BLAM 2016

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All digital triangle designs by Brady Wheeler ’16

BROPHY LITERARY & ARTS MAGAZINE 2016 VOLUME EIGHT FURTHEST CORNERS

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

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STAFF

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It is estimated that the world has changed more culturally, socially, and technologically in the past fifty years than it had in the previous five thousand. Indeed in this new century alone humanity has explored farther, built taller, lived longer, and learned more than it ever has before.

Some say we have now reached the point where science, medicine, and technology have allowed us to live lives of comfort without immediate need for progress.

But others continue to yearn for innovation, exploration, and discovery.

These people believe there are still fascinating discoveries to be made, ideas that hide beyond a typical glance at the world. These are the things BLAM tries to identify, discuss, and challenge with its 2016 theme, “Furthest Corners.”

Through the use of the word “Furthest,” BLAM transcends the physical and spacial limitations denoted by the word “Farthest.” Instead, we focus on ideas and qualities that can’t be measured: imagination, will, and thought, among others.

Through the use of the word “Corners,” BLAM suggests expanding from the center of our societies and realities to the edges we usually ignore.

In going to these places we hope to find a wealth of new creativity, experience and wisdom.

To inspire pieces that accurately reflect the goal of the theme, BLAM’s literary and visual committees create contests throughout the year.

Through student writing, we examined the limits of human consciousness in our “Furthest Corners of Sanity” contest (winner on page 29). We tried to establish new frontiers in the mundane with our “Slice of Life” contest (69). We postulated the furthest corners of human society with our “Create a Reality” contest (1). And we attempted to view the limits of the human will in our “Recoil” contest (5).

Among student art, we pushed the extremes of creativity through simplicity with our “Symmetry” contest (2). With “Mood,” we established an emotion strictly through the use of shape and color (28).

Contest winners for each literary and art contest are marked with a

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In our features, we pushed the limits of our perception of sound with a photo essay that visually represents music (61). We looked in retrospect, seeing how far we’ve come in a personal essay about defying all odds (41). And we examined the relationship between art and humor in a letter to a teacher and basketball coach (35).

Our exploration of “Furthest Corners” was not limited only to the content of the magazine. As a staff, we have decided to expand the magazine horizontally. This widening of our canvas gave us new opportunities, particularly the ability to display artwork in its intended aspect ratio.

This year’s exploration into the furthest reaches of our creativity, our sense of self, and our reactions to the world around us would have been impossible without the entirety of the BLAM staff. We would like to thank Mr. John Damaso ’97, Mr. Austin Pidgeon ’08, and Ms. Chabli Balcom for their invaluable assistance throughout the year. Finally, thank you to every Brophy artist and writer who submitted to this year’s edition of BLAM. This publication would not exist without your fantastic work and passion for the arts community at Brophy.

All of these people have made possible not only this year’s magazine, but also BLAM’s larger goal of expanding the presence of arts on campus.

We hope reaching for our “Furthest Corners” is a strong step toward realizing that goal in its fullest.

Anthony Cardellini ’17 Jake Lee ’16

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VISUAL ART 2 3 4 5 8 9 10 12 13 15 16 17 20 23 24 25 28 30 31 34 39 43 48

Freedom We’re All Good Here Concentric Gorgeous Cruentate The Look Zombies When It’s Dark Out NY Turnstiles Jar of Moonlight Wild Alone Guys Being Dudes Untitled Untitled Tranquil Rainy Daze Aight God La Primavera Ly see ’im Pyramid Head Walgreens Gang

Jack Brown ’17 Lou DiMuro ’16 Lake Etsitty ’19 Alex Nord ’16 Joshua Beram ’16 Lake Etsitty ’19 Thomas Albin ’16 Paul Bullington ’16 Thomas Albin ’16 Lou DiMuro ’16 Joseph Nguyen ’16 Quinn Standley ’17 Jack Rauch ’16 Hunter Koss ’16 Quinn Fairbourn ’16 Lou DiMuro ’16 Henry Nallen ’18 Jack Rauch ’16 Alex Nord ’16 Albert Cardona ’16 Nate Ross ’17 Gray Olson ’17 Nate Ross ’17

Digital Illustration Composite Photography Photography Photography Scratchboard Photography Composite Photography Colored Pencil Photography Composite Photography Scratchboard Photography Charcoal Monotype Print Mixed Media Collage Composite Photography Photography Prisma Marker Photography Pastel Pen and Prismacolor Photography Ink

49 52 54 58 59 60 65 67 68 70

Formation or Disintegration?

Pronto Mute Ben Adam Sandler’s Acting Career Universal Thoughts Barber Shop Blues Zaroff The Abyss Sunday in the Park

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Gray Olson ’17 Alex Nord ’16 Joseph Nguyen ’16 Joseph Nguyen ’16 Alex Nord ’16 Ben Maltbie ’16 Brady Wheeler ’16 Lane McShane ’16 Jordan DeOrio ’16 Johnny Phan ’16

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Composite Photography Photography Monoprint Monoprint Photography Scratchboard Print Pen Pencil and Pastel Photography

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LITERARY WORK 1 5 7 11 19 26 29 33 39 47 53 65 69

Elephants Seconds of Violence This Can’t Be Real Staring at the Sun The Crime Scene Reds and Blues He on the Anthill Tick His Highness Out of Time Where Are We When Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story The Tragic Near-Demise of Jim Pettinger

A.K. Alilonu ’16 Michael Grindey ’18 Alex Bhatt ’17 Brett Cohen ’18 Cameron Bray ’16 Graham Armknecht ’18 Wyatt Mullins ’16 Grant Theisen ’18 Krishna Sinha ’18 Axell Komlan ’18 Colton Gunning ’18 Maanik Chotalla ’16 Will Ludwig ’17

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

FEATURES 35 41 45 55 61

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Open Letter from a Free Agent But He Doesn’t Know Astrology Portrait Piano Bench

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Maanik Chotalla ’16 Luis Torres ’16 Miguel Montañez-Aragon ’16 Jim Stickell ’16 Patrick McGovern ’16

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Multimedia Essay Personal Essay Digital Illustrations Screenplay Photo Essay

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ELEPHANTS AK Alilonu ’16 There’s an elephant in the room.

It’s great and grim and grimy too And in the corner, next to you It sits and sighs and groans and yawns And looks at me like something’s wrong.

At night it perches on my chest To grieve and breathe and heave and press I close my eyes and then I scream I think I saw it in my dreams My parents stir; I start to cry And tug their arms and ask them, “Why?” The answer’s blunt and quite bizarre: “Well, honey, that’s the way things are.”

I look around all wet with tears— Their elephants have grown for years; There they’re waiting, side by side Until their hosts divorce or die.

There are elephants in the room.

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I slam the door and skid downstairs, Run into tables, break three chairs, And burst outside, dead-cold with fear.

The elephants can’t be out here.

But there they are, to my surprise; They’re darker and meaner and greater in size.

They plod down streets and trudge through yards And knock over trash bins and turn over cars And smash up windows and upset flowers And trample down stops signs and electrical towers There are elephants everywhere.

It’s way too dark. And not too far, A shape blocks out the moon and stars.

It stinks like four years of disease; Its skin folds over lands and seas.

The mouth gapes wide from cheek to cheek As if it wants to laugh or weep; The muscles stretch and suck in air And fathers feel for long-lost hair And artists quit after three tries And teenagers question their lives And sons don’t come home to their mothers, Former friends look past each other, Paintings tilt and pages tear, Big toes are stubbed and shoe-soles wear So don’t trust liars when they say That they can bomb or spend or pray And that will take it all away.

The elephants are here, and the elephants will stay.

I slump to the ground and sit down by the door.

The elephants come, but that doesn’t matter anymore.

There are no elephants.

Freedom / Jack Brown ’17 / Digital Illustration

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3 We’re All Good Here / Lou DiMuro ’16 / Composite Photography

4 Concentric / Lake Etsitty ’19 / Photography

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Gorgeous / Alex Nord ’16 / Photography

of It was over in seconds...

Michael Grindey ’18

A swift feeling of pain marked the end to a dire situation. I never knew something so simple could feel like annihilating the entire universe.

A tiny bullet whizzed across the precious air.

Time seemed to slow down, and I could see the etched markings on the bullet spin slowly round and round. The aftermath of a gunshot never crossed my mind until this moment.

Such a sinister little piece of metal had the ability to cause such pain. It was an excruciating experience filled with such emotion and horror.

The little bullet had embarked on a journey, and it was not going to stop until it reached its destination. The sad truth about a gun is that when the trigger is pulled, some sort of life form may be obliterated from the face of the Earth. It will cut through tough skin that seems so impenetrable. All morale is seemingly lost in this moment. Then the bullet hit its target. I fell to the ground, dropped the gun, and broke out in tears. Then I got up and walked away, feeling weary. It was over in seconds.

