The Talon Spring 2014 by Woodberry Forest School

The Talon | Spring 2014 Woodberry Forest School Woodberry Forest, VA 22989 www.woodberry.org/talon

SPRING 2014 WOODBERRY FOREST SCHOOL VOLUME 65, NO. 2

DESIGN EDITORS

Anna Grey Hogan, Davis Teague

TEXT EDITORS

Kiefer McDowell, Sterling Street

JUNIOR EDITORS

Adrian Cheung, Alec Campbell, Andrew Harris, Brandon Neath

EDITORIAL ASSISTANTS

Brad Harris, Chris Oldham, Rob Prater

FACULTY ADVISOR

Karen Broaddus

TECHNICAL ADVISOR

Rich Broaddus

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

PROSE REVIEW Sean Kim, Jinuk Oh, Petey DuBose, C.J. Dunne, Matt LaVigne, Hardin Lucas, Jack Sari, Woody Scruggs, David Willis

ART REVIEW Myles Brown, Peter Lonergan, Jinuk Oh, Jack Vranian, Petey DuBose, Jared Thalwitz, Wyatt Alexander

PHOTOGRAPHY REVIEW

COVER ART

Acid Rain | James Hewell | mixed media 20 x 15 inches

COVER DESIGN

Davis Teague

TITLE PAGE ART

Fury Swipe | K. J. Pankratz | acrylic 18 x 24 inches

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

WORKER BEE Anna Grey Hogan

OLD ROOSEVELT’S FALL Aengus Millen

MINK MANUAL Kiefer McDowell | fiction

WARRIORS 39 Anna Grey Hogan | fiction

FRUIT OF MY LABOR 13 Robert Willis

NIGHT COMPLEX 54 Isaiah Brown

WHAT LIES ACROSS THE WATER 14 Jack Eades | fiction

DREAM 49 Sterling Street | nonfiction

AWAY FROM THE NEST 25 George Ives

THE LIFE FOR ME 72 Isaiah Brown

KLEPTOMANIAC 18 Davis Teague | fiction

MAPLE DAYS 28 Caleb Rogers

SAILOR’S HEART 73 Rocco Zaytoun

APPLES OF TEMPTATION 63 Davis Teague | nonfiction

ANOTHER POSTCARD TOWN 34 Josh Kearns

ADAPTATION 22 Adam Lu | nonfiction THE MUSIC MAN 31 David Willis | fiction

NOR’EASTER 68 Petey DuBose | nonfiction

COMIC PLANS 42 Jared Thalwitz

TWINE 77 Robert Willis

THE BEEKEEPER 46 Andrew Harris

OFF TO AUSCHWITZ 80 Joseph Seo

INDECISION 47 Kiefer McDowell

A FAREWELL TO WAR 83 John Patrick Connell

DREAMING BLINDLY Chris Oldham

THE SUMMER OF THE PINCH Jimmy Boehling | fiction

JUNGLE 9 Peter Lonergan

KATE & OSCAR 60 Peter Lonergan

BEAST 10 Tiger Wu

BEFORE THE FALL 61 Jinuk Oh

AWAKENING 15 Andrew Garnett

TRANQUILITY 46 Badham Dixon

BRAIN CELLS 26 James Hewell

LOOKING CLOSELY 62 Jinuk Oh

AT THE BORDER 16 Hines Liles

STERLING STREET 48 Hines Liles

PSYCHOSIS OF THE WOOD ELF 27 Kiefer McDowell & Davis Teague

THE NEON ICON 70 Petey DuBose & Will Harris

GROWING SHADOWS 19 Jordan Silberman

ALLY 53 Ben Lytle

MARIA MULDAUR (C. 1964) 30 Varsity Art

BEN HALE 23 Hines Liles

REMNANTS OF THE PAST 59 Andrew Garnett

WINGSPAN 36 Tiger Wu

TREE, KNOWLEDGE, ENLIGHTENMENT 79 Davis Teague

GRACE 24 Andrew Garnett

WATER LION 52 Peter Lonergan

THE MANNLICHER–CARCANO 82 Kelly Lonergan & Jinuk Oh

FOREST FLOOR’S ANOMALY 28 Hines Liles

UNDER THE PLANCHON VOLCANO 66 Hines Liles

NIGHT OWL Peter Lonergan

CLOWN POOL 84 Peter Lonergan

ICE RAFT 67 Davis Teague

THE SHOW Campbell Hallett

GIANT Jinuk Oh

PICNIC Brendan Burke

ILLUMINATED PINNACLE Josh Stuart

CONCRETE JUNGLE Rob Prater

DAVIS TEAGUE Hines Liles

TAKEOFF 37 Jimmy King

CORPORATE LADDER 71 Rob Prater

FALCON’S RETURN 38 Andrew Holmes

HAIR 76 Hines Liles

REFLECTION 43 Jordan Silberman

VERTICAL ACCELERATION 78 Jordan Silberman

SIN CITY 44 Ben Hoskins

ABYSMAL HAZE Jordan Silberman

KIEFER MCDOWELL SKELETAL SYSTEM When Mr. Rappaport opens the box of dead minks in trash bags, you know it’s going to be a bad day. Then you learn that the minks aren’t just for today; you’ll dissect the minks slowly, exposing each organ system, from now through next week. Each pair of lab partners is assigned a mink. The minks must be treated with respect. Students will be responsible for their minks. No flinging of mink guts will be tolerated. Jokes involving fur coats are discouraged. You and your lab partner must construct a Mink Manual. This manual will count for twenty percent of your grade. ENDOCRINE SYSTEM Brad, your lab partner, wants to name the mink. You don’t think an animal you’re about to cut open should be named but don’t say anything. He might get mad and make you do all the work. As you make the initial cut from the throat through the abdominal cavity, Brad asks if you like Nicholas. As a name for the mink? No, dummy. Brad points at Nicholas, who’s across the room, busy with his own mink. You do, but don’t want him to overhear, and besides, Brad might tell everyone. Pretend you didn’t hear the question.

DIGESTIVE SYSTEM Stick a flag pin into the mink’s abdomen to indicate its stomach. Photograph the mink. Brad asks, again, if you like Nicholas. Write an accompanying paragraph for your Mink Manual. Take an extra-long time spelling out thoracic cavity. Make sure that Nicholas is still across the room and busy with his own mink when you tell Brad that Nicholas is a nice guy, whydoyouask? RESPIRATORY SYSTEM Now that the minks have been cut apart and returned to their original trash bags after each dissection, the classroom is starting to smell even worse. Everybody makes a point to avoid the closet in the back of the classroom that will house the dead minks overnight. You look over at Nicholas, who laughs with his friends about the unpleasant smell. CIRCULATORY SYSTEM Brad tells Gina who tells Marla who tells Seth that you maybe like Nicholas. Pray that Nicholas won’t find out until after the school year ends and you leave for Florida. Know that the rumor mill is anything but a slow churn. Your prayers will not be answered.

Jungle | Peter Lonergan | sharpie and watercolor 24 x 18 inches

UROGENITAL SYSTEM Gina is dispatched to ask if you’ll go out with Nicholas. Before you can discern whether this is an actual question or a hypothetical question, Mr. Rappaport catches her at your lab table and reminds you to concentrate on your own minks. Across the room, Nicholas smiles, but maybe he’s just glad class is almost over. EXCRETORY SYSTEM It all happens fast. Before you get the chance to tell Gina to tell Nicholas that you’ll go out with him, he’s already interested in another girl: Emily wears a skirt to school even on dissection days and will probably get a hundred percent on her Mink Manual. She’s that kind of girl. Brad says he’s sorry he brought up Nicholas in the first place, for what it’s worth. Forget to answer the bonus question for your Mink Manual, even though you need the extra credit, and you know that minks are promiscuous in their mating habits and do not form bonded pairs.

Beast | Tiger Wu | pencil 8 x 11 inches

ANNA GREY HOGAN The bumblebee collects an evening bite before he joins the swarming hordes of home. From bud to bud, I watch him softly roam. With powdery feet he stumbles through the night to bring the queen a gift upon first light. Beneath the vaulted ceilings of the dome, she waits upon her throne in honey comb for worker bee to whet her appetite. That simple bee is humbled by his task; he diligently serves the noble queen, a tiny cogwheel in a great machine. He does his duty, not his place to ask, nor does he mind that he remains unseen. Heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s happy helping keep the summer green.

