January 2022 Issue

JESUIT JOURNAL

The Jesuit Dallas Art Magazine

4 Will Reading ’22

19 Tyler Pruitt ’22

20 Nikolaus Stringer ’23

The Jesuit Journal aims to provide students interested in writing and visual art with a space to showcase their artistic talents. This issue displays works entered in the publication’s annual Fall 2021 Art Contest.

Excerpt from The Case of Brittlestone

cover Campbell Almond ‘22

8

10

Campbell Almond ‘22

Imjai Utailawon ’22

14 Alex Park ’23

16 Nate Carley ’22 Poetry

25 J. J. Bruce ’24

23 Dominic Chacko ’23

20 Evan Velasquez ’24

Excerpt from The Arbor

24 Charlie Schwartz ’24

26 Casimir Kenjarski ’24

28 Joey Trigiani ’22

29 Wil Carroll ’24

30 Cande Narvaez ’22

31 Chris Geisler ’23

32 Colten Phillips ’23

34 Aiden Brodsky ’24

35 Pierson Miller ’23

36 Deo Shaji ’22

38 Gavin Nourallah ’22

39 Grant Kostos ’22

39 Ibrahim Zulqurnain ’25

39 Aiden Faulkner ’24

JESUIT JOURNAL

Artistic Editor Nick Evanich ’22

Content Editor

Moderator

Luke McCready ’22

Ian Berry ’07

WILL READING

Class of 2022

First Place

The Case of Brittlestone

I knew it would be a awful day when Bill called me into his office for a “chat.”

See, Bill doesn’t chat. After working sixteen years for the guy, you learn he didn’t like much besides cigars and yelling, but what he hates the most is small talk. So when Bill calls your name for a chat, it’s best you pack your bags and leave with your dignity before Bill crushes it.

As I walked over, I debated what pissed Bill off this time. He had it out for me. Most of our interactions ended with Bill slamming me for my late articles or getting on my ass for being late. At least, if he fired me, today wouldn’t be boring.

Bill’s office reminded me how much of a dump this place was; the walls were in dire need of a paint job, water never ceased dripping from the ceiling, and the roof constantly creaked, reminding us it could collapse at any minute.

The man himself, Bill, was in his chair, hunched over the landline, incessantly cursing at whoever the poor sap was on the other line.

“Cheap bastard!” he yelled, “It’s impossible to underestimate you!”

Bill then viciously slammed the phone back onto the landline.

After a couple more minutes of cursing and subsequently checking if the landline was still intact, Bill looked up and realized I’d been there the whole time. He adjusted himself in a terrible attempt to conceal evidence of his tantrum.

“Oh, David!” Bill exclaimed as he gestured to the chair. I obliged his request.

“What was the call about?” I asked.

Bill didn’t say; instead, he switched topics.

“What was it like growing up in Brittlestone?”

Out of all the things I predicted he would’ve called me in for, my hometown was last on the list. I gave him the basics.

“Small town, barely a thousand people. The town is in northwestern Texas. Likely impossible to find on any map.”

“I know where it is,” he said, “I asked what’s it like?”

I would’ve rather been fired than talk about this.

“They put up cheerful smiles,” I said, “but everyone hates each other. They all think they’re the blossoming flower surrounded by weeds, but weeds are all they are.”

Silence followed. Neither of us was willing to make eye contact with the other.

I broke first.

“Where are you going with this?” I asked.

Bill didn’t answer; instead, he pulled out a file and handed it to me. I read it over. It was a police report. Although most of the sentences were blacked out, the picture of a woman’s corpse painted a thousand words. But the body wasn’t what made my heart stop. It was the words at the end of the page. The town’s location: Brittlestone, Texas.

My hands trembled; I read the words over twenty times, hoping they would change.

“Okay, look,” he started.

“No,” I declined.

Bill shook his head.

“I get you don’t enjoy talking about your past, don’t know why nor do I care, but this story is too good to pass up.”

“I won’t,” I repeated.

I knew Bill wouldn’t accept no for an answer; it’s why he’s in the news business. And I would’ve gone happily if this were any other town, but it isn’t; it’s Brittlestone. My hands unconsciously gripped the armrest of the seat, protesting the thought of going back.

Bill persisted, “The town’s cops want to sweep this under the rug before anyone else catches wind of this. Lucky for us, whoever gave us this tip also got us an interview with the daughter of the victim.”

“I’m not doing it, Bill.”

He insisted, “I’ll double your salary for a couple of paragraphs and quotes. That’s all I am asking for.”

“I’m sure anyone else here would die to have this offer. Why not just give it to one of them?”

