Spring 2016 Pegasus

W.D. Ehrhart | Dan Lee | Frankie D’Angelo

PEGASUS

Solomon Dorsey | Keyveat Postell | Walker Raymond Will Russell | Robb Soslow | Ms. Sallie Michalsky Intel Chen | David Bunn | Troy Gibbs-Brown Kyle Alday | Gee Smith | Jack Molitor Miska Abrahams | Shea Dennis | Naren Mathawan

Luke Green | Cameron Cummins | Arnav Jagasia Jack Biddle | Mr. Matt Green | Will Pechet Harrison Fellheimer | Charlie Rahr | Malik Geathers Anthony Calvelli | Henry Scarlato | Ross Harryhill

Pegasus | Issue 31 | The Haverford School

Jack Roarty | Senan Farrelly | Dean Manko

Jeremy Stern | Alex Hubschmidt | Jake Barroway Sam Shaw | Greg Narzikul | Walter Paiva David Chikowski | Mrs. Fatema Frankel

Pegasus | Spring 2016

The Haverford School Issue No. 31

The Haverford School 450 Lancaster Ave., Haverford, PA, 19041 610-642-3020 || www.haverford.org Upper School Population: 438 || Issues Printed: 150

Letter from the Editors

During the last three years, a metamorphosis of Pegasus took place. We are proud of everything that this magazine has become – most notably, a CSPA Gold Medal publication. When we first started, the magazine lacked a sense of stylitic continuity. The written world remained distinct from the artistic world.

With each issue published, we’ve improved our design and layout. Under the tutelage of Mr. Dan Keefe, Mrs. Taylor Smith-Kan, and former faculty advisor Ms. Rachael Jennings, we have developed a passion for fusing art, photography, and literature. We are proud to have created a literary magazine where students desire to see their names in print.

In our final year, we have seen a shift in the literary culture at The Haverford School. Our submissions once totaled between twenty and thirty, but for this issue, our submission count reached over a hundred. Not only has the quantity of submisssions risen dramatically, but also the quality of writing and art has also improved. We decided upon a photo of a transformed Ethan Dehlehman author extrodinaire - to mark this cultural shift.

Though we would love to take credit for such a dynamic change in the artistic mentality at Haverford, this transition would have been impossible without the efforts of the Art and English Departments. This magazine reflects the importance of the humanities in molding thoughtful men of character.

Enjoy our labor of love completed before school, in free periods, and on the weekends. We hope that you revel in the works that follow. Thank you for reading.

Regards, Senan and Luke

POETRY I pg. 4 PROSE pg. 26 POETRY II pg. 64 SCREENPLAYS pg. 74 SENIOR ARTISTS pg. 86

Intel Chen Photograph

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PART I

POETRY

Table of Contents Praying at the Altar W.D. Ehrhart pg. 7 Prayer for the Villains Dan Lee pg. 9 Ilse Frankie D’Angelo

pg. 11

Silence / The Prison Solomon Dorsey pg. 13 A Poem for a Girl Keyveat Postell pg. 15 Ghost Walker Raymond pg. 17 We Sat Beneath the Train Tracks Will Russell pg. 19 Deliverance Dan Lee pg. 21 Hands of Graphite Robb Soslow pg. 23 Beyond Illusion Michael Schlarbaum 5

pg. 25

Sallie Michaelsky Photograph

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W.D. Ehrhart

I like pagodas.

There’s something—I don’t know— secretive about them, soul-soothing, mind-easing.

Inside, if only for a moment, life’s clutter disappears.

Once, long ago, we destroyed one: collapsed the walls ‘til the roof caved in.

Just a small one, all by itself in the middle of nowhere, and we were young. And bored.

And armed to the teeth.

And too much time on our hands.

Now whenever I see a pagoda, I always go in.

I’m not a religious man, but I light three joss sticks, bow three times to the Buddha, and pray for my wife and daughter.

I place the burning sticks in the vase before the altar.

In Vung Tau, I was praying at the Temple of the Sleeping Buddha when an old monk appeared.

He struck a large bronze bell with a wooden mallet.

He was waking up the spirits to receive my prayers.

7

Tất cả vườn anh rất đợi chờ Bởi vì em có ngón tay thơ. Đến đây em hái giùm đôi lộc, Kẻo tội lòng anh tủi ước mơ.

Bước đẹp em vừa ngụ tới đây. Chim hoa ríu rít, liễu vui vầy. Hãy làm dáng điệu xuân ôm ấp: Ánh sáng ban từ một nét tay.

Praying at the Altar

Đây chùm mong nhớ, khóm yêu đương, Đây nụ mơ mòng đợi ánh sương, Đây lá bâng khuâng run trước gió, Đây em, cành thẹn lẩn cành thương.

Intel Chen Photograph

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Pray for the Villains

In the world of super heroes There must be a villain A vile creature Who represents an excessive trait Pride, Envy, Wrath, Gluttony, Lust, Sloth, Greed A smattering of insanity in between He must control an abundance of henchmen Who must wound but never kill That reward is left to the big man himself A complicated trap involving a timer or some acid The impending climax foiled by some sidekick or gadget A punch to the face A quick POW The villain tossed into a cell conjuring his next plot I imagine furious at his futile efforts Yet what if the villain used competent henchmen instead Mercenaries who lack hesitation to kill He simply presses the button And destroys the city to complete his threat Loses the acid, presses cold steel to the hero’s skull Laughing as he pulls the trigger and sees brains splatter across the wall “But the hero must prevail” A villain this wretched cannot exist Yet he’s the one I’m rooting for Closer to us than that nonhuman prick

Dan Lee 9

Troy Gibbs-Brown Photograph

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Frankie D’Angelo

The Isle

In the heart of the desolate winter, the light dims as the sun sinks in the early afternoon.

The glow dwindles with the ever fleeting hope of tomorrow — gone in the fading day.

I stand looking out into the endless blue ahead thinking of what was, what will be.

The time was once when we were all together, it feels like just seconds ago.

The moment has faded away — the smooth floor beneath us lost the warmth that came with you each day.

Standing here, staring out in the abyss, those times are mere memories, empty, distant, so far from what life used to be.

As I turn and begin my ascent back up the hill I still think, and always will, of what remained for me, for them.

I reach the top, only to turn and stare back.

That time, that day, that moment when we will all be together again is as elusive as reaching out for the glimmering moon in the coming night.

The day may never come again, we may never be the same again, but what is more powerful than despair?

The memory.

The memory of the sun shining through the untold boundless day, and even more, the belief that this isn’t the end.

The light dims as the sun sinks in the early afternoon in the heart of the desolate winter.

No longer is it empty, but full of hope of that elusive day.

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David Bunn Photograph

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Silence / The Prison

How can I be optimistic When everyday's the same A routine repeated over and over These are the days that define you Determine your future You spend these days with the same people These people are your family and friends Often times, these are the people Helping you get through the long days I’m grateful for this But sometimes I’d rather just be alone In the Soothing Sound of Silence Time spent reflecting on people and their flaws Time spent reflecting on personal flaws On love On life On death My mind is a prison My thoughts and ideas the prisoners Trapped inside Desperately trying to escape They are kept under lock and key I dare not let them escape Dare not let them roam free Lest they break out

Solomon Dorsey 13

Kyle Alday Photograph

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A Poem For A Girl

Keyveat Postell The way your lips and tongue craft their music Causes my will to bend.

Your smile, an inciting incident, Makes interred feelings rise again.

My tenders to you are spited by your pride.

Your heart is cold as snow.

My love, like a blanket, unrequited, Is to you no warmer than your coat.

Yet, you tempt me with kisses.

Honey, you’re tricky, I should know.

You’d up and leave me in a minute, But I’d still love you as you go.

Your absence is marked by a Rot in my heart. It grows as black as jet.

The air is sweeter around you, girl, I swear Though I’m breathless in your presence yet.

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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Gee Smith Photograph

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Walker Raymond

Ghost

I still see you.

Standing there, sober-faced and stalwart.

Heart beating mad, passion running through you.

Taken in four seconds, The end before the beginning.

See, I feel you sometimes.

Hand outstretched towards my face, Fingers locked around my head.

I know you need to claw at my mind, Once more before you are gone.

I wonder some days.

What you were, what you still are.

The thoughts exists in my brain, driven mad by bullets, And the sound of rushing blood.

Deep within, your courage holds me.

I am a man carrying our past.

I walk down that old crumbling road, Covered by leeching fog.

I hear our sounds, our speech, our understanding.

And I believe, even for just a little moment, That you are not a ghost at all.

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David Bunn Photograph

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We Sat Beneath The Train Tracks

We sat beneath the train tracks Listening to the rumble of wheels above And pretended it was a thunderstorm We waited for the rain to wash away our sins Like you were holding hands with me on the ferris wheel And when we got to the top I never wanted to go back down

Will Russell

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Jack Molitor Photograph

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Dan Lee

Deliverance

Worship, Blessings, Deliverance Words that baptised me during the Sabbath My Mom-Mom smiled into the distance Knowing her burden will melt away soon Yet for all the blessings in the world Why was my aunt retarded And hated by her own mother?

Why were my cousins always in trouble Sent away when they were too much?

Why did my uncle have to go to jail for supporting his children and parents the only way he knew?

Why is everyone so angry?

And why did he take away his most faithful believer so soon Knowing she kept everyone together?

Yet faith unshaken I press on Looking for an answer On My Own

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Intel Chel Photograph

22

Hands of Graphite

It is easier to write of the days they once loved.

To not write of how she now lies with another for she cannot find another bed safe enough.

To omit lines of how they shove and break the lead when she cries it is easier.

Fresh paper does not slough any weight. Her words are hooked at the cuff: his beatings a writer’s block. Try as she might but lines make no flight from a wailing mouth. Returning to him, yes, it is easier.

Robb Soslow

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24

Michael Schlarbaum

Beyond Illusion

I dropped the hook into my chest And pulled my heart out with all the rest, Searching amongst the blood and guts For you.

I found hints in my broken organs Tiny pieces blackened; memories causing tiny deaths. in pieces missing, stolen, By your untimely departure.

You did not die, fate did not take you, Nor accident. You left. You headed west.

You could not take it here anymore, You needed change, There was a job waiting for you.

I believed you. I defended you.

Fast forward.

I see your screen, haphazardly in my gaze.

The display, a web, lies as thread If you’d told me I might’ve understood.

I know you were broken, I know it was your mother, your father.

