Sextant Fall/Winter 2024-2025

The Sextant

Fall/Winter 2024-2025

The Sextant Staff

Jaiden Lee Editor-in-Chief

Brady Paquette Executive Editor

Henry Buckley-Jones Associate Editor

David Luo Associate Editor

JJ Pena Photography Editor

Henry Ramanathan Staff Editor

Editor’s Note

Aristotle wrote, “To appreciate the beauty of a snowflake it is necessary to stand out in the cold.” As we continue our time here in the Belmont Hill community through the winter, we must not forget to step out every once in a while and enjoy the winter air. Hard times will come along with the harsh weather, but we should always remember that there will be joy and warmth after. Winter will be gone before we know it, and we must appreciate the ones around us as the holiday spirit surrounds us.

In this issue, Upper School students have submitted creative pieces, sharing lengthy pieces with elements of violence and thrill while others composed poems and narratives reflecting their devotion to important social issues.

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 2024-2025 Fall/Winter Sextant especially our advisors, Dr. Defraia and Mr. Leonardis, standing in for Dr. Tift, and all the teachers who have supported us including Mr. Doar, Mr. Duarte, Ms. Bradley, and Ms. McDonald.

Your Editor-in-Chief,

Jaiden Lee ’26

Table of Contents: Writing:

Falling……………………..…….…..…………..……….……….………..……………………Max Ramanathan, VI, pg. 9

A Kid From Bermondsey…………..…………………………….……………………..………….…James Lyon, VI, pg. 19

Splinters…………..……………………..…………………….…….…………………………………Miles Fritz, VI, pg. 29

The Grosbeak Trail…….……………………..…………………….………….……..……………Myles Beckett, VI, pg. 35

How To Take A Vacation: Step One: Realize You Need One………..……………………………Will Umscheid, VI, pg. 38 Runners……………………….……….……………….………………………………………………Gavin Zug, VI, pg. 43

Da…………………….…………..…….…………………..……………………………………………Jaiden Lee, V, pg. 48 Where Is My Son?………..………………………………………………………….………Andrew Hildebrandt, VI, pg. 50

Sirens Were Chasing Us…..………………………..……………………..…………………Andrew Hildebrandt, VI, pg. 52

Safety in the Sky………………………………………..………………..….……….………………Adam Shaff, VI, pg. 60

Family Ties…………………………………………………………………………………….………David Luo, VI, pg. 64

A Dish of Imperfection…………………………………….………..……………………………Brady Paquette, VI, pg. 72 Bright Eyes…………………………………………………………….………..………………………Jaiden Lee, V, pg. 81

Art and Photography:

Charcoal Portrait I….…………………………………………………………………………Antonio Codreanu, III, pg. 5

Collage Portrait……….…………………………………..…….………….…….…,,……………Dante Roman, IV, pg. 5

Vase of Flowers…………….………………………………….…..………………………Henry Buckley-Jones, VI, pg. 6

Charcoal Portrait II…….….………….………………………..……………..……………………Hank Greene, III, pg. 6

Navy Flower Pottery.…………………………………….………………………..……………………Eric Willi, V, pg. 7

Moai Pottery Face Figure……………………….………………………………..…………Leopold Kuehberger, V, pg. 7

Man with a Beard………………………………………………….…………………………………Colby Rice, V, pg. 8

Cups and Bowl………………….…….…………………………………………………………………Ethan Ho, V, pg. 8

Sheldon J. Plankton………………………………………………………………..………….………Cam Kelley, V, pg. 8

Bird on the Water………………….……………………………………………..………….……………JJ Pena, V, pg. 17

Solitude……………….….…………………………………………………..……….………………Jaiden Lee, V, pg. 18

Reflections……………………………………………………………………………………………Jaiden Lee, V, pg. 27

Out of the Water ………..…………………………….…………………………………………………JJ Pena, V, pg. 28

Dante Roman, IV

Antonio Codreanu, III

Henry BuckleyJones, VI

Hank Greene, III

Eric Willi, V

Leopold Kuehberger, V

Colby Rice, V

Ethan Ho, V

Cam Kelley, V

Falling

By Max Ramanathan, VI

You know when you're dreaming, and suddenly you find yourself falling? Your hands grasp the air, trying to stop the inevitable, but right before you hit the ground, you wake up. I wake up to find myself still falling. The lights are out, and the cabin is filled with screams and the sound of wind scraping its chipped nails across the outside of the plane. A flight attendant collapses right next to me and then stands back up, only to be hit down again by an airborne snack cart. The oxygen masks fluttering around the ceiling are ignored as people use their last breaths to pray. The man next to me clutches his crucifix with so much strength that his hand starts bleeding. I started to open my mouth to scream but realized I already was. The plane continued downwards, upwards, or sideways. Direction had no meaning here. I looked at my sister in the row behind me. She grasped her stuffed rabbit in one hand. Her arms were grappling my father’s arm, yet she looked at me, pleading. Her fear devastated me. “It’s going to be fine,” I whispered, not believing my own words. BANG. The sound of shredding metal encompassed me as she was snatched away. I reached out my arm to no prevail and braced for impact. Everything went dark.

I felt like I was back in my dream. My view was blurry, and my head was spinning. The aisles of seats entangled with snakes-like wires, sharp blades of steel, and invisible shards of glass were all wavering from the heat caused by the crash. The dancing began to slow, and everything returned to darkness.

I opened my eyes once again, this time with determination. Adrenaline hijacked my body, forcing my hands to my waist in search of my life-saving seatbelt. There was a sharp pain in my shoulder where a chunk of glass had found its mark. I fought through the pain and continued. My thumb made contact with the metal fastener, and my body convulsed. The heat was extreme, searing into my flesh. My waist

awoke as well, now aware of the pain. Half-grunting, half-screaming, I reached for the fragment embedded in me and, with all of my strength, tore it out. Gasping for breath, I began to saw away at the fabric portion of the seatbelt, which was now trying to take the life it had just saved. After five vigorous pulls and pushes of the glass, the seatbelt forfeited, and I shot up. My legs moved on autopilot as I began to navigate the jungle of what once was a plane. The entire back half of the plane was gone, including my sister, Leto.

“HELP.” I was snatched out of my daze. Turning around, I saw a small girl trapped under a piece of debris. For a moment, I saw my sister.

“Leto!” My heart reignited. I scampered towards her, stumbling over a log. Wait, that couldn’t be right. I looked down and gagged. Quickly taking my foot off the dismembered arm, I looked back at the girl. It wasn’t Leto, but that arm might have been. Pushing the thought out of my mind as much as I could, I lifted the scrap of metal that was pinning the girl down. She scurried out from underneath it. Just as I dropped the scrap of metal, I heard another grunt. I looked up to see a man shouting; a thin shard of metal had embedded itself shallowly in his chest. “Go!” The girl stumbled away, and I moved towards the guy. As I got closer, I recognized his face from the line back at the airport. He had rudely shoved my sister aside to board first. Look where that had got him. I finally reached him, but it was too late. The shard of metal was deep in his chest; he must have died on impact when the plane crashed. I trekked out of the plane and collapsed on the damp sand. My chest heaved up and down as adrenaline began to fade. For the third time, the world dimmed.

“Hey, wake up. Are you alive?” I opened my eyes to find the setting sun blocked by a burly man. His chin was speckled with black and white hairs, just as if someone had dumped a container of salt and pepper onto him. He had a faded scar across his face that seemed too old to be from the crash. “Good, you’re awake.” He ripped off a portion of his red flannel and began to wrap my wound. “My name is Rex. What’s yours?”

“Cain.” The single word shot pain through my lungs, and I began to cough, contorting forwards. Rex put his hand on my back.

“Try not to speak; you must have inhaled some of the ash. Here, this should do.” Rex helped me up. Apart from the wound on my shoulder, the rest of my body was functioning perfectly fine. “The others are sitting around that fire just over there,” Rex explained, pointing to the dim glow emitting from just behind a sand dune. I stumbled across the beach, the sand making each step harder, until I saw them. A motley group of survivors huddled around a great blaze. Some sat on logs. Among them was the girl I rescued. She sat on a log separate from the others, huddled under an oversized T-shirt. I stood there for a minute looking at the crowd and then made my way over to the shoreline. I don’t think I could deal with other people right now. I watched as the waves crashed against the sand. Their rushing wrath ripped rocks from safety and dragged them into the deep. They were like my family. Taken by the sea. Tears rolled down my face and mixed with the sea foam. A fire was burning inside me as large as the inferno the survivors were sitting around, though I couldn’t tell from what emotion it was born. Sadness, anger, guilt, or just pain. A large wave collided with the beach, then retracted back towards the ocean. The particles of sand scraping against one another as they were pulled into the sea sounded almost like distant screams. Something bumped into my feet. I looked down to see that the waves had washed something up. A stuffed bunny in perfect condition, not a scratch on it. My hands began to shake, and I closed them into fists. My nails cut deep into my palms. The fire was enveloping me.

The cool ocean breeze nudged me to the fire where everyone else had gathered. “Can I sit here?” The girl from the plane looked up at me, then quickly away. She stared forward, trying not to make eye contact with me so I couldn’t see her eyes watering. We sat in silence for about five minutes, and every so often, I would see her glancing at the bunny I still held in my hand. “Here, take it.” I held out the bunny towards her. Grateful, she moved to grab the animal, but my hands didn’t let go. For a minute, we stood in a silent grapple until, finally, I let go.

“My name is Sasha, Sasha Abel.” Her voice was meek and husky.

“I’m Cain Dolen.” Then we sat again in silence. But this time, it wasn’t silence between strangers.

As the sun slowly sunk beyond the horizon, we began to get to know one another. People spread what little information they had.

Apparently, the back half of the plane tore off during our descent, and everyone who survived, except for me, was in first class. Rex, who had taken the role of leader, brought over torn-up suitcases filled with memorabilia. “This is all that I could salvage,” he announced in a loud, deep voice. I rose and approached the pile of suitcases, searching for mine. No, no, no. Please be here.

“From what you just told me, it seems as though you are highly protective of your sister.” Dr. Miller peered at me through her insect-like glasses. For a school counselor, she was quite imposing. Her voice radiated commands that chained me down. I sat on the comfy sofa, feeling as though it was sucking me in. My head was down, and I twiddled my thumbs. “Mmm. Whatever the case is, you have a strong sense of justice. Even if it is misplaced at times, that is why you punched Mr. Callahan, is it not? Because he was name-calling your sister?”

No response.

“Are you listening to me, Mr. Dolen?”

“Yes.”

“Good, because I need you to understand that you do not enforce what is right or wrong. That is not your responsibility. Also, I believe that your OCD is playing a role in this. Here, bring this prescription to a pharmacy near you, and be sure to take two of these a day, Mr. Dolen?” I looked up. “You are not the law.”

It wasn’t there. My bag with my pills was missing. Probably somewhere at the bottom of the ocean. I stood up in exasperation. Sasha rushed to fill the empty space I left in the crowd, rummaging around the pile in search of her stuff. Suddenly, she was shoved backward as a hefty man, whose name I remembered as Wally or Walter, replaced her spot. Seeing Sasha being shoved aside sparked a wave of anger inside of me, yet I was able to hold it down just as Dr. Miller had instructed me to. I am not the law.

The next morning, I was woken up by Rex's loud, demanding call. “Wake up, everyone! If we want to survive on this island, we need to get to work.” Bleary-eyed, I looked up to see that this man had torn off the sleeves of his shirt and used one to make himself a bandana. What an idiot. What gives him the right to boss us around?

“What gives you the right to boss us around?” asked either Walter or Wally.

“I was in the military for a year and have also seen every episode of Survivor.” Walter/Wally rolled his eyes and turned to the rest of us. “I doubt you’ve even stepped foot on a military base. Whatever. I’m going to go out and look for fresh water. Any of you guys are free to join me.” I looked around and saw two people holding up their hands. Then, I was surprised to see my own sticking up.

“Actually, that’s what I was going to suggest, Walter. Seeing that I’m the most experienced person here, I’ll lead the expedition,” Rex announced. Everyone gathered a pack and filled it with empty water bottles. Walter had brought hunting knives with him and handed them out to each of the volunteers.

“How did you get past TSA?” inquired Rex

“I pre-checked them.” Rex didn’t seem to catch the hint of Walter’s curt response, or at least pretended to, and began to head off into the jungle. The lush foliage caressed our legs as the group trampled violently through the vegetation. Every step seemed to be accompanied by the snooty complaints of the adults. Every few seconds, Walter swore out, cursing the damn twigs and branches for ruining his designer polo shirt and his perfectly ironed khakis. It was as if these people had never been dirty in their lives. Hell, they probably haven't. They were too used to their pampered way of life. After a short 10 minutes, Rex gave us the sign to stop.

“Stop. I think I hear water.”

“I run my own firm. I’m not going to wait around for your say-so,” retorted Walter. He barged ahead, clearing the leaves that were blocking our view of what seemed like heaven. Birds chirped, swooping

overhead, yet their songs were drowned out by the thunderous crashing of a waterfall. Branches extended over the lake like arms reaching for a savior. “Everyone, go fill up your water bottles, and then we’ll head back. For now, I’m going to go take a piss.” Walter wandered off into a patch of trees close to the waterfall.

“So do I,” explained Rex as he walked into the woods. Something about the water made me sick. It was too perfect. Too serene. Why is it that we survived? Why do we get to live while the back half of the plane dies? I looked at the others. They crouched close to the water but not too close as to ruin their expensive shoes. These people probably thought that they deserved to live because of their money. I’ve met too many people like that. Disgusted, I filled up my water bottles and made my way back to camp. I didn’t want to be around those people for any longer. The fire inside me began to enlarge. It’s heat fueling my every step. I couldn’t even tell where I was walking. I was so mad. The flame was so bright. Too bright. I closed my eyes.

