Signatures 2014

Signatures 2014 Marquette University High School 3401 W. Wisconsin Avenue Milwaukee, WI 53208 www.muhs.edu (414) 933-7220

Contents

Across the Atlantic Silhouette What Everyone Seems to Do Clown Car Puzzle Pieces A Snapshot Self-Portrait II Cigarettes Absolution Cotopaxi Ancestral Being My Father’s Blue Eyes September Hard to Find Toaster Man Turtles Preserving the Mutualistic Wrath Riding the Tractor Dream On Solidarity Inadvertent Desolation Weird The Disconnect The Blue Zig-Zag River Rain in the City Journey to Nowhere

4 5 8 9 11 12 13 16 17 18 20 21 23 25 26 27 28 29 32 34 35 36 39 40 41 42 4

Papa Yorke Oliver Grassmann Oliver Bestul Victor Cardenas Max McLachlan Negassi Tesfamichael Sean Patterson Nicklaus Ziskind Evan Tobin Hunter Graff Joe Mancinelli, Jr. Patrick Shea Henry Bauer Patrick Byrne Alex Powless Jacob Giese Ernie Sanchez John Richard Berens Shawn Turner Alex Kerschner Kieran Fendt Patrick Crowley Frank Geiser Peter Ullrich Colin Mitchell Matt Burbach

Title Page and Contents Artwork Christian Wimmer ‘14 (Photography)

Forward Words, Words, Words I Think Meat Times New Roman The Marching of the Aurochs Handful Ceramics D-Day Dear God The Salt-Wash Experiment What Does Daylight Bring?

The Willow Blue

43 45 46 47 50 51 52 53 55 56 59 62 63 65

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Daniel Riley Ryan O’Connell Joseph Hushek Christian Wimmer Gustav Sustar Ben Sanders Matthew Kozicz Diffley, Gildner & Schwanke Ben O’Connell Matthew N. Gottsacker Colin Mitchell Ted Chisholm Luke Emery Billy Alverson

Across the Atlantic The shoes tight on Tejui’s feet cause numbness while he moves his suitcase through the Tokoradi Airport located near Mus Amusement Park in Elmina, Ghana. The murky midnight sky appears at an angle through the windows. Accompanied by his family, he walks down the spacious hallways.

A large flat screen television shows the numerous flight times and destinations. “Virginia-12:45 a.m.” in bright red colors. Tejui’s father signals the group of five over to sit in a large gathering room in a nearby corner. Families of all shapes and sizes join in on conversation while awaiting their trans-Atlantic trip in 40 minutes. This movement resembles an assembly line interchanging resources into products, preparing the flight of over 200 Ghanaians to the beautiful city of Falls Church, Virginia.

Tejui’s younger sister, Martha, falls asleep on the shoulder of her father. Packing for the past two days has brought her to the verge of collapse. Sleep-deprived, she caused commotion in the hallways of the airport, slouching and stomping her little white stub-heeled shoes. Now the dirty shoes resemble ice-cream smothered in chocolate syrup. Their two year old brother, Zuko, has no clue whatsoever of his family’s present situation. He drifts in and out of his sleep to the five hour showcase of Teletubbies. Their names include La La, Po, Tinky Winky, and Dipsy. Zuko could pinpoint Po as the Teletubby that amused him most, likely due to their similar struggles as the youngest in the group.

The parents of these fine children had saved up their earnings for this trip across the Atlantic without knowing their journey may never conclude until they see their children achieve great accomplishments in life. For this, Ekwe, the father, would gladly utilize his funds saved from his small business which preserved the wilderness, to grant his children the opportunity many Ghanaians wish they could realize in the U.S. Mawuli, the mother, does not have a college education and therefore has stayed with the kids. She took them to primary school in Kumasi and brought them along on walks through the city of Elmina, to visit her best friends. The children liked to sit in the old ‘78 Dodge Charger and go into the land of Make-believe, like Mister Rogers would do on television every morning.

Mawuli’s face turns pale. Her mind wanders off into space, peering at the night sky for reassurance. She ponders the difficulty that comes from her unfamiliarity with the United States. Her previous education taught the history of how the English colonized the New World, just as they did Ghana back in the 1800s under Queen Victoria. At that time, the Ashanti fought admirably, even to their eventual defeat, one that would stranglehold the country for nearly a century. This knowledge triggered thoughts of uncertainty, doubt and fear. “What am I going to do when I get over there?

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Yorke Will there be anything of familiarity? Could I really feel comfortable being in that situation?” Tejui finds the blank look that his mother has across her face and asks, “What’s wrong, Mummy?”

Her face brightens and she responds, “Nothing, Tejui. I just want this to be one of the best decisions we make as your parents. We look to have a bright future, one that holds each of us together as a family. You may be a little young to understand but just know I want the best for you, ok?”

After receiving a smile from his mother, Tejui grins sheepishly, revealing three crooked teeth.

“Ok, Mummy. I will do my best!”

Ekwe extends his arms to hug his wife tightly. “It’ll be alright. There will be great people and others not so good but God has a plan for all of us. We will find out soon enough.”

An announcement alerts the waiting passengers to place their luggage in a compartment on the west side of the room. A conveyor belt moves the materials at a slow pace into the side of the plane. Martha awakens from her sleep and walks with her family, unaware of the ruckus. She notices people walking towards the large transportation machine that she has only seen on television. As the passengers board the plane, the Nduom family says a few last prayers for safety.

No clouds roam the night sky. The laser lights from the security workers direct people onto the blue and red striped American Airlines plane. The flight should only take two hours but that time could easily increase to three. Tejui immediately looks out the round window on the side and jumps up and down. His energy on such a long day amazes his parents, both recalling their glory days.

Soon enough, Tejui crashes on his seat. The long day has finally caught up to him. He now has a new adventure to tell but who can he lay it upon? He remembers his classmate back at the primary school and wishes he could spend a few more moments faking death while playing M.A.N.T.I.S or climbing on the jungle gym, or causing trouble during nap time. His eyes have sealed as his mind begins spinning like a turbine, generating memories.

The attendant signals the start of the flight and reads off the instructions for the passengers. One pilot alerts them on the announcement speaker, “We are ready for take-off!”

The plane vibrates along the engine, sending shock-waves toward each individual aboard. The television begins a viewing of a cartoon with three colorfully dressed girls and a white dog that directs them towards their locations. Martha, awake from her daze, fiddles with the loose clip on the backseat in front of her. Pressing upon the areas, she hears a sharp click. A board flies down onto Martha’s lap, filled with utensils that allow her to express her inner being. She grabs a Barney and Friends coloring book and opens the first two pages. Bored with the art, Martha focuses her eyes on the television screen. The speaker’s dry voice in the documentation continues as little Miss Nduom’s head seeps into the soft cushions of her seat, gently sending her into a state of calm and serenity.

Nine hours pass and the plane attendants push a cart across the aisle layered with recently toasted bread and boiled water. Eggs, bacon and sausage hide beneath the silver plates on the top level.

Forks, spoons and knives reside inside the insulation of mini plastic bags sealed with a clear solution.

Tejui awakens to the sweet aroma. The passengers across the aisle pull down the counter attached to

“...his mind begins spinning like a turbine...”

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Yorke the back of the seat in front of them. Tejui looks around, confused with the logic of these odd-shaped tables appearing from the seat in front of them. He reaches out to the seat ahead and feels around the top. His fingers slump into a hole and he grasps onto the handle. He pulls it and a table plops on his lap. It features a small circle at the top right corner, a large circle in the middle, and a slim rectangle parallel to his right hand. A lady with blond hair, blue eyes and a lightning bolt scar across her forearm heads over to his seat.

“What would you like for breakfast?” Tejui’s father points to the cart and circles everything, signaling a plateful of each item on the breakfast pan. The lady hands a plastic plate to each person in the row of five. For Tejui, a mug and a plate with bacon, eggs, toast, sausage, and plastic utensils. His father looks over at his plate, realizing the amount of food his son will attempt to consume.

“Wopie edziban, eh?” [You like food, huh?]. Tejui looks over to his father and smiles. His excitement brings joy to his mother and two siblings.

“Mere ko sanchin” [I’m going to pee], he responds. He unbuckles his seat belt and heads to the back of the plane to search for the bathroom. A door with a stick-figured man and woman appears.

He attempts to open the door from the handle, yet it does not budge. The lady inside shoos him away. Tejui turns around to find an entire plane full of seats. “Wow, this place is huge. How can so many people fit on this thing?” he ponders.

He walks down the right aisle, peeking at the passengers in every row. Some have large headphones with over-sized Walkmans, closed eyes signifying their travel to another place. Others hold a book, usually a magazine like People’s, which features a woman by the name of Whitney Houston on the cover. Her beauty enlivens Tejui’s expression. When he reaches the first row, he witnesses a semblance of lights, buttons and handles. Two seats face the assortment of controls, only one man in white gear occupies a seat.

“What are you doing here, young man,” he asks. Tejui looks up at the large, imposing figure.

“I wa-was looking for the restroom. I have to pee. And where’s the other person? Shouldn’t he be here?”

“Well, the bathroom is way back there.” He points in the direction from which Tejui came. “And we are backups for each other. If he’s not here, I can back him up, and vice versa.” He gives him a reassuring smile. “Now go on with your bathroom search.” Tejui gives a nod and a salute and heads back. A man exits the bathroom and the little Nduom races towards its entrance. He takes care of business and heads to his seat.

“A bai” [Geez] Tejui’s mother exclaims. She expresses her concern over the length he took in coming back. “Dzi” [Eat]. He sits down obediently and finishes his plate. He opens the covering on the window to peer over the glistening blue ocean. Clouds follow him until they suddenly disappear, revealing a large stretch of land. His father finishes his cell conversation with his brother who lives in Falls Church, “Wereba” [We are coming].

— Papa Yorke ‘14 9

What Everyone Seems to Do (Graphite, 15” x 10”) — Oliver Bestul ‘16

Clown Car The night was calm and quiet. The grasslands along the fields had long been gone from view.

The moon was soaring high above enormous mountains. The headlights of occasional traveling vehicles sparked up the uneven roads so that the moon forced itself to reach out and light up the empty roads. And then we showed up . . .

“Stop moving around!” complained Brenda.

All of Lucy’s, my uncle’s and my other uncle’s snorings were louder than the engine of our old, weak van, to the point where the kids started rebelling.

“Lucy, shut up!” we yelled.

“Oh, my God, I can’t even sleep for two minutes without all you guys all talking!” Karen screamed.

“If you don’t like it, get out of my car!” Tally snapped.

“Ama, did you hear what Tally said,” Karen asked. “¡Cállense! (Shut up!)” my dad shouted. Then Esly started crying when Gaby pinched her for kicking her in her sleep. For the first time, I hoped, my father would scream at them in his low, raunchy, perfectly-enunciated voice and threaten to kick one of them out of the car, even if he was still driving. He’d done it before. “¡Pégale otra vez y verás! (¡Hit her again and just watch!)” my aunt said to Gaby. “¡No me le hablas a mi hija así Ana por favor! (¡Don’t talk to my daughter like that, Ana, please!),” my mother remarked angrily.

When the baby began to wail, the two teenagers in the front, in a drunken stupor of sleep, finally awoke like a chain reaction. The cumulative snoring annoyed the youngest three and we shifted around trying to cover our ears, provoking the oldest four, and thereby brewing up an explosion.

Slowly, the voices were adding and rising in volume, ending with all of us in tears.

My father stomped on the brakes, the car jerked abruptly to the edge of the road and we all tipped over, squishing those in the front. Screams of pain and fright. My sister, who had been knocked over, finally awoke and was furious. Brenda said, “Stop the car.” We all looked at her, confused because the car had stopped. She looked dumbfounded and we heard her mumbling.

My other uncle asked her, “¿Que pasa, mija? (¿What’s wrong my beloved child?)”

Then Gaby and I opened the back doors so she could step out because we knew what was coming up. The adults hurried outside to accompany and console her. We heard splatters and groans and harsh coughs from outside. The worst part was that she had been carsick before my father had

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Cardenas stopped, a reminder to us that we had a pregnant cousin in the back piled up against three of my sisters, her two sisters, her boyfriend, her brother and me.

We had to sleep diagonally, alternating head and feet positions. My parents thought since I was only five and the smallest of all, I should sleep with my feet at Brenda’s torso. She made sure I didn’t move around by informing me that, if I moved, I could kill the baby. After that, I cried myself to sleep, which ticked my cousins off, who then insulted me. My sisters didn’t allow it and retaliated, arousing yet another dilemma. Each night for three days we travelled and slept like this. Framed through the car windows, the grasslands shifted to a glimmering view of the sea surrounded by multitudes of sand.

Finally we reached California in time for the Quinceañera (Sweet Sixteen Fifteen). One by one, sixteen of us popped out of the car, stretched and rejoiced. We all rushed out of the car to hug and kiss our relatives Gaby, Esly and I were now meeting for the first time.

