Sisyphus by SLUH

Sisyphus Winter ’20 Cover: digital design by Logan Florida Inside cover spanning bottom: watercolor by Logan Florida Inside front cover, clockwise from top left: acrylic painting by Jackson DuCharme, watercolor by Logan Florida, photograph by Daniel Gatewood, photograph by Drew Walters Inside back cover, clockwise from top left: photograph by Daniel Gatewood, photograph by Drew Walters, acrylic print by Jackson DuCharme, photograph by Tony Romero masthead photograph by Daniel Gatewood, design by Brendan McLaughlin 3 The Curse of an Artist, poetry by Adrian Gray 4 Celeste, Stargirl, fiction by Peter Michalski 5 photograph by Patrick Hayden 7 photograph by John Hilker 10 photograph by Daniel Gatewood 11 The Hero’s Haunting, fiction by Christopher St. John 12 photograph by Drew Walters 13 Related Rates, poetry by David Schuster ’77 14 photograph by Daniel Gatewood 15 Philip, prose by Philip Hiblovic 17 Being Mixed is Queer, prose by Komlavi Adissem 18 photograph by Patrick Hayden

19 Miss Doris and My Mama, by William George 21 photograph by Emmanuel Reyes 22 How to Kill the Wolf, by Corey Lyles 22 photograph by John Hilker 23 photograph by Daniel Gatewood 24 A New Perspective, prose by Carter J. Fortman 26 Man in the Stands, poetry by Jack DuMont 27 prints by Logan Florida 28 watercolor by Logan Florida 29 watercolor by Logan Florida 30 photographs by John Hilker 31 Roles, fiction by Padraic Riordan ’19 34 photograph by Daniel Gatewood 38 photograph by Daniel Gatewood 39 A Puzzling Encounter with Love, prose by Jonathan Grimes 41 photograph by Daniel Gatewood 42 Odysseus, My Lover, fiction by Brendan Schroeder 43 watercolor by Logan Florida 44 sketch by Jackson DuCharme 45 The Schnuck, Part One, drama by Jude Reed and William Jaffe 51 photograph by Emmanuel Reyes 52 sketch by Philip Hiblovic 53 The King Who Walked Away, prose by Jacob Heard 55 sketch by Logan Florida 56 Mother Water, poetry by Philip Hiblovic

The Curse of an Artist Adrian Gray Fortune spins me round and round Her wheel of chance judging me â&#x20AC;&#x153;Success or failure?â&#x20AC;? she asks Knowing I have no answer As I put pen to paper The cruel wheel comes to a stop To tell of my fickle fate And make me her fool again

Celeste, Stargirl Peter Michalski

he young Celeste lay awake in her bed as her house rattled around her. She longed for sleep, but the weather suggested the gods had something else in mind. The old cottage shook and swung like the wind chime that hung on the porch. In her younger years, Celeste would jump as high as she could and bat at that wind chime, hoping to pluck a lick of music from her touch. Unfortunately, her impish stature made it nearly impossible without Fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s help. But Father would always be there, ready to hoist Celeste up toward the wind chime, where she could produce joyful

tones and giggle at the magic sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d created. Now she heard the old chime from her room, loud and chaotic and not at all comforting as it had once been, while the wind whipped conflicting notes from its rusting body. This wind confused Celeste; it came without company. No rain, snow, hail or sleet came near the cottage, and yet the wind carried on as if all three were coming at once. Celeste puzzled through this in her bed, still too anxious to sleep. The wind continued to shake the house for what felt like at least an hour, and Celeste had made no progress in her puzzling or

photograph by Patrick Hayden

in falling asleep. Despite shifting around in search of a more comfortable position, she was more awake than she’d ever been. Perhaps I should join Mother, she thought. But the idea soon fled from her. While her mother’s bed had quite enough room for both of them, Celeste didn’t want to disturb her sleeping. Recently, Mother, once joyful and energetic, hadn’t been quite the same. Now she rarely left the cottage. The old Mother could be found in the garden, joyfully and vigorously stabbing at the carrots with a spade, or dancing about the kitchen, singing an old sailor’s song as she made supper. But the new Mother sat and said little during the days. She prepared food for herself and Celeste, but every day there was a little less on each plate. Mother didn’t seem to sleep much either. In fact, Celeste didn’t quite know what Mother would do during the nights. All of this concerned Celeste, but she figured that once Father returned, everything would be well again. However, Father was not yet back, and the wind still blew. The wind blew so much, in fact, that Celeste heard the kitchen door snap open with a loud WHACK. She waited a moment to hear if Mother had stirred, but only the piercing cry of the gale met her ears. Celeste sighed and rose from her bed, for she knew someone would have to close the door. She clambered down the stairs and met the gusts in person as they tossed the room around. In the few short minutes that the door had been open, the wind had managed to knock down their potted basil, throw the silverware from the table, and even overturn their largest iron pot. This upheaval further puzzled Celeste, as even the strongest wind should not have been able to lift such a weight. Regardless, she trekked towards the door with increasing struggle, for each gust pushed her harder than the last. The wind flooded the house with a deep cold. But not the soft cold of a snowy day,

the kind that makes your nose turn red, but only at the tip, and can be solved with a log fire and perhaps a mug of cocoa. No, this was the other kind of cold: the piercing, brutal cold that touches every part of the body in unapologetic stabs and inspires words like “hypothermia” and “frostbite.” It was the kind of cold that forced Celeste to reach for Father’s coat and sling it around herself. The coat flapped wildly in the chaos of the kitchen, but Celeste held tight to the thick wool as the room exploded around her. Not only was the iron pot moving on its own, but the rest of the pots and pans and plates and everything else in the kitchen floated and flew as if all the gravity had been sucked out of the room. But in spite of the mess, and the cold, and the horrible noise coming from outside, Celeste reached the doorframe. And just as she reached for the door, everything stopped. The pots, the plates, the silverware, and even the horribly shaken up basil plant stopped in the air for a fraction of a second and slammed down with a clatter so horrible that Celeste stifled a scream. She turned to face the mess that had become of her kitchen but only caught a glimpse as the wind began again. Only this time, the other way. Every manner of mess in the kitchen flung itself towards the door as the wind seemed to pull the house from its foundation. Celeste clasped the wood of the door frame as every inch of her body was pulled toward the outside, and with all the strength she could muster, she tugged on the rotting wood. But the wind rose to meet her strength, and soon she was dangling horizontally, flapping like a flag in a storm. She screamed for Mother as the wind continued to yank, and soon enough, the gusts had their prize. The rotting wood of the frame split beneath the frantic pressure of Celeste’s hands, and suddenly she was airborne, clinging to Father’s jacket as her house disappeared into the night.

The sky consumed Celeste. She bounced around between all the stars and galaxies, and twisted and turned, and somersaulted through the air. She could no longer tell her up from her down, for all she could see was the speckled sky circling her. Until suddenly the wind stopped just as it had before. Celeste simply floated where she was. And where she was, she did not know, but she intended to find out.

hen she was little, Father had taught her how to read the stars. And not only did Celeste read the stars, she befriended them. The young Celeste would stay out for hours on summer nights, chatting with her cosmic friends and greeting new ones, with Father’s help. On those nights, Father would lay out a blanket and set out tea for Mother, and the stars, and her. He’d sing his sailing songs, and Mother would soon get up to dance with him. As the two held each other close, Celeste would take the stars as her partners, moving in perfect rhythm to Father’s lyrics, feeling as if she were floating. The whole congregation would slide and skip in the warm air until eventually the three human partygoers would collapse onto the blanket from exhaustion, laughing until their bellies could take no more. Then came Celeste’s favorite part. The three would quiet and watch as the sky continued to dance. It would shake, and rotate, and flip over itself, in a form so unpredictable yet so perfect. Utter silence would fill the space around the family, except for the ambient noise of the nature around them, which Father called “the stars’ voices.” And finally, Celeste would fall asleep in the arms of Mother, or Father, or both. The last of these summer festivities had happened the night before Father left again. Everyone danced with a joy and a sorrow more powerful than ever before. Only six at the time, Celeste didn’t fully understand

the emotion of the evening, but the sky in its dancing told her all she needed to know, and she instinctively fell asleep in Father’s arms that night. Since that night, Celeste hadn’t spoken with the stars. She knew it wouldn’t be the same without Father, so she waited. But the longer she waited, the less she remembered about her old friends, and after three years, she hardly recognized them. She began shouting the names she remembered at what were now random clumps of light. “Ursa! Virgo! Cygnus! Libra! Perseus!” No response. She wasn’t surprised. Why should they answer someone they hadn’t seen in years? Regardless, Celeste knew she must find a way home somehow. If Mother were to wake up and find her missing... Celeste shuddered at the idea of how Mother might react. But she soon came to realize that moving homeward would be no easy task. By the feeling in her bones, Celeste knew that she was not floating. She’d been swimming before, and she figured if she were floating through the sky, she’d feel the same lack of weight, the ability to turn, and flip, and fly through the matter. No, this was a different sensation. Here she was not weightless. She felt a gravity tugging on her, anchoring her. In fact, she almost felt as if she were standing on the ground, only a different sort of ground. It was like a rock, flattened and smoothed for a thousand years by a river, only to be picked up and thrown back for another thousand years of smoothing. The sky was cool beneath her, and since the sharp chills of the wind had subsided, it was quite comfortable under her bare feet. Celeste stood completely still. Do I dare step onto the nothingness? she wondered. For all she knew, it was just that: nothingness. She could take a confident step and return to the violence and turmoil of the wind, only to be

photograph by John Hilker

stopped by the cold, unfeeling ground. However, she knew that if she were to stay put, she’d likely starve…or freeze…or grow tired and fall anyway…so with great hesitance, she stuck out her right foot. As slowly as she could manage, she leaned into the step, and was met again with the smoothness of the sky-floor. She sighed a great sigh of relief and took a slightly less hesitant step. With that, Celeste was sent walking through the night sky. With each step, she thanked it for existing, and as she walked she noted that the floor of the sky was the most concrete nothing she had ever not seen. She looked down, trying to glimpse her cottage, or the nearby forest, or anything that wasn’t ocean. But then she thought again. Perhaps she should like to find the ocean beneath her. Perhaps the sky would take her all the way out to sea, and eventually the floor would end. Celeste pictured herself, far above the ocean, falling faster and faster, facing the wind again, but rather than going splat on a

rock in some forest, landing in Father’s arms instead. She pictured Father’s face, darkened from all his time at sea, smiling and fighting tears as he embraced her. She pictured Father’s whole crew, and the entire Royal Navy, hooting and cheering at the joyful reunion. And finally, the two of them, on a small boat, sailing home to be with Mother and the stars forever. As she pictured the scene, Celeste felt tears welling up, but she had no time for sadness. In an effort to distract herself from the pain, she jammed both fists into the empty pockets of Father’s massive jacket. But they weren’t empty. To Celeste’s surprise, she found a handful of trinkets in the deep pockets. From the left pocket she pulled a bronze watch with the Royal Navy’s insignia and a few one pound coins. And from the right pocket all she could find was a small metal disc, with a hole in each end and a crudely drawn star on the front. The disc shone and sparkled in the light, as if Celeste were holding a star in her own hand. As she lifted it

