The Talon Fall 2016

The Talon Fall 2016

The Talon, Fall 2016 Woodberry Forest School Woodberry Forest, VA 22989 www.woodberry.org/talon

The Talon

Vol. 68, No. 1

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

The Talon is the semiannual literary arts publication of Woodberry Forest School. First published in 1949, this is the 68th volume. As the editors of the first edition of The Talon wrote, “The purpose of The Talon is to encourage creative writing among the boys and to publish these short stories, poems, and essays.” Cartoons were included with stories in early editions. In 1972, The Talon editors decided to feature standalone student art and photography, establishing the magazine as an outlet for the visual arts. The Talon editors’ mission today is to unite the student body behind a single magazine and to inspire work in the arts from all branches of Woodberry society.

Cover Design by Jackson Monroe Cover Art: St. Patrick’s Cathedral | Tiger Wu | Chalk Pastels | 18 x 10 in.

Title Page Design by Kyle Kauffman Title Page Art: Self Portrait | Tiger Wu | Acrylic | 24 x 18 in.

The Talon editors encourage submissions from all members of

the Woodberry Forest community.

Works are selected through blind review by student boards with expertise in the fields of art, prose, poetry, and photography. All opinions expressed within this magazine are the intellectual property of the authors and artists and do not represent the views of Woodberry Forest School.

The design and editing of The Talon takes place both during the academic day and outside of it. The current editors and the faculty advisors select new editors from the review boards and from the student body. Authors and artists can apply for review board membership at the end of each academic year. Jackson Monroe, Trip Hurley, and Kyle Kauffman designed the spreads in the fall magazine. The editors of The Talon would like to thank

Kelly Lonergan for his help with art review and Kristyn Wilson for her assistance with prose review.

This issue of The Talon was created on Intel-based iMacs using Adobe CS5.

Titles are set in Jaapokki; text and art credits are set in Baskerville. McClung Companies in Waynesboro, Virginia prints 950 perfect-bound copies that the editorial staff distributes to the community in December and May of each academic year.

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

The Talon

Woodberry Forest School | Fall 2016 | Vol. 68, No. 1

Word Fiction

07 | Forgotten Richmond McDaniel 16 | The Agony in the Garden Kyle Kauffman 32 | The Nest Cordelia Hogan 36 | The Knot Nathan Janney 46 | My Last Summer in MunGyeong June Pyo Suh 54 | That Day in Granbury DW Cardwell 62 | Game of Wheelchairs Max Park 69 | Eternal Things Agus Tornabene 70 | Thoughts on Joe Walter Andrew Jacobs 79 | Climbing the Scales Tae Min Kim

Poetry 05 | The Death of an Artist Cordelia Hogan 09 | Dissonance Billy Huger 10 | Winter Rose Blythe Brewster 15 | Grandma WonOk’s Chuseok June Pyo Suh 24 | The Canvas King Jackson Sompayrac 30 | The Coroner of the Woods Alex Krongard 40 | Stairway to the Top Tilden Winston 53 | Sitting Together at the Rookery Maxwell Barnes 59 | Black Coffee, Ice Too Kyle Kauffman 60 | Killing the Cowboy Ashby Shores 77 | No Strings Attached Max Park

Nonfiction

26 | Noise Clay Tydings 44 | The Mungere School Hayes Jiranek 66 | The Sandwich Jackson Monroe

Image Art

04 | Figure Study (No. 1) Tiger Wu 06 | Berserk Life Pierce Richardson 12 | Coronation Coleman Bishop 13 | Squamata Chris Oldham 14 | Raining Sideways Walker Antonio 17 | St. Patrick’s Cathedral Tiger Wu 21 | The Awakening KJ Pankratz 22 | Infernal Hank Feng 23 | Night Encounter KJ Pankratz 25 | Fallen King Hank Feng 27 | Abstract Embodiment Michael Kurzewski 32 | In-flight Hummingbird Ethan Barbour 33 | Yellow Resting Finch Ethan Barbour 37 | Hunting Barn Owl Ethan Barbour 43 | Wiseman Chris Oldham 45 | Oasis Drumming Hank Feng 52 | Midnight Waters Ethan Barbour 56 | Emergence KJ Pankrtaz 57 | City Under Siege KJ Pankratz 58 | This is Jairo’s World Philip Williams 61 | Palio di Siena Pierce Richardson 68 | Angkor Wat Tiger Wu 73 | What is the Color of My Soul? Tiger Wu 74 | The Met Tiger Wu 75 | Enjoying the Moment Hank Feng

76 | Lens Flare Michael Kurzewski 78 | Window Carson Becker 81 | Figure Study (No. 2) Tiger Wu 84 | Seeking James Henckel von Donnersmarck

Photography

02 | Blossom Clay Tydings 09 | Gnarl KJ Pankratz 11 | Wooden Landscape KJ Pankratz 28 | Dustless Michael Deng 29 | Hope Jang Woo Park 31 | Dark Forest Patrick Noonan 34 | Cobalt Jang Woo Park 35 | Beacon Parker Watt 38 | Red Jungle KJ Pankratz 40 | Stretch KJ Pankratz 42 | Luotuo Trip Hurley 47 | Taller Than the Amber Waves Gus Perdue 49 | Old Rag View David Vu 50 | Ika Trip Hurley 51 | Fishing in Phu Yen David Vu 63 | Conflict Maxwell Barnes 65 | Light Jang Woo Park 67 | Jumps Clay Tydings 82 | Collage Jang Woo Park

04

figure study (no. 1) tiger wu graphite | 18 x 24 in.

The Death of an Artist Cordelia Hogan

I saw a woman dancing in the street with cheap headphones and an outdated CD player.

Her silver hair traced her back, grazed her dress, and captivated my eyes with each movement.

She performed her intimate dance right out on Main Street making her way to the tracks.

Each storefront a new stage.

Each pedestrian a new audience.

But no one cared.

I watched from my car while she poured herself out.

Ding! Ding! Ding!

The warning lights cried.

The red and white arms: the final curtain to her last performance.

She never opened her eyes to sashay down the yellow lines, the unkempt potholes, the broken asphalt.

She danced like no one was watching.

the death of an artist cordelia hogan poetry

05

06

berserk life pierce richardson ink & acrylic | 18 x 24 in.

Forgotten Richmond McDaniel George Anderson flicked

the ash off his half-smoked Marlboro Red. Slowly, the embers fluttered to the ground until a breeze picked them up and blew them into his denim shirt.

He glanced across the horizon at the March sun rising between the fullgrown pines. Its rays glistened on his beard and settled on the old Chevrolet pickup behind him. He took a long, final drag.

“Timber looks good,” he said as if someone were beside him. He usually brought his dog Remmy, but he had forgotten her this morning. “I think it’s ready to cut. Raymond oughta be happy ’cause the prices are up right now.

We’ll get the crew in here next week to take care of it.”

When he finished it, George threw the cigarette on the wet ground. Something so ordinary. George wasn’t quite sure what it was, but each time he finished a cigarette, the feeling of something missing returned to him. He drove out, locking the red gate as he left. When on the main road, George reached into his carton to grab another pack of Reds and another, single cigarette.

Julie was waiting for her George when he pulled back into the gravel driveway five minutes later. She was

worried about him as she had been all sense faded as the cigarette burned, winter. “Honey?” She walked towards and while he tried to revive the feeling his truck with her hands crossed. with the second smoke, George knew it “Where were you this morning?” wasn’t coming back.

George poked his head through George’s office was at the headthe driver’s seat window. “Had to get quarters of Anderson Brothers Logback on the job. Just looked at a piece ging. There was a small warehouse that needs to be cut.” filled with George’s hunting trophies “You know you’re not supposed to at the center of the lot, logging equipbe doing that—leaving me before the ment in the parking lot, and a kennel sun rises.” for George’s hunt club in the back. He “What else was I supposed to do? I spent most of his time hanging around gotta find some way to kill some time the office and with the dogs. When around here. Ain’t nobody gets up he was younger, there was more work when they’re supposed to these days.” to do with his business, but he had She leaned against the driver’s expanded last summer and hired two door. “Just promise me you’ll be safe.” more members for his team. Out of “Yeah, yeah. Oh shit, left some- a crew of eight, three men drove the thing at the office. Lemme go pick it up, trucks to the mill and the other five and I’ll be back.” He pulled away, not were in charge of cutting the pines waiting for a response. He immediate- themselves. Simple operation, George ly fumbled for two cigarettes from the thought. What could go wrong? passenger’s seat. One for now and one for later, he For a moment, he felt complete, thought, and laid the second on top of the good. But that sense faded as the center console. George cigarette burned, and while he flicked his lighter, his hands shaking at the tried to revive the feeling with end of the Marlboro the second smoke, George knew Red as he lit it. For a it wasn’t coming back. moment, he felt complete, good. But that forgotten richmond mcdaniel fiction

07

It was only the past fall that his brother Phil had died. Drunk driver, George’s wife told him. George began smoking and drinking again after fifteen years sober. But something didn’t quite add up. One day, the brothers had gone to work, and the next thing George remembered was being in a hospital bed with his wife saying his twin had died. When he got home, the bottle of Jack Daniels came back out from under the kitchen counter.

When George reached the office, he immediately headed to see the dogs.

They never complained, just did what they were told and lived without worries. George envied that. He would sneak to the kennels most mornings and let a hound or two loose. This time it was Remmy’s turn.

“Come on out, you ole girl.”

George reached for a leash clipped onto the fence. “Yeah, I’m coming for you. Wanna go for a run? Thought so.”

He opened the gate and Remmy bolted, but George was quick to corral her and put the leash on. His plan was to take her to another place his team had cut this fall, check in on the land, and let his dog take a run. It was something he wasn’t really supposed to be doing, but he had started it last

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forgotten richmond mcdaniel fiction

fall. After throwing Remmy in the back seat, George reached for the last cigarette.

Something wasn’t quite right with the piece of land when he got there.

George had been told his boys had cut it all, but it was only half cut as if some emergency had stopped them from finishing the job. As he stepped outside, he threw his cigarette on the dry ground. He opened the door to the backseat and let Remmy off the leash.

A single pine straw was burning beside the Chevrolet pickup. As he went to stomp out the flame, he noticed an older cigarette butt. This time, it was a Camel. *

*

*

It was earlier in the fall on this same piece of land. Phil and George were prepping the eighteen-wheelers to carry the pine trunks to the mill. They both sat in different shovel loggers, which looked like the claw machines in the arcade except with trees in their grip instead of stuffed animals. The target was the semi-trucks. With the pile of pines growing behind them and the tractor-trailers empty, the twins rushed to keep the pace up and not

slow the entire operation. Phil needed a cigarette. He always kept a carton in George’s truck for situations like these.

He got down and walked past the eighteen-wheelers to the old Chevrolet and picked a pack of Camel Blues out of the passenger seat window.

George picked up another log and went to stack it on the trailer. Shit. Phil was next to the semi-trucks, strolling back to work with a cigarette in his mouth. George stopped his machine above Phil’s head, and the log slid from the claw’s grip. “Run,” he shouted, but it was too late. The log struck. *

*

*

George stood frozen in time, his foot stuck on the embers of the once burning pine needle. Drunk driver, he thought. Bullshit. He reached for another Marlboro Red.

