The Marque | 2023

jigsaw

MAR QUE jigsaw

JIGSAW

will become a part of an ever-evolving web. This nexus of ordeals, some coincidence, others intentional, are essential to the overall completion of our jigsaw.

But what about all the others?

Each of our lives is one huge, confusing jigsaw puzzle. But we’re missing the top of the box to tell us what it’ll look like in the end.

As we live, the puzzle slowly comes together bit by bit based on experiences we’ve lived, lessons we’ve learned, and connections we’ve made. The end goal is one unique, complex masterpiece we have created.

When children open a bag of pieces and begin the puzzle’s construction, they start from the corners and the edges. Family. Religion. Culture. Ethnicity. Talents. These are the things we are born with. They serve as the foundation for our building. The periphery of the puzzle, it is these constants that give our lives shape.

As we age, the puzzle continues to come together. Connections are made between the pieces. Borders begin intersecting. A picture begins to form. Every assignment is completed, every social outing is attended, every game is played with the hope that each experience

Puzzle building is not a process that is done perfectly on the first try. Sometimes, things that seem to go together at first glance actually belong in completely different places. Parts can end up on the floor. Others seem to evade us endlessly. It is the search for pieces so desired that may stall our progress. And then there are pieces that just do not go together. No matter how hard or long we try to force a connection, some pieces just don’t belong. These encounters, though frustrating, are integral to the formation and satisfaction of our lives.

Alas, there are just a few holes to fill. A series of efforts, tribulations and relationships all culminate at the center of the puzzle. Everyone’s final pieces are different. For some, it is a hallmark achievement, the epitome of a life’s worth of work. Others might find fulfillment in exploration or adventure, the freedom to chart their own path. Starting a family. A landmark innovation. The completion of a career. Our puzzle, our life, converges at this point. In the end, this completely-original, complexly-intertwined web results in a picture unlike any other.

In the sixty-first volume of this magazine, we aim to represent the intimacy and eccentricity of the tapestry of experiences, lessons and connections that characterize our lives. We hope that each literary work, each piece of art, each photograph embodies a piece of our greater puzzle.

Welcome to the 2023 Marque: Jigsaw.

We’ re all looking for that piece.

That perfect college, that dream joB, that soulmate.

It fascinates us, and we’ re willing to find it at any cost.

john perryman

Dr. John Perryman needs no introduction. His trademark fleece outerwear and sports analogies sPeak for him. He’s the type of English teacher whose love for literature is unmistakable, and he deals out U.S. History facts as if he had been right there with George, Abe, & Co.

Dr. Perryman is all about forging the entire man and building the complete human puzzle. History. English. Civics. Sports. Leadership. These pieces and more represent the aspects on which Dr. P focuses, all while being friendly and willing to help throughout the entire journey. Leader of the finest varsity-level English classes of all time, Dr. P. prepares perceptive pupils to face formidable foes and “worthy opponents.” He rules the most frigid classroom on campus in Green Library 205 with a warmth and kindness unlike any other. And his dancing skills in Upper School Assembly are feared by all who even attempt to dance-off against the senior class.

Besides his duties as a teacher and mentor, Dr. Perryman is an avid proponent of service beyond the self, to the community around us. This combination of his vast knowledge of Dallas and St. Mark’s School history along with his commitment to the people of Dallas and beyond is manifested in the Civic Responsibility Program, where he leads an admirable effort to get Marksmen more engaged with the city.

So before we “dial it down,” we’d like to express our gratitude. Thank you, Dr. P. For your unwavering support to all of us in matters large and small. For your unquestionable integrity. For your unfailing guidance in shaping us into better men. Just remember, bears have nothing on you.

Dr. Perryman, you are a piece of our jigsaws that we will never forget. We dedicate the 61st edition of The Marque to you.

STAFF

EDITORS-IN-CHIEF

Morgan Chow ’23

Noah Cathey ’24

CREATIVE DIRECTOR

Sal Hussain ’23

MANAGING EDITORS

Thomas Goglia ’23

Neil Yepuri ’25

LITERARY EDITORS

Ishaan Devalla ’23

Myles Lowenberg ’23

Tiger Yang ’25

SUBMISSIONS DIRECTOR

John Tagtmeier ’23

STAFF

Matthias Canon ’23

Silas Hosler ’23

Amogh Naganand ’24

Will Clifford ’25

Akul Mittal ’25

Jaden Ouyang ’25

Christopher Guffey ’26

ADVISERS

Lynne Weber Schwartz

Lauren Brozovich, Ph.D

SPECIAL THANKS

David Brown

Scott Hunt

Rachel Muldez

Kate Wood

Scott Ziegler

James Barragan

St. Mark’s Security and Staff

David Dini

table of contents

frosty

Charlie Estess ’23

America our lady The fruited Plain

The father i’ m lucky to have FATHER FIGURE

The diggers

Roundtrip Planet 32 staring knife in hand

Tortoise shell whale water spout resemblance

foggy trail

BOILING POINT

PAINTING & DRAWING

AMERICAN FOOD

Fast food

Starry Skies on the low the desert

The queen paradise journey to godly NOTORIETY

“Emulation of David Levinthal” spaceship

Adrian Lutgen ’24 Zachary Bashour ’24 Morgan Chow ’23 Sam Adams ’23 Samuel Posten ’25

Sal

spotlights

28

an exhibition of works from PAINTING & DRAWING

Weinstein

53

America poem Stars + Stripes

Through the door

Manchesta the docs water plant

Ceramics

The bull in action

STARS & BARS flying half mast

Again and Again fight for his life

Hayden meyer’ s documentary seasonal metamorphasis Mountains

Dear u.s.

March to freedom youngarts WEEK

“BALANCED-TENSION”

ARCHED | POINTED | POKED | POPPED | TIPPED

Aidan Peck ’23

MEDITATING LOTUS | NEEDLE OF QI | SHADOW OF BEAUTY | TEN THOUSAND FAILURES | TO GAMBLE “IV”

Pennies | red devil | port | piso seis | tegaderm | straitjacket | duck feathers | shiver | Liquid gold | not available

124 an exhibition of works from Ceramics

SECTION THREE stills from junior Hayden Meyers’ documentary

132

112 the Youngarts finalists and their powerful portfolios

overlook

Sam Adams ’23

the outer limits

SECTION ONE

life begins.

pieces scattered across a tABLE.

in order to build, we must organize the mess and find our foundation. but where do we start?

America OUR LADY

by Adrian Lutgen ’24

As I ponder into her vast blue eyes, I can’t help but feel enveloped by the expanse that beholds me, Like a painter who just spread his new canvas upon an easel. Those two beaming sapphires glimmer with the unknown, With the freedom of an eagle flying over a verdant canopy of trees, With the hope of a little boy pleading with his mother for candy, With the tenacity of a gambler who claims that he’s not addicted. Yet, as I view her, I can’t help but notice how grotesque she is. The self-inflicted bite wounds, the moles, the scars; oh, how hideous our lady is. Even now, her filthy talons continue to shred apart her innocent soul. And while others may recoil in disgust from her current form, The flaws will disappear, the scars will fade, and the blemishes will heal. However, as she matures, the one thing that perenially remains, Like a stoic boulder embedded on the mountainside, Are those azure eyes filled with dreams.

THE FRUITED PLAIN

Zachary Bashour ’24

father figure Sam Adams ’23

the father i’ m lucky to have

Essay by Morgan Chow ’23

Hardworking. Stubborn. Laughs easily. He speaks to others with an air around him that invites comfort, openness, vulnerability. I’ve always been able to tell him my thoughts, even if he forgets the details later. I even call him “dude,” “bro,” “boss.”

Always show respect. Be an honest man. Never take advantage of others. Connect with your peers. I’m proud of you. I love you.

Despite not having had his own father figure, my dad is a loving man forged in the fire of arduous labor. Constantly taking lowpaying jobs. Leading as the man of the house from the age of 12. Skipping school to support his mom and younger brother. I will never even come close to fully understanding the sacrifices he made to make it to the top.

Rightfully so, his entire being is defined by his achievements, accomplishments, everything he had to overcome to make it out. He’s not perfect; he makes mistakes, says the wrong things, commits to the wrong actions. But he never lets that deter him, always prevailing with his head held high.

But last year, in a heated argument, a trusted someone attacked his hard-earned pride, downplaying his accomplishments with sharp insults and blame. A wedge of insecurity entered his most vulnerable spot: his core identity.

He yelled as the man walked away, trying to mask his breaking facade with a pointing finger and piercing words. But as his booming voice cracked and his breath choked, his body slackened in defeat.

He turned to me. Arm still held high, his body persisted in indignation, but his face betrayed his emotion. His glistening eyes and furrowed brow broke my heart. It was shocking.

All I could do was hug him and support the full weight of his body and pain, and as I felt him shuddering with each sob, my body did so, as well.

My father wasn’t weak when he cried to me that day, and he isn’t weak when he’s angry, nervous, or irrational any other day.

He has taught me that emotion is important, that it makes us human, that we’re not perfect. It’s an outlook on life that allows me to healthily process my own feelings, and I’m grateful to have learned it.

I’m lucky to have a father who can cry in front of me.

ROUNDTRIP

Sal Hussain ’23

The Diggers

by Samuel Posten ’25

Beneath the surface you stand on, Those structures that empower, That take away.

We manufacture the minerals for these companies of exploitation, We recline as red carpets for the bourgeoise too posh to walk on dirt, We clear caverns of cold steel to expand those palaces built on our own homes.

We navigate these concrete jungles, Fighting for an upward surge To propel us to righthood, From a battle long lost Against greed and cruelty. A struggle for soft power Between nations of rock-hard strength, Crushing the world inside.

We are the revolutionaries. Alone, we have no eyes, voice, or power. Together, we run the world, But divided, our potential is stolen, A puzzle with its pieces scattered. We Are The Diggers.

PLANEt 32

by Samuel Posten ’25

Ensen, send me everything, and don’t leave anything out. This is your last chance.”

Specks of green and blue dash haphazardly through the air. Unlike their butterfly counterparts, their speed and agility is unmatched. Infused with invisible engines, they escape hostiles with ease, allowing for their quick population growth. These creatures thrive in the plains of Arctica, where they can see predators from far distances and access their primary food source, the swaying grass flowers, without trouble.

Across the wavy hills, titanic creatures march, depressing the land as they go. These bipedal flesh towers have necks that seem to span miles and bodies that can withstand a thousand bullets. They have no natural predators in this barren landscape. Their atrocious faces mask their herbivorous diet, which consists of plants and sediment. Though they are a bit dim-witted, they are truly the most peaceful creatures, and one even seems to be doing a dance!

On the inside of these gyrating machines reside a host of parasitic phages. These miniscule creatures act as artificial predators to the invincible titans. Unfortunately, these parasites do not kill their host, which leaves the friendly giant suffering for hundreds of years until its expiration. The phages were created to test the efficacy of new technologies that could extract

nutrition from creatures without killing them. Their widespread success spurred further use in the scientific and medicinal realm.

Below the frolicking colossus is a location more sinister than any parasite or predator: the noxious bog. Originating from a failed experiment intended to develop a fully isolated and self-sustaining ecosystem, this swamp grew like wildfire across Arctica. In the same way that a plague is transmitted among people, this artificial dead zone disseminates across land, surviving and spreading on the foot of its carrier, the giant.

The plants here are infused with a purple hue; their amethyst branches stretch endlessly, blocking nearly all sunlight from entering. Patrolling the branches are deceptively small, venomous critters. Their daily marches mark the anarchic nature of this double-edged hell. Less dominant creatures must constantly scurry away to avoid the wrath of those that have power in this terrible place. Forever running, but unable to find peace, the prey is locked in an infinite cycle of suffering. The viridescent air is so stuffy and toxic that animals residing outside of the bog cannot safely enter. The fumes are so terrible that they compound and block all respiratory functions.

The thick fumes come from the flying squid. In the same way that ancient vehicles used to rely on a stuffy, dangerous gas called gasoline to propel them forward, the squids use their own emissions as fuel. These cephalopods originated in an early experiment where humans tried to produce natural, renewable gas. Unfortunately,

KNIFE IN HAND

Warner Hartnett ’24

the gas produced was too toxic, so like many other animals that reside in the swamp, the squids were sent as unwitting prisoners. Though these fliers produce lots of emissions, they seem to be a rarity, likely due to the excess of predators in the area.

The most common animal of prey in the marsh is known as the Jupiter Trapper. Though it seems small at first glance, the trapper has evolved to grow to nine times its original size. When it attacks, the last thing the prey sees is the gargantuan, drooling mouth of its predator. This ability to shift between its small and large states allows the Trapper to sneak up on prey unnoticed. Its expert hunting has made it uniquely successful in this ecosystem.

The Jupiter Trapper was originally created as a scientific joke. Sociopathic scientists thought it was funny for a creature to expand at such a quick rate. Ironically, the scientists soon became the joke as, a year later, their creation swallowed them whole.

Within and beyond the mulberry walls comes a constant screaming. It sounds vaguely like someone crying. The horrid cacophony of noises makes it difficult to narrate in this cursed place. The miasmic smells and ugly beasts augment the experience. Though they can be hard to decipher, the sounds come from the shrieking fungus. The cruelest experiment of all, these ghastly florae evolved with human faces and intelligence. They cannot move and must watch as the world unknowingly passes them by. Perfectly bred for long lifespans, they must endure this infinite prison for hundreds of years. They have no predators, which leaves them utterly helpless to the whims of life. Always listening, but never heard, the shrieking fungus must live out its days a prisoner. These fungi were originally evolved from a long-ago overthrown tribe of humans punished for their forgotten and possibly even fabricated crimes against the rest of humanity. The rebels thought that the only punishment fit was to grant them and all of their children eternal life.

“Sir, may I conclude the expedition of Planet 32?”

“I am sorry, Ensen; after witnessing this planet, you are no longer authorized to return.”

“That was not part of the deal! You promised I would be pardoned!” The protective bubble that surrounds me slowly dissipates as I am placed onto the grounds of Arctica’s plains. “HEY, you can’t do that!” The speedy butterflies become infinitely more real; the titans gain shape, and their true scale becomes authentic. “Please let me go back…” Purple limbs from the bog encircle the isolated hill I stand on. Though I cannot see through the swamp, I know about its terrible, yet beautiful contents. As my suit fades, I realize that I have become an exhibit on this counterfeit paradise.

THOUGH I CANNOT SEE THROUGH THE SWAMP, I KNOW ABOUT ITS TERRIBLE, YET BEAUTIFUL CONTENTS.

Tortoise Shell

by Aidan Moran ’25

He regards the bustling crowd with an airy shake of his shadowed head’s hair, every juicy meat has been spooned to him already by a foolhardy fare.

The vines on the palm entwine with the earth below, seeping into the dusty ground, as do the roots of the world-weary tree, jaded as they cascade without sound.

Sparks of wonder engulf his eyes as he peers upwards, upwards, craning his thick neck, trying to exact the perfect viewpoint where trunk no longer exists, a boundless prismatic wreck

into the cerulean skies, clouds lounging on an invisible chaise, golden orb blending with tinted shades of amethyst, twinkling through deep chasms in the cotton, enshrouding.

He shifts like an ouroboros, slowly slinking in a flawed circle; his position never satisfies, and a slight grimace through chipped, decaying teeth gives away his potent urge to rise.

But he has appearances to keep. His small head, hesitant, resolves to prey on the offending grime darkening his sacred coat, licking, licking, licking the impurities away.

The cat’s consumed!

His incendiary eyes sweep wildly from tuft to tuft. While swirling stars and overbearing cosmos stage their spectacle, the distant speckled tortoiseshell curls into the crumbling crust.

Whale water spout

Jacob Lobdell ’25

Resemblance

by Andrew Liu 26’

It was mid-December, and 9-year-old Jeffrey’s school had just let out for winter break. His mother (who went by Mrs. Roberts) had decided to rent a small cabin in Tenebror, which, as Jeffrey liked to imagine it, was a town in the middle of nowhere. They would celebrate the Christmas holiday there, away from the hustle and bustle of Boston. Jeffrey wasn’t necessarily complaining: he hoped to discover something new in the mysterious setting of Tenebror, as Christmas on Acorn Street was getting stale.

