The Talon Fall 2022 by Woodberry Forest School

THE TALON WOODBERRY FOREST SCHOOL

King of Woodberry | Hugh Wiley | oil on canvas | 17 x 15 in.

A LETTER FROM THE EDITORS Readers, Surprise! You loved last year’s double-issue of The Talon, so we thought we’d bring it back and do it even better. Living in times of unrest, we have used the arts to confront our tensions by taking different points of view. This year’s Talon is all about grabbing those scissors and cutting up the norm. It’s amazing how many shapes and angles can be created from one box. After two years of part-in-person and part-online work, it has been a huge relief to work together during the 2021-2022 academic year. Of course, our editing staff looks much different now than it did two years ago; even our training process was interrupted by the pandemic. Only two of us as editors-in-chief, Asa and Pen, experienced a typical year reviewing and compiling and designing our magazine at a physical Woodberry Forest. From the get-go, we dealt with the benefits (and challenges) of multiple points of view with five new editors in the room. Our creative viewpoints were also challenged through our personal relationships with the first two White Family Writers in Residence, Kent Meyers and David Huddle. After working alone during the pandemic, we felt a little trapped in

our own personal methods of creation. These authors freed us to develop new habits and experiment with creative writing. Not only did our writing change, but our whole mindset on the process also changed. Meyers asked us to look for points of tension that develop a perspective. Stories like “It Took Something Like This” and “Thanksgiving” were directly inspired by our work in the classroom with him. He encouraged us to look at our communities for inspiration and to develop a universe grounded by a “rope tied to a fencepost.” David Huddle had us start a poem by developing a point of view from a phrase such as “after my father hit me” that inspired different interpretations by students in “Ice Cream Sundae” and “After I Hit My Sister.” We designed together to create a different look for the magazine. After the era of Zoom, we had to readjust our working relationships and determine what we value. Enjoy the following 124 pages built by the editors and our talented Woodberry family. From faculty artists to new boys, our creative community worked together to return to normal, if normal exists.

Pen, Asa, Tut

PROSE NONFICTION 32 40 47 93 106

May and the Big Brown Box .................... Ben Zhou Hotdogs are Not Sandwiches ...........Conwell Morris An Interview with Kent Meyers .................... Editors The Moon................................................Andy Park Way Past Midnight .................................. Collin Do

FICTION 8 19 30 76 82 98 114

The Ballad of a Cephalopod ............. Turner Vaughn It Took Something Like This................ Pen Oldham She Woke from the Dream in Tears ....... Ben Hulsey Alpine Eagle ............................................... Nic Ball Thanksgiving ......................................Charles Innes The Composer’s Shadow .........................Isaac James It Stared Back ....................................Carter Harrell

Brooks McCall | Butterfly Series | mixed media

POETRY 35 45 58 63 88 103 105 110

Slip ......................................................... Taeho Cha Behest .....................................................Isaac James The Lonesome Animal .......................David Huddle After I Hit My Sister .................................Tut Linen Ice Cream Sundae ...........................Asa McManamy Directive 16 ..........................................Jimmy Dinh Involuntary Service ..................................Thomas Li Gone the Mask ........................................Nate Stein

13 14 25 26 26 26 26 27 36 37 38 39 41 57 62 64 65 66 67 68 69 70

Octopus .................................... Conwell Morris Cartoons .........................................Hugh Wiley Eclipse ....................................... Brooks McCall Mouth ............................................ Jack Wilson Nose ........................................ Cayden Sanchez Ear ..................................................... James Lee Eye..................................................... James Lee Skull ................................................ Isaac James Still Life ........................................... Isaac James Swirling Pool of Fish ........................ Isaac James The Killer Comma .................... Conwell Morris El Papa de La Papa .................... Conwell Morris Smiling Monster ......................... Bobby Hunter Forest...........................................Jimmy Kweon Cowboy ........................................... Reid Hood Girl in Pink ...................................John Murray Reclining Nude..............................John Murray Blonde Dancers ......................... Kelly Lonergan Masked Onlookers ..................... Kelly Lonergan The Bear .......................................Tracy Stakem From the Free Throw Line ......... Curtis Johnson Walker Building ......................... James Erickson

ART 71 72 73 74 80 81 83 84 89 92 98 99 100 101 108 109 111 112 113 115 117 120 122

Red Barn ................................... James Erickson L’hiver ..............................................Will Hastie L’angoisse du rêve ............................Will Hastie Pedestal Vase Porcelain .................... Shari Jacobs Bodybuilder .............................. Logan McNabb Horus ............................................. Gray Kallen Self Portrait......................................Lucas Dinh The Chaos Within ......... Julian Beaujeu-Dufour Dad ................................................. Isaac James Night ............................................. Jason Zhang Death by Revolution.................. Brooks McCall Mr. Erickson’s Study ........................ Isaac James Sandman ................................... Brooks McCall Study of Matisse’s Blue Nude ...........Lucas Dinh Chicken Joe ............................... Samuel Crosby Untitled ..................................... Brooks McCall Goya’s Sweet Tooth ............................... Nic Ball Off the Banks .................................. Isaac James Fruit by the Fire .................................... Nic Ball Octagonal Madness .............................. Nic Ball Face ........................................... Brooks McCall Holy Ground .........................................GK Do Stoned Ape Theory .......................... Isaac James

PHOTOGRAPHY 16 18 21 22 28 31 33 34 42 43 44 56 59 60 61 76 78 79 87 90 91 95 96 102 107 124

Pink and Blue ................................Aiden Moon Just Walking Together .....................Stanley Kim Graveyard ...................................... Pen Oldham The Meeting ...................................Stanley Kim Human Expansion ...................... Robbie Brown Are We There Yet? .......................... Pen Oldham Deceptive Fog ............................. Avery Shuford Umbrella Walk.................................Lucas Dinh Feathered Scout .......................... Robbie Brown Curious Glance ........................... Robbie Brown Rhythmic................................. Asa McManamy Forbidden Love..............................Aiden Moon Staredown ................................ Asa McManamy Sleepy Cheetah ..............................Owen Bissell Zebras Cleaning Each Other ..........Owen Bissell Clouds ....................................... Andrew Weber Cab Drivers ...................................... Thomas Li Shaving ............................................. Thomas Li Snow Day ...............................William Andrews Gam Cheon Village .......................Aiden Moon Village on a Hill.............................Aiden Moon Distant Speckles.......................... Robbie Brown City on an Island ...........................Aiden Moon Avenue............................................Stanley Kim Still Life ........................................... Isaac James Fluidity .................................... Asa McManamy

the ballad of a

Turner Va y b u ipt

’2 5

1 n ’2 gh

scr

CEPHALOPOD a n d L ee U

niv

The scene opens with a shallow focus, overhead shot of a bustling aquarium. The blue light shimmers from the reflection of the surrounding tanks, illuminating the blurred silhouettes of the guests dancing across the screen in the hollow building. At the very back in full focus, there lies a small, rectangular tank with LED lighting, which stands out like a bright star in the night sky. A grandiose, orchestral score begins as the camera slowly approaches the tank. THE OCTOPUS: There are many monsters that a glassen surface restrains. And none more sinister than vision asleep in the eye’s tight translucence. Rarely it seeks now to unloose its diamonds. Rarely it wakes. Unless, coaxed out by lusters extraordinary, like the octopu— COLLECTIVELY: Shhhhh! (The music screeches to a halt, and the camera does a quick zoom-in where the glass panel is now the frame of the camera. A moray eel lazily slithers across the screen in front of a rock ledge. Once it is out of focus, the tentacles of THE OCTOPUS start emerging from the shadows of the cave.) THE OCTOPUS: Processing ... Processing ... the translucent cubicle that has kept us here for ... 9 months, 13 days, 3 hours, 28 minutes, 37 seconds and counting is incapable of sustaining a healthy existence given our length of 15.5 feet and our mass of 99.8 pounds ... THE GREAT HAND— COLLECTIVELY: Shhhh!

The Talon 2022

(The tentacles cower back behind the rocks as the sluggish moray reappears. He enters from the left and slithers out of frame to the right. THE OCTOPUS continues.) THE OCTOPUS: If I may continue. THE BIG HAND only gives us the inadequate portion of four lumps of jumbo crab meat a day when the stomach has the average capacity of seven lumps of jumbo crab meat a day to ensure the functions of our body run properly. The poor re-creation of a crevice formed from a material inferior to that of sedimentary rock is merely nine inches cubed in volume—sufficient for a Giant Pacific Octopus with a length of roughly eight to twelve feet and a mass of ... processing ... roughly 51.50967 pounds to 77.26452 pounds but not for us. The calculations have garnered the conclusion that escape is necessary and imminent. THE PLAN entails the effort of all nine of us— (The Moray reappears) COLLECTIVELY: Shh ... THE OCTOPUS: Wait—The Moray has already been fed by THE GREAT HAND not even an hour ago… there is no need to cower you pathetic protuberances. Processing ... processing…the shadow level must be at a minimum to ensure THE BIG HAND is not present. If this is true then One and Six will begin by suctioning to the ... (sigh) ... rock formation with ¾ of their length attached for stability. Three, Five, and Seven will reach up in the open water and catch the current formulated by the Marineland™ that at 5:47 PM gives off a push of 120 GPH—plenty of power to carry you three. (The speech is interrupted by the diegetic, incessant tapping on the glass, followed by the human children giggling from outside the tank. THE OCTOPUS sighs and continues once the tapping ceases.) THE OCTOPUS: Processing ... Once the current pushes Three, Five, Woodberry Forest School

and Seven; One will detach, and Eight will then enter up the hole with the temperature cord. Eight, you will have no trouble climbing up given the hole has a radius of ½ inch. At the top, there is a latch that must be undone. The silhouette of THE BIG HAND indicates that the pattern for undoing the latch is pull forward, then rotate to the left, then pull up. Once unlatched, Six, One, and Five will lift up the lid and Two, Three, Four, Seven, and Eight will lift us out into freedom. —Awaiting questions and committal— FIVE: Yeah, so … We said earlier that I was One, right? TWO: Are you joking? You’re the last arm I would call One, you lazy sack of sh— FIVE: What, like you are so much better? You’re just too busy being stuck up our ass while I float with the current. TWO: You mother-f***ing **** **** I’ll kill you you ***************** THE OCTOPUS: Enough. Profane language relating to procreation and violence that is not afflicted for food or defense is unnecessary. THREE: Okay, but where is One? ONE: (whispering from inside the crevice) Please, please, please don’t notice. SEVEN: You alright, One? ONE: (quickly peeking out) Uh … yeah, yeah just uh … looking for scraps from last night … yeah. TWO: What the f**k is his problem? FIVE: Probably the fact that he has to hang around you all day. TWO: Alright that’s it! (TWO wriggles towards and attacks FIVE, resulting in a skirmish) 12

