Signatures 2012

SIGNATURES 2012

Marquette University High School 3401 West Wisconsin Avenue Milwaukee, WI 53208 www.muhs.edu (414) 933-7220

Table of Contents Sedimentary in Perpetual Motion Fireball Time Odium Hearts Beating Melting Adrift Chaos and Theory Trees and Things Splatter Tree Roots of Wisdom Aniceto Barely Sunny Trees Keith the Cannon Carried Away Lost in the City The Brave Voice Portrait Toes First The Beauty of Death Self Portrait From One Generation to Another Monarchs and Walnuts

1 Devin Murray 4 5 7 8 9 10 12 13 14 16 17 18 21 23 24 25 26 27 28 31

John Sanders Neil Sileno Teddy Esser Devin Murray Brett Geilenfeldt Patrick Pierson Devin Murray Joe Brink Javier Mora Cullen White Frank Geiser Matt Dries Daniel Tsuji Harper Robison Dineo Black Connor Martin & Dineo Black Steven Ambroch JohnFranco Joyce Alex Bennett JohnFranco Joyce

33 Devin Murray

The Duck My ‘You’ Moments Big Boot The World Around Us Poe I Can’t Help Myself It’s Early Yet When I See My Mother The Mirror With Him Caution Technology Down the Drain Something from Nothing Free Fire I Am a Criminal Melancholy Hill Stella the Angel Portrait of Gandhi The Perfect Day The Surprise Judge Rubber Bands Bottle The Smell of an Elk Colors Valentine’s Day In Between Plays

34 35 37 39 40 41 42 44 45 46 48 50 51 54 55 57 58 60 61 62 64 66 67 69 70 71

Ben Kohler Neil Sileno Daniel Barrett Marquese Robinson Ivan Herrada Oliver Weirdsma Brendan Andrews Ivan Herrada Connor Diffley Wesley Bassindale Hilton Dresden Oliver Weirdsma Connor Cook Nicholas Kimball Nathan Tegge Devin Murray Javier Mora Frank Geiser Paul Glembocki Joe Heinen Danny O’Callaghan Ryan Donald Vince Moldenhauer Ivan Herrada John Sanders John Horter

Fireball (photography) -John Sanders ‘12

Time Odium

You hate time – turn the clock facedown when you sleep – it structures one’s life, but you resist when it comes to yours. You still get dragged in, five, you ignore it for a moment, four, you feel it creeping up, three, you know you must submit, two, you foresee the damage, one, and you have to take a step in that direction – the one it’s heaving you toward.

Born August 11, 1994, 9:59 am – unable to reach ten, would have made it easier to remember – on a Thursday, your favorite of the seven. Two weeks early, one of the only times in your life you would ever be – brought home three days late, jaundice. You rose from a home where structure failed with persistence. It would come and go – knock on the door every once in a while – but your mother was not in need, or even welcoming. The hatred for time started at a young age, the result of the realization that it could not be stopped. It sickened you with childish anxiety: the questioning, the impatience, the opening of that drain that sucks away innocence. The facedown clock haunted you – its bright, red numbers, the screeches to wake you. It became the epitome of it all: the wasting, the tiring struggle – literal – when trying to rise in the morning. It never gives enough of itself, but loves taunting you with that extra minute – second. It demands devotion and will not let you go unpunished. Every aspect of life became slave to it long ago, when one assumed it the sun’s creation – what it was trying to say. But that was foolish, a damned decision, and you know that – you know it well.

That gray shirt, with the large-mouth bass on it, is worn to a blur. The fish looks like an impressionist painting, you can just make out the yellow eyes. Your hair is awry, and as you look in the mirror you see an indentation your pillow made on your cheek.

You quickly brush your teeth and feel an urgency to get downstairs. Your family is nowhere to be seen. The dogs are gone and the house is clean, barren, in fact. Your feet are cold, so you go upstairs to put on some socks. The clock is facedown, and you decide it should stay that way. You go out the door and around the corner to your sister’s room; it is spotless – alien, you cannot even remember the last time you had seen the floor. Fear, even anxiety, rises in your chest and grapples at your neck. You run to your parents’ room

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Sileno and find a note on their snowy bed, made of rough black paper, it says:

Left for California, didn’t want to miss our flight, you weren’t awake yet.

Will call you when we land.

They left you! Panic settles in – lodges in your throat – California, your one vacation, gone because of that horrid clock. Full of a newfound anger, you sprint to your room, dive at the menace. It only becomes cold and dark. Clock is gone, along with your room, and bars surround you. Before you stretches a forest, and behind stands your house – the rest of your town towers in near distance, flames consuming it. They come fast, rush up the streets, across the lawns and into your house. The windows flicker orange, you can hear a slight noise coming from the inferno, a screeching. At first it suffocates, but it begins to ring out, the only sound. Everything else burns silent, watching. You claw at the bars – scream for help, the heat licks your skin, slowly consuming you. You give up – sit there, paralysis sinking in, realizing you have run out –

Eyes open, head throbs, the screeches pierce; you thrust out your hand and rip the cord from the wall and all goes quiet. Your ears are hot, though your mind is sharp. You place your feet on the floor, solid, and walk into the hall. A greeting from the sound of your sister’s humming and mother’s chattering on the phone – you lean against the wall and take a breath.

Your mother rushes you out of the house and shoves you onto the school bus, empty but for the dark man at the wheel . When you arrive at school, the principal and two other women who you do not recognize, greet you. They sit you down at a desk and set a black piece of paper before you. Written on it is the number 700 in bold white letters. You ask what it means, and they reply that it is the number of times you have been late. You look up, puzzled. They then point to the door and start screaming that you’re expelled. Their cries become deafening – you run, desperate to get away, but they grow louder, until becoming a brutal screech.

Covers ripped off, your father looms above you, seen through your fuzzy morning gaze. He reaches for the clock, turns it up, and silences it: relief spreads through you, almost joy. He tells you to get up, shower, and dress – you have ten minutes. You ask for what? He answers,

God is waiting.

God. No! You remember the preceding moments: the abandonment, the cage, the fire, the hysterical principal and his harpies, and now God awaits you. No, you cannot face the moment. So, you lay your head on your pillow and turn that clock facedown.

-Neil Sileno ‘13 6

Hearts Beating

Hearts beating – blood pumping ­– Lungs ablaze with pursuit.

Moving faster – out of reach – But only just . . .

Watched – unattached – Feelings left untouched.

A pointless charade.

Lights flicker across Faces – years of practice – Multitudes Drowning in apathy.

-Teddy Esser ‘12

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Melting Adrift (pastel 18x23) -Devin Murray ‘12

Chaos and Theory

Oh, dearest Pandora, Please close thy box.

We people will rejoice!

We shall lend you our locks!

Chaos reigns in this world Filled will still waters, All because of Man Whose resilience falters.

As the world falls steadily Down a slippery slope, One thing stands fast, An idea of Hope.

-Brett Geilenfeldt ‘12

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Trees and Things

No flash. Andrew did not remember his life. The sanguine red octagon did not fulfill its duty. The leather on the seats had turned soft from the abuse it endured. He wasn’t thinking about the seats. He only thought about the seats when his hands met them. Children played at the playground kitty-corner to where he crashed. They climbed ladders and swung across monkey-bars, living up to the jungle-gym’s name. Squirrels, birds, chipmunks played in a similar manner in the urban jungle, an unsuspecting audience. They hadn’t gathered to observe, but they watched. As others would go to see The Shawshank Redemption, witnesses experienced something out of time. No significant meaning can be found in the accident, yet who would expect it to? People asked,

“Why did this happen?” or

“Who could do this?” They wanted answers . . . more importantly, they wanted reason! They didn’t know the reason left. The ginkgo trees waving their fans may be the only ones who ever knew the reason, though they did not foresee the collision as they did when the meteor hit. Only Andrew, the other driver, and a few who didn’t make the connection until after, saw it coming. They saw the deep sky-blue Suzuki Sidekick run the stop sign, their outrage toward the act matching their curiosity of the crash following.

“It all happened so fast,” witnesses bawled. They were right about fast. As relative as time is, the distance the cars travelled after the collision appears remarkable. Six and a half feet! If time was slowed, as perhaps it was, there would be much more to be seen and heard than what witnesses proclaimed. The spectators described what their eyes and ears presented them. Even some of the more detailed accounts were only mishmashes of the actual registered and certified specifics. Paint, by which cars are often defined, only matters after the accident. The front fender of Andrew’s gold ‘92 Civic (rated the safest of its class) smashed up like an accordion with sections of bellows elsewhere, buttons missing left and right. Andrew’s brown hair, turned gold from all the time lifeguarding, his Jimmy Walker impression, impressive dancing ability. He was lively and likeable. Flamboyant and wild, yet he knew boundaries and respected them, as do wild animals.

Time won’t take away the pain. It might not seem like it would be hard to remem-

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Pierson ber, since it’s easy to forget about something once it leaves. They don’t know but they will forget he’s gone. People cope in ways that don’t make immediate sense but it doesn’t necessarily make sense that Andrew was killed at 19 while his great grandpa died at 103. Some high school friends still haven’t heard of his death. They rarely connected with him. The only phone number they had was that of his parents who still live in Des Moines. Funny how they don’t know, and because of that, don’t notice that he’s not around. Very possibly they’ll live the rest of their lives not knowing; then again, the rest of their lives could be not so long.

People become upset because the world continues just as it did after Andrew died.

They’re wrong. Were it the same, they would be the same, yet they’re not, never will they be. There’ll be a day, not that far off, when they will stop caring. It’s like the Civil War. Our country is what we know it to be because of that war but its life is in books now. It’s history. Not happening now, although affecting the country and world. Andrew is gone.

He was one for the books, like the War.

-Patrick Pierson ‘12

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Splatter Tree

(mixed media 18x23)

-Devin Murray ‘12

Roots of Wisdom Nothing is born with wisdom, Yet some die with it.

Young trees sway in the wind As the old, stubborn oaks stay motionless – For the aged oaks, enjoyment does not derive from swaying But from contentment that runs through their roots.

Every wise body moves from innocence, Yet not every innocent body becomes wise – It does not come from doctrine or dogma, But from experience and judgment.

Why would the wise old oaks need to sway, When they have already found satisfaction?

