BLAM 2017

BROPHY LITERARY AND ARTS MAGAZINE 2017 VOLUME NINE

ROOTS Brophy College Preparatory 4701 N. Central Avenue Phoenix, AZ 85012 602.264.5291 blam.brophyprep.org

Inside nside ap art work byFlap rendan ermer

STAFF NOTE

Roots. A simple word, yet one bristling with depth and meaning.

It is a word that connotes both upbringing and connection, humble beginnings and firm support. It is a word that invites re ection, as you look back upon your early years and contrast the past with the present. In an age in which we constantly plan ahead, it is a reminder of our rich and varied origins.

Seeing roots is seeing beneath the superficial surface of a man and glimpsing into his past. It is glimpsing into the relationship with his parents, into the TV shows he’s watched, into the baseball games he’s played, into the people he’s loved and lost. It is the scar above his left elbow, from when he cut it open—quite badly—on a piece of fence he tried to jump over. It is the quiet smile of gratitude that comes from the teachings of his mother. It is the fear of losing his memory that

comes from traumatic experiences with his grandmother. t is the fire in his eyes that comes from visits to the Ecuadorean border and his encounters with the people there. e are defined by our roots, but we can also overcome them. If our roots are gnarled and twisted, they can always be straightened.

Greatness can emerge from dubious beginnings. Roots are our past, but they don’t have to determine our future.

This year, BLAM has collected an array of pieces that revolve around roots. The contests were designed with the intention of cultivating pieces centered around themes ranging from personal upbringing (Write What You Know) to perspectives beneath the surface (Iceberg Theory). We have amassed the best works from our amazing student body. Contest winners for each literary contest are marked with this symbol .

Our features similarly explore

our theme of roots. We examine an essay from a student who feels rooted to his country (“America Through the Glass” 55), we observe a young boy who discovers his upbringing was based on lies (“Blessing in Disguise”47), and we interview a Brophy senior whose childhood interests became an occupation (“To Let the Shutter Fly” 19). e would like to thank our e tremely talented staff who helped bring this magazine into fruition, as well as Mr. John Damaso ’97 and Mr. Austin Pidgeon ’08 for their guidance. e would also like to thank all the gifted students who submitted their work this year. e hope that this year’s issue of BLAM inspires thought and discussion.

—William Ludwig ’17 —Anthony Cardellini ’17

Cover designed by Nate Ross ’17

TABLE OF CONTENTS Literary Work 1 5 7 9 11 17 23 29 36 37 42 53 59 61 65 67

The Old Wolf Capital City A Corrupted Flower Magic Card Tricks Fall Leaves Lime Field Report #8938 Everything is All Right Sparks The Professor and the Pupil Jaguars and Jäger Tide America to Me Trespassing Murder on the Airplane Noiseless

Brendan Alcott ’19 Kenta Sachen ’17 Ivan Lashinsky ’18 Daniel Kelly ’19 Graham Armknecht ’18 Joe Figueroa ’19 Reese Galvin ’18 Derby Reeves ’17 Krishna Sinha ’18 Timothy Cody ’19 Jack Cahill ’17 Brett Cohen ’18 John Murphy ’18 Nathan Miller ’17 Jack Dimond ’18 Camden Andl ’19

Prose Prose Poetry Prose Prose Poetry Prose Prose Poetry Prose Prose Poetry Poetry Prose Prose Prose

TABLE OF CONTENTS Features 19 To Let the Shutter Fly 47 The Blessing in Disguise 55 America, through the Glass

Anthony Cardellini ’17 Hunter Franklin ’19 Nathan Miller ’17

Interview Personal Essay Personal Essay

38

15

5 2 20

TABLE OF CONTENTS Visual Art 2 4 5 6 8 10 13 15 18 24 26 27 30 34 35 35 38 39

M0g0ll0n Rim Set in Stone Shanghai Skyline Zoom Temporary Beauty Tools of the Trade Limbs of Wood Branches The Great Orion Nebula Where Is My Mind? n ilence uffer Contest Posters e ate End Credits Chopin Beethoven The Awaiting Chariot Nails

Max Basile ’17 Cesar Hernandez ’17 Elias Sabbagh ’17 Andrew Howard ’17 Camden Andl ’19 Gray Olson ’17 Brendan Germer ’19 Jakob Chavez ’18 Gray Olson ’17 Cole Yandell ’17 Connor Keating ’17 BLAM taff Will Alpert ’17 Justin Loo ’19 Max Fees ’17 Max Fees ’17 William Mulkern ’17 Andrew Howard ’17

Photography Photography Marker Photography Photography Photography Photography Pen Photography Photography Scratchboard Graphic Design Photography Digital Illustration Linoleum Block Monoprint Pastel Photography

41 41 44 45 51 54 56 58 60 62 64 66 68 70

Talking Body California South Side Puddle Oil Paint Portraits Pharah Money Over Everything Water and Land We the People Road Trip A Wee Baby Chew-bacca Rubik’s Wooden House in a Concrete Jungle

Monoprint Photography Photography Photography Oil Paint Digital Illustration Photography Monoprint Photography Photography Pen Photography Photography Photography

Elias Sabbagh ’17 Cesar Hernandez ’17 Cesar Hernandez ’17 Cesar Hernandez ’17 Assorted Artists Gray Olson ’17 Gurkuran Bhatti ’17 Jakob Chavez ’18 Cole Yandell ’17 Cesar Hernandez ’17 Immanuel Garcia ’19 Drew Burns ’18 Stokely Berg ’18 Stokely Berg ’18

41

18

26

30

58

Brendan Alcott ’19 The old hunter woke up early, before the sun came up. His eyes were sore, his joints hurt, and his chest was tight.

Breathing was painful. He had been feeling this since the first full moon, each day feeling worse and worse.

I cannot hunt today, he thought. And tomorrow will be the same, as well as the next day, and the day after that. How will I feed the boy?

“The boy will need to feed himself,” he answered.

But the wolves will be out, he thought.

And he is too little to fight them off.

“I will protect him then,” he said to himself. “Just this time.”

But you are old, he thought to himself again. What good could you do?

The old hunter would make sure to put everything he had left in him to protect the boy on this hunt.

The old hunter got the boy up. ake up, boy, it is time for you to hunt.”

The man was alone with the boy, and the boy only knew the old hunter. rab your coat and your knife and your 1

bow,” he said to the boy.

The boy said, “Are you not hunting?”

The old hunter nodded, saying, “It is time for you to learn to hunt. I am old, and soon I will not be able to hunt for you.

And you will be alone.”

“

Wake up, boy, it is time for you to hunt.

The boy put on his coat and grabbed his bow and his knife. He grabbed the arrows made from the thick tree wood.

Out of the hut went the old hunter and the boy. “Am I alone on this hunt?” the boy asked.

“No, you are not ready to be totally alone. will walk with you and protect you from the wolves.”

“So I am not alone?”

“Just this time.”

It was white out, so white the blemishes from nature stuck out like a black stain.

The boy wanted to play in the snow, but

he knew the old hunter would scold him.

The old hunter could see a storm coming from the north. He did not warn the boy, as he knew the boy would see it too.

They went out in the thick snow, the old hunter following behind the boy. He was slow and his oints hurt, and he felt like two large rocks were attached to his legs, but he still went on. The boy was not ready for the wolves, but he should have been.

The old hunter knew the route he was supposed to go, the way to track the caribou, but he was going to see if the boy remembered what he had taught him. The boy looked down at the tracks in the snow, deciphering what animals walked through it.

The boy saw s uirrel, turkey, and caribou. e saw the tracks of two wolves, and they were the freshest of the tracks.

“Papa!” he shouted behind him, “The wolves are already out!”

The old hunter gave no sign of panic. ou had better find the caribou before the wolves find them first.

They went along, the old hunter still

M0g0ll0n Rim / Max Basile ’17 / Photography

2

behind and the boy in front. The boy was scared of the wolves because he knew they were close, but the old hunter did not worry. The wolves were easy to scare off, and he had learned many ways to do s0.

The boy stopped suddenly, and the old man stopped with him. e did not ask the boy what was wrong he knew that the boy had spotted the caribou.

Smart boy, thought the old hunter. I taught you well.

The boy prepared his bow with the thick-wood arrows and aimed it at the caribou. The old hunter saw it, and it was an impressive animal, large enough to feed the boy for weeks. e longed for the ability to kill the beast himself. e could not take his eyes off of it.

Maybe he is just as lonely as I am now.

”

The boy crept up silently, but something caught the corner of his eye. A wolf was prowling behind a bush, preparing to strike the caribou. The boy turned his bow away from the caribou and aimed it at the wolf. He saw in the wolf a sense of childlike playfulness, like all of this was a game he was playing. But the bloodthirsty look of determination was still in the eyes of the wolf, and he was still a dangerous 3

beast. Another wolf appeared behind the first wolf, this one older looking. is hair was more gray, more tattered and worn with scratches on his face and body. He was looking around, watching the younger wolf. efore the boy could fire the bow, the old hunter leapt at the wolves, getting his knife into the younger wolf s neck.

The younger wolf whimpered and was stunned. The old wolf jumped on the old hunter, biting his left shoulder. The boy did not want to hit the old hunter, and he was paralyzed with fear. The old hunter’s right hand was still holding the knife in the young wolf s neck, and he took the knife out and waved it around, slashing at the old wolf s chest. The old wolf backed off and limped away from the fight. The younger wolf, blood steadily pouring from his neck, umped onto the old hunter and bit into his neck.

The boy saw a clear shot and fired his bow, and the arrow whistled through the air. t struck the young wolf in the chest, piercing his heart. The young wolf slumped over. The young boy ran over to the old hunter.

The boy shouted, “Papa!” and ran to the old hunter. But the old hunter had passed on. His face was covered with scratches, and his neck bled onto the snow, making the snow the color of gutted salmon. The

old hunter had always told him to take what he could eat, and he had not caught the caribou, so he picked up the young wolf.

The boy thought to himself, I am taking your young wolf, so you can have my Papa, old wolf.

The boy was not sad because the old hunter had told him he would be alone, but he was scared. What was going to happen to the boy now? He would grow old and die like the old hunter, but now he would be all alone.

Maybe the old wolf is still out there, the boy thought. Maybe he is just as lonely as I am now.

Set In Stone / Cesar Hernandez ’17 / Photography

4

Kenta Sachen ’17

Shanghai Skyline / Elias Sabbagh ’17 / Marker

CAPITAL CITY RECOVERY EFFORTS CONTINUE IN THE CITY1 CAPITAL CITY (AP) — Following the devastating earth uake that rocked the city just two days ago,2 emergency personnel have worked day and night digging through the rubble to get to civilians trapped below.3 The local fire and police departments have worked around the clock with the help of civilian volunteers to clear debris and put out fires4

5

that have broken out around the city. The Department of Disaster Control estimates a long road to recovery. Statistics gathered by the missing persons phone line5 suggest that over 200,000 people are still unaccounted for. hile health o cials suggest that finding victims in the first hours is crucial for survival,6 volunteers and city o cials alike

show no signs of slowing down. According to a source close to the Red Cross, volunteers will spend the third day focusing their efforts towards th7

W

WW

Zoom / Andrew Howard ’17 / Photography 1 After a magnitude . earth uake in the afternoon of March 9, 2017, over 300,000 people were killed, in ured, or displaced from their homes. ike many others who were working that day, Thom is stuck under the rubble of a collapsed o ce building, waiting for help to come. Through a crack in the debris, a sheet of newspaper comes uttering by and lands in front of Thom s outstretched hands. Relying on the rays of light shining in, Thom begins to read.

