Signatures 2015

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

30th Anniversary Pearl Edition

Signatures 2015

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Table of Contents Pane Dusk Walk Uncomfortable People Unsteady Yeti My First Cigarette To Whom the Land Speaks Sunsation Ginkgo Millenia Revelation The River of Life Dead Silence The Greenhouse Khwan Lennit The Real Search Rough Seas The Caddy Shack Graphite Donut Palm Tree

4 5 6 7 8 10 11 14 16 17 19 20 22 23 24 28 29 32 33 34

Oliver Bestul Nick Kallman Samuel Davis Colin Mitchell Sa煤l L贸pez Malcolm Gregory Mahmoud Jaber Donovan Lyon Patrick Crowley Will Macheel Peter J. Milbrath Luke Emery Joey McBride Peter Kolb Matthew Luettgen Niko Sjogren Daniel Lenz Charlie Elliott Jack Davis Jack A. Nichols

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2020 Marilyn Monroe Ignorance is Bliss A Ballad in Black Made by Society Evil Creatures Portrait of Woman The Big Picture Dumb Brouhaha The Assault The Ball Mona Lisa Looking for a Home Blue Tree The Painting Now Boarding Reflections Industrial Night Blue

36 37 39 40 41 42 43 44 46 47 48 51 52 53 54 56 57 60 61 2015

Peter Kolb Zach Wiesen Alex Murphy Peter Ahn Corwaun D. Clark José Medina Nick Reit Matthew N. Gottsacker Alexander Powless Billy Alverson Charlie Monnat Shawn Turner Kahlil D’Acquisto Caeleb Rauh Kobe Brown Connor Lagore Parker Redfern Ted Chisholm Samuel Davis

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Oliver Bestul

Pane Observe me from the east as a painting of forgotten goods. Signs hanging for the passerby advertise sales and store hours. Painted upon me, the word “ANTIQUES.” Peer beyond my surface and gaze upon the treasures within. A mountain of interlocked bicycle tires and wheels rusts in the corner. A worn fence post carefully watches the hollow television set. The glaring sun works each day to further bleach an orange chair. That same light bounces softly off an old children’s car, still glossy red and leaning against a background of earthen hues—an iron hatstand and a rifle, a mantel clock and a stale radio.

Everything in view has a price. A war helmet, once worn on the head of a dead man, has since been painted yellow by the hands of another. It sits over a telescopic fork and a worn out saddle bag, each the only remains of their own motorcycle. There are clusters of inscrutable objects that can no longer be explained. Strange metal tools and wooden stands litter any space left between the towering heaps. Step closer, peer harder. Deeper within, shelves and counters are stacked high with an impossible assortment of trinkets. Lines of books rest here as well, leather-bound adventures waiting seventy years for anyone to leaf through their yellowed parchment. The shadows from further within veil toys, cans and glass ornaments. I hang here all the while, a piece of history itself.

Watch me from the west as a silent film of the outside world. Cars pass at ever-changing intervals over a street paved with slush. Across this wide band of concrete stands a single stocky building with two front doors. This almost timid structure might appear to be two separate houses were they not connected seamlessly and under the same grey roof. One house has a red brick façade, an overhanging roof above a cream front door, and a set of shutters for each of four square apertures. Its partner has the same. The door, the shutters, all are a perfect replication of the features from the first half of the empty residence. There would be an almost mirrored effect were it not for a tree in front, planted slightly in favor of the house on the left, and a different set of numbers above each door. Painted thinly on four white tiles are the digits 3386 for the little house on the left and the digits 3388 for its twin on the right.

Few would look twice if the homes’ positions were one day swapped. Like a spider, the eight-eyed edifice has not let a single traveler go unnoticed since it was built before me, yet people and animals seldom notice it in passing. The mesh of those strange items I spoke of earlier roughly frames this building. I play here all the while, guardian of 3386 and 3388.

Imagine me *-from the north or south as being of the second dimension, a vertical line on the horizon. I hide here all the while, a slender ribbon of blue. God, am I blue.

— Oliver Bestul ‘16 Signatures

Dusk Walk (Acrylic on Canvas, 20” x 16”) Nick Kallman ‘16

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Samuel Davis

Uncomfortable People In the suburbs, life moves at a rate so steady. Trees fall, prairies flatten, bulldozers roll, concrete sets, wooden stakes demarcate, and seeds stab through hay and plastic textile. The oversized lot seemed quite rural when I first visited. A gravel road dipped down past a model home at the epicenter of the budding neighborhood. The realtor, a woman with stiff woody hair, presented a generous smile at the door of the polished model home. She led us as we traipsed through the exacted surroundings. I asked her if she lived here. She might. It would make sense because her smile seemed of the same lustre as the plastic fruit in a bowl on a coffee table next to an artificial fireplace overlooking a barren garden with a few juvenile trees to confirm any presence of life. Realtors must be quite uncomfortable people, I thought, as we wheeled out toward the neighborhood.

The small talk continued to embalm a spreading sense of impatience. I wanted so badly to release myself from this freeze but it seemed that no matter how far into myself I withdrew I could not escape the solid wall of boring, numbing, bleaching, smiling realtor.

At the end of the road the meadow swelled up from either side, gently flooding a horizon lined with dense forest. Little wooden sticks connected by string and neon flags marked the boundaries. I felt alone staring out into the swaying weeds. I liked the hilly grassy lot; I imagined it would be like this all the time.

I imagined butterflies and forts and sticks and fish and stars and dirt . . . lots and lots of dirt.

Home looked quite different the next time I saw it, as though it had been to the barber’s. Its brown, soggy surface bore gashes brimming with earthy puddles that gargled as the autumnal rain poured. Far away I spied a skeleton. I felt alone again.

When I returned, winter had replaced the bones with a white house. Dad said this would be our new home. He, my brother, and I pitched sleeping bags on the floor the first night. We lay silently against the wall of the master bedroom while silver light permeated the blank walls through curtainless windows. I remember little of what happened that day but there I lay and, before me, a future beyond comprehension. Sleep without a bed allowed my mind to wander. I started to fill the darkness with anything, though no matter my efforts, I could free nothing from memory into this strange empty place.

Its icy skeleton rattled in the caverns of my memory.

Gradually, the house filled up. Family fed it. Toys, furniture, plants, appliances, memories, spread themselves willingly, floor to ceiling. Seven years seems so short a term to explore, yet I explored endlessly. I found what now I can no longer remember, yet which somehow molded my soul. Before I felt this way about Hickory Creek Drive, I lost myself in it, allowing it to sway my imagination and cradle my soul. In the end, the house didn’t matter much. I only slept there, ate there and hid there. No, all that excited me was leaving.

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— Samuel Davis ‘15

Unsteady Yeti (Charcoal, 15” x 24”) Colin Mitchell ‘15 Unsteady Yeti (Charcoal, 18” x 24”) Colin Mitchell ‘15

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Saúl López

My First Cigarette Hoping to escape the city and relax, I visited my grandfather in Mexico. I opened his door to a khaki sofa where my grandpa sat watching soccer.

“How’s it going, Abuelo?” I said.

He scoffed and replied, “I’m still not dead, so I’d say we’re doing pretty fine, Mijo.” He wasn’t the same. His complexion had changed; his eyes hung lower, his skin seemed more wrinkled. He still had that smirk I’d seen as a child. That same day he gave me his bike, its crimson frame spotted with rust. It didn’t go as fast as it seemed when, as a kid, I’d sat on the handle bars while my grandfather and I explored his ranch. Things had changed now, the streets were paved, there were stop signs on every corner, and the store where I’d bought my sodas had turned into a cyber cafe. I felt relaxed though it hardly felt like home.

One night after coming back from an errand, I found him on the sofa hunched over a Marlboro.

He looked up, putting his silver Zippo into his pocket. “You want one?”

I stood there. I watched him relax and sink back into the yellowing sofa. I sat down next to him.”

“Sure,” I muttered.

From his breast pocket he pulled out the red and white pack of cigarettes, and flicked it open.

“Here.”

I took one and placed it between my lips. I fumbled, clumsy, to ignite its papery hide. He stared blankly. When finally I took a drag, I coughed uncontrollably, handing him back the lighter.

He blew some smoke from his mouth, “Don’t kill yourself, it’s just a cigarette.”

I spluttered, “Why are you teaching me how to smoke?”

My grandfather ran his left hand through his silver thinning hair, flicked the ash and sighed. He shifted his gaze toward the dying pink sun-bleached tiles, “I didn’t get to teach your dad, so I might as well teach you, right?”

For a split second, I sensed guilt in his eyes and took another drag, feeling the smoke swell up in my mouth. I blew it out and replied, “Yeah, I guess so.”

He turned and faced me. He only grinned, “Kiddo, how’s life treatin’ you?”

I had no answer to the question, so I said, “It’s alright. I mean . . . it’s not bad, but it’s not good. It’s just . . . alright, I guess.”

He took a drag and exhaled the smoke through his nostrils. Even after all these years he managed to look suave. “I like that answer, kid. Hell, at least you have an answer. Most people I ask just stay quiet, and shrug their damn shoulders.” He zipped his jacket and rubbed his hands together. He curled into a ball, a fragile ball, and said, “Hey kid, I gotta tell you something.”

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11 I stared at the floor tiles and contemplated the mud tracks my grandfather’s boots had left. They were all over the floor. I smiled at the thought of him limping his way into the kitchen. Then I sat back up and looked him in the eye, “What’s that?”

He flicked his ash once more, the thin white cylinder glowed. He studied the black and white photo of my grandmother which hung on the brick wall. Without shifting his eyes he said, “Our days are numbered . . . I have a few hundred left. You have still got some thousand.” A tear rolled down his cheek and hit the pink tiling.

“Don’t say that, Grandpa.”

He wiped his cheek with the palm of his left hand. “I’m tired. I’m ready for it.”

I looked at my cigarette and watched it slowly burn. I looked back, “Aren’t you scared?”

He chuckled, took a drag, swirled the smoke in his mouth, exhaling. “Scared? Scared of sleeping?

No . . . I’m not.” But he was, I could see it. He couldn’t mask the fear with his grin.

He closed his eyes. Streams of tears rolled down his wrinkled cheeks. He smiled again, “Don’t be scared of dying. We all die, but not all of us live.” He took another drag, and looked toward the ceiling.

My grandpa coughed but regained himself and pointed my direction, “Be sure to live.”

I didn’t want to smoke my cigarette anymore. I didn’t want to finish, I wanted it to burn forever.

But with each second the cigarette paper turned to ash, and slowly reached the filter. I felt my own tears well up, and said, “I’ll try . . . I’ll try.”

My grandfather coughed, spat on the floor and said, “That’s my boy.” He finished his cigarette, threw it on the ground and pressed it with a twist of his boot. He tossed me the pack, stood up gingerly, and took out the silver Zippo. He placed it in my hand, saying, “This is my lucky lighter. I think you’ll need it more than I do. Goodnight, bud.”

As he walked, I saw my younger self clinging to him.

I put out my cigarette, lit another one, and finished watching him shuffle to his room. I recalled wanting to grow up, yearning for the day I could run faster and jump higher. Now, on that same tattered, khaki sofa, I found myself asking God to stop time. But the clock kept ticking.

— Saúl López ‘15

2015

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Malcolm Gregory

To Whom the Land Speaks The rain falling on the tin roof reminded Jimmy Nawat of the sound his fingernails made when they tapped against a hard surface. Through the window, he could see the precipitation streaming off the shingles of his family’s shack onto the brown grass. It was a cold day in Wolf Point, and Jimmy was surprised that the frigid air had not turned the rain into sleet or snow. Goose bumps washed over the young man’s skin as drafts of winter air blew through the poorly insulated walls. Every gust made the house groan in a different pitch, like a singer tuning her voice. He sat there by himself, in the middle of the main room, digging his toes into the recesses of the floor’s grungy carpet. The sensation of friction felt by his wriggling toes provided the young man a temporary distraction from the discomfort and, more importantly, a drowning sense of anguish. As soon as he allowed his mind to wander out of that dark musty confine, Jimmy would again be confronted by the reminiscence of those words his father had spoken to him a number of hours ago. Words that scared him more fiercely than anything.

Jimmy was the youngest son of the Nawat family, his three older brothers and his father. The five resided on the most impoverished swath of land on the American Continent, the Fort Peck Indian Reservation. Jimmy never understood why his father chose to remain on the Reservation. Jobs were incredibly scarce, and the poverty was intense. Yet as Jimmy went through his years of education at the Catholic mission in town, a pride had developed within his breast. History lessons opened his mind to the antiquity of his people, and a realization manifested itself within the young man’s heart. His veins ran thick with Sioux blood, no militaristic or cultural invasion by white men could ever take that from him. Regardless of the economic miseries of the land, Fort Peck had provided the family, and the Sioux people as a whole, a vital fragment of the past. The eerie beat of a drum or the ghostly yells of an ancient pow-wow would occasionally be reported by some elder living out on the prairie. The reservation was tangibly poor, but the inhabitants saw themselves as prosperous in the memories and ghosts of their past.

