The Sextant: Spring 2023

The

Sextant

Spring 2023

1 By: Jake Kornmehl

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Jake Kornmehl, Form V

Editor’s Note Charles Dickens wrote, “Spring is the time of year where summer is in the sun and winter is in the shade.” As we approach Summer as a school, we must not only cherish the warm weather but also continue to grow the relationships we’ve formed this past year.

In this issue, Upper School students have submitted creative pieces, sharing intimate short stories about their experiences with money or healthcare while others composed poems reflecting their devotion to sports and nature. Junior Will Yakoobian wrote an entire collection of poems reflecting on how his love for basketball has positively affected his character. Anthony Galvagna’s Of All the Fish and the Sea tells the story of a group of friends who are passionate about surfing the coast. Both stories embody the freedom summer provides us to explore what we love.

Our tremendous faculty and staff have continued to push students to use their talents to exceed in and outside the classroom beyond what they believed possible. Great writing must include a journey of the soul in a vivid, lively setting. This Spring issue features that along with well-crafted, select student art with various photographs and colorful ceramic sculptures that give our readers a view into Belmont Hill’s Arts curriculum.

We would like to thank our school’s English and Arts faculty who have assisted in the creation of the 2023 Spring Sextant especially our advisor, Dr. Tift, and all the teachers who have supported us including Mr. Doar, Mr. Duarte, Ms. Bradley, Mr. Leonardis, and Ms. McDonald.

Your Editor-in-Chief, Jake A. Kornmehl ’24

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The Sextant Team Jake Kornmehl Jack Abbrecht Mark Price Max Glick Forrest Campbell Sam Davis Luke Gulesarian Ezra Lee Rafael Rodriguez-Montgomery

Editor-in-Chief Associate Editor Photography Editor Sta Manager Sta Contributor Sta Contributor Sta Contributor Sta Contributor Sta Contributor

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Table of Contents: Writing: Debasing Depressant………………………………………….………………………………Anthony Galvagna, V, pg. 1 Who Put…………………………………………………………………………………….…Anthony Galvagna, V, pg. 1 Perspective From a Beak of a Bird………………………………..…………………….………………Anonymous, pg. 1 Up the Stalk………………………………………..………………..……………Rafael Rodriguez-Montgomery, V, pg. 1 The Mask……………………………………….………………………………………………Haden Bottiglieri, V, pg. 1 Big Business……………………….…………………………………………………………………Lev Tolkoff, V, pg. 2 Time’s End………………………………..………………………………………………………Jake Kornmehl, V, pg. 2 Of All the Fish in the Sea………..……………………………………………………………Anthony Galvagna, V, pg. 2 On Advice, Emotion, and Activities Collection…..………………………..…….………………Will Yakoobian, V, pg. 3 The Hawaiian Creeper……………………………………..…………….……….………………Jake Kornmehl, V, pg. 3 Reindeer Tryouts……………………………………………………………………….………Stephen Kilcoyne, V, pg. 4 Step Back Three…………………………………………….……………………………………Will Yakoobian, V, pg. 4 Summer Top 10……………………………………………….………..………………………Stephen Kilcoyne, V, pg. 5 The Plight of Lyskov……………………………………….…..…………………………………Jake Kornmehl, V, pg. 5 The Doctor………………………………………………………..……….…………………………Adrian Tan, IV, pg. 5 All ‘Cause a Chicken…………………………………………..…………………………………Jake Kornmehl, V, pg. 58 Ekphrasis……………………………………………..………………………………………………Lev Tolkoff, V, pg. 6

Art and Photography: Docking…………………………………………………………………..………………………Jake Kornmehl, V, pg.

New Spring…………………..…………………………………….………………,,……………Jake Kornmehl, V, pg.

Rustic………………………..……….……………………………………..……………………Thomas Dolan, IV, pg.

Seafoam Collection……….….……………………………………………..……………………Thomas Dolan, IV, pg.

Trio of Blue..………………………………………………….……………..…………………Brogan Chitkara, VI, pg.

Little Clay Teapot……………………………………….…………………..…………………Brogan Chitkara, VI, pg.

Divergence…………………………………………………………………..…………………Brogan Chitkara, VI, pg.

Note to Self………………………….…….…………………………………..………………………Sam Karp, IV, pg.

Life in Charcoal……………………………………………………………..………….………Jamari Robinson, IV, pg.

Zoo Encapsulation………………….………………………………………..………….……………Mac Greene, V, pg.

FiveGuys……………….…………………………………………………..………………………Nate Keating, VI, pg.

Imperial………………………………………………………………………………………………Jack Shah, VI, pg. 1 Halfmoon………………………………………….…………………………………………………Jack Shah, VI, pg. 1 Abstract………………………………………………………………………………………………Jack Shah, VI, pg. 1 Workman…………………………………………..………………….……………………………Will Walton, IV, pg. 1 The 4V……………………………………………..………………………………………………Will Walton, IV, pg. 1 A Little Red Bird………………………………………………………….…………………………Mark Price, V, pg. 1 Behind the Fence….…………………………………………………………..…………………Jake Kornmehl, V, pg. 2 Flowing Capitalism…………………………………………………….………Rafael Rodriguez-Montgomery, V, pg. 25 Tranquility……………………………………………………………….………………………Jake Kornmehl, V, pg. 26 The Fields…………………………………………………………..……………………………Jake Kornmehl, V, pg. 61

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Thomas Dolan, IV

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Brogan Chitkara, VI

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Sam Karp, IV

Jamari Robinson, IV

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Mac Greene, V

Nate Keating, VI

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Jack Shah, VI

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Will Walton, IV

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Debasing Depressant

By Anthony Galvagna He said how’s the exam studying going?

She said I’m out on the town tn, I gave up, u?

He said I feel u, been sitting locked in my dorm for 6 hrs reading this meaningless textbook She said haha not jealous He said what’s the plan? Need to wash away my sorrows after that 40% I just dropped:( . My A is de nitely gone She said dude that’s probably double what I got. What even is an integral?

He said yikes, that was almost the entire thing She said yeah, don’t really care tho, we’re all at Keisha’s. U should come He said cool, having dinner and I’ll see u in 20 She said here yet?

He said outside. Is this her house? The place is shedding shingles everywhere.

What is that smell?

She said yeah, I’ll come outside. It’ll probs be xed by next week. Not sure when we’ll reach out to the roo ng place He said is she ok? The oor doesn’t look too comfortable. What’s that puddle?

What’s that in her hand?

She said don’t worry about it. She does that all the time He said you smoke?

She said it’s not nicotine. Weed isn’t bad for you. Doctors give it to people!

He said do you want eye drops?

She said no, I’ll have a beer instead. Take one. Live a little!

He said no thanks, I’m driving She said man up, that’s in like 3 hours He said ne. Only one

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She said can you take me home? It’s almost 3 am. My roommates will be worried He said is the ceiling spinning or is that a fan? I need help getting up. Why is my shirt drenched?

She said you’re FINE. Please, we can make a stop along the way if you need one He said is this road straight or winding? Why am I so groggy? I didn’t even have that much!

She said it’s ok. You’re ne. Pull over for a sec. It’ll help the alc wear o He said the view up here is so nice. This hill towers over the entire town She said come sit with me on the slope. Standing makes me woozy. Let’s look at the stars. Also, your girlfriend texted. I think she’s worried about you.

