Mini-Marque 2017

volume 17

MINI MARQUE

ST. MARK’S SCHOOL OF TEXAS 10600 PRESTON ROAD DALLAS, TEXAS 75230

214-846-8311 WWW.SMTEXAS.ORG

F

rom the moment I joined the Mini-Marque, I knew the program was special in many ways. This feeling was reinforced by every late-night design meeting, every chaotic submissions’ get-together, and the plethora of inside jokes.

This year when the theme of color was first proposed, I was quite unsure how it would work or what exactly it meant. Last year’s theme was Ancient Civilizations, a concrete idea, which was easily understandable for me; however, color is abstract, color is everywhere, and color has always been there. As the Head of Submissions for the 2016-2017 Mini-Marque, I am not as involved in the principles of design as the Head of Design, so the concept took a while for me to grasp. After months of steady contemplation, I realized how visionary the concept was and how it will continue to be meaningful to me. Even though we are apt to differentiate colors, rich or bold, soft or subtle, dark or light, they do not necessarily work in exclusion.

In a time when our society is so divided, this magazine illustrates how when all elements are put together, something extraordinary can emerge. We cannot simply negate our past, even if it’s tough to revisit. When television ran in black and white, new political and ethical movements were gaining speed in a time of great trial. In the hi-definition era, these movements are still evolving even considering our current division. This, however, is only my interpretation of the magazine’s meaning.

The most amazing thing about an abstract idea such as color is that anyone can decipher its meaning in their own unique way, and it might mean something far different to you, the reader. No matter what its meaning might be in your eyes, I hope the hard work and quality is evident as you read, and that you are a little more aware of the colors in your world, even the colors that lie underneath.

Sincerely, Josh Mysoré Submissions Director

Cover Design I Alam Alidina I 8 INSIDE COVER DESIGN I Collin Katz I 8 Section Header Designs I Tamal Pilla I 8

C

olor. It discreetly flutters through the human mind, a firefly breezing untamed through reality, imagination, and time. We can find it everywhere we look, from the frescoes of the Sistine Chapel to the graffiti on the walls of boxcars. Color appears in our dreams, guiding us through our subconscious with both the vivacity of flamenco and the agility of ballet. But most importantly, color leads us through time; as we examine the eras of humanity we notice that wherever liberty sparks, color soon follows.

The Mini-Marque represents a host of different ideas; those of the creators of submissions we received, who were courageous enough to submit their work for review, those of the submissions team, whose invaluable work brought the best submissions into light, and those of the design team, who meticulously arranged the words and images into the pages that lay before you. So in choosing the theme of the magazine, color presented itself as a way to channel these ideas into one cohesive thought.

As the magazine comes to a close, I am reminded of The Student, by Anton Chekhov. At its end, the main character comes to an enlightenment, realizing that “the past…is linked with the present by an unbroken chain of events flowing one out of another.” As you turn the pages of this magazine, keep Chekhov’s words in mind, for these pages, guided by color, flow one out of another, leaving us one link closer to the future.

Sincerely, Alam Alidina Design Editor

CONTENTS

Fiction “Drones” by William Vietor ‘21 p. 2 “Surviving the Cycle” by Jackson Fair ‘21 p. 12 “Color Your World” by Will Chance ‘26 p. 20 “Monk” by Jamie Mahowald ‘21 p. 36 “How Blue was Created” by Connor Gaffney ‘21 p. 58 “La Politique” by Jamie Mahowald ‘21 p. 62

nonFiction “Preadolescent Coffee” by Sid Sinha ‘21 p. 4 “Flashback” by Alam Alidina ‘21 p. 6 “A Fight for the Ages” by Henry McElhaney ‘21 p. 29 “The Square of Despair” by Rishi Mohan ‘21 p. 40 “Diwali” by Josh Mysore ‘21 p. 44 “Bay Runs Black” by Ben Meyer ‘21 p. 48 “Secrecy at Rio Secreto” by Benny Wang ‘21 p. 50

pOETRY “Writing Music” by Shiv Yajnik ‘21 p. 8 “Light Captured” by Chase Fisher ‘23 p. 10 “My Thinking Palace” by Shiv Yajnik ‘21 p. 16 “American Nightmare” by Ben Meyer ‘21 p. 18 “Neglect” by Wills Andrén ‘22 p. 22 “Poverty” by Drake Elliott ‘22 p. 25 “Medicine” by James Singhal ‘22 p. 27 “Broken World” by Cooper Cole ‘22 p. 28 “The Conch Bearer” by Ethan Xavier ‘24 p. 34 “The Conch Bearer” by Bennett Alger ‘24 p. 34 “The Conch Bearer” by Henry Hoak ‘24 p. 34 “The Conch Bearer” by Ben Foster ‘24 p. 34 “Mysterious Universe” by Zubin Mehta ‘22 p. 42 “Envy” by Alam Alidina ‘21 p. 52 “Origins” by William Vietor ‘21 p. 54 “First Fear” by Jamie Mahowald ‘21 p. 57 “Death” by Alam Alidina ‘21 p. 60 “Racism” by Nicolas Gomez ‘22 p. 68 “Started from the Top” by Elijah Ellis ‘22 p. 70 “Where I am From” by Kit Colson ‘21 p. 72

photo/Art Tamal Pilla ‘21 pp. 1, 8, 14, 24, 26, 30, 32, 35, 46 Collin Katz ‘21 pp. 2, 4, 6, 10, 13, 16, 18, 21, 22,

32, 36, 42, 46, 52, 54, 58, 60, 62, 68 Jamie Mahowald ‘21 pp. 12, 68 Jonathan Yin ‘22 p. 17 Kevin Evans ‘22 p. 28 Baxter Perry-Miller ‘24 p. 72 Antonio Quiñones ‘21 p. 36 Sai Thirunagari ‘21 pp. 40, 44 Daniel Sanchez ‘21 p. 48 Alex Geng ‘22 pp. 50, 52 Sam Morgan ‘21 pp. 55, 56 Blake Broom ‘21 p. 56 James Singhal ‘22 pp. 60, 61 Xander Bowles ‘22 p. 70

Leaving A legacy

A man who has spent nearly his entire life at St. Mark’s, a man of integrity, courage, and honor, a man who has inspired generations of middle schoolers.

Warren Foxworth ‘66 has dedicated himself to improving the community that he has been a part of for so long. We will never forget his cheerful personality, his unique collection of ties, and his thirst for moral, academic, and athletic excellence in the middle school.

Parents, teachers, and students will all miss his fantastic smile and caring attitude towards every student, all of whom he knows.

“He is a man of unquestioned integrity, and we will always be incredibly grateful for his many contributions to St. Mark’s School of Texas.”

- David Dini, Headmaster

Warren foxworth ‘66

Bl ac k

an d

W hi te

Black and white images broaden people’s experiences, expanding their horizons by capturing special moments and sharing them with the world. The first black and white photographs, created in 1826 by Nicéphore Niépce, founded a new art form which would further the boundaries of human perception. Today, we use it in our magazine because of its high contrast and its ability to fully portray the human experience.

B A N D

W 1

Drones: Not just for The

Terminator

O

ne year has passed since I originally dreamt up the insane

“I began designing my first drone, but I was still

idea to build my own drone. I originally didn’t want to build this seemingly complex machine myself. I scoured

the web to look for the best deals on the best drones for a Christmas present. I finally arrived at a disappointing conclusion, that if you don’t want to spend more than $1000, forget buying a fully built

inexperienced and

drone. Frustrated, I looked up the possibility of building my own,

made a few rookie

custom drone and discovered that it was not too complicated. The

mistakes.”

first video I saw gave me an outline of the basic parts required to build such a drone, called a quadcopter. It consisted of several parts, all of which were surprisingly easy and cheap to acquire.

Over the next six months leading to Christmas, I educated myself on all of the different parts and the rules and regulations for such a project. Finally, in the closing months, I began designing my first drone, but I was still inexperienced and made a few rookie mistakes.

