The Talon Spring 2016 by Woodberry Forest School

the talon

woodberry forest school

the talon spring 2016 woodberry forest school volume 67, number 2

editors-in-chief photography poetry prose design editor-in-training poetry review

art review

prose review

photography review

faculty advisors front and back cover design cover page photography title page photography editors’ page art

editors

rob prater & david willis jackson monroe evan backer & max johns kyle kauffman adrian cheung & jackson monroe trip hurley sam carter, graham goldstein, henry hartmann, john pittman, win sompayrac, jared thalwitz, joshua diaz, ryan kacur, josh kearns, ben lytle, clayton noyes, rocco zaytoun, crawford humphreys, scott pittman spencer goodwin, lee caffey, d’angelo davis, hayes jiranek, greg manning, charles moorman, kj pankratz, rhodes smith, philip williams ford boney, brian cho, eli levy, caleb rogers, jack sari, roy toston, tae min kim, richmond mcdaniel, bennett parks, junepyo suh, ward bissell, andrew jacobs david gussler, andrew holmes, daniel japhet, jimmy king, jordan silberman, roy toston, maxwell barnes, james carrington, ben lytle, kj pankratz, clay tydings, michael deng, crawford humphreys

word 8 a moment has not passed 35 fair-weather friends max johns | poetry sam carter | poetry 12 salty kyle kauffman | fiction 14 in the heat of the summer robert singleton | fiction

36 the zocalo

diego valenzuela | fiction

58 to myself at home

jang woo park | nonfiction

63 seoul diary

junepyo suh | nonfiction

40 wounded at fort washington 64 bo knows ashby shores | poetry

andrew jacobs | nonfiction

19 human point of view josé hernández | poetry

43 four generations

22 conquered andrew holmes | nonfiction

45 the property philip williams | poetry

68 ten-thousand one

24 nature's rawest form

46 spell of freedom

72 girls and fast food

26 remnants of john

49 stranger in a strange land

75 delayed

30 lost evan backer | poetry

54 passage of the headdress

78 tales from syria

james mccoy | poetry

walker comer | fiction

cameron hill | nonfiction

carson becker | poetry john pittman | fiction

william mcadams | fiction

57 speaking in tongues clayton noyes | poetry

< quadrangle | banks cozart | digital photography

66 the attack

jackson monroe | poetry evan backer | fiction

caleb rogers | poetry ford boney | fiction david willis | poetry

9 from the depths

image

29 mountain swell

53 scrambled earth

10 triple threat wyatt alexander | art

31 reflechir

55 sunup ritual

11 solemn thoughts

32 manning

57 nguni

13 it wyatt alexander | art

33 kenan

59 me, myself, and i

17 summer haze jackson monroe | photo

34 anderson

60 alpheus's aisle

18 above the mine kj pankratz | photo

39 l'oubliee

61 the tree

20 peek-a-boo

41 winged victory

62 angel

21 roar

42 names in stone

67 the ringed hoop

23 cliffside castle

45 hangover

71 endless miles

25 hidden fall kj pankratz | photo

47 the handler

73 '77 bronco

26 serenity kj pankratz | photo

48 winter garden

74 modern flux

52 psychedelic lust

79 alqu

kj pankratz | art

wyatt alexander | art

jimmy king | photo jimmy king | photo robert matz | photo

28 the view

cordelia hogan | photo

iain leggat | photo rob prater | photo

spencer goodwin | art carson becker | photo wyatt alexander | art

< tether | jang woo park | digital photography

spencer goodwin | art ben hale | photo ben hale | photo tiger wu | art

rob prater | photo

80 feathered armor

spencer goodwin | art

a moment has not passed by max johns

I remember the bubbles. They invited me to play, to analyze like a science project. There was a morbid beauty with each fragile pop in its faint metallic smell. I dipped my hands in and tasted.

We are dying here, as if the faces in the images hold all the consequences… The water wanted to show that no one would come.

Intuition told me to despise the naked hatred within those bubbles, to despise that sickly beautiful, silent racism. Those bubbles lied to me. My neighbors were dying, Mama was dying, their lives dripping away. Something vital to human existence insidiously killed them. My town lied to me. My childhood has taught me that a moment has not passed— the water still wants.

I don’t know what the water wanted... as if then and now were not the same moment.

Quotations from Claudia Rankine in Citizen: An American Lyric August 29, 2005/ Hurricane Katrina

from the depths | kj pankratz | 24 x 17.5 inches | charcoal and pencil

triple threat | wyatt alexander | 18 x 24 inches | charcoal

solemn thoughts | wyatt alexander | 18 x 24 inches | charcoal

salty

fiction by kyle kauffman

er shadow danced to the music streaming from the carousel. Multicolored lights cradled the fair in an illuminated bubble. Her shirt transitioned through hues, but I knew it was really as sour a yellow as the lemons being squeezed in the booth to our left. Beyond the highest cage of the Ferris wheel swirled tendrils of darkness. They tangled easily like cotton candy in a machine. Her blue jean shorts were patchy in some places, much like the dry grass below. Machinery whirred and buzzed and creaked all around us. Electricity poured into the night—it warmed my muscles and excited my heart. “Come on. You’ve been on much scarier rides,” I coaxed her. It was true; both of us had on that night alone. Before us loomed the Salt and Pepper Shaker, a contraption that tossed people forty feet above in darkness. The blinking lights lining the machine’s arms attracted us like moths. “It’ll be fine.”

She didn’t say anything. The capsule vibrated as she climbed into it. I followed her, chest held high. Lost in a button-pushing routine, a rangy operator slumped on the control panel and leaned his elbow over the stand. Something broke his trance. The black snake tattooed on his arm lengthened. As she hopped into the capsule, the operator peered

I left my thoughts and feelings four stories above where the dark tendrils of the night swirled. at her backside. His greasy hair glinted ever so slightly; he did not blink. “How brave,” he murmured to himself with a widening smile. I was not fond of his rough, Australian accent. He slunk over to the capsule, and with contempt, I glared as his lanky fingers began to buckle her waist strap. I entered the metal cage, making sure to step on

the operator’s shoe as I did so, and the lights flashed a deep green. He recoiled, glaring back. I fastened my own buckle while the operator continued to stare. The serpent on his bicep coiled tighter as he clenched his fist. He slammed the capsule door shut and hissed, “Have a nice ride.” Before I could say something witty, the capsule lurched upward, and the operator and his stupid accent disappeared. Dark helixes poked the metal capsule as we flew, rattling the door in vain attempts to enter. Only a few feet from me sat my copilot, harnessed and smiling. As we swooped and plunged about, I could finally see her without the harsh glare of carnival lights. The clouds had cleared enough to reveal the milky moon, which cast the faint shadow of capsule bars onto her face. She laughed while we dropped and curved upward again, and I found myself joining her. For a moment, we were just there in a little metal haven, shielded from the darkness. Until it all came slowly back to earth. Rather

quickly, actually. My breaths came fast and deep, and my heart dropped like the cage. I left my thoughts and feelings four stories above where the dark tendrils of the night swirled. I was a grain of salt thrown in the Shaker. Cold wind roared around the capsule until it sank into oblivion. I shut my eyes, clenched my strap, and screamed. The whirring and buzzing had started again, and the same highpitched tune floated from the carousel. The cage door was open, and the seat across from me was empty. I heard her before I saw her. Giggles. With difficulty I clambered from the capsule. She leaned on the snickering operator like a crutch with her hand resting on the black snake tattoo. It lunged toward her wrist. The operator smirked and asked, “You alright, mate?” “Just a bit disoriented,” I snarled as I ripped her from the serpent. Behind us, his chuckle faded into the low hum of machinery. it | wyatt alexander | 18 x 24 inches | charcoal and acrylic

in the heat of the summer fiction by robert singleton

he engine hums softly beneath the silver hood. It is early June, but already sticky heat descends, scorching the ground. The air conditioner blows at its maximum setting; it seems unbearable to leave the cool air of the truck’s cab. Off to the right sits a small, two-story office building with peeling yellow paint. Birds swoop in and out of the alcoves of its wraparound porch. Within the building only memories remain: athletic victories, harmless fun-fleeting blips of time. She is the only thing left. She sits upstairs with her mother, a small tote bag at her feet, flicking the screen of her phone. The window unit blows a single stream of cool air into the top floor office. The floor creaks with every step as you walk into the room. Her mother looks up from her desk, and the girl seated next to her rises from her seat. Just a smile; the two of you do not embrace. “Welcome back! You look so good. How was the rest of your year?” her mother asks you, still

leaning up against the wall. The daughter is now standing close beside you, bag in hand. “Oh, it was great, but I’m really happy to be home now. My parents are excited to have me back, too,” you respond in a well-rehearsed manner. You have answered this question one hundred times in the last week. The girl chimes in suddenly to steer the conversation. “Alright, Mom, I’ll see you. Probably won’t be back until later this evening.” Eager to leave the stifling office, she moves closer to you as she speaks. There are only inches between your sides now. She runs her hand up and down your back out of sight of her mother. She leads the walk down the narrow staircase, through the office, and out into the blazing heat wave. When she reaches the car, beads of sweat are already forming on her forehead. You grab the clicker and press the unlock button, and she practically springs into the car. You slide into the driver’s seat as the engine roars to life. She leans

her forehead down to the vent and lets the air blow right into her face, making her hair dance around her head. You cannot help but stare. “So it’s been a while since we saw each other last,” she says as the car pulls out of the parking lot and onto the main road. You respond without looking at her. “Yeah, since March I think. I don’t really have any excuse for that. I just couldn’t keep all of that in the air and focus on school at the same time.” She is staring at you as you speak, but you keep your eyes on the road, watching other cars make turns at the stoplight. “If you just want to start this over, I get it. But it might take some time,” she says, now looking away from you. “That’s why I called you today. I wanted to spend some time without any expectations.” You tell her this, but it’s really a lie; there are expectations. You know what will happen when the memories come flooding back.

