The Talon

Woodb e r ry ForestSchool

THE TaLoN

Cover art and Design: Robbie Brown

Title Page Photography: Ethan Chang

L e t ter fromtheEditors

Eclipse | Dan Chen | Woodberry Forest, Virginia | digital photography

Dear Readers,

Last year, we liked to say that The Talon was under new management. It was our first year without Dr. and Mr. Broaddus as advisors but not our first year without their influence. Because none of our current staff has ever worked with them, this year is truly the first Broaddus-less magazine, and to be perfectly honest, it has not been easy.

Because of a significant schedule change, the number of art submissions dipped, review boards were difficult to schedule, and free time was hard to find. This year has been demanding and frustrating in ways that none of us anticipated, but we’re confident that this magazine—the 75th Talon—lives up to and surpasses everything we have done so far!

Continuing our tradition from last year, we started out with a writing competition, asking students to imitate a short poem: “Fog” by Carl Sandburg. The competition produced numerous excellent poems, several of which can be found in the following pages. Finn Järvi’s “Calving Bear,” which won the competition, considers big, complex issues from under the front of a small, simple poem. In his poem “Dream,” Thomas Fang uses a butterfly as a vehicle for dreams, which (after some probing and fluttering) disappear without a trace.

Our other competition, the second annual “Tiger’s Eye,” yielded an incredible 45 combined poetry and prose submissions! One such submission, Finn Järvi’s short and unique fiction piece, “Mother of Saptari,” tells the story of a daughter and a mother, separated by death but united by Dashain, the Nepalese festival of good over evil. Ben Bae’s poem “Crane Game” captures the feeling of standing expectantly in front of a claw machine: “a second of heaven.”

This year, we were also lucky enough to spend some time with our writer-in-residence, John Larison, who flew from Oregon to spend a month at Woodberry. Many students read his bestselling novel, Whiskey When We’re Dry, and his work with the sixth-form English classes helped produce many of our fictional short stories. Jon Bolena’s “A Light in London” grapples with the complicated and fragile relationship between Eddy, a carriage driver in 1800s London, and his master, Mr. Worthington. In “Iceboro,” Cayden Sanchez writes about a tough-love relationship between a son and his alcoholic father.

And of course there are many more pieces worth highlighting than we can mention in one page. In fact they fill the next 160 pages. Enjoy!

– Robbie Brown, Thomas Chapman, and Nate Stein

Sketch | Gray Kallen | pencil on paper | 8.5 x 11 in. The Talon 2024

Poetry

Asclepius | Rienat Kharlan | pencil on paper

4 x 12 in.

Musketeer | Rienat Kharlan pencil on paper | 4 x 12 in.

A Child | Rienat Kharlan pencil on paper | 4 x 12 in.

A Light in London by jon bolena

The Rooster | Robbie Brown | Raleigh, North Carolina | digital photography

Talon

My master of fifteen years, Mr. Worthington, was pacing under the stone entryway when I arrived. “Late,” he called out.

I raised my hand in a greeting. He shook his head and looked at his watch. He stamped on the ground, chilled through, even as he stood next to the lit brazier. I jumped down from the carriage, startling the horses, and landed rather precariously on the smooth cobbles. I steadied myself, tipped my hat, and bowed.

“Sorry, guv. I got held up bridling the horses.” He waved the excuse off and gestured toward the carriage door.

“Why is it dark inside?”

“Terribly sorry, guv. Let me fix that right for you.”

I drew out a box of matches and stepped into the carriage; my knee creaked. I took the first match and struck it. It glowed briefly and went out. The second sparked on the box, and the flame blossomed, holding steady. I touched it to the wick of the candle, and light spilled onto the cobbles like a beacon. I stepped out of the carriage and motioned for my master to enter. He didn’t look at me when he passed. The

last time I was late, my master withheld my wages for the month; the missus and I lived on ha’pennies.

I drew out the box of matches I had stowed away in my coat pocket. Then from my breast pocket, I drew the curved pipe my master had given me last Christmas. It was quite a nice pipe: American in origin, stained mahogany throughout. Some of the tobacco had fallen out into my pocket when I jumped down from the carriage. I tamped down what was left in the chamber and touched a lit match to the tobacco. My master grew impatient and rapped his knuckles on the door behind me.

“Get a move on, Eddy.”

“Right away, guv.”

I climbed quickly up to my bench atop the carriage and flicked the horses’ reins. They walked forward. I took out my whip and cracked it sharply, and the horses began to trot. I sat back and enjoyed the rest of my tobacco. The lamplighters had

just finished their nightly duties. Groups of them, like chimney sweeps in summer, flocked back to Whitechapel and Southwark. They carried their poles over their shoulders as they laughed and smoked. Their cheer was unsettling; winter would be upon them soon. But right now, they didn’t worry. It wasn’t freezing at night yet; coal was still cheap, and the wind hadn’t set in from the midlands. The sun was setting earlier, though. Narrow alleys and streets were now dark well before the sunset; there were no lamplighters for the occasional oil lamp found there, not even for the back-alleys of Westminster.

“Stop on Jermyn Street at Fortnum and Mason,” I heard my master say. “The missus needs some more blackcurrant jam.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Eddy?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Could you go any slower?”

“Of course.” I tugged on the reins and the horses slowed a little.

I could see Buckingham Palace up ahead, lit up spectacularly. The Queen was clearly in residence at present. Guards with pikes manned the fence line. Black banners were still hung from the balconies; it was a year gone since His Royal Highness, Prince Albert, had passed. I thought about Her Majesty, sitting alone in the grand parlors, thinking about her husband. I imagine my wife did the same thing while I drove the carriage for my master—alone in our kitchen, staring down at the table I had rescued from the burn pile. Nice table, that.

The jams came from France at that time. Blackcurrant jam was a favorite of Mrs. Worthington to put on scones.

entrance, and the porter opened the door for him; his white scarf flipped around in the wind.

I loved my mistress, but she wasn’t typical in any way, shape, or form.

Made them herself, she did— dreadfully shameful for my master. Especially since the last time she tried to cook, she had burned the roast black, and I had to run ten blocks to find the nearest fire brigade. I loved my mistress, but she wasn’t typical in any way, shape, or form.

After a few minutes he returned out the door, already having donned his white gloves to avoid the chill of the evening air. A clerk followed him, carrying the jam and a very large teapot capable of holding ten or twelve cups of tea. It had lovely pink floral designs, and if it was anything like the other ones my master owned, would be made of the finest porcelain.

“Eddy, get the teapot and put it in the back.”

On the narrow streets, as we neared Fortnum and Mason, I saw only two carriages. The sun had fully set as I reined the horses to a stop outside the grand storefront. Fortnum and Mason was my favorite shop in London. Five floors of sweets, meats, and treats—eye candy for people like me. We could never afford to buy anything from there. But my master could, and so he did. I imagined the huge jars of spices from India, wooden flutes from Africa, and boxes of fine tea from China.

I hopped down from the carriage, tapped on the window, and turned the knob. My master got out and stood leaning against the carriage with one arm propped up.

“Watch how fast you’re going in these back-alleys, Eddy. You know how sick I get when you jolt around.”

“Yes sir, guv.”

“Slower, Eddy.”

“I’ll make sure to next time, sir.”

“Best be off… I need to get back before too long.”

He walked toward the store

“Right away, sir.”

I climbed down from the carriage, walked to the clerk, and took the teapot gingerly. My master took his coin purse, handed a few coins to the clerk, and I started back to the carriage.

“Wait, Eddy, put it up front with me.”

I looked back to acknowledge him, but my foot snagged on a protruding cobblestone. The teapot slipped gently out of my hands, reflecting off the bright streetlamp.

Crunch. I was fully extended on the dirty road. My arms were

outstretched toward the beautiful teapot that was no more. I turned my head toward my master. I wagered this was probably my last time coaching for my master. Shame, too—it was such a good job.

My master stood there, dumbfounded, as the porcelain shards settled in and around the cobbles. He snapped out of his shock and rounded on me, “Ungrateful sod! You bloody useless fumbler! I’ll—I’ll…” He trailed off, his condescending

tone thick with anger. I felt a sharp rap on my temple as my master swung at me with his gloves. I met my master’s unrelenting gaze. I was blinded as he swung again at me with his gloves. This time, instead of my temple, they caught my left eye. I doubled over, clutching at my face.

When my vision cleared, I took the blackcurrant jam from the clerk. My mistress would be waiting for it. I walked over to the carriage and tapped on the

door to make sure my master was present before climbing up to my chair once again. I lightly tapped the reins before grabbing my whip and cracking it sharply to get the horses in motion. I set the blackcurrant jam in the whipholder and laid the whip across my lap.

I managed to get us to central Kensington uneventfully. The lamplighters had done their job, making sure the way was lit. It was quiet then, and still; I was content. No candles shone in

Steeples | Shaffer Broughton | Hamburg, Germany | digital photography

Montana Night | Luke Davis | Big Sky, Montana | digital photography

any window. I was alone with the horses, the blackcurrant jam, and the lamps. No master bothered me now as we turned on to Pelham Crescent, the street where my master lived. It was a curious street; you could only see seven or eight houses around the bend at a time, and the lamps were spaced farther apart so that visibility was low.

I felt an uneasiness in my stomach as the horses trotted down the street. It was far too loud for an autumn evening. Voices, shrill with fear, echoed across the park to us. A smell of smoke hung in the air, not a fine tobacco as one might expect in the neighborhood but almost a wood smoke smell. I flicked the reins, urging the horses faster around the bend.

A group of people stood outside my master’s house. I saw Mrs. Worthington standing there, wearing the raggedy apron of the parlor maid; my master would never let her have her own. Thought that might encourage her. The maids were with her, as well as the butler. I could just make out in the lamplight the

expressions of fear on the house staff and my mistress. As we drew close, I reined the horses in, and I saw smoke coming out of the basement windows. I snapped the reins and the horses jolted forward. A muffled thump came from inside the carriage.

I felt an uneasiness in my stomach as the horses trotted down the street. It was far too loud for an autumn evening.

We sped back to the Worthingtons’ house. The firemen rushed in, each carrying a twenty-gallon bucket of water; the coachman ran to the pump with two more buckets. When the firemen returned, they hurried to the pump, grabbing the two buckets and filling those they had taken in; they hurried back inside.

My master started to shout from inside, “Eddy, what in the name of…” He trailed off when he must have seen the smoke out the carriage window.

I snapped the reins again, and we were off. I was standing, wobbling to be sure, searching for the fire brigade; they were on patrol always, especially in Kensington. I turned left back onto Fulham Road and then quickly left again onto Pelham Street, where the brigade’s carriage was sitting on the side of the pavement. I whistled to the coachman of the brigade. He signaled, and the firemen rushed from inside the pub, glasses halffull in hand. I turned the horses around and the brigade followed suit.

My master and Mrs. Worthington stood awkwardly side-by-side. I joined the butler.

“All clear, guv. Bit burnt up in there, but it’ll be fine. I daresay you’ll need a new oven, sir. Best stay clear of the kitchen from now on, madam,” the firemen chuckled.

My master looked at his wife. He stared a moment before turning to me, extending his hand, and saying, “Thank you, Eddy. Well done.”

by nate stein

Angels, dressed in raiments bright, Soothe to sleep a drowsy Night.

Men watch the plummet—call it Dawn— Then take to tools and labor on.