2 “It really has been two days, huh. It’s been such a blur being stuck down here. Arms scraped, my left leg trapped, I might as well get comfortable down here.”

3 “I guess I’m one of many. Not to wish ill on

anyone else s survival, but sure do hope they find me real soon.”

4 “It sure is a storm out there, isn’t it? Those sirens I heard must mean help is nearby. I’ve got to have hope.”

5 Thom’s face suddenly turns pale in utter devastation. “Pops. Ma. How could I have forgotten hat if they were in a fire r what if they re trapped like am h, what d give to be with them right now.”

6 ell it s been two days and m still here. Take that health o cials ut even as Thom looks to remain optimistic, his body once again reminds him about his bone-dry mouth, his pounding headache, and the feeling of utter devastation in

his empty stomach. Thom could only let out but a small whimper as scorching pain shot up his legs.

7 All of a sudden, a gust of wind picks up the article and blows it out of Thom’s reach. He almost wants to laugh at his own misery, but he lacks the energy to do so. here are they going to focus their efforts Are they coming over to the east side or are they just going to leave me here to die Thom looks around in dismay but no one would share in his misery. ut he already knows that. He’d been shouting until he was spitting out blood for the past two days, and yet he was still underneath the rubble. “Hope is a funny concept,” Thom thinks to himself. ou only look to it when you re not sure you re going to make it.

6

A CORRUPTED FL WER Ivan Lashinsky ’18 n the omnipresent darkness, there is a sapling which bears but a single ower, smelling of sweet honeysuckle and lavender. ithin this radiant ower is a soft

�

They fill their heads with lies of milk and honey, riches and spoil, and holy words.

turquoise glow, which the original children of the darkness come to investigate. nable to reach this ower they pile atop one another, each desperately reaching out before its neck is twisted.

The blood begins to ow down through the bodies, down into the ground, down into its pure roots.

The sapling begins to grow.

The bodies begin to pile atop one another, starting with the darkest of hues and growing up towards the lightest.

7W

As the tree bears fruit, each new wave of bodies becomes more disfigured and frightening.

This now putrid tree grows larger, stronger, feeding off the malice and bigotry of the bodies beneath.

As it feeds, its bark turns from a light blue hue to a spiny wilting grey.

The soft turquoise glow turns to blood red.

The sweet smell of honeysuckle and lavender turns to the putrid smell of rotting corpses.

The creatures pay no heed.

They continue to fight, thinking that all their actions will be ustified once they reach the ower.

They fill their heads with lies of milk and honey, riches and spoil, and holy words.

The tree curls its thick and mangled roots around their deceased brothers and sisters, encapsulating them, and degrading the bodies of the suffering by weaving its roots through their eye sockets.

But woah, how good are eyes if you cannot see with them?

But woah, how we turned something pure into something sinister.

But woah, how we turned something truthful into deceit.

But woah, how we created this bogey but have barely begun to see it.

But woah, how good are eyes if you cannot see with them?

Temporary Beauty / Camden Andl ’19 / Photography

8

MAGIC CARD TRICKS Daniel Kelly ’19 hen was five years old, was walking with my parents in uincy Market in oston when saw a medium-built, black-haired man sitting behind a dilapidated wooden table ust outside a coffee shop.

The man had heavy wrinkles around the eyes, a faded black hat, and a very strong accent. Now that think it about it, it was probably a Polish accent. At the time I didn’t know. t ust sounded different from the way my parents talk.

He invited me to come forward and pick a card. was hesitant at first. had been told a thousand times not to talk to strangers, yet there I was, interacting with this strange man in the middle of an unknown place. approached him and picked a card, the king of spades. t looked strong to me. t

9

almost looked like a character from one of the comic books liked.

Then, he asked me to put it back in the middle of the deck. e touched the cards three times with his old wooden wand and then shu ed the deck. inally, he showed me a card.

It was the queen of hearts, and he asked me if that was my card.

For a moment I thought that I had tricked him, that had won. ut he only laughed and asked me to look in my coat pocket, and there it was, the king of spades don t know how he did it, but that experience was the best part of the trip. Forget the visit to Harvard Square or the aquarium. I had seen with my own eyes a card disappear and reappear in my pocket This was better than all the fantasy movies I had seen. What I saw was supernatural.

After this trip I got obsessed with card tricks. accumulated decks of cards, all in different shapes and formats. Whenever go to a new city, look for the cards in the souvenir stores. I have purchased enough books on the sub ect to cover half my bookshelf, and I have watched every YouTube video with card tricks at least twice.

But no matter how hard I try, no matter how carefully I plan the sleight of hand, I have not been able to teleport a card. r maybe have grown skeptical.

Maybe I have lost the ability to see magic in the world. Maybe what made that trick so magical wasn t the Polish man with the worn hat but the eyes of my five-year-old self that were so ready to believe in the impossible.

Tools of the Trade / Gray Olson ’17 / Photography

10

Graham Armknecht ’18 Today, the leaves were changing. The fall colors danced whenever the wind blew. I smiled and looked out the window, watching our wake of foliage fan out while my family drove to our destination.

“Mom, are we there yet?” I said, drumming on my elevated throne seat.

Mom turned around from her seat and smiled. “We’ll be there in two minutes.

Just stay quiet or you won’t be able to have dessert.”

”

The windows along the outside sparkled in the sunlight as the birds sang.

I took a gulp of air and held my breath. didn t want to sacrifice the delectable cookies Grandma always made.

“Ha-ha, Mom told you to shut up. Mom told you to shut up,” my sister jeered in a sing-song voice. Without a throne, she was nothing to me.

11

“That rule applies to you young la—” my dad said as he parked.

Even before we stopped, I erupted from the car. I ran up the driveway up to Grandma’s house.

Grandiose in every way, it had two stories, in contrast to our simple onestory house. It had a wide wooden porch that overlooked Grandma’s spectacular, variegated garden. The windows along the outside sparkled in the sunlight as the birds sang. The house had a welcoming white coat of paint.

I sprinted up to Grandma’s door. I took the rope to the bell outside of the door, ringing the bell as loudly as possible.

I heard footsteps rise and fall. When Grandma opened the door I jumped forward and latched myself to her.

“Well hello, Tim!” Grandma said, laughing. “My, you’ve grown so much!”

Mom disentangled us after a moment and gave Grandma a hug. “Hello, Alexa,” she said, releasing her from the hug soon after.

“It’s so nice to see you and Doug again.

It’s been what, a month?” Grandma said.

“Three months, Kristen. It’s been since August, remember?” Mom said.

Grandma shook her head and placed a hand on her forehead. “Of course, how could I forget?”

I jumped up and down again. “Can I go up to the treehouse with Dad?” I said, impatience in my tone.

Grandma knelt down to me and messed up my hair. “Of course, dear. But I think you and Grace can go up there yourselves.

You’re old enough now. Besides, I need to talk to your dad.”

“But there aren’t supposed to be girls in the treehouse. Especially Grace.” I stuck my tongue out at her, even though her back was to me while she talked to Grandpa.

“If you let Grace up there, I’ll let you have three cookies instead of just one,”

she said, leaning close. “If it’s our secret.”

I nodded my head and ran up to Grace and Grandpa. “Grace, let’s go up to the treehouse!” I pulled at her arm and she sighed and went with me. ll talk to you later, randpa, she said, leaving Grandpa.

I ran, Grace giving me resistance.

“It’s too cold to go up there,” she said. paused for a moment and looked up at her.

That s why we have ackets, said, pulling my acket out in front of me. t keeps us safe from cold.

Grace remained quiet while I towed her until we arrived at the ladder for the treehouse. race climbed up first. followed, reaching my hardest and just grabbing the planks nailed to the tree.

Our breath misted in front of us as we sat and looked down at the house from the window. I caught a glimpse of my parents, Grandma, and Grandpa sitting around the fire. hat do you think they re talking about said, looking behind me at Grace. he looked up and to the left for a

moment but shook her head and sighed, twiddling her thumbs. Adult stuff. ou wouldn’t understand.”

I stood and turned to face her and stomped on the oorboards. m old enough to know what people are talking about,” I said. he shook her head. ou wouldn t be able to handle this.” shook my head and looked at her with defiance in my eyes. can handle it m five and a half now.

“I won’t tell you.”

My look of defiance turned to a look of desperation. “Please? Please, please please, ple—” randma s sick, she said to shush me. There was silence in the treehouse for a moment as she repeated the words in what was hardly above a whisper. randma s sick. walked up to my big sister and cocked my head to the side. he doesn t look sick. race looked at me and shook her head, tears in her eyes. f course she doesn t. er voice broke as she sobbed, her shoulders shaking. went closer to my sister and gave her a

hug. I pulled away and waited in silence until Dad came out.

“Grace, Tim? It’s time for dinner!” he shouted.

Soon my thoughts of consolation were gone and shouted back, e re coming I parted from my sister and climbed down the ladder as fast as I could. I sprinted into the house. The warmth of the house engulfed me as I grabbed a plate. loaded it up with plenty of turkey, mashed potatoes, stu ng, and cranberry sauce. I grabbed the apple juice on the table and poured it into a glass that had been set out for me. After collecting my meal, I sat at the table and waited for everyone to get there.

When everyone sat down, Grandpa cleared his throat and silence fell upon the room. “Why don’t we go around the table and say what we are grateful for?” he said.

Everyone went around the table saying what they were grateful for.

When it was my turn, I stood up. “I’m grateful for my family and the cookies we’ll have for dessert,” I said, smiling before sitting down. randpa finished the round of thanks.

12

13

Limbs of Wood / Brendan Germer ’19 / Photography

“I’m thankful for having our family all together for this delightful Thanksgiving feast,” he said, raising his glass. Everyone did the same and took a sip of what they were drinking. I took a sip from my glass and resisted the urge to spit out the apple juice. Instead of the sweet taste I expected, it was bitter and sour. I gagged on it and managed to gulp it down.

Dad looked over at me. “Tim, what’s wrong? You always love the turkey that Grandma makes.”

I looked up at him, then down at the sour apple juice, then back up to my dad.

“It’s the apple juice. It’s sour.”

My dad looked at me with an odd look, then over at Grandma, and got up from the table. “May I be excused for a minute?” Grandpa nodded and he left.

Moments later he came back with the bottle of juice. He showed me the date on the bottle.

2-14-03 My eyes widened when I looked at the date from two years ago. “Why do we have old apple juice?” I said. The conversation stopped. When I looked up, everyone at

the table was staring at Grandma.

“It’s fine to drink it. I checked the date yesterday. It’s fine, just drink it.” She shook her head as I pushed the juice away. The dinner went on like it had just moments before, just now with a sour taste.