He said, shit, our two-year is in a few days, I’ll get back to her when I drop you o He looked down deep into the gulley with lights of the city ickering in the distance against a speckled, starry night’s sky and said, Debbie, do you think I can y?

Debbie took one look at at him, one down at the crevice, one up at the heavens, and she said: jump

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Who Put

By Anthony `Galvagna Who put the orange In with the apples again?

I can vividly remember last time Meticulously picking the soft fruit Up and out Extremely cautious Ensuring as little friction as possible Between the alien species That couldn’t have been more Than 2 days ago Or maybe it was a month?

Or more?

Anywho, I still think about it Maybe I am the orange Whenever I take the risk to glance My peers always seem so different Rough Barren Reflecting the rigid core of their apple guts

And sometimes all it takes Is a soft nudge And there I go Free from the anxiety Of being surrounded by those “Out there” Different from me Yet sometimes Every once in a while I stop to think Just how big of an opportunity I may have missed Is being incompatible okay?

So I suppose Oh boy do I desire Someone roaming free Anybody To put the orange back in the apple bowl Tuck it in there real tight So as to prevent easy removal From the stresses 14 Of an all too confrontational world

Perspective From a Beak of a Bird

By Anonymous I y high, beak towards the sun I ap my wings over and over Reaching my beak towards the sun Feeling the wind go clean through my feathers I see everyone I y higher than any other bird just so I can see Not because I’m trying to be the best I just want to see But everyone below sneaks peaks at me At my beak, reaching for the sun Wishing they could y that high

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Mark Price, VI

Up the Stalk 16

By Rafael Rodriguez-Montgomery

I nd it funny that when you hear the story of Jack and the Beanstalk, Jack's journey up the stalk is rarely talked about. To me, it's a very important part of the story that I want to know more about. Sure you hear that he was upset and threw the beans out the window, then the stalk grew and his curiosity got the better of him. But from there?

Wasn’t the giant's home supposed to be above the clouds? I am scared of heights so the 15,000-foot climb-up vines into the air just cause an unworldly beanstalk grew in my yard gives me chills. Sure I would be curious about what the hell was up there but it would take a lot for me to climb the growing tower. When I’m on oor thirty of a building or see people free-fall rock climbing I get a terrible feeling in my chest, my stomach drops and even at some points, I can hardly breathe. I don’t know where my fear came from but I know it's only in extreme conditions. I love the little fear I feel when jumping o a thirty-foot rock into water or the feeling you get after walking for miles up a mountain and the amazing view that comes with it. But those tall buildings will always get me. Unless you don’t fear anything at all then you have felt a fear of heights before and I think it’s because the fear of heights can be directly translated into the fear of death. When I’m looking down a tall building or down 30 ights of stairs I'm not really thinking “Oh wow this is so high.” No, it's “if I fall from here I’m dead.” When I rst jumped o a 30-foot rock into water the rst thing I noticed was I was waiting for the fall. While falling I had time to think “When am I going to hit the water?”

I thought to myself. I never felt that before so doing those jumps became something I wanted to keep doing. But that feeling is also what I’m scared of when I look down the building. What I’ll think falling that far.

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The Mask

By Haden Bottiglieri Oh my God. Oh my God. I can never leave my house again.

He stared into the mirror of his home: a stranger looked back at him.

I swear it wasn’t this bad at the place.

Frozen in shock, he was terri ed of going to work today. How could he be expected to live like this?

He sprinted around his house, searching for something to cover what was done to him. Opening drawers, cabinets, cupboards; searching for something to x this terrible mistake.

A brown paper bag stared up at him from his kitchen drawer. All other options exhausted, he snatched a pair of scissors and cut three holes: eyes and a mouth.

He put his clothes on, tears streaming down his now concealed face.

How long will I have to su er like this?

He got in his car; the eyeholes he cut barely provided enough vision for him to drive. His trip to work was arduous: he was dreading the day that lay ahead of him.

I can’t go in like this.

Parked in the parking lot, his head was spinning with possible outcomes. Possible reactions from his coworkers, possible scenarios in which he was embarrassed.

But I CAN’T take it o .

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The elevator ride up felt like it took an eternity. Standing there with his briefcase with his eyes pointed at his feet, his heart pounded out of his chest. *DING!* The elevator doors slowly opened to reveal his o ce. His prison for the next nine hours where he was certain he’d be ogled at like an animal at the zoo.

He set his briefcase down and made a run for the bathroom. He removed the bag and stared into the mirror, desperate for some fresh air.

No one had seen him with the bag yet, and he needed some time to cope with the fact that this was his life now.

“Hey, Dex, new haircut?”

Distress. Panic. Every alarm in his mind was blaring.

NOOOOO! “Y-yeah.”

“Looks good!”

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Big Business

By Lev Tolkoff 20 By: Jake Kornmehl

The rst time I heard the double chime of the computer beep, I ran down the hallway of our o ce to Erik screaming, “ We did it! We did it!”. Grabbing our jackets, we skipped out the door of our o ce like children on the last day of school. I turned to him and said, “Dude! We have to go celebrate”.

“Hold up, let me input the trade into the data sheet online, I'll meet you at the bar on third street in thirty minutes,' ' said Erik.

Erik and I had just graduated college last spring, we both had dreamed of one day making it to wall street and striking rich. I met Erik one day while I was reading The Intelligent Investor in the library and a kid approached me and said, “ I think we are going to be very good friends.” Since that day we were inseparable, we would nish our homework as fast as possible and study the market from night till morning. Erik and I read every book that we could nd on stocks and the history of the market. We would go to the business school each day and talk to any professor that would entertain us.

Neither of us had grown up wealthy, my mother had worked two jobs to support me and my brother. She would often come home after a long shift, cook us dinner, put us to bed, then go to her other job until well past midnight. I had always been driven, throughout high school I grinded everyday, with hopes of one day repaying the sacri ce my mother had made for me. I carried this mentality throughout college as well, from every assignment to every nal, it was one hundred percent, max e ort everyday. So, once we graduated there was no doubt in our minds, we risked everything and moved into a one-bedroom apartment near the nancial district, splitting the unfathomable 3000$ a month plus

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utilities. The apartment was somehow always damp, even in the summertime, that combined with the dim lights made living on mattresses that much more unbearable. But, everyday we put on our one suit that we shared and would go apply to every rm that's hiring.

Eventually, after applying for fteen di erent positions, JP Morgan caved and hired us as readers. We would sit in an o ce adjacent to the mail room and read every type of document from six A.M to well past midnight. We loved it, it was like we were in college all over again.

Despite my overcoat, I shivered as I exited the revolving door into the harsh February night, I started down my twelve block journey and looked up to see snow falling from the dark gray sky. I watched a single snow ake fall from the sky and land on the sidewalk in front of me as it got crushed under my winter boot. I kept walking and soon reached ninth street when my pocket buzzed. I took out my phone to see a text from Erik, “Hey, corporate just called, they saw the trade! We just reached the numbers for our end of year bonus… it's only February”. I closed the phone and I looked into a shop window to see my re ection with a smile extending across the length of my face. I did it. I watched my breath in the cold air in front of me, as I let out a sigh of relief and relaxed my shoulders.

We had just made the biggest trade of our lives, it all started a few months ago, it was well past 2 A.M, Erik and I were in the middle of a nancial report for our boss when we noticed something was o .