After a hearty meal of tortillas hecho a mano (handmade) and tacos de asada y al pastor (steak and seasoned pork tacos) with chile (chili) and aguas frescas (naturally fruit sweetened water), my family began to tell each other stories. My uncle from California began by saying how amazed he was when he saw us come out of the van when we arrived. We all burst out in laughter.

“Salieron como payasos del circo (You guys came out like clowns from the circus),” he laughed.

— Victor Cardenas ‘17

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Puzzle Pieces Life is a jigsaw Puzzle, Each person a Piece – And each Piece its own Puzzle – And every Piece its own Player.

Shift, adjust, Merge, collaborate, Destroy and detach; Every Piece its own Player.

Some change their shape in time To seek a connection among friends.

Some force their shape too fast, Solving the wrong Puzzle.

The result unknown, The Image an enigma.

An impossible task For the selfish Pieces.

Life becomes A big game, a labyrinth, Each Piece, Just trying to Solve.

— Max McLachlan ‘17 13

A Snapshot “Jack, hurry up! You’re going to be late! Do you have all of your things?”

“Sorry, I just woke up! Give me twenty minutes and I’ll be ready.”

“It’s been eighteen years and you still can’t get yourself up in the morning. Disgraceful!” Jumping out of his bed and hitting the ceiling fan in the process, Jack looked in the mirror of his almost empty bedroom. All of his belongings sat on the floor in boxes with special markings: “Fall” for his fall wardrobe, filled with new sweatshirts and fleece jackets. New England weather awaited Jack, so he said goodbye to much of his closet at home in Arizona. “No shorts or t-shirts are needed, that’s for sure,” his interviewer had told him last winter. “Supplies” for his blank notebooks and freshly sharpened pencils, sat underneath the wardrobe box. He left one special notebook for his collection of sketches that he hoped to show to architects and his art professor. He labeled a box for his laptop, headphones, and collection of old computer parts, “Tech.” The last box, labeled “Don’t touch!” sat underneath his bed. He did not want anyone to find the box or discover its contents. He wrapped it shut with three layers of the best duct tape the hardware store sold and quickly hid it with the rest of his luggage. He couldn’t let anybody find it. After observing the leaning tower of Pisa erect itself from the onslaught of boxes, he thought of how much cardboard he used.

The clock read 7:42. “I’ve already wasted two minutes,” Jack thought. He dashed out of his room, through the hallway to the bathroom. Taking the quickest shower on record (he skipped singing in the shower for today — just this once), he raced down the stairs with everything for the road trip to Maine. Books to read during the daytime? Check. A flashlight for staying up during the night-time hours? Check. A watch that changes with the changing time zones? Check.

“Jack, you’re finally ready! We have one minute to go before we beat all the traffic. Hurry up! Is your stuff ready upstairs?”

“Yeah, Mom. Could you make some space in the trunk of the station wagon? I’m bringing a lot of things, surprisingly.”

8:03: Jack’s family’s station wagon hit the freeway. A forty-four hour trip awaited his family.

Classes did not start until Monday, but Jack’s father wanted his son to feel situated by the time the semester began.

“So, Jack. How do you feel about this? Are you going to miss Arizona?” his father said, trying to break the deadly midday silence of the car as they crossed the state line and entered New Mexico.

“Dad, we’re only in New Mexico.”

“Yeah, but still! You won’t smell Arizona for a long time!”

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Self-Portrait II (Mixed Media, 12.5” x 12.5”) — Sean Patterson ‘13

Tesfamichael “I’ll be home for Christmas, and that should come along pretty soon.”

“Oh, I don’t know, son. Have you seen how much plane tickets cost these days?”

“I can drive back. How about that?”

“I think it’s best that you just worry about this when we reach the holiday season,” Jack’s mother chimed in, as she awoke from napping the past couple of hours in the front seat.

After a few days of driving, unpacking, and settling into a new dorm, Jack finally said goodbye to his family.

“Don’t forget to call us whenever you need anything!” his mother said.

“I won’t. Stay safe on the ride home.”

A few days later, Jack walked into his dorm room after his first long night at the library. His roommate, Pierre, had left the door unlocked for the third day in a row and left the room unoccupied.

When Pierre stumbled into the room, miraculously making it across campus after a party, Jack stood up.

“Where is it?” Jack quietly asked.

“Where’s what? What the heck are you talking about, dude?” Pierre said half-heartedly. Pierre, who clearly was not talking straight, fell onto the bottom bunk and let out a sigh of relief.

Jack jumped eight feet from the top bunk and onto the ground and pulled the bottom mattress out, dragging Pierre with.

“I said where is it, you ill-advised Neanderthal! Where is the box?” Jack was furious.

“Oh, that box. I’m not sure, junior.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? You leave the door unlocked all the time. Somebody probably stole it. You filthy person! Why don’t you lock the door? Don’t you have some common sense? Aren’t college students supposed to have common sense, or is that only for upperclassmen?”

“Jack, calm down. I said I’m not sure. It was just a box, anyways. It’s not like you had anything important in there, right?”

Jack took a swing at Pierre, just missing his nose as Pierre got out of the way in time to jump up and, after hitting his head on the top bunk, ran outside to find another place to stay that night.

“My camera was there!” Jack yelled in frustration. All of the different photos he’d taken, with different shutter speeds, visual effects, backgrounds, and themes, were stowed in that box. He used to keep everything in a couple shoeboxes in the attic at home. His parents, who did not approve of his hobby (mainly because of the costs associated with photography: lenses, developing photos, equipment), scowled at all of his work with harsh comments like, “Why don’t you find something more useful to waste your time with?” and “Stop draining our budget!” He collected old computer parts from neighborhood recycling drives to help offset the costs. Most of the money he earned mowing lawns and doing other landscape work helped him pay for a new camera last spring, which he hoped to use to start taking better shots. The National Photo Festival was set to take place within the next year, and Jack wanted to win some awards and launch his photography career.

“Jack took a swing at Pierre, just missing his nose...”

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Tesfamichael He hid all of this from everyone. His parents thought Jack would major in English, as the Williams College had top-notch programs in the field. “Once I get a photography gig,” Jack thought to himself at the time, “I’ll leave college and launch the best photography career ever!” Late at night, he went out to take photos in the downtown area of the city before his parents woke up in the morning; that is why he always woke up late.

Jack sped around his floor and the other five in his dorm tower, knocking door-to-door, asking if someone had seen a duct tape-covered box. He scoured through recycle bins, garbage cans, and finally gave up. He decided to get some fresh air and, as he walked past the dumpster, he saw a public service worker taking out the waste.

A duct tape covered box fell out when the worker realized one of the garbage bags was not closed tightly. The worker explained that someone must have thrown the box out after mistakenly thinking that the box was dismissible. Jack smiled, took out his camera and gave it a quick inspection.

He had some pictures to take.

— Negassi Tesfamichael ‘14

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Cigarettes There is a dead part of the day that few know about. There is a dead part of the day and it is beautiful. There is a dead part of the day given to me by God. There is a dead part of the day and it gave me life. I didn’t believe in a higher power for a long time. I didn’t believe in love for an even longer time. Beauty, well-kept secrets and promises, and happiness were all about as real as my chances of touching Pluto. I felt lost and out of place in life, like a raisin in a bowl of milk.

My life had been extraordinarily bland for seventeen years. I woke up at 6:30 a.m. everyday. I walked a bleak walk to the bus stop three blocks away to wait for that stupid, tattered yellow bus to take me to prison, also know as Jackson High School. I moped through the building for seven hours until that same bus picked me back up at 3:00. I came home and made myself dinner. Listening to my parents fight, I let the dog, Diesel, out. Smoked a few cigarettes, did some homework and went to bed. Repeat, day after day. Sometimes, if the fights got bad enough my father would leave and not come back until Monday. Mom would take me to Sunday counseling group for people with “daddy issues.” I think I would have rather listened to them curse at each other than listen to Sam, the therapist, talk about how if we followed ten steps, and acted a certain way, all the fighting would go away.

I knew it wouldn’t; my household was broken, like an iPhone that had been dropped over and over again.

Maybe it’s because the house was too quiet that night. Maybe it’s because it was too hot, the air was too dry. Maybe it’s because the dog was whining at the backdoor, begging to be let outside.

Maybe it was the craving of a cigarette, I don’t remember, but a higher power got me out of that bed and outside at 1 a.m. With Diesel at my heels, a lit cigarette between my lips, I strolled down the street headed nowhere in particular. It was quieter outside than it had been in the house. No cicadas screaming, no owls making that stupid sound they make, nothing. The air completely still, not a cloud in the sky. The moon and a billion stars made the street glow. My aimless wandering led me to the playground where my parents would take me when they could be around each other for more than twenty minutes without yelling. Diesel stopped in the middle of street, frozen with fear.

“What’s wrong, girl?” I said. My voice sounded so wrong and thick in the night. Like it didn’t belong. Diesel let out one whimper and sprinted off into the night, towards the house. With two more cigarettes in my pocket, I continued walking to the playground. Most of the metal holding the twisted structure that was the playground had rusted over and was covered in graffiti. I sat down on one the swings and burned through the second and third cigarettes in less than ten minutes. I cursed myself under my breath for not grabbing another pack before I left the house.

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Ziskind “Have a lighter?” Her voice sounded like an angel’s who smoked a pack a day. Her words echoed as she jumped onto swing next to me. She held out two cigarettes, one presumably for me, the other needing a light. I couldn’t see her face until she took her first drag, the orange glow of the cigarette lighting up her face. I’ll swear on my life and my dog’s life, she had the biggest eyes in the world, greener than the mayor’s lawn after the first two rains in the spring. Her dark brown hair was braided and pulled over her shoulder and her skin was the color of the caramel the lady down the block made. She had thin lips that rested in a sly smile, like she knew all my secrets. She was dressed in jean shorts and a tank top and I wanted to look at her forever.

“So, uh, do you, uh, come here often?” I wanted to smack myself in the head. What kind of a question was that? I gave her a cheeky grin, hoping she wouldn’t think I was a total loser. She just laughed and I could feel my face turn red.

“Yes, I do,” she chuckled. “Do you?” She continued laughing and before I could even answer, she added, “I’m Olivia, by the way. Who are you?”

“Tommy,” I said as I stomped out my dead cigarette. “You don’t go to Jackson, do you?” I knew she didn’t, but I still hoped she’d say she did. I just liked listening to her talk. Her voice sounded so right in the hot Louisiana air.

“Can you keep a secret, Tom?” “Sure.”

“I don’t go to school.” She winked at me and stuck her hand out, silently asking for the lighter again. Handing it over, she lit another cigarette. “Do you have any secrets, Tom?” I liked my name in her mouth. I liked that she called me Tom. I liked that way she didn’t look at me when she talked, but instead gazed at the moon, waiting for its response. I guess I forgot to respond because she turned to look at me. I never knew someone could steal my breath the way she did right then and there. She filled me up with inner warmth that not even one thousand cigarettes could provide. Even my toes wanted to tell her how incredible she was.

I finally shook my head, partially to answer her question and partially to shake these childish emotions from the prison that is my mind.

“That’s a shame, not having any secrets. I would have liked to keep your secrets. In fact, I’m a professional secret keeper!” She laughed at herself and started pumping her legs to start her swing.

“My dad’s cheating on my mom,” I blurted out. “A-and she doesn’t know. They just fight all the time.” I didn’t know if she heard me over the screeching of her rusty swing because she just kept on swinging, staring at the moon. All of a sudden she leaped off the swing and started walking towards the street that led to some beach access. “Wait!” I shouted after her.

She didn’t even turn around, just shouted, “Come with me!” I took off running after her and as soon as she saw me running, she took off, too. We raced to the beach and, man, she was fast. I stopped a couple feet before the shoreline, but she didn’t. The water didn’t even faze her. In fact, she started swimming. I don’t know how she could laugh and swim and catch her breath all at the same time. Not wanting to look like some nerd alone on the beach, I jumped in after her. The current was stronger than I expected, but I swam out to the sandbar where she stood.

“How do you not get tired?” I asked, bewildered and severely out of breath. “You cannot be human. You cannot smoke that much and run that fast and that far and not be dead. You’re incredible.”

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Cotopaxi (Charcoal, 13.5” x 13.5”) — Hunter Graff ‘14

Ziskind She looked at me with her huge eyes and grabbed my hand and pulled me farther into the ocean. We reached the end of the sandbar when she quickly turned around and kissed me. Taken completely caught off guard I stood there motionless, in shock. She pulled away, giggling, and ran back to the shore.

We sat on the sand for the rest of the night, slowly drying off. She asked me every possible question she could think of, varying from my favorite breakfast cereals to whether I believed in God or not. “I believe in him without a doubt,” she had told me. “Do you?”

