The Talon Fall 2013

THE TALON

THE TALON Fall 2013 Woodberry Forest School Volume 65, No.1

Editors & Staff

Texture | Peter Lonergan | pen & ink 18 x 24 inches

DESIGN EDITORS

Anna Grey Hogan, Davis Teague

TEXT EDITORS

Kiefer McDowell, Sterling Street

JUNIOR EDITORS

Alec Campbell, Andrew Harris, Brandon Neath

EDITORIAL ASSISTANT

Adrian Cheung

FACULTY ADVISOR

Karen Broaddus

TECHNICAL ADVISOR

Richard Broaddus

POETRY REVIEW

Isaiah Brown, Steven Fischer, Peter Lonergan, Joseph Seo, Joshua Stuart, Nathaniel Tyrell, Christian Zaytoun, Caleb Rogers, Jared Thalwitz

PROSE REVIEW

Brian Kerlin, Sean Kim, Jinuk Oh, David Sloan, Petey DuBose, C.J. Dunne, Brad Harris,Matt LaVigne, Hardin Lucas, Jack Sari, Woody Scruggs, David Willis

ART REVIEW

Myles Brown, Peter Lonergan, Jinuk Oh, Jack Vranian, Petey DuBose,Caleb Rogers, Jared Thalwitz

PHOTOGRAPHY REVIEW

Hines Liles, Nam Nguyen, David Sloan, Joshua Stuart,Thomas Taylor, Matt LaVigne, Christian Zaytoun, Daniel Japhet

COVER DESIGN

Anna Grey Hogan

TITLE PAGE ART

The Man’s Eyes | Jinuk Oh | charcoal 19 x 20 inches

Word

Working with Texture | Jinuk Oh | pen & ink 18 x 24 inches

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THE WASH

43

UP FOR ADOPTION Joshua Stuart | poetry

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STOP Jared Thalwitz | poetry

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POUR. DRINK. TALK. DROWN.

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ANTEBELLUM Anna Grey Hogan | poetry

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FLOW Brandon Neath | poetry

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CLAWS

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A TIME FOR REAPING Andrew Harris | poetry

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THE WEATHERLY Joshua Stuart | poetry

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OUR GOOD PAL UNCLE SAM Alec Campbell | poetry

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INQUIRIES TO MY REFLECTION David Willis | poetry

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A STRANGE DAY IN JULY

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THE BROKEN BAMBOO

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BLACK Joseph Seo | poetry

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NOW YOU CAN WORRY TOO

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RACE NIGHT Tim Sheng | poetry

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INHERITANCE

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TRAIN STOP

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ONE SHELL George Ives | poetry

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CLICHÉ Jared Thalwitz | poetry

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HAKUNA MATATA

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SANDS RUN DRY

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HIDING Zach Sisk | poetry

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CHATTAHOOCHEE

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CASCADES

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SCIENCE Kiefer McDowell | microfiction

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THE FALL Kav Gillespie | poetry

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THE HIT Sterling Street | microfiction

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THE TYRANT’S DOMAIN

Image

The Woods | James Hewell | pen & ink 18 x 24 inches

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SMILE? David Park

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PARING KNIFE Anna Grey Hogan

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BEYOND THE CURB Jordan Silberman

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DEEP BLUE SEA Nolan Day

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ILLUSION Caleb Rogers

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FALL TREE Peter Lonergan

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SUNBATHING Adam Lu

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FREEDOM FLIER Jim King

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PURPLE WATCHING Kelly Lonergan

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SKINNY Anna Grey Hogan

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ABSTRACT FREEDOM Jackson Case

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MURDER Ben Long

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SHUSH Jinuk Oh

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ACCELERATION David Dong

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DOE H.T. Minor

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WAKING Sam Dibble

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FUN AND GAMES Harris Moye

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RUN RIVER RUN Phen Harris

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GLARE ON A FIR TREE Hines Liles

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KONA, HAWAII Will Peak

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LIBERATUS Jared Engh

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NATURE’S TREASURES Hines Liles

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SPRINGTIME AT THE FOREST Jinuk Oh

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GREEN LOROS Daniel Japhet

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THE COLORADO Trip Smith

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THE KOI POND Charles Moorman

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DESERT RAINBOW Chris Oldham

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MAN WITH GUITAR Myles Brown

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ULURU Varsity Art Spring 2013

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WATCHING YOU Garnett Reid

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MONSTROUS Ryan Kim

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OVER THE HILL Anna Grey Hogan

The Wash Joseph Seo

A

fresh sign stuck in the dirt. “No Trespassing.

legs dangled, one on either side of the fence, while I sat and stared at the brush on my left.

My right leg hung down on the safe side, the asphalt, while the other hung down toward the cracked dirt. I had faced this same dilemma the day before, but my left leg eventually swung over. I dropped back down to the familiar asphalt, melting my rubber soles along with whatever organ contained cool. My friends were waiting now.

Sweat trickled down my neck.

“Oh yeah. I think I might have to go to church A boy named Taylor grabbed my right leg and impatiently tossed it to the other side. I plopped onto the dirt with a feeling of pain and liberation.

He hopped over the four-foot fence and led me toward the sewage-reeking wilderness known as the Wash.

I never stopped to think about why the place was called the Wash. I’m guessing now it’s because it literally washes out every once in a while when Angeles River. Cement simulates the winding attitude of the L.A. River. Only small streams and shallow puddles skid the scratchy ground of the concrete valley.

The Wash was sandwiched between two bridges 8

sewage left the cement and spread onto a path of smooth pebbles and jagged rocks. The dirt surface cracked in some areas and ate people like quicksand in others. Sewage-watered trees, hideously bunched together, drooped permanently in a single direction, as washed out and used as the homeless inhabitants.

The assortment of my regular acquaintances at the Wash didn’t make the least bit of sense. We had two Jewish brothers, two Italian brothers, two Asian brothers, two Dogtown surfers, and one skinhead.

All of us were brought together by skateboarding and BMX bike riding. Taylor had been to Juvenile Hall multiple times before. And he wasn’t the skinhead. He was a lanky, young teenager who simply disregarded rules. That was all I really knew of him. One time he put a little bomb, more painful to the ear than anywhere else, into the basket of a local security guard’s motorcycle. He was our on his motorcycle and began to ride away. As he turned the corner of the street and went off behind some houses, we heard, not a weak pop but a loud bang. I looked around for reassuring eyes but found Taylor’s back twenty yards into the Wash.

