Signatures 2018

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Signatures 2018

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

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Contents The Divine Creation Through All Wind and Weather Wooden Canoe Peaceful Lake Selence e Nosoi Innocence M3 Little Squirrel The Second Hand Peace Treat Absence Under the Porch The Flower Store Flor her Slipping Away Chagala Vulnerability Stuck Marquette A Waterfowl Beach Bird

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Ulysses Quesada Ciaran Blaha

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Anthony Kopczynski Michael Radakovich Eduardo Magallanes Joseph Tierney Adalberto Carrillo Daniel Griffin Joseph Nunez Bryan Mercado Anthony Kopczynski Robert Piekenbrock Edgar Perez Jose Veloz Jackson Gregory Jorge Toto Dominic Lambo Ethan Wright James Pfaff David Janisch Robert Piekenbrock

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Future El Cielo You're Welcome 68' Ford Wonder Why? Cigs The Cost of Dreams Through Soldier's Eyes Optical Oddity Wolf White My Room Anxiety Untitled Division Manos del Fantasma, I Reach for Palpitations Soul Flights The Woods Our Common Home The Sermon of the Earth Steel Hopscotch Overseer

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Humberto Mejia-Gerbacio

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Henry Rohmer Ethan Wright Daniel Griffin Her Pao Lee Vincent Ryskoski Thomas Krajna

Sergio Jara-Reynoso Alex Radocha Anthony Giampietro Corwaun Clark Corwaun Clark Benjamin Kozina Sergio Jara-Reynoso William Schumacher Stephen Schulte Samuel Poblocki Ian Reynolds Thomas Gamblin Jacob Mikna Corwaun Clark Vincent Langoehr Austin Piszczek

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The Divine Creation At the crack of dawn // my mother mixes.

She throws the flour // freely with the others.

Liberation in her movements // performing a dance.

Although gracefully done // power is defined.

In the dance // she shows restraint, Mercifully mixing // flowing water divides.

The strong river // binds flour forcefully.

She religiously kneads // shaping the body.

A hearty staple // it becomes tortilla.

The ancestors rejoice // empowering her body.

Our rich traditions // flow into the dough, Bestowing ancient spices // no longer tangible.

El comal calienta // las tortillas lo mejor.

The wisdom of the family // and the strength of the people Unite into one body // where the rich culture rises.

Dragon’s spit // laps at the tortillas, Burning borders // better, enhancing it.

The pillowy tower remains // an essential component.

Through time and turmoil // the tortilla endures.

La cultura no se desaparece // la vida sí vive —Ulysses

Quesada '18

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Through All Wind and Weather (Graphite, 10" x 8.5") —Ciaran Blaha '19

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Wooden Canoe The water plays calm, still can change in a flash.

Sea otter stays long, till my paddle will splash.

As the sun runs across the blue body, she knows, It attracts my old heart, for a dream of repose.

No neighbors, no grass, or monotonous block.

The first thing in a mile is no worse than a rock.

No actors perceived as people I knew.

For a while, it's just me, in my wooden canoe.

—Anthony Kopczynski '18

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Selene e Nosoi Fluorecent blue; you shine the night.

Pass with a cluster of infection.

In puddles I see your delicate, enticing gaze.

—Eduardo Magallanes '19

Peaceful Lake (Watercolor, 9" x 7") —Michael Radakovich '18

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Innocence There is a little boy somewhere Filled with joy, the young corsair Looking down his toy gun, through the crosshairs, Aiming at his friends, other boys over there, Who will share the same pain boys share.

In their innocence, They know nothing less than happiness; Mischievous insolence Motivates their infamous diligence.

They're destined to work Through the pain and the hurt, All to be shamed and be skirted Of their passions once burned.

They're already blamed For "mistakes" they've not made Simply because the world is afraid That young boys will crusade Against girls, unafraid.

This narrative they push That boys are no good And haven't been for years although they gave blood.

Tierney It's driving them crazy.

They're confused, life is hazy.

School is a daze, they never get praise.

On the dais of a school their dignity erased.

Now girls are more amazing.

It's not equality they're chasing, It's disparity they're raising.

Then attack all of them, 'cause they act in ways That aren't actually that crazed.

Until they're dazed and confused, And they blaze and they shoot ‘Til malaise rules their veins and they’re nothing but brutes.

Sorry for the rant.

I seriously just can't Let this corruption go longer, I must counter these chants With my own but I don't know How long we can go...

It isn't women that I'm knockin’, Forgive these rhymes I've concocted; These innocent boys will have lost it.

Society has caused it, And for what, one more bonnet?

That's not how this works.

We're supposed to be equal, Do you really want a sequel To the things you claim hurt?

Both sexes must have equal rights And women have had a very long fight, But now a switch is in sight.

Men will have to fight "But wait, that's not right."

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10 | Tierney "Oh, all of this privilege – So long – that he lived in, They should feel what it's like To have their rights in a tin."

That sounds really crazy But it's familiar and hazy.

Where have we heard that before? Oh yeah, daily!

We need these boy babies Before we fall down the slope too hastily.

We need baby boys and we need baby girls To grow up and bring their talents to the world.

Notice how our best inventions unfurled When we had more brilliant minds in the circle.

But we're busy taking their innocence away, Calling them rapists and scaring them away, To the point where boys can barely play With their finger guns and enjoy naiveté.

Let girls be girls and boys be boys.

Only then will they attain most joy.

Don't make them sorry for things they enjoy.

They're just boys, let their minds be their toys And their joys and their voice.

Millions of boys are already destroyed.

Please let them bring envoys To the table to better the alloys Of knowledge boys and girls can employ.

—Joseph

Tierney '19

M3 (Oil Pastels and Graphite, 8.5" x 9.5") | 11 —Adalberto Carrillo '18

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Little Squirrel

“Samantha! Get back here!” Her mother’s voice shot across the yard to her as she ran into the woods. She’s going to be so mad with me when I get back. If I get back. I don’t care.

Not now. I just need to get away. Why can’t she just call me Sam, like Grandpa always did? She sprinted through the trees, barely noticing where she was running. Her feet knew the way better than her mind. She had run through the same woods countless times before, exploring, hunting, playing with her grandfather. And now he’s gone, she thought.

She foraged on, leaving her grandpa’s funeral reception far behind, along with its obnoxious attendants. A root caught her foot, and she cut her hand on a thorn as she fell, but she quickly got back up and kept running. Finally, she reached a small clearing in the woods, where the sun broke through the trees to create a circle of bright green life. Here we are, something a bit more like Grandpa. She sat down on one end of a worn log, and looked unhappily at the other end. Normally, her grandpa would be sitting there with her, but now that seat would never be used. Why did he have to die? she thought bitterly, as she grabbed a branch from the ground and pulled out her pocket knife. She stripped it of its bark, thinking back to the funeral reception.

How dare they use Grandpa’s house like that!? That was his home. That was our home! Argh, I can’t stand those people. Everyone just walking all over the house and eating and drinking and pretending to be sad. And everyone says the same thing, that they’re “sorry he died” and how much they loved him. She threw down the now-smooth piece of wood and grabbed another twig. Well, I loved him, too!

Her knife cut through the soft wood with ease, and pale wood shavings quickly gathered on the green forest floor. Her eyes were tearless and dry, hardened by pain and bitterness. As she slashed through branch after branch, she suddenly became aware that she wasn’t alone in the clearing. Looking up, Sam saw a creature sitting at the edge of the clearing, staring curiously at her. She watched it move timidly closer to her, into the light. There before her stood a small brown squirrel with a bushy tail almost as big as it was. “Well, hello there, squirrel.” Squirrel.

Grandpa used to call me that, when I was little. His little squirrel. She thought back to the last funeral she attended, when her grandmother died. “We’ll help each other through this, won’t we,

Griffin | 13 little squirrel?” She remembered running around her grandfather’s yard, excitedly showing him the bits of nature she found in the forest that day. She recalled his huge loving grin as he chuckled at the joy of his “little squirrel.” Sam doubled over in pain as a swell of emotion struck, and tears began to stream down her face. He really is gone, isn’t he? I’ll never be able to see him again. Grandpa’s gone. Through her tears, Sam heard the squirrel chattering softly at her, as if offering a comforting reply.

“There you are, Sam. I thought you might be here.” A voice broke the silence as her tears splattered on the ground at her feet.

Sam looked up sharply as the startled squirrel dashed back into the brush. Her mother was standing there, her face and eyes red and raw, bathed in tears of her own. “You know this place?” Sam whispered incredulously.

“Yeah, Grandpa used to bring me here when I was a little girl. I always loved sitting here under the leaves, listening to the squirrels chatter in the trees and the sounds of the forest.”

Sam’s mother sat down next to her on the log. She was quiet for a moment, her brow furrowed by deep thought, and then looked up at her daughter’s tear-streaked face. “It’s hard, isn’t it?” she said as she wrapped her arm around Sam’s shoulders. “It’s hard to know that he’s gone. I miss him, too.”

As they sat, a squirrel in a tree above chattered, scolding them for the disturbance they had caused. Sam’s mother turned to her again. “We’ll help each other through this, won’t we, Sam?” She pulled her daughter closer to her side. Sam rested her head on her mother’s shoulder and nodded, smiling through her tears. They rested a moment more in the clearing, listening to the sounds of the woods, then rose to return to the reception together.

