Spring 2018 Talon by Woodberry Forest School

I wonder how many moments Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve missed while trying to capture them on my personal memory device, framing it just so, showing only my good side in perfect lighting. I looked back at my photo album after a vacation to remember how it was with only my face in the center of each photo to jolt my memoryâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; at least I looked good.

THE TALON

Woodberry Forest School Spring 2018 Vol. 69, No. 2 1

WORD Poetry 05 18 24 26 34 45 54 56 62 65 69 76 82 87

Papa’s Words of Wisdom Luke Christy Haiku Mitko Dimitrov Bluer Rob Neill On The Lake Taylor Tucker Of Mice and Mausoleums Kyle Kauffman Memory Stephen Brice Iron Rain Luke McNabb The Wealth of Nations Freddie Woltz A Pine, 1939 Sam Long Makes Me Wonder Robert Triplett Jane’s Meadow Sebastian Agasino Gracious Gentlemen of the Guitar Rhew Deigl When the Fairies Come Out to Play Blythe Brewster Blot Ryan Kauffman

Fiction 08 11 21 28 37 47 50 59 79

Como Todas las Mañanas Agus Tornabene The Court of Law Rhew Deigl Butterfly Wings Andrew Jacobs Lucidity Ashby Shores Impressed Wounds Freddie Woltz Angel Cake Andrew Jacobs The Box Who Talks Spencer Dearborn Dropping the Bombshell Kyle Kauffman My Dear Guest Andrew Jacobs

Nonfiction 06 16 39 66 73

A Dinner Party Max Johns Ranting About #MeToo Jack Stone Dreams, Myths, and Truth Ashby Shores Memories Stick Spence Whitman Cheeseless Milo Jacobs

IMAGE Art 04 09 10 13 20 22 29 30 32 33 38 41 43 44 52 53 63 64 72 77 81 83 92

Apsen Forest Walker Simmons Hummer Jackson Warmack Barred Walker Antonio Lean With It Pierce Richardson Study of Path Through Cornrows Ethan Barbour Flower Spence Whitman The Boy With the Dragon Tattoo Hank Feng Lurking in the Dark Coleman Bishop Dead Fish Coleman Bishop Do Not Cross Rhew Deigl Hole in One Light Year Jack Curtice Wonder Jack Curtice Just Another Day Tano Kleberg Shooting Toy Soldiers Pierce Richardson Mountain Lion Carson Becker Look Further Spence Whitman Hazy Hank Feng Doorway to Hell James Henckel Mask Off Walker Simmons Guitar Man Jackson Warmack Teacup Ethan Barbour Vines Hugh Monsted Held Down Walker Antonio

Photography 07 17 18 23 24 26 35 36 42 46 49 55 56 58 60 61 67 68 70 71 75 78 80 84 85 86 90

Fade Willis He End MI5 Ethan Barbour Shoes Michael Deng Ming Xiang Michael Deng Violent Waves Spencer Doerr This is Our Milky Way Claiborne Van Voorhis Life Mark Wu Beams of Smoke Trip Hurley The Monster Parker Watt Do Not Go Gently Willis He Dark Train a Runnin’ Carson Becker Maneuvers Spencer Doerr Made in America Jack Malone Philly Mark Wu Camouflage Jang Woo Park Climb Mark Wu Unseen Spencer Doerr Lonely Flower Tano Kleberg Grace Trip Hurley Breakfast Michael Deng Tight Fit Michael Deng La Fontaña Jang Woo Park Golden Cigars Patrick Noonan Railroad Xing Kyle Kauffman Offswag Willis He Lonely Froggy Alex Forward Navajo Caves Walker Simmons

Aspen Forest | Walker Simmons | mixed media | 20 x 15 in.

PAPA’S WORDS OF WISDOM poetry by Luke Christy Papa told me that the twisting branches of the dead oaks that loomed above our camper, cemented to the ground with rust and dirt, were the dusty pathways that the fairies walked at night. Their feet were so light they didn’t rustle the brown moss that grew on the south side of the trees. Papa told me that the holes in our camper walls were for when we were cooking. The sweet-smelling smoke drifted out for all the critters to smell. The muffler of Papa’s old Chevy coughs and spits out smoke as he sputters into the driveway. Now, the only smells that leave our beige prison are cigarettes and mold. He tells me cigarettes make us breathe better, and alcohol makes us think better. The twisted trees creak and moan.

A DINNER PARTY vignette by Max Johns

The gates of the eighteenth floor slid open. Inside, people sipped gold that bubbled with diamonds, and expensive laughter escaped into the air. A woman of sophisticated beauty lifted her glass to her mouth to expose her studded fingers and jeweled neck. A soft neck. I had stepped into a thing of mythology, a hazy debauchery of Greek-like ecstasy reserved for the gods of Olympus. But perhaps the most fantastical image was the penthouse view. The world, the whole world in all its vast and unstunted realness unfolded to the edges of the earth. From this vantage, the explosion of the city, the restless discordance of human life submitted to an indefatigable energy, an ethereal order that shrinks being to thing. It had intoxicating power. Soon, I became aware of myself; I was an invited intruder. I noticed my fingerprints left marks on the window. I noticed my shoes didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t shine against the ceiling stars. I noticed the towering figures watching me. This life was not my own, and I could not forget that.

Fade | Shanghai, China | Willis He | digital photography

COMO TODAS LAS MAÑANAS fiction by Agus Tornabene El metal se torcía y resquebrajaba contra el asfalto, provocando estruendos, tan fuertes que ofuscaban los gritos de aquellos que se encontraban dentro del colectivo. Una marea de repulsión me impactó apenas me puse a pensar sobre los horrores ahí adentro. The metal twisted and cracked against the asphalt, thundering so loudly it drowned out the screaming inside the bus. A wave of nausea hit me as I thought about the horrors within. Me levanté esa mañana a las 6:45, como todas las mañanas. Me bañe, luego escuché las noticias, me vestí y desayuné. Me metí en el auto, abroché mi cinturón, y giré la llave tres veces. Me fui a trabajar, como todas las mañanas. I woke up that morning at 6:45 a.m., like every morning. I showered and listened to the news, dressed and ate breakfast. I settled in the car, fastened my seatbelt, and turned the key three times. I headed to work, like every morning. La policía y las ambulancias llegaron para buscar los pedacitos, por pocos que queden. El tanque del colectivo se perforó, y pronto hubo un fuego de los que te queman las cejas. Paré por un par de minutos, pero por más que me interesase saber el destino de esas pobres almas, tenía que ir a trabajar. The police and ambulances arrived to salvage what little remained of the victims. The gas tank of the bus leaked; before long, an eyebrow-burning fire started. I stopped for a couple more minutes, but for all my interest in those poor souls, I had to go to work.

Y al otro día, me levanté a las 6:45, como todas las mañanas. The next day, I woke up at 6:45 a.m., like every morning.

Hummer | Jackson Warmack | collage | 8 x 10 in.

Barred | Walker Antonio | acrylic on wood | 16 x 11.75 in.

THE COURT OF LAW

fiction by Rhew Deigl

ince the establishment of formal trial by jury, there had never been such a loud, such a deafening, such a vōˈsifərəs crack in a great American house of justice as there was on the morning of October the twenty-seventh, the year of our LORD nineteen hundred and thirty-nine, in the city of Marion, Ohio. “Dear God!” crowed the people, murder on their tongues, as ravens shook on their frightened perches atop the courthouse and sped off towards the heavens. And from above, four angels descended, meeting the unkindness halfway in an elegant flurry of deep plumage and radiant tunics. Crippled bodies on the scorched oak floor offered desperate prayers to their all-powerful LORD, who would gracefully receive the meek, who they worshipped with true integrity and will. Noticing the number (four) of angels who were just passing through the roof above them, they praised them also. They prayed to them, and then, fervently (less fervently, though, than to

the one true LORD and those whom He had chosen to serve His Eternal Kingdom), they prayed for all the men who had been wrongly taken to the Eternal Kingdom by conviction of the biased and misinformed. This grim morning of the 27th of October, 1939, christly wings folded deftly upon white-robed backs as the parade touched down in the center of the courtroom. The sight before them unnerved all but surprised none; having been recently relieved of duty on the Polish front, the angels were well aware of how corpses could contort like seamsplit ragdolls. She who flew first lifted both arms above her head, implying a Company,

halt! and the three behind came to attention in the center aisle. Stepping gingerly over battered entrails, the first angel moved towards the judge, who had been sitting stock-still, broken stem of a gavel in his hand, for a solid twenty minutes, replaying the hôˈrendəs moment over in his mind hundreds of times while becoming progressively less certain of what had actually happened. The hole in his bench still smoldered from the impact of his symbolic hammer, now nothing more than flungabout splints, most of which were embedded in the late jury. The angel, a kind expression painted on her face, outstretched a hand and prayed the judge into a deep slumber.

She then signaled to the other three, murder of the pride of Marion, Miss and they began racing around the America, 1938. room. With a hand’s wave, the women As the judge began the proceedings reshaped shards of glass and splinters of of great American justice, the state-apwood, putting them back together as if pointed defense attorney shifted gingernothing had happened. Then into the ly in his seat. A trickle of cool perspiraeyes of the deceased they peered…and tion meandered around his jaw, pooling it wasn’t long before the bodies were on his chin, where it was swatted off by repaired as well, their souls and con- a flit of a handkerchief. He stood no sciences returned to them with some chance against the wrath of these men. ordained fanfare. Their darling had been stolen from Awakening the penultimate body them; not even God Himself could in the room (the foreman of the jury), calm their rage. the angels performed The attorney’s a hopeful blessing eyes locked intently He stood no chance on his knuckles. They upon the groggy company. The lead against the wrath were smoother than angel then hovered remembered, and of these men. Their he above the only man it unsettled him. He darling had been missed having old, left dead, the exquisite corpse of a young stolen from them; leathery hands. How defense attorney. The they made him feel not even God Him- wise. He did not, lady held a glimmering soul above his self could calm however, miss workbody and, with a little ing murder cases; their rage. religious-ecstasy-type Leopold and Loeb lurching, the man was had given him enough brought to life. Having completed their action in that field for one or two lifework, the quartet regressed into the times. How he wished to feel the hand spectatorial rows of the courtroom. of the LORD taking him back to where The judge, still seated at the helm he belonged. But for now, he had to of the congress, awoke with a start. He make sure Jonathan would not come then gave his bench a rowdy smack, ar- with him. From his unusually clear peresting the attentions of his newly un- riphery, he noticed the judge working dead civic assembly. The jury, without to get his attention. The judge had now the vaguest recollection of their own been inspecting his youthful personage holy revival, straightened their backs for more than a minute. and prepared to hear the case of the deJonathan, hot and cross, elbowed fendant, one Jonathan Pillsbury, who his dazed representative, hurling now faced capital punishment for the him back into the land of the living.