“Yeah, I think I’m starting to,” I replied. Only God could send me a girl like this. We talked until her eyelids started to get heavy. She rested her head on my chest and fell asleep and, with the waves crashing not too far away, I drifted off too, contemplating about how I wanted to spend every day like this, with this amazing girl I barely knew.

“What in God’s name do you think you’re doing, Thomas?!”

“Five more minutes, Mom. And shut the window!” Being violently shaken, I finally opened my eyes and was immediately blinded by the sun and deafened by my shouting mother.

“Why the hell are you on the beach? What were you even thinking? I can’t believe you! I wake up this morning to find that dumb mutt barking at the back door and your bed empty. Do you think I enjoy waking up to find my son has run away?”

I was too confused to even answer. Where did she go? “Mom, can you shut up for thirty seconds? Was there anyone else on the beach this morning? You know, like, besides me?”

“What kind of questions is that? No, Tom, you were alone. Now what is your deal?” She yanked me from the sand, brushing me off. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“Yeah…” I mumbled. But I had stopped listening. I just wanted to know where Olivia went.

That night I went back to the swing, hoping she’d be there. I sat down and looked at the swing next to me. I was shocked at what lay in it: a pack of cigarettes. I loved a girl I didn’t even know.

“We talked until her eyelids started to get heavy.”

— Nicklaus Ziskind ‘15

Absolution (Photography, Page 17) — Evan Tobin ‘15 21

Ancestral Being I see the faces of the dead in the hues and shadows of the trees, Those lush and lofty canopies swayed by the warm breath of that Ancestral Being.

In my vision, I carve the contour of your nose, I mold the indentations of your darkened eye sockets and cheeks, I seal the creases of your lips and chin; Your face fills my heart with reverent laughter.

Am I the only man who longs to step and chant Beneath the moon and willow to the songs of souls in Heaven?

Am I the only man who lies on his back and forms a circle with his hands, Drawing and blowing air to you through and against his palms?

With his respiration and inspiration only, Does he think he may call those souls who roam the sky Back to Earth for one night?

Can the dead hear the voice of a living man, though never having touched his flesh while incarnate?

May they be told of his thoughts and desires; Do they know the future of this man?

Or is he some irreverent animal?

— Joe Mancinelli, Jr. ‘15

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My Father's Blue Eyes A thick coat of dust and blood shrouded the white button-up shirt he habitually wore, the only physical remnant from the debris of fallen towers. The casket for his funeral lacked a body, instead housing the white button-up shirt, for his body had been pulverized by steel and concrete and transformed into dust that dispersed throughout lower Manhattan, blanketing the surrounding streets and people. Unfortunately, we were unaware of this terrible fate, and had spent weeks posting pictures of him around every hospital near ground zero, hoping that someone would call, saying that he was okay. That call never arrived and our prayers for his safety transformed into prayers for the discovery of his body. At first the shirt didn’t provide us any comfort, it only caused more pain and left more questions unanswered. These feelings of confusion remained in the house he had once ruled. After a sustained grievance period of his untimely death, the white button-up shirt, a relic of that tragic day, became a treasure to us. The shirt acted as a key, unlocking the constraints on our memory, and permitted us to project memories of him in our minds.

The shirt belonged to a father of three children, a husband happily married for fifteen years, a brother, a son, the boy who wanted to become a pilot, but whose parents had directed towards an occupation in the field of law. The shirt belonged to a man who acquired employment at a prestigious law firm that leased offices at the World Trade Center, the 99th floor of the North Tower, to a man who had worked on an important case with a fellow co-worker who would become his future wife, who decided to leave that law firm when she discovered she was pregnant with their first child. The shirt belonged to a man who almost missed his first child’s birth, a man who had raced twenty miles over the speed limit from work to the hospital where his sister-in-law had taken his wife. The shirt belonged to a man who held his newborn son in his arms all night as his wife, exhausted from giving birth, slumbered in the hospital bed; a man who was dumbfounded when the doctor told him that his wife was pregnant again, this time with twin girls. The man who went about his usual morning routine that Tuesday in September, and who arrived at work like usual, unaware of his impending doom.

The death of our father left our family only grief and unanswered questions. Although no prayers would bring him physically back to us, we found solace in those objects somehow linked to him, like the white button-up shirt.

Life for our family returned to “normal,” and at the one-year anniversary of my father’s death, my mother met another man, whose girlfriend had been a waitress at Windows of the World. They soon began spending much of their time together talking about their deceased companion, and com-

23

Shea forting one another. After a couple of months, my mother suggested the idea that we should have him come over for dinner. We children despised the idea of having another man in our household, that the only man for her was Dad. Despite all of our protesting, my mother had him over for dinner.

When that man entered through the same door our father had exited on his way to work, he had with him a movie in one hand, and a bouquet of roses in the other. We watched The Lion King, the story of a child’s journey to retake his murdered father’s kingdom from his uncle. After, we stayed in the living room while our mother and that man made us dinner. We could hear them laughing and talking about the recipe for the meal. Then we didn’t hear them talking anymore, the only noise coming from the kitchen was a single shriek from Mom, which catapulted us into the kitchen where

“I wondered if the chicken’s family missed him, and wondered what the last words the chicken had said to his chicken wife and chicken kids.” we saw them kissing. She was startled by our intrusion and quickly sat us down for dinner, ignoring the fact that we had just seen her kissing another man. As my family ate the chicken that mother and he had made, I thought about the life of the chicken. I wondered if the chicken’s family missed him, and wondered what the last words the chicken had said to his chicken wife and chicken kids. I stood up and chucked my plate at the wall and, without saying a word, stomped up to my room. The change happening in our house had me confused and hurt, just like those feelings I still had over my dad’s death. A few hours later, my mom came up to my room and talked about how she constantly-misses-my father-and-that-she-will-always-love-him. She then started talking about how she and Todd were just friends, and that we three kids were the most important thing in her life. I didn’t want to listen to the words, and nodded my head so that she would leave.

Todd and my mom continued seeing each other, and Todd continued to come over, bringing a new movie with him every time he visited. This went on for a couple of months, then Todd started sleeping over. At first only on the weekends, but soon he was at our house regularly. My younger siblings took a liking to Todd, but I continued to show my disapproval of his living with us. The second-year anniversary of our father’s death was coming upon us, when Todd took me on a fishing trip up north. On the ride up to the lake, I noticed that he had old burn marks on the right side of his face that ran down his neck. I asked, “What happened to your face?” pointing to the scarred tissue.

“I used to be a firefighter,” he said, his eyes fixated on the road.

Interested in his response, I asked him, “Why’d you stop being a firefighter?” His gaze shifted from the road to me, then after taking a quick look at me went back to looking at the road. “I was on duty that day,” he said with little hesitation. “My buddies knew that Nicole worked at one of the towers, and told me that I should stay at the fire house and take any calls. I didn’t listen to them, and jumped on the truck, hoping she was okay.” His eyes were no longer watching the road, peering instead into his memory. “When we got there, to the first tower, the one where she worked, one of the guys pointed to a man waving what we thought was a towel or a shirt from one of the floors above the impact zone. The next thing I knew he was falling towards us; the chief told us to run, but before

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September (Oil on Canvas, 32” x 24”) — Henry Bauer ‘15

Shea we could get far enough away, the man collided to the street in front of us, splattering like a rotten tomato.” His eyes became murky with tears, “I started to think about how bad it must be up there, and that the only other option for those people was to jump.” Tears streamed down the sides of his face, dampening the burned skin. “Then our chief ordered half our battalion to go up one tower, while the other one helped clear the other tower, which at the time had not been hit. I was ordered to help clear out the other tower, while the other half of the guys started going up the first tower. My squad had just entered the second tower when we heard a large crash, and then all of a sudden fire shot out of the elevator doors in the main lobby, engulfing me and another guy.” At this point tears covered his face, and mine as well, and he had trouble making out the words to tell his story. “Luckily, I had my protective face wear on, which protected the majority of my face, besides right here, of course.”

He lightly caressed the damaged skin. “My buddy, however, hadn’t put his face mask on yet, and had to be carried into an ambulance. I learned after that he had died from his injuries. I was taken to a nearby ambulance, where an EMT treated my face. After he finished bandaging my face, I grabbed my gear and started heading towards the first tower where I knew Nicole worked. I didn’t even make it inside when the second tower started to collapse. I turned around and sprinted away from the falling building. It sounded like a hundred trains coming towards me, and I was actually picked up by a gust of air and thrown across the street I was on. Then all of sudden there were no more trains, or any noise, for that matter. Just pure silence, and completely dark. The clouds of smoke and ash from the building had blocked out the sun. I thought I was dead, but once I started moving around I realized I was still alive. After I got up, I knew that if I were to save Nicole I had to quickly get up the tower that was still standing. I started running towards the tower when two firefighters grabbed hold of me, and told me that everyone has been ordered to evacuate the first tower. I screamed and told them that I had to save her, but they didn’t listen and actually had an EMT sedate me,” he laughed, subsequently making me laugh.

“The next thing I knew, I was in a packed hospital with one of the guys from my firehouse sitting beside me. He told me that I had broken three ribs, fractured a knee, and suffered a mild concussion. I asked him what had happened, and if he had heard from Nicole. He just stared at me, and he started to cry. He told me the other tower had collapsed, and there was a major effort to find any survivors. Out of the twenty-five who had gone down there, fifteen were accounted for, and four of our guys had already been confirmed dead. The rest of the story you can pretty much figure out. A few weeks later, they told me that Nicole was most likely dead, and that there wouldn’t be any body. The best I could hope for was some small remains of her. After a month of searching all they found was a fragment of her arm.” He then looked directly at me and, for the first time, I noticed he had my father’s blue eyes.

“His eyes were no longer watching the road, peering instead into his memory.”

— Patrick Shea ‘14 26

Hard to Find Where is your heart?

Place the first two fingers on your right hand on your clavicles, those bold nubs of bone protruding from your upper torso, where your collarbones swoop and taper. Bring those two fingers together, past the crest of your sternum, like a diver gliding lugubriously past the reef and into the open sea.

It’s the point where only a thin tent of flesh lies between the world’s flashing claws and the gentle pulse of your organs.

It’s the point where if someone drops their fingers there without permission, the form primeval and animalistic in your amygdala instantly raises its hackles, brandishing fangs that make even you uncomfortable.

It’s the point where if someone rests a finger there with permission, you choke on a small jolt that begins in the back of your throat and ricochets through your chest and down into your stomach.

It’s the point profoundly vulnerable to attack, the exposed neck not shadowed by bold chin, in a place where your hands can’t quite defend without feeling awkward and cramped. A place desperately in need of muscle and bony plate.

It’s the point where the necklace she gave you sits so naturally.

It’s the point that aches so badly when you desperately need to cry, but whose feeling you fight because you instinctively sense that if the tears begin their flow, you’ll be at their mercy.

It’s the point that trembles and shakes in the locker room or backstage or at the podium, where the butterflies in your stomach cease to be a figure of speech and, instead, dash madly for freedom via your esophagus.

Your biological heart sits beneath skin, fat, muscle and bone, nestled securely in your left breast.

But your other heart, the one that pines and leaps and clatters and tumbles, sits under a vulnerable curtain of skin and blood just between your clavicles and, no matter how badly you try to armor it, you can’t ever seem to do so without choking yourself.

— Patrick Byrne ‘14 27

Toaster Man Little Jimmy had always been allergic to toasters, but he would travel to the ends of the earth to indulge in a great slab of toast. He had climbed Mount Everest to observe the radiant sunlight; he had dug an adequately-sized hole to the center of the earth in hopes that the molten lava would suffice.

But the sunrays and the lava were too hot to toast his bread, for the toast disintegrated to ash and disappeared into the ether.

He sat in his spotless kitchen and looked over at Mother’s toaster, the answer to all his suffering.

The toaster “knew” how much little Jimmy enjoyed toast, and was a true monster for denying him.

Feeling daring, little Jimmy was willing to try what no man had tried before. Determined, he grabbed a simple piece of wheat bread and concocted his master-plan.

Little Jimmy tiptoed up behind the toaster, wheat bread in hand, and carefully grabbed a silver fork from the drawer. He knew that if he attempted to touch the toaster, it would trigger a severe allergic reaction. Last time he had accidentally bumped the toaster, his nose had fallen off instantaneously.

Little Jimmy stabbed the prongs of the fork through his plain piece of wheat bread. Still unaware of whether such a ludicrous idea would work, he eagerly stuck the bread into the toaster slot which produced a wonderfully horrible surprise.

Instead of acquiring a delicious slab of baked dough, ten million volts of electricity traveled through his little body. He could feel the entire process as his body gormandized itself. Little Jimmy heard slippery hot flesh splash to the ground and he realized quickly that the very meat had begun to melt off of his bones. He felt them harden as their chemical makeup morphed from bone to metal.

His body fought the internal decomposition, and attempted to keep little Jimmy alive.