My particular group of friends had an extreme passion for extreme sports. There was about a seventy degree incline of cement leading down to the bottom of the river. One of the Jewish brothers, Danny Feinberg, rode his bike down the hill. Also

Smile? | David Park | pencil, acrylic, charcoal 18 x 24 inches >

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happening to be one of the heavier guys, Danny ground. He sped down the hill—if we could call it a hill—but he couldn’t take the necessary hop over a little stream at the bottom and crashed right into the water. Danny went to the hospital and came back with all the braces and casts in the world. The idea didn’t seem like such a good one anymore, so we resorted to walking instead. Down in the actual river were a long strip of pure cement and a small the gap until one of us fell in the water, and then we’d do it some more.

One day all my friends sprinted out towards

Hundreds of nine-year-olds like me and teenagers like Cameron pushed and shoved to get a better view. Almost everyone had a phone out, attempting to capture the scene. After about a minute of swinging and grabbing, gasping and panting, the to admit defeat, so they played it off with big talk.

Their cheeks were redder than the embarrassing blood dripping from their noses. They agreed on after a couple weeks, and the two boys kept their pride.

High school boggled my mind. I’d like to say I took the Wash for granted, but I appreciated it

was going to happen between one of the older guys in my neighborhood, Cameron, and some but Cameron was on the verge of being a full-on Nazi, white supremacist. He always wore a military shaved head and jet black clothes. In a few months, he would join the older skinheads who drove fullblack trucks and beat non-whites to the ground with baseball bats. But Cameron, for the time being, was our uninitiated skinhead, for unknown reasons. of practice jabs and uppercuts. They had no idea what they were doing. Someone had to be the man, thrown, a hundred swings followed. These were not punches but wide circles like swimming strokes.

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Every day after school, I headed for the Wash, not home. My time at the Wash abruptly ended about East Coast.

As the plane forced itself out from the clouds, the white outside my window turned into a painting of dead trees and colonial structures. New Hampshire. I had gone back in time. The air was too fresh, too crisp. The trees were too upright, and the snow didn’t come from the sewer. I didn’t see Jews, Mexicans, and surfers digging up a ramp to jump or having a battle royale. There was no sweet aroma of industrial junk. There was no sign that told me to stay out. I was welcome, and I hated it.

Stop Jared Thalwitz

Does, Writing. Like: This— Make, me; deep?

No. Not really.

So stop.

Take a step back, and think: Is that puddle actually beautiful?

With the cars running over it, splashing water into my shoes.

It’s just a puddle. Calm down.

That puddle doesn’t represent your life.

It’s just a puddle.

So be patient.

Good ideas will come.

Eventually.

Or won’t.

Creativity isn’t for everyone.

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Antebellum Anna Grey Hogan You will forget me, without meaning to like some trivial fact they forced you to parrot back: Shakespeare’s birthday or the formula for the area of a triangle.

The promises you’ll break hang in the heavy air, ripping us farther apart.

You will hold me and swear to the stars.

You will meet someone who smells of lavender and chocolate chips who also makes you pause when rains pour, so you cannot see where you are going or where you have come from.

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Someone makes you pause and lets you remember that you are soft.

An animal.

Wake up at four a.m., sweating.

Empty as the space between the stars.

Pick up the phone.

The numbers tattooed on your brain erased, just a scratch. Healed long ago.

Seven digits of separation.

Turn over in the bed, put down the phone. to touch the pale shoulder beneath the mane of blonde.

And forget.

I won’t blame you.

Beyond the Curve | Jordan Silberman | digital photography

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Illusion | Caleb Rogers |marker 8 x 11 inches

Claws Jack Eades

A

drawing of a little baby raccoon hangs above the dresser on my wall. With its gentle stencil accents, it seems as if every painstaking stroke of pencil was carried out with great focus and attention to detail. Hanging from a branch with his feet swaying out waywardly, it looks as if he is not in control, barely hanging on. His eyes are wide open.

The only color detail in the picture is his beady blue eyes. A playful expression he donned only seconds ago has disappeared from his face, replaced by one of sheer terror.

When I’m feeling stressed out, I like to lie on my bed for long periods of time and take a look around. This cancer. It scared the living hell out of me, a 13-yearold about to head off to big bad boarding school. My eyes met the baby raccoon, and I began to sympathize with him. To me, our situations seemed pretty similar.

One minute I was running around having my cliché post-middle-school American summer, the next I was lying on my bed with a psychological gunshot wound. I was really slipping. Luckily, I was able to cling to my branch for the time being. My Dad got better, but that doesn’t mean everything else did.

The following summer, I ripped up my shoulder playing American Legion baseball, requiring major surgery. I spent my sophomore varsity season, the one that I had pegged in my head to be my breakout to make some noise, in the dugout rehabbing. On my spring break, I bored my eyes into that picture and

wondered how I could overcome my misfortune. I thought long and hard, and from then on I made it my mission to dig my claws in and hang on. I rehabbed day in and day out, which gave me the opportunity to play for a competitive showcase team the following summer. I had my best season pitching ever.

I recently asked my mom about the picture and its origin. She told me she bought it at Yellowstone National Park back when I was about four years old. It reminded her of a book she used to read to me at that age called The Kissing Hand. The book is about a little baby raccoon who is scared to be away from his mother. To assuage his fear, she kisses his hand and tells him to put it on his cheek whenever he feels scared or alone and remember his mother’s unconditional love.

When my mom told me this story, I realized that it wasn’t the picture that helped me get through tough times. It was the people who had hung that picture on the wall. Without my parents, who never missed a game or a recital or a doctor’s appointment, I would never have been able to meet those challenges.

I would like to think that maybe one of these days that baby raccoon is going to grow up, get some bigger claws, and be able to move around in the trees gracefully. And that maybe one day, if he falls down to his face, and remember the ones who gave him the strength to climb up and hang on.

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The Weatherly Joshua Stuart

not a cloud in the sky.

A man sits on the deck waiting; The ocean wears the sunlight as a bright gold tie.

Now comes the preparatory signal, last adjustments being made.

Men scramble about the deck.

Their rubber soles make the hardwood scream.

Only 4 minutes left.

Sixty seconds remaining.

Everybody runs to man their stations. concentration is now at hand.

Wind catches the mainsail of the weatherly as she separates from the pack.

The race has begun.

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Sunbathing | Adam Lu | digital photography >

David Willis

the bags under my eyes so pronounced?

Was there a moment when my jaw decided to clench and never loosen itself?

Never smile.