The dogs bark and whine as she steps out of the car. She has been here countless times before, and the dogs remember her scent. You two walk towards the house but pause to watch the sun play on the waves rolling across the river. As you stay by the water, the girl changes into her bathing suit. “Where’s your dad today?” She opens the fridge and begins taking drinks out and putting them into a small white cooler. “I know your mom is out of town, right?” “My dad is out somewhere defending the wrongly accused,” you respond. “He’s probably stuck

A jolt runs through you when she brushes up against your chest. The river snakes into the bay where waves chase one another along the sandbars. Skates stir up plumes of sand. The girl is sitting on the bow in dark sunglasses watching you. She has taken off her shirt, and the sun beats down on her breasts. Yards away, a long strip of white sand and marsh grass shimmers with mirages. You two have been going to this beach for years. There are just as many memories here as there are at the school, but here you share these memories together.

She leans her forehead down to the vent and lets the air blow right into her face, making her hair dance around her head. You cannot help but stare. in some holding cell talking to a drunk they brought in last night, so we have all day to ourselves pretty much.” You begin to regret those words. It is too soon to be that intimate. She walks in front of you, her tan skin seemingly impervious to the harsh rays. You press a button, and the lift begins to drop the boat down to the level of the dock. Hopping on before the lift finishes, you help the girl bridge the gap between the boat and the dock.

“How deep is the water?” she asks. You shrug and just jump. It is more than refreshing, almost a divine escape from the heat in the world above. You can still see her through the murky water as you lie on the sandy floor of the river. At one moment she looks down at you, and then she floats through the air, splashing into the water next to you. She grabs your hand as she swims to the surface. Your bodies tangle and kick about in the water below. “This always was my favorite

place to go with you,” she whispers, her warm breath on your neck. “I haven’t been here without you.” You kick your legs and hold her around her waist. “It never seems right to come here alone.” Swimming back to the boat, she climbs over the side and then hands you the small cooler and her bag. She dives off and enters the water like a torpedo, lithe and smooth. The waves rock the boat out on the water while the two of you lie together on a towel in the warm sand. Empty cans of soda and a small handle of liquor litter the beach—not enough to become drunk—it is just for old time’s sake. She has her head on your chest, her body heat radiating with yours. Everything seems to be right. She sits up and looks at you. “What?” You smile. “Nothing. It’s just so great to see you again.” She runs her hand up your leg. Now you are sitting up. “It’s a lot like it used to be. Even the heat is the same,” she jokes, “if not hotter here. I feel like this beach is an inferno. Come on, let’s jump in!” You let her pull you up from the towel but hold her back as she starts to run into the water. She spins into your arms. It has been months. You are both covered in sand but do not care. The sun is

just as passionate. The taste of sand and salt on her lips. The lock of still wet hair tucked behind her ear. That hint of Jack and cola lingering on her tongue. Her cues that dance up your hip and along your spine. The heat beating down on you. The hot sun and her body at the same time—it is nearly overpowering; it is all familiar. The waves touch your feet while the tide rises. The June sun sinks beneath the horizon, and the heat has all but vanished from the day. Hours have slipped by. “We should probably go. It’s getting pretty late, and I still need to drive you home,” you tell her, unwillingly. You do not want to leave this beach. She stands up and shakes the sand off of her body and looks down at you. She sits on top of you playfully, and you push yourself up into her arms and hold her. Just to hold her. The engine hums softly under the black cowling. The beach shrinks into the horizon as the wake of the boat shoots into the east. The girl sits at your side while you steer the boat away from the beach. Your arm is draped around her waist, her head on your shoulder, both warming each other against the cool of the wind. But you both know the heat will return the next day. It will be a summer of heat.

summer haze | jackson monroe | digital photography

above the mine | kj pankratz | digital photography

human point of view by josé hernández

The world lies underneath the eagle’s eye. I’ve had enough of these two mortal feet. So tired of land; I wish that I could fly.

Below the stars, under the moon so high— eyes closed, wings spread, that’s where I want to be. The world lies underneath the eagle’s eye.

Imagine nothing but the clouds and sky without these trodden roads or cobbled streets. The world lies underneath the eagle’s eye.

One day, you said hello and I said hi; I felt that life was so much more complete. So tired of land; I wish that I could fly.

Can’t leave, I’m stuck in this small world awry, wanting escape from life so bittersweet. So tired of land; I know that I must fly.

Our lives on earth, our memories do run by, but now I stand with you under this tree. The world lies underneath the eagle’s eye. We come from land, but still we wish to fly.

peek-a-boo | jimmy king | digital photography

roar | jimmy king | digital photography

conquered

nonfiction by andrew holmes

minous slope. Head aching. Mouth parched. My mind: a string of thoughts of everything that could possibly go wrong. An unhooked carabiner. A loose knot. A fall. I have no idea what my next move is, but I know I must get to the other side. I affix the carabiner to my harness and carefully bear crawl over the ridgeless face of rock. Below me, a drop only known to those who had fallen—to those destined for death. I snarl at the thought. Not today. Safely on the other side, the summit looms only a few pitches away. The line is twisted. A guide far above me yanks the rope up and down vigorously, pouring expletives down the rock face. A spell of frustration surges through my veins. His stream of curses changes to instructions. But I can’t hear—the ferment of thoughts brewing in my head is boiling over, and I reach my tipping point. With complete disregard for technique, I scramble up the cliff and bellow shrieks of pain. I yell my way to the summit. Jagged rocks tear through my pants, shred my kneecaps. The tips of my fingers are chiseled away as I jam them into tiny grooves on the mountain. Panting at the top, I hear laughs behind me. Jealousy. Unable to tame this animal.

cliffside castle | robert matz | digital photography

nature's rawest form by james mccoy

I scan across the world’s greenest isle: the mist too thick for even the sun’s rays, a massive valley protected by mountains, a constellation of birds against the clouds, intrusive black rain gear. Pure nature. Her green eyes follow a babbling brook off a cliff in the Caha Range that her ears helped her see. She wanders to the creek’s bank; I try to find what she has discovered. And look! There babbles that same bubbling brook. We meet at the waterfall. Far below runs the same stream, only now a rushing river that appears the same size as the trickle before us. We both reach the silent inquiry: What else pretends to be smaller than it really is?

hidden fall | kj pankratz | digital photography >

remnants of john fiction by walker comer

s your feet hit the cold wooden beams on the floor, you hear the thumps—beat by beat—slowly picking up rhythm as you move closer. His tail flicks back and forth like a pendulum, smacking the metal crate. The frequency of the thumps only increase as you slide the door open. Release the beast, the best friend, the loyal companion with the simple action of unbolting a door.

The ocean breeze hits you in the face as you step onto the porch. You pour a cup of dog food into a bowl only for it to be scarfed down in seconds by your furry, knee-high friend. The rising sun threads the sky with its rays, knitting a purple-orange scarf that chokes the horizon. The 20-gauge shotgun leans next to the door, and you pick it up on your way out. The grip of the

serenity | kj pankratz | digital photography

forearm on the old Beretta is worn to the mold of John’s hand. Gator instinctively knows what is coming. He looks up at you with the same excitement that John did before walking the creek banks. That’s when you feel your heart beat faster. You stuff your leather-lined pockets with a box of shells and carefully slide a picture of John near your left breast where it will be clos-

est to your heart. As you bend to zip your jacket, John’s old one, you smell the years it spent being wrapped around him—the woodsy scents of a life well lived. Gunpowder and marsh grass. Gator slinks by your side along the edge of the Spartina grass as you both follow the path John walked on the way out to the blind. Guiding Gator around the snaking creek, you avoid the oyster shells as best as possible until you finally stop at Bull’s Point to sit on washed-up driftwood. You don’t have to say or do anything; Gator’s instincts kick in. This sacred tradition is seared in his mind. He comes and sits by your side, resting his graying chin on your chaps. On this same spot you last stood with John, in flesh and in ash. You sling the gun over your shoulder and usher Gator towards the blind. The morning sun flushes your cheeks as duck calls echo against the camouflaged stock. You imagine John walking beside Gator through the rocky sand; Gator is the closest thing you have to a brother now. You wade across the shallow creek, and Gator follows close behind, his chin poking out of the water as he paddles against the small rip current from the outgoing tide. This is where John took Gator on his last day. You set Gator on his platform overlooking the bay and

can’t help but wonder: Is he waiting for his master to appear in the mist when he stares out over the river? The birds explode from the far side. Swirling high in the sky and barreling down in pairs, the marsh hens cup their wings toward your position. John spent years scouting their annual patterns in the low country before finally selecting this spot. Gator admires the birds working the skyline. He’s like a