I shifted into second and turned onto the familiar road from years ago. I looked around me at the same area that had captivated me with colors as a kid, but was now covered in gray and white as far as the eye could see. Life seemed gone from the trees, their naked branches swaying in the breeze. The snow had come early that year, blanketing the ground in what had at first been a pure white blanket. Time and dirt had adulterated the snow, leaving it a gray, melted slush on the road and sidewalks, a burden to those who tread upon it.

The gravel in the driveway crunched under my wheels as my car pulled into the driveway. I weaved my car as to not hit the two already in the driveway. I

stepped out of the car and pulled my coat into me, my breath visible in the air, and walked toward the once grandiose home.

The white paint peeled from the walls, the ancient bare wood visible. The bell, once rung with such strength and vigor, hung near the door, rusted from the cold winters it had to endure. When I reached for the string, my hand grasped empty air, so I pushed the doorbell that clung to the doorframe.

A minute or so passed before Grandpa opened the door and smiled softly. “Tim, it’s good to see you. It’s been a while.” He opened his arms, and I took him into a quick hug.

“I’m sorry, I’ve been at college for a while. Haven’t been able to come out here like I told myself I would.” I said, pulling away from the hug and stepping inside.

Grandpa shook his head. “No, you don’t need to worry about it. Your education is more important right now. I’ve heard you’ll be hired right out of college,” he said, sitting on the couch.

I nodded and sat next to him. “Yeah, exactly. With companies opening new 14

social media positions left and right, jobs in my field are easy to snatch up.

He smiled, but said nothing after. We waited in a silence that had once been unheard of in this house before. The multiple clocks in different rooms ticked, but not quite in unison as they once had in the past.

The silence lasted until my sister walked down the stairs. She’d matured since the last Thanksgiving in this house. he had more confidence about herself after finishing college and getting a ob in a biology lab. Her long brown hair cascaded down her shoulders and she stood proudly. ark bags hung heavily from her tired eyes. The life seemed...drained from her.

“

The multiple clocks in different rooms ticked, but not quite in unison as they once had in the past.

Branches / Jakob Chavez ’18 / Pen 15

I stood up when she entered and walked over to her. I enveloped her in a hug. ey, happy Thanksgiving.

She pulled away after a moment and looked up at me. eah.

So much has happened since we were last

here.” She sat down on the couch and put her hands in her lap, twiddling her thumbs. nodded my head in a rmation. eah, know. e were uiet for a moment before I piped up again. “Where are Mom and Dad?” think that they re looking at the treehouse, or what’s left of it anyway. If you d like to oin them, go ahead.

I shrugged, and let my curiosity get the better of me. alking outside again, my hands wormed their way inside my coat.

Mom and Dad stood a few feet from the tree where the treehouse had perched.

The treehouse had corroded after many winters, reduced to a pile of rotted planks. walked to the blanks in the tree, putting my weight on the bottom one. The wood creaked in protest, brittle and ready to splinter from the passage of time.

“So that’s what’s left of the treehouse, huh?” I turned to face Mom and Dad. eah. Not like how you remember it Dad said.

“Nothing can match the imagination of a five-year-old.

A soft wind chilled me to the bone. I ran to both of them and pulled them into a group hug. “I missed both of you.” My soft laughter plumed in a visible mist. Nothing could be compared to seeing them again after a long time. pulled away and looked

at their faces. Gray stubble on my dad’s chin had become more pronounced, and the wrinkles and crevices near my mom s eyes had deepened since I had last seen them.

“We missed you too.” Mom said.

And with that, the wind enveloped us, prompting a hush. s dinner ready or cooking asked. eah, it s ready in the kitchen, Mom said. “We were waiting for you.”

“Now that you’re here, we can eat,” Dad smiled.

I want to make a toast. To Grandma.

”

We all walked in together, welcoming the warmth of the house once again. I piled my plate with another Thanksgiving dinner. A drumstick for me along with stu ng, cranberry sauce, and the mashed potatoes. I sat down and watched my family sit down at the six-seated table.

One seat remained unoccupied.

Once everyone sat down, Grandpa stood once again and cleared his throat.

“Why don’t we go around and say what we re thankful for ll start by saying m thankful for this meal Ale a made for us.

It smells great.”

My dad stood up across from me, “I’m

thankful for our family being reunited again, especially with school and new jobs.”

Grace stood up next to him and said. m thankful for the success we ve all had in this last year.”

Mom stood. m thankful for this house. So many memories.”

Then I stood and everyone turned to face me. Not knowing what to say, hesitated. looked at the empty seat at the table and took a gulp of fresh air. m thankful to be celebrating Thanksgiving in this house again. know it s been a while since... my sentence trailed off and took my glass. want to make a toast. To randma. raised my glass and clinked it with the people around the table. I sat down and began to enjoy the scrumptious, sweet meal Mom had prepared.

Sweet dreams, Grandma.

In memory of Mary awes Armknecht. A loving grandma, mother, and gardener.

I will always remember her, despite her being unable to remember me.

“Sweet dreams, Sweetheart.”

16

LIME Joe Figueroa ’19 Our lives are an illusion that is with absolution ve been gracefully awakened but in my lucidity I’ve been shamelessly isolated Left alone in the world, viewing it with cleansed eyes and wielding a voice that if used, will lead to my demise I’m afraid I might not be able to live this life to the fullest anymore that ll simply live knowing that it s more impossible now than ever before I’ve lost my grip on what is right and what is not, and ll stare at a blank canvas when given such a prompt This life is a mere stepping stone to eternity but knowing when ve left my body behind is an uncertainty When I die, where will I go and what will be left? ill it be an afterlife that s infinite in depth r will wake up somewhere not knowing m asleep once again, And live my life from the beginning until it starts to wane 17

The Great Orion Nebula / Gray Olson ’17 / Photography

18

TO LET THE SHUTTER FLY Interview with Cesar Hernandez ’17 by Anthony Cardellini ’17 ANT N CA N ou do something pretty unique. How did you get into concert photography?

C A NAN My very first concert was a Pot of Gold music festival two years ago. t was endrick amar, so it was a pretty good start. I borrowed my friend’s camera. It wasn’t a very good camera, but guess got stuck in charge of it. I came out with some pretty decent pictures. After that was hooked. ust took that little camera. t s a ony mirrorless, not professional or anything. It was allowed because it’s not professional. ust kept on repeating that. didn t realize I could actually go somewhere with it until Summer Ends that same year, where took a picture of anye and Travis Scott and it ended up being on Travis Scott’s Instagram. So after that I got a lot of people liking or commenting on my page and took it more seriously, felt people actually enjoyed what I did.

AC ow does one get into professional concert photography? What do you have to do to get to the front?

19

“

I felt people actually enjoyed what I did.

C f you actually want to get access and not shoot from the crowd, which is what you have to do to build up a portfolio, contact their publicist or manager. t s ust a lot of marketing, reaching out to people. My very first concert that I got access to was Schoolboy .

M ed his photographer three weeks before. You have to contact their publicist or manager and they’ll tell you if you’re allowed in based on your portfolio or if you work for a publication.

AC hat was the last concert you shot C shot ot of old this year. t was Desiigner and Rae Sremmurd.

AC o you want to eventually be published in a publication?

C That d be awesome.

AC ou en oy the music, right C h, definitely.

AC And is the photo pit in the front

C The photo pit is in front of the area that separates the stage and the crowd.

AC o is that part of it for you, then C Music was always a huge part, especially rap and hip-hop. I ran the hip hop club two years back. To en oy the music and be able to document the concert and the energy has been a great e perience for me. That s definitely a part of it.

AC hat is your favorite picture that you ve taken C ne of my favorite pictures is the one of Travis Scott and Kanye West, just because it’s literally freezing water that he threw up in the air. think it s ust a cra y shot. It’s not one of my best ones, but personally, it’s my favorite. Better quality ones were probably Rae Sremmurd.

AC o how do you know when is the right moment to take a photo s there a secret to it? Is there a part of the song where the best pictures are taken o you study the music before you go?

C That comes in, actually knowing the music. It’s not studying, but if I’m a

Kanye West and Travis Scott / Cesar Hernandez ’17 / September 27, 2015

20

Young Thug / Cesar Hernandez ’17 / November 26, 2016

21

It unites people because it's a common subject.

”

just because he was very popular at the time when was ten. At first it was a lot of radio and mainstream music, but once I had access to a computer I’d definitely look deeper into last albums, or people that featured with him, and it s ust e panding that knowledge.

AC o you have a favorite hip-hop artist now?

C efinitely endrick amar.

AC ou have a lot of other photography that you’ve submitted to us. hat makes concert photography different than the other stuff you do C etting to document the experience that thousands, tens of thousands of people go to and getting to capture artists that everyone in the school and country knows about because of their music. It unites people because it’s a common subject. When you take a nature shot, not a lot of people know where that might be. o think it ust unites a lot of people because a lot of them are interested in the people I shoot.

Chance the Rapper / Cesar Hernandez ’17 / November 11, 2016

fan, obviously m going to know that when Kanye’s playing “Blood on the Leaves,” obviously he’s going to jump in the air when the beat drops. But everything matters. Whether they’re right handed or left handed, where the microphone is, if they’re energetic you have to adjust the shutter speed. It’s just things like that.

AC n my mind, it seems when you have access it would be you and a bunch of professional photographers. Is that true, or are there other people your age?

C don t see a lot of people my age doing this. I shoot mostly from the crowd, but I have gotten access to maybe four or five concerts. And when I have gotten access it’s with people that work for maga ines or have thousands of followers on their twitters or instagrams. It’s cool being able to take pictures with people that do this for a living.

AC o BLAM’s theme this year is roots. t s kind of going back to your childhood and seeing how it s in uenced who you are today. Earlier you said that music has always been a big thing for you. Can you talk about that, how music was part of your life as a kid C didn t know nglish until was ten years old, but music is kind of universal. For hip-hop, it was probably minem that kind of started it for me,

22

FIELD REPORT #8938 Reese Galvin ’18 “Christ, what’s that smell?”

“Quiet. You see that?”

“I can’t see anything, man. It’s all so... grey. ooks like someone was a little too mindful of the electric bill when they left, huh? Ha... funny, right?”

“Yeah... here, gimme a hand with this, would you?” eah, sure. ey, has your ashlight seemed a little dim today? Did you bring any extra batteries?”

“Huh? Here, grab that end.”

“Nothin’. Hey, did they tell you what e actly it is we re looking for down here “Yup.” “Ah, cool. So, uh, what is it?”

“GAH! Damn it Neil, I told you help me with this thing, now for Christ s sake grab THAT end.” orry, man, you know how get when don t know nothin .

“Anything.”

“Huh?” ou don t know anything, Neil. ou can t not know nothing. That would mean 23

“

What were they even working on down here that’s so damn important?

you know everything. h. kay. o, are you gon tell me why we’re down here, man?”

“Because they told us to retrieve it.”

“Retrieve what? What were they even working on down here that s so damn important?”

“It doesn’t matter, Neil. Now watch your step in here. The last thing we need is a torn suit to deal with.”

