The Talon Fall 2014 by Woodberry Forest School

The Talon

The Talon, Fall 2014 Woodberry Forest School Woodberry Forest, VA 22989 www.woodberry.org / talon

Fall 2014 Vol. 66, No. 1

The Talon Fall 2014 Woodberry Forest School Volume 66, Number 1

Editors

Design Editors Adrian Cheung & Rob Prater Art & Photography Rob Prater Poetry Editors Alec Campbell & Andrew Harris Prose Editors Brad Harris & David Willis Junior Editor Chris Oldham Faculty Advisor Karen Broaddus Technical Advisor Rich Broaddus

Staff

Prose Review Petey DuBose, Hardin Lucas, Jack Eades, CJ Dunne, Reid James, Jack Sari, Caleb Rogers, Win Sompayrac, Brian Cho, Roy Tosten, Richmond McDaniel, Bennett Parks Poetry Review Christian Zaytoun, Will Harris, Nolan Day, Edward Miller, Caleb Rogers, Jared Thalwitz, Graham Goldstein, Evan Backer, John Pittman, Robert Willis, Ben Lytle, Rocco Zaytoun, Josh Kearns Art Review Petey DuBose, Nolan Day, Bennett Setzer, Ryan Kim, Will Harris, HT Minor, Wyatt Alexander, Spencer Andrews, Andrew Holmes, David Gussler, Jimmy King, Jordan Silberman, Tiger Wu, Lee Caffey, KJ Pankratz Photography Review Christian Zaytoun, Samuel Dibble, Daniel Japhet, David Yoo, David Gussler, Jimmy King, Ben Hoskins, Jordan Silberman, Richard Cirillo, Roy Toston, KJ Pankratz, Ben Lytle Cover Design Editors Title Page Art Deadline|Wyatt Alexander|19x12 inches|pastel/newspaper summer day | tiger wu | 18 x 14 inches | pastel

buzz buzz | spencer goodwin | 21 x 21 inches | pastel on newspaper

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Image

tears of a tree | armin prinsloo | digital photograph

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Perchance by Robert Willis

nce, perchance, I read a book of quotes. They were strange quotes, orphan quotes, hyphenated at the end, but without author. Like this. — The book itself was not bound but somehow held itself together as if the words on the pages were magnetically bound. Perhaps they were written in iron ink. And the pages were different sizes, so the corners never matched up. In any case, the first page was made of a shaving of wood, gossamer thin like lace lingerie. The last page was made of leather. I guess you could call those pages covers. On the wood cover, there was no title, just one quotation mark, bolded and italicized, in the bottom-right corner. Inside were the quotes themselves. Some of them were illegible as if scrawled by a hand with no fingers. Some were written in such fine cursive that I felt lost in the loops of the l’s and the f ’s. One was written in chicken-scratch numbers by a computer. Some of them were one word long and some of them were too long to count. Some were smeared in black—dripping mascara calligraphy—and others were whispers in white, elegantly etched, but my favorite one was yellow with a curious capital G that looked like a lonely elephant. Some of them read as follows: There are things in this world that are immutably agreeable. To disagree speaks of defiance. Such defiance has beheaded figureheads and impeached democracy. Once, it killed my big-mouthed parakeet. —

If a door says PUSH, and you walk the road less travelled, well, that’s good. I think Robert De Niro said that. — The voice of God sounds like a pack-a-day cigarette smoker screaming underwater. Sometimes, those bubbles float to the surface and do not warp on their ascent. When they pop, you can hear them faintly. The people who hear these pops best are called Gandhis and Popes. — Most of the -isms—that’s pronounced izzimms by the way—you come across in life are quite hypocritical. Judaism. Naturalism. Protestantism. Utilitarianism. All the -isms contradict themselves and other -isms. So I don’t buy much into the -isms. I prefer the -anity’s. Like Christianity. Or Insanity. Whatever you want to call it. — When the light is green, do not go. Manslaughter by jaywalking is more jail time than you’d think. — There is a sailboat somewhere sailing across a cloudless sky. — It used to be, sonny, that when they sentenced you to death you could choose the train. They were magnificent, those trains. Things are too easy for you now. Too needlelike. — The last quote in the book was on the inside of the leather cover. Someone had used a knife to carve it deep. It was hard to read, because the leather was cracked and not well-crafted. It read like this: Do you think, perchance, that people say quotes so they can live forever? — Me

divided by gold | rob prater | digital photograph

Woodstove by Andrew Harris I work the field and watch her chimney, grey. If she should light the stove, the smoke would tell to leave my house once birds have fled the sky. Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d talk behind the barn until sunrise and plan ways to escape this wretched place, but through my sweat I see no grey wisps climb. I cut tobacco from the still-green stems and feel more slighted than the leaves themselves. Although they have no further life to live, I would prefer the blade to her cold heart.

boots | andrew holmes | digital photograph

Warm Hospitality by Evan Backer Finally, the friendly taste of a good bourbon! It greets my pallet with a warm hospitality, radiantly replenishing the vitality that I have presently forgotten. Powerful, sweet fumes invade my nostrils, the familiar burn attacks my tongue whilst all thoughts in my head appear young; the simplest of all joys become thrills. The incessant babble is now unanimous. Bright lights penetrate my heavy eyes. All the ladies feel quite glamourous with various dresses of neon dyes. The yellow room morphs into a single light; colors joining together, one final waltz. There’s no time left for the party tonight as dawn performs its daily assault. It’s the end of the night! I feel quite surprised that deep in the abyss of my coat pocket I discover one of my favorite toys already loaded. What’s left is to cock it. CRACK! It screams as the revolver destroys the part of me that I once recognized.

the hippy guru | detrea smith | 10 x 13 x 9 inches | clay sculpture

Peace in Solitude by Petey DuBose

he icy, thirty-something degree water literally took away his breath. Cold-water surfing. With a bomb looming over his head, he knew this was a different game altogether. Before Raoni left for the East Coast, it was winter on the North Shore of Honolulu. The Hawaiian winter is the epitome of an endless summer; winter never really makes its way to the islands. Raoni was a construction worker, the really sweaty, callous-handed kind. He got off work about an hour before sunset every day of the week, even Sunday. The waves were pumping all down the reef, but the winter crowds had ascended on Raoni’s home break. There were pros, amateurs, and some complete idiots out in the lineup. Typically Raoni and his friends were really hard on non-locals. They made an example out of one of the newbies each day. If Raoni was dropped in on, you could bet that person was gonna get his ass handed to him on the beach. Raoni usually paddled out every afternoon, but he had had enough of the wintertime crowds. Three hours earlier, he had received a call at work from the Oahu Community Correctional Center. Running his fingers through his sweaty buzz cut, Raoni recognized his girlfriend’s voice immediately. Aleia had been dating Raoni off and on since they were in high school. Now they were nearly thirty, and little had changed. Aleia’s brother John was the neighborhood

weed peddler, and Raoni wanted her to have nothing to do with him. Raoni had bailed her out on misdemeanor charges far too many times before. Aleia’s gentle voice slithered through the line. “Hey babe.” “What the hell, Aleia! I told you to stop screwing around with John.” “I know, baby. I’m so sorry. This is the last time.” “What is it this time?” “They caught me in his car…with a few ounces or a pound. It might be a little more than last time, maybe double. Triple?” “I’m flat broke. I can’t do this anymore. I’m done with this shit, Aleia.” Raoni hung up the phone. He looked around and decided to knock off work early. Ripping the door open, he plopped into his old Ford Bronco. He opened up the console and clenched a yellowed envelope. About a grand inside, cash. Raoni’s back pressed against the seat, and in no time he was airborne. Raoni had caught wind of a swell that was supposed to arrive in the Northeast. He told no one where he was going or why. Shivering with his tank top and flops on, Raoni checked into a cheap little roach-ridden motel across from the beach in Avalon, New Jersey. A massive winter storm swirled in the North Atlantic while another storm front of wet air made its way east from the Great Lakes.