Dissonance Billy Huger

Crick-crack.

My ear catches the sound; I raise my gun’s barrel.

It’s him.

Leaves shuffle on the ground; I turn my head for confirmation.

A member of nature’s orchestra appears wearing a silver and white suit.

No deer.

The imitator shoots up the tree.

gnarl kj pankratz digital photography dissonance billy huger poetry

09

Winter Rose Blythe Brewster

From somewhere deep in the hills echoes the hound’s song.

It rolls off the mountains and weaves through leafless birches, growing closer as the horses pound through the woods.

The cry fills my bloodstream. My muscles tighten.

Felix shifts beneath me, his ears forward.

The whole forest rustles as the hounds, the metal teeth on the jaws of a trap, converge around the fox.

We wait, peering through tree trunks for the telltale streak of cardinal red.

Tally-Ho! The cry rises up on all sides.

And we are off running full tilt.

I grab mane and lean forward as branches whip inches over my head.

There is no time for the safe route anymore.

We plunge off banks and leap over creeks; every movement is calculated and unexpected.

Gravel churns as we storm down the hill around the corner of the woods into the open field.

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winter rose blythe brewster poetry

Stop.

Halt.

Don’t breathe.

Because then, then, the fox, a scarlet flower in the dead of winter, materializes from the shadows.

Suspended in time, the fox flies across frostbitten ground, muscles rippling, all sinew and scrap and fur.

Not an ounce extra.

A survivor.

Then horses and hounds descend in a roll of thunder upon the crimson wonder, but it is gone.

Vanished.

A blood-red rose folded back into a bud, pulled down into its stem, and reclaimed by the earth.

wooden landscape kj pankratz digital photography

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coronation coleman bishop marker & acrylic | 17 x 23 in.

squamata chris oldham mixed media | 7.5 x 16.5 x 1.25 in.

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raining sideways walker antonio ink & brush | 18 x 24 in.

Grandma WonOk’s Chuseok June Pyo Suh Grandma WonOk’s kitchen table groans with food: green, pink, and white rice cakes, pumpkin pancakes, steamed beef ribs, persimmon punch.

Thick steam rises from the radish soup like cotton clouds flowering on a summer sky.

Her creased hands hold memories.

A crumbled ring finger recalls the fabric factory’s automatic shaft where she earned a living to raise her children.

Burned skin itches from handling coal briquettes, the dawn routine that kept her family warm.

Thick calluses remember the recipe for vegetable pancakes, her son Junho’s favorite dish.

A telephone rings; Junho’s indifferent voice from Seoul muddled with his son’s scream: “Mom—Daddy! Teach me how to throw darts like you—can’t visit…”

“It’s fine, baby. I couldn’t prepare much anyway.

We always have next year.”

The dripping sound of the old faucet fills Grandma WonOk’s house.

She pulls out a chair and sits, but embarrassed, stands up, realizing that the dining table is made for six people, not one.

Her wrinkled hands divide the rice cakes onto separate plates.

She knows from experience that the next door children love them.

The steam from the radish soup has thinned.

Droplets cling to the soup bowl and roll down into salty puddles on the table that is all too big. grandma wonok’s chuseok june pyo suh poetry

15

The Agony in the Garden Kyle Kauffman Pamela concentrated

on hopping between each slate slab that marked the front yard path, occasionally slipping but never falling in her Sunday-school shoes. One by one she hopscotched to the front stoop, past the empty bird fountain and tumbling willow tree branches. She raised her hand to knock on the door, but then hesitated, her pale knuckles floating a few inches from the wood.

“Pamela, remember your manners, dear,” chimed her mother, whose sun hat flopped as she followed from behind. “Eat with your mouth closed, say please and thank you, and do play nicely with your cousin Susie. Remember that she’s younger than you. And you mustn’t go near those grapevines again, young lady. I don’t want to see any stains on your gorgeous dress.” As the two stood side by side, she laid a chalky-white glove on Pamela’s shoulder. “Is that clear, young lady?”

Pamela puckered her lips.

“Excuse me? A young lady always ought to respect to her elders. Is that clear?” repeated her mother, squeezing the glove tighter around the girl’s shoulder.

“Yes’m,” said Pamela, who scrunched her face in the presence of an overpowering incense.

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the agony in the garden kyle kauffman fiction

“Splendid, but do stand straight up.

A lady mustn’t slouch when she greets her grandparents.” She took her hand from the girl’s shoulder to knock on the door.

Miss Martha, the housekeeper, answered the door presently. She had waited in the parlor about an hour or so for “special guests.” Her open arms invited the two visitors across the threshold.

“Oh Lord! However did you create a child so precious?” exclaimed Miss Martha, who embraced a bewildered Pamela in her bosom. “I haven’t seen you since you were but a baby!”

Although Pamela leaned awkwardly into the housekeeper, she soon found herself not wanting the arms to drop.

“Is this what she calls a reception?” muttered Pamela’s mother, who made no effort to greet the housekeeper.

“Where is my mother, anyhow? Don’t tell me: the wine cellar.” She gave a critical glance to a red stain that had long ago permeated the foyer’s hardwood flooring.

“Mrs. Sterling, why must you be so bitter?”

Pamela’s mother swiveled on her heels and walked into the parlor.

“Don’t tell me how to talk about my mother, Martha.” She flexed her jaw

and fixed a pearl earring.

“Let’s get you washed up for lunch, honey,” Martha said to Pamela, “Come on, this way.” The housekeeper brushed the girl’s hand as she exited the corridor. Pamela could smell wine.

“So, Miss Pam, how do you feel now that you’re not a lost lamb anymore?”

“A lost lamb? What do you mean, Miss Martha? I was never a lost lamb.”

The housekeeper laughed. “Well, in the Bible, Jesus talks about finding his lost lambs. But the lost lambs aren’t really lambs. They’re sinners—when he says ‘lambs,’ he means sinners.

When you took the Holy Communion today, He found you: a lost little lamb in the big, wide world.” Can you still feel the holy water on your forehead?”

“No, ma’am.” Pamela could only remember the way her mother turned her head to one side to apply lipstick when the deacon called for Pamela Sterling.

“Oh, darling. Do you know what that means? The holy water soaked through your skin and cleaned your soul right up!” *

*

*

“To Pamela: May she always follow the Lord’s voice, even when those

around her do not,” announced Pamela’s grandmother, raising a glass filled to the brim with wine. From the table’s head she stood over the gathering and admired the turnout. Five had been the most populous event she and her husband had hosted in years.

“But if she doesn’t, we’ll love her all the same,” interrupted Pamela’s chuckling grandfather, whose wife soon reprimanded him amid clinking glasses.

Pamela furrowed her eyebrows and looked out the window, bedeviled by something.

“Harold! Don’t talk such a way!

Our innocent—” “Yes, Beatrice. Just a harmless joke.

Now, dear, drink before the toast fades away!”

With a reproachful cock of the head, Beatrice did drink her wine—the whole glass. Pamela’s mother rolled her eyes upon the sight, while Susie, Pamela’s younger cousin, frowned as any preschooler would when her mother put green beans on her plate.

Pamela stared out the window and did not eat or drink.

“There she goes. A bit more enjoyable once she has her daily fluid ounces in her,” Harold continued. “Can’t stop her, sometimes.” st. patrick’s cathedral tiger wu chalk pastel | 18 x 10 in.

17

But Pamela’s grandmother pretended not to hear her husband’s remarks and instead asked the girls, “Do you like the mashed potatoes, Susie? Hmm? Pam?” Before either could answer that the lump on her plate wasn’t as dry as it actually was, a disgruntled correction came from Pamela’s mother. “She prefers to be called Pamela, mother.

Not Pam. She’s doesn’t like it when you address her like that. And should you really be drinking that way in front of guests?”

A rather sarcastic smile broke on the grandmother’s cracking face. “Oh

Although no one looked at her, Susie’s mother mediated, “Mother?

Father? Mary? Must we quarrel on Pamela’s special day? We should be coming together to celebrate, not to point out flaws. We should be rejoicing with Pamela.”

“Louise, please,” the grandmother replied, “you are the biggest hypocrite I know. Always trying to be the perfect angel. Are you not pointing out our flaws?”

“Excuse me, mother, but are you describing my motherhood as flawed? an enraged Mary said, close to shouting.

“Well, I suppose I’m not in the correct position to judge “Where is she, anyhow? Don’t your motherhood. Let’s see what Pam has to say.” tell me: the wine cellar.”

“Mother! How dare you?”

“It’s not my fault I come my, Mary. I’m surprised you even knew off a bit pretentious now and then—I something of the sort, seeing that you mean, look at who raised me! Whomspend most of your time worshipping ever did I get it from?” yourself in that mirror of yours. And Pamela sat slumped, her head supdon’t act like you love this wine any less ported by her fist, and stared out the than anyone else. I saw you overturn- dining room window. The grapevines ing those glasses earlier.” She poured were there, enclosing the backyard like another glass for herself. a lush, green wall. Amid the turbu“Mother, if I may say so, you could lence, she grabbed Susie, who was glad use some mirror time yourself. Ever to leave her green beans unfinished, looked at that rough face of yours?” and together they crept out the door.

And right on time Harold chimed, No one witnessed the disappearance.

“Oh, trust me, Mary. She couldn’t fix it The foliage barricade was dripeven if she tried. I think all the alcohol ping from the last night’s dew. Pamela dries her skin out, but she’d rather die inspected the grapes, kneeling as she than give it up.” This time, he couldn’t did so. Her dress draped over insects stop laughing. He had to place his crawling along the lowest fruits. To utensils on his plate to catch his breath. her left, cousin Susie plucked purple

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the agony in the garden kyle kauffman fiction

grapes and placed them delicately into a wicker basket. The two were silent for some time, save for Susie’s humming.

“Susie, do you ever wonder about grandmother and grandfather and my momma and your momma?”

“What’d you mean?” inquired her cousin, still focused on her grape picking. She bit into an especially large one.

“Do you ever think that they are like each other, Susie?”

“Oh, yeah. Like, for instance, your momma, my momma, and grandmother all got blue eyes. Hey, so do we, Pamela!”

“No, Susie. I mean do you ever think that they act like each other?”

“Hm. I think they do, a little bit.

Whenever we come over to grandmother’s, they all get real excited and raise their voices. And they use lots of words I don’t know. And your momma and grandmother really like that red drink. They both had a lot at lunch.”

The two returned to their habits for a few moments until Pamela asked, “Susie, do you ever wonder if grandmother and grandfather like our mommas?”

“What’d you mean like ʼem? Of

course they like Momma and Aunt Mary. They’re their childs. A momma and a papa got to love their babies, else what’s the use in having ʼem?”

“Maybe. But do you ever think that they don’t like each other, maybe? What about when my momma and your momma were our age? Do you think grandmother ever spanked them for being naughty?”

“Proba-bably. But it’s a momma’s job to make her kids good-behaved.

Besides, I reckon grandmother spanked your momma lots; she’s always got too much perfume on and looks at everyone all mean like.”

“What was that, Susie?” Pamela’s neck twitched.

