The Talon Fall 2019

THE TALON WOODBERRY FOREST SCHOOL

Cover Design: Walker Simmons Cover Art: Joey | Carter Nicoletti | collage | 18 x 24 in.

Title Page Design: Blythe Brewster and Spence Whitman Title Page Art: Women of Color | Joshua Campbell | acrylic | 20 x 16 in.

From the Editors Design: Blythe Brewster From the Editors Art: Rhys’ Pieces | Gabe Brown | marker | 24 x 18 in.

WOODBERRY FOREST SCHOOL

THE TALON

VOLUME 71, NO. 1

FALL 2019

Rhys’ Pieces | Gabe Brown | marker | 24 x 18 in.

TO THE READER

blythe brewster and rhew deigl

This magazine is always a window into the artistic process, but Rhew and I have come to discover it is also a mirror of sorts; our product is a reflection of our starkly different methods, ideas, and inspiration. Rhew tends to throw ideas into the wind and see what lands face-up. He’s creative, bold, and willing to take risks.

Blythe is organized, diligent, matter-of-fact. She approaches things with an end goal in mind and keeps her distance from ridiculousness of any sort.

Getting anything done requires debate and compromise, but the magazine always comes out better for it. Of course, The Talon is not born simply from the methods of the editors; it rises from the artistic process of every author, artist, and photographer who contributes.

We open this edition with Walker Antonio’s and Kelly Lonergan’s meditations on their collaboration A Personal Dilemma, an inside look at the minds of two talented artists.

In Walker Simmons’ photojournalism, he explores the unfamiliar world of Nepal. Willis He, on the other hand, captures familiar scenes in Shanghai in a way that makes us stop and stare.

Emmett Aydin focuses on New Zealand, a place where he spent his formative years, but with an almost fantastical twist in “Land of the Long White Cloud.” Blythe examines the effects of slam poetry. Does audience affect process? Does process affect audience?

So now, as you sit somewhere with this magazine in your hands, Rhew and I ask you to pay attention to your own process; take note of the stories within yourself and use them to your advantage.

Read. Look at the art. You might catch a glimpse of the process behind every piece.

PROSE NONFICTION 09 | A Personal Dilemma Walker Antonio and Kelly Lonergan 20 | Fox Creek Gus Perdue 27 | A Thank You Note to the Woods Behind My House Henry Dworkin 32 | A Pair of Scissors Jaemin Woo 56 | He Sure Ain’t No Rodeo Cowboy Freddie Woltz

FICTION 14 | Land of the Long White Cloud Emmett Aydin 29 | The Inheritance Robert Triplett 36 | Raw Chicken Luke Stone 47 | The Harp Pen Oldham 59 | The Old Tahoe Hughes Edwards 67 | For Us Jassiem Konrad 72 | Downriver Benton Copeland 74 | Jedidiah Ryan Kauffman 82 | Follow Me Blythe Brewster

POETRY

FREE VERSE

12 | Preach to the Choir Blythe Brewster 19 | Winter Sunday Morning on Walker Beau Hardison 35 | Westward Journey Benny Cao 43 | Invested Luke McNabb 44 | Carson and Barnes Rex Hallow 62 | Section 1–65 Minutes Ryan Kauffman 64 | A Diver’s Golden Rule Sam Long 86 | The Flower Picked Early Daniel Oukolov

METRICAL 80 | Prayers of the Middle Passage Jassiem Konrad 88 | Much Less A Queen Rhew Deigl

Sketches | Spence Whitman | mixed media | 8 x 5 in.

ART 08 | A Personal Dilemma Walker Antonio and Kelly Lonergan 11 | The Book of Now Walker Antonio and Kelly Lonergan 13 | Watch Me Say It Jimmy Kweon 15 | A Bob Ross Tutorial Aiush Basnet 18 | Woodberry Mural Pierce Richardson 21 | Train Station Hugh Monsted 26 | Vines II Hugh Monsted 28 | Cowboy with Surfboard Liam King 33 | Dragon Aiush Basnet

37 | The Widower Keeps Up Appearances Rhew Deigl 39 | Baby Ben Antonio 40 | Butterflies Hugh Monsted 46 | Tree Ben Antonio 57 | Cowboy Liam King 65 | Jonah and the Big Fish Rhew Deigl 69 | Gold Circle Hugh Monsted 78 | Changes Adam Chaskes 79 | Young Love Adam Chaskes 89 | Finger Ben Antonio 92 | The Residence Hugh Monsted

Sketches | Spence Whitman | pencil | 8 x 5 in.

PHOTOGRAPHY 17 | Canyon Walk Benton Copeland 22 | Swimming Lessons Pen Oldham 25 | Creating New Pathways Mayowa Gbadamosi 31 | Mirror Alex Forward 34 | Strut Asa McManamy 41 | An Army Jack Sloan 42 | 98 Willis He 45 | John Frederkk & Cat Rhew Deigl 50 | Faces of Nepal Walker Simmons 58 | Jumpseat Reed Taws

61 | Sk8r Boy Gia Khanh Do 63 | A State of Mind Chas McCrary 66 | Afro-American Ajani Wilson 70 | Crush Asa McManamy 71 | Vandalized Gia Khanh Do 73 | Timeless Spencer Doerr 77 | Night Dreaming Willis He 81 | Waiting in The Rain Aiden Moon 83 | Texas Money Spencer Doerr 84 | Bus Stop Ben Monroe 87 | By a Thread Mac Holman

walker antonio ’19 | wofford college ’23

A PERSONAL DILEMMA

kelly lonergan

A Personal Dilemma | Walker Antonio ’19 and Kelly Lonergan | acrylic on canvas | 18 x 24 in.

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During his spring trimester at Woodberry, Walker Antonio ’19 collaborated on a pair of paintings with art teacher Kelly Lonergan, who retired at the end of last year. After the completion of their second

piece, A Personal Dilemma, they exchanged emails regarding the subject, themes, and processes of their interactive project. The following comments are excerpts from that discussion.

Walker Antonio: I started with the demon, half knowing that you would put [ Jean-Luc Godard] beside him.

Kelly Lonergan: In shades with a placid, almost self-satisfied smile on his face.

WA: But is Godard listening?

KL: Your guy is now a demon haunting him, a voice in his head stirring up trouble.

WA: The demon is tearing the soul from Godard’s body. The soul’s angle and expression suggest that it is being held back.

KL: Straining, yet reaching for a glass of amber liquid on the bar. Like an almost uncontrollable urge to self-medicate, to take the plunge. The snake drives that whole scenario home with a chilling clarity.

KL: Then the green guy is whispering/shouting in Godard’s ear. The gesture is like whispering but the orange and yellow stripes pouring forth are loud, discordant.

WA: I painted him a halo...because I was confused [about] why a green demon and a green man were talking to Godard. The coloring of the angel and the demon are the same, but with the added radiating halo on the man’s head, the angel is combatting Godard’s demons.

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KL: And there is the woman in the lower left, in a completely different, out-of-place style.

WA: The angel and the woman want Godard to live the life they are living, but he smiles knowing that he will not obey. Courtney Love finds herself within this burning soul, screaming, asking for answers.

Godard’s girl, his city, and his friends are going to be the death of him.

KL: The foundation is crumbling and the city is smoldering, taking on the aspects of (a) hell. Hell is peopled with damned souls like Warhol and Basquiat and others, including Courtney Love. She asks “What?!” in an emphatic caption (which is the screaming question echoing inside Godard’s head).

WA: The blue circle in the top left, an unknown and uncharted territory, is above all other subjects suggesting its [own] divinity. This would mean that Earth is actually Hell. All may be lost for the blue man.

KL: The sky with clouds, an opening in the claustrophobic atmosphere of the “bar,” is a glimpse into the beyond, with the bird offering Godard a message of freedom/hope. This is confirmed with the blue circle (no beginning, no end) as a foil to the snake’s head (weakness, temptation, downfall, death). It’s blue, into blue again, the wild blue yonder.

These artworks are among the winning entries in a new sixth form contest initiated and judged by the editors in the spring of 2019. Graduating seniors were given one last chance to publish in The Talon after the submission 10

deadline closed. Other contest winners featured in this edition include Gus Perdue’s “Fox Creek,” Jaemin Woo’s “A Pair of Scissors,” and Pierce Richardson’s Woodberry Mural.

The first painting the two completed was The Book of Now, which features many of Mr. Lonergan’s recurring characters. His style is easily recognizable to anyone who has spent time in the Walker Fine Arts Center

at Woodberry. Walker’s distinctive techniques and characters, such as the skeletal figures from his AP art concentration, are also prominent.

The Book of Now | Walker Antonio ’19 and Kelly Lonergan | acrylic on canvas | 18 x 24 in.

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PREACH PREACH TO THE CHOIR CHOIR free verse by blythe brewster

Unconcerned with mood or tone, she speaks in monosyllabic tongues, iambic and spondaic lines staggering into the microphone like a mismatched three-legged race where everyone falls down. Ideas like multifaceted, variegated, intricate are hard to rhyme. Obtuse and awkward, they are left out of the glorified speech— not to be held within the text, nor used to describe it— replaced instead by bold smells and beer, boys and their baseball gloves. An endless onslaught of alliteration.

By the fourth line she’s broken the fourth wall, screaming from her stage, shoving the nifty little internal slide between men and oppression everywhere she possibly can. Subtlety is cast aside for redundancy—their bodies are theirs, after all, an inalienable right that cannot be taken away.

It’s bad to call girls bitches.

Eyes angry, hands flying, she arrives at what could definitely be the end, only to drift out of I hope and into all little girls. Breathless and heady, she spills the final stanza from her heart, her gut, onto the stage and into the ears of the audience all around me—the people who watch slam poetry.

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Watch Me Say It | Jimmy Kweon | acrylic | 24 x 18 in.

fiction by emmett aydin

LAND OF THE LONG WHITE CLOUD E

very day after school, my brother Ed and I pretended to be ancient Maori warriors who had once patrolled the wild bush that we now roamed.

We sharpened spears from sticks and held giant leaves like shields.

One slow day, we decided to practice our knife throwing marksmanship.

I closed one eye, bit my tongue, exhaled slowly, and jerked my hand down, sending the knife flying at the little hole in the bark. With a ping, it ricocheted off the trunk and landed in the dirt a couple of inches away from Ed’s foot.

“Dufus,” he said.

The gas station-bought blades we used weren’t especially sharp, but the tips could do some damage.

When I tried again, with the right speed and a flick of my wrist, it 14

lodged into the bark of the tree and sat there until I plucked it as if it were honeysuckle on a vine.

When our shadows began to get taller, we made our way back through the bush and up Mount Rotara on our way home. It wasn’t really a mountain but more like a steep hill with a trail winding around it. We crossed the trail several times on our more direct route up. At the summit, there’s a clearing where we could see all of Auckland in front of us. Way past my neighborhood, down the other side of Rotara, I saw the Sky Tower pierce a long white cloud. The tip of my shadow leaked over the ledge

and dripped toward our house, as if it were warning us to go home.

Before we headed down, I took a look behind me at the bush and wished we could stay there for just five more minutes.

After school the next day, Ed and I hiked back over the mountain and rested again at the top. We brought pieces of cardboard with us because it was dry enough that we could slide down the side of Rotara rather than walking, which we had to do when it was wet. With a little bit of a running start, Ed and I hopped onto our “sleds” and raced down as fast as we could, bailing just before the edge of the bush. With

A Bob Ross Tutorial | Aiush Basnet | acrylic on canvas | 18 x 24 in.

the adrenaline from the slide still in our veins, we cleaned each other off. The bailing part always got us covered in seeds and pieces of wild grass.