Jimmy’s father worked as a ranch hand on a homestead a few miles south of the Reservation. He earned enough to feed his sons, and to keep the house heated in the winter with propane. Beyond that, all of the furniture in the house and all of the boys’ clothes were hand-me-downs, trash-pile pickups, or donations from the mission. In a strategic move to make sure his sons would receive an education at the mission, Jimmy’s father had the four baptized by the Catholic Priest, Father Catlin, the head missionary. They would be schooled until the age of eighteen, and then would have to set out on their own in search of work. Their father never explicitly told them that they should stay on the reservation, in order to keep the culture of the place intact, but the three eldest sons held firm to the land of their birth. Jimmy progressed in age, and witnessed two of his brothers find work in neighboring towns, and another at the mechanics garage in Wolf Point. All of them had chosen to remain within the borders of Fort Peck.

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Sunsation (Acrylic on Canvas, 20” x 16”) Mahmoud Jaber ‘17

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Malcolm Gregory

Jimmy rose from his seat in search of his winter coat. He found it on the floor of his bedroom, lying next to a Physics textbook, and a copy of some Faulkner novel he was supposed to have finished reading the previous week. He needed some fresh air to help him think things over. He was seventeen years old and would be turning eighteen within two months. A few weeks ago, he assumed that he would follow in the footsteps of his brothers and try to find work on the reservation. This mindset had changed drastically when earlier that morning his father approached him with an opportunity that, if embraced, would change Jimmy’s life forever.

Jimmy had grown up Sioux, but thanks to his father, also Catholic. Unlike the majority of his friends, he believed in God, and attended Mass regularly at the mission in town. Even his brothers had labeled him as “The Religious One.” Jimmy believed his faith gave him strength, especially in times of hardship, which were more than plentiful in Wolf Point. Father Catlin, who presided over the countless masses Jimmy had attended throughout his adolescent life, had noticed the young man’s dedication to the faith. The Priest had come up with an idea that could save Jimmy from the cycle of poverty that Fort Peck imposed upon its residents. He told the young man’s father the proposition, and asked him if he would be willing to have a conversation with his son.

The following morning, Jimmy’s father asked his son if he would like to attend a Catholic Seminary in Minneapolis. The question shocked the young man into a sensation of disbelief. Not once in all of his life had he thought about entering the priesthood.

“I don’t think I can answer that right now, Dad. Uhh, I guess, part of my heart does want to follow my faith. But another equal part of it wants to stay out here,” Jimmy remarked.

“I understand, Jim. You have time to think about it. Father Catlin told me that he just needs an answer by next Wednesday. He’s willing to be in charge of all of the logistics of getting you out there and enrolled,” replied the young man’s father.

Jimmy’s father walked out of the house and toward his rusty Chevy pickup, then briefly turned around and added, “No matter what you choose, Jim, I’ll be proud. I know you think I have a bias towards staying out here, because it helps preserve our customs, but I also understand not everyone wants to live in some shit-hole cabin for their entire life. If you choose to leave, know that I’ll be behind you.” With that, his father left for work. Jimmy wanted to call out and say that he loved living in the shack, but by the time the words came to him, his father was already out of earshot, driving down the road.

Jimmy walked, imagining himself on a crowded street somewhere in downtown Minneapolis. The thought depressed him; no matter how hard he tried, he felt as if he would feel out of place. He adored the empty simplicity that northeastern Montana provided. The natural beauty of the region alone was a good enough reason to stay. His love for the ground he had grown up on rivaled the love he had for his faith. The memories that filled his mind provided a strong bias in his decision-making process. Jimmy remembered the summers of his early childhood, when he and his brothers would venture down to the Missouri River to take a dip after a long day of helping their father with chores. Nothing could compare to the refreshment of swimming in that beautiful winding river.

Jimmy veered off of the main road onto the dirt path that would usher him towards a picturesque bluff near the banks of the Missouri. He appreciated the small things that accompanied him on his walk, the sanguine chirps of a pair of chickadees, the smell of wilderness infiltrating his nostrils and the nearly uninterrupted greyness of the clouds above his head. He considered everything to be as it was meant

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To Whom the Land Speaks

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to be. The sights, sounds, and smells were all in perfect union with each other. After nearly an hour of walking he approached the smooth escarpment known to his Sioux as Dohosan, or Little Bluff.

He climbed to its top, and found a nice place to sit on the south face of the hill overlooking the river.

The rain had finally changed to flurries, and chilly winds had begun to wash over the plains from the northwest, giving rise to goose bumps on the young man’s dark skin. Unlike earlier in the day, he gave no notice to the raw cold seeping through his sweatshirt as he was too deeply caught up in reflection to perceive any physical twinge. Looking out across the ice-bound landscape, Jimmy contemplated the decision that would alter the course of his life. He tried to examine his conscience and his true desires.

The afternoon wore on, and the silence of the uninhabited region enveloped Jimmy. The young man’s mind kept turning to the stunning view before his eyes. The scenery gave Jimmy the sense that he was in a secret paradise. It pulled on his soul. He tried to identify the beauty with the magnificent creation of God, but he could not. His mind was elsewhere; tramping through the wild landscape, swimming in the great Missouri, and exploring the place his people had called home for over 10,000 years. The scene seduced his mind with tranquil snowflakes and rolling hills. If he were to leave in search of a religious vocation, he would sever himself from the only true vocation he’d ever known, to love the land he lived upon. The most fundamental happiness Jimmy had ever felt, stemmed from Montana. As this realization crept into his mind a tear fell from his deep brown eyes. The drop traced its path along his cheeks and, as it fell to the ground, leaving Jimmy forever, so did any desire for vocation in the priesthood. Like the tear, Father Catlin’s proposition would forever remain upon the top of Dohosan.

Jimmy walked home with a newfound sense of honor for the ground underneath his winter boots.

In the manner of his shamanic ancestors, he had allowed the natural world to lead him towards a crucial discernment for the path of his life. The spiritual realm of the landscape had become apparent to Jimmy, and from that point on, he promised himself to never stray far from its wisdom-bound hills. He walked from Dohosan back towards the shack, glancing back a few minutes into the walk to see the outline of the primordial hillside being stenciled by a subtle orange glow. A slight grin spread across Jimmy’s face, there was nothing quite like a sunset out on the prairie. He loved being outside during the twilight hours and witnessing the inexorable departure of the sun beyond the horizon.

— Malcolm Gregory ‘16

2015

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Donovan Lyon

Ginkgo During the summer of 2001, his family moved away from the blaring horns, flashing lights, and soaring skyscrapers of Manhattan to the quiet subdued suburbs of Wauwatosa. The most intriguing aspect of this new home for the four year-old boy was having his own yard since to him there was nothing more exciting than lush grass, enormous trees, countless bugs, and backyard picnics.

After their arrival, the city of Wauwatosa started planting pre-grown trees near the sidewalks and in front of houses. The boy was ecstatic when they decided to put one right in front of his house, a ginkgo tree. In his toddler memory, he remembered it being as tall as his dad when they first planted it and to him, that was pretty tall! He asked his dad why they were doing this and he said that trees keep the earth healthy, that it was their responsibility to keep the tree strong. As a five-year old, he saw this as the most important task he had ever been given. He had to keep his tree healthy.

The boy often let his imagination go. What would life be like for a tree? It must be great. They don’t have a worry in the world. They can just soak in the sun all day long, and they’re tall enough to have as good of a view as anyone. The boy thought about how much he loved his tree and his new home. Life couldn’t be sweeter.

During kindergarten, his mom would walk him home and when they were close, he’d run to their hose and fill up a watering can for the tree. By second grade, the ginkgo had grown to a point where he could see it from his bedroom window without even looking down. Around this time he would go to a friend’s house after school, but forget to water the tree. One summer, after third grade, there was a drought and hardly any rain for a month. The leaves began to turn brown and wither. The boy asked his mom, “Why is fall coming so early this year?” When she asked he why he would ask such a question, he responded by telling her about the tree. She explained that the tree just hadn’t gotten enough water lately. This worried him. He had forgotten his task! He had to keep his tree healthy so that it would look well again.

The boy felt bad for the trees; they had no control over their surroundings. It could be warm or cold, rainy or dry, sunny or cloudy, but the trees had no house to keep them warm, no access to a faucet.

They could grow, but they couldn’t move about. They could see farther than anybody, but they wouldn’t budge. Growing up was not always easy, he was finding out. The boy had less time to himself and more responsibilities. It was hard for him to notice his own freedom when he felt so restricted.

He and his mother continued to water their gingko for the rest of the summer, but it didn’t seem to look any better until autumn rolled around. The tree was big enough to provide sufficient shade for the picnics he and his mom often would enjoy until its leaves were gone for winter. It was their favorite spot.

In middle school, he heard a story on the news about a tree disease. Trees with this disease had little bumps on their leaves and were sure to die in the next five years. A diseased tree could easily spread its

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17 ailment to the trees close to it, and groups of diseased trees formed. Luckily, only weak trees were prone to catching the disease. The boy and his parents had taken care of their tree. The city was inspecting many of the trees to see which ones might get the disease, and they said theirs was safe because they had been taking care of it for most of his childhood. He had to keep his tree healthy so that the earth could be healthy.

By eighth grade, the ginkgo tree matured to the point where it could produce fruit. Squirrels and birds would hang out on the branches in the summer to gather the fruit, which wouldn’t be edible till winter. He was beginning to understand what his dad meant when he told him how trees can keep the environment healthy. Their tree was supporting its own mini-ecosystem, capable of helping sustain the life around it. He had been thinking about the tree in the wrong ways until now. He wondered how he could have missed the most important point. The tree had a purpose, and the boy had a purpose, even if he hadn’t realized it yet.

Their tree was still standing, by luck of the draw, when he started high school. Later in high school, he had become very interested in science, especially biology. He discovered that, contrary to his thoughts, trees rely more on The Sun than any other resource. He had thought that he and his family were the main reason the tree had survived. Although they were important to keeping the tree healthy, and therefore the earth, he had come to understand that The Sun was the main reason for health and even life; The Sun can’t do it by itself. Thanks to him, after all those years, the tree had grown to great heights, and the boy had hopes to return often to his roots in the yard. Most importantly, he was still standing. Sometimes that was all one could hope for.

— Donovan Lyon ‘15

2015

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Patrick Crowley

Millenia Sun streamed in through the kitchen windows. Bill opened the refrigerator and reached for one of the brown bottles in the back row, top shelf. He stopped in the middle of the shelf and instead grabbed a bright green can of ginger ale. Bill cracked the can open on the island countertop and sipped. A soccer ball slammed into the glass patio doors and Bill turned his head, his cheeks inflated with liquid. Amid the bags of chips, licorice, plates, and napkins he forgot the can’s place. His eyes moved near the kitchen sink where food-encrusted dishes were piled upon each other. A firm series of knocks pounded the patio doors, and Bill trudged to the other side of the room to unlock one of them. Bill’s wife Jen walked in carrying a large rolling cooler. Jen’s soaked dress dripped with water from the cooler.

“Bill—a little help here? Gotta make some room for the kids to play.”

Bill brought the cooler out to the garage and stared at the line of cars in his driveway. He lumbered back through his house and into the crowded backyard with his can. Parents stood near the backyard fence, chatting and taking pictures. Bill walked onto the patio and bumped into his unused grill, his son Alex having insisted on macaroni and cheese for his birthday meal. Bill couldn’t convince Alex to try some ground beef in his mac and cheese. That was the way his father used to eat it, but Alex rejected the idea.

“Bill! Hey, Bill!” Chris, nearly tripping on his flip flops, rushed over to Bill. Chris was Bill’s childhood friend and current neighbor.” How’s it going, man? It’s been a while! Looks like your boy’s been up to stuff,” said Chris.Bill recalled Jen congratulating Alex at the beginning of the year. He explained to Chris that Alex had made the honor roll.

“Nice, nice, good for him,” replied Chris. He nodded his head and glanced out at the kids. “So, you got any plans coming up with Jen? Melanie and I are going downtown for a wine tasting.” Bill’s daughter suddenly ran up to him and tugged a loose strand at the bottom of his shorts.

“Daddy, can I go over to Cassidy’s house to play?” Bill squinted to register Cassidy and her family.

He was fairly certain Cassidy lived next door or across the street, so he said, “Ali, please don’t interrupt Daddy like that when he’s in a conversation. Alright, go ahead.” Ali was already running to the side of the house by the time he finished his last word.

“So yeah, Melanie said it would be a great time, just talk to Jen about it for next weekend.” Bill was about to tell him he would think about it when Jen announced to the crowd that cake was served. Chris and Bill stepped to the table where Alex looked down upon the cake with widened eyes. The crowd proceeded to sing to him and he blew out all of his candles moments after they stopped. Jen cut the chocolate cake, the words “Happy 13th Alex!” becoming meaningless lines of red frosting. Bill and Chris took pieces and sat down nearby while Alex dug into his piece, smearing and crumbling it. He turned

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Revelation (Manual Photograph) Will Macheel ‘16

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Patrick Crowley

back to his mother and grinned, exposing all of his teeth, chocolate visible between them. Still grinning, he turned to face Dad. Bill cringed.

