ISSUE 15
ink.
“Spring is like a perhaps hand “(which comes carefully out of Nowhere)arranging “a window,into which people look.” “-E. E. Cummings
Cover Photograph by Pete Assakul ’18 2
04 Write your way back Kanika Gupta ’16 06 Old King Clone Hannah Pouler ’16 08 The Oldest Living Things in the World James Fitzgerald ’17 10 Family Politics Lucy Paddock ’18 12 Recess Amy Li ’18 13 Running Latte Lucia Chrysler ’18 14 What’s in a Name? Jack Kreisler ’17 17 hamartia, of godly transgressions Leah Sohn ’17 18 supernova Charlotte Buckles ’17 20 Sanctuary Hannah Frater ’17 21 Panting Cahleb Derry ’16 26 In the Pines Patrick Simpson ’16 32 Fly Jonvi Rollins ’16 34 MacDuff’s Son Annabelle Burns ’18 36 Frida Elisa Xu ’17 3
Write your way back Write your way back To fifty nine days of surreptitious glances and hushed knocks and small stones and peering through gaps in the blinds With burns from the bark, scraped knees, and bruised skin below her jaw Each mar coiled her roots more firmly around his until her nourishment and sustenance were reliant on his and loss was imminent Write your way back; how could she not if the pencil she holds is in the hand he held, and the paper she writes on is one his name has been laced with time and time again And each time, those scars and reminders of the suffering pain of loss push her farther and farther into the cracked, red sand like the geoxylic suffrutix Fifty nine days of exposed roots left her raw So she adapted such that only her canopy is permitted to be burnt in the summer fires or frozen stiff in the winter frost So that while her transient tips are shed, her underground forest spreads wider and wider Write your way back And so she does write her way back Back above ground, where even if she is tread on once again, at least she’ll be visible Poem by Kanika Gupta ’16 Art by Daniel lee ’17
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Old King Clone
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The day the sun stopped moving, I discovered a plant six times as old as Jesus Christ. It all happened with very little fanfare. In fact, the sun stopped without a hint of warning; it simply rose to the middle of the sky and halted. Shadows became permanent brushstrokes on the ground, and mercury crept up thermometer tubes like the Grinch in a chimney. Clocks ticked on, but the sun stayed, and as people came out of their homes and peered towards the sky, it stayed faster. Downtown, tourists emerged from dank, humid casinos and congregated at rooftop pools, parks, and sidewalk cafes. Las Vegas had turned inside out. I thought not of the science of the sun. Rather, I wondered if on the other side of the world, people were awaiting a morning that would never come. I imagined early risers, out on a run at dawn, or lovers sitting on a deserted beach, or a bus driver finishing his night shift. All their eyes pointed east, anticipating a warmth on their skin they may never feel again. Guilt gripped my gut. I knew the sun had stopped because of me. I had spent the last few months of my life with nothing but rain inside me. Every time I drove home from work, past the strip, past the glitzy hotels, down into Spring Valley, through the flat neighborhoods that looked like Nuclear Bomb testing sites, and into my stucco garage, thunder rumbled and lightning flashed in my chest. I was old. I was far too old for Vegas, I was far too old to have done so little with my life. Each thought brought with it a wave of water. The sun bore at my rainstorm, attempting to make it fizzle away into nothingness. But all it did was heat up the runoff inside of me, turning it into a lukewarm, stale puddle.
People tired quickly of the perpetual light. Neighbors shuttered their windows, put black tarps over their skylights, and bought chiming clocks to remind themselves of the time of day. Skunks and raccoons emerged at all hours, white-eyed and confused. And Vegas, the city of lights, the city that flourished under the cover of darkness, came to a standstill. For a species that relies so heavily on the sun, humans really do love the night. The sun wouldn’t set until my rainstorm stopped. So, lacking any other ideas, I started up my jeep and drove to the Mojave. I got out at a lone circle of bushes, marked with a tiny plaque next to the road. “King Clone, 12,000 years old, discovered in 1970 by Dr. Frank Vasek of the University of California.” I watched the bush as sand circled my feet. 12,000 years old, and still some pompous scientist claimed it as his own. But I couldn’t blame the scientist: objects of remarkable age are met with reverence, because age is the single descriptive factor on which humans can agree. Think about it. Perhaps Old King Clone was created by God, or perhaps a bird dropped a seed while flying overhead. Perhaps his scraggly branches were hideous, or perhaps they were beautiful. Maybe his circular shape surrounded some sacred territory, some fairy garden or elf village, or maybe the shrub spread that way due to wind patterns and the sun. But we can all agree that he’s an old, old bush. Above, the sun burned a hole through the atmosphere, like a magnifying glass held to a piece of paper on an August day. The temperature rose, from 100 to 105 to 110 degrees. God bless that resilient bush, whose branches rustled in the breeze, cackling at the sun. “Go ahead and stay forever,” he taunted. “See if I care.”
