The Phoenix - 2014

THE PHOENIX 2014

Dear Reader, Welcome to the twenty-ninth volume of The Phoenix, Gonzaga’s premier, and only, literature and art review. This issue marks the seventh year since The Phoenix’s revival in 2008, after a ten-year dormancy, by a handful of dedicated Gonzaga students. We, as Editors-in-Chief, are honored to lead The Phoenix through another successful school year.

Though the thriving spirit of artistic creativity which abounds in the Gonzaga community can, at times, be overshadowed by Gonzaga’s rightfully-deserved reputation as an academic leader and an athletic powerhouse, we hope to highlight the diversity and depth of that spirit. The Phoenix would not exist without the extraordinary talent and hard work of the Gonzaga student body. Thank you to all those students who submitted their original poems, short stories, photographs, and artwork.

As you read this issue of The Phoenix, we hope you will recognize the creative talents of your fellow Gonzaga brothers and enjoy the finest literature and art Gonzaga has to offer.

Sincerely, Matt Buckley Joseph L. Dahut Christian Forte

THE PHOENIX 2014 - Volume XXIX Editors In Chief Matt Buckley Joe Dahut Christian Forte

Editorial Committee Thomas Cuddihy Chris Hrdy Johnny McGloon Max McLaughlin Danny Plantamura Kevon Turner

Moderator

Dr. Harry Rissetto

Special Thanks

Ms. Jennifer Carter, Mr. Joe Ross, Mr. Tom Baker, Mr. Matt Duffy, Mr. Joe Sampugnaro, Mr. Rick Cannon, Mrs. Helen Free, Mr. Allan L’Etoile, Mr. Lang Kanai, Mr. Bill Pierce, Mr. Andy Shea, Mr. David Villeta, Ms. Sarah Miller, Mr. John Kilroy, Mr. Patrick Welch, Matt Druckenbrod ‘13, Dominic Plantamura ‘13, Andrew Richard ‘13, John Morabito ‘12, Aaron Clark ‘12, Daniel Sweet ‘12, Tom Robertson ‘11, Matt Weider ‘10, Johannes Schmidt ‘09, Will Felker ‘08, and all those who submitted art and literature for consideration.

Table of Contents Poetry & Literature Matt Buckley Joseph de Lorimier Kevon Turner Matt Buckley Joe Dahut Matt Buckley Joe Dahut John O’Neill

8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 Marc-Anthony Thompson 16 Matt Buckley 17 Matt Buckley 18 19 Matt Buckley 20 Leo Toch 21 Nicholas Zaso 22 Kevon Turner 23 Matt Buckley 24 Joe Dahut 25 Billy McKinnon 26 Griffin Morche 27 Joe Dahut 28 Joe Dahut 29 Griffin Buising 30 Gabriel Castro 31 David Smith 32 William Schultz 33 Joe Dahut 34 Jack Glennon 36 David Smith

Cover Art: Christian Forte

Leo Toch Harrison Hodgkins John C. Cruser Kevon Turner Joseph Sweet Ray McGavin John O’Neill Aaron Aranza Will Wimbish Matt Buckley Jordan Person Colin Wathen Peter Brown Andy Lopez Joey Hamilton Michael Borda Joey D’Achille Will Hofer Joseph Sweet Jack Draddy Joe Dahut Will Gorman Thomas Olmstead Luke Allen Chris Hrdy Matthew Michael Peter Mullholland

37 38 39 40 41 42 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 52 53 54 56 60 61 63 65 67 69 70 73 77 80

Art Christian Forte Christian Muckerman Aidan Madison Aidan Madison Will Hofer Will Hofer Aidan Madison Christian Forte Christian Forte Will Hofer Christian Muckerman Michael Vitale Christian Forte Christian Forte Aidan Madison Christian Muckerman John O’Neill Nick Jenkins Jordan Person Michael Vitale Connor Sharp Christian Forte Matt Green Matt Green Matt Green Matt Green Christian Forte Michael Vitale Christian Muckerman Christian Forte Jordan Person John O’Neill Christian Muckerman Aidan Madison Christian Forte Will Hofer Matt Ratcliffe Michael Vitale Christian Forte Christian Forte

82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121

Ignacio Mata Michael Vitale John O’Neill Michael Gallagher Tyrell Thomas Christian Muckerman Colin Russell Owen Early Carrick O’Reilly Kevon Turner Jabari Greenwood Tom Pulliam Jackson Gillum Woods Connell Duncan MacBride Jackson Gillum Woods Connell Ben Brown Landen Buckson Duncan MacBride Owen Early Mackie Wheeler Justin Myers Jack Renzi Nick Jenkins Aidan Madison Matt Buckley Tyler Rock Christian Forte Christian Forte Jordan Person Christian Forte Christian Muckerman Christian Forte Ulysses Lalor John O’Neill Christian Forte Michael Gallagher Christian Forte

122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160

Dedication As irony would have it – at which Chris would chuckle – on Tuesday, the day of this shocking news, we were doing Bryant’s “Thanatopsis” in class. Never had a poem hit so hard: our colleague of three decades, a man who didn’t know a discouraging word, a man who worked tirelessly eleven months of the nine-month teaching year, a man who singlehandedly built a renowned music program – gone. We don’t question. But we are incalculably sad.

The orchestral niche, at the punctuations of a fresh baton, quivers - a ripple in the salmon wall, blue stained glass gone indistinct.

Rest in Peace, Maestro!

Poetry

7

Matt Buckley

Schwinn A chilled bead of sweat slid down my trembling face in August the asphalt parking lot radiated with heat, seemed like Hell I’m riding that bike, I cry to my dad tries to purge my system of the fear in my bones overwhelmed a little boy adventurous by nature should be riding a bike appeared tame enough until I straddled that patent leather seat held me on this metal death trap with only two wheels felt insubstantial for staying upright with my hands clutching the bars and my feet on the pedals started creaking to life as I felt air rushing past my face, I moved alone with an intense freedom I felt liberated, rescued from the terror of riding a bicycle was a thing of the past would never change, but the future sure did I exclaimed when my mom asked if I rode my bike.

8

Joseph de Lorimier

7 ate 9 Why is Six afraid of Seven?

The cannibalism of their friend, Nine.

But what first created this division.

How far did their differences lie?

Seven was brought up fatherless And used as an object In games like sudoku and chess It must be hard, considered the luckiest number, But to have your older brother as the first, perfect, square.

Or was Seven the puppet, Of Tiresius.

His destiny sealed, A fate akin to Oedipus.

Nine was done But what of his cousins?

6,561 and 81?

Were they afraid of Seven, as well?

Or multiply their forces, and attack in infinite waves.

Consumed with a hatred, as primal as their roots.

9

Kevon Turner

Abstinence Preparing for tonight’s party The most raucous romp With the rowdiest bunch I slip into my favorite gym shorts.

“Better to be overdressed “than under dressed!”

Is Dad’s usual recital But the only thing I ought to accept is his keys Not his admonition Or advice Admiring the young mirror man Mimicking his smile And the subtle smugness Of his smirk My shorts sag a bit Drooping carelessly It’s fine; I leave it.

Mother looks on in near horror I tie my shorts for her sake They still sag To her visible Dissatisfaction She takes a hands-on approach For her handsome young lad And assembles the tightest knot in the history of mankind 10

Later on at the venue When my departure is imminent With a “female friend” in tow My friend mouths “you’re in” We approach my vehicle With a mutual understanding Of youthful misconduct She clutches my arm I reach down for my car keys And my eyes catch sight of The tightest knot In the history of mankind

Matt Buckley

Frugality When life gives us lemons, we store them in a safe.

Lemonade has become too risky an investment.

Though sugar, water, and freshly-squeezed juice combined with love and ice, poured in a pitcher, may not yield dividends enough to profit, they will taste sweet when sipped carefree.

In a safe, the lemons mold, locked away from the world, shriveled and dry, never to release their bitter juice before unfulfilled decomposition.

Sugar and water alone won’t cut it.

11

Joe Dahut

Best Friend Don’t wait for me when I go.

The collar won’t jingle anymore when you open the door.

Lay me down as my whisker twitch keeps beat with the tears drumming the hardwood floor that you worked so hard to clean when I was a puppy.

Take my collar off, and throw it away, so that phantom jingle won’t haunt you when you open the door.

12

Matt Buckley

Letter from Thomas Jefferson to Benjamin Banneker - August 30, 1791 A Found Poem SIR, — your letter contained more than nature has given to black men, the appearance of them is degraded in America.

I can add with truth, that no body wishes to see a good condition both of their body & mind; it ought to be neglected.

I have taken the liberty of your society, because I considered your whole colour a most obed’t humble serv’t.

13

Joe Dahut

Jesus Christ is Homeless “Come on man, I’m homeless. I’m hungry.”

That man was Jesus Christ: alcohol the cross carried since sophomore year.

I pass him a nail shaped like a five dollar bill.

I drive his fate into his palm with my hammer of a hand.

He smiles with shame, “God Bless, man.”

Jesus Christ is homeless.

There he stands, resurrected from his concrete destiny.

Transforming his life from water to wine.

Smashing the shackles of alcoholism allows him to taste the sweet nectar of the words, “God is my only satisfaction.”

Because a man is a man, regardless of his actions.

Loving the man, destitute makes him a part of the Kingdom to come, because a child of God is a brother to me, no matter how far he’s gone.