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I see the world created,

by Eve and by Adam.

And what I’ve seen desecrated, I can’t even fathom.

Alex Bhatt ’17

Let’s start with the hate, we’re surrounded by violence.

Lives perishing at quicker rates as society bares silence.

Churches and colleges, all no longer pristine.

But at least I can still keep my handy AR-15.

What actions have we taken to restore human unity?

No lives can awaken, let there be no impunity.

Now let’s see our elected leaders, The ones we blindly trust.

The people that are feeders to global scorn and disgust.

The Donald this year, and Yeezy to follow?

Are we blinded by fear, is the future this hollow?

And maybe it’s all a joke, a mere sardonic mockery.

But one day we’ll be woke, And this is all we’ll see.

Life shouldn’t be grey, Innocent souls shouldn’t squeal.

If only I could just wake up and say, This can’t be real.

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Cruentate / Joshua Beram ’16 / Scratchboard

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The Look / Lake Etsitty ’19 / Photography

Zombies / Thomas Albin ’16 / Composite Photography

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STARING AT THE SUN Brett Cohen ’18 Robert sighed and took his hands off the keyboard. Again. His fingers itched to write, but the words wouldn’t come out. In front of him, the smooth and slick computer stared, its eyes and sneer nothing but blank whiteness. The caret flashed in time with his leg, bouncing nervously against the floor.

Another bad habit.

Robert sighed again and put his hands back on the keyboard, itching to write. A moment later, he sighed again and removed them. “So much sighing,” he sighed, not sure why he would waste his breath muttering aloud.

A moment later, he heard his bedroom door open. “Robert, honey, you’re home already? You didn’t even say hello!” Mary approached him from behind his desk chair and wrapped her arms around him, nearly suffocating him. Robert sighed again and took his hands off the keyboard for the final time, fingers still itching.

“Oh, sorry darling. Just... forgot to say hello on my way in.”

“Are you all right, honey? You sound 11

awfully tired. Here, come get some food; dinner’s on the table already.” Mary took him by his fingers and pulled him out of his chair, pausing briefly to shut off the computer before dragging him towards dinner.

Towards the glaring light of the kitchen, he could hear Thomas and Sophia’s innocent prattle drowning out the nightly news. Robert sighed. He could remember a time when he had been no different: all innocent talk and innocent dream. No realism, no future.

“Are you sure you’re all right, honey?

Something happen today at the office?” He could hear his wife speaking as they entered the kitchen, the news suddenly seeming much louder than it had just a moment before, during the silence of his thoughts.

“Yes, I’m sure. You’re such a worrywart, Mary.” Robert put on his best happy face as his kids turned towards him, mouths widening into childish joy as they realized who that voice belonged to. He sighed. “Anyway, enough about me,” he said quickly, distancing himself from himself and sitting down at the dinner table, his plate already stacked high

with food. “How was your day?”

“Well, you know I went to meet with Karen today for lunch.” Mary spoke as she shepherded the kids towards the table and sat down herself.

Robert sighed. “Oh, how did that go?

Settle down, Thomas, vegetables are good for you.”

“Wonderful, she told me the most amazing story about her husband’s hospital today.”

Robert sighed. “Really? Can it really be any more crazy than my hospital? Sophia, stop annoying your brother.”

“I didn’t think so at first either, but now I think there might actually be a group of surgeons more rowdy than you and the guys!”

Robert sighed. “I’d like to see that happen.

Tell you what, why don’t you invite them to our next dinner party? Wait till they meet Bill and Jeff, then we’ll see what real fun looks like!” Robert smiled for a moment, practicing his acting.

Mary laughed, the beautiful loving laugh of every housewife mingling with the quiet snickering of every child. “That reminds me,

When It’s Dark Out / Paul Bullington ’16 / Colored Pencil

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NY Turnstiles / Thomas Albin ’16 / Photography

honey, John and James are in town. They actually called me up today looking for you.

Thomas, what did Daddy tell you? Eat your vegetables.”

Robert sighed, forgetting to act.

“Cedar?”

“Yes, from Harvard! Don’t you remember, James beat you in golf every single time you two played.”

Robert sighed. “Right. And his wife. She was named Mary also, wasn’t she?”

“Yeah, the two of them got married right after graduation from med-school. Don’t you remember her beautiful laugh?”

Robert sighed. “How could I not? It’s as if I just heard it.” He put his knife down and rested his hands on his lap, fingers itching to tap. To type. Not to operate or to eat.

“Are you ok, honey? Why’d you stop eating?” Mary’s face contorted in concern.

Robert sighed. “Nothing. Just remembering.” The children paused their game underneath the table and looked at him, no longer jubilant and naïve.

“Remembering what? Like Mary or—” “Do you remember Hope?” Robert’s voice quickly quavered, no time for sighing. “You know, right before we got together. Right before I went to college. Right before I got my test scores back. Right before they decided I was going to be a doctor.” Mary looked at him, surprised by his seriousness, face still contorted. She was never pretty when upset.

“Um. No, I don’t. Who’s Hope?” Her voice quavered too, but not quickly.

“She was going to be an artist. I was in her room once, and there were paintings.

Paintings, Mary. One of them was of the sun, which didn’t make any sense because you can’t look at the sun, but she did it anyway.” Robert didn’t sigh. His fingers itched.

Without a word, Robert left the table.

”

Mary’s face stopped moving for a moment.

Frozen, contorted, upset. Her eyes didn’t meet his. The kids were gone.

And then she was back, that moment blanketed by layers of time and seconds. Her face was perfect, beautiful. Her eyes shone, meeting his. “Karen’s husband, Joseph, was in the—” Robert sighed. His fingers itched. Itched to do something, to move, but he didn’t know how to move them. Time stopped again as he searched for that moment again, searched for Hope, searched for the kids, searched for something, but he didn’t know what. Robert sighed. His fingers itched. Mary’s mouth was moving, but nothing was coming out. Air. Air was coming out, but not words. He tried, he tried, he tried to find Hope. Tried to find

Hope. Tried to find hope. Tried to find. Her mouth was still moving, but air wasn’t coming out anymore. His fingers itched.

Without a word, Robert left the table.

His fingers itched. The kids were gone. Then he was in his room. His fingers itched. He tried to sigh, but another noise came out. He turned on his computer, looking for the solace of the blank whiteness, looking for Hope, looking for hope. Looking for. His fingers itched.

It wasn’t there. That noise came out again.

His fingers itched. His computer was there, but it wasn’t. The blank whiteness. Hope.

Hope. His fingers itched. Large letters met his eyes. Hope, hope. Government. Doctor.

Surgeon. His fingers itched. Scores. School.

College. His fingers itched. Hope. Mary.

Doctor. His fingers itched. Career. His fingers itched.

And then he could remember. He could remember a young man who loved to write. He could remember staring at the sun just to do what people said not to. He could remember telling himself he could do whatever he wanted. He even remembered someone who could paint. Someone who could paint the sun.

And then he could remember. He could remember the government test scores. He could remember a man in a suit that matched his own today. He could remember being told he had to use his gifts to help. He could 14

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Jar of Moonlight / Lou DiMuro ’16 / Composite Photography

remember a girl who stared at the sun for too long. He could remember a girl who tried to paint the sun and died for it. He could remember her screams as the flames engulfed her house, as the paintings were gone, as the sun was gone. He could remember the government funeral. He could remember the government test scores. He could remember the government job and the government wife and the government computer.

It was gone. That noise came out again.

His fingers itched. He couldn’t remember.

His fingers itched. He was in his closet. His fingers itched. His kitchen knife was in his hand. His fingers itched. For the last time, he thought of hope. And he wrote. No more blank whiteness, but beautiful words and beautiful phrases spelled out a constellation of life and death and happiness and regret.

His ink spilled out with beautiful clarity, each word soothing that itch.

No more noise came out. His fingers didn’t itch. His knife wasn’t in his hand. He couldn’t remember.

Wild / Joseph Nguyen ’16 / Scratchboard

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Alone / Quinn Standley ’17 / Photography

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THE CRIME SCENE Cameron Bray ’16 The call had just gone out. Police sirens blared. Officers scrambled to get to the scene of the crime. Squad cars raced down the quiet country road like it was the Indianapolis 500.

The crime in question was an assault—a vicious attack by a madman. No one had died, fortunately, but there was still damage and foul play to investigate. So crazy was the attack that even the perpetrator—that fool—had injured himself in the process. In his savage charge toward his targets, he had fallen and conked his head, rendering him unconscious. By the time they got to the scene, the police found him lying in a ditch near a windmill, enjoying a pain-induced slumber. The assailant had been on horseback, for they found his horse writhing and struggling to stand back up. Clearly, the poor creature wanted to be free of its insane master.