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ROBERT WILLIS To bite down on that sour fruit when expecting ambrosiac sweetness. To spit out grainy flesh and deformed seeds, too sterile for next yearâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s harvest. How disappointing. A shame to see it go to waste, all that work. Till the earth with leathered hands. Water the soil with beads of sweat. The barren ground wants none of it.

Picnic | Brendan Burke | digital photography

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JACK EADES The hot July sun above the lake darkened from a bright yellow to a burnt orange as it set across the backdrop of Carolina pines. Through the rush of light, John could still see the small island in the middle of the lake from his perch on the dock. Even as a small boy, John had always been drawn to it. A sanctuary from human impression, the rocks surrounding it made it inaccessible by boat. His eyes did not waver from the stretch of land as he admired a single pine rising far above the others. John’s muscles had begun to grow earlier that summer, as did his ego. “I can swim to that easily. Hell, I might be the first person to set foot on that piece of land.” He dove in without any further contemplation, something he had a penchant for doing in many other areas of life. The cold green water instantly consumed all of his body heat, and a chill reverberated through his body from head to toe. His heart raced from the painful change in temperature. A duck quacked and flapped its wings loudly, obviously spooked by the splash. John began with a leisurely paced breaststroke, and his head bobbed in and out of the water as he moved closer to his destination with every thrust of his arms and legs. He began to think of girls he wished were watching and suddenly switched to a more masculine freestyle. After about ten minutes of showing off for an 14

imaginary audience, John paused for a break. When he opened his eyes, he realized the night had come upon him much more quickly than he had expected. The water was impossibly black; only a sliver of the moon hung in the sky. He could faintly make out the island in the distance. He forced his body into overdrive and plugged away into the darkness. He knew that other animals in the lake must be able to hear his heart beating furiously. Among the hundreds of other creatures in this lake, he was the only human. At last the island was close. He slowed up and swam cautiously because many of the slippery rocks surrounding him were home to snakes that didn’t take kindly to night visitors. Pure fear of such an encounter caused him to scramble up the rocks and climb the small wall that had formed from years of harsh boat wakes. John’s muscles ached from the strenuous trip, but it was worth it. The island, though small in size, was everything he imagined it to be. The regal trunks and perfectly developed limbs of the trees had sprouted pine needles whose scent filled his nostrils, and he heard the chirp of crickets all around. After a quick walk around, the dead needles from many other seasons had pricked and stung his feet enough. When the boy looked up, his eyes met the most abundant and beautiful array of stars the heavens had to offer. Awakening | Andrew Garnett | digital photography

At the Border | Hines Liles | digital photography

DAVIS TEAGUE A couple of weeks ago, Joel wouldn’t have expected to be visiting a psychiatrist. A couple of weeks ago, Joel wouldn’t have expected to be back in his hometown of Ayden, North Carolina in the middle of October either. Joel used to take pride in telling people about Stonebriar, the boarding school he was going to for high school: how it was in the midst of the Appalachians, and how quite a few presidents had ties to the campus. However, on this particular October morning when the psychiatrist, Dr. Hauss, asked Joel where he went to school, Joel awkwardly shuffled his feet and answered, “Well, I actually just switched schools.” Might as well tell him, Joel thought. “Or rather, I got kicked out of my boarding school for stealing.” “Yes,” Dr. Hauss replied, “it says here that you wanted to see a doctor about your stealing tendencies.” Joel didn’t like the way he emphasized tendencies. When Joel had talked about his problem to his parents, they told him he wasn’t busy enough; when he went to his grandmother, she suggested religion (what was this, a praythe-gay away type deal?). It had taken Joel days of fact-citing and medical-term-referencing to get his parents to set up an appointment with this psychiatrist, and here he was dragging out the word, tendencies! “I’m serious. It’s called kleptomania. I looked it up, and I have all of the same exact symptoms.” 18

“I’m not doubting you,” Dr. Hauss said dismissively. “I just want to let you know that even if I diagnose you as a…kleptomaniac, you won’t be able to return to school.” Joel didn’t appreciate Dr. Hauss’s pause, and he was getting frustrated because it seemed like nobody understood him. He didn’t care about getting back into his old school; he just wanted someone to believe his claim. He wanted someone to accept his medically explainable tendency to need something that he legally couldn’t have. Above all else, Joel wanted something onto which he could pin his guilt. “Please, just hear me out.” “Alright,” Dr. Hauss said, “so tell me about your problem.” Joel realized this was the best audience he could hope for under the circumstances. Now, how do I make him believe? How do I make him understand? “The very first thing I stole was a pack of gum from a gas station. I was probably four or five at the time. I guess everyone’s does this, or at least that’s what my parents told me, but this day was important to me nonetheless. I didn’t have my own money, and my mom refused to buy it for me.” Joel liked telling this story: the story of how he first discovered independence. “I felt like I didn’t need my parents, like I could get whatever I wanted for myself. As soon as we left that gas station, I wanted to reproduce that feeling: the freedom, the Growing Shadows | Jordan Silberman | digital photography

authority, the power. It was awesome!” Dr. Hauss picked up his pen when Joel described the feeling of independence and started scribbling down some notes. Well at least he’s actually listening, Joel thought. “This habit, or… disorder rather, escalated quickly.” Here Joel considered throwing in a metaphor about poison flowing through veins, but why should he have to elaborate to convince a psychiatrist? He was telling the truth after all…right? “In middle school, I would steal pens from my teachers, money and food from my friends, and phone chargers left plugged into the wall. It wasn’t as if I needed any of this—my parents always provided for me—I always just felt a sense of accomplishment when I succeeded in taking something from somebody.” Joel noticed Dr. Hauss was now fully concentrated on his story and felt relieved that an adult was finally taking him seriously. “So did you ever think about the victims of your thievery?” Dr. Hauss asked. Joel hesitated. “Initially, yes. But as time went on, I told myself that it was their fault for leaving their possessions unguarded. You have to keep in mind, this was an addiction for me. People rarely entered into the equation. I simply saw something that I wanted and retrieved it.” Dr. Hauss had filled up a full page with notes. “Tell me about the last time you stole something,” he said, “the incident that landed you here.” Joel remembered the entire event with clarity. It was just after lunch on a Wednesday afternoon at Stonebriar. Joel was standing in the third floor hall of Simon House outside of an empty room. As he stood there, he felt the 20

familiar rush of adrenaline pulsing through his veins as he prepared to enter. He knew the room would be empty because he knew the boys’ free periods. Joel entered the room silently, enjoying the heightened sense of his surroundings that always accompanied one of his thefts. He reached the desk and started searching for the boy’s wallet. When he found it, Joel hesitated. The wallet had the school’s crest in needlepoint with the boy’s initials underneath; it looked very similar to Joel’s own wallet, just with different initials. Perhaps the boy had been given this needlepoint wallet as a birthday present, Joel thought, or maybe he had received this wallet for the same occasion which Joel received his: a mother’s gift to her son right before dropping him off to live apart from her for the first time. Suddenly, the door flew open, and the origin of the wallet was the last thing on Joel’s mind. “Come to find out, the boy who lived in the room had left a book for his English class and had run back to get it,” Joel said. “My next twelve hours went by in a blur. I remember throwing some things into a suitcase, breaking the news to my parents, and trying to say goodbye to some friends. It all seemed surreal at the time.” “So you don’t think it was your fault? You think you were prompted to steal from this boy’s wallet because of a disorder which you have no power over?” There was a long silence. Joel thought back to that day. It wasn’t surreal after all, just emotional. The feeling of being an outcast, the judgmental gazes of teachers, the long pause on the other end of the line when he broke the news to his parents. He remembered sitting in

the Headmaster’s office trying to explain his actions, trying to explain why $20 was worth his spot at the school. Suddenly, the recollection was too much for Joel. He realized he was only trying to lie to himself. “You’re right! All of you are right!” Joel blurted out. Dr. Hauss stopped taking notes and looked up. “You have all been right the whole time,” Joel said, on the verge of tears. “I did this to myself. I don’t have a disorder; there is no excuse. I stole something and got myself kicked out of school.” Dr. Hauss put down his notebook. “They sacrificed so much for me to be there. My sister left her private school, my dad started working on Saturdays, my mom offered to clean neighbors’ houses—do you know how embarrassing that is, to clean your neighbors’ house?—my whole family made sacrifices so that I could go to that school, and I threw it all away. You see,” Joel continued, “while I was still choosing to steal from people, I never thought about how the ‘victims’ felt. When I got kicked out of school, and kicked out purely because of my own choices, I realized something: I had stolen my future away from

