Paragon (2021) by Gilman School

[Front Cover]

LEBRON (PA) Dutch Senft ‘21 OIL ON CANVAS

PA R A G O N Gilman School

Baltimore, Maryland

EDITORS

Editor in Chief: Charlie Nuermberger Literary Editor: Noah Parker Art Editor: Dutch Senft Design Editor: Anay Agarwal

FACULTY ADVISORS Karl Connolly John Rowell Rebecca Scott Ryan Ruff Smith

REVIEW BOARD Anay Agarwal Aidan Feulner Jack Goldman Daniel Koldobskiy Jameson Maumenee

Charlie Nuermberger Noah Parker Luca Pavlovich Ben Richardson Louis Rosenthal Dutch Senft

KYLIE (DO) Dutch Senft ‘21

OIL ON CANVAS

A LETTER FROM THE EDITOR Approaching one year since last summer, when many of my coronavirus anxieties materialized, I’ve been recollecting my thoughts. Here’s an excerpt from a journal entry a year back: “Again, I come back to the representation of a lapse, a broken circle. The cycle of monotony that exists between the pillars of our lives—no, life—fractures in this unprecedented global disaster.” Regardless of its shape or nature, the lapse represents a void that requires filling. The arts, for me, and I’d hazard to guess the same is true for the others featured in this publication, emerged as a force capable of—not mending the lapse, but probing its depth; the arts are always exploratory. We have pieces that explore a lot of territory in this issue. The student body has, somewhat unsurprisingly, diversified our content this year: we’ve contorted, we’ve abstracted, and we’ve inquired. This is a special issue. Last year, we revitalized the arts and literary tradition at Gilman with our inaugural online edition of Paragon, published digitally due to early quarantine precautions. We surmounted those challenges, and we’ve expanded this year, which is most evident from our significantly longer magazine. In all honesty, I didn’t expect we’d be pushing out a print issue this year, but I’m glad we did. I hope you enjoy it. - Charlie Nuermberger

CONTENTS Thanks for All You Do

Noah Parker ‘23

Hay You

Cal Tortolani ‘22

Cracks in the Wall

Ben Whitehurst ‘23

Red Barn at Dusk

Ben Whitehurst ‘23

Looking At Art

Rohan Milak ‘22

Showroom Yoon Shin ‘22

A White Christmas

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Jack Nuermberger ‘22

Madara

Tem Koleosho ‘21

Avocadoes

Beck Wittstadt ‘21

Conifers Andrew Flynn ‘21

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Poetry | Creative Nonfiction | Fiction | Visual Art

Chidori

Chase Tompkins ‘23

Still Life with Orchids

Makayla Zhang (Bryn Mawr) ‘21

Tomatoes Peter McGill ‘21

Dumb Kid / I’m an American Original

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Charlie Nuermberger ‘21

Geysers of Yellowstone

Jason Sutton ‘23

Lone Ram

Cole Emry ‘21

Foggy Road

Thomas Gammie ‘21

Girl on the Train Jack Goldman ‘22

Leggio I & II

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Noah Spore ‘21

Newly Built

Bennett Mosk ‘22

Casserole Charlie Nuermberger ‘21

Creature of Flesh and Stone Aidan Tydings ‘21

A Breeze Aidan Feulner ‘22

Morning at the Inlet Ian Goldman ‘21

Spliced Matthew Grossman ‘22

Two Rooms Manav Parikh ‘22

The Operator Sam Steinmetz ‘22

Tranquil Contemplation

37 37 38 38 42 43 45 50

Brandon Cao ‘23

Deer Portrait Michael Maragakis ‘21

Lakeside Memories Justin Wang ‘22

Captivity

50 51 51

Sabrina Xu (Bryn Mawr) ‘21

Penelope Caged

Luca Pavlovich ‘23

Peer Portraits Anay Agarwal ‘23

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Bathroom in Flowers

Andrew Kang ‘23

The Devon Beach Sophie Leheny (Bryn Mawr) ‘21

Palette Knife

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Nate Perry ‘22

Grand Prismatic Spring

Aaron Meng ‘22

Sonnet to the Red Mist

Logan Haerian ‘24

The World’s Loneliest Road Charlie Hiller ‘21

Isolation

Snowflake

Marco Karakousis ‘22

Anay Agarwal ‘23

Treasures from China

Luca Pavlovich ‘23

Zephyr

Louis Rosenthal ‘23

Quiet Night Thoughts

Andrew Kang ‘23

Council of Food

Abraham Karikkineth ‘24

Edge

Roman Kaminski ‘24

THANKS FOR ALL YOU DO Noah Parker ‘23

There was a crack— Well, first came the sense of something not being right, A feeling of something missing. I should know because I’ve done it a thousand times. But back to what really matters, which was no longer there, of course. Immediately, I panicked, as one does when any little thing goes the way it is not supposed to. So to summarize, a crack. This crack confirmed my suspicion of something being wrong. I groaned, leaned down, and regained what I had lost. Taking a deep breath, I carefully examined the damage. There was a crack. No, not that one, the other kind of crack this time. (Well, really, there were two, but I wouldn’t notice the second one for another month.) But the crack was just to the shell, not to the vital insides. In a way, the shell did its job and got what it signed up for. (I don’t really like to think of it like that because it feels kind of messed up, but moving on.) The crack wasn’t that bad, I suppose. I probably just felt bad because this was a total of four days after buying said shell. 7 | Paragon

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The crack was thin but noticeable. There was nothing I could do about it, but neither the shell nor the insides were completely destroyed. So I just moved on. From time to time, I found myself trying to force the cracked parts back together. Funny enough, it felt like that only made the crack worse. (Paying attention to the crack only made it bigger? A disturbing thought, but one for later.) I haven’t yet given up on this shell; I believe it can fulfill its role in the universe. It just needs a little push, that’s all. Yeah, just a little push. After those four days we’ve been through? No, no, no. Just a little, tiny push’ll do. You’ll be okay.

HAY YOU

Cal Tortolani ‘22 (After Jeffrey Reed) OIL ON CANVAS PAPER

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CRACKS IN THE WALL Ben Whitehurst ‘23 PHOTOGRAPHY

RED BARN AT DUSK Ben Whitehurst ‘23

PHOTOGRAPHY

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LOOKING AT ART Rohan Milak ‘22

At the beginning of my sophomore year, I thought that a full year of art history would be the most boring class ever. I assumed we would memorize names and dates while overanalyzing the most banal features of “masterpieces.” I dreaded a class where all we would do was look at art. Halfway through the year, my assumptions had proven to be true. Each class, we inched our way through slides filled with portraits of rich old men sporting comically ostentatious and antiquated fashion. We looked at specks of color, shadows, and everyday items with biblical, spiritual, or societal symbolism. During these extensive lectures regarding “historically significant” minutiae, I often opted to eat breakfast, catch up on sleep, or finish homework for my next class. One day, I had just opened my pack of blueberry breakfast biscuits when I heard our teacher talking about the price of a recently auctioned painting. After hearing the outlandish sum, somewhere between $20 million and $25 million, I expected to see a masterpiece. I imagined something so vivid that I would be transported to the Flemish countryside or a tropical Hawaiian island. I visualized a portrait so masterfully crafted that I would experience the same level of emotional intensity as the person staring back at me from the canvas. At the very least, I expected some visually pleasing jumble of abstract colors that oozed sophistication and artistic elegance.

The moment our teacher showed us the “artwork” was the first time my assumptions had been wrong in art history class. When he first pulled up the image, I rubbed my eyes, positive that my lack of sleep had caused them to betray me. But as my eyes moved past my half-eaten breakfast bar, my messy blue notebook, and a half-empty cold brew, I knew that my vision was not the problem. The “artwork” in front of me was a set of blank canvases, titled “White on White,” that had sold for $20.6 million. The image projected onto the board did not resemble anything remotely sophisticated, refined, delicate, quirky, or even creative. The first thought that came to my mind when looking at this “artwork” was: Who would pay such a ridiculous price for this piece of art, and what kind of person would want to buy this? As our teacher switched his presentation back to slides with Rococo art, I dwelled on the buyer of Robert Ryman’s white painting. What kind of person would choose to look at a blank canvas? From the perspective of an art history student, I concluded that perhaps the buyer saw it as full of whiteness and purity and devoid of darkness or evil. Obviously, the buyer had to be someone with more money than they knew how to spend. As I sipped from my coffee and finished my breakfast bar, I thought about the type of person who would be comforted or pleased by a fully white painting. Given the “simplicity” and “minimalist” nature of the work, I inferred that you would buy this artwork if you were some sort of emotionally troubled person. Troubled in the sense that you found comfort in looking at a white canvas as opposed to a landscape painting of Yosemite or Banff. Troubled in the sense that your growing sophistication and appreciation for artwork has culminated in the purchase of a white piece of canvas.