Overseeing the officers was Detective Pedro Sanchez, a fit man with black hair like coal and dark eyes like the night. He had been promoted from street cop to detective just one night ago, so this would be his very first case. Boy, was he in for a treat.

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Detective Sanchez arrived at the scene just behind the rest of the convoy. Getting out of his car, he yelled at the officers already there, calming them down from their excitement at the bizarre scene and ordering them to put up barricade tape around the scene. A no-nonsense man, he wanted no odd passerby or would-be journalist to interfere with his work. After the tape was put up and the scene was secure, he ordered the men to start tagging evidence and to start interviewing witnesses.

Three pieces of evidence were quickly found: a broken lance, a piece of sailcloth from the windmill (which Sanchez quickly concluded was damage from the lance), and the horse, whom the police had already found and had quickly restrained. Two of the officers worked to move the beast elsewhere, for he was a nuisance, while another marked the evidence with little signs.

1 and 2. Quietly standing to the side, Sanchez looked at all of this with great interest, writing down in a little black notebook all that he saw and already formulating a theory for what may have happened.

In the meantime, the other officers not

working with the evidence had already talked with two people who had witnessed the scene.

They moved them south, away from the ditch, where they found a bit of quiet amid all the commotion under the shade of a lone tree. All of this, of course, was reported to the detective, who had just finished examining the evidence.

Sanchez spotted their new position south and strode over to them. He wanted to wrap up this investigation quickly so that he and the officers could get back to other cases. Upon reaching the tree, he greeted the officers already there and had them brief him on the witnesses before questioning them. One officer, a burly man named Pablo Grosso, took upon himself to do so. With a strong but quiet voice he spoke.

“So here’s the deal,” he said, bidding Sanchez to walk with him so they wouldn’t be overheard.

“The first witness—that one over there.” He paused a moment to point at the man. “He was outside when it all happened; witnessed the whole damn thing. He’s going to be your prime source of information. That other man you see over there.” He pointed again, this time to another man who was bulky and stout like he

Guys Being Dudes / Jack Rauch ’16 / Charcoal

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was. “He was the accomplice to the perp, who I see you’ve already met lying in the glorious splendor of his ditch. He’s worth talking to, as well.”

With no more to say, the officer left Sanchez to do the questioning. Sanchez thanked him for the information, and strode back to the tree to begin the interrogation.

Sanchez decided to talk to the witness first, believing his information would be more valuable. Remembering the windmills, Sanchez concluded that he was a miller. The man wore simple clothes and a straw hat, and his skin was darkened slightly brown by the beating of the hot sun.

“Hello, sir, my name is Pedro Sanchez,” the detective said politely, shaking the man’s hand which was callous and rough. “And I’m leading this investigation. Would you mind answering some questions for me?

“The name’s Ramon,” the man said in reply.

“I own the mills ’round here. And sure, I’d be happy answering any questions, given that it concerns my property.”

“Great. I’ll try to keep this short for time’s sake,” said Sanchez, pulling out his notebook and pen. “So, what exactly happened here?”

“Oh, it was just awful,” said the miller in a disturbed voice. “The mad man came rushing at my property with the fury of a bull, shouting absurdities about God and some lady love of his—the Dulcinea of something-town or something like that. Never before have I 21

witnessed, or heard, such insanity in this part of the country.”

“You’re saying he attacked your windmills?” asked Sanchez, astonished.

“Yes, sir, he did. The fool. Charged at the sails with a lance. Punctured a pretty decent size hole in one of them, too. Probably’ll need to get that fixed at some point; lot of money it’s gonna cost, too. Anyhoo, like I said, his weapon pierced the sail, but then something happened that he didn’t expect. A gust of wind blew, the sail moved, and then poof! Your man and his horse fell, landing in a ditch, which I imagine you’ve already seen. Didn’t see anything else. Didn’t catch a glimpse of the man again, either. One of my neighbors must have dialed you guys mighty quick—your officers got here before I could check on him.

”

With no more to say, the officer left Sanchez to do the questioning.

“Why would this man want to attack your windmills?”

“Beats the hell out of me. Man’s probably insane. He had a fire in his eyes. Probably drove him to act.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” said Sanchez.

“Either way, you’ve answered all my questions.

You’re free to go. My officers and I’ll be in contact if we need something.”

“Alright,” said Ramon, walking back to his house. “Just make sure you put that man away properly, you hear. Don’t want any more trouble ’round here.” Having finished talking, he entered the small, thatched-roof cottage he called home. Quickly, he shut the door and engaged the lock, not wanting to be bothered anymore.

“Alright, next up, the perp’s compadre,” Sanchez said to himself, as if sorting through some invisible calendar or notes. He walked on over to the next suspect in a quiet, pensive mood, thinking of what questions to ask next and when.

As Sanchez had already seen, the second witness was short and portly. He seemed a farmer or agrarian type like the miller had been, though much less fit and much more round. A simple, country-bumpkin type, Sanchez concluded. Immediately, the detective eyed the jug that the witness held in his hand, a rough thing made of leather or some other cheap material. The witness took many drinks from it as Sanchez observed him, and many more would be taken as the afternoon faded into evening. Having studied the man with great interest, Sanchez approached him, ready to ask questions.

“Hello, sir, I’m Detective Pedro Sanchez.

I’m leading the police investigation here today. I’m going to be asking you some questions, okay?” Wanting to be polite as usual, Sanchez extended his hand. Noticing this, the man set his bottle down into the grass and shook the detective’s hand,

grabbing it too strongly and pumping it too dramatically. Clearly, the man was illacquainted with manners or courtesy. Sanchez withdrew his hand, which was shaking, sore, and somewhat wet from the witness’s handling of the jug and its liquid (cheap red wine from the smell of it), and wiped it on his jacket.

“Sancho”—hiccup—“Panza, at your service,” he said, hiccuping once more before picking us his jug again and taking a long drink. “I’m fine answering any”—hiccup— “questions you may have. Didn’t”—hiccup— “do anything wrong here.”

“OK, well, so what exactly was your friend doing here?”

“Attacking them giants you see over the there in the meadow,” Sancho said, pointing at the windmills. Their sails turned in the wind as he spoke.

“Giants? Really? You can’t be serious.”

“Do you truly doubt what I say? Sancho Panza is many things but he is not a liar. No, no, sir, I am being”—hiccup—“one-hundred percent”—hiccup—“absolutely”—hiccup— “positively serious when I say giants, sir,” he said, babbling on about it like a fool.

“OK, OK, OK,” Sanchez replied, wanting him to shut up. “So from what I gather already, your friend thought these mills on the horizon were giants and so he charged them, wanting to slay them. Is that right?”

“That is correct”—hiccup.

“How do you fit into all this, then?”

“I tried to get him to stop”—hiccup.

“But, of course, the old fool, my knightly master, wouldn’t. He had a determined look in his eyes and a desire burning in his heart. Sir, men like that never stop pursuing their dreams, even if they are just tilting at windmills. Nothing I could have said would have persuaded him otherwise, and I yelled at him many warnings, yes sir.”

“So you had no part in this escapade?”

“No, sir”—hiccup. “My only involvement was trying to get him to stop and tending to him once he fell. Your officers arrived so quickly, I scarcely had time to see him before I was told to move aside.”

“You can hardly be faulted as an accomplice, then. Plus, our witness didn’t report that you caused any property damage, so I suppose you’re free to go. No charges will be filed against you. However, please stay here a while longer. We may still want to talk with you or ask you questions.”

“Alright,” said Sancho, peering into his crude, little jug with uncanny seriousness and attention. He frowned. Only a few drinks of wine were left. “How much longer is this going to take?” he thought.

With both the general investigation and the two interviews concluded, Sanchez was ready to rap this guy. He jogged back over to the windmill and the slope where the perpetrator lay. Immediately, he found several officers helping the man—dizzied and disoriented—up. “Huh, he must have regained consciousness while I was talking to Sancho,” the detective thought to himself.

“Boys, look at this guy,” said Pablo Grosso, one of the officers lifting him up. “He looks like he downed too many ales in yon tavern, yee-olde style, am I right, boys? Must’ve got the crazy notion that he could slay dragons and giants like in the books. What are you some kind of knight, anyway? You get lost from the Renaissance festival? Tell me. What’s your name, pal?”

“

Sir, men like that never stop pursuing their dreams, even if they are just tilting at windmills.

“What? Where am I? What day is it?” said the man, still groggy from his blow to the head. “Who are you?”

“It’s Thursday, pal, and you’re in La Mancha, better known as the middle of nowhere. I’m Pablo Grosso, officer of the law.

I said, what’s your name, pal?”

“My name? My name Don Quijote, and I’m from La Mancha, this region which you so quickly insult. Her honor will be not be questioned by you, vile cur!” Angry and indignant, he tried to shake off his captors so he could duel the offender in the style he had read about in the books of old. But, in comparison with the officers’ numbers, his strength was not enough. They quickly and 22

forcefully restrained him.