Behind gritted teeth, deep inside sit the collecting piles of bottled screams and pretend laughter, roiling and thrashing, begging to be expressed, never let out, never suspected, kept suppressed.

Like the picture of Dorian Gray it distorts, The skin pulled tight around sharp cheekbones, marked by a tired and sickly pallor. or is it truly the mask I wear?

Am I really this corrupted by forces that boil inside me?

A visage of sadness and darkness, it stares back at me, does it doubt as I do, worry as I do, bury everything inside as I do, and stare back at this foreign twin of itself with as much hatred and disgust as I do?

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A monster it and I; Or is it the other way around?

Purple Watching | Kelly Lonergan | acrylic 12 x 18 inches

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The Broken Bamboo Terry Tang

P

ing spoke from the platform, sweating more than I have ever seen him sweat, with one hand holding a microphone and the other waving in the air. Tiananmen Square was over a hundred acres, but with a thousand people squeezed in, it seemed as small as the market near my house. In front of me, Ping stood on the Monument to the People’s Heroes.

The original gray and white granite and marble had been covered with red and yellow banners. I saw the faint smile on a big portrait; that was Chairman Mao. I wake up in this dark room with a brick wall: gray, hard, and cold. The rigid bed hurts my neck.

I’ve been dreaming of Ping and Tiananmen Square

black ash from the homemade gunpowder.

We went to the same high school and college.

With the highest scores in our town, he went to one of the best law schools. However, he stopped going I came to his dorm, I would see him lying in his bed with a book of Montesquieu, Napoleon, or some other western philosopher or writer.

One day in the summer of our junior year while I was walking to class, he rushed to me with a newspaper. “Have you heard of this? A student demonstration has broken out in Beijing, right in

Suddenly the heavy iron door opens; a guard puts a tray of food on the ground. “Eat quickly, the

no interest in politics at all.

“It’s time to go to Beijing. We need a group to

Captain? I think of Ping. This was his title at primary school.

“I’m not going. This is not something students do.

I stood rigidly in between two lines of my drop it to the ground and run away.

Ping stood behind me and pointed at a cob wall.

that held so much power would do to those who challenged it.

“Nothing bad will happen. More than half of China’s movement started in Beijing this century.

raised his hand and started to count down. “Three, Bang! I fell to the ground, my face covered with 20

I went with a group of thirty people after Ping somehow raised money among the students. In

Beijing he rented an old dirty truck and drove us all the way to Tiananmen Square.

When we arrived, we took over one side of the platform of the Monument to the People’s Heroes.

During the day we marched, shouted slogans, and gave speeches. At night, we lay under the shelter we built, talked about our dreams, about what the country would be like. politician, and I will promote reforms toward a freemarket economy. I will never submit to corruption and injustice. That’s why I love bamboo. It always I did not have any dreams. I could not even handle the chaos and momentum within this young crowd. We came out of the shelter after sunrise. In like thousands of ants swarming out of their anthill.

People yelled, but I did not really pay attention to what they said. When my head ached, I would go sit in one of those hundred-year-old alleys of Beijing.

After a week, I felt something change. Leading the followed by other people. I started to understand why Ping wanted us to come, but I began to notice a slight disturbance in his eyes.

Half a month later, Ping stopped giving speeches; he spent most of his time staring at the portrait of Chairman Mao. One night, Ping woke me. I had stared at me for a couple of seconds and then heaved a sigh. “This demonstration is a mistake. Students here only want to show their anger. This will not

help any reform. You need to take our classmates “You said we were doing the good thing, right?

“You don’t understand. The troops are coming. voice and grabbed my arm. “But you will be the I did not see him again. As I took down the banner on the day we left, it looked the same as when we arrived. At the southern part of the square, space, and a line of police stood across the street.

The next day, people started to whisper to one another about a massacre at Tiananmen Square.

“No, my aunt in Beijing told me more than three This time nothing was in the newspaper except the prime minister’s address describing the event as a I sneeze and shiver with cold. It has been a long time since then.

The door opens and the guard comes in. “You I nod and follow quietly through a long hallway to a wooden door. When the door opens, the light is so strong that I wince and squint.

He is not even thirty, but half of his hair is gray.

His deep eyes have sunk in; they have lost their brilliance. A Chinese monochrome of bamboo is on the wall behind him.

Abstract Freedom | Jackson Case | acrylic 12 x 18 inches

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Now You Can Worry Too Kiefer McDowell One sign of impending death by rabies is a sore throat.

Kiefer McDowell I think it is safe to say that I am the craziest member of my family.

Not crazy-fun. Crazy-insane.

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Shush | Jinuk Oh | pencil 8 x 14 inches >

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One Shell George Ives Burrowing up under a tree did not bring comfort.

The brown around me was complemented by the cold.

I watched the trees sway in the cutting wind, but I still saw nothing.

As quickly as a heart stops, there she was, escaping the tree’s shadows.

There was life, vibrant colors.

New shades of brown jumped off the trees.

Everything was beautiful now.

Her eyes became the only movement around us, blinking, then as quickly as the shot rang, she fell.

But her pulse was as strong as mine, and it wasn’t stopping.

As the sun set, my pace slowed.

My prayers were long and deep.

All I could see were her eyes.

Watching a brown stalk submit to the wind, I broke the stare.

Her gaze remained.

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Doe | H.T. Minor | pastel 18 x 24 inches

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Fun and Games | Harris Moye | digital photography

Hakuna Matata Adrian Cheung

A

s the school gate opened in front of our lorry, I looked at the waving kids. They were laughing and dancing as if they’d just won the lottery. Nothing could stain their smiles, not even the dirtiest and driest plains of Kenya. I leaned out the window and yelled, “JAMBO! That day we were going to interact with African kids from a local middle school. I was excited, yet worried. Were we going to be looked at differently?

Will they be friendly? Though I still had a handful of questions, the lorry passed the gate and entered the school.

After our guide gave us a set of behavioral instructions such as the prohibition against littering or using bad language, he signaled us to climb out of the lorry. None one was willing to move. We were were on us. Holding my breath, I leaned back against the seat as the engine came to a stop. Everything fell silent. The students’ gazes felt like thousands of ants crawling over my skin.

Eventually, we got off the lorry. Surprisingly, it wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it would be. The students were welcoming. Dressed in their blue uniforms, they were laughing, smiling, and yelling “JAMBO! strangeness between us.