14

John O’Neill

Betty Betty called. i think there are some rats here, could you come help me set my trap? i can’t get it, my hands shake too much, she said, in a voice that shook too. we’ll be right over. i nod at my dad. there is only one star in the early twilight sky. betty’s house is less than a hundred feet away, but the silence as we walk over stretches the distance into a trek. my father’s knees moan as they walk the path to her door, uneven with lack of use. he sighs— it’s hard, growing old betty cracked the door open, curious and afraid, and looked at us with one eye, her face softly pressed against the space between the door and the wall. i’m sorry to bother you like this. we reassure her, cooing softly that we don’t mind, it’s no problem, we’re happy to help! she just needs a little help every once in a while, she says. we stand awkwardly

by the door for a few moments until my dad asks about the mouse trap. she seems to awaken, as if she had forgotten why she called us here, lost in the calm daydream of human contact it takes my dad less than a minute, but we stay there longer, asking if she needs anything else, painfully aware that this is the only interaction she gets. we talk aimlessly until eventually my dad says we should go. she sees us out with the same anxious interest with which she let us in. we walk silently for a while.

There are a few more stars out now, but i can still tell which one was first. my dad looks up, and sighs— it’s hard, growing old alone.

15

Marc-Anthony Thompson

Flan da Man You da Man…….

This trio of words, these eight letters, showed that “da man” himself respected you.

What man you ask? Flan da Man. 1982 @ Gonzaga College High School, marks the day the music department on Eye Street would Take the A train, steam rolling to perfection.

Man, Mentor, Maestro………

CTF could flick his baton and seize ultimate control over a group of rambunctious teenage boys.

Chatter ceased to exist within Room 126 come 2:05 pm, Eastern Time.

All musicians warming up would noodle, play scales and arpeggios, even sweet melodies But, when CTF stepped on “the box” it was like the calm before the storm.

With the single strike of a note, Flan was able to discern a problem and fix it pronto.

With close attention paid and little time Flan was able to work towards 99.99 and so on percent.

Flan devoted himself to the music of Eye Street He put his Heart and Soul into the Band CTF………YOU DA MAN!!!

16

Matt Buckley

Descent My subconscious slips on the gravel of a dream and falls off the cliff of reality, pulled by gravity toward a ground which does not physically exist, but instills fear nonetheless.

Impact arrives with a bodily jerk, a reaction to nothing.

I wake up sweating, peering into the impenetrable darkness surrounding my box spring comfort, my cotton warmth.

Before my eyes can focus on the blood red digits across the room, the warden of the night reclaims me, returning me to unconsciousness.

17

Matt Buckley

Parents I hose down the grass so it will grow strong and tall why must it turn brown?

18

Matt Buckley

Foliage I walk alone among giants, these bark and branch guardians loom over me protecting me from myself, for I think too much, they tell me.

Whispering leaves soothe me with words, provoked to speech by the encouraging wind.

The trees go silent from time to time, beckoning me to speak to them.

I do not know what to say. When I speak my words sound like steaming alphabet soup poured through a funnel into the air, but the trees nod their boughs in understanding.

19

Leo Toch

Winter’s Wane Wherefore doth the morning lark sleep In unconfinéd wings?

Aeolian coves, where Boreas blows, And swift thrush bidden sings, O’er green vines, which sneaking slow Abundantly still creep.

The knolls behind a mossy gate Hidden treasures lock.

And all kites do, through fearless blue On its sloping door do knock.

But timeless roots, hold fast and true – The Hills shall unabated.

Attentions flit to chokéd stream As all God’s creatures flew.

Its laughing whine, running fine, Charm life as children grew.

Rosy Dawn, my heart is thine!

The radiance of thy youth, Saving clothed uncouth, Shall forever redeem.

20

Nicholas Zaso

Life in a Glass House Life is a glass house The engineer could make a mistake, The Earth could shake and make it break, A rock could fall and shatter it all, A brutal hack and the whole wall will crack, People judge your pigment, causing your roof to fragment, A fissure could appear from words insincere, Its glossy sheen is like a dream that cannot be re-dreamt.

21

Kevon Turner

Frankenstein The sun an unfamiliar sight Its light a foreign language Longing to bask in its pristine gold I cast away my indulgent dreams I’ve grown accustomed to the dusk Its somber, sobering embrace I’ve come to terms with it’s muzzle Its apologetic lack of faith A mother gasps Her husband scowls Their children regard me With unashamed awe The tears that retreat down my visage Sink into the cuts and there remain And the piercing sting of sorrow Only serves to amplify the burden My sole companion, despair And I would not dare Crack the subtlest of smiles Revealing my heart trudges on My foul heart, with motives similar Stubbornly counters my desire Despite my efforts to tell it be still To roll over, stay there, expire And here I stand, trembling Haphazard composite of horrors Back bent, dangling arms, That haggard Frankenstein

22

Matt Buckley

A Hole in Connecticut In memory of the victims of the December 14th, 2012 shootings in Newtown, CT Noxious cold blood drove to the grade school with a penchant for more, after making certain Mrs. Lanza would never wake up. Age garnered no respect in the classrooms, which tasted death served by .223 Bushmaster and 9mm SIG Sauer; he saved the Glock for himself.

For twenty-seven faultless, First grade became hopelessly last.

23

Joe Dahut

City Walking through jungles, overpopulation of spider webs, weaving a gate into the wilderness, guaranteeing fulfillment through simplicity.

The highways clog up my humanity. Whatever is left of me, is already concrete.

Cemented spider webs on which I travel daily.

The city’s culture devours. I am the mouse to the vulture.

24

Billy McKinnon

Anaphora There was terror as I watched the discrete Water Moccasin slide between the rocks as I walked over them.

There was a rush of Adrenaline as I pulled the trigger propelling the bullet into the snake’s skull.

There was no strength left as I fought the White Marlin trying to swim away and escape with his life.

There was pain coursing through my arm as the dog sank his teeth into my hand.

There was a feeling of accomplishment as I dove into the pool rescuing the turtle from the chemical filled water.

There was regret as I hit the frog with the baseball bat ending it’s life for no reason.

There was curiosity as I caught the Rat Snake, wanting to make it my pet and keep it forever.

There was nausea as I watched my dad behead a rat that was found in the living room, with a shovel.

There was surprise as I watched the bear run across the road trying to find it’s family.

There was a feeling of excitement as I chased the raccoon away from my house.

There was entertainment as I watched the fish break the surface of the bay, launching themselves as if they were trying to escape to land.

There was envy as I watched the beautiful cardinal fly from tree to tree without a care in the world.

There was sadness as I saw the diseased baby deer take its final steps before falling to the ground and concluding it’s short life.

There was confusion as I watched a goose standing still in a field alone, as if it was a decoy.

And there was shock as I watched the skate skim across the water looking for food.

25

Griffin Morche

Simpler Days On Fridays, Mrs. Roger let us have class outside on the beach but the other weekdays were awfully boring My friends and I used to get there early in the morning And when we heard the bell ring, we ran inside so we weren’t late The schoolhouse was a one room pink box with six windows, a chalkboard, and a door Well, the windows were really just holes in the wall cause they weren’t made of glass All of our desks were aligned in a circle - All, that is, but two Tommy Redick and his best friend Sam Haynes were always getting into trouble and had to sit in the corner most days It was always cramped in there, and sometimes I just couldn’t breathe After school me and my best friend Mike Talbit ran home We took the shortcut through the alley behind the grocery store so the bullies wouldn’t catch us The front door of my house was always unlocked and dinner was always on the table I swear the only thing that got me through were those Fridays The sound of the waves in the ocean and the feeling of sand under my feet

26

Joe Dahut

Nelson I’ll keep looking out these bars expecting a different sun to shine tomorrow.

I’m still in prison, and the people still suffer, without me.

I’m living for the sun to set each night.

But a part of me dies when that sun rises.

I know when I see that sun, somewhere, the people still suffer.

I’m taking hours in doses of days because I know I won’t be home anytime soon.

And the people still suffer without me.

27

Joe Dahut

Stones Seated, I look at you drowning yourself in the newspaper, amidst a blackened beverage.

You sit alone, I sit alone.

With your every move I jump, as though you skip stones across my stomach.

After every rock there is relief, and suddenly, you leave me, while my ripple begins to cease.

But you won’t throw another rock, you are gone, I sit alone.

28

Griffin Buising

Activity There was the conspicuous grin that crept across my lips as my grandmother sang “sizzling sausages.”

There was the fleeting sparkle in my eyes as I beheld my newborn puppy for the first time.

There was the intense burning sensation that lingered as I gnawed on the spiciest wings I could get my tiny hands on.

There was the blinding, skull-splitting pain in my head as mono nonchalantly made its way through my bloodstream.

There was the distinct chill in the winter air that signified grief for another death.

There was the soft pitter-patter of a dog’s paws as I happily threw it a slobbery tennis ball.

There was the rapid pumping of blood in my veins before I stepped on to the bright stage.

There was the coursing of adrenaline throughout my body as the coaster suspended me upside-down in my seat.

There were the familiar faces laid out before me at the dining table every year during Thanksgiving.

There was the giddy anticipation I had for the man in black and white to throw the jump ball skywards.

There was the eardrum-rending noise as the monster trucks flew over the old, rundown cars.

There was the ecstasy that made me want to run and shout when the final buzzer sounded at the end of the championship game, signaling our victory.

There was the extreme excitement jumping around inside of me while I impatiently awaited the arrival of my favorite cousins.

There was the tentativeness in my walk as I left my mother’s arms and got on to the school bus for my first day of school.

There was the blithe feeling in my chest as I sang my favorite songs again and again.

And there were the light kisses of grass upon my body as I lay staring up at the clouds, wondering what it would be like to fly in the sky.

29

Gabriel Castro

The Saint in the Quad The Resolute who here resides, Cold his Skin, yet Warm his Eyes.