myself. I was the victim. I couldn’t handle the guilt. The guilt of wasting my dad’s money and having to ride with him back from school in total silence; the guilt of looking my innocent five-year-old sister in the face and explaining to her why I was going to be moving back in; the guilt of giving my wallet back to my mom so that she could try and resell it. That wallet with the needlepoint design, it was so expensive…” A picturesque September sunset illuminates the distant mountain range. The sonorous tolling of a chapel bell prompts a sea of boys wearing navy blue blazers to pour out of magnificent Victorian buildings. One of the boys is stopped by his mother. She presses a small package into his hands. While fighting back tears, she cycles through the typical motherly cautions: behave, eat healthily, and don’t watch too much TV. But then she composes herself—her son isn’t a child anymore after all—and tells her son to never get too prideful and to treat everyone equally. Finally, as the last of the stragglers enter the chapel, she grabs her son’s head and looks into his eyes. “Make the most of this opportunity,” she tells him. “Make me proud.”

ADAM LU I dimly see my fifteen-year-old self sitting in English class. I have been in the States for only three weeks, and to be honest, I am nowhere close to being fluent in English. “Adam, you are the only one who hasn’t acted out this scene yet,” my teacher says. Silence. “Do you want to come to the front? ” he asks again, looking straight into my eyes. “But my leg…” I search for an excuse. I did break my ankle playing soccer three days after my arrival. “You don’t need to gesture, but still come to the front, please.” I grab my crutches and my copy of Macbeth, stand up, and plod to the front of the room. “Sleep shall neither night nor day… Hang

Ben Hale| Hines Liles | digital photography

upon his…pen house? Penthouse? Lid.” I hear some giggling, but I decide to continue, “He shall live a man forbid: Weary…Se’n nights? Nine times nine…” When I am done, I can feel my cheeks burning. I do not know what I have just read. The lines are like hieroglyphics. I swear to myself: I’ll never let this happen again. I not only finish reading Macbeth, but every night I read it aloud many times. I do not know how many hours I spent on Macbeth, but to this day, I can still recite some of the speeches. Two weeks later, my teacher asks, “Who wants to be Macbeth?” I raise my hand for the first time in that class. “Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow/ Creeps in this petty pace from day to day.”

AWAY FROM THE NEST GEORGE IVES

Far past the ancient hills and tucked away, I go to revisit my cherished youth. That’s where the lady sits alone to pray. I search inside my thoughts, the cluttered fray; my soul she once considered kind. Far past the ancient hills and tucked away. The tree covered by fog, the sacred gray, is where I travel to cloud my lonely mind. That’s where the lady sits alone to pray. I hope one day that her I won’t betray the love that will always with me remain. Far past the ancient hills and tucked away. When my eyes open I begin to stray to my forgotten youth I left behind. That’s where the lady sits alone to pray. I turn toward home,the place beside the bay. In reality, I wish to stay behind. Far past the ancient hills and tucked away. That’s where the lady sits alone to pray.

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Grace | Andrew Garnett | digital photography

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Brain Cells | James Hewell | chalk pastel 18 x 24 inches

Psychosis of the Wood Elf | Davis Teague & Kiefer McDowell |digital art 24 x 36 inches

MAPLE DAYS CALEB ROGERS

Here I hang, a dangling participle of a greater being. I see you walking. You laugh, frown, go about your daily life. When my life is over, I flutter to the ground and crisp. Barely alive, I hear you walk over me and feel the crunch of my bones with my last bit of life.

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Forest Floorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Anomaly | Hines Liles | digital photography

DAVID WILLIS It was a busy day. A mudslide, triggered by a week and half’s worth of rain, had buried a bus in Brazil. So beyond my normal Thursday rush, I now had to deal with a panicked crowd of wet Brazilians, clutching their crosses and whispering “Deus Meu!” This sort of thing was the nature of the job; freak accidents were not very freaky to me. What I saw next, however, was unprecedented and exceptional. Considering who I am, that is saying something. I’m Simon Peter, but most people know me as Saint. I’ve been the Keeper of the Keys for quite a while now. Like most, I punch a normal nine to five workday, but unlike most, I work in Heaven. As the guardian of the Pearly Gates, I’ve seen a lot of weird things, but what I saw that Thursday in May takes the cake. When you die, you might see what I’m talking about. If you’ve been good, and the Boss likes you, you’ll wait in line with the rest of that day’s heavenly departed, and over by the left gate, you might see a twentysomething young man bobbing his head to a beat you can’t hear. That’s the Music Man. I took Robert Preston up almost thirty years ago, so throw Harold Hill and seventy-six trombones out of your mind—this story is about an entirely different Music Man. Everyone dies. Depending on how you live your life, you’ll either appear on a set of stairs or a slide. I deal with the stairs, but you can guess where the slide goes. Anyway, so many people have been dying lately that the line into Heaven gets 30

Maria Muldaur (c. 1964) | Varsity Art | acrylic 108 x 84 inches

pretty long. As you can imagine, a prime place in line is coveted; everyone is dying to get into Heaven. In a world where Jesus preached that patience is a virtue, you would think that the whole idea of lines would worry people less, especially when that line leads towards eternal salvation, but it doesn’t. People hold onto those golden railings as if their lives depend on it, which is why the sight of a person who made no attempt to get in line shocked me. He sat on a cloud, two earbuds protruding from his ears, silently mouthing the lyrics to a song. Oblivious to his new environment, the man barely acknowledged the angels swimming in the air around him or the chatter of the deceased. He just sat there and listened. To what I do not know. It was something that completely enthralled him. Whatever flowed through his earbuds filled him with a rhythmic sway. He tapped his foot and arched his back. I couldn’t bother myself with him; a busload of Brazilians was waiting for me. Throughout the entire day he barely moved. I often saw him stretch and then sit back down. Sometimes he would turn his head up, eyes closed, and sing a chorus or refrain to the sky. More and more people got in line, and he did not care. He made no effort to join them on their way into salvation. It vexed me that this man did not care to go into Heaven, and it stupefied me how content he seemed to be sitting there when Paradise was mere hundreds of feet away. 31

As soon as my workday was finished, I approached him. He glanced up at my appearance, cautiously taking out his left earbud. “What troubles you, fellow child of God?” I asked. “Why do you not get in line to go into Heaven?” He looked up at me strangely as if he had just realized I was there. I asked him again, “Do you not want to enjoy the fruits of eternal life?” I received the same curious response. One last time I asked him, “Heaven, Paradise—are you content to sit on this cloud forever when streets of gold await you?” Finally he looked up at me and replied, and we talked for a long time. He turned out to be one of the more interesting ones. His name was Eddy Thompson Shwartsky, and he was born on March 18th, 1990 to a wonderful mother and father in a small Kentucky hospital. He was named after his grandfather who spent his life playing the stocks. Eddy’s mother was an elementary school science teacher, and his dad sold tractors to the farmers who lived in their town. When Eddy was born, he could not hear. The issue confounded his doctors. He had perfectly goodlooking ears; they simply didn’t work. Mr. and Mrs. Shwartsky drove home that afternoon distraught, playing music on the car radio, as if encouraging Eddy’s ears to begin hearing by barraging them with sound. Mr. Shwartsky changed the radio nervously, random bits of song coming through the static: a talk show, then another station. Mrs. Shwartsky cooed in her son’s left ear, whispering lullabies. Three 32