But you betrayed me Passed it down another generation.

Now I look at the gore below me, Vainly attempting to piece everything together, While the tears that fell, splash and mix with the blood, and try to fix myself.

I can’t. The damage is done.

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PROSE R P O S E PROSE PROSE PROSE PROSE 26

TOGETHER IN THE MIDDLE OF EVERYTHING MISKA ABRAHAMS pg. 28

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CLIFFS SHEA DENNIS pg. 32 NAPALM STRIKE NAREN MATHAWAN pg. 33 HIS ORANGE SHORTS JACK ROARTY pg. 36 CHAPTER ONE: THE FIRING SQUAD SENAN FARRELLY pg. 39 THE DEAD ZONE DEAN MANKO pg. 42 A BASIC NECESSITY LUKE GREEN pg. 48 HORNETS CAMERON CUMMINS pg. 52 CHAPTER ONE ARNAV JAGASIA pg. 53 AN INCOMING TRAIN JACK BIDDLE pg. 56 CHAPTER ONE: A CURIOUS DISCOVERY MR. MATT GREEN 27

pg. 60

TOGETHER MIDDLE OF EVERYTHING IN THE

BY

MISKA ABRAHAMS

Nature was their environment. Nature was the shared place between them where they bonded. The pressures and stress of society could only be alleviated by escaping to the outdoors. Many weekends did the two go camping together. He is a boy scout, and she is mother nature in the flesh. He knew no other that could walk through the forest in a dress without dirtying it. His subtle personality calmed her anxiety. The apple trees around them still had ripe fruit. They

found a place to sit near a pond. One builds a fire; the other makes picks leaves and fruit. She took a little dip. The apple juice started falling from her lips. His bushy top, oak skin, and tall body reminded her of a tree. Just by looking at him, he reminded her of everything she loved on the earth. She loved the flowers, the animals ,and the trees. And this tree was her own. Nothing else could be better than spending time with each other in the world they loved. The sun fell. This made 28

them reminiscence. Once he asked her if she loved the color of the sky. She could only smile and ask, “Which one?” He never liked humans; she might be a goddess. When he looked at her white skin, he did not see a pale tone but something a little more holy. The only clarity he received came from things he loved. He loved photography, poetry, and all forms of art.

For all this, she was his muse. If he found himself bored, often he stared at pictures of her and drew. Being a bad artist, he only ever showed her once,. She could tell that his mastery of her face required no practice.

They did other things than go on nature trips.

Countless nights they listened to music on the rooftops of city houses. Calling out to the moon as if was only ten feet away, howling at the sky for giggles. Ringtones they had set specifically for each other reminded them of these nights.

Listening to Drake, they danced in the kitchen. Cooking up some brownies or another series of pastries. The smells that imbued their noses contributed to why they loved being around each other. Frequently she stole his hoodies to think of him. He could become mesmerized laying against her chest smelling her body, losing track of time. When they went skating in the winter parks, they held each other tightly as they danced around the rink. Late nights when their hearts ached, they knew when their phones rang, that could only mean one thing. Not everything they did had to be so romantic. For they could be happy on the couch eating chicken wings and fries.

No, they did not need dates.

On the couch, he looked at the scars from her past and thought about their future. If she cut herself, he cut. As much as he did to try to protect her, he felt that she had more strength in certain ways.. He knew that she never lied, but she kept quiet about her problems, unless he asked. Somehow, he always asked the right questions. They used to have fears of being unaccomplished and empty. Growing up to become a nobody in the world used to scare them more than anything.

Being nothing was how they felt their whole lives. But they felt everything with each other. She dreamed that one day they would wear matching rings. Time to time, thoughts of whether the kids they never had shared her features more or their father’s came to her. Thoughts of whether their love would weather through rough weathers came as well. His lovebird had her feathers ruffled in the past. The future held

possibilities, but they saw more of a script. As long the future involved each other, nothing else mattered. Memories of undesirable days deleted from their minds the more time they spent together. They saw the parents they always wanted in each other. His touch made her forget the undesired hands of others who had violated her body. Her first aid was he. Her soothing voice blocked out the thoughts of the scoldings he used to receive from his mother. His clarity came from her.

They knew that they wanted to be parents together. They knew what they had wanted to name their kids. They knew more than anything that they could spend never become bored in the adventure that the other person gave them.

As they sat around the fire, the space that surrounded them slowed. Neither of them cared but they did begin to notice. The grasshopper at her foot was evidently not hitting the ground as fast on every jump. The flames of the fire did not as much dance, but simply saunter back and forth. They moved closer to each other and the seconds came to a crawl.

The stars lost their twinkle and the leaves now teared instead of snapping under their feet. As time fell deeper into stopping, the two also fell deeper in love. The time they spent apart had never made them forget what was so important to them about the other. His curly hair. Her soft eyes. There was so much time for them now he could count the freckles on her face without blinking. Every part of her radiated. She could see herself in him, literally. The two stared and the reflection of one another was visible on their corneas. Their gazes could not pull away.

Both knew. If they embraced time would stop. He mouthed what appeared to be “ I love you” but sound waves travelled to slow for the ears proper interpretation. Who cared about the rest of the world? They had been outcast their whole lives so spending eternity with one another did not seem too selfish or anything less than they deserved. Their noses began to touch.

In one breath, they only moved an inch. While the world stilled, their minds raced.

They wanted to kiss.

29

Troy Gibbs-Brown Photograph

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31

CLIFFS

My car pulled up to the cliff. I was thinking about all the memories we’d had there, the night she ran away and we just stared at the stars, the disastrous double date. Her voice brought me out of my nostalgia.

“You always were sentimental.”

I took a deep breath in. And released it. I thought for a moment before responding. “It has to be here. We had so many memories… It has to be here. Your dad’s going to be pissed when he figures out that you’re with me.”

I was silent for a minute as I contemplate. I wondered what my life will be like without her, or what hers would have been like with me. She sensed my sadness.

“Come on,” she joked, trying to cheer me up.

“Remember that time we brought Jimmy here? And he got so….”

“He almost fell down the hill.” I cracked a smile. “You know he was trying to sleep with you right?”

“Really?”

I nod. “He asked me what you like,” I paused to stifle a laugh. “I may have told him that you only like guys who got really drunk and wore muscle shirts.”

“You asshole!” Her anger quickly turned into laughter.

“That explains so much. Oh, he was a really nice guy, before he started shotgunning beers and doing pushups all the time.”

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No, I’m not. He called me fat in middle school. I couldn’t let you date him.”

“And Karli was that much better?” I winced at her name. “That girl was a terrible person.” She then described in graphic detail how Karli had left me for the quarterback and the various acts they performed on each other.

“I get it. I date hos. They’re the only ones I can get to

SHEA DENNIS BY

love me.”

“I love you.”

“And guess what that makes you.”

“An idiot. But until I act on it, I’m not a ho.”

I paused and smiled, appreciating what would turn out to be the last of her self-deprecating humor. It took me a minute to respond.

“How come we never acted on it?”

“Because I loved you like a brother. I had my first drink with you, I talked through my first break up with you, I… I didn’t want to chance ruining that with some drunk fling.” We let that hang in the air. She finally spoke up. “Want to listen to some music?”

“Are you trying to seduce me?”

She chuckled as she played the song off her phone. “I always did find personal tragedy sexy.”

I leaned back and closed my eyes as the music played.

I felt her move over the console and kiss me, lightly at first, but building to express eighty years that we wouldn’t know each other for. I kept my eyes closed. I realized after a few seconds why I was scared to open them. I finally did. I slowly summoned the strength to turn to the passenger seat. The urn was where I left it, sitting against the bottom seat belt, with the cap sealed with duct tape I put there to make sure it wouldn’t spill. I shut off the car, slid out of my seat and walked around to the other side. I opened her door, undid her seatbelt, and picked her up. I carried her over to the spot where we always had our non dates. I put her down at the base of a tree, took off the tape, removed the cap, and picked her up again. I thought for a minute about what to do with the ashes. I decided on her least favorite phrase. I drove away a few minutes later, YOLO drawn into the hillside.

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NAPALM STRIKE

I never set foot in that room again, at least until after our break. I saw things I was never meant to see. It’s hard to unsee what had just been seen. It still burns holes in my eyes.

I wish I didn’t see that. Man, that was rough. If only I didn’t go towards it and look at it. Ugh, this is unbearable. I thought it was better than it actually was. But, wow, was I wrong.

This is unbearable. Why? Just why did it have to be this way. Why couldn’t it have been better when I saw what I saw. This is so annoying and frustrating it hurts. I hate that room. I want the room to burn. This is not fair. Please make the pain stop. Why couldn’t it have just been a cute bunny or a harmless stack of blank paper? God I hate that room. I will never go back. This is the end. I give up. I’m going to flip a table.

Man, I feel like screaming. I worked so hard and for this?

I can still see it. It’s still in my head haunting me.

Staring at me with the most evil, wicked smile it’s face. Oh my god, it’s horrifying. It’s so repulsing it’s worth calling an airstrike on it. That is what I’m going to do. I’m going to call in a Napalm Strike. My killstreak is through the roof, and I’m bouta blow this up - the whole room. I feel like Mario when he gets that star thing and goes ham on everything. I’m done. I’m a white girl with her Uggs and North-Face branded jacket on that can’t even. Except I’m not because I’m a brown kid who is irritated

NAREN MATHAWAN BY

and scarred after stepping into that room. I’m still thinking about it. It won’t go away. I can feel it’s presence. The force is strong in this one. It’s devil-like character is breathing down my neck, anchoring me down. Get off me.

“I feel like Mario when he gets that star thing and goes ham on everything”

Please, go away. I can’t escape it. I look at it, wondering why. Why? What did I do to deserve this? How could this happen to me? Of everything, one number sticks out, haunting me. 89. I don’t want to be here anymore. Get me away from this. I can’t keep looking at this. Even when I flip the packet over, the number burns through the paper and I can still see it staring at me with the same grin as the Grinch when he got the idea to steal all the presents from Whoville.

When will this end? Oh, wait, it is ending! It’s going away! Thank God, Mr. Lengel is collecting the midterms.

