BLAM Serramenti (2019)

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STAFF NOTE

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Serramenti is the plural form of serramento, an Italian word that connotes “windows and doors” as a kind of singular entity.

Windows and doors are architectural features that we interact with every day.

Whether it is looking out of an airplane window and observing an unfamiliar landscape or walking through the front door after a long day at school or work, windows and doors are portals to both new and familiar worlds. However, most notably, windows and doors represent a perfect contrast of opportunity and obstruction. On the other side of a door can be the one you love, a beautiful landscape, your home. A single twist of the doorknob will allow you to pass through and reach that experience on the other side. But doors can also be locked. You can be kept out of where you need to be, prevented from seeing the person on the other side, or blocked from an experience you desire. Similarly, windows provide a visual revealing of what lies on the other side of a wall. A window can be opened to hear the bustling sounds of a city or to let in a cool breeze. It can provide a view into a raging storm outside, but keep the pouring rain and whipping wind out. But windows can be frustratingly deceptive. With windows, the awaiting experience on the other side can tease and taunt you, granting a look, but nothing more than that. It is this rich, multi-faceted symbolism windows and doors hold that led BLAM to settle on the theme of Serramenti and served as the foundation from which it derived its various literary and art contests throughout the year.

Drawing from these contests as well as the general submissions pool, BLAM has compiled the best art and literature the 2019 Brophy student body has to offer. Through student writing, we were able to close the door of 2018 via our “2018” contest by reflecting on the past year (winner on page 20). We were also able to further explore the ominous and mysterious symbolism of Serramenti through the “Closed Doors” and “Knock at the Door” contests (pages 38 and 42). Finally, we were able to explore

the theme of this year’s Summit on Human Dignity, “The Search for Health: Dignifying the Mind, Body, and Spirit,” with a personal poem

by Sammy Cibulka ’19 about his recent struggle with cancer (page 18).

Through student art, we explored architecture through the aptly named “Architecture” contest (page 68). Not only were we able to mirror the ominous literary prompt through the “Shadows” contest (page 69), but also experiment with mixed media through the “Duality” contest (page 45). Finally, we put a face to suffering with the Summit contest focused on representing the human mind/body (page 87).

Contest winners throughout the magazine are marked with a .

We further explored the idea of windows and doors through our features. Jack Arthur ’19 provided us with a window into the lives of strangers in his photo series “Vignettes” (page 22). We are also able to glimpse through windows in time through the travel and adventure photography of Andrew Atencia ’19 (page 56).

I would like to thank everyone who has contributed to the production of this year’s magazine, especially to our moderators, Mr. John Damaso ’97 and Mr. Austin Pidgeon ’08, for their guidance throughout the year and the final production stage. I would also like to thank the many talented artists and writers featured in this volume of BLAM. Without them, our magazine would be a book of empty pages. The 2019 BLAM staff has worked tirelessly to create this 11th volume of BLAM before you, and we all hope you enjoy a glimpse through this 96 page window into the Brophy student body.

Camden Andl ’19 Editor-in-Chief

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TABLE of

CONTENTS

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39

51

“THE TOMATO IS A VEGETABLE AND SHOULD BE TAXED AS THAT”

“HE MADE ME SCARED WHEN HE YELLED AND SHOWED ME HIS TEETH, YELLOW FROM THE SMOKES AND DRINKS HE WOULD HAVE EVERY DAY.”

“IT REMINDED HIM OF THE TWILIGHT ZONE, SPECIFICALLY EACH EPISODE HE’D SEEN THAT DEALT WITH DREAMS, REALITY, OR BOTH.”

72 “THE ONE-EYED COYOTE STAYED WITH THE CARCASS, ONLY LEAVING TO FIND FOOD, BUT FOUND NOTHING EACH TIME.”

Poetry 08 | The Ladder Kenneth Fitzgerald ’20

88 | Soldiers in the Sky Ryan Coury ’20

14 | The Chapel Floor Lake Etsitty ’19

89 | But Instead I Just Survive Jackson Vickers ’19

16 | Peaks and Valleys Vipul Dua ’20

90 | Atlas Alex Greenspan ’20

18 | Only the Beginning Sammy Cibulka ’19

92 | The Grass is Always Greener Wyatt Ashton ’20

19 | Slab of Perseverance Reece Tanella ’22 21 | Oh, the Places I’ve Gone! Seamus Cooney ’20 24 | 8 Ways of Looking at a Burrito Gregory Clary ’20 35 | Ouroboros Aman Agarwal ’20 40 | Her, a Caterpillar Lake Etsitty ’19

Prose

47 | Are YOU a Patriot? Jacob Jensen ’20

10 | 3 Knocks Michael Manganiello ’19

55 | The Cost of Love Ryan Breuer ’20

30 | Shadows Adapt Corwin Hemmingsen ’22

63 | You Francesco Montanile ’20

36 | A Tide in the Affairs of Man Ryan Coury ’20

64 | A Poem Written While Stumbling Under the

38 | The Diamond Hideout Anthony Moretti ’21

Stars Jack Arthur ’20

42 | Career Day Aidan Dunnigan ’20

74 | The Wright Brothers Alex Buccino ’20

50 | The Hallway Sam Hodges ’22

75 | Humanity Was Here Garret Van Wie ’22

70 | Two Coyotes Brendan Alcott ’19

82 | Jmulbed Andrew Duque ’20

76 | The Reality of Delusion George Resley ’20

86 | I Have Nothing Left to Offer You Dean Kobs ’20

84 | The Classroom Davis Houck ’21

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33

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Fine Art 11 | theend Eric Lin ’19

83 | Split Dean Kobs ’20

16 | Calamity Dean Kobs ’20

85 | Contrast Avery Hodge ’19

19 | Eviction Eric Lin ’19

86 | Scruffy Man Dan Manny Garcia ’19

20 | The Discovery of Color Dean Kobs ’20

87 | Juice in July John O’Connor ’19

28 | Experiment #1 Davis Houck ’21

89 | Jolt Avery Hodge ’19

34 | Serpent Lady Ryan Chaffee ’19

91 | Rock a Fella Jack Keeton ’19

39 | Drip Jack Keeton ’19 41 | Apricots and Sunshine John O’Connor ’19 43 | Andy Who? Jack Arthur ’19 45 | Plumbum Jack Keeton ’19 46 | Eagle Overlook Avery Hodge ’19 54 | Etched Heart Juan Sanchez Sifuentes ’20 62 | Yellow Justin Loo ’19 65 | Neon Ryan Chaffee ’19 67 | Cozy Canal Ryan Chaffee ’19 68 | SF Jack Keeton ’19 69 | Ghost Story Manny Garcia ’19 75 | A Murder Dean Kobs ’20 77 | Cost of a Dollar Manny Garcia ’19

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75

77

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Photography 08 | Downtown Construction Jack Kolbe ’19

76 | There’s a Tiny Plane Jack Kolbe ’19

12 | Ghost Boy Jake Flaherty ’19

84 | Shingles Jake Flaherty ’19

14 | Vik Camden Andl ’19

88 | Another Planet Jake Flaherty ’19

18 | No Violence! Camden Andl ’19

92 | Standing on a Hill in My Mountain of Dreams

27 | Supermercado Michael Carlin ’19

Ridge Peterson ’21

30 | Shadow of the Dead Hunter Franklin ’19 31 | Don’t Pull that Trigger, Son Nate Kerber ’19 32 | Busy Baby Michael Carlin ’19 33 | WE Can do Whatever WE Want Jack Kolbe ’19

38 | Con Creek Michael Carlin ’19

Features

51 | Sky Jake Flaherty ’19

22 | Vignettes Jack Arthur ’19

36 | Under the Surface Andrew Atencia ’19 37 | Wet Michael Carlin ’19

52 | Jake’s Hand Jack Kolbe ’19 53 | Through Two Panes Camden Andl ’19 71 | Jumping Chollas Andrew Atencia ’19 73 | Dramatic AZ Andrew Atencia ’19

48 | Tricked Avery Hodge ’19 56 | Be In It. Andrew Atencia ’19 78 | Groovy Max Farmer ’19

74 | Neature Jack Kolbe ’19 74 | Scary Predator Jack Kolbe ’19 BLAM

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by Kenneth Fitzgerald ’20

THE LADDER tion nstruc phy o C n a ow Photgr Downt e ’19 | b l o K Jack

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Halfway up the ladder I fall Down towards the hallow pit.

The feeling of despair mauls At me, to be, of quick wit.

To “fully embrace life,” To find euphoria in all the wrong places, And to fail at satisfaction, in spite Of a newly estranged array of faces.

The ladder’s bottom is where clarity hits, Where you realize the point of your faults, And where you yearn to rise from your deep abyss.

The ladder’s bottom is where it comes to halt.

Thus begins the climb to the ladder’s top.

Feet progress in rhythm, tick, tock, tick, tock.

The chains of vices slowly drop, And you realize the half-way ladder marks the dot.

To end where you begin is the cycle of nature, But the ladder isn’t through with me, nor is its maker.

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3 KNOCKS

by Michael Manganiello ’19

FADE IN: EXT. SCARY FOREST - NIGHT 3 slow knocks at the door echo.

CHRIS Was that a door? That sounded like a knock on a door.