On this same spot you last stood with John, in flesh and in ash. statue except for rhythmic puffs of frozen breath that crystallize in the air. The birds whirl by above, still out of range, whistling to their companions. You raise the hand-carved call to your half-frozen lips and let it ring. Gator trembles. You shuck three shells into the chamber and hunker down. A palm rustles nearby, and Gator gives a slight whimper as he noses the sky. The clouds blow in on a rare northeast breeze to make a heavy, overcast day. Coming back from a hunt deep in the marsh, you load the pounds of gear into the skiff. John has told you to take a load down the creek and come back for

him. He always put others—even Gator—before himself. You push off from the bank and are down the waterway to the creek cabin within a quarter hour. Something isn’t right. The rip current is abnormally strong, and with the full moon, the tides creep even higher than the mean. When Gator and the camouflaged gear are finally safe on the swaying dock, you head back up the creek. The water has risen more than a foot since you left John standing in his waders on the bank. With the wind in your face and the skiff going against the incoming tide current, it takes you longer to get back to the loading site. John is not there. You have to go higher into the marsh to be even able to beach the boat, at least another hundred yards from where you last saw your brother. The tide has almost reached its peak as the dark roiling clouds roll in above you and begin to boom. It’s at the sight of the floating jacket when you start to panic. The birds head towards the decoys, and you line the beaded barrel to one that crosses your line of sight, flip the safety off, and try to pull the trigger. Something about Gator’s whimper resonates within you, and you can’t do it. Filled with guilt, you drop back into the blind. This was one of the only places where you and John could be in complete silence and still know you had each other’s back. Not anymore.

the view | cordelia hogan | digital photography

mountain swell | evan backer | digital photography

lost

by evan backer Costco. Aisles and aisles of boxes and boxes: rows of clothes and televisions, breakfast cereals, toilet paper and paper towels. Shelves, instead of leaves, layer the forest floor. A jungle where a kid could truly be Tarzan. Jane? Lost in the swaying trees, among the hole-punched, green metal bars that tower above the concrete; another face in the consumer wilderness. Tears trickle down my mother’s face— a gentle waterfall. Panic. Fear spreads in boils across the skin. We comb every nook behind all the cardboard-boulders but find nothing save for old dust balls and dead spiders curled in corners. Sis is gone, evaporated into the air, like mist from the rains.

réfléchir | trip hurley | digital photography

manning | tiger wu | 24 x 18 inches | acrylic on canvas

kenan | tiger wu | 24 x 18 inches | acrylic on canvas

anderson | kj pankratz | 20 x 15.5 inches | marker

fair-weather friends by sam carter

A young boy left his home today so awed by brick and green. He settled in, making friends who soon like brothers were seen.

Through winter weeks he dreamed and cried; the pressure wore him down. His brothers never asked why? Now, they rarely came around.

On misty nights, they explored new paths illuminated by snow. “You’re a brother to us,” they said between drags, long and slow.

He drank and smoked and hid away in search of perfect slumber. One strike, no tolerance, meant his days were numbered.

But out, away from his city— he never called it home— those drags became necessity. Most days he felt alone.

One day he slipped and stood alone. Like spoiled goods, he sat. His closest friends all looked away and turned their backs and spat.

the zocalo fiction by diego valenzuela

an Miguel de Allende was unlike anything Beau had ever seen, a place so curiously out of time that he wished he could come back with his baby brother instead of settling for sending him a postcard. The tiny picture of San Miguel didn’t do the architecture justice. Almost medieval, the streets wove randomly through the city in inconsistent twists and turns barely wide enough for two cars. Cobbled with ancient pavers, these lanes would fit knights on horseback just as well as the bikes leaned against every wall. Even the buildings reflected this haphazard nature: one building purple, the next one red, and so on until the whole block resembled the discarded palette of a painter. The Mexican town stretched for only a couple miles, making it the perfect place for two Americans to explore. The city’s beauty distracted Beau from his aches, and he looked to see how Davis was doing. Badly sunburnt, Davis hobbled up next to him; he had not enjoyed

the previous nine miles. Beau was still astonished by the fact that his roommate had decided to accompany him to Mexico for New Year’s when he could be skiing with his family in Aspen. Instead of doing the typical Davis things—partying and drinking—Davis had actually welcomed the idea of hiking the state of Queretaro. Beau caught his breath. “Davis, what do you think of taking a twoday break?” Davis nodded approvingly, clearly too tired to speak. Without exchanging any other words, they entered the city. Distracted by every sign and alleyway, Beau kept walking until he was stopped by Davis’s croaky plea for a place to sleep. Beau looked at his watch; it was 6:15 p.m. New Year’s Day. They had kicked the new year off to a great start. “Sure, let’s stay somewhere for the night, but let’s get to the Zócalo first.” He knew that you only had to go downhill to find the town’s center.

The Zócalo was a small plaza full of street vendors and wiry, knotted trees. Above the tallest branches towered the eighteenth century Spanish cathedral, a sandstone building that welcomed both devout Catholics and needy vagrants. In the center of the plaza stood a ten-foot statue of the Spanish conquistador Hernán Cortés. The black figure immediately caught Beau’s attention, but he was perplexed by the pose the sculptors had chosen; a thoughtful Cortés looked at the sky as he consulted the shadow on his sundial. Even more interesting than the statue was the archaic Spanish text below it. Beau managed to translate a few phrases: “Those who come…will live the life that they had ought to live…” Definitely redundant. Next to the cathedral stood a simple, old hotel; it would have to do. Exhausted, Davis sighed and plopped down on one of the chairs in the lobby. “Beau, you’re checking in. I did it last time.”

The long day of trekking had taken a toll on Beau as well, and when the clerk attempted to make small talk, he just nodded and passed over his documents. The woman quickly engaged herself in putting everything in order. Though she must have been in her early eighties, the clerk seemed as energetic as a teenager despite her crooked fingers bent from years of typing. The woman’s liveliness finally encouraged Beau to talk. “How long have you been here?” The woman looked up from the old typewriter. “Well, my husband and I just got married, and this job is a way to pay for our honeymoon. We’ve been here for about two weeks.” The woman’s response seemed a little odd to Beau. Why would someone so old marry and then come to San Miguel? Before Beau could respond, the woman returned the documents. “We do have one small rule for these rooms. The outlets are dangerous, so if you want to stay, you’ll have to give me all your technological devices, including watches.” Reluctant to get into an argument, Beau turned in his cell phone but made a point to keep his watch. After showering, he decided to walk around the town

while Davis slept. The Zócalo was barely lit, so the surrounding structures seemed ominous. The bell tower of the cathedral looked more like a looming watchtower than a symbol of faith. Oddly, the only people in the plaza were young. Children laughed as they passed a football. Some teenagers were getting drunk on mescal just like Beau’s friends back home. Beau kept walking the streets in the growing darkness, but every

“What do you mean?” “It just feels weird to me.” “There are a lot of weird cities, Beau. You need to learn to relax a little. Be like me. Have fun, never worry, et cetera.” Davis made sure to enunciate each syllable of the Latin phrase. “Trust me, we have time to spare.” A nagging concern played in the back of Beau’s head. How could more rest be bad? “Okay, let’s stay another day then.”

The black figure immediately caught Beau’s attention, but he was perplexed by the pose the sculptors had chosen; a thoughtful Cortés looked at the sky as he consulted the shadow on his sundial. fifteen minutes he arrived back at the hotel. No matter what direction he walked, he came back to the same spot. Nothing seemed to change. He’d been walking in circles. The next day when they were having breakfast, Davis suggested, “I think we should stay here another couple of days; we have time to spare.” Beau didn’t understand why Davis wanted to stay longer, but he decided to go with the flow. “Sounds like a plan, but there is something that I don’t like about this place.”

They would have to leave San Miguel, at most, by the fifth of January to make it to their next destination in time. Beau took out his watch to check the exact date: 6:15 p.m. January 1st 2030. Since his watch clearly wasn’t working, Beau asked the clerk at the front desk. “Do you know the date, ma’am?” The older woman turned around. “Please don’t call me ma’am. Call me Kate.” “Okay, Kate. What’s the date?” “January 3rd.” Beau sighed. “Thank you.” “Before you go, I want to

know something. What’s your opinion on the war?” Bewildered, Beau responded, “What do you mean? Syria?” “I’m talking about the current war: Vietnam.” More confused than before, Beau headed back to his room. Something wasn’t right. In the lobby, Beau spotted the teenager he had seen since that first night in San Miguel. “Dude, what’s the date?” Without looking up, the teenager said, “It’s January 3rd.” “What year is it?” “2030.” “No, that’s impossible. It’s 2016. I’ve only spent a couple of days here.” The teenager took out a picture almost identical to Beau. “I’m looking for my brother; he’s been gone for fifteen years, so he would be thirty-three. His name is Beau Adams.” Beau remembered the sundial in Hernán Cortés’s hand and the cryptic message. He ran back to the statue, and this time translated the text. “Those who come on January 1st will live the life that they ought to live, yet trapped in time and space. Those who come will see how time revolves around them, but not within. One day here could be years elsewhere.”

l’oubliée | trip hurley | digital photography >

wounded at fort washington by ashby shores

The bullets ring, the angels sing to a tide of crimson dead. And there upon Fort Washington the soldiers fire their lead.

Around the fort the woman helps bring water to the men. She pauses by her husband’s gun. The Redcoats charge again.

The clash of steel as flesh cries out, but warriors do not fear, for they have seen; the Lord has come. Their time, it now draws near.

A bullet strikes; her husband falls. She cries and takes a stride. Her courage grows—she dashes forward to the cannon by his side.

And there she stands, both fair and free. Her fluttering dress of gold seems out of place, in the wrong time, her tale about to unfold.

There Molly Pitcher kneels by him; smoke chokes her in the din. As cowards all around her flee, a woman mans a cannon.