“Your momma looks kinda like an evil witch, like in The Wizard of Oz.” Susie tossed a grape into the basket, which was now about full.

“You know, a young lady ought to respect her elders. Especially at her grandmother’s house.” Pamela stood up and placed her hands on her hips.

“Hey, you kinda look like her, too, sometimes—when you get all mad and squeeze your face until it’s red.” Little Susie stopped to imitate her older cousin’s scrunched face.

Without warning, Pamela pounced on her cousin. She appeared as if a tongue of fire had been born inside her as she violently shook her cousin by the neck. Susie, however, shrieked. The wicker basket fell to the dirt, where a few of its contents spilled into a purple mess. The whole flurry was swift, and it took about thirty sec-

onds for the adults to burst outside in Finally, the housekeeper emerged response to Susie’s cries. from the house, bustling as she did “What on earth is going on out with her chores. She approached the here?” screamed their grandmother. crying girl, hushing her. The group of She brought her hand up to her mouth adults flinched when she placed a hand in a typical fashion. Pamela’s mother on the girl’s shoulder, but to their relief, wobbled about as if she were going to Pamela only shuddered as a result of faint. her fit.

As soon as Pamela heard her “Well, go on then. Go comfort your grandmother, she dropped her cousin child there, Mary,” advised the grandand proceeded to pick up the wicker mother, her voice wavering somewhat. basket. She grabbed sloppy handfuls Mary inched her way over to the of the remaining grapes and squished housekeeper and the child. She, lips them against her white dress. Over quivering as she went, bent over to lay and over she bombarded herself: the her hands on her child, but hesitated a chest, the feet, the cheeks. “Take this few inches from Pamela’s face. in memory of me.”

“Go on, Mary. Take care of your None of the adults, who stood baby,” the grandmother coaxed from from afar, knew what to make of the behind. delirious girl’s gurgle. They ignored And then Mary put her hands on Susie, who crawled over to the crowd the girl’s forehead. Much to her own sobbing and dripping mucus every- surprise, Mary blurted, “My Heavens! where.

“Pamela Sterling. Pamela!

Pam, oh, Pam! Stop, please! Do She grabbed sloppy handfuls stop! Right now, young lady! I of the remaining grapes and swear she’s not like this—we— squished them against she’s—I don’t know what’s gotten into her. W-why won’t her white dress. she stop Harold? Pammy, oh please!”

She’s burning up! She’s got a blazing Pamela no longer pelted herself fever!” with fruit, but instead sunk down to No sooner had her mother her knees and sobbed into her hands, uttered this did Pamela stand upright from which grape juice dripped like and exclaim, “No, I haven’t. Really, I blood. Her dress was all stained purple haven’t. I feel great—I got it out! I got and filthy. Her grandmother urged all the water out.”

Harold to approach the child, but he “Don’t be silly, darling. When you’re would not in fear that the girl would sick, you need all the fluids you can become devilish again and attack him. get.” Mary smiled uneasily at her child. the agony in the garden kyle kauffman fiction

19

As the adult group murmured concernedly among themselves, the grandmother ordered the housekeeper, “Fetch my granddaughter some water. Quick!”

Miss Martha returned from the house in a few minutes with a cup of water that sloshed onto her apron as she ran up to Mary. “Shall I go get some more?”

“Let’s get this in her. Keep her still.”

But Pamela was not tolerant of what her mother had to say. “ I said I’m alright!” she grunted, attempting to snatch the water cup from her mother. “I don’t need—I don’t want any of that! I’m fine, mother. Really.

Trust me! I am.”

Miss Martha had to hold the girl back, for she wanted to throw the cup on the ground.

Mary took a deep breath, turned to face her child, and smiled something wicked.“This is just water, dear.

You’ll feel better when you drink. But you have to cooperate or else mother’s

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the agony in the garden kyle kauffman fiction

going to have to punish you.”

“No. I don’t need any. No! No, mother! No.” While Miss Martha pried the girl’s mouth open, Mary poured water into it. With each interval of gagging noises, spurts of sticky fluid were spit back onto Mary. Pamela scrunched her face and writhed as the water slid down her purple tongue. A hissing noise came from deep within her throat.

They continued this way until the cup was empty, although half of what had entered the girl’s mouth resurfaced onto her mother’s face. Mary knew all too well what her daughter had regurgitated, but it was impossible. Miss Martha had spilled water on herself when she had brought the cup, but lo and behold, her apron was covered in dark splotches. Mary could only smell squished grapes. She dropped the cup and put her hands to her face.

By the time the last of the cup’s contents had been poured, Pamela was limp in the housekeeper’s arms. When Miss Martha released her, she slumped

to the ground beside the cup and did not move. A little bit of wine dripped from the lid.

“Let’s get her to the hospital!” ordered the grandmother. “Harold, start the car.” *

*

*

The doctor told them that she had died before they could roll her into the emergency room. Passed on the stretcher. The poisoning had set in quickly, he had told them. Too much depressant in her—nothing they could’ve done.

Mary sat a long time beside her daughter’s body. She thought that Pamela looked rather peaceful with her hands folded over her purple-stained dress. The corner of her mouth curved upward ever so slightly. It made Mary happy.

When the priest came, he said she’d have a short wait in purgatory, too. You can’t blame a feverish girl for sinning.

the awakening kj pankratz chalk pastels & pen | 18 x 24 in.

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infernal hank feng linocut print | 8 x 6 in.

night encounter kj pankratz mixed media | 18 x 24 in.

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The Canvas King Jackson Sompayrac

Green hills roll into sharp blue mountains; blue mountains stagger into maroon skies.

She cries, eyes drowning, as she witnesses His demise.

Flesh rises in tiny mounds; He shivers in the cold air.

Words swell in His throat, but nothing sounds.

Thorns like daggers He is forced to wear.

Blood dyes the flesh.

In the flesh, dies the Son. She dreams of speaking to the man, but the final trial is done.

Ground hardens under her feet; Her feet shuffle toward the door.

She turns away from the cross, heart cold.

The Son remains on canvas now and forevermore.

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the canvas king jackson sompayrac poetry

fallen king hank feng graphite | 24 x 18 in.

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Noise Clay Tydings I thought that a church

might be spared, but I guess that even the holiest of places can’t be saved from Charlotte’s need to build anew.

As I circled Hawthorn Chapel taking pictures on my DSLR, the broken windows revealed all too well what that yellow machine would soon do. The excavator stood small in comparison, but nonetheless, the claw would win the battle.

As I prepared to go inside, I saw a lonesome girl walking up from an empty part of town I had never explored. Her tennis shoes matched her ripped black jeans, denim jacket, and awkward glasses. I would have ignored her, but she started to ask me questions about what had happened and when demolition had started.

Coming from boarding school, I knew none of the answers. She, like me, was a photographer who had come home for break; however, she came from college. She invited me in and we went into the bottom level together, not talking anymore. I might have preferred to take it all in alone, but I didn’t want to be rude or have to come back later.

Entering the church, I expected some graffiti against the demolition,

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noise clay tydings nonfiction

and there were some sayings: We will my ISO, making it more light-sensitive; rise, Live your dreams, and Save our city. But however, it left the pictures filled with in contrast, little devils, upside down a grainy, blurry texture called noise. crosses, and nude women lined the If anything, this church was like the walls. All of these images only served static on a radio or everyone’s favorite to highlight phrases such as: Natural channel on the TV, the snowstorm. born killer, There will be no escaping here, I stood beside the window where and the notorious 666. light fell onto the walls. On the left side I struggled in the cramped of my frame, Homer Simpson was hallways and darkness to get the smoking a joint next to the words Live perfect shot. Meanwhile, the girl stood captivated On the left side of my frame, by the state of the church.

We worked independently. Homer Simpson was smoking More than anything she a joint next to the words Live was taking pictures of the occasional phrase or image. your dreams.

Perhaps she would have looked for something more if she had your dreams. On the right, the girl stood an actual camera. in front of a red snake whose head and Wandering through rooms filled tongue popped up right above her with with the old sheet rock walls and the phrase Please don’t kill me. Eventually, boards of the church, I discovered the girl disappeared. I stayed for a few that the staircase to the main floor had last photographs, but soon enough been removed. Neither the sanctuary I had nothing left to explore in that nor heaven were accessible through sacred place. I never found the perfect this church. The room next to the shot that day. staircase only had one small, opaque window with minimal light. The Aperture would open no more, and the shutter speed was already slow. I tried to compensate for the light with

abstract embodiment michael kurzewski acrylic | 24 x 18 in.

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dustless michael deng digital photography

hope jang woo park digital photography

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The Coroner of the Woods Alex Krongard A claw to grab, a claw to drag the fallen; crude black smoke spews from within.

Into the woods the skidder treks, the menacing claw hanging behind.

Those trees that stand so tall await collection.

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coroner of the woods alex krongrad poetry

Once inside, its grim job must begin, collecting corpses in a heap to drag out.

A faint scream in the distance of the saw ripping into new bark, new bodies to remove.

The life of a skidder, be it Deere or Cat, is not one marked in serenity.

Day in and day out, it treks into the woods, never returning empty clawed.

Talons grasp lifeless trunks.

Like those trees it dragged over its lifetime, the skidder is dropped off at a yard to be harvested, ending that skidder’s remorse.

dark forest patrick noonan digital photography

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The Nest Cordelia Hogan Staring at the wooden

tiles all lined up ahead of her, she could only think, Grandpa please play a word with an f ! Of course she kept her game face on and made no indication of what she desperately needed. If she could just get that f she could play falcon and add this game to her growing number of wins. Her grandpa selected three tiles and attached them to the open r spelling frer.

“Grandpa, come on, that’s not a word.” Aspen gestured to the open dictionary that she had used to prove that epoch was a real word. And yes, ten-year-old girls did use it.

He winked and nodded to her badly angled tile rack, showing her that his mistake was purposeful. Usually he never let her win, but this game had been going on for hours.

Aspen spelled za using her last tile, which ended the game. When she raced outside, her grandpa put everything back in the little velvet bag. He didn’t ask what she wanted. He knew.

Earlier during their game, she had noticed how green the grass had gotten and how thick the trees looked, a myriad of puzzles piled on top of each other. The birds and the bugs zoomed through the warm spring breeze.

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the nest cordelia hogan fiction

They sat on the back porch. The shade of the trees sprinkled around the yard like scrabble tiles dumped from their bag. She sipped her favorite drink, cold chocolate, similar to hot chocolate but miles away from chocolate milk. Her empty glass slammed on the deck. She sprinted down the steps to her favorite tree—the magnolia with gorgeous white flowers that she was careful never to blemish. She could climb it with her eyes closed.

At the top, she propped herself in a tangle of branches. After watching the robins fly in and out of their nests, she called out to her grandpa that she was “escalating down.” There weren’t very many rules at her grandparent’s house, but announcing when and how you planned to descend was a really important one.

Another big rule: Never ever climb The Tree. Impossibly tall, it towered over everything, hanging in the air like dense vocabulary that even Aspen couldn’t digest. The Tree’s shade would always protect her even when it reached a hundred degrees.

