Marquette University High School3401 West Wisconsin Avenue

Milwaukee, WI 53208www.muhs.edu(414) 933-7220

SIGNATURES

2012

Table of ContentsSedimentaryin

PerpetualMotionFireball

TimeOdiumHeartsBeatingMeltingAdrift

ChaosandTheoryTreesandThings

SplatterTreeRootsofWisdom

AnicetoBarely

SunnyTreesKeiththeCannon

CarriedAwayLostintheCity

TheBraveVoicePortrait

ToesFirstTheBeautyofDeath

SelfPortraitFromOneGeneration

toAnotherMonarchsandWalnuts

DevinMurray

JohnSandersNeilSilenoTeddyEsserDevinMurrayBrettGeilenfeldtPatrickPiersonDevinMurrayJoeBrinkJavierMoraCullenWhiteFrankGeiserMattDriesDanielTsujiHarperRobisonDineoBlackConnorMartin&DineoBlackStevenAmbrochJohnFrancoJoyceAlexBennettJohnFrancoJoyce

DevinMurray

1

45789101213141617182123242526272831

33

TheDuckMy‘You’Moments

BigBootTheWorldAroundUs

PoeICan’tHelpMyself

It’sEarlyYetWhenISeeMyMother

TheMirrorWithHim

CautionTechnologyDowntheDrain

SomethingfromNothingFreeFire

IAmaCriminalMelancholyHillStellatheAngel

PortraitofGandhiThePerfectDay

TheSurpriseJudgeRubberBands

BottleTheSmellofanElk

ColorsValentine’sDay

InBetweenPlays

BenKohlerNeilSilenoDanielBarrettMarqueseRobinsonIvanHerradaOliverWeirdsmaBrendanAndrewsIvanHerradaConnorDiffleyWesleyBassindaleHiltonDresdenOliverWeirdsmaConnorCookNicholasKimballNathanTeggeDevinMurrayJavierMoraFrankGeiserPaulGlembockiJoeHeinenDannyO’CallaghanRyanDonaldVinceMoldenhauerIvanHerradaJohnSandersJohnHorter

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Table of Contents

Fireball (photography)-John Sanders ‘12

Youhatetime–turntheclockfacedownwhenyousleep–itstructuresone’slife,butyouresistwhenitcomestoyours.Youstillgetdraggedin,five,youignoreitforamoment,four,youfeelitcreepingup,three,youknowyoumustsubmit,two,youforeseethedamage,one,andyouhavetotakeastepinthatdirection–theoneit’sheavingyoutoward. BornAugust11,1994,9:59am–unabletoreachten,wouldhavemadeiteasiertoremember–onaThursday,yourfavoriteoftheseven.Twoweeksearly,oneoftheonlytimesinyourlifeyouwouldeverbe–broughthomethreedayslate,jaundice.Yourosefromahomewherestructurefailedwithpersistence.Itwouldcomeandgo–knockonthedooreveryonceinawhile–butyourmotherwasnotinneed,orevenwelcom-ing.Thehatredfortimestartedatayoungage,theresultoftherealizationthatitcouldnotbestopped.Itsickenedyouwithchildishanxiety:thequestioning,theimpatience,theopeningofthatdrainthatsucksawayinnocence.Thefacedownclockhauntedyou–itsbright,rednumbers,thescreechestowakeyou.Itbecametheepitomeofitall:thewasting,thetiringstruggle–literal–whentryingtoriseinthemorning.Itnevergivesenoughofitself,butlovestauntingyouwiththatextraminute–second.Itdemandsde-votionandwillnotletyougounpunished.Everyaspectoflifebecameslavetoitlongago,whenoneassumeditthesun’screation–whatitwastryingtosay.Butthatwasfoolish,adamneddecision,andyouknowthat–youknowitwell. Thatgrayshirt,withthelarge-mouthbassonit,isworntoablur.Thefishlookslikeanimpressionistpainting,youcanjustmakeouttheyelloweyes.Yourhairisawry,andasyoulookinthemirroryouseeanindentationyourpillowmadeonyourcheek.Youquicklybrushyourteethandfeelanurgencytogetdownstairs.Yourfamilyisno-wheretobeseen.Thedogsaregoneandthehouseisclean,barren,infact.Yourfeetarecold,soyougoupstairstoputonsomesocks.Theclockisfacedown,andyoudecideitshouldstaythatway.Yougooutthedoorandaroundthecornertoyoursister’sroom;itisspotless–alien,youcannotevenrememberthelasttimeyouhadseenthefloor.Fear,evenanxiety,risesinyourchestandgrapplesatyourneck.Youruntoyourparents’room

Time Odium

5

andfindanoteontheirsnowybed,madeofroughblackpaper,itsays: LeftforCalifornia,didn’twanttomissourflight,youweren’tawakeyet. Willcallyouwhenweland. Theyleftyou!Panicsettlesin–lodgesinyourthroat–California,youronevacation,gonebecauseofthathorridclock.Fullofanewfoundanger,yousprinttoyourroom,diveatthemenace.Itonlybecomescoldanddark.Clockisgone,alongwithyourroom,andbarssurroundyou.Beforeyoustretchesaforest,andbehindstandsyourhouse–therestofyourtowntowersinneardistance,flamesconsumingit.Theycomefast,rushupthestreets,acrossthelawnsandintoyourhouse.Thewindowsflickerorange,youcanhearaslightnoisecomingfromtheinferno,ascreeching.Atfirstitsuffocates,butitbeginstoringout,theonlysound.Everythingelseburnssilent,watching.Youclawatthebars–screamforhelp,theheatlicksyourskin,slowlyconsumingyou.Yougiveup–sitthere,paralysissinkingin,realizingyouhaverunout– Eyesopen,headthrobs,thescreechespierce;youthrustoutyourhandandripthecordfromthewallandallgoesquiet.Yourearsarehot,thoughyourmindissharp.Youplaceyourfeetonthefloor,solid,andwalkintothehall.Agreetingfromthesoundofyoursister’shummingandmother’schatteringonthephone–youleanagainstthewallandtakeabreath. Yourmotherrushesyououtofthehouseandshovesyouontotheschoolbus,emptybutforthedarkmanatthewheel.Whenyouarriveatschool,theprincipalandtwootherwomenwhoyoudonotrecognize,greetyou.Theysityoudownatadeskandsetablackpieceofpaperbeforeyou.Writtenonitisthenumber700inboldwhitelet-ters.Youaskwhatitmeans,andtheyreplythatitisthenumberoftimesyouhavebeenlate.Youlookup,puzzled.Theythenpointtothedoorandstartscreamingthatyou’reexpelled.Theircriesbecomedeafening–yourun,desperatetogetaway,buttheygrowlouder,untilbecomingabrutalscreech. Coversrippedoff,yourfatherloomsaboveyou,seenthroughyourfuzzymorn-inggaze.Hereachesfortheclock,turnsitup,andsilencesit:reliefspreadsthroughyou,almostjoy.Hetellsyoutogetup,shower,anddress–youhavetenminutes.Youaskforwhat?Heanswers, Godiswaiting. God.No!Youremembertheprecedingmoments:theabandonment,thecage,thefire,thehystericalprincipalandhisharpies,andnowGodawaitsyou.No,youcannotfacethemoment.So,youlayyourheadonyourpillowandturnthatclockfacedown.

-Neil Sileno ‘13

Sileno

6

Heartsbeating–bloodpumping–Lungsablazewithpursuit.Movingfaster–outofreach–Butonlyjust...Watched–unattached–Feelingsleftuntouched.Apointlesscharade.LightsflickeracrossFaces–yearsofpractice–MultitudesDrowninginapathy.

Hearts Beating

-Teddy Esser ‘12

7

Melting Adrift (pastel 18x23)-Devin Murray ‘12

Oh,dearestPandora,Pleaseclosethybox.Wepeoplewillrejoice!Weshalllendyouourlocks!

ChaosreignsinthisworldFilledwillstillwaters,AllbecauseofManWhoseresiliencefalters.

AstheworldfallssteadilyDownaslipperyslope,Onethingstandsfast,AnideaofHope.

-Brett Geilenfeldt ‘12

Chaos and Theory

9

Noflash.Andrewdidnotrememberhislife.Thesanguineredoctagondidnotfulfillitsduty.Theleatherontheseatshadturnedsoftfromtheabuseitendured.Hewasn’tthinkingabouttheseats.Heonlythoughtabouttheseatswhenhishandsmetthem.Childrenplayedattheplaygroundkitty-cornertowherehecrashed.Theyclimbedladdersandswungacrossmonkey-bars,livinguptothejungle-gym’sname.Squirrels,birds,chipmunksplayedinasimilarmannerintheurbanjungle,anunsuspectingaudi-ence.Theyhadn’tgatheredtoobserve,buttheywatched.AsotherswouldgotoseeTheShawshankRedemption,witnessesexperiencedsomethingoutoftime.Nosignificantmeaningcanbefoundintheaccident,yetwhowouldexpectitto?Peopleasked, “Whydidthishappen?”or “Whocoulddothis?”Theywantedanswers...moreimportantly,theywantedreason!Theydidn’tknowthereasonleft.Theginkgotreeswavingtheirfansmaybetheonlyoneswhoeverknewthereason,thoughtheydidnotforeseethecollisionastheydidwhenthemeteorhit.OnlyAndrew,theotherdriver,andafewwhodidn’tmakethecon-nectionuntilafter,sawitcoming.Theysawthedeepsky-blueSuzukiSidekickrunthestopsign,theiroutragetowardtheactmatchingtheircuriosityofthecrashfollowing.“Itallhappenedsofast,”witnessesbawled.Theywererightaboutfast.Asrelativeastimeis,thedistancethecarstravelledafterthecollisionappearsremarkable.Sixandahalffeet!Iftimewasslowed,asperhapsitwas,therewouldbemuchmoretobeseenandheardthanwhatwitnessesproclaimed.Thespectatorsdescribedwhattheireyesandearspresentedthem.Evensomeofthemoredetailedaccountswereonlymishmashesoftheactualregisteredandcertifiedspecifics.Paint,bywhichcarsareoftendefined,onlymat-tersaftertheaccident.ThefrontfenderofAndrew’sgold‘92Civic(ratedthesafestofitsclass)smasheduplikeanaccordionwithsectionsofbellowselsewhere,buttonsmissingleftandright.Andrew’sbrownhair,turnedgoldfromallthetimelifeguarding,hisJimmyWalkerimpression,impressivedancingability.Hewaslivelyandlikeable.Flamboyantandwild,yetheknewboundariesandrespectedthem,asdowildanimals. Timewon’ttakeawaythepain.Itmightnotseemlikeitwouldbehardtoremem-

Trees and Things

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ber,sinceit’seasytoforgetaboutsomethingonceitleaves.Theydon’tknowbuttheywillforgethe’sgone.Peoplecopeinwaysthatdon’tmakeimmediatesensebutitdoesn’tnec-essarilymakesensethatAndrewwaskilledat19whilehisgreatgrandpadiedat103.Somehighschoolfriendsstillhaven’theardofhisdeath.Theyrarelyconnectedwithhim.TheonlyphonenumbertheyhadwasthatofhisparentswhostillliveinDesMoines.Funnyhowtheydon’tknow,andbecauseofthat,don’tnoticethathe’snotaround.Verypossiblythey’lllivetherestoftheirlivesnotknowing;thenagain,therestoftheirlivescouldbenotsolong. PeoplebecomeupsetbecausetheworldcontinuesjustasitdidafterAndrewdied.They’rewrong.Wereitthesame,theywouldbethesame,yetthey’renot,neverwilltheybe.There’llbeaday,notthatfaroff,whentheywillstopcaring.It’sliketheCivilWar.Ourcountryiswhatweknowittobebecauseofthatwarbutitslifeisinbooksnow.It’shistory.Nothappeningnow,althoughaffectingthecountryandworld.Andrewisgone.Hewasoneforthebooks,liketheWar.

-Patrick Pierson ‘12

Pierson

11

Splatter Tree (m

ixed media 18x23)

-Devin M

urray ‘12

Nothingisbornwithwisdom,Yetsomediewithit.YoungtreesswayinthewindAstheold,stubbornoaksstaymotionless–Fortheagedoaks,enjoymentdoesnotderivefromswayingButfromcontentmentthatrunsthroughtheirroots.

Everywisebodymovesfrominnocence,Yetnoteveryinnocentbodybecomeswise–Itdoesnotcomefromdoctrineordogma,Butfromexperienceandjudgment.Whywouldthewiseoldoaksneedtosway,Whentheyhavealreadyfoundsatisfaction?