For in his 12,000 years in the Mojave Desert, the bush had tasted rain and smelled snow, frozen in -20 degree weather and simmered in 120. Stubborn bastard. That plant was around before humans settled in Mesopotamia. That plant read the earliest forms of writing, and heard the clunks of pyramids being built in Egypt. That plant saw the settlers trickling into California, laughed at the victims of the gold rush, grinned as earthquakes cracked the desert beneath his feat. The plant chuckled as finally, a group of professors clad in Bermuda shorts discovered him, and he shook his head as they nailed a plaque into the cracked ground. And now, this plant saw the sun stop moving, saw the day humans could no longer explain away the supernatural using pie charts and trigonometry. He saw me, too, standing outside of my RV, sweating through my t-shirt, staring at the sun and wondering whether the giant holding a microscope to Earth had had his fun. And as I stood next to a 12,000 year old plant, pretending it could see me, the rain inside me dried up like a desert mirage. I would quit my job tomorrow, for I’d had quite enough of the ridiculous Vegas weather. Overhead, the sun moved an inch towards the horizon. And Old King Clone smiled. I swear to the sun and back, his scraggly branches curved into a smile right then and there.
Story by Hannah Pouler ’16 Illustration by Emma Franklin ’17
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T H E OLDEST LIVING T H I N GS IN THE WORLD Essay By James Fitzgerald ’17
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Humans have a longstanding fascination with vestiges of the past. Despite our obsession with the present and the immediate future, antiquity consistently intrigues us. Unlike fields such as medicine and economics, the study of the past is not dominated by the principle of utility. Some of what archaeologists, paleontologists, and historians uncover has practical applications, but much of their findings are worth learning purely for the sake of learning. So why does the past hold such allure? Maybe it’s shrouded enigma stokes our curiosity. Or perhaps the sense of constancy and stability that ancient ruins, trees, and animals exude comforts us, serving us a foil to the rapid pace of contemporary life. In The Oldest Living Things in the World, Rachel Sussman explores these phenomena and more. Her work, which Hotchkiss’s Tremaine Gallery showcased last winter, fuses scientific research with visual art to build a profile of earth’s most ancient denizens. These organisms include everything from knotted yew trees in the Scottish highlands to the 3.5 billion year-old stromatolites of Shark Bay, Australia. The only common attribute of these thirty organisms is their age--all of them date back at least two thousand years. Each of these thirty life forms has already been documented extensively. However, when unified, they seem fresh and unknown, as if they had only just been discovered. Their true magic emerges from this compilation, which is vaguely reminiscent of a biological ecosystem. Each organism depends on the others in a kind of verbal and visual symbiosis.
The book and exhibition are multifaceted. They incorporate and juxtapose ecology and art, word and image. The book’s introduction emphasizes that the text is a rare kind of collaboration between scientific disciplines and visual art. In Sussman’s words, it “spans disciplines, continents, and millennia: it is part art and part science.” The passage about map lichens of Qaqortoq, Greenland, illustrates these mutually reinforcing components. Sussman details the biology of lichens, which are symbiotic, collaborative communities of photosynthesizers and fungi. Her artwork, meanwhile, complements the written descriptions by depicting the intricate, almost cartographic patterns of lichen for which map lichen is named. Accompanied by, and fused with, visual elements, the textual passages serve a dual purpose. They provide objective biological descriptions, but they also analyze how humans have interacted with the organisms. The written passages on box huckleberry plants, for instance, poignantly describe how these plants have become part of rural Pennsylvania folklore. Sussman’s work is not simply a catalog. It is an earnest call to arms. Curator Hans Ulrich Obrist’s opening essay introduces the concept of extinction, which he cites as the greatest threat to the modern world. The chapter on the “senator” cypress reinforces this sense of impermanence by describing the tree’s recent burning at the hands of a few misbehaving teens. An ancient tree may have an aura of permanence and invulnerability, but the destructive power of humans is unrivaled, even in the greatest sequoia.