—Daniel

Griffin '18

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The Second Hand

Natalie and I entered the world at the same time (I beat her by two minutes and fifteen seconds.) I squinted in the hospital lighting while Natalie displayed her deep-brown bowling-ball eyes to the world. As most infants do when presented with uncomfortable situations, I cried, but Natalie laughed. This, along with our twin sense of telepathy, defined our relationship. In a world where adults abandoned us and friends became enemies, we became an invincible dream team. I could cry for hours and she could sit and listen and always figure out how to get me to stop crying with a soft touch of laughter. We nicknamed each other “Sparkle One” and “Sparkle Two” because of a fleck of light on the upper right hand corner of our right eyes. Age naturally determined One versus Two. I carried her sparkle and she carried mine. The sparkle is magical, because unlike all light bulbs and candles, this light lasts forever.

I sit with my mother, Allison, at my old house’s dinner table. The chair annoyingly argues with my leftward and rightward leaning, so I sit still. She has been crying all day; I have cried for twenty-five years. I dim the light on the ceiling fan above the table and light two tall white candles. I slide the tissue box over to my mother, who subtly smiles when the second candle is lit. I have not looked at her in the eyes for nineteen years. I particularly enjoy these two candles. Their lights are identical: blue bases with bright orange tips, but when the wax melts, they are entirely unique and extraordinary. My mother continues asking the same questions she asked when I was six. I answer similarly, except with bigger, more adult-sounding words.

“Jessica, Where is Natalie? Why did she wander off in the store? Who took her away?

How long has she been gone?”

“Please, just stop, Mom. It’s too difficult to do this. If I knew where she was, she would be here, eating this heap of oranges. It’s neither of our faults. She’s been gone for nineteen years.”

Nunez | 15

We walked into Pick’n Save with a very small list. My mom let Natalie write down the stuff we needed on a piece of paper. I know this because the writing was in big, loopy, purple letters. We had to get milk, eggs, ham, bread, and a box of Goldfish. I smiled when I saw Goldfish. We got in the car and headed to the store. We arrived, and I held my mom’s left hand and my sister held my mom’s right hand. We looked left, right, then left again. Once we made it across, Natalie and I raced ahead of Mom. We reached the sweet spot: the invisible line where if you cross it, the door will open. We counted to three. We jumped at the same time, and the store welcomed us. We got annoyed looks from adults as we laughed while pulling the cart out for Mom. We wheeled the cart over to her, “Thank you, sweethearts.” To Natalie and I, a “thank-you” from an adult was hard to come by and always made us smile.

I return home and scribble a large bright-red “X” over November 8th or “Story-Telling with Mom and Crying Day.” Even after more than a decade of trips to Ms. Hughes’s office, answering Officer Schwarzer’s questions, and shrugging off my mother’s warm attempts to comfort me, I trap the nuclear codes able to unleash nineteen years of torture and pain. Everyone tries to increase Natalie’s age. They talk about what she is probably doing right now, wiser, older, still just as beautiful, but Natalie is not twenty-five like me. She is stuck as an innocent six-year-old girl possessing infinite potential, her existence having lasted a mere six years, twenty-four hours, fifteen minutes, forty-three seconds, and two-tenths of a second. I beat my wall like Rocky beats cow carcasses. I look down at my cracked bloody knuckles. The wall remains the undefeated champion. I scream her name.

We rode around the store on a mission to find the five items on our list. I kept telling a knock-knock joke about bananas and oranges because oranges were Natalie’s favorite; she always laughed at the joke. We even had an entire birthday cake made out of orange slices and vanilla-cream frosting when it was her turn to plan our birthday. She got to plan even years, and I got to plan odds. It was a messy cake and mom didn’t appreciate that fact, but it was really fun to eat.

My mom and I were three aisles down when we noticed Natalie wasn’t with us. I assumed one thing: the orange section. Sure enough, as I peeked out of our aisle, she was poking the oranges and telling them the knock-knock joke. My mom returned to shopping as we browsed the honey.

I felt sad that Natalie couldn’t pick out the bear-shaped container with me. I walked out of the aisle to notice that she wasn’t with the oranges anymore. I looked down the aisle Mom and I were at, and Mom was missing, too. It couldn’t have been hide-and-seek because Natalie hated that game. This man in a dark uniform with a shiny badge on the right side of his chest slowly came toward me with a smile. I froze, preparing to cry or scream, because this was uncomfortable. He told me his name, Officer Schwarzer, in that voice that adults use to make themselves sound like my best friend, and I remained silent. I found out that adults are evil.

16 | Nunez

Six years is the equivalent of 3,153,600 minutes: the amount of time Natalie existed. The two minutes that I beat her by are a teardrop placed in the ocean compared to the amount of time she spent in my life. I keep track of time’s minute details. My favorite watch is my Invicta, because it has hours, minutes, seconds, and different calibration settings for more precision. In weekly therapy, I am fascinated by Ms. Hughes’s world clock. Ever since Natalie was taken, I have had to go to therapy with Ms. Hughes. Ms. Hughes is a child-trauma therapist. I used to hate her.

She would give me these blank pieces of paper and would ask if I could sketch Natalie using crayons and colored pencils. When she first gave me that assignment, I took the piece of paper and a red-orange crayon, drew a large heart on the page, folded, and ripped it in half. Looking back, it was payback for what Natalie did to me. “How many pictures do you want me to draw?!” I did not enjoy those exercises. They stopped making me draw pictures of Natalie after that one.

I sat in this dark room in a cold metal chair. There were computer screens that played a video of our day at the store. I squinted my eyes and saw Natalie in the orange section. I smiled, because Natalie was bouncing around in her red and black plaid jumper. I looked down at my school clothes, too. She was playing games with the oranges, telling them the joke, like what I saw earlier. I saw myself walking back toward the aisle with Mom. The video froze. As soon as I turned away, a man wearing a green golf shirt and blue jeans crouched beside Natalie. He leaned in toward her ear, grabbed her left arm, and they exited the store. My mom caught this from the corner of her eye and sprinted out the door, forgetting to jump to make the door open. Officer Schwarzer started asking me questions.

“Do you think you might know this man wearing the green shirt, Jessica?”

“I don’t think I know him. Can I see my mom? I really wanna go home.”

“What was the last thing you saw Natalie doing?”

“She was playing with some oranges. Look at the video, it’s right there.”

“Do you think Natalie said anything to you recently about anything strange or weird?”

“Not a clue, Mr. Schwarzer. Natalie tells me everything, so no.”

“Let’s watch the video again. Pay close attention, Jessica. I need you to think really hard, ok? Here we go.”

We watched the video twenty-one times. It started at zero and went to fifteen minutes, forty-three seconds, and two-tenths of a second. Each time, Mr. Schwarzer wanted to know if I knew that guy. I told him no each time. After the twenty-first time, he rubbed his head. I asked him if he had a headache. He slammed his hand on the desk, and I screamed. The door to the room swung open, and I ran out, to be caught in Mom’s arms. I cried. I didn’t know what else to do. What should I have done? I wanted Natalie to make my crying stop. My mom gently touched my cheek and let my head rest on her shoulder. Her shoulder was the sweet spot: super warm and comfy. She told me that Officer Schwarzer is only doing his job; he didn’t mean to scare me.

Nunez | 17 The stuff that adults mean to do is completely different than what they actually do. Natalie and I knew that from the get-go when my mom told us long stories about our dad leaving us when we were born. He didn’t like the idea of having twins. Mom told us that he didn’t mean to not want us. We looked at each other and realized that it was going to be us against the world.

Ms. Hughes and I conduct our usual conversation. We are much older than when we started this, but I still struggle with Natalie’s unceremonious disappearance. She did not fight, argue, or run away from the man who took her. This is the topic of most of our discussions. I over-apologize to her about my outbursts as a child. She has helped free my deepest sentiments towards losing Natalie. Ms. Hughes does not mind me crying and sits for hours listening to my endless rants about the guy with the green golf shirt, how I hate oranges and honey, and how I wish I could know if Natalie is alive or dead, because the waiting has controlled nineteen years of my life. I had a future if I seized the opportunities. I graduated from Notre Dame, started my entrepreneurial enterprise called, “Next Ideas,” and founded “N for Natalie,” an organization dedicated to families who have lost children or family members, and need ears to hear their stories. Telling someone’s story is at its core. I tell other people’s stories because no one would listen to mine.

When I entered third grade, I was hoping that maybe I could find a new Natalie, or at least, find a new friend. What I soon found out about third-graders, however, is that they particularly enjoy that my sister is gone. They laughed at me for all the crying and all the stories I told about her. I looked at my drawing of her (the one drawing I made with Ms. Hughes that I actually kept) when they nicknamed me “F-less.” “F” stood for friend or father (it was Jimmy’s call which one it meant for certain days.) Natalie was always by my side though, so it didn’t matter what they did to me. The only thing that got right to my crying zone was when teachers accidentally called me Natalie, because everyone would laugh and call me her name, too. I quickly was labelled as a freak, because I would imagine playing with her at recess, and sometimes I would see her getting taken, and I would start screaming and grabbing for her, and then Ms. Hughes would show up, hug me (holding me close as I cried), and take me to her office to talk. She had me talk about what I saw. I told her about the other mean kids who called me a freak and a weirdo; she laughed at them, exactly as Natalie would have.

“Those kids are just jealous.”

“Jealous?”

“Mhmm.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because you told them you have telepathy, and they want that power, too. But they can’t have it because they don’t have Natalie.”

18 | Nunez

“Maybe.”

“What am I thinking right now?” She crouched close to my face and closed her eyes, waiting for me to answer. I shut my eyes, trying to read her mind.

“You are thinking about the color red, which is your favorite color.”

She looked at me as if I just told her that she answered a Double Jeopardy question correctly. “That’s right! See! I’m telling you, those kids don’t have that gift.”

I glanced at the clock and knew that my mom was probably waiting outside, worried about me, so I had to excuse myself. I realized that Natalie and I still shared that gift. I hugged Ms. Hughes and left.

