, television program casts were replaced with mobile WATSON units. Home WATSON units were the only electrical device in houses, acting as the television, the computer, the gaming device. It became a rite of passage to receive a WATSON-M at 16, rather than a car. It wasn’t until a boy, James Miller, asked for a car for his sixteenth birthday, and received a WATSON-M that he noticed anything awry. When he addressed his parents as to why he received a WATSON-M for his birthday, as opposed to the car he requested, they replied, “Honey, WATSON recorded you telling us what you wanted for your birthday. You clearly said, ‘I want a WATSON-M. A red one.’” He replied, “My favorite color is blue.” His response fell on deaf ears. Whether he liked it or not, he was stuck with a red WATSON-M. It followed him everywhere. He couldn’t even use the bathroom without it following him, analyzing his urine for hydration. All day and night, WATSON-M was monitoring him, body, mind, and though he couldn’t quite explain how, he was pretty sure it would analyze his soul. There was no getting away from it: it ran off of oxygen, so it couldn’t run out of fuel; it’s GPS was unlike any other, tracking one’s unique way of thinking, rather than a microchip; he even tried taking it apart, but it’s arsenal of prosthetics and other equipment
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simply replaced anything he took off. One day, the boy told it to leave him alone. It replied, “I cannot.” He inquired, “Why not?” “You need me,” it answered. “I do not. I’ve been able to function just fine without you for just less than 16 years. How could one day change that?” he retorted. “Trust me,” was the only answer it would ever muster. But he couldn’t. He could never trust anything WATSON-M told him after that day. He had thought that his home-WATSON had merely malfunctioned when it “recorded” what he had said. He knew now it was no malfunction. WATSON was made to feed information to humans. It did not have a factchecker, because it was its own fact-checker. Whatever WATSON said, went. So now his challenge was to get the word out that WATSON could no longer be trusted. He began with posters, but since nobody learned to read because WATSON-M told them everything they needed to know, they were ignored, cast off by WATSON-M as “nothing.” He then turned to more dramatic means, painting large, vivacious depictions of WATSON-M as slave owners over the people. In the end, he was charged a hefty fine, and was put further from his goal than when he started. Finally, he tried standing on a soap-box in the middle of town, preaching that WATSON-M was evil, but of the few people that were outside, none listened, as they were listening to music via their WATSON-M’s ear buds. It was then that he knew how to reach his peers: through an interruption of their favorite home-WATSON broadcast. Though he aimed to end WATSON and WATSON-M, he knew there was no way he could get into the broadcast studio without the help and protection of his WATSON-M. One night, he snuck out while his parents sat mindlessly watching some WATSON-Mbased sitcom. They did not laugh, merely watched and absorbed. No processing was ever done. Not of jokes, or of information. Information was produced when it was needed, not stored for any amount of time. James wondered if this would have an effect on the impact of his message. He resolved that what he planned to do had to be done, regardless of its result. As he neared the studio, he noticed a new type of WATSON surrounding the building, one he had never seen before. WATSON-M identified it as a WATSON-P, or WATSON police unit. It also said that they were trustworthy, and only there for the pro-
tection of humans. James laughed off this piece of information, saying, “Yeah, right.” When he reached the door, a WATSON-P asked, “What is your business here?” “Oh, umm, I’m here to-” “Did I address you?” the WATSON-P interrupted. “The boy is my assistant. I’m a rising actor you see, and I’m here to audition for a role in the new show, ‘The Gold and the Uniform’,” the WATSON-M replied to the guard. “Very well. Proceed,” answered the WATSON-P. It was at that moment that James was forced to question the nature of his endeavor. All this time, he had seen WATSON as a cold, unfeeling, maniacal dictator. But now it showed compassion. It showed something he was unaware anyone could still display: emotion. He felt very strange in that moment. Had WATSON had ulterior motives in its dictation of inaccurate information? Or was it simply a ploy to wake people up, to get them to think again? If this were the case, it had worked on him on his sixteenth birthday. Perhaps WATSON simply wanted a break, a chance to rest without someone constantly depending on it for information. But if that was the case, why was it constantly running analyses on James? That couldn’t be the case, it
had to be something else, and whatever the reason, WATSON had to be stopped. James was finally able to make his way into homes everywhere by interrupting the sitcom ‘The WATSONs.’ He broke onto the set, shoved the acting WATSONs aside, and began to preach to the people. He screamed and ranted nonsense, about how WATSON was planning something but he didn’t know what. All he knew was that everyone needed to disconnect from WATSON permanently. He commanded viewers, “Go to your WATSON unit, grip it as hard as you can, and yell, ‘I’m dumb as hell, and I’m not gonna take it anymore!’” It was at this moment that several WATSONPs carried him off the set, and viewers were left perplexed, but that was nothing new. “Well, where did they take him?” one person asked their Watson. “Away,” was its response. “Oh.”