Ed asked me if we could try to hunt opossum today, and I said,

yes. We entered the bush where we always do, a spot marked by snapped branches and flattened grass.

We loved to hunt the opossum, an evil half-rodent that lurked in the bush and feasted on kiwis, the

national bird. Hanging by their tails, they slept during the day like furry fruit. Ed and I moved stealthily around logs and over brooks before locating a plump pair.

I drew my knife carefully from my back pocket, as did Ed. We locked 15

eyes and I slowly mouthed, “One, The only thing visible from where two, three” before we flicked and we stood was a faint, flickering released the knives simultaneously. light, so we headed towards it.

The blades severed the opossums’ The glow deep in the trees turned tails, causing them out to be a fire. Past to fall to the ground The glow deep in the flames, I saw a the trees turned writhing. A couple woman sitting on of shrieks verified a stump weaving out to be a fire. our hits and helped something out of long us chase the ugly critters. Ed and flax leaves. Her lean-to was similar I split up when the opossum I hit to the ones that Ed and I sometimes went right and his went left. built. She had on a grass dress with Before it all went dark, I saw the black beads, and a koru tattoo opossum scurry around a tree. As I curled up her left shoulder, covered rounded the trunk in full pursuit, partially by her gray hair. my foot caught, and for a brief As we approached, her wrinkled moment, I was flying. I stuck out skin split into a smile, revealing a my hands, but the last thing I saw few teeth. After Ed told her I had was a stump getting bigger and hit my head, she said in a thick bigger.

Maori accent that she was happy When Ed shook me awake, I to help us out. She shuffled into was on my back looking up at the lean-to and came out with a the clouds through a void in the handful of flower petals and small canopy. They were red from the green leaves, dropping them into a sunset. I grabbed the top of my wooden bowl and adding hot water head to soothe my raging headache from the fire. “Drink up, nephew.” and was relieved to not feel blood.

As I put the bowl to my lips, I rolled over slowly and got to my she used her finger to make sure I feet with Ed’s help. We knew Rotara didn’t stop drinking until the liquid was in the opposite direction of the concoction was finished. I felt a setting sun, so Ed and I stumbled chill roll down my spine, and I toward our shadows. slowly started to feel better.

A thick mist had covered Mount “I’m Hal, and this is Ed,” I said to Rotara and the bush. It felt as if we her. “Thank you. We’re a little lost. were inside of a long white cloud.

Do you know the way out of here?”

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“Yes, happy to help; I don’t get many visitors. You can call me Tia.” She pointed up at the sky, and I noticed the clouds had dissipated, revealing a blanket of stars.

“My ancestors used these to find their way back home,” she said, leading us back through the bush. She didn’t stop talking. We felt as if we were the first people she had spoken to in years. She told us about how the police took her house when she couldn’t pay for it and about leaving Auckland to live in the bush as her great grandparents did.

“Out here, I’m happier than I was in the city. There are no bills, no one telling me what to do; I’m completely free,” she said.

Before long, we arrived at the base of the mountain. I immediately recognized the cardboard sleds that Ed and I had left at the bottom of Rotara. We thanked her for her help and continued home on our usual route. At the top of the mountain, we waved back down at Tia and she headed back into the bush. The three-meter tall trees engulfed her, and I lost sight of her.

To this day when she gets lonely, Tia still meets us at the entrance to the bush and takes us back to her home to chat over wild tea. v

Canyon Walk | Benton Copeland | Charyn Canyon, Kazakhstan | digital photography

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WOODBERRY MURAL

pierce richardson ’19 southern methodist university ’23 acrylic on canvas | 5’9” x 17’2”

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free verse by beau hardison

WINTER SUNDAY MORNING ON WALKER Fans spin all night.

I pull a sharp breath of freezing air to start the day.

My door shrieks open as I take to the expansive hallways.

I love the halls of Walker—old, decrepit, in need of repair.

The ceilings are high enough to kick a ball, the walls far enough apart to play football.

My path is illuminated by soft light from a cloudy day; the glow runs from the road through the thin windows.

My every step sinks into the floor with a crackle or squeak distinct to its place.

Soft walls and thick wooden doors let boys be boys without disturbing the outside.

Every room holds a different story.

Hundreds have lived in the same stuffy quarters, an experience that transcends the restraints of time.

I rumble down the stairs from B dorm into the quiet lobby where students play the piano to fill up the empty space.

The muted yellow light and dark carpets remind me of my grandmother’s living room.

I start the dreadful climb to C Dorm to see Walker Owens, who lives in the same room that had been my grandfather’s decades ago.

I can still hear that golden chandelier rattling from boys thundering down the hall above; I still don’t understand why Mrs. Rob didn’t tell me to quiet them down.

They removed that chandelier last summer.

It doesn’t rattle anymore, and the floors never squeak.

The halls are blank and cramped to accommodate bigger rooms.

Boys’ conversations spill through the doors; that’s new.

It is quiet; not the peaceful kind, but the quiet of boys being scared to raise their voices.

It’s an office building, not a home.

Like in an asylum, every room is the same.

Like in Dowd Finch.

Last summer, they erased the tiny room I shared with my 6 foot 6 inch, 330 pound roommate.

They plastered all the holes that we put in Liam’s wall, replaced the bunk beds that were covered in names.

They destroyed Walker’s room, my grandfather’s room.

The winter Sunday morning light will never flood through the windows the same way.

FOX CREEK memoir by gus perdue ’19

university of georgia ’23

T

here’s a certain smell of smoky pine in South Georgia.

Sometimes when I’m dozing off between classes or driving through the country with my windows down, I get a whiff that brings me back to that farm on Gator Pond Road where the only sounds are the bashing of trees and the howling of hound dogs. Where the air is cleaner and the sun not as harsh.

Where the dirt roads take you past the ocean of cotton, through Old Buddy Douglas’ neighboring place and right over the old African Oak tree in the meadow, past our kennels where the pointer dogs jumped back and forth off the walls, over the clouds of pine trees and peanut fields, and finally to a place I’ll never go again. Back to Fox Creek.

The house is a kind of greenishgray with a pointed shingled roof.

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It started as a claustrophobic bunker that my grandfather bought back in 1990. He saw something no one else did. He was a stubborn man who always got what he wanted. He was never interested in having a mountain house out west to ski or a beach house for vacation.

He wanted to be like Hemingway, so he grew out his stubble and went to Africa to hunt game. Then he wanted a plantation in South Georgia to be like the Woodruffs of Coca Cola who had the great Ichauway Plantation before their whole dynasty fell apart. He bought Fox Creek when he was sixty. Back in those days, it was a game of Simon Says. Pappy, as I called him, was the boss, and nothing flew till he said so.

“Don’t shoot too well, or you’ll

take all my birds,” he’d cackle, sitting high in the old mahogany wagon with his checkered Filson button down and his timeworn safari hat while the matched mules pulled him along. Up front, Holiday Tucker manned the wagon.

I never really knew Mr. Tucker, but hearing my father yell stories across the dinner table, spilling his Manhattan from the glass, made me feel as though I did. Holiday had lived right around the corner since before Pappy had bought Fox Creek.

When asked if he could drive a mule wagon, Holiday replied, “Yes sir, Boss. I reckon I could back it through the eye of a needle.”

Holiday had a slight way with words like that. “I’m eighty-nine and never spent a night in jail,” he’d

Train Station | Hugh Monsted | acrylic on canvas | 12 x 21 in.

brag. That didn’t mean he hadn’t been arrested. “I’ve been married sixty years and never spent a night away from my wife,” he’d say. That didn’t mean he hadn’t had a few girlfriends.

Then there was Johnny McGahee. Johnny was a big fellow with a burly beard. When he wanted to be, he was the meanest, toughest man in Lee County,

but his loyalty to my grandfather was unmatched. One time my grandfather, sitting back in his leather chair with a scotch in his hand, got a call from the jail house.

“Boss, I’ve got myself into a bit of a situation,” Johnny barked with his heavy southern accent. “It’s not looking so good and I’m gonna have to spend the weekend in the pen. I’ve arranged for someone to

look after y’all this weekend.”

“Well,” Pappy said, “What’d you do?”

“I had to hit a man, sir.”

“Did he deserve to be hit?”

“Yes sir,” Johnny paused. “He did.”

“All right then.”

He trusted Johnny. But when Pappy died, Johnny wasn’t so good anymore. You could see it in the 21

land. The miles of pines still swayed but the fields got less fertile, the birds stopped flying, and Johnny was nowhere to be seen, drunk by dawn. Something had to change, and when I was six years old, we hired Raymond.

When I think of Raymond, I think of his demeanor. He was a corn fed country boy with that

strength one can only develop from years of labor. I remember the way his big, firm fingers softly squeezed my little hands. You could tell a lot about him from just his handshake.

It was firm but benign, like a tiptoeing elephant. As a young man, Raymond had made some bad decisions that made him grow up fast. His sophomore year in

high school, Raymond had a son, Cameron, and by the time he was sixteen, he was working forty-hour weeks.

My respect for Raymond grew as I matured. After all he’d gone through, he’d made a better life for his children.

“Me and my dad,” Cameron would always say, “we grew up

Swimming Lessons | Pen Oldham | Roaring Gap, North Carolina | digital photography 22

together.” aimed at the shrubs. The three of And in a way, they did. Raymond us got off our horses and lined up. had always been a simple, well Like soldiers in a traditional battle spoken country boy who wouldn’t formation, we walked forward as talk too much about his past, but Raymond beat down the bushes. every once in a while he’d reveal a The covey of quail exploded up. little more.

“Pick one from the pack and “I probably shouldn’t be sayin’ focus on it,” my dad always told this, but...” he’d say with his slow me.

Georgia accent as he sat anxiously When it went down, Raymond by the fire, set Claire the sipping the drink They never hunted in all retriever onto my uncle insisted their years there. Life it. He fetched he have. This was just too precious for it from her and always meant he gave it to me. them to take. was about to say I remember something shocking. Turns out the looking at its feathers as it lay dead mother of his children wasn’t such a in my hands, the patterned black good woman. She tried to run their and white ruffles like waves rippling car off the road and kill her whole off its perked up chest. I stroked the family on the way to one of their feathers back and closed its eyes. court meetings. But you would That was the first time I took a life. never know it from talking to him.

The joy I expected wasn’t there. It When I was seven, Raymond took me some time until I began to got me my first bird. On a calm understand hunting more, to look November afternoon on the far at it as more than just death. side of the property, my brother After hunts like that, we’d take and I set off hunting as my family the convoy back to base camp. watched excitedly from the war When it was colder out, we’d sit wagon. Behind them, my sister inside by the fireplace late into the Gwynn and cousin Phoebe night, playing poker and charades followed closely in the Gator. They with great intensity while the never hunted in all their years uncles and aunts slowly finished there. Life was just too precious for our collection of wines. In the them to take. Bob, the veteran dog, mornings, my cousin and I would was in point—tail cocked, his nose wake up early and get in a stand,

watching the sunrise flood over the dry land that stretched out in front of us, anticipating that big buck to come around the corner that never did.