days later, as Mrs. Shwartsky was playing a CD during her morning coffee, she heard a cry come from her baby’s room. Sitting straight up, Eddy clapped to the song playing on his mother’s CD. When Mrs. Shwartsky asked her son why he was clapping, he turned his head in acknowledgment to her voice. She cried a happy cry, put down her coffee, and hugged her son. Eddy could hear. From then on, Eddy devoured sound. He spent the rest of his life trying to make up for those three days he couldn’t hear. By the time | Eddy was ten, he had listened to every CD his mother and father owned and all the vinyl at his grandfather’s house. In a secret chest below his bed, he kept his most prized possessions: a radio and a copy of Billy Joel’s “Piano Man,” the first CD he had ever bought. He never skipped a song, although on some days, he would listen to the same one over and over again. The felt over the speakers on his old stereo was frayed and torn in places; the antenna broken; the buttons pushed so many times that the signs had faded. Only Eddy could operate it, but he loved it more than life itself. His obsession with music even became an issue with his teachers. Dismayed at his lack of focus, they attempted to diagnose him with ADHD and send him to the “special classes,” but he never went. The way he saw it, the schools were teaching the wrong thing. Music was the only thing that harnessed the power of infinity—it was the most influential thing ever created. Schools taught numbers and words, but numbers were limited by their cold, discrete nature, and words had to be organized according to grammar and spelling. But music could be anything, in any order and

in any arrangement. By listening to music, Eddy believed he could solve the universe, so naturally his teachers hated him. He already knew the way his life was going to turn out. Loud and noisy! On his thirteenth birthday, Eddy got an iPod. It changed his life. With the vast world of music at his fingertips, he quickly formulated four pillars that he would live his life by: there is never a bad song; shuffle is a man’s real best friend since dogs can’t sing; always carry extra headphones; live life loudly and passionately, because it’s better to laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints. Eddy was a genrehopper. Nothing disinterested him—he could tap his foot with as much passion to Bach as he could to Weezer. His ears had no bias. As soon as he graduated from high school, where he had perfected the hoodie-and-headphones technique, Eddy moved to New York. Life was quiet in Kentucky, and selling tractors didn’t interest him. Tractors only had two sounds: the groan of their engines and the low whirl of their big wheels spinning. Eddy wanted life loud. He wanted cars honking and people talking. He hated silence. For two years, he worked as a dishwasher in a cheap Chinese restaurant. They payed him minimum wage, but he didn’t really care. He liked the exotic sound of the Chinese language, and he got free lo mein. Eddy lived his adult life

with his headphones on. He never took them off. Sleeping or working, Eddy always had music playing. One day, as he was walking to work, a particularly loud song came on, “Stop For a Minute” by Keane. He paused for a while in the middle of the crosswalk to think about all the music that had come from England. The volume was so loud that he couldn’t hear the bus honking as it drove towards him. Eddy flew ten feet when it hit him and was dead before he reached the ground. It was a quick death, and he hadn’t even noticed it—he was singing the chorus. “So what do you think?” said Eddy when he had finished telling me his story. “Can I stay in Heaven?” I thought a while before I answered. “Well, you haven’t even gotten into Heaven yet. See that line there?” I pointed to the pearly gates. “You have to get through that first.” “Oh. Well, I thought I was already in Heaven. I mean, no one has bothered me while I’ve been jamming out, and my iPod still has a full battery!” As I looked into his eyes, I noticed that Eddy told the truth. He was perfectly content here, right outside of Paradise, because as long as he had his music, he was already in Heaven. For the first time since Eden, man had truly discovered Heaven on Earth.

JOSH KEARNS Corsica, or as I like to call it, another postcard town. Everybody wants to live here.

Tourists will wake and stream onto that same beach.

When I look down on it all, the city doesn’t seem like a postcard.

Seagulls fight over scraps of lunch from yesterday’s tour. Their squawks seem playful, but I can tell that it’s a duel.

Some shady deal is happening on the docks: A boat is stolen, its gas siphoned.

We live in shadows of hotels and resorts. We work odd hours to keep visitors stuck in a postcard.

Tourists will wake and gather, thinking how well off we are.

Inspired by “Corsica” by Emilie Charmy

On the beach, I can barely see the imprint where a man slept the night before, stuck here like the rest of us.

Illuminated Pinnacle| Joshua Stuart | digital photography

Wingspan | Tiger Wu | chalk pastel 24 x 18 inches

Takeoff | Jimmy King | digital photography

ANNA GREY HOGAN

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Falcon’s Return | Andrew Holmes | digital photography

The light of twin moons speckled the chattering leaves. It illuminated the multicolored sands of Glass Beach, painting the trees in vibrant pinks, eerie greens, and the occasional deep blue. The soft moonlight moved through the kingdom on the back of a breeze, slowly washing every part of The Hollow in cool, purple light. The first moon faced Jae’s house, a mansion carved into the tall, brown cliff of The Hollow’s western edge; the second faced the wooden spires of the king’s castle, where Anny leaned dangerously out of her high window. Her raven-dark hair hung over her eyes. She waited breathlessly for the sign. A flaming arrow shot across the sky. Anny gracefully swung through her window, landing in the soft bushes forty feet below. She adjusted her quiver strap and grabbed her bow from it’s hiding place behind the bushes. “Sorry, I had trouble getting out tonight,” Jae said, running up to meet her friend. Anny liked how Jae’s smooth, dark skin disappeared in the low light, but bright eyes flashed with life. “Let’s go.” The girls quickly picked a path through the heavily wooded outer limits of the territory. Anny led, slashing brambles out of their way with her hunting knife. Jae followed close behind, arrow drawn and ready. “We’ve got to hurry,” said Anny when they finally reached Glass Beach. “It’s almost time.” They continued in silence until they came to the fallen EverOak that marked the edge of

the kingdom. Spanning several miles, the giant tree served as the border to goblin territory. “I’ll set up,” Jae whispered. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Six chimes. Dinnertime. “Oh, it’s time to go!” Anny pouted. As her golden crown and weapons disappeared into the air, the moons merged into a reddish evening sun. Jae hopped down from the tree and cast off her armor; it shattered in the breeze. Jae and Anny ran from their corner of the Virginia forest, leaping over branches and a makeshift landfill of discarded beer bottles, all different colors. Jae sprang ahead once they reached the gravel road beyond the treeline, “We’ll come back tomorrow,” she called back to her friend. “Okay,” panted Anny, falling farther and farther behind. The next day, early afternoon sun peered down as Anny plodded down the gravelly path. She reached the forest edge just after two, the scheduled meeting time. As she crossed the border into the forest, she felt herself grow. Her body filled with magic, transforming her from an awkward, toothy twelve-year-old into a beautiful warrior princess with long raven hair. A flock of birds launched into the open sky. She looked up and imagined them to be Jae’s pet dragon. Jae hadn’t yet arrived. Waiting on a tree stump in the hollowed out ravine, Anny played on her own. She pretended 39

to make weapons out of broken branches, preparing for the Goblin War. It wasn’t fun without Jae there to test them, though. She threw the sticks from her lap in an impatient tantrum. “Maybe she left a note!” Anny said to the orange dragon resting it’s old head on her shoulder. She ran out of the ravine, down the forest’s hills, until she came to a place where three white Silvermore trees formed a triangle, their peeling bark creating a distinctive camouflage pattern. Just above her head, a knot in one of the trees formed a hole, the perfect size for stashing small treasures. Anny’s hand felt around inside, but there was nothing. A branch snapped somewhere behind her, and she turned abruptly. Nothing. She backed slowly into the center of the triangle. “I’m safe. I’m safe,” she chanted in time with her quickening breath. Dong. Dong. Dong. She looked up the hill and saw the familiar road stretching up towards the bell tower and reality. Without turning back, she ran up the hill. Her mind focused on one lonely thought: Where was Jae? The phone rang. Anny recognized the numbers on the Caller ID at once. “Jae! Where were you? I’ll meet you there in five minutes.” Anny slammed the phone onto the receiver, called to her parents that she was going out to play, and dashed out the front door, letting the screen door flap noisily behind her. As she entered the treeline, she felt the familiar buzz of magic rising inside her. Anny 40

had been waiting for ten minutes when Jae arrived. She greeted her tardy friend with a smile and began showing her the weapons she’d made earlier. “Anny, I want to talk to you about something.” Jae’s voice quivered. “Is it the goblins?” Anny’s eyes lit up. “They’re trying to get through the Southern border, aren’t they? We’ve got to get the soldiers ready!” Anny yelled, not hearing Jae’s protests as she dashed away through the ravine. She stopped and turned when she didn’t hear Jae’s footsteps behind her. “Come on! I’ll race you to the army base!” Jae still did not move. “I need to talk to you.” Her bright eyes filled with tears. “Please listen. I can’t play today.” “Oh, come on.” Anny took off again. Jae turned and walked toward the road home. “Where are you going?” Anny trotted to her. “Home. I can’t play today.” Anny heard a hint of superiority in Jae’s voice. Anny’s eyes narrowed and face reddened with sudden, unexplainable rage. Her brain clouded, her tongue felt heavy, searching for words with which to fight. They erupted before she knew what she was saying, “You’re the worst friend in the world!” Anny lunged, fingers finding holds in Jae’s carefully braided hair. She yanked the braids hard and knocked Jae to the ground. The girls screamed until they lay side by side, panting heavily, feeling the bruises and scrapes forming. “My dad is sick,” Jae whispered, turning onto her side to face Anny. “That’s why I didn’t come. We had to go to the hospital.” Anny rolled away. Her heart pounded like a bird trying to escape her rib cage.

