Stray Shot 2019 by The Frederick Gunn School

Th T he Gunnerry y•M Mrrr.. Gunn’s School • Establiisshed 1850 22 Kirrb by b y Rd d,, W Wa ashin ng gtton g n,, CT 067 79 93

STRAY SHOT 2019 Cover Photograph: 1 1111 by Jihoon An

FICTION Tony Zhang …………………………………………………………………….……………………… 5 Paige Moffat ……………………………………………………………………..…………....……... 12 Tim Tscheppe ………………………………………………............................………….. 22 Joey Lin ……………………………………………………….…………………................…...... 39 Chenyu Yu …………….…………………………………………………………………………….... 47 Jasmine Tian ………………………………..………………………………………………………. 50

POETRY Sofia Pattillo ……………………..…………..……………………………………………………….. 1 Yufan (Yolanda) Wang ………………….….………………………..……………………….. 2 Jonathan Nichele ………………………......…………..……………………………………….. 3 Sean Christiansen ……………….………...…………………............…………………….. 10 Paige Moffat …………………………………......………………………………………………..... 11 Colten Cicarelli …………………………………………………………...............……...….. 16 Margaux Barthelemy …..…………………………………………………...…………....... 17 Tim Tscheppe …………………………………………………………………………………....... 21 Tucker Paron ………………………………….…………………......……………………………. 25 Arian Agadi ……………………………...…………………………………………………………... 32 Gianna Russillo …………………………........…………………………………………………. 33 Jayla Stack …………………………………...……………..………………………………………... 34 Mary-Joyce M. ……………………………..…………………………………………………...... 38 Julian Marlowe …………………......…………….……………………………………………... 43 Tate Rosenberg …………………......…………………………………………………………... 44 Junjie (Frank) Ma …………….…….………………………………………………………...... 52 Alan Tsui …………………………………………………………….……………………………….... 53 Michael Kassis …………………………………………………………………..……………….... 55 Declan Long..............………………………………………………………………...........…. 56 Max Farrar ………………………………………………………………………………..………….. 59 Nate Nordine ……………………………..………………………………………………………… 62

NONFICTION Yue ian (Chelsea) Zhong ………………………..………………………………………… 19 ung Tan Ngo ……….......……......……...…………………………………………………... 27 Will Brodhead ………………………………………………………...………………..………... 68

IS A

ART

Talia Zabit ………...……………………………………………………………………………………. 4 Julian Lope ………...……………………………………………………………………………….. 15 Luke Silver ………………………………………………......……………….....….....…......... 24 Chen (Jean) Fang ………………………...…….……………………….....………………….. 30 Catie Stammen ……………………………………………………………………………......... 36 Tony Zhang ……………………………………………………………………………………..…... 45 Julian Morris ……………………………………...………………………………………………... 54

CONTRI

TORS...…………....…..……………………………………………........ 73

Special thanks to the nglish and Art Departments for assistance with this publication. For back issues of the Stray Shot go to www.gunnery.org campus-life student-publication Faculty ditor: Mr. isentin

A Green Iron Fence by Sofia Pattillo There was a green iron fence, An entrance to the garden, And a child so foreign to thee. There were lights amidst the plants And rocks circling the rhubarb leaves. There was mountain laurel floating in the air, A product of the Capri Sea. And standing there Gripping the bars, I was a traveler. Oh, on the other side I wanted to be!

Second by Yufan (Yolanda) Wang A sparrowgrass had its very first peek of the wonderful world with everything green. A yucca gave away its very last seed, carried by the pronuba to a new place to sleep. A shearwater just caught its perfect meal when a gull was starving and could barely wail. A harpoon wounded an underage whale when a cottonmouth hurt a newborn quail. The cypress rammed by the hartebeest, The splendid blossom of the epiphyllum, The drop of sap falling from the maple tree; I blinked and the second was never seen.

by onathan ichele er heart is broken she thinks of her old times past. She thinks of her past trying to avoid the loneliness calling to her. er heart is stuck in an ice-cold grip trying to come back out into warm fresh dreams. As the dreams reach out the grey street begins to release itself With violet red and dark shades of blue slowly streaming up the walls. As she opens herself to her past the cars passing by begin to create a warm hum Collapsing the sound and holding her in. A white light opens up bringing life to the city block. A wave of dark follows suit coming back with her reali ation of the present. Colors drip from the walls charred red turns to a menacing grey. She stands on the corner tears falling down like the color around her. The truth of time ropes her in the cra y man of life finding her hiding from herself. t breaks her heart and she will do anything to fill the cold dark empty hole in her mind. With a desire to bleed red once again staring out to the light.

Sa ag gee by Talia Zabit g

T o Storriies b by yT To on ny y han ng g

I IS

We had just had our normal Monday school meeting in the church and was walking to the art studio. felt the chilly bree e slipping through my neck and the back of my head. t wasn t cold or at least it wasn t cold enough to give me goosebumps or make me shrug my shoulders and push my jacket up along my neck. But didn t like it either. t was an annoying bree e and wasn t sure what to do. The wind kept randomly blowing brushing my hair against my forehead and ears. t gave me this itch that was subtle enough that it almost wasn t there but there just enough for me to notice it. was bothered. reali ed that s where we were in spring it hadn t fully arrived but it tickles your mind and plays with your feelings. You get a taste of what spring feels like but you don t have it. t s like watching a trailer of a good movie. t s satisfying but it s also annoying that you now need to know what happens. could ve scratched my head. was thinking about it but don t know what could happen if took my hands out of my pocket and scratched my head. t could be satisfying. t could not. The itch could go away before even take out my hand that would be even more annoying. t could hurt if don t do it right. could bleed if don t do it right. t could cause another itch then would have to keep scratching. My hands could get cold and that s another problem that had to add to the e uation. No matter what did which option chose to execute there was not one single guaranteed outcome. This desire for the itch to go away will be there if don t do anything but things could

get worse if I do something. I had no control over what was going to happen, despite wanting a change. And the best case scenario is that I scratch it, the itch goes away. I’ll be happy for a little, but then some other random early spring wind would mess up my hair again and give me another itch. Why even bother? So I kept my hands in my pockets, walking among the people, looking like everyone else. We are all in this annoying season anyways.