As the weather got warmer, we’d invite some of my friends and my brothers’ friends down, a tradition that lasted six years and continued to grow until Fox Creek was no more. I had looked forward to that weekend every year since seventh grade. As the February day progressed, the cars pulled down that old dirt road. You never knew who you were going to get. One year we had five people, another we had twenty-one. Packed like refugees into the house, we’d wrestle for food, scream profanity at one another, or sit outside shooting loads and loads of shells on skeet. During the hunts we’d pile onto the war wagon, huddled together like penguins in that tight space. We’d heckle the hunters and taunt the ones who missed, hopping off like soldiers to chase after the birds. At night, our convoy would hit the back roads with our shotguns and spotlights. There were always two cars when we did this. The one in the front was for serious hunters, spotlighting and on the watch like owls throughout the ride. Behind, the second car 23

was for cruising, where music I’d look out across the pond my blasted through the sealed windows grandfather made years ago, where as it followed the leaders down lily pads floated above the gators that back country road of the late down below, and the infinite shades Georgia night. Later, we’d dock at of green quivered together in such the old yacht club on the lake, the complexity as the crickets hummed old servant and unseen house we used A cacophony of bird birds chirped for picnics. songs and ruffling leaves from their nests We’d sit out above. And bounced off the water. there around I’d begin to a roaring fire nodding our heads understand the life Fox Creek had. up and down as “Thunderstruck” That while I saw it as ours; it was

by AC/DC blared over the car always someone else’s. speakers. We’d stand and laugh as The last time I went to Fox we watched the blaze. And at those Creek, I took the Mule for hours moments I’d follow the smoke to weave down the maze of trails. upwards and watch as the sparks I drove past the old dwarf forest died out into the starry night. I’d where I used to fantasize about a think of the change to come. miniature world down in a swamp On cool afternoons, I’d sit where the trees grew smaller. I outside in the grass behind the drove past the deer stand where main house and watch in awe as Billy and I ran from a hog that the two pine trees wavered in the neither of us actually saw, but in afternoon breeze. To me, those two our minds, it was that close to trees, isolated in the grass splitting killing us both. I drove past the the distance between the house and tree with the sock on it where my the pond, were the two biggest trees cousins wrecked the Gator years in the world. I used to lie down and before. I parked the Mule on put my head to one base. I’d look the dam and sat up on the roof, up and begin to notice that the looking out over the murky brown tree wasn’t as straight as it seemed. lake water towards the cornucopia The curves and bends stretched up of pine trees stretching out for as to the sky like the back road that far as I could see. A cacophony threaded its way to the yacht club. of bird songs and ruffling leaves

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bounced off the water. A heron rose to the sky, gracefully fluttering its wings as the fireflies shimmered all around me.

In that moment, I understood that although we’d sold Fox Creek and would never return again, it would remain. I wouldn’t sit under those two towering pines back behind the house as they swayed with their imperfections, but they would still be there, and they would stay there longer than any of us could bear. I looked out past the yacht club, over the trees, and around the corner through the peanut fields up Gator Pond Road past the old church. The smell of pine faded, and I was content.

Sitting on the dam for one last time, I was grateful that I ever got to witness the beauty of this place.

As my family piled into our Suburban and drove down the road for the last time, I saw Fox Creek in a flash, and I realized how much everything had changed in my life while the farm had stayed the same.

I smiled as I thought about the two trees in the backyard swaying eternally in the South Georgia winds. There’s something out there holding my family together. As long as those trees kept swaying, everything would be all right. v

Creating New Pathways | Mayowa Gbadamosi | Blenheim Palace, England | digital photography 25

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Vines II | Hugh Monsted | acrylic and collage on gesso board | 20 x 16 in.

nonfiction by henry dworkin

A THANK YOU NOTE

TO THE WOODS BEHIND MY HOUSE

A straight path runs through the forest behind my house to my old school. On one side, North Carolina longleaf pine trees grow, and on the other, a shallow ditch digs into the earth. After a rain, the ditch becomes a murky river. Where the ditch and the forest end, school appears.

When I walk, my eyes stay downcast. That’s not to say I don’t notice things. A small brown worm inches over a piece of fallen bark. A single white striation, like a lightning bolt, marks a gray rock. A fleeting sparrow dances at the periphery; still, I prefer ground observations.

Beneath my feet, the ground folds in on itself and back out again, a subtle churning of silt and loam. The Earth’s underground creatures burrow, biding their time before they rise from the surface. When they emerge, I’ll see them.

After the last stretch of forest, a bed of fallen pine needles draws the boundary. I slowly step over them, first with the heel of my foot, and then the ball, and then my toes. The needles softly crinkle beneath me. The wrapping paper on a gift. I’ll have to look up at school, for politeness reasons. I stare at the bed of pine, counting every needle. Thanks for the effort, I murmur, and thanks for the memories.

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Cowboy with Surfboard | Liam King | acrylic and canvas | 20 x 20 in.

fiction by robert triplett

THE INHERITANCE W

oodson’s grandfather sat in a wooden chair next to the still. “Gonna need the corn next.” Pa was never one for formalities.

Woodson dumped the corn into the pot and stirred it off and on until Pa told him to “give it a spell” with his typical grit. Woodson used to think Pa’s scratchy voice was funny, but now it felt like sandpaper against the back of his neck.

During the “spell,” Woodson tried making conversation with Pa about the family tradition, but his efforts were only met with grunts.

He liked to think it was because he was young, but his father had told him most of their ancestors had learned the craft before they were twelve. He was seventeen.

Being “book learned” (if he could call himself that), Woodson attended a school with dwindling numbers in the valley about ninety minutes south. His history teacher

was a drunk, and all the young teachers left quickly. Hardly an education. But for this, Pa saw him as an outsider to the mountain folk and by extension to the shiners.

Woodson had to be taught the ways of real, hardworking men.

While the mixture sat, Woodson took his Gameboy from his pocket.

Pa gave him a dirty look, but Woodson kept pressing buttons.

Pa’s hazel eyes drifted to the trees.

For as long as Woodson could remember, Pa had always talked about how he liked to listen to the forest. Maybe that’s why everyone said he was weird. The birds, the creek that sat at the foot of the hill, the wind rustling the leaves and stirring dead ones at their feet—all of it sounded like music to him.

Pa took a drag from his pipe,

but when a shrill from the game startled the old man, he coughed up smoke. Woodson laughed, but then he felt guilty when Pa continued coughing.

“Them’s not mountain sounds,” Pa said.

Woodson slid the Gameboy back into his pocket. He apologized, but boredom caused his resentment to fester; Pa was always taking issue with things that seemed so trivial. He wouldn’t call the old man sensitive, but there were some touchy subjects. Cracking one liners around him was like stepping through a minefield. If Woodson joked about family or the mountain, there’d be hell to pay.

Breaking the silence (a silence that Woodson actually preferred now that it had settled in), Pa 29

shifted his demeanor to something unusually enthusiastic and cleared his throat. “Got yourself a lass yet, Woody?”

He had—Betty, a nice girl from the valley with whom he’d gotten pretty close—but Woodson didn’t even consider the notion of bringing her up. He saw through Pa’s sudden appeal for conversation; he’d been through this ordeal a number of times. Pa would dodge until someone said something that facilitated one of his infamous, thirty-minute-to-an-hour-long story sessions that reeked of subtle bragging. It was so typical.

Woodson thought of reminding Pa of the incident last Christmas when Pa had wrestled the serving utensils out of his father’s hands: “Dammit, Jasper; I can do it.

Really.” Woodson shot the idea down on the notion of respect for the old man, however waning that respect was. Nevertheless, even without mentioning Betty, he knew he’d have to act fast.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I met your grandmother?”

Woodson cursed under his breath. He gazed past Pa’s head into the trees where he’d just been counting squirrels, and he made an effort to nod every now and then. The barley had done its time 30

also, nearing its hour and a half Pa set the bottle on a table inside sentence. the house and sat down in his chair, Woodson started packing the sinking into the ancient cushions. things they’d brought with them The arms were rounded on the while Pa bottled the fresh booze. As ends, and it squeaked as he rocked. the two started “You learned Woodson tried to swallow on the trail about your that led to the the day’s annoyances. family today.” truck, Pa blew “Through out his pipe, emptying its embers your stories, Pa.” Thankfully, before stuffing it in his flannel Woodson’s touch of sarcasm went pocket. The smoke slowly blew unnoticed. away on the wind.

“And this.” Pa took the whiskey Woodson looked into the trees, in his hand and nodded to trying to spot the right leaves to Woodson. “Let’s see how you did.” patch up the holes in Pa’s stories.

Pa took a hefty gulp before nodding Not that the old man was fibbing; in approval. “I suppose it runs in it had just been a while. Pa even the family.” had a new story in his repertoire— They sat in the family room until one about his own grandfather.

Woodson’s father came to pick him After helping load the whiskey, up. Pa had been sure to stash the Woodson cracked H.P. Lovecraft. liquor before Jasper reached the As Pa sped down the highway, doorstep—tradition kept this day a the truck’s muffler banged on the secret, even from his own son. framing a couple times a second.

Oh, that damn whiskey, thought The noise made comprehending Woodson. The trees whizzed by Lovecraft difficult. The black his window, merging into a green and white hairs at the end of Pa’s and brown blur seasoned with the beard grazed the steering wheel. colors of fall. Woodson tried to Woodson tried to swallow the day’s distinguish the individual leaves, annoyances. to capture an image he truly The two unloaded the fruits of thought was beautiful. He settled their labor in the shed behind Pa’s for looking in the rearview mirror house, but as they started to leave, where the mountain grew smaller Pa told Woodson to go back and and smaller. v fetch a bottle.

Mirror | Alex Forward | Okavango Delta, Botswana | digital photography

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memoir by jaemin woo ’19

A PAIR OF SCISSORS university of california, berkeley ’23

I

n Korea, we use scissors to cut food, and my grandfather is a master craftsman.

With precise, confident movements, he carves moontigi, or beef sashimi, into perfect, beautiful slices for our weekend family dinners. His large, seventy-year-old blades flash through the air.

The effortless way my grandfather wielded his scissors ushered me into the culinary world at a young age. I confess—and my family would readily confirm—that I am not an Asian Paul Bocuse.

During middle school, however, my gastronomical aspirations compelled me to take a crack at cooking eggs every morning. For my first attempt at breaking free from my culinary shell, I cooked something uncomplicated: a hard-boiled egg.

Then, collecting an assortment of exotic ingredients, I cooked dishes from all over the world: egg drop soup, egg foo young, egg stew, egg 32

gruel, egg rolls, and eggs Benedict.

I mastered them one by one until I became an egg egghead. To my dismay, no one in my family seemed particularly impressed.

After a few days, I understood why: the glorious works of culinary art in which I had taken such immense pride began to seem dull and primitive. If I were going to rival Chef Bocuse, I needed to be more ambitious. I reached out to my grandfather for help.

My grandfather searched through the kitchen cabinet, and after a few moments, he turned and gazed into my eyes. “Listen Jaemin, I am going to give you something very special.”

Then he delicately placed a pair of scissors, silver-coated handles first, into my open palm.

To be honest, at that moment I wondered what was so special about

a pair of scissors. To my untrained eye, the blades looked rusty and dull.

“These will help you,” he said.

“They are special to our entire family, and it is time for you to have them.”

It felt as if I were in a cliché kung fu movie where a master bestows upon a worthwhile disciple his cherished sword.