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Family Politics “So who won from last year?” says Aunt Joanie from across the table. Uncle David, at the other end, takes a break from complaining about the wine to rummage through the drawers in the ancient wooden sideboard. “Did you move the paper?” he asks. “It’s exactly where you put it, David; you can’t blame my memory for this one.” “Fine,” he retorts, “I guess those bets are lost then.” Aunt Tina intervenes, “I’m sure someone’s prediction came through; it was fairly obvious. Why don’t you get a new piece of paper so we can do this year’s?” With suitable writing implements acquired, my extended family once again settles down around the remains of the Christmas roast beef. They then begin, as they do every four years, to place bets. Uncle Herb first. “Hillary and Rubio for the nomination, Hillary to win.” Aunt Tina follows. “Hillary of course, then Ted Cruz I suppose, and Hillary to win.” “Hillary, Rubio, Hillary”, from my mom. My dad, the same. And then, Aunt Joanie. A bombshell in just three words. “Hillary, Trump, Trump.” “Trump? Trump!” exclaims Tina, “You’re proposing he could be president?” “I’m not proposing anything, Christine; I’m almost certain he will be.” “Joanie, he’s an idiot!” “An electable idiot.” “You can’t be serious.” “I’m perfectly serious.” My two aunts glare at each other like a pair of feral cats about to start hissing. “Joanie, you are such a – ” “Would anyone like some pie?” I say. Story by Lucy Paddock ’18 Art by Emma Franklin ’17
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Recess “1, 2, 3…” I count, covering my eyes with my hands. “Hello?” someone says quietly, poking me in the arm. I uncover my eyes. A girl wearing a long dress stands in front of me. “Hi! I’ve never seen you before. Are you new?” “Yeah...” She says something else, but she talks kinda funny so I can’t understand it. “So… can I play with you guys?” she asks. “Oh, yeah duh! Wait, what’s your name?” “Nithya.” “Nit-ya?” “Nith-ee-ya” “Nith-ee-ya,” I say slowly. “Ok, got it!” We start the game and play all recess. “That was really fun!” she says to me afterwards. “And…” she trails off, “Thanks. You’re my first friend.” “I’m happy we’re friends,” I smile at her. She walks away and Lizzie comes up to me. “She can’t play with us again,” she says. “What? Why?” I ask, confused. “She’s weird!” “I thought she was nice.” “She talks funny.” “I mean… yeah, she does talk funny. But-” “And she dresses weird.” “I mean I guess she does dress weird.” “Ally, you can’t let her play with us tomorrow! Pinky swear!” “Ok! Ok!” I say, grabbing her pinkie and linking it with mine. The next day at recess, we all gather near the playset. “Hi!” Nithya, says smiling, walking up to me. I feel Lizzie shove me forward. I step up to Nithya. “Um…” I can feel Lizzie’s stare burning through my head. “You can’t play with us today.” “Oh, ok. Tomorrow then?” “No…” I swallow. “You can’t play with us ever.” “Wait. What?” She looks really confused. “You. Can’t. Play. With. Us. Ever.” I repeat. “But why?!” I can see tears starting to form in her eyes. I turn around to look at Lizzie. She wiggles her pinky. “Nit-ya. Go away,” I glare. “It’s Nith-ee-ya!” she cries, tears rolling down her face. “Whatever.” I turn around and walk away, my friends following behind me.
Story by Amy L1 ’18
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Morning Rush “Grande Iced Caramel Macchiato!” yelled the barista as Adam entered the shop. When he opened the door, he was greeted by the sound of bells. The whole café smelled like peppermint, and evergreen garlands were hung on every wall. The collapsible chalkboard told him that the Gingerbread Latte and the Candy Cane Hot Chocolate were back in season. A line of about fifteen people wrapped around the counter as they all waited eagerly for their warm holiday drinks. Adam quickly took his place at the back. “Does anyone have the time?” he asked politely. “Yeah, it’s 7:40,” replied the woman in front of him. “Shit! I’m never going to make it,” said Adam, loud enough for the whole café to hear. “Where are you trying to go?” “To the hospital, the one on 77th Street. My little girl is there.” “Lennox Hill? That’s almost thirty blocks away! I hope you’re not planning to walk in this weather. It’s below zero out there.” “Well, there’s no point unless I show up with this drink anyway,” said Adam solemnly. “What’s so important about the coffee?” persisted the woman. “My sixteen-year-old daughter has stage four Lymphoma, and the treatment has been awful. The doctor says she needs calories to properly cope with the chemo, but she can’t keep anything down. At this point, we let her eat anything that sounds appealing. So today, when she was craving an espresso from this specific café, I promised I would bring her one. The only problem is that she has a radiation session at eight, and I need to get it to her before then.” “Oh my goodness! You better hurry,” she said. “Listen! Everyone! This man needs to go to the front of the line. His daughter is very sick, and he needs to get back to her.” There was a subsequent chorus of agreements and sympathies from the other patrons. “What do you need?” asked the barista. “An espresso,” he replied. “Of course. Here are two. They’re on the house.” “Thank you so much. I really appreciate it,” said Adam as he closed his wallet. “Merry Christmas everyone!” Once he left the shop, he called his girlfriend on the phone. “Hey, babe. I’m coming over to the apartment now. I have a funny story to tell you, and I got you an espresso.”