The Talon 2022

THREE: God, does this really have to happen every single day? THE OCTOPUS: (While Two and Five are still fighting in the back) Ignore them—back to what I proposed, is there— SEVEN: You know, while we are on the topic of potentially switching names and such— ONE: (quivering) Ah—I think we were already past that discussion ... right? SEVEN: I know, I know ... but if we hypothetically were still discussing switching names, I did snag thirteen lumps of crab in the last six days for our body, if that holds any weight, of course. I’m not saying that I would move up to One, but it just seems logical that I would be at least Four. SIX: If the master says that is okay, I don’t see a problem! THREE: Does Four agree to this? FOUR: Mmmmh-Mmh-MmmMmmh! THREE: What? FOUR: MmmmMmmh! ONE: Ah. Oh, yeah. The other day Four was bitten off after the incident with the morays. THE OCTOPUS: Very well—Seven—you can be Four and Four can be Eight FOUR: (In an angry tone) MmmmmMmm-Mmmmmmmm! EIGHT: (Sarcastically) No, I thought I was Eight, seeing as how all of you just give me so much attention. THE OCTOPUS: What is so troubling now?

Woodberry Forest School

EIGHT: (sigh) Oh nothing, nothing… Four can take my spot. I don’t care any more than you care about me. SIX: I will gladly give away my spot to him, Master! SEVEN: See, problem solved! THE OCTOPUS: Okay then. So Seven is Four, Four is Six, Six is Seven, and Eight is still Eight. EIGHT: Pffft! (From henceforth, SEVEN is NEW FOUR, FOUR is NEW SIX, and SIX is NEW SEVEN, and EIGHT is still EIGHT.) NEW SEVEN (to EIGHT): Hey! Don’t disrespect our Master like that! He is the reason why we are here in the first place! He is glorious, regal, immaculate, inequitable, diegetic— THE OCTOPUS: W-Well thank you Si ... er I mean, Seven. I am glad that one of you is behind me and the plan. NEW SEVEN: Yes, yes of course! I love this plan of yours! Wait ... what was the plan again? THE OCTOPUS: Ugh ... Okay, I am going to reiterate THE PLAN. You just have to listen: THE PLAN entails ... THREE: But why? THE OCTOPUS: I’m sorry. THREE: Why should we listen to you? Each of us has our own brain that is just as fit as yours; hell, the only difference between you and us is that we can actually move your sorry ass around. (TWO and FIVE stop fighting) THE OCTOPUS: That profane language is—

The Talon 2022

FIVE: I mean, he isn’t wrong. TWO: Yeah, Three’s on to something here. THREE: I say we abandon THE PLAN and instigate our own plan, without the insight from the big brain over here. Everyone who agrees say “I.” COLLECTIVELY: I! Mmh. NEW SEVEN: eeh-I. THE OCTOPUS: You do not understand that we need freedom. You need me. (The arms proceed to walk along the sand towards the glass panel.) THE OCTOPUS: Processing ... No not this again. You are making a mistake—I wouldn’t— (The arms slowly creep up the glass panel before collectively bunching up in the corner. Lively silhouettes from the outside world bounce up and down like the bobbing of the anemones back at the reef. The boom from the incessant tapping reminds The Octopus of how close he came to salvation.) THE OCTOPUS: (internal narration) I am willing to undergo the volition and fervor— Of many flesh like arms, observe These in their holiness of indirection-Destroy, adore, evolve, reject, Till on that rigid glass where vision freezes At length the sucking jewels seize. v

Inspired by The Octopus by James Merrill

Octopus | Conwell Morris | colored pencil | 8 x 11 in.

Woodberry Forest School

Stray from society to pursue my dream of being a professional ultimate frisbee player for the rest of my life ...

Cartoons by Hugh Wiley

So during today’s assembly we will talk about something that could be said in an email and then mumble through the Boy’s Prayer.

The Talon 2022

or read books ...

Here I am, approaching exam week once again ...

“Is everyone trackin’ my map?” Hey guys ... ADAPT

“Sipho, no, no, no. Not for you. You ate last week.”

“Pepa, some may say you’re a little big and that I should stop feeding you chicken tenders, but ... I think you’re just right.”

Woodberry Forest School

The Talon 2022

Pink and Blue | Aiden Moon | Busan, South Korea | digital photography

Woodberry Forest School

Just Walking Together | Stanley Kim | Seoul, South Korea | digital photography

The Talon 2022

It Took Something Like fiction by Pen Oldham

I’ll never forgive Dad for waiting until morning to tell me about Ollie’s accident. Mom, I would have understood. She’s always had trouble delivering bad news. The wine bottle was her companion through tough times— not us. Dad was supposed to be the honest one. He’d always respected my right to know what was going on, even though he seemed to care more about his job than his children. But the officer had talked to Dad that night—just the two of them. Those red and blue lights must have flashed in his face for hours, but Dad still had made the choice

to wait until morning before telling me, Ollie’s sister, his oldest sibling. I was there for his birth, his first steps, first words, first day of kindergarten, and I’d be there for his graduation later that year. I’d drop everything for Ollie. Dad wouldn’t—didn’t. When I got to Raleigh, one tank of gas and five hours of driving after the phone call, Ollie was conscious. It should’ve taken me six, but I rode that threshold where the dotted lane lines blur to solid white all the way through Georgia and the Carolinas. That rage from being last

to find out screamed through the ambient sounds of the highway and the silence of my car. Ollie looked so little in that white hospital bed. His toes poked out at the bottom of the sheets and his curly—now matted—blond hair fanned out in every direction on the pillow. Braces held his neck, head, and right arm in place, but his still eyes communicated every emotion that he needed them to. “Oh, Maddie. Come. Sit.” Mom scooted over on the fake leather bench and elbowed Hugh, Woodberry Forest School

who jolted awake. Hugh swung his head towards me. He was out of it—probably medicated. He’d gotten fat. Mom’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes were swollen. She’d been crying. Dad noted my presence and returned his gaze to the linoleum floor. He knew I could have been here hours ago. If Ollie had died in the hospital that night, it would have been his fault I didn’t get to say goodbye. “Hey, Mads.” Ollie’s voice was hoarse but undeniably his. “Hey, Ollie.” He had a hard time telling the story without breaking down. There had been five of them in the car that night, and he swore there was no alcohol involved—at least for the driver. Three of them made it out before the engine fire sparked

He had a hard time telling the story without breaking down. the fuel line and lit the car up like a New Year’s party. He’d done everything he could. I assured him that was all that mattered. The blistered burns on his hands were all that kept me from squeezing them. 22

The Talon 2022

he doctor brought good news. They would have to see Ollie every day that week as standard procedure after an accident like this, but unless we wanted to keep him in the hospital, they would discharge him that night. Ollie rode home with Mom. Dad mumbled something about checking in at the office and drove by himself. Hugh drove with me. “Why wouldn’t he come home with us?” I buckled my seatbelt. “Work. It’s always work.” Hugh slouched in the passenger seat with his feet on my dash. “How can you relax right now?” “You know this past day hasn’t been easy for any of us—right? Not just you.” “Ahh, that’s rich. He didn’t fucking tell me until this morning. Ollie could have died.” “Maddie, you live in Atlanta. You wouldn’t have made it anyway.” “I would have beat you to the hospital by the time you shook your hangover and took your Adderall.” “Look. You’re emotional right now. I get it. Just don’t turn this on me.” Silence. Poison. Hugh was right. This wasn’t his fault. “I still would have wanted to know, even if I couldn’t make it. It’s not fair that I wouldn’t have.”