Little Jimmy’s chest caved inward, and each of his rib-bones snapped as a horrible cracking echoed through the kitchen. His newly metallic bones collapsed in upon themselves and his organs crushed together as if a magnet had been placed at his center. His entire frame had changed from a human to that of a cube as he shrank to the size of a toaster. In fact, he was a toaster!

Three short hours later, Mother appeared. Although toasters do not have eyes, he could see his mother and called out to her. Instead of answering, she scrummaged through the fridge, pulled out a loaf of precut wheat bread, laid the slices on a tray and slid it into the oven. A few minutes passed and little Jimmy’s mother pulled out the perfect slices and placed them on a plate. Boy, did those beautiful slices of toast make little Jimmy’s toaster-mouth water.

“Little Jimmy, your breakfast is ready!”

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Giese Little Jimmy heard Mother clearly and attempted to pull his toaster body from the counter, hoping to devour his precious toast. But his toaster-body wouldn’t budge. He pleaded to his mother for help, but she could no longer hear him. Mother would help him, but she did not speak Toaster.

— Alex Powless ‘16

Turtles We, like turtles, can live hidden in our shells; Our own thoughts can put us through hell.

As turtles thrive beneath the surface, We each possess a clear, yet murky, purpose.

In deep dark waters, like turtles buried in the mud, We suppress our very being, holding it within.

Turtles don’t walk backwards; they advance.

So we must dig in, search out our personal expanse.

Turtles slow down, they pace their lives, We live too fast and do not savor being alive.

Turtles teach us lessons: to show what’s inside, We must open our lives to let our beings thrive.

— Jacob Giese ‘14

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Preserving the Mutualistic (Photography) — Ernie Sanchez ‘16

Wrath Riding the Tractor I am a joker. There would be little use denying it. Besides, why would I? I enjoy making people laugh; it makes me feel happy, appreciated, esteemed. Whenever I crack a joke, I grow lighter each mirthful guffaw, every jovial chuckle. It may not be all I am, but I like it, people like me for it, and it only threatens my life on the rare occasion.

That being said, the archetypal fool does have a few unfortunate drawbacks, namely sincerity.

People look your direction for the cheap joke, or try to draw a few more laughs from me. I oblige them, nevertheless. I make it a personal principle never to be too serious, yet like most gestures, humor flourishes in moderation. A little here, a little there, and all is good. Still, it never feels that way with my family. My family, you ask? Here are the numbers: two parents, three brothers, eight sisters.

Reread that as many times as you would like, it remains the truth. Twelve siblings, fourteen family members total. That covers the immediate family. I would start on the extended cousins, but I prefer writing a brief anecdote, not a compendium.

Familial respect may be assumed, though is not a constant. Certainly, at the occasional tender heartwarming moment, love comes in, but that is only the surface. There is always room for usual quarrels, feuds, bloodbaths. Respect is not a right, but an earned privilege. When you own something, rarely does it remain yours.

Take my bike, for instance. A beautiful aluminum frame, sleek black rubbery handles, thin wheels that can take you down the block in fifteen seconds. My Schwinn road bike is my pride and joy. I have and continue to make memories with it, zooming down to school and back over the course of an afternoon. I could spend hours losing myself to the wind against my face and my hair pressing through the gaps of my helmet.

Unfortunately, as is the case for most of my pleasurable escapades, the moments never last. In spite of the fact that my family has several dozen bikes packed into the garage, mine remains coveted by all of my sisters. Ranked the third best of any bike we owned — the other two owned by my parents — fat chance my sisters were going to borrow those, lest they risk chopped-off fingers. I enjoy no luxury in kind of such respect and fear. My bike has been frequently plucked off the rack without so much as a note saying, “I need this, sorry!”

Then one day, I had had enough.

I refused to take it anymore. It would have to, need to, end. Simply telling them to stop never helped. A sage once said, “It’s not about the money; it’s about sending a message.” I needed a message.

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Berens Cue up a sunny July day, sweltering even by the devil’s standards. Shakespeare could find no lady beautiful enough to compare to this day. A day like this still meant I had to complete my most tedious chores. Perched on a crimson Craftsman, I performed my weekly ritual of keeping the grass tidy and short. My earphones were tuned to my preferred garage band, my sweaty palms gripped the wheel and my eyes gazed ahead. I kept an eye out for any basketball, magazine, bottle of sunscreen, or other debris any of my siblings left before the lawnmower sliced, diced, minced and mangled into unrecognizable shards. Just another day, when a streak of ruby caught my eye. Maggie! It was 2:00, and she had her tennis racket strapped on her back. Evidently late for teaching tennis lessons, as per usual. Ordinarily, for such a vision I would do little more than sigh, roll my eyes, tut a bit, and go on with my life. This time, though, this time she had my Schwinn. Again! My bicycle. She was riding it.

A two-wheeled terror. Ridden. By her. She. Took. My. Bike.

I stamped my foot on the mower’s break, I yelled “THIEF!” to the high heavens, but she did not stop. She did not yield; did not show the slightest hesitation in yanking the right handle brake. She looked at me, turned her face to the sky and laughed. I might have seen her mouth the word “Sorry,” but I didn’t. She was obviously past the point of stopping.

I could have gotten off, pulled a lesser bike out of the garage, and given pursuit, though I did no such thing. As I said, I had to send a message. Here was the mistake she would not repeat. I reversed, made a Y-Turn, and headed toward Legion Drive. Before crossing the street, I checked for cars just as my mother taught me. The mower was a powerful thing, though now a sluggish hunk of steel. The streets were desolate. I floored the gas, and slowly putted down the road. I made it to the grass, and eased along the sidewalk. The park was two blocks from my house, separated by three roads and a pond. A trivial distance. I teetered along the sidewalk on my gas-powered steed. A few people glanced, most of them biking, walking their dogs, or idly sitting.

Only a few glares, but no glance too severe. Perhaps they assumed me to be simply another maintenance worker, cutting the park grass.

The bridge, slightly thin and rather rickety, posed the trickiest obstacle. I did know it could hold at least two golf carts. Logically, I would be safe. I crossed over the pond with a slight pit in my stomach, irrationally fearing the bridge might snap like a twig sending me and my tractor careening into the murky depths. Ten seconds felt like ten minutes. I crossed to the other side and approached the parched grass of the empty soccer field. A ton of steel and rubber, compounded by the extra onehundred-and-eighty pounds of a sixteen-year-old boy, crossed dry pasture. The tires pressed into the grass and dirt, forming unmistakable tracks. Some gossiping mouths claim that you can still detect those tracks, even to this day.

During those two minutes of crossing to a point of no return, I had my doubts. What would happen if she did not take me seriously? Yet I pressed on, too much invested to back down. Now was the time to knock the nail on the head. If I had to do it, I preferred a sledgehammer. There she was with her class of twenty grade-schoolers. You would never suspect that Maggie the tennis teacher

“Shakespeare could find no lady beautiful enough to compare to this day.”

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Berens was a thief, a burglar, a bike-napper. You would imagine an average college student with an average summer job. My eyes unblinded, my mind unbiased, I knew she was the culprit. Leaving my game was no longer an option.

Later, Maggie would confide that one student wondered why a crazy man on a lawnmower was coming near the tennis courts. She herself did not think it was strange until she recognized the familiar whirrs of the engine. She turned around, her face severely contorted, as though deciding whether to look amused, horrified, wrathful or simply bemused.

I shut the ignition down, parked in the shade of a tree, and dismounted my petroleum stallion. I approached, pointed to my beautiful red Schwinn, barely secured to the bike rack. I made my words simple, elegant, to the point. “You took my bike. I like my bike. Do not take my bike.”

She squeezed out a few words. The thief sputtered, “John, what… why… can’t I just borrow your bike?”

“You should have asked.”

She finally found the decency to look ashamed, or at least slightly self-conscious. “Sorry. Could I borrow your bike?”

I thought about it. After a moment of consideration, “Sure.” She continued to look confused. I said goodbye to the kids, the other coaches and the no-longer thief. I retook my place on top of my mowing throne, throttled the engine to life, and made the slow steady journey back to my yard. I still had a lawn to finish.

We did not really talk about it afterwards. I swear she probably did not even think the event occurred just as I planned. I went for an impression, and I made it. Every time since then when she has wanted to use my bike, she has asked. Usually, I would let her. We were happy.

My point, I guess, is that I can be silly. I like it, so do others. Sometimes, though, I would enjoy a shred of dignity so I can be serious. Sometimes I cannot muster the strength to be serious. For a modicum of safety, I take it upon myself to be silly enough to be serious. I get results. Now, if only my seven other sisters would stop taking my Schwinn. I am almost certain I can figure out a way that does not involve my flair for the dramatic, a steely resolution or a dirty tractor.

Just not a hundred percent.

— John Richard Berens ‘14

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Dream On Ring! Ring! Ring!

“Alright, class! Don’t forget to study for your 1,000 problem Final Exam!”

“Finally,” I thought to myself. “You’ve already fried the few brain cells that I have left.” It’s not like I hate math class. It’s just that today — of all days — is the first day of cuts for basketball tryouts and I’ve been trying to focus on perfect playing. I refuse to get cut this year. During both my freshman and sophomore years at Greenwood High, I was cut from the basketball team. Each year, the wounds in my heart deepened. I needed to show the head coach that I can be and am a great basketball player, one of the best in the school — they’ve just failed to see it. My mind began drifting toward the moves I would show off during my first game, when I heard, “Ayo, Shawn!” I turned to see exactly who was calling out my name. It was Rick. Just great.

“Shawn, you ready for tryouts today?”

“How many times do I have to tell you,” I beckoned. I was born ready. I’m just like MJ, except better looking. I threw my hands into the air, pretending to shoot a basketball. “The real question is, are you ready?”

“You already know it.” He walked past me, and I could see a conniving grin on his face, that same grin he wore last year when he told me: “You aren’t! You are a “nobody”! I swear it upon my grave!”

I hated him, hated everyone on the basketball team — even the coaches. I can’t stand even being in the gym. It’s like everyone looks down on me. They feel sorry for me, I didn’t make the team, they avoid even saying “basketball” around me. I walk the halls and feel people staring me down. I have grown weary of their pity. This year will be my year. I claim it; I taste victory. I glanced at the clock.

6:30 p.m.

“Well, Shawn, it’s about that time. Let’s go show them what a great basketball player looks like.”

Sitting in the locker room alone, images of the past two years flood my mind. The hatred and anger I had kept within my soul’s abyss began to seep away. Tonight is the night, Shawn. Don’t let it go to waste. I put on the new Nikes I had bought for this occasion — the 2012 Hyperfuse. Nothing special.

I cinched my laces to assure they wouldn’t untie during practice. Tonight’s the big night. Everything needs to be perfect. Perfect is the word.

In the first shot I put up, I watched the ball spiral through the air. While on its way down, my heart began to race — the ball seemed to spiral downwards faster than a comet falling from the Sun. Sweat droplets condense on my palms as the ball finally makes its way down from heaven. About five seconds left. Please, fall through the net. Four seconds. Dear God, it’s going to fall short. Three

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Turner seconds. I can’t watch. Two, one, zero. Squinting my right eye, I see the ball nestle through the net; my confidence soars through the roof. “This is perfection at its finest.”

My fingertips tasted the water that fell each time the ball flew through the net. My jumper was wet. It seemed every shot I put in the air would fall through the net. Swish, then swish, swish. I began to fall in love with basketball all over again. The way the ball bounced matched the rhythm of my heartbeat. By the time the last drill began, everyone was drenched with sweat, but that terrific smell of musk only demonstrated the will we each had to succeed.

“Travis,” I heard Coach call. “Let’s go have a talk.” That was never good. That only meant that he was the first to get cut. Maybe I’m going to make it this year! Maybe I can actually prove everyone wrong! Maybe — “Shawn,” Coach P called. He mentioned for me to come with him. “We should go have a talk.”

My heart sank, a ship struck by torpedoes. Everything… everything was for nothing. He led me to the Coaches’ Office, where all the varsity staff awaited my arrival. They leaned, scattered along the walls of the room, one empty chair in the middle. “Please, take a seat.” I did as I was told. “Now,” he began, “I understand tons of emotions are going through your mind, so I’m not expecting you to tell me anything; I just want you to listen. Shawn, you are an excellent player. At any other school, you would be on the varsity team, no question. It’s a fact you go to Greenwood High School, and it so happens that your class has so much talent, another fact that lands you outside the mix. I’ve seen you working your butt off ten times as much as anyone else still out there on the court. Sometimes, as now, talent beats hard work, no matter how hard you try. You’ve had a great tryout, and I’m sorry to give you the bad news.”