“You remember the piece in the Round-Up last year?’’ he scoffed, “Guy wrote a piece about a rapist in his hometown and got every damn eye out there reading his article. It wasn’t good and barely legible, but it was personal, something real. People give a damn when you give a damn. Or at least fake it. You and I both know this place needs a story like this one, and we won’t get another chance.”

He was right. Bill always said all we needed was one golden story to bring us back to the top. This story could be that big break, but I wasn’t going to let

myself remember everything that took so long to forget.

“Bill, I understand everything you’re saying, but there’s too much I left behind. Too much I want to stay left behind. I would rather be buried six feet under than step another foot into that town.”

He held pity in his eyes, the pity a doctor has when telling his patient their cancer diagnosis. That scared me more than anything because it meant Bill was hiding something, something he hadn’t told me yet, that he dreaded telling me.

He paused in hesitation before counting, “The source that gave this tip wanted me to give a message personally. The message was the name of the deceased woman’s husband. However, the file showed his name after he remarried his second wife. The man’s original name is Jonathan Blake.”

Jonathan Blake, my father.

My blood ran cold.

I had reasons why I left, even more not to go back, but there was one, only one reason I would ever return. That reason was to put a bullet in that man’s head.

“So are you going to do the story or not?” Bill said in a lowered voice.

After all these years–“David?”

The promise–“David, are you even-”

“You weren’t there!” I snapped, “You weren’t there Bill! You didn’t see what I saw! So with all due respect, shut up and give me one goddamn minute!”

Bill didn’t shout back as he did in other arguments. He sat there, letting me have my minute.

“You know,” he started, “every time I look at you, I can tell part of you was somewhere else. Look, I’m not here to give you a therapy session; I’m here to tell you how to do your job. Quit avoiding the past, get closure, and get back on your feet. It’s just one story, and it could be a hell of a good one if you write with a bit of passion. A story like that is what we need. It’s what you need.”

We may have our differences, but Bill always had faith in me. Sometimes when he was in a good mood, I would overhear him talk about my knack for finding the truth. And now, Bill was asking me to have faith in him. Also, he’s my boss, so I didn’t have much choice.

“Okay, I’ll go,” I conceded, “but my car is still in the shop.”

“A taxi is picking you up,” he countered.

“When?”

Bill checked his watch, “Ten minutes ago.”

“You want me to leave now?” I exclaimed.

“You’ll get there by noon.”

He grinned as I rolled my eyes.

“I don’t even have my bags packed,” I said in a last-ditch effort.

He chuckled, “You got a pen, paper, and a tape recorder. What else do you need?”

Damn it, Bill. He was always good at reading people. He knew I would’ve changed my mind given more time.

“I want a pack of cigarettes for the

road,” I demanded.

He tossed me a pack.

“And a two weeks’ vacation when I come back,” I said.

“If you write a good enough story, I’ll consider it,” he cackled, “and it better be good, David.”

I left his office, file in hand. My coworkers were staring in anticipation to hear what happened. Most of them probably bet I got the boot. Their question remained unanswered as I grabbed my coat and left the office for what I didn’t know to be my last time.

As I got inside the cab, it finally hit me. All it took was one talk with my boss to break the promise I made to my seventeen-year-old self that I would be free from that hell. It was a nice fantasy. The past felt like a forgotten nightmare, but I knew it wasn’t as I looked at the burn marks on my arm, my father’s old ashtray. Brittlestone was far worse than any nightmare. It was a town full of skeletons in every closet and monsters cloaked in the form of sinful men.

CAMPBELL ALMOND

Class of 2022

Second Place

IMJAI UTAILAWON

Class of 2022

Third Place

Nate Carley

Class of 2022

Honorable Mention

Nate Carley Class of 2022

Poetry

Southern songs whistled in the wind, and dusk peeled away from an imperial shadow. I had long since fled from the tired brick of the town and retreated to the shade of a sycamore tree, on the quiet depression of the banks. The form of another drew me in and didn’t want that accidental scandal to end. The clandestine meeting of our eyes, punctured by a tragic longing. Peering into those eyes I saw a world I did not know, I did not belong to. That evening passed me and my eyes no longer took those quiet walks or played those gentle games, I returned to this pain, like the tongue to a sore tooth. Perhaps it was simply her lips but I enjoyed holding her for a minute. For a minute of my life, my soul felt content. I can hear the sweet sea call my name, and as I lay down in her bed, I see the light from days past echo above me. And I was not very sad to see that star fade, because under the covers of a new horizon shined tomorrow.