“These numbers can not be right,” Erik said, holding up a sheet of paper with his feet on his desk. I rolled my chair across the oor to see what he was looking at, I looked at it, reading it over and over, “I think you’re right, something is de nitely o ”. After another hour of digging through

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As I was walking down fth street, strangely deserted, something caught the periphery of my eye and I whipped my head around to see a woman shaking a co ee cup of coins in her hand, wearing a tattered blue suit, sitting outside an apartment building. I was in a charitable mood, so I stopped to put a few dollars in her cup, but as I put the money in her cup I noticed the “ABC Oil Company” employee tag still on her pants, but worse, I saw her ten year old son next to her on the ground. I stared into his sparkling hazel eyes and saw my own, staring back at me. The color left my face, I felt a stinging feeling in my throat, it took everything I had not to cry on that very sidewalk. All of a sudden my legs became heavy, I started sweating, my hands were shaking, “Where was I?” .

“Hey, sweetie, are you ok?” The woman asked.

I quickly regained my composure as best I could, grabbed my wallet out of my back pocket, took out all the cash I had and put it in her cup, and started walking away as fast as possible. “What have I done?” I

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countless les, we gured out that ABC Oil Company had reported false pro ts, which could only be uncovered if you went through every single transaction that they made over the past four years, well over a hundred thousand sheets of paper. The exact task Erik and I had been doing for over three months, our company was looking to buy the company, but now with the information Erik and I had found, we would short it instead. And ve months later, after a slew of layo s, the company went bankrupt. Our 35 million shares that we had shorted had nally hit, and the 3.2 billion dollar payday had just emptied into JP Morgan’s pockets. As well, our 0.1% nder's fee netted us 3.2 million dollars!

thought to myself. “I had always dreamed of this– well not THIS, but the moment that the computer would chime, our trade would go through, we would be rich. All those nights I stayed up staring at the cracked ceiling of our apartment just praying to anyone listening that we would make it” I stared at the sidewalk, nothing made any sense, why had I spent all this time, this energy, just to ruin so many people’s lives, I had won, but to do so I put someone else back in the exact position I had once been. I looked up and I was at the bar, the neon blue “open” sign blinded me as I reached for the handle, I slowly entered the bar and got a booth in the back and waited for Erik.

After fteen minutes, I heard the chime of the door open and I looked up to see Erik, with two massive dimples from the smile that extended across his face, he saw me and his face light up even more. He ran over to me, when he got within a few feet of me he stopped dead in his tracks, “What's wrong?” he said.

“I'm out” I said.

His expression melted, the once elated face was now confused, “I had let him down” I thought to myself.

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Rafael Rodriguez-Montgomery, Form VI

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Time suffocates all, lengthening in times of boredom, and shrinking in the presence of glee.

Time your day, why don't you—you’ll see. Time expands during lectures, long drives, and labor, but vanishes as soon as a smile is cracked. Time never stops, persisting through any weather or worldly problem, never letting anyone take a breath. Time doesn’t choose favorites—you cannot buy it—the poorest of the poor and the ultrawealthy all bend to the hand of time. Time de nes unforgiveness, never caring about who it may affect. Time, once in a while, will stop…just for a second…so then your mind can construct a memory. Time fools you into thinking time stopped, but time loans itself to you; when you think back to that moment when all was right and time seemed to halt, time gains itself back…usually with interest.

Time is not a measure of ability rather than a concept molded by humanity to differentiate among themselves. Time is orderly, well-equipped, passionate, impatient—all things that humans grasp onto like straws—just to make some sense of this unruly world.

Time’s End, Jake Kornmehl

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By: Jake Kornmehl, Form V

Of All the Fish in the Sea

By Anthony Galvagna Faint dripping from the faucet into a beef-stained pot echoed e ortlessly throughout the one-story apartment. Utensils and other paraphernalia from the previous night’s dinner lay littered across the small kitchen table. Suddenly, the radiant silence between drops onto the metal was abruptly broken by the screeching of an analog alarm resting upon Tim’s nightstand. Mistakenly rst slamming down on the cluttered water bottles adorning the compact stool, his ngertips blindly found the o switch with a grunt while his hips rolled opposite out of the disheveled bed. A crinkled can sitting upon the nearby dresser had its brow permanently furrowed, the aluminum grimace set perpetually on Dr. Pepper’s attened face. 8:35? MAN, how could he be so late AGAIN? White sheets tossed at its foot proclaimed promptly to any visitor that over the last week or so, his evenings had been consumed by long nights studying, extensive gaming sessions – anything but organizing the piece of furniture growing grimy with lint before his very eyes. Shoes, equipment for his old cats, and cardboard boxes from the previous month’s mail crowded most corners around the place. Stu , the collection could only be called. I mean, what else would it be? There was no feasible way to categorize the abundant litter of the residence. The place wasn’t cramped but seemed to ll quickly with junk. Whoever typically engaged in the property’s cleaning was absent, missing – a hole within the con nes of reality.

Any free space that his apartment could still boast watched him stumble frantically into the kitchen and rapidly engulf a half-eaten

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As if the water could read his mind, the drip, drip, drip from the tap intensi ed like the droplets were giving him their all in a single reprimand. Gol-LY, she deserves BETTER than this, dude. Lettuce freshly stuck in his teeth glinted green o of the piled dishes over owing from the sink. Without the mirror checking to ensure his collar was straight and hair tidy and following a raging ush of the toilet ringing out into the serene northern-New-Hampshire morning, the home’s front door burst open within the minute. A gritted scowl glued to the college student’s exacerbated visage remained the young day’s only order without chaos. Rays of vibrant summer sunshine gleaming through the ngerprint-stained glass demarking the stairwell’s oors were shattered momentarily as the unkept blur ew down ight after ight, and light pattering from the soles of his feet emanated hurriedly into the deep abyss ending at the building’s worn, metal garage entryway. The dark, metal railing ushering the boy to his equally shambolic 2012 Honda Accord spiraled all the way down to the well’s foundation. With his mind and body sent into a literal spin, he hoped he wouldn’t be too late.

Soon the crooked laces straining to hold together old basketball shoes transitioned in their dragging from icy-cold concrete to exuberant tar caking the small lot that was seemingly watched over by his tenet at all times. Gravel from the fenced-in property always managed to get

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sandwich lying out from the day before. The paper plate upon which it had been strewn made for an excellent frisbee-type projectile into the wet garbage bag resting a few feet away from Tim’s creased, red Jordans.

Bullseye. One mistaken click on his cracked, rose-gold screen led the young man to their message archive. No new texts, and those that he had sent were crowded with lime. No new texts from anyone, actually, his mourning conscience sighed.

lodged into the underside of whatever one wore on their feet, something that every renter alike hated about the place. As the building’s multitude of menacing shadows no longer cloaked the 3-year online-university student, July humidity washed over his frail body in waves. Despite what couldn’t have been more than 70-degree weather, instantaneously, sweat had already begun to gradually ooze its way down the torso bouncing in stride. A decrepit oak tree hung, haunting, over his ride cramped in the corner of the chain link enclosure, and when the door was propped open against his neighbor's gray Avalon, plastic waters and a container that must’ve been from at least a week prior spilled out from the driver’s side.