Sitting alone at the bar down the street, Raoni choked down a cheesesteak. “Hey man, what brings you to a shithole like this?” the owner asked. “You look like you’ve fallen asleep in my mother’s tanning bed.” The owner’s blunt Jersey accent made Raoni crack a smile, no matter how annoying the sounds coming out of his mouth were. “I’m from Hawaii. I came to get away from the crowds at home.” Raoni sat with both elbows on the bar. “You didn’t come to surf, did you?” The owner chewed as he talked, indulging in one of his own double greaseball burgers. “I did, why?” “It’s gonna be big tomorrow.” He spat some chewed up burger across the bar as he spoke. “You’d better be careful.” “Thanks, but I think I can handle it.” Raoni slid his plate across the counter. Hawaiians believed the myth that East Coast waves were a joke. “The boys might not even paddle it tomorrow. Don’t go by yourself.” Raoni grunted and handed the man the bill and a little tip. “I’m serious man, be careful,” he said in his awful accent. “Not to mention its gonna be colder than a muthafucka.” Back at the motel, Raoni laid out his brand new wetsuit and put fresh wax on his board. After fiddling with all of his stuff, he shut out the lights. Two hours later, Raoni lay awake. Covers torn off. Eyes open wide. The sounds of the waves across the street rumbled through the room like thunder. By 3:00 a.m., Raoni gave up. Ascending from the dead, he made himself a cup of coffee. In a red-eyed blur, Raoni lifted the blinds. He could barely see the streetlights. Snow piled in the street and on top of cars, untouched. He watched for hours until signs of the

sun’s soon arrival graced the sky. Raoni’s gut wrenched as he suited up. He was fifteen again, about to paddle out at Pipeline for the first time. In a jittery burst, he ran across the snowy street with his board and hopped through sea oats. The snow couldn’t block out the sound of bombs detonating just over the dunes. Raoni reached the top of the dunes and sat down. With his neoprene glove covered in snow, he breathed on the flakes and watched them melt slowly. Shifting his attention to the waves, he stared as the chocolate-brown water pulsed and morphed into perfect, deep, dark man-eaters. Unridden. There wasn’t a surfer in sight. Don’t go by yourself. The man from the diner’s warning played back in Raoni’s mind. He couldn’t pass it up. Perfection all to himself. Waist deep, the seams in his wetsuit let just enough water in to shock his warm, thin skin. Relenting to the icy water, he dunked all the way under before hopping on his board. Raoni’s head stayed up watching the massive explosions grow ever closer. He stopped just behind the sandbar to wait for a break in the sets. Wave after wave rolled in, and ten minutes went by without so much as a thirty-second break. After one big set, there was a break, not a huge one, but a break. Hairs rose up on the back of his neck as he clawed to get outside. He tore into the icy water as if his life depended on it because his life did depend on it. The fifteen-plus foot swell lifted its gnarly head as it came in contact with the sandbar. Scratching to make it under the wave, Raoni kept digging. The top of the wave turned white as the wind blew spray high into the air. Two more strokes and Raoni sucked in a big breath knowing that it could be his last for a while. Diving deep, he barely squeaked under the first of the three-wave set. The spray came down like rain as he came up on the other side of the first wave. The other set marched in ever closer, each wave break-

ing further out than the last. Finally out of the impact zone, he floated limp and panting. Big, soft flakes floated down as Raoni bobbed around in his own snow globe. A smaller set popped up, and Raoni pounced on it just to get his blood flowing. He paddled in easily, and the wave soon jacked up on the shallow sandbar. Raoni pulled in for a short but throaty cover-up and blasted out the end of the tube. A series of huge sets passed by. Raoni was slightly out of position and knew to be patient. The snow finally eased enough for him to make out a figure sitting on the beach watching. Happy to see another human life form, Raoni’s nerves cooled. The next set was much bigger than any he’d seen all day. In position, Raoni was rearing to go. Once again, spray rained down on his head from the first wave. The second wave of the set was always better. The first wave drew the water off the reef making the second wave smoother and hollower, at least on the North Shore. Raoni tore into the next mammoth of a wave. He barely made it under the lip. He made the drop, and hollower it would be. Standing in disbelief, Raoni’s hands were straight up in the air but still didn’t touch the roof of the cavern. The man on the beach saw Raoni blaze through the massive tube for at least ten seconds before being consumed completely. Raoni looked down the barrel as he got deeper and deeper. The hole at the end of the tunnel shrunk until it became only a glint of light. It was the best wave of his life. In a matter of seconds, the man from the diner waded out into the frigid water to collect both sides of the halved board.

yangshuo | rob prater | digital photograph

Dead End by Nolan Day Leaves shuffled. Dark eyes and blue eyes exchanged stares, but nothing stirred. Time stood still as the one-way trail shrunk. Warm breath rose into the air. Nervous fingers twitched. Claws pierced the clay, and pink gums retracted. Neither head turned. Snot slowly dripped from a brown nose. The silence broke with a step. Twigs cracked under hiking boots and soft pads. Both drew closer and closer. Pupils remained fixed on the other. Hearts pounded. The forest closed into a dead end. Their skin and fur touched, and the trail opened up. They both looked back.

> green serenity | jordan silberman | digital photography

the eagle of modernism | wyatt alexander | 16 x 22 inches | acrylic and charcoal

hazy relaxation | bennett setzer | 18 x 24 inches | sharpie and colored pencil

Barbaro by Alex Matz

Eduardo slowly wrapped our horse’s legs, new white bandages on the dark bay’s skin. He looked as good as I’d ever seen an animal look— muscular, with a coat that gleamed in the heavy sunlight. Anticipation silenced the backstretch. We began our walk to Churchill Downs, and the quiet of the barns gave way to applause as each horse strutted past the crowd. At his turn, Barbaro received the largest. I saw the Twin Spires and blushed as the cameras focused on him. Barbaro jigged and pranced his way into the congested paddock. Michael stretched the elastic girth. Barbaro lashed out and kicked, and Michael’s forearm bled. “Jesus Christ,” he cursed, letting the valet finish the job. Barbaro ready, the whole country inspired.

A roar echoed through the grandstand as the horses charged toward the first turn. Barbaro lay in a perfect spot, four off the leaders. As he galloped into the final turn, I knew it was over. “And here comes Barbaro,” Tom Durkin bellowed. Barbaro shot forward like a rocket headed for the moon; Edgar never touched him with the whip. In the blink of an eye, Barbaro crossed the line six strides ahead. The grandstand, shaking the earth, roared above me as I turned to face my dad. A smile streaked across his face, and his baby blues gleamed with the purest happiness, but it could only last so long. Two weeks later, the most anticipated race of a decade, our Barbaro broke his leg, the legacy of the undefeated horse left unfinished.

new view | david gussler | digital photograph

Playtime by Brad Harris

a boy in fiji | blakely castleman | digital photograph

run for cover behind a bush in the backyard. The enemies are getting closer. “Sergeant, where are you?” The walkie-talkie interferes with my attempt to be hidden. “Behind enemy lines, sir. I don’t know if I can last.” “There’s a way out, son. Go…chhh…then turn… chhh.” The signal gets cut off, and the only connection to base camp is lost. Sweat routinely drips from my helmet. Reloading my rifle—Dear God, please don’t let this be the end of me—I peek over the hedges and watch as the enemies approach. All I ever wanted was to be a Marine. The enemy masses get closer and closer. 50 yards. 40 yards. 30 yards. Please don’t let me die out here. Looking around, my eyes wander over a shed, providing protection and possibly a way out of this mess. Amen. Thrusting myself over the hedge, I run for my life as cries of “There he is! Kill him!” chase after me. I dance my way closer to the shed, hearing the whizzz of bullets zooming past me. Grabbing a grenade off my belt, I quickly turn around and let it fly. I picture the enemies’ faces looking terrified as they dive away from what is about to blow them to shreds. Approaching the door, I drop two smoke grenades off my belt, momentarily making me invisible, and burst into the shed. With nothing but old rusty tools and a lawn mower inside, I frantically search for something, anything, to help keep me alive. As I run in spurts inside the shed, my foot breaks through the floorboards, landing

on something hard and hollow. I quickly reach down to find an old suitcase with a key sticking out of its lock. Twisting my only hope of life clockwise, I open the suitcase. An AK-47 lies inside disassembled and begging to be used. Once it is put together, I grab the ammo it came with and stand behind the shed’s door. If I die, at least I die for my country. Busting through the door, I shoot anything that moves through the smoke. Chaos floats in the air as lives are quickly lost. Not knowing where I am, the terrified troops accidentally start shooting at each other, fearing the nightmare that awaits in the blinding smoke. I slowly creep away and try to make my escape, only to trip over a bloody carcass. I stare into his young face, wishing I wasn’t the demon who did this to him. “I’m sorry.” I slowly bring his eyelids over his eyes and stand back up. Walking away from the graveyard, a gun shot booms in the air. My gun falls to the ground as I lose strength in my legs. Collapsing onto the grass, I painfully turn over onto my back with my hands instinctually on my stomach. Blood squirts through the gaps of my fingers. I stare into the heavens above. “God, I’m comin’.” “Honey! Dinner’s ready! You can play outside later after you eat and get your homework done!” “What’s for dinner?” “Pepperoni pizza; your favorite!” I instantly sprint inside.

