Talon Spring 2017 by Woodberry Forest School

The Talon

The Talon

Woodberry Forest School | Spring 2017 | Vol. 68, No. 2

Word Poetry

Fiction

Nonfiction

bluejay abstraction ethan barbour acrylic on black paper | 12 x 16 in.

Art

fall of creation james henckel von donnersmarck pencil | 12 x 16 in.

Is God Really Dead? Griffin McDaniel God. Yes, he’s the one

who made the Earth in six days. Did I mention that he’s also an egomaniac? Thinking that he was pretty much the best example, he made everyone in his image, at least that’s what the Bible says over and over again in Genesis 1:27: “God made mankind in his image, in the image of God he created them; male and female he created them.”1 And don’t question it—how can the Bible be wrong? Let’s take Ben Carson. He doesn’t doubt the Bible and the God that I’m talking about. After separating conjoined twins, being a presidential candidate, and doing all sorts of neurosurgery I couldn’t even begin to understand, Carson seems pretty smart to say the least. And Nietzsche said that God was dead. Dead!? God!? But don’t worry—I don’t think you’ve wasted all that time in church worshipping a dead God. It was 8:00 a.m. on a slushy, cold, and dreary day at Woodberry Forest. My eccentric tenth grade European history teacher (yet we were in America) shouted/exclaimed/vociferated, “Nietzsche said, ‘God is dead!’ Ugh! Those German philosophes!” Nietzsche's real quote is “God is dead. God remains dead. And we have

killed him.”2 It’s short and sweet, words for The New York Times, said that I can actually understand—a rarity in churchgoers live two to three years European history. But that quote is not more on average and have better morals. quite right. The first sentence is sad—I That’s what you get when you eat “the mean, it’s about death. The second, body of Christ, the bread of Heaven” depressing—not only are we told that and drink “the blood of Christ, the God is dead, but that he’ll stay that way. cup of salvation.” It’s like the unicorn The third, which seems to come out of blood in Harry Potter, except that there nowhere, is outright wrong. Slow down, are no consequences. It’s the secret to a Nietzsche. Last time I checked, I didn’t longer life, and the best part is that it’s help kill God. But if I did, it must have not even magic. (Okay. Maybe that’s been my subconscious (thanks, Freud). the worst part. Magic is pretty cool.) Anyway, Nietzsche went on to On top of that, Luhrmann claims that say, “What water is there for us to regular churchgoers “drink less, smoke cleanse ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to It's like the unicorn blood invent? Is not the greatness of in Harry Potter, except that this deed too great for us?” I’ll there are no consequences. answer this one for him: God isn't dead! We don’t need any games or festivals, but I’m up for them less, use fewer recreational drugs, and if they’re fun. are less sexually promiscuous than All right, to give some credit to others.”3 Nietzsche, he didn’t literally mean People who go to church are less that God died. He really meant that— likely to engage in dangerous behavior. here’s my attempt to sound smart—in Belief in God is what created church. the Age of Enlightenment, God was So, now it’s time to connect the dots: no longer a reliable source of moral Belief in God, in some way or another, principles. But, sorry guys, he’s still has led people to have better morals. wrong. I know what you’re asking yourself In contrast to what Nietzsche now: Why? Well, I’ll get to that later. believed, Luhrmann, a columnist Anyway, while generalizing and saying is god really dead? griffin mcdaniel nonfiction

that churchgoers are better is hard to do, good lifestyles and behavior. if you say that they have on average Before high school, I didn’t really worse traits, I’d call you crazy. go to church much—I generally stuck So, what does this have to do to the basics like Christmas and Easter. with what Nietzsche said? If God is But when I did go, oh, I was never all no longer a reliable source of moral that well behaved. One time in fourth principles, then why do churchgoers grade, my sister brought in a doll. That behave in a better manner than the was a sight to see. I, with my brother’s average American? assistance, wouldn’t stop poking it, The answer is that it’s really hard making noises, and laughing when and embarrassing to act poorly in everyone else was quiet. I’m fairly church. We all know that family that certain that everyone in the church sits in the corner and giggles while could either see me not sitting still or the mom’s face is turning red. No one hear me not being quiet. And I felt wants to act, for the lack of a better bad. The rest of the church, including term, like an idiot, since everyone else my parents, set the example of how to is above that and would give that evil, behave well, and I learned what was old, sophisticated person stare. Those expected from me because of them. are the people church attracts, and I’ve But I probably should define heard it said a hundred times, “You become like God is like “the force in Star the five people you’re Wars.” He is as creepy as Alice around the most.” So, if you want to Walker makes it: “inside you become a better person, and inside everybody else.” pay the five best people around you to hang out with you. Or, if what God is, because after all, that’s you’re a cheapskate, just go to church. a “highly debatable” topic. I’ll stay The best part is that it’s FREE!!! And away from whether He is a real person if you don’t like free stuff, then just dictating life on earth for now—you leave me alone and start paying people can write your own essay on that. As to write essays that you’d want to read our school chaplain Dr. Smith said in a about how people should buy their 2013 sermon (don’t judge—I actually friends. pay attention sometimes), God is like Church is around because of a “the force in Star Wars.” He is as creepy belief in God. Regardless of whether as Alice Walker makes it: “inside you God actually exists or not, church still and inside everybody else.”4 puts people in a positive atmosphere There really is this Holy Spirit full of inspiration, good morals, and (and I don’t think it’s a spirit as in a cute little pageants, thus encouraging ghost in horror movies) that exists in

is god really dead? griffin mcdaniel nonfiction

humans. And this spirit is strongest in churchgoers—it’s what makes them come back. My super-genius physics teacher (who is said to teleport through doors) and probably most devoted physicists might describe it like the electromagnetic or Higgs fields, since they exist everywhere. But that stuff is a little too smart for me. I think I’ll stick to Star Wars. Anyway, this force helps guide individuals to make good decisions and resist temptations. How does it do this? Heck, why would I know? For some, this force is stronger, and for others, it’s hardly anything, but it’s always there leaving at least a little bit of good in everyone. And that’s what God represents—a powerful force in society that exists in everyone and encourages good morals. It’s what keeps us from completely giving in to our animalistic natures and living a life that is, as Thomas Hobbes would put it, “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short,”5 a life that almost everyone (there’s always an exception) would hate. And this force isn’t as creepy as it sounds—I mean it’s not like the NSA, and hopefully it isn’t stalking us all. (Or is it?) But what is God, really? I know I said I wouldn’t do this, but it’s too much fun to avoid. The question that has stumped people forever: Is God real? My answer: It doesn't matter. The important parts are a) that some people do believe in him, therefore creating the positive environment that is church, and b) that He represents

the good in the world. Think about from attending church. it. As long as there is something that So, why is it exactly that the world represents good morals, some people never seems to be at peace if God is will strive to please and follow that thing. around? Ha! I knew you would ask It just happens to be that one of those that. First, everyone’s God is different, things is God in today’s world. Does it and some have stronger Gods than matter if Jesus walked on water? Does others. The force can’t control us all—I it matter if the Bible stories are true? already told you it’s not like the NSA. No! What matters is that there is good somewhere, and I’ll let you (Shhhh. I forgot. Evolution pick whatever it is you want to didn't happen. God made believe in. You’re probably wondering us all in his image.) what my personal God is. And, to your disappointment, I couldn’t We’ve got to have a little freedom every really tell you. It’s a combination of once in a while. And this freedom literally everything I’ve read, seen, or sometimes ends up in the wrong done. I pick up little pieces here and hands, but I don’t think we should be there from books, like the Bible, that too pessimistic about everything. a religious man may call holy, from We’ve still come a long way. Heck, other books, like The River Why, that a we might even kind of understand young fisherman may call holy, from some really weird and complex parts pieces of classic literature like The of the universe and evolution. (Shhhh. Aeneid, and even from hilarious, yet I forgot. Evolution didn’t happen. God surprisingly philosophical, films like O' made us all in his image.) Violence, Brother Where Art Thou. And these pieces war, and sin are prices we must pay come together in my mind to form a to lead our own lives in freedom. Is it continuously developing but always worth it? That’s for you to decide. ubiquitous entanglement of thoughts But keep this in mind: the world that guide my moral compass. Put has never been perfect—even at the together, these create my “God” in the very beginning with Adam and Eve. loosest of terms. And if you need someone to blame, Interestingly enough, while this blame one of them—they shouldn’t may not be the strictly Christian have eaten that apple. I’m telling you, definition of God, church still helps serpents are slippery little creatures— me decide what I want to believe in. don’t ever listen to them, especially Church—even if God isn’t what is when they start talking, which definitely often preached—is still a source of happens since the Bible says so. Oh, good, reliable principles. You don’t and did I mention that Nietzsche’s the have to be a devout Christian to benefit dead one now?

1 Genesis, chapter 1, verse 27. 2 Friedrich Nietzsche, The Gay Science, 1882. 3 T.M. Luhrmann, “The Benefits of Church,” The New York Times, April 20, 2013. 4 Alice Walker, The Color Purple, 1982. 5 Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan, 1651.

creature of imagination lee caffey mixed media | 31 x 15 x 21 in.

smoking hank feng acrylic & ink | 20 x 16 in.

mao tiger wu acrylic | 24 x 18 in.

walk to solitude scott gullquist digital photography

Not Coming Back Rhew Deigl The Vauxhall sputtered

to a stop. The babbling engine was the only ruling sound, unusual for midday London. The driver, a middleaged man, stepped out and circled to the passenger side where a man in an officer’s jacket was sleeping soundly. The driver woke the man, who then gave the driver a warm smile. “Oliver!” exclaimed the passenger. Oliver nodded and grabbed a set of crutches from the back of the vehicle. The passenger leaned on them, trying to stand up. His state-issued cap nearly fell off as he stumbled onto the walk. A few meters back from the London side-street stood a large, brick house. The passenger, still grinning, said, “She didn’t take much damage, did she?” “No, sir, she fared quite well,” replied Oliver. They simply gazed at the marvelous residence for a while, turning their heads to the bitter wind. “Well, Oliver, are you going to help me up the stairs, or will we just freeze here together?” the passenger chuckled after a moment. Oliver wrapped one arm around the man’s shoulders as they fumbled together towards the wooden door. The usual blaring of London was all

but dissipated in the cold air. Oliver heaved the door open by its massive brass handle. “Now arriving! Mr. Walter Rose!” hollered Oliver to no one in particular. Suddenly, the sound of stomping feet rose from the hidden hallways, almost as if a herd of elephants was in the house. As the footsteps grew louder, three children popped out of a doorway. “Father!” squealed a young girl. The two others, both boys, hugged each other giddily. The girl began to advance toward Walter, but from a darkened corner arose a piercing Tssk.