towards her eyes, a bit of air passed through the holes, and Celeste saw the sky before her move, but only slightly, as if each star had rotated a single degree clockwise and then remained in place. Celeste turned her head to match the stars, staring and trying to make sense of what she’d just seen. She returned her gaze to the disc, still puzzling, and swung it through the sky. The disc caught more air this time, and the sky shifted another few degrees. Fascinated by her discovery, Celeste swung the disc back and forth, and the sky twisted and turned like an old clock trying to catch up with time. Then an idea struck. Celeste took the disc and, star side facing out, held it up to her lips. With all the might she could muster, she breathed in and blew into the disc. The tiny metal thing emitted a sound unlike anything Celeste had heard before. The disc rang loudly, with a pitch high enough to meet the stars themselves. But the sound wasn’t overly shrill, like a child seeing how loud his clarinet can squeak; it was more like a single flute, holding a sustained note with the resonance of an entire symphony. To Celeste, it was the most beautiful music in the universe. And it seemed as if the stars agreed. When the note sounded, the sky began to spin as it had before, but as it continued, the pattern changed. The stars, once bound to each other by the laws of physics, broke free of their shackles. Their spinning transformed into a sort of pulsing; each star shook and dove in and out of a secret rhythm. The lights swirled and swarmed like a million tiny insects, all in perfect synchronization. Celeste watched in awe as the sky reformed with a passion beyond her own comprehension. The deep blues flirted with the purplish nebulas, dancing to a music that was felt, not heard. The two then mixed above, and below, and around Celeste as each star fell somewhere within the combining hues. Celeste

tried to follow a single star, and the beauty was suddenly gone. But as she broadened her focus, it returned, and she lost herself in the power of the night. She continued walking, neck cricked, refusing to take her eyes off the majesty of the scene. And although she’d stopped blowing through the disc, the stars’ motions hummed the music to her. Soon enough, she was swept into the beauty of the night. Her walking became floating as the sky-floor pushed her up with a sudden bump, leaving her weightless. However, Celeste was not scared. Although just minutes earlier she’d been clinging to the floor with gratitude, she now felt liberated from her gravity and ecstatic to dance with the night sky again. With very little effort, she joined the music. It flowed through her and within her, guiding every movement of head, arm, leg, hand, and shoulder. It sent her flipping and flying through the air, at speeds faster than even horseback. Suddenly, Celeste began remembering the names of her old friends. The dance reminded her of each constellation’s personality, and her eyes watered with the memories. She shouted with delight as she began recognizing each of the stars. She shot towards each of her friends and embraced them as her past flowed back, and they responded by twisting through the air with Celeste in tow, soaring together in joyful reunion. The dancing continued for what felt like hours, but Celeste was too preoccupied to keep track. She swam through the sky in perfect sync with the other stars, and through the darkness of the night she noticed a sliver of light, far in the distance. Morning was dawning. Suddenly, images of Mother flashed through Celeste’s mind, and the music within her came to a halt. She felt herself sinking as the stars above her continued to dance, but they soon noticed and came to her aid. They placed Celeste back on the sky-floor, and the

last notes of the song left her as her feet returned to the smooth, cool surface. Celeste looked at the space above her, and images of Father entered her rapid spiral. She thought about the night she’d just spent in the sky, and how Father had always talked about joining the stars in their dance. Sadness enveloped her with a cold, encompassing wave. It was a feeling worse than being jostled by the wind, worse than seeing Father leave three years ago. And for the first time since he had gone, Celeste began to weep. She wept for Mother and her loneliness, her sickness. She wept for herself, and for her guilt about returning to the stars without Father. She wept for Father, pleading to the stars themselves, in all their power, to bring him home, to fix their family. And the stars—those all-seeing stars who had traversed the world every night for billions of years, who had seen the rise and fall of countless empires, who had seen the world form out of a speck of dust in the cosmos—for the first time, wept. Celeste felt each star crying alongside her. The music once within her turned to the tears of millions, and the sky itself embraced the little Celeste in its infinity. It was then that she knew that Father was not coming back. The stars around her and amongst her told her with their feelings. And just as the music before was unheard, the mourning of the night carried on in perfect, solemn, silence. As Celeste and her friends lamented the loss of Father, the sun continued to crawl up the sky, pushing the purple into pink and causing the stars to change their positions. Celeste began to stand up and wiped the tears from her eyes. The pain of loss still shook her, and she had trouble finding her feet. The stars that remained helped her up, and she knew she must return home quickly, to be with Mother. The stars obliged, and she began to sink again into the sky-floor, re-

turning to Earth as her friends twinkled out of sight above her. But a few seconds into her sinking, she began to float again. She squirmed and screamed, desiring nothing more than to return home. She turned to face upwards and, through tear-stained eyes, saw only one star in the increasingly bright morning sky. Hoping it would leave her alone, she thought nasty, angry thoughts at it. But the star returned nothing. As she drew closer, she felt music once again. But it wasn’t the same as the music she’d experienced earlier that night. This music was soft and simple, far different from the symphony of millions she’d remembered. The new song clearly came from the lone star in the sky, and as much as Celeste wanted to hate it, it sounded strangely familiar to her, like one of Father’s old sailing songs. The anger in Celeste’s heart instantly changed to love as she shot towards the star. She cried even more than she had in the previous night as she embraced what she knew was truly Father. Celeste felt the star return the tears, but they weren’t the sad, bleak tears that she’d felt mere minutes ago, nor the purely joyful tears she’d felt when meeting the stars. No, these were some sort of mix, or perhaps something different altogether. Regardless of the tears, Celeste and Father danced through the pinks and oranges of the ever-growing sunrise. They flew along to the old sailor’s tune as if they danced with the whole universe, sobbing and laughing with each other all along the way. But soon enough, the sea shanty came to an end, and Father embraced Celeste one final time. The sun greeted the goodbye with a melancholy glow, and Father joined the other stars in their procession around the planet. Celeste watched as morning overtook the night, and she slid down the warmth of the sun, back to the cottage. She walked through the blown-open

door to find the kitchen just as destroyed as she’d left it. As the first of the floorboards creaked beneath her bare feet, she heard a great racket upstairs, followed by frantic footsteps. Mother appeared at the top of the stairs, with eyes red and raw, and rushed towards Celeste. As she ran through the kitchen, she noticed the look in Celeste’s eyes and stopped. It was a mature look, a look that shocked her, a look that even many grown-ups didn’t have. Celeste stared back at Mother, and without words, the two women understood each other. They embraced, and

cried, and from that moment onward, the old Mother began to return. That evening, for the first time in three years, the two went out into the garden, laid out a blanket, and set out three cups of tea. Celeste blew into Father’s metal disc, and all the sky lit up above them, shifting around in all ways perfect and unexplainable. The two danced with each other, singing whatever they could remember of Father’s old songs. And as they looked up into the night, they knew that after such a long time, he had finally returned.

photograph by Daniel Gatewood

The Hero’s Haunting Christopher St. John

fter the King and Queen of Phaeacia took pity on the mighty warrior during his begging in the great hall, Odysseus entered his room. King Alcinous had provided the grandest of furnishings: a bed as large as the deck of a ship, a fire to keep the valiant warrior warm from Boreus, the god of winter who sends his winds throughout Greece, and a wall painted with tales of storied heroes and gods. The room was far from the tents pitched near Troy, where thousands of Hellenic warriors rested as they besieged King Priam’s city. As Odysseus prepared for his long-awaited slumber, he sat on the bed, motionless as the quiet peace of the room filled his heart. He was at ease for a few moments before he heard voices that seemingly came from nowhere. He began to hear the dead, those who died before the walls of Troy. They cried out to him, “Odysseus, why have you condemned us so? You are the reason for our deaths!” Odysseus was entranced as the figures of people from his past appeared before him: ghastly figures of transparent material, all resembling death itself. Odysseus cried out, “Why are you here? You should have all descended to the house of death!” Those ghastly figures, each with a face as pale as the stone of Ithaca’s Mount Neriton, with clothes worn to rags, approached the warrior as he stood there confused and astonished at what he was witnessing. They came from everywhere, through the wall of thick stone, down from the ceiling and up from the floor.

The figure of his mother, Anticleia, cried out to him with a raspy voice, “Why did you leave me, my son? You caused my death, YOU! You should never have left us!” Odysseus pleaded with her, “I had to; what kind of a king would I be if I hadn’t?” The ghost replied, “You were selfish. You cared more about your heroic exploits than your own mother! I’ll show you the true consequences of your actions!” Anticleia raised her hands as if she were praying to the gods, and a green mist was cast upon Odysseus. Within the mist, Odysseus saw his beloved Penelope and their infant son, Telemachus, crying out as drunken suitors slaughtered them. The slain family was cast away, and a new image appeared, an image of war and the blood-soaked plains of Troy. As the Trojan line advanced, they cut down every Hellenic Warrior in their path. The soldiers cried out to their leader, “Odysseus, save us! You promised to bring us home!” Odysseus shouted, barely able to speak, “I tried! I tried to save you all!” Odysseus fell to the floor and began to sob. When he opened his eyes, he saw the shadowy form of Menelaus, King of Sparta, standing over him. Odysseus pleaded, “Menelaus, my friend, what is all this? What led me down this path? Was it greed? Is that what you’re trying to tell me? Answer me!” Odysseus continued, “I have climbed and fought, and now I have a chance to return home, yet you plague me with these visions. Why?” Odysseus knelt on

the cold floor, barely able to support his own weight, for the ghosts had sapped all the energy from his body. Menaleus responded, “You ask why I haunt you; it is because you are a fool. I would never have taunted that cyclops and caused the deaths of my crew; I would have never led them into that cave in the first place! I would have never given them the chance to disobey my command and kill those sacred cattle!” Odysseus was heartbroken, shattered by these words from the lips of his dearest friend. And suddenly all the apparitions disappeared except for one. Anticleia now stood over the man in anguish, writhing on the floor in a pool of his

own tears. The ghost spoke in a condemning and judgmental voice: “Know this, my son, as long as you live, we will be watching you. Learn from what happened this night, and pray we never have to visit you again.” Odysseus fell into a slumber and then awoke the next day. A servant opened his door and said, “Sir, the King has invited you to the games and contests.” As Odysseus walked out of the room, still reeling from the trauma he had just endured, he glanced at the wall paintings. Their eyes met his, but despite their whispers, the great warrior went forth holding those he had encountered in his memory.

photograph by Drew Walters

Related Rates David Schuster ’77 with appreciation to Donald Wagoner One runner starts at a point A and runs east at a rate of 10 ft/sec. One minute later, another runner starts at A and runs north at a rate of 8 ft/sec. At what rate is the distance between them changing 1 minute later? Swokowski, Page 163, #4 It must have been you, running east, always faster than me, as On that evening on the quad, after dinner, I chased you round In circles, you moving like a running back, always just out of My reach, always leaving me as I fell behind. Or was I heading north and you south, as I did to catch you and Then we did together? On parallel tracks but riding on people movers, watching as the other passed, waving, reaching out. Then touching, holding on, never letting go. If only the eastbound runner had a rate of 6 ft/sec, then, of course We would have a 3-4-5 triangle, and the solution would come easily. As they never have. But at least it would be a 3-4-5, so They would know it was you and me. But instead, if I’ve figured correctly, we’re left with a much more Complicated answer, yet, again, hasn’t that always been? So, without rationalizing the denominator, I arrive at 66/√29, If I’ve figured correctly for you. As I tried to do, that evening forty years ago when you, Needing some help with homework, heard Tom Waits’ Blue Valentine On my stereo and peeked in, asking for help. “I hear,” you asked, “That you’re a math major.” I looked up. We worked it out together, me trying to remember how to Do these problems that have an implicit differentiation in them. Working the problem not by going directly at it, but teasing Out the solution using the velocities given.