Of vigil Dawn is soon relieved

By Day whom angels so conceived

To drag the fiery sun in tow

And guide men’s labors down below.

And when men lay their tools to rest,

The angels, still in raiments dressed, Sing dear Day a lullaby And offer Dusk the sweeping sky.

But Dusk’s still kingdom golden burns

As Night, with retinue, returns.

Men notice not and never can What angels do for lowly man.

Apocalypse

Henry Royster ’23

Outer Banks, North Carolina

Nihilist Diatribe

by danny van clief

Waking, Nothing followed him. He removed the heavy blankets and gazed through the window. He saw more things than he could know. He turned to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He heard a knock on the door. He opened it. It was Nothing. He looked down the hall and noticed its infinity. He closed the door and returned to bed, ready to enter the subconscious, infinite, and infinitely vulnerable.

Nothing and Infinity go hand in hand. As always, they strolled down the hallway together: Infinity ahead, Nothing following. They opened the door and tore the heavy blankets from his body. They took him, threw him from the window, left, and continued down the hallway. Subconscious and conscious were terminated.

Jed | Collin McDonald | Woodberry Forest, Virginia | digital photography

Water Down the Drain

by ralph wear

No doubt he’d done it. No question. They’d got him on camera. They’d got his fingerprints, his blood, his hair.

It was all there—his silvery hair and sunken skin, stained with that dark crimson his momma once said could never wash away. The other man’s blood filled the grooves that’d tunneled into him over his life, almost as if a piece of him had returned to him, completing his form in the drearily-lit shower. It dripped down over him, his hunched back rippling with the memory of the muscles that’d atrophied from years in the dark. It arched over him, a singularly-colored rainbow whose red-rum hue matched the crime’s name in reverse. But the nightmare didn’t end after the first blow, nor the second, because his Uncle Sy was an overachiever, and he didn’t stop

till he’d finished all the work he’d started.

The red light flickered on first, the energy humming throughout the little metal box, the lenses focusing automatically on the man before them. The man behind the lenses, the man who held the notepad, thrummed his fingers about, nervously, on the pen.

Can you tell me how you knew the defendant?

“He was my cellmate— cellmate of mine since I got here.”

He kept running through it in his head, but the case blurred beyond its scope. Photographs and film spun around, filling in and overflowing the gaps in memory. Memory trying to

justify what the images showed. This demon wasn’t the man who’d pushed him on the tire swing, who’d smiled when Nate opened a present on Christmas, or who sat with him when his mother didn’t return. The Uncle Sy, who’d baited his fishing hook and who’d shared a beer with him over a soundtrack of summer cicadas, wasn’t that thing in the film.

What was the defendant doing earlier that day? Did he seem different?

“Sy was doin’ same as always. He never was much of a talker ever, but he wouldn’t do somethin’ like that without somethin’ to set ‘em off.”

He couldn’t separate it, exactly

as his father said he wouldn’t. Sy’d seen too much, his father told him, and this was just the end of a cycle. In a rage, he’d said Sy was a bullet with too much powder or a poor-made mousetrap and he was always about to go off. He should’ve been shot ages before, back in the war, and if he died now, it was his own damn fault. The day Sy had been moved into the larger prison, Nate remembered, was the happiest the man had been since he’d returned because when he returned from the war, Uncle Sy was ghost-dogged.

He did all of this, with a shower drain?

“Yes.”

But how was he able to pry it up?

shaking expression perfectly, before the man behind the camera nodded silently, clicking his pen closed.

Thank you for your time.

The straight walk down the corridor was more of a figurative prison than a physical one. Escorted by guards, the straight path provided some much-needed direction when everything else in the lawyer’s head was spinning. Moral compass clashed in an all-out brawl against years of case law, looking for some chink, something to exploit, in the impervious armor and came up crushingly short.

drown out the beating in Nate’s chest. Inside the room, jacketbound in some tight white fabric and shackled to his chair, stooped the pale and ancientframed body, now more akin to a zombie than a man. His fair, gray-blonde hair matted atop his head, reached over his eyes like tattered drapes trying desperately to conceal the contents behind.

DO NOT CROSS POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS POLICE LINE DO NOT

“He just, he just did, man! We had no clue what he was doing, but one minute he was on the floor, and the next he was bashing skulls in! I don’t know why, I just know I got the hell out of there. There was just so much…” He shook his head, his voice mirroring the

The walk ended in an extremely underwhelming door, considering the nature of the man it held locked away. Plain white paint against the concrete-gray walls with a metal knob and an iron-reinforced glass window above it. One of the guards stepped forward and opened it, walking him inside, and for a moment, the guard’s steel boots could only barely

But more crushing than anything, to Nate, were his eyes. These were not the eyes of his uncle, whose calm hawkeyed grays always seemed to be looking past you, quietly contented, silently watching, and eternally a twinge tearful. Before him, the young lawyer saw two thunderheads trapped in spheres, raging and twitching, itching to escape and consume the whole room in their destructive anger. They were bloodshot with the bright red of real blood, so much so, it seemed to Nate, that red lightning had sparked in them.

The man hunched himself low, resting his stomach against the steel table as he stared up at the

window with the half-smile of a madman, until he no longer saw himself, but someone else, through the glass.

NOT CROSS POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS POLICE LINE

DO NOT CROSS

Uncle Sy. Nate entered the room fearfully, the pulsating beat of his heart so strong he was scared it would burst. Five feet stood between him and the broken remains of a shining pillar he once thought a man should be. Now, with everything laid bare, with the gilt of youth dulled by experience, and with the glamor of his uncle gone, washed away by blood, all he saw was a doomed man.

“That really you, Nate?” His voice came choked as though the words were a struggle to get out. The lawyer nodded as he sat down across from the old man. All false bravado Sy wanted to summon left him as he saw the young man, face unlined, hidden behind glasses yet still brighteyed. The suit he wore was nicer than Sylvester’s old house. The spite he wanted to feel vanished as pride returned, and when he opened the gates of his steeled

mind to let it back in, the other mortal feelings returned as well. Regret, fear, sadness—he felt them all as the worried man began to speak to him.

The case wouldn’t be easy, but he could win it. He would win it. They’d plead insanity, say that he had been traumatized by the war. Say he didn’t need death, that he needed help. Sylvester wanted it so badly that he felt his tongue swelling, felt his heart bursting, as the lawyer pulled out every stop, desperate for it to make sense, fumbling his fingers just as he did as a boy when he shot his first buck. Hands shaking in anticipation, gripping some phantom object with all four fingers, and miming a tapping motion with his thumb, Nate had always been nervous. Never wanted to wait for anything, not after waiting on the porch the day his momma up and left.

…and I guarantee that you’ll live, Uncle Sy. I may even get you in a better place! Wouldn’t that be great?

Sylvester stared past his

nephew’s face. Behind it, behind the man who was still a boy in Sy’s eyes, ghosts laughed. They scoffed and called for him, tattered and ripped to shreds, their ribbons blowing in the breeze. They pleaded with him. They wanted him. He turned away, slamming his eyes shut and falling until the darkness under his eyelids was worse than the ghosts.

That was when he felt the frigid surface and was instantly aware of something flowing out of him. The cold metal on his face soothed an ache he hadn’t remembered he’d had, and when he looked up, a man in a suit stood there, watching him, terrified. A metallic taste filled his mouth, and when he struggled to wipe the pain-reared liquid from his nose, he couldn’t move his arms. He shouted in anguish, the fabric straining against him as the men behind the suit moved forward suddenly, holding him, picking him up onto his feet, and walking him out. The man in the suit looked after him as he went, calling for him, calling “Uncle,” until the door slammed shut.

“Who are you? What’d ya do to me? Where’m I goin’?”

Mountain Waves | Luke Davis | Big Sky, Montana | digital photography

Broken | Gray Kallen | Charlottesville, Virginia | digital photography

Walnut Corner

by robbie brown

Theacorn hit the ground hard, popped up from the concrete, and settled in the leaves beside the path.

Leah looked up from her thoughts and eyed the acorn. It had cracked upon impact, but it was still beautiful. The strange white speckled pattern on its side looked just like one Dad had found. She reached for it.

Benny’s foot got to it first. It took a few bounces down the path and then came to a stop.

“Benny,” she objected, “I was going to show that to Dad.”

He ran up the path to where the prized acorn had settled, looked back to make sure she was watching, and then gave it another kick. The acorn bounced twice, clanked off the metal frame of the bridge, and fell into the water below.

“Benny! I was...” Leah started again.

“I know!” he spat back before she could finish. “Find him another one.”

She scowled.

He dug through the leaves, grabbed a blackening old walnut, and chucked it back at her.

“Just give him this.”

“Why are you always trying to make that jerk so happy, anyway?” Benny asked.

Benny grabbed a stick and began testing his drumming skills on the bridge railings.

“He’s not a jerk,” she argued over his drumming. “And that acorn was for me, too, not just him.”

The stick cracked.

“Say what you want.” Benny began again, “But we both know he doesn’t care about your acorns anymore. Do you realize how long it took to convince him to even let us come here. He can’t get enough of these ‘more important things’...”

She felt a buzz in her pocket and quickly reached to check it.

“Is it one of your interviewers?” he asked.

“No.” she sighed after a moment.

Benny ran ahead to drum some more.

When they passed over the bridge, Leah looked down at the calm water below. Before Dad had fallen, she and Benny would walk here almost every day, listening to Dad’s stories and inventing their own too. The other side of this bridge became Walnut Corner. Further ahead, lay the treacherous Mosquito Alley. As Leah walked, she closed her eyes and let her nose remember the sappy pine sawdust from when Dad had carved them tree-trunk thrones. She let her ears remember the quiet giggles that had filled the air as they chased giant fluttering leaves. She let her heart remember how the three of them had been one... before Dad had fallen off that ladder.

Greenies | Robbie Brown | Woodberry Forest, Virginia | digital photography

Benny had abandoned his drumming to kicking through the leaves by the side of the path. Leah sighed and trudged after him. She tried to remind herself that Dad being like this was only temporary. Every day it was getting harder though. It had been seven years now. Would the colorful birds and tree walks ever return? Or was Benny right? Were the two of them sentenced to work, school, and ‘the important stuff’ for the rest of their days?

Before long, Benny returned with a smile and a lumpy bundled-up shirt.

“Look how many walnuts I found!” he proclaimed as he opened the shirt to display his prize.

Leah smiled.

“If we find enough,” he continued, “we can bring them up to the top of Sycamore Hill. Then when we see a car we can dump them all down the hill like we used to!”

He ran over to one of their now-rotting stump thrones and jumped off. A few walnuts fell from his shirt.

“You’ll do it with me. Won’t you?” he pleaded. “Please.”

“Well...” she started.

“Or do you need to just be a mini Dad? Are there really better things for us to do than play at the greenway? What do you say?”

She didn’t continue her sentence.

“Don’t tell me he’s right.”

Benny protested. “I promise it’ll be fun. We’ll collect more walnuts than we ever did with Dad. We’ll be better than that lousy lumberjack.”

“A lumberjack cuts wood,” she explained. “They don’t collect nuts... And don’t call him lousy either.”

“What happened to all those stories?”

Benny continued. “What about

how much fun you used to have with him finding rare trees and colorful birds? Aren’t you two supposed to be nature geniuses? I thought you liked that stuff.”