Story by Lucia Chrysler ’18
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What’s in a Name? The terrorist group widely known as ISIS, ISIL, IS, or Daesh has become a threat to global security over the past few years. The fight against this organization now includes countries all over the world, from the United States to Russia. However, the fight has so far been a one-dimensional one, restricted to the battlefield. An unconventional enemy like ISIS cannot necessarily be combatted with conventional methods. ISIS relies heavily on propaganda and conversion, much of which occurs over the internet. If image and propaganda are so important to ISIS, than perhaps we should consider fighting ISIS online as well as on the battlefield. Key to ISIS’s strength is their image, and much of their image revolves around their name. In a war against such an unconventional enemy, we need to fight off of the battlefield just as much as we do on it, and an attack on ISIS’s image could have powerful effects. The most powerful way to strike at ISIS’s image is their name, as some have already realized. In late 2014, the French government began to refer to the terrorist organization as Daesh instead of ISIS. The name “Daesh”
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is an acronym for al-Dawla al-Islamiya fi alIraq wa al-Sham, the Arabic name for the terrorist group. Daesh also sounds similar to two Arabic words, “daes” (meaning one who crushes something underfoot) and “dahes” (one who sows discord). Additionally, the name Daesh does not give the group the same kind of legitimacy the names ISIS (Islamic State in Iraq and Syria) or ISIL (Islamic State in Iraq and the Levant) do. By using the name ISIL, the American government gives the terrorist organization some amount of legitimacy, which is counter-productive in the war against Daesh. This war is a war that extends beyond physical space into image and the internet, and it would be a serious failure if we were to promote Daesh as a legitimate organization. Although using the name Daesh instead of ISIS will not physically destroy the terrorist group, it can have powerful effects beyond just image. A study done by the University of Chicago shows that thinking in a foreign language can help eradicate bias and allow analytical thought to prevail. By saying Daesh, a name that comes from directly from the Arabic name of the terror
organization, we can think from a more analytical and less biased mindset. Although names do not retake territory in the Middle East, they can be just as powerful as bullets. America’s recent trauma in the Middle East proves that military solution is not always the answer, and a prominent Muslim sheik, Abdullah bin Bayyah, argued that extremism must be defeated on an intellectual level as well a military level. The key to defeating Daesh lies in combining military methods with social ones, and only a combination of methods will allow us to eradicate violent extremism. Evan Kohlmann, a contributor to NBC News, says that world leaders should not use the term Daesh because it is derogatory, and using “Daesh” is essentially the same as calling Germans “Huns”. However, the benefits of using the name Daesh clearly outweigh the drawbacks. Although the term is derogatory, it is an important weapon in
the war of image. If it were used in the spirit of casual prejudice it would be offensive, but it should be used as part of a coordinated online offensive against Daesh’s image. The strength of the term can also be seen in Daesh’s response, as the Boston Globe reports that Daesh has threatened to cut out the tongues of anyone using the term. If Daesh is so afraid of the name “Daesh”, then we should take every opportunity we have to use it. Saying Daesh instead of ISIS or ISIL is not going to magically destroy extremism, but it will be the first step towards using a balanced attack that can eradicate Islamic extremism instead of just suppressing it.
Essay by Jack Kreisler ’17 Illustration by Grace Matthews ’17
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hamartia, of godly transgressions your naked blundering eyes lips touch electrified me we smoldered together in the sun you tempted i wanted to run from him but when they pulled me back into the shade while you were dying dried up in our sun i was glad, they branded you instead of me an ungodly Whore they despised you repulsed by you whispered in my ear believe god… suck his fucking holy commandments of galvanizing and disgusting Hypocrisy… so me and them we kill your truth your beautiful angelic grace eyes lips touch sinful purity in his name the veiled irony as you lie there unclothed and dirty
Poem by Leah Sohn ’17 Photograph by Virginia Thornton ’16
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supernova there is a funny and particular feeling that can only be experienced when you’re lying sprawled on midnight trampled dew grass and looking up at the universe. and i don’t just mean the stars because it takes all of nothing to see them unless there are blankets of thick gray smog around you so dense that your ears close and your eyes drain seep drops of crusting-over honeycolored something but otherwise there’s no excuse. i don’t just mean the endless atoms of white above you too high up and constellations in worlds of their own and the stars— i mean — i mean the universe, all of it, and you have to be alone— or maybe you don’t. because honestly, i don’t know if i’ve ever been not alone at this and that’s another funny thing. i guess if i were better at whispering i could tell you that being by myself, feeling nothing touching me, brushing against my cold summer skin but the soft tickle teasing grass daggers right before they disappear, maybe that’s part of the emptiness. i am only alive three thousand feet up on invisible quiet glimmerclouds far enough away not to hear a thing down there on earth; even if you sang my name into eternity i would never hear, too lost in the warm glow of up. and if once i reached out, eyes closed for a moment but still seeing all those galaxies behind tightly shut don’t-cry-won’t-cry lids, and stretched my fingers next to me and you were there, perhaps i would have nothing to be telling anyone right now. but you have never been there, so think about it. be anywhere, and me, i prefer cerulean lake waves or pulsing nightfriendly grasshoppers but maybe someone else would like the idea of cicadas humming or a neighborhood of not-lonely people scattered around you in their one-story lowdown homes that will never reach the heavens; either way, no matter — surround yourself with this mute evening darkness. open your arms stretch wide and invite this stupid world inside and no, i don’t just mean the stars. i mean to cry if you want to, hell i probably would, i know i need to — or you can laugh at yourself for all the things you know you need to be doing: not lying sprawled on a soggy lawn counting seconds with the clicks of crickets, smudge-painting your brandnew bleached shirt to a limelilypad and feeling sad. whisper into the night steaming coal hot air everything you think people might leave you for. wave up and far away to find me, i think that right there is pleiades and can’t you see cassiopeia? they glance down from ethereal places to beckon me and i all but throw myself into their uncharted anonymity nirvanas. the dotted blackness of it all will wrap knowingly around us and suddenly, maybe, i won’t need you to be there and i won’t even lie there all backward and battered and wishing you were there is a funny and particular feeling that i only experience when i’m lying sprawled on tufts of two a.m. dew grass and looking up at this wide-awake cosmos, and for a dreamy second, i don’t even picture any single one of the acrid ghosts that could be and are not right there, right here, now, beside me. for once i know they will leave me in peace, leave me with my seven sisters and speckled belt of radiant yellow firelights diffused among the gulping macrocosm that bridges me to you. and no, i don’t just mean the stars.
