The Oracle 2019

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The Oracle

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The Oracle

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THE ORACLE

BRUNSWICK SCHOOL GREENWICH, CONN.

2018-2019

The Oracle is Brunswick School’s literary magazine, run as an extracurricular club. It stands to present a diverse representation of our School’s finest creative writing in as polished and interesting a format as possible. We select and edit pieces and design each edition, with nearly all work relating to publication done solely by the student membership.

Submissions are open to all with a desire to be in print, with a submission window open from September until early February. In some cases, pieces are solicited by personal badgering. We pride ourselves in fostering creativity and individuality by allowing our writers significant editorial power.

The magazine was such named over one-hundred years ago by a man with whom our staff is not currently acquainted.

Therefore, we did not have the opportunity to inquire upon the name’s origin. However, because we recognize that changing our name annually would make for poor brand recognition, and, because we believe it hits the ear in a rather nice way, we decided to keep it another year.

Founded in 1902, Brunswick is an independent, college preparatory day school in Greenwich, Connecticut, providing character-based education for boys in Pre-Kindergarten through Grade 12. The Upper School educates 413 boys.

The school can be reached by phone at (203) 625-5800, or by email at oracle@brunswickschool.org. Given the current year is 2019, the fax machine may be hooked up in direct sequence with the shredder, so correspondence sent that way might not be received.

However, if you insist, the number is (203) 625-5829.

Any post, if one is outdated enough to send it, can be mailed to 100 Maher Avenue, Greenwich, Connecticut, 06830. However, we prefer delivery by autonomous drone (41* 02’ 18.0”N, 73* 37’ 34.3”W) or by carrier pigeon (just Northwest of the church with the big steeple).

Editorial Board Connor Belcastro: Editor-in-Chief

Scott Gibbons: Senior Editor

Andrew Grossman:

Senior Editor, Director of Photography

Ryan Seller: Senior Editor

Tommy Sandford: Junior Editor

Peter Kapp: Associate Editor

Zane Bhatti: Head of Design

Jonathan Wiener: Senior Editor

Eric Axilrod: Senior Editor

Carlos Flores: Junior Editor

Vilas Sogaard-Srikrishnan: Associate Editor

Faculty Advisors: John Martin, Eliot Harper Printer: Ryan Printing, Inc. Colophon: This year’s run of The Oracle consists of 350 copies, printed on 100 pound Mohawk Superfine paper. The design was (rather narcissistically) inspired by the Editor in Chief’s planner notebook.

Copies are left in stacks around the school and, thus, distributed free of charge to whomever would like one. To ensure the authenticity of our theme, each author’s work appears in his own handwriting (unless their handwriting was illegible chicken-scrawl), created using the services of Caligraphr.com. Accompanying sketches were done by the authors, or by other club members if the authors were poor artists.

This edition was designed and compiled using Adobe InDesign. The cover was designed by Zane Bhatti.

Table of Contents The Button

Fiction

Peter Kapp ‘22 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7

The Poem

Connor Belcastro ‘19 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12

A Requiem for My Better Years

Andrew Grossman ‘19 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21

Lost Time

Charlie Ciporin ‘19. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29

Clutch

Vilas Sogaard-Srikrishnan ‘22 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35

The Chasm Cycle

Ryan Seller ‘19 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41

The Bench

William Maynard ‘19. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42

An Endgame Strategy

Dr. Brian Gilbert Freeman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50

The Quest of Nicholas Azemar

Tommy Kimberlin ‘19 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58

Inheritance

Jonathan Wiener ‘19 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63 Sketches (Pen on Paper): pg. 7 - Peter Kapp ‘22 | pg. 34 - Jonathan Wiener ‘19 pg. 41 - Jonathan Wiener ‘19 | pg. 43 William Maynard ‘19 pg. 58 - Jonathan Wiener ‘19 | pg. 78Connor Belcastro ‘19 pg. 80 - Jonathan Wiener ‘19

Poetry

Untitled

The Berrier Advisory . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11

Fir Briste

Tommy Sandford ‘20. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28

Indentations

Scott Gibbons ‘19 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33

June 4th, 2018

Tommy Sandford ‘20 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49

The Green House

Connor Belcastro ‘19 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77

Lascaux Cave

Jonathan Wiener ‘19. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79

Roof

Digital Photography

Dan Dachile ‘19 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26

Castle Walk

Andrew Grossman ‘19. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27

Ping Pong

Emma Gallager ‘19. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39

Umbrella

Charlie Ciporin ‘19 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40

WaterSplash

Charlie Ciporin ‘19 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61

Bonfire

Nicholas Rinaldi ‘22. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62

The Button

by Peter Kapp ‘22

I lie motionless in my bunk, staring at the dot that is Earth sixteen light minutes away, looking back sixteen years, wondering how my common juvenile aspirations faded into just that.

At five, I announced to my parents that I was going to be an astronaut. I have come to understand that this is a nearly universal proclamation, one that every child has around 7

age five when they learn the extent to which space travel is awe-inspiring. By the time I announced my ambitions to my parents, I had made sure I was convinced, unaware of the notion that one’s decisions at five are not yet final. They looked at each other, then at me, smiling. It frustrated and confused me, but it was not outright rejection, so I was satisfied.

For five years, everything became my own personal space mission. The air conditioning knobs in the backseat of the car no longer adjusted the internal temperature of my parents’ Toyota Rav4, but now they indicated the fuel consumption of NASA’s newest innovation of aerospace technology. My trampoline became a simulation of the low-gravity effects of space. I laid down in bed, staring at the glowing stars my parents stuck to my ceiling, wishing and pretending they were real, and dreaming of the days where I could see all those stars and more from the surface of Jupiter as I bound across its surface. From the moment I could read, I read all I could find on space and space travel—learning that Jupiter, in fact, was not a planet one could walk on, rather a collection of gases that would certainly kill me. With this, I made the educated decision to edit my desires towards Mars.

For my seventh birthday, I received a large box. As soon as I removed the toy within, the box became my spaceship.

My disinterest in the toy confused my parents, which turned to dismay when I painted the outside of the box, as the evidence of 8

my paint job decorated several pieces of furniture for years to come. The cockpit was a place for my imagination to run wild.

I painted on all the knobs and levers that I assumed would be found inside a rocket. I outfitted my rocket with a stolen chair from my basement, and for hours on end I would play in the box rocket. It seemed so real: T-minus 10, 9, 8,‌I positioned myself in a comfortable position to handle the G-forces I had read about that accompany the launch sequence...7, 6, 5, I waved goodbye to my mother through the small window I cut out for just this purpose...4, I realized this was the last time I would be on Earth for a year, and I questioned my decision for one brief yet everlasting second... 3, 2, 1‌ before realizing this is exactly what I wanted, and I pressed the button‌ the button I had waited so long to press. LIFTOFF! I pressed the button day in and day out, always with the same joy and anticipation.

Then, I grew up. I started 5th grade, a frightening place in which one realizes life does not cater to their wildest dreams and aspirations. My friends stopped supporting my ambitions, and my family was long ago tired of the endless discussion of space. Even I had gotten every last drop of happiness I could out of my dream. I had finally surrendered my dream to reach for the heavens. I started over. My box that had served as a spaceship now laid dilapidated and forgotten in the corner of my basement. Middle school seemed to serve as a well-needed wake-up call. I began to outgrow my mediocrity, becoming a decent basketball player and a shockingly good 9

physics student. Finally, my life was on track. I was earthbound.

And now here I lie in my bunk on Mars. Looking through the small window, I divert my fixed gaze from the beautifully distant Earth for just a moment and stare down at the Martian red soil below, absent-mindedly reciting its chemical makeup, recalling facts and figures from years ago, picturing the DK Eyewitness book about Mars I had as a child, that I’ve read so many times I can still turn the pages in my head. I can see my footprints from the previous day, spread abnormally far apart.

Before I drift off to sleep, I look past Earth at the stars, reminded of those pasted on my bedroom ceiling as a child. Igot to press the button.

10

Untitled

by The Berrier Advisory

Quixotic pretzels

Like a map to a castle

Guarded by chocolate

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The Poem

by Connor Belcastro ‘19

Foreword: I have attempted to accurately recreate events and conversations from my recollection of them. I then disregarded these recollections and wrote this instead.

To any persons, living or dead, to whom any characters bear resemblance: We cool?

She follows me into the room, unsuspecting and unsuspicious. I, a young sophomore, small and feeble and too good an English student to be even remotely threatening, have merely asked her to read a poem I am to submit to the school literary magazine. I am supposedly a good writer, or so she thinks. She considers herself a lesser writer, and she finds it odd I requested her help. But I am small and uncool enough, despite my ravishing good looks, to write for the magazine, and also, apparently, strange and aloof and uncool enough to ask council from an inferior. Maybe I am just so remarkably intelligent that I see something in her she even fails to see in herself. Maybe. She assumes I probably have some reason for asking her. So it all adds up.

I usher her into an empty classroom, the site of my next class, or so I have told her. I close the door and give a nod to a smaller, feebler, rodent-looking boy sitting on a bench nearby, which seems, to her, odd, almost like some information 12

was exchanged, but that’s what small, weird, feeble boys do, is it not? They have their little inside jokes and whatnot?

Telepathy? Extra nipples? Who knows? Not she.