The journey to the cabin fell just short of three hours. They had set out shortly after noon, so it was nearly evening by the time they reached their destination. As soon as they arrived, Mrs. Roberts started to unload their bags. In a conventional household, the father would have taken care of the luggage, but Jeffrey’s father had died several years back while he was on an out-of-town trip, leaving Mrs. Roberts a widow. One would expect Mrs. Roberts to be a grieving, melancholy woman, but she was neither of these. She had retained her vivacious and adventurous personality, as well as her sociable demeanor, which meant she could make friends quickly. Loosely holding Jeffrey’s hand, Mrs. Roberts led him away from the town square and down a wooded path which meandered through the

forest until it stopped at a modest cottage. She paused to survey the structure, taking in the musty windows and oak front door. Utilizing the temporary distraction, Jeffrey managed to wriggle free from his mother’s grip. “Jeffrey, get back here!” she snapped. Jeffrey giggled as he fled blindly through the trees. Clunk! Jeffrey tripped over a rock and soared through the air; he caught a glimpse of rough leather shoes before landing in a heap. Looking up, Jeffrey found that an old man with a hatchet was standing over him, gazing at him intently.

“You should stick close to your mother,” cautioned the old man. Jeffrey accepted the man’s extended hand and was pulled into a standing position.

“That’s no fun!” cried Jeffrey. He tried to yank himself free, but the old man had planted a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Let me go. Let me go!” shouted Jeffrey, but the man’s iron grip only tightened. Jeffrey’s mother hurried over, a look of relief on her face.

“Thank you so much, sir!” she exclaimed, grabbing Jeffrey’s hand again.

“Of course,” he replied, relinquishing his hold on Jeffrey. As Jeffrey sulked over his unsuccessful escape attempt, the old man struck up a conversation with his mother. “You don’t seem to be from around here,” said the old man. “It’d benefit you to know a few local folks, it would. Here, I’ll start by introducing myself. The name’s Silas.”

“I go by Mrs. Roberts,” replied Jeffrey’s

Foggy Trail

Nathan Meyer ’24

BOILING POINT

Sal Hussain ’23

mother. “This is my son, Jeffrey.”

“Missus, huh? Where’s your husband at?” inquired Silas.

“He passed away six years ago,” sighed Mrs. Roberts. “It’s really a shame,” she added.

“My condolences, ma’am,” said Silas. “I’m sure Jeffrey looks just like his father.”

“He’s the spitting image of him,” said Mrs. Roberts. “Everything about Jeffrey reminds me of Mr. Roberts,” she continued, “especially his eyes.”

“I see…,” replied Silas. “Well, enough of this depressing talk. I’ll show you around the town, as you don’t seem to be acquainted with the area.” As a result of Mrs. Roberts’s outgoing persona, she gladly accepted his offer. Tucking his hatchet into his belt holster, Silas led the way back up the path. ***

A light snow was falling by the time they finished their tour. The town square had proven to be livelier than expected: the houses were bedecked with bright lights and ornaments, and a large Christmas tree stood in the center. They had ultimately ended their jaunt near the edge of town, which happened to be where Silas’s house was. He invited them in, and although Mrs. Roberts put on a show of reluctance, she eventually gave in and allowed herself to be guided into the house, Jeffrey trailing behind her.

“Silas,” began Mrs. Roberts playfully, as she dusted snow off her jacket, “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but why were you in the woods?”

“Ah, glad you asked. I had just gone down to find some wood for the fire,” he said, grinning and patting his hatchet.

“Oh! That explains it! And here I was thinking you were doing something sinister!” joked Mrs. Roberts. Silas gave a gruff chuckle.

After a fine supper and some chatting around the hearth (which was interrupted quite a few times by Jeffrey shouting something about snow), Mrs. Roberts and Jeffrey prepared to take their leave. Leaning over to lace her boots, Mrs. Roberts noticed that the snow had indeed picked up. The journey back to their cabin would be difficult and perhaps even dangerous. “I suppose you’ll have to stay the

night,” said Silas.

“Yes, I suppose so,” replied Mrs. Roberts.

“I have a spare room on the second floor. You go ahead and make yourself comfy.”

“Much obliged for your kindness, Silas.”

Ascending the stairs, Mrs. Roberts and Jeffrey found a pleasant guest room. As they got settled, Silas withdrew into his own room on the first floor. Now that they were alone, Mrs. Roberts quickly redirected her attention to Jeffrey, fussing over how it was “far too late” and how Jeffrey “ought to be asleep by now.” Before Jeffrey could even protest, he had been whisked under the covers. Mrs. Roberts got into bed a bit later, and within minutes she was sound asleep.

After a while, Jeffrey became aware of an eerie mumbling which seemed to be coming from below. He waited until he was sure his mother was still asleep, then crept quietly out of the room. Leaning on the stair railing and straining to make out words, Jeffrey was able to discern a single phrase: “Just like his father.” A shudder ran through Jeffrey, and he contemplated returning to the guest room. However, curiosity overcame him. Jeffrey tiptoed down the stairs, taking care not to make too much noise. Now he could more clearly make out the mumbling. “Six years ago… use the hatchet….” Heart racing, Jeffrey inched toward Silas’s room. The door was ajar, the interior dark. Although the impulse was strong, Jeffrey dared not reach for the light switch.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jeffrey thought he spotted a shifting shadow. A chill ran down Jeffrey’s spine as a wave of fear washed over him, causing his courage to fail. Jeffrey thought about running back upstairs and waking his mother, but the severe scolding that was sure to follow discouraged him. Making up his mind to simply go back to bed, Jeffrey attempted to turn around, but before he could move, a hand had clamped down on his shoulder. From right behind him came the whisper of “just like your father.” Realization dawned on Jeffrey, but it was too late. By the time he could move again, he could already hear the swish of a hatchet.

“You Don’ t Seem to BE From Around Here.

Chapel at sundown

Starlight sixteen

la granja

picasso tile transparency

watercolor triad of snacks plush

IMITATING

MASTERY I

DEEP DIVE

IMITATING

MASTERY II

colorful dining

carson Bosita ’ 25

painting with marbles

festive statue

AMERICAN FOOD

by James Sutherland ’24

Come one, come all to the land of the feast, Where we deep-fry everything from Oreos to grease. Our portions are massive, our waistlines are wide, But hey, who needs health when you have American pride?

We’re the land of fast food, burgers, and fries, Where sugary drinks flow like rivers and the healthy option dies. Why eat a salad when you can have a donut, And wash it all down with a soda like a thirsty mutt?

Let’s also not forget about the hot dogs, Where mystery meat is crammed into soggy logs. And who needs real cheese when you can have cheese in a can? Welcome to America, where we’ll process anything—even frog, man.

So come one, come all, and indulge in our cuisine, Where heart disease and diabetes are never too far from the scene. But hey, at least we’re free to eat what we dare, Even if it means we leave our health up to a prayer.

FAST FOOD

Daniel Weinstein ’24

on the low Daniel Weinstein ’24

Iremember when the chilly wind bit at our faces like a swarm of little bees. I remember the early morning sun, an orange hiding behind the horizon, casting a faint radiant glow across the landscape. I remember when he led me into the bustling marketplace, where crowds of people were weaving their way through the shops and stalls. I could feel the noisy atmosphere again, filled with conversation and merchants shouting things like “Fresh fish over here!” I remember the little doll, a gift from my father, that I grasped when the gusts of cold wind blew around me. And I remember how much I hated myself for causing everything to happen.

***

“Dad, it’s freezing out here! Can we hurry up and get our stuff?” I whined. My teeth began to chatter. I grasped the ends of my cotton jacket tighter around myself, while my father briskly walked on, dismissive of the cold weather.

“Be patient, Jiejie, we’ll get there soon enough. Don’t worry about it,” answered my father, but he also began to walk at a faster pace. After a few minutes, we finally approached a bread shop. To my delight, there were no people ahead of us, so we quickly went

Starry Skies

by Kevin Ho ’26

up to the shop owner sitting on a makeshift wooden stool.

“Good morning,” said the vendor. “What’d you want?”

“We’ll take four red bean buns, please,” my father responded. The vendor nodded his head, then strolled to the back of the shop. As soon as he disappeared from sight, he magically reappeared right in front of us again within the blink of an eye.

“Here you go,” said the vendor. He handed us a paper bag with the buns inside. The warmth of the bread inside the bag brought immediate relief from the cold weather. The aroma of the buns drifted in my direction – the scent was irresistible. I reached for one inside the bag, but the vendor stopped me midway.

“Not so fast,” he interrupted. “These cost 32 total, six each. If you can’t afford them, then leave.”

My father sighed. He pulled out the little cash he had in his pockets, but I realized that something was off. Something didn’t add up.

“Dad, hold on a second – I think we’re being overcharged. This isn’t fair,” I frowned. “Why is he charging us 32 when we only have to pay 24?” My father stood still for a few seconds, clearly surprised. Gradually, he began to nod his head in agreement.

“You’re right,” he mumbled. “Since when did you get so good at catching these kinds of tricks?” His eyes sparkled with awe as a small smile formed on his face.

“You know, maybe you should go back to school,” he said, abruptly switching to a more serious tone. “There’s no reason not to.”

I shook my head, clearing my thoughts. I stared at the white envelope sitting on my cluttered desk. The warm light from my desk lamp made a perfect halo around it, as if it were under a spotlight on stage. I opened the envelope delicately, not wanting to ruin any of the contents. I reached inside and pulled out a piece of parchment, and slowly I began to unfold it. I prayed that it was what I had been hoping to achieve all along, something that would prove everybody wrong. The words written on the college acceptance letter made me freeze in shock.

I did it.

Everything began to feel surreal. I re-read the first line over and over again in my mind. “On behalf of the faculty and staff at Peking University, it is my pleasure to inform you that you have been accepted.” My heart was beating faster now – I couldn’t control my emotions. I began to reminisce about the times when I felt as if I couldn’t go any further, when I wanted to give up. I remember being bullied when I was younger for dreaming of achieving something seemingly impossible. But I also remembered the moments when my father helped me get back on my feet during those times when I felt like quitting everything.

I sat still in amazement but noticed a smudge of color sticking out from underneath a forgotten stack of papers. My curiosity piqued, I pulled out the little doll from underneath. Its once-brilliant colors were now faded. The doll’s vibrant black hair was only a dull, matte blob of peeled paint. I looked at it for a while, just taking in how much it

had changed, but then the memories came back. I remembered when my father decided to work as a miner just to support me, risking his life and sacrificing everything, every day, for our family’s well-being. Everything that I wanted to forget flooded back into my head like a tsunami.“Jiejie, he’s gone,” whispered my mother.

“What?” I half-heartedly asked. “Wait, what are you talking about?”

“Dad’s not with us anymore. The mine he was working in this morning collapsed.” My heart stopped beating. My gut wrenched. The world came to a halt. I looked up at her in complete disbelief. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” she repeated. But it wasn’t okay. Nothing would be okay now. I didn’t say a word, but the tears began to fall, and they didn’t stop. I shuddered quietly and took shelter in my mother’s arms. I stayed there, shaking, until my breath finally calmed down. ***

I found myself with my face buried in my hands. I didn’t care about the acceptance letter anymore. I just wanted to make my life go back to normal.

“I hate myself,” I muttered. “I hate myself so much. I’m the reason why Dad died. If only I had told him not to do anything, we would’ve all been fine. How can I live with this?” I balled up my fist in anger, as if I had the power to do something extraordinary that could change what had happened a week ago. My face fell, as I knew that I couldn’t do anything about the past. I stared blankly at the wall in front of me, not knowing what to do. However, the white parchment stood out, reminding me of what I had just accomplished. I stood up from my chair and flopped onto the bed, still remembering the fateful events that had occurred. As I stared up at my ceiling, I imagined him somewhere up in the starry skies, beaming with a proud smile, watching me with a calm, gentle gaze.

My heart Stopped beating. My gut wrenched.The world came to a halt. I looked Up at her in complete disbelief.

The Desert Charlie Estess ’23

The Queen

by Andrew Kogan ‘23

There’s never a day of relax or lull, Of tens of thousands working all their lives To keep the assets far from never full. Her Majesty, the leader of these hives, Despite the looks, she’s not the happiest here. Production of the gold is not her job. Her subjects come to her throne to revere; Their tiny little hearts they wish to throb. She’s tired of that sticky sweet perfume And wishes she could take a step outside. For it is spring and everything’s in bloom, But she’s stuck here remaining the lone bride. Oh, tell me why she has all the power, Yet hasn’t in her years smelled a flower.

A Journey To Godly Notoriety

Spaceship Jacob Lobdell ’25

The following photographs are part of a series by Jacob Lobdell ’25 titled “Emulation of David Levinthal”

by Zach Nivica ’23

He found himself on Floor Eight in the Tower of Babel, tired and on the verge of death. He could barely stand, clutching his side while holding a dull dagger. He felt his heart stop for a moment

when he saw the ogre approaching him, dribble frothing from its mouth. Zero knew he was too high up and couldn’t handle the beasts on this floor, but he also knew he had to make money somehow. The ogre stomped up to him and then suddenly stopped, looking at Zero with hunger in its eyes. Zero saw the ogre raising its left arm to deal the final blow that would end his deepest suffering at being unable to support himself, with no one in the world to help him. The only thing left in his mind was how he wished he had been born with the attributes necessary to be able to join a celestial family. He cried, tears streaming from his face, as he fainted from blood loss.

Zero lay unconscious and would certainly have died had he not been saved by a blonde woman in an all-white dress that went halfway down her thighs. She wore a metal chest plate and was holding what seemed to be a rare-grade saber with enhancements. Zero awoke with a great headache and wondered how he was still alive. He opened his eyes to see a mosaic of white, blonde, and silver. His eyes adjusted, and things became clearer as he saw his savior, the woman who had decided that he had value—that he was worth something. He blushed faintly when he saw the extent of her beauty: her silky

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hair, her face, stoic, but also gracious, and the cotton dress that hugged her skin. “You’re finally awake. That’s a big scar you have; how long have you had it? I know you didn’t just get it from this guy,” she said faintly. Zero was overwhelmed with love. When he came to his senses and realized that he had been sleeping on her lap, he ran out of the tower, greatly embarrassed. “Come back; you have lost too much blood, and I must warn you not to come back to this floor; it is too dangerous.” As Zero exited the tower, all he could think of was his savior. His mind raced. How can I repay her? What is her name? What family is she a part of? Is she in a family?

After a time thinking only of her, he counted his monster drops, “twenty small, seven medium, and three large purple soul crystals; on top of that, I got three small blue soul crystals,” he said sadly. “I spent the entire day in the tower only to get this,” he said, annoyed. “Time to take this to the guild merchant and hope that there is extra demand for one of these items.” As he walked to the Guild Shop in the city of Elkia, out of the corner of his eye he saw a small poster that said: “Join the Codite family!” Zero had never heard of this goddess’s name, but he had no other options and needed to join a family. Just as he was about to head over to the goddess’s house, he was stopped by a short woman who wore a pristine white outfit like the one the woman who had saved him had worn. For a moment, his heart skipped a beat. Then he saw her hair: brown, brown pigtails.

He came back to his senses when she asked him, “I saw you looking at that poster; are you interested?”

“Yes, do you perhaps know this goddess?” he asked pointing to the poster.

“Of course; I am she.”

What, she’s a goddess? he thought. There is no way this person is a goddess. He stopped to think of how to answer and finally answered with a question, “How do I join your family?

I’ll bet you have a lot of members; is there some sort of trial?”

“About that, there is no trial, you see I–” she paused. “I don’t have any family members.”

What? Zero thought. No family members. How? He recollected his thoughts and asked, “Well, what about the trial; is there something

I need to do?”

“No,” she stated with a smile.

At this point, Zero was too stunned to speak. He was able to mutter an “Oh,” but left it at that. The goddess asked him again if he wanted to join her family, and he agreed. They went back to the goddess’s house where they went over the details of how to join. She said that she would do routine check-ups on his stats to see how he was progressing. Further, he would have to be able to support the rent of the house, the food for both of them, and the well-being of the goddess. This was common for every member of a celestial family, so Zero didn’t object, although he was unsure of how he would make the money for all this. Regardless, he was now part of a celestial family and could finally progress his stats. Zero looked at the goddess and said, “Um, Ms. Codite, could you check my stats for me?”

“Of course; also, just call me Codi,” she responded. “I’m going to have to ask you to take your shirt off and lie face down on the couch.” Zero complied and heard Codi chant something in a language he had never heard, but he knew that it must be the language of the gods. He felt a little tingle on his back and after a short time, it stopped. “Strength: H, Magic: I, Speed: F, Endurance: I, Dexterity: I, Potential: …” She stopped.

“Well, what is it?” he asked, disappointed with his previous stats.

“I can’t believe it. There is no way,” she said, shocked.

“It’s probably J, the lowest there is,” he said sadly.

