Quiver 2017

The Quiver 2017

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS

This is The Quiver. Obviously. I hope you knew the title before opening this book because on the cover page, in big letters, it says, “THE QUIVER.” Every year, the St. Sebastian’s students come together to for the editoral staff in order to pick expceptional pieces to feature in our literary magazine, which is known as The Quiver. I hope you’re keeping up. Students at St. Sebastian’s School, as well as other outside students, submit writing or artwork to the editorial staff to showcase their talents. You might find a poem that touches your soul or even a fictional story that teaches you a lesson. Either way, the editorial staff ensures that you will find someting you love. Be sure to take a look at our award winners. Pat Baron wrote a phenomenal poem called “In My Blood,” which references the story of Oedipus. Some may say that the increase of art in this year’s issue, as opposed to fiction and poetry, is due to our senior editors that were in charge. Others might say that Ethan Fidalgo just wanted his own section of art this year which takes up a lot of space (Let it be known that Ethan did not deny the previous statement). Whatever the reason may be, there is a lot of art for you to enjoy this year.

In the center pages you will find paintings, drawings, sculptures, and photography. Since there is a plethera art work, you might get inspired to make something of your own and then submit it next year. Who knows, maybe you’ll get the art award like Finn Mulligan did for his “Car in Desert” photograph. We hope you enjoy this year’s issue of The Quiver and that you will submit something next year.

Sincerely, Ethan Fidalgo & Sam Gordan

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THE QUIVER 2017 Issue A St. Sebastian’s School Publication

EDITORIAL BOARD Senior Editors Ethan Fidalgo ‘17 Sam Gordon ‘17 Art Editor Ted Duffy ‘19 Junior Editors Patrick Dufour ‘18 Patrick Ryan ‘18 Readers Stewart Smith ‘17 Thomas Wasynczuk ‘17 Jack Kerwin ‘18

Nathan Piecyk ‘19 Patrick MacDonald ‘19

Faculty Advisors Mr. Sean Cleary Mr. Adam White

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CONTENTS 5

Love Through Macaroni

Gary McCall ‘23

6

Fools and Blowhards

10

Down From Altitude to Gratitude Timmy Malloy ‘20

20

Shy

23

A tiresome Life

Anthony Perez ‘19

Kyle McCarthy ‘17

28 The Good Doctor 38

Cam Mulvey ‘17 James Esperne ‘19

A Bored Summer’s Night

Pat Dufour ‘18

40 In My Blood

Pat Barron

42-76 Selected Art 78

Dead on Arrival

Will Evans ‘17

84

El Dia de Accion de Gracias Griffin Wagner ‘19

85

Gallery

86

Not Only in February

Ethan Fidalgo ‘17

87 Section 26 Imitation

Patrcik Dufour ‘18

88 One Wish 90 Nighttime

91 Ties 92-96

Spanish Poems

97

Dawn

Cover: Meditative, Ethan Fidalgo ‘17

Ethan Fidalgo ‘17

Patrick Ryan ‘18 Peter Finucane ‘18 Anthony Perez ‘19 Headmaster William L. Burke

Back Cover: Finn Mulligan ‘17

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LOVE THROUGH MACARONI

Gary McCall, Jr ‘23 What is love?

Is it an action, Or a thing, or maybe A feeling?

Love can be shown many ways: Memories, Materials, Or slimy, golden Macaroni and Cheese.

Grandmother are lumps of love, They love unconditionally, They show love through – maybe -- food?

Like love through macaroni Or . . .

I can see my Grandmother’s beautiful brown skin On the barbecued ribs.

My grandmother gives hugs, Shows up to every event, Lives with me because My favorite love is Love through macaroni.

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Fools and Blowhards Anthony Perez ‘19

Often times, now in my old age, I think back over my life. It became a habit ever since my early adolescence when I first entered Certamen Academy, an all-boys school, slave to no one religion. After every day- sometimes though, it didn’t take a day, just an event- I would look back, review, re-live. It became a ritual. I would indulge myself in whatever it was I had experienced, whether it was satisfaction, pain. Most often it was pain.

Early one winter morning I found myself walking to my car, not really experiencing the day, but relying on the memory of all the times I had done so before. I was not going to the car, but my memory was taking me there. I was a shell moving through a tinted sea of repetition, no end in sight. The drive was much the same, a bleak, grey picture. Pedestrians walked by, cars drove alongside me, but never next to me, if you get what I mean. The school came into view in the distance, high walls arcing around a dark, grey building. It was actually quite nice in the daylight, but winter had come to cast its shadow early this year.

The courtyard was possibly my favorite place to go if I wanted fuel for the day.

I would go and sit on one of the many protruding slabs of cold stone and listen. I would listen, not to the sounds of the obscure, ‘beautiful’ birds flying around the campus, but to the conversations of the students as they walked by. Any sane person would call me a stalker, but they say it takes a fool to know a fool, so I don’t think anyone will be calling me a stalker any time soon. Needless to say, I went to the courtyard if I felt that, overnight, I had somehow accidentally gained enough faith in humanity that I was close to saying ‘hi’ to people as I walked by them… where was I? Ah, yes, the courtyard; I would go there to lose the little faith in humanity I had left. The courtyard was a mirror.

My actual favorite place was in the science building, not because I liked science, quite the contrary actually, but there was, at the end of the hallway, a small door. This door, like all the other unappreciated parts of the school who didn’t receive enough light, was forgotten and thrown off into the corner. After discovering it and taking the small lock-pick set I kept in my wallet at all times and ‘forcing entry’ into the room, found that it wasn’t a room at all, it was a smaller hallway, more of a closet really, no longer than seven feet, and about half as wide. The second door led to a miniature office. An old wooden desk, a dusty rolling chair, somehow still reminiscent of the leathery magnificence it undoubtedly once held. Last, there was a little black box, I can’t say what was in it… can’t understand… but it was black. It was from this desk 6

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that I ran my school life, this desk was my base of operations, my safe haven.

One day I sensed that I was being followed, the sense was hard to miss, the kid had heavy feet, possible sinusitis, and I could see his reflection in a window. But I pretended not to notice, I wanted him to experience the room with me. I wanted someone else in that room with me, believe it or not I wanted to hear that congested nose next to me, I didn’t want to be alone, not that day. Or maybe I did, but I wanted to be alone next to someone, the aloneness just sort of blended together in those days.

I walked to the door, picked the lock, and went in, leaving the door half open for him. I went in, sat at the desk, and stared blankly at my eyelids. I waited, I didn’t see him walk in, I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to admit to myself what I had done. Finally, I allowed myself to be seen, and I allowed myself to see. We made eye contact. In front of me sat possibly the only competent person at Certamen: Nathan Flenderson. He looked back at me and I knew my time at the desk was over, so I walked out, leaving the door partially open behind me. He followed, I knew he would. “Jim, wait up.” A voice called to me from the back, but I don’t make a habit of looking back, just down. I stopped walking. “Was it something I said?” “You said something?” I honestly didn’t recall hearing anything. He looked at me, as if he were trying to figure me out.

He looked into my eyes, got closer, as if looking deep enough would give him the answers he was looking for. I looked for my own, but I didn’t let him look. Suddenly he was hugging me, tears came from who knows who, but they were there. I didn’t understand why there was crying, I only knew that they fit, that scene, that moment, it wasn’t complete unless they were there. “Are you going to be okay?” “Are you going to leave?” “I asked first.”

Silence.

I let my back slide against the wall, until I came to a sitting position and stayed there in that moment, there was no escape this time. He sat next to me. I knew I wasn’t alone, but it sure as hell felt like it. I felt my spirit winding down, taking down my walls with it. But suddenly I felt excited, only for a moment, but filled. The feeling overcame me. I’ve always thought back to that time, by the lockers in the science building, junior year at Certamen Academy. I always thought about what could have been, what would have been if I had let myself feel those feelings again, maybe once, maybe twice, however many times it took to make a difference. I wanted a change, and that moment was my change, my brief adventure into the unknown, and the speedy return after I saw how meaty the world really was. Then, tears still falling down, I told Nathan to leave. He looked me in the eyes with his eyes, watering. “I thought this was what you wanted,” he said, but no one really knows what they want. I told him to get the hell out of my face, but he got closer, and kept getting closer. I leaned over, as if 7

to whisper in his ear, he closed his eyes, waiting for the final blow, but nothing came out, I had nothing for him. So I let my forehead fall onto his shoulder, as if to keep it safe, or to support myself. But I took the weight from his shoulders, the weight I had put on there and I took it with me.

“Don’t go,” he whispered.

“I have to.” “But it’s not up to you,” he managed to pass the words through his mouth, “we’re in this together.” “The only thing you’re in is a state of delusion if you think I keep doing this.” I said the words, and I felt the words, but the message felt wrong, it felt false. The message was false, words were false, so I didn’t use anymore of them. As I was leaving I felt his hand touch me on the shoulder. I turned around.

I hit him. Hard. In the face. And then I left. He stayed there in the dark hallway of the science building of Certamen Prep, alone, just as I was, eyes watering, just as mine were, face stuck in an expression of disbelief and disappointment, just as mine was.

I often think back to this day not because of what happened, but because of what I did, what I ignored, what I didn’t do (or at least what I didn’t do right). I left Nathan there, I knew he was cold, he was vulnerable, but that just made it harder to be around him, but there was always the feeling that I wanted to be there with him. I kept in touch with Nathan’s life, but not with Nathan, no, the chord that had once bound us together was now broken, but I asked around, against my better judgment.

I think about that story a lot, a thought about it a lot. Whenever I was getting close to another person I would think about what I did, what it is that I’m capable of doing.

Humans are something else, I’ll tell you that. Sometimes it takes losing yourself- becoming a part of a group- to find what it is that makes you different from the group.

That’s why I always think back to that day, because I want to remind myself of pain of being a coward. The pain that comes from it, the pain while you are what you are.

Mistakes are meant to be made, and I made a big one, maybe… I don’t know really; sometimes I decide that I made the right call, other times I decide that my judgment isn’t worth a grain of salt.

For the rest of high school we didn’t talk, we barely looked at each other. I went out of my office closet and did my best to make friends, but I always stayed within the feeling of safety that my office closet gave me. Every morning, I would stay in the courtyard a little bit longer and tolerate people a little longer. After a while, I found a small group of people who didn’t piss me off enough to make me stay away, gradually I began to interact with them more and more, until I had assimilated into their weirdness. Things started to look up from there, but I didn’t want them to. I longed for the miserable days spent in the closet looking at my own reflection, making weird faces,

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just so I could see something that didn’t look right, something abnormal. I hated the way I looked, I began to hate things more. The more I thought about everything I had to lose, and everything I would lose if I didn’t lose, I felt trapped, I felt confused.

Nathan would go on to live a ‘successful’ life, or at least what was widely accepted as successful. He had a wife, kids, but I knew he had no joy, I had snuffed it out that one night. He had tried to be happy, to be himself, but I had given in to what was normal at the time, not because I wanted to be normal, but because I was afraid to be different. Bravery’s a funny thing. Some people say it’s brave to be who you are, others say you don’t have to be brave to be yourself, but I really don’t care. Feelings are a form of pleasure- we like to feel things-, but feelings don’t matter, not when you could just cry without knowing why. You can just go into your little office closet and cry your heart out, and never tell anyone why… because you’ll be alone.

You can call me successful if you want, but is success measured by what you did or what you didn’t do? What makes everything manageable, what makes what we do worth it!? What makes it worth living? Is it the people you love? The people you touch? Or is it just knowing that you always have an office closet that doesn’t care whether or not you have a reason to cry in it?

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Down From Altitude to Gratitude Timmy Malloy ‘20

Logan lazily glanced out the window of the cramped 1970 Cessna Seaplane, to the beautiful, green mountains of Maine, spread out like a thick blanket below. The small plane, flying 10,000 feet above an endless sea of evergreen trees, rattled with every bump of turbulence. The continuous sound of the screaming engine hindered speaking out loud, but thanks to the newly installed headsets, the pilot was intermittently giving scenic commentary on passing areas of interest below. The pilot, a greyhaired man with oversized aviator sunglasses and casually dressed, looked as though he was in his mid-60s. He offered little conversation, but Logan enjoyed the constant humming of the rustic engine. It gave him time to contemplate the life he was leaving behind back home​.

Having just graduated from the Avon Middle school in Hartford, Connecticut, his parents were sending him to an exclusive summer camp in northern Maine by the Canadian border for two weeks. His parents had no interest in driving him this far, so his father had hired a seaplane operator to have him flown directly to Heald Lake where the camp resided. He understood. His father, a high profile lawyer in New York, was very busy with litigation and was rarely home. His father worked hard and certainly provided a nice lifestyle for their family. They lived in a large stately house on Fandral Drive, where all the “heavy hitters” lived, his friend had told him once. He felt proud of that. His family owned a fleet of fancy cars, although they were rarely driven.