Inception by Will Harris Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m sitting, reading poems about poems and Leo comes to mind.

a modern impression | michael deng | digital photograph

christmastime at st. paulâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cathedral | bennett setzer | digital photograph

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tunnel vision | david gussler | digital photograph

Road Trip by Ben Lytle It’s closing time. Shop owners lock up after a full day. Streetlights flicker on. I can smell the restaurants lining the street.

The air hangs heavily on a humid summer night. Our route has taken us through many towns though this one provides an air of comfort.

We pass through, driving slowly by a few other cars, listening to laughter as the block comes alive.

The window is down, and I stick my hand out. Warm air blows through my fingers as the scenery begins to change.

Mom and Pop stores line the street front. Unique old shops hold heritage below with rooms to let in the quarters above.

We speed up, leaving the little town. Sometimes it’s rewarding to slow down, sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride.

I smile and wave. Kind passersby wave back. This little town, deserving of attention, feels like home. I wish we could stay.

But our journey continues, back on the highway, headed cross country.

The sky fills with pinks, oranges, and yellows behind buildings of deep black. Harsh white pools of light splash on the sidewalk.

Inspired by “Untitled” by Robert Adams

alleyway | jimmy king | 16 x 22 inches | charcoal

monk | richard cirillo | digital photograph

flooded | rob prater | digital photograph

Burning Belles by Jack Creasy

Tuesday, October 12, 2:36 p.m. want to go do something this weekend.” She grabbed my arms with a gentle squeeze. “Maybe we can go to the cabin your parents don’t use anymore?” Her eyebrows arched, and she bit her lower lip. “Where is it again, anyway?” But Elayna knew. Elayna’s always known.

Saturday, October 16, 1:06 a.m. The fall knocked me out. There’s no time to take another nap. I move my feet and send ashes flying through the air as if I am in a snow globe. I let out a chuckle when I see the burnt out campfire of lumber that used to be the cabin. Now I must prepare for what’s to come. Red lights strobe in the distance, and not a half a minute later, blue flashes clear the tree line as well. Friday, October 15, 4:13 p.m. Elayna called me just as I finished packing. She was coming to pick me up at 6:15. I let the phone ring a while before I answered.

“Hey, Scott! We still have plans for tonight, right? Because, I mean, if not, it’s fine. I just kinda wanted to hang out ’n’ stuff tonight. So…?” Elayna was most likely sitting on the edge of her bed waiting for my response, tugging at the bottom of one of her Wal-Mart graphic t-shirts. One that said I’m secretly correcting your grammar. Saturday, October 16, 1:09 a.m. The fireman, driving like a worried mother, sprays a wave of gravel as his truck reaches the cabin. Elayna runs back from waving down the firetruck and now a police car that is en route, too. Her eyes, magnified by the thick glasses, light up in the darkness as I am spotted, alive. Elayna, still liquored up, stumbles and tackles me at the waist. Her squeeze is so tight that I am shocked my innards don’t slurp out my mouth. “Oh, my God! Holy shit, Scott! You’re okay! Thank God! Oh, Scott!” Her drunken, muffled words sound pitiful as she talks to my ribs. “Hey, it’s okay.” I push out okay with laughter. “Thanks for calling the fire department. This whole thing just got way out of—”

Wait, what am I doing? This is Elayna. Elayna, who ignited the fire. I need to get this through my head if I want to stay safe. “Get…get off me! Get the hell off me!” I shove her into the now active snow globe. The cops bust out of their cars running to the scene. Things are just getting interesting. Elayna’s glasses lay shattered next to her crumpled body. Her mouth stretches downward; the tears stream down her already blackened cheeks. “Scott?! What did I…I…” Elayna heaves. Her hand shakes in front of her gaping mouth. “You’re a monster! You’re a fucking monster! Look at what you’ve done! Look at all this.” The cop’s hand palms my chest. I am paper to this juggernaut. “Sir, I am going to need you to sit down.” My eyes keep Elayna—now being comforted by the other officer—in the crosshairs. “Sir! Please sit down!” I obey. He pulls out a small pad that disappears behind his hand. “Okay, can you tell me what happened here? Every detail would help us out. Let’s begin with your name and how you got out here.” “My name is Scott Rose. She drove me out here.” Friday, October 15, 4:14 p.m. “Well, I know you’ve wanted to go to my cabin for a while, but my parents just told me that it’s infested with termites.” Sigh. “So what we can do, according to my parents, is just go up for one night—” “Wait.” I was dreading to know what she’d say next. “We can go for sure?” Elayna was ecstatic, probably thinking, “Like OMG! A boy wants me to spend the night with him in a termite infested cabin? Uhh, hell yes! This is like the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard of. Everyone knows whats going to go down. They’re going to be so jealous, especially that slut, Amelia Goddard. Suck it,

Amelia.” I knew of Elayna’s hatred for Amelia. Too well. Saturday, October 16, 2:24 a.m. The questioning room isn’t anything like you’d see on TV or in the movies. Instead, it resembles a depressing classroom with dull, yellow walls and a plastic-topped cafeteria table and chairs. The only things that seem legitimate are the surveillance camera and the had-to-be-put-in-recently one way window. Detective Fuller begins the ordeal. He sits across from me in his white shirt and tacky jet blue tie, with stringy blonde hair greased across his bald spot. When he leans in to tell me about the questioning, I can smell his dinner. Sushi with extra soy sauce. To escape the lingering stench, I cock my head sideways as he begins interrogating me. Maybe he sees this as a sign of guilt. No matter. I have nothing to hide. He asks about how I got out to the cabin. “She took me.” “Whose cabin was it?” “Mine.” He leans in uncomfortably to take a swing at being intimidating. “Are you sure?” “Positive.” He fails. “Can you tell me why you came out to the cabin?” “She and I had plans.” “What kind of plans?” “To spend the night there.” Then we take a break. Detective Fuller reenters behind another man. “Mr. Rose, this is Detective Buschner. He is my partner and will be assisting me through the rest of this process.” Detective Buschner could be in the Italian Mafia. He had the hair, face, even sinister smirk to fit the part. He is going to be a challenge, I can tell. Buschner immediately sits; Fuller stands. A new game. “Mr. Rose, do you know

what the penalty is for arson in North Carolina?” Three to five years upon first conviction. “No sir, I do not.” He tilts his head and slightly shuts his left eye as if he is looking for the lie hiding behind my teeth. Buschner leans in closer making it impossible to wander from his black eyes. I can’t escape their warp. “Mr. Rose…” A dramatic pause? Riveting. “Do you know what the penalty is for murder?” Friday, October 15, 6:53 p.m. She looked astonishingly beautiful when she concentrated. Her brow was slightly furrowed, and one side of her lip was tucked inward. I touched her cheek. “I know I get angry with you sometimes, but I’m sorry, babe. I just never realize how lucky I am.” She shot me her cute little smile showing only the lower half of her upper teeth. She pushed my shoulder. “Hey, I should be apologizing. I always make it hard to hang out. I don’t care about the place. I’m excited for tonight.” We pulled onto the gravel backroad. “Okay, it’s right here.” I pointed to the dark structure at the end of the road. It shocked me that the lights still worked. My phone began to buzz while I put wood in the fireplace. It wasn’t a good time for her to call. Denied. I made sure to tell her to wait for me to pick up first and not to text me. She put her chin on my shoulder, “Huh, who was that?” “My mom. She just called to make sure we got here. I’ll just text her.” Classic excuse. She stood in front of me and ran her silky palms up and down my arm. She looked at me in the way a wife would look at her new husband as they bought their first house, and it was all she’s ever dreamed of. Puppy dog eyes. “Oh, Scotty, it’s perfect.” It was perfect. The perfect night at the perfect place with the perfect girl. I was glad I got to come out here one last time. And boy, was I glad Elayna was able to make it, too.

Saturday, October 16, 2:25 a.m.