I was still deep in thought when a kid came up to me and asked in rather choppy English, “You I was just about to answer when he grabbed my

material and looked nothing like what I’d seen back home. Just like that, we started playing soccer. As chickens, all going for the ball. I was clueless as to what was happening. I felt the ball bounce off my feet, but when I looked down, a kid had already stolen the ball from me. I swore he was on my team seconds ago. I laughed it off awkwardly when my teammates asked me what was wrong.

The game went on, and I began to love it. There just chased the ball. Maybe I was getting a little too happy. Yelling and screaming like a madman, I charged at the ball, turned with it, and bumped right into somebody. My shoe was on his foot. He yelped and fell to the ground. It was not until that moment that I realized most of the kids were playing on this I quickly rushed to the boy I had accidentally stepped on. Sure enough, his foot was cut and bleeding. Just as I was about to apologize and fetch him a Band-Aid, the boy picked himself back up.

He looked tired, and he had dirt all over him. “It’s Speechless, I watched him run back after the ball.

I knew that despite the issues he had back home, 27

whether it was about food, water, or even a place to live, he was happy at this very moment and willing to forgive someone who had just hurt him.

The game ended twenty minutes later. Some students led us to the benches that were set up beside were wondering why part of the school had suddenly disappeared, a group of students walked out from a classroom, adjusted to a square formation, and started to sing.

Despite the numerous voices, their words were crisp and clear, and more importantly, harmonic.

They sounded united as one. It was a traditional Kenyan hymn that none of us knew, but by their amazing dance moves and their clearly organized

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transitions, we could tell that they had put in a lot of effort. I realized that this was the cultural exchange performance our guide had told us about this morning. My friends and I looked at each other nervously. Though we’d been told to prepare a performance for the local kids, we hadn’t put in any effort. So now our only option was a song that everyone knew the lyrics, our national anthem. My heart sank as their performance got better and better.

I wanted them to keep dancing until it was time to leave, but after the resounding of a high note, their but all I could think of was the embarrassment that awaited us.

Nervously, we began to sing. Everything went the

way I had expected. We started off on the wrong pitch and sounded horrible because our voices eventually got softer and softer until they were barely audible. What made it even worse was that some of my friends forgot the lyrics to the anthem.

I looked for disappointment in their eyes, but the students gave us a thundering applause after we deserve a single bit of their applause.

So there we sat, surrounded by ecstatic kids who were dancing and singing around us as if we were Christmas gifts to them. I had no doubt that some of them must have had high expectations for what friends from the other half of the world might bring to them.

my eyes followed. Half of the sky blazed in red, few days I would have to say goodbye, but I would treasure this experience forever.

These children were generous and welcoming.

They had ambition but were not greedy. They were pleased by the smallest things. A friend’s problem was their problem. As I leaned out the window and that this was just a temporary goodbye. Maybe one day, I would set my feet upon this land again and show these generous, lovely people of Kenya a true greeting from a friend far away.

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Hiding Zach Sisk How long do trees keep secrets?

What about the brush?

What about the river?

Brush stands loyal, forming our secret walls, a ceiling,

How long until trees whisper through passing gales or rivers mumble over tumbling rocks, our secret lost?

a clearing.

Pine needles stitch open patches.

Sunlight peeks through pine threads,

Cold settles, freezes trees before telling.

Words half open, the gale moves on.

Rock stops tumbling, the river now ice.

Mumbled secrets brittle crumbling, shattered.

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The river lies teasing in the back, never fully frozen.

Waiting for us to take a step, to break the surface, to fall.

Glare on a Fir Tree | Hines Liles | digital photography

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Liberatus | Jared Engh | pencil 8 x 11 inches

Sean Kim

I

We looked at each other, waiting for someone to talk.

All four of us, close friends from middle school, gathered around a single toilet stall inside a public restroom. The stench of old urine hung in the air.

This time Ben took one from his pocket and approached the toilet. “Come look at what happened

were our only company. We strategically picked out this remote public restroom near a wide, empty that was perfect; we were up to no good. With a lighter in one hand and a cascade in another, my friend Anthony stood in front of the toilet. He lifted the toilet seat up and then stared down at the water momentarily as if he were having second thoughts. fuse.

Once lit, the fuse burst into a hissing sparkle like something out of a Looney Tunes episode. We all stood there, mesmerized by the sparkle eating away at the fuse. Just before the fuse disappeared completely, Anthony dropped the cascade. With a gentle plop, it fell into the water, and the hissing stopped. Silence. Then suddenly, as if rejecting the while simultaneously erupting into a sizzling blaze.

Water started to spurt out of the toilet like lava from an exploding volcano, except the color of the water periodically changed from red to orange to green to purple. Soon it ran out of juice and silence returned.

We saw the problem. The water, now black from the gunpowder, was seeping through a crack on the side of the toilet. Trickling down the side, the black water started to touch the tips of our shoes.

We headed outside, eager to use the rest of the cascades. We walked around looking for various surfaces and ways to test them. Every time Anthony or Ben threw one onto a new surface, such as grass, dirt, or cement, it reacted or spun in new thrilling ways. We carried over a dozen of them in our pockets, so the trip continued throughout the afternoon.

Soon, we exhausted every idea, and our little creative endeavor stagnated. We had trekked quite a way from the restroom to a steep hill sandwiched by a stream at the bottom and a wide thicket of yellowgreen bushes at the top. While treading through the uncut grass in silence, Anthony suddenly changed course and headed down the hill. explaining, he ran towards the bottom and stood 33

on one of the rocks that served as a path across the stream. “Okay, I’m going to light one and try to throw it as high as I can so we can see it spinning The idea certainly was new. “Where are you

idea. For the rest of the journey, the cascade soared somewhere inside the thicket of bushes. When it landed, we heard it spinning for a couple more seconds before dying out completely.

With no cascades left, we decided to return to James’s house. It was late in the afternoon, and we had enough fun for one day.

While we were casually walking back, Ben

skeptically because we were standing almost three quarters of the way up the hill.

We saw Anthony take out his lighter and light the fuse. The familiar hissing was audible as the fuse

That small hope of innocence quickly vanished as I saw the trail coming from inside the thicket of bushes. Then suddenly I felt an unbearable fear: a fear of getting caught, a fear of the police, a fear of facing my parents, and a fear of causing a massive

held onto it until the last moment before hurling for a few seconds before turning into a frenzy of bright colors. Anthony was right. It was a brilliant

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one command to run. So I ran. Time ran alongside me. When I stopped, night had already fallen and the smoke was long lost in the sea of darkness.

Springtime at the Forest | Jinuk Oh | pastel 18 x 24 inches

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The Fall Kav Gillespie Solid yet unstable; Look up; there is no end in sight.