“Benny, you can’t fit any more walnuts in that shirt,” she interjected. “They’re just falling out.”

“Oh, stop ignoring me,” Benny grumbled. “Are you going to help or are you going to be just like him? What happened to doing what you love, Miss Scientist?”

Benny threw a walnut at the next bridge. It missed the metal and dropped into the river below.

“I think you’re trying to make Dad happy because you love the dad you remember. Dad now isn’t the same. That fall wasn’t just physical. He paused for a minute to look back at her. “Why don’t you just do what you know the dad you love would want you to do.”

“It’s...” she began before trailing off again.

Benny found another stick and resumed his drumming.

“Benny!” she called out. “Stop hitting it with that.”

He growled.

Leah found an oak branch and handed it to him.

Iron | Robbie Brown | Raleigh, North Carolina | digital photography

“Oak is stronger.” she insisted.

“It will make a louder noise and it won’t break.”

“Really?” Benny asked as a smile crossed over his face.

He took the branch and ran back to his drumming.

“Wait a minute...” Benny began.

The phone rang.

Hello, Ms. Anderson. This is Carl and McPherson calling to let you know that your job interview today is going to be pushed an hour earlier to 2:15. See you then!

The phone went silent. Leah returned the phone to her pocket.

“Does that mean we have to go back now?” Benny asked.

“No,” she decided. “I think we’ll collect some walnuts instead. I haven’t been to Sycamore Hill in a while.”

Too noisily silent, darkly bright. Too sweetly bitter, smoothly Sharp.

Fulfilled and empty, STOP, clear and blind. The voice inside me will not cry.

VOICE

by artem tartakovskyi

It will not wake and will not talk. Shut up! will not advise and won’t Leave me. Alone. For. A se-cond. PLEASE!

I cannot sleep And eat, and walk, and sit, and lie, and read, and smile.

Blue pony Is as senseful as my life.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Calm down. Quiet.

Meanings are lost, And cannot be weighted In the massless world To which they belong.

The voice is fused And will not discern From the noising calm Where it was born.

Hello?!

Brooks McCall

Woodberry Forest, Virginia

The Flags

by robbie brown

Parti-colored pool flags between tower and tower of corrugated metal stir gently as the sun’s golden fingers reach out from heavy-ink cumulonimbus to nudge that shiny plastic no one saw

Last Drop | Ethan Chang | Yongin, South Korea | digital photography

Lava Splotch | Robbie Brown | Galápagos, Ecuador | digital photography

Mr. Marbley | Robbie Brown | Galápagos, Ecuador | digital photography

Candy | Robbie Brown | Bellavista Cloud Forest, Ecuador | digital photography

Woodberry Forest School

Woods Hole

A Selection from the Woods Hole marine Biology Field Trip

X-Ray Tail | Thomas Chapman | Woods Hole, Massachusetts | digital photography The Talon

Squid | Thomas Chapman | Woods Hole, Massachusetts | digital photography

Zebrafish | Samuel Riverson | Woods Hole, Massachusetts | digital photography

Ram Skull | Brooks McCall | oil on canvas | 20 x 20 in.

by ralph wear

Old Growth

The old pickup trundled down the path, worn-well tires fitting looser-worn ruts. The forest road got its name from the old-growth wood it had beheaded three decades prior, but the old-growth, like a stubborn snake, refused to die when her head was cut off. The land had now been plowed and drilled more times than the truck’s driver wanted to count, broken down past the recognition of any man who’d once called her home. But, the spirit of the place remained.

So Calin remained too.

They’d tried to smoke her out: notices on her barn or “spills” of pollutants by her gate, but the Old Growth that had borne her raised her right and stubborn. As she neared the turn-off that marked her gateway into the leaves, her low brow furrowed

deeper, and her left ear-point twitched. Turning off her truck, whose quiet chugging protested being left behind, she stalked around to its bed, removing the old wrapping and holding it with the well-trained respect of a soldier and the well-loved tenderness of a mother.

The green-rimmed path seemed to enclose the recently melted, wrought-iron gate and the hunter felt alone again, in front of a mighty castle of branches and ivy–her castle, that had an unwanted visitor sitting within its walls. She set off into the branches like a shark in the water, a singlemindedness about her almost fluid motions as she traced the horrid dirt trail. Mud caked her boots as the forest bent around her, and as she ran, she felt decades of instinct join hand-

in-hand with the centuries of evolution that city-dwellers would never know.

How could they? When they replaced the smell of mushrooms and vines for exhaust and garbage bins, deer and hawks with rats and crows, what need did they have for wood-walking or ears that worked like eyes? No wood elf was truly alive in the concrete box of the modern man, where their nigh-immortal lives were as busy as those broad ears with decades to live. Calin could remember when her brothers hung their bows and left the land of their fathers for the comfort of the insulated boxes in the skies, and she remembered how, one by one, they burnt out. Burnt out… burning.

Smoke. The elf stopped dead before

the clearing of gravel and red mud that made up the driveway of their—no, only her home now— and smelt the singe of melted metal wire and machined pine.

The blaze had been tall and fast, and what smoke remained rose high above her house, like a taunting finger, pointing right to the sheep pens behind it. No roaring inferno was left, just smoldering embers that smoked high and had burned short. Her dogs, still crazed and inside, hollered a storm. She sighed, rising from the instinctive crouching position she’d assumed, and walked out of the ditch with purpose, not speed. She heard the cooing sounds of her terrified flock and was ready to see whatever sight awaited around her home. By now the claw marks in the wet drive were apparent to her keen, green eyes, yet from their size alone, she couldn’t guess what beast had made them.

to wood made it flow like water, and life, even immortal life, was slower. The beast hadn’t seemed interested in the house itself, so it must’ve just been a simple raptor. Nothing at all like the evil minds of the Ancient Drakes, which, by now, had all been slain. She removed the gold-trimmed, white oak frame from its deceivingly mossy cloth. Her hands held the instrument loosely as she pulled around to the side fence, its familiar weight cradled gently in her two-point sling, arm

off along its path. Along the path to whatever she stalked, she saw the bones. They were fresh, charred— still smoking from the flashfire cremation they’d been subjected to, and so numerous she couldn’t make a clear count of them. How many had it gotten? If it took her ram, she’d have to buy a new one, being peak breeding season as it was.

Calin could remember when her brothers hung their bows and left the land of their fathers for the comfort of the insulated boxes in the skies, and she remembered how, one by one, they burnt out.

Eventually, she stopped looking at the bones. There was nothing to be done about those already gone; slowing down to look at them made sure that

She cleared the ornate front of her ancestral home, designed and built by artisans in modes long forgotten, when those who sang

and shoulder, never cheek. The well-kept magic rifle comforted her, even as she ran towards the clearing of her backyard. The hollow was empty, with streaks of fire in the grass leading away from the yard’s center and the chimney of the old estate. Off into the forest again, broken branches revealed the height of the mystery predator’s hunting posture, and fear all but left her as she made

fewer sheep would live. With her mind off the trail, her body took over again, and her evolutionary autopilot sped her across the brush until the smoky smell that lit up her nostrils was too great for her trance to continue. She had to depart from evolution and rely purely on trained instinct; because while biology screamed run, experience

knew that her goal lay further on. In an apocalyptic vision of red and white, bark and bone sat the predator. He, a small male, barely 10 feet tall, was feasting upon one of her larger ewes. His scales were a disgusting green, splotched with red from the recent hunt. She shook her head in pity for the thing. She didn’t hate him, they both had to survive. For him, that meant preying on her flock. For her, that meant protecting the flock. So with another forced scowl, she raised the weapon again, zeroed in on the beast’s unmoving chest, and let out a long breath.

The birds scattered into the wind, the elf lowered her gun.

The fence needed repairing. The flock needed to be found, but she’d have to let the dogs handle that. The gate would have to be replaced later, but right now, she

needed to get her truck off the road.

The bones of the small drake were picked clean before the summer was done, left rotting in the old growth. His proudly feral, four-horned skull was swept under a pile of leaves by fall. By winter, it had broken in two; and by the next summer, when Calin’s nephew found it, all that remained were teeth.

Charlottesville,ShockoeJoe|RobbieBrown|Virginia|digitalphotography

By The

Farm

Fly | Robbie Brown | Quito, Ecuador | digital photography

Jack | Robbie Brown | Charlottesville, Virginia | digital photography

Nate: When did you first consider yourself a writer, and what is your first memory with writing?

John: One of my high school teachers told me that I could be a writer if I wanted to be and worked hard at it. After college, I found a good paying job, but I always had this sense that I should be writing. Then I got frustrated about something that was happening in the world politically. In response, I quit my job and started writing, and all my male relatives said, “That’s the stupidest thing you could do!” Their doubt made me double down. I felt like I had to prove to them that I could make it as a writer.

Ata: Could you describe your writing process? What does a good day of writing look like for you?

John: Well, I think the how is the shape of the what. A good day of writing for me actually starts the day before. I try to read a good book for about an hour and then listen to some good music. Then, I’ll go for a walk and get a good night’s sleep. Those things set me up to have a good writing day. In the morning, I will take my matcha green tea into my office. I’ll write from 8:30 to 12:30. Then, I’ll have a light lunch— something small, but enough to fill me up—and then I’ll go back to work from 1:00 to 4:30. Then I’ll go for a long walk, read

a book, listen to some music, get a good night’s sleep, and do the whole thing over the next day. That’s the ideal. Of course, life gets in the way sometimes.

Nate: How do you know that your writing is good enough? When is it too nitpicky? When do you know when to move on from what you’ve written?

John: I am making every change I can right up until pagination and copy edits. What happens in the publishing process is that I have a book that I think is perfect. I give it to my agent, who tells me that it’s awful. He tells me why it’s awful. I go back and rework it. The book that I have coming out in August went to my agent

eight times. Then it went to the editor, and it went back and forth through the editor three times. And now it’s in copy edits and pagination. And I will change everything I can change that’s wrong until the point where the publisher tells me if I change one more thing, I’m going to have to pay them. They’ll say, “Okay, we’ll make that change, but it will cost you $14.” And I’ll say, “Okay, and I’m done making changes.”

So essentially, right up to the last minute, I’m changing everything that doesn’t seem right to me, which is usually a lot. It’s weird. And then the book’s dead to me. It’s closed. Now, when I read Whiskey, my brain doesn’t want to change everything. But that’s only because I can’t.

Robbie: How do you get yourself into the right mental state? How do you find the background to write a book like Whiskey? What sort of research do you do? How do you prepare yourself?

John: I think a fiction writer is a sponge. The fiction writer needs to squeeze themselves out and then put themselves in some sort of context. With Whiskey, it was

museums, places in the American West, and actual settler homes. Places like those. The sponge soaks up all the water from those places. And then, I come to my office. I squeeze that sponge out, and the story grows from it. It’s very different from researching an academic paper, where I might focus and have a narrow goal. With fiction writing, I feel like I have to free myself and let my subconscious mind do the work. And that can only happen when I feel comfortable, inspired, and intrigued by what’s going on.

Robbie: What’s one way you specifically researched or got your mind to soak up information about the American West?

John: The most helpful kind of research that I did was method acting. I did a lot of horseback riding while seeing the world as Jess would see it. I made lead bullets, loaded old firearms, churned butter, made jerky. Method acting techniques can help you gather visceral details. And then, when you’re writing, you can conjure those details that appeal to people’s senses and also find those details that feel like

they can’t be made up. The more concrete something is, the more precise it is, the more surprising it is, the more it feels like it can’t be made up.