Inspired by the painting A Woman Mans a Cannon by Jacob Lawrence

winged victory | tiger wu | 8 x 11 inches | drypoint print

four generations nonfiction by cameron hill

orld War II didn’t change much of the day-to-day existence of a black man in the South. For Leslie Lewis, this statement rang true. He was born on April 21, 1918 in Louisburg, North Carolina, one of ten children on a forty-acre family farm. His family was large and almost self-sufficient; the farm produced most of the things they needed. When he was about six or seven years old, he started school at a one-room country schoolhouse for kids of all ages, but at nine, he left to work. Those three years would be the only formal education Lewis ever received. His real education took place on the farm where he stayed until he turned twenty-one, at which point he was hired for his first paying job at a local lumber company. Like other places in my greatgrandfather’s life, this lumber company was segregated by race and social class. The ten-cent hourly rate he received was half of what white men were paid to do the same job. In 1937 just before the

war broke out, Lewis and a friend decided to sign up for the Army in search of better pay. Of the recruiters that they went to see, my greatgrandfather said, “They wouldn’t even talk to us.” When the Army

A friend of his told him a secret that could keep him from being drafted— eating small pieces of Octagon soap would make his heart race. refused to take them, they went to the Navy and then to the Merchant Marines, experiencing the same rejection in each place. When World War II officially started around 1939, Uncle Sam decided to come for them. Lewis was called to Fort Bragg, North Carolina for three days for an examination. A year before he had wanted to enlist in the military to better his life, but the circum-

< names in stone | iain leggat | digital photography

stances had changed, and men were now being sent into active combat. He felt that things “were not right” and no longer wanted to join any branch of service. A friend of his told him a secret that could keep him from being drafted—eating small pieces of Octagon soap would make his heart race. My great-grandfather took his friend’s advice and did just that. When the Army doctor gave him a physical, Lewis didn’t pass, so he was sent back home. The soap trick had worked. My great-grandfather’s mission was accomplished. About six months later during a physical exam for another job, the doctor asked why Lewis wasn’t in the Army. My great-grandfather responded, “They didn’t take me because I have a bad heart.” “There ain’t a darned thing wrong with your heart,” the doctor replied. Life on the home front proved tough. It wasn’t until after World War II that the clouds of the Great

Depression finally parted. Lewis’s experience with self-sufficiency guided his family through the strict rationing. There were single-serving, government-run soup lines, but because my great-grandfather’s family had animals and land, they lived on their own meat, fruit, and vegetables. Lewis found a job building an army camp in North Carolina, but he didn’t end up earning any more than he had at the lumber company. A friend told him that he could make more money if he moved to New England, so Lewis moved north to Springfield, Massachusetts where he found a job delivering coal that paid nine times what he had earned in North Carolina. While it was hard work and still paid less than a dollar an hour, he did it for eleven years until after the war was over. World War II didn’t have much of an effect on my great-grandfather’s day-to-day life. Because white and black people rarely interacted, the amount of news making its way into black homes was rather sparse; the events of the war such as the Nazi invasion only traveled by word of mouth in black communities. Even though his brother served in the Navy, Lewis felt removed from what happened overseas since he didn’t have an

opportunity to learn any details. A close friend did see the details, and he was tragically injured while fighting in Japan. His head was busted open with a gun barrel, and he contracted severe burns along his entire arm. Although Lewis’s friend was awarded a Purple Heart, it took ten years for the government to dispense disability benefits. When the camouflage fatigues came off, the friend was black and the other soldiers were white. Looking back on things now, Lewis feels lucky that the recruiters discriminated against him when he nearly volunteered. Being turned down because he was black may have saved his life. My great-grandfather’s hands shook as he left me with a final remark: “[We should] stop the war and live in peace. The world is big enough for everyone to live in peace. Animals who don’t have brains like humans live more peacefully than we do. If dogs of all different colors can play together and treat each other well, I can’t understand why it is so difficult for people to achieve the same thing. We are all humans and should be treated like humans.” Based on a recorded interview on December 27, 2015 with my great-grandfather, Leslie Lewis.

the property

by philip williams

Above Meyer’s Creek, I stand high upon that worn wooden deck. No longer magical—clear, sandy, and shallow— the waves lap while tides roll. Before, on a day less dreary, the clouds parted enough for a barefooted leap onto the paddleboat. My family gathered here for Papa, laughing siblings to the left, parents on the right. All awaited the smooth, pleasing-to-the-mood cup of Grandma Lovedy’s red pepper soup. Supper-thinking and blue-crab-dreaming filled my mind, occupied the time until we ate again. My feet slip on sea-aged oyster shells. The pier creaks one-crack-two-crack-three crash! Into the water I go. We called this old seaman’s dream the Property, a memory that tumbled into the Rappahannock.

hangover | rob prater | digital photography

spell of freedom by carson becker

Whisperings at the auction house, the chattering of ladies on the corner. A map stolen from the manor library— cursed, they say. Every Negro who’s taken a close look has fallen under its spell. Those are the runners. No runner I ever heard of made it. Old Jimmy, he only got a few hundred feet. Shot in the back. Francis made it far as Lexington ’fore they caught him. Mr. McDavis had his boys hoist Francis up the old oak by the cabins, let him hang for a full week ’til the smell got too strong to bear. He was a lucky one. When the map come my way, I can’t resist. The thought of freedom don’t die easy.

Inspired by the painting Petition of Many Slaves by Jacob Lawrence

the handler | spencer goodwin | 36 x 24 inches | mixed media

winter garden | carson becker | digital photography

stranger in a strange land fiction by john pittman

ergil chuckled to himself as he crossed the Appomattox River into Petersburg. Had it been a century earlier, the locals may have sent this Yankee devil to Libby Prison or just hanged him as a spy. Even now, he doubted that they would take too kindly to him. Vergil had come a long way from Scranton, and he was surprised that he had made it this far. Now, with his destination just over an hour away, his day full of driving was nearly over. Before dawn, Vergil had hopped in the family’s Buick Rivera and headed south. At seventeen, he was the oldest in his family. His father couldn’t get off from work, so Vergil ran the errand. Vergil knew all too well that Virginia wasn’t Pennsylvania. In his youth, he had seen the nightly news footage of the race riots and police brutality. Nowadays, things were said to be different, but Vergil knew that wasn’t the case. George Wallace may have lost the Presidential election, but the South was still a white man’s world. Even though

Vergil had nothing to fear, his guard was still up. Making the drive down alone was one of the many times that Vergil wished his mother hadn’t run off, but as he was told so frequently by his father, “Wishes in one hand, shit in the other. See which one fills up first.” Vergil’s father wasn’t a mean man, just realistic. Vergil loved his father and earnestly felt for the man who was raising two boys by himself; his wife had taken the bus to the store one day and then sent a postcard from San Francisco. Vergil knew how his father worried about losing his boys. Vergil was only a few months away from draft eligibility, so this drive could be his first and last trip out of Pennsylvania before Uncle Sam called him to Hanoi. Vergil’s uncle had long been missing, and though Vergil knew little of him, he missed his uncle nonetheless: the fresh produce when he came to visit, the occasional phone call that put his father in a good mood. Uncle Church’s disappearance took many family members

by surprise, but as the times were so turbulent, Vergil was almost numb to the mystery of it all. He would settle what he could in Courtland. As he made his way southward, Vergil had noticed a general change. The radio stations had played “Eve of Destruction” and a medley of Bob Dylan hits when he left, but now

George Wallace may have lost the Presidential election, but the South was still a white man’s world. in Southside Virginia they played the newly released “Okie From Muskogee” and the flashback charttoppers of Hank Williams. The price of a pack of cigarettes proved far cheaper in Dixie, and the numerous Volkswagen vans and Buicks he had driven alongside in the Susquehanna River Valley became the occasional Ford truck and Studebaker that rattled along dusty country roads.

But the air seemed to be sweeter down here; the earth was being tilled in some place far off, and the smell had wafted through the afternoon air and inside the car with Vergil. The windows were down, and his elbow rested in the void. Vergil, for the first time all day, was enjoying himself. He reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a half-smoked pack of Parliaments. As he lit one, “King of the Road” came through the Rivera’s speakers. Vergil turned the volume up. At dusk Vergil finally bumped across the railroad tracks and into Courtland. The courthouse—easily the largest building in the town, if not the county—joined a handful of shops and buildings to line Main Street. At the far end two churches placed unusually close together finished off the arrangement. Opposite them, a grinning tiger peeked out from behind its Esso Station sign. Vergil calculated that little had changed here since before the Depression and that little ever would. He pulled into For Pete’s Sake, the only restaurant in town. Seating himself at the bar, Vergil ordered the special of the day and a Pepsi. Halfway through the meal, he called the waitress over and asked her how to get to the address his father had written down. She called over a man named Pond, who happened to be in the diner for dinner as well. Standing at least six and a half feet tall

and weighing somewhere north of 275 pounds, the man patted Vergil’s back with such a force that it nearly sent him through the counter. Pond had a thick, scruffy beard, which like his hair was salt-and-pepper and dusted with a thin layer of dirt from the day’s work. “So you headed out Ridley Road way?” the man said in voice that shook like thunder. “That’s my neck of the woods. Where at, exactly?” Still reeling from the gorilla handshake, Vergil managed to say, “245 Ridley Road.”