When it rained elsewhere, the thick pine needles worked as an umbrella, keeping everything dry. The Tree was the same with snow, except when the

snow melted, it would rain down on the yard. Life flourished under The Tree, even with the minimal amount of sunlight. Flowers, shrubs, even smaller trees grew under its shelter.

Aspen often nestled herself right up against the trunk between two protruding roots, and relaxed in the natural armchair. Sometimes when her mom dumped her off at her grandparent’s house—trying to shield her from all the yelling at home—Aspen would just wait there before going in. But she had never, ever climbed The Tree.

Maybe if she reached the top, she could free herself from all the mundane problems she faced.

“Aspen!” Her grandpa called her back to the porch. “I have something for you.” He pulled out a package from behind him and presented it to her. “I couldn’t wait until your birthday. Plus, it’ll be too cold then. You won’t want to use it.”

She unclipped the Swiss Army the garage and started drilling holes knife she had picked out for her for the eye bolts. She sat there looking birthday (cleverly named Knife, pro- down at him, feeling the whole tree nounced cuh-niff-y) and tore through vibrate from the power tools, wonderthe box. Inside she found a set of direc- ing how it would feel to be as high as tions, which she promptly disregarded, the robins. and a swing. Not one of those cheap It wasn’t until she had gotten three plastic ones either, but one with gor- branches up that her grandpa noticed geous braided ropes and an oak seat. what was happening. Immediately he “It’s the same model as the one told Aspen to come back down, that it I had on the farm growing up. Of wasn’t safe, but she ignored his warncourse, I got a new one; mine would be ings and kept scaling the rigid limbs. trash now. I thought we could put it up Pine needles started to pour down. together.” He beamed with pride.

Every shake of a branch loosed thouShe had always begged for a swing sands of sharp fragrant pins. She somewhere in the yard, but her grand- pulled herself from branch to branch, pa argued that they were unsafe. She peeling bits of sap from the tips of her would rebut by reminding him that fingers. Everything seemed closer, but climbing trees was way more unsafe the blue eggs in the robin’s nest still than a swing. Finally her hours of con- seemed so far away. vincing had paid off.

Her senses were amplified. The “And I thought it could go in The songbirds’ melodious calls. Each Tree.” indentation of the bark. Every trickle They made their way to the back- of sap. She could see every detail. Her yard. “Let’s put it up on this branch right here!”

Aspen pointed at the The shade of the trees sprinkled bough right above her around the yard like scrabble head.

Her grandpa chuck- tiles dumped from their bag. led and agreed that it would make a perfect place for a swing. grandpa kept yelling for her to come She examined the trunk. Backing down, and her grandma even came up onto the hill behind The Tree, she outside to see what all the fuss was jumped and grabbed a branch above about, but she didn’t hear them. Never her. Sloth-crawling her way back to the once did she look down—she stayed up base, she swung herself up and stood in her fairytale. Finally she had some up on the branch. In the meantime, time to herself. If only she could get her grandpa had gotten a ladder from to the top, maybe her problems would

stay down on the earth, and she could stay in the sky.

Her limbs worked for The Tree as if it were the one in control now. Her arms heeded The Tree’s every bend, giving in to its path. The branches slimmed down so much they were barely thicker than her arms. Even her body seemed too much for them.

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and jumped—flying towards the elusive nest. She made it to those beautiful eggs. Now her grandparents were just dots. Only when she hit the ground did she realize that she had fallen.

in-flight hummingbird | yellow resting finch ethan barbour chalk pastel | 12.5 x 7 in.

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cobalt jang woo park digital photography

beacon parker watt digital photography

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The Knot Nathan Janney Ahri scaled the reddish-

orange rock. The light glistened off her hair. She slipped near the ledge and laughed as she bounced. Ahri loved to swing in her harness while shaking out her tired muscles. After feeling a little more blood come back into her arms, she grabbed onto the rock and continued climbing.

Now, it was Seth’s turn to climb up to reach her. He unclipped from his ATC and tied a new knot to his harness. First, make the figure-8 knot, then through the two loops on the harness and finally follow back through and pull tight.

He had done it a thousand times— the knot had become a routine part of every climb he’d done in the years since he started.

Though they weren’t scaling a particularly tall canyon, it was the hardest climb they had set out to do.

They had spent the night before in the bottom of the canyon. They hadn’t even brought a tent; they lay side by side and looked up. The clear night sky and high elevation brought them closer to the stars and the Milky Way than they had ever been.

In Chicago, the light pollution often hid the North Star, which in Colorado shone brighter to them

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than ever before. They had decided to get away from Loyola to a place where they could escape their senior workload—somewhere where they could see the stars. So they packed up and drove off, nothing set in stone, just time away from the big city. They brought their climbing gear, just in case; after all, Colorado was the Rocky Mountain State.

They spent their first few days outdoors. They had hiked up a mountain that looked out over a large valley, and they took a day trip rafting down a river that flowed with melted snow from the white caps of the Rockies. For their culminating adventure, they had planned the night on the canyon floor and a long hard climb up the steep rock wall the morning after. The two of them lay next to each other on the canyon floor and stayed up most of the night talking.

After their night under the stars, they woke up bright and early, hoping to reach the top of the canyon wall before sunset. As Seth climbed up, Ahri watched intently. He wasn’t just strong, he was graceful; quick but precise. His laugh was unlike any she had heard, rich and full of joy. Seth continued his dance up the rock to join her.

As Seth reached the spots where she had struggled, Ahri called out from above. “Grab on that little ledge right to your left. This part is hard; you have to use the crack to climb up it.”

The comments never stopped coming. Ahri was always looking out for people—it was her thing. Seth didn’t mind. He knew it meant a lot to her, so he would nod his head and take her advice. Plus, she loved to talk, and Seth loved her for it. He never grew tired of listening to her stories of crazy nights back on dorm in Chicago or memories of her family back in Michigan. She was the social type, always focusing more on friendships and less on studying.

“Watch it right here. It’s like a chimney. Just wedge yourself in and scoot up the rock,” Ahri shouted down to him.

Seth concentrated, and soon enough he joined her on the ledge. He took a moment to shake out his arms and loosen up his muscles. This was a harder climb then he had ever been on. He was glad it was time to sit down for lunch. As they ate, the two of them stared at each other; they did that a lot.

For a moment, Seth was sure he saw a twinkle in her eyes, but before he could

be certain, it had vanished.

“I miss home; it has been too long since I’ve seen my parents,” Seth said.

“I wish I could see mine together again,” Ahri said grimly.

Ahri’s dad was an alcoholic, not violent but never sober, and her mom couldn’t handle it. Her mom never knew, but her husband had blamed Ahri for his addiction. Seth had to remind her that it was in no way her fault. Ahri usually didn’t last long when this subject came up. She needed some space and hopped up to bring an end to their conversation.

Seth wished they could just sit there and talk about the two of them.

It had been two months since he bought an engagement ring, and he

Ahri got prepped to climb up to the next ledge. Their whole route was marked out by other climbers who had been up the same way. There were spikes in the rock with carabineers hooked to their ends. Ahri would climb up to a hook and put her rope in the carabineer to keep herself from falling below Seth. The next ledge was about 35-feet above. Each ledge was spaced out pretty evenly, making for nice breaks, which Ahri was thankful for. Having already passed seven of those ledges, they only had four more to reach before they had completed their climb. They were making There was no cell service. good time.

After they harnessed up, Seth No nearby roads. No help. and Ahri kissed as they did before every climb since their first. Ahri had it with him in his pocket. He had took off, working her way up the rock. been longing for the perfect moment This particular section of the cliff to propose, but it just hadn’t shown slanted backwards creating a harsh itself yet. He had been planning on overhang beneath the next ledge. As doing it that day, but the subject of her Ahri got closer to the next breaking parents’ divorce had put a damper on spot, she slowed.

Seth shouted up words of her mood, and he felt as if he needed encouragement. “Keep going; you are to wait.

almost there! Just reach this ledge and it’s all downhill from there.”

Once she started to pick up the pace, Seth turned his focus to feeding her the rope. Suddenly, Seth heard an earsplitting scream. He slammed the rope down into the brake position and dared a glance up. Ahri had fallen, and the hook that was supposed to catch her had torn right out of the cliff. The small chunks of rock showered Seth as he watched in horror.

Ahri pounded against the rock as the next hook caught the rope and held. Seth worked quickly. He tied his rope to a hook near the ledge, and then he switched his gear so the he could lower her down. Blood dripped down the side of the rock. Head wounds always bled, but Ahri’s body had gone limp.

Once she reached the ledge, Seth washed the wound with water from his bottle. He ripped a sleeve off his shirt, pressed it into the divide, and held it there. There was no cell service. No nearby roads. No help.

Seth splashed water on Ahri’s face, hunting barn owl ethan barbour chalk pastels | 7 x 12.5 in.

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and her lips moved. She was fading fast. After he tore off another sleeve to replace the bloodied rag, he tied a knot around Ahri’s waist and then ran it through the hook nearest the ledge.

Then he tied another length of rope in the same hook. The rope held as Seth lowered himself down to the ledge below. The ledge that Ahri was lying on was skinny enough that when Seth pulled, Ahri rolled right off. Each ledge went by faster. He was driven by the paleness of Ahri’s face. Finally they reached the bottom.

Seth laid Ahri’s body down on the ground. The crimson patches on her shirt were spreading at an alarming rate. He needed to get help, to get to the car, but he couldn’t carry her. He felt for a pulse: still there. Not strong, but there. Seth changed the bloody rags and left Ahri lying on the canyon floor. He ran faster than he had ever run before.

They had parked over a mile away. When he got to the car, he pulled it right over the rocks off the pavement and into the sand in the bottom of the canyon. As soon as he got over the rocks, he floored it. He was surprised at how fast his dad’s old pickup ran, but he kept hoping for more. He pulled up next to Ahri and gently put her in the backseat of the truck. Seth shot off towards the road out of the canyon. As soon as he had a signal, he called in the emergency to the nearest hospital so that they were ready for her when he arrived.

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The entire drive, Seth kept looking back at Ahri. Lying there. Still. She was breathing, but it was slow. It scared him to think of what his life would be like without her in it. Seth felt as if he were pushing the pedal through the floor. He willed the car onward into a red sunset, but it was much less romantic than he had planned.

Seth collapsed in a chair in the waiting room and waited for most of the night, but he nodded off in the early morning hours. He woke up to the sun shining brightly through the windows of the hospital. Seth found a nurse who said that they had put staples into Ahri’s head to close the wound, twelve to be exact.

When Seth went to her room, Ahri was sleeping. The color had returned to her cheeks. He sat by her side, gripped her hand, and waited.

After a few hours he left to get a cup of coffee. Without giving it a second thought he poured two cups and made one just how Ahri liked it. It could be hours before she awoke. He dumped out her cup, and he felt for the ring.

For the last time, he was going to tie a knot with her.

red jungle kj pankratz digital photography

A Stairway to the Top Tilden Winston

Kick my left boot, crunch the snow, kick my right boot, crunch the snow, thunk my ice axe.

We were almost to the top.

Five hours.

We awoke that morning to blaring watches.

Inky darkness still oozed under the tarps while cold snapped at anything exposed. “Be bold, start cold,� echoed our guides as we trudged out of camp.

With headlamps out, we hiked toward the bottom of the peak.