Poem by Charlotte Buckles ’17 Art by Daniel Lee ’17
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Sanctuary An artificial wilderness a jungle in a cage the thrilling hunt is long dead raw rib eye in its place. Pacing his twelve-foot universe with no more game to charge, the feline king exhausts his days behind a clear glass wall.
Poem by Hannah Frater ’17 Art by Wan Lin Qin ’17
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Panting Desolation. Desperation. We are panting. Dark clouds skid across the skyline. He renders me still, he says, “Press your hand to mine, for we have not much time.” He says, “We must join the sun and flee.” Escape this endless confrontation as we swindle the blackened sky and... Elope. Instantly, we are running; I am panting. But he is painting. A picture. An image; a divine solitary within only our mind but I am panting. And he is painting.
Poem by Cahleb Derry ’16
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Photograph by Pete Assakul ’18
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Photograph by Pete Assakul ’18
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In the Pines Marvin and Edward walked through the pines, where the sun never shines. Despite its deprivation of light, the woodland was beautiful. A choir of birds chirped its harmonious song; the melody resonated throughout the wood. Squirrels scampered with a childish vigor across the bed of auburn leaves. Golden meadows, as if touched by Midas, flowered in abundance. The two hunters, however, drifted into the pines like wraiths. A sudden breath of cold air followed in their wake. The breeze brought with it a sound, low and eldritch; a death rattle from broken lungs. Reeking a foul odor, an acrid smell of sweat-soaked clothes and mud and grime and the sharpness of the chewing tobacco lodged between their gums and their lower lips wafting over them, the hunters marched forward, clutching their rifles. Marvin fumbled around in his pocket. Edward stopped to tie his shoes. Marvin pulled out a compass: “I think we’re lost.”
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“Wouldn’t be surprised,” Edward groaned and stood back up. “I thought we was supposed to keep goin’ north-west.” “Nah, it’s south-west,” Edward corrected sharply. “How was I supposed to know that?” asked Marvin defensively. “We’ve done this before. Many times, actually,” Edward replied, shaking his head in disgust. Marvin snarled: “How ‘bout you take over then, Mr. Navigator?” “Nah, you gotta learn some point or another. We always go the same way.” “Edward, I really don’t care what you gotta say. Take the goddamn compass,” Marvin retorted, throwing up his hands in frustration. Edward, rolling his eyes, grabbed Marvin by the jacket and pulled him towards him. Edward snatched the compass from Marvin’s palm and quickly changed the direction of their hunt. Marvin followed in his footsteps. “I’m sorry that I’m not the Mr. Navigator that you are,” Marvin mumbled. “You just said that.” “I know but…I needed to say it again.” “You talk too much.” They stopped conversing for a short while. The pines seemed to watch them trek through its lush forest, aware of the threat they posed. The leaves rustled and whistled, as if passing on a message to their brethren of impending doom. “These pine trees sure are tall,” mumbled Marvin awkwardly, a feeble attempt to break the ice. “Yep, they sure are.” “Remember the time, when we was kids, when Dad went and cut down that tree, and it crashed on the garage…boy was that a big tree?” “Why, in God’s name, does that story come to mind, of all the meaningless ol’shit in that “brain” of yours?” “…It was a tree…a big one…and we saw it.” “You’re an idiot.” “Well, this idiot is sure as shit a better shot than you.” Edward stopped in his tracks and gave Marvin
a prickly glare. Marvin edged away slightly, unnerved by Edward’s stern eyes and mouth, which always seemed to be curled in a ferocious snarl. Edward then spoke: “Would you shut up for one second? Pay attention.” Marvin was instantly silenced. The two brothers kept trudging along, pioneers of an untouched, uncharted, virgin world that yearned not to be sullied by Columbus, Cortez, Releigh and the other lawless frontiersmen who sought to unrightfully purloin the lands of Gaia’s majesty. The air grew colder, colder and colder, as if their presence gripped and suffocated the residuum of warmth that once permeated the amber grove. They came upon a clearing. Edward took out his flask and took a long, ample gulp. Marvin sat on a rock, cradling his aching feet, inspecting every corn, callus, irritation that accumulated on the leathery skin of his soles. “I hate walkin’,” Marvin complained, his face scrunched up in discomfort. “Why is that?” Edward asked, an air of judgment in his voice. “It makes my feet all sore, the boots get so tight...and my back hurts too.” “Well, most people love walkin’. Say its good exercise, and meditative too.” Marvin scoffed: “Yeah, if I were to meditate, then I would just do that weirdo Buddhist crap or such and such, and there ain’t no damn way you gonna find me doin’ that anytime soon.” Edward scanned his surroundings and said: “I’m surprised we haven’t found anythang yet. It’s gettin’ pretty late.” “Dad was pretty good at finding ‘em.” “Yeah, he was.” They kept moving. A crack of a twig, a rustle in the brush. Marvin and Edward instantly perked up and followed the origin of the noise. A shadow loomed in the darkness within the pines, the edges of its silhouette remarkably defined against the backdrop of shade. “This could be it! This could be it!” exclaimed Marvin excitedly. “Shut up. Just shut up, you idiot!” commanded Edward aggressively in a hushed whisper.