-Joe Brink ‘13

13

Aniceto

Aniceto stood there, his checkered flannel shirt drenched with perspiration. The land was indomitable, hardened by the merciless sun. It hadn’t rained for weeks, making the volcanic red soil even more difficult to till. His tractor paced along perfectly to plant the corn seeds exactly five centimeters apart. If the behemoth moved slowly, two or three seeds clumped together. Too fast and the seeds were spaced too far apart, failing to maximize his land’s crop potential. But the hard work did not discourage Aniceto. He was a farmer; his father was a farmer, as was his grandfather. Farm families work hard. You reap what you sow. Some years, the land yielded a bountiful harvest, selling the surplus to molineros. Other years, not so much remained, but there was enough to feed the entire family. Until recently.

Near the harvest season, Aniceto met with his buyers to set his sales price. The corn-buying companies usually sent locals. But now, gringo foreigners, dressed in silk suits, made Aniceto feel lowly with his dirty sandals and stained shirt. The gringos knew more than hola and gracias, but their Spanish was still painful to hear, fused with English phrasing. After various translation attempts, the gringos threatened that if Aniceto wanted to continue in the business, his sales price must be cut in half. The companies demanded higher profits, alerting Aniceto of possible use of American suppliers with corn at half his price. Reluctantly, he ceded.

In a matter of months, his business collapsed. His family starved. Aniceto was crushed. Streams of sweat poured from his sun-beaten body. He tilled the soil at an age too young and spent sunrise to sunset on a tractor for half the year. Yet his efforts were worth nothing to the American capitalists. The tears he now shed were even more meaningless, tears of abandoning the millenarian tradition of his ancestors, the livelihood of his present days, the secure future of his children. Aniceto had no choice but to move to El Norte. And so he did.

Unable to obtain a visa from the consulate, Aniceto used the last of his savings – $5000 – to hire a coyote who would facilitate entry into the States. Once in America, he

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Mora found work in one of the largest corn producers in the country. Instead of arriving home to receive the embrace of his family, Aniceto trudges to the entrance of a one bedroom apartment, occupied by six other men. He sends as much money as he can to home and prays to the Virgin Mary that he won’t get sent back.

-Javier Mora ‘12

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Barely Children in Chile descend into mines; Homeless, hungry families are standing in lines.

A teenage runaway selling herself; Small groups of people have inequitable wealth.

Old people warehoused in sterile small rooms; Mental health patients wander in the gloom.

Child soldiers forced into killing and crime; We turn away quickly, we don’t have the time.

The poor pick up rifles to defend oil overseas; The Amazon people are stripped of their trees.

Muslims are taunted and looked at with hate; People are treated as tools of the State.

Brown-skinned travelers try to cross over walls; Children assemble to fill up our malls.

People of color are treated unfairly; Liberty? Justice? Equality? Barely.

-Cullen White ‘15 16

(acrylic on canvas 26x36)

-Frank Geiser ‘14

Sunny Trees

Keith the Cannon

Keith opened his eyes slowly while he uncovered his buried thoughts, regretting not going to bed earlier, just like every day before. The Saturday that he had dreaded for all of the past week crept into his stomach and opened a bag of butterflies. His stomach roared at him, pleading for the sensation to stop. It had arrived, the least appealing day of his whole life, where fear met extreme nervousness, setting a mental barricade that prevented him from sprinting outside to enjoy the beautiful bright blue sky. He searched out the window, he had not seen a winter day so beautiful in all his life. The snow on the ground remained perfectly white, and best of all, his father had already shoveled the driveway! Despite the beauty he closed his eyes and stood. He stretched his arms towards the ceiling. Like a dog shaking the water from its fur, Keith released the tightness and soreness in his body. The initial sensation of his great stretch blinded him with fuzzy blue and red stars, and he tumbled back onto his bed.

The black sports jacket and the dress pants rested on the bed adjacent to his. He glared at it but decided instead to dress in a dark red Christmas sweater. Keith knew his mom wanted him to dress professionally, but he believed the attire did not match the situation. Keith had participated in countless piano recitals, and every time arrived as the most overdressed person in the room. The previous year, his mother forced him to dress in a black suit by using an emotional outbreak that even the most powerful man could not bear. He sarcastically thought “You won’t embarrass me this year!” so he did his best to avoid the all-seeing eye of his mother.

When he finally walked downstairs, he noticed a full plate that his mother had made for him. Keith gulped and sat down to enjoy his extravagant breakfast of hash browns, sausage and eggs. While he ate he studied the sheet music of the pieces he would perform in an hour. He stretched out his long fingers, closed his eyes and tapped the table, imagining the piano’s keys producing their sound before him. He imagined the harmony of the keys and the Christmas cheer radiating from the piano’s vibrating strings.

He was ready, the practice he had put into these pieces would finally play off, and when he opened his eyes, he imagined the crowd before him, cheering and clapping to the one and

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Dries only pianist that satisfied their boredom.

“Bye Mom, Dad!”

“Keith, wait!” His father raced down the crackling steps and inspected his clothing carefully.

“Yep, you look great,” he said while he brushed lint off his sweater. “You decided not to wear the suit?” He covered his mouth to one side and whispered “I agree, that must have been embarrassing for you last year.”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Alright, go get ‘em.”

“BYE, KEITH, GOODLUCK!” his mom from the bed upstairs.

He walked out of the house and revved up the car. Keith had many worries for the recital; he had a very tough piece, high expectations, but he still had confidence. He knew that out of the twenty pianists who would perform, he could most easily catch the parents’ attention. His stomach growled when he thought about it, but he figured it was the eggs.

The car parked well on the black ice. His black dress shoes crunched on impact with the snow. He pushed the college’s performing arts center door open and squinted at the glow that radiated from the Christmas decorations. Keith looked around at the rainbow assortment of Christmas lights covering every edge of every wall. The Douglas Fir Christmas tree in the middle reached to the ceiling of the eighteen-foot room, ornaments and lights from top to bottom. The parents of all the children had taken their seats and quietly waited. Every age group from first to twelfth grade was represented. Keith stood next to the other sophomores who would perform and broke the silence.

“Are you guys nervous?”

“Eh, not really, just anxious to be over with it. I hate recitals, just absolutely dread them.”

“Woah, Jake, they’re not that bad. I do hate how the little kids all play ‘Jolly Old St. Nicholas’ and ‘Up on the Housetop’ though.”

“I bet you do Terry, I guess you don’t remember when you were just learning how to play.”

“Yeah, well, Jake, they all basically play the same thing, I know there are not too many well-known, incredibly easy Christmas songs, but at least have some creativity.”

“O.K., Keith, you’re right, just don’t steal the show like you always do.”

Keith winked and turned towards the crowd with a nervously confident countenance. He really wanted to steal the show; he loved it when he heard the whoops of the crowd, as they simultaneously rose. He began to feel differently, like he did not spend enough time with the pieces, but he shook his head and thought positively.

The lights dimmed and he took his seat. He sat to the left side of Terry, who

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Dries shook when the M.C. introduced the first performer. One by one, the small kids performed their cheerful songs of joy, each receiving an “Aw” from the audience as they turned and bowed. The performer before Keith finished and glanced at him. Keith rose, took his seat at the piano and placed his hands on the bright white and black keys. He spread his fingers gently over the cold ivory and breathed deeply.

Keith began, pressing the keys in the order and timing the audience had been waiting for. The jazzy rendition of “Let it Snow” flowed from the sparkling Baby Grand.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the crowd staring at his long fingers smoothly flying up and down the keys. The unexpected twist, that he daringly chose to perform, hit the audience at full speed. A medley! He began playing “What a Wonderful World” by Louis Armstrong. The audience held their breath for what would come of this unexpected twist. He then perfectly transitioned to “The Christmas Song (Chestnuts Roasting),” and finished with “Pachelbel Canon in D Major.” The audience bolted up, while Keith stood and took his bow. He looked into the bright light and noticed the smiling faces in front of him. He could not help but share the smile when he saw his parents and sister whistling and clapping for him. The ornaments of the Christmas tree behind the crowd sparkled and Keith exhaled as he took his seat, ready to enjoy the rest of the performers.

-Matt Dries ‘13

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Carried Away

Of course, her name was Amy, that’s the whole reason we’re here, right, to talk about Amy Zephyr, which I must say is a pretty great name in itself, right, I mean who has a name like “Zephyr” anyway; you just don’t see it. But anyway – I started to feel sorry for this man’s poor students – if I had to give her one, not that anyone asked at the time, but you did now, so I’m going to go right ahead and tell you, what the heck, right, but if I had to give her a name, it would have been Silence. Now obviously, that’s a little abstract; in fact, if you think about it, “Silence” doesn’t really exist, or, at least, it’s so rare to the point that no one I know has ever experienced it, right?” Just looking at this on paper, I cannot believe I survived that interview. Well, I suppose even THAT isn’t true. The deaf live in silence all the time, but I don’t think they actually understand it, simply because it’s all they know. Or maybe they understand it better than anyone else. But how can you understand something without comparing it to something else?

Dear God . . . I told you I like to ramble. ‘I should have packed up and left then and there,’ I remember thinking. There had to have been someone who knew her better than this guy, but I had talked to them all – family, friends, everyone – and I think they all had tried to glorify her. I thought maybe, with Mr. Morgenstern’s unique perspective that only her English teacher could have had, perhaps he would be a little more . . . removed, shall we say, from the girl herself. Perhaps, I thought, he will be the one to give me that most elusive of all things in life: an honest, unbiased report. It was worth it, but barely.

Anyway.

A-hem. Excuse me.

But that’s how she was! I never got the feeling she was actually there during class, I mean, she was physically there, and I saw her at prom, but . . . Listen, I’m not saying she was brain dead. One of the brightest students in her class after all, but she was always quiet, reserved. No, more than that. She was silent and self-isolated. Doesn’t that just bring to mind a picture of a random island with a single palm tree and one guy sitting there all by himself forever? Eyeesh, am I right? Well, no, but I did think that that was where this man belonged. He simply could NOT get to the point. Almost as if she didn’t think she had anything important to say, which, by the way, is one of life’s great crimes, self-doubt, there’s simply no time for it. Just take the leap, right, don’t wonder if you can make it or not.