“Jesus, Pat, what happened in here?”

Make sure you stay right behind me. e don t know how stable this level is. ou mean they didn t even make sure it was safe for us to be down here before they sent us in?”

Nope, they wanted this done uickly.

Anyway, there it is.”

“Huh, thought’d it’d be bigger. What is it?” t s... an antechamber of some kind.

Not sure.” h yeah, that makes sense.

“Alright, gimme a hand. Jesus, this thing’s heavy.”

“Man, too much. So what do we do?

Can we ust open it up and take whatever s inside?” don t know... ere, hold the light. ll check the instructions.

Man, look at this room. hat the hell happened in here? I just don’t get it. Ah, God dang it, why am I always the one to tear the suit? Stupid scalpels, why can’t I jus—” “Well... it doesn’t say not to. Let’s see— wait, what the hell? Where is... NEIL, GOD DAMN IT GET BACK HERE!” “What?! What’d you want?!”

“I need you to pull this slide for me while unlock the antechamber door.

“All right. Hey, just wanted to let you know that made a bit of a

Where Is My Mind? / Cole Yandell ’17 / Photography

24

“—Harder, Neil! I can’t do this on my own. There, ust like that. Come on... almost there... almost... ahh. Alright Neil, get behind me. I’m gonna open it from the side.”

“I tore a hole in my suit over there on the desk.

“You...what?”

“It wasn’t my fault, Pat! I just—” ust ust what, Neil o you know how stupid that was?! On an assignment like this They re never going to hire our firm again They ll nullify the contract because of you, you gangling idiot!”

“Hey, cut it out, man! Let go! You’re just gonna make the tear worse “I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about the tear right now, Neil! I can’t believe this! I even went out of my way specifically to tell you not to—” “Hey... Pat? Pat. PAT!” “What?! What the hell do you want

25

now, you damned fool?!”

“Ain’t there... ain’t there supposed to be something in the antechamber?”

“Huh? What the hell... I didn’t even open it yet.”

“HOLY SHIT, PAT! ABOVE YOU!” “What... the... hell? OH FU—” “Oh God, gotta run. Where, where, where? Which way? Oh God, help me.”

“Oh Christ, come on, come on, you stupid light. Oh Jesus, please don’t die now. lease. know m almost there. have to be. ait, at s that you h thank God! I thought you was dead! What’re... what’re you doing man? No, no, no, NO! STOP! PLEASE, GOD, NO!” “...Three weeks ago today, two mutilated bodies were found inside the

facility. Their bodies were taken to the local coroner to receive autopsies to discover the causes of death. However, the causes of death were unable to be determined due to the state of decay. Also, the bodies were apparently misplaced and have since disappeared entirely. The investigation was closed after no leads were discovered.”

“Man, what a dramatic story, Janet! efinitely one for the T shows, haha In more positive news, the homeless population has been very uickly dissipating within the city! The police department refused to comment on the reasons, other than issuing the statement, ‘We are glad that the streets are becoming safer and cleaner for its citi ens, and will continue to look into the rapid disappearance of the homeless population. And after the break, we have Nancy with the week s weather

In Silence I Suffer / Connor Keating ’17 / Scratchboard

26

CONTEST

27

POSTERS

Every year, the BLAM editors and committees spend much of the first few months designing, promoting, and udging the contests portrayed on these pages. These theme-based schoolwide contests account for a large portion of the submissions BLAM receives throughout the year.

Title / Firstname Lastname ’17 / Medium

28

EVERYTHING IS ALL RIGHT Derby Reeves ’17 August th here.1

lease, anywhere but

Dear Me, The first day of school has always scared me. The new classes, new teachers, and almost inevitably, a new school. know Mom tries to keep us in one place, but her obs always seem to have a different plan.

Every time she tries to lay down roots, it just gets harder when her company pulls them up. The few friends I manage to make always come and go, so why bother getting close anymore? Mom seems to think need friends for senior year, and I can’t see why. I mean, I’m leaving for college soon anyways, and I’ll never see them again. lus, it s not like anyone here would want to be friends with me. Mom drops me off in this new public school in the middle of nowhere and I’m already terrified to make eye contact with anyone outside of the car. I put my head down and plow through the crowd, clutching my bag as make a beeline for my first class.

When the teacher calls my name, I 1

29

eptember th The room was silent as sat back down.2 swear every pair of eyes in the room is glued to me and time stops. I stare at my desk for the rest of class as listen to whispers of “Who the hell is that weirdo?” or “What is he wearing?” or “What a loser.” None of this is new. I don’t mind it anymore, really. On the way out the door, the teacher tells me if I “want to be successful in her class, I’m going to have to participate.” Great. I turn to leave and see five heads uickly swivel around as my audience disperses from the window of the door. know what s waiting as soon as I step out there. Please, anywhere but here.

Sincerely, You Dear Me, lease remember to never talk again. To anyone. Or anywhere. Remember when I said Ms. Levi told me I had to participate to “be successful” in her class? Well, 2

ctober

st No one asked.3

maybe I shared a little bit too much. I know the assignment said to be honest but for od s sake there s a line. he didn t tell us she d be asking us to read them, but knew at least she would see it, and that’s reason enough to shut my mouth. he didn t need to know about ad, or the counselors, or the therapy, or the tens of prescriptions. It was just supposed to be a simple paragraph about myself.

What unholy inspiration caused me to turn in a four page synopsis of my life struggles? I mean, I might as well have just stood up and shouted, “I’m depressed!” and rolled up my sleeves!

No, what I did was worse. I was honest. I said it all. don t know what the hell was thinking. The room was silent as sat back down.

Sincerely, You

Deflate / Will Alpert ’17 / Photography

30

November 24th: It’s much more comfortable in the dark.4 Dear Me, I was thinking about how this used to be my favorite holiday back in Oklahoma.

Even the year I broke my foot because I was convinced my Spider-Man costume gave me the ability to climb walls was better than this year. Of course, the last few years have been much more dull; I’m too old to trick or treat, but too young to not look sad while passing out candy to the elementary school kids on the block.

That’s how it goes; you have your fun, then the younger kids get their turn. Of course, the typical choice of celebration for high school seniors is a house party.

Mom works tonight, and I told her I planned on staying in. She seems to be getting more concerned about me. I mean, after the teacher sent the note and the new counselor appointments, how can she not be? Of course, I lie and tell her I feel so much better. The counselor seems to be buying it too. The meetings are shorter and way less boring. Mom has plenty to worry about, least of all should be me.

I insisted I would go out, I just wasn’t invited anywhere. No one asked.

Sincerely, You

3

31

December 1st: I’ll kill myself.5 Dear Me, I never cared about Thanksgiving. It seems really nice for people with big, happy families. Our neighbors practically begged Mom and me to come over. I guess they had noticed how stressed my mom has been lately. We walked over to their house, one spot to the right and $200,000 past ours. When we got there, I wanted to crawl out of my skin. A new acquaintance at every turn, asking my name, how old I am, where I’m from, my life story.

Everyone looked sideways at us, biting their tongues to stop the most obvious question from falling out: “Where’s your family?” After an uncomfortable 45 minutes of meaningless small talk, the person I can only assume is the father of the host is wheeled into the house. veryone ocks to him and lies about how young he looks, how they knew he’d make it this year. Once everyone has said their hello’s, he points to me and my mom and asks, “Who the hell are they?” I can feel my face turning bright red as his daughter quietly tries to explain. Before she can finish, he blurts out, ell why ain t he here?” I feel sick to my stomach and stumble into the kitchen. I vaguely hear Mom behind me whisper an “I’m

4

January 2nd: I might do it.6 sorry” before I run out the side door and find myself in their yard. plod across the grass and back to my house where I promptly lock myself in my dark room. Of all things, he had to mention Dad. I hear Mom come in the front door and sit at the kitchen table. A silent gloom hangs over the house as Mom cries onto a picture frame. I sit silent on my bed. It’s much more comfortable in the dark.

Sincerely, You Dear Me, Thank God for winter. Back in New Mexico, the weather was constantly a miserable 90 degrees. Minnesota made me love the snow, so now that the first powder of the season has stuck to the streets here in Pennsylvania, I feel some semblance of joy. I watch the days on the calendar slowly tick by as 2016 comes into its last month. chool has been fine, and it seems like people have forgotten about September. till, no one talks to me. ut that s fine.

I’ve been able to focus on my schoolwork and applications to college. Scholarships have been a big worry, considering the hoops Mom has to jump through

5

March 5th: I’d never be saved.7 to make rent college is a fiscal monster of biblical proportions in comparison.

For the moment though, everything is all right. Soon we’ll be on break for the holidays and I can relax a little more.

Mom seems concerned about what ll fill all my free time with, even when I tell her I’ll just be home, “reading or something.”

She keeps asking me to talk to this girl in my English class. Her dad went to Mom’s o ce a few weeks ago and somehow got to talking about their kids. find it laughable that Mom thinks I can just walk up and talk to this girl who probably hasn’t ever noticed me when I can hardly manage a regular conversation with her.

I’d completely disregard the notion if she would quit reminding me already. I mean, I’d love to try, but I wouldn’t know where to start or what to talk about. If I have to talk about dumb stuff like school or hobbies or, God forbid, family, I’ll kill myself.

Sincerely, You Dear Me, You’ll never hear me say it again, but Mom was right. Annie came up to me after class asking if I was the kid her dad told 6

May 24th: My last goodbye.8 her all about. I asked her what he possibly could have told her and get this: she said, Come find me at lunch and ll tell you.

Of course, I didn’t. How was I supposed to talk to her while she’s sitting with her friends?

But after school she found me somehow and asked me why didn t find her at lunch. I stumbled through an explanation about not wanting to butt into her circle of friends before she stopped me and offered to drive me home. stood silent at the offer before finally accepting when she started considering retracting. The drive was mostly quiet, but what was she expecting me to say? Our only conversation piece is English class, but I’m silent on account of September.

As I’m praying she’d forgotten all about it, she turns to me and says, “You know, I thought it was really brave of you to write that English piece. Most of the kids in that class have mush between their ears and no sense of sympathy. I really hope none of them gave you a hard time.” Of course, I lied and stuttered out that they hadn’t.

She seemed to see my discomfort and decided to drop it. As I was stepping out of the car, she handed me a torn corner of a notebook page and said, “Text me!” I

think I stood in my driveway for ten minutes as the snow collected on my shoulders, staring at the ten numbers.

I spent an hour staring at my phone, trying to decide how to introduce myself.

I settled on “hi.” It’s not a great start, but I guess I tried. She responded seconds later and suddenly I found myself in a real life conversation. I guess this was as surprising to her, because she shot me with an “I didn’t know you knew this many words.” Maybe I’m being too positive, but this could be a good thing.

I’m afraid of being too optimistic, but if she wants to hang out more, I might do it.

Sincerely, You Dear Me, I know I haven’t written anything to you in a long time. Ever since Annie and I started going out, life has been a whirlwind of emotions and events. I mean, I went to a school dance last week.

Most everyone asked me what school I went to, and Annie made every last one of them feel bad about not knowing someone at their own school.