And so she watches as I reach into my jacket pocket and produce two folded sheets of loose-leaf paper. It is now she learns that not only do small boys write poems, they handwrite them, and fold them up and carry them around. But why not? And so she takes the poem from my hand, and she unfolds it and reads.

It is beautiful.

The page ebbs and flows with grace and grandeur, fluid, like the greatest waves of the most powerful oceans or the brightest of faraway stars. She leans over to rest her elbows on the table, the words overpowering, the pages carrying the weight of a thousand suns, too heavy to be held in mortal hands. The room melts away. The fabric of time and space tears apart. God shows His face, and He smiles. For a brief moment, fighting ceases in the Middle East.

“Oh, I like it!”

“Yeah?”

“It’s a good poem, Connor. The magazine will love it.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, I think it’s really well written.”

“Are there any parts you think need editing or strengthening? Any places it needs work?”

“I don’t think so. I think it’s a good poem.”

“Well, good, because it’s about you.”

“Excuse me?”

“Are you free this weekend?”

“The poem is about me?”

“Yeah.”

“Then why are you asking me to edit it?”

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“Diversion.”

“Diversion.”

“Yeah, to throw you off the scent.”

“I know what you meant.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“A diversion so you could lure me into this closed room, by my lonesome, to read your poem without me getting suspicious.”

“Well, when you phrase it like—” “A poem about me.”

“Are you free this weekend?”

“What made you think this was a good idea?”

“I dunno. Movies.”

She scoffs. “No, I’m serious. What intellectual process could have possibly occurred that made you believe this was an intelligent thing to do? I’m genuinely curious now.”

“Well, actually, a lot of careful thought went into the decision. Long days and long nights, thinking—months of careful contemplation.”

She tilts her head in a sort of motherly, demeaning way.

“So your cripplingly poor self-image made you think you had to do something spectacular to win me over.”

I squirm, taken more-than-slightly aback.

“Yet,” she continues, “for some reason, you stay optimistic that, one day, some girl will find your wounded-animal schtick endearing and take you under her wing? And that’s how you’ll find happiness?”

“No, I think—” “And then, when they inevitably say no, you tell yourself they’re mean, or not right for you anyways, and go back to the drawing board, trying to find someone empathetic enough they’ll fall for your trap?”

14

“I don’t think that’s fair at all.”

“Oh, please. Enlighten me.”

“I’m not a ‘wounded animal,’ I don’t think poorly of myself. I merely think I see the best in people, and I respect them, and I try to be respectful and compassionate towards them. I would hate for that to be seen as submission. I specifically didn’t write a poem of subordination, which is why I left myself out, intentionally—” “By writing from the perspective of the collective ‘we,’ yes, I gathered that much. A good effort. But you don’t think that elevating someone, especially in such a direct manner as this, is itself subordinate to that person? You raise an individual above a collective, and you exist within that collective; therefore, the transitive property exposes an inherent aspect of inferiority, does it not?”

“I don’t think so. The poem was a gesture. I have selfrespect and honor.”

“Why did you write a poem?”

“Because I figured a girl as physically and personally attractive as yourself would only find a worthless squid such as myself similarly attractive if he belittled himself with some grand gesture professing his subordinance.”

“I see.”

“And that such a gesture would communicate the misunderstood, well-hidden good side to this little, surprisingly good-looking squid-boy to you in a dense, efficient, and profound way, with no negative repercussions, and that the gesture would communicate these items in such a subtle, inconspicuous way that you would feel as though you realized them yourself.

Because expressing these items directly and/or literally would be narcissistic and counterproductive.”

“Items such as?”

15

“Oh, a great many, I’m glad you asked. That I am very emotionally intelligent, as proven by my poem, which was carefully crafted as good enough to be impressive but not so good as to be unsettling (that balance took months to perfect, by the way). That I am very brave for even attempting something such as this, much braver than the other boys who have not presented you with poetry and probably are not emotionally intelligent enough to do so anyways. That I am comfortable enough with myself to endure the public humiliation and mockery I might face as a result of this poem and its presentation. That I am taking a drastically different approach than anyone else who has asked you out, proving I am different than other boys who did not write poems, meaning I must be better than them. And that I noticed little, minute details about you, meaning I know you, I care about you, and that I appreciate you.”

She smiles. “So you thought that writing my most obvious, unspecific traits in just-barely-good-enough verse would prove to me your vast emotional depth?”

“Yes.” “But that I might not respond well if the poem were too good? So you wrote a mediocre poem? And that you are entirely capable of excellent, profound, groundbreaking poetry, but you decided I would be too stunned by a great poem, that I would find a great poem “creepy,” or that I wouldn’t understand your many nuanced layers of profundity and genius? So you, therefore, decided mediocrity (which, by the way, was barely met) was a better course of action?”

“Yes.” “And that it takes immense courage to trap me in an empty room and have me read a poem, lying to me about the reason, with the knowledge that, however I reacted, the 16

interaction would stay private, behind closed doors, because we still share the same English class, and I would be imprisoned to civility by our close proximity, both intellectually and physically, therein?”

“Are you free this weekend?”

“And that I mean so much to you that you would gallantly endure multiple days of lunch-hall banter and friendly, benign mockery? Mockery you certainly, most definitely, have not even considered until I mention it now, as your great honor and immense self-confidence give you no reason to fear such playful jest, nor have it even cross your mind?”

“Banter? I hadn’t even thought about—” “And that your radically different approach, proving to me you are radically different from other boys, would help satisfy every high school girl’s intense desire for relative normalcy? That, amongst the vast academic pressures of an intellectual such as myself, amongst the looming prospect of a college admissions decision which will instantly and concretely define my remaining years on this Earth, amongst intense training to keep in shape for my upcoming varsity soccer campaign, amongst various extracurriculars which I do because they fulfill me and not because it will show an admissions officer I am well rounded, and amongst the navigation of an ever-tumultuous social landscape of cutthroat, judgmental prep-school girls, many of whom are fabulously wealthy, grappling against each other for status in the eyes of confident, muscular, attractive, athlete-type males in the primes of their athletic lives—amongst all those things, the thing I need in my life is a self-described ‘small, feeble, emotionally-unstable boy’ who writes poems and is probably, deep down, quite sad?”

17

“Precisely.”

“And that you care enough about me to notice that I have some substance whatsoever, that I possess even a surface layer of basic human emotional complexity? You studied me well enough to realize, when you weren’t clumsily sneaking glances at my ass, that I am not a completely shallow shell of a human being? Maybe you missed a few things, sure. Maybe you missed that I rarely post on social media because I don’t need to crave attention or validation, or that I rarely talk poorly of other people because I think problems should be addressed directly, or that I’m not one to bounce from football-player to hockey-player at parties because I appreciate the value of a sound, supportive relationship, but—” “But that’s why I wrote a poem. Because I did notice those things. I just thought you might find too much detail creepy.”

“You thought if you said something nice about me, in a nice way, I would find that creepy.”

“Well, I mean…” I trail off. “Maybe—” “What did you notice?”

“Sorry?”

“Tell me something you noticed about me. Something you think is important.”

“Well, everything you just mentioned, I think that just hit the nail—” “No. Something original. Something you noticed. Yourself.”

I pause.

“Well,” I say, “when we go to school hockey games, all your friends are standing around talking and flirting with boys and taking selfies and all that, but you plaster yourself up against the glass watching every second of the game with laser focus.”

18

“Yeah?”

“I just think that says something about you, to go out there and experience the moment like that. It seems like, in this elite high school environment, there’s a lot of pressure to socialize and to be seen. But you don’t go to the games to be seen, you go because you enjoy watching hockey and you want to cheer on the team. I think there’s a pure, genuine, beautiful quality to that.”

“You saw me?”

“What?”

“You watch me at the games?”

“What? No, it’s just, you’re in the front and—” “Now I’m uncomfortable.”

“It’s not like that, I mean, I liked you, and when you stand in front, that’s where the game is, and I’m just trying to watch the game.”

A long pause.

“Are you free this weekend?”

“No,” she says.

“No?” “I have plans. I’m hanging out with my friends.”

“It’s Wednesday.”

“Yeah?”

“Your friends plan that far in advance? Some sort of function, or party, or—” “We’re just going to get food or something. I don’t know.”

Another pause.

“Maybe next weekend?”

“I have a boyfriend.”

“Oh. You should have just said that.”

“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

19

“Oh. Okay. Thanks, I think.”

“You’re welcome.”

Another pause, longer.

“It’s a good poem, Connor. The magazine will like it.”

“I’m not giving it to the magazine.”

“I know.”

A long, loud silence.

“Okay,” she says, “I have to go to class now.”

“Oh, right. Okay. See you.”

“Bye.” She turns towards the door.

“Wait,” I say.

“What?”

“What’s the English homework tonight?”

“Chapter six, I think.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“No problem.”

She turns and leaves the room.

20

A Requiem For My Better Years

by Andrew Grossman ‘19

I’m not much of a storyteller, that is for certain. My tales tend to follow no clear path and reach no comfortable conclusion. And for this reason, I generally abstain from the role, preferring to deal in present realities. There is one story, however, from my small, mostly inconsequential library of experience, that deserves to be told.