His mother, a well known “socialite,” wasn’t around much either. Logan had always wondered what a “socialite” was. He had no idea what that meant but decided some time ago it must be important. She, like his father, was forever busy with charity luncheons and dinners. Logan’s two sisters, Katlyn and Molly, were six years older and had both moved out of the home long ago when they went to boarding school. He couldn’t say the brother-sister bond was ever present. Logan felt like an only child and found life at home lonely and exhaustingly boring. He felt much too old to have a live-in nanny and resented the fact that he had to eat his dinner with her every night and not his parents. He loved his parents dearly, but couldn’t help wishing they were around a little more. He felt guilty feeling this way because his parents gave him absolutely everything money could buy. He should be content. He should be happy, but he was not.

His thoughts were interrupted by a very sudden eerie silence. Frantically, the pilot flicked and pushed multiple switches, but none brought back the reassuring sound of the engine. Flashing lights were flickering all over the cabin, indicating loss of altitude and engine failure. Logan sat helpless, gripping the side of the chair with all his strength. The sudden decrease in altitude caused the plane to jerk violently. He saw the vast green forest beneath him getting closer and a body of water closing in.

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Images rapidly raced through Logan’s mind; his mother, his father, his sisters, all the one’s he loved so much in life. He couldn’t handle the terror and began sobbing hysterically. The pilot, focused on the dials and switches, yelled into the radio for help - but no answer ever came. The plane was enveloped into a twirling free-fall, and there was nothing either of them could do about it. The pilot started ghostly at Logan and said one word, “brace.” Logan frantically checked his seatbelt and instinctively entered into crash position. Logan, with his head between his knees, had no idea when impact might come and feared the worst. His eyes were closed now, but his senses were heightened. He was overcome by the sound of the loud, persistent, alarms and the wind being sliced by the plane’s wings. There was a thunderous noise in his chest, and he realized it was his heart beating through his sweat soaked t-shirt right up into his throat and through his throbbing eyes. The pilot’s breathing came heavy and fast as he slammed buttons and beckoned on the radio for help. He sensed the impact coming before it even came. Suddenly, Logan felt the pilot’s steady hand cover his head securing him. A rush of water hit the small aircraft with the force of a bomb. The impact was sudden and powerful which caused Logan to black out. Darkness fell all around him.

When Logan came to, he noticed a steady stream of water rushing into the cabin. The pilot, who had also blacked out as a result of the crash, was now desperately fiddling with his seatbelt. The water was beginning to creep up higher, almost to Logan’s waist. Loganwas able to undo his straps and belt and quickly grasped for the pilot to help. He noticed a large piece of shrapnel driven into the pilot’s abdomen, as well as through the belt, literally nailing the pilot to his seat. Logan tried with all his might to detach the pilot from his seat, but with no luck. He knew he had to save himself, as the pilot was slowly losing consciousness. He frantically searched for the exit, in the now pitch black cabin. He found a window and kicked and punched with as much force as he could muster, but it wouldn’t budge. The cockpit was now fully submerged, and Logan’s breathing was becoming labored. There was small pocket of air left and time was running out.

Logan reached upward and miraculously found a hatch near the ceiling, which he pulled open and ripped off the wall. He was freed from the metal death capsule and began swimming towards the surface. The immense pressure of the water was pushing and pulling on his ears, and he felt as though he might implode. His arms dug through the water with all his strength and his legs kicked at the depths of the dark lake beneath him. His head was getting light, and his breath was gone. About two feet from the surface, the sides of his eyes started closing in, and he was very lightheaded; on the verge of passing out. Drowning. That’s not the way Logan was going to die. He had just survived a plane crash into a lake and wasn’t going to let death take him so easily. He forcefully pushed his head through the water and broke the surface.

His mouth opened wide and-and he gulped in the air. He stayed there, treading water, 11

for a moment, taking it all in. He had made it… well, out of the plane crash at least.

Little did Logan know, his real journey was just beginning.

The notorious and chilly waters of Maine in June was biting away at Logan’s exhausted body, but filled with adrenaline from the crash, Logan scarcely felt it.

Nearing shore, he navigated the maze of jagged rocks. He looked back to where the plane had gone down, yet all he saw was a serene bluish green lake that showed barely a ripple of distress. No sign whatsoever of the pilot. Logan went to step on a smooth flat rock, but the slimy surface caused him to slip and land with a thud. He got back up and examined his body to find multiple deep cuts and scrapes from the crash. The water around him turned muddy and dark red, overtaken by blood that was streaming from his badly battered body.

Logan stumbled over the remainder of the rocks and was met by lush green grass which he ever so longed to see. His heart burst and tears sprang to his eyes.

Tears rolled down, crying because he had just crashed a plane into the middle of nowhere and with no one around him. His thoughts were racing, “What if no one finds me?” “What am I to do now?” “What if I get eaten by bears?” Logan knew he had to calm himself down and stay away from thinking negative if he ever wanted to see his family again. Once rested, Logan set out to see what he had The notorious and chilly waters of Maine in June was biting away at Logan’s exhausted body, but filled with adrenaline from the crash, Logan scarcely felt it. Nearing shore, he navigated the maze of jagged rocks. He looked back to where the plane had gone down, yet all he saw was a serene bluish green lake that showed barely a ripple of distress. No sign whatsoever of the pilot. Logan went to step on a smooth flat rock, but the slimy surface caused him to slip and land with a thud. He got back up and examined his body to find multiple deep cuts and scrapes from the crash. The water around him turned muddy and dark red, overtaken by blood that was streaming from his badly battered body Logan stumbled over the remainder of the rocks and was met by lush green grass which he ever so longed to see. His heart burst and tears sprang to his eyes. Tears rolled down, crying because he had just crashed a plane into the middle of nowhere and with no one around him. His thoughts were racing, “What if no one finds me?”

“What am I to do now?” “What if I get eaten by bears?” Logan knew he had to calm himself down and stay away from thinking negative if he ever wanted to see his family again. Once rested, Logan set out to see what he had to work with. He walked ten feet into the woods and scanned the area. Nothing. He had nothing to work with. No tools, no food, no shelter.

The sun was starting to set now, disappearing over the mountains to the East.

He was wet and cold and had no place to sleep or eat. This was a far cry from the luxurious comforts of home Logan had always taken for granted. He needed a plan, and he needed a plan fast. He began to traverse the shore of the lake and walked slowly between the rocks. He saw a shape in the distance. It looked like a burnt out car, 12

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maybe a pile of old scrap metal? As he drew closer, he realized it was another downed, wrecked plane. It sent shivers down his neck and caused the hairs to prickle where they stuck up. As he surveyed the scraped mess of a plane, he pictured in his mind a few spots that might provide shelter and a fire. The plane had multiple puncture holes from the jagged rocks and vines were growing in and around it. How long had it been here? Had the passengers survived the crash? His mind raced. The windows of the plane were blown out from the impact, and it looked as though various animals had made their home in the wreckage. Logan surveyed the interior, being careful of the sharp edges. Although Logan didn’t have too much background in building or the wilderness, he had previously been to the camp in Maine, where he had been taught the basics. He would have to work with the knowledge that he had. Just within the plane itself were metal scraps he could use for shelter, along with aged gas he could use for fire and a large safety kit he had chanced upon. He felt proud of himself for remaining calm and being so resourceful.

The sun had now entirely disappeared behind the mountains and the cold Maine night was starting to get to Logan. He set off into the woods and gathered a few dry logs, and dragged them back to the downed wreckage of the plane. Then, he set off again, but on the hunt for smaller and skinnier twigs. Luckily for Logan, there was a great abundance of birch bark, which is key for fire starting. After gathering a large pile of twigs and logs, he searched through the safety bag he located earlier and found a few matches. He set up the logs to look like a teepee and then placed dead leaves and twigs in the middle. Just to make sure the fire would actually start, he dripped airplane fuel into the center. Once he had a few sticks ignited, he tossed it into the middle and then covered the pile with more dead leaves. With the fuel that he had found in the plane and the matches, he set a handful of birch bark on fire and tossed it into the center. The fire ignited rapidly and spread upwards. Logan knew that in order to keep it going, he would have to add more logs to the fire every hour.

The cuts on Logan’s hands and legs were caked with dirt, so he took out the first aid kit and spread out the various bandages and washes. The wounds he suffered from the crash were deep, but not life-threatening. Logan used the lake water to clean the dirt off the cuts and then applied rubbing alcohol. The intense stinging of the alcohol caused Logan to curse out loud and clench his fists. He wrapped the large wounds with bandages and put band-aids on the smaller ones. Now, completely dark, hunger was setting in for Logan. The last meal he had was a hamburger and milkshake from a local diner near the airport hours earlier. His stomach was growling out loud, and his insides ached. He then took a stick, dipped it into the plane fuel, and put the end into the fire. When he took it out, the end of the stick produced just enough light for him to see in the dark. He entered the fuselage of the wrecked plane through the front and slowly walked to the back of the wreck. Amazingly, there was an entire box of Clif Bars towards the back of the plane, stuffed into a duffle bag which 13

also held some t-shirts and sweaters that would come in handy. He located some suitcases and laid his torch against the wall. To reach the bags from the inside, he had to climb through a small hatch, just big enough for Logan to fit through. Once inside, there was no visibility, so Logan took all the bags he could find, and stuffed them through the hatch. There were five bags total, in the compartment, including a ragged backpack and luggage. He decided that he would only take the backpack out for now and explore the rest in the daylight tomorrow.

Logan knew not to eat all the Clif Bars at once, for he may need them if he didn’t get rescued. After ravenously finishing one bar, he began working on a makeshift bed for the night. The Maine woods at night were full of wild animals and to be in the open sleeping could be dangerous. Logan decided that he would sleep in the fuselage, within the protection of the plane, and he used the old duffle bag as a pillow.

He found a hard, flat spot and laid down. The hard metal was not ideal for sleeping on, but it would do for the night. Sleep came quickly, and Logan fell into a deep sound sleep.

He woke to loud snorting and scratching noises on the metal outside of the plane. In the pitch black, he rose to his feet and blindly made his way to the outside of the aircraft. In the light of the moon, he could make out a large shadow roaming around the fire. He knew that black bears wouldn’t harm him unless provoked. He slipped quietly back to where he had been lying down and prayed silently for this nightmare to go away. He was scared and cold and felt hopeless. What if he was never rescued? How long could he last out here? He could hear the soft padding of the bear’s footsteps and every now and then and could hear the bear’s faint snorting and sniffing. The bear must have picked up the scent of the Clif Bars. Logan would have to be more careful with food.

The next morning, he woke up to the incessant chirping of various birds, seemingly beckoning him to rise and start the day. The roaring fire which he had built the night before, was now just smothering embers. Logan went into the woods to search for more dead branches and leaves, which he could use to bring the fire back to life. He gathered the same amount of sticks as the night before and blew lightly on the smoke. Once he saw a little lick of flame, he held the dead leaves to it until they caught fire. Now, adding all the little sticks to the fire, making sure not to smother it out, he got up and examined his site. He noticed long grass reeds separated the lake from the shore. The reeds, which he used the night before to help hold the bandages to his skin, were strong. If he were to build a shelter, he could hold the branches together with the reeds. Logan began to scan a large sandy area he was standing near. He could set up his camp in the sandy area, which would be more comfortable for sleeping and safer for building a signal fire. Luckily the woods were filled with an abundance of big logs and sticks that were useful for fires and shelter. He was thankful he could stay hydrated drinking from the clean Maine lake, and fish from it as well when he needed to. He 14

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knew the Maine woods held many species of animals from moose to black bears, as well as bobcats, coyotes, red fox, fisher cats, otter, mink, rabbits, and squirrels, many of which could supply him with much-needed food. He would need to hunt. If he could find something sharp, he could whittle a stick to make it sharp enough to kill a rabbit or otter. He could also use it to protect himself from bears or bobcats. Logan’s mind raced. So many things to do, he had never felt so exhilarated in all his life. He felt one with the woods and realized everything he truly needed was laid out before him. He just needed to be smart about it.

First, he started on the signal fire. The first thing you should always do in a survival situation is start a signal fire, he remembered from training, because that is the best way for people to find you. He gathered large sticks and constructed them in a teepee structure. The teepee structure of the fire would direct the smoke upwards, giving airplanes and helicopters a better chance of finding him. Also, in order to get the most smoke from the fire, Logan would add fresh pine needles. After gathering his materials and setting up the teepee, he took some of the airplane fuel and put it on the end of a stick. With the fire he already had going, he ignited the end of the stick and tossed it into the middle of his signal fire. The kindling and birch bark at the bottom ignited immediately and sent a chain-reaction to the rest of the sticks and logs. The fire gave off an oppressive heat, and smoke billowed out from the top of the teepee.

He was impressed with himself. Not only had he survived the first night, but he had also taken his first steps towards being saved.