Roots of Wisdom

-Joe Brink ‘13

13

Anicetostoodthere,hischeckeredflannelshirtdrenchedwithperspiration.Thelandwasindomitable,hardenedbythemercilesssun.Ithadn’trainedforweeks,makingthevolcanicredsoilevenmoredifficulttotill.Histractorpacedalongperfectlytoplantthecornseedsexactlyfivecentimetersapart.Ifthebehemothmovedslowly,twoorthreeseedsclumpedtogether.Toofastandtheseedswerespacedtoofarapart,failingtomaxi-mizehisland’scroppotential.ButthehardworkdidnotdiscourageAniceto.Hewasafarmer;hisfatherwasafarmer,aswashisgrandfather.Farmfamiliesworkhard.Youreapwhatyousow.Someyears,thelandyieldedabountifulharvest,sellingthesurplustomolineros.Otheryears,notsomuchremained,buttherewasenoughtofeedtheentirefamily.Untilrecently. Neartheharvestseason,Anicetometwithhisbuyerstosethissalesprice.Thecorn-buyingcompaniesusuallysentlocals.Butnow,gringoforeigners,dressedinsilksuits,madeAnicetofeellowlywithhisdirtysandalsandstainedshirt.Thegringosknewmorethanholaandgracias,buttheirSpanishwasstillpainfultohear,fusedwithEng-lishphrasing.Aftervarioustranslationattempts,thegringosthreatenedthatifAnicetowantedtocontinueinthebusiness,hissalespricemustbecutinhalf.Thecompaniesdemandedhigherprofits,alertingAnicetoofpossibleuseofAmericansupplierswithcornathalfhisprice.Reluctantly,heceded. Inamatterofmonths,hisbusinesscollapsed.Hisfamilystarved.Anicetowascrushed.Streamsofsweatpouredfromhissun-beatenbody.Hetilledthesoilatanagetooyoungandspentsunrisetosunsetonatractorforhalftheyear.YethiseffortswereworthnothingtotheAmericancapitalists.Thetearshenowshedwereevenmoremean-ingless,tearsofabandoningthemillenariantraditionofhisancestors,thelivelihoodofhispresentdays,thesecurefutureofhischildren.AnicetohadnochoicebuttomovetoElNorte.Andsohedid. Unabletoobtainavisafromtheconsulate,Anicetousedthelastofhissavings–$5000–tohireacoyotewhowouldfacilitateentryintotheStates.OnceinAmerica,he

Aniceto

14

foundworkinoneofthelargestcornproducersinthecountry.Insteadofarrivinghometoreceivetheembraceofhisfamily,Anicetotrudgestotheentranceofaonebedroomapartment,occupiedbysixothermen.HesendsasmuchmoneyashecantohomeandpraystotheVirginMarythathewon’tgetsentback.

-Javier Mora ‘12

Mora

15

BarelyChildreninChiledescendintomines;Homeless,hungryfamiliesarestandinginlines.Ateenagerunawaysellingherself;Smallgroupsofpeoplehaveinequitablewealth.

Oldpeoplewarehousedinsterilesmallrooms;Mentalhealthpatientswanderinthegloom.Childsoldiersforcedintokillingandcrime;Weturnawayquickly,wedon’thavethetime.

Thepoorpickupriflestodefendoiloverseas;TheAmazonpeoplearestrippedoftheirtrees.Muslimsaretauntedandlookedatwithhate;PeoplearetreatedastoolsoftheState.

Brown-skinnedtravelerstrytocrossoverwalls;Childrenassembletofillupourmalls.Peopleofcoloraretreatedunfairly;Liberty?Justice?Equality?Barely.

-Cullen White ‘15

16

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14

Keithopenedhiseyesslowlywhileheuncoveredhisburiedthoughts,regrettingnotgoingtobedearlier,justlikeeverydaybefore.TheSaturdaythathehaddreadedforallofthepastweekcreptintohisstomachandopenedabagofbutterflies.Hisstomachroaredathim,pleadingforthesensationtostop.Ithadarrived,theleastappealingdayofhiswholelife,wherefearmetextremenervousness,settingamentalbarricadethatpreventedhimfromsprintingoutsidetoenjoythebeautifulbrightbluesky.Hesearchedoutthewindow,hehadnotseenawinterdaysobeautifulinallhislife.Thesnowonthegroundremainedperfectlywhite,andbestofall,hisfatherhadalreadyshoveledthedrive-way!Despitethebeautyheclosedhiseyesandstood.Hestretchedhisarmstowardstheceiling.Likeadogshakingthewaterfromitsfur,Keithreleasedthetightnessandsore-nessinhisbody.Theinitialsensationofhisgreatstretchblindedhimwithfuzzyblueandredstars,andhetumbledbackontohisbed. Theblacksportsjacketandthedresspantsrestedonthebedadjacenttohis.HeglaredatitbutdecidedinsteadtodressinadarkredChristmassweater.Keithknewhismomwantedhimtodressprofessionally,buthebelievedtheattiredidnotmatchthesituation.Keithhadparticipatedincountlesspianorecitals,andeverytimearrivedasthemostoverdressedpersonintheroom.Thepreviousyear,hismotherforcedhimtodressinablacksuitbyusinganemotionaloutbreakthateventhemostpowerfulmancouldnotbear.Hesarcasticallythought“Youwon’tembarrassmethisyear!”sohedidhisbesttoavoidtheall-seeingeyeofhismother. Whenhefinallywalkeddownstairs,henoticedafullplatethathismotherhadmadeforhim.Keithgulpedandsatdowntoenjoyhisextravagantbreakfastofhashbrowns,sausageandeggs.Whileheatehestudiedthesheetmusicofthepieceshewouldperforminanhour.Hestretchedouthislongfingers,closedhiseyesandtappedthetable,imaginingthepiano’skeysproducingtheirsoundbeforehim.HeimaginedtheharmonyofthekeysandtheChristmascheerradiatingfromthepiano’svibratingstrings.Hewasready,thepracticehehadputintothesepieceswouldfinallyplayoff,andwhenheopenedhiseyes,heimaginedthecrowdbeforehim,cheeringandclappingtotheoneand

Keith the Cannon

18

onlypianistthatsatisfiedtheirboredom. “ByeMom,Dad!” “Keith,wait!”Hisfatherraceddownthecracklingstepsandinspectedhisclothingcarefully. “Yep,youlookgreat,”hesaidwhilehebrushedlintoffhissweater.“Youdecidednottowearthesuit?”Hecoveredhismouthtoonesideandwhispered“Iagree,thatmusthavebeenembarrassingforyoulastyear.” “Yeah,ofcourse.” “Alright,goget‘em.” “BYE,KEITH,GOODLUCK!”hismomfromthebedupstairs. Hewalkedoutofthehouseandrevvedupthecar.Keithhadmanyworriesfortherecital;hehadaverytoughpiece,highexpectations,buthestillhadconfidence.Heknewthatoutofthetwentypianistswhowouldperform,hecouldmosteasilycatchthepar-ents’attention.Hisstomachgrowledwhenhethoughtaboutit,buthefigureditwastheeggs. Thecarparkedwellontheblackice.Hisblackdressshoescrunchedonimpactwiththesnow.Hepushedthecollege’sperformingartscenterdooropenandsquintedattheglowthatradiatedfromtheChristmasdecorations.Keithlookedaroundattherain-bowassortmentofChristmaslightscoveringeveryedgeofeverywall.TheDouglasFirChristmastreeinthemiddlereachedtotheceilingoftheeighteen-footroom,ornamentsandlightsfromtoptobottom.Theparentsofallthechildrenhadtakentheirseatsandquietlywaited.Everyagegroupfromfirsttotwelfthgradewasrepresented.Keithstoodnexttotheothersophomoreswhowouldperformandbrokethesilence. “Areyouguysnervous?” “Eh,notreally,justanxioustobeoverwithit.Ihaterecitals,justabsolutelydreadthem.” “Woah,Jake,they’renotthatbad.Idohatehowthelittlekidsallplay‘JollyOldSt.Nicholas’and‘UpontheHousetop’though.” “IbetyoudoTerry,Iguessyoudon’trememberwhenyouwerejustlearninghowtoplay.” “Yeah,well,Jake,theyallbasicallyplaythesamething,Iknowtherearenottoomanywell-known,incrediblyeasyChristmassongs,butatleasthavesomecreativity.” “O.K.,Keith,you’reright,justdon’tstealtheshowlikeyoualwaysdo.” Keithwinkedandturnedtowardsthecrowdwithanervouslyconfidentcounte-nance.Hereallywantedtostealtheshow;heloveditwhenheheardthewhoopsofthecrowd,astheysimultaneouslyrose.Hebegantofeeldifferently,likehedidnotspendenoughtimewiththepieces,butheshookhisheadandthoughtpositively. Thelightsdimmedandhetookhisseat.HesattotheleftsideofTerry,who

Dries

19

shookwhentheM.C.introducedthefirstperformer.Onebyone,thesmallkidsper-formedtheircheerfulsongsofjoy,eachreceivingan“Aw”fromtheaudienceastheyturnedandbowed.TheperformerbeforeKeithfinishedandglancedathim.Keithrose,tookhisseatatthepianoandplacedhishandsonthebrightwhiteandblackkeys.Hespreadhisfingersgentlyoverthecoldivoryandbreatheddeeply. Keithbegan,pressingthekeysintheorderandtimingtheaudiencehadbeenwaitingfor.Thejazzyrenditionof“LetitSnow”flowedfromthesparklingBabyGrand.Outofthecornerofhiseye,henoticedthecrowdstaringathislongfingerssmoothlyflyingupanddownthekeys.Theunexpectedtwist,thathedaringlychosetoperform,hittheaudienceatfullspeed.Amedley!Hebeganplaying“WhataWonderfulWorld”byLouisArmstrong.Theaudienceheldtheirbreathforwhatwouldcomeofthisunexpect-edtwist.Hethenperfectlytransitionedto“TheChristmasSong(ChestnutsRoasting),”andfinishedwith“PachelbelCanoninDMajor.”Theaudienceboltedup,whileKeithstoodandtookhisbow.Helookedintothebrightlightandnoticedthesmilingfacesinfrontofhim.Hecouldnothelpbutsharethesmilewhenhesawhisparentsandsisterwhistlingandclappingforhim.TheornamentsoftheChristmastreebehindthecrowdsparkledandKeithexhaledashetookhisseat,readytoenjoytherestoftheperformers.

-Matt Dries ‘13

Dries

20

Ofcourse,hernamewasAmy,that’sthewholereasonwe’rehere,right,totalkaboutAmyZephyr,whichImustsayisaprettygreatnameinitself,right,Imeanwhohasanamelike“Zephyr”anyway;youjustdon’tseeit.Butanyway–Istartedtofeelsorryforthisman’spoorstudents–ifIhadtogiveherone,notthatanyoneaskedatthetime,butyoudidnow,soI’mgoingtogorightaheadandtellyou,whattheheck,right,butifIhadtogiveheraname,itwouldhavebeenSilence.Nowobviously,that’salittleabstract;infact,ifyouthinkaboutit,“Silence”doesn’treallyexist,or,atleast,it’ssoraretothepointthatnooneIknowhaseverexperiencedit,right?”Justlookingatthisonpaper,IcannotbelieveIsurvivedthatinterview.Well,IsupposeevenTHATisn’ttrue.Thedeafliveinsilenceallthetime,butIdon’tthinktheyactuallyunderstandit,simplybecauseit’salltheyknow.Ormaybetheyunderstanditbetterthananyoneelse.Buthowcanyouun-derstandsomethingwithoutcomparingittosomethingelse? DearGod...ItoldyouIliketoramble.‘Ishouldhavepackedupandleftthenandthere,’Irememberthinking.Therehadtohavebeensomeonewhoknewherbetterthanthisguy,butIhadtalkedtothemall–family,friends,everyone–andIthinktheyallhadtriedtoglorifyher.Ithoughtmaybe,withMr.Morgenstern’suniqueperspectivethatonlyherEnglishteachercouldhavehad,perhapshewouldbealittlemore...removed,shallwesay,fromthegirlherself.Perhaps,Ithought,hewillbetheonetogivemethatmostelusiveofallthingsinlife:anhonest,unbiasedreport.Itwasworthit,butbarely. Anyway. A-hem.Excuseme. Butthat’showshewas!Inevergotthefeelingshewasactuallythereduringclass,Imean,shewasphysicallythere,andIsawheratprom,but...Listen,I’mnotsayingshewasbraindead.Oneofthebrighteststudentsinherclassafterall,butshewasalwaysquiet,reserved.No,morethanthat.Shewassilentandself-isolated.Doesn’tthatjustbringtomindapictureofarandomislandwithasinglepalmtreeandoneguysittingthereallbyhimselfforever?Eyeesh,amIright?Well,no,butIdidthinkthatthatwaswherethismanbelonged.HesimplycouldNOTgettothepoint.Almostasifshedidn’tthinkshehadanythingimportanttosay,which,bytheway,isoneoflife’sgreatcrimes,self-doubt,there’ssimplynotimeforit.Justtaketheleap,right,don’twonderifyoucanmakeitornot.