When I opened them, I was back at the camp. The sun was past the halfway mark in the sky, meaning the walk back had taken me at least an hour. The survivors clamored to me, taking the water bottles without asking. I held the bag carrying the water in front of me, covering my chest. Finally, I reached Sasha. She sat on a log, gently patting the stuffed bunny’s ears. “Here, I got you some water.” I looked down at my bag to see it empty. “I guess the others got to it before I could give one to you. I’m really sorry. I pro–” The sound of shouting cut me off.

“HELP. HE’S NOT BREATHING.” I turned around to see Rex carrying Walter. Rex himself was covered in Walter’s blood. He placed Walter down on the sand as everyone crowded around the body.

“Stay here,“ I told Sasha as I ran to join them. Squeezing through a narrow gap, I finally saw Walter. His chest was slashed open, and blood oozed out of him, mimicking the waterfall.

“What happened?” asked a woman standing next to Rex.

“I was going to find a place I could go to the bathroom, and then I heard yelling. By the time I got to Walter, he was dead.” Rex’s face

displayed a genuine lack of knowledge, but there was a flaw in his story: he was alone when it happened.

“How do we know you didn’t do it?” I heard a gasp from the crowd as I stepped into the circle, glaring at Rex. “You hated him because he didn’t listen to you. We could all tell.”

“What?! No, I, uh, I didn’t kill him!” stuttered Rex. It didn’t matter; the crowd was already inching away from him. A man darted towards Walter’s body, snatching up the dagger from his waistband. He then brandished the weapon at Rex.

“You’re a murderer.” His voice was born from hate and fear. The crowd started chanting: Murderer. Murderer. Murderer! Suddenly, another man seized Rex from behind, bringing him down. The crowd collapsed inward, snatching up Rex’s arms and limbs, holding them taunt as Rex continued to profess his innocence. They held him at his knees, and the man with the knife raised his arm, readying the weapon. For a moment, Rex made eye contact with me. His confused face contorted into realization as his gaze met the knife in my own waistband. I looked down to see that the knife itself was spotless. I had made sure of it when I was cleaning it off, but rather, it was a splotch red on the waistband that gave me away.

“You…” murmured Rex. His eyes ignited, looking around frantically to warn the others. “IT WAS–” The knife came down, injecting itself into his neck. Rex fell to the ground, attempting to convey his last words through his gagging.

“I am the law,” I whispered to myself.

After the execution, I stumbled over to Sasha. She had gotten up to try to see what the commotion was about but obeyed me by not leaving her post. “We need to go now. It’s not safe here anymore. Follow me.” I led her through the jungle to the lake, where I collapsed onto a rock. The pain in my midsection was scorching my chest. I removed the pack I had used to carry the water bottles to reveal a gnash. Walter had not gone down easily. Sasha gasped and scurried over to me.

“What happened? Are you hurt?” I nodded. Now that I was away from the others, I could take my time addressing the wound. I removed

the medical supplies I had stolen and began to sift through them to see if there was anything useful. “How did you get hurt? I saw Rex carrying a man. There was blood. Then I saw them…” She had seen more than I had hoped. I couldn’t stand to see her upset.

“It’s ok. Walter was a bad man. I mean, look at what he did to me.”

“What?” Her soft voice was plagued with fear. There was a moment of silence before she connected the pieces. “You were the one who hurt Mr. Walter?” She began to back up, clutching the rabbit, reminding me of my sister. “He hurt you.” I stood up and extended my right foot to get closer. Her eyes darted to the knife in my waistband. “He won’t ever hurt you again.” I took one step closer, and Sasha fled. Adrenaline reignited in me, pushing aside the pain in my chest. I sprinted after her. I pushed aside the branches of the trees, which seemed to be reaching out to slow my chase. I couldn’t let her tell the others. The dense foliage impaired my sight, so I relied on my hearing, stopping every few moments to try to catch the sound of a branch cracking or the crunching of leaves. Silence. Snap. The chase continued. My feet pounded the earth, and my heart beat like thunder during a storm. Light peaked out from behind the trees in front of me, and suddenly, I burst into a clearing. “Sasha. I just want to talk. Please come out.” I listened intently for any sound. There it was. Stifled breathing. The sound of air against the palm of one’s hand. I rounded a tree to see her sitting there, clutching the bunny. She shook in fear. Her eyes were wild, just like Leto’s, when the plane was going down. Only this time, she did not stare at me for comfort. Now, I was the monster. What have I become? All of this was to protect her, and now here she crouched, shuttering. You are not the law. Dr. Miller’s voice echoed in my ears. The knife fell to the ground, and I dropped to my knees. The fire had consumed me, burning bright, and now all that was left was the smoking ash. Sasha dropped the rabbit and ran off. I crawled towards the discarded animal and held it close. I closed my eyes and became enveloped in nothingness, nothing apart from the wind streaking past me and the feeling of falling.

JJ Pena, V

Jaiden Lee, V

A Kid From Bermondsey

By James Lyon, VI

The Pitch

I finished lacing up my worn-out Mercurials and stepped onto the vibrant green pitch, as a familiar rush of excitement coursed through my body. Instantly, the carbon-fiber studs of my boots penetrated through the synthetic fibers as my feet sank into the turf field. The sun beat down on my shirtless body as a stream of sweat trickled down my forehead. The conditions were perfect. Joining the others we gathered around the white sphere with purple and orange detailing that I had received this past Christmas and began to knock it around. “I don’t even know why I support that club,” Mason groaned. I glanced over and saw George shaking his head. “Mauricio needs to go, he’s the reason why we’re in the middle of the table,” he responded. My friendship with George and Mason began 5 years ago. “Henry, surround yourself with kids who have the same goals as you.” That's what my mother would say every day before I left for primary school.

Every Saturday for 4 years the lads and I have gathered here to play the game that has brought us tears, laughs, and numerous great memories. As we begin to ping the ball around the air is filled with laughter and anticipation for tomorrow night. “ Each touch of my foot against the ball seems to relieve the stress and anxiety in my head and as our rondo drill turns into a game my worries and stress seem to vanish with every passing second. In these moments, I am not bound by deadlines, expectations, or worries as the pitch acts as an escape. A place where the rules of the outside world don't apply and a distraction from the realities of living in Bermondsey

“No one likes us, No one likes us but we don’t care.” I stumbled down the cobblestone streets of Bermondsey London as the chants became increasingly louder. Approaching the corner store I made sure to keep my head down and turn up the volume on my headphones. It was an everyday occurrence to find unemployed and homeless people on the streets of Southeast London and engaging in conversation was almost always a mistake. Rounding the corner, my eyes locked onto my feet as I carefully weaved through the numerous bodies that lay on the sidewalk and before I knew it I was standing in front of the stadium. Despite being the home of a football team that was relegated before I was born and only seats 20,000 the stadium was nothing short of exhilarating and had no doubt earned its nickname.

As I approached the iconic ground, the imposing lights cast long shadows as I felt my heartbeat quicken. The red-brick exterior, adorned with the club's emblematic lion, reflects the gritty identity and rough past of my home club. The atmosphere is breathtaking and the echoes of passionate chants linger in the air. The Den is not just a stadium, but a fortress where the soul of Millwall resides. As I enter, the stands rise steeply, creating a connection between the fans and the pitch. The wornout seats bear the scars of countless battles.

Despite the noise, the roar of the crowd provides me with a sense of comfort and a feeling of home. The Den is more than a stadium, it's a hallowed ground where loyalty, pride, and a sense of belonging bring the people of Bermondsey together.

Supposed to Die but Meant to Live

By Miles Fritz

My boots crunched along the thin layer of frost that glazed the surface of my yard. I crossed my eyes towards my nose as the steam of my breath rose above me, and then came again. It was a normal Monday morning. I kicked an empty IPA can out of the way of my truck and swung my head and body into it. I was optimistic this morning. I knew about what had happened on that mountain and hoped they would hire me to take care of it. Growing up, being an animal tracker wasn’t exactly my ideal future. Now, I cherish those opportunities to be on my own, for days at a time. The mighty mountains of Yellowstone had become a second home to me over the years. The constant pursuit of an animal brings me over every peak and through every valley. Each hunt allows my relationship with the reserve to become stronger and stronger. My fingers slid around the thin body of my key and turned to the right as the engine revved. I began to roll down the steep, rocky driveway. I watched as four deer scattered at my feeder as they heard my truck approach. This drive was the perfect way to start every morning. As I exited my driveway, the mountains began to come into view above the thin river that held all of my childhood catches. Those rainbow trout provided my childhood with so many fond and exciting memories. After that stretch of river, I enter the center of town. I have been to several town centers for the same reasons but none compare to the center of Yellowstone. As I stopped at the first red light, my eyes drifted to my fingers, 5 were wrapped around the wheel, and the other 5 rested, hanging from my knuckles off my center console. My hands were always marked up. The daily grind of conquering the outdoors brought many thorns, rocks, dirt, and other pricks to my skin. The amount of scars that I carry on my entire body, not just my hands, bring me pride and allow me to reminisce about past experiences. My foot pressed on the pedal yet again and guided me towards the large sign on my right that read, Yellowstone Guns, Rods, and the Outdoors. Any time my eyes scan that old, forest-

green sign, I get that feeling in my gut. It’s a hard feeling to describe for sure. Fear, yes. Excitement, yes. But overall, it’s the feeling of satisfaction that I am alive and able to head back out on my own, into those magical mountains. I parked my car and stepped out onto the icy sidewalk. There was no buzz today. Mondays in Yellowstone never bring much excitement. I shuffled along the ice and grabbed the door handle of the store. With a loud ring of the bell. I watched as the heads of my two closest companions turned toward my eager face. Ben and Jake Small were the two brothers that ran the store. Jake was the oldest. He was the one to call me with a job to do. His long red hair flowed perfectly out of the back of his camo hat. He was shorter, thinner, and overall looked much younger than Ben. Ben was about 6 foot 4 his large stature rattled the case of ammunition as he lifted a hand to wave to me.

“Mornin” I growled before quickly clearing my throat. I had just realized that I had spoken my first word of the day. The typical thought of, wow I need a girlfriend, entered and exited my mind as I approached the counter. “What’s the deal?” I asked as Ben handed me a coffee. He always had one ready for me before my long day of hiking.

“This one's legit, Mike,” Jake said in a persuasive tone. I had never heard him address me by name before now. For some reason, it made me uncomfortable. I had never been too personal with these two. Ben and I grabbed the occasional beer at the bar across the street if it had been a long day, but that was all. There are times when I wish I could explore our friendship more, try to build it, and learn more about myself socially, but I hesitate to back away from my lifestyle of freedom and solitude. Jake was married, but Ben was not. I was able to relate to Ben a little more in that sense. Ben opened his mouth behind his own cup of steaming coffee.

“Big Grizz. Male, angry, and not afraid of anyone. Last night he took down three tourists on his own. One made it out to tell the tale on an ATV.”

My stomach turned. These missions weren’t too common. Usually, my job was to tag a big, aggressive moose or get photos of a

pack of wolves. This time, I knew what they needed from me before they even asked.

“We need you to take him out,” Ben said with confidence. You take him out, you’re fifteen thousand richer.”

I was astounded. 15K for a Grizz? I had never had a chance for more than thirty-five hundred for a grizzly.

“Feels like a lot now, but it won’t when you see this thing. The guy down at the hospital said it’s the size of a pickup truck. They hit it with bear spray and two shots with a pistol. Apparently, the son of a bitch didn’t even budge”

Suddenly, 15k seemed like not enough. I nodded my head as he continued on about the animal. I was acting as if I was feeling okay with my task, but I absolutely was not. I consider myself a very self-aware individual. If that bear comes closer than I can hit with a rifle, goodnight. In no world will I be able to fight off, or even scare off this bear. I have had several run-ins with bears, all of which end with a long and terrifying bluff charge, and then the bear turning back and returning to the woods. It had been made clear that there would be no bluff charge with this bear. I had to see him before he saw me. I watched as Jake headed into the back room, behind the curtain and grabbed bear spray, a pistol, and my rifle.