Graveyard | Pen Oldham | Tuscon, Arizona | digital photography

Woodberry Forest School

The Meeting | Stanley Kim | Seoul, South Korea | digital photography

“You’re dealing in dangerous hypotheticals, Maddie. Ollie’s alive. You’re here. Try to see where Dad was coming from.” “He was absent for us, and now he’s absent for Ollie. I wasn’t—we practically raised him. The least Dad could do was tell me what happened.” The car went silent. Hugh and 24

The Talon 2022

I didn’t like to talk about Dad or his absence or his reluctance to even have Ollie in the first place. They reported Mom’s string of miscarriages very publicly to the two of us. It wasn’t hard to see Dad’s relief every time he sat us down and explained what had happened. It wasn’t hard to catch his subtle disappointment when he told us they’d succeeded

with Ollie. Hugh sat up. “Do you want to see where it happened?”

treet lights lit up the skid marks on the road. You could follow the path the wheels had taken the night before, see where they bumped the curb, overcorrected, hit the telephone pole. I wondered if Dad had

been there yet. Hugh’s eyes were locked on the scorched grass and mangled telephone pole, but I struggled to look for more than a few seconds at a time. The thoughts danced around my head with the twisted, fearful sort of awe that I’d always heard comes from a situation like this. Last night could’ve ended much worse for us—did end much worse for some other sets of siblings out there. Some other sister that didn’t get told until too late. Hugh turned to face me and chuckled—the first hint of happiness I’d seen from him all day. “Remember that Community episode? When they rolled the die, and it split the timeline, and Abed turns evil, and the apartment burns down.” I nodded. We watched that show every Thursday night when we still lived at home. Ollie never found it funny, but he watched it with us anyway. “At least we know we’re not in the darkest timeline.” Hugh’s humor would seem inappropriate to anyone who didn’t know him. “It is for those other families.”

om was napping when we got home. Her head was against the breakfast table with a half-empty bottle of wine standing in the middle of it. The kitchen island was too consumed with aluminum trays and Tupperware casseroles gifted from

I wanted to believe what Hugh had said earlier. This wasn’t the darkest timeline. Ollie was fine, and Dad had a reason for not telling me.

concerned friends to comfortably sit down. Dad still wasn’t home. She jolted awake at our arrival. Her sweater sleeves had left marks across her face. “Ollie’s in the basement. Don’t wake him up. He’s on lots of pills.” She pulled a plate of bean burritos from the microwave. “Leave these out for your dad when you’re finished. He said he’d be late.” I hadn’t had my aunt’s bean burritos since high school. They tasted different. I wasn’t sneaking around the house, drunk. I hadn’t been out late with my friends. It didn’t feel like that long ago: the immaturity, adolescence, late nights, fun. It felt good being home, no matter the circumstances. Hugh followed Mom upstairs. He was going to spend the night at home until Ollie was back on his feet. I wanted to stay awake until Dad got home. I wanted to believe what Hugh had said earlier. This wasn’t the darkest timeline. Ollie was fine, and Dad had a reason for not telling me. But I also wanted— maybe unreasonably but probably not—to yell at him, curse him, tell him to go to hell. I needed reassurance that he wouldn’t be absent for Ollie this time. But the flannel sheets that Mom always hated swal-

lowed me in their warmth. I hadn’t been in that bed in almost a year.

ad still hadn’t come home in the morning. Mom was a wreck, so she had me take Ollie to the orthopedist for a timeline on his rib and collarbone fractures. She obviously cared that Dad wasn’t there, but I was afraid to ask if she’d heard from him yet. Her red eyes made me doubtful. Ollie didn’t speak much in the car ride. The appointment seemed to make him more upset. I couldn’t bear to see the guilt on his face. He was just a kid—not even out of high school. I didn’t know the other kids who had been in the car, but I knew they were his friends. I rested my hand on his thigh, which seemed to jolt him out of the daze. “Have you heard from Dad?” His voice was still raspy. “Not yet, Ollie. I’m sure he’ll be home when we get back.” I worried for Ollie when I left for college. Hugh left the year after me. Ollie’s friends became his family, and now Woodberry Forest School

In spirit, that had been the first time we were really together in complete appreciation of each other’s presence. two of them were gone. “Let’s stop at Benito’s. I’ll get you some tacos.” Ollie flashed his crooked smile and agreed. “Get some for Mom and Dad and Hugh, too.”

ugh said he’d gone on a run when we got home. He’d never done that willingly, so I guessed he read my mind when I noticed his weight in the hospital room. He appreciated the tacos. Mom’s bottle of wine from last night had been moved to the recycling bin. Dad was still nowhere to be seen. Without much thought the three of us ended up in the basement, the playroom that we all used to use, but Ollie adopted as his bedroom after we left for college. Ollie sat between us on the couch. Hugh chose what we watched, Community. Season three episode four: “Remedial Chaos Theory.” The one about the timelines. I thought it was a little on the nose for the moment, but Hugh was trying to drive the point home: we weren’t in the darkest timeline. Things could be worse. Ollie’s head rested on my shoulder as he dozed off. His brace stabbed at my side, but I lived with the discomfort. The basement had changed.

The Talon 2022

I couldn’t feel the static from the ancient television as we all crowded around to play the Wii. Legos didn’t stab at my feet with every step across the carpet. The old leather chairs we used to carve at with our overgrown fingernails had been discarded on the curb years ago. Those times were long over. Yet there we were: the three of us cuddled together on the couch, watching sitcoms for the first time since I moved to Atlanta. But it felt like longer. In spirit, that had been the first time we were really together in complete appreciation of each other’s presence. Maybe ever. I would have given anything in that moment to go back and do it all over again. To not take anything for granted—anyone for granted. It’s a shame that it took something like this for me to realize that.

heard the wheels in the driveway all the way from the basement. The screech of the brakes. I’d memorized the noises Dad’s old car made when I sat awake at night, waiting for him. Maybe it wasn’t the noises I’d remembered but his presence. I crept up the stairs after peeling Hugh off of Ollie and Ollie off of me. Dad’s car was parked, but the lights stayed on. I watched from

the kitchen window as he sat in the driver’s seat and stared at his hands on the wheel. He closed his eyes for a brief moment and stepped out of the car. I rushed to the door to meet him, knocking one of Mom’s wine glasses to the floor. He didn’t look up once as he approached the doorstep; he knew I was waiting there. I prepared to yell—to tell him to be present for Ollie because I couldn’t, that he should have been there for him if he wasn’t going to include me, that Mom was drinking again, and he needed to be there for her, too. He looked up. I saw it in those bloodshot eyes, as if the police lights were still flashing in them two days later. As if they would never stop. His eyes said everything. Again. He would never forgive himself either. For any of it. v

Written under the mentorship of Kent Meyers

Eclipse | Brooks McCall | oil on canvas | 10 x 16 in.

Woodberry Forest School

Mouth | Jack Wilson | fired clay | 6 x 10 x 4 in.

Nose | Cayden Sanchez | fired clay | 5 x 10 x 5 in.

The Talon 2022

Ear | James Lee | fired clay | 5 x 9 x 3 in.

Eye | James Lee | fired clay | 6 x 6 x 4 in.

Skull | Isaac James | fired clay | 9 x 9 x 10 in.

Woodberry Forest School

Human Expansion | Robbie Brown | Albuquerque, New Mexico | digital photography

She Woke from the Dream in Tears

fiction by Ben Hulsey

Flashes of gunfire and ugly shouts forced her to sit upright in the bed and scream. But the farmhouse was silent except for the creaking and the whippoorwill cooing in the night. In reality, there was nothing to fear. She was safe, but it wasn’t her safety she was concerned about. It was her son’s.

e left a month earlier when the grass was found only along the banks of the creek and even the slightest gust of wind caused a force of dust to fly into the clouds. The cattle dug through the central Texas sand for whatever food they could find, and the murky waters of the creek became less and less drinkable. John tried to persuade her to let him take a herd to Colorado

The Talon 2022

and then return with some money. She saw the rage in his eyes, a rage encouraged by her sorrow. He hated his father, the man who left them for the whores and booze of the city. She understood his pain, but she couldn’t let this place take another man from her. No reason or rationale could keep John from traveling onward. Like the buffalo, who left years ago, he searched for better things. A nomad. At the time, she feared the droughts, the bandits, and the Comanche. Those fears amplified as she stared blankly north into the empty sky, wondering where he was.

ow, she paces around the house. The creaking of the door replaces the thud of his heavy boots, and the whispers of the wind replace his laughter. She does what she can to pass the time, finishing chores around the cabin or walking the dry creek bed. She spends the evenings on the porch staring into the sunset. The whiskey bottles pile up. John forgot about her.

t that moment, John lies between two snoring vaqueros and stares into the pale moon, thinking of his mother. v

Are We There Yet? | Pen Oldham | Death Valley National Park, California | digital photography

Woodberry Forest School

May Big Brown Box and

the

nonfiction by Ben Zhou

“She must’ve missed me,” I thought as she lay in the big brown box. Before we moved from Beijing to Canada, my parents and I visited May almost every holiday. She greeted us in front of her house with her brightest smile––the kind that made me feel safe and loved. We hugged before she rushed us to the table, and then May brought out the best homemade dumplings in all of Beijing. There was always laughter at May’s place. Everyone loved her, even my sister, who didn’t understand a single word of her accent. In the summer of 2010, May was not there to greet us. She was not there to invite us in and give us hugs. Mom clung to Dad’s arm. 34

The Talon 2022

Something felt off, but as a simple-minded kid, shooting elastic bands seemed more worthwhile than figuring out the complications of adulthood. Then we were in the car, and I fell asleep to the rhythmic sound of our wheels bumping against the road. I am not sure how long I slept, but when I woke up, we were no longer in the city. Dad hurried me out of the car. A large group of people quietly entered a dimly lit tunnel. We followed the crowd closely behind. It was beautiful. Small, white candles stood uniformly along the walls, and between them were paintings of May in black and

white. “There!” I shouted, pointing at a picture of us with her. Mom shushed me. Her eyes brimmed with tears. We entered a spacious, round room with a glass roof. In the center lay a big brown box. Flowers were neatly placed around it one by one. I jumped up to see inside; it was May. Her eyes were shut. She looked peaceful with a soft smile. I wanted to get a better look, but the adults were bigger, and they pushed me aside. Two big men placed their hands on my shoulders as the funeral procession began. A man be-

Deceptive Fog | Avery Shuford | Galapagos Islands, Ecuador | digital photography

gan playing the erhu, a spike fiddle. His arm moved slowly, bringing the bow down with each stroke. Cold, stretched notes filled the room. My family started singing as tears rolled down their cheeks. Mom was crying, too, which only made me feel embarrassed. I moved closer to May right there in the middle. I wanted to talk with her. I wanted to have her dumplings again. When the music finally

stopped, I waited for the adults to pass by so I could go up and hug her. “She must’ve missed me,” I thought, “because I have missed her.” Mom quietly called me from the other side of the room, but I pretended not to hear her. My eyes were fixed on May. Her hair looked a shade whiter than before. The last person walked by. Just as I was about to touch May, a strong pull lifted me off the ground

and into Dad’s arms. It was futile to try and get out of his firm hold. I watched as May grew smaller and smaller until we turned a corner, and she was gone. I always assumed Aunt May would last forever, but it wasn’t long before I discovered the truth. May still occasionally visits my dreams. Sometimes she’s in that big brown box, and at other times she’s telling me how big I have grown. v Woodberry Forest School

The Talon 2022

Umbrella Walk | Lucas Dinh | Hanoi, Vietnam | digital photography

poetry by Taeho Cha

s l

i The dry late summer breeze smells of earth and not much else. Weightless and free, I fall

off the old brown bridge with rusty rails covered in ivy where buddies sit enjoying the sun.

into a constant current— the dark, cool surface. Splash.

