The Talon Fall 2017

THE TALON

Woodberry Forest School Fall 2017 Vol. 69, No. 1

Art 08 08 09 09 14 18 21 24 25 27 29 30 32 43 46 50 52 53 55 58 61 62 64 65 69 70 71 78 79 81 85 88

Self-Portrait Jackson Warmack Self-Portrait Coleman Bishop Self-Portrait Ethan Barbour Self-Portrait James Henckel Well-Being Tano Kleberg Mask Jackson Warmack Norwegian Wood Hank Feng Fade Jackson Warmack Mountain Sheep Carson Becker Woman Walker Antonio Man on Fire Walker Antonio Aeroplane Pierce Richardson Elephant Carson Becker Jumbled Coleman Bishop Pink Lady Ethan Barbour Skull Fire Hank Feng Baboon Pierce Richardson Flying Monkey Fish Walker Antonio Joker Hank Feng Where Are Our Minds? Trip Hurley America Carson Becker Gluttony Hank Feng War of Words Coleman Bishop Outrage Walker Antonio Knife Ward Bissell Skull James Henckel Lungs James Henckel Hey There Spence Whitman Bull Spence Whitman Fortune Teller Hank Feng Beaming Reece Tilgner Bond Hank Feng

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IMAGE

Photography 05 06 11 13 17 23 31 32 33 33 34 36 38 39 40 45 49 56 57 67 72 75 77 82 86

A Way to Nowhere Willis He Underground King Willis He Queen Hank Feng Parkour Man Michael Deng Pike at Night Myles Malone Minerva George Shriver Views Tano Kleberg Baby Guy Wall Backside Guy Wall Necessities Jameson Rice Catching Crabs Michael Deng La Calma Jang Woo Park Mixpace Willis He Watermelon Mark Wu White Lady Willis He Dangerous Woman Willis He Koi Mark Wu Small Town, Simple Times Patrick Noonan Casa Mila Jang Woo Park The Man Who Sweeps Michael Deng Civil Destruction Tripp Hood Cripple Tree Tripp Hood Despair Mark Wu Nightmare Riley Fletcher Another Night in the Bar Michael Deng

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WORD

Nonfiction

Fiction

04 73 80

Second-Best Edward Sackey Bath Abbey Ethan Barbour The Effect of Caffeine Rhew Deigl

07 12 20 26 35 41 47 63 68 74

The Kidnapping Baron Becker The Neighborhood Max Johns Attack Blythe Brewster Dollhouse Ben Lundy La Playa de la Concha Jack Stone A Night at the Wittenburg George Shriver A Murky Engagement Kyle Kauffman A Treatise on Nambia Agus Tornabene Russia, 1920 Carson Becker In Her Time of Dying Andrew Jacobs

Poetry 10 19 28 44 51 54 59 60 66 76 83

Small Days Ryan Kauffman Claire Rhew Deigl The Storm Ashby Shores The Love Letter Luke McNabb Demons Blythe Brewster The Bunnyman of Colchester Road Riley Fletcher The Charlottesville Coup Jack Stone Red, White, and Blue Braxton Clark Silence Michael Deng Dead Weight Max Johns Man Within Shadows Max Johns

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

SECOND-BEST nonfiction by Edward Sackey

T

he Central Line has a reputation for being second-best: the second most frequent line with a train “only” every two minutes, the second busiest tube line, and the second hottest trains.

I stood on the platform at Stratford Station, watching the people across the tracks like a mirror. The train slid into the station underneath the oppressive sky. A heat wave had struck London— good for the office drones who emerged from their hives to eat in the city gardens but bad if you had to take the claustrophobic tube into the city for your final exam in an incomprehensible language.

On my final day of secondary education, I felt as I had on the first: unworthy to be making this journey.

When I was younger, I treated boarding the train as a challenge to get the best seat or stand in the little nook by the doors. Now the journey felt more like an inane ritual. Stand by the dirty mark on the platform. Wait for the wave of heat and sweat as the doors open.

Pause for the young child climbing off the train. Get shoved aside as the self-absorbed man dives for the last seat. Cling to the clammy, grubby pole.

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Today the only variety involved watching a gormless tourist get his bag stuck in the doors then teeter as the train started to move. I glanced at the other passengers. None of them had even noticed. The man who had barged into me was on his phone. Across the carriage a woman stood, eyes fixed through the window, mouth gasping like a fish’s. Was she purposely ignoring the tourist? Was she lost in her thoughts, too self-engrossed to show a little compassion?

The train dived into the earth, a worm searching for more passengers to eat. The ground moved up, walls swallowing us whole. Fans whirred to life, their hellish drones amplified in the tunnel. I could almost imagine I was standing on a Mediterranean beach, a dusty breeze fanning my skin, hearing the groans and scrapes of waves breaking. I struggled to remember Russian phrases to distract myself.

With a sudden jolt, the train began

to slow down. Light burst in as the platform came into view, and my heart fell as I saw the huge crowds waiting impatiently. A train on the opposite side disgorged even more commuters. Suddenly an insistent alarm began to sound, expanding until it filled the station and the crowd went quiet.

The woman from earlier crumpled like paper at the bottom of the scratched glass partition. The people standing in front of me formed a circus audience, the fainted woman their show. Her eyes were closed, and I could almost imagine she was sleeping peacefully. For a tense few seconds, everyone froze, a tableau with the still-blaring alarm as the soundtrack.

Then, as if he were an angel, the man who I had decried as selfish swept down and peered intently at the woman’s face. “I need help here!” he yelled.

His eyes swept over the audience and bored into mine.

A Way to Nowhere | Shanghai, China | Willis He | digital photography Looking back, I should have helped somehow. Done something. But in the heat of the train my shock solidified into a hideous creature. The insensible woman was at fault somehow for inconveniencing me before my exam.

Others stepped forward to help,

bearing the woman away. In seconds they were replaced by more commuters as if she had never been there. As the train shifted, so did my anger, replaced by a growing sense of dread.

In the end, I reached the exam with time to spare. Now two years later, even

though all the Russian I learned has slipped away, I still remember the woman who fainted on the train, still remember the look of shock and determination on her saviour’s face, still remember how I did nothing to help. For all my academic efforts, I still feel second-best. • 05

Underground King | Shanghai, China | Willis He | digital photography

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THE KIDNAPPING microfiction by Baron Becker

He was snatched like a handbag, a backpack, a dollar bill. Before the others could turn around, he was gone. They searched for their fourth grade pal.

I clutched him under my arm as we snaked through the crowd. “I have something for you,” I said. “Trust me.”

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Self-Portrait Jackson Warmack acrylic on cardboard 24 x 18 in.

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Self-Portrait Coleman Bishop acrylic on cardboard 24 x 18 in.

Self-Portrait Ethan Barbour acrylic on cardboard 24 x 18 in.

Self-Portrait James Henckel acrylic on cardboard 32 x 22 in.

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SMALL DAYS free verse by Ryan Kauffman Dewslip and stone forts; the amber lawn overgrown.

Yo-yos and marbles are found again by bodies in flannels and jean shorts.

Chalk drawings lie scrawled on a pavement canvas.

Here, there is no when.

The cracked sidewalk, burnt yellow, runs narrowly alongside the road.

Charcoal tire skids turn the yellow to fire; yard-sale bikes set the path aglow.

The walkway begins to erode as a song of bells is belted out from the choir.

Beyond the sleepy town lies a dense forest.

A rivulet of water, sunken into a ditch, trickles quietly into a pool shaded by a mothering tree.

There, bunkers and crow’s nests are built and blessed, a thousand hiders to be found in a secret niche— a sanctuary.

Nurtured by sidewalks and alleys, without instructions or warnings, no matter if you are cruel or rough, boys are free to ignore, to pretend, that they don’t hear the question burning: Am I fast enough?

Inspired by W. D. Snodgrass’ “The Marsh”

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Queen | New York, New York | Hank Feng | digital photography

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THE NEIGHBORHOOD fiction by Max Johns

I

miss Green Street. We never called each other by birth name, only nicknames from a personal oddity like a never-ending inside joke. They called me Head because my head was so big and weighty it permanently tilted like a globe on its axis.

Everybody in the neighborhood had similar names, all linked to some shared memory. Sweet Pea’s name came from his bedwetting days, which ensured his own plastic mattress for weekend sleepovers. We never knew when that phase would end.

Back in elementary school, all the neighborhood boys, about twelve of us, played tackle football in the park until the seams busted and the lacing untied.

When we hit too hard and someone hurt himself, we recited an agreed explanation of self-inflicted injury to his mama so no one would get in trouble.

“He fell and bruised his arm” usually did the trick. The mamas never got mad, only chuckled a bit before some approx12

imation of “It’s alright baby; just be safer next time.”

Somehow every house we went to on Fridays had enough food for fifteen people, so we fixed a plate and found a spot on the porch. Our sweaty, bruised bodies pressed against each other, one indistinguishable from the next, a mass of squirming boys. The green-hued porchlight bounced off our skin like moving art. We talked until the warm, yellow street lights came on.

I realize a lot more went on that was shielded from us. I never knew the woman Buck lived with was his aunt. His dad died when his machine blew up at the factory soon after Buck was born, and his mom was deemed unfit to take care

of him by herself. Child Protective Services. We never knew those stories because the entire community stepped in to raise us. Things were personal there.

No one ever moved from those homes on Green Street, except us. I think Red and Big Mo moved, but they went to their grandma’s house down in Decatur.

I remember their house at the end of the road next to what used to be the corner store where we bought slushies and hot smokes. It’s a liquor store now.

I’ve watched enough movies to conclude that when a neighbor stops by to welcome newcomers, the underlying reality is a self-invitation to assess them. Maybe that’s why nobody came to our new house; we were assessed the moment we stepped out of the U-Haul three weeks ago. The dog-walkers looked twice (the very practice of walking a dog is still strange to me; counterintuitive really. I’ve never been a dog person, but at least let it get its own exercise).

Here, I’m Idrys. Well, not exactly. It doesn’t seem like they call anyone anything, but if they called me something, it would be my birth name, Idrys.