A plethora of scratches and dents chiseled into the rough navy paint job signi ed to any onlooker that the car had certainly seen some incredible journeys in its time. Songs of birds were the only noise in the typically bustling town rural center to blanket Tim’s muttered ack’s and shit’s as his outstretched hands clamped down on the nal bottle that had rolled hastily to become lodged underneath the nearest tire. Frustrated and now sti , the seat of his stained, teal sweatpants was tossed haphazardly into the foam chair resting – stuck permanently at a slant likely unsafe for any driver – just before the plain, black steering wheel. The screechy start of the antiquated engine cried out mournfully into dawn air, and the squeal of rubber on asphalt echoed throughout the small village. Around and around the rotary the sti steel frame pirouetted, those numerous lights on the dashboard and ripped seats the boy’s lone ticket out of the forlorn, landlocked, and heavily forested county.

A low-pitched whirring from the system was always present once the automobile hit the highway, promptly canceled out by the static-Free Bird mixture erupting from the small speaker adjacent to the car’s center console. The mu ed music sliced heat waves to bits, and Lynyrd Skynyrd’s enrapturing guitar ri s and lengthened vocals allowed the boy

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to drive without realizing his actions in a relaxed day-dream state, his mouth occasionally joining in reciting the incandescent lyrics. He was the actual free bird, liberated physically from the bounds of the monotonous, day-to-day agenda. And yet, a vigorous foreboding over owing from deep within his core – not the typical joyous ambiance that only the wind whipping in one’s ears could produce – proved preeminent in his mind. Tim could only think about how sorry he would be if, this time, he truly were too late for the love of his life. Her name was Trinity, and she was the most beautiful person his eyes had ever rendered. To him, her gaze illustrated a deep blue that could solely be found in the ocean’s crystal depths. Her laugh was the melodic crash of beautifully crested waves. Her skin was the suave tan of smooth sand, and her smile was more radiant than any of the world’s most beautiful beach sunsets. With her, he was in paradise. And yet, the incessant urge – the necessity – to see her during his study- lled Monday-throughFriday schedule, something that he simply couldn’t a ord to do at this stage in his education, lapped at the forefront of his soul just like how sea tides ow from low to high onto a host of erratic rocks guarding their solemn shores. Visits to her became a highlight each and every unvarying week, like a lighthouse jutting out and illuminating a murky bay.

His ride certainly didn’t enjoy the scheduled trek made every so often, but Tim exhibited no acknowledgment. Instead, through the fusion created between the air whipping against the edges of his ears and the soft music seemingly smothered by the radio’s cracked face, the boy’s perspective shifted to an earlier time – moments that caused his metaphoric mouth to water with anticipation.

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There she was in front of him, grappling with her short arms and petite ngers to tug the uorescent green surfboard along the sti ing sand. She was adorable in the struggle. It felt like watching a small puppy scrambling up the stairs with di culty for its very rst time.

Cruising along the swirling waves was her absolute favorite thing – something they always did together – although, as he also made his way along the path, the grumpy look back at him in annoyance for not helping wouldn’t serve as a likely indicator. Even when angry, she was so freaking cute; Especially when she was mad at me, he giggled. Her living out close to the water made it di cult for them to bond during the summer months while Tim juggled a part-time job on top of his alreadypiling schoolwork. But, every week, one chose to burn a portion of their tight budget on the gas necessary. He treasured every priceless minute they spent together, wherever. Time is something you can never have back.

Soon the sky turned from a cloudy, mellow morning lavender to a brilliant baby blue. The time xed into the car's display system had been broken for months, each hour utterly indistinguishable from the next on the open road. With each extensive straightaway leading o into a horizon lled with sprawling meadows and the occasional tree, Tim’s old-fashioned speedometer spun wildly from one to twelve – a clock face signaling that, if he didn’t hurry, he would undoubtedly lose his exclusive date for the week. Aged sparsely-laid oaks slowly transitioned into an open expanse, and quickly air around the crumbling gravel on which the car navigated also changed, a kick of salt tenuously pinching one’s lungs with every abridged inhale. Eventually, with not a single cumulus marking the heavens and the golden silhouette of the sun hanging high overhead, he could nally discern it from the crunching made by bits of

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broken tar being kicked up against the Accord’s scarred rear bumper.

While at rst faint and from an extended distance, the susurration of the tides was apparent and undeniable. Tim knew that he was close.

Suddenly, as the boy made the exodus’ nal right-hand turn, the GPS robotically droning from his phone adorning the passenger side was no longer necessary. He recognized the long, linear path leading to where gravel became dirt and dirt became sweltering summer sand, spiraling walls of water crashing and echoing out from closer and closer as his ride seemed to slow to a pitiful crawl. As the car crept through a nal jumble of conifers, his tires nally received a chance to take respite in the center of a small square lot. Enclosed by towering dunes and littered with shells and other small stones, it felt like the typical driveway style of coastal Maine housing. He hoped she was as happy to meet as he was to see her. Having almost lept out of the car, he made a beeline for the sti trunk and, with his face hit squarely by salt air so thick that his taste buds puckered, above the boy laid the bygone, dilapidated home with which he had become so familiar over the previous two years. A path lined with small stones carved through the slender, sandy reeds whistling in the wind – so familiar with his footprints that they were likely embedded in the warm soil – led any public beachgoer down past the shack to the water’s edge. After yanking open the rear of the small vehicle, Tim revealed the board that was taking up the entirety of his folded trunk-backseat combination to the vibrant summer sun. While he gripped the material close to his chest, his bare toes began to make their way along the soft earth, resting momentarily at the foot of what appeared to be the house’s collapsed front porch. As far as he knew, nobody had ever lived there. Perched overlooking a vast shoreline, incessant whispers from the whistling wind snaked their way around the home. Its wretched, decaying beams were stained dark with mold

despite rays of bright light breaching the roof dotted with holes – magni cent beach-front property gone straight to waste. Now, it was a gateway ushering travelers directly into her arms. Was this a looming fate? Why was he able to identify with the tarnished remains?

Continuing onwards, Tim’s eyes, quivering ever so slightly from the gusts no longer de ected at the hill’s peak, turned to the natural beauty that sat beneath the lofty bank: Trinity Bay, one of the nearby seashore’s most marvelous wonders, seemingly untouched by man. He had made it with just a few minutes to spare before the tides hung perfectly.

Thunderous water crashing against ever-eroding stone littered at varying depths became a harsh reality, repeatedly pounding at his fragile eardrums. Seagulls ew low enough to reach with an outstretched hand, clamoring about the rocky shoreline as Tim descended to the water’s boundary. The smooth polyester lining the broad edges of his new surfboard had become burdensome to hold along the way, so when the 21-year-old placed it gingerly on the ground mere inches from where the grainy sand turned dark with the tides. A heavy thud ensued, and for a moment, despite the foam rushing rapidly back and forth between the gaps of his toes, errant spray stinging his skin, and his nostrils pierced by the pungence of the sea, Tim had never felt more at home.

There was something about sur ng that made all the di erence each and every week – a peninsula of enjoyment jutting out into the mammoth ocean of “the grind.” Pristine, navy water owed over his sand-splattered shorts, Tim’s luminescent aqua shirt and midnight-black string bag minuscule specks of color on the distant shoreline. With each run, he felt more and more like a boy again; the linear cuts his board made through the water were likely the most balanced and orderly thing he had experienced in life for a while. Each run ended after just twenty or

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so seconds, and the satisfaction of swiftly gliding straight back out into the wake to catch another wave was rhythmic and ever so enjoyable. The only responsibility at hand was selecting one that he deemed suitable from the multitude of prospective swells ushered into the curved bay by the concave coast. There were no wrong answers, and, for an instant, it almost felt like she was still there – clearing a streamlined path through the water for him to follow. He didn’t know when the last time she had accompanied him was. Days, months, years, he didn’t care. Taking a moment to breathe deeply, his head resting on the serrated foam of the board and his eyes squeezing tightly shut, he was left with the sloshing around of his thoughts. He smiled. This truly was the love of his life.