“Easy, pal, easy. You ain’t going nowhere,” said Pablo before turning to look at his boss, Sanchez. “Should we cuff him? What’s the plan?”

“Cuff him,” Sanchez said. “Then bring him to me.”

This they did, and in moments this wouldbe knight was standing before the newly appointed detective.

“You’re under arrest for destruction of property,” Sanchez said. “You see those windmills over there? They belong to a miller named Ramon, and he’s pressing charges.”

“This is ridiculous,” snapped Don Quijote. “These ‘windmills’ as you call them are actually vicious giants.” He spoke sarcastically using finger quotes. “Do you not see them? They are disgrace to God’s grace and benevolence. Charge me? I demand to see your lord. I will not be taken captive by a mere peasant such as yourself, when I am an ordained knight of the realm.”

“The only man with a title you’ll be seeing will be your lawyer,” retorted Sanchez. “You’re going to jail and you’re going to court!” While speaking, Sanchez began to guide him toward the nearest squad car. The officers in that car would deal with the old fool and drive him to the county jail.

“What fun,” Sanchez thought.

“How dare you, knave!” said Don Quijote, not enjoying the coercion. “Do you not know 23

how I am! I am a knight famed far and wide. I am the Ingenious Gentleman, Don Quijote of La Mancha.”

“Yeah, yeah. Save it for the court,” said Sanchez, shoving him in the car. “Anyway, here’s the deal. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand the rights I have just read to you?”

“Help!” screamed Don Quijote, managing to stick his head out of the car for one last moment. “Come, friend Sancho, come help me! These rogues have my lance and now they intend to take me to some black knight’s castle! To rot in a dungeon! For what purpose I do not know for certain. But, judging from what I have read of the knights and kings of old, probably ransom! You must help me!”

Sanchez shoved him in once more, getting him in completely in the car this time, and quickly closed the door. He knocked on the car hood twice, signaling that it was okay to go. The car drove off into the sunset, rushing like a bat out of hell, or, more aptly, charging like a knight down a battlefield.

Having heard Don Quijote’s words of plight, Sancho made his resolution of what to do (after, of course, finishing his jug of wine and hitting the local tavern with the off-duty cops, whom he quickly befriended). Still hopeful for the treasures Don Quijote had

promised him, he decided he would free his knightly master from prison. Using both wit and trickery, which normally do not come to a man of his description, he did just that.

With luck on his side, he managed to spring Don Quijote from jail and the two continued their adventures anew. Funny. They sent the police on quite a goose chase for many months, much to Detective Sanchez’s exasperation. Now free, Don Quijote was once again chasing gold and glory, and Sanchez was chasing Don Quijote.

Untitled / Quinn Fairbourn ’16 / Mixed Media Collage

Opposite: Untitled / Hunter Koss ’16 / Monotype Print

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Tranquil / Lou DiMuro ’16 / Composite Photography

Graham Armknecht ’18 “I’m sorry. Your reservation must have not gone through,” the hostess said from behind her podium.

I took a deep breath as the calm, ambient noise of the restaurant annoyed me even more than I already was. “What do you mean? We scheduled it two months ago,” I said, adjusting my suit.

“I wish I could do more, but it’s Valentine’s Day,” she said. “It happens every year. I’m sorry.”

Monica stepped forward, calmer than I was.

“Please? There’s no way we could just squeeze in at the bar?” Monica looked stunning in her black cocktail dress, which matched the pair of black earrings I’d given to her for her birthday.

“I’m really sorry,” the hostess said, trying one last time to comfort us. “If you want, I could try and make reservations for you tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow isn’t Valentine’s Day,” I said, my voice starting to shake.“How long would the wait be for a table tonight?”

“We are booked through closing,” the hostess said.

I felt my stomach drop, the blood draining

from my face. “Please, just—” Monica shook her head, sighed, grabbed my hand, and started to walk out. “Let’s just go, Chandler. We can find something else to do.” I tried to get the last word in, but I was dragged out before I could say anything, out into a drizzle that had started when we’d been in the restaurant.

“Do you remember what happened with the reservation?” Monica asked me.

“I made the reservation, but they had to switch hostesses on the call,” I said, looking down and stepping off the sidewalk, walking to the car. The rain began to come down heavier than before. “Why did it have to rain on Valentine’s Day!” “Didn’t it rain last year? Two years in a row?!” Monica half-yelled over the rain as we ran to the car as quickly as possible.

“I don’t know! I thought that it truly couldn’t get worse before, but at least it can’t now,” I said, unlocking the car. We both got inside. Monica looked over at me after closing her door. Her dress clung to her frame and her mascara ran down her face slightly. “Why don’t we just go home? We can get dinner at Dickey’s.”

“Okay,” I said, starting the car, pulling us out of the spot and driving to the road. “Why don’t we grab something at Bellow’s instead?”

“Sure,” she nodded. We stayed quiet as we drove, the only sounds being the relentless rain pounding against the car and the windshield wipers swishing back and forth to keep my vision clear.

After driving on the freeway, we pulled up to the drive-thru window, stopping at the speaker.

“Welcome to Bellow’s Barbecue Pit, what would y’all like today?”

“Hi, I’ll get the pulled pork sandwich with no pickles,” I paused and leaned over to Monica. “What do you want?”

Monica leaned forward to look at the menu.

“Uh, I’ll get the Caesar Salad, no croutons.”

“We don’t have a salad,” the voice said, seemingly less patient than before.

“Then I’ll get the rib sandwich,” Monica replied.

“Okay, so a pulled pork sandwich with no pickles and a rib sandwich. Any drinks?” The voice asked.

I looked to Monica, who shook her head.

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“Just water for both of us,” I replied.

“Your total will be $10.69. Please pay at the next window,” the voice said.

A few moments later, we were driving on the open road in silence. Monica ate her sandwich, careful as to not get her outfit dirty. As we approached a stoplight, I took out the sweet potato fries and ate a few, waiting for the light to turn, my foot finally getting a break from the clutch.

“Why do these sandwiches have to be so messy?” Monica asked me, muttering as she used a napkin to wipe the barbecue sauce from her outfit.

“It’s fast food. If it’s not greasy, it doesn’t work,” I replied.

“Why can’t these joints just keep the grease away to keep us clean?” she asked, finishing the last of her sandwich and grabbing some napkins to wipe her hands.

“Because it doesn’t turn a profit,” I said. “And people don’t enjoy salads as much as they enjoy a rib sandwich.”

“Well it would be better if people enjoyed salad every once in a while,” she said.

The rain had reduced to a slight drizzle.

After driving for sometime, a boom came from the side of the car, the ride becoming less under control. My feet and hands worked simultaneously to try and bring the car under control. It eventually skidded to a stop.

“Really?! Now?!” I said, getting out of the car and into the rain, which had started to come down harder. Thunder roared in my ear,

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amplifying my frustration as I looked at the blown out tire.

“What the --” My obscenities were shut out by the storm. My rage only heightened when I opened the trunk of the car, realizing I didn’t have a spare.

“Come on! Why can’t something go right today!” I shouted, getting back in the car, dripping wet.

“What happened?” Monica asked. Her head tilted inquisitively.

“The tire is blown out,” I sighed, sinking in my seat. “We don’t have a spare, and I’d imagine we’re going to be waiting for roadside assistance for a while.” The thunder hammered my point home, lighting Monica’s pallid face for a moment.

I pulled out my phone and dialed the number for roadside assistance. After an eternity of talking to an automated response, I finally got a representative on the line.

“Hey, my name is Stacy from AAA, what’s the problem?” The representative asked. “My car blew out a tire, and we don’t have a spare,” I said.

“Okay, we’ll get a repairman out to you as quickly as we can. Where are you?”

I looked around myself and saw one sign.

“We’re on Pleasant Highway, near mile 690.”

“Okay, one moment.” The clacking of a keyboard could faintly be heard on the other end of the line. “All right, a repairman will be out to you in about two hours, just hang tight.”

“Wait, two hours?” I said, my voice picking

up in pitch for a moment.

“Yes, now have a nice night you—” Stacy said as I hung up.

Monica leaned on the console between the two of us. “We’re stuck here for two hours?”

“Yup.” She sighed and looked at my bag of still mostly uneaten food, taking a fry for herself.

“You know this could be—” “Don’t say it,” I said, serious at first before laughing.

She raised an eyebrow. “What are you laughing about?”

“Today isn’t that bad,” I said, looking over into Monica’s eyes. “We could be out in the rain.”

“At least we aren’t one of those cheesy couples that makes out in the rain to be like The Notebook.”

I smiled. “Yeah, I don’t like being like other couples,” I turned to face her. “I like how we are ... well, us.”