We looked like strange fish as we threaded our way through the murky darkness.

Light started trickling over the ridge; soon it would spill over into the valley.

The peak, a lone boulder set against the azure sky, seemed so close, but each of us knew we had a thousand feet to climb and a thousand more after that.

We kicked steps in the hard snow, ice axes in hand.

Up the couloir, a stairway up, a thousand more steps to go.

Kick, crunch, kick, crunch, thunk.

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a stairway to the top tilden winston poetry

stretch kj pankratz digital photography

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luotuo trip hurley digital photography

wiseman chris oldham mixed media | 18 x 22 in.

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The Mungere School Hayes Jiranek The driver took up most

of the short plastic bench, leaving my legs to dangle out of the open tuk tuk as the three-wheeled vehicle teetered down the rocky dirt road. I hoped to catch a first glimpse of Kilimanjaro in the distance. In just a few days, our group of fourteen American high schoolers would begin our journey to summit the highest free-standing mountain on Earth. But for now, it hid behind the clouds, and we bounced across the flat, dry terrain of Tanzania.

Huts made of sticks, mud, and cow droppings speckled the land like the dirt on my bare white legs. I grinned at the delighted children who emerged from their huts wearing wide smiles and nothing else. “Hallooooooooo” they’d shout excitedly, waving their hands and hopping from foot to foot.

We returned the greetings by flashing peace signs, and occasionally they’d catch on and hold up two fingers.

“Sah dude?!” Hamisi and Johan shouted with open palms, waiting for me to hop out of the tuk tuk and dap them up. They wore bright red sweaters like all the students at the Mungere School, but their charm and sociability set them apart from their shy, soft-spoken friends.

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I’d been coming to work at version of basketball, there were no Mungere for the past week. Most of rules or fouls—only quick, aggressive the children loved soccer, but Hamisi competition that ended in smiles. On preferred to play basketball. Every day one of my last days, I hit a shot from I would join him on the dirty, slippery half court, which was only about the slab of concrete. Each hoop was distance of an NBA 3-pointer. Hamisi assembled from a pole with an iron and Johan’s eyes opened wide, and rim hanging off of it; there were no they walked over to shake my hand in backboards here. Plants surrounded congratulation.

When we weren’t gardening or the court, and thousands of burrs stuck to the ball whenever it rolled off. playing sports, Hamisi, Johan, and I One day I tried Hamisi’s technique were talking. They told me that they of brushing the sharp burrs off of the woke up at 5:00 AM every morning basketball with bare palms and ended up with dozens of needle- Even as I stood at the top of sharp spines stuck to Mount Kilimanjaro days later, my flesh. I resorted to I thought about the snake tracks. picking the spikes off of the basketball one-byin order to do their chores and walk one.

Pole pole, Swahili for slowly, slowly, the five miles to the Mungere School was how our guides reminded us to before 8:00 AM. They told me their trek up Mt. Kilimanjaro. Before that, dreams: Hamisi wanted to be a tuk tuk it was how the calluses on my hand driver just like his father, and Johan grew and how Hamisi and I began to wanted to be a doctor. I was pained by understand each other better. When some of the measures they had to take we played basketball alone, Hamisi to stay safe. They couldn’t leave their would humbly ask for pointers on how homes after dark because of crime, to improve his dribbling and shooting; and they had to stick together while when we played with bigger groups, he walking around during the day, but balled out like Kobe Bryant. In their they were thankful for their education

and families, and they laughed and pranked like any other fourteen-yearolds.

When we gardened, they dragged their blades through the grass, making fake snake tracks to scare their friends.

If we weren’t joking around with each other, they were asking me questions about my life. Their questions were always better than mine—more pointed and relevant. My answers felt insufficient—boring, even. The questions I fired back at them had probably been asked a thousand times by first-worlders who came to their school to garden and play soccer and

then left after a week. I wanted to stay longer—I wanted to be different—but my time was up.

The students said goodbye with ease. As I moved from child to child, they gave me hugs. Some whispered, “Remember me,” or handed me pen and paper to write down my name, promising to send me friend requests on Facebook (which I’m still waiting for). By the time I reached Hamisi and Johan, I felt a sting far stronger than the burrs that had stuck to my hands.

After dapping them up one last time, I stepped into the tuk tuk.

Even as I stood at the top of Mount

Kilimanjaro days later, I thought about the snake tracks. Their red sweaters and callused hands were engraved in my memory, but they didn’t seem to be bothered when I left. After all, they were used to these encounters. I wasn’t the first person to stop by and lend a hand for a week, and I certainly wouldn’t be the last.

I hope that my face doesn’t blend in with all the others. Maybe when they step onto that dusty, slippery basketball court, they remember that kid who sunk the half-court shot.

oasis drumming hank feng marker & acrylic | 10 x 12 in.

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My Last Summer in MunGyeong June Pyo Suh Shouts and curses brought

me to the window. Huffing and puffing, our middle-aged neighbor Mr. Kang glared at Y.B. Though a few inches shorter, the boy faced the man squarely, his head held high and his feet planted wide apart like a Chinese mitten crab protecting its territory. Now well past puberty, Y.B. had a well-built body and a tan, almost charred, face.

I liked watching fights, but I did not get any closer. When my friends fought, I always hid. They would punch and kick and claw, and I would feel a vicarious satisfaction.

A rock was clenched tightly in Y.B.’s hand. “I took for what I did. You are the one not doing the math.”

Hands on his hips, Mr. Kang drew a long sigh. “Damn me for hiring you.

Don’t even think about working at my peach farm again.” He spun around when he saw my uncle standing there.

The boy scowled and entered his grandmother’s house.

My uncle came inside. “That kid always makes trouble. I know that he is struggling to help his grandmother feed his little brothers and his sister, but this is going over the line.”

Had it only been four days since I came to my uncle’s house? Other than

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the chirping of birds, the barking of dogs, and the singing of cicadas, the village has been silent. This morning’s upheaval had stirred the honeycomb.

I didn’t like it. It reminded me of the chattering and bragging of my school friends in Seoul—the team projects or club activities full of overly competitive students or Mrs. Choi’s scolding when I said that I didn’t know what I wanted to do in the future.

Most of all, the confrontation reminded me of my memory paper, the piece of colored paper on which my classmates had written. Mine was the most mediocre one of all with lines of empty encouragement rather than praise. I searched in my wallet.

The paper was as creased as my grandmother’s forehead. I unfolded it.

Nothing had changed except for more wrinkles.

I never got to know you, but you always seemed to have something that you wanted to say. Spit it out. Be a man.

Why are you always so quiet? You let our team down in that presentation.

Have a dream. Good luck next year.

Out of the window the spot of the morning brawl stretched to level farms and then to clothesline-like telephone poles and past the stream to where only the distant horizon prevailed. I stuffed the paper back into my wallet. Who were they to tell me to talk more or to have a dream? Here in MunGyeong, I could freely pursue my real interest— observing ants and insects. I found a sense of stability in ants’ systemic societies. Each ant did its assigned work, and one did not have to stand out.

The next day, half of my Formica yessensis colony was dead. I had brought the small colony from my home in Seoul.

These ants secrete stronger formic acid than other types, and because I had forgotten to circulate the container’s air, they had killed themselves with their own survival strategy. A worker ant climbed up the wall of the container, finally enjoying fresh air. I watched it as if I were looking in a mirror.

A sudden clattering broke the silence. Y.B. was rummaging around for something outside. The moment he found a sickle, he looked up at my window before sprinting down the road. When he reached the stream, he brandished the weapon to drive away the boys who were fishing and then cut

taller than the amber waves gus perdue digital photography

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their lines. The boys picked up rocks as they slowly backed up. I trekked down the road hoping to see a fight. Instead, I met Y.B. coming back from the stream with a fish bucket on his left and the sickle on his right.

“Don’t even think about fishing in my area of the stream.” With this command, he trotted past me.

Fishing rods with cut lines were scattered like gunned-down soldiers.

Fishing rods with cut lines were scattered like gunned-down soldiers.

Pointy, irregularly sized stones encircled part of the bank, signaling Y.B.’s claimed area. I laughed. Everyone had a place in this village except for Y.B. The sun was setting, and the glow reflected sadly on the stream. I thought of the unwanted demands of Seoul.

Even fewer ants were alive in my Formica yessensis colony the next day, so I hiked to the mountain to collect a new colony. I brought a container and a hand spade and a brush. The mountain was embroidered with colonies of old pine trees with trunks as crooked as Tetris tiles. The fragrance of pine imbued the silent woods. A woodpecker swooped down, and a hare scuttled across the path. I thought about the right places for all the living things. Halfway up the mountain, I spotted a line of ants going up and down a pine tree. They were Camponotus kiusuensis, a shy and usually

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nocturnal type.

With a clear plastic container on my side, I dug the ground carefully.

As the sunlight illuminated their underground society, the soldier ants floundered and snapped the air, trying to execute the unrecognizable enemy.

Hundreds of worker ants bit down on cocoons and larva and transported them to somewhere safer. Their antennae twitched back and forth like car wipers. I could almost sense their pheromones howling.

Suddenly, a hand grabbed my left shoulder. It was Y.B. with a bag full of mushrooms around his waist.

“What are you digging with that spade? This is my place.”

I exhaled. “I am collecting ants.”

“Why bother?”

“You see, the queen ant, the worker ants, and the soldier ants form a colony.

I am going to collect them in this container and raise them in my home.”

Y.B. gave me a confused look, but I sensed curiosity, so I began to describe ant societies—how all are born into different positions and work diligently for the betterment of the colony. Y.B. gazed into the distance, so I stopped speaking and went back to ant watching.

“Then I must be a worker ant, right?” Y.B.’s voice trembled. “Then what are you, ambling around and raising those ants?” He punted my ant collection and ran down the mountain.

The next day I walked back to the mountain. I didn’t feel like collecting ants anymore, but I remembered that I had left without taking care of old rag view david vu digital photography

the exposed colony. A grasshopper landed on my forearm, and we walked together. As I neared the site, I saw Y.B. under the pine tree filling the earth and leveling the ground.

After lunch, I heard Y.B. talking to my uncle. “Mr. Song, do you have any corn? My younger brothers are going to a church camp, so I was wondering if I could pack them some.”

“I harvested some yesterday. Wait here a minute.” As my uncle went into the storehouse, Y.B. turned around and scrutinized my room. I stood by

breathlessly and only exhaled when my uncle came back out with the bag of corn. Y.B. thanked him and left the house.

Uncle asked me to help him pick more ripe corn. The hot weather made me hesitate, but my conscience won. By the time we had almost finished, I saw Y.B. sprinting across the field. He faded beyond the distant horizon.

When I came back inside, I found my backpack wide open. My wallet was not there. I rummaged through the room until I found a white envelope on

the open windowsill. Inside was a paper, a letter with crude handwriting.

A worker ant sometimes looks for food so far away that it forgets its way back, doesn’t it? A worker must have its own dreams, too. So I leave. Sorry about your wallet.

I thought about the memory paper stuffed in my wallet. I couldn’t throw it away with my own hands. Y.B. would look at it. The tiresome advice of my friends had left with him. It was time to

return to Seoul. I envied Y.B. The queen sprays pheromones when a worker is still an egg, which makes it impossible once the worker hatches to think of its independence. Y.B. could still dream.