This neighborhood is a collection of homes that never extends beyond a contractive plot of land. I’m struck by the mechanization. Every Friday, like clockwork, hazel-red men mow the grass, trim the hedges, feed the flowers, and leave in haste. Not every house, of course. Some do it themselves, but that number is few.

Tuesdays, the trucks come and collect trash, leaving no trace but a trail of emptied bins.

Mail comes too, placed neatly in the bottom of the mailbox. Lockboxes cling to the front doors and For Sale by Own-

er signs sway in the breeze. The how are yous are mere conventions of passing— small talk to fill the empty spaces. Lots of empty spaces. No bouncing balls, no barking dogs, no laughter. Eerie silence.

I guess the children have been trained.

Even the streetlights shine a scrutinizing, unflickering white. Each family has what is theirs.

I mainly just wave, but they don’t always wave back. The stay-at-home moms must be too busy worrying about their bodies or the next meal or Timmy’s soccer practice to wave back. I can’t say

for sure that they don’t work, but I’ve seen enough like them in the carpool line promptly at 3:15 to be fairly certain. The dads, collared shirts and penny loafers, must be driving too fast in their polished Audis to see me. When they do wave, it’s a limp hand or a couple fingers, like they see just enough of my body displacing the surrounding air.

“Better education,” Dad said. “A private school and a better neighborhood.” He wasn’t wrong. Thomas Reagan High got its reputation from its pregnant students and after school fights. I

Parkour Man | Santa Monica, California | Michael Deng | digital photography 13

Well-Being | Tano Kleberg | spray paint on mat board | 40 x 32 in.

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remember watching the six o’clock news about five years back and seeing one of the teachers at Reagan arrested for child pornography. Dad made it clear then that I was never going to school there.

I should have prepared myself earlier for the switch. When you drive by Thomas Reagan, the whole school hits you at one time like a brick. All of four thousand are contained by a monolith of sloping ceilings and scattered trailers next to dried out athletic fields. It felt like a prison.

That’s not the case at the Dalton School. Mom took the morning off to make sure my first day went smoothly. I had never been there with students before.

We rounded the corner and the expansive beauty of the school unfolded before us.

The windows reflected the colored multitude of the flora. A sandcastle stood in full form on the playground between two buildings. Even the way the ivy climbed down the corners of the buildings looked intentional. The eight o’clock bell had just rung, but students were already at their first class. Nobody rounded them up and told them to get moving.

I should’ve gone to the new student orientation the week before, but it didn’t interest me. We followed the signs to the administrative building.

“Good morning. How can I help you?” The woman had on a flowered dress and red glasses that matched the brightness of her greeting.

“Uhh…I’m Idrys Benjamin, here for eleventh grade.”

“Did you go to orientation? New students were required to go. They explained everything you need to know.

What’s your home address?”

The girls weren’t that nice either. Attractive, yes, very. But to them I was a brand new iPhone, an interchangeable piece in their lives.

I’ve never had a student with a name like that before.”

I wasn’t really sure how to respond, so I took a seat in the back of the classroom without further exchange.

The back row afforded a good vantage point for me to observe the class. It reminded me a lot of my new neighborhood. Class discussion continued about summer reading books I never knew we had to read.

After the bell rang, I grabbed my history textbook and headed to the next class. Hidden behind my locker was a small kid, thin and full of energy. He stared down at my shoes.

“Those are the new Air Forces, right?” His pants were pulled up near his belly button with his shirt tucked all the way in. He reminded me of SpongeBob. “Yeah, they are. I stood in line last week for three hours instead of going to orientation.”

“I saw those online and thought about buying them. I just don’t look right in shoes like that. A boy can dream though, you know?”

I couldn’t help myself from laughing. Maybe I was an opportunity for him to entertain a distant idea. At the same time, though, I felt comfortable around him. He was loud and feisty and the first student to have a conversation with me that didn’t feel like an interrogation. “Yeah, I feel you man. Not everybody can be like me,” I joked.

“Not even lying, I wish I could. I’m

Drew by the way. You know, girls are talking about you already.”

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“2802 Jackson Street.”

“Hmm…you’re not in the database.

Are you sure you’re at the right school?”

“Yes, we are. I’m sure of it,” Mama jumped in. “The Dalton School. You may have our old address on Green Street. We moved to Emerywood Heights three weeks ago.” She was clearly aggravated.

“Oh, really? I didn’t know tha–” she paused for a moment. “How do you spell your name again? E-a-d-r-i-s?”

“No, I-d-r-y-s.” I replied.

“Forgive me, I’ve never heard that name before. It’s very neat.” For a moment all we heard were the clicks on the keyboard. “Your homeroom is 105 in Johnson Hall. Just follow the signs. Now, wait here while I print your schedule.”

The woman handed me my schedule with the same bright smile, dulling the sincerity of her greeting. Mama went back home, and I followed the signs to room 105. 8:07.

Indistinct classroom noise turned to a nasally voice as I neared homeroom. It sounded old. I walked in slowly, unsure of myself. The teacher turned from the board. He looked the way you would expect an aging high school teacher to look: white hair plastered to the sides of his head, a yellow sweater over a dull white shirt and dark red tie. I liked the way his Clark shoes didn’t click when he walked towards me. Seven minutes into the first class of the school year, and he was already teaching.

“Is this room 105?”

“Yes, indeed. Please, take a seat. You must be Idrys. Am I saying that right?”

“Yes sir, you are.”

“That’s an easy one to remember.

Weeks passed. The leaves died a colorful death as I settled into my place at school. At first, I gravitated towards the other black students. We weren’t the same. They mimicked the existing school culture: the clothing, the speech, the attitude. The girls weren’t that nice either.

Attractive, yes, very. But to them I was a brand new iPhone, an interchangeable piece of their lives.

Drew and I became close. We sat next to each other every day in math and biology. He stood out against the blend of upper class teenagers. He was one of them, too—don’t get me wrong—but he lived with meaning. He got a Mercedes S Class for his sixteenth birthday and took me to Chick-fil-A that Friday after class. You’d think he would crank the latest on the radio like every other kid.

“You listen to Mos Def?” “Black on Both Sides is the best album of 1999 for sure. I could listen to it on repeat all day.”

“That’s what I’m saying. Mos Def was the most woke rapper of his time.”

I wasn’t sure if Drew really listened to Mos Def, or if he heard his name mentioned somewhere and thought it sounded cool. Not many kids liked that constant beat backed by lyrical wordplay and real messages. Especially most of the kids at Dalton; their parking lot jams consisted mostly of new and hot 15

rap: saturated beats, complex rhythms, and lyrics devoid of real emotions. But I knew he was about it when he rapped every word to “Speed Law” and revved his engine to match the intro.

We had the whole afternoon before I had to be home, so Drew took me over to his house. It stood on the corner of the block, a light brick house with tall white columns, a modern twist on a traditional plantation-style.

“Yo, I’ve got to show you the set up in my room. It’s sweet. An Xbox, futon, foosball table, a snack bar, some cool posters. It’s dope.”

“Aight, cool. You gotta show me then. I’ll take you in 2K, too.”

“No way, my player is a ninety-five overall. You don’t have a chance.”

His room was light blue and large enough for three people. One side was where he slept, and the other was his gaming setup. Sports memorabilia surrounded the TV: Reeboks signed by Shaq, a football signed by Big Ben, a vintage Penny Hardaway jersey. Along the wall were movie posters and album covers: Pulp Fiction, Moonlight, Pink Floyd, Notorious B.I.G., and Lynyrd Skynyrd. It was hard to sense his tastes.

“Drew, do you know how valuable those Reeboks are?”

“My dad got a lot of this stuff after operating on a bunch of athletes. I don’t know, though. He just put these

up here.”

It didn’t seem like he wanted to talk about anything related to his dad, so I didn’t pursue the topic any further.

“So, what time do your parents normally come home?”

“Well, my dad is in San Francisco right now travelling with the Falcons, and my mom moved to Florida a couple years ago. The neighbors keep an eye on me. I’m home alone a good bit of the time, so I do what I want.”

“Oh, okay.” I didn’t want to dive deep into his life my first time at his house, so I tried to keep things light.

We played Xbox until the sun dipped below the horizon and the weariness of late afternoon settled upon my body. Drew went to the bathroom for a while, so I lay down on the couch and closed my eyes for a minute. When I woke up, the sun had disappeared, and so had Drew. The street lights shined through the blinds, making a strange-looking pattern on the wall.

“Drew?” No response. “Drew!” I shouted a little more forcefully this time.

Still no response.

I didn’t like the feeling of being alone in his house, so I went outside to the front yard. His car was gone. I called his phone. Straight to voicemail. The street was unsettlingly quiet. I flipped up my hood to shield myself from the biting autumn wind.

I shouldn’t have worn my earrings. I cursed at the biting wind. A hoodie is never a favorable look. Swells of “Breaking News” headlines and op-ed culture pieces came to mind.

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I turned around to a middle-aged man with glasses stomping towards me.

“I’ve been watching you for the past five minutes snooping around this house. You’re staying with me until the cops get here.” He grabbed the neck of my sweatshirt, forcefully.

I shouldn’t have worn my earrings.

I cursed at the biting wind. A hoodie is never a favorable look. Swells of “Breaking News” headlines and op-ed culture pieces came to mind. I don’t know why I didn’t explain myself to him: that I was supposed to be in this neighborhood. I wasn’t the way I looked.

Instead, I fought my way out of his hold and ran. Through the trimmed hedges. Past the backyard swimming pools, the trickling fountains, the flowers, all of it.

Blue lights swooped around the corner and screeched to a halt. A large man with a round, bald head jumped out of the car and extended his hands.

His meaty forehead drooped over his eyelids.

I leaped between two evergreen trees and fell into someone’s yard. A dog barked inside the house. I hopped over the fence on the opposite side of the yard and stumbled onto the street. West Main Avenue. Home was just across the railroad tracks a few miles down. I didn’t slow down until I got there.

My parents were still at work. I didn’t really know what to do next.