To ascend to the next level, I decided to invent a new type of egg dish for our family gathering: moontigi fried rice. I rose at dawn to prepare for the debut of my plat de résistance. Using the rusty blades, I chopped up strips of beef, emulating my grandfather’s movements but more slowly and tentatively. Then I prepared thin pieces of fried egg.

My family gathered for the

ultimate taste test. Cradling the bowl in his wrinkled hands, my grandfather took the first bite.

I waited to be showered with praise. And waited some more.

Perhaps this dish was not the triumph I had anticipated.

Finally, my grandfather looked up. “We are speechless because we miss your grandmother so badly. She used to make fried rice when your mother was pregnant with you.�

I looked down at the ageworn blades and for the first time saw a delicate engraving: Jinsoon Lee. My grandmother.

When I eventually left home to attend Woodberry, I took my scissors with me. As the chaos of a new school and a new country and a new life swirled around me, I forgot about my culinary adventures.

But one day, knowing how badly I missed Korean cuisine, my grandfather sent me a large package filled with tastes from home. I searched for my scissors in my luggage, just as my grandfather had searched in the kitchen cabinets. There they were, waiting to slice through time, to join together the generations of my family. v Dragon | Aiush Basnet | acrylic | 24 x 18 in.

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free verse by benny cao

WESTWARD JOURNEY Chopsticks dance around the pot; the clear broth ripples with life.

“Chicken stew, chopped fresh in the jiaqin market, the perfect southern jewel!”

The aroma flows like an angel’s song, the feet and head glowing with flavor.

I stretch on my bamboo bench.

The knife attacks the twitching meat, the red flesh bleeding away its spirit.

“Prime Rib, the school’s most special dish.

Y’all are in for a treat tonight!”

The stench arrives like the devil’s breath.

The burnt skin fractures like a turtle shell.

I curl in my wooden chair.

Deafening chomps flood the dining hall, so I complain to my friend Yen. “Dear pal Tianyu,” he asks, “what are you saying?

The rareness is the gold!”

My heart sinks cold as I watch him gobble filthy meat.

Beloved brother, may I ask you, do you remember Home?

< Strut | Asa McManamy | Marsh Harbour, Bahamas | digital photography

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fiction by luke stone

RAW CHICKEN T

homas stared at the bowl of semi-congealed grease to distract himself from the undercooked chicken cutlet that didn’t melt in his mouth like it used to.

His grandmother shouldn’t have been cooking anymore, but longwidowed matriarchs don’t change lifestyles at ninety.

“How is it, darling?” Grammy asked. Her yellow housecoat stretched at the back, straining to fit around the brace.

“Delicious,” Thomas said, his eyes glued to the cold pink oval between the layers of fat.

“Then why don’t you eat it?

You’ve gotta break five feet. Kids up at your other school are going to gobble you up if you stay this small.”

“Grammy, it’s your side of the family that makes me short.” His 36

voice rose to its prepubescent falsetto.

“Bullshit—shoot. Your dad’s folks worked for a cigarette company. It’s a wonder you don’t have six heads.

Eat.” Salmonella was better than telling her the chicken was raw. He closed his eyes and gulped it down.

Following her through the kitchen, he noticed that no one had mopped the floor in months.

Not the kids, not the home health aides, and certainly not Thomas.

Thomas never understood why they remodeled her kitchen a few years back. It wasn’t as if she understood how to use any of the

smart appliances. The same heavy pots and pans from Sunday’s family dinner sat in the dish drain, caked in tomato sauce. Thomas could have helped her clean during his visit earlier in the week. But he didn’t. Instead of blowing his inheritance on prostitutes and booze, this prodigal son would fling it at the hefty tuition for Andover.

And why should he be the one to do the dishes?

“Who’s going to do this with me in a few months?” she asked.

“I don’t know, but someone will.

Maybe Riley, Matthew, or Ellie will do it.”

“No, they won’t. They’re always

The Widower Keeps Up Appearances | Rhew Deigl | acrylic and newspaper on canvas | 16 x 20 in.

too busy to take care of me. But I guess you’ll be the same way soon enough.”

Thomas thought about when the chicken did melt in his mouth.

When she would tell him about

Megan’s newborn just once. When she didn’t have to stop and catch her breath halfway through the Publix parking lot.

Now, the three children took their turns taking care of her, and

each nurse came once a week. With John at boarding school and no other grandkids feeling enough Catholic guilt to stop by, she was Thomas’ responsibility the other two nights. Going to her house, 37

He threw away the half-finished crossword puzzle and jumble games, knowing that she’d stare at them for another two hours if he didn’t. now an obligation, used to be a reward after his long, humid soccer practices.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” she said. She closed her eyes again, sending every ounce of energy she had to her legs.

“Do you need any help?”

“No. Sit down. I can do it.” She couldn’t. Extended breaks between each of the first two attempts fueled her third as she grimaced and fell forward, the cane supporting all one hundred pounds that remained.

Thomas rose from the couch to take care of the things she’d never ask him to do but would always want him to. He put the plates back, nestled the pots and pans below, and scrubbed every last crumb off the counter. He threw away the half-finished crossword puzzle and jumble games, knowing that she’d stare at them for another two hours if he didn’t. Her cooking had left the stovetop covered in grease. Thomas cleaned the dishes and ate the chicken.

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The dirtiest job can wait for someone else, he thought, leaving the oily rag on the stove.

He went into the office, discovering that someone had left the dirtiest job for him after all.

Coupons, magazines, and photo albums sat heaped on top of the desk, leaving just enough space for the 2004 Dell’s nine-inch thick monitor to ascend from the mountains of dead trees. There was no organization except for the “shred pile” where Thomas found dozens of mailers for local “independent living” facilities scattered across God’s Waiting Room, South Florida. One had a two-year-old postmark.

She can’t even remember to shred the things she doesn’t want anyone else to find.

He smelled smoke from the kitchen and ran back in.

Red, orange, and blue danced on the stovetop. The mixing bowl of water he flung onto the flames did nothing.

The smoke detector started beeping, but he knew she wouldn’t hear it. So, as the smoke enveloped his fourteen-year-old body, he

shouted for Grammy to come to save the day.

As he cowered in the corner of the galley kitchen, covering his eyes, waiting for help to arrive, Thomas heard what sounded like a water cannon thrash the wall. He took his head out from between his legs to see Grammy unleashing the fire extinguisher on the petty blaze.

“Oh, but I’m the one that needs assisted living,” she said, slinging the red canister onto the counter as the last of the flames disappeared into the white foam.

“Did you leave the stovetop on?”

“No. I got this alert telling me someone had, though.” She pulled out her phone and showed Thomas the LG app notification telling her that the front right burner had been activated.

Thomas looked down to the floor, away from the charred dishrag that started the fire.

“Grammy, I’m—” “Don’t worry. It’s nothing a little soap and water can’t fix.”

Grammy pulled out another package of raw chicken from the fridge. Thomas furrowed his eyebrows.

“What? You do want dinner, don’t you, John? It’s almost eight o’clock.” v

Baby | Ben Antonio | marker and watercolor | 24 x 18 in.

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Butterflies | Hugh Monsted | acrylic and collage | 16 x 20 in.

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An Army | Jack Sloan | Seville, Spain | digital photography

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98 | Willis He | Beijing, China | digital photography

free verse by luke mcnabb

INVESTED Split second appraisals: 10. 9. 5. 8. 10.

A mosh pit of people and vibrating bass creates the atmosphere of the market.

The frantic flow of cargo, onloading and offloading, continues all night.

I hunt for the underappreciated and unknown. I always follow the rule: â&#x20AC;&#x153;Buy low, sell high.â&#x20AC;?

7/10. A good prospect.

Late night convos and early morning texts ensue.

I spend days researching: current value, projected value, volatility.

The market turns bull, so I rush.

A new deal opens.

The relationship begins.

Flowers and chocolates tally into a great bargain.

The bear slashes the bull apart.

The deal sours.

Markets change.

Time to sell.

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free verse by rex hallow

CARSON AND BARNES Once again the ringleader calls to his disciples.

He is no more an immaculate prophet than I, but still a following amasses— that wretched lot of sin and evil.

“Jump through the flames,” roars a man striped from nave to chops.

He cracks the whip and a red streak appears between my orange and black.

Oh, may the dusty floor be my salvation from the never-ending onslaught of commands.

I am the jester to a king who finds comedy only in my beheading, and yet you sit watching from a cold metal bench, content with my noiseless suffering.

I know not whether it be ignorance or bliss, but why the hell would you bring your kids to this?

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John Frederkk & Cat | Rhew Deigl | Woodberry Forest, Virginia | digital photography

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Tree | Ben Antonio | acrylic | 20 x 16 in.

THE HARP fiction by pen oldham

I

look off the ridge through the dying trees.

Waves crash on the horizon.

The news reports say it’s somewhere around a week until the tide swallows up the Northeast, but I figure it’ll be less. People have been ignoring the signs for years, brushing the topic off like a fleck of dandruff from their shoulders.

Now their worst fears are a reality.

Coastal cities are becoming ghost towns whose only residents are either insane or oblivious. I am neither.

My expedition began in western North Carolina near Boone. I bought my supplies and started off, racing against time to beat the twothousand miles and seven months it would take me to finish. Who knows where the idea came from.

I keep telling myself that I’m not crazy, but here I am nonetheless, standing in the northernmost part

of the Appalachian Trail, looking into the eyes of the sea and coming to realize what is happening. The world is ending. There is nothing I can do.

I want to stay the night, maybe a few—as long as I can before the Portland Airport is forever shut down, and I am stuck, doomed to the fate of all the others left behind.

Watching as the sea slowly swallows me up.

I pitch my tent on flat ground.

The clearing is surrounded by fir trees with bits of rock sticking from the soil. Pine needles cover the ground like an orange carpet, wet from a recent rainstorm. The center of the clearing holds a campfire so old it looks more like a natural formation than a ring of rocks.

Restorations are out of the question,

so my cookstove will have to do.

As the sun sets behind me, I gaze at the water line. A dark cloud looms on the horizon. I hear thunder booming in the distance and wind howling through the tops of trees.

Rain patters the tent softly at first and all at once turns violent. The drops are huge.

Damn end-of-the-world weather.

“Can I just sleep? What’s so hard about that?”

It’s always hard, Harrison.

The temperature is unbearable.

Through the insulation of my sleeping bag, my fingers and toes burn from the cold. Sounds outside the tent grow from nowhere: the scratching of wild animals under the umbrella of the trees, wind dancing through the treetops and 47

howling like a choir, something that whole night, but one sticks out to sounds like a harp. The ethereal me the most: the sound of a harp. strumming of chords comes from “Am I crazy?” nowhere.

Of course you’re fucking crazy.

My mind jumps. Calloused You’re talking to yourself. fingers pluck the thick strings of The storm continues into the a Fender CF-60. A young boy sits morning. I quickly rummage listening. The Chicago skyline through my backpack, removing hangs in the my rain tarp My words hang in the air background. The and setting it for a moment, but there up over the open arms of a loving woman firepit, getting is no response. deeply embrace extremely wet him. A cake with blue icing. I snap in the process. With some luck I out of it. manage a fire and boil water, the “That was weird.” promise of instant coffee calming That was a dream; you were asleep. my nerves. The storm seems never Now continue dreaming, please. ending. There’s no way I can make I’ve grown accustomed to talking it to the airport today, and even if I to myself during my seven month do, planes won’t fly in this weather. hike. I know it is just me, but it’s One more night can’t hurt. I will go good to have some semblance to bed early and get enough rest to of company. This feels different, make the final leg tomorrow morning. almost as if I’m not truly alone.