Vergil calculated that little had changed here since before the Depression and that little ever would. ‘That’s Church’s house. What the he—” Pond stopped short. His aggravated tone became calm. “Jack’s your pa, right? Yeah, awful about ol’ Churchill. Won’t be the same without him. See, he was my neighbor. I heard you’d be headed down here. From Pennsylvania, right?” “Yes sir. Scranton.” “Well, alright. Listen, you finish your vittles and then you can follow me. I’ll show you to your uncle’s place.” Pond returned to his seat to finish his coffee. Vergil was impressed by the

speed at which Pond and his pickup truck, laden with a full bed of feed, handled the curvy dirt road. Down a long driveway, Vergil saw his ancestral home. Compared to its surroundings, the house and curtilage was an island of timber and green in a vast sea of brown, late-stage feed corn. The front steps were separated from a grove of pecan trees by a rolling lawn and a pond. Churchill Smith, being the older, had inherited this house and the farm, while Jack headed northward. As they pulled through the carriage circle, Pond motioned for Vergil. “He never locked it, and ain’t nobody around here’s going to mess with his stuff,” Pond said out of the window. “If you need anythin’, give me a holler. I’ll be seeing you.” Vergil stood and watched the taillights disappear until he realized that along with Pond went his only source of light. He fumbled up the porch steps and opened the door. Aside from the plethora of cobwebs and dust throughout the house, it was as though his uncle had just left for a minute to run to the store. Vergil made his way from room to room. The floorboards creaked underneath him, and the whole house was eerily still. Somewhere far off coyotes howled. Spooked, Vergil ran out of the house to the safety of his Buick Rivera where he locked the doors, cracked the windows, and

sought slumber in the back seat. He awoke to the sound of a metal ring on glass. Vergil turned over and was surprised by the sight of a very large white-haired man in grey pants, a striped white shirt, and strained suspenders. He was puffing on a cigar under a white, wide-brimmed fedora. “Are you Jack’s boy?” he said in a raspy voice. Vergil nodded. “I’m Richard Railey, your uncle’s attorney and a close friend. Why the hell are you in your car?” They headed into the house and sat down at a table where Richard, or Ricky as he preferred to be called, withdrew several documents from a worn, leather briefcase. “Now, once we finish all this, I’ll have some boys come over and help you load what you want to take home. As for the rest, you can mark and arrange for delivery back to—” “There’s no need,” Vergil said, feeling very official. “Dad gave me a list of belongings to bring home, but the rest is to go for an estate sale.” “What about the house and grounds?” “Hence the estate sale, Mr. Railey.” “Not the house! My God! It’d be such a shame to see the likes of this property fall into the hands of someone else. Especially Pond Bain!” In his excitement, Railey’s speech lost its lawyerly polish and lilted with a

southern twang. “The neighbor? He seemed like a straight shooter.” “Pond? Heavens no.” Railey began to explain all the animosity between Churchill and his neighbor: how Pond had tried to buy this piece of land for himself, how Pond carried himself as the biggest man in Courtland, how Pond dealt with the Klan. “I would’ve never thought.” “Yes, well, he’s been eyeing this plot ever since your uncle left.” Richard’s words made Vergil uneasy. The story was peculiar, and Vergil wondered whom he could trust down here. After a long day of more legal documents, Mr. Railey left Vergil to his solitude. He stumbled onto a recipe for mint juleps taped to the inside of the liquor cabinet door. Retiring to the mosquito stricken porch, Vergil recalled the taste of the ripe watermelons his uncle would bring in August and the sound of his father and uncle cracking pecans in the kitchen. Before long, the moon was peeking through the pecan trees across the pond, and Vergil smelled fire and heard distant shouting. He took off toward the noise but soon was bewildered in a trackless jungle of dry corn stalks. Another uproar gave him the trail once more. Vergil emerged in a cow pasture.

After making his way through a patch of wilderness that stood on the other side, he finally came to the source of the commotion. Through his hiding place in the bushes, Vergil spied men in hoods with torches terrorizing what had once been a church gathering. Women were screaming, children were wailing, and men were feebly trying to resist. Vergil noticed Railey’s white Lincoln parked off to the side and crept up next to it. Ten feet away, three men in hoods kicked a boy not much older than he. The boy’s dark hands tried in vain to shield his face. Inside the car, Vergil saw a stack of letters addressed to 245 Ridley Road with a return address in Canada, and the initials C. G. S—his uncle’s. Vergil rushed out of the shadows to help, but before he could cross the lawn, a large hooded figure cried out with a raspy twang, “Miscegenationist!” The ax handle flew towards his gut, and Vergil doubled over in pain. Just as the figure prepared to deliver another blow, a gunshot cracked against the night. “You bastards!” Pond fired another shot in the air. Sirens entered earshot. Through his own bloody sputters and tearblurred vision, Vergil saw the silhouette of a massive figure, and then the grizzly-paw hand of Pond grabbed his hand, helping him up.

psychedelic lust | wyatt alexander | 20 x 15.5 inches | mixed media

scrambled earth | spencer goodwin | 36 x 24 inches | charcoal

passage of the headdress fiction by william mcadams

he night set upon the dry silent plains of Mali; even the slightest noise would disturb this tranquil land. A flickering light illuminated the night sky like a beacon. This fire cast long shadows on the people gathered around it. The elder chief of the tribe, adorned with a long, feathered headdress that ran down his wrinkled back, struck a massive drum. The sound echoed across the vast landscape until it faded into the distant night. The tribe became silent as they all turned to face the chief and pay their respect. The light glared off their red-and-black painted faces. A moment of reverent silence passed, and then the chief began to speak for what seemed like hours about the upcoming crop season and annual traditions. Shikha waited in the back, eager for the speech’s end. After the tribe’s dismissal, she ran to her hut, each step sending a cloud of dust skyward. She burst into her family’s hut and recounted to her mother the highlights of the chief ’s speech: The tribe would be performing more

dances to bring another successful crop harvest. Shikha’s mother was almost as excited as Shikha; only a select number of tribal women performed these vital dances with headdresses each year, and now Shikha had been chosen to enter this special group. Exhausted, Shikha fell asleep and swam in dreams.

reached her eyes, Shikha awakened, sat up, and stared, remembering the night’s dreams. Then, as if life had just swept into her body, she raised her dry hands to her face and gently rubbed the sleep from her eyes, filling them with vision. Inside the shadowy depths of the forest, Shikha ran across rotting

Inside the shadowy depths of the forest, Shikha ran across the rotting trunks and dried leaves, moving with such purpose that even the animals sensed something was happening. The springiest boughs taken from the heart of the forest. A red, wooden structure filled with golden hay. Dangling seashells that shine like opals. A headdress atop a young girl, wild with dancing, as she circles a fire praying for plenty. The eyes of the entire tribe on her. The sun peeked over the horizon and shone through the entrance of the house. As the beam

trunks and dried leaves, moving with such purpose that even the animals sensed something was happening. Among the tall trees she saw it: the perfect specimen. It had fallen over but was young enough that its branches retained strength and malleability. Carefully Shikha broke off the small branches and placed them into her bag. She whisked away her prize through

the woods and entered the familiar sandy ground of her village. As she walked back onto the tribal grounds, she glanced at the path from her earlier trip to the forest. The wind had already covered her footprints. An old wooden lean-to sat on the village outskirts, painted the same shade as the red she saw in her dream. Shikha gathered some hay. Almost ready to begin crafting, she suddenly remembered the last item she needed to obtain: seashells. Where could she get seashells? Her tribe only owned a patch of desert. Walking slowly down through the next village, she examined all of the trade booths the local people had set up. Something was reflecting the sun’s light and sent stars into her eyes. She walked over to the display and found an assortment of beautiful seashells, some rugged and others smooth. Shikha had to part with one of her favorite bracelets, one she had made herself from dried gum tree flowers and cram cram grass. But she was not to be denied the final pieces for her headdress—she would have given ten bracelets for these shells. Shikha spent the next week perfecting the formation of her headdress by tirelessly molding the

figure out of wood. After scraping the bark off one layer at a time, she used a coarse rock to smooth out the wood the same way her mother had done years before. She glued the hay with tree sap, carefully positioned the pieces so that it would drape down over her face, and finished by tying the seashells on with pieces of knotted vine. Finally, after what seemed like a child’s eternity, Shikha’s headdress was ready for the ceremony. Shikha rehearsed her routine over and over before the big dance. At last it was her turn to do what she had been waiting to do for years. Shikha’s parents gathered proudly at the front of the crowd as the bonfire glowed behind the dancers and their beautiful headdresses. At some invisible command, the women stepped into place, and then as if by magic, moved together in perfect rhythm. Her father’s eyes began to water as his daughter danced like wind across the plains. Shikha felt her place among the other women, and as the starry night swaddled her village, she understood what it meant to dream with her eyes wide open.

sunup ritual | ben hale | digital photography

Inspired by the female headdress Chi Wara used in a dance by the Barnana people from Mali.

speaking in tongues by clayton noyes

You don’t understand the language. Don’t stress; neither do I. You may not speak through chants, chirps, or chatter or hear the whistle of the wind and the crackle of the wood. But you can feel the pulse of the people, the rhythm of the drums, and the beat of their feet. These connections resound all around us, and when you hear them in the air you tend to forget that some are speaking in tongues.

nguni | ben hale | digital photography

to myself at home nonfiction by jang woo park

ear Jang Woo,

I can’t believe it has already been a month and a half since we last saw each other. Life here is tougher than I expected. For the first two weeks, I woke up longing for home, for the street that I walked home from the library at midnight, for the blanket that covered me up when I wanted to be alone, for the sound of water falling from the faucet. The wintry, night breeze told me not to worry so much. I miss you. I regret leaving you behind in Korea. I want to believe that I made the right decision, but everything seems to contradict that. I thought I’d be strong enough to overcome all the changes, but even chatting in English feels like a task. American life moves so fast. A simple time-out is all I want. No, not a time-out, but to be out of time—for the rush to stop for a second. Life gets better, not because the circumstances have improved,

but because I have become hardened. The patterns of life don’t seem foreign anymore. There’s even a place I found where I can savor solitude as you did: silence save for the sound of wind, grass, and my footsteps. There it feels like everything is under control. I’ll find more spaces that belong to me, won’t I, Jang Woo? Maybe another space can be my study room because when I close the door, turn