Tie in, safety is key.

Watch your feet.

Feel the rock, hold tight.

The cracks, ledges, and slopes create a path; Fear no fall, stay where you belong.

Look down; enjoy the sight.

A thousand feet versus ten, there is no difference.

Trust the rope.

Muscles weaken, remember.

You are human. This is nature.

Do you belong?

Of course, grab another hold.

Move steadily and surely.

Fear no fall, watch your feet; they might push you off. has a maximum distance.

The beauty is in its simplicity.

A rope, two climbers, a system.

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The Colorado | Trip Smith | digital photography

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Desert Rainbow | Chris Oldham | pastel 24 x 18 inches

Uluru | Varsity Art Spring 2013 | acrylic 32 x 25 inches

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Monstrous | Ryan Kim |acrylic 12 x 18 inches

The Tyrant’s Domain Jinuk Oh

O

ne afternoon in the winter of my second year in middle school, I was sitting in an English class with about six other kids daydreaming about what I should do at school tomorrow. The Elite English Academy was led by the famous Mr. Lee, a man in his early thirties with slicked-back hair and sharp facial features. Apparently, he brought up students’ test scores to miraculous levels. Perhaps that was the reason why he liked to look down on other people.

He had the absolute trust of all parents, and no complaint about him was taken seriously. Lee was the tyrant of his own little kingdom.

The classroom’s heater was broken. The desks and chairs felt as if they were made of ice. Cars passed by outside, competing to make the loudest noise. I’d long before let go of my pencil and stopped taking mind wander.

I heard a voice faintly calling my name, probably Mr. Lee asking me why I hadn’t done my homework.

I ignored it. Then I heard him call me again, this time a little louder and sharper. I was about to reply, when I didn’t. Lee called me again, slowly getting out of his seat at the front of the room and advancing to my side.

“Why didn’t you do your homework? And why He spoke quietly and directly so the other teachers outside wouldn’t hear.

and pronouncing every word as loudly and clearly as I could without yelling.

Those who didn’t understand how annoyed Lee was at me started giggling at what I’d done. I felt like a winner, proud as if I’d punched the most feared teacher square in his face. The tyrant had been mocked by his own student! What could possibly be better than that? look before turning and walking back to his desk.

Several pieces of broken chalk and dust fell on the “Everyone pick up a handout from my desk and While the other guys stood up and headed to the front of the room, I remained seated and enjoyed my victory. I felt rebellious.

“Hey, you, come to the front of the room and pick Looking out the window and spinning my pen around in my hand, I ignored him. voice was shaking.

Only the cars racing by outside made noise.

BANG! Lee’s heavy textbook crashed and knocked pens and papers off his desk.

“Don’t make me get up from my chair, boy. Get gritted teeth.

I sat frozen in my seat.

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“Get your goddamned handout or get the hell Through the glass, I saw two students freeze in the hallway. I could no longer resist. I didn’t know what Lee would do if I crossed the line. Why not be done with this business now? It would look like Lee’s victory, but I decided to call it a day. As I took the handout and turned away from Lee’s glaring face, I quietly sighed. violently that his chair crashed to the ground. “What the hell did you just say? Shibal I didn’t understand.

What did I do so wrong? other students, who all scurried out of the room.

With his eyes closed and his arms crossed, he took a deep breath and then a couple more. After he went to the door and closed it, Lee looked at me and then at

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the CCTV on the ceiling at the back of the room. He turned the lights off. of him. It seemed obvious that he was not going to listen to me, so I sat down. Lee opened his mouth and closed it several times, his face scrunching up.

The silence was so dense that I could almost touch the thick wall of tension. Then, without warning, Lee everywhere. Lee’s chest heaved and sweat rolled across his face. Seconds felt like hours as he stood in front of me. I couldn’t look at his eyes. Lee didn’t look back when he left the room.

Stunned, I picked up my possessions and ran out of the building. I didn’t understand what had just happened. I wasn’t hurt. The kick was aimed at the desk, not at me. I had a few broken pens and pencils, wanted to hear that day. No one had won.

Up for Adoption Joshua Stuart

For the athlete, rushing to make the best impression; what lies underneath is not presentable.

Everything is free.

Treating you as if you are royalty; it’s all just an act.

For the academic, numerous letters in the mail, the encouragement and brown-nosing packages.

They lift your esteem higher than the clouds.

Treating you as if you are royalty; it’s all just an act.

The twelve-year journey to adulthood has ended.

Here they both are completed and primed.

The recruiting process begins, They sign the papers, handing themselves over to start a new life with new owners.

College adoption.

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Pour. Drink. Talk. Drown.

Anna Grey Hogan

P

our. He turned into her driveway. Her house was the only one that looked lived-in. At one time this had been prime real estate. The little pink and yellow houses, architecturally identical with white picket fences, had been bought up by those strapping lads and petite brides of 1950s advertising. As he Fluorescent radio waves danced and rippled through the cool night air, sending invisible tremors out from the tower in the heart of the city. They carried voices high above his head that dissipated on her doorstep, turned out like unwelcome guests.

He knocked hesitantly. He knew she’d sleepily open the door and smile up at him with her dark eyes encircled with too much makeup. He knew his to the kitchen to pour him a glass of wine.

She heard the car pull up and ran to the kitchen, her faded pink robe slipping open as she checked She tied the pink strings together and produced a bottle of Chardonnay she’d started that morning from the fridge. Taking one of the nice glasses from the top shelf, she smiled to herself. He was right there. Right outside.

wide, laughing at Jason Alexander’s punch line. He What a fucking joke. When he slipped it back into his pocket, a faint red imprint was left in its place.

She entered the dark room, holding a wineglass in one hand and a mug of chamomile tea in the other.

She’d told him once that chamomile made her feel sexy. His grouch of an aunt used to spike it with Ambien on weekends when she watched him as a child. One weekend she decided to take all the Ambien herself, and when his parents picked him up on Sunday night, they dropped Aunt Emily off at the morgue too. He did not like chamomile, but he liked her, so he didn’t mind.

Talk. The nuances kept them interested. They never really let their affair wander outside the four walls of her shoebox house, so some variation was peppered in to promote the delusion of interest.

This was her favorite part of the evening. His least favorite. They were not perfectly sculpted by some For her, talk involved awkwardly pretending he cared about her life. After months together, she’d deluded herself into believing that he did. And so she prattled on about her job, Debbie the gossip

Drink. Waiting on her stained corduroy couch, be watching Seinfeld at home on their couch right now. Probably knitting. Her stupid face spread 44

whatever trash television she’d become addicted to, and her dream of being a hostess at a fancy restaurant in the city.