The first of my blunders came when I decided which engines

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to use. I chose the cheaper, but extremely inefficient EDF-style engines. These motors are great for fixed-wing models, but for

a quadcopter they didn’t have the thrust to get it off the

to an online calculator I had discovered. I used it to help me

ground. Along with the cheaper engines, I decided to use

choose the best motor and propeller combo for maximum

a cheaper, less reliable transmitter (remote controller), and

agility and flight time. That June, the parts finally arrived at

I wanted to build my own frame. The transmitter came

my door (at 7:15 pm, thanks UPS) and I rushed to assemble

defective and I had to buy a new one. Plus, the frame was

them into the final product. About three hours later, my

more difficult to build than I expected. However, my biggest

drone was finished, ready for its true maiden flight the

mistake arrived while I was soldering the electronic speed

next morning. Before I went to sleep that night, I did final

controllers to my power distribution board. I failed to

calibrations and charged my batteries for the flight the next

recognize that some stray solder had connected the positive

morning; it was like Christmas Eve all over again.The next

and negative terminals of the board, and when I plugged

morning, I plugged the battery into the drone and listened to

in my battery, I shorted out two wires, the board, and an electronic speed controller; Plus, I almost electrocuted myself. Lucky for me, I did not have any other parts connected at the time or it would have been even more catastrophic. However, after I

“It was like Christmas Eve all over again.�

the beeping machine. It started up, the LED module blinking seemingly hundreds of colors until it flashed a steady yellow, the flight controller told me it was ready to take off. I switched on my transmitter, and went through my pre-flight checklist. I pressed my two control sticks down and to the center. The

resolved my transmitter problem and finished the frame

propellers spun up, the motors in an idle position, I throttled

it was the engine trouble that delayed me again. Months

up the engines roaring louder and then, the 1700-gram drone

of work and hundreds of dollars rested on the test that

lifted into the air of my garage. I tested aerodynamic controls,

afternoon, if it failed I would have to completely redesign

slightly pitching forward, then pitching back, then repeating

the entire project. Later that day, I pushed my throttle sticks

the process to the left and to the right. Finally, I completed

together and listened to the engines swirl up to maximum

my flight test turning clockwise and then counterclockwise,

power, but the drone just sat there. It was far too heavy

and landed right where I took off with a huge grin on my face,

for the weak EDF jets, confirming that I had to completely

my little bird had jumped from the nest.

redesign my prized drone.

About one month later, I submitted the new design

DIGITAL ART I COLLIN KATZ i 8 NonFiction I William vietor i 8

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NonFiction I Siddhartha Sinha I 8 Digital art I collin katz I 8

t n e c s e l o d a e r P e e f f o C

ason is e r e is th hich h e e t coff clip at w a h t ims e rapid a l c l stil at th y n o w b o “This s not gr a he h ds do.� frien

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cups to the sink. Then, he would hide behind

T

the sink and slurp the remaining liquid from

his boy

the cups. In one swig, he would drain the cup

savored coffee

of all its remaining liquid, pleasing his tongue

growing up.

and tummy at the same time. It was definitely

He was always the one who picked up his

a little bitter, but the sweetness filled his mind

parents’ dishes and put them in the sink. It did

like fruit in a cornucopia.

not matter what meal they were having, this boy would always pick up the dishes.

Eventually, this boy started to catch the

This toddler found himself to be a sneaky little fellow, but as this boy grew up, he came to the realization that his parents were aware

scents of his mom’s cooking. The aromas

of his sneaky actions. Soon after, his parents

filled his nostrils like the colors of the

told him that drinking coffee stunted his

rainbow. He could smell every small detail,

growth. From then on, he was prohibited

brewed to perfection. Soon this boy started

from drinking coffee. To this day, this boy still

to pick up dishes only to smell them. Then,

claims that coffee is the reason he has not

around the age of three, he began to take his

grown at the rapid clip at which his friends

parents’ coffee cups. His parents were both

do, but it doesn’t stop him from making jokes

exceptionally good at making coffee in his

about his height, or lack thereof.

mind, and for whatever reason, there would be a little left at the bottom of each of their cups, so this boy would volunteer to take the

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FLASHBACK NONFiction photo

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I

I

Alam Alidina

Collin Katz

I

8

I

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I would love to relive this day.

To lie awake, memorizing every he last memory of my Father’s voice before he detail and saving it for a day such had his stroke was him as this one . To go and sit by the yelling. I am not quite sure whom door, and listen. To see the tall, fit, he was yelling at, perhaps myself dynamic man that is my Father, using every muscle to its full or some associate or partner. extent.

But I do remember my mother attempting to coerce him into a “There may be nothing

T

like the present to remind us of hate and anger, but there is the hotbed of anger. Down the nothing like regret to long hallway, through the maze remind us of the things of boxes, until at last I found my we would have loved to own bed, a cam isle in a raging sea. do.” more reasonable tone , and my small feet carrying me away from

Exhausted, I lay my head down to To run back and tell him to stop, rest and, unable to resist, twirled downwards into the outstretched stop, stop yelling. There may be nothing like the present to remind arms of sleep. us of hate and anger, but there is

nothing like regret to remind us of the things we would have loved to do. If there was any way to find peace in that raging sea, I would.

But even if I couldn’t change anything, even if I was forced to be an observer, a helpless viewer in a movie about me, just seeing the event would help. Perhaps it would put things into perspective, or discover the distortion in my young memory. But most importantly, seeing the event again would drive me to become better. Mistakes are made so as not to be repeated, and I would never let myself make the mistake of putting anger before love.

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Writing

8

Music

The room listens For the scratching of an edge that glistens, Creating liquid that melts on the page,

Poetry and Composition I Shiv Yajnik I 8

Colored black, blue, red, or beige, Instructions materialize and bound For a chef d’oeuvre, a masterpiece of sound.

The magic point and liquid, Creates notes, symbols quite lucid, With rhythms of all type, Sounds of all shape and size.

These symbols dance across the paper, And the sound begins to rise and taper.

Scan this QR code to hear Shiv’s Piece, “Reverie”.

The story of sound is never ending, The motions soar and ever bending, The crescendo of emotions rise to a pitch, And then softly retire into a niche, The notes trip along in a vast sea of joy, And gives hope of land ahoy.

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Light captured Gazing across a black sea of darkness, There is an unmistakeable light Drawing lonely souls closer and closer And shielding creatures from the darkness In the light, bright flowers bloom And civilization flourishes everywhere In the light, Happiness is shared And people help other people everywhere Miles and Miles of Joyful Spirits Music lights up the ears of souls Miles and Miles of Joyful Spirits In the place Of light

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Poetry i Chase fisher i 6 Photo i Collin Katz i 8 11

Surviving the Cycle Fiction I Jackson Fair I 8 Photo I Collin Katz I 8

O

h gosh. I am going to die. Panicked thoughts shot through my head as I jerked through the overgrown, uneven path. The bike stood a tower above my feet to where I couldn’t reach the ground nor bring myself to a full halt after each steep hill. Plummeting down the hill, I slid halting within inches of the canyon below me. A sigh of relief passed through my lips. Game Over crossed my mind when I started to tilt sidewaysinto that two-foot deep pit. Slowly, slowly…slowly. As I tumbled into the stream, trickling steadily along, I realized I was alone with nature.

I knew it would be the most thrilling day of my life; my first time mountain biking. My cabin from Camp Rockmont, a sleep away camp in North Carolina, was going on an adventure. Flocks of birds dispersed at the sounds of our vehicle and landed when we came to a halt. Breathing in through the high altitude, the ten of us traversed toward the Mountain Biking Shack. We had arrived! After practicing for five minutes with the bikes that they had just doled out to us, they deemed us ready. Some of us got bikes that were either too lanky or undersized, but we had to live (or die) with them.

While I sauntered through the trail, another figure came toward me on his cycle, and appeared out of the shadows as the guide. My lips curved into a smile across my mud stricken face. He came around the curves quickly and prompted me to hurry

up and ride the bike.

Here we go again.

I was just glad that someone had figured out I was gone.

This notion didn’t dwindle long, because right then a hurtling pain writhed through my body. The faint chirps of birds could scarcely soothe the agony attained from being crushed by that eigty pound bike.

At every point in our drilling at least one person would stumble or fall off their bike, but that wouldn’t prevent us from persevering. The expedition had begun! As we traversed down the first ridge, my friend, Owen, struck a root and ejected face first into the brush. The figures of my cabin mates ahead of me turned to shadows and eventually disappeared entirely. I attempted to stop lagging behind, but that just isolated me. I fussed about being alone so much that I didn’t notice the gap between the wheels and cliff closing ever so slightly.