I’m afraid that all of this could become my home and then my old one, my Seoul, would be lost. on the heater even when it’s not cold, and fill the room with the clacking of a keyboard, I feel like I’m home again. Every day, I imagine myself being fully adjusted, for all the longing and regret and discomfort to stop. For me to finally become

perfectly suited to where I am. Yet every time I dream of that, it scares me. The more I think about it, the more I don’t want myself to fully adjust; I’m nervous that then I’ll miss different things, appreciate something else, and just become someone I don’t recognize. Someone different. I’m afraid that all of this could become my home, and then my old one, my Seoul, would be lost. It’s hard to explain, Jang Woo. I want to be happy here, but I don’t want to change. Maybe that’s why I love acting; in acting I can take on a completely different persona without having to sacrifice who I was before. In the school play I am a man living in the Warsaw Ghetto. He may be brusque and mean, but when I put myself in Susanna Nanus’s imagined world for The Survivors, it comforts me knowing that when the play is over I can step back into the skin of my comfortable self. Uncertainty unnerved me once, but it’s also the reason I keep moving against the grain; if

everything’s certain, there’ll be no hope. As I always told you, Jang Woo, I want to operate between worlds—to be at once comfortable where I am and missing where I have come from. Is it possible for someone to be visiting somewhere and live there at the same time? Sincerely,

George, your closest friend who misses you the most. Back in Seoul, I started school at a private kindergarten where the American teacher required that I choose an English name to replace my Korean one. With my given name as Jang Woo, she gave me three options: Jared, James, and George. Without even consulting my parents and barely thinking about it, I immediately selected George. At the time, I thought it was like choosing the nickname for your avatar in a video game. Ten years later when I applied to Woodberry, the educational consultant I was working with asked me if I had an English name, and the only one that came to mind, although I only used it twice a year, was George. Even though I now go by Jang Woo exclusively, sometimes you can still find the name “George Park” on official documents—evidence of two identities, one I took to America and one I left at home.

me, myself, and i | tiger wu | 18 x 24 inches | acrylic on canvas

alpheus’s aisle | rob prater | digital photography

the tree | kj pankratz | digital photography

angel | kj pankratz | 21 x 32.5 inches | acrylic on newspaper

seoul diary nonfiction by junepyo suh

here is nothing special about my first grade diary—just a simple composition notebook full of hastily scribbled stories in a child’s hand. To my first grade mind, these entries were nothing, mainly because I could not see the point in writing about a day that replicated every other. But the passage of time has evoked new meaning. My childhood has ended, and these faded stories are the only way for me to peek back into time. While trying to hold on to my past, I have become acutely aware of the last moments of now. Another incident—when my grandfather had to stay in a hospital room for ten days with a collapsed lung— made me think of the passing of time. He had lost a lot of weight, and when we visited, he greeted us, but not with his usual vitality. “I am already ninety-one,” he said as he started to recount his past. He talked about his childhood, meeting my grandmother, raising my aunts and my dad, and traveling to other countries. He

used to be a fast runner, but now even the journey to the bathroom was a painful one. Then, as if he had wanted to prove that he could still remember, he launched into the same stories, again and again. As his memory faded, so did his vigor. He was no longer the grandfather who stopped at random stations of the Seoul metro

My childhood has ended, and these faded stories are the only way for me to peek back into time. to explore new places instead of taking me straight home from kindergarten. The hands of my father holding his father’s hands were not the same either. They were not the hands that tickled me when I was a baby. Of course, I wasn’t the same I. I thought becoming an adult required a metamorphosis. Just as larva becomes a butterfly, I needed

to become new and complete, fully grown, fully mature. And yet I was none of these. When a cicada sang on my room’s window screen, I asked my mom to flick it off. When I thought about my family members growing older and weaker, instead of worrying about them, I worried about myself. How would I survive in this world without them? But should I be afraid of my current situation? Hermann Hesse did not believe that humans undergo metamorphosis. Instead, he described our growth as similar to that of a bird. In Demian, Hesse wrote, “The bird fights its way out of the egg. The egg is a world.” When the bird hatches, it is weak, young, and dependent. When I understood myself—my weaknesses and my need to develop—I had become an adult. It was not a final stage, but the first stage of maturation. I write in a diary again so I can include the most trivial details. I need some way to hold on to what still remains.

bo knows

nonfiction by andrew jacobs

opened the door to the backyard in search of Bo. He was a stocky little mutt with a black and white, dalmatian-like coat, a face and snout that vaguely represented a pit bull, and the slender, athletic legs of a whippet. “Hey, honey,” my mom called. “I’ve got meetings for most of the day, so I won’t be available. Call Dad or your grandmother if you need anything.” “Okay, Mom.” “And the lunch meat is in the fridge. I got some yesterday.” “Okay, Mom,” I replied a second time. My mother always mentioned obvious things as if I were the most incompetent twelve-year-old on the planet. Bo used to catch rabbits and squirrels frequently until the news spread among local rodents that our yard was to be avoided. Now he wandered our half-acre backyard aimlessly, sniffing the fence line in hopes of ending his losing streak. “Bo!” I called. His collar jingled as he jogged

eagerly towards the back porch, and I opened the door, making way for him to enter. As I snagged a tennis ball from the top of the refrigerator (left within Bo’s reach, its constant bouncing and rolling annoyed even the most stoic guests), Bo began to whimper; he picked up on patterns easily. I opened the door to the basement, and a thought shot through my head. Shoes. We had an unfinished basement at the time, and bare feet were strictly forbidden. Loose nails, power tools, and other objects were strewn about, and my mom feared the consequences of a bare foot landing on a sharp item. Shoes would be smart, but they were in my bedroom, and Bo had already dashed into the basement. His energy was contagious, making the decision easy. Barefoot, I shut the door behind me. The playtime ritual followed: I threw the tennis ball wildly around the cement room while Bo chased it with fervor, snapping his jaws in an attempt to capture it. I would gather

the ball and throw it again, watching Bo careen around the basement. On one particular toss, the ball ricocheted so quickly that Bo lost sight of it. He stood in the center of the room confused as the ball trundled towards a corner. I jogged over, and when I planted my foot to bend down and retrieve the ball, I felt a warm thud on the sole of my foot. A three-inch iron nail had lodged itself neatly beneath my skin. Blood trickled onto the cement floor. Bo cocked his head to the side in curiosity. He approached me slowly and stopped. His eyes scanned my body and found their way to my foot and the growing puddle of blood on the ground. I had no time to collect my thoughts. I hopped one-legged up the stairs, gripping the handrail tightly. Bo trailed a step or two behind. On most occasions, he would weave around my legs and dart up to the top. I took two or three large hops and threw myself into a chair

at the dining room table. Clutching my foot with white knuckles, I peered at the injury again. More and more blood fell onto the hardwood floor. The flower vase shook as I slammed my fist on the table; the adrenalin was wearing off, and the pain was intensifying. I needed help. The first person that came to mind was my mother, but I remembered what she had told me. I desperately needed her soothing voice and steady thoughts. As I stared at the growing pool of blood, I felt a pang of regret. Next in line was my dad. I took a deep breath and rose gingerly from the seat, trying to clear my head of worst-case scenarios: What if it gets infected? Will I have to go to the hospital? What if it’s stuck forever? My mind was running at full speed, and I needed someone to slow it down. Leaning against the countertop, I grabbed the home phone and dialed my father’s number. It rang once, twice, three times. After several seconds, I got his dreary voicemail—the same one he’d had since 2006. I didn’t leave a message. I sank to the floor of the kitchen. My eyes began to water. Bo stood several feet from me with a look in his eye that I had never seen before. It wasn’t a look of intelligence, which I had noticed several times before, but a look of

care. He seemed to be thinking, and there was a foreign softness in his pupils. I was only twelve and rather naive, but I knew that the situation was becoming dire. Help seemed far away. “Bo, come here, buddy,” I said softly. I extended a trembling hand. “What do I do?” His warm fur comforted me, and his rhythmic breathing helped to slow mine. Bo lowered his head and sniffed the nail protruding from the bottom of my foot. He licked it gingerly and then raised his head and looked at me. I wasn’t sure what he was trying to convey, if anything, but

His eyes scanned my body and found their way to my foot and the growing puddle of blood on the ground. I made a decision. Bo’s gestures gave me the confidence to pull it out myself. I bit down on a rag between my teeth—I’d seen it in the movies—and grabbed a roll of paper towels ready to sop up the blood. I knew it was wrong. I knew it wasn’t smart. I continued on. The bleeding had slowed to an

inconsistent dripping, and the skin around the nail had begun to take on a purple hue. Bo was within arm’s reach, watching intently. I closed my eyes and wrapped my fingers around the iron nail. With a surge of courage, I jerked my arm outwards. A loud, piercing AAAAAAGGHHH followed. Crippling pain shot through my foot, and the rag fell from my mouth. I dropped the nail and slid off the couch, clutching my foot tightly. Blood flowed from the open hole and stained the carpet. I forgot to reach for the paper towels. Bo approached me slowly and began to lick my forearm, a strangely paternal act of comfort. Finally, the pain began to recede. I reached for Bo, my hands clutching his sides, and my breath slowed from a pant to a steady rhythm. “Whew,” I said aloud. With watery eyes, I surveyed the scene: a twelve year old boy lying on the floor in pain next to a bloody nail; a large bloodstain on an expensive oriental carpet; a rag, wet with saliva, resting on the couch; and a black-and-white dog standing over the boy, eyeing the blood with strong, soft pupils.

the attack by jackson monroe

The endless circle mocks my turning legs as I complete eight laps— two more to beat my record— and whiz past my fellow first graders. The sun’s rays push me down. Sweat trickles down my face as my legs move harder and harder. My breathing grows faster and faster until suddenly I gasp for air. I slow to a stop and try to fill my lungs, but only stars circle my head. My feet stumble onto the burning green grass. Kids look. Mrs. Dellinger runs. Ground wobbles. She grabs my shoulders. Her brow furrows eyes widen. Snake constricts my chest. Head spins. She throws me on her back. I cling on like words to the final breath. I bounce around with her steps. Light escaping. A golf cart pulls up. Tears mix with sweat. Drive fast. Insides flaming world darkens classroom comes sleep inviting point backpack unzip inhaler breathe.