More or Less like a Home

Everything looked unknowingly familiar. It seemed uncanny that I was still able to recollect memories of these images. The pavement on the road matched the one hidden somewhere inside my head. It was exactly as I remembered it, but the stones on the sidewalk on my right seemed different: brighter, cleaner, and more in unison. A few pedestrians wandered alongside, looking over the river at the buildings across, as the mild sunlight rested temperately on the surface of the water. The water was calm, and it looked warm even though I realized that it was cold. Trees scattered along the river bed, taller than I remembered, but paler and heavier because of the beating of time. Their roots peaking out of the side of the riverbed where you can see the color of the dirt changes at a clear horizontal line-- lighter above it and darker below-- it’s where the water used to be. In a glance, I could tell that the water fell about four and a half feet lower. More and more images started rushing in. I remembered the poster board next to the bus station as I passed by it quickly. I passed by a big brown dog with white fur on his left eye. I knew it was a he because I grew up playing with him. I saw the buildings on my left with their colors faded but shaped exactly as I remembered it. I remembered how much I hated the building where my dad worked in. I had always thought that it was the ugliest, cheasiet, most inconsiderate design that I had ever seen, and I told my dad that one day I will be an architect to spare the world from ugly structures like that; he worked in finance, so he didn’t mind it. I saw the red brick building with stairs outside where a kid fell hard to the ground from his skateboard, and his green Supreme board went shooting towards his friend’s ankles. That’s where I used to skate. The scratchings on the bricks were

much more severe than the last time I saw them. “Could you slow down a little please?” I asked the cab driver. “Yea, you got it man.” The way he talked was familiar too. He had a tone that only people from my hometown would possess. As I was caught up thinking about the slangs from my hometown, a house slid into my sight as the cab slowed down to a stop in front of the front gate. It’s not just a house; it’s the house; it’s the house that I grew up in. I observed its forms and colors, the viral pines climbing alongside the light yellow concrete wall, covering its faded color. I got out of the cab, still looking at the house, flushed by the overwhelming memories and the changes that I had gone through. I heard the laughter with my brother, the birds chirping on my bedroom window, the familiar voice of my mom yelling “dinner”, I heard my dad calling “son.” “Son?” “Oh. Dad. Hi, hey dad. I’m here.” I stuttered those words, words that I haven’t said in person for a long time. It felt weird. I looked at this short man in front of me with his wrinkled face and strips of white hair scattered across his head. “Welcome home, son. It’s been too long.” He said this as he hugged himself close into my chest where I could smell the same shampoo that he had been using for as long as I know it. “Five years.” Had it? It had been five years? I could not seem to find a way to fill my tongue with words. It felt like courtesy to say

things like “yea, it’s been too long,” “I missed you,” or “how’re my grandparents?” but I froze up in the moment and didn’t say anything. I wasn’t sure why. I was overwhelmed. It felt wrong to try to act polite and behave with common courtesy because he was my dad. I did miss him, but I didn’t tell him that. I don’t think I’ve ever told him. I had 17 hours of trip on my back, but the perplex excitement seemed to keep me properly engaged. I was taking everything in, yet nothing was getting to me, not enough for me to find any words to speak. I even felt a slight regret for coming back home because of the awkwardness. “Come on son, you must be tired.” My dad took the biggest of my suitcases and had me follow him up to the front door with my guitar case with scars of time on it. I didn’t have the case when I left, neither have I ever played them any of my songs. I looked back to the people on the new sidewalk. I looked across the riverbed at the calm water. The cold breeze turned my head back and reconcentrated my focus toward my house, a house shaped more or less like a home. My dad opened the door.

The Gentle Man by Sean Christiansen He was my grandfather. The great gentleman he was, When he died it was because Of a painful cancer. He was no complainer; He loved what life does, Even when he needed gauze He was still a partier. He ate chocolate every day And huge spoons of sugar in his coffee. He always had time for someone else. He never minded to pay At the end of an extravagant party. He cannot be taken from my memories.

ne oe

and

ne Storry yb by y aiig gee M g Mo o at

A piece of paper layout dormant and dusty on the table near the window. t caught my eye. The housekeeper must have forgotten the scrap of paper while clearing out my grandmother s house. Boxes were strewn hapha ardly across the foyer and piled high atop the dining table. Some filled with picture frames and others with kitchen utensils. The house was eerily silent the street outside dark and the world seemed still. My mind however was running spinning spiraling. t ran out the door down the street past the corner store even. My grandmother gone. crumble to my knees in the eclectic kitchen decorated by my dearest. A small Art Deco gecko figurine mockingly scales the cabinetry from her trip to Costa Rica. A small sheep magnet made of wool is attached to the fridge from her trip to celand. A small cartoon of the iffel Tower carrying a baguette is on the Windowsill from her trip to France. did not want to remember. clutched the grocery list tightly in my palm Eggs, coconut il , and cereal.

Memories

I spot you from across the room. Your bright blonde hair gives you up immediately, and I watch you walk uncomfortably toward me. As any polite stranger would, you question, “Is this seat taken?” I regrettably notice all other seats are occupied but the one beside me. I slowly shake my head to affirm your suspicion and you sit down to the left of me. We both stare straight ahead for many minutes that later will turn into more than an hour. Our gazes are met by an innumerable amount of other heads facing forward. You and I, we both sit there like that; inaudible for an hour and a half. My eyes keep staring towards the stage, but my thoughts are far from the high school auditorium. I remember when you gave me the most unforgivable haircut by accident in your kitchen. Your mother was in the backyard, and you couldn’t resist. I spent many months thereafter occasionally being mistaken for a boy. That's not all. I even lost my very first tooth in your living room. I remember when we wore matching pajamas every New Year’s Eve and blew our noisemakers from the top of the kitchen island. I still remember playing our own rogue version of “chopped” or “cupcake wars” many evenings. Your secret

ingredient was passion fruit and mine was orange zest. While our creations cooked we retired to your mother’s closet, and there we played dress up. I remember you clutching a khaki colored Birkin bag and a string of pearls pretending to be a thief, and I was lost beneath her long Burberry plaid trench coat pretending to be the detective. I remember the day we lost your brother in the woods behind your house. The woods were thick but you didn’t care. In fact, you said, “It’s his fault anyway,” but your mother felt differently when she dialed the police station. We found him though. He was waist deep in Fenn’s pond. He handed us two small snapping turtles, one for you and one for me. By this point in the summer we were catch-and-release experts. A week prior we had relocated a catfish from Fenn’s into the koi pond. We even brought tree frogs into the house. This time we named the turtles your brother handed us Tim and Tom, and to your mother’s absolute horror we put them in the pool. We swam with them, put them into the hot tub, and pushed them off the waterfall cascading from the hot tub to the pool. We told the turtles, Tim and Tom, that they were best friends. Do you remember what became of them that day? They died. Perhaps it was the bouncing on the trampoline or the saltwater pool? I remember it was your idea to lay them to rest ceremoniously. Two granite rocks commemorated the lives of best friends, Tim and Tom. I remember you spoke the eulogy. Your brother, my brother, your mother, my mother, your father and my father were present. The festivities did not end on the somber curb of your driveway near the headstones. We all retired to the yard, the fire