“Friend of yours?” Chris pointed out a young woman laughing and holding a red cup on the lawn.

“No. Hell no. What is she doing here? What is she, in her twenties? There’s no way she has kids here,” retorted Bill. Chris laughed. His mouth partially filled with cake, Chris said, “Thirteen years old. So he was born in—” “2001,” Bill cut in. Chris took another bite.

“2001. Damn. Hard to believe it was that long ago. Strange times, man.” Bill agreed. He remembered when he first moved into this house he agreed to be swept along with the way everything was going, although he didn’t know it at the time. Bill felt the urge to speak.

“So, did you vote last week?” Chris nodded and continued eating. Bill waited. After a moment of silence, Bill sighed and stood up. Chris didn’t seem to mind. Bill opened the patio door but before he could enter the house Jen walked out with presents in her arms. Raising her eyebrows and directing Bill with her forehead, he returned to the house and carried out the rest of the wrapped boxes. “Gift time!” she proclaimed and Alex, wearing his birthday hat, sat down to choose which he wanted to unwrap first.

He grabbed the biggest one on the table, a long rectangular box.

Alex tried shaking it around but Bill took the box from him and set it back on the table. Alex glared.

He tore the wrapping and bit through the box’s tape with his teeth. A board with four wheels beneath it slid out onto the table. One child exclaimed in amazement but quickly retreated when he felt the weight of the crowd’s eyes.

“What is it?” asked Alex.

“It’s a skateboard. You can ride it on the streets and sidewalks and go really fast. I had one when I was your age.” Alex flipped the board. Skulls and lightning bolts accented the body’s black and white finish. Alex said a few muddled words of appreciation and laid the board down on the ground. With each opened box and plastic shell, Bill made sure to inform him of the particular reasons behind each purchase.

After cleaning the accumulated trash, Bill watched the kids go back to playing soccer. Parents on the edges of the yard laughed and returned the ball when it went astray. Bill frowned as he finished his ginger ale, and he put it back on a patio ledge, one more in his row of empty cans. He attempted to call Alex’s name amid the yelling and occasional shrieking. Alex finally stopped. “What?”

After he approached Alex, Bill leaned down, smiled, and put his hands on his knees. “Want to get a real game going? We can have two teams and put some goalies on each end. That’s the way you should do it. I can even be the goalie for you; I know the rules.” Alex looked Bill in the eyes.

“No.” “Of course,” muttered Bill, quietly enough so that Alex might not hear him. Bill tried to make his case a little longer, following Alex into the middle of the playing area. Alex refused to look behind him.

A boy ran into Bill’s back and when he turned to apologize, the flying soccer ball struck the boy’s face.

The boy fell to the ground and blood trickled from his nostril. The young woman Chris had noticed rushed up and started rummaging through a bag.

Bill recovered himself and quickly asked, “I’m so sorry, I just didn’t see him I guess . . . um, you are?”

The girl looked at Bill with eyes which were at first panicked, then contemptuous.

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Peter J. Milbrath

21

“Danny’s au pair. Excuse me,” and she guided the boy into the house. The boy clung desperately to her shirt, stretching it and exposing her left shoulder. Together they limped into the house. Conversations resumed and Bill looked around for Chris, to no avail. Bill decided to head back into the kitchen but Jen stormed out and took him by the hand to the garage.

“I have tons of dishes and food and crap littered all over the kitchen, a bloody kid in the bathroom, and a missing daughter! Wake up!” Bill opened his mouth and raised his arm but Jen had already dashed out the side door. He spat out a few curse words. Frowning, Bill retraced his steps through the kitchen and looked at the appliances. Next to their control panels were the silver words “2000 Edition.” They now seemed so unsuitable for the house, even though they had been inside it since it was first built. He leaned back on the counter, stretched his arms out over his head and yawned. Then he opened the refrigerator’s door and reached for the top shelf.

— Patrick Crowley ‘16

The River of Life A river flows, slow. Waters of time pass through rapids, jungles.

It divides into other streams which all lead to the same place.

A fish enters this river Time and does not escape until the very end — a waterfall.

Fishermen wait at its bottom. They capture each fish from the undertow and separate their catch by size.

The smallest — scribbled rabbitfish — thrown away; The larger — yellowfin surgeon — saved for later; The largest — giant trevally — cooked right away.

— Peter J. Milbrath ‘18

2015

22

Luke Emery

Dead Silence Dead leaves drifted across my yard as I lurched into the driveway. Reluctantly, I exited the car.

Pausing, motionless, only my eyes were able to wander. I scanned the familiar landscape. It felt different, as though concealing a certain change that I could not wrap my mind around. I stood there for what felt like a lifetime before I found myself at the door. Although I was lost, my uncertainty didn’t stop me from opening the door, closing it behind me, leaving me in an even stranger place. The entry room was quiet. I began to count in my head: One. Two. Three. Four. That familiar sound did not answer.

Nothing. One . . . Two . . . Three . . . Four. Dead silence was difficult to get used to, and it now seemed a constant reminder. In the kitchen, my eyes shifted to those two bowls, untouched; the left one still has not been emptied. On the wall a framed photo, and the wicker basket, still there, unemptied. Then to the stairs, passing the room next to them—sometimes she would stay in there, but there was no reason to look now. I saw emptiness. I walked up the stairs to my room, and switched on my computer to drown out the silence.

I met her when I was six years old, just finishing first grade. We welcomed her into our home on that last day of school. I was too young to know, but I had met my best friend. We would play tag, hide and seek, and other games. She didn’t really follow the rules, I didn’t care. I would race her, but she’d always win. Her company was bright and we smiled when we saw each other. Just seeing her would be enough to make me happy. Before the bus picked me up for school, we played outside. When the bus arrived, she would chase me to it, but stop when I got on. I could tell that she didn’t want me to leave, but I had to. I would come home, and she would be waiting for me. I would open the door, and she would greet me with a toy and a smile. I was able to count the seconds for her to come from her room to see me when I closed the outside door. It was the same every day. Her unconditional love spoiled me.

When I was sick, she would appear at my bedside with a comforting presence. When I was lonely, she would curl up next to me. We would have conversations about our family, school, and games, but I ended up doing the talking. She was a great listener. I could not talk with anyone else, not even my parents. My trivial issues and grievances seemed too insignificant. That is why I talked to her. She was never burdened by our talks; rather, she welcomed them. I always appreciated her willingness to listen.

When I was sad, she would hug me until I felt better. When I could not make friends at school, she was there. When I was failing classes, she would ease me. When my family became too much for me to handle, she was there to make sure I stayed together. I could not imagine what my life would have been without her, my special ear to bend.

Slowly I drifted. My parents would leave me home alone more often; I would be home with just her. I learned to cook my own meals, do my own laundry and, of course, take care of her. Those days I would watch TV downstairs or play videogames. I’d entertain myself. She would sleep, only to get up

Signatures

23 to go outside, eat food, or to bring me one of her many toys. I would play with her when she did, but we would eventually get tired. In this we developed a rhythm, we shared the same mind. Our clockwork: predictable, expectant. I would come home, feed us, let her go outside, wait for her to come back in, play with her toys, then she would nap, and I would do schoolwork until bed. The cycle would repeat. I became self-sufficient, as most teenagers do. She aged with me. We still had our talks. I did not realize my growing dependence. After one dark night, she no longer came to greet me.

Every day I try; now I count in my head the seconds until she would have come to greet me with her happy face and wagging tail. I couldn’t accept how, after all the times I had left her, she left me—this one and only time. She took the bus to somewhere else and I stayed back. That night was the first I had cried in a long time. I bawled like I a toddler who’d lost his favorite toy. For the length of two days, I was five again: I would not eat, I did not leave the house, I couldn’t even get out of bed. I lost my Everything, my strength went with her. Slowly I picked up my shattered self and glued the pieces together as best I could. My life never quite went back to normal.

Now I am left with a house where Silence reminds me that she is gone. The Silence lingers, the loudest sound I know. It has become a part of the place I call home, and the best I can do is drown it out. With her gone, my routine has had to change. I come home now, open the garage door, enter the house, go straight to my room and drown it out with whatever comes out of the speakers. I no longer look for her though I would never give up on her.

Only one part of our routine persists: One. Two. Three. Four.

— Luke Emery ‘15

2015

24

Joey McBride

The Greenhouse Time drips; slow, heavy, a drooping leaf under the weight of a dew drop.

Gases, steams, mists rise, swirl and coalesce in lazy, meandering loops.

Paned reflections of yesterday’s hush seep through this secluded Sanctuary, this stagnant mirage of movement.

Hazy intoxicating Beauty: lost, forgotten in these pilgrims of progress.

The very breath of life, tangible.

Verdant vines and leaves cascade, unseen intertwinings of life: elongations of slight breaths and pulsations.

A body of unending vibrancy; this ethereal Shrine of stillness and silence.

— Joey McBride ‘16 Signatures

Khwan (Encaustic Mixed Media, 10” x 8”) Peter Kolb ‘15

26

Matthew Luettgen

Lennit Lennit looked down to Earth while he mentally scheduled his assignments. He came here almost every day because the slowly turning sphere helped him think. He had accepted a new assignment figuring that he could easily finish the two reports for third and fourth day respectively. The cleaners needed reprogramming but he could spread that out over the week. Hebrin had told him that the cleaners’ routes should vary from day-to-day so they wouldn’t all glitch at the same time. Such a glitch had never actually happened in Lennit’s career as a janitor, but he decided not to question Hebrin’s orders because he figured reprogramming a few cleaners would take less time than involving himself with all the elites’ shenanigans. For this new assignment, he needed to find someone who could read Benathye, which meant it would be Lennit’s choice from the variety of arrogant elites, or Savinto. Other than the fact that Hebrin and Savinto were feuding, the choice was obvious. Lennit trusted Savinto, who had convinced him to disconnect from the servers. If it weren’t for him, Lennit would still voluntarily be spending his life in front of a computer screen. He realized he hadn’t seen him recently, and felt guilty. As his window began to face away from Earth, Lennit made his way toward Savinto’s office.

He jumped back as the door opened in his face. Lennit entered the room without bothering to knock. “Don’t you ever bother to turn yourself away from that wall display and clean up around here?

Or even lock your door? This whole place smells like sweaty socks and expired algae flakes!”

Savinto looked away from his display. “Lennit, it’s good to see you! What you’re smelling is the scent of knowledge!”

Lennit decided to get to the point. “Savinto, you can speak Benathye, right?”

“I can, but it’s ‘Benadi,’ not ‘Benathye.’” He returned his gaze to his display.

“Everyone else I know pronounces it ‘Benathye’.”

“Lennit, the only people who pronounce it ‘Benathye’ are people who can’t speak Benadi. You’d think more people would be able to speak the language of Laridae’s founders.”

Savinto rolled his eyes and returned to his work. Lennit continued. “Anyways, I got another warning from Laridae’s inner workings.” Making sure to pronounce it right this time, Lennit added ‘in ‘Benadi’.”

Despite Lennit’s effort, Savinto remained focused on his screen. “I swear they’re developing, Lennit.

There has never been this much activity on Earth in a millennia. Imagine, humanity finally emerging from another decline. I have always wondered how much Earth has changed since our Benadi ancestors left in their orbitals all those years ago. I doubt they were really the last of the great empires. I just can’t convince the elites to publish it.”

“You’re too worried about this. Why don’t you try researching something else for once?”

Signatures

27 “Are you kidding? This is by far the most important thing I have attempted to prove. The only thing that’s in the way is that idiot, Hebrin. He thinks that if the elites publish my discoveries, I’d usurp him and reclaim my chair in the elites’ council. I don’t even want his stupid position anymore!” Savinto banged his fist on the screen, then rested his forehead against it.

Lennit didn’t know how to respond. Savinto seemed to have lost a smidge of sanity in his research.

Savinto rolled his head towards Lennit. “What was it you wanted me to do again?”

Lennit had forgotten about the assignment. “I need you to translate something from Benathye.”

Savinto flinched at the mispronunciation, but removed his head from the screen as Lennit displayed the message. “Let’s see it.” Savinto mumbled the message in what Lennit suspected was perfect pronunciation. As he read, his brow crossed.

“That’s strange. It advises you to travel to the other side of Laridae and repair the manipulator yourself.”

“What? No one’s been there in years. Does it say why I can’t just reprogram it?”

“The machine doesn’t know what’s wrong with itself, so it can’t automatically fix the problem. You know, those old electronics still haven’t been updated into Laridya. I’ll be happy to volunteer as your translator.”

“No, you don’t have to do that. You have to focus on your research. I’ll get Grawin or someone to come with me.” Grawin was a pompous idiot, but Savinto’s fixation had clearly affected his health.

“Laridae has her strongest telescope over there, so evacuees can plan exactly where their escape pods will land in an emergency. That telescope could provide me the evidence to reclaim my chair in the elites.

All we have to do is to fool Hebrin into letting you take me.”