There wasn’t enough air in the room, not enough in the house. I stared at the TV for what seemed like hours, thinking of the infinite distance between me and Green Street. •

Pike at Night | Seattle, Washington | Myles Malone | digital photography

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Mask | Jackson Warmack | charcoal on paper | 20 x 16 in.

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CLAIRE verse by Rhew Deigl In the old brick house, That’s Claire.

In the old white chair, There’s Claire.

In the blue-tiled kitchen, Our Claire.

She’s everywhere, That Claire.

Times were tough in the neighborhood But she carried on “like a lady should.”

We helped where we could, she did the rest.

She’ll carry on. She’s Claire.

At the top of the stairs, There’s Claire.

Not coming down, Oh, Claire.

Driving slow, That’s Claire.

And we’re aware, But she’s Claire.

One night a noise came from the furnace room: An intruder, putting off a smokey fume.

Firemen watched as he took down her house, But he couldn’t take her; she’s Claire.

In the community room, That’s Claire.

In the Baptist pew, Pious Claire.

At Sunday brunch, Good Claire.

But it’s intensive care For poor Claire.

At the end of the day, when the sun hung low: “Claire, we love you! Please don’t go!”

The mayor, the chief, the sheriff came.

They swore she’d make it. She’s Claire!

On the sterile bed, Lies Claire.

Glassy-eyed, That’s Claire.

Under the stone, There’s Claire.

Way up there, That Claire.

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ATTACK fiction by Blythe Brewster

T

he thick blanket of freshly fallen snow muffled every noise, filling Trista’s ears with that strange sound silence makes.

Her small frame was dwarfed by her father’s old coat; this, some holey gloves, and a hat served as her only protection against the frozen knives of winter air. It was not a good day for a thirteen-yearold girl to be out alone, but here she was, stumbling along the snowy paths, her arms full of her sketchpad and colored pencils. She had nowhere else to go.

She couldn’t be at home when her father arrived.

The park spread before her as quiet as a graveyard. No birds sang. The squirrels were sleeping. The trees stood tall and silent against the late afternoon sky, not a limb shaking. She made her way along the paths, her footprints the only blemishes on the immaculate snow, following the benches that lined the paths to her favorite clearing. By the time she reached her destination, her socks were soaked from the snow seeping through her worn out boots.

Standing sentinel in the center of the clearing stood a bronze statue, a young soldier on his horse, metal eyes 20

gazing straight ahead. Trista gazed over the snowy expanse, sitting pristine and untouched like an endless blank canvas, just waiting to have whole worlds painted on it. What she wouldn’t give to paint a canvas this flawlessly white, with nice brushes and fancy oil paints. But all she had was her sketchpad, the one she’d had to save all her money for. She swept the snow off one of the benches and sat down, pulling off her gloves so she could grip her pencils. Head bowed, she began to draw.

A soft, whispery sound like a butterfly walking across the snow pulled her up from past the bold, dark charcoal lines and the swirls of black colored pencil. On the bench beside her lay a folded piece of paper. Hesitantly, she picked it up. I’m lonely, too, it read in crude pencil strokes. Definitely male handwriting.

Trista gasped. No one had passed by. The snow still looked untouched.

Heart pounding underneath layers of coats, she looked around frantically.

Muscles tensed, ready to run. But when

no mysterious figure appeared, she relaxed a bit. She almost wanted to stay, to see if the note-writer showed his face, but now that she wasn’t drawing she realized that it was getting quite dark, and also very cold.

Before she left, however, she turned the note over and wrote on the backside, Who are you? She left the note on the bench and scurried towards home. She had to be there to make dinner. Or else.

The next afternoon, she hurried back to that bench. The scarf around her neck almost hid the hand-shaped bruise.

She had learned her lesson. She would be home earlier tonight.

The note was gone. She put her hands on her hips and slowly turned in a circle. Hers were the only footprints on the path. Then, as she was facing into the trees that lined the path, something hit her on the back of the head. With a yelp, she clapped a hand over her mouth.

Another piece of paper was lying on the ground behind her. She hurried to pick it up and unfold it: Someone who wants to be your friend. Someone who will care about you.

Her fingers went numb. This was not right. Something was off. This sounded like the things her mother used

Norwegian Wood | Hank Feng | digital art >

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to warn her about, the things stalkers and creepy old men say to lone teenage girls. She dropped the note and ran as fast as she could on the icy ground.

She didn’t know where she was going, only that it was far, far away from that note and that statue, the one whose eyes seemed to stare deep into her soul.

Maybe she had a death wish, but she couldn’t help herself. The whole long, snowy walk, she contemplated running back to the safety of her house. Except her house wasn’t safe. She had to meet this person. She snuggled deeper into her coat and trudged onwards. Maybe he was just shy. Maybe he really did just want a friend.

When she reached that infamous crossroads, for once she did not start drawing. Instead, she sat on the bench and settled down to wait. He didn’t keep her long. Not ten minutes had passed before, like a white bird flying against the white snow, a piece of paper struck her on the head. She jumped, then snatched it from the ground. I’m sorry I scared you.

I just wanted somebody to talk to, and you looked like you did, too.

Trista folded the note over and pulled out her pencil. It’s okay. I guess we can talk. But I still don’t know who you are… She re-folded the note and, not exactly sure what to do next, simply threw it up into the frosty air. With a sizzle and a spark, it disappeared. She blinked.

Scratched her head.

This time, when the note came flying out of nowhere, she was ready for it.

Though she’d never been the girl picked first in gym class, she managed to catch it before it hit her nose. Who I am is not important. I get the feeling you under22

The trees surrounding Trista, her bench, and the bronze statue blossomed into a beautiful bright green, but she no longer itched to draw them. She had something other than colored pencils and charcoal to keep her company now. stand. We’re just nobodies. She’d scarcely finished reading this note when another came flying. So, tell me a little about yourself.

That was the first time Trista had a friendly conversation with anyone since…well, since her mother had passed away. They talked about everything. Weather. Homework. The mean girls at school. It didn’t matter to Trista.

Somebody cared, and that was all that she wanted.

Weeks passed, and all who knew her were amazed at the change in this pale, motherless girl. While she still didn’t talk much, nor did she interact with her classmates, she had begun to smile more at the class clown’s antics or her teacher’s terrible jokes. No one had known how nice her smile could be.

Every day after classes let out, she ran straight to the park with a dozen sheets of paper and her favorite pencils.

Slowly, the snow melted into the ground and the bluebells emerged. The trees surrounding Trista, her bench, and the bronze statue blossomed into a beautiful bright green, but she no longer itched to draw them. She had something other than colored pencils and charcoal to keep her company now.

Though she still did not know his name, or where he came from, or if he

even really existed, Trista and her mystery man grew very close. By the end of the summer, she had begun to trust him completely. If he wanted to hurt her, he would have done it by now.

School was looming on the horizon, and she dreaded having to return. I really don’t want to go back. Nobody there wants me to come back, either. I could fall off the face of the Earth for all they care.

He quickly sent a note back. I know exactly how you feel. I’m just stuck here, all alone except for you.

She didn’t respond right away.

“Stuck here?” She wondered. “How is he stuck?” Blinking slowly, she scrawled a message. What do you mean? Please tell me. Who are you? I deserve to know.

With trembling fingers, she threw the note in the air, snatching her hand back as the paper took flight as if she were already regretting it.

There was a pregnant silence. Trista paced along the brick walkway, twirling her hair around the thin fingers of one hand and biting the nails of the other one. After an eternity, a folded piece of paper, twirling end over pointy end, flew into Trista’s outstretched hand. Wincing, she opened it.

It was blank.

“Oh God, no,” she thought. “What did I do!”

Writing appeared as though his hand were moving across the paper. Fine. If you are sure. You see that statue?

Trista nodded.

Go stand by it.

Warily, she did as he directed.

Now look up.

Slowly, she lifted her gaze until she was staring into the eyes of the boy soldier on his horse. His eyes, though made of bronze and lacking pupils, seemed to hold life. His face was quite beautiful, the kind of face Trista would love to draw. Chiseled cheekbones sloped down to carefully carved lips that seemed as if they would taste like a boy, not like metal. Then, like a cinderblock to the forehead, it hit her. Still gazing into the eyes of the statue, she whispered, “Is that you?”

Yes. Come here.

She walked forward, every footfall echoing along the empty pathway and through the surrounding woods. She kept walking until she was directly underneath the boy, looking up at him. Slowly, she pulled herself up onto the pedestal. She placed one hand on either side of the boy’s leg, pushing down on the horse and lifting herself until she was level with him. Deliberately, she leaned forward. Reached out her hand. With trembling fingers, she stretched her arm upward and, holding her breath, ran her knuckle down the peak of his brow, the curve of his cheek, the slope of his jaw.

Not one second after her finger met metal, there was a flash. Then a sharp snap, like the crack of a whip. The trees trembled. The wind gusted. The birds rose up in unison and flew as far and as fast at they could. All that remained in the little clearing was a sketchpad and colored pencils sitting on a bench and a tall bronze statue with his eyes fixed forward, never wavering. • Inspired by “Attack” in Guy Billout’s Something’s Not Quite Right

Minerva Bath, England George Shriver digital photography 23

Fade | Jackson Warmack | acrylic on canvas | 7.5 x 10 in.

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Mountain Sheep | Carson Becker | oil on canvas | 18 x 24 in.

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DOLLHOUSE fiction by Ben Lundy

A

tiny voice asked, “Is he the one?”

I closed my eyes tighter and held my breath, waiting for the voices to go away.

My bedroom grew brighter as the two conversed like parents trying to pick a present for their kid.

Soon I worked up enough courage to open my eyes to see the invaders. I had to squint because of the intense light from their torches. As the figures moved closer to me, I realized that the intruders did not have bodies. Spheres of yellow light floated around my room. No faces, no arms, no legs, nothing.

A deeper voice answered, “Yes, she’ll love this for her birthd—” Suddenly, the voices stopped, and in the eerie silence I could hear the clickclack of my mother’s highheels coming up the stairs and then her slow, gentle stride as she walked toward my room.

Thank God. A voice muttered, “Hurry, do it.”