The silhouette, Alice, stepped into the light. She was an older woman dressed modestly in a headscarf and a long, flowing skirt. Her floral coat was the only thing colorful about the woman, her stale expression included. “Yes, Walter, you’ve been missed. But there is no time for pleasantries now! We must get you straight to bed.” Alice helped Walter down the dim hall. “Sir, your foot! I thought I told you not to hurt yourself,” she scolded, noticing Walter’s thick leg wrap. “You know, I did my best,” chuckled Walter. “Stray piece of a mortar sliced clean through my boot.” As the pair processed down the dim “You know, I did my best,” chuckled hall, Walter was Walter. “Stray piece of mortar sliced bathed in memories of his house. clean through my boot.” “It’s so nice to be The girl skidded to a halt as a back. I simply can’t believe my eyes.” shadowy figure crept forward. “What “You can reacquaint yourself with did I tell you, ma’am, about being the house after you take a rest. I’m quiet?” certain you’re exhausted,” Alice said The girl flew back to the doorway as they reached a large set of wooden as if she were being towed by an doors. invisible rope. The boys could hardly As they entered the room, Walter contain their laughter. saw the huge bed and could barely “Hello, Alice! It has been a long contain his happiness. He staggered time. Lovely to see you again,” said towards the mountain of pillows. A Walter. distant phone began to ring, its old not coming back rhew deigl fiction

bells sharp and violent in the still house. “All right, I’ll grab the phone while you get settled,” Alice said. “Your wife should be here shortly, so don’t be surprised when she comes in.” She walked off briskly. Walter was left alone. He could hardly keep his eyes open, and all he thought about was his darling wife. The clock on his bedside table had advanced thirty minutes since Alice had left, and Walter began to wonder what could be taking so long. Finally, after an eternity, he heard a noise. Coming from the other side of the door was an angelic voice singing a familiar tune.

entered the room. The voice drew closer. Don’t sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me, anyone else but me, anyone else but me. “Funny,” Walter thought, “that’s what she sang to me before I left.” The door creaked open. A ray of light pierced through the dark. He panicked, and his heart raced. His mind filled with thoughts about the time he had lost to the war. Don’t go walking down Lovers’ Lane with anyone else but me, till I come marching home.

There was blood all over Walter's hands and face, but the medic smiled when he saw the man on the ground was not yet a corpse. Walter sat up immediately. “Marie!” He shifted in bed in order to get a good view of his wife when she

not coming back rhew deigl fiction

The figure standing there was not Walter’s wife at all, but a giant, ragged man in a torn white doctor’s coat. He was so bright, terribly bright, that Walter shielded his eyes and frantically hid under his duvet. He could see the silhouette of the doctor as he

leaned over him. Walter opened his eyes to a wholly new scene. A medic crouched over him, calling to another man over the Brap-Brap of machine guns. “I can’t! I can’t! I’ll lose this one!” The medic looked down and noticed Walter had come around. There was blood all over Walter's hands and face, but the medic smiled when he saw the man on the ground was not yet a corpse. “Alright, lad, you just stay here and keep your eyes open!” Then the medic dashed behind a different barricade. Walter was deafened by the hollering of a thousand men, all running and firing their weapons in unison. The thunderous sound of tanks shook the French terrain. Lying on the battlefield, it all came back to Walter. He couldn’t go home. His lovely brick abode was just rubble on a decimated London street. His wife and three lovely children were all permanent tenants of the City of London Cemetery and Crematorium. He had lost everything, and in that moment, he only wished the devils in the red armbands would lose everything, too. Inspired By William Strang’s The Convalescent (1915)

self-portrait hank feng charcoal | 18 x 14 in.

Replay Max Johns we watched our own inglorious death over and over again. there was an air of irreverence when we died, perhaps that’s how it should be for the death of nobody. we lay there for hours with our blood hardening against the pavement; nameless, faceless, shapeless, belonging to no one. everything was done to make an example of us, so that it wouldn’t happen again. we asked when we would stop dying this way; nobody gave an answer. we went to bury ourselves while nobody wept. we remember how familiar it felt, to lie there like strange fruit and fester in the sun. Inspired by Strange Fruit by Abel Meeropol and sung by Billie Holiday In Ferguson, Missouri, on August 9, 2014, an African-American teenager, Michael Brown, was fatally wounded by a policeman. Brown’s body lay in the street for four hours. People in the neighborhood covered his bloody body with a sheet, but his feet were left hanging and his blood still running. The weight of Michael Brown’s death was not a matter of whether the man, if you could call him such—boy seems more fitting—was a criminal, but rather the lack of humanity he was granted upon his death.

replay max johns poetry

the grim face michael deng digital photography

Growing Pains Hayes Jiranek

What happened to the days when I was free With absolutely nothing on my mind. I used to drift along through my life’s sea, But now such liberties are hard to find. I miss those days, the water clear and tame. I dreamt of treasures on my youthful raft. My life was nothing but a simple game, But now it seems more like the devil’s craft. No longer am I resting on a boat; I’m swimming, and I fear that I shall drown. I try so hard to keep myself afloat, But as I grow, my weight just pulls me down. Although there isn’t any shore in sight, I will keep swimming deep into the night.

growing pains hayes jiranek poetry

sete trip hurley digital photography

tramsurf jang woo park digital photography

rough rider michael deng digital photography

A Pirate's Life for Me? Kyle Kauffman For many years, my

ship, and somehow became tame enough to marry and start a family with my great-grandmother. But our blond hair and blue eyes were proof that The Baldhead’s legacy lived on through us, my mother said. And we took everything she said to heart. Even Eric, my older brother, joined the quarrels about who was the best pirate up in our backyard fort, which was equipped with a steering wheel, a spyglass, and a slide that

great-grandfather was a pirate. A Swedish Viking pirate, to be exact. My mother would tell my brothers and me stories about Axel Linus Leander “The Baldhead” Hedquist, as he was known, but not the 8 o’clock bedtime happily-ever-after kind of fantasies. No, these accounts were real, told with a subtle matter-of-factness that was unquestionable. My mother was a Hedquist (her maiden name) herself, so she had heard the legends first-hand. I Our rented boat came with no could vividly picture his maritime adventures Jolly Roger skull-and-crossin the North Atlantic, bones flag to hoist, which made the Caribbean, and the Mediterranean. it a target in a pirate's spyglass. Although he stood at about five feet, six inches, the man we could use to throw each other nonetheless commanded the respect overboard. (Ryan always had an unfair of his fellow pirates. He was amiable advantage despite being the youngest as far as Vikings were, though. Sure, he because he was graced with Leander stole and plundered, but The Baldhead as his middle name.) The Pirate's of the was no Blackbeard; he had to support Caribbean was the go-to for roadtrip entertainment. Our Halloween his eight siblings. costumes often consisted of some After a while, he became so sort of peg leg, eyepatch, and sword infamous that the Swedish government combination. was after him. To survive, my greatThus, my childhood was marked grandfather left his family and country by the simple fact that my greatbehind as he sailed to America where grandfather had been a pirate. Under he quit his pirate ways, sold his small

a pirate's life for me? kyle kauffman nonfiction

that pretense, things just made sense: my mother’s love for all things nautical, the sailing trips we would take, our cottage down on the Chesapeake Bay, and so on. If my friends started talking about how they were related to Teddy Roosevelt or Robert E. Lee, I would play my pirate card. Even when my brothers and I grew too old for the pirate phase, it was all left wholly untouched and perfect in my subconscious. I never knew another way. Strangely, it all resurfaced a few years ago over some fettuccine alfredo. My family was having dinner in some Italian restaurant to celebrate my older brother’s birthday. Naturally, my mother ushered the conversation into sentimental retrospections: lots of remember whens about our childhood and about how the years had slipped away. There were stories of Eric as a baby and his elementary school friends and some visits he made to the principal’s office. These seemed serious way back then but hilarious looking back on them. Then my mother told a different story. I thought I already knew how it went. Once, on a sailing trip, my mother convinced us boys that the other boats would attack if they thought we were landlubbers. Our rented boat

came with no Jolly Roger skull-andcrossbones flag to hoist, which made it a target in a pirate’s spyglass. To save our lives, it was necessary that we each wear bandanas and use a pirate’s vocabulary so that the other pirates would know we were of their own kind. So persuasive was my mother that any little kid would have believed her. She riled me up so much that I hardly spoke a word of proper English for the whole day. When another boat would pass by ours, my brothers and I would anxiously pick up ropes or shuffle about the deck in order to look the part. Once docked, my mother informed us that we had successfully displayed our heritage to the other pirates. Shortly after, she relieved us of our duties, and I retreated into my quarters exhausted. That was the story I remembered. In that Italian restaurant, my mother told us how funny it had been to see us completely fooled, convinced that there had been pirates out to get us. Everyone at the table laughed, including my brothers. “You boys were so precious,” she said. Her version actually came as a blow to me. Everything I knew about my pirate ancestry came back, but this time it didn’t quite add up.

“Mom, was Axel Linus Leander really a Swedish Viking pirate?” My insides quivered. She just laughed. I don’t think she ever sensed my sincerity. “Well, he was from Sweden. But what do you mean?

Of course he wasn’t a pirate. That was just what I liked to tell you boys. He was really just a cab driver.” Lies. I probably would have gotten up and walked outside, but I couldn’t move. For fourteen years, I had italian view walker antonio acrylic | 22 x 16in.

believed I was the son of the daughter of the son of a Viking pirate. But he was just as fictitious as Captain Hook. The great-grandfather I had always known suddenly had walked the plank and taken with him my sense of self. Instead, I found out that I am the son of the daughter of the son of a lowly servant. A poor cab driver. No wonder my mother had tried to hide it all; it was embarrassing. I cringed as I remembered all the times that I had unknowingly lied to people about him. Nobody else at the table seemed to notice my affliction. Then again, nobody else seemed stunned at all. My brothers had probably figured out the truth a long time ago. The conversation continued on as usual, but I didn’t talk

of time, I decided to once and for all figure out how gullible I had been as a child. I verified my childhood captionby-caption, artifact-by-artifact. It wasn’t easy, but at least I confirmed the truth: there was no practical way Axel could have ever been a Viking. Those old Scandinavian civilizations faded away a long time ago. On the exhibits, I kept reading about the eighth century or the eleventh century, but no date was ever close to the twentieth. The information (all in Spanish) about hairbrushes made from animal bones, the strange lore of Norse gods, and the archaic languages Vikings used seemed worlds away from how I had pictured my greatgrandfather. The type of boats even right; my mother And so it was set: Axel Linus wasn’t had put her personal touch on Leander Hedkuist was my visions with her love for bound for the United States grand sailboats, but in reality, Vikings used slender longships at just seventeen years old. propelled more by their oarsmen than by their meager again. In fact, I didn’t speak of Axel for sails. The whole time, I kept a mental over a year. checklist testing the accuracy of the This past summer, I found myself man I had once envisioned. By the end trapped in a Viking history museum in of the visit, imaginary Xs marked the Alicante, Spain. (It wasn’t the elaborate numerous spots on which I had been diamond stealing, laser alarm system totally wrong. sort of museum trap.) As my host The lessons of the visit? No, Axel family's guest, I couldn’t just refuse to could have never been a Viking pirate, enter. I just had to suck it up and rip and I should have paid better attention the metaphorical Band-Aid off when in my history classes. But once I knew I caught a view of the first Viking for sure that my great-grandfather was sculpture. But because I was trapped in not a seafaring thief, I had only two big this museum for an indefinite amount questions left. Who was he really? And

a pirate's life for me? kyle kauffman nonfiction

similarly, who would that make me? So, with some ancestral research gathered and recorded by my greataunt, Linea Hedquist, and her daughter, Carol Collins, and with even more stories from my mother, I was able to start piecing a portrait together. Axel Linus Leander Hedkuist was born on February 27th, 1890, about an hour south of Stockholm, Sweden. He was one of nine siblings, although a few died young. It was also true that he only grew to be about five feet, six inches, which explains my height (or lack thereof). Back then, parents didn’t wait to send their children away to live on their own—there were too many mouths to feed. And as stories of a land full of opportunity made their way over to Sweden, which was indebted at that time, I’m sure my great-grandfather didn’t want to linger. Some of his siblings had already crossed the pond to find a better life, and now it was his turn. But as they say, you’ve got to spend money to make money, and the Hedkuists didn’t do much of either. To pay for his overseas voyage, he coordinated a plan to become an indentured servant for a farmer. And so it was set: Axel Linus Leander Hedkuist was bound for the United States at just seventeen years old. Having just turned seventeen as I write this, I am humbled by his bravery, or rather his audacity, to just hop on a boat knowing only a handful of English words. And when I say “only a handful