I see the path I came to the There’s someone else out there. campground on, but it’s one of The thought is quickly dismissed, three paths that branch from this too crazy for me to think about at... clearing. The second path is directly shit. I check my watch and see the across from the entrance; it must hour hand well past twelve. I need lead back to the main trail. The sleep. third path gets the best of me.

I don’t get any; I just drift in and My best guess is that it leads to an out until the sun finally breaks the adjacent campground. Someone darkness. I can’t shake the feeling. could be staying there. There! That There is someone else out there, was it; there’s just another camper. A listening to and watching my every camper who likes… harps. move. The sounds are loud the I yell out to see if anyone can hear 48

me, hoping the inkling of assurance will let me rest peacefully. My words hang in the air for a moment, but there is no response.

The wind continues to gust through the woods, yanking out a stake that was keeping my tarp secure in the soil. In a frenzy, I rush to hammer it back in to prevent any more rain from soaking the last bit of dry ground. A pulse of white covers my field of view as a deafening crack breaks through the sky. A shock runs through my body, and bumps cover my arms, raising the hair above the skin. My ears ring loudly. Noises grow once again; the eerie harmonies of a harp return. I am thrown to the ground.

A boy sits in a car in a crowded parking lot. A large building rises in front of him. Warm tears run down his face. A man approaches the car, opens the door slowly. Matching streams flow down his face. A missing spot in the car makes itself clear as the car pulls from the lot.

I wake with a gasp. Pain strikes down my side. Standing reluctantly, I notice the stars.

Way to go, dumbass. You just slept through the whole day.

“Good.”

It must have stopped storming hours ago. The ground is still damp but my clothes are mostly dry.

The memory is foggy. I remember rain and thunder, and I remember a sound—strings being plucked.

But then it fades—blank, dark and desolate.

I sit down near the firepit, stretching every muscle in my body.

Thunder booms in the distance, promising a second round of storms very soon. I close my eyes and do the math. The Portland Airport shuts down the twenty-third. If I have been keeping up right, today is the twentieth, meaning I have three days to make it to Portland and buy a ticket before— It comes again.

I have to follow the sound.

“Nope! Bad idea. Not happening.”

I’m gonna do it.

I stand up, my vision blinking in and out of focus. A group in black gathers in a green clearing. Rocks protrude from the soil in rows. A branch smacks my face. A father stands, a picture of his loving wife to his left as he mutters something heartfelt. The rain begins to fall as thunder booms ominously. Closer.

Asthma related complications. The fumes took her. A root catches my foot, and I fall hard.

My eyes burn as an uncontrollable river flows down my face. I remember now. Pushing

myself from the ground, I see the gets brighter as the seconds pass. bloodied blade beside the sink. Red “This is nice.” liquid streaks down the drain. The Harrison, you need to leave. halls of my ward extend for what “I could stay forever.” seems to be forever.

Harrison, snap out In the center of the The linoleum tiles of it. and white walls. My clearing rests a pond, My mind jumps; home. The harp has perfectly circular with this time it’s me now and won’t crystal clear water. different. I see the let go. What I’d beaches of Aruba hidden deep down has come back stretching forever, the mountains to haunt me. of Colorado jutting from the rocky The path opens into a clearing soil, my bed in Chicago all made the size of a tennis court. The moon up. Everything feels right. is hidden behind a cloud, but light Harrison, you have to leave now. emanates from somewhere. In the You have to go. center of the clearing rests a pond, The clearing disappears from my perfectly circular with crystal clear eyes. The water grows rough, cold. water. Rotted wood forms an arch, It pours over me and fills my vision. and strings extend from top to The subtlety of my tears is replaced bottom, a shape so distinct that I by the brine of the ocean. immediately place it.

“I…I have time. There is time. It’s “Impossible.” only the twentieth.”

Check it out.

You never had time.

I trudge slowly to the pond. The Water pours into the clearing, tears on my face flow harder. I reach and there is no escape. I can’t the water and collapse into a pile move. I lie here, hypnotized and of agony. It took her, and it will take completely submissive. Air escapes us all. My palms hit the water with from my lungs in large bubbles, and a small splash. It overwhelms me, I sink. releasing me from my memory’s It has come, and I have gone. grip. Every muscle in my body Above all the chaos, one sound still rings true. The sound of the harp. v relaxes. I feel complete.

The hypnotizing melody plays louder, but the visions stop, and my Inspired by The Harp in The Mysteries of Harris Burdick by Chris Van Allsburg tears dry. The light from the harp 49

photojournalism by walker simmons

FACES OF NEPAL Walker Simmons, a current fifth former, spent the last two weeks of July 2019 traveling across Nepal with National Geographic Student Expeditions. Walker and the other students spent time at a childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s home in Talmurang, in the city of Kathmandu, and at a monastery in Simalchour Syampati. The following photographs document the places, the people, and the stories Walker encountered on his trip.

The captions were written by the editorial staff.

Kamala | Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Home, Talmurang > Sixteen-year-old Kamala traveled with Walker to visit her relatives in Kathmandu, the city where, this fall, she will become the first in her family to attend college. Here, she walks towards a shrine where flags represent the five earthly elements: earth, air, fire, water, and space.

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Manisha | Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Home, Talmurang At the orphanage where sixyear-old Manisha has lived for four years, water is rationed. His favorite part of washing the dishes is drinking from the faucet. Most of the water that the orphans get to drink is of poor quality, and the good water is reserved for visitors.

Walker volunteered in Talmurang for six days, teaching the twentyone children and making repairs at the orphanage.

Rahju | Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Home, Talmurang At fifteen, Rahju is one of the oldest children at the orphanage.

He has dreams of attending college in Kathmandu to study to be a scientist. Walker photographed him in front of the new retaining wall that his group helped build after a landslide had taken out part of the road. Rahju is extremely energetic and could not stop laughing.

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Shrine | Kathmandu

A man makes tikka, a paste of rice and red powder, in a shrine in Bhaktapur.

With a blessing, he placed tikka on Walkerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s forehead. There are shrines all over the city where people stop to ring the bells and pray.

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Guards | Durbar Square, Kathmandu

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While crossing Durbar Square in Kathmandu, Walker encountered two Hanuman guards protecting the child goddess Kumari. An infant girl is named the reincarnation of the living goddess. Kumari appears on the balcony of the Kingâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Old Palace once a day to allow the people of Nepal to worship her. Once the girl turns thirteen, the goddess Kumari leaves her body and is reincarnated in another infant girl.

Gelu | Namo Buddha Monastary

Walker spent two days shadowing Gelu, a monk at Namo Buddha Monastery in Simalchour Syampati. Gelu taught Walker the power of silence, meditation, and prayer. As a going-away present, he presented Walker with a singing bowl for prayer.

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nonfiction by freddie woltz

HE SURE AIN’T NO RODEO COWBOY I

remember my debut well. They suited me up, strapping my flak jacket and helmet on tightly.

I mounted my not-so-trusty steed, a sheep that moved restlessly between my legs.

Surrounded by a bunch of older riders with pasty white cowboy hats strapped to their heads, I felt my pulse begin to quicken and my palms begin to sweat. After all, I lived near a golf course in Charlotte—not exactly a country upbringing. In fact, I didn’t even grow up with a dog or a cat, so my interactions with animals were pretty limited. Nonetheless, I had to make Uncle Jim proud. Anything less than first place would be a complete failure.

The competition was rigorous, something even George Strait could be proud of, and the danger was harrowing. Uncle Jim owned a farm in rural North Carolina, and he 56

raised horses for a living, so he had to live vicariously through me on my path to the PBR. I had somehow ended up registered to ride at the Friday night rodeo.

The older cowboys asked if I was ready to go. My quick thumbs up told them all that they needed to know. I was poised. My hands curled up under the mutton bustin’ rope, gripping the sheep’s wool, which was less soft than I’d imagined.

The gate opened, and into the arena I flew, captivating the crowd with my masterful performance.

The sheep took me for a ride around the ring, and I held on, Uncle Jim running behind to catch me if I fell. My journey felt much longer

than the mere minute or so that it actually was.

My moment upon the beast came to an end as I fell from the sheep, face planting and coming up with a mouthful of dirt. I basked in the applause and actually won my division. I was officially the most talented sheep rider in Granite Falls, North Carolina. I also got a t-shirt telling everyone who saw me that I was unequivocally Tough Enough.

After my victory at Tough Enough, I decided to hang up my cowboy hat and leave on top.

My days as a rodeo cowboy were over, but at least I had a wealth of experience to draw from if I ever began a country music career. v

Cowboy | Liam King | acrylic on gesso board | 20 x 16 in.

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Jumpseat | Reed Taws | Denali National Park, Alaska | digital photography

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fiction by hughes edwards

THE OLD TAHOE L

icense and registration.”

Dammit. I strained to lift my back pocket off the seat and hand the asshole my ticket to freedom, but the seatbelt locked out on me.

I should have taken it out on his long walk over, but I spent those precious moments punching the dash instead of collecting myself.

I stole a quick glance at the contents of my dorm room stored in the back of the car. I prayed my knock-off leather bi-fold was somewhere in my mound of dirty clothes.

“Do you...uh...know how fast you were going? You were, or I think I had you at—” “No sir,” I interrupted the skinny officer with the boyish face. Of course I knew, but this guy looked about as green as it gets, and I thought I could weasel my way out of this one. “Thought I was going the speed limit.”

“Road trip?”

C’mon. Is this kid from MAD Magazine really gonna be the guy that gets me on my way back home from college? Just that morning, I had taken my Econ final at U-Va. After a week alternating between late nights in the library and then partying, I was running on fumes.

“Never mind,” the twig with a badge continued, nervously carrying out a procedure he could only have tried one or two times before. “I’m pretty sure, I mean, I think you were going almost ninety miles an hour.”

“No way.” I not-so-obviously forced a chuckle. “In this old thing? Not a chance.” Risky play of mine to try to act so cool. Any experienced officer would dismiss me as a prick in my shades and my

unbuttoned polo with a golf club logo on it.

“Well, sir—” “It’s fine, you don’t need to call me sir.” Another bold move. Don’t push your luck, Bryson.

“Okay, well, that’s what I had you at. Oh!” He caught himself, lighting up like he just discovered the Holy Grail. “Where’s that license again?”

At this point, there was a very real chance the answer to his question was Charlottesville because I was not totally convinced my wallet made it to the car. I began to buy time. “Gimme a minute to look for it.”

“I think I’m going to check your license plate in the computer.” He nodded as if he needed his bobbing 59

head to support My head nearly went through the him. “But you’d windshield when we turned a hard better have that left, skidding into United Methodist’s license when I parking lot. come back.”

Dad had a crucial head start.

After a minute of flipping over dirty underwear, old My head nearly went through the windshield when we turned textbooks, and a set of golf clubs I a hard left, skidding into United fully intended to use more than just Methodist’s parking lot. that one time, I concluded that my “Why are—?” I began, but wallet had evaporated. What now?

Dad put up a solo finger, a silent Encyclopedia Brown back there could communication between the two be a while. Two courses of action came to mind. One was a true story. of us that he was focused and by no means could talk at the moment.