She introduced me to her friends, only for me to forget their names the next day.

7

32 32

Mom couldn’t believe it when I brought a girlfriend home, considering the last time I even had a friend over was Oklahoma. Even better, I’m actually going to college! La Salle gave me enough money for it to be feasible to pay tuition. It’s nice that I won’t be too far from Mom in these coming four years. I know she worries, and the last thing she needs is to be tense about how I’m doing for eight semesters.

Annie hasn’t heard from NYU yet, but she s really hopeful, and my fingers are crossed for her. When I read back through these letters, I can’t believe where I am compared to where I was in November last year. I think I have Annie to thank for that. She saved me when I thought I’d never be saved.

Sincerely, You Dear Me, We knew it was going to happen. I mean, we started dating just a few months before college. raduation is finally here and, that means school is done. Of course, I’ll be home all summer, but Annie’s family goes to New York every June and stays through half of August, so we clearly wouldn’t be seeing much of each other 8

33

anyway. Last week she called me crying about how we’ll never see each other again. I think she was mad I didn’t cry.

Of course I’m sad; it’s just not a surprise.

Like Mom used to tell me every time we had to move, “All good things must come to an end.” But somehow, it’s okay. I saw her today and insisted on talking about it. or the first time ever, think did most of the talking while she quietly sobbed and listened resignedly. She knew we wouldn’t last, but that doesn’t mean what she gave me won t make all the difference for the years to come. Today, once I walk down that aisle and get my diploma, it’s all over.

I don’t think I’ll keep writing after today is over. As they say, the worst is over and the best is yet to come. So consider this my last goodbye.

Sincerely, You

End / Justin Loo ’19 ’17 / Digital Illustration TitleCredits / Firstname Lastname / Medium

34

Above: Chopin / Max Fees ’17 / Linoleum Block Right: Beethoven / Max Fees ’17 / Monoprint 35

Title / Firstname Lastname ’17 / Medium

SPARKS Krishna Sinha ’18

ired differently— toxins of another, who shot me six months ago in a white room, filled with a black reality. eaching the key of A broke me, dreaming C, two steps, two words, driving me to Hell, where my epitaph burned, and dreams withered into black lilies.

STAMP SILENCE SATISFACTION.

ired differently abilities defined in si e one font Impact, upon me.

According to some, the thesaurus said, “inept,” “limited,” as they put me into that search box, when I saw Terpsichore doing a grand jeté and ying in calligra ti, definers did me the haka

ifferent wires Aeolus harmonized to Chopin while streaks of lightning, Latent, Dynamic, Perpetual, lingered inside, whirlwinds of uncertainty whispering, but God left dewdrops, an unwritten tomorrow upon the irises, showing me the world, ascending.

ired differently personal prospects plundered, the pen stolen from me as blank pages became ash, and Fates displeased, a silent storm resounding.

36

THE PROFESSOR & THE PUPIL Timothy Cody ’19 The breeze triggered goosebumps on aber s lower neck. e surveyed the silent park, e amining the motions of the leaves uttering in the wind. uh, they dance through wind and ame, muttered Faber under his breath. Suddenly, his face inched as he lost that thought and recognized the unforgettable wail of the dreaded alamander s siren several blocks away. He imagined the glorious blaze, enveloping texts while some rebel was resisting arrest and pleading innocent.

Their petitions were useless now. veryone knew it was a federal offense to harbor books or reading material. That was why he liked the park. e knew he was safe in the park. No one ever came in the park because no one ever left their T family. ere, he was safe from the firemen and the superficial lifestyle of the city.

Faber pulled a cigarette out of his suit pocket and struck a match. e held the ame up to his lightly creased yet e hausted face and studied the ame.

Over time, it had squirmed away from its responsibility of bringing people together 37

for warmth and preparation of food. It had betrayed society. It had hypnotized people with its power to destroy and cleanse, and now humans worshipped it as they burned their original ideas in books to bow to the beauty of the ancient torch. Fire held a tight grasp over humankind, abusing its powers through nuclear warfare. People were defenseless against their obsession with the nuclear fireball that could destroy and cleanse with unprecedented perfection. Spreading like wildfire, Americans burned books and individual thoughts while encouraging the nuclear missile program.

Furrowing his brow, Faber blew out the ame and placed the blackened stick beside him on the bench. He put out his cigarette and stared into the night sky. aber saw the puffy smoke rising above the trees as a result of the inferno the Salamander had spewed. Faber’s mind wondered if Captain Beatty had led his crew to the unsuspecting victim’s house. Faber remembered when he was a professor at Reed University. He could

vividly recall his classroom, where brighteyed students would present to the class seemingly ancient passages that re ected modern times. In one of the last years of his teaching, when people had begun to lose interest in reading, Faber taught a brilliant student named Beatty. Beatty knew how to speak wahili, indi, and English. He was also able to compose arguments that were almost impossible to successfully counter. One day in class, Beatty presented his case that people no longer would read books. e sourced ir Philip Sidney and Alexander Pope. When his fellow liberal arts classmates refuted him with ustification from r. ohnson, Beatty overpowered the rest by using other evidence from Dr. Johnson against them. The class turned into a war zone, a frenzy of frivolous arguments gunned down by the well-prepared rationalization that reading was dying on its own. On that fateful day Faber stood helplessly and watched Beatty convince one student after another of the future e ecution of books.

Faber was stunned. He became too

The Awaiting Chariot / William Mulkern ’17 / Pastel

38

39

Nails / Andrew Howard ’17 / Photography

weak to defend literature. That was the last day Beatty arrived to class, and the rest of the class grew smaller every year until the last liberal arts college had closed its doors indefinitely. n later years he learned that Beatty had become captain of the fire station when aber witnessed him burning books in a house. aber snapped back to reality with the crisp snapping of twigs in the distance. He tried to convince himself it was just the wind because no one dared leave their ordinary home at this hour. Nevertheless, the leather bound book inside aber s dark suit felt strangely heavy on his chest. He wondered if the minor lump from the book was noticeable, or if people would even recogni e a book in public anymore. e knew he was in danger since he had chosen to bring the book along with him, but he also knew the book would be in even greater danger out of his protection. Faber turned his head to catch a glimpse of a downtrodden firefighter wandering directly toward him. Faber’s heart pounded in his chest as he shot up off the bench and uickly read usted his suit to hide the book. e turned to run the opposite direction of his pursuer when he heard the man screech, “Wait!” Faber stopped his momentum and fell to cowardice once again as he turned trembling towards the firefighter. aber s lip curled as he cried, haven t done anything The firefighter uickly retorted with a compassionate and confused grin, “No one said you did.”

40

Above: Talking Body / Elias Sabbagh ’17 / Monoprint Left: California / Cesar Hernandez ’17 / Photography

JAGUARS AND JÄGER Jack Cahill ’17 HOUSE FIGHT Christmas time is always a bit dysfunctional at the Cahill house.

Christmas 2005 is such a year. Mom is in the kitchen, struggling to whip up a gluten free meal, frantically running back and forth to find new ingredients. ad is in the family room, watching a Fox News special about the War on Christmas. I sit next to him and ask him what beer tastes like. eer can kill you, he says.

“OK,” I say, nodding my head.

A light snow falls outside, dotting our rural ennsylvanian backyard, coating the dead trees in a beautiful light blanket. hen is us coming ask.

“Uhh...maybe half an hour,” my mom says somewhat nervously. “He has a new girlfriend, so be on your best behavior.”

Around si randpa us walks through the front door.

“Grandpa!” I yell.

“Hey,” he grunts. His arm is wrapped around his girlfriend, Anna, who is about thirty years younger. With her long brown

dad says firmly. efore randpa us packs and leaves, however, he walks upstairs to my room and leaves an assortment of toy cars on my bed.

“With Love, Grandpa,” the present reads. e had even carved a miniature parking lot for me to place the toy cars. In that This Christmas Eve I sit in the basement moment know he loves me. ut also know he has demons. That night, my mom playing with my toy cars. I have a Volvo walks into my room and turns on the Toy figurine and push it across the tattered carpet, hoping that I can get more Story nightlight.

She smiles, but in a sad way, her face toy cars for Christmas. visibly red from crying.

As make car sounds, hear other our grandpa is an alcoholic, ack. sounds upstairs. ou re a freaking bitch crew you, you balding old prick RED JAGUAR Tears swell up in my eyes. Such abrasive, horrible, deplorable words—they haddya think, ack he asks, taking were so foreign to me. a swing at his cigar.

My mom is upstairs, shielding Anna “It’s pretty.” from my grandfather. He is stumbling and “Of course it’s damn pretty; if this car slurring his speech think something is were a woman, I’d marry it.” horribly wrong. Did he have rabies?

The aguar . leek and red as a “Gus, get the hell out of our house,” my model s lipstick. roplets of rain shine on hair and curvy hips, I was really proud of my grandpa for landing that.

“Hey, Dad,” Mom says. She hugs him and he cracks one of his rare smiles. runting again, he walks away.

Presumably into the liquor cabinet, not that I understood that then.

...

42

top of the roof, re ecting the beautiful car in the coming sunshine.

“Let’s drive this son of a bitch.” kay.

I hop in the passenger seat, and he whips the Jaguar out of my driveway, the smell of creosote after a rain permeating my senses. We pull out of the neighborhood, he clutches the car into si th gear, and we y down ima oad, the humid, post-monsoon wind throwing my wispy blonde hair into disarray.

Grandpa Gus reaches for his water bottle, takes a big sip, and puffs on his cigar. Thirsty, I reach for the water bottle and take a sip, but immediately spit it out.

It’s so harsh, acidic, and bitter. on t drink that, ack.

“Is that…”

“Yeah, if you tell your mother, I’ll tell her about that magazine you have.” lackmailed by my own grandpa. otta love it. e make a -turn at rank loyd right, and he keeps the car at as high a gear as possible as he goes 105 up the steep incline of Pima.

“God bless this machine,” he says, laughing.

I didn’t see that Jaguar for another eight months. When I saw it again, I was in Missouri.

43

...

walk through snowdrifts and the blustery wind up the winding road in St Joseph, Missouri. In front of me is his house, or what used to be his house. Bill aulkner is in the front yard placing a “For Sale” sign in the snow, but I focus on the red aguar, covered in snow. t looks sad, like a dog without an owner. t looks widowed, orphaned. on t talk about it so loud, ill, hear my mom say from a ways away. The kids are right over there.”

DR. ENGELS “You have to tell me something.”

“I don’t want to,” I say, crossing my arms and pouting. r. ngels sighs and takes out her red pen, jotting down some notes.

“Is it because of your grandpa?” she asked.

“No—it’s been since before he died.”

“Then what is it?” told you, don t know I am becoming increasingly frustrated, my legs are bouncing restlessly, and I glanced at the clock.

“You’re here until I say we’re through, do you understand?” she said, noticing my wandering eyes.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah or yes?”

“Yeah,” I say, trying to be a smart ass.

I sit there in silence for about twenty seconds before she takes out her pen and starts interrogating me again.

“When did it start?”

Maybe last year don t know.