Carried Away

21

BacktoAmythen,shallwe?Soshestruckmeasvery,verysilent,butnotjustlit-erally,sheseemedtoexistonlyasanidea,asaconcept,butwhenyouactuallytriedtotalktoheryoufoundthatnothingwasthere.Noncommittalanswers,ifyougotanyatall,blankstareswiththosebottomless,emptyeyes.Herpapers?Novoice.Flatandunemo-tional,nohiddenmessages,nobias.Don’taskmehow,butshepulleditoff,andnowIwishIhadhadthechancetoaskherhowshedidit,becauseIknownexttonothingaboutthisgirlwhoexistedforseventeenandahalfyears–notjustarounding,mindyou,sheactuallywasseventeenandahalfyearsoldwhenithappened,isn’tthatjustcrazy?Whoelsediesontheirhalfbirthday?Butthen,shewasreallyunique,wasn’tshe,nooneelsequitelikeher. I’mstillpuzzlingoverherdeath,justsoyouknow,andhowitallplayedout. Soshewaswalkinghomefromclass,andshetookthisweirdroutethroughtheparkonatrailrightnexttotheriver,onthebankoppositefrommyhouse,soIhadaprettygoodviewbythetimeIgothome.Theweirdpartisthistrailisthereallyout-of-the-wayonethatnooneelsetook,Iguessshemusthavelikedsolitude,whichisanotherinconceivablethingabouther,right,howcouldanyonewanttobealone?Butshe’swalk-ingbytheriverallalonewhenshenoticesthekid.Ipulledintomydrivewayrightaboutnow.Whoknowshowhegotintheriver,butitwasmovingprettyfastandsosheprob-ablyfiguredshewouldn’thavemuchtime,sorightawayshejumpsinandstartskickingandflailingtoreachwherehewasgoingtobe,becauseshehastotakethecurrentintoaccount,right,shecan’tjustjumpinandsavehim,whichshesomehowdid,andkeptshovinghimtowardsthefarbankuntiltheybothhitafallenlog.Hegrabbeditwhilethebigolddeadpieceofwoodbrainedhersohardastomakeherunconscious,andsoshedrowned,whilehesurvived.Ihadgottenoutofmycar,rundownthehill,andreachedhimbythispoint,soIwasabletogethimoffthelogandnotifytheauthoritiestoexpectabodyfloatingdowntheriversoon.Inretrospect,theyprobablywerejustalittlefreakedoutaboutit,andifIhadleftmynameandnumbertheyprobablywouldhavearrestedme.Butfifteenyearoldsneedmoreattentionthanpoliceofficersdowhentheformerhasjustbeenfoundclingingtoadeadfallinariver.Theboy’snamewasJack,that’sallhetoldme,nolastname,justJack,andIdon’tthinkherealizedatthetimewhatasacrificeshehadmadeforhim,hewasjusttryingtogetwarm,butlaterhedid.Wehavebecomegoodfriends,heandI,theonlyrealwitnessestooneofthestrangesteventsI’veeverseen.-SamuelMorgenstern SothisiswhatIhave,we’llseeifIendupusinganyofit.Ihavetotakethestory,though.Forsomereason,IjustknowIdo.

-Daniel Tsuji ‘13

Tsuji

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Lost in the City (photography)

-Harper Robison ‘12

Everyonepretendsthateverythingisfine,weallwearfacades,sunglasses,make-up,tattoos,clothing,skin-piercings,fakesmiles,toughguyattitudes,there’smore,always,alwayswillbemore,afewthingsthatgenerationsandtimelineshaveincom-mon...disguises,lies,counterfeitfictitiousmake-believeyellow-bellygutlessmouse-likepessimist...whofeeltheneedtomisrepresentthemselvesbydistortingtheirpersonali-ties,complexionsandidentities...butforwhom?othersthatdothesame,whyclonesomeone’segoandpersonality...,mutuality,mutualityincopyingforanotherbeing’sbeing,whathappenswhenthereisnooneelselefttoplagiarizefrom,areyouthenlost,lostatsea,likealonechannelmarker,oralone,alonewithyou,buthowcanyoubealonewithsomeoneyouhaveneverknownbefore,knownwell,beenaround,figuredout,copedwith...copewithit,itbeingyourself,canyoutalktoyourself,Imean...anythingispos-sible,possiblemeaningyoucould,butifyoudo,ifyoudotalktoyourself,areyouasocialoutcastforgettingtoknowyourself...yourtrueself,yourtruebeing,Iguess...Iguessinsomepeople’seyesyouare,butwhatdoyousee,whatdoyouseewithyoureyes,whenyoulookuponyourface...doyouseethetruthordoyouseemanylies...doyouseehappinessorseemuchremorse...,smilesorcries,criesandsmiles,Imean...Iamonlyasimplecatalyst,acatalystsuchasanenzyme,anenzymecausingreactionsinthebrainsofmanyreaders,butthinkaboutit,areyoubeingtherealyou...or...areyoupretend-ing...pretendingtobesomethingyouarenot...Icannotanswerthesequestionsforyou,butIcansay,loveyouforwhoyouare,whatyoustandfor,andloveyouforyou...Everyonepretends...but...Iknow...that...you...do...not...need...to...

The Brave Voice

-Dineo Black ‘13

24

Portrait (photography) -Connor Martin ‘13 &

Dineo Black ‘13

Toes First Toesfirst,“easyenough,”thenfollowthecalves,“nottoobad,”nowcomethethighs,“boythat’scold.”Finally,thewaistsubmergesandsoonenoughtheonlythoughtofthechildishowtoescape,howtobecomewarmandgetoutofthisfrigidwater.Hethinksofwarmthings–applecider,ahottub,everyblanketheownscoveringhim.Stillshivering,lostandscared,thechilddigsbackintohisimagination.Fire,hotchocolate,lyingnexttohisfive-montholdBorderCollie.Openinghiseyes,heseesthesun,“thesuniswarm,”thechildthinks.Allthechildwantsisthesun.Hethenrealizesheisnolongershivering.Thecoldhasgoneaway.Hewasabletogetwarm,becausehethoughtaboutbecomingwarm.“Thisisamazing,”thischildwhispersunderhisbreath.Thechildnowthinkseverythingisachievablethroughhisimagination.“MaybeIcanhavemyactionfig-uresactuallyflywhenIthrowthem!”theboythinksvividlywhilekickinghislegstostayafloatinthepool. “Timmy!” Quicklysnappingoutofhisdaydream,thechildturnsaround. “Yes?”repliestheboy. “Haveyouwarmeduptothepoolwateryet,”questionshismother. Everythingthathasbeengoingthroughtheboy’smindnowstops.“Myimagina-tionisuseless.”Theboy’smotherhasinadvertentlycrushedherson’screativityfortherestofhislife,asimplequestionruinshisthoughtpatternfortheremainderofhislife.It’safunnythinghowmuchthelittlethingsmatter.

-Steven Ambroch ‘13

26

“Ifeellightheaded,”shesaidinherrathernoticeableItalianaccent. Itstickswithme,asequenceofratherunfortunateeventsthatwillneverescapemymemory.Theclangingofpans,thethumpingofthehead,thescreams,mycryforhelp,“Nonna,Nonna!She’sfallen,callforhelp.”Iwassurrounded,surroundedbyotherswhowitnessedthefallbutinthatmomentIfeltalone.IfeltthatitwasjustmyNonnaandI,deathpairedwithlife.TheremyNonnawas,aninstrumentalfigureinmyshortlife,lyingonthehardtanwoodenfloorofthehousewheresheraisedmymother.Herheadremainedtiltedagainstthedarkbrownwoodendoorthatshehadbangedherheadinto.Secondsseemedlikehoursandbeforewecouldcallformedicalassistance,myNonnahadreturnedtoaconsciousstateofmind. Boom!HerloudItalianaccentechoedthroughouttheratherlargekitchen.“Leavemealone,Isimplyfell,nothingiswrongwithme.”Ofcourse,itwasmytypicalNonna.Alltoooftenshewoulddownplaytheseverityofarelativelyimperativesituation.Asshefinishedhersentence,thepresenceofmyfamilywhohadbeensurroundingmethroughouttheincidentreturned. Mymother,thedaughterofmyNonna,steppedin,“Mom,youdidn’tjustfall,youfainted.Somethingiswrongwithyouandweneedtotakeyoutothehospital.”MyNonnaansweredinarathersterntone,“Iwouldprefernotto.”MybrothersandIhelpedherofftheground,sittingherdowninacomfychairatthekitchentable.MymotherapproachedmyNonnaandvigorouslyrubbedthenewlyformedbumponthebackofherhead.Itookaseatjustafewfeetaway.IlookedaroundtheroomreplayingtheincidentinmymindwiththecomfortthatmyNonnaseemedtobeokayatthepres-entmoment.MybrotherpouredmyNonnaafreshglassofwaterandsheslowlysippeditdowntoitslastdrop.MymothercontinuedtorubmyNonna’shead,thefrictionofmymother’sfingersandmyNonna’sbumpcreatedaconsistentandirritatingnoise.MyeyeswanderedallovertheroomeventuallysettlingagainonNonna,onlytofocusonthefactthatmyNonnahadagainfallenintoanunconsciousstateofmind. “Mom!Mom,stop!...Nonna...”Mymouthfrozeandmybraincouldnot

The Beauty of Death

27

Self Portrait (pencil on paper )-Alex Bennett ‘12

configuretherightmotionsthatwouldaidinhelpingmyNonna.Herfingersformedintoafist,hereyeballsdroopedbackintoherhead,andherbodywiltedunresponsively.Itwaslifeleavingabody,rightinfrontofmyeyes.Isawdeathtakeoveraperson,rightbeforemyeyes.Ihadneverexperiencedsomethingsomoving,somethingsoemotional,andsomethingsochilling.Itmademecringe;itmademefeelhopeless.Shewasbeingtakenaway;GodwasremovingmyNonnafrommylife.Ialwayslookedatdeathasaninevi-table,naturalpartoflife.ButIwasdeadwrong.Therewasnothingnaturalaboutit.Itwashorrifyingandsneaky.Itcameunannouncedanditwasnotwelcome.Itleftmesickandparalyzedwithfear.Deathgavemesuchanawkwardfeeling,afeelingthatneededtobeexamined. Isatinthewaitingroomofthehospitalwithmybrothers.MymotherandfatherwaitedintheIntensiveCareroomwithmyNonna,anxiouslyawaitingnewsthatwouldforeverchangethecourseofourlives.Iwasconfused,Ididnotknowwhattodowithmyself.Mymindkeptthinkingoflifeanddeath,andthepowerstrugglebetweenthem.IclosedmyeyesandkeptreplayingthatterriblesceneatthekitchentablewhereIsawdeathdescendonahelplesshumanbeing.Thathauntingimageofdeathcontrastedjag-gedlywiththecountlessimagesoflifethatIhaveexperienced.Deathwassofrightening,socoldbutthemoreIthoughtaboutit,Ibegantounderstandthetruereasonfordeath.Freedom,loveandappreciationallwereclearcharacteristicsoflifebutafterexperiencingactualdeath,myapproachchanged.Deathmademeappreciatemylifemore,deathmademelovelifetothefullest,deathmademeapproachtheideaoffreedommuchdifferently.AsmuchasIappreciatedandlovedmyNonna,deathmademeappreciateandloveherevenmore.Myphilosophytowardfreedomcompletelychanged,ashumanbeingswearenotentirelyfreenomatterwhatkindofsocietywelivein;rather,deathisfreedom.Deathmaytakeawayalovedonebutdeathtakesawaytherestraintsoflife,itself.Deathcanleadonetoaplaceknownasheaven,aplacethatputsasideinjustice,inequality,andviolence.Itleadstoaplaceoffreedom.Icametorealizesomuch.Despiteallthedistrac-tionthatcouldhaveinterferedwithmyreflection,IlearnedsomuchfromexperiencingsomethingIwishedIwouldneverface. “Youthinkshe’salright,Franco,”mybrother,JohnCarlo,askedmenervously. “NeverwouldIhavethoughtthiswouldhappen.She’sneverevenhadacold.” “Yeah,Ihopesheis.Deathmightbescarybutafterthinking,Irealizedwecan’tbescaredofit,”Ireplied.Momentslater,myparentsandadoctorwalkedsolemnlytowardsmybrothersandme.IwasanxioustofindouttheconditionofmybelovedNonna,andsearchedintotheirfacialexpressionforsomekindofaclue.Theheelsonmymother’sshoesclickedandclackeddownthehallwayastheyapproachedus.Iliftedmyheadandmumbled,“Please.” “Bethankful,sayaprayer,forweareveryblessed,”mymothersaidastearsbuilt

Joyce

29

upinhereyesbeforegravitypulledthemdownherrosycheeks. “YourNonnadied,twotimesbeforeyoureyes.Andtwotimes,beforeyoursameeyes,yourNonnacamebacktoyou.She’sastubbornItalianlady,that’sforsure.Tonight,begladforherstubbornness,foritbroughtherbacktoyou,”thedoctorstated.“Butdon’tworry,boys,yourNonnaisingoodhands.Deathleftempty-handedtonight,thankGod.”ThesweatypalmsofmyhandopenedupandIreachedmylong,lengthyarmsoutto-wardsthedoctorwhocontributedtomyNonna’scontinuationoflife. “Godbless,Doctor.”Isloucheddownintheverychairwheremymindsetoflifeanddeathchanged.Experiencingdeathwasscary,itwaswickedbutIlearnedthetruthbehindit.Ilearnedit’sunavoidable.Ilearnedthat,yeah,ithasadarksidebutthereisacolorfulrainbowbehindit.Arainbowthat,infact,canshinebrighterthanlife.