“Real dad or—?” her voice broke. She knew the answer. Jae’s mom called Anny’s a few hours later. Anny was sent to bed early for pulling Jae’s hair. Every time Anny did, and it had happened more than a few times, Mrs. Caine had to spend hours carefully redoing Jae’s kinky hair. Anny apologized but didn’t mean it. That night Anny’s parents tried to explain what was happening to Mr. Caine. She didn’t listen. She snuck out every afternoon and left a note. The hole began to fill with the unread letters. Jae called every couple of days, but Anny didn’t want to talk to her. Maybe if she didn’t talk to her, it would all go away. Maybe if they didn’t talk, Jae would remember not to bring real life into the kingdom. Maybe if she kept leaving notes, Jae would come back and play along. Fall came and school started up again. Jae and Anny passed in the halls without saying anything, just glaring. Anny kept leaving notes, untouched, in the Silvermore. “We fought the Goblin War. You were the bravest warrior, Jae, and led the army to victory on Glass Beach!” Her clumsy handwriting filled page after page. “Your dragon burned the goblins’ ships, and we were honored with a ball!” The knot in the white tree seemed to sprout the pages like leaves. Months after their fight, Anny folded a paper twice, slipped it into her pocket and walked out the front door, letting the screen door flap noisily behind her. The handwriting on the note was more controlled and the story line more sophisticated, but she had written more out of habit than hope of reconciliation. She walked

deliberately and slowly through the barren forest, down the hill to the place where the three Silvermore trees stood, pale and leafless. Jae sat in the center of the triangle, reading yesterday’s note. A branch snapped under Anny’s foot and Jae’s head turned. “You’ve been reading them?” Anny’s heart began to pound. “I’ve been reading them since that September.” Anny blinked once. Jae continued, “You’re the only one at school who knows about my dad. I thought I’d look for you here, maybe see if you wanted to start over. You wouldn’t answer my calls.” She leafed through a handful of letters thoughtfully. “Then I found these.” “You’ve been reading them?” Anny furrowed her brow, her thoughts raced, hurting her head. “Yes,” Jae offered simply as she placed the letters back in the knothole. Anny’s knees gave out. She collapsed, gasping, “I’m so sorry. I should have answered the phone. I’m the worst friend in the whole world, not you. I’m sorry.” “It’s okay now. I thought you’d be happy I read them.” Jae ran to her side and knelt, hugging her close. “They kept me going, Anny, through everything. Thank you.” “I think they kept me going, too,” Anny whispered through staggered breaths. A familiar warmth formed in the pit of Anny’s stomach, slowly spreading, filling her. Anny looked into her friend’s eyes, and saw her own reflection there. Twin moons lit the image of a tall, beautiful woman with long dark hair. “But if we can be friends again, we won’t need them anymore.” She was a warrior. They both were. 41

COMIC PLANS JARED THALWITZ

I could write the greatest poem, with perfect rhyme and meter. Invoke the strongest feelings, cutting deep, a cleaver. My poem could stand with classics, Dickinson or Poe. A masterpiece, a work of art! Not to be published, though. For I have made one grave mistake; in haste, I made my plans to write my poem in Comic Sans.

Reflection | Jordan Silberman | digital photography

Sin City | Ben Hoskins | digital photography

Concrete Jungle | Rob Prater | digital photography

THE BEEKEEPER

INDECISION

ANDREW HARRIS

KIEFER MCDOWELL

Another swarm mounted an attack, and I cringed. A harsh choir assailed me with its drone. I stood dumbly, receiving the stingers.

My roommate uses silverware to stir her breakfast on the stove. I hate this.

Sealing her lips tightly, she halted the humming. Heels clicked down the hallway, and I began plucking out the barbed words.

“You know, that might scratch,” I toss out, affecting nonchalance while I listen to her scrape her oatmeal into a bowl. I’m not fooling anyone. The pot isn’t even mine. “What does it matter if it gets banged up? It was only eight bucks.”

into a mass of scars so that soon the cheap coating will flake away, exposing the pocked raw surface. Everything will stick and burn. It’ll be ruined: you’ll throw it out— two years, tops— it’s not like skin. It will never heal, not the tiniest mark. I’m sorry. It’s not my pot. It doesn’t matter. I know.

Okay, but you have two options: Use the rubber spatula instead and decades from now your daughter will recite back to you the name of every city you lived in and all-the-years-you-spent-looking-for-a-home litany as well-washed as the pot drip-drying on the counter, or you can carve scratch after scratch

Tranquility | Badham Dixon | digital photography

DREAM STERLING STREET

Sterling Street | Hines Liles | digital photography

It’s an early Sunday afternoon in October of my senior year in high school, and wrestling practice is almost over. I’ve just drilled setups and takedowns for about an hour. We’re ending practice with some conditioning, which is what we always do. I watch the rope swing back and forth in front of me and try to catch my breath. I’ve already gone up it five times, and my hands can barely squeeze anymore, but my coach says he needs to see one more from everyone. I wish I could stop now and just go back to sleep. Everyone else is almost finished, and now my coach is walking over to me, so I jump up on the rope and steadily work my way up. I’m now a little past half way, and I only have a few more feet to go. I hang here for a couple seconds, but my hands are losing their grip. I think I’m getting a strange cramp in my head, because it’s getting tight and feels like it’s being squeezed really hard. I slide back down the rope and circle up with everyone else. The cramp is getting worse, and I can’t stand still or listen to anything my coach is saying. I walk back to the locker room and lie down on the bench, but that doesn’t help. I turn off the lights when I get in the shower, but I turn them back on since it makes no difference for the pain. I’m getting dizzy and I feel really weak and tired. I know it’s the diet I’m using to drop down to a new weight class making me feel like this, but I’ll be eating normally again pretty soon. I get dressed and walk back to my dorm, take an

Advil, and fall back in my bed to try to sleep it off. I’m a few minutes into English class, and I’ve just gotten back from the hospital after getting an MRI for the headache I had four days ago. My advisor opens the door and tells me I need to go with him. I’m kind of annoyed since I haven’t even been back for twenty minutes, but I still explain why I went to the hospital when he asks me. We get to the infirmary, and I ask our nurse if they saw anything on the MRI yet. All she says is that they want me to go in again so they can do a few more. I get in the van with the Dean of Students, and he asks about my family and life back home as he drives me to the hospital at UVa. I walk in, wondering where to go, when two nurses come over and ask me to follow them. I lie down in the ER bed, and one of the nurses puts an IV in my arm and some stickers on my chest. A girl on the other side of the curtain is talking about appendicitis. Every two or three minutes a new nurse comes in, asking me my name and my birthday and telling me to lift my legs, push my feet, and squeeze her hands. I’ve already done the same test ten times already, and I wonder how a hospital can function with such awful communication and efficiency. They keep asking me if I fell from the rope or hit my head during practice, and when I tell them no, some of them don’t believe me and ask if I’m sure. Another nurse comes in and tells me to 49

squeeze his hands. I can’t squeeze my right hand that well, so I explain that I hit my funny bone in an earlier practice, and that my hand’s still a little weak from it. He shrugs and tells me anything is possible. I’m thinking about what he means by this strange motivational insight when a doctor comes in and introduces himself. He tells me to hang tight; they’re almost done preparing a room in the neurological ICU for me. It’s around seven in the morning and I’ve been in the hospital for four days. My nurse says that the operating room just called for me. I’m the most relaxed I’ve ever been in my life, and it feels good to have gotten so much sleep last night. Another nurse walks in, and the two begin to wheel my bed out of the room. As I pass my parents in the hall, I see the worry on my dad’s face and hear the pain in my mom’s voice when she tells me she loves me. I want to tell them to quit being like this, that it’s worse for them than it is for me, that crying about it won’t change anything. I can’t stand seeing them like this, so I just lie back and close my eyes and let the nurses push me to a little room right outside the operating room. Another nurse puts a blanket over me, and the hot air blowing out all around me feels so good. I’m thinking about how crazy it is that the headache I got last week was actually a brain hemorrhage, a type of stroke, and how I should have listened to my body when the