Robbie: How do you create your characters? What makes you want to write about them? How do you choose to name your characters?

John: All my characters are people I’d like to hang out with, though I might not want to be friends with them. One of the great pleasures of writing is getting to know characters like they’re your friends. Not every character you write comes to life, but the ones who do— like Jess, Annette, Greenie, and Drummond in Whiskey When We’re Dry—I find super interesting. Writing becomes an act of intimacy. I know that may sound gross, but it’s true. I get to know these people really well. But naming them is hard. You want a name to stick in someone’s head, but you don’t want a name to be distracting in any way. Some names, like Ata, are great in a story because they stand out on the page. You’re not going to forget Ata. You’re not going to

confuse Ata with John or somebody, right? On the other hand, it’s kind of easy to forget a name like John. You want the names to stand out, but you don’t want them to be distracting.

And

especially because it’s read as an origin story—is its centering of white heroes. Of course, there were white heroes in the American West, but there were a lot who were not white too. The

all my male relatives said, “That’s

the stupidest thing you could do!” Their doubt made me double down. I felt like I had to prove to them that I could make it as a writer.

Nate: You mentioned in our class that you wanted to turn the Western on its head a little bit. Why and what was the problem with the other Westerns you saw?

John: Great question. I love Westerns. The Western is a revered genre in the United States. It’s not as read as it used to be, but it’s still influencing the stories made in Hollywood and the stories that are told. It has really defined who the American hero type is. Because of all that influence and because a lot of that influence is subtle, people can use the Western to persuade us to do things, and we don’t even realize it. Politicians do this all the time. And one thing problematic about the conventional Western—

Lone Ranger, for instance, one of the archetypal cowboys in the Western, is a real person named Bass Reeves, who was AfricanAmerican, born into slavery, and yet became a federal marshal, but Hollywood made his character white. That emphasis on white heroes was something I wanted to push back on, that whitewashing of American history. I also wanted to highlight the fact that so many heroes of the American West weren’t men. There were countless women running ranches and doing all sorts of good. You don’t see them very often in films either. I wanted to push back on some of those masculinity stereotypes that are in the Western, too. The hero in many Westerns is actually a scummy

guy who is praised and held up as a hero. Reading some of my favorite Westerns, I often think, “This guy’s a jerk. The country won’t be better off if everyone’s trying to be like this guy.” I let frustration and even anger propel my Western, in a way.

Robbie: So how were you able to put yourself in the mind of a young woman to write Whiskey?

John: The most important thing that I learned was that I could not tell myself that I was writing a young woman. I never let myself do that. Instead, I write this person. With Jess, I thought much more about her age, her nostalgia, and her sense of culpability than I did about her gender. Had I told myself I was writing a woman, I would have done my best impression of a woman, and people would have been like, “No, I don’t believe it.” But because I was writing a human, everything I wrote felt true. Every line was true to me in some way. And that approach allows people to connect to the human in Jess and believe Jess in a way that they might not have otherwise.

Nate: What writers and books have influenced you?

John: My early Western experiences were all with Louis L’Amour. I loved Louis L’Amour when I was young. He helped solidify the Western as a dominate cultural narrative.

The Westerns that I like now and can reread are books like True Grit by Charles Portis or News of the World by Paulette Jiles.

I have a love-hate relationship with Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian. I will just say that I am glad he dove into novel-writing because I think that he might

have become a murderer if he did not start writing books. I have also been really interested in lots of recent Westerns that are coming out on film because I think they have been wrestling with some of the more problematic elements of the Western’s legacy.

John Larison | Tyler Campbell | Woodberry Forest, Virginia | digital photography

Robbie: How has teaching influenced your writing?

John: Teaching and writing fit together really well for me. Writing is a solitary activity, and I’m a gregarious person. So, if I just write, I get pretty down. I need some human interaction, and teaching is great because you get to meet people and help them improve their skills. Also, when teaching writing, you learn to articulate things that you wouldn’t have to articulate to yourself. That helps me learn more about writing. To have to explain structure to younger writers helps me understand structure better and control it better in my own work. So I’d say writing makes me a better teacher, and teaching makes me a better writer.

Ata: How would you describe your relationship with your readers?

John: Wow, no one’s ever asked me that before. I really don’t want to let them down. First of all, I’m continually shocked and honored that anybody would read a 380page book that I wrote from the

first sentence to the last. That’s ten hours of your time or more. You’ve given me a lot of your life, and I feel honored by that. Also, I really want to make sure that you’re not let down by the next book. So I would say my readers are that force that is there in

John: The Odyssey … Maybe Moby Dick … I might bring True Grit, actually, because I feel like I’d need it … River Runs Through It … I should say The Bible, shouldn’t I? Alright, The Bible. But just between us, Islands in the Stream by Ernest Hemingway.

I often think, “This guy’s a jerk. The country won’t be better off if everyone’s trying to be like this guy.”

my mind when I’m writing that pushes me to write the best that I can. They sit on my shoulder while I’m writing. Sometimes I can feel them in the room with me being like, “Eh, don’t do that.” For instance, I heard from many moms; they’re like, “Why does the character’s mom always have to die? Can’t there be a book where the character’s mom doesn’t die?” And so I was writing my next book, The Ancients, and those moms were sitting on my shoulder, and I was like, “This mom is not gonna die. I’m not going to let it happen.”

Nate: Now we have a couple of rapid-fire questions for you… You’re stranded on a desert island. You can only bring five books. Which ones are you bringing?

Robbie: If you could meet any writer—living or dead—who would it be and why?

John: I would love to hang out with Thomas McGuane. He’s in the Hall of Fame for rodeo and a member of the Academy of Arts and Letters. So he’s like a rockstar on two poles. He also has bird dogs that know a thing or two. I write him fan letters. Sometimes he responds.

Ata: What subject would you like to learn more about and why?

John: I’m fascinated with the corporate roots of America, and I’m very troubled by recent arguments that America was founded by corporations for corporations. I would really like

to research that and learn a bit more about what’s really going on. Also, I’m obsessed with the Late Bronze Age, specifically what happened to cause so many bustling cities in the Mediterranean to disappear in the span of 20 years. It’s one of history’s great mysteries.

Robbie: Ducks or Beavers?

John: I’m what we call a platypus because I went to OSU and UofO. I find them both really easy to root for and, at times, really hard to root for.

Nate: What’s your favorite word in the English language?

John: In this moment? Rabblerouse—to kick up trouble.

Robbie: And finally, do you have any superstitions about writing? And if so, what are they?

John: My superstition about writing is that I don’t have any superstitions about writing. Writing is the one area where I can actually control everything. However, I would say I have superstitions about almost

everything else. When I go fishing, there are no bananas and no oranges allowed near my boat. When it comes to writing, I have rituals. I light a candle that signifies to my brain that it’s writing time. I have scents for every book I’m working on. I play music for every character that helps me get into their mind. I have a writing uniform. I have a certain sleeping bag that I slide into at my chair when I get cold. So, yes, I guess after I graduated high school and college, I went to great lengths to build my own supportive structure of routine.

In Heaven

by robbie brown

The cables and wheels, they whirr and they hum, as the red, RED gondola, tugs us up to our fun.

And the glitter-glue snow below, how it shines, in a canyon of ski-bugs and whooping down lines.

As we sit up here, happy, watching rust towers go by, we talk and we hum our Colorado lullaby.

And when our steamy breath covers the windows with fog, we etch our names and peer through the smog.

Then take in our love— that heavenly shine— like mica in headlights, our taste of divine.

Skeleton and Road | Ford Garrard pencil on paper | 8 x 7 in.

Crane Game

CRane Game

by ben bae

In the corner of every arcade

Lies a simple crane game, With piling prizes inside

Knocking on the glass to be saved.

I roll four quarters in.

The machine gulps them with a clink

And the claw awakes.

Forward, backward, left, then right, I position with precision to my delight.

The claw dips and bites the prize, A moment of ephemeral bliss.

But following my wish the prize slips, Elation crumbles, my transient thrill cries.

The higher you climb, the harder you fall.

A familiar pain, a familiar expression.

But I roll in four more quarters

For a second of heaven.

Picking the Ripest

by Robbie Brown

You pick carefully From the plum-picking basket The smoothest Roundest Reddest Ripest one you can find

Always the best of the basket Left there for you

After careful consideration You dig in Breaking the smooth skin And letting the sweet sugary juice Flow

Textured flesh Little bites Removed Nimbly Carefully Artfully Until your work is done

sonnet by nate stein

O Firs, O Fires, beneath whose shade and light, I lay these years, with reverence, for you

And, crying, croak the slumber-song—“goodnight”—

As After grows a shade of blackened blue.

O Men, O Midgets, Speakers of the Word

That in some different language “Zion” means, You looked to Black and Orange (speech was slurred) But only for an instant from your screens.

O (Un)prepared, O Sick, and O Naive, Look upon Elysium and smile.

Paradise is still the same, but we’ve Now hung ourselves with bow ties—“out in style.”

But, ah, for me, when memory returns, A bonfire in the sky still golden burns.

A Walk in the Woods | Ethan Chang | Woodberry Forest, Virginia | digital photography

Woodberry Forest School

Pingüino | Robbie Brown | Galápagos, Ecuador | digital photography

Stop | Robbie Brown | Woodberry Forest, Virginia

Andesite | Shaffer Broughton | Mallorca, Spain | digital photography

Flowers | Gray Kallen | Koper, Slovenia | digital photography

Grass, Water

by danny van clief

We poked and prodded cattle uphill with horses and hounds.

Sporadic gray gums littered the reddish landscape, where roads replaced rivers, winding through dry dirt and greige grass. Only we ever trod over these hills, sweating away in blue workshirts. The sun scorched us until we were dried as the broad leather hats we wore. Summiting a brown hill, a red hill, and a black hill, the cattle pushed on as we pushed them. We all did the same. The Good Lord wills it so.

M o t h e r o f S a p t a r I

BY Finn Jarvi

Woven Together through Yama Nepal

Elephas Ex Svarga

In a stream knit together by mountains, snow paints its highest ridges. The place where Yama watches. Elevated shrines and statues of elephants decorate the small city of Saptari. Her children play in the fields protected by boulders. In this city, it has been thought since early times that the plane wreckage in the nearby fields were the fists of Yama, striking hurtful intruders and protecting the sanctity of the city. It seems, however, that Yama has fallen.

My mother, Palisha, had golden brown skin that wrinkled cheek to cheek. She would smile at the goat herders and sew daura suruwal for criminals. In part because of her undeniable love for the Midwest, American Hollywood movies consumed her. Unlike most Nepali women, she dreamed of living the cowboy halcyon life.

“Riding horses and swingin’ lasso, isn’t it?’ she told me in a green field shy of horses and full of elephants.

“You’ve watched one too many DVDs, Ma,” I assured.

Yet she ran forward into the abyss, thinking of nothing but the Midwest.

“You know, you’re lucky you’re my daughter. Otherwise, there would be no more Dashain for you,” she smiled. She always wore that particular golden brown, wrinkled smile. She wore the tearing of generations and famine in her heart–nothing but a smile left–in the hope that one day she would meet this rough but effervescent American cowboy.