DAVID Yea, it did. Why would there be a door in the middle of the forest.

JESS We should go check it out.

CHRIS Check what out, go wandering the forest looking for a door in the middle of the night.

JESS Yes… DAVID When you hear a door knock in the middle of the forest, you gotta go figure it out.

CHRIS There is no door! It was probably a tree or something.

DAVID It seems like we only have one option and that is to go find this door.

CHRIS Or we could, you know, not go door searching through a forest like a bunch of idiots.

(Next cut is to Chris and the others walking through the forest looking for a door in the middle of the forest.)

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JESS I think I heard it coming from this direction.

(Jess points further into the woods and the trio traverse onward.)

DAVID Is that it.

(David points to a structure deep in the trees.)

CHRIS I kinda looks like a door I guess.

(As they get closer they get a good view of the structure.)

JESS Nope it’s just a tree.

theend | Eric Lin ‘19 | Mixed Media BLAM

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CHRIS See there is no doo— (Jess cuts off Chris mid sentence and points off screen.)

JESS Oh there it is.

(Camera cuts to the large silver door. There is a shine effect and a little angelic sound for one second, then shine and sound stop. Chris stares in, slightly aggravated, but mainly is just astonished by the stupidity of a door in the woods with nothing attached.)

CHRIS Wow, it’s just a door in a frame with a mat, no building, no cabin, no shed. It’s just a door. Jess tries to open the door but it’s locked.

CHRIS (CONT’D) Maybe there’s a key under the mat.

(Chris says sarcastically. David lifts the mat to reveal a shiny key with a strange the letter N on it David unlocks and opens the door and inside is their reflection, but no mirror. As they speak the reflections speak as well and in unison.)

ALL IN UNISON Well…This is interesting.

Ghost Boy | Jake Flaherty ‘19 | Photography

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THE CHAPEL FLOOR

by Lake Etsitty ’19

Tongues together hark God’s name to ceilings, lifted by prayers.

The chapel, Beautiful; I never knew why, but it just is that way, and pressed into me.

An echo from empires past and empires to come built by His hallowed name.

Choir notes move through filtered air and ring like bells off the stained glass and colored glow of polished tiles.

The chapel in perpetual dusk, shadows cast by candle and chandelier with white lines like seams shining on the polished floor, the finished pews and the styled hair, and the faces of watches.

Light dimples and leather wallets, full in the house of God. But, There are no soft surfaces in this chapel communed by a costly congregation.

I could fall anywhere in here and shatter my bones.

Even the sound of my easily reddened flesh smacking these stale stone tiles, could not find comfort when it reaches the saints’ stone eyes, when it smacks itself on marble Jesus, when it clashes between unforgiving pews.

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Vik | Camden Andl ’19 | Photography

And those who are saved posses easily sliced ears, it’s variant shapes of biased flesh, the only things present to hear me hit the chapel floor.

That sound, It rakes the silence of the saved.

Their reverence random, sprinkled among the pews, creating a most intense pressure to make hollow the sinner’s decaying minds.

They submit and study with wide eager eyes while I lie with bones broken on the chapel floor.

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PEAKS and VALLEYS

by Vipul Dua ’20

Calamity | Dean Kobs ’20 | Print

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The past year of my life has had many ups and downs, Numerous smiles, and even more frowns.

I learned about myself as a person, As the year went on, my relationships would worsen.

I felt heartbreak for the first time, I started to think that life is just an uphill climb.

I lost what mattered the most to me, And it has shaped who I’ve come to be With hardships come good times, I got my first job, and earned my own dimes.

I have let new people into my life, Hoping they would never stab me in the back with a knife.

It is imperative to forget and leave grudges on the shelf, But most importantly, you have to bet on yourself.

In the past year I have learned one thing: It is that eventually, the birds will always sing.

2018 is but a distant memory, No poem could recap the treacheries.

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by Sammy Cibulka ’19

The smooth skin, as my hand rubs my head.

The bump in my chest that bulges.

Feeling the needle inserted close to my heart.

The poison begins to flow…

Running through my veins, Wheeling into room three, The lights fall silent.

No sleep yet, just pain.

Finally, eyes close.

Time tiks, hours pass.

Lights on. Awake.

Time to go, they say.

The struggle is only beginning.

No Violence! | Camden Andl ’19 | Photography

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SLAB OF PERSEVERANCE

by Reece Tanella ’22

Ishmael’s story is a sad number.

Only companion is his only bombarder.

Reason for exile quite odd.

Banished for believing different god.

Put to work as slave.

All possible he gave.

For bourgeoisie months of construction.

All to be wiped by nuclear destruction.

Bone shake.

Back break.

Heartache.

Too much to take.

Secure back in days of torture forever.

Not for the better.

He could have walked away, But some force made him stay.

He fell into the trap of nonsense.

That one slab of perseverance.

There he stood, In front of a mere slab of wood.

Ruins surrounding.

Heart pounding.

Abandoned wasteland.

Bleeding hands.

Behind closed portal, Nothing at all.

But for him, Years of absorbing sin.

All destroyed from chemical war.

All left is proud door.

Ishmael coming out of hiding, Not caring about biting.

Opening lone gateway.

Never turning back that fateful day.

Now in utter shock.

Cannot find lock.

Eviction | Eric Lin ’19 | Mixed Media

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The Discovery of Color | Dean Kobs ’20’ | Mixed Media

Oh, The Places I’ve Gone!

by Seamus Cooney ’20 Ere the spring and summer of gold, Before the harvest and heat, a spectacle to behold, T’was a time of rough and mad days, A student was burdened with dues to pay.

When at last the semester ended with finals galore, The student had survived; he was no longer a sophomore.

And the summer, it was grand and sublime, With service trips to meet new people, my was it ever a time!

With work assigned over the summer, but vacations awaiting, Beaches and friends made the work entertaining, But in the end, no one can escape time, And he arrived back at school, questionably primed.

Familiarity was close, yet further than ever.

As the difficulty increased and stayed forever, But the student pressed on with midway in sight.

And gave all he could to turn around the fight.

The student achieved his goals through gritted teeth, And ended 2018 with a beautiful last few weeks.

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VIGNETTES windows into the lives of strangers

by Jack Arthur ’19

“I’ve always found it so interesting that everyone around you has a full life story that is completely unique and different from yours. I decided to strike up conversation with random people, asked to take their photo and for them to sign it. Then, I would write down what I remembered about them a day later.”

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8 Ways of Looking at a Burrito

After Wallace Stevens

by Gregory Clary ’20

I. The tortilla: The shepherd of all ingredients When the shepherd is lost, The ingredients, the sheep of the tortilla, will run away from What once held them together.

That soft, comfy shell That just shines in the morning sun.

On your kitchen counter.

The symbol of the burrito.

II. The onion: Oh, those crispy, chopped, grilled, sauteed, seared onions, And this time, they cannot make you cry, As you are protected by the shepherd That is the burrito.

Although pungent at first, They will soon delight.

As the onions move around, They are giddy with excitement, On your kitchen counter.

The peculiar delectation of the burrito.

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III. The tomato: The controversy, which is the fruit, I mean vegetable, I mean fruit.

I mean it has seeds and a stem, And did you ever know the U.S. Supreme Court Had an interesting stand: The tomato is a vegetable and should be taxed as that.

But, also, the vegetable tax is more expensive than the fruit tax.

Oh those dirty government rats, But, as I was trying to explain.

The waterlogged, red fruit that is the tomato, As red as the smile On a 10-year-old after winning the baseball game, Which sits On your kitchen counter.

The moist core of the burrito.

“THE TOMATO IS A VEGETABLE AND SHOULD BE TAXED AS THAT�

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IV. The meat: Bacon, ham, pork, you name it.

The burrito has tamed it.

A tough or tender food, Or a sweet but, oh, so salty taste.

An ingredient that will spread a smile across your face, And one that adds girth to that big, tasty burrito That sits On your kitchen counter.

The weight of the burrito.

V. The cheese: Quite bland, I must say, Until it is melted all over the place.

The ropes that hold the sheep all together.

Cheddar, swiss, there are so many colors Of cheese that can be stuffed in the tortilla On your kitchen counter.

The glue of the burrito.

VI. The beans: The main cause of gastrointestinal pain.

A beautiful legume That has a unique mushy taste That no other food can provide.

Both so soft and so tough, Like hunting Dall sheep.

A duality of no other That sits On your kitchen counter.

The foundation of the burrito.

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“UNTIL IT IS MELTED ALL OVER THE PLACE. THE ROPES THAT HOLD THE SHEEP ALL TOGETHER.”

Supermercado | Michael Carlin ’19 | Photography BLAM

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VII. The rice: The most plentiful ingredient in the burrito.

Although bland at first, Some spices can make it burst.

Burst so hard it makes your tongue start to hurt, But, without rice, there is no burrito Because have you ever had a burrito without rice?

The burrito with plenty of rice sits On your kitchen counter.

The building block of the burrito.

VIII. The burrito: A marvel to the eyes; Something you can look at and It will force a tear down your eye.

Sits waiting on your kitchen counter.

You’ve been waiting eight whole stanzas for this burrito.

You might as well eat it now Before it spoils and nothing will meet your mouth.