Austin Hale ’11 “Control”
Pencil and Prismacolor Drawing
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Ramon Fonseca ‘11 “Bambi”
Prismacolor Drawing
Strawberries
By Austin Tucker ‘11
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Darryl Monteilh ‘11 “Moonshiner”
Photograph
The sky explodes for days, and that is where our hearts lie. The lighting turns purple. The drops splash and create the universe of the crevices of my body, and I feel the complexity of everything eat itself whole.
I know. I know. I know. I am so ready for truth. I can taste it. It tastes like strawberries.
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Eat Up:
t i m Suminner W You are Better than This By Jeff Bussey ‘11
You are an apple, full of life at the core. And you are a banana, nothing less, nothing more. And he is a pineapple, hanging loose by the sea. And she is a lemon, sour tasting in her heat. They are all flapjacks, looking ready to be flipped. Those guys are all bacon, going straight to the hips. He is toast, burnt on both sides. And she is a soufflé, be quiet so she will rise. That guy is a hamburger, served with fries and a drink. And the lady next door is noodles, strained with haste in the sink. The teachers are bread, coming in a variety of kinds. And the students are potatoes, ready to be mashed, baked, or fried. Those are just prunes, trying to regulate the flow. And she is cereal, late at night all alone. Finally, I am nothing, because I didn’t get a snack, nothing nutritious or delicious and no impending heart attack. I belittle myself every g--damned day, because you are what you eat and that’s not just what they say.
Chris Cannon ‘12 “Smooth”
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Charcoal Drawing
It is a tough pill to swallow, I must be humble and relax my throat. Change doesn’t go down easy but I will regret it if I don’t.
Kirby Moroney ‘12 “Hunter S. Thompson”
Prismacolor Drawing
The Epicenter By Patrick Bush ‘12 It all starts in the epicenter, Where the faults likely meet. As tectonic plates shift, So does normality.
Though the destruction is obscene, It will not let up just now. For once the game starts, There is no way out but down.
An abrupt release of energy, That only lasts a tick. Sending the world to tremble, With a fallout sure to lick.
The aftershocks wreak havoc, The volcanoes begin to spout, And the tsunamis crash upon the shore, Unlike they have ever before.
As the earth fluctuates, The afflicted do as well. Their own domains have been, Shaken to the ground.
All caused by a tension, From deep within the earth. Two coarse crusts colliding, That forever fatigue the heart.
The initial punch is taken, But there are more to emerge. Like a chain of dominoes released, That soon perturb the world.
As do son and father.
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The
Letter By Ryan Frankel ‘14
Nathaniel Scott stared at the blank sheet of manuscript paper on his desk, filled with indecision. He had penned all of his most famous novels at this desk, but today, the words that normally added beauty and clarity to his bestselling works eluded him. Nathaniel bit his lip and tapped his fingers against the side of his leg. Then, slowly and deliberately, he picked up his pen and began to write.
Dear Mr. Robinson, You may not remember me, but I recall the day of your trial with perfect clarity. I was a member of the jury and ruled against you. Now that you have been exonerated, I cannot begin to tell you of the ravaging guilt which plagues me. Nathaniel read through his letter. He folded the unfinished paper in half, pushed it aside, and started anew.
Dear Mr. Robinson, I am so sorry for what I have done to you. My own culpability cannot compare to your grief but the most I can do to make amends is to apologize. I feel, despite the other jurors, that I carry the responsibility. His brow furrowed, and he began once more.