In the Spring of 2015, my mother decided enough was enough. I was finishing 8th grade, and adolescence proved a challenge far greater than either of us could manage. I remember the tearful look in her eye as she gave me her ultimatum: either I would shape up or she would send me across the country to a boarding school in California. I was an introverted middle schooler whose life experiences all took place within a two-mile radius. The idea of a new school, much less a foreign coast, made my heart creep into my throat, and I begged and pleaded for the preservation of the comfort I’d grown so accustomed to. For a while I kept my word, stayed on the straight and narrow, but I made promises I could never keep—promises which eventually found me alone in a town car on my way to the Thacher School in Ojai. I was beyond tears by that point, resigning myself instead to feelings of self-pity and dejection.

I thought about how I would jump from the highest building on 21

campus holding a letter addressed to my mother, my last words a resounding “Fuck You” to her and the rest of the world. As I said: adolescence.

I remember meeting my roommate John Peters. Peters was from Missoula and carried with him a confidence that I envy even now. That first day he introduced himself as if we’d always known each other. He started to talk and I can’t remember a time when he stopped. Somehow, it wasn’t annoying; I grew to love that noise that could drown out my own thoughts.

Peters was the one constant in my brief stint at the Thacher School. He was with me through all the chaotic ups and downs that defined the year. He put me at ease despite my brain’s propensity for the opposite. We shot the shit for hours, and it never felt like work. I talked he, listened; he listened, I talked; and that was it. No stray thoughts of inadequacy. I never felt boring, or quiet, or anxious. We shot the shit, and that was it.

I remember he told me the story of how he ended up at Thatcher.

“My parents always thought I was smarter than I was because I used to read books when I was three or some stupid shit like that. I was getting straight A’s at public school and they thought that I ‘wasn’t being challenged’ and ‘needed to live up to my potential.’ Little do they know the public school system in Missoula is a joke. All the teachers are either high or don’t give a shit, so cheating my way to an A wasn’t a problem. They searched for a private school, but all the ones near Missoula are for the mentally handicapped or juvenile delinquents, so they decided to send me over a few states. I couldn’t protest without exposing them to the horror that is the American education system, so I resigned myself to probable failure at Thatcher. So it goes.” Peters had recently read Slaughterhouse Five, and for the time I knew him he finished 22

all of his stories with “So it goes.” He loved how it implied the infinity of all things in the most succinct and simple of ways.

I told him it made him sound pretentious; I was always one to call the kettle black.

So it went. He was the catalyst for my my first relationship: a girl named Maggie who liked reggae and was from the Valley. We went on a double date up to Golden Trout, a small mountain near campus. While the sun set against the Sierras, we hiked up to a vista and talked about Mr. Robot and The Strokes, and Socialism. Later we went to the movies, and we took advantage of the dark theater. Afterwards, I told Peters about how different my life looked now that he was a part of it. I thanked him for opening me up to a world I had resigned to others, a world I once accepted that I would never be a part of. He told me to stop kissing his ass and to focus on Maggie’s.

He was kicked out May ninth for possession of sixty grams of weed. How he came upon such a gross amount of contraband is not a story worth telling. It turns out, however, the fatal problem with storing sixty grams of weed is the same problem encountered when storing three grams: the irrepressible odor. We stored it in cling wrap inside a ziplock bag, inside a Tupperware container, inside another container which we put into a jansport packed full of Maggie’s clothes. I knew it was petty of me to ruin her perfectly innocent t-shirts. For a while, I felt kinship with them, us both having been so flippantly discarded and forgotten. But I needed to move on, and replace her scent with something stronger.

Despite the matryoshka doll we created, the resident advisor followed her nose to our dorm while I was at French and busted us. I couldn’t confess—Peters took full responsibility while I was in class. I didn’t even realize until the night after 23

when he started packing. He told me he had been expelled, and not to worry because he would be just fine and I would manage. That final night we made a blood pact that we would be brothers forever. We each opened a scar on our wrist from the nights before we knew each other, and we shook hands with blood running down our arms. I haven’t heard from him in two years. But so it goes, I guess. *** I told you my stories don’t have endings; real life doesn’t give the satisfaction of neat narrative bows. The absence of an end makes it easier to pretend I really went to Thatcher, but eventually I had to face the reality that John Peters never existed; never could exist. No one is that perfect outside of a story or a memory. I have never been friends with a John or a Peter. The name came from Miles Davis song I listened to that year, very much alone. There never was a person I could talk to for hours without feeling those intrusive thoughts. Even if Peters never stopped talking as I said he did, he could never compete with the voice in my head. In reality, I spent a good chunk of that year in the company of my thoughts; watching Mr. Robot and listening to the Strokes alone in my room. I read Slaughterhouse Five and loved the line “So it goes” so much that I carved it into desks, and said it silently to myself as I drifted through the school day. And yet, when I think about my adolescence, I don’t think about the loneliness.

I think about Thatcher.

There is no factual story I could tell you that would ever convey what that word means to me.

I could try to tell you about the evening I went to a park and took pictures with my girlfriend, and how we later exchanged “I love yous” as she snuck back through her window. I could tell 24

you about the day my friend made pot brownies while my parents were at a movie, and how we longboarded around my hometown before we got caught. I could tell you about the nights I laid in bed, feeling like nothing mattered, and yet everything did as I felt the lowest lows of the human experience. I could tell you every small anecdote from my life, but no one story would be true. Because it’s more than the angst, the scars, the shouts to the void, the young love, the weed, and the irresponsibility.

It’s a monolith far beyond what words could ever convey. For me, Adolescence is me and John Peters shooting the shit as the world falls away. And so it goes.

25

“Roof” - Dan Dachile

26

“Castle Walk” - Andrew Grossman 27

Fir Briste

by Tommy Sandford ‘20 Jeering crowds greet the weathered man.

Fettered in his chains, He is bound to eternity.

He sleeps under the cover of darkness, The stars his pillow, the sky his blanket.

Once he wore green, Now the colors have faded into memory.

With trembling hands and blistering feet, He walks through the hail Of stones and strawberries, And remembers another time, When the the stones were faster, And the strawberries were mortal.

Twenty-five is too young to be an old man.

28

Lost Time

by Charlie Ciporin ‘19 You can come out of a closet, but you can never leave it behind.

You once lived in that tiny room where you keep all of the junk that you swear you’ll deal with later.

It was once your home, your entire reality. But the scratches from the wire hangers and the rashes from the itchy sweaters and the burns from lighters forgotten in the pockets of your pants leave scars that will never heal.

I remember when I stood sobbing in the shower on the day my childhood ended, unable to distinguish between the flowing water and the tears as each dripped slowly down my face. The steam and the noise of water hitting the porcelain floor of the tub made the outside disappear, protecting me.

‘Just admit it,’ I thought to myself. ‘You’ve been avoiding it for months now, you can’t avoid it any longer.’ My mind was racing. ‘Just admit it.’ I knew I 29

was right, but part of me wanted to wait longer; part of me wanted to keep telling myself it would go away.

But I kept myself realistic. The two words slipped out of my mouth for the first time, and they were now tangible, they were real, and I couldn’t put them back.

I exited the shower, straight into the closet. A direct line. I was on the outside now, but not really. I never could be. I was a walking paradox. You can’t be someone like me in an all-boys school. Not when you hear them talk about it, how disgusting it is, it’s not right, it’s not natural, it’s not what the Bible says you should do, they don’t want to talk to you because they think you might be it, “shut up faggot.”

‘Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll shut up.’

I cross-examined, double-checked, painstakingly chose every word that came from my mouth for the sole purpose of hiding anything and everything about me. Friends came and went, said and did horrible things, but I couldn’t shake the indifference. What’s the point of feeling when it’s impossible to feel good? All emotion leaves until you’re nothing. Just numb. Numb and alone in a small, dark, room, surrounded by dirty clothes and old belongings. You’re gasping for air, but it never comes. *** I took her to the chess tables in the park on a warm October afternoon, three years later. The two words slip out and I’m crying again, but this time, for 30

the first time, there’s no warm water to comfort me, no, there are two arms instead, two ears that hear me over the splashing water of the tub, two lips telling me “it’s ok, you’re gonna be ok.” I nudge the door open.

I don’t stop. It feels good. I push it farther and farther open, too much at once sometimes and I have to slow it down, yes, but always opening, I can’t retreat, it’s too late now, so I find an opening, I dive out all at once.

I’m finally free. I’m finally on the outside. ‘…Is this all there is?’

Yes. You’ve waited years for this. And you’re still numb, still anxious, still afraid of every word that rolls off of your tongue. Only this time, everyone is looking at you, and you can’t convince yourself that they like what they see. ‘Did it solve all of your problems? Are you happy now?’

You can come out of a closet, but you can never leave it behind. I didn’t realize that panic attacks in locker rooms because you think everyone thinks you’re a pervert—those won’t go away. No one told me I would still pretend to be “tired” to avoid talking to anyone who approached me. I didn’t think I would still feel so isolated when my peers talked about their crushes and their girlfriends and their everything-in-betweens 31

and I’m left empty-handed with nothing to contribute.

And it all still felt like my fault. I still felt numb. I still feel numb.

I don’t think I can ever take back the time that slipped through the cracks of my fingers, the water flowing over me: a happy adolescence, laughing with friends, telling them about my hopes and my dreams, not having to worry about whether or not they’ll tolerate me if I tell them. It went down the drain. A direct line.

It went down the drain and it’s never coming back.

I’ve learned not to stand in the shower and cry anymore. Instead, I let the scalding water run through my hair, sluggishly dripping down my back and over my feet, trying to feel the warmth course through me. I don’t focus on the lost time; I focus on feeling the water. It’s a start.