It no longer sits on the kitchen counter, But in your stomach, Being torn apart by vicious acids, Destroying the creation you have built.

Experiment #1 | Davis Houck ’21 | Mixed Media BLAM

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Shadow of the Dead | Hunter Franklin ’19 | Photography

SHADOWS ADAPT

by Corwin Hemmingsen ’22

A

knock on the door. This simple action has been the main source of pain and agony in my life. This was what I heard before they came, before it all started. It all began after my family had just finished washing all the plates we used for dinner. Just as I placed the last bowl in the cabinet, there was a knock on the door. I approached it. I crept closer, unknowing of what was about to happen. As I closed in on the door, I was filled with fear as we never have visitors. Never.

I found the courage to place my hand on the door knob, but before I could turn my hand to operate the door, I was blown back into a haze of smoke. The smell of gunpowder and fire filled the air and clouded my vision as I laid on the ground. Pain erupted in my back, stemming from all points of my body. Before I could generate a thought as to what had happened, I was being stepped over by men in black clothing, being restrained and helpless to stop it. I was vaguely aware of my surroundings: my baby sister screaming in the background, my mother crying out for my father as she attempted to escape the grasp of the men in black.

All of this was in the back of my mind as I felt myself being lifted up and forced outside into the van. I felt numb to everything around me. As my mind returned to a somewhat normal state, blissful ignorance turned

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to painful reality. Pain seared up my back and into my head, overtaking every physical action I could attempt.

The agony of my reality turned into the willingness to let go. I was thrown into the rear of the van into an almost cage-like structure. I let go. The edges of my vision turned to black as I hazily recognized the back door to the vehicle closing. Thoughts of my family, my sister, my mother faintly materialized in my mind, fading from subconscious to conscious.

Light flooded my vision, causing yet another source of agony. The bright white flood lights of what seemed to be a warehouse blinded me, pushing my senses into overload. As I pushed toward consciousness, I felt my hands restrained to a chair. The pain in my head“and” behind my eyes wouldn’t let me see effectively as I felt blood drip down my forehead over my eyes. I thought of how many times I had felt this sensation, the feeling of hopelessness, helplessness, pain. I stopped counting at day two hundred. It seemed as if every time I awoke again, each time in a different place, it was the same as the first day. I have not numbed to the pain. Every time I come back to consciousness, the agony is fresh and vengeful, just the same as the first time. The only difference is the dark acceptance that I will never escape this life. My new world is permanent.

Every day begins the same, with pain shooting

Don’t Pull That Trigger, Son | Nate Kerber ’19 | Photography through my head while I slowly creep back into ability” work incredibly well, sometimes too well for consciousness. Once mentally aware, I reluctantly open my own benefit. If their task is to either boost my my eyes, wishing to see the ceiling of my old bedroom, neurons or cause immense pain, whether incidentally the place I called home. But, where is home? It feels so or purposefully, they accomplish this each and every long ago as if it never even existed. My new society time. Unfortunately, they accomplish one of those two where I live is one of constant discomfort, with my only without fail. respite being the unconsciousness that overcomes My reality has become a dark one, my purpose me at night, or what I believe to be night. My day to further science. I am but an object waiting for consists of tests, both cognitive and release, for respite from my daily physical. The most recent being the endurance. I look around me, my “EVERY DAY BEGINS Rat Race. A sickly course designed being slightly impaired from THE SAME, WITH PAIN vision to test physical and mental aptitude. past experiences. My vision issue is SHOOTING THROUGH not one of physicality but of pure I always start in the middle of the life-sized maze, scared to move, mental weakness. I view the things MY HEAD WHILE I unable to breathe. I look around SLOWLY CREEP BACK around me: a fork, a cell phone,anda at the constantly moving, everremote. as objects for harm. I display changing maze, and see the plates INTO CONSCIOUSNESS.” the people I rarely see as the devil, that exist on the ground beneath me God as indifferent to my pain. For in an almost checkpoint-like fashion. Unable to see, I am forgotten, but a lonely soul wandering with no to anticipate, are the wires and configuration of the hope of refuge. I am alone. I am stranded. I am one with maze of which immeasurable volts course through my myself and only my being. I am but a pawn in a worldly body with every wrong move. The object of the maze is game of chess. I am a small impact on the world as a memory, reinforced by electricity as my consequence. whole, an impact of small importance, but important This is but one of the tests, both physical and mental, I still. I am like a noise—invisible but present— alerting encounter on a daily basis. This would be bad enough others to issues of science. I am a knock on a door. without the medications I’m forced to take. The pills that are supposed to “improve physicality and mental

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Busy Baby | Michael Carlin ’19 | Photography

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WE Can Do Whatever WE Want | Jack Kolbe ’19 | Photography

Serpent Lady | Ryan Chaffee ‘19 | Prismacolor

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Ouroboros

by Aman Agarwal ’20

Fall into reverie— Where amber atoms in the fire gleam, Where passion flitters on will’s beams, And Cervantes dances the Sarabande While art etches out a portrait of man.

Dare to believe in serpentine oddities, A self-fulfilling, anfractuous odyssey.

Bakunawa straddles the seas of the mind But flowing Ganges remain far from blind.

Though the malign mongoose binds mankind, Let the Nagas break from such confines.

As colloquies become simple comedies, As the heart enlarges to let the Id breathe.

Fastenings entangle without craft or plan, Notions melded together—Ragnarök began.

When the path of conscience’s stream.

Splinters into brilliant moonbeams —Learn to dream.

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Under the Surface | Andrew Atencia ’19 | Photography

A TIDE IN THE AFFAIRS OF MAN

by Ryan Coury ’20

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Wet | Michael Carlin ’19 | Photography

O

ur lives are like bottles with letters, floating across the ocean. We are two separate entities in one single being; our outer shell protects the inner emotions we have. From across the water, other bottles can too see our emotions. They can see whether our paper is fading or our paper is thriving, but what they can’t see is the contents of the paper. They can’t understand the true essence of our emotions until they read the paper at the end of our journey. All of the bottles face the waves crashing in on them. Sometimes, water slides through the cracks of our cork and hurts the paper, the adversity gets to our true emotions and damages them forever. Other times, the wave is so strong that the whole bottle breaks, and falls to the bottom of the ocean. But all of

us bottles have the same purpose in life: to get from the start to the promised land at the end. And all of us bottles do so through the choices we make on the sea. Do we flow right or left? Do we float or sink?

And based on these decisions, after decisions, after decisions, we either reach the promised land at the end, or get lost out at sea trying. And for those who finally do reach the end, the heaven which awaits us after death, only then will each of the bottles which surrounded us on our voyage understand the true meaning and feelings of the emotions you carried, for they too will be able to experience themselves.

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THe DIAMOND I d e o u t Con Creek | Michael Carlin ’19 | Photography

by Anthony Moretti ’21

T

he diamond does not live there anymore. He moved — into a police officer’s car — and took my dad with him. It used to be a good diamond, I think. I could remember the yelling that happened at night, the diamond wreaking havoc on Mom and Papa. The house was quiet now, and all I could hear was the sound of distant arguing that had seeped into the walls like water into old raggedy wood, making a foul smell of death and rot. Papa, diamond, the car.

The power, food, and anger. All gone.

And then the house sprouted weeds. We would leave, windows would break, and jewelry would disappear from the house. The diamond was making Papa mad. He made me scared when he yelled and showed me his teeth, yellow from the smokes and drinks he would have every day.

The house was different. A closed door where one was once opened. A broken window full of sharp, shiny teeth. The waterfall in the sink merely dripped

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now. My playground now overtaken by the green arms from the ground. A new rainforest, full of dead bugs, dead weeds, and bugs, that fed on the dead weeds, and weeds that fed on the dead bugs. The diamond swept through our house and took all the things we needed, all the things Mom said were ours.

The house slowly grew away from me. The memories I had were hidden behind a haze of who did this? And when did that happen? Doors toppled, the walls screaming at me louder than before. The floor with a layer of dust and glass-dirt and broken bottles. A sticky goo on the ground made a river of snot flow across our living room. Glue, my mom said.

Glue? I thought glue fixed things I told her. And she sighed. My sister and I would go play in the weeds and run around our old playground. We would hide from Mom and giggle like we were exploring the forest, looking through the dead weeds for any sign of life.

I knew the diamond had done all this. The night the diamond made Mom and Papa fight, I was in the bath. There was a yell here and a scream there.

Bubbles popped with every retort. Then, I heard my mom yell. “Get out!” And a door slammed. Then there was Mom. Her eyes were wet like a raindrop from a dark cloud. As we got dressed, the walls were painted by lights like tomatoes and blueberries. With Mom, my sister and I walked out front. Papa was there, with shiny claws holding his hands together. He yelled, “I love you guys. I’m sorry.”

A police officer came over, and in his hand was the diamond. It glimmered brightly like a star that had been hidden behind the sun in daytime. We found this in the car with him the police officer said.

You can have it.

I remember looking at Papa, his wide eyes, the claws holding his hands. His breath carried language that was pungent and mean, and his eyes were wide, red, crazed. That wasn’t my Papa. And when we finally moved away, into the crowded home with the old man Brian and his daughter, I sat in the bathroom. I sat in the home that wasn’t my home. It was cold.