“No time to waste, Mike,” Jake exclaimed as he tossed me an ATV key that he grabbed off the desk. I nodded and strapped up the rifle to my back. It felt weird to just jump right into such an intense task without a bit more preparation. Despite my second thoughts, I nodded to Jake and Ben and pivoted my foot as I turned to the door. My shoulders slouched with the weight of my pack but might have slouched either way. I was truly scared at this point. I knew I was walking into danger, but the outdoors had a stronger hold on me than my fear. Lucky for me, there was a good portion of this travel that I could do in my truck. I tossed my gear in the backseat, watching it smush an old bag of Cape Cod chips. I didn’t bother to fix it as I slammed the door, and climbed into the driver seat. With a delayed sputter, my engine grumbled to a start. I pulled out into the street and began my 4-mile

Rafael Rodriguez-Montgomery, Form VI

drive, West. On this drive, no music played. The only music I heard was the fast beat of my heart, which pounded through my skull. The thick, snowy mountains grew taller and taller as I approached. I never needed a GPS for these kinds of jobs because the mountain was clear as day. The sounds of wheels crunching the snow faded as I left the public behind for what I hoped wasn’t the last time. I continued straight for another two miles. The small, empty parking lot called my name as I rolled up, swung my door open, jumped out, and began my plan of attack. The last time the bear was spotted, it was about a mile from here, straight uphill. With a deep sigh, I grabbed my gear, swung it over my shoulders yet again, and took the first few strides of my hike. With every step, my anticipation built. My loud footsteps would allow this bear to know I was there long before I saw it. After a good five hundred yards, I trekked to the top of a small hill, where there sat a large stone. It had a long and flat top, almost begging me to sit down and rest. I dropped my stuff and plopped down on top. My frozen fingers undid the velcro on my back pocket and pulled out my small binoculars. Without hesitation, I brought the glass to my eager eye and began to scan the surface of this mighty mountain. I moved my head slowly from left to right as my pupils bounced up and down, hoping to see that large, furry beast. As my search reached the river, I slowed my scan. I knew that a river was the perfect place to find a grizzly. My heart skipped a beat. There it was. Brown fur at about 200 yards. My excitement faded as I noticed the tall rack of antlers that sat on this animal's head. A moose. I watched as it dipped its nose into the emerald water of the stream and drank. In moments like these, where it’s just you and an animal out in the wild, there’s nothing better than being alone. There was no pressure in my head to find someone to experience these moments with. I only needed myself. I placed my binoculars back in my pocket and started towards that stream. As I got lower down on the hill, I lost sight of the moose. Fortunately, I knew right where it was. To my surprise, the nearby trees let out an echo of a loud, thunderous roar. The distress call of a moose. I was amazed that it could hear me from that distance. Many people mistake that noise for a Grizzly, but I know better. I noticed the crack of loose twigs under my boots and

slowed my stride to avoid further spooking the moose. My head dipped below a low-hanging branch as the shallow puddles on the cusp of the river came into view. I slid down to sit on the base of a thick tree. I could see the moose again. It was lying down. It’s a large rack of antlers scooping the mud from the ground. The longer I gazed at it, the more unusual his posture seemed. My eyes widened as I quickly realized that I was no longer looking at a live moose. I watched as a slow trickle of blood dripped down the antlers and was swept away by the river. I scooched back into the tree. It wasn’t me that scared the moose on my way down. Whether it was my target, I didn’t know but one thing was for sure, there was a grizzly bear here in the last three minutes. Not only was I about twenty-five yards from the carcass, but I had no gun, no knife, no bag, no bear spray. I was prey. Right on queue, what seemed like hundreds of twigs made a loud “snap” and there he was. A huge, dirty blonde, blood-covered bear. I knew in an instant that it was the target. It was clear to me the danger I was in, but couldn’t help but sit and marvel at the sheer size and beauty of the animal. As it buried its snout into the side of the moose, I came to the realization that I needed my rifle and bag. My heel lowered to the ground behind me and snapped a twig. With the snap of that small twig, the massive head of the grizzly shot up and its black eyes locked to my still body. I knew much better than to move. Without skipping a beat, it climbed to the top of the moose, stood on its hind legs, and bellowed a deep growl. The trees nervously shuddered with the sound. I began a slow walk backward. The bear mirrored my every movement. His large paws splashed the river as he drew closer and closer.

“Hey bear,” I growled in a loud and booming manner. “Go AWAY bear!”

He flinched at every word I spoke but continued his pursuit forward. My yelling continued as the bear came close to a full swim towards me. I knew that if he reached my side of the river, this would be the last day I would live. The blood that previously had rested on the tips of his fur had all washed away. My feet shuffled faster as he came closer to my side. I tripped, stumbled, and slid back into the last tree in the tree line. I was

about 200 yards from my bag now. A sprint that I had zero chance of winning. I sat in horror as the beast emerged from the water and began a trot towards me.

“HEY BEAR!” I screamed as my voice cracked and sputtered. He began a full run towards me. I let my eyes drift to the magnificent tree tops that I had learned to love so much. This was the perfect place to die. I wasn’t alone any longer. I knew the trees, sticks, bushes, rivers, and mountains were watching. A gentle breeze came through my sweaty hair. I imagined that nature around me was beckoning me to run, to try my best to escape. Now I lay flat on my back, my head perched up on the thick bark of the tree to get one final look at my killer. I held my breath, clenched my fists, and flexed my stomach. I exhaled slowly as he came to a walk towards me now. His head whipped to the right, followed by his full frame. Could it be just a bluff charge? He paused and turned back to me. I begged and pleaded with god that he would go back to his moose carcass and leave me be. God quickly answered as the bear began a slow trot back toward the river’s edge. I took my chance, stood up, and ran away from the tree line. After what felt like hours of running, I collapsed on top of my back, which was waiting for me all this time. I shook the base of my rifle in order to free it from the grasp of my bag. My job here was to get rid of that bear. I should have loaded my pistol, carried my rifle back to that river, and taken out the killer once and for all. My feet would not move an inch. I ground my thumb against the small safety switch of my rifle. We had already had our interaction and it was the way nature intended it to be. No weapons or gear, just two animals in the wild. The fact that I was alive at this moment is what kept me frozen. Whether it was god, nature, or that bear, someone showed me mercy. Who was I to mess with my fate? It was decided. I shoved my rifle back into my bag, swung it over my shoulder, and began my hike back to the lot. Normally, a failed mission would fill me with guilt and regret. I dreaded the moment when I had to tell Jake and Ben that the bear was still living free. However, I hoped that sharing my experience with them would bring us to an understanding. That bear was meant to be alive for at least one more day, and so was I.

Jaiden Lee, V

JJ Pena, V

Splinters

By Miles Fritz, VI

The first time I heard the bang, I jumped in fear of a gunshot. My head whipped to the side and looked out over the horizon. To my delight, I saw the bright red lights of fireworks that were spraying through the sky. I threw open the sliding door and sprinted down the hill towards the water to catch what I hoped was a long fireworks show. I started onto the wooden walkway and quickly felt a sharp pain through my foot. I had felt these splinters shoot through my toes several times in my life. As I was on the ground, I looked up to even more fireworks spraying throughout the sky. I rose to my feet and kept continuing forwards. I could begin to smell the marshmallows that were being roasted and hear the laughter rising above the ocean. Unfortunately, I was late to my favorite party. I had been a few towns over, at the Newport Arcade, taking advantage of their fourth of July 50% off tokens sale. My family would always invite a large portion of the town of Westport over to enjoy this night as a community. Over time, the night has become nothing but a good memory. On nights like those, I often sit with my phone on my thigh, surf report open, praying for a good break early in the morning. This night was no different. As I made my s'mores, my leg bounced as I could only think about the 4-6 foot reef break that was to come in just a few short hours. The typical surfer would think of nothing but positives when they saw this report. Not me. Yes, I knew I should be only excited for the big waves, but I am also always aware of the dangers of entering the water, early in the morning with waves that size. I looked up at the flame, marshmallows bobbing up and down, and I heard nothing but laughter. However, beyond the flame I immediately locked eyes with the intense gaze of my mom. I knew what was coming. "How big are they tomorrow?" She asked with a sarcastic grin. "Not too big, mom. I know what I'm doing. You can’t keep doing this."

"I am your mother," she hissed. "It's dangerous out there. You need to be careful. I don’t like the thought of you being alone out there." I rolled my eyes as we ended the conversation that we had had thirty times already this summer. I understood. I love my mom for how protective she is of me. But in this case, I don't need all the extra comments. They only make me more anxious about all the potential things that could go wrong on that beach. The night was a blur beyond that moment. My stomach ached from so much laughter with friends and family. As I ventured to my bed around 1:40 am, I felt happiness, aside from the searing pain in my foot from that damn splinter. I drifted off into sleep, worry-free. Just a short, unsatisfying nap. The blaring scream of my alarm lifted me from a deep but short sleep. My eyes flickered open and rolled towards the red numbers that read 5:15. I rolled my eyes back to the ceiling in annoyance with that awful sound. I reached my sleeping finger towards the off button and smacked it hard. I groaned in pain as I knew what I had done. I had smashed my hand into the blade of the nail clippers on my bedside table. This was perhaps a better wake-up call for me. I placed my feet on the ground and began to pull my wetsuit over them. I tried not to put pressure on my throbbing toe or finger. I slid the suit up above my knees and then over my shoulders. With a rubbery squeak, I began my walk down the stairs. Keeping my toe off the ground was becoming a chore. I grabbed a protein bar left on the table from last night and jumped in my car. The calming sound of Peter Tosh's music began to play at a low volume as I opened all the windows of my old Ford pickup truck and started down the street toward the reef. I could think of no better way to start a day.

I watched the eager sun peek above the horizon, greeting me as I bumped towards the ocean. My facial muscles lifted as I approached the red flags wrestling with the wind. That sight could only mean one thing. Rollers. I whipped into the first parking spot I saw, leaving a cloud of dust behind me, and unlocked the door as Bob Marley took over on the radio. I clenched my jaw in pain as I used my fat, purple finger to click open the center console. I grabbed the coconut surf wax and hopped out of the car, jumping on one foot as I didn't want the dust and sand from

the lot to touch my throbbing foot. I grabbed my short board without hesitation. These waves were too strong for the longboard. I knew I could carve these up.

"What's up, brotha?!" I turned around in pain as my foot ground in the sand.

"Yo," I replied to him. Just him. I never took the time to learn his name, but I had spoken with him too many times to ask. It made me feel better to know that he only ever called me brotha, though. "It's pumping out there, dude." He sighed as he sipped his iced coffee. Those same words came out of him every day, even if there were no good waves at all. He was just being a good guy. Usually sitting in his bright pink beach chair that read, "Relax" and tugging at the buttons on his bright green polo. I found something very comforting about him. Like I knew he had my back. His job consisted of greeting the surfers and families that went to the beach, and telling them where to park. I'm guessing he liked me because I was always the first one to the lot every day. He wished me luck in between sips of coffee as I began a painful, limping jog towards the waves. I climbed the dunes and was smacked in the face by the salty ocean wind. I dropped to my knees, as I always do. I closed my eyes and began to pray. In the back of my mind, fear always lingers. I will be the only one out there, entering the ocean territory on my own. I opened my eyes, almost like my second wake-up of the day. And latched my leash to my ankle. I lowered the firm wax to the eager face of my board and began the usual, aggressive circles of wax that I apply before every session on the water. I tossed the whole chunk to my left. Landing perfectly on a rock, the wax sat there and watched me as I jumped up and limped to the water, my board in my healthy hand. The shallow, chilled water and foam engulfed my feet. I jumped at the wash and duck dove under the first wave before I began scooping the water. I could feel the salt rushing in and out of the webs of my fingers. I was paddling and kicking as hard as my hand and foot would allow me to. I was sure it almost looked as if I was struggling, maybe caught in a current or in serious danger. But in that moment I reminded myself. There's nobody out here but me. I can do what I want, say what I

want, and paddle how I want. I let out a soft and high-pitched "woo" as a beautiful wave approached. I paddled over the peak, avoiding a gnarly wipeout. Before I knew it, I slid beyond the break. I slid my feet into the water and sat up on my board. I had done this a million times. I squinted at the horizon, looking for the rolling humps to paddle into. This was perhaps my favorite part of surfing. Sitting and waiting while allowing my thoughts to travel wherever they pleased. My salty lips whistled "No Woman No Cry" as my eyes continued to scan the horizon. There it was, a crumbling left approaching slowly. I turned swiftly and began my chase. I ripped to get ahead of the wave and get my first ride of the day. My foot continued to sting with the salt water as it rushed into my splinter. The pain increased as I paddled. Confusion began to trickle into my head as I contemplated giving up on the wave and tending to my foot. In an instant, it had taken over my entire foot. Hot knives were shooting into my ankle and calf. I yelled out in pain. I had stopped moving forward. My board had shot out from below me and was taken by the rip current. I was treading water in a circle of red. That instant I realized what had happened. Somehow, every surfer's worst nightmare had happened to me. I saw the dark, gray figure turn back, six feet in front of me as the big wave approached. I continued to scream as blood continued to spread around me. I knew it smelled blood and wanted to come back. I had to get to that wave. I began to struggle, screaming as I went. I heard the kick of a tail to my left as the monster came back for more. At that moment, everything slowed down. My head became submerged under a whitecap and I saw nothing but darkness. I should have kicked to the surface and regained my view of the predator but no. I thought of the other night, Newport Arcade, the punching power machine. I ran up to gain power, surrounded by my friends, and punched the pad as hard as I could, as if my life depended on it. And now, in this nightmare of a moment, my life did depend on it. I kicked back, leaving another dark trail of blood. I watched as this fantastic animal was headed straight for my midsection. I lifted my bad hand out of the water, my nerves allowed me to use my adrenaline to clench my aching fist, and threw the hardest punch I could. Just like that pad at the

arcade, I connected with the nose of the shark, I got a horrifying look into the mouth, where I could see my severed calf, floating in the rows of razor-sharp teeth. The shark did what I had hoped. It flipped, turned, and shot back into the deep, under that wave. The battle had felt like hours, but in fact, I still had a chance to catch this wave. I let out one last scream for help, and used my last bit of arm strength that I had to try to catch the wave. My head was submerged in darkness yet again only this time, I could not find the light. I kicked and groaned as I reached for the surface, but when I felt what was left of my foot touch the reef on the bottom, I knew I was ten feet below the surface, with no hope left of getting back up. Just darkness. I no longer focused on holding my breath and noises and feeling faded until there was nothing. After that moment, time was non-existent. I don't know how long my limp body rolled around below the waves before finally rising to the surface. I heard the rush of water over my head as I rolled to my side. As my ear peeked out of the water, I quickly realized that I was no longer alone. I could not make out the words being said and honestly didn't care. Someone was trying to help me. I arched my back and lifted my eyes above sea level to try to get a glimpse of my helper. With that flash of bright green, I was proven right immediately. I had always had a comforting feeling knowing that the man in the chair was watching me surf. His blond, wavy hair caused me to assign the immediate stereotype of a surfer to him. The splashes got closer until I felt something slide under my armpit and begin to pull me away from the break towards the shore. I lost consciousness again.

I awoke to the familiar smoky smell and subtle vibration of my truck. I was sprawled out along a long, baby blue surfboard that had been painted with my blood.

"Stay with me here, kid. Look in my eyes." I fluttered my eyelids despite the sting of salt that entered my pupils. They locked with the smoky blue eyes of that man. They then traveled to his hand, holding a towel that was tightly wrapped just above my calf. I was alive. All that worrying about big waves and strong currents now seemed silly given that it was what was below that I should have worried about. My mind

drifted from those thoughts and returned to the road. I sucked in a painful deep breath as I looked up at the man again. "Driver?" I whispered.