The prosecution huddled at their table, tapping their pipes together in well-wishing. The head prosecutor rose and imparted in his slurred and hasty voice the State of Ohio’s take on the matter: the details of the crime, time-of-the-crime-and-anyotherkindofthingpertainingtoandaboutthecrime thefactsofthismansguiltandanyotherkindofthingthatthehonorablejudgeseesfit… and for forty-five minutes he went on like that, and nobody understood a word he said. A daze swept over the jury box. The foreman nudged his neighbor and whispered, “They ought to give him full orchestration and a five-part harmony.” His neighbor chuckled and replied, “I haven’t been this numb since Sunday school.” The two continued tittering as the prosecutor finished his presentation. The young defense attorney now nodded a congratulation at the receding representative and took his place in front of the judge. From now on, every word he uttered could have some effect on the outcome of the trial, on whether or not the gentleman looking warmly at him would be spared by great American justice, but he knew that victory lay beyond a single speech’s horizon. The attorney, jestikyəlāting boldly, introduced himself and his client. He then offered a number of key facts that would, “with your esteemed and careful review,” serve to clear Mr. Pillsbury’s name of this scandalous accusation. The young attorney spoke with

Lean With It | Pierce Richardson | mixed media | 15 x 11.5 in.

an eloquence beyond his years, weaving words together to make point after perfect point. “He has something in him,” the foreman whispered to his neighbor. His neighbor, now wide awake, nodded. “Don’t often see talent like that in young men nowadays,” the foreman murmured. “Think about it this way: we’re seeing one of the greats in his first major case… it’s a shame he’s fighting for a lost cause, though,” his neighbor offered. “You say ‘one of the greats’ like anyone gives a damn about good lawyers besides the crooks who need them,” the foreman chuckled. “Who knows,” his neighbor smirked. “Maybe in the future, people will read about this very case and look at it as a turning point in great American justice.” The rising voice of the prodigal attorney interrupted their banter. “Gentlemen, I’d say it’s about time to get into things. Your honor, I’ve said my keep for now.” He retook his place beside Jonathan, whom he nudged and offered a reassuring smile. Jonathan laughed and flashed him a set of fresh, white teeth. The courtroom was soon sucked into the riptide of the trial. Over the fol-

lowing hours, the prosecution offered a variety of so-called witnesses. The first claimed to have seen a stale Ford that matched Jonathan’s roll up to the beauty queen’s home on the Thursday she disappeared. There was also a grainy, candid photograph of Jonathan, a resident of Cleveland, published in the local paper the following Sunday, proving he was in the area. A scattered handful of other speakers took the stand, but all witnesses suffered deft cross-examination at the hands of the young defender. The final witness for the prosecution attested to the accused’s character, specifically how he was a dry, moldy individual. “Last I saw him, this homicidal maniac came after me with a bunch of loganberries, swinging them around like a weapon! He’s undeniably evil!” “You’re sure they were loganberries?” inquired the attorney. A cry of Objection! rose from the state’s table. “Howdoesthe species-of-berry pertain to the character-or-lack-thereof of Mr…Pills-bu-ry?” The judge glared at the attorney. “Sir, you’d better make an impressive point with this.” The attorney chuckled and repeated his peculiar inquiry. The witness acknowledged, that yes, the defendant was wielding loganberries for sure. “But The final witness for the prosecution how, then, could he swing them ’round attested to the accused’s character, as you say he did.” specifically how he was a dry, moldy “What do you individual. mean?” asked the witness.

“The loganberry’s vine is covered leaf to leaf in hefty thorns, and although a thornless variety exists today, at the time of this incident it had yet to be engineered. How, then, could the accused whirl the vine in his unguarded hands without inflicting ghastly injuries upon himself?” “I…I don’t know…” muttered the witness as the jury pattered out a polite applause. With the credibility of the final testimony utterly voided, the trial moved on to closing remarks. The prosecutor gave a lackluster summation of his case but finished with some powerful words “Sirs, the pride-and-joy of our hometown hasbeenbrutallymurdered. Do not let her death go un-a-venged.” And with that, he sat down. Stirred, the jury observed a collective moment of quiet for the victim. As the young attorney took his place at the front of the room, the foreman said to his neighbor, “We’ve got to convict that son-of-a-you-know-what. Think of poor Marilyn’s family. We can’t let him walk free.” Other jurors nodded in agreement; and that was great American justice. The defense attorney noticed the restless jury box and knew the case was already decided. Reaching desperately for some last lick, he drew himself to his full height and said, “Gentlemen of the jury, to think is to differ. Why don’t we try to be different this time?” The judge, all too convinced of the defendant’s guilt, sent the jury to their chamber with a “Make it snappy,

“Our greatest apologies, Mr. Darrow,” the first angel murmured to the young attorney. “We’ve tried this case four times already, and no matter whom we bring in, they always convict.” men. We’ve been here far too long.” The heavy door had barely closed when the foreman led his ranks out of the room and back into the jury box, the verdict plastered on their faces. Upon the judge’s asking, the foreman recited his cursed lines once more. “On the count of murder in the first degree, we find the defendant guilty as charged.” And that was that. The judge prəˈnounst the sentence: death. He began to thank the participants for their cooperation, but abruptly stopped as the four angels, who had cringed through the whole ordeal from the public box, rose from their seats. They strode down the aisle, silencing everyone but the bailiff, who piped up, “Excuse me, but ladies are not permitted in the front of the courtr…” but was promptly silenced by the clerk, who shot, “That law was changed almost twenty years ago! You of all people should know that…how can people ever find equal treatment under the law if our elected officials refuse to implement change in our society? We have to take matters into our own hands and provide support for those oppressed and mistreated!” In a shocked silence, the assembly looked from clerk to chuckling angels, angels to red-faced clerk, but already it

was impossible to say who was who. Shaking off the cavernous hush, the four ladies reached the defendant’s box. “Our greatest apologies, Mr. Darrow,” the first angel murmured to the young attorney. “We’ve tried this case four times already, and no matter whom we bring in, they always convict.” Clarence Darrow rose, tired but understanding, and begged, “Take me back, would you?” “Yes, of course. Just wait for court to be adjourned, and we’ll have you in no time.” The angel moved again towards the judge, who looked at her flawless face in wonder. She smiled an incomparable smile and grabbed the head of his gavel. With a blessing of the saints and a hefty amount of contact explosives, she prepared the stately mallet. The assembly looked on in shock as the quartet rose into the air and passed through the ceiling, back to the Eternal Kingdom. The judge woke himself from his trance, unaware of the extra, volatile weight in his hand. All proceedings were finished. “Well, gentlemen, it seems the LORD himself watched this one. I recommend that everyone present attend church this evening. You’re never going to see something like that again. Anyway, the defendant is to be

executed two months from today. Court is adjourned.” With that, he dropped his gavel. The angels looked over their shoulders as the massive shockwave blew by them. “What are we going to do about that? There’s no point to resetting things again, but we can’t just kill them” said one. “I don’t understand,” another spat, gazing somberly at the flaming courthouse. “How could they convict that man on absolutely nothing? We went through all that trouble… heavens, we brought back the greatest lawyer of all time… and still, guilty!” “Well,” said the lead angel, just as the mushroom cloud reached their present elevation, “nothing gets in the way of great American justice.” •

Clarence Darrow, regarded as one of the best American defense attorneys of all time, was best known for his work in the Leopold and Loeb trial and the Scopes Monkey trial. Darrow passed away in 1938, over a year before this story takes place, but he was not, as this entirely fictitious narrative implies, resurrected by angels. Marilyn Meseke, Miss America 1938, was in fact from Marion, Ohio, but was not murdered in that or any other year.

RANTING ABOUT #METOO withAcademic Total Disregard for Language nonfiction by Jack Stone

My better judgment tells me this is a terrible mistake. Jack, you have no license to talk about this! You’re an eighteen-year-old straight male. Yes, I do—although I’m an outsider, may I not share my opinion? You’re going to make a fool of yourself, coming off as a bumbling sexist pig. God, I sure hope not. Best of luck. I’ll need it. Now that I have made it clear to you that I am wholly conscious of the dangerous road down which I travel, let me establish some basic facts. #MeToo has exposed serial abusers of women, from Hollywood moguls to U.S. Senators. I will not contest that. #MeToo has also given women the confidence to come forward. But what heathen is in favor of suppressing the accused’s right to a fair trial and due

process? I’ve been hesitant to put my thoughts into words out of fear that I’d be misunderstood and lambasted from Twitter to The Times, skewered by identity politics—my opinion invalidated by my whiteness, my heterosexuality, and my gender. Can words have victims? Why, yes, it seems so. We live in a society in which a single tweet can ruin careers, tear apart families. Mob rule has taken the guise of social media. Words have become weaponized, and worse, they aren’t being used precisely. The term sexual misconduct is as vague as it sounds—what constitutes misconduct? Is it a poorly executed compliment perceived by the recipient to be sexually charged? Or is it a more serious string of abuses from groping to rape? Both, it seems.

Aziz Ansari is now associated with Harvey Weinstein, an alleged rapist, because Ansari didn’t notice his date’s nonverbal cues which allegedly implied that she didn’t want to engage in sexual activity. Reports like these devalue the courage of women who stepped forward to expose actual sexual predators. I’d like to address those who see no difference between Ansari and Weinstein. The internet is great, except it gives you a false sense of security. It’s easy to find people who agree with you, but you’re living in a bubble. This is like the 2016 election all over again: You’re severely underestimating the amount of people who aren’t on your side because they’re afraid to speak up. I hope that Weinstein goes to prison for his crimes, but men like Mr. Ansari are innocent for now. Having poor judgement isn’t worthy of a prison sentence. Should Ansari be guilty of a crime in the future (for the story

may have changed by the publication of this piece), then he should be tried in a court of law by a jury of his peers. The scary thing is that what’s happened to Mr. Ansari is just a microcosm of the undeserved damage that #MeToo has on careers—not only the famous are being called out. Throughout communities across the country, people are coming forward with accusations of sexual misconduct. Granted, some are recent, damning, and deserving of further investigation. But others are cloudy recollections of incidents twenty-five years old. Regardless of the severity of the accusation, the label persists. Like anybody wholly devoted to a cause, the

#MeToo extremists see a binary world: Guilty until proven innocent, except it seems impossible for innocence to be proven. (Once the moniker of rapist is applied, it sticks.) Yet I continue to grapple: He’s a sexual predator—the victim said so! No, he’s not. Those accusations have yet to be substantiated in a court of law. How dare you blame a victim for coming forward. My conscience is right on this one. The most difficult part of articulating these ideas is that I don’t want to discourage more people from coming

forward with their stories. Yet at the same time, I wish there were some way to do so without immediately destroying lives. Oh wait—that does exist. It’s called the goddamn judicial system. It’s likely I’ve glossed over information, simplified arguments, and made myself look like an ass. But I can’t stay silent any longer. I have to get my thoughts down on paper, however disorganized they are. Heck, I’ll probably come back to this piece in a month and think, You fool! What were you thinking?! But for now, here I stand. I think you’ve said enough, Jack. Me too. •

End MI5 | London, England | Ethan Barbour | digital photography

haiku by Mitko Dimitrov

The green grass stalk crushed so many times over still rises up again.

Shoes | Beijing, China | Michael Deng | digital photography

Study of Path Through Cornrows | Ethan Barbour | acrylic on canvas | 10 x 8 in.