I often write letters to Natalie. She never sends a response, but I still write them. They follow a specific format:

Dear Natalie Murphy,

You may not remember me or may have forgotten me, and that’s okay. I just want you to know that I write these letters so that you know, and my heart knows, that you still exist.

I miss the purple loopy cursive you used, because I am sick of looking at boring black letters on a blank page. Your hair was really smooth, too. My hair was coarse and thick. Even though Mom and the entire Fred County police department ceased searching for you about eighteen and a half years ago, I still keep an eye out for you.

After offering some reassurance that I still look for her constantly, I rant at her.

Natalie come home! Stop playing hide and seek...you hate that game! Stop playing with those oranges and come pick out the honey. Why didn’t you just turn around and see that you were alone and get scared like I would have? You never had the right to remove yourself from my life. You have turned time into a prison-sentence.

I conclude with the only thing that makes me smile at the end of these letters.

Love you to the moon and back, Sparkle One

The house got really quiet without Natalie around. My mom didn’t speak for a while, I was convinced it was the silent treatment. After a couple weeks, she hugged me, cried in my shoulder, and said, “Thank you.” I didn’t know what she was thanking me for, so I asked her. She told me that I was too young to know why. I thought that was mean, so I rolled my eyes. I told her that I was eight, but that didn’t matter.

I woke up the next morning with a wrapped present resting beside my bed. I knew it wasn’t our birthday and not Christmas, but what was important was the present. The tag said, “Open this and you will reach for the stars.” I had no idea what that meant. I opened it; there were glow-in-the-dark green stars that I could stick to my ceiling and watch at night. There also was a night-light with a blue sphere that, when plugged in, projected the solar system on my

Nunez | 19 ceiling. When night-time came, I closed the door to my room and, using a tall chair, stuck forty-five stars to my walls and ceiling. I turned the light off and plugged in the night-light. I got into bed, and gazed upwards. There it was. Natalie’s name written in bright stars illuminated by the reds and oranges of Mars, the yellows of Saturn, the golden orange of the Sun, and the blue and green swirls of Earth. I didn’t have to look for Natalie at school, at Pick’n Save, or in our neighborhood. I looked up at my ceiling and I was with her. Mom knocked on the door and we whispered to each other from opposite sides of the door.

“Can I come in, Jessica?”

“What’s the secret password?”

“N for Natalie.”

“Ok, Mom, you can come in.” She walked into my room as I hopped back into my bed.

I continued staring at the stars. Mom looked at the planets, at the stars, smiled and asked if she could get in bed with me. We told Natalie stories, laughing, crying, remembering what it was like to have her in our world.

“Jessica, would you mind if I came in your room every now and then, to travel through space with you and Natalie?”

“That sounds pretty cool.” I gave her a hug. She finally lost the silent-treatment game; I was really glad it was over, because I was kind of lonely. I had the best mom in the entire world.

My mom told me that she used to paint these massive paintings called murals. I had a hard time saying that word, but it made her laugh when I said it, so I kept messing it up. She painted huge hunch-back whales on a wall of a run-down building in Chicago, warm sunsets on the pillars of bridges on the Miami River, and a massive bunch of colorful balloons on the brick pathway through the heart of downtown Omaha. It was the best bedtime story ever, and right before I fell asleep, I asked her if she could paint Natalie on a wall of my room. She smiled without showing her teeth, and I could tell she was about to cry.

“Absolutely, sweetheart. Goodnight, dream magically, ok?”

“Ok, Mom. Love ya.”

Not only was I able to look up at the stars at Natalie, but I could look at the stars and planets with her. I dreamed of her the rest of the night.

I recently watched the movie, Lincoln, starring Daniel Day-Lewis as the 16th U.S. President. There is a quote from that movie that explains my hatred of time: “Time is a great thickener of things.” Time will forever be a concept that I will never understand, like a blanket that does not reach my feet. I can kick, pull, and punch it, but it will fail me. I throw my fancy watch away. I decide to live my life as ancients did, sun rises; it is time to wake up, and sun sets; it is time to go to sleep. Clocks controlled my life for far too long. Time-lapse freezes my sister, but it cannot freeze me. I exist outside of time, and I wish Natalie could, too.

20 | Nunez

Ever since I put up those stars and planets in my bedroom, my world has changed. I don’t cry randomly during school anymore. The third grade turned out to be a blast. I have three best friends, Allison, Maria, and Gabriela, who love hearing stories about Natalie. Natalie still helps me make friends...who would’ve thought it. Ms. Hughes became one of the good adults; I could read her mind, and she could teach me about mine. My mom’s mural shows off Natalie’s eyes. There’s a place where I can hold Natalie’s hand, too. November 8th is still pretty hard to get through. We celebrate the same way every year: a messy cake made of oranges with vanilla-cream frosting, story-telling, some laughter and a lot of crying. We only put six candles on top of the cake, because she really never got to be six-years-old for very long. We end our birthday by going to my room and travelling through space. The three of us saw beyond this world; impossible finally became possible for Natalie and me.

I walk into my kitchen and notice that my old hanging wall-clock is not ticking. The second hand will not budge. I look through the wooden cabinet to the left of my fridge for any spare flashlights or lanterns that might have the incredibly rare AAA batteries needed to fix the clock’s timepiece. I find a small translucent-orange flashlight and take out its batteries. I step over to the clock, and the doorbell rings. An unfamiliar car rolls down the driveway: a silver Honda Civic.

Fear calls out a list of “what-ifs” to my mind. I walk slowly to the heavy wooden door, and turn on the switch for the outside lights. I put my eye to the peep-hole and rest my hand on the cold knob. A woman, tall, deep-brown eyes, and brown hair. I notice something strange, a square of light on the right-hand corner of her right eye. I twist the knob and the door opens. Her breath makes clouds in the cold night air. We ask each other at the same time, “What’s your name?” We simultaneously respond with our names: Natalie and Jessica. I cry while she laughs. I look back, open my eyes to blink away the tears and notice the second hand ticking.

—Joseph

Nunez '18

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Peace Treat (Ink, 14" x 18") —Bryan Mercado '18

22 |

Absence Under the Porch

I woke to the smell of pancakes and syrup and, starting to think what homework and tests were due today, it dawned on me that it was Saturday. I changed into my school dress code because that’s the majority of what I own. Downstairs, my dad had set out everything, including my morning pill. I wondered where my little sister was. Right as my father was going to ask me the same, Elizabeth exploded through the front door.

“Meet-ith may in-ith my roomithay!” using the secret language she made for us. She headed upstairs.

Confused, my father looked up, “What are you doing? Your breakfast is hot now!”

She shut the door right as we got in her room. “I just found a three-foot cat!”

“What are you even talking about?”

“There is a white cat under the back porch! I just found it this morning.”

The whole time she was talking I looked like a conductor, approximating three feet with my hands, stuck on the sight of a cat three feet long. “What were you doing under there?”

“You’ve got to see it, c’mon!” Running down the stairs, she pulled me by the sleeve out the front door. I almost tripped over the cobwebbed septic pipe. The back porch, blockaded from our neighbors by a wall of pine trees, was about four feet off the ground. A white cross fence closed off the Big Space of Nothing underneath. Beyond a first glance anyone or a threefoot cat would notice big hole in the fence which now allowed us to get under the porch. My sister muttered, “It’s in there.” I ducked and slowly walked into the leaf-covered dirt-infested den. I then caught glimpse of it. Like a sprawled satin prince, the cat looked at me, then away, as if unfazed by my presence. Its fur was white, with hairy black seas spreading out over its coat.

The cat was big. Probably not quite three feet, but big enough.

The cat turned its head, and trajected its black beady marbles directly into our eyes. I sensed a certain mesmerizing longingness in its pupils, and I could feel its heavy breath simply by staring into its revealing portals. It wasn’t scared or nervous; it just laid there, keeping its comfortable pose.

“Go on,” my sister said. “Pet it.” I put my hand on its back and felt it inflate. The fur became a frictionless velvet carpet. When I touched it, it did not flinch. It seemed even to appreciate our attention.

Kopczynski | 23

We told all of our friends right away. My cousins a couple blocks from our house came over, along with some of my friends. We showed them the cat right away, warning them not to act crazy, or it might get scared off.

“Where did you guys find her?” They all seemed interested.

“It was just laying down here, Liz noticed it this morning.”

Trevor asked, “Are you going to keep her?”

“How do you know it’s a her?” cried Elizabeth, upset at their assumption. “Cats can be boys, too.”

“Well then, check.”

I got closer and adjusted its position. It seemed not to like me moving it around the way I was. “It’s a girl.”

“Ha! What’d I tell ya?”

“If you’re gonna keep this cat, don’t you think you should give it water?” said Skyler.

Elizabeth immediately ran off to get a bowl water.

“I don’t think my dad would allow us to keep the cat. He’d probably get rid of her.”

Skyler said, “Well, I don’t think my mom would mind having a cat around the house.”

“Why doesn’t it move?” Trevor blurted. “It’s just been sitting there the whole time.”

That hadn’t occurred to me. It had remained in the exact same spot for hours.

“Maybe it’s sick,” said Skyler.

“No it’s not sick, it's just resting.”

“Well, why isn’t it moving?”

Elizabeth came around carrying a bowl filled with water. When she placed it down, the cat didn’t move, much less to the water.

When my cousins were ready to leave, I asked them to tell their parents to convince my dad into keeping the cat.