“No,” she responded; “It’s the exact opposite, SSS; I have never heard of a human who had the highest possible potential; I have only heard of a handful of S+ humans, and only one with an SS potential. This is incredible.”

Zero was too stunned to speak. The highest potential? Me? What does she mean when she says there are no humans who have this high potential? And of the SS potential, I wonder who that could be. All these thoughts were running through his head as he remained face down next to Codice.

“Well, to celebrate this achievement, do you want to go to dinner? I think I have just enough money to pay for it,” she said happily.

“Sure,” he said, “but I can pay if y–”

He was just outside the tower when he heard a voice call out to him. He looked around and saw no one.

“Down here,” a small voice said.

Zero looked down and saw what seemed to be a child but with the features of a wolf. “Yeah? What do you want?” he asked. He had known there were such creatures, but he had never seen one before.

“Hi; my name is Lake. It looks like you can’t carry all the soul crystals while fighting at the same time. I bet you lose out on so many because you just can’t pick them up while you are trying to fight other creatures in there. Well, I can help you with that. As you can see, I have a backpack that can easily store all the soul crystals that drop while you continue to fight the creatures in there. I also have potions in here just in case one of us gets injured. What do you say? Want to form a party?” Zero knew that the wolf-kin was just hoping to have an opportunity to make money, but Zero needed his help.

“Sure, why not? Let’s head in,” Zero said without hesitation.

The wolf-kin was caught off guard by Zero’s seeming lack of thought in this matter, but he was pleased to be given an opportunity. “You’re not even going to hesitate? What if I try to steal all of your items? Are you not worried about that? Also, if you are so willing to have me as a party member, are you not part of a celestial family?” Lake questioned.

“No, you can’t, and yes, the Codite family.” Zero responded.

What is wrong with this guy? Lake thought. He’s so weird. At least I’ll be able to make some money.

They headed into the tower and went down to a low floor. Zero had been traumatized by his last experience in the tower, but now, with his new dagger, he felt free and able to defeat monsters at will. He killed dozens of monsters much faster than he ever had before. Purple soul crystal after purple soul crystal dropped to the floor like pennies from a dropped coin purse. The wolf-kin picked them up, alerting Zero if there was any danger. Zero killed the hundredth monster and didn’t see a soul crystal drop. “Why didn’t that spider drop anything?” he wondered. “I have never heard of a monster not dropping a soul crystal. Maybe it was that specific monster that didn’t drop anything. But that doesn’t make any sense.” Zero thought this over for some time before chalking

it up to misfortune. He went on slaughtering tower monsters to try to make his dues. “Okay,” Lake said, “Let me count how many soul crystals we have. 74 small purple, 32 regular purple, 16 large purple, and 2 small blue. How do you want to split this? 80/20, 85/15, 75/25?”

“50/50,” Zero said bluntly.

“Are you sure about that?” Lake said with shock. “You did the grueling work. I just picked up the crystals.”

“That’s exactly why I want to split it 50/50. I wouldn’t have been able to pick up that many by myself, so you helped me achieve a lot more than I could have done alone.” The wolf-kin was speechless. Zero divided the spoils up evenly: 37 small purple, 16 regular purple, 8 large purple, and a small blue for each of them. Typically, the split heavily favors the fighter, and the fighter can often abuse the collector with a split of 90/10. This didn’t matter to Zero. He knew that having this collector would drastically improve his efficiency, and an equitable split was most just. They then went their separate ways.

Haplessly, the wolf-kin found his way to an alleyway in the dangerous part of Elkia. “All right; here’s the money that you asked for; now can you please release my slave tag?” Lake said nervously.

“That is what I originally asked for, but I’m going to need a little more because you missed your deadline by a couple of days. I’m going to need at least 100 gold coins by tomorrow or you can kiss any chance of freedom goodbye,” said the shadowy slave trader.

“100 gold coins! I was only able to make 3 silver ones today!” Lake said with complete shock and dismay.

“Make the money one way or the other, but be certain of what happens if you don’t make it.”

The slave trader hurled Lake out onto the pavement and then kicked him about the head. Beaten and bruised, Lake set out to find Zero to figure out a way to make the money, whether by monster hunting or stealing something valuable.

The next morning, Lake found Zero and asked him to form a party again. Zero agreed, and they

“ I wouldn’ t have been able to pick up that many by myself, so you helped me achieve a lot more than I could have done.”

entered the tower. Lake saw Zero swinging the glistening dagger around gracefully and effortlessly and wondered about the price of the blade. When he had a moment to breathe, Lake asked Zero if he could examine the blade, and Zero obliged. Lake took a long look at the craftsmanship on the dagger and found the name “Vulcan” imprinted on it. “Vulcan!” Lake thought, “He is the God of the Forge; how did Zero get his hands on this? This could easily sell for 100 gold coins and guarantee my freedom. I must find a way to steal it.” He gave the dagger back to Zero without commenting on its origin so as to seem less conspicuous. The party of two cleared floor six and received the equivalent of five silver coins each in monster drops.

“Thanks again for your help today Lake; you helped me earn money and improve my sword skills. I now feel that armed with this dagger, I can gain my revenge on the ogre that nearly killed me,” Zero said, half believing his own declaration but still wary of the threat that the ogre posed. Lake acknowledged Zero’s increasing skill with the dagger and so waited for the perfect time to steal the precious item without detection from Zero. Just then, Lake saw a horde of wolves start to surround Zero and alerted him of the danger. Zero quickly dispatched the enemies and said, “That should be enough for today; I think we both earned around fifteen silver coins.” As Zero was speaking, he sheathed his dagger in his belt and started to walk toward the exit. Then, unbeknownst to Zero, Lake artfully swiped the dagger and hid it in his backpack. Once they left the tower, they split the money evenly and went their separate ways.

When Zero arrived at his house, Codi greeted him, asking, “How was your hunt at the tower?”

“It went well; this dagger really–” he paused. “Where is the dagger? I could have sworn that I sheathed it; maybe I left it on floor six.” Zero was perplexed and nervous, wondering how Codi would react to his losing the valuable blade.

“That is weird,” she said calmly; “You shouldn’t head back to the tower. The dagger is valuable, but your safety is more important to me. I can always buy you another dagger, but I can’t buy another you.” Zero was touched by her response, but he

assured her that he would get the dagger back no matter the cost. His honor was at stake

On the other side of town, Lake entered the slave-trading building and gave the dagger to the slave trader, along with the silver coins he had accumulated while hunting with Zero. “This should be enough; this dagger was made by Vulcan himself; there is no world where this is worth less than 100 gold coins,” Lake said, slightly nervous.

“I dunno; it looks like it’s worth 50, but I’ll give you one more chance. Act as bait on the 7th floor of the tower while we hunt the monsters tomorrow, and I’ll let you go free.” The slave trader had a menacing grin on his face.

“What!” Lake exclaimed, “How is this weapon only worth 50 gold coins? It was made by Vul–” Suddenly Lake was kicked and knocked to the floor.

“Listen Mutt, I gave you the offer to walk away tomorrow as a free man, and this is how you treat me? I’ll give you one more chance to accept the offer before I take this dagger and flay you with it. You work for me.”

“All right; I’ll do it,” Lake said, gasping for air.

“Great,” the slave trader said slowly and creepily.

The next day came, and Zero saw Lake walking into the tower by himself. “Hey, Lake, do you want to form a party again today?” Zero asked.

“I don’t think I can; I have a party of four warriors today, so I don’t think I’ll be able to do it today; sorry.”

“Oh, that’s fine. By the way, have you seen my dagger anywhere?” Zero asked. At that moment, Lake’s heart skipped a beat, but he regained enough control to lie casually about not having seen the dagger. Zero decided to follow Lake to see his friend in action and possibly return to his roots by fighting by himself again. Zero wielded his dull and rusted blade with his newfound skill and headed to floor six. He was doing well when out of the corner of his eye he saw someone shooting a tiny one-handed crossbow at him. Zero was able to dodge it and saw a shadowy figure

Zero wielded his dull and rusted blade with his newfound skill and headed to floor six.

hide in the darkness. Zero wondered who would be after his head and couldn’t think of anyone. So Zero continued the fight, but again saw the shadowy figure moving swiftly on the grass of floor six. He knew only this: the shadowy figure was determined to take his life. He decided to move up to floor seven. The shadowy figure followed surreptitiously. Zero came across Lake and was surprised to see him in the middle of the fray. He then saw three people with longswords, shields, and chest plates fighting the minotaurs, with Lake standing in the middle with little to no armor on. Zero was wondering why Lake had no protection when he remembered Lake saying that there were supposed to be four warriors with him. Just as this thought crossed his mind, he felt the sudden urge to duck, and as he did, he saw a dagger like his own swing across the plane where his neck had been. It all made sense; the shadowy figure, his missing dagger, why Lake didn’t want to party with him today: everything added up. Zero called out to Lake, “You were with me all along just to steal my dagger,” rage flooding his vision.

“That’s not true. I only did it to survive,” Lake responded, like a beaten dog, “I wanted freedom, but these people won’t give it to me.” Lake’s response froze Zero for a moment. He felt betrayed, but he also felt compassion. He knew what he had to do. Zero unsheathed his blade and fought back against the shadowy figure. Swipe after swipe, lunge after lunge, their dagger skills seemed to be on par. The three men who were alongside Lake finally finished clearing out the wave of minotaurs and went to help the shadowy figure. Zero continued to fight the shadowy figure, and he finally was able to rip off the cloak, revealing the slave trader. “He has your blade, Zero,” Lake said, “I’ll use a disarm skill, and when I do, pick up the blade.” Lake chanted a prayer to the Goddess of Battle, Freya, to disarm the man with the dagger. Tradition had it that only certain races had access to magic spells to disarm – only those of wolf-kin descent or gods themselves. After Lake uttered the spell, he utilized the disarm skill to make the slave trader drop Zero’s dagger onto the floor. Through a great struggle, Zero was able to obtain his dagger and fend off the slave trader. The three men and

their boss entered; from there, they were able to overwhelm Zero, tackling him. Lake looked on at Zero, hopelessly grieving that the only person to help him was going to die or be enslaved because of him. All of a sudden Zero said, “Lake, do you truly want to live, or do you want to be captive to these people?”

“What?” Lake said, shocked.

“I will put my life on the line for you if you will fight alongside me,” Zero said. “ I won’t be able to overcome this challenge unless you want me to save you. Lake, I haven’t heard it from you yet. Say you want to live!”

Tears started to flood from Lake’s eyes. “I want to live,” he shouted, “I want to fight with you. I want to obtain my freedom. I have been ensnared for too long, so please save me!”

When Lake had finished speaking, Zero smiled and laughed. “Now that’s what I wanted to hear!” A semicircle that repelled the men off of Zero suddenly appeared. Each iris turned from dark gray to Pacific blue. Zero moved with incredible speed and agility; he entered a state where these men stood no chance of defeating him. The men who had previously been on him became so fearful of him that they fell unconscious. All that remained was the slave trader himself. They exchanged slashes, all of them getting blocked or parried, sparks flying everywhere from the continuous clash of metal. Lake was able to provide support with his handheld crossbows. Eventually, Zero landed a slash just under the trader’s eye. “First blood goes to you,” the trader said. But just then, Zero fell unconscious but was still standing. The slave trader saw the opportunity and lunged at him. He readied his dagger and thrust his right arm forward. With incredible speed, the dagger thrust directly at Zero’s torso. “This is it,” Lake thought. “I believed, even for a little bit, that I would be able to be free. I’m destined to be a slave forever.” The dagger pierced through the flesh of Zero’s torso. “Fafafafafa,” the trader laughed. “It’s over now. Lake, what was

the men that had previously been on him became so fearful of him that they fell unconscious.

that about being free?” He growled, pulling away from Zero and facing Lake. At that moment the trader felt a burning sensation coming from his right arm, more than halfway up his bicep. He turned to look at what had caused the pain and saw something that made him feel nauseous. He looked down and saw that the majority of his arm had been lopped off. The end of his arm wasn’t cut in a straight line but was slightly jagged. The trader screamed out in pain and turned to Zero to see what he had done. Zero was holding the trader’s detached arm with his hand, completely bloodied from squeezing it off. “You did this?” the trader questioned, but he received no response. “I stabbed you and pierced your vitals; how are you still alive?” Still no response. Zero’s eyes looked lifeless, as though he had lost his humanity. Zero moved so quickly toward the trader that it looked as though he had teleported there. He loomed over the trader, his mouth still slightly agape, and moved his arm in a slashing motion at the same level as the trader’s neck but without touching it. “What was that? You missed me,” he said, his voice quivering. “I’ll give you anything, money, slaves, protection; please, just spare my life.” Zero, eyes still full of rage, turned around and walked toward Lake.

“Don’t ignore me; I could have y–” All of a sudden the Trader stopped speaking, his head separated from the rest of his body by the straightest of cuts. Lake was horrified at the sight, but he was too occupied with not dying at the hands of Zero. Zero eventually reached Lake and collapsed into his arms, tired and clueless from what had just occurred. Lake was able to escape the tower while dragging Zero out of there with him. Once in the sunlight, Lake took the unconscious Zero and gently hid his body in a bush. Lake was exhausted from dragging Zero down the seven floors, but he knew that he had to keep watch, or both of their lives would be in danger. Slowly, Lake was able to regain his strength, and he dragged Zero to the Codite family house and knocked on the door.

“Who is it?” Codi said, “Just kidding; I already know!” As she finished her sentence, the door swung wide open, and she said, “Welcome back, Zero!” She finally looked down and saw that Zero was unconscious. “Did you do this to him? I swear if you hurt him, you will never be able to take a step again.”

“No ma’am,” Lake said, short of breath, “He freed me from slavery.” He paused. “I owe him my life.” He finished his sentence and collapsed on top of Zero, hoping that they would be safe in the goddess’s presence.

facing off Jacob Lobdell ’25

2023 SENIOR SCULPTURE COMPETITION WINNER

WINSTON LEE

Asimple conversation with senior Winston Lee offers something wonderfully different. His quiet nature gives way to a warm, inviting personality with a clarity about it. That may be because, in the vast world of media and technology, or countless other voids for young people to sink their time into, Winston journals.

He owns a few journals, but he has a main one that he places most focus on. It allows him to reset mentally, to clarify all of his thoughts, placing them somewhere outside of his mind.

“One of the ways I see myself is as an inputoutput machine,” Lee said. “We’re constantly flooded with inputs from what we hear or see or touch. It’s my responsibility to then organize those inputs and process them. One way I do that is journaling – over the past year and a half, I’ve journaled over 1500 pages of long-form writing.”

And Lee uses the journal as a kind of grounding tool, recording his own thoughts and experiences in words to work through them.

“I’ll journal about what I’m thinking about, what I’m anxious about, or what I’m frustrated with,” Lee said.

“I could stop at the end of a night of schoolwork and journal for thirty seconds and write one line, or I could block out four hours on a Saturday and write twenty pages. It’s just a way for me to express myself.”

However, Lee’s journaling takes many forms, reaping some important benefits for him and his productivity.

“One of the products of spending so much time journaling is that my thoughts are oftentimes more clear and more well-

organized,” Lee said. “That translates into a more effective way to take an abstract thought and make it into a three-dimensional object.”

Sometimes Lee’s journaling deviates from his main journal. Instead of the writing-focused approach, his art journal contains sketches and inspirations. Be it from his previous works or his own inherent creativity, it all comes together there.

Now, as part of the 3-D Design and Woodworking program here at school, seniors like Winston have the opportunity to put together a proposal to win the right to design and show off their art pieces behind the chapel. His journals were the birthplace of one of his most profound artistic creations yet – the statue that he will be tasked with creating and displaying for the entire school community to see.

“[My project] started with a ton of journaling,” Lee said. “Some of it was longform – not even any physical forms, just words. Some of it was sketching different shapes and ordering them differently. Some of it was also inspiration from external sources.”

As Lee began to flesh out the specific details of his project, he found other sculptures to be helpful in his design process.

“I took some inspiration from The Bean statue in Chicago; my idea to use reflective surfaces could tie back into that one,” Lee said. “I like [the reflective surface] because depending on your perspective, you see a completely different thing. If you’re standing twenty feet away, you’ll see something different than if you’re up closer to it, and you get something completely different from the piece.”

After finding the idea of a reflective surface enticing, Lee then pivoted to his own previous works for further structural development of his project.

“I’ve made boxes with plants in them, and I have a mailbox structure with organic legs,”

Winston Lee ’23 won this year’s Senior Sculpture Competition, and so, will have his work on display between Decherd and the chapel.

“I’ ve journaled over 1500 pages of long-form writing.”