32

Indentations

by Scott Gibbons ‘19

Looking around, I am unable to distinguish mountain from sky.

Using my arm, I protect my face from the blizzard’s bee-stings, and lifting each foot out of the ground becomes progressively harder as the snow packs tightly around my knees.

Exhausted from the altitude, I stop and listen to my heavy breaths while the crunch of my footsteps in the snow ceases temporarily.

I find that my footprints have already been dulled, indentations show me to where I was a minute ago.

I reach for my zipper, which takes three or four tries before I successfully open my pocket despite my clunky gloves.

Burying my hand in my jacket, my fingers find one last Hershey’s Kiss.

This was the last connection I had to Maeve: the last of treasure she hid in my jacket before I left.

Struggling to unwrap it with my frozen fingers and thick gloves, the aluminum foil wrapper flies away as I grab the chocolate.

It takes a few seconds before I could taste the frozen sweetness: it reminds me of biting into a chicken bone.

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I think of the picture of her in the outside pocket of my backpack dropped two miles behind me, most likely buried in snow by now.

I trudge on, staring down at my feet, the back of my neck stinging where my shirt and hat fail to meet.

In front of me, I see indentations in the snow, just like the ones I’m leaving behind me, but hauntingly larger.

The indentations become more defined as I continue.

They meander back and forth, fighting to move forward.

My neck cracks as I look up for the first time in at least half an hour, tracking forward to see where they lead.

My body suddenly feels warm as my heart rate increases as I see where they end.

She is gone.

34

Clutch

by Vilas Sogaard-Srikrishnan ‘22

I can’t hear my feet hit the floor of the tunnel over the noise of the crowd. But I don’t know if that’s the right name for this kind of place—tunnel makes me think murky, dark and cold. This is the opposite.

Carpet covers the ground underneath my feet, with Madison Square Garden written in block letters. The walls are painted vibrant shades of blue and orange; shelves and closets are filled with trophies and memorabilia from the biggest events. Little captions lie underneath as if to brag about the accomplishments: the Knick’s first title in 1970, the six overtime SyracuseUConn game in 2009, the night when Reggie Miller scored eight points in nine seconds. There’s a picture—the ball blurring in Miller’s guiding hands, on its way for three.

The audience feels louder all of a sudden. Noise comes from all sides, the cheers of the fans pound through my skull. My fists clench, my fingernails bite into my skin, and my hands tremble a bit. Little halfmoon marks follow the curves of my nails, carved into my hand, but I don’t notice. At the end of the carpet, a final plaque reminds me that this tunnel’s mouth will spit me into the place where Patrick Ewing sent his team to 35

the NBA Finals. The arena is deafening; I glance back at the quiet tunnel one last time and turn towards the noise.

--I rush out of the classroom as soon as the bell rings. Even though I try to play it off, I’m embarrassed.

Nobody else with a 2.5 GPA has an opportunity to go to Stanford. It’s funny to think about that. My life revolves around a ball.

No matter how good people say I am, I’m nervous.

The biggest game of my life is this weekend: the state championship. As the top-ranked recruit in my class, I’m expected to single-handedly carry my team to victory.

And I don’t know if I can do that, no matter how many talk-show hosts insist that I’ll win my team the game.

But if I don’t win, they’ll flip the narrative, blame it on me. It happens to so many athletes, even at the highest level. They’ll say I’m not “clutch.” It won’t be their mistake for overestimating me—no, it’s my fault for not playing up to their expectations.

--The arena is enormous—so big that I can barely see the rafters when I look up. The bleachers are packed, and the cameras turn towards me, flashing in my eyes as I walk out of the tunnel. They’ll find any mistake. They will read into any facial twitch, any strange movement, anything out of the ordinary. They’ll be the ones to tell the people if I’m clutch or not.

36

I don’t notice at first, but my team is gathered at the bench, each player unusually close to the next, huddling up as if to protect themselves from the rest of the world. My coach is no different, blending in with the athletes as they sit. Their heads are down, the color drained from their faces.

‘Stay cool.’ I have to seem collected, confident.

The public will not care that I’m on my own, that the weight of the team lies on my shoulders. There’s no excuse for me, no easy way out like there is for everybody else.

Once the ball is tipped off, there’s nothing I can’t do. I’m more focused than ever before. When they score, I score right back. My teammates are happy to stand back and let me work.

Now five defenders are spread across the floor before me. The defender in front of me outstretches his arms and plants his legs wide to curb my movement.

But he constantly shifts his feet, like he doesn’t know where to stand. He’s nervous.

His left-side teammate flicks his eye towards me, obviously under instruction to help him. It’s still not enough. I feint towards him, and, as the defenders reach, a simple crossover brings me to the elbow with only one defender to beat. I hesitate, as if to pull up for a shot, and he comes out to block it. But there’s nothing to block. I continue my dribble past him, almost feeling his face turning in shock as I put in the easy lay-up.

Or at least it should have been. Just that, nothing else. Two points, and then back on defense. But the defender, trying to make up for getting burned, 37

slams into me on my way down to the ground. I feel my landing leg bend as I lose the ball. It’s sickening. I fall to the floor, and my body crumples in tune with the audience’s silence.

I barely notice as I’m slid over a stretcher, as the people roll me off the court. I focus on the ball ignored under the hoop. It lies still.

--The door slams shut behind me as I walk away.

It’s a nice day, midday on a Friday. I work seven days a week now, but back in school, I would’ve loved this.

Sunlight radiates, and I’m enveloped by a distinctly calm ambiance, but the smell reminds me of what I’m here to do, so I walk towards the trash can.

I try not to think as I reach in and feel for the lip of the bag. I learned not to focus on the job long ago, so as I bring the trash to the back of the truck, I listen around. There’s the sound of laughter and a ball bouncing. A few kids are gathered around a hoop across the street. I support the bottom of the bag with my arm, and toss it into the back of the truck. Head down, I get back inside and start up the engine.

38

“Ping Pong” - Emma Gallagher 39

“Umbrella” - Charlie Ciporin 40

ThebyChasm Cycle Ryan Seller ‘19

—helpless for eternity. He was falling. He forgot where he was and how long he had been falling. Everything else slipped from memory, but he felt like he remembered forgetting. He saw a dim light below him before crashing down onto an ornate bed. He got up shakily and glanced around. It was an ordinary bedroom, sparsely decorated with paintings and dark pots with shrivelled plants in them, neglected love for too long.

He vaguely remembered to find the key, and he searched around halfheartedly, thinking he would never find it. It was fuzzy, but he could barely recall that there was a key to the locked door on the side of the dark room. He then felt a sensation in the back of his mind, and grabbed the key from back behind the bed. He tried the key on the door. A perfect fit. It was like the key to his memories, whatever lies beyond. He pushed open the door, and stepped out confidently. But, as there was nothing below him, he tumbled forward, back into the abyss.

Because that’s what it does to you, the darkness, it snatches your past away and leaves you— 41

The Bench

by William Maynard ‘19

As he walked, George couldn’t help but focus on the vibrant colors of the leaves covering the grass beneath his feet.

“They are lucky” he thought, “they are beautiful when they are dying.”

It was a cool autumn morning, George’s favorite time to be outside. He had always seen autumn as the beautiful ending of summer, the ultimate high before the low of winter, but not this autumn. This Saturday morning, he felt autumn was the lead up to winter, the process of summer dying before its final death.

George stood at a towering six feet six inches tall, and as he walked, his legs looked extra-long in his white hospital gown.

On his wrist was the number 227. As George entered the hospital, the first thing people noticed was his broad smile and deep dimple that seemed to never leave his face. As they continued looking, they noticed the clear glasses that were way too small for his face, but that George loved too much to take off. Those glasses framed two active dark-brown eyes that were always darting around, observing every little detail of the world. Very little got past those brown spotlights.

Many people called George a beacon of hope in the hospital. His tall and defined body striding through the halls 42

43

draped in stylish clothing created a facade of happiness and promise. Even veteran nurses couldn’t suppress their surprise and shock when George had been diagnosed with aggressive NK-cell leukemia.

As George looked ahead, he saw his bench. His bench, as he thought of it, was a simple metal bench in William’s Park on the edge of a long grass field. Behind the bench sat a large oak tree in the shade of which he had spent many afternoons enjoying the warm and comfortable embrace of sleep. The park—and more specifically ‘his bench’—had quickly become a sacred place for George in the months he had been going to the hospital.

In order to combat the aggressive nature of the cancer, George needed treatment twice a day. The sessions of chemotherapy wore physically on his body and mentally on his spirit. To escape the hospital and the pain he associated with it, George would spend his time in between treatments on the bench in William’s Park.

He had wept on the bench after hearing his diagnosis back in August. He had been so overcome by emotion that he couldn’t walk; he sought a quiet place to console himself. He had found the strength of the bench, and for hours he had required the support of the cold metal. Each day, he would return and watch the beautiful and peaceful world of the park revolving around him, and each day, the metal was there to support him.

‘His’ bench sat beneath a large oak tree, and as he sat, George saw the leaves falling in the cool breeze all around him.

‘The world around me is dying one leaf at a time, and how fitting that I am sitting in the middle of it,’ he thought. ‘It’s almost romantic. A dying man watching the summer world die before his own eyes.’