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Tsuji

Back to Amy then, shall we? So she struck me as very, very silent, but not just literally, she seemed to exist only as an idea, as a concept, but when you actually tried to talk to her you found that nothing was there. Noncommittal answers, if you got any at all, blank stares with those bottomless, empty eyes. Her papers? No voice. Flat and unemotional, no hidden messages, no bias. Don’t ask me how, but she pulled it off, and now I wish I had had the chance to ask her how she did it, because I know next to nothing about this girl who existed for seventeen and a half years – not just a rounding, mind you, she actually was seventeen and a half years old when it happened, isn’t that just crazy? Who else dies on their half birthday? But then, she was really unique, wasn’t she, no one else quite like her.

I’m still puzzling over her death, just so you know, and how it all played out.

So she was walking home from class, and she took this weird route through the park on a trail right next to the river, on the bank opposite from my house, so I had a pretty good view by the time I got home. The weird part is this trail is the really out-ofthe-way one that no one else took, I guess she must have liked solitude, which is another inconceivable thing about her, right, how could anyone want to be alone? But she’s walking by the river all alone when she notices the kid. I pulled into my driveway right about now. Who knows how he got in the river, but it was moving pretty fast and so she probably figured she wouldn’t have much time, so right away she jumps in and starts kicking and flailing to reach where he was going to be, because she has to take the current into account, right, she can’t just jump in and save him, which she somehow did, and kept shoving him towards the far bank until they both hit a fallen log. He grabbed it while the big old dead piece of wood brained her so hard as to make her unconscious, and so she drowned, while he survived. I had gotten out of my car, run down the hill, and reached him by this point, so I was able to get him off the log and notify the authorities to expect a body floating down the river soon. In retrospect, they probably were just a little freaked out about it, and if I had left my name and number they probably would have arrested me. But fifteen year olds need more attention than police officers do when the former has just been found clinging to a deadfall in a river. The boy’s name was Jack, that’s all he told me, no last name, just Jack, and I don’t think he realized at the time what a sacrifice she had made for him, he was just trying to get warm, but later he did. We have become good friends, he and I, the only real witnesses to one of the strangest events I’ve ever seen.

-Samuel Morgenstern

So this is what I have, we’ll see if I end up using any of it. I have to take the story, though. For some reason, I just know I do.

-Daniel Tsuji ‘13 22

Lost in the City (photography) -Harper Robison ‘12

The Brave Voice

Everyone pretends that everything is fine, we all wear facades, sun glasses, makeup, tattoos, clothing, skin-piercings, fake smiles, tough guy attitudes, there’s more, always, always will be more, a few things that generations and timelines have in common . . . disguises, lies, counterfeit fictitious make-believe yellow-belly gutless mouse-like pessimist . . . who feel the need to misrepresent themselves by distorting their personalities, complexions and identities . . . but for whom? others that do the same, why clone someone’s ego and personality . . . , mutuality, mutuality in copying for another being’s being, what happens when there is no one else left to plagiarize from, are you then lost, lost at sea, like a lone channel marker, or alone, alone with you, but how can you be alone with someone you have never known before, known well, been around, figured out, coped with . . . cope with it, it being yourself, can you talk to yourself, I mean . . . anything is possible, possible meaning you could, but if you do, if you do talk to yourself, are you a social outcast for getting to know yourself . . . your true self, your true being, I guess . . . I guess in some people’s eyes you are, but what do you see, what do you see with your eyes, when you look upon your face . . . do you see the truth or do you see many lies . . . do you see happiness or see much remorse . . . , smiles or cries, cries and smiles, I mean . . . I am only a simple catalyst, a catalyst such as an enzyme, an enzyme causing reactions in the brains of many readers, but think about it, are you being the real you . . . or . . . are you pretending . . . pretending to be something you are not . . . I can not answer these questions for you, but I can say, love you for who you are, what you stand for, and love you for you . . .

Everyone pretends . . . but . . . I know . . . that . . . you . . . do . . . not . . . need . . . to . . .

-Dineo Black ‘13 24

Portrait (photography)

-Connor Martin ‘13 & Dineo Black ‘13

Toes First

Toes first, “easy enough,” then follow the calves, “not too bad,” now come the thighs, “boy that’s cold.” Finally, the waist submerges and soon enough the only thought of the child is how to escape, how to become warm and get out of this frigid water. He thinks of warm things – apple cider, a hot tub, every blanket he owns covering him. Still shivering, lost and scared, the child digs back into his imagination. Fire, hot chocolate, lying next to his five-month old Border Collie. Opening his eyes, he sees the sun, “the sun is warm,” the child thinks. All the child wants is the sun. He then realizes he is no longer shivering. The cold has gone away. He was able to get warm, because he thought about becoming warm. “This is amazing,” this child whispers under his breath. The child now thinks everything is achievable through his imagination. “Maybe I can have my action figures actually fly when I throw them!” the boy thinks vividly while kicking his legs to stay afloat in the pool.

“Timmy!”

Quickly snapping out of his daydream, the child turns around.

“Yes?” replies the boy.

“Have you warmed up to the pool water yet,” questions his mother.

Everything that has been going through the boy’s mind now stops. “My imagination is useless.” The boy’s mother has inadvertently crushed her son’s creativity for the rest of his life, a simple question ruins his thought pattern for the remainder of his life.

It’s a funny thing how much the little things matter.

-Steven Ambroch ‘13 26

The Beauty of Death

“I feel lightheaded,” she said in her rather noticeable Italian accent.

It sticks with me, a sequence of rather unfortunate events that will never escape my memory. The clanging of pans, the thumping of the head, the screams, my cry for help, “Nonna, Nonna! She’s fallen, call for help.” I was surrounded, surrounded by others who witnessed the fall but in that moment I felt alone. I felt that it was just my Nonna and I, death paired with life. There my Nonna was, an instrumental figure in my short life, lying on the hard tan wooden floor of the house where she raised my mother. Her head remained tilted against the dark brown wooden door that she had banged her head into. Seconds seemed like hours and before we could call for medical assistance, my Nonna had returned to a conscious state of mind.

Boom! Her loud Italian accent echoed throughout the rather large kitchen.

“Leave me alone, I simply fell, nothing is wrong with me.” Of course, it was my typical Nonna. All too often she would downplay the severity of a relatively imperative situation.

As she finished her sentence, the presence of my family who had been surrounding me throughout the incident returned.

My mother, the daughter of my Nonna, stepped in, “Mom, you didn’t just fall, you fainted. Something is wrong with you and we need to take you to the hospital.”

My Nonna answered in a rather stern tone, “I would prefer not to.” My brothers and I helped her off the ground, sitting her down in a comfy chair at the kitchen table. My mother approached my Nonna and vigorously rubbed the newly formed bump on the back of her head. I took a seat just a few feet away. I looked around the room replaying the incident in my mind with the comfort that my Nonna seemed to be okay at the present moment. My brother poured my Nonna a fresh glass of water and she slowly sipped it down to its last drop. My mother continued to rub my Nonna’s head, the friction of my mother’s fingers and my Nonna’s bump created a consistent and irritating noise. My eyes wandered all over the room eventually settling again on Nonna, only to focus on the fact that my Nonna had again fallen into an unconscious state of mind.

“Mom! Mom, stop! . . . Nonna . . .” My mouth froze and my brain could not

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Self Portrait (pencil on paper ) -Alex Bennett ‘12

Joyce configure the right motions that would aid in helping my Nonna. Her fingers formed into a fist, her eyeballs drooped back into her head, and her body wilted unresponsively. It was life leaving a body, right in front of my eyes. I saw death take over a person, right before my eyes. I had never experienced something so moving, something so emotional, and something so chilling. It made me cringe; it made me feel hopeless. She was being taken away; God was removing my Nonna from my life. I always looked at death as an inevitable, natural part of life. But I was dead wrong. There was nothing natural about it. It was horrifying and sneaky. It came unannounced and it was not welcome. It left me sick and paralyzed with fear. Death gave me such an awkward feeling, a feeling that needed to be examined.

I sat in the waiting room of the hospital with my brothers. My mother and father waited in the Intensive Care room with my Nonna, anxiously awaiting news that would forever change the course of our lives. I was confused, I did not know what to do with myself. My mind kept thinking of life and death, and the power struggle between them.

I closed my eyes and kept replaying that terrible scene at the kitchen table where I saw death descend on a helpless human being. That haunting image of death contrasted jaggedly with the countless images of life that I have experienced. Death was so frightening, so cold but the more I thought about it, I began to understand the true reason for death.

Freedom, love and appreciation all were clear characteristics of life but after experiencing actual death, my approach changed. Death made me appreciate my life more, death made me love life to the fullest, death made me approach the idea of freedom much differently.

As much as I appreciated and loved my Nonna, death made me appreciate and love her even more. My philosophy toward freedom completely changed, as human beings we are not entirely free no matter what kind of society we live in; rather, death is freedom.

Death may take away a loved one but death takes away the restraints of life, itself. Death can lead one to a place known as heaven, a place that puts aside injustice, inequality, and violence. It leads to a place of freedom. I came to realize so much. Despite all the distraction that could have interfered with my reflection, I learned so much from experiencing something I wished I would never face.

“You think she’s alright, Franco,” my brother, JohnCarlo, asked me nervously.

“Never would I have thought this would happen. She’s never even had a cold.”

“Yeah, I hope she is. Death might be scary but after thinking, I realized we can’t be scared of it,” I replied. Moments later, my parents and a doctor walked solemnly towards my brothers and me. I was anxious to find out the condition of my beloved Nonna, and searched into their facial expression for some kind of a clue. The heels on my mother’s shoes clicked and clacked down the hallway as they approached us. I lifted my head and mumbled, “Please.”

“Be thankful, say a prayer, for we are very blessed,” my mother said as tears built

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Joyce up in her eyes before gravity pulled them down her rosy cheeks.

“Your Nonna died, two times before your eyes. And two times, before your same eyes, your Nonna came back to you. She’s a stubborn Italian lady, that’s for sure. Tonight, be glad for her stubbornness, for it brought her back to you,” the doctor stated. “But don’t worry, boys, your Nonna is in good hands. Death left empty-handed tonight, thank God.” The sweaty palms of my hand opened up and I reached my long, lengthy arms out towards the doctor who contributed to my Nonna’s continuation of life.