of English words,” I mean it, but when I say “a boat,” I mean much more. Interestingly enough, Axel departed from Liverpool, England, on none other than the RMS Lusitania. Of course, the Lusitania wasn’t as historically significant on top of the sea as it was at the bottom, but my greatgrandfather was nonetheless lucky enough to travel in one of the world’s largest, fastest, and most luxurious passenger ships at the time. Albeit, Axel may not have seen so much of the ship’s luxury side since he was most likely a third class passenger with a dank bunk deep within the Lusitania’s innards. He probably would have been lucky to even have a porthole in his room. I wonder if he ever became seasick. To get back to the point of Axel’s sparse English, he decided it might prove advantageous to learn the tongue of his destination during the voyage. But even more pressing, he realized that it might be difficult to flirt with girls if they couldn’t understand him. It was motivation enough. He was traveling on the Lusitania with a friend who knew more English than he, and Axel learned a very important lesson: how to say “good morning.” The friend probably made sure Axel knew how to pronounce the words perfectly before he sent him out to test them on the pretty American and English girls strolling the decks. Apparently, Axel had always been quite the ladies’ man, so it must have been a slap in the face to be slapped in

the face or laughed at for simply saying the working conditions were so terrible what his friend had told him to say. and his allotted food was so meager After the first failure, he regained his that he couldn’t take it anymore. All composure to try again, but it ended we know is that Axel escaped from in the same way. So did the following his employer there, probably with attempt. He must have thought his help from a sibling who was here in pronunciation was God-awful, or that America as well, without fulfilling his he unknowingly did something I think it's hilarious that my greatthat was culturally u n a c c e p t a b l e grandmother married a short man who until one of the was already balding in his twenties. girls told him that “kiss my ass” was in fact not how one greeted another in obligations. English. When Axel realized that he Once away from his employer, was saying the wrong thing and that Axel was free to live his life, which at his friend had played a cruel joke on that point in time involved the love of him, I’m sure he took it easy on the his life. He married an Englishwoman flirting for a while. named Janet Macready on April 25th, After about a week of travel, Axel 1915. I think it’s hilarious that my arrived in Port Chester, New York, on great-grandmother married a short March 27th, 1907. Only eight years man who was already balding in his would pass before the Lusitania would twenties. Maybe I only find it funny be sunk by a German torpedo, thus because they say that balding skips a triggering questions about America’s generation, in which case it missed me, involvement in the Great War. It but it is somehow entertaining that he was probably upon his arrival to the truly was a baldhead. immigration customs that he changed Together they moved to his surname’s spelling from Hedkuist Washington, D.C. where Axel found to Hedquist. work for a wealthy man named From there, he worked on his Colonel Robert Means Thompson. employer’s farm for some time. I’m The Thompsons were eager to take not sure how much the Lusitania ticket advantage of the new luxury of cost or how long it would have taken automobile transportation, and so him to pay the debt off working as an Axel was taught how to drive. He drove indentured farmhand, but it didn’t them all over; even when they would really matter in the end. Axel was winter in the Bahamas, they would treated very badly at that farm; from invite him to drive them around down what little he disclosed to our family, there. Being the Thompsons’ chauffeur a pirate's life for me? kyle kauffman nonfiction

occupied Axel for the rest of his life. we still have some works she acquired Axel was indeed a servant, but as an art collector. When the house the Thompsons were very kind to became too burdensome for Axel in him and Janet. The family gifted the his old age, he moved into an assisted couple with an apartment above the living complex. Even that could not garage until they could buy a home in stop Axel from being Axel, and it northwest Washington near Bethesda. was not uncommon for him to host Soon, the Hedquists’ three children, happy hour in his apartment there, Linea, Jean, and Alec (my grandfather) entertaining and energetic as ever. But were born there. The house became a eventually the cancer came. He fought homestead for the whole family. Axel well for a while without medication, was an avid gardener and grew food but it got him in the end. It was a sad right on that plot of land. Axel kept day for anyone lucky enough to know an active lifestyle; my mother even Maybe I should just hop on a boat, remembers him cross the Atlantic, and reconnect crawling around on with my roots. There is bound to all fours to play with the dogs. Among be something in The Baldhead’s other things, he was countless adventures that could a dapper dresser. His outfit was never rub off on me. complete without a bowtie and a hat. “Charming” and Axel when he died in 1978. “gentleman” were the words that my Of course, there is so much more mother used to describe him. What to tell about Axel. The more I discover, was lost in his short stature was made the more concrete and interesting he up in his sense of humor. As he liked becomes. I obviously never met my to note on his hair loss, “I used to part great-grandfather, but in some strange my hair to the side, but now it’s parted way, I am beginning to feel as if I know forever.” him. The only thing I regret is that I The rest is history. Janet died didn't get it right the first time. Instead, when my mother was just a toddler, but I replaced my great-grandfather with

a pirate's life for me? kyle kauffman nonfiction

some phony pirate. Axel was a strongwilled, self-made man, and as I have come to know him, so much more admirable than some Swedish Viking pirate could have ever been. I’m still not entirely sure where all of this leaves me, but at least I can begin to chart my own way by learning a thing or two from the real stories about Axel. (Maybe it’s all right to be unsure, because if there’s one thing I learned from all of this, it’s that things aren’t always what they seem anyway.) And as it turns out, the stories are more numerous than I had ever imagined. We American Hedquists were able to locate our long-lost Swedish relatives, who still operate a familyowned grocery store in the Stockholm area. Maybe I should just hop on a boat, cross the Atlantic, and reconnect with my roots. There is bound to be something in The Baldhead’s countless adventures that could rub off on me. I might need someone to teach me “good morning” in Swedish, though.

A special thank you to Linea Hedquist, Carol Collins, and my mother, Gayle Kauffman. You helped me write this more than you may know.

father's sunset jang woo park digital photography

Fire Watchtower Trevor Barker Yellowstone National Park, 1988

A giant made of wood with four unmoving legs and the eyes of a owl faces in every direction. Bound in place, forever to observe.

Then comes the light in the distance—the corner of land lit, banishing the giant’s comforting sleep. The tower cries out to the insects below and waits.

The tower rests in its grass of great oaks that sway below. Insects come and go, building shelters to avoid the forces of nature. But the giant remains, suspended above to warn of the coming of the light. The giant grows older, swaying in the gentle wind.

Brightness licks the giant’s legs, thanking the gods for the dry season. The giant lets loose a thunderous groan, plunging down, free at last. The tower witnesses its first success and bathes in its consequences.

fire watchtower trevor barker poetry

castle karr michael deng digital photography

stick sculpture tiger wu & jackson monroe sticks & acrylic | 38 x 47 in.

swell kyle kauffman digital photography

Pins and Needles Chris Oldham Earlier that morning,

serious help—someone like Stuart—to Stuart came out before the lift opened find the way back without biting the to get fresh tracks on the snow. He dust. needed to clear his mind for his first Stuart would turn eighteen in May, day on the job. At the bottom of the a month after the ski season ended, so lift, he noticed some huge, white clouds instead of joining as an official paid ski were headed toward the mountain. By patroller, the National Ski Patrol on the time he reached the top, heavy Vail Mountain had agreed to let him snow was already accumulating on top be a trainee. Usually they didn’t do this of the roofs of the ski patrol lodges. type of thing, but the Vail employees Visibility was low. He skied through had known Stuart since he’d first hit a small valley under the lift where the the slopes with his dad when he turned snow created a screen that blocked his four. It didn’t hurt that all the lift view completely. He hoped nobody operators loved him. would try this slope today. By the When Stuart finally turned time he reached the bottom, the snow the corner of the long line for the lightened up. Northwoods lift, he saw his buddy Stuart inched up in the lift line. Arthur shoveling snow at the loading During prime skiing season, the slopes Arthur flashed Stuart a toothy grin. stayed packed. “Alright, steward Stuart. Ten years. Thousands of tourists would soon I can’t believe the day has come.” gather on the front side of the mountain. Once he moved station. past the the family-friendly runs on Arthur flashed Stuart a toothy the front side, the lines got a little grin. “Alright, steward Stuart. Ten better. The main relief came from the years. I can’t believe the day has come.” sparseness of gapers cutting people Stuart chuckled. off with their wide turns, completely “I like the red jacket, homie—about oblivious to skier etiquette. Every once time you got one of those. Fill it in a in a while, a few would get lost and end little more in the shoulders though.” up in the back bowls, needing some Arthur lifted up his reflective glasses.

pins and needles chris oldham fiction

“When you get off for lunch, come up to Annie’s Lookout. We’ve got a little New Year’s celebration lined up if you care to join. A couple of us, anyway.” “Cool, man. I’ll see if I can make it with work and all. I’ll talk to you later.” Stuart stood at the lift’s loading station beside a small family. The chair lift came from behind and swept them all up and away into the bitter whiteness. The rugged valley he’d skied through earlier was hidden behind a white curtain. It had turned into one of those mornings when the wind hardened the granules of snow. Stuart was bombarded with pins and needles. He zipped his jacket up and dug his face down into it. “Want to put the bar down?” The man’s voice had a heavy accent. Stuart nodded as he reached up and grabbed the bar, lowering it slowly. The middle-aged man wore an orange helmet and the woman a purple one. Perched between them were two small girls with goggles too big for their smooshed noses. The chair dropped downward toward the snowy bottom as they passed through the small valley. The trees on either side of the lift gave the group temporary relief from the biting snow.

hello down there kj pankratz digital photography

“Papá, estoy frío,” whined the girl with the aqua mittens. Stuart had taken enough Spanish to understand that she was cold. Her dad didn’t answer. “We should be at the top pretty soon.” Stuart was cold, too. He flipped up the fur-lined hood of his new jacket. “Good, I need to stretch my legs.” The man choked a bit and spit off of the lift. It hit the powder fifteen feet below. “Do you mind if I lift the safety bar up for a moment?” Abruptly, the ski lift jerked “Not at all.” Stuart into motion, throwing the watched the man’s wife put her arm out in front of the father off balance. girls to hold them in place. The father pulled off from her voice that she was about a glove with his teeth, sat on it, and eight. then used his free hand to zip up the “If someone needs help getting on vents on the bottom of his ski pants. or off the chair, then they have to stop He lifted one leg up so that his ski the whole lift so that the person doesn’t was perpendicular to the valley below fall or get dragged up and down the them. Abruptly, the ski lift jerked mountain.” He hoped her English was into motion, throwing the father off good enough to understand what he balance. He twisted in his seat to keep had said. from sliding off and shifted back until Her sister said something in the backrest caught him. Spanish, and the whole family laughed. Stuart let out a sigh of relief After about two minutes, the lift still in unison with the rest of the group. hadn’t budged. Snow was beginning What if he had fallen? After all, Stuart, to accumulate on the wire above their the ski patroller in the equation, had heads. allowed the man to lift the safety bar. “Where are you guys from?” Stuart always liked to talk to the people on the lift. “Spain,” answered one little girl. She adjusted her ski goggles, and Stuart noticed her faint aqua mittens. The man nodded. “Sevilla!” The lift inched to a stop. “Oh great,” Stuart added for all to hear. “Why does this keep stopping?” asked the other girl. Stuart guessed

pins and needles chris oldham fiction

As the man moved back in the seat of the chair lift, his glove fell. “Ignacio, your glove.” The woman turned around to see where it landed. Her motion rocked the chair, causing a heap of snow that had accumulated on top of the wire to come loose. It fell directly onto the woman’s skis, pulling her off of the edge of the chair. She tried to grab on, but the safety bar was still up. She hung in the air below the lift, and then in an instant, her white snowsuit disappeared into the sea of white beneath. “Camila!” shouted the man as the girls wailed. Despite what his red jacket suggested, Stuart hadn’t really been trained to deal with anything yet, let alone someone falling off of a moving lift in zero visibility. A fall from this height could be fatal, but he thought he could make the jump if he kept his skis flat and his knees bent. He’d be fine; at least he hoped so. His pulse throbbed in the back of his head. He adjusted the safety bar. “Ignacio, when you get to the top, I want you to tell the lift operator that your wife fell off of the chair at around pole 10. Got it?” “Got it.” “Tell them that Stuart hopped off