Now, he needed to focus on food. From the pile of sticks he had collected from the fire, he examined them and chose a long and healthy piece of pine. He dug through his backpack and found a Swiss army knife, which his father had given him a couple of weeks before. He opened up the knife tool and went to work on the stick.

He adroitly sliced of smooth slivers of wood until the end of the stick was a sharp point. He felt the razor sharp point with his finger and concluded that it would be strong and be piercing enough to kill a small animal. Logan could feel himself getting weak, so he decided to eat another protein bar. Staying well hydrated was also imperative, so he went down to the lake, and making his hands into a little bowl, scooped water into his dry mouth.

Once re-energized, Logan headed over to the wrecked fuselage to survey what more he had to work with. He decided to clean up the area and build his shelter off of the wreckage. He walked over to where he was the night before to examine the contents of the bags he had abandoned the night before. The door used to get the bags into the compartment was now facing the ground, so the only way to get the bags out would be through a small hatch. He crawled through the small opening and reached the bags. The first bag he opened held two pairs of long pants, three t-shirts, two long shirts, and a large pair of sneakers. One by one, Logan shoved the apparel through the hole. The next bag held smaller shoes, pants, shorts, shirts, and toiletries.

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The last remaining bag contained a survival kit. The survival kit came in a large, heavy-duty backpack. Inside was a flashlight, light stick, radio, box of waterproof matches, mylar blanket, plastic emergency rain poncho, and a 2-man tube tent. Everything Logan would need, and more, were in this bag and he felt like he had hit the jackpot.

Funny how back at home he came from a situation where he had so much.

Too much really. What did one really NEED, he thought. Water, shelter, food, air to breath, and clothes to keep you warm. His father worked himself to the bone to provide all of this and more for his family, but what did it all matter if they never spent any time together? Logan felt more alive, more useful and much more competent than he ever had in his entire life. He didn’t need a “nanny” out in these woods.

He was independent and liked the feeling of it better than anything else. He wondered if his parents missed him? Would they be searching for him by now? He was sure they would be, so maybe he should just enjoy this time he had out in the woods, he contemplated.

When Logan collected the rest of the bags and clothes from the compartment, he arranged them by type of clothing and laid them on the floor. Now, he needed to focus on shelter. He figured he would use the remainder of the plane as the backbone for it and build off of that. He gathered more, long sticks from the woods and laid them down by size near the plane. He leaned the tallest ones up against the side of the plane. He left a small space by the side open for a door, but everything else was covered. Logan then took the duct tape he had found in the kit and wrapped it around the sticks so they would stay in place. Now for the insulation. To keep the inside dry from the rain, he would need to layer the top with leaves and mud. He gathered big branches with leaves and used the thick mud from the lake’s bottom amongst the reeds. It took many trips, but eventually, the entire structure was covered in mud.

Afterward, he laid down leaves and grass, making sure they would stick to the roof and not blow away.

He stood back and admired his shelter. It had taken him hours to build, and he was impressed and proud of his handiwork. He just wished he had someone to share it with. He entered through the small door of the shelter and crawled inside.

Some of the wet mud had begun to seep through the cracks in the roof, but once the ceiling hardened it would stop. He looked around and realized it was much roomier than he thought. He would construct a nice bed for himself.

As he crawled out of the shelter, he heard nearby movement coming from a small grove of trees. Swiftly, he stealthily walked over to the log where he had laid the spear earlier. He picked it up and walked to the edge of the woods. At first, he saw no movement, but all of a sudden, a squirrel sprinted from one tree to another. It was much too quick for Logan to react, so he ran to the base of the tree the squirrel had just climbed. Just as he looked up, the squirrel leaped to another branch of a different 16

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and scurried off. This wasn’t going to work. Logan knew if he were going to eat animals, he would need to approach the situation smarter.

After much thought, Logan decided he would make a trap. One of his favorite TV shows was Man vs. Wild series with Bear Grylls. In one episode, Bear was trapping a rabbit for food. He had set up sticks to form a rectangle and strategically placed bait near the back. When the rabbit went for the bait, Bear closed the door on the rabbit and then killed it. Logan decided this is what he would do. He found a few sticks that seemed just the right size and with leftover tape, he built the triangle. He used mud from the pond to seal the cracks, and once it dried, he went to work on the trap door. He would need to be hiding somewhere close by so he when the animal entered the box he could close the hatch. He found a large dead log and ripped the bark off. With string from the survival kit, he tied one end of the rope around the bark and laid the other end ten feet from the box, behind a tree. The animal would need a reason to enter the box, so Logan carefully crumbled part of a protein bar, into the trap near the back of it.

Logan had been sitting behind a tree, whittling a stick for quite some time when he saw an interested chipmunk looking into the box. Slowly, the chipmunk roamed into the box and began sniffing the crumbles of protein bar. Logan crept out from behind the tree and advanced to the box with his crude spear in ready position.

He was now only a few feet from the box and could see the chipmunk greedily stuffing his cheeks with the morsels. Logan forcefully tugged the string, the makeshift knot ripped off from the bark and was left dangling in the air swinging like a pendulum on an old grandfather clock. With so much commotion, the chipmunk stopped eating and bolted from the trap.

This simply wasn’t going to work. The flimsy piece of bark probably wouldn’t even have stopped the chipmunk if it had even gotten that far. Logan needed something that would be strong enough to trap animals in. He had an idea. He would erect two sticks holding up a bigger log or rock, and when he pulled the string, the sticks would fall, and the rock or log would crush the animal. Before starting construction on the new design, he added logs to the signal fire, which was burning steadily, producing a thick black smoke that snaked its way up into the air. Logan made his way to the lake to rinse his dirty hands. As he was washing his hands in the lake, he took note of a little fish that darted away when he put his hands in the water. If there were smaller fish, surely there must be larger ones for him to eat. If he could find a way to create a fishing rod with a hook, he could surely catch a fish, but for now, he was going to focus on the trap.

He went to work on the new design and once finished went to hide behind the same tree with the string. Crumbs still remained from the first attempt, and Logan reused the line as well. The log that would hopefully crush the animal was perched upon two sturdy sticks. The rope was wrapped around both of them so that when he 17

pulled, the heavy log would come crashing down. Leaning against the tree, Logan fell asleep. He had been asleep for close to two hours when he woke to the near sound of a plane going overhead. He ran out from the cover of the trees and tried his hardest to flag the aircraft down with his hands. He screamed as loud as he could, but it was useless. The sound of the engine drowned out his voice. He took off his shirt and rapidly waved it in the air. By now, the plane had passed and Logan, for the first time, felt hopeless. Was his father searching for him or was he too busy with his work to give it a second thought? Logan’s mother was surely at another luncheon talking about homeless people while Logan WAS homeless! Did they even care about him? Tears streamed down his dirt ridden face, and he couldn’t contain his frustrations any longer.

Next time, he had to be ready. The signal fire had run out of wood when Logan had fallen asleep and wasn’t producing enough smoke when the plane flew over. Surely if the fire had been in full force, he would have been spotted.

Angrily, Logan walked into the woods to collect more pines to get the fire going again. When he passed by his trap, he noticed that the log had fallen to the earth and from underneath he could see a tiny paw jetting out. As he walked suspiciously closer to the trap, he saw that something was trying to move from underneath the heavy log. Sure enough, he had caught something! Well, technically it had caught itself, but it meant that he could eat. He grabbed his spear, which he had left behind the tree, and moved the log slightly to the side. This would allow him to spear the animal.

After jamming the spear into the blur of fur from underneath the log, he realized it was a small rabbit; about 2 pounds of meat. The spear pierced its body and blood was coming out from the holes Logan had made. Logan picked up the limp rabbit and brought it to the fire. He would use a stick to cook the meat over the fire and have it for dinner.

After gutting the rabbit and separating the good meat from the body, he put a medium sized piece of meat on a stick and stuck it in the fire. When thirty minutes went by, he removed the stick from the fire and examined the meat. It was dark on the outside and perfectly red in the middle. Logan tore the meat from the stick and ravenously chewed it quickly in his mouth. It tasted like meaty chicken, just very dry and chewy. As he sat there on the log, with the sun setting low over the mountains on his second night, Logan realized how silent and peaceful life was in the Maine wilderness.

His eyes followed the licks of fire, dancing in the swift breeze. Stars were gradually making their way out, filling the night sky with a canopy of bright lights. Logan knew he was lucky it was summertime and the weather had been so warm and calm. A gentle breeze that had kept biting bugs away, made Logan feel relaxed and comfortable. He contemplated life in the wilderness and how competent he had proven to be.

Would his father be proud? Would he even care? Logan’s thoughts drifted back to his family. He pondered this realization that things do not bring happiness, rather strong relationships and love is what matters most. He decided when he saw his mother and 18

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father next he would tell them this. He did not want more “things,� he just wanted them to be there for him.

Logan turned in for the night, back to his newly built shelter erected by the fuselage. He drifted off easily to the sounds of the peepers whose incessant tone drowned out his thoughts. Logan had a restless sleep, as the cold night air crept in and settled into his bones and joints. The next morning Logan felt a warm hand on his cheek and thought he must be dreaming. When he opened his eyes his mother and father were kneeling by his side with tear streaked faces. He had been found! He was rescued and realized at this moment more than ever the love he had for his parents and the love they had for him. His father hugged Logan tightly and sobbed quietly into his shoulder. Logan had never seen his father cry and he did not doubt the love he felt between them.

Logan came to find out that his parents had launched an all out search and rescue team complete with infrared helicopters. His father had spared no expense and utilized every possible resource to have Logan found. Logan basked in the love and tender care of his parents’ love and affection. He talked with his parents about his time in the woods and his conclusion that less is more. Loving relationships are the most important thing in life and this is where happiness can truly be found. His parents agreed and vowed to change their ways. Logan came to appreciate his time in the woods and looked back on it with a new found thankfulness that helped him appreciate the little things in his life.

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SHY

Kyle McCarthy ‘17

What would you do, if Bigfoot marched into your school? Would you: a) run. b) hide. c) scream. d) fight. e) Attempt to make conversation with the beast, praying that he would turn out to be a friendly creature after all.

You will never guess which of these answers Earl chose, unless, of course, you guess “e.”

“This is Jerry Cleary, Dean of Students,” announced a voice from the loudspeaker, “There is a situation in Hallway C. The school is in lockdown.” Lucky for Earl, he heard the announcement whilst sitting in a bathroom stall, finishing up a pristine, voluptuous shit; a formidable piece of dumpage.

“Hallway C?” Earl quickly came to the realization that he was, in fact, situated in the bathroom of Hallway C. What did Earl choose to do next? a) Prudently remain hidden in his stall, avoiding the situation outside. b) Imprudently go outside. c) All of the above.

If you guessed “a,” then you should know that Earl is not very prudent... If you guessed “b,” then you guessed correctly... If you guessed “c,” then you clearly do not realize the stark contrast between answers “a” and “b,” you imbecile.

Earl creaked open the stall door, and his mind began to wander. Most students immediately feared that the “situation” involved a gunman or murderer, but Earl, being closest to the action, heard no bullets and heard no screams. Instead, he imagined finding something barbarically tumultuous roaming through Hallway C, like a wild barking dog or raccoon (the raccoon wouldn’t be barking, of course). This made much more sense to Earl, given that Mr. Cleary didn’t sound too frantic while making his announcement. He poked his head into the hallway, looked right, looked left, saw nothing, and started exploring. Nobody really compliments Earl on his intelligence.

Silence. Serenity. Tranquility. Earl saw no commotion. In fact, the stillness of the hallway fostered a sense of poignant beauty. Sunlight glimmered through the left-side windows and cascaded over the lockers to the right. The chromatic brilliance of Hallway C reminded him of a church. This must be what heaven feels like, Earl thought.

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To expedite the plot, what probably happened next? a) Heavenly beams shot down from the sky, ascending Earl to Christ’s kingdom. b) He saw something precarious, disrupting the notion that Hallway C was at all serene. c) Josh Groban showed up and started serenading Earl.

Please, Dear Lord, tell me that you chose “b.”

“What the heck?” peeped Earl with a gasp. Earl had begun to traverse the hallway, and he saw something that he at first did not enjoy. At seven-feet tall, or so it seemed, a ball of brown hair slouched by the water fountains, and it seemed to whimper. Its broad yet plump back pulsated each time it took a breath. Earl had no idea what kind of creature sat before him. Was it a bear? A dog? Zach Galifianakis? He was just not sure. That is, until the beast turned around, revealing its unique, mysterious, and animal-like face.

Something had agitated the beast. Perhaps it was frightened to find itself in an unknown environment. Though its size was impressive, it slouched just as a small intimidated child would. Something about the way it sat seemed familiar to Earl. This timidity felt attractive, like the beast embodied the many years of pent up anxiety that Earl knew all too well. Earl hadn’t reached his boiling point yet, but clearly this creature had.

Earl needed to help the beast.

“Hello?” squeaked Earl, shyly. The beast thrusted its head in the direction of the noise.