Weathered boys dare not defy The largest of Men, though little in size.

Gesture of amity and clothing so meek The Heart of this Preacher starts drumming a Beat.

He Blinks surreptitiously Arms animated and broad– When no attention is paid to The Saint in The Quad.

30

David Smith

Choices Do I look left or do I look right Which one do I decide?

Should it be blue or green Or striped or plain Which one do I decide?

Should it be tight or loose Or collared or straight Which one do I decide?

Or does it matter at all if I can’t decide Because I’m blind to see that it’s right there in front of my eyes.

31

William Schulz

Insecticide A summer’s day Full of wonder, full of opportunity I lie on a hill My face towards the blue sky While grass tickles my bare back The serenity of a summer afternoon Interrupted

By One

Tiny

Creature A mosquito lands on my nose Chattering to itself during its feast I flick him off, and a search ensues I find him on a single stone Writhing frantically, like a wounded soldier My face, the battlefield My finger, Little Boy My day of peace was gone Ruined By the deed I had done.

32

Joe Dahut

Pill Popper Pablo Pop Pop Pop Pablo can’t stop because he won’t sleep without them.

Dreams don’t have the chance to come true without his little blue bottle of helpers.

Goodnight Pablo, sleep in heavenly peace.

33

Jack Glennon

A Day’s Work The plane maintained its altitude Its speed And its course Of course Outside the window was blue The powder blue of the cloudless sky met The green blue of the still ocean.

Too much blue if you ask me Trans-Atlantic flights are boring A wait in the doctor’s office in the sky A math class 30,000 miles in the air The airport was grimy and hot Newspapers and coffee cups Strewn about The chatter was deafening Tourists excited to see DC Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln DC is boring A whole bunch of marble Sculpted in different ways Is still just a bunch of marble Monuments are a waste of time Like incessant social media Or reality TV With a flick of my wrist I opened the cab door The smell of sweaty gym clothes Greeted me So did my driver,

34

Abdul.

He wanted to talk about his kids His hobbies His life People’s lives are boring Millions of people are living millions of lives So why should I care that Abdul’s son Is an All-Met wrestler?

Or that his family’s dog passed away?

People are annoying A crying baby in a crowded room A spam email chain.

The red brick building Could be an office Or a parking garage But I can sense something is off I can always tell with hospitals.

They just Feel different.

Inside it is quiet And dark The waiting room is empty One lone nurse dozes off behind the front desk I slip past her Room 202 is my destination I’m getting closer

I can tell Room 202 is cold The thermostat is set at 60 degrees The room is bare Featureless walls One window One bed A nightstand.

In the bed is an old lady Mrs. Marissa Moses, 83 years old.

Widow.

Mother of 2.

Grandmother of 7.

Her breath is raggedy and short I stand over her bed And stare at her a while.

This part is not boring.

It is not a waste of time It is not annoying.

I love this part.

Finally, it is time.

Right on schedule.

1:03 am.

I tap her on the shoulder.

She awakes with a shudder.

Her eyes meet mine They are glazed over But they see me for who I truly am She smiles faintly and looks over my shoulder I take her hand She breaths her last I leave the room, Palming her soul Like a coin in my hand.

35

David Smith

The Man Behind the Face He walks around all day With his head up high He talks to everybody in the hallway And will never give you the mean face But is he really happy?

He’s the star on the team Twenty-one D1 offers And always has a smile after A big play But is he really happy?

He goes home And you don’t see that Person anymore Can we really tell if someone’s suffering?

36

Leo Toch

Wicked Irony Shallow heart, do not grieve, do not dare weep, Though organic Eros in chainhood now keep.

He may tear laden dew from unfettered eyes, Still: is such bitter regret such surprise?

Scornful He laughs; mask the foul glee afar.

Easy knowledge, truly, that the easiest scar To bear in one’s pocket is worn on one’s sleeve – Steady now! Soon He’ll reprieve!

Marginal joy equals marginal disdain, Gloried in lessers’ poor pitfalls of pain.

Twisted and buried, yet polished and kept, Who’s laughing now, when all souls have wept?

37

Harrison Hodgkins

Takoma Park Soccer There was the tingling excitement and anticipation of the coming game as we stretched and warmed up.

There was the dirt underneath my fingernails after picking it out of my black and white Adidas cleats.

There was the rubbery, sweaty smell of the goalie gloves everyone wanted to try on.

There was the guilt and regret when I let an opposing attacker brisk by me swiftly and score.

There was the sigh of relief I exhaled whenever the ball was cleared out of our defensive third.

There was the sense of electricity in the air that created for me a pulsing, new-found energy, charging my veins.

There was the beaded sweat that trickled down my temples and legs, mixing with the brown dirt.

There was the gargling and swooshing of the halftime water our moms rushed over from the opposite sideline.

There was the yelling and cheering of the sometimes overenthusiastic parents, testing how far they could approach the field without being yelled at by the ref.

There was the camaraderie we as teammates felt as we highfived each other after scoring a goal.

There was the feeling of being rushed as I frantically tied my shoelaces in the middle of the game.

There was the interest and the laughs we experienced as we talked about something completely unrelated to the match.

There was the disciplinary shout of my coach whenever I fooled around too much.

There was the delicious juice of fresh oranges Mrs. Copeland brought for the team after the game.

And there was the longing all of us felt for the next Saturday where we would band together once again and defeat our next opponent.

38

John C. Cruser

Patience, Precision, Power Tap down, Blades rise out of the water In perfect unison.

The shafts bend As they try to move the water.

Legs slam down, straight.

Inside hands twist, Blades hover over the water Like birds flying gracefully.

Arms straight Backs still motionless But ready to move.

Hands push away, slowly With a mastered patience.

Still, perfect unison.

Backs pivot all at once, Arms pull in straight Keeping the blade buried.

Bodies swing like a pendulum.

Legs stay down, waiting. . .

Backs straight.

Water rushing underneath, Boat gaining speed As the blades rip through the water.

Legs begin to bend, gradually.

Shoulders rotate Hands begin to twist Arms lift Blades lower toward the water Legs still bending Arms still rising Blades feeling for the water, Gravity pulls the blades down.

The murky water Swallows the blades in.

Direction changes. . .

Blades locked in, Just under the calm Surface of the water.

Feet push against the foot plate, Backs straight, and strong, Blades push against the water.

Handle reaches the chest, Nowhere to go. . .

The hands tap down All at once Careful to pull the blade Out of the water quickly.

Hands twist Arms away Bodies over Legs up Hands up Blade in Legs push Bodies pivot Arms pull Tap down. . .

- - - Repeat - - -

39

Kevon Turner

Questions Who are you?

A question to ponder Sinner, student Son, scholar.

At times a leader Other times a follower.

A work in progress With boundless potential Showing brilliant promise.

Struggling to find comfort While remaining modest.

From point A to B Traversing violent seas, The currents of his mind Dictate who he wants to be.

The redeemed one, The esteemed one, The one who called His name, Purified by His flame.

The modern disciple A religious revolution In a secular time Of judges, juries, executions A time when we distance ourselves From the religious institutions A time of fear, a time of folly A time of persecution.

Who is St. Ignatius of Loyola?

A man with a profound sense of self Who founded a society And named it after someone else.

A noble man Who found a cause that was nobler After a cannonball Nearly bowled him over.

He welcomed God’s grace To bless and amaze Dispelling the haze That once obscured His face.

Many questions are essential to me.

Who are you?

Who is He? Who do you want to be?

What path do you follow?

Do you tread it warily?

Are you not of greatness Because you simply don’t care to be?

Who are you?

A blank slate?

A light feather with potential To bear a tank’s weight?

40

When I’m at my lowest I put the mirror in front of me “Today is a new day” “Who do you want to be?”

Joseph Sweet

Graphic World of Bits A pulsating wave ripples with ecstatic electricity, cradling me into my new life.

Here, I fear nothing.

Bone biting bullets bounce harmlessly off my chest.

Striding forward to deal a swift strike, I sneer in the face of death.

Graphic world of bits.

Piece me together, Make me whole.

41

Ray McGavin

The House in the Seaside Town The house was old, a brown, wooden relic that smelled of the thick layers of gray dust that had accumulated over forty years of use and looked like a cabin that could be found deep in some wood in the wild.

The house was a musty wonderland that used to be roamed by dogs, children, men, and women who were forced to move on because they grew too old to spend time in a wooden house in a bright seaside town.

The house was a piece of art, its walls covered in minimalistic artistic views of the natural world; the house was a museum of watercolor beach scenes, the ocean an odd shade of turquoise or dark blue.

The house was a collection of many colored bikes that had all been used by children, who rode them to the shore where the people milled about in the hot summer sun, thinking of maybe going into the ocean for a while.

The house was filled with young children’s broken toys and board games that remained the same as the children had grown older, forgetting old playthings because of their newfound uselessness.

The house was full of traces of the families that had once resided the humid summers inside its thick log walls; salt crusted beach towels and spoiled food were reminders of the shared ownership between the families.

The house was a third party, a watchman; it carefully kept the gossip, the scandals, and the anecdotes that would keep being told until, with time, they finally faded from the world.

The house was on a thin, gray road that winded through dark hallways of tall maple trees inhabited by small creatures searching for warmth in the sun, an escape from the darkness of the forest.

42

The house was near a bay where thousands of black crabs the size of pebbles scuttled around gray rocks, hurriedly trying to avoid their ghastly ends at the hand of a larger predator that only ate to survive.

The house was in a seaside town, where boardwalk shops sold strange new things to gaping, glazed eyed children who had never once seen anything so alien and different in their hometowns which seemed so far away at the time.