BUTTERFLY WINGS

fiction by Andrew Jacobs

h, a butterfly. My wife used to collect butterflies. She scoured local estate sales and antique stores for laminated ones, and in the spring she used to sit out on the porch, mason jar in hand, and try to catch them. Her big, receptive green eyes scanned the yard for colorful wings, and her feet moved quietly and gracefully across the grass. She was such a peaceful, delicate woman. In the early days of our marriage, she read voraciously. I read, too, but I sat in an office reviewing legal documents while she read Hemingway and Thoreau and The New Yorker and tended to the ever-growing garden in our backyard. She prided herself on spending time philosophizing about anything and everything, often greeting me when I returned home with new insights on the world. Never one to speak quickly, though. Everything she said was calculated and meaningful. While our life together was very routine, I had no problem with it; to me, we were destined for

a long and healthy life together with no immediate impediments to our connection. There was a day, unfortunately, when I was most abruptly disabused of this notion. We were in a field—an expansive, hilly field—a destination she had picked to celebrate her birthday. It was a picnic. We lay out in the grass, backs to the ground and faces to the sky, thinking about nothing and everything at the same time. It was beautiful. She was beautiful. Her soul reminded me of that of a butterfly: light, warm, and graceful. She floated quietly through life, dazzling those she talked to with her shameless desire to attain as much knowledge as possible. I’ve often wondered what an actu-

al butterfly would say if it were given the chance to speak. My imagination leads me to believe that it would spill Wordsworthian poetry, describing the sensation of flying or the glorious scent of spring flowers with a relaxed eloquence. But, is this a fair assumption? A butterfly could speak of its pain and trifles, too—its appearance a mask for its feelings. What if the butterfly, still operating under this hypothetical assumption of speech, shouted angrily and passionately? What if it begged for cleaner air or more flowers or for the better treatment of caterpillars? Would our perception of the butterfly change? No, probably not. We love the butterfly for what it gives to us, its grace. If its trials have no evident effect on patterned wings or the ability

promise that my words would develop into something more substantial. She had spent too many days alone at home reading too many books and articles. She was stuck in a stale cycle from which she could not break free. She had taken her chance to speak and had used it well. As a lover and a partner, I had failed. She had been in front of me the whole time, yet she had been so infinitely far away. She had opened herself up many a time, exposing her soul, but her beauty blinded me and prevented me from seeing through the windows that she had presented. As I stared upwards in consideration of these things, she sprouted wings. They were pretty, yellow wings. I did not stop her. I didn’t cry out. I let her go but kept staring at the sky, watching her gracefully ascend. She floated out of reach with the birds, above the birds, into the delicate wisps. She lingered in the misty territory between the clouds and the open sky, hovering in place. Then she floated out of sight, leaving me alone on the ground. I did not see the tears in her green eyes, though. Her wings were in the way. •

I let her go but kept staring at the sky, watching her gracefully ascend. She floated out of reach with the birds, above the birds, into the delicate wisps.

Flower | Spence Whitman | colored pencil on paper | 11 x 8 in.

to float through the air, then so be it. A butterfly’s grievances would mean nothing to us. That day in the field, celebrating my wife’s birthday, I realized that I had seen her as a butterfly in more ways than one, and it had irreparably fractured our once invincible relationship. I had thought her soul to be butterfly-like, yes, but I had also failed to see past her green eyes and into her heart. As she lay in the grass, hair splayed out behind her and a ladybug crawling on her arm, she delivered an articulate, controlled flow of emotion that pierced my heart with a fiery spear. Though most of my flaws had been ruthlessly exposed, I had no qualms about it. For the most part, her argument was flawless. I had spent far too many a night a slave to the law, hunched over a desk in my office, building a case for one faceless corporation against another. She knew my love for her existed, but she had never truly felt it. I spoke of it profusely but never displayed it, and she had married me based on the

Ming Xiang | Richmond, VA | Michael Deng | digital photography

BLUER A victim stares into the mirror at golden strands darkened through lost time. Eyes are holes from surface to mind; beneath the waves, blue becomes bluer. My face masks the weight of a body matured by my eighteenth. My feet are ready to carry me forwards, but anxiety laughs as others advise.

poetry by Rob Neill “The world is too large to keep your head down. There’s much to see before your last breath.” Yet I sink deeper. The ocean’s too big to notice me drown, and the tides will not change to prevent my death. Waves swell to crash on the sandy beach, and humans grow to lie six feet beneath.

ON THE LAKE poetry by Taylor Tucker

From slate to a deep dark, the sky fades above. The Milky Way splashes overhead, streaking across the infinite. Thunderheads rise like pillars in the distance reflecting the eerie glow of the souls inside. The water, inscrutably clear, laps below, and the wind, steady as the waning moon above, shushes the night to sleep. The stars scatter like broken glass, so clear, so still, so silent.

This is Our Milky Way | The Plains, VA | Claiborne Van Voorhis | digital photography

LUCIDITY fiction by Ashby Shores

ear Mother, One Monday many weeks ago, while mindlessly scrolling through the internet, I clicked on a link that has, quite literally, changed my world. The link took me to a small website about controlling one’s dreams.

You of all know best that I have always been a dreamer. I’ve never been an athlete, nor have I ever been a social butterfly; I’m more comfortable lost in the dreams a book holds than on the baseball diamond or trying to make conversation. Perhaps that’s why I became so interested in lucid dreaming, the training of one’s mind to be semiconscious during sleep and thus able to control dreams. The website said that the first step to controlling my dreams was to keep a dream journal—to write what I hoped to dream about and to record my dreams from the night before. Another important factor in lucid dreaming was drinking a cup of apple juice before bed. So, after school, I biked to the nearest drug store and bought a small spiral notebook and a gallon of apple juice. That night, after I had finished my

homework, I read the last few pages of Emma by Jane Austen. I had nearly finished a week ago, but I had decided to wait on the last pages for a few days, saving the satisfaction that comes with finishing a novel and the disappointment that comes from leaving that novel’s world for another night. I then began to author an artificial dream. For the first time in my life, I had had a completely blank page thrust upon me with no prompt, no overbearing supervisor. For the first time, none but I was in charge. Freedom of the mind is a funny thing, however. When you can do anything, it’s hard to settle on one thing. I could have gone to Ancient Rome, but most of the people I’d heard of from there died brutally. I could have gone to the Wild West, but rattlesnakes and Indian raids seemed a little too intense for my first time. Then it occurred to me—I

didn’t have to leave Highbury. Yes, I had read Jane Austen’s last words. I had closed the book and thus its world, but I now had acquired the ability to open it again. I hastily formed words from my thoughts, scribbling them into my dream journal: I want to dream that I am in Georgian England. I want to stroll through the finely-trimmed gardens of rural England. I want to hone my skills in the art of love with beautiful ladies in the estate parlors. I want to dream that I am in Georgian England. I excitedly poured myself a cup of apple juice, drank it, said my prayers, and fell into sleep’s sweet realm. The first thing I felt was a strong wind at my side. I allowed my eyes to open, and I saw a world greater than any other I have seen. I stood halfway down a grassy knoll, gazing into the splendor of pastoral England. Rows of strawberry trees and golden fields of wheat and green pastures full of cows and scattered red barns faded into the skyline. Through my nose I drew in a deep breath of the acrid smell of the fruited plains below, a scent of pure countryside yet unadulterated by highways and factories.

The Boy with The Dragon Tattoo | Hank Feng

acrylic on canvas | 20.5 x 16 in.

I turned my head back toward a dirt path. At its end lay a modestly sized house. Gentlemen wearing waistcoats and breeches stood there, smoking pipes and chatting. A fair-haired girl in a pastel blue dress waved at me. I began to walk up to her. She seemed to beckon me toward her, like a siren luring her prey. Drawing near, I opened my mouth, preparing some hasty and awkward introduction. Right then, however, I heard the repetitive ring of distant bell. As I strained to hear its sweet roar, I began to open my eyes, soon recognizing it was naught but the alarm clock. Hastily, I wrote down all that I could remember in my dream journal in order to train my mind to remember my dreams and help my conscious work with my subconscious. At school on Tuesday, I couldn’t stop daydreaming. Class, once the only place I felt at home, was now but a temporary distraction, a Red Sea which I would part in order to find my land of milk and honey. Even English class, the place where I could think freely outside the confines of algebraic laws and biological principles, became an arduous prison. Once the mind’s cage has been unlocked, the mind cannot return. Over the next weeks, I began to scrape the surface of lucid dreaming. The more I dreamt, the better at dreaming I got. I was able to converse, to talk, almost to feel. Inspired by books I had read, I sailed upon a whaling vessel, feeling the ocean’s salty breeze and assisting the harpooners in their eternal struggle against the sperm whale; I stalked game

in the overgrown woodlands by the Tallahatchie River and finally learned to understand the spirit of nature; I rode a driftwood raft down the gentle Mississippi River, smoking a pipe and permanently borrowing the essentials from unwary townspeople just as any good “unsivilized” man should; and I did more. All these adventures, however fun, were too tame. The people were interest-

ing, and the beauty was not lost on me. Thus, I began to author a true adventure. Something dangerous. On this past Tuesday, during English class, I read my dream journal again. Weeks of adventures flowed back into my head. I remembered with particular fondness a journey to an antebellum plantation in Georgia. I remember riding through a sea of cotton to the top of a little mountain on which sat a

To see the crisp uniforms, to hear the fifes striking up a tune as men marched toward whatever lies beyond the dark curtains of death, to watch the generals order what is now read about in textbooks—yes, that was what I wanted.

Lurking in the Dark | Coleman Bishop | chalk pastel and marker on paper | 16 x 20 in.

house. No, not a mere house—it was a proper mansion. Tall white columns guarded the white brick structure. On eternal watch, green shutters stood beside the warping windows. Luscious gardens flanked the entirety of the house. A crowd of people was gathered on a large patio—barbeque, music, dancing, happiness, beauty, and a darker side. Stoic slaves stood, waiting for a master’s whim. Down the hill sat run-down cabins around which wiry white-haired women stood, barking at the young children. There were no men. Looking out into the gentle white film of cotton covering the surrounding miles, I made out tiny black specks, men bred to pick cotton until their fingers bled. When they slowed, the men on horses came and prodded them along. There was also talk about the war. There were claims that one good Southerner was worth a hundred Northerners, that the Yankees would be whooped in a hundred days, that once they conquered Washington the usual life would return: plantations and parties. I couldn’t help but grimace knowing that the few gentlemen who would manage to limp back after the next five years on the windswept plains of Virginia would find only the fleeting memories of their once-proud empire scattered about the charred remains of their houses. And that was what I wanted to see: the war. To see the crisp uniforms, to hear the fifes striking up a tune as men marched toward whatever lies beyond the dark curtains of death, to watch the generals order what is now read about in

textbooks—yes, that was what I wanted. And so, I wrote in my dream journal: I want to dream that I am at Gettysburg. I want to hear the crash of the cannonballs and watch as the uniformed men march gloriously to meet their foe. I want to see the final charge, the rebuttal of which damned the Confederacy to lose the war. I want to see the beauty of battle. I want to dream that I am at Gettysburg. I put my dream journal back into my backpack and slogged through the rest of the day. When I got off the school bus, I donned my most convincing grimace. I told you I was feeling sick and needed rest and then went off to bed. But I wasn’t sick, and soon I would feel even better. I read my plan for my dream several times, allowing it to permeate into my head. I continued my ritual by sipping my apple juice, saying my prayers, and excitedly succumbing to sleep. The first thing I heard was a distant crackling sound. The raggedness of the thin cotton uniform I was wearing, through which the wind was whipping, rubbed against my skin. I opened my eyes to find myself standing amongst a somber mass of men clothed in tattered rags. This was not the long gray line which I had sought—this was an army of broken men. A thunderous roar arose, and cannonballs crashed into the fields, kicking up dirt. Not a man around me ducked; not a man sought cover. Stormed by shot and shell, the noble idiots, unflinching, stood at these Gates of Hell. A new thought occurred to me: Could I die?