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Edward poked his head up above the bush. A magnificent stag, noble and graceful, stood on a mound about twenty yards away. Here stood the king of the forest, Charlemagne of the wooded realm, Alexander of the pines. Long antlers adorned his proud crown; his slender and graceful neck bowed to meet the grass beneath it. With the craning of his neck, every fiber and muscle swelled against the chestnut hide, a spider-web of veins and sinew. The stag could not see them. Marvin circled around the creature. “The hell you doin?” Edward whispered harshly, forcing back every urge to yell. “Don’t worry brother, I got this” Marvin mumbled back while taking hasty and cumbersome steps toward the animal. His bumbling and stumbling in the undergrowth went oddly unnoticed by the stag. As he got into position, Marvin clumsily loaded a round into his gun. Seeing this, Edward quickly raised his rifle. An explosion ripped through the pines. The stag bolted, narrowly missing the bullet. Edward gave chase, quickly jamming another round into the chamber, and fired again. The stag jerked with the impact yet defiantly struggled to keep his balance. The beast’s legs wobbled and jerked, teetered and swayed, as he valiantly attempted to flee. Within a dozen yards, the noble creature collapsed. The two sportsmen came rushing over like vultures swooping in on carrion, ready to peck and mangle the rotting flesh of a poor animal that had the ill luck of dying in that particular spot on that particular day. The debased beast drew short, panicked breaths. Staring at he pursuers with fear in his eyes, the opaque pupils quivering, the stag seemed to beg, to futilely hope for a mercy that he knew he would not receive. Oily red blood leaked from his wound, darkening the bed of golden leaves into a sickly pool of bloody meridian. One leg was broken at a jarring angle from his dogged attempt to escape; a once calcareous femur, now stained by the muck and tissue and flesh, pierced through the seemingly indomitable muscle. He kicked the stag’s legs pathetically, attempting to will his mangled limbs into propelling him up
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and away from the angels of death that had come for him. He no longer looked a king, but more like one of the maimed bodies of defeated lords, crudely piled one on top of another into mountains of death, rendering them nameless and indistinguishable from the serfs, slaves, and war fodder that lay on top, besides, and beneath them; the vanquished, conquered kings who littered the hazy, dewy, chilly battlefields of Hastings and Shrewsbury and Bosworth. “It’s still alive,” said Marvin. “Yeah, it is,” Edward replied “Pretty thang, aint it?” “It was.” “Aight…you or me?” inquired Marvin hopefully. His eyes begged and his hands quivered with anticipation. He wanted to do it. “Me. You’ve done enough.” “Aight then. Would you make it quick?” Marvin mumbled, emasculated by his brother’s dominance. Edward unsheathed his knife and drew it along the stag’s neck, as easily and weightlessly as an artist’s brushstroke. He gave one last defiant convulsion, then slipped weakly into the cold embrace of death. Edward began skinning the animal, tearing the hide off the beast’s lean, strong muscle. Quiet fell in the forest: the pines abruptly silenced in memorandum of its fallen king. The perpetual song of the whippoorwills ground to a halt, the notes fading back into the recesses of history. The wind stilled, as if its breath had been taken away. The darkness of the pines seemed to blacken even more, seeming to swallow the flickers of light that peeked through the canopies. Marvin perked up his head, puzzled at the sudden stillness of the pines. “Do you hear that?” Marvin asked his brother quietly. “Hear what?” “Nothin’. Nothin’ at all.” Marvin glanced curiously around at the dead silent forest and then refocused on Edward. “We done?” Marvin asked, “ ‘Cause I still