headache started coming back any time I ran or lifted. I keep remembering how strange my parents were acting, probably in shock, when the doctors said that I needed to have brain surgery to prevent another potentially fatal bleed. I wonder what my scar will look like, and how it will feel to have metal plates in my skull. The nurse is telling me they’re ready for me to go in now, and as I glide into the room in my bed I think of the strange gray spot on my MRI, the tumor that the doctors told me I had yesterday. I think about how unreal it was to see my own brain real-time on a screen in front of me during the angiogram two days ago. I’m trying to wrap my mind around the fact that my brain actually saw itself when I feel my bed stop next to the table. I’m surprised by how big this room is and by how many people in blue scrubs are walking around in here. My head feels really light, and the rest of my body is getting really warm and heavy. I feel so good right now. I’m in a dream. A few of the blue people are looking down at me. I can’t recognize their faces with surgical masks on, but they’re so funny. Now I’m laughing so hard my stomach hurts, and I can’t stop. My mouth is clumsy and the words feel like another language, but I ask them if it’s normal for everything to be like this. I hear a voice mumble something back, but it’s getting too far away for me to understand it, and now everything is nothing.

AENGUS MILLEN While the cub played in the bear’s den, he had no cares at all, for all concerns of Teddy’s men reached not through his withdraw. In those bless’d days of peace and worth that looked to never end, the cub’s exuberance and mirth knew not the bounds of pain. But in the distant lands of old the clouds of war did brew. The German Kaiser cold and bold in one stroke ended peace. The cub knew well the great demand and without a second thought made bold to join the men who manned the forces of the right. Yet war brings only grief, not pride, young Roosevelt learned well. For as he flew o’er France, he died, and ended there his tale. Back in his den, the bear lay ill, and heard the dreadful news. Just then he lost his wits and will and ne’er got up again. Quentin Roosevelt, the “cub,” was the youngest son of Theodore Roosevelt, the “bear.” When Quentin died in 1918 flying over France during the First World War, T.R. was already sick.

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Water Lion | Peter Lonergan | watercolor & sharpie 24 x 18 inches

Ally | Ben Lytle | digital photography

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ISAIAH BROWN “Where were you that night?” “I was there,” the girl replied, shifting. She was there under the stars, drinking through the night, laughing and falling. She was there when his heart failed, dead on the spot. There, oblivious like the rest of them, laughing as if it were another night, another half-conscious weekend, confusing free with young. “I was there,” she repeated. Death knew no words, no laws. Life moved on careless of their fear.

Night Owl | Peter Lonergan | mixed media 8 x 11 inches

JIMMY BOEHLING Jack High hated everything about small towns, especially a small town like Edenton, North Carolina. He hated how everybody knew everybody, how there were only six or seven stoplights, how there was only one high school and a handful of restaurants, and most of all, how there wasn’t anything to do. Jack was born and raised in Edenton, and he got sick of the small bubble pretty fast. He lived in an old historic house on Pembroke Creek with his mother, father, and two older brothers. After Jack’s sophomore year in high school, his dad demanded that he get job. “Don’t come crying to me and your mom when you need, money!” said his dad one morning at the beginning of summer. “You can’t cut the grass all summer. You need a job that will give you some good experience.” “Like what, Dad?” “Don’t give me that. There are plenty of options. Go see if any of those crabbers need a hand on their boats. Hell, I’d quit my job and become a crabber.” His dad hated being a doctor on call 24/7. He always joked to Jack’s mom that he was going to just get up and walk out of his office one day for good and call it quits with the baby business. “That’s probably the worst idea you’ve ever had,” said Jack, who was not attracted to the idea of the crabbing business. He hated the show on the Discovery Channel, “Deadliest Catch,” where the dumbass fishermen geared up and crabbed on 100-foot boats in crazy cold 56

temperatures on the roughest seas in the world. On the bright side, Jack figured crabbing in Edenton would not be as intense. Crabbing was a pretty big business, considering the abundance of blue crabs in the Edenton Bay and Albemarle Sound. Jack walked to the marina across the street the next morning when the crab boats were docking to see if any of the low-life fishermen would pay him any mind. He had his eye set on a beautiful Carolina blue boat with two dual engines and a big fat captain. He approached the captain on the dock and gave him a friendly wave. “Hey mister, I’m Jack High. My dad wants me to get a job on a boat for the summer. Are you hiring?” “Get out of here, kid,” the captain laughed. “The business is slow as it is. I can’t afford to hire another bastard who is gonna get in my damn way all the time. Sorry, kiddo.” A wave of relief flew over Jack; perhaps he wouldn’t have to work on a boat all summer after all. As he walked farther down the docks, a man hollered from his boat, “Hey kid!” “Yes sir?” “Did I hear you are lookin’ to crab?” Oh shit. “Yes sir.” “Well, one of my guys just quit on me yesterday because he claimed he was moving on to better things. A bitch and a half if you ask me,” said the man. “I’m Paul Waff by the way.” He stuck out his weathered hand for Jack to shake.

The Show | Campbell Hallett | acrylic 18 x 24 inches

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Waff. I’m Jack High.” “I know who you are. Peter’s son. I’ve known your father for years. He is a crazy son-of-abitch,” smiled Paul. “Only guy in Edenton who could out-drink my ass.” From the looks of it, Paul seemed pretty crazy himself. He had a thick brown beard, long hair pushed under a camouflage hat, and a trashy looking tattoo of a blue marlin on his forearm. A beer gut sent his bright orange rubber waders sticking way out over his feet. And his boat was a wreck. Rusty pots, algae-covered buoys, seaweed, and rusty hooks covered the deck. It looked as if he found it in a dump and put it in the water to see if it could float. It was a pale yellow, about 28 feet in length, one of the smaller boats in the fleet. “It ain’t nothing special,” said Paul when he caught Jack staring at his boat, “but it gets the job done.” “I see that. So do you think you need me?” “Absolutely, but I can’t pay you a hell of a lot. Like Spence said, the business has been slow this summer. Maybe you’ll bring me some luck.” The next morning, Jack crept downstairs, trying not to wake up the dogs, and then grabbed a bottle of water and his sunglasses. He walked to the marina slip, and Paul was already waiting for him. “Thought you weren’t gonna show,” said Paul with a smile. “Do me a favor and grab those two pots out of the truck.” “Yes sir.” “And stop calling me Sir. Makes me feel like a damn old man.” Jack laughed and agreed, but he would still 58

call him Sir. They loaded the remaining pots on the boat and then went into the shop to buy two pounds of shrimp. “Is that all you need? Just two pounds?” “Oh boy, you’ll see. I’ve got my own secret recipe for catching those little clawed fuckers.” He pointed to a bucket on the boat overflowing with dead and bloated catfish that smelled like a bowl of rotten cat food. They hopped on the boat, and Paul started the engine, an old Yamaha 250 that had seen better days. The sun was just beginning to rise over the trees in the creek, and the temperature was already in the low 80s. Paul sparked up a cigarette and pushed the throttle all the way down, speeding through the narrow flat waters of the creek into the more open and deep waters of the sound. “You can have one if you want. I’m not looking,” said Paul, pointing to the pack of Camels. Jack was very tempted to take him up on his offer but figured that he shouldn’t after the first twenty minutes on the job. “A terrible habit, but it will put hair on your chest, boy.” Paul smiled. Paul was always laughing and grinning about something. This made Jack hate his surroundings a little bit less. The radio on the boat was set to Dixie 105.7, and Darius Rucker was playing. Just Jack’s luck. He hated country music. He did his best to tune out the music and to focus on making the best of his new job. “Who would’ve guessed? A damn black country singer, and he’s good!” Paul got a kick out of this and laughed so hard he started coughing. After they rode for about twenty minutes, they came up on the pots.