“I don’t know about this.”

Savinto looked at the floor. “If I fail to provide information, the elites may consider reconnecting me.”

Lennit had no idea that Savinto’s situation had gotten this serious. He wanted to stay neutral in their feud, yet he couldn’t reject Savinto, who’d convinced him to disconnect from the servers. Savinto’s promise of apprenticeship never actually happened, but he still felt like he owed him.

“Fine, you can come. But leave the talking to me.”

Lennit returned to the display and dialed Hebrin. “Hello, Master Janitor Lennit,” Hebrin paused for a just a second, “Savinto.” Apparently, Lennit was on his good side.

“Hebrin. I have information about the broken manipulator. I request access to Laridae’s center.”

“Proceed.”

Following Lennit’s summary of the problem, Hebrin asked, “And you’re certain that Savinto correctly translated the document?”

Savinto glared at Hebrin. “I have contributed six documents written completely in Benadi. How can you possibly think that I am unqualified to translate a simple warning message? Even Lennit knew enough to know the gist of it!”

Lennit ignored Savinto’s insult. Hebrin looked concerned. “I did not intend to offend you, Savinto.

I am only concerned that this situation might conclude similarly to the last time you came for our help.

“Savinto stared at the floor. All three of them knew that Hebrin was expressing more than his own concern.

2015

28

Matthew Luettgen

“I can send you the data, if you wish to confirm it.” Machines couldn’t translate nearly as well as Savinto, but Hebrin probably knew enough Benadi to understand the basic meaning of it.

Hebrin opened his display and skimmed the message. Then he looked them in the eye and said, “Very well. It seems that Savinto successfully translated it. I grant both of you access to the center. But be careful. I’ve never sent anyone there and I don’t think Dwargasen or Vanjus have either.”

Lennit noticed that Savinto had been quiet, and was currently staring at the floor. “I hope you realize that I have complete trust in his translating abilities.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” As if jokingly, he put on a malicious smile and added, “I almost feared that we would be forced to reconnect him.”

Their conversation ended and Lennit turned off the display.

Several hours later, he found himself wandering down a cramped corridor to the other side of Laridae. “Savinto, I wish your Benadi didn’t make the walls transparent. All these connects are just creepy, especially in the dark.”

Savinto was walking directly behind Lennit. “Lennit, this is why we disconnected. You don’t want to spend your life in stasis like one of them, do you?” Lennit thought he heard Savinto mumble “I sure don’t.”

“What would you do if they reconnected you?”

Savinto thought for a moment then said, “I’d probably troll. Before I disconnected, I was good at trolling.” Now this was a surprise.

“You, trolled? Really? Why’d you leave?”

“I was bored of earning worthless points and wanted my choices to affect my future. It turns out I can’t actually do that here.” Savinto started climbing again. “What about you? You never actually told me the reason you finally decided to come with me.”

“My party abandoned and I got upset.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. They sucked anyways.”

“Oh.” They did not speak for about the next half-rotation. Lennit eventually started conversation to distract himself from the crowd of motionless people. The subject rarely strayed from Savinto’s work and how much they hated Hebrin. They soon entered the other side of the orbital.

Lennit turned to Savinto. “Let’s go work on the manipulator first. It’s just up that hallway.”

“Fine, but let’s do it quickly. We took so long to get up here that Hebrin has probably already thought of a reason to get suspicious of us.”

Savinto entered the door first. “Now, let’s go do some translating.” Lennit just stood while Savinto accessed the display on the manipulator. As Savinto worked, he could barely hold the display. When he finished translating, he said, “Well, my part is done, I’m going to check out the telescope now.”

“Alright, I’ll probably take a while. I’ll join you after I’ve fixed it.”

He expected the job to last longer than it did. The manipulator had shut itself down because a metal fragment had jammed a motor. He packed up and sent his data to Hebrin, then he journeyed back through the door to find Savinto.

Signatures

Lennit

29

He found the telescope deserted.

He peered around the corner. “Savinto?” A light above one of the escape pod doors had been lit.

Lennit found that the door was still open. Savinto bent over a display inside the pod.

“Savinto? What are you doing?”

Savinto stared wide-eyed at him. Lennit realized he had caught him in the act. Then, as if he told someone every day, Savinto said, “I’m hacking this escape pod so I can escape to Earth.”

“That’s insane, Savinto! You don’t have to travel to Earth to prove your thesis. You didn’t even use the telescope!”

“Do you really think Hebrin cares about telescope images?”

“But you’ll be stuck in the middle of nowhere for the rest of your life.”

“And that’s how I want it.”

“What?”

“Lennit, what’s left for me here in Laridae? Hebrin has my chair in the elites, I can’t get any of my work published, and the elites will reconnect me once Hebrin persuades them to. I can’t get reconnected. It took enough of my strength to get out of there. Look outside, Lennit, Earth looks clean once again. I’d rather go there than back to the servers. I can get a new life on the new Earth.”

“I just can’t see how you can leave.”

“Let me put it this way. The Benadi left Earth so their descendants could return to a clean Earth.

But the majority of their descendants are either addicted to the servers or obsessed with bureaucracy.

I’m not insane, everyone up here is. Frankly, I don’t trust anyone to recontact Earth’s inhabitants besides myself and possibly yourself. You don’t have to get it. I’ve made up my mind.” Savinto crossed his arms.

“So you’re just going to leave me here. You’re the one who reconnected me. You promised me an apprenticeship.”

“I can take you along if you want me to.” Lennit found this offer strangely appealing. He imagined himself relaxing on Earth, hundreds of miles below Hebrin. Then, he thought of Hebrin’s promise all that time ago. “No, my life is here. I have two apprentices that I have to train.”

“Suit yourself. Take care, Lennit.” The escape pod doors dropped inches in front of Lennit’s face and he heard the clanking of machinery. Through a small window in the door, he saw Savinto’s grin for the last time as the metal object disconnected from Laridae. The pod shrunk in size until it disappeared into a great ocean. Lennit found himself looking down to Earth once again.

— Matthew Luettgen ‘16

2015

30

Niko Sjogren

The Real Search The guilt is the worst of it all. My feelings, I mean. All it took was one sideways glance, one moment of inattentiveness, and I created the biggest problem I think I have ever been in. It still boggles me how I could let this even occur, but it did. I can remember it as it if it were yesterday.

That summer I had become a full-fledged counselor for the Shaded Pines summer camp. Located within a local forest, it was a perfect place for the hundreds of campers who came each summer.

Thanks to their staff program, I spent two weeks as an assistant and when the opportunity to become a staff member presented itself, I took it. I had gotten the younger kids, roughly eight years old, most of whom had come there before. One newcomer, his name was Amon, came from Egypt and, because of his unfamiliarity with the camp and probable culture shock, I wanted to keep an eye on him. Spirits were high, and I and my assistants were ready to tackle the arrival. Counselors and Assistant Counselors bustled about, placing last minute touches on the camp and taking their places for the first cars to come down that long, dusty camp road. A warm breeze glided through the air and, as I looked up at the cloudless azure sky, I knew it would be a perfect day. I took my place on the road, screaming greetings to each and every face. I saw so many smiles from behind the car windows, and the sight warmed my heart.

Over the next couple of hours, cars came and went, parents said their goodbyes, and soon enough the cabins gathered as one. I walked into my cabin, and already my assistants had created a circle with introductions: James, Rick, Donovan, Liam, Terry, Joe, Nick, Sam and Amon. My own group of hyperactive little monkeys, my campers. Their brimming energy was something to behold. I could tell that every one of them was ready to tackle the day. I explained the rules and plans for the rest of the day, which included the mandatory swim tests, camp tour, and so forth. I released the kids for free time, and they bolted. I glanced around to find my friend Liz, a native Sicilian, who came to the States at a young age.

We became friends as campers, and as counselors we were a dynamic duo. “It’s so wonderful. All of the campers seem to love it here already,” she chuckled. I gave her a quick hug, and looked back at all of the kids running around.

“I’m just happy that Amon is adjusting well. He came from Egypt, so it’s his first year. I’m pretty excited for him,” I responded. Overhead, the sun began to sink, and the bell rang, signaling dinner. I grabbed our milk crate filled with supplies for sandwiches and sat down next to my campers. “So, how’s it all going, guys? Enjoying everything so far?” I raised my hand for calm as the barrage of responses from the campers nearly overwhelmed me. I noticed subtly enough that only Amon did not answer, yet I quickly dismissed it as nothing more than nerves from the arrival. As I lay down to sleep, I heard stifled sobbing. I got up, shocked, and shone my flashlight around the room till I found the source: Amon. I approached his bunk carefully. “Hey, buddy. What’s wrong?”

Signatures

Rough Seas (Acrylic on Canvas, 14” x 11”) Daniel Lenz ‘15

32

Niko Sjogren

He looked up and sniffled, wiping his nose and gazing at me with deep mahogany eyes. “I wanna go home.”

I rubbed his shoulder gently and whispered, “It’s gonna be alright. The first day always is the hardest. But, trust me, you’ll have the greatest day tomorrow, alright, bud?” He nodded softly, and buried his head in his pillow. I walked back to my bunk and extinguished the flashlight. I put my head on my pillow feeling a pang of guilt surge through me. If I didn’t pull through, how could he possibly trust me to do anything? I pushed away the thoughts and fell into a deep sleep.

The next morning, I woke up to the sound of chirping birds and the warming sun flaring through the weak shades of my eyelids. The sleeping forms of the campers slowly rose and fell, their steady breathing indicating that they were still in the reverie of slumber. I smiled slyly to myself, checking my watch and bracing myself for the inevitable “alarm clock.” Surely enough, right at 7:30, a golf cart tore through the cabin area, Liz and Ian on the back screaming, “TIME TO GET UP! LET’S GO!!” The campers jolted awake. Caught up in the adrenaline rush, even I couldn’t resist jumping, wearing only my boxers, from my bunk to get the kids prepared for the day. I stopped at Amon’s bunk and made sure that he was ready and enthusiastic. Most of all, I wanted to ensure that I didn’t let him down. A bell clanged three times, the breakfast signal. The din of the dining hall was overwhelming. Overlapping conversations muddled with questions about activities, more food, and chatter. Amon was opening up once again, and I hoped that things were looking up. I excused myself from the table and found Liz with her cabin. I tapped her on the shoulder and pulled her aside. “Hey, if it’s possible, can you keep an eye on Amon? I feel like if he needs someone, you’ll have a better connection, you know?” She nodded in understanding. Many campers flocked to her, and the bonds she made had helped many a hapless camper.

“Yeah, sure. No problem. I’ll keep you posted during the day on how he’s doing,” she responded brightly. Just then, raucous music blared. We turned to see the campers getting up and dancing, and we looked back at each other.

“Well, that’s our cue. Have fun today!” I tossed back at her. After wading through what seemed to be half the camp, I reached the table where, to my delight, everyone was dancing, including Amon. By the end of three songs we were all buzzing with energy. The daily announcements dismissed the cabins to their activities. Before everyone left, I pulled Amon aside. “Are you sure you’re alright?” I asked. He just smiled back and responded brightly.

“Yep! I can’t wait to have some fun today!” He ran off, and I just chuckled to myself. On the first day the camp had a tradition. The cabins would split into two teams and go into the forest to play a game of capture the flag. The campers, from a day’s worth of activities and with the prospect of a game in the forest, were in even higher spirits. The setting sun allowed only the slightest chill to creep in, and the sky was wreathed in radiant fiery colors. The whole camp gathered on a hill near the forest, giddy even after a day packed with activities and fun. After the rules were explained I, along with Mike and Rob, ran into the forest, followed closely by the throng of the kids. Every counselor did the same, and I was able to share a grin with Liz on the way into the forest. Soon laughs and shrieks of joy were heard everywhere, as well as playful jabs by some of the older campers. The game seemed to last forever, yet after a few hours the trumpet sounded to signal “game over” and the kids trickled back to the campfire hill. Mike took a count. We were one short. I took a count to double check. James, Rick, Donovan,

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The Real Search

33

Liam, Terry, Joe, Nick, Sam. No Amon. A wave of dread crashed into me. No longer was the chill in the air pleasant. It had malice behind it. The growing dusk cast shadows into the forest, and every second the panic I now held in my heart had a greater chance of consuming me. I sprinted over to the camp director. “Sir, I don’t mean to alarm you, but I have a missing camper. Permission to search for him.”

The director’s eyes widened. “Go. Take Liz and a few others with you. Make sure the rest of your tent gets down safely.” I told Mike and Rob to handle the kids, and I quickly briefed Liz. She gasped and grabbed a flashlight while I fished mine out of my pack. Together Liz and I formed a group with six other counselors and set out. A panicked energy filled me as I retraced my steps, hollering for Amon.

The rest of the counselors did the same, but the forest only echoed with their calls. With each return of silence, I could feel tears welling up in my eyes. The guilt of losing a camper and failing at my duties had finally taken over and, for a minute, I stood in a small clearing and cried. This feeling of helplessness had finally won, and my imagination provided only the worst case scenarios.