-JohnFranco Joyce ‘13

Joyce

30

From One Generation to Another ShedreamedaboutthismomentaslongasIcanremember.“I’mgoingtobesohappy,”shewouldtellme.“Ijustcan’twait.”Shehadbeenwaitingalongtime.Afterall,ithadbeeneighteenlongyearssincemymotherhadseenherfamily.IstoodnexttoherintheportofNaples,ItalyandIstudiedherlikeneverbefore.Shewasnervousandnoticeablyfocusedonherimage.Sheconstantlylookedatherreflectioninanywindowshecouldfind,fixingeverywindblownstrandofherlongbrownhair.Itwassostrange,forinallmyyearsIcan’trememberhereverevenlookinginamirror.Shehadpulledherhairbackthismorningandglossedherlips.Shemusthaveaskedmeamilliontimes,“doIlookgood,Idon’tlookoverdone,doI?” Witheachquestion,Imonotonouslyresponded,“youlookfine,Momma.”Butreally,shedidn’tlookfine,shelookedbetterthanfine.Sheworeamodern,colorfuldress,andsheseemedmoreyouthfulthanusual.Perhapsshewastryingtolookthatway,likethelasttimeherunclehadseenher.Shemovednervouslybackandforth,peeringoverpeopleastheypassedby,searchingdesperatelyforafamiliarface.Butwoulditbeafamiliarface,Iwondered?Afterall,eighteenyearswasalong,longtime.Surelythepeopleshelookedforwouldbeolder,greyer,different.She,too,wasdifferent.Lasttimetheysaweachother,mymotherwasayounggirl,fullofdreamsandwithherwholelifeaheadofher.Nowshewasamother,withhalfherlifebehindher.ShepracticedhersmileagaininthewindowandIwatchedherhandsshakeasshefixedherhaironceagain.Sheturnedtoresumehersearchandsuddenlypausedmidstep.Herbodyleaptforwardinadesperateattempttostoptheoldmanwhohadjustbrushedpasther.Shegrabbedtheshort-sleevedshirtthatwaspassingherbyandherfacefilledwithemotion.Iwatchedhertrydesperatelytomovehermouthintothesmileshehadpracticedsomanytimes.Instead,Isawherlipsbegintotrembleandhereyesfillwithtearsassheblurted“ZioPep-pino...ZioPeppino...Sonoio,Sandra...” Anoldmanturnedhishead,andhis78-yearoldbodyfeeblyfollowed.Hisfacewaspaleandanxious,andhiseyesseemedtiredfromwhatmusthavebeenadesperateandunusualsearchforhim,too.ButIsawtheeyesonlyamoment,forwithinseconds

31

theyfloodedwithtearsandhisfacetwistedintoadesperate,overwhelmedexpression.Old,thickhandscoveredhisfaceashebegantosob,loudlyandviolently.Thepainandemotioninhiscriesbroughttearstomyeyes.Mymotherwrappedherarmsaroundtheman,andthetwobodiesheldontoeachothersotightly,cryingshamelesslyforalltohearastheyheldeachotherup.Theiremotioncontaminatedthosearoundthem,anditwasnotlongbeforeallofuswerecryingwiththem.Thetwodidnotseparateforwhatseemedlikeages,andtheydidnotspeak.Theydidnothavetofortheirtearslamentedthepainandlonelinessthatsomanyyearsofseparationhadcarvedintotheirheartswhilesimultaneouslyrejoicinginareunionthattheyhadonlydreamedoffortwodecades.Slowly,othersobbingfamilymembersbegantolatchontomymotherandtheoldman,untileventuallyIwitnessedthebiggestandmostmovinggrouphugIhaveeverseenformbeforemyeyes.Icouldnolongerseethecolorsofmymother’sdressmoveinthesun-light,forshehadbeenengulfedbythatseaofpeople.Thiswasnotthereunionshehadimagined.Therewasnosmilingandnoelegantexchangeofwords.Therewasnosuper-ficialcomplimentsandnoformalintroductionsoffamily.Allofherpracticingandallofherpicture-perfectexpectationwasfornothing;rawemotionhadtakencontrolofthemomentanddidnotrelinquishitscontrol.Whenshefinallysubmergedfrombeneaththepileofhugs,herhairwasasmessyasusualandherfacewasabig,redmess.Butitdidnotmatter,forsheradiatedanelationIhaveneverseenbeforeandshewasbeautiful.Poignantly,naturallybeautiful!Justthen,Ifeltalighttouchonmyshoulder.AsIturned,ahandsomeyoungmangentlywhispered“JohnFranco?JohnFranco?Sonoio,CarloAl-berto...tuocugino...”

-JohnFranco Joyce ‘13

Joyce

32

Mon

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ThemallardduckhadenteredflightAboveitsfavoritelake.ThemorningsunroseintheeastThedayswilljustawake.ItsemeraldheadandyellowbeakGlistenedinthesun.ItflewadrifttoshowthemoffNotnoticingthegun.Thesoundhadstartledeverything!Chaosnowensued.TheduckhadtakenagreatdiveIntoitsfavoriteblue.

The Duck

-Ben Kohler ‘12

34

It’snowmorevividthanever,mesittingonthislawn. ItwasawarmDecembermorning,mysisterandIplayedandranabout,thensattopetthedog.Ourhomestoodtheresmallbutsturdy,surroundedbyflowersandpalmtrees.Ourpineapplefieldlaybehindus–awaysfromharvesting,andyouhungourclothesastheyswayedinthewind.Welaughedasthedoglayonhisback–stomachup;thesoundofanairplaneinthedistanceremindedmeofPapa.Youtookthelaundrybasketinsideandwecontinuedrubbingthedog’sbelly,theplanesoundingcloser.Yousmiledatusthroughthekitchenwindowbutthenglancedup,gasped,disappeared,burstintothebackyardandstaredup.Confused,Iturnedandsawaplane,followedbyanotherand,thentwentymore,allabsurdlylow.Thefirstblewoverouryard,theclotheslinewentwild,andadarkshadowcoveredourfaces.Youfranticallywhispered,thensprintedandcarriedustothesideofthehouse,whippedopenthecellardoorsandthrewusin. Isatonthisporch,atonetimeabletogofreelythroughthedoorbehindit.ThesunwassettingandPapawouldbehomeanyminutenow.Mysisterabovemeplayinginherroomandyoustillonthephoneleftmealone,waiting.Sincethecellarithadbeenastrangeday:westayedthereforaboutanhour.Itseemedliketen.Youwereshakingthewholetimeandoncewecameout,youimmediatelygotonthephone.IsatontheporchforanotherhourbeforeIwentinsidetoaskwherePapawas.Ifoundyoucrouchedonthefloor,breathingheavily.Youlookedupatme,tearsstreamingdownyourface,youreyes...toomuchformetounderstandthen,buttheybecamethebaneofmychildhood,almostmylife. Thisroadusedtoseemsolong,nowIwishitwouldneverend.Leadingstraightintotown,itwastheonlyoneIhadeverwalkedasachild. Itwasharvestingseasononceagainandasuccessfuloneatthat.Thewheelbar-rowgrewheaviereverystep,andaftereighttripsintotownandbackIwasexhausted,butthatwasmyjob–thatwaswhatyouneededmetodo.Wehadfriendsandneighborscomeovertohelpus,justaswedidforthem.Youstartedsewing–asidefromfarm-ing.Youworkedatasmallfactoryintownmakingclothesforthesoldiers.Youcriedformonths.Icriedwithyousometimes,butothersleftyoualone.Youstillhadallhisclothes

My ‘You’ Moments

35

andnevertouchedhissideofthebed.Youwouldstareatpicturesofhimforamomentthenturnawayandtrytooccupyyourselfasthetearscamerunningdownyourface.Al-thoughyouweredrowninginsorrowthroughoutthosemonths,youneverstoppedbeingourmother.Youdidn’tmissmypianorecitalsorignoreyourdaughter’smanyquestions.Youcheckedourhomeworkeverynightandconsistentlymadeusthreemealsaday.YouevenserveddinnerthatnightIfoundyouonthefloor. Thisbeachhasproventobetimeless.Stillcleanandprivate,justthewayweleftit.Onemorningyoucamedownstairs,yourarmsfilledwithboxesandadeterminedgazeresidinginyoureyes.Yousaidweweregoingtothebeach.Shocked,weevenhadtoremindyouwehadschool;yousaidwewereskippingittoday.Wesatthereastonished,thensprintedupstairstogetoursuitson.Westayedatthisbeachforhoursplayingandswimming;wehadn’thadthatmuchfunsincePapa.Oncethesunbegansetting,youcontinuedtosurpriseusbytakingusouttoeatatthatsmalldinerintown.Fromthatdayforward,Ineversawyoushedanothertear.Youleftyourmourningbehindandcarriedyoursorrowlikeabadgeonyourdress. Thatbenchovertherewaswherewemadethatdecision–theonethatsavedus. Thereyousat,yourhandinyourdaughter’s,lookinghealthyasahorse.Itseemedasifyouwerefadingforawhile,butasalways,youbouncedbackwiththatbeautifulfe-rocityonlyyoucouldmuster.Istoodthereinmycapandgownandtrulyfeltlikemyselfagain,buthappier.AfeelingIhadn’tfeltsinceweleftthisisland.Iguessevensinceheleftus.Ilookatthatpictureyearslater,andcanstillfeelyourprideseepingintomeasyousqueezedmyarm. DownthattrailiswhereIwenttoschool,inthatsmallbrownbuilding:theplacewhereIbegantolearn. Youheldhimsogentlybutfirm.Yousawyourlossesinhim.Itmademesad.Myjoyremindingyouofyourpast:thatdamnsorrowfulpastofyours–ours.Iknowyoulovedhim.Youappreciatedthatresemblanceandthememoriesandtheydon’tstinganymore–moresoothing,Iguess.Youwouldholdhimthewholetimewheneveryoucouldseehim,andthesamewithherlater.Youtreatedthemjustasyoudidus,asyourlife–splitintofournow.Youinsistedontakingthemtotheirfirstdaysofschool,andofcourse,weagreed. ThesunhereiswhatImissthemost,likenootherplaceintheworld.Allofittouches.Itreacheseverycorner,everyface. You’dneverlieaboutfeelingbad,butwouldnevercomplainaboutiteither.Thesunlighthityourfacethroughthewindow,highlightingthestrengthstillresidingthere.Thatbedwasyourhomenow,yourisland.Itcameonslowthough,nothingsudden,noshock,nottwice.Wehadourtime.Wesaidgoodbye,holdingourhandsandpeacefullyyouwent.

Sileno

36

Big

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-Dan

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3

Icomeherenow,backtothisinfamousharborforyou.Idon’tquiteknowwhy,foreverscarredfromthatoneviolentmorning,butIguessitdoesn’tmatter.Onlywhatyouthinkdoes–yourreuniting,itmustbeforhim.Sobackonthisisland,yourdaughterbesideme,infrontofthishallowedgraveyard,weletyougo,intothewind,hopingyoufindhim.

-Neil Sileno ‘13

38

Sileno

39

-Marquese Robinson ‘12

The World Around UsStirredbyexistencespinningindefinitelyarhythmthatechoesgods.Whatabafflingcocoontoallsapiensalike(foritslimitsremainmysteries).Acloserlookwoulddothesame.

CouldtherebeanotherbeautifulmarblewhereVision!Flavor!Texture!Aroma!Vibration!offersitsdistinctlayerofmagic?–Collectively,thegrandeurofexperience–

Impulsesfromswimmersandaviatorsdancethedeepestofblues,huesblossomfromthebarrenprairiesinacollageofperfumes,acousticsrollacrossthelandscape–sandygreendunes–everysecond.

Nature’scall–louderthantheBluetoothedmouthsbarkingoverit–heldstilldearbythetenderearsofpassionatedreamerswhisperingontheedgesofcivilization.Thesightmightcatchyoureyeandmakeyoudothesamewerenotyourphonealreadyintheway.

Poe (scratchboard 8x10)-Ivan Herrada ‘12

MyHonda’swheelscametoastop.IpulledintothedrivewaytopickupJessica.Fatheralwaysforcedmetobeagentlemen,sonaturallyIsteppedoutofmycartoopenthepassengersidedoor.JessandIhavebeendatingfortwoyears,butIstillfeltnervous.DespitethefactI’veseenheraboutamilliontimes,mykneesremainedweakandmypalmssweaty.Theoldscreendooronherquainttwo-storycottageopenedwithouttheslightestuseofforce.Istillcouldn’tseeher.Thismomentfeltlikehours.Inherredflatsshewalkedtowardmewithconfidence.Eyecontactremainedtheentiretimeherthinlittlelegstookanotherstepcloser.Wedidn’tshareaword.Shewalkedrightupandgavemeabigkissstraightonthelips.“HiWilly,”shesaidwiththecutestsmile.Onlytheverytopofherteethandgumsshowedwheneithersideofhermouthshotacrosshercheeks.Itwasonlyelicitedafterwekissed.Justseeingthissmilemadeitcontagious.Icouldn’thelpmyselfbuttogiggle,andsmileinthesameway.“Howareya?”Iasked,stillwithasmileonmyface.“Good”shesaid.Butitwasn’tanordinary“good.”AddaboutsixmoreO’stothewordandaslightbendupanddowninpitchandyouhaveJess’s“good.”Suchasimpleandoverusedwordcomfortedme.Shesatinthecarwithherlegscrossedandfin-gersinterlocked,sittingatopherkneecap.Iclosedthedoorafterher.Iturnedmyheadtobackoutofhertwistinggraveldriveway.Ilovedbackingoutofherdriveway.Herlongwavybrownhairwentdowntoherlap.Sheparteditinabundancetotheleftside.Herthighssqueezedtogetherinacrossedposition,givingthemathickappearance.Sheal-wayscomplainsaboutherlegs,butIthinkthey’resexy.ThemodestsideofJessdisagreed.Shehasanosering.Itdoesn’tfitherreservedpersonalityatall.Everytimeshekissesmesheturnstothesidewithoutthering.WehaveneverspokenofitbutIknewshewoulddoitevenbeforethefirsttimewekissed.