“So 4th grade?”

“Yeah.” ou mean yes, ack, you mean yes.

“Yeah.”

At this point find myself being crushed by frustrations and an iety, so ask her, have a lot of homework, can go now ine, ll see you ne t week. walk out of the dreary, sterile room and into the poorly lit hallway. Pictures that are supposed to convey happiness— families rolling around in the grass, as well as beaches and sandcastles—are plastered all across the wall. I want to knock those photos down.

I see my mom in the waiting room, and we walk out to the car. ow was it she asks in a hopeful tone. ell...she s mean. don t like her.

“OK—but we need her to get your medicine.”

“I don’t want my medicine.” know you don t, but you need it.

South Side / Cesar Hernandez ’17 / Photography

44

45

Puddle / Cesar Hernandez ’17 / Photography

AUSTRIA A light drizzle falls, illuminated in the eerie moonlight. treetlights icker, showing me the way to go. The grand clock in the village center strikes AM, and the entire town s uare echoes with a loud chime. glance at the street sign, shrouded by early morning’s mist: “Verlassen St. Wolfgang im al kammersgut eaving t. olfgang. nod silently and continue walking. To my left, the Austrian Alps, to my right, the stunning blue waters of ake olfgang.

A lone Audi driver rolls down his window and slows down to ask me ind sie gut a, ich bin perfekt, danke. keep on walking, occasionally stopping to glance at the scenery. soon e it the village and am drawn into the countryside, enamored and stricken with the natural beauty of it all. The lush grass, the snowcapped mountains, the glistening lake shines in the sunrise. smile a genuine, natural smile. missed that feeling, that feeling of calm. espite this, keep walking. walk until my legs nearly go numb. walk until the two lane, winding countryside road comes to a sudden halt. y this point the clouds have covered up the sun, and a summer

storm is coming in. wipe the sweat off my forehead and take a right at a dirt trail with a sign that simply reads: t. olfgang, M. kilometers away from the hotel, ust fantastic.

The light drizzle soon turns to a steady downpour, but don t care. n the distance see a uaint, co y little village, like something you may see in a erenstein ears book, or maybe a German fairytale. A few dogs hide under a tree to shield themselves from the rain, and as go to pet one, a man stops me.

“

I missed that feeling, that feeling of calm.

e looks no older than twenty and has a droopy facial structure. ith his overalls and red yet childlike face, assume he is a farmer’s son. ie ehts is erman is lacking he is clearly a native speaker, but his slow mannerisms and style of speech lead me to believe that he is cognitively deficient. spoke erman with the man, but for the sake of simplicity, will use nglish in the dialogue. m fine, thanks, say, hoping to avoid a conversation.

hy are you here don t know. went for a run. ou are wet. know. don t control the weather. e failed to understand the oke, but he was smart enough to understand that was lying to him.

“Why are you really here? What are you running from he asks. m e ercising. ou are big child.

Thanks, think.

Are you sad No, say insistently. mean... m not happy, but m not sad. don t know what am. e seems to understand my broken erman and pats me on the back. e all lose things, he says. e all go through the trouble. We all go through the crap but everything is pretty. e didn t say anything else he ust looked at me, pointed to the serene mountain ranges in front of us, and nodded. low as he might be, he is wise. arrive back at the hotel by around AM, still surprised by the strange event that had ust transpired. egardless of how absurd and surreal it is, smile. take a shower and smile widely, knowing that feel a bit more calm. feel more calm because of the little things.

46

THE BLESSING IN DISGUISE Hunter Franklin ’19 Many of those who know me at rophy describe me as the nerdy white guy with glasses. m a guy who loves to talk the “what-if’s” of an apocalypse and a selfdescribed history geek. think most of my friends and teachers assume I am just an average Brophy student.

They are wrong.

I have lived a lifetime in my 16 years.

Half of that life was lived in a blissful world of ignorance and lies. The other half of my life is built on opportunity and love, but with a gut-wrenching worry that I might wake up and it will all be gone.

This is my story.

The first years of my life were chaotic and turbulent. At the age of four, my biological father abandoned my biological mother, and in the process took me away without her consent. Some might call it kidnapping. guess that would be the case was a kid whose photo ended up plastered on the wall in a storefront as a reported missing child.

My biological father and I were always on the move, never staying in one place for too long.

47

We travelled all the way from North Carolina to Arizona, all over the course of four years. nbeknownst to me, we were on the move because he was running from the law.

I remember a couple of months after we had left my mother, asked my biological father what had happened to my toys. He said the moving van with all our belongings had been sucked up by a tornado and everything was lost.

This is one of many outrageous lies I would later remember. I remember one he told me to keep me from going outside “That little dog next door? That dog is really an alien who will eat you.” You might laugh at me now. But that story was super scary to a four year old kid. ven scarier to me now is the fact that he used fear to control me.

My life was spent locked inside a filthy cockroach-infested apartment. was never allowed to go to school, play with other kids, or see a doctor. only watched horror movies and cartoons. I didn’t have toys. I didn’t have Legos. I never learned how to ride a bike. didn t have video

games. I later learned that toys serve another purpose besides fun. Toys help in the mental and physical development

of a child. They help with things like coordination, dexterity, and mental exercise.

et s talk about food and sustenance. lived off of sandwiches and processed cheese. When we ran out of

food, my biological father said it was because the grocery stores ran out of food.

I remember one time we ran out of food on Halloween. So, we went to the party that our apartment complex was having and grabbed as much candy as we could get.

On my eighth birthday my life changed dramatically, setting me on the course of where I am today. On this day, the police came pounding on the door to the apartment and ordered that they be let in.

As my biological father was handcuffed and carted away, he promised it was all a mistake, and we would see each other again. Another one of his lies.

I was put into the Arizona foster care system where spent time with the kind and caring Joyce family. This is where I learned the basics of how to live in the real world things like basic hygiene, putting on clothes, being taught to button shirts and tie my shoes, using utensils, and crossing the street. At the age of eight, I finally attended school for the first time.

It was in the Joyce home that I learned my biological father was a criminal, a con man, one who had stolen thousands of dollars from various people. They said the crimes that he had committed were in the news. learned that everything knew about the world was a lie. Dogs weren’t aliens, grocery stores didn’t run out of 48 48

food, my biological father didn’t serve in the military, and he wasn’t a spy. I felt betrayed and abandoned, and I realized that my biological father wasn’t the great person that I thought he was. Sadly, I was unable to stay with the Joyce family, a family that I had grown to love, appreciate, and call my own. Despite my fears, all hope wasn’t lost. I would spend the next several months transitioning from living with the Joyce family to the ranklin family, who would eventually 49 49

become my forever family. I hoped this was true but given what perceived as my luck, worried.

I would experience the blessing of being adopted by the ranklin family. My adoption, at the age of 10, would be a great turning point in my life. Over the course of the next six years, my parents would help me catch up to my peers.

You see, I was both developmentally and physically delayed due to the lack of physical activity, of not having toys, or

kids my age to play with. ust sitting in a room watching T makes your brain and muscles turn to mush. Physical therapists that worked with remarked that looked like a olocaust survivor. was pale as a ghost and so skinny that you could clearly see my scapula protruding from my back. had many firsts with my new family. was taught to swim, ride a bike, and play sports. I celebrated my birthday, Thanksgiving, and Christmas for the first time in my ten years of being on this Earth.

My family dedicated a lot of time to my development. It was through their love, tutoring, physical therapy sessions, and– their words, not mine my hard work and determination that I am with you here at rophy. made my first friends, a couple of whom are here at Brophy with me, during this time. My parents raised me in the Catholic religion and because of this, now know that am here with them, with you, with the friends I have made and relatives I love, because I am blessed

by God. The fact that someone who had once been a 10-year old illiterate became a Brophy student is a miracle in itself.

Title / Firstname Lastname ’17 / Medium

50 50

Jackson Pollock / Nate Ross ’17

O

I

Zoe Colotis / Gray Olson ’17

Kurt Cobain / Elijah Lee ’17

L

P A

I

N

T

51 Taylor Swift / William Mulkern ’17

Bono / Max Fees ’17

James Harden / Ben Schneider ’17

Jean Giraud and Hayao Miyazaki / Dylan Roskov ’18

John Lennon / Patrick Worley ’18

P

O

R

T

R

A I

John Green / Jack Brown ’17

T

S

Michael Jackson / Jake Inzalaco ’18

52 Lana Del Rey / Elias Sabbagh ’17

52 Johnny Cash / Immanuel Garcia ’19

TIDE Brett Cohen ’18

Promises flew unshackled across the ocean, They sang of you, and me, and him, and her.

Yawps ringing, hearts bursting, and the mountains bleeding with freedom.

The weak, the poor, the huddled masses, Lifted from wretched refuse to the embrace of an eagle, The kiss of a golden torch, The seaside scent of freedom.

Paradise was one with together, the sunset was our liberty Our happiness glowed on the horizon as our own pot of gold.

Yet here I stand, in midnight?

Here I laugh, sing, and pretend to love, While ruptures spread as dissent beneath my feet and the earth quakes like shattered glass As the fog supplants breath and chokes with invective, I look and glimpse beautiful heights While the horizon stretches inches from my upturned gaze, Seeing light in its absence and liberty in its absence.

I used to say that I grew stronger with every breath, But my breath is poison and my sigh is death, Saccharine, sickeningly sweet like promises dreamt and wept.

We were brothers, lovers, But the darkness envelops me and I only see enemies, Stretching from coast to coast, continent to continent, world to world, Painted black like our darkest shadows and darker selves.

Yea, and I am attacked, brother upon brother, Words of liberty on their lips but gazes of tyranny glimmering in the too-close whites of their eyes.

53

And I cry, wail, a yawp turned sinister, drowning diminutive in our tarnished sea of sorrow I beg, I scream, I pray to a God made to justify dominion, And I wake. Sweating and panting, exhausted from the terrors of the night, A dream turned sour, flickering briefly with the light of memory, And gone, vanished into the night.

Somewhere, across oceans and mountains and infinite worlds, My dream lies asleep, ancient, primal, true.

And so I sail the waters of that unknown expanse, hoping to come upon my soaring opportunity once more.

I sail.

I sail.

Pharah / Gray Olson ’17 / Digital Illustration

54

AMERICA, THROUGH THE Nathan Miller ’17 When I was younger—oh, youth. Be honest. ou don t run on unkin, honey. ou need kids. nergy not coffee, its synonym). Exploration! BAZINGA! When I was younger, my mom and dad used to drive us to the aquarium every year. We’d get lost in that underwater, parado ical world, snaking through ma es with transparent walls—not that we ever wanted to escape, really—and passing apanese ponds full of koi, shallow reefs teeming with darting little squirts and starfish we could touch.

All of that was neat, but what gave me the biggest rush of all was the pool I could jump into. “Come feed the LIVE STINGRAY! Only $5 per person!” the sign said.

“No way in HELL,” I said in my head.

Naturally, my mom was thinking the e act same thing Come on, sweetheart, give it a try! You’ll love it!”