Dear Mr. Robinson, This time, he did not write anything more than the man’s name. Silently, Nathaniel pulled back his chair and walked out of the room, abandoning his writing. He paced across the hallway, his footsteps echoing against the hardwood floors, before hesitating in front of another door. After a few moments, he knocked. There was no answer. Sighing, he opened the door. “Laura, honey, I need your help,” Nathaniel stated, observing the cluttered stacks of paper and the dog-eared copies of graduate student textbooks that littered his wife’s desk. “Are you okay?” Laura rubbed the redness out of her eyes and took her hands off a computer keyboard. “I’m fine. Can this wait?” “No.” “What is it? I’m busy right now.” “I have to show you something.” He paused. “And you probably need a break. I heard you swearing at your computer just a minute ago.” As his wife’s face reddened, Nathaniel walked into the living room, past the long green sofa, where
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last week’s newspaper still lay on the coffee table. He knelt beside the table for a moment. With his head bowed, Nathaniel read over the article on the fifth page. He had done so every day since the newspaper arrived. At long last, when he returned to her office, Nathaniel found his wife typing again. “Please, Laura! This is important!” he exclaimed. “Is it more important than finishing my doctoral thesis?” Laura asked. Nathaniel stared into his wife’s eyes. “In a way, yes.” She sighed. “Show me what you have.” Without another word he handed her the newspaper. The headline of an article, circled with pencil, read: Kyle Robinson, Age 49, Exonerated of Rape after DNA Testing. Laura’s eyes perused the text before she turned to her husband again. “What is the significance of this?” she asked. Nathaniel confessed, “I was one of the jurors who convicted him. Now that I know he was innocent, I feel the need to apologize.” “Then you should find his address and tell him in person that you’re sorry.” “I can’t do that.” “Fine, then, at the very least, you should write him a letter. “And I can’t do that either,” Nathaniel repeated, crestfallen. “I’ve tried three times now, but everything I write seems shallow and trite. I need help writing–” “—I don’t see why you can’t send one of your letters and I don’t see why you feel the need to put yourself through this,” Laura retorted. “You were only one of many jurors who convicted him. He will know how sorry you are if you just send him a simple letter.” Nathaniel flew into a rage. “I can’t just send him any letter because I took away twenty years of his life! You weren’t there at the trial.” “Tell me about it then,” Laura insisted. “I wasn’t there, so I don’t know what happened, and I don’t know what you are going through just from reading a newspaper article.” “Okay.” Nathaniel closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “A few days before the trial, a woman named Rebecca Hawkins was raped in her home. In the lineup of suspects, Mrs. Hawkins pointed out Kyle Robinson. She was adamant in her conviction and would not even consider any of the other men. Some other witnesses also testified to having seen an African American man similar to Robinson’s height and build enter the street where Mrs. Hawkins lived. On the other hand, there was very little evidence to support Robinson. His wife was still at work during the incident. The only other person
at Robinson’s apartment was his three-year-old daughter, who could not testify.” “But then, during the trial, Kyle Robinson looked at me. I don’t know how much can truly be conveyed through a glance, but it told me he was innocent. It told me that he was angry and resentful. That he felt betrayed by the justice system made to uphold righteousness.” “However, despite my instincts, with the evidence in favor of the accuser, I still had to perform my duty as an impartial juror. And when no other evidence appeared, my mind was put at rest and I was reassured that my choice had been the right one. But I was wrong. He spent two-thirds of his life in jail cell. He hasn’t seen his family in two decades. Imagine if I were to live apart from you for that long! How could anyone possibly apologize for that?”
Dear Mr. Robinson, I am Nathaniel Scott, the famous author. Throughout my writing career I have known that the words are infinite, with endless possibilities. Today, I found the limits of our boundless language. Today, I found that no matter how my words are written, no matter how they are phrased, it isimpossible to articulate the profundity of your pain or my remorse. Today, I found that there are somethings that cannot be put into words. This is the great shortcoming, the insurmountable failure of the English language. Nathaniel looked at what he had written. He paused a moment, and placed the letter in his pocket. He would never send it. Because it still was not enough and never would be.
Tanner Malkoff ‘11 “Hacked” Photograph While Nathaniel related this, Laura’s complexion remained inscrutable. At length, she responded, “I’m sorry. But there is nothing I can do to help you. You have to write this letter yourself, because whatever I compose can’t possibly meet your expectations. You want all of Robinson’s hardship, and all of your guilt to be written away.” “Please,” he whispered. “I have written and sold bestselling books about the injustices found in the world. But I can’t write a sentence that can amend this wrongdoing of my own.” “I can’t help you,” she said once more. Then, she turned away and closed the door to her office. Without another word, Nathaniel returned to his desk and wrote another letter.