She smiled and nodded. “Me too,” she laughed. “And screw the world if it doesn’t want us to have a good Valentine’s Day.” “I think this is the best way to spend Valentine’s Day,” I grasped her hand. “With you.” She looked down for a moment, then squeezed my hand. We both reclined in our chairs and got ready for the wait.

Rainy Daze / Henry Nallen ’18 / Photography

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HE ON THE Wyatt Mullins ’16 It was in the midst of an oppressively chilling winter that I had first experienced the simple serenity of dying. I was a young man then, and having contracted lymphoma in my twenty-third year, I was condemned to a hospital bed for what would be the remainder of my life. *** I never did become very familiar with the entirety of the hospital that had apparently existed beyond the confines of my room. I was quickly carted in and deposited right there on the mattress which undoubtedly will forever be left with the impression of my backside. The only indication of a world outside my modest imprisonment was the comings and goings of the medical staff, mechanical in nature and interaction. Admittedly, they had probably believed I would receive some manner of visitors; however, the only child of deceased millionaires would have no such benefit of 29

company. At this point, I had come to realize that there was no point to me, or to the wealth that I–or my parents rather–had accumulated, with no next of kin to make use of it in my absence. None of this, though, is important.

The revelations of legitimate relevance would come later.

Barring the appearance of the occasional nurse, silence reigned. The room itself was shrouded in a sharp, brilliant white that offended the eyes. Due to the unbearable glare, my eyes often remained shut. Thus, I seldom used my higher senses. It was in those intimate moments with only my thoughts as company that I began to reflect on a brief life, poorly lived.

The pestilent question hung about me like a curse. Why me? My mind strayed to what little I had accomplished, and to how few sights I had seen. For some time I believed I was responsible for my own lack of self-gratification. Then, I found wisdom.

Ultimately, I managed to single out the culpable party when I wondered: What supposedly benevolent God would strip me, a young man burdened with such opportunity, of a full life? After all, I had done it all correctly, you see. Every Sunday for twentythree short years, I had made the commute to my local house of worship to waste an hour or so in prayer. I sat about tolerating elderly men that hadn’t the slightest idea of what sensible fashion was lecturing me on the importance of goodness without reward. I was the righteous man that would be saved, with only a cross (and an abundance of material possessions) to bear, or so I thought.

I came to the realization that our beliefs and rituals were no better than those of a cult.

When reduced to its base element, we worship and sing songs to a hanging corpse, and pray to our omnipotent, imaginary friend. All of this, done in the pursuit of some twisted sense of solace as a gateway to a fictional haven.

Aight / Jack Rauch ’16 / Prisma Marker

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God / Alex Nord ’16 / Photography

After all, is the Catholic faith not the most repugnant double standard conceivable?

We write off the cult leaders and mentally disturbed members of society alike for their eerily similar–if moderately unconventional– practices that mirror Christianity almost exactly. Yet nobody bats an eye when we nail anthropomorphic statues to crosses, because we are reasonable, rational beings aren’t we?

Reasonable, rational beings that reprimand one another for ideology, sexuality, and any other belief they hold that we can berate them for?

It was settled then. I had found it out. The answer to the eternal question came to me as life began to fade: Surely, there is no God in existence. This fact, proven by the nature of our amoral world. I felt liberated.

I lay in bed, stupefied, with no concept of time. My feeble limbs seeped into the mattress.

I found that the only emotion there was left to

explore was my excitement at the prospect of an end.

Then came the infernal whine. A slight ringing filled my ears and never ceased. If I were not so close to the end, with a body that ached at every joint, I would have writhed.

I would have screamed. It may have lasted for as little as minutes, I did not know. It grew unbearable. A darkness crept into my periphery. I was slipping away. The whine was excruciating. The encroaching black consumed my vision as I became aware of a muttering in my head: Wrong, my friend. *** I gained some odd consciousness in the darkness. To this moment, the moaning of my fellow nonbelievers never stops as we all saunter about oblivion at the mercy of that spiteful child on an anthill, that so many revere as their God.

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Grant Theisen ’18 It was a forgetfully peaceful town. Birds chimed in the morning, and dogs barked at night. Little attention was paid to the two boys who strolled through the campus in morning.

One, two, three, four.

The clock began to tick as the boys make their way througt the campus. The morning light flooded an upstairs classroom, filled only with motionless students, slouching in their seats.

One, two, three, four.

The reserved moans of a man echoed in the room that seemed almost devoid of any organic sound.

The metallic spurt of gunfire intersperse with the occasional screech filled his ears.

One, two, three, four.

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He crawled to the door only to have his hand slip on the slickly coated handle, glowing red from the reflecting sunlight that flooded the room.

The more he moved, the more he began to taste the bitter flavor in the back of his throat. He began to go numb to the pain that had spread over his body.

One, two, three, four.

When he reached the stairwell, he began to drift into a state of unconscious desire: a desire only for his suffering to end and for all of the walls around him to crumble away to reveal something he deemed more pleasant. The taste in the back of his throat began to dissipate, and so too did his consciousness.

One, two, three, four.

Through his ears he heard one last sound, a sound resonating from a small watch that remained strapped to his wrist. He counted the ticks as he began to lose all feeling he once possessed.

One, two, three, four.

La Primavera / Alberto Cardona ’16 / Pastel

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All Photos by Alex Nord ’16 35

Title / Student Name ‘16 / Medium

OPEN LETTER FROM A FREE AGENT Maanik Chotalla ’16

Dear Mr. Hooten, I hope that you are having a lovely night. I figured I would contact you about our meeting today, and more specifically, me playing in the game this upcoming Friday. I figured that I should attempt to persuade you the only way I know how, so please read on.

The vast majority of the public agrees that I am a superior “baller.”

In fact, this is proven through the recent numbers. I placed a poll on the popular website of Twitter.com, asking if the Phoenix Suns should have drafted me or Devin Booker. The result? A whopping 87% of the public picked me over Mr. Booker.

As you can see, the vast majority of the public believes that the Phoenix Suns should have drafted me over Mr. Booker, who is currently averaging just 12.3 points per game, 2.2 assists per game, and 2.2 rebounds per game this season. Compare that to me, who averaged 47.4 points per game, 22.5 assists per game, and 19.9 rebounds per game (I’m a point guard, so my rebounding is a bit low) as a member of the little league team ages 6-8 division as a 17 year old. I was just 17! There is no telling the kind of dominance that I could assert with those numbers.

But perhaps an even more telling poll can show us how much public interest has been generated by the potential of having me play in this game. Once again through a Twitter poll, I posed the serious question: “Should Mr. Hooten sub Maanik in for one quarter at this Friday’s home game vs. Chaparral?” This was clearly a legitimate poll, as I put the word “serious” in the question, so people had to take it seriously. 94% of people believe that I should at least be up for consideration, with 67% believed I should be subbed in regardless of the circumstance. The public clearly sees this as a desirable approach to the game, so I don’t think there is a reason to not do it.

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Now, I understand that there is some concern with the lack of film or actual evidence of me straight balling.

I’d like to provide one singular exhibit, which I believe should be plenty to convince you to put me on the team.

Exhibit A:

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This is me from my freshman days demonstrating my jumpshot. My form has been compared to greats like Jerry West. I seriously doubt that you want to pass up on the opportunity of having a Jerry West on your team to assert that kind of domination. Also, this shot came from a game of 1 vs 52 other players, and I outscored those gentlemen by 98 points. So even if you want to sub me in as just one man, there is no doubt that I will be able to dominate the opposing team with my Allen Iverson-esque dribble bibble moves.

So, because clearly you must allow me to play during the game this Friday, we can discuss a contract through the remainder of the season.

Of course it will have to correlate with debate practice, my mother’s driving schedule, and my bedtime.

Before I conclude, I would like to offer a final piece of evidence, one which shows that I’ve really been working hard on both my game as well as on my fitness. I think that you’ll agree that there have been significant improvements:

Thank you for your consideration,

Maanik Chotalla Brphy College Preparatory Professional Baller Class of 2016 P.S. Should you choose to not play me, I totally understand. But if you would at least offer me the chance to become the assistant coach for the game, I promise that I would not let you down nor disappoint you. In either case, I will come in my Phoenix Suns gear including my Steve Nash jersey and knee socks.

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HIS HIGHNESS Krishna Sinha ’18

I know you’re there For me you show great care Was, is, and will be here, yet I never shed a single tear.

Your mind burning blood drowned in nothingness like the flood.

Innocent hearts churn in pain, screaming in agony, quite a gain.

All a part of my show It’s 24-7, didn’t you know?

People cross the town store The hottest things are trinkets and gore.

Little Jimmy buys a BB gun Ever since I taught him to have some fun.

I absolutely love the town president Because, thanks to him, I’m with ever resident.