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David Bunn Photograph

34

Intel Chen Photograph

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ORANGE SHORTS HIS

JACK ROARTY BY

I do not remember much about the boy, and I cannot say I remember much about him now besides that his name was Claens. I met him when I was maybe eleven years old – a time when I was aware that there was a world around me that was very different from the world I experienced, but a time when I was still ignorant to that world. The private Catholic school I had been going to for six years ( was destined to go to for another three) isolated me from much of the world in a regrettable way. While the school was taking a somewhat obvious step towards more diversity, I was still in a grade with only one black student; the other twenty nine students were white, like me. World history class only taught ancient history, shielding me from the state of our modern world. Religion class focused only on the religion I was told to believe in.

English class had me reading American literature. The only class from which I received some real knowledge of the world was Spanish. I loved Spanish class for that reason.

My mother noticed the fact that the world was being hidden from me, and often made steps to break down the walls between other cultures and myself. She often organized international trips for my family, so I could see the rest of the world. I loved to travel, as I still do. I enjoyed seeing

how different people lived as much as I enjoyed seeing old monuments and buildings. Mom never took time to wander the ruins; she enjoyed the people, the music, the life.

That is the only reason I know of that my mother would decide to take this Claens kid into our home. She had come into contact with a program, the name of which I cannot remember, which was designed to “bring inner-city kids to suburban areas like ours to give them a good summer,” as my mother described it. Fifth grade was just finishing up, and it was nearly time to begin our annual two month vacation to Long Beach Island. This year, we would bring Claens with us for a week.

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“My mother noticed the fact that the world was being hidden from me, and often made steps to break down the walls...”

It was early June, and my family and I were waiting in the main lobby of my middle school for a bus that was already very late. After the bus arrived, Claens came off of it to meet us. He was about a year older than me and a few inches taller. He wore his older brother’s old clothes and approached us with a small duffel bag. I knew that he was from New York City, but not much else. His French-sounding last name led us all to believe his family was from Haiti, a notion that was later confirmed. An ever-present feeling of poverty lingered in the air when we were together. Through his clothes and his speech, I could tell that I was much better off than he was. As we met each other for the first time in the halls of my private school, I knew what task was ahead of me. Being the child in my family whose age was closest to Claens’ I knew it was mainly my duty to show him a good time this summer.

climate that LBI offered, and his enthusiasm inspired me to do the same. He smiled more than most of the people I knew. It was like the sun energized him. He liked to run, especially on the sand, which was like a new platform for him. Swimming and being at the beach was not a new experience for him - he did it in Haiti - but he had not done it in a long time. I was always impressed with the energy he had, and I pushed myself to be just as active.

He wore a striking bright orange bathing suit with white flowers on it whenever we went swimming. Whether we were at the waterpark, at the beach, or at the pool in my backyard, he wore that bathing suit. Roughly five days into this vacation of his, I decided to ask him about the bathing suit. I distinctly remember the exchange that followed, because it changed my life forever.

“Claens,” I asked him on the sand at the beach that day, “Why do you always wear that same orange bathing suit?”

Nearly every day that we had gone swimming up to then, I had worn a different bathing suit of mine. They were all dark blue or green, like most of the clothes I wore when I was that age. I never wore anything flashy or bright like this orange bathing suit. In fact, I probably wore my school uniform more than anything else for the nine years I went to that school. The uniform we had was a white polo shirt with khaki pants and a belt. I had become used to wearing those uncomfortable clothes by then, and I did not have many other clothes besides navy t shirts and basketball shorts. In some ways, I was jealous of the orange bathing suit he wore wherever we went together.

JACK ROARTY “From the day I was born, I BY

always had more than Claens’ family are likely to ever have.”

As I spoke with him more, I learned his story. He was from a small family who had moved to The United States from Haiti when he was much younger. They did it to escape poverty, but were only met by more when they moved to New York. It was the sort of classic story you read about. I could tell that his parents wanted him to have a good life. They dressed him in the little clothes that they had and put him in this program to show him a good time. Perhaps they wanted to inspire him to work hard as well. I gained a lot of respect for him and his family. I never had to drastically change my life to get to where I was. I never had to leave my life behind and move to another country.

From the day I was born, I always had more than Claens’ family are likely to ever have. This was the beginning of a very pensive journey for me, despite my young age. We departed for the shore that day.

“Why would I need more than one?” he responded,

The New Jersey coast was nothing like he had ever quickly and clearly. The response caught me off guard. I am seen. He seized and valued every moment he had in the warm not sure what answer I was expecting, but it certainly was

“Claens,” I asked him on the sand at the beach that day, “Why do you always wear that same orange bathing suit?”

37

not that one. His answer got me to do exactly what his visit was intended to make me do: question and realize my situation. In one sentence, my attitude towards life and my value of material objects changed completely. Why would he need more than one? I wondered. Why do I?

“The program was intended to show these kids a good time [...] but in reality it made me realize how good I had it.”

“I… I don’t know,” I stammered, before running into the water with him. This was the first time in my life that I thought hard about the world. As I swam in the warm water of the Atlantic Ocean, I looked around at where I was and appreciated what I had. As we walked back to my beach house, a luxury almost nobody in the world has, I realized what I had been given.

I stopped taking my life and my education for granted.

A few days later, it was time for him to leave. I spent much of the two hour drive back to Pennsylvania looking out the window at the miles and miles of pine trees. This was the most pensive part of my week. As I returned to my home state, I thought about returning back to my school. For this week, and this week alone, the two of us were together; we were in the same situation. However, we were both returning to our real lives: the lives in which we are divided by wealth and education. Only a few hours from then, Claens would yet again be some inner-city kid nobody cared about and I would be miles away living the life everyone wants. I didn’t deserve it, though. I didn’t earn it. This was handed to me.

“Thank you all so much for allowing me to stay,” our guest said to us in his most polite voice.

“Any time, Claens. You’ve been a wonderful visitor,” my mother replied, her eyes teary. She was sad to see him go. He’d become family to all of us. My sisters begged him to come back next summer, and he said he’d try to. We waved goodbye to him as he boarded his bus back to the Big Apple.

Claens returned for another visit the next summer.

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He stayed with us for much longer than he had last time, but I never saw him again after that second visit. I think about him occasionally, and I think about the world he told me about. I wonder how he’s doing; I wonder if life is still hard in New York for him. It’s odd to think that everyone you’ve ever met is still out there. Everything you’ve ever interacted with is still out there somewhere. Every simple little thing - like a utensil at a restaurant - still exists and has existed for a long time. The point, however, is not that these objects exist still. While you may interact with some things for very short amounts of time, you can take some profound things away from them. A short trip to another country might not be very lengthy, but it may have an effect on you that lasts for the rest of your life.

“... interact with some things for very short amounts of time, you can take some profound things away from them”

That is how I choose to think about Claens and his life-changing visit. I don’t have any ways of contacting him, so I suppose I will never find out how he’s really doing. I also wonder how many other people are in similar situations. Haiti has not improved too much since the time when he was there. It is possible, almost certain, that there is a family going through a very similar thing right now. I wonder what I can do, but I don’t have any answers. What I can do, though, is continue to realize all that I have and utilize my opportunities. I can not take any of what I have been given for granted. I will appreciate that I can wear my own clothes, have my own bedroom and go to one of the best schools in the country. My limited experience with this boy has inspired me to take advantage of what I have. It was a turning point in my life that was formed by a pair of orange shorts that I will never forget.

CHAPTER ONE: THE FIRING SQUAD BY

SENAN FARRELLY

One day, he will face the firing squad, but, for now, it’s his own finger pulling the trigger. Beads of sweat roll down the face of the shooter to Kael’s right -- the man is nervous, but not without reason: it’s his first day. Maybe one day he’ll become numb to the feeling that comes with firing the bullet that cuts a man’s life short; the feeling that comes with staring into a man’s eyes as his last bit of life fades away. It took Kael ages. What did those people even do besides “live a good, long life” as the Director put it? It doesn’t matter now. Everyone to his left will pull the trigger; Everyone to his right will pull the trigger; Kael will pull the trigger. He always does.

Everyone has his or her own reason for doing it -- for being a professional murderer. Some do it for the prestige that comes with working for the State; some do it for the pride in helping the State manage overpopulation; some do it for the thrill of taking another human life. The paychecks that come in the mail every week are what allow Kael to continue killing; to come home to his wife and kids every day and paste on that same charming smile that wooed her when they first began to date many years ago.

It was a much simpler time before -- before the devastation that turned a thriving country of 500 million into an institution of a mere 100,000 inhabitants with a focus on technological advancements and industrialization. The State believes its demise was overpopulation, thus the creation of Internal Maintenance, the organization that hired Kael and

placed him in his current position. They are responsible for keeping the population at a stable 100,000 inhabitants.

“Everyone has his or her own reason for doing it -- for being a professional murderer.”

Holding his breath, Kael looks down the scope of the barrel. Having done this dozens of times, he knows the exact moment that the horn will sound. He waits and waits and waits.

Nothing. The eyes of the shooters wander around in confusion, but none of them can decipher the events that are taking place.

At last, the crackle of a loudspeaker breaks the silence before a booming voice speaks. In all his years, this had never happened.

No one had ever left the range without killing or being killed.

Was it the Director? No one had ever heard the voice of the Director or seen the face of the Director, but they all suspect it’s him. Why else would this event be stopped?

The powerful voice speaks as follows: “a certain sequence of events has transpired, such that your attendance is no longer needed at this time. You’re all dismissed.”

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Troy Gibbs-Brown Photograph

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Will Pechet Photograph

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THE DEAD ZONE DEAN MANKO BY

Surf lapped on the rocky shore, carrying with it shards of past dreams. Dreams of changing the world and fixing nature washed up along with blood-red algae, dying and decomposing as they splashed against the rocks. As the seawater rolled over the captain’s feet, he wrung his damp cap before placing it back on his uncombed head, hair stiff with salt. He glanced over the scenery, watching the setting sun illuminate the tableau of a tragic scene. He thought back to the ambition of the scientist, now defeated by the very force he set out to help. As the waves carried the remnants of the formerly white lab coat onto the jagged shoreline, the captain thought back to that very morning, which began as if it intended to emulate any other day. ***

The familiar sensation of wind brought the captain out of his morning tiredness, as the brackish air buffeted every part of his body left exposed. Peering through the early-morning mist, the looming cliffs were barely perceptible in the distance, framing the captain’s view. The captain, safe for the most part from the whipping gusts behind his flimsy plexiglass windshield, went through his motions like clockwork as his eyes traveled along the gunwale of a boat he knew better than he knew his closest

friends. The wheel groaned at the urging of the captain’s hands, nudging his boat towards the remote spot in the middle of the undisturbed cove. His battered face had seen the area undergo constant change over his many years on the sea. Employers had come and gone at Thompson’s Cove; the mining companies were the first to make use of the beautiful area, but soon left after exhausting the cobalt supply beneath the waters.