Liz changed that. “Over here! Quickly!” Relief wrapped every word. I followed the sound of her voice, remnants of tears streaming and drying on my face. Surely enough, covered in dirt and scrapes, was Amon. All I could do was hug him tightly while he sobbed into my shoulder. For a moment, a sort of calm took over, knowing that everything was going to be alright. We walked back to the camp.

Amon looked up at me with his innocent brown eyes, asking quietly, “Can I go home yet?” I promised him that I would see what I could do.

That summer was supposed to be one of opportunity. I had hoped to expand my range of knowledge, to somehow have an impact on people and, most of all, be the best staff member I could be.

Instead, all I can think of is the boy I let down. I realize he forgave me, and even came back, but the fact that I failed not only as a counselor but as the one who made a promise to a young boy to make sure he had fun, was unforgivable. I want to say that the week improved for him, but it didn’t. Amon left early with his parents, and I was given a lecture. Thanks to this, I know I’ll never become a staff member. I only wish that I could have made it better for Amon—made sure that he had more fun, more opportunities to grow, chances to be himself. But instead, I failed miserably. I guess now I’m the one who’s really lost here.

— Niko Sjogren ‘15

2015

34

Charlie Elliott

The Caddy Shack “So, Charlie, I understand you’ve been slacking, not contributing as you should,” Max said from his deep seat in a smooth, cushioned leather chair in Caddy Master Bill’s office. He tapped his fingers together.

“Sir, you may feel that way, but let me assure you those allegations are false. I have been working tirelessly.”

“You see, Charlie, our organization is like a centipede. Without all its legs working together, it can hardly move forward.”

“But . . .”

“I don’t want to hear it!” He spun around, opened a drawer in the wide desk, selected a folder from it and, opening the folder, held it before himself. “I see your record is very poor, Charlie.”

“Sir, my record is empty,” I said.

“And that reflects your poor work ethic, Charlie. I’ll have to discuss with the Board how to proceed.”

“It’s an empty folder, sir, that you grabbed. That’s the office supply drawer.”

“Like I said, I will re-consider your future at the company. I will talk with the Board.” He revealed part of a wooden shelf from under Caddy Master Bill’s desk. “Mr.Board, what is your view on Charlie’s work—or lack thereof?” He paused. “I see your empty expression, empty like his record. You believe we should relieve Charlie of his duties. Empty his position, in a manner of speaking.”

“Sir, what most needs emptying, sir, is my bladder.”

Standing up, Max said, “Well, I am letting you go, any which way about it.” He unlocked the office door behind him and returned to his seat. “Charlie!” he shouted after me, “Upon further consideration, I will return your job to you on one condition: that you recognize my benevolence and use it as a source of motivation, because you need to work much harder.”

After my visit to the restroom I returned to sit in Caddy Master Bill’s office. “Alright, Max, quit pretending you’re in charge and get me some popcorn.”

“Not going to happen. You think I’m going to give up this seat?”

“Then I’ll get it myself.”

“Good man. Now you’re learning some initiative.”

I walked over to the drinking fountain, and then passed the wall separating the caddy area from the Club Members’ Parking Lot, to the popcorn maker in the bag room.

“No caddies in the bag room! Get behind the wall!” Dane twirled his wet towel and whipped my leg.

Spinning in the leather chair on the basketball court behind the wall, Max said, “You see, Charlie, all

Signatures

35 the rest of us are trying to run an orderly, reputable country club, but no, you have to go and mess it all up.” He waved his arms in the air and grinned.

“Okay, Bill,” I said.

“I am not Caddy Master Bill. Unlike you, I recognize when I am subordinate.”

I wandered back in front of the wall and Max, scooting in the chair, followed me. Dane sat on a wooden-paneled garbage container and swung his legs. Gary, a slow-moving retired firefighter with a handlebar mustache who wore a baseball hat low over his eyes, sat on a cart. I leaned against a cream colored column and surveyed the range across the parking lot where a couple golfers practiced their swings.

Dane threw a tee at me. “What’d I tell you about staying behind the wall?’”

I caught the tee and threw it back at him. He let it drop.

— Charlie Elliott ‘15

Graphite Donut (Graphite, 7” x 7”) Jack Davis ‘17 2015

36

Jack A. Nichols

Palm Tree Hugh allowed his eyes to drift aimlessly away from the stern of his muddied oak canoe. It was low tide, and the waves crashed gently against his bare legs and feet as his toes burrowed in the soft brown sand. The receding water made them visible for a moment before another wave crashed. A brisk wind brought goose bumps to his arms. He scanned the horizon and with ease, located his destination, a small coral island and, situated in its center, a palm tree. His heart began pounding at the sight of it.

The very thought of its golden sandy beaches and hunter-green vegetation brought a small grin to his freckled face. The island stood out against its gray backdrop. The sun would descend soon, and the island would disappear. The grassy green of the plants, the purple and orange fruits and, of course, the lonesome slender tree with its leaning trunk and leafy palms would all be erased from view by nightfall.

The image would remain in his mind as Hugh walked back home to his mother and twin sister. They probably did not realize he had been gone and in the morning he would walk to school where he was reminded daily of his loneliness. He would sit in the back and dream about island life, independent and free. Spotting that beautiful island had transformed his life. Now he would escape. Everything will change, he reasoned. And with complete confidence and self-assurance, Hugh dragged the canoe into the sea, situated his feet inside and pushed off.

It seemed like the island was retreating from the boat. With each glance upward, Hugh’s enthusiasm diminished. He shifted on his bench and felt the ache of his back and shoulders. Calluses had begun to form over his soft skin. His attitude became somber. With each passing moment, the island became less and less illuminated. Hugh’s mind, however, remained transfixed by the fleeting image of a palm tree. Waves shook the canoe back and forth, pounding against its weak exterior. He knew that his neighbor had overcharged him for the relic. Old Clancy, as the town called him, had convinced Hugh that the timeworn wooden canoe would get the job done. He pondered his encounter with the wrinkly gray-haired man. When Hugh questioned him about the island, he had remained silent and then proceeded to ignore any further inquiries. Silence was out-of-character for the boisterous curmudgeon. It only now struck Hugh that other inhabitants could have already made claims to his paradise.

Hugh pondered this possibility, and a smile returned to his face. Clancy was absent-minded and never ventured far from his store. Even if people did live on his island, they were likely beautiful goddesses.

Looking up, Hugh could see their light blond hair flowing gently with the breeze. The pigment in their skin was sandy tan; after blinking, they became indistinguishable.

Among many sources of his agony, Hugh’s hunger began to bother him the most. He became weak and could only loosely grip the oars. He even became angry because he was reminded of his mother— Mrs. Mins as some called her. The woman who was supposed to put food on the table was lazy and incompetent. During the evenings, Hugh worked at the convenience store and after he brought home dinner. He had once asked his mother to bake a loaf of sourdough bread and grew frustrated when she

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37 admitted she did not know how. Every mother should know that, Hugh reasoned. He blamed her for it all: the hunger, the gloom, the frustration. He was never capable of forgiveness after her frank admittance of inability even if it was as trivial as making sourdough bread. It was a memory that he knew would never leave his mind. The only thing that dissuaded him from smashing his fists against the canoe was a quick glimpse of the island. It seemed close, closer than before. Now he knew he would not fail. Now he knew his past life was over, and his mother would only be seen in bad dreams. He knew that after months of fantasizing, paradise was here.

The canoe glided across the last few meters and sank into moist sand. Motionless, Hugh gazed over the island. The shrubbery was even greener than he had expected, and the fruits appeared ripe and vibrant, ready to be consumed. The sky had lightened as if giving Hugh one final moment before it descended below the horizon. The strange light reminded him of an old saying of Clancy’s: “the sky is always brightest just before the sun disappears.” It was Clancy’s variation of an old axiom, and Hugh assumed it was just some nonsensical wording about how great life could become in just an instant.

Suddenly, all lethargy was gone, and Hugh leapt to his feet only to stumble forward. The wobbling surprised him for he had predicted the sand would mold around the canoe causing a solid footing. After regaining balance, Hugh’s eagerness overpowered him, and he lifted his pale bare foot off the canoe and gently held it just above the sand. Wanting to savor the moment, Hugh gently lowered his foot onto the beach. Before he could add more weight, painful instinct caused him to retract. His foot was scorching. There must be something wrong with my foot, Hugh thought. In disbelief, he jumped from the canoe and sprinted towards the dark green bushes. Each step on the beach caused Hugh to clench his teeth and groan in agony. Upon reaching the shade, Hugh picked the largest and ripest fruit he could find. It was an exotic shade of purple and perfect in figure and texture. Sinking his teeth deep into its core, Hugh grimaced and spat the bite back out. The fruit felt hard as a rock and left a sour aftertaste.

Dropping the rest to the ground, Hugh placed his hand on the trunk of a tall tree to stop himself from falling over. Something pricked him; crimson spread over his hand. The tree felt like sandpaper; surely, it was some trick of the devil. He did not have to glance over to know that this was the beautiful palm tree. It was the horrendous majestic tree of the devil. Tears rolled down his cheeks and fell to the ground where they were quickly absorbed by the sand. No trace of them was left behind. With no further thought, Hugh ran back to his familiar oak canoe. The pain of the hot sand no longer bothered him. The soles of his feet were already burned, and he was convinced nothing could bring him further dismay. Hugh pushed off with the old misshapen oar directing his boat towards the smoke now coming from Old Clancy’s chimney. The rowing became difficult. The current fought against him as it had on his way to the island. With eyes locked on his small coastal town, Hugh gasped. There, next to the rising smoke, among other trees, was something he had never noticed, a palm tree. It was the same dark green with leafy palms, and Hugh knew that at the base, it curved slightly. How could he have missed it?

The barely visible fruits on adjacent trees made his mouth water. Hugh remembered he was famished; a deep desire for his mother’s home-made sourdough bread swept over him. The tears were gone for he knew it would take courage and resilience to make it back to his poor fragile mother. He imagined the soft texture of her tantalizing sourdough bread. The sun’s light continued to shine. His body felt heavy, and the aches continued to burn—surely they would become unbearable at any moment. But it would take everything to get back to paradise, so he did not let it dampen his spirit.

2015

— Jack A. Nichols ‘17

38

Peter Kolb

2020 “A Photo” (n.): A particular photograph of oneself in replication of “The Photo” (see entry); known to induce an extreme and oftentimes unhealthy amount of pleasure in the viewer. See “The Photo Generation” for more information.

—added to Merriam-Webster June 30th, 2017

At least seven students were reported to have been caught with a mobile device under the covers, eyes frozen in place, viewing The Photo for an unhealthy amount of time after informing their parent(s) that they would be unable to attend school in response to a cold, fever, some other fake-able sickness (ironically, this extraordinary amount of time spent staring at their screen—so painfully lit they never noticed how bright it really is until they looked away—actually got them sick for real). The situation quickly escalated to the point where kids—kids who have never met, seen, or heard of the Original Subject—were creating accounts for the sole purpose of liking The Photo. They weren’t doing it in order to fit in socially the way one could come to expect from the socially-cognizant Generation Y, but rather they felt some debt to The Photo, as if it was their personal responsibility to pay homage to It by means of a “Like.” Fan Pages were created, School Clubs were proposed (then rejected) and by the end, even billboards were erected—although by that time nobody could look up to see them—all in the name of The Photo.

Along with the cult-like obsession pretty much everyone had with It, a wave of popularity would be expected to come to the Original Subject. But no. And in a way, it made sense. Because people knew the pleasure of looking at The Photo had nothing to do with him. It was a picture of him. So there was no frantic teenager screaming “you’re that guy from The Photo!” or really any dose of recognition towards The Original Subject. If anything, the kid’s social standing took a semi-serious blow after he posted It. People looked, they liked, but most of all they obsessed. They envied. Because what has this kid done to deserve The Photo? In fact, he doesn’t even appreciate it (it’s still yet to claim his profile picture over the ill-focused photo of him and Alex Trebek from his trip to California three summers ago).

Press those who attack The Original Subject for not deserving The Photo with the obvious follow-up question, “who does?” and you’ll be greeted with a few moments of avoidant eye movement, “hm’s” and maybe if you’re lucky a half-hearted cop-out answer, e.g., “well, certainly not me.” And so if no one truly deserves The Photo like The Original Subject doesn’t, maybe it never should have been taken? And maybe it shouldn’t have. Because . . .

Naturally, people began to (attempt to) replicate The Photo, studying The Original Pose, and eventually broke it down into three main parts: 1) The camera should be held such that the angle of depression equals roughly 30° (or smaller depending on the thickness of The Subject’s eyebrows/lashes).

2) The Subject’s eyes must look directly at the camera, i.e., not the screen. An essential part of The Pose is that The Subject must not hide from the fact that s/he is taking a picture of him/herself. Be proud of

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Marilyn Monroe (Graphite, 10” x 8.5”) Zach Wiesen ‘15

40

Peter Kolb

the inherently arrogant act and thus take away any possible critiques of arrogance, self-centeredness, etc. 3) The jawline, the most important aspect. The Pose relies on a clear, defined jawline produced by the slight tilt down of the The Subject’s head, such that s/he is looking up at the camera with a sort of baby-face that still manages to convey complete sincerity.