The next morning, Elizabeth and I decided we would tell Dad about the cat. Right after church we explained how the giant cat was simply resting under our porch. My father always looked sad, and I was hoping the cat would maybe cheer him up. We were going to ask him if we could keep her after he actually saw her. Excited, we took him around the house and through the fencing, but crouched in sudden amazement. The cat was gone, but what lay in its place were seven tiny baby kittens, alone in our presence. Seeing their innocent attempts at moving, I could feel their tender breaths. We all recognized the situation, and at that moment, without speaking a word, decided to take care of the kittens. If their mother didn’t return with food, we always had some leftover pancakes.

—Anthony Kopczynski '18

24 |

The Flower Store I’ve seen you smell daisies at the flower store.

Pretending that I want to buy, I spy.

Every single time I want to say more.

What do I say behind this pot and plant?

Don’t smell the daisy! Smell me, please! I won’t.

I’ve seen you smell daisies at the flower store.

Like the daisies you smell, you seem so pure.

My mystifying angel from the sky, Every single time I want to say more.

But I can’t do anything but hide here.

What are you going to think when I say I’ve seen you smell daisies at the flower store?

My daisy, I’ve never seen someone like you before, So beautiful to the eye, you make the flowers cry.

Every single time I want to say more.

Your soft eyes, silk hair, fresh lips I adore.

You’re so fine you deserve me, a good guy.

I’ve seen you smell daisies at the flower store.

Every single time I will say more.

—Robert

Flor (Watercolor, 8" x 10") —Edgar Perez '19

Piekenbrock '18

| 25

her

Thump, thump, thump; the bass drums echoed through the stadium. The crowd fell silent as we approached the center of the field, its huge white W under our feet. I had just gotten promoted to second snare and I could barely keep my sticks steady as we marched; my brow started to feel moist with sweat. The last three performances had gone perfectly fine, but the crowds were less than half the size of this one. This was the big game, homecoming. I felt thousands of eyes on me, waiting for me to make a mistake. The seconds felt like days and the minutes like years, I could barely resist rolling up into a ball and closing off from the world, but then I heard the trumpets initiate the finale. I exhaled and my hands stopped trembling.

As we marched off the field, I saw the opposing cheerleaders approach, headed straight for us. Left, right, left, right. I kept marching, keeping my face forward and my sticks parallel to the rest of the line when a glint of light blinded me. For a fraction of a second I saw the small silver circle fall, landing right in front of me. I looked back and saw who it fell off of—her. I quickly picked it up—an earring smaller than the radius of my thumb. Heavy white gold. I turned my head to try to see who, exactly, it was but all I saw was the back of her head. Her pale skin shone at the base of her neck as her hair was pulled tight in a bun, giving her the appearance of wearing a donut on her head—a milk chocolate glazed donut. I had barely caught a glimpse of her when I realized I had to keep moving, the band waits for no one. _______________

The earring, about half an inch in diameter with a thin, needle-like pin to fasten it on, sat on my desk. I stared at it, waiting for it to speak to me, to tell me where to find her. Eric came into the room and saw me staring at it. He waved his hand in front of my face and my trance broke. Realizing I looked like a fool staring at a metal circle, I quickly whisked it away and into my drawer.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, just an earring I found earlier,”

“Well, if it’s nothing then let’s go. We have a party to crash.”

26 | Veloz

I could not tell him that the earring was making me crazy, all I could think about was the girl wearing the donut on her head. The party seemed to go on forever. Radio music from the past three years blared through the ancient speakers and the only drinks they had were fruit punch with vodka, and water. I chose the latter, committing to get Eric home safely. I counted all the girls there, a total of six, guys—twenty. The fraternity was famous for their lame parties.

I should have known not to come, yet something told me she would be there. No such luck.

I decided to give up on finding her, but the earring earned a spot in my wallet, waiting for its moment to be worn again. _______________

Three months had passed since homecoming. The excitement of the end of the semester was spreading, yet I could not focus. The earring was on my mind more than ever. I saw chocolate donuts everywhere but they were always getting bites taken out of them, not perched on the back of someone's head.

I used to go to the lakefront to think. The waves soothed my mind and the fresh air gave my lungs a chance to relax from filtering such polluted air in the city. I made my way onto the newly paved pier, watching as kids rode their bikes past me, smiling, without a care in the world.

I heard the waves crashing on the sand and the seagulls singing, calling each other. Step by step I got closer to the edge, the railing stopped me from walking, in my careless stupor, over the edge. I was mesmerized by it all. The smell of salt and the reflection of the sun had me in a daze.

Gazing at the horizon, watching the waves roll up and down, I felt a presence. I looked to my left and saw her, chocolate donut on her head. I saw much more than just her hair, though. Her eyes reflected the color of coffee with cream, a caramel hazel. Her cheeks, red from the brisk breeze, emitted an aura of warmth. I felt as if I was staring, so I looked away. I was about to turn and walk away, not believing it was true. She turned toward me, one ear bare, the other a dangling silver hoop, and in that moment I knew. I found her. —Jose

Veloz '18

| 27

Slipping Away You are the pale vile girl of my nights, Singing to me with a ghastly roar.

My mind filled with pleasurable fright, Not swayed by your authentic horror.

Lovely spirit, unburdened by time, Howling a beautiful lullaby.

Your voice of melody, chanting rhyme, Your haunting grandeur can terrify.

Maiden of my nightmares and sweet dreams, I commit myself to your splendor.

Holding you in the highest esteem, Capturing your elegance, my futile endeavor.

Dawn draws near, I grow weary, afraid— From my mind, after dreaming, will you fade? —Jackson

Gregory '18

28 |

Chagala (Graphite, 12" x 18") —Jorge Toto-Alcaraz '19

| 29

Vulnerability

That was the night I found myself. I sat on the bench with my soccer coach behind me and a couple teammates in front of me. I could see the hair falling between my feet. I worried whether or not I was making the right decision, but as my coach shaved off more of my hair, my teammates’ eyes lit up as if they had been witnessing a miracle of my rebirth. They complimented me about my appearance and, for the first time in a long time, I felt confident.

My best friend throughout high school was my receding hairline, the one thing I carried with me everywhere I went. I noticed my hairline dramatically recede and thin at the start of my sophomore year, and it progressively worsened my junior year. I coped and was able to cover it up by styling my hair or by wearing a hat when I was a sophomore, but it got to the point during my junior year where those options weren’t enough, as if they had led me to a dead end. I became incredibly self-conscious about my appearance, and it hindered my ability to join activities since my hair wasn’t like a backpack I could leave behind and forget about. I was reminded of it even when I would read a book; after a few pages, the book and the table would be covered with a layer of fallen hair. Even simply passing by a window, I would notice that my hair was no longer the way I wished it to be. I am a man who likes to exude confidence in my ability whether in the classroom, in my daily social life, or on the soccer field, but that changed as I kept losing my hair. I was constantly receiving comments like how I looked older than I was or even old enough to be someone’s father. Simple tasks such as playing basketball with friends, walking into school on a windy day, getting a haircut, looking in the mirror, walking past store windows, or even leaving my house without a hat became unbearable. Each night I would reflect on the day and the comments I heard from people, and the reflection returned always to the question: why me? Every morning I put on a mask to shelter my pain and fear, and that took a toll on me. My parents and my closest friends easily recognized the magnitude of my quandary, yet their advice was to simply disregard it. That seemed the ideal way to approach the situation, although in my reality, it proved much more difficult.

30 | Lambo

My coach suggested that he shave my head one night after practice. Obviously, I hesitated because I had considered other options. I had been using Rogaine since I was a sophomore, yet I felt as though I was delaying the inevitable since the results of my efforts seemed only to be getting worse. Still, I was apprehensive as to how my friends and my family would perceive me. I had difficulty telling my friends and even my parents what I was planning to do. I couldn’t even bring myself to explain to my closest friends in person; texting protected me from the emotions and embarrassment of the situation. I wasn’t even the one who told my dad or my brothers. My mom was the only person in my family I went to with my decision. Hers was the most shocking response. As those seven words, “I am going to shave my head,” spilled out of my mouth, I could see the horror in her face. She cried because she knew how much my hairline had hindered my ability to be free in the way I express myself, and it had restricted my happiness for two long years. Nevertheless, she questioned my decision, and I told her of my pain. She understood. The very next night I shaved my head.

I can finally see the beauty in myself, and a simple picture of me or a peek in the mirror puts a smile on my face—I have nothing to hide now. My receding hairline was out of my control, and it hurt to have people comment on what I couldn’t control. I shaved my head on my own terms; if someone wants to make fun of me for it, then so be it. Now, I embrace my situation and will do no less than to live my life to the fullest.

—Dominic Lambo '18

| 31

Stuck

The elevator’s mechanical whir scraped to a stop. Jolted forward, we stuttered to a halt.

My ears settled and I surveyed the musty, checkerboard carpet of this cramped enclosure. An incandescent light bulb flickered above. Inane messages scrawled by overly-creative teenagers were scribbled on the silver walls.

I stared across at three strangers. Each exemplified the attitude of the morning commuter. The last civility they desired was to strike up conversation with strangers. Everyone in this city had to be somewhere and be there fast. An older man dressed in a suit glanced up from his paper, his droopy face complete with bags under his eyes. A red, white, and blue political button labeled with Mayor Hamley’s slogan was partially hidden by his loose tie.

“Damn, not again,” he mumbled, in a gruff voice. He nonchalantly pushed the “Help” button on the elevator’s console before going back to the sport’s section of his newspaper. In the corner, another man dressed in a black hoodie angrily shuffled his feet. He swore quietly to himself, plugged in earbuds and stuffed his hands back into his pockets. Opposite of him, a frail-looking woman in a thick woolen sweater clutched her handbag and pursed her lips, frantically checking the time on her phone.

“How long is this going to take?” she whispered in an agitated tone.

“Oh, never more than twenty minutes,” the older gentleman offhandedly replied.