pit was glowing and the aroma of crawfish on that summer evening is hard to forget even still. I remember you requested our song and your father played it. We had our original moves almost perfectly coordinated to each word of that Billy Joel song by that point. We wore the matching dresses we pleaded with our mothers to buy for us, and we dutifully performed on the edge of the infinity pool. And so our nightly tradition was established, one that we would follow almost religiously, not just for the remainder of the summer but far past elementary and even into middle school. Do you remember? Or am I just a stranger to you; no more or no less important to you than any other stranger. I worshiped your charisma, your smile, and your laugh, all of which were infectious. Call it cynical, but I wonder; what purpose do memories stand for if not to simply tease and taunt us? If the only you and I that has existed or will ever exist is documented in dozens of photo albums compiled by our mothers, I would just like to thank you for the memories. The singing stops, the assembly is over and we go our separate ways.

Glassa

le by Julian Lope

The Last Supper, Leonardo Da Vinci by Colten Cicarelli Hands of stone, frozen in time, One moment famously told throughout history. The hands that bear the suffering of many Are the same hands to bear the symphony of saints. Through the centuries of tales told and retold, Italy brings us the thoughtful composition. Through the deep blues and mystic reds, Through canvas abounding with action, We all see the faith-filled night. One night filled with the hunger for righteousness, Filled with the thirst for meaning, Filled with the art of deception. What does it mean? Who knows. Mankind have been brought to standstills. But alone in the red anger of Mars, Sat the devout, sharing their Last Supper.

T o oe s b by yM Ma arrg ga g au

arthele y

H ey little boy Fly up and touch the sky. There s something wrong tonight There s monsters in your head tonight. Tell me everything s alright Tell me how to keep a flight. ey little boy Be free and fly away. Skies above are dark But you ll be at home my love. Tears fall like rain Mas uerade the pain. h hey boy sorry ve done this to you. m sorry if can t hold on f break apart. m sorry if cry again feel so weak. ey little boy Don t fight your fate. 17

Game Over (December 14, 2018)

The thing is, When you’re dead, It’s over, game over. Something about that bothers me. Maybe it’s because everything is over. Not just the pain, the crying, the panic, but the light, literally light, no hope bullshit; The sunlight, the way that light hits the trees. It’s all over, Even the simple stuff.

My "Ordinary" Treasure by Yueqian (Chelsea) Zhong When I was five years old, my grandfather passed down the only heirloom to me: an ordinary inkstone. The inkstone is round in the middle, stretched out in the end like an oval. The inkstone is dark matter without any decoration. It's heavy and hard as a rock. "It's one of the Chinese Four Treasures of the Study: brush, paper, ink stick, and inkstone," my grandfather said. "Put some water first, then grind the ink stick into ink on the inkstone. Ink can neither be too thick or too thin," he said. Then he prepared the paper, dipping some ink with a brush. He asked me to sit up straight first. He instructed me to hold the brush with three fingers, the index finger in front, the thumb in left, and the middle finger in lower right. After learning how to hold the brush, he taught me how to transform a stroke to a Chinese character. I marvelled at the beautiful words written by him. In summer, I often stood beside him to watch him write a poem while I was grinding ink on the inkstone. When I practiced calligraphy, he ground the ink stick for me. I enjoyed practicing writing for two hours a day. One time, I asked my grandfather why our family heirloom was just an inkstone while others' are porcelains or precious stones. He shook his head and said that the reason why it survived was its triviality. I didn't understand the meaning of this sentence until I learned Chinese history. In 1966, the Cultural Revolution began. Its goal was to preserve Communist ideology by purging remnants of capitalists and traditional elements from China (King, 2010). In the violence, millions of people suffered from a wide range of abuse. Artifacts and historical relics were destroyed by the Red Guard group. My grandfather's

family was one of the victims, for being landlords. Valuable pottery and paintings were all smashed to pieces. Only the cheap, inconspicuous, indestructible inkstone was preserved. As I grew older, I learned that my grandfather was a writer and playwright. He is admired by many people. I asked about our family history. He told me, "I was born in an intellectual family. My father gave me the inkstone and taught me how to write with a beautiful hand. Why? Before, we didn't have a pen to write with nor a computer to type on in China. While others are reading your articles, the first thing they're going to see is your handwriting. The foundation of being a learner or intellectual is to have good penmanship. The inkstone symbolizes our Chinese traditional culture. You should keep in mind our own traditions and be proud!" I understood. I understood that the inkstone represents the hope of older generations, the inheritance of Chinese traditional culture. I understood that the inkstone represents the hope of intellectuals, good penmanship. I understood that the inkstone is where Grandfather has placed his hope in me. The inkstone is the embodiment of me: ordinary, firm, steadfast. Since Grandfather told me this story, I have gently touched the inkstone. The memories of Grandpa teaching me to write are revived, as if it were just yesterday. The history behind it astonished me, and left me wondering how it survived the turmoil. The hope it represents is considerable but motivating.

ne oe

and

ne Storry yb by yT Tii

Tssche T

t s like hobbling down a pier through sweltering summer sunshine See the ocean through the cracks below Blue o A ure water reflects the light back into your eyes. Though you can t seem to jump in… Splinters eat your trunks and fire burns the whole forest down You know the cooling respite is down there. t looks back at you with the brightness of a thousand tiny stars But you can t move you re a tree Sun devours the wind in a pathetic fashion. Luscious oasis in the desert of God. Rhinestone studded jeans Too small to fit.

Ants

The familiar buzz of the main hub greets me as I step outside my quarters. The air is a comfortable 20 degrees. I lean over the rail on the edge of my hallway and gaze down into the vast expanse of the colony. I breathe a sigh of relief as I notice many other green-clad figures briskly walking to their jobs. Their fatigues contrast against the beige walls. Thankfully, I won’t be late today. I head towards the elevator at the end of my hallway. Surprisingly, it is nearly empty except for a man in an orange suit. “Good morning, ma’am,” he says to me. “Good morning,” I respond curtly and type a G i nto the glass panel of the elevator. “I wonder where all the blue and yellows are?” I ask the man. “Didn’t you hear? Sector 15 got corrupted last night. Almost all the laborers and welders were needed. As far as I know, they’re still working.” I shudder at the thought of a corruption, imagining what the citizens of Sector 15 thought. As the air pressure equalized with the surface, the citizens would’ve been woken up violently as the air was sucked from their lungs. Depending on where the sun was, they would either experience cold worse than Earth’s Antarctica or heat that would burn everything to a crisp. If anyone was lucky enough to have a space suit, they would be pulled to the surface of the planet and have to wait to be let in.