“Are you in pain? Can you understand me?” It noticed Earl, and its hairy body jiggled. Earl took this movement as a “yes, please help.”

“OK, I’m going to get you to safety,” he said as he approached the animal, “Just let me help you.”

The closer he got, the more Earl noticed the humanoid features on the creature’s face. It was like a monkey, but more developed (like a mix between Caesar from ​ Rise of the Planet of the Apes, ​Nicholas Cage from N ​ ational Treasure​, and Alan from ​The Hangover. ​Three of Earl’s favorite movies)​.

“Get away from there, Earl!” yelled Mr. Cleary, who had just entered into Earl’s line of vision, “Go find safety now! ‘Quiet and out of sight’ means quiet and out of sight!”

The beast didn’t appreciate Mr. Cleary’s yelling.

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“Don’t yell! It’s upsetting him!”

“Earl, if you don’t leave right now…”

But he wouldn’t leave. Fucking Earl, man. If only he had just left the beast alone and let animal control deal with it or something. But, he had to be the hero.

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A TIRESOME LIFE Cam Mulvey ‘17

Thiago Garcia wakes up every morning, except Sundays, at 7:30. He lives a tiresome life to live, but has no choice but to live it. When he wakes up, he crawls out of bed, drags himself to the bathroom, then wakes up to the rush of warm water running down his back. His showers are brief, in effort to save water. Every night, he comes home from work dirty and disheveled, so he showers at night, as well as in the morning. His morning showers are just a force of habit; an effort to wake himself up. When he is finally alert and ready to repeat the long and tedious day that he had just lived the day before, he steps out of the bathroom, allowing his girlfriend, Michaela, to step in and get herself ready for her long and tedious day.

Thiago has loved Michaela ever since they were very young. He has watched her with other boys and he waited for her to finally love him back. His love for her has caused him much pain, but he never seemed to care. He finds his true happiness when she’s in his arms. The two of them have one little daughter.

Her name is Olivia. Next year, Olivia will be old enough to enroll in preschool. All Thiago and Michaela want is for her to be able to attend the private preschool on the bottom floor of their apartment complex. Not only will her friends be going there, but it would facilitate their mornings greatly. The only other option would be driving her to the school across town, then having to pick her later in the day.

Unfortunately, this school is expensive, too expensive for them. The school director, who lives on the floor below them, has been very friendly to Thiago and Michaela ever since they moved in. He knows how much they want their daughter to be able to attend his school, but he also understands their financial position. In order to help, he asked his wife to help Michaela get a job as a barista at the coffee shop on the campus of the University. Thiago and Michaela work hard everyday for Olivia, forcing themselves to save every penny until they can finally afford that school.

But that private school wasn’t the only thing Thiago had to save up for. All he has wanted for quite sometime was to be able to propose to Michaela. Being financially responsible, Thiago wanted to make sure he had sufficient funds for the school, the ring, the wedding, and some short trip for the three of them after the wedding day.

After Thiago and Michaela are both ready for work, they bring Olivia three doors down from their apartment, to their neighbor Aimee’s apartment. When Aimee found out that Michaela needed to pick up a job to advance their financial position, she offered to take care of Olivia forthe time being. Aimee was a waitress, but her shifts did not start until 4:00, at which point Michaela would be home from work. After her shift ended, around 3:00, Michaela would get a ride with a coworker back to the apartment complex, then pick up her daughter from Aimee’s apart-

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ment. When she made it back to her apartment, she would begin to make dinner for herself and Olivia. Once Olivia is properly situated and comfortable in Aimee’s apartment, Thiago and Michaela go down eight flights of stairs, two per floor, to the garage, where they climb into their grey 2000 Volkswagen Golf. They drive onto the University of Illinois, Urbana Champaign campus, where Thiago drops Michaela off to work at the coffee shop.

As he pulls out of the campus, Thiago enviously glances at the mothers and fathers playing with their children on the playground, wishing that they didn’t have to leave Olivia alone for most of the week. He then drives to Antonio’s Brick Oven Pizza, the restaurant where he works. He types the number 251 on the computer, presses “Punch In,” then goes to work behind the kitchen. It is 9:30. At the end of the shift, he asks a coworker to make him dinner, then goes to the same computer and presses “ Punch Out. ” It is 9:30, and that’s if his shift ended early.

His job is a dishwasher. His hard work mentality is admirable, and compensated fairly, at a pay rate of 16 dollars per hour. In the back of his mind are his two girls, Michaela and Olivia, the reasons that he works so hard. On Sundays, the family’s only day off, Thiago and Michaela take Olivia to the 11:30 Mass at San Esteban Church After Mass, they go with their friends, Miguel and Victoria, who married last summer, to eat at their favorite pizza place: Antonio’s Brick Oven Pizza.

Then, they go to the park across from the university, the one Thiago drives by after he drops Michaela off. His life is a poor man’s life. To him, however, his life is a perfect one.

Thiago was born to even poorer circumstances than his own daughter. His parents were born in Venezuela, and moved to the United States two years before Thiago was born. Thiago shared a very close bond with his brother, Ernesto, who was three years younger than him.Ernesto wanted to spend every minute he could with Thiago, so far as to the point where they even did their homework together.

When Ernesto finished his homework, he didn’t want to wait for Thiago, so he would do Thiago’s homework for him. Needless to say, Ernesto was very intelligent, always seeming to be three years ahead of his peers. After Thiago graduated high school, he went to work as a taxi driver, trying to save up for an engagement ring for his high school sweetheart, Michaela. Ernesto, on the other hand, had a very different path. He was admitted into the University of Illinois, Urbana Champaign campus. He graduated with a college degree, and shortly landed a job as an insurance salesman. Being the first to go to college from the Garcia family, Ernesto was instantly the family’s success story. Thiago could not have been more proud of his brother.

All throughout high school, Thiago could not express himself to Michaela.

They had been close childhood friends, but Thiago could not bring himself to risk what they had for what could be. The first three years of high school, he watched 24

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from the sideline as other boys took Michaela out on Friday and Saturday nights. He even advised her on what to do if they didn’t call her back or if she had a bad time.

Finally, in October of their senior year, Thiago realized that his time could be running low. He told her how he had felt, how he had always felt. Taken aback by this unprecedented boldness, Michaela agreed to go on a date that weekend. Since she had some time to think about how she felt, she realized that she, too, had loved him all along. For the rest of high school, they two dated as if they had their whole lives put together. However, like Ernesto, Michaela had been admitted into college. Her college experience would take her out of state to Murray State University in Kentucky. When she left in August, she broke things off with Thiago. Devastated, Thiago vowed not to give up, and continued working as a taxi driver, hoping to eventually find himself in front of Michaela again. This time though, he would be down on one knee. Michaela and Thiago still saw each other during her vacations and the summers, but, for Thiago, each August was more painful than the last. One September, the September of Michaela’s senior year, Thiago received a phone call. Michaela told him that she was going to drop out after her first semester. She was giving up on her dream of graduating college. When Thiago asked her why, Michaela’s response was simple: she was pregnant, and Thiago was the father.

When Thiago woke up the next morning, he was elated. He drove his beat up car to the taxi lot, parked, and when to check in with his boss before he hit the streets. He walked into the small building, as he did every morning, and was hit with the smell of a strong cologne. This smell was unknown to him, but he thought nothing of it. Then, he heard yelling from down the hall. This was a sound that he heard frequently in the small office space, so, again, he thought nothing of it.

He progressed through the short hall, he made a stop in the break room, like he does every morning. He grabbed a styrofoam cup and filled it with black coffee.

He walked out of the break room and walked towards his bosses office. It was his responsibility to check in with the boss each morning, but all he had to do was write the time he arrived in the morning. As he reached for the doorknob, the door was pulled away from him. Someone had opened the door just as he was about to. The shift in balance caused him to stumble, spilling the coffee all over the man that was standing in the doorway.

The previous smell of heavy cologne was instantly replaced by the stench of coffee. The silky white shirt in front of Thiago became dark brown, and the agitated face in front of him became livid. The man’s white shirt, green tie, and grey suit were instantly ruined. As he looked up, Thiago realized that he did not recognize the irate face. Behind him, he could clearly see his boss, who’s normally calm demeanor was red with embarrassment. The man turned around, pointed at Thiago, and yelled, “this is why!” With that, he stormed out of the office, and slammed the door behind Thiago.

25

As he walked into the office, Thiago found out the reason for the mysterious visit.

“They’re shutting us down.”

Thiago was left speechless. He had just found out he was going to be a father, the most financially important time of his life, and he was now without a job.

Fortunately, he was able to recover shortly, finding another job as a driver.

Unfortunately,this job was far worse than his last one. The pay was less, and he was no longer driving Taxi Cabs around a small city in Illinois, he was driving 18 Wheeler Trucks around Midwest America.When Michaela returned home, he couldn’t bear being away from her for so long. For some rides, she would join him, riding in the passenger seat, fast asleep. He didn’t mind the fact that she slept for most of the ride, he just wanted to be near her. He had used the money he saved from driving taxis to pay the rent on a small apartment just down the street from their high school. He was planning on using that money to eventually purchase a ring, but the family presented itself now, the ring would have to wait.

When Michaela had been pregnant for almost nine months, Thiago noticed one particular weekend coming up on his calendar. He was scheduled to drive a shipment from Chicago to California. He would be gone for almost five days. He would miss the birth of his first child. When he returned, he rushed immediately to the hospital, and saw the most beautiful sight he could’ve seen: his three day old baby daughter.

The guilt he felt for missing the birth of Olivia was unbearable. Some nights he would wander into her room, just to admire his baby girl. But he kept driving 18 Wheelers, leaving Michaela and Olivia alone for days at a time. After he came home late one night from delivering a shipment to Chicago, he noticed that Michaela was not home. He looked all around for her. He checked neighboring apartments, local restaurants, even the playgrounds in the area. Suddenly, he got a call from Michaela.

Her parents had picked her up from the apartment and brought her to their house.

They did not think Michaela could continue to live that life of poverty, especially while nursing a newborn baby. What they did not understand, was what really mattered in their daughter’s life: her family. Michaela told Thiago to come pick her up, and that her parents put themselves in the wrong position by assuming she could do better. Feeling reassured for the night, Thiago knew he had to change career paths.

When they moved to the apartment, Michaela became friendly with Aimee, a woman who lived down the hall. Aimee worked the night shifts as a waitress at the local pizza place, Antonio’s Brick Oven Pizza. Her older brother had opened the place with his college roommate when they graduated, and they were instantly very successful. Aimee realized the pain that missing Olivia’s birth caused Thiago, so she offered to try to get him a more stable, local, job. The owner, Aimee’s brother Marcus, turned out to be in need of a dishwasher. A year and a half after Olivia’s 26

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birth, Thiago began his career as a dishwasher for Antonio’s Brick Oven Pizza.

A year after the same daily routine, Ernesto graduated from college. He was able to quickly secure a job as an insurance salesman. Financially, he had more than enough to sustain himself, so he began to help his beloved brother out. All Thiago felt he needed was the money to pay for his engagement ring. He was already close, but his other expenses kept holding him back.

While Thiago was busy working late into most nights, Ernesto would often bring dinner to the apartment to give Michaela a break from caring for Olivia. He soon became accustomed to spending every Friday night with his niece and future sister-in-law. One Friday night, when he had been allowed to leave work early for the night, Thiago thought he would surprise his brother and spend the night with them at the apartment. He hoped to ask Ernesto for a job as some kind of assistant or secretary, something that finally would give him a salary in lieu of an hourly wage, a 40 hour work week instead of an 80 hour one. He understood that Ernesto wasn’t yet in a powerful company position, but he felt that anything would be better than washing the dishes. Little did Thiago know, he would never even get the chance to ask.

After Ernesto got off work, he had been distracted by losing a potential sale late Friday afternoon. He wondered what he could’ve done better and why he wasn’t able to maintain the possible client’s interest. That led his mind to wander, completely neglecting the road ahead. Ernesto Garcia was killed in a car accident on his way t o his brother’s apartment.

Six months removed from the death, Thiago finally found himself down on one knee. He still wakes up at 7:30 every day, except Sundays, and drops Olivia off before driving his 2000 Volkswagen Golf to drop off his fiance and then drive himself to work. He is still stuck washing dishes for an hourly wage. The only difference: they no longer drop Olivia off at Aimee’s apartment, they drop her off at the private preschool on the bottom floor of their apartment complex.

27

The Good Doctor James Esperne `19

The solid-gold maravedi hung out of Jacques’ mouth as he bit down yet again, a satisfying cavity forming on the side of the coin. He lay on the bank of a running stream, next to a small dirt path, flanked by a rocky ledge on either side and several oddly thick birch trees. Several small chests now overflowed with gold and silver coins, which Jacques occasionally eyeballed. Jacques took off his tunic and trousers and ambled down to a small pool formed by the stream. He slid into the pool, and rested his elbows on the edge of the pool. Jacques dunked his head into the water and ran his fingers through his black hair.