"Your mom, dude. You have a badass mom." I didn't have the strength to smile, but all I could think about was classic. My mom had followed me to the beach to make sure I was safe. She knew I would get annoyed if I saw her, so she waited. She had done that before. Even through my adrenaline, I couldn’t help but feel regret. Who was I to get annoyed at her when she was now in a position to try and save my life? What a jerk I was last night. I needed to thank her, or at least let her know that I knew I was wrong. My head rolled to the left, back towards the man. I could look at nothing but his hands, covered in my red blood. Then my eyes slid shut, and all that red turned to black.

The Grosbeak Trail

By Myles Beckett, VI

The first time I heard the whistle blow, I knew my old life was behind me. I got straight off the bus while the drill sergeant yelled in my face, "MOVE YOUR TAIL ROOKIE GO GO GO!" I was starting to get a little discombobulated and overwhelmed from all the yelling, but I knew I had to keep my composure. "WHAT'S YOUR PROBLEM, DIRTBAG? CAN'T YOU FOLLOW ORDERS!?" I was so engulfed in the yelling and screaming that I didn't even realize that I was barely moving at all while everyone else was running to where we were supposed to go. "COME ON, PICK IT UP; YOU WANT TO CALL YOUR MOMMY TO BRING YOU HOME!?" I snapped out of it, put my head down, and hustled into the small blank building where we were all filed into rows and told to kneel on our right knee.The man in front of the room gave his orders, and they were loud and piercing into my mind as if he was stamping each word through my skull and onto my brain. "Every single one of you will be provided with your standard issue equipment after you have successfully shown your paper; you will be properly processed." "Processed," I said to myself questionably; what does that even mea- "NOW GET UP AND HEAD TO THE ROOM ON YOUR RIGHT," a female sergeant said in a Southern accent; I've never heard a woman talk like that before. I hastily grabbed my things and packed into a room with six tables, where we were all quickly put into lines to wait for our turn. I turned to my right, and I saw a woman with her head down, balled fist gritting her teeth, trying to hold tears. "What was I thinking?" she said to herself quietly. This transitioned me into thought as well. Ever since I was forced into this place, I haven't even had a moment to think to myself. I could only do as I was told. "Next," I snap out of thought and get processed. The next thing I knew they were taking us to a room to buzz our hair off; I forgot about this part.

The way into the room was through a cramped, poorly lit hallway that could make anyone claustrophobic if they stood there long enough. As the long line filled down, I was able to get a better look into the room in front of me. The room was about as boring and dull as everywhere else on this God-forsaken base. Three of the walls were a bland off white color, one of the walls was covered with mirrors where the worn out black chairs were placed. The floor was gray, and there was a little wooden counter for all the barbers supplies. As the clippers touch my head to relieve me of my blond hair, I watch it fall past my eye off my shoulders and onto the floor, and for some reason, I can only stare at my hair on the floor, thinking of how I got here. Once again lost in thought, I am ripped out like a baby from its mother's womb into reality. "Get out the chair, man, c'mon move," the barber said in a clear, aggravated manner. I got up, cleaned myself off, and moved on. After we were shaved, the sergeant took us to our barracks, where we were divided by gender and name. My last name is Collins, so I usually got picked earlier on for these types of things in my life.

I was put into Barrack One; as I walked into the plain room lined with bunk beds, thin mattresses covered in blue sheets with two small chairs at the end, and the smell of old paint and chemical cleaner, I heard a slightly familiar voice from behind me. "WOO, WELCOME HOME, LADIES; I AM YOUR BARRACK MANAGER, AKA YOUR NEW MOMMY AND DADDY. NOW YOU WILL DO WHAT I TELL YOU WHEN I TELL YOU TO DO IT, AM I CLEAR?

"SIR, YES, SIR." "Dammit," I immediately said to myself. I looked down and tried my best to stay still in the hope that I might just slip out of reality at least for a moment, just at least for a second, while he walked by, prancing up and down, barking his stupid words at everyone. "BOY OH BOY LOOK WHAT WE HAVE HERE, THE BOY WITH THE FROZEN FEET." Never in my life have I wanted an encounter to end more than now. "Consider me a gift from God himself that he has tasked me to turn you from frail fairy into A MAN." "Sir, yes, sir." He gave a sinister smile, the type of smile that a killer would make looking at their victim.

Some hours later, as I was lying down on my bunk, I lay on my back with a mind racing with thoughts holding me up from falling into the realm of sleep, but the mattress was uncomfortable, so I wasn't going to sleep much anyway. All I could think of was home and how I missed it. I miss running through the vast forest of Oregon, getting lost, and having to find my way back; I missed going into the city late at night to find things to amuse myself; I missed exploring abandoned builds and running to get out of trouble I missed climbing up mountains and looking down at the tiny world, I missed living. I started to tear up a bit, but there was no use in any of that now; crying wasn't going to make my parents take me back. All I could think was how they disapproved of the way I lived and how they said, "This was the only way they said I could still be their son." I don't know how they could do that to their only son.

I know I'm nothing like them. I don't like dressing up, my responsibilities, and being professional. I can only question and try and reason why they gave me this ultimatum. Maybe I represent the freedom they no longer have in their boring lives, and they hated me for it. All I know is that I can't stay here. I was born to live, and I know it in my heart; I wasn't born to follow the rules and wear a uniform and boots or to work some fancy office job; I was born to live. I know I must find a way by any means necessary, and that means getting the hell out of here.

How To Take A Vacation Step One: Realize

You Need One

By Will Umscheid, VI

The first time I heard Judge Malcom smack the wooden gavel on the stately judge’s bench that morning, I immediately snapped back to reality. The dull “thwack” of the wood on wood reverberated between my ears. I had been thinking about my case, the stakes, the facts, the conjecture, all of which went into the biggest trial Boston has seen in two decades. At that moment a sudden pang of doubt spread through my body. Unprepared, I physically flinched. Then I saw the bailiff begin to speak and immediately pushed the odd feeling away.

The bailiff called, “All rise for the honorable Judge Malcom.” I slowly and confidently rose from behind the prosecution’s table. The bailiff read from his sheet, “This court session is now underway, the case is the State of Massachusetts vs Elizabeth Hale” Judge Malcom then said, “Ok counsels, the jury has been picked, they are seated, and the country is watching. Are you ready for opening statements?”

I looked first across the aisle to the defendant’s table, Elizabeth Hale sat on the right of her lawyer, Jason King, dressed in her usual finery. As his name suggests, the King only defends kings, or at least those who live like royalty. He was the lawyer that people with houses on four continents, private planes, and yachts had on retainer to deal with allegations about any problems with the shady sides of their organizations. In essence, he represented the modern robber barons, who stole from the weak to watch their bank accounts grow. Elizabeth caught me glancing over, she gave a subtle smirk. She thought she was above all this, I was here to prove she isn’t. I took one more second to look briefly to my left, where my new assistant Liam sat in the first row. I gave him a nod. Since the State had brought the case to the courts, I went first.

I began, “Good morning your honor, the ladies and gentlemen of the jury, and those watching the proceedings. Elizabeth Hale is not the person you think she is, the benevolent, pretty, empathetic socialite is just a cover for something far more sinister. Ms Hale has consistently stolen money from charities, her own included, and hospitals under the guise of being a committed philanthropist.”

Elizabeth was still wearing the self-confident smirk as earlier when I pointed her out to the jury.

Over time though, that changed. Her smirk changed to smiles when she thought she was winning and frowns when she was nervous. But, when the jury read the guilty verdict her face was a thin pointed line, her lips pressing together so hard I was surprised she could breathe.

But one thing concerned me. It nagged at me during the trial. It kept me up at night. Me. I felt lost after that trial; the congratulations of my boss didn’t give me my usual confidence boost, the speculation of my rise didn't either. I didn't really feel rewarded. Just empty. Weird. The only place I usually felt at home was on the courtroom floor, ready to attack, ready to defend, ready to wait, ready to pounce on the slip up of anyone. But somehow during that case I lost my sense of home.

One night a few weeks after the case had wrapped up I was staring at my ceiling. I had been imobile, looking at the smooth white ceiling for hours. Then my phone, previously dark and expressionless, lit up. The message I had received shocked me. It was my brother. I hadn’t seen him for at least eight years, maybe more. The last time I had seen my brother was at the airport. It was five am and we knew it would be a while before we saw each other again. We had both graduated from college the day before. Our parents didn’t bother to show up. In fact, I struggled to remember a time when our parents were invested in our success or welfare. They simply got up at 7am every morning and worked their lives away. For all our conjecture my brother and I never understood why. When I dropped him off, it was almost mutually agreed. We need time to reset and grow by ourselves, when we were ready we would meet back up.

One thing from our goodbye struck me when I thought about that day, however. Before my brother walked into the terminal to move to Europe for a new job and a fresh start he told me one thing, “Remember me, but more importantly be true to yourself.”

The text just said one thing, “I am on my way back home, are you still in BOS?”

I didn’t respond, I just turned back over and stared at the ceiling and thought and thought and thought. In retrospect that text was the catalyst for the change I was about to make to my life.

I didn’t know why I got that text. It made me think about what my brother might be up to. He could be the banker he always wanted to be, he could have a family, maybe he didn’t even live in Europe.

But his last comment was on my mind: “be true to yourself.”

By the morning, after too much tossing and turning, I realized I needed to do something. The 80 hour weeks, the too high pressure, the lack of time to myself, my singular focus, I was treating it all the wrong way. I had just been grinding with my head down, not enjoying the people I worked or interacted with. Heck, I probably didn’t know anything remotely personal about Liam. I didn’t know what he liked or what he did with his minimal free time. It was that night when I realized I simply needed to change my point of attack, my motivation, my mindset. Maybe I needed a break, like the one my brother and I began all that time ago.Being true to myself was not grinding for recognition or promotion. Being true to myself was working hard at a noble job, yes, but enjoying it and making meaningful connections with the other people I interacted with.

The next day, to my boss I said, “I need a break, some time to myself. I have been grinding for the last four years with no break and I have finally hit a wall. I need a reset.”

My boss smiled, “Finally, I was waiting for you to come to this conclusion yourself. I was about to make you take a break. Take all the time you need.”

I walked out of the District Attorney’s building with my boss's pleased expression watching me go. Then I just walked around the city,

the city I worked to protect for years of my life, and I enjoyed myself. On my way back to my apartment, as I walked back to my apartment I took in the sights and sounds and, for what felt like the first time in a while, I felt at home.

Later that day after some research, I pulled out my phone and responded to my brother’s text. I typed, “Yes, but I need a break. Meet me tomorrow at Logan, flight number Dl2468. 6pm. Let's take a vacation.”

That afternoon I told my acquaintances and the handful of true friends I had that I was leaving. For how long I didn’t know. Yes, I’ll return soon. No, I don’t know when.

The next day I packed up a duffle bag and my backpack. I locked up my apartment and pocketed the key. When I arrived at the airport, I turned around and looked back at the city and thought, “I’ll be back.”

When I got to the gate, I saw my brother from across the cavernous room. I could still recognize him even though he had changed quite a bit. His style had changed, hair shorter, a bit taller, and more muscular than the scrawny kid I had last seen. He must have felt my eyes because suddenly his gaze was upon me. I nodded and began to walk to my brother and towards a reset that I desperately needed.

Runners

By Gavin Zug, VI

Caleb

A truck's bright, luminescent headlights paved the way down the rocky, muddy path. The crackling of sticks and stones under its tires sounded like popcorn. I dashed into the trees, ducking behind a large maple tree covered in sap, before slowly extending my head to make out the others running. They jumped over fallen trees into the forest, just as I had. The headlights cast a dark shadow over some of the forest. The humid summer air of Georgia made me sweaty, tired, and annoyed. Ever since I was little, I'd always had this feeling coming in from a long day. I wiped the dirt off my new sweatshirt, gathering my breath with quick gasps of air. The dirt tracked a mark down the front of the gray sweatshirt.

The brilliant white rays came closer. Splintering branches fell quiet as my friends crouched in the leaves, concealing themselves. I stared at the improvised fire and picnic table, praying nothing would be there. The flames barely peeked over the darkened burnt rocks that created a campfire. The orange hue showed a blue and gray backpack next to the blaze. I look to my left to see the truck stop at the entrance. It was a Ram truck, painted a dark gray with massive tires displaying metallic blue shocks. The engine shut off with a sputter. The lights flashed off, leaving me in darkness, and whispers from my friends voiced curious and worried tones.

"Be quiet," I said in a low voice, "I want to see who it is first." Bang! Switching my focus to the truck, I heard the truck door slam shut, the crunch of Timberland boots on the dirt, and the silhouette of a tall man.

The sun had been set for about thirty minutes. My palms began to sweat. Who could this be? My mind began to spin: What would my parents think? Should I run? A soft, calm voice snapped me out of my spiraling thoughts. It was Eliza. She had been my best friend for years.

"Just follow me, I think we should cross the river." Turning to the water, I saw the rocks peeking above the swirling water.

"That could work," I replied in a whisper. Her facial expression seemed collected, her blue eyes twinkling like the ocean. Her long hair was pulled back into a low ponytail. Giving me a mysterious smile, we began to inch down the bank to the muddy rocks and stream below.

Eliza

My sneakers slid into the mud, grasping at anything. I managed to grab a hold of a small root. Pieces of hair swept across my face, my ponytail loosening. He picked me up,

"You alright, E?" I nodded while placing my soaking shoe down on the first rock. Looking across the water, I felt like I was about to cross the Grand Canyon on a tightrope. Taking a deep breath, I began my steps. I slowly stopped on each stone to regain my balance and made my way across. I could hear his jumps from one rock to another. Looking down, the water flew through the gaps created by these boulders; I couldn't see the bottom in the dark. I was really in the attack. I remembered my dad, his love for the attack. His want and strive to win the attack. Finally, across the river, I ducked down. My head throbbed, thinking through the possibilities of how to escape and survive. Caleb crouched next to me. His quiet breaths and warm hand helped to slow down.