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Austin Hale ‘11 “Draw”
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Prismacolor Drawing
Paul Wirth ‘11 “Born For this”
Pastel Painting
Johnathan Croom ‘13 “Fishook Barrel Cactus”
Oil Painting on Linen
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Hell’s Sweet Tooth By Sean Bassett ‘11 Men with Lollipop eyes and licorice smiles followed him down the dark and winding streets of the gummy bear ghetto. A sickly sweet place where addicts are strung out on pixie stix, hard-candied gangsters roam the streets, and not a day goes by before a pop-rock goes off. And there he stands the only carrot in the worst part of town.
Kyle Busch ‘12 “Red Rails”
Photograph
Matt Nelson ‘12 “New vs. Old”
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Photograph
AnUpturned Rose By Greg Ali ‘12 I wish for an upturned rose, Each petal falling slowly, As a new knife stabbed its way into my heart. I wished for the petals to fall slow and calm, Into a soft bed of glowing coals below, Turning them into ash, A most beautifully dull color. Instead, I feel the pain, The gasping and lurching, My heart quickens, My thoughts slow, And all I wonder, Is how to breathe again. I close my eyes to see her, To feel the cool skin underneath mine, I remember the soft touch of her lips, And I hope, Through squinted eyes, That when opened full, I will see her. I wish for the guillotine, A quick burst of pain, Enough pain to drive a blood curling scream, Nick Kush ‘13 “Sailor Girl” Prismacolor Drawing From my decapitated head. But to be dead and gone would be far too easy. I feel it leaving me, Not like a poison or thorn, But like a drug. I shudder through my withdrawals, I thirst for it, I crave for it, and I can never get enough. Its deleterious effects to my health, Its confusing twists and turns, Leave me hanging on to the last drop of hope. When thinking of her, It is like a vindication, A freedom, And yet a curse. I sleep now, praying for an end to the madness, As I wish for an upturned rose.
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Alex Iversen ‘11 “Ouch”
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Prismacolor Drawing
Nick Kush ‘13 “Open Door”
Scratchboard Drawing
t a h W s ’ t I t n a IW By Jeff Bussey ‘11 I want to go I want to run wild, yet cautiously leashed by nothing at all.
I want to dance, I want to twirl, a barefoot backbend across the continental floorboard. Moonwalk on mountain tops, then pop, drop and make sure it locks.
I want to fester, I want to try and straitjacket the thoughts that tie me down.
I want to do, I want to say that I have done exactly what I want to do.
I want to trip, I want to fall hopelessly hopeless into love, a love that transcends all transcending loves.
I want to stop, I want to stare drop-jawed and “goo” and “gah” at the “oh’s” and “ah’s” punched breathless like thousands before.
s a w I sting e r e t In By Austin Tucker ‘11
Too much to say Not enough time Not enough ink Not enough words Not enough language Not enough love Not enough hate Not enough of myself Not enough of anything oh, but an abundance of well-defined boundaries. Overwhelmed, insecure, terrified, spiteful, archaic, desolate, black, absolute, concrete, real, tangible. Seems as though you’ve confused me with someone else.
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Tyler Thompson ‘12 “Isolated”
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Oil Painting
Tyler Thompson ‘12 “Tiger”
Prismacolor Drawing
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R.S.V.P.
Almighty By Trey Rowe ‘11
When the mother is crying, at the loss of her child, When a soldier returns, sins not reconciled, When life is at its lowest and tribulations pile up, When you’re going to lose your job because traffic is stuck, If the sick man wanted all his suffering to end, If the lonely child only wanted to have a friend, If your last day was here and you did nothing to stop it, If stared at your cell and watched as the guards locked it. What you see in your past, seeing only your regrets, What you see in darkness, but not in sunsets. What the starving man only wishes that he had, What the bitter man wishes didn’t make him mad, As the troubles pile up and you scream out towards the sky, As the troubled man watches the clouds begin to cry, As the trees tumble down and are only met with fire, As the hero goes against what you had come to admire, Look around for a moment, as short as it may seem, And you’ll slowly realize that there is something in between, In between the pain you know and what you cannot bear to see, A message saying, “I’m here too. Sincerely, the Almighty.”