“You ready, son? Go back on the stern and put on those waders. You might want some gloves, too, if you wanna keep those little fingers.” “Yes sir.” Jack could tell that this job was not going to be easy. The waders were two sizes too big for Jack, and the straps hung down below his knees. Paul looked at him, hooting and hollering. When the boat came idling up onto the first pot, Jack leaned over the bow with a hook and dragged the buoy to the boat. He put the line in the pulley and turned the motor on. Because his uncle had a crab boat that he and his brothers used to go water-skiing; he knew how to do this. They would always mess around with the pulley, pretending to stick their arms in the motor.

The fluorescent crab pot reached the surface of the water. Believe it or not, it was full of teninch blue crabs. There had to be over thirty in the pot. Paul was ecstatic and even Jack got a kick out of this. Paul hadn’t seen so many crabs in years. Jack hoisted the pot onto the boat and began knocking the crabs into the big live well. One hit the deck and immediately went for Jack, pinching his rubber boot. “Oh shit! Get off me, little fucker!” Paul lost it. He laughed the hardest he had laughed all morning. His raspy and lowpitched laugh brought a smile to Jack’s face. He looked back at Paul, still smiling, and said, “Oh boy! This is gonna be a long summer.”

Remnants of the Past | Andrew Garnett | digitial photography

Kate & Oscar | Peter Lonergan | chalk pastel 18 x 24 inches

Before the Fall | Jinuk Oh | ink, chalk pastel, charcoal 18 x 24 inches

DAVIS TEAGUE

Looking Closely | Jinuk Oh | charcoal 25 x 20 inches

About six years ago, my parents, two sisters and I were gathered around the kitchen table after dinner when we decided to play Applesto-Apples. In my family, competition creates a division between my mom and sisters, who view any type of game as a source of casual enjoyment, and my dad and me, who view games as a medium to assert our superior physical and intellectual capabilities. However, my dad once told me privately, after inconceivably losing a game of checkers to my 4-year-old sister, that he is able to suppress his desire for victory in cases of family competition because he can revel in the knowledge that he “could have won if [he] wanted to.” Instead of believing his statement, I viewed it as a display of weakness. Indeed, his 40-year-old brain, complete with college degree and ten years of professional experience at an executive level, was no match for my 12-year-old intelligence, and my mother and sisters…well, they weren’t even part of my calculations. As the first round got underway, I settled into my chair and prepared to wreak havoc on all who opposed me. “Seriously? How is Horseback Riding more mysterious than The Lost City of Atlantis?” I screamed across the table at my youngest sister. She giggled and replied, “I love horses so I picked horses.” Infuriated, I assessed the situation. Seven rounds in and I had only managed to win two green cards. Although I had played my hand

to perfection, the dimwitted trio of my mom and sisters had failed to see the brilliance in my cards, and instead awarded the all-important green card to whichever answer they found funny or entertaining. On round twelve or so, when the green card, Zany, was awarded by my oldest sister to the red card, Roadkill (because she felt bad for the dead animal), bypassing my obvious winner of Homer Simpson, I realized this battle could not be won through traditional means. I looked aghast at my mom’s pile of four green cards, one away from winning, and knew what had to be done. While the rest of my family took a break for ice cream, I stealthily slipped two green cards out of the deck and added them to my hand. When the competition resumed, I was one card away from victory, and my family was oblivious to my actions. A couple rounds later, my dad, the one person I trusted to see the wisdom in my plays, awarded me my final card, and the game was over. The means of my victory were inconsequential. After all, if it were not my mom and sisters playing, but normal, rational people, then I would have been victorious after the first five rounds. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed like they had actually deserved my actions for not taking the game seriously. I had invalidated the statement, “Cheaters never win.” In my mind, winning was everything, and if cheating was part of the process then so be it… it was my family’s fault for being too inattentive to catch me. 63

From that day on, my domination over family game night was absolute. I was the Warren Buffett of Monopoly, the Napoleon Bonaparte (pre-Waterloo of course) of RISK, and the Sherlock Holmes of Clue. No one could best me, and I was merciless in victory. But I had a secret to my success. In Monopoly I would always volunteer to be the banker (if objection arose I would simply say that I needed to do it to sharpen my basic math skills), in RISK I would occasionally add unearned troops to regions of particular concern, and in Clue, I would take the first possible opportunity to peek at the contents of the murder file without anyone noticing. The more that I won, the more confident I was in my intellectual superiority. I became the unconquerable juggernaut of our kitchen table, and no one could stand in my way. A couple of years went on like this. As my sisters and I grew and became involved in different activities, the moments our whole family could gather to play a family game became scarce. However, when we did play, I still possessed a strong desire to win. My family never caught on to my illicit behavior in our family games, and I continued feeling successful after every victory. With nothing to dissuade me, cheating became a part of my strategy, and I would utilize it to my advantage in nearly every game I played. One afternoon after school I decided to teach my youngest sister how to play chess. I believe she was twelve at the time, and I was seventeen. She was a remarkably quick learner, and soon became mildly obsessed with the game. She would play for hours on her computer and periodically challenge me to a match. I would always win of course, but it was fun to have 64

someone to play against. One afternoon about a month after I had taught her the game, we were playing together. About thirty minutes in, the game was looking pretty even with nearly half of the pieces gone. My sister had just left for the bathroom, and I was sitting studying the board when suddenly I saw it. Instead of casually moving her pieces about, my sister had actually been constructing an elaborate setup to corner my king. Her pieces were arranged in such a way, with each individual piece’s functionality being utilized, that within a couple of moves, she could make a decisive move with her queen to end the game. I was in awe of her achievement, and at the same time completely horrified at the thought of losing to her. I slightly rearranged the position of my queen and a couple of pawns to render her trap useless. When she returned to the game, my sister looked puzzled for a couple of seconds, shrugged, and continued the game. Ten minutes later, I was executing my endgame hunt of my little sister’s king. As my noose closed tighter and tighter around her remaining pieces I saw a rising look of disappointment and hopelessness on her face. When I eventually succeeded in a checkmate, I didn’t feel that accustomed sense of accomplishment and superiority that usually accompanied my victories. “Good game,” my sister mumbled dejectedly. I was suddenly appalled at my actions. I had cheated my sister, who was five years younger than I, out of the thrill of beating her older brother with a brilliantly executed setup. In the past I would never have admitted to cheating, but the incredible amount of guilt I was feeling after that chess game gave me no other option

except to apologize. “No, it wasn’t a good game,” I said. “While you were gone, I saw what you were trying to do, and I moved a few of my pieces. I’m sorry. You would have won.” All signs of defeat immediately vanished from

my sister’s face and were replaced by a huge smile. “I thought something was different!” she said smiling. Then she gave me a playful smack for my deception, and delightedly ran off to tell our mom of her victory.

Davis Teague | Hines Liles | digital photography

Under the Planchon Volcano | Hines Liles | digital photography

Ice Raft | Davis Teague | digital photography

NOR’EASTER PETEY DUBOSE

I held on tight as I made my way up the ladder to the bridge of the ’65 Viking. She was being tossed around like a dinghy in seas higher than the tower of the boat. As I made it to the bridge, I held on to the helm chair and looked at Dad. I had never seen him more worried. His knuckles were white and bloodless as he choked the hell out of the wheel. Everything was white; the 45 mph northeast wind blew the tops off of every enormous swell. As we fell to the trough of each wave, the sky disappeared, and walls of water were all that could be seen. Then I asked Dad, “When is it not safe to be out here?” “Right now.” It was early June, and Dad and I were fishing for his boss, Mr. Stevenson, in the Big Rock Blue Marlin Tournament out of Morehead City, North Carolina. It was the last day of the tournament, and the forecast looked bad, but with a purse of over 1.2 million dollars at stake, we had to take our chances. We didn’t think twice about fishing that day, even though most of our crew backed out. We only had one angler on the last day along with Dan, Dad, and me. Todd, the boat owner’s son-inlaw, was the angler, and Dan was a friend of Dad’s who was helping me out in the cockpit. We were light-handed, but it would only take one fish. So without any anticipation of what was to come, we headed out the next day at the crack of dawn. 68