"Think they saw us?" I murmured, returning my keen eyes to the distant fire and figures.

"Not sure, but they won't stop looking that easily," Caleb replied. I studied his face, his sweeping blonde hair, the cracked lips, and the small scar below his right eye. I hid a small smile, thinking about the moment that the tennis racquet had hit him below the eye. I asked, "What time is it?" hearing a reply from Caleb

"Only 9:30, so a little less than three hours." I pushed my hands into the ground, getting up with the help of a tree branch.

"Okay," I replied, "Let's walk back to the boundary and then just wait there."

Jamie

I turned my head, facing the voice.

"Jamie, they have been here. Look, the fire is still burning," he said. I glimpsed to my right and clicked on the flashlight. Sure enough, the fire was burning, glinting metal cans were trashed on the ground, and muddy footprints blanketed the ground. The light danced on the ferns like a spotlight. Gathering my thoughts, remembering my younger attacks,

"You're right. They can't have gone far." I responded, irritation in my voice. Did I really think it would be that easy? "You two," I directed, "Go that way and cut off the stream. We will create a trap, where most of them probably went." I continued to search for the answers in my head. The time on the orange wristwatch strapped onto my right wrist ticked down.

Caleb

I glanced up from my slow moving feet. My eyes perked up, seeing the white and red diamond signs and the yellow construction tape signaling the boundary. It reminded me of a crime scene, just without blue flashing lights. Rechecking my phone, the time read 11:14.

"Almost there Eliza, I'm surprised we haven't seen anyone again. Do you think the men are close behind?"

"Nope, let's sit. I'm not worried as much anymore. I mean, we have only 45 more minutes." We sat down on a gray boulder covered in moss. I couldn't help myself from smiling. Smiling at her interest, her voice, her long hair. My body felt numb, like a rush of adrenaline during a rollercoaster. My hands always felt clammy and sweaty. My body drew silent when she spoke, laughed, and smiled. Was this more than a friend's love? I shook the idea from my mind, attempting to push out the rapidly transforming love. I put my arm around her,

"You know it's not real, right? The attacks are just a game."

"Of course," she replied hastily, "But it feels real, this is my first time. It might just be a game. But it's a competition I want to win." I

reflected on those words, noticing her stare quietly and intensely at the ground.

Eliza

My heart beat out of my chest saying those words. But it feels real, this is my first time. It might just be a game. But it's a competition I want to win. I reflect on those words time and time again. They were words my dad shared each year before the attack. I quickly wiped a tear from my eye, angrily shoving thoughts of him out of my mind. While it may be a competition, for the pride of my family and the pride of the attacks, I needed to win, I thought to myself.

"Are you okay?" Caleb asked. I nodded, not speaking a word.

"The attack is a really big deal in my family, I don't want to disappoint," I replied. Those words slipped out of my mouth; I had never told anyone else of my fear. The fear of losing. Not for me, but for my dad. The man who left me and my mom. But why? Around Caleb, I felt safe; he was the complete home I had never had. I waited for him to respond, but he didn't. We sat there without words, waiting and listening for the potential attackers to find us.

Almost thirty minutes had passed until Caleb finally spoke.

"We should head to the capital, I don't imagine them finding us now. Only twelve more minutes until our victory!" I smiled in awe at him. Had we done it? Had we saved the runners from three straight years of losing? We walked back out through the enclosure and to the stream. Crossing the same stream we had crossed just a few hours ago. Tensions were lower. A weight had been lifted off my shoulders, and I couldn't help but continue to think about Caleb. His kindness and understanding about my eerie obsession with the attack felt so reassuring to me. Returning to the fire, I picked up the blue backpack and handed it to Caleb. We continued to walk out, back to the start, the enclosure of the attack.

Jamie

Thirteen runners were found. Where could the last two be? I opened the door to my truck, my pride, and joy. The custom leather

interior seats were jet black with dark blue embroidery. I cranked up the heat, which created a dull white noise inside the vehicle. It felt like every time I played the attack, we won. The attackers almost always won; it had been that way for years. Was I actually going to lose to a pair of teenagers? I glanced at the green LED clock in my truck, which was reading 11:54, and started the Ram. It's just a small game, I thought to myself, attempting to trick myself out of the quickly setting-in reality. The headlights relit the bumpy path back to the capital. I reversed the truck and drove back, still trapped by my thoughts. Sure, the bragging rights of winning the past three years were nice, but what about the prize money? Most importantly, what about not being able to play next year? These thoughts raced through my mind as I reached the middle, where a large group of people stood. I exited the truck and exchanged disappointed looks with other fellow attackers. The roped-off jail still held thirteen out of the fifteen runners. I sat on an old wood bench, just waiting for the clock to hit twelve. For the victors to emerge. For the attack to end. For the attackers to accept the loss. A few minutes passed when I heard the joyous shouts from the jail. Excitedly emerging from the woods were a young man and woman who were quickly greeted by their fellow runners. The man sounded the horn, echoing throughout the woods, signifying the end of the attack. I took one last look at the victors and then paused. The young woman wore a sad look on her face while being congratulated by hundreds. It was Eliza. My Eliza. Caleb

"A man I haven't seen in years. My father."

Da

By Jaiden Lee, V

I wish my Da was dead.

If I had known how rough Da’s hands were, how fiercely they sliced through the air and crashed into objects like concrete waves, I would never have gone back to him every time.

If I had seen Da in the pubs, as he slumped over, eyes half-closed in a drunk daze, hands hidden in the pockets of his faded jeans but trembling nevertheless, I might have found the courage to scream back at him.

Da broke everything.

The first thing he ever broke was my mother’s heart, because he used to always leave Ma and me— he always walked away.

Then he came back, a mumbling mess of apologies, a shameful pile of skin asking for redemptions he knew he would receive.

Everything he broke after that were bottles and bones. Ma doesn’t remember anymore, but the scars on her feet say otherwise.

All Da left in the house were shards, and a distant memory of a face I swore I would never look at again.

Did Da know?

Did he know how much I hated his breath,

a hot gust made with a frightening mixture of Sam Adams and garlic bread that left a wet mark of lips on the window of that dark prison visitation room?

Da said he got beat in the can, but I was done with any words that tumbled out of his mouth; I was done.

How did you get in there in the first place, Da? Why isn’t Ma by my side anymore, Da? Who made me like this, Da?

Do you remember how much I cried, Da?

Do you remember how much I begged, Da?

Do you remember the wish I made every Fourth of July, Da? It hasn’t changed yet.

I wish my Da was dead.

Where Is My Son?

By Andrew Hildebrandt, VI Mom

Why is the door locked? Why is he not awake; it's midnight. I'm banging on the door; why won't he wake up? Is he still sleeping? Why would he sleep so late? Where is the key to open his door? Where is he? Why is the window open? What the fuck? Why are pillows faking a human in the blankets? Where could he be? Why is his life 360 turned off? Why won't he pick up when I call him? Why? Why? Why?

Son

What time is it? Why did we sleep in so late? Why didn't you wake me up? Where is my phone? Who called me five times? How did I not wake up and go home? Should I call my mom? What should my excuse be? How am I so stupid? What should I do? Text to mom- on my way home.

Mom

Who was he with? Why did he sneak out? How did he sneak out without me knowing? Who do I call the cops? Should I call his friend's parents? Who texted me? Why is his text so nonchalant? Why isn't he apologizing? Why didn't he call me? Where is he? Why isn't he home yet? What happened? Where could he be? Is he hurt? Was he drinking? I’m going to kill him.

Son

Will you be ok? How can I call your parents? What's their number? Can I go home now? How do I get home? What do I tell my mom? Can I tell her the truth? Will she believe me? Will she think I did the right thing? Where does she think I am? What if she thinks

I snuck out for fun? Will she kill me? Where is my key? Ok, here we go.

Mom

What's your explanation? Why did you turn your phone off? Why weren't you home? Are you hurt? What were you thinking? Son

Will you please believe me? Why would I sneak out? My friend Brandon called me and asked me where I was. Can you come to my house and pick me up? Can you bring me some water? When I got there, I found him sleeping, so I brought him to the hospital.

Mom

How are you such a good son?

Sirens Were Chasing Us

By Andrew Hildebrandt, VI

Sirens were chasing us. We were on the 4-lane highway. I was in the back of an old chipped van; it was so nice to have my hands free, but one hand was still attached to handcuffs. I flew from side to side like I was riding the tilt-a-whirl. My head is spinning, trying to look straight and find the closest weapon.

“If I say left, shoot left. If I say right, shoot. Got it? I think I have them, though,” yelled the driver.

I sat up and looked through the window. My stomach was turning, and my head was pounding, but I was still able to see the red and blue lights in a pack coming towards us. There may be 3 or 4 cars chasing us, but we have a solid gap between us. A violent hard right onto an exit, then another hard right into the woods. It felt as if we were driving over speed bumps every other second. Then I puked.

2 years later

I wake up to the bright yellow circle slowly rising through the clouds. I look around at the morning bees buzzing from flower to flower and the rabbit hopping about. I can hear the birds chirping, trees rustling, and friends snoring. I live in a 15x15 tree house built on top of a cabin. It isn't big, but it is sturdy. I live a life in the depths of nature. I am a part of the forest; I am no different than a bear who lives in a cave or a tiger roaming the woods.

I walk to the window. I peer through the lenses that make 2 miles seem like 2 feet. I see a four-wheeled black vehicle. I count 1… 2… 3… 4… 5 men, 3 in the back and 2 in the front. They are dressed in black; I think that is all I can make out. I don’t know if I see a gun, but whatever they are holding looks scary. They drive through the

woods out of sight. As quickly as possible, I go to the ladder, slowly back down the first three steps, and then leap to the bottom; I awaken my boys with a whistle, like the ones dog owners do to signal their dogs over. They know what that whistle means; Hunter grabs the three guns, Bruce grabs the keys to the van, and Damian and I grab the adventure food bags.

The key is to not find these other men but to spot them. We follow the noise of cracking sticks, rumbling engines, and gas smell. There's not much, if any, other loud noises in the woods. The goal is to be like a lion stalking its prey. We don't want an encounter; we want to see what they are up to. Binoculars in hand, I watch their truck slowly bouncing right and left, and our car is following right behind them, well, two miles behind them. My boy Bruce is driving; our life and savior, our hero. Without him, we are in jail right now. I am sitting in the front seat in charge of tracking while the two clowns, Hunter and Damian, are in the back fighting over who gets the rifle and who gets the handgun.

I watch the truck take a hard turn and saw one pair of eyes stare right at me. He then turns around to the driver and points. I direct. “Take a right. Now!”

Bruce parks the truck behind a tree, and I peer through the binoculars as their truck stops near a cave.

I lose sight of them as they drive into the cave, and then three of the men walk outside with long guns resting on their shoulders. I keep watching through the binoculars as my boys chatter behind me.

“Yo Bruce, we have never been this far away; what if there’s a treasure in the cave? We have to explore it.”

“We should go home and get defense if they attack. There is no need to go in the cave.”

“I got an idea. Let's start shooting them. Let's start a war. This is our turf.”

“Hunter, dude, come on, let's go back, regroup, and have a plan because that cave is ours.”

“Hear me out; we have a stake out.”

“Did Damian just have a good idea?”

I throw my binoculars on the ground. These guys are boring. I get some bread and jam and make a sandwich. Even though the food wasn’t fancy, we are lucky we have anything. Bruce does not have a bounty on his head, so he can make trips to the nearest grocery store once in a while so we can stock up. Hunter opens up a can of corn and beans with his teeth and serves it to all of us for extra protein and vegetables. He grins. “Can you believe it? This is the second anniversary of breaking out of jail. We could have been in jail right now looking at another 8 years, but nope, thanks to Bruce, we are here.”

Bruce bows. “You’re welcome. Maybe don’t kidnap your exbosses wife as payback for firing you, and I wouldn't have had to save your asses.”

I chuckle through my sandwich, “Hey, everything worked out; we are living our best life now. Right, Bruce?”

“I mean, yeah, but we haven't been part of society in years. I don't even know who won the Super Bowl.”

Hunter and Damian simultaneously said, “I haven’t had a beer. Jinx.”

I shrug. Even though life in the woods gets lonely, sometimes it is better than behind bars.

I get back to the point, “So, who do you think these dudes are? I mean, they don't look like cops.”

Hunter stands up, “they look like workers for a rich man who found treasure.”

Damian's eyes widen, “yes, if we could get that treasure, we could leave the woods and flee this country.”

I roll my eyes, “I don’t know, but something has to be important in this cave. Maybe we should kill them and find out what's in there.”

Bruce looks annoyed, “We aren’t killing anybody. Let's just get them out of there.”

I pick up my binoculars. The 3 guards are sitting on rocks, 2 are eating, and 1 is standing and talking, but they all have their guns behind them. They don’t look like soldiers or FBI; they look happy, almost as if they knew a raise was coming. They were massive; they looked like bodyguards or security guards checking IDS at a bar. I mean, one guy had 2 tattoos on his neck. I couldn’t fully make it out, but one looked like maybe a snake, and the other was a blob.

The sun started to set, and the guards are fast asleep, so that is our cue to nap. I have the 3 am shift, so I need a good nap until 3. Luckily, I have the sleeping bag outside as it is a lovely night; we don’t have to cram into the truck now.

I took my sleeping bag and pillow and sat them on the grass, looking up at the sky. The sky is cloudy but clear; there is not a star in the sky. The feeling is different than usual; the moon is covered by clouds, and you can hear an owl in the distance. Birds are chirping, not singing, and the rustle of the leaves in the wind isn’t smooth but choppy.

Hunter stands over me “Yo yo, you're up, one guard is awake, but he is pooping.”

“Yeah, yeah, uh yeah.” my eyes are twitching, trying to stand out of bed, my legs lifeless. I grab the binoculars, look out, and see the 5 guards sleeping. “Lucky people.”