to find her and mark the spot for them to bring the toboggan. Can you ski this slope?” Stuart motioned at the moguls below that were barely visible through the flat light. “Yes, I can do it.” “Okay, leave the girls at the top with Maggie. She’s inside the lift office. She’ll take care of them while you ski down under the lift. Follow the ski patrollers until you see us. Got it?” He looped both ski poles around his wrists and prayed to God that Ignacio had understood all the English. “See you down there.” Stuart took his skis off the horizontal footrest and let them dangle beneath. He slid his body through the space between the seat and the safety bar the same way that the woman had come off of the seat. Hanging from the bar, he lowered himself one arm at a time to the horizontal footrest below as if he were climbing down the rungs of a ladder. Still facing up the mountain, Stuart carefully let go of the footrest with one arm and twisted around so that he faced the bottom. The strain of his weight was overwhelming. A gust of wind pushed him backwards, and his hood flew off. He could hear the girls crying in the lift above him. “Don’t be scared

girls; Maggie will take care of you!” he shouted through the wind, but his words barely reached them. Stuart could see nothing but white, but he knew it was time. He released his grip on the footrest and dropped. The snow came up from the bottom of his pant legs and the skirt of his jacket, sending a chill up his body. The backs of Stuart’s skis hit the ground first, and his right ski pole planted at an angle. He fell forward into the hard plastic handle, which caught the brim of his helmet, and his head snapped backward. Within a matter of seconds, Stuart began to fly down the slick run, way faster than he could control. Each

against every impulse to keep his legs flexed and released control from the waist down. The tips of his skis speared the front of a sapling pine and popped off his boots. Stuart dove over the top of the sapling and into the glade, landing hard on his stomach. Stuart shook the snow off of his face and wiped a film of ice off of his goggles. “Camila!” “Aquí! Mi espalda! Help me, aquí!” Stuart thought back to his middle school Spanish class. Espalda…back… she hurt her back. He pulled himself out of a snow bank at the base of a dead tree. He turned his head into the wind and looked up the mountain. He saw nothing but white as the needles blasted his face and neck. “Camila, talk to me!” Stuart dove over the top of He tried to gauge the disthe sapling and into the glade, tance between the two of them. landing hard on his stomach. “Aquí! Here!” Her voice penetrated the bitter mogul he hit would have knocked an white. ordinary skier right off his feet, but Judging by her shouts, Stuart Stuart kept his knees flexed and his guessed that she was about thirty feet thighs tight, absorbing blow after blow uphill from him. He pulled his legs out to his compacted ankles as each heap of the snow and wedged them into the of packed snow emerged from the slope in front of him, kicking hard to flat light. Barreling down the slope, get traction in the ice. He hoped she he caught a flash of purple. He went had landed somewhere softer. pins and needles chris oldham fiction

As he ice-picked his way up with his ski poles, Stuart wondered if Ignacio and the girls had reached the top yet. He felt as if he’d been trekking uphill for a year when he poked something with his ski pole. It was the glove that Ignacio had dropped. Through the snow, he made out what looked like a ski standing vertically about five feet above him. He continued up the slope as the sharp snow blew off of a cushy mogul and into his face. It was a ski. “Camila?” Stuart collapsed on his knees above her. “I am here. My back hurts.” “Thank God. We’ve got help coming.” He took off the red ski patrol jacket and draped it over her. “You’re

them. “Guys, here!” Stuart waved his hands above his head. Their helmets darted in the direction of his voice. Jack and Todger slowed to a stop above Camila’s snow patch. They were both about fifty years old and had thick beards to guard their faces. Stuart thought back to the time that they had pulled him out of a tree he’d gotten stuck in when he was eight. “Thank God for Stuart,” Todger said to Jack. “Let’s get her on here.” Ignacio came down the mountain in a cloud of powder. He stopped just short of the toboggan. “Is she hurt? Is she going to be okay?” Jack looked up. “She’s hurt her back. Maybe something broken, but she can clearly Ignacio glared at Stuart move, which is good news. through his goggles. “I can't I think she’s sprained her knees. Maybe worse. She’s got believe you let this happen.” mobility.” Todger lifted her onto the okay.” As he said these words, he be- sled, tying her down under the blanket. lieved them, and for the first time a Ignacio glared at Stuart through wave of relief swept over him. As the his goggles. “I can’t believe you let this adrenaline faded, he began to feel the happen.” He picked up her skis. pain in his ankles and head. Over the Stuart slid on his butt down the wind, he heard skis carving through slope about thirty feet to his skis and the ice. Two red jackets and a tobog- dug them out from the base of the gan emerged from the white above pine sapling. He clicked his boots in

pins and needles chris oldham fiction

and waited for the rest of the posse to emerge from the white so that he could ski behind the sled to safety. Todger and Jack led in the front, holding ropes attached to either side of Camila’s sled. Ignacio and Stuart followed behind. When the group skied out of the glade at the bottom of the Northwoods, they parted a sea of tourists. Jack and Todger lifted Camila out of the sled and onto a stretcher. Ignacio followed them into the station, but Stuart stayed outside in the snow. He heard a radio crackle behind him. “Copy that. I’m sending the girls down on the lift now with Maggie. They’ll be there in about five. They’re happy to hear that she’s safe.” The walkie-talkie sputtered. Stuart turned around. “Damn, steward Stuart, how’d she fall? That was one hell of a first hour on the job.” The sight of Arthur reminded Stuart of how grown up he had felt half an hour ago when Arthur had invited him to his New Year’s party. He didn’t feel grown up now. “No, but seriously, that was great thinking on the fly. You know you’re never supposed to jump off a lift though, right?” Stuart tried not to break down.

“Not sure if I can do this for twenty years like Todger and Jack. This is crazy stuff.” His head was beginning to throb. “Yeah, but Stuart, look what you did, buddy. You’re made for this stuff.” “I let the guy lift the safety bar, and that’s why she fell,” Stuart confessed. “That’s not your fault, man. He’s allowed to do that if he wants. It’s his own risk, Stuart. You’re just there to help out when risk turns to reality, and that’s exactly what you did. You

alright?” “I smacked my head on my pole when I fell.” “Let’s go get you to the first aid bungalow. How’s that sound?” Arthur smiled. “Hey, Happy New Year, man.” “Ha, I forgot. Happy New Year to you, too, Art.”

three top jackson monroe digital photography

Ski Safari June Pyo Suh In the winter of 2012,

I attend boarding school in the U.S., I could only come back during breaks. Though we still regularly met up, we couldn’t find a time for everyone to get together and go on a ski trip. We outgrew the onesies, and my friends took their Sooneung while I took the SAT. I congratulated them for finally being done with the long period of preparation, but their replies were unexpectedly lukewarm. Many did not get the results they had hoped for. At the end of 2016, I went back home for winter break. We were soon

I witnessed a zebra skiing. Its white coat blended into the snow and its black stripes into other people’s black skiwear, but I wasn’t mistaken; it was a zebra riding on its two hind legs. A tiger, a panda, and a giraffe raced down behind the zebra as the ski patrol shouted at them to slow down. The ski slope had turned into a safari, and that spectacle inspired my eighth-grade mind. In the winter of 2013, my friends and I became pandas, penguins, and flying squirrels. Wearing animal onesies, we flew Warm sunlight welcomed us as down the slope with our arms spread out. we became flying squirrels, penThe flying squirrel’s guins, tigers, and pandas again. wing flap fluttered and the tiger’s tail flapped. Skiers going down the slope, people on turning seumeul, or twenty (In Korea, the lift, and the ski patrol following us age changes at the New Year), officially all made the same faces that we had legal to do anything: smoke, drink, made a year ago. We could feel the vote. Along with the newly gained rights, we were about to be freed from mountain’s attention. At that time, we didn’t know all teenage obligations since Korean that those animal onesies would students graduate in February, almost be used only once. As we became the same time as we would turn seumeul sophomores in 2014, my six friends in January. But freedom comes with who were studying in Korea had to responsibilities. My friends’ exam start preparing for Sooneung, South results did not match our grandiose Korean college entrance exams. Since ideas.

ski safari june pyo suh nonfiction

With mixed feelings, we went skiing, an activity we had planned for two years. On December 20th, we took an early morning bus to Gangwendo. By 9:30 a.m., we arrived at the ski resort. Warm sunlight welcomed us as we became flying squirrels, penguins, tigers, and pandas again. Everything was the same as three years ago: the slopes, the animals, and the reactions. As we waited for our turn to take the lift, we saw a party of four girls who appeared to be around our age. One squeaked, “Aww, they even have tails.” We smiled at each other. When we schussed down the slopes, patrols chased us to make us slow down. A man in his mid-twenties shouted from the lift above, “What the hell! Look at that flying squirrel.” This time, instead of slowing down, I spread my arms out and let the squirrel’s wing flap part flutter, and my friend flapped his tiger tail, kind of as a ceremony. Down at the bottom of the slope, a young girl nagged, “Daddy, I want that!” until the father came to us and asked us where we bought the onesies. These animal onesies still seemed to be doing their job, grabbing people’s attention like a magnet. The only

difference was that we had gotten a little bigger and so had our new animal onesies. Everything was the same as 2013, and we, too were back to our ninth grade minds. We tricked a less experienced friend to take the most difficult slope with us, and he ended up taking off his skis halfway down and walking. We made bets on who could go down the slope the fastest or who could go down backwards the best. Maybe these childish aspects had been with us all along but just forgotten until we got back together and became our true

selves. After a barbecue that night, we discussed when we would be able to get together for our next ski trip. No one was certain. Juwan half-smiled. “If I have to jaesu…” We knew getting together would be even harder in the future. I would be continuing my studies in the U.S., while my friends would enroll in Korean colleges or jaesu (Jaesu is studying for one more year to take the entrance exam again to get into a better college). As Koreans, we would all be doing two

years of military service, probably at different bases. My flying squirrel onesie would most likely have to stay in my drawer for at least a year or two or maybe even more than that. But when we do get together—when that time comes—I can simply take it out and let it get some fresh air. And this time, the onesie will still fit me.

afternoon yawn jameson rice digital photography

conquer jackson warmack mixed media | 34 x 12 x 15 in.

dinosaur walker antonio mixed media | 31 x 9 x 25 in.

gila monster chris oldham mixed media | 20.5 x 24.5 in.

A Cai-Yoat's Ballad Michael Warren

One cold November afternoon within a piney wood, there sat an unseen predator— a twist on Riding Hood. He sat up in his metal perch and waited for his prey. A wolf, or coyote, strolling by would surely make his day. The hunter hailed Red Riding Hood as loud as he could howl. His camouflage like grandma’s robes, he heard the coyote’s growl. The red dog trotted through the brush, her stalker still unseen until the coyote caught a glimpse of light—the sniper’s gleam. The hunter fired his magnum gun, the real bad wolf revealed. A flash, a bang, shocked Riding Hood; she bolted with a squeal. The big bad wolf descended from his lair up in the tree, but on the ground, he found no blood. Red Riding Hood ran free.

a cai-yoat's ballad michael warren poetry

buck david king ebony design pencil | 15 x 12 in.