As I heard my mother stop in front of my room, the aurora of light grew until my skin warmed. My eyelids couldn’t shield me from the white blaze. Then pitch black, as if nothing had happened.

26

I stayed in my bed for a few moments, expecting my mother to burst into the room, furious, asking me to quit playing with the lights. But she didn’t.

Something felt different. The windows, which had been closed, were now open, and the dirty clothes that lived on the floor had been folded up. My bed was strangely cold and uncomfortable.

My pet fish had disappeared from its tank. My body felt lighter as if the force of gravity had weakened. This wasn’t my room.

I stood straight up and pushed the door open. There was no sign of my mother. The entire house was quiet: no TV, no shower, no fan, no one.

Eventually, not curiosity but the thought of sleeping next to her and forgetting about the tiny voices in my room forced me to walk. Her door was already open. I saw her figure under the covers gently breathing. I let out a sigh of relief and patted her just hard enough to wake her up. I pulled back the covers.

The thing in my mother’s bed stared back at with me with plastic, unblinking eyes. I gripped the ends of my pajama shorts, unsure of what to do with my hands. It still moved up and down, imitating a person’s breathing. The face was frozen in time. It looked like those fake people in clothes stores. A mannequin.

I rushed outside. There were no lights in the houses or from the street lights going down the road. No wind, no birds, no insects, no cars, no planes.

Where the moon should have been floated two blinding balls of yellow light.

“Dad, is he the one?” The voice sounded like a young girl.

“Yep. Exactly the one you saw sleeping,” answered the father.

“Why did you put a mother in his house?”

“He wants his mother when he’s scared. He’s kinda like you and me.”

“Dad, where did you get this one from?”

“Oh. I got this one from Earth, darling. Just like you asked.” • Inspired by “Archie Smith, Boy Wonder” in Chris Van Allsburg’s The Mysteries of Harris Burdick

Woman | Walker Antonio | collage | 10.5 x 14 in.

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THE STORM rondeau by Ashby Shores

The thunders raged atop my senseless head.

The clouds around me sulked like tombs of lead, and vengeful winds were tossing to and fro.

The friendly seeds we’d worked so hard to sow, as by the rage of men this storm was fed.

And when my darkness but to darkness led, your kindly hands subdued my fists of lead.

You reached to me and pulled me just to show that dawn would shine atop my senseless head.

And though I thought you’d wish that I were dead, you nobly shook my shameful hand instead.

And though the clashing fronts brought none but woe, the strongest crops through stronger tempests grow.

And though some wicked things were done and said, the clouds did part atop my senseless head.

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Man on Fire | Walker Antonio | mixed media | 20 x 16 in.

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Aeroplane | Pierce Richardson | acrylic on paper | 18 x 24 in.

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Views | Cusco, Peru | Tano Kleberg | digital photography

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Elephant Carson Becker oil on canvas 16 x 20 in.

Baby Sigiriya, Sri Lanka Guy Wall digital photography

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Backside Kruger National Park, South Africa Guy Wall digital photography

Necessities Djuma, South Africa Jameson Rice digital photography

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LA PLAYA DE LA CONCHA fiction by Jack Stone

A

northern wind raced across the Bay of Biscay, whipping up a six-foot swell in its wake. Way over my head, to be sure, but the normally crowded tourist beach was as deserted as the lifeguard stand.

The periódicos reported an air temperature of nineteen degrees Celsius, cold for July. It was my first time out of the country, and my second time seeing a beach. The clouds hung low in the sky and a cool mist hovered in the air—not exactly the paradise that I’d seen photos of before we got here—but the sight of the sand electrified me for a moment.

Descending the stairs, I caught sight of the last person I wanted to see: James. Of the eight guys on the trip, he was the only one who didn’t fit in. It didn’t take long to figure out why. Being underage in the States, none of us drank that often. But James was one of those guys who’d never had a drop of alcohol in his life until we landed in Spain two weeks ago. And that was obvious to anybody who saw him.

“Hola, Mike. Estás listo?” he asked, finishing the question with a belch that

reeked of alcohol and fried bacalao. His newly acquired beer belly spilled over the waistband of his newly outgrown swimsuit.

I responded in English that yes, I was ready. James, not one to be outdone, always spoke Spanish in wholly unnecessary situations, trying to compensate for his overt gringoness.

“You were supposed to be here at cinco y media, man.”

I wondered if he’d even brushed his teeth today. Not even the howling wind whisked the stench away.

“I know. I’m sorry—I got lost on the way here.” My homestay mom had given me directions, but having only been in this city for one day, I hadn’t picked up the Basque dialect yet. Every person I ran into sounded like a Spanish Sean Connery, my homestay mom included.

< Catching Crabs | Xichang, China | Michael Deng | digital photography

“Whatever.” He tossed his empty bottle onto the damp sand, growing the pile of four bottles by one more. “You see that shit out there?”

“What, that?” I said, gesturing to the lone island in the middle of the bay flanked on each side by deep channels.

The chalkboard next to the lifeguard stand indicated high tide was fifteen minutes ago. The currents would be running quickly. James was the last person I’d want to be swimming with.

“Nah, man, that platform. Thing’s got a diving board and everything.”

James spat and pulled out his Lucky Strikes. Normally I’d smoke a cig on a day like this, but James’ presence ruined the atmosphere. “You got a light?”

“Sure,” I said. It took the kid forty-five seconds before he figured out that the wind was too strong. He retreated to the nearby boardwalk and huddled over his little stick of cancer. Suddenly, he shot up in excitement like a caveman who’d just discovered fire and began walking back. Mission success.

“So,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth, “whaddya say?” He took a 35

long drag while he waited for my answer.

I didn’t trust James’ judgement, but he still trusted mine. If only he’d known what I’d done. I peered at the red flag lashing in the wind above the lifeguard stand to the foamy gray whitecaps to the platform, so close, only 200 yards away.

Who was going to stop us? “Let’s do it.”

I entered the frigid sea, fighting my way past a thick blanket of seaweed, until I reached water deep enough for the ferry that ran twice daily across the bay. Twenty yards in front of me, James

inched closer towards the platform. I remembered that he told me he lived in Florida. I guess you needed to be a good swimmer when you lived in a place surrounded by water.

After a grueling twelve minutes, I was within range of the platform. It swung back and forth like a pendulum with each passing wave. Using what little strength I still had, I hurled myself onto the slick concrete. I looked out to discover that I lay in the middle of a churning sea of gray.

La Calma | Tarragona, Spain | Jang Woo Park | digital photography

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“You all good?” James asked. Somehow the fat man was breathing normally. He spoke with a relaxed cadence as if he had been living on the platform his whole life.

“Yeah, man.” I felt like shit. Every muscle in my body ached. I could barely make out the shore through the mist, and I wished that I could’ve been anywhere but that damn platform.

I heard a shout. James leaped off the diving board in full cannonball formation. The judges would’ve given it a 10.

“Alright, I’m bored. Let’s go,” James shouted from the water, and he began swimming back.

I pulled myself up and climbed up to the diving board. The ocean churned beneath me, and the wind stung my eyes.

I jumped after James and began the trek back. The current was stronger than I remembered. The seaweed grasped at my ankles and pulled me in the opposite direction. Left arm, right arm, left arm, right arm. I made some progress only to get dragged backwards by a colossal wave.

I stalled. I was making the motions that I saw on TV. Michael Phelps. A wave dragged me under. I resurfaced but not long enough. Water rushed. Lungs, throat burned. No direction because the darkness. It closed in.

The waves crashed and the blackness and the saltwater stung my throat.

I gulped it down and it was loud and I was drifting there was no end in sight blackness blackness blackness the surface was so far and he, he was ahead and I screamed but I couldn’t and the coals in my throat in my nose a wasp in each eye and the roaring waves the howling wind and I resurfaced and his eyes saw me and he knew.

“We’re almost there. Hang on. Can you walk for me? It’s shallow enough.”

Behind me. Pushing me. Paralyzed.

My heart sounded in my head. I stumbled through the seaweed. We reached the beach. I collapsed onto the cool, wet sand.

James fumbled through his backpack looking for I don’t know what.

“Let’s go,” he said.

I followed him in a daze. The coldness stung like needles of mist on my

We stood there for almost an hour and neither of us said a word. Varsity football receiver Michael Peterson, saved

by James Stevens, the degenerate Spanish wannabe. skin. My vision was getting darker. I was a frozen piece of bacalao. I shuffled behind him into a building underneath the boardwalk. “¡Que tenemos que ducharnos, hostia, que mi amigo está muriendo!” James screamed at the attendant. My homestay mom shouted that word—hostia—this morning when her coffee mug shattered into a million jagged pieces.

“No tenéis dinero suficiente. Lo siento,” she apologized.

James ransacked my bag and pulled out two wrinkled bills. The attendant let out an exasperated breath and unlocked the shower room.

“Holy crap, Mike,” he said. He pushed me into the showers. My body, crimson like a beet. My arms limp at my side, my fingers numb.

We stood there for almost an hour and neither of us said a word. Varsity football receiver Michael Peterson, saved

by James Stevens, the degenerate Spanish wannabe.

And why should he have saved me?

I remember the way his body looked two weeks ago when we were in Sevilla, crumpled on the ground underneath the dimly glowing lights of that bar at the corner of Constitución and Santander.

His blood didn’t even bother to congeal on the scorching asphalt. He wouldn’t remember those punches were mine.

“Yeah man, you were wasted—tried to fight some dude a head taller than

you,” I would tell him the next day.

“Right hook and you were out cold. I tried calling the policia but the dude said I was next if I didn’t leave.”

I hadn’t been able to look at James the same way since that night. What I did wasn’t even worth gaining the trust of the group. And today, everybody but James was staying home with their homestay families. When I got his call this morning, I felt too guilty to say no.

I could still see the fading bruise on his temple when I arrived at the beach.

And now here I was, on the brink of hypothermia in a public shower rather than floating purple lipped and bloated, wrapped in a blanket of seaweed. All thanks to him.