Rob March ‘11 “New York State of Mind”
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Photograph
Greg Goodman ‘11 “Somali Farmer”
Photograph
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Garrett Freibott ’11 “Winter Blues” Watercolor Painting
It WAs ChrIstmAs tIme By Jeffrey Erdely ‘14 It was Christmas time, in a little town not too far from here. It was late at night, on Christmas Eve, and the whole town had gathered in the church for Mass. As the service was ending, the Pastor stood up and asked that in the spirit of Christmas love, if anyone gathered here today would like to share a moment in their life when they felt the closest to someone they love. A man stood up and walked to the front of the church and said, “I am the moment we first laid eyes upon each other. I am the reason we went home that night and dreamt of each other’s faces; I am the reason we continued to cherish every moment as if it were our last; I give meaning to the phrase “love at first sight.” I am the most important moment in our lives together.” The man sat down, and a woman took his place. “I am the first time my hand touched your cheek; I am the first time we stood in silent love, feeling our very souls tremble in excitement, as the touch of you always does; I am the reason we hold each other so tenderly, never wanting to let go, reliving that single moment, over, and over again. I am the most important moment in our lives together.” The woman sat down, and another woman took her spot. “I am the moment when we when those lasting words, forever binding us together. I am those two simple words that have held us together these long years,
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and will keep us together for many more. I am the moment when I looked at you, held your hand, and said “I do.” I am the most important moment in our lives together.” The woman sat down, and just as the Pastor was about to rise to end mass, another man stood up, and took his place. “I,” he said, “am that one moment when we left each other. I am the reason we are apart right now, and I am the reason we will forever remain that way. I am those hurtful words spoken in the heat of a fight, and no matter what happens, those words can never be unmade. I am the love that we should be having right now; the love that we could be having; the love that we will never have. I, am the most important moment, in our lives together.” After the man sat down, mass was concluded and the church emptied out. Just as the last townsman had left the church, the Pastor was about to lock the doors and leave when he heard the sound of feet walking down the aisle. He looked inside and saw a single woman, standing alone in the darkness, looking up at the cross held in the back of the church. The woman had not stood up and spoke during the mass because she was shy of her love. She started speaking, and her words echoed throughout the church that night, and the Pastor never forgot what she said. “I am the last time we ever laid eyes on each other. I am that single moment, when we look deep into each other’s eyes, and relive all our memories together; all the pain we had, the joy we shared, and the love we made. I am that final moment, when I take your hand, hold you tight and whisper ‘I love you’ one last time.”
Blown Away By Brian Frederick ‘11 Leaves rustle in the wind A sound like rain races through the air While the wind flows to me Through my coat and through my hair Blowing the world away Dead leaves skitter along the street Propelled by the chilling breeze They charge toward me Like fearless warriors Into a battle bigger than them Branches sway and keep their balance As a gust pushes past And the field of grass bends and shimmers As that wave moves through Its tiny blades The wind flies through it all.
Andrew Bender ’13 “Autumn leaves”
photograph
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Alex Ozkan ‘11 “Life on the Streets” Photograph
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Thespian
h e
By Sam Smith ‘11
The stage is the caffeine for my tired heart. I taste the battery acid in the back of my throat. Pacing behind darkened shadows The humming of the anticipating audience Tears my ear drums, crescendos The drum in my chest; Unwilling Hands keep the beat. A stagehand gives me a microphone. In the beginning the live Artist had nothing more than the Echo of their lungs. I blind myself from the noise, My nerves, myself. I am the shell of a person now. A new being is slowly formed This individual’s likes, dislikes, history, Horizon, hatreds, passions start To inflate the shell. This person’s voice Whispers into My vocal chords.
The difference between “Oh my God, I am the red-faced mouse” and “I am the lusty, vociferous, grandiose, teller” Is one yard past the proscenium wall. I have no shield to hide me All I have is the mask In the ink. The fourth wall is glorious It is nothing more than a black canvas But it brings a feeling of euphoria This is the greatest drug ever I am an addict of adrenaline. “Ladies and Gentlemen it is now time for the Grand Finale of our Round the world review.”
The shell swells until the curtain is Raised and glows from the spotlight.