Through my friends’ beliefs in me, I was able to persevere through all of the pain and reach the trails end. I had accomplished the hard task of completing my own goals without any outside aid. When I rode into the clearing only a few hills away, the other bikers sat around ready for another ride. This surprised me, since I was ready to have a well-deserved break.

SURVIVING THE CYCLE

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RGB R e d

G r e e n

B l u e

RGB, a color system first introduced to the public in 1928 by John Logie Baird, combines red, green, and blue in varying proportions to create a broad rainbow of colors that we see on television screens and computers today. RGB fascinates because of its versatility, able to produce any color in the spectrum. Everything around you, including this magazine, consists of light from these three basic colors: red, green, and blue.

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My “Thinking Palace” This palace is different from All of those castles people talk about, High towers, domes, and fancy architecture, No, this is something different.

This is a thinking palace, And it belongs to me.

You can’t see it, It lies only in the mind.

All of us have our thinking palaces, Or else we have no brain.

Many of us don’t recognize or use them much, But I do.

Poetry 1 Shiv Yajnik 1 8 Photo 1 collin katz 1 8

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My thinking palace has two sections, Each with a different purpose, Each with a different seting, And each with a different mood,

EachMy of those thinking sections palace I use for different reasons, It hasIsaone lightofand thehappy most exclusive character,places I visit.

But all of them keep my mind agile It is the place where all of my thoughts, And all of the unique things that I do Filled in this River Can be thought about.

Are tunes, harmonies, and rhythms, What about your thinking palace?

All of which makes up the sound of the river.

Your section one Which is why the river has a rhythm and Could be your tune to it, greatest passion, And so does life itself.

From music to literature to The second section of my thinking palace science, to religion, Is the castle of numbers and words.

Anything that you When you enter the castle, treasure greatly.

Numbers, words, and thoughts Are flying everywhere.

But your section This is the place two Where all of my thoughts are stored.

Is the most Every single event that happened, important place.

Every single thing I learn in life It is the place you keep your thoughts and Lives right here in the center of my mind. memories safe.

I can access these thoughts whenever Never lose your memories and thoughts, And use them when I need to.

For those are very powerful things.

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American Nightmare Poetry I Ben Meyer I 8

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The American dream has spread To every man and woman;

The need to conquer, And the need to enclose themselves Are all running rampant in the streets.

People are constructing factories, To seal the sky with smog.

People are building railroads, That demand work and labor.

Photo I Collin Katz I 8

The need to create,

People have given up nature, In exchange for convenience.

People have given up life, In exchange for living death.

And it shall continue.

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R

ed is a color of all different emotions,

can withstand it. Every time it is seen people

associated to all different things. It

stop.

can represent love, it can represent

evil. It can represent Cupid, it can represent Satan. Red can be good or great. Red can be bad

Lava is an ooey gooey dark red that tosses

and turns in front of your eyes.

Maroon is a dark and scary red. It’s blood

or worse. Everything about red is a big statement. quality makes it villainous. This color belongs to A red can be strong or soft. Like the color of a fire a pirate or a bad guy. truck to the warm glow of a fire. Every variation is different: candy apple, cardinal, crimson, fire engine, lava, maroon, raspberry, red wine, rust, and scarlet. All of them, each with their own name, shade, and properties.

Candy apple is a bright vibrant red that

Raspberry is sweet and sharp. It always

has a sour twist. It’s bright, but not alarming.

Red wine is deep in immense. It tosses

and turns smoothly around.

Rust is scarred and scratched. It’s broken

and flaky and chipped. Rust is looked down

belongs to a child. Cardinal is majestic and

upon because of the beautiful grey luster it

mysterious, yet it makes a statement.

covers up.

Cardinal belongs to a king.

Crimson is the definition of wow. It is

Scarlet is the king of red. The most godly

shade, he sits atop his throne staring down on

bright and screaming. This beautiful shade of red his other red subjects. belongs to sports teams and mascots.

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Fire engine is might and proud. No one

Fiction I Will Chance I 8

Photo I Collin Katz I 8

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poetry i wills andren i 7 photo icollin katz i 8

NEGLECT 22

Rusted chain drags through the dry dirt Clouds of dirt rise like fog from water The brittle leather collar Digging into skin with each pull A reminder of years tethered to a pole Blood caked on the old choker Patches of bare skin lie where fur once was Ribs sticking out like a hull of a boat Painful yelps and howls Once radiant and vibrant Now growing lonelier and more miserable everyday Filthy paws weathered and cracked Forced to endure in harsh condition Never given love or affection Always companionless and cold Attempts to escape from his torture But always is returned to join that pole

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Poverty

Poetry I Drake elliotT I 7 Photo i Collin Katz i 8

You see them on the streets You see them everyday They ask for money They ask for food But do we ever give them any?

You see their face Sad and as broken As the bridge they live under It plagues our nation It plagues our world Yet nobody makes an effort We just let it happen We let them suffer Why do we leave it to our government?

We should make action Act like we care Give them hope Give them a chance

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MEDICINE 26

Poetry I James Singhal I 7 PHOTO I Tamal Pilla I 8

As he lay there, In the hospital bed, Gasping for every breath, There is only one thing in between him and death.

He could be fine, If only he lived elsewhere, Where they didn’t have laws that were supposed to save people, But killed them instead.

These keep sick people from treatment, Keep dying people from life, And it would all be okay, If only their country was thoughtful.

That country is the USA, The FDA, federal drug administration, But all they do is administrate, They make laws limiting our access to lifesaving medication, They do not help, All of this to help people?

But no, In an almost paradise, there is freedom for all medicine, In Europe, medications are easily approved, To be taken to the sick, and to cure them.

But in our amazing country, They die in silence.

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Broken World At school we don't think she can play Even if she's good we won't let her stay At work she's paid less than the others They only think that she can be a mother “GO HOME AND COOK!” They scream we all talk and yet we dream of a perfect society Nobody hurt Yet people still do things, like look up her skirt She is objectified like a doll We throw her around like a beach ball She wants to be treated like the others Yet everyday she is hurt by another We act like we can’t stand this hatred We say things until she’s degraded We go home and act like it’s nothing Make fun of her until she is blushing Our world is broken Yes, the same world kids joke in Where there is light there is always darkness Where there is stupidity always smartness There will never be a perfect world A perfect home A perfect person But if you are happy, your world will never worsen

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Poetry I Cooper Cole I 7 Artwork I Kevin Evans I 7

A

FIGHT

FOR the

I

woke up and looked outside my window to see a blanket of white covering my backyard.

I could not believe my eyes. One of the most celebrated events in a child’s life had just occurred.

It had snowed!

In Dallas! I was overjoyed. I ran out of my room into the kitchen to confront my mother to make sure that school was canceled, and it was. My parents were not nearly as pleased as I was, but I knew they weren’t angry. In the kitchen, I poured myself a delicious bowl of Cheerios and accepted the offer of hot chocolate from my mom. It was a fitting feast for such a special occasion. Once I finished my meal, I scrambled back to my room and began to suit up for the vicious weather conditions that were ahead of me. I dressed myself with so many layers that I felt like a ball

A g e s

made up of more clothing than boy.

After I prepared myself, I waddled to my brother’s room to ask him to play with me outside, but he was nowhere to be seen. I was befuddled-I had always been the first one to finish getting ready. I scampered to the door leading to the backyard to see my father and brother already playing. I was late to the party, so I quickly slipped past the door into the freezing air.

The cold air against my warm, pudgy face was startling. The bright snow made me shield my eyes, and the quiet of the vast desert of snow made me hold my breath. I could feel my body temperature drop causing me to shiver and to make my nose runny. It was astonishing: how could I have hundreds of pounds of clothing on yet still be uncomfortably cold? If anything, I expected to be hot. But that would not stop me from playing, of course. I approached my bundled-up companions and suggested to them the most epic activity one could do in the snow: a snowball fight. They had had the same idea. It would be kids against

“The cold air against my warm, pudgy face was startling.”

Nonfiction I Henry McElhaney I 8 Digital Art I Tamal Pilla I 8

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adults. My brother and I were on one side, and my dad was on the other.