Without saying a word, he walked out of the showers, toweled off, put on his change of clothes, and walked out the door. He came back five minutes later, put a crisp 20-euro bill on top of my backpack, and left for good.

I still dream about Sevilla. How James didn’t get the chance to utter a word before my knuckles made contact with his skull. How his body hit the ground like a sack of bricks. And then I too began my journey to the ground, sinking into the fiery asphalt. Down down down, and then I was falling, falling through the mist and I watched as my body hit the slick platform with a thud and rolled off into the ocean and I was back, back at La Concha. • 37

Mixpace | Shanghai, China | Willis He | digital photography

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Watermelon | Shuzenji, Japan | Mark Wu | digital photography

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White Lady | Shanghai, China | Willis He | digital photography

A NIGHT AT THE WITTENBERG fiction by George Shriver

W

here were you on the night of June 14 th between the hours of 8:00 and 11:30 p.m.?” Agent Willis asks.

Stealing a priceless Monet from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, of course.

Or at least that’s what he wants me to say. Although, “priceless” doesn’t do that piece justice. The masterpiece I’m referring to is the Garden at Sainte-Adresse, in which Monet used a combination of quick brushstrokes with more smooth and deliberate ones.

It’s my favorite work, one I needed in my personal collection. Up until a week ago, it had been sitting in that museum collecting dust while thousands of unworthy mouth-breathers came in every day to stand and give it a blank stare.

“Well, let’s see, I was at a bar named the The Wittenburg from about 7:30 until 10:00, and then I took a cab back to my apartment.” All of that is true, and almost guaranteed to piss Agent Willis off.

He makes a little grunting sound.

“Did you go back out after you got home?”

“Yeah, to another bar.” I say it in a way that is a big middle finger right to his face.

He slams his fist on the table. “Do you think this is a game?”

This reminds me of high school when my friends and I would pick on a smaller kid. He would get angry, but he was helpless, so his anger was just funny.

“Are you listening to me?”

“Actually, I wasn’t. I was just thinking about high school.” If I ever paint a picture of a fire truck, I would want its color to match the red of his face.

“Well, maybe instead of reliving your past, you should be thinking of your goddamn future, because the way I see it, you’ll be spending the next couple decades in a cell.”

“Wow, Agent. You must have some damning evidence to make a claim like that.” I’m honestly starting to get bored.

“We have an eyewitness, a security guard, who reported a man lurking near the back entrance. I’m sure he could easily pick you out of a lineup.”

This isn’t the first time I’ve sat in a room with Agent Willis, so I know when he’s bluffing. He naturally takes the role of “bad cop,” mostly because he really is a bad cop. I’ve thought out this job for years now, and there’s no way this sorry excuse for an agent in a cheap suit can beat me. That’s one reason why I don’t need a lawyer with me. The other is that it makes me look guilty to hide behind someone.

“You’re talking about Barry Greenwood, correct?”

“I cannot disclose that information,” Agent Willis responds.

“I don’t need you to because I frequently visit the MET, and I know Barry works Tuesday nights. I also know Barry wears glasses, and he’s an alcoholic, so I don’t think he will do your case any good.”

I get up and start towards the door.

“Actually, there is one more thing.

I’d like you to take a polygraph test.”

41

He’s got that same smug look on his face. The kind of face I want to punch. “If you’re telling the truth, you should have no problem.”

this.

“Are you serious?” I didn’t expect

He’s got that same smug look on his face. The kind of face I want to punch.

“If you’re telling the truth, you should have no problem.”

“Fair enough, Agent, let’s just get this over with.”

Another agent comes into the room, and they set up the machine. With all the wires, it looks like this sculpture I saw at the Hirshhorn in D.C. Just as ugly, too.

After many years in my profession, I couldn’t help but learn a few tricks to use when in a situation like this. I’ve been told creating an irregular heartbeat and making myself sweat should trick the machine, but I’ve never had to opportunity to test it out.

They start out with the basic questions like What’s your name? This gives them a foundation to know when I’m telling the truth.

“Where were you on the night of June 14th between the hours of 8:00 and 11:30 p.m.?” Agent Willis asks.

“As I said before, I went to a bar, and then I went home. Then, I went to

42

another bar.”

“And after that?” Agent Willis is staring me down.

“What do you mean?” I keep my breathing irregular and tap my foot at a inconsistent rate.

“Did you go directly home after you went to the second bar?” I don’t think Agent Willis has blinked once in the past five minutes.

I take a few seconds before a response. “After I was at the second bar, I went home.” I word it in a way that makes it the truth. After leaving the second bar, I did go home. I may have stopped by the MET along the way to pick up a priceless painting, but nonetheless I did go home.

“He’s telling the truth,” whispers the second agent to Willis.

“Okay, fine. This is my final question.” It’s time for Willis to throw a Hail Mary. “Did you steal the painting titled Garden at Sainte-Adresse by the artist Claude Monet?”

He really went for it, but I’m not just a thief. I’m an art enthusiast. “I did not steal the aforementioned painting.”

I liberated it. •

Jumbled | Coleman Bishop | acrylic on paper | 15.5 x 20 in.

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THE LOVE LETTER free verse by Luke McNabb Pen inking paper, he labors and revises.

Memories of her flow before him.

The lace dress, her silky dark hair, unlock something deep within.

Drenching the letter, feelings flood out of him until not a drop remains.

Lifelessly, he stamps the wax.

Stripping away the envelope, she sees his feelings laid bare.

As she reads, ink seeps into her, playing a bewitching harmony with her heartstrings.

Just as the piece approaches its coda, the tune is interrupted by the sunlight, reflecting off the ring around her finger, evaporating the ink.

Inspired by Johannes Vermeerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s painting The Love Letter

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Dangerous Woman | Shanghai, China | Willis He | digital photography

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Pink Lady | Ethan Barbour | acrylic on mat board | 22 x 15 in.

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A MURKY ENGAGEMENT

fiction by Kyle Kauffman

T

he young man was still kneeling when he brushed a lily pad aside and swiped the pond bed.

“Roll up those sleeves!” said the young lady, looking on from the gondola seat. “You play a risky game with that new Brooks Brothers shirt.”

“Well, love, I did not realize I was going fishing today. Had you warned me,” the young man proposed, “I’d have saved some money and bought waders. Could you not block the light?”

He submerged his hand again, fingers widespread to sift through the muck.

Only three or so swipes were possible before the water turned an opaque brown, lingering a while to his evident exasperation. He squinted through the clearing shallows for a faint luster.

“Curious,” he muttered as he continued the search, “that in your opinion I could be overdressed at all, but especially on this occasion.”

“I’m sorry,” the young lady confessed. “I would never have done it on purpose. You saw when I held it out to admire—it just slipped right off my finger.

I believe in you, dear, but do hurry. Why check over that area again?”

“I have to check depth and breadth.

It might have shifted or sank to a spot I’ve already covered. I’m being thorough.

Now, would you like it back, or not?”

From the stern platform, the gondolier quietly anchored the boat. He reckoned it intrusive to delve alongside the man, and so mentally wished him Godspeed in the endeavor. Things were amiss enough without his digging around in their personal matters.

When it came down to it, any worthwhile gondolier knew the truth to his profession. Rowing smoothly and keeping to the pond’s shaded spots only did so much in the grand scheme of things. Lovers— the sole type of passenger on romantic, Sunday afternoon gondola rides—had high expectations. And the gondolier knew just how to satisfy: a profile so low he could have been buried six feet under that pond bed mud. The couples didn’t acknowledge him; he didn’t acknowledge the couples’ crooning, sniffing, kissing, or kneeling; and all was right with the world.

To be sure, the other park gondoliers

were not nearly as professional. They often gossiped the rainy days away in the boathouse, exchanging the passengers’ most intimate secrets. They called him a stick-in-the-mud for not sharing, but as long as generous tips were left on the gondola seat after each ride, those secrets were not his to share. Something was amiss this afternoon, though. Couples often made confessions of love, but never of regret.

The man braced one hand on the boat brim to steady himself as he reached elbow-deep with the other. It passed from the still warmth to the cold mud where slimy algae greeted his combing. Much to his displeasure, pockets of putrid air surfaced.

The gondolier pondered the man’s experience with bottom-dwelling creatures. Meanwhile, the lady had encountered a creature of her own. She abruptly shifted her weight to avoid the blue-speckled dragonfly that darted closer. Having acquired a foresight for such interactions between ladies and insects, the gondolier countered on the opposite side, thus preventing a capsize, but not the unprepared man from a head dunk. When the dragonfly departed, they all took a moment to breathe: the wide-eyed lady catching hers, 47

“Have you heard of that Einstein fellow? Time and space are relative. And if you will allow it, I want all my time, all the space I own, to relate to you.” the gondolier scarcely catching his—so as to evade any attention—and the young man hacking on brown water. He locked his jaw and returned to the search, water dripping from his dark hair.

The lady pursued only after she had pulled back her loose hairs. “Would it be better if you swam around for it? You’re already wet. I do not want to see your shirt and slacks soiled, so I shall allow you to undress even if it is breaking the custom.”

She laughed and hid behind her parasol.

“I can’t see you now, so go on with it.”

The gondolier had once noticed some unclasped shirt buttons after a particular ride, but this wasn’t even subtle.

“No, it’s quite shallow. I would just bury it even further if I jumped in now.

And I’m afraid it might be too late for the clothes…”

At length, the afternoon struck nearly horizontal across the water, reflecting directly into the young man’s eyes. The sparkles deceived him, raising his hopes and then plunging them in the same manner he plunged his arms into the muck.

The young lady lounged on the gondola seat while she observed his frustration. “All that glitters is not gold,” she mused.

Always the gold with her, it seemed to the gondolier. Her beau, jaded by comments like these, did not respond.

“It was too big for my finger, any48

how.” She had adopted an attitude of impatience throughout the long wait. That made three of them. “I have a jeweler acquaintance in town; perhaps you can employ him to fit me for another one.”

“Another one? That cost me all the coin I’d saved up. Save our dinners and occasions together, it was leftovers for months. There is no other one. I’m finding this one.”

All at once, the lady clasped her sequined dress as if it had been ruined.