So for a time we ran in different directions, you glancing at me As you passed, me trying not to look, as if we were on that track From Page 175 #23, a half-mile long, â&#x20AC;&#x153;a rectangle with semicircles At two opposite ends.â&#x20AC;? Maximize the area by running away.

Running away, running toward, you, me, us, differentiating, integrating. You eastward, me northward. Me toward, you west. Clockwise, counter, Circling one another, then logarithmically spiraling in, like moths Toward light. Inward, inward, ever inward. Until, like the trains in the story problem, we ran together, eased toward And steadily jogged side by side, sometimes racing, sometimes leading. But the distance between us decreased, asymptotically approaching One over infinity. Won over, infinitely.

photograph by Daniel Gatewood

Philip Philip Hiblovic

pright on her mattress, Zita climbed the precipice of her final contractions. Her sweat-soaked sheets were soiled by ten hours’ labor. It was a different kind of sweat, that new motherly kind of sweat, concentrated with nerve and verve and flowing like a torrent from nature. She had become a wife in this bed, and now she was becoming a mother. As a new mother was on the wane, so was the tiny village of Panevo. Under Communism, Serbia experienced affliction unmatched in the country’s history. Zita and her husband Alexander—new parents at the time—felt the effects of the regime’s harsh demands with special keenness. While his wife was preparing to give birth, Alexander was a world away from Serbia, or at least what felt like one. Stationed at the Macedonian border, Alexander fulfilled the mandatory military service enforced by the Communist regime. Without her husband, Zita found herself in the bedroom they shared together accompanied only by the village midwife, her older sister Illonka, and her beloved boy itching for his first encounter with the world. She would name him Philip, she had decided. “Zita, sa punom snagom! Skoro si tamo,” (Zita, at full strength! You’re almost there.) the midwife said with all the conviction she could muster, though only half believing it. Clenching her sister’s delicate hand, Zita braced herself for the final push. Shrieking at her labor’s climax, Zita locked eyes with

Illonka, whose bearing had had a way of calming her since girlhood. Zita felt the rapid unbarring of her inner walls, the instant breakage of her butterfly boy from his sheltered cocoon. Nothing would prepare her for what was to come. A lifeless, pale blue Philip ejected from his mother’s loins into the arms of the horrified midwife, strangled by his umbilical cord like a criminal from a noose. Despite the midwife’s most desperate efforts, Philip was already gone. Paralyzed in the expanse of her desolate womb, her grimy legs draped over the sides of her son’s death bed, Zita felt the purse of her cracked lips. She couldn’t manage a sound—not even a sob—for her tongue meant to sing for Philip was numb in her mouth, and her heart meant to beat for Philip was broken inside her milk-packed chest. The midwife placed the boy into the arms of his mother, and Zita bellowed at the reality of Philip’s eyes, so becoming of death, she thought, that his pupils must be dilating at the sight of God Himself. At that moment, Zita did not believe in God, but in the next, she begged Him to take her instead. In a traditional Serbian family like mine, firstborn sons are treated like kings. Rooted in the convention of male lineage, the firstborn son not only inherits the father’s property but assumes the responsibility of preserving his father’s namesake. Alexander never met his heir. And it ruined him. For Zita, losing her child felt like a direct attack on her womanhood, but for

Alexander, losing his firstborn son felt like a direct attack on his Serbianhood. Alexander and Zita later parented two girls, because, despite their incessant prayers, God never gave them another son. The trauma of losing their firstborn son was amplified for the young couple amidst the stress of Communist-era Yugoslavia. The cloud of uncertainty and distress felt by the country paralleled that of Zita and Alexander. Alexander’s mandatory service left Zita alone to cope with the death of their son. Losing her firstborn son alone in this time of national distress must have been incredibly debilitating for Zita. In order to survive this onslaught, Zita found the strength within herself to rebuild those broken parts of herself and suppress those parts of a grieving mother that could never possibly heal. Because of this reality, I will never know the woman Zita was before that life-altering moment, for it damaged her in ways I could only imagine. Zita held onto Philip for three days, cradling his corpse as a girl would a doll. The fact that he couldn’t cry made Zita sob until her tears ran dry. The fact that he couldn’t sleep made Zita an insomniac. The fact that he couldn’t eat made Zita’s appetite perish. She felt hopeless in a cycle of never-ending despair. The piece of Zita’s heart occupied by Philip was broken forever. Three days after Philip’s death, Zita and Illonka held a

funeral service that included close family and friends from the village. Illonka held Zita’s hand as she shrieked seeing her son lowered into the ground, but the sisterly gesture provided her with only the slightest consolation. She bowed and kissed the freshly laid dirt, placing a bouquet of white roses under Philip’s tombstone. It read “Rest In Peace, Philip Stojković, the boy we never knew but will always love.” Philip’s tombstone Zita planted over half a century ago in Pancevo stands today as a reminder of a mother’s loss and the tribulations that ensued from it. Almost fifty years later, I came to carry my stillborn cousin’s namesake when my parents chose it with no knowledge of the story. Upon hearing my name, coincidentally identical to that of my cousin, my grandmother told my parents the story of Philip. Following the unearthing of this family story as the result of an accident, Zita and Alexander whole-heartedly agreed to be my godparents. Although Philip’s death was entirely accidental, its implications were life-defining for my godparents. My given-name was also accidental, but it became meaningful for my family when associated with my godparents’ loss. Though completely unexpected and often unfortunate, these accidents often become monumental in our lives. Events we are incapable of foreseeing can ultimately make us who we are.

Being Mixed is Queer Komlavi Adissem

am Togolese-American. Although born at St. Luke’s Hospital in Chesterfield, I have a very foreign name that people have butchered since I came out of the womb. Since I’ve been raised by two white women—my mother and grandmother—I have often been asked if I am adopted. I grew up in a middle class, pro-union, blue-collar Democratic household in the Southside neighborhood of Bevo, famous for its titular giant German windmill. I’ve spent recent years pondering how the circumstances of my childhood molded my current identity. One of my biggest findings is that concerning my sexuality. Last summer, while at Missouri Scholars Academy at Mizzou, I fed off of the very accepting and open energy there, where there was no stigma around homosexuality or gender identity. For years I had known something was up, but it took me until last summer to say the words “I’m bisexual.” And from there, I began looking deeper, and eventually realized that I’m gay. I came out to my SLUH class at large during my campaign speech for the STUCO Vice Presidency, and I honestly look back on that day as one of the proudest and most courageous moments of my life. That was when I fully accepted that I am gay. Some conservative-minded people would perhaps refer to me as queer. That word was always an enigma to me. Much like the term gay itself (which once upon a time meant to be jolly or joyful), it was twisted and bent into its modern, homosexuality-centric mean-

ing. But I took queer out of the homosexual context and examined it at face value: to be strange, abnormal, or obscure. What else about me is queer? This led me down the metaphorical rabbit hole, and I’ve come to the conclusion that being a “mixed” or “biracial” person is queer in our society. Let me explain. Our society has a predisposition to stigmatize and stereotype race. All white people are born into privilege and have racial prejudices, all black people live in slums and rely on crime and government aid to survive, all Latinos have ties to the cartels and are either immigrants or the children of immigrants, all Asians are incredibly intelligent and very successful, and so on. These are vast—and I mean VAST—overgeneralizations at best and painfully inaccurate and racist at worst. We have all likely heard these stereotypes. Every person of every race bears the burden of a stereotype. I fall into a different category: mixed people, specifically those who are half black and half white. People often cock their heads in confusion when they see me. Nevertheless, I have been blessed with having many amazing people that I have the honor of calling my friends. But there is one thing that hits me every time I look through old photos and reminisce: about ninety-five percent of my friends were and are white. I have drawn the conclusion that this is because I have a “white soul.” I’ve been told this numerous times by black and white people alike. Someone has even said to me, “You’re like an Oreo; black on the outside, but a very bright

white on the inside.” Should I have taken this as a compliment? The objective answer is no. Black people saying it implied I was inauthentic, and white people saying it flat-out insulted the whole black race and culture. Still, being “white on the inside” does mean something. Let’s consider the environment I grew up in. My grandmother was born in and spent half of her life in rural Missouri, where “whiteness” is thick. From her influence, I grew up loving square dancing and country music. My mom’s influence gave me an appreciation for rock music, romantic comedies, and fantasy literature. I truly had no experience with black culture until I switched schools in 7th grade. White people generally accepted my personality despite occasionally sneering at my skin color. On the other hand, through middle school and three years of high school, black people by and large haven’t accepted me for the very reasons that my white peers have always accepted me. And yet I know other biracial people who have been accepted by their black peers. To most people, I generally take interest in

and associate with things from “white culture,” like punk rock music, Broadway musicals, and romantic comedies. Moreover, I don’t listen to rap, I don’t live in “the hood,” I dress either like a preppy gay lumberjack or a peace-loving hippie, and I couldn’t tell the difference between Lil Pump, Lil Uzi, and Lil Wayne if I tried. When people get to know me, they know a gay white man seemingly swallowed whole by this giant light-skinned black guy on the outside. I am certainly self-conscious about this contrast. Rather than devoting my time to exploring the mysteries of life and the world, I waste much of my life stressing about how the world sees me. We all feel the need to label and categorize people as part of a search for our own identities. But that comes at the cost of barricading ourselves into enclaves that are closed off to certain people because they don’t share a skin color or common interests. And this is where I think our society has made it clear that being mixed is indeed as queer as being gay, as we never fully fit into one of those racial enclaves.

photograph by Patrick Hayden

Miss Doris and My Mama William George

he first incident happened in 1961. My brother Ralph was marrying Joanna Bunn, whom he had met during graduate school in Boston. So my parents, my other brother, my sister and I, with our feet propped on boxes of Ralph’s belongings, crammed into our ’56 Chrysler for the two-day trip to Lookout Mountain, Tennessee, where the wedding would take place. Foremost in my eleven-year-old mind that summer was the improbable success of the Cincinnati Reds, my favorite team, in the National League pennant race; when we arrived at the Bunns’, however, I was diverted by the striking wealth of the Bunns. They lived at the corner of Mother Goose Trail and Aladdin Road in a sprawling house surrounded by lush grounds. Each house in the neighborhood occupied a corner lot. I felt very out of place amid luxury so different from our lower middle class house in Pennsylvania, but, when the Bunns welcomed us warmly, my anxiety about our differences softened. Libby Bunn was my age and Alice Bunn my brother Neil’s, a coincidence that led us to join in an adventure by sneaking into Rock City—a local attraction with walking trails, soaring rock formations, caves, and lush gardens—by scaling the chain-link fence in the dark after closing time. The next day, while my mother attended a tea party, and my brother Neil played tennis at the Bunns’ club, where the wedding reception would take place, my father, sister and I, still in sightseeing mode, rode the