Everything had changed in an instant. All the things I knew and loved felt distant. My home, Mom, the bed I slept in, my friends, my toys, the playground, and my Papa. He wasn’t my Papa anymore. And I knew he was gone. And the nice diamond that once brought my family together was not nice anymore.

Drip | Jack Keeton ’19 | Pencil

“He made me scared when he yelled and showed me his teeth, yellow from the smokes and drinks he would have every day.”

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HER, A CATERPILLAR

by Lake Etsitty ’19

She told me in a wind’s wisp, While my fingers dug into the cold clay along the sidewalk.

We sat together while the sun sleepily sighed over our four-gas-station town.

She donned a plasticky Under Armour hoodie With bold chapped letters spelling the name of some college, With colors never destined to reside in my garage sale drawers.

I wore a grey cotton sweater that day, One that had collected the smells of the morning diner And the park of ours where we both Observed wild graffiti sprout.

As many seasons went by, As familiar neighborhood faces engraved themselves on us.

She began by wishing me well.

I whimpered, rebounding that unfulfilling phrase.

She said this was growing up As if she wasn’t enough of an image.

She’s a beautiful caterpillar, In her college hoodie cocoon, And the beautiful caterpillar will fly from the branch we share and never be the same.

Perhaps, she will be too busy flinging her colors in the stoic faces of shrubs To sleep in this town again.

She then said goodbye.

Myself and the cold air pressed on my chest Stood for a moment and tied the ends of our woven past.

Her familiar pace scraped her Converse along asphalt pebbles And sunk further down the street into my murky-water memory.

She wished me well in a wind’s wisp During winter’s closing hours, And left her hollowed cocoon to rot on me.

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Apricots and Sunshine | John O’Connor ’19 | Pencil BLAM

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Career Day

by Aidan Dunnigan ’20

Lights up on a middle school classroom. FATHER knocks on the door and is let in by TEACHER on stage left. There is a group of students sitting in desks on stage right.

TEACHER Hello Mr. Stevens, thank you for coming.

FATHER No, no. I’m glad to be here to teach these youngsters a proper lesson.

TEACHER Alright... well, whenever you’re ready.

FATHER Well, kids, I am here because your teacher is ignorant, and doesn’t understand how to correctly shape a mind into becoming successful. I will be telling you all ho— TEACHER Hey! You are not here to disrespect me, nor are you here to teach these children. You are here to tell about your career. That is why it is called Career Day. FATHER Ah, I see. You are wasting these kids’ precious learning time with some “Career Day.” Nevertheless, I will tell you what I do and maybe you will be so inspired as to focus on your studies with the intent of one of my many students. I am a professor at the local community college. I teach students and they go on to be very prestigious individuals. These people graduate at a level above all of their peers. They are smarter, stronger, more intelligent, stronger, be—

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Andy Who? | Jack Arthur '19 | Mixed Media

TEACHER And what do you teach?

FATHER Excuse me?

TEACHER What do you teach?

FATHER Ah, you must be confused. I do not teach because I am no teacher.

I am a professor. So, as a teacher teaches, I, a professor, professes. Now if you were to ask what I profess, then you may have an answer that you feeble mind can comprehend. ...

Well, go on.

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TEACHER (sighs) What do you profess?

FATHER Ah, wonderful question! The type of knowledge that I squeeze into my students’ minds is one that very few can understand. One with properties that many may call crazy. The class that I am in charge of is... Intro to Alchemy!

TEACHER Alchemy?

FATHER Yes, Alchemy. Oh I see you know not what this forgotten science consists of.

TEACHER Well, no I’ve heard of it.

FATHER Of course you haven’t heard of alchemy... if you had, then you wouldn’t be a mere teacher you would have excelled enough to at least be a professor by now. So, kids, an alchemist is somebody who is very, very smart. These smart people can turn things into gold. Now, somebody who is not an alchemist is what we call stupid because they cannot turn things into gold. Now, would you all like to be stupid and poor or smart and rich? I think you want to be rich and smart like me, so come on. Let’s leave this place and go get some gold. We will beco— TEACHER Ok, no. You cannot take my class. Are you even an alchemist? Can you really even turn things into gold?

FATHER Well... of course I can!

TEACHER Oh, would you please show us.

FATHER No. TEACHER And why is that?

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Plumbum | Jack Keeton '19 | Mixed Media

FATHER I don’t want to.

TEACHER Ah, so you can’t.

FATHER No I can, I will do it. I just need to get prepped.

FATHER attempts to make gold from a pencil that he takes from a students desk. He keeps trying and grunting until eventually he gives up, returns the pencil, and leaves with a look of disappointment on his face.

TEACHER Alright, so that was my dad. Thomas, you’re up go ahead and call your dad in.

Lights down.

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Eagle Overlook | Avery Hodge ‘19 | Watercolor

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Are YOU a Patriot?

by Jacob Jensen ’20

Red and Blue and White: Colors of a united country.

At a time of great strife, Pointing at YOU. With an outstretched arm, Calling YOU to service.

For an awakening giant, A hat-topped head On top of old Curly hairs symbolize An entangling conflict.

Eyes directed towards YOU Staring off into crowds, Yet cutting through Any man’s heart, Subjectively deciding if YOU Are brave or a boy, Or maybe in some ways both.

A pale, withered beard Curling alongside A loose bow-tie, Stained red like blood That comes from a fresh bullet hole.

Will YOU join the call Or stand idly by, Passing the station On your way home?

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TRICKED

by Avery Hodge ’19

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THE H A L LWAY

by Sam Hodges ’22

I

t had been the seventh night in a row that he’d seen the door in his dreams. The other six had been the same dream. He’d never dreamt the same dream several times like this, at least not that he could remember. The door had always been painted green every time he saw it. It looked like more like a wall, if he was being honest, but he could make out the hinges on his left. The past six nights, in the dream, he had always just been staring at the door, or what he thought was a door, maybe for an eternity or a few seconds that stretched into several eternities. Whatever the case, it had just been him and the door, the only two things that stood out in the white…everything. The green and the white clashed in a strangely fascinating way. Most people would just see this scene and think nothing of it. But he had a painter’s eye–the one he’d always had since he was a kid. Figuratively speaking, of course. The clash of the green door and the white eternity had mesmerized him, which was probably why he only stared at its simple beauty the past six nights.

However, the script changed altogether with one simple movement: He stepped toward the door.

That changed everything. The second afterwards, he heard a loud slam from behind. He whipped around and saw that another green door had slammed shut behind him. He turned around to see the first green door and saw that there were more green doors

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to his left and right. They all looked the same and were arranged in an infinite blue hallway. Almost as if during the first nights the hallway had been just out of his periphery, but now he could make out the hall now that he looked at it dead-on. He decided to walk over to what he thought was the first door. He wasn’t sure it was a door because it had no door knob nor handle. The other “doors” didn’t have knobs or handles either. Because of this, he didn’t bother to try to pull open the door. He pushed, but the door didn’t budge. He banged against it. He pounded his fist.

Nothing. Then the dream immediately vanished as he woke up to the sound of Frank Sinatra’s singing voice.

Dick Verne was one of the many kids born after WWII. January 10th, 1947, to be exact. He had always loved to paint and draw since he was a kid. He had always loved looking at WWII propaganda posters and paintings in the museum when he was a boy.

He grew up an only child in St. Louis and studied art in college. He later moved to an apartment in Santa Monica to see the beach. He had moved in 1972 and never left. He took a number of jobs to pay the bills and for art supplies. He drew on his past and experience for his paintings. To make enough money, he made sure he was always working on four or five projects at once, but now all his canvases were blank.

He had writer’s block. Artist’s block? Painter’s block?

Whatever the case, Dick hadn’t had any new ideas until the night before.

Sky | Jake Flaherty ’19 | Photography

Dick had lived in the same apartment for over forty years, which was unusual, but something about the apartment just couldn’t help but keep him there.

Probably sentimental value. He thought about all the different people he’d befriended since his midtwenties. How many people who had died in the apartment or moved out after finding steady jobs.

How many kids he’d seen grow up, play in the halls, and leave.

He felt like the experiences he’d had in that apartment building made him like a wise character you’d see in the movies. The one who always gives the kid or apprentice sage advice that always helps; however, not everyone saw him like that, he knew.

Some newcomers and people who’d always resided in the building had never heard of him, or they knew about him but was just someone in the background to them. He understood. But he knew a lot about the people he lived with. He didn’t stalk. He didn’t bribe anyone for information or bug people’s rooms, no. Dick merely observed. Being an artist sort of equipped him for it.

For example: he knew the twenty-six-year-old man, Ryan, was the person who lived right across from him and that he was studying for his masters’ degree. He

knew this by befriending and observing Ryan as he did with other people in the building.

He also knew that their time in the apartment would be temporary, as was his in the long run.

After eating breakfast, Dick went to one of his canvases. He decided to sketch out the door, just for practice and to see if he wanted to paint it later on. As he sketched from memory, he thought about the door itself.

Did it mean something? He knew that some people interpreted dreams, sometimes they meant something, and they meant different things to different people. Sometimes dreams were omens or signs of something to come, but what could a door mean? It reminded him of The Twilight Zone, specifically each episode he’d seen that dealt with dreams, reality, or both. He hoped that if he ever figured out what the door meant, or if there was something behind it, that the shock wouldn’t kill him.