“Surely you didn’t spend all your savings on the ring. What about the honeymoon?

I was thinking Venice.”

Off to the phony Venetian gondoliers? Hopeless romantics, the lady and her golden boy. Their secrets would trickle down even the narrowest canal, and for that, the gondolier felt very worthwhile.

“I do not know! I haven’t thought that far ahead. I’m just contented you said ‘yes.’”

“But don’t you own some stocks?

Can’t you sell those?”

“Well, I did. Lost them to a straight flush…”

“Might as well have been flushed down the toilet.”

“Oh, you know I hate talking of money! Besides, is it really about the money, or is it about our new life together?”

There was no response. The man had seldom looked up at her, kneeling in the

bow there, but now it was she who cast her gaze over the pond.

“Please do me a favor, then,” she demanded. “Let’s talk about it for once.

What of the rent to your apartment?”

The gondolier had a sudden feeling like water in his ears, so he shoved his fingers into them.

“Paid monthly,” he assured her.

“You’ve seen it: room enough for two, with those crystal chandeliers you like.”

“Paid on time?”

He thought for a moment and said, “Have you heard of that Einstein fellow?

Time and space are relative. And if you will allow it, I want all my time, all the space I own, to relate to you.”

The fingers did not function in the slightest.

“The question was posed to my fiancé, not a poet. Though even a poet’s wage would afford a nicer apartment. The banker’s son foregoing rent payments.

Goodness. I suppose I am your only true asset, then.”

“And how lucky I am to have courted a beautiful, wise lady whose love will remain steadfast,” the man said as he tossed a handful of sludge for effect, “no matter what dung lies in our path!”

The lady bit her lip. “I just don’t see how the path is ours without a ring. And then there’s the matter of income…”

Indeed, it always went back to gold with her. The gondolier wondered if she was an investigative journalist of some sort, the way she exposed the man’s crude means, unhealthy habits, and inadequate life. Not that any of it was his business.

“Has the sun left you ill? Look me in the eye! Love, it is not about the money, and much, much less about the ring.” He

Koi | Shuzenji, Japan | Mark Wu | digital photography

went to caress her, but his hands were too mud-caked.

She looked intently at the muck as if assuming the search again, but even if she found a faint luster, she would never take what lay beneath her. It had always been soiled.

The gondolier decided: she was definitely one of those muckrakers.

The young man stormed off as best he could in the circumstance. The force of

the leap nearly toppled the gondola and its two occupants, who wiped the splash from their faces and watched him sidestroke toward land.

Aware of his presence for the first time, the lady looked at the gondolier like she wanted him to reel something in. He was not equipped to go fishing, either, and so just reeled in the anchor chain. She had almost tipped the boat, but as it were, she didn’t appear much of a tipper.

“What about the wedding?” A hesitation, a reevaluation. “But what about the ring?” she cried across the pond.

The man made a point to take up his sodden shirttail, give it a wring, and withdraw from the bank.

In his most unprofessional blunder, the gondolier laughed. He vowed not to slip up on the next rainy day in the boathouse, but also knew deep down that some vows go amuck regardless. • 49

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Skull Fire | Hank Feng | acrylic on paper | 24 x 18 in.

DEMONS villanelle by Blythe Brewster A demon waits to tear your soul apart.

He takes control, too strong to overcome.

With claws unsheathed he strikes you in the heart.

He waits until you’re weak, and then he starts toying with your passion; he makes you numb.

A demon waits to tear your soul apart.

This trickster is too cunning to outsmart.

The more you think, the faster you succumb.

With claws unsheathed he strikes you in the heart.

He’s intricate, a piece of abstract art.

He’s unforeseen, as blinding as the sun.

A demon waits to tear your soul apart.

He looks a lot like Hate, his counterpart, and often after he leaves she will come.

With claws unsheathed he strikes you in the heart.

So if Love points his handgun at your heart, you either take the bullet or you run.

A demon waits to tear your soul apart.

With claws unsheathed he strikes you in the heart.

Inspired by “Love Independent of Reason” by Barry Cornwall

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Baboon | Pierce Richardson | acrylic on paper | 24 x 18 in.

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Flying Monkey Fish | Walker Antonio | mixed media | 16 x 20 in.

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THE BUNNYMAN OF COLCHESTER ROAD

ballad by Riley Fletcher

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When the full moon shines on Hallow’s Eve and spectral fog appears, beware of old Colchester Road: the Bunnyman is near.

The Bunnyman jumped from the brush, and to a halt they slowed, and evening silenced to a hush on old Colchester Road.

He snatches victims like they’re hares and hangs their heads up high, then skins ’em like they’re rabbits bare and leaves ’em there to die.

Each teen was found hung ’round the neck above the cursed land.

Transcribed in blood beside the wreck: Beware the Bunnyman.

He snuck out of his ghostly jail and built a dark abode under a bridge in moonlight pale on old Colchester Road.

The cops could never find the man who caused the grim affair, and rumors rage about the land that he is still out there.

And down that road one eerie night walked four unknowing teens with no misfortune in their sight that dreadful Halloween.

So if you’re lost on Halloween and Colchester’s in view, turn around and flee the scene, before he gets you, too.

Joker | Hank Feng | acrylic on paper | 16 x 20 in.

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Small Town, Simple Times | Cottonwood Falls, Kansas | Patrick Noonan | digital photography

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Casa Mila | Barcelona, Spain | Jang Woo Park | digital photography

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Where Are Our Minds? | Trip Hurley | collage | 17.5 x 14 in.

THE CHARLOTTESVILLE COUP free verse by Jack Stone Embers float into the black night as the red-faced revolutionaries begin their march to reconquer their nation.

They had been eight years without power.

The machine lurches into first gear, advancing for the sake of regressing.

The dreams of generations lie splintered in its wake.

You will not replace us.

Having done their duty, the Whiteshirts wait, shoulders locked and fists clenched, for news from the capital.

Their general emerges on the palace portico and delivers their pardon.

You will not replace us was chanted during the August 12th 2017 Unite the Right rally in Charlottesville, Virginia.

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RED,WHITE, AND BLUE free verse by Braxton Clark Veins crisscrossed in a crucifix.

Taste the iron, young ones; feel it drench you.

Come to the foot and look up at our grand empire, our bloodline that waters the plants in the ground, the salted, salted ground.

For this one day, breathe it in.

While the sun may set on the Southern Empire, for one short moment, we owned this whole damn world.

They needed us. We clothed them and raised them.

We should have Cleansed Sodom in fire while we could.

For He sent the flood waves through our Homeland when we lost our iron grip on the world.

To wash the stains from those granite steps.

To wipe us from the land, the land we cede.

As the Banner descends.

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America | Carson Becker | oil on canvas | 20.5 x 16 in.

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Gluttony | Hank Feng | acrylic on paper | 20.5 x 16 in.

A TREATISE ON NAMBIA fiction by Agus Tornabene

I

your noble Author, am called upon to resolve the Question of our Country’s current Disposition towards the Glorious Nation of Nambia.

To expounde to his fellow Romans the complexities of our Nation’s current state of Affairs with Nambia is without a doubt one of the greatest Endeavors upon which an author can embark. So convoluted is our Disposition towards this country that it requires an author with not only a superior Intelleckt but also with a healthy Taste for some Geometry and some Theology. For it is only one with the proper Taste and Decency which are inherent in the Gentry who can effectively sort out how our current Politick situation with the Nambian Nation belies a deeper Truth about our current State of Affairs in the Home Front. Yet I digress, not without first noting that it is

not without great Paines that this Author seeks to enlighten the Peoples of the Earth as to the correkct way to analyze our Engagements and Obligations to the wondrous Nation of Nambia.

My heart aches to think that I, who holds nothing but the best of intentions towards the Reader, have caused the Latter any discomfort in attempting to inform himself on Nambia. Indeed it is incumbent upon the Ignorante to seek their Betters so that they may impart that Wisdom which is Characteristick only of those who are well versed in the Arts and Disciplines of Geometry and Theology.

Woe be Me, for I digress once more! It is apparent that your Author is not cur-

rently able to dispose of his Faculties and considerable Intelleckt so as to expound upon his poor, ignorante Readers the importance of our Relations with Nambia.

The Inability to focus the entirety of his talents to the Subject which this Author has been, by the Providence of our God Almity, assigned to write about, is thus the cause of much Consternation. Like Descartes I am bereft in a Sea of Doubt. I do so wonder how that Old Boy is doing.

When last I spake unto him, intending to impress upon him the Dangers should our current Relations with Nambia run Afoul, he could speak of nothing else but of some New Methode to determine the position on flies on the ceiling. •

Inspired by the writings of Joseph Addison and Richard Steele

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War of Words | Coleman Bishop | marker on paper | 20 x 16 in.

Outrage | Walker Antonio | mixed media | 20 x 14 in.

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SILENCE The Cultural Revolution of 1968

free verse by Michael Deng Mao stood center stage, the only spot in sight in gleaming red, poised, mouth stretched wide, eyes assessing the shadows. Comrades!

May I ask you, what are your views on the revolution?

The hundreds of dress shoes tapped tat-tat-tat Each second the fists clenched tighter.

The fingers pinched the golden buttons, and rubbed the red badges, like wiping blood.

Mao held the microphone lightly.

And it squeaked a thin, trembling voice that spoke for them.

The Cultural Revolution, or the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution, began in 1966 and ended in 1976. Chairman Mao Zedong aimed to purge â&#x20AC;&#x153;revisionists,â&#x20AC;? remnants of capitalist and traditional elements, from Chinese society.

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The Man Who Sweeps | Beijing, China | Michael Deng | digital photography >

RUSSIA, 1920 fiction by Carson Becker

L

ooming over the collection of cabins, the steeple of an old church brought grace to the otherwise wretched land.

The sun had long since vanished below the horizon. As a light snow sprinkled over their thick, woolen coats and fur ushankas, the horsemen stared down at the village. In the winter air, steam clouds rose from the horses’ broad nostrils.