Incline, a funicular tourist railway, down the mountain into Chattanooga. I think we went to the zoo––I’m not quite sure––because other sights are what I remember: Whites Only drinking fountains and separate bathrooms marked “Colored” and “White.” I don’t remember what, if anything, my father said, but I do remember we returned to the fantasy land of Mother Goose Trail and Aladdin Lane soon after. Later, our two families had a pleasant dinner on the Bunns’ patio (an exotic feature I had seen only in television shows). During dinner, jokes were made about how delicious the buns were––“We call them rolls. Doris makes delicious rolls,” Mrs. Bunn informed us with joking emphasis on the word rolls. Doris (or “Miss Doris,” as Libby and Alice called her) was the Bunns’ black servant. After dinner, Ralph asked if I would come with him while he took Miss Doris home. Miss Doris, I learned, had to be “off the mountain” before dark, as did all nonwhites who worked for the homeowners at the top of the mountain. We spoke of none of this as Ralph drove the three of us down to a Chattanooga neighborhood very different from the Bunns’ fairyland. Doris lived in a row house in the city. All I remember of the neighborhood is the absence of trees or grass or shrubbery. Although I didn’t see the backyard, I was pretty sure there was no patio back there. On the ride up the mountain to the motel where we were staying, Raph said, “This is not right, you know. It’s how

black people are treated in the South. It’s not right.” I don’t remember what, if anything, I said. I think I just took it in. We made the trip home in one very long day, probably to save the expense of another motel room. I was my dad’s late-night navigator on the trip north on US. 11, a sometimes scary highway with one suicide passing lane in the middle of two single lanes. With the maps in my lap, it was my job to keep my father awake and on course. When we crossed the Pennsylvania-Maryland border, I said “We’re in Pennsylvania” to anyone who was still awake. My dad said, “It’s the Mason-Dixon line.” We had left the South. I don’t remember any talk in the car of Miss Doris or the drinking fountains or the “Colored” and “White” signs in Chattanooga. Although I’ve tried, I can’t separate what I think now from what I thought then. Whenever I hear Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech, thoughts of Lookout Mountain arise. The Bunns were nice people, yet they treated their life of ease amid the injustices of segregation as if it were just the way things were meant to be in the South. I was more mystified than angry at the time. My favorite players on the Cincinnati Reds in the sixties were right-handed Frank Robinson and left-handed Vada Pinson, both excellent players, both black men, whom I imitated when I played baseball. When I batted right-handed I imitated number 20, Frank Robinson. When I batted left-handed I imitated number 28, Vada Pinson. I don’t remember if I started doing that before or after my trip south, but I did it even years later when I would take my daughter to the batting cages in Affton. The second incident happened the following spring in my own house. We lived in a neighborhood of mostly second- and thirdgeneration immigrants. The only segregation

I knew of was that on Lower Maffett Street, where the Jews lived and where we often played wiffle ball. I thought of it as self-exile or group-congregating because most of South Wilkes-Barre was populated by Catholics and Protestants. I realized years afterward that the Jews’ choice of housing was surely much more complicated than that. We called their street Little Palestine. Mojo Morris, who owned one of the two neighborhood Jewish groceries, lived on Lower Maffett. So did Johnny Burghold, a kid who organized the wiffle ball games, kept stats and gained some notoriety by perfecting the bunt with two strikes. Johnny and I played on the same Little League team, Green’s Pharmacy, owned by the Giuntas, an Italian family with two kids who went with me to Scranton Prep, the closest Jesuit high school, twenty miles away. On my street, Amherst Avenue, one block east of Lower Maffet, I played other street games with kids named Weidler, Pepperling, Walsh, Noll, Dunbar and Buckiewich. Wayne Morris, a black kid who lived a few blocks away on Conway Street, also played for Green’s Pharmacy. The neighborhood seemed to me a friendly mix of all kinds of people. Bad things happened there but not too often. Ronnie Altoff, a teenager who lived diagonally across the street from us, had committed suicide. Paul Grimes blew three fingers off one July 4th messing with fireworks. One Saturday, after a morning baseball practice, I asked Wayne if he wanted to come home with me to eat lunch. I had done the same with other kids, like Reid Kramer, a Jewish boy who also played on Green’s Pharmacy. My grandmother, whom we called Mama, was spending the day at our house, baking with my mom. When Wayne and I came into the house, we could smell the aroma of one of Mama’s delicious apple pies. I knew not to ask for some because they were

always saved for dessert after supper. I said I was going to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for Wayne and me. Mama didn’t offer to make them as she sometimes did. I didn’t think much of it. After lunch we went out front to throw a tennis ball against the porch steps to play an intricate game that I had invented to fill hours upon hours alone and sometimes with friends. Weeks later, when Mama was again visiting, having driven down with Papa from Pittston, about ten miles away, she sat down next to me in the kitchen and said, “I don’t want you to be bringing any nigger boys with you when I’m here. Don’t do that again.” I don’t remember what, if anything, I said to her. I do remember trying then and over the years to reconcile the fact that a

woman I adored had said such a thing and had such terrible thoughts. Papa and Mama had been born in the 1880s, not long after the Civil War. Did the bigotry of those days just take generations to dissipate? Was that it? They had lived a meager life. Their parents had fled Ireland because of the famine, the Great Hunger, and had arrived in the No Irish Need Apply times in America. They had six children. Papa worked in the coal mines, a dangerous, dirty job but one that was hard to get. Was it the scramble of economic competition that led such an otherwise kind person as my grandmother to have those thoughts and say those words? Or was it just the air that people including my Mama breathed during life not only in the South but everywhere in America, even in my house?

photograph by Emmanuel Reyes

How to Kill the Wolf

I 22

Corey Lyles

t was summer that night. A pair of fireflies played dalliantly in the darkness of the forest. Red Riding Hood brushed the insects away as a warm breeze caressed her face, begging her to turn around. To run back home and forget that this ever happened. That he ever happened. But she pulled her hood over her head and clutched the knife tighter in her hand than she had before. There was no turning back now. She found the Wolf waiting for her in the clearing where he always used to wait for her. He was a tall young man with deep oak skin and a handsome countenance. His eyes—those soft, strong brown eyes that had intrigued her so long ago—glared pitilessly at

her. His crown, a beautiful white wolf pelt that every creature in the Forest knew and feared, stared down at her with silent ire. Fear clenched her stomach in a tight fist. She squeezed the knife even tighter until her hand trembled and her knuckles turned white around its handle. “It’s been a long time,” he spat at her bitterly. “We need to talk.” “There’s nothing to talk about.” “I—I love you.” His angry expression melted. Those were the best words he’d heard in his life. She loved him, too. “Red—” “And—and I’m sorry.” Red dropped the knife that her grandmother had given to her; she swore it would help her “finish the job” before she forgot about him forever. But she couldn’t do it. No matter how much she wanted to, she just couldn’t. It landed with

photograph by John Hilker

photograph by Daniel Gatewood

a dull thud in the dirt between them as her eyes began to well. The Wolf stepped closer. She stepped away. “No. I’m not done. I was afraid. I was so afraid of what your family would say, or what the rest of the Forest would think if you and I were...together, or what my grandmother might say, and then you said you loved me and I”—her voice began to break—“I was so overwhelmed that I abandoned you.” She buried her face in her hands. “Wolf, I’m so sorry.” He approached her, gently taking her hands in his own darker ones. He leaned in so closely that no one else in the Forest could hear him whisper: “May I?” Tears were falling from her chin, soaking into her cloak. “Please.” The Wolf tenderly pushed her hood back and, with a careful finger, wiped the

tears from the corners of her eyes. His eyes on hers, he reached for his crown—the beautiful white wolf pelt that every creature in the Forest had known and feared. Without a second thought, he let it fall to the ground and kissed her. She was speechless. “Ember, I—” Very few knew the Wolf ’s real name, and few ever would. He replied with an unafraid smile. “I love you, too, Rose.” A daring grin spread across Rose’s face— that grin that Ember had fallen in love with so long ago. She pulled him to her for another kiss, her arms locked around his neck, and his around her waist, as if for forever. In each other’s arms, her grandmother’s house and his Forest felt a billion miles away. The only witness to their happy ending was the moon; she and the stars shone dotingly on the forbidden love that they had ordained.

A New Perspective Carter J. Fortman

L 24

ooking at the shirt he had laid out on his freshly made bed, Wayne felt a sense of excitement. After an eighteen-month deployment at a rambunctious base in Germany, he was back. It was a big moment for the quiet Arkansan. During his time away, the only communication he had with Barbara had been the occasional letter, but he ached to see her face once again and to live the rest of his life with her. He got dressed. Putting on his plaid long-sleeve shirt and the light wash jeans that covered the dry red spots of his psoriasis, he thought of what he would say. He walked into the kitchen. “What’re you up to?” said Larry, Wayne’s older brother and one of his five roommates at the house on 6216 Bailey Place in Pine Lawn, just two houses away from Barb. “I’m gonna go talk to Barb,” replied Wayne. “I haven’t seen her since coming home.” “Well, all right, then.” At that, Wayne left, briskly walking into the chilly spring afternoon. Time seemed to slow as he felt his stomach churn. He couldn’t help but smile. Approaching the front door, he started up the first few steps. The lawn was well kept, the pathway to the house long. Finally, he reached the door and knocked. The door opened, and there she stood. “Wayne…” Barbara stuttered. The only connection they had had for the past eighteen months were the letters that made the four thousand–mile trek to Western Europe. “I’m home,” he stumbled. He regrouped his emotions. The macho Arkansan couldn’t act weak. However, a bit of weakness was inevitable. He pined to see Barbara and make a

good reimpression. The letters sent between the two during the long stay had, at least to him, established an undeniable connection between the two, and he needed to see if he was right. He hated every day of his long service, but the one bright spot was the weekly letter from Barb. “I wondered if you would want to come with me to Chuck-A-Burger.” “I would love to, but I already have plans with Jim,” she replied. “Jim…?” he asked in his thick southern accent, thinking back to all the Jims he knew. He remembered. Jim was a good friend of his and now apparently of Barbara’s, too. “Oh, Jim who drives the ’54 Chevy. Someone told me he let you drive it?” “Yeah—” she began, but he cut her off. “Tell you what,” he began. “Call Jim and tell him you have plans with me for this afternoon to go to Chuck-A-Burger. Tell him you need a man who’ll let you drive his ’57 four cylinder.” The two shared a laugh. Barbara smiled, went to the phone, and made the call. She returned after a couple of minutes with a bit more makeup and a charming new sweater. Wayne, in the meantime, went back home, revved up his engine and pulled up just outside Barbara’s front door.

have always known the basics of how my grandparents came to be married. They met, went on a few dates, and they got married very soon after my grandpa came home from the service. Chuck-A-Burger, the restaurant that my grandpa took my grandma to, still stands today, less than ten miles from my grandparents’ house. It was a popular destination for our many explorations before he died in 2013. He was a good man—probably the best man I’ve ever known. But he was a man of a different era. An era where men ignored emotions. Although I know he loved me, I don’t remember his ever saying that to me. His emotions were something he

kept inside because he didn’t want people to worry about him, but they were still there. Unfortunately, because of issues with medication, he died just two months before my tenth birthday. All I have left are the memories of the adventures, and the stories my family—mainly my grandma, Barb—tells me. The Chevy pulled up into the parking lot of the burger joint, and the two riders got out of the car. The restaurant was lit up by the neon red lights that ran along the sides of the building and made up the large sign above the front entrance that spelled out “Chuck-A-Burger.” The restaurant was small. Inside, young adults with greasy hair and carefree attitudes filled the room, milling around tables, talking about anything and everything. The walls featured a checkered pattern of red and white, a jukebox sat in the corner, and waitresses carried food from the hidden kitchen in the back. Barbara ordered her typical single burger with fries and a Coke. “You hardly eat anything,” Wayne joked as he ordered his double cheeseburger. They ate and sat at the table in the back talking about everything he had missed during his deployment. Eventually, they walked out of the restaurant. As they were exiting, Wayne holding the door for the lady as he had always been taught, Barbara caught sight of Jim across the parking lot with his group of friends around his car. Barb took Wayne’s shirt sleeve and dragged him quickly to his car and they got in. “What was that about?” asked Wayne, confused. “I saw Jim over there; I told him I was too sick for our date.”