Lee said. “I like the idea of how something confined starts in the box, but the most beautiful part is the organic structure that comes out of it or what you get out of it.”

So drawing on that inspiration, Lee combined those two ideas to arrive at his piece’s next form.

“I was thinking about how, in school, sometimes we’re confined in a box and about ways to interpret that,” Lee said, “and I came upon a reflective box, which is basically the opposite of a box, because it contains everything outside of it.”

Finally, Lee tied the piece together in a way only he could: a small hill of rocks, from which his reflective cube emerged, to bring his project togther.

“I think the hill works as a place holder and kind of like a contrast to what is above it – it’s natural for a hill to form out of rocks that settle at a certain angle,” Lee said, “which is diametrically opposed to the pristine, geometric form that is 100% manmade above it which you would not find in nature.”

Overall, Lee hopes that viewers –and especially student ones – find an inspirational message behind the statue.

“First, the reflective aspect kind of represents St. Mark’s, in that you get out what you put in,” Lee said. “This place has great resources and people ready to help you, but they can’t do any work for you. You have to do that yourself.”

Lee also thinks that his piece invites a reflection on one’s future and one’s effects on the surrounding world.

“When St. Mark’s kids look into their reflections, they are looking into the future,” Lee said. “Of Dallas, of the world. And the things that we do here prepare us for the endeavors that we pursue – the next generation, the future of the world – that starts here.”

A three-foot cube with mirrored plexiglass surfaces rests on a corner atop a three-foot hill. The reflective surfaces of the box represent the freedom and malleability of the surface as opposed to the restraint and restriction that a box usually represents. Further, the mirror represents the interaction that students hold with time. As young Marksmen peer into their reflections from the cube, they gaze into the very person who holds the potential to shape the future. Additionally, the cube appears to shape the landscape. As Marksmen, teachers, faculty, staff, parents, and more interact with the cube, they find that their reflection morphs the earth, changes the culture, and leaves a legacy.

HIDDEN path

Sal Hussain ’23

SECTION TWO

The intermediate level.

Continuously growing in a finite journey.

n e x u s

A start and end exist.

Do you know what lies between?

the woven links

Basking in starlight

by Andrew Kogan ’23

I tilt my head back; I gaze at the stars Slowly spiraling in concentric bands. Larger and larger gets this world of ours.

The night is still, barring rumbling boxcars Passing on railways connecting these lands. I tilt my head back; I gaze at the stars.

Orion, the Dippers, Saturn, and Mars, More specks of light than grains in all the sands. Larger and larger gets this world of ours.

The arms come down from the track crossing guards, Signaling the knot of two distant strands. I tilt my head back; I gaze at the stars.

The whirling sky like lightning bugs in jars, I could not catch them all, not with these hands. Larger and larger gets this world of ours.

Off in the distance, trains pass the few barns Basking in starlight. The universe expands. I tilt my head back; I gaze at the stars. Smaller and smaller gets this home of ours.

MELANCHOLIC AMERICA

by Hayden Meyers ’24

Your cities gleam, diamonds in the sun, But underneath, a decay has begun, Like a serpent coiled around its prey, Greed and corruption have led you astray.

Rivers run with tears of the oppressed, And your streets echo, sounds of unrest, They cry out for justice, equality, and peace, Their pleas fall on deaf ears, the pain won’t cease.

The stars and stripes wave in the wind, A symbol of pride, but what lies within, Is a nation divided, a country torn, With deep-rooted issues, never quite mourned.

America, land of the free, You’ve lost your way, can’t you see? Your stars have dimmed, your stripes are torn, Future, once promising, now forlorn.

Lady Liberty, I watch you weep, As your people stumble, your heart does keep, Memory of the nation you once were, A beacon of hope, a country so pure.

And so, we wait with bated breath, Hoping for a new dawn, a new birth. For America, the land of the free, To once again shine, for all to see.

America, my land of woe, I mourn your fate; how I wish you could know, The beauty you had, the hope you once gave, Now like a fading star, I watch you trudge to your grave.

FREEDOM CRY

Zachary Bashour ’24

The Expression of music

by Ariyan Khan Mishra ’26

Moonlight glistens upon the black façade. Melodies unsung yearning to escape. Enchanted notes glide in iv’ry glissade. Spirit resounds piercing through rife nightscape.

In-true expression manifests a soul

Of human pain and mortal wounds unknown. Unfurling within enshrouding patrol An expression of trammel chains dethrone.

Passionate insurgence, trembling recoil Severing ensnared bounds of fleeting time. As tethers of reality uncoil Commence a world of expression sublime.

Through music emotion will have impart Unwinding sinews of the human heart.

Overlap

Expression

Zachary Bashour ’24

PERSONAL BUBBLE

Daniel Weinstein ’24

NO HIDING

by Winston Miller ’24

Could a loud lion behind its dead dinner all ripped and ravaged Be silent and act like nothing happened?

Could a giant giraffe hide behind a few barren branches

Perched in a lifeless tree from which he ate With pride and comfort?

No, I say and says nature so!

Why then may America hide behind what we all know?

What good will we see when a sea of truth becomes polluted?

How then will she lie like a conniving kid to her mother

By telling another white lie?

3-D design & woodworking

Roman

The Border between reality and imagination

by Svanik Jaikumar ’23

An amalgam of color when viewed from afar, Cinikans was home to almost every biome known to man, a sphere of ordinary elements combined in extraordinary ways. An equatorial region of blood-red sand stretched relentlessly in every direction until it was sharply sliced off by the tropical forests of jade and olive green which, in turn, stretched out in all directions until they were abruptly cleaved by the cobalt blue, icy poles. As the space frigate entered the atmosphere and commenced the automated landing protocols, he gawked at the glaring beauty of what would be his new home world.

But the planet’s natural charm had been achieved by unnatural means cleverly hidden from the eye. Underlying the jaw-dropping splendor of the surface and far past the underground Industrial and Transportation Districts, a network of quasi-indestructible purear, far -Tungsten support beams formed the planet’s core, holding up this planet as Atlas held the earth. Countless man (and machine) hours had been spent carefully constructing the planet from core to crust, almost like a modern-day version of the Pyramids, but much more magnificent and much more expensive.

As the ship came within scope-sight of the ground, what had been miniature specks materialized into larger specks, and he took note of something odd. Gothic-style skyscrapers, organized in what looked like an endless grid

and separated by gaps just large enough for the bystander to distinguish one from the other, spanned his entire field of view. As the ship finally landed atop one of these peculiar buildings, gargoyles of stone and marble and gold stared back from their perches on building corners, teeth bared in a twisted grimace. They looked ready to soar up and snatch him out of the sky. ***

As he sprinted down the alley, twisting his torso into unnatural contortions to avoid smacking into the pipes and concrete blocks jutting out from the walls, he could see that this was both figuratively and metaphorically the end. He had run straight into a corner with his only exit closed off by the Predators. They were upon him and began to tear his limbs apart slowly, as if enjoying each moment. When they were done with him, only a pile of china-white bones and some bits of cartilage remained. ***

He awoke to the sound of his automated coffee maker playing its signature jingle, one he had been listening to for 127 days in a row (or was it 128?). He couldn’t remember. Days had started blurring into months. Besides, he hadn’t seen the two sapphire-blue suns since that first day when he had been descending into the atmosphere along with hundreds of others looking for a better life. Observing the suns for pleasure was a right reserved for the Aristocratum. He had to rely on

(Far, far into the future in a galaxy far away)

ABANDONED

Charlie Estess ’23

the thin, pointy hands of his standard-issue watch to distinguish night from day, and every four days or so, he would have to undertake the grueling rewinding process, a sign of his poverty and failure. Many others in his landing batch had earned enough money to buy automatic watches, “Swiss” as they called them, but neither they nor he knew who or what was a “Swiss.”

The night before, he had purchased a pack of fifty horror-story dream tablets from the pharmacy close to his workplace. It was a good choice and a refreshing respite from the too-happy-to-be-true tablets that everyone received in endless supply upon arrival to the planet. The planet’s powerful magnetic field, caused primarily by the Tungsten core, impeded the theta brain waves responsible for dreaming while asleep, creating the market for dream pills. He couldn’t wait to be done with his monotonous job and return home to have another horror dream. Who knows? Maybe he would get to watch those cruelly graceful Predators slowly tear apart another man!

THE MEN WORE WILLY WONKA COATS, OUTRAGEOUSLY OBTRUSIVE SHOES, AND TOP HATS OF OUTLANDISH DESIGN

As he walked down the hallway toward the gala, practicing his perfect smile, the man couldn’t help but laugh at the pretentious social customs and appearances put on by all those around him. Sure, this planet was where the royal family and aristocracy resided, but life was so tangibly steeped in tradition and gaudiness that it felt like he could never truly be himself. Even in day-to-day activities, women of all classes sported elegant dresses of the most delicate chiffon and silk, excessively intricate bows, and enough makeup to hide natural facial features. The women would rather appear beautiful than eat three meals a day; clothing was that important to them. On the other hand, the men wore Willy Wonka coats, outrageously obtrusive shoes, and top hats of outlandish design. One thing marked individuality, and that was color; people were required to wear clothes and accessories of matching colors, as color was the only sign of social status. His analytical mind just couldn’t appreciate the fake beauty of the world around him. Practicality was everything to him. On his home planet, the entire populace wore practical worker’s clothes of durable fabric, suitable for slogging away as slaves in the mines or fields. He couldn’t help but think that it was their hard work that supported planets like the one he was on. What a waste!

As he neared the end of the hallway, he knew at once which door to open. It appeared to be made of marble with gold and diamond inlays and a knob of blue crystal, perhaps an oversized sapphire. He touched the door, and it swung open with great ease. Plastering a smile back onto his face and knowing full well that he would have to keep it there for the rest of the night, the man entered the room.

entirely possible that his mind was playing tricks on him.

A few minutes later, he heard a low, mechanical growl similar to that of a computerized dog. Without missing a beat, the man dropped his briefcase in fear and launched into a fast run, periodically looking over his shoulders to see if he was being followed, but he couldn’t see a thing in the dense darkness of the night. Unbeknownst to him, he had taken a wrong turn approximately seventeen minutes before, one that would cost him everything.

Even more minutes passed, and he could now feel pairs of eyes burning into the back of his neck, raising the hairs there to be almost completely perpendicular to his skin. The man resisted the urge to look back, knowing that looking back would only confirm his imminent demise. However, he would soon have no choice but to turn around, as he had entered a clearing bounded on three sides by walls of dreary gray, the exit blocked by whatever was behind him. He heard a screech like nails on chalkboard, or rather, like talons on concrete. He sneaked a look back and saw three sets of eyes, each a slightly different shade of yellow with feline black slits punctuating the centers. The eyes pierced his very essence and instilled a coldness there that made the man start to shiver uncontrollably. The man began to run around in his little enclosure, knocking on every door he could see. Each time, he heard the empty echo of his own knocks repeated back at him almost mockingly. And each time, he lost another atom of hope when a door didn’t open. He knew that this was his end. The three fuzzy shapes leaped out from the darkness, their features now clear as a crystal.

As he walked down the alley after talking to what felt like a hundred people about uselessly trivial concepts such as the weather or the news, he felt oddly familiar with his surroundings, though this was the first time he had chosen this route back to his apartment. He shrugged off the feeling. All the streets looked the same on this planet, so it was

Three lynxes, each with a coat of stone and marble and gold color and each the size of an adult lion (but slightly furrier and cuter), glided down and faced him confidently but cautiously, as a predator might stalk its prey. They each had the wings of an albatross, thin but muscular, versatile yet powerful. With each step, the talons clacked against the floor like a clock ticking away, the clock of life. The man, fervently wanting to believe that this was yet another dream, marveled at how realistic it was and giggled to himself as they consumed him. He closed his eyes slowly, under the delusion that he would wake up the next morning. It

was when they sank their fangs into him that he knew. Within minutes, all that remained of him was his inedible clothing and a large pool of blood, slowly inching its way across the unabsorbent concrete.

***

The following day, he did not wake up. This was, in fact, not a dream, and his death was as real as tax evasion. The first signs that something wrong had happened were his absences at work that day, and the next, and the one after that. He had been a model employee, but his boss knew that the sheer monotony of being a commercial mathematician was enough to make anyone lose his mind. The man’s boss, a model employee herself, contacted the Agency to let them know that yet another worker had gone rogue. She went to grab her daily coffee, moving on with her day as though nothing had happened. She completed all the formalities and paperwork as quickly as possible and promptly began to look through the stack of papers on her desk in search of a new hire.

***

The Agency sent a task force to eliminate any trace of him and to dispose of the body as discreetly as possible. This was a routine task (being a commercial mathematician was quite mind-numbing) and had to be done efficiently without a trace. The Eliminators arrived at the man’s room and knocked three times in rapid succession, really just a formality – a response was quite rare. After five seconds, they broke open the door and methodically swept through every room, looking for signs of life. The man, of course, was nowhere to be found. The Eliminators planted the Cleansers, tiny little contraptions that release high-energy flames that fizzle out after a few seconds, and strode out of the building as every last belonging and proof of existence of the man vanished into thin air.

One of the Eliminators, #428, sheathed his daggers and retrieved a small black box from his pocket. The box unfolded to reveal a small

display showing the man’s exact coordinates and a map with a little dot (representing the man) blinking at the center. The Eliminators split up and headed towards the dot from multiple directions, thus preventing any possibility of escape. ***

As they rounded the last corner, the Eliminators jumped back in surprise, shielding their eyes from what lay before them. A pool of scarlet and some shredded pink blobs (much like the post-meal residue left by a T. Rex) marked the man’s presence, or rather, former presence, at the location indicated by the dot on the display. Even the Eliminators, whose entire livelihood depended on making people disappear in novel ways, couldn’t process such a grisly atrocity. They knew what had to be done. #874, another Eliminator, placed a shaking hand into the pocket of her robe, grasped the communicator, and tossed it to the third and last one, #919. He typed a message to the Agency, keeping one eye on the remains of the man in case they came back to life. ***

Solving murders didn’t exactly fall into the purview of the Eliminators or the Agency, so the case was shuffled between different government departments until it finally landed in the hands of the Inspector General. From there, the case was shuffled some more and finally sent down the ranks to a Field Officer (in all, this process took a few months, just long enough for every initially involved party to forget that anything had ever happened). The Field Officer took the physical files and neatly placed each individual paper onto her desk. She took from her bag a lighter and a glass vial. She opened the vial, confirmed its contents via olfaction, and proceeded to slather the liquid onto the papers. She flicked the switch on the lighter and erased every last trace that the man had ever existed. Satisfied, she closed her office for the day and headed for the shop to pick up three new collars for her precious pets. Her next stop was the liquor store.

moonlit apartments

Charlie Estess ’23

FRUITFUL Hudson Brown ’24

THE MELTING POT

by Tyler Tang ’24

In freedom’s kitchen, men are even Unalienable rights used to season A dish so rich and grand it serves all But what mouths are truly fed by the dinner call?

Is it the mouths that arrive first? Is it the mouths that beckon with thirst? Or does the chef get to choose Who gets to feast and who is cut loose?

Ingredients wait patiently to disembark Promised a clean slate to leave a mark Will they succumb to the heat and wither? Or will they temper the boiling hell hither?

A spoon viciously agitates the broth Spills smothered with red and blue cloth Ingredients leave no mark more than a stain Not sufficient warning for others to avoid pain.

In the end, the liquid bubbles with flavor

Elements mellowed and the chef deemed a savior But the ingredients sacrificed for the table? Some beloved, others forgotten by the ladle.

Bernardo Bernardo

by Bowden Slates 23’

Te thought how strange it was that a political prisoner, marched through town in a line, chained to the man behind and chained to the man ahead, should take comfort in the fact that all this had happened before. He thought of other chains of men in other countries of the earth, and he thought how since there have been men, there have been prisoners. He thought of mankind as a line of miserable monkeys chained at the wrist, dragging each other back into the ground.

In the early morning of December 1, the sun was finally warming them all, enough so that they could walk faster. With his left hand he adjusted the loop of steel that cuffed his right hand to the line of doomed men. He was starved, his wrist was thin, his body was cold: The cuff slipped off. In one breath he looked back to the man behind him and forward to the man limping ahead and knew that neither saw his naked, red wrist; each saw only his own mother weeping in a kitchen, his own love on a bed in white sheets and sunlight. He walked in step to the end of the block.