Keep in mind these incredibly specific measurements and instructions for the replication of The Original Pose arose well after The Photo first surfaced. When taking The Photo, The Original Subject thought nothing of angles of depression, eye contact, or chiseled jawlines. In fact, It was posted at exactly 8:47 P.M. on a Friday, which would strike any socially-experienced high schooler as a terrible time for a picture to be posted, “Likes” wise. Seeing as most kids are already socially engrossed in some sort of party or get together around 8:47 P.M. on a Friday, few are going to be bothered with social media at that time, and those that are checking it are merely using it to feign attention, too, as the aforementioned party or get together is not going well for them (and besides, the type that turns to his/her phone as rescue from social engagement is too self-conscious to post, or “Like” any photo on social media in the first place). The point is, by all possible analysis, The Photo was simply another selfie. But the other point is, the first point is completely wrong.

Uninspired photos of users’ babies, vacation pictures and social nights-out evacuated timelines and were quickly replaced by the bastardized yet still eerily hypnotic renditions of The Photo. Quickly, even simple textual status updates were considered obsolete, unworthy of users’ digital time or clicks unless accompanied by A Photo.

Contrary to most social media trends which follow a rapid rise to an unpassable level of popularity, followed by an even more rapid descent into obscurity, there was no unpassable level of popularity for The Photo. There was no hint of drop-off in popularity at all. Execution of The Pose became almost irrelevant. As long as The Subject followed the loose guidelines set by the Three Points, s/he would create A Photo that not only captured but completely dominated The Viewer’s attention.

And, of course, in a way any older generation would love to disapprovingly scoff at, The Pose quickly integrated itself into the real physical world. Because how do you know when someone is taking A Photo in public?! You don’t. In fact, you can safely assume with the aforementioned growth in popularity that someone is almost always taking A Photo in whatever public venue. So this therein prompts a serious chance that you could unwillingly end up in the background of A Photo. And this background out-of-Pose may have just caused you to commit a sort of social-media-suicide (because by this time no doubt your social-media accounts have been cleansed of all non-Posing photos, so revealing your true non-Posing self to the social-media world would—well, you get the point). So this ever-hanging threat of social-suicide resulted in streets filled with heads tilted slightly down, constantly in Pose, searching perimeters for a camera to acknowledge and accept responsibility. Soon enough, the collective head of society was locked in an incredibly dangerous, albeit attractive, posture for any theoretical camera.

People began adjusting their hobbies, careers and day-to-day activities so that their head might always maintain The Pose.

An immediate increase in drink spills, general bump-ins, etc., could be observed across the United States. Ad agencies were sent into a hectic scramble to claim the new-prized advertising real estate; i.e., street roads, lobby floors, anything else below the waist of the average consumer, i.e., the new eye level.

Within a year of its conception, this new-era advertising had successfully covered every stretch of grass, cement, clay, dirt, any material a potential consumer could be walking upon—in advertisements. This

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Alex Murphy

41

also meant the death of billboards, fireworks, kite-flying, and you can forget about sky-writing, seeing as no one could risk looking up to the sky for that extent of time (photographs taken from below a subject are notoriously unattractive).

In the interval from November 2, 2015 (the date The Photo was posted) to November 2, 2020, injuries resulting from “public carelessness and/or clumsiness” had increased 246%, car crashes due to “driver error” increased 160% (most of these resulting from the wave of Driving Photos that trended from 2017-2018), number of billboards decreased 96%, and the number of intimate relationships decreased 71%. These stats, mostly the one concerning intimate relationships, contributed to a massive sort of social depression. By 2020, society had transformed itself into a directionless, disconnected, hypnotized mass of Subjects. And while public morale and general feelings toward life were at an all-time low, nearly every member of The Photo generation could agree. They were the most attractive group of depressed people the world had ever seen.

— Peter Kolb ‘15

Ignorance is Bliss In the Name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit I don’t pray for the Poor or the Diseased so much as I pray for the Fundamentalist, I pray for the Bigot.

Those who see this world as Black and White Could enjoy many more colors by changing their sight.

Those who can’t risk admitting they don’t know Are disallowing themselves to grow.

This world is a mystery not to be solved.

I place my faith in not comprehending.

After this, I need no mending.

If anything, I have evolved, No longer trapped in an abyss Now that I understand Ignorance is Bliss.

— Alex Murphy ‘15

2015

42

Peter Ahn

A Ballad in Black “The lover of nature is he whose inward and outward senses are still truly adjusted to each other; who has retained the spirit of infancy even into the era of manhood.”

—Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Nature”

A clear dark night in early July, embers die and the heat wanes. The sky above me comes alive. The warmth thrown from the fire cannot compare to the warmth emitted from this tired old guitar I am holding. Staring into the dying soul of this fire fills me with growing feelings of regret for the death of unspoken thoughts and unpursued relationships. I draw on this sorrow which allows me to play in a manner which normally I cannot touch. A door opens to emotions that do not have a chance to surface in a life so busy the only time I can step away are those final minutes of a day. Gazing upon the very source of my awe creates a connection between mind and body that takes shape in a story told without words. It swells in my whole being, the journey of a soul that becomes, in and of itself, sheer experience.

Yet not all can be told through a voice of discontent. There must be balance to a story created near the heart of a fire.

I find this balance by looking into the night sky whose backdrop reveals itself as an endless velvet curtain of blackness. Like jewels in a royal’s crown, thousands of stars are scattered across the expanse of night sky. In a cascade of faint blue and green live endless gases and galaxies. Their colors flow into my soul and fill the void left by raw passion and anger. The endless view of the heavens above and the sight of the dying flames below bring me into perfect equilibrium with all of creation. The cradle of this very universe is where I sit and where my heart opens with the passion brought by this dying flame and this expanse of age old heavens.

Pen and paper cannot possibly keep pace with this waterfall of ideas and emotions. They express themselves instead in a melody of the universe, a song relatable to every being to walk the earth. Less of a song, more of a journey, this odyssey I travel is one of a thousand steps, yet not a single step do I take from the seat I sit in now. Notes seem to flow from a place beyond me. Removed from the scene like the observer of some one-man band, I feel the bond that holds this night sky to these dying flames. The stars and galaxies thousands of light years away manage to capture just as much of my attention as the glowing embers only a few feet away. Sound melts together, the popping cords a deranged metronome to the chords rising from the wood I cradle. Mixing in with the natural sounds of a summer night, a peculiar orchestra of emotion and wonder emerges, a dedication to the heavens above and the souls below.

The heat softens. I realize that my removed view is fading. I slide back to the embers and tired guitar I hold, slowly ending the journey of my soul. No world, ours or any other, is perfect. Always there will be shortcomings, always moments we wish we could relive, decisions we wish we would have made.

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Corwaun D. Clark

43

But our ghosts cannot haunt us forever. Some remain, in the dark corners of our hearts, but most are purged in pure moments such as this one now. So I get up and walk away, leaving the embers glowing like the smoldering parts of our hearts.

— Peter Ahn ‘17

Made by Society The barcodes printed down to our core, always written in Ink. All hear the crying of a girl who loves Black; dreary too, her brother, lover of White.

So many companions, wailing through life, unable to remove that code and evolve, oppressed— no more than a label, unchanged.

All but one, willing to accept that prophesized existence.

Sparks of change, derived consciousness.

Stumbling to give life to ideas in dream, disturbed by their scream: ringing, ringing, ringing.

“Would they ever follow a simple scheme?’

One final cry of misery, the girl of Black.

Focused on that code, those numbers, that powerless print, that prison.

Now with the strength to diverge, set free; yet overwhelmed by sorrow, no doll now thinks differently.

Reach down into the soul, remove that symbol of slavery, control.

— Corwaun D. Clark ‘18 2015

44

José Medina

Evil Creatures What I hold to be Reality slowly deteriorates . . .

Unconvinced by stories, The Green One demands the spotlight.

It hungers as it locks itself in the vault.

The Red One requires an audience.

A cacophony of crows Swarm like a tear from clouds forced gray then, Like a supernova, its anger explodes, Damaging all in its wake.

The Blue One demands empathy.

Like a naughty child in the corner It ponders questions of the world.

An early warning system through each binary, Pricking each niche of body, Swarms of bees. Sting.

Then, from the last ring, He comes forth, crawling and clawing, His hair wildly unloved— On the hunt.

— José Medina ‘16

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Portrait of Woman (Acrylic on Canvas, 16” x 20”) Nick Reit ‘15

46

Matthew N. Gottsacker

The Big Picture “You’re missing the big picture!” he slurred. “It isn’t about what you want, it’s about what other people think of you!”

I slammed my bedroom door in his face. A second later, I heard the lock click from the outside.

“And if you come out of there with that thing in your ear, I’ll rip it out myself!”

No worries, I don’t plan on coming out . . . Geez, all for one little piercing? I can’t win.

It’s times like these when I find solace in isolation. I like to chill on the roof whenever my parents get heated at me like this. We’re only on the seventh floor, but this building goes ten times as high. The climb sucks but, hey, it’s worth it. As long as you can handle some creaky iron stairs, you’ll be fine.

But God, you should see the view from up here! Right around now, when the sun sets. I watched as the Master of our Days changed from gold to orange to red. His creatures flew toward Him, turning and gliding through the air like snakes through water. And the sky! I saw every shade of a king: pink, violet, blue; hell, I was king for the evening! How could it be that such awful haze could cause such beautiful design?

With the setting sun came the icy wind of the fall. The wind that bit and cut through to my bone. I don’t mind it that much. It reminds me I am not imprisoned. I have come to realize there is no better place to think than at the top of the dark quiet world. I keep a notebook with all my thoughts hidden at the top of the fire escape. It has some drawings, but mostly words. It’s actually my third creative and artistic notebook. Turns out, the corner of my closet is not an adequate hiding place. “We can’t encourage this kind of thinking,” I heard my mom tell my dad late one night. Are some of my creative expressions too dangerous? I don’t know. Beats the hell out of me.

I wrapped my high school letter jacket tighter and pulled out my pack of cigarettes.

Empty.

I cursed under my breath and tossed the cardboard over the edge. I watched the wind play tennis with it before losing it in the shadow of my own building.

I guess I would have to wait for darkness without my pet Camels.

She came not fifteen minutes later. Time to break out the notebook . . .

Just take it in. 72 stories up.

Standing on the ledge, right up there with the clouds. Looking at a city where every building within eyeshot seems to be competing for the heavens. Something dared me to lean over the edge. The winds lash me, whip me. Thoughts fly through my mind: how I wish to run, jump, and fly out over the city.

Honks, screams, laughter rise from the hustling streets below. Traffic noise, the smell of industrial

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47 waste, scenes of murders and parties; every urban experience rolled into one grandiose microcosm of the untamed world of success.

Everything is a revelation. One lean puts me on the true ledge. The one between serenity and divine terror, between knowledge and ignorance, between life and death, between narcotic hate and ethereal love. The winds up high are terrific. It is hard to tell—in that moment, that is—whether they are pushing or pulling. As if they wish to take me somewhere. As if they are not devils craving to dethrone me from my high place. As if they taunt, Come with ussss and togetherrrrrr we can rule everythinggggg in sight!

As if they lust after me to trust them. Trust them to carry me. They can! . . . They might.

I close my eyes. No fake stars from the distant cars and streetlights guide me. No glare from the party below. We must have lost the stars in this city at least a hundred years ago. They could not have endured the factories and cars—and humans, for that matter—for more than a few months. How could we hide our stars . . . We are lost without them.

Up high, breathing is almost impossible. The wind still tugs and thrusts. I can hear it shout, roar.

It urges me to fly, to forget my stress, to take an easier way out.

We will catch youuuu . . .

I starved for that kind of freedom. That freedom from my parents’ key in my door’s lock, from a crumbling urban sprawl, from the challenges of Heaven.

What is His? Is one of these skyscrapers my passage to the afterlife? That one, right there . . . I can’t even see its top! Is that how I make it?

Nothing but the wind. Answer me!

Yessss, that is the wayyy . . . We can help youuuuu . . . We will release youuuu . . .

I don’t know if they’re lying to me . . . but at least they’re talking.

The cars look so small from way up here, like ants carrying Christmas lights. Or like little stars. I take a deep breath. I inhale and the wind cuts me deep. Beyond shouting in my ears, now it sears my lungs.

A frigid knife scrapes my throat and buries deep in my chest. I hold it there for a while.

I exhale. My lungs warm when the blades exit. The devils still want me.

I open my eyes. The stars from the city hit me. I can see everything. Turning in every direction, I have a solitary and complete image of the world. I am at the top of this world. Heaven must be near.

Or is that my Hell? Hey, Dad! You’re missing this Big Picture! God, this is amazing.

This is the ledge.