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The Craft of Poetry: On Advice, Emotion, and Activities

By Will Yakoobian

Basketball B alling, my favorite thing to do A t the park, the gym, always a chance to learn something new S hooting all night, could take a while K ey is practice, maybe even sprint a mile E ffort needs to be at 100% for you to have a chance T ougness is next, without toughness you won’t make the big dance B ack to basketball, playing is what matters A mazing slam dunks, the backboard is what shatters L aughing each day, working on your speed L ove for the game—all you need

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Anger Anger trembles through my body like a raging bull, Like the child told to go to bed Or the one who missed the gamewinning shot That clutches his sts tight Like the hungry lion capturing his prey It overtakes me On the shadowy dark night I shake with a desperate groan I abandon myself to anger I yell—I cry.

The anger absorbs me from top to bottom Too long have I walked this empty path, Too long have I gone this way Shook.

Change Change your perspective Think about what’s really Important To You Put yourself in the shoes of others Think about how you can help out To make your world better Change your attitude You are not too cool Too good or too smart You can always get better And Improve No challenge too steep No challenge too small You are competing against yourself Will you win?

Change your mindset You won’t succeed If you think you Can’t You can surprise yourself By working hard And achieving your goals Think “Yes I can!”

Soon you will believe too What is the Meaning of your Name?

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Will don’t be late Will you’re going to miss the bus Will have you nished all of your homework Will you got to get going Will hope you have a good day Yakoobs good to see you Yakoobs how was your weekend Yakoobs how are you doing Will can you read that paragraph on the board Will can you solve this problem Koobs let’s win all the pieces today Koobs go all out Koobs can you do one more rep Yakoobs can you master the new move Yakoobs can you hit this shot consistently Yakoobs good work today Will how was your day Will did you learn anything Will take out the trash please Will what do you have going on tomorrow Will that sounds like a lot Will can you play a game with me Will can we watch this new show

William thanks for calling William only my grandma calls me William Yakoobian my full name Pain is Life Power in my legs failing like a broken ACL An opportunity to grow Inside my head: I can’t Never give in I can’t feel my arms Strive through the pressure Love the pain, living Inside a new world For I have changed my mindset Excelling through hardships Perseverance Back aching with pain Feet on re beneath me I can keep going Jump Pivot, one dribble One step, two steps, push the ground In the air - SLAM DUNK

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The Hawaiian Creeper

By Jake Kornmehl The rst time I heard the sound of a reloading pistol, I spoke calmly from the edge of a skyscraper, a metropolitan precipice, "You got me, man— after six years—checkmate." *** Long before, I woke up alone one morning to the sounds of Hawaiian creepers chirping and the warm beams of the summer sun blanketing my face and chest. Sitting on the nightstand on my right was a ower pot consisting of tall, white, blooming orchids. My rst day in the new resort complex would begin with a tour of the property, the goal being that I would nd myself impressed with the wide variety of luxurious amenities. After the tedious, tenhour ight from New York City, my back yearned for a heated, hot stone massage, refreshing piña coladas, and the warm breeze blowing o the turquoise water on the horizon. I throw on a Vineyard Vines, white polo shirt, pink shorts, and my dark khaki Sperry's, all of which just to look presentable on the long journey from the marble-clad elevator to the palm-themed lobby. Just as I begin to comprehend my re ection in the elevator mirrors, the door to the lobby opens, revealing what seems to be a wonderful getaway for any unnecessarily wealthy family.

In the lobby's center, a handsome man seemingly in his thirties, standing in black, polished shoes and a tan-colored suit, speaks: "Welcome to the La Paloma Ranch and Resort. I am Bernard; not only am I the hotel manager, but I also have the ersatz honor of acquainting you with our wonderful twelve-acre property."

My head takes a slight tilt to the right as I hear the word "ersatz," yet all the surrounding middle-aged women in white linen sundresses and the men with their slick, jet-black hair do not seem to be taken aback whatsoever. Not a

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After the barrage of overpriced spa treatments, breakfast options, and oblivious tourists, I notice something peculiar. Out of the corner of my eye, a young woman sits at the edge of the in nity pool. Her inviting, pale face and heavy-set, electric blue eyes drew my mind away from the underwhelming tour and towards an undefeatable obstacle.

Bernard stops the crowd and calls out through his clenched smile, "Hello there? Sir! You seem uninterested in the tour and have decided to take a detour toward the cabanas…Do you wish to leave the tour and pursue another matter?"

I answer with a slightly vertical shake of my head and watch closely as his teeth disappear and eyes squint. Bernard jolts his head in the other direction towards the so-called "phenomenal physical tness facilities," leading the school of guests behind him. Chest raised and shoulders back, I stroll towards the young lady and sit beside her, kicking o my Sperry's and dipping my feet in the eighty-degree chlorinated water. Turning towards the lady, I ask irtatiously, "Water's nice, huh? What's your name?"

Sun re ecting o her soaking hair, she responds, "Ella. Ella Thompson. Yes - the Water is sublime."

Mind racing, I reach out my hand for a handshake when suddenly, I feel a soft vibration sourced from the left pocket of my shorts. Damn. A phone call right now.

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shred of love in any of the hearts currently residing in the fern-lined lobby, including my own, we begin our tour down the dimly lit, zhen hallway towards the outside rectangular, gunite pool. Each of the hotel sta seems robotic, standing up perfectly straight with a barely noticeable, menacing smirk—no sign of life in any of their bulging eyes and eerie smiles.

With a subtle smile, I speak lightly, "Excuse me for a second…Ella," and stand up, feet barely holding onto the pool's edge.

I answer the call.

"Hello?" I inquire, frustrated to have been interrupted during such a potentially fruit-bearing interaction.

"Colton St. James, we already know you have arrived at the La Paloma Ranch. We already have people stationed at the resort. I am coming. Don't get too comfortable; we are family, and it's about time for a reunion—" speaks a conceited, deep voice.

Having already suspected the Organization's attempts to surround me, I hang up before the man can nish. Turning my head back toward the pool, I noticed the woman…Ella…had vanished. Quickly, I am encircled by at least ten hotel workers, each of them in khaki shorts and a light teal polo shirt.

"Would you like anything from the pool bar, sir?" each of them asks repeatedly.

"Want to see a menu, sir? I am sure there is something you would love."

I say politely, "Excuse me, gentlemen. I am all good, thank you."

"We insist."

None of them even inched away, further surrounding my pool chair, opposite the pool from where Ella had disappeared. Desperate, I jolt up and look around the resort frantically—at least, what I could see of it. On the marble edge of the pool, there lay a minuscule, light beige piece of paper, seconds away from being swept away into the Water's depths, only to disintegrate, bringing its message into the deep. Without hesitation, I shove

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Colton, We have Ella in room 6446. I will be there -MSJ Next to the note, a room key sits covered in water droplets, and before I can comprehend the con ict that is genuinely unfolding, I run towards the lobby elevator; every guest within the boundaries of the hotel's property could hear the squeaks of my shoes sliding against the recently polished, tile oor.