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Further, you have to be someone without many friends and someone who doesn’t host many social gatherings. Practically speaking, not many people would come to your house and stare intently at a white canvas that you paid an inordinate sum of money for. Well, I suppose they might if they knew the price of the painting you had just bought. But you would never mention the price of the painting or your wealth, for that matter. You would be the type of person who dressed in the same unassuming gray-colored clothing that came from some obscure French or Italian designer. At first glance, you may seem like one of those minimalist college students, but when people see your chauffeur open the door to a futuristic-looking electric vehicle, they know that you’re not just another wannabe undergrad. You live, breathe, and buy minimalism. Your measured yet profound words, your experiences, your social life, and your personality all exude austerity. Even your justification for buying such an expensive painting was minimalistic in thought. You had a spare gray wall in the dining room of your contemporary New York penthouse, and you needed something to look at while you sat alone on Friday nights, eating your takeout from a Michelin Star restaurant. A three-piece white canvas would fit perfectly. Behind your guise of minimalism is an appreciation for wild means of expression. You longed to be the student who could wear loud, colorful clothing without thinking twice, and you envy people who can decorate their homes in furniture that is not all designed in various shades of gray. In fact, you spend your free time watching documentaries of people surviving on deserted islands; you even pondered traveling to Guam without money, luggage, or a cell phone. Your friends have exuberant personalities and wear colorful clothing. When they encouraged you to fly to Guam, you declined and

said that you would rather stay with them in the city. You suppress your eccentricities under the outer appearance of minimalism to comfort yourself and provide stability in the chaotic life of a young, wealthy New Yorker. Sometimes, when you sit drinking your espresso outside a classy-looking Manhattan café, you observe the different types of people on the street. You long to be like the couple dressed in business clothes walking home from work or the young college student dressed in a dark green sweatsuit. You smile at every aesthetic you see and wish you could emulate everyone on the streets of New York. You wear the same gray, semi-casual clothing each day as a constant reminder of your inability to decide on a sense of style. You are eccentric in a way that limits your expression, your style, and your feelings. You appreciate aesthetics, painting, and design so much that you know it would pain you to see a single genre for the rest of your life. You’re too self-conscious to be the trust-fund baby who changes their apartment decor every season, so you live amidst the shades of gray comprising a minimalist existence. You are the person who would buy a $20 million white painting. SHOWROOM

Yoon Shin ‘22

PHOTOGRAPHY

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A WHITE CHRISTMAS Jack Nuermberger ‘22

It was always a challenging affair to keep our family on schedule as we prepared to leave Baltimore for our annual Christmas vacation. No matter how hard we tried it was always, “Nicky left this,” or, “Ben forgot his headphones,” but this year was different. I believe I was the one who initiated our timely departure by getting up extra early so that I could hide the presents I had for my brothers at the bottom of the trunk. The treasures I was attempting to conceal from everybody else’s vision included a mahogany wood box that I had crafted with a dazzling grain structure, perfect for Nicky’s drawing utensils, and for Ben, a gray sweatshirt imprinted with the colorful album cover of his most beloved band. In the process of packing, I urged everyone to maintain the pace of departure for our week-long sojourn down to Durham, North Carolina. During a standard Christmas expedition, our exit from the driveway was typically delayed by half an hour, but that time was always magically reclaimed by our dad’s borderline illegal driving—not for speeding, I would say, but for child endangerment. This year, to all of our surprise, we put tires on the road by 9:00 am, perfectly matching our itinerary. Despite our efforts during the preparation period, our car, packed with bodies and misshapen presents, hit heavy traffic right around the District of Columbia. It was nearly an hour of stop-and-go lurching and red tail lights, during which Nicky and I turned on his favorite movie and tuned out. Once we reached the sight of the incident, like all passersby, we slowed our velocity to a roll and observed the shredded cars

and first responders. The vehicles appeared to have collided at maximum speed because I still vividly remember how the engine of the rear car had been pressed through the internal cabin and was sitting on the passenger seat. Fortunately, the remainder of the car ride went by swiftly. Despite what most people would think, my brothers and I were able to avoid any fighting during the trip. Since we were children, we were always distracted by the last portion of the trip, studying the outside scenery of the noble North Carolina woods as we approached our grandmother’s home. These woods always gave us the enchanting feeling of Christmas, like hot chocolate or the aroma of pine trees. At the same time, they had an eerie spirit to them. But these were not regular trees to us from the lowered perspective in our family minivan. From our view, the leaves were far out of sight, and the crispy, dark bark stretched into the heavens. Once we reached this barrier of what we called “the woods,” all screens and movies would lose our attention, and we were transfixed by the wondrous sight of the pillars of wood zipping by the glass windows. This year we reached the end of our annual pilgrimage just in time for an early supper, which the entire family looked forward to enjoying. We drowsily walked through the accustomed musk of the garage and were met with the loving, open arms of our short, German grandmama, Ulla. Unfortunately, my grandfather had died years before Ben’s birth, but we were constantly reminded of the caring, hard-working family man he was. We quickly passed out of the cold garage and into the kitchen and adjacent living room. There was a fresh fir tree adorned with ancient ornaments and silvery tinsel, and crowned by a gleaming, snow-white angel. All of the lightbulbs in the house glowed with a warm golden tint that con-

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sistently brought together the celebratory nature of our travels and made us feel at home. To end the monotony of our day of travel, my brothers and I climbed the staircase to the second floor and went down the hall to our usual room, equipped with three twin beds. Exhausted from our ordeals, we knew we needed to rest well in preparation for our yearly endeavor to locate the graveyard. The next morning was the day before Christmas Eve and the beginning of our annual quest to find an abandoned graveyard that we had heard about years ago. My grandmother explained to us that this graveyard was somewhere on her extensive property, serving as the resting ground for generations of the previous owner’s family. As many families do over the holidays, we enjoyed a breakfast of warm mugs filled with hot chocolate, with the addition of bagels and a delectable coffee cake. We gathered our backpacks, winter coats, boots, and hats before we set out into the cold, crisp air. Despite Nicky’s and my rituals to bring on even a measly flurry of Christmas snow, the ground remained bare and frozen. Maybe if Ben had joined and did not find himself too old for our shenanigans, the forest floor would have had layers of snowfall piled atop it. Since we knew the approximate direction of the burial site, we descended the steep hill, which we used for sledding whenever we could, and walked down towards the creek. The foliage and debris that littered the ground was frozen solid and snapped under our boots. The air was still and pierced our noses like razor blades with every inhale. Not a single animal made a noise around us as we trekked through the dense pine trees. Until that year, we had never discovered the fabled graveyard, and because of this, we never knew when we were close. We never knew what it looked like, how big it was, how

many were buried there, or even if it was still standing. None of this really mattered, at least not to our dad, who used this time to teach us about the woods. For most of the time we spent traveling through the grove, Nicky and I would use our chosen walking sticks as swords and pretend to be honorable knights adorned in shiny armor dueling for ladies. That day we reached newfound territory, as we forged our own path with the hope of discovery. We entered a new part of the forest marked with smaller river birch trees. These trees reminded me of dead people, with their pale skin peeling away from their trunks and their bright orange and red leaves flowing off of their branches. It gave me, and I am sure Nicky, Ben, and our dad too, a strange feeling in the pits of our stomachs. This feeling was neither good nor bad. It was the feeling of anticipation and fear. Although we had not seen or heard any animals prancing through the underbrush, we filled the air with conversation, especially Nicky and I. Suddenly, our father stopped dead in his tracks, requiring us to peek out from behind his back to see what he so carefully observed. We turned our lines of vision downwards and caught sight of a massive deer carcass, too mangled and scavenged for us to determine how it had died. Despite the cold, black flies eagerly buzzed around it, feasting on the scant remains. Although it put a damper on our cheerful expedition, our dad tried to twist it into a lesson about the cycle of life and death. Just barely inside my peripheral vision, I caught what seemed to be a decrepit, stone-brick wall, and I shouted out in joy. Nicky and I instantly began to run towards it. As we approached, we breached the clearing of trees surrounding the perimeter of the graveyard and saw the shape of the wall become more precise. It was extremely unstable and surged with vines and roots which now held it together. It had a

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stone-brick base with rusted, metal fencing emerging from the mortar. We circled the exterior of the wall, like hunting sharks, until we found the gap where a gate had once stood. We entered solemnly. The small graveyard was divided into quadrants by overgrown pathways, and at their intersection stood a decaying oak tree. Many of the masoned markers were covered in moss and too obstructed to read. At first, I just wandered around the graveyard and pondered what it would be like to be buried out there and forgotten by everyone. Then I decided to find a stone with a decipherable inscription. Eventually, I found a tombstone with stylistic letters whose engraving was just barely legible. My face and mood fell instantly as I gazed upon the horrifying inscription. Buried beneath my feet was the body of a child, Edward, who had died at the age of ten, the same age as my younger brother Nicky, on Christmas Eve all the way back in the 1920s. My mind began to think of the devastation his death must have brought to the family, turning the joyous festivities of Christmas into a somber and heart-wrenching grieving period. From the kid’s perspective, he would have been looking forward to Christmas presents and a delightful feast with his family. In truth, Edward would never again see the dazzling ornaments and tinsel lacing the fir tree, illuminated by the blazing fireplace. Never again would Edward wake and be mesmerized by the bright snow falling through the morning air. At this moment, I wondered, what if that was Nicky? What if he died tomorrow? I looked over at him happily running and bounding through the shade of the peeling river birch trees, and imagined what our family would be like if he was gone. After the sorrowful thoughts passed, I called my brothers and father over to further examine the grave. Just as I was, they were shocked at the horrific occurrence of that Christmas Eve.