A short dirt road shot out of the n seventh grade, Dad was driving church’s U-shaped parking lot. Dad me to school when the light on faced a decision: turn right again Main Street switched straight from out onto the road or turn left onto green to cherry red. Skipped right that winding dirt road that led over yellow. Not his fault, right? to the river. Now, the policeman Whirrrrrrr, screamed the might think we would try to go offaging Tahoe as Dad leaned onto road and avoid him by way of the the pedal. The cars next to us dirt road, but Dad knew it was only moved in slow motion. When a dead end. He hoped our pursuer those blue lights pulled out of did not. If we got back on Main Dunkin’ Donuts and lit up Dad’s Street before the cop reached the windshield, he cursed in front of fork in the parking lot, he would me for the third time in my life. not know which path we took.

The first time he tore his ACL “Watch this.” Dad twisted the cutting left in a basketball game wheel left to minimize the fish tail in the driveway. The second was and corrected as we sped out of the another ticket. church lot, turning back up the “Son,” he grunted, “hold on.” way we came.

The officer was turning left, and The maniac in the left seat even with the siren, he had to wait muttered, “We better hope that a couple seconds for traffic.

I

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dumbass thought we’d take the dirt road. Did we lose him? Bryson?”

“We lost him.”

Dad turned right back into the Dunkin’ Donuts drive-thru, pulling to the ordering area that was perfectly shielded from the road by the building.

“Let’s see. I’ll have a large coffee, maybe a couple donuts…um…”

Dad stalled as we heard the sirens get farther and farther away. He ordered an extra cup of coffee and a half dozen donut holes. Then, when the sirens stopped altogether, we started laughing our heads off.

“Son,” he said in between chuckles, “always follow the rules of the road.”

S

o now, as I faced this high school freshman of a cop, I thought back to that day when Dad made out like a bandit. After a few moments weighing the inevitability of my arrest if I ran, I opened my mouth to explain my predicament.

“Officer, my license is…well, uh…”

Then I noticed a single bead of sweat on an abnormally cool day in May escape the officer’s forehead and run down his cheek. Well, here goes nothing. I’d be caught if he turned on his siren; I knew it. I put that son-of-a-gun in drive and let that old Tahoe roar. v

Sk8r Boy | Gia Khanh Do | Venice Beach, California | digital photography

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free verse by ryan kauffman

SECTION 1– 65 MINUTES C

I sit here contractually filling out bubbles as the heat is drawn out from me.

Fidgeting feet pedal and churn below my seat.

A pill helps rearrange the rubble, artificially controlling; the lines create scribbles.

Questions, once riddles, become a path, a key.

But the only door that I can see is the one through which I’m bound to leave.

So to all of those who know, and those who’ve yet to go— when in doubt answer C, fill in dots completely, and goodnight, good luck, and goddamn the wretched, horrid, SAT.

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A State of Mind | Chas McCrary | Asheboro, North Carolina | digital photography

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free verse by sam long

A DIVER’S GOLDEN RULE There’s no talking beneath the waves.

Indeed, there is no noise save your own.

The barracuda stalks and circles you silently.

Stingrays and turtles glide; mackerel meander by.

Sharks strut, mouths agape, revealing a butcher’s dream.

None of them acknowledge you.

The wrecks and reefs are not your home.

You are only there to see.

Silence your regulators and respect your hosts.

Silence is golden; sight is platinum.

There’s no talking underwater.

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Jonah and the Big Fish | Rhew Deigl | acrylic and Sharpie | 24 x18 in.

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Afro-American | Ajani Wilson | Detroit, Michigan | digital photography

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FOR US fiction by jassiem konrad

S

tep on a crack, break yo’ mama’s back!”

I avoided the plush teddy bears and blood red roses that decorated the pavement. It drove Mama crazy when I clipped at her heels while I weaved back and forth on the sidewalk; it was a seven-yearlong game that I’d invented when I was four. Sunflowers rested upon Charlotte’s Web and The Giving Tree, the same books my mother used to read to me while we lay on the couch for hours waiting for my dad to come home. We always fell asleep before he returned. In the center rested a picture of a boy about my age in a smooth wooden frame. I didn’t look twice; I couldn’t bear it.

Mama and I continued toward the end of the path where we stopped when a red Camaro cruised through the intersection. Smoke rose from the open window and flooded the block.

A group of men laughed outside

the liquor store. They sported dingy white wife-beaters (at least that’s what everybody except my mom called them), fitted baseball caps cocked to one side, and jeans with the belt buckles tapping their knee caps.

Smoke escaped the lips of one, who hollered in my direction.

“What’s up Lil’ Pete!”

They call me by my dad’s name.

My dad. The face of a ghost.

F

ive years ago, my dad was taken away in the night. Red and blue lights slipped through the bars covering my window to dance on the walls and ceiling. The red laid a punch on the side of my head, and then the blue followed and pummeled my chest until the colors slinked away like leopards licking their lips.

My older brother, Jace, and my

mother sat down beside me on the bed. “Your father won’t be home for a while.” When my mother broke the news, I was six years old.

I

t only took a few minutes for us to get home. Mama’s keys rattled against the steel gate, which made our front door feel like the entrance to a prison cell. I slipped past Mama’s hip and dove onto my brother’s ribs. I drew back quickly; my brother’s normal smell was masked by a new stench that sent my head reeling. Jace tossed me aside and headed down the hallway.

The aroma was all too familiar.

I

slipped out of my room and watched my father through a gray haze. He leaned over the coffee table as if it were a campfire. The smell lingered on his clothes for days. His hands flicked through 67

dollar bills.

“Kev,” he whispered. Kindly but firmly, he guided me back to my bed and pulled the covers up to my chin. I was silent.

“Son, I do this for us, and I ain’t never gonna let y’all down. You hear me? I love you.”

I barely listened; my eyes were glued to the cold iron handle hanging out of his denim pocket.

I

hadn’t seen my brother all week.

The less I saw him during the day, the more clanging of keys I heard on the front door late at night. This morning as he laced up a brand new pair of Jordans, Ma asked him to pick up groceries on his way home tonight. She fished around her purse for a few bills to spare, but Jace gently pushed her hand back.

“No, Ma, I got it,” he said, unable to conceal his pride.

She looked as if she could see dirt on each bill he flashed her.

He sauntered down the sidewalk, watching his step so as not to scuff his new shoes.

Y

ou see the black J’s up there with the blue soles?”

I remembered last year when he first saw those shoes.

“Ohhhhh, those are fire!”

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We would always go to the Foot and handed them to Al. Locker to daydream. The mall was I slipped through the back door before Jace saw me, and then I on the northside of the city where lounged on the couch as if I had the rich people live. When we scraped together enough money, we been there all day. Jace swung open the door, treated ourselves to She fished around her nodded at a large order of fries from McDonald’s. purse for a few bills to me, and went We sat down, and spare, but Jace gently to drop the Jace taught me the pushed her hand back. groceries on the table. The different types of money in his pocket bulged like a shoes and designer brands that tumor, but it added a new swagger people wore passing by us.

“How do these people buy all this to his walk.

He winked and tossed me a stuff?” I asked.

“The north is where the money is. couple of twenty dollar bills.

“That’s for you.” He saw me If you see people with these kinds looking at the box in his right of shoes in our neighborhood, then hand. An assortment of colorful they’re fakes, or someone did some stones flashed on a silver chain. bad things to get them.”

He carried the necklace to Ma’s room and presented it to her like a ad things. Jace never specified crown. I stared at the money that where his money came from, had fallen next to me. but I assumed it was the same bad I woke up the next morning facethings that got our father locked to-face with a papery Benjamin up. I caught my first glimpse of Franklin and a plate of pancakes, my brother’s new-found cash flow eggs, and fruit. It made me forget that night while I dribbled my that every dollar we had above basketball behind the house. minimum wage was illegal.

Old Man Al, a person Ma taught Jace came into my room sporting Jace and me to avoid, loitered on a gold necklace, black jeans held the corner as if he were waiting up by a designer belt, and his new for someone. With Ma’s groceries hanging in white plastic bags on his shoes, still shiny and pristine. “I’m heading out now. I got some stuff wrist, my brother pulled a few tiny to do, but I’ll be back tonight.” The Ziploc bags from his back pocket

B

Gold Circle | Hugh Monsted | acrylic | 16 x 20 in.

sun reached through the window and glittered on the heavy iron tucked in his waistband.

T

he familiar sound of gunshots jerked me from my nap. The sun had faded behind the trees, and the block was a dull gray. Through my window, Jace tore across the grass in his brand new shoes. He ditched his backpack under the bushes on the side of the house and continued running, only to pull up short as another screech of tires sounded from the opposite side of the street. The lights that reflected on Jace’s face made him look bruised and bloody.

Guns drawn, four policemen

approached. Eight inches of cool steel still rested on Jace’s waist.

“Drop the weapon!” the officer on the right demanded, raising his gun.

Jace fumbled, jerking to catch the slipping handle with shaking fingers. Five quick shots rang throughout the block.

S

omeone knocked on the door.

It was Friday, and I was waiting on Ma to get home with her check, so we could go grocery shopping.

My stomach was beating me up from the inside. There hadn’t been any money in the backpack that Jace left six months ago, so his hustle did nothing to help us out. I

answered the door, and it was none other than Al. “What do you want?” I asked.

I wanted to blame him for my brother’s arrest. I wanted to break his nose.

“Is your brother home?”

“Nah. Get the hell off my porch.”

Al started to slink away back towards the street. My empty pockets tugged me back towards the door. I thought about how life was when my brother was around.

I thought about life when Pops was here.

“Yo, Al!” I called into the street.

“Wait here.” I went to my room and pulled three Ziploc bags from my brother’s backpack. v 69

Crush | Asa McManamy | Marsh Harbour, Bahamas | digital photography

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Vandalized | Gia Khanh Do | Hue, Vietnam | digital photography

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DOWNRIVER fiction by benton copeland

B

lack water licked at the cedar as James tugged the canoe farther with every stroke of the paddle. He had been down to this part of the river before, but not like this.

Daddy used to come down to the river after work and lean up against a tree with his cigarette, watching his little boy catch crawdads and throw rocks. Mama would call them in for dinner, and James would always complain, knowing that if he protested enough, Mama would bring the food down to the riverbank. Daddy was there until he wasn’t, eventually choosing the bottle over the bank.

That morning, James had woken up to hoarse yells from the porch. His room had looked oddly cramped as he listened to Mama holler on about packing up and never seeing y’all again. Y’all.

The word echoed in James’ head.

Whether it was a slip of the tongue 72

or not, he didn’t like it. Once Daddy had gone to work, James left.

James turned an unfamiliar bend in the river. Oaks writhed skyward, framing the cloudless sky as the water began to darken. Trees dangled over the waterway, held in place by roots that clung desperately to the eroding bank. White foam hissed at him from around the rocks. James got the sense that he was sufficiently far from home.

Quickening his pace, James paddled towards a bank to avoid the snarling set of rapids up ahead, but the canoe careened downriver, its course unchanged. He leaned into his oars as he struggled against the current; he was now on a crash

course for the rapids. Trying to protect his body, James ducked, but ducking just caused the canoe to flip faster.

His head plunged underwater, and things went quiet. From below, the rapids looked alive; white bubbles darted every which way to the beat of the river. A thump. The warmth crawled down his face from above his right temple.