Ripple Ward Bissell

In the distance,

the Rapidan River is split by stones where water rushes to escape the rapids. Opposite the current lies a placid portion of the river. A branch cracks and draws my attention away from the riverâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s slow advance towards the upcoming rapid. Gray, these wooden tree husks remind me of the upcoming gloom of the winter season: the everlasting snows, the rushed days, and the perpetual nights. Do I even want to be here? Away from my family? Away from a normal life? A trout breaks the riverâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s still water and snatches me away. I follow these ripples drifting downstream toward turbulent water. Surprisingly enough, I pick myself up, throw my headphones back on, and climb the hill to finish my run towards my own rapids.

ripple ward bissell nonfiction

lake placid beaver dam robert matz digital photography

Nevin hadn't eaten a home-cooked meal since his mom died when he was six.

sandpiper ethan barbour watercolor | 10 x 12 in.

The Scotch Bonnet Lee Cozart “ Hey, kid, you wanna see

something pretty gnarly?” asked the longhaired passerby. Startled, Nevin sat up straight on the park bench. “Yeah, sure.” The skinny man reached into his pocket and took out a seashell. “It’s a Scotch bonnet, man.” He smiled, revealing his white teeth. “It’s pretty rare, ya know.” Nevin’s mom had kept a beautiful Scotch bonnet on her dresser when he was a kid, and he loved to run his fingers over its smooth ridges. He hadn’t seen one since. The man continued smiling as he walked away from the beachfront. The sun was setting over Atlantic Beach, and the temperature dropped rapidly. Nevin sat back down on the park bench and waited for his father. His dad was a boat salesman in Morehead City, right across the bridge from where Nevin worked as a janitorial assistant at the local rec center. Nevin didn’t love the job, but it gave him something to do during the cold, dark winter months. He had his driver’s license, but he didn’t have enough money to buy a car, so his dad had to ferry him to and from The Circle every day. As Nevin waited, people passed by him on their way home from afternoon

walks on the beach. He never talked to these people, probably because they were bundled up in ski coats and toboggans to protect themselves from the bitter wind. Of course, he would nod if spoken to, but he was content with staring at the concrete and thinking about his future. He hoped to attend North Carolina State University and become a computer engineer, but with his subpar grades, he was afraid he would be a janitor forever, stuck in this quiet town. The thought made the wooden bench even more uncomfortable. A car pulled up. “Hey, bud. Get in. It’s cold,” said his dad. The car had its usual stench of cigarette smoke and leather seats. “How was work?” “Fine. Some guy showed me a Scotch bonnet today.” “Ah, yes. Like the one Mom had? Quite a shell.”’ Nevin thought his dad looked sort of goofy. He was tall and slender with a protruding gut and glasses. He could talk with anyone about anything. His dad held a Marlboro Red out the window. “Anyway, I was thinking about lasagna for dinner. I picked up this frozen kind that looks really tasty. It’ll be perfect for a crazy Friday night at the Harolds’ place.”

That’s what Nevin’s days usually consisted of: eight underwhelming hours of cleaning the rec center that ended with a frozen dinner. Nevin hadn’t eaten a home-cooked meal since his mom died when he was six. He was starting to forget her face, so he would look at old pictures and then visit her grave to keep their connection. His dad was too busy selling boats to learn how to cook, and honestly, Nevin would rather just play video games after a long day’s work. He had become one of the top players in the country at Galactic Reaper. Maybe he could be a professional video gamer if he didn’t get accepted to State. That would be decent money. “Okay, that sounds good,” said Nevin apathetically. The next day started out like any other for Nevin: wake up, eat two Pop Tarts, and ride to The Circle with his coffee-filled father. “Mornin’ Nevin,” said his boss, Sandra. The place was even more desolate and cold than outside. “Good morning, Miss Sandra. Where is everybody?” “The heater’s broken, so we’re closing down today while the electricians fix it. You can have the day off.” “Are you sure I can’t pick up some the scotch bonnett lee cozart fiction

overtime? I don’t mind the cold.” Nevin needed to pay for a plane ticket to Las Vegas next fall for the largest gaming expo in the country. Galactic Reaper: Detrix Risen was coming out, and he had a potential sponsor, ButtonBash Gaming. His father thought professional gaming was an addictive hobby, not a career. “No, honey, it’s fine. I’m just gonna close down and let the men do their work.”

walked on the beach in years. The only times he had gone were with his mom when he was very young, building sandcastles and looking for sand fiddlers. After leaving his New Balances behind a dune near the beach access, he roamed the line where the tide came in overnight, scanning the broken shells and sea glass. Nevin found all kinds of scallops and conchs and mussels, but no Scotch bonnets. He decided to check the line closer to the ocean, but Nevin found all kinds of scallops with no luck. With his chin tucked in his and conchs and mussels, but no coat collar and hands Scotch bonnets. in his pockets, Nevin continued his search Nevin was happy to get out of down the shore. Twenty minutes cleaning tile floors, but he had nothing passed, and the cold sea mist blowing else to do. His dad’s lunch break wasn’t off the waves started to irritate him. for another four hours, and Nevin never This is why I hate the beach, he thought. carried his wallet for a cab. Standing Nothing but a freezer in the winter and an oven out in the morning chill, he wished he in the summer. could just teleport back to his house A young boy skipped in and out and game all day, but that wasn’t going of the surf with a woman following to happen anytime soon. behind. “I found a shell! Look, I found Then, Nevin remembered the one!” His mom caught up and smiled. longhaired guy’s shell. The beach was Nevin remarked, “Great. Good for right next to him, so Nevin decided to you.” go search for his own Scotch bonnet The mom gave him a strange and kill some time. He hadn’t actually look from underneath her Patagonia

the scotch bonnett lee cozart fiction

toboggan and kept walking. The boy didn’t seem to mind; he started hunting for more shells. Nevin hadn’t tried to be rude, but the woman and the boy aggravated him for some reason. The breeze began to pick up. He turned around and began the thirty-minute walk back to The Circle. He imagined himself mashing the right trigger on the controller, vaporizing intergalactic scum with his plasma rifle and saving the galaxy from certain doom. The waves began to crash louder and more frequently. Small raindrops dripped on his Carhartt jacket. After thirty seconds, the drops turned to hail, so Nevin started on a light jog. The wind blew against him, making each step a struggle. He had to stop after about five minutes. He put his hands on his knees and tried to catch his breath. He didn’t think he was in bad shape, but the jog really winded him. Boom! Nevin jumped backwards. A bolt of lightning landed in the water just a couple hundred feet from him, and the smoke mixed with the falling sheets of rain to create a ghastly fog. Crack! Another bolt hit between him and the beach access. A hooded figure ran towards him.

“Let’s get out of here!” Nevin found his footing and ran alongside the person for ten minutes. First he thought it was a girl from the long hair, but the voice was deep. They finally got to the rec center’s back door and stopped. “I’m gonna pass out. I can’t feel my legs,” Nevin said between breaths. “It’s all good, man, we made it,” the person said without the slightest bit of tiredness. “Wait a minute, you’re the guy with the Scotch bonnet from a few days ago.” “Uh, yeah, I found one. Have we met before, dude? You kind of look familiar, but I meet a lot of people.” “Yeah, that was me. Do you still have that Scotch bonnet?”

“Yeah, man. ” He reached into his faded blue jeans. And there it was: the most pristine shell that Nevin had ever seen was cradled in the wet hands of this man. “This might sound weird, but I was actually looking for a Scotch bonnet on the beach. I couldn’t find one, though.” “Oh cool, man. This is a nice shell.” There was a pause as the hail kept pounding the metal roof above. “Do you want this one? I can always find another.” “I mean, yeah, sure. I would love it.” The man handed Nevin the shell, gave him a casual peace sign, and walked around the corner. Nevin felt the smooth ridges and curves. It was

extraordinary. On Sunday, Nevin and his dad went to Coral Bay Cemetery. It was a beautiful place even in the dreary winter months, with its skeleton trees and brown grass. His mother’s grave was next to this short, stubby tree that looked more like a large tumbleweed. Nevin kneeled down and placed the Scotch bonnet on the mossy gravestone. Melissa Turner Harold September 3, 1968-October 17, 2005 Forever with us

grandpa's bike lane michael deng digital photography

Guitar

My hands run smoothly up and down the aged wood, reaching over coils and strings. Together, yet solitary with my one item, my love, I make and create. Devoting my time to one singular entity, I reach my soft hands through my mind and onto paper. Familiar and safe. Our bodies lie parallel like an aging romanceâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; a fire within us. Music springs from my breast. We do our work, making dicing rhythms like knives on ice, sculpting sound. They take it in, but reject our gift. They detest it. They despise it. Complete in misery my mind and soul are in a state of total loss. Notes scrapped. Melodies lost. All for the sake of exterior approval. This is an adventure that can become exceptionally dangerous. You canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t please everyone, I discover. So the same knives turn inward and cut this time. Cunning and creativity vanish. The guitar is no longer natural or beautiful to me. Sleep deprived, I persist in my endeavors. The chords start to make blisters on my fingers, which quickly turn to blood. Eventually, I believe, their approval will come to me. They shall see. And yet, I miss the entire purpose of the craft, so I go through trial and error until I find a box of matches. The fire within us reverses, finding its way onto the grooves of the art. But this time, leaving only ashes.

Maxwell Barnes

guitar maxwell barnes poetry

Tabs or Taps? Michael Warren Her fingers pick the guitar strings, steel sings; she’s heard they play guitars, too, the Taliban. She hammers on the rosewood neck; it stings. He went to war but didn’t think to bring his dad’s compass to navigate the land. Her fingers pick the guitar strings; steel sings. He left, so to his memory she clings— his guitar and the diamond wedding band. She hammers on the rosewood neck; it stings. She plays a hymn her mother used to sing, one that was played by the funeral band. Her fingers pick the guitar strings; steel sings. He died for freedom when a little ring of bullets hit his jeep; he had been damned. She hammers on the rosewood neck; it sings. Red flowers on the black coffin, resting, look like the rosewood neck on his guitar. Her fingers pick the guitar strings, steel sings. She puts away the old guitar; it stings.

tabs or taps? michael warren poetry

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The Choirmaster Braxton Clark “So what about me?”