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MADARA

Tem Koleosho ‘21

AVOCADOES Beck Wittstadt ‘21

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During our stay at the graveyard, the air reached a noticeably colder temperature. Unlike the time we’d spent searching for our destination, the journey back was completely silent, as we were left each to our own thoughts. I was not nervous for Nicky, but rather nervous about what I would do if he passed from our lives. Our saunter home seemed to be much longer in distance than the start of our hike, but eventually, we reached the familiar hill on which my grandmother’s house sat. Perhaps we triumphed in finding the graveyard, but that day was no victory. Upon entering through the damp garage, we were greeted by jovial calls from our mother and grandmama, worried we had gotten lost and glad we were back. That night’s dinner passed without much dialogue, for it was difficult to cultivate happiness after such an experience. We turned in for the day relatively early in preparation for the next, which was scheduled for cooking and present wrapping. Nicky insisted that we continue our childish and bizarre rituals for snow, so that we might have a white Christmas, but that night Nicky’s activities began to seem foolish to me. The following morning we were given time to sleep in and rest after the previous day’s strenuous activities. The day went on as it usually did, with extended family arriving for the Christmas Eve feast. Our younger, joyous cousins came boisterously into the house, and everyone continued the celebration as usual except for the four of us who had been reminded of the ever-present threat of death in the world. Since then, not a Christmas Eve has passed when we did not recount our graveyard discovery, and we have made it our duty to pay our respects to Edward each year. Never again did I take any second for granted, never again did I shrug off a family gathering, never again did I foolishly waste wishes on a white Christmas, and never again did I think of Christmas the same way.

CONIFERS

Andrew Flynn ‘21 INK ON PAPER

CHIDORI

Chase Tompkins ‘23 PHOTOGRAPHY

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OIL ON CANVAS PAPER

Peter McGill ‘21

TOMATOES

STILL LIFE WITH ORCHIDS Makayla Zhang Bryn Mawr ‘21 GRAPHITE ON PAPER

DUMB KID/ I’M AN AMERICAN ORIGINAL Charlie Nuermberger ‘21 101 INT. CABIN He and the night were still, with an arrow shaft through the throat, Transfixed to the bunk where he was gutted of teenage chastity. He, who despite his own arrow, has been brutalized by the precision of juvenility: All fish knives and fruit wines and American teenage dis illusionment. Chastity is for mothers, he thinks, (the cigarette gets hot in his fingertips) Abstinence is founded upon the lake bottom, Upon decomposition and little boy bones. It is a grotesque thing, bound by the lamb and the blood of an older man, So he thanks you.

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102 EXT. LAKE You beneath him, and you in your boat, How could you not think something’s down there? The sounds of the water, cricket croons, and frog song: There is a richness in this night you have chosen to recall the death of your child, Your love. You are wearing gutted man’s fleece, And there is a child below you of half a lung, Who wakes now and who says through a collapsed throat: I am my mother’s child, but I am also the product of you and of him, Of you dual figures, whose coupling weighted me to the bottom of this lake, Of the crawdads, who bury themselves beneath my fingers, Of the elodea, that lodges itself in my scalp, and Of this white scum water, that preserves my form in wretched suspension. I have seen this story once before beside my little brother, And a mist off the water drew me by the elbow to this lakeside, And you still go out there while I am seized by the everclear depths. I am still out there. I am still out there. Now a police car nears you, and now the policeman waves his arms at you, and at him.

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LONE RAM

Cole Emry ‘21

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GE YE YSE Jaso LLO RS O n Su W F tton S TO ‘23 NE Yellowstone, in all its glory: Crowds ‘round gushing geysers. Old Faithful roaring and soaring. Power in God’s ciphers. Steamy water jets into sky, Splashing down ‘round its vent. Steam blurs the view of the landscape: Might I could not have dreamt.

Covered in dark-oak fur. A great head adorned with large horns, Curious spectator. Upper Geyser Basin, behold! Stunning colors shine bright! Emerald turquoise-like rainbow Steamed by Devil’s delight.

The majestic and gorgeous scene, Yellowstone Geysers’ view. Mist-shrouded bison roam in But what the Earth view, underneath is: Turbulence set to spew.

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FOGGY ROAD

Thomas Gammie ‘21 OIL ON CANVAS

GIRL ON THE TRAIN Jack Goldman ‘22

I couldn’t sleep the night before. I just couldn’t—every time I tried to rest my head against my pillow and curl up into a ball, I wound up clenching the pillow tighter, thinking it was her. I would imagine my fantasy of tomorrow. She would run into my arms, my scrawny, underdeveloped, boylike arms. And yet she’d picked my arms to run into. Why me? Why would she commit to me? It’s not like I was anything special; I mean, I wasn’t. She was a New York City girl, radiating with sophistication and beauty. But what if it wasn’t like what I pictured in my head? What if it was awkward, what if she didn’t feel the same way I did? I mean, how could an independent city girl like her want me? Finally, I dozed off into the dark September night. When I awoke, I felt the way I usually do when we get up before sunrise to catch a flight to a tropical destination for a long-awaited break from school. It’s a weird feeling, a blend of anticipation and anxiety. For the first time in my life, I put more than a second of thought into my outfit. I matched my shirt to my shoes and looked at myself in the mirror, making sure I looked put together but still casual enough to look like I just threw on whatever shirt was at the top of my dresser. But I didn’t. I cared about how I looked. I cared what she thought of me. I thought about all the little things. I made myself a breakfast that was filling but not too filling, making sure to brush my teeth and floss after I ate just in case I had a stowaway lodged between my

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teeth. I packed a homemade lunch into a cooler for us to enjoy later that day. I even went out and bought the soda she likes. I made sure everything was perfect. I made an effort, a real genuine effort, more than I ever had for anyone else. I’d never been to the train station before. I got out of the car and walked toward the front of the building. I planned to ask the security guard for directions to get to Platform Six. Before I could open the main door, I heard a faint “Excuse me” behind me, followed by a raspy “Hey man, can I bum a cig by any chance?” I turned around and came face to face with an old man. His face was covered in dirt and his hands could barely function. “Sorry, but I don’t have one,” I replied. “No problem,” he said. “God bless.” He turned around and began to reiterate the question to the surrounding strangers. I don’t smoke cigarettes, but I hoped one would spontaneously appear in my back pocket for this guy. I felt like he needed one. I made my way through the door and into the station and locked eyes with a man in uniform. I changed my course to approach him and asked him where to go. He pointed towards an empty bench near the corner of the room. I followed the path his finger indicated and placed myself in the middle of the bench, waiting for her face to appear above the staircase. I felt my right leg begin to shake and bobble up and down. I was filled with nerves and anxiety. I wanted to distract myself with my phone but decided against it. I didn’t want to miss seeing her face for the first time in six months. Like a hatchling leaving the nest for the first time, she wandered up the staircase into an unfamiliar environment. She was wearing a navy-blue flannel and a red bandana around her hair. She had long brown hair which was dyed

pink in the back. She was cool like that, sophisticated and edgy. We locked eyes, and just like in a teen movie, she ran into my arms. My worries began to fade; I could feel how safe she felt in my embrace. Her mask was rubbing against my shoulder and her small fingers were holding my back. I think I felt more protected in her arms than she did in mine. It was surreal; time slowed to a stop, and at that moment, it was only us in the train station. My anxiety and doubts melted away and all I could think about was her. I’d never felt this way before. Finally, we pranced out of the station, her fingers intertwined with mine. I drove out of the parking lot with her in the passenger seat. The windows were open and her hair was blowing in her face. I felt free. I took her to the park, where I set up a dining experience like no other on top of the hill. Each dish, carefully wrapped in tin foil, was set on a heavy blanket while her favorite music simmered through a portable speaker. We sat together and ate our sandwiches, overlooking the town. The light from the low sun was reflecting in her brown eyes, melting them into a honey-like color. I felt comfortable around her. Usually, I have to filter what I say to appeal to the surrounding company, but with her, I said anything that was on my mind. She liked me for me. I didn’t have to pretend to be anyone besides myself. We lay next to each other, looking into the light blue sky, and we talked about the future. We envisioned embarking on a road trip across the country with a beautiful dog. We wanted to ski the Swiss Alps, relax in Greece, hike Everest, and sail around the globe. We wanted to do it all, together. All afternoon we lay in the park together, listening to music, eating snacks, and taking Polaroids of each other when the other wasn’t paying attention. I slipped one of the pictures of her into my wallet. We knew the day we had to-