“Don’t trust him, lady. Look at his pendant. You can never trust anyone who supports a rat like Hamley” the hooded man snarled.

“You watch your damn mouth, you thug!” yelled the old man.

I stepped between them and pulled out my phone. In an attempt to conciliate I said, “Hold on, I’ll call for help,”only to be met with the distressing wail of the dial tone. I was stuck.

More time passed, and the group steadily grew more upset. We gave up standing. Settling onto the carpet, we spent our time checking watches and phones. The time ticked away, but no help came. Tempers rose. The hooded man yanked out his earbuds, chucked his phone across the elevator, and jumped to his feet.

“You said it would only take twenty minutes!” he snapped.

32 | Wright

“Well, it usually does! I’ve been stuck many times and it’s never taken this long,” the old man stammered.

“Liar!” The hooded man took hold of the older man’s jacket and pushed him against the side of the elevator.

“This is your fault, old man! You—” A thunderous bang interrupted him.

Suddenly a sickening feeling set in. The elevator started to sway back and forth. The frightening sound of creaking metal drowned out the yelling. Everyone instantly fell silent. The elevator cables groaned a horrible screech. They seemed ready to give way at any second. We plastered our bodies against the walls. I grasped the railing—a futile gesture—my knuckles a ghostly white.

I wiped my clammy hands on my shirt so as to keep hold.

The nauseous tilt only worsened. Another resounding snap echoed and one side of the elevator tilted. The woman in the thick woolen sweater was swept off her feet. I could not bring myself to speak. A lump rose in my throat. Salty sweat stung my eyes. I knew the dreaded was inevitable.

The metallic clack became increasingly louder. With bated breath I held on, when a blast loud as a bomb marked our descent. The woman let out an ear-bursting shriek powerful enough to seem a part of the the force that plunged us towards the ground. Dust shook from the ceiling as we plummeted. My guts seemed to shift inside of me, a sensation I knew only from roller coasters. The sudden drop made my hair fly up and my heart thump vigorously, as if it was ready to burst from my chest.

Bodies flew, as we whipped to a stop. The elevator doors bent open to a sudden beam of light, almost blinding me. Nobody moved. All of us were frozen in time, too dumbfounded to to do anything.

“Help me open these!” I said, breaking the silence.

The woman and I went first, scrambling onto cool tiles. The hooded man went next. The old man was on his way out when the traumatizing creaking resumed. Before I could reach out the hooded man sprung into action. He pulled the old man up just before our deathly capsule plummeted under him. A distant metallic crunch announced the end of our strife.

No words were exchanged as we left the custody of the paramedics. No dramatic speech was needed to explain our struggle, our knowing glances said it all. Hatred and indifference had been transformed into a deep connection. Our survival that day, however unlikely, depended on each other, and even though we never talked about it, I believe we all knew this to be true.

—Ethan

Wright '19

Marquette (Mono-Print, 8" x| 10") 33 —James Pfaff

A (Mono-Print, 7" x 10") 34Waterfowl | —David Janisch '21

| 35

Beach Bird

The dazzling shimmering sun bakes the sand turning the minute particles into hot coal underneath my blistering feet. I carry my chair down to the edge of the water where the sparkling blue tide massages my ankles. I take off my sweaty t-shirt, aggressively jam it in my overloaded bag full of resumes and my trusty uke, and fall back onto the chair to take in the delightful sounds of the beach. My eyes begin to close, and the stresses of adulthood blow away in the light breeze. Boisterous children, angry parents, calm waves, and roaring motorboats fill my eardrums. I loosen up and enter another universe. All sounds become one, and I remember the beach as a child. I recall running into the ocean and screaming when I saw a big wave, looking at my father for help. I begin to smile, and remember family gatherings on the beach to watch the sunset or play croquet.

I wish I could be young again. The world isn’t fair. I keep getting screwed over. Unsuccessful interviews. Kicked out of my parent’s house. My mom and dad tell me to do something with my life, saying they are disappointed to call me their son. It’s not my fault that I don’t like business. They forced me to do it. I want to play music, but according to them, music is foolish.

It’s too stupid and impractical for one of their sons. Why can’t I be like my brother, a successful businessman living the perfect life, working the perfect job, raising the perfect family?

“Ugh,” I moan under my breath. My mediation quickly ends, and I am back in the plain unforgiving world I’m stuck in. The beach, once glistening before me is now a heap of lifeless sand bowing down to the scorching sun, another thing on this Earth without a purpose.

“Time for another pathetic day,” I say to myself. A white bird barrels down from the sky and crash lands near my chair. Submerged in sand, the reckless flier sticks its tiny head out of the powdery gravel. Confused, the bird looks around, and then at me.

“What do you want from me, you stupid bird?” I yell. “Don’t give me that look!”

With full force, the bird flutters out of its deep hole and gracefully sticks its landing like a gymnast finishing a balance beam routine. Meanwhile, the rude bird flings sand all over my belongings. It begins to waddle closer to my right foot. Each time it gets closer, I move my foot farher away, angering the bird. It squawks at me and clambers on my foot, hitting it with its pointy beak. I kick my leg up, propelling the bird off my foot.

36 | Piekenbrock

“Now you’re going to get it,” I fume.

I fold my chair and decide to use it like a bat. I charge at the bird, ready to hit a homerun, but find myself missing and fleeing from its claws. The bird mocks me, laughing as I try to dodge it. I drop the chair and hide behind the back of a stranger. The minute the bird passes, I pick up the chair and swing again. Hitting the bird off-course, I watch it teeter back into the sand.

Knowing who’s in charge, the disgrace of a bird quickly flies away, without looking back. Full of pride, I start to march back to my original place on the beach.

“Are you okay, mister,” a little girl asks.

I spin around. Although it’s now broken, the chair is behind me, and I am ready to swing at my next target. Not frightened, the little girl stands tall with her hands on her hips.

“I am Princess Liz, princess of love and all animals. You put the chair down, and come play with me,” she declares.

I put the chair down, reinging in my emotions. “I am not playing with a five year old,” I respond.

“I am five and a half, Mister. Now, my kingdom needs a prince.”

“Can’t you bug someone else, kid? I don’t have time for silly games. I have to prepare for another interview.”

“I don’t know what that is, Mister. Come on! Everyone has time to play.” She runs past me and grabs my bag off the ground.

“Hey! Give that back,” I say, chasing after her. In seconds, we arrive at her sand palace.

“You can have your bag back, Mister, but I think you need some play time,” Princess Liz says. I acquiesce, scared she might run off with something else.

Proud of her work, she shows me the river where the mermaids live, the park full of lifeless seashells and the tracks for riding horses. In front of the castle is a communal gathering place for the miniature beach community.

“Do you like it?”

“I love it. Nice work, kid.”

“You can call me Elizabeth now that you’re my prince. In our kingdom there will be a lot of candy, animals and laughter. People will be happy and nice in our kingdom. All people and animals will love each other, no matter what. Do you like that, Mister?”

“I love it, Elizabeth,” I say, longing for such a place to exist.

“Don’t you love the beach, Mister,” Elizabeth says looking out into the sea. “Everything is so beautiful; the animals, the sand, the sun, the water. I wish I could stay here forever,” she squirrels.

I look back out at the beach. The sand, beautiful little grains, sifted together to form a sparkling golden ground. The memories of my childhood returned, refreshing my spirit.

“Why did you hit the bird, Mister? That wasn’t very nice.”

Piekenbrock | 37

“I was angry,” I admit.

“My dad says that when you get angry or sad, think about all the good days, and remember there are more good days. I don’t get it, but I guess it makes sense.”

I laugh.

“What do you think our kingdom is missing, my prince?” Elizabeth says, giggling.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I do, Mister. Music!” Elizabeth sings, taking my lucky uke from my bag. “It’s a very nice toy you got here, Mister.”

“It’s an instrument, actually. It’s a ukulele, but I call it uke for fun.”

“Okay! Can you play it for me, Mister? You can be the kingdom music jester.”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea, Princess Liz. I need to be a prince. My mommy and daddy don’t want me playing music.”

“My mom tells me that I can be anything I want when I grow up, but I just want to be a princess. There’s so many princes, so a music jester is cool, Mister. Your mommy and daddy are wrong.”

“Life isn’t that simple, kid.”

“Why not, Mister? I believe in you! I don’t care what anyone says. In my palace, you are my music jester.”

I smile at Elizabeth.

“Does music make you happy, Mister?”

“More than anything, Princess Liz.”

“That’s simple,” she exclaims making me chuckle.

The bird I hit with my chair calls down, and I feel a white raindrop hit my head. Elizabeth and I break into loud laughter. Elizabeth hands me my lucky uke, and I reluctantly accept it. When the lucky uke touches my fingertips, my face breaks into a big smile and my heart skips a couple of beats. For the rest of the afternoon, Princess Liz and I put on a royal concert for the kingdom’s citizens. Although Princess Liz put some unruly citizens on time-outs, most of the people enjoy the concert. When Princess Liz leaves, I stay to reflect, finally realizing my role in this world. I am and will always be a music jester. When it’s time for me to go home, I say goodbye to the kingdom, promising to come back to see the citizens and Princess Liz. Finally listening to my heart, I throw out the wretched resumes at the beach. I will not let them weigh me down anymore.

—Robert

Piekenbrock '18

Future 38 | (Graphite) —Humberto Mejia-Gerbacio '18

| 39

El Cielo La Noche Oscura y Profunda Tierna e Inmensa Cambiando, pero siempre La Misma.