Each minute feels like an hour; the ground is so calm, and watching people sleep is the same as watching a small turtle in a homemade aquarium, boring.

Only 5 minutes left, it's 5:55am. The sunrise is starting, but the clouds cover the beautiful light, which is dark and gloomy. One guard stands up; I hope it’s a bathroom run; another wakes up. Maybe they both need to poop. Wait, they are all waking up.

I whistle, “Rise and shine, boys. OK, I have a plan. Actually, I have two. One plan is strikers with backup. We send two into the

cave with two back here on the lookout. We create a distraction, sneak two in, and then you explore the cave and communicate with us through the walkie-talkies. The other plan is to go up to the guards, ask them what they are doing here, and be ready for a battle if they start shooting at us.”

Bruce looks skeptical, “Or hear me out. We wait a little for those cavemen to come out of the cave and then respond.”

Bruce always makes the smartest plans.

We sit in the truck, waiting for movement. Time slowly goes by; we play card games or throw sticks to keep us occupied. I know fun.

Two men come out, and the car guns are held in front of their chests. We all looked, trying to decipher their emotions. The men with the guns are talking excitedly. I think it’s time.

“Go go.”

It is Hunter and Damian’s time to shine. They start screaming and banging rocks. The guards all turn, run into their trucks and drive to my left. We get in the car and take a hard turn right, hopefully out of sight of the guards. I sit in the trunk, holding a gun, looking for a sign of a person. Hard turn left around a tree into the cave; there are no guards, so speed up into a cave led with gravel ground.

Our headlights lead us through the cave. The rigid stone imprint leads down into what looks like an endless tunnel. Hard turn right into a room. It looks like a room, at least; it feels like a small dome, with one end to the other roughly being 4 trucks long. Inside is gravel and footprints, people's footprints.

I'm disappointed, “This is it. A dead-end with rocks. Great.”

Hunter looks around, “maybe there is still treasure.”

Damian turns to Hunter, “Maybe there's a secret room, I mean, who would hide treasure out in the open.”

Bruce rolls his eyes. “Or hear me out. There is nothing.”

“Shutup”

“Shutup” “Shutup”

I take my lighter, light up a stick caught in my sleeping bag, and use it as a torch to see. I skulk around the cave, looking at the outlines of each stone engraved on the sides and at the footprints of the feet slightly bigger than mine, covering the ground as anyone would. I follow each step perfectly, walking in a circle and out of the cave. So clearly, this guy didn’t find anything. Gunshots.

“Get in the truck, get out of here.”

We all jump in the truck, load our guns, and get as low as possible. Bruce hits the quickest three-point turn I have ever seen. Slams on the gas and makes a complex, swerving left and right like a racecar going through an obstacle course.

“5 seconds until daylight. Be ready for a fight, boys.”

5…

4…

3…

2…

1…

A gunshot just misses my ear, the sound echoing in my head. I respond by shooting a shot without aim into the forest, hitting nothing. Hunter and I slowly fall forward in the back of the truck.

“Tires are shot; we have to run.”

I jump out of the van, gun in hand, and beeline to the closest tree opposite the gunshots. Hunter, Bruce, and Damian follow. Hunter shoots into the woods, hoping to land a shot. I lead, “We gotta go right.”

I move swiftly and the pack follows straight behind me into the forest. Gunshots come from behind me, passing my head and hitting the tree in front of me. I turn around to see Bruce on the ground.

“My leg. Shit. Keep going, I'll be fine.”

We keep running as we start to gain distance on the men as they stop at Bruce. I look back and I can barely see what's happening, but I think I saw a phone pointed at Bruce like they were taking a photo of him.

I stop out of breath. “The one guy that stayed friends with us, I mean the one guy that broke us out of jail, and we leave him there like a sitting duck.”

Hunter clicks his gun. “Yeah, dude, let's shoot them. I got a rifle.”

I walk side by side with Hunter and Damian through the forest, quietly retracing our tracks and following the trees with bullets inside of them. We hit a bloody patch, which was most definitely blood from Bruce's foot. We look to the cave and see Bruce sitting in a van and the guards outside it. I grab Damian and Hunter and hold them close.

“Let's get our boy back.”

I grab my gun and fire into the guards and hit one on the leg. “One down attack now.”

We get going and run full speed at the guards, guns loaded and pointed straight at the sea of guards. We got close.

I scream, “Guns down, hands up.”

It is strange as they listen to my commands, but then I turned around and saw 20 guards I'd never seen before come out of the trees. Then I hear a voice.

“Put your hands up, guns down, or else I'll order them to shoot.”

Shit, it’s over.

We get cuffed and thrown in the back of a truck where Bruce was, but Bruce is no longer there. The lead man is on the phone, and Bruce is on crutches beside the guards. Bruce walks past the trunk and mouths.

“I'm sorry.”

Safety in the Sky

By Adam Shaff, VI

The first time I heard the roar of a fighter jet, I became a pilot. I was in my living room watching the New England Patriots play their season opener. As the national anthem ended, the camera switched from the field to the skies. Three planes soared over Gillette stadium, the roar of their engines torturing the TV speakers. I don’t remember the rest of the game or hearing my parents fight during the commercial breaks. I was oblivious to everything but the mechanical masterpieces flying through the clouds.

As I grew older, my parents grew farther and farther apart. I tried to ignore their frequent fights and the fact that my father kept a hotel room booked 365 days a year. They stopped speaking to each other in my senior year, and I spent as little time at home as possible. As soon as I graduated high school and left for the Air Force Academy, they were free to separate. The divorce was inevitable, but no one could have predicted the nuclear fallout. Driven by their respective stubbornness and their unending desire to spite each other, the court ordered them to sell all their possessions and split the money. Only when they had lost everything they cared about were they finally done fighting.

At the Air Force Academy, I was safe from their fighting. Besides the occasional letter from my parents asking me to testify against each other, the air felt safe. I can confidently say that there was a time in my life when I wished I lived in my plane, even if it meant that there was always an enemy on my tail.

Fifteen years after seeing my first flyover, I was a six-foot-tall twenty-two-year-old, standing in formal uniforms with my fellow graduates. Cheers erupted from the spectators as a flyover by six fighter jets flying in a tight formation marked our graduation from the United States Air Force Academy. My parents were in that

crowd, standing as far away from each other as possible with their new families. After graduating, I returned to Boston and served as an F35 pilot at Hanscom Air Force Base. In my fourth year there, while flying a patrol over the coastline, I saw my first real combat.

Thirty minutes after watching two F35s accelerate down the runway for a routine patrol, Major Chris Johnson stepped out of the elevator into the control tower of Hanscom Air Force Base. “Are they in position?” he asked the controller in front of him.

“They just reached the ocean, sir,” he replied, not looking up from the colorful radar screen. The officer paused momentarily to adjust the pins on his uniform before sitting in front of a microphone. “Then we’re ready to begin the drill. Tell the coast guard to release the decoy.”

“As long as the Patriots have Tom Brady, they can’t lose!” I said through the radio, “And you can’t argue otherwise.”

“Brady’s too old, I’ll bet twenty bucks he retires after next season,” my wingman responded.

“You’re just mad that the Jets will always suck.” Lieutenant Will Umscheid went silent for a few seconds before admitting defeat. These playful arguments filled almost all our time in the air, and we always kept score. After flying together for over two years, we had added nearly three hundred tick marks to our scoreboard. Before either of us could say another word, an angry red light began to flash, and an alarm sounded. “Shit!” I said, and the radio crackled to life.

“Attention, pilots! Radar has detected a foreign aircraft entering US airspace. Move to intercept and make contact. If no response is given, you are authorized to treat it as hostile.”

Immediately, my heart began to pound. I checked my scanner and saw a red dot almost one hundred and thirty miles away.

“Copy that. Moving to intercept,” I announced, both to the base and Lieutenant Umscheid.

As one, the two F35 jets turned sharply to the right. Side by side, the pilots shoved their throttles forward, pushing their planes to supersonic speeds. At 20,000 feet, the outside temperature was well below freezing, but beads of sweat dripped down the sides of the pilots’ faces. They had been trained for this and were by no means inexperienced pilots, but they had never faced the pressure of real combat.

As we soared through the clouds, I watched the red circle slowly creep closer on the radar scanner. I switched on the autopilot, terrified that my shaking hands would push me off course. I could feel the rough flight suit rubbing against my skin, the surge of adrenaline inflating my veins.

“30 miles out, performing final system check,” I called.

“All systems green.” I checked the status panel adjacent to my right arm. A sea of green lights made the singular red dot almost impossible to find.

“I’ve got red!” I took a closer look. “Missile guidance system.” Without homing missiles, America’s safety was left in the hands of a single man.

“Let’s hope this becomes an escort then.” How could a man solely responsible for the country’s protection be so calm?

Soon, we were twenty miles out, then ten. We started scanning the sky around us for the unwanted intruder. Finally, from three miles away, I saw it far below the right side of my windshield. “Silver aircraft, 2 o’clock. Descending to intercept in attack stance.”

After flying ten miles past the target, I pulled back on the throttle and pushed the stick forward. Will did the same, aligning his left wingtip a few yards ahead of my right. Unable to see the metallic plane, I switched my radio to broadcast mode. “This is the United States Air Force; please identify yourself immediately! If you do not respond we will engage!” After ten seconds with no reply, I repeated the message.

“This is the Imperial Death Star; leave immediately, or we will destroy you!” The voice sounded as fake as its message. I saw the glint of the sun against the polished metal straight ahead and made sure to keep it in my sights. It wasn’t a plane, but a large silver balloon.

“You asshole!” I was met with a symphony of laughs from Will and the communications room of the Coast Guard cutter below. “Commencing operation party pooper.” I lined the balloon up with my crosshairs, then jammed down the trigger on my yoke. Bullets left the front of the plane with a dull “thump thump thump.” A burst of flame erupted from the barrel of the machine gun. The bullets whizzed through the air in a meteor shower of yellow tracers. The balloon stood no chance; its thin metal skin was ripped to shreds by the wave of incoming bullets. The hot metal ignited the hydrogen gas inside, causing the remnants of the decoy to ignite into a fireball. The thick armor of the planes blocked the sound of the explosion, but the wave of sound caused the captain of a nearby fishing boat to spill hot coffee all over his shirt.

Will and I circled the Coast Guard cutter until our heart rates calmed. Even after we were safely on the ground, that little red light dominated my thoughts. If there were an enemy plane, I wouldn’t be standing on solid ground. I played out the events in my head. I tried to intimidate them, but they quickly realized my vulnerability. Then, it was only a matter of time until I was the balloon bursting into flames.

As soon as I landed, I sat down at my desk and I wrote all the things I had wanted to say before: how my parents’ fighting ruined my childhood, how every night I wished that I had anyone else as a mom and dad, and how much I hated them and never wanted to see them again. After filling the page with angry words, I flipped it over to continue. The same fear that had emboldened me was replaced with an epiphanic moment of gratitude. challenge. After my mind had been drained, I ripped the letter into two halves and placed them in envelopes addressed to “mom” and “dad.”

Family Ties

By David Luo, VI

My vision cuts in and out. My chest pounds as I try to comprehend what is happening. “The plane is going down”. It was about to end. Everything I worked for. Everything I loved. It’s over. Hundreds of masks fall from the ceiling as I claw myself up from the ground. The throbbing pain deters me from thinking straight. I feel helpless. We are going down. This trip was supposed to be a nice family vacation. I glance around to survey the area for my family. They are gone. They are gone into the abyss of the atmosphere. The plane jerks and vigorously shakes. The turbulence mutes the yelling as I attempt to ground myself on this flying machine. I embrace the cold arms of death as I shut my watery eyes and think about what could have been. What my life could have been. The rapid rush of air coming from the open appendage of the aircraft glues me to my seat. I brace myself for what appears to be the end. I want to leave. I want to have my family beside me. I want to go back. Everything is over. Maybe that's okay.

The deep-cut grass encompasses every little portion of my body as I wake up from a deep, delirious slumber. I can’t believe it. I’m alive? Do I want to be alive? Piercing pain on what feels like every limb of my cut and bloody body becomes readily apparent. Every extremity feels chained to the rough, moist dirt beneath my tattered body. My abs tense up when I try to pull my hopeless self from the depths of the underworld. The chains of Cerberus drag me back to the uncomfortable, fervent surface under the cushioned grass.

The sun's piercing rays enter my eyelids as I gaze upon the lush green foliage that represents the cage that traps me but also the palace of opportunity where I must reside. As I undergo the common human desire to consume nutrients, I gander at the potential food

sources around me. While scanning my surroundings, my eyes meet with the gaze of the wet, slippery, tall green grass that blocks my vision. The only way to go on is to stand up. I must stand up. I must. For myself. For my family. The beautiful rays of the sun start to hide within the tall trees above me. Every fiber of my being gets ready to embark on this treacherous journey. My torso tenses up as I rise from the grave that has my name on it. It hurts. But nothing hurts as much as losing everything. I fall. I get up. I fall. I get up. I start to lose faith. I can’t. The effort and pain aren't worth it. There is no end goal. I have nothing to live for. Who am I living for? I saw my family get vigorously sucked out of the flying tin can. I saw an abundant amount of lives lost. I saw everything that went on at that pivotal moment. I now see the light that tells me I am blessed to keep moving. I must keep on going with the goal of preserving the legacy of my deceased family. Keeping what I have left of my family is worth it. Persevering was worth it.

I hear a voice. Who is it? What is it? The faint, light voice sings a beautiful hymn as I try to break the chains one last time. I dig deep within the catalogs of my mind. I can recognize that beautiful voice. It was my wife. Tracy. I jet up as I try to look around me to find what could be the love of my life. I am standing. I see nothing. Is it all just in my head? The vocals of the empowering tune continue to play as I take a deep breath and take in the vastness of this wilderness. The lyrics are undecipherable, but the sad, deep undertones of the expansive soundscape give all the song needs. The song of perseverance. Of loss.