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Lifting his gaze and his thoughts from the leaves, George saw two figures in the field. He didn’t remember seeing them when he had sat down; he wondered how long they had been there.

As he looked at the two bodies in the field, he saw that one was almost twice the height of the other. He thought they were a father and son. George could see a highlighter-green “47” on the back of the young kid. The father was lobbing a football to his son and the child, who was doing his best to catch the ball with just one of his small hands but couldn’t quite manage. Watching the pair, George began thinking out all the possible scenarios in his head: ‘Was the kid practicing for an upcoming flag football game, or had they just come to be outside? Had the father dragged the child to the park, or had the child been begging his father all day to throw the football?’ George saw the large smiles and heard several joyous laughs coming from the father.

He knew a joint desire had brought the father and son to the park.

The kid’s laugh rang in his ears long after it had left the air. George hadn’t heard many laughs—let alone the pure and innocent laugh of a child, since he had been in the hospital.

George was a patient at Newtown Medical Center, one of the most respected and praised hospitals in all of the Northeast.

To George, however, Newtown Medical Center was a place of necessary evil.

Every morning at 9:00 a.m., he would arrive for his first set of chemotherapy. These morning sessions were given via an infusion into his vein, and sometimes they made him vomit.

Following his long laborious morning, George was always exhausted and in need of an escape, so he would journey to ‘his’ bench. His second session of treatment, radiation, would begin at 3:00 p.m.

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George imagined the radiation sessions were more harmful, but he preferred it to the chemotherapy because there was no immediate pain.

‘The cancer will kill me before the radiation does,’ he had convinced himself when thinking over his treatment options.

While there were other cancer patients at Newtown Medical Center getting either chemotherapy shots or radiation treatment, George was the only one who needed both. He was the first case of aggressive NK-cell leukemia the hospital had seen in ten years. Being alone in his fight was the hardest part for George, who was somewhat jealous of the other cancer patients; they were fighting the same disease and could work together. George was alone. He hated it. He dreamt of the day he could leave it all behind him.

Laying on the bench, George couldn’t help but be excited that he was looking up at the white clouds dancing so peacefully across the blue sky above. The park was his escape from the annoying fluorescent light that filled his eyes when he lurched his head away from the pain of the chemotherapy shots.

“Thanks Dad, you’re the best,” he heard the young football player say. The words cut through the air and made George smile. Wrapped in his jacket, George felt warm and comfortable on his bench. He felt his eyes getting heavy from his perpetual exhaustion, and although he tried his best to stay awake, his eyes shut like gates.

When he woke, George was in a comfortable bed with a duvet cover pulled tight to his face. As he turned amongst the sheets and pillows, he saw another body under the covers. It was his wife. He heard the soft ticks of the clock on the bedside 46

table. His eyes took a few seconds to focus on the face of the clock. 6:21. Jack, George’s eleven-year-old son, would be up any minute.

“Lee,” George whispered softly to his wife, “I’m going to get breakfast started for when Jack- well, you know how it goes.” Lee and George had been married for twenty-one years and had three children, Caroline, Emily, and the youngest, Jack.

Recently, Jack had been waking up every morning at 6:30 and been starving—according to the words of a cunning eleven-year-old, at least. On the weekdays, Lee was the one responsible for feeding Jack before he “fainted from starvation,” a threat Jack liked to use if he hadn’t eaten before seven. But, as it was Saturday, George wanted to surprise Jack with warm pancakes as soon as he came downstairs. As Jack walked in a few minutes late at 6:45, he stood amazed by the steaming plate of pancakes drizzled in syrup that lay on the counter in front of him.

“You can only eat those if you promise me something, Jack.” George said as he approached with a fork and knife.

“Anything Dad, anything.” Jack answered focused only on the pile of pancakes.

“You will be twelve in a few months Jack; you are too old to keep waking mom up so early in the mornings claiming to be starving.” George said in his firm voice. Jack stood still with his face beginning to grow red from embarrassment. He was no longer focused on the pancakes.

“You know?” he mumbled.

“Of course we know,” George replied. “We’re your parents after all.”

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“I’m sorry, it’s just I don’t like being alone in the mornings and I want to see you guys and I’m sorry.” Jack was now rambling on.

“Don’t worry, Jack. Now eat up and let’s go have a catch outside.” George’s calm voice reassured the nervous boy.

“You know what, Dad?” George said through a mouthful of pancake. “You’re the best.”

George just smiled.

As George woke for the second time, he still lay on the bench wrapped in the warmth his jacket created. He felt the cold metal on his hand as he pushed himself up. Still dazed from his rest, George wiped his brown eyes as they took a few seconds to take in all the information of the surroundings. The sun was behind the oak tree now and a soft orange and gold light was being cast over the bench. Sitting on the bench, George noticed that the father and son had left the field. He was thinking about Jack sitting at the counter, his mouth full of pancakes and his lips glistening with the residue of Vermont maple syrup.

Just then, he saw the 2:40 plastered on his watch. George blinked slowly and sighed.

“If only,” he whispered as he stood up to go.

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June 4, 2018

by Tommy Sandford ’20 I try to find the words to explain all that has happened the past two years.

But what more can I say?

I know you’ve seen it.

You’d like most of it, I’m sure, but there’s stuff you wouldn’t like.

I’m sure you’d have a joke for it either way.

There are so many interesting things that I’d like to talk to you about.

Questions that I can only conjure your answer too.

I still wonder why: Why didn’t you want to come to the beach?

Why didn’t you stay over?

Why didn’t you finish your car?

Why aren’t you here?

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An Endgame Strategy

by Dr. Brian Gilbert Freeman

It was just after lunch and Colin found himself sitting out on the porch overlooking Lake Sagamore with Phoebe’s father. While the latter was reading the newspaper, Colin busied himself with a jig-saw puzzle that someone had set up on the table in the corner. It was a quiet afternoon, the tall pines were tossing gently in the wind, and only the distant buzz of motorboats from across the water interrupted the fitful sound of birdsong and intermittent chatter from the women in the kitchen.

The weekend had not begun as Colin had hoped.

He’d flown to Boston and met Phoebe at Logan and they’d driven north into New Hampshire to see her parents at their house on the lake. He’d been thinking there would be a chance for him to finally win them over; in his imagination he saw her parents coming around to accepting him, and then they could start planning for the future. But as soon as they’d arrived this morning it had become very clear that nothing of that sort was going to happen. Phoebe’s mother, 50

Ava, had quietly taken them aside and told them her husband’s bad news, and so what Colin had hoped would be a chance at reconciliation was no longer possible— for the time being, at least. Mr. Latimore had just been told he had pancreatic cancer and that he had no more than a few more months to live. Colin felt surprisingly resentful of this turn of events even as he realized how unfair that was. Clive Latimore had himself been silent on the subject of his health— in fact he had been no better than monosyllabic throughout lunch, and he was maintaining a practiced taciturnity out on the porch. Colin was feeling grateful to whoever had thought to put the puzzle out.

Phoebe called out from the kitchen to ask if anyone wanted any ice-cream. Colin watched to see whether Mr. Latimore would respond. He did not.

“No, thank you—not for me!” Colin called out as cheerily as he could. Mr. Latimore looked up and raised an eyebrow at him, then went back to his paper.

“We have black-raspberry,” Phoebe said, appearing in the doorway. “And it’s homemade? Dad?” Mr. Latimore looked up at his daughter and said flatly, “no, thank you.” (What his cold, appraising look said was more eloquent.) Phoebe turned and looked at Colin, who shrugged. She went over to her father and put her hands on his shoulders.

“But you’ve always liked black-raspberry, Dad. That’s why Mom made it.”

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“I used to like many things. Tell your mother I’ll indulge myself in a glass of water later.” She reluctantly withdrew her hands and he went back to reading his paper. Phoebe hugged herself and walked back inside. Colin got up and joined her in the kitchen.

“Mom’s just gone upstairs to take a nap,” Phoebe said. “She’s finding it hard to deal with Dad’s reaction to his news.”

“I’m sure it must be difficult for her. I mean, I guess maybe it’ll take some time? She can’t imagine that he’ll just pretend everything is ok, despite everything?”

“No, of course not—but she’s terribly upset, and his refusal to talk about it isn’t helping.”

“I’ve never noticed that your father has ever been especially given to, um, loquacity.”

“No, but now he’s bitter, and he never was bitter before.”

“I think I might be bitter, too, if I’d just learned I had just months to live.”

“Yes, but I expect you’d still try to put on a brave face for other people’s sake.” Under other circumstances she might have added for her sake. She picked up a hand-towel and threw it angrily into the sink. Seeing she was shaking quietly, he walked over and hugged her. For her sake, Colin thought, he would try to be brave, whatever news he received, in whatever unknown future might still be theirs.

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They decided then to take the canoe out for a paddle. When they’d gone out to tell Mr. Latimore where they were going, he looked up, shrugged, and went back to reading the paper. As they left the deck he called out suddenly, “Don’t fall in—you might drown!”

They took off their shoes and found the water was warm as they stepped across the sand into the lake; they pushed the boat away from the shore and into the shallow cove the house overlooked. As they paddled out along the shore that stretched south from the house, Colin found himself wishing he could come up with an excuse—any excuse, really—to cut short this weekend visit. He felt like an unwanted interloper, and wasn’t it better if he just left the family together to deal with the crisis? But that would mean leaving Phoebe here, too, and she might not take well to the news he was abandoning her in her hour of need.