Me da Consuelo Tu Cabello La Luna A veces se ve Otras no Pero siempre está ahí Y espero su pasada con Esperanza La Razón de mi Vivir Tu Sonrisa Las Estrellas Nocturnas Y Brillantes Cuentan las Historias de Antes No me dejan Dormir Por Temor de que ya no Esten ahí Tus Ojos El Cielo No hay nada más Hermoso Nadie en este Mundo se Compara Nadie en este Mundo sabe tus Secretos Tú.

—Sergio

Jara-Reynoso '19

40 |

You’re Welcome

The crisp scent of cocoa beans filled the room. Everything was quiet except for only the clicking of keyboards and the soft melody of an acoustic guitar coming from a speaker. Every so often, the barista would politely call a customer’s name to hand the order. Sunlight poured in from the windows and flooded the glossy wood floor, reflecting a bright array of orange. Tom sat comfortably in a cushioned chair with his laptop. As he sipped his warm apple cider, his attention shifted from his computer to the window in front of him. He gazed through the glass and watched the snow blizzard attack the cars zooming past.

His computer beeped. It was a message from his mother wishing him a happy 20th birthday. “I hope you have a special day!” it read. Being a college student in New York City, Tom didn’t get to visit her often, but whenever he had the chance, he would bring her flowers and souvenirs. He loved helping her cook. He would do anything to make her happy.

After acknowledging her with a thank you message, Tom peered out the icy window once more. His eyes were drawn to a woman scurrying up the sidewalk alongside the coffee shop.

Bundled up in a black overcoat, a wool scarf, and a dark toque, only the top half of her face was visible. Her pale forehead was furrowed, and her eyebrows caved over her irritated eyes. Their brilliant blue glistened against the bright snow. In her mittened hands, she held two plastic shopping bags full of clothes. Hanging from her shoulder was a dark red purse—even its buttons and zippers were red, as if it had been dropped in a bucket of paint. Her boots plowed through snow as she neared the coffee shop’s entrance. Tom swiftly swung his head down towards his screen.

The woman yanked open the door and Tom felt the frigid air creep to what was once a warm room. Without hesitation, she demanded an iced caramel macchiato before the barista could say hello. “Name?”

"Ruth,” she replied.

Tom overheard and glanced back one last time at the woman in black. She sensed his glare and met eyes with him for a short moment. Noticing her uninviting scowl, Tom immediately turned around in embarrassment. Ruth set her purse and bags down on a stool.

Radocha | 41 Her purse lay just on the edge and was slowly slipping off. Without noticing, she leaned her back against the ordering counter with her arms folded and her foot nervously tapping. The barista called her to pick up her macchiato, and gravity finally pulled the purse to the floor. With the drink in one hand, Ruth snatched her shopping bags and pushed her way out the door. “Ma’am, you forgot your bag!” the barista exclaimed.

But it was too late, she was already out in the cold. Tom then realized what had happened. He sprung up out of his cushioned chair and picked up the fallen purse, threw on his coat and quickly walked to the exit. As soon as he cracked open the door, a loud whoosh of wind and snow slapped against his face. Disoriented by the wailing snow, Tom looked left and right to locate the woman. Ruth was already at the end of the block, ready to turn right around the corner. “Excuse me!” Tom yelled, but the barrage of snowfall muffled his voice.

He began awkwardly jogging through the snow with the purse. At the end of the block, he looked right and saw an enormous flock of pedestrians filling the entire sidewalk. For a moment he stood still, his eyes wide open and scanning for Ruth. A drop of sweat started to trickle down his forehead. He then began jogging again, but this time faster. Many of the pedestrians were dressed in thick black coats so it was impossible to distinguish Ruth from behind. He pushed his way through the crowds, looking back at their faces as he passed them. Halfway down the block, his vision latched onto a person in a dark overcoat carrying two bags and crossing the street, so Tom started to run in hopes of catching up before the streetlight turned red. A short moment after he began running, a deep voice yelled, “Stop!”

Maintaining his stride, Tom peeked over his shoulder to see two grimacing policemen chasing him. Dryness filled his mouth and he lost sensitivity in his legs. He instinctively glanced forward to locate the figure with two bags, but he had lost sight. Tom’s heart began beating intensely, his mind racing. He panicked, broke into an all-out sprint down the block, trying to escape from the officers. As he dashed through the snow, a hundred different thoughts bounced violently around in his throbbing head. Tom took one last stride before he slipped on a patch of ice. Fully extended, his body launched forward, the purse flying out of his hand. He hit the snowy pavement face first, leaving him flat on the ground with a bloody nose and scraped palms.

Tom could hear nothing but a blurry combination of an officer’s voice and the blowing of the wind. He lay dazed and aching, and he felt a pair of freezing, sharp rings wrap tightly around his wrists. A patch of blood soaked into the bright white snow, matching the color of the purse which lay beside his weakened torso. He kept his head down and his eyes shut until he heard that familiar voice. “Thank you, officers,”

Struggling, Tom raised his bloodied head, and as soon as he lifted his shriveled eyelids, he was staring upward into a pair of beautiful blue eyes. Ruth’s face was vacant; not content, yet not frowning—she wore an expression of someone reading a boring story. The two strangers silently glared at each for only a moment, but their locked eyes seemed to freeze time. Tom’s

42 | Radocha teeth chattered, and a tear crept out of his right eye—not a tear of regret, perhaps a tear of failure. Breaking the frozen stare, Ruth grabbed her purse from the officers and carelessly continued to bustle through the snow. Her bags appeared to be slipping off her shoulder. They looked like leashed animals trying to escape the firm pull of their domesticator. Tom watched her blend into the herd of pedestrians until she finally disappeared.

—Alex

68' Ford (Graphite, 11.5 x 9.5) —Anthony Giampietro '19

Radocha '18

| 43

Wonder I wonder, did we make Martin proud?

Black boys know him, but can’t read aloud.

I wonder what got Malcolm shot?

Would I have the same courage, not knowing if I was about to die or not...

I wonder if they look down in pride, or disappointment— Trayvon, Freddie, Malala...how did they feel in that moment?

Do they wonder if their battle meant no victory?

Do they wonder if their messages were enough?

But I remember Martin’s words.

I have a dream.

Not a theory.

Not a fairytale.

A dream.

Those wishes some carry to their graves, But he was sent to his for its realization.

In the face of a monstrous world, He had enough hope for all of us.

So today, no matter how long it takes, How forsaken we may feel, Even if fear finds its way into our hearts again...

We fight.

With the bravery of Malcolm, we shout.

With the strength of our people, we stand.

Stand tall, Stand proud, Stand mighty.

—Corwaun

Clark '18

44 |

Why? When I was young, I heard a story— There was a monster under the bed.

At first I thought I was the boy, but, I was the monster, instead.

Wait, now I’m 26, but I guess nothing changed— My face always on the news, am I the night or the day?

I’m sorry, I never knew your hope; I wasn’t privileged to see the light.

I peer into a blackened mirror, All I can see is the night.

All I know is to feed my son, And how to bag up this white.

Son...Mom, I’m sorry.

I wish I could see you grow.

I wish the cost of loving you, wasn’t my soul.

But I guess I wasnI wish IWhy? Why I gotta be a shooter, or, Why can’t I be a King?

I’ont really have the answers, My only concern are these fiends...

The smell of hot asphalt, spit, slithers into my nose.

The concrete drains my warmth as rough ground caresses my skin.

My questions fade...the hands of death wrap me, my warm blue bandana.

I see my Cory’s smile.

Why...Why...Why...Wh-

—Corwaun

Clark '18

| 45

The Cost of Dreams I don’t want to be the only one who’s never seen a different set of stars.

I don’t want to be left alone when everybody else is gone.

The flashing lights and the sound of cars that don’t sleep at night, they keep me up.

Sights of hope, don’t lose faith, I won’t come back ‘til I’ve earned my name.

La vida está llena de obsesión Está mal esta dirección Esclavos no somos de la sociedad Es tiempo de gritar libertad It took everything away from you Four years of work in the trash Todo pa’ crear sus hijos Yo lo cargo conmigo Espera al día que te llamare Y te diga que valió la pena, Que ya lo logré Y regresaré.

—Sergio

Jara-Reynoso '19

46 |

Through Soldier's Eyes Faint odor of gas, Artillery explosions amass.

Roar of metal beasts, When will it cease?

Young men cut down, No time to frown.

Pawns in a game, All seeking fame.

Rain, mud, and vermin Only add to the burden.

Soldiers everywhere cursing, Machine guns blurting.

“OVER THE TOP,” shouts one.

Hundreds run until there are none.

Until on a morning clear Does a pigeon carry what all wish to hear.

Five years it raged, Five years the world swallowed itself whole.

Finally over, The weary soldier’s dream.

—William

Schumacher '21

| 47

Optical Oddity

On a crisp fall eve, I sat in my cabin while a fire crackled and a cool breeze stirred outside. Despite the fire, I opened my window only slightly ajar, so I could feel the wind. The sun hadn’t yet set, and I had contemplated taking a hike later that night through the woods and along the nearby stream. A shrill howl cut through the crackling of woods, making me wince for a moment. The sound waned. I returned to myself and, looking out my window, a pair of silver eyes stared at me, piercing and peering into my soul with cold dead eyes. The gray fox stood in front of my lodge, then walked away after getting his fill. I felt equal parts terrified and mesmerized by a personal encounter with this magnificent beast.

Later that night, I took the hike and felt as if I were the only human to walk this forest.