Panting, I enter the elevator and press the button for the sixth oor, all while listening to the irritating sound of the elevator's perky music. With a loud DING, I sprint down the hall of ascending numbers until I eventually stand, out of breath, with my hands on my knees, outside the cream door of room 6446. With a gentle tap of the room key, I push open the door only to nd an empty room—the white sheets on the queen bed neatly folded and the carpet free of any laundry a majority of guests might have. With no sign of Ella, my heart begins to palpitate, and a singular teardrop drips down my blushing cheek, leaving a trail of despair in its wake. A little note inside the nightstand's pot of well-procured orchids catches my attention, reading: Colton You're too late. She already left.

-MSJ Within the con nes of the letter, below the signature, a tiny white stamp showcasing a blooming orchid grabs my attention, barely noticeable among the light beige paper backdrop. My father, cold as ice, would surround himself with orchids in his o ce, always saying that they represented the fragility of a

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one of the workers and push my way towards the note, sliding through the crowd, resulting in my right knee becoming crimson with blood revealing the blushing pink of my next inner layer of skin. Reaching out my right arm, my ngers grasp the note, and I sprint across the pool area, weaving my way through the groups of bickering families and unhappy couples.

business: something that required consistent nourishing. After my mother's poisonous fate, my father left me alone in the penthouse with nothing and no one. Constantly, I would stare at my re ection in the oor-to-ceiling glass windows, each separated by twenty-foot-high white plastered rods. In that re ection, I would see nothing but me—no friends, no parents…not even a comforting object. Just like my father, I would come to live life on my own.

Never did I think I would nd myself caring about anyone, let alone someone who I had barely spoken to by the side of a hotel pool. Since the age of nine, all I wished for was to feel the presence of someone who would ask me how I was. Feeling a sickness, a dumbbell weighing on my stomach, I kneel on the carpeted oor, pondering the absence of love in my life—without a family, without a loved one. Proudly I stroll through each locale I adventure into, solving mysteries and apprehending the Bureau's most wanted. However, each time I hear the click when I lock the nickel handcu s behind the backs of men and women, I remember the chains imprisoning me in an endless revolution of business and pointless leisure. I just can't run anymore—from myself or from my father. *** Three months later, as midnight strikes, I sit on cold, rigid concrete in a tuxedo on the edge of a precipice under the cover of a starless metropolitan sky. I pondered my lost orchid—ever since Ella had been kidnapped, I could not bear the pain of waking up each morning, starting a new day in this dull world. As the brightness pierced my eyes and the Hawaiian creepers' calls rang in my ears, I found each day without Ella to be worse than the rest. Now, the city skyline, each light symbolizes a person who experiences love in their life.

Why the other nine million in New York City and not me—I cannot live the same life as my father, each day clawing to work up the corporate ladder, a tropical snake injecting its venom into each associate along the way.

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That's when I return back to reality; I hear steps behind me, so I turn my entire body 360 degrees, frigid to the bone. Now, I look upon the most horrifying face I can imagine, my father's—Martin St. James. MSJ. My father stands nearly three hundred feet away, his right arm wrapping around the shoulders of Ella.

"HELP ME! PLEASE! PLE-ASE! PLE-EE-EE-ASE!" she screamed for her life, her eyes red as cherry gumdrops, her face so swelled yet so eternally beautiful.

No longer could I handle running away from my father's monopoly.

Like a lit candle with zero wax to burn, I ran as fast as I could towards Ella, ignoring the sharp pains in my knees, knives seemingly cutting deep into my shins.

BANG…click-click The rst time I heard the sound of a reloading pistol, I spoke calmly from the edge of a skyscraper, the edge of my life, "You got me, man—after six years—checkmate."

Looking down at the bustling streets below me, through the ying y lights of the taxis' headlights, I swear I could see the blank, dead eyes of Ella staring up at me. I arrive at life's crossroads: a choice between becoming my father or transcending into an endless darkness. I turn, and I jump—down into the colossal crashing wave—the chirps of the Hawaiian creeper echoing through my soul.

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Reindeer Tryouts

By Stephen Kilcoyne There is no one worthy Everyone can hardly y The reindeer get up there And they don't even try The rest laugh and yell As one after another, they all fell Finally, Santa Claus rang his Bell Watching this, was utter hell He missed his old reindeer His body lled with fear His vision of Christmas, not fully clear At home he sat down, his eyes lled with tears As he prayed to the Christmas gods I need to nd some reindeer Throughout the night he tossed and turned Wondering, would they ever learn With Christmas approaching he had no idea what to do Would he have to take the train, re up the ole choo choo He didn't know if he could deliver on December 25th Would he nally have his rst miss

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Step Back Three

By William Yakoobian

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After that day, the words “never give up” came up again in everyday circumstances, either on paper while reading Relentless by Tim Grover or in my head when completing one last repetition while working out. It was easy to use that phrase as motivation in those situations where I knew I could push through, but this, how could I? My best friend Bruce was on the bench with his head in a towel. My teammates who were on the oor with me were stumbling up and down the court; none of us had been playing up to our abilities, turning over the ball at a high rate, and missing open shots. I was playing horribly because I couldn’t get out of my own head.

It was the California state championship basketball game, and we were down 75-67 with only ve minutes remaining on the clock. A popcorn smell spread throughout the loud and hot gymnasium, lled to its capacity of 2,500. We were playing the Los Angeles Lions, an undefeated team with two seven-footers in their starting lineup. Not only that, they had eleven players committed to play college basketball next year, ve of whom were in the ESPN Top 100. Seriously?

As I dribbled up the oor, I called for a screen from our big man, Darren. Darren attened number ve on the Lions as I rose up for the three-pointer. “Clang,” the shot ricocheted o the front rim to the other side of the court. A Lions defender grabbed the ball, took it the length of

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The rst time I heard the phrase “never give up,” I didn't put much thought into it. I was ten years old at the time, and my father was teaching me a new and complex move that I had never done before.

“Daddy, I can’t do this,” I said as the ball bounced o my leg. “Yes you can. Never give up. One dribble left, push o your right foot, and set your feet behind the line,” he replied. I tried again, but the same result occurred. “I’m done with this. I suck at basketball,” I screamed as tears began streaming down my face. “Henry, come back here. You are good enough. Don’t doubt yourself,” my father said. After three more tries, I nally performed the move without messing up.

the oor, and slammed it in the hoop, jumping as high as a kangaroo.

“You guys are too little!” he shouted as he hung from the rim.

“Timeout! Hustle over here and sit down! My grandmother could run faster than you!” Coach Jones yelled. I limped to the bench, but picked up my speed to conceal my injury. If I show my pain, everyone else is going to be devastated. Pain is just weakness leaving the body, right? I thought, remembering the words of Coach Jalani, my 7th-grade basketball coach.

On his wipe board, Coach Jones began to scribble the play he wanted us to execute. When he nished, he turned to me: “Anything to say, captain?” he asked. I turned to my teammates, who all looked like their dogs had just died. “Um, ah, no,” I began as my mind shot back. It was the summer of 6th grade, and I was playing for the Cougars, my AAU team. We were down ten points with ve minutes left in a situation similar to this one. I wanted to win and asked my coach if I could talk to the team. My teammates circled around me, but before I could start speaking, James started to laugh, and everyone did the same. I played so poorly that my coach benched me for the rest of the game. Ever since that day, I have never spoken up on the court or in the classroom.