“Yes sir, I do.” “Good. Murder’s a very serious crime, Mr. Rose.” Buschner stands up and walks around to me. Two feet from my body. He looks down on his unconvinced suspect. He thinks he knows all. No. “You see, when we found you and Ms. Burns at the cabin, we thought it was just the two of y’all. Seems customary to have a boy and girl alone at a cabin.” He smiles at Detective Fuller and then turns back to me grimacing. “But we were wrong.” Friday, October 15, 7:17 p.m. I turned on some Rolling Stones as she put the burgers on the counter. I always found it attractive when a girl would willingly eat a burger. But Elayna never ate a burger before, and it annoyed the hell out of me. “Come on, babe. They’re gonna get cold.” Were we married? We sat at the counter, and as I began my feast, the puppy dog eyes returned. I wanted her to stop begging. My mouth was full of burger. “What?” She cradled her face in her palms, her elbows creating a bipod on the table. I was on camera. I swallowed. “What, do I have food on me?” I wiped my face. She dipped her head and smiled. “No, no, I’m just glad I’m here...with you. I know I’ve said that a bunch, but I really mean it.” She put her soft fingers on my greasy hands. “And Scotty, I just want to make it clear that I really do like you. It’s just high school is such a bitch all the time, and I don’t know, I guess I’m a bitch, too.” It was a complete surrender. Elayna couldn’t be popular. But she was. That was the thing. That’s what attracted me most. The cowbell from “Honky Tonk Women” dinged. “Hey, let’s finish this later. I wanna get drunk and dance. I am ob-freaking-sessed with this song.”

Saturday, October 16, 2:26 a.m. “Amelia Goddard was found burned to death under the rubble of the cabin.” I begin panting or something of that measure. Dramatic effect. “I…I…she told me she…” I cover my face and rub it incessantly with my palms. I slowly and dramatically raise my eyes—red and puffy, hair in every direction, but there are no tears. Fuller steps in to show that he is still there. “Mr. Rose, is there anything you can tell us that could help us figure out who did this?” I emphatically inhale and exhale. I look at my still hands. “Elayna Burns. I don’t know if your boys have found it yet, but check the woods. There should be a gas can somewhere. Or in her car. She used it to pour the gas on the cabin.” “Yes, we’ve found that.” I throw my hands up in the air. “Fingerprint her, then.” Case closed. Buschner looks at me like I had said something absurd. “Why don’t we just fingerprint you since you seem so confident you’re clean?” “Go ahead.” Friday, October 15, 11:12 p.m. She and I danced for about four hours. “God, I’m so hammered.” She started to sway, and her head bobbed back and forth to the drums. At the end of the last song, I body slammed the couch. “I’m dead.” “Me too. Here, you stay there. I have to go to my car for something.” She aimed a kiss for my forehead but got my ear. As she stumbled out of the cabin, my phone rang again. Finally I picked up. “Hey, sorry…Yeah, we’re here… Okay, that’s a perfect spot. See you soon.” She reentered, yawning. “Let’s go to bed. I’m so tired.” In the bedroom, she began to undress clumsily. “I wish we

did this earlier.” She sprawled naked on the bed. I ran my fingertips up her leg. I was ready for this, too. “Let me get something first.” “Okay, but hurry back. I don’t wanna pass…” The words slipped unevenly off her tongue. “Hey, whose headlights are…” I walked outside into the soundless October night. Once I saw them, I began moving towards the headlights. A silhouette leaned against the hood. It started getting bigger. It was running toward me. Saturday, October 16, 2:43 a.m. “Okay, Mr. Rose, now that we’ve fingerprinted you, we are going to need a thorough story of what happened that night. Everything. All the details.” Friday, October 15, 11:19 p.m. It jumped on me. Her breath reeked of Jack Daniels. “Hey, Scott.” “Hey, Elayna.” Saturday, October 16, 2:44 a.m. I have to stop calling Amelia she. “She was coming to pick me up at 6:15.” Come on, Scott. You’re not weak. I mean, I am able to say Elayna. It takes a little while to get all of my facts straight. I keep good eye contact and make minimal body movements, a trick my father told me whenever you need to convince someone you’re telling the truth. Even if you aren’t. “I had been seeing Elayna Burns for the past four months. We hung out a lot during the summer. We had a good relationship until I met Amelia Goddard. I had known of Amelia for a couple of years. She was the most beautiful girl in school. We were in the same history class this year and got paired for a number of projects and stuff. We would go over to each other’s houses a lot and watch TV rather than work. Then she

started to become attracted to me. I mean, I was already infatuated with her. We began hooking up in private. We didn’t at school because everyone loved her, and it would ruin her reputation to be with a guy who was already dating someone.” I shook my head. “It made sense, so I was all for it continuing. But don’t get me wrong, I did feel bad for Elayna. She became anxious around me, and all of a sudden, she held a rather obvious hatred for Amelia. She knew something was up. I eventually distanced myself from Elayna, but still she believed we were together. Or at least hoped that, I guess.” I sigh. “But the texts wouldn’t end. Hey! What’re we doing this weekend? Where are you? Scott? You there? Scott? Hello? I mean, they were endless.” Buschner nods his head. “And if we were to check your phone records, it would show us this.” “Most definitely. I never responded to these texts.” Step1. “Noted. You sound like a pretty big asshole, Scott.” He smiles. “But continue.” So what if I’m an asshole. “Okay, so anyways, last Tuesday Amelia came up to me in school, in private of course, and asked me if we could go to my parents’ cabin this weekend. I had told her about the cabin before because it is—well was—my favorite place to be. It was the perfect idea. So that was the plan for the weekend.” Step 2. “Then, yesterday afternoon, Elayna called me and asked me what I was doing this weekend. I had had enough by then. I broke it to her easy that I was seeing someone else and that I couldn’t see us going anywhere anymore. She freaked out on me, screaming then crying then screaming again. So I hung up. It was really overdone on her part. But, still I went through with the plan with Amelia. At about 6:15 she picked me up, and we arrived at the cabin at around 6:55. There, Amelia and I had dinner and danced and fooled around and stuff for a couple of hours.” Step 3. “Were you drinking? We found alcohol at the crime scene.”

“Yes, I’ll admit that. We were drunk.” Step 4. “And at around eleven or so we went to bed. Both of us. Then I woke up and smelled something burning, and before I knew it, the entire cabin was up in flames. I shook Amelia to get her up and told her to get out.” I point my finger to an imaginary out. “I then ran towards my parents’ old room and was going to grab some sentimental belongings before they burned up.” Fuller nods his head at me. “Yes, we found them in your jacket. We have your parents’ wedding photo and your grandfather’s medal. You were good to save those.” Good. Step 5. “Wait, what about my father’s letter to my mother? I know I got that out, too.” Fuller looked down. “I’m sorry, we didn’t see that. It must have burned up.” No matter, you just helped me out more, Fuller. Unintentional alibis like that are key. “I can’t believe I lost that. Well, to get back to the story, I returned to my room to grab Amelia if she hadn’t left already, but she wasn’t there.” I pant again. Conjuring up a single tear. If I didn’t, I’d look more guilty than I already was. “So I got out of the house. But on the way out, I took a hard fall and didn’t wake up till it was burned down. That’s when I saw Elayna.” I lean back, now cool, calm, and collected. Buschner’s eyebrows rise. I don’t know what he already knew, but something I said had surprised him. “And you believe Ms. Burns followed you and Ms. Goddard out to the cabin? Correct?” “Something like that. Or she might have heard us talking about it at school. She always kind of snooped around me in-between classes.” “Well.” Buschner looks over towards Fuller and then back at me. “Thank you, Mr. Rose. This was very helpful.” The two men exit. I sit there for thirteen minutes. When they come back, Fuller stands beside me and puts

his hand on my shoulder. “Okay, Scott, your parents are here. You are free to go, but we will keep in touch.” I get up and walk towards the door, but before I grip the handle, I swivel around like an office chair. “What’s happened with Elayna?” “We will discuss that another time, Mr. Rose. You should get some sleep.” Step 6. Fuller not telling me about Elayna doesn’t matter. When I go out into the hall, I see her from a distance, handcuffed and being read her Miranda Rights. She is, as the cop says, “arrested for the murder of Amelia Goddard.” Step 6. Friday, October 15, 11: 42 p.m. I stayed with Elayna for a little while until I found the time was right. “Okay, did you bring the gas can?” Elayna held it up. “Yep, right here. You want it?” I step back. “No, no, no. I am going to need you to pour it on the cabin, and I’ll let you do the honors of lighting it.” Her nose wrinkled. “What’re you doing then?” “I’m gonna check the place for anything sentimental left behind.” Elayna smiles her buck-toothed smile. “That’s sweet!” We begin walking. “I can’t believe this place is infested with termites. So sad. I mean it’s like your favorite place in the world. Ha, I remember you saying that. And whoa, can’t believe your parents are even letting us do this. You sure we won’t get in trouble?” I wish I could’ve just duct taped her mouth. “Positive. Now, when you hear the screen door slam on the other side of the house, that’s your cue that I’m out, and you can light it up, okay?” “Sounds good, chief.” She kissed my cheek. It felt more like a nibble. I walked around in the cabin for a minute. Then I opened the screen door and slammed it loud. The orange flash illuminated the place. As the cabin burned, I woke