I Can’t HelpMyself

-Oliver Wierdsma ‘1241

AlthoughIcanhearthefainthumofcitybuses,policesirens,andrestlessUWMstudents,wearetheonlycarstoppedonLocustandHumboldt.ThelightturnsgreenandDjordje’sgreyMercurywhipsaroundthecornerandontoLocust.Asoftorangeglowfromtherustedstreetlightsilluminatestheroad,oilpuddlesandfilth.TonightisDjord-je’slastnight. “C’mon,itwasn’tevengoingtobefun.Toomanycollegekidsatthebeachatnight.”Turningtotheon-ramp,thecarsurgesforward,mystomachdropsandmyneckmusclesstiffen.Insteadofgoingtothebeach,Djordjedecidedthatwe’dcruisethehigh-way. “Coupleweeksandyou’llbeoneofthem.”Jawclenching,hedoesn’tanswer.Fin-gersonthestereo,heflipsthroughacouplesongsbeforepunchingtheconsolewithhisfist.Musicflowsthroughthespeakers.Thecloudsopenupandrainpattersthewindows.Theforceofthebasswashesovermelikewarmrainwashesthecar.Djordje’shandsloosentheirholdonthewheel. “Wherearewegoing,”Iask. “Idon’tknowyet.Let’sjustdriveforawhile.” “Haveyoupack...,”BeforeIfinishheinterrupts. “No,no!Ihavenotpackedyet.”Hishandstightenaroundthewheel.It’sthefirsttimeI’veeverheardhimscream.Speedincreasing,hebeginstochangelanesmorefre-quently,needlessly.Therainpicksup,blurringthewindshield. “Alotofpeoplegetpulledoveronthisstretch,chilloutwiththespeeding.” “Areyouserious?Idrivehereallthetime,we’refine,”hesays,lookingdirectlyatme. “You’restupid,slowdown!You’re‘bouttogetuspulledover.”Iusuallydon’tyell. “I’mnot,”hesays,wordssternandslow.Everylittletouchofthewheelinthewrongdirectionviolentlyjerksthebodyofthecar.Ipullmyhoodup,lookoutthewindowatthedistantcitylights.ClosingmyeyesIseethebeach,thecalmwaves,feelthesoftsandbeneathmyhead.Iscoopahandfulofitand,despitemytightgrip,itslips

It’s Early Yet

42

outthebottom.Mybreathingslows,sweetsummerairfillingmylungs.Timecrawlshere.Theskies,blueandbright,hostawarmsun.TheslightcrashofsmallwavesuponarocklessshoreprovidesacomfortingrhythmtowhichIbreathe.Djordje’selbowbumpsthewheelandmyheadslamsintothecold,hardwindow.Thud!Hegrabsthewheelandrealignsus. “Don’tfallasleeponmenexttime,”hesays.Iglareathim.Blooddribblesoutofatinycutabovemyeye,heseestheredonmyfingertipsandturnsthevolumeup. “Getoff,justgetoffthedamnhighway!”Myeyeisswelling.Ipunchthevolumeandsitback,mynostrilsflared,heartpounding.Djordjegetsoffonthelakefront.HepullsintotheBradfordparkinglot.Shouldersslumping,hisheadrollsback,chinup,eyesclosed.Phonevibrating,hereachesforhispocket:anothertextfromhismom.Threelongandslowdeepbreaths,thenhesmashesthehorntentimesandstepsoutofthecar.Withthesnapofhisarm,hisphonelandsinthelake.Igetoutandrestmyarmsontopofthecar.Myfingersrunoverthecutabovemyeye.WillitbelikethiswhenIleave? “Shewantstometocomehomeandpack.Ijustcan’tdoit,dude,there’snoway.”Thewatershimmerswiththepurplelightofthemoon.Putridexhaustfromthemid-nightbus,thestenchofdeadfishandrottingsewage.“I’llmissthebeach,”hesays. “Iknow.Iwilltoo.C’mon,let’sjustdriveforawhile,”Isay.Henodsinsilentagreement,breathingheavily.Hegetsintothepassenger’sseat.“Youcanpacktomor-row,”Isay,takingthewheel,“it’searlyyet.”

-Brendan Andrews ‘13

Andrews

43

When I See My Mother (acrylic on canvas 24x18)-Ivan Herrada ‘12

Inthepictureshelay,waitingTobeseenbehindthestubbleOfcornstartingtobud–notmovingFortheloveofhersister.Thatwhichamazedmewasthere,Amirroronthewallofthekitchen.Wheretostart?TheconversationIbegan-Askingaboutpeace–wheredoesitlive?Shesaid,withlove,thatunderMyroofresidesmysister,whosaid,Withasmileonherface–“thereisnoBondgreaterthanours,offriendshipandpeace.”

The Mirror

-Connor Diffley ‘12

45

“Doyouthinkhekilledpeople?” “I...Iwouldthinkso.Itwashisjob,Perry.”Sheputherarmsaroundhimfrombehindandrestedherchinonhisshoulder.Normallyshecouldnotdothisbecauseofhisenormousheight,buthewassittingdownnow,hunchedoverthekitchentableandgraspingamugofcoffeethathadgonecoldovertwohoursago.“You’vebeensittingherestaringoutthewindowatthatrottingbarnforquitesometimenow,honey.Youshouldgetupanddosomething.” “Howareyouokaywiththis?”heaskedabruptly.Shepulledaway.Heletgoofthemugandturnedtofaceher,allowinghertoseehisredmoisteyes.“Howcanyoujustgoon?He...hewasyourstoo,Jenny.” “Hewasours,Perry.Butwecan’tjustgoonlivingliketheworld’sover.Wehavetocontinuecaringforthosewe’vegotleft.”Heturnedback,crossedhisarmsonthetableandlaidhisheadonhisarms.Hisbeardwasalittlelongerthanheusuallyletitgrowandhishairwasn’tcombedbackneatlyasitalwayswas.Hereachedforwardandturnedthemugtowardhimself.GreatestDadEver.Beneaththecolorfultitlewasastickfiguredrawingoftwopeople,oneabnormallytallandtheotherquiteshort,holdingthehandofthefirstone. “You’reright.You’reabsolutelyright.I’msorry,Ijustcan’tgetoverit.Idon’tthinkIeverwill.Thisisn’tsupposedtohappen.” “No,buthewouldn’twantyoulivingtherestofyourlifeindepression.Hejoinedforyou,Perry.Hedidittomakeyouproud.”Perryclosedhiseyesatthatthought.Jennypausedandtookadeepbreath.“Weareproud.Hesavedsomanyotherlives.Hesavedplentyofotherfamiliesthegrievingthatwehavehadtogothrough,buthedidn’tdoitsothatwewouldspendtherestofourlivesinmisery.It’sbeenalmostayearnow.Weneedtomoveontomoreimportantthingsinlife.”Perrywasstill,heknewwhatJennywasreferringto.Jennymadeamovementtowardthedoor. Perryopenedhismouthtospeak,“Ihavetokillhishorse.” “What?”

With Him

46

“IhavetokillSonny.He’ssick.Ijustdon’tthinkIcanbringmyselftodoit.” “Perry,you’vehadtoputdownplentyofotherhorsesbefore.Thisoneisnodif-ferent,okay?Andifgoodhorsesgotoheaven,whichIfirmlybelievetheydo,thenhe’llbeabletobewithhiminheaven.Isn’tthatanicethought?” “Yeah.”Shesqueezedhisshouldersandlefttheroom.Heheardthecreaksonthestairsasshewenttogodolaundry.Hesighed.“Sonnywashishorse...” Hegotupfromthetable,slidthechairback,andtookasipofthechillycoffeeonlytospititoutinthesink.Hestareddownintothecupforamomentandswirledtheblackliquidaroundandthenpoureditdownthesink.Whilerinsingoutthecup,hetookonelastlookatthedrawingonthemugbeforegoingtothebackdoorandputtingonhisboots. Theairwascrispashewentoutside.Thescreendoorslammedashelookedupbehindhim.HesawJenny’sfacedisappearfromthewindow.Hewasnotclosetoheranymore.Hewasnotclosetoanyoneanymore,nothishuntingbuddiesnortheanimalsinhisbarn.HeknewJennyfeltit,too.Ithadbeenalongtimesincetheyheldeachotherlovinglyandanevenlongertimesincetheykissedeachother. Hepushedopentherustydoorsofhisfadedredbarn.Thehorsesmadelittlenoiseasheenteredbecausetheywerefamiliarwithhim.Hewalkedforward,towardthelockedcabinetintheback,butstoppedinfrontofastall.Helookedtohisleft.Sonnywasfacingawayinhisstall.AllPerrycouldseewashisbigtail,swishingfliesawayfromhisbehind.Perrykickedthefrontofthestall.Thehorse’sheadjerkedupandpeeredbe-hindhim.Perrylookedintothehorse’seyes;hewasanoldhorse,butrightnow,lookingintohiseyes,hecouldthehorse’syouth.Backintheday,hewouldbetakenoutforalongrideeveryday.Backwhenhisriderwasstillalive. Perryturnedandwalkedtothebackofthebarnandtookoutakeyattachedtohisbelt.Therewerethreegunsinsidethecabinet,adouble-barreledshotgunandtwohuntingrifles.Hereachedfortheshotgunbutstoppedandlookedattheslightlynewerofthetwohuntingrifles.HishandclaspedthebarrelofthegunashiseyeslandedontheengravingK.S.B.Hisbodyshooklightlyashebreathedin.Hegrabbedtheshotgunandtwobulletsandshutthecabinet.Heneededtogetoverit. PerryledSonnyoutofthestallandintothesunlight.Theotherhorsesjuststoodstill,almostsolemnasthepairwalkedoutofthebarn.Sonnystruggledwithevenwalk-ing,hiskneesquiveringunderhisownweight.Perrystoppedoncehecametoagrassyareathatwasagooddistancefromthehouseandbarn.Sonnystoppedmoving,butwhenhedid,hisfrontlegscollapsedandhetumbleddown.Perrysteppedforwardbuttherewasnothinghecoulddotohelp.Thepoorhorsewheezedontheground,eyeswild,thensettlingonPerry.AtearswaminthecornerofPerry’seye.Hetookthetwocartridgesandcarefullyslidthemintotheirplaceinthegun,ashehaddonecountlesstimesbefore.

Bassindale

47

Caution (mixed media 18x24)-Hilton Dresden ‘12

Andifgoodhorsesgotoheaven Heraisedthegun. whichIfirmlybelievetheydo Hesettledhisaimatthebackofthedyinghorse’shead. thenhe’llbeabletobewithhiminheaven. Herestedhisshakingfingeronthetrigger. Isn’tthatanicethought?

Jennyjumpedassheheardashotechothroughouttheyardandthehouse.Shewenttothewindow,stillclutchingPerry’splaidshirtshehadbeenfoldingandsawhiminthedistancestandingoverthebodyofthehorse.Shesighed.Atleasthehadgonethroughwithit.MaybenowPerrycouldmoveonandtheycouldworkontheirmarriage.Sheturnedherbacktothewindowandwalkedtowardthepileofclothes.Shelookedupatapictureonthewall;whatafamilytheyusedtobe.

-Wesley Bassindale ‘12

49

Bassindale

Technology D

own the D

rain (photography)-O

liver Weirdsm

a ‘12

Something from Nothing

Timeexpandedinagonizingslownessasthecarsmashedintohim,metalcrunch-ingagainstbone.Forasplitsecond,hisairbornebodycontortedintothebloodyequiva-lentofaforty-fivedegreeangle.Thenhisheadsnappedbackstiffly,andhedroppedfromtheskyinrigidstraightness.Istared,intoxicatedanddisgusted,ascrimsonbloodspilledfromhiscorpseandseepedintothecrackedconcrete.Flashingredandbluelightsheraldedtheambulance’sarrivalafewminuteslater,butatthatpointIknewmyfriendwasdead.Iwantedtoscreamattheparamedicsandtheirfakedurgency,butinsteadIwatchedinsilenceastheypronouncedhimdeceased,packedhisbodyupontoastretcher,anddrovehimtoamorgue. Mybestfriend,whoIhadknownmyentirelife,whohadprotectedmefrombul-lies,whohadfoundmeahomecomingdateeveryyear,hadbeenmurderedbyadrunkdriveratageseventeen.He’dbeentakingmetoaparty,andwe’dbothbeencrossingthestreetatthesametime.We’dbeenlessthantwofeetfromeachother.Butsomehowthecarswervedandkilledonlyhim. Athisfuneral,Isatinthefirstrowbehindthefamily,outwardlycalmbutinwardlygrievingwithanangstrivalingwhatAbrahamwouldhavefeltifGodhadn’tstoppedhimfromsacrificingIsaac.Asthepriestrambledthroughhissermon,IinstinctivelyknewIwouldnotfindsolaceinhiswords.Whilehepreached,lipsspewingmeaninglesspraisesaboutamanhedidnotknow,Ireachedinsidemyselftofindsomedeepertruththatwouldcomfortme.AndinthemomentIdismissedthemanofGodasanoutsidertomypain,Ireveledintheepiphanythathasguidedmemywholelife:Wearenothing.Lifeisnothing.