“God bless, Doctor.” I slouched down in the very chair where my mindset of life and death changed. Experiencing death was scary, it was wicked but I learned the truth behind it. I learned it’s unavoidable. I learned that, yeah, it has a dark side but there is a colorful rainbow behind it. A rainbow that, in fact, can shine brighter than life.

-JohnFranco Joyce ‘13

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From One Generation to Another

She dreamed about this moment as long as I can remember. “I’m going to be so happy,” she would tell me. “I just can’t wait.” She had been waiting a long time. After all, it had been eighteen long years since my mother had seen her family. I stood next to her in the port of Naples, Italy and I studied her like never before. She was nervous and noticeably focused on her image. She constantly looked at her reflection in any window she could find, fixing every windblown strand of her long brown hair. It was so strange, for in all my years I can’t remember her ever even looking in a mirror. She had pulled her hair back this morning and glossed her lips. She must have asked me a million times, “do I look good, I don’t look over done, do I?”

With each question, I monotonously responded, “you look fine, Momma.” But really, she didn’t look fine, she looked better than fine. She wore a modern, colorful dress, and she seemed more youthful than usual. Perhaps she was trying to look that way, like the last time her uncle had seen her. She moved nervously back and forth, peering over people as they passed by, searching desperately for a familiar face. But would it be a familiar face, I wondered? After all, eighteen years was a long, long time. Surely the people she looked for would be older, greyer, different. She, too, was different. Last time they saw each other, my mother was a young girl, full of dreams and with her whole life ahead of her. Now she was a mother, with half her life behind her. She practiced her smile again in the window and I watched her hands shake as she fixed her hair once again.

She turned to resume her search and suddenly paused midstep. Her body leapt forward in a desperate attempt to stop the old man who had just brushed past her. She grabbed the short-sleeved shirt that was passing her by and her face filled with emotion. I watched her try desperately to move her mouth into the smile she had practiced so many times.

Instead, I saw her lips begin to tremble and her eyes fill with tears as she blurted “Zio Peppino . . . Zio Peppino . . . Sono io, Sandra . . .”

An old man turned his head, and his 78-year old body feebly followed. His face was pale and anxious, and his eyes seemed tired from what must have been a desperate and unusual search for him, too. But I saw the eyes only a moment, for within seconds

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Joyce they flooded with tears and his face twisted into a desperate, overwhelmed expression.

Old, thick hands covered his face as he began to sob, loudly and violently. The pain and emotion in his cries brought tears to my eyes. My mother wrapped her arms around the man, and the two bodies held on to each other so tightly, crying shamelessly for all to hear as they held each other up. Their emotion contaminated those around them, and it was not long before all of us were crying with them. The two did not separate for what seemed like ages, and they did not speak. They did not have to for their tears lamented the pain and loneliness that so many years of separation had carved into their hearts while simultaneously rejoicing in a reunion that they had only dreamed of for two decades.

Slowly, other sobbing family members began to latch on to my mother and the old man, until eventually I witnessed the biggest and most moving group hug I have ever seen form before my eyes. I could no longer see the colors of my mother’s dress move in the sunlight, for she had been engulfed by that sea of people. This was not the reunion she had imagined. There was no smiling and no elegant exchange of words. There was no superficial compliments and no formal introductions of family. All of her practicing and all of her picture-perfect expectation was for nothing; raw emotion had taken control of the moment and did not relinquish its control. When she finally submerged from beneath the pile of hugs, her hair was as messy as usual and her face was a big, red mess. But it did not matter, for she radiated an elation I have never seen before and she was beautiful.

Poignantly, naturally beautiful! Just then, I felt a light touch on my shoulder. As I turned, a handsome young man gently whispered “JohnFranco? JohnFranco? Sono io, Carlo Alberto . . . tuo cugino . . .”

-JohnFranco Joyce ‘13

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-Devin Murray ‘12

Monarchs and Walnuts (colored pencil 11x24)

The Duck The mallard duck had entered flight Above its favorite lake.

The morning sun rose in the east The days will just awake.

Its emerald head and yellow beak Glistened in the sun.

It flew adrift to show them off Not noticing the gun.

The sound had startled everything!

Chaos now ensued.

The duck had taken a great dive Into its favorite blue.

-Ben Kohler ‘12

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My ‘You’ Moments

It’s now more vivid than ever, me sitting on this lawn.

It was a warm December morning, my sister and I played and ran about, then sat to pet the dog. Our home stood there small but sturdy, surrounded by flowers and palm trees. Our pineapple field lay behind us – a ways from harvesting, and you hung our clothes as they swayed in the wind. We laughed as the dog lay on his back – stomach up; the sound of an airplane in the distance reminded me of Papa. You took the laundry basket inside and we continued rubbing the dog’s belly, the plane sounding closer. You smiled at us through the kitchen window but then glanced up, gasped, disappeared, burst into the backyard and stared up. Confused, I turned and saw a plane, followed by another and, then twenty more, all absurdly low. The first blew over our yard, the clothesline went wild, and a dark shadow covered our faces. You frantically whispered, then sprinted and carried us to the side of the house, whipped open the cellar doors and threw us in.

I sat on this porch, at one time able to go freely through the door behind it.

The sun was setting and Papa would be home any minute now. My sister above me playing in her room and you still on the phone left me alone, waiting. Since the cellar it had been a strange day: we stayed there for about an hour. It seemed like ten. You were shaking the whole time and once we came out, you immediately got on the phone. I sat on the porch for another hour before I went inside to ask where Papa was. I found you crouched on the floor, breathing heavily. You looked up at me, tears streaming down your face, your eyes . . . too much for me to understand then, but they became the bane of my childhood, almost my life.

This road used to seem so long, now I wish it would never end. Leading straight into town, it was the only one I had ever walked as a child.

It was harvesting season once again and a successful one at that. The wheelbarrow grew heavier every step, and after eight trips into town and back I was exhausted, but that was my job – that was what you needed me to do. We had friends and neighbors come over to help us, just as we did for them. You started sewing – aside from farming. You worked at a small factory in town making clothes for the soldiers. You cried for months. I cried with you sometimes, but others left you alone. You still had all his clothes

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Sileno and never touched his side of the bed. You would stare at pictures of him for a moment then turn away and try to occupy yourself as the tears came running down your face. Although you were drowning in sorrow throughout those months, you never stopped being our mother. You didn’t miss my piano recitals or ignore your daughter’s many questions.

You checked our homework every night and consistently made us three meals a day. You even served dinner that night I found you on the floor.

This beach has proven to be timeless. Still clean and private, just the way we left it. One morning you came downstairs, your arms filled with boxes and a determined gaze residing in your eyes. You said we were going to the beach. Shocked, we even had to remind you we had school; you said we were skipping it today. We sat there astonished, then sprinted upstairs to get our suits on. We stayed at this beach for hours playing and swimming; we hadn’t had that much fun since Papa. Once the sun began setting, you continued to surprise us by taking us out to eat at that small diner in town. From that day forward, I never saw you shed another tear. You left your mourning behind and carried your sorrow like a badge on your dress.

That bench over there was where we made that decision – the one that saved us.

There you sat, your hand in your daughter’s, looking healthy as a horse. It seemed as if you were fading for a while, but as always, you bounced back with that beautiful ferocity only you could muster. I stood there in my cap and gown and truly felt like myself again, but happier. A feeling I hadn’t felt since we left this island. I guess even since he left us. I look at that picture years later, and can still feel your pride seeping into me as you squeezed my arm.

Down that trail is where I went to school, in that small brown building: the place where I began to learn.

You held him so gently but firm. You saw your losses in him. It made me sad.

My joy reminding you of your past: that damn sorrowful past of yours – ours. I know you loved him. You appreciated that resemblance and the memories and they don’t sting anymore – more soothing, I guess. You would hold him the whole time whenever you could see him, and the same with her later. You treated them just as you did us, as your life – split into four now. You insisted on taking them to their first days of school, and of course, we agreed.

The sun here is what I miss the most, like no other place in the world. All of it touches. It reaches every corner, every face.

You’d never lie about feeling bad, but would never complain about it either. The sunlight hit your face through the window, highlighting the strength still residing there.

That bed was your home now, your island. It came on slow though, nothing sudden, no shock, not twice. We had our time. We said goodbye, holding our hands and peacefully you went.

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-Daniel Barrett ‘13

Big Boot (pen on paper 17x12)

Sileno

I come here now, back to this infamous harbor for you. I don’t quite know why, forever scarred from that one violent morning, but I guess it doesn’t matter. Only what you think does – your reuniting, it must be for him. So back on this island, your daughter beside me, in front of this hallowed graveyard, we let you go, into the wind, hoping you find him.

-Neil Sileno ‘13

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The World Around Us

Stirred by existence spinning indefinitely a rhythm that echoes gods.

What a baffling cocoon to all sapiens alike (for its limits remain mysteries).

A closer look would do the same.

Could there be another beautiful marble where Vision! Flavor! Texture! Aroma! Vibration! offers its distinct layer of magic?

– Collectively, the grandeur of experience – Impulses from swimmers and aviators dance the deepest of blues, hues blossom from the barren prairies in a collage of perfumes, acoustics roll across the landscape – sandy green dunes – every second.

Nature’s call – louder than the Bluetoothed mouths barking over it – held still dear by the tender ears of passionate dreamers whispering on the edges of civilization.

The sight might catch your eye and make you do the same were not your phone already in the way.

-Marquese Robinson ‘12 39

Poe (scratchboard 8x10) -Ivan Herrada ‘12

I Can’t Help Myself

My Honda’s wheels came to a stop. I pulled into the driveway to pick up Jessica.

Father always forced me to be a gentlemen, so naturally I stepped out of my car to open the passenger side door. Jess and I have been dating for two years, but I still felt nervous.

Despite the fact I’ve seen her about a million times, my knees remained weak and my palms sweaty. The old screen door on her quaint two-story cottage opened without the slightest use of force. I still couldn’t see her. This moment felt like hours. In her red flats she walked toward me with confidence. Eye contact remained the entire time her thin little legs took another step closer. We didn’t share a word. She walked right up and gave me a big kiss straight on the lips. “Hi Willy,” she said with the cutest smile. Only the very top of her teeth and gums showed when either side of her mouth shot across her cheeks.