Amelia at the last second. I jumped out the window as the place came crashing down. I saw that Amelia made it to the doorway. But the chimney crushed her before she could step foot outside. Wednesday May 10, 5:47 p.m. When I look back on all that’s happened, I cannot be more proud of myself. The evidence was clearly in my favor. I did not touch either the gas can or the lighter. I showed no signs of affection on text or in public to Elayna in the past two months, discrediting her story that we were still together. The only question came from her calls, which were always from her. I would tell her to call me as we exchanged looks in the hallway sometimes. But witnesses from school attested to the fact that Elayna envied and hated Amelia. All together, Elayna had hit a dead end. After one more month of a waning trial and lastditch efforts, like a polygraph test that she and I both took, she eventually had nowhere else to go. Elayna was recorded as telling the truth to her story, but so was I. My father’s lawyer had taught him how to lie on a polygraph test when he was in fraud troubles with his company. The knowledge was passed down to me when I asked to learn for fun last September. And he didn’t ask any questions when I actually had to take the polygraph test. Just like how I didn’t ask any questions when he had his rather obvious affair. So the polygraphs just cancelled out. In the end, the evidence and witness accounts outweighed everything else, and with the knowledge of what could happen to her if she was found guilty, Elayna decided to plead not guilty by reason of insanity. She was sent to Morrison’s Psychiatric Hospital outside of Charlotte, then to some mental institute in Indiana. About three hours ago, my father’s P.I. texted me. It’s over, check the news. Channel 57. When I flipped

to the channel, Elayna’s demented mugshot stared me straight in the face. Her eyes were haunting. It was the longest I’ve looked at her since summer. BREAKING NEWS: Elayna Burns, 18—girl who burned down exboyfriend’s cabin, killing his new girlfriend—jumps from window at Bailey Center in Indianapolis. Police deem it suicide. I almost felt bad for the girl, but hey, if I were the weak one, it’d be my blood on that sidewalk in front of Bailey. Friday, May 12, 12:36 p.m. As the gate opens to the tarmac, I briskly walk to the jet. I don’t know why I move fast, but all I want is to get out of America as soon as possible, even though I’m still innocent. Elayna’s dead, and there’s no way, unless she’s resurrected, that anyone could hold any evidence against me. But I won’t take chances. Instead, I am going to live with my Aunt Caroline in Paris. She’s a very wealthy woman but has the most compassionate heart of anyone I’ve ever met. She jumped right on it when I asked if I could stay with her. I could probably even tell Aunt Caroline the whole story of how I dated this crazy, clingy girl and then another girl who thought she was too good for me and how I set up their demises in a way that one would

die and the other would be incriminated entirely. She wouldn’t even flinch. Instead she’d hug her little psycho and make him crêpes. “Mr. Rose! Wait a second, Mr. Rose!” My, God. It was Buschner. I had to double take to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. There couldn’t be worse timing. I put contrived confusion on my face under the accumulating sweat. “Huh? Wait, Detective Buschner? What’re you doing here? Is something wrong?” Too many questions. Stupid. He pulls something from his waist. I step back. A gun? “Sorry to bother you, but we found this at the crime scene.” It’s a charred piece of paper. “It’s a letter from Ms. Goddard. We thought it was significant, but we were wrong.” As usual. “Oh, thank you, Detective.” I don’t have to make my hands wobble as I take the letter; they’re already shaking. But it’s not because of Amelia. “I just thought you would want to see this, now that there’s no need to hold on to it anymore. Hope you have a pleasant trip.” He tries to seem casual. “Where to?” “Lima.” I smile. I take a hard look at the perfect handwriting. To my sweet Scotty... When Buschner gets fifty yards away, I throw the unopened letter in a puddle of oil and water. The ink begins to bleed in the shiny pool. The plane’s wheels leave the ground, and all I can think of is Paris. Parisian girls are so much more freespirited than American girls.

dark hope | ht minor | 11.5 x 17 inches | chalk

Gallows Saturday by Robert Willis Presented as sentenced, in fact, unfairly accused, she is the evil that the crowd lynches. Whoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s to say sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s innocent when the mobs arrive? The rope lowers, the necklace placed. She flinches. Any last thoughts of wishing and dying lost among a fear of thrashing and twitching. Oh, the humanity is underlying, but the lyncher cannot see past the witching. Coming to peace in noonday light, unsure if God is watching. Eyes boggle, rolling in fright, with the floor giving and the knot catching. Purple head about to burst, dangling. Flies arise summoned by the strangling.

nightmare | jack creasy | digital photograph

Night Fishing by Eli Levy Sand squishes softly between bare feet, and the moon seems much bigger than possible. Your blood pumps through you and flows like the water to your toes, then comes up and swallows you entirely. The magic of what might be hides in the cracks and crevices of the night. So late that it is early, but too early for time to be real, and you feel as alive as ever yet sleepily entranced. Shared and savored and sweet, it moves swiftly yet lingers; it bounces in the trunk as the Jeep tears down the old leathery road and plunks into wet, salty eternity with a swooping arch. It creeps down creaky wooden stairs and sits in a cobwebby basement corner, waiting to be picked up. It is a covenant that only a brother can understand. A memory. It will tug the rod out of your hand and swim away if you let it.

silent lake | jack creasy | digital photograph

Thawed Ice by Averett Flory

do not associate with that group—those students do drugs, those students cheat in class, and those students aren’t smart or athletic, yet they think they’re better than the rest. Students like them call you out at every opportunity they get. Yesterday, Rachel had forgotten to put on makeup, and Ella had said with a derisive laugh, “Hey Rachel, sweet makeup!” They act like they run this place, but they couldn’t intimidate me if they tried; nevertheless, I stay out of their way. I guess its good that they’re as noticeable as mountains in Switzerland. People like them never change, not even if their whole world is collapsing on top of them. Spring has always been my favorite time of year because of the Royal Garden. It’s a shame the space has to be associated with that bitch because of her family. I always come here when I look for inspiration. Princess Grace only associates with you if your parents have at least $500 million dollars, and she thinks Le Rosey belongs to her. Thank God I’m not a girl because she would try to tear me apart. But at least I can enjoy the ski trip to St. Moritz and not have to think about her constantly judging everyone. Nothing could beat the beauty of our ride up the

Alps. Almost everyone in the school goes on this trip, mostly for the views. The crew always stays behind. They’re all probably out in the forest smoking pot. While we were approaching St. Moritz, the black clouds approached like a wolf stalking its prey, slowly creeping closer and closer before it would attack. I knew it was only a matter of time until it would pounce. Unfortunately, Mr. Quinn did, too, and he announced the trip was cancelled by the “impending doom.” On the way back, we were little Red Riding Hoods, and the storm was the wolf, snapping its maw behind us. This snow didn’t even look like snow but sheets of white. The storm followed us all the way back to school, but not even the storm raging outside could match the chaos on the inside. Five little cop cars, lights flashing, were lined up in front of the gates. It seemed much more troubling than a break-in, and I guessed the situation was worse than murder—rape. The bus felt like a hyena den. Endless chatter moved through the bus. Loud, incomprehensible talk. I could only make out a few words—princess, rape, bedroom, lawsuit, investigation. Someone on campus was a wolf pretending to be a grandma. The teachers sent