Va r i o u s industries had left their mark on the isolated cove — now the area was overcome by those opposed to industry, with researchers similar to the hunched over man on the starboard side arriving at the remote cove by the dozen. The captain noticed the furrowed brow of his shipmate, obviously burning with a fiery focus rarely seen accompanying the monotonous daily life of water quality researchers. The man evidently possessed an uncommon passion for his subject, insisting on making the trip despite the uncomfortable and encumbering weather.

The dreariness of the weather and the uninspiring conditions would never be able to dampen the researcher’s mood. His spirit and intellectual vigor radiated from his intense countenance as he looked forward to the task ahead. The man concerned himself with marine life and habitat, and relished

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the opportunity to conduct research in a unique eutrophic environment. His research was promising, and the man found himself impatient with waiting for the boat to arrive at the designated zone.

foggy horizon.

He would change the world. This day was the product of years of work, the culmination of his entire career. The boat’s roaring engine calmed to a purr, and the man could taste his excitement. He finally had the opportunity to implement his new genetic material in the algae.

The wind skimmed across the surface of the rough sea and whistled past his ears, momentarily distracting the scientist from the task at hand. He was not the outdoors type; he had conducted all prior research within the sterile and predictable confines of the white lab room with his name on the door, in which the man spent more time than his own house. His focus was further interrupted by a shout from the stern, as the captain once again made his voice heard.

“Where do you want me to let ‘er go?”

“Have you not thought to cut the motor yet? I absolutely can’t have you jeopardizing this trial, sir. If the water becomes any more turbid, I would lose everything!”

“Relax, kid. Motor’s been cut for half a cable length. I’m just gonna go ahead and drop the anchor, you lemme know if I can do anything for your little experiment.”

“Thank you, sir, right here should be appropriate to rest the anchor.”

“Say, captain, how much farther until the designated spot?”

“With this weather, another few minutes. Probably around ten.”

“Is there any way you can hurry up at all? This is time sensitive work, not that you would understand.”

“If I hurry her up she’ll crush the little critters you’re actually studying.”

“Just speed up. What I set out to do today will change the world, what are one or two small organisms in the grand cosmos of our beautiful life? Evolution has dictated that only the most fit organisms shall survive, and any that die must not be fit.”

With a laugh and a sarcastic shake of the head, the captain increased the speed of the small boat, pushing its bow into the choppy waters and keeping the nose trained on the scientist’s desired location. Shaking his head, the captain glanced once again at the concentrated stare of the other man on his boat. Behind the focused eyes, however, the man’s thoughts wandered. He thought about more than his stern appearance would dictate — more than merely the task at hand.

The scientist wore his starched coat with unabashed honor and pride; he knew that man’s purpose in life was to uncover the mysteries of the world and establish laws for natural occurrences. He saw science as the driving force behind nature: without the stiff vertebrae of science, nature would collapse completely. And no substance was as crucial in the overlap between science and nature as water. Chiefly dealing with the maintenance of bodies of water and creatures inside them, the man liked to fix nature’s mistakes in aquatic ecosystems. As the bright red patch of algae made its way into the scientist’s view, he took a deep breath of the salty air and began to direct his thoughts to the idea of correcting a blemish on nature’s skin, a red stain on a blue background. The area in question was eutrophic, a zone of water devoid of all animal life due to an excess of nutrients in the water spurring too much algal growth and therefore blocking the sunlight and creating a dead zone in that area of water.

Eutrophication in itself was not unique; science often induced algal blooms such as the red blossom approaching rapidly on the

“He would change the world.

This day was the product of years of work, the culmination of his entire career.”

The skipper let loose a breathy laugh, albeit quiet, at the apparent anxiety of the young researcher. The scientist walked towards the starboard side, and grappled with his wetsuit before finally figuring out the unfamiliar piece of clothing — much to the evident amusement of the onlooking captain. Becoming impatient with the slow progress, the captain called out, “Lemme help you kid, sit tight for a second.” To the seafarer’s surprise, the scientist beckoned for his help and showed no signs of reluctance.

After he was suited up and fitted with all of his equipment, the researcher wasted no time in lowering himself into the waters, 43

which had calmed considerably with the progression of the day.

Breaking through the surface, the scientist opened his eyes and was astonished by the beauty of his surroundings. For all the time spent with two hydrogens and an oxygen, never before had he felt so immersed in water. But such thoughts were detrimental to the task at hand. Breathing through the tank strapped to his back, he began to swim over towards the area where light no longer penetrated the surface of the water (blocked by the algal growth), an expansive region looming a few hundred feet away, devoid of all sunlight or aquatic life. As he glided past breathtaking undersea landscapes, the scientist’s eyes remained trained on the dark algae at the surface, the man oblivious to any surroundings escaping his tunnel vision.

Imbued with anticipation, the scientist found his nervous energy driving him further into the darkness. He could not wait to fix this issue inherent within nature and save aquatic ecosystems. The entire concept had never been done before, but he was sure it would work. The perfection of the genetic encoding for a semi-transparent cell membrane had taken years, but it was worth it. Injecting his new DNA structure into a single cell of one alga would cause a cancerous mutation of that cell, ensuring that the entire organism became vitreous. This would, in turn, allow for the rest of the ecosystem to receive light and operate normally — all in the hope of eliminating these “dead zones.”

“Imbued with anticipation, the scientist found his nervous energy driving him further into darkness...”

He had finally reached the area. Looking at the seafloor, the scientist noted a steep drop off from the coral shelf. But this was irrelevant; he was only concerned with the floating algae. As he carefully removed the watertight syringe from the inner pocket of his scuba-vest, the scientist carefully inflated his buoyancy control device (BCD) until he was at arm’s length from the surface.

Guiding the needlepoint to one little organism, the scientist’s meticulousness and practice made themselves evident in his precise execution of the transfer. He repeated the process twenty 44

or so more times, maintaining the same intense focus on his work.

As the man let some air out of his BCD to avoid disrupting the algae, he began to fully comprehend what he had done. The new DNA was in! He would be famous! His mind played out scenes of fame and glory, as he imagined accepting a Nobel Prize in front of an astounded crowd. He knew he had just corrected nature’s own shortcoming, using science to redirect nature’s carelessness. With the mission complete, the scientist realized he had more than a quarter of his air left — more than enough to make the trip back to the boat. So why not take the time to enjoy the environment?

“The alien beauty of the dead zone enveloped his senses, and he continued to descend to the sandy bottom...”

The vast sea ensconced him, and the man decided to explore his surroundings. Dropping further and further below the waves’ crests, he was fascinated by the barren area around him.

The alien beauty of the dead zone enveloped his senses, and he continued to descend to the sandy bottom, illuminating what lay ahead with his pocket flashlight. In a sweeping motion to track his progress from along the shelf, the scientist could not contain his surprise when the flashlight flew from his hands, dropping at an inexplicable rate until it settled, finding its place on the ocean floor.

With a new mission in mind, he made his way to the corridor of light along the sandy bed.

Retrieving the flashlight was no hard task, the light made it easily locatable. The same could not be said for the surface, with the rays of light penetrating the surface layer of algae few and far between. As the scientist began his ascent, he became disoriented, not knowing up from down in the murky darkness of the ocean.

Shining his light on a discernible object, the scientist tried to reestablish his location by swimming over to a familiar crag in the rock shelf. But, even with some time spent navigating towards the illuminated crag, it was not any closer.

How could he be going nowhere? He renewed his effort to orient himself, but his searching beam fell on nothing but the

empty expanse. Beam flashing left and right, the scientist’s worst fear was confirmed; he was stuck. His vest was ensnared by the rock face to his back, caught on its craggy fingers. Unable to contort his frame to discern the equipment held captive by the rock shelf clamping on to him, he flailed and struggled to free himself from his captor. To no avail.

At first his breathing became shallow; he was caught in the throes of panic. The logical part of his brain was swallowed up in the confusion that overtook his body and mind, the desperate urge to free himself blocking all other signals. He craned his neck to obtain a better view of the surface, only to encounter an unexpected sight. The beam of light emanating from his flashlight illuminated tiny red specks, cascading down in a blood-red mass. As the realization that this wave of claret was the algae he had devoted years of his life to dawned on the hapless man, the scientist’s breath hitched. He went to draw another deep breath from his regulator and was met with an incredible amount of resistance. Taking a simple breath felt like he was sucking air out of a thin coffee stirrer. His brain screamed for more. More air. More time.

But the scientist knew he could control himself. He was simply too strong to let panic overtake him. If science were to select an ideal specimen for survival, he knew he would be chosen. He trusted in logic and reason above all else and maintained a level head, even with the weight of four atmospheres pressing on his shoulders. All he needed to do was relax and solve this puzzle like a riddle. He had always been good at riddles, even when he was a young boy. But back then, the problems were much simpler; he could solve them with willpower and a little logic. In college, he made undrinkable water pure. Before that, he could save a bird in a shoebox. Before that, he just… he just could. So why… why couldn’t he now? Too hard. Way too hard.

“He was simply too strong to let panic overtake him. If science were to select an ideal specimen for survival, he knew he would be chosen.”

A thick fog descended over his already cloudy vision, obscuring the brilliant red particles surrounding him. In their final push, his lungs gasped for air. The dial on the air gauge fell to zero.

The bubbles of his last exhalation rose through the mass of algae.

The captain sat atop the bow of his trusty boat, and enjoyed the now beautiful day for an hour. The algal film on the surface began to disappear, replaced by the aquamarine color characteristic of Thompson’s Cove. The sun was at its zenith, and the skipper found his thoughts drifting to how much he wanted to spend the day fishing — accompanied only by his own thoughts and the eternal lapping of waves. As time passed, the old seafarer realized that the scientist would not be returning, and pointed the boat landward. A day that had started like any other would draw to a close in a familiar fashion. As it had done to the cobalt miners with their underwater treasure-digging as well as countless others, the pristine waters of the cove had swallowed up another visitor.

“The logical part of his brain was swallowed up in the confusion that overtook his body and mind...”