It was only elicited after we kissed. Just seeing this smile made it contagious. I couldn’t help myself but to giggle, and smile in the same way. “How are ya?” I asked, still with a smile on my face. “Good” she said. But it wasn’t an ordinary “good.” Add about six more O’s to the word and a slight bend up and down in pitch and you have Jess’s “good.” Such a simple and overused word comforted me. She sat in the car with her legs crossed and fingers interlocked, sitting atop her kneecap. I closed the door after her. I turned my head to back out of her twisting gravel driveway. I loved backing out of her driveway. Her long wavy brown hair went down to her lap. She parted it in abundance to the left side. Her thighs squeezed together in a crossed position, giving them a thick appearance. She always complains about her legs, but I think they’re sexy. The modest side of Jess disagreed.

She has a nose ring. It doesn’t fit her reserved personality at all. Every time she kisses me she turns to the side without the ring. We have never spoken of it but I knew she would do it even before the first time we kissed.

-Oliver Wierdsma ‘12 41

It’s Early Yet

Although I can hear the faint hum of city buses, police sirens, and restless UWM students, we are the only car stopped on Locust and Humboldt. The light turns green and Djordje’s grey Mercury whips around the corner and onto Locust. A soft orange glow from the rusted streetlights illuminates the road, oil puddles and filth. Tonight is Djordje’s last night.

“C’mon, it wasn’t even going to be fun. Too many college kids at the beach at night.” Turning to the on-ramp, the car surges forward, my stomach drops and my neck muscles stiffen. Instead of going to the beach, Djordje decided that we’d cruise the highway.

“Couple weeks and you’ll be one of them.” Jaw clenching, he doesn’t answer. Fingers on the stereo, he flips through a couple songs before punching the console with his fist. Music flows through the speakers. The clouds open up and rain patters the windows.

The force of the bass washes over me like warm rain washes the car. Djordje’s hands loosen their hold on the wheel.

“Where are we going,” I ask.

“I don’t know yet. Let’s just drive for a while.”

“Have you pack . . . ,” Before I finish he interrupts.

“No, no! I have not packed yet.” His hands tighten around the wheel. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him scream. Speed increasing, he begins to change lanes more frequently, needlessly. The rain picks up, blurring the windshield.

“A lot of people get pulled over on this stretch, chill out with the speeding.”

“Are you serious? I drive here all the time, we’re fine,” he says, looking directly at me.

“You’re stupid, slow down! You’re ‘bout to get us pulled over.” I usually don’t yell.

“I’m not,” he says, words stern and slow. Every little touch of the wheel in the wrong direction violently jerks the body of the car. I pull my hood up, look out the window at the distant city lights. Closing my eyes I see the beach, the calm waves, feel the soft sand beneath my head. I scoop a handful of it and, despite my tight grip, it slips

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Andrews out the bottom. My breathing slows, sweet summer air filling my lungs. Time crawls here. The skies, blue and bright, host a warm sun. The slight crash of small waves upon a rockless shore provides a comforting rhythm to which I breathe. Djordje’s elbow bumps the wheel and my head slams into the cold, hard window. Thud! He grabs the wheel and realigns us.

“Don’t fall asleep on me next time,” he says. I glare at him. Blood dribbles out of a tiny cut above my eye, he sees the red on my fingertips and turns the volume up.

“Get off, just get off the damn highway!” My eye is swelling. I punch the volume and sit back, my nostrils flared, heart pounding. Djordje gets off on the lakefront. He pulls into the Bradford parking lot. Shoulders slumping, his head rolls back, chin up, eyes closed. Phone vibrating, he reaches for his pocket: another text from his mom. Three long and slow deep breaths, then he smashes the horn ten times and steps out of the car.

With the snap of his arm, his phone lands in the lake. I get out and rest my arms on top of the car. My fingers run over the cut above my eye. Will it be like this when I leave?

“She wants to me to come home and pack. I just can’t do it, dude, there’s no way.”

The water shimmers with the purple light of the moon. Putrid exhaust from the midnight bus, the stench of dead fish and rotting sewage. “I’ll miss the beach,” he says.

“I know. I will too. C’mon, let’s just drive for a while,” I say. He nods in silent agreement, breathing heavily. He gets into the passenger’s seat. “You can pack tomorrow,” I say, taking the wheel, “it’s early yet.”

-Brendan Andrews ‘13

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When I See My Mother (acrylic on canvas 24x18) -Ivan Herrada ‘12

The Mirror In the picture she lay, waiting To be seen behind the stubble Of corn starting to bud – not moving For the love of her sister.

That which amazed me was there, A mirror on the wall of the kitchen.

Where to start? The conversation I beganAsking about peace – where does it live?

She said, with love, that under My roof resides my sister, who said, With a smile on her face – “there is no Bond greater than ours, of friendship and peace.”

-Connor Diffley ‘12

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With Him

“Do you think he killed people?”

“I . . . I would think so. It was his job, Perry.” She put her arms around him from behind and rested her chin on his shoulder. Normally she could not do this because of his enormous height, but he was sitting down now, hunched over the kitchen table and grasping a mug of coffee that had gone cold over two hours ago. “You’ve been sitting here staring out the window at that rotting barn for quite some time now, honey. You should get up and do something.”

“How are you okay with this?” he asked abruptly. She pulled away. He let go of the mug and turned to face her, allowing her to see his red moist eyes. “How can you just go on? He . . . he was yours too, Jenny.”

“He was ours, Perry. But we can’t just go on living like the world’s over. We have to continue caring for those we’ve got left.” He turned back, crossed his arms on the table and laid his head on his arms. His beard was a little longer than he usually let it grow and his hair wasn’t combed back neatly as it always was. He reached forward and turned the mug toward himself. Greatest Dad Ever. Beneath the colorful title was a stick figure drawing of two people, one abnormally tall and the other quite short, holding the hand of the first one.

“You’re right. You’re absolutely right. I’m sorry, I just can’t get over it. I don’t think I ever will. This isn’t supposed to happen.”

“No, but he wouldn’t want you living the rest of your life in depression. He joined for you, Perry. He did it to make you proud.” Perry closed his eyes at that thought. Jenny paused and took a deep breath. “We are proud. He saved so many other lives. He saved plenty of other families the grieving that we have had to go through, but he didn’t do it so that we would spend the rest of our lives in misery. It’s been almost a year now. We need to move on to more important things in life.” Perry was still, he knew what Jenny was referring to. Jenny made a movement toward the door.

Perry opened his mouth to speak, “I have to kill his horse.”

“What?”

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Bassindale

“I have to kill Sonny. He’s sick. I just don’t think I can bring myself to do it.”

“Perry, you’ve had to put down plenty of other horses before. This one is no different, okay? And if good horses go to heaven, which I firmly believe they do, then he’ll be able to be with him in heaven. Isn’t that a nice thought?”

“Yeah.” She squeezed his shoulders and left the room. He heard the creaks on the stairs as she went to go do laundry. He sighed. “Sonny was his horse . . .”

He got up from the table, slid the chair back, and took a sip of the chilly coffee only to spit it out in the sink. He stared down into the cup for a moment and swirled the black liquid around and then poured it down the sink. While rinsing out the cup, he took one last look at the drawing on the mug before going to the back door and putting on his boots.

The air was crisp as he went outside. The screen door slammed as he looked up behind him. He saw Jenny’s face disappear from the window. He was not close to her anymore. He was not close to anyone anymore, not his hunting buddies nor the animals in his barn. He knew Jenny felt it, too. It had been a long time since they held each other lovingly and an even longer time since they kissed each other.

He pushed open the rusty doors of his faded red barn. The horses made little noise as he entered because they were familiar with him. He walked forward, toward the locked cabinet in the back, but stopped in front of a stall. He looked to his left. Sonny was facing away in his stall. All Perry could see was his big tail, swishing flies away from his behind. Perry kicked the front of the stall. The horse’s head jerked up and peered behind him. Perry looked into the horse’s eyes; he was an old horse, but right now, looking into his eyes, he could the horse’s youth. Back in the day, he would be taken out for a long ride every day. Back when his rider was still alive.

Perry turned and walked to the back of the barn and took out a key attached to his belt. There were three guns inside the cabinet, a double-barreled shotgun and two hunting rifles. He reached for the shotgun but stopped and looked at the slightly newer of the two hunting rifles. His hand clasped the barrel of the gun as his eyes landed on the engraving K. S. B. His body shook lightly as he breathed in. He grabbed the shotgun and two bullets and shut the cabinet. He needed to get over it.

Perry led Sonny out of the stall and into the sunlight. The other horses just stood still, almost solemn as the pair walked out of the barn. Sonny struggled with even walking, his knees quivering under his own weight. Perry stopped once he came to a grassy area that was a good distance from the house and barn. Sonny stopped moving, but when he did, his front legs collapsed and he tumbled down. Perry stepped forward but there was nothing he could do to help. The poor horse wheezed on the ground, eyes wild, then settling on Perry. A tear swam in the corner of Perry’s eye. He took the two cartridges and carefully slid them into their place in the gun, as he had done countless times before.

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Caution (mixed media 18x24) -Hilton Dresden ‘12

Bassindale

And if good horses go to heaven He raised the gun. which I firmly believe they do He settled his aim at the back of the dying horse’s head. then he’ll be able to be with him in heaven.

He rested his shaking finger on the trigger.

Isn’t that a nice thought?

Jenny jumped as she heard a shot echo throughout the yard and the house. She went to the window, still clutching Perry’s plaid shirt she had been folding and saw him in the distance standing over the body of the horse. She sighed. At least he had gone through with it. Maybe now Perry could move on and they could work on their marriage.

She turned her back to the window and walked toward the pile of clothes. She looked up at a picture on the wall; what a family they used to be.

-Wesley Bassindale ‘12

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Technology Down the Drain (photography)

-Oliver Weirdsma ‘12

Something from Nothing

Time expanded in agonizing slowness as the car smashed into him, metal crunching against bone. For a split second, his airborne body contorted into the bloody equivalent of a forty-five degree angle. Then his head snapped back stiffly, and he dropped from the sky in rigid straightness. I stared, intoxicated and disgusted, as crimson blood spilled from his corpse and seeped into the cracked concrete. Flashing red and blue lights heralded the ambulance’s arrival a few minutes later, but at that point I knew my friend was dead. I wanted to scream at the paramedics and their faked urgency, but instead I watched in silence as they pronounced him deceased, packed his body up onto a stretcher, and drove him to a morgue.