the ringed hoop | michael deng | digital photography

ten-thousand one fiction by evan backer

ut in the distance he could see the sun creeping up the side of the mountain. Daybreak. Isaac only caught a glimpse of the view; the buildings ate up the sky, and pavement sprouted out of grass. That’s Virginia for you. One moment you can swing around the concrete jungle, and the next a cow stares at you with dark eyes, tail wagging, deciding which patch of grass looked best for today. This wasn’t his usual route, but he figured he could save, what, twenty minutes? It was worth the risk. The BMW had barely reached the corner of Valencia and Rhodes when he noticed them: tall, broad shouldered, short black hair. Their jackets boasted golden streaks along the forearms. Big coats, big enough to hide something deadly and metal. A fourth man, smaller than the coats, looked anxiously over his shoulder. As Isaac rolled past them, a small plastic bag shifted hands from a coat to the small man. They all turned towards his car, suddenly

aware of his presence. He could smell their hatred. Temple Beth-El’s dull gray bricks popped out from the corner, distanced from the rest of the glossy-black buildings. Typical. Had to stand out somehow. He quickly pulled the key out of the ignition, took a breath, and opened the door. Down the sidewalk a raggedy man in jeans and a torn, leather jacket sat slumped against the bricks. He cradled a cardboard sign with words splattered in a sickly-red paint: Will work for food. One of his shoes had a hole at the tip; a white toe stuck out. Pushing the oak door open, Isaac stopped in the foyer and performed the ritual; he put on his kippah, read the prayer off his tallis, kissed it, and wrapped it around his shoulders. The main chapel slept in front of him, lifeless. Sunlight flooded the stained windows, giving the old wood a myriad of tattoos—no one knew what they really meant.

He hurried to the tight staircase; he was late enough already. The silver and blue tassels on his tallis bounced while he descended. He entered the white service room, tiptoeing to an empty seat in the left corner, farthest from the front. The Rabbi, dressed in a gray suit and blue tie, appeared mesmerized by the Torah. An enormous tallis swayed on his shoulders; his gray beard cascaded down onto the sheets of paper. A rather pleasant voice rose from beneath the beard. Baruch atah, Adonai Eloheinu, Melech haolam, asher bid’varo maariv aravim, b’chochmah potei-ach sh’arim, uvit’vunah m’shaneh itim umachalif et haz’manim, um’sadeir et hakochavim b’mishm’roteihem barakia kirtzono. He knew the prayer by heart. Isaac’s father had taught it to him and his father before him and before him. But every Saturday he came to this same temple to hear the same exact words. Why? Probably because that’s what his father had done and his father before him and before him.

For some reason, maybe spiritual, he took a detour to the Blue Ridge. He was going too fast—he knew it—but he was going to miss a call from the executives. The bank had a no cell phones policy, some kind of security ploy to keep important conversations from being overheard. All communications were strictly person-to-person, through email, or via home phone. He had a landline installed when he got the job. A red model. Not even a year old. It was the most valuable thing he owned. He didn’t have a kid, but the car paved that hole in his heart. Now, tumbling through the trees and down the cliff, he couldn’t help but think about the return he would never get on that investment. Fifty-thousand dollars for a measly ten-thousand miles. Isaac was locked in motion— arms, legs, everything was useless. The mess finally landed at the bottom of the hill. The German masterpiece had returned to its natural state—nothing more than a hunk of metal. Blue smoke choked the capsized car. His shoulder was still intact, but the arm was no more than a mush of bloody pulp decorated with jagged glass; the exposed muscle and tendon had lost its fleshy coating, and in others parts bone showed through the

flaps of skin. He gagged. His fingers hurt the most; two were missing, the others bent ninety degrees backwards. The seat had caught the other hand between the doors, but as far as he could tell, it wasn’t torn apart. His legs felt normal, but when he tried to move them, they wouldn’t budge. He worked to calm his breathing, but each inhale carved his insides. Blood overcame the smoke,

Their jackets boasted golden streaks along the forearms: big coats, big enough to hide something deadly and metal. and he could feel hot liquid dripping down his chin. Everything swirled around him, so he closed his eyes, his heartbeat pounding against his temples. He waited for the world to be still again, for things to resume order. To sleep. Icy-blue snowflakes. He steadied himself and searched in the distance. Pine trees with foreign letters etched in their bark dotted the ground. Nothing except trees, snow, and a brick path to his front. The metal heap must have been swallowed into the ground. He was still wearing his suit, but the

fabric wasn’t torn. The fingers had regrown. It took a minute to stand. He didn’t expect his legs to cooperate. A shuffle, then a stroll, a walk. Eventually he was jogging down the path, tiny bites of snow peppering his face. He looked for something, anything, as he moved. The white wall got thicker. His face hit first; he wasn’t scanning, so he had tripped on a rock. His entire front side stung against the snow. A light bounced nearby, twenty or so feet away. Warmth. Help. The light stopped then moved again. Stumbling to stand, he sprinted. Every step made the blaze die a little. He ran anyway. The light was a mote of golden dust drowned in the flurries. The snow was so thick that he couldn’t see a foot in front of him. He bent in half, heaving. He found a spot against a carved tree and closed his eyes. When he opened them, the snow had stopped, and white had turned black. He couldn’t feel the air, not on his skin or in his lungs. The bright yellow light blinded him at first, but he began to regain focus, and the light shrank into a concentrated beam. It moved from one eye to the other. The paramedic’s head came into view. He shut his eyes. The hot blood

still pushed against his temples, but he could feel the air scratch his lungs again. Someone lifted him off the ground and placed him on cool cloth. A stretcher. Blue and red lights flashed, and he heard voices, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. White bandages wrapped his right arm now. He suspected the left escaped unscathed, but he refused to peer under the cloth. Through the dirt-stained window of the ambulance, he noticed the smoke from the wreck. The blue spirit moved through the sunlight and against the trees. He turned away from the glass and stared at the side of the truck, embracing the engine’s vibrations. Finally, his breath regained some type of rhythm. He couldn’t bring himself to speak; he didn’t have enough air. Mouthing the words would have to do. Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Ruler of the universe, who speaks the evening into being, skillfully opens the gates, thoughtfully alters the time and changes the seasons, and arranges the stars in their heavenly courses according to plan.

endless miles | clay tydings | digital photography

girls and fast food by caleb rogers

Come bare trees and come cold air, a thought is shared by all. Restlessness and cabin fever: “We gotta get off campus, y’all.”

I kid you not: this thing flew fast. Screw rules; we choose when to obey! We sped at sixty miles an hour down James Madison Highway.

But a weekend slip is a hassle; teachers make plans fall flat. Asking permission, following rules, no one has time for that.

Everything was running smoothly— we were cruisin’ to KFC— until we hit a raccoon, already dead, and the cart flipped flying free.

We needed a loophole idea to enjoy girls and fast food— anything to escape campus. “I think I’ve got it, dude!”

Bodies thrown across the road must’ve skid thirty feet. Panting, bleeding, somehow alive, we lay there in the street.

That’s when we hatched a wild plan not for the faint of heart. It took a lot of preparation to escape in a souped-up golf cart.

“Every damn bone is broken,” said Bobby, his shuffle like a crawl. Johnny, wincing, stared at the sky, “Hell, at least we got off campus, y’all.”

’77 bronco | spencer goodwin | 13.5 x 11.5 inches | acrylic

modern flux | jang woo park | digital photography

delayed

fiction by ford boney

ne-twenty p.m.: His plane was supposed to have taken off, but here he was still on the ground three hours later. That’s what I get for flying Delta Airlines. The coarse, black fabric of his chair was beginning to dig into the backs of his knees. He wanted to get up, but he had been sitting for so long that movement didn’t feel natural anymore. He had never been fond of staying in one place for an extended period of time; actually he hated the idea of being confined to one location like a caged animal. Even thinking about it, he shuddered. His wife had always pestered him about that. Always nagged him about his inability to be content. Not knowing what else to do, he leaned back and began to rifle through his pockets. Maybe he would find money he didn’t know he had. Nope. Just a tiny dark-blue booklet with a golden stamp and a big wad of white napkins. He placed the napkins in a pile on the seat next to him and began flipping through the book until he landed on his own mug shot. There he was, Michael Brooks, all six-feet,

two-inches of him. Cold, bloodshot, green eyes stared back. It wasn’t a good picture. His blonde stubble was unkempt, and there was a sickly black bruise on his left cheek. It was from the day before when he had gone to see his brother. Good choice, Mike. Mouth slightly ajar, he glared at the mocking brightness of the arrival and departure screens between him and the next row of seats. He had read somewhere that airports designed