“Well, let’s get outta here then!” He revved his engine and smirked as he looked over at his shy girlfriend. Barbara was embarrassed and slapped him on the shoulder. He pulled the car around to the back of the building and shut the car off. “Wanna get married?” said Wayne. “Pardon?” “We’re getting older, and I would like to marry you. You’re the best lady I’ve ever known.” She paused for a second. “Yes,” replied Barbara. Wayne smiled, started the engine, and floored the car out of the parking lot and onto St. Charles Rock Road, back to Bailey Place. My grandpa was like that; he didn’t waste words. Upon his return from a long deployment to Germany, he knew exactly what he wanted, and he didn’t stop until he got the woman he loved. Despite death eventually doing them part, my grandpa and the various sides of him I never knew or don’t remember still live vividly inside my grandma. As she grows older and her mind begins to lose its sharpness, I begin to lose the connection I had to the different sides of my grandpa. I will miss the way my grandma smiles when she recalls the vulnerable side of Grandpa. I will miss how the macho, manly image of my grandpa melts as his weakness for my grandma comes to life. I hope that, through stories like these, I will be able to carry on the story of my grandfather, whether it be the vulnerable one, the macho one, or everything in between.

Man in the Stands Jack DuMont

26 On a dirt field the color of worn khaki pants and lit by humming yellow lights high above, the pitcher directs his gaze toward the next batter. Standing with both heels perched on the edge of the rubber, he simultaneously brings hand to glove, Interlocking them as if in prayer, above his head. He shifts his weight to his right foot then rotates his left— now parallel with the rubber— giving way to a high kick of the right leg. Weight reared back like a boxer coiled for a punch, the athlete pushes off his back leg as his hands separate. The ball comes hurtling out, launched off the tips of his fingers. Along with the pop of the catcher’s mitt, a voice is audible

amid the crowd. “Come on, Tom, how about a strike next time?” Now slouched with both heels on the edge of the rubber, a tremble visible in his figure, the athlete gathers himself for the next pitch. He brings his hands, now slightly disconnected, over his cap, the previously synchronized weight shift severely out of rhythm. He swings his right foot up mere inches above the ground, setting up a feeble load that gives way to a reluctant break of the hands. The ball limps toward the plate, like a wounded soldier hobbling away from danger. Before the ball finds its home deep in the mitt, the boy throws a narrowed glance at a certain man in the stands.

prints by Logan Florida

watercolor by Logan Florida

photographs by John Hilker

Roles Padraic Riordan ’19 Moderator’s Report July 4, 2002 Entry 1

e’ve arrived at the island without much trouble. I didn’t think we’d make it, to be honest. This damn strip of land is so far away I thought everyone would lose faith in me well before we found our way here. But we did it. I just had to wave my arms around and sing for the “Great One” every few days. Seemed to keep ’em in line. I gotta say, you all sure did a good job picking these folks. Gullible and headstrong. They got to work the moment we beached. I sent a group off to scout the area and scavenge for food. I was afraid of giving them too harsh an order, but they took straight to it without question. Some others started surveying land to build permanent shelters, maybe even set up a little town. They marked off the best plot for me, of course. The rest just kneeled down and started praying. Speaking of shelter, we’ll be staying in the ship for the time being, so it shouldn’t be much of an issue. Over time, however, I asked that we take materials from the ship to build more permanent homes. Everyone agreed without question. None of them seemed at all concerned with the prospect of tearing apart the only means we have to get off this island. They’re in it for the long haul. I am too, I suppose. Jacob Edwards Experiment Moderator

Moderator’s Report August 1, 2002 Entry 5

ff to the races with a busy week. The night we landed, after the scouting party came back, I held a ceremony to bless the island. I didn’t have anything prepared for this event, so I just did more of the usual arm-waving and throat-singing. Did the trick, I suppose. Everyone looked impressed. Then we had a huge feast with what was left of the ship’s rations. Ever since that night, we’ve lived only off the land, as instructed. Speaking of, the scouting party I sent out came back with surprising information. The island is resplendent with clean running water and plenty of fruits and vegetables, all of which appear safe to eat. We’re in luck. It should be easier to keep everyone happy if they’re well fed. The party didn’t find much in the way of meat, sadly, but they did kill… well… I’m not sure how to describe it. It’s clearly a pig, but not like any I’ve ever seen. They said it was highly aggressive, could have injured them if they weren’t armed, and it looks deadly. The thing’s got rows and rows of pointed teeth. No idea why—there aren’t any other animals out here for it to kill. Still, tastes damn good. Just like the bacon momma used to make. Oh, one more thing. Some of the men have taken to calling me “Father Jacob” and it looks like the trend is already spreading. I haven’t put a stop to it. Figured it only solidifies my position, which in turn makes the experiment easier to run. Jacob Edwards Experiment Moderator ***

Moderator’s Report September 5, 2002 Entry 10

Overseer’s Report October 3, 2002 Entry 14

rogress on the settlement is moving smoothly. They’ve named it Jacobstown. I kind of like that. It’s flattering, you know? Most of the buildings are simple log cabins, but mine is almost entirely metal. When I ordered the men to tear apart the ship for materials, they decided the sturdier stuff should go to me. Only the best for Father Jacob, they said. I had them set up a perimeter, as the piggies have been getting more aggressive. I guess they don’t like us in their territory. The barrier is made of sharpened wooden shafts lined up next to each other, reinforced with trenches and cheval de frise. I even posted guards, and since I had started assigning men to guard the perimeter, I figured it was time to fully begin the Roles Initiative. I lined everyone up in the center of Jacobstown. I told the men who had already begun guarding the wall that they were now the police force of Jacobstown, and their main duty would be to defend the wall, but some will also patrol the town to keep things safe inside. I issued them the assigned uniforms, guns, batons, and sunglasses. I turned to the rest of the men and told them they’d be farmers or general laborers. That left the women. Now, I know you told me to be as random as possible, but to be perfectly honest, some of those girls are a lot prettier than the rest. I took a handful of the most attractive to be my wives, then let the guards each pick out one they liked. The rest I assigned to be married to random farmers. Jacob Edwards Experiment Moderator

’ve got to say, I’m liking it here in Jacobstown. After the launch of the Roles Initiative, the subjects pretty much govern themselves. If any farmers step out of line, the guards are very quick to rectify the situation, so I don’t really have to spend much time doing anything. I just spend my days sitting on my metal porch, looking out over the village. It’s nice. And I get to spend my nights doing something much nicer. While exploring, some of my men stumbled across a great cliff face at the other end of the island. It drops right into the ocean, they said, and at the bottom, a huge array of stony spikes jut up from beneath the waves. “The Jaws of the Great One,” they called it. Some suggested that I sacrifice a piggy to the Great One by throwing it off that cliff. They suggested that maybe if we do more to appease the Great One, he’ll aid us against the piggies. I said that sounded like a very good idea. In the afternoon, one of the farmers approached my house. Unusual, but he looked genuine, so I had my guards let him through. He told me he had questions about the Great One, and he asked only so that he might serve me and serve Jacobstown better. I liked his humility and invited him inside for a drink. He was amazed by the inside of my house. I knew it was much nicer than whatever cabin he and his wife must have been staying in. I had some of my girls bring us tea, and then bade him to have a seat. We talked for nearly an hour about the Great One. Joshua, as I learned his name was, seemed satisfied with every answer I gave him. He looked very pleased by the end of our chat. Just as he was about to go, I sensed an opportunity to learn more about how the farmers of Jacobstown were feeling,

so I asked him about his life. How he was enjoying the community. To my pleasure, he responded excitedly, saying he enjoyed living in a community with such direction, and that his randomly assigned wife, whom he loved very much, was actually pregnant. I was ecstatic. The first of a new generation! At this rate, Jacobstown might become a permanent settlement. Jacob Edwards Community Overseer Overseer’s Report November 7, 2002 Entry 19

he piggy attacks have only gotten worse, so I pushed for us to move the sacrifice ahead. It wasn’t easy catching a piggy, but my men managed it. They’re capable fellows. Noble Jacobstownians. I hadn’t seen the Jaws myself until the day we went out to perform the sacrifice. My men didn’t do nearly enough to prepare me for the sight. Rows and rows of jagged, alien crags jutted up from the churning sea like teeth, yes, but also like nerves, like the spine of some monstrous thing living just below the surface, its great and inevitable truth hidden from most, but the consequences of that truth undeniable to any who know how to look. I know how to look, and it terrified me. All of Jacobstown came with me that day. I made sure of it. Here they would witness my connection to the Great One. Here they would witness the end of the piggies’ onslaught and the dawn of a new divine kingdom, right here on our holy island. Joshua was there, of course. He and his wife stood right in the front row. His wife. I mean, wow. What a beauty. I know I said I picked out the prettiest girls when I began the Roles Initiative, but this one escaped me.

She must have hidden in the crowd, but she wasn’t hiding now. Her head was adorned with heavenly brown locks, the kind that wave a little before curling near the bottom. Her face was innocent and hopeful. Just looking in her eyes, I could tell she respected me, just as they all did, but her heart was Joshua’s. The way she looked at him, stealing sideways glances while slowly rubbing her belly, the outline of his child already beginning to form above her waist. Yes, her heart was Joshua’s. I would make it mine. Some of my men brought the piggy forth. They held it in an old shipping container, one that held dried beef jerky on the journey to the island. Truth be told, I didn’t really want to go near that thing. The way the piggy was rustling around in there, growling and gnashing its teeth. I figured I’d be extra safe about this. I had the men hold the box over the edge of the cliff. Once they were in position, I turned to the crowd to give what was sure to be an inspiring, rousing speech. I spoke of the hardships I’d endured, of the strength I’d shown, and most importantly, of the community I’d built. Once I determined the crowd was sufficiently riled up, I turned to the box. My men were struggling now. I knew if they dropped it, the ecstasy of the moment would be lost. I had to finish up. I positioned myself next to the lid and shouted to the Great One, offering it this holy sacrifice in his name so that we might live in peace and harmony under his kingdom for generations to come. Then, I broke the lock. The lid swung open and the piggy came tumbling out. It looked poised to attack us, but its anger quickly turned into confusion, which turned into fear. It squealed as it plummeted to the rocky spears below. I watched as the piggy turned and shook all the way down the cliff face, already aware of its fate, but still desperately trying to halt it.