Blackness and yellow and orange in skies, Drowning pathetic enemies’ calls and cries.

For many, white coats are now in vogue, An added measure to prevent emerging rogues.

Barrages of images to conceal Knowledge of what we want to reveal, Yet I always keep close old friends Like Plato and Aristotle, who had a... lens.

All mine now, of course, Gave Hippocrates a dose of remorse.

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Ly see ’im / Nate Ross ’17 / Pen and Prismacolor

Are you wondering who I am?

The Pontius Pilate of your murdered lamb?

A storm of me, a portal to hell, Through which my friend Dante “accidentally” fell.

I own your soul on every level You guessed right, I’m the God-forsaken -----.

Lighter than air, heavier than earth, But people think me the complete opposite of dearth.

Teeth of metal and hair of fire, Yet nobody thinks I’m a dirty liar.

I may be single; However, I still love to “mingle”.

Once stabbed by Steinbeck, Light in darkness, but what the heck?

Pain from Poe, he was quite craven, But guess who has become his eternal raven?

Almost murdered by Monet, a man quite silly, Guess he should’ve thought more before planting a lily.

“His Highness” is the first in a series of three poems by Krishna Sinha ’18. Read the full anthology, entitled “A Traveller’s Box,” by following the code below.

“A Traveller’s Box” Krishna Sinha ’18 bit.ly/247CLHZ 40

BUT HE DOESN’T KNOW Luis Torres ’16

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But he doesn't know.

Sure, he knows he’s six years old. He knows that his shirt matches his father’s. He knows that this is the twentieth time his mother has snapped the camera. He knows of the floral beauty behind him.

However, he doesn’t know that, much like this plant, he will blossom and will attract hummingbirds and bees for his nectar. He doesn’t know that in twelve years from now, he’ll be holding a high school diploma in those little hands of his. He doesn’t know that he’ll be the first in the family to have been admitted to college, let alone attend one. He doesn’t know he’ll attend a funeral of a friend of his before he even gets his first kiss. He doesn’t even know that in about six years, the school he calls home will be closed down due to budget cuts.

Why is it that he’s not smiling? Perhaps he has bigger goals than a perfect attendance certificate. Why is he alone? His dad’s at work

and won’t be home until three o’clock in the morning, just like every weekday. Maybe he’s alone because he’s about to face uncharted territory—all alone. No sight of God, friends or family. Just him. Much like the dead grass he now stands on, he will rise above the depths of negativity, whether it be his cousin leaving to the Marines, or being racially profiled and stereotyped by classmates, institutions, and mothers of his girlfriend(s). He will stand tall and erect when he travels to El Salvador and questions his purpose. He will stand tall even after he tears his IT Band, forcing him to quit his running career. He will stand tall when black lives begin to matter. He will stand tall when he gives a eulogy of a friend. He will stand tall when the world tells him not to.

He will meet his soulmate at the beginning of senior year. He will develop a love for the English language and its works. He will be heavily devoted at the high school that has shown him what matters most in life. He will find God. He will set a bar for future generations of Mexican-Americans to come.

He will have cried, bled, screamed, laughed, loved, and, most importantly, he will have lived.

In twelve years from this photograph, he will have a high school diploma at hand, with a red cap and gown, defying all odds.

But he doesn't know that.

But why? Maybe he became strong after the beating from his father. Or perhaps he knew he had to stand tall after almost losing his life to appendicitis surgery. No one truly knows how, when, or why this little boy became almost invincible. They just know it was inevitable.

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Pyramid Head / Gray Olson ’17 / Photography

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Astrology / Miguel Montaùez-Aragon ’16 / Digital Illustrations

OUT OF TIME Axell Komlan ’18 It was a faint but sudden ringing that pounded the accused’s head with the repeated sounds of ‘tick, tock.’ Covering his ears to block out the pungent noise, he found it to be the clock on the wall that slowly ticked time away.

Meanwhile, Beethoven’s Symphony No. 7 in A Major hummed peacefully in the background.

“As the head of the 9 councilors of CATA, we unanimously charge you with treason for spreading rhetoric that does not promote the good of our society.”

Dressed in an extravagant black robe that covered him from head to toe, he was a seasoned old man with a face weary from the toll of doing anything absolutely necessary for the good of the society. Anything. That essential requisite chose the head of the world’s largest bureaucratic organization: the Corporate Allegiance of Time Authority.

“Councilor Darwin, what do you see as the appropriate punishment for the crime?”

Dressed in attire that was similarly ornate to that of the High Councilor, Councilor Darwin took a moment before he protruded from the corners of his mouth a devilish smirk. “Let’s put him in the Existential Extirpator. It’s been 47

a while since we put people in Her, don’t you agree?”

The whole courtroom seemed to be nodding in agreement, accompanied by the sea of fake laughs and smiles that each of his fellow colleagues wore on his respective mug.

“It’s official,” said the High Councilor.

“Councilor Fox, put in the record that we used the Existential Extirpator this day on June 6, 2069.”

“Understood, High Councilor.”

“Let us hear from the accused, shall we?

Guards, escort him to the middle of the court with the steel cuffs.”

The guards escorted the accused, the young man visibly showing fear for his life with his hands shaking almost violently in his cuffs.

When he arrived at the center, he sighed out of concession.

“Now son, any last words before you become nothing but a faint memory?”

Beethoven’s quick change in tempo interrupted the awkward silence. The accused lifted his head to speak, but he eventually closed his eyes and put his head down.

Smirking, the High Councilor chuckled,

“Very well then. Guards, take him to The Machine.”

The two heavyset, mute guards dragged the accused into the room next door, where the Existential Extirpator lay untouched until now.

As Beethoven’s Symphony No. 7 in A Major came to a close, there came from the room next door a deafening, almost painful shriek that lasted for about 5 minutes in total. In order to avoid impairments from the widening wormhole, everyone in the courtroom put on individual earpieces. When the shrieking stopped and the wormhole closed, everyone took out their earpieces, each person forgetting why they were there in the first place. *** “Councilor Darwin!”

“High Councilor! How are you?”

“I’m doing well son, thank you. Listen, would you like to have brunch with the Mrs. and I? We could go to the Pavarotti Opera House in the downtown square right after.”

“I would love to go with you, High Councilor, but I’ll have to decline. I have to visit to my brother in the penitentiary; he hasn’t been feeling well these past couple of days.”

Walgreens Gang / Nate Ross ’17 / Ink

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Formation or Disintegration? / Gray Olson ’17 / Composite Photography

The High Councilor seemed intrigued.

“Really? How serious is his illness? We don’t want anymore epidemics to plague the good of our society, now do we? Remember the outbreak of ’29?”

“Of course, High Councilor.”

“Very good. Now go take care of your brother in the way you see fit. By the end of today we will deal with the problem. Go on your way.”

Darwin momentarily hesitated before bowing and replying, “Thank you, sir.”

Councilor Darwin sauntered over to his automobile with confidence. Everything in his life seemed to be falling into place, and he was excited by the prospect that he could be the one to formally replace the High Councilor, as he was going to step down in a few months.

One person who could affect this process was comfortable at the penitentiary, sick and waiting for his prestigious brother from CATA to come and take care of him. There was no doubt that Darwin loved his brother dearly, but he was the only thing that seemed to be in the way of his ascension to High Councilor.

Only time would seem to tell.

“Darwin, wait up!”

Darwin turned around to see that Councilor Fox was running towards his automobile. Like many of his colleagues, he wore a cheap, artificial smile that showed his perpetual, almost endless enthusiasm. Darwin smiled back in the same awkward manner.

Darwin ignited his automobile engine as the car clock chimed the new hour. The car radio

chose Mozart’s Minuet in D Major as the new song of the hour. A small black screen peeked out from the glove compartment to show two fake-smiling anchors glaring at the camera as they read aloud the teleprompter. Just as Fox caught up, Kom Darwin crawled in the automobile and stepped on the gas pedal as he sped away from the courthouse parking lot.

There was nothing wrong with Fox at all; in fact, Fox was the first friend that Darwin had come to know when he became a Time Councilor. What troubled Darwin was how much Fox tried to fit into the status quo of wholesomeness, which was the idea that society was better united if it wasn’t aware of the sins and ills that divided it. Darwin wasn’t complaining: he had always wondered why people would selfishly sacrifice the society’s happiness to reveal the wrongs that plagued it. Those people included his own brother, a trusted confidant whom he had once considered to be his best friend before his day of conviction. If only Abel hadn’t spilled CATA’s most internal secrets. If only he didn’t blaspheme against CATA on the trial day. If only they hadn’t heard about their late father, who was killed by his fellow allies that helped him rebel against CATA when it first started.

If only...

He couldn’t seem to remember the last reason. In fact, he began to forget the once jovial, smiling image of the man that he had been thinking about for the past 5 minutes.