That’s what I get for flying Delta Airlines. these seats to manipulate customers. Apparently the rigid arrangement of the chairs simultaneously encouraged sitters to visit the shops and cafes while discouraging any social interaction. Ha, not today airport honchos! I’d rather die in this chair than pump money into your pockets. He heard a stiff yelp and turned to see an elderly woman with black coffee dripping from her hands. The

cup rolled on the floor beneath her feet as she vigorously tried to shake the liquid off of herself. Man, that’s the worst. It’s so hot, you don’t know what to do about it. It’ll probably stain her clothes, and then she’ll be stuck wearing them until she can change, which won’t be anytime soon. She’ll smell like dark roast all day. Although I’d rather smell like coffee than, than, I don’t know, something gross. Yeah, actually coffee smells pretty good, especially in the morning when you just wake up. Yeah, I need some coffee. Seven p.m.: Cup in hand, he paced up and down the terminal, glancing into every store, every alcove that he could see, hoping that something interesting would appear. The coffee wasn’t bad—not as strong as he had been hoping but still, not bad. They had presented it to him like it was some sort of rare artifact that could crumble away at any second if not handled properly. All he had wanted to do was smack it out of the nice lady’s hand just to see her reaction. A patch of purple

cloth caught his eye. A stuffed teddy bear was leaning up against a pillar, its black button eyes following him as he walked. Moments later a little girl no older than four sprinted by, tears flying from her face, anxious mother in tow. “Where is Mr. Cuddles?” she screamed. Mr. Cuddles; what a stupid name. He stopped, eyes fixed on something far in the distance. She had always wanted kids. “Ma’am? Yes, he’s right over there. On that pillar,” he shouted over his shoulder. Ding! “Ladies and gentlemen, we are sorry for the delay, but we will now begin boarding flight number 81 with nonstop service to Miami.” He walked down the jetway and stepped onto the plane. Alright, 26A. Window seat. Loving it. Walking down the aisle, he couldn’t help judging almost everyone he saw. Huge ears. Bad hair. Your dress looks like you threw up on it. Whoa, man, you’re obviously too cool to wear anything other than a sleeveless shirt. He stuffed his bag into the overhead compartment, shoving other bags out of the way to do so. Oh dear God. He had never seen a larger human being. Rolls were oozing from every crack and crevice of the seat. Patchy black tufts of hair protruded from his

head like wiry worms. This guy had to raise the armrest to make room. “Um, hey man. Can I squeeze in next to you? That’s my seat right there.” A pair of sunken eyes met his. No words, just a slight nod followed by a heaving breath, as if that one movement put too much stress on his lungs. A hand landed on his shoulder before he could squeeze into his seat. “Excuse me sir, but could you lift my bag up into the overhead compartment for me? My back isn’t what it used to be.” Behind him was an elderly

Heaven isn’t a super exclusive institution. The price of admission is simple, genuine kindness. man dressed in suit and tie holding a small black leather bag. Though it wasn’t big, it looked like it was weighing him down. “Um, I’m sorry, but airline rules dictate that I not touch anyone else’s personal belongings. I don’t want to get in trouble. Anyhow, I have to go to the bathroom before we take off,” he said, walking toward the back of the plane. “Next time, old-timer.” The little dial on the front of the

door read Vacant. Finally, something is going my way. He opened the door and stepped in. The room was claustrophobically small and smelled of urinal cakes. The little sink was filled with hair, and there were paper towels all over the floor. He turned to face the toilet and did his business, humming to himself. He zipped up and looked down. The seat had been down, and the humming had definitely worsened his aim. Yeah, I think I’m going to have to tap out of this situation. He clicked the flush button and covered his ears. Away it went—down the pipes. Man, if I was the one making these things, I definitely would have designed three or four planes to void all the waste in midair. All the rest would work properly, but these few joke planes would just cover unsuspecting people below. Jesus Christ, that would be great. Clunk! Wait, what was that? He grabbed the door handle, but it didn’t move. You have got to be kidding me. He threw himself against the door, but nothing happened. It was like something very heavy had been placed on the other side. “Alright, Mike, I think I’ve seen enough,” a deep voice said from behind him. He whirled around to find that the bathroom had completely disappeared and in its place was a long, white room lined with pillars. At the end of the room was

a sleek desk with a tall, bearded man leaning on it. He had a very disappointed look on his face. “Where the hell am I?” “This is my office. Nice, right? I think the all-white style really captures the whole afterlife vibe pretty well. Oh, you mean where were you just. That was a proving ground. It’s basically an area where we judge the aptitude of our new arrivals.” “Arrivals?” “Oh, yeah, you died. Alcohol poisoning. Nasty stuff. When they found you, your skin was tinged blue, and you were face down in a puddle of vomit. Nice move.” “I’m…I’m dead?” “Yeah, it takes a while for people to really understand what’s going on, but judging by the expression on your face, you’re almost there.” “Who are you?” “I watch you. The Boss paired me with you when you got here. My assignment was to judge how you handled the situations we threw at you.” “Boss? Wait, God? He’s real? I just thought that was something that parents told their kids so they would be good.” “Well, yes, he is real, but the way you describe him makes me think Santa, not an omniscient, omnipotent celestial being.” “So does that make you St. Pe-

ter? Is this the entrance to heaven?” “No, I’m Hank. I used to work at Home Depot back in the eighties. I fell off a ladder and broke my neck. I just happened to be a devout member of the church, so the Boss gave me this job. How can I best explain this to you? Oh, you know how people who join Alcoholics Anonymous are put in contact with people who beat their addiction? What are they called? Uh, sponsors! Yeah! I’m basically your afterlife sponsor. Wow, kind of ironic that you died of alcohol poisoning, huh?” “So you’re saying that all I just went through was a test?” “Yep! The spilled coffee, the stuffed animal thing, and even that old guy who you refused to help. You see, the Boss doesn’t believe that people are inherently bad, and he likes to give people second chances, and in your case, third and fourth chances. Every time you did something out of the goodness of your heart, which was pretty rarely, you were rewarded via moving forward. You know if you had just given that woman who spilled her coffee some of your napkins, you would have boarded the plane hours before you did? Funny, huh? The Boss is quirky like that.” “So does this mean I passed the test?” “No, Mike. In all honesty, you

failed pretty horribly. All the Boss wanted was just a little human decency. But unfortunately that wasn’t on your agenda today, now was it?” “But that’s not fair! I didn’t know I was being tested!” “That’s the whole point of this. I guess it may have been a little unfair because, come on, who is feeling generous when stuck in an airport? Heaven isn’t a super exclusive institution. The price of admission is simple, genuine kindness.” “So what now? Do I go to hell? Am I going to spend eternity in a pool of fire and brimstone? Is that how this works?” “Nope. You just stay on that airplane.” “What?” “Yep! Like I said, the Boss is pretty quirky like that. I just press this button and back you’ll go. Seat 26A, right? Oh, you got the window seat. Bummer. Also, they don’t serve drinks, and you can’t use the bathroom. You just sit and think about the choices you made for the rest of…ever. Fire and brimstone sounding pretty good now, eh? Enough teasing. I’ll see you around, buddy. Oh, and Mike?” “Yeah?” “Thank you for choosing Delta Airlines!” Click!

tales from syria by david willis

Each day more of Homs lies in rubble, but the world cannot see us; we are invisible. I saw my son, taken by the sea, go far to a land away from war, away from me. My one daughter left her doll at home. A lifetime away, it lies cradled in her brother’s bones. My older brother now has a gun. I wonder which neighbor’s body he looted it from. You told me of democracy, father, yet here I lie as a slave to soldiers, your daughter. As rockets in Ghouta belch sarin, we weep for the children who choke on what seems like air. Dawn in Lebanon is no rebirth. I miss the way the sun shone on our homes, our earth.

The landay is a form of oral poetry championed by the Pashtun women of Pakistan and Afghanistan. These folk couplets are almost scraps of songs. Despite the rigid structure of nine syllables in the first line and thirteen in the second, they lilt melodically with a brutal power. I have adapted this form to fit the voices of another marginalized group from the Middle East: Syrian refugees.

alqu | trip hurley | digital photography >

feathered armor | spencer goodwin | 8 x 11 inches | drypoint print

colophon Call me the darker twin. My brother pulled all sorts of stunts in the fall—being fancy with the line, having a rainbow cover, talking about being “ruffled through”—but that kind of fluff doesn’t work with me. I’m here to captivate. Simple as that. If you want to chill with me, you got to know this stuff, so here are my specs. I’m a semiannual publication (so, yes, I’m a Gemini—get over it). I’ve been Woodberry Forest School’s go-to guy for featuring the best of their literary arts since 1949. I’ve cultivated quite a relationship with Woodberry; that’s 67 years of history together. We’ve been through it all. My parents—a group of guys who wholeheartedly endorse the Oxford comma—decide what I feature based on blind review by student boards. The editors encourage submissions from any member of the Woodberry community. All opinions

expressed are neither mine nor those of Woodberry Forest School but the intellectual property of the authors and artists. Whew, I have to say that every time, but it still gives me chills sounding so official. My creation takes place both inside and outside the academic day. My teenage parents need me more than I need them. Classic. Current editors and faculty advisors select new editors from review boards. Art teacher Kelly Lonergan helps me look my best. The boys in Silicon Valley created the Intel-based iMacs and Adobe CS5 software that gave birth to me. My titles are in Telugu Sangam MN, and my body credits and text are in Adobe Caslon Pro. I and my 949 perfect-bound selves (you read it right: perfect) are printed by McClung Companies in Waynesboro, Virginia. The editors pass out

my older brother in December, but come May, it’s my time to steal the show. For me, the editors harnessed motion through the natural geometry of photographs and art works. Instead of featuring the lines drawn for my brother, they used edges and shapes to sharpen the focus on featured word and image. My spread designer Rob Prater, with the assistance of Adrian Cheung, hopes to leave you with a lasting visual impression. I know I’m a bad boy, but don’t blame me for my attitude; it’s only fitting that I’m a colorful character. Before I forget, I’m a proud member of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association and the National Scholastic Press Association. I’ll miss you when you put me back on the shelf. Swing by again; we’ll have a good time. The Talon

the talon 898 woodberry forest road woodberry forest, va 22989 www.woodberry.org/talon

the talon

the talon, spring 2016 woodberry forest school woodberry forest, va 22989 www.woodberry.org/talon

spring 2016

vol. 67, no. 2