The house was in such a place as to observe the ocean, its windows catching the sun glaring at the hard gray surf, which was covered with people from distant places where the sea was but a rumor.

The house was knowledgeable of tropic storms, and when the lights blacked out, the families gathered round small candles and their eyes all turned black, lit only by the glittering yellow flicker.

The house was near a boardwalk covered with games and attractions, where occasionally a loud man would stand above all on a box and advertise, “Everyone goes home a winner,� though one seldom did.

The house was a trigger for nostalgia; it was impossible for a family member to enter the house and not remember some time that had been spent inside its walls, enjoying the house in its entire splendor.

The house was caught in a time period long gone and subject to the damages of time and tragedy, and as the years fly by and the family waves good bye, the house stands in its seaside town, with the boardwalk and the bay and the ocean all remaining constant, despite their fleeting nature.

43

John O’Neill

Roar in the thousands of tiny crashes of the post-performance flurry i thought i recognized it. i brushed an elbow and heard a laugh and glimpsed a face, and i saw in that face the only thing any of us have left in common. i see hundreds of miniature adults, over-caffeinated, under-slept, over-worked, driven by an unnerving energetic fire, a sweaty honey-sweet electricity, craving the addiction of spiritual self-annihilation with bursts of furious drunk sexual tension, i see primal self-hatred and drowning in isolation, the frantic grasp of insecurity and the tenuous hormonal bonds that result, less of attraction than of a mutual desire to stay afloat in an ocean that churns and swallows like our tormented brains, 44

i see the electric fireworks of commercialized love in neon and self-aggrandizing paranoia, the fast religion of the bloody technological revolution of which we are all simultaneously devotees and casualties, i see faith that doesn’t trust and knowledge that doesn’t think and passion that doesn’t burn, anger that doesn’t act and love that doesn’t feel and lives that never live but then, i see a girl. and she sees me. and i forget everything i thought i saw.

Aaron Aranza

Hawaii I remember the Hawaiian sunset, a vivacious orb of orange that thoroughly shames its Virginian counterpart.

I remember the sea breeze, gentle gusts of wind that carry away your troubles to some faraway land.

I remember the mountains, tall giants forever doomed to reach for a sky that will never come down.

I remember the cool touch of the rain, an inconstant guest who stays just long enough to renew the luscious green fields.

I remember the waves, wild things engaged in a nonstop battle for supremacy against the shore.

I remember the dirt trails, infinite pathways leading to your private refuge from the world.

I remember the palm trees, slender dancers swaying to a tune that only they can hear.

I remember the mangoes, and the pure ecstasy of liquid gold running down your throat.

I remember the roosters, creatures so enamored of the day that they welcome it with a resounding crow.

I remember the fish, all frantically swimming about to fulfill some task we’ll never know.

I remember the honu, majestic turtles emerging from the sea only to nap on a bed of white sand.

I remember the firecrackers, brilliant bursts of color that illuminate the darkness and chase away evil.

I remember my surfboard, my personal glider to fly across the sea.

I remember Hawaii, and my heart longs for it every day.

45

Will Wimbish

School Daze Across the passage and over the yard, beyond the sandy playground they came.

Down the alley there was a noise as feet rushed to the elementary school in spring.

Through the glass the teachers could see the boys in blue and the girls in pink shuffling along.

Two lagged behind, but they raced to catch up as they approached the open front school entrance.

Down the hall, past the fountain, and through the frame of the classroom door they all strode.

Circling the area without making a sound and sliding into desks at a quarter of eight.

Then the morning bell shattered the silence as they all sat up in their seats.

I read my paper aloud.

46

Matt Buckley

Misfortune at Bryant’s Grocery For Emmett Till In the Mississippi Delta, justice is best served white on black, cold as the waters in the Tallahatchie, but you figured this out for yourself.

The slam of a pick-up truck door, your cries for help, the sinking of a cotton gin fan, tied to your neck, landing in a river.

We see your face, reshaped by hate, and it reminds us: You helped bring justice to the country that killed you.

47

Jordan Person

Fear Paralyzed by what tomorrow could bring He played Xbox and didn’t worry ‘bout a thing ‘cause every little thing, was gonna be alright, He thought as he casually logged into the website Under status he read ‘decision’ ‘Sorry, we can not offer you admission’

48

Colin Wathen

Take Warning Take warning those younger than I The Junior that sits and ponders Constant Calculations and Worries The work may be hard but the numbers; they never lie.

Does the formidable number soar above the White four clouds, or lurk deep beneath the green and murky threes.

It’s Movement tantamount to pushing a mountain up a large hill.

The younger your body the easier it is.

All met, National Merit, President Vice President and secretary.

Once honorable positions now only boxes on a checklist.

Striving for the class summit is tenuous and backbreaking, only if you start your ascension late.

To young nine to wise and departing twelfth.

Take advice from those who have not traveled correctly.

Those who scratch and slip up the mountain.

Be even, work both smarter and harder.

To toil and scramble is no way to learn on Eye Street.

49

Peter Brown

Anaphora There was the dark, dank sheet of gray spread across the sky, hiding its melancholy, while miles below, small trickles of rain danced along the pavement, lighting the world in a subtle, yet peaceful way.

There was the whir of chains spinning, my bike sailing down the road, carrying me away from my father's guidance, the wind gliding past my face, while powerful balance of fear and excitement filled me.

There was the hopeless feeling of seeing my brothers grow up with me, as they towered over me, every day becoming bigger, stronger and taller than I, looking to me as a child when I knew I had no less intellect than them.

There was the daunting terror of loneliness and helplessness as I became nothing more than a face in the crowd, separated from my mother, the swarm of people oblivious to helping me, feeling as if I was cast like a stick in the woods and being swept down by the creek into the unknown.

There was the surge of strength welling up inside me as I crash my foot down on the road, ripping the life out of God's innocent and harmless creation, feeling a small sense of power that I had never known before.

There was the delicate harmony of resting at my mother's side, my mind drifting slowly into a blissful utopia of peace, where my imagination can run free from chains my body is bound to on Earth.

There was the cold, tight grip around my heart, swelling with a pulsating anxiety, binding me to the floor as I gazed over the balcony of a spiraling tower to see a bustling metropolis stretching far below, a sight that my very body could not handle.

There was the Sun's golden beams of light, filled with a royal elegance, as they seeped through the ivory bundles of clouds, unleashing spotlights onto the world sent from God himself.

There were the mix-matched pile of LEGO erupting out of many boxes, my mind buzzing with excitement with all the one-of-a-kind masterpieces that I could make out of simple 50

bricks, just to take it apart and make something completely different the next day.

There was the enigma of the Eucharist, of having God in my mouth, filling me with peace and tranquility, of walking hand in hand with my Lord and savior.

There was the pride I felt when my father was resting his hand on my shoulder, standing tall above me as I tried to stand tall like him, hoping to feel the slightest feeling of manhood.

There was the empathy I felt for the sick and homeless man begging for change from my father, as I hid behind a black sheet of glass, my heart weighing more than a thousand moons, invisible to the poor man, who was simply trying to get money for his supper.

There was the lifeless corpse of my uncle showing before me, whom I had never known, though my body surrenders to uncontrollable weeping as my family bids him farewell.

There was the complete isolation from the world while lying next to my father in the forest, the only light coming from the stardust spread throughout the sky, as I felt the heartbeat of nature echo up and through every living thing in the woods, all while a meaningful silence hung in the air, gently putting me to sleep.

51

Andy Lopez

Tick Tock The field of rich green grass with its morning dew droplets trickle down between the fine grooves of each blade eventually withering into brittle brown blades like straw crushed under the weight of any object.

The water rushes and rolls over the sand, swishing slowly and subtly, forming swirling shapes, clumping the sand, and eroding the rocks transforming all into a darker, duller shade.

The great stone statues crumble into dust and rubble as the wind whips its wrathful gusts.

Over Time, the loud excited chatter of a birth evolves into somber, heartfelt weeping at a funeral.

Time flickers from healing wounds and yet at the same time breaking hearts.

And though the clock may seem to strike endlessly, There will ultimately be just one more chime.

52

Joey Hamilton

Headphones Buds blossom into enveloping sound Protecting my mind from all that’s around me Beats and melody are constant All songs can repeat Life cannot repeat No need for conversations Not when music serves a better purpose Synth and guitars are constant All songs can repeat Life cannot repeat Cords can get tangled Like words and life and talking Pure escape is constant All songs can repeat Life cannot repeat Escape is not eternal Peace can come unplugged Life itself is constant All songs can be stopped Life cannot be stopped.

53

Michael Borda

Ignatius Hundreds pass him daily, But he stays when they all go.

He remains a scholar, When we can’t because of snow.

Friendly face in the courtyard, He stays standing with a smile.

Injuries make this standing hard, But he sure has been standing for a while.

He seems like he wants to talk, But nobody has the time.

One day I’ll sit and let everyone else walk To show him that he has mine.

I sat down with him and waited He never said a thing.

I learned the statue isn’t special, It’s about the story the statue sings.

The story of a soldier, and son of a king Who’s life takes an awful twist.

He takes the good out of a very bad thing And learns he is truly blessed.

The statue doesn’t say a word, But there is a meaning behind it.

It means put your faith in the lord, if there is good he’ll help you find it.

54

Literature

55

Joey D’Achille

Human Graduation This is my day. Again. This is my day. I’ve been working for this for as long as I can remember. This should be the happiest day of my life. Unfortunately, that makes it---at least according to them---the second happiest day of my parent’s life. The happiest being my birth. Again, so they say.