My best friend, who I had known my entire life, who had protected me from bullies, who had found me a homecoming date every year, had been murdered by a drunk driver at age seventeen. He’d been taking me to a party, and we’d both been crossing the street at the same time. We’d been less than two feet from each other. But somehow the car swerved and killed only him.

At his funeral, I sat in the first row behind the family, outwardly calm but inwardly grieving with an angst rivaling what Abraham would have felt if God hadn’t stopped him from sacrificing Isaac. As the priest rambled through his sermon, I instinctively knew I would not find solace in his words. While he preached, lips spewing meaningless praises about a man he did not know, I reached inside myself to find some deeper truth that would comfort me. And in the moment I dismissed the man of God as an outsider to my pain, I reveled in the epiphany that has guided me my whole life: We are nothing. Life is nothing.

It seems odd, now, with that as my motto I became a child therapist, but that was the way fate led me.

I’m supposed to help this girl in front of me. Scars lace her thin arms. I tell her to stop cutting herself, to stop doing this inhumane thing; she nods, but next week the scars

51

Cook return deeper and wider. I beg her, I order her, but she continues to deface herself.

I ask why she does it, if it gives her emotional relief. She doesn’t understand me, doesn’t answer. Instead, she provides an excuse – there’s so many, she’s very creative – I fell on a hike, my cat hates baths, I tried to pick up a rat, the cheese grater slipped while I helped with dinner. Sometimes her lies don’t even make sense: it’s only a paper cut, I was picking at a zit.

What can I tell this girl that she doesn’t already know about herself, what encouragement can I give? In the end, I can only help myself, not her, as it is with nearly all my patients.

She is nothing. Life is nothing.

I’m buying groceries. I know the cashier, but she’s so exhausted she doesn’t recognize me. She’s ugly now, nothing more than a tired mother, but she was beautiful once, before the marriage. Her husband beats her – I know it, she knows it, the whole town knows it, but she won’t press charges. She treats his abuse nonchalantly, as if it were a peculiarity instead of a crime. Every time we talk, she mentions her husband’s actions, as if a child therapist like me might have a solution.

“The littlest things set him off: dinner’s not made, I forget to greet him at the door, the kids are too rowdy when he’s trying to sleep.” The way she dismisses domestic violence sometimes causes me to forget what we’re talking about, as if the subject were so casual that we could discuss it like the weather. Maybe her husband feels insecure. Maybe he’s bipolar. Maybe he just likes the sound of his palm against her flesh, likes watching the blow ripple across her skin.

But whatever the cause, his behavior has no effect on my life. When he punishes his wife for nonexistent crimes, do I pay for it? No.

They are nothing. Life is nothing.

The boy sitting next to me won’t speak to me. He won’t even look. We’re both sitting in an old-style barbershop, complete with old men – not young women – shearing our hair off. I’m getting a trim, but the boy’s father requested a buzz cut for his son.

He’s rigid and squirmy at the same time. He was my patient for about three months as part of the divorce settlement, and I know his father molests him. I considered complying with the law and filing a report, but in the end I never took any action. It’s not like I had evidence. The constant fear radiating from the boy in his father’s presence and the father’s arrogant smirks hardly substantiate my claims.

What kind of world allows a father – a man who should be his son’s best role model – to molest his six-year-old? The same world that makes him untouchable to the law. Sometimes the boy’s situation infuriates me. When that happens, I remind myself:

52

Cook

He is nothing. Life is nothing.

My sister is standing in my doorway. It’s 1 in the morning, she’s driven from LA, and her energetic daughter complained the whole ride. She’s exhausted. We hug, she plants a quick kiss on my cheek; surprising, we’ve never been very close. I reach for her daughter, but the little girl skirts my grasp and clings to her mother’s legs. “Mommy,” she pleads, as if I’ve been somehow cruel in my actions. My sister explains that she wants her drawing supplies. I assume a coloring book (the girl is only four years old), but my sister unearths some paper and a few crayons from the depths of her purse. The girl sits on the floor and begins to draw. I ask if she has any completed drawings. “Of course,” says my sister, and she hands me a thick wad of papers from her purse. I shift through the pictures. They’re simple, but I expected as much. Yet they are coherent scenes – a sunny picnic, a field of flowers, her mom and dad smiling with her squished in between them.

Something about these images makes me wants to sob. I want to take them and show them to my colleagues, but I know they would dismiss these sketches as belonging to someone we don’t have to fix. I want to treasure this girl’s work, I want to hang it all over my house. But I also want to share them with everyone I know, I want a world filled with death to appreciate life.

My sister is staring at me. My hands are shaking, I think I’m crying, she’s asking me if I’m all right I don’t know if I am

This is something. And that is what hurts the most.

-Connor Cook ‘12

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Free Fire First nothing, then a spark The third time I strike, a fire rises in front of me It is no longer dark And the fire expresses how one may be free I take a step back Impressed by the creation, I sit down and watch the fire blazing in the moonlight I decide to make an abjuration To be free of encumbrance on this night A mighty wind blows with the force of a wave The fire subsides Then rebuilds And recovers to its natural wild state I will be free of encumbrance on this night I will dance like the fire I will be like a fire and show of light

-Nicholas Kimball ‘15 54

I Am a Criminal

I who am a criminal yet have committed no crime. An outcast amongst elite people, people who have done nothing to deserve self-righteous status. They see me only in a negative light, always suspecting the worst. I am just like all the others no matter who I am or how I act. There is no escape in this never-ending nightmare. When will I wake up, when will they wake up?

The gym roared with excitement behind me, the static happiness still in the air after the big win. Me and my band of friends strutted out together onto the polished marble floors. Our victorious cries rang throughout the building, reaching the top of the colossal white ceiling and down the wide hallways. Opposing fans dressed in various Green apparel scowled in our direction and kept their distance. I caught comments where we live and our race giving our school the upper hand, that basketball is our “life.” These comments did little to erode our confidence, were mere chinks in our collective armor.

On the way out some cackled at our surroundings, comments such as, “they even got automatic water fountains, man! We still beat them!” or “flat screens aint winning them no games!” The laughter was nothing but a disguised hatred, distaste for what this school represents. Winning the game was nothing more than an excuse to be better than. It felt good. The automatic doors swooshed open sending us back into the crisp October air. A cherry red corvette flew past our group setting us back into reality as we approached our banged up vans and rusted compact cars. My cramped dented sedan was brought to light by the two seemingly brand new cars on either side. We still won. The engine’s distorted bark was a relief, an escape. Showed those fools what’s up tonight.

While coasting home a pang of hunger deep in my stomach could not be resisted. I had not made it very far, but far enough that I was not surrounded by mansions or gated communities. A McDonald’s caught my eye just a few blocks away. Oh what a beautiful sight. This Mc D’s was not like the one near us. It had a lit-up billboard and intricate tile

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Tegge design on the exterior. The parking lot reflected that of the game, except my sedan was all alone this time. I was all alone this time. This crossed my mind, but the adrenaline from the win was still flowing briskly through my body, dismissing any fear. The automatic glass doors parted before me letting scents of fresh greasy burgers and fries dance before me. Such a familiar smell, yet such a unfamiliar place. My sudden joy was dampened by everyone inside. While taking my place in line I could not help but feel the stares of those around the restaurant piercing my back and sides. They were examining everything about me, forming opinions of what and who I am. I overheard a muffled, “ Look, it’s a black guy,” followed by a few snickers. Others murmured similar comments. I could see their gaze in a smudged mirror off to the side of the counter. They ate cautiously, glancing every now and then with fervent eyes. We won, man. By the time it was my turn my presence was clearly known, and it seemed everything returned back to normal, conversations continuing. At least it did for them. The cashier did not look me in the eye, but rather past me. I could tell he was not a very confident dude, but regardless he added to the already brewing uneasiness inside. Hidden beneath his worn crimson red McDonald’s hat was a curly dark clump of hair. His skin pale, just like everyone else in here. The light reflected off it, projecting an ugly shine.

“Welcome to McDonald’s what can I get for you?” quivered his soft tone.

“ Uh, let’s see. I’ll take the double cheeseburger with fries.” My hand dove into my jean pocket and fetched a wrinkled five dollar bill. He sheepishly grabbed it from my extended hand, his gaze fixed on the money. After pounding a few buttons change came spewing out of the machine to my left. “It’ll be a few minutes,” he quickly glanced at my face. I stepped aside, leaning on the spotless white counter facing those eating. They cowered away, suddenly focused intensely on the food before them. A heavyset man wearing a blue button-down left his seat and trudged towards the dirt-brown garbage can. Brown like me. It was overflowing, looking as if it had not been cleaned in ages.

After dumping his remains, his gaze fell to the floor, avoiding eye contact while he walked past. This is the kind of stuff that sets me off. Why do they need to do this? My uneasiness turned to anger, but there was nothing I could do. I pretended to check my phone and text in an attempt to stall and avoid dealing with the situation at hand. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a guy about my age vigorously wiping his face clean of remnants of his now devoured burger with a caramel colored napkin. He tossed it aside disregarding the garbage completely. It fluttered lightly before gliding onto the floor, now completely useless, nothing more than all the rest of the trash. It sat there all on its own, surrounded in a sea of bleached white tiles. It was disgusting and not wanted. “Here you go.” I turned and snatched the white bag, thanking the woman who had delivered my meal. The stares returned once again as I left, as if this was the last time they would ever see a black man.

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Tegge Or if I was about to turn and rob the place, as if I was a threat. My pace unwavered, they could not know they affected me. They do not mean a thing to me. But they did. Suddenly “we won” meant nothing. Suddenly I was alone yet surrounded. Suddenly I was only black.

-Nathan Tegge ‘12

Melancholy Hill (pencil on paper 8.5x11) -Devin Murray ‘12

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Stella the Angel

At age seven, my parents took me to a funeral of a distant relative. Multitudes of people, dressed in blacks and greys, gathered in a low-lit chapel to wail in lamentation.

Never had I witnessed adults cry as if they were children. It was disturbing.

Tugging on my mother’s sleeve, I whispered into her ear, “Stella. What’s happening?”

My mother always insisted on being called by her name. “I feel old when I’m called Mom. I don’t feel like one!” she exclaimed.

“Stella, why is everyone crying,” I asked.