Wallace Hornady asked his boss James Litton on a train ride from Princeton to New York. “And that’s how I became the assistant music director at the American Boychoir.” Never mind that Hornady is a trained organist and a graduate of the Westminster Choir College in choral conducting. This Woodberry teacher has been featured in major news articles from The New Yorker to The Washington Post about his work with one of the world’s most prestigious institutions for the arts. But he wouldn’t be the one to tell you about it. Known as the “darling” of the classical music world, the American Boychoir is beloved by choir fans and composers alike. The choir has risen to elite recognition not only due to its precocious singers but also because of the skilled and caring direction of Litton and Hornady. They presided over the choir during its “golden years,” and they even earned commercial deals and soundtrack recordings for national television commercials and movies. Hornady started at the choir as a proctor, or in his words, a “glorified babysitter,” while he was in graduate school for choral studies. In reality, the job was strenuous, but Hornady

recounts his past with the humility of only taking care of people’s children, an old sage. He rose through the ranks which is most important, but you’re until he became the right-hand man conducting a world class choir. It took of Litton, the legendary head music a huge toll.” “Then Woodberry called. It had director. Litton decided to expand the operation into two choirs, and he was huge inertia and gravity. I could stroke deliberating who should take the place out this afternoon, and people would at the head of the second choir on that miss me for a while, but Woodberry train ride when Hornady spoke up. would not miss a beat without me.” Hornady’s choir traveled around Hornady originally came to Woodberthe world, touring in Japan, Poland, ry as a substitute teacher for the choir and France. In the only synagogue conductor, but he never left. preserved in Poland after World Before long, Hornady turned War II, he prepared a soloist for a into a cornerstone of the Woodberry performance at a fundraising concert community. Now he directs the choir with an Israeli conductor and a Polish orchestra. Hornady Hornady's choir traveled found himself thrust into the upper echelons of the music around the world, touring in world. He had spent time Japan, Poland, and France. with skilled conductors and musicians before, but now he and plays organ during chapel services. was expected to perform on their level. He mentors budding electronic artists “I always felt like a dwarf among and organists. Who else could teach giants. You really had to produce. It choir in the morning, discuss jazz was humbling,” he said. theory in a tutorial after lunch, and Exhausted with the pace of life compose hip-hop with students in as a choirmaster, Hornady decided the afternoon? On Monday evening, to find a less stressful job where he you might even find Hornady in St. could still do what he loved. “It felt Andrew’s Chapel leading 400 boys in like the entire operation was on your Gregorian chants. shoulders. If I didn’t make it happen as associate music director or artistic director, it didn’t happen. You’re not the choirmaster braxton clark nonfiction

Crafting a Masterpiece Luke McNabb

He strikes the first key. Pianissimo. The notes flow together like a gentle stream. Andante. His hands gracefully dance up and down the black and white keys. The artist prepares his brush and pallet. Chiaroscuro. Straight smooth lines of red run down the white canvas. Allegro. Like a river abruptly forming into rapids, the song turns violent. Forte. His hands canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t keep up. The tempo feels off as notes clash.

crafting a masterpiece luke mcnabb poetry

Paint clumps together to form peaks at the bottom of the canvas. Alla prima. The artist slashes violently, no longer in straight lines but with dark mayhem. The musician bows. The artist stands back. The masterpiece ruined.

Inspired by Untitled by Larry Poons

sunshine wyant wharton mixed media | 16 x 20 in.

milestone of heaven jang woo park digital photography

Change of Plans Spencer Dearborn Katy Perry shook him awake.

You make me feel like I’m living a teen— Without looking, Bon grabbed at his phone, knocking over a lamp and a box of tissues in the process. He knew Michael had texted by the ringtone. Wanna come over and watch the game? Bon took a deep breath, then contemplated releasing it. How many people are there? Just a few. A futile search for viable excuses— those that wouldn’t make him look like a complete ass—forced his hand. Ok. Be there soon. From the murky depths of his inner being, Bon released a groan into his pillow that would impress a hippopotamus. He rolled off his bed, hoping to land on the bedding he’d thrown down. Instead, he hit the hardwood with a thud. Sometime later, after putting on some pants, applying a hefty dose of deodorant, and contemplating more excuses not to leave, he started his car. It smelled vaguely of old pizza and wings. The route to Michael’s house had become so entrenched in the recesses of his mind that he had sometimes mistakenly wound up there after daydreaming at the steering wheel. Right, left at the light, right after the

zoo, the white house on the corner of the third block down. As Bon searched for a parking spot, he noticed the abnormally large number of cars hugging the curb. He had been deceived; there were many more people here than he had been told. Bon sat defeated in the pounding rain. A lightning bolt cracked through the sky. The booming jumpstarted him, and he decided that after making it this far, he should at least go into Michael’s house. He inhaled and exhaled, pumping himself up to cross the street. The door opened to a sea of teenagers and the sound of loud rap music. Michael stood in the doorway. “Hey, you made it!” “Yep.” Bon stepped inside, “Do you have a towel I can borrow?” Each person standing in Michael’s house was unfamiliar to Bon, some by choice and some not. “Yeah, but I want you to meet some people first.” “I’m good; towel, please.” “Not an option; you’re going to meet a girl. She’s really nice, and I think you’ll like her.” “Really nice?” Bon knew that calling a girl nice was like calling a race car eco-friendly. “Anything else?”

Michael shrugged. “Well, uh, she’s alright. I just want you to meet her.” “Whatever. Where is she?” Bon was done fighting. Michael yelled into a mob of teenagers, “Hey, Rachel! This is that guy I told you about!” A girl turned her head and stumbled towards them. In avoiding one group of people, she nearly fell into a lamp. “Hey...” She hung on the word for a few seconds. “It’s, it’s awesome to meet you.” She held out a limp hand, which Bon assumed was meant to be shaken. “Hey, I’m Bon. It’s nice to meet you.” The three just stood—or swayed— there for a few seconds. Bon nodded awkwardly, then broke eye contact to look around the room. He could not find much of note besides other people making fools of themselves. He looked over his shoulder as if something had caught his attention, but he was just filling time. “Did you know that his full name is Bonjovi?” Bon shot Michael a look: Did you have to say that? Michael shot back: What else did you want me to do? “I love Bon Jovi. Is Jovi, like, your change of plans spencer dearborn fiction

middle name?” She was way too interested. “Nope.” Bon had answered that question many times before. “Bonjovi is my whole first name.” He shoved his fists into his pockets and shrugged. “Crazy stuff,” she said, hypnotized, swaying back and forth. “Yep.” Bon nodded his head. Silence ensued despite the blaring music. “So, Bon, let’s go get you a towel.” Michael saved the day again. “Good to meet you, Rachel.” The friends walked through a few groups of people, down the hall, and up the stairs. “A-minus for effort,” Michael teased Bon. “Why didn’t you tell me there’d be so many people here?” “Because if I had, you wouldn’t have come.” “Exactly! You know I don’t like these kinds of things. I just wanted to watch the Nets-Mavs game.” “First: that sounds like a terrible game. Second: you really need to start meeting people. Work on your game.” “I’ve got game.” Bon laughed at his own joke. “Good one. Are you asexual?” “What?” “It’s a serious question! Have you ever

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touched a girl?” “Well,” Bon stammered, “I just get, like—” “Shut up,” Michael interrupted. “Did you hear that?” “What, your loud-ass trap music?” “No, not that. I think I heard glass breaking. I’ll go check it out.” “What about my towel?” Bon followed Michael back downstairs. “Oh, damn!” Michael considered the grizzly sight at the bottom of the stairs. “What happened?” Someone in the crowd yelled, “She tried to follow y’all up the stairs, then just…ate it!” He pointed to blood on the stairs, a bright crimson trail leading to the puddle beneath Rachel’s head.

lance?” Bon suggested. “That’s a terrible idea. We can’t let this be traced back to us. We would all be screwed. We’ll need to carry her to my mom’s car.” Michael had a plan for everything. Bon glared at Michael. “No! I don’t want to be involved with this. I didn’t even want to come here.” “Just listen. If the plan goes wrong, then I’ll take the fall. But I can’t do this alone. I just want you to grab her under the shoulders. I’ll get the feet. We’ll carry her out to the car.” Bon shook his head disapprovingly but heeded Michael’s command. Holding her, they shuffled down the hall through chatting teens and went out the front door. “Just wait here. I gotta go pull her car out of the gaSomeone in the crowd yelled, rage. It’ll just take a second.” “She tried to follow y'all up Michael dropped Rachel’s legs and sprinted into the the stairs, then just...ate it.” house to get the keys. Bon stood in disbelief Everyone just stared for a few on Michael’s front porch; he had seconds as Michael bent down. “She’s no choice but to wait, so he did. As breathing!” A collective sigh resonated inconspicuously as possible, he held through the crowd, which immediately her body up by the torso, waiting dispersed. “Wait, y’all! What are we restlessly for Michael’s garage to open. supposed to do?” Just then, a man and his dog “How about you call an ambu- passed by on the sidewalk.

“Hi,” Bon nodded casually, unable to free a hand to wave. The man looked down at the body and then back at Bon before nodding and moving on. The garage sputtered into motion, revealing the powder blue Honda Odyssey. “Hey!” Michael yelled, as the van’s automatic sliding door pulled itself open. Bon slung the girl over his shoulder and hurled her into the backseat before diving in. Michael immediately hit the gas, leaving no time for Bon to get comfortable. He just lay in the backseat, laughing as Michael sped away from the scene. “I think I just saw your neighbor.” “The guy with the dog? He’s chill,

I think.” “Shoot, she got some blood on the seat.” Bon licked his thumb and tried to scrub the blotch away. “Don’t think that’s coming out.” “Well, then, I’ll try to hit it with the Oxi-clean.” Michael laughed nervously. “Her house is just around the corner, so get ready.” “Wait, what’s happening?” “When we get to her house, you’re going to set her at her door, ring the doorbell, and run back to the van.” “What if they don’t answer?” “Don’t worry about it,” Michael assured him. “Jesus Christ,” Bon whispered under his breath as he set the girl on his lap. “Here we go.” Michael pointed out

the house up ahead. “I’m pretty sure it’s that yellow one.” Bon slid the door open in preparation as the car screeched to a halt in front of a canary-colored house. He jumped out and sprinted to the front door with Rachel hanging over his shoulder. Carefully, he laid her, now stirring, on the welcome mat before clicking the doorbell and running away. She didn’t look that bad. He dove headfirst into the car. “Let’s get out of here.” The car sprung forward, and the house door opened as they made the first right turn.

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The Gamble Hank Feng

Heads or tails? The coin taunts me as it spins off into the air. My darkest fears wax as I seek the first sign of the crescent. A canoe sails through the realm of stars, sending calm ripples as my lost soul steps aboard. The Yin cannot breathe without the Yang. Unity lasts only for a wink. The Yang cannot prevail without the Yin. I gaze into the night sky of the Mid-Autumn Festival. Snickers of the old gods thunder; they summon the eclipse through rays of twilight. With an eager stroke, the coin lands. The bitter taste of fate explodes on my palm.

the gamble hank feng poetry

daydream in black kj pankratz mixed media| 72 x 168 in.

Phobia Blythe Brewster A sea of people stretches

in all directions. Clean people. Tall people. Tiny people. People in suits and people in tank tops. I catch a glimpse of a skull tattoo before its owner is swept away. My suitcase handle digs into my fingers as the crowds of Penn Station press around me. My heart thumps as I make my way to the edge of the mass of humanity, staying under a bright light and within sight of the security desk. My phone dings: So excited! Counting down the minutes! the blue bubble reads. I grin. Me too! Waiting for my train, I tap out, adding a smile at the end. I shove my phone into my pocket and push off the wall. A man with biceps as thick as my head stands a few yards in front of me. The eye sockets of a skull peep out from the neckline of his shirt. One seems to wink at me. I avert my eyes and put a hand on my phone. A family is walking by, a baby safely nestled in its stroller. I jump in behind and follow them through the crowd. The man disappears. The family winds their way through the masses, and I scurry along in the wake of the stroller. Luckily enough, they head to my platform. I sit down across from them in the waiting area.