The northeast wind was blowing a manageable 25 knots, about 29 mph, as we cleared the Cape Lookout shoals, but once we approached the Gulf Stream the wind speeds increased quickly. The Gulf Stream has a strong current that goes up the coast from the south. When a northeast wind blows, the two forces collide and cause seas to double in height and become unpredictable. That day, the edge of the stream was visible because seas were constant, around six to eight feet on the inland edge and about ten to twelve in the stream. Nevertheless, we continued at a much slower pace. The next ten miles were incredibly slow and bumpy as we battled clashing seas. At first, it was fishable. Dan and I suited up in our oilskins and put the lures out; it was too rough to use any natural baits. The waves jerked the lines out of the outrigger clips until we tightened up the clips too tight to pull out with our fingers. It was a constant struggle staggering the baits behind the boat as the wind and white caps tossed the lures about effortlessly. Even though it was about 75 degrees, the wind kept the spray coming, and goose bumps covered my body. After about thirty minutes, we caught a big dolphin, but we thought nothing of it. The fish turned out to be worth $83,000 in the winner-take-all dolphin division, but that was the last thing on our minds. Conditions were deteriorating, and the sea was becoming more

chaotic. I went into the cabin to check and make sure that nothing had broken when I saw an eighty-pound electronic system in the middle of the floor. It had flown out of a cabinet and was now rolling around the cabin. I struggled to load it back into the cabinet, and the I pushed a couch in front of it. The cabin was littered with snacks, paper towels, dishes, trash, and pillows. I tried putting them back in their places, but it was no use. More gear flew out of every cabinet and drawer. As I hobbled my way back to the cockpit, I looked out the cabin window. It was an incredible sight; I couldn’t see the sky. Enormous waves towered over the boat, and whitewater cascaded straight into the window. The waves weren’t organized at all and were rolling with a frequency that was almost impossible to navigate. That was the first time I had ever seen an outrigger dunk underwater, and I knew that was bad. Dan was still taking his turn tending to the cockpit, so I climbed up the ladder to talk to Dad. It was unusual not to hear anything out of him, so I thought I’d go see how he was doing. That was when I realized how dangerous it really was out there. You could barely see through the curtains as spray constantly washed over them. When there was break, you could see waves breaking on the bow. I saw how hard Dad was working to keep the bow into the waves. If he didn’t, the boat would roll over on its side and maybe even capsize. He was more focused than I’d ever seen him. Dad didn’t ever turn to look at me. Stories crackled over the radio of other boats’ outriggers ripping off and windows busting out. “When is it not

safe to be out here?” I asked. “Right now.” “Are we heading in, or are we just gonna fish inshore?” I looked at the depth sounder. We were only in about 30 fathoms, 130 feet deep. We usually fished from about 50 to 300 fathoms. I realized that Dad was trying to get back inshore for a while, and I could see why. I had never seen waves this big in my life; there might have been some pushing eighteen feet. The wind was gusting in excess of 45 knots, and we had to get out. “Go ahead and bring ‘em in. It’s just not worth it anymore. Tie all of the rods down as tight as you can.” “Yes sir.” It was only eleven o’clock in the morning, and the tournament didn’t end until two. Everyone else had already left from our area, so I wasn’t too disappointed. What would normally be less than a two-hour ride back to the dock was a three and a half-hour ordeal. After we had arrived back home and cleaned up the boat, we realized that we had won the winner-take-all dolphin division. It wasn’t what we had worked so hard to achieve, but the eighty-three grand more than paid for expenses and got each of us a nice bonus. That day I finally realized the importance of Dad’s twenty-five-plus years of captaining experience. I now knew what he meant when he said conditions were unfishable and unsafe. I was glad that I got to see the ocean like that. A rough day seems easy now. Real fishermen know what it is like. I would have never known that limit without surpassing it.

The Neon Icon | Petey Dubose & Will Harris | clay, paint, tin foil

Corporate Ladder| Rob Prater | digital photography

THE LIFE FOR ME ISAIAH BROWN

Onlookers cried for death as for the final time, the old sailor’s son proudly looked upon the sparkling bay. The sack was dropped upon his head, And the rope tied around his neck. His shirt was ripped, and met by gasps was the skull upon his chest. Beneath his sack, the young man smiled, to end where he began. “The life for me.” His final words. And the port fell away forever. Away from the ceaseless bells, and the smell of fish he knew so well when young. Away from his father’s grave and the old salt decks the old man taught him well.

SAILOR’S HEART ROCCO ZAYTOUN

All he has to remember his old man is a worn set of binoculars. Each morning he’s bound to the porch watching over the men on the boats, learning their ways. It’s all he’s ever wished for. To uncleat from the docks and raise the sail of hope. He watches the men casting nets into the bay, returning home to the ladies, unloading mounds of fresh fish at their feet. He’s as joyful as ever until reality strikes with a fierce wave capsizing his fragile vessel, letting free the few fish he had. He does not have long before his boat casts off for eternity, leaving him for the gulls to pick clean. For just one day. That’s all he needs. Just one day to sail his father’s sea. Inspired by “Corsica” by Émilie Charmy

DREAMING BLINDLY CHRIS OLDHAM

While her husband is at work, my mistress hosts guests to play bridge. They think that they have a hard life, sitting at home all day in their extravagant green parlor with silk tablecloths and lace dresses. Together they long for days when they can escape the prisons of their homes.

And yet, the women still sit in their cushy chairs, sip tea, and complain about their limitations. They play bridge in their pampered parlors, blind to the fact that they are so lucky. Blind to me. Inspired by “Card Players” by Émilie Charmy

Yet they take for granted our servant work and are oblivious to the suffering we endure. Eyes closed to the ones who serve them colorful pastries and tea on shiny platters, only to bring home tiny wages that barely feed our families’ hungry mouths. They witness every day our miserable lives, yet never notice that their open eyes don’t see; their open lids are sealed shut. Heavy-eyed and weak, we scrape plates clean with bloody knuckles and sore necks, yet can’t fodder our daughters a meager meal.

Giant | Jinuk Oh | charcoal 18 x 24 inches

ROBERT WILLIS Sprouting sporadically, unpredictable. Budding here and there in every which way. Shrapnel from an explosion. No one knows where it’s going; it doesn’t even understand where it’s headed. But it serves its purpose, climbing slowly in bursts of energy and misguided direction. Resembling a zigzag, its path to Heaven skewed. Slowly twisting, a silent peculiar motion, a curiously thigmotropic thing.

Hair | Hines Liles | digital photography

Vertical Acceleration | Jordan Silberman | digital photography

Tree, Knowledge, Enlightenment | Davis Teague | digital art 24 x 36 inches

JOSEPH SEO A record player spins a song. A woman’s voice I hear. A familiar Kindergarten tune. This song, I recognize. The guards lead us toward the trucks. They laugh, sing, and smile. “We’ll take you to a better place, the place where you belong.” Perhaps these Nazi men have changed, so God has swayed their minds. We board the truck and sing along. This song, I recognize. My mother runs with arms up high, waving to say goodbye. The tears fall quickly from her eyes. “My child!” she shrieks. “My child!” Her face now burns with great delight. Her arms stretch for my life. “Mama, no need to shout and cry.” This song, I recognize.

Abysmal Haze | Jordan Silberman | digital photography

JOHN PATRICK CONNELL The war that drove the states apart and left our country sore. Once brothers now were common foes. Farewell, the Civil War. Green rolling fields now strewn with dead cut down by gun and bomb. Their tombs lay filled with rats and waste. Farewell, this place called Somme. It took the push of one cold knob when everything turned gray. Once mighty cities now were gone. Farewell, Enola Gay. You are now the forgotten son spared not the slightest pain. MacArthur as your general. Farewell, Korean slain. He was just a small town boy, who trusted Uncle Sam, They dropped him into the jungle. Farewell to Vietnam. The place Iraq or Afghanistan where drones and choppers fly. By Desert Storm and Taliban, farewell to all who died.

The Mannlicherâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;Carcano | Kelly Lonergan & Jinuk Oh | acrylic inches

The Talon is the biannual literary arts publication of Woodberry Forest School. This is the 65th volume of the magazine, first published in 1949. 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. The design and editing of The Talon take place outside of the academic day. New editors are selected by current editors and faculty advisors. Authors and artists can apply for review board membership. The editors thank Kelly Lonergan for his help with art review. This issue of The Talon was created on an Intel-based iMac using Adobe CS5. Titles and credits are set in Century Gothic; body text is set in Palatino. McClung Companies in Waynesboro, Virginia prints 800 perfect-bound 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.

Clown Pool | Peter Lonergan | chalk pastel 24 x 18 inches

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