I sit on this hot, sunlit platform wearing a gleaming black robe. The robe fits me like a tarp over a car; well enough, but only because there is no shape that it could not fit. I’m surrounded by people wearing the same, one-size-fits-all robe. I linger in my chair surrounded by my peers who stand out as a glimmering black figure of success, but on me I know the robe looks unbefitting.

In the long rows and columns of fold out chairs atop the inexplicably green field, I spot my family. They are seven rows back in the left section. My father sits in the center aisle seat, mom two chairs to his right, and my older sister, Angela, divides them. My parents split before I stopped breastfeeding, but after I was born. Bad timing: splitting with a new born baby. But after knowing them for twenty-six years, I can’t fathom how they stayed together long enough to raise my sister. Seriously, I do not believe that my mother birthed Angie. I am convinced that they adopted her as an older child around the time I was born.

I do my best not to make serious eye contact with either of my parents. I succeed only because my father’s blue and paisley tie catches my attention. I recognize the small silk diamonds that run up the tie. And even though I cannot see it from where I was sitting, I know there is a small char mark on the end point of the tie. I know it is there because I made that mark. I dropped a bummed cigarette on it during my first college visit, a mistake he quickly forgave.

Father made me dress up for the visit and gave me his favorite tie so that I could “properly introduce myself to any professor or faculty member I happen upon.” I remember when he was putting that god damned tie on me, because he wouldn’t let me do it myself, he said “I have ten rules for 56

earning success in the college process. Firstly…”

“Dad” I interrupted.

He corrected me “father.”

“Father” I said with a sigh “I shouldn’t need your ten commandments.”

He sternly replied “And I don’t need your sarcasm, rules are a serious matter.”

He proceeded to tell me each of his ten rules in serious detail. They seemed so obvious, except for the first three which were respectful formalities towards people of authority that I never much cared for. I probably would have followed all of these rules without his sermon, but because he spoke with such warranted and absolute authority, I became anxious, and the first thing I did when I got away from him was bum a cigarette from a bear of a man at the bus stop.

Sitting, waiting for the bus, I milked my cigarette, which tasted Turkish to me. With each drag I felt the stress subside. And with each second I sat I felt myself age.

The bus arrived with a sudden screeching stop and the cigarette plummeted to the tie from my mouth. I saw it all happen, but instead of panicking to get it off, I watched the glowing orange turn the silk blue and paisley into a hardened black. It reminded me of my mother telling me, “Finding beauty in the dark is a gift.” I’m not sure what she meant by it, but it makes sense to me more often than I would admit.

As I got up to get on the bus, the cigarette fell off me. The bus ride to the college was long and throughout it I looked at the tie with guilt. I decided to listen to my father’s rules out of recompense and now, eight years later I am graduating from that very college.

Father was right, because he is always right. Following his rules was no mistake. Something to which my mom would respond, “Mistakes spice up life, child.”

Applause erupts as the Valedictorian, some blonde medical student with a massive chin and tiny nose who I have never seen before, walks to the podium. My father 57

claps powerfully and respectfully. My mom doesn’t clap. She doesn’t know this guy, so why should she? She is here for her son and nothing more. I guarantee it. I stop looking at her hands, which are draped right over left, and look up at her face. Her mouth smirks while her eyes look deviously through me. She makes this face to single me out. It is the kind of face you make at a girl across the room so that her surroundings melt and time freezes. I imagine this is how she met my father. Alternatively, my parent’s marriage may have made her this way; driven and conniving. I only know them post-marriage, but from what I do know, my mom grants perspective, where my father gives rules and advice.

I remember on my eighteenth birthday my mom asked me “do you feel different?” And without a thought I replied, “Not in the slightest.” She let out a laugh of approval and said, “Good, because you’re not, but you will be. You are being granted freedoms that you didn’t have before. Freedom is where a person thrives and develops. That’s why if it were up to me you would have the equivalent rights of a twentyone year old when your short hairs grow.” The part before the “short hairs” comment hits me on every birthday and in times like now when it feels appropriate to look back on my life.

Father wanted me to follow in his footsteps and become a doctor. He is both a medical doctor and a psychiatrist. It fits his demeanor, with his booming voice that silences a room.

For the last ten years or so he has had thick white hair and a full white beard. People sometimes call him Santa, but I don’t think it quite fits, Santa is too jolly. Santa gives. My father controls. For a long time I planned on becoming a doctor, but as I went through high school, the sciences and arts poached my scholarly attentions. Art and science is my mom’s territory.

Mom is and engineer and an architect. She has sold dozens of life size sculptures, and always does the art for the buildings she designs. She can’t sit still, and is very 58

competitive. She steals jobs from other architects, I suspect, through bribery of one form or another. She fits into her world of art and creation even better than my father does in his world of medicine.

My mom lives for an audience. She has flowing blonde hair and pale skin the shines. She was made for the spotlight. In her many fields of expertise she has received several awards and most of her acceptance speeches consisted of something along the lines of, “why do anything if you are not the best at it? But more than that, why be the best at anything unless everyone knows? So thank you for realizing.”

In a sort of middle ground between my parents, I double majored in psychology and sociology. After a bachelor’s degree in that, I did two years for an associate’s degree in anthropology. For the last two years I studied abroad in Africa, Europe and Asia; a total of 7 countries. And today I am graduating with my final degree, linguistics.

I hear my name called from the front of the stage by our short, fat dean. I smile, stand, grab my diploma, and shake his sweaty hand. I look at my family, this time making the eye contact that they deserve. In this time I admit to myself that I have no idea what I am going to do with my life, but I know I won’t be either of my parents. I sit down happy, diploma in hand.

59

Will Hofer

Changing at Sea The waves were taller than the ship. The Captain kept yelling over the whistling wind and splashing water, “Keep her straight!” The waves sent the ship up until the black sky was all you could see, and then it fell, sending a splash into the air. The old ship groaned at the torture. A crowbar used in opening the crates was sliding back and forth on floor.

There were only three of us on the bridge, Captain Peters, a crew member named Paul Garcia, and myself. The water was dripping off our faces and rain jackets. The Midway only had eight crew members, making it on the smaller side of a container ship. The other six crew members were below deck attending to the cargo.

“Captain! Captain Peters! We need to turn around. If we turn around now, we can still miss the storm, sir. She can’t make it,” I yelled.

“No! We’ll press on. I won’t let a little wind scare me!”

Captain Peters said staring unwavering over the bow with a small smile showing through his white beard.

We were already four days late due to poor conditions.

Waiting for the storm to pass would have set us back too far in the opinion of Captain Peters. Valencia, Spain was still five days away.

“Sir, the ship can’t make it. This is suicide!” I said.

“I made you Lieutenant because I thought you had balls.

Listen to me, and shut up! Garcia, are we still headed East?”

“No, sir. The wind from the south keeps turning us north,” Garcia said.

“Goddamit, Garcia. Don’t you where Spain is? Turn us East!” The Captain stepped toward Garcia.

“No.” I stepped in between the Captain and Garcia, starring at the Captain. “I know you’re insane, but fighting this storm is surely going to kill us all.”

“Lieutenant, you step back. You have always been one of my best and most loyal crew members. Don’t change that now.”

“I will not let you kill this crew.”

“Step back, Lieutenant! Or so help me,” the Captain said sternly. I stepped back. The Captain hit the ground hard, with the crowbar still in his head.

60

Joseph Sweet

Adwen’s Airdrop The plane roared overhead, vibrating the air around Adwen’s head. The boy gazed at the screaming, metal contraption flying low over his village. The bay door of the cargo plane slowly opened, revealing a payload of wooden crates. One by one, a man ejected the crates out of the plane.

Adwen thought for sure the crates would shatter as they hit the hot ground, but to his wonderment, a white parachute activated, and the wooden crate began a lazy descent. Adwen lowered his eyes as his fellow classmates surged past him, racing to get to the landing zone first. As he joined the galloping group, Adwen could not help but wonder if this was what christmas was like for the children he saw in movies.

After all, a man was dropping presents from the sky.

The children had reached the crates that now sat comfortably on the ground. The white parachutes swallowed up the brown desert, cooling the sand that stung barefeet.

Like hyenas, the crowd tore apart the crates, longing to get to the prizes that awaited within. Not wanting to compete with the larger children, Adwen broke off by himself in search of his own crate. Eventually, he found one lying quite a distance away from the others. Taking the box into his small hands, he observed the strange flag on the top of the crate. Adwen pried off the lid. On top of small bits of paper and other packing materials, Adwen found a new, red notebook. Though he could not read, Adwen dreamed of being able to one day fill the empty sheets with words that were undoubtedly his. Approaching screams flooded Adwen’s ears, drowning out the slow sift of shifting sand. Adwen began his trek back to his village, his prize gripped tightly to his chest.

Adwen began spending his days and nights scrawling in his notebook. Brown eyes darted as they followed the rise and fall of the dark lines flowing across the creamy surface.

Even if they did not belong to any human language, Adwen could unravel the tales contained in his scribbles. Adwen soon realised that he wanted to share his stories with the world. Torn on how he would accomplish this daunting 61

task, Adwen racked his mind and recalled the mysterious symbols inscribed on the crate. The foreign writing screamed at Adwen, tempting him to grasp its potent power. He had heard men from all over the world wielding the language to their advantage. The language of power, English, could reach the ears of men over oceans and vast plains. English would demolish any cultural barrier. The next week, Adwen proclaimed to his parents that he wanted to enroll in school.