Jacques rested in the small pool, and stared up at the sky. The stream beside him moved swiftly and silently. Only the occasional snort or blow of the ox, positioned beside the stream up ahead, disrupted the silence. Jacques smiled as he looked at the ox and slid fully into the pool of water. ***

Chests full of gold clanked against each other on the back of the ox, the shuffling of the coins in the troves putting a constant smile on Jacques’ face. Jacques had favored his gold and silver over much of his medical supplies. He didn’t need them. He only needed his wits about him, and, according to his patients, the power of God. He kept his mask strapped to the saddle, though. He liked the smell of the incense. The ox walked next to Jacques, not as an animal, but as an equal. The dirt road they travelled on cut through a heavily wooded area, the bright green leaves of the haya trees shading the duo from the harsh sun above. The trail wrapped along the side of a mountain, overlooking a valley below full of tall grass and a plethora of flowers.

Across the valley was a vineyard on a small plateau, which Jacques was tempted to cross over to.

“What do you say, ox? Go to the vineyard?” asked Jacques, rubbing the ox’s nose. The ox snorted and stomped its foot.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” said Jacques. Jacques then turned off the road and down onto the hillside towards the valley, walking on the edges of his grey boots to prevent himself from falling down. The ox walked at an angle down the slope too, careful not to drop Jacques’ belongings. The pair found their way down the hill, and into the valley and scorching sun above. They moved through the tall, beige grass below with ease, making a shuffling noise as the grass brushed up against them. They made no effort to conceal themselves; Jacques decided their intentions were already plainly malicious. On the opposite side of the valley lay the small plateau, with only a medium-sized house, around half the size of a Portuguese Caravel ship, Jacques thought. Adjacent to the house lay three dozen or so short rows of grapevines, their blood red glare visible from the center of the valley.

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After a few minutes of walking under the harsh sun, Jacques and the ox neared the plateau. The terracotta rock curved into somewhat of a mushroom shape, with the house resting on top. Jacques and the ox walked down along the plateau, searching for a staircase or ramp to the vineyard. After searching the outside of the plateau, Jacques found a small, stone staircase, each step no wider than the the length of his boot. The ox trailed behind him, stopping in front of the staircase as Jacques inspected the entrance. Jacques whistled once, and held his hand up. The ox knew to stay. Jacques clutched the knife in his breast pocket, the now rusted blade scraping against the sheath. He moved up the stairs, leaning against the cream-colored walls, no taller than double his height. Creeping along the edge, Jacques listened for steps and voices. He heard none. Jacques went around the corner of the house, now nearing the door. The door was ajar. That was surely not good, Jacques thought. Taking a deep breath, Jacques threw open the door, and prepared for the worst. The room was completely dark, except for the light that crept through the open door. The giant of a man stumbled around the room in the dim light, looking for the inhabitants. However, he found nothing but an old, wooden table in the center, with an almost full bottle of wine sitting on top of it. A stool, ripe for sitting it seemed, lay under the table.

Jacques kicked the stool out from under the table with his foot, with small dust clouds forming from the movement. He stuck his dagger back into its sheath in his breast pocket and reached for the bottle of wine. Jacques then removed his belt and sword with one hand, and, using his teeth, tore out the cork inside the wine bottle.

Jacques then sat, with hunched shoulders, as a drunkard might, and took numerous swigs before setting the bottle down again.

“Mmm…” grunted Jacques, “Terrible wine.” He took another swig.

“Terrible wine indeed.”

Jacques took the bottle and moved towards a torch-holder near the door, with a fresh, unlit torch inside. Liberally dousing the cloth in wine, he took a set of flint and steel from inside of his pocket, and, holding the torch in between his legs, struck the steel on the flint until the sparks caught the torch. The torch then erupted with flame, illuminating almost the entire room. Jacques carefully walked the outline of the room, every few steps tapping with his foot for a trapdoor. Sure enough, Jacques noticed the deep sound and vibrations of boards with nothing under them. Crouching, he set his bottle of wine down and searched with his free hand for th outline of the trapdoor. Jacques soon found the edge of the door, running his fingers along it until he came to a small steel tab, covered with dust.

Jacques yanked the tab like the reigns of a horse, flinging the trapdoor open and surrounding Jacques with dust. Laying down and bending his upper half into the trapdoor, Jacques waved the torch in the small room below, slightly tipsy from the wine. In the room below were two barrels, each around the height of the stool near the table. The cellar took up only around a quarter of the floor. Its stone walls were 29

close to crumbling now, the lumpy mortar that held the stone together now turning into a mound of dust on the floor. Jacques took his bottle of wine and the torch, and slid down into the cellar below. Jacques stuck the torch in between two stones in the supporting wall, turning his attention now to the two barrels. He came over and shook both the barrels like a bear with a beehive, and listened. Splash, splash, splash. Sounded the liquid inside.

“I’m gonna go out on a limb here… and guess that’s wine,” muttered Jacques to himself. Sure enough, behind the barrel was a mallet and a tap. Jacques, in two effortless swings, hammered the tap into the side of the barrel, with ruby red wine pouring out over the floor. He positioned his mouth under the waterfall, now laying completely down on the floor, gulping down the beverage without end.

By now, almost ten minutes of drinking later, Jacques finally got up from his position.

“I... I have to go,” slurred Jacques, as he hit his head on the stone and mortar wall.

“But, but but but but first, I must rest!” proclaimed Jacques, stumbling and shaking his finger as he spoke.

“Here is a nice, a good, nice, warm, bed,” he said, awkwardly falling down onto his hands and knees, and then his back. “A good bed it is…” indeed. And so the great Jacques, in all his size and might, was sound asleep. ***

Pop, pop, pop. The slight sound of water dropping echoed greatly. The overwhelming scent of stale, yet still damp feces congested the environment, overtaking the smell of fresh water. Pop went the water again. Jacques squinted his eyes just as the water splashed, bracing his face for the impact. The splash caused him to bare his teeth, as a dog might, pushing out a gust of air from between his pearly white teeth.

“What the bloody hell is that?” muttered Jacques through his teeth. He wicked the water off of his nose and eyes as he sat up, using his right hand to push himself off the ground and into a sitting position. He rubbed his eyes with both hands, yawning. Jacques blinked profusely until his eyes cleared up and he could see clearly.

“Good Lord, what time is it? I must tend to the ox,” said a hungover Jacques, teetering as he moved towards a wall. He gripped against the wall to regain balance.

“Hmm… now, where is it?” asked Jacques, patting down his sides for signs of his belt canteen.

“Wait… but where is my belt?” again asked Jacques, now reaching his head over his waist to search for it.

“Oh well. Must’ve left it upstairs,” assumed Jacques, looking for a barrel to boost himself with.

“Now… I don’t think the floor was rock on the house,” questioned Jacques.

“No, none of this seems familiar,” 30

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“Wait a minute…” said Jacques, looking around the enclosure. “Where am I?”

Jacques rushed to the other side of room, stumbling as he jogged. He felt along the wall. Pure, solid rock. He searched desperately for the crumbling mortar and stone of the wine cellar. He found nothing but rock.

“Oh God, no, God, no! Why?” said Jacques as he collapsed on the side of the wall. His heavy breathing quickly became wheezing, his heart pounding like a hammer striking an anvil in his chest. Sweat poured like rain over his face and chest, the loss of control that comes with confinement coming upon him like a tidal wave. In his despair Jacques leaned the back of his head up against the wall and closed his eyes, sulking in the sorrow of his current situation.

“Hehe. Just look at the fellow,” said a voice from above. Jacques opened his eyes and looked above him. Above was a medium-sized hole, covered with branches and leaves, as to hide the unfortunate soul inside from sight. On the edge of the hole lay a pair of eyes looking in at Jacques. They were a dark brown, almost black, with a splotch of blue on the side of the right eye. Jacques and the person above locked eyes.

And then the person turned away. ***

The pair of hands reached again into the bucket, dunking the bloodstained rag into the now maroon water and twisting the cloth over the bucket, producing small red bubbles all over the rag.

The man walked over to the boy laying on a makeshift cot of sticks and cloth, careful not to trip over the rocks below. The boy lay in a brown tunic, sleeping, and as pale as the ox’s coat. The man sat down next to the boy on the damp muddied grass, staining his grey wool pants brown on his behind. But he didn’t care. He would stay with his son. The man rolled up his son’s sleeve, revealing a small, black bubon. A tear ran down his cheek, from his now-bloodshot brown eyes.

Velasco Didacus looked out over the hills and valleys below and in front of him, which, he decided looked more like the sea than the Mediterranean itself. He looked off the edge of the cliff on which he sat, and gazed at the slender figure of an aspen tree, only one in a sea of many. He decided the tree looked oddly enough like a duchess, slender and beautiful, and powdered to a perfect white, aloof from the troubles of the world. Velasco looked harder at the tree. In the center of its trunk lay a black bulging mass, known as black canker. The disease saddened him greatly. The disease would feed off of the tree, stealing all of its energy, until the tree died, and the disease could go to the next tree, disguising itself as a simple spore until it could repeat the whole treacherous cycle. But, after all, it was only natural.

“Velasco,” said a man from behind.

“Yes, Lorencio, what is it?” asked Velasco.

“Ximeno does not look good, friend” answered Lorencio.

31

Velasco closed his eyes and held his face in his right hand.

“Perhaps, yes, perhaps, this is truly punishment from God, for my actions,” said Velasco, slowly raising himself off of the ground. Velasco stood five feet nine inches, and was balding slightly on the crown of his head, resembling the cut of a monk. He had brown hair and brown eyes, truly just a common man by appearance.

He wore light grey wool pants, black leather boots, and a white blouse with both sleeves rolled up. He liked the look. It made him look like the common man, more in touch with his people. But, undoubtedly his most prized piece of clothing was his sword, freshly forged at the creation his mountain campsite, with a strikingly beautiful bone hilt, with a boar’s head engraved at the bottom.

“Come, Velasco, you must speak with your people about where we are to raid next,” said Lorencio.

“Well, yes, yes, let’s go then,” said Velasco, beckoning for Lorencio to come walk with him. They walked back from the edge of the cliff and further back into the cutout of the mountain. An odd shape the place was, it was almost as if God had sliced off a piece of the mountain like a cake. They moved away from the cliff and towards the camp, closer to the innards of the mountain. Three short rows of various sized tents, most thrown together with a few blankets and cuts of lumber, lay adjacent to the mountain. In front of the tents was a house, made of stone and mortar walls, and with a terracotta roof. The house was by no means large, with only a single room and fireplace for Velasco and his family. Men, dressed in primarily brown wool robes, and some with the red velvet silk of royalty, chopped away with axes at cuts of timber next to their tents. Most, like Lorencio, grew beards, which they took great pride in.

For them, it was a mark of their disconnect from the rest of the world. Velasco and Lorencio walked towards Velasco’s house, several dirt-covered faces giving them nods, to which they nodded back. Lorencio held open the door for Velasco. In the corner of the house sat his wife Ana, standing above a table, slicing eggplant to be served with dinner. She was only slightly shorter than Velasco and surprisingly thin, and wore a sapphire-blue dress with a white hood that came over her head. Next to Ana was another table, piled high with a chest of gold coins, pieces of a chandelier, and several goblets, studded with jewels. Across the room was a fireplace, quite small indeed, just large enough for simple cooking. Next to the fireplace was a bed, with purple silk linens and blue silk pillows. Velasco was a rich man, but nonetheless simple all the same.

“Velasco!” said Ana, looking up from her work. “Why is our son above the cliff ? I cannot tend to him from here.

“Ana! Ana, Ana, Ana. Ximeno must get some fresh air, yes? It is good that he is away,” said Velasco.

“Ah!” said Ana, flicking her hand at Velasco, “You are impossible!”

“Ana,” said Velasco, walking over and kneeling beside Ana, “I will make it up to you, yes?”

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A grin appeared on Ana’s face. “Yes, Velasco, alright.”

“I promise you Ana, we will raid a wagon, and will find you a beautiful silk dress. Do you not remember the supply train we raided for these sheets, or the men we robbed for these gold coins? Are our people not wealthy, all 150 of them?” said Velasco, shoving Ana on the arm.

“Yes, Velasco, you are right,” said Ana, giggling slightly.

“Velasco, there are other matters we must discuss, In private,” said Lorencio.

“Of course,” said Velasco, standing up and walking towards the door.

“I will see you at dinner, Ana,” said Velasco, leaving the house with Lorencio.

They walked outside near to the back of the house, with a spectacular view of the valleys below.

“Well, spit it out then,” said Velasco, resting his hands on his hips and hunching over slightly.

“While the men and I were raiding a vineyard last night, we found someone.

A man, quite large, passed out drunk in the cellar. We also found his ox, eating some grapes nearby,” explained Lorencio.”

“So? You killed him, yes?” said Velasco, confused.