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gether would be short, but we made it count. I’d spent weeks thinking of activities to do together so we wouldn’t get bored, but instead, we just lay there in the park. I realized all I needed was her. I dreaded picking up my phone because I knew that I would glance at the time and suddenly fall back into reality. By the time I finally did, I realized she was going to miss her train if we didn’t leave right away. It all began to end. I choked up as I told her that we had to go; I wanted to lie there with her forever. But she is way stronger than me. She said, “It’s okay,” and rubbed her thumb across my cheek. We placed all the empty wrappers and balled-up sheets of tin foil back into the basket. Picking up the blanket revealed the green grass beneath us, which was now flattened to the ground. As we walked back down the hill towards the parking lot, she was still right there, walking beside me, her gold necklace swaying above her chest. I turned left onto the winding road, leaving the park in my rearview mirror. It didn’t feel real, driving to the train station. My tires seemed to glide through the road like never before, the street lights shone just a little bit too bright for comfort, and the stop sign at the entrance of the station seemed redder than it had been before. The day didn’t last forever. The mood began to change as it had the last time we had to say goodbye. I knew she was only here for the day, but her departure still felt unexpected. I wanted to grab her by the hand and leave our world behind, but I didn’t. I mean, I had an ACT exam on Sunday. She was more important to me than some test that determines my value based on which circles I fill in with a pencil, but I couldn’t just walk away. I wanted to get on that train with her, but I couldn’t. I thought about my parents, my younger sister, and my school. I thought about all the things

tethering me to this life. But I still found her at the center of my universe. She deserved to be there in the spotlight. You could see it in her face, behind her dark mask with small white stars. Walking down the stairs, the same ones she’d emerged from, brought us near the end. I saw the tracks and the infinite possibilities of places they could take us. I could see it in her eyes that she didn’t want to go, but she had to; she had parents and siblings just like me; she had her own life in the city, far from mine. I wanted to savor the few remaining minutes I had with her for as long as I could. The time felt like a small mound of sand in the palm of my hand, quickly dripping through the cracks between my fingers; the tighter I held on, the more sand would fall to the ground. My attention drifted to the cold iron tracks below the platform as they began to shake. I knew the train was arriving and that my small pile of sand had almost completely disappeared. This was the end. We said our goodbyes, and then she hesitantly placed one foot in front of the other, passing through the doorway of the train. I watched her turn to look at me as the doors closed. I stayed on the platform to watch the train leave. I don’t know why I stayed. Maybe I thought she would change her mind and valiantly exit the train and stay with me. But the train left for New York with all of its passengers. I felt as if a piece of me was gone. As I walked up the staircase, back to my car, I knew I couldn’t sulk—I mean, I got to spend the whole day with her. It wasn’t goodbye forever, but it was goodbye for the near future. I still can’t seem to forget her. I get small flashbacks when I’m in the shower of our short time together; the water runs down my face as I am flooded with memories. We don’t get many days together, so I have to cherish every moment I get with her. I know that one day my hand will once again hold a mound of sand, but for now, it remains empty.

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LEGGIO I

Noah Spore ‘21

OIL AND GESSO ON CANVAS

LEGGIO II

Noah Spore ‘21 OIL AND GESSO ON CANVAS

NEWLY BUILT Bennett Mosk ‘22

Mangled and rotting, the lifeless carnage of a shot deer hung unnaturally from a thick branch of the oak tree. The oak tree itself was dying, brown and gray, now simply host to the plethora of pathogenic wildlife that infested my back yard— rabbits, squirrels, and raccoons near the base. Flies, maggots, and other insects had carved out holes in the side wide enough for the wind to whistle through. Small birds and even the occasional bat inhabited the upper canopy, though lacking the umbrella of green they were used to. Any bird or bat who’d had enough of its lack of shade simply swooped down into the chimney of the crabber’s house. The oak tree straddled the dividing line, the one between us and the shabby, run-down shack of a house next door. Sitting on our two white Adirondack chairs, my father and I exchanged an exasperated glance. “Should we let it go?” I asked him. Not with words, mind you, but with that eyebrows-raised, head-cocked-to-one-side kind of look. He knew what I meant. My dad shook his head. I could tell he was uncomfortable with the fact that our well-manicured back yard, complete with an elegant stone fire pit, a patio with tables and chairs, and a beautiful set of rose-saturated hedges, was being sullied by the hunk of carrion that was currently a meal for what I would guess was 85% of Annapolis’s maggot population. “There is no way that is legal,” I muttered to my dad. “Especially not here,” he added, gesturing to the meticulously maintained roads of Eastport, on the outskirts of

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Annapolis. We glared simultaneously at the gray-haired man sitting opposite us, separated solely by a small chain-link fence, no more than twenty yards away. The man looked as if he used to be of great athletic stature but, through the years, his body had slowly withered. He had a stubbly gray beard and a maze of wrinkles covering his face like a map of the New York City Subway. He had gnarled fingers that gripped his beaten-down rocking chair with trembling stubbornness and two beady black eyes that, no matter where he was looking, always seemed to skeeve you with just a little too much eye contact. He almost seemed to sneer back at us, beckoning us to say something. My dad opened his mouth to call him out, but then thought better of it. “I’m sure he will take it down soon enough,” he conceded to me before retreating back inside the house. I followed him inside. That night the wind began to howl, and a whisper of rain could just barely begin to be heard. Our three-story house provided a wonderful view of the Chesapeake Bay with the clouds rolling in, as well as the surrounding peninsula of Eastport. I watched the waves, now whitecaps, roll into the docks of the newly constructed behemoths at the end of Severn Avenue. From there, I looked downwards. A single splotch of paint hung desperately to the side of the shoddy one-floor structure one lot over. The shingles were peeling, and there were chunks of brick missing from the short chimney jutting out awkwardly from the roof. “There seem to be some humans living in that bat’s nest,” I muttered to my dad, chuckling, as another one swooped by, landing gently on the faded brick before ducking into the hollowed-out skeleton of splintered wood. I gazed back at the tree, the empty hook now swaying in the

breeze. The oak tree itself bent and bowed in the wind. Fortunately, the mulchy emanation of rain had overwhelmed the putrid leftovers from today’s hunting trophy. “At least he took it down,” I said. My dad shrugged. “I don’t know; it was kind of starting to grow on me.” We both laughed. “Seriously, though,” he said, pointing to the remains of what had once been a grand oak, “I don’t know how long that one is gonna last.” “Yeah,” I agreed, raising my eyebrows. “Can’t see that one standing for more than another year.” My dad sighed, pursing his lips. “I’ll call someone to take it down. One branch from our side falls on the crabber’s roof, and that thing will cave in faster than a house of cards in a tornado.” “It’s leaning in their direction, anyway.” The tree leaned ominously over the vulnerable roof of the crabber’s house, the dark winds shredding bits of wood as if they were grains of sand off a dune, or ash from an open fire drifting lazily to places ash was never supposed to go. The gnarled appendages violently swung with the inevitable snapping sound seemingly moments away, always. Thunder whirred constantly like cannons of war, lightning crackling like the ignition spark. I noticed the crabber peering upwards from his cracked window across from me. He held his hand to his heart, in all likelihood for no particular reason, but I imagined that he considered the tree a beacon, a flag, something to guide his way through whatever storm he happened to be steering his life into. I sighed audibly. My father glanced my way. “If it can stay up in this, though, it can stay up through anything. For now, at least, we let him be.”

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*** With the morning came a blanket of dew that shrouded the sharp, moss-green blades of grass. My bare feet carefully traipsed through the yard, trying to touch as little of the soaked earth as possible. I tightly held on to the rope of my dog’s leash as she meandered around the yard herself, avoiding the fallen branches and leaves from the previous night’s barrage, sniffing carefully, all of the exciting new smells of the earth catching her attention at once. With an exasperated sigh, I pulled her through the mulch towards the public sidewalk. In an attempt to sidestep the chain-link fence between the crabber’s house and my own, I failed to properly control the leash. I was yanked back by the rope catching stubbornly on a protruding tip of metal wire. I tugged, but the caught rope would not budge. Suddenly my eyes snapped upwards with the noise of a door clanging open. “Oh, hey, can you help me with—” I looked down at the knotted mess my dog had created by pacing back and forth around the original catch. The old man’s expression did not change. He had a vein protruding from his head that looked like a venomous snake struggling to free itself from the restraint of a trap. He picked up a thick branch, maybe a foot and a half in length, with his right hand. As he approached, I could as good as taste the alcohol and cigars on him. He wore a baggy, tattered old T-shirt and cargo pants. “Hey!” I had no idea what he could possibly want from me. In fact, I don’t think I’d ever had any sort of conversation with him. “You live here, right?” he said, pointing to my house sternly. “Um, yeah, sir, I—”

He cut me off. “You threw this branch at my house, didn’t you? I always see you out there, sneerin’. I bet you thought it’d be funny. Pelt the neighbor’s house with sticks.” I scoffed. “I—I, what? How could I have possibly had anything to do with that? The storm last night. The wind. The tree. What?” He was not hesitant whatsoever with his accusatory logic. “You caused a helluva lot of damage to my roof and chimney. I’m gonna have to talk to your parents. Y’all will pay for this.” Confused and taken aback, I yanked the leash with all my strength. The rope ripped, leaving my dog and me free. I jogged briskly back to my house, not looking back. “What was that about?” my dad asked as I ran through the doors of my house, winded and out of breath. “The crabber. A branch must have fallen and hit his house, and he just blamed it on me out of nowhere.” “Why?” my dad asked incredulously. “I have no godly idea.” “Yeah, that tree is coming down.” Two weeks later, we quickly briefed the tree fellers on the issue of the neighbor. Fortunately, we had received no follow-up on the crabber’s surprising outburst. The tree fellers meticulously configured a pulley system to guarantee that not a single branch, not even a single leaf, would fall into the crabber’s yard. “Good to go,” they assured my father. He nodded in approval, impressed by the matrix of rope and wire. Even the simple assignment of taking down this tree had to be drawn out, mapped out, completed with the utmost care, limb by limb. “Great, thank you guys for dealing with this whole—” He was suddenly interrupted by the sound of a screen door slamming into the side of the crabber’s house.