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Sitting Together At the Rookery Maxwell Barnes In spring we started talking again after two years apart.

I went to the mountains while you stayed at the coast; a deceptively long time.

Our tall, fragile bodies looked the same as before, yet both our hearts felt worn out like used tires.

You came to me crying, and I had an idea to rewind time.

You let me hang out with you in public, which was more than nice.

We stayed up past midnight talking, trying to forget what would happen come August, but we were both too magnetic, too inseparable to bring it up.

Your laugh gleefully echoed through the night air on King Street.

Suddenly, I left, as I often do whenever I’m comfortable, and we pretended we would meet again when I returned.

But I felt a little too free, freer than water, than Carolina tides, and so were you because when I returned home this time, there was nothing for us to do. sitting together at the rookery maswell barnes poetry

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That Day in Granbury DW Cardwell Granbury, Texas sits

Ball thought Katie was beautiful, hidden almost forty-five minutes south- and he was right. Born in Granbury west of Fort Worth. I-10 West splits the and graduating from Granbury High town down the middle, and bumpy in 1973, she was one of five people roads fork off the highway four or five in her class to go to college. She foltimes on the drive through. The old lowed Ball to Texas Tech, and she had town joke is that they do indeed have a been teaching elementary school ever river with the I-10 as the body and the since. Katie’s blonde hair swooped roads as its tributaries. In 1984, all of over her shoulders, and her oak brown the 8,000 residents were born in Granbury or some other In some kind of deranged town just like it in Hood Coungame, somewhere in this ty. Not many outsiders cared about Granbury, but that was town, a psychopath okay because the townspeople stalked his next kill. didn’t give a damn about them either.

A light winter fog spread across eyes blessed everything they happened Granbury in late February. Like every to land on. Her hands felt welcomother morning, Ball, a little hung-over, ing, and they fit perfectly in his. They looked across the kitchen table at his didn’t have any kids, but it wasn’t from wife and high school sweetheart Katie. a lack of trying.

The two sat in silence while Ball sipped at his cheap, black instant coffee. * * * “You should have been from California, but I’m damn glad God Two distinct rifle shots rattled dropped you in li’l ole Granbury,” Ball across the town. whispered as he leaned in and kissed “Heya, Ball. Either someone’s a shit her on the cheek. He stood up and shot or they’re already hammered,” grabbed his keys as he did every day, Hutch chuckled as he walked in the and she smiled and held him a little too precinct, jingling change in his pocket. tightly.

“Morning, Hutch. Any luck in the

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blind this weekend?”

“Well, I got out to the damn thing, then—” Scratches from the radio interrupted him. “Detective Ball—Ball, are you there? It’s Officer Nuñez.”

“Got ya loud and clear.”

“We have two confirmed dead on South Congress. Two rifle rounds. We need you down here.”

Ball noticed the uneasiness in the voice. He never got calls like this.

Moments later, he was rolling down the window in his truck, the kind you have to crank, and opening a new pack. Ball said he only smoked Camel Blues, but he’d smoke whatever he could get his hands on. He flipped the first cig in the pack over like he always did. It was the lucky one, and he never smoked the lucky one, figuring he needed all the luck he could get.

He made his way down the deadstraight, West Texas gravel road. Mile after mile, everything looked the same.

In some kind of deranged game, somewhere in this town a psychopath stalked his next kill.

Two masses lay lifeless on the concrete. Ball’s stomach dropped as he recognized them, seventy-year-old David Ames beside his six-year-old

grandson Jack, a student of Katie’s. as he contemplated calling her. Was Ball lit another cigarette. Rolled onto she awake? the grass behind the two was Jack’s “Ball, we need you.” The radio red wagon with nothing but a nickel to crackled with Nuñez’s shaky voice. clank around inside it. Ball imagined “Another one. Get down here. I’m at David and Jack falling beside each Forest Park.” other the way they kneeled together Ball’s truck rolled to a stop in the in front of the altar at church. Why? A The next bullet shattered trail of fresh blood still trickled on the Granbury’s grieving silence like street, banking off winter hail on a frozen windshield. the sides of a rock and into the neighbor’s gutter. Eyes stuck to windows tall grass. At the base of a willow tree all up and down the street, inspecting. lay a pretty, dark-haired woman. She Nobody could be seen, but everybody reminded him of Katie in her youth. was watching.

Ball didn’t know her, which was unusu“You know ’em?” Nuñez asked. al. Everybody knew everybody in Ball nodded and bit his lip. “Let’s Granbury. Her long fingers clutched a find the bastard that did this.” nickel. Ball pulled her wallet out of the front pocket of her gray hoodie. The * * * ID said Lucy Eleanor Stowes, 5’5”, 137 lbs. Her red nails looked like five The next bullet shattered Gran- entry wounds carving out the front of bury’s grieving silence like winter hail her palm. Ball held her hand in his, on a frozen windshield. It had been noticing the creamy brown lines that one long, confusing night with no leads streaked across them. Poison? and lots of phone calls. Ball had fallen “Ball. Hey, Ball!” asleep at his desk. Rattled, he looked up Ball’s eyelids flickered as he stumat the clock. 5:43 AM. He shuddered, bled over. praying the sound was early morning * * * deer hunters. He hadn’t made it home to Katie last night, and all he wanted Ball opened his pack of Camel was to be sitting in silence across from Blues and grabbed his last cigarette— his beautiful wife in the kitchen, star- the lucky flipped one. He held the lit ing at her while he sipped his coffee. cigarette in front of him, watching Nothing about the past twelve hours the fire inch through the paper like a had been usual. A few minutes passed controlled burn slowly moving across

a pasture.

9:30 PM. Ball sat at his desk.

“Three goddamn people, Hutch.” His desk clock taunted him. “And what’s all this fuckin’ nickel business? Do you think it means he’s gonna do five?”

“God, I hope not.

We’re gonna find that son of a bitch sooner of later. Not too many places to hide in this town.”

Hutch agreed. “It’s gettin’ late, Ball. Let’s head home. I need a drink.” *

*

*

News on the nines. Granbury on edge after three killi— Ball shut the radio off and drove.

“Katie, I’m home.” Ball’s voice echoed through the wooden rafters as he opened the back door. He couldn’t wait to fall into her arms. It felt like weeks since he had left the morning before. “Baby, are you there?”

A voice called back from upstairs.

Ball exhaled. He could hear the water leaking out of the faucet as he came up the wooden staircase. He hoped she was in the shower.

“Can I come in?”

Drip. Drip. Drip.

“Hun, are you in there?” Ball cracked open the chipped white door and peered around the corner. There lay Katie slung over the side of the tub.

Til Death Do Us Part was etched into the mirror. The fourth victim lay mangled, eyes open. A sinister nickel sat wedged in the mouth of the drain. that day in granbury dw cardwell fiction

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Black Coffee, Ice Too Kyle Kauffman

Starting half asleep, the coachman crops four black colts boasting silver bridles.

Not acquainted with such outings, they tire quite easily in the cold.

A dim midmorning drive!

He likes to take his coffee black; ice, no.

It’s frosty enough, though.

The black colts spiral untamed, unable to brake by command.

Nay, hooves cannot stop without traction.

The coach skids into a roadside ditch.

Bitter steam rises from the heap.

Filthy slush cannot start the coachman from sleep solitary on his bed of frosty wreckage.

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Killing the Cowboy Ashby Shores

A bandit born out in the west, a legend; Robert Ford, he did detest the honest life, a wily young crime lord.

With petty theft, he started out, his lust outgrew those games, and so, his brother brought him up to meet with Jesse James.

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When Bob wound up in jail one day, the cops then set him free, the terms of his release said that; he had to kill Jesse.

Confiding in his wife one day, his gang still growing weak, “Bob Ford I do not trust,” he said, “I think he is a sneak.”

Ol’ Jesse quit the life of crime; cops caught his trusted men.

In ’82, both broke and bored He ached to steal again.

One morn in Jesse’s living room, his gun to James’ head, Bob shot the famous cowboy dead.

With ten grand, west he fled.

He needed troops to rob Platte Bank and thought that Bob would fit.

Meanwhile the governor Crittenden on James put out a hit.

In Creede he built a tent saloon Then under whisky’s spell, a vengeful Irishman named Ed sent Bob on down to hell.

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Game of Wheelchairs Max Park Robby August 23rd, 2:00 AM “He was in an accident, a car crash,” they told me. Alex stayed alive by a miracle. At the back-to-school party for senior year, my ringtone had reverberated through the couch cushions. “8 Missed Calls from Mom” registered in my hungover mind. I cleared my throat, flipped open the phone, and prayed for anything but a “Where the hell are you, Robby?”

Sobs from my mother sent a shiver up my spine. Unfortunately, a six-inch rod was going up my younger brother’s spine for spinal fusion. On the hospital bed, wires and tubes were going in and out of Alex like the back of a computer.

When he woke up, I could only think of what I’ve said to him since we were little. “You’re such an idiot, Alex.” My words trembled.

My mom sat on the edge of her seat, her hand cupped over the bottom half of her face, and my dad left the room to have a smoke.

Alex August 23rd, 2:30 AM Three sets of eyes locked on me like magnets: my dad slumped in the corner, my mom on the bench, and

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my older brother. I think he just called me an idiot. The emergency room sign flashed red and oxygen crawled up my nose. The television was tuned to Grey’s Anatomy, which didn’t make me feel any better.

Rewinding back, Robby had called me an idiot, but that wasn’t the issue. It was the fact that I couldn’t feel his hands on my leg. He was rocking back and forth, so I checked under the blanket to make sure those legs were mine.

“Mom, why can’t I feel my legs?”

Our eyes met. Swallowing her words, she shook her head side to side.

“Son,” my dad replied for her. “I don’t know how to say this, but your spine is in bad shape.” He left the room with a cigarette on the edge of his lips.

Was he serious?

“Alex. Everything’s going to be okay.

Don’t worry,” my mom finally answered.

That was the last thing I heard before falling asleep.

Robby September 15th, 6:00 PM I had three new jobs: waiter, housekeeper, and driver. I brought Alex his food, did his laundry, and took him to school. I drove Alex to his physical therapy appointments during my

afternoon football practices. I despised it. What about my appointments? Parties? Girls? I felt so selfish, but for the first time I was connecting with my brother. We laughed watching The Office, cheered as the Panthers scored a touchdown, and grieved over the characters that died in Game of Thrones. As a joke, we nicknamed Alex’s wheelchair the Iron Throne.

Before the accident, the four-year age gap made us distant. Alex was always a middle schooler while I was in high school. Sports interfered with dinner, and I spent nights at my friends.

Now, Alex was a freshman. This would be the first and last year we’d be in the same school.

Alex September 15th, 6:30 PM I purposely dropped my spoon because I thought the look on Robby’s face would be hilarious when Dad told him to fetch me another one. I always wanted a brother who had to do whatever I asked. He helped me get comfortable on the couch. I watched TV with my legs crossed on top of the table, a pillow on my lower back, and a bowl of Doritos on the armrest.