Believing her for some reason, my brother and climbed into the tank, wading through waist (almost chest)-high saltwater, clutching a few 55

slimy sardines less afraid than we were, waiting for the rays to come. stuck out my hand, gazing at it as if it were some alien limb.

Then, a dark grey saucer with a long, pointed antenna hovered toward me.

Slowing down, it descended over my hand and, to retrieve the cargo, ipped itself up with a splash to reveal a lipless, almostsmiley mouth. The creature lingered, so I rubbed its slick body for good luck. All the while, Mom and Dad had been laughing, my brother tending to his own ray.

Then, as suddenly as it came, the saucer oated back to the pool off to spook and enchant, hopefully, another kid like me.

You, America, remind me of that a uarium. e ve known each other for twenty years, babe fine, more like a decade and a half so know there s more to you than has met my eye. But tell me if this fits you You’re full of surprises! ack before knew who uck inn was, my parents had been telling me about you all the time They read books

and sang songs to me about purple mountains and yellow plains and sharp, uncharted greens; about redcoats and General Washington and the minty Statue of Liberty, about pioneers and the wild, wilder west, and about heroes like ackson and Roosevelt.

All that stuff entertained me, sure. And, much the same, my parents could tell me all about hammerhead sharks and tuna, moral eels, sea urchins, ellyfish, and stingrays.

But to see it with my own eyes—to see you in person is a different story.

And not ust your landmarks or tourist destinations. Jobs galore—well, they sure aren t as pretty as they look on colored cardboard, but they’re everywhere.

If I dreamed, and planned, I could open up a music shop. Sell used furniture and DJ booths...too cheap, might as well become a DJ myself! Eat ice cream right out of my stand when it gets too hot.

(It’s always too hot.) could open a law o ce. ork parttime for a construction team to build that

Money Over Everything / Gurkuran Bhatti ’17 / Photography

56

o ce. et a degree in studying people s feelings, the mind, the psyche. Design technology, new instruments and tools that a psychologist could use. There’s opportunity everywhere—and now, having grown up, I appreciate that more than ever.

And to watch you grow, America!

More than your past, you’re a fable being written every day, a timelapse being filmed as we speak.

You’re a complex organism.

Sometimes, it’s easy to feel powerless in this American system. know there are hundreds, thousands of people bigger than me—not just in size or stamina, but in the scope with which their hands and minds can rend and contort our ecosystem.

You’ve got giants, America, and a food chain. You have your great whites, your barracudas, your bass, your starfish, your plankton, your seaweed. The dream is to climb that chain and metamorphosize into that shark. The challenge is, once up there, to control your appetite.

I, still over 220 years your junior, am beginning to perceive that chain for what it really is a literal stairway to heaven for those below, a deadly weapon for those above (should they decide to vigorously yank and twist that chain, trying to keep their place at the top and shake 57

intruders down), and a proving ground, tough but not impossible, for those inbetween.

Recently, honey, and I cannot deny, that chain s been looking more like a cord lately. It’s wearing thin, tense, stringy...

You’re in danger.

Not that you ever weren’t, America, but a particularly pissed-off strain of violence is ravaging you. Personally, I’ve never seen you this weak. And it s not physical violence. No, it s more like an actual fever, all hot and sensitive and irritated. It’s probably not terminal; but if that bug keeps growing, m afraid lots are afraid you ll collapse or choke, like a ailing tiger shark in the drained tank after somebody cracked the glass open with a hammer.

You might, as the vernacular simply goes, be fucked.

Now I don’t mean to alarm you or escalate, but in that case, honey, we’d all be. t s a to ic et stream that ows both ways. News sources lie to the people, disregarding truth; the people, naturally enraged, learn to love to hate the media.

And hate the government. And hate the president. That’s only part of it. It’s cyclic, America, and it scares me.

You’re my home.

In addition to, or in spite of all that, you’re my home. Not just mine, but the

home of every Chris and Jim and Miguel and Barbara and Sanijn and Jessie and Robert and Julian and Alana, all the Chens and Garcias and Nguyens and Smiths and Wus and Kumars, and all the other stereotypes and clichès that, face it, Miller, ust weren t going to work. know it was risky, honey, but they re frankly more than tropes you are home to a full motley of people, period.

This cannot be overstated! Diversity of cultures—that’s your lifeblood, America, ust like how you re the lifeblood for all the people who come here.

Nor should you forget democracy. We all get, or at least share, some voice in you.

And youth—gumption, charisma, spark that s your lifeblood, too The young mind drives this country’s interests, while the old mind keeps the two in check a statement both true and false at the same time.

Nevertheless, you are our bastion, a source of security and nourishment, my own first frontier. ithout you, wouldn’t be here; I’ve got to love you, America. We’ve got to protect you.

And that’s why I hate to see you this way. No sea turtle appreciates a contaminated tank. No child likes to see his parents get sick, or tear at each other arguing. Just the same, it bites to see you torn in two, America. That’s why we

Water and Land / Jakob Chavez ’18 / Monoprint

talked about you during our Summit on Human Dignity—because we, the “We, the People,” want to help you help us help our posterity somehow.

Yes, it’s confusing.

No, there are few straight-forward answers.

Yes, if there’s a light at the end of this tunnel, then I sure as hell don’t care for it sometimes.

Yes, admittedly, I might have enjoyed myself more if I spent one of those days at the aquarium.

But I do this because of what you mean

to me, America—because of what you mean to us. You have a refugee heart, sliced and mu ed but unbroken. our streets may be spotted, coated with blood, but they will not lose their color, their shine, so easily. We will learn, America, together.

58

AMERICA TO ME John Murphy ’18 America is red, white, and blue.

It is the pride I associate with these colors. t is the butter ies felt in my stomach as a child when I saw a policeman because that’s who I wanted to be.

To serve and protect.

It is education, where I have found interest in a profession where I can find success because am told that can, and because this country gives me opportunities to do so.

Opportunity!

My ancestors believed in this opportunity.

They traversed thousands of miles to come to this great country.

To start their lives.

Each generation more successful than the last.

Each generation exceeding the expectations of its past.

It gives me so much inspiration, so much motivation, so many aspirations! look across the table and spot a fellow 59

classmate he looks blue. mpassioned, ask him, hat does America mean to you?”

He is lost in pensive thought, and I notice his eyes turn grave, his face droops, and his entire countenance distorts to a point where I could hardly recognize him.

He replied to me, “America is red, white, and blue.

It is the fear I associate with these colors. t is the butter ies get in my stomach when I see a policeman because they have taken so many of my people and am afraid they will take me too.

To serve and protect?

Who? Certainly not me.

It is school, where I have lost interest because every day I am told that I will amount to nothing.

My ancestors were turned to fuel, put in canisters, and shipped to this country in order to power its economy.

For hundreds of years we have been

the stepping stone of this country, with nowhere to go but up, yet with no opportunity to do so. hear people come here to find opportunity.

I laugh.

Opportunity?

For who?

Certainly not me.

This country has caused my complacence.

This country has dismantled my dreams.

This is America to me.”

We the People / Cole Yandell ’17 / Photography

60

TRESPASS NG

Nathan Miller ’17

Jostling under the scorching rays of an ill-tempered sun, my brother and I were locked in a one-on-one basketball showdown. Heat had never been a deterrent for us. Without sweat, we might not have felt as though we’d worked hard or improved–if we valued that kind of thing. I was just fourteen at the time, my brother twelve, and we had happily embodied the entirety of the phrase “ignorance is bliss.” Of course, we didn’t bother considering those things. Right then, it was just me, Joel, a secondhand, full-size, black metal hoop, a concrete court laid just months ago, and a thoroughly wizened, once red and now barely maroon ball. To our right lay the remaining half of our backyard’s grass body, an enormous, twenty-foot ash tree reigning over the area. On the outskirts of our yard was a moat of small stones, the final layer leading up to our castle s territory walls.

“I’m winning!” panted Joel, smirking.

“Eighteen-sixteen.”

“Sure you are,” I replied, “but not for 61

long.”

And in such banter we accelerated, or at least kept the same pace. We had never followed any strict code or terms of playing; even if we had one, we would’ve broken it righteously. “Traaaavel!” Joel cried, realizing that I had begun to pick up momentum and thus posed a threat to his great and glorious lead. “My ball.” I accepted this quietly and turned the ball over honorably. It was not I, but Joel who was prone to tantrums and fits. t had been that way since I could remember.

”

We stood, stunned, for about five seconds ... What could we possibly do?

The ball smacked against the plastic backboard and, as if under some kind of duress, eased its complying self into the hoop. It was nineteen-nineteen.

“Kobe!” shouted the boy with the ball–

certainly not me–as he pulled up for a very long-range three-pointer. I rushed to block him, as with fervor I often did, only to see the ball soar tantalizingly beyond my reach. We both turned, facing the hoop in fierce anticipation, yet too stinted by the sun and the shot to move.

Upon its descent the ball hurtled towards the hoop with startling accuracy. Then, it missed the backboard altogether. Neither of us had seen such a thing. It was surreal.

What kind of horrible shot was that? The ball ricocheted off our rocky moat, and before we knew what happened, it had scaled the back wall and fallen into the oblivion that was our southern neighbor’s yard. e stood, stunned, for about five seconds. oel finally broke the silence.

“Crap.”

“Uh, uh-oh.”

Naturally, the fear in ignorance, which grips most all young boys, took hold of us.

What could we possibly do?

“Let me try something,” I dared.

Carrying a metal chair twice as wide as

Road Trip / Cesar Hernandez ’17 / Photography

62 62

me, I lumbered over to the wall. I plopped the chair down and ascended, not high enough.

“What the hell do we do?”

My next action dominated the rest of the moment. Taking my life in my hands, along with any nascent understanding of common sense, I grabbed the rough top of the wall with my drenched hands.

Exhaling sharply, I propped myself up on top of the wall, one knee at a time, then one foot at a time. And gazing, not unafraid, began to recall the barking and chatter that had often erupted from my neighbor’s yard. This was suicide–I was trespassing.

“Well,” I uttered in a forlorn tone, “here I go.” There was no need for words; everything about the situation, from Joel’s catastrophic shot to my climbing the wall, was, to our understanding, just plain wrong. The nonexistent plan simply wrote itself fall over the wall, try to land without making noise, and return safely home. The ball’s priority slid into the backseat, wrestling with the countering notion that without retrieving the ball, our basketball careers would come to their abrupt endings. o, thinking no more, dove right in. lip- opped feet, barely my own, crashed into the sharper, drier stones of my neighbor’s yard. Suddenly my brain 63

switched itself into nin a mode this is what those guys on TV do! Yet I failed to acknowledge the darker moiety of said T plots–the bad guys always die, and given what I was doing, I was the bad guy.

Not bothering to fake-ponder any longer, I released my hands from the wall and turned around. Before my eyes, a wasteland unfolded. No grass grew in the greener pastures; the only green was the poisonous oleanders that hugged my new side of the wall. I stood on the sloped shores of a tan, glistening sea, and whether from some blessed source or a defensive homeowner, I felt watched.