I hear the telltale ding that means we’ve reached the top, and I nod towards the orange man, feeling a slight bit of pity for him. They like to call themselves “Medians.” They were once death row inmates on Earth, but they decided that they would rather help mankind than die in vain. Every 2 weeks, one of them gets wired to a vitals monitor and steps outside the Colony to test the effectiveness of the Terraforming process. Each time, they suffer longer. Most of the Medians lived in Sector 15. As a green, I get the most interesting work. My team and I are in charge of making this dead habit habitable again. This week, I am attempting to grow various fauna that is native to Earth in the extraterrestrial soil. My coworker Ian and I head out to the glass biodome to begin seeding. “Isn’t it a beautiful view?” Ian asks. “Absolutely,” I agree. To my left I see a sight that looks just like the desert back on Earth. Red soil covers the ground as far as they eye can see, and the sun peeks over the horizon. The sky is an immaculate blue. We try to ignore looking at the remains of Sector 15 visible through the right side of the biodome. Metal and fiberglass debris lay beside a gigantic hole almost a kilometer in diameter. An uninhabited orange space suit lies uncannily close to one of the main entrances. As we plant the weeds that used to be undesirable, even plucked from the ground, I can’t help but think about the man I saw in the elevator this morning.

e ll be given a plethora of sedatives to make him last as long as possible. e ll get to say goodbye to his loved ones back on arth and then the airlock doors will open. Perhaps he ll feel a sense of pride knowing that what he is doing is a tradition that will be continued for centuries. r perhaps he ll notice the space suit and run towards it only to reali e it s too late for him to put it on as the last bits of air leave his lungs.

MG 25 250 07 by Luke Silver

T o oe s b by yT Tu uc er arro on

Cars whi past skimming through the thin layer of water on the road The tires crawl forward uickly grabbing onto the cool pavement They roar as they approach Louder and louder until they reach me Their shouts dissipating as they depart The trees dance gently in the light bree e Waving to the cars as they pass ach time they are ignored The clouds patrol the skies above Monitoring the interactions below The hori on darkens as it begins

Brainstorm

Think, just think I try to come up with an idea Something, anything to get my mind going I peer inside Gears locked, trying to push, Jammed and smoking, something awry The sky is cloudy, dark and rumbling I walk further inside Searching for the source I arrive at the center, the control station Nothing seems to be wrong A lever resides in the center of the room, I pull it Ideas begin flowing through my brain The gears turn as I am flushed out Returning to reality, I realize All I needed to do was look

The Limit in Notes Does Not Mean the Boundary of Melodies by Hung Tan Ngo The aroma from incenses, the flowers of variegated color and the vociferous arguments between my cousins are, to my observation, a cheerful scene of the family reunion on Tet Holiday, or Lunar New Year. The scene of which I was no longer a part is drawn of the colors of joyfulness, peace, and love. Being the most notable event in a year, Tet Holiday is a time for a reunion, a family dinner, and wishes to our beloved. Besides, it is an occasion to visit our ancestors’ graves and to remind ourselves of their legacy. The scene of which I was a part, a color, a tone, has gone far from my reach, and the blank it left is irreplaceable. The day I first came to the Gunnery is foremost memorable. It is the first time I went to the United States, the first time I took a 22-hour flight, the first time I packed 60 pounds of luggage. I experienced a lot of “first times” on that day, but it was not my first-time travel out of my country. Surprisingly, a great nervousness inspired by unfamiliar surroundings passed through my mind, but it quickly vanished when I arrived in Connecticut. For unexplained reasons, the green, vital trees along the road to my first boarding school recalled pictures of the luxuriant green trees in Son Tra peninsula, where my dad drove us to in his old black Camry and sang his melodious song. It was a beautiful place nature had made, our car was stuck between the woody hill on the left and the peaceful, blue sea on the right. On the way to the Gunnery, the light from the evening sun made my eyes squint, and the imagery of the sunset on my hometown beach

ran through my mind and I realized how much I missed that warming moment. After five months studying at the Gunnery, I got used to the boarding life and felt I became a part of the vivid community here. I became more familiar with the American culture, yet the setting of the campus could not give me the sense of “home” where I grow up over the last sixteen years. In one moment, an unexplained feeling arose inside me. The red, yellow decors around the student center, the smell of Asian dishes and the bamboo chopsticks put around tables reminded me that today was the first day of Lunar Year. Back in my lovely hometown, our house would be decorated with the yellow of apricot blossom, the purple of orchid and the red of calligraphy pictures; people would dress up in their finest clothes to visit their relatives and friends. Colorful envelopes and wishes would be exchanged for others’ health, happiness, luck, and prosperity. At the end of the first day in Lunar Year, family members gather around to talk about their goals for the upcoming year and share their experiences with the young. That is what the adults do. I and my cousins always have an endless argument, regardless of its pointlessness, about random things happening around us. We sometimes play card games and use our lucky money to bet, but that does not mean we bet our luck of the upcoming year. Although it may not be a good thing for the young to engage in gambling, we play only once a year, and each time it brings lots of joy. It was always an unforgettable memory when the new year comes but it is different now.

At the Gunnery, we also celebrate Lunar New Year, but it is not the same song, the same picture of which I used to be a part. My first experience seemed to be a non-colored symphony; there was no high note or low note, the bright smile of my younger cousin when he won all the lucky money was missing, the noisy arguments about which one is better, dried pineapple or coconut, were replaced by the talks about AP courses. The notes used to make my beautiful symphony were not there anymore and neither was my Tet. However, the late wishes from my parents and my cousins gave the symphony a little bit of what it used to be. I had always been a note in the same old melody through every year, and I had forgotten that there were other notes next to me. I did not try to make a new symphony. After a fascinating year at the Gunnery, after awesome trips to places I had never been, I formed a new melody of friendship with different notes from all over the world. People have their own characteristics, their own hobbies and, of course, their own sound. They might not fit in certain songs, but they definitely are the unchangeable note in some other’s life. Being such a different note, an international student who first came to the U.S., I had thought that the only melody which I fit into was my family’s. However, a note can be in as many melodies as it wants; I found my second melody, my third, and it keeps increasing. If I did not open myself to people around me, I would not know where I might best fit in.

ntitled by Chen (Jean) Fang

IP S

by rian gadi prefer the time spent on the other side of the globe. prefer the nature of my childhood parks. prefer the short little bicycle race track. prefer the early morning swim lessons. prefer the afternoon explorations during recess. prefer the actions done meaning more than the words said. prefer the khaki-colored notebooks. prefer the afternoon explorations during recess. prefer the snack boxes filled with American goodies. prefer the overload of spicy food. prefer the long rides in autos. prefer the short walks to the local bakery. prefer the water bottles filled with chilled water. prefer the food stalls all along the busy roads. prefer the shopping complexes for uick and easy items. prefer the train rides to local attractions. prefer the drive-in restaurants. prefer the well-spent childhood on the other side of the globe.