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The mother pulls the stroller closer to her, and the father rests a hand on her shoulder. I draw my knees up to my chin and let my hair hang over my face. But the pair does not move. They try to make themselves as small as possible in the uncomfortable cloth chairs. From beneath my shield of hair, I keep an eye out. People mill past. Suddenly, an all too familiar figure emerges. Tattoos ripple on his biceps. I drop my eyes. This time, however, he doesn’t seem to notice me. He walks right by and over to the couple, standing in front of The air seems to get thicker them until they look up. “You blow something up?” around me. The woman pulls gonnaThe woman blinks up at her black hijab over her ears him. Her husband stares, then and crosses her arms, keep- mutely shakes his head. “Okay, but I’m keepin’ an ing her head in the shadows. eye on you.” He turns away and winks at me. I narrow my eyes and stare back. her companion’s, is covered by maps. Worry lines mark every step of their He doesn’t scare me. He doesn’t. He journey. The man’s beard is neatly sits down across from the couple, but trimmed, and he strokes it now, fingers he has barely touched the seat when— fidgeting. Their clothes are clean. The with a hiss of steam and a screech couple sits down near me, keeping of metal—our train pulls up to the close to each other, their heads down. platform. The grill on the front leers at me as it chugs along. I shudder. Black They carry no bags. The young family, once glowing windows, like a row of sightless eyes, with life and happiness, begins to dim. hide the interior from view. My phone dings again. Mom. Everything OK? I watch the family for a few seconds. The mother feeds the baby using a baby food pouch while the father tries to make the kid laugh by pulling funny faces behind the mother’s shoulder. Yep. At least, now it is. Then, the crowd parts and a man and a woman emerge. The air seems to get thicker around me. The woman pulls her black hijab over her ears and crosses her arms, keeping her head in the shadows. Her face, like

Then the train grinds to a halt, and a man emerges. “All aboard!” he calls cheerfully. The family boards first. The conductor smiles and helps with the stroller, waving at the chubby baby. The tattooed man dwarfs the conductor, who gives him a shaky smile and wordlessly stamps his ticket. When the Muslim pair approaches the steps, the conductor frowns. He holds his arm out for their tickets as if he were

holding a dead rat away from him. But he lets them board. I am the last to climb on. I hand my ticket to the conductor, and he waves me through with a smile. White. Teenager. Girl. I am not a threat. I move into the train car and set my purse between my feet, claiming the farthest seat possible from the man with the skull tattoo. And the train pulls out. A voice crackles overhead, “Next

stop, Boston, North Station.” It is too late to run away now. We are trapped together in the belly of this monster: a family who will never be feared, a man who relishes fear, a couple who cannot help but be feared, and me, a girl who will never know a world without fear.

Inspired by Sayed by Shirin Neshat pistol woman d'angelo davis pencil | 11.5 x 10 in.

boredom hank feng acrylic & ink | 16 x 20 in.

Deep Pockets Andrew Jacobs

Masked by dark windows, they pull up to glares of suspicion, tension. The town is on the market; deep pockets are on the prowl. Resist not, for money reigns king. Hearts can only watch. Material lust will have its way. Families are reduced to numbers; Raflo Park will be forgotten. Homes will be stores; Catoctin Gardens, concrete. Deep pockets have no regard for emotion; individuality must make way. Such things are mere obstacles to the dogmas of profit and market.

deep pockets andrew jacobs poetry

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E Pluribus Unum Blythe Brewster We tumble, soaring through endless space. There is something at the bottom: something unknown yet so terrible. We know we canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t fall down. We spiral, bob and dip in a dance of death as we hurtle through space, not a falling star but a felled star. The wind rushes in our ears as we plunge down. We all scream too loud to hear. Everyone wants one thing, but no one wants the same thing, so we dig ourselves into a hole and drop down. Fractured, we break. We should open doors, but instead, we build walls, and we canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t go anywhere but down.

e pluribus unum blythe brewster poetry

skyward bound tilden winston digital photography

underneath jackson warmack mixed media| 24 x 18 in.

meat factory chris oldham ebony design pencil & charcoal | 16 x 12 in.

Zombie Students Jackson Monroe

Every day bleeds gray. No change, nothing extraordinary, just a routine, rinse and repeat, groaning and moaning over and over again. Every day screams stressful. You read and eat the brains of past historians only to regurgitate them later, no time for yourself, just people looking over your shoulder, correcting your every mistake. They tear off pieces while you slowly rot away, expecting you to keep walking. The beautiful gray of dawn rises, giving way to another emotionless shuffle, but the survivors strive if they still have guts to find a cure to the disease of routine.

zombie students jackson monroe poetry

the climber reece tilgner charcoal | 20 x 16 in.

niche chris oldham collage & acrylic | 20 x 14 in.

Family Friends Ashby Shores I stashed my borrowed

bike in the bushes at the hill’s bottom and crept up the gravel pathway to the house. No lights were on—everyone asleep. Perfect. My feet slunk up the steps, avoiding the noisy second and fifth ones. The door was unlocked, so I cracked it open and slipped in. The top of the stairs led into one hallway with the kids on the left and the parents on the right. I heard Faith laughing and talking to somebody—probably on FaceTime. I gently opened Davy’s door and lifted a plastic bag with beer and cigarettes. “Hey man, I got the stuff.” Davy wasn’t in his room. On our vacation, we had made it a ritual to sneak down to the beach, drinking and smoking every night. We took turns biking to the little drug store in town about a mile away. Neither of us was eighteen yet, but this was rural Mexico. Nobody cared. I reached for my phone: Where you at? The response came after a few minutes: Chill there. Back in a sec. The moon shone beautifully through the window. Below the cliff, the ocean and beach radiated with a pale glow. It was our last night in Mexico, and we had to be on the road by noon the next day to catch our five o’clock

flight. We were spending Thanksgiving in some tiny town on the Gulf of Mexico, which had a name I couldn’t pronounce. Our moms had organized the trip with maximum efficiency. Davy and I spent one day traveling from Jackson Prep, our boarding school in the foothills of Tennessee, to our hometown Atlanta, to Cancun, from which we had a three-hour drive until we arrived at our villa. Plain and simple, it was hell. Of course, Davy was his usual jovial self the entire time. When the alarm clock rang at five o’clock, he jumped right out of bed. On the shuttle to the airport, he told the guys the story of his latest tryst. With grotesque detail, he recounted the events of the previous weekend. Gentlemanly. I’d had my fill of obscene Davy stories. Now, in our senior fall, we were both looking at colleges. I was a hometown boy and wanted to go to Georgia Tech, but Davy aimed higher. While not always a straight-A student, he was an outstanding baseball player. Not your run-of-the-mill high school star, but a real hero. Our baseball team led the state, and he was captain. Coaches from places like Virginia and Vanderbilt were appearing. He didn’t mind the attention from the coaches, and perhaps

more importantly, the ladies. The alarm clock’s red glow reminded me that five minutes had passed since he had texted me. Lonely and looking for some companionship, I decided to go ask Faith if she wanted to join us tonight. She was a year younger and my only sibling. Shy and naïve were the only words to describe her. A latebloomer, she never got much attention from guys until ninth grade. She had no idea what to do with her new popularity and didn’t enjoy it. She was kind of a nerd I guess. So, she shunned the guys after a few months and went back to her normal life. Faith was generally forthcoming about all her life’s affairs, even if we did fight a lot and disagreed occasionally. In ninth grade, she had been caught smoking pot by a teacher and told me before she told our parents. When her boyfriend cheated on her, she entrusted me with her broken heart. Because of her trust, I had always tried to be the perfect older brother. Whenever my friends made crude jokes about her, I shut them up immediately. I guess she thought I was slightly overprotective, and our relationship had strained because of that. Nonetheless, I was determined to become closer to her before I left for college. Bringing her down tofamily friends ashby shores fiction

night to have some fun was the perfect way to do that. They were standing beside the bed kissing. Not an innocent peck, but the kiss of lovers. Moonlight shimmered in from the open window and created a silver silhouette around them. My eyes bounced from her brushed back hair to the blankets tossed around the bed to Davy’s hand lingering on her hip. Had it been two other people, not my best friend and my sister, the scene would have been quite picturesque. It was perfect for the cover of an airport romance novel. A cool Mexican breeze picked up. Their bodies peeled away as if they were one person being split in half. “Hey Rob.” Davy’s face looked as stoic as it was that time Lily MacGibbons chewed him out in front of the whole school at formal. “Are we going down to the beach soon?” I became a bloodthirsty berserker. In European History, we had learned about these ancient Norse warriors. Before going into battle, they detached from their bodies, going into a trancelike state. I could see and hear, but I couldn’t feel. “What the hell?” Left and right, my fists came down on his stomach and face. My sister stood in the corner, her hands covering

family friends ashby shores fiction

her eyes like a young kid hiding from the scary part of the movie. A bit of me really wanted to stop. As blood began to trickle out of his nose, I realized he wasn’t fighting back.

his shoulder. “Rob, Davy’s my boyfriend. We’ve been dating for three months. We were going to tell you, but…” Her voice trailed off at the end. “But what?” I said. Davy trembled. “I was Their bodies peeled away as if they scared. I’m not exactly the kind were one person being split in half. of guy you want to date your little “What the hell is going on in here?” sister. I knew you’d hate me for this.” My father pulled me off Davy with litMy dad’s thundering voice shook tle struggle. After all, he was a former the room. “You three stay here and marine who played linebacker in col- talk this over. Davy, I’m waking your lege. mother.” “He’s a traitor.” The battle was over, but the war The blood looked like red snot run- had just begun. Davy’s mom was a tining from Davy's nose. tan when it came to punishment. The “What’d he do, Rob?” My father moonlight cast a sickening glow over studied me like I was some sort of bar- the dried blood on Davy’s face. The barian. breeze died down, and we could all “What do you think? He’s in here hear the distant waves crashing into in the middle of the night with his arm the beach. Nobody said anything. Davy around Faith!” I waited for him to join flicked on the radio, and an old mariame in rage. chi band came on. “Davy, we had this talk back home After a few minutes, I got up and in Atlanta after the last time this hap- left. Too much drama. I don’t know pened—” what Davy’s mom said, but she put the “What do you mean, ‘after last fear of the Lord in him. time?’ You knew about this?” The car ride the next day was awkFaith walked back over to Davy, ward. Faith sat between Davy and me. reaching up and slinging her arm over Luckily, I nodded off pretty quickly, but

when the car hit a pothole on the Mexican road, I awoke to see Faith sleeping on Davy’s shoulder. On the shuttle back to school, Davy sat next to Digby, and I sat next to Jones. “How was Mexico, bro?” I overheard Digby say. “It was a good time,” Davy said. “How were the babes?” “I don’t really want to talk about it.” It was too diplomatic an answer for the usual Davy. Back at school, I tried the silent treatment. Save the various grunts and cuss words required of roommates, we didn’t speak for four days. While he played basketball with all our friends, I

hid in our room. When he came back, I went to study. On the fourth night, he trapped me in our room after lights out. Well, he didn’t trap me. I could’ve left immediately after he said, “We need to talk,” but I wanted my best friend back. “Look, man. I actually like her. You know I didn’t do this to hurt you.” “Save the tears, man. I don’t want to hear it.” “I’ll make it up to you. Let’s go behind the chapel. Remember how we used to sneak out freshman year?” With the moon and stars gleaming at our backs, we crept down the rusty fire escape from our dorm to the chapel. He pulled a pack of Camels from

his coat-pocket and tore off the seal. Cigarette in mouth, he brought his Zippo to his tip and inhaled. He passed it to me and I mimicked him. Smoke rose in thin wisps, knotting in the brisk lateautumn air. Standing there, bored and shivering, we turned our conversation to the things we knew best. Between puffs we talked about the Falcons, our class, and dreams. After a few minutes, when the butts had been ashed to the filters, we threw them into the bushes. Climbing back up the fire escape, we didn’t speak. No words were needed.