Before the war this man had been a chef, and his one crime was feeding the people who sat at his tables in clouds of smoke and talked politics. He served them the wine that fueled their underground newspaper, their aborted revolution. And after the night his restaurant disappeared in fire, he had run and hidden and gone without food—he who had roasted ducks until the meat jumped from

the bone, he who had evaporated three bottles of wine into one pot of cream soup, he who had peeled the skin from small pumpkins with a twist of his hand.

And here was his hand, twisted free of the chain, and here he was, running and crawling, until he was through a doorway. It was a building of empty classrooms—part of the university he never attended. He watched out the bottom corner of a second-story window as the young soldiers stopped the line, counted ninety-nine men, shouted to each other, shouted at the prisoners in the panicked voices of children who barely filled the shoulders of their uniforms. One soldier, a bigger and louder one, stopped a man walking by, a man in a suit, with a briefcase, a beard, some sort of professor. The soldiers stripped him of his coat, his shirt, his leather case, and cuffed him to the chain. They marched again. And as soon as they had passed—no, not that soon; many minutes later, when he had the stomach—the chef ran down to the street and collected the man’s briefcase, coat, and shirt.

After grabbing the materials, the chef sprinted right back into the building, immediately heading to the bathroom to change. He slipped on the slick black coat and shirt. The chef stared at himself in the mirror. The man he saw looked very different from the man he had been before, but he knew that starting from scratch was the only option. The chef walked out of school, trying to keep a low profile. As he turned the corner into the hectic street, he felt the eyes of everyone around him lock onto his body, but no one truly cared who he was. This street spanned the entire city, filled with all types of shops, stores, and restaurants. The civilian’s minds only thought about their next meal and loved ones who had passed, wondering if it would ever get better. Honking cars and commotion filled the street as citizens pushed each other to try to get by.

He thought of mankind as a line of miserable monkeys chained at the wrist, dragging each other back into the ground.

The chef felt free from his metal shackles, but now he had a new burden–becoming a new man. The months of torture and torment the regime had forced upon him had left scars on his chest and mind. The sun began to set, but the chef had nowhere to sleep. He shoved past civilians to find an alleyway or at least some sort of shelter, and then a sign from God appeared. Bright red letters above his head read, “In dire need of a chef. Offering applications and tryouts.” He had found his way to make it into his new world. The chef barged into the restaurant, asking the hostess,

“Could I please talk to the manager? I want to be a chef at this restaurant.”

“What is your name, sir?” asked the hostess.

“Bernardo, ma’am. My name is Bernardo.”

This new name sounded right to him. His past life with his family and friends had vanished, and he was now Bernardo.

“I don’t need to be paid anything. I need a

Sal Hussain ’23

place to stay and food to eat. I will cook for you for as long as possible if you give me a home,” said Bernardo.

“What are your credentials?” said the hostess.

“Let me show you what I can do. Just let me cook you one dish, anything of your choosing, so I can show you how talented I am,” said Bernardo.

“Ok, wait thirty minutes in that empty booth for the restaurant to close, and then I will let you meet the head chef for an audition,” said the hostess.

“Thank you so much. You will not regret this decision,” said Bernardo.

Bernardo moved to the shiny red booth and took a seat, examining the people and the food around him. Families joyfully ate AprèsSki Lasagna, Ricotta Gnudi with Chanterelles, and Sauce-Simmered Spaghetti al Pomodoro as the Italian herbs and spices covered their taste

buds. Bernardo’s memories of cooking for his family and friends flooded his mind, bringing a tear to his eye. Food to him was not only fuel, but also a way of connecting with others. His meals brought people together. He noticed that these meals got all the customers out of the natural world and into the restaurant’s atmosphere.

“The thirty minutes have passed. Show us what you’ve got,” said the hostess.

“Yes, ma’am,” said the chef.

Bernardo walked through the metal doors into the kitchen, which was spotless. The head chef stood with his shoulders back and his chest out. His mustache appeared pristine, and no wrinkles were visible on his outfit. All the other chefs had left, so only the head chef would be judging him. The atmosphere felt intense, and the chef knew he would have to cook at his maximum potential to get the job.

“Your name?” said the head chef.

“My name is Bernardo, sir,” said Bernado

“Ok, Bernardo, show me what you can do. I have set the ingredients and the tools needed for you to make a to you to make a Rigatoni Alla Carbonara. You’ll have thirty-five minutes. Please begin,” said the head chef.

Bernardo immediately analyzed the kitchen. Around the room, Bernardo saw new utensils neatly placed, and all of the necessary ingredients were organized next to his chopping board. The olive oil in front of him had been shipped straight from Italy; the eggs were fresh from the town’s local farm, and the cheese looked like some of the butteriest he had ever seen. Bernardo’s eyes glowed as he began to cook. Life began to feel normal again. He filled the clean pot with water and set it on the stove to boil, adding the rigatoni. With precision, he began cutting the guanciale and placed it into the Dutch oven to get a crunchy crisp on the meat. As the water started to boil, the chef made the carbonara, finely grating the cheese and mixing the eggs to create the perfect blend.

Elevated Zachary Bashour ’24

“Ten minutes left!” said the head chef, causing Bernardo to increase his speed.

When the rigatoni became al dente, the chef put everything into the Dutch oven, mixing the pasta, the carbonara, and the guanciale with the olive oil. An aroma of Italian cuisine filled the room as he removed the pasta from the oven. He then carefully plated the Rigatoni Alla Carbonara, topping it with generous amounts of black pepper and pecorino romano.

Bernardo handed the plate to the head chef. Time stopped as the fork moved to the head chef’s mouth for his first bite. The head chef’s eyes nearly popped out of his head with excitement as he exclaimed, “Bernardo, this is some of the best carbonara I have ever had! How did you become so good at cooking?”

“Years of practice, sir. Thank you so much,” said Bernardo.

“You’ve got the job, and you will be chef de parti. You may use the bedroom above the restaurant where the old owner used to sleep for now. We will give you clothes, food, and any essentials as long as you cook these amazing meals. You’ll start tomorrow. Does that sound like a deal to you?” said the head chef.

“Yes! I cannot wait to start!” said Bernardo.

Bernardo cleaned up his cooking area before heading to his room. He whistled while he thought about his family, kids, and friends. He wondered if they ever thought about him or whether they were still breathing. The war had taken a toll on so many lives and tainted the minds of so many. The steps creaked as Bernardo walked up the stairs to his new room. Everything in the room felt old, with the bed creaking as he lay in it and the wood chipping on the walls. He went in and out of sleep all night, waking up at 8:00 to get dressed. Bernardo put on his new chef’s uniform and walked into the kitchen, to ensure that everything was in place for the day to be great. He prepped the kitchen, making sure everything was in its place. Throughout the morning, the other chefs arrived, and they

looked at him with skeptical eyes. Bernardo felt no intimidation, though, determined to show every cook how skilled he was. Eventually, the clock struck twelve, and orders began flying in. Bernardo cooked fiorentina steak, ossobuco, and lasagna all day. The restaurant was about to close when the head chef approached him.

“Hey, Bernardo, there’s a family out there that wants to compliment the chef.”

“I will head there right now,” said Bernado. Bernardo left the kitchen and entered the restaurant. The looks on the family’s faces were heartwarming. He could feel that all their worries had been washed away as they dived into his dish. What made it so special to him was that he could give people even a moment of peace in such a crazy time.

“It’s delicious. You’re truly an artist,” said the mother.

“Thank you so much. That means more to me than you could ever imagine. Have a great rest of your night,” said Bernardo.

“You, too!” said the kids.

Bernado then traveled back into the kitchen to clean up for the night. His new identity was becoming a reality, and he was excited to be “Bernardo.” As he slept that night, he smiled for the first time in weeks.

Food to him was NOT ONLY fuel, but a way of connecting with others...

WRITING COMPETITION

LITERARY FESTIVAL

A week celebrating literature included a writing competition in three categories: poetry, nonfiction, and fiction. These are the three senior winners and their stories.

BIJAAN NOORMOHAMED

THE POET

Running into classes a tad bit tardy and often switching between high-level Chinese and English classes, Bijaan never flies under the radar. Bijaan is involved in several clubs and organizations at St. Mark’s including leading the Literary Festival and International Week.

What does your poem “Borscht, 2022” discuss?

It’s about the current crisis in Ukraine. I’ve been thinking about different ways I could explore crises, and I wanted to focus mainly on adolescents and their experience in Ukraine.

What is borscht, and how is it used in this poem?

As I read several news articles about the monotonous lifestyle in the bunkers, there was a constant. That constant was borscht, which is a beet soup that’s very popular in Slavic Europe. I began to think of borscht as a transformative element and how it could be linked with the atlas of experience and war. I wrote a poem on that, the story of a girl who had unfortunately suffered some abuse during the war. The borscht represents a constant while she herself changed.

Why did you want to focus on the point of view of an adolescent?

Obviously, the ongoing crisis in the Ukraine is horrific. But there hasn’t been a lot in terms of meaningful reflection other than constant newscasting in journalism. I kind of wanted to make some sort of piece that highlighted an adolescent story, and I hope my poem did that.

What else have you written?

I focus on two genres of poetry, the first one being free-verse poetry like with “Borscht, 2022.” I tend to do very dark and very infernal themes relating to the link between the underworld and then other, more physical beings. For example, I wrote a sestina about the struggle of being homeless. The other genre I focus on is ancient translations of Chinese poetry mainly from the late Qing Dynasty. Recently, I’ve also been translating some poetry from Jin Dynasty from 1250 CE.

When did you first take an interest in poetry?

Probably at the end of my sophomore year. As we were coming out of the pandemic, I was really exploring different genres of writing. Poetry, fiction, nonfiction. Poetry really caught my eye, especially since it is actually quite mathematical and numerical. That’s the way that stanzas are done, through a lot of repetition and a lot of patterns. So there’s kind of like the numerical qualities of poetry. And I love numbers.

What does writing offer you that nothing else can?

I think writing gives you the power to reflect in ways that are really hard to do with everything that’s going on in terms of school and college processes. Writing gives me a way to imagine an ideal world and what that would look like, ways to go forward in the future. Writing gives you a great chance for introspection and reflection.

Poetry really caught my eye, especially since it is actually quite mathematical and numerical.

borscht, 2022

by Bijaan Noormohamed ’23

Moving from 5-One to 5-Two, from 5-Two to 5-Three, He stops And looks at me. I stare at him, At his big blue eyes that look like Alyonka’s square. I smile. Smiling back,

He takes me to 5-Four and I close my eyes. Darkness, said Dostoevsky, is Our new soul. I am not afraid. What I am becoming joys me.

I feel it Everywhere. The love and pain and youth And death beats down on me. Going where it should never go.

That man Any man

Brings me something pitiful borscht. It looks,

Sad. One dollop of cream Makes me, too, cry.

Oh, how I have been wronged! Its reddened, beet-ridden edges Stare at me.

I open the camera app And take a selfie.

I look at what I have become my face turns away.

PITIFUL

Zachary Bashour ’24

In a single sentence, what is “Duggin” about?

It’s about a journalist and a conspiracy theorist who are old friends and sit down for an interview and decide to go a little bit further than professional ethics would allow.

What inspired you to write this short story?

I came up with the story after that crazy Alex Jones and Kanye West interview. It was the crazy conspiracy theories that Alex Jones said. From that, I had the idea to write a story about a conspiracy theorist who also says outrageous and funny things. Then the main character I introduced later complements him, even though it’s told from the perspective of the other character.

Besides this short story, what else have you written?

Obviously, I write a lot of columns. I sort of write them in a similar tone. There’s always a little kernel of what I feel in there, but mostly they’re just meant to make people laugh. But besides that, mostly this year, I’ve been trying out other short stories on top of essays that I’ve basically just written for myself. Before this, I did a lot of journalistic writing and articles. I still do some of that, but I’ve more discovered that I like to write in my own voice because I have this unique sense of humor. It’s something that I really enjoy doing.

What do you believe is writing in your voice?

I want to be careful here. Because when you write a fiction like “Duggin,” and you say you’re writing it in your own voice, it’s different than in the past. Before, you could write whatever characters you wanted, and maybe an English professor would psychoanalyze you 2000 years later, but you’d be too dead to care. But now, if you write a really funny character, like a crazy conspiracy theorist, then people will associate that character with you. People are going to unfairly infer your own personality from the fiction, when, in reality, your personality is what provides the creativity to have a world like that.

Do you have to separate a character from your own personality?

I find it very hard to write like a really convincing character unless I think that this character is me but kooky and crazy. For example, the conspiracy theorist character is me but more gullible and moralistic than I am. I have to think, “Okay, this could have literally been me if my personality had just changed a little bit in some Freudian childhood.” Then, I think from the first person perspective of that character. When you write something from a character’s perspective, you are on their side. Others are condescending to their characters because they’re not real, and it’s easy to be condescending to fake little people. But those fake little people are literally you; they are figments of your mind.

When you write something from a character’s perspective, you are on their side... they are figments of your mind.

MYLES LOWENBERG

THE COLUMNIST

From poking fun at American political tradition to lightheartedly previewing midterm elections, Myles

Lowenberg is infamous for his unique style of social commentary. In every issue of the student newspaper The ReMarker, Myles’ political columns lead the first page of the news section.

DUGGIN

by Myles Lowenberg ’23

You don’t often get to speak with the man you killed. On some level, I just couldn’t believe Chaos was right in front of me—radiating with sweat, thanking me for inviting him to the podcast, bringing up his latest bullshit. He’d gotten fat. As soon as he opened his dumb yapper, I remembered why this moron had it coming.

“Well, I’m glad someone decided to let this heretic speak the truth to the people,” Chaos jabbered. “Eva, just wait until you hear about the latest machinations of the globalists. You are going to be absolutely—”

Jacob Lobdell ’25

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Chaos, but we already skipped the introduction,” I said. “This is Chaos Duggin—you may have formerly known him as Arnold Salisbury. He’s quite keen on promoting his new book, Lizard ‘People’, Horse Tranquilizers, and The White House: What the Deep State Doesn’t Want You to Know.”

“What a wonderful introduction,” Chaos blabbered. “The people have heard plenty of truth bombs from my blogs and livestreams, but what you’re getting in this book is like a truth nuke. It’s basically truth Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and all it costs you is $29.99! You know Eva, I really appreciate what you did for me. I got a lot of haters from your article— so many haters—but I also found so many amazing patriots I didn’t even know existed.”

He was talking about when I murdered

Arnold. I was the Times’ correspondent in Dallas and needed a good subject to profile. On a whim, I called my old college friend—well, basically a friend— Arnold, a successful lawyer at the time. I knew he had some interesting political opinions but really didn’t expect his thoughts on the reptilians in the State Department.

This is the part where I stabbed him in the back. In Texas, everything was on the record—you were legally allowed to secretly record someone and publish what they said. And believe me, I published everything he said. The piece—“Could one of the most prominent lawyers in Dallas be a secret radical?” by Eva Bartlett—ended up in the Times with the most views I’ve had on anything I’ve ever written. Commenters praised how I exposed the insane

thoughts of some of the more powerful people in our city. Arnold was promptly dismissed.

I knew I’d destroyed his life. He never called me to talk about the article, and even if he had, I wouldn’t have picked up the phone. Then a few days after the article, Arnold just emerged from wherever he was hiding. Changed his name to Chaos. Started a livestream and hawked penile-enhancement products to fund his conspiracy theory show. After his second stream got over six thousand viewers, I received a text: “Thank you SO much!! I have found my true calling!” We didn’t talk again for a year until this interview. It was a slow news week, so I asked him to come to the building that housed the Dallas bureau as a guest on the Times’ Politics Podcast.

I mentioned that the gladiators were always so interesting to me because the Romans took someone’s downfall, the end of their life, the closing of a universe, and made it into a bland spectator event to mildly entertain the masses. At this point, my ears were burning with shame, and I didn’t bother to listen for his response, but just from his serene face I could tell he either didn’t get it or was incredibly talented at

hiding what should be fiery hatred toward me. I wondered if—

“And that’s why, really, in a way anyone who stormed the Capitol building in January really is like a gladiator,” Chaos yammered. “Because all of them are like, super strong and awesome just like the gladiators were.”

Chaos gave a hearty belly laugh, so I felt obligated to make a silent, awkward halfsmile for a second. The next hour of talking exhausted me. Every stupid thing this guy said—and he was going at a rate of about twenty stupid things per minute—needed to be met with some sort of response conveying implicitly or explicitly that “the Times does not condone or encourage radical rhetoric like this.” Chaos didn’t even know how Herculean a task it was to get my editors to approve this interview. After an hour that felt like a year, I ended the podcast segment. I felt awful for the poor soul whose job was to edit this dumpster fire.