Down in the village stood more horses, but they did not belong to the men on the village’s outskirts. They belonged to the men within the cabins who huddled around their fire-pits, unaware of the strangers gathered outside.

“Mukhin, take eight men around the left side to that hill,” barked Nikolai, a well-built, middle-aged man.

Mukhin nodded at the former Duke’s order, kicking his horse into motion. The horsemen who accompanied Nikolai varied. Several were former officers, but the majority were Cossack soldiers who loved battle and were infamously skilled in combat.

Nikolai stroked his beard with one gloved hand, holding his reins with the other. He gazed beyond the village into the distance where, just barely visible 68

in the nighttime, a birch forest loomed ominously.

As the horses swayed restlessly against the cold winds, the riders loaded bullets into their rifles and made slight chatter among themselves. Mukhin waved a lantern a few hundred yards away, indicating that he and his men had reached the village’s eastern side.

Nikolai gazed at the snowbanks piled on the sides of the homes and the soft firelight shining through the cabin windows. The blade screeched as he drew it from the sheath and raised it high. The Cossacks and the others drew their rifles.

“Damn them!” he bellowed. With the violent fall of Nikolai’s sword, the roar of thirty-five rifles ripped through the thin air. Quickly reloading for second and third times, the men sent bullets tearing through the walls and windows of the cabins below. Soon, the horsemen drew their pistols and swords and galloped into the village.

Men streamed from the cabins now,

screaming in pain as their flesh met the cold sabers of the Cossacks. Some villagers carried weapons, but others carried the nearest object at hand. The dead fell everywhere, leaving the snow streaked with red. Pistol fire crackled throughout the village. The steeple loomed high above, watching over.

Nikolai roamed, pistol in hand, searching for Commander Vladimir Petroff. At one time, the two men were great friends, but conflicting ideology had long severed their allegiances. They found themselves on opposite sides of a bloody war, and for that, there were consequences. Now, the horsemen had all but finished the men in the village. Nikolai muttered curses, scanning the dead and soon-to-be-dead for a familiar face.

Before him in the snow lay a trail of hoofprints, leading into the birches. Nikolai couldn’t be certain that they they were Petroff’s, but instinct moved him forward. Spurring his horse to a gallop, he raced into the night.

A born hunter, Nikolai had been tracking game since his childhood.

Once, as a young man, he felled fifty boar with his rifle in a single day. The forest was his empire. Tracing the hoofprints with his eyes, Nikolai paused. It

“Your kind is dying off, there’s no future for them in the new Russia. The red flag will hang above your unmarked grave.” appeared that Petroff’s horse had taken several sidesteps before continuing on.

Perplexed, Nikolai took a few seconds to realize that they were bootprints.

Without warning, Petroff’s shadowy figure emerged from the birch trees.

He smashed Nikolai’s back with the butt of his rifle. Nikolai fell from his saddle but managed to draw his saber before Petroff approached for the killing blow.

Nikolai jumped to his feet and lunged towards Petroff. He slashed his foe with the saber, cutting through his coat and an inch into his thick arm.

Dropping his rifle, Petroff stumbled backwards and hurriedly drew his sidearm, but Nikolai was upon him.

Driving his fist into Petroff’s face, Nikolai wrenched the gun from his hand.

Nikolai stood over his old friend and stared into his eyes.

“You betrayed us.

Remember Manchuria?

Remember Tannenberg? We fought together for Russia, the empire, the very same thing you now destroy. You’ve killed the same men who fought beside us. Damn you and your revolution!” Pistol firmly in hand, he aimed at Petroff’s forehead and pulled the trigger.

No sound erupted, the pin having frozen in the cold air. Seizing the opportunity, Petroff kicked Nikolai’s hand and punched him in the face. He retrieved the rifle from the ground and clubbed Nikolai once in the head and once in the ribs. “Nikolai, you fought only for honor and your vanity. You aren’t a

Duke anymore. Your kind is dying off; there’s no future for them in the new Russia. The red flag will hang above your unmarked grave.” With that, Petroff bolted into the birches, enveloped by darkness.

Nikolai slowly got to his feet, face bloodied, ribs cracked, and back wrenched.

Stumbling to his horse, he placed his foot into the stirrup and swung his weight into the saddle.

The moonlight had begun to vanish behind a fresh snowstorm. He spurred his horse onwards, retracing his path through the birches. As the snow floated down, and the darkness engulfed all but the shadows of the birches, Nikolai lost his way.

He pushed forward, but his horse grew increasingly skittish.

A speck appeared in the darkness.

No brighter than the end of a cigarette, it coaxed the wounded Duke onwards.

A minute later, it resembled a campfire. Nikolai emerged from the birches, doubled over with his strength nearly gone. He heard yelling, and several men rushed to his aid. As he was helped from the saddle, Nikolai glanced up at the beacon that had guided him back.

Drowning in flames, the church steeple glowed and crumbled. “He burned it. Mukhin burned it.” For three hundred years, the old church, with its steeple and cedar shingled domes, had stood high above the village, bringing grace to an otherwise wretched land. •

Knife | Ward Bissell | forged iron | 9.75 x 4 x 0.5 in.

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Skull | James Henckel | pencil on paper | 24 x 16 in.

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Lungs | James Henckel | pencil on paper | 24 x 16 in.

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Civil Destruction | Edinburgh, Scotland | Tripp Hood | digital photography 72

BATH ABBEY vignette by Ethan Barbour

Shimmering through the stained glass windows, light paints the stone interior of Bath Abbey in a full spectrum of color. Each panel tells a story from the Bible or English history. Light dances across the vaulted ceiling like water drops on a marble spider web. Cradled in this web are countless coats of arms that hang above the tourists. The ceiling looks as if it were carved by God Himself. The colors illuminate the tile floor, bringing warmth to the tombstones. The names are so worn down by footsteps that despite being washed in light, they are illegible. This imperfection brings a sense of humanity into the grandiose Abbey. Although tourists cycle through the aisles every day, the life of the Abbey still resides in these unnamed men lying under the earth.

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IN HER TIME OF DYING

fiction by Andrew Jacobs

D

ear Samuel, I hope this letter finds you well. I read of the war and its affairs as often as I can; each day I travel into town with the children and pry for any piece of news available.

Just yesterday, I was told of a decidedly gruesome battle at Fort McAllister in Georgia, and I was comforted by the memory of your letter delivered to me by the ever-kind Mr. Davis, in which you said you were marching through the Maryland countryside.

Augie is well. You will be proud to know that he has grown into quite the little scholar. He goes to school on his own now, trotting gleefully out of the house each morning after breakfast to continue his studies; he returns before dusk, papers and books in hand, just as gleeful and spirited as he was when he departed. It is a joy to see him grow so, and in a country filled with such trouble as it is today, I am confident that Augie will navigate the worldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s waters with maturity and poise.

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Despite his voracious studies, he has not yet grasped the gravity of the war, and I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t intend to hasten his comprehension. All he knows is that you are away, which seems to wear at his boyish and blissful smile from time to time, but he does not understand the cause nor the danger. I am afraid that if he were to become aware he would lose his gaiety, a thing too valuable and innocent to be tarnished by the thought of war.

I am afraid, dear Samuel, that Augie is much better off than our beloved Evelyn; I can only filibuster for so long before I must bear the news. Last week, not long after Mrs. Rebecca Tazewell and little Mary came over, Evelyn complained to me of a terrible pain in her chest. I calmed her, bid her to sleep, and

asked Mr. Davis to take us into town in the morning to see Mr. Stewart (the doctor we knew before the war, Mr. Dodd, has gone off to put his services to use on the battlefield).

When we arrived, Evelyn was finding trouble in breathing and was in fitful tears. Mr. Stewart examined her carefully and was very gentle and pleasant. However, he had little to say other than advising bed rest and a cool bath.

Since then, poor Evelyn has only gotten worse in her condition. She wakes in the night trembling, with discomfort, and cries to no end. Mr. Davis has fetched Mr. Stewart several times, but Mr. Stewart is unable to provide Evelyn with either a diagnosis or a remedy for her troubles. When I spoke with him (quietly in the parlor before he left, for I feared Evelyn might hear his answer to my concerns), he was grim and without much hope.

Many neighbors have been by, providing her with what comfort they can and offering her their prayers. Augie reads to her. He is the only one who can draw a smile from her young face. I cher-

Cripple Tree | Loch Lomond, Scotland | Tripp Hood | digital photography ish each moment of joy, for I believe that there are few left. Evelyn looks older with every day, as if it is not an illness that has consumed her, but rather a rapidity in aging. Her hair has lost its sunlit liveliness; her complexion no longer resembles that of a spring rose. Her eyes, in all that what was once their boundless youth and light, have turned ashen and dampened, as if a tarred windowpane has been placed over them. She is no longer the Evelyn we once knew.

She prays for one thing, Samuel.

As she lies in bed, listening to Augie and making meager conversation with the solemn visitors, she prays for your return.

Last evening, she asked me, â&#x20AC;&#x153;Where is father?â&#x20AC;? Evelyn has asked me this many, many times before, but this instance was different. Before, she would ask with a tone of nonchalance, as if you were but a mere passing thought, and she would carry on with her day; but yesterday, eyebrows furrowed, sweat beaded on her

forehead, she asked as if you were the last thing in the world.

I tell her, though I know you are many miles away, that you are coming and that you will be here any day. She believes it, and for moments at a time, the tarred windowpane opens itself to the youthful eyes of yesterday, and the rosiness returns to her flushed, pale cheeks.

Augie may draw a reaction, but none like the thought of you can draw.

Evelyn's fragile mind, which must be under unimaginable torrent and trepidation (the Lord knows what haunts can swirl and overwhelm a childâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mind in such an uncertain time as this), thinks only of you. You make her feel buoyant, a child again, as if she were the healthy Evelyn who has entwined herself around our hearts since the day she was born.

I find delight in succumbing to brief moments of mindlessness, trapping myself in a world in which Evelyn is herself again, and you are safely at home with us. Only then can I hear the birds sing again, see the sky bluer, feel the gentle rock of the wooden chairs on the porch, and laugh beside you as Augie and Evelyn perform one of their little shows. It is but a dream-world, but one I enjoy.