We agreed that there would be a ten-minute period before the fight to make snowballs and build a fort or wall for protection. My brother and I got right to work. Our first task was creating devastating spheres of agony and destruction: snowballs. We made snowballs of different sizes and shapes. The smaller balls were made for accuracy and pain. A well-placed one could leave a nasty boo-boo.

The bigger snowballs’ purpose was to destroy any protective walls or surfaces. Although my brother and I could not be very accurate with them, the big snowballs were intimidating and pretty darn cool. After my brother and I thought we had made enough balls, I created a snowball for myself.

I made it a size that felt comfortable in my glove, and I took extra care in tightly packing the snow and making sure it was a perfect sphere. Once my brother and I finished preparing, we peered across the battlefield at our enemy. My dad had built a small barrier for protection but it would not be nearly as effective as our wall because we were much smaller. When both sides were ready, there was a

moment of perfect silence, silence before the storm. My We were outmatched at long distance because of our lack brother and I each picked up a snowball, and we threw of power and accuracy when throwing. He understood them with all our might. my logic, and we each grabbed a couple of snowballs. We As I was propelling my snowball towards my foe, I saw stood up and ran towards the opposition while letting out one coming right back at me. I threw the ball and rolled a battle cry. A look of pure shock crossed my father’s face out of the way just in time. The enemy’s snowball had as we sprinted towards him. He scrambled around for his flown inches from my head and smashed into the fence last remaining snowballs and started to run towards us as behind me. I felt scared for my life, “Our first task was creating well. Before I knew it, a snowball had excited for the battle that would come, hit me right in the stomach. This time, devastating spheres of and bewildered at the ferocity of my I could barely feel a thing. I guess all of agony and destruction: those layers of clothes came in handy. father’s throws. My brother had come snowballs.” away unscathed by the first volley of My dad was now empty-handed, so my projectiles as well. While I was fearing brother and I threw all of our snowballs for my life, my dad had picked up another snowball and as hard as we could at him. Once we were out of snowballs, hurled it in my brother’s direction. As I turned away we ran to our enemy and jumped on to him. I leaped on from the fence, I saw a snowball hit my brother square his back while my brother grabbed his legs. Eventually, my in the face. I immediately burst out laughing. However, dad toppled over in a flurry of snow and my brother and my joy did not last long as a snowball smashed into my I clambered on top of him. We stood in that spot, on my face as well. My face began to sting as I doubled over in father’s back, victorious with contentment in our hearts. shock and pain. This was not a silly game anymore: this The fight had had its ups and downs, but my brother and I was an all-out war. I helped my brother to his feet and had emerged triumphant. We may have won that battle, but immediately picked up a snowball and launched it like we did not win the war. Even to this day, the snowball war my life depended on it, which seemed like a possibility still rages on. However, we have yet to have a rematch of at that moment. To my surprise, it hit my dad square in that great battle because it never snows in Dallas.Eventually, the chest, but he simply brushed off the snow. I guess my my dad toppled over in a flurry of snow and my brother and prepubescent muscles were not as powerful as I thought I clambered on top of him. We stood in that spot, on my they were. The three of us continued to throw snowball father’s back, victorious with contentment in our hearts. after snowball for what seemed like hours.

The fight had had its ups and downs, but my brother and Finally, I pulled my brother behind the shelter of our I had emerged triumphant. We may have won that battle, barrier for a strategic discussion. I reasoned with him that but we did not win the war. Even to this day, the snowball our last opportunity to emerge victorious was to charge war still rages on. However, we have yet to have a rematch towards our father and engage in hand-to-hand combat. of that great battle because it never snows in Dallas.

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STANDARD DEFINITION Standard Definition was the system used to create color during the mid 1990s and mid-2000s. Broadcasted during the day because it was easier on the eyes, Standard Definition was blurry and muted, shaded with a wistful yellow hue. In this section, images are intentionally blurred, giving the section an abstract and surreal quality.

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Poetry I Henry Hoak I 5 Poetry I Ben Foster I 5

Poetry I Ethan Xavier I 5 Poetry I Bennett Alger i 5

They gave me a test So far away In the mountains Where I could stay Abadhyatta & Nisha At bay Waiting for me To return the Conch To the Brotherhood They gave me a choice To stay or to leave They said if I stayed My family would forget If I ever lived or existed But if I leave I’d never return To the Silver Valley Abadhyatta, me, Nisha, & Meera

There was a time When I was alone Couldn’t go back in the cave Hearing my mother moan My only friends were Nisha and an old man Sometimes even he would Vanish from my hand Then one night When I closed my eyes I couldn’t bear to hear my mother’s cries Nisha my faithful companion Was not at my side Because Surabhanu Controlled her mind When I blew the conch shell Surabhanu died The Brotherhood is home To people like me And in the Hall of Seeing I saw my family

Conch

Bearer

The

Text BAsed on The Book

by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

PHOTO I Tamal Pilla I 8

35

The Monk A Retelling in Verse

T

he man was asleep. He didn’t feel the crash.

His plane descended out of the frigid air and into the bitter snow.

He was alone.

He wandered about for a day or two until finding a building made of stone.

He didn’t know what it was; nobody knew.

But it didn’t matter. He was cold.

He walked to the door and was greeted with a traditional lion-esque knocker on a rich, mahogany door carved with dozens of religious patterns, scenes depicting Christ being born, Moses and the fire, and other time-honored stories he recognized.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The door opened “Ciao!

Perché sei qui oggi?”

He looked at the newly-met man confusingly. He was wearing a brown, complex tunic with a loose, black belt over it. A single hood flanked his shoulders, not terribly well worn, and he smiled politely at his guest.

He replied, “Uh… excuse me?”

The monk thinks about it for a second, and turns around: “Lui parla inglese. Angelo, vieni qui.” A man rushes toward the door, wearing similar clothes to the previous monk.

He says, “Oh, you speak English? Well, I apologize; most of my brothers here speak Italian.” He says in a heavy Italian accent.

He replies, “Where are we?”

“Signore, we are in the Italian Alps in the Dioviene

Monastery. Now, you look very cold, I welcome you inside.”

The man walks inside the monastery at the guide of the monk. “I am officially the Father Monk of the Dioviene Monastery, but I consider all my guests and sons as brethren.

Now, let’s get you serviced before you may go.”

The third day, he chose to ignore it again for the sake of the father monk.

He goes to bed one more time.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

He eats, showers, talks with the father monk, and at the end of the evening, goes to a warm bed.

He hears a noise.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

It stops.

Ten minutes later, Thump. Thump. Thump.

It stops and he goes to bed.

For the next days, he largely ignores it, seeing it only as something the monks may do at night. But the second day went and he went back to bed.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The next day he finally addresses the father monk. “Excuse me,” he says as politely as he may, “for the past three nights, I have been hearing a strange thumping noise once or twice as I go to bed. Do you have any explanation for this? It really has me worried.”

Father Monk smiles and laughs. The man is confused. “You have to be a monk to know,” he says jauntily. “Now, you’ve stayed here for a little while, shall we work on getting you back home?”

The man wants to know. “What do you mean when you say that I have to be a monk to know?”

37

Father Monk replies, “You have to be a monk to know. Fellow monks may know, but it’s a closely guarded secret that mustn’t be disclosed outside of this monastery.”

Father Monk pulls out of a drawer a bronze key, a silver key, and a shimmering golden key. He puts them in a pocket for later use and signals the man to walk with him through a wooden door in the back of his office.

The man hesitates and thinks for a while. “What do I have to do to become a monk?”

Father monk leans back in his chair. “Sir, becoming a monk is a long and arduous process. You must be willing to renounce many of your possessions, receive a great deal of scholarly insight into the matters of medieval Christianity, among other things. Sir, if you are not willing to do these things, I would seriously advise you against it.”

The man is perplexed. Below him are an uncountable number of stairs. “What do we do now?” he asks the monk.

“We walk down.”

They walk down a thousand stars and reached a bronzeplated door.

The father monk reaches out of his pocket the bronze key and opens the door to reveal another set of stairs going up.

He thinks. “Can I get started now?”

Over the next few years, the man undergoes a great deal of pressure in the act of being a monk. His first task is to officially learn Italian, which, to his surprise, wasn’t useful, conversational Italian, but old Italian, used only in deeply religious scenarios. Latin is also required.