photograph by Daniel Gatewood

The piggy crashed against one of the taller crags. Its neck snapped immediately, and blood sprayed all over the gray rocks, turning them red, turning the water red. The piggy dropped into the waves and slowly sank deep into the Jaws. We all stood in a moment of serene silence, awed by the horrific event we’d just witnessed. Then the crowd broke into a cheer. Jacob Edwards Community Overseer Mayor’s Journal December 5, 2002 Entry 23

t seems our prayers to the Great One have gone unanswered. In the month since I sacrificed that piggy, the attacks on our holy settlement have only gotten worse. My days once spent lounging on my porch with my tea and my girls are now wasted in meetings with leaders of the guard, cramped around an old wooden table with maps and action figures laid out, discussing strategy and defense plans while I daydream of the pleasures I once knew here. These meetings are unbearable, and none of my girls are willing to provide me company while I’m stuck in them. I don’t blame them, even if they’ve become too independent under my roof. A problem I’ll deal with later. Instead, I invite Joshua and his wife, under the pretense of gaining a farmer’s perspective on things. Joshua speaks often, lamenting the loss of his crop, fearing for his wife and future child’s safety, and mourning friends he finds with their throats torn out. I usually tune out this typical farmer whinging and gaze at his wife. Bethany. A perfect name for a perfect girl. Oh, the way she sits at his side, her back perfectly straightened, her hands either

in her lap, obedient, or resting on Joshua’s shoulders. How I wish those shoulders were mine! They will be mine. They must be mine. I had an idea. “The problem,” I said, “seems to be that we can’t catch enough of these piggies in one place. They’re too scattered. Now, rather than sit here and discuss fences and trenches and the like, we should go on the offensive. It’s what the Great One expects of us. He rewards the bold.” I scanned the room for disagreement, and, finding none, continued. “We need a way to gather the piggies in one spot. Clearly, the sacrifice at the Jaws didn’t work, but I’m thinking of a new sacrifice. A more…” I paused, my lips poised to mouth the truth. Bait. But he wouldn’t give himself up for such practical reasons. “A more noble sacrifice.” My eyes rested on Joshua, and I waited until he met my gaze. “I hope you know what I mean, Joshua.” He nodded. “And I hope you understand that I can’t sacrifice one of my few guards on this task.” Realization fell over his eyes, and he gripped Bethany’s hand, then slowly nodded again. “Yes, Father Jacob.” Father Jacob Mayor of Jacobstown Mayor’s Journal January 2, 2003 Entry 27

e locked Joshua in one of the same old shipping containers we used to capture the piggy. This one used to hold bread and wine. We emptied it out and cut holes in the top, so that Joshua could breathe. It would also make it easier for the piggies to smell him. When the time came, he hugged his wife and calmly stepped into the box. She too seemed tranquil, trusting in me just as much as her husband did. Sad, yes, but firm

and resolved that I was acting in the best interests of Jacobstown. I liked that about her. She would make a good wife. I stood before Joshua and thanked him one last time before shutting the box. I watched the guards drag him away, weapons ready. With luck, they would kill most of the piggies on this island and free us from their terrible attacks. Once they were out of sight, I turned to Bethany and led her by the hand to my house. I brought her inside and offered her some nice tea. I understood she deserved consolation in this difficult time. But as I spoke to her, I noticed that she did not meet my eyes. Her gaze was fixed on the floor, and she spoke softly, mournfully, and only when spoken to. I admired her obedience, but I had no desire for a girl who was dead inside. I told her that in compensation for her husband’s noble sacrifice, I’d be offering her a room in my house, free from the hardships most farmers lived through. She thanked me. Sensing that I wasn’t getting anywhere, I had one of my other girls lead her to her room. That night, I visited her. She was sitting silently in a chair in the corner, her back slouched but her eyes still open, contemplating. I was tired of waiting. “With Joshua gone, you will need a new husband,” I said softly. She looked up at me with disengaged eyes. I continued. “Rather than continue to suffer the life of a farmer’s wife, I’d like to offer you an escape. As thanks to your family.” She let her eyes droop again, then nodded. I walked over to her and put a hand on her shoulder. My shoulder now. “You understand what a man expects from his wife?” She nodded again and silently stood up and moved to the bed. Just as she began peeling off her shirt, a low, guttural scream echoed from the woods and into the room. It was Joshua. The piggies were taking their time, tearing him

apart. Good. That would make it easier for my guards to kill them. Then I had her. I finally had her. Her full thighs and smooth back rolled over me like a waterfall, and I relished in her body. My plan had worked perfectly. The most beautiful woman in Jacobstown, mine at last. But, just like earlier, she seemed dissociated. Her eyes were blank, glassy, and her body moved like a robot, responding to my every command, not resisting, but not enjoying either. I had claimed her body, even her life, but her heart still belonged to Joshua. Father Jacob Mayor of Jacobstown The Words of the Prophet July 3, 2003 Entry 53

t’s that baby. That damn baby. That’s what’s keeping her from me. For the entire pregnancy I made sure her every need was met, so that the first child native to Jacobstown would be birthed easily and lovingly. Then the day comes, the holy day. I look upon the newborn, one I have come to think of as my own son, and she tells me she wishes to name it Joshua. I told her I could not allow that. That as this child’s father, I insisted he be named Jacob. She nodded, just as she always did. Silent, with vacant eyes fixed on something I couldn’t see. I thought that was the end of the matter, but at night I heard her whispering, whispering to young Jacob, telling him stories of his “real father,” of how good and noble a man he was. And she called the boy Joshua. I decided this could not be allowed. Joshua was a stain. A stain on our holy history, a stain that I’ve spent the last year trying to remove, but she won’t let it go. She

insists on keeping this wretched reminder of our past alive, even within her own son! Well, if that’s what she wants, then that’s what she wants. But I am in charge here. I am in control of Jacobstown, and I must act in the best interests of the community, and of her, even if she doesn’t realize it. I grabbed some of my men and marched into her room. I took my son, my Jacob, into my hands, and saw the mark of Joshua in his eyes. I knew then what had to be done. Without a word, I turned and walked out, my guards close behind. Oh, she fought then. She didn’t fight when I sent her husband off to die, but she fought now. Kicked and screamed, begged, and then tried to bargain. Confessed her love for me, that she would name the boy Jacob, that he would be a fine legacy. Too little too late. Within an hour we arrived at the Jaws of the Great One. My guards were relaxed. We didn’t have to worry about the piggies. Not anymore. Bethany cried and screamed but my men held her, and I walked to the edge of the cliff. I remembered the day I watched a piggy tumble over the edge. That day had marked the beginning of the end for the piggies. This day would mark the same for Joshua’s unholy influence. I turned to Bethany and said “when his memory is gone, your heart will finally be open to me, and to the might of the Great One within me.” She howled. I dropped the baby. Father Jacob Prophet of The Great One

Final Report August 6, 2003

he Roles Initiative has officially been ended. After just over one year, our collected data is more than enough to draw decisive, final conclusions. The hypothesis of the Roles Initiative has been proven to a highly disturbing degree, and all research on the island has thus ceased. The settlement, dubbed “Jacobstown,” has been cleansed by conflagration and all participants but one have been relieved of their duties to the experiment and to life. Jacob Edwards himself, or “Father Jacob” as he insists we call him, has been moved to our complex in northern Idaho for further study. The organization would like to take this opportunity to remind you of official questioning procedure. If asked about this experiment, please respond as follows. No personnel ever engaged in any such experiment. No personnel have been witness to any documentation of a “Roles Initiative,” nor have they been witness to any criminal conspiracy to break national or international law. Any mention of or allusion to the term “human rights violation” should be answered with total silence. We all have our job to do. Make sure you do yours. David Judge Team Leader Roles Initiative

photograph by Daniel Gatewood

A Puzzling Encounter with Love Jonathan Grimes

ater splashed outwardly as Don collided with the formerly still surface of Danny’s backyard pool, which was glistening on the midsummer day. The sound of water smacking on the concrete surrounding the pool resembled that of firecrackers crackling in the distance on the Fourth of July. Just out of reach of the splash were Don’s best friends, Danny and Gail, revealing broad smiles as they watched his antics. They were joined by their large group of friends, all of whom had gathered to drink alcohol and absorb the sun. And drink and absorb they did—so much so, that during his dazzling performance on the diving board, Don ended up slipping while attempting a backflip and hitting his head on the bricks in the area. His friends’ laughter stopped all at once, followed by silence. Danny was the first to speak. “Don…you all right?” Don emerged from the water and lay back, resting his body on the hard, wet concrete. “I think I hit my head...” “Yeah! No shit!” The urgency in Tom’s shaking voice seemed misplaced. Yet, as the blood spilled onto the concrete and the white pool coping began to turn red, the urgency became utterly appropriate. Don had split his head open. He knew this from his vision, not from the pain: he was yet to feel any. The blood on his hands, the expressions of the bystanders—that’s how he knew this was an emergency. Don’s friends quickly piled into Danny’s Chevy Suburban, pressing tissues to his head and telling him that “everything’s going

to be fine” and “you’re going to make it” with a tone that seemed designed for a battle-shot soldier. As they got closer to the hospial, they began to feel that Don truly was “going to be just fine.” As they decided that their reactions had been exaggerated, their lightheartedness and sense of humor returned; their relief would be confirmed when they reached St. Mary’s hospital twenty minutes later. My grandfather, Don Grimes, died when I was only seven years old. Quite ironically, he died from cracking his head open after suffering a stroke while walking. My faint memories of him all consist of his putting puzzles together. My father told me that my grandfather liked puzzles so much because he loved the way every piece fit with another piece, how every piece had its own purpose in the puzzle. He enjoyed the challenge of placing the most baffling puzzle pieces in the correct spots after drawn-out moments of hard thinking. In fact, nothing pleased him more than watching it all fall into place at the end, completed. He was most joyful when he was at his desk, with a cup of coffee, sizing up the victim that was a new puzzle. I knew my grandfather was a very serious and hardworking man, but I never experienced the more lighthearted side of him my father always told me about. For me, the puzzle piece that is the death of my grandfather is still confusing at times. I wonder if he would have told me stories, like this one, if he were still here. I wonder how my life would be if he were still here, expressing the side of him I failed to see at a young age. I wonder about my grandfather. When Don and his companions arrived at the hospital, they opened the doors and calmly entered the emergency room. Don was placed upon a sliding hospital bed as gently as fine china on a dinner table. The subsequent eighteen stitches about to be sewn into Don’s head, however, weren’t going to feel as

gently done. Yet Don would hardly notice the pain; his attention would be elsewhere. In all the blurry chaos, one thing stood still for Don when he entered the emergency room. It was the nurse: with her short blonde hair spilling out of her cap, her kind eyes staring at him, hazel green just like his own. His attention was on her. She was overlooking the procedure with a watchful eye, nervously playing with her hands, speedily tapping her right foot—Don assumed she wasn’t quite an experienced nurse, but capable nevertheless. Don studied her facial features and noticed her energy—it was hard for her to conceal the excitement. Despite the grogginess of his head, the nurse’s presence lifted Don’s spirits and distracted him from the painful stitching. Although time was moving slowly for Don, the procedure itself didn’t take long. In a short while, Don was stitched up, and the doctors left the nurse, Pat, to look after him while he rested. A few hours later, a freshly sewn Don was awakened by giggles and quickly realized he couldn’t move, not because of his injury but because of the several layers of tape that tightened his body to his bed. He assumed his friends had grown impatient and thought it would be funny to immobilize him while he was asleep. The giggles grew to hollers, eventually alerting Pat who was down the hall. Don’s friends quickly ran out, leaving the responsibility of untaping Don to Pat. Don didn’t mind. He was enamored of her. Other than being able to take her on a date, the only thing he wished for in that moment was that the tape took longer to take off. A few days later, now well on his way to healing, Don found himself unable to take his mind off Pat. Luckily and quite amazingly, Don realized that his father, who was a technician, was working at the same hospital at the time, helping with the wiring on the