A new thought occurred to me: Could I die? Never before in my dreaming career had I been put in a situation which could leave me dead. The old wives’ tale which says that death in a dream could cause death in real life haunted me for a second, but a second was all I had. Never before in my dreaming career had I been put in a situation that could leave me dead. The old wives’ tale that says death in a dream could cause death in real life haunted me for a second, but a second was all I had. A moment later, a somber murmur, the order to fix bayonets, was passed through the ranks. Needing a weapon of my own, I scurried over to a crater which had been created by the bombardment. At its edge lay a man, rather, what was likely once a man, still clutching his rifle. I grabbed it, but he wouldn’t let go. His dead fingers still clutched the weapon tightly. I closed my eyes and uncurled his fingers, feeling the still-moist congealed blood. I wiped the blood on my fingers off onto my pants and stood up. The gaunt men surrounding me were now moving forward. This was no orderly line of soldiers, rather an amorphous blob of flesh. Far ahead on the ridge stood a cloud of smoke, and behind that sat our foe, which was now peppering our defenseless corps. We marched past fallen men groaning out their final prayers. Our walk gradually turned into a jog which turned into a frenzied sprint as we drew closer to the thin wave of blue. A high-pitched yell arose from the ghoulish men surrounding me.

Shortly ahead of me, our ranks clashed. A man dropped beside dropped me. For a brief moment, I heard only the din of the battlefield: men screaming, steel clashing, soldiers mumbling their last prayers, pistols cracking. When the clouds settled, I saw him writhing on the ground, rivulets of sticky bloody dripping from the hole behind his temples. His hands reached up to the wound, grabbing his blonde hair which was now crimson and clotted together by the congealing blood. His sparkling blue eyes looked up at me, stared into my eyes, and lost their sparkle as his eyelids slowly drooped down, leaving him to sleep forever. A few gray-clad troops had hopped the stone wall and were fighting like dogs. These few stood at the high-tide of the Confederacy, and soon they would be pushed back. Those men were now fighting with bare hands and small knives, having abandoned their rifles — their bayonets stuck in the corpses of the less fortunate. Behind the clashing sides stood the flag-bearers. On one side stood a skinny little boy carrying the banner of a country that would not survive another year, a banner soon to be furled forever. On the other side stood a feeble white-haired

Dead Fish | Coleman Bishop man bearing the banner of a young nation destined to become an empire. I rushed ahead to join the battle. Every boy’s dream had come true for me and me only. I drew up to cross the stone wall, only to hear the sharp crack of a pistol nearby and to feel the sharp bite of its bullet. I never made it over. As a black tide swept over my eyes, the ring of a distant bell aroused me from my sleep. I grabbed my pen and wrote as much as I could remember into my dream journal, not sparing any gory detail I could conjure. There are very few who die and live to tell the tale. Wednesday was a long day. The initial euphoria I had felt wore off quickly, and I was left with another, darker thought. This was to be my dark night of the soul, my wrestling match on the ford of the Jabbok. I realized I could do whatever I wanted without punishment. Yes, killing a man breaks His Commandments, but they say nothing of dreaming of killing a man. I could rape, kill, pillage, and burn my way down to high hell. Except there would be no hell, no prison, no groundings, no punishment. I was able to sin with impunity. With that in mind, I decided I would do something worse, something more pleasurable. During school, I daydreamt of the vilest, most perverse things I could do. I couldn’t write them in my notebook at school; if somebody read them, I’d be put in an institution. I came home from school and locked my door, saying I had a lot of homework. Instead, I was drinking apple juice and breaking

the dam, letting my foulest thoughts flow into my journal. I drank not the recommended one cup before bed but a whole gallon of apple juice. I wrote, letting the evil thoughts seep from my mind down through my pen into my dream journal. I have now burned the pages from that notebook so nobody can know what despicable deeds I thought to dream. I was restless that afternoon. I fought an epic battle against myself, tossing my sheets and sprawling across my bed. After some hours of wrestling, sleep gave in, and I entered once again into its magical kingdom. That night, however, there would be no dreams. I lay in a black box. I heard not the roar of cannons, saw not the terrible glory of battle, felt not the adrenaline-filled craze of a final charge. I could not hear. I could not see. I could not even feel. I tried again on Thursday night, and nothing happened. During the day, I realized that I couldn’t keep living like this. I couldn’t go on living in the Middle of Boring, Virginia, I couldn’t keep on doing nothing with my days, just passing through time and waiting for something that would never come. So, tonight I am making my final escape. I will leave this boring life, this boring town, in search of whatever lies beyond. I thank you for all you have done, Your Loving Son

lino-cut print | 5.75 x 3.75 in.

Do Not Cross | Rhew Deigl | acrylic on paper | 24 x 18 in.

OF MICE AND MAUSOLEUMS poetry by Kyle Kauffman And the news arrives as a surprise, yet you always knew the absolutes of Lucy and the football, of Charlie Brown and the ground. * It is, after all, good grief, so you try to be useful and help plan the funeral. The trouble with the obituary is that it must not be literary. * To experience the death of a loved one is to climb that old set of stairs where the last step passes too early and so, lurching on lofty air, you swear by a nonexistent spare. * One of the family is cross with himself. One of the family crosses the line. One of the family crosses herself. You, in truth, are three in one.

On the first floor they cast lots for possessions already eating the dust. Many snake eyes; among them you see not one die. * So much comfort food during the wakeâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; such loose whispers of past ale and cakes. * Tears smear the service missalette. What a neat catharsis your poem will be once pieced together. * Of mice and mausoleums there is one catch: What if you were to hear the casket scratched? And the mouse squeaks by as the lid squeaks sealed.

Life | Eastern State Penitentiary, Philadelphia, PA | Mark Wu | digital photography

Beams of Smoke | White Stone, VA | Trip Hurley | digital photography

IMPRESSED WOUNDS

vignette by Freddie Woltz

Gothic stone arches framed my surroundings. I genuflected, the sanctity of this place pervading my bones. Alone, in a rich forest. I arose and stepped, gingerly at first, but then with more confidence. I moved to the center of the ruined church, my yelled prayers ringing out in the deep wood, passion overwhelming my body. The crucifix: the center. The cool wind engulfed me, for there were no walls around this place. A desire to be here drove me, an internal desire. Pilgrimage. I stopped before the ruined altar, its once white cloth now a brownish yellow. I bowed my head slowly, conscious of those who had been here before me. I noticed my hands caked with brown dirt, so I washed them in the nearby mountain stream that circled the holy area. Blood! The wounds were growing; what were initially small pinholes had become the size of large nail holes. I scrubbed feverishly, frantically. I needed to move. Running between the arches to the center of the church, I began to notice a soft squishing sound that occurred with my steps. I ripped off my shoes, only to find my once white socks had changed to dark red. I feverishly pulled them off, the soaked cloth holding a liquid weight. Blood poured ceaselessly from the quarter-sized holes in each foot. I sighed. In the dusk I glanced to the crucifix, the mountain air accenting the sweet coolness of my tears. “Galatians,” I said. “Fear not, for I bear the marks of Jesus.” Stigmata. Oh, what a wonderful sight. Inspired by Caspar David Friedrich's The Cross and the Cathedral in the Mountains (1811)

Hole in One Light Year | Jack Curtice | mixed media | 18 x 24 in.

DREAMS, MYTHS, AND TRUTH

nonfiction by Ashby Shores

Dream is the personalized myth, myth the depersonalized dream; both myth and dream are symbolic in the same general way of the dynamic of the psyche. But in the dream the forms are quirked by the peculiar troubles of the dreamer, whereas in myth the problems and solutions sown are directly valid for all mankind. Joseph Campbell, mythologist Whenever I visited my grandmother’s house in the exurbs of Jacksonville as an elementary-school boy, I was gripped by fear. My grandmother told stories of gators climbing six-foot fences into neighborhood pools. My uncle described seeing pythons in the swamp. These daytime nightmares about meeting my end to the jaws of an alligator turned into the first series of dreams that I can remember. Before each visit, I watched plenty of videos to fine-tune my gator wrasslin’ techniques: First, run in zig-zag lines, then get behind the gator and hold its

jaws closed, and finally, beat its snout be at school or in my neighborhood or and eyes until it submits. Nothing, around the park. The chaser changed: a however, prepared me for the gleam of shark, a snake, a classmate, a terrorist I an alligator’s red eyes as it lurked around saw on the news. But the dream itself— the docks near my grandmother’s the dread weighing me down as I ran, house. Luckily, I never came closer to the terror on my panting breath, the that gator than a few feet, but seeing his helplessness—never changed. muddy, armored body and infernal eyes One day I told my parents. They was enough for me. I was thoroughly thought none of it. They told me my spooked. dreams were mere figments of my imagSometime later, I dreamt that I was ination; yet, at that ripe young age, I being chased by an alligator. I never lived in fantasies. Those fantasies came looked back, but I carried the dread of not only in dreams, but also in the stoknowing it was there behind me as I ran ries that captivate the minds of all young through the city streets of Jacksonville. boys. I lived in a world of cowboys and It was peculiar that I was downtown be- cavaliers, prophets and princesses, Eden cause, to this day, I have never stepped I never looked back, but I carried the foot in Jacksonville dread of knowing it was there behind proper. me as I ran through the city streets of This dream recurred many times Jacksonville. It was peculiar that I was in the following downtown because, to this day, I have months. The setting changed. It would never stepped foot in Jacksonville proper.

and evermore. I had learned that dreams were not reality, but I soon discovered that truth was not a clear-cut idea. It occurred to me that Noah had a lifespan slightly longer than the average person. I asked my father whether Noah actually lived the impressive 950 years the Bible said. My father responded that the Bible was not true; the Old Testament stories were just lessons. In ways, the Bible was a myth, a term defined by Collins Dictionary Online as “a well-known story which was made up in the past to explain natural events or to justify religious beliefs or social customs.” Myth is a fine word used to describe many Bible stories, but that definition seems narrow and undermines the messages. Likewise, I knew my dreams contained truth, some bit of real

standing this winter. I read a book on Carl Jung, (I know, very edgy teenager of me), which presented many of his ideas as shockingly similar to mine. Jung had a theory about a “collective unconscious,” a state of unconscious thought prevalent in all humans that was developed throughout the history of man. All the experiences man saw in his evolution from apish savage to shivering caveman to the modern man contributed in some way to this collective conscious. This conscious gave man some basic instincts and foresight to survive. Jung saw analogous characteristics in mythology, writing, “The collective unconscious…appears to consist of mythological motifs or primordial images, for which reason the myths of all nations are its real exponents. In fact, the whole of mythology could be taken as a sort of projection of the collective unAnd Eden was real. It may not have conscious…” Jung believed been a place, but it was certainly an dreams and mytholoage of man. In that age, man embodied gy are both reflections of the unconscious, the noble savage, uncivilized and not with dreams reflecting yet corrupted by civilzation. the personal conscious and mythology reflecting the collective unlife bottled up and released inside my conscious. It was as if I were reading my sleeping brain. My parents’ refutations own thoughts. Dreams are ideas from of these truths never sat well with me. a place so deep in the soul one would That connection of the hidden truths not even know they existed. Likewise, in dreams and myths was evident to me myths originate from times so far past, from a young age, but I could never see they are hardly comparable to our own. the connection. Yet dreams and myths remain relevant I eventually came to an under- even in this technologically advanced

era.