James staggered towards the bank while the canoe floated on without him. The rapids pulsed against the back of his legs. His blood vanished as it hit the water. He sat down on the riverbank and watched a mayfly hatch. Peeling the wet cigarettes out of his pocket, he realized he had forgotten to bring matches. James

tossed the pack in the river and watched the red box float until it disappeared around the next bend.

Trees and sky began to fade together in an indigo haze. He would have to make it out of the woods before dark if he was going to get any rest. Ideally, he would have a day or so before he could make his way home. Ideally. He would have to ask for directions and then decide whether to walk or hitchhike. He hoped to spend the night somewhere quiet and out of sight.

James caught a glimpse of lights in the distance and set off. When he finally emerged from the tree line, he took a moment to breathe, but his first breath left him empty.

The lights led to a strip mall, and James found a not-so-grimy spot behind a barbershop to rest.

The discarded cigarette butts on the asphalt reminded him of inchworms. Knees huddled to his chest, he watched moths dance aimlessly in the burnt orange glow of a light bulb. James hadn’t been asleep long when a firm hand shook him awake.

“Are you all right?” James’ eyes met those of an older man who wore a funny looking bow tie.

James nodded. The man grabbed his arm and brought him inside to

Timeless | Spencer Doerr | Telluride, Colorado | digital photography

a cramped office. The man rushed out of the room without saying a word. The place was cluttered; papers towered on either side of a computer overcome with Post-its.

Faded pictures of a family hung askew on the wall.

The man returned, handing James a wet rag and a roll of paper towels.

When the man called Mama, James could hear her voice cracking as she thanked him for his help.

James didn’t quite know what to expect when she arrived. Was she angry? Did she even miss him?

Soon, a familiar pair of headlights

stopped in front of the store’s window and quickly shut off.

Mama opened the door with tears streaming down her face, her mouth contorted like when Daddy yelled too loud. James wrapped his arms around her, taking the brunt of Mama’s heaving sobs. He was full.

The car ride home was quiet, but nothing needed to be said. Mama’s eyes glinted in the dim moonlight as they glided over country roads James knew all too well. Nothing else mattered. Mama cared; he knew that for a fact. v

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fiction by ryan kauffman

JEDIDIAH T

he chills were absent now, but Jed almost wished they’d stayed, because without them, the soupy air reached up between his shirt and his skin and itched his shoulders and neck.

He squeezed the plastic handles of his camping pack, and suddenly he felt all of its weight on his shoulders. Jed had finally come down. The rhythmic clinking of cans beat behind his every step.

Bells began to ring in his head but after a while ceased. His muffled thoughts turned into mumblings; he’d have to speak if he wanted to listen. But he hated listening.

“But I gotta stay positive,” he heard himself say. “There’s opportunity waiting for me.” An orange tabby peered out of the zipper pocket on his shoulder. Her complaints had finally reached his attention. “Food. Okay, Pet. I can 74

do that.”

Neon lights and outdoor seating attracted Jed to a bright green wooden door. The exposed brick walls of the store’s exterior were covered in murals, posters, and painted pizza paddles, all illuminated by Edison lights that hung below a sign that read Benny Vitali’s. Chatter lingered around the worn booths and metal chairs at the windows, the seats filled with grungy college students that glanced at Jed with embarrassment and maybe some distaste. Their JanSport backpacks accompanied them; their Vans suggested they were here for the vibe. The only

remaining seats were uncomfortable chrome stools that screeched when they moved.

He left his backpack with Pet outside by a metal table, making sure to keep the narrow sidewalk open, and stepped through the door onto the hardwood floor, causing another bell above him to ring. He ignored the glances of the teenagers who sat all around him and enjoyed the smell of the smoke.

When Jed shuffled forward to order, the cashier remained expressionless when he asked for an IPA and a slice of pizza; her nose ring and blue hair spoke louder than she did. He held his beer

between his neck and chest as he awkwardly stepped outside with the giant slice and its two greasy paper plates.

Jed put down his food, unzipped his pack, and lifted the small cat onto the table. “Come on, Pet, it’s time to eat, dude.”

Pet sniffed at the pizza and then started to nibble at the crust. Jed took the cat’s distraction as an opportunity to dig into his jeans pocket for a string, which he tied to Pet’s collar. He took a swig from his six-dollar beer and scratched his neck impatiently, waiting for his turn to eat.

“Damn, I need a cig.” He felt around his pack until he pulled out Kools and a spark. He rolled the cigarette around his mouth as he inhaled. The filter felt clean against the grime of his teeth. He drank. The cat’s paw crinkled the paper plate, bringing Jed back to the table. “Come on, man, leave some for me.” Jed lifted the cat off the table and onto the windowsill where she stretched her legs. A bell rang.

“Yo, look, a cat on a leash. That’s kinda crazy.” Some lanky guy with a lip ring came out from behind the green door onto the sidewalk, stringing along a meek looking woman. His stringy hair ignored

the hair band over top of it. Jed put down his food, The woman looked unzipped his pack, and lifted familiar, wearing square the small cat onto the table. clothes and a polite smile.

She followed impatiently behind the man, but once she I’ve ever seen a cat so small.” He noticed the cat, she gave Jed a sighed. “Well, dude, I’d love to quizzical look. All the tables had stay a little longer, but I’ve got a been taken, so she sat down on the meeting in like, twenty minutes, so windowsill next to his table. nice to meet you, and good luck, “He yours?” the silver lip ring man.” spat.

As the man abruptly strode Jed’s first reflex was to be friendly. down the sidewalk, Jed spoke to “Yeah, man; you know it. Little the empty air. “You too.” His focus dude’s been rocking with me for a fell to the girl on the windowsill, while, ever since I hopped on the her figure craned over her phone.

Greyhound up in Huntington. My Her straight brown hair and oldfriend was looking to go out west fashioned clothes made her look somewhere, but he needed to get plain. She jerked her head towards rid of this furry bastard first, so I Jed, feeling his stare. took her in.” He took another drag “Howdy.” Jed offered the greeting from the cancer. “You can pet her if up to her with ambivalence. you’d like; she doesn’t bite.”

“Hey, Jed.” “Right on, man.” The man’s “Huh? I’m sorry. Where’ve we inked hands reached down to the met before?” table, scratching behind Pet’s ears.

She studied him for a while, her The cat stopped eating and looked head leaning against the window. up at him with indignation.

“You really don’t recognize me, “How old is she?” huh?”

“Well,” said Jed, “I think she’s Her every word threw Jed maybe two or three. I only just more off balance. He blinked came back from New York a couple and squinted his eyes at her. She months ago, and then she was just rolled her eyes and smiled a small a kitten.” smile that dissolved as soon as it The man lifted his hands from appeared. “I was friends with Sarah, Pet’s head. “Damn, I don’t think your older sister. Right? I carpooled 75

with you guys during high school seemed like a choice. “Well, when sometimes.”

I graduated, I spent a couple years In his embarrassment, he hung at JMU. I wanted to get a degree in up his Southern accent. “Oh god, anthropology, maybe, or something Ashley? I’m sorry. I totally—” like that.”

She cut him “Really? I Some days it was the off. “No, no, it’s always saw fine. How long mental illness. Other days you as more has it been...eight it seemed like a choice. of a business years? I don’t type of guy.” blame you.”

“Huh. I don’t think anybody’s Jed opened his mouth and raised ever said that about me before.” his hand in contest but faltered.

Jed grinned, flashing his yellow “Anyways, what’s been happening teeth. “Yeah, everything was going with you? Didn’t you go to, uh, great until my sophomore year. I Virginia Tech?” was in the back of some guy’s car, “Yeah, I went and got my and he’d just missed a yellow light, bachelor’s in Education, and now but he almost made it through the I’m back working full-time at intersection when some Hummer Stafford.” rammed us. I was in the hospital Huh. Stafford, thought Jed. for two weeks for a little brain Ashley saw his expression. “Yeah, contusion. When my parents I know, right. It’s really weird to be came, they saw the toxicology back at high school.” report and got pissed at me because He responded with a meager, “I I’d had a little to drink, so it was bet.” just a super unfortunate situation.”

They stopped for a bit. Jed Jed glanced back at her for breathed in the heat and petted Pet. a second but couldn’t read her Ashley watched the cars go by expression. He stomped his now until she broke the silence. “What finished cigarette on the ground about you? Sounds like you’ve done with his boot and cleared his throat some traveling?” before continuing his speech to the He wondered to himself what cars that passed by. he’d done. Some days it was the “So, when I was released, my mental illness. Other days it parents wouldn’t send me back

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to school unless I promised to go to AA and not to drink at school.

But I was low-key fed up with school and them, and I really didn’t want to go through some twelvestep program because I had one unlucky night. So, I decided to go somewhere I felt worth being.

I went upstate, to New York and Boston for a bit. Then across the country to California. Man, am I glad, too.” Jed beamed at her. “It’s all about the mindset of making it happen.” He rested his fingers on opposite sides of his temples.

“Because if you really—” String trailing, Pet launched herself off the table and scurried into the street, darting towards an unforeseen goal.

“Oh shit! Pet!” Jed slung his pack around his shoulders, the cans inside colliding.

Ashley’s “Uh, bye?” chased after him as he ran into the street after Pet, leaving the girl framed by the window.

“Gotcha.” Jed snatched up Pet’s string. The cat was now intently rubbing against a lamppost.

“Thanks, buddy, I didn’t really feel like talking anyway. Come here.”

He kneeled down and lifted the cat into his zipper. She mewed in protest but surrendered soon

enough. As Jed stood up and began to walk on, he could still hear the bell from the restaurant alerting the workers of another arrival or exit.

Jed stopped. “Wait...” He swung his pack in front of him and began to dig into it. Between two plastic bags was a chiming flip phone.

“Shit, what are you doing on ring?” he asked. Then he read the white words that appeared on the phone’s face. MOM was calling.

Jed opened and shut the phone and then opened it again. He went to messages and scrolled through his mother’s texts to him. The most recent one was from four months ago: You don’t have to go to rehab.

Please just come home. We miss you.

Jed kneeled, staring at the phone in his hands as the people on the sidewalk strode by him. He was feeling sentimental. Jed typed out a message and sent it. The phone was about to die, so it was on to find an outlet.

You in town? he wrote. Jed wanted to see if what his old high school dealer was up to. Maybe he had moved away or didn’t sell anymore. But Jed stayed positive.

He knew there was opportunity waiting. He kept walking in that direction. v Night Dreaming | Willis He | Chongqing, China | digital photography

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Changes | Adam Chaskes | acrylic and Sharpie | 20 x 15 in.

Young Love | Adam Chaskes | acrylic | 20 x 15 in.

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villanelle by jassiem konrad

PRAYERS OF THE MIDDLE PASSAGE My soul will not be laid to rest at sea.

Cattails may crack my back; my blood may spill.

I know God has the answer to my plea.

The endless ocean holds no way to flee.

My spirit weeps; my limbs are shackled still.

My soul will not be laid to rest at sea.

“Hey you! Step forward, Negro number three!

He’ll work as hard as anybody will!”

I know God has the answer to my plea.

This bitter bondage we could not foresee.

Our moans are deep; our tortured cries are shrill.

Our souls will not be laid to rest at sea.

The North Star’s shining trail is not for me, for the low trees are bearing fruit of men.

I know God has the answer to our plea.

A Georgia slave can dream but not be free.

My family’s prayers will sail beyond this hill.

Our souls will not be laid to rest at sea.

I know God has the answer to my plea.