He explained that what he wanted to do with his life was write, particularly in English. His father was overjoyed to say the least. However, his mother refused to let him go, saying that he needed to stay and learn to farm. The fights between Adwen’s parents lasted for a month as they hotly debated what to do with their son’s future. His father did not want Adwen to fall into the same agricultural trap he had, while his mother argued that all that mattered was a stable profession. Talk of money and success, poverty and failure permeated the very fabric of Adwen’s family. The screaming grew louder and louder each night. Scalding words were slung for weeks, threatening to incinerate the humble home of wood and straw. Adwen simply hid in his room, filling his red notebook with thoughts of a serene and far off future.

One day Adwen’s mother gave in to her husband’s constant nagging, and sent a letter of enrollment to a grammar school in the city. Slinging a bag packed with a notebook, unsharpened pencils, gummy erasers, and hope, Adwen settled in the back of a rusty pickup. Watching his village slowly turn into a dot on the horizon, Adwen resolved that he would one day return armed with the knowledge to combat the violence and squalor that held back his family and countrymen.

62

Jack Draddy

Oh Brother His name was Jeremy, jeez, he already sounded like a punk. He was about to be a sophomore in high school and thought he was hot stuff. I had never actually met Jeremy but I just knew, this kid is a trouble maker. He starts fights, talks in class, and does not respect girls. According to what I had heard he tries to act tough by picking on smaller kids, and talking back to teachers. Who does he think he is! All I wanted to do was run into Jeremy in a dark alley and send him a little message about what happens to jerks like him.

BANG BANG BANG. I was already on my way to the door when my mom shouted down the stairs, “Can you get it?”

Can you not hear me walking to the door mom… Seriously, I did not even agree to this, I am being forced to stay here and be a part of tonight. I got to the door, I swear if this kid gives me any sort of bad look I am shutting the door in his face. “Hello you must be Mary’s older brother, I’m Jeremy” he exclaimed in a high pitched voice with his skinny hand extended. I stared at the hand “I know who you are” I said coldly, “come on in.” He stepped inside and before I could say another word Mary pushed me aside and greeted Jeremy with a hello, in the most flirtatious voice I had ever heard, and a hug. “Ughhhh,” I turned and walked away, with the different scenarios of me kicking him out of the house bouncing around in my mind.

After about ten minutes of television in the other room, I was called in for dinner. I walked into the dining room and there he was. Three words to describe him, frail, skinny, weak, pathetic, annoying, and in my seat! We all sat down and did not talk at first. My mom broke the silence by asking Jeremy how school was going, as he responded with some dorky answer, I looked at my dad and shook my head, he responded with a sigh under his breath and head shake of his own, as if to say, I’m right there with you son. Dinner continued on with decent conversation and I have to say, Jeremy held his own at the table, he cracked a nice joke, and was very polite, but while he had my mom fooled and my dad 63

was starting to warm up to him, I saw right through his little act. He was just playing my family so he could hang out with Mary, and I was not gonna fall for his devious game. After dinner he offered to help clear the table, my mom laughed and said no, as I looked at my sister and with my rolling eyes said, this guy is a loser.

At this point I did not know what was supposed to happen next, what does a family do with a daughter’s “boyfriend” besides eat dinner. The conversation was dying and I couldn’t take sitting there anymore so I left. As I walked up stairs I made eye contact with Jeremy and gave him a look that must have sent chills through his entire body, yep, he knew who the boss was.

I closed the door to my room, finally dinner was over. I needed to stop thinking about this kid. I took out my phone and before I knew it an hour had gone by, “Honey, come say goodbye to Jeremy” yelled my mom. Goodbye? More like have a nice life, hope it doesn’t involve my sister. I got to the bottom of the stairs and said, “Mom my phone is all messed up, the screen wont lock.” “I can fix that” came out of the slime ball’s mouth. “Let me see it,” I cautiously handed him my phone, never breaking my stare into his eyes. He looked at the phone and pressed some buttons, I didn’t see which ones, I was still sizing him up for a fist fight out front, “here you go, good as new.” “Thanks,” I said still with my eyes locked on his. Then he said good bye and thanks and left.

My mom turned to me and my dad, “What did you think?” I looked at my phone, “He’s okay,” then I turned and headed up the stairs, “but I could still kick his ass.”

64

Joe Dahut

The Wave I was born with sand in my hair and sun in my eyes. The summer scene I thought I could trust created me.

“Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

Sometimes things change, because the summer scene I thought I could trust resurrected me into a tragedy.

“Amen.”

The Wave broke on top of me like a glass vase, quickly shattering my thoughts and my aspirations. I would then lie, beached on the surf, watching those thoughts tumble into the foamy grasp of the Atlantic. The receding chorus of fizz sounded like an eruption of menacing laughter, taunting my reality. Nothing changed, it never stopped. And The Wave kept rolling, as if nothing happened, just like it has done since creation. No time to stop for thirteen-year-old Emily, lying limp, as if I were dead. Nothing changes, The Wave keeps on rolling.

I am paralyzed from the crest of my toenails to the tip of my chest, and everywhere in between. The day my body stopped working was the worst day of my life, one that challenged every aspect of my being. My entire existence morphed from one of promise and beauty to one of sorrow and misfortune in seconds.

I survived, but did I live to tell the tale? Am I a human being, or merely a waste of a body bound to physical regulations set by The Wave? I am at the mercy of all my surroundings now, just as I was at the mercy of the sea then.

The Wave dissected the happiness I could once glean from the beach, and threw it away, leaving nothing but lifeless scraps.

I am like a toddler carrying a family heirloom. My parents won’t trust me by myself, and if they don’t watch me, 65

I will break the object. Without aid, I will die. The anguish I feel from the accidental torture of the sea cannot compare to any other pain.

I had gotten a taste of freedom. I stayed home alone for the first time two months ago, and I even babysat my neighbor’s children. But now, I can never be home alone, and I will need the babysitter. Forever.

I am paralyzed. I am not a human being. The jaws of the sea will permanently lock, clenching the dreams I held so close to my pumping heart; the only aspect of my body that still functioned. I will try to retrieve those dreams from the ocean one day, but I do not remember how to swim in the sea of doubt I currently tread in. The true “Emily,” the joyous, playful kid I considered myself to be, was born on the beach, and that same “Emily” died on the beach, but was brought back to life. I changed, and now I must accept myself and continue to move like the waves, whose fluid beauty killed my former self. I will try to move on mentally, but I am physically held back by the unexpected possession of the exoskeleton of a dead woman. I am eternally trapped in a psychological riptide, asking myself the question: “Where do I go from here?”

Nothing will ever change.

66

Will Gorman

A Doctor Story I’m in shock for a moment…I saw the headline. In big, bold, black print: Seattle businesswoman dead due to misdiagnosis. No, it isn’t surprising to me. I’m not appalled at all. Actually, it’s quite surprising. I just didn’t think she would have to lose her life over it.

It was a cold, gray June day. The weather reports said clouds, clouds, and more clouds for the entire week. Today was only Monday; there were more clouds to come. I drove down the streets of Seattle to where I would spend my day as one of the top physicians at a local clinic. I walked through the revolving door and went to my “office.” Essentially, it was a small room with a couple drawers, a desk, and a refurbished model of a 2010 computer. Not bad for a clinic.

After a couple hours of answering emails, calls, and coffee breaks, one of my colleagues Dr. Poland came knocking.

“Doctor Knowles, we have a woman who needs diagnosis as soon as possible. She’s waiting in room four.” She handed me a clipboard.

“Thanks, I’ll get on it in a minute.”

Normally when issues are serious, they refer to me to attend to them. This was no different. I picked up my yellow folder, donned my white coat – no one really wears them all the time – and entered room four. Knocking on the beige, rectangular portal to problems, I entered only to see a face that was far too familiar. She didn’t know me, but I knew every fiber of her being. She was my ex-wife’s best friend, Marilyn. Normally, you shouldn’t hate your enemies’ friends just by association. But, it’s because of her that I’m single in the first place. Marilyn’s “advice” that I was “with someone else” brought our marriage to a halt. As devastating as it was, this is not the time for that flashback.

“Hello…” I looked at my clipboard, pretending she was a complete stranger. “Marilyn. How can I help you today?”

“I need serious help,” she said worriedly.

“What’s the issue?” I replied.

“Over the past three days I’ve been having periods of time 67

that I can’t remember once they’re over. I know that sounds vague, but…”

“How long?”

“They normally last about a minute. I had one of these moments when I was at lunch with my friend Felicity.”

When she said this, I held back a smile. I didn’t want to hurt my former spouse, but the fact that she witnessed it firsthand made this all the more satisfying. “My heart starts pounding, my entire torso feels anxious, and I just feel nervous overall. Once I feel that coming on, it’s almost like I fast forward to about a minute later.”

“Do you have any symptoms after the… fast forward?” I asked. She confirmed confusion and unawareness that she had skipped a minute.

“Felicity had to tell me that I blanked out,” Marilyn continued. I knew exactly where this was heading. She was having Temporal Lobe seizures, possibly due to a brain tumor. But, luckily, this could easily be misdiagnosed as panic attacks.

“I think you’re…” I stopped. I contemplated whether to cross the line and possibly lead to serious health troubles.

But, the devil got the best of me, and I opened my mouth once again. “These symptoms tell me you’re just having anxiety and panic attacks.”

We went through the process of prescribing Cymbalta in case this led to depression, but I confidently knew inside that she’d never need it.

A fast-forward of my own, to right now, staring at the headline. This might lead to my unemployment or even my arrest eventually. Moments are temporary, but records and paperwork are forever.

I don’t know if I’m going to work today.