Darwin even forgot why he was driving in the first place! Suddenly stopping the car, Darwin

looked up to the blue sky and noticed that the clouds began moving to the east instead of west. His eyes widened and jaw dropped in disbelief, Darwin abruptly ended the Minuet in D Major in its tempo change, realizing that CATA used the Existential Extirpator without him. Instead of confronting his colleagues, Darwin started toward his home once again, his head pounding in excruciating pain as he sought to find answers the only way that he knew...

“ Remember the outbreak of ’29?

*** “Come on, it has to be here somewhere!” said a frustrated Darwin as he rummaged through his personal belongings. Cleaning out confidential files and overturning furniture, Darwin searched to find his individual admitting chip that allowed him to travel into the past. That was one perk of a society that sought to eliminate mistakes: the chip would bring down the illusion of happiness that it tried so hard to preserve. Darwin usually had no problem with people’s executions until today, which was the first time that he had undergone this massive of a headache. Could it have been someone as close as his brother

getting executed that caused this pain? He wouldn’t know unless he went back to that exact point in time.

“Ok, let’s retrace my steps from today.

Alright... after I ate and got dressed, I remember checking to see if the chip was safe. Not under the books...not on the top shelf... oh, of course! It was behind the clock!”

Darwin scurried to his bedroom to find the gold-plated clock that hung peacefully on the wall behind his bed, its chimes ringing about 5 times to signal to the new hour. Darwin jumped onto the bed to take down the clock that, on the back of it, already had the chip inserted into the slot, ready to be pushed down. Just as Darwin was about to push down on the chip, his hands began to sweat excessively, and he hesitated. He knew that his job as Councilor demanded that he not use his time travel for personal use; that would not be for the good of society. However, if he could save his brother from dying, why not take the chance? Clenching one hand to his head that slowly began getting tormented with the sounds ‘tick, tock’, Darwin sealed his fate as he used his other hand to push down the chip, sending him back to the point when his head started hurting. He wished that his consciousness would not send him back to his younger body, in order to stay discreet... *** Darwin opened his eyes. Looking around, he found himself to be in the same courtroom that the first case ended in. The 51

Councilors of CATA sat in their respective seats, each taking on the same embroidered robes that the seasoned High Councilor took upon himself. As the clock continued to tick away silently, Beethoven’s Sonata No. 14 “Moonlight” in C-Sharp Minor played away in the background. The middle of the court was empty, waiting to ensnare its next victim like a jungle cat stalking its prey. As Darwin moved forward, something didn’t feel right; he looked down at his body, seeing that he was in the body of one of the heavyset guards. Putting his hand on the available gun holster in case of emergency, Darwin stood silently as the entire court waited to proceed. The High Councilor stood up and walked to the middle of the court, wearing a prideful smile as he slowly crossed his fingers. He walked up to each of the two guards, looking at Darwin’s guard in the eye especially. “So Councilor Darwin, did you think that I wouldn’t detect you were here?”

After pulling out a slim remote from one of his robe pockets, the High Councilor pushed the remote’s red button. Darwin immediately fell to his knees as the surge of electricity traveled through his body. The High Councilor held the button as long as he could’ve before changing the “guard’s” appearance to that of Darwin. The courtroom began to guffaw in forced laughter.

“Guard, bring him to me, will you?”

The guard carried Darwin over to the High Councilor before dropping him before the

official.

The High Councilor began shaking his head. “I thought to expect more from you during your examination.” Darwin began to stir from after briefly passing out. “I wasn’t aware that there was a test, High Councilor.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. However, you committed the highest form of treason when you time traveled to the past not only without our consent, but also with a personal agendato ‘possibly’ save a brother that at many times compromised the society. Now Darwin, what do you have to say about yourself?”

There was a momentary silence in the room as the Beethoven piece hummed away. Darwin stood up to speak to the High Councilor after gaining enough confidence.

“Tell me, High Councilor what is the good of your precious society if the people are only under the illusion of happiness, not its truest form? A wise one once said, ‘nothing is covered that will not be revealed, or hidden that will not be known.’”

“Guard, take him to be executed.”

The guard cuffed Darwin, a big smirk plastered on his face as he walked into the next room to be neutralized by the Existential Extirpator. As the courtroom prepared their earpieces for the wormhole’s effects, the High Councilor’s smirk remained perfectly intact, while everyone and everything else lost their sense of laughter and entertainment.

Pronto / Alex Nord ’16 / Photography

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WHERE ARE WE WHEN Where are we when the dust has cleared?

Do we stand with God or are we huddled in fear?

How are we when the air is still?

Do we draw strength from the silence, and still for His sound, Or do we bang our sabers As we trod the ground?

Where are we when the dust has cleared?

Do we help the man on our left then the one to our right?

Or thinking only of self have we turned to take flight?

Where are we when trumpets blare— Did we serve Him well?

Did we strive to make this world a better place, Or simply let it all go to hell?

Where are we when the dust has cleared?

Did we rise above it all, Bloodied but unbowed?

Or have we settled into the dust— With one final fall?

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Colton Gunning ’18

Mute / Joseph Nguyen ’16 / Monoprint

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PORTRAIT A Short Screenplay

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Jim Stickell ’16

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Opposite: Ben / Joseph Nguyen ’16 / Monoprint

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Adam Sandler’s Acting Career / Alex Nord ’16 / Photography

60 Universal Thoughts / Ben Maltbie ’16 / Scratchboard

PIANO BENCH PATRICK McGOVERN ’16

xx 61

I have always wanted to photograph first impressions of sound. The eye and the ear are so closely linked, and yet they experience completely different stimulants in completely different ways. For these images, I invited two musically inclined friends (Julia Dooley and Jack Rose) over to a backdrop, a piano bench, and a pair of headphones.

Initially, they had dozens of questions that I did not want to answer, distancing the project and myself from any sort of contrived poses. This was

essential, it allowed them to be honest and bold. This essay has shown me a tangible display of the bridge between seeing and hearing. Every time we open our eyes and every time we hear a lyric or sound, memories and opinions flow through. “Piano Bench” is an exploration of this part of the brain, and how it handles something new.

Melodies and words create limitless auditory beauty for all of us to hear, and this is my attempt at making it visible.

Jack and I share a deep love for music that pushed me to show him “Forever� by Alex G, who is an alternative-indie singer/ songwriter based out of Philadelphia, with a massive collection of originals online. He is the quintessential adolescent artist for me, and I hold his work very close to my heart. More relaxed than the others, this song produced a serious, unchanging face of concentration.

Jack closed his eyes and embraced the youthful, folky anthem as it took him somewhere else.

Julia was anxious. She had absolutely no idea what I was going for or how close I would be with the camera. She had not heard one of my favorite songs, “Snookered” by Dan Deacon. This piece of music employs surreal electronic chimes that build with heavy repeating vocals. I knew it was going to bring out this bright curiosity she so frequently shows, and it’s captured here.

“Lady Dada’s Nightmare” by MGMT is a song that inspires views of dark, windy, cinematic life in me. When I listen to its playful yet hauntingly gorgeous swell of organ and piano, I see things. The organization of notes and sounds took Julia over, and she was gloomy. I specifically chose this track because of its climactic structure that drops in loud, echoing drums and vocals halfway through. She moved back and her face grew, leaving the sad shape of her body on top of the hectic blur surrounding her.

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WHO LIVES, WHO DIES, WHO TELLS YOUR STORY Maanik Chotalla ’16

I write eulogies for a living. Quite an odd profession for someone of my standing.

Harvard educated, esteemed author— everything has gone great in life for me. Yet I have always had a knack for writing about the dead. I set up shop on 24th and Thomas in a small and secluded office building in the heart of society. Despite the location, I meticulously made it so that my clients could be free of distraction, drawing the blinds, shutting out the sounds, and even dimming the lights.

People would pour in daily to weep and sob through the tales of their loved ones just so I could take notes and record their respects. I always was greatly interested in hearing about the fond memories that people had about those who had passed.

“Harlan was a great husband and father. I remember the time that he took us all down to San Diego to look at all the animals at Sea World. He always loved to put others before him and never hesitated to assist someone in need. He pounced on every opportunity to show his generosity and kindness.”

Yet every time I wrote a eulogy, I couldn’t

65 Barber Shop Blues / Brady Wheeler ’16 / Print

help but think about how much of it was inflated. You really expect me to believe that someone like Harlan always assisted someone in need? That he never passed up giving money to a beggar or offering to buy a meal for a stranger? I’m supposed to believe that he never had moments in his life where he intentionally screwed someone else over for his own benefit? Call me cynical, but I have serious doubts that every single person whose life I hear about is somehow saint-like. And trust me, I’ve heard my fair share.

I know that I’m not perfect. I’d even go as far as to say that I’m a pretty shitty person. I never made any lasting connections with friends and I never married. I simply preferred being alone. Just like everyone, right? Everyone needs their alone time. So what’s wrong with making that a full-time gig?