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Waiting in the Rain | Aiden Moon | Seoul, South Korea | digital photography

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FOLLOW ME fiction by blythe brewster

T

he summer didn’t sound right to Marilyn when Joseph wasn’t home.

On those days of overhead sunshine and sweat on the linoleum floor, in the silence of the cicadas and an empty house, Marilyn would slip into her older brother’s room and reach under his mattress. The letter was always tucked where she’d left it—no one touched it but her. She’d turn on his old box fan and sit there with the breeze on her face, reading the letter on the college crest that started with “Congratulations on your acceptance…” and ended with her crying on the bedroom floor.

By the time Joseph would get home from mowing lawns and painting fences, dinner was usually on the stove. “Heya, spider,” he’d call down the hallway. His voice 82

sounded dirty. She could hear the sweat.

T

hat night, like most nights, Marilyn stayed in the kitchen.

“Hi Joseph.” Two stove-top burners and a Bunsen burner—one for pasta, one for sauce, one for some questionable broccoli.

Joseph got out of the shower in time to help her strain the spaghetti. Sometimes she couldn’t lift the pot over and into the sink, and noodles ended up piling onto the counter or slipping down the drain.

Mama got home late that night.

The look on her face was the sort of look visiting dad at the Camden veteran’s home always left her with,

like a rubber band stretched just a little bit too far. Her pasta was barely warm anymore. She ate it all anyway.

The darkness was so loud that night, filled with the rasping crickets and the croaking peepers.

The trailer walls, rattled by the wind, trapped the sound of three people breathing. Marilyn could hear Mama and Jo ten times as loud now, but they didn’t talk at all.

The sounds felt sharper than they had five weeks ago when that letter came on expensive paper as thick as dollar bills.

D

ad hadn’t even heard the news. He’d told Jo not to apply, don’t even bother, you not

Texas Money | Spencer Doerr | Dilley, Texas | digital photography

going anyway—like you’d get in, hah!—not in this family you won’t, places like that, they change you. Any son of his had two choices: go to work in this town or join the army.

College. Ha! Lt. McKinley slept in the true silence of that place that passed for a city, so far away that he didn’t even know.

For the first time in his life, Joseph McKinley hadn’t listened to his father. He sat at the school’s

computer, the logo of his dream shining bright on the screen before him. But the brightness hurt his eyes in the dimly lit library, and there was some comfort in knowing he’d never really get in. He could tell himself he’d tried, but he didn’t actually have to go even if he pulled off the miracle. Even if he got accepted. But he pushed the submit button anyway, his only fanfare the whapping and buzzing of the

window unit above the computer.

Joseph McKinley had disobeyed his father. He couldn’t fall asleep at night.

But Mama said he had to go.

As stuck as he was, she was ten times stucker, and somewhere out there a college wanted him. So she hugged him until he wouldn’t let her anymore and started looking for magnets so she could hang the letter on the refrigerator. She 83

couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t find them because theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d never had any.

S

o. That night, Marilyn made pasta and Joseph helped her strain it, and Mama got home, and it was just barely warm, and they all went to bed in a house that trembled with the sound of tomorrow morning. Marilyn stared at her ceiling and listened to her

84

window fan. What had happened to the three of them? That letter had sliced up their world until they let go of each other, throwing age-worn hands in the air and dancing. Clutching an aching head.

Squeezing a single stuffed animal close and wishing she could hold onto her brother forever. Marilyn would have to grow tall enough to lift the full pasta pot into the sink

by herself.

The next morning, the first sliver of sun beat in around the window fan far too early. She didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t remember falling asleep or waking up or even staring at her ceiling for the whole night. She felt all kinds of fuzzy. Joseph was making more noise than he ever did in the mornings.

Mama was dressed by 6:50, the

Bus Stop | Ben Monroe | Todd, North Carolina | digital photography

five hours of sleep she’d gotten mirrored by the five little crow’s feet branching from each eye. The bags were on the front step by 7:15. The train ticket was handed over, the scanty breakfast wrapped in aluminum foil. Mama hugged Joseph until he wouldn’t let her anymore.

Marilyn stood at the edge of Jo’s bed, now stripped bare, the letter lying on the floor under the headboard. She pulled it out of the dust bunnies and stuffed it into her shirt. The corners dug into her belly. When she hugged Joseph goodbye, it stayed tucked in between them. He loaded his three bags and a box into the back of a friend’s station wagon, raised one last farewell wave, and vanished in a puff of gravel dust. The tiniest of morning breezes blew the cloud away.

The school bus was there by 7:45. The letter threatened to slip as she climbed up the steps, so she clamped her arms to her belly and winced.

The driver glanced over and wrinkled her nose. “Don’t you think about throwing up the first day back on my bus.”

But that was the last thing on Marilyn’s mind. School was gonna unstick her enough that she could

get Mama unstuck, too. She could loud she might as well have struck Marilyn, who dropped her move to a place where something backpack to the floor and ran to stronger than box fans could keep her mother’s side. The glossy ink the heat away. The heavy, dollar letters jumped bill letter went to school with her The glossy ink letters right off that expensive page. every day, pinched jumped right off that “Point of right against her expensive page. contact” and skin and held “emergency right at the top address” stumbled into “required of her mind. Her belly was marked service” and “first deployment,” with paper cuts. which slammed into “limited The only place she didn’t bring communication” and “high risk the thing was to visit Dad. Joseph mission,” all crashing into Marilyn is working really hard, she’d say with a thud. She couldn’t see. instead. He just can’t take time Mama was sitting on the kitchen off. Yard work has turned to snow floor. Marilyn didn’t hear more removal, see, Dad, and Jo’s been tears hitting the heavy paper. She getting paid so well. lifted up her shirt and grabbed Dad rarely gave more than a the first letter, now so beaten and grunt and a nod. Joseph McKinley creased and worn it was easy for always listened to his father. her to tear it in half. She marched to Joseph’s room. She plugged in ut one day when the box fans the box fan he’d left, the one he were long put away and the wouldn’t need at college up north, quiet that comes with snowfall and turned it on as high as it would seemed like it would never leave, go.

Marilyn came home to see her For the first time she sat behind Mama holding a letter stamped it, not in front of it. She held her with a shiny logo, and her heart hands up to the blades and let the beat like fan blades. Had she paper rip away, scattering through dropped it? Her hand flew to her the fan like a shotgun spray. v hip, but the familiar crinkle fell under her fingers as it always did.

The smack Mama’s tear made Follow Me is the motto of the when it hit the paper was so United States Army Infantry School.

B

85

free verse by daniel oukolov

THE FLOWER PICKED EARLY The child, small and frail, with dark hair and eyes, wandered through the sunny meadow.

He watched a hydrangea burst from the earth, heard its piercing cry.

He inspected a peony, beginning to bud, as it swayed in the wind.

He grabbed the stalk of a dying daffodil, its grey petals withering, and pulled the bulb.

It was time to pick.

The others, he left.

Off in the distance, an iris hid close to the ground— a simple, silent soul, but radiant beyond compare.

The boy could not resist her; she was too exceptional not to pull.

The innocent reaper knelt down and grabbed it by its roots.

She was a flower picked too early, but blame him I cannot.

In Loving Memory of Ema Dragoescu, May 6, 1973 – October 14, 2017 86

By a Thread | Mac Holman | Woodberry Forest, Virginia | digital photography

87

ghazal by rhew deigl

MUCH LESS A QUEEN I hear the late queen raised a lovely, fair-skinned, thoughtful girl.

Today, the crown belongs to her alone. She is our peerless queen.

The pallid girl whose decency, I hear, abounds—has she a mind for asking why the good is right—or else, is she the feckless queen?

As fair her skin—as light as lilies, say—is she so righteous that she leads an upright, prudent life? I fear she is a reckless queen.

The hostage of a doubtful mind, I tend to question praise I hear, For never have I answered to a decent, good, and fearless queen.

I must be fair; she has received a crown of evil name and deed.

And she is not her aunt, who yesterday we hanged—that senseless queen.

Her aunt brought plague and famine to our homes. We haven’t time or health to disbelieve her fairer niece. We, breadless, call the girl our queen.

My starving mind has dared to hope this girl will save us selflessly.

If I’m misled in what I hear, I fear she’ll be a headless queen.

88

Finger | Ben Antonio | acrylic and Sharpie | 20.5 x 13 in.

89

EDITORS

editors-in-chief

BLYTHE BREWSTER & RHEW DEIGL

From left: Walker Simmons, Blythe Brewster, Pen Oldham, Rhew Deigl, Spence Whitman, Peter Moore, Asa McManamy

art and design editor

photography and design editor

SPENCE WHITMAN

WALKER SIMMONS junior editors

PETER MOORE, ASA McMANAMY, & PEN OLDHAM faculty advisors

KAREN & RICH BROADDUS 90

REVIEW BOARDS PROSE

POETRY

Emmett Aydin Stephen Brice Henry Dworkin Ryan Kauffman Reed Taws Robert Triplett Cuatro Welder Freddie Woltz Fully Bossong Chase Commander Milo Jacobs

Stephen Brice Rex Hallow Ryan Kauffman Jassiem Konrad Luke McNabb Robert Triplett Freddie Woltz Sebastian Agasino Chase Commander Sam Long Hale Roberts Taeho Cha

ART

PHOTOGRAPHY

Aiush Basnet Gabe Brown Liam King Hugh Monsted Carter Nicoletti Cuatro Welder Ben Antonio Jimmy Kweon Tyler Mills Miles Miller Hale Roberts Julian Beaujeu-Dufour Jun Kim

Benton Copeland Spencer Doerr Alex Forward Tripp Hood Jack Malone Jack Sloan Ben Antonio Willis He Hale Roberts Julian Beaujeu-Dufour Jun Kim Ben Monroe 91

The Residence | Hugh Monsted | acrylic on canvas | 20 x 24 in.

92

COLOPHON The word which you see on the cover is the product of the creative genius of the staff, and, with the exception of identical spelling and pronunciation, has no connection with any word in the English or any other language. In plain Woodberrian it has one meaning onlyâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;the literary magazine of your school.

This is the first edition of the 71st volume of The Talon, the semiannual literary arts publication of Woodberry Forest School. First published in 1949, the magazine was originally issued quarterly and cost 35 cents a copy.

Publication of The Talon is now funded

by Woodberry Forest School.

The Talon editors encourage submissions from members of the Woodberry Forest community. 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. Works are se-

Frank Davenport, Jr. 1949 Editor-in-chief

lected through blind review by student boards with expertise in the fields of art, prose, poetry, and photography. New editors are selected from the review boards and the student body by the current editors and the faculty advisors.

Authors and artists can apply for review board membership at the end of each academic year.

The editors of The Talon create the magazine in the course Design and Editing for Literary Arts Publications and during their free time. Blythe Brewster, Spence Whitman, Walker Simmons, and Rhew Deigl designed the magazine

with the assistance of the junior editors.

This issue of The Talon was produced on iMacs using Adobe Creative Cloud. Titles and pull quotes are set in Avenir Heavy; body text and credits are set in Adobe Garamond Pro. McClung Companies in Waynesboro, Virginia prints 1,000 perfect-bound copies. The magazines are distributed to the community by the editorial staff in December and May of each academic year.

The Talon is a member of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association and the National Scholastic Press Association.

THE TALON FALL 2019 WOODBERRY FOREST, VA 22989 WWW.WOODBERRY.ORG/TALON