Dick finished the sketch on the canvas after half an hour. He didn’t paint it, just sketched it.

When he was done, he stared at it. It barely looked like anything, but he tried to sketch the details well.

Something about the painting…scared him. He almost expected something, some creature, to open the door from the other end. He just couldn’t figure out why.

Dick put the sketched canvas in another room. He couldn’t bear to see it. He spent the rest of the day watching TV and reading a book. The book was what put him to sleep.

Dick didn’t know how long he’d slept before the dream started for the eighth time. He didn’t even remember if he dreamed before this dream.

He just appeared in front of the door, one of the only two things that brought color to the white eternity once again. He noticed something different about the door, though. The door was still green but had a new gold trim. There was also something in the center that he couldn’t quite make out. Just like the night before, he walked towards the door and heard the door behind him slam shut. He looked around and saw the hallway again, all the

“IT REMINDED HIM OF THE TWILIGHT ZONE, SPECIFICALLY EACH EPISODE HE’D SEEN THAT DEALT WITH DREAMS, REALITY, OR BOTH.”

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doors now having the same new gold trim. He walked toward the door he’d first seen. He could make out the thing in the center. It was a peephole. He decided to look through it.

He saw a wedding scene. He could see so much of the scene that the door may as well have been nonexistent. He saw a man with trimmed brown hair in a groom’s tuxedo looking onward, but he didn’t see the man’s face until he turned around. The man…was Dick. A younger version of him. He could tell by the man’s green eyes, the same one Dick had been seeing in the mirror since he was a kid. It was shocking, but the man’s face was not malicious in any way. He looked as if he were waiting for someone. Dick stepped back from the peephole. No sooner had he done that when he woke up and everything vanished.

As soon as he woke up, he made a mental note: change that damn alarm to something by The Shins.

The day went more or less the same as yesterday. He read, ate, and watched TV. He put a veil over the sketch. He wanted to finish it, but he still felt slightly haunted by it. He’d come back to it…if the shock didn’t kill him.

Something about that night, that dream had felt final. He would get to the bottom of this. He would know what was behind those doors. Again, he walked towards the door, heard another slam shut, looked around, and gazed into the peephole. It was just as unnerving as the last time, to see another, younger, Dick Verne, but he knew what to expect. He saw the same wedding scene, those same fifteen seconds, and stepped back. Then he went to look through the other doors. Through the door to his left, he saw his younger self again. Only this time, he sat in an elegant armchair with his feet on a footstool and a glass of wine in his left hand. This Dick Verne didn’t move. It was almost as if he was looking at a photo of his younger self rather than watching a scene. He looked through the door that was just to the right of the “main” door. He saw another photographic scene of another younger Dick Verne. He was sitting in his apartment and had had tears in his eyes as he looked out the window. The apartment looked unusually empty as if he’d just moved in, but he somehow knew that wasn’t it. He stepped away from the three doors and turned around. He saw that the shut door, as well as the ones to its immediate right and left, had opened. As he looked around, something clicked. He knew what the dream meant.

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The Shins helped Verne awake calmly. They were certainly more refreshing than Frank Sinatra.

He thought to himself that he just might keep this alarm.

3 Months Later He had finally managed to sell the painting to an art museum. The new painting had only taken about three weeks to make, as he wanted to get the details right. The other two had been spent making deals with different museums and making other paintings.

He hadn’t sold any of them yet, but he had hope. The museum had wanted a description of the painting.

Something for visitors to read and something for the archives. He knew what he wanted to write now.

Name: The Hallway Artist: Richard Verne Painted: January 2018 Inspiration: “We all have roads we haven’t walked, chances we haven’t taken, or doors closed to us that we can never reopen. But I believe that we still have doors open to us, whether we know it or not. And if we do know it, we should always appreciate them.”

Finished. Now to send it in.

Jake’s Hand | Jack Kolbe ’19 | Photography

Through Two Panes | Camden Andl ’19 | Photography

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Etched Heart | Juan Sanchez Sifuentes ’20 | Ink

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The Cost of ove Love

by Ryan Breuer ’20 When I first met you, something happened.

Something inside me was ignited, an eternal flame, A blaze never to be put out.

This was something I had never felt before, Something I never knew I was able to feel.

We let the days go by, wasted.

Precious time, a thin wall we let separate our love.

I saw something in you, in us, but I was terrified.

If you felt what I felt, why would you let me suffer?

If you loved me, why would you let this time go by When you knew we could be together?

What kind of person does this make you?

What kind of person does this make me?

Have I always been so willing? So vulnerable?

Maybe this was meant to happen.

Maybe I was meant to be hurt, Hurt by someone I knew I never could have.

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ANDREW ATENCIA be in it.

The Story Behind the Lens

all photos by Andrew Atencia ’19

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I

t was always about the adventure. The ever changing climate where life presents itself is experienced most vividly in the nature of God’s creation. I am enamored by the massive expanse in every corner you point to on a compass. It always pushed me to ask: “What’s out there? What is it like to stand up there? How does it feel to be in that space?”

Being grounded in the nature that one is surrounded

by gives a sense of daunting insignificance on this earth that is extremely humbling. I started exploring with two feet that turned to two wheels and then two wheels with motors. Photography quickly followed my nostalgic spirit and became a way to give others a sense of how these places felt. With mounting experiences capturing light, there grew a hobby I cannot seem to set down.

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Mountain bikes and dirt bikes were my first enduring loves ever since I could ride. The freedom and distance that can be had behind handlebars is incomparable to any other hobby of mine. Ripping a pencil-thin single track on an exposed ridgeline and pushing 400 watts up a mountain pass where your heart is pumping out of your chest is the epitome of traveling without bounds. You are as close to the elements as you are when hiking, yet able to cover so much more ground and see so much more. The journey is the destination every time the wheels turn. My father (his name is also Andrew) is my biggest influence, being raised on hard work through farming and fishing. His second nature of caring and maintaining his two wheeled machines to get him to the ocean and back sparked an effervescent interest

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for what it must be like to be at speed. I attribute my love for the outdoors and appreciation for nature to him and his efforts to expose me to the zen that is raw nature.

Capturing photographs came later on after spending years in the field without a camera by my side. I would just be stuck with these meaningful memories, so much so that I match songs with the feelings, making me emotional and nostalgic when they play. Photography came to me naturally as great light and memories overflowed from my memory, vanishing without a chance of preservation.

The first thing I look for when capturing is how light interacts within the scene. Landscapes in

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particular change drastically as the sun arcs across the sky, so I am constantly coming back to the same view to see how the image has adjusted. Oftentimes, the placement of a subject into the foreground plays a crucial role to show the perspective of how large a space really is. Centering in the lower third of the frame has been a favorite of mine. Having the subject interact with the landscape in some way, such as thrashing full speed into a puddle or holding a canoe, adds visual interest that pops out right away.

Unique perspectives exude emotion better than from eye level. The swiftness of water can be better felt when shot up close to see the ripples against a hand.

Preservation of the feelings I experienced while capturing is most important to my photographs, so I remember the vibrancy of how blue the oceans were or how coarse the air was to incorporate that into the texture and color grading of post production.

Post production is all about reproducing and enhancing the natural colors of the frame and to show what it is like to be in that moment. Desert frames are the best example of this - I like to saturate the oranges and increase the temperature. The heat of the day, sun baking the land is expressed in a visual sense of warming hues. Simple, yet purposeful.

No other place has yet to capture my imagination like the southwestern United States. The complexities of canyons, hoodoos and geologic activity have me endlessly amazed and staring at maps of places yet to be explored. The parched earth through the Canyonlands and Navajo/Hopi Immersion trips left a lasting impression of the vastness that is the

Colorado Plateau and its surrounding features.

The people that have first conquered this harsh environment prove the impossible is possible; some of the most resilient and spiritual societies that reside in the dry landscapes have much to offer for their connectedness with the land and what must be done to preserve their culture. Endless sandstone, scorching temperatures, rugged peaks and plants waiting to kill you at every step cultivate a hardy soul and a deep appreciation for the resources had back home. The southwest, I adore you.

All family roots point to the dense jungle island of Catanduanes in the Philippines. It is here where I was exposed to a life of simplicity and the granular joys that make it worth living. The fishing town of Yocti and their kids never failed to emanate happiness in the simple. A normal day would start by waking up to the ocean’s breeze hitting your hammock, and traveling to the bakery in the morning to grab slices of heaven, pan de sal. The small island was so alien to me, but my body felt comfortable in its humidity. Ferocious winds from rogue weather bands of a dying typhoon hit our little camp by the water, forcing us under the roof of the abandoned dance hall with pigs for the rest of the night. A highlight of motorcycle travel was with one of my relatives on a muddy dirt path connecting rural farming communities. Straddling a 1980s era Honda TMX150 through dense jungle with nothing more than water and a Leatherman multi-tool was a learning experience of careful throttle control and choke modulation. I will be back to the tropical jungle.

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Yellow | Justin Loo ’19 | Mixed Media

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by Francesco Montanile ’20 Late night, Surrounded by silliness And a starry sky.