It was well into the night when Alexander Dubnil wandered away from the Warner’s cocktail table. Dubnil seemed repelled by the near magnetism of proud columns and clamoring lights attempting to disguise the revolting simplicity of Charleston’s most popular wooden box. Strolling along an embankment, Dubnil arrived at an arch of knotted grass overlooking a vast watery expanse. As Dubnil approached, the rhythmic lament of the sea drowned out the hollering of brass and string. He began with a devout study of the moon, though his eyes pushed onward into the entangling of the dancing marine with the painted heavens, gazing long into the nothingness that lay between. He could, for a moment, feel the one he loved most reach out from the stars and embrace him. A warmth gathered in Alexander and, for a moment, a smile stowed away on his thin lips. Looking deep into that lovely night, he saw a face emerge. The hoarse squawk of a seagull reminded Dubnil that he was alone, though as the north wind caressed his face, he allowed some of the warmth to remain. But Dubnil’s own insignificance gazed at him from the crescendoing abyss below. The evening of ecstasy was long since behind him, he hadn’t even the will to turn around and announce his departure. Instead Dubnil found himself wrapped in a cosmic struggle for his own name. All other facets of life quickly dulled as he stared, with heavy eyes, into black waters. “You were always the deep thinker, Mr. Dubnil,” and with this Alexander found his soul unwrapped from the cosmos, and all his previous thoughts cast to the sea. With a face like stone, Mr. Dubnil turned to present himself to his untimely company.

Tyler Pruitt

Class of 2022

The Arbor

Excerpt from a novel by Evan Velasquez ’24

“Ass!” Amah hissed as he dabbed the green gauze onto the raw wound that defaced his left calf.

One by one, the young man’s hands swept across his skin, as he smeared the foul-smelling ointment into the abrasions adorning his body. Some cuts were small, while others would most likely come to embellish his flesh forever. Although such a thought would often come to please the minds of the hunters of Hazi, the prospect was less than welcoming to Amah.

“Maybe some of us do not wish to resemble a beaten lion in our old age. Ever thought of that Hazi?” Amah challenged

the crude hand-painted face furnishing the stone slab wall of his den.

Grabbing hold of one of the many small stones littering the cavern floor, the boy hurled the rock into the wall. Striking a lopsided left eye, the rock ricocheted off the slab, flying a few feet before landing onto the cold stone floor with an audible clatter.

“Ha! Now how does it feel to be the one getting stoned?!”

Silence engulfed the cave as Amah cursed, then leaned over to re-dip his right index finger into the granite mortar containing the healing slime.

Once each gash had a healthy coating of what the tribespeople called “Wizards blight,” Amah pivoted on his stone seat to snatch the long chalky straps draped across the cave floor.

Straightening his posture, the long-haired youth bent over and began to wrap the dressing around his left leg. His dark wispy hair made this process tedious, as it kept falling from its primitive braids, obstructing his view.

Tightening the bandage around his calf, Amah muffled a howl as a flare of pain shot up his leg, enveloping his mind. The young man sat, sweating in anguish until the fire engulfing his body smoldered into a dull ache.

Again, and again the youth repeated this process until every last scrape was wrapped in the rough white straps.

Rising from the gray slab of rock Amah had deemed his chair, the young man limped over to his writing wall emanating shuffling sounds that echoed about the hollow.

“Maybe the green fire was a bit much, perhaps I should try something simpler next time.” The raven-haired youth whispered to himself as he unconsciously brushed his fingers through the orange powder he had prepared.

“How about the clinging dust?”

Nodding slowly, Amah raised his left index and middle fingers to the wall and began to write.

As always he began with how the previous experiment had ended–“Dubbed wizard, chased out of town. Small injuries acquired.” Then he moved down a line and noted how long the trial had transpired–“11 Ticks.” Finally, the third line would address the next course of action and when it would take place–“Demonstrate clinging dust. Three cycles.”

Wiping the dust onto his blood-stained fiber weaved pants, the youth took two steps back and admired his handy work. The new log was one among what Amah guessed to be close to four

Photography by Nikolaus Stringer ’23 (left) and Casimir Kenjarski ’24 (above)

hundred and thirty.

Of course, the young man found it somewhat discouraging how many times he had failed to intrigue the tribe’s people with his “Laws of Nin,” but he wouldn’t give up.

It was Amah’s dream to one day introduce even Hazi to the Laws of Nin, and with his beliefs be re-accepted into the tribe. For it was Amah’s greatest goal to go down in history as the one who began the journey into discovering the laws of the world.

So far, the man had discovered seven thousand of these “Laws of Nin.” Among them were: blue powder found in the cave makes fire turn green, and gray dust found in the cave clings to the hard orange rock. Sure, not entirely useful, but a law was a law.

Suddenly the long-haired youth heard shouting echoing down from the entrance of the cave.

“Shit!” Amah uttered as he crouched down behind the great stone slab he used as a seat.