Once he finishes his courses, he learns many rituals and ceremonial practices which were unjustifiable to him before his new career path.

Finally, after years of practice, Father Monk deems him an official brother of the Dioviene Monastery.

He waited a few days to receive his prize, as to not seem overbearing.

They walk up a thousand stairs to the same elevation they were before. The man thinks to himself, wouldn’t it have been easier just to walk straight?

No matter, for there is a silver door awaiting them. Father Monk uses his silver key to reveal another uncountable number of stairs going down again.

They walk down a thousand stairs to a final golden door.

This is it, the man thinks. What I have been waiting for all these years is behind this door.

Father Monk pulls out his final golden key.

He unlocks it slowly and pushes the door open.

He walked solemnly to the office of Father Monk. He entered quietly, and said in old Italian, “Now that I am officially a monk, may I please see what has been hidden from me all these years?”

Father Monk smiles. “Walk this way, brother.”

Inside is what has been startling the man for years. What has kept him up at night, what has ran so many questions through his head, what has led him to invest so much time in this profession. He is truly surprised.

Now, I’m sure you, dear reader, would be as enthusiastic as this man to find out what was behind that door, wouldn’t you?

Well,

You have to be a Monk to know...

Text i Jamie Mahowald i 8 Digital art i collin katz i 8 39

Ph

The Square of Despair

40

o

Nonfiction i Rishi Mohan I 8

to i sai Thiru na ga ri i 8

P

iazza San Marco, commonly known as St. Mark’s Square, is one of the worst places in the entire world to get lost. Whether it’s the inordinate amount of criminals looking to swindle unsuspecting tourists or the overall grandiosity of the plaza, it is dangerous in all aspects of the word, especially to a foreign kindergartner. Naturally, I chose to stray from my parents.

The flight was top-notch. I had no care in the world after I gobbled two meals, slept in the ideal bed, my mother’s lap, for six hours, and relaxed in an extremely spacious chair 20,000 feet in the air.

On the other hand, my family was not on the same level of happiness or comfort because they were feeling the strong effects of jetlag and lack of sleep at the same time. However, we had to be alert because Venice had a reputation as a city with a high crime rate, and children were often kidnapped, or so my father said. He might’ve just been trying to scare us.

Cautious of everything around us, we hustled out of the airport, eager to begin our Italian adventure.

We chose to navigate the city by gondola, which was one of many poor choices that ended with my dad’s wallet becoming a bit slimmer.

By the time the sluggish boat arrived near the destination, it was already mid-afternoon.

We wandered into the plaza itself, and we were mesmerized and awe-struck by everything around us.

The sky was blanketed with black pigeons constantly soaring and searching for food crumbs, which they would promptly scoop up once spotted.

The feeling of chaos was also new, and it was at least three times as frantic as the busiest street in New York City. Street artists and dancers positioned themselves all over the square, and they were doing anything from painting couples kissing to break dancing. Then, there were the eminent landmarks of the Basilica and the Campanile that put the Square on the map. Due to the surroundings, the entire family was in a frenzy, which is one of the many causes that led to my future situation.

The spray paint cans seemed to be calling me.

They shouted like wicked temptresses, “Rishi! Rishi!

Get over here and watch us create masterpieces!”

These seductive cries were too much for my indecisive brain to handle. I was suddenly burdened with the lifechanging decision to either go see the street artist or stay with my brother and dad, who weren’t paying much attention to me anyway. So I decided. I snuck away from my family and crept the thirty feet over to the booth.

The painter didn’t seem to care much about me or the surrounding audience members once I arrived, though.

He would only acknowledge our presence when he presented a piece that he had finished and wanted sold.

After about a half-hour, I grew sick of this behavior and disappointedly stomped away, only then realizing the consequences of my actions.

I paced the plaza frantically searching for my parents. “Mommy? Daddy? Are you there?” I repeated this a countless number of times until I eventually found a bench on the right side of the square. Since I had given up hope in life, I began to simulate scenarios in my head of what my life would be like now that I’d lost my family forever. Just when I was about to finish one of my more realistic simulations of my future, a stranger approached. He was a robust, towering figure who was very pale but didn’t seem particularly menacing. In a heavy Italian accent, he requested to sit next to me, and I foolishly replied, “Yes.” For a while, he didn’t bother me, and I didn’t annoy him either. Then, he reached over and attempted to seize me and drag me away. This didn’t go unnoticed by the surrounding people. They came to my aid and pummeled him to the ground, where he stayed unconscious. After that, some even went a step further and helped me find my family, who generously compensated them. After a terse admonishment from my parents, we continued our Venetian holiday gleefully, cautiously staying away from the Square.

Today, I’m incredibly fortunate to be where I am.

Not only am I in the top 10% in the world for wealth, but I have things that I take for granted that others couldn’t even dream of, like clean water or food on the table. If only a few events had happened differently, I could very well be living in a Venetian alleyway and begging people to give me money simply to survive.

The spray paint cans seemed to be calling me.

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42

Mysterious Universe In Central Park I stand below A starry sky I’d love to know I see a cosmic planet shine bright Even in the darkest of night People look through windows in fear As Pluto is the new frontier So many questions I do seek Pouring into books so very deep Boundaries of space are unclear Now knowing if the truth is near I chase planets spinning warm cheer Sometimes they are cold and bit queer At last I listen to my soul To understand what I behold Perhaps it is a sign for me To reach far beyond what I see The heavens above in the sky Tonight we venture you and I

Poetry I Zubin Mehta i 7 Photo I Collin Katz I 8 43

Nonfiction I Josh Mysore I 8

44

Diwali

Photo I Sai Thirunagari I 8

T

he candles burned brightly, giving off a pleasing aroma, the sweets glistened in my mouth, every bite-full exploding with exotic flavor, the fireworks shot up into the air, bursting with colorful light and giving a sense of joy, the clothing shined brightly, the silk felt soft to my ever slow strokes, the dancers danced and sung with happiness, their melodic tunes flooded my ears like sweet honey rushing my taste buds, these are all feelings I associate with the Indian celebration--the festival of Diwali. The vivid, unique experiences that are made possible by this celebration are endless, although participation is necessary.

When the smell of spices in fresh curry rushes into your nostrils, stunning you for a moment, when sweet mango lassi is drunk,

the strong tang attacking your palate in a flurry, when red paste is applied in dots to the many foreheads in the crowd, the smooth, dry mixture moving from thumbs to faces, when the loud prayers to the Gods are made, the fierce, piercing chants captivating the audience, when gifts are exchanged

“Diwali is an exciting time for all Indians around the world, no matter the location or group.� among others, faces lighting up with excitement as the gift wrapping is torn away, when homes are crystal clear clean, when all the doors, windows and walls are lit with oil painted earthen lamps, when everyone dresses in new clothes of all colors in traditional tie and dye with sparkly ethnic mirrorwork,

when tons of incredibly delicious confectionary and amazing sweets are made lovingly by the mothers and sisters, when sometimes many of the adults seated on the floor play cards and gamble with crisp green notes of money since this festival is all about wealth and prosperity.

Diwali is an exciting time for all Indians around the world, no matter the location or group. More specifically, Diwali is an exciting time for my family due to the fun festivities and the sense of taking pride in our heritage, Whether it is making creative designs with colored rice, also known as Rangoli, or whether it be burning incense with my mom, Diwali gives me a celebration that highlights my heritage, and also provides a fun time in general. The senses awaken and the immersion into fun is 45 vibrantly enjoyable.

HIGH DEFINITION 46

First broadcasted in the 1990s, High Definition allows for a sharper, clearer image with far higher resolution than Standard Definition. Using vibrant photos with intentional editing, the designers of this section appeal to the reader with vivid colors, high contrasts, and a contemporary twist, helping to represent the many facets of the modern man.

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Bay Runs Black

Nonfiction I Ben Meyer I 8

48

Photo I Daniel Sanchez I 8

T

HE INFINITE SERENITY of the wilderness preserves a feeling of safety even in unfamiliar places… except when it doesn’t. Camping can be a great experience, or so I thought as I crossed the boundary entering Camp Thunderbird for Boys in the summer of 2015. I jumped out of the bus with a shine in my eye and a spring in my step, ready to start anew amongst the trees. I knew it was going to be a great summer. My excitement was heightened when my counselor announced that I was able to go on one of the most beloved trips in camp, the fiveday backpacking venture on Lake Superior. Little did I know what I was getting myself into.