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David Bunn Photograph

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47

A BASIC NECESSITY

LUKE GREEN BY

They didn’t ask for this life. What a sad sight, on a marvelous afternoon, with the sun high and palm trees towering over the ocean—an unusable source—to see beggars on the streets, pleading for not only food and shelter, but water as well.

These people live by the day, and their numbers increase, as they fight for every drop. The reservoirs have dried up, and what were once sharp systems of crystal clear refreshment are now makeshift skate parks for rebellious teens. If we do not act, we will be the ones hurt from lack of water. The secret lies in our urine.

It’s healthy, there’s alot of it, and its free! Do you want to end up fighting with your fellow citizens over sacred drops of water? Or would you rather have a laugh with your neighbor as the two of you walk to the nearest well to collect more of this golden sunshine? Replacing our water with urine brings peace, equality, and most importantly, freedom. It is our duty as the keepers of the free world to provide for our people, and now we have the answer. Many solutions would be cost heavy and labor intensive, mine is quite the contrary. Not only will the way we gather our sustenance be economical in practice, but it also creates a healthier and happier population, who can say no to that?

I want you to think of your urine. Ignore the color, for it is irrelevant, and imagine the thirst quenching liquid that could save the world. It’s time to face the facts, either convert our diminishing water to supply to an unlimited amount of urine, or wait for our untimely death. We consume lots of water throughout the day,

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yet we waste that water back into the toilet and into the sewage.

Now, instead of this life saving liquid rotting in the depths of the sewages throughout the world, the skate parks will once again become reservoirs full of life: gorgeous dandelion colored urine.

Consider the amount of urine produced each day by our bodies— hundreds of gallons—and imagine the enormous potential that this vast amount of liquid holds. Urine, in its most basic form, is water. The design for this process is quite simple. Right now in our current toilets, we have pipes connecting our toilets towards sewers, which will then eventually lead towards sewage ponds.

Now, with little effort on our part—nothing changes—the pipelines will direct our urine towards the reservoirs and forever end the concept of the drought. Dehydration no longer would exist, as our reservoirs would overflow with beautiful, life-saving urine. The foundation of our great nation will also benefit, as farmers can nourish their crops at a higher level to ensure a higher production rate. Not only will droughts go away, but world hunger shall be eliminated as well. Livestock will grow bigger and stronger and create better cuts of meat that will make our population stronger and better prepared for the future. Farmers will never have to worry about their water consumption, because they will have an unlimited amount for little sacrifice.

I have a friend who is a farmer, Zach, who works his acre of land with pride. Every morning—5 AM on the dot—Billy the rooster crows, arising the workers and cattle. Zach, along with his

workers go to the barn to check on livestock before breakfast, the bleats from the goats and sheep are audible from the mess room. Before a long day’s work in the fields, the men clad in their gloves and overalls settle down in the kitchen awaiting Zach’s wife to prepare the daily breakfast of oats and toast. Based in California, the warm weather nourishes the crops, and a lack of winter weather enables Zach to produce a better yield. His main crops include grapes, almonds, and plums. He may live a simple life, but I have never met anyone as happy with his life as Zach.

Before turning in for the night, Zach and his team turn on the sprinklers and give a well deserved drink to his plants, and then the moon glows over the California air.

fullest and be motivated to work every day. With urine as our main source for hydration, every man and woman will live a happy and healthy life.

Now, some may question the practicality of using what is in essence our waste as a way of hydration—using our waste for something productive. When my idea is boiled down to its most rudimentary form, there’s no way to refute its usefulness.

The pricing of reshaping the pipelines could prove heavy, however the end result will make up for the initial cost. Because obtaining and distributing the urine is so cheap, the initial cost of organizing the pipe system will be irrelevant once the system gets up and running. Others might squirm at the thought of drinking their own excretion, the color is too yellow to get past. If color is the issue, then I plead you look at the millions of yellow sports drinks sold and then try to tell me that the color of urine is a turn off. Urine, like water, has no taste, and anyone who refuses to accept urine as a hydrator because of its taste is a selfish liar. Those that are uneducated are within their right to question the sanitation of such a scheme. However such claims are foolish, as they do not correlate with the digestive system and how the body uses liquid. Once we swallow the water, the liquid then moves throughout the body, absorbing different nutrients, until it finally releases as waste. So, urine has the same makeup of water if not a healthier one.

“Ignore the color, for it is irrelevant, and imagine the thirst quenching liquid that could save the world.”

Returning to my main point, the advantages of urine are clear. First, because urine is almost an exact copy of water, urine can completely serve the role that water previously played.

Because of the lack of availability of water to the common farmer, production of crops has been smaller than years past, therefore hunger and poverty has risen. With urine, most of the world’s issues would not exist, as it would solve many problems that a lack of water could not fix. Second, farmers could use a limitless supply of their own sources of water, at a low cost.

There finances could focus elsewhere on their crops because urine is not hard to obtain. Never again would we see poverty in the streets, for it’s because of an unlimited supply of urine that farmers can produce more food—they can be less conservative with their liquid—which in turn causes the price of all foods to drop, making sustenance more affordable for the poorest of people. Third, when urine is released it is warm, because of the average body temperature. Therefore, hot water in the winter is unnecessary, which in turn can lead to less energy burned.

It has been proven that the more hydrated one is, the happier one is because of a higher energy level and lower fatigue level.

Because of the recent droughts around the world, people have been reluctant to drink the right amount of water per day to live healthily, creating a population less likely to live their life to the

“Those that are uneducated are within their right to question the sanitation of such a scheme.”

So, in the future when you are hopefully drinking your gorgeously yellow urine instead of bland water, think of more than just yourself. Every drop matters, because every drop we waste we become one step closer to our untimely death. Think of the benefits that urine will bring to the world, whether it be in the home or at the farm. Because of its fair pricing, practicality, and overall healthier content, urine will be the liquid of the future in ensuring the success of this world.

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David Bunn Photograph

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51

HORNETS

BY CAMERON CUMMINS

Darkness—The aridness consuming both her and I complements the chilling blackness. It is howling—the wind— against us; standing here in the lonely metal room. Above, a slight crack of sunlight illuminates the ominous fog that shrouds us below. The cloth of her gown slaps my face with contempt; I blow it away with whatever breath I have left—an icy shock swallows my heart. Her hair blows too; individual strands brush against my face, brunette, the smell of something familiar. A face smiling under the stars—and the sky—sitting in the hay staring straight into my eyes, and I into hers. A tree sways in a field, large stalks of grass gleams, waving to us. Vegetables frosted over in early Autumn, and the soil unleached.

Something foreign. A voice over an amplifier, speaking into a microphone, loud, chaotic, screams of souls long lost.

Beneath, something churns, gears scratching; cranking. The platform raises and sand spills below as we ascend. The small crack of seeping sunlight grows larger; opening and revealing.

The rope around me is tight, bound to a cold column, and on the other side is her. A hand looks, searches, and I grab it—so soft, gentle, small, and fragile; it grips tight, harder than I do. We approach the top; the zenith, the peak. Gazing over the level sands, the buzzing of dozens of drums beat, our gaze meets the blinding sun. Our hands sweat, the wind kicks up more sand; grains in my teeth—I spit, but nothing surfaces.

A gentle hum, a child’s lullaby, too desolate and barren. I squint, my eyes red, or I imagine them that way. Two men stand, on either side; spears arming them above the wall, some distance away. He sits, a throne of stone; watching, smiling, happy. His hands raise, all are hushed. My legs, now shaking, begin stepping; trying to reposition. My exposed chest, legs, and arms all but the cloth around my waist. A burning sun, boiling flesh, but mine is already rough, dry, darkened, and calloused. My back burns, blood stained sand below; something dripping onto my bound hands. She wears a white tattered dress, an unveiled midriff; skin.

Haplessly dressed; careless because those little men who draped her in that thing don’t understand the word—female. White skin, lighter, pinkish. Stunning, gorgeous; beneath the humming, a gentle violin begins to cry. Humiliating, objectifying; a display, an example—both of us.

Remembering something long lost; forgotten like us here—children of the past. A field without crops, no clouds to shade us, no mud to jump in, splashing her, laughing; together.

The face reappears, deep green eyes, stroking my hair—hastily, the dream fades. The drums beat louder, a deafening rhythm. The coliseum we stand in; blocks of limestone, some rock, hastily slapped together. Everything is dull; a faint tannish tint, mocking us. A crowd of men, roaring, hungry, tired of boredom, of waiting, hands above their heads, chanting. And a large banner of green; perhaps the only thing of that colour left. He sits beneath it, taking a swig of water before standing, grabbing the microphone.

A once lush Autumn—pushing a wheelbarrow at the fair, pumpkins glimmering, she grabs my hat from behind. A little voice calls from behind, happy to see his father. Shaking my head—stop dreaming—sliding, shimmying; moving through the rope and guiding my way to her—she is doing the same.

Hitting the dust before us, a rock, thrown from somewhere; someone. Our hands locked; meeting, we raise our arms in unison. Eruption; outrage from the dying men. A laugh, an old man standing before the world, under a decaying banner; he killed it—us—all of us. A burning planet, men killing men, children taken, love lost; standing, full of furious rage, ready to face the crowd, the world—together.

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CHAPTER ONE

The stagnant desert air permeated the city. In the few minutes before daybreak, all was quiet: crows circled the rooftops, men in white robes – assault rifles slung over their shoulders – scuttled under arched hallways, a tank of the Imperial Guard sounded with its familiar soft whir as it began its morning patrol.

Another tank rolled out of a inconspicuous, tucked-away garage and zipped along a dusty back alley. The tank hurtled around a corner and came to an immediate stop. The state emblem – two rifles crossed underneath a palmetto – emblazoned in green and gold shone dimly on the tank’s white metal as the first rays of sunlight peeked over the city’s soaring towers.

A quiet, mechanized beeping echoed from a distance.

It grew louder until – within just a few seconds – it filled every corner of the city with a deafening roar, as if hundreds of heavy, brass bells were being rung,. No one could avoid the siren. In every town of every province, guardsmen and peasants, bricklayers and scribes, men and women alike were woken by the siren.

The reverberating pulse of the siren thundered through the once quiet city, and such was story of every morning. Little did the city’s residents know that this was not always the case.

In the years before the Conquest, there was no siren; there was no ear-splitting sound to commemorate the birth of a new day.

Some were woken by the sweet sounds of a carillon or the smell of fresh bread. Even in this very city, the mornings were graced by the lyrical voices of the white-robed priests. But ever since the Conquest, the mechanized siren has taken the place of the priests’ morning calls. This way, no one is spared from the morning sacraments. No one can avoid the siren.