want to keep huntin’.” Edward glimpsed, through the canopy of the trees, a faint glimmer of the descending sun: “It’s gettin’ pretty late. We’ll be back tomorrow.” Marvin stared longingly off into the distance, thinking to himself about something. He then exhaled, a deep sigh emerging from within, and said: “How much that skin ‘bout to run for?” “50 maybe 60.” Edward replied, stroking the skin with his calloused fingers. “Damn fine skin that is.” “The finest,” Edward spoke softly, the last syllable clinging to his lips. The brothers continued on. The forest resumed its orchestra of noise, yet with less enthusiasm than before, trying to fill the void that materialized with the death of its lord. Marvin kept shaking his head and letting off disgruntled groans, his mind wrestling with some pressing matter. His grimaces and face rubbing made him seem almost irritated. His hands fidgeted with each other, an uncomfortable waltz of the fingers. Suddenly, Marvin stopped in his tracks. Edward, curious, stopped too. “What are you doin’?” Edward tilted his head, confused. “Ya know…Dad woulda gotten it sooner,” Marvin grumpily mumbled under his breath. “What?” “You took two shots. Dad woulda needed only one shot.” Marvin’s voice gradually becoming louder with each passing word, a confident crescendo. “Is that right?” Edward chortled sarcastically, a disparaging grin stretching across his face. “Yeah, he would have stood bout 60 yards back and nailed that thing right between the eyes. Right here.” Marvin pointed at the space between his eyes and above the bridge of his nose. “Well, I ain’t Dad,” Edward mumbled. A hint of melancholy emerged from his strained voice. “No, you sure ain’t Dad. Dad killed ‘bout 80 of those critters. You just killed one.” “Well, I didn’t see you kill any, ya moron,” Edward stated. “I was ‘bout to. I told you I got this. You just
had to be the one to kill it, didn’t you? That’s always the fucking case with you, Ed. You gotta always win at anythang and ever’thang, from huntin’ to fuckin’ ping pong.” “Well, I killed it, didn’t I? Can you say the same thing?” “Guarantee I beat his record. Guarantee.” Marvin reached out his hand only for Edward to gibe at him and say: “You couldn’t hit water if you were standin’ in it.” “Oh hardy-fucking-har,” Marvin sarcastically laughed. “Now that you’re done bitchin’, let’s go home baby brother,” Edward dismissed his brother and walked away. Marvin lunged forward and yanked his brother by the jacket. His brow furrowed in a frosty glare, yet his eyes burned with a fervent fire. He was frothing at the mouth, seething with a primal rage that harkened back to ages past when man once wielded stones and harnessed flames and hounded the colossal mammals that once pounded the ancient red clay lands underneath their immense paws. “Ed, I ain’t gonna be your bitch no more. I’m done with you walkin’ all over me, holdin’ me back! I ain’t a smart man, I know that. I never was the best at anythang really but at least I ain’t lying to myself like you always do. You always had it out for me, houndin’ me at school ‘stead of helpin’ me. ‘stead of being there for me. Some kind of fuckin’ brother you are. Always lettin’ your friends gettin’ on me. I could have done somethin’, I could have been someone’. But you just wouldn’t let me, you just always wanted to be the light in dad’s eye. Now that we both men, you still up to the same childish shit like we was back in school. You’re an asshole, a selfish, cruel asshole.” Marvin barked at his brother, his face just centimeters from Edward’s. Edward pushed him off him, his nostrils flaring. He stepped menacingly towards Marvin. “Where would you be without me? You’re just an immature, little runt who can’t do jack shit. You couldn’t do jack shit when Dad was here, and
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you can’t do jack shit now! You a fuckin’ disgrace to his name, my name, Mama’s name. Hell, even Bo thinks you worthless, and that dog can’t even tell a treat from his own shit no mo’ ” Edward snapped. “I’ll show you. I’ll beat Dad. I’ll beat Dad, and there ain’t nothin’ you can do to stop me. ‘Cept if you beat me first,” Marvin exclaimed, seemingly unfettered by Edward’s rage. Edward, amazed by his brother’s defiance, simply snarled and kept walking. Marvin joined him, making an effort not to follow in his tracks. As they walked back quietly, Marvin injected his jealousy, like a serum, into the silence: “I will beat his record, Ed. Just you watch. I’ll beat his record, and he’ll be lookin’ down and smilin’ on me from up in them clouds. I’ll keep comin’ back here, killin’ every goddamn critter with them two horns I can find, every week, hell, every day. On God, oh on God, I swear.” Edward scoffed and, taking a brief moment to look at the compass, started heading off back towards the way they came, leaving Marvin, still panting and swollen with anger, standing dumbly. Staring at the back of his brother’s head. Marvin, clutching his rifle tightly, lovingly caressed the metal trigger of the mahogany gun with his index finger, fluttering, like a leaf in the autumn wind, between the metal lever and the loop surrounding it, dreaming, fantasizing, longing. Without turning back to his little brother, Edward snickered: “Marvin...That’ll take you the rest of your life.”