The next day, we packed up our food and supplies, after that, we were on our way. There was no turning back at this point. The van ride there was silent, because we were anticipating what was at the lake. After the ride, I picked up my bag. It weighed on me as if it was solid steel. We commenced our trek. The elevation was painful, it was burning hot, and there was no stopping in sight. The sweat was rolling down my back as I desperately stumbled to find a foothold. As I set my elbow on the flat rock at the top, I climbed up. The

view was breathtaking, beautiful, pure, serene. A voice immediately shattered my euphoria, “We have to get going, Ben!” my counselor screamed right into my ear. So I trekked on.

The next day, we approached a bridge. It seemed normal, until somebody crossed it. I glanced over and witnessed black spots buzzing around the bridge. “Wasps,” my counselor whispered, “a nest under the bridge.” After that, it became a race: Who could traverse the passage fastest with a fifty-pound backpack weighing on them? Fortunately, I sprinted past the danger without a scratch. I thought that this was the only rough spot in the trek, but there were many more.

“The sweat was rolling down my back as I desperately stumbled to find a foothold.”

As we approached the final day of our trip, I felt relieved. Only smooth sailing from here, I thought as I approached the endless body of water in front of me. The group was anxious to jump into Lake Superior.

We all ran in at the same time; and froze simultaneously. The water was ice cold, so we all stumbled out of

the ice and ventured to a warmer place. We eventually found an inlet in the lake, and it was warm.

Swimming in it was a breath of fresh air after the traumatizing experience beforehand. It was all fun and games until I glanced a pitch black cloud travelling amongst the water. “Get out, Ben!” I heard as I sprinted toward shore. Suddenly, the water tripped me and I panicked. It’s over Ben, it’s over, I told myself as I trudged through the thick liquid. I stumbled onto shore, scared for my life, and looked back. There was no water there, just black. A hole in the earth has just formed, pitch black, nothing, null, void, zilch, empty.

A hive mind of small, slimy, lines, moving one with the flow of the water. They were hungry, hungry for human flesh and blood, and so desperate to obtain it.

After the incident, I was scared for my life, or at least my dignity.

As we pulled the leeches off of each other, I felt relieved. The group forged a special bond throughout that trip, and I am unable to forget it. I can still hear the mixture of laughter and tears resonating through the air, pushing out of my skull.

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Secrecy at Rio Secreto Nonfiction | Benny Wang | 8

S

MALL OBJECTS AGGRAVATE ME, specifically, when miniscule rocks chafe the edges of my feet in a congested underground cave waist-deep in water. Just hours before, I had patiently awaited our for tour van to drive us all the way to Río Secreto, an underground river-cave in Playa del Carmen, Mexico. Originally, I was thrilled to swim in a place many people have not swam in before, especially when I reminded myself that the “pool” would be a natural body of water.

The lengthy bus drive for the tour brought fatigue and dizziness, and I was prepared to doze off right there in the bus in front of my family and friends.

Luckily, we reached the base camp for the cave, and the following events flew by in a blur.

Our tour guide, David, introduced himself and instructed us on the proper equipment. In quick succession, I donned a wetsuit over my swimsuit and trekked through the barren forest to the

entrance of the cave. Trusting my tour guide’s assurances that the trip would be perfectly fine, I cautiously stepped down the steep steps and was met with darkness. The entirety of obscurity around me is illuminated by the flashing beam from a flashlight. Were the flashlight to be turned off, there would have been nothing to see and do. I never thought it was possible for me to sweat inside a damp wetsuit, but the lack of air conditioning left me fanning myself, desperate to cool down.

Fortunately, my wishes soon became reality, for the moment I plunged into the water, I shivered rapidly. I thought I was going to freeze as if I were in a freezer.

Ironically, I was wishing to step out of the water as soon as I dived in. I instantly tensed up as rocks seeped through the holes of my water shoes and I rushed past the rest of the group to exit the water and to free my feet of the irritation.As I waded through the multiple passages in the cave, the stalactites loomed over me, as if it were to fall on my head.

“I was unaware of the imminent danger in front of me.”

50

Amidst the calm lull, our tour guide whispered to the group about the history of the cavern, but I could not hear him. My feet ached from the coarse rocks seeping into my shoes, but the irritation vanished once I noted the remarkable scenery.

Rocks rested everywhere, as they have for hundreds of years, and here I was, in the middle of an archaic place. Miles away from my home, soaked in water, underground in a grotto, my reverence for such an unparalleled place lefts me with time to reflect on my life. I contemplated my surroundings, still pondering the solitude I had been given.

Unfortunately, I was so caught up in the elegance of the cave that I did not notice what was in front of me.

I had limited chances to react.

Drifting and floating through what seemed to be an endless passage, I gazed at the spectacular formations beside me, and I was unaware of the imminent danger in front of me. Right in front of me was an extremely low arch of abrasive rocks that appeared destined to scrape the top of my forehead.

Briskly, I dipped down and heaved myself underwater and surfaced after holding my breath for what seemed to be an eternity.

Lauding my ingenious solution, I carelessly kicked out to push myself forward speedily. A sharp ache arched through my foot, and I immediately knew something was not right. Limping my way out of the final pathway out of the cave, my mother noticed my scar instantaneously. Once she noticed, there was no chance of hiding my pain.

After treatment from medics and pain from medical alcohol, I departed Río Secreto with scrapes, cuts, and bruises from the uneven terrain. I didn’t care, for those marks signaled an unforgettable experience for me.

Looking back on my visit to the cavern, I would take another scar to see such a breathtaking place again. In the end, my scars brought plenty of pain, but the pictures were definitely worth it, along with the memories in that cave that I will cherish.

“I would take another scar to see such a breathtaking place again.”

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Poetry i Alam Aladina i 8

Envy 52

A grey dress adorns her body, A stiletto up her sleeve, Admired and hated equally by everything Her eyes are cunning; manipulative.

Her power affects everyone, from the great to the unknown.

Her heroes are tragic, for that is the only story she writes.

She had brought down empires with a wave of her hands, Driven heroes to despair with a nod of her head.

Hate follows her, a loyal pet.

But no one ever sees either.

PHOTO | Collin Katz I 8

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Poetry I William vietor i 8 Photo i Collin Katz i 8

54

o r i g i n s

A long time ago right after the Earth was made, The colors all stood in the same dark shade, Behind the large stack of hay.

The Creator thought his world too staid.

He screamed for some color, not this boring world, much too plain, He created Red, a passionate Red, to symbolize anger and pain.

He made Orange, Yellow, and Green But his world still looked the same.

He called blue and violet to be seen.

Something was missing, variety you say?

Yes indeed variation in these, He called on his helpers black and white To add and withdraw the sometimes blinding light.

Now the world wasn’t too bright.

Even with white and all of its might.

Black tried too, to shift the tables, But white was still there hanging on tight.

You might still think this is some old fable But the balance persists no matter the season So think again what gives the colors their reason.

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56

First fear The play wasn’t that good.

A group of kids I shouldn’t know stood along the room.

The adults hailed on, lauding them off As if they had finished reciting Shakespeare.

I don’t recall it much; however, On that day, in that year I don’t remember As a child’s would, my mind meandered, My first fear was born.

3D DESIGN I Blake Broom I 8 Poetry I Jamie Mahowald I 8

Our sun stood on the coast, too close Driven by the popping sky.

My immature mind’s eye, petrified The Earth that I knew most, Apathetic, that ball of fire.

I ran up to my parents But they, Indifferent as the sun Residing only in my brain Told me to calm down.