“Look at the loon!” she called out, pointing with her paddle. There were in fact two loons swimming off to their left. Colin made appreciative noises.

As they canoed past the hemlock-studded shoreline, past boathouses set on stone piers, past lawns on which couples sat drinking coffee and listening to NPR, he looked at Phoebe sitting in front of him in the bow and wondered, suddenly shivering despite the warm sunlight, what was going to happen when they 53

got back to the house? Her father had never liked him, and now that all attention was on the dying man in his hour of need, would Phoebe decide to cut him loose since it would make her father’s end easier?

Colin had always found it difficult to read through Clive Latimore’s reticence, but he was sure he hadn’t misread his visceral dislike—sensing perhaps something rather more intense than that.

He’d first met Phoebe’s parents at her college graduation; they’d invited him out with them for dinner afterward. They’d gone to a Greek restaurant in Porter Square. As a graduate student who was introduced as Phoebe’s favorite tutor in her house— though he had never had any formal oversight over her academic studies—it had seemed innocuous enough that they’d want to meet him, and since the mood of the evening had been celebratory—Phoebe had graduated summa cum laude and was off to Chicago next fall to begin her Ph.D. in Classics—the focus of attention had stayed off Colin for the most part. It had only been later that summer, after he and Phoebe had begun sleeping together, that things became more challenging.

Their first trip to Lake Sagamore had been distinctly awkward. Though Phoebe had told her mother about their relationship, nothing was said about it that weekend. Her father’s somewhat dramatic insistence that Colin sleep in the little guest room over the garage—a separate building—had nevertheless alerted him clearly enough to the older man’s feelings on this 54

matter. And it hadn’t helped that one evening after dinner, when he and Phoebe were kissing out on the deck, Clive had suddenly emerged from his bedroom upstairs, and standing on the little balcony, had stonily intoned, “what’s going on down there?” They’d quickly broken apart and he’d gone back into his room without a word.

Ava’s feelings were easier to gauge—she took Colin aside and pointedly told him she “understood” her daughter’s feelings for him, and though she would have preferred it had been otherwise, she was willing to be tolerant. Her implication was clear enough.

That had been two years ago, and since then Colin had done what he could to prove himself an upstanding citizen. He’d left Cambridge and followed Phoebe to Illinois; his job at Harvard had been a dead end anyway— there hadn’t been the slightest chance of his getting tenure, he’d known that—so he’d been lucky to get a position teaching at a college an hour’s drive north of Chicago.

Back from their canoeing, at the house, tensions had not lessened. As they sat down to dinner (Ava had bravely cooked veal chops with white asparagus), Clive steadfastly maintained what Colin took to be silent preening over his incipient death. Ava made brave attempts to lead the conversation into areas of broad interest—a controversial new translation of 55

Aristotle’s Poetics had just been reviewed in the New York Review of Books; the local theatre company was (once again, it seemed) putting on Agatha Christie’s Ten Little Indians (refusing to use the more politically correct title “and then there were none”); and the Peabodys next door had announced plans to build a tennis court very near the property line—but it was to no avail. Clive sat gloomily staring at his denuded veal chop bone. Suddenly he stood up, said “good night” almost inaudibly, and before he vanished upstairs he paused in the doorway and looked back at Colin with a look of cold repudiation.

Colin braced himself, and after a few minutes took the opportunity to ask Ava the question that had been devouring him for hours now (and which he not had dared to broach to Phoebe): “do you think it would be better if I left tonight? I feel I’m in the way.”

Phoebe grabbed his hand anxiously, saying “no!” but at the same time Ava looked at him sadly, saying more with her pale blue, tired eyes than he’d imagined possible.

“Phoebe,” Ava had finally said, “I do think Colin should make an early exit—he can wait until tomorrow after breakfast, of course—but this is a family matter, and I am sure Clive would appreciate it.”

There was nothing more really to be said, though Phoebe did indeed say more while they took their post-prandial walk with the dogs before bedtime. But it was a family matter, and he was not—and he now 56

sensed never would be—family. When he and Phoebe sat later that night on the porch swing, he moved close to her and tried to take her hand in his own; but she pulled away and moved a few more inches further to her side of the seat.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, looking at her warily.

“Nothing,” she replied, avoiding his glance. “I’m just tired, that’s all. I think it’s time for bed.

Tomorrow is going to be another long day.” She went into the house without another word, glancing back at him just briefly and inscrutably before entering, and he went down the porch steps and over to the garage and his penitential room.

Like the illness that itself was claiming Clive Latimore’s life, he was judged unwelcome. It was, he thought somewhat bitterly, a rather desperate strategy for fate to have taken—but it was surely one without a rejoinder. He found himself effectively check-mated.

He left as soon as it was light in the morning before anyone else was stirring. Never had he been happier to be on the road.

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The Quest of Nicholas Azemar

by Tommy Kimberlin ’19

It is I, the great Nicholas Azemar, brave knight of the Templar and England’s most formidable captain, who has been chosen by God and King to lead a fateful quest —one which has proven ill-fated for many a great captain before me. For years, his Majesty has sent vessels southward to discover new lands and chart the unknown; but, regrettably, no crew has returned from these mysterious lands. These unfortunate events certainly make this mission “foreboding”—not “for boating,” as my ignorant crew frequently mistakes.

But fear not, because no challenge is too great for I, Captain Nicholas. All my glorious life I have sailed the seas, braving the treacherous, deadly, and downright impossible. I am deaf to Sirens, I have wrangled krakens, and I have shamed Poseidon and Zeus in their paltry efforts to defeat me. I am the Master of these seas!

This day marks the third month of our bold voyage, and, by Jove, this beast of an ocean is putting up a strong fight. The seas

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are rocky, my men tired, our ship growing more tattered by the minute. A wild storm strengthens, but my spirit is ever stronger.

“Crew!” I yell. “Man your stations! Tack!”

But at this moment, a monstrous swell overtakes us and the vessel is thrust clean into the air.

Thinking quickly, I grasp a line and cling to it. My crew, too dim to think as quickly as I, are cast into the abyss as the ship plummets. Very unfortunate, indeed, as, blinded and deafened by the enormous wave, I cling desperately to the line. The ship falls without cease—a great swell, indeed—and the roaring grows louder as the pounding spray intensifies.

The ship shakes violently. I lose my grip and fly off, bracing myself for impact with the water, but there is nothing!

Just silence, and darkness.

“Greetings, Nicholas.”

I scream.

“Nicholas, please stop yelling.”

I continue to scream.

“NICHOLAS, WOULD YOU KINDLY SHUT UP.” I cease.

“Who is there?”

“It is me. God.” All I can see are sparkling white points of light in the darkness around me, like stars in a night sky.

“Nicholas, you have fallen off the Earth. While creating your planet, I decided to add in a surprise. For fun. A wormhole. I am glad a human has finally found it!”

“Worms?” I cry. “Worms are disgusting, slimy little creatures. I, Sir Nicholas Azemar, should not be in one of their holes!”

“Featherbrained human,” God scoffs.

“What has transpired? Where am I?”

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“Nicholas, are you aware of the speed of light?”

“What? What do you speak of?”

“How silly of me. How would you know of such things. Light has a speed, a speed faster than anything else. I set it as the maximum speed for the universe.”

“How preposterous! Why would you ever set a speed limit?

What if you wished to go faster?”

“Oh, just because.” God roars with laughter. “I’m only kidding, of course. Without a maximum speed, causality would not exist, and the universe would be an impossibility. But, Nicholas, as I am an intelligent God, I created a bypass, in case I did, in fact, wish to ‘go faster.’ Hence, the wormhole we are in now, which allows us to do just that. Somewhat. You would not understand its mechanism.”

“Where are we?”

“I am simultaneously everywhere, nowhere, and in your mind. You, on the other hand, are exactly where you sought to go—the unknown. You are billions of light years from Earth in a remote galaxy. I invite you to explore the magnificence of my creation—a small reward for your knightly service. But please, if you would, curb your arrogance.”

“Shall I never return to Earth? And where is my crew?

What have you done with them?”

“I haven’t done anything—they are just a few parsecs over, probably exploring another solar system. And they might need their captain to do it.”

“I don’t understand…”

“And oftentimes you do not. But that is why you quest, Nicholas. To learn. Do you care to join them?”

Not one to refuse a quest, I dive into the unknown.

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“Water splash” - Charlie Ciporin

“Bondfire” - Nicholas Rinald i

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Inheritance

by Jonathan Wiener ’19 The von Ascheinsilber family badly needed the money.

The estate, which had been handed down through the generations since the tenth century, would have to be sold.

The money could come from the sale of the castle, or it could come from the owner changing his destructive habits, but these had no end in sight. For the international real estate brokers, Lee, Benz & Rahm, it was a unique opportunity: it wasn’t every day when one had the chance to sell a castle in Northern Germany. Lee, Benz & Rahm would be conquering new territory as a business.

Konrad von Ascheinsilber felt like he had failed his family both past and future, but only when he was sober.