Itseemsodd,now,withthatasmymottoIbecameachildtherapist,butthatwasthewayfateledme.

I’msupposedtohelpthisgirlinfrontofme.Scarslaceherthinarms.Itellhertostopcuttingherself,tostopdoingthisinhumanething;shenods,butnextweekthescars

51

returndeeperandwider.Ibegher,Iorderher,butshecontinuestodefaceherself. Iaskwhyshedoesit,ifitgivesheremotionalrelief.Shedoesn’tunderstandme,doesn’tanswer.Instead,sheprovidesanexcuse–there’ssomany,she’sverycreative–Ifellonahike,mycathatesbaths,Itriedtopickuparat,thecheesegraterslippedwhileIhelpedwithdinner.Sometimesherliesdon’tevenmakesense:it’sonlyapapercut,Iwaspickingatazit. WhatcanItellthisgirlthatshedoesn’talreadyknowaboutherself,whatencour-agementcanIgive?Intheend,Icanonlyhelpmyself,nother,asitiswithnearlyallmypatients. Sheisnothing.Lifeisnothing.

I’mbuyinggroceries.Iknowthecashier,butshe’ssoexhaustedshedoesn’trecog-nizeme.She’suglynow,nothingmorethanatiredmother,butshewasbeautifulonce,beforethemarriage.Herhusbandbeatsher–Iknowit,sheknowsit,thewholetownknowsit,butshewon’tpresscharges.Shetreatshisabusenonchalantly,asifitwereapeculiarityinsteadofacrime.Everytimewetalk,shementionsherhusband’sactions,asifachildtherapistlikememighthaveasolution. “Thelittlestthingssethimoff:dinner’snotmade,Iforgettogreethimatthedoor,thekidsaretoorowdywhenhe’stryingtosleep.”Thewayshedismissesdomesticviolencesometimescausesmetoforgetwhatwe’retalkingabout,asifthesubjectweresocasualthatwecoulddiscussitliketheweather.Maybeherhusbandfeelsinsecure.May-behe’sbipolar.Maybehejustlikesthesoundofhispalmagainstherflesh,likeswatchingtheblowrippleacrossherskin. Butwhateverthecause,hisbehaviorhasnoeffectonmylife.Whenhepunisheshiswifefornonexistentcrimes,doIpayforit?No. Theyarenothing.Lifeisnothing.

Theboysittingnexttomewon’tspeaktome.Hewon’tevenlook.We’rebothsittinginanold-stylebarbershop,completewitholdmen–notyoungwomen–shearingourhairoff.I’mgettingatrim,buttheboy’sfatherrequestedabuzzcutforhisson.He’srigidandsquirmyatthesametime.Hewasmypatientforaboutthreemonthsaspartofthedivorcesettlement,andIknowhisfathermolestshim.Iconsideredcomply-ingwiththelawandfilingareport,butintheendInevertookanyaction.It’snotlikeIhadevidence.Theconstantfearradiatingfromtheboyinhisfather’spresenceandthefather’sarrogantsmirkshardlysubstantiatemyclaims. Whatkindofworldallowsafather–amanwhoshouldbehisson’sbestrolemodel–tomolesthissix-year-old?Thesameworldthatmakeshimuntouchabletothelaw.Sometimestheboy’ssituationinfuriatesme.Whenthathappens,Iremindmyself:

Cook

52

Heisnothing.Lifeisnothing.

Mysisterisstandinginmydoorway.It’s1inthemorning,she’sdrivenfromLA,andherenergeticdaughtercomplainedthewholeride.She’sexhausted.Wehug,sheplantsaquickkissonmycheek;surprising,we’veneverbeenveryclose.Ireachforherdaughter,butthelittlegirlskirtsmygraspandclingstohermother’slegs.“Mommy,”shepleads,asifI’vebeensomehowcruelinmyactions.Mysisterexplainsthatshewantsherdrawingsupplies.Iassumeacoloringbook(thegirlisonlyfouryearsold),butmysisterunearthssomepaperandafewcrayonsfromthedepthsofherpurse.Thegirlsitsonthefloorandbeginstodraw.Iaskifshehasanycompleteddrawings.“Ofcourse,”saysmysister,andshehandsmeathickwadofpapersfromherpurse.Ishiftthroughthepictures.They’resimple,butIexpectedasmuch.Yettheyarecoherentscenes–asunnypicnic,afieldofflowers,hermomanddadsmilingwithhersquishedinbetweenthem.Somethingabouttheseimagesmakesmewantstosob.Iwanttotakethemandshowthemtomycolleagues,butIknowtheywoulddismissthesesketchesasbelongingtosomeonewedon’thavetofix.Iwanttotreasurethisgirl’swork,Iwanttohangitallovermyhouse.ButIalsowanttosharethemwitheveryoneIknow,Iwantaworldfilledwithdeathtoappreciatelife. Mysisterisstaringatme.Myhandsareshaking,IthinkI’mcrying,she’saskingmeifI’mallrightIdon’tknowifIam

Thisissomething.Andthatiswhathurtsthemost.

-Connor Cook ‘12

Cook

53

Firstnothing,thenasparkThethirdtimeIstrike,afirerisesinfrontofmeItisnolongerdarkAndthefireexpresseshowonemaybefree

ItakeastepbackImpressedbythecreation,IsitdownandwatchthefireblazinginthemoonlightIdecidetomakeanabjurationTobefreeofencumbranceonthisnight

AmightywindblowswiththeforceofawaveThefiresubsidesThenrebuildsAndrecoverstoitsnaturalwildstate

IwillbefreeofencumbranceonthisnightIwilldancelikethefireIwillbelikeafireandshowoflight

Free Fire

-Nicholas Kimball ‘15

54

I Am a Criminal

Iwhoamacriminalyethavecommittednocrime.Anoutcastamongstelitepeo-ple,peoplewhohavedonenothingtodeserveself-righteousstatus.Theyseemeonlyinanegativelight,alwayssuspectingtheworst.IamjustlikealltheothersnomatterwhoIamorhowIact.Thereisnoescapeinthisnever-endingnightmare.WhenwillIwakeup,whenwilltheywakeup? Thegymroaredwithexcitementbehindme,thestatichappinessstillintheairafterthebigwin.Meandmybandoffriendsstruttedouttogetherontothepolishedmarblefloors.Ourvictoriouscriesrangthroughoutthebuilding,reachingthetopofthecolossalwhiteceilinganddownthewidehallways.OpposingfansdressedinvariousGreenapparelscowledinourdirectionandkepttheirdistance.Icaughtcommentswhereweliveandourracegivingourschooltheupperhand,thatbasketballisour“life.”Thesecommentsdidlittletoerodeourconfidence,weremerechinksinourcollectivearmor.Onthewayoutsomecackledatoursurroundings,commentssuchas,“theyevengotautomaticwaterfountains,man!Westillbeatthem!”or“flatscreensaintwinningthemnogames!”Thelaughterwasnothingbutadisguisedhatred,distasteforwhatthisschoolrepresents.Winningthegamewasnothingmorethananexcusetobebetterthan.Itfeltgood.TheautomaticdoorsswooshedopensendingusbackintothecrispOctoberair.Acherryredcorvetteflewpastourgroupsettingusbackintorealityasweapproachedourbangedupvansandrustedcompactcars.Mycrampeddentedsedanwasbroughttolightbythetwoseeminglybrandnewcarsoneitherside.Westillwon.Theengine’sdistortedbarkwasarelief,anescape.Showedthosefoolswhat’suptonight.Whilecoastinghomeapangofhungerdeepinmystomachcouldnotberesisted.Ihadnotmadeitveryfar,butfarenoughthatIwasnotsurroundedbymansionsorgatedcommunities.AMcDonald’scaughtmyeyejustafewblocksaway.Ohwhatabeautifulsight.ThisMcD’swasnotliketheonenearus.Ithadalit-upbillboardandintricatetile

55

designontheexterior.Theparkinglotreflectedthatofthegame,exceptmysedanwasallalonethistime.Iwasallalonethistime.Thiscrossedmymind,buttheadrenalinefromthewinwasstillflowingbrisklythroughmybody,dismissinganyfear.Theautomaticglassdoorspartedbeforemelettingscentsoffreshgreasyburgersandfriesdancebeforeme.Suchafamiliarsmell,yetsuchaunfamiliarplace.Mysuddenjoywasdampenedbyeveryoneinside.WhiletakingmyplaceinlineIcouldnothelpbutfeelthestaresofthosearoundtherestaurantpiercingmybackandsides.Theywereexaminingeverythingaboutme,formingopinionsofwhatandwhoIam.Ioverheardamuffled,“Look,it’sablackguy,”followedbyafewsnickers.Othersmurmuredsimilarcomments.Icouldseetheirgazeinasmudgedmirrorofftothesideofthecounter.Theyatecautiously,glanc-ingeverynowandthenwithferventeyes.Wewon,man.Bythetimeitwasmyturnmypresencewasclearlyknown,anditseemedeverythingreturnedbacktonormal,conver-sationscontinuing.Atleastitdidforthem.Thecashierdidnotlookmeintheeye,butratherpastme.Icouldtellhewasnotaveryconfidentdude,butregardlessheaddedtothealreadybrewinguneasinessinside.HiddenbeneathhisworncrimsonredMcDonald’shatwasacurlydarkclumpofhair.Hisskinpale,justlikeeveryoneelseinhere.Thelightreflectedoffit,projectinganuglyshine. “WelcometoMcDonald’swhatcanIgetforyou?”quiveredhissofttone. “Uh,let’ssee.I’lltakethedoublecheeseburgerwithfries.”Myhanddoveintomyjeanpocketandfetchedawrinkledfivedollarbill.Hesheepishlygrabbeditfrommyextendedhand,hisgazefixedonthemoney.Afterpoundingafewbuttonschangecamespewingoutofthemachinetomyleft.“It’llbeafewminutes,”hequicklyglancedatmyface.Isteppedaside,leaningonthespotlesswhitecounterfacingthoseeating.Theycoweredaway,suddenlyfocusedintenselyonthefoodbeforethem.Aheavysetmanwearingabluebutton-downlefthisseatandtrudgedtowardsthedirt-browngarbagecan.Brownlikeme.Itwasoverflowing,lookingasifithadnotbeencleanedinages.Afterdumpinghisremains,hisgazefelltothefloor,avoidingeyecontactwhilehewalkedpast.Thisisthekindofstuffthatsetsmeoff.Whydotheyneedtodothis?Myuneasi-nessturnedtoanger,buttherewasnothingIcoulddo.Ipretendedtocheckmyphoneandtextinanattempttostallandavoiddealingwiththesituationathand.OutofthecornerofmyeyeIsawaguyaboutmyagevigorouslywipinghisfacecleanofremnantsofhisnowdevouredburgerwithacaramelcolorednapkin.Hetosseditasidedisregardingthegarbagecompletely.Itflutteredlightlybeforeglidingontothefloor,nowcompletelyuseless,nothingmorethanalltherestofthetrash.Itsatthereallonitsown,surroundedinaseaofbleachedwhitetiles.Itwasdisgustingandnotwanted.“Hereyougo.”Iturnedandsnatchedthewhitebag,thankingthewomanwhohaddeliveredmymeal.ThestaresreturnedonceagainasIleft,asifthiswasthelasttimetheywouldeverseeablackman.

Tegge

56

OrifIwasabouttoturnandrobtheplace,asifIwasathreat.Mypaceunwavered,theycouldnotknowtheyaffectedme.Theydonotmeanathingtome.Buttheydid.Sud-denly“wewon”meantnothing.SuddenlyIwasaloneyetsurrounded.SuddenlyIwasonlyblack.

-Nathan Tegge ‘12

Tegge

Melancholy Hill (pencil on paper 8.5x11) -Devin Murray ‘12

57

Atageseven,myparentstookmetoafuneralofadistantrelative.Multitudesofpeople,dressedinblacksandgreys,gatheredinalow-litchapeltowailinlamentation.NeverhadIwitnessedadultscryasiftheywerechildren.Itwasdisturbing. Tuggingonmymother’ssleeve,Iwhisperedintoherear,“Stella.What’shappen-ing?” Mymotheralwaysinsistedonbeingcalledbyhername.“IfeeloldwhenI’mcalledMom.Idon’tfeellikeone!”sheexclaimed. “Stella,whyiseveryonecrying,”Iasked. Sherubbedmybackreassuringly.“Don’tworry,”shereplied.“Iwantyoutore-memberonething.” Igazedwitheyesaswideassaucersandsaid,“What?” “Afuneralisnotamourningofsomeone’sdeath,butratheritisacelebrationoftheirlife,”shesaidandthensmiledabit. “Iwillremember,”Ipromisedtoherandnoddedsolemnly. Myfatherlookedinourdirectionandsnapped,“Bequiet,youtwo!”