Hungry, Hungry Rowers by Gianna Russillo A loud roar in the dining hall, Dropping of bags, stomping of feet. The crew team is here And we need to eat. Bread, carbs, everything in sight; We will be eating long into the night. Anything with gluten makes our hearts sing: For some dinner, we would do anything. While we row we look at lake-gulls, After practice we only want bagels. Workouts seem like torture, In the dining hall, we are vultures. We rowers may eat like horses But we are truly powerful forces.

T o oe s b by y a ay yla Stac

T T

Shiny gray shell sitting on the rack. Later skating across the water piercing the glass. Long oars strike the water and clap as they turn. Carving through the lake pushing towards the stern. Many miles spent rowing rewarded with wounded hands and strength. We take the boat in but we leave it all on the lake.

Van Gogh’s Self Portraits

Self portrait Self The hardest thing to replicate Multifaceted identity Convey a feeling with a single look Express a message in the surroundings Ideal marks Concealing brush strokes Self portrait Imperfect reproduction Of a self made perfectionist

nna ed by Catie Stammen

R Ry yan and

le by Catie Stammen

Light by Mary-Joyce M. The hands once held So rough Yet safe The smell of sweet sweat After each race My innocent eyes Looked up at you My father My role model The man I once knew I lost my light My balance My guide I look to you for an answer And prayed you’d try

You showed me your darkness Your pain Your sorrow All I ever wanted Was a better tomorrow As broken heart strings Bled the blues I wanted to feel nothing But was left with the truth Home became a battleground Striving to survive I spend day after day Fighting to see the light

T o Storriies b by y oeey y in

Tic Toc Tic Toc ... Finally the clock strikes 11:00 p.m. Finishing his anatomy classwork George starts to pack his bag and slowly walk outside the classroom. Rubbing his sleepy eyes and dragging his exhausted body George tries to recall the materials he just went over. The chill wind adds a little dampness to the cool air. t is dark all around the medical university campus. Along the hallway there is only one dim light at the end. Barely can you hear the sudden gentle wind passing by. Walking toward the direction of the elevator George still mumbles some definition of professional terms. ine, eight, se en, si . .. The elevator finally gets to the fifth floor. George s head is still lowered and his eyes are still focused on the floor. The only things George desires are a warm shower and a sweet sleep. The sudden shake of the lift as he steps into the elevator does not seem to wake him up. nside the lift the light bulb overhead makes a stuttering bu struggling to keep the space illuminated. As George turns around and tries to grope the button of the lobby floor he sees a black shadow running towards him. The sound of the heavy steps breaks the initial uietude of the dark night. t is a girl maybe the same year as George maybe older. She has a pale face that makes her red lips more obvious and some long straight black hair. As she comes into the elevator for some reasons the air sends a cold chill down George s back. e sniffed a bit. Thank you so much. The girl speaks with a smile. h no problem

The elevator keeps going down and stops at the third floor. The door slowly opens. Outside appears another girl, looking as normal as the girl inside the elevator. George looks at her up and down with his drowsy eyes. Suddenly, George’s eyes are wide open and he quickly moves his finger to the CLOSE button, pushing it rapidly until the door is completely closed. “Why didn’t you let her in?” The girl questions George with curiosity and some blame. “Haven’t you heard that the corpses in the classrooms all have a red string on their left wrists? I saw the red string on that girl’s hand just now.” With relief, George turns away. He cannot wait to get outside the building. He looks at his watch. 11:13 p.m. He can make it back to his room before midnight. A wicked smile appears on the girl’s pale face, the wrinkles on her face more distinct under the light. All of a sudden, she slowly raises her left arm and rolls up her sleeve. “Are you talking about this one?”

The Hole Extremely depressed that I missed the bus, I wandered around and hoped that the next one would come as soon as possible. Outside the station, leaves floated on roaring winds in the dark street. Finally, I got into the next bus and picked a comfortable seat. Two hours later, I arrived at my new apartment, a lonely apartment in a remote area. Why did I choose it? The answer is simple: it’s cheap. Some windows broken, dark inside, only a little light could seep from the windows. On the street, there was only a street lamp standing there with me, making a little buzz. I stood there, hesitating, wondering whether I should go upstairs. Too exhausted and sleepy, I decided to move into this mysterious and unfamiliar apartment. Walking into the room, being too tired to unpack, I lay down on the bed and soon fell asleep. The next morning, the sunshine went straight from the window and reflected on my face. Looking around the tiny little room: a small bed, small windows, a small shelf, and a small table. What a sweet and cozy home! Suddenly, a small hole in the wall drew my attention. It was neither too big nor too small, just as big as an eyeball. The hole stood out on the huge plain white wall.

I walked closer and closer to the hole. I stuck my ears to the hole. There was no sound at all. I thought it was just a normal renovation mistake. Driven by curiosity, I wanted to discover what was in the hole, why was it there, or where it led to. I put my eyes in front of the hole and looked into it. It had nothing in it except a red shadow. Strangely, it occupied the full hole, as if the hole was made for it. Disappointed, I did not pay much attention after that. As usual, I went out of the apartment for work. At sunset, I was back to my sweet little apartment. That little hole caught my attention again, I looked into the hole for the second time. Still, only a bloody red shadow. I stood there, thinking about what might be on the other side of the hole. Why is it red? Do I have a neighbor? Is the other end of the hole my neighbor’s room? If so, why is it red? Confused, I went straight to my landlady the next day, asking her if she knew anything about my neighbor. She smiled and said, “You do have a neighbor. He’s the one with the pink eye.” I answered with a nod.