The siren blared for ten minutes, as the morning sunlight flooded the city. Towers cast long shadows on the uniform living units; golden domes glinted in the dawn’s early light, the sound of the siren ringing off the their polished curvatures. There was an odd sense of calm in these ten minutes. The streets were still.

Even the tanks paused their patrols for the siren. Everyone must hear the siren.

The numbing blare of the siren came to an abrupt stop, and the tanks whirred along their patrol path. Slowly, the city’s residents filed into the streets. Shrouded in black, men and women walked towards the Imperial Command Unit – often referred to

BY ARNAV JAGASIA

just as the Center. Hundreds of people, cloaked in black fabric, flowed out of their living units. Like a swarm of black ants, they marched quickly – and without a word – into the center of the city.

Off in a corner of the city, a bent, old man struggled out of his unit. He clawed the adobe mortar of his living unit with his right, searching for his cane. He knocked over a small wooden fence, and his goat ran into the street. He hobbled after it, darting between the last few stragglers hustling to the Center. Just as the street cleared out, the man wrestled his goat to the ground and pinned it down with his cloak.

A tank rolled down the street and stopped in front of the man. He knew he was running late – no one can be late for the morning call – and struggled to his feet.

“I’m going! I’m on my way!” he croaked towards the tank as he put on his cloak. The goat shook loose and began to run away from the white tank, gleaming under the desert sun. The man turned to the goat, running wildly down the street, and back to the tank.

“I just need to get that goat.” he said. “I’ll just be a minute.”

He hobbled towards his goat. The tank rolled closer. The man turned around again, to face the tank. He saw the tinted glass in the front, trying to discern if there was a driver in there. No one really knew, if there were actual people – regular, ordinary citizens – driving the tanks. Some thought the tanks were automated by the Center.

“I just need a minute. Really, I’ll hurry to the Center as soon as I put that goat in the pen.” The old man turned back towards the goat, and saw it standing still a few yards ahead of him. The tank rolled forward again behind him.

Quietly, like the soft pitter-patter of an autumn drizzle, the tank released a shower of bullets. The man slumped over into the ground, a formless figure in black cloth now muddied with trail of blood. His goat, wide-eyed with fear, sprinted off down the street.

No one can be late for the morning call. No one can avoid the siren.

Another shower. The goat slumped over too.

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David Bunn Photograph

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Sam Shaw Painting

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AN INCOMING TRAIN JACK BIDDLE BY

The woods were peaceful, which wasn’t out of the ordinary for a warm summer night. The crickets were chirping and a slight breeze was blowing through the air, giving him a welcome relief. The moon was full and shining through the cloudless sky, almost like a second sun. A train’s horn broke the peace and was followed by an ear-piercing scream.

The man was thoroughly upset by the scream disrupting his tranquility, so he kicked his prisoner in the face to shut it up. Then he continued forward, dragging a restrained and struggling body behind him.

“Stop! Please!”

Great, he thought. We are at the pathetically begging for life phase. Why do they always do this? And it happens the same way every time. First comes the feeble shout to stop. An intelligent man should never respond.

“Please stop! I’ll do whatever you want! Just please put me down!”

And here comes step two. The “I’ll do whatever you want if you let me go!” stage. What these sacks of meat really need to understand is that they wouldn’t be bound and dragged places if someone wanted something from them. Never respond to step two. A response should only come after stage thr—

“Let me go! I have a family! A wife and kids!”

Ah. Stage three. This stage always should result in a response so it can lead to the final step four. The response should be quick and to the point. Something like “I don’t care about your family” or something along that line. Just don’t let it get personal.

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“No one cares about your family,” the man said. “And your family probably doesn’t care about you.”

The body stopped screaming and struggling and the man smiled. Finally, stage four. The victim gives up hope. It realizes that there is no use pleading with the captor. This leads to some much appreciated peace and quiet.

The man continued walking, scanning the horizon for his destination. The darkness, as well as all the trees, made it very hard to look ahead for long distances. The sounds of the woods added to his newly acquired peace that wouldn’t be disturbed until he was ready for it to be. He was controlling the situation.

And he enjoyed it.

“What these sacks of meat really need to understand is that they wouldn’t be bound and dragged places if someone wanted something from them.”

The man came upon the tracks after five minutes of continued walking. He had stumbled over a few loose roots and was generally having a hard time dragging the body through the woods. He threw it onto the ground and strode over to the tracks.

There was no sign of the train, but he could hear the whistle in the distance. He figured he had about five minutes to do what he wanted to do before the train arrived.

He looked back at the body he left on the ground. It was trying to crawl away, but not getting very far. He frowned as he saw this. Then he smiled and almost laughed before stuffing it back down his throat like a parent shoving broccoli into a little kid’s mouth. Stop laughing, he thought. You can laugh when the job is done. But for now, you still have work to do.

He calmly walked over to the body, which was moving about as fast as an inchworm. He wound up and kicked it in the stomach, effectively stopping the pathetic getaway attempt. He dragged it back over to the tracks and held it out in front of him.

“He pulled out a picture from behind the protective screen: a picture of himself before the accident. Before the scars.”

“Of course I am!” he responded. “We are all a little crazy in our own special way. My crazy just happened to get drawn a little more to the surface thanks to you.”

“I didn’t do anything to you!”

The man shook the body as hard as he could.

“Nothing?” The man was yelling in between shakes.

“You did NOTHING?”

“I didn’t anything to you, man,” it yelled, barely audible between shakes. “I don’t even know you!”

The man stopped shaking the body and looked at its eyes, completely stunned.

“You mean you don’t remember me?”

It shook its head. The man reached into his pocket and grabbed out his wallet. He pulled out a picture from behind the protective screen: a picture of himself before the accident.

Before the scars. Before the body’s bullet entered the gas tank of his car. Before his wife was killed.

“Are you sure you don’t remember me?” the man asked innocently. “I’m sure I remember you.”

The body looked down and the picture and then back

up at the man.

“What do you want with me?” it asked.

“Oh my god—”

“Don’t worry,” the man responded. “All will be clear in

The man threw the body into the incoming train and time.”

He could see a light in the distance coming closer. He watched the head get bashed in like a cardboard box. He turned was running out of time. He needed to wrap up this conversation around and started walking away, an enormous burden lifted off of his shoulders. quickly.

“Say ‘Hi’ to my wife for me, okay?” he called as he walked

“Please mister, I have a family!” back through the woods, a laugh escaping from his mouth.

“Oh yeah, that reminds me of a wonderful story.”

“What?”

“My wife and I used to take trips to the Caribbean every winter to get away from all the snow and ice. We would walk down the beach and look at the sunset every evening before going to dinner at the hotel restaurant. It was wonderful. But, of course, we can’t do that anymore.”

“You’re nuts!” it yelled

“Then he smiled and almost laughed before stuffing it back down his throat like a parent shoving broccoli into a little kid’s mouth.”

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Greg Narzikul Painting

58

59

BY

MR. MATT GREEN

CHAPTER ONE: A CURIOUS DISCOVERY

Sloane was tired. The enormous plasticanvas helmet made him feel like a condemned Lego tower. He remembered that as a kid he used to stack his entire barrel of Legos one on top of the other until the plastic skyscraper was inches from the ceiling. He would begin with the rectangles. When he ran out of those, he would move to squares, but inevitably he would run out of those at the same height (give or take a few squares) at the same height each time. He would reach into the yellow barrel and notice that only the awkward shapes remained. Tires, wheels, windows and such were not much good to his climbing towers, but he was desperate to reach the ceiling. So he would begin to stack these larger pieces on the already teetering squares.

He remembered that it was always the same small perfect blonde-haired, blue dressed female Lego that would ultimately doom the structure. It would sever in key places and collapse in a heap. “What a mess you’ve made, Sloane,” his provider would calmly observe.

Anyway, in what Sloane considered an ironic stretch, he felt like a Lego tower on the verge of becoming a mess. The

transparent faceguard was beginning to fog up, and the scarred, uneven terrain was beginning to take its toll on his anklebones.

Slowly, very slowly, so as not to lose his balance and fall head first, he lowered himself onto a charred, crystallized mound of earth.

“‘What a mess you’ve made, Sloane,’ his provider would calmly observe.”

Sloane stared into an eerie violet forever. Rust brown dunes swelled and dipped at times obscuring the view of the rocky hills that defined the horizon. He amused himself by counting the layers of sediment in the plateaus to the left. The edges crumbled to eye level and descended into the canyons below. He had trouble counting past ten because the shades of red 60

and brown were so similar as to be indecipherable. Occasionally, a splash of bright yellow darted its way down the diving crevice before oozing back into the vermillion cliffs. If there were answers, perhaps they lied buried somewhere, maybe miles into the frozen tablelands of the exterior.

Of course, Sloane was not really one for asking the right questions, or any questions at all for that matter. Sure, at times he felt a vague sense of curiosity, a sense that there was a cause or a reason…but on most days he was just killing time, playing his part, making his contribution as he knew everyone must.

Anyway, he had never even been granted a vehicle permit, never even applied. So only this tiny stretch of dust was his, to cultivate as he saw fit.

“Break’s over,” Sloane muttered to himself. He wearily rose to his feet trying to balance the enormous weight of his headpiece in the center of his shoulders. Despite a rather small head, twelve years on the job had built the muscles of his neck to Minotaurian proportions. He always suspected that he looked like a golf ball in a birdbath. The dual tanks slung over his shoulders contributed very little to his collective equilibrium. Still, each accessory was a necessity. Obviously, the helmet, in fact the entire cartoonish ensemble, shielded him from the icy death that doubled for air out here. Tank number one nurtured him with the same recycled oxygen that he had been breathing for the past seven hours, while tank number two provided the vacuum needed to erode the caked soil that concealed any potentially valuable artifacts. Since Sloane worked on commission, the second was as valuable as the first.

“Sure, at times he felt a vague sense of curiosity, a sense that there was a cause or a reason… but on most days he was just killing time...”

Sloane plodded away in search of some irregularity in the surface that might suggest buried treasure. He attacked the first piece of yellowing earth he encountered. The sterile sand eddied inches above the ground before shooting up the nozzle on the inside of his glove. As it dropped worthlessly out of the discharge 61

tube at the base of Sloane’s leg, he suddenly felt something which did not match the consistency of the barren earth. It twitched and trembled for a moment, then darted up the nozzle, only to be thwarted by the filter and drop again to the ground below.