Friends and I dressed to the date, Jump in his car as I wave goodbye.

Into my empty house as we try to be sly, Old faces leave as new ones emerge.

Aromas of pumpkins and pancakes, Like a family gathering never short of smiles.

Using a Nikon to click without any breaks, Return only as everyone wakes.

Finish it off with burning, yet sweet, sensation.

Screams and shouts as we approach midnight.

Next to peace as I escape the commotion.

Voice in my head overcomes my fright, As it leads me to my own delight, Only to begin the start of everything new.

Long drive as we begin our quest, Mouth waters while we both struggle.

Bread and cheese combine to make mine the best, Lift his to my mouth as it tries to pass the test, Only to end better than ever expected.

Only happiness when in his presence, Never to dream of being in this moment.

Immediate laughter at first glance, My blanket comes to me in a wild prance.

Late night, Surrounded by love And a starry sky.

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A Poem Written

WHILE STUMBLING UNDER THE STARS

by Jack Arthur ’19 I’ve always been told I’m oblivious.

Oblivious to what?

To my surroundings to people, to people’s emotions, my own emotions, To myself.

Either way, I’m oblivious.

I walk around in this constant state Stuck in a stalemate.

Like I’m on a blind date with life, But life is too complicated And too arrogant to want to communicate, so instead it infuriates my fragile brain, And watches as it tries to place the pieces back together and watches Laughing as it dissipates.

Unaware, unknowing, unconscious, Stuck.

I am stuck.

My entire childhood.

My entire youth.

Life within 10.3 miles, And after a few years, you really get to know your surroundings, But I, on the other hand, do not.

So when it comes time to grow up, To learn to drive, And to learn to get around so that I one day will be able to thrive without relying on the Hands of whatever online, It becomes horrifyingly evident That will remain reliant for the majority if not all of my adult life.

I walk around in this constant state of oblivion. I walk with nothing.

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Neon | Ryan Chaffee ’19 | Prismacolor

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No motivation.

No preoccupations.

Nothing but a destination.

I notice my pace: Quick.

I notice the temperature.

I notice the temperature.

You people and your audacity.

The stares I know I would get if I bothered to look over my shoulder and check.

If I cared so much as to see your faces defining my momentary lapse in judgement with a Single look and nod of the head I would pay more attention.

Is it a coincidence then that the word oblivion is synonymous with the word nirvana?

I walk around in a constant state of nirvana, Chilly.

I fail to notice, however, the details of my existence, Of your existence.

The color of your eyes, The way you walk.

You are a walking piece of art, And I am a blind soul who can not appreciate it because I am oblivious.

Oblivion a synonym of nirvana a state of peace: a release from all suffering.

Enlightenment, And yes I do walk around without a clue of what’s in front of my eyes with my shoes Untied, And maybe that’s seen as a weakness. Maybe you think I’m missing out not getting the Most out of life.

And honestly ,maybe you’re right.

But I certainly don’t miss out on the looks I know you are giving me.

You people and your audacity.

The stares I know I would get if I bothered to look over my shoulder and check.

If I cared so much as to see your faces defining my momentary lapse in judgment with a Single look and nod of the head I would pay more attention.

Is it a coincidence then that the word oblivion is synonymous with the word nirvana?

I walk around in a constant state of nirvana.

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Cozy Canal | Ryan Chaffee ’19 | Prismacolor

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SF | Jack Keeton ’19 | Pencil

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Ghost Story | Manny Garcia ’19 | Prismacolor

Two Coyotes A

by Brendan Alcott ’19

t sundown, the sky bled and the temperature cooled, with the desert coming into its own and blooming in the twilight. Owls found small dogs in backyards, snakes found birds and mice, pimps found whores, cars found stray cats lost in the world, men found women alone in dark alleys, drunken fathers found another bottle, cops found heads floating in canals, lovers found meaning, and all the universe swelled in colloquial chaos in its most primitive being. Two coyotes sniffed the dust on the rocky rust ground, smelling the soft wind and listening for a rustle of prey. It had been two days since they had eaten a full meal.

They stayed away from the city. The last time they ventured, one of the coyotes lost an eye. They sulked in the deep grooves and man-made paths of the mountains, the jagged formations jutting into their hardened feet, cacti shooting up like raising hands, praising the above. As it got darker, the wind blew west a scent of rabbit and blood. The coyotes were weak, and easy prey was what they needed. The one-eyed one went off fervently sniffing, sucking the dust from the ground into its nostrils. The other coyote followed behind, skittishly glancing side to side. Stars shown through the clouds and the moonlight gave the mountain floor a white glow. They came upon a large drop-off and, gingerly, zigzagged down to the bottom.

The rabbit was torn and crushed, covered in dried blood and dust and dirt, its skull cracked and bloodied, unidentifiable but still fresh meat. They sniffed and sniffed the animal, but a crackle of rocks from ten feet beyond caught their attention. Their heads down low, they left the rabbit and investigated the sound.

It was a hiker, barely alive, his right leg pointing up with a bone sticking out of his skin, his arms stretched out like a cross, with cuts and gashes from

the rocky cliff. The hiker was unconscious, his breath a murmur barely escaping his mouth. The leading coyote came around to the head of the hiker, pressing his nose over his face and licking his open wounds, reaching his neck, biting down and tearing away the skin, blood pouring and gushing away. The other one bit into the raised right calf of the hiker, shaking it’s head with his jaw locked shut, tearing away the flesh and ripping out the ligaments. They looked on cautiously at the quiet desert valley and urinated on the corpse. Eating their fill, the coyotes dragged the remains away into a nearby cave. They shared a spot in the corner of the tight cave, the one-eyed coyote facing the entrance of the cave, his good eye staring on into the night, and the other coyote sprawled out sideways, his back on the one-eyed coyote’s side. The moonlight created a phantom in the cave, exposing the hikers shoe, and reflecting into the canine’s one eye. From outside the cave, it looked like the fallen hiker was taking shelter in the cave, enjoying a smoke in the night air.

They stayed in the cave through morning, protecting their find with foresight for a famished existence they were already living. A search party came in the morning and scoured the desert, their movements slow from the hot air and sweat. One of them noticed a lone shoe at the bottom of a drop off. “There’s a shoe! I found a shoe!”

There were twenty in all, friends and family and strangers alike, including the town sheriff and two deputies, watching the ground for the tracks of a desperate man among the footprints of desperate animals. There was dried blood on the lonely shoe and blood all around the ground. Dirt flattened and pushed aside, something dragged. The party followed the tracks to the small cave, and coming upon the freshly decomposing corpse of the hiker, reviled in unison. The family cried and the friends put

“THEY LOOKED ON CAUTIOUSLY AT THE QUIET DESERT VALLEY AND URINATED ON THE CORPSE.”

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their hands to their mouths and the strangers paced awkwardly, looking down at the ground. The coyotes, already awakened by the incoming intruders, were in a defensive crouch. The sheriff pulled out his Colt .45 and shot at the animals. They zigzagged and evacuated the cave, snapping and dodging the attackers.

Through the kicking and shouting and spitting from the search party, and the continuous, passionate shooting from the sheriff and now both of his deputies, the coyotes ran on deeper and deeper into the wild mountain, past thick brushes and dried streams and large boulders. Through saguaros and palo verde trees and on and on until they both collapsed out of breath, underneath a Joshua tree.

The one-eyed coyote looked towards his companion, who was licking a gunshot wound on his lower rear side, near his abdomen. The bullet didn’t go through the coyote, and the creature was panting and yipping.

The one-eyed coyote exhaustedly walked towards

it and began to sniff the wound and licked it. There was not much blood, but it was a nasty tangle of red muscle and tissue, like a squashed tomato. The oneeyed coyote stayed by its side all day until night when the one eyed coyote went out in search of food.

Having found nothing, he returned to the other coyote and kept watch as he slept. In the morning, green iridescent flies hovered the wounded coyote, diving down to the exposed wound. The beast was limp on the ground, it’s eyes rolled back, erratic breath, and foam around its mouth. The one-eyed coyote kept on licking the wound, sitting like a domesticated dog, surveying the surroundings. The mangled and tortured branches of the Joshua tree provided shade to the two coyotes, but neither had had water in two days, and dehydration was taking hold. The wound on the coyote was beginning to get infected, and the coyote lost consciousness. After several hours, the coyote stopped breathing. The one-eyed coyote stayed with the carcass, only leaving to find food, but

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“THE ONE-EYED COYOTE STAYED WITH THE CARCASS, ONLY LEAVING TO FIND FOOD, BUT FOUND NOTHING EACH TIME.” found nothing each time. The flesh was beginning to rot, and maggots and flies covered the dead animal, wriggling around in the mouth and eyes and open wound of the carcass. The one-eyed coyote was so thirsty and so hungry, and became delirious. It started to pace around the Joshua tree, chewing its leg and tail, howling and growling at nothing. It was so hungry and so desperate, it consumed the coyote carcass. The one-eyed coyote ferociously bit into the dead flesh, eating until there were only bones.

It left the head alone, there was not enough meat.