For him, talk involved waiting a respectable could kiss her mouth shut.

Drown. Twenty minutes later she was lying on her back thinking about how strange he looked there, sweating and gasping. It reminded her of her cousin drowning in Smith Mountain Lake when she was eight. The panicked look in his eyes and thrashing

life she felt dread deep in her stomach. She was losing him. If she could just save him, touch him, do something. She lifted her head and kissed him awkwardly, too desperately. When she pulled away, something strange clouded her eyes. He disappeared under the waves thinking about his wife.

The radio waves crackled with electricity, but reaching out into the atmosphere and beyond. Back at home Janet was turning off the television.

Paring Knife | Anna Grey Hogan | digital photography

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Flow Brandon Neath I just wish the words would come; they never seem to stream.

For her the words splash like fountains of creation; Her words are springs that froth and bubble, non-stop with nothing but color and life.

But when I try, the light fades.

The pencil begins to dull.

The words escape from the tip of the pen.

Look, look up and you’ll see.

To feel the light, to see the light.

We just simply see the words Flow.

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Deep Blue Sea | Nolan Day | acrylic 12 x 18 inches

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Fall Tree | Peter Lonergan | pastel 18 x 24 inches

A Time for Reaping Andrew Harris

A single drop of sweat paused on the whip’s pommel, twisted down the leather’s coiled length, and beaded on the knotted end.

Humming its painful tune, the air splintered and screeched.

The whip descended on the male’s back, Eclipsing the sun, the overseer provided cool relief.

As the shadow crept from his clouded vision, he found himself lying in a slick on once-dusty ground.

The overseer left, hearing his wife beckon, and the shirt slid over the other’s shoulders.

A tract of crimson ground followed him, as he marched towards the shaded woods, The air froze, and the corn daren’t make a sound.

The harrowed man stumbled for the branches, away from the hum and crack of reprimand, but squeals of his children berated him.

Collecting the craven mind, he stooped and plucked corn from green stalks.

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Freedom Flier | Jim King | acrylic 12 x 18 inches

Alec Campbell

from a tyrant’s grasp. an untied rope we clasp.

Grieving souls disturb the peace.

Mourning wives only sob.

This burden’s upon us to say the least.

we march, left foot, right.

My life? I don’t give a damn!

We sing of a star spangled night.

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52

A Strange Day in July Brad Harris

H

e threw with all his might, but the third stone came

her about John’s disappearance. It’s been three years, the fourth of July, is always different without him. blasting above me. John felt the same way. It was on this once-beloved holiday that he decided it would be fun to wander off near the pond where my dad told us not to go.

But Ashley, the only one with him when he went missing, always has a smile on her face when we talk of John. I’ve never been too sure why she thinks his disappearance is the funniest thing. Which is weird.

My sister is the only one who didn’t grieve after John’s disappearance.

My mom’s voice slides under my locked door. it under my pillow, the only safe place to hide it. I trudge downstairs.

“Honey, it’s been three years since you’ve seen the to be with. You know she can’t wander around by “Charlie, it’s been three years! Please spend tonight with us. Kailey will be there. I know you’d “Exactly, Mom. It has been three years. And it’s been three years of the same answer. For the last

the frustrated look on my mom’s face. I fall onto my bed and close my eyes.

The notorious slam of the front door wakes me up.

My family just left. Perfect. I grab a few beers from old kid has to get a little enjoyment out of the holiday.

I slide down the path that leads from the house to the pond. I’ve never really understood why dad hates as a little kid. But one day, Dad put his foot down.

He said that the pond was off limits. A few days later, John disappeared down there.

In front of the pond is a small sand beach, maybe anthills cover the sand, but this place feels like heaven to me. I put down my beers, roll up my jeans, sit on the edge of the sand, and ease my feet in. The cool water feels as if someone is tickling the soles of my feet.

After four Bud Lights, I feel pretty nauseous. My toes are numb from the freezing water, and my body gets slowly painted with bug bites. It’s all sweet felicity. A hand rests on my shoulder. Startled, I jump, only to realize it’s Ashley. “Why are you here? she’s about to cry. I lift my arm and let her snuggle against me. She wraps her arms around me and closes her eyes as if she’s going to sleep.

< Skinny | Anna Grey Hogan | digital photography

53

sits there. I take off my sweater and put it on her. know will do the trick. “Do you know how to skip

skips twice. Honestly, I am impressed since skipping

pointing, insisting for me to look.

Squinting across the pond, I see nothing until my eyes wander over to a young boy picking up the rock I threw. He throws it back to me, and miraculously it skips across the entire pond. He waves at me, and I squint harder. “John! Is that you?

up and throw a rock, watching miserably as it skips

waiting for me to throw it back, the fog thickens.

perfect for skipping. She hands it to me, and I caress

rock near the edge of the beach. Bending down to

hand, so I expect a little more than two skips this

there. A seven-year-old’s beaten face looks into my eyes, staring into the depths of my past. I lean further, reaching my hand out to touch the boy. “Come out of

it disappears in the fog. I smile at Ashley. “Now how

I offer my hand to pull him from the water as his rock was successful. I look across the pond, only to see the same rock skipping right back. My stomach drops. I pick the rock up from the water and throw it back, watching as it skips endlessly into the fog.

To my amazement, it comes back. I once again grab it, but this time I just chuck it. Ashley stands there laughing at me.

Suddenly, the fog clears. Ashley’s laughter grows steadily while my heart pumps faster and faster. Rain drizzles from the sky, and I’m ready to go back inside.

But Ashley is pointing to the other end of the pond.

make contact with his, lightly touching the water’s surface. His blank face forces a smile, and he grabs my arm and drags me under. Sinking deeper and deeper, I watch desperately as Ashley laughs from the beach. Bubbles shoot from my nostrils and mouth. gasp for air. All of the strength in my body fades.

Suddenly, small arms wrap around me. The boy’s lips gently touch the edge of my ear, and he whispers,

The Mysteries of Harris Burdick

54

Joseph Seo

When the rays begin to vanish, the eyes cease to be.

When only thoughts remain visible, the mind begins to see.

Tick as the clock goes to the sounds of the mindâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s clack.

I dread the sight of nothing, the absence known as Black.

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Murder | Ben Long | acrylic 12 x 14 inches

Tim Sheng

A bicycle rally for me and my buddies on another hot and sticky night.