I sat, soaking in the news of having just been cut from the basketball team — again. This time, I could smell pity coming from the coaching staff. Hate! Hate! Hate! Shawn, all they’ve done is neglect you. They feel sorry, so they sugarcoat. Say what you want to them. Allow the hate that has devoured you to surface. Let it take control. Standing, tears streaming by the second, my self-control leaked from my chest. Maybe I should let go, let them have it. They deserve to feel every bit of suffering I’ve experienced.

Maybe — Then, a quote my step-father once spoke to me came to my mind. “Don’t let failure define you. Instead, let it fuel your desire, your passion, your will. Come back, faster and stronger; come back, jumping higher. Do not let failure define you.

Do not let the world punch you and knock you down. Instead, get back up to your feet. You show them you aren’t weak. Sitting here crying is weak. Nah, son, you’re not weak. You’re strong. Life doesn’t give you what you want, no matter how qualified you may be. You’ve got to take it, Shawn.

You have the love for the game, but you need the thirst and the desire to become better. To become unstoppable.”

I began wiping my tears, and stared directly into Coach P’s eyes. Determination beamed through my voice, “Coach, I won’t allow this failure to define me. I’ve been acting so weak these last few years that I almost forgot who I was. Now, let me tell you about the real Shawn Michael Turner: I am strong. I will never give up, no matter how many times I fail. You have not heard the last of me,

“My jumper was wet.... Swish, then swish, swish.”

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Kerschner yet. I may not be playing ball, but I can focus on my grades, on my relationships, on the way I view myself. I will succeed, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

Around the room, the coaches appeared stunned. No longer were they pitying me. I saw admiration in their eyes. After I finished my speech, I walked back out, and rejoined my last basketball drill with the rest of the team.

— Shawn Turner ‘15

Solidarity Everyone cries in the same language, For when one cries all can hear the anguish.

Suffering unites us all, one person, one being Staring sadness in the face and looking for meaning.

The world is not fair and never will be, But remember, the Holy One watches over thee.

The stars may not shine each and every day, But we all will be there to lighten the way.

— Alex Kerschner ‘14

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37

Inadvertent Desolation (Graphite, 12” x 12”) — Kieran Fendt ‘15

Weird Fraser planned everything with caution and intelligence. He knew when he was going to respond to the right social cues so every detail would be perfect. Fraser expected variables at any moment, but with a girl like Emily Dunne, there wasn’t much to say. He resented his friends for guiding him into this situation. All of the insinuations and insults caused him to go ahead and pull the trigger on a lunch with Emily. Fraser was angry with himself for going out of his way to create a relationship dead on arrival. But when he thought about it, his day’s change in routine and the subtle joy of having something, anything, to anticipate generated a feeling of gratitude for his friends. Fraser enjoyed moments when outside forces gave him opportunities. He could never create them on his own and, sadly, he knew it. He felt he wasn’t handsome enough. His short black hair, big blue eyes, and wardrobe full of jeans and t-shirts never seemed to come together easily. Fraser would dissect his appearance, trying to make each facet blend in a logical way. With the news of his date stinging in his mind, he scrutinized individual features of his thin body. This was critical.

Fraser walked down Gillespie Street towards the café where he would meet her, drawn to the idea of hopping back in his car just to watch some romantic movie at his house. He figured he was already in the mood anyways, plus he wouldn’t have to waste time looking for a specific genre or feel pressured to pick any movie with a noteworthy title. The last time he randomly selected one to watch it was a body-switch movie where the kid switches bodies with an adult. Those kinds of films were actually physically painful for Fraser to watch. To him, it was work to sit through them because he would feel so pitiful when the clichéd dilemmas occurred. You know, like when the man in the kid’s body would humiliate himself at school and ruin his son’s social life because he has no idea how to relate to young people. When you thought about it in those terms it was especially depressing because it implies that the father has a weak relationship with his son and the family was probably dysfunctional. The movies always end with lives going back to normal even though the aftermath of the body switch would make an interesting movie. Fraser smiled lightly to himself as these thoughts tumbled through his mind but when he looked up the café sign was suspended directly over head.

He patted the doorknob a few times so he didn't by chance get shocked, then entered.

Fraser walked through the front door into a café that made sure to remind you that yes, it was a café. The lighting was terrible and the waitress presented a table shoved up against the wall. Emily was nowhere to be seen. It figured things would play out like this. He ordered water and glanced around, making sure not to make eye contact with anyone. Small desserts sat under bright lights in a curved window display. Fraser wondered how many people would forget their credit cards at their

38

Crowley tables. Time has to pass, right? He was busy creating an intricate beat with the combination of his feet and fingertips tapping when a cold rush of air blew in from the outside world. He almost forgot the reason he was sitting in his seat and, although he didn’t know why, he was mildly angered by the fact that she finally arrived.

Emily wore her usual dark green jacket with too many buttons and a gray knit hat that Fraser thought was inches from slipping off her head. She walked up to Fraser’s table, waved hello and sat down. Fraser wondered if he was already destroying his plan — should I have given her a hug? He calmed himself and quickly put on a face of warm disposition. “So, how’s school,” asked Emily. That inquiry definitely followed the plan. Fraser denied his urge to talk about how much he was detached from school and how the place upset him.

“It’s going well. I don’t really have much going on right now but my grades are fine. That’s all that matters. One of my motivations to do well in school is just to keep my parents off my back.”

Emily let out a light curious laugh. After saying all that could be said about the sports in which they participated, Emily ordered a sandwich after Fraser ordered one, then asked for a coffee with lots of cream. Fraser desperately needed a new topic for conversation. He was amazed by how many subjects he couldn’t discuss because she surely wouldn’t understand. He settled for recent movies and listened to Emily describe the coming-of-age film she’d just seen. Fraser nodded, chuckled, then sipped his water at each appropriate moment.

“It just really makes you think about our relationships and teenage years, you know? I thought it was really good.” Emily finished her analysis as the food arrived. Fraser started eating immediately, but Emily took her time. “I just love it when they put tomato and mozzarella together on a Panini!

You know, I don’t even know why I ordered this coffee. I’ve tried to get into the whole coffee thing but it’s always so bitter. I don’t really understand it. Nor do I want to, I guess!” Fraser looked up and smiled. But he knew he was in bad territory when the food on the table directly in front of him became the main of topic of discussion. He knew he had to pull the trigger now. He set down his food, caught her eye and cleared his throat.

“Okay, here are the facts: I am really indifferent towards school and I wish I could just enter into the workforce now, like working for the postal service or some other job appealing to me. I’ve always been fascinated with the concept of shipping and receiving physical items. I don’t hold my friends in very high regard and I have no desire to be with them outside of school. I love films and I’m glad you went to a theater to see one, but to be honest, it sounded generic and not very honest. The same can be said about kids our age today. I can name you five other movies that tackle the same issues only in an even better way. Hopefully you’re okay with the fact that they’re about twenty years old. And when you start talking about the food we’re eating, all I can think is that there are hopes, dreams, and ambitions you have that I will never know about because we are discussing tomato and mozzarella. They are both delicious, by the way, but I really just want to know more about you.”

“...he was mildly angered by the fact that she finally arrived.”

39

Crowley Emily stared at Fraser for a little while then resumed eating, silently. Fraser remained silent.

“Sorry, my mind drifts off sometimes,” said Fraser. Emily smiled and lifted her head.

“Yeah, that was a lot… You’re pretty weird, you know that? You probably don’t go out much.”

The statement sent a sharp pain through Fraser’s nerves and his heart rate increased. Was every negative thing he thought about Emily confirmed with that comment? Or was she stating an obvious fact? Memories of being the outcast in grade school arose from the frenzy in his throbbing head.

What choices had he made in his life to lead him to this painful experience? Fraser knew it was over right then and there. For the rest of the meal he tuned out of Emily’s banter about her social life and responded with “yes” or “no” to most questions, or with some clever remarks. Emily felt much more comfortable as time progressed. She surprised herself when the idea that she was actually having a good time popped into her head. Fraser didn’t take time to notice that she had a warm smile on her face when he gave his effortless straightforward replies. So he ate the rest of his food as quickly as possible, paid the bill for both of them without leaving a tip, and eagerly put on his coat and hat.

Emily was confused by all of this, but she didn’t make an effort to stop it. After all was said and done, they walked outside. Fraser abruptly stopped and turned to Emily. He gave her a handshake goodbye and then turned to walk, even jog, back to his car, which was parked ridiculously far away down the street from the café. Emily watched him until he got to the nearest intersection. He never looked back. She had a melancholy puzzled expression on her face. She shrugged, turned and walked back to her car.

Fraser’s worst fears had always lingered with him ever since he was a little kid. Emily’s words frustrated and irritated him. His self-justification fueled his disgust of the entire situation. At home he saw that his parents had prepared a dinner for him. He fended off their questioning with “it was fine” and the most basic recap of the events. He wished they would take this time to go back to their routine of not knowing much about his personal life. He spread his casserole evenly around his plate to make it look like he ate. Fraser lied and said he had a lot of work to do so he could get out of this nightmare once and for all. He raced up to his room and shut the door. Thankfully, there wasn’t anything else. He exhaled and tossed himself onto his bed face-first, but he soon felt a vibration in his pocket. It was a message from Emily: “Today was… interesting. Hang out again sometime?”

Fraser analyzed each letter in the two sentences with perplexity. His thumbs twitched with anticipation and his eyes were nearly straining from the bright screen. He rested his eyebrows and skipped his phone onto the carpet floor where it slid until it hit the door of his closet with a thud. He settled into bed and turned on his laptop for no real reason. He had come full circle somehow, he thought. None of this really mattered, anyway.

— Patrick Crowley ‘16 40

The Disconnect (Oil on Canvas, 24” x 24”) — Frank Geiser ‘14

The Blue Zig-Zag River A blue zig-zag line runs from the bottom of the feather and leads to a crude circle at the top with four colors — red, black, white and yellow.

The feather, made out of elk antler, is an ornament for a necklace. A Native American Elder gave it to me at the Cheyenne River Reservation in South Dakota. What he made was not a necklace, though. It was a symbol that meant so much more than a blue zig-zag and a multicolored circle.

“Ah yes, the four colors. They represent all people and nationalities. They live in unity together in a circle — life. Then there is a river. All flow in the same water, none get to their destination by other means. This is all carved on an eagle feather. The eagle, in our culture, means freedom.”

I did not take this meaning light-heartedly. A message as powerful as this should never be disregarded. The words the Native American spoke needed careful dissection, not counterfeit understanding.

A circle of compassion radiated from the story. It does not take a genius to recognize that. But the zig-zag river perplexed me. It was supposedly a route to the one destination all people took.

Why was there not a destination carved into this feather, then? If the destination was so important, how come the Native American failed to carve a simple sign of concrete ending — something I can touch, feel, see and sense as a person. Something I can hold onto and say, “Ok, now it must be real because I am witnessing it.”

Looking past the small necklace that hangs from my neck, the real question revealed itself: Why weren’t people ever given this answer in the first place? Where is the definitive sign at the end of our lives that shows us everything will be alright? Why must we travel a zig-zag river and have no idea where it leads us?

I am a religious person and, like other people of faith, my devotion is often shaken. The mind does not easily understand the idea of a higher being whose existence we cannot definitely confirm, simply because it seems to go against all human nature. Yet, at the same time, we cannot imagine death as a permanent state because we cannot fathom not being alive.

So, as having faith suggests, we fix our gaze upwards and take the step forward, hoping that God will be there to catch us since, with faith, there is an end to the river. We may not know what it is, but we are certain that something lies beyond the blue zig-zag line. Without faith, one only sees the

“None get to their destination...”

42

Mitchell blank space past the blue line and assumes there cannot be anything at the end; the river, life, just stops.

Whether it was intentional or not, the design the Native American Elder carved into this modest necklace riddled a metaphor that truly encompasses the greatest mystery of our time on earth.

The river will entail twists and turns. Some will naturally be more simply navigated. Some will invent easier ways to travel it. Some may never see past the first bend.

The river someday trickles to a stream, and then disappears back into the earth for everyone.

When the last drop of the river is seen, one question will remain: What happens next?

My answer to this is another question: Do we really need to know?

— Peter Ullrich ‘15

Rain in the City Shadows grow and shrink with each passing street light, pale orange bulbs illuminate asphalt circles down the avenue, empty sidewalks line the monolithic buildings of my city.

Thick gray fog cleaves off the tops of the towers, the world compressed — the sky sinks and the earth I stand on rises up to embrace it.

Raindrops assail the pavement, diving, a million sacrificial water drops.

They collect in puddles, wallowing in their stagnant misery.

Another world lies beneath — through the pools of water formed in asphalt grooves the lights are brighter, the sky is darker.

I step through and I fall into the sky.

— Colin Mitchell ‘15 43

Journey to Nowhere (Photography) — Matt Burbach ‘14

Forward The man shoved his hands into his black overcoat. With his eyes fixated on the ground, he ambled onward. The only sounds heard throughout the forest were the crunch of the frost-hardened ground and the occasional snap of a twig for which the man did not bother to alter his stride.