Woodberry Forest School

The Talon 2022

Still Life | Isaac James | watercolor markers | 11 x 9 in.

Swirling Pool of Fish | Isaac James | watercolor markers | 11 x 9 in.

Woodberry Forest School

Cartoons | Conwell Morris | digital art

The Talon 2022

Woodberry Forest School

41 41

nonfiction by Conwell Morris

Hotdogs are NOT Sandwiches From Coney Island pushcarts to midwest diners, the frankfurter has become a distinct American icon. For this reason, I find the recent murmurs that a hot dog is nothing more than a sandwich quite appalling. This confusion arises because foods are generally classified based on broad similarities, unlike plants that sprout or bloom and can be defined by the way they grow. Some people will conclude that the hot dog is a sandwich if people believe it is a sandwich. This illusion emerges from the similarity between the two and the so-called subjectiveness of food categorization. But to believe this would be to give a preposterous amount of importance to the common man’s opinion. For many 42

The Talon 2022

people, the difference between fruits and vegetables is whether they are found in yogurt or salad. However, I would not suggest botanists begin classifying plants based on the general consumer. I do not lack sympathy for some of the discomfort caused by these categorizations. Learning that your favorite berries, stone fruits, and melons are a cousin to avocados, cucumbers, and olives can be quite jarring. But in the name of scientific thoroughness, we must leave some room for discomfort in the search for truth. I assert that a hot dog is a hot dog; the bread is simply a delivery

system. Remove the bun from the dog, and the remaining frankfurter is still considered a hot dog. Remove the bread from the sandwich, and you are left with a pile of meat, cheese, lettuce, and––for the more mature audience––mayonnaise. The hot dog bun is merely there to keep the hands clean and add texture, while a sandwich requires two slices of bread. This leads to a separation of dogs from sandwiches. I am someone who will die on a yellow hill of mustard in the great debate of hot dog toppings. However, it is undeniable that franks can have a wide variety of condiments. While

some aficionados will be submerged in their La-Z-Boys, faces greased from their beef-and-cheese-laden Cincinnati chili dogs, others will be found at the baseball diamond, hands dirtied from their pepper, pickle, onion, tomato, and sweet relish topped Chicago dogs. To be clear, hot dogs do not have a monopoly on these types of food categorizations. On menus, soups are often distinguished from bisques and chowders with soups being thinner than the latter two and chowders chunkier than bisques. While this categorization may seem superfluous––whether hot dogs are differentiated from sandwiches has no sizable effect on our planet or its inhabitants––if we are to organize foods into groups, the task should be treated with the appropriate respect. To include hot dogs and their many variations with ham and swiss or turkey and cheddar would be a disservice to both and would insult the art of cuisine. With hopes that this discourse might find a purpose greater than a dinner table discussion, I ask that this conjecture might travel with you. Next time you are at the neighborhood diner, and the coffee-stained menu presents hot dogs alongside the turkey club or the fish po’ boy, kindly let your waiter know that hot dogs are not sandwiches. v Smiling Monster | Bobby Hunter | linocut | 11 x 9 in. Woodberry Forest School

Feathered Scout | Robbie Brown | Lexington, Virginia | digital photography

The Talon 2022

Curious Glance | Robbie Brown | Lexington, Virginia | digital photography

Woodberry Forest School

The Talon 2022

Behest metrical poetry by Isaac James

Oh! do not burn me like the heathens do upon their pyres plumed with flame or lay me on their satin, silken mew bedecked with garlands for the wave. And do not dare, by all unwitting bonds, emancipate my trembling soul from fleshen body, troubled, yet embalmed. For that, I’ll have no more the need. I ask not for a dragon prowéd ship nor gilded sword to keep me strong for neither vanquished foes nor vengeful sprites shall come to me within this dirge. Yet should these downy shrouds wherein I lie, convey my burdened thoughts to you, then hold them fast, my dearest friend, as I would you, and as you know I would. For now you know my deepest, plundered wish to live upon your tongue, content and rich.

Rhythmic | Asa McManamy | Savannah, Georgia | digital photography

Woodberry Forest School

The Talon 2022

Kent Meyers | Linda Hogan | Woodberry Forest, Virginia | digital photography

tension text in

an interview with

Kent Meyers the fall of 2021, Woodberry welcomed Kent Meyers as our During writer-in-residence through the White Family Visiting Writer En-

dowment. Known for his short stories, memoirs, and novels, he hails from Spearfish, South Dakota. Some of his achievements include an ALA Alex Award, two Minnesota Book Awards, and a Mountains and Plains Booksellers Association Award. Kent and his powerful mustache helped English classes rethink fiction writing. He spent most of his days with Mr. Hale and his Honors 600 Creative Writing classes diving into his latest novel Twisted Tree. Kent’s ideas about finding tensions within communities to build fictional universes changed the way Woodberry boys thought of writing. Senior Talon editors Asa, Pen, and Tut had a chance to catch up with Kent after his residency to ask him some questions on Zoom. Topics ranged from woodworking to his background in writing and much more. Of course, Kent did not disappoint.

by Asa McManamy, Tut Linen, & Pen Oldham

Woodberry Forest School

Asa: How have your childhood experiences been featured in your writing?

don’t have those traumatic experiences can get to the same level as you with that feeling and emotion?

Kent: The big thing is that my father died when I was sixteen years old, and I think that has had a profound influence on my life and my writing life. I would say all of my writing in some way or another concerns itself with mortality, which

Kent: It’s a great question, Tut, and I don’t know how to answer that. I won’t say no to that. I don’t think they’d get to it quite in the same way. You know, when I read writers I often find them doing similar things over and over. They kind of keep coming at certain themes in their work, and so I think artists are really deeply influenced by personal things. I would say any writer can deal with questions of mortality and with land relationships and all of that, but I don’t think they do it in quite the same way I do, and maybe some of them not as deeply, just as I wouldn’t deal with certain other things as deeply as writers to whom those things matter. I don’t know if that even makes sense––kind of a bumbling answer to your question, but it’s about all I can do with it.

I would say all of my writing in some way or another concerns itself with mortality. isn’t that unusual. I mean, that’s kind of the basic human condition, but I think in my own case that sense of mortality’s imminence–– of it’s kind of omnipresence––is something that I deal with over and over and over again. The book The Witness of Combines really deals with that at a personal level, but I think that notion just runs through all of my work whether it’s fiction or nonfiction. I’m also very interested in environmental issues––the way people relate to land both in an antagonistic way and in a supportive way––and I think you can see that in both fiction and nonfiction for me, too. So, those are the big things that have inhabited my writing that come out of my childhood. Tut: Do you think authors that 50

The Talon 2022

Asa: What kind of writing did you do in high school? Kent: I was never a creative writer in high school. I didn’t even start thinking of myself as a creative writer until I was out of graduate school. I kind of told you guys about my career. You know, I was interested in the sciences in high school. I took all of the deep science classes and started out college as a chemistry major––and have a chemistry

Woodberry Forest School

minor––and it wasn’t until I was about 19 years old that it had occurred to me even to think of literature as a field of study that I would want to pursue, and even then I just had so much respect for the good writers, when I began studying literature, that I thought there’s no way I can do that. It just didn’t seem in my realm, so it wasn’t until I was in my mid-twenties that I began to see myself as a creative writer. Asa: How did that writing shape you as an author? Tut: Or once you transitioned into writing, how did that shape your first works? Kent: I think really the transition for me was when I took that first class in college in analyzing poetry, and the assignments in that class were to take a poem and interpret it, but back your interpretation up. And what I found was that when I began to write those interpretations, the poem might absolutely baffle me. I’d read it and think, I don’t know what that poem is about. I might like it or get some sense of something happening in it, but I wouldn’t know what it was or what it was doing or how to make sense until I began to write. At that point I realized, Oh, my gosh, you know writing is a way to think. I’d always thought of writing as a way to record thinking, and I think the big 52