I dashed downstairs and ran into the seething crowd.

Machines of speed hummed like a mob of locusts.

I pedaled as fast as I could. a long, high-pitched squeal caught me from afar.

Dear Lord, that was the sound of car brakes.

Toward this ominous sound, I darted as fast as I could.

A crippled tricycle lay on the street, missing its left hind wheel.

A wrecked Honda sat on the curb: a deformed monster.

Printed on the black asphalt with shattered glass and blood smears was a long, curved brake mark, a serpent on the street.

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Train Stop Brandon Neath

I

don’t remember why we were on the line; it could’ve been for spring break, fall break, or my trip to New York for the summer. All I remember is sitting next to my mother. It must’ve been last year.

I don’t remember taking the train so often any other year. It’s called MARTA, Atlanta’s rail line.

We don’t talk much while we’re on the train. I never really talked much anyway. I just sit and observe as always, seeing many interesting people.

Atlanta is a lively city. Some days, I see airport workers young and old. I see one of West End’s youth, music blasting on full, pants hanging below his ass. On others, though, I see grim reality. Today, I saw reality as an old man with no teeth. An old man who looks like his last meal was too distant to recall. An old man whose clothes were as rough as the life he seemed to live.

“An’body got sum chan’e? Haven’t had breakfas’ It was a trend of the homeless in Atlanta: Announce to a group of people your status and the time you’ve had your last meal, which usually happens to be a because it assumed that the goodness in a select group of people would be high enough to bear fruit, but more times than not, the tree is dead to the root.

“Haven’t had breakfas’ this mornin’ everybahdy,

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I’m about to reach for my wallet when my mother stops me. For a second, I wonder why she would. This man is pleading to everyone, even me, a mere child, for a chance to eat breakfast this morning, a luxury he does not often get. My mom’s generosity knows no bounds. Why would she stop me from performing such a kind gesture? I remembered how I questioned the goodness in people when they are on the giving side of this situation. However, I realized that it could easily be the same for the other party. A conman does not always need a desk; he could easily dress as a man who needs the pity of strangers. He could be the predator, preying on the goodness of patrons. I doubted this stranger and myself for that second, but he already saw me reach for my wallet.

I trusted him and gave him the little cash in my wallet. He took it and thanked me with a sincere look as he got off the car. My mom quietly scolded me, telling me the reality of how people should deal with it, given the circumstances at hand. He could’ve easily been one whose morals have been teeth with the root holes still visible, though, at least not easily. I didn’t know this man, nor did he know me. I don’t remember the time, where I was going, or why I was going there. I just remember that it was all I could do that day.

Acceleration | David Dong | digital photography

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Jared Thalwitz

I noticed the colors, not the grey pavement.

I saw the oranges, the reds, and the yellows I saw the greens.

I saw the big blue sky sprinkled with white clouds.

I saw the good.

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Waking | Sam Dibble | digital photography >

Sands Run Dry Shaun Stevenson

I

’m nothing special. I don’t understand the thoughts of star athletes and celebrities alike who think that without them, the world couldn’t spin. I’m a 20-year-old university student getting a major in chemistry who has no job and no special talents other than being able to shoot a gun pretty well.

That’s a useless skill nowadays. I mean, sure, I can protect myself and my family in the future, but I’m too dumb to be a federal agent or CIA operative and too chicken to be a cop.

I check myself in the mirror. I’m a rather skinny guy but not a stick man. My blonde hair is disheveled. I rub the circles under my eyes. Time to go. It’s really foggy today. I can hardly see the house across the street. I wrench the key to start my Audi. I love the new matte white paint job. It shows dirt easily, but that’s the risk I take.

Starbucks is always crowded in the morning.

10. Ten people are ahead of me in line. I can’t help but feel anxious because there’s Caitlyn. She has a polite smile and serene eyes. 9. If you ever got the slightest bit angry with her, I imagine her eyes hair is in a long French braid. 7. She looks so nice, even in a Starbucks’ uniform. Sometimes I wonder who she’s trying to look all nice for. 6. Does she have a boyfriend? Is it her coworker? Does she just always look nice, or is it intentional? 5. Maybe it’s me that she’s trying to impress. With any luck, that would be the case. 4. I’ve seen her here every morning for the past year. She’s a university student

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just like me, but the school we go to is so large that I never see her around. Sometimes I think she doesn’t even really go there. 3. Maybe she’s just a ghost or never will be, but then I see that smile of hers and know that there’s no way that something so perfect could be a vision from my head. 2. I always loved the ocean as a child, and I still do. Her bountiful blue eyes remind me of being pulled out to sea by the undertow. Perhaps that’s why I can never ask her out. I’m afraid that I’ll get lost at sea. 1. Oh boy, I’m next in line.

This guy in line takes an unusually long time to decide what he wants. My eyes widen and my eyebrows rise. Speaking of choosing what you want, what am I going to get? My eyes jump around the room looking for an answer to my question. Oh, why do I always panic? I know what I’m going to get. Hell, she knows what I’m going to get. war.

Sheepishly, I step forward to the counter.

She always bothers to ask. Perhaps one day I’ll actually order something different just to mix things up; that would throw her off. my wallet, I keep kicking myself in my head. I start pulling on my left ear. Ask her out. I shove my

right hand into my pocket. Ask her now. But then I become painstakingly aware of the line behind me. I shouldn’t hold these people up. I can’t do something like this with a huge audience. If she says no, I won’t be able to handle the embarrassment. What if she says yes? Oh man. Do I do it or not?

She looks right through me to the next customer.

Damn it! I missed my chance again. Ah well, there’s always tomorrow. But as I snatch my coffee, I can’t shake the feeling that I won’t ever see her again.

The door beeps as I leave, and then my phone beeps too. One missed call from my brother. How didn’t I hear it ring? I’m still not speaking to him.

He is awful about communicating. He just showed up last Thanksgiving. Never RSVP’d. Mom had to set another place at the table. Suddenly, I thought I saw Granddad in front of me. When Granddad had cancer, my brother didn’t even call him once. Never went to check on him or anything. Too late now.

Death never considers timing when he comes. But then again, do we consider air? Death is in no need of time.

I can’t. Not yet.

Everyone seems to have distant, blank stares today. Surely this is all in my head. I need to get some sleep. I think I’ll forgo classes for today and just head back to the apartment. Good thing I didn’t drink my coffee yet. I need sleep.

On the side of the street I see a homeless man.

Should I help him out? He can’t do anything to me out here on the street, so why not? I decide to roll down the car window.