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CASSEROLE

Charlie Nuermberger ‘21

MIXED MEDIA

CREATURE OF FLESH AND STONE Aidan Tydings ‘21

GRAPHITE ON PAPER

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A BREEZE

Aidan Feulner ‘22 OIL ON CANVAS

MORNING AT THE INLET

Ian Goldman ‘21

OIL ON CANVAS

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“What in the hell is going on here?” the crabber snarled, a droplet of spittle running down his bulging chin, a sharp vein protruding from one of his wrinkles. He raised his cane furiously at the men sitting in the tree. The men ceased their work immediately, both mortified and confused. All of the noise seemed to drain from the air as if sucked out by a vacuum, leaving an awful silence as the crabber scrambled to organize his angry thoughts into words, until the terrifying aura of rage teeming inside the man finally burst: “Get the hell off my goddamn property right the hell now!” he screamed. “Whaddya think you’re doin’?” “Calm down . . . calm . . . calm down, please,” my dad pleaded. “Look at this husk of a tree. How long do you think this is gonna last before it smashes what you have left of a house to pieces?” “Who do ya think you are?” the crabber retorted. “Now if you wanted a damn water view you shoulda bought a house on the water. My family has lived in this house for more than five generations. If you think I’ll let some newcomers take away my property—enough.” “Sir,” my dad sighed. “The trunk is on my property. You don’t have a choice. I know you can’t afford to do any more repairs, seeing the shape of the place, so what’s gonna stop any branch thicker than the width of that cane you got there from caving in your roof? You know I can’t have that on my conscience, and you can’t have that on your bank account. It’s really for the best, for both of us.” Defeated, the man’s face began to turn a deep, sanguine red. He was not a man who took insults graciously. His eyes wandered pensively over the men sitting in his beloved tree. He sighed, pointing to the tree fellers, and

shrieked, “Y’all Mexicans get one goddamn leaf on my property, I’ll get y’all deported, you hear me?” With that, he stormed back into his house in a huff. I was shocked. Our neighbor’s outlandish display of xenophobia had rendered my dad and me unable to speak. “I—I—I am just so, so sorry about that, about—about him,” my dad managed to stutter to the tree fellers. They unanimously shrugged off the confrontation. “It’s no problem, sir, no problem.” We took the men at their word, but we could see in their eyes the subtle hint of frustration. “You all, I mean, I really can’t make you all stay here. Please, take the day off. Come back some other day. I really am sorry; I hope you know that.” The men nodded solemnly, slowly clambering down from their perches, leaving their iron setup choking the tree without supervision. They shook hands with my dad, awkwardly, silently, and walked back to their trucks, boots tracking mud over our gravel driveway. My dad glared at me, so I quickly retreated into my house, awaiting the fallout soon to come. My dad followed, leaving the back yard empty. There the tree stood, awaiting its death with uninterrupted patience, staring gently into my window. The breeze rustled the branches slightly, but they were unable to swing freely. The birds still chirped, a robin picking up the pieces of her emptied nest, a squirrel anxiously searching for a new route to his stockpile of nuts, hidden in a knot a few feet above the chain line. I have seen firsthand the explosion that my dad can produce if provoked in just the right way, whether it is by the parking garage manager who conveniently doesn’t have cameras in the one area of the parking lot where my mother’s car hap-

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pened to be broken into, or by the impossible to deal with AT&T line workers who call him by his first name. All the telltale signs appeared the next day, as he sat at the dining room table. His hands were clenched into tight fists, his voice began to deepen, his eyes began to narrow. His cheeks reddened as if, just underneath the skin, a drop of blood had slowly dispersed, reaching its great tendrils to each corner of its own earth. The grandfather clock chimed five in the afternoon, breaking the silence. My dad stood up, pushed in the fading red upholstered chairs of our dining room table, opened the door, and walked away from our house towards the crabber’s front door. I followed him cautiously, anxious to witness what was assuredly coming next. Stopping dead in his tracks as if he had seen a ghost, my father inhaled a deep sigh and turned back to me, a strange, guilty expression growing across his face, the red fading back to a clammy pale. “What’s going on?” I asked gently, briskly jogging over to him. I looked up at the scratched pane of clear plastic outside the crabber’s house. Taped on only one side, slightly off-center, a little slip of white cardstock paper shook gently, making a sharp rattling noise against the plastic. I reached out my hand, calming the paper, and read aloud: “For sale, inquire with broker . . .” The crew of tree fellers returned to finish what they had begun. One by one, limbs crashed to the ground, each leaving a crater of soil beneath. Worms arose from the ashes of the fallen limbs and began to decompose every corpse of oak that lay untouched by the cleaning efforts of the workers. Today my dad and I went back to the deck in our back yard and sat by the stump of the old oak, where we now attach our trash bins until each Monday, when they have to be dragged through the mulch and flowers of our yard to-

wards the driveway to patiently await the garbage truck. We still feel the light breeze that curls in from the bay, and the scent of crab lingers. We think it might last this way forever. We like it that way. We are at peace, though indeed, we lack the shade of the oak, which once kept the waves of sweat from rolling down the tips of my hair into my eyes. Now, the beads of sweat sit on my arms in tiny droplets, as if I were on a boat, rocking side to side, the mist of the sea saturating the air, acting as a constant reminder of the place where I live. “This is why we moved here,” I said to my dad. I smiled gently. I turned back to take in that favorite view of mine, the sailboats lazily drifting in the distance, reminding me of the peace I’d always wanted. But my smile quickly faded. For now, my father and I stared off into the crisp blue abyss of the Chesapeake. But we knew it was only a matter of time before our view would be a slab of dark brick siding, newly built.

SPLICED

Matthew Grossman ‘22

OIL ON CANVAS

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TWO ROOMS Manav Parikh ‘22

I. We rarely ever used the basement. Yes, we have some great memories of birthday parties and get-togethers down in the basement, but the overall feel of the room was artificial to say the least. The carpet, unlike that of our study, was a murky brown, and the room always felt musty and dank. Our basement, like many others, was the home of unwanted and random things. Neatly stacked but ill-favored gifts and discarded toys filled up the boiler room, while mountains of disposable cups, plates, napkins, and leftover Winnie-thePooh birthday decorations sat alone in the closet. Most of all, though, the basement was oddly shaped and too small. The ping-pong table was the only substantial item that could fit in the main area, leaving no room for any other furniture. After a few weeks, the novelty of ping-pong wore off and a thin layer of dust settled on the table. The rest of the basement was too bland to form any sentimental attachment to. The Little Tikes plastic basketball hoop, a 2004 TV hanging on the wall, and the overall Home Depot scent made me cringe and gag. We wanted to do something else with the basement, like make a home theater or exercise area, but it never happened. When we brought friends and family downstairs to play in the basement, I noticed their eyebrows rise and their noses scrunch when they inhaled their first breath of musty air. Compared with the warm and inviting first floor, which smelled of homemade Indian food, the basement was the last place in my house where I would choose to spend time.

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II. Although one would think that the home office would be one of the worst places in the house, ours felt like a sanctuary to me. The room was not lavishly furnished or unique in any way, but the time I spent sitting at my desk, which was in the far right corner of the room, made me feel that studying was impossible anywhere else. Initially, the room was painted a lovely shade of light blue, but over time, the paint began to chip and come off because of the copious amounts of tape I used to put on the wall. But even so, the wall looked beautiful when rays of light bounced off of it and gave the surface a shine. The floor had white carpeting stained by evil coffee, but it felt soft and warm beneath my feet. In the winter, we would turn on the little space heater we had bought from the appliance store and warm up the room. The best thing about our study was the number of windows, which ensured a large amount of natural light coming into the room. I was lucky enough to have a window right next to my desk, and I could see the snow falling onto our neighbors’ houses in the winter and the sun reflecting off our garden in the summer. The aura of the study was calm and relaxing, and I sometimes fell asleep in my chair, lulled by the warm sunshine and my view of the world outside. I have a home office in my current house, bigger and technically better, with double monitors, a large desk, and a comfy leather chair, but for some reason, it doesn’t hit the same way as the office in my childhood home on Pondside Drive.