— Matthew N. Gottsacker ‘15

2015

48

Alexander Powless

Dumb Brouhaha A crisp copy of the daily newspaper hits your steps just seconds before a tidal wave of pavement swallows the delivery boy. Along with his body, his future as washed-up fictional writer slides down the cement leviathan’s stony throat.

One Mississippi…

Two Mississippi…

As the neighboring house collides into your own, your living room wall bulges and collapses, sending bricks and rubble across the room. Without request, the television set explodes and shards of metal and glass decorate the floor. Your instinct alone sends your body from the shard-speckled floor to the plastic-wrapped antique couch- a gift from your ever prosperous mother. The Cosmopolitan magazine that had once occupied your hands now lies in blazing fragments, but the dilemma at hand disallows you from expressing your dismay, and the truth about Kim Kardashian’s latest relationship forever remains within those singed fragments.

One second, you’re affixed onto the milk-white couch as you’re thrown through the living room windows, the glass crumpling away like a page from Revelations; the next second, you blink and your non-house is an ant-sized speck of dilapidated glass and wood from your perspective miles above the Earth.

Before you, continents break away and smash into others. Oceans spit out their water and gurgle the mixture of panicking people and flaming rubbish. The Earth is no longer what you once called Earth: a concoction of destroyed buildings and masses of fractured earthly matter orbit the ruptured planet. You cannot help but stare in fascination at the destruction.

As you gaze upon the end of your world, the moon scrapes your forehead. The immediate pain comes with the mental registration of this hellish landscape dancing before your wet eyes. The gradual constriction of your throat and lungs confirms its existence.

A crumbling yet recognizable PNC bank drifts along, slowly pushing mashed debris out of its path.

Though progress crawls, you diligently paddle toward it. By propelling yourself forward off a roofless car, you reach the shattered glass doors of the structure and carefully pull yourself through the gap. The miracle in the malformed room evokes a weak smile on your lips: suspended in the air, thousands of green bills float in bound clusters. Your final Earthly words echo through your head: “I just want to be like Kim Kardashian: richer than rich.”

Now all you want is air.

— Alexander Powless ‘16 Signatures

The Assault (Mixed Media, 19” x 17.5”) Billy Alverson ‘15

50

Charlie Monnat

The Ball Opening my eyes, I knew this day would be special. A day of endings and new beginnings. A day that held the potential to be life changing. For me? I wasn’t so sure, but I couldn’t shake the inkling that I would somehow play a role in changing someone else’s life. Today was significant, as it would mark the last baseball game ever played at Milwaukee’s illustrious County Stadium. I took a moment to ponder the entirety of the events the stadium had housed: two World Series, unforgettable concerts, Brewers games, Braves games, Packers games . . . the list went on and on. All of that had set the stage for today, the final day. Being a part of such history gave me an extra hop in my step as I prepared to head to the ballpark. As I had done prior to the previous 161 games, I neatly packed a change of clothes into my midnight navy duffel bag monogrammed “G.J.” then made a quick call home to my parents and took off one last time for County Stadium.

The early-morning weather hardly suggested a day of potential. Heavy clouds comparable to water balloons threatening to burst open filled my view as I drove the serene route along the lakefront. Waves crashed on the shoreline’s jagged rocks, throwing spray in every direction. After a few minutes, I hopped on the freeway for a quick sprint west before exiting and pulling into my spot numbered “5” in the players’ lot.

The path to the players’ entrance was nearly overrun by die-hard Brewers fans. Many held officially licensed Major League Baseballs in their outstretched arms, hoping to snag a player’s autograph. Ball after ball, I signed my name until my hand began to cramp. Then I noticed one little boy standing there without a ball, just staring at me in awe. He was the only one there without any Brewers apparel. Head to toe he was plainly dressed. He wore no hat on his full head of brown hair streaked with a few golden-blond locks, evidence of time spent in the sun. I remember his shirt and shorts were washed-out gray, no writing or logo. At that moment, I felt a sort of connection form between the kid and me. What did it mean? With this in mind, I continued to the clubhouse.

I sat down at my locker before the game, “Geoff Jenkins” printed in large bold letters across the top. While the clubhouse wasn’t luxurious, I would sure miss its character: the old metal lockers, deep monitor televisions, and concrete walls. While I didn’t appreciate these little pieces that make up the soul of a place at the time, these are the kinds of things that get to me now. In many ways this locker room was the beating heart of the stadium. The players left it before every game, but always returned, bringing more memories with them. It was the root of greatness, as no player ever stepped out onto that field and created a heart-stopping moment without sitting where I was right now. Hopefully, I would be the next.

After putting on my uniform, which for me always included a thick smear of eye black, I walked down the tunnel leading to the field. My footsteps echoed off the walls, shattering the tense silence that each time enveloped me. Even though I had been playing baseball for 25 years, pregame jitters never

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51 failed to spur my stomach into a series of flip-flops. I stepped out of the tunnel and into the light, which shone down brightly from large metal poles planted firmly in the ground by long thick bolts. I followed my usual pregame ritual of throwing a ball around with one of my teammates, Santiago Perez, an infielder with a strong arm I couldn’t match, even on a good day.

Our opponent that day would be the Tampa Bay Devil Rays. Among the top teams in the league, they would be heading to the playoffs at the conclusion of the regular season. We stared them down across the diamond during an enchanting rendition of “The Star Spangled Banner” and they followed suit. Upon its conclusion we took the field, which pulsed with the deafening roar of a rapturous crowd.

Sprinting out to my position in left field with pride booming in my chest, something caught my eye.

There he was again. The same little boy, still ball-less, still staring at me in awe. He appeared to be sitting with his parents and a brother who looked just like him, along the left field line directly behind the tarp, readied in case the ominous clouds let loose. As our pitcher began his eight pitch warm-up sequence, I played catch with our centerfielder, Marquis Grissom. As I always did, once the pitcher made his final pitch I tossed the ball into the crowd. This time I tried to plop it down into the small hands of the boy.

It didn’t hit the mark, instead landing three rows above in the Rawlings mitt of a middle-aged man who immediately handed it to his elderly father. A man who could very well already have many memories of this place had just secured one more. This made me happy, though I still wasn’t satisfied.

I tried again before the fourth inning with the same luck. This time the baseball ricocheted off one fan’s hands then dropped to the ground, causing a small mob. At last, a man looking to be about 25 years old with curly blond hair and a scruffy face emerged with the ball and proceeded to give it to a young woman I assumed to be his girlfriend. At this point in the game, the score was deadlocked at 1–1, and it appeared that neither our opponent nor we would bring in the go ahead run anytime soon. Both pitchers were simply dealing. Strikeouts piled up like the green beans a mother heaps upon her child’s dinner plate, claiming they will make him grow big and tall. Occasionally a weary ground ball would gently roll to one of the infielders and break the monotonous whiz and pop of the ball traveling back and forth between the pitcher and catcher. By the sixth inning, however, not a single ball had been hit my way. I swear that had never happened prior to that day. I figured a day of “lasts” might inaugurate a few “firsts” as well.

In the top of the sixth, the game started to pick up. Our pitcher began to reveal signs of fatigue, taking more and more time between each pitch and almost constantly wiping sweat from his brow.

With one out, he surrendered back-to-back doubles, each of which sailed over my head and struck off of the outfield wall with thunderous thuds. Just like that, the score was 2–1. We responded, though. In the bottom of the sixth with a man on first base, Marquis destroyed the first pitch he saw, sending the ball so high and deep that the massive looming clouds almost seemed to have swallowed it up. Eventually the ball, along with our eyes, came back to Earth, though not before we had taken the lead.

Heading out to my position in left field before the top half of the seventh inning, I decided this time there would be no doubt. That kid was going to get his ball. I concluded my tosses with Marquis and strolled over to where the boy sat with his family. As I neared the strip of dirt separating the field from the stands, fans began rising to their feet. There was the boy in the front row dangling his small vinyl baseball glove over the railing. He stretched his arm out as far as he could with a strained expression on his face, determined to get every last centimeter out of his delicate little arm. This brought a smile to my face and I let out a quick chuckle. Once I was roughly ten feet away, I noticed another boy about five

2015

52

Charlie Monnat

years older. He was a tad chubby and full of freckles. He’d moved up to the front row and was standing next to my target. He had his glove raised high up in the air, continually pounding it with his other fist while pleading with me to throw him the ball. He appeared to be at the ballpark alone. I stopped. What was I supposed to do? On one hand, I had really felt a connection with the younger boy, yet this new kid was obviously a lifelong fan who may have looked up to me since he was the younger boy’s age.

I decided to stick with my gut. I walked up to the younger boy and carefully set the ball down in his small plastic mitt. He balanced his glove on top of his right hand as if he anticipated the ball would be too heavy . . . as if it were sacred. The moment I let go of the ball and it settled in his glove, the kid’s face lit up and his mouth broke into a wide toothy grin. A second later he looked up at me, still full of awe.

His lips were moving, but unable to form any words. With a smile, I looked over to the older boy, who by now was in tears. My own happiness faded. While I had made one kid’s day, I had ruined another’s.

Confused and somewhat deflated, I jogged back to my position.

Upon reaching my destination, I looked back to the stands, where the youngster was ecstatically holding the ball up to his parents. A moment later, the boy’s mother whispered something into his ear.

The smile on his face immediately disappeared, but after a few seconds of contemplation returned even brighter. He stood up, walked over to where the older boy was still sobbing into his hands, and tapped him on the shoulder. What happened next absolutely shocked and astonished me. The younger boy reached out his hand with the ball, clearly offering it to the older devastated child. With that, tears turned into laughter, yet with a quick shake of his head, the older boy declined the offer. He gave the little boy’s shoulder a quick squeeze and thanked him. Their entire section erupted in applause. They’d been watching the scene unfold and appreciated the beauty of the moment.

While we went on to win the game by a final score of 6–2, with the sun breaking through in the ninth inning bathing the ballpark in sunny warmth, the real victory was in my heart. While the first two balls I had tossed into the stands had been passed on by their original possessors to someone else they appeared to be very close to, the generosity exhibited by two boys who had never even met each other left me walking back to the clubhouse in a state of awe.

Two years later, at an autograph signing at Brookfield Square, I saw the boy again. He stepped up to me, reaching out his right hand with the ball firmly in his grasp, identical to how he had offered the ball to the older boy. I noticed he was wearing white baseball pants, a Brewers jersey with my number on it, and a hat with the Brewers logo. He had even gone as far as dashing a stripe of black under each of his eyes, just like I did. As I autographed the ball for him, his face lit up once more, as it had that day two years ago. Handing the ball back to him, I looked into the bright blue eyes of the little boy who wasn’t so little anymore. I could clearly see that true deep love of baseball that I know was ignited the moment I placed the ball in his glove. I asked, “What’s your name, bud?”

He responded with perfect speech, as if he had practiced it countless times in front of a mirror at home, “Charlie, but my friends call me Jenks.”

— Charlie Monnat ‘15 Signatures

Shawn Turner

53

Mona Lisa She’s lost in solitude, Nowhere to breathe.

No one left, Only her paintbrush to believe.

She smiles to the world, But only I can see Dried tears on Rose-burned cheeks.

She lives behind a painting, Hating her past.

But I see through her— She’s shattered glass.

Painting becomes her outlet And carving helps her heal.

She begins to forget the difference Between what’s fake and what’s real.

She looks in the mirror: Something strange.

Scars like ravines Cover her veins.

She picks up her paintbrush That holds the burdens of her past.

She snaps it in two.

Peace at last.

— Shawn Turner ‘15 2015

54

Kahlil D’Acquisto

Looking for a Home I am the guest who overstayed his welcome Looking for my place to belong Pained in my purple mist It is time for me to be gone A light’s on for me at Thought’s place But Isolation is already there With no room for three on her couch Better they work as a pair Hushed, huddled and hunched I slink silent streets Sight fogged, mind bogged My ritual I repeat I could stay with Sadness or Kindness Both have given me a key I don’t want to bother either with This off-putting appearance of me From dark corners come Anger and Vanity They think they can take my place They have my hope, my name, my possessions Now they want my face While my friends know the truth—I’ll always come back Others wish I were gone But the question I have if question I could What was it I had done wrong

— Kahlil D’Acquisto ‘18 Signatures

Blue Tree (Acrylic on Canvas, 14” x 11”) Caeleb Rauh ‘16

56

Kobe Brown

The Painting Have you ever been to Wisconsin? It’s a beautiful place if you can find the beauty in it. Sometimes, if you get up early enough you can hear the birds talking outside your window or see the sun rise to her place in the sky to start her long journey again. The seasons sing of fresh air in the spring and whisper snow in the winter. I guess I really didn’t know why I felt a sense of unwelcome here. The truth is, one day I decided to explore the world, and what better place than San Francisco? I’ve been here for some time now and I could see myself living here for the rest of my life. It’s very different from home. My favorite days are when it rains. It gleams on new faces from every background. Still, I catch myself in a feeling of nostalgia from my teen years in Wisconsin.