“Not exactly. We took him with us, and put him in the cave near the other side of the camp. I took his weapons,” said Lorencio.

“Why did you not kill him, imbecile? He could tell the local town watch if he escaped! That is our way, to kill everyone who sees us. How can I keep my people safe from the plague and from the authorities if we let people live like this? You must kill him at once, yes?” said Velasco.

“Velasco, hear me out. Do not kill this man. He can help us,” said Lorencio.

“On the side of his ox was the mask of a doctor, and the incense used inside of the mask. He can help us! He can help your son!”

“Let me see this man. Have a look at him,” said Velasco, his tone becoming slightly calmer. Velasco and Lorencio walked over to the over side of the camp, ignoring the waves and nods of men and their families.

“In here is the man,” said Lorencio, pointing at the cave entrance, a hole in the ground, covered in sticks and leaves. Velasco laid almost completely prone on the sticks, peering into the cave. Below was a man, no, not just a man. He too big to be just a common man. The man felt along the dark walls, barely able to see in the dark.

Velasco watched him for quite some time. After some frantic searching, the man began to breathe heavy.

“Oh God, no, God, no! Why?” cried the man.

“Hehe. Just look at the fellow,” muttered Velasco, talking to Lorencio behind him.

“Indeed,” said Lorencio.

Velasco looked directly at the man. The man’s dark green eyes looked back, 33

beaming with the power of God. Velasco turned away. ***

The next morning, after eating a hearty meal of bread, eggs, and some red wine, Velasco and Lorencio sat near Ximeno, who was once again brought out to lay near the ledge and in the fresh air.

“Lorencio. You are my most trustworthy advisor, yes?” asked Velasco.

“So I am,” replied Lorencio, staring out towards the mountains ahead.

“What should I do with the doctor?” asked Velasco.

“I must talk with him. We must know for certain if he is a doctor,” said Lorencio.

“Yes, very well, yes,” said Velasco. “It will be arranged.” Lorencio got up from his position, using Ximeno’s cot as a handle.

“Oh, and Lorencio, make sure to take a few men with you, yes? He looks strong, no? We must be careful.”

“Very good then,” said Lorencio.

Velasco walked back over to his house and disappeared into the kitchen. Lorencio trotted toward the first tent in sight, a rather large abode made of rags and cloth sewn together. In front of the tent was a fire pit, not black with ash, and a pot that hung over it, which rested upon two supports in the ground beside it. Near the fire sat two men. They were twin brothers; they each had long, brown beards and dirtied bald heads, offset with deep blue eyes, strange features indeed for the Iberian peninsula.

Adolfo, for his monstrous size, had a debilitating stutter, which never seemed to turn him away from a lengthy conversation. Adan was of a slim build, and was the more sociable of the two.

“Adan, Adolfo, take your swords. It is time to talk with the man we captured.

Also get some rope and a ladder from Velasco,” said Lorencio.

“Of, of, of of, course, Lorencio,” said Adolfo, motioning with his head for Adan to follow him. “We w-w-w-will m-m-m-m-eet you at the cave.”

“Very good then,” said Lorencio, and so the three went separate ways. Lorencio, after a quick trot over to the hole, peered inside between the sticks and branches covering the hole to look at the man below. The doctor lay there, sleeping, in the middle of the floor, with his arms against his chest, and with his legs tucked in as well.

Odd, Lorencio thought, for a man of such natural power to be in such a position.

After a few short minutes, Adolfo and Adan arrived with the ladder and rope.

“Remove the sticks, and put the ladder in the hole after you’ve finished,” said Lorencio.

Adolfo and Adan began to remove the sticks and branches, throwing them like javelins into a pile on the other side of the hole, and letting the smaller twigs and sticks fall into the hole and onto Jacques below. At once, the man began to move, climbing out of the fetal position he was in and stretching his legs while Adolfo and 34

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Adan worked above. Jacques didn’t talk, he just looked. After a few minutes of clearing the sticks and branches, Adolfo slid the ladder down into the hole, and motioned for Jacques to come up, tapping on the ladder as if Jacques were a dog.

“I speak your language, you bloody wanker!” said Jacques angrily, all six feet four inches of him fuming.

“Get the rope,” said Lorencio, drawing his sword. Jacques made his way up the ladder, careful not to knock the ladder off balance. As he neared the top rings, Adolfo and Lorencio grabbed him by either arm, throwing him on the ground. Adan held a sword to Jacques’ throat as Adolfo and Lorencio tied his hands behind his back.

Jacques felt the heavy weight of the dagger in his breast pocket, unnoticed by his captors. But Jacques was curious to see where they would take him.

“Get up, scum!” commanded Adolfo.

“Who the hell are you calling scum? I’ll kill you with my bare hands like the rest of the damn fools!” said Jacques, scowling.

Adan, Adolfo, and Lorencio paraded Jacques past the sea of tents. Men looked up from their fires to take a glimpse of the prisoner.

“What is this place?” asked Jacques. But the three men around him stayed silent.

After a few minutes of walking, the four men reached Velasco’s house. Lorencio walked to Velasco’s door and knocked. A distressed and worried Velasco stepped outside.

“Go. Leave me with him,” said Velasco to Adan, Adolfo, and Lorencio.

“Of course,” replied Lorencio, and walked away towards the tents with Adan and Adolfo.

“Please,” said Velasco, “Come inside, please.”

Jacques jogged towards the door, cutting off Velasco’s entry. Velasco came in behind him, and, using a small knife, cut the rope from Jacques’ hands. Jacques ignored Velasco.

“Please, sit, eat, drink, yes?” said Velasco, pointing to a table in the center of the room.

A bowl of grapes lay in the center of the table, along with a loaf of bread and pitcher of wine. Jacques happily sat down and broke off half the loaf of bread and took most of the grapes for himself, shoveling down his food as if he were a starving hound. Velasco sat down opposite Jacques, watching his every move. After finishing the last of the bread in his hands, Jacques reached for the pitcher of wine, and drank the wine directly from the pitcher. Velasco, slightly revolted, just sat and looked around the room.

“So!” said Jacques as he placed the empty pitcher on the table, “What do you want?”

35

“No, we are here to discuss what YOU want, yes?” said Velasco. “You want to live, no?”

“You know,” said Jacques, as he picked up the pitcher and scoured the bottom for a few drops of wine. “I have little regard for my own life, but I have less regard for the life of anyone else.”

“But you are a doctor, no?” asked Velasco, as Jacques threw the pitcher behind him, disappointed for not having more wine.

“I can be a doctor, yes, if I am properly… compensated, that is,” said Jacques.

“What is your name?” asked Velasco.

“Jacques Otxoa, the one and only,” replied Jacques.

“Consider your life as compensation, Frenchman. My son, Ximeno, is gravely ill with the plague. If he lives, you will live as one of us. If he dies, then you will be burned at the stake,” said Velasco.

“I’ll drink to that,” replied Jacques. “If I had something to bloody drink,” looking around the room for more wine.

“But what is your name, Spaniard, and what is this… this place,” asked Jacques.

“I am Velasco Didacus. I lead these people here. We came to escape the plague, the masses, and to live well. We use those who are privileged to benefit us all,” explained Velasco.

“Ah, bandits! Preying on the less fortunate. You know, we are oddly alike, Velasco Didacus,” said Jacques, a grin appearing on his face.

A long silence ensued. Velasco, for the first time in his life, felt scared. Lucifer himself, it seemed, grinned back at him, all his tricks and lies converging into a single man.

“Come with me,” said Velasco. “I want to show you something.”

Jacques followed Velasco out of the house and onto the lawn in front. Velasco continued to walk further in towards the mountain. Jacques continued to look at the tents, not paying attention to the scene up ahead.

“Here we are, Jacques,” said Velasco.

Up ahead was a large crowd of people 150 or so, crowded around a platform, some of them holding sharpened sticks and torches. It was almost dark now, and the people, it seemed, were starting to get hungry. Jacques followed Velasco up to the wooden platform. Adolfo, Adan, and Lorencio also joined them. Lorencio stood at the very front of the platform. Jacques, Velasco, Adan, and Adolfo stood towards the back.

“Quiet! Quiet everyone!” yelled Lorencio. The crowd hushed.

“We have captured a man. A doctor! He is here to help cure our sick,” announced Lorencio. Murmurs erupted from the crowd.

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“Silence! Here he is,” said Lorencio. Adolfo shoved Jacques forward for the crowd to feast their eyes on him.

“Silence! Also, we have acquired a new… asset in our capture of the good doctor. Bring out the ox!”

The crowd erupted with cheers as the animal was led out onto the platform.

Jacques looked at the ox, and then at the crowd, whose lips smacked and stomachs grumbled at the sight of their feast. Jacques marched over to Velasco and positioned his hands in a stranglehold around Velasco.

“You fucker! I’ll fucking kill you, you piece of Goddamn shit!” yelled Jacques.

“Tie him up, dammit!” cried Velasco.

Adolfo, Adan, and another man rushed up to Jacques and wrestled him away from Velasco, pinning him on the ground. The crowd erupted with laughter and screamed taunted:

“Medium or well done?”

“You’ve got a real meaty friend, there, mate!”

And, “Mmmmm… this meat is great! A real fatty cut, I must say!”

The three men, now assisted by Velasco, dragged a squirming Jacques like a sack of grain to a tree adjacent to the platform and secured him to the tree, wrapping rope around his entire body. Velasco then took a smaller rope and tied it around Jacques’ mouth as a gag. Velasco gave Jacques a pat on the cheek and a smug smile, and walked back over to the platform before his people. The ox now stood on the platform facing the crowd, unphased by the loud taunts of the crowd. He flicked his tail and licked his lips, seemingly unimpressed by his best friend’s capture and of the surrounding scene.

“My people! Do you want to eat like kings? Do you want to eat?

150 screams of joy erupted from the crowd in unison, like a church choir.

Velasco took his sword from his hip, and slowly walked towards the ox, resting his hand on the ox’s neck.

Velasco held his hand to the crowd, signaling for them to be silent. He then leaned near the ox’s ear and whispered: “You want to be free, yes?”

The ox simply stood and flicked his tail, still unimpressed by Velasco.

“Very well, then,” whispered Velasco.

Velasco positioned his sword under the neck of the ox. The ox still did not flinch. Velasco, in a single swift motion, slit the ox’s throat, like a knife cutting through warm butter. Blood sprayed out all over the platform and the ground below like the runoff of a waterfall. The ox’s coat became completely consumed by the red of his blood. The blood ran down the legs ofthe ox and began to form a rather large puddle on the platform. The ox stared into the sea of people before him, using all his strength to stay upright. The one hundred and fifty pairs of eyes stared back at him. The chants of the crowd had all but died out. Only the gushing of the blood and the confusion 37

towards the ox’s resilience could be heard. Jacques watched the ox from his rather tight situation, his tears drenching the rope around his torso. He watched as the blood, the color of hell itself, ran down the platform and onto the grass below. Suddenly, the crowd began to cheer. Jacques looked up. Through his tears he saw a lump of white and red on the platform. And so, the ox, with all his devilish resilience, was dinner.

Jacques screamed through his gag and kicked like a five year old having a temper tantrum.

“Oh shut up, wanker!” said a voice. And the world became dark for Jacques.