She rubbed my back reassuringly. “Don’t worry,” she replied. “I want you to remember one thing.”

I gazed with eyes as wide as saucers and said, “What?”

“A funeral is not a mourning of someone’s death, but rather it is a celebration of their life,” she said and then smiled a bit.

“I will remember,” I promised to her and nodded solemnly.

My father looked in our direction and snapped, “Be quiet, you two!” †‡†

Not much later, I noticed that Stella became increasingly withdrawn. One day, she lay in bed for hours with the blinds closed, refusing food and drink. Her weight had decreased daily, dark circles made her eyes sink deep into her face, and her beautiful black hair fell out. She called for me. We would sit in silence. I wouldn’t dare to speak. She would study my face, and a soft smile appeared for a moment. Stella finally spoke, “You are a handsome boy. You are my angel.”

I looked into her eyes, frightened at their lack of movement. “No, Stella. You are my angel. I love you very much,” I managed to whimper.

I brushed a tear on my cheek.

Stella was not there anymore to wipe my tears.

Her cold, limp body rested on the bed. Her eyes were focused on everything, nothing. I changed the comforter to her favorite one, a patchwork of black, brown, and

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Mora white suede squares. The bedding was soaked with blood. A sudden chill rushed inside me. This is the Stella I didn’t ever want to see.

Home seemed empty, even if families and friends visited us. I wanted to keep her all to myself. I saw the people as intruders. The loud whispers of the curious hurt me. I ran upstairs to escape insincere concerns. I locked myself, yanked the light bulb cord, and rummaged through my father’s old desk for paper. In a flood of tears, I composed a letter to Stella, writing all my final thoughts, sending her my undying love, wishing her eternal peace. The house was still bursting with people. But as soon as the sun set, the mourners began to leave.

In the dead of night, clutching the letter in my sweaty hands, I walked out the back door to the edge of a cliff. I looked down at the long drop. My mind was with Stella, then with my father. I wondered if the day celebrated Stella’s life. I sat down with my feet dangling on the edge, considering options for hours. Time passed as it had for Stella. As the first rays of sun warmed my face, I stood up. The letter folded into a wrinked star, I let it soar toward a new dawn.

-Javier Mora ‘12

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Portrait of Gandhi (acrylic on canvas 72x48) -Frank Geiser ‘14

The Perfect Day

When the blood of life stays in the body, When actions that promote hateful violence Become actions motivated by peace, Then we, in so doing, help somebody.

When words are filled with respect, and not hate, They provide encouragement, and not pain That leads to people wanting more self-gain; But why create death, when it’s all our fate?

Every destiny is meant to be great, But those who betray their own destiny, Betray their self-created hopes and dreams.

The day they realize; the day I dream.

The day when words overtake the bullet, The day when our death does not mean the end, The day peace requires nothing to say Is when we have formed the most perfect day.

-Paul Glembocki ‘12 61

The Surprise Judge

Sounds of footsteps filled the hallway. They were loud, but belonged to a single man. I immediately knew who it was without having to look over my shoulder. It had to have been the janitor. Not only because he was probably the only person on this floor besides me, but because I have grown accustomed to hearing his heavy-duty work boots cross the corridors around the art department at this time. Since he was close it meant that I had little time left before he would ask me to leave. All of a sudden I felt my paint brush working faster and faster. The vase that I had been unearthing onto the canvas for the past few days became slowly and slowly changing from a 2-dimensional shape into a 3-dimensional piece of pottery in mere seconds. I leaned back in my chair to evaluate my work, which I did much too often. I was disappointed with the choices I made. Of course my class would not notice them and my teacher would praise me for my work but I am not making it for them. My work has always been for my own satisfaction. The room around me is cluttered with collective piles of old mediocre artwork, none of which brings inspiration to me. I take out some of the old catalogs my teacher has collected over the years. Flipping through the pages, sculptures, paintings, and drawings of all kinds jump out at me. Each is so beautiful and stimulating. The color choices, the placement, and the exaggeration of shapes each jumps off the page at me. I walked subconsciously back to the isle without taking my eyes off a painting of a pomegranate. For some reason it spoke to me and gave me a new idea for my piece. I picked up my brush and got back to work. I reached for my paint pallet and noticed that I was almost out of colors. As I walked over to the cabinet where my teacher keeps the supplies, this time with a little more skip in my step, I heard the work boots step slightly louder. It seemed as though they were near me. I turned around with bottles of sky blue and indigo in my hands and my heart skipped a beat. I was so startled to see the janitor standing in front of my painting that I almost considered leaving there and then. It was too difficult, however, for me to remove my gaze. He seemed to look at it in a way that I had never encountered before.

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Heinen His hairy arms, peeking out from his folded-up sleeves, were crossed tightly around his portly stomach. I shifted a little to see his face. His mustached upper-lip and thick Hispanic eyebrows curved in a position that most people would consider a scowl, yet I recognized it as the way I look at my art. He was not looking at it dumfounded and impressed like most people, but was clearly critiquing it, not blinking an eye for two minutes. When I finally realized he was deeply invested in my painting I could not help but wait to hear his reaction.

This brought to mind another thought. Although I see this man almost every day after school, mopping the floors, I have had no level of interaction with him whatsoever. I have never heard his voice, and do not know if he even speaks English. I had never pegged him for the artistic type, or even the intellectual type at that. After another uncomfortable thirty seconds, I considered the possibility that he did not even know I was in the room. I lowered my hands that gripped the tubes of paint, and distinctly cleared my throat. Not a twitch of a muscle. He stood like a sculpture. The look of concentration on his face unsettled the pit of my stomach. I reasoned that he probably just wanted me to leave so he could clean the room and go home. I snatched my backpack and binder from the counter and crossed the room to the door. Then, a heavily accented, but commanding voice came out from the statue.

“The dimensions make no sense and the color scheme is awful. Use black, violet, and crimson for the background.”

I tried to muster up the courage to say something but as soon as the janitor finished his demand he released his pose and crossed the room to the door without so much as looking at me, or taking a second look at my painting. I myself stared at the canvas and realized how right he was. From behind me I heard the loud sound of something tiny being slammed against the countertop. I spun around and just caught a glimpse of the artist, his coat and hat on, exiting the room. The counter next to the door held nothing but a single solitary key. I understood now that without making any sort of conversation we had made an agreement that I would lock up the room after I spent a few more hours fixing my work. As his boots echo in the distance I rush to the cabinet and exchange paint tubes.

-Joe Heinen ‘13 63

Rubber Bands

I finally found them. Today marks the first time I’ll see my family since I moved away. Mom can’t contain her tears. I hope she doesn’t drive us home. I always hate when she drives. There’s Dad eager to see me but able restrain himself by calmly smiling and waving. And finally my younger brother, always texting, never fully present at family gatherings.

We got into the car and, thankfully, Dad drove home. We passed the usual farms on the way back from the airport. In the past hour my scenery has changed so drastically, so quickly. I have moved from my stuffy college dorm, to the inside of a cramped airplane, to a busy, fast-paced airport, and now into a car and staring out the window at corn fields.

I always like staring at the corn rows when we pass, the spaces between the columns of plants all blending together. My trance broke by the watering of my eyes. I smelled something that caused the hairs on the inside of my nose to stand on end. What is this? I thought, searching my memory for why this caused me so much grief. I remember now, senior year. This smell is from the prank I helped pull senior year.

My senior class executed one of the best pranks in the history of our school. We decided to line the hallways of the school with rubber bands. The plan was that two weeks before school ended the entire graduating class would anonymously drop rubber bands during and between classes and nobody would get caught because it would be impossible to determine who laid all of them. The idea behind the gag was that rubber bands are extremely difficult to clean up; they’re too heavy to get sucked up by a vacuum or swept up by a broom. Usually, when I plan something the desired outcome does not happen. Lucky for me this wasn’t one of those times.

Even though none of the senior class got caught, the school did punish everyone by leaving the rubber bands in the halls until after the school year ended. Not many people know this, but rubber bands smell. The closest thing to the odor is cologne; it smells good if sparsely applied and subtle, but when overexposed to it, your nose hairs stand on end. During the two weeks they spent in the hall, I learned the smell. It was ingrained into my memory so that I can’t even look at a rubber band without cringing.

64

O’Callaghan

Where is that coming from? I thought to myself as I looked around the inside of the minivan, stifling the urge to gag. Now I see it. My brother has two rubber bands on each of his wrists. After what I assume to have been our punishment was over, I now can never be around rubber bands for very long. I don’t think I have even seen one since, either. But here sits my younger brother wearing four, knowing full well my hatred of them. What did I ever do to him?

“Why are you wearing those,” I asked.

“What?” he said without looking up from his phone.

“Those rubber bands on your wrists.”

“I don’t know, I just put them on.”

“I have never seen you wear rubber bands on your wrists in your life.”

“Well, you haven’t been home for a while. Things change.”

“But you know I can’t stand the smell of those things.”

“Rubber bands don’t even have a smell.”

“Yes they do. You just haven’t noticed it because you’ve never been surrounded by them for eight hours a day for two weeks straight.”

“Nobody cares about that prank you pulled, so stop bringing it up when it’s not relevant.”

“I don’t bring it up that much and do you even know what the word ‘relevant’ means?”

“Ya, I’m not stupid. Why are you even home now?” he said, voice trembled as he looked up from his phone for the first time since I got picked up. “You moved out in the fall, you don’t get to come home whenever you please,”

“I’m coming home from college you whiny little cuss. I don’t get to live in the dorms over the summer. Why are you so upset all of a sudden anyway?”

“I’m upset because you just decide to go off to college on the other side of the country and only visit when you have a break. You didn’t consider anyone but yourself when you left.”

“I didn’t know you were so upset by me leaving.”

“Well you should’ve,” he said as he looked back down at his phone.

-Danny O’Callaghan ‘13 65

Bottle (colored pencil 11x17)

-Ryan Donald ‘12

The Smell of an Elk

As the sun brightened the landscape I reached for my binoculars and looked across the valleys before me, hoping to spot an elk, the objective of the day’s hunts. Staring through the lenses I took my time scanning back and forth, becoming aware of the beauty of the endless acres of forest, but spotting no elk. I kept scanning for 30 minutes, still spotting nothing. I sat down a deadfall, discouraged, but still hopeful. My eyes drifted upwards, looking at the pale blue sky dotted with a few scattered clouds. Looking out into the canyon below me I spotted the brown of something that wasn’t a plant. I looked closer, trying to pick out the shape of what I hoped was an elk. I saw nothing. I tilted my head down, shifting my feet silently on the dark grass. My head turned to watch the silhouette of a hawk against the sky, and turning my head back I was shocked to see a herd of about 50 elk filing into a clearing, maybe 800 yards south of me, and probably another 2000 feet below me.