I walked through the woods and took in each birch tree and marveled at each color. Shades of orange, red, and yellow, looked like bits of the setting sun gracing the undeserving world with glorious light. I walked at a quick pace. The howls increased. I approached my house, and was frozen in place at the sight of a strange man knocking on my door with what appeared to be a large wooden club. He wore khaki pants and a denim jacket with a gray fox on its back. I shivered, but didn’t move for a moment to consider my options. I threw a small pebble and hit a nearby tree to divert the man’s attention from my door. He turned quickly and I glimpsed his face: five o’clock shadow, messy brown hair and, the most damning feature, his silver eyes. His eyes shot through me like those of fox. I heard him, “ Who’s there? I’m looking for the owner of this cabin.” I ran back through the peaceful woods I had walked through earlier.

I kept running until I came to the stream near the birch trees. The water was breathtaking, the light from the moon shining on its deep blue waters, as if diamonds encrusted the ground below. I dowsed my face and remembered the payphone near my lodge. Luckily, I had just enough change in my pocket to call someone. I made a beeline and got there unscathed, except for thoughts racing through the back of my head. As I neared the payphone, the same man who had been at my door walked through the telephone pole and sauntered towards me.

I felt my knees weaken and I stumbled to the ground. I scrambled to move backwards, but was halted by the trunk of a large tree and looked my assailant in his grotesque unnerving eyes. He

48 | Schulte crouched down and said, “ I never thought I’d be able to see you. My colleagues and I were hoping for a peaceful meeting, but I guess you brought this upon yourself, Mr. Brown.” He raised the club and knocked me out cold with one well-timed blow to the head.

When I came to, I was back in my cabin, the birds chirping their melodious tunes as they did every morning. I went to my window, and saw what shook me to my core: each bird had silver eyes. I went back into my kitchen and saw my mother standing there, cooking. I hadn’t seen her since I left home about seven years ago. She said she was cooking me breakfast. She told me to sit down, and I did as I was told. She served me two eggs over easy with a slice of bacon. She had made them into a smiling face. I looked down at my plate, stood up immediately and ran out of the house. Some sick joke: I swore the eggs had silver yolks rather than yellow. My mother did nothing to stop me or bring me back.

I ran through the woods, my heart and head pounding to the same rhythm. I saw the same fox as I had the previous night, except something was different: the fox looked as though he knew something that I didn’t, but I suspected my mind was playing tricks on me, like with the birds and the eggs from earlier. I decided to ignore it and head for the stream like I had done the previous night. I made my way with feelings of fear, uncertainty, and blind optimism. When I arrived, I saw the same water, though a deeper shade of blue and some fish with silver scales swimming through it. I looked down at my reflection and was aghast. The day turned to night, my reflection disappeared, and the fish dissolved into nothing as if they had been ripped from existence, leaving no trace. I fell to the ground and looked up into a night sky. I saw the moon, but not as it should be, and breathed heavily: it looked to be a massive silver eye, surveying the earth and every living thing on it. I felt perverted, scared. I wept, bewildered by what was happening.

I wasn’t crying normal tears, my tears were solid silver as if mercury was pouring from my eyes. I screamed in fear and looked back into the water, now inky and black as the night sky itself. I was greeted by myself looking, as if nothing had happened at all. Whatever it was gestured towards me to come closer, and I obeyed without thought, as if pulled down by some celestial force. I fell but felt no water against me. I sailed into the abyss and was greeted by imagery of clocks melting, monsters beyond comprehension, and more surreal silver eyes, still peering into my soul and sucking out my emotion. I stopped in midair and fell to the ground. There was nothing under my feet, yet I was standing. I surveyed the void and walked towards a box sitting about thirty yards away. Silver footprints appeared in front of me, as if to direct me forward. I saw a note on its top, “ Admission to Perdition” in big silver lettering. I ignored it and opened the box, and was sucked inside as if by that same magical force that had dragged me into the stream earlier.

I was in the forest again, now it is winter. Snow like a white blanket covers everything, except it wasn’t white. It was silver. I walked through the woods to the payphone. I was stopped by what I saw when I arrived. At the foot of a tree sat a skeleton, powdered with the silver snow.

I swallowed and approached. The skeleton spasmed, unleashing loud creaking sounds similar

Schulte | 49 to a machine in need of oil. The sound finally ended, but the skeleton did not stop moving. It rose and sauntered towards me, as did the man previously. I screamed but the skeleton simply stood. Suddenly, it vanished and was replaced with a large mirror with a metallic black frame. I looked into it and saw myself, like in any other mirror. I saw my person contort and twist into the fox, then the birds, then some sort of nymph with green hair and light skin with silver eyes.

The nymph laughed at me and then transformed back into me. The person in the mirror put one finger up to his mouth, as if to say, “Shh.” Without thought I did the same. The being winked at me, and its eye became silver when he stopped. I tried to yell but no sound emerged. The being’s other eye became silver. It laughed and changed shape again, this time into my mother, then morphed into the man from before, then back into me. Finally, it changed into a grotesque monster with nine tails and silver fur like a fox, but with the heads of myself, the nymph, my mother, and the man. It charged towards the mirror and, as it collided with the mirror, I heard the splashing of water. I was back in the same abyss. I looked up and saw a white circle in the sky.

It became darker the more I looked at it, until it turned silver and I heard once more the loud cry of the wolf. The ear-splitting pain from this howl was unbearable, but I held my hands on my ears. I peered once more at the circle and was greeted by an immense silver eye. I began to feel distant from my surroundings, even my own being. My vision blurred and the void fell silent.

In one moment, I felt my entire person compress, then stretch. Finally, I began to float into the gargantuan eye. Enveloped in an intense euphoria, my body began to dissolve into the eye.

—Stephen

Schulte '20

Wolf (Graphite, 8.5 x 14.5) —Samuel Poblocki '19

50 |

White

A small white room, all white: walls, tiles, tinted glass, chair, table, cup, computer. Not a speck of dust, not a single water mark or stain anywhere. The man mirrored the room, immaculate. His suit, tie, hair, rimmed glasses, shoes and soles, his ring were all white. His freshly scrubbed and manicured hands were typing at a consistent pace as he wrote his extensive report on one side of the split screen. The other was dark, pitch black, live video of another place, playing in its emptiness. Here, the black had seized any remaining purity that had ever existed.

The man was led to believe there was no good left there, no person worth saving since they had put themselves in this position. One day, when there were no more people, the place would be swept and restructured to support a new populus. The city the man lived in now was vastly populated, with no room left for new families to grow or live comfortably. The population control jurors worked their best to keep the lives of the people comfortable. The people in the city went to bed at night warm, safe, comfortable, well-fed, hydrated. In short, healthy.

The door opened upon the arrival of another man, a much wider and shorter man, whose hair and attire was white as well.

“What’s the story?” The wider man, casually.

“Nothing new to report, more of the same.”

“And the population?”

“16,328— no, 7. There isn’t anyone left in the high North territory, they’ve either gone South or out East or West. Everyone’s headed for the coasts.” The wider man was not surprised by this.

“Where is this drone streaming from?” The wider man.

“The Southeast coast.” The wider man bumped his shoulder and took the chair, bringing the drone to a village, a coastal village. The place was ragged and disorganized— tents and cabins, what appeared to be a small market, a smokehouse, an armory in the small space enclosed by wooden walls.

“What’s this?” The wider man.

“The ‘residents’ call it Hope.”

Reynolds | 51

“Reason?”

“I would assume so, at least some of them.”

“Population?”

“432.”

“Eliminate it. That should put us on track for this week.”

The man, “Yes, sir” taking his seat back. The wider man remained over his shoulder. The people would not see the drone, it was camouflaged. In another moment, there was a flash of white light, and Hope was gone. “Finish your report,” the wider man, “and you can head home for today.” He left, closing the door behind him. The man watched the door close, then looked back at his screen. He stood up, and went to the white tinted window. He spoke the word translucent, and the opaque tint disappeared. His view revealed the dam. On one side of the dam, clear, blue water filtered repeatedly during the day, stripping any impurities. On the other side of the dam, further away, its extensive gray had extinguished most of the major sea life, nothing left but bacteria and resilient lower level lifeforms. He turned back to the screen and saw the crater where he had just killed off an entire village of people, not animals, people. Living, and breathing—the more he thought about it the more he began to shake. As though he was shivering cold, but the room was almost 70 Fahrenheit.

He went to his cup of wine. Of the luxuries he was allowed, one ceramic cup of Pinot Grigio was provided to him each day he was at work. It shook in his hand gently. He began to drink, slowly, eyes closed. They opened to an awe-striking vision, the contents were now thick and maroon. His heart rate increased, he threw the cup across the room. It clunked against the wall and broke into two pieces, one very large still resembling the cup’s true shape; the other long, pointed, and knifelike. Their contents spilled out across the floor. The falling man quickly pushed himself to the corner of the room. Gasping for air and yelling, “Blood! Blood! Blood!” He closed his eyes, finding a torridness in the darkness. All he saw was black as he began to weep and vomit on himself. Only a few feet away, a knifelike shard on the ground he snatched and put it in his pocket, positioning himself back into the corner of the room.

Another few moments and the door flew open. Three men in jumpsuits: the enforcers.

Two of them made quick work of cleaning the wine, cup, and vomit off of the floor and walls.

The other carried the man down the hall and into the elevator, to a floor deep underground, proceeding to carry him to a large room with hoses and a manhole-like drain at its center. He threw the man on the ground near the drain, picked up one of the hoses, and turned it on full power spraying the huddled mass on the ground. The force of the cold water pushed him, screaming and in pain, against the wall. He kept his eyes closed, for when he opened them, he saw blood.

“Blood! Blood! Blood!” He cried. The other man turned off the hose and began to walk towards him.

“Hey! Hey! We can’t have this!” The other man.

52 | Reynolds

“Blood! Blood!”

“There isn’t any blood! You’re imagining it!”

“Blood! Blood!”

The other man grabbed the man by the collar and punched him hard in the face.