Dashain, the festival of good over evil. Rituals, Traditions, and Unity. The melting pot for Nepali gathering; the festival my mother teased me about not attending, she never attended herself. She traveled to the highest shrine, in the highest mountain, and met with “him,” Yama.

Monolith | Robbie Brown | Bear Island, Norway | digital photography

My daughter Ita, I love you dearly. It isn’t always that I say this, but when guided by Ganesha, it’s most wise, would you not say? Would you not say? It’s given me the opportunity to live with my dreams, and I write to you from the shrines of death on behalf of our gods . I’ve met with Ganesha. The wisdom of the elephant has given me insight.

My daughter Ita, I wish that you would continue to sew for the criminals and their crimes. To also smile as I did. There is no hurt in a smile. Smiling means living well and loving during ten moons of suffering.

My daughter Ita, I’ve raised you strong, with one sister and a working father. I’ve left you with education, baskets, and clothing. As a mother, I’ve tried my hardest. I pray that you go in the name of philanthropy and teach others as I have taught you. When I parted ways, Ita, I met Yama on an elephant. He carried nothing but a whip and some Texas boots. Smile to elephants, Happy Dashain.

Rip Off | Robbie Brown | Bear Island, Norway | digital photography

Dinner for Two | Brooks McCall | oil on canvas | 36 x 48 in.

Stalactites | Shaffer Broughton | Mallorca, Spain | digital photography

River | Ethan Chang | Bryce Canyon, Utah |

Together at the End

by Jon Bolena

As Death trudged up those well worn steps, He came with Love still blossoming.

As friends and kin gathered around To say goodbye in hushéd tone,

Death stole across the weathered thresh And said goodbye along the rest.

Love was there invisibly Holding hands with ugly Death.

And as they watched, Death reached down To close his lids in solemn farewell.

Fluffy | Shaffer Broughton | Atlantic Beach, North Carolina | digital photography

Learning to Fly | Robbie Brown | oil on canvas | 24 x 36 in.

A-10 Warthog | Robbie Brown | linocut | 8 x 11 in.

Woodberry

Dream

A dream flutters On fragile butterfly wings. It flits, probing time and thought with curious antennae And leaves no trace. by thomas fang

Lightning | Shaffer Broughton | Atlantic Beach, North Carolina | digital photography

Saltbox’ Sandpaper Walls

by danny van clief

Place me in a saltbox, white Clapboard crusted from sea salt And peppered with weather’s wear. And tear me from quiescence to gaze on the cape’s Icy sands, where I laze recumbent with swaying sea oats; my friends. And, foes, in the frigid water, silver-sleeked, streak through water like icy shards, I battle, with rod, rubber, and rusted boat whose paint has turned sharp from the sea’s incessant hammer.

And nail me to a post on a barnacle-bound dock someday, Built of old and dark wood, Where I can shuck shells, fish fish, and breathe the ocean’s spray.

What Els E ?

Se loved her cash register, even though it was just a dusty hunk of plastic. She liked how hard she had to press the green CASH button for the drawer to clack open, and she liked looking at all the bills tucked neatly in their slots. She liked the simple message she’d taped to the front: CASH ONLY. Her donuts were seventy-nine cents each, and a customer was more likely to just give her a one-dollar bill and leave the change. Tips weren’t the same with a credit card.

Seeing the short stack of “Great American Donut Shop” boxes, she turned towards the kitchen, where she knew there were more, but paused and looked up just in time to see the F-150 pull into her parking lot. Se watched as the truck swerved to a crooked stop right in front of the glass double doors. Of all the empty spaces, he had to pick the handicapped one.

The older gentleman in the corner booth looked up from his newspaper.

A man in faded jeans, mud-caked work-boots, and a dirty white t-shirt stepped down from the truck, leaving the door open, and barged through the glass double doors, boots thunking on the linoleum.

Even rednecks like donuts, Se thought as she pulled on a purple latex glove and opened a white paper bag.

The man approached the glass display case, set his hands on the top, and began to slowly drum his fingers. Se’s gaze fell to his wedding ring and the yellow tint around his fingernails. No one ever touched her display case. Sometimes little kids would accidentally touch their noses to the glass, trying to get a better look at all the donuts inside, but no one else. She’d have to get rid of the smudges later.

“I need five-a them chocolate glazed. Actually, six.”

“What else?” Se responded quietly.

Not something nicer, because nicer didn’t work. “What else?” worked.

It worked forty years ago when she finally made rent on that tiny apartment out past the industrial park. It worked thirty years ago when she sent her two daughters to college—one to Harvard, the other to MIT. It worked twenty years ago when she built that nice house on Old Scottsville Road. Sometimes she by nate stein

Hands still pressed onto the glass, he looked over his choices:

wondered if it still worked, but she hadn’t found anything better yet.

“And three-a them strawberry cake donuts.”

Se slid the donuts into the bag and asked, “What else?”

“Hold on a sec’. I’m gettin’ there, I’m gettin’ there.”

Se waited.

“I want one-a them cream-fill, one-a them jelly-fill, and two-a them cinnamon things.”

Se placed one creamfilled, one jelly-filled, and two cinnamon-sugar twists into the bag. “What else?”

“Are you in some kinda rush, lady?”

The man looked down into the case, once again drumming his fingers. “And she’ll want donut holes. Two dozen. That’s it,” he said, as if to himself, then

looked up at her. “Nothin’ else.” It was almost like he chewed the words and spat them over the display case, right at her.

Se crouched down and counted the donut holes into a new bag, then stood up and walked over to the cash register. She didn’t need to do the math. She knew how much it would be. Ten dollars and twenty-seven cents for the donuts, five even for

Old School | Ethan Chang | Williams, Arizona | digital photography

the donut holes.

“Fifteen dollar, twenty-seven cent,” Se said to the man as she typed the number into the register.

He pulled an old wallet from his back pocket and pulled out a credit card. Se shook her head and tapped the sign on the cash register: CASH ONLY.

booth started to stand up, but Se’s sharp glance sat him right back down.

The man, donuts in hand, laughed and backed up towards the door, about to turn on his heel. He opened one of the bags and pulled out a donut hole. Not breaking his gaze with Se, he placed it between his teeth and

The look he gave her could’ve shattered the glass of the display case. “You gotta be shittin’

The look he gave her could’ve shattered the glass of the display case. “You gotta be shittin’ me.”

He obviously had no idea who he was talking to. “Sign says cash only,” Se replied, calm as ever.

“Yeah, I can read your fucking sign. It’s you I’m startin’ to have a problem with.”

“Fifteen dollar, twenty-seven cent,” she tried again. “Cash only.”

“Lady, I don’t got cash on me!”

Se nodded to the building across the street. “Cash at bank.”

“It’s a Sunday afternoon!”

“ATM.”

“Fuck that,” he scoffed, grabbing the two bags before Se could stop him. The man in the

“No, it’s just donuts. Only fifteen dollar.”

me.”

slowly closed his mouth around it. He chuckled and chewed, then turned, pushing the door open and strutting out to the open door of his truck. Se peeled off her latex glove and dropped it into the trash can, watching as he pulled himself into the driver’s seat.

Suddenly, next to him, there was a young girl, who couldn’t have been more than four or five. The man tossed the bag of donut holes to his daughter and looked back as he swung the truck out of the parking spot. The little girl smiled and waved to Se. The truck took off, tires shrieking, onto the bypass.

“Do you want me to call the police?” The man from the corner booth had made his way up to the register.

She stepped through the doorway to the kitchen and emerged thirty seconds later with a stack of flattened “Great American Donut Shop” boxes, her bottle of Windex, and a rag.

On the counter, next to the cash register, lay a folded twenty-dollar bill. The man from the corner booth was gone.

Se popped a box open and set it on the display case, starting a new stack. As she grabbed another and unfolded it, her gaze drifted back to the bill on the counter. She set the box down and pressed hard on the green CASH button. The register sprung open, and Se slid the bill into its place, waiting longer than usual to let it go. She counted out four dollars and seventythree cents in change, squeezed the money in her hand, and dropped it into the tip jar. She smiled at the sound of coins on glass.

“Even rednecks,” she murmured.

Don ' t lose it

by ralph wear

It would be so easy to slip and fall and say it was an accident when you were making that rise.

Don’t lose it.

To call yourself clumsy, when truly your carefulness landed you on cement. Success took far more effort than demise.

Don’t lose it.

Those lofty goals aren’t lousy and not every crack in the sidewalk will be convenient. Not all setbacks can make you wise.

Don’t lose it.

Don’t trip and say it was breezy. Don’t pantomime your content.

Don’t step out with foolish lies.

Don’t lose it.

Clay Woman | Eric Li | clay | 5 x 11 in.

At the local pharmacy

villanelle by nate stein

With watery eyes and worried feet, She shudders, and I stare at her (I’ve heard that Advil lingers sweet).

Her mumbling mouth and mind compete; Her vision tries to dim and blur

As watery eyes find worried feet.

She reaches, quaking, indiscreet, For anything to smooth her slur (I’ve heard that Advil lingers sweet).

The pills, they pitter, soft like sleet; She writhes and swallows, wails to “sir”

With cloudy eyes and failing feet.

And there she dies, undone, petite (I’m sure she knew I’d stared at her)—

Shame that Advil lingers sweet.

Overcome by numbing heat, I stand, a lifeless whisperer.

With panicked eyes and frozen feet. I’ve all but heard that Advil lingers sweet.

The Medicine | Robbie Brown | Woodberry Forest, Virginia | digital photography

by ralph wear

Life is a game of crooked cards with the deck stacked against you.

Can’t see what the Dealer’s showin’ ’cause they sleeved an Ace or Two.

You’ve gotta hit, and never stand but odds aren’t in your favor,

If you happen to win the hand VICTORY, you can’t savor.

Within every win, you take the pool stack your winnings high,

The House makes you go all in ’cause when you lose, you die.

Your Dealer’s cold, but also fair he’ll let you take your time.

Death is that man who kicks you out when you’ve lost your final dime.

Floral Woman in Black | Penn St. Clair | linocut | 8 x 11 in.

See You Soon

by louis de wet

“Don’t leave me this time,” I muttered under my breath as the familiar face faded into my vision.

“Bernie, were you dreaming about him again?”

It was Mom waking me up for school like she always does. It didn’t take long for us to realize there wasn’t an alarm on Earth I couldn’t sleep through, so Mom had practically become part of my morning routine.

“Yeah,” I admitted, “except this time it felt real.”

It really did feel real. I could still make out every detail about my dad, especially the wrinkles that formed under his eyes when he let out a toothy grin. I was moving on. At least, I thought I was. This was my first dream about him in months. Something about this one felt different though. As Mom woke me up, I almost saw him mouth the words,

“See you soon, Sport.”

He always used to call me “Sport.”

I had suffered from extremely vivid dreams my entire life. Sometimes, night terrors woke me up in a cold sweat, and other times, detailed reincarnations of my past mistakes still haunted me. Mom had me on a special medication that stopped my bad dreams from happening as much, but I stopped taking them when I was ten because they made me hallucinate while I was awake. Since my dad’s death, my vivid dreams would come back, and they almost always involved him.

We lived comfortably as a middle-class family in a suburban neighborhood full of markedly similar homes. The entire house was filled with dingy olivecolored carpeting. Mom put it in, and she always thought highly of

it. My dad despised it and always vowed he’d change it.