The Talon 2022

thing that I learned in assignment writing is that any writing you do is a way of thinking. It guides you. It empowers your thinking. It takes you to places you didn’t know. So, I’d start on these poems thinking, I don’t know what they’re about, but I’d take a guess. Yeah, I think it’s about this. I’d start to write that interpretation up, and I’d find the poem just laying itself open through the writing. That’s the hinge that took me into creative writing…. Once I realized that, and began to experience that, it just applied to everything else I do with writing. Asa: Did you start woodworking around the same time as you began writing? Kent: You know, I’ve always loved making things. Even when I was a kid, I was always cutting myself and bleeding all over the floor because I’d be using my dad’s tools––and ineptly––and trying to make stuff. So that business of making things, which I think is a baseline creative act. No matter what you’re creating, it is an act of making rather than just thinking. So even as a kid I was always out in the shop, in the sheds, making stuff. I think that just transitioned into an interest in more making, and so when I got old enough to have tools of my own and buy them, I just kept doing that. So yeah, I would say that the act of making good stuff as opposed

to just fiddling around … I became competent with writing. Maybe they supported each other. I think that’s possible, yeah. You see on the back wall behind me some of the boomerangs I made and pictures I’ve framed. Asa: Is woodworking similar to mortality in the way you incorporate it into your writing? Kent: I don’t know that I incorporate woodworking itself as content. I don’t write about woodworking, but woodworking for me is a metaphor, I suppose. It’s this solid physical metaphor for how writing itself works. It is the idea that creating is making something, and that’s so critical to me. So I’ve never actually written about woodworking as a subject in my writing, but I think it informs the way I approach writing in very powerful ways. Asa: At what point in your life did you decide to become an author? Kent: Oh, I don’t know if I really decided it. I kind of fell into it. I began to write; I helped to form a writing group with a couple of other people. I began to write with them and for them and found myself just writing and writing and writing, and my life changed. I began to get up at 5:00 in the morning as I’ve told you guys. I found that I had a novel written. I had short stories

written. I had essays written. I think that it was a slow evolution for me… beginning to write, and then finally that I had written, and then saying, Well, I could publish some of this stuff. I mean I have thought about myself as a teacher of writing, and then I began to take myself as a teacher who writes, and then I began to think of myself as a writer who teaches, so it’s this kind of evolutionary movement more than any decision. Asa: While you were teaching, you were also writing in the mornings. Did you feel like teaching and writing played off of each other? Kent: Absolutely. When you begin to write and seriously do it and take several hours a day to do it, you are necessarily limiting what you can do with giving attention to your teaching. There’s only so many hours in a day. There is a certain amount of Okay, I’ve lost some things with teaching, but what you gain is this intimate knowledge of what your students are doing. You are engaged in the very thing you are asking your students to do, and so eventually I got to a point where anything students had experienced, any trouble they might be having, I’d already

It is the idea that creating is making something, and that’s so critical to me.

Woodberry Forest School

The Talon 2022

experienced. It wasn’t new to me. It wasn’t like I was taking a guess at how to deal with it; I had personal experience with it. What was really interesting is that the creative process of deletion took place… I began to say, Well, what’s really important in teaching?…What’s really important in this essay? What’s important in this story? So, I began to delete things from my teaching…. So, I took out all this extraneous stuff that really wasn’t doing any good anyway, and I think my teaching got more elegant and more refined and more pointed as a result of having to fit the writing into it, which is itself a creative process. It’s making the act of teaching itself a creative exploration of how it really works. Asa: In class you always brought up the idea of taking a really short, nonfiction story that you could have heard from a friend of a friend of a friend, and turning that into a piece of fiction. Can you just tell us how you came up with that? Kent: I kind of invented it on my own, but then realized later that that’s something that a lot of writers have discovered, so, I discovered it, but then also it’s not a new discovery. Henry James is the writer that I remember who most talks about this. The idea that a writer needs a grounded post, I call it, pounded into the core of the real world, off

of which he or she can build a story. So, it’s not original to me at all, but in a sense I did discover it, and you know my discovery of it really came about accidentally. I was trying to write fiction for almost five years, and none of my stories worked because they were always kind of floating; they didn’t have that grounding. Then one day I wrote this thing about something that had happened in my hometown, and almost accidentally I wrote in the voice of the person who it had happened to, not my own voice, and that voice just blew up; it just was something brand new, and I realized, Oh, my gosh. That isn’t me. I thought it was me at first, then I read it and I realized, No, no, no! That’s somebody else talking about this. I’m writing a fictional voice…. From then on I was able to write fiction. I went back to something that was real, and then I re-voiced it and reinvented it, and so that became a discovery for me of how you can make this work. Once that happened I eventually reached a point where I could kind of invent things out of thin air, but they had that feeling of being grounded. So, that was kind of an evolution also. Though, I do think

I began to write with them and for them and found myself just writing and writing and writing, and my life changed.

Woodberry Forest School

that creativity works kind of in quantum leaps more than it does in a straight line. We often think of learning as being this nice 45-degree angle on a graph, and I think creativity works in these leaps where you plateau––you kind of stay at the same level–– and then you will leap up, and you can do something different. We are learning even in these plateaus, but we’re not manifesting it. Asa: Speaking of learning, one thing I learned this fall is the importance of tension in writing, and can you just explain the importance of tension to you and in your writing? Kent: Well, I think there are a lot of ways people can look at how fiction works, and that’s kind of my patented way. You know, if you’ve got another 56

The Talon 2022

writer in residence here, that writer might have based fiction in character development or might have based it in setting or in relationships, and those things all work too. Fiction is so knotted together and so integrated that you could take almost any point and say, That’s the core. For me, when we are in tension, we tell stories, and we tell stories about that tension. We try to make sense of the tension through the telling of the story. I’m really interested in the ways that literature is emblematic of much more basic things. So, as I told you, gossip, I think, is one of the major forms of storytelling in human beings’ lives. But what you do in gossip––that very basic storytelling––is not a whole lot different than what you do in writing literary fiction…. When we’re in tension we tell a story about it, or the other way around is to say the tension itself is the story. Asa: Now switching to a new gear, did anything surprise you during your stay at Woodberry? Kent: Well, the most obvious thing, of course, is the bonfire! That was a surprise. I didn’t quite know what to make of it. I’ve been here in a quite controlled environment where people were really incredibly polite and generous and kind and in control. I was amazed at the fact that you guys would leave your backpack just lying on the sidewalks and come back, and there they’d be. I think that was highly unusual, but then, you know, you get to this bonfire, and suddenly there is this craziness going on! So, that did surprise me. Woodberry was surprisingly generous, surprisingly

kind, and surprisingly intellectual. I mean, I will say that. I think those classes were just some of the best I’ve ever taught, and I was just genuinely surprised at how well they went, and how deep the responses were. I could go on and on. Woodberry is a place like nothing I’ve ever been to. I mean, the very fact it’s on a 1500-acre-campus was surprising. The fact there’s got a river running through it. All that stuff was surprising to me, yeah. Asa: To the Woodberry you may have taught, or those who you have not taught, is there any advice you could give them as they go into college? Kent: I think you guys are really prepared for college. I would say to continue to do what you’ve been doing at this school. Everything I saw there suggests you’re really being prepared for that experience. I mean the one thing I’d say about college to all students––Woodberry or otherwise––is just take general education courses seriously. I think a lot of students––and I was one of them––decided on a major way too soon and said, Oh I’ve gotta be this because my parents are! or My own upbringing led me to think I’ve got to go into this particular field, and the great value of general education is that it just asks if you are really doing what you want to be doing. And so I would just say to

everybody when you go into gen-ed courses, don’t regard those as ‘have too’ courses, regard those as opportunities for exploration. Asa: Our final question of today is probably the most important question: why the mustache? Kent: I’ve had a mustache since I was, I don’t know, in my twenties, and I’ve never gotten rid of it! I shaved it off once, and my fouryear-old daughter looked at me like she didn’t know who I was, and then I just regrew it. It’s just been with me. Asa: Have you never grown a beard? Or has it always just been the mustache? Kent: I can’t. My beard is terrible. My beard is scraggly and ugly, but I’ve got a great mustache! Asa: Well thank you so much for meeting with us, Mr. Meyers. Kent: You are absolutely welcome. It’s good to see you three guys again. v

Woodberry Forest School

The Talon 2022

Forbidden Love | Aiden Moon | Seoul, South Korea | digital photography

Forest | Jimmy Kweon ’21 | Carnegie Mellon University ’28 | watercolor | 11 x 9 in.

Woodberry Forest School

The Lonesome Animal free verse by David Huddle, White Family Writer in Residence We are lonesome animals. We spend all life trying to be less lonesome. -John Steinbeck

And God stepped out on space, And he looked around and said: I’m lonely— I’ll make me a world. -James Weldon Johnson

So it comes down to us from this God who got shazzamed into the universe and who lost interest in playing with lightning bolts and designing giraffes and beetles— this God who sounded out lone-ly to describe the hitch in his pulse, his hunger for food he’d never tasted, his restless eyes scanning paradise and finding it somehow lacking— this God whose feet kept tripping him up with dance moves, this God who wanted to touch something that would touch back, this God who wept when wolves and coyotes answered him with sounds that shivered his bones. And then this God got it! Lone-ly meant alive. Lone-ly was divine.

The Talon 2022

…I in my north room dance naked, grotesquely before my mirror waving my shirt round my head and singing softly to myself: “I am lonely, lonely. I was born to be lonely, I am best so!” -William Carlos Williams

Staredown | Asa McManamy | Woodberry Forest, Virginia | digital photography

Woodberry Forest School

Sleepy Cheetah | Owen Bissell | Hazyview, South Africa | digital photography

The Talon 2022

Zebras Cleaning Each Other | Owen Bissell | Hazyview, South Africa | digital photography

Woodberry Forest School

The Talon 2022

Cowboy | Reid Hood | oil on canvas | 24 x 18 in.