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THE OPERATOR Sam Steinmetz ‘22

Adam pulled up to the side of the small public marina on an early September morning, gazing at the reflection of the boats on the calm water. This was a familiar scene to Adam; the marina sat on the river, in the center of his hometown, separated by the drawbridge he operated. It was six in the morning, and he was thirty minutes early for his shift, which allowed him plenty of time to eat his egg and cheese burrito as he thought about the events of the past few months. It had been five years since his senior year, and five months since Adam was kicked out of his parents’ house. Adam had a vivid memory of his dad approaching him in an unusual manner before telling him that it was time for his “transition into adulthood,” a phrase that had been stuck in his head since he was forced to leave. Adam’s father was the type of person who lived by a strict set of guidelines; he would instantly judge a person based on how they could improve their lives through his standards. His father wanted Adam to be who he wanted, not who Adam wanted; Adam didn’t know what to think about this. Before Adam was mentally prepared to leave home, he was moving into his new apartment, only a few minutes away from his parents. He remembered the smell of his first apartment and the awkward goodbye conversation he had with his parents before they left. During that first night, he lay on his twin bed, thinking of his newfound adulthood. He had always dreamed of being free in the world; however, he didn’t know what to make of his newly obtained independence. He remembered confidently muttering the words “I got this” as he smiled

at the popcorn ceiling of the apartment, sinking into a deep sleep. One month after leaving his parents’ house, Adam began operating the drawbridge connecting the marina and the river to fund his independent living. The small town’s economy relied on food and resources from the river, so the drawbridge was necessary for its well-being. He worked in the operating room, a small, confined space filled with levers, buttons, radios, and a plug-in electric heater. This space was safe for Adam; he was alone with his thoughts and feelings and had the ability to express them in any way. During his shift, he only had minor interruptions that consisted of opening and closing the bridge for passing boats. Adam’s favorite part of his job was when the afternoon lull came along and boats stopped passing through into the river. He read news articles and East Coast bird-watching guides during this time. On one of the late summer afternoons, Adam’s father called to check in on how Adam was doing with work. “How has it been?” his dad asked. “Fine,” replied Adam. “Well, I was wondering if you would consider some career options your mom and I came up with for your future,” his father said. “Ok,” Adam answered. Adam’s father had always come to their conversations with a powerful tone, which was the opposite of how Adam presented himself. “Well,” his dad said impatiently, “well, I was wondering if you would be willing to start this marketing analysis internship at that one firm in the city.” “OK,” Adam responded. “Well, that’s excellent, Adam, thank you,” said his father before Adam found the right time to hang up. This conversation had been one of a few since he had moved out of the house; his father would almost always ask what he would do

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next with his life. Adam didn’t know what to think of the conversation except that he was unsure about the decision he had just made to please his father. He was happy to hear the “thank you,” a phrase uncommonly used by his father about anything Adam had ever done. Although Adam was unsure of what he wanted to do, he aspired to find a purpose in life, a purpose that would be determined by himself. Spring turned into summer, and every morning at half past six, the sun rose in his window, amazing him every day on the job. Adam remembered first observing the colors blend like abstract art, the red of the sun and the sky’s blue coming together to form a masterpiece beyond the bounds of his comprehension. The sunrise was like a movie, a vivid picture that changed with time, thousands of different emotions and feelings. Adam thought these sunrises were a divine intervention, something so beautiful it had to be from another world. During this time, he would think about his purpose in life and what “transition into adulthood” meant. That day Adam thought about his dad and his decision to intern; he felt obligated to fulfill a command from someone who’d cared for him his whole life. This subject pressed him, and he spent much of his time in the operating room thinking about what he wanted to pursue. On late September Saturday afternoon, as the leaves started to fall, Adam found himself in the town square coming back from lunch with his parents. Since he did not have to work that day, he had plenty of time to wander around the town. When walking through the town square as a child, he was not allowed to go farther than six feet from his parents, which made this a very different experience. Now he could smell the fragrances coming from each of the quaint family restaurants or sit on the bench near the fountain. Most people who ran a shop were boat owners and commonly passed

his bridge. These were friendly people who greeted him on the regular. While Adam wandered through the blocks of shops, he noticed an unfamiliar well-dressed man pacing between the fountain and the Greek takeout. The man was wearing a blue suit with a spotted white-and-light-blue tie. The man was rangy and nearly six feet tall. He was clean-shaven and looked like he was from the city. The man seemed to be on an important call, requiring his full attention. The man held his head up high and seemed to think well of himself. He also seemed to attract attention from the others in the square. It was as if he was some spectacle of a highly influential person, because in this small town, rarely were there any influential people. Adam felt an overwhelming sense of anger and jealousy towards this man. He believed that this was his father’s idea of an adult, something he wanted of Adam. Adam felt obligated to succeed in life like the well-dressed man, but he wanted to follow his own goals. He realized that he didn’t want to be like the well-dressed man; he didn’t want to have to wear a fancy suit and hold his head up high to please his father. He wanted to live his own life on his terms. A few weeks later, just past the autumn equinox, he came to work still feeling conflicted about what to do. He went into the operating room to do his regular business, thinking about the internship that started the next day and how he didn’t want to be a part of it. Adam had become attached to his simple work at the bridge. He had fallen in love with the views and the time spent reading books. He loved everything about his job, and he wasn’t ready to give it up. Adam knew this would not go well with his father, the one who wanted him to “transition into adulthood” and succeed in life. Still, he did not feel confident enough to face his father and go against his wishes. Adam didn’t want to be his father or anyone else; he wanted to be independent and make his own choices. Later that afternoon, as boats just started to come in

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from a day on the river, he received a call from his father. A simple check-in. Adam waited for his dad to start the conversation. “How is it going?” his father asked. “Good,” replied Adam. “Well . . . umm, are you ready for tomorrow?” his father said. “Nah,” responded Adam. Adam’s stomach churned; he had never gone against his father in any circumstance. He wasn’t ready for his disapproval. “No what?” his father said. “No, I’m not going,” Adam said. A silence fell over the conversation as Adam’s father was blindsided by his words. His son was never someone to say no, and when it came to his opinions, Adam was always on his father’s side. Before his father could find a response to what he’d said, Adam looked out the window, looked back at the phone, and said, “OK then,” and hung up. Adam was frozen, still contemplating his actions and the reaction from his father. Adam looked out his right-side window, took a deep breath in and a deep breath out. He had freed himself from his father’s expectations; no longer would he have to be the person his father wanted him to be. It was half past six, and Adam was ready for work. After finishing his egg and cheese burrito, he walked up the stairs and opened the blue metal door to find the room just as he’d left it the day before. The plug-in heater, buttons, levers, and radios were all by his side in the proper place. Dawn was approaching, and the sun crept up on the horizon. Adam looked out his right-side window, took a deep breath, and watched the sky’s colors rise, creating a new day. He spotted a bird out in the distance, one of the birds from his book, perhaps. He watched as the bird flew off into the sunrise, gave a big sigh, and smiled.

TRANQUIL CONTEMPLATION Brandon Cao ‘23

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PHOTOGRAPHY

Michael Maragakis ‘21

DEER PORTRAIT

PHOTOGRAPHY

OIL ON CANVAS CLOTH, PLASTIC, THREAD, WATER

Sabrina Xu Bryn Mawr ‘21

CAPTIVITY

LAKESIDE MEMORIES

Justin Wang ‘22

OIL ON CANVAS

PENELOPE CAGED Luca Pavlovich ‘23

So dutiful, faithful, and true, Hoping, praying, waiting. Twenty long years, waiting for you, Alone, afraid, at home. So distraught and angry I yelled, Crying, wailing, shrieking. My anguish, hurt, and pain they swelled, Pacing my lonely room. Devious man, I formed a plot, Unweaving Laertes’ shroud By night to trick the suiting lot. Long days of sewing lost. You burdened me to raise our son Without your staying hand. What did you expect? I am one Amongst the many men. They raped our fields, devoured our stock, Disrespected your name. Defiling this home which they mock, Shame upon them all, shame.

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Was I weak and uncommanding? Oh Zeus! Am I to blame For the horrible disbanding Of home? I was alone. For twenty painful years I wept Before a stranger came, Dressed in rags, and wholly unkempt, Offering news of him. Odysseus, my love, alive? Oh, trickster you are him! How I’ve waited, how I’ve writhed Awaiting your return. Yet, is our happiness deserved? You murderous bastard! You duplicitous snake, you serve Yourself, nobody else. Hero, you strangled my women Who were cruelly seduced And taken advantage of. Men, So quick to judge and kill. All the while, you were unfaithful, Sleeping with goddesses And queens alike, you deceitful, Self-seeking hypocrite. I weep, sewing on my old loom, Thinking, feeling, shaking, Trapped and forgotten in my room. Alone, afraid, at home.

PEER PORTRAITS Anay Agarwal ‘23

GRAPHITE ON PAPER

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CHARLIE

LUCA

LOUIS

KEN

BATHROOM IN FLOWERS Andrew Kang ‘23

The fern-green sedan pulls into the driveway, churning dust behind it. I lounge languidly in the car, listening to night slumbering and the crickets’ lullaby, the car’s soft grumbling—kept awake only by consistently inconsistent jolts. The roads have grown appreciably less even along the ride, the city’s smooth asphalt wrinkling into dirt lanes. * China. My parents have sent me back home for a few weeks: an opportunity to visit some relatives and brush up on my speaking. I curse them in my thoughts, ugly in a half-dreamed state. Then the car stills. A knock on the window. My side door opens, a breath of country air filling the car’s stilted ambiance. Her golden smile, of twisted teeth and stained roots; her brown hand, of steeled calluses and rumpled lines. Hi, Grandma. * The next morning greets me with murmurs and musty blankets, tattered mattresses and chalky floors. The mud-brick room ushers me into the kitchen, where my grandma crouches over a table. I need to go to the bathroom, I say. She points me toward the doorway, tells me about the latrine ditch. Shivering, I imagine an eager snake lying at the bottom of the pit, the outhouse’s cobwebbed walls. I ask if there’s any other option.