I wrapped a blanket around me like a butterfly waiting to hatch.

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The best part was the physical therapy sessions. Robby drove, and we talked about school, sports, and even girls. He told me his wildest stories of what happened at football or when he was on the run from the cops. Yes, the cops. I’m glad that he pushes me around on my Iron Throne.

“No, they didn’t. How do you feel now?”

“I felt something. I felt something in my legs.”

Alex October 17th, 3:00 PM Today the rod in my spine would be removed. Going into surgery was Robby like the eerie feeling of walking into September 30th, 5:00 PM the bathroom after watching a horror I have to admit the brother-to- movie. brother hangouts were fun, but some“Robby, I really don’t want to go in.” I spilled out the words, but this wasn’t like begging During the football game, my mom to stay home from every time a running back got school.

“You’re gonna get tackled, it reminded me of through this. I know you Alex sprawled out on his bed. can. Just like Jon Snow did.”

Robby pushed me to times he scared me. I got an emer- the waiting room. Although my wheelgency call from Alex during a football chair wasn’t forged out of swords, I felt banquet. Muscle spasms. I rushed back bolder. The surgeons were my swordshome to find Alex in a state of shock, men. looking at his legs as if they had a mind of their own. At first, I thought it Robby was something serious, but the doctor October 17th, 3:30 PM informed us that is was a normal side “Alex, I’ll see you tonight, okay? I’ll effect of spinal cord injury. drive right down here after my game.

Relieved, I put an arm around I’ll be here before you get out. I promAlex. “I was scared for a second there.” ise.” He looked over his shoulder and “Yeah, right,” he laughed. “Did smiled. your legs kick you in the face?”

During the football game, every

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time a running back got tackled, it reminded me of Alex sprawled out on his bed. When my legs got pinned, I scrunched my toes to make sure my legs still worked. The game ended with a loss, but that wasn’t important. Alex’s surgery had ended, and I wouldn’t be there to see him come out. I hastily dressed to drive to the hospital. I didn’t even tie my shoelaces. Grabbing the book I bought him the day before, I followed the signs to the waiting room.

At the end of the hall, Alex sat on his wheelchair with his head resting on his palm.

“Alex!” I tried to get his attention.

The sound of my voice was eaten up by the chatter of the nurses and the screeches of the stretchers. The book tucked under my arm was a football, and the waiting room was the end zone. Only ten yards away, I was tackled by my own shoelaces. The book slid in front of me.

“You’re such an idiot, Robby.” Alex tried his best to push himself off the arm rests, his legs shaking under him like two pool noodles. “I already read that book.”

Our arms opened up at the same time, and I reached the endzone to give him a hug.

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The Sandwich Jackson Monroe When I was about two,

my mom took me to a picnic lunch at my preschool. Everyone in my class showed up for the big day. Never had we been to a party with so many people. After an hour or so outside on the yellow playground, the sky opened up.

Mothers ran to scoop up their cheering children from the rain because everyone knows a playground is way better in the rain than in the sun. I did an awkward toddler run to cover when my mom called my name. She reached for my hand and escorted her little ninja to the cafeteria.

Once inside, my mom ushered me into a less crowded space and set down the blanket draped across her arm.

She placed a bag on top of the blanket and started to pull food out of the spacious food-carrying item. She removed my favorite lunch foods, starting with Pirates’ Booty, an apple Juicy-Juice, Oreos, and, what I hoped to be the sandwich of all sandwiches: ham and cheese.

Everyday I would eat my lunch from worst items to best, and if the sandwich was made the right way, I would always eat that last. This sandwich looked perfect, so that was definitely going to be the last thing with

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which I filled my stomach. I shook it so no one could see me, and stealthily out of the plastic bag and moved it snuck up behind the sandwich. I got closer to my mouth. I sank my baby right behind the sandwich and looked teeth into the bread and chewed slow- around. My mom was busy talking ly, waiting for the perfect combination to someone on the other side of our of ham and cheese to pack its punch. blanket, the owners of this precious But it never did. I sourly chomped sandwich were nowhere to be seen, and swallowed the large bite that invaded my The kind of scream that makes mouth with strange flavors. I peeled back the all the parents stop and turn white bread to see some- and pray, “Please don’t let this thing yellow spread across the top. The brown meat be my child.” was definitely not ham.

There was not even cheese on this and everyone else either looked at me sandwich! Roast beef and mustard: my and did not care or was not paying any worst nightmare. attention. I swiped the sandwich off I had to get a new sandwich. I the blanket and quickly rolled back to looked over to the family closest to us my own area. Scared of someone seeand saw a sandwich just sitting there ing me, I quickly bit into the sandwich on the blanket. It had white bread and tried to eat it as fast as little me with weird red and brown pastes com- could. ing out of the sides. I had never had About halfway into the sandwich, one of these concoctions before, but I I began to feel weird. I slowly nibbled believed they were called PB&J. What- on the remaining sandwich until someever it was, it had to be better than a thing felt really wrong. I screamed. Not roast beef and mustard sandwich. My a small, weak scream, but a life-endanmind was set; I was going to get that gering scream. The kind of scream only sandwich. a small child could let out. The kind of I made sure I was a ninja. I cov- scream that makes all the parents stop ered my tracks, crawled on the floor and turn and pray, “Please don’t let this

be my child.� But for one unfortunate mom, it was, and she had never heard me scream like this. I started to turn red. Small hives and bumps appeared around my face, neck and body. My breaths grew weaker. Mom ran over to me and examined my writhing body while my face changed from a ghostly white to a beautiful, deadly crimson.

Even though I was rolling around, my mom could see the peanut butter and jelly I was saving for later plastered on the sides of my face. Busted.

A woman ran over, and a bee stung my thigh. My mom held me for a little until it became easier to breathe, and the bumps and hives covering me sunk back into my skin. She carried me

to the car, buckled me in, and drove me home to give me some nasty, pink medicine.

And that was the day I found out I was allergic to peanut butter.

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Eternal Things Agus Tornabene Being a chalkboard is

nice, but it does get a bit lonely. “No ideas but in things” holds true, and I am the proof of it. Most of my body is covered with quotes from ancient poets and philosophers. The best thing about being a board is having my own personal tattoo artist otherwise known as an English teacher.

Rarely is there a soul that I can talk to. During the day, my only source of entertainment is watching classes.

It’s a bit like a reality show, the kind in which the host rips on the participants.

My artist does that a lot. After the students leave, I have nothing better to do than to figure out some sort of order for his desk. As of yet, I haven’t succeeded, even though I have been here for some twenty-five years. Or is it thirty-five? It doesn’t matter.

Solace arrives, albeit the bad kind. Every night when I see students studying, I do enjoy listening to my dear artist. “Wake up! Wake up!” never fails to amuse me. It still gets lonely, though, so I start to think of my younger days, back when my guardian wore a leather jacket and had a moustache. Oh, those were the days!

I have never liked cleaning my body, and the 1623 First Folio that has

been on me since 1624 is living proof while they work. We all hate when of that. Many regard my contents as students lean back in their chairs, a old and outdated, sneering at their feeling we share with our guardian. antiquity. Their opinions cease to In his usual manner, our painter never matter as soon as my dear artist makes misses a chance to point these faults one of his renowned sarcastic remarks. out to his defiant students, who throw To clean myself, I have to hang the George W. Bush smirk he so hates out with those annoying erasers. They back at him. For someone whose views make the beautiful words tattooed on my body fuzzy and illegible, sending I have never liked cleaning my all that knowledge into body, and the 1623 First Folio oblivion. Ah, the fury! I still remember when one dared that has been on me since 1624 erase the sacred syntax is living proof of that. graph. Never has my teacher forgotten the doer of such a vile deed. While the erasers are so close to Bernie Sanders’, erasing pass, they make raunchy jokes about student messages and suppressing my body, surpassing the truck-driver their free speech sounds a bit like a level. After their brush, my surface dichotomy. What was I saying? Oh yes, feels more like sandpaper than slate. the chalks. I get so sad when they leave, They have never been clapped, so they but my artist has a knack for creating leave my skin with more chalk. everlasting things.

The only downside of not showering is that I don’t get to hang out with the chalks. Their short, stubby bodies are scintillating to the touch.

They carry humorous messages or random things in foreign tongues or outright tongues. The chalks are old and used, much like I. We usually talk eternal things agus tornabene fiction

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Thoughts on Joe Walter Andrew Jacobs

Date: July 7, 1972 Name: Darlene Scott Age: 65 Occupation: Kindergarten teacher Residence: Hackleburg, Alabama That Walter boy was a peculiar one. He loved his red shoes. I suspect that those were the only pair he owned.

I can’t recall for sure, but I think I do remember him always staying late after school. He was such a nice boy; never talked much.

Date: July 11, 1972 Name: Don Gant Age: 37 Occupation: Mechanic, youth football coach Residence: Hackleburg, Alabama I remember Joe Walter real well. He was on my son’s football team in grade school. Best little ball player I ever seen. That boy ran his tail off. I used to wonder if there was something up with it. I’d never seen a kid run so hard and so long. He ran angry, too. He used to run boys over, throw ʼem on the ground. Man, he ran good.

No kid runs like that on his own. Somethin’ made that boy mad.

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Date: July 17, 1972 Name: Eric Murphy Age: 28 Occupation: Camp Counselor Residence: Russellville, Alabama Joe was real quiet. I was his counselor at an outdoor summer camp when he must’ve been in middle school.

Joe really liked to keep to himself. For the whole camp, he was always into arts and crafts. Never really did anything else. I tried to get him to come out of his shell a bit, but he never really did. I worried about him.

Most kids are a lot more outgoing. Just one of those types, I guess.

Date: August 1, 1972 Name: Travis Norris Age: 21 Occupation: Unemployed Residence: Hamilton, Alabama I was in Joe’s history class back in high school; I think it was senior year. Joe was real smart. He got A’s all the damn time and made everyone jealous. He was a good ball player, so people thought he wouldn’t be smart, but he worked real hard. I always saw him in the library writing stuff down and readin’. People thought it was strange he stayed at school so long, but he was just gettin’ good grades. I can’t believe I saw the same guy score a touchdown in the SEC Championship.

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Date: August 1, 1972 Name: Brett Jarry Age: 61 Occupation: College Counselor Residence: Hamilton, Alabama Joe Walter came in my office one time asking about college. It surprised me, really. Joe Walter, college? That same boy I’d seen run all over the football field wanted to go to college? He seemed mute to me. He was big and strong and all, but I never heard a word from him until he came into my office. I didn’t think his grades would be good—I heard rumors he wasn’t so well off at home—but man, I was surprised. He was smart, honest to god. I can’t remember where he went, but he was a hell of a lot smarter than what people told me.

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Date: August 10, 1972 Name: Nancy Walter Age: 58 Occupation: Restaurant Hostess Residence: Hackleburg, Alabama Joe never says much, but I think that is just his personality. Joe’s father and I spoil that boy to death.