“Enough!” The other man.

The man sobbed softly, his clothes soggy with water and tears. Eventually, he became silent. The other sat next to him. “It’s hard for all of us.” The other said. “I can see why it would be hardest for you, but I’m telling you, we can’t have this. The work we do, as bad as it is, it’s necessary. There isn’t enough room for all of these...people here, everywhere you look it’s people! I come here every day and I do what I have to, because I want a better life for my children, a better future. America, they ruined their future. They were playing with fire, but we have a chance. A chance to cleanse this Earth of its impurities. And maybe one day you’ll see it like I do. But if you can’t do this job, then you don’t belong here, you’re getting in the way of the rest of us.” The man was silent, staring at the drain, watching all of the impurities circle and swirl down, down, down. “There’s a change of clothes just over there, come out when you’re ready to get back to work,” the other said, getting up. He walked out of the room, went to the elevator, and went up, up, up. The man got up, took off all of his clothes, threw them down the laundry chute, and put on the new. So fresh and clean, like a cloak of everything that had happened that morning. He held in his hand the knifelike shard from his old pants pocket and put it in the new one. He took the elevator back to his floor, and went back to his office to finish his report.

As time passed, he struggled to forget the events of this purely awful day. He finished his report, rested his face in his hands, and then looked back at the screen. The live camera was still on. He reached for the power button, but stopped as the orange flash stretched across half of the screen. Just off the coast, someone had fired a flare gun. The man could not see who, though it was beautiful. The man hadn’t seen anything like a firework in years; it reminded him of the past.

“Are we really better off now?” He waited for the flare to dissipate, then he turned off the computer. He put on his coat and closed the door to the room.

As he took the train home, he looked at all the people’s faces. Some read from digital screens, others wore earbuds, none conversed, all looked down. All that seemed to remain for him was standing still and staring forward.

Opening his door with the retinal scanner, he stepped into his home. A large window across from the door spanned the full length of the wall, and two doors to either side of him opened to an eat-in kitchen and a bathroom on the left, and on the other, two bedrooms. He walked so closely to the window that his nose almost touched it. “Translucent,” he spoke. It was now very late at night. He looked out across the ocean into darkness, all the same color. No gray and blue, no clear and foggy, all pitch black. He gently pressed his fingertips and his brow to the window, eyes closed.

Reynolds | 53

Opening his eyes and taking a step back, looking out upon the ocean, he took the shard from his pocket and examined it, holding it before the dark.

“Papa,” boy, groggily. “Is everything ok?” Swiftly, the man put the shard in his pocket and turned to face the boy.

“Yes, son.” The man, now relaxed and smiling. Everything is fine. Here. Right here: why he lived, why he did what he did, why he carried on. If it wasn’t for this boy, he would do it.

The boy returned to his room, the father turned back to face the window, the ocean. He looked closely and felt he could almost see that flare shooting across the sky. He smiled and was at peace with his life. A single drop of blood hit the perfect tile floor.

—Ian

Reynolds '19

My Room (Graphite, 8.5" x 10.5") —Thomas Gamblin '20

54 |

Anxiety My mind engulfed in murky suspicion, Nobody knows of the fear I fight Grasping for release from isolation.

Do they see my social affliction?

Fearing rejection, I exist in fright, My mind engulfed in murky suspicion.

I long to cure this social dysfunction, Ask what’s wrong. It’s nothing, I’m alright.

Grasping for release from isolation, Embarrassment haunts every interaction.

Modern day leper, pushed to the outside; My mind engulfed in murky suspicion, Fears the future. Eternal alienation.

Engaged in struggle against bitter spite, Grasping for release from isolation.

Who would accept such a flawed creation?

Barred from friendship and love, growing cold as night, My mind engulfed in murky suspicion, Grasping for release from isolation.

—Jacob

Untitled (Watercolor) —Corwaun Clark '18

Mikna '18

| 55

Division

Long Ago, there was a species called Humanity. Although it doesn’t make sense, they triumphed against all the odds. They weren’t the biggest animal on Earth, or the strongest, or the fastest, or the best camouflaged. But they had one thing going for them—their minds. Because of this, they were able to conquer the biggest, strongest, and fastest animals that Earth had to offer, and even the planet itself. But, throughout the entire duration of the species, they were plagued by a terrible illness. They were divided.

Before civilizations rose, before wars, before buildings, small tribes roamed the planet.

They were so far apart from each other that most individuals only interacted with their own group. Most people only knew those within their tribe. At this point, they were divided by mere geography. That would be the least of their problems.

Fast forward many thousands of years and civilizations began to develop. It began in the land between two rivers. I believe they were called, Tigris and Euphrates. Borders formed and empires grew. With these two things came intense nationalism—and greed. They wanted what they could not have. More land, more wealth, more power. Without fail, all of the empires crumbled, no matter how powerful or vast or wealthy they were.

Eventually these empires gave rise to ideologies, to explain their unexplainable, to give hope to the hopeless. You would think that these ideologies would unite them, but instead, only fueled the intense tribalism already present, because, for the most part, ideologies obeyed borders. But then a new nation arose. It seemed different than the others. It rejected absolute power concentrated in one individual. It was promising. But, it also succumbed to the sickness—Division.

They were so divided that they fought a war amongst themselves in which many people died. You would think that they would learn a lesson from this conflict. You would think that it would teach them that Division leads to violence, and violence leads to societal collapse. Not so.

56 | Langoehr

But there was something that everyone could agree on. It pleased every individual, good or evil, young or old, sick or healthy, and brought happiness to everyone. Music.

Given what I just told you, you might think that this would unite the people. After all, it made everyone happy. No one could explain why, but it did. Sadly, even this divided them.

Some people preferred new music, some liked it old-fashioned. Some preferred fast music, some preferred slow relaxing music. They scoffed at those who thought differently.

Records of human activity abruptly cease at around the year 2018. Upon examination of the planet, we discovered a wasteland, and massive amounts of radioactivity. We can learn a great deal from their failures. As advanced as they were, their minds contained a fundamental flaw, and it led to their downfall. They didn’t even realize it until it was too late.

—Vincent

Manos de Fantasma, I Reach for Palpitations (Ink) —Austin Piszczek 19'

Langoehr '20

| 57

Soul Flights A young soul grabs the wind like Falling leaves in a gust, A yearning imbeds itself deep within to be The trees that harmonize and commune, A summit calls upon the adolescent to climb And mix forever into the unknown.

An old soul anchors to the earth, Feet placid in dusty fields, Understanding sweeps across the view, A bluebird in a midnight sky, crashing into a cage.

Do all souls lose their flight?

Are we without a harmony of souls? —Henry

Rohmer '18

58 |

The Woods A crow glides silently over the forest, Its black wings oppressive, grim.

The shadow cast from its body only briefly breaks Those magnificent beams of light That attempt to penetrate the canopy.

A leaf desperately holding on Fulfills its destiny as it plummets, Its beauty evident in its most vulnerable moment.

It delicately dances through the air— The forest a red and yellow spectacle, Nature’s confetti.

In these woods of golden leaves Not all is what it seems to be.

Yes, the beauty is clear to see, When high upon the ancient trees.

Alas, when fallen down, The leaves are naught but memories forgotten on the ground.

—Ethan

Wright '19

| 59

Our Common Home Our world’s a gift of great beauty, Such scents to smell, such sights to see.

To care for it is each man’s call, But it is here that we do fall In our care for our common home.

We mine for ore to melt and cast Great metal beasts designed to last, Then burn up coal to make them run Until the smoke blocks out the sun As we pillage our common home.

Green forests are given to us And waters seem too great to cross.

We climb each limb on ev’ry tree And sail upon each glist’ning sea As we play in our common home.

Our polar ice begins to melt.

We lose the beauty of this earth.

Forsake the poor for profit’s sake, Hate your brother, live for self, Before us crumbles our common home.

We cut down trees to gather wood And with it build our neighborhoods.

We craft great ships to cross the seas To buy and sell things of our needs As we grow in our common home.

But still through Love can we rebuild And fertile fields again be tilled.

Then we can see that we are made To trust in God, be unafraid As we care for our common home.

—Daniel

Griffin '18

60 |

The Sermon of the Earth My children, my children, my children, Why do you persecute me?

Why do you bite the breast from which you feast?

Why do you slash the hairs of my eternal beauty?

Why do you poison my blood, which run even inside you?

Why do you make such grand fire To choke your elderly Father?

One day my child, when your Father and I die, You all will become orphans, Left to cry red tears To the Eternal Time. —Her

Pao Lee '19

Steel (Photograph) —Vincent Ryskoski '20

Editor-in-Chief Peter Selfors

Editors

Cover Design

Jackson Gregory Connor Larkin Marcelo Quesada

Peter Selfors Marcelo Quesada Jackson Gregory

Art Editors

Signatures

Squad

Alec Redfern Peter Selfors Jackson Gregory Ian Reynolds

Moderator

Ms. Ginny Schauble

Production Consultants

Mr. Gary Skinner gskinner.aplus@gmail.com APLUS Graphic Resources Mr. Shane Skinner shane.k.skinner@gmail.com APLUS Graphic Resources

Jackson Gregory Connor Larkin Marcelo Quesada Alec Redfern Ian Reynolds Peter Selfors

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Cover Art The Villa Express (Acrylic Paint) —Josh Villa-Vasquez '19

Inside Front Cover He She Him Her (Micro–Pen, 16" x 20") —Alec Redfern '18

Page 44 Cigs (Graphite, 11.5" x 11.5") —Ben Kozina '18

Inside Back Cover Serenity (Photography) —Liam Meyer '18

Hopscotch Overseer (Acrylic on Wood) —Thomas Krajna '18

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