* Her sun-dried hands place a roll of toilet paper in my hand and guide me to the garden—out the door, take a right and then a left. But when I reach the garden, a little arsenal guards the entrance. A rusted watering can, layered in tarnished metal. A dirt-laden shovel, its head covered in mud. They defend the crops behind them from intruders, as does the sharp stench of fertilizer, which cuts through the air. I reluctantly enter, stumbling forward to find a spot among trampled weeds. * Crouching down, I am furious. I fixate on a spot on the ground with reddened cheeks, tears of sweat sliding down my spine. To fall this low, I think. To feel this fiery, blooming shame. The flies have re-emerged—the same pesky insects I once smushed with ruthless fingers into white tile—they now buzz around me—but my hands are tied down; one is steadying my body while the other wipes. Up above, gray swallows circle in the sky, their flowery trills laced with ridicule. But I bear it for a while, and when standing back up, I frantically check my surroundings for an intruder. * Instead, I see trellises of plump tomatoes, enthusiastic vines reaching out to touch each other, to shake hands. I see shimmering summer melons and a blossoming white magnolia tree. I see an explosion of peonies, bursts of ruby and white gold, petals brilliant in the sun—and then my eyes move to the soiled earth. There lies a clump of dark scourge, disgracing its surroundings.

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* Then, I remember her golden smile, the depth of her creases, her numb calluses. The watering can, I suddenly say aloud. The rusted, ruddy metal container that should have been retired long ago—it nevertheless tends to the plants daily, its routine never broken. Covering my face, I stand dumbly in the midst of it all, the thoughtful harmony. I hear the melodious laughter of swallows. *

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Sophie Leheny Bryn Mawr ‘21

THE DEVON BEACH

Bathroom in flowers Burning my bleached face crimson. Imprudent blossoms.

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Nate Perry ‘22

PALETTE KNIFE

GRAND PRISMATIC SPRING Aaron Meng ‘22

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E H T T O S T MI ‘24 T E ED erian N N R an Ha O g S Lo

My passion is an inextin- guishable fire, My pulse, much the same. I cannot stop the flames of my ire, Pleasing it, my only aim.

I see only reds and pinks. What has led me down this path? A monster am I, methinks, Thinking nothing but of my wrath.

I try but cannot contain my thoughts, Powerless am I to its spell, Unable to stop the destruct- ion I’ve wrought, My anger like waves on a shell.

Don’t remember what got me here, Don’t know where I’ll end, I fear.

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THE WORLD’S LONELIEST ROAD Charlie Hiller ‘21

It had been Alina’s idea to make the trip, as Alex remembered it. They had just graduated from high school and wanted to do something big for their last few months together. Driving cross country was not an entirely novel idea, but it felt like a rite of passage, in a way. They had a car, and Myles had a job, so money wouldn’t be much of an issue. The trip had been a lot of fun up until that stretch. Sure, driving all day wasn’t great, but it was cool to see a lot of the country, especially since they had barely been out of D.C. their entire lives. Everything was normal until they got on that stretch of highway. They all knew something felt wrong; maybe it was the lack of civilization, or maybe they were just tired. They knew this would be the toughest stretch of the drive, but it felt like they were driving in place, like the car was on a treadmill or something. “They weren’t kidding when they said this was the loneliest highway in the U.S.,” said Alina, who was driving the car. She was right, Alex thought. U.S. Route 50 was no joke, especially since they were in rural Nevada, where you had the same chance of seeing a shark as seeing a person. Myles was already nervous. He had read the stories

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about this road: the massive floods whenever it rained, people’s cars breaking down and waiting days for rescue. “Do people actually live here?” Alex shouted over the engine and blaring music. Both Myles and Alina, up front, chuckled. Alex sat in the back, his legs sprawled across both empty seats. Alina and Myles had been dating for a couple of months. He didn’t mind being the third wheel; in fact, he had always been by Alina’s side when she was dating a boy. That’s when they heard it, a loud bang, and almost instantly the car came to a woeful stop. Alina cursed. She had warned them that the car was old prior to the trip, but they hadn’t had another option. All three of them stepped out of the car to check the engine. “Does anyone know anything about cars?” Alina asked with a sense of frustration. Neither Myles nor Alex responded. Just like the damn stories. We better hope someone comes soon or else dehydration will kill us, or better yet, the floods, Myles thought, but he kept it to himself. It was eerily quiet, with only the loud noises coming from the engine to distract them. “Is there anybody we can call?” asked Alina, showing fear in her eyes. “Even if there was somebody to call, it would take hours for them to get here,” Alex muttered. “She’s the one,” said Jessica. “How can you be sure?” “The red hair, her age, yes, she’s the one that’s been sent to us.” Jessica had spent all day at the final gas station before the full-day journey crossing through Nevada on U.S. Route 50, waiting for the girl. The only issue was that she was trav-

eling with two boys: a common issue, considering almost nobody traveled alone anymore, but one of those boys had an intuition about him. “How will we stop them from crossing?” asked a masked figure. “Well, that car of theirs was nothing special to begin with, but I messed with the engine just in case. They should make it just far enough,” Jessica replied. It was not her first time doing this. In fact, a few of the women looking back at her had come to her this way. Some had been harder than others, but she always got the same result. This girl today, however—she was different. “Look!” shouted Alina. It had been hours since the car broke down, but at last, the three of them saw a truck approaching. The truck came to a halt, and out stepped a woman. She was young, no older than thirty, with bright red hair like the Nevada desert, and she had a commanding presence about her. “I see your car broke down,” the woman said, looking at Alina’s SUV. “Do you know how to fix it?” Myles blurted out. The woman opened the hood of the car and took a long look. “It looks like your alternator is broken, which is not good, but it could be way worse. I think I might have a replacement, ” the woman said to the three of them. Alina, Alex, and Myles looked back at her as if she’d just spoken French. “I take it you don’t know much about cars. Well, either way, you three should come back with me. It might storm tonight, and the storm surge in this area is brutal.” “Let’s get going then,” Myles said abruptly. He was

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clearly nervous and wanted nothing to do with the floods. Alina and Alex looked at each other. They both knew this was sketchy, but what choice did they have? They were thirsty, it was getting late, and if this woman was telling the truth about the flooding, they were not going to last long out here. The four figures climbed into the woman’s truck and went onward. The red glow of the desert matched the sunset as, once again, the three friends traveled down the highway. For about an hour, they drove in silence. “Any chance we can play some music?” Alina asked. “Doesn’t work,” the woman said sharply. Another twenty minutes of silence had passed before, finally, the woman pulled off to the side of the road. “We have to walk from here. My truck can’t get over some of the rocks,” she said. It was at that moment Alex knew they were in trouble. I should’ve spoken up. This woman doesn’t want to help us out. Ahead of him was a long canyon. He watched as the woman took the lead, followed by Myles, walking down the canyon. Alina knew something was wrong as well. What could this woman want? Myles seemed to trust her, but Alex—well, he didn’t trust anyone. Alina grabbed Myles’s arm, looking for comfort as she began to follow the woman, too. Alex watched the three of them head down the canyon. He knew that he should grab Alina and Myles and make a run for it. But exhaustion and dehydration got the better of him. After a short walk, they arrived at what, at first glance, looked like a campground. “Come with me. I’ll show you the alternator,” the woman said to Myles.

Alina began to follow but was immediately halted by a woman in a mask. “You must be so thirsty. Here, take this.” The figure handed Alina a glass of what appeared to be water. Alina looked over her shoulder. Myles was nowhere to be seen, and come to think of it, she hadn’t seen Alex since before the canyon. Her mind told her that drinking this water was a mistake, but every muscle in her body yearned for it. She took a sip, another sip, and then another. The water revived her, but almost immediately the feeling of rejuvenation left her. She felt dizzy, and everything turned to darkness. Where the hell am I? Alex thought. Wherever he was, it was dark. He had only experienced this kind of darkness once before, and it was in a cave with Alina. “Alina!” he yelled as he shot up. Where is she? The last thing I remember is walking through the canyon with her and Myles while that sketchy woman led us to her camp. It was Myles’s idea to follow her, which honestly makes sense; he had been nothing but trouble since the car broke down, ignoring everything I had to say. And not only that, but listening to that stranger, even though I knew it was a bad idea. Alex was growing increasingly angry. What does she see in him? Myles and Alina had only been dating for a couple of months before this trip, and Alex had never been really impressed. He wasn’t jealous. It was just that Myles wasn’t very different from the other boys Alina had dated. Not to mention that Myles had been a major factor in their being kidnapped. Alex took a deep breath and realized nothing mattered more than finding Alina and getting out of there. “The boy’s in there,” someone whispered outside.