He felt infallible otherwise. It was easy to feel that way sometimes. From his room in the tower to the back seat in one of his father’s Maybachs—sometimes the Pullmann, or the Landaulet if they were roughing it—Konrad grew up looking out on a world that fulfilled his every wish. He pitied the ordinary masses he observed through the tinted windows of his car. At least the chauffeur got to see the inside. He got to hear it, too, not that it mattered: the chauffeur drove, Konrad’s father made a phone call from the passenger seat, 63

and next to Konrad, the bodyguard slid his hand up Konrad’s mother’s skirt. Konrad looked out the window. He had seen this kind of behavior in the back row and elsewhere time and again, but Konrad’s father didn’t seem to mind: after all, she too had inherited a fortune from her father. …

Even though they were regularly reassured of his health after every emergency in the last sixteen years—the plague outbreak, the hunting expedition that turned into a cavalry skirmish with Holstein over control of a pilgrimage site, and the group of witches who were thankfully burned at the stake before they could really hurt anyone—nobody in the village had ever seen the next prince. The current prince was getting on in years, but he had a son, a mysterious figure who hadn’t appeared in public since his baptism as a baby. On the mysterious noble’s sixteenth birthday, many folks at the tavern wondered if the person they were toasting even existed.

“What if our Prince is impotent, and he’s pretending to have a son?” asked Frederick, the silversmith.

“Idiot,” said Albert, the priest, “I baptized him fourteen years ago! August von Ascheinsilber is his name—as usual, forget I was even in here and I’ll show you the name in the Church records in the morning.”

Frederick laughed: “What’s the point? You’re the only one at this table who can read.”

“And the only one who shouldn’t be drinking,” quipped Sigismund, the butcher.

“And the only one who can burn you at the stake.” replied Albert. Everyone laughed. Alcohol-fueled speculation went on into the night until Frederick stood up, some beer splashing out of his stein on the ascent.

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“Let’s go see for ourselves! Pay the Princes a visit!

See how they’re doing! Who’s with me?” Within minutes, an inebriated mob led by a silversmith, a butcher, and a drunken priest was heading for the castle, prepared to break down the doors to get some answers—maybe even a glimpse of the future leader. …

Money made Konrad feel unstoppable. Growing up, there was neither toy nor treat he couldn’t obtain and indulge in—his father even called his bluff regarding the sarcastic wish for a stripper on his sixteenth birthday.

Eventually, the toys got bigger, faster, or more psychoactive, the indulgence became wilder, and if Konrad got in any real trouble, his parents could always make it go away.

Days before his twentieth birthday, his parents were celebrating their twenty-fifth anniversary in Monaco, just flying over for dinner. They had been working on their marriage, seeing a counselor, and firing the offending bodyguards, groundskeepers, ski instructors, maids, nannies, trainers and secretaries, and things were looking up.

They were on their way back to Germany when their plane experienced a complete mechanical failure, crashing into the Alps, killing everyone on board and reducing the von Ascheinsilber’s private fleet by twenty percent.

The next three years were a blur. The women, friends, and other hangers-on that made up an entourage had to be impressed; they had more than enough to eat, drink, smoke, snort, and drop, along with a requisite variety of lavish vehicles and houses to perform their antics in. Konrad was not yet ready to confront the truth. His parents used to give him anything he asked for, but with every transgression 65

—such as the sea lion which mysteriously made its way from the local aquarium to the indoor swimming pool—Konrad was begging for guidance. He had been left with so much, but so little. …

Walter was sleeping on a cot in the castle courtyard where the soldiers had put him down when he heard banging on the gates. He had come from a few towns over after a messenger appeared at his small farmstead. Walter had inherited the farmstead when his parents passed away in a dysentery outbreak two winters before. The messenger was not alone. He had arrived with six soldiers on horseback, and they had fanned out, turning Walter’s cottage, shed, barn, and even outhouse inside-out. The messenger wouldn’t tell Walter what was going on, but he had questions, and since the soldiers’ shields carried the von Ascheinsilber crest, those questions required answers.

“Are you Walter Vorbote?” asked the messenger.

“Yes,” said Walter.

“When was the last time you saw saw your sister?”

Walter’s sister, in an effort to supplement their farming income, had gone to work in the von Asheinsilber castle when she turned fifteen three months prior. She had heard that the Prince preferred to hire servants from outside of his locality and to keep them in the castle, away from his people.

Rumors rarely escaped the castle, but one held that the Prince was purportedly overprotective of his heir.

“I haven’t seen her since she left to go to work in his lordship’s residence,” said Walter.

“Are you sure?” pressed the messenger, “Perhaps a 66

servant girl on the run would seek refuge with her brother.”

“I’m sure,” said Walter, now perplexed, “what makes her more special than anyone else quitting their job?”

“Perhaps it is not her,” offered the messenger, “but rather who accompanies her.” At this point, the soldiers had returned and formed a ring around Walter and the messenger.

“Anything?” asked the messenger.

“No,” said a soldier.

“Tell me, Walter, when were you born?” asked the messenger.

“Sixteen years ago,” replied Walter.

“How fitting... perfect, actually” said the messenger.

Walter stood there, trying to figure out what that meant when the soldier behind him took a step forward, raised a gauntlet, and knocked him unconscious. …

The von Ascheinsilber family’s appointed advisors made sure to put most of the money into a diverse investment portfolio and various accounts that would protect the fortune from the whims of the latest trust fund baby until he calmed down. The advisors, however, had to contend with a trust fund orphan who would take a lot of calming down.

Konrad’s first one hundred million euros was not going to hold him over until he was thirty, when he could access the rest of the money. He had already sold the family hunting lodge.

All together, Konrad’s social media had around sixhundred thousand followers. They were treated to glimpses of his private air travel, new cars, yacht parties, and the

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infamous selfie with six Miss Germany contestants on his great-grandfather’s tiger skin rug from a hunting trip to Siberia. The one on his right in the picture—Andrea Halfte was her name—had threatened to go to Bild (or whichever magazine would pay) claiming that she was pregnant with Konrad’s son. That picture was all that Konrad had to remember the party last October—that and the morning after, which consisted of a nasty headache and his entourage getting stragglers into taxis and treating the girls found in Konrad’s bed to a ride in the Pullmann, ending at the nearest train station. The von Ascheinsilber family’s longtime attorney, Martin Schweigegeld, advised Konrad to pay the girl to shut up, but Konrad had different ideas. He bypassed the family advisers and got his entourage to ask the girl to do a DNA test conducted under the supervision of Dr. Jurgen Storch, who treated Konrad’s mother to whatever prescriptions she needed—so a trusted family friend. If the result was negative, then Konrad wouldn’t owe her a thing, and Andrea would look like a complete tool. …

No sooner did Walter wake up to the banging on the gates than did appear a noble hand on his shoulder. It was Prince Friedrich von Ascheinsilber himself.

“Follow me,” he said. Up a winding staircase they went until they reached the missing son’s room. There was a note on the bed. Friedrich picked it up, examining the words carefully, barely a frown.

“My son has run away with your sister. They are not coming back. They could be as far away as Livonia or Bavaria by now,” he told Walter, “I was hoping to get your sister’s attention by taking you hostage, but now I don’t know what 68

to do.” Realizing that it wasn’t his sister who had quit her job, Walter amused himself with the thought of a future prince camping out somewhere, pretending to work a farmstead. “No one pretends to work their land,” Walter’s mother used to say, “they either work their land, or they starve to death.”

“Remind me, what is your name?” asked the Prince.

“Walter, sir.” said Walter.

A guard appeared. “My lord, half of the village is at the gates, and they want to see you and your son,” he said.

“Tell them that we will both appear shortly,” said the prince. Walter was confused: the next prince had just run away. …

The money from the sale of the castle would be more than enough to last Konrad until he was thirty. It was the only actual home address his entourage—whom he increasingly disliked for their increasing infighting, in which access to him and his money seemed to be the prize—actually knew, since Konrad was at least smart enough to rent various mansions and yachts rather than trash his own properties. After the sale of the castle, the weight of its history would be off his shoulders.

These thoughts weighed on Konrad constantly but reached a breaking point one early morning at the castle, almost seven months after the romp on the tiger skin rug, when he was tiptoe-ing over hangers-on, acquaintances and strangers who were passed out, slumped and splayed on the grand staircase, in the ballroom, in the living room, the main hall, the courtyard, and any nook or cranny where two or three or four people had relative privacy. He was going to the pantry for a bottle of water—he was feeling dehydrated, 69

and on top of that, a gentle burn in his stomach seemed to destine him for a snack—when he tripped over a sword in the hall. Somebody had taken it off one of the sets of medieval armor and didn’t even have the decency to finish snorting a line off it. What enraged Konrad more than anything was that it wasn’t him who had done it this time.

Having dusted himself off, Konrad was downing a second bottle of water when he felt a buzz in his pocket: a text from Andrea Halfte. No words, just a .pdf file. Konrad opened it: a letter from Dr. Storch. Konrad’s phone buzzed again: he had an email from Martin Schweigegeld with the subject line, “you really fucked up this time.” The phone buzzed again: an email from Dr. Storch. The subject read “Congratulations!!!!!!”

Konrad stumbled to the garage, got in the passenger seat of the Pullmann, and leaned his head on the dash.