The singing from Tracy seems like it is coming from within the family of small trees behind me. I glance behind me. Nothing was there. However, the perimeter of a small pond comes into the edge of my peripheral vision. The singing abruptly stops and fades into the distance. I was back on my own. But my wife is here somewhere. As long as she’s with me.

My sandpaper-like tongue rubs the dry roof of my mouth as I shout in pain from the sudden movement that led me to stand up.

My eyes jump from option to option as I look at fresh and juicy berries, fish jolting around the minuscule pond, and animals shuffling within the leaves around them. I considered these options wisely and ultimately decided that it would be best to choose the “easiest” option of the berries, even if they carry a risk of being poisonous. I first cup my hands as they scoop as much water as they can hold. The brisk, frigid water numbs the pain in my hands. I want to jump in. I do. The cold doesn’t shock me. Anything was better than the pain. I dunk my head and tattered hair into the black liquid abyss. Not considering whether or not it was salty or not, I took three large gulps of water. The rush of the water into my south soothes the dry desert and creates an oasis within the barren, waterdeprived land. I use every exhausted limb to swim towards a bush blessed with red berries. The thorns on the berry bush intimidate the consumer. I ignore the defense mechanism developed by generations and iterations of evolution. I snatch as many berries into my desperate hands and shove them down my newly hydrated throat. I muster up the energy to propel myself onto the shore. I force my fatigued eyes shut and release all of the tension within my body.

As I wander through the peaceful journey of human slumber, I start to hear the same singing that engulfed my ears the day prior. I find myself in an ominous void with nothing but me and my wife. I see a faint outline of her. I see her glistening eyes and candid eyelids. I see her. The visions persist as I yell out to her to try and find any connection we still have left. She stood there. No change in her expression. I give up. The chains binding me to the cage of indolence once again take my legs and arms and pin me to the frigid bare metal pillars. I close my eyes.

My eyes are irritated by the inaugural sunrise over this place that I am forced to reside in. The visions the night before plague my brain with thoughts of unparalleled horrors. Horrors residing within the deep tunnels of my hopeless life. Without my family, what was there to live for? Without my wife? Why? Was there a reason to keep

going? I think of the day before and how I built a ladder to finally get out of the ditch of despair. It seemed, however, that the previous night burned the ladder of hope and made an even more cavernous, abyssal ditch.

I move away from the warm spot on the ground that I called home last night and onto a cold patch of moist grass. The voice of my late wife comes to whisper in my ear once again, but this time it is understandable.

“The only way out is the way to your family,” says the voice. What did this mean?

I hear multiple voices coming from my left. I don’t have any time to process what my wife said.

I yell out, “Anyone there?” My throat strained from the lack of hydration. The voices come closer. Was I hallucinating? I choose to walk towards the sounds of sticks breaking and leaves crunching. A group of people appear from the wild bushes that previously held the berries that gave me life.

The berries are crushed under one man’s feet as he introduces himself and says, “Hi, my name is Ollie.” His stature is not too tall, not too short. His pitch-dark eyes attack his gaze’s target with a piercing tone. His hair resembles a pile of ash from a freshly burned fire, gray and dry. He seems to be in front of the group. He comes to me first and asks, “Are you okay?”

I don't know what he expects the answer to be, but I just say, “Yeah.” The rest of the group appears to be about 5 people with tattered shirts and clear signs of serious injuries. One man introduced himself as “Rob”.

I say, “My name is Norman.” No one is very talkative. I don't blame them. The only voice I hear is the piercing sound of Ollie’s voice, which seems to irritate everyone. I wince in pain as we strut through the wilderness in search of more survivors.

Ollie decides to call it a night and tells everyone to go back to “camp”... Whatever that means. I keep my expectations low for what this camp could be. All my expectations were low.

We arrive at the camp. I take a quick look around before Ollie demands everyone to go around and scavenge for food. The site is built around a storage compartment that came off of the plane. It seems the crew has already scavenged for all the surviving materials and resources that came from the fallen aircraft. Unfortunately, there was no food. There were toys. Kids toys. I notice a small airplane. A toy airplane charred from the devastating flames of the engine.

“Everyone hurry up if you want to survive!” Ollie said.

No one liked him. Everyone but him was fighting for their lives as we looked for food. He just sat there.

I look around for the same type of berry bushes that saved me the day prior. I see the beautiful, moist red berries that populate the prickly bushes. I take as many as I can grab. My hands squish a couple as I desperately try to shovel a handful of berries into my mouth. I stuff my tattered pockets with berries as I make my way back to the center of camp.

Ollie glances at the berries and says nothing. He forcefully takes the berries from my hands and eats all of them. All of them. The berries I got for everyone. Not him. Who does he think he is? I heard more people approach with more berries. Ollie takes them. Ollie eats them. What was with this guy?

I wished those berries were poisonous. I wished he died in the crash. I wished. No. That was too harsh. Or was it? He was an asshole. People could starve because of him. Why was he in power? Why him? He seems to have no admirable traits. He seems to offer nothing to help. He seems to do nothing but command people. I try to spark up a benevolent conversation with him.

“Did you have any family on the plane?”

He responds by saying, “Why does that matter to you?”

“Just wondering.”

No response.

Right then and there, I wanted to kill him. I don’t know why. I was never an aggressive person. I just wanted to do it. I’m sure the others thought the same. What did he give? He just took. Killing

him would benefit everyone. It would be a good thing. I can’t. This isn't me. But I’m not me anymore.

Before this situation, I was an ordinary businessman with nothing special about me. I went to a good college. Got my degree. Never contentious. I went to work. Went home. I was happy. My family made me happy. There was no point in making enemies. At least that's what I thought.

I go back to the bushes to get more berries. But this time, I decided to get all the berries and distribute them amongst the survivors. The survivors look distraught. They lost people. They weren't in the right place to make enemies. The pleasure I got from giving to people who needed it was uncanny. Their faces lit up. They were alive.

I decide not to go back to the camp. I go back to decipher the message my wife said. “The only way out is the way to your family.” Will the voice lead me out? No. Impossible. Will the voice give me some guidance? I mean, it already has. Do I listen to the voice? Of course. Right? It was my wife.

I stay in the wilderness for the rest of the night. The voice doesn't come back. I go through all the escape options. None of them seem promising. Especially with Ollie around.

I woke up to the sound of my name being called.

“NORMAN!” It was that stupid, high-pitched voice. Ollie. I just wanted to be alone. Why did he need me anyway? I stand up to confront him. He yells at me.

“YOU GAVE EVERYONE BERRIES WITHOUT MY PERMISSION?!”

“Yeah.”

“YOU…YOU…”

He was stunned for some reason. He wasn't so strong after all.

“GET BACK TO CAMP!”

“No.”

“FINE!!”

I didn't know why he was so mad. I gave people food. I was helping. Unlike him.

I walk away. I try to find a way out. Any way out. No luck. Luck. I hate it. I just don't know why I keep trying sometimes. I don’t really have anything to fight for. I decide to go back to the camp. If Ollie wasn't going to help those people, they might actually be in serious trouble.

Ollie doesn't exactly welcome me back. His stare pierces my skin as I come out from the bushes.

“Look who decided to come back,” He exclaims to everyone around him. They don't seem to care very much about his antics. I see the man that I talked to right when I got rescued. He is curled up with his head touching both of his knees in the grass next to Ollie’s “throne,” composed of two airplane seats. Ollie doesn't seem to notice. I walk up to the man to see if he is okay. Ollie stops me. I proceed. He leans towards me. He stares at me. I proceed. He gets up from his chair. He stands in front of me. I push him out of the way. He punches me on the back of my head. My head turns. My eyes go black. I fall to the cold dirt ground.

I wake up. I’m in the same place. I’m still in pain. No help. Ollie stares at me. What an ass. I see the man next to him. He’s not moving. My mind fills with the sudden urge to act. To act upon my inner desires. Whether that's something I would do or not is not a question. I have changed. I see the toy plane. Half of the aircraft is burned and melted. The pointy tip the fire made was apparent. I take the broken plane. I grasp it with my trembling hands. I limp to Ollie’s throne. He seems to not notice. I ask whether or not that man is okay.

Ollie retorts by saying, “I don’t know. I don’t care.” I take a deep breath. I close my eyes. I don't know either. I contain myself. I go up to the man to see if he is breathing. I crouch down on the wet grass. My knees were bloodied up from the fall earlier. I turn the man around flat on his back.

I ask, “Are you okay?”. “Are you okay?”. No response. “Are you okay?”. No response. “ARE YOU OKAY?!”. No response. I move my hand up to his neck. His skin was cold. Frigid. He had no pulse. I hold the toy plane tighter. I squeeze it. I get up. I walk back to Ollie. My feet drag on the ground. The voice abruptly comes back. My wife says to… “Kill him.” Do I listen? What if I get punished? I can't kill someone. Was this even my wife? Suddenly, the faint outline of my wife comes into the distance. She yells. “KILL HIM”. I have to.

I whisper. “Tracy…” I shut my eyes. I take the charred toy and impale Ollie in the neck. This wasn’t me. The blood spews from his throat. This wasn’t me. The plane crashes. Crashes into my chest. I collapse into a puddle of our intermingled blood. My vision cuts in and out. Then finally… Just out.

A Dish of Imperfection

By Brady Paquette, VI

In the heart of a diminutive, rustic town nestled between rolling hills and babbling brooks, there lived a chef named Dudo. Dudo was no ordinary chef, however; his culinary expertise whispered far beyond the kitchen. His dishes were portrayed not as ordinary meals, but as divine creations. With intricate designs and formulated recipes, these masterpieces left visitors happy and satisfied. He was able to conjure such dishes so that the intense juices danced on the tongue and filled the soul with delight. The life that surrounded Dudo was, well, perfect. Except for one thing: he lacked connection. A human connection. He had a way of reflecting his dishes in the effort in which he lived—except that there was no story to tell. But more importantly, no one to tell it with. While spending hours perfecting his craft in the kitchen, a sense of companionship never found its way into Dudo’s life. He longed for a sense of amity and felt an emptiness in his heart that had been left uncared for. His focus was always on his food, never the ones who enjoyed it. Dudo’s food was a way for him to connect to the outside world without actually surrendering an effort to form a connection. It was clear that Dudo was talented, no doubt about that. But a sense of vacuity led to a rather confined life for the young chef. It was just another night at the restaurant, and magic filled the air. A sudden silence ran imminent through the dining room when an elderly gentleman walked through the golden-slated doors. The gentleman’s age held a presence of itself, a weathered cane pounding against the floor as he approached his table. Wary of the sage’s presence, many ushered back to their respective conversations. After what had to be several hours, the man had finally finished his meal: a three-course dinner highlighting Dudo’s famous hors d’oeuvres trio. It was arranged on a sleek, circular plate carefully placed in fear of smudging the raspberry foam sauce surrounding the edges. Offering a tantalizing contrast of sweet yet sour, the truffleinfused amuse bouche culminates in a delicate garnish of microgreens to enhance the color portrayed on the plate. In concluding the meal, a melody of hazelnut crumble topped with a rhapsody velvet foam and graham

cracker wafer leaves the mouth punctured with a mesmerizing dance of flavors. Slowly, eyes veered around the restaurant, searching for an answer to the wise man’s expression. The elderly gentleman remained stoic, his face weathered with desolation. It had to be seconds of complete blankness, the man simply staring off into the distance, before he gestured to his waiter: “The chef, please.” Confusion ran through the waiter’s head, trying to balance a sense of timidity and professionalism in what came to a hesitant nodding of the head. Now, this was troublesome for the chef. Dudo had never seen, let alone interacted with any of his customers. But after witnessing the fear that weathered the waiter’s face, he seemed to have no choice but to investigate. Dudo whispered to himself: this is odd. And odd enough it was. The elderly gentleman muscled out his words: “I found your creation to be an intriguing exploration of taste,” continuing on with a darker tone, “yet it lacked a sense of vibrant personality and vivacious flair, merely leaving my mouth… unsatisfied.” Dudo was speechless. Was I dreaming? Everyone liked Dudo’s food. As he searched for an answer to this man’s blatant insult, the gentleman simply got up, grabbed his cane, and began to pound his way out of the restaurant. THUMP—THUMP— THUMP. Dudo’s legs struggled to support the heavy burden of what felt like five hundred pounds of metal chains drooping around his shoulders. Everyone knew Dudo, but at the time, it seemed that no one cared to acknowledge what had just happened. A physical being seemed to exist at the time of this event, yet his soul was two miles down the road, long gone before the prefrontal cortex could act upon the lingering emotions racing through Dudo’s mind.

Dawn turned to night, and night had turned to morning. It had been ten hours of pure sanctity. Life was at ease with its natural surroundings. Moments after the sun had risen over the horizon, Dudo’s soul had returned. With nothing more than a wave and a walk through the door, it leaped into the body of a being that was left astray.

Consciousness was regained. As bewilderment circulated Dudo’s mind, anger began to fester. Determined to find the source of his problems, Dudo set out on a journey to find answers. With a lack of discernment, Dudo relied on the little credence he had left and raced toward the other side of town: a much darker and eerie place to live. The leaves grew meek, their stems relentlessly holding on to what appeared to be a stream of

hollow trees. The sun rose in the east and set in the east, leaving nothing but dried tumbleweeds and dug-up roads for the west. With every crunch of a dead leaf, a little piece of Dudo seemed to be crunched away as well. Worry came over Dudo. That’s when he spotted the pawn shop, nestled behind bushes that appeared to have given up any spark of life. Behind the dusty shelves, he had spotted the old man, his cane holstered by his side. Sparkling with ancient wisdom and vulnerability, the sage greeted Dudo with elegance: “What brings you to this side of town, young chef?” Dudo hesitated a moment before pouring out his heart, unraveling the onion layer by layer. With each layer came anger, frustration, confusion, and, most of all, fear. Dudo was scared of what a life of food would lead to. More food? Consistent fleeting praise of his patrons? For the first time in his life, Dudo did not have an answer. There was no recipe. No set of instructions. No customer to please. Just him and his empty soul. The wise man knew the answer to his problems, but thought better of it. Instead, he went to grab a knife. Now this was no ordinary knife. It was the sharpest knife Dudo had ever seen, one that could slice through a stack of plates with ease. After handing over the knife, the sage explained that there was a way for Dudo to find that connection he’d been yearning for, a sense of satisfaction and joy. However, it wasn’t in this world. He would have to go on a journey to the real world—better known as the land of the humans. After making the journey, overcoming his own stubbornness, and finding the true meaning of food, only then will he find a connection—a real connection.