On one of my first days of Bible class, Dr. Smith, our school chaplain, was asked a similar question to the question I had once asked my dad about Noah so many years ago. It could’ve been about God creating earth in six days, His flooding of the earth, or any one of the numerous hard-to-believe stories in the Book of Genesis. Dr. Smith replied that he did not think the specific thing happened exactly as the Bible said. The student then retorted that Dr. Smith must not think the Bible was true. Dr. Smith quickly refuted that statement, giving a speech about how things can be true but inaccurate at the same time. He said that truth can be realized by means other than the traditional methods of finding tangible evidence or a reliable eyewitness; truth can be derived from personal experiences and epiphanies. Are your own experiences not true? Is a personal epiphany not a revelation of truth? My mind quickly latched onto that idea. Things could be inaccurate but still hold truth. I will provide two examples, one mythological and one from my dreams, of things that may not be factually accurate but are truthful. After the creation of man, God brought Adam and Eve to the Garden of Eden, a place where man lived in an animal-like state, running naked through the woods, eating food straight from the tree, and existing in a world untroubled by the human self-conscious. And Eden was real. It may not have

been a place, but it was certainly an age of man. In that age, man embodied the noble savage, uncivilized and not yet corrupted by civilization. When man ate from the Tree of Knowledge, his self-conscious was born. Thus, the untamed and pure age of Eden ended. This biblical story holds truths, yet it is likely not historically accurate. The first woman likely did not come from the rib of the first man. Eating a forbidden apple likely did not cause man to gain a self-conscious, and know he was naked. Yet the fundamental truths remain. In the course of evolution, did man not exist in an animal-like state? Did man not gain the ability to know he was naked even though other animals failed to realize their nakedness? Did man not develop from animal to self-conscious human being? The truth in this story is like a piece of meat girded in fat; the fat is mere waste surrounding and at times hiding the meat. Another example lies in my boyhood dream about being chased. Though my dream depicted it, in my conscious state I was never chased through the streets of Jacksonville by an alligator. As a young boy, however, I was constantly being chased. I would run from my fears of animals, avoid the movies, and remain quiet in public so as to avoid the embarrassment that comes from an awkward statement. I grew in body and in spirit, and slowly the cowardice that dream reflected began to fade until the dream never recurred. Was the cowardice depicted in

my dreams not true? My dreams were not accurate; they did not happen in the state in which I am currently writing them. The cowardice shown in them, however, was true in both waking and sleeping life, and no different in the one than in the other. The idea that truth can come through inaccuracies is a paradox. How can things be true yet not accurate? It is a difficult concept. Most people tend to ignore paradoxes, leaving them to the philosophers and wacko religious leaders. But why leave it to them?

I asked myself whether I could see truth at work in dreams, whether I could read truth in a book, and whether I could look past historical and contextual inaccuracies to seek hidden truth. I soon found a different type of truth, a truth not constrained by facts and charts and data. I saw the overarching human truths evidenced in dreams and myths. I have been told that if I work hard, my wildest dreams would come true. But it is impossible. Your wildest dreams cannot come true; they already are. â&#x20AC;˘

Wonder | Jack Curtice | collage | 8 x 10 in.

42 The Monster | Woodberry Forest, VA | Parker Watt | digital photography

Just Another Day | Tano Kleberg | chalk pastel on cardstock | 20 x 18 in.

Shooting Toy Soldiers | Pierce Richardson | acrylic and marker on paper | 24 x 18 in.

poetry by Stephen Brice

MEMORY

My grandfather took me to a yard of rusted mammoths and abandoned rail cars; the weathered giants still loomed over me even as I rested on his shoulders. That moment from years ago, that tiny slice of time, will never be lost from my mind. Lights shut off. Fingers go cold. Warmth, will it grace the skin once more? A name no longer resembles a person, but only a memory. People forget.

Do Not Go Gently | Shanghai, China | Willis He | digital photography

ANGEL CAKE fiction by Andrew Jacobs

he road was dry, and summer bugs darted back and forth across the windshield.

A slice of angel cake, which Gordon had gotten on his way out of Middleburg, sat neatly wrapped in the passenger seat. Wind whipped through the open windows, muffling the loud music that pounded through the speakers. The sun was low and getting lower, turning the rolling Virginia horizon a soothing navy blue. The countryside looked holy— something that belonged on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel rather than framed by the windshield of his car. Rounding the bend, Gordon made sure to keep his SUV on the right side of the narrow country road. He flicked on his lights as he entered a darker treed section. He had spent yet another Sunday afternoon at Anna’s house, and he was growing nervous about where their friendship was heading. Anna was the prettiest girl Gordon had ever been around—she was locally famous on social media, almost exclusively for her looks—and he felt too ordinary to handle the buzz that would surely come with a true relationship. Gordon knew it was standard pro-

cedure for teenage girls to gossip and worry about trivial things, but Anna didn’t seem to be able to talk about anything but those things. He had noticed early on that Anna had the same faux-Christian outlook on the world that many teenage girls do, and several times he had tried to poke holes in her façade. Anna had dodged his prodding. As he surveyed the landscape, he began to think about Anna’s faith and whether or not it was different than his own— her faith seemed shallow at times, but she was not alone. Gordon wanted to feel more deeply about religion, but he had yet to find that belief. The thoughts made him dreary, though, so he decided to move on to lighter things. When Gordon drove over a rise, he saw a pair of hazard lights flashing a few hundred yards away. A red sedan was pulled off to the side of the road. He had his father’s toolkit in the trunk, so he slowed to a stop, putting his car in park behind the sedan. He turned the music down and got out to assess the situation. “Hello?” Gordon called as he

walked towards the car. “Do y’all need any help?” A bearded man stood up from in front of the car. At several inches over six feet, he boasted an intimidating physique that must have put him well over two hundred pounds. “How’s it going?” he shouted. His teeth were so white they seemed artificial; they glowed in the dimming light. “You need some help?” Gordon asked again. He stopped walking towards the car in the growing darkness. “Yeah, I do,” he said. “I was coming this way, and I ran over something. A nail or something, you know? Front right tire popped and kinda steered me into this ditch.” Gordon heard a clinking sound as the man walked around the car to greet him. At first he thought it was loose change, but as the man got closer, Gordon saw that he had on boots with spurs. “Oh, man,” Gordon said quietly. The spurs reminded him of the gunslinging Hollywood cowboys of his

childhood. “Well, that’s a shame.” Gordon nodded. “A damn shame, isn’t it?” asked the “What’s her name?” man. He stepped even closer to Gor“Anna.” don, their faces just inches apart. The “Take her to bed?” the man asked. man’s breath was warm. “You plan on Gordon furrowed his eyebrows, helping me out?” surprised by the question. “Uh, no, I “Well, I...” Gordon stammered. didn’t.” “I’m not sure; I gotta be home soon.” The man smiled. “Then what’re you The man reached out to him, main- doing at a girl’s house in the first place?” taining a wry smile. He gently brushed “I don’t...I don’t know. Her mom the back of his hand on Gordon’s cheek, makes cake for us.” He immediately felt just below his eye. “No need to be ner- dumb for what he had said. vous. I just need a lit“Cake. Isn’t tle lift, that’s all,” he that nice?” The man said quietly. The man He walked around to the shook his head. shot his hand into driver’s side window, “You’re there for all Gordon’s pocket for the wrong reasons, and with a large twist, my friend.” the car key lanyard. Gordon stum- cocked his elbow back The two shared bled, landing backa moment of siand forced it through lence. Gordon studwards on the asphalt. The blinking car the glass. ied the man. He lights illuminated the had a scruffy beard man as he stood over him, reminding and dark, curly hair that darted in every Gordon of a haunted house figure he direction. His hands, grasped together had seen as a kid. Gordon scrambled between his knees, seemed strong and away on all fours. ready. The man chuckled to himself. “You sure you’re not gonna give me “C’mon now, kid. Look at yourself, run- those keys?” the man asked, standing ning around on the ground. Just give up. me the keys and make it easy. Gordon remained still for a moGordon crawled backwards until ment and swallowed. He looked up at he hit his head on the bumper of his car. the man’s imposing frame. “No.” He let out a weak grunt. “So be it,” the man said. He walked The man squatted down so that around to the driver’s side window, and he was eye-to-eye with Gordon. “Say, with a large twist, cocked his elbow back where you coming from, anyway?” and forced it through the glass. “Um, just a friend’s house, one in Gordon stood up quickly and Middleburg,” Gordon stammered. shoved the man backwards. “Girl?” he asked. The two stopped as the sound of an

engine approached from the other side of the rise. A pair of headlights came over the top of the hill, and a white SUV pulled ahead of the man’s red sedan. A woman—a beautiful woman, nearly prettier than Anna—opened the driver’s side door and walked towards them. “Y’all alright?” she called. “Need some help?” “We’re fine,” the man shouted back. “Busted tire. We’ve got it handled.” “Y’all sure?” The woman had a soft southern drawl, one that wasn’t in-yourface but still noticeable and pleasant. She wore blue jeans, tight fitting ones, with a pair of leather boots. Her blonde hair, fluttering in the evening breeze, covered most of her white top. “Looks like some kind of situation going on.” The man smiled. “Oh, no ma’am, we just locked ourselves out, you know? Had to bust our way back in.” The woman took a few more steps towards the men, stopping a few feet from where Gordon had just been lying on the ground. “You sure? You’ve got blood on your hands.” She nodded at Gordon. Gordon looked at his hands and saw that they had been scraped on the pavement. “Oh,” he began. “Yeah, I just fell earlier. Not a big deal.” “Just an accident,” the man said smoothly, shrugging his shoulders. “That so?” she asked. Gordon shifted his feet and looked at the ground. “Yeah, boy stopped to help me out. He’s coming from Middleburg. We’ll get it figured out here shortly,” the man

Dark Train a Runnin’ | Lynchburg, VA | Carson Becker | digital photography >

said, nodding. His shoulders had relaxed, and his breathing had slowed to a normal pace. Gordon reached into his pocket, assuring himself that his keys were still there. As he pulled his hand back out, a finger snagged the lanyard, and it dangled out of his pocket. The woman glanced over, taking notice of the lanyard, and nodded her head. “Where ya headed?” she asked the man. “Over to Oatlands. House is off Tail Race Road,” he replied.