“Alright then, let’s go boys, Henry has nothing to say again,” Coach said quietly. I wish I had said something, but they wouldn't listen to me, right? No one wants to hear from someone with zero points.

The game started back up. Three minutes left now. I can turn this game around myself. Just then, I caught a glimpse of the ball coming toward me from the corner of my eye, but it was too late. “Boom,” the ball hit me straight on the face and bounced out of bounds. Turnover.

“You’re out. Bruce, go get him.” Bruce put his hand out for a high ve, but I walked right past him to the end of the bench.

From the corner of my eye, through my hands which were covering my head in frustration, I saw the Lions score again. Another easy layup. I messed up. I need to be in this game. I got up from the end

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of the bench and started to walk slowly towards Coach, paused for a moment, and then kept going. I can do this, I thought. “Coach, please call a timeout; I’ll talk to the team,” “Okay, it’s our only chance,” he replied. Coach walked to the ref and called a timeout as everyone sprinted to the bench. “Stand up; Henry has something to say.” Everyone circled around me as my face grew red, and I was brought back to that moment in 6th grade when James began laughing. I began speaking, “thth-that,” I can’t do this. Everyone is going to start laughing. I took a deep breath. You know what? I can do this. I’m not a 6th grader anymore. I’m the captain of this team, and it is my job to be a leader. “That team may be better than us, but we’ve worked so hard all season to earn this moment. Hard work beats talent when talent fails to work hard. Let’s go out there and shock the world!” I screamed. “Wow, sub back in for Bruce,” Coach said, lost for words. The buzzer for the end of the timeout went o as we chanted “win” on three.

My teammates and I ran on the court with something we had been missing all game. Energy. The crowd sensed our enthusiasm and started cheering as we egged them on. A woman in the front row wearing a rainbow shirt was on her feet and screaming for us. A Lions player looked in my direction and said “scoreboard” to tell us they were still winning, but I didn’t care. My team believed we could pull o the comeback, and that was all that mattered. “Let’s go. Lock in. We got this!” I shouted to everyone who could hear.

On the next possession, Darren blocked a Lions player and passed the ball to me. I locked eyes with my teammate Hunter, and we began to execute the simplest play in basketball, the backdoor cut.

Earlier this week, Hunter and I had perfected this play at practice, and there was no better time to use it than now. Hunter took two steps in my direction and then sprinted behind the defender, catching a perfect pass and laying it up for two.

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And we did just that, getting two steals and a block on the next three possessions. Not only did we get the three stops, but Darren and I also hit clutch three-pointers, and Hunter made another backdoor cut layup to cut the lead down to 2. 79-77. 40 seconds left. Lions ball. We were nally playing like we had all season and looked like the 73-9 2016 Warriors instead of the 10-72 2016 76ers that we had played like in the rst 29 minutes of the game.

“Let's get a turkey + 1!” Coach yelled to us, chuckling to himself.

How could he be so calm in a moment this intense, I thought to myself. I was guarding number 14 on the Lions, a North Carolina commit, who had been their go-to guy all game, so I knew I would have to come up big here. The Lions could not waste all the time on the clock as the high school shot clock was 30 seconds. With ten seconds left on the shot clock, number 14 dribbled to his left and crossed over to his right. I stayed with him, giving him no breathing room as he rose up for the shot. “Bang,” the ball hit the rim, spun around, and bounced out.

“Rebound!” Coach exclaimed. Everyone boxed out a Lions player, and the ball bounced out of bounds. 15 seconds left. Still down two.

Before Darren inbounded the ball to me for the last play of the game, my mind began to wander. You can do this. You’ve worked so hard for this moment. I heard my father’s words from dinner yesterday in my head. As I got the ball from Darren, I knew the exact move I was going to make. The move my father had taught me when I was ten years old. The step back three. I didn’t want to let him down.

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“Let's go!” I yelled as I high- ved him and sprinted back on defense. “We need a turkey!” Coach Jones exclaimed as confused looks popped up throughout the crowd. Coach had put a spin on the bowling term, turkey, used for three straight strikes, to an original basketball term used for three straight defensive stops.

There were now ten seconds left. The ball bounced up and down from my hand as I stared at the Lions defender in his eyes. I zoned the roar of the crowd left as I began to make my move. 5, 4, 3, I dribbled to the left, pushed o my right foot, 2, set my feet behind the line, 1, and released the ball like a balloon into the air. “Bzzz,” the game clock expired. “Swish!” 80-79. We had done the impossible! “Yes! We did it!” I yelled to whoever could hear me. Lions players fell to the oor in sorrow.

My teammates swarmed and tackled me as we formed a pig pile.

From the bottom of the pig pile, I looked at the middle of the stands, 9th row up, where my father sat at all of my games since middle school. He was cheering with the rest of the crowd and then stopped as I locked eyes with him. I pointed to him, mouthing the words never give up; he pointed back as he hit his chest twice.

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By Stephen Kilcoyne Number 10, Warm weather, it lets you do so many things that you couldn’t do during the winter. Number 9, Golf, since it's warmer weather and I have more free time, my brother my dad and I can go gol ng together. Number 8, Vacations, since there is so much time to do whatever you want, my parents will plan a trip or two throughout the summer, and it is a great time to relax.

Number 7, Sleeping in, although I rarely sleep in, it is still an option if I am more tired than usual. During the school year, I have to get up at 7 a:m for school, and on Saturdays I usually have to get up early for games. Number 6, summer baseball ball, with the stress of high school sports gone, you can just play, and not have to worry as much. Number 5, summer workouts, I don't know what it is about summer workouts but just the feeling you get after you work extremely hard and then have the rest of the day to yourself, is amazing.

Number 4, beach days with your friends, my friends and I will all split up into two cars and make the drive to Good Harbor Beach, in Gloucester Massachusetts, and spend the day there. Number 3, the 4th of July, my family and I go to Hilton Head, South Carolina for the Holiday and we watch the reworks by the peer and have dinner together. Number 2, the rst day out, knowing you have a three-month break, it is almost like life is perfect. Number 1, No school, without school, I don't have to worry about any homework to do, or essays to write.

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Summer Top 10

By Jake Kornmehl Dr. Grigori Lyskov sits on a wooden chair in his deep gray room with excellent posture. One leg over the other, displaying his impeccably shined dress shoes, he leans over his oak desk, pen in hand. Despite the dreary air of solitude clouding his entire o ce, his mind seems as open as the paci c ocean—somewhere, in those gurative depths, lies the exact answer to the theory he was attempting to prove.

Each time Dr. Lyskov, tie o center, smudges a new page with smushed graphite, he clenches his white, curly hair with his frail digits, leaving a light gray follicular roadmap of his plight behind. Frustrated with failure, Lyskov pushes his chair back deep into the wood’s grain, the unpolished oor hurting alongside him.

On the surface of his desk, one can see a pair of blunt, number two pencils, seven ripped notepads, hundreds of crumpled sticky notes, but not one laptop, phone, or tablet. There, Lyskov works without sanity, white hair turning to a graphite gray, arthritis plaguing his weakening ngers.

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The Plight of Lyskov

The Doctor

By Adrian Tan “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you have stage four kidney cancer.”

My heart stops. These past few days, I did feel sick, but cancer? I would never have even thought... My head spins, and I barely hear myself pleading to the doctor, “Is there anything you can do? There has to be something you can do, right?”

He looks kindly at me. “There’s always something we can do, but I have to warn you that what I’m about to recommend is a bit unconventional.”