“Hey buddy, you want some McDonald’s?

As I get back with the Big Mac in tow I can’t seem that whole conversation? Maybe he went down that alley over there. I get out and start looking. I don’t want this Big Mac to go to waste. Is that him?

I check behind me.

Oh my God, he actually has a gun. Which pocket

I think I hear a click, but my ears are blaring, so I can’t tell. The sky seems dark and grey today.

Overcast. Not a hint of blue in sight. I wonder why clouds only become visible once they’ve reached the sky.

Funny thing about ghosts is they never stick around for too long.

Run River Run | Phen Harris | acrylic 12 x 18 inches

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TOP LEFT: Natureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Treasures | Hines Liles | digital photography BOTTOM LEFT: Kona, Hawaii | Will Peak | digital photography ABOVE: Green Loros | Daniel Japhet | digital photography

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Sterling Street

T

he Chattahoochee River cuts right through my backyard. Every season of the year, trees lean over and etch ripples into its glassy surface, and in July when their branches get thick and heavy with dark green leaves, you can hear the rushing and gurgling from the back porch. It’s always ice cold, and during droughts it gets so dark and green that just seeing it quenches my thirst. canoe. A quarter mile downstream from my house where the river slows at the bend, a fallen tree leads down into the water, and I’ve walked up and down its scarred trunk so many times that even when it’s getting dark out I can feel exactly where to step. Its servile limbs level out and hover over the water, their twists and knots forming a perfect place to sit or stand. passage of time, but when I’m out on that log I barely notice the time pass. I face downstream and cast my lure out in front of me into the slow-moving stop like the water in the eddy in front of me, which slows and begins to travel backwards.

Tracing the glint of the lure as I reel it back in, I me and my sisters up in squeaky new life jackets, pointing out the turtles and herons and beavers. My hands were too small to hold a paddle the right way.

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The look my mom gave us when she helped lift us out of the canoe, glad that we were all home safe, was the same look she still gives us when we arrive at the airport or pull up in the driveway.

My hands are big enough to hold a paddle now, and my dad’s hair is much whiter, and my sisters are grown up like me. One goes to boarding school in Virginia, as I do, and the other’s off at college, so we’re rarely all home together. Whenever I’m at the river, though, I’m on break, and that means everyone in my family will probably be home soon too. I cast the lure back into the water.

The current drags my feet as I sit on the log, and my ankles start to go numb. I know I’ve been at the river long enough to reach the point where nothing bothers me. When I feel the trout hit, that’s all I school, having to move soon, my parents getting old, my sisters leaving—all those things are gone when I have a trout pulling at the other end of the line. is still and empty and alien, but I always see such movement behind it, such spirited agitation. It so close to my spot a few weeks ago. I woke up to helicopters passing low through my backyard and my street name on the news. I think about life’s fragility, how blessed I am to be here.

from a tree and paddle back upstream. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve made the trip so many times that every log in the water and tree jutting out of the bank is a sort of mileage

sign. Seeing my house from out on the water lets me look in on my life at a distance, and even though the river is my favorite place to be, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m always eager to return home and see everything with new eyes.

The Koi Pond | Charles Moorman | watercolor 12 x 14 inches

67

e— guag hts n a l of ug imits ound tho ental l e h y t dm prof ted b ress his otions an to him a r t s o exp iven s fru l em l wa to fully iologica tongue g escape. N s e u s i y f am t y h e i o abil y th n in hod hoph its in his psyc isoned b as a met t went o k from impr ll tha u g roc mind rding rega . He felt ed to his escribe a uel. A bi e him. Yo t d s k m r state ten reve equately ell on Sa id not li d f f d and o could a . A rock use God a s d word nate min him bec r. n o e i s l pas y. It fel o him, eith k e oachim was s the a brilliant p ot lik n d l hysicist. His experiments shou theories and solved grea t mysteries and propelle d day, while he was givin g a particula speech on b rly illumina lack holes, h ting is head fell his neck, bo o ff . It broke fr unced off th om e p o main table, dium, and ro knocking ov lled down th er a metal e coming to re water jug b st on its left efore ear. God did Because of a not kill Joac ll of the theo him. ries inside of had become it, Joachim’s three and on h ead e -half times h average head eavier than . This additio the nal weight, c termites, cau oupled with sed his sudd neck en yet medic decapitation ally explain . able

Kiefer McDowell

S

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holes opened earthquake. Great le ib rr te a as w e rnous rifts. oday ther forth from cave d he lc be a av L ock news in the earth.

On the six o’cl . ed di le op pe owy d; g down the shad Buildings topple in er pe n ow sh e le wer earth. that night, peop deep within the ed at m s le et be abysses. Giant

T 68

Man with Guitar | Myles Brown |pastel 18 x 24 inches

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The Hit Sterling Street

3/20

I

had just moved here. The boss said he had a new job for me. Anyway, it was only our third evening out together. He held me as we walked, both of us barefoot on the sand.

He was romantic. A gentleman. Even brought me roses. But I knew I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t get too attached. We stopped walking. His eyes traced the shoreline and then met mine. He brushed aside the blonde curl from my eyes with a trusting smile. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Just tell me what you do for a living. Even if youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re a showgirl or something,

Watching You | Garnett Reid | charcoal 18 x 24 inches

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Over the Hill | Anna Grey Hogan | digital photography

Colophon The Talon is the biannual literary arts publication of Woodberry Forest School. First published in 1949, this is the 65th volume. The Talon editors encourage submissions from any member of the Woodberry community. Works are selected through blind review by student boards. All opinions expressed within this magazine are the intellectual property of the authors and artists and do not represent the views of Woodberry Forest School.

Design and editing of The Talon take place outside the academic day. New editors are selected from review boards by current editors and faculty advisors. Authors and artists apply for review board membership. This issue of The Talon was created on an Apple iMac using Adobe CS5. Titles are set in Helvetica Neue UltraLight, credits in Century Gothic, and body text in Times New Roman. McClung Companies in Waynesboro, Virginia copies that the editorial staff distributes to the community in December and May of each academic year. The Talon is a member of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association.

The editors thank Kelly Lonergan for his help with the production of student designs and art review.

The Talon 898 Woodberry Forest Road Woodberry Forest, Virginia 22989 www.woodberry.org/talon

The Talon| Spring | Fall 2013 The Talon 2013 Woodberry Forest School Woodberry Forest School Woodberry Forest, VA 22989 Woodberry Forest, VA 22989 www.woodberry.org/talon

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