us straight to our rooms, trying to keep us sheltered, but we all knew what had happened. I guess they still haven’t figured out what cellphones are for. Apparently the police had already lined up the suspects. Not surprisingly, they’re all members of the crew. I didn’t believe that Ryan, Alex, William, or Eli would rape their best friend. Hell, they couldn’t even get away with flirting without some teacher catching them. But none of them could give an alibi. If they said they were in the forest, there would be a search, and their drugs would be found. They’d be out in a heartbeat. But if they didn’t do it, then who did? With children of royalty attending Rosey, security was definitely tight, which ruled out any off-campus culprits. The rapist had to be one of us. Dr. Montagne had heard horrific screaming down the hall from Grace’s room. The rapist was in the act when the door was opened, and he jumped over the bedside table and out the window. By the doctor’s description, the man had worn a suit and mask as dark as the ashes that were left cold in the fireplace. He had only fallen one floor, so he definitely wasn’t horribly injured, unlike the incident where one student got busted stealing a diamond necklace out of a room and jumped from the sixth floor. The Swiss Guard said they wanted to ask me a few questions. I thought about what William and Alex had told me earlier that year. Apparently, the beloved Princess had been cheating on her boyfriend Kristov while he was gone this autumn on an exchange program, but the guy she had hooked up with wasn’t a typical student. Suddenly, the door swung open to the interroga-

tion room, and I told my story: I couldn’t sleep. That night was the only night that I could see the Ikeya meteor shower, so I had to sneak off dorm at 2 o’clock in the morning to see the spectacle. When the next sighting is in 4,000 years, it’s kind of a big deal. The November night was so cold it felt like the air could have been frozen. I lay on the snow watching the stars. As I waited for the action to take off, I heard footsteps in the snow, but the sound wasn’t from just one person. I couldn’t believe my eyes—the Princess of Monaco walking hand-in-hand with Gustaf Waala, the Persson-Arnault intern. Apparently after my interrogation, the Swiss Guard had enough evidence to prosecute. Mr. Waala taught me math this year, and he looked like he could be a senior in high school. Before he quit, Grace had ended their relationship, and Waala didn’t like that. There was a big fight, and Waala told Princess Grace he would kill her and her family if she let word out. After he got busted, he ran down the mountain and wriggled under an opening in the fence. Waala was never found. Most think he’s dead, especially after his mask washed up on the riverbank. That storm finally ended after four days of harsh blizzards. The campus was left a disaster, especially the Garden. I sat for hours looking at all the frozen buds and plants. What had once bloomed with the warmth of the sun now lay dead and frozen. The garden would never be the same. Nothing at Le Rosey would ever be the same again.

from the deep | david gussler | digital photograph

by the lake | david gussler | digital photograph

young love | rob prater | digital photogrgaph

Pools of Blue by Kevin Treacy

nd there’ll be a break before the tour starts, so please be back in five minutes if you plan on attending. Thank you.” Standing up, I yawned and stretched my arms. The cushy auditorium seats made the information session drowsy. As I turned to walk to the bathroom, I locked eyes with a girl. She was only sitting four rows behind me. She had the most piercing, most lovely blue eyes I had ever seen. Not wanting to seem weird, I looked away and walked past her without a glance. I couldn’t get her off my mind as I reentered the rather noisy auditorium. I figured that they’d separate the auditorium into tour groups based on where people were sitting, so I discreetly slipped into her row. While our tour guide rambled on about the housing options in Philadelphia, I jokingly asked him if it was always sunny here. The girl turned to me with a smile. “Haha, I get it, because the show It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. Her eyes made me want to melt. “Yeah, you got it. Hey, my name’s Kevin.” I stuck out my hand. She shook it. “I’m Steph.” For the rest of the tour, we chatted, barely paying

attention to the guide. “So what are your goals for a college? Like, what are you looking for in college?” Oh man. I thought. At that point, I hadn’t spent a considerable amount of time thinking or preparing for this type of question, much less to share with another person. “Well, I want a nice college town, I mean, I go to boarding school on a farm, so I’m pretty tired of that…” Come on, Kevin, think of something that makes you sound good. Wanting to impress her, I came up with a seemingly well thought out piece on what I wanted out of college and what I was looking for. God, she was perfect. Why can’t more girls make me laugh and think and want to impress them? It was then that I realized I’d shared more with her than most of my regular friends. As a person who doesn’t often let people in, I’d let her, a complete stranger, into my personal thoughts. How did she do it? How could she possibly have snuck past my mental safeguards? Deep in thought, I glanced back up at her and into those royal eyes, effectively wiping out any chance of a coherent response.

girl with long hair | ryan kim | 15 x 11.5 | chalk

on the fringe | joseph baggett | digital photograph

perspective | joseph baggett | digital photograph

Chronos by Win Sompayrac

No boss, president, dictator, or god can rule you like I can. Humans invented me and dedicated their lives to following me. Everywhere you go and everything you do is directly or indirectly because of me.

I never speed up unless youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re having a blast. I never slow down unless youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re in a boring class. I am omnipotent. I am omnipresent. Never failing, never ceasing, never ending.

levitation | armin prinsloo | digital photograph

Tax Collector by Nolan Day

i’ll follow you | suzanne creasy | edited by jack creasy | digital phorograph

orning mist besieged the quiet village. William twisted and turned in his soggy bed. The screeching gulls outside woke him. He sat up and rubbed the crust from his eyes. Coping with the harsh weather, Jack snuggled next to the wood fire stove. Cold wind snuck through the cracks in William’s old wooden shack. Jack was all he had. Thoughts of feasting on hot food popped up in his head. His gut growled and churned. Jack was perfectly content eating fish heads from the cleaning station over at the marina, but William was running on empty—not a crumb could be found in his kitchen. William began his day just like any other fisherman would, rigging lines. His job was extremely tiring and not always rewarding. He desperately needed to barter, and the only way to gain goods on Hatteras Island was to catch and trade fish. His fingers worked rapidly to prepare his fishing lines. Jack heard the ruckus and slowly lifted his drowsy head. “Morning Jack,” William whispered. A ray of sunlight crept through his curtains and lit up the dark room. William threw on a light shirt and an old pair of saggy pants. His feet were as tough as cowhide from all the years of walking barefoot. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he focused on finishing his knots and loops. “Come on, Jack, let’s catch a monster today.” Huge waves were pumping onto the beach as the hurricane swell approached from the south. “Today’s our only day, buddy. We have to net some fish.” Tiny ripples traveled through the sound, but the surface

of the water was still slick and glassy. William’s dinky twelve-foot skiff rebounded against the dock with the outgoing tide. The last three letters were chipped off. A raspy voice surprised William. Holding a steaming cup of coffee, old man Jerry perched on a stool next to the cleaning station. “How’s Carol holdin’ up, boy?” he chuckled. “Better than your piece of shit, old man.” Jerry couldn’t help himself from bursting out laughing. His smile soon faded. “Hey, boy, a storm is brewin’ offshore.” “I’m only going out for a couple hours. Don’t worry,” William replied. Frantic glass minnows disturbed the water. William clutched his cast net, scanning the water for bait. He reared back and launched the trap onto a school of menhaden. William plopped the mass of fish into his bait box. Jack leaped into the skiff, making the wake roll out from each side. William double checked his gear and cautiously stepped into the boat. The ropes to the dock were drenched in rainwater, so he wrung them out for a little drink. “Ready, Jack?” Rain clouds stained the sky to the south like a painting. Luckily, the thunderhead would miss them, opening up about a five-hour window of opportunity. Ocean spray trickled over the sea oats, decreasing visibility. “I guess the hurricane scared the veterans off today, Jack.” William lifted the heavy oar from the bow. The boat swiftly slid through the narrow canal without any tidal resistance. Floating grass mats drifted by as the tide dropped. William forced his rudder

left towards the inlet. The channel was difficult to navigate. Bushes and exposed trees poked out of the water showing sand bars, but William had a keen eye for safe routes. Red drum circled a school of mullet off the starboard, just out of reach for William’s rigs. Jack barked at the feeding frenzy. “There will be more fish; I promise, Jack.” William’s back muscles strained with each push of the oar. Blood dribbled down his chest from his salt encrusted lips. Ocean waves rolled through the inlet making it harder for William to get them to the drop off. Jack nestled up under the bow. Salt water splashed William’s face as the white caps slammed against the front. The best fishing location was a straight shot away. He put Caroline directly over the fishing hole and tossed the rusty anchor overboard. Bubbles popped on the surface as the anchor plummeted to the depths. William scanned the surface while a school of curious dolphins swam around the skiff. “That’s a great sign, Jack. That means there’s fish here.” The menhaden in the bait box were still very lively. William’s hand chased the little buggers around in the slimy water. Only three hooks remained from his father’s handmade collection. The menhaden’s tough skin gave way to the razor hook. William tossed in his first line. Jack stared at the meaty fish and licked his chops. William lobbed Jack a nice plump one. William pressed the second menhaden against the edge, and just as the point came through, his hand slipped down, and the hook sank into his flesh past the barb. “Damn!” He bit down on a piece of rope, wedged the hook out, and carefully wrapped a piece of his shirt around the tender wound. A small blood slick accumulated around the skiff. Sand sharks picked up the scent. Their tiny dorsal fins sliced through the water. Caroline bobbed up and down with the increasing swell. “These little bastards are gonna steal our catch.”