He walked along a path marked by the absence of thick Alpine firs. Somehow, the needle-covered path took on a clinically straight edge. Occasionally that edge would break line, exposing a gap in the trees where a new path branched outward around a dark corner. The man did not dare venture down one of those darker paths. No, he kept his gait forward and precise, knowing exactly where he wanted to go.

What really troubled him, though, was that he did not know just how long this path stretched.

He had stopped staring off into the distance a while back. Now, he took only sparse glances to check for any development. After each quick, unfruitful glance, he would resume his obedient watch of the ground before him and observe the methodical appearance and disappearance of one foot after the other. He liked the rhythm and repetition much more than the constant uncertainty brought on by the endless image of the road ahead. The rhythm helped him think.

He thought about many things: some old, some new. One constant thought eventually circled back to every time: his destination. If everything else about him was stripped away down to his raw core, the last shred of him left standing would be his yearning for this destination. Everything else he had accomplished, sought for, and carefully selected, propelled him down this path towards his destination. This destination also occupied the most dismal corners of his mind. Should he not reach his destination, he would be a boat without a compass on a cloudy night, this his biggest fear. This destination was his true north. He had worked so hard and put so much at stake that this had become his singularity. It had been so long since he had taken the first steps down the path. In fact, he began his journey near the end of springtime. Now, the frozen ground and the frost-covered plants thirsted for the warm rains as the height of winter drew nearer each passing day. He worried that it would be too late, that all of this was for naught. The fear gripped him, sometimes harder than his dwindling hope worked to free him. Those were the worse times, when the fear overpowered the hope. Thoughts of going down one of the side paths, straying from what he had already invested so much into, flirted with his resolve. He figured that he had come far enough, that his destination didn’t exist in his desired capacity, and any further

“The side paths must hold some sort of promise for him.�

45

Riley progress would be a waste of time. The side paths must hold some sort of promise for him. When he considered veering down one of these auxiliary trails, only more fear would fill his mind. Fear that going down one would mean giving up hope, not only hope — which seemed to be in such short supply in recent days — but forsaking his ability to dream. Once more he felt certain that he could reach his goal, yet as winter grew closer to its end, he grew less resolute.

Once, every so often, he thought he saw it — his destination — on the horizon, but each time, his eyes had deceived him. These moments strengthened fear’s vicelike grip. Despite being let down, he continued to occasionally allow a distant furtive glance. These days, the glances had been coming more often. He knew time was running out and each one grew more and more desperate with less life.

He took another tentative glance ahead, then back down, but instantly paused, breaking stride.

Startled, he looked up again. In the distance, he could see it, that which he has wanted for so long.

Right now, it was only a speck, a mark someone had dotted on the horizon with a pen. This time was different from the countless other false hopes, something felt different inside him, more sure, more alive. His eyes locked on and his feet began to move once again, gaining that familiar rhythm.

Any chill or ache brought on by the cold slowly leaked out of his body as his heart drove the blood more vigorously than it had in a long time. He began to jog, then to run. He knew to pace himself, to conserve his strength, but this was what he had been waiting for, and he could not help but run.

Somehow, he knew that this time was different. This time was real. He would not be deceived. This time he was close. This time…

—Daniel Riley ‘14

46

Words, Words, Words What are words?

What are these symbols we mangle together?

We speak them in sentences and sing them like birds, languages as different as the weather.

Words, our interaction.

Words, our inspiration for others, used to grab our attention and relate to each other.

Now, a genius brings the language of fire.

Now, a genius brings the notes to a theatre, with knowledge and hope to inspire, and the secrets of a voice.

He knows all the tricks in the book.

He knows all languages of the land.

A true genius speaks as if the words he spoke rest on the palm of his hand.

A true genius is a master of our humanity.

A true genius can bind us together.

He makes every race, religion and creed a formality, then speaks a word to unite us forever.

One of these days we will all know the words.

One of these days languages will converge.

Our race will move beyond our sins and go onwards then peace and prosperity will begin to emerge.

— Ryan O’Connell ‘14 47

I Think “Write everything down.”

That’s what I’ll start with because that’s what she said and that’s what I’m doing. I told her it would be impossible but I promised to try. She passed me a sheet of paper and a pen. This sheet of paper, this pen. I told you I’d try, and I’m trying now. These are my thoughts. Or at least a few of them.

Right now I’m thinking about writing. If I’m supposed to write about what I’m thinking about and I’m thinking about writing because I’m writing then I guess I have to write about writing. I like writing. Writing is narrow, concise, slow. Thinking is different. Thinking is fast, frenzied, limitless. I like writing.

I’m thinking about our meeting earlier. You told me something was wrong. I knew that. Then you told me to write down my thoughts, that this would help you figure out what was wrong. But I already know what’s wrong. That’s what I was trying to tell you. You didn’t seem to be listening. I’ll tell you here, instead.

I’ll start with an example. A pen. I’m holding a pen in my hand. Using it to write these words.

It’s dark black, a smooth, thin cylinder that narrows to a sharp point from which ink flows. But when I see a pen, touch a pen, think of a pen, my mind can’t help but wander. I can’t help but wonder where it came from. How many people have used it. I think of a man going to work, a large factory, metal machines with moving arms, packages being unloaded, ink being squeezed into a plastic cylinder, sharp metal tips being screwed on, bags sealing, boxes closing. I think about the power of a pen. The infinite number of words produced by pens. Quick notes, love letters, journals, essays, novels. How a single paragraph, a single sentence, a single word could change someone’s life.

That’s just a pen. Objects are relatively simple. People, places, and events are much more complex. I’m surrounded by an infinite number of them, each with an endless tail of implications and questions. It’s like every thought is a speck of ice on top of the ocean, and I can’t help but sink down and examine the iceberg below. So many things, so many thoughts. How can you handle it? How can I? I used to think my life was normal. I used to think everyone was like me, that everyone thought like me. I never realized I was the exception, that I was so much different. Now I know better. Now I understand. I blame myself for it, at least partially, but I also blame the world. Its intrigue, its complexity. I didn’t make it that way, I just have to deal with it.

Writing helps. It helps me control my thinking. It forces me to slow down. I can’t write all my

48

Meat (Photography) — Christian Wimmer ‘14

Hushek thoughts, just the most important ones. It forces my brain to block out everything else. It’s peaceful.

It’s comforting.

But I’m coming to the end of the page. I’ll have to stop. I’m afraid to stop. I need to keep writing.

I don’t know if I can do it again. I’m afraid. I’m leaving now. Goodnight.

My bed is warm. Technically it’s not mine, but it is warm. I want more than anything to sleep, to fall unconscious, to wake in the morning when my thoughts are hazy, when I’m too tired to think. I wish time could pass, that minutes and hours and weeks would flow past me like a stream, and I’d get swept up in the flow of time, easy, calm, ignorant. But those are just dreams and I’m not asleep yet and I can’t be and there’s nothing I can do. Darkness helps me sleep so I picture a black hole but I can’t help it I go forward I fall into it spinning swirling through it and it’s the other side it’s everything I know and could know and couldn’t and it’s the Earth and the moon and sheep jump over it but never land till it crumbles and falls to the ocean and I fall too down down down in a flag on the moon beneath the water among the fish growing since the start of time through ice formed from water crawling out onto land and they come to me people places things crushing crumbling falling onto me and I sink and I suffocate and I reach a hand through the mass and it clutches a pen and it touches the wall and the wall is a bed and it’s white and soft and I open my eyes and there are letters then words and I focus on them and I write

I just need to write again. Anything. It doesn’t matter. The words must keep coming, so the thoughts don’t. I need these words, I need them, I need my mind to focus, to relax, to survive. We thought this would be best, didn’t we? A white room. No decorations. Nothing to possibly think about. We thought. But it’s too late. I realize that now. Removing current stimulus isn’t enough. I have memories. Ten years of memories are enough to keep me thinking for the rest of my life. I’ll never stop thinking. How could I? I can’t be saved. It’s too late. I know that… … I’ve been writing all night and I’m calm and I’m hopeful. The wall is covered with ink and I can make it to morning. Then you can help me. We can work together and I can get better. It’ll be ok. It’ll all be alright. I need to make it to morning

No. Nononono. Shake it lick it kiss it. Pray, dream, hope. The pen is dead. Calm. No more ink. I’m scared. Here I come. Here they come. I can’t stop it. I can’t stop myself. The floor is hard. The wall isn’t white anymore. Black with words with my words from my head from my mind. The walls are soft the floor is hard. Focus. I can’t take it. The pen is in my hand. Focus. Thoughts go away. It’s worse than ever before but I focus. I feel it. Thoughts shattering like glass, the pieces sharp, dazzling, infinite. They’ll come soon. I focus on the pen. Salvation. The thoughts are close. It needs to end. It has to. On the ground.

The pen protrudes from my hand like a stake and the sharp metal tip shines eagerly. Head raised. Proud.

Scared.

I know it’s close. It’s almost over. Ideas. Excuses. Questions. It begs me to stop. History, memories, value, everything, I beg myself. Nothing’s real anymore. Still I focus. My thoughts betray me. They’re selfish. I’m selfish, we’re selfish. Only one thought matters. I raise my head. The action, the preparation, I can’t take it I can’t I can’t. The only things that could have saved me, my thoughts, push me over the edge.

50

Hushek It’s worse than ever before. They attack falling thoughts so many so much, ripping tearing. A lifetimes worth of thoughts. A thousand lifetimes. Emptiness. Thoughts are motion and everything moves and runs and leaps and screams and nothing matters. One thing. Nothing. One thing. Then I don’t exist and nothing does.

I return and they return. A million lights turning on in a dark room. The thoughts control my brain.

I see it all, the entire universe, each detail at once, all laid out before me. It’s too much. It roars. They come, I give in. I hear. Go. My body falls forward, my eyes close shut, my hand holds the pen steady against the ground.

Now I’m falling and I’m thinking about my life and I can see everything. Who I am. The world. The universe. Beyond. I don’t understand. I can’t. I focus on one thought, the center of it all, the action, the end. Here it comes. I’m falling.

Then I’m thinking about everything and I’m trying not to think and I think this is it I think this is the only way I think I’m ready I think I should’ve said goodbye I think about everyone I think about the people I think about you I think about pain I think about fear I think about life I think I’m wrong I think I’m cursed I think I’m sad but I think I’m ready I think a lot then I don’t think

— Joseph Hushek ‘14

51

Times New Roman My Darling, When I think of you my mind lets out a sigh of joy, of pure relaxation. My muscles relax and my mind goes free like a bird out of a cage. When I think of your subtle curves and serious lines I feel like a parrot able to speak its mind, not just repeating the nonsense of others. “PAKAWHH!” I scream “PAKAWHH!!” and the world rejoices.

I do not love you unconditionally, you modern romancer. I must have you just right, like the porridge of the youngest bear (not too hot and not too cold). Not too big or too small. I do not want your curves overflowing their boundaries or bleeding onto the sheets. But do not assume that I prefer the other extreme! I love vivacious, voluptuous curves! I need space!! Not points decem. More than that! But less. Duodecem, perhaps a dozen. A Dozen points, spaced by two.

You, my sweetness, are so modern, so NEW! So “of the TIMES.” So much has come from you.

From Spanish to Portuguese, Italian to French, yet you have not lost your ROMAN roots, have not forgotten to cross the Rubicon and seek the future.

When I think of you, I consider best the way you dress up for special occasions, slanting like a willow tree for anything entitled — you dress up for birthday parties, anniversaries, what meets your fancy. When you’re angry you grow bold and overbearing. I quiver in my boots just thinking about it. And when imperatives inspire importance, you underline your point so clearly I cannot help but feel I am missing something. Perhaps I am…

My darling, I cannot say you are my favorite. Teachers love you far too much, and besides, your sister Helvetica is so much better in every way. Sadly this day, I must this say. Perhaps it’s time we take a break and see other faces more our types, so we free our minds and let them fly with the Seraphim.

— Gustav Sustar ‘14 52

The Marching of the Aurochs Slivers of rock littered the floor of the shallow pit. For generations untold, their ancestors had sat in this hunting blind, watching for the caribou migration, flint-knapping arrowheads to pass the long, quiet summer days. The caribou, tuktu, the very lifeblood of the Ihalmiut people, provided food, shelter, clothing and all else they needed to survive the barren northern tundra. The hunters would wait for them. They had to wait.

The man and his son sat inside the blind, watching as others had watched centuries before. The silence that surrounded them was complete but for the occasional gust of wind howling through the rocks or the gentle whisper of the river flowing steadily northward.

The boy nestled himself further into the rock pile that made up the side of their shelter.

“This terrible wind will blow until the day I die,” he said.

“It blows from the South. We will be able to hear the caribou long before they reach us,” his father replied.