“The sterile sand eddied inches above the ground before shooting up the nozzle on the inside of his glove.”

With his other hand, Sloane grabbed the small object, wiped it on his thigh, and examined it. It appeared to be some sort of capsule; it resembled a pill but Sloane had no immediate desire to consume it. Not that he was not hungry; it just didn’t look edible. Rather, it seemed to be made of some sort of primitive metal. He stared at it for a minute, pondering its use, but his mind drew a blank. Sloane tossed it into the small pocket at his belly and moved on. As he disappeared into the eternal darkness, he looked like some oversized, crippled, plastic kangaroo.

San Shaw Painting

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Intel Chen Photograph

POETRY PART II

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Table of Contents Reveries

Moving at Fiteen Charlie Rahr

Anthony Calvelli

pg. 66

You’re Wasting Your Time

Quietude of the Night Malik Geathers

pg. 70

Henry Scarlato

pg. 68

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pg. 72

Harrison Fellheimer Photograph

Moving At Fifteen A narrow stretch of road, a wide open field, A dark green wall of forest in the distance My bike propels me Two rubber wheels and a thin metal frame All that’s needed to experience the world No phone, no computer, nothing else Just a bike and some spare time All of my senses alert I feel the breeze, hear the robins chirping, I see everything that’s around me Nothing escapes me

I’m in a world Where notions of others are gone Where everyone has a clean slate No one’s angry or trying to cut me off No honking, cursing, yelling, loud music Just me, my bike, and thoughts Outside the car, I have a new lense to view others No smudges or scrapes I see people for how they really are Just the same as everyone else No one is really that different 66

That nice elderly couple Who sat on the outside of their house Who saw I was thirsty and gave me water Or that man Who cheered me on while I pushed up a hill Sharing stories of biking with me These people are hundreds of miles apart Yet, they’re still the same Both connected through their kind souls Moving at fifteen miles per hour Alows the hidden to be seen The hidden, though obvious, Connections between us The ones that are there our entire lives, But cast aside daily Emotions, thoughts, souls These bring us together as humans

Biking has shown me how to slow down How to clear my lenses How to view others And how to see every person as connected to me

Charlie Rahr

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David Bunn Photograph

Quietude of the Night Stop! Listen to the melancholy of the night, beautiful people grouped together like hens in shackles, words slurred together through intoxication.

The blundering fool rummages through pockets, the woman across the avenue clutches her purse running in a tiresome sprint.

She’s afraid, angry at man.

He knows that others have died for him To stand in equality but they were never given equity.

He knows his hoodie reflects mischievous thievery And his skin akin to bloodshed.

His little girl - innocence in it’s truest form, Awakes from slumber Without his company, not influenced by the devious deception Of a corrupt institution.

The fighter in it’s truest form, She swims through hurricanes, runs through rivers and leaps over chasms.

But yet, when school girls, like his own, visit the institution of indoctrination, their veins, once filled with imagination, become pumped with blood through cyclical cycles of oxygenation.

Their germs become dangerous.

The little boy taught to hide his anxiety and control his angst.

Ritalin is given to him like Adderall to college students in Ivy to settle their destiny of failure or success.

Those little school girls introduced with sexuality from older classmates already corrupted.

The boy singled out because of his wit, told by older boys to stick to the perceived state of stereotypes and not to peak into the unprecedented aerial heights of Wayne’s World.

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Intoxication of such young innocence Not like any other nation ever ...Ode to Othello! Tragedy between our vicinity, like the civil unrest in Zaire, keen to fix but never conceived like hatred between the sexes reigning supreme.

Slurs distributed into mass culture, corrupting the youth, and we label it as just another bad thing’.

Why must we have a warped sense of reality?

But, that man’s conviction is the protection of his daughter’s innocence, while she is being corrupted in the one place he thought safe.

Sad to see, so he strolls downtown in peaceful bliss, ignorance taints his visage, Thinking the lights of the metro could save him.

Now, he dies due to the frantic state of a man whose mind couldn’t wait to taste the likes of freedom, plagued by insanity’s vice.

Can he look the man’s daughter in her eyes without a tear?

Can he tell that little boy not to fear?

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Can he walk without the one seducing him like the sirens on the island of the Faiakes?

The answer is yes, as if the zodiac killer had a motif to his twisted tale of Murder. Like the zodiac killer, this man does not feel, he does not hear pleas, all he sees is pain and he enjoys it.

Did America fail him? Did the mental health crisis lead to the death of another father?

Was the father of the daughter and example of the boy a martyr for a sporadic cause, or just another tall fable told at the hearth?

Malik Geathers

Troy Gibbs-Brown Photograph

Reveries Some days, I go to the cliff, looking out over the countryside, staring at the green canopies of the trees below me, ruminating —tests failed, people who hurt me, friends lost, the pain endured, the hard work, the sleepless nights

and for what? Was it all worth it? on the day I die, will I regret it?

I tend not to think about Death it will come to me when ready but, I cannot help thinking I did something good 70

and whenever I think about this, I realize my sacrifices were fruitful as I have done everything in my power, leaving no room for regret since for those seventeen minutes, I live in the moment, focusing solely on my feet striking the earth, my hurried breathing, the people around me.

if I do not leave the world different than how I entered if I do not carve my own unique mark on the earth, an engraving on one of millions of stones, then, what is the point? everything has concomitant hardship I live to make the reward outweigh it But, what if it isn’t worth it, if the sacrifice outweighs the prize I think about the miles I have under me, every piece of asphalt my foot has grazed, the rubber, the grass, the rocks, the dirt, the snow

Anthony Calvelli 71

Ross Harryhill Photograph

You’re Wasting Your Time Committing to love is vowing to death In the end Smething that was alive is now dead

Indulging oneself in warmth and comfort not knowing that one day it will all be gone the frigid loneliness takes over the wandering soul

after all love is just delayed pain,

trying to achieve the incessant affection existing before, 72

But having such an emotion is exceptional blinding to the unknowing lover a constant roof of safety over it’s emotions always knowing that however deep one falls there is always someone falling with them spiraling down the endless abyss comforting each other as they reach closer to the unobtainable glimmer in the distance,

Clueless to the inevitable pain that will ensue soon the door to the living room With the crackling fireplace will fly open and the bitter briskness of loneliness will overcome, Love is a distraction, A disturbance along the path towards death Athough with love, Death may come much sooner.

A pleasant blanket of assurance engulfing its victim aiding to its every need accommodating every wish and desire concealed in a limitless glass box of ecstasy, But not forever,

Henry Scarlato 73

A + B CONVERSATIONS & A SCREENPLAY

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Table of Contents THE NEVERENDING BATTLE

Jeremy Stern pg. 76

A DREAM, A REALITY

Alex Hubschmidt pg. 78

WORDSMITH

Jake Barroway pg. 81

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The Neverending Battle

Jeremy Stern

A: So then I looked down and thought to myself, what would Jesus doB: -Pause. You cannot honestly tell me you believe in those bracelets? You are intelligent. Can you not see that the bracelets and religion itself is a sham?

A: Here we go again. I, like billions of other people since the beginning of time, do believe in religion.

B: Right now, I am not questioning religion in general, I am questioning your decision to not only wear that bracelet, but also to refer to it as some sort of magical power.

A: Do I have a brain? You can’t see my brain, you can’t touch my brain, you can’t prove my brain is there, but you believe I have a brain. Belief is what we as humans rely on every day, even you. I believe in religion, I believe in a higher power, none of which can be disproved any more easily than you can see my brain.

B: Give me an X-ray machine or a hammer and I will prove you have a brain. Belief in something you can’t prove is no different than blind faith. But please, I beg of you, explain how the bracelet has a meaningful impact on your life.

A: Ok, last weekend I heard someone’s cell phone ring in a movie theater. Many people would turn and yell at the guy, but I thought to myself, what would Jesus do?

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B: Oh, so you sent him to burn in hell for eternity? Isn’t that what Jesus does to those whom he doesn’t like?

A: The bracelet is not meant to be taken literally, it is a reminder to live a better, more ethical life.

B: A man-made, fictitious thing created to promote a certain moral code, sounds a lot like religion to me. A proper moral code seems logical to live by, but religion goes far beyond merely ethics.

Religion fabricated the idea of god, afterlife, etc. Religion is responsible for the large majority of social problems, both historically and in the present. Morals are pivotal to society, but you don’t need religion to have ‘em.

A: Religion is how we know what those “proper” morals are. Without religion, there would be nothing be chaos.

B: I don’t abide by any religion, yet I am fully aware of morals and ethics and don’t live in perpetual chaos. There should be a code dictating behavior, and it should be comprised of four words, “Don’t be a dick.” All social and political problems, infinitely large or unbelievably insignificant, would be solved if everyone were to live by this code.

A: “All social and political problems would be solved if everyone were to live by this code.” YOU say your code is the answer, but maybe religion is the answer to social and political problems.

Religion is meant to be a more complex system than your “four-word code,” yet it’s objective is no different.

B: Yes, but you see A: Ugh, I’ve had enough of this. There is no way for us to ever know who is right, and both of us are too stubborn to change our minds, if I take the bracelet off will you stop?

B: Probably not.

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Dream, AA Reality Reality AAA Dream, Dream, A Reality

Alex Hubschmidt Alex AlexHubschmidt Hubschmidt not looking back.

A watches

B turns to walk away, him go, admires the knife, then pushes it into his chest slowly. As the knife enters, his hands fall, and his face makes Two men, sitting on ahis park body bench, slouches, a respectable amount of space between them.an expression B: My basket broke, I fell, and woke up -a dream. of realization his last breath leaves him. of space Two men, sitting on a parkasbench, a respectable amount A: between Hey, arethem. we dreaming?

A: Or youTwo justmen, moved from one to bench, the other.

Dream within a sitting on story a park a respectable B:

What? dream. Just becausespace you miss the ending between them. doesn’t mean it ended.

A: Hey,amount are weof dreaming?

A: I said, “are we dreaming?”

B: What are you saying?

B: What?

B: (pensively) Um, no. I don’t believe so.

A: I’m saying the story could still be going on. This could be the A: I said, “aredreaming? we dreaming?”.

Hey, A:

How canare you we be sure? second act.

(pensively) no. I took don’t believe so.oatmeal and kissed my wife B: B:

Well, I...I woke up Um, this morning, a shower, had some What?