He finally got all the lines out, but the changing current tangled them. His hand throbbed, and he was nauseous. The hurricane winds thrashed and fought against the current. The storm was closer than William predicted. “Ugh, Jack, we need to head in.” Suddenly something spooked Jack. He stood up and barked at a figure over the port side. “What is it, boy?” William lowered his eyes to the water and squinted. “I don’t see anything, dog. What is wrong with you? Wait a minute…what happened to all the sand sharks?” Suddenly the skiff was lifted up into the air and capsized, giving William no time to get a good breath of air. He and Jack went sprawling into the ocean. William darted towards the surface. “Jack! Jack, where the hell are you?” William heard his distress and kicked over to him, safely wrapping him in his arms. “It’s okay, buddy; everything is gonna be fine.” William hauled Jack onto Caroline’s underside. The skiff was still anchored in good favor. All of a sudden, William felt a swift current under his treading feet. He forced his eyes open underwater only to see a huge creature lurking below. The massive killing machine stalked William with curiosity. Quickly, William scrambled onto Caroline. He lifted his arms up towards Jack as if asking him for an answer. The old fish tales were true. William remembered his father’s story of a great white patrolling the waters off Hatteras, terrorizing fishermen. A massive black dorsal fin towered out of the water. The infamous white shark known to all the locals as Tax Collector had come, and she was ready to collect her payments. The 18-foot beast was said to have gorged on an entire crew of shipwrecked sailors just a couple of years ago. She circled the boat for hours. Her soulless black eyes glared right into William’s. Jack’s teeth were chat-

tering, and his tail was stiff between his legs. It was now a waiting game. Heavy raindrops fell from the dark sky. The monster continued to circle, waiting for a body to slip off the boat. Jack nestled in-between William’s legs. Nightfall came. The edge of the hurricane loomed over them. The day had taken a toll on William. His head drooped, and his eyes were heavy. Blood oozed from his hand, and the cold wind stung his skin. “Jack, wake up, buddy. It’s time to go. We’re getting the hell out of here.” Jack didn’t move. His body was completely motionless. “Wake up.” William shook him vigorously. “Wake up, dammit!” Tears rushed from his salt-burned eyes as he attempted to wake up his friend. “Jack, please, you’re all I have.” Nothing. Wil-

liam clutched Jack’s matted fur in fury. He hated that shark. “Leave us alone, beast!” “I’m sorry Jack, I have to let you go.” William set Jack down in the water and released his tight grip. Jack’s golden fur faded as the sea swallowed him. The shore was at least a thousand yards to the right. There was only one option. William dove into the water. He tried to stay afloat, but the current was too strong and the waves were too big. He gasped for air, but salt water filled his lungs. His body locked up, and his head slipped beneath the surface. The moon shifted from behind the clouds and lit up the water. William opened his eyes. The shark rose from below. Her jaws clamped down, and she descended into the deep.

bird nesting in teacup | ryan kim | 16 x 12 inches | pencil on paper

after the fall | spencer goodwin | 19 x 14 inches | sharpie and colored pencil on paper

Meeting at Bull Street by Jack Creasy She wakes alone for the first time. Rays of sunlight make his eyelids flutter while she sleeps next to him. Black tears dry on her face; today is the day. His smile expands east to west; today is the day. A beige pantsuit, flats. A t-shirt, boxers. Morning hangs on her like brimming grocery bags. The brightening skies are serene, an alarm clock to his future. Keys in the ignition; gun at her side. Her face in his left hand, the ring in the right. A failed marriage lingers at home while she drives to Bull Street. A lifelong companion celebrates as he races to Bull Street.

Perusing the crowd, she is a mother who’s lost her child. Darting his eyes, he is the bearer of good news. His face enters into her line of fire; her crosshairs set. He picks his friend out of the mass. “Suspect on foot,” she radios. “Hey Ben!” he calls out. She jukes through an obstacle course of bystanders. He navigates to the beacon of the waving hand. Knocking a man off his feet, she’s blind to anything but the elusive fugitive. Pain pulsates through his shoulder; his assailant escapes in a beige pantsuit and flats.

on park avenue | jannis stöter | digital photograph

chairman | tiger wu | 6.25 x 8 inches | block print

High Regards by Maxwell Barnes I remember being in the pod and floating all around; the rockets burning engine fuel and stars exploding without sound. I look across the world to see the places I have been. The heavenly view is breathtaking; hairs rise from my skin. I imagine all the places where I studied, slept, and prayed. My memories are faded now of those forgotten days. I fly across the grasslands where my ancestors roamed. It reminds me of my mother, and I grab the modular phone. For in my greatest hour, when I feel so large yet unknown, the unanswered ring indicates nobody is home.

time warp | wyatt alexander | 18 x 13 inches | sharpie and water color on paper

The Last Hour by John Pittman All along the old watchtower a single guard did stand gazing out into the distance over the barren land. War had ravaged this poor gruntâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s home, such an unlucky guy. He lit his pipe, puffed it twice, and recalled the days gone by. He once enjoyed playing soldier, his most favorite pastime. Here he stood in middle age, the far side of his prime. The original thought of war had filled people with such joy. In the tower was now a killer, gone the young soldier boy. The distant conflict crept closer, engulfing all thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s dear. Memories of his former life were met by a single tear. He began to count his last hours, the menace growing near. Loading and raising his weapon, he had no time for fear. garden | richard cirillo | digital photography

Lowcountry by Bennett Setzer

immy carefully pulled the twine and raw chicken neck out of the murky water. “Hmm, nothin’. Hey, can I bum a cig, Beau?” “What the hell, man? That’s the third one today, so n o, y ou c an’t.” “Damn, the little Princess never wants to give up any of her goods. So selfish.” “Selfish, my ass.” “Hey! Who picked up the chicken necks from ol’ Piggly Wiggly when he got off work?” “Fine. Whatever…you win.” Charles had long since quit trying to argue. Jimmy was always calling him Princess or Beau for Charles Beauregard. The duo had been crabbing for a few hours now, but the air was just beginning to heat up. “We’ve already got about two dozen of ’em, Beau. You think we should take a break?” “Sure thing.” The issue of the chicken necks had been resolved. Charles opened his backpack. “Say I’s tha one who got the bread, an’ the tuni, an’ the lettuce.” He carefully exaggerated every small twist of Jimmy’s drawl. “Why don’t you go and soak your pretty head for a while?” Jimmy looked a little more serious. “Alright, alright. Just screwing with you, that’s all.” Jerk. Jerk. Nibble. Charles put down his sandwich,

making sure he didn’t get any mud on it. “I feel another one coming to Uncle Charles.” He bit his lower lip as he carefully reeled in another Blue Crab. Jimmy glanced over at Charles’ bucket, which was much more full than his own. “Hmmm, alright Beau, I think that’s enough for this hole. Let’s go chill these suckers in the truck and then go back out and fetch us some of them oysters.” The two boys worked their way through the thick pluff mud and slicing sea grass. Thirty grueling minutes later they arrived at the silver Toyota 4Runner, sitting on a bank between a wall of live oaks and the salt marsh. “Pop the hatch, will ya, Jimmy?” Jimmy snatched the keys from over the front left tire, and Charles dumped the catch into the Yeti. Slam! Click, click. For the next hour, Charles and Jimmy busily picked at clusters of oysters that were by the shore. Both had nearly filled their buckets when Jimmy glanced up. “Oh damn, Beau, check that shit out.” Over the horizon loomed a massive black thunderhead. “It looks like it’s pissin’ too.” A shadowy curtain of rain hung under the behemoth, blocking out the sky behind it. “Come on, I think we should high tail it out of here,” said Charles.