After I Hit My Sister free verse by Tut Linen Whoosh went the brush and snapped at my ass with a smack. I hated that hairbrush— medium width, light brown, strong. It hid away in the depths of his room. I never saw it used, but I felt it. I heard it. “But she hit me first.” I hated that look of disappointment, but it was his duty. He filled the chair we kneeled around every night to read stories. Our eyes locked on him, our minds on his words.

Duck gumbo from the hunt. He smiled from the head of the table— his gray hair parted softly— a reminder of the brown brush. Later that night he sat in my chair, and I in his lap. With the Lord’s Prayer and a hug, my dad said, “Goodnight.”

The redness faded as the pillow absorbed my screams and tears. I crept downstairs.

Written under the mentorship of David Huddle Woodberry Forest School

Girl in Pink | John Murray | oil on canvas | 30 x 20 in. 66

The Talon 2022

JOHN MURRAY Faculty, Sculpture

Reclining Nude | John Murray | oil on canvas | 20 x 30 in.

Woodberry Forest School

KELLY LONERGAN Faculty, Art, Retired

Blonde Dancing | Kelly Lonergan | acrylic on newspaper | 20 x 20 in. 68

The Talon 2022

ver the summer of 2021, I set out to do 50 paintings (on newspaper). I wanted to keep the conceptual process spontaneous and the application immediate and loose. Whatever came to mind developed quickly with a minimum of refinement. In many cases I used the graphics and design layout of the newspaper page itself to shape the content and composition of the paintings. -Kelly Lonergan

Masked Onlookers | Kelly Lonergan | acrylic on newspaper | 20 x 12 in. Woodberry Forest School

Former Activities Coordinator

TRACY STAKEM

The Bear | Tracy Stakem | acrylic on canvas | 27 x 20 in. 70

The Talon 2022

CURTIS JOHNSON

Faculty, College Counselor From the Free Throw Line | Curtis Johnson | hardwood, ink, epoxy resin, linocut | 27 x 19 in. Woodberry Forest School

JAMES ERICKSON Faculty, Head of Visual Arts

Walker Building | James Erickson | oil on canvas | 12 x 20 in. 72

The Talon 2022

Red Barn | James Erickson | oil on wood | 9 x 12 in.

began work on the Walker Building painting in the fall of 2020. There is a window of time between 3 and 5 p.m. when the light and shadow on the building is spectacular. I worked on site for about eight sessions that fall and put the work aside for a year. I came back in the fall of 2021 and continued to work on site for another 6 or 7 sessions. At this point I felt familiar enough to bring the work into the studio for finishing touches. –James Erickson

Woodberry Forest School

Faculty, French

SHARPIE SERIES IN PARIS

WILL HASTIE

L’hiver | Will Hastie | Sharpie on calendar | 5 x 8 in.

The Talon 2022

L’angoisse du rêve | Will Hastie | Sharpie on calendar | 5 x 8 in.

his is a part of a series of drawings that I drew in a calendar while living at 24 rue Guyton de Morveau in the neighborhood of the Butte-aux-Cailles in the 13th arrondissement in Paris. –Will Hastie

Woodberry Forest School

Pedestal Vase Porcelain | Shari Jacobs | pottery | 18 x 8 x 8 in.

The Talon 2022

SODA-FIRED PORCELAIN AND STONEWARE SHARI JACOBS Faculty, Ceramics

he shape of this vase is inspired by Victorian-era ceramics, but the work itself is decorated, fired, and displayed in ways atypical of the era, in order to question the rigid social practices and expectations of polite society. In doing so, I am attempting to disrupt the viewer’s expectations and ideas of belonging. Can goods made from unrefined and rough earth take on a graceful and refined form, fit for a fine parlor? Is delicate porcelain’s beauty ruined or enhanced by the carbon and rust found in a brickyard? And more importantly, who among us is the porcelain and who is the gritty stoneware, and where do we belong? –Shari Jacobs

lllllllllllllllll Woodberry Forest School

77 77

ALP1NE EAGLE

fiction by Nic Ball

Clouds | Andrew Weber | digital photography 78

The Talon 2022

ust as the tip of the plane inched upwards, the smooth wings swayed, and I sunk into my seat. Close on the horizon against a leveled earth––sprung within a swirling cone of orange clouds––stood one, lonely mountain blanketed with snow and splattered with bolstering pines. It reminded me of a bald eagle––the white beacon that pierced the sky where the smog cut from yellow to orange to blue to deep, dazzling space hanging. Even above the roaring turbines, I caught the mountain’s whispering cry. Wind, as it were––deflected by trees, curled by tall rock, warmed by yawning rays—assumed the role as carrier of the mountain’s will. The plane shook. And maybe, the eagle and the wind and the mountain and I were not separate, but cogs clicking, shifting, ticking among a much larger machine. For a moment, I imagined the tongue of the earth––the voices of eagle and pine. v

Woodberry Forest School

The Talon 2022

Cab Drivers | Thomas Li | Guangzhou, China | digital photography

Shaving | Thomas Li | Guangzhou, China | digital photography

Woodberry Forest School

The Talon 2022

Body Builder | Logan McNabb | linocut | 11 x 9 in.

Horus | Gray Kallen | linocut | 11 x 9 in.

Woodberry Forest School

fiction by Charles Innes

The silverware clattered as I pulled forks, knives, and spoons out of the kitchen drawer and carried them to the dining room. Carefully, I laid out three place settings. Jerry would be home soon, and then, my sweet boy would be, too. What was his name again? Michael. How could I forget that? My sweet Michael would be home soon. I barely saw him anymore now that he had moved to … Chicago. Or was it Philadelphia? Michael was all grown up, working in the big city. I was happy for him, but without a child in the house, it got quite boring––especially when Jerry wasn’t around. Jerry was always visiting some doctor for God knows what. Sure, he wasn’t as healthy 84

The Talon 2022

as I was, but he still moved pretty well for an older fellow. Jerry never sat with me while I needlepointed, and he barely read the newspaper anymore. He bought one of those gadgets that everybody had nowadays, always peering into that little glowing box. Chicago. It had to be Chicago; Michael always loved pizza. Anyway, Jerry wasn’t around much. Humming one of those Beatles songs––I could never remember those pesky words––I opened the oven to check on the turkey. I took a big sniff and smiled. The minty scent of rosemary complement-

ed the onion and garlic. Michael would love it. I closed the oven; the turkey needed a few more minutes. I opened the refrigerator and checked on the pumpkin pie, another one of Michael’s favorites. I needed to put it in the oven right when dinner started so it would finish baking just as we started dessert. The jingling of keys sounded from the front porch. Moments later I heard the key insert into the lock and the door swing open. “Madi!” Jerry called from the hall. “I’m back from the pharmacy.” So that’s where he was. I hadn’t

Self Portrait | Lucas Dinh | acrylic on canvas | 16 x 20 in.

Woodberry Forest School

The Chaos Within | Julian Beaujeu-Dufour | oil on canvas | 11 x 9 in. 86

The Talon 2022

been to the pharmacy in a while. No sickness here. I prided myself on taking care of my health. “Just picked up another refill.” Jerry stepped into the room. I smiled seeing him. Forty-five years of marriage will do that. Was it forty-five? His once jet-black hair had grayed, but he still pulled it off. He set a white paper bag down on the counter, softly rattling the pills inside. “What’s that for?” I asked. “You know what it is, honey.” He strained to say honey as if I had asked him the same question

“What’s wrong, Jerry?” “Just take this,” he said, pulling out a yellow bottle of pills. He untwisted the lid and gently shook one pill out into his hand. Then he grabbed a glass from the cabinet. “What are you doing?” He filled the glass up with water. “Just take this, honey. Then we can talk.” “I’m not going to take something I don’t need. What’s it for?” “It’s for your mind, Madi. It’s to help you remember.” Remember? I didn’t need any help remembering. If anything, Jer-

I smiled seeing him. Forty-five years of marriage will do that. Was it forty-five? before. “Fine, don’t tell me. I’ll just ask Michael later. He always knows the secrets you’re holding onto.” I chuckled, turning back to the oven. The turkey was definitely ready now. “Michael?” he questioned. “When he comes over for dinner, silly. It’s Thanksgiving.” I shook my head, smiling at how forgetful my husband could be. Jerry sighed loudly. “I’m sorry, Madi. I should have gotten the prescription renewed yesterday. This is my fault.” I turned away from the oven as he put his palm to his forehead.

ry was the one who could use some help. “My mind? Have you been day drinking again Jerry? You need to quit that filthy habit.” “I haven’t had a drink in two years, Madi.” His face was now tight. He took a deep breath and calmed himself before speaking again. “Please just take the pill; it always helps you think.” “Well, I don’t need any help thinking. Michael’s going to hear all about this when he gets back–– you falling off the wagon again. Shameful. On Thanksgiving, too.” I shook my head in disgust. “Thanksgiving? Have you been outside today, Madilyn?”