†‡† Notmuchlater,InoticedthatStellabecameincreasinglywithdrawn.Oneday,shelayinbedforhourswiththeblindsclosed,refusingfoodanddrink.Herweighthaddecreaseddaily,darkcirclesmadehereyessinkdeepintoherface,andherbeautifulblackhairfellout.Shecalledforme.Wewouldsitinsilence.Iwouldn’tdaretospeak.Shewouldstudymyface,andasoftsmileappearedforamoment.Stellafinallyspoke,“Youareahandsomeboy.Youaremyangel.” Ilookedintohereyes,frightenedattheirlackofmovement.“No,Stella.Youaremyangel.Iloveyouverymuch,”Imanagedtowhimper. Ibrushedatearonmycheek. Stellawasnotthereanymoretowipemytears. Hercold,limpbodyrestedonthebed.Hereyeswerefocusedoneverything,nothing.Ichangedthecomfortertoherfavoriteone,apatchworkofblack,brown,and

Stella the Angel

58

whitesuedesquares.Thebeddingwassoakedwithblood.Asuddenchillrushedinsideme.ThisistheStellaIdidn’teverwanttosee. Homeseemedempty,eveniffamiliesandfriendsvisitedus.Iwantedtokeepheralltomyself.Isawthepeopleasintruders.Theloudwhispersofthecurioushurtme.Iranupstairstoescapeinsincereconcerns.Ilockedmyself,yankedthelightbulbcord,andrummagedthroughmyfather’solddeskforpaper.Inafloodoftears,IcomposedalettertoStella,writingallmyfinalthoughts,sendinghermyundyinglove,wishinghereternalpeace.Thehousewasstillburstingwithpeople.Butassoonasthesunset,themournersbegantoleave. Inthedeadofnight,clutchingtheletterinmysweatyhands,Iwalkedoutthebackdoortotheedgeofacliff.Ilookeddownatthelongdrop.MymindwaswithStella,thenwithmyfather.IwonderedifthedaycelebratedStella’slife.Isatdownwithmyfeetdanglingontheedge,consideringoptionsforhours.TimepassedasithadforStella.Asthefirstraysofsunwarmedmyface,Istoodup.Theletterfoldedintoawrinkedstar,Iletitsoartowardanewdawn.

-Javier Mora ‘12

Mora

59

Portrait of Gandhi (acrylic on canvas 72x48)-Frank Geiser ‘14

The Perfect DayWhenthebloodoflifestaysinthebody,WhenactionsthatpromotehatefulviolenceBecomeactionsmotivatedbypeace,Thenwe,insodoing,helpsomebody.

Whenwordsarefilledwithrespect,andnothate,Theyprovideencouragement,andnotpainThatleadstopeoplewantingmoreself-gain;Butwhycreatedeath,whenit’sallourfate?

Everydestinyismeanttobegreat,Butthosewhobetraytheirowndestiny,Betraytheirself-createdhopesanddreams.Thedaytheyrealize;thedayIdream.

Thedaywhenwordsovertakethebullet,Thedaywhenourdeathdoesnotmeantheend,ThedaypeacerequiresnothingtosayIswhenwehaveformedthemostperfectday.

-Paul Glembocki ‘12

61

Soundsoffootstepsfilledthehallway.Theywereloud,butbelongedtoasingleman.Iimmediatelyknewwhoitwaswithouthavingtolookovermyshoulder.Ithadtohavebeenthejanitor.Notonlybecausehewasprobablytheonlypersononthisfloorbesidesme,butbecauseIhavegrownaccustomedtohearinghisheavy-dutyworkbootscrossthecorridorsaroundtheartdepartmentatthistime.SincehewascloseitmeantthatIhadlittletimeleftbeforehewouldaskmetoleave.AllofasuddenIfeltmypaintbrushworkingfasterandfaster.ThevasethatIhadbeenunearthingontothecanvasforthepastfewdaysbecameslowlyandslowlychangingfroma2-dimensionalshapeintoa3-dimensionalpieceofpotteryinmereseconds.Ileanedbackinmychairtoevaluatemywork,whichIdidmuchtoooften.IwasdisappointedwiththechoicesImade.OfcoursemyclasswouldnotnoticethemandmyteacherwouldpraisemeformyworkbutIamnotmakingitforthem.Myworkhasalwaysbeenformyownsatisfaction.Theroomaroundmeisclutteredwithcollectivepilesofoldmediocreartwork,noneofwhichbringsinspirationtome.Itakeoutsomeoftheoldcatalogsmyteacherhascollectedovertheyears.Flippingthroughthepages,sculptures,paintings,anddrawingsofallkindsjumpoutatme.Eachissobeautifulandstimulating.Thecolorchoices,theplacement,andtheexaggerationofshapeseachjumpsoffthepageatme.Iwalkedsubconsciouslybacktotheislewithouttakingmyeyesoffapaintingofapomegranate.Forsomereasonitspoketomeandgavemeanewideaformypiece.Ipickedupmybrushandgotbacktowork.IreachedformypaintpalletandnoticedthatIwasalmostoutofcolors.AsIwalkedovertothecabinetwheremyteacherkeepsthesupplies,thistimewithalittlemoreskipinmystep,Iheardtheworkbootsstepslightlylouder.Itseemedasthoughtheywerenearme.Iturnedaroundwithbottlesofskyblueandindigoinmyhandsandmyheartskippedabeat.Iwassostartledtoseethejanitorstandinginfrontofmypaint-ingthatIalmostconsideredleavingthereandthen.Itwastoodifficult,however,formetoremovemygaze.HeseemedtolookatitinawaythatIhadneverencounteredbefore.

The Surprise Judge

62

Hishairyarms,peekingoutfromhisfolded-upsleeves,werecrossedtightlyaroundhisportlystomach.Ishiftedalittletoseehisface.Hismustachedupper-lipandthickHis-paniceyebrowscurvedinapositionthatmostpeoplewouldconsiderascowl,yetIrecog-nizeditasthewayIlookatmyart.Hewasnotlookingatitdumfoundedandimpressedlikemostpeople,butwasclearlycritiquingit,notblinkinganeyefortwominutes.WhenIfinallyrealizedhewasdeeplyinvestedinmypaintingIcouldnothelpbutwaittohearhisreaction.Thisbroughttomindanotherthought.AlthoughIseethismanalmosteverydayafterschool,moppingthefloors,Ihavehadnolevelofinteractionwithhimwhatsoever.Ihaveneverheardhisvoice,anddonotknowifheevenspeaksEnglish.Ihadneverpeggedhimfortheartistictype,oreventheintellectualtypeatthat.Afteranotheruncomfort-ablethirtyseconds,IconsideredthepossibilitythathedidnotevenknowIwasintheroom.Iloweredmyhandsthatgrippedthetubesofpaint,anddistinctlyclearedmythroat.Notatwitchofamuscle.Hestoodlikeasculpture.Thelookofconcentrationonhisfaceunsettledthepitofmystomach.Ireasonedthatheprobablyjustwantedmetoleavesohecouldcleantheroomandgohome.Isnatchedmybackpackandbinderfromthecounterandcrossedtheroomtothedoor.Then,aheavilyaccented,butcommandingvoicecameoutfromthestatue.“Thedimensionsmakenosenseandthecolorschemeisawful.Useblack,violet,andcrimsonforthebackground.”Itriedtomusterupthecouragetosaysomethingbutassoonasthejanitorfinishedhisdemandhereleasedhisposeandcrossedtheroomtothedoorwithoutsomuchaslookingatme,ortakingasecondlookatmypainting.Imyselfstaredatthecanvasandrealizedhowrighthewas.FrombehindmeIheardtheloudsoundofsomethingtinybeingslammedagainstthecountertop.Ispunaroundandjustcaughtaglimpseoftheartist,hiscoatandhaton,exitingtheroom.Thecounternexttothedoorheldnothingbutasinglesolitarykey.IunderstoodnowthatwithoutmakinganysortofconversationwehadmadeanagreementthatIwouldlockuptheroomafterIspentafewmorehoursfixingmywork.AshisbootsechointhedistanceIrushtothecabinetandexchangepainttubes.

-Joe Heinen ‘13

Heinen

63

Ifinallyfoundthem.TodaymarksthefirsttimeI’llseemyfamilysinceImovedaway.Momcan’tcontainhertears.Ihopeshedoesn’tdriveushome.Ialwayshatewhenshedrives.There’sDadeagertoseemebutablerestrainhimselfbycalmlysmilingandwaving.Andfinallymyyoungerbrother,alwaystexting,neverfullypresentatfamilygatherings. Wegotintothecarand,thankfully,Daddrovehome.Wepassedtheusualfarmsonthewaybackfromtheairport.Inthepasthourmysceneryhaschangedsodrastically,soquickly.Ihavemovedfrommystuffycollegedorm,totheinsideofacrampedairplane,toabusy,fast-pacedairport,andnowintoacarandstaringoutthewindowatcornfields.Ialwayslikestaringatthecornrowswhenwepass,thespacesbetweenthecolumnsofplantsallblendingtogether.Mytrancebrokebythewateringofmyeyes.Ismelledsomethingthatcausedthehairsontheinsideofmynosetostandonend.Whatisthis?Ithought,searchingmymemoryforwhythiscausedmesomuchgrief.Iremembernow,senioryear.ThissmellisfromtheprankIhelpedpullsenioryear. Myseniorclassexecutedoneofthebestpranksinthehistoryofourschool.Wedecidedtolinethehallwaysoftheschoolwithrubberbands.Theplanwasthattwoweeksbeforeschoolendedtheentiregraduatingclasswouldanonymouslydroprub-berbandsduringandbetweenclassesandnobodywouldgetcaughtbecauseitwouldbeimpossibletodeterminewholaidallofthem.Theideabehindthegagwasthatrubberbandsareextremelydifficulttocleanup;they’retooheavytogetsuckedupbyavacuumorsweptupbyabroom.Usually,whenIplansomethingthedesiredoutcomedoesnothappen.Luckyformethiswasn’toneofthosetimes. Eventhoughnoneoftheseniorclassgotcaught,theschooldidpunisheveryonebyleavingtherubberbandsinthehallsuntilaftertheschoolyearended.Notmanypeo-pleknowthis,butrubberbandssmell.Theclosestthingtotheodoriscologne;itsmellsgoodifsparselyappliedandsubtle,butwhenoverexposedtoit,yournosehairsstandonend.Duringthetwoweekstheyspentinthehall,Ilearnedthesmell.ItwasingrainedintomymemorysothatIcan’tevenlookatarubberbandwithoutcringing.

Rubber Bands

64

Whereisthatcomingfrom?IthoughttomyselfasIlookedaroundtheinsideoftheminivan,stiflingtheurgetogag.NowIseeit.Mybrotherhastworubberbandsoneachofhiswrists.AfterwhatIassumetohavebeenourpunishmentwasover,Inowcanneverbearoundrubberbandsforverylong.Idon’tthinkIhaveevenseenonesince,either.Butheresitsmyyoungerbrotherwearingfour,knowingfullwellmyhatredofthem.WhatdidIeverdotohim? “Whyareyouwearingthose,”Iasked. “What?”hesaidwithoutlookingupfromhisphone. “Thoserubberbandsonyourwrists.” “Idon’tknow,Ijustputthemon.” “Ihaveneverseenyouwearrubberbandsonyourwristsinyourlife.” “Well,youhaven’tbeenhomeforawhile.Thingschange.” “ButyouknowIcan’tstandthesmellofthosethings.” “Rubberbandsdon’tevenhaveasmell.” “Yestheydo.Youjusthaven’tnoticeditbecauseyou’veneverbeensurroundedbythemforeighthoursadayfortwoweeksstraight.” “Nobodycaresaboutthatprankyoupulled,sostopbringingitupwhenit’snotrelevant.” “Idon’tbringitupthatmuchanddoyouevenknowwhattheword‘relevant’means?” “Ya,I’mnotstupid.Whyareyouevenhomenow?”hesaid,voicetrembledashelookedupfromhisphoneforthefirsttimesinceIgotpickedup.“Youmovedoutinthefall,youdon’tgettocomehomewheneveryouplease,” “I’mcominghomefromcollegeyouwhinylittlecuss.Idon’tgettoliveinthedormsoverthesummer.Whyareyousoupsetallofasuddenanyway?” “I’mupsetbecauseyoujustdecidetogoofftocollegeontheothersideofthecountryandonlyvisitwhenyouhaveabreak.Youdidn’tconsideranyonebutyourselfwhenyouleft.” “Ididn’tknowyouweresoupsetbymeleaving.” “Wellyoushould’ve,”hesaidashelookedbackdownathisphone.