Dictatorial Tendencies by Julian Marlowe Dark clouds The sky is filled with an ominous green color Intense waves The ocean surges over the coast, flooding the lowlands. Huge water spouts can be seen off the coast of the Keys Fishing boats are sent flying like rag dolls The remains of the boats pile up on the shoreline There are no signs of life Water fills the streets submerging houses, cars, and people The screaming slowly dissipates, isolating the howl of the intense winds Safely inland, a man sits on his 55th floor penthouse enjoying the view

Th T he Grreeat W Wa a eo K Ka ana ag ga g a a

by Tate Rosenberg We once a calm and serene area among the blue Slowly the above begins to turn grey ver our peace a loud bang And flashes of hot bright light The banging underneath scares our friends We begin to sway back and forth Slowly but surely we begin to gain power The white begins to cover our crests We begin to crash against each other All is chaos and we can t stop And then we have perfect silence

Wa W a es by Tony Zhang

Ey ye by Tony Zhang E

An Apple by Chenyu Yu He is very hungry. The bustling street has become a phantom in the puddle. He tries not to think about the beautiful restaurants filled with smell of fine wine and delicious food. For a person who has endured hunger and cold for a long time, the thought is just enough to make him to go crazy. He trips and falls into the garbage heap. Today, there’s still nothing. Every family in this prosperous neighborhood is laden with food, but the cruelty of the city people is unimaginable. It’s colder today than yesterday. The wind scratches the faces of the pedestrians like a sharp knife. The pedestrians on the street tuck their necks and walk backwards against the wind. Everyone rushes back home. He pulls his jacket tighter, but the wind could still run into his body. He thinks perhaps he won’t hold out through the winter. What’s that? His blurred vision catches a red dot in the street. He waddles off the sidewalk and watches the dot slowly grow until it’s right in front of him. In the cold October air, that little bit of red warms him. It’s a small apple. His hands close on the apple. Instead of sending it into his mouth, the poor man holds the apple cautiously as if he’s

holding a fervent heart. The feeling of loneliness begins to fade away. “How are you?” he murmurs. “I think… you can hear me.” The apple is silent. At this moment, people have gone home. The cold is frozen in the air. Silence is all around; he can even hear the movement of streetlights. “Have you seen it? There was once a small car window in the street that reflected my face back to me. My wife sat quietly beside me, constantly reminding me to slow down. I turned…” He stops speaking. His voice was shaking as the cold wind kept battering him ruthlessly. Tears blur his eyes and cover the streetlights in front of him. “I turned the speed down, so slow that I could see everyone’s face in the street clearly and say hello to them. After getting out, a group of children would crowd round and see what I brought to them…” The apple is still silent. As the night goes on, the street becomes more indifferent. “You know? If I can live out this shit, I’ll walk through and see every corner of this city. I wanna see the spring, the peach trees bloom, the rivers thaw…”

A single tear falls on the apple, reflecting a blaze of red. “You know? I really wish…” I know. The apple replies. Her voice is tender. A strange red light brightens his eyes… The next morning. A cleaner finds a body of a tramp lying by the roadside. In his stiff and frozen hands, a plastic decorative apple is held tightly.

Untitled Story by Jasmine Tian I am a pink carnation. The sky was getting dark, and he ran in. He rushed to me and my fellows. He took me to the counter, put down the money, and rushed out. Holding me tight, his hands were sweating. He brought me to her. She was lying down in a room of white. A smile appeared on her pale face as soon as she saw me with him. I found myself as the only bright color in the room. When she held me, I was afraid that she would drop me from her quivering and cold hands. She smiled looking at me. Wrinkles appeared on her pale face, but she was beautiful. Her eyes got watery, and she suddenly held me so tight. Even tighter than he did. I did not understand why the tears in her eyes stayed. But the warm smile appeared again. The sky went completely dark, and he fell asleep sitting, leaning over her bed. She was not sleeping. She sat there, quietly looking outside. She turned her head slightly and saw me. She turned to him as soon as she saw me and stayed still, facing his side for the rest of the night. Some of my petals fell, but she still looked at me lovingly everyday. He was there every day until one morning, she was pushed out, and left me all alone until the sun went down. He came back alone, and sat in the dark, in the same spot where he used to fall

asleep every night. He sat there for so long, even longer than when she was there. He gathered all her belongings. As he was walking out of the room, he turned around and saw me, a decayed carnation without petals, and left. Hours later, I found myself in a huge dark trashcan behind the building where I could see the window to the room in which I used to stay.

You Are the Tender Days of April a translation of 你是人间的四月天 by 林徽因 (Lin Huiyin ) by Junjie (Frank) Ma I say: you are the tender days of April, Your laughter dances vividly in the fresh air And waves in ripples of spring. You are the leisurely clouds in the sunset sky Roaming on murmurs of gentle breeze And freely sparkling stars. Light rain drizzles on the flowers So soft, so gentle, And you, in these blooming flowers, Are the fairy with Flora’s honor, Innocent yet majestic Like the bright full-moon in midnight, The snow that just starts thawing, The green from proud sprouts Full of delicate joy. The lotus flower in your dream

Is floating in the shimmering water. You are the blooming buds of trees, The whispering swallow by the window, You are love, hope, and mildness. You are the tender days of April.

Face the Sea with Blossoming Spring a translation of 面朝大海，春暖花开 by 海子. (Hai Zi) by Alan Tsui From tomorrow on, be a happy person Grooming, chopping, and traveling around the world From tomorrow on, care about food Own a house facing the sea with blossoming spring From tomorrow on, write to each person I care about Tell them about my life What the lightning of ecstasy tells me I will tell everyone Name each lake and mountain Stranger, I also give you my best wishes May you have a bright future May you find your true love May you pursue happiness on earth I only wish to face the sea with blossoming spring

ulian M Mo orrrrriiiss by Julian Morris

To the Stonewall by Michael Kassis To the Stonewall! To the Stonewall, they hollered. Man after man running, grabbing and falling over each other, to get to the Stonewall. To the Stonewall, they cried with smoke, dust, and lead following behind them. To the Stonewall, they screamed as confusion, fear, and distress set in. Man after man climbing over each other, Pushing, tripping, falling, screaming. Horns blaring, horses trampling, smoke blinding, guns firing. Blood spewing. To the Stonewall, they shouted as each man ran for his life. A general stood forward, grabbed a man and said calmly “Look there! Look there! There is Jackson standing like a Stonewall!” and the men stood there standing, next to him, like a Stonewall.

The Story of a Soldier (World War I) by Declan Long Deep in the trenches Waiting, Soldiers dream of leaving. Trench foot rots their feet Waiting They yearn to leave. A stalemate, The soldiers’ worst nightmare. Hungry, Pale, And sick, they hope to leave soon. A soldier stands, mud all over his clothes, Drunken to get over the pain. A sliced leg gushes red wine, Pooling on the ground as he walks. Brown hair, Blue eyes, Dirty clothes; A woman at home must be waiting for him. The war has brought many away, Their loved ones ache for their return. Bands at home Playing Trumpets fill the space,

Lady’s sing to bring hope. For months, Soldiers are stuck. Running, Finally the time has come. The mud squishes into his now open-toed boots. New technology surrounds him. Running over, Past the front lines, His life flashes before his eyes. As he looks down, Watching his legs stomp over orphaned clothes. He listens to gunshots. Whiz.... They pass by his ears. Listening, he hears a bell ringing in front of him. So close, Yet so far. He feels his gun, Holding it close to his body. Sweat falls from his face, Drip, Drop,

Running, his vision starts to fade. So close, Yet so far. He has lived through so much pain, So much suffering. The war has ended, but so has he. Left in the battlefield, Artillery fires all around him. All this misery, Because of one killing of another man. Allies have destroyed the lives of many.