“I’ll take you,” the woman said quickly. “I’m headed that way. Don’t need to stress this poor boy out anyways.” “You sure?” he asked. “We’ve already—” “No problem at all.” She shrugged her shoulders. The man hesitated, then stepped towards her white SUV. Gordon looked the woman in the eyes. “Thanks.” “Of course,” she said softly. “Have a safe trip back.” She smiled subtly, then

turned and headed for her car as the man hoisted himself into the passenger seat. After Gordon cleaned out the glass shards from the broken window, he climbed into the driver’s seat of his car. He wondered what might happen between the woman and the man. Wherever they went, Gordon was grateful to the woman. He glanced over at the slice of angel cake on the passenger seat and smiled. It was more than just cake now—it was something greater, something divine, something real. •

THE BOX WHO TALKS fiction by Spencer Dearborn Entry 1: I have a box who talks to me, and it’s the worst. Right now, I don’t know whom I’m talking to. I guess I’m talking to myself. In the future. Maybe. I’m bad at this. To be honest, I haven’t had a chance to talk to myself in a while. I always just talk to the box. But I hate talking to the box. He’s a cocky sonof-a-gun. He forces me to fantasize about social domination, absolute power, and brutal manipulation. I guess those are all the same thing. I don’t like to think about those things. But he tells me to when I want nothing but serenity; he seduces me into falling into the fallacious belief that because I am me—you know, myself—I am somehow special and will inevitably be a man of great power. Like, a life of failure and obscurity—you know, like ol’ Johnny down the road—is somehow just not an option. Sometimes it’s nice to fantasize about standing up on a stage somewhere, being congratulated for something, and being worshipped by…everyone. But I know all that’s superficial. I just want to live on my own. Or, like, with people, but not with the box. I’m getting a migraine, so I’ll stop writing now.

Entry 2: I’m just frustrated. I’ve known the box for a long time. I don’t think it was always a box—maybe it was a sphere at one point—but now it seems strictly to take the form of the box. I don’t remember life without the box. It came to me when I needed help, like, socially. A change was necessary, and the box, or whatever it was then, helped me talk to people. But now, it’s the one talking, and my input becomes more difficult every day. Even when I’m alone, the box forces me to prepare for my next interaction, to keep accruing social currency. It’s a damn greedy social capitalist, the box is. Social currency can buy power, it says. For example, I had to watch Black Mirror a few weeks ago because it was all everyone talked about. If I was to partake in those conversations, I would have to watch it. Here’s the logic: watch Black Mirror, talk to people about how much I “loved” it, make a superficial friendship, and then climb another rung on the social ladder—which inevitably leads to monarch-like power over the social landscape. That’s how social currency works. Honestly, I didn’t mind the show, but the box kept telling me to remember the

best moments, so I could talk about it, not enjoy them. If I find the power to entertain myself on my own volition, the box keeps reminding me that time is money, so indulgence in unpopular entertainment would sacrifice social currency. This maxim translates to music, movies, and even books. I guess that’s what guilty pleasure means: a genuine pleasure that earns no social currency. The thing is, I never wanted power. I wanted genuine connections and genuine friends. Not someone who saw the same show and liked the same scene as me. Not just someone I can tell people is my friend. I feel like this is getting a little self-helpy, so I’ll stop writing now.

Entry 3: You’re probably wondering where the box is right now. Well, it’s probably around here, screaming at me, but I’m pretty drunk, so I can’t hear him. It kept yelling at me while I wrote the first two entries, so I decided to drown it out. Not the healthiest escape. Whatever. Here’s an interesting observation: I have only a few friends because my real friends are the ones the box doesn’t talk to; people like that are few. I’m not like a loser crying out for help—I can make friends. (Sorry, that was...crude.) But, seriously. The box used to talk to my real friends before they were my real friends. But then, at one point, and I’m never quite sure what that point was, the box went quiet around them. I can infer, however, that crossing the threshold from the box’s friends to my friends

usually happens after some shared emotional experience. Like, a traumatic experience, which is why, I suppose, I made some great friends on the cross country team. Also, given that alcohol muffles the box’s most emphatic demands, I guess I’m friends with everyone when I’m drunk. But, in the end, I’ll sober up at some point. Speaking of which, ol’ Tito’s wearing off, so I’ll stop writing now.

Entry 4: I took a few shots, so I’m back online again. At this point, I think that whoever reads this will either feel bad for me or get the sense that I’m playing the victim card. I don’t want people to think that way, and if you do, then I’m sorry. It’s just, I read this book the other day—maybe you can guess which book it was—upon the box’s request, that made me want to write down my feelings. (Ha! You’ve brought this embarrassing confession upon yourself, you slimy polyhedron!) What I’m trying to say is that I don’t think I’m the only one with a talking box, so I don’t think I’m special. But the mere explicit confrontation of the Big Brother-esque box overlords, whether I’m the only one feeling their oppression, or one of many, feels liberating. And, whether or not the box forces me to regret that I, in fact, do feel, I think that even a fleeting moment of self-reevaluation will prove incredibly valuable. I feel satisfied by the amount of hot air that escaped in these entries, so, before the box returns, I’ll stop writing for now.

Mountain Lion | Carson Becker | oil on canvas | 26 x 30 in.

Look Further | Spence Whitman | watercolor and colored pencil on paper | 8 x 11 in.

IRON RAIN poetry by Luke McNabb A fallen duke sets off Europeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s raging national pride, plunging it into bloody war. The trenches lie in intricate mazes etched into the earth with leveled edges and perfect corners. Wet mud clumps to the faces of soldiers, now just empty shells of their prior selves. The silence of night breaks with the patter of bullets against mud and the thunder of artillery. Bullets eat through flesh as shells erode the trenches. Distant rumbles of engines warn of iron rain.

Maneuvers | Burnet Airfield, TX | Spencer Doerr | digital photography

Made in America | Southampton, England | Jack Malone | digital photography

THE WEALTH OF NATIONS poetry by Freddie Woltz The frigid air of a barren winter pricks and scratches the forgotten flesh in the trench. Metal gleams in the meager sun, and shrapnel shines, protruding from its human host. A cracked artillery battery looks to the sky. Green masses of men are crumpled in groups like pocket change tossed in a donation basket by an overzealous churchgoer. Blood has stopped flowing. The bodies lie contorted in an inglorious dance giving praise to their American gods, Benjamin and Jackson. Sons of the nation gone, a generation yanked from this world and reclaimed by the earth like the presidents they died for.

Inspired by Christopher R. W. Nevinsonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Paths of Glory (1917)

DROPPING THE BOMBSHELL S

fiction by Kyle Kauffman

he has been planning this day since last year— a resolution of sorts.

At first the thought only tickled her mind; once or twice she got the courage to pack what she would need in a discreet gym bag. Today is the first day, however, that something actually sparks, that she enters the glass doors. The first day she is restless enough to submit to the oft-preached mindset. No—the lifestyle. One either lives a long life by it, or one dies an early death. This lifestyle is, so to speak, a radical change of pace for her. She mounts the platform ready to sacrifice blood, sweat, and tears for the cause. No longer will she appease sloth, gluttony, and all their cousins. Not quite for religious reasons, but nonetheless an attack of equivalent commitment. Rather, she sees her new lifestyle through the lens of science. It is all about the clear empirical difference. The smaller the number, the better. Less room for human error. As luck would have it, the five

o’clock rush overflows the room. She is sweating bullets even before she hits the buttons on the panel and the device timer begins to count down. She runs. The beginning of the end—survival of the fittest. She no longer cares who can pick her out of the lineup in the crowded space. Most if not all of the people around her will be gone soon enough, having abandoned the resolution. They will be the biggest losers, then. She accelerates in increments, careful not to move too suddenly and blow something out. The ground moves opposite her direction; she is going through the motions, advancing nowhere. Only a few minutes pass, but they feel much longer. Her sweatshirt keeps the extra weight bulging from her stomach, along with the wire, snug and concealed. Her favorite song powers her though it: “Homemade Dynamite” by Lorde. Five minutes. Two minutes. One

< Philly | Drexel University, Philadelphia, PA | Mark Wu | digital photography

minute to go. All the while, the spark grows into a fire, an explosion. The device beeps to encourage her. 3: In the exhilarating rush, she understands why some people do this. 2: In the excruciating pain, she thanks God the end is near. 1: She had a good run while it lasted. The device panel reads her stats. Time elapsed: 10:00. Total distance: 1.12 miles. Calories burned: 164. Great workout! She gasps, wiping her red face with her hands, hurting all over. She takes off the ear buds, disconnects the wire, and removes her sweatshirt. For a fraction of a second, the extra weight bulging from her stomach gleams visibly. The empirical difference is unnoticeable; it will take many more days. •

Camouflage | Barcelona, Spain | Jang Woo Park | digital photography

Climb | Kanazawa, Japan | Mark Wu | digital photography

A PINE, 1939

poetry by Sam Long

I summit the pine as the golden sun rises. A blue glow settles on the treetops like water seeping down the wide trunks and curved branches. The ground remains cold and greyâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; in hibernationâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; still untouched by the sun. The radio blares the same propaganda. Thousands on the march, but I can do nothing. I hear it. The sound of the Luftwaffe heralds worse. The iron panther rumbles.

I look back at my quaint little town as the tank approaches. A whistle above me and a wave of thunder shakes the ground. The planes are back flying with unexpected grace. My soul snaps, and I descend. The sharp pine-needled bayonets skewer me on my way down. Ten meters away the Panzer advances, its black steel out of place among the snow covered trees.

Hazy | Hank Feng | digital art

Doorway to Hell | James Henckel | acrylic on paper | 24 x 18 in.

MAKES ME WONDER poetry by Robert Triplett

Some fight for a first breath. Infants claw at the bottom step, their instinct to climb. The journey has just begun. It’s easy for teens to tempt fate, skipping steps on the grand ascent. I begin to feel left behind. Ahead, someone falls off. What keeps us climbing? Curiosity? Or the righteous response: family. Watch your step. Hold onto the rail. You may trip.

The last steps, the final breaths, taken in agony, but the view from the top numbs the pain. Hopefully. It’s impossible to know what lies there. A higher power? Perhaps an elevator to the bottom. Did you enjoy the ride? I’d like another ticket, please.

Inspired by Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven”

MEMORIES STICK nonfiction by Spence Whitman

s I opened the glass door to my home after a day at school, I was welcomed by the warm aroma of spices wafting from the kitchen.