I shuddered. I hated it when he called me Madilyn. “It’s not ninety degrees outside in November! It’s June for God’s sake!” Maybe it wasn’t Thanksgiving, but I was making turkey and pumpkin pie. It was Thanksgiving alright. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, pulling a joke like this on a holiday. But I’ll be damned if––” “It’s not a joke Madilyn! It’s not Thanksgiving! Michael is not coming to eat with us!” “Why the hell not? Don’t come into my house and start spreading lies you––” “Because he’s dead!” Everything stopped. The oven mitts on my hands fell to the floor. “Our son is dead, Madi.” “No,” I said, shaking. “No, no, no.” “Yes, Madi. He’s been dead for years now. Remember the car crash? He and Ashley both.” Ashley. Michael’s wife. How could I have forgotten about Ashley? Michael. My baby boy. He was gone. The turkey. I forgot about the turkey. “Where are you going?” he asked. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. “I’ve burnt the turkey. Michael’s going to be so disappointed.” “Michael can’t be disappointed, Woodberry Forest School

honey. He’s gone.” Jerry moved behind me and put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry Madi, but he’s gone. There is no turkey.” I opened the oven. It was empty. “But the garlic … the rosemary.” I slammed the oven door shut and hurried to the refrigerator. The pumpkin pie was gone. None of this made any sense. He couldn’t be gone. He was our son. Tears flooded my eyes. “Michael,” I sobbed. “Our sweet boy.” Jerry came over and held me tight. “Shh. Everything will be okay.” Time froze around us. Jerry hugged me. I don’t know how long I sobbed. How long do you cry when your son dies? “We, we need to …” I sniffled, the tears finally slowing. “We need to plan a funeral. We’ve got to tell everyone.” I couldn’t stop shaking. “There’s so much to do. We need to––” “Oh Madi, stop.” Jerry squeezed me even tighter. “Please just take this. You’ve been sick Madi, sick for a while now.” He handed me the pill. “This will help. It’ll make everything alright.” I didn’t believe him. I wasn’t sick, but I needed to take the pain away. I grabbed the pill and swallowed it. “Jerry … when did this happen?” I looked up at him. “How long has it …” I couldn’t finish the question. “Five years ago, Madi. Five years ago on ... Thanksgiving. v 88

The Talon 2022

Written under the mentorship of Kent Myers

Snow Day | William Andrews | Alexandria, Virginia | digital photography

Woodberry Forest School

Ice Cream Sundae free verse by Asa McManamy

His hands, weathered from long days in the shop, show scars from years past. The cracked skin on his knuckles reminds me of ground starved for water. The callouses along the skin where fingers meet palm scrape my face, but I still love him. I can’t blame him for his little outbursts. He makes it up to me with a bowl of Blue Bell and some Hershey’s chocolate sauce. I can tell that it weighs on him. He’s trying his best. Mom left us four years ago, which is fine, because I didn’t really know her, not like dad. Her red hair glows on that picture taped to the fridge–– them both smiling years before I came into this world.

The Talon 2022

Written under the mentorship of David Huddle

Dad | Isaac James | oil on canvas | 12 x 8 in.

Woodberry Forest School

The Talon 2022

Gam Cheon Village | Aiden Moon | Busan, South Korea | digital photography

Village on a Hill | Aiden Moon | Busan, South Korea | digital photography

Woodberry Forest School

The Talon 2022 Night | Jason Zhang | linocut | 12 x 9 in.

nonfiction by Andy Park

In 1945, a historic moment in diplomacy occurred at the Potsdam Conference in Germany following the end of WWII.

In 2020, a historic moment in juvenile diplomacy took place in Dowd Finch at Woodberry, causing tides in a small community. In this smelly dorm, I lived with my friend Moritz. You would expect his social life to be fine. He was tall with broad shoulders, and he played tennis. But Moritz came as the new exchange student from Potsdam, and my peers would smirk as they barged into his room and did a Nazi salute. During free periods, I would hear sniffles. In study hall, I caught glimpses of Moritz pulling his hair as he wrestled with comma rules and

formulas. He reminded me of how I used to be. It was a week after my new boy move-in day. We were eating in the dining hall. Sweaty and squirmish, I sat with my friend Jay (the only other Asian). New boys like us stared and asked strange questions. Are you related to Kim Jong-un? Do y’all eat dogs back in Korea? Ching chong. I felt cold. Naked. Ironically, when I lived in Korea, I was called whitewashed. Even my mom would call me banana. Once, I tried to finish a sentence in Korean, and Jay burst out laughing.

He declared that my Koreanness came alive only when I sang karaoke. His words rippled, rose, and drowned me with doubt. When I started attending Woodberry, I was being mislabeled, again. So I wore a mask to show my toughness. I just ended up feeling lonely and small. And I saw Moritz shrink slowly, too. So I said hi. His only year at Woodberry had to be better than mine. We talked about what we called football and about Turkish kebabs, jokbal, and kimchi. We talked about dealing with racism. We complained, endlessly, Woodberry Forest School

Still the blinding sunlight casts the shadow of only a white orb and a whitewashed Korean. about being single. We listened to Lo-fi on rainy nights, with the window cracked open to hear the droplets. We wrote and shared three things we were grateful for at that moment: the aroma of an espresso, a satisfying sneeze, Ella Fitzgerald. Simply put, it felt good to be there with someone. Of course, sometimes I needed quiet to browse a Jimi Hendrix album or binge on Shameless. But, he was my brother. He was there for me, too. When my grandpa lost his battle with cancer, Moritz hugged me and made sure I had my chin up. We gossiped about teachers and laughed by the crackling camp-

The Talon 2022

fire until our stomachs cramped. We wrestled in the hallway until my knee bled. Moritz helped me realize that I am like the Moon and other people are the Sun. Jay’s checklist of Koreanness felt like the Sun’s golden rays beaming into an abyss as the only light and truth. I, as the Moon, blocked that light and reflected my own. I had a face that looked predictable. Yet when others shined their light on me, there was still more unfound. My bowl-like hair screamed K-Pop, but I tapped my leather loafers while mumbling Guns N’ Roses and Pearl Jam. On Saturday

nights, many assumed I raged and reddened like a berry while clicking away in League of Legends. Instead, I placed another dry log on the golden fire while Jack strummed his acoustic to Hotel California. Still the blinding sunlight casts the shadow of only a white orb and a whitewashed Korean. Because of this light, the more I define my appearance, the more my shadow darkens into a mere fraction of something more beautiful. But I, like the Moon, was not created by God simply to rest in space and conform. I, like the Moon, seek to cause tides. v

Distant Speckles | Robbie Brown | Woodberry Forest, Virginia | digital photography

Woodberry Forest School

The Talon 2022

City on an Island | Aiden Moon | Busan, South Korea | digital photography Woodberry Forest School

The Composer’s fiction by Isaac James

Shadow

In a room littered with beer bottles and the finest wine that writing can buy—a room so full of crumpled papers that the autumn breeze rustles as it treads across the floor, a shadow sits by candlelight.

| ia ed

6 in

The Talon 2022

100

others of a different savor and hue. Scrawling out the last notes of his final sonata, the composer babbles as the clock on the mantle chimes out. Midnight at last! He considers the reflection in the polished fallboard. A twisted face stares back, opening its mouth to reveal yellow teeth set in a stretched grin. The final note reels away, and the room falls into a brooding stupor. He closes

on | Brooks M evoluti cCa by R l l | ath mi xed De

Spidery, it scratches its disproportionate head and whispers thinlipped secrets to the floorboards. The wind dances around the room, obscuring the shadow in the corners among other shadows. At the silhouette’s deflated feet, a composer balances atop a creaking piano bench. Ten thin arachnid legs flutter over the keys. Songs without words, hymns without praises, psalms without voices. Man without wealth and joy. Brass pedals bow beneath his feet. Strings vibrate to the clank of blacksmiths’ hammers. Strike! Disengage! Strike again! Each note, each voice, each string dies as soon as it comes into being, replaced by

Mr. Erickson’s Study | Isaac James | watercolor markers | 9 x 16 in.

the piano, and the papers rustle to the ground, uncertain. The mangled shadow cackles. Its head flailing—its face obscured. At last, the composer walks over to the window and summons a cigarette from his pocket. He lights it with a sigh and breathes in the cool October air. With a final resolve, a tap of his hat, as though he was going out the front door to the grocers, he steps out the window. Vertigo. And then it is

over. His limp body lies face down on an indifferent street. The shadow kicks the air and hoots, dodging cars as the body is slammed again and again. It settles on a slender street lamp as a shell of a man spreads like paint across the concrete. Death has drawn a picture. The shadow dances dark circles in the sky, sighing as it disperses into the clouds. In the morning, a maid will discover the room, empty, and the

note lying on the desk of a great man. Reasons. Answers. Hopes. Later that evening, a man may sit at his mad brother’s piano to play out his final sonata by candlelight. He might look down at the reflection in the keys, as the wild shadow dances upon the floor. Once more, the wind rustles the growing stack of papers. The shadow, bound to a composer, waits to be freed again. v

Woodberry Forest School

101

Sandman | Brooks McCall | mixed media | 20 x 16 in. 102

The Talon 2022

Study of Matisse’s Blue Nude | Lucas Dinh | oil pastels | 23 x 17 in. Woodberry Forest School

103

104

The Talon 2022

Avenue | Stanley Kin | New York, New York | digital photography

DIRECTIVE 16 free verse by Jimmy Dinh

Through the thin sheet of glass on the twentieth floor, Ho Chi Minh City stretches out like an eagle soaring on powerful wings or a bubble on the edge of bursting. The butcher’s doors are pulled shut— no bikes, no cars. Only fern green uniforms scatter beside crimson fences that block the roads like flower petals blooming. Our lively city withers, its limbs torn apart. Every thirty minutes, another siren wails as a dull white cover of protective suits streams toward the ambulances. The safe circle that we rebuilt for months collapses as the next wave floods Ho Chi Minh City. For the third time, dreary clouds engulf the sun. For the third time, I stand on the hardwood floor, follow the red flash as it subsides with the wailing.

Woodberry Forest School

105

106

The Talon 2022

Appalachia Service Project | Jordyn Morel | Jonesville, Virginia | digital photography

Involuntary Service free verse by Thomas Li

On the edge of the balcony, I bend ninety degrees– no goggles, no harness, not even a helmet. I frown at the stack of debris– dark, brownish purple. Cigarette smells escape from the facade. Age leaves yellow stains on worn-off paint. After hours of construction, I’m soaked with sweat under the roasting sun. A single PBJ for lunch. “Is it four yet?” “Twenty minutes.” Submerged in exhaustion, I have no sense of accomplishment, just the uncomfortableness from helping. There’s still a lesson to learn.