-Danny O’Callaghan ‘13

O’Callaghan

65

Bottle (colored pencil 11x17)

-Ryan D

onald ‘12

AsthesunbrightenedthelandscapeIreachedformybinocularsandlookedacrossthevalleysbeforeme,hopingtospotanelk,theobjectiveoftheday’shunts.StaringthroughthelensesItookmytimescanningbackandforth,becomingawareofthebeautyoftheendlessacresofforest,butspottingnoelk.Ikeptscanningfor30minutes,stillspottingnothing.Isatdownadeadfall,discouraged,butstillhopeful.Myeyesdriftedupwards,lookingatthepaleblueskydottedwithafewscatteredclouds.LookingoutintothecanyonbelowmeIspottedthebrownofsomethingthatwasn’taplant.Ilookedcloser,tryingtopickouttheshapeofwhatIhopedwasanelk.Isawnothing.Itiltedmyheaddown,shiftingmyfeetsilentlyonthedarkgrass.Myheadturnedtowatchthesilhouetteofahawkagainstthesky,andturningmyheadbackIwasshockedtoseeaherdofabout50elkfilingintoaclearing,maybe800yardssouthofme,andprobablyanother2000feetbelowme. Imadesuremypackwasstillstrappedtight,andIpickedupmybow.ScanningthedownhillslopewithmyeyesIplottedtherouteIwantedtotaketogetdownbytheelk.Cuttingthroughtheevergreenswasagametrailworndowntodirtthroughthethickgrass.Thiswouldprovidemenotonlyaneasyroute,butaquietonetoapproachtheherd.Imoveddownwardquickly,steppingnoiselesslyoverbranchesanddeadfallsuntilIwasabout100yardsfromtheherd,atwhichpointItookoffmypack,thensetitonthegroundasquietaspossiblebeforeknockinganarrowtomybowstring.Ilookedtomyleftandright,beingsuretherewerenoelkclosetome. Ibeganmovingforward,attemptingtohidebehindthelargesagebushesthatwereallaroundtheclearingtheelkhadbeddedin.50yardsfromtheherdIpausedtotryandsettlemyself.Istaredacrosstheclearing,pickingoutalargecowelk,theoneclosesttome,whichwasnowmyofficialtarget.Therestoftheherdremainedfartherofffromher,millingaboutwiththeirheadstotheground.Withapredator’seyesIexaminedherbody;shewassurelyanoldercow.Herhidewaslooseandhadlargepatchesofhairmissing,andshewasaboutthesizeofasmallmoose.Thehardestpartofthehuntwasabouttobegin.Iwas50yardsaway,andIwantedtobewithin20beforeIwouldattemptashot.Iknewtheycouldn’tsmellmebecausethewindwasinmyface,soIhadtocover

The Smell of an Elk

67

thelast30yardswithoutbeingspottedorheard.Althoughthose30yardsstretchedacrosscompletelyopenfield,Ihadnoworryofbeingspotted.Aherdofwildelkisnotsohardtoblendinto,aslongasyouavoideyecontact,moveslowlyandpredictably,makenosuddennoises,andavoidlookingdangerous,youcanmovetoalmostwithintouchingdistancebeforetheelkwilldecideyouareunsafe. Ibeganwalkinginacrouch,lookingattheelk’sfeet.ThepredatorinmetookoverasIapproachedthecow.WhenIwas30yardsawaysheturnedherheadtolookatme.Ikeptstaringatherfeet,butmylegsbegantoshakeastheadrenalineovertookmybody.Myheartratesoared,andItriedtotakedeepbreathstocalmmyself.Thiswasnouse,andasshestillstaredatmeImovedevencloser,notstoppinguntilIwas15yardsfromher.Hersizedwarfedme.Shecontinuedtostareatme,notinalarm,butwhatseemedtobemorelikeacuriosity.Herearsstoodstraightout,listeningforanynoiseofdanger.Hernostrilswereexpandingandcontractingwithherbreathingasshesearchedtheairformyscent.Ipickedmyheadupandwashitwiththemustysmellofurine,body,andofmudthattheelkhadrecentlywallowedin.Ifoundmyselfstaringbackandstoodtomyfullheightinanattempttomakeherlookelsewhereforjustamoment.Thestar-ingcontestcontinuedforminutes.Iwantedtobreakeyecontact,toseemlessofathreat,butIcouldn’t.InsteadIstaredstraightbackintoherbrowneyes.Ididn’twanttomove,Ifearedthatwouldspookher,andIcertainlywouldn’tbeabletogetashotoffwithherstaringatme. Iwasfinallyabletobringmyeyestolookaway,andIsawthattherestoftheherdseemednottonoticeorcareaboutmypresence.ApieceofdirtblewintomymouthandIwantedtospit.Ididasdiscreetlyaspossibleand,tomysurprise,thispromptedhertobendhernecktothegroundandbegintograze.Iwatchedherlongyellowteethcloseoverthetopofawilteddandelionandheardherthroatgurgleassheswallowed.Thein-tensityoftheencounterwasbeginningtooverwhelmme.Iwasshakingheadtotoe,andmymouthwasdryasadesert.Islowlyliftedmyheadup,andwithmylegsstillshakingIraisedmybowandpreparedtoshoot.Itookadeepbreath,andquietlyexhaledhalfway.Mylegsstoppedshaking,andmyconcentrationwandered.Ilookedaround,atthemoun-tainsandvalleys,thegreenplantlifeofgrass,dandelions,sage,evergreens,andspruceseverywhere,thentheherdofelkIwasstandingattheedgeof.AsmygazebroughtmebacktothecowelkinfrontofmeIre-concentrated.Lookingatthecreaseontheskinbe-hindtheshoulder,midwaybetweenbackboneandbellyIsawthespotIwantedtoshootmyarrowthrough.Itookadeepbreath,drewmybow,aimed,released,andasmyarrowcuttheair,inevitablyonapathtoherchest,Isuddenlyfoundmyselfwithnodesiretokillher.

-Vince Moldenhauer ‘12

Moldenhauer

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Colors (acrylic on canvas 18x24) -Ivan Herrada ‘12

Anoldmaneasedhimselfslowlydownthestepsintotheartificiallightandfaintmustinessoftheconservatorybasement.Hisjointsbentreluctantly,andhesighedwitheachchangeofposition.Hestretchedhisheightthroughthetipsofhistoestopeerintothewindowofroomfive,inwhichajazzcombowaslayingdownasmoothbutfaintlydirtyshuffle.Hewasatleasttwentyminutesearlyforhislesson,piano,judgingbyhiscarryingonlybookswithhim.Hestaredatthefloorwonderingwhyhestillcamebackalltheseyearsforlessons.Hisattentionwasdrawntoanothermanofaboutthesameagecomingthroughthedoorcarryingabrowncase.Hesatdownheavily,thelightwarmingasitreflectedthebrowntonesofhisdarkroundface.Theytalkedofthethingsoldjazzplayerstalkof.Bynowthecombohadfallenintoasofttwo-feelforthebasssolo.Themoistsharpsoundofthehi-hattooktheirmindsoffofothertopicsasitcutthedeeporganicthudofthebass,theprecariousyetsomehowsolidbalancecommandingtheat-tentionofallwithinearshot.Theylistenedawhile,smilingatthenuancesonlytheycouldsense,andtalkedonastimepassed.Themusicdriftedonwiththem,thedrumskeepingtrackandpunctuatingeachturnofphrase,thebasswalkingthemsteadilythroughthelandscapeofsubjectsriddlingtheirminds,thepianocoloringthebleaknessofthemood,placingitschordsinthegravidspaces,interestingyetnotobtrusive,thehornssuggestingeachtopic,softlyguidingthemintheirpointlesssmalltalk.TheyfeltatpeaceandnolongeraskedthemselveswhytheyhadconvergedinthisplaceonthisMondaynight.Theyinsteadletthemselvesbecarriedawayintothelandscapecarefullyandassuredlyunfoldingbeforethem.

Valentine’s Day

-John Sanders ‘12

70

In Between Plays

Theplayersontopofhimfinallygotup.Heisrelievedofthepainofaboutonethousandpoundsofmanpilingontopofhim.Regaininghisbreathhestickshishandupintheairforthehelpofateammate,afellowdefensivelinemancomestohisaidandpickshimupoffthewet.StandinguponhisblacksizefourteenNikespikeshereacheshishandsdowntohisthighstowipeoffthedirtandgrass.Whilehecleanshimselfoff,hehears“Numberninety-nine,JoeSmithwithatackleforaloss!Seconddown!”comingovertheloudspeakerinthestadium.Thebuildingerupts,allthefansrisetotheirfeet.Theroarofthecrowdpumpshimup,“Whatawaytostartthegame,atackleintheback-field.”Startinghisfirstgamehewasbeyondexcitementaftermakingatackle.Adrenalinrushingthroughhisveinshestickshisarmsouttohissides.Palmsfacingtheskyhestartswavinghisarmsupanddowntomotivatethecrowd. Afterabriefmomentofexhilarationandjoyhecomesbackdowntoearthandlookstowardthesidelinesforhiscoach.Heisrefocused;heknewitwasgoingtobealonghard-foughtgame.Helooksathiscoachforthedefensiveplaycall.Hishandswerestillshakingfromthethrillofthelastplay.Thecoachsticksbothhisarmsoutinfrontofhimandmoveshishandsinawavingmotiontosignalthedefensiveformation,bandit.Thenhereacheshislefthandtohisheadandtapsthetopofhishatwhiletouchinghisrighthandtohisnosetosignalthecoverage,covertwoorange.Lastly,hiscoachputshishandsonhisstomachandrubsittoshowthattherewillbeastrongsideblitzontheplay,scud.Whenthecoachfinishessignalingtheplayheshouts‘GOODPLAY,Smith,keepitupoutthere,kid.”ThenJoeturnshisheadtolookatthemiddlelinebackatthefrontofthedefensivehuddlegivingtheplaycall. “Alright,boys,goodstart,nowlet’sdoitagainandgetathreeandout.Bandit,covertwoorange.Scud,checkthetightendforthestrength.Ready,break!” “Whatiftheyareintripswithtightendononeside?”askedthefreesafety. “Thenyoushiftovertothestrongsideandplaypresscoverageonthenumbertwowideout.Gotit?” “Yeah,Igotit.”

71

“Alright,let’sgonow,”themiddlelinebackexclaimedastheteambrokethehuddle.Nowhisattentionturnstowardtheotherteam’soffensivelinemanwhohewillbattlefortherestofthegame.Whilehewaitsforthemtobreaktheirhuddlehereadsofftheirnumbersinhishead,“Number58,75,66,77,and61,”standingshouldertoshoulder.Helooksattheirbacks,whiteuniformswithbrightyellownumbersoutlinedwithnavybluetrim,navybluepantswithayellowstripedownbothsides,andyellowsocks.Thenattheirhelmets,ashiningnavybluewithayellowstripedownthemiddlethatfadesintheback,teamlogoonbothsides,anMwithanSthroughthemiddleofittorepresenttheirschool,andjerseynumbersonalittlestickeronthebackjustbehindtheearhole. Thenhehears“break”andtheotherteamturnsaroundandbeginswalkingto-wardthelineofscrimmageforthenextplay.Themiddlelinebackershoutsout“strongleft,strongleftswitch”toindicatewhatsidethedefenseshouldlineupon.Heshiftstotheleftsideofthedefensiveformation,hisintensitydeepens,heblocksouttheroarofthecrowd,theotherteamtalking,andhiscoachyellingatthemashepreparesfortheplay.Helinesupontheoutsideshouldertotherighttackleandstickshisbig,blackunderarmorgloveinthegrass.Thefield,stillwetfromlastnight’srainfallmakeshishandsinkintothemushysurface.Thetackleinfrontofhimcrouchesdownintohisstanceandyellsout“checktheblitz,numberthirty-three,check.”Heturnshisheadtotherighttolookattheball,moveshisoffhandintheairoutinfrontofhimandwaitsfortheballtosnap.Thequarterbackshoutsout“blueforty-two,blueforty-twosethit,”theballsnaps,andheshootsoutofhisstancelikearocket,wellawareofwhathemustaccomplish.

-John Horter ‘13

72

Horter

Credits

73

Editors-in-ChiefHiltonDresdenSeanRiley

CompositionStaffHiltonDresdenSeanRileyJohnSandersBenSanders

JordanSylvesterAlexBennettColinMadiganNicholasReit

WilliamCrawford

CoverArtDanielBarrett‘13

“Windmill”(AcryliconCanvas,16x20)

GraphicsCoordinationSeanRileyHiltonDresdenJohnSandersBenSanders

AlexBennettColinMadigan

TableofContents/CreditsArtConnorMartin‘13“Clay”(Photography)

fin

ArtConsultMrs.JanePowers

PeterBeck

OfficialSustenanceBalistreri’sBluemoundInn

6501WestBlueMoundRdMilwaukee,WI

ProductionConsultantMr.GarySkinner

APLUSGraphicResourcesgskinner.aplus@gmail.com

ModeratorMs.GinnySchauble

SerutangisMusicFestival&SignaturesHomeroom

AlexBennettTomBresnahanWilliamCrawfordAdamCrivelloKevinDevineHiltonDresden

ThomasGorskiNathanKrzynskiColinMadiganHasaanMunimConnorMyersGreggNeuburg

StanleyObioraNicholasReitSeanRileyBenSandersJohnSandersJordanSylvesterNathanTeggeAdamWalkerTrevorWright