I brought up my dream to Mom at dinner that evening, and after a few moments of silence, she finally spoke.

“Tomorrow, we’re gonna do something special to get your mind off him, Bernie.”

Mom woke me up at 10:30. It was a Tuesday. Mom never let me skip school, so what made today different? Did this have anything to do with what she told me at the dinner table the night before?

“Nope! We’re taking a trip to the pet store today, Bernie. It seems like we could use a new friend around here!”

We arrived at the pet store after the longest fifteen minutes of my life.

“There!” I said while pointing toward that section. It was suddenly as if the rest of the store

had gone dark, and there was a glowing path leading to the dog kennels. I knew my soulmate was in there. I just had to find him.

I kneeled down to get to know every dog, but none of them responded the way I hoped. The Jack Russell growled, the Australian shepherd shrugged, and the poodle didn’t even acknowledge my visit. I knew how special this opportunity was, so I didn’t want to choose just any dog. I felt defeated after I failed to connect with any of them.

I asked an employee if the store had any more dogs. She led me to the back. I wondered why they would keep a dog locked up

knew I had found the one.

“Why do you guys keep him locked up back here?” I asked.

“Well… he usually isn’t this friendly,” the worker replied. “He starts fights with other people, so I’m surprised he’s so caring with you.”

Mom let me keep him, and I spent all day playing with him. He seemed to like sparring with me on the floor, so I named him Tyson.

“Why do you guys keep him locked up back here?” I asked.

back here all by himself. Suddenly, I found myself gazing upon a small, lonesome basset hound in a large kennel. The room was full of storage boxes and the lights were dim. I let the dog sniff me through the kennel before I took him out. The hound immediately began to lick my hand with its long, rough tongue so I took him out, and he instantly jumped into my arms. I

The next morning, while my mom was cooking breakfast, I caught Tyson clawing at the carpet in the hallway. I noticed he had ripped a massive patch of carpet. Panic shot through my body. If my mom saw this mess, she’d send him back,

and I’d never see him again. I quickly grabbed my Swiss army knife from my bedside table and shuffled into the kitchen to confess that I had torn up the dingy olive carpet in the hallway.

“I don’t have time to deal with these dreams anymore, Bernie. Look what they’re doing to you!” she said. “I’m putting you back on the meds.”

That night, as I got into bed,

Mom brought me the meds. Two powdery pills fought their way down my throat. Sleep didn’t come easily. My bed around me felt like an empty void. I was just floating there aimlessly in it.

Finally, morning arrived, and everything felt normal. I slept well and felt refreshed. Mom had breakfast prepared for me when I woke up. I headed to school as if it were any other day.

By the end of the day, though, I couldn’t help but notice that I felt completely normal. The pills didn’t seem to work like they normally did. I didn’t have any of the dreams last night either.

That night, I heard a silent whisper. I opened an eye and saw only the 3:13 glow from my alarm clock.

“Sport? Sport, are you there?” A familiar voice called out from the darkness.

Those words chilled me. I shot upward, and I almost hit my head on the slanted ceiling. Tyson was standing on his hind legs, staring directly at me. He was almost standing eye-to-eye with me. The red glow from the alarm clock reflected off his crimson eyes.

“D-dad?” I called out.

“You need to listen to me,” he

demanded. “That creature isn’t your mom, and it’s planning to hurt you very soon. You need to stop her before it’s too late.”

“B-but Mom would never try to hurt me,” I reasoned.

“Sport, listen to me. That is not Mom. The creature is wearing your Mom’s skin, Sport. It’s not of this world.”

lost? The neighbors had to bring me back in their car, and you were furious. You gave my bike away

about the kitchen. She grew still, and her skin faded into a grey, scaly material.

“I don’t have time to deal with these dreams anymore, Bernie. Look what they’re doing to you!” she said. “I’m putting you back on the meds.”

after that, remember?”

“How could I forget, sweetie?” She chuckled.

I still wasn’t quite sure Dad was telling the truth. How would some poser have gone unnoticed for an entire year?

“From here on out, that thing is your enemy. This is a matter of survival. You either kill it, or it kills you. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“You’re a good kid, Sport.”

When my mom woke me up for breakfast, I nervously told her I’d be there in a moment. I slipped my Swiss army knife into my right pocket and stepped carefully into the kitchen. Breakfast was already on the table. I felt a chill down my spine.

I forced a shaky smile as I sat down at the kitchen table.

“Mom, do you remember that time when I rode my bike to the next neighborhood over and got

My face grew numb. I had never ridden a bike in my life.

“Mom, could you grab the salt for me, please?”

She hummed a tune as she sifted through the cabinet. The humming worsened the unbearable pressure. It was a tune only Mom would hum. Would she really want to hurt me? I turned to my right, making eye contact with Dad in the family room. He nodded, showing his approval. I reached into my pocket in one sudden motion. I felt the sleek blade as my shaky finger slid it out from its slot.

I lunged toward her, grabbed her torso with my left hand, and inserted the blade into her neck.

As the steel sank in, the humming ceased. I held her body in place as the thick, green matter sprayed

An overwhelming sense of relief and adrenaline fell over me. I did not take my medication that evening and drifted to sleep with Dad on the living room floor.

I woke up alone with a headache. The midday sun shone through the window, but the birds were silent. I gazed into the kitchen with squinted eyes. There, on the kitchen floor, lay my mother. Her blood stained the hardwood red, and there was no grey, scaly material. Clarity filled my mind. Tyson barked.

Another Earth

by nate stein

I took to walking (days and days) And parted thus the leafy haze

Whose ivy tendrils often snared Me—unsuspecting, unprepared.

Off the wooded trail I found A spring with flowers all around.

There I sat, and there I cried. The water flowed; the songbirds lied.

For flowers bright and waters cool, They seemed to taunt me, call me fool.

They understood what I could not— What hazy summer days forgot—

That Grace and Beauty, Mother’s heirs, Put little faith in human prayers.

Instead they, somewhat freely willed, Looked on as man their sisters killed.

They—unsuspecting, unprepared, Afraid—knew not why man had dared.

Beauty whimpered, taciturn, As Grace’s eyes began to burn.

The two, the mighty, maddened then Looked up to Mother once again,

And Mother raised her verdant hands O’er all the green and golden lands,

Pulled down the rebels into dust, And gained again an olden trust.

She left just one—I know not why— To walk the earth and, lonely, cry.

But as I walked and cried, a glow, Given not to those below,

Appeared as if a gift to me—

A perfect promise, Her decree—

A newer and more glorious birth, Grand glimpses of another earth,

An earth which is to be.

Gondola|EthanChang|LasVegas,Nevada|digital photography

I Remember

by robbie brown

Oh, I remember that boat-wood smell from our boat-wood barn on boat-wood hill when I remember Moe

Oh, I remember that black twitching nose that shiny soot nose that mosey-moe nose when I remember Moe

Oh, I remember that tiny-toothed smile behind tiny-toothed lips in tiny toe snow when I remember Moe

Yes, I remember our boat-wood abode that curious nose and that tiny toothed glow thinking of Moe

Iceboro

by cayden sanchez

My old man asked if I wanted to go to the sports complex since we hadn’t gone in a couple of years. Of course, he made me drive the five speed manual ’97 Jeep Wrangler.

I’m surprised I even made it out of the driveway without his saying how I should have checked all four tires before getting in. He did repeat, “Let the clutch out slowly and give it a little gas,” a few times, which didn’t help a whole lot. It felt like I got more familiar with the smell of the clutch than the feel of it. First to second was a little jumpy, but third to fourth was smoother than freshly polished boots.

“Boy, your eyes might as well be glued to the road in front of you. Check your mirrors once in a blue moon, will you?” He was quick to pick at my shaking

hands, too. By the time we got to the complex, I was ready to go home in the passenger seat.

The old man loves seeing me make a mistake. Even when I wrestle, I can never do anything right. I only started a couple of years ago, and he thinks I’m supposed to be some demigod. One time I walked off the mat after pinning the kid, and he told me, “There’s no reason you should’ve let that match go past the first period.” He always talks about how he had to wrestle the state champ every day at practice and run four miles afterward. Win or lose, I was never good

enough for him. Never a “good job” or an “I’m proud of you.”

His face was red and flaking when we stepped out the old rust bucket. Playing a round of mini-golf, we took the course slowly. I remembered all the times he had beaten me. If I got anything from my old man, it was his competitiveness and pure hatred of losing. My fingers were stiff, but my dad was in the same condition. Plus, I’ll be damned if I let that old fart beat me. I thought I had a bit of Tiger Wood’s blood in me after the last two holes. Shame I didn’t get serious early enough. The round

ended with him winning by just a few strokes, and I blamed the cold and wind, saying I would’ve won had it not been for the weather.

“Excuses,” he said.

We went karting next. There wasn’t any way I would let him beat me again, plus I had the weight advantage by nearly half. The man with the orange vest over his sweater assigned our karts, and I started dead last. But all that time spent racing on video games proved helpful. I thought I was a NASCAR driver for those few minutes. I beat my dad, and he said it was because my kart was faster and I was smaller. “Excuses,” I told him.

workers by name and sometimes even told me a little of their lore.

The young girl at the register had been kicked out of her parents’ place and had to quit school and start working. I hadn’t seen her since elementary. She was only a grade or two above me. It didn’t feel right asking her to ring up my items. I used to grab a snack every time we stopped by, but I hadn’t

My dad walked into my room about seven or eight deep. Anything less than six and he might as well be sober.

done so in a while and didn’t plan on it this time.

After the overall tie of the day, I went to my room to play video games while my father went to his little man-cave and sipped on the two six-packs of Icehouse he had bought on the way home at the Shell station. It wasn’t much of a man-cave, just a desk in the laundry room that had a microwave and a mountain of crushed cans on it. Sunny, the owner of the Shell, always greeted my father with a smile full of teeth. My dad knew all the

My dad walked into my room about seven or eight deep. Anything less than six and he might as well be sober. The stumbling entrance and eyes I could hardly read told me all I needed to know. I stood from my bed, knowing I’d at least start in a better position when he tried to wrestle me. It had been a couple of months since he last tested me. I threw him a little harder than I expected, and he tripped over himself, falling and breaking my nightstand and PlayStation. I could tell he was looking my

way, but his eyes weren’t pointed at me. My pupils enlarged under the ceiling fan with two missing bulbs. My muscles tensed; they knew what was going to happen before I did. He charged like I was a red flag, and we landed on my bed. I don’t think he learned that the pressure points don’t work like they used to. I flipped him on his back and took control, pinning him to the bed the way he used to do to me. His breath stank of Icehouse and Marlboro Reds, the 72s because “they lasted just long enough to be good.” He struggled to breathe as I put more pressure on that old beer belly of his. I held him there. He strained beneath me.

For the twenty-eight seconds he was down there, I wondered where all his strength had gone. He used to toy with me like I was a Jenga tower, and he has shaky hands. I let go. I worried I might take it too far. Did he ever wonder that? I stood on guard as he caught his breath. I said nothing.

He got up, gave me my hug, and said with his Iceboro breath, “Good job, boy.”

Untitled | Ethan Chang | Location?! | digital photography

Partners | Ethan Chang

Bryce Canyon, Utah | digital photography

Woodberry Forest School

The Ballad of The

Uzbek Ogre

by charles horner

Haunted happenings, alas, have come to pass!