68

Thomas Olmstead

Storytime Infamous, that’s what they would call him after tonight, if they ever found out. The clicking of high quality loafers drew him from his introspective thoughts; the art director was elated to see the replacement arriving for the night. He knew the risks, five cameras alone in the room where the piece de resistance was housed, The Night Watch by Rembrandt, his target. Having worked at the Gallery for more than fifteen years he knew all the countermeasures backwards and forwards. Being an art lover himself, he hated seeing the piece being removed from the public domain, but the life of luxury seemed so close. All he did every night on watch was to dream of the houses in Milan, the fast cars, the high stakes poker games with the world’s most influential people; it was too much for him to handle, and it all seemed so close.

He knew what he had to do to achieve this gleaming golden dream, just disable the security system, shut off the power, and blame it on faulty city wiring and then abscond with the painting. It was that simple, and he already had his escape route all panned. The piece was absolutely priceless and he would probably be able to net more than enough to live in luxury for the rest of his days.

His thoughts trailed off as he entered the main chamber, and there it was, his ticket out, hanging on the wall. No one besides him on this graveyard shift, and who would suspect an aging man of thoughts of a grand lifestyle and art thievery, no, he was too bland for that. Normally there would be more people here to guard the priceless artwork but being a snowy Christmas Eve, he was the only volunteer to work this shift. The lights went out, the gloves came on, and the cameras turned off; he had thirty seconds, the most exhilarating of his life to nab the painting.

Before he escaped, he left in the center of the now blank canvas one notecard with a sentence scrawled upon it in his best cursive, “Yours truly, The Night Watch.”

69

Luke Allen

I Had to Kill This Man As the guttural engine of my car died, I stared down at the gun in my hand, running my fingers up and down the grooves carved into the barrel as I considered what I was about to do. It was a simple, five-shot revolver, with the muzzle no shorter than a few inches. It was a simple job, one shot, and it would nearly guarantee my safety. Quick and easy. Unbuckling the seat belt, I leaned forward and rested my head on the steering wheel with a loud sigh, tossing the pistol onto the passenger seat.

Am I really able to do this? I thought to myself, tapping a macabre tune on the rim of the wheel. Am I really able to kill this man? Carefully, I weighed the outcomes. If I did succeed, then I could continue doing what I was doing before, with only a slightly less chance of getting arrested. Yippee.

If I didn’t kill him, I would be arrested without a doubt, sent off to either the slammer or to be executed without a second thought. A smile of malice curved over my lips as I reached for the gun again. I’ll show them. I’m not just another junkie.

I’m someone important now; however, my reach faltered as another wave of guilt and worry washed over me.

I had to kill this man. But I couldn’t. It was morbidly absurd; here I was, parked just around the corner from his house with a gun in my hand, and I still couldn’t bring myself to do it. I never had to kill anyone in the past. That was always my partner’s job. He killed whoever got in his way, and I was merely his eyes on the street. Someone who knew the business.

A pair of headlights swerved around the corner from behind where I was parked, jolting me out of my reverie as well as sending a physical jolt through my stomach. His telltale SUV glided to a flawless stop into his driveway, and he got out. The man I was here to kill, a slightly overweight, nervous, balding man, fumbled with his key ring as he walked up the stone staircase to his front door. I hesitantly grabbed the pistol and got out of the car. I tucked the piece into the front pocket of my hoodie. It was already black, and 70

on a night like this, no one should be able to identify me.

I nonchalantly strode up to the front door and knocked on it with hands damp from sweat. He got to the door quickly and cheerfully, opening it even at this hour like he would greet a neighbor, but his smile quickly melted off his face when he saw who his nightly visitor was.

“O-oh…” He stammered, his disbelieving eyes wide, “It’s you.” I nodded, and I slowly took the gun out of the front pocket of my hoodie, grinding the hammer back so a round settled nicely into the chamber with a metallic click. He backed up a few steps, raising his trembling hands above his head as his eyes grew wider. I held the gun with my own trembling hands, the end of the barrel twitching as I aimed it at his chest. Behind him, I noticed a few picture frames, surrounding photographs of a few children. A thought struck me: did he have a family? A broken shell that would be left behind, as I escorted him on his one-way trip away from this life? I shook those thoughts out of my head and thrust the gun at him.

He was crying now, and in his pools of reflection I saw that my eyes were getting misty as well. A million voices chorusing inside my head urged me to pull the trigger, to end him, while another million begged me to just turn around and leave, a desperate plea to keep this off my conscience. I shook my head again, dispelling them. I turned my attention back to him. Tears raced down the creases of his stressed features, liquid appeals of mercy.

“I’m sorry,” I blurted, the apology leaving me like a rush of air leaving a balloon. My own conflicting thoughts tinged the word with shades of regret and desperation, a perverted canvas of psychological expression. He began to mumble something, but before he could finish, or before I could even understand what he was saying, I pulled the trigger.

As soon as the sharp report cracked from my gun, his body crumpled back from the force of the shot, sending him to his knees with a surprised gasp as the life was torn from 71

his body. He slowly collapsed to the ground, and a miniscule red speck appeared on his immaculate white shirt. It began to spread, growing in size until his entire front was engulfed in crimson liquid. The expression on his face was one of mortal naivety, an eternal “why?� that he would carry with him to his grave. Unable to view the results of what I had done, I turned away from the scene. Away from all the picture frames, away from all illusions of a normal life, and with great regret I ran towards the threshold separating me from the criminal night.

As I burst into the outside, I knew that I had left a lot more behind in that house than a bullet and a body.

Something I can’t get back. As I leapt into my car, threw the revolver into the passenger seat, and began to drive, I knew I had passed the point of no return. As I wiped off my tears into the muggy, windy desert night as I streaked down the abandoned highway, I knew I had crossed a sacred line, and that I could never see the other side again.

72

Chris Hrdy

The Snow in Jefferson David handed his grandfather one of the two plates of spaghetti, and sat on the opposite end of the couch, leaving an empty middle seat between them. They talked briefly and awkwardly about the forecast from the Weather Channel, which said that it was supposed to snow in Jefferson County the next day, and the possibility of school cancellation on Monday. David changed the channel to America’s Funniest Home Videos, the most inoffensive show he could find, and sat mostly still, sinking deeper into the dusty, already uncomfortably deep corduroy couch. David looked over to his grandfather, to check that he wasn’t too dissatisfied, and realized that it was already dark in their living room. The only remaining lights were from the kitchen behind the two of them and the television. When David saw his grandfather solemnly lower his head to eat, his wrinkles caught the light of the television, flickering and changing color, and deep shadows formed in the creases of his forehead and the sides of his mouth. And time passed, slowly, as it seemed, with neither willing to mention David’s parents leaving their seventeen year-old son to babysit their eighty year-old father.

David’s grandfather asked for a blanket on the other side of the room, and David took their plates and set them aside, then fetched his grandfather the blanket and set about doing the dishes. As he nearly finished, his mother entered the house, and tentatively set foot in the living room, to say hello to her father. She found him fast asleep, with his face turned so that the light of the television wasn’t on his face. Stepping back into the kitchen, she hardly managed her arms around the back of David’s shoulders and said, hushed, “Oh David, thank you so much for doing dinner alone this week,” and hugged him from behind. David, who has still rinsing dishes, dismissed her, as well as the sentiment, “Whatever,” but then remembered, “oh, I need to borrow the pickup tomorrow.”

“Well, it’s your father’s car, so you should ask him, but he’ll probably be fine with it. Why?” she asked, letting go of 73

him as he put down the dishes and started for his coat.

“I’m taking Morgan out to lunch.” As David put on his coat, he turned and stared expectantly over to his mother, expecting to be overwhelmed with uncomfortable questions.

She only looked back at him, stuck her nose in the air and smiled, as she walked out the door facetiously saying, ‘No, I’m above that.’ David followed her out.

Morgan chose two seats by the door of the restaurant, the farthest from the counter, and quietly suggested that she hold their seats while David order their food.

“What did you want to get?” David asked, as Morgan sat down “What did you say this place was famous for?” Morgan asked, half-remembering a conversation they had only had a few minutes ago, on the car ride over.

“A lot of people said they liked the chicken wings—“ “That’s fine.” David unhesitatingly nodded, and turned for the counter, rejecting within himself the obvious fact that she had decided mostly out of indifference. In most ways, the restaurant was a fast food place, because one would order over the counter and receive cheap food that had already been prepared, but it wasn’t part of a chain, and had a particular character as a blue collar family restaurant.

Morgan didn’t like it, for the most part because it was such a small, crowded space, and until now she had been successful in avoiding it. Morgan turned her attention, instead, to the darkening clouds outside, waiting for it to start snowing.

As David returned, Morgan decided that the space next to the door was cold enough that she would keep her cap and heavy outer coat on. David held out her plate expecting her to take it from him, but she waited, with her cold, pale hands on her elbows for him to put it down.

As they ate, David noticed Morgan removing her cap, letting her thin, almost sickly blonde hair fall awkwardly over her ears and shoulders. As she started to loosen her coat 74

he remembered how spicy the chicken wings were.

“Are the wings too spicy? I should’ve told you—“ “No, it’s fine. I like them,” she replied, as she lifted a napkin to her face to wipe away droplets of sweat. David smiled, at first hopefully, as he saw her previously colorless face flush, and then skeptically, as he watched her try to tough it out.

“Don’t look at me like that!” She smiled uncomfortably.

“Are you sure you don’t want to switch?”

“Would that be alright?” David laughed as he quickly switched their plates. Morgan laughed too, because she did see the humor in it, but still felt embarrassed and sick to her stomach.

As they left, David apologized again for not telling her how spicy the wings were, Morgan accepted and dismissed it, and there was a mutual understanding that it was nobody’s fault.