“Well, thank you for coming on to the podcast,” I said. “Although the Times believes in free expression to the utmost, I will also reiterate that any sort of conspiratorial thoughts you might have heard absolutely do not reflect the opinions or conscience of

portrait Sam Adams ’23

the Times.”

I was going to leave as quickly as I could and not talk to this clown again until the next time I needed to milk a gullible source, but I couldn’t tell what compelled me to stop in my tracks and speak.

“Say, Arn—I mean, Chaos,” I said. “It’s been a while since we caught up. Wanna grab lunch down the block?”

`“Just like old times,” responded Chaos. “And anyways, we’re not on the podcast anymore. You can just call me Arnold.”

Just like old times. He must’ve been trying to remind me on purpose. Yes, we may have been a little more than friends in college. God, I hope it never gets out that I dated Chaos-[explicit]-Duggin—and especially who dumped whom. Really, he’s changed so much since then, and not only with the conspiracy theories. I’ve heard of the Freshman Fifteen, but Arnold looked like he had a Tinfoil Two Hundred. And I’m pretty sure he’d worn deodorant back then.

We made some small talk as we walked to lunch. Arnold spoke like a new man compared to what I had just heard on the podcast. No excited stammering, no waver in his voice, no blustering bravado. He even sounded a bit, well, lawyerly. We arrived and took our seats.

“So, Eva,” he began. “I guess you think I’ve changed a lot since we split.”

“Well, I think you’ve always had a little bit of Chaos inside you, Arnold,” I said curtly. I meant that in a bad way, but he apparently didn’t notice.

“Look, you know exactly why I’m pushing conspiracies and advertising erectile function serums,” Arnold said. “What else can I do for a living? All my options are gone.”

That hit me like a truck. Ten seconds passed in silence. Then twenty. Finally, I gathered myself and spoke.

“You know, the latte-sipping, Wordleplaying readers of the Times do love a good apostasy story,” I said. “You could have a grand public redemption. You know, say you had a drug addiction. Make a big deal out of going to therapy. Have one last profile

in the Times on the man who escaped the conspiracy theory rabbit hole, conquered his personal demons, and is now a normal, welladjusted person. Get your life back.”

A grin grew across Arnold’s face. He told me he had a feeling that he’d take me up on my offer. The rest of the conversation moved like a flash, like when we first met a decade ago in college. Under his unkempt face and all those layers of fat, I began to see the outlines of who he used to be. Who I loved.

As I walked home, it felt like a new world had opened up. Arnold and I really did have so many possibilities. There was nothing he did that couldn’t be fixed with enough time. There was nothing I had done to him that couldn’t be fixed with enough time. Boundless happiness flowed through me. We could redeem ourselves.

The next day, I got a text from my coworker. “You have to watch Duggin’s stream right now.” I tuned in and heard my own voice.

“—a normal, well-adjusted person. Get your life back,” you could barely make out from the muffled audio.

“See, now this is what the shadowy, globalist, deep state media is trying to do to me,” Chaos exclaimed. “That’s right. I did some reporting on the reporters. The reptile-run Times is trying to stop me from telling you the truth about the shadowy forces running America. Unfortunately for them, I’m playing seventh-dimensional chess. Oh, yeah—let’s stop talking about my so-called conspiracy-filled past. It’s time for my conspiracy-filled future.”

Of course I knew it was legal in Texas. As I watched him blabber on, the sweat on his face glowed like a halo. There was a piercing sound in my forehead. I thought that he had surprisingly good lighting. I supposed I could respect good journalism when I saw it.

“ Let’ s stop talking about my so-called conspiracy-filled past. it’ s time for my conspiracyfilled future.”

LITERARY FESTIVAL COMPETITION WINNER | NON-FICTION

Whether it’s factoids about the Ottoman Imperial court or in-depth studies of world religions, Ishaan Devalla is renowned for his witty and meaningful contributions in a plethora of discussions. Ishaan is the President of the St. Mark’s History Club and an officer in both the Political Forum and Gardening Club.

ishaan devalla

THE HISTORIAN

In the essay, you mention watching a bird falling out of a tree when you were a child. How has this moment impacted you?

The essay starts by describing a scenario that happened when I was little, living in California, where there was a little bird that used to live in the garage on top of my garage. One day, I found the mangled corpse of its chick that had just died. I really wanted to bury it, but at the same time, if I buried it, I’d have been depriving others of sustenance. I would have been going against the law of nature. That was a moment when the true reality of life was present—was made evident—which is that there are no rules to life.

How long did it take to write this essay?

Originally I wrote a ten-twelve page, more academic paper about this idea of human nature for [history teacher Dr. Bruce] Westrate. But then I went through it and made it more personal, more introspective. It took me a few days to re-make the whole thing into this form.

Do you agree more with Hobbes or Rousseau?

I have to say I agree more with Hobbes than with Rousseau because at the end of the day, everything is truly fake. It really is. But that’s not a bad thing to say. Everything is just made up, essentially. Either we can change the way in which it’s made up, or we can also make sure that we keep making it up. Otherwise, what you’d have is chaos. You have to get used to the idea that nothing is important and everything is relative. And because of that, you can choose whatever you want. There’s no purpose to life. So anything you decide is a purpose to your life. And when you actually believe that to be your purpose, your purpose becomes it.

When did you begin taking an interest in history?

When I was in seventh grade, we went on a school trip to Washington D.C. and saw a few museums there. I thought to myself, “Wow, for all of these artifacts, there were people behind them. Now they’re just like scraps of cloth left behind.” That was my moment of “What does it actually mean?” And from there, I wanted to delve deeper into the story of the people behind the artifacts.

For me, history has always just been a story. “His” story, the “he” here being humanity in general. It’s always just been this grand story to me ever since I was little.Yes, you can read fairy tales about princesses and dragons and so forth, but at some point, you also need to read the fairy tale of man, which is what history is. It tells us who we are, how we became the way we are, why we act the way we do. And I think the overall purpose of history is to understand the true nature of man, of humanity.

What do you believe is the importance of studying history?

We should not be questioning the decisions that have been made in history. Because the problem with going down that route is that it is not our place to pass judgment upon the events and deeds of our ancestors, regardless of how horrible they might have been. We simply must learn from them to not repeat the same mistakes. Though, at some point, in some way, I feel like we’re also bound to repeat some of their mistakes because they’re human and we’re human.

THAT WAS A MOMENT WHEn THE TRUE REALITY OF LIFE WAS PRESENT— WAS MADE EVIDENT— WHICH IS THAT THERE ARE NO RULES TO LIFE.

A lantern in the philosophical dark: The Folly of man & bittersweet reality

Essay by Ishaan Devalla ’23

What I noticed first was the chick’s bloodied beak and grotesquely mangled neck. The sorry thing had fallen from its nest, which I now saw perched precariously on the lush bougainvillea vine that lustily propagated itself across the lintel of my garage. The Californian sun, normally a friend to all who basked in her sublime rays, now directed her majesty towards the pitiful carcass. The same sweet sunlight that helped dry olives which fell from our tree now reduced what little blood trickled from the disfigured chick into a dry, burnt streak across the courtyard flagstones. Its mother, a pigeon I had named Giulia and whom I had endlessly tried to coax down with earthworms, flew off in desperation when the crows attacked. Hearing a fluttering of wings through the open window near which I was happily eating marmalade sandwiches, I had curiously wandered out in hopes of seeing one of the feral parrots that frequented the avocado orchards on the hills

beneath my house. Upon discovering such a horrific scene, I had mere seconds to take it all in before I heard the soft click-clack of talons on stone. The crows, having failed at pursuing Giulia, had returned for their lesser reward. They stared at my tiny 13-year-old self with disconcerting intelligence. I knew what they wanted, and I knew I stood between them and it. All my instincts told me to chase them away and bury the unfortunate chick in the garden. Yet, something in the expectant eyes of the crows convinced me that they too would be unfortunate were I to deny them their meal. Who was I to decide whether the chick should have lived or died and whether the crows deserved to eat or starve? Who was I to understand why the crows tried to kill Giulia and her chick and why one had abandoned the other? I stepped back and let the natural way take its course. But why?

We do not know. We shall never truly know. It is impossible to know. Yet a fool and a dozen continue to guess. The nature of existence has eluded the human race since time immemorial. Nevertheless, we persist in ruminating, opining, surmising, brooding, and all other kinds of

ing-ing about it. Countless theologians and philosophers have filled the tomes of history with their conjectures and swelled the rivers of memory with their thoughts on the matter — each and every one adding their voices to the cacophony of human arrogance in thinking that we have the right to comprehend the incomprehensible. How can we not? It is in our nature, and from our nature comes the desire to understand our nature, which is the only thing we are capable of understanding. Now, I too shall add my name to the list of fools who waste their time wondering ridiculous things and even more ridiculously writing down their wonderings. In trying to answer the unanswerable and doing so in a tone of absolute surety, perhaps I will fulfill the universal desire to know. After all, the wisdom of being a fool is that it is enough just to think you know.

To arrive at raw, explicit, and precise reality, we should begin not by asking “What is civilization?” but instead by asking what was before civilization. The visionary Thomas

Hobbes’s “nasty, brutish, and short” state of nature and life is well known and equally well contested, but it is remarkable because it admits a fact few of us like to concede: we are no different from our ancestors. We all have the same tendencies, desires, hopes, mannerisms, thoughts, and dreams as the earliest homo sapiens did. We would prefer to believe that our surroundings of steel and glass are what we are determined by and that surely, we are more than what we have been. This is an old lie, told only by vainglorious modernists and self-obsessed starlets who cloak their unwillingness to accept the past and present in unswerving loyalty to the future. The man who lived 200,000 years ago scratching a living off rocks and dressing in a loincloth made of mammoth skin is much the same as the man who lives today and owns a dishwasher and knows calculus. They are the same because their innermost natures are identical. The only meaningful attributes we possess are the ones we inherit from our forebears. We are

ENCIRCLED Akul Mittal ’25

its burial for granted. Too often we assume that our foundation is the civilization we have manufactured and synthesized instead of reaching deeper to taste more bitter waters. I may sound like a breathless and raving false prophet of doom, but we as a community, state, nation, globe, and species must be ever vigilant. We must cherish our shared and accepted freedoms, but we cannot let them devolve into mindless fanaticism. We must also refrain from loosening the bonds altogether. The human race naturally tends towards hierarchy. We are constantly stratifying ourselves, in ways from political beliefs to economic station to fashion preferences. Even in a communist paradise, I am confident that people would find some way to think they are better or worse than others. It is an urge that cannot be eradicated by egalitarianism. Rather, it must be mitigated by modes of travel between higher and lower tiers. For now, our solution is money, but that only goes so far. A truly egalitarian society is not one where no hierarchy exists, but one where it is just as easy to go up as it is to go down. The greatest folly of man is to think

himself above nature. In the end, nature dictates everything, even its own destruction and renewal. We believe we have beaten nature at its own game and created our own mechanisms of control. But what are we trying to control? Our own nature! What is telling us to control our nature? Again, our own nature! I attempted to interfere with natural law when I tried to save Giulia’s chick. But what told me to do so? What stopped me from doing so? This is the true beauty of sapiens: the ability for nature to override itself as a result of itself. Even this very paper is nature trying to explain itself, a marvelous thought indeed. Human nature drives human action which in turn sires human events. It is in this way that the great, ever-moving wheel of time keeps turning and we with it. No words can change this primordial pattern, merely feebly attempt to explain it. We will never know the true origin or essence of existence, but we can try to know what it has instilled in us. Understanding our shared innate nature is the utmost peak of purpose, an endeavor to which we must all strive, if only for our own gratification.

reaching through Jacob Lobdell ’25

the final piece

SECTION THREE

con verg Ence

writing the last chapter. Painting the last stroke. Placing the last piece. are you proud of the image that stares back?

STARS AND STRIPES

Zachary Bashour ’24

AMERICA POEM

by Aditya Shivaswamy ’24

What encapsulation of word can serve the land

Which breathes through three hundred million Who hate and love and toil and rest and When all is said and done simply just want to live in America?

Some have roots that dig deep into the soil of its history Gnarled and twisted and hardened and rotten And God do they cherish those tendrils but to me It’s strange: I don’t see why. So what does it mean to me, then, America?

Like a childhood friend now obscured by no connection I hear of its maladies daggering deep down in dark distance from those who sigh But to my eyes rooted in my home, in my life, in my time, then I do not see its dark underbelly or lustrous hide: it is merely absent in anima. So where is my America?

I am a chronic visitor gingerly stepping with padded feet in broken-in living rooms, Not unwelcome, in danger, or entirely foreign, nor wholly embraced. I stay in this Bed and Breakfast, another paying customer sustained By its provided bread and the occasional “Oh, it’s you again” from my host, America.

It deals me a hand, a somewhat valued customer with just a little possibility Of returned investment, to keep me in the game, pulling my mind to it In the magnetic duel of dual heritages so that I am entrenched in this land. But I have no issue with it. Because it has raised me; it has made me American.

Manchesta

Zack Goforth ’24

THrough the DooR

by Thomas Goglia ’23

The rain tapped on the windshield, making its soft pitter patter as the car crept ever onward down the winding, pine-lined road. Then the wall of trees opened to reveal a large field of brown with a snaking gravel path leading to a single decrepit house framed by a colorless sky. Rotted siding and peeling paint wrapped the house, but though it was old, it wasn’t ominous. Nothing about it inspired fear. Far below in a rocky alcove, waves ebbed and flowed on a pebbled beach, but the sound never quite climbed all the way up the steep cliff separating them from the house.

There she is.

The car hopped off the road with a badump and made its steady way down the path, the stones grinding under the weight of the moving vehicle. As the car pulled to a stop at the portico, a pair of black dress shoes scuffed at the bottom from rough terrain stepped out. The young man had tired, yet determined, eyes and a scruffy face.

Grabbing hold of the partly rusted handle, the man opened one of the yellowed double doors and stepped into what looked like a cross between a beach house and a manor. Directly in front of him, leading who knows where, sat a carpeted central staircase perpendicular to one long hallway running near the front of the house. Following some strange intuition, the pair of scuffed dress shoes started walking down the left hallway towards the window past door after door. But right before touching the window, he turned, pulled by some invisible force through the last door on the right.

As he passed through that door, another hallway stretched before him, this one ending in an ashy door. The door embodied the house––the soft wood with gray, peeling paint, still strong and sturdy despite its age––neglected, but not destroyed. The slightest of pale-purple glows crept out from the cracks around it, framing the door with an enticing light. The muted light seemed to beckon him. It demanded his attention. It demanded that he step closer. Behind that door was the past, the present, and the future. This was the door he had come for. There was no doubt about it. The whole stretch of time called to him. It begged to be explored.

And yet the tired eyes kept their arrow-like focus on their goal.

Time seemed to slow as the black leather shoes crept along the worn red carpet, every step requiring more effort than the last. After an eternity, the man stopped an arm’s length from the door, reached out a calloused hand, and turned the handle to reveal an empty room. Stepping in, the man closed his tired eyes and focused.

The eyes opened a moment later to cascading mountains and the spanning greenery of northeast Austria. A quaint little town with cobbled streets sung the tune of another workday. The wide, winding river floated lazily along, still too cold for the swimming of the summer months. Puffy white clouds dashed the air. It was like stepping into a painting.

Please…

Sprinting for the door past piles of debris, the man’s shoes started to crack, and his suit tie flew wildly in his face. Step by step, the man neared the door, keeping his tired eyes on their target. The door grew larger and larger in his view, his goal coming closer into his grasp.

He reached out a calloused hand to rip open the door, to get out of this beautifully violent world and back to the comforts of home, but his hand didn’t make contact, nor did his face or his shoulders or the rest of his body. He fell right through into an infinite dark abyss.

After a few seconds, the darkness gave way to a rainbow of colors swirling around him: reds, yellows, blues, and colors he had never seen before. They all swirled around him, engulfing him and overwhelming him in their brilliance. The colors then drew back and quickly condensed into one endless line stretching before him, as thin as a sewing thread, crackling and vibrating. He passed his eyes up and down the line trying to take it in, staring at it and studying it. Then out of the silence came footsteps, faint at first but growing louder. Looking around, the tired eyes could see nothing, and his ears couldn’t perceive a direction either. The footsteps were all around him, engulfing him as the silence had only moments ago. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder, commanding, yet tender, and he turned. He saw nothing, only the crackling line with its flashing color and the endless void. Then a voice spoke, deep and resonant with the same qualities as the hand.

“Why are you here?”

“I just fell into this pit. Who are you? Where are you, for that matter? What’s going on? I just want to go home.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“You’ve accomplished your task, haven’t

you?”