I met with a woman named Marlene one day. She had strawberry blonde hair, a deep throaty voice, and a cigarette constantly held to her lips. She collapsed onto the counseling chair in a haughty and careless manner. She continued to inhale the smoke from her cigarette.

“Hello Miss…”

“Nash. Formerly Mrs. Marlene Laurens.

Thank goodness that name is not one I’ll have to bear any longer.”

“I see, so it was your husband who passed.”

“Passed? That old coot drank himself to death in the most ungracious and disgusting

way possible. It’s a wonder he lasted so long.”

She took another drag from her cigarette.

“I’d really appreciate it if you put that out.”

“And what for? I’m in grieving, aren’t I? Aren’t I entitled to this? Can’t you take pity on a woman?”

She continued puffing.

“It’s not that I doubt that, it’s that there are fire alarms in the building and they could go off if you smoke inside.”

She smiled a sinister smile and rubbed the butt of the cigarette onto the side-desk to her left, singeing the hard wood.

“Destruction of property is hardly an appropriate response.”

“I’ll pay you for a replacement,” she said sourly. “Let’s begin.”

“What is your favorite memory of Mr. Laurens?”

“Ha!” She spat. “As if that was possible.

When the man wasn’t drunk he was asleep.

When he wasn’t asleep he was drunk. When he wasn’t either he was as useless as a man could be. Truth be told I wouldn’t be giving this eulogy unless there was literally anyone else who could. The lout chose not to build any friends and now I have to pay for it. Even in death he still annoys me.”

“Surely there has to be some redeeming quality to your late husband.”

“Not a one! He had no passion, no ambitions, nothing about him to be respected!”

“This really isn’t going to work unless you

give me something to work with.”

“Something to work with? How about this? ‘James Laurens grew up a rich man never having to work a day in his life. His contributions to the vodka industry will be greatly missed.’ Does that work?”

“Look, dead is dead, but the people there will be expecting you to say something nice about your husband.”

“Isn’t that what your job is? Why do you think I’m here?”

“Perhaps you should go.”

“I think I will.”

She departed abruptly, the scent of smoke still lingering in the aura around her.

That was certainly one of the strangest encounters I’ve ever had. Who comes in to a session to write a eulogy with no intentions of saying anything nice? Every person thus far at least had the intention of sounding nice. Yet her husband simply had not done anything remarkable with his life. But why did that upset her so much? It’s something I still struggle with.

It has made me think, however. How her husband had never formed any bonds, never gone out to become extraordinary with the relationships he formed. It sounded so eerily similar to me. Who will write my eulogy?

Who will care enough? When I die, who will speak on my behalf, and what will they say?

What will this world be without my words to flower the discontent of those in grief? I won’t lie and say that it doesn’t scare me, because it 66

does. A lot. I can’t run away from death forever.

Death claims both sinners and saints. But how can I control what is said about me? After all, who wouldn’t trust a person with my reputation with their departing legacy?

I decided that I must write my own eulogy.

When faced with certain death it only makes sense that I write my own legacy. After all, who else knows me better than myself? It only makes sense that the most qualified person complete the job. Yet in writing it I find myself stumped. What is there to say about someone who dedicates their life to writing about the dead? Death silences the ears and eyes of those alive. There is no judgement and no pressure as to what is said. But I am still alive, and because of this it is impossible to know what to write about. The only solution to this question is to die, but in the eternal slumber, there is no space for answers.

How should I have lived? In a manner which makes it easy to write my own eulogy?

No. That would mean simplicity, and I simply transcend that mundane lifestyle. It’s supposed to be complex. It isn’t supposed to be easy to write a eulogy for someone’s life. If it is difficult to do that, then it is a life well lived.

I end this note with regret and sadness, but also a wonder as to what happens to the body beyond. There is no control that we hold over who lives, who dies, and who tells your story.

Goodbye.

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Zaroff / Lane McShane ’16 / Pen

The Abyss / Jordan DeOrio ’16 / Pencil and Pastel

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THE TRAGIC NEAR-DEMISE OF

JIM PETTINGER CLOP! CLOP! The weathered boots of Jim Pettinger echoed down the empty streets.

In his arthritic hands were a pair of concrete blocks, soon to be wrapped around his boots and plunged into the inky depths of the River Thames. A harsh scowl was etched across his wrinkled face, one that had been there for quite a while.

Within minutes Pettinger approached his destination. It was a vast yet desolate pier, filled with half-empty shipping crates left abandoned. In a peculiar way, the bleak surroundings fit his recent circumstances.

He, too, had been let go, in a truly terrible manner.

As Pettinger shuffled towards the pier, a series of troubling thoughts pierced his clouded mind. How long would it take for his acquaintances to be alerted about his demise?

Moreover, would they care? Pettinger stroked his chin in pensive thought. Ultimately, he concluded, I won’t live to find out.

Pettinger’s boots suddenly grinded to a halt. The river stood inches away. It beckoned 69

Will Ludwig ’17

him to step forth, to deprive himself of his fear and anger and embrace the welcoming aura of death. Pettinger sat down on the edge, sighing, as the river’s icy current lapped against his feet.

A diamond ring on Pettinger’s right hand glittered against the gloomy night. Pettinger scowled and hurled it into the water. It was a meaningless trinket at this point, a cruel, bitter reminder of a happier lifetime.

Pettinger slowly lowered his left foot into the water. The river was hypnotic now, drawing him into her depths. The current became more frenzied, as water pounded against the docks at a ferocious rate. The beating of Pettinger’s heart increased similarly. All it would take was a simple plunge.

As Pettinger’s right foot inched perilously closer to the current, he took a brief mental inventory of the circumstances that led him there. A lost job, a foreclosed home, a bitter divorce–they all took a tremendous toll on Pettinger’s well being. Yet it was

Sheila that truly broke him. The girl proved both his greatest achievement and his most excruciating hardship. Nothing thrilled him with more excitement than the day she claimed first prize in the Illinois State Spelling Bee. Yet nothing filled him with more despair than the day she was hastily rushed to the hospital, and the doctor gave the fatal prognosis.

Tears began to roll down Pettinger’s aged cheeks as he slowly lowered his right foot into the current. The traumatic memories he relived provided ample motivation to end it there. It was in that precipitous moment that he saw the balloon.

The balloon was a bright velvet hue, its color accentuated by the surrounding darkness of the night sky. It was at such an altitude to be a mere speck in Pettinger’s vision. But the second Pettinger saw it, a switch seemed to activate in the recesses of his mind. He lifted his left foot out of the current, followed by his right. The faintest hint of a bittersweet smile crossed his face. He then

proceeded to untie the concrete blocks bound to his boots, and began his long walk back to his dilapidated apartment.

For another memory had been triggered, one of pure joy and jubilation. It was at his daughter’s fifth birthday party, held in Pettinger’s own backyard. He remembered her radiant youthful face, smeared with frosting, smiling at him from across the yard. And in her hand was a bright red balloon.

Sunday in the Park / Johnny Phan ’16 / Photography

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STAFF

WRITING

ART

LAYOUT

Joseph Nguyen ’16 Jack Rose ’16 Gray Olson ’17

Miguel Montañez-Aragon ’16 Nate Ross ’17 Camden Andl ’19 Patrick Lee ’19

Jose Cardenas ’16 Ethan Kostishak ’16 Ian Gray ’17 Will Ludwig ’17 Luke Miller ’17 Graham Armknecht ’18

Patrick McGovern ’16 Art

Jake Lee ’16 Managing Editor Layout

Anthony Cardellini ’17 Writing

Jack Rauch ’16 Social Media

Brady Wheeler ’16 Design

Tyler Conrad ’17 Publicity & Events

SOCIAL MEDIA Alex Ryan ’17

PHILOSOPHY Brophy Literary & 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 on-campus 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 via email 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

Title / Student Name ‘16 / Medium

and select pieces according to weighted rubrics and score averages. No more than five works are published per artist or author. BLAM reserves the right to edit content for appropriateness and aims to communicate any changes to the author. Notable works are published periodically at blam.brophyprep.org.

COLOPHON Designers used Adobe InDesign CC and Photoshop CC to create the 2016 print issue of Brophy Literary & Arts Magazine. The dimensions are 8 inches by 11 inches. The body copy font is Minion Pro Regular in 12 pt. font with a 14.3 pt. leading for prose and a 12 pt. leading for poetry. The attribution and default title font is Cooper Hewitt in varying sizes and leadings. Printed by Prisma Corporation.

Š 2016 by Brophy Literary & Arts Magazine, 4701 N. Central Avenue, Phoenix, AZ 85012. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any manner without permission. All images and literary works are property of the respective artist, reproduced with the permission of the student.

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

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