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“Any chance he’s awake?” another voice asked. “Everything is going as planned,” a third voice said. “The girl is already paranoid and begging us to save her friends.” Alex felt his body temperature rising again. Hate flowed through his veins, and he was able to remember more. I think someone hit me on the head. I remember seeing the campsite with Myles and Alina ahead of me, but then everything went black. Almost immediately, the pain came back. His head throbbed. The combination of dehydration and blunt trauma was no fun. He blindly stretched out his arms in different directions, stumbling upon a doorknob. He tried opening the door, and to his surprise, it was unlocked. When Alex entered the next room, he was shocked. The room was entirely red: the walls, the floor, the paintings—everything was the same shade of red, as if whoever designed this room had been able to capture the redness of the Nevada desert. Somewhere deeper in the camp, Alina lay in bed, shaking with fear. It felt so real. The faces, the screams, and the pain. It can’t be. Those women just drugged me, she thought. Deep down, she knew it couldn’t have actually happened, but the dream had felt too real. She was the one who’d lit them on fire; she was the one who’d caused the pain. “Why would I do that?” she said to herself, tears streaming down her face. Alina stood up and walked to the window of the room she was in. It was dark outside, but as she looked around, she saw him. It was Myles. He was unconscious, bleeding, bruised, and tied to a pole. Alina’s heart dropped. One of the women outside was pouring what looked like gasoline on him as well. Alina burst outside, sobbing, and ran to Myles.

He was breathing but far from conscious. “What have you done?” Alina said. She was too weak to scream; she tried, but her voice was trapped. “Someone get Jessica,” a voice said. Alina looked up as the woman who’d led her here stepped outside. “Look around you, Alina. You belong with us,” Jessica said. Alina looked back at her, visibly confused. Then she noticed it. Everything was red: the women’s hair, the rocks, even the buildings—they all matched the red of the desert. “If you want him and yourself to live, you’ll join us,” Jessica said without emotion. It was as if she didn’t care, as if this situation meant nothing to her. “Whatever happens, I am staying with him.” Alina stood up and confronted Jessica, who immediately shoved her to the ground. “Fine, I was wrong about her. She is clearly too attached to this boy,” Jessica said to the crowd. Alina crawled back to Myles. She wanted to do something, but her body wouldn’t let her. All her life she had gone down fighting, but now she couldn’t move. “Does this boy really love you?” Jessica turned to her and asked. “I am not abandoning him, and I’m guessing you’ve already dealt with Alex,” Alina said with what little energy she had left. “Do you think either of them would do the same for you?” “There is no doubt in my mind.” Alex slowly opened the door to the outside. Though he was far away, he was able to see a group of people surrounding Ali-

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PHOTOGRAPHY

ISOLATION

Marco Karakousis ‘22

na and Myles. Never in his life had Alex felt more alone. She didn’t even look for me, he thought. He was broken. All hope to rescue Alina and escape these people left him. Alex felt betrayed. All his life he had been there for her. He took a long look at Alina and Myles and felt nothing. Why risk my life for them if they wouldn’t do the same? he thought. He watched as a figure began pouring a liquid on Myles and Alina. Why should I rescue them? he said to himself. One final look, and he was gone. Alex ran back the way they had come. The cool night air brushed against his skin. Then he heard the screams. He looked back and watched the pole go up in flames, but he kept running. I am not a coward. I am not a coward, he repeated to himself. After what felt like hours of running, he came back to that road, and just like before, there was nothing there. Only this time, he really was alone.

SNOWFLAKE Anay Agarwal ‘23

There lives this thing that I despise That darkens, it brings cold. So please look past its quaint disguise, Forget what you’ve been told. It cumulates and devastates The life it covers up, Which suffocates under its weight. Its purpose to disrupt. It drains the world of her sweet color The second it arrives, And inch by inch it makes her duller. Remorse is how it thrives. As time goes on and it stays strong, The longer it will be ‘Til birds can sing their sweet, old songs In the world they used to see. And even once this plague departs It does not go in peace. Another wave of sorrow starts, The drowning will not cease. Yet people seem to yearn for it Around this time each year

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And to its vastness they submit, To something they should fear.

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Luca Pavlovich ‘23

TREASURES FROM CHINA

Oh why is it so hard to see Past its facade of purity? I’m sure that some agree with me That it lays waste and misery, Restraining every seed and tree And blanketing what’s left of glee!

ZEPHYR

Louis Rosenthal ‘23 OIL AND ACRYLIC ON CANVAS

QUIET NIGHT THOUGHTS – LI BAI Andrew Kang ‘23

There’s a bright gleam at the foot of my bed. The little children in the classroom chant the verses in Mandarin, dressed in small Gap hoodies, Hello Kitty tees, and Adidas. It’s the Tang dynasty poem nearly every Chinese six-year-old knows by heart, “Jing Ye Si.” They’re standing at Chinese school, where anxious immigrant parents send their children in fear that they’ll forget the language when they grow older. I started despising Chinese school at a young age. There, we memorized how to write hundreds of characters and took weekly writing tests. We read obscure stories and poems about mountains and heavens, of rivers and earth, of swallows and monkeys and dragons. I spent weekends reviewing for poetry recitations, studying solely to spare myself the embarrassment of standing among my Chinese classmates and blanking, cheeks burning with shame. But when I headed back to my public elementary school and was asked, “What did you do this weekend?’’ I froze. How would they react to Chinese school if they had held their noses in disgust as I dipped dumplings into black

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vinegar sauce? They were so free from memorizing small characters and unintelligible poetry, so liberated from their skin and heritage. But nevertheless, I responded with the same burning cheeks. “I studied for Chinese school.” Thus, Chinese school, with its burdens and my shame, became the target of my hatred; I begged my mom not to send me there anymore, but my efforts were in vain. Now I laugh along to bad jokes and sip my boba with vague, burdensome feelings swimming in my consciousness. Maybe it’s just frost. I cringe whenever someone says Communist China. It conjures images of famine and red banners. I want to laugh at them and say, “China isn’t communist. I’ve been to China.” And I have. I’ve seen the glimmering skyscrapers, the new Beijing airport, my uncle’s high-rise apartment downtown. I’ve ridden the bullet trains and watched as my grandparents moved out of their rural village into apartments, watched as they held up the QR code scanner on their smartphone to pay for groceries. But that doesn’t alleviate the uneasiness I feel underneath the gray sky. The Instagram infographics certainly don’t either—nor do the social credit scores, the muffling of poets, the yellow umbrellas, or the cultural genocide. My grandma’s favorite CCTV pundits speak in rapid-fire Mandarin about the new world order, free from American tyranny. My five-year-old cousin sings along to her national anthem, waving her own small red banner, dotted with stars. I wonder if she’ll someday be embarrassed to have a relative in the States. And I am awake on my bed, dreaming of a home in the sky.

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When I look up, I see the bright moon. Sesame oil, ginger, scallions, Shaoxing wine—fragrance permeates the air. I sit waiting at the table with my family while the waitress brings out a few dishes. “Chairman Mao’s Red-Braised Pork,” she says, placing a steaming dish onto the Lazy Susan. “Here, have some of this,” my grandfather says. “I bet you haven’t tried it in America.” He spins the tray and places a few pieces onto my plate with steady chopsticks. I stab a piece of pork belly with my fork and sample it in small bites. It’s savory, fatty, and delicious; my mind lingers on its name. I remember asking my grandfather about it later. “Y’know, our country became great under him. Before him, China was so backwards,” he explains. “You see our progress now? It’s thanks to him.” He told me about Mao beating back the Japanese and the Imperialist-backed Kuomintang, uniting China under one banner. About the British colonialism and exploitation of the previous century. About class struggle, about the rural peasants and the urban proletarians uniting in a People’s War. And I wondered if it would be ungrateful to cheer on my parents’ homeland during the Olympics when America had raised me. I lower my head thinking of my hometown. I often try to picture my parents’ dreams of China—the shades of their childhood, the tones of their adolescence, the hues they miss the most. I imagine my mom and her brothers walking to school, navigating through busy street networks. I pic-

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ture my dad in his youth, looking up at the moon in wonder, its glow illuminating the countryside. But when I ask them about it, they shake their heads. “Everything’s changed.” My mom recalls how on our last trip back, she found her old home demolished, the streets renamed, and her neighborhood nearly unrecognizable. When my dad gazed back at the sky, the moon’s outline was only weakly visible underneath layers of smog and light pollution. Some part of me wants to reminisce alongside them, to see my heritage reflected in theirs. But then I remember that my hometown is not provincial China, but white suburbia; I realize that this is what makes me Chinese-American, not Chinese. But what does that mean for my heritage? Is heritage the blood that courses through me, or the dumplings I eat? Is it the stories of my ancestors, or a five on the AP Language and Culture exam? Sometimes, I want to divide my identity—“culture, not politics,” and say that my heritage simply consists of innocuous red packets and moon cakes with little bunnies stamped on them. But then I think back to my family, our history, and our land, and I wonder if I’ll have to deny them as well. I flip between loathing the burdens that I wear and openly embracing them along with their political repercussions. I wonder if I’ll ever strike a balance without rejecting these aspects of my identity, if I’ll ever reach a harmony between yin and yang against the backdrop of an international struggle for global hegemony. But my quiet night thoughts do not contain answers.

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COUNCIL OF FOOD

PHOTOGRAPHY

Abraham Karikkineth ‘24 PHOTOGRAPHY

Roman Kaminski ‘24

EDGE

[Back Cover]

WARM GLOW Benson Harlan ‘21

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