David pulled up to the side of the road by Morgan’s house in his small, beige pickup, turned off the car, and started to get out. Morgan, already outside the car told David, “Hey, David, uh, don’t get out,” David closed his door and looked at her once again wan face as she continued, “listen, you were really, really nice, and it was all fun,” David knew what was coming, but still couldn’t bring himself to be upset about a word she said. “But I don’t think we should do this again.”

“Yeah. Okay. Thanks for coming anyway.” David nodded, to himself and Morgan equally, as Morgan soberly bounced to her door. It finally started to snow. When David turned his car back on, Morgan saw him draw his hand back quickly behind his ear about to thrash his steering wheel, but caught himself, and calmly tapped the wheel with the underside of his clenched fist. Morgan thought little of it.

She stepped back inside, told her parents that everything went well, and spent the rest of the day doing little spots of 75

homework and watching television. She went to bed early, 9:30, as she always did, remembering to hope that school would be cancelled the next day.

She slept comfortably, but woke up around 4 o’clock the next morning, as she often did, and couldn’t fall back asleep. She laid in her room, pitch black, for hours silently until the sun rose, when her mother shouted to Morgan and her younger sister that school wasn’t cancelled. Morgan still remained, quiet. Half an hour later Morgan’s mother pounded on the locked door of Morgan’s room, complaining that she was always sleeping in.

76

Matthew Michael

Changing the Audio Eric had been born into a devout Baptist family and remained so his entire life. His religion and his conscience strictly forbid him from placing blame on an innocent person to better himself. Eric had never considered, however, whether he would do such a thing if it meant avenging himself on those who had torn what was most dear to him away. That was before Casey came though. Eric and his wife Cathy had been married happily for four years when the doorbell on their Georgian bungalow rang that fateful day.

“Oh, that must be Casey, honey. Answer the door while I get my bag.” Eric had been hearing a lot about Casey recently, a man his wife said she had met at a café a few weeks ago.

Despite his slight misgivings, Eric opened the door to allow Casey in. Eric had never met Casey before and was not sure he enjoyed letting his wife roam the city with this man, especially since roaming the city had been an activity Eric and his wife had done numerous times alone together before they were married. The natural daylight of the beautiful May morning hardly had time to light the interior of Eric’s house when a large pudgy hand appeared, grasping the side of the door and forcing it farther open. By the time the door was fully opened, Eric had made up his made that he was most definitely not pleased that his wife was spending time around this man. Eric, a man of average height was given the sudden pleasure of staring at the black hair, which was at eye level, curling out of the top of Casey’s white wife beater shirt, over which he wore a leather biker jacket that did nothing to conceal his large belly. Not being one to be intimidated easily, Eric proffered his hand to shake Casey’s.

Eric’s open hand was immediately encumbered by the wreath which had previously been nailed to the front door. Eric uncomprehendingly stared at his gleaming white door and saw that the nail that had held the wreath to the door was somehow firmly lodged in his doorknob’s keyhole. A keyhole that controlled a lock that was now…unlocked! “Now wait just a minute…!” Eric said to Casey, a reprimand that Casey, 77

who was now climbing the stairs to his wife’s bedroom, took no notice of. Thankfully, Cathy appeared in her doorway and walked with Casey down the stairs. Without as much as a “Hi” or “Bye” to Eric, Casey was out the door with Cathy close behind, who only stopped to say, “I’ll see you in a few hours” to her husband. The door slammed shut and Eric was left in the foyer wondering what had just happened.

He decided he would talk to his wife about Casey when she returned home and contented himself with a morning of Baseball, the Orioles versus the Red Sox. ”…and that’s three strikes for the Orioles batter KRSZZZHHH!!! …end of the first inning,” Supplied the commentator Eric and Cathy’s TV had been sold to them at a deep discount because of a defect that would occasionally change the audio to a blaring sound akin to that of an old engine turning over. Eric decided to fix the problem once and for all with one of his buddies at his local Radio Shack, for he loved baseball as much as his wife, and perhaps even more due to her new and strange devotion to Casey. “…just not a good day for the Orioles huh Jim?” “No, no ab- KRSZZZHHH!!!... very few hits coming from their team.” … SLAM!! Eric hated that TV so much he decided he would buy a new one that day if his Radio Shack friends couldn’t tell him how to fix it. Thirty minutes later, laden down with a soldering iron, extra wires, alligator clips, and conductors, Eric left the Radio Shack and headed for his car. My car has a radio, I can listen to the rest of the game from there and fix the TV when I get home, Eric thought.

While listening to his game, Eric watched the happy couples walking their dogs or else simply holding hands through the park. I should be doing that right now with my wife, not listening to baseball alone, Eric decided. Across the street, he noticed the man who had quasi-broken into his house not two hours ago. The man was behind the steering wheel of a battered pickup truck with none other than Eric’s own wife in the passenger seat. The two appeared to be arguing, a fact that made Eric’s heart leap. Casey and Cathy then stopped 78

arguing and, making Eric’s blood boil, kissed. Eric started his car and returned home, finally seeing in his rear view mirror Cathy and Casey together by the lips with Casey’s hands caressing his wife’s neck. Sitting on the couch, Eric heard the key turn in the deadbolt and Cathy enter. “Honey, I’m home! We need to talk,” she stated, appearing in the door to the living room. She came over to the couch and took her husband’s large hand in her small, cold ones. “What do you think of a divorce?” Divorce. A word that had become the doom of so many men. Eric’s mind had frozen, but the game on TV continued, “…yes Bill, it’s looking like a rough day for everyone with an Orioles backup being humiliated after taking the place of an injured ba- KRSZZZHHH!!!...

“911 what’s you emergency?” Responded the police operator the next morning “I just woke up and my wife is just lying on the couch… she’s……dead!”

The police arrived and found evidence of a break in everywhere. A nail had been used as a lock pick to open the front door. Fingerprints on the inside of the door showed the door had been forced open. The woman had been strangled by strong hands with the same prints as those on the door. A match was confirmed and a Casey Stevenson was arrested on suspicion of murder, which he denied. The state prosecutor had enough evidence to convince the jury, however, that no other person could have left those prints on the door and Cathy’s neck. Casey Stevenson was convicted of murder and executed two months later.

79

Peter Mullholland

Crossing the Line It’s right there, it would be so easy to do. No one would know right? I need the grade and it’s only one time, but it’s wrong, it’s my fault I’m not prepared, but hey he’d be helping a friend right? I just didn’t have any time to study last night.

The game was on and I had other homework, how could I study? We found out we had a test a few days ago, but that night I had a baseball game, and I had to do all my other homework, I mean it was an eight o’clock game and I didn’t get home until four-thirty. I told myself I would do it the next day, but it was so nice out and everybody was playing wiffle ball, so I crammed all my other homework in and headed out.

When I realized that I had forgotten to study, it was already ten o’clock and I didn’t feel like getting my books out and studying for my test. So, I’ll study before and during school tomorrow, and everything will be fine, I will then study before the baseball game tomorrow afternoon. Well, we hit Washington traffic, which had been non-existent during the government shut down, and we didn’t get to school until five of eight. We watched a movie in religion, so it was really hard to focus on studying, even though it was a perfect chance to.

The rest of my morning included really involved classes, so I didn’t have a chance to study then either. During lunch, I tried to study, but got caught up talking to my friends instead, so I was down to about three hours of possible study time, without factoring in my other homework. I tried to study on the metro home, but everyone was talking. I was starting to believe that God was teaching me a lesson. I had so much homework when I got home, I didn’t finish my homework until seven-thirty, so I just ate dinner and tried to study during the baseball game, but couldn’t focus at all.

“Rinnggggg!” the bell rang and I had barely done half of my test, but at least I didn’t break.

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Photography & Studio Art

82

Christian Forte

83

Christian Muckerman

84

Aidan Madison

85

Aidan Madison

86

Will Hofer

87

Will Hofer

88

Aidan Madison

89

Christian Forte

90

Christian Forte

91

Will Hofer

92

Christian Muckerman

93

Michael Vitale

Christian Forte

94

Christian Forte

95

96

Aidan Madison

97

Christian Muckerman

98

John O’Neill

99

Nick Jenkins

100

Jordan Person

101

Michael Vitale

102

Connor Sharp

103

Christian Forte

104

Matt Green

105

Matt Green

Matt Green

106

107

Matt Green

108

Christian Forte

109

Michael Vitale

110

Christian Muckerman

111

Christian Forte

112

Jordan Person

113

John O’Neill

114

Christian Muckerman

115

Aidan Madison

116

Christian Forte

117

Will Hofer

118

Matt Ratcliffe

119

Michael Vitale

120

Christian Forte

121

Christian Forte

122

Ignacio Mata

123

Michael Vitale

124

John O’Neill

125

Michael Gallagher

126

Tyrell Thomas

127

Christian Muckerman

128

Colin Russell

129

Owen Early

Carrick O’Reilly

130

Kevon Turner

131

132

Jabari Greenwood

133

Tom Pulliam

134

Jackson Gillum

135

Woods Connell

Duncan MacBride

136

Jackson Gillum

137

Woods Connell

138

Ben Brown

139

Landen Buckson

140

Duncan MacBride

141

142

Owen Early

143

Mackie Wheeler

Justin Myers

144

Jack Renzi

145

146

Nick Jenkins

147

Aidan Madison

148

Matt Buckley

149

Tyler Rock

150

Christian Forte

151

Christian Forte

Jordan Person

152

Christian Forte

153

154

Christian Muckerman

155

Christian Forte

156

Ulysses Lalor

157

John O’Neill

158

Christian Forte

159

Michael Gallagher

Christian Forte

160