A thunderstorm came that night, sending showers into the mountains, drowning the desert. The oneeyed coyote drank from an overflowing stream and went on roaming the mountains. It didn’t look back at the Joshua tree. All this in one week, not that the one-eyed coyote knew this. Time was irrelevant to the coyote, to any animal in the desert. There was no measurement for his existence. They were until they weren’t. The sheriff found the skeleton of the shot

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coyote and later the one-eyed coyote, barely alive.

A snake bite had sent it into shock, sprawled out on the dirt, looking up with his one eye at the sheriff.

The sheriff looked at the coyote for a few minutes, studied his open mouth and limp tongue and his one eye. Then he shot him. The sheriff went home and sat at the dinner table with his wife but did not eat.

He didn’t sleep either. The rain water dried and so did the mountains. The Joshua tree stayed, and all the skeletons stayed, and the world went on without delay. Gusts of wind broke the leaves off the trees and sent them west, spiraling far away, away from the mountains, away from the cacti and rocks, away from the coyotes and snakes and scorpions, away from the city and its crooks and conmen and whores and pimps, away from the traffic, maybe to a place with no language, with no culture, with no life, where it could finally rest. But the wind would never stop, the city would never sleep, the coyotes would always be hungry.

Dramatic AZ | Andrew Atenica ’19 | Photography BLAM |

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The Wright Br thers

Neature/Scary Predator | Jack Kolbe ’19 | Photography

by Alex Buccino ’20

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They soar With a crazy manner, These daring men Filled with Adrenaline and pleasure.

Like a Diving orca In the deep blue sea; Like the Flying Icarus Escaping from reality.

HUMANITY WAS HERE

a poem by Garret Van Wie ’22

Night falls, gravity rends, slowly as the Earth dies, slowly as it ends.

Because things do not go out with a bang but whimper like a dog with a broken fang.

Maybe we don’t deserve to live, our plastic, fake lives.

We take yet never give.

Our perfections are our weaknesses, petty things in life, But when our corpses litter the Earth, none will go under the knife.

No one will be bombing schools or listening to biased news, No one will be shooting themselves, knowing in life it’s we all who lose.

Because humans are a cancer. We tore up the whole Earth Just so we could make toys to fill us with mirth.

Plastic and glass electronics, toy guns and arcades, Humans were taught the wrong virtues, honor and valour is what fades.

Pretty, perfect people so addicted to being best, We lost our hearts as they shriveled up, we cared not for the rest, There is no hope, we’re far too gone, past the point of no return.

We’d need a time machine, although I think we’ll never learn.

A Murder | Dean Kobs ’20 | Watercolor

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There’s a Tiny Plane | Jack Kolbe ‘19 | Photography

THE REALITY

OF DELUSION

by George Resley ’20

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“D

ad, you don’t understand the hell in my head!” He can’t fathom why I did it. I cut myself with his razor blade not because I was suicidal but because of the “fog” inside of me. He has been with me for as long as I can remember, my own demon. I had to let him escape my body, so I cut myself. I felt nothing as I saw blood rushing down my wrists; my dad has no reason to take me to the hospital.

I look at my dad’s grave face while he is driving. “Where are we going Dad?” He sighs heavily and doesn’t reply. I ask, “Why are there bloody towels in the car?”

My dad hands me two pills and tells me to swallow them. These pills tend to calm down the “fog,” but he usually comes back later to yell at me. I used to refuse to take my medication because the “fog” told me the government wanted me dead so as to kill him. He told me that they gave these pills to my dad so that we would die. Eventually, though, I took them so that he could die, which is what my dad convinced me would happen. He came back.

Sometimes, I feel like Anakin Skywalker, the character from Star Wars, with his constant fight between good and evil. I hate this feeling, so I try not to think about it, but the “fog” keeps reminding me I am evil because of him.

When my mind starts wandering, images start appearing. It is almost always the same. I see them right now through the passenger side window. A group of men all wearing the same black suit unemotionally

stare at me. They want to kill me. “Fog” is gone right now, but when he is here, he makes me very anxious that I will be killed by them. This time I was able to ignore the image.

We arrive at the hospital. My dad rushes me in, and when I lie upon a hospital bed, I instantly fall asleep.

When I wake up, I feel like I am burning. A blurry image of a nurse offers me a glass of water, so I pour it on myself to cool down. I rest my eyes.

I wake up to the sound of the “fog” talking. “You are so stupid.

Look at you. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Do it! Do it! Worthless. Pointless.”

Every successive time he repeats it, it gets a little bit louder. A doctor is talking to my dad, whose face is pale and grim. I try to hear what the doctor is saying but I can’t due to the “fog.”

After a while, the “fog” calms down, and the doctor says, “Schizophrenia is like being in a constant boxing fight. It is going to keep on knocking your son down. However, he can learn how to beat down the voices inside him.

You need to teach him to not react to delusions unless there is real, tangible evidence of it.”

I looked at my dad and say, “Why am I at the hospital?”

“SOMETIMES, I FEEL LIKE ANAKIN SKYWALKER, THE CHARACTER FROM STAR WARS, WITH HIS CONSTANT FIGHT BETWEEN GOOD AND EVIL.” Cost of a Dollar | Manny Garcia ’19 | Prismacolor BLAM |

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Max Farmer | Camden Andl ’19 | Photography all additional photos by Max Farmer ’19

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Groovy: a Portrait Series

I

’ve always loved taking portraits, and I wanted to do something that was a little different from the typical ‘putting a filter from on a basic portrait and calling it a day.’ I decided to use the photo studio to create a retro portrait photo series by using different colored backgrounds to get some old-school disco kind of colors.

I wanted to use a real set up with this series because one of my favorite things about taking photos is the process —using the studio and messing around with the different lighting. I think it can take your photos to a whole nother level and it allows you to mess around with the colors to a greater degree.

For lighting techniques, it was a pretty similar setup for all of the photos: I’d have a large white light on the subject’s face, and I’d put gels on two different lights to light the background. That made it easier to expose the subject’s face and body, while also not having the background take away from the actual face. In terms of editing, it was really the same for all the photos. I edited the colors to my liking, and I added a little bit of grain to them to give them a more vintage feel. If you look closely, there are sparkles in every photo. As I became used to taking and editing the photos, I became more strategic in placing them.

I thought they added a disco vibe to the portraits, which I thought was really cool. I added sunglasses and groovy clothes to kind of boost that vintage feel.

One of my favorite things to do with portraits is mess around with hair. I think it’s a slept-on technique that adds different textures and motions to photos.

For some of these, I chose people with long hair, like Mason and Atllas, because I thought it would be super useful and would also add variety to the series.

For my other subjects, I used people that I knew could hold a stern, model-esque face. None of these photos have any super happy emotions. I kind of like that— it makes it more serious—but the colors and all the editing make it look happy. I think that contrast kind of adds a cool effect to the photos.

The first portrait I took was of Michael, and that was just an experiment. It’s actually of one of my favorite photos just because of how he has his sweater up over his face and because of his Kairos cross, but I kind of overdid it with the sparkles. Using the negative space was just a good way for me to get the color in the background to really pop—I didn’t want the whole portrait to be just a face. Especially for people that are learning to take portrait photos, if you’re taking portrait photos in a series, you always BLAM

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need to have a variety of different positions of the body, and different focal points you can emphasize.

For some of them I have just the shoulders up, others I have angled down from the stomach up. Creating poses is easily the hardest part. You never really go in thinking about it, but once you get there, you don’t want the photos to look the same. I had a tough time with that, but overall I think I had good positions with the hands and angles from where I shot the portraits.

I think a lot of people, in terms of their artwork, are scared to do something that is different for fear that no one will like it. But I find that doing something

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that is different makes your artwork worth looking at. I personally find it more inspiring when people do their own thing no matter what anyone thinks, even if no one likes it. If you’re doing what makes you feel good then it doesn’t matter what others think, and that’s what I was trying to achieve with this series.

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E L M U D B J

by Andrew Duque ’20

If olny you culod tlel Taht I am not witrnig Croectrly.

If olny you culod tlel Taht I am mspleisilng wrdos Porpsurely.

How culod one lvie whoutit?

A porpsue?

A porpsue?

A porpsue, Taht is the key!

The key to tihs peom!

A key taht has tuernd A lcok.

A lcok in the bairn, A lcok of pian.

If olny you culod tlel Taht I am not witrnig Croectrly.

If olny you culod tlel Taht I am mspleisilng wrdos Porpsurely.

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Split | Dean Kobs ’20 | Ink

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the CLASSROOM

by Davis Houck ’21

Shingles | Jake Flaherty ’19 | Photography

T

he projector doesn’t turn on anymore.

The teacher doesn’t go to the classroom anymore, the light bulb died. The classroom is just a room. The only thing that makes a classroom different is the teacher. When the teacher isn’t there it makes the classroom lackluster. The teacher has gone somewhere else, and he brought his test tubes, briefcase, and documents with him. He has deleted his email and threw out his phone. He is gone, never to return. When I now go to the classroom it isn’t the same. There is no CSNY playing, the sinks aren’t running, the test tubes are clean, the fridge is empty, the tables are dusty, and the papers are gone.

When I run my fingers across the table they fill with dust like seagulls flocking to a warm fallen hotdog.

The science classroom is still, empty. The chairs are pushed in and they haven’t been touched for exactly twenty days.