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A Bored Summer’s Night Patrick DuFour ‘18

The sun starts to descend towards the ocean A soft warm breeze blows along the beach A mosquito bites an unsuspecting guest A towel is thrown over a couples lap The sun dips closer towards the flat ocean water A dog runs along the water stopping to go for a final swim of the day A child plays in the dry sand A cricket’s chirp echoes across the beach The orange sun starts to dive into the water A couple laughs as they lay back on the dry sand A wet dog retreats home with a smile upon his face A smiling child is scooped up by his parents The water engulfs the vibrant sun A sudden darkness fills the beach A happy couple piles into their sand filled car A lone boat horn sounds in the distance The moon gently illuminates the empty beach Ready for Tomorrow

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Award Winner

In My Blood Pat Baron`19

Here I sit in my blood An orphan, a widower, responsible for his own flood When one is thirsty for the thrown His true intentions are finally shown I was the captain, ready to sail But my ignorance rigged me to fail I hail from the land of Thebes, Given everything even the keys To create my own fate But those wretched gods made my rein into a life of hate Oedipus is my name The man who killed his father and married his wife in vain I was the answer to the plague, the Monarch And within little time my entire sight would go dark My past is unaware to me Truths of it keep sprouting like the leaves of a tree But with truth comes pain And these truths have made me walk with a cane My hamartia was my blindness My vision distracted by the likes of an iris Finding my father’s killer would end Thebe’s misery But except to the blind prophet, this discovery was a mystery Tiresias gave me all the answers But these thoughts were my cancer I could not accept the fact That what this prophet said would be my final impact So I went blaming Creon But like mine, his impatience was not drawn He kept his respect And in this moment my own composure was checked I flew into a rage But little did I know this anger would keep me trapped in a cage Trapped from the reality of my hands The ones that killed my father and took these lands Troubled by these thoughts I took advice from my wife And like a mother, she was calm without strife So I sent for a keeper of sheep 40

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Hoping that his news would keep me from weep He was the one that knew And I could not let the plague continue to sweep through The King of Corinth had died from old age And for once I thought I had escaped my cage But this fact mislead me and others For one I did not know my wife was my mother I was in rejoice until I met the witness Who’s news fell unto me like a sickness Torn, I was unable to speak Nothing but purification was what I was trying to seek And so I returned to my bedroom To find my wife had set her own tomb With nowhere to run, I reached for her pins And that is how the rest of my life would begin Blind as the prophet, my world had now dissolved And I had lost my chance of being absolved Creon, the man whom I had accused of not being true Is now the person to whom I must subdue These actions that you may call foolishness Are what actually have made conscience luminous Now I had left my home Stranded in the world to roam Yes I was alone But for once my ignorance would not be shown

41

Cape Verde Ethan Fidalgo ‘17

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Portrait of Grandmother Ethan Fidalgo ‘17

Grandmother and Grandson Ethan Fidalgo ‘17

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Foreigner Ethan Fidalgo ‘17

Women’s March Ethan Fidalgo ‘17

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Self-Portrait Ethan Fidalgo ‘17

Meditative Ethan fidalgo ‘17

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Study of Egyptian Portrait Ethan Fidalgo ‘17

Target Practice Ethan Fidalgo ‘17

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12 Sided Die Patrick Ryan ‘18

Backyard Moon Nathan Piecyk ‘20

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Harp Seal Matthew Connelly ‘19

King Penguin Mudia Onaiwu ‘18

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Maligne Lake, Banff, Canada Matthew Connelly ‘19

Mount Justice Mudia Onaiwu ‘18

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Finn Mulligan ‘18

Award Winner

Finn Mulligan ‘18

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Overthinking Jillian Cooper Walpole High School ‘18

River Current Ted Duffy ‘19

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Reflective Rocks Nathan Piecyk ‘20

Roman Colosseum Nolan McGovern ‘21

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Bolivian Orphan Brendan MacKenzie ‘18

Christian Science Center: Boston Finn Mulligan ‘18

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Car Chase Ted Duffy ‘19

Springtime Ted Duffy ‘19

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The Rhino Robert Lordi ‘18

Eric Jeremiah ‘17

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Kyle Licameli ‘18

Adma Kaba ‘17

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Blake Gallagher ‘17

Will Henschel ‘19

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Will Henschel ‘19

Award Winner

Dreamscape Breanna Andreassi Walpole High School ‘18

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Longing Ted Duffy ‘19

Dead on Arrival Will Evans ‘17

Unfortunately, I’m dead and it all just happened about 2, maybe 3, minutes ago. I think 3 is the safer bet. I’m honestly shocked nobody even tried to rescue or save me from death’s icy grip, which now that I am in his grip, seems less icy than people make it out to be. I understand the reason why maybe no one would want to save me. Apparently robbing is considered a ‘bad’ thing and a reason to NOT save a nice man who is bleeding out to death. My mother, who I guess I’ll see in a bit if people are right about seeing your relatives in the afterlife, always told me as a kid to be kind to whomever no matter how evil. Clearly, some people of today’s world don’t heed my mother’s teaching. This includes those who watched me die, those who ran away as I died, those who killed me of which some watched and ran, and of course myself. Yes, I know I am a hypocrite, but I have always been. And although I lived what some may consider a ‘criminal’ life because I have ‘criminal’ charges, I should’ve at least got some help. In the few moments before my body went lifeless I thought perhaps I’d maybe get a quick rep of CPR or maybe if I was lucky an EMT would show up to save the day. Sadly, there was no saving that day because no one had the wits about them to dial the number 911 in time except for the store manager.

Look at me now. My favorite white shirt, which I wore to every robbery since I regarded it as a good luck charm, tainted with blood struggling to congeal thanks to oozing holes that the bullets gave me. Some blood leached through to my fairly new suit coat which I had a hard time telling whether it was very navy or black in the store.

Nevertheless, they matched my pants and shoes which managed to avoid any stains or splatters except for one drop on my left shoe that dripped there before I collapsed at the entrance to the alleyway. The tie I wore was one that I would seldom put around my neck on any occasion. It was a green-red plaid bow tie and a gift from my ex-wife.

Upon receiving the bow tie, I recall asking her, “Why not just a regular tie?”

She did her little annoying chuckle and said, “ Well I thought it was something different. You know a change from your old normal tie. You could use a change.”

“Really?” I questioned her.

I knew she was not just talking about the tie when she mentioned change. A few weeks before the gift of the tie, she was astonished to find out that my collection of Italian sports cars was not paid for by the salary from an advertising agency. She was even more astonished when she decided to come to my work and was told that there was no record of her husband ever being at that company. Furthermore, it came as a complete surprise to her when I revealed I earned all my money through the hard work of stealing. Although she was unaware of the level of my theft, the mere idea of it prompted her to give the tie to me and hint at me changing. I was not amused by the 78

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bow tie which I was certain I would never wear. Reluctantly, however, I accepted the tie which I believed was only worn by weirdos and attention seekers. Today I chose to wear it under the rationale that no one expects a man in a bow tie to rob you; however, that was not the full reason I wore it. For reasons unknown to me, the tie drew me in.

Maybe because I wanted to make a change like my ex-wife suggested, but maybe not.

Nevertheless, it did not stop me from my next and final theft.

Earlier today I expertly crafted a green and red plaid bow that I wear now after hours of fumbling around with unsuccessful twists and knots. With the pristine bow, I set out for the theft, completed the theft, ran away from the scene of theft, and finally died because of the theft. And now my body is a lump of cells lacking personality with a green and red plaid bow tie that matches the Christmas displays in nearby shops as the only thing to add a tinge of flavor on an otherwise paling mass that is starting to show the initial stiffness of rigor mortis.

The perimeter around me is now surrounded by people and bright yellow tape. A man whom I presume to be a policeman or some sort of crime scene investigator walks over to my body and peers down at my navy blue or black suit coat. With white gloves in order prevent contamination of evidence which might lead to my killer, the man gently opens my coat finding that the inside is lightly matted with blood.

While scanning the inside he takes note of the glock pistol I hid on my hip. It was supposed to facilitate the robbery and provide protection for me if I ever got stuck in a shootout. In the end however the weapon proved to be of little protection.

Now the man reaches in all the pockets of the suit coat, but finds nothing.

He then examines my pants pocket, but again finds nothing. I assume he’s looking for my wallet which he hopes has my driver’s license or some other ID so he can figure out who I am. Sadly for this man, the task of finding out exactly who I am is not that easy. Since I started being a thief, I never considered bringing an ID on a job.

ID’s were just another way to get caught. If your wallet falls out during a heist, you’re screwed.

As I predicted, a look of hot red frustration came across the man who now shifted his attention towards my head. I was making his job difficult, and I liked that.

The frustration on his face was so intense it was laughable. It was like the type of frustration when you think you’ve finished the crossword puzzle in the Sunday morning paper, but then you realize you messed up one word which means you messed up another and the other and on and on until you finally quit.

I’ve had a lot of those Sunday mornings, but good thing I don’t have to deal with that anymore. It seems that this man was having he same kind of trouble. Only with trying to figure out who I was. Peering down at the black ski mask which I had used to cover my face, the man crouched down and pulled the mask off. I didn’t want to use ski masks because they’re too cliche. I mean every robbery you see these days has some guy in a black ski mask. It’s just so trite. I suggested 79

luchador masks because it was cool and exotic, but it was shot down, kind of like me.

Who would expect a man in a luchador mask and a bowtie to rob a store? No one.

That’s who. If we had gotten luchador masks I would probably be alive right now, but nope. We had to go with the boring old ski masks Anyways, the man in blue ,who pulled of my mask to reveal my face, called over to a woman who was dressed the same way except for a camera strapped around her neck. She was probably a photographer since she took photographs with a camera. I mean that’s what they do. Take pictures. Such an easy job. Maybe I should’ve went into that profession or maybe not.

So the photographer lady grasped the camera that swung from her neck and snapped a picture close-up of my face. Although my face was untouched unlike the rest of my defiled body, it wasn’t the most glamorous pic of me. To be honest it might’ve been the worst picture of me. Needless to say I wasn’t proud of it. Then again most people are at their worst when they’re dead. Except for Tupac. The picture of my face was yet another attempt at finding out my identity. If I were still alive, I would’ve been glad to tell her that unfortunately she will have an extremely arduous time trying to find a man to match my face. This is because according to all public legal documents and records, I died fourteen months ago in a house fire in a different state around the same time I ditched my wife. She started to know too much about my criminal activity and progressively began asking more questions so I did what any sane criminal would do -- I faked my death. And it worked. She believed it. Even went to my funeral and cried.

But that was fourteen months ago when death was fake.

Two men carry a white cloth by the ends as they walk slowly by my body.

With care, they drape the cloth over me to hide the gruesome display. More men and women who are most likely police officers begin to bustle about the crime scene. Bystanders stand on the edge of the taped-off area wondering what happened. Why did I get shot? Who shot me? Questions that would be a lot easier to answer if I were still alive.

The police start to pull aside individual bystanders and ask what happened but none are certain. The only thing the cops are able to ascertain is that the bullets in my body came from two different guns. Some told stories that a vigilante stopped me because it had become known that I was responsible for the sudden lack of merchandise at the nearby jewelry store. Still the police were skeptical because they were unable to find anything of value on my body. If I were still alive, I could tell them, in fact, that the bystanders are wrong. There was no vigilante. The cops were bound to get the story wrong.

So I will tell the story right as I have nothing better to do as of right now.

Planning started months before today. As my hard-earned funds from the last robbery, which I spent the bulk on “drinking myself to death” as my ex-wife would say, began to dwindle, I decided to do what I always have done. Steal some more. I recruited the assistance of my friend Jake. We originally met as kids when one day he showed up at 80

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my door saying, “We should be friends because our dads work together.” That seemed a good enough reason for me since I was a friendless twelve year old at the time.

Jake had always been my most trusted associate when it comes to ‘work’.

On every job, Jake would act as the gun man to suppress any uprising if necessary as I shoveled the money into a bag. Every time, Jake carried himself with an official military mentality. He would salute every flag we went by and often would march as if he was changing the guard. I repeatedly tried to break down his military affinity by harassing or joking with him, but his constant stoic and serious attitude was too rigid.

Sometimes it’s just like talking to rock . I blame this on his addiction to the military.

Throughout our childhood together Jake had a wild craze for all things military. Luckily, he did not infect me with it. His room was spattered with dark splotches of green, brown, and black as if to mimic the camouflage soldiers wore in dense woodlands and forests as bullets whizzed by the nearby trees. On the wall in his camouflaged room hung a black flag with white lettering US ARMY SPECIAL FORCES sandwiching a green beret. To the side of the beret was a dagger crossed with arrows again in white with the lettering DE OPRESSO LIBER. Initially, having peered at the flag, I thought the green beret in the center of it looked more like a frog than a beret.

So for days my twelve year old self was bewildered at the choice of the U.S. Army Special Forces to use a frog on their flag. I was an idiot as a kid. After pointing and asking Jake why they decided on a frog for a symbol, Jake swiftly called me an idiot as he should’ve. Apparently, the symbol was a green beret which makes logical sense since the U.S. Army Special Forces are known as the green berets for their choice in headgear. Nevertheless, military consumed his life and everything was pointed towards his dream: WestPoint. WestPoint become a sort of vacation spot for him growing up.

Over school break in the midst of February, his family would spend the whole week there. I don’t understand how one manages to stay entertained in West Point, NY for even a day or a week as they planned or even four years as Jake wished. Yes, Jake after being infatuated with the Military Academy as a child, dreamed of having the opportunity to attend the fine institution. Unfortunately, after applying the depressing news of denial returned to him. Unfortunately, Jake was rejected by West Point – the school of his dreams. This absolutely crushed Jake. He felt like his life was over, kind of like mine right now. He ended up not going to college or not even going into the military and resorted to a life of gambling. After losing his money, house, and family, Jake came to me in dire need. Being the great man that I am, I offered him a job. A robbery job and he’s been working with me since. I got him off the military and onto money.

The other man on the job was a friend of Jake’s. I believe his name is Rob or Bob or something like that. Who cares? Jake said we could trust him. Should I have trusted him? No. Did I trust him? Yes. Was I stupid? Yes. Am I dead now? Yes. Because of him? Probably. Rob or Bob was to be our getaway driver. Once the plans were made we set out to store.