I loved the welcoming smell, always present during Christmas time. “I’m home!” I yelled as I slung my backpack onto the hardwood floor, waiting for my mom’s response. My mom always told me to be careful in the kitchen. Unfortunately for her, the floors were scratched from rollerblading toddlers and puppies doing loop-de-loops around the kitchen table, and the counters always had a little bit of stickiness to them from breakfast or my sisters’ attempts at baking. This was the only place I knew; my memories were forever glued to the beautiful run-down floors and elegant gummy countertops. I found my mom hunched over the counter, head resting on her hands. My nine-year-old brain could not process what was happening due to a combination of my inability to read social cues and a lack of exposure to tragedy. My sister sat next to her, staring off into the distance, her brown eyes dry and hard like pebbles jammed into her skull. I walked

up to my mom and gave her a hug. Tentatively, she hugged me back, not fully embracing me. This hug felt different, as if it were missing something. I debated whether to say something or not, but before I could decide, the question slipped out of my mouth: “What’s wrong mom?” With hesitation, she muttered, “It’s Jack. He passed away last night in his sleep.” Jack was my dad’s dad. Every summer I spent a week with Jack and my grandmother in the mountains. Although he was living in an old body, he was just as adventurous and lively as I. Early in the morning as we watched the golden sun rise in the pink sky, we picked blackberries in his miniature garden, white baskets in hand. The garden was small, only about fifteen feet long and five feet wide. It had a mysterious odor that I could not comprehend, and the blackberries were way too sour for me to actually enjoy. Still, I ate the blackberries

and breathed in the pungent air deeply, simply enjoying being with Jack. With him, I was invincible. Young and naive to the world, I thought staying there with Jack forever—picking blackberries and listening to his seemingly endless stories—was a possibility. Suddenly, standing in my mother’s arms, I had to learn how to be invincible on my own. I froze. Each breath was labored and uneven. I had to sit, but my legs wouldn’t move. “He’s dead?” my lips trembled. The spices burned my nose, creating an uncomfortable tingling. My winter coat heated up to a thousand degrees, but my fingers froze in the still air. My mom pulled me to a chair and sat me down. I felt the red, hot tears trickle down my face. I had never been to a funeral before, at least not one that I could remember. It was held at the church that I attended every weekend for Sunday school. We were taken to a musty room filled with antiques and worn-out leather couches. My nice dress shoes were uncomfortable on my growing feet, and my tie cut off the circulation to my head. I threw myself onto one of the less worn-out chairs and

looked around the room. Filled with a confetti of dust particles, the air was like a show of fireworks that glimmered in the light. The room was packed with a mass of people—old people that I had never seen before. Women stood there with stringy, gray hair perfectly stacked on their heads, leading to faces decorated with expensive makeup. Their appearance led me to wonder if they knew my grandfather well, or if this was a beauty contest made to boost their self-esteem. I stood up and wove through the crowd of people toward the center of the room. Stale, smelly ham sandwiches sat there stacked into a perfect pyramid. On the other side of the table was an assortment of random foods that I did not recognize. I felt a weight on me. My feet were difficult to lift as I walked around the untouched food that acted more as a decoration. Surrounded by perfect hair, perfect

makeup, and perfect sandwiches, I had never been somewhere more imperfect. “Come on, Spencie.” My mom waved me over toward the rest of my family. My legs carried me in her direction, but all I wanted to do was stare at the ham sandwiches. We all walked out of the room down a hallway; it was time to start the service. It was the first time I had ever sat in the first pew. I could see everything, a perfect view of my dad hunched over the lectern, soft sobs coming out as he tried to deliver his speech. Next came my sister, followed by my grandmother, and more speakers after. With every speech, I became more upset. Nobody talked about Jack’s blackberry farm, his stories, or his workshop. Each speaker seemed to be talking about a different person. Why didn’t they know the real Jack? Maybe I didn’t know the real Jack, I thought to myself. I had never experienced death before.

I didn’t know what it was like for a person to be gone. Each day after the funeral flew by with a blink of an eye. Every laugh that slipped through my lips felt empty. Busy days turned to restless nights of struggling to wrap my head around the idea of not being able to see my grandfather again. Thoughts of him danced across my black ceiling as I lay awake at night. I covered my face with my sheets just to hide from the world. Everywhere I went, I was followed with the looming memory of the kitchen after school. I wanted to see Jack. Where is he? I stayed up thinking at night. The beautiful garden was fading away. The kitchen was no longer a place with puppies and rollerblades, but a place where the discovery of death now mixed into the cookies and pancakes of the gummy countertops. •

Unseen | Dilly, TX | Spencer Doerr | digital photography

JANE’S MEADOW poetry by Sebastian Agasino

Your sweetheart plucks a flower from the yard and tucks it behind your ear, flashing that cupid bow smile. She laughs at your expression. Her giggle is infectious– the only ailment you want to contract. She sighs into your ear, Forget-me-not. She pleads, Remember me ’til death. Promise. You wonder how you could forget her when she’s sprawled beside you, glowing with life. But in the gloom of the night, you reach across the bed. All that lingers is the fragrance of forget-me-nots.

Lonely Flower | Park City, UT | Tano Kleberg | digital photography

Grace | Wainandiro, Fiji | Trip Hurley | digital photography

Breakfast | Beijing, China | Michael Deng | digital photography

Mask Off | Walker Simmons | mixed media | 18 x 12 in.

CHEESELESS nonfiction by Milo Jacobs

o, I shouldn’t have cheese,” my father says as he stares at the (quite cheeseless) caramel cake in front of him.

“Dad, there’s no cheese in that cake,” I respond. I know what he will say, but his standard response is so nonsensical and hilarious that I need to hear it again. “Cake counts as cheese,” he states matter-of-factly. He rips his eyes away from the delicious-looking cake and back toward the cityscape of Richmond. Mom and I exchange glances across the little metal table in the semi-crowded outdoor section of the coffee shop, and then we split dessert between ourselves, laughing at him. “I miss my dooooooggy,” he whines as we finish eating. “My doooooooggy would like it here,” my mother appends. I groan. The standard exchange in the absence of our dogs is completed. It’s hard to believe that the dogs are only a couple miles away in a “doggy day care” for the afternoon, and that we

have only been disconnected for about three hours. This family trip took place in the middle of one of my dad’s three-weeklong periods in which he would declare he was going “cheeseless.” Going cheeseless entails daily, dramatic, moral dilemmas about whether he should eat something with cheese. He could just call it a diet, but I think he’s decided that he doesn’t want to be one of those people who goes on diets. So, he just goes cheeseless. He eats cheese so often that it is, in all seriousness, probably the best food for him to avoid. However, this is only one of the thousands of weird tropes he uses. Our family has millions of ways of breaking the silence. Some, like talking about our dogs, are better than others. For example, sometimes when we sit together in public, Dad starts singing about our cat for no apparent reason.

His repertoire includes a stupid song that I made up when I was two, a few original tunes, and popular songs with the last word of each line replaced with “Beancat.” “Oh, Beancat, Beancat, Beancat,” he sings after another moment of silence. “Dad!” I yell. “Yes?” he smiles cluelessly. “Stop singing!” I demand. “I was singing?” I roll my eyes and whisper, “Yes.” “Okay, fine.” He considers his options in silence. “I’ll stop.” “Thank you.” At home later that day, Dad nerded out when we sat down to watch baseball. Yeah, if you thought that nerds don’t like sports, you’d be wrong. Greg Charles Jacobs is the definitive sports nerd. It’s not like he writes programs to calculate the baseball player most likely

Ultimately, I make fun of my dad for some of his hyperspecific interests and obsessions, but I’m no different. Sure, I may not write programs to calculate the most likely baseball players to break the home run record or anything, but it’s not like I wouldn’t like to do that, too. to break the home run record or anything, but it’s not like he wouldn’t love to do that. No, he’s more along the lines of “Milo, did you see where the umpires moved on that play?” “No, Dad,” I reply. “I was watching the players like a normal person.” “Okay then.” I don’t hear what he says next since I don’t really care, but it is probably something about the plate umpire watching the play at first. I guess only other umpires really care about where umpires move during a baseball game. We continue watching until the clock hits 9:30 p.m., and Dad declares that he has to take out the dogs and go to bed. “It’s past your bedtime,” I tell him. “It is past my bedtime. I have to get up at 6:30 tomorrow.” “Okay, good luck.” “Thanks.” He then begins another routine of his. “Dooooggies! Wanna go outside? Suuuuuki?” The dogs don’t seem to want to come. “Yaaaaadi! Come!” “Dad, they’re not coming.”

“Suuuuuuuuki. Come!” To my surprise, I hear paws tapping as Yadi approaches, but he’s still not done. “Suuuuuuki!” A bark sounds from outside. “Come!” “She’s already outside,” I sigh. “Yeah, I noticed.” He takes Yadi out, and then the dogs follow him upstairs as he gets ready for bed. By the time I come up, he’s reading on his iPad and the dogs are sound asleep next to him. “Good night,” I tell him as I pass by. “Good night. See you in the morning.” I head to my room and close the door. The next day, spring break will be over, and Dad will go back to teaching. When it comes to teaching physics, however, his reputation is nothing like how he acts around caramel cakes. If you’re wrong about something that he’s talked about enough, he’ll yell. If you try too hard to be right about something, he’ll yell. If you forget to put units on your answers, he’ll play a video

of soccer fans who are angry with their coach…and he’ll yell. If you talk too much about your grades, he’ll whisper. If you aren’t studying during study hall, he’ll whisper. If you refuse to get your work done, he’ll whisper. He’s never mad when he yells; he’s just making a point. When he whispers, he’s serious. Loud teaching; quiet discipline. Ultimately, I make fun of my dad for some of his hyperspecific interests and obsessions, but I’m no different. Sure, I may not write programs to calculate the most likely baseball players to break the home run record or anything, but it’s not like I wouldn’t like to do that, too. As he reads about physics or sports, I watch videos about games or programming. I may not say that I miss our dogs when we’re separated for three hours, but I often do. Even if it lands on a sloped plane, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree due to the significant coefficient of friction between the apple and the ground. And I’m so glad that’s the case. •

Tight Fit | Richmond, VA

Michael Deng | digital photography

GRACIOUS GENTLEMEN OF THE GUITAR poetry by Rhew Deigl If my index finger were Baryshnikov and my middle white-clad Nureyev, if in place of a ring I wore Vasiliev ’round my finger and behind the three stood petite Nijinsky, my hand could dance. And if the legends extending off my palm would grace me with their talents, would paint my strings with pirouettes, my hand would dance. If only, if only, the woodpecker sighs, his beak beating in time over my raw fingertips. “I swear to you, sirs,” I say. “My hand will dance.”

Lyrics taken from Louis Sachar's Holes

Guitar Man | Jackson Warmack | pencil and chalk pastel on paper | 24 x 18 in.

La FontaĂąa | MontjuĂŻc, Barcelona, Spain | Jang Woo Park | digital photography

MY DEAR GUEST script by Andrew Jacobs London, 1898. Edmund Percy and Matthew Jones sit in Jones’ smoking room, a dim place with bookshelves lining the walls; they have retired here after an evening out. Percy is a writer— not a very good one—and is friends with Jones, a well-known lawyer. The two discuss recent affairs. PERCY: Did you happen to see Mr. Graham yesterday? JONES: Mr. Graham? PERCY: Yes, Mr. Graham. I met him once while we were both waiting in your law office— JONES: Oh, Mr. Graham! Yes, of course. No, I didn’t see him yesterday. PERCY: He was with his new wife, Esther—

PERCY: Well, no. (Chuckles) In fact, she looks to be ten years the poor chap’s senior, and her teeth are— JONES: Unattractive? PERCY: To say the least, yes. She looked to be, I’d estimate, forty years of age. JONES: Goodness, Percy. You know gossiping is best saved for women. PERCY: Perhaps, yes, but I’d argue that gossiping is a habit that haunts all species. (Silence. PERCY sits back in his chair and digs around in his pocket for a pipe. JONES scratches his beard)

JONES: Eve.