I made sure my pack was still strapped tight, and I picked up my bow. Scanning the downhill slope with my eyes I plotted the route I wanted to take to get down by the elk. Cutting through the evergreens was a game trail worn down to dirt through the thick grass. This would provide me not only an easy route, but a quiet one to approach the herd. I moved downward quickly, stepping noiselessly over branches and deadfalls until I was about 100 yards from the herd, at which point I took off my pack, then set it on the ground as quiet as possible before knocking an arrow to my bowstring. I looked to my left and right, being sure there were no elk close to me.

I began moving forward, attempting to hide behind the large sage bushes that were all around the clearing the elk had bedded in. 50 yards from the herd I paused to try and settle myself. I stared across the clearing, picking out a large cow elk, the one closest to me, which was now my official target. The rest of the herd remained farther off from her, milling about with their heads to the ground. With a predator’s eyes I examined her body; she was surely an older cow. Her hide was loose and had large patches of hair missing, and she was about the size of a small moose. The hardest part of the hunt was about to begin. I was 50 yards away, and I wanted to be within 20 before I would attempt a shot. I knew they couldn’t smell me because the wind was in my face, so I had to cover

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Moldenhauer the last 30 yards without being spotted or heard. Although those 30 yards stretched across completely open field, I had no worry of being spotted. A herd of wild elk is not so hard to blend in to, as long as you avoid eye contact, move slowly and predictably, make no sudden noises, and avoid looking dangerous, you can move to almost within touching distance before the elk will decide you are unsafe.

I began walking in a crouch, looking at the elk’s feet. The predator in me took over as I approached the cow. When I was 30 yards away she turned her head to look at me. I kept staring at her feet, but my legs began to shake as the adrenaline overtook my body. My heart rate soared, and I tried to take deep breaths to calm myself. This was no use, and as she still stared at me I moved even closer, not stopping until I was 15 yards from her. Her size dwarfed me. She continued to stare at me, not in alarm, but what seemed to be more like a curiosity. Her ears stood straight out, listening for any noise of danger. Her nostrils were expanding and contracting with her breathing as she searched the air for my scent. I picked my head up and was hit with the musty smell of urine, body, and of mud that the elk had recently wallowed in. I found myself staring back and stood to my full height in an attempt to make her look elsewhere for just a moment. The staring contest continued for minutes. I wanted to break eye contact, to seem less of a threat, but I couldn’t. Instead I stared straight back into her brown eyes. I didn’t want to move, I feared that would spook her, and I certainly wouldn’t be able to get a shot off with her staring at me.

I was finally able to bring my eyes to look away, and I saw that the rest of the herd seemed not to notice or care about my presence. A piece of dirt blew into my mouth and I wanted to spit. I did as discreetly as possible and, to my surprise, this prompted her to bend her neck to the ground and begin to graze. I watched her long yellow teeth close over the top of a wilted dandelion and heard her throat gurgle as she swallowed. The intensity of the encounter was beginning to overwhelm me. I was shaking head to toe, and my mouth was dry as a desert. I slowly lifted my head up, and with my legs still shaking I raised my bow and prepared to shoot. I took a deep breath, and quietly exhaled halfway.

My legs stopped shaking, and my concentration wandered. I looked around, at the mountains and valleys, the green plant life of grass, dandelions, sage, evergreens, and spruces everywhere, then the herd of elk I was standing at the edge of. As my gaze brought me back to the cow elk in front of me I re-concentrated. Looking at the crease on the skin behind the shoulder, midway between backbone and belly I saw the spot I wanted to shoot my arrow through. I took a deep breath, drew my bow, aimed, released, and as my arrow cut the air, inevitably on a path to her chest, I suddenly found myself with no desire to kill her.

-Vince Moldenhauer ‘12 68

Colors (acrylic on canvas 18x24) -Ivan Herrada ‘12

Valentine’s Day

An old man eased himself slowly down the steps into the artificial light and faint mustiness of the conservatory basement. His joints bent reluctantly, and he sighed with each change of position. He stretched his height through the tips of his toes to peer into the window of room five, in which a jazz combo was laying down a smooth but faintly dirty shuffle. He was at least twenty minutes early for his lesson, piano, judging by his carrying only books with him. He stared at the floor wondering why he still came back all these years for lessons. His attention was drawn to another man of about the same age coming through the door carrying a brown case. He sat down heavily, the light warming as it reflected the brown tones of his dark round face. They talked of the things old jazz players talk of. By now the combo had fallen into a soft two-feel for the bass solo. The moist sharp sound of the hi-hat took their minds off of other topics as it cut the deep organic thud of the bass, the precarious yet somehow solid balance commanding the attention of all within earshot. They listened awhile, smiling at the nuances only they could sense, and talked on as time passed. The music drifted on with them, the drums keeping track and punctuating each turn of phrase, the bass walking them steadily through the landscape of subjects riddling their minds, the piano coloring the bleakness of the mood, placing its chords in the gravid spaces, interesting yet not obtrusive, the horns suggesting each topic, softly guiding them in their pointless small talk. They felt at peace and no longer asked themselves why they had converged in this place on this Monday night.

They instead let themselves be carried away into the landscape carefully and assuredly unfolding before them.

-John Sanders ‘12 70

In Between Plays

The players on top of him finally got up. He is relieved of the pain of about one thousand pounds of man piling on top of him. Regaining his breath he sticks his hand up in the air for the help of a teammate, a fellow defensive lineman comes to his aid and picks him up off the wet. Standing up on his black size fourteen Nike spikes he reaches his hands down to his thighs to wipe off the dirt and grass. While he cleans himself off, he hears “Number ninety-nine, Joe Smith with a tackle for a loss! Second down!” coming over the loudspeaker in the stadium. The building erupts, all the fans rise to their feet.

The roar of the crowd pumps him up, “What a way to start the game, a tackle in the backfield.” Starting his first game he was beyond excitement after making a tackle. Adrenalin rushing through his veins he sticks his arms out to his sides. Palms facing the sky he starts waving his arms up and down to motivate the crowd.

After a brief moment of exhilaration and joy he comes back down to earth and looks toward the sidelines for his coach. He is refocused; he knew it was going to be a long hard-fought game. He looks at his coach for the defensive play call. His hands were still shaking from the thrill of the last play. The coach sticks both his arms out in front of him and moves his hands in a waving motion to signal the defensive formation, bandit.

Then he reaches his left hand to his head and taps the top of his hat while touching his right hand to his nose to signal the coverage, cover two orange. Lastly, his coach puts his hands on his stomach and rubs it to show that there will be a strong side blitz on the play, scud. When the coach finishes signaling the play he shouts ‘GOOD PLAY, Smith, keep it up out there, kid.” Then Joe turns his head to look at the middle line back at the front of the defensive huddle giving the play call.

“Alright, boys, good start, now let’s do it again and get a three and out. Bandit, cover two orange. Scud, check the tight end for the strength. Ready, break!”

“What if they are in trips with tight end on one side?” asked the free safety.

“Then you shift over to the strong side and play press coverage on the number two wide out. Got it?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

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Horter

“Alright, let’s go now,” the middle line back exclaimed as the team broke the huddle. Now his attention turns toward the other team’s offensive lineman who he will battle for the rest of the game. While he waits for them to break their huddle he reads off their numbers in his head, “Number 58, 75, 66, 77, and 61,” standing shoulder to shoulder.

He looks at their backs, white uniforms with bright yellow numbers outlined with navy blue trim, navy blue pants with a yellow stripe down both sides, and yellow socks. Then at their helmets, a shining navy blue with a yellow stripe down the middle that fades in the back, team logo on both sides, an M with an S through the middle of it to represent their school, and jersey numbers on a little sticker on the back just behind the ear hole.

Then he hears “break” and the other team turns around and begins walking toward the line of scrimmage for the next play. The middle line backer shouts out “strong left, strong left switch” to indicate what side the defense should line up on. He shifts to the left side of the defensive formation, his intensity deepens, he blocks out the roar of the crowd, the other team talking, and his coach yelling at them as he prepares for the play.

He lines up on the outside shoulder to the right tackle and sticks his big, black under armor glove in the grass. The field, still wet from last night’s rainfall makes his hand sink into the mushy surface. The tackle in front of him crouches down into his stance and yells out “check the blitz, number thirty-three, check.” He turns his head to the right to look at the ball, moves his off hand in the air out in front of him and waits for the ball to snap. The quarterback shouts out “blue forty-two, blue forty-two set hit,” the ball snaps, and he shoots out of his stance like a rocket, well aware of what he must accomplish.

-John Horter ‘13

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Credits

Editors-in-Chief

Hilton Dresden Sean Riley

Composition Staff

Hilton Dresden Sean Riley John Sanders Ben Sanders Jordan Sylvester Alex Bennett Colin Madigan Nicholas Reit William Crawford

Graphics Coordination Sean Riley Hilton Dresden John Sanders Ben Sanders Alex Bennett Colin Madigan

Cover Art

Daniel Barrett ‘13 “Windmill” (Acrylic on Canvas, 16x20)

Table of Contents/ Credits Art Connor Martin ‘13 “Clay” (Photography) 73

Serutangis Music Festival & Signatures Homeroom

Alex Bennett Tom Bresnahan William Crawford Adam Crivello Kevin Devine Hilton Dresden Thomas Gorski Nathan Krzynski Colin Madigan Hasaan Munim Connor Myers Gregg Neuburg Stanley Obiora Nicholas Reit Sean Riley Ben Sanders John Sanders Jordan Sylvester Nathan Tegge Adam Walker Trevor Wright

Moderator

Ms. Ginny Schauble

Production Consultant Mr. Gary Skinner APLUS Graphic Resources

gskinner.aplus@gmail.com

Art Consult Mrs. Jane Powers Peter Beck

Official Sustenance Balistreri’s Bluemound Inn 6501 West Blue Mound Rd Milwaukee, WI fin