Th hrreee oe s b by yM Ma a T

arr rra rar

O S

Write me a sonnet Shakespeare Just fourteen lines of bliss. Make me up as a maiden s tear Sealed with a scarlet kiss. Write me a sonnet Collins Be as gentle or harsh as you like. Lay me to bed in your sweet images While your metaphors sail me through the night. Write me a sonnet darling While lay tenderly in your arms. ll hear its angelic voice softly calling As m released into the depths of your heart. This poetry of yours and mine deeper than any rhyme Weaves between our fingers our lips our chest our lifetime.

The Burning Pyre

He recalls all past false encounters within that church, The high ceiling and steeple concealing the bell tolls Echoing above his crown. His stomach rolls, Stops to ponder the weight of the banging at the door, for his heart to lurch. Perhaps he pauses to consider an appeal, to search (desperate, mad as may be) for any sympathy to save him from the hot coals He faces should he fail. But to no avail; silence from surrounding souls. The dams do burst, unleash the waves of scorn, Brandishing pitchforks and torches to surround a once proud king. Above the crackling flames roars the silence from surrounding souls who do not mourn, The burning pyre summoning demons to shrilly sing.

The Fault to Bear

I no longer see that One disquieting death From a young me’s eyes, Who did not understand my Grandfather’s sickness, nor His divorce. His mistrust of my Family—his sons and daughters— Was only barely explained. All much too distressing for an Eight-year-old, who must not See his worried expressions, his Measured tone, his reserved gestures. As if his hiding behind the Upset walls of a home filling My childhood memories saved me From its legacy. Clearly not; Today I see the same eyes Though a different color Watching me in the mirror. The wrench of my heart, twisting And pulling of my brain Become dull as I remember these Voices are that of my grandfather Lending me his tone, his afflictions, His fate.

Th hrreee oe s b by y T F

ate

ord rdine

Splayed across rewhon shelves are infinite arieties of magic. xclusively bottled in glass Kombucha teas are a cult favorite. With regards to ameliorating ailments such drinks are of the highest class. t s being formulated via fermentation nsures a high bacterial yield And resultant carbonation f which the final product serves as an immunological shield. The microorganisms present in this sacred tea Aid in fostering a healthy gut microbiome Preventing sickness to which this drink represents the key. Such positive probiotics allow beneficial bacterial flora to roam. The philosophy of kombucha excludes allopathic Approaches toward medicine instead aligning With ayurvedic methods which are to our bodies less acerbic. Such a trendy beverage is characteristic in defining The Los Angeles culture of micromanagers ealth addicts and hippies so why think it strange Become cogni ant of perspective: ponder our truth and widen the maw of your neural powers To accept a new reality one to go unchanged.

The Snow Monkey

In blooming spring, the Avaricious snow monkey Beholds a vibrant Satonishiki.1 Taut yet delicate, the skin Of each cherry Enchants. Overwhelmed, He stomps on the fallen fruit And thinks himself grand.

Japanese red cherry

Sea of Malfeasance A mother and son Endure their onerous trek Beneath a dark sky. The moon lights their way Through unforgiving desert. Endless doubt remains. A blanket of sage Sweeps over the two migrants, Perfuming the air. Their new home awaits Beyond infinite wasteland. A parched desert sleeps. The harbinger rays Of dawn beam softly But with great power. The iridescent Sunrise marks another day Of uncertainty. Illuminating The vast terrain, the great light- Bringer reveals Their tattered clothing And disheveled appearance. Thin, faded fragments

Shed from such shredded Garments notwithstanding, Their aesthetically Challenged dress could not compare To the visceral, Mental turmoil Which so unrelentingly Tormented Madre. She had heard stories Of failed attempts, endless Rejection and toils, The forcing back of Innocent asylees to A dangerous land. Now fully exposed, The sun casts upon the brave Pair a sweltering Blaze, nature’s sauna, But the cortège continues. Perseverar, pers… Hours pass… and pass Before reaching the border. He squeezes her hand.

At the entry-point, Border personnel approach. Although severely Depleted, she grips Her boy and races to their Saviors. They, too, race. Met with aggression, She is stunned and senses Her materials to Be inadequate. The mother was unaware Of prerequisites Apart from the sheer Fact that she indeed deserves Entry to The States. The altercation Intensifies as swift hands Envelop her boy. ……………………………… ……………………………………….. ………………………………... She wakes at daybreak. ¿Dónde está mi hijo? Dios, ¿Dónde estoy?

Her face is tender, Dirt caked in the crevices Of her bloody wounds. The poor woman Soon becomes cognizant of Her being caged like A belligerent Dog, yet infinite longing For her son festers. Pondering fruitless Efforts of the Bravest Trek Yields devastation. Drained of emotion, In absolute disbelief, She sits, frozen.

Warm Jets

by Will Brodhead “Do you want to drive?” “No.” I climbed into the passenger seat of the car. Everything was dark, so I plugged my earbuds into my head and pressed play on my iPhone. It doesn’t have a case and isn’t cracked. It’s flat, but feels like a glass cylinder from some technological ancient, esoteric civilization. An amorphous, dissonant, dark green and blue synth collides with the morning gloom. It moves at a speed slightly faster than a heartbeat. My dad was always aware of his mortality, and I’d ask him about it a lot. Twelve years ago, when he was in law school, he had a stroke, and I think that taught him a considerable amount of perspective. The voice moves up higher than any normal human could sing, and then is brought back down to earth, without affect. The singer speaks about prophesying the future, and how the efforts of mortal men to accomplish such a thing are futile. Ending from the perspective of a human, the next track is an ode to memory. Over the dash, I saw a valley that, depending on the season, is peppered with corn, crows, and sometimes cows. It’d been there before us, and it’d be there long after us; unless, of course, if nuclear war broke out, or if there was a gamma ray burst pointed at our planet from a distant supernova. As we coasted into New Preston and rose-gold clouds came over the sky, I was greeted with the swell of a trill, and the sounds of birds: a warm, post-hurricane melody describing the relationship between people and the earth and eternity. One