“Yeah, and that’s exactly why I want to go home now!”

“What’s waiting for you when you get there?”

“Rest. Familiarity. I don’t know.”

“And after you rest?”

“Huh?”

“After you rest? You have the whole rest of your life before you. You stand at a unique crossroads. I see your life flashing before you on that line: raised from birth, trained from youth. Your whole life has led to that moment, to ‘right the wrongs of history’ as your parents preached it. They trained you well. Your training did not fail you. But now it’s over. Kind of anticlimactic, I dare say. So what now? What does somebody do with the rest of his life once he’s reached the top?

This flashing rainbow line you see before you is the Timeline, and it needs a new keeper. You may not be able to tell, but I am now an old man. I’ve served my time. I have been poring over time to find someone powerful enough to replace me.”

“I…I’m sorry, what?”

“Since the beginning of time a Timeline keeper has made sure everything is in check and running as it’s supposed to. See how the line quivers and crackles. Time is a delicate thing, you know. Someone has to stick around, just in case.”

“And you want me to be that person?”

“Precisely.”

“But why?”

“I think I just see a little bit of me in those tired eyes and worn-out dress shoes.”

“Hmm.”

“Yeah, it’s not a very precise science.”

“I see…. I’ll do it.”

After a moment of silence, the line started lifting and bending over itself, the ends barreling infinitely into the distance, while the middle formed the silhouette of an old turtle.

“If you choose this path, we have one

I see your life flashing before you on that line: raised from birth, trained from youth.

formality to complete: the journey. You may be trained physically, but nobody can prepare for the journey.”

“Sounds great; let’s do it.”

The turtle opened its mouth wide and chomped down on the man. Colors swirled around him once more, and out of the chaos emerged a black hand, parting the color like a curtain to reveal an opening. A woman with

long brown hair framing her face stepped out, clearing the curtain to let him through. There she is.

He followed her, his worn shoes silent in the black void. His mind flashed back to moments of their life: riding bikes in the street, eating ice cream on a park bench. The flashes continued: her guitar on the porch, him singing along. Christmas and New Year’s Eves.

The DocKs Aidan Peck ’23

Water Plant

Christopher Guffey ’26

Late-night study sessions and walks around the block. Loud parties with them awkwardly sitting together in the corner, only getting up to dance when the party is winding down. A water gun fight on the football field and staring at the sky at night. A kiss outside on an overcast day and holding hands on the way to class. A hug while he is crying and, on a different occasion, when she is. A final sentimental lunch before splitting ways for college. Two-hour-long phone calls and photos on a wall. “I miss you” and “I’ll see you over Winter Break.” A bus and a biker with low visibility at night. A crash, a crunch, and a call to 911.

“I…”

Take me back.

“If she’s gone, what’s waiting for you when you get back?”

“I need to go back.”

“But there’s nothing there for you.”

“No. I need to live. I need to save her. Here I am waiting to take a back seat by signing myself up as Timeline keeper. I’m sorry, but I’ve come to my senses. Staying here stewing in the knowledge that I can save her is a fate as bad as death.”

“It’s like I said, nobody can prepare for the journey. I thought you were the one, but you have failed. I’m sorry.”

“The only way I’ve failed is having not saved her earlier. Keep your Timeline. There has to be someone else you can find to guard it. That’s not my problem right now. Just take me back.”

The Timeline, quivering and crackling as if on the brink of shattering slowly bent to form a doorway with violet light shining through a hazy mist inside. After one last look, the scuffed shoes silently stepped through. Everything went dark as the tired eyes closed one last time.

The man felt a few wet drops on his head. He opened his eyes and looked up at a dark grey sky. A few black light poles scattered along

a university campus road cast yellow light in soft circles on the ground every couple hundred feet, the light illuminating the thick fog on its way down. The man carefully passed his eyes up and down the tree-lined avenue to catch any sign of a bicycle reflector. He saw none. A little down the way stood a blue bus with its doors open. The man yelled for it to wait up and darted off after it from under cover, the rain suddenly rising to a downpour. As he continued sprinting down the path, the bus started to pull out to continue its route. The rain pounded harder and harder as the gap between the bus and the man shrank and shrank. Finally reaching the end of the bus, the man started to bang the side as he ran. After a moment, the bus slowed to a crawl and stopped in reluctant response to his assault, opening its side door once again. The warm light of the bus interior embraced him as he entered the nearly empty bus. A few students were on their phones. One in the front who was reading looked up at the drenched, new passenger, then continued her work.

“How ‘bout the weather today,” mumbled the man to nobody in particular. The driver grunted in acknowledgement. The man glanced at him, then slumped down into the first seat. As the bus chugged back up to speed, the man lifted his tired eyes once more and caught the flash of a bike reflector safely crossing the road a couple of yards in front of the bus. He straightened up, looking as closely as he could at the pedestrian. There she was: the unmistakable long brown hair he knew so well, soaked and inelegant as ever. He sighed and relaxed back into his chair, closing his eyes and feeling a new wetness on his cheeks completely distinct from the rain and a feeling in his throat he hadn’t felt in a long time.

“Are you all right, sir?” the woman with the book whispered, leaning over from the row next to him.

“Yeah.… Yeah, I think I am.”

ceramics

Bailong lantian

three monkey chalices

Fish Tank

henry

the bull

by Arnav Lahoti ’24

The bull was a magnificent specimen. He was a fearsome beast, with broad shoulders and proud horns that curved menacingly above his head. His muscles rippled underneath his sleek, tough hide; his tawny fur was speckled with black impurities; and his powerful legs sent small vibrations wherever he set foot. Not a single person in the entire settlement knew how the bull came to haunt their town, but he was there, and it seemed as if he had always been there, watching as events developed. Neither animal nor human had even considered entering the bull’s vicinity, for no one dared disturb him when he rested along the road. No one, that is, except for the boy.

The boy was a short, skinny creature, with a round face that lacked any distinguishing features. He was of the quiet sort and only minded his own business. When he was in a crowd, he tended to blend into the masses. When he was alone, no one paid him any attention, for he always seemed to be part of the background. He hailed from a middle-class family, but that status did not mean anything in the sleepy little village of self-sustaining farmers.

Every morning, the bull would lie in a different stretch of the same road. Every morning, the boy would walk within twenty feet of the bull and would admire it. He would swing his head back and forth, swaying to the rhythm of the bull’s swishing tail. He would stand and count each black mark on the bull’s pelt, counting more spots every day.

After seventeen minutes spent gazing at the bull, the boy would slowly and silently stalk forward ten feet. The bull would stand up and snort in warning, prompting the boy to dash as fast as he could. After running several yards, the bull would decide that the boy was not worth the chase and would soon go back to stretching out along the road again. The boy would continue down the road until he reached the school.

The school was a small red building resembling a barn. It was perfectly symmetrical, with a large flagpole standing erect in front of the building and a small outhouse standing discreetly behind the school. On the flagpole, two flags swayed proudly in the wind, boldly displaying their flashy colors. The name of the school stood out in bold white letters above the doorway. Its two windows were always open, revealing the school’s only classroom. Only twenty people attended the high school.

One day, the boy dodged the bull and trudged up the road to school as usual. He

reached over and grabbed the doorknob, turning it and stepping through the threshold. Once he entered the classroom, his eyes traced the familiar patterns in the stone floor as he automatically walked towards his seat in the back-left corner of the classroom. Several minutes later, the other students poured in, chattering excitedly among themselves. Nobody gave the boy a glance, nor did the boy look at them.

The boy sat through the English lecture as he did every day, halfheartedly taking notes. He looked across the sea of desks until his eyes found the window, and he gazed earnestly out at the bright blue sky, seeking new cloud formations. Suddenly, the bell loudly rang three times, startling the boy out of his thoughts and signaling the start of lunch. The boy quietly took out a plain brown paper bag and pulled out his lunch: a simple peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Within fifteen minutes, he had finished the sandwich, and he sat with his head down on the table, looking at the nearest wall and finding that yesterday’s stains had not vanished. The clamor of the rest of the children talking and playing faded into the background as he let his thoughts envelop him.

Suddenly, he was disturbed from his reverie by someone gently nudging him. He turned around in confusion and saw a boy he recognized as Lawrence, a tall, slim kid with incredible athletic prowess. He was also intelligent and amicable, and he was friends with everyone in the school, except for the boy.

The boy cocked his head and looked inquisitively toward Lawrence. The boy was unsure what to say, so he decided to let Lawrence speak first.

“Want to join in our game of soccer? Someone moved out, so we have an uneven number. If you join, it will be an even tenon-ten matchup,” Lawrence said, raising his

eyebrows at the boy.

The boy looked around in panic, at a loss for words. “Um, my leg hurts,” he finally replied in a quiet voice, head tilted toward the table. He glanced up at Lawrence’s face and said, “Sorry.”

“That’s okay. I hope you will be able to play with us soon,” Lawrence said warmly.

The boy timidly nodded and turned back to the wall. His heart pounded, and he put his hand over his chest. He tried to put the thought of playing with the other kids out of his mind, but for the rest of the day he could feel a nagging sensation in the back of his head. As he went back home, he indulged himself by thinking about the idea of playing soccer with the others. He knew he was fast, a byproduct of running from the bull for so many years, and he thought he could kick as well as anyone else. So, why could he not play with the others? Immediately, he shook his head and dismissed the idea.

For the next few days, everyone ignored the boy as usual. Lawrence would occasionally glance over sympathetically at the boy, but the boy would just clutch his leg, and Lawrence would nod and look away. As the days passed, the boy felt a mixture of relief and disappointment.

It was not to last, however. Just over two weeks after the boy’s harrowing encounter with Lawrence, at a time when the boy had all but forgotten about the conversation, someone approached the boy during lunch.

“How is your leg feeling? Do you think you can play with us yet?”

Surprised, the boy whipped around in his seat and stared at the newcomer. He had seen this stranger before in school, and the teacher had called him “Jackson.” Jackson was short and stocky, but he was astonishingly fast. His legs could work almost as fast as his brain,

which could come up with witty retorts in seconds. He was not as popular as Lawrence, but Jackson had a certain easygoing aura about him that made him a fun person to be around.

The boy stared at Jackson in confusion. The boy was dumbfounded as to what Jackson was referring to. Luckily, Jackson misinterpreted the pause.

“Oh, sorry, I must have interrupted your thoughts. I was just asking if your leg was still hurting and if you will be able to play soccer with us.”

“My leg is fine now,” the boy stuttered in reply. Immediately, he reprimanded himself. He should have kept the charade going. Or should he have? The boy shook his head and went back to admonishing himself.

“So, you can play with us now?” Jackson asked hopefully.

The boy felt cornered. For some reason, he did not want Jackson to feel disappointed, so he replied, “Sure.”

“Awesome!” Jackson pumped his fist and ran over to the other kids to tell them the news. The boy looked over at the group and saw Lawrence grinning broadly at him. The boy hid his face in his hands and slumped in his chair. He glumly picked at his sandwich and tore a few chunks out of the bread.

After about fifteen minutes, Lawrence weaved his way through the desks until he reached the boy. “Come on, the game is about to start,” Lawrence said.

“I am coming,” the boy replied. He slowly got up to his feet and waded through the army of chairs until he reached the exit, where Jackson was excitedly waiting for him. As

the boy walked out into the grassy plain that existed behind the school, he felt everyone’s eyes on him. He spun in a full circle, but nobody was looking at him, and he exhaled in relief. The sun seemed to cut straight into his soul, and he shook in nervous anticipation.

All the other kids skipped their way to the soccer field without a care in the world, and the boy uncharacteristically watched them. He shook his head in dismay. Did they not realize how important this game was?

Soon, the other kids were all in position, and Lawrence called out for the boy to come and join them. The boy walked over to where Lawrence pointed and saw Jackson waiting eagerly. Just as the boy was about to cross into the soccer field, he had an idea.

“I feel sick. Start without me,” he called out, in the loudest voice he had ever used before. Lawrence frowned, but Jackson gave the boy a thumbs-up, and the boy ran over into the little brown outhouse that was behind the school.

The boy stood just behind the door of the outhouse and shuddered. He dared not go back to the other kids. Play soccer? What was he thinking? His life was perfectly fine as it was; why would he want to play soccer? But no matter how hard he thought, a little voice in the back of his head kept saying, “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to play soccer. One day could not possibly hurt you, right?”

The boy stubbornly refused to give in to that voice, but it would not go away. Some things are just inevitable, thought the boy. Yet he stood there in the outhouse until recess was over. When the bell rang, he slowly walked out of the outhouse and into the classroom.

He ignored the pointed stares of his classmates and focused on his schoolwork. As soon as school was over, the boy ran out of the classroom and followed the long road home.

The next day, he walked into class with defeat lying on his shoulders. He knew what was to come, and he decided that he was not

no matter how hard he thought, a little voice in the back of his head kept saying, “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to play soccer. One day could not possibly hurt you, right?”

going to be nervous any longer. At recess, he boldly strode out into the soccer field and took his place among his team. He did not mention the previous day’s turn of events and neither did his classmates. With every kick and every pass, the boy felt a growing sense of pride and relief. He felt like a different person. When he scored his first goal, he thought he would explode with happiness.

But something else happened at that moment. The boy could feel it undermining his exultation. A seed germinated in his heart. He could not place what it was at first, but he soon realized. It was fear. It was no ordinary fear; it was not the fear the boy felt at embarrassing himself on the soccer field. No, it was a deeper fear. It was the primal fear all humans are born with. Some manage to smile past it or overwhelm dread with enthusiasm, but the fear would not let go of the boy. By the end of lunch, the fear had poisoned his heart and sliced through his soul.

The boy ignored the fear as much as he could, and the next morning, he woke up with a new feeling: eagerness. For the first time he could remember, he was excited about something. He could not recall what he was excited for, but the next moment, he knew: he was excited for soccer.

He walked back onto the road to school and skipped along happily. He smiled at everyone he saw and looked straight in front of him, even as it hurt his neck. Eventually, he reached the bull again. He stopped for a second to admire the bull, and he quickly took in the fact that the bull had almost twice as many spots as he remembered. It was of no matter, however, and the boy shrugged. He crept up carefully to the bull, as he had always done, and when the bull stood up and snorted, he tensed his legs to run.

That was when it happened. The terror in his heart exploded, and the boy widened his eyes in shock. The bull charged. The boy ran. Suddenly, the boy stopped running. But the bull kept charging.

Sam Adams ’23

FLYING HALF MAST

Zachary Bashour ’24

STARS BARS

by Hayden Meyers ’24

Amidst the amber waves and purple mountains, Lies a land once revered as a beacon of hope. But now, the star-spangled banner droops, Like a wilted flower in a scorching sun. The land of the free has become a prison, With bars made of prejudice and fear. Her people are caged, like birds without wings, Their songs muffled by the clamor of hate. The grand old dame of democracy, Now wears a mask of apathy and despair. Her once-bright eyes now glazed and distant, Her voice a hoarse whisper in a crowded room. Greed and power rule this once-great land, Like vultures circling over the dying. The promise of justice is but a mirage, A cruel joke played on the desperate and the poor. Oh, America, what have you become?

A shadow of your former self, a broken dream in a shattered land, A melody silenced by the dissonance of hatred. May you find your way back to the light, And shed the chains that bind you to darkness. May you rise like a phoenix from the ashes, And once again shine as a beacon of hope.

Again, again, and again

by Bennett Applbaum ’24

As an immigrant steps off the boat in New York City, He slips and falls down, But like a fisherman out of bait, He’ll get up and try again. He gets a job cleaning chimneys, And as he climbs up the ladder to the roof Someone shakes him off and he falls, But he’ll get up and try again.

He now runs for office and wants to criminalize ladder-shaking He knows that candidates are like gamblers, Whoever starts with the most money, Gets to play the longest. Nonetheless, he is determined. The shaky-ladder company allies with his rival, And the man faces bitter defeat, But he’ll get up and try again.

He decides to give his children an education, And watches them get perfect scores, But when the time comes to apply to college, They are denied again and again. The man thinks to himself, “Surely they could go here!” But the school didn’t want any immigrants, So they got up and tried again.

The man’s descendants were wealthy businesspeople, Who like their ancestors before them, Kept trying until they found success. They lived in penthouses on the top floor, With views of the whole city, But their telescopes pointed to the harbor, To see immigrants get off the ferry, Slip, get up, and try again

LEATHERED HANDS

For his eighth short film, junior Hayden Meyers produced a documentary entitled Leathered Hands. The film details the life of Jim Patton, the best friend of Meyers’ grandfather. Patton has worked on ranches as a professional cowboy for more than 50 years. The film was showcased at the ISAS Art Festival in April.