When I came to, my head began to pivot left and right, frantically searching for familiarity in an alien world. Thus, I rummaged through spiny leaves and treaded over crunching stones for seconds, magnified to minutes and hours, until at last my old ball showed itself. t lay out in the open rocky ocean, as if military lighthouse beams were painting the spot. I wasted no time.

As hurled the ball back into the new world, I couldn’t help feeling heroic.

I had literally boldly gone where no seventh grader, to my (again) limited understanding, had dared go; I had done the impossible. And, in a momentary stupor of cockiness and panache, knew that I would trespass again.

A Wee Baby / Immanuel Garcia ’19 / Pen

64

MURDER ON THE AIRPLANE

“

1

By Edward Papyrus (Jack Dimond ’18) “You killed him!” she screamed to everyone around her, vehemently thrusting her open fist.

with a violent rage, she started accosting Steven had been murdered.2 When she 3 noticed the corpse of her husband, Angela everyone left and right.5 “You killed screamed a blood-curdling4 scream. Filled him!6” she screamed to everyone around Webster’s Dictionary defines airplane as “a powered heavier-than-air aircraft with fixed wings from which it derives most of its lift.” To me, this seems very broad, as it mentions nothing of packaged peanuts, or airline food in general. You may be asking now, “Edward, you haven’t even started the story and yet you already are off track and talking about packaged peanuts, a topic that has nothing to do with the actual definition of an airplane.” To which I respond: Screw you.

2 Yeah, I am so sorry to start this story off with a tragedy.

Now don’t shed your tears just yet. I know you love sympathizing with “Steven.” Well guess what: Steven was a sociopath. Yeah, didn’t think I’d throw that curveball out of nowhere. Oh yeah, I bet you feel really bad for sympathizing with him now, don’t ya? Hey, he murdered his wife and kids. Oh yeah, it’s all going downhill for you isn’t it now. Shame on you.

3 Okay, I lied. He didn’t kill his wife or kids. But I did work with him at Pita Jungle, and he was the walking embodiment of the word rude. He deserved to be murdered if you ask me. He always stole the straws.

1

65

What an awful employee.

4 Hi, I just wanted to interject again to say that I find it really interesting that there are days where bloodcurdling is Google-searched fifty more times than spine-tingling, and vice versa. Pick a word, people.

5 Now this, I should be more clear about. Steven’s bloody corpse had been punctured with a knife near the center of the aircraft. When Angela exited the lavatory and saw the body on the frigid floor, she was overcome with shock. Her pallid face moved around the cabin, eyes darting from person to person. No one was removed from her suspicion—everyone was a murderer, and everyone was innocent. Schrodinger’s Cat had presented itself in a murder case. For you uncultured swine reading this story, Schrodinger’s Cat is a principle wherein a cat within a closed box that contains radiation is unknown to be either dead or alive, so the cat is presumed to be both dead and alive. This meant nobody could be blamed for the death of Steven, yet nobody could be excluded as a suspect.

6 Him, of course, being her rotten husband. You, of

her, vehemently thrusting her open fist,7 slightly knowledgable that in her vulnerable, teary-eyed state, she would be unable to touch a single person without breaking.8 One passenger stepped forward calmly,9 gently saying to Angela, “Calm down, course, being all of the members on the airplane. The exclamation mark after the word ‘him’ shows that she screamed it. This has been your sentence explanation of the story, folks!

7 “Open fist” seems like an oxymoron, don’t you think? I always thought oxymorons were extremely neat. I have this one window that has ‘opaque window’ inscribed on it, which always makes me laugh. I also have a cool cooking knife that says ‘dull knife.’ Obviously the window is see-through and the knife can chop things, or else I wouldn’t use either. Shame on you for thinking otherwise.

8 Just like her husband’s heart broke after being stabbed!

Heyo!... Too soon?

9 The situation around the calm confrontation between this passenger and Angela was quite chaotic. It’s very much surprising, honestly, that this passenger didn’t act frightened, as he had just been threatened, albeit weakly,

by Angela herself.

10 No longer Mrs., as she is no longer married.

11 At this point the passenger gesticulated toward all the

“

Crusty is a disgusting word, just like this disgusting human.

Miss.10 You cannot blame any of us for the death of your husband, but none of us11 can be absolved from the murder. It is simply Schrodinger’s Cat.12” “Hold on a second,13” declared another passenger to the gesticulating one,14 holding the murder weapon in his crusty15 hands. “This is your knife!

You were talking to me about it earlier, and how it had a simile16 or some crap like that on it!”

Terrified, tried to run.17 passengers to come closer to the widow and him. I would like to add that this was done quite masterfully and calmly. One of the passengers later remarked to the police that this gesticulation to all the passengers was quite easing, and honestly a surprise.

12 I have already explained this. If you have already forgotten what Schrodinger’s Cat is, please pay attention next time you read. I believe it is described in footnote #5.

13 ‘Hold on a second’ is another phrase that I find interesting.

How can you hold onto a second? I understand the figurative implications of stopping time, but who thought of this stupid phrase, and why is it said so often if it makes zero sense?

14 By now the gesticulating passenger had stopped gesticulating, so calling him the gesticulating passenger would be incorrect.

Nevertheless, I can’t go back and change it.

15 Crusty is a disgusting word, just like this disgusting human that had such disgusting hands.

16 Not a simile, an OXYMORON. I don’t know how he could have forgotten it.

17 OK, so yeah, I killed Steven. What can I say? He was the worst.

Anyways, I don’t have much time before the guard comes to take “Part One of My Story of Redemption” away. Whatever. Screw you all.

Chew-bacca / Drew Burns ’18 / Photography

66

Camden Andl ’19

T

play there anymore. The oldest ones have moved away to college and left the streets silent. The cul-de-sac, once filled with shouts and gleeful laughs, is now mute. The dogs that once barked interminably are now dead. They are gone, just like the little children that played outside of their homes. The pitterpatter of small feet had melted away like the ice cream eaten on the hottest of nights. Children, dogs, neighbors. All of them: gone.

The street was lined with concrete, faded from the sun. Cicadas buzzed with a tiresome persistence. Mesquite pods littered the yards, dotting the asphalt with a pale yellow color while the shriveled and lifeless plants warned the people whose yards they were in.

“Stay inside,” they longed to say. “Stay out of the sun.”

But we didn’t listen. Our skin would have been constantly burned red if not

67 xx

HE CHILDREN DON’T

for our mothers. Complaining, we would try to fight them, shrinking back as they smeared cold sunblock across our faces.

On the rare occasion it rained, a sweet and musty smell would fill the air, and the breeze would be a cool treat as it rippled

“

W e a l l g o t hr o u g h t h e t r o u b l e , w e a l l g o t hr o u g h t h eChildren, c r a p - - b u t e e r dogs, yt hi n g i s p r e t t y .

neighbors. All of them: gone.

our pools and blew our sun-bleached hair.

It seemed like every day we would be outside. We would rap on each other’s doors and invite the other kids to come out and play, and they did. The three boys and their sister came out to play. Two of the boys had heads of fire, and their faces seemed like they were always specked with mud. The other brother and his sister were Russian, with brown hair and blue eyes as bright as the summer sky. We would play kick the can, never growing

tired of the simple game. But our favorite was wi e ball we would play until we could no longer see the ball or until our parents called us in. Many times we would go into our houses to eat dinner and immediately run out to continue our game when we finished.

But one day our parents called us in, and we never went back out. Maybe it was because we finally grew tired of our old games, or because we were sick of the sweltering heat. But whatever the case, the days of playing in the street were over, washed away like our chalk drawings after a rainstorm. It remained that way for a while. The older kids learned to drive and spent their time with their school friends, leaving the younger ones at home playing with Legos or building forts.

Years passed. The younger kids now could drive, and the older kids packed their bags and went off to college. ne joined the Army. We would wave to each other if we happened to pull into our driveways at the same time, but that was it.

Rubik’s / Stokely Berg ’18 / Photography 68

utThen, on one especially warm summer night, three of us got to talking outside.

We talked for a while, about school mostly, and about the Army. But unlike the times before, we didn’t go inside. All of the kids ended up outside, and we played.

We played for hours, just like we did when we were younger. The same inside jokes and ‘secret’ phrases were used to describe our hiding spots to each other. We hid in garages and behind walls, and each of us raced to kick the can first. e ate ice cream, licking it fervently so we could savor every drop, and so that it wouldn’t drip on our hands. Then we picked up the cone, said goodnight to one another, and went inside.

That night was our last night on the street together, the place where we spent our childhoods running and jumping, tripping and falling, laughing and crying.

Those days are in the past. We have grown up now, and the endless nights are now filled with homework and studying, obs and dates. The ditch tells the story of the kids that once played there, but the fort has since fallen apart. The cul-de-sac is now silent, and the dogs are now dead.

69

Wooden House in a Concrete Jungle / Stokely Berg ’18 / Photography

70

STAFF ART Nick Buccino ’17 Camden Andl ’19 J.D. Karanik ’19 Nate Kerber ’19 Luke Miller ’17

Ian Gray ’17 Managing Editor

William Ludwig ’17 Literary

LAYOUT Hayden Welty ’19 Camden Andl ’19 Patrick Lee ’19

LITERARY Hayden Welty ’19 Camden Andl ’19 Patrick Lee ’19 Matthew Ahearne ’19

Anthony Cardellini ’17 Editor-in-Chief

Nate Ross ’17 Layout / Art / Design

Graham Armknecht ’18 Junior Literary

Tyler Conrad ’17 Publicity / Social Media

PHILOSOPHY Brophy Literary and Arts Magazine is a student-run publication that seeks to be a platform for student talent, a catalyst to further mutual understanding among

peers, and an amplifier for the collective voice of the student body. The BLAM staff works to add permanence to student artwork and creative writing both in print

and digital media, as well as through oncampus events, contests, and readings.

POLICY Throughout the year, BLAM solicits submissions through a combination of contests, author readings, and class assignments. All submissions were submitted to blam@brophyprep.org by

the annual deadline in late March. Contest winners and final publication lists are determined by the visual and literary committees, who evaluate and select pieces according to weighted rubrics and

score averages. BLAM reserves the right to edit content for appropriateness and aims to communicate any changes to the author. Notable works are published at blam.brophyprep.org.

COLOPHON Designers used Adobe InDesign CC, Photoshop CC, and Illustrator CC to create the 2017 print issue of Brophy Literary and Arts Magazine. The dimensions are 8 inches by 11 inches. The body copy font is Georgia in 12 pt. with a 14.4 leading

for prose and poetry. The attribution and default title font is Hanken in varying sizes and leadings. Printed by Prisma Corporation. Š 2017 by Brophy Literary and Arts Magazine, 4701 N. Central Avenue, Phoenix, AZ 85012. All rights

reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced in any manner without permission. All images and literary works are property of the respective artists, reproduced with the permission of the student.

AWARDS National Council of Teachers of English 2016 - Nominated for Highest Award 2015 - Superior 2014 - Nominated for Highest Award 2013 - Highest Award 2012 - Superior - Nominated for Highest Award 2011 - Highest Award

National Scholastic Press Association 2016 - All American 2015 - All American 2014 - All American 2013 - All American 2012 - All American 2011 - First Class

M