memory can’t be stretched forever, but can still feel eternal. In the Citgo parking lot, the manager’s Honda Civic was sitting in the back, half-covered by a tarp. The first time I’d seen it was five years ago in the Northville Market parking lot. He’d exited a Mercedes driven by an elderly woman with straight, blonde hair and ovacular sunglasses who’d parked next to his car. These thoughts were interrupted by an organ chord laid underneath a voice. The voice sung about corporeal gratification and the allure of the concept of an afterlife. Dad had never been afraid to talk about death, but would only talk about it if provoked. With most of my family, even the elderly ones, as soon as the topic came up, they’d shut it down. This exclusion was almost comically trivial, given all of their eagerness to discuss family history at annual festivities. I noticed another song had begun playing. This one seemed to outline romantic ideals; perfect scenes and senses. The line where natural ends and artificial begins is a blurry one, if it exists at all. The phone in my hand was rounded off at every possible corner, with the only noticeable indentations being the volume and power buttons. The transition from road to highway was unexceptional, and it wasn’t until I put a blanket over my whole body and pressed the surface of my phone to begin another track that I noticed we were going a hundred-twenty kilometers per hour. Seeing only black, I heard a guitar play what sounded like the northern lights, but more auditorily symmetrical. An aurora is a disturbance in earth’s magnetosphere caused by the constant flow of electrons and other charged particles from the sun. The song was charged similarly, telling a story as a present self to a

past one regarding perishable appeasement. Getting caught up in the vicious cycle of action and consequence is easy. At a high school in northern Michigan, I ‘balanced’ a feral lifestyle with a constant paradigm shift of ninety degrees. Every action had consequence, but every action seemed to be reconciliation. What appeared as a wild balance then, now feels more like sailing a pirate ship with two people in a storm; running around the deck plugging holes, and retying ropes. To stop moving is to risk death, but to continue is certain exhaustion and possible mental deterioration. Pulling the blanket under my eyes to look outside, I saw a familiar cell tower rising up from the median strip. It’s a sad attempt to disguise an RF emission system as a tree, using plastic branches protruding haphazardly from the center pillar. The phone changed to the eleventh track, which begins with a well coordinated but initially messy sounding jumble of noise that gave the impression that one was moving much faster than one actually was. Dad always said that placing cell towers too close to houses would inflict various illnesses upon the residents; however, radio frequency has a very large wavelength, which should not be that harmful. I don’t doubt my own susceptibility to misfortune. With about eighty years to live on average, and humanity existing for two-hundred thousand years, I have no reason to prize my existence as something special. That said, there’s also no reason not to prize the comfort of one’s own existence over all else. Evolution dictates actions in one’s own life to prolong the existence of humanity. The next song says this through a whiny sounding vocal distortion. Getting old and growing out of relationships is inevitable, but one can choose to be comfortable along the way.

The next song began near the cloisters. It was lower in tempo, pitch, and excitement. It incited overwhelming melancholy. An important theme in the song is mind over matter. If a person exists solely on instinct, there could be a multitude of outcomes, ranging from crushing defeat to outrageous success. The use of mind over matter in everyday life can be viewed as a superpower. Dad has mastered this to a degree. He drives two hours into the city and two hours back every day, and works the whole time. During his three hours of consciousness at home before falling asleep, he eats, watches an episode of something, browses the news, talks to my mother, my sister, and me, and plans the next day. He’s spent a ridiculous amount of his life in cars, and I’m probably destined to do the same, as I’ve already racked up months spent inside them. If one is to spend such a great amount of their short lives in a car, why not make it comfortable? I don’t think Dad ever really cared for material attachments other than various nostalgic trinkets and food. Mind over matter is a good tool that requires a lot of energy. A ‘pearl of Scottish wisdom’ says: “Money can’t buy happiness, but somehow it’s more comfortable to cry in a Mercedes than on a bike.” Once we passed Fairway Market in West Harlem, we entered a tunnel, and another song began to play. Using an underwater guitar and an echoey voice, it professes the transcendental nature of earthly emotion. Our short lives have only so much meaning in a four-dimensional universe, but perhaps there are more that could describe (spatially) emotion. The depth and power of dreams is also discussed. The movie Inception goes as far as three dreams deep just to plant an idea. The thought that a dream could dream about a dream et cetera is as attractive as immortality, or emotion that goes farther than the human body. Halfway through the tunnel, my dad asked me

if I saw the cop four cars behind us, to which I said yes. The song came to an abrupt halt and the second-to-last one began with a distorted, gooey synth pierced by a voice. This one highlights the importance of thinking about oneself from a third-person point of view. A person is his or her mind, and his or her mind can think about itself, but may not always get the full picture. To do this one can think about someone else thinking about one and therefore clarify the perception of oneself. The final song is a half-spoken half-sung ode to the many aspects of existence that lasts 9:24 minutes. Interrupted by the occasional honk on Madison Avenue, the singer, in a meandering tone, expounds upon achievement and triviality. Universally, human life does not matter. The definition of matter according to Merriam Webster is “to be of importance.” What one should consider is less what matters on a universal scale, and really what matters relative to one’s own life, well-being, and happiness. The easiest way to keep one’s health in check is through mind over matter. Dad did this the best he could, and is in fact happy. Because immortality probably won’t come, the most important thing is whatever you want. Buddha might’ve said, “Your purpose in life is to find your purpose and give your whole heart and soul to it.”

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Contributors Arian Agadi ‘21 Jihoon An ‘20 Will Brodhead ‘20 Margaux Barthelemy ‘21 Sean Christiansen ‘21 Colten Cicarelli ‘21 Chen (Jean) Fang ‘19 Max Farrar ‘21 Michael Kassis ‘19 Joey Lin ‘19 Declan Long ‘21 Julian Lopez ‘19 Mary-Joyce M. ‘20 Junjie (Frank) Ma ‘20 Julian Marlowe ‘19 Paige Moffat ‘19 Julian Morris ‘22 Hung Tan Ngo ‘20

Jonathan Nichele ‘21 Nate Nordine ‘21 Tucker Paron ‘19 Sofia Pattillo ‘20 Tate Rosenberg ‘21 Gianna Russillo ‘20 Luke Silver ‘19 Jayla Stack ‘21 Catie Stammen ‘20 Jasmine Tian ‘19 Tim Tscheppe ‘19 Alan Tsui ‘20 Yufan (Yolanda) Wang ‘21 Chenyu Yu ‘19 Talia Zabit ‘19 Tony Zhang ‘19 Yueqian (Chelsea) Zhong ‘21

Special thanks to the English and Art Departments for assistance with this publication. For back issues of the Stray Shot, go to www.gunnery.org/campus-life/student-publication Faculty Editor: Mr. Visentin