Appreciating the kind gesture of an old, worn-out knife, simply adding to his world-class collection, Dudo spat out his disapproval of the silly idea. Battling with the life he was given—a seemingly perfect world —and a future, most unknown to him, of purpose and meaning, Dudo turned rejection into curiosity. In hesitancy of being in the sage’s presence for too long, Dudo began to leave. Right before he walked out the door, the sage had yelled to him: “Remember, a life without cause is a life without effect.”

And with that, Dudo was inspired. Rejuvenated. Ambitious. There was a world out there he had forsaken to believe. On his journey back to the restaurant, Dudo strengthened his grip on the knife’s polished handle. He felt ready for change. He had locked his soul back into his body and threw out the key. Sitting in the kitchen, Dudo reflected on the old man’s

advice, looking at his whole life before him. That’s when it hit him. He needed to try one of his dishes. A story made up of himself had to be consumed by the provider in order to feel understood. The dish stared back at him, anticipating his next move. Dudo took a deep breath, set the knife down, and shoved every last crumb into his mouth. BOOM.

A bustling city filled with sky-scraping buildings and rampant streets surrounded Dudo. The human world dazzled his senses. Pulsing with life, neon signs tapered the backdrops of skyscrapers, and the roar of traffic filled the air. A hum of conversation lined the sidewalks and Dudo immediately felt the egocentric behavior loom, simultaneously bumping into dozens of people. The smell of cigars filled the atmosphere like a cloud of smoke amidst the eye of the storm. The bright lights shattered the fog and the hour of night became illuminated. A world foreign to the young chef engulfed with an air of nonchalance. Driven by an unshakeable determination to find what he sought, Dudo pressed on. In this strange new world, Dudo took on the guise he had known so well: a talented chef. In managing to open a restaurant all by himself, Dudo felt a sense of strength and perseverance he was foreign to. Managing himself and a restaurant business built from scratch taught Dudo life lessons. The downs seemed to outweigh the ups almost every day. Mistakes were made. He had failed to learn customer service skills. But the one thing that held true was his food. The patrons in this new world were of the many things Dudo failed to be impressed by: impoliteness, havoc, and chaos. They had eaten, chewed, and gulped down his food rather than tasted it. But no matter how irritated Dudo was by their presence, the glooming satisfaction on their faces left both Dudo and his customers fulfilled. Complete and utter relief. Similar to his world, he captured the hearts of the many who dined at his restaurant. Amidst the struggles, Dudo had found his place in this new world. However, the world around him gleamed with imperfection. Everywhere he went, people were yelling at other people—shouting, spitting, and cursing. The roads were filled with leftover wrappers, paper napkins, and plastic utensils, all of which Dudo learned to stem from—something the humans called—a “cheeseburger.” [If you ever asked Dudo about his thoughts on the “cheeseburger,” he would start by being disgusted that you even asked him the question. He would then go on to list the nauseatingly unhealthy ingredients that factored into composing the dish: a lump of

processed meat complemented by the runny sauces people seemed to use with almost everything. Instead of a plate filled with stories of intricate sauces and dazzling spices, it was held together by a weathered, plastic wrapper. One so useless it was left unattended along the sidewalks.] It was just another wintery day as Dudo was strolling the streets of Oklahoma City. He had an interest in studying menus and began to learn their style of cooking, one much different than his own. They often used these big, round pieces of metal called “smokers” along with deep pans of greasy oil used to immerse food in heat and air to create seared dishes. Amidst the filth, he found it intriguing. In search of fresh ingredients for his latest creation, Dudo set off. As he meandered through the colorful stores, his eyes were drawn to this young woman. Dudo had never seen a woman so beautiful in his life. She stood amidst the crowd, her eyes sparkling with a radiant smile that seemed more authentic than a flower in a field of grass. With moments passing by, Dudo found himself drawn to her side. His smell of food intensified and the bouquet of flowers encircling the store began to irradiate. Her fingers delicately traced the contours of the vibrant flowers, relishing each pedal. “You're beautiful,” he remarked, unable to tear his gaze away from her amazing aura. You're beautiful?! How could he be so stupid? Those flowers are beautiful, is what he meant to say. Realizing his profound mistake, he started, “I meant to sa—” The young woman stopped him. Impressed by how forthright he was, she looked at him with interest. “Thank you,” she replied, her voice soft and melodic. Dudo’s cheeks went red with embarrassment, but curiosity ran through his head. Feeling the need to revitalize the interaction, Dudo began to introduce himself. As they exchanged pleasantries, a sense of warmth washed over the two, and his soul, little by little, drew closer to his heart. With each passing moment, Dudo found himself entranced by her presence, a laughter he had been unfamiliar with for far too long. They shared stories, their conversation flowing effortlessly like a river winding its way through the city streets. Before they knew it, the sun had dipped below the horizon and a warm aurora covered the skyline. A newfound connection had been born.

With the smooth-sailing company of this new girl, enjoyment started to become a staple in Dudo’s new life. But the part Dudo found most attractive about this girl was not found in her joyous laughter or the

serenity he felt when she walked into the room; rather, it was the way her eyes sparkled when she looked at him, feeling the weight of her gaze deep within his chest. With this, Dudo had just one thing left to do; she needed to try his food. In order to truly feel for this young chef, she would have to embrace what Dudo worked so hard at. Tasting what came to life was all part of the experience. His experience. And this, unto anything, she was seemingly innocent of knowing. With the girl on his mind, he began to craft the best dish he had made to date. The trio of canapés was the star of the plate, showcasing hand-cut slices of pan-seared salmon with a complement of petite fig and prosciutto crostini bites. Flanked with a lavender-infused beef tartare to enhance an earthy sweetness meant to revitalize the taste buds, the dish concluded with an invigorating zest of citrus watermelon grown straight from the depths of northern Algeria. She was amazed by the design. Intrigued by his artsy craft. But most importantly, bewildered by the flavors that came to life in her mouth, a sensation of euphoria. And with this, her face ran blank, a neutral look of mediocrity. Anticipation filled Dudo’s head, leaving his words astray to mere desolation. Affection for his food became distant. Dudo began to wonder what he had done wrong. Meal after meal, dish after dish, Dudo pushed relentlessly to win over her taste buds; he altered his ingredients, formed different designs, and used more articulated recipes. Dudo was again lost. At the end of the day, it didn’t really matter whether she enjoyed his food or not. The young chef was incapable of opening up his mind and exploring the possibility that a connection could exist through emotional correspondence, not just the satisfaction of one’s food.

This one-sided connection of prioritizing food was confusing to the young girl. With that said, she was able to learn stories about Dudo through his meals. His unique chocolate ganache embroidered a hidden treasure trove of rich, goldy-lox-colored chocolate. The dish made each bite feel like another layer of the treat had been unfolded. Like Dudo, the more you learn, the richer it gets, and the closer you feel to the center. Dudo had a way of transporting her into a realm of culinary bliss transcending his three major components to a perfect dish: taste, texture, and aroma. Unfortunately for him, Dudo never seemed to realize the true problem: she wanted a connection with him, not his food. His whole life, Dudo hid who

he was behind his dishes. He was able to use his culinary expertise to portray who he was.

The mighty young chef was defeated. His worst fears had come alive and the world around him seemed all too familiar to the one he left behind. Food was Dudo’s number one priority. And for good reason. Without food, he would be no where. But because of food, he is unable to truly explore the imperfect world of what humans have to offer. Weird, she thought. It was only then that his much-needed counter-piece offered him a way out of his misery, a rope to escape from. She noticed that Dudo only ate his own food, so with this, she made him try his worst fear: the classic, Oklahoma City-style juicy cheeseburger. She prepared for immediate resistance and knowingly made the dish herself. He felt he had no choice but to taste the contraption of ingredients. It was only then that Dudo remembered the wise words the old sage from the pawn shop had once poured unto him: “A life without cause is a life without effect.” This could be his cause! Hoping to satisfy his love, he built up the courage to take a real bite. Diving into the meat felt like he was betraying everything he had stood for: his intricate style, tasteful flavors, and perfection at the highest level. Temptation demanded him to go back, but Dudo was too deep. A cheeseburger so juicy, the sauce repelled from the meat splashing into every crevice of Dudo’s mouth, hardly able to breathe. It seemed surreal. He loved it! So he continued to chew and swallow. And chew. And swallow. He demolished the mold of tender meat with the razors he called teeth and the runny mustard mixed with a grease-filled brioche bun and the ends of what happened to be the crispiest bacon he ever tasted. His head started spinning and the world around him began to blur. Had the gods of his world punished him? Was his time in the human world over? But no; rather, the opposite. Dudo finally broke the boundary between what a perfect and imperfect dish could look like. But he loved it. Never in his life had he felt anything like this. The “Great Wall of Dudo” had been destroyed and his era of perfection had finally come to an end. The world was not perfect, but that was the point. Realization struck the soul of Dudo and unlocked a newfound sense of freedom. The ability to make mistakes. Confinement of flawlessness was no longer a weighing burden. By the end of the night, Dudo had finished at least a dozen cheeseburgers and dumbfounded the pressurizing stability of his chair’s legs in hopes of keeping him afloat.

Dudo loved what this new outlook on life offered to him. He started to indulge in all the different kinds of imperfection he could find: deep-dish pizza, Mexican-style burritos, and ice cream sundaes. He inhabited a love for gooeyness. The schmaltzy cheese from a quesadilla or the sticky syrup atop a freshly powered slate of fried dough became Dudo’s go-to meal. As a testament to the lesser things in life, Dudo found himself orchestrating experiences of deliberate joy, open-mindedness, and a more unrestricted attitude. Instead of hiding away from it, Dudo began to relish every sticky finger and sauce-smeared face as a badge of honor. In spending time with his newfound love, he grew to find everything about her interesting and good-natured: the way she talked while she ate, slipped when she walked, and laughed so hard she would cry. These aspects of her he simply did not understand, but he had finally formed the connection he had long yearned for— and food was not his priority for the first time in his life.

Dudo was eager to stay and enjoy the pleasantries of the messy world. In refusing to return to his rustic town, a sense of trepidation came over Dudo. One too little to notice at first, but circulated in his mind for days. He compounded his thoughts of freedom with hesitancy to revert back to his original self. Bearing the weight of losing this city, these people, and his love was all too much to bear for the young chef. In need of a solution, his mind raced to the food. In times of stress, Dudo found comfort in designing his new menu. One that would consist of thick sausages and cheesy garlic bread, mushy queso complemented by multifaceted nachos, and buttery danishes with disheveled jam. While cooking, he remembered his customers back in his own world. Remembering that they were just as familiar with the circuitous-style dishes as he had been. Two worlds blind to one another needed a connection that had yet to be formed.

And with this, Dudo plotted his way home. The patrons of his world needed Dudo just as Dudo had needed this girl. The young chef returned to his world with the sense of flaw he had successfully embraced. Dudo relished all of his dishes with imperfection. Latched to his side perched the gift Dudo had failed to appreciate for far too long: the sage’s disheveled cooking knife. In preparing every dish and assembling every ingredient, Dudo had used his knife more than any appliance in his kitchen. He was

now able to tell a story which he never told. And with slight hesitation at first, his consumers began to love it. With liberation in the air, Dudo needed nothing more than a kiss from his girl and a stain on his apron. The satisfaction on their faces held nothing but utter emotion.

And so, in a world where magic and reality, perfection and imperfection, persistence and compliancy intertwined, a young chef and a human girl found happiness in each other’s arms, proving that sometimes, the greatest adventures are the ones that lead us to the ones we love.

Bright Eyes

By Jaiden Lee, V

The fall was too steep but I didn’t care.

The fall was too scary but I didn’t care.

The fall was too painful but I didn’t care.

The night was dark, as cars swooped by a merry anthem of “Jingle Bells” ringing off in the distance on a dreary night of Christmas Eve.

A boy who once had eyes full of stars, brighter than the sun, brighter than the moon, stood trembling at the ledge of a bridge and looked down.

My heart once beat, but I didn’t care.

My face once flushed, but I didn’t care.

My eyes once shone, but I didn’t care.

The light in his eyes had disappeared, failing to remember what had once been, failing to remember what Ma had once said— “Come home, boy. Don’t lose your shine, boy.” The bruises on his hands had faded away,

but the scars would never leave him, just like Da would never take him, a constant reminder of what he was— “Worthless.”

I’m scared. I’m scared. I’m scared.

A voice called out behind the boy–did he dare imagine it? The boy did not look back, for fear of escaping a bitter end for failing to get out of this hell of lonely songs and empty words. A voice called out behind the boy–but he merely opened his cracked lips, and gasped “I want it to end.”

I close my eyes. I don’t want to see it anymore. I don’t want to hear it anymore. I don’t want to breathe.

It was snowing. As the taste of cold wind cut his tongue, As the lone tear on his cheek froze solid, As time itself stopped still, Another voice called out and this time it was surely in his head.

It was Ma.

The boy screamed out in a ragged cry of ferocity, clutching his chest bursting with broken dreams–“Ma, I don’t want to die.”

My legs buckle, and I sit on the icy ledge. My eyes are closed, but it’s not dark anymore. As a pinpoint of light in front of me grows and grows and grows I smile.

Ma, I’m home.