Twenty days, I have had twenty days to reflect on this. Twenty days ago I lost something I cherished deeply. I lost something like a child loses his favorite toy. A small child carries his favorite toy everywhere.

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He has it so much he doesn’t even realize he has it until it’s gone. The difference between a child and myself is that I am never going to find what I lost how it was before. I know exactly where my metaphorical toy is but my metaphorical toy is broken, never to be fixed. October 1st is when I found out my “toy” was broken. October 1st is the day I found out my Uncle Paul was dead. I am at my table where I ate dinner with my uncle many times before. I’m having fun oblivious of why my brother is home from college. He goes to ASU, I thought we were just having a family lunch. Then my mom says “Boys, we have something to tell you”, and what’s going through my head is “Jesus Christ what did I do this time...”

Then she said, “Your Uncle Paul is dead”. I asked if it was a joke because I had seen him last week healthy.

It wasn’t possible. I was in denial. I accepted that fact when I saw the strongest man I know, my grandfather, crumple like autumn leaves under a toddler’s feet. He has been through a war, and he has raised four kids.

Today the number has went from four to three, just like subtraction in the third grade. He had officially

Contrast | Avery Hodge ’19 | Pastel

lost one. He had lost a sailor, a musician, a physicist, a middle son. My brother is silent and I have the balls to ask how he died. In my head, I am like it had to be a freak accident, maybe a car crash.

Then my Papa starts weeping, this is when my dad told me that my uncle, my mom’s brother had killed himself. I felt like a sick animal. I couldn’t express how I felt, I was just feeling. This feeling may have been the lack of feeling, numb. I had one more question which was “how?” At this point, my mom is now wailing like a child with a broken limb. My

father talks over her and proceeds to say that he shot himself in the chest.

This resonated with me deeply because two years ago I was one decision away from taking my own life. I was a yes away from ending it all. My parents do not know this about me. The difference between my uncle and I is that I said no where he said yes. October first was the day my uncle died, it was also the day when part of me died, the naive part. The part that thought everything was and is going to be ok.

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I H AV E LEFT TO OFFER YOU Inspired by Jimmy Santiago Baca

by Dean Kobs ’20

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Scruffy Man Dan | Manny Garcia ’19 | Scratchboard

I have nothing left to offer you, Since I gave you everything else.

You’ve left me without a jacket In the middle of this empty tundra, And without a pair of winter boots, The frost bites my barren body.

I loathe you, I have given you everything.

You left without your rations And so I sacrificed my own.

But now I’m without warmth or food To resolve my shrinking gut.

I loathe you, Keep it, I don’t want this back anymore.

Even if it means starving, losing myself, In the badlands, hope becomes with guilt; And behind the cobwebs of your mind, Safely hidden in some vault or fortress Behind the wall you built, indestructibly, So that not even Jericho can help, You will still freeze to death, Despite the firewood waiting outside your walls.

I loathe you, You’ve taken all I had, I’ll die without my comrade.

But to go on drowning inside, When the space outside Has room to breathe or gasp; Forget that.

I loathe you.

Juice in July | John O’Connor ’19 | Charcoal

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by Ryan Coury ’20

Stars, My soldiers in the sky, Guardians of light, Destroyers of the dark.

The source of all sunlight Who never see: The light of the sun.

Stars, The symbol of peace, The origin of order.

You come and go Like seasons in a year.

You disappear completely Yet never fail to return again.

Stars, A sign of superiority, Yet a call to compliance.

You force planets to Run circles around you Yet answer to the black hole; A master of your own.

Stars, Our constant reminder That when death do us part, It does so in flames.

Yet to most, These flames go unnoticed, Lost in the sea of Soldiers in the Sky.

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Another Planet | Jake Flaherty ’19 | Mixed Media

BUT INSTEAD I Just Survive

by Jackson Vickers ’19 It sneaks up on me Every once in awhile.

When it’s least expected, And least desired.

It leaves me paralyzed.

Shaking, no, shivering, Yet unable to move.

Crying, maybe, hopefully.

At least one who cries Is one who still feels.

One who still feels is One who still loves.

But love has its own agenda, And it appears I am not included.

I wish I were loved, I wish I could cry, But instead I just survive.

Jolt | Avery Hodge ’19 | Ink

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AT L A S

by Alexander Greenspan ’20 Stress.

It’s like lifting something up forever.

The story of Atlas, The guy who holds up the world, That’s kind of what stress feels like.

But, at least Atlas has time on his hands.

Stress comes with deadlines.

A deadline is like a bullet.

You are standing still, and nothing you do can stop it.

No matter what, that bullet’s going to hit you, And it will hurt.

You might be smart and wear body armor.

If you prepare it won’t be so bad.

But here lies the problem: Starting things is just So hard.

It takes effort to go get that armor.

And it might take a while to put on, So you just wait, Wait right up until the bullet is so close That you can almost touch it.

But the entire time you’re thinking, “What’s gonna happen when the bullet hits?”

That kind of thought eats you up inside, Like a whole bunch of little rats, Gnawing away, A ticking time bomb.

And eventually you just crumble and fall.

At least, Atlas has time on his hands.

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Rock A Fella | Jack Keeton ’19 | Pencil

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The Grass Is Always Greener

by Wyatt Ashton ’20 Inspired by the sad human habit of comparison; some of my own and another’s onto me.

Standing on a Hill in My Mountain of Dreams | Ridge Peterson ’21 | Photography

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The grass is always greener on the lawn across the street.

The people I see there are greater than those I meet.

I look across and forget my blessings, As I gather my children’s countless playthings.

From his house he sees me clean My lawn of toys, so it may seem As perfect as my life to him, For his eyes droop from rim to rim.

He works all day And cannot play With the kids he calls his own.

If he stopped along his way, The street would be his home.

This man looks to me as if I own it all, Because my house has two stories from which I can fall.

One man looks at me and sees my strengths, But I see myself for my mistakes.

I look across the street and see a new man having fun, He is happy and smiling in the bright, midday sun.

His life has passed through narrow jaws.

Now maximizing his life is his cause.

And while he is living dreams, My mattress gains more seams, As I sit idly waiting For my life to start baiting Me with opportunities to take.

Unbeknownst to me, As clear as it may be, I have countless chances to act, But rather choose to react To the chances I have missed, As they fall into that deep abyss.

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Staff

Hayden Welty ’19 Managing Editor

Camden Andl ’19 Editor-in-Chief

Nic Park ’19 Layout Editor / Graphics

JD Karanik ’19 Arts Editor

Ryan Coury ’20 Literary Editor / Publicity

Bernie Banahan ’20 Social Media / Video

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Literary

Art

Layout

Ryan O’Hanrahan ’21 Copy Editor / Assistant Literary

Eric Lin ’19 Assistant Arts

Matthew Ahearne ’19 Assistant Graphics

Bennett Fees ’20 Cole Schmittlein ’20 Sean Mullin ’20 Joe DiTulio ’21 Nathan Zonn ’21 Raj Walia ’21

Nathan Zonn ’21 Joe DiTulio ’21 Raj Walia ’21

Ryven Mangundayao ’20 Shray Swarup ’20 Aarin Shah ’20 Daniel Donahue ’20 Ryan Breuer ’20

Colophon Designers used Adobe InDesign CC, Photoshop CC, and Illustrator CC to create the 2019 issue of Brophy Literary and Arts Magazine. The dimensions are 8 inches by 10.5 inches.

The body copy font is Orkney Regular in 10 pt. font with a 12 pt. leading for prose and 12 pt. font with a 14 pt. leading for poetry. The default title font is Objectivity, and the crediton font is Orkney Bold, both varying in sizing and leadings. The cover art was designed by Nicholas Park ’19. Printed by Prisma. © 2019 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 property of their respective artists, reproduced with the permission of the student.

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Philosophy Brophy Literary and Arts Magazine is a student-run publication that seeks to be a platform for student artists and writers to express their artistic passions. It serves to provide a collective voice for the student body and exemplify the excellence of the Brophy community. BLAM puts on events throughout the year to allow students to share their work in unique ways.

These include the events such as the annual Fine Arts Extravaganza night and Poetry Out Loud. BLAM also partners with various clubs, such as the Brophy Culture Project to supply student work for events througout the year.

Policy Throughout the year, BLAM solicits submissions through a combination of contests, author readings, and classroom submissions. All pieces are judged anonymously, and submitted through a Google form before the March 1st, 2019 deadline. Contest winners, both visual and literary, are guaranteed publication in the magazine. These contests are judged by the writing and art committees, using weighted rubrics and scored averages to determine the winners objectively. BLAM reserves the right to edit content for appropriateness and aims to communicate any changes to the author.

Awards National Council of Teachers of English 2018 - Excellent 2017 - Superior - Nominated for Highest Award 2016 - Nominated for Highest Award 2015 - Superior 2014 - Nominated for Highest Award 2013 - Highest Award 2012 - Superior - Nominated for Highest Award

National Scholastic Press Association 2018 - All American - Pacemaker Winner 2017 - All American 2016 - All American 2015 - All American 2014 - All American 2013 - All American 2012 - All American

American Scholastic Press Association 2018 - First Place with Special Merit 2017 - First Place with Special Merit 2016 - First Place with Special Merit 96 | BLAM

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