It could have been worse. He could have knocked up the daughter of that crazy Russian oligarch, in which case his testicles would probably be in a jar on a desk in Moscow and the rest of him at the bottom of the Volga River. He could take care of a baby. He had the resources. The baby could grow up in any number of wonderful places, just not the castle, which would be sold. But the baby couldn’t grow up around those idiots who were constantly pressuring Konrad to take them somewhere new, do something crazy, and spend generously. They were not family. They hardly even showed up until they heard that he had inherited a fortune. They would have to go. On top of that, Lee, Benz & Rahm didn’t seem to care that the castle had been in the family since the tenth century—except, of course, when they were writing the property description for the Sotheby’s catalogue. Konrad wondered what he would say when his child realized that he 70

or she could have grown up in a castle but that Dad sold it because he was spending their inheritance into oblivion— though if he were to do it all over again, he still would have bought the tank. The tank... Konrad got out of Pullman and vaulted into the driver’s seat. …

“Congratulations, Walter,” said Friedrich, “as far as I and my people are concerned, you are August von Ascheinsilber. Come now, put on some more appropriate clothes. What are you, a farmer?”

Walter threw on one of the young prince’s nightgowns and made his way to the top of a grand staircase with his new father. His head was spinning. Just like that, he was next in line to Friedrich von Ascheinsilber. When the two appeared, the half drunk, half curious mob at the bottom of the stairs greeted their lord and the young man next to him enthusiastically. Friedrich cleared his throat.

“As you can see, here is my son—and successor—August von Ascheinsilber!” They bought it. They hadn’t seen August in fourteen years, and nobody could say with any authority that August did not look like the baby they barely remembered.

The Prince promised a feast for the townsfolk the next evening if they would all go home to sleep and let him and his son do the same. As the mob cheered agreeably and dispersed, Walter, now August von Ascheinsilber, wondered why such a lucky kid would throw his inheritance away and run off with a servant. Then he considered that perhaps that question did not need answering since he was now a prince and had nothing to complain about.

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…

Once he arrived in the village, Konrad rolled into the parking lot behind the tavern and found the bartender Nico, who was kicking out the last of the patrons, the likes of which the bar had been serving for the last eight-hundred years. Nico kept the bar open for Konrad who used the quiet, empty room to call Jurgen, Martin, and finally, Andrea.

As Konrad expected, the phone call with Andrea was awkward. Fortunately, Andrea only asked if they could talk in person, so Konrad sent a helicopter to pick her up in Berlin and bring her over in time for lunch. Then, Konrad deleted all of his social media and called his go-to private security firm, Neuer & Tag. Finally, after a dose of Nico’s Irish coffee, Konrad drove back to the castle, followed by a small caravan of black Escalades filled with Neuer & Tag employees who found it ironic that the one tank in the lineup belonged to Konrad. …

After the surreptitious change of princes, Friedrich von Ascheinsilber had a new problem: although the locals could be convinced that the August von Ascheinsilber they were going to feast with was the August von Ascheinsilber that they had seen baptized fourteen years earlier, the servants in the castle, if they had a chance to catch more than a quick glimpse of August, would immediately realize what had transpired. Friedrich had a solution outside of his comfort zone: let the heir hang out in the village with the villagers, protecting him from curious servants in the castle by surrounding him with curious villagers. Friedrich returned to August’s room at dawn and woke him up.

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“What do I tell the villagers about life in the castle?” asked August when he heard his new father’s new plan.

“You’re a von Ascheinsilber. You’ll figure it out,” replied Friedrich.

“How am I to sneak out of the castle?”

“Secret passageway out the back or through the front gates as a servant. Your choice.”

“Two identities is enough for tonight.”

“Alright then,” said Friedrich, “stay here one moment.” A few minutes later he returned with a long rope—a very long rope—and tied one end to the bedpost and threw the other end out the window.

“Secret passageway out the back,” declared Friedrich.

“You’re insane,” said August.”

“No, I’m a von Ascheinsilber, and so are you.”

August rappelled down the tower, descended into the village, and introduced himself to the residents who were up feeding their chickens and milking the cows. He distracted the villagers from asking questions he didn’t know the answers to by being shockingly proficient at helping them with their morning tasks, immediately winning August von Acheinsilber a reputation as a man of the people. …

It was chaos, but finally, after all this time, it was Konrad’s chaos. On many occasions he had watched his entourage pour cold water on passed out stragglers and watched the confusion on these people’s faces as they were whisked out of his castle and thrown back down to earth.

This time, however, everybody was a straggler. Until he witnessed it, Konrad did not realize how much he enjoyed the cold fear that swept over the faces of his entourage when 73

they began to realize that this was it, that they were being cut off. They begged. They pleaded. They hoped he wasn’t serious.

They took turns blaming each other for being the source of all of Konrad’s problems, even though Konrad now understood that he was responsible for what had been happening and that he was in control of what happened next. Either way, they each ended up being tackled and escorted out by what the security company described to clients as a “Neuer & Tag team” while Konrad stood atop the grand staircase exhibiting the serenely aloof demeanor in which wealthy children are trained experts.

At the end of several hours tidying up, Konrad was placing the sword he had tripped over with its corresponding suit of armor when her heard the unmistakable drone of a helicopter landing on the usual spot on top of the garage. Over lunch, Konrad expected to be negotiating a settlement, but he found himself pleasantly surprised. After several hours of delightfully civil conversation, Konrad gave Andrea a tour of the art and objects dating back to the eighth century that the family had accumulated in their castle, including the arms and armor, the hunting trophies, the statues, the bronzes, the tapestries, the portraits, and the paintings, a euphoric blur of Medieval, Renaissance, Impressionism, Modernism, and everything in between. Konrad ended with his favorite objects, the pair of silver ewers with the dragon handles and porcelain wild men on top. One held his father’s ashes, the other his mother’s. As the tour progressed, Konrad noticed how quiet it was in the castle: no interruptions, no competing interests, no sea lions, no sounds of money pouring down the drain. It was just him and Andrea, chatting pleasantly, smiling, asking questions, listening to the answers, and failing no one.

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…

At that evening’s feast, Frederick the silversmith presented the new von Ascheinsilber prince with a pair of ewers with handles that looked like dragons and a porcelain figure of a wild man on top of each lid, a gift which August promised to hand down to his son one day. August’s farmstead, which was conveniently adjacent to the forest where the Prince had his hunts, was razed and rebuilt as the von Ascheinsilber family’s hunting lodge. …

Two months later, in Berlin, Konrad was again sitting with Andrea when his phone rang. It was Lee, Benz & Rahm, and they were ecstatic.

“We’ve have wonderful news!”

“Yes, what—wait—let me put you on speaker; Andrea is here with me.”

“Who?” asked Lee. “Andrea Halfte.”

“The Andrea Halfte?” asked Benz.

“Yeah.”

“Ahh… her… She’s hot.” mused Rahm.

“We’re actually in the hospital right now.”

“The hospital?” asked Lee. “Ask her if she’s in the market for a husband,” said Rahm.

“I just gave birth to Konrad’s son,” said Andrea, who had been listening the whole time.

“Well isn’t that something?” said Rahm, “What we wanted to tell you is that we found a buyer for the castle!”

“You have?” said Konrad.

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“We named him August, by the way!” said Andrea, making eye contact with Konrad, confirming that they were both expecting to hear something closer to congratulations! or have you chosen a name? or at the very least, a new client! The name had materialized after a long night searching through the von Asheinsilber archives, and the hard work seemed worth acknowledging.

“Yes,” said Benz, “the buyer—he is a wealthy Saudi—” “Oh!” said Konrad “I thought he would be a poor Saudi.”

“What’s wrong?” asked Lee, “you sound sober.”

“I’m not selling.”

“What?”

“The Castle. I’m not selling it.”

“Konrad, my friend,” Benz cooed, “are you sure about that? After all, let’s be reasonable—” “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

“They’re offering fifty million Euros,” pleaded Rahm, “Think of your child.”

“That’s what I’m doing,” said Konrad, and with that he hung up.

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Theby Connor Green House Belcastro, ’19 The house is simple: three windows on a green facade with a door in the middle. It has shutters that never shut and a wraparound deck with a tin roof that pings with the rain.

Inside, the dark hardwoods of an antique hallway bow downward with the weight of footsteps, creak as the wood conforms to the soles of the shoes passing over, telling you it’s an old house but still solid.

The hardwoods run straight, past a staircase leading up to a dark second floor where the dust hangs in the air like fog, down a wallpapered corridor to the kitchen.

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She sits in the kitchen, reading a novel you never finished, wearing flannel pajamas you got for her birthday three years ago, her hair tied up quickly and a cup of tea in hand because she hates coffee.

And she looks up and smiles, and lowers her glasses and tells you she made breakfast; sausage and eggs, scrambled, with a little too much milk so they’re creamy and rich the way you like them.

Or she doesn’t. And the green paint peels off the front of the house and floats away on the wind.

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Lascaux Cave

by Jonathan Wiener ’19 All around you in the flickering torchlight deep in a cave, the animals on the walls begin to move, to come alive, to dance around you like a bonfire because you are the bonfire, and they are worshipping you, calling to you, crying out to the future to live a little longer, their bodies and names unknown and long lifeless, leaving who they are on this wall, with you, to stay awhile until the land crumbles back into the sea, back into the chaos from which it rose, until it is dust to be met by the unstoppable march of the ball of fire expanding to consume all of its transient, helpless planets, making a beautiful explosion, a cry into the future – millions of years, a beautiful explosion seen by star-struck nova-watchers in a different part of one universe.

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MMXIX

THe oraclE

The Oracle

MMXiX

MMXiX

MMXiX

The Oracle

MMXIX

THe oraclE

MMXIX

THe oraclE

The Oracle

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THe oraclE