57

How BLUE was created 58

fiction I connor Gaffney I 8 PHOTO I collin katz I 8

L

ong ago, two men and a boy were began and it went back to its normal out fishing. Their tribe had been gray color. The men saw the fish and having horrible luck fishing in were so surprised they almost fainted. the gray water and had not caught nearly They loaded the fish into the net and enough to feed the whole tribe. The tribe was began to haul the fish back to the camp. getting very desperate, so they sent their best While they were walking back, the fisherman and two men to help him. The boy tripped, and the stone fell out of his boy, who was the best fisherman in the tribe, shirt, smashing into two separate pieces. He told the men to go stand off in the woods, picked up the first piece but groped fruitlessly as he had something he needed to do alone. for the other one. Little did he know, that When the men left, the boy second shard had fallen into took out a small stone, about the a river, and the stone was “In under fifteen size of his thumb, and placed it being carried all the way to in the water. He made sure not minutes, the boy had the gray ocean. However, the to let the stone float away, or the boy did not know this and stone would be lost forever. As enough fish to feed was scared about what would soon as the stone was secure, the tribe for a full happen if someone found the the water turned a bright blue shard that should not have. week.� color, and the boy could see About a year after the boy the fish in the water. had that unforgettable fishing He cast his line, and immediately the fish trip, the tribe was starving again. But out began to bite on his hook. In under fifteen of the blue, the whole lake and all the rivers minutes, the boy had enough fish to feed around the camp turned into the bright blue the tribe for a full week. The boy heard the the boy found whenever he placed the stone men coming back, and he quickly removed in the water. The fishermen were so thrilled to the stone from the water, and it went back to find that the fish always bit on their lines from its normal gray color. The men saw the fish now on, and the boy was at peace about what and were so surprised they almost fainted. had happened to the other shard of that magic They loaded the fish into the net and stone. He threw the other shard into the river.

59

h

De

60

t a

Photo I Collin Katz I 8

Plaid in a dark velvet jacket.

Polished black oxfords adorn his feet.

A maroon tie over a black silk shirt.

His haggard, pale face softly glows.

We all see him, only once.

Some dread him, Others embrace him with open arms.

He is indifferent to both.

Judge and Jury is his job Omniscient narrator too.

By stretch of the imagination, teacher too.

Though his lessons are without a plan.

Poetry I Alam Alidina I 8 Digital Art I James Singhal I 7

He is the unsung hero

61

Mai 2017 use the Eurotunnel.”

You know, if Le Pen wins, I’m moving “Or you could go to Allemagne. to Canada!” He remarks in a shoddy Remember when we went to Cologne American accent. Most of the other kids on a trip? It was awesome.” One of the laugh, but Alex seems less ebullient than younger children outside of the 4-square the other children. “No, I’m serious. Tons game says. of des Américains did it.”

“It was okay.”

“But did they? You know, It seemed like “You don’t think it was awesome? There more of an empty threat than was a freaking castle!” anything else.” Isaac says.

“There are des chateaux here.”

“No,” Alex continues,“I’m “I thought that here was where you seriously moving to Canada. wanted to leave.”

Le Pen is going to do bad, Alexandre stands still. “Guys, I’m bad things to this country.” honestly kind of scared. I don’t He sneers. want the world to think of the “Is she?” His classmates French as... as these jerks...” don’t believe his folly.

“Bit late on that, Alex.” A kid says.

“I mean, that’s what they The group laughs. said when Trump was elected “Guys, this is serious! You-” and look how it’s turned “Alexandre, you’re working out. It’s going to be all right. yourself up too much.” Isaac says.

Détends.”

“No matter what happens, France “Besides,” another kid is going to exist. Stop freaking remarks. yourself out. This is all you do, just “Canada’s like two thousand kilomètres talk and talk and talk about la politique as from here. Wouldn’t it be easier just to go if it’s thirteenth century religion. And you to Grande Bretagne? I mean, they’re just know what? You’re freaking yourself out across the channel. And you could still about it. And you’re freaking us out.

I thought that here was where you wanted to leave

62

LA

Photographier I Collin Katz I 8 Auteur I Jamie Mahowald I 8

Politique So please, just stop and accept that we’re going to be fine. “ The teacher comes out the door. She doesn’t look terribly happy after only getting about five minutes to herself, but she still calls louder than a sperm whale, “Enfants, get inside right now!” The children stampede into the barely sufficient double-door and are bureaucratically lined up against the wall. “Okay,

children, just stand here until Monsieur Rousselle gets here.

He just wants to talk about l’élection for a few

minutes. Then you

can go to your fifth-period classes.” She says grudgingly.

Alex whispers to Isaac, “If she hates it so much, why doesn’t she quit?”

Isaac responds, “Je ne sais-” He is interrupted when Monsieur Rousselle, his school’s premier, bustles into the hallway. His physique is defined by a seemingly child-unfriendly twometre tall block of hard flesh, cold flesh. His face is flatter than the low countries, and his arms rest rigidly by his

side, a terrible yet unutilized punishment for a child who decides to wander astray. He wears carefully ironed gray pants with perfectly hemmed cuffs and a marble white shirt as if a warden.

“Children, you may have heard your parents or us talking lately about the upcoming election.

I want to stress that you should not be worrying about this, so please don’t talk about it amongst yourselves at school. This is purely an adult matter and

This IS PURELY AN ADULT MATTEr

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ement son l’homme e attacheme ationale te t aux prin nt cipes de la ls qu’ils ont été d souverain e 1789, co é eté finis par nfirmée e la Déclara t complété onstitutio tion e par le p n de réambule libre déterm 1946. En vertu de ce de la s principe ination de s et de celu s peuples, ritoires d’o i de la Républi utre-mer q que offre ui manifest s instituti aux ent la volo ons nouv nté d’y adh elles fond erté, d’éga ées sur l’i lité et de déal comm érer fraternité olution dé un de e t conçues mocratiqu en vue de e. Article uples des leur 1er: La Ré territoires publique d’outre-m erminatio et les er qui, par n, adopten un acte de t la présen Communa libre te constitu uté. La Co tion instit m munauté solidarité u ent est fondée des peuple sur l’égalité s qui la co France e m p osent. Artic st une Républiqu le 2 ocratique e indivis et sociale. ible, laïq E ll e assure l’é les citoyen ue, galité deva s sans dis nt la loi de tinction d on. Elle re ’o rigine, de specte tou race ou d tes les cro blique est e yances. La le français Langue de .

L’emblème ore, bleu, la national e blanc, rou st le drape ge. L’hym illaise”. La au ne nation devise de al est “La la Républi nité”. Son p q u e rincipe est est “Libert é, Egalité, : gouverne et pour le ment du p peuple. Art euple, par ic le 3: La sou ient au pe le uple qui l’e veraineté nationale xerce par voie d’un se référendu s représen m.: Aucun tants et individu n e section e peut s’en du peuple attribuer l’e re direct ni xercice. Le ou indire ct dans le suffrage onstitutio s condition n. Il est to s prévues ujou Président de la Répu rs universel, égal et secret. blique veil ution. Il ass le au resp ure, par so ect de la n. francais

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“D’accord.” The class says in unison. Madame Garcia dismisses the head of the school and with him, the rest of the grade.

Isaac and Alex walk down the hall together to Cours d’anglais. “Le Pen is totally going to win the election. No doubt.”

Isaac says, “What? No. Hollande’s been a fine president; he’s going to win.”

“Are you joking?” another kid says, “it’s going to be Emmanuel Macron.”

“My parents were

talking I think I

overheard them

say that la majorité du peuple kind of want to leave L’Union européenne. It’s going to happen; Le Pen’s going to get elected.”

“Mais-” “People said that Trump wasn’t going to get elected, but he did, and they’re eerily similar. After that had happened, Le Pen and le Front National kept pushing their campaigns so much further. Do you know how many votes she has?”

“How many?”

“I don’t know, but I think a lot. Enough to win the election.

Are you not scared?”

“But she’s . . .” He continues quietly. “She’s so raciste!”

“Yeah, like you’re going to be complaining about racism so much when the Élysée Palace is burned to the ground, aren’t you?” Another kid says.

“Harbin, shut up. That’s not going to happen.”

“Well, when it does, I’m going to be laughing at you from my lovely house in Montreal.”

Alex thinks to himself on the way to English. I don’t know why Américains and Britanniques believe that Anglais is so hard. It isn’t. You just have to put a single word in front of a single another word, and there’s no conjugation.

It’s fine, really, so don’t pity those who have to learn it.

He walks home after school in the warm spring heat. Isaac lived a few blocks in the other direction, so he doesn’t get to walk home with him. Alexandre, however, thinks to himself, why would I want to? A person

who supports President Hollande that much?

He’s been terrible! He upsets the socialistes, even though he’s in their party, as well as the républicains with his policies. It’s a shocker he hasn’t been impeached yet. Isaac thinks Le Pen’s gonna make the country one of those nations like Les Etats Unis that shuts off the rest of the world.