We don’t have much, but we always try to give our son the best of everything. His father is a cashier at the Hackleburg gas station, and he’s gotta work the night shift a lot, and I’m a hostess at a restaurant downtown, so I usually work real late. Joe was always the last one to get picked up at school and things like that. I cried one time seeing him there all alone after kindergarten in his little red shoes. He wore them ’til they practically fell off his feet. One of the first lessons I taught him was about effort. Joe ran his heart out playing football. Grades, too; grades were important. He ended up going to Vanderbilt, actually. He played football up there. He graduated last year, and he’s an intern at a company in Nashville. We wanted him to be successful and not end up like his parents. Humility was something his father taught him.

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No Strings Attached Max Park

The first time hurt the most.

She left marks on my fingertips; the good type of pain.

Her neck stretched out smoothly, every inch flawless.

A symmetric frame rested steady on my knees.

My left hand supported her as I adjusted each string.

My right hand on the bouts tapped a constant beat.

A sweet note lingered, but the melody died out, and I wanted a different song.

Then I found you; hollow but full of love, fewer strings but more passion and a deeper tune making your staccato words and my legato talks resonate.

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Climbing the Scales Tae Min Kim The piano showroom

was wedged between Ho Chi Minh City’s bustling markets and food stands. Mr. Minh, the owner of Erato and a fervent pianist, commenced the ceremonial opening of the 55th concert. The audience was well dressed and hungry for a performance. As a treat for his crowd, Minh offered a piece to ready the soul for upcoming performances, Chopin’s Waltz in C-sharp minor.

Pianissimo. The piano whispered as Mr. Minh’s hands danced across the keys. His hair glistened under the chandelier’s light, and his beard swayed with the music. He looked like a battered angel. When the piece plunged into the sorrow of a thousand wailing cries, the crowd felt vicarious anguish. When the piece soared into a symphony of heartfelt bliss and vigor, the crowd followed suit. The music controlled them. As Mr. Minh’s fingers waltzed towards the ending of the music, they held their breaths. Crescendo! Crescendo! Pianissimo. Al fine. Silence ensued. He bowed. They exhaled.

“Next, Thomas Pham will perform his piece, The Turkish March,” Mr. Minh announced.

The sight of Thomas Pham’s

dream school began to recede without Mr. Minh’s recommendation. He hoped to enroll in one of Vienna’s most prestigious music colleges. Trembling in his teacher’s presence, Thomas crept onto the stage, and after a deep breath, he started playing. Pianissimo.

Adagio. He tried to maintain his composure. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Mr. Minh’s displeasure.

Crescendo! Forte! Allegro! His fingers marched and tried to grasp Mr. Minh’s attention, who now had two fingers stuck in his baggy ears. Pianissimo?

No reaction from Mr. Minh. Staccato?

Nothing. Forte! Still nothing. His music sounded like a nagging child begging his father for candy. Thomas’s fingers faltered. 1-4-3-2-1. Or was it 1-4-2-31? He forgot. He tried not to notice the unbearable heat. His hands struck incorrect keys, ringing louder than any note. He saw nothing now, only feeling the haphazard movement of his fingers, painfully struggling their way towards the end of the piece. Pianissimo. Al fine. Three minutes had felt like an eternity. Still there was no reaction from Mr. Minh. Thomas stole a glance at the devil and hastily escaped the showroom.

Mr. Minh stopped him. “Thomas.

Your name, yes? Practice the C major scale. You can do that. Right? Even my three-year-old son can do it!” He placed his sweaty palms onto Thomas’s bony shoulders. “Calm down.

Although your performance sounded terrible, you need to talk to your music.

Sing with your music. Dance with your music! Once you’ve done that, you should be able to feel the texture and depth of each key. Relish them. Learn their individual quirks and create a masterpiece! You will perform once again in three weeks.”

The C-scale is for beginners! Is he really a teacher? When Thomas arrived home, the smell of liquor and cigarettes still lingered on his aching shoulders, prompting him to practice.

C – D – E – F – G – A – B – C Thomas sang and played each note. Gradually, he learned that singing helped him conform the notes’ will to his own. When he sang at higher pitches, he screeched like an orchestra of untuned violins. He strove to befriend the strange notes, no longer lifeless wooden keys but beautiful, encased souls. His fingers were growing.

Two weeks later after a call, Thomas was welcomed into Mr. Minh’s showroom by a stream of music played climbing the scales tae min kim fiction

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by the big boss himself. Ah. Beethoven’s On the day of the concert, dressed Moonlight Sonata, movement number 3. A in a black suit and Mr. Minh’s funky fitting song for such a monstrous creature. shoes, Thomas walked into the showThomas felt the cries of the arpeggios room and found his seat. and the minor scales. Immersed in his “We will now begin our concert piece, Mr. Minh paid no attention to his with Thomas Pham, who will redeem surroundings. He was in his own world himself from his previous perforagain, sailing through a tempestuous mance,” Mr. Minh announced. storm of notes and swirling emotions.

As Thomas made his way through The piano’s mysterious force mesmer- the sea of audience, he spotted the ized the boy.

“Who are you?

Oh, yes. The wor- Thomas hesitantly accepted the rywart. What brings old shoes adorned with streaks of you here?” Mr. Minh gold and fake diamonds with an asked as he rushed into the showroom’s almost unnoticeable picture of a closet to fetch an dove spreading its wings. old, dusty cardboard box, “I almost forgot! Size 11. Good? You’ll be walking piano chair but not the piano itself. In in my footsteps! Ha! Bring these with front of that chair stood a microphone. you to next week’s concert. You’ll need “Thomas will start singing the them.”

C-scale while dancing to his magnifiThomas hesitantly accepted the cent voice!” Mr. Minh shouted with a old shoes adorned with streaks of gold cheeky grin. and fake diamonds with an almost What happened to playing the piano? unnoticeable picture of a dove spread- Sing? Dance? He can’t be serious! It took a ing its wings. Before Thomas even had while for the nonsense to seep in. Sura chance to speak, Mr. Minh ordered rendering to Minh’s pressure, Thomas him to go home to get ready for the reluctantly started to sing. C. Voice crack. upcoming concert.

Silence. The audience tried to repress

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their chuckles, but Mr. Minh remained calm. Thomas didn’t want to disappoint him a second time. He wanted to show control. Discipline. So he sang.

He pictured an imaginary piano in front of him and played its keys. After reaching the second C, he stood up, opened his arms, and stretched out his legs. His movements matched the slur and density of each note and welcomed the audience to join him. They clapped in rhythm to Thomas’ singing.

He was speaking it—the language of music. The crowd showered Thomas with applause.

Mr. Minh asked, “Do you understand now? The piano lives in the world of music. Without learning the language, how could you ever imagine mastering the piano?”

Thomas noticed an envelope sticking out of Mr. Minh’s back pocket with a little picture of a soaring dove, his dream school’s logo.

“Cong ratulations, Thomas.

Here is your recommendation to the University of Vienna.”

Pianissimo. Al fine.

figure study (no. 2) tiger wu graphite | 10 x 7 in.

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December 2016 Dear Readers, What a long and crazy fall it has been. After a summer of international terror and turmoil and a year of ugly political campaigns and a divisive election, our community at Woodberry has experienced tension, too. Along with the changes to our daily schedule came the arrival of a new wave of faculty and the departures of several members of our community. Fall sometimes felt like a time of discord at the Forest.

This magazine is a reflection of both dissonance and of harmony, especially in the distinctive styles of two of our senior artists, Tiger Wu and KJ Pankratz. KJ’s art resounds with a grim and mysterious tone, highlighting the contrast between cityscapes and the fantastical beasts that creep their ways into our daily lives. On the other hand, Tiger’s art is composed of rich and playful colors. He experiments with beauty, using warmth and light to characterize the human form or elaborate architecture or even abstractions of the two.

The conflicting themes expressed by our artists are also present in our poetry and prose. While love and relationships resonate in narratives and poems, injury or death sometimes prevails. The Talon in the fall of 2016 is animated with the same tensions that we as a planet, a nation, and a school have encountered over the past few months.

Looking forward, we hope that our community will continue to express inner conflicts through creative means. The mediums of art, photography, and writing help us to grasp what we feel and to put it into a tangible form—an idea ready to be contemplated, shared, and appreciated. This is our magazine, and these are our voices. We challenge you to step back and look at the world from a distance to confront the tensions that have pulled us in different directions. What do you see?

Sincerely, The Talon Editors

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Editors Editors-in-chief Photography Poetry Prose Editor-in-training

Art Lee Caffey Hayes Jiranek Greg Manning Charles Moorman KJ Pankratz Philip Williams Hank Feng James Henckel von Donnersmarck Reece Tilgner Walker Antonio Carson Becker Jackson Warmack

Jackson Monroe & Chris Oldham Trip Hurley Max Johns Kyle Kauffman Ashby Shores

Review Boards Poetry Maxwell Barnes Hayes Jiranek Ryan Kacur Josh Kearns Ben Lytle Clayton Noyes Philip Williams Andrew Jacobs Scott Pittman Jackson Sompayrac Gus Perdue

Photography Maxwell Barnes James Carrington KJ Pankratz Clay Tydings Michael Deng Robert Roh George Shriver Carson Becker Jang Woo Park

Prose Charles Hargrove Tae Min Kim Richmond McDaniel June Pyo Suh Ward Bissell Spencer Dearborn Andrew Jacobs William McAdams

Faculty Advisors Karen & Rich Broaddus

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seeking james henckel von donnersmarck colored pencil | 18 x 24 in.

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

The Talon is the semiannual literary arts publication of Woodberry Forest School. First published in 1949, this is the 68th volume. As the editors of the first edition of The Talon wrote, “The purpose of The Talon is to encourage creative writing among the boys and to publish these short stories, poems, and essays.” Cartoons were included with stories in early editions. In 1972, The Talon editors decided to feature standalone student art and photography, establishing the magazine as an outlet for the visual arts. The Talon editors’ mission today is to unite the student body behind a single magazine and to inspire work in the arts from all branches of Woodberry society.

Cover Design by Jackson Monroe Cover Art: St. Patrick’s Cathedral | Tiger Wu | Chalk Pastels | 18 x 10 in.

Title Page Design by Kyle Kauffman Title Page Art: Self Portrait | Tiger Wu | Acrylic | 24 x 18 in.

The Talon editors encourage submissions from all members of

the Woodberry Forest community.

Works are selected through blind review by student boards with expertise in the fields of art, prose, poetry, and photography. All opinions expressed within this magazine are the intellectual property of the authors and artists and do not represent the views of Woodberry Forest School.

The design and editing of The Talon takes place both during the academic day and outside of it. The current editors and the faculty advisors select new editors from the review boards and from the student body. Authors and artists can apply for review board membership at the end of each academic year. Jackson Monroe, Trip Hurley, and Kyle Kauffman designed the spreads in the fall magazine. The editors of The Talon would like to thank

Kelly Lonergan for his help with art review and Kristyn Wilson for her assistance with prose review.

This issue of The Talon was created on Intel-based iMacs using Adobe CS5.

Titles are set in Jaapokki; text and art credits are set in Baskerville. McClung Companies in Waynesboro, Virginia prints 950 perfect-bound copies that the editorial staff distributes to the community in December and May of each academic year.

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

The Talon Fall 2016

The Talon, Fall 2016 Woodberry Forest School Woodberry Forest, VA 22989 www.woodberry.org/talon

The Talon

Vol. 68, No. 1