High school was . . . okay. I don’t know, I was more introverted, and kept myself busy. Everywhere someone was ready to judge. That drove me insane. It was like I was trying to keep up with the world, but no matter how hard I tried, I could never be a part of that group. My clothes seemed never cool, and my interests just weren’t what everyone else was interested in. It was toxic and sent me into a spiral of self-loathing. I craved acceptance from my peers, a feeling that I still struggle with. It’s human nature, right? To want to fit in. It’s survival. Generation Y had never blossomed more than during my time in high school. The self-narcissism of conformity ran rampant. For our generation everything about our younger years was no longer innocent. Individuality had become risky territory that I was not willing to go into.

Come to think of it, I really can’t remember anyone in school who broke the norms. No, wait— there was that one boy—I don’t remember his name, but he seemed always melancholy and moping around school. I saw him smile only once, when he painted. We had the same art class. What was his name? This will drive me crazy! . . . Wait, it was Michael!

Art was our first class on those lazy mornings. I used to come early to find some peace and quiet before the masses arrived. Michael usually walked in only minutes after I did and I’d say hello. The classroom was so peaceful then, just the two of us painting. He was a wonderful painter, and I had taken a keen notice that he seemed always to paint night scenery. I loved watching the way his paintbrush smoothed across the canvas. Each stroke was a word, a part of a beautifully crafted sentence. He seemed to forget that he was even at school when he painted.

Other than a “Hello” in return of my greeting, though, no one ever heard him talk much. I didn’t mind; we shared the silence, communicating not in words but with colors, music playing in the background, and occasional awkward eye contact. At lunch he sat alone, scribbling away in his book, which fed into the rumors that he was a druggie, he failed every class, or even that he was gay.

One day still stays with me. The morning started out in the usual way, each of us sitting and painting, me drinking my coffee, when Michael asked, “Jacob.”

Signatures

57 I‘ll admit I was quite startled because his voice was lovely, resonant. It had a confident ring to it— very mature—of warmth and kindness. I didn’t know what I expected his voice to be like, but nothing like that. I liked how my name sounded.

“Yes?” “Can I tell you something?” He looked at me with sad blue eyes.

“Sure.” I put my paintbrush down and listened.

“I—um . . .” he stammered. Just then the door opened and students began to arrive, boys and girls all going to their regular seats. I looked back at Michael but he got up to leave, his face turned towards the floor. I wondered what he had to ask me.

“Hey, watch this,” one of the boys said. He picked up a paintbrush and dabbed it in black paint.

Then he wrote the word “Faggot” across it. Everyone laughed. All I could do was stare at the unfinished painting with that word scrawled in black. I was devastated. Then it clicked: Is this the group that I really want to be part of?

When Michael returned, I could see shock and hurt in his eyes. His pale cheeks flushed with anger.

His blue eyes reflected sadness. Then he did something unexpected. He continued to paint on the ruined canvas, and everyone fell silent. Even during class he painted and, by the end of the class, he had made something beautiful, a picture of the morning sky. He had made the letters fade into the background, a distant thought of a forgotten memory. Hushed whispers swept over the clueless students.

When the bell rang, he got up and, without a word, left. From that day forward, Michael no longer painted pictures of the night, but of daytime and of spring. Looking back, I’m envious of Michael, that he could be so brave and courageous, while I was just scared. This all resurfaces when I am stuck with myself. I wonder, does Michael know the impact he’s had on me? Maybe . . . I can only . . . It’s funny what our brains choose to remember.

— Kobe Brown ‘17

2015

58

Connor Lagore

Now Boarding He stared at the small red dot, looking intently at the minuscule bulb, then took a step backward.

Then another, and yet another. The red dot, swallowed now by thousands of others, cast a faint glow to comprise one word: “Seattle,” he said quietly to himself, “Seeeaaattle.” Slowly, this time. People glanced his way and his gaze drew in the whole board with its names and numbers of all sorts. He stepped closer to find his flight, searching for the set of dots that comprised a city name and time of his departure. As people hustled around him, he felt as though he was a dot to them, small and insignificant. To his right they sped along the older wing of the airport. As he turned to his left, he noticed the airport’s structure shifted to a more modern design. A new wing must have been constructed recently. But back to the board: Baltimore, 7:35. Dragging his hand through his mop of long hair, he sighed, looked at his ticket and turned towards the old wing. Careful to avoid the onslaught, he pushed towards the far wall and began to walk against the grain towards his gate.

His big black duffel bag hanging off one shoulder and his carry-on luggage slung around the other, his legs pumped furiously so those people moving in the opposite direction blurred past. His head snapped back and forth—still a ways to go. That airport smell filled his nose with each inhalation.

Tracing their way along firing synapses, the odor awoke memories of his first time in this airport.

His parents—flustered as most parents in a crowded building—clung to his sisters. He trudged along, awash in the new sights and sounds of Milwaukee. People here didn’t look any different. It felt different, though, new. Hurried along by his parents’ frantic waves, he followed them out, passing through customs and claiming his suitcase along the way. Lugging it behind him, he finally dropped it on the empty floor of his empty room in his new empty house, just has he had in the four previous new empty houses. The vacant rooms hadn’t fazed him that time, or the two times after since his first and last impressions were simply of a bunch of big empty rooms. There was no sentimental value in the skeleton of a house which made it hard to move on to the next.

His attention snapped back, there, the sign for his gate, Gate 6, in great white and blue neon letters.

Looking across the throng of people to the aisles of chairs, he waited for a small break in the swift river, then hopped through to the other side to join heads slumped over in sleep, hands attacking keyboards with flying fingers, or heads nodding to a quiet symphony playing into their ears. He walked stiffly to the desk at the gate and asked how long until his flight.

“About another half an hour or 45 minutes, sir. We’re sorry, the weather isn’t great and the plane is experiencing some difficulties. If you would take a seat we will try our best to update over the loudspeaker.” The stewardess feigned a sweet smile.

He sighed heavily and his shoulders sank. He thanked her, slid both bags off his shoulders and sat down, a good four seats away from the closest waiting passenger. He put in some earphones and closed

Signatures

Reflections (Digital Photograph) Parker Redfern ‘15

60

Connor Lagore

his eyes as the first few riffs of a guitar crept into his ear. Too restless and jittery to sleep, he turned his head slightly to observe the people hurrying down the main walkway. Though mostly businessmen, he spotted an occasional family or school group. He gazed distantly into the steady flow of people, wondering where they were going and why.

That’s when he saw her. He knew it was her as soon as he saw her walk. He thought back to the first time he had seen her walk like that, through the aisle of the grocery store when he helped her look for guacamole. It was motivated but tentative, and hadn’t changed a bit. Her face, barely aged, glowed under the intense lights dotting the ceiling of the airport. She curled her straight brown hair behind her right ear with her right hand, as she always used to do. He missed her. And sometimes he felt like he should call her. Just to check in, to see how she was doing. It was a shame they grew apart. It was inevitable, though. Different college, different career. He thought she moved away, out of their old neighborhood, but he had never bothered to find out. She was holding a phone to her ear, intently listening.

She tossed back her head in laughter, and although a good hundred feet apart, he could hear it. He called out to her. Quietly at first, because he didn’t intend to. But what did he have to lose? He called louder. Two more times, each louder than the last. On his last attempt she turned, her head swinging around to search the crowded airport. She stopped, the people behind her having to jump to the side to avoid running into her. He tried to call out again but her name stuck in his throat. He tried to move his arm to wave but it felt unbearably heavy and remained hanging at his side. She swiveled her head from side to side, unable to locate the voice. For a second, he thought she saw him but, if she had, she gave no notice. A businessman, staring in irritation at his phone, walked into her side, distracting her from the mysterious faint voice calling her name. She apologized profusely, gave one more glance to where she had heard her name and continued on.

He sat down in the chair, mouth still open. The clock told him a half hour had passed. His ticket looked crumpled from sitting in his wallet. Baltimore was beginning to seem rather unattractive. He looked at the stagnant crowd surrounding the gate. They all sat motionless, except those typing, and even their faces hadn’t moved from the screens. He stood up and half-jogged over to the stewardess at the desk. Before he could even open his mouth to speak, she sternly but politely informed him that it would be another 15 to 20 minutes.

He turned and walked back to his seat. He grabbed his duffel bag and broke into a trot, throwing himself into the stream of people searching for their own destination. Ducking in and out of the crowd, he nudged passersby out of the way, trying to make amends as he passed with a quick “sorry!” His eyes skimmed over the words on the overhanging signs until he saw one that said “Ticket Office” with an arrow to the right. Turning the corner, he broke out into a sprint in the much less crowded hall. He quickly made his way to the front of the airport. He hopped in the smallest line and waited impatiently, tapping his foot forcefully. When he finally got to the front he said, “first ticket out of here. Please. I don’t care where, just give me your first available flight.”

Obviously flustered by his assertiveness, the woman behind the desk stammered, “Uh, ok, um well what exactly would you like? We have some great dea—” “I want your first flight! I don’t care where it is, just get me a ticket!” He yelled loudly enough that much of the activity going on around him stopped. He could feel the stares on him and now lowered his voice. “Please, ma’am. I need the first ticket out of Milwaukee. One way. I don’t care what price.”

Signatures

Now Boarding

61

After exchanging information and necessities, she handed him papers and wished him a safe flight.

“Very safe,” she added.

“What gate is this at?”

“Well, it says on your tick—” His voice grew louder yet again, “What gate?!”

“12!” The moment she was finished speaking he ran. He careened through the airport, jumping without hesitation into the rush of people, drawing the ire of many. He looked at the flight time, making sure his hand covered the destination on the top of the paper. Maneuvering his way in and out of the steady flow of passengers, he stopped in front of the sign with all flights and times. Once again, the little red dots stared at him, thousands of them spreading across the board. He looked at the multitude of city names and wondered to which one he was headed. Wasting little time staring, he picked up his bag and turned the opposite way he had the first time, now headed towards the most recent addition to the airport. He ran along the outside of the solid block of people until he saw the sign for Gate 12 in the distance, and the digital sign under it flashing “NOW BOARDING.” The stewardess at the gate met him and took his ticket, as he bent over to catch his breath. He slid his bag off his shoulder to leave for the baggage claim, and he realized he had forgotten his carry-on. Quietly cursing himself, he stepped through the terminal. On the long tunnel leading down to the plane, he recounted the last—he checked his watch—23 minutes. The plane for Baltimore had definitely left by now. He was crazy.

Beads of sweat formed on the back of his neck as he entered the plane. The walls were close together and his eyes were drawn to the vacant seats, dull headrests staring expectantly along the aisle.

There were less than 30 people on this flight. He gulped, and tightened his stomach to get rid of the knot that had formed. He still didn’t know his destination. A quick glance at his ticket indicated his assigned seat. Nestling into the chair, he leaned back onto the headrest and let out a deep breath.

Home, sweet home.

— Connor Lagore ‘15

2015

62

Ted Chisholm

Industrial Night An evening wind, chilled by the lake, Stills all signs of earthly life.

The breeze quells the daytime laughter With its icy touch.

A thick fog, a banner of death, Drops its sober mass on crumbling homes.

It rests its weight on slums and brownfields, On rivers sickened by sewage.

Towering chimneys, Mother Earth’s cigars, Force putrid gases into the nighttime sky.

The vapors raise hands of toxin, And touch the stagnant air.

A whistle, shattering the silence, Signals a winding train Bearing the blood of a mine-scarred land To market in the east.

A ray of light, a finger of the sun, Strives to burst from its cloudy cage.

Yearning to reach the city below, It cannot breach the fog.

— Ted Chisholm ‘16

Signatures

Samuel Davis

63

Blue Blue, her favorite color as a child, filled the small notebook. The ink flowed through each white rectangle in sharp spiny sketches. Faded circles tattooed the cover, giving testament to the many times it had been used as a coaster. Its scruffy edges told tales of hasty travel by pack. The spine’s flexibility seemed almost hospitable the way its hinges allowed the cover to swing gently open. From the inside of the front cover a blank sallow visage stared, wide eyes flat, milky, and dead, veiled by a wisp of hair.

A black and white baseball cap, relaxed on the disheveled tangle, threw a soft shadow across the mouth which curled into a shy smile at one end of a thin set of lips. The figure looked lonely. A certain innocent mischief poised on the sill of the soul. A beautiful silence seemed to settle on that book. On the adjacent page, scribbled in semi-elegant handwriting, was a quote, “We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.” Blue ink, smattered across the page, formed an immense twilight full of dreamy white stars.

— Samuel Davis ‘15

2015

64

Credits Chief Mollusks: Nick Reit Kieran Fendt

Mother of Pearl:

Ms. Virginia Schauble

Oyster Advisers: Text:

The Magic Conch:

Mr. Gary Skinner

Samuel Davis

Art:

Patrick Finucane

Cuttlefish & Scallops: Ian Johnson Jacob Miller Mitchell Moncoda Cover Art:

aplus graphic resources gskinner.aplus@gmail.com

Clam Consultants: Will Campbell Colin Mitchell Joe Mancinelli, Jr. Salt Flats (Digital Photograph, Page 62) Samuel Davis ‘15

A Cure for Our Condition (Digital Photograph) Patrick Finucane ‘16