His mind is detonating again. I’m a kid, it’s not like my opinion matters. Maybe he’s right. Maybe Le Pen is racist.

It would be a shame to have had comparisons drawn between anybody whose opinions you disagree with to such a high extent.

La Politique is too confusing.

I’m a kid, it’s not like my opinion matters.

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He meets his mother at home.

“Christ, have you watched She’s furiously watching the her?” election coverage between Le “Well, maybe it’s needed to Pen, Macron, Fillon, and the keep this country afloat!” other candidates while his As if he’d told her that he dad spends the time he’s not wanted to kill the Queen, she watching the TV cooking. gasped, “No, you can’t be voting The next day, samedi goes by for Le Pen. Alexandre, honey, both very quickly land very who would you vote for?” slowly. Le Pen’s racism flanks “I don’t know. Who should I?” the news. I shouldn’t say that.

“Not Le Pen!” His mother is It’s not all noir et blanc. angry with his father. She has Their campaigns both end historically been a supporter at midnight. Election Day is of the socialistes and with coming. them. Alex’s dad has Dimanche rolls around. Alex’s usually been more parents drive to the polls with centrist, but him. “Who are you voting for?” they can get he asks anxiously. into debates “Oh, honey, I don’t know. I like this often. hate to say it, but… no. I won’t They reach the say. You don’t need to know.” church to vote at “S’il vous plait?” At least tell me roughly 14 who you’re not voting for?” heures. The line “Oh, I’m definitely not voting is exceptionally for Le Pen.” long at this His father chimes in. “Why time of day, not? She doesn’t seem terrible.” unfortunately, His mother rebuts furiously,

66

so he’s left in the car for over an hour. He doesn’t have a téléphone yet, so Alex is bored and hot in the car for a whole hour.

His parents come to the car around 15 heures. They don’t talk to each other. They don’t even look at each other.

The drive home is eerie; there is no sound, but still, there is noise everywhere. They’re yelling at each other telepathically. He can feel it. What are they saying? Who’d they vote for?

“Who’d you vote for?” He asks.

“That’s none of your business.” She says sternly. He’s a bit taken back by the response, His parents can’t unstick their eyes from the television. Nonstop election coverage on every major channel. C’est l’élection that will decide the future of L’Union européenne. Si nous partons, it’s going to mean the downfall of l’UE.

It’s 19 heures. The results will be announced in an hour. Mon dieu. We’re either going to have an

incompetent socialist or a radical racist. Le choix. It’s a choice I don’t want our country to

have to make. Why do we have to make it? So many good candidates and we

got the worst ones.

The clock turns to 20 heures. They’re announcing. Now. Oh, merde.

Alexandre and his family are watching a centrist news source so they

might announce it a bit after the others, but…

The man on the television walks up on stage. He’s holding an

envelope. Avec le nom du le candidat. He puts the letter on the

podium and talks for about five minutes about how

this was a very nice election. No, it wasn’t, you idiot. So

much hate in this election. How on Earth could this be good? Maybe…

Is democracy a failure? It’s split our country into Deux, Trois, Quatre different zones, all fighting for control of the government. Would it be better if there was just no

democracy? Is the vote for the people and by the people a failure?

Is France a failure?

Finally, he opens the letter. He reads it aloud.

“Marine Le Pen est le

prochain president de la France.”

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ism C A R

Why does he have to walk through this world While given a stinging stare, And when he looks, they look away As though there is nothing there.

Why does he have to live with this Here in Delaware, For in this country, the USA Just nobody cares.

No matter how hard he tries to change It never seems to cease, It always happens over again It never does decrease,

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Poetry I Nicolas Gomez I 7 Photo I Collin Katz I 8 Digital Art I Jamie Mahowald I 8

Why do people have to live with this terrible act and know, That racism will never shrink It will only grow.

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S t A R T E D 70

fROM the

t o p

My creator birthed me high above the withered terrain.

I was as pure as the cloud bank.

That was when I had power and rank.

Until I was shot down from my throne.

The prejudiced people held the gun.

I sailed an enduring journey down.

I thought that was the worst part.

Until, I landed on the cold, hard ground.

They placed me in chains.

The people spited me because I was stained brown, but are they aware that they brought me here to work these grounds.

Every time I tried to escape, those chains kept me bound to the landscape.

Only allowing me to dream about what could have been, If I was left alone in my native land.

photo I Xander Bowles I 7 POETRY I eLIJAH eLLIS I 7

71

72

Poetry I Kit colson 1 8 photo I Baxter perry-miller I 5

where i am from

W I am from the cricket chirping from the infinite noises dragging through the night.

I am from the late night focus and early morning exhaust.

The struggle to keep warry eyes open and push on.

I am from the soggy oatmeal and the dry milk the dry taste of the morning always consistent and never old.

I’m from the early sunlight the blinding flares that drive men crazy.

I’m from the talkative, and the unexpected conversations that are hazy.

From long talk and quick shock I’m from mother’s coffee and father’s latte, different in taste but equal in aroma.

I’m from the couch soft to touch and welcoming to many.

From the living room lamp, useless for light but excellent for design.

The little things that make up the routine.

The senses that drive the morning, The feelings that drive the night.

These are the repetitions that never get old.

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Mission The Mini-Marque is the middle school literary magazine, and is inspired by its upper school predecessor, The Marque. The purpose of this publication club is to allow self-expression while also showcasing the work of our middle school Marksmen.

This 100% student publication requires a great deal of responsibility and accountability. It encourages independence and provides critical real-world connections. Throughout the production process, we strive to cultivate the skills of writing for varied audiences and purposes, creativity, collaboration, organization, layout design, advertising, publication, and evaluation.

colophon The Mini-Marque is a multimedia magazine created by the St. Mark’s School of Texas Middle School (grades 5-8). The magazine is printed 6x8 with perfect binding in 4cp on #100 Flo Gloss Cover for the cover and 4cp on #100 Futura Laser Dull Text

by Digital 3 Printing in Dallas, Texas. The statement font is Lombok. The font used for titles is Big John, the font for author names is Slim Joe, and the text font is Museo Slab 300. The magazine is designed using Adobe InDesign CC, with most graphic art created using Adobe Illustrator CC. Some pictures and graphic art were adjusted in Adobe Photoshop CC. Publication work was done on Mac desktop computers and personal laptops. We chose the theme of color in order to allow an equal opportunity for all grades to contribute work. 400 copies were printed for distribution. As always, the Mini-Marque is free of charge to students, staff, and families.

Memberships and Awards Columbia Scholastic Press Association (Membership) National Scholastic Press Association (Membership) CSPA Gold Crown Award 2016 CSPA Gold Medalist 2016 CSPA Gold Circle (Photo/Illustration) 2016 CSPA Gold Circle (Typography) 2015

SPECIAL THANKS David Dini, John Ashton, Warren Foxworth, Geoff Stanbury, Nick Sberna, Suzanne Townsend, Ann Dilday, Paul Di Vincenzo, Boyd Atherton, Jason Lange, Ryan Parker, Tim Mank, Lisa Brandenburg, Donna Mullett, Dean Clayman, Ray Westbrook

Advisers Meagan C. Frazier Danielle Clayton

Submissions

Design

Josh Mysore ‘21, Editor Sid Sinha ‘21 Gabe Bines ‘21 Benny Wang ‘21 Sai Thirunagari ‘21 Sarbik Saha ‘21 Van Ayvazian ‘21 William Vietor ‘21 Will Chance ‘21 Blake Hudspeth ‘21 Cooper Ribman ‘21 Owen Goldberg ‘21 Metahan Punar ‘21 Ethan Borge ‘22 Jeffrey Chen ‘22 Lars Ochs ‘22 Ekansh Tambe ‘22

Alam Alidina ‘21, Editor Tamal Pilla ‘21 Collin Katz ‘21 Jamie Mahowald ‘21 Sam Morgan ‘21 Antonio Quiñones ‘21 Aayan Khasgiwala ‘21 Luke Piazza ‘21 Jonathan Yin ‘22 Alex Geng ‘22 Matthew Fan ‘22 Xander Bowles ‘22 James Singhal ‘22

Digital Art I James Singhal I 7