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The Old Mauser Garrett Venable The Mauser, which hangs

on the wall in my room, has an important story to tell. The dark wooden stock of my great-grandpa Dub’s old German-made K-98 Mauser rifle bears the scars of the past. An indentation in the wood just above the trigger makes room for the turn-down bolt. The long, dark, grey barrel is as well-oiled as it is worn. Cosmoline, a waxy grease that defends against rust, lurks in the recesses of the clip. The K-98 action, a reliable and iconic bolt design for antique gun collectors, is a little wobbly but still holds strong. Master Sergeant Dub, my greatgrandfather, was a flight mechanic with the XIX Tactical Squadron of the Army Air Corps, which worked closely with Patton’s Third Army Division during World War II. While deployed in France, Dub came across a pile of Mausers, the workhorse of the German military, that had been confiscated by Allied troops. Determined to come home with a war prize, Dub fired each gun until he found the most accurate, and then shipped it back to North Carolina. Maybe some of the old gun’s first scars came from being dropped by a fallen German soldier, being thrown in the pile, or being nicked by a careless sailer on the way back home.

the old mauser garrett venable nonfiction

Though the gun has plenty of notches from the battlefields of France, its biggest disfigurement occurred in the United States. Dub’s brother, Harold, had loaned the gun to a friend who sporterized the Mauser—essentially cutting off half of the stock—without asking. When Harold returned for the cherished gun, he was outraged by the unapproved modification and proceeded to beat his friend within an inch of his life. In the end, Harold rescued the gun and returned it to Dub, but it was never the same. When Dub died, he gave the gun to my grandfather, who introduced it to me when I was around five or six years old. Grandpa loved to teach me history, especially the stories behind his dad’s

importance of this heirloom. When I was ten, my grandpa, father, and I, determined to restore the Mauser’s authenticity by replacing the sporterized stock with a fulllength original, searched for months and finally found one at a gunshow in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. Upon returning home we found that the stock didn’t fit, and after an hour of dremeling it down, we had to surrender our efforts. It wasn’t meant to be. A few notches on the old stock are evidence of our story. My grandfather taught me how to handle the gun. By the time I was a teenager, I could break down and clean it, lock and unlock the bolt, and shoot it without dry firing. Through my care for the Mauser, I learned “Take care of it,” he told me. In how my great-grandfather that moment, I truly appreciated handed down his respect the importance of this heirloom. for family. Now, it’s my turn to take part. If I have a son, I’ll pass the gun on old gun. He told me about everything to him along with all the stories it tells. from Uncle Harold’s fiery temper to To some, the Mauser looks beaten up, how the Springfield Armory’s classic but to my family, it symbolizes our twentieth century service rifle was a history. The scratches in the wood and copy of the Mauser’s K-98 design. the dings in the metal tell the story. “Take care of it,” he told me. In that moment, I truly appreciated the

star hank feng chalk pastel | 10 x 12 in.

The Wooden Warrior Freddie Woltz At Momaw’s house on

Moss Farm Road, the swing swung, and on it my grandfather and I would sit. Suspended under that large oak tree, we exchanged war stories. Stories of sports and games. Stories of struggle, whether real or virtual. Popaw told me stories of the Navy, and I explained to him the complexities of video game combat. I told him all about the ESRB rating system, and he explained to me all about the ranks in the military. I told him of new games that I wanted to get, and he explained to me things he wished he had changed. On some days, the light of the sun trickled through the cracks between the large green leaves onto us below, bringing our stories to life. When a summer storm would meander in from the horizon, Popaw and I would meander to the swing to watch it. The wind would rustle the leaves above our heads and shake the limbs of the tree, but we dared not move, for we feared the breaking of the moment. There on that swing we sat, watching nature’s show. On other days, Popaw and I would journey to the swing and sing. We always

the wooden warrior freddie woltz nonfiction

sang the same song: “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.” Our very different voices bellowed the well worn lyrics in rhythm with the movement of the swing, a perfect metronome. After a long day of fishing down by the pond, Popaw and I would collapse onto the old, rickety swing that cast us out and brought us back like a net. A perfect ribbon being wrapped up on the day. That time I tried to dig a hole underneath the tree, the swing was there: a barrier, keeping me from my goal. When my grandfather died, we all returned from the funeral back to the house where in its usual spot, the swing stood still. The swing’s paint slowly faded. Reds. Greens. Blues. Bare wood. An eternal improvement project. It broke once when I hit it on my mini-bike. Right then and there, I learned the importance of turning. Bike and body flew right into the side of the swing, breaking off the arm rest. Nature tried to harm the swing, too. Limbs cascaded down like mortar rounds being fired on an enemy base, but the swing stood, a warrior in its own right.

ohio clay tydings digital photography

Night Watch Tiger Wu

I wander in the darkness every night, not knowing what’s to come nor where to go, and like a ghost, I observe what’s in the light. Along the path I walk, no creatures thrive except the evil stalkers, howling low. I wander in the darkness every night. No sound nor movement can escape my sight– the dimmest ray of light, a shadow’s flow. For I, the ghost, observe what’s in the light. I see dogs fight, and beggars starve and die, their corpses slowly eaten by black crows. I wander in the darkness every night. Above me, candle lights are burning bright, and slender silhouettes do vaguely show. I, like a ghost, observe what’s in the light. For I’m the secret guardian of the light– the phantom watch, a myth that never shows. I wander in the darkness every night, and like a ghost, I observe what’s in the light.

night watch tiger wu poetry

light vs. dark jameson rice digital photography

scarlet roof michael deng digital photography

That Dim Elevator Kyle Kauffman

And finally it was just the two of us in that dim elevator: your finger playfully extended toward the lobby button and I admiring your mirrored reflection from the far corner. We were so close. We both wanted the doors to close, but you couldn’t reach it, and I was too much of an idiot not to slam that glowing L for you, for us.

Did I ever tell you? (I’m pretty awful.) In those last few moments before the light fell upon us, you were awfully pretty. The floorboards cried as I shuffled out of that dim elevator and bade you a good night at your door.

So we both shuffled out, my cheeks certainly red, for all I could think about was kissing you in that fancy hotel elevator until we would arrive to the champagne-chandelier lobby, the cigar gentlemen and their billiards, the ladies spinning in plumed dresses, everyone too entranced by the echoing piano chords of Tchaikovsky’s Méditation No. 5 to watch us run hand in hand out the front doors, down the veranda steps, into the pinstripe meadow where we’d lie in a cold sand trap and watch the moonlight never quite fade to dawn— our final goodbye trapped in amber light.

that dim elevator kyle kauffman poetry

Welcome to the Club Rhew Deigl

Up there on the hill, hidden behind the shrubs, around the bend and off the interstate, Sam is waiting for you. Smudging the One Great City, striking fear, a maze where neither time nor money exist. Sam doesn’t trifle with things like your budget.

You’re blessed with time in the bowels of the beast. Simple calm racking up a cart, hundreds of dollars of bulk. Together, we can cheat the government and have new toothbrushes for a decade. But tax evasion is the least of your worries.

At the entrance below the blue and green sign, the jumbo carts are ready for you. Only the squeaky ones, though. Continue past the flat screens, past the food court serving parfaits and greasy food to greasy people.

You leave with tired arms, tired legs, tired eyes. Your spirit is broken, but your hopes are high because maybe you can eat right for once. But pulling away from the Club, the air conditioning mixes pizza rolls and asphalt, and you know serving sizes will be broken.

Find yourself lost in the chef ’s goldmine, and you’re drowning in mayonnaise, Vanity Fair napkins, and paper bags. Hundreds of bags. Try to escape the towering aisles with only what’s on the list. They dare you, and they test you. You simply can’t resist this or that.

welcome to the club rhew deigl fiction

Firewatch Tower

Yellowstone National Park, 1988

Trevor Barker

police hank feng acrylic | 21 x 16 in.

May 2017 Dear Readers, In the fall 2016 issue, we challenged you to step back and look at the world from a distance to confront the tensions that have pulled us in different directions. We asked you to express what you saw, and your submissions and published works in the spring 2017 issue make it clear that you listened to us. We introduce the theme of introspection on the cover with a reflected image of Tiger Wu’s oil painting, a self-portrait of thought. Wu uses warm colors with hints of pink to exaggerate the tensions that may lie beneath a calm surface. In the title page art, “The Nightingales,” Chris Oldham watches himself in the simple act of tying his shoes. Our self-reflection on community does not stop there. In the poem “E Pluribus Unum,” Blythe Brewster raises issues about our restless political climate, while in the poem “Replay,” Max Johns addresses repeating cycles of racial violence. Andrew Jacobs in “Deep Pockets” comments on materialism and capitalism. The pairing of Rhew Deigl’s poem “Welcome to the Club” and Hank Feng’s acrylic “Police” plays on satire and dark humor to illuminate problematic societal norms. Griffin McDaniel’s rant “Is God Really Dead?” draws religion into our public discourse. Our authors and artists also looked within. Ward Bissell’s reflection “Ripple” describes pushing through everyday struggles. June Pyo Suh’s memoir “Ski Safari” and Hayes Jiranek’s sonnet “Growing Pains” tell coming of age stories. Authors used symbols such as a Scotch bonnet shell on a Carolina beach, an old Mauser hanging on a wall, and a swing under an oak tree to uncover the details of family history. As we designed this magazine, we took a step back and reflected as well. Our authors and artists explored the idea of cycles in life and society. The folios are now in circle form to complement their work. To focus on each artist’s intent, our designers used banners to suggest a gallery format. Our voices have been heard. Keep expressing tensions through creative means, and you will be heard. Last time we challenged you to step back and watch. Now, what will you do about what you see? Sincerely, The Talon Editors

greed james henckel von donnersmarck acrylic | 18 x 14 in.

flock ethan barbour chalk pastel & acrylic | 18 x 10 in.

alien james henckel von donnersmarck acrylic | 24 x 18 in.

Editors

Editor-in-chief Jackson Monroe Art Chris Oldham Photography Trip Hurley Poetry Max Johns Prose Kyle Kauffman Junior Editor Ashby Shores

Review Boards Art

Poetry

Lee Caffey Maxwell Barnes Hayes Jiranek Hayes Jiranek Greg Manning Josh Kearns Charles Moorman Clayton Noyes KJ Pankratz Philip Williams Philip Williams Andrew Jacobs Hank Feng Scott Pittman Reece Tilgner Jackson Sompayrac Walker Antonio Gus Perdue Carson Becker Blythe Brewster Jackson Warmack James Henckel von Donnersmarck

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

Prose

Charles Hargrove Tae Min Kim Richmond McDaniel June Pyo Suh Ward Bissell Spencer Dearborn Andrew Jacobs William McAdams Jang Woo Park Rhew Deigl

Faculty Advisors Karen & Rich Broaddus

voodoo trip hurley marker | 18 x 18 in.

Colophon The word which you see on the cover is the product of the creative genius of the staff, and, with the exception of identical spelling and pronunciation, has no connection with any word in the English or any other language. In plain Woodberrian it has one meaning only â&#x20AC;&#x201D;the literary magazine of your school. Frank Davenport, Jr. 1949 Editor-in-chief

The Talon is the semi-annual literary arts publication of Woodberry Forest School. First published in 1949, this is the 2nd edition of the 68th volume. Since its founding, The Talon has been the primary outlet for publishing creative writing and art at the school. Over the years, the magazine has grown to include color photography. There have also been changes in size and format. The editors are dedicated to experimenting with style while maintaining traditional literary roots. The Talon editors encourage submissions from all members of the Woodberry Forest community. Works are selected through blind review by

student boards with expertise in the fields of art, prose, poetry, and photography. All opinions expressed within this magazine are the intellectual property of the authors and artists and do not represent the views of Woodberry Forest School. The design and editing of The Talon take place both during the academic day and outside of it. The current editors and the faculty advisors select new editors from the review boards and from the student body. Authors and artists can apply for review board membership at the end of each academic year. Jackson Monroe, Trip Hurley, and

Kyle Kauffman designed the spreads in the spring magazine. The editors of The Talon would like to thank Kelly Lonergan for his help with art review. This issue of The Talon was created on Intel-based iMacs using Adobe CS5. Titles are set in Jaapokki; text and art credits are set in Baskerville. McClung Companies in Waynesboro, Virginia prints 950 perfect-bound copies that the editorial staff distributes to the community in December and May of each academic year. The Talon is a member of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association and the National Scholastic Press Association.

The Talon

Spring 2017

The Talon, Spring 2017 Woodberry Forest School Woodberry Forest, VA 22989 www.woodberry.org/talon

Vol. 68, No. 2