Obscured in the ice-glazed deeps,

Where the gales groan whirs

And wail a dead-man’s-dirge,

T’was not from frostbitten forests –

Whose long-clawed pines cloaked sniving snags –T’was not from ice-capped crests —

Whose spine, carved cold, hid slipp’ry jags —

Down through soul-scourging mountain steeps.

Up high in a Uzbek chain men went insane:

But t’was a gurgling hiss —-

Whose chilling chord bore strange abyss —

And t’was a three-eyed gaze —

Whose stoney stare pierced ghosty haze.

Up high in that craggen chain men met their bane,

And thus yarns the tale of men long slain:

In the bone-cold deeps of the Uzbek steeps Was a wicked witcher’s gorge blacked.

Skin boil-burned murked mind cruelly-churned In a shack whose moss oozily sacked.

In that grim-stoned gorge, on his sin’ster forge, He sorcered a wicked-wrought scheme: To forage the frostbit mountain grit

For a feast of his gluttonous dreams.

He craved man’s flesh; for that flesh he’d knave – how his black toothed saliva brined!

White frenzied eyes cut twilight skies

For a sight of smoke plumily lined.

Under groaning gales he shunned and shaled, And crept past convulsing cold.

Then with a boist’rous “bray!” he saw his prey

As the banked sun burned agold.

A village steamed an’ its iced roofs gleamed As their breakfast bonned-a-fire.

Little did ‘em know, in the Uzbek snow, They’d dread-a-doom-so-dire.

Out from emerald dell he conjured hell

– so fanged the three-eyed bane!

He shrieked heart-piercing banshee yells And the Uzbeks went insane!

In the frigid waste he hacked with haste And the bon a-scrooned aside!

Brains bludgeoned rawed ‘n bloodied brawled

While the witcher slashed their hide

“Some gutsy chutney,” sizzed panging gluttony, As his catch died on frying pyre.

Etched on lantern moon he crazed his tune,

While he gazed into fizzling fire:

Haunted happenings, alas, have come to pass!

Obscured in the ice-glazed deeps,

Where the gales groan whirs

And wail a dead-man’s-dirge,

Down through soul-scourging mountain steeps.

Up high in an Uzbek chain men went insane:

T’was not from frostbitten forests —

Whose long-clawed pines cloaked sniving snags —

T’was not from ice-capped crests —

Whose spine, carved cold, hid slipp’ry jags —

But t’was MY gurgling hiss —-

Whose chilling chord bore strange abyss —

And t’was MY three-eyed gaze —

Whose stoney stare pierced ghosty haze

So far in this craggen chain men met their bane

And thus yarned the tale of men long slain.

Tidewaters | Shaffer Broughton | Mallorca, Spain | digital photography

Spongy Rocks | Shaffer Broughton | Mallorca, Spain | digital photography

şehir

by danny van clief

There is a dry mountain in arid Anatolia.

Below sits a city, and wandering through its tight alleys I’ll find a sultry seraglio of some old sultan. It will be a hidden gem of that old caliphate, bedecked with Islamic designs and gilded interiors, with carpets and columns and other Ottoman things.

Dust-Coated Exile Dust-Coated Exile Dust-Coated Exile

by Charles Horner

Exiled

yellowed keys cough an aching decrescendo untouched. Blackened see-sawed teeth sputter hungered dis-chords; In splintered sullenness, music strains wilting wheezing regurgitated rasps buried in the coda’s casket. So decays the awkward

Fermata withered hollow in wretched silence unresolved.

The Old House | Ford Garrard | pencil on paper | 11 x 14 in.

Woodberry Forest School

Skull | Brooks McCall | oil on canvas | 36 x 54 in.

12/05/2023

by nate stein

Does nothing bad stay born of worse

On red brick mountains “unified”?

When will the provosts next rehearse?

Now! (the presidents have died).

Women, pantsuits—time to speak

In all the chambers of the true—

They preach and pride and, paling, squeak Hymns for ones they never knew.

In the writing, on the quads:

“Ne Judaeos credite!”

The fuming rainbow-bearded gods

Insist they have the right to say: “Freedom! Freedom! [not for you]”

Aim your words, ignore the peace.

“Down with socled pillar-Jew!”

A toddler screams at shy police.

Sea | Shaffer Broughton | Wrightsville, North Carolina | digital photography

Calving Bear

by finn järvi

A white bear trotted on burly-toed paws

It stood looking over ice and glacier on calving floor and then it dissolved …Polar-ly

Bad Hair Day | Robbie Brown | Svalbard, Norway | digital photography

Polar oids

A joint interview designed to give readers a snapshot of two recent polar adventures.

By Robbie Brown (The

) and Dan Chen (Antarctica)

Arctic

Berg | Dan Chen | Antarctica | digital photography

Robbie: Hey Dan, would you mind sharing a little background about your polar experience?

Dan: Sure. I traveled from South America to the Antarctic for two weeks over spring break. It was certainly a fascinating experience, but getting there was quite the adventure. As you may know, the Drake Passage—the stretch of water between South America and the Antarctic—is known for its very turbulent waters. When I went, the waves were up to four meters high, meaning our boat shook a lot. I actually made the terrible mistake of not taking seasickness medicine, and that definitely backfired. All along the trip, there were tons of wildlife that were just amazing to photograph and be able to be so close to. Antarctica is one of the only remaining “untouched” continents in the world, so getting to see that new side of the Earth that a lot of people haven’t seen was incredible.

Dan: How about you? Could you give a quick background, too?

Robbie: Of course. So my polar experience was definitely quite breathtaking, too. Last summer, I sailed up the Norwegian coast and then up to a little island called Bear Island and then finally up to Svalbard, which is an archipelago way up in the Arctic. Along the way, there

One island we went to was actually a volcano with one of its walls broken down allowing lots of ocean water to flood in...

were tons of amazing animals: polar bears, walruses, all sorts of birds, and plenty of whales. And then, of course, breaking through the ice with an icebreaker was a lot of fun, too. It was a little bit turbulent, but not nearly as much as the Drake Passage since our boat had four separate underwater stabilizers to prevent the shakiness you mentioned. Overall, though, my polar experience was truly incredible. It was truly such a privilege getting to see a part of the world so unusual and yet so natural at the same time.

Robbie: As a second sort of icebreaker question, would you mind talking a little bit more about the weather and environment you experienced?

Dan: Yes, definitely. I went in March (the end of the Antarctic summer). Because of that, the temperature never dropped below about twenty degrees Fahrenheit.

In some places, it was actually quite warm. One island we went to was actually a volcano with one of its walls broken down, allowing lots of ocean water to flood in... because of that, the soil was geothermally active. Antarctica is known for being a cold, dry, and windy place, and that stereotype was definitely true. Even though the air itself wasn’t that cold, the wind made everything cold. Like really, really cold.

But that’s just the temperature of the land. I was actually able to test the water temperature, too, with a polar plunge. The water itself was 31 degrees Fahrenheit, and although I was in it for just about three seconds, it was incredibly cold. I think anyone who has had a knife pass through them can relate to that. It was quite shocking.

Robbie: In fact, we actually did a polar plunge as well. Like you mentioned, the water was actually less than 32 degrees Fahrenheit.

You may wonder how that’s possible, but it’s actually because there is such a high salt concentration in the ocean that the freezing point becomes lower than what you might expect for freshwater. But certainly, our polar plunge was quite cold as well.

Like you mentioned, the actual climate was not as cold as you might expect in the Arctic either. I also went in the “summer” for the Arctic as I went in mid-July. So the sun was out a full 24 hours a day, meaning the temperature never got below about fifteen degrees Fahrenheit. Some days it even got up almost to 40 degrees.

Another interesting thing about the Arctic is that although it is very cold, there isn’t much snow because both the Antarctic and the Arctic are deserts. That means they get less than ten inches of rainfall or precipitation each year. So while it was fairly cold, it’s not like it was snowing all the time like you might have in the Canadian Rockies.

Robbie: Would you mind sharing a little bit more about that boat you were on and how it was able to navigate the Drake Passage?

Dan: Our boat was fairly big. It had eight decks, and it also did have stabilizers to help with the rocking. It had about 160 passengers and about 130 crew. But the boat itself wasn’t an icebreaker by any means. We had to try to avoid any sea ice and whenever we were in sea ice, we had to navigate really, really slowly. What about yours?

Robbie: Our boat had a slightly smaller population. Maybe 30 to 40 scientists, 80 tourists, and then roughly 80 crew members. Unlike your boat, ours was designed with heavy icebreaking in mind. It was capable of breaking through about three meters of pack ice— though at a fairly slow pace. In fact, at one point, we were the third most northern boat, third only to a Russian military boat that had been stuck in the ice for some fifteen years and a Norwegian research boat that was pretty much the exact same as us just slightly, farther north. That was really neat.

Dan: One other thing I wanted to mention about the weather in Antarctica is that it is almost always super foggy. That is because especially near the Drake Passage and the Antarctic Ocean, the water is much colder than the Atlantic water we came from. The cold polar water would sink down below the warmer waters of the Atlantic and create a pretty significant pressure difference, causing a lot of fog to form. So for a lot of the trip, the observations from the boat were pretty terrible. It was only when we were much farther south—around 65 to 68 degrees—when we actually were able to see a clear view.

Robbie: Wow. That’s really interesting. We certainly had a lot of fog also, but I never had much of an explanation as to why.

Robbie: When we were some 80 degrees north, there wasn’t much infrastructure around us for communication with the outside world, so our boat had two giant soccerball-like communication spheres that provided connection. How did you communicate with the outside world during your travels?

Hello There | Dan Chen | Antarctica | digital photography

Port | Dan Chen | Antarctica | digital photography

MS Petrozavodsk | Robbie Brown Bear Island, Norway | digital photography Woodberry Forest School

Penguin Highway | Dan Chen | Antarctica | digital photography

Talon

Dan: Our boat had those big communication domes also. I believe they used Starlink. Because they were really expensive and had pretty poor connection, we had to just make do with whatever we had.

that were already on the iceberg waddled down to the edge to welcome them. It was such a cute moment. And then, one of them got so excited waddling over there that he tripped. It was pretty funny.

And then, one of them got so excited waddling over there that he tripped. It was pretty funny.

Robbie: Interesting. As we get into the wildlife side of things, do you have any specific wildlife highlights or moments you want to spotlight?

Dan: Seeing our first penguins was definitely a really exciting moment.

Also, eventually, when we were out on Zodiac rides, I saw this one iceberg with a lot of penguins on it. And if you didn’t know, baby penguins can’t get wet because they haven’t had their first molt yet, so all the penguins on that one iceberg we saw were adults. That was pretty cool to think about.

Anyway, all those penguins were standing there, and all of a sudden about fifteen to twenty penguins swam towards them. At that point, all the penguins

Robbie: That sounds amazing. We also definitely had some amazing wildlife circumstances, but not necessarily with the animals I would have expected. When you think of the polar regions, you think of the penguins, you think of the polar bears, and you think of killer whales, but I think the most interesting animals we saw were actually the walruses. Not only do the walruses have a really unusual diet of mollusks and shellfish (which they eat by sucking the animal out through a hole they break in the shell) but they also just look really funny. Another interesting thing about them is how much time they spent on land or ice resting to conserve energy. When all the little baby walruses were cuddling, it was quite cute.

Dan: Walruses, like whales, use hemispheric sleeping, right?