JONES: Forty years of age?

PERCY: Eve. Yes, of course. He was with his new wife, Eve, in the bakery yesterday afternoon.

PERCY: (Sits back up) At least thirty and five; I swear it.

JONES: Ah.

JONES: Surely your memory is embellished.

PERCY: Have you ever laid eyes on Mrs. Graham?

PERCY: No, I swear it is not. She looked as my mother did not long ago.

JONES: I have not.

JONES: As your mother? (Chuckles)

PERCY: Well, she is—

PERCY: Yes, my mother. Mrs. Graham’s hair is already greying, and there are subtle, yet very noticeable wrinkles about her face. She looked as my mother did when she was fifty years of age.

JONES: Attractive?

JONES: Percy, there is no need to bring your lovely mother into such a trivial matter, let alone mention her age and greying hair!

PERCY: Well, I said it for the sake—

PERCY: Please, Mr. Jones, it is but for the sake of argument.

PERCY: I’d argue that we are.

JONES: Excuse me, Mr. Percy, but your wrinkling, greyhaired mother must be above “the sake of argument.”

JONES: Please, Mr. Percy. (Waves hand) Now is it not the time for one of your childish escapades.

PERCY: Why would you speak of my poor mother in such crude terms?

PERCY: Childish escapades! Surely you’re not serious.

JONES: We’re not arguing.

JONES: (Smiles) I’m rather serious.

JONES: For the sake of argument. PERCY: (Sighs, sits back in his chair and lights his pipe) This room is quite musty, is it not? JONES: (Looks around the room) That’s a rather bold thing for a guest to say of his host’s quarters.

PERCY: Please, elaborate. JONES: About ten years ago you came to me seeking advice on how to extract yourself from a dispute with a shipping company that came as a result of your desire to “test the life of a parasite.” You recall this, correct? PERCY: Yes, I recall, and that was not an escapade, and it certainly was not childish. JONES: Nonsense, Percy! (Chuckles) You hid in the cargo hold of a ship bound for Brazil and then made your presence known when you stumbled up to the deck in search of a can in which you could retch. PERCY: But, I— JONES: Now, think twice before telling me that was a mature or calculated thing to do. Childish is an understatement. (Brief silence) PERCY: (Sobered) Well, Matthew, I am grateful to you for helping me out of that predicament. JONES: Not a worry, Percy. Your streak of adventurism resonated with me, but it led me to believe you would make a better friend than a client in the court of law, a belief which I can confidently say has been fulfilled.

Golden Cigars | Esteli, Nicaragua | Patrick Noonan | digital photography

Teacup | Ethan Barbour | lino-cut print | 4 x 6 in.

PERCY: (Smiles) Well, my friend, you’re a much better lawyer than you are a friend. JONES: (Sits up in his chair) Oh, is that so? PERCY: It’s so. JONES: I’d like to see some evidence, then. PERCY: I have none. I said it for the sake of argument.

JONES: You are full of accusations, my dear guest.

JONES: Stating “for the sake of argument” is not a license to say whatever you wish.

PERCY: None of which are unwarranted.

PERCY: (Starts to talk; stops) So be it.

JONES: All of which are unwarranted, my dear guest.

(Silence. PERCY holds his pipe with one hand, grabs a newspaper with the other. JONES continues to look about the room) JONES: Musty, is it? PERCY: (Blows smoke) Oh, indeed. There is dust on the picture frames, and the glass on the coffee table looks as if it has not shined since the fall. JONES: Well, I do travel often. PERCY: But you’ve been home a week, haven’t you? JONES: Yes, but I’ve yet to use this room. PERCY: The maid has not seen to it?

PERCY: Since when have I lost the name Mr. Percy? JONES: Relax, my dear guest, it is only for the sake of argument. PERCY: Oh, Great Excusor! (Throws arms in air in mock prayer) To what extent shall I express my regret in losing the right to my own name? JONES: Mr. Percy, please. PERCY: Ah! It is returned to me! (JONES shakes his head and looks in the opposite direction of PERCY. PERCY sits back in his chair, chuckling to himself. A brief silence) JONES: Mr. Percy, you are truly an idiot.

JONES: She has, but she may not have done as good a job as I would like her to.

PERCY: For which argument’s sake are you saying this?

PERCY: You are full of excuses, Mr. Jones.

JONES: None, Mr. Percy, but your own. •

WHEN THE FAIRIES COME OUT TO PLAY poetry by Blythe Brewster When the leaves are set on fire, falling like embers, blowing about in the cool evening breeze, and when each morning brings a carpet of frost sparkling under the rising sun, the fairies dance. As the sunset pulls Jack Frost from his crystal castle to paint the world in snow, and as little noses press to window panes in the glow of morning, excitement fogging the glass, the fairies laugh. When the birds serenade the sun to sleep each night, resting on branches covered in tender leaves, and when little buds peep out from under their soily covers, rising to show their smiling faces to the coming day, the fairies sing. And when peepers croak their lullabies, fireflies lighting the fields of Queen Anneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s lace, and as the first clouds of dawn paint the sky a different color for every person in the world, the fairies come out to play.

Vines | Hugh Monsted | mixed media | 16 x 12 in.

Railroad Xing | Fredericksburg, VA | Kyle Kauffman | digital photography

Offswag | Shanghai, China | Willis He | digital photography

poetry by Ryan Kauffman

BLOT

Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mundane, another grass in the blade, another sand in the grain. Perhaps I can sustain the readerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s interest, make it more, make it holy. Maybe, I can make it as good as everyone tells me it will be. But out of my mind rises a parasite that I feed uneven words and blunt thoughts until the flashes come and my work is done.

Lonely Froggy | Okavango Delta, Botswana | Alex Forward | digital photography

May 2018 Dear Readers, You’ve opened it. Your mind, your third eye, your copy of The Talon—whatever you want to call it. Something happened when the purple-blue jumped at you from across the room and invited you in. And then it was as if a rug were pulled out from under your feet, and you were left floating in space. And then all around you, the stars exploded like little kernels of popcorn at the movie theater of someone else’s life. In the fall, we pushed you to engage in constructive discourse with each other and to listen to differing opinions. Now, as authors and artists, you’ve dived far below the surface, and the clean lines of definition have suddenly become murkier. Our design plan frames works of art and photography with offset and overlapping layers of color that convey the odyssey of the mind. In bold, neon fashion, Hank Feng’s cover artwork “Open Mind” commands us to do just that—to open our minds and allow ourselves to be illuminated. The extraterrestrials in Jack Curtice’s “Alien Inhale” inhabit the space of rising smoke while the chromatic trees in Walker Simmons’ “Aspen Forest” hint at something beyond what we understand. In a series of figures, artists Jackson Warmack, Pierce Richardson, and Tano Kleberg strive to capture the human form while embracing the indefinite reality of its being. Through writing, Stephen Brice’s “Memory” forces the reader to understand the fuzziness of what’s unforgettable as time passes. Rob Neill’s “Bluer” and Spence Whitman’s “Memories Stick” grapple with the troubling nature of memories. In a language not entirely fit for a classroom, Jack Stone confronts his intimate and uncomfortable thoughts on sociopolitical movements in #MeToo. Spencer Dearborn in “The Box Who Talks” articulates the process of thought that dictates what gets said in social situations. Ashby Shores looks at the effects of dreaming on the mind, disrupting the dichotomy between what is real and imagined. Luke Christy runs with that idea in “Papa’s Words of Wisdom” by starkly juxtaposing a child’s imagination with the bleak backdrop of reality. Blythe Brewster continues in that vein with fairies interacting with nature in ways that seem real in “When Fairies Come out to Play.” At Woodberry, we have a community of authors and artists who continue to push and stretch the boundaries of what we think we know. We hope you will walk away from this issue a little less certain of the world you inhabit, and maybe you’ll listen to those voices far away that testify to experiences that seem foreign. Be careful in the murkiness, but grow familiar in the uncertainty; somehow, life is more real that way. Sincerely, Max Johns, Kyle Kauffman, and Trip Hurley

< Kyle Kauffman

Trip Hurley >

Max Johns >

portraits by Michael Deng

Navajo Caves | Monument Valley, AZ | Walker Simmons | digital photography

EDITORS Editors-in-Chief Trip Hurley Max Johns Kyle Kauffman

Text Editor

Ashby Shores

Junior Editors

Walker Antonio Blythe Brewster Rhew Deigl

Karen & Rich Broaddus

Faculty Advisors

REVIEW BOARDS Art

Photography

Poetry

Prose

Ethan Barbour Baron Becker Coleman Bishop Hank Feng James Henckel Reece Tilgner Mack Izard Pierce Richardson Jackson Warmack Tano Kleberg Cuatro Welder Spence Whitman

Michael Deng Hank Feng Robert Roh George Shriver Carson Becker Patrick Noonan Jang Woo Park Jameson Rice Avery Warmack Tripp Hood Tano Kleberg Willis He

Ethan Barbour Spencer Dearborn Andrew Jacobs Scott Pittman Jackson Sompayrac Billy Huger Gus Perdue Agus Tornabene Ryan Kauffman Luke McNabb Robert Triplett

Ward Bissell Spencer Dearborn Andrew Jacobs Jack Stone Carson Becker Rob Jolly William McAdams Jang Woo Park Agus Tornabene William Xie Freddie Woltz

Held Down | Walker Antonio | marker and pen on paper | 12.5 x 22 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 onlyâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;the literary magazine of your school.

This is the second edition of the 69th volume of The Talon, the semiannual literary arts publication of Woodberry Forest School. First published in 1949, the magazine was originally issued quarterly and cost 35 cents a copy. Publication of The Talon is now funded by Woodberry Forest School. The Talon editors encourage submissions from members of the Woodberry Forest community. All opinions expressed within this magazine are the intellectual property of the authors and artists and do not represent the views of Woodberry Forest School. Works are se-

Frank Davenport, Jr. 1949 Editor-in-chief

lected through blind review by student boards with expertise in the fields of art, prose, poetry, and photography. New editors are selected from the review boards and the student body by the current editors and the faculty advisors. Authors and artists can apply for review board membership at the end of each academic year. The editors of The Talon create the magazine in the course Design and Editing for Literary Arts Publications and during their free time. Trip Hurley designed the magazine in collaboration with Kyle Kauffman, Blythe Brewster,

and Walker Antonio. The editors of The Talon would like to thank Kelly Lonergan for his help with art review. This issue of The Talon was produced on iMacs using Adobe Creative Cloud. Titles and credits are set in Rokkitt; body text is set in Adobe Garamond Pro. McClung Companies in Waynesboro, Virginia prints 1000 perfect-bound copies. The magazines are distributed to the community by the editorial staff in December and May of each academic year. The Talon is a member of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association and the National Scholastic Press Association.

The Talon

Spring 2018 Woodberry Forest School Woodberry Forest, VA 22989 www.woodberry.org/talon

Spring Fall 2017 2018 Vol. Vol.69,69,No. No.1 2