new wing of St. Mary’s. Reinvigorated, Don called his father. Don nervously proceeded to explain the situation, eventually asking him to approach Pat on his behalf and ask her if she’d be interested in going on a date with him. Reluctantly, Don’s father conceded to Don’s insistent, enthusiastic pestering. The following day, he approached Pat during his lunch break and asked her if she would like to go on a date with his son. Don was pleased to hear that Pat had indeed remembered the “cute guy who was taped up to his bed” and would like to go out with him. With an especially unique beginning conversation topic, a handful of dates, and an undeniable spark stemming from their first encounter, my grandparents married only a year and two months later. When I initially heard this story, I was amazed by how this life-altering moment occurred as a result of a drunken fall. Not to credit the drunken mistake as a good thing, but still, I acknowledged that without it, my grandparents would likely have never met. The feeling that everything fell into place for them, as if they were the final two pieces of a beautifully complex puzzle, stuck out to me. I’ve never been a strong advocate of the popular belief that “everything happens for a reason.” Yet, drawing upon this phrase and upon the notion that life is similar to a puzzle, I realized something after listening to this story. I don’t think we will ever truly believe that everything happens for a reason. How could we? With so much violence and disappointment, with so many disheartening experiences like the death of my grandfather, it’s nearly impossible. But I do believe there is still something powerful in that phrase, “everything happens for a reason.” The ability to see the best in every situation, the ability to be open to love in sorrowful situations—these are the important qualities that embody that phrase. And,

although admittedly a lighthearted case, I believe the story of my grandparents’ first encounter is a good example of just that. My grandfather was forever grateful for hitting his head on that pool brick. My grandmother was forever grateful for going to school for six years, only to serve as a nurse at St. Mary’s for two. My great-grandfather was forever

grateful for having a low-paying job as a technician and being able to connect the “pieces” that were my grandfather and grandmother at work. And I know I’ll be forever grateful for learning a lesson from this story and applying it to any “puzzle piece” that baffles me, any situation that confronts me in my life—my own puzzle.

photograph by Daniel Gatewood

Odysseus, My Lover Brendan Schroeder

swell with dread as I think back to the day when Hermes the giant-slayer instructed me to release my lover, ever unwilling Odysseus. Zeus decreed that I must release this man of twists and turns. It truly is unfair; the gods go sleeping around with mortal women but forbid us goddesses from having mortal lovers. I look out to the ocean, feeling its cool, salty spray. I walk out to the place where the great Odysseus was reduced to a small, broken, sobbing man, sitting out there longing for his home and family. How I long for his presence, that royal son of Laertes. I offered him immortality to stay with me, but that wicked man rejected my promises, saying he longed for his wife and homeland of Ithaca. I can remember very clearly the day I helped him prepare for his journey, though it was so long ago. Watching him fell trees with his arms as wide as a ship’s mast, his muscles spanning from stem to stern. I provided him cloth that served as the sail for his small craft. The day he left me, I bathed him, feeling his strapping muscles one last time. On his craft I put one skin filled with water and one with wine. I also gave him a sack filled with choice meats. My final gift to him, my final piece of generosity, was the gust I hailed to speed his craft along, off of my island. I recall our conversation that morning, our parting words. I begged him, “Odysseus I must ask of you once more: will you stay here with me on my island, ever-plentiful?” “Beautiful mistress, you must understand how much it pains me to leave you, but

I long for Penelope and the land I have made my home. This is why I must go, but let Lord Zeus and all the other gods look upon you with favor, as I remain eternally grateful for your hospitality.” “If you must go, then so be it. May this gust speed you off my island.” I spent several years with him, providing him with food, shelter, and a hospitable reception. He spent his time sobbing, longing for his home on rocky Ithaca. I provided him with delectable meals—fine chops of meat and choice wines. After our meals, we would go to bed, losing ourselves in love. I still remember the day he washed up on my island. That lone man on his improvised craft—really just a bit of wood that he was clinging to. He explained how he arrived—describing how almighty Zeus sent a bolt through his ship because his men had eaten the cattle of Helios, the sun god. Ever-wary was that Odysseus, making me swear a binding oath on the River Styx that I would not harm him after I told him I had been ordered to release him. How despicable he was to accuse me of such trickery. But… I long for him every time Dawn with her rose-red fingers shines above my island. I wish for him to lie beside me in my bed once more. Curse her, that Penelope, for stealing away my lover and companion. What good is living for eternity if I must spend it alone? I still hope that he arrives home safely. Let Poseidon have mercy on that troubled man. He may have spurned my love but… I still care for him, my love as undying as I.

watercolor by Logan Florida

sketch By Jackson DuCharme

The Schnuck, Part One Jude Reed with William Jaffe Preface: The Schnuck is a creature originally conceived by its two authors as they wondered what the Schnucks store actually was. We figured it was a mysterious monster and went from there. This work is also unfinished, but carefully labeled a “part 1.” The play is formatted as a Shakespearean play with minimal stage directions. It’s frankly ridiculous.

ACT 1, SCENE 1

BENSON BUCKLERASH

(Enter villagers.)

SCOTTY SHOESHINER

A park in a village.

How do you even do that?

SCOTTY SHOESHINER

Ah, hello! I am a villager!

That’s absurd! Y’know what? Just the other day I was walking down the street and I saw him, so I spit in his eye!

BENSON BUCKLERASH

QUINCY APPLETON

SCOTTY SHOESHINER

(Enter Hero McManlyhero.)

Same, man. I love being a villager. How rad this is! We live in a very nice town, but there’s one odd fellow here… Doctor Quincy Appleton! (Enter Quincy Appleton.) QUINCY APPLETON

Aaaah! I invented apples! BENSON BUCKLERASH

What a strange old man he is! SCOTTY SHOESHINER

Yes! He is so foolish! He was a doctor, but he accidentally invented apples! QUINCY APPLETON

Aaaah

Aaah! Ow!

HERO MCMANLYHERO

Hello, citizens. It is I, Sheriff McManlyhero. QUINCY APPLETON

Mr. McManlyhero, I have a warning for you. HERO MCMANLYHERO

And what do you have to say, you old fool that’s old? QUINCY APPLETON

The Schnuck is coming… (Assorted laughs.) QUINCY APPLETON

It’s the Schnuck! He’s here! The Schnuck!

SCOTTY SHOESHINER

QUINCY APPLETON

BENSON BUCKLERASH

LADY APPLETON

HERO MCMANLYHERO

QUINCY APPLETON

Oh no! We don’t see anything! There is no Schnuck! You’re a liar, old man!

He’s so senile!

SCOTTY SHOESHINER

Let’s all leave. (Exeunt.)

I’m gonna make an apple out of a watch! No wait, the other way around. An apple watch, you could say. An apple watch! Exactly! Then, I’m going to make an apple…that…can shoot…the watch…at…the Schnuck! LADY APPLETON

Oh! So you’re going to kill him?

SCENE 2

QUINCY APPLETON

(Enter Appleton and his wife.)

LADY APPLETON

Appleton’s home.

QUINCY APPLETON

Hello, honey!

LADY APPLETON

Hello, honey, how are you? QUINCY APPLETON

Good! Ever since I created apples, people like the apples. LADY APPLETON

Ah, yes, I’ve always enjoyed your apples. QUINCY APPLETON

However, no one is afraid of the Schnuck like they should be! LADY APPLETON

Oh, lord. Those silly bumpkins. QUINCY APPLETON

I’ve taken up watchmaking recently. LADY APPLETON

Oh, that is so nice, deary!

Yes! I’m going to kill him just in time… That’s very nice! I’m proud. QUINCY APPLETON

Yes, thank you, but nobody believes that the Schnuck is real! LADY APPLETON

Oh, they’re just silly. Ignore them, hon. QUINCY APPLETON

All right, thanks. I will. LADY APPLETON

All right. Don’t let them get to you! QUINCY APPLETON

All right. I’m gonna go build some more apples. LADY APPLETON

All right, love you. I’ll do the dishes. QUINCY APPLETON

Love you, bye. (Exeunt.)

SCENE 3

A police station.

BICKENCHOTH

I’ve heard that—

Well, you should have been at the Justin Bieber concert I was at. Just last week? I cannot—I am—I am deaf now. I am…glad you’re speaking in ASL as you’re saying whatever you’re saying, because otherwise I wouldn’t have understood you, but—

BICKENCHOTH

HERO MCMANLYHERO

(Enter Hero McManlyhero and Bickenchoth.) HERO MCMANLYHERO

Greetings, sheriff. HERO MCMANLYHERO

Thank you. I’m very glad I’ve taken up reading lips.

I…Hello. I’ve heard Quincy Appleton has been causing much ruckus throughout the town. This is unacceptable. What happens when you have all this ruckus?! There is no good that comes from ruckus. Ever since I was a child, I have had an astute and very clean—

BICKENCHOTH

(Enter villagers, Bickenchoth.)

I mean, have you been to Woodstock? That was a pretty cool ruckus. I liked it. HERO MCMANLYHERO

No…no…anyway, ruckus has been the bane of my existence since I was a very small boy. Back when I was a kid, my parents took me to a— BICKENCHOTH

Coachella.

HERO MCMANLYHERO

Bruce Springsteen—

I know, it’s very good. (They begin signing to each other. Exeunt.) ACT 2, SCENE 1

A town meeting.

SCOTTY SHOESHINER

Hear ye, hear ye. It is time for the town meeting that we hold on every rainy Tuesday! SAMANTHA SHAWSHANK

Huzzah.

SCOTTY SHOESHINER

Huzzah!

ARCHER MCGROSSO

Huzzah indeed.

SCOTTY SHOESHINER

Bruce Springsteen.

Firstly, we all need to congratulate Susan on her beautiful chili dinner.

HERO MCMANLYHERO

(Everyone claps.)

BICKENCHOTH

A Bruce Springsteen concert and I’ve always hated ruckus for what it did to my hearing because now I’m partially deaf.

BICKENCHOTH

I’m actually a bit constipated, but, you know…

SUSAN SUSANSON

I hope you know I put yak in it! GÜRL NAME

Oh, yes, the famous yak chili. SCOTTY SHOESHINE

But now, do we have any important points to be brought up by any ordinary villager? GÜRL NAME

HERO MCMANLYHERO

His ruckus creation knows no bounds! I hate Quincy Appleton! BICKENCHOTH

He hates him!

HERO MCMANLYHERO

He is sacrificing cats to his demon lord, the Schnuck! And apples!

I do! Yesterday, my son took my cat on a walk and hasn’t returned him yet. I hope you all will care and comfort me.

ARCHER MCGROSSO

(Enter Hero McManlyhero, making a “kicking down the door” noise with his mouth. Bickenchoth makes a guitar noise.)

Oh, my lord, a genius!

HERO MCMANLYHERO

What did you say, madam?! GÜRL NAME

Uh, my son took my cat on a walk and hasn’t returned him yet? HERO MCMANLYHERO

That’s the only possible explanation! GÜRL NAME

HERO MCMANLYHERO

We need to go—

BICKENCHOTH

He’s the sheriff!!

SCOTTY SHOESHINER

We all need to go kill Doctor Quincy Appleton!

This could only mean one thing…

(Villagers exit angrily. Exeunt.)