I almost shout at him. “Well, my options are to choose this or die, so it’s pretty obvious which one I’m going to take.”

“All right then. I’m going to refer you to Dr. Giel. If anyone can help you, he can.”

He hands me a business card. It’s creamy white with gold edges.

The name on the card is Dr. Liam Giel, MD. World’s Leading Surgical Oncologist. (877) 632-6789. My eyes bug out as I hungrily read the card.

I know who this surgeon is. Everyone does. The guy who developed the cure for cancer. “How much does this guy even charge?” I ask, ashing back to my bank account balance which is barely over my weight.

“Believe it or not, if you have cancer, he doesn’t charge a dime.” I almost hug my doctor as I dance out.

A few days later, I arrive at the o ce of the famous Dr. Liam Giel.

I step tentatively into the o ce, a little taken aback by the way the receptionist greets me. She just sits there until I’m right in front of her. It seems like she’s a human statue until a huge smile that somehow seems familiar is plastered onto her face and she says “Weeeelcome!” The statue-like woman is there and gone so fast that I’m not sure if I

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imagined it or not. But, I don’t have time to dwell on it, as Dr. Liam Giel himself walks out of an operating room. He looks exactly like the man in the commercials and TV shows. Tall, slight build, high cheekbones, and hair so red that it can rival a chili. “Hey!” he says. “You must be Lillian.”

“Yes,” I say, feeling my nerves spike as he says my name. “That’s me.

Nice to meet you, Dr. Giel.”

He laughs. “Just call me Liam,” he says. “So, how’ve you been feeling lately?” dryly.

“Not too well, now that I have cancer and all of that,” I respond

He has me sit down on an examination table while he runs some scans on me. He hums quietly to himself as he works. “It looks like we caught this at a good time. We can almost certainly cure you, don’t worry.” He ashes his signature blinding smile, making me inch a little as the light re ects o his impossibly white teeth.

“Are you sure that your treatment is completely free? You won’t come after me in a year and demand money?”

He laughs. “ Yes, my cancer treatment is all free, no catches.”

I almost cry in relief as I hear this. “Oh my god, thank you so much.

So what’s going to happen?”

“We’re going to inject some nanomachines into your bloodstream, which will travel to the spot of the tumors, neutralizing and killing o the cancer cells. After that, we’ll just extract them, and you should be cancerfree!”

“You make it sound so easy…”

Hmm. It sounds weird, but how can I refuse a free treatment that can cure something that will kill me? I’ll go for anything that will work. I

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Over the next week, I get multiple injections that put those cancer- ghting nanomachines into my bloodstream. I imagine them as Ares, striking down all my enemies. Right when I get home, I lay down on the couch hoping that this treatment does what it’s supposed to, I have a strange sense that I’m falling through a tunnel. When everything comes into focus, I see what appears to be a strange cult-like gathering.

A masked person is standing over a crowd of people kneeling before him with their heads pressed onto the ground. The gure gives o a feeling of oppressive power and lls me with terror. Then, he turns and looks directly at me. I’m jolted out of the hallucination, retching and shivering with fear.

Over the next few days, the hallucinations get even worse. It feels like I’m one of those people worshiping the masked leader, and yet I don’t feel as afraid of him as I had before. I’m starting to wonder if getting rid of cancer is worth my sanity. There’s only one week left of the treatment, and oddly, I’m starting to look forward to the next hallucination, almost as if I’m actually someone in them. Throughout my life, I’ve always been an independent person, but now it seems that I’m part of a sort of hive mind. I feel like I should hate it, but I just can’t. I know I have to break free of this, or I’ll be a mindless husk for the rest of my life, living in between each hallucination.

Next week, I try my best to get through the hallucinations and nish the treatment without becoming completely reliant on the hallucinations to bring some kind of purpose into my life. I struggle to get out of bed every morning and barely manage to drag myself to Dr. Giel’s o ce. I have started getting horrible withdrawals whenever the hallucinations lighten up for a day. “Looks like the treatment is nally done, right?” Dr. Giel says cheerfully.

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spend the rest of the day lying on my bed, praying that this isn’t some kind of scam. But even after all the things that happened today, my mind keeps ashing back to that weird receptionist.

I stare at him. He doesn’t seem to notice or mind my bedraggled state. My eyes are bloodshot, my skin pale, and I’m shu ing around like a zombie. I make a spur-of-the-moment decision to ask him about the hallucinations outright. “Hey, Dr. Giel?”

“Yes?” “Uh, so, I guess I’ve been having these, well, I guess you could call them hallucinations or something, every day or two days,” I can barely keep myself from jumbling the words up. “Do you, uh, know anything about like why I might be having them or how I can x it? It feels like– I feel like, you know, I’m getting addicted to them.”

He smiles warmly. “Well, let’s see what we’ve got, then.”

He puts me on an examination chair under a scanner and hooks a monitor onto it. The monitor ickers to life as the machine I’m in starts beeping. My gaze turns disbelieving as I look at what’s on the monitor.

All the nanomachines, which were supposed to be situated in various points in my body, clearing away cancer, are now all at the base of my neck, feeding things into my brain.

After a moment of shock, I start struggling, only to realize that in that brief moment where my mind was reeling, cu s connected to the seats had clamped onto my wrists and legs, holding me to the chair. I scream as loudly as I can, hoping that someone, anyone, could hear me.

Dr. Giel smiled and pressed a button on the scanner. My scream abruptly cut o as I am drawn into another vision. This time, the person leading everyone, the dictator, has no mask. It’s Doctor Liam Giel. He smiles his perfect smile, my vision fading until the only things left were those infuriatingly bright teeth.

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57

All ‘Cause a Chicken

By Jake Kornmehl Welcome, my friend! I can see that you're eager to know more about my thrilling adventure as the most famous chicken on the Templeton farm. The day we made our escape was nothing short of epic.

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Let me paint a picture for you. Life on the farm was far from idyllic. Sure, we had our daily meals and a roof over our heads, but the constant fear of getting picked for the Sunday roast was always hanging over our heads like a guillotine. We all knew what that meant, and none of us wanted to end up next in line on the farmer's dinner plate.

That fateful morning, I could see the determination in my fellow animal friends' eyes, and I knew it was time to take action. We had a plan, and each of us had a crucial role to play. Bertha, the mighty cow, used her brawn and large horns to break down the wooden fence.

Mimi, the short-tailed sheep, the smartest of us all, devised a brilliant plan to distract the farmer, and Karl the pig, helped us all escape safely. But it was me, the mighty chicken, who led the charge and showed everyone that we could do this together.

We made our way through the hole in the fence one by one, and we ran as fast as we could across the open elds. Mimi stood on her hind legs with painted straw bags over her head hoping to look like the pretty neighbor they had seen the farmer irting with. The entire experience was exhilarating, and we were all in it together—through life or oven.

Once we were free, we felt like we could do anything in the world.

For the rst time in our lives, we were independent, and nothing could stop our shenanigans. That's why we decided to go to the sunny beach only a few miles away. We wanted to experience something new and feel the salty breeze on our feathers and grainy sand between our hooves and toes.

And let me tell you, it was worth it. Despite the rough journey crossing the road, I somehow made it where the verdant valley met the water. I gathered the rest of the animals by a lifeguard post; then, we frolicked in the waves, basked in the sun, and even showed the seagulls a thing or two about crowing like roosters. ‘Twas a day we'd never forget.

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