The boy stared off at the horizon, at the barren hills and the amphitheater of clear blue sky, the farthest hills many days’ journey away, the nearest just slightly closer, all in stark sunlight. He stared into nothingness.

The father leaned against the rocks, his eyes closed. He sat up and sniffed the cold clear breeze, then lay back and closed his eyes again.

“I have heard stories from the missionaries about the lands to the south. They speak of great mountains where the snow never melts and trees so tall and thick you could walk amongst them for a day and never see the sun. They speak of lands where food grows from the ground and you need not work more than half a day to feed your family,” said the boy.

“Yes, I too have heard this talk from the men who come falsely on cloven hoof, but why should you want such things when here you have a home and a people and the caribou?”

The man gazed past his son, out to the green rolling hills. A smile glinted in his eyes.

“Why do we not go to the missions where they provide us with food and blankets? There life is easier.”

“Tuktu will come.”

— Ben Sanders ‘14 53

Handful I wasn’t quite sure why I was looking at the sky. The air was warm, and the breeze was whispering its own soft melody. On that vast blue canvas of sky those white cloudy blots resembled some sort of image. The Gullivers’ lawn was peaceful, but it still possessed a fervent essence about it. At the other, a single play set, protected under the shade of the “Bill the Oak” — they liked to name their plants. Sitting on her favorite yellow swing was Rebecca, listening to the same natural harmony.

“What are you doing?” There was no immediate response, but then she turned around.

“Nothing really. Just swinging” We had been friends ever since I can remember. In fact, Becky and I spent most of our childhood together, and we knew each other almost entirely. But today she was peculiar. We weren’t in the kitchen eating PB&J, and we hadn’t gone to the pond in weeks.

“Hey, do you see that cloud?” She just stared at me. “It kind of looks like a giant… hand. See the fingers? And there! There’s the palm!”

“Yeah. I guess so.” She wasn’t right. Her face was working to tell me the truth, but she wouldn’t let that happen.

“What’s wrong? You want to go inside for a little?”

She looked at me. Her eyes had lost their delicate green aura, while her lips began to quiver until they finally burst with fresh raw emotion. The tears flew down her long smooth face, and her stoic essence had suddenly vanished. I didn’t know what to do, but I could tell she was trying to gather herself. Then, she muttered as terribly as she could. “We’re moving in a week.”

At first, it seemed as if she was just playing some kind of sick joke on me. She was my next-door neighbor, and she wasn’t going anywhere. She couldn’t be. But then I began to think. Why was she breaking the news like this? We were friends, and friends aren’t supposed to do these kinds of things.

“What? What do you mean?”

Again, silence. There was nothing. Only the soft pounding of those sorrowful rain drops and the clouds, now dark and looming, were all that remained. She ran past me and darted inside the house, slamming the door behind her. Now we were both alone with our thoughts, our fears and our questions.

Next to “Bill” a hammock gently swayed from side to side, dancing to that gentle tune. I didn’t care anymore, so I flung myself headlong upon our “flying carpet” and closed my eyes. The day had lost its splendor, and the wind was picking up now. I could feel the “hand” in the sky, watching me.

54

(Vases, Teapot) — Aaron Schwanke ‘14 (Mugs) — Nolan Diffley ‘14 (Candle-holder) — Bryce Gildner ‘15

Kozicz It no longer extended itself in kindness but instead had taken a grasp of something, slowly drifting away towards the horizon. My happiness. Her happiness. Our joy. That was what it was taking away.

I let my left arm hang off the side and began to stroke the prickly blades of grass. The very place I was, this little haven, would no longer be a part of my life by the end of next week. All those late afternoons on the swings and our Saturday morning picnics would soon be gone. I began to rip the grass from its soil, angrily. After a while, the gusts began to settle down. Then I opened my eyes.

Now, I understood.

There was silence again, but only for a moment. The patio door slowly slid open, accompanied by the clinking of ice cubes. Yet, those sounds seemed a bit less familiar than they once were. Now they were just noise. Now they weren’t ours. I wasn’t thirsty anyway.

“Lemonade?”

“No thanks.”

She sat down beside me, and began to talk. I wasn’t paying too much attention, though. The yard remained still, as if I didn’t even have to try to hear her, let alone the occasional car passing. My gaze was fixed upward, focused on the canvas. The painting was ruined, and there was nothing that could make it any better. Now all that was left was that clenched fist, creeping off to some mysterious place in the world.

— Matthew Kozicz ‘14

56

D-Day The battle is won upon this beach, for we have been so brave.

No bullet or bomb could stop us from reaching our goals, our minds now all have changed.

The cold blue waters carry the dead back out to sea, so much smoke and sand was in the air it was hard for us to see.

The battle is now won.

But it doesn’t feel this way, because of how many died this horrible day.

The battle is won upon this beach, for we have made the enemy run.

We now hear them sounding retreat, all we can hope for is for the battle to be done.

We can see reinforcements coming, they are coming near, the only thing I wanted to do was lay down and shed a tear.

The battle is now finished.

But it doesn’t feel this way, because of how many people perished this horrible day.

The battle is now finished upon this shore, it’s time to bury the dead.

The feeling we get when we put them to rest, is nothing less than dread.

The eyes of the fallen soldiers are now so paled, it makes you think that you have not prevailed.

A battle is never won, because of the way we feel when so many of my friends die.

Upon this day I kneel.

— Ben O’Connell ‘17 57

Dear God...

That was the last thought I remember before the collapse. Not a thought of surprise, it was an actual prayer. Or what was meant to be a prayer. But anyway, I was in that church. Communion had just finished and the priest had been saying prayers at the altar, hopefully praying for the people’s lost souls. Dear God… I looked over my right shoulder out the west wall of stained-glass windows set in the towering stone walls. The sun had been setting, illuminating the colors of the windows and giving radiance to Jesus’ mysteries. The one with Jesus falling while carrying the cross caught my attention the most. It was amazing how the artist of that particular window could make the brown of the cross, something so full of death, look so deep and beautiful with the sun’s rays shining through it. I stared through the windows, hoping for some special guidance but not knowing how to ask for it. Dear God… The blue of Mary’s gown, the red of His blood, the gold of their halos was too much for me and I looked away. The iron encasing this apparition was inevitably rusting from years of neglect. I glanced at Charlie, but he gave me that painful smile of unwelcome and hurt that he always bore in such settings. I guess I prayed for him, then. I looked for Jesus in the window again.

But the light hit.

I ducked under an oak pew, and grabbed Charlie. In that first moment I heard Mother start to say “Thomas, what — ,” but she didn’t finish. My stepdad, Mike, and she were on the other side of Charlie; I knew that I would fail if I tried to save them. Those who had time to get screams out did so, right before the stained glass shattered on the ground, but that was the last I remember.

Then the shock.

I don’t remember when I awoke, but I was still in that church, pinned under the cracked pew where I had been worshipping. I wriggled for hours, struggling for some confounding purpose.

Charlie was trapped under the kneeler and still unconscious when I was able to extract myself. He could have been dead. Everyone else certainly was. I looked at the bodies of those who moments before had been murmuring to themselves, praying, and wondered whether or not God considered their pleas for redemption. The walls around the congregation had collapsed except for a small portion near the front of the church, and I was standing in the desolate ruins.

I looked down at Mike and my mother’s mangled bodies and knew they did not make it. A cracked pew impaled their corpses. Nevertheless, I went to them. It was too late, of course. I covered my eyes with my hands and felt the warm, sticky presence of blood. All concern ended when a low gurgle arose near my right side. I looked down and saw Charlie’s body squirm for the briefest moment. One vague glimmer of hope; I threw myself toward him and started to push on the whole

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Gottsacker pew. Finally I managed to free his body and move the seemingly lifeless figure to a safe position. I slouched to the floor, waited, and slipped into exhaustion.

When I awoke Charlie was standing over me. His hands were bleeding and his back appeared as if it had been flogged by splinters from the pew. We dragged ourselves silently through the rubble to the sacristy at the front of the church. Everything in what remained of the sacristy was strewn about, but we managed to find small towels to clean our wounds.

We moved back to our family, our vision obscured by the ash in the air that seemed to encompass our world as it returned to earth. The sun had gone, creation turned gray. In the church, the stained glass windows lay in shattered pieces across the floor. Their iron encasings resembled a mangled crown of thorns among the church’s ruins. The colossal crucifix had broken and Jesus rested face down with one arm outstretched, reaching toward His cross. It must have been a bomb. I assumed nuclear. They were landing all over the country and in all parts of the world. No other sort of explosive could bring that kind of destruction. It should have crossed everyone’s minds that it was only a matter of time… But Blissview, our suburban paradise, wasn’t supposed to be part of that evil world. With its nice houses and parks and schools and spotless neighborhoods, it was its own utopia. The children could live their whole lives within town limits and maintain their innocence. They didn’t have to make any tough decisions since their education was pristine and polished. Such was their happiness. I just knew that we were lucky enough not to have been incinerated.

“What now?” Charlie asked as we stood among the rubble.

“There’s nothing left, Charlie.”

“We can’t be alone.”

“I know.”

“Well, let’s find the other ones who were saved.”

“The ‘ones who were saved,’” I repeated. Did he really believe we were saved?

I convinced him to stay amidst the rubble. With the sacristy intact, we had enough food, water, and supplies to sustain ourselves for a while. There were even books and matches to start a fire. I knew our best chance was staying at the church. The rest of the working world would have turned to ash. At least we had a place that held hope, even if that hope looked shattered. I picked up a piece of the crushed stone wall. My eyes flashed to Jesus reaching for His cross. Dear God… Does He still have hope? I did not want to know. I didn’t realize how fixated I had become to this symbol of my hope until Charlie interrupted my improvised Eucharistic adoration.

“Why can’t we move on?” he whined.

“Have you seen what happened in this place?” I said, throwing the stone towards Jesus’ cross.

“Can you imagine what happened to the rest of the world?”

Charlie became silent. I thought I saw tears streaming down his cheeks.

We managed through the first couple days and nights. Luckily, the sacristy had a seemingly endless supply of Eucharistic hosts. And the holy water faucet somehow still worked. It seemed to

“The sun had gone, creation turned gray.”

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Gottsacker be perpetually snowing as the ash from the explosion slowly fell all around us. We spent our days clearing rubble and building a bare shelter next to the sacristy. By the fourth day, we decided it was good enough. Charlie was still reluctant to stay in the church, but I convinced him on the grounds that it was the best place to tend his wounds. The devil had clawed at his back; he had scars and splinters running its entire length. “How does it look?”

“Almost healed,” I lied.

On the seventh morning of our bare existence, the shadows of several gray men appeared in the distance. I knew they could only be looking to accomplish one goal. They wanted food. They wanted supplies. And they would kill for them.

“What do you think they want?”

“Just to talk.” I don’t know why I had to be so protective of Charlie.

As they approached, I was able to start making out their features. They wore bandanas made of torn rags that covered the lower halves of their ashen faces. They were loud — making profane jokes and cursing blasphemously. I realized they were spray-painting the remains of the surrounding buildings’ walls. Ironically, their graffiti curse words were the only source of color I had seen since the explosion. “Thomas, what are they gonna — ” “Shut the hell up!” I hissed at Charlie. “It’ll be alright,” I tried to assure him. But he wasn’t the only one I was trying to convince.

As they came within one hundred feet, they noticed us.

“Who the hell are you?” one of them called. The drew closer still and formed a wide circle around us.

“I’m Thomas. That’s Charlie. We’re from this town.” I had to hold him next to me to keep him from sprinting away and probably getting both of us killed.

They laughed. I saw a few of them pull wrenches from their pockets. They started to close their perimeter on us. I counted nine of them.

Dear God… I heard Charlie muttering some prayers to himself and I tried to do the same.

They got closer. The fading gray light in the west seemed blocked by these strangers. I searched for a hole, some escape, but found only darkness. I clenched my fists and my teeth. Sweat slid down my back, my mind raced, searching. Should’ve moved on like Charlie said. God damn it. Then the beating. There wasn’t much fire in either of us but at first we fought back. I don’t remember if we screamed. He prayed. I thought we were dying. Then my thoughts vanished.

I awoke the next morning or so I imagined it to be, sore in every imaginable part of my body.

Charlie was still down. They took our bread, our shoes, our shirts, our pants, but they left our shelter untouched, save for some colorful graffiti. They were nowhere to be seen. I rose and tried to revive Charlie. He awoke and, discovering what happened, spat with disgust. “Now can we move on?”

“No. Not yet.”

He walked away. I knew he just wanted to get out of that place, but I knew it was our only chance. The gang affirmed my suspicions that the rest of the world had been taken by the devil.

We kept fortifying our place, never ceasing the re-creation process. About two days after our

“I searched for a hole, some escape, but saw only darkness.”