I pray every day, Samuel, that you will return and that you will return promptly. Perform your duties as you must, but please do so with a light tread and an acute eye. Evelyn needs you at home. Please keep her as much in your thoughts as she keeps you.

Your doting wife,

Sarah

March 10th, 1863 75

DEAD WEIGHT free verse by Max Johns I thought nothing of it.

Like always, he barked to go outside, but he didn’t come back this time.

I used to talk to Zeus as if he were human because he acted like one.

He refused his dog food and demanded the scraps of last night’s dinner.

He enjoyed the company of people, and not in that overbearing dog way, like the time the two of us slept on the landing on Christmas Eve, his paw smushed against my head.

I must have stared at his body for ten minutes, that lump of furry brown, limp and unmoving.

He was the same Zeus I remembered, an unnaturally large head with a knot on the crown, paws the size of my palm.

He didn’t bother to swat away the flies that crawled into the holes where his eyes used to be.

His belly, pregnant with rot, hid his rib cage for the first time in two years.

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Dad dug his ill-fitting grave.

Chunk. Chunk. Chunk.

Zeus’s head folded as we placed him in, and his legs jutted out of the dirt like bones in stew.

He would have to be burned.

Like two pallbearers, we loaded him into the van.

His swollen body was almost too heavy to carry.

There was nothing special about his death, no farewell, no final lick, no tragedy.

He went outside and died dutifully, obedient to the natural world.

I respected him for it; no part of me needed his body any longer.

He existed in memory, an indelible element of a past life.

Despair | Guangxi, China | Mark Wu | digital photography

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

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Bull | Spence Whitman | pencil on paper | 18 x 20 in.

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THE EFFECT OF CAFFEINE ON THE YOUNG MIND nonfiction by Rhew Deigl

Y

ou could pay for Nutrisystem and a treadmill, some scandal like that, or you could pipe 48 ounces of coffee in the morning and pull yourself through the day on sheer caffeine.”

Charles loves coffee. A lot. He’s hardly seen without a massive Yeti full of the stuff.

No one expects it from him, but he preaches about coffee like a Spanish inquisitor.

On the other side of things, I had rarely ventured outside the confines of a warm cup of joe in the morning, and then only when there wasn’t any iced tea in the house. I told my friends in fifth grade I was an avid drinker, but that’s because no one else was, and it practically made me a full-grown man. It was cool. And hot. Too hot, really, and that’s why I avoided it in the long run. It was bitter and disgusting and too hot to enjoy. So I guess there were a number—a good number—of reasons I didn’t drink coffee.

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After months of subtle pestering, Charles finally got me to engage him on his favorite topic. I began my argument by bringing into question coffee’s distasteful heat (but not the painful flavor–never appear weak), but Charles had an answer.

“Imagine coffee,” he said. “Put it in the fridge, add ice, and drink it.”

What a beautiful concept, except for the fact that it still tasted like battery acid.

“I’ve had iced coffee, but I’ve never had a cup that wasn’t watery and gross,” I said in rebuttal.

“Boy, you had cold coffee, but you ain’t ever had cold brew,” he threw back, chuckling.

He left me with a promise: “It’s

smooth. Don’t hurt going down.”

Fascinated, I went to do my own research. I was disappointed to find that cold brew was clearly the drink of gods and kings. There was a serious market for the stuff, and prices were unbelievable for even small machines. Just as my hopes diminished, I found an article different from the capitalist propaganda of the manufacturing companies. It pushed the reader to take cold brewing into his or her own hands by making a device from scratch.

I didn’t get permission from my parents; it’s easier to ask forgiveness anyway.

With little hesitation, I dropped $100 on eleven seemingly unrelated parts and began resurrecting ugly scraps of wood that were lying around. After what seemed like a lifetime, it was ready to run.

It was now a matter of watching and waiting. The wait, of course, was sixteen hours, but by morning my flask was filled with a beautiful, chocolate-colored liquid.

“What better way to christen my

Fortune Teller | Hank Feng | acrylic on paper | 20 x 16 in. invention than an inaugural taste test?” I thought, so I poured myself a generous shot and knocked it back. Should I die at an unnaturally young age, that coffee is probably to blame. I sputtered and heaved towards the sink, where I deposited the first serving.

Unfazed, I decided to make my mother’s Vietnamese coffee recipe. My version had me nearly in shock after two cups. Aside from the inherent dangers of overdose, it was the best thing I’d ever tasted. Instead of battery acid, I had spiked chocolate milk.

I let my coffee-roasting uncle taste it. Even the pros agreed: it was really good coffee.

Over the next few days, the enthusiasm to engineer more contraptions filled every inch of my body. Pushed forward by the high doses of caffeine, I became insatiable.

Friends came over expecting to “chill” or “hang out,” but like Frank Bean of Fantastic Mr. Fox, I recruited them into my schemes. Those who resisted were left behind.

“I’m rebuilding my guitar.”

“I’m going to be in the shed. If I’m not back in an hour, come resuscitate me.

And bring some coffee with you.”

“My sheet of brass just got in. Find me a good YouTube on how to tune a harmonica.”

I quickly became a poor man; it didn’t take long for the cops to cancel my credit

card. (In my small town, there are only two officers of the law, a man and a woman.

Up to this point, I had been on good terms with both Mom, the lady, and Dad, the gentleman.) Despite the lack of funds, I still obsessed over project ideas—ideas that quickly became more intense and less legal.

Charles was my closest ally in these dangerous undertakings.

“Early Christmas present idea: a welding station.”

“I gotta pick up six pounds of dried

corn… yes, it is for moonshine. How observant of you.”

“STAY INSIDE!” As legality became less of a concern, stealth became even more important. Mom and Dad couldn’t do anything about the homemade fireworks in the shed if they didn’t know about them. I was inspired to work around the law, for the beast of inspiration can overcome any SWAT team.

My reputation as a mad scientist grew to almost mythological proportions. Friends would drop by for a chilled glass of coffee or a guitar pick or this or that that I swear I never made. “It’s just a rumor, I guess.” My empire rose with the price of my beverages. I was flying high on the fumes of coffee grounds with no plans to come down, but soon enough the law caught wind of my tax-evasive trade.

It was the neighbors who finally did me in; they complained about the horrendous noises and odors coming from the shed. The elite detective duo was launched as soon as the call came in, and they were onto me in hours. There was nothing I could do but hole up in the shed and wait. When the cops burst in with very confused and disappointed looks on their faces, I was reclining in a homemade throne in front of them, noodling away on my rickety harmonica and sipping on a piping cold glass of success. • 81

Nightmare | Woodberry Forest, Virginia | Riley Fletcher | digital photography

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MAN WITHIN SHADOWS free verse by Max Johns Visualize for a moment a light angled on a man.

A shadow distorted, absent of matter, lies behind the subject.

A flat reprint of the three-dimensional body, a contour of a real form.

A headâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; smushed, pressed, poorly misshapen.

Legs rolled thin like dough; fingers ghastly, wicked.

Large and exaggerated, the shadow outweighs the man himself.

Extend beyond the visual.

What is achieved, what is written about, what is heard of a man swallows him.

A shadow stands in his place and mimics concrete action.

Picasso cannot save the body from shadows.

His cubist women live no longer.

They hang on display with decaying hues, a relic of history.

Art has since turned outward and lost its mastery of the self.

A source of light, bright and beaming, highlights the inanimate and shrivels the being.

Can the rest be resurrected?

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November 2017 Dear Readers, Differing opinions are only human, but the recent hesitance in our society to discuss those opinions is unsettling. This past summer’s violence in Charlottesville, Virginia was clear proof that pent-up pressure has the potential to be devastating.

Although we live a short distance from this college town, we were certainly not the only ones to feel the aftershocks. People across the country have become disillusioned about expressing ideas. The Talon editors, however, maintain the opposite.

We believe that sharing is caring. We should be discussing politics and religion at Woodberry’s seated meals and at our family dinner tables. Disagreements can be processed through conversation.

Our major goal with this fall edition is to spark discussion about topics that may dwell under the surface. The idea of meditation is introduced on our cover with the digital artwork “Dawn” by Hank Feng. While the sky’s blending colors demonstrate how two opposites can mix to form something beautiful, the silhouette’s deliberative form underpins the idea of constructive discourse. The photographs on our opening pages maintain the continuity of movement and capture the farsightedness necessary to see beyond one’s preexisting dispositions. Willis He’s striking photography showcases the impact of industrialization, and Mark Wu’s landscapes reveal disruption in the natural world.

Our authors creatively address difficult issues in this edition. Follow Ryan Kauffman’s traipsing thoughts in “Small Days,” and you will uncover a world complex in its simplicity. Read “In Her Time of Dying” by Andrew Jacobs, and you will discover the more poignant aspects of relationships during a conflict. Some poetry emphasizes political tensions like Jack Stone’s “The Charlottesville Coup” and Braxton Clark’s “Red, White, and Blue.” Even the historical context of revolution across the globe is on the minds of authors such as Michael Deng in “Silence” and Carson Becker in “Russia, 1920.”

This discourse is certainly not limited to words and images. As designers, we use complementary and opposite colors to draw out the hidden or obscure hues in our featured art and photography. The line elements serve not only to frame items visually, but also to draw specific attention to the credited names. The success of this magazine relied on the principles of a group effort. Our review boards in art, photography, poetry, and prose are hardworking and talented. They share their vision for the magazine through the works they select.

Go ahead. Tell us what you think about this issue. We’re listening.

Sincerely,

Kyle Kauffman, Max Johns, and Trip Hurley 84

Beaming | Reece Tilgner | marker on paper | 18 x 12 in.

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

Text Editor

Ashby Shores

Assistant Editors

Walker Antonio Blythe Brewster Rhew Deigl

Karen & Rich Broaddus

Faculty Advisors

REVIEW BOARDS Art

Photography

Poetry

Prose

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

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

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

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

< Another Night in the Bar | Beijing, China | Michael Deng | digital photography

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Bond | Hank Feng | acrylic on paper | 18 x 24 in.

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