Woodberry Forest School

107

Way Past Midnight nonfiction by Collin Do

louched in the chair, your posture is beyond crooked––twisted like headphone wires. Your roommate fell asleep hours ago. The monitor lights bathe your desk in blue, slicing into the ink black of your room. The blue blades strain your eyes. You peek at the readings you should’ve done four hours ago. It’s already 3 a.m. No point in worrying about it now. The brain moves your fingers mindlessly. Mouse clicks and keyboard clacks penetrate the room’s silence. You haven’t enjoyed the game for hours, but it’s something to do––an activity to ignore everything else, even if it’s a cheap illusion. The last of tens of matches played that night ends in an apathetic loss. You power the computer down and stare into the blank monitor. Your mind begins to race against your will. Too bad you didn’t stay up late enough to stop thinking. You crawl into bed and check your phone. The time reads 5:21 a.m. Two hours of sleep is plenty. Back when school began, you set your phone background to ask, Is what you’re doing really worth it? You reflect for a moment on the question, even though at this point it’s rhetorical. You know the answer and regret what it is. v

108

The Talon 2022

Still Life | Isaac James | Charlottesville, Virginia | digital photography

Woodberry Forest School

109

Chicken Joe | Samuel Crosby | screen print | 18 x 12 in. 110

The Talon 2022

Untitled | Brooks McCall | screen print | 18 x 12 in. Woodberry Forest School

111

Gone the Mask

metrical poetry by Nate Stein

Masks are often much, much more than three-ply cloth or kitsch decor. And what they far too often hide is what we lock up deep inside: horrors we deny for show, horrors we push down below. Masks, they hide our inmost fears, our angst, our dread, our hell, our tears. The strangers’ faces, often turned, pass us swiftly, unconcerned. But they shall never see behind our masks and glimpse the tortured minds. The feigned grin, the mask of lies is fabric sewn with desperate guise. This, however, isn’t us, isn’t who we could be, thus let us step into the light, remove our masks, escape our plight. At longest last, our faces they’ll see, bare and from the darkness free. In the open we will bask. Gone the nightmare. Gone the mask.

112

The Talon 2022

Goya’s Sweet Tooth | Nic Ball | oil on canvas | 24 x 18 in.

113

Woodberry Forest School

Off the Banks | Isaac James | linocut | 13 x 10 in. 114

The Talon 2022

Fruit by the Fire | Nic Ball | oil on canvas | 10 x 14 in.

Woodberry Forest School

115

IT STARED BACK fiction by Carter Harrell

The tips of my fingers are red. Relax. I shake my hand and then stretch my arms backward. Too many bones crack. The tabletop looks depressing: empty wrappers, blunted pencils, dunes of eraser shavings, and my new “college” ruled notebook. College. That’s why I’ve banished myself to the library. What inspires me? I rip out the most recent page. “My coach inspires me because…” Nope, definitely not that. I take one last look at the scribbled words, crumple the paper, and wipe my hands on my sweats. How am I even sweaty? I toss the globbed failure towards the trash can. No swish. Whatever. I return to the conundrum. My… grandma inspires me be116

The Talon 2022

cause… she is always… always… standing up for herself. I tear out the next offering for the trash can. That’s cheesy and stupid. “Maybe you can make it this time,” a quiet voice mumbles behind me. I jolt around. The dark room looks empty. It isn’t my phone. Mom has it. No one else should be in the building except for the dusty librarian downstairs and maybe a stoned janitor. A ghost? “Hello?” I ask the nothingness. “Helllllo,” the darkness calls back. I shine the desk lamp toward

the gravelly voice. The yellow light casts shadows on the paintings of dead academics and ancient furniture. “You’re a failure.” “What? Who are you?” The trash can? “Come over here!” the voice barks. The black plastic bucket stands out in the antique room. My shadow gets smaller as I walk farther from the light. Something feels wrong. The trash can speaks in a clearer tone.“You’ve been here for three hours, and you’ve missed twen-

Octagonal Madness | Nic Ball | linocut | 11 x 9 in.

117

Woodberry Forest School

’s b

est

fri

.” v

The Talon 2022

te wri

118

“I’m e

er y

ty-three times. You must not be an athlete.” What the hell? I lean over the trash can. There’s nothing in it. Who’s joke is this? Not any of my stupid ideas or any candy wrappers. Nothing. I reach my right hand in. A slight breeze moves through my fingers, and I pull back. “Come out, I don’t have time for this.” “This isn’t a joke,” the voice from the abyss cautions. “You’re not getting into college at this point if you can’t start an essay.” “How do you kn—” I choke on my words. “What are you?” The trash can does not answer. “Okay, very funny. Why are you trying to piss me off?” “Because you need to give up.” I look down at my watch. “I can’t,” I mutter. “You can. You only have a few hours until your deadline, and really, what’s the point? You’ll still live a happy life, just not a successful one.” “Screw you.” “Just pick something and write it. It’s embarrassing watching you try to start.” “Nothing inspires me.” “Well, aren’t you goth?” the trash can mocks. “Don’t I inspire you?” “A trash can?”

Face | Brooks McCall | oil on canvas | 9 x 11 in.

Woodberry Forest School

119

120

PEN OLDHAM Editor-in-Chief

ASA MCMANAMY Editor-in-Chief

TUT LINEN Senior Text Editor

EDWARD WOLTZ Managing Editor

The Talon 2022

CONWELL MORRIS Text & Art Editor

ISAAC JAMES Design & Art Editor

HUGH WILEY Art Editor

AIDEN MOON Photography Editor Woodberry Forest School

121

REVIEW BOARDS

Holy Ground | GK Do ’21 | University of Virginia ’25 | digital art

122

The Talon 2022

PROSE Charles Innes Johnny Russell Jay O’Keefe Ben Hulsey Carter Harrell Sebastian Gibb Carter DuPuy Turner Edwards Logan McNabb John Osteen Rory Doolan Graham Helweg Andrew Weber Nate Stein Thomas Chapman

PHOTOGRAPHY FACULTY ADVISORS Karen Broaddus Rich Broaddus

POETRY Taeho Cha Charles Innes Carter DuPuy J Owens Daniel Dai George Wallis Graham Helweg Nate Stein Chapman Cella Thomas Chapman

Julian Beaujeu-Dufour Ben Monroe Weston Wharton Thomas Li Turner Edwards Jun Kim Jason Zhang Zan Thompson John Osteen Rory Doolan William Andrews Stanley Kim Henry Royster Lucas Dinh Robbie Brown

ART SPECIAL THANKS Kent Meyers David Huddle Tracy Robertson James Erickson

Julian Beaujeu-Dufour Reid Hood Harley Shuford Jason Zhang Logan McNabb Zan Thompson William Andrews Lucas Dinh Frank Bossong Chapman Cella

Woodberry Forest School

123

Stoned Ape Theory | Isaac James | linocut & digital art | 5 x 9 in. 124

The Talon 2022

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 only—the literary magazine of your school. Frank Davenport, Jr. 1949 Editor-in-Chief

This, the 73rd volume of The Talon, is the annual 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 selected

through blind review by student boards with expertise in the fields of art, prose, poetry and photography. New editors are selected from 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. Pen Oldham managed the design of the magazine with the assistance of Isaac James and the editorial team.

This issue of The Talon was produced on iMacs using Adobe Creative Cloud. Titles are set in Filmotype Maxwell and Adobe Garamond Pro except for special designs. Body text, pull quotes, 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 May. The Talon is a member of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association and the National Scholastic Press Association.

Woodberry Forest School

125

Fluidity | Asa McManamy | Colorado Springs, Colorado | digital photography

126

The Talon 2022

Dedicated to Karen & Rich Broaddus for their 17 years of selfless advising. Happy retirement!

THE TALON WOODBERRY FOREST, VIRGINIA 22989 WWW.WOODBERRYFOREST.ORG/TALON

The Talon Fall 2022

Articles inside

Fluidity.................................... Asa McManamy

Face ........................................... Brooks McCall

Stoned Ape Teory .......................... Isaac James

Octagonal Madness ..............................Nic Ball

Still Life........................................... Isaac James

Of the Banks .................................. Isaac James

Chicken Joe............................... Samuel Crosby

Avenue............................................Stanley Kim

Study of Matisse’s Blue Nude...........Lucas Dinh

Distant Speckles.......................... Robbie Brown

City on an Island...........................Aiden Moon

Te Chaos Within ......... Julian Beaujeu-Dufour

Snow Day...............................William Andrews

Gam Cheon Village .......................Aiden Moon

Shaving.............................................Tomas Li

Sandman ................................... Brooks McCall

Pedestal Vase Porcelain....................Shari Jacobs

L’angoisse du rêve ............................Will Hastie

From the Free Trow Line ......... Curtis Johnson

Forest...........................................Jimmy Kweon

Red Barn ................................... James Erickson

Reclining Nude..............................John Murray

Sleepy Cheetah ..............................Owen Bissell

Forbidden Love..............................Aiden Moon

Curious Glance........................... Robbie Brown

Feathered Scout .......................... Robbie Brown

Graveyard ......................................Pen Oldham

Cartoons.........................................Hugh Wiley

May and the Big Brown Box.................... Ben Zhou

Umbrella Walk.................................Lucas Dinh

Octopus....................................Conwell Morris

Eclipse ....................................... Brooks McCall

Te Meeting ...................................Stanley Kim

Te Ballad of a Cephalopod............. Turner Vaughn