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The store was situated in a small parking lot in the center of a relatively tiny suburban town with only a few shops surrounding. Rob-Bob dropped Jake and me off at a nearby alleyway which now is a crime scene with me as the victim. As we walked over, I went over the plan in my head. We were to burst in; Jake would shoot out any surveillance cameras; I would sprint over to the counter before any employees could alert the police; take one hostage; Jake would begin breaking the glass display cases and stuffing his bag full of anything of value we could find; once he was done I would fill my bag as Jake held a hostage. With our bags full we would sprint to the exit which leads to the roof since exiting through the front door might be too risky if the police show up. We would jump off of the building onto the top of a van with Rob-Bob at the wheel. Then we would drop down from the top of the van and get in and escape.

But plans never go as well as they are conceived.

Jake and I entered the store with our ski masks pulled over our heads. Everyone in the store was in shock. I mean who expects a man in a bow tie to rob a store.

Jake, as planned, swiftly pulled out his silenced pistol from his suit coat and sprayed bullets into every camera placed around the store. There was only one woman in the store who was shopping. I took her as hostage while Jake took his fill. Jake then took her out of my hands and I took my fill as Jake ordered all the employees in the shop against a wall. Jake smashed the manager’s phone as he saw that she had dialed the police. When I was done Jake threw the one customer to the ground. Honestly I felt sorry for that one customer. That’s why I made sure to fling a necklace her way on our way out. She didn’t thank me, but that’s understandable. I ran up the stairs leading the way for Jake. In the distance I heard the cry of sirens. Looking over the edge fear enveloped me. Rob/Bob was not there. There was no van. No nothing.

I turned to Jake and cried out, “We’re screwed.”

Jake looked at me and with confidence said, “Follow me”.

He leaped off the building tucking into a roll as he made contact with the ground as if he were in some sort of action movie. Baffled at the mere athleticism of the move displayed by a man in a full suit, did as he commanded. I dropped off the building in a much less gracefully so that when I reached the ground, I stumbled and twisted my ankle. Jake ran on screaming, “Come on!” With a very slight limp, I powered through the pain facilitated by my adrenaline. We weaved through the scantily populated streets as sirens soared toward the jewelry store. Jake began to race down the alleyway where Rob had dropped us off.

When I started to enter the alleyway, the getaway van that was supposed to be parked in front of the store. I would’ve been bewildered by this, but I did not have time to be. The back door of the van swung open followed by several flashes from the muzzle of a pistol. My stomach and chest enraged in excruciating pain. The bullets caused me to stumble. As blood sprang from my body, it soiled the ground. Collapsing onto the ground, a droplet fell on my shoe. Writhing in pain on the concrete, Rob or 82

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Bob or whatever his name may be came over to my body. At first I thought to save me, but instead he thanked me for the money and stole my bag. I assumed he was the one to do it. The van pulled away as I heard a faint voice which sounded like Jake say, “Thanks for everything.” Bleeding out on the street, I yelled and screamed. Some people ran at the sight of me. Others ran towards me. I crowd formed around me. “Call 911” I yelled at them. A few nodded, but none called. After being entertained those who decided to watch the spectacle of a dying man walked away. Many were puzzled why no police had come. Not until I was dead that is.

The case of my murder would not be solved until about a year later. The police report would say how all witnesses of the mysterious man’s death claimed that they thought another witness would call the police. Since everyone thought someone else was going to take responsibility, it led to no one taking responsibility. I died due to ignorance. The police, as I predicted, never found my identity. Rob or Bob’s name would later be said to be Todd when he was convicted of my murder. Before Todd could be arrested, he committed suicide. In his note he wrote how my ghost haunted him night after night showing up with the same bow tie I wore the day I got murdered.

The police never suspected Jake for the murder, but guilt still lingered within him. His car was found sunk deep into a river as many witnesses reported seeing a car swerve off the bridge and plummet into the water below. A note would be found in the car that read “I need a change.” Although no body was found, he was presumed dead. In his memoir posthumously published by his wife, it would be revealed that Jake’s pursuit of wealth led him to murder his best friend.

I was to be buried in an unmarked grave with my bow tie, but that somehow got stolen. I was laid to rest anyways without it. Every month now a man comes to my grave bearing an identical green and red plaid bow tie. He walks in a consistent pattern as if in lockstep with another person. He kneels down to the grave and whispers, “I’m sorry.”

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El Día de Acción de Gracias Griffin Wagner ‘19

Gracias, Dios, por las cosas que tenemos, Gracias por mi familia, porque son mis mejores amigos.

Yo rezo por la fuerza cuando tengo problemas, y me das esperanza.

Estoy agradecido por mi escuela y mis profesores, Agradezco el país en que vivo y gracias por darme seguridad.

Soy afortunado de tener buena salud, Y gracias por los médicos y los hospitales.

También, estoy agradecido de que nunca tengo hambre o sed, Y soy afortunado porque no vivo en un país con guerra.

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Gallery

Ethan Fidalgo ‘17 Here I am Hanging on this beige wall Illuminated by a fixated spotlight Framed by an ornate golden border.

I am a creation, One of a kind, Worth more than what’s wrinkled within your wallet.

Priceless.

As you walk through the path Our eyes will meet.

See how my colors compliment one another?

How there’s a subtle glimmer to my eye.

But don’t get too close For the guard will sound the alarm And gladly escort you out.

You offer your thoughts, Perhaps an analysis, Or even a critique, But you don’t know me You’ll never understand And they all will try Even though they still get it wrong But I will stay here Hanging on the same wall Until that one person will find me And understand me for what I am.

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Not Only in February Ethan Fidalgo ‘17

Can’t you see, The beauty in this brown skin?

Wrapped in silks And quilted with our story Of the past Present And future It doesn’t need to be polished Nor heavily ornate Because it shines on its own Capturing the eyes For all to see Out of all the shades This one was meant for me It gleams all day Even into the night And not only in February

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Section 26 Imitation Patrick DuFour ‘18

Now I will do nothing but listen, To accrue what I hear into this song, to let sounds contribute toward it.

I hear a flag fight the wind, a far off plane pass by, and the roar of mower’s engines, I hear the comforting sound of distant conversations, Vulgar exclamations, joyful celebrations, and silence come together, Sounds of triumph and sounds of defeat, sounds from everything between, sounds from dusk till dawn, Confidence from the winners in the match, silence from the losers, The tension continues to mount with each hole, the painful silence grows, The scorer tentatively questions another’s score, The pain of a misplaced stroke, the confirmation with a loud splash, Rumbling of thunder, the crack of lighting, and the pitter-patter of rain, The blaring of the horn, the rubber carts wheels approaching, The disappointment of suspension engulfs both sides of the match, (They play cards, cigar smoke fills the room.)

I hear another horn, play is resumed, I hear the regained excitement, shared between the group.

The sounds continue, as if a break never happened, Ah these sounds have power—this power overwhelms me.

A nagging feeling appears, The holes left grow fewer and fewer, the inevitable approaches, It finally arrives, pain and sorrow sting, yet the sounds comfort me, And that we call Golf.

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One Wish Patrick Ryan ‘18

On my way with Death towards that Final Door, From which nothing moves back into the bright Land That we all wish to live in for just a moment more Death stopped, turning to look at me with his icy black eyes: “What is the one thing you could have, if you could get it?”

The gruff yet surprisingly gentle words echoed in space for an eerily long time, Reverberating through me like a light dispelling darkness.

Quickly the light died, and silence was restored to the Hall That Death walks across many times, escorting everyone at his or her time.

Only then I noticed that there had been no movement from his black, shadowy lips.

“I guess most people ask for a chance to say goodbye, or more time,” I mused aloud, still startled by my loss for an answer to What seems to be the all-important Question.

“I…would want to go down in the history books,” I started, my voice quavering noticeably.

“Yeah, to be famous and all that…that would be nice.”

Heavy Silence settled before Death started turning back toward the non-descript Door “No, wait!” I exclaimed, dreading the inevitable passage through that Door.

“I changed my mind. I’ve…reconsidered your question.”

I hesitated, until Death reluctantly shifted back to face me with his penetrating gaze.

“I wish to be remembered, truly remembered, not like those Who are remembered only for as long as they can keep their ‘friends’ occupied With parties that reek of money and insincerity, Where people hide behind their smiling masks and hold no love for their host; Once the gates to the house shut behind them, they forget the man before they reach their car.”

I pushed on, feeling a rising hope surge forth.

“No, not like that. I want to be loved for what I did.

I want to have people care that I died― I want them to care because I was a kind and loving son, brother, friend, and mentor.

I want to have touched people’s hearts in a way that will stay with them forever.

I want to be remembered for caring about others first, For not obsessing over money and work, but for caring about family.

Sure, it’s nice to be known for being smart and hard-working, But that all means nothing if I had been an arrogant, condescending snob.”

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Memories of the idols I had once aspired to live like Famous, rich, attractive, adored by all Now fell apart as I realized the truth: I had always wanted nothing more than to be respected and cared about years After I had been left in that dark box.

To be a family man, that was my dream, Now my fear was that I never achieved it And could never go back and fix that.

I looked back at the shadowy Figure next to me, And I whispered, “Twenty or Forty years from now, I want my friend to step out of his car with his son, Pointing out a gray block out among the rows, saying, ‘There was this great guy I knew once; I hope that you grow up to be like him one day…’”

I trailed off until no sound came out from my mouth.

“That’s all I want: to be Remembered.”

Death gave what looked like a smile and replied, “So you shall.”

We turned in unison and continued forward to the Door, Never turning back in longing for what lay behind, The only thing we could never have.

And as that Door creaked open, A grin of happy relief spread across my face.

Nighttime

Peter Finucane ‘18 Needham High School How brightened our dark land is From lines of time outstretched Which turn blue the old wood loves Our predecessors etched.

Now we share a cool sidewalk Lit by comet’s tail, They streak by like ashes we once saw Blown past us in a gale The moon, tonight, has joined us It lights our path ahead Casting silver on our backs, smooth to the touch Like the sparkling road we tread I look up to the universe, The lake, the stars and moons And down it stares from infinite eyes to see Just me and you.

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Ties

Anthony Perez ‘19 The words of men, disciples of sense With cups of blood and hearts of strength; but souls?

Illusion. Must men and boys become less Than what which they envision? What controls All individual’ty is losing… cough* If I must wear a noose around my neck Will everyone bow down to me, or scoff And say “no liberty?” With losses: wreck.

If fancy take importance o’er a smile, Then darn the man who hath the biggest face.

Forever always, battling against wile; Woeful treach’ry, a massive warring place See corp’rate slugs and turn a grieving cheek Untie the knots for ‘till doth do, don’t speak

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El catolicismo en la sociedad estadounidense Thaddeus Kennedy ‘17

Soy cato1ico Soy americano Soy justo Soy racista Soy una persona que da Soy una persona que toma Soy una persona que sufre Soy el amor Soy orgulloso Soy el miedo Soy la confianza Soy una persona llena de luz Soy una persona que duda Soy una persona que ama Soy inteligente Soy la roca Soy cat61ico Soy americano

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El Cancer Tim DiFiore ‘17

Soy un ladron de la vida Soy una representacion de la pena y los problemas Soy una representacion de la muerte Soy malo, pero Soy una realidad de la vida Soy diff cil derrotar, pero No soy imposible derrotar.

Soy de todos los tamanos diferentes: Soy fuerte Soy debil Soy grande, y Soy pequeno, pero, en todo Soy un regalo Soy un simbolo de la lucha y fuerza

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Soy la depresion Michael Finucane ‘17

Soy el monstruo que vive en la cabeza Soy las cadenas que atrapan el prisionero Soy la sombra que derrota a todo, aun la bella de la naturaleza Soy la lluvia que se trata de escapar, pero no, la nube es el v1aJero Soy la luz que es imposible lograr Soy la espada que dibuj a la roj a en la piel Soy la vida que odia vivir, no la vida que puede desear Soy el cuerpo que cuelga en el cuarto del hotel Soy el desafio que necesita atenci6n Soy los sentimientos que no se pueden ver Soy el debate en que el silencio es la tradici6n Soy la bestia que podemos veneer

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Soy la pena de muerte Bryan O’Donnell ‘17

Soy la muerte Soy la silla electrica Soy una controversia Soy el fin Soy el comienzo Soy las mentiras Soy el dolor de las familias Soy el alivio de las familias de las victimas Soy la respuesta facil Soy la ignorancia Soy la llaga en el sistema de justicia Soy incorrecto

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Yo soy la Enfermedad de Alzheimer Patrick Mulrenan ‘17 Yo soy la destruccion de la mente Yo soy las relaciones destruidas Yo soy la extraccion de la sociedad Yo soy la enfermedad de Alzheimer Yo soy la destruccion del cuerpo Yo soy la muerte de una vida libre Yo soy la inmovilidad Yo soy la enfermedad de Alzheimer Yo soy la necesidad de una cura Yo soy la necesidad de la investigacion Yo soy la caridad Yo soy la enfermedad de Alzheimer

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Dawn

Headmaster William L. Burke III This morning’s pale blue Pink streaked sky And Cross In the window Through which I gaze Praise Beauty and truth Glory of heaven And price He paid And pays

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