Had the hunters of Hazi come to finally finish him? It wouldn’t be a surprise. The man had been an enemy of the chieftain ever since his birth, being his elder brother and all.

In all honesty, Amah had never wanted to be chief. But now, it appeared that the decision to pass down the title to his brother had come back to kill him.

The youth braced himself to meet An when he noticed the

voices didn’t sound angry. In truth be told, they appeared to sound terrified.

“That doesn’t make sense. The hunters have killed lions. So what could have them so scared?” The boy muttered as his brows drew together in question.

Screams filled the cave and bounced off the walls echoing louder all around him.

Shooting to his feet, Amah hastily snatched his latest project “Nusku,” a long-staff weapon that using the Laws of Nin would create walls of inescapable flame, and sprinted to the mouth of the den.

Only upon reaching the entrance was the youth truly able to grasp the scope of the situation.

Below in the valley, the village walls had fallen. And standing in the middle of the hamlet, with a wake of destruction behind it, was a beast the height of the tallest trees. The monster was covered in a thick brown fur that sprouted the spears of the Hunters of Hazi. It appeared the beast’s maw was already painted with the blood of Amah’s brothers.

Wasting no more time the petrified man rushed down the hills to the decimated village walls. As he drew closer, Amah could hear the calls of his brother as he screamed out orders to “kill the beast!” Yet, all it seemed he received in response were the high pitched howls of hunters followed by sickening sounds of crunches and thumps.

Reaching the break in the wall, Amah leapt over the pale

broken stones sprayed with splatters of blood.

Following the path of red and decimated lodges, the youth charged through the town he was previously cast out from. Each pound of his feet against the splintered wood and bloodsoaked fabric only drove it home more that this could be it.

Amah certainly wasn’t ready to die, but he wasn’t about to allow the blood of his own house to paint the streets of his home. He would either kill the beast or meet An.

Suddenly the bungalows to his left were blown apart, sending debris of stone and wood flying into the air.

Amah ducked down as he felt the small pebbles smack against his skin as the rest of the town hall rained down around him.

Glancing up the young man laid his eyes upon a scene that could only be found in nightmares.

Clumps of dark fur hung limp, strung together by a dark viscous liquid that leaked to long serrated claws. Heavy pikes and long wooden spears skewered a thick pelt torso, exposing the beast’s organs to the open. And upon it all, the head of the beast, long and narrow, sported elaborate antlers on a skull with an empty space in place of a lower jaw.

On all accounts, the creature would be beyond dead. Should be beyond dead. Yet still, it stood, glaring at Amah with an inhuman intelligence highlighting its narrow black eyes, with slit pupils of white.

Dominic Chacko Class of 2023

Slow shifting shadows behind the nightmare interrupted the beast’s terror-invoking image, momentarily distracting the young man of his impending doom.

“Die, kin of Hanbi!” Hazi cried as his great axe smashed into the back of the creature’s skull, sending shards of bone flying in every direction.

The outcry, shocking Amah, motivated the youth to leap to his feet, away from the wreckage as Hazi mauled the creature with his left fist gripping tightly to its antlers with his right.

Not willing to let his brother fight the beast alone, the raven-haired boy pulled a sack of powder from his waist and pitched it into the creature’s contorted face.

On impact, the bag exploded into a cloud of yellow dust that clung to the beast’s eyes and fur.

Knowing from experience what was about to come, Hazi leapt from the beast’s back and landed a few feet away.

Pulling Kusku from his back, Amah slammed the stone end of the staff into the rubble piling the ground.

Colliding with the rocks the staff sent off sparks which flew into the cloud of powder igniting it.

The display was legendary.

Charlie Schwartz Class of 2024

J. J. Bruce

Class of 2024

Casimir Kenjarski

Class of 2024

Joey Trigiani Class of 2022

Wil Carroll

Class of 2024

Cande Narvaez Class of 2022

Chris Geisler Class of 2023

From the test kitchen...

The culinary art of Colten Phillips ’23

(Above) Lemon vanilla gelato with strawberry compote, hand-whipped cream, and toasted pine nuts.

(Opposite) Potato Latkes Three Ways: 1) Sriracha cream sauce, applewood bacon, quail egg,* black pepper, and rosemary; 2) Sour cream, fig jam, and oregano; 3) Blistered cherry tomatoes, parmigiano reggiano, and basil.

*Sourced from KNL Quail and Rabbity, Anna, TX.

Aiden Brodsky

Class of 2024

Pierson Miller

Class of 2023

Nikolaus Stringer Class of 2023

Gavin Nourallah

Class of 2022

Ibrahim Zulqarnain Class of 2025

Aiden Faulkner Class of 2024

Grant Kostos Class of 2022

Nate Carley

Class of 2022