B: Fine, if this is indeed my dream, then I want to fly (stands up, goodbye before I left. Pretty sure that’s real. arms outstretched,) You see? I should be able to control this. can you A: How I said, “arebe wesure? dreaming?”.

A: Hm, but couldn’t that have been part of the dream as well?

A: B: (shrugs) Not necessarily.

Your subconscious be establishing Well, I...I woke morning, took acould shower, some (pensively) Um, don’t believe so.

B: But I remember the startno. ofup myIthis day.

Don’t dreams tend to begin right in thehad middle of theoatthe physics of the world, of this park, of this bench.

Or mine action?

Hell, I remember dreaming I was in a hot air Iballoon, soaring abovesure the Adironmeal and kissedlast mynight wife goodbye before left.

Pretty that’s could.

Who is to say this isn’t my dream? dacks.

A: How can you be sure? real.

A: And I suppose itIended.

B: A: Because then wouldn’t really exist.

And I know I exist.

B: Well, I...I woke up this morning, took a shower, had some oatmeal Hm, but couldn’t that have been part of the dream as well?

B: andMy basket broke, I fell, and woke upbefore -- a dream.I left. Pretty sure that’s real. kissed my wife goodbye A: B: Or But you Iare telling me you exist when you Don’t reallydreams do not.

I can’t remember the start of my day. tend to beA: Or youyou just moved from one story to the other. Dream within a dream. Just because you be gin sure, can’t be sure.

A: Hm, butin couldn’t thatofhave partHell, of the dream as last well?night right the middle the been action?

I remember miss the ending doesn’t mean it ended. dreaming I was in a hot air balloon, soaring above the Adirondacks.

B: B:Then neither of us can be sure, how do you find out? (no But if I remember B: What are you saying? the start of my day. Don’t dreams tend to begin response from waits) Hello? light theA,middle of the action? Hell, I remember last night A: And in I suppose it ended.

A: dreaming I’m saying the story could still be going on. This could be the second I was in a hot air balloon, soaring aboveact. the Adirondacks.

A: B: You see that girl over there?

My basket broke, I fell, and woke up -- a dream.

B: Fine, if this is indeed my dream, then I want to fly (stands up, arms outstretched,) You see?

A: And I to suppose it ended.

I should be able control this.

B: A: OneOrplaying with the from red ball? you just moved one story to the other. Dream within a 78

dream. Just because you miss the ending doesn’t mean it ended.

B: What are you saying?

A: I’m saying the story could still be going on. This could be the second act.

B: Fine, if this is indeed my dream, then I want to fly (stands up, arms outstretched,) You see? I should be able to control this.

A: (shrugs) Not necessarily. Your subconscious could be establishing the physics of the world, of this park, of this bench. Or mine could. Who is to say this isn’t my dream?

B: Because then I wouldn’t really exist. And I know I exist.

A: Or you are telling me you exist when you really do not. I can’t be sure, you can’t be sure.

B: Then if neither of us can be sure, how do you find out? (no response from A, waits) Hello?

A: You see that girl over there?

B: One playing with the red ball?

A: Yeah, the one. She’s been playing with that damned thing for

the past thirty minutes. Suppose the ball rolled out of her grasp and into the road. She runs out, only to be hit by a car. Breaks her neck, dies instantly. Then she would know if she was dreaming or not.

B: I think she would be dead.

A: But if nothing comes after, then it was definitely reality. If you wake up in your bed, then you know it wasn’t real, and therefore79

B: -A dream. By that logic, you can only ever be sure of being unsure of your reality. You can’t consider your decision if your neck is snapped.

A: Maybe not, or maybe you can realize you’re dead before your brain cells burn out.

B: So, you’re going to jump in front of a car?

A: No, I brought a knife.

B: Ah, good man. (checks watch) I should be getting to work. (stands up to leave) A: You won’t be joining me then?

B: Sounds risky. I’ve got family to support. They need me.

A: You’d rather live in ignorance than know the truth is what I’m hearing.

B: (watches A for a second) I suppose so.

B turns to walk away, not looking back. A watches him go, admires the knife, then pushes it into his chest slowly. As the knife enters, his hands fall, his body slouches, and his face makes an expression of realization as his last breath leaves him.

END

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Wordsmith

Jake Barroway

INT. LIBRARY DAY TOMMY, DREW, and JOHN are sitting in lounge chairs. They have 5 minutes until class starts.

TOMMY

(To us.)

Library was the typical hangout spot. I’d usually chill in here with my best friends Drew and John. John is a super-WASP country club hero. Your typical Merion member. We call him Cleatus sometimes just to piss him off. Drew is a John’s neighbor... Easy going dude.

DREW So happy Junior year is done and gone with.

Amen.

TOMMY

JOHN Truly just a terrible time.

DREW I really cannot think of one enjoyable moment.

TOMMY You mean to tell me you didn’t have the time of your life studying your ass off for four honors classes and the SAT?!

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DREW and JOHN laugh.

JOHN Yooo, my Fantasy Baseball team is going to kick ass this summer.

TOMMY Cleatus, you contradict yourself so much with your picks.

JOHN What do you mean?

TOMMY How is a Donald Trump supporter going to pick Yasiel Puig?

JOHN Because he’s a BEAST. DREW Well, you might want to change your vote or he might be deported back to Cuba...

Spoiling the VERY little chance you have of doing damage this year.

TOMMY Hey, I mean that’s why I’m voting Hillary.

Can’t have Gallardo thrown out the country.

JOHN Shutup... You’re just mad cuz you came in last in Football this year.

DREW Jamaal screwed me man!!

TOMMY That’s besides the point Drew...

TOMMY(CONT’D) (To John) You do suck at Fantasy Baseball.

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JOHN Well, I bet I did better than you on Keefe’s final.

How much? $5.

TOMMY JOHN DREW

High stakes there...

Deal.

TOMMY

JOHN Hey, how’s the wife?

Shut up.

DREW

JOHN Seriously dude, you’re totally on lock down.

TOMMY (To us.)

Drew has been dating this girl, Emily, for like 3 years now. They met at a party waaaaayyy back.

CUT TO: INT. BASEMENT NIGHT. FLASHBACK--THE PARTY WHERE EMILY AND DREW MET. I like you.

I like you too.

EMILY DREW

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Cool.

Wanna go out?

Yeah.

EMILY DREW EMILY CUT TO:

BACK TO THE PRESENT. TOMMY (To us.)

Quite the wordsmith right? By now, they are pretty much an old married couple.

I’m pretty sure they have scheduled sex nights.

DREW (To us.)

We do not have scheduled sex nights shut up.

TOMMY Hey! This is my story. You’re lucky I’m including you at all.

Piss off.

DREW

JOHN Who are you guys talking to?

TOMMY Nobody... Don’t worry about it.

DREW Yeah... Don’t worry about it.

JOHN Freaks- Yo Tom we gotta get to class.

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True.

TOMMY

JOHN See ya later, Drew.

Peace, Cleatus.

DREW CUT TO:

INT. CLASSROOM DAY. A teacher slaps down an 93 on a desk. We pan up to reveal that it’s Tommy.

What’d you get?

93.

Shit!

JOHN TOMMY JOHN

Drew lifts up his test to reveal a 92. He reaches into his wallet and gives Tommy $5.

TOMMY Easy money... Hey, maybe on our next date I’ll let your mom order more than just off the dollar menu with the extra cash. I bet she’d love that.

I hate you.

JOHN

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Sam Shaw

Senior Portfolio

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Greg Narzikul Senior Portfolio

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Walter Paiva Senior Portfolio

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David Chikowski Senior Portfolio

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Mrs. Fatema Frankel Faculty Portfolio

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COLOPHON All prose and poetry body text is Arno Pro (Regular) 12 pt; all screenplay text is Courier New (Regular) 12 pt; all photo credit lines are Minion Pro (Regular) 12pt; all poetry title text is Capitals (Bold) of various font sizes; all prose title text is Myriad Pro (Bold Condensed) of various font sizes; the software used is Adobe InDesign CS6.

Awards: Columbia Scholastic Press Association Silver Medalist 2013 Silver Medalist 2014 Gold Crown Winner 2014 Gold Medalist with 2 All-Colombian Honors 2015

Editors-in-Chief

Junior Editors

Senan Farelly Luke Green

Jack Biddle Gee Smith Robb Soslow Jack Molitor

Art Editor

Staff

Greg Narzikul

Jake Barroway Ben Berger Dex Frederick Peter Merhige Matt Mayer Wayne Hester Alex Hubschmidt Satch Baker

Advisors Mr. Dan Keefe Ms. Taylor Smith-Kan

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS The Pegasus editorial board thanks the following: Dr. Nagl and Mr. Green for their support; The Haverford School English Department faculty members for their encouragement; Dr. Ehrhart and the Poetry Club for their frequent contributions; The Haverford School Custodial Team for accommodating to our late hours; Lulu Publishing for its press resources; Mr. Keefe and Ms. Smith-Kan for their extended patience while advising the meetings and all of our contributors for their hard work and limitless talent.

Cover art features student Ethan Delehman along with a photograph by William Yoh.

In an anonymous screening process, the Pegasus staff considers submissions and selects works for publication based on creativity, quality, maturity of style, and variety. Editors reserve the right to make technical corrections, although authors and artists reserve all rights to their individual works. The views expressed in this magazine’s published works are those of individual contributors.

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W.D. Ehrhart | Dan Lee | Frankie D’Angelo

PEGASUS

Solomon Dorsey | Keyveat Postell | Walker Raymond Will Russell | Robb Soslow | Ms. Sallie Michalsky Intel Chen | David Bunn | Troy Gibbs-Brown Kyle Alday | Gee Smith | Jack Molitor Miska Abrahams | Shea Dennis | Naren Mathawan

Luke Green | Cameron Cummins | Arnav Jagasia Jack Biddle | Mr. Matt Green | Will Pechet Harrison Fellheimer | Charlie Rahr | Malik Geathers Anthony Calvelli | Henry Scarlato | Ross Harryhill

Pegasus | Issue 31 | The Haverford School

Jack Roarty | Senan Farrelly | Dean Manko

Jeremy Stern | Alex Hubschmidt | Jake Barroway Sam Shaw | Greg Narzikul | Walter Paiva David Chikowski | Mrs. Fatema Frankel

Pegasus | Spring 2016

The Haverford School Issue No. 31