< shady man | jimmy king | 11.5 x 17 inches | chalk

Step by step, they slugged through the stinky ooze. The Toyota wasn’t far away from the oysters. “Holy shit. Did we take a wrong turn?” Jimmy froze. The Toyota had been there just an hour earlier. They stepped from the mud to the warm sand and grass. Fresh, unmistakable tire tracks backed out of the clearing. Jimmy stepped up on dry ground. “I’m sure it’s just a joke.” “You really think so? I mean, who would steal my truck and run away with it as a joke? Especially when a storm’s coming in?” “You know how people at school screw with me? Don’t ya think it could be one of them?” Jimmy wasn’t concerned about the truck. “I know some of the guys give you hell, but they wouldn’t steal my truck to try to get at you. Plus, none of them even know we fish this hole.” “Do your parents know we’re here?” “Sure they do. Neither of my parents would take the truck home. Mother already gets nervous with us coming out here.” Both boys stood a few minutes, deep in thought, their eyes on the palmetto trees. Jimmy broke the silence. “Whose land is this?” “The marsh isn’t private property.” “I’m wondering who owns the land that the Toyota was parked on. Couldn’t the owner take the car if you trespassed?” Charles’ eyes narrowed, and he bit his lower lip. The threatening storm clouds were almost on top of them. “I don’t know all the rules, Jimmy, but I guess so.” Charles turned his attention to the ground where his truck once sat. Two sets of deep tracks cut grooves through the soft sand. One set gently turned from the woods to the clearing. The other set came out at a much different angle and then abruptly turned, pointing straight for the sandy road through the woods. “I think we follow the tracks.” Jimmy had noticed

them, too. “You’re right, Charles said. We need to find my truck before my parents start worrying.” “And before it starts pissin’,” added Jimmy. He was serious, but Charles’ solemn mouth easily morphed into a grin. Even in these moments of impending doom, Charles found Jimmy’s word choice humorous. While the sky darkened more every minute, the forest turned even darker. The live oaks and Spanish moss cast a shadow. Charles and Jimmy had been following the two sets of tracks for thirty minutes when one of the sets veered off to the right still far away from the paved road. It was nearly dark now, but Charles could make out the shape of a white house. He didn’t see a 4Runner. “You think that’s the place, Beau?” asked Jimmy, his eyes straining to see more. “Probably,” said Charles. His voice slowed and softened. “It would be better to go when it’s a little darker. You never know with people living out here.” “Yeah,” added Jimmy. “Who knows? It might be some sweet ol’ lady who peels shrimp at the docks, but I’m guessin’ it isn’t.” Despite the fat raindrops landing in the dirty sand, Charles thought it would be a good idea to wait until the sun had finally disappeared behind the palmetto trees to approach the house. He and Jimmy crouched behind an oak tree some distance from the road, but they were close enough to see a black pickup taking the left that led to the house. “I don’t think it’s the shrimp lady.” Four skinny men, without a single shirt between them, braced themselves in the back of the truck. Two more, a driver and a passenger, sat in the front seats with the windows rolled down. Something told Charles that if he and Jimmy were caught sneaking around the property, they wouldn’t have a fun time. People who

lived in the marsh could be friendly enough, but then again, some weren’t. Only a faint sliver of light remained in the sky, and the rain drenched the two boys. It was time to make a move. They crept between the trees closer to the light with each step. They made it to the edge of the woods or as near as they dared go. Two of the house’s occupants reclined on the front porch, talking to each other and playing some sort of card game. No sign of the Toyota. “Let’s go around back and see if it’s there,” suggested Jimmy. Sticking to the edge of the woods, they walked around the house. There was no truck there either except for the black pickup. David Allan Coe played from somewhere in the house. “There it is!” The music stopped. Charles grabbed Jimmy by the collar of his shirt and yanked him down to the ground. “Did you hear something, Earl?” A thick Carolina accent came from the porch, which wrapped around the entire first story of the white house. Charles didn’t dare look up for fear of being spotted, and he kept an eye on Jimmy. “Hey man, what’s that?” The loud voice came from the direction of the house. Spotlights blinded both the boys, but soon Charles could see bodies coming. The Toyota was hidden at the other side of the house. “Run!” shouted Charles. He and Jimmy dashed out of the woods and past the back left corner of the house. “I’ll hotwire it!” screamed Jimmy. The thud of leather boots grew louder against the

soft ground as they neared the vehicle. Charles was fully prepared to break the window. His hands fumbled with the door handle, but he finally got a grip on it and pulled. Click! The door was open. “Get in!” Charles slid into the driver’s seat and quickly locked the doors. “Okay buddy, whatever you need to do to get this thing running, do it now!” The men had reached the 4Runner. Crack! One of the scrawny ones was punching the driver’s side window. “Charles! The key’s in the ignition, man!” Sure enough, there they were. Charles turned his hand clockwise and the Toyota engine roared to life. He threw the truck into drive and punched the gas pedal, sending a shower of sand and dirt onto the men standing at the back. They reached the highway and turned left on their way back to town. When Charles finally did look back, he saw nothing but the dark of the woods and raindrops on the rear windshield. He didn’t slow down or talk until he was ten miles from the house. Jimmy broke the silence. “Why don’t you think they followed us, Beau?” “I don’t know, man, but I don’t really care right now. I just want to go home and finish my heart attack.” “Same here, Beau. I hear ya.” The Toyota passed under a line of palmetto trees. “Hey, Jimmy?” “Yuh?” “Did you call me Charles when we were by the house?” Jimmy closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and smiled. “I suppose I did.”

In Pursuit by Robert Willis

4x8

sections of plywood can be used to reinforce shed walls, or when cut into smaller pieces, a handy, petite tool bench. Unfortunately, because a stolen 4x8 section of plywood could be used as a raft, the shed on the left side of somebody’s mountain house only has three reinforced walls. Among endless rows of crowded streets and fields full of houses, the marshy area on the other side of town was land waiting to be claimed for real estate. The marsh could be filled with sand, and in years it would be safe to build on. However, within the marsh, the current colony of residents had no idea of their impending eviction. But I did. In determined pursuit of a beaver, I mustered my courage and set off in my craft, both master and commander. It was almost five miles of rafting from where I set out to the beaver colony. The Snake River is an aptly named beast. It curls around mountain outcroppings and winds past abandoned mills. And when the sun hits it just right, I swear it has scales. Desperately clinging to a 4x8 plywood board that seemed much too small, I rode its back. Mountain run-off chills to the bone. So cold that you can barely breathe. My breathing became as shal-

low, fast, and choppy as the river itself. My raft had no walls, and the water enveloped me. As if the river were truly a snake, the ice-blooded creature froze me and constricted my already shallow breaths. The rapids pushed me off my craft, and I was torn under the surface. Crystal clear and tasteless, water pushed itself down my throat. Choking on the cold, I opened my eyes and saw the jagged, rocky fangs of the snake jutting upwards towards the surface of the water. Coughing as I breached the surface, soon again I was swept back under. Cough. Breathe. Rinse. Tumble. Repeat. The splintered remains of my plywood board floated past me. Becoming flotsam, I found myself adrift in the white, churning maw of the Snake River. I didn’t know where I was going and neither did the river. Slammed into a boulder by the ever-relentless water, I grasped it until my nails dug into the stone, and my forearms became bloodied. My frozen fingers could not be unclasped from the stone that saved me. I came to two conclusions that day. Always be the rock that stands unmoved even in the strongest of rivers. You never know whom you’ll save. And beavers are never worth it anyways. swamplands | jimmy king | 19 x 14.25 inches | sharpie on paper

Colophon The Talon is the biannual literary arts publication of Woodberry Forest School. First published in 1949, this is the 66th volume. At Woodberry, The Talon is a place where a balance between the traditional and the modern is forged. During the fall of 2014, Woodberry Forest School hosted the production of James Steven Sadwith’s film Coming Through the Rye. Students and faculty participated as actors and extras. Set in the 1960s, the movie inspired the editorial staff to reflect this fusion of past and present on our campus as the theme for our fall magazine. Opening with a neon sign and a newspaper motif, the editors explored the evolution of a retro style into contemporary relevance. Ending with “Spinal Cord,” the editors used one photograph as a final juxtaposition of elements to contrast the old and the new. The Talon editors encourage submissions from any member of the Woodberry community. Works are selected through blind review by student boards. 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 outside of the academic day. New editors are selected from review boards by current editors and faculty advisors. Authors and artists can apply for review board membership. The editors thank Kelly Lonergan for his help with art review. This issue of The Talon was created on an Intelbased iMac using Adobe CS5. Titles and text on opening pages are set in Trebuchet MS; body text and credits are set in Adobe Garamond Pro. McClung Companies in Waynesboro, Virginia prints 900 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 898 Woodberry Forest Road Woodberry Forest, VA 22989 www.woodberry.org/talon spinal cord | andrew garnett | digital photography