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The Salt-Wash Experiment (Mixed Media, 7.5” x 5.5”) — Colin Mitchell ‘15

Gottsacker attack — I can’t be exactly sure how long it had been, the days seemed to melt together — Charlie thought he saw a someone move. He had been pushing a cracked pew toward one of our walls, and he shrieked out. There was a person trapped beneath it, and Charlie claimed he saw his hand move.

His flesh had been stained by the ash, which still had not completely settled back to the earth. He must have been dead for at least five days.

I reached Charlie right when he tried to grab the person’s arm and pull him out from under the pew. When he pulled, Charlie’s wrenching grasp liberated flesh from bone. I heard the snap of the tendons and muscles, and I looked away when a yellow seepage started to emerge from the part of the arm pinned under the pew. “Jesus Christ,” Charlie cursed under his breath.

It was then that I remembered that nuclear weapons have terrible health consequences after the initial shock. Memories of having nightmares after reading Hiroshima during middle school resurfaced. Dear God… Charlie trudged off and vomited. I decided I wouldn’t tell him. The Blissview school board banned that book before he got a chance to read it.

The next few days dragged on. We had cleared almost all of the rubble and built up our shelter. We had not eaten, however, since the gang had attacked us. The holy water became gray as well. The nuclear chemicals and ash must have tainted the sacred well. Living began to get terrible as our lack of nutrition heightened the effects of nuclear radiation that we had previously refused to acknowledge.

After what seemed like two weeks past the explosion, I felt some sores inside my mouth. Charlie started to feel the same thing. “We need water.” So we hydrated with the gray water. I could hardly move. Charlie must have felt the same way. The day turned to darkness. I was burning on the inside, but I knew in reality that the night was cold. He built a fire, using the books we found in the sacristy.

Dear God… please…

That night was sleepless and filled with episodes of pain. My head seemed thrown into a boiling pot of some malevolent sorceress while my intestines flushed any nutrition out of my body by any possible means. White knives cut across my vision and I tried to scream to the sky. It opened up for me but the ground pulled my soul harder. I could not leave. The tortuous reality. My eyes located the arm of Jesus, once more reaching for His cross. I reached for a shard of stained glass, hoping to end my suffering, but I, like Jesus, could not grasp it. The pain subsided for a moment and I gazed at Charlie, holding his eyes with mine and grasping the beauty of our brotherhood. The fire he built turned to embers. I grabbed our last book, our last hope. We had rationed that book because it was the largest and we knew it could keep us warm – and maybe even alive – for a while. I started tearing out the front pages of the book, hoping to preserve as much of it as possible. The pages were thick, so the flame regained itself with the addition of the first chapter. But it would burn like the others. And we held on.

“I felt completely drained.

We kept on moving. Always forward. Always south.”

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Gottsacker It must have been one more day before the blisters completely covered my body. A blanket of pain. It hurt to move. But we had to keep the fire burning. Soon we were at the final chapter.

Dear God… But it was too late. I couldn’t. The ground cannot let me go.

With the last pages thrown onto the flames, my eyes found one more book hidden in a pile of ash. The Bible. Charlie’s eyes flickered to it as well. Then he looked at me and tried to say something, but his mouth and tongue were overrun with sores and his throat was too parched to make any coherent sound. I knew that he thought we should keep it. He knew it would be over soon, even if we had a fire.

One last look at Charlie through my crusted eyelids. With every ounce of strength left in my body I forced myself to roll onto the mildly crackling fire. It promised salvation. Just like the book we saved. It must let me go. The liberation was just as painful as the imprisonment. My skin exploded as the white knives returned. Again I tried to scream to the sky. I felt the ground releasing me.

Dear God… And my smoke rose and rose, becoming part of the gray sky.

— Matthew N. Gottsacker ‘15

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What Does Daylight Bring?

A crimson flare assails the sky, Its sheath a glowing cloud.

It shines down boldly from on high, Straight through night’s azure shroud.

Twisting — clashing — high above Earth, The morning’s hues suppress — Night’s unseemly lack of mirth, And force it toward the West.

The sun, emboldened, casts its gaze — Upon plateaus of frozen land — Shattering shields of cold malaise, With its fiery, warming hand.

A sheet of comfort, tinged with peace — Cloaks the sunrise hour.

A kind and tranquil morning breeze — Descends as if a shower.

In the waking soil of the thawing ground — A stem expands and grows.

Underneath the golden sun, It blossoms, now a Rose.

— Ted Chisholm ‘16

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The Willow Dressed in my usual flannel-collared shirt and blue jeans I walked down from my room. My dog Buddy lay next to the dining table, his favorite place to wait for me to come downstairs. Buddy was a Border Collie with mostly black fur except for a white line down the middle of his face. Mr. Wilks, the corn farmer from down the road, had a litter of Collie pups that he was giving away to neighbors and friends who wanted one. My dad brought me Buddy on my tenth birthday. He told me, “He was the runt of the litter, so he reminded me of you.” I was the shortest kid in my school, and felt disheartened by that. Buddy was the smallest out of his brothers and sisters, and I took a liking to him immediately. After seven years, we became like brothers, or what I imagined having a brother would feel like.

He noticed me at the top of the stairs, his head shifted to me and his tail showed his good morning excitement. He waited in anticipation for me to acknowledge him.

“Morning, Bud. What’s up?” I said in an overly enthusiastic voice. He lifted his head up proudly as to say he was ready to start the day with full energy. I made my way towards him and his wagging tail, which thumped the floor in a consistent rhythmic beat. His tail was a metronome that I heard every morning. The tail hit faster the closer I got to him. Soon his whole body was wagging along with his tail, as if it was impossible to contain all of his happiness. His eyes looked up at me in sheer excitement. He offered his head to me, as if it meant the world to him if I would pet him, and I did so. I knelt down close to him to scratch his ear, which made him close his eyes and shake his foot, a gesture I have always found comical. He gave a look of disappointment when I got up and moved away, but afterwards a look of excitement, for he knew it was breakfast time.

“I’m beginning to think that you only like me ‘cuz I’m the one who feeds you,” I said to him in a joking tone. He looked up at me with a look of betrayal, but never stopped his tail from wagging.

His face gave me the impression he was thinking, “No way! How can you even think that?”

“I’m just teasing you, you don’t have to give me that face,” I said with a smile. He then looked over to his food bowl labeled “Buddy,” and gestured me to it, tilting his head, walking a few steps, and then looking back at me. I watched him do the gesture a few times. I found it funny that he thought I would forget.

“Okay, calm down! I’m getting it! It’s like you haven’t eaten in a week.” I went into the pantry and opened his bag of dog food. He watched me through the door to make sure I was getting it. I pulled out a scoop of his usual dry food. He backed up to let me out of the door, and then led me to

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Emery his bowl where he sat down and watched the scoop in my hand. He watched me pour his food into the bowl, and when I was done, he got up and gave me a gleeful look. Then, in an instant, he was face down in the bowl, eating like a pig in a trough. I did not feel like eating a whole lot this morning, so I just grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl on the kitchen counter. It was darkened brown and yellow from aging and bruised in some spots, but I ate it anyway.

The clanging of the bits against the metal dish and the crunching coming from Buddy came to a conclusion and all I heard was him licking the inside where the food used to be. He looked up towards me with an expectant look in his eyes.

“You ready?” He stomped his paws against the hardwood floor and nearly jumped onto his hind legs. He knew what I meant. I walked to the front door and opened it. Buddy ran out to the truck that was in our driveway, stopping only to get a tennis ball from his little toy bin next to the front door. The truck was a darkened red Ford F-150, 1998 model. It was dirtied with dried mud and grime that I had never bothered to clean. My father taught me how to drive this truck when I was 14. I always thought it was cool knowing how to drive before all my friends. Dad would let me drive to school once in a while, and we would pull up in front where my friends could notice. Seeing the awe and amazement in my friends’ eyes was priceless. Buddy always sat in between my dad and I when I drove, always looking dead ahead, making sure the roads were safe.

I opened the passenger side door and Buddy jumped in and sat upright in the driver’s seat. He looked at me, panting and almost smiling at me.

“You wanna drive?” I said. He looked at me without changing his face. I shut the door and went around to the driver’s side and opened it up. “Scoot over, I’m driving.” He crawled over to the passenger side and waited for me to roll down the window for him, and so I did. He poked his head out and looked around. I never figured out what he was looking for.

The truck on the inside was no cleaner than it was outside. There were dirty t-shirts in the back seat, one dark green one with worn black letters saying “GO ARMY.” I put the key in the ignition and started the truck. It gave off a loud hum and Buddy became even more excited. I put the truck in drive and pulled out of the drive way. A half-empty bottle of Gatorade rolled across the floor of the back seats. It’s been back there for a while, but I never bothered to take it out and throw it away.

The dog tags that hung on the rearview mirror swayed back and forth with each bump in the road. My dad’s old Chicago Cubs baseball cap sat on the dashboard.

Buddy kept looking out the window and watched the countryside, his tongue hanging out and his eyes looking back and forth with excitement. It seemed that every little thing he saw outside was amazing to him, and he looked as if there was wonder and awe in everything he saw. I pulled off onto a small dirt road that led to our favorite place to play fetch. The road led through a tree line into a small clearing near a pond. There were trees all around, but one that stood out was an old willow tree. It loomed over the pond, which acted as a mirror for the sky above. Buddy knew we arrived and began to whimper in excitement.

“He poked his head out and looked around. I never figured out what he was looking for.”

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Blue (Acrylic on Mylar, 19” x 16”) — Billy Alverson ‘15

Emery “Hold on! I haven’t even stopped the car yet!” I told him. He just grabbed the tennis ball at his feet and looked at me expectantly, the ball sticking out of his mouth. I pulled off into a corner of the clearing, put the car in park and turned off the ignition. I looked at the tags on the rearview, then looked at Buddy.

“You ready?” I said in a serious tone. It seemed as if Buddy nodded, but he definitely gave a gesture of preparedness and impatience. I grabbed the Cubs cap on the dash and put it on my head, then opened the door. I let Buddy out and he bolted into the field at blistering speed. He ran with no real direction through bushes, only stopping for split seconds to smell various plants. Soon, he ran back towards me and dropped the ball at my feet, then stepped back and looked at me. He gestured with his legs that he was ready for me to throw it, and I did so. The ball flew through the air as if it was in its natural surroundings, then gracefully bounced against the ground and rolled to a stop in its comfortable grass home. Buddy ran over and scooped the ball into his mouth and brought it back to me. I kept walking towards the lone willow by the pond, inviting me with cooling shade and the gentle music of its leaves rustling in the wind. Buddy would drop the ball in my path to make sure I would notice and throw it again. It seemed never to stop moving; only for short intervals was the ball at rest. Soon I made it to the shade of the willow, where I sat down and rested my back against the base of it. Buddy continued to bring me the ball. I kept throwing it. I looked to the small green pond next to me. Dad used to take me fishing here when I was little. When I looked into the pond, I could see me years younger, and my father, wearing the Cubs baseball cap. I turned away. I looked back to the car and stared at the dog tags hanging still. I didn’t look away. Buddy brought me back the ball again. He noticed me looking in the direction of the car. He tilted his head as if he was confused.

My head drooped towards the ground where I was sitting, eyes closed. Buddy’s confused look was replaced with a softer one, one of comforting. He lay down next to me and rested his head in my lap. This place was an uncomfortable memory of my father. Whenever I come here, I remember him and the time we shared. Buddy and I are still here, and our dad left us behind. I tried to hold back the tears, but they became too much to bear. Buddy rested his head in my lap still, but adjusted to look at me. I looked back at him and showed a smile. I patted his head, and he rested back down on my lap.

I looked across the mirror-like pond. Then I looked to the tennis ball Buddy dropped.

“Ready for another go?” He sat up excitedly and waited for me to throw. I picked up the ball and wound up to throw. Buddy was hopping with anticipation. I threw it in the air. The ball flew gracefully in the air and landed back in the grass, still and at home.

— Luke Emery ‘15

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Credits Editors-in-Chief Jordan Sylvester Hasaan Munim Kieran Fendt Moderator Her Imperial Majesty Madame Ginny Schauble

Art Editor Cover Designer Nick Reit

Editors Nathan Anonuevo Ben Sanders Ryan Schilter Patrick Dunne Production Consultant Mr. Gary Skinner APLUS Graphic Resources gskinner.aplus@gmail.com

Production Team Jordan Sylvester Hasaan Munim Kieran Fendt Ben Sanders Ryan Schilter Nick Reit Christian Wimmer Papa Yorke Patrick Dunne Mark Ninomiya Joe Mancinelli, Jr. Patrick Finucane Ian Johnson

Icebergs, Page 10

Hasaan Munim '14

Credits Art Don't Be So Alone (Marker on Paper, 11” x 17”) — Oliver Bestul '16

Cover Art Front Cover: Midnight Quiche (Acrylic on Canvas, 18” x 12”) — Daniel Mullen '15 Back Cover: We Remain (Photography) — Ryan Schilter '14