Robbie: Yes, that’s true. Walruses, like many whales, can essentially shut off one side of their brain and use the other one to keep them from drowning or getting hurt. That behavior is referred to

as Uni-hemispheric Slow Wave Sleep (USWS) and is a very helpful adaptation for many sea creatures.

Robbie: Did you see many whales? I’ve heard the Antarctic krill swarms attract thousands of whales for huge feeding frenzies.

Dan: Yeah, so we saw several kinds of whales. Orcas, tons of Humpback whales, Sei whales, and Fin whales. No Blue whales, unfortunately… Those are super rare. There are only 1,200 Blue whales left. The easiest ones to spot were definitely the Humpbacks just because their

Cruising | Dan Chen | Antarctica | digital photography

flukes are very visible. We were fortunate enough to see a mother and a calf Humpback breaching. Now, I’m not sure if this is actually true, but I think six whale breachings is the same amount of energy as a human running a marathon. And yet scientists still don’t know why they breach, which is crazy.

Robbie: Wow, that’s incredible. I definitely agree that all the whales we saw were so amazing. They are such powerful and also majestic animals.

Robbie: You mentioned that you did some other work with the whale photos in addition to just taking them purely for personal purposes. Could you talk a little bit more about what else you were doing with your photos?

Dan: Of course. I learned of this website called happywhale.com, which lets you upload a photo for scientists at the website to use. So, if you have a good photo of a whale fluke (its tail) they can use the barnacle and coloration pattern to determine which whale it was. Then those scientists can use that info to keep track of

the different whale populations. HappyWhale, and other similar platforms, are such good ways to contribute to citizen science.

Dan: How about you, Robbie? You did more than just photography for fun, right?

Robbie: Yes, definitely. In addition to just taking photos, because I love photography, I also had a bigger purpose for my photography. The whole trip was part of my Noland Fellowship (to learn more about and document how several different arctic animals are dealing with global warming), so a lot of the photos and interviews with scientists eventually went to building a website that details how a lot of those animals are dealing with climate change. In addition to just enjoying the wildlife, working with those scientists and contributing to something greater was really meaningful.

Robbie: Could you share a little bit about the history and regulation of the Antarctic?

I know the Arctic had some very interesting history and regulations visitors had to follow.

Dan: Yes, Antarctica is still quite new and untouched, so there are a lot of regulations. The governing body is called IAATO, and their regulations include, for example, that you have to give penguins the right of way when they’re crossing. Also, you have to stay five meters away from any wildlife, you can’t bend over, you can’t squat down, and you can’t kneel or do anything that might cause, something like your pant leg to contaminate the snow. When I went there, they were really scared that bird influenza might get into a colony and spread really quickly. Penguins are really social animals, so anything that is introduced could quickly devastate the population.

Dan: What did the regulation look like in the Arctic?

Robbie: The Arctic also had lots of similar regulations. The most signifigant regulations were on how close you could go to wildlife. With polar bears, for example, we had to carry flare guns and shotguns (with fifteen to twenty shells) if we were going anywhere near where they might be. The flare guns usually work to

Anchors Prohibited | Robbie Brown | Senja, Norway | digital photography

scare the curious bears away, but with more fierce bears, a shotgun is sometimes needed.

On the history side of things, probably one of the most interesting things we learned about was the history of Svalbard—the Arctic Archipeligo we visited. Svalbard was actually a Russian mining settlement for a while even though the mining wasn’t really profitable. Those mines ran, though, so that Russia could lay claim to the sea there. Now, Svalbard is governed by a mix of several different nations, but it’s technically Norwegian territory.

Then there is the far Arctic North, which is also a topic of debate now. Shipping routes, mining rights, and general regulation are being talked over by several countries with intrests in the area. As the ice continues to melt, a whole new frontier is opening up. Certainly, there is a lot of interesting history and regulation for the Arctic.

Robbie: To finish off, do you have any advice you’d give to other photographers in snowy environments like the Antarctic and the Arctic, or just in general?

Dan: I’d say because of the cold, your batteries will definitely drain faster. If you’re trying to take photos on something like a moving zodiac, be careful of the salt water because that can definitely damage your camera. White balance is definitely a big tool too, so if your camera has the feature to adjust white balance, I would look into that.

Robbie: I definitely agree. Do lots of research on your camera and the environment you’re going to. Also, on a more general note, I’d say with anywhere you go, do your best to appreciate everything. Taking individual photos is quite beautiful, but what is even more beautiful is the fact that our earth has all of these wonderful places just waiting for us. You should do your best to support and appreciate them (sometimes through photography) because that way they can be advocated for and can survive for others to enjoy, too.

Robbie: Well that was fun. Thank you, Dan.

Dan: Thank you, Robbie. It’s been a pleasure!

Fight s

by nate stein

Man and Flesh began to brawl, But Flesh prevailed—refused to fall.

Next Man wrestled with his Heart, Which tore his being sore apart.

Then the quarrels sought his Mind; He—dazed and dying—lumbered blind.

So let Man’s war with God begin, For surely God on high will win.

The Bowl | Robbie Brown | Snowmass, Colorado | digital photography

by brooks mccall

When the sun is in Aries and the year is Pig, Orion will be tethered to my true love kin.

When Athena is birthing and the moon is ripe,

The fates will smile and blush with delight.

When she pushes forth the babe and the Tan Huas bloom

I’ll open up my green eyes and smile to the moon.

Rain Dance | Ford Garrard | pen on paper | 4 x 4 in.

Rain Dance | Ford Garrard | pen on paper | 4 x 4 in.

Oil

by robbie brown

Aching shoulders

Draw up the spledge and let it drop. Clank, clank, scrape. Worn pipes cry.

Persistent sludge Coats overalls like glue. Dark, yet always shiny, Streaked with little rainbows.

Gunk that fills every groove Of stained corduroy hats Also is the gunk That makes the world run.

El Toro Triste

by robbie brown

Through the dust cloud hole you might catch red and yellow barnacles of yarn.

Or perhaps you might spy pike and puja clinging pointlessly.

And ask, Do stamping hooves see silver swords? Do glassy eyes see sorrowful souls? Once, I did. And had to sit, down, To think.

Glooming | Ethan Chang | San Miguel de Allende, Mexico | digital photography

B S I C K S B H Y E B L E T E

G*d | Ford Garrard | pencil on paper | 7 x 5 in.

Fish | Ford Garrard | pencil on paper | 5 x 5 in.

Angel | Ford Garrard | pen on paper | 9 x 7 in.

75 Years A Brief History of the Talon

This is the 75th volume of The Talon. Below you will find a few interesting selections picked to highlight key milestones in The Talon’s history. Enjoy!

From the first Talon:

“This is your new Woodberry magazine. It is our desire, if not our achievement, to offer you the best writing of a creative nature done in the school during the past term. We offer you the material in this, our first issue, as proof that neither the ability nor the desire to write is lacking.

The ideas behind The Talon are many. For a long time many masters and students have felt that Woodberry needed a magazine in which to publish the better literary endeavors done either as assignments, or in some cases, produced by boys interested

in creative writing. During the past few years, however, these extra efforts have dwindled to near imagination. The purpose of The Talon is then, to encourage creative writing among the boys and to publish these short stories, poems and essays.”

From a 1968 Alumni Magazine:

“A change has come to Woodberry’s literary magazine, The Talon. With the advent of the J. Carter Walker Fine Arts Center and its much improved facilities for student publications, The Talon has adopted a new outlook. Woodberry’s literary magazine has been a stereotyped, blackand-white style publication with little variation for many years. However, now The Talon hopes to change to a more interesting, more appealing magazine both visually and intellectually.

Starting with last spring’s issue, The Talon is using a more legible printing process (photooffset), color pages and printing, illustrated articles, and creative photography. There is emphasis on shorter, more thoughtful creative writings. The result is an attractive new magazine of color and illustration that has been successful with the students.”

The Residence | Brooks McCall | Woodberrry Forest, Virginia | digital photography

Walker | Gray Kallen | digital art

The Residence | Gray Kallen | digital art

Sunset | Ethan Chang | Woodberry Forest, Virginia | digital photography

Golf | Shaffer Broughton Woodberry Forest, Virginia | digital photography

Hughes River | Robbie Brown | Slate Mills, Virginia | digital photography

The Game 2023 | Luke Davis | Woodberry Forest, Virginia | digital photography

Editors 2023-2024

Editors-in-Chief

Robbie Brown, Thomas Chapman, and Nate Stein

Managing Editor

Gray Kallen

Design & Art Editor

Brooks McCall

Junior Text Editor

Danny Van Clief

Junior Text Editor

Ralph Wear

Junior Text Editor

Charles Horner

Art Editor

Ata Twining Art Editor

Ford Garrard

Faculty Advisor

John B. Amos

Review Boards

Prose

Dan Chen

Lucas Dinh

Thomas Fang

William Green

Ridge Hogue

Morgan Jay

Eric Li

Hanes Malin

Liam Moylan

Thomas Perry

Noah Rabil

Samuel Riverson

Harrison Smith

Joseph Stovall

Jack Wilson

Miles Wooldridge

Art

Lucas Dinh

Sam Gillespie

Jack Martinez

Lawrence Morrison

Thomas Perry

Noah Rabil

Joseph Stovall

Penn St. Clair

Jack Wilson

Poetry

Lucas Dinh

Lucas Dunlap

Thomas Fang

Ridge Hogue

Beck Maddison

Liam Moylan

Thomas Perry

Harrison Smith

Joseph Stovall

Miles Wooldridge

Photography

Ethan Chang

Dan Chen

Luke Davis

Lucas Dinh

Sam Gillespie

Hanes Malin

Lawrence Morrison

Thomas Perry

Noah Rabil

Mitch Riith

Joseph Stovall

Parker Tallman

Jack Wilson

The Aztecs | Robbie Brown | linocut | 8 x 11 in.

Drunken Love | JD Rider | linocut | 8 x 11 in.

Colophon

The word which you see on the cover is the product of the creative genius of the staff; and, with the exception of identical spelling and pronunciation, has no connection with any word in the English or any other language. In plain Woodberrian, it has one meaning only–the literary magazine of your school.

Frank Davenport,

Jr.

1949 Editor-in-Chief

This, the 75th volume of The Talon, is the annual literary arts publication of Woodberry Forest School. First published in 1949, the magazine was originally issued quarterly and cost 35 cents a copy. Publication of The Talon is now funded by Woodberry Forest School.

The editors of The Talon encourage submissions from all members of the Woodberry Forest community. All opinions expressed within this magazine are the intellectual property of the authors and artists and do not represent the views of Woodberry Forest School.

Works are selected through blind review by student boards with expertise in the fields of art, prose, poetry, and photography. New editors are selected from the review boards and the student body by the current editors and the faculty advisors. Authors and artists can apply for review board membership at the end of each academic year.

The editors of The Talon create the magazine in the course Design and Editing for Literary Arts Publications and during their free time. Robbie Brown and Nate Stein managed the design of the

magazine with the assistance of the editorial team.

This issue of The Talon was produced on iMacs using Adobe Creative Cloud. Body text is set in Garamond Premier Pro. McClung Companies in Waynesboro, Virginia, prints 550 perfectbound copies. The magazines are distributed to the community by the editorial staff in May of each academic year.

The Talon is a member of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association and the National Scholastic Press Association.