ISAS ART FESTIVAL FEATURE FILM

STILLS FROM THE FILM

LEATHERED HANDS

by Hayden Meyers ’24

Coming into St. Mark’s in the ninth grade, Hayden Meyers ’24 quickly found a place of comfort on campus: videography and the film studies program. Now a junior, he has had the opportunity to work on a number of projects at 10600, both personal and for the school. He adds to his catalog with his most recent short film Leathered Hands. In this project, he documented the life of professional cowboy Jim Patton. Patton, who Hayden met through his maternal grandfather, has worked on ranches for more than half a century, the overwhelming majority of his life. Patton has had the privilege of working on farms as big as the King Ranch based in Houston, TX. Meyers used the documentary to help portray what life is really like for those who work as cowboys. In order to dispel the notions and stereotypes about cowboys, he interviewed Patton and spent time with him on a ranch. Hayden’s previous work has won awards at local and regional film festivals, and Leathered Hands formally debuted at the Independent Schools Association of the Southwest Arts Festival. Below are some still images that were included in the film’s preview release on March 23.

1. A windmill that Patton walks by on his way home

2. The well that he uses for ranchwork

3. Patton in his home in front of the fireplace

4. Hay bales that Patton will use during the day

seasonal metamorphosis

by Jack Cohen ’23

Mountains

Charlie Estess ’23

All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair–The bees are stirring–birds are on the wing–And Winter slumb’ring in the open air, Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!

Ev’n in the end of Winter’s prolonged rage, There’s a beauty that cannot be denied. The stark white land, the glacial-ridden stage, The way this vigorous world slows and hides.

Winter cedes its grip, spring blossoms anew, A rich fervor invigorates once more. The red roses bud, the ground’s whispers brew, A new dawn breaks as this world is reborn.

Nature’s fair beauty is on full display, A reminder of this life’s endless sway.

MARCH TO FREEDOM

Patrick Flanagan ’24

DEAR U.S.

by Noah Cathey ’24

I want to talk about what you did to your brother, Sam. How you broke into his home like a thief in the night and stole his freedom. Stuffed him in the belly of a boat and shipped him to your New World.

When he got this continent, you classified him as property. Counted him as less than human. Put him up for auction and separated him from his family.

You exploited your brother to the fullest. Built an empire on his back and constructed your kingdom with his hands. Chained him with poverty and despair and left him with the low on the hog.

When he began to realize his ability, you held him down. Forbade him to read and write. Stuck him in a mold he had no hand in building. Asked him to run a race, knowing he was starting miles behind.

Your brother grew loud and confident, and you silenced him. Banned his songs and stripped him of his culture. Brainwashed him with concepts created for someone else.

Sam, you made him fight wars. Put your flag next to his name and called it opportunity. Threw him in trenches and buried him in bunkers. Made him risk his life knowing there will be no hope or help back home.

Even after his unyielding loyalty, you lied to him. Never gave him forty acres and a mule. Forced him to work twice as hard for half as much. Sold him a chance at prosperity, but your check bounced.

I want to talk about how you treat him now. How you see him as a target in his own neighborhood. Tremble at the smallest display of his might. Accuse him of treason and shove him behind bars.

You may have done these things to my father, Uncle Sam. But you will not do them to me.

NATIONAL PHOTOGRAPHY COMPETITION

YOUNGARTS week

During National YoungArts Week Jan. 8-15, two seniors received the highest YoungArts Finalist award in photography, with only ten similar awards given in the entire country. Winners Charlie Estess and Neil Song share their portfolio and artist statements.

YOUNGARTS FINALIST

NEIL SONG

THE ARTIST STATEMENT

Photography is the assembly of realities. It first began as a way to capture a moment in time, and as I became more technically skilled, it became my way to capture glimpses into separate worlds. As a form of expression, photography is, in my opinion, the ideal mix between a physical and digital manifestation of a concept, defined by light and perfect detail. What strikes me as beautiful about photography is its simultaneity of digital expressive freedom and physical aesthetic reality. No other form of expression quite illustrates that same balance of those two seemingly conflicting but instead complementary forces. Photography allows the viewer into the artist’s dream with a physical sense of familiarity.

balanced-tension

Conceptual portfolio by Neil Song ’23

My first conceptual portfolio, Balanced-Tension, is specifically designed and purposefully crafted to express and encapsulate the “one-word” conceptual notions and underpinnings of “Balance” and “Tension.” In a world so precariously complex, these ideas continually conflict to both maintain and disturb a dynamic equilibrium, whose effects can be seen not only in careful observation, but also in daily life. Through the illustrative nature of photography and design, Balanced-Tension aims to reflect and demonstrate that equilibrium in novel perspective. I have always been fascinated with “the moment before,” rather than the critical moment itself. I wish to illustrate the abstract emotion and concepts associated with anticipation through a point in time that maintains balance indefinitely or shatters it in the next.

POINTED POKED

Conceptual

portfolio by

Neil Song ’23

My second conceptual portfolio, 中 (pronounced zhong), is a conceptual dive into my identity, heritage, and culture. My parents are immigrants from China who came to the United States in the hopes of living the American Dream. My father was a farmer’s son and was raised with the traditions of the Chinese countryside, and my mother was raised in the numbing winters of northern China. As the son of immigrants, I was raised a culture different from that of my peers. I learned the severity of failure and filial piety, heard the legends of Buddhism, experienced acupuncture and herbal medicine, adapted to Oriental standards of beauty, and celebrated the Mid-Autumn and Spring Festivals every year. 中 is a reflection of the intricacies within a heritage often misunderstood or mystified in the West and is my expression of a side of my identity that few of my peers know.

NEEDLE OF QI

shadow of beauty

MEDITATING LOTUS

(Needle of Qi) – Acupuncture and Chinese medicine have both played a significant role in my life. Whenever anyone in my family struggled with an illness and Western medicine was not effective, Chinese herbal medicine was the immediate alternative. Both of these are founded on the concept of Qi, best described as “vitality” or “life force” within the body, and it is believed that the opening of “meridians” at specific points on the body (the green circles in the photograph) allows Qi to flow better, thus healing ailments.

(To Gamble) – Mahjong is an exceedingly popular tabletop game in Chinese culture and is essentially analogous to poker in Western culture. It is played both in countryside villages by neighborhood grandparents and upscale establishments by affluent businessmen. However, the Chinese have a long and troubled history of gambling in Mahjong – both inside and outside the casino. My father has told me countless stories of friends gambling away their houses and fortunes, and he himself had an addiction to playing and gambling in Mahjong before he quit in his forties.

(Shadow of Beauty) – Oriental beauty standards and their associated symbols (cherry blossoms, traditional fans, etc.) are still a significant part of Chinese culture. Often, however, I have felt and seen that in the culture, external appearance casts a shadow upon the true self, relegating character and identity to the darkness. The ongoing cultural shift of more accepting beauty standards in America is not mirrored in Chinese culture, which remains heavily focused on a person’s appearance.

(Meditating Lotus) – As I was growing up, Buddhist legends and myths were not uncommon tales told at the dinner table or in Chinese class. Although the importance of meditation and the sacred Lotus in Buddhism has fallen off in modern Atheist Chinese culture, it was integral to the culture before the Cultural Revolution and remains a significant part of the traditional heritage. It also remains influential in the Chinese countryside – my father’s side of the family still observes some Buddhist traditions today.

(Ten Thousand Failures) – Chinese culture treats failure significantly differently than Western culture. In the West, we say, “Failure is the mother of success.” However, in Chinese culture, failure is unacceptable, shameful, and embarrassing. This photograph articulates the way I have embraced the Chinese cultural gravity of incompetence while adopting the Western fearlessness of repeated failures.

YOUNGARTS FINALIST

charlie estess

THE ARTIST STATEMENT

My early experiences with photography were more concerned with technique and my efforts centered around making wellcrafted images that simply “looked good.” I found the process of making images to be gratifying and enjoyable, but I both struggled and refused to use photography as a means of deeper expression. Four years ago, I was diagnosed with stage IV Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. Rather than taking the time to analyze, hate, feel, appreciate, or learn, I coped by simply burying

IV

Conceptual portfolio

by Charlie Estess ’23

IV is a collection of images attempting to explore and document the defining moments of my experience as a teenager with stage IV cancer. The most agonizing part of being a cancer patient often isn’t the disease itself, but rather it’s feeling like you’re a cancer patient. The images seek to depict the most sickening and painful parts of my personal experience…the parts that made me feel like I was a cancer patient. Even when I was fortunate to find some sense of normalcy to distract from the horror inside, there were certain things that would rip me back to my reality. IV aims to depict those terribly intimate things objectively and with little emotion. Because ultimately, cancer did not take me, and I will not let it define me.

that part of my life. I convinced myself that whatever benefit were to come out of that reflection, it would not be worth the pain that would come with excavating those memories and emotions. The process of reflecting upon my experience and creating images that illustrate my journey has been both scary and liberating. I’ve realized that photography has since become a means by which I am able to express emotion while addressing any number of life’s challenges.

Pennies

Pennies - Before and after every chemotherapy infusion, nurses do what’s known as a “saline flush.” The mixture of salt and water is designed not only to sterilize intravenous lines, but also to force any medication left in the line into your vein. Its main side effect is a taste in patients’ mouths: copper pennies. After countless flushes, my body associated the penny taste with infusion, and I would gag until it dissipated.

Straightjacket - In my mind, the hospital gown signaled weakness, vulnerability, convalescence. The material felt sterile, and whenever I wore it, I felt like the gown was devouring me. The last thing I wanted to do was look in my closet and see a reminder that I was sick, that I was a patient, that I had cancer.

Port - A port is a plastic device surgically placed under the skin of cancer patients at the beginning of the treatment process to more efficiently deliver drugs into the body. When I slept at night, I would occasionally brush my arm against it. I would scratch it until it bled, praying that somehow it would disappear so I could embrace the release that was sleep.

duck feathers

Duck Feathers - Three weeks and four days into my treatment, I woke up to see a web of brown strands on my pillow. I could only watch as the coarse, thick hair that my dad had always called “duck feathers” fell from my head. Tears came to my eyes as I truly realized for the first time that I was a cancer patient. I shaved the rest of my head just hours later.

Shiver - As I sat in a chair with the chemotherapy pumping into me, the chill resulting from the IV line that ran up my skin held me back from the sleep I so desperately wanted, and it served as a constant reminder of the frigid poison dripping into my chest.

Liquid Gold - I kept a bag of pineapples on my bedroom floor. My anxiety the mornings before infusions caused such violent nausea that smelling the juice I squeezed out of bagged pineapples as I sat against my wall was the only way to escape vomiting.

Tegaderm - After I checked in for each infusion, the nurse taking my vitals would glance at her computer and ask for my arm as she fastened an allergy bracelet to my wrist. I would walk to the infusion room, cursing myself for letting my arm be tagged with such a defining constriction. As I felt the overtight plastic begin to pool the blood under my skin, I couldn’t help but relate the hold it had on my hand to cancer’s hold on my mentality.

Red Devil - Doxorubicin is one of the most toxic chemotherapy drugs in the world. Called “The Red Devil,” it gets its name from its bright red color. The feeling that came over my body as it dripped into my system can only be described as hell, making the nickname all the more accurate. One side effect of the drug is reddish-colored urine. Even postinfusion, the unsettling sight brought back the pain I was so eager to never feel again.

Liquid gold

Red Devil Tegaderm

Piso Seis - The elevator leading to the 6th floor of Children’s Hospital was called the train elevator. Upon arrival at the floor, the overhead speaker would loudly ring, “Piso seis!” before letting out an obnoxious “Choo-Choo!” The forced positivity made me angry, especially for an elevator leading to a floor completely devoid of it.

Not Available - With the steroids I was on, I went from skin and bones to overweight almost overnight. I struggled with my own body image. I was embarrassed, and I hated how sickly I looked. My pale skin, patchy head, filled out cheeks, and sunken eyes turned me into what I could only see as ghastly. I would lash out at friends and family trying to get me in photos. The result: a void in my photographic timeline.

Piso Seis

MORGAN CHOW & NOAH CATHEY

LETTERS FROM THE EDITORS

I still remember the day I decided to get serious about graphic design and digital art. Eighth grade. Centennial Commons. Last period. The 2018 Marque and Focus magazines. Two publications I had somehow missed the year before, were sitting next to each other.

At the time, I was just starting with the Middle School literary magazine Mini-Marque, but the artistry and eye-catching graphics of these two books propelled me to follow my notorious passion so eagerly to this day. I made it my dream to become the editor of these two magazines.

Five years later, I find myself around an empty Harkness table in H109, the dream fulfilled and completed. But it’s bittersweet.

As I write this, it’s a Monday in the middle of my very last ReMarker Production Week and only days before AP class finals: the workload of a typical St. Mark’s night.

Sometimes it’s overwhelming, I can’t lie. But all these nights of sitting in an empty journalism suite in complete silence, save the light tapping of my laptop keys, have shown me a valuable lesson in finding ways to enjoy the grind. Music. Food. Friends. Neil Yepuri.

So I’m grateful that this incredible publication has taught me to lead, learn, and grow.

Noah, thanks for keeping me on track and letting me know when I’m obsessing too much about a cover I’ve already finished or a spread that looks completely normal.

Mrs. Schwartz and Dr. Brozovich, thank you for spending weekly nights with the staff as we grind these pages out. And for the pineapple pizza.

Finally, Mom and Dad, I’m really sorry for missing so many dinners with you guys to work on publications. I promise that after we ship, I’ll spend as much time as possible with you two before I head to New York.

Thank you, reader, for experiencing this magazine. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed creating it.

Morgz out.

- MORGAN CHOW ’ 23

It’s a Tuesday night in April. I’m sitting in the Marque suite with Morgan on my right. I just left an IDLC meeting and plan to catch some of the nationally important lacrosse game across campus after we finish here. I still have a study session for a test and an unfinished summer job application awaiting me when I get home.

If that sounds like a lot, I think tomorrow is going to be worse. But I wholeheartedly accept this busyness. Because all of these ordeals—all of these pieces—are an integral part of the puzzle I am trying to build.

Unlike my fellow editor, I have one more year at 10600. Even though I plan to assist next year’s editors in the noble endeavor that is leading this magazine, this volume of The Marque represents the completion of my three-year journey working on this publication.

This journey has not been the easiest. Trying to lead a staff in the midst of the formidable junior year has not been without its trials and tribulations. And yet, here we are. Despite its diffuculty, this year has been my favorite. Reciting hours of Hamilton. Eating every possible brand of pizza. Diving into unforgettable conversations with the “sophs.” I will forever cherish these times.

Morgan, no one has taught me more than you. From trusting me with a Focus column last year to extensive design advice, I don’t know what I will do without you next year.

Mrs. Schwartz, thank you for your guidance in the class room and on The Marque and the sacrifices you have made to keep this publication going. Dr. Brozovich, thank you for tolerating our teenage ways and working with us this year.

Mom and Dad, thank you for taking my 3:30 call saying I need to stay ‘til 8:30 and fitting my schedule into your full calendar. Love you (Caleb & Luke, too).

To whoever got to the end of this letter, thank you. All of this is for you. Continue constructing your puzzle.

Thank you, Marque.

- NOah CatheY ’ 24

mission

Established in 1962, The Marque serves as the collection of the literary and artistic pieces created by Upper School students to summarize the academic year’s artistic expression.

policy

The Marque is an after-school extracurricular activity that works independently from the St. Mark’s journalism program. All written and visual content is welcomed and considered for publication. Throughout the year, literary works and artistic pieces are submitted by our 410-person Upper School student body and selected for publication by our staff members. 450 copies are produced and distributed to Upper School students and faculty. This publication is submitted annually for evaluation to the Columbia Scholastic Press Association (CSPA) and the National Scholastic Press Association (NSPA).

colophon

The Marque is printed by J. Culley Imaging. The cover is 130# Polar Bear White Velvet Cover, printed 4/4. Text is 80# Mohawk Options Text PC 100. Binding is PUR glue perfect binding. The staff used Adobe InDesign, Photoshop, and Illustrator CC 2023. Typefaces include: Bourbon Grotesque for titles and pull-quotes; Hoefler Text for body text; Paralucent for bylines, credits and folios. The theme was selected by the Editors-in-Chief.

St. Mark’s School of Texas 10600 Preston Road

Dallas, TX 75230

Care of Lynne Schwartz

Phone: 214-346-8126

Fax: 214-346-8002

SchwartzL@smtexas.org

The 61st volume of The Marque was published on May 12, 2023.

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