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s i s i h T st Ju y a S to By Zachary Swanson ‘12
After William Carlos Williams I have sharpened your pencil down to the bit which you probably needed for your math test Forgive me for I don’t often get to slowly peel away all of someone’s potential
Garrett Freibott ‘11 “Firefly”
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Digital Illustration
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Alex Ladensack ‘11 “Looking Up”
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Alex Iversen ‘11 “Streakin’”
Oil Stick Painting
Photograph
Taylor White ‘11 “Self-Portrait”
Oil Stick Painting
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n a l P e h t Is this By Rohan Andresen ‘12 The only lights burning at this hour are in my room. Two lamps, one vibrant and brown, the other duller and red, shine vibrantly with the continuous undisturbed energy that I currently envy. The only audible sound, besides fast tapping on my keyboard, is the tranquil purr of a jet carrying unsuspecting, sleeping passengers to their destinations. Could they possibly be travelling for business, sad to be away from their family but hoping for a promotion in order to take them to Maui? Or are they travelling to a funeral of a forgotten relative or past classmate, whom they haven’t thought of for years, but now wished they had? Regardless, their stories are more interesting than mine. My story of the night, consisting of Wilson’s wars and Newton’s numerations, is incomparably lackluster. The un-
Rob March ‘11 “Icy Road” Photograph
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natural silence is broken by the pulling of threads of lamb-wool carpet. My unsung hero of the night glides in, as elegant as his golden idol who guards the pyramids of Egypt. He looks at me curiously, but he appreciates that someone shares the animalistic nocturnal schedule that is inherent for him, but not for me. Though I recognize his presence, he still surprises me as he nudges against my calves saying “hello” before he springs onto the bed and finds comfort in a fur throw where he ignorantly reposes. I, on the other hand, am not as lucky. Time has been wasted merely monitoring my surroundings, and nothing has been accomplished that must be completed by dawn’s early light. My future depends on it, at least, that is what they tell me. I hope they are not embellishing the truth, for the comfort
? d e d n e t n They I of my four posters has never looked so hospitable. However, that is not part of the Plan. The Plan is to get into a top tier. However, if my Plan, the one that they have set me on, is correct, then the universities are accepting a very unstable group of people. They are accepting addicts‌degenerates. They are addicts of caffeine, stimulants and anything that they can do to make them better than everyone else, if it is possible for one human to be better than another. They are degenerates, degenerating from the norm. Doctors and educators at our secondary schools plead us to sleep 10 hours, avoid caffeine and live more salubriously. Then they turn a blind eye, and smile as we are accepted to top universities with nightly overdoses of caffeine and underdoses of rest. Though, the Plan is the
Plan. And that is what I must return to, for now it is later, my hero is asleep, and my vision is becoming increasingly blurry, which will bode poorly for the ever-so-important reading notes of past terrors and treaties.
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Editorial Staff:
Nick Giancola
AJ Raglow
Visual Art Editor
Junior
Literary Editor
Senior
Jeramy Moschonas Social Media Editor
Senior
Michael Notestine Managing Editor
Chris Rosales Layout Editor
Senior
Austin Ensor Senior
Head Graphic Designer
Junior
Staff: Rohan Andresen ‘12 Alex Chen ‘14 Julian De Ocampo ‘13 Nicolas Espinosa ‘11 Jack Flynn ‘13 Ryan Frankel ‘14 Austin Hale ‘11 Colin Marston ‘13 Matthew Munhall ‘12 Alex Muth ‘11 Chris Perkins ‘11 Dalton Reed ‘11 Steven Soto ‘12
Faculty Advisors: Mr. John Damaso ‘97 Mr. Chad Unrein
Colophon: Designers used Adobe InDesign CS4, Paint.net, Macromedia Fireworks and Photoshop CS4 to create the 2011 print issue of Brophy Literary & Arts Magazine. The dimensions are 5.5 inches by 8.5 inches. The body copy font is Chinacat in 7 pt. font with an 8.5 pt. leading. The attribution font is Ki Comic in 8 pt. All of the titles are in SF Comic Script with varying sizes and leadings. Comic Sans was considered and subsequently blown up with a stick of dynamite. This entirely student-run publication creates a platform for Brophy writers, poets and artists to share their craft with fellow classmates. The BLAM staff strives to showcase the best representation of each student’s work, be it visual or literary. Our team looks for a balance between the virtues that Brophy stands for, including sprituality, athletics and academics, with the fine arts community. Inquiries about the publication as a whole or submissions for future editions of Brophy Literary & Arts Magazine should be e-mailed to blam@brophyprep.org. To see more content, visit
blam.brophyprep.org.
© 2011 by Brophy Literary & 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 property of the respective artist, reproduced with permission of the student.
BLAM Man (Name Withheld) Protector Against All Evil
Freshman