BICKENCHOTH

ACT 2, SCENE 2

HERO MCMANLYHERO

(Enter Appleton and Lady Appleton.)

One thing.

It could be caused by a singular issue. BICKENCHOTH

(Sings) Singular issue! HERO MCMANLYHERO

What happened is because of Quincy Appleton, ladies and others! (Gasp.)

Appleton residence.

QUINCY APPLETON

Honey, I put these watches in teacups! LADY APPLETON

Oh, wonderful! You know that’s my favorite thing! QUINCY APPLETON

Thank you. I love…how you cook.

LADY APPLETON

Oh, I love that you are such a sane and grounded husband and that you support me so much. QUINCY APPLETON

QUINCY APPLETON

Ah, that’s the villagers again! They’re coming back! I’ll just leave her here. I was horribly emotionally abusive anyway so it doesn’t matter.

Yes.

(Exeunt.)

(Enter the villagers with pitchforks. They scream a very ancient and warlike cry.)

SCENE 3

HERO MCMANLYHERO

(Enter Hero McManlyhero and Bickenchoth.)

Oh, you are a devil!

HERO MCMANLYHERO

No, I’m not. No—

QUINCY APPLETON

So is the Schnuck!

The police station.

HERO MCMANLYHERO

What do you make of all this— BICKENCHOTH

Hello, sheriff.

HERO MCMANLYHERO

(Villagers begin to scream again.)

Hi. What do you make of all this “sacrifice” business I’ve been hearing about as of late? These people, I think, are almost going completely bonkers crazy style!

SCOTTY SHOESHINER

BICKENCHOTH

HERO MCMANLYHERO

There is no Schnuck, you old fool!

Shh…Well, y’know what? We’ll let you make your case, but first we’ll kill your wife! (The villagers brutally murder Lady Appleton. She dies.) QUINCY APPLETON

I’m gonna throw apples at you! Have a Granny Smith and a Red Delicious! SAMANTHA SHAWSHANK

It wasn’t delicious!

(Appleton drives them out with apples.) QUINCY APPLETON

Well, now I guess my wife is dead. Ah, well. (A horn sounds in the distance.)

That’s true. However, I have gotten some pretty good riffs off of it. Did you hear that one, the one guy who was like strummin’ on his pitchfork? It was a sweet little E major, like… ba na na neeaoow! That’s probably not even in E major, but you know what I mean, right? HERO MCMANLYHERO

Yeah, but I don’t blame you for it not being in E major, because you cannot hear, and I don’t…yeah. BICKENCHOTH

You’re right…uh…I lost that...uh…in the translation, so…I’m sorry if I’m off-key. Um, but yeah! This is pretty weird! For not being able to hear it, I could sense their anger, and I saw them all gang up on the one apple woman. She, uh…she went down pretty hard.

HERO MCMANLYHERO

Scoff! It’s all for the better. Y’know, when I was a boy, I…ate an apple. And do you know what was inside of that apple? BICKENCHOTH

A Paul McCartney concert, or…?

HERO MCMANLYHERO

It wasn’t at a concert! Let me finish the story. BICKENCHOTH

Sorry, sir. Sorry.

HERO MCMANLYHERO

Okay. So I ate an apple, right? BICKENCHOTH

Uh-huh.

HERO MCMANLYHERO

HERO MCMANLYHERO Not with— BICKENCHOTH I’m sorry! Go, go, go. HERO MCMANLYHERO —with my dad because he drank so heavily after my mother died. BICKENCHOTH Was your mother Paul McCartney? Sorry, I just don’t— HERO MCMANLYHERO There’s nothing to do with Paul McCartney in the speech! BICKENCHOTH Gotcha.

So…Okay, think of this. So there’s an apple, I’m eating it, and do you know what was inside of it, right…?

HERO MCMANLYHERO Anyway, my father was shot and do you know who he was shot by?

BICKENCHOTH

BICKENCHOTH Paul McCartney! John Lennon? Ringo! Ringo Starr!

Paul McCartney!

HERO MCMANLYHERO

You…! It was a rhetorical question! BICKENCHOTH

Oh, sir. I’m sorry, sir. Go ahead. HERO MCMANLYHERO Okay, so…a worm comes out and the worm shoots my mother. Since then, I have had a vendetta against all apples! Y’know what else? One time, I was walking from a bar with my dad, and— BICKENCHOTH Paul McCartney!

HERO MCMANLYHERO He was shot…by a doctor. BICKENCHOTH Yoko Ono! HERO MCMANLYHERO I just told—Since then I’ve had a vendetta against doctors! That is why we must seek out this horrible, disgusting, decrepit, slimy, greasy… BICKENCHOTH Elvis Presley!

HERO MCMANLYHERO ...caked with mud and dirt and worms and bugs and stuff, this old doctor apple bottom jeans!

BICKENCHOTH Boots with the fur! (Exeunt.)

photograph by Emmanuel Reyes

sketch by Philip Hiblovic

The King Who Walked Away Jacob Heard

ll my life, people have said that I look like my father. He has curly black hair and soft blue eyes. Though nearing the age of fifty, he still has a full head of hair, showing little gray except for a few flakes of salt in his beard. One thing that Dad loved to do was work. He wouldn’t be caught dead paying someone for a house project—he would always do it himself. Countless times I have seen him getting out the tool kit, the clamor of its screwdrivers and wrenches audible throughout the house. The rest of the day would be filled with noises of hammering, power tools, and curses—he was never one to keep his anger bottled in. He has broken chairs, tables, and walls, almost all of them resulting in funny stories that continue to resurface at family gatherings. One time my older sister asked him why he punched a hole in his door and with a smile he said, “Because it was there.” All of these do-it-yourself projects were comical at first, until he inevitably asked my brother and me for help. It would be stressful, but in the end I would always learn something new: how to change a light fixture, replace the brakes, or change the oil in the car. Dad also loved to walk. He would park the car as far away as possible from our destination, even if there was an empty parking lot. As soon as we got out, we would race to the building as fast as we could. I would give it my all, but I could never beat him. Many nights with him involved my siblings and me walking to a restaurant and back home, turning a quick meal into a journey that lasted

the whole night. That is how we got to see the city and learned to love walking as much as he did. Other days, when it was just Dad and I, we would walk around the Central West End and visit the St. Louis Chess Club. He told me how it was one of the best chess clubs in the world and that the Grandmasters would compete in international tournaments there. We would grab pieces and sit outside to play on one of the communal boards they had lining the streets. Dad would give me money to go buy frozen yogurt at the FroYo stand down the street. I would always fill my bowl with a half pound of chocolate yogurt and add every topping from KitKats to gummy bears, until it looked like one of Willy Wonka’s creations. We would sit there playing chess for hours, and since our skill levels were pretty equal, most of our games would end in a draw. Despite the outcome, I still loved that street. It housed the world’s largest chess piece—a king over fourteen feet tall. For my birthday one year, Dad got me a portable chess board from the St. Louis Chess Club. It was about a square foot in size with a black case made from cheap plastic. It folded in on itself, creating a ridge in the middle of the playing field. The chess pieces had little magnets on the bottom and stuck to the board, making it easier to play while moving. I loved everything about it.

t was Sunday, so my family got up to go to morning Mass, something no one but Mom enjoyed. I put on an uncomfortable collared shirt and a pair of black shoes

that squeezed my feet so hard I was worried I would not be able to get them off. Mom wet my hair down and combed it over, making me look like a nice little schoolboy. I looked around for Dad, hoping he could reason with his wife about her styling choices. Surprisingly, he was not getting ready with us. “Where’s Dad?” I asked Mom. “Oh, he’s just sleeping in,” she said. I found this odd, as I had looked in my parents’ bedroom earlier and he was not there. In fact, his side of the bed was well made and looked as if no one had slept in it for days. “Where’s Dad?” I again asked Mom, but she just smiled at me. I didn’t ask any more questions and tried not to read into it much—maybe this could get me out of a house project in the future. After a quick breakfast, my mom, sister, brother and I climbed into our black minivan. My brother filled the drive with trivial commentary, blabbering to himself about everything from Skylanders to Pokemon. In an attempt to tune him out, I played a game of chess against myself on the board Dad had given me. I used it every car ride—it was to me what my sister’s phone was to her during long trips. I left it open when we got to church because I wanted to continue my game afterwards. Mass was, as usual, long and boring. I could not follow along with any of the readings and just wanted to go home. “If Mass is always this boring,” I thought, “no wonder Dad chose to stay home.” After Mass ended, I rushed back to the car, eager to finish my game. However, something was wrong: the black king was missing. I frantically looked around the car for it, but nothing turned up. I checked under the seats and in their pockets. I even looked in the trunk before my mom yelled at me to sit back down and buckle my seat belt. “Where is it?” I asked my brother with a scowl. He responded with a careless shrug. Near the point of tears, I wondered how

I would tell Dad, who had gotten me this gift, that I had gone and ruined it. I stared at the incomplete setup on the board—it was like an army without its leader. “How could today get any worse?” I said quietly to myself. When we got home, Dad was at the far end of the kitchen table staring out the window. Whenever we had dinner or spent time in the kitchen, he would sit at the head of the table. I had never seen him sit at the far end of the table. I also noticed that he was picking his nails, one of his nervous habits. Something was on his mind, I just could not figure out what it was. “How was Mass?” he asked quickly, abandoning his previous thoughts and beckoning my brother and me over to talk. “Good,” I said, regurgitating the standard teenage answer to parental questioning. I could not tell him about the black king that I had lost. “How’d you sleep?” “Wonderful,” he said, his tired voice and baggy eyelids telling a different story. It did not take long before my brother thought this family gathering had become boring and got up to play video games downstairs. “Sit down,” Dad said, “I need to tell you something.” Although visibly annoyed, my brother slumped back down in his chair and listened to Dad. “I…” Dad started, fumbling with the words. “I am going away for a while,” he said, “and I don’t know when I will be coming back.” These words hit me like a punch to the gut. I felt nauseous. My eyes welled up, and before long I was crying so hard that I could not see. Dad reached out and grabbed my hand, but his once comforting grasp now felt cold and uninviting. How could he leave us? He was the most important person in this family, the person I looked up to more than anyone else in the world. “This is a joke,” I thought; “this must be a joke.”

When I opened my eyes, there was no punchline. I only saw the rest of my family crying along with me. I looked into my father’s eyes and saw his shame for causing this pain in all of us, and I knew this was real. He gave my hand one final squeeze before he got up and began to leave. I stopped him, and somehow found a strength in my voice.

“I lost the black king to the chess board you gave me.” “I’m sorry” was his only response, and with that he went out the door. I saw him through the window one last time. Instead of walking, he got in his car and drove away.

watercolor by Logan Florida

Mother Water Philip Hiblovic

56 As she trotted along the fickle creek, She revelled in its viridescent heart. The swell of current and porcelain swans— Lily pads bore witness to mourning sun. The evening air lingered as if to yawn, Beneath lilac sky, awakening dun. Pebbles, creek’s rocky hands, cleaved to her toes. Steadfast balancers clenched delicate frame. But the body engulfed her wretched pose. To Mother Water, she felt just the same. Wanton girl birthed of wavering ripple, Rose water mothered tongue in Rosa’s cheek. Rosa took suck from Natura’s nipple. The wisdom her mother once had piqued. If only she beheld the centerpiece: Her own viridescent heart, She would weep her rapture, then swiftly cease, And restore within her what fell apart.