Story by Patrick Simpson ’16 Photograph by Edward Guo ’19
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Fly
Story by Jonvi Rollins ’16
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Wisps of wind hit my face as I ran along the Tortugan shore. The gritty texture of sand scraped my feet as I raced Helix to Mother’s blankets. I could feel myself gaining momentum, stride after stride, as I squinted against the hard air, grunting as I kept running, always staying ahead of Helix. Beating, beat, beaten: the pounding of my blood droned out the cries of the seagulls from above; eyes upwards, I was transfixed by the beauty of their snow-colored wings against the sapphire sky. Distracted, my steps started to lose their acceleration as I continued to indulge in the magnificence of the sky above. Helix zoomed past me, triumphantly yelling, “Ha ha!” as he neared the finish line. However, his jeering was drowned out by my amazement; seagulls flapping their wings in the wild howling wind. One...Two….Five….Ten… I counted ten birds flying freely, tilting their bodies against the wind in order to glide above the roaring waters. In a V-shaped formation they rode the waves of the air, letting the gusts sway their bodies in any and all direction. Phoenix… A voice called out for me from above. Phoenix The gulls started to fly in my direction, the point of the ‘V’ aimed for my chest. Joy uplifted my spirit, my heart risen. My body began to feel light, as the laws of gravity were erased and no longer held me in earth’s prison. Phoenix? The birds started to soar a little bit lower now. They were waiting, waiting for me to take flight and join them. I can fly, I can fly, I can fly...I can be free too! I desperately reached for the gulls, eager to escape the realities of life and enter the open-ended abyss of liberation. I can do it! I can do it! I bent my knees, bracing myself for my impending leap toward the sky. My muscles became taut with tension, ready to spring up into the air. Phoenix!!! Eyes closed, I released my energy into one grand jump, vaulting myself upwards. Upwards. Upwards. But I came back down. I opened my eyes and wiped sand caked over my face. Mother and Helix stood over me, their worried faces lighted by the streaming rays of the sun. Helix helped me up. “Let’s go home,” my mother announced, placing one hand on Helix’s shoulder and the other hand on my back. As we walked back to the car, I looked up one last time, bidding the bird's farewell. One day I will be free.
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MacDuff’s Son I am lying on the dark brown, hard-packed soil. I feel cold and tired, like the earth is wearing me down. My body is small and heavy; I try to push myself up to standing and realize my knees are glued to the ground. I heave and scrape, twist and strain to get free, but nothing happens. I try to scream, but the world is muffled—sound doesn’t exist. I turn my head to see miles of brown fields to my left; to my right, there is a single tree and a puddle, and it all starts to swim. I go to wipe the tears from my eyes, and where my pale, slender fingers used to be are now feathers the colour of tar. They slice the skin of my cheek like a paper cut, leaving behind a faint trace of blood. Curious about my new physique, I hop over to the tiny puddle on my twigs. The water is like aged glass, and reflects a mottled grey sky, limp and oppressive. I stretch out my wings and start flapping. I rise up, up, soaring, circling the earth, and far away I see a line of soldiers marching, but their faces aren’t human, they are wolf, snarling, sniffing the air. Something heavy shifts in the pit of my stomach. I turn loops in the sky, and then plummet down towards the single tree. Wind is burning my eyes, I can’t see, and then I land on the tree, but it’s not a tree. It’s a noose. Someone is hanging and I feel the urge to peck, peck, peck. I lean in with my beak, and then I stop suddenly. I start shaking, guilt seeping in. It’s my father; he is dangling by the neck and his eyes are staring straight past me. Then I fall backwards, my wings are gone, my vision is gone, I feel searing pain in my chest. I can’t breathe. And I wake up. I’m lying on the ground of the abandoned house; my father’s gone. Traitor.
Story by Annabelle Burns ’18 Art by Daniel lee ’17
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Frida
My dear Frida, you are mad. Mad as the rain that drowned me on the patio mid September, fatefully reminding me to miss the change when I leave you for good, I won’t take the portraits you drew for me, not the one with my arms wide spread, and my breasts blue, not the one of my bloody green wings, not my fat clumsy tears in drops and streaks because I hate how you scribble Diego all over me; I hate your dying roots how they grow from my feet, and I especially hate how you thicken my eyebrows to match the Devil’s, the Peacock, and the Farmer. All those floating faces like ticking bombs harass my wake, and if I dream, the ghoulish, jeering, bulging, pissing and even content dispositions are soulless monsters who screw angels into pinnacles, who pronounce my Disintegration:
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whose flushing arm shred and falling to reach my decapitated head, where a fire of yellow, orange, green, and colorless flames dance among blackened eyes, yours, which I always turned from, sun piercing ones shedding too many tears. But when I slumped against my bedroom wall that night and my gaze fell to the broken glass, I saw you, my dear Frida, how can I leave my own?
Poem by Elisa Xu ’17
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Art by Rebecca Li ’16 39
Art by Rebecca Li ’16 40
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Photograph by Pete Assakul ’18
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ink. ISSUE 15
Editor-in-Chief Managing Editors
Club Advisors
Spring 2016
Jesse Godine ’17 Mariah Bell ’17 James Fitzgerald ’17 Max Li ’17 Brad Faus Elizabeth Buckles
Design Editors
Emma Franklin ’17 Edward Guo ’19 Grace Matthews ’17 Krishna Sivakumar ’18 Daniel Lee ’17
Writing Editors
Christopher Hemm ’17 Katie Kang ’18 Matthew Kim ’19 Henry Newton ’17 Chris Park ’18 Elisa Xu ’17
Creative Writing Director Marketing Director
Victor Skarstedt ’17 Katherine Spencer ’17
Funding Director
Daniel Lee ’17
Social Media and Communications
Miley Xiao ’17
Website Director
Jennifer Liu ’17
Email: inkredible@hotchkiss.org Facebook: facebook.com/inkrediblehotchkiss Issuu: issuu.com/inkredible
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