“Life as wonderfully insane as Wonderland, / colorfully collaborated into a curiouser dream.” - from “Alice’s Inquiry” by Austin Tucker ’11 “Because the leaders are looking out for us sheep / That I wonder, where do all these / Brave Americans sleep?” - from “Wake Up” by Bryce Muzzy ’10 “O Captain, No Captain. / In an instance the silver hair is cut. / His era finally laid to rest” - from “Leader’s Heir” by Sam Smith ’11 “Oh, Double-Double, cocaine of my inner life / Mountains of leafy greens and bulbous red fruit” - from “Oh Glorious Burger” by Will Marston ’10 “I stood there with my mother, my hands linked behind my back by the creased hooks that my index fingers formed / The amplifying sound of the approaching, rusty elevator was finally
eased off by a revolting screech.” - from “Are We Still Hear?” by Gabriel Alba-Rivera ’13 “Stranged all of us by the obscure black planes of eternity / Quietly beckoning for us / Why can’t we escape the binding bonds / Of lethargic laws that daddy took so long to trim” - from “Pompeii in the Sky” by Colin Marston ’13 “They control the world because they control the board, and because we think the board is real” - from “Confessional” by Colton Chase ’12 “I’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places that this heart of mine embraces all day through.” - from “I’ll Be Seeing You” by Jackson Santy ’13 “At parties, he had all the company he needed, but it was always impersonal. He had a great impersonal life.” - from “This Is Where
The Title Goes” by Kieran Martin ’13 “If I had learned anything from ‘The Lion King,’ ‘The Princess Bride,’ and ‘Beauty And the Beast’ about love, then I knew this was it” - from “Bungee Cords, Dream Girls, and Rapid Wolf Love” by Jackson Santy ’13 “As the night deepened, we fell asleep without noticing… Wrapped in the night sky, the world was tiny again” - from “Hatching” by Alex Keating ’14 “He dragged me around with my dead best friend sewn to my side” - from “Shoe Plea” by Jack Rose ‘16 “They whisper about him, about why he is on the side of the street every day at the same time. ” - from “A Walk Among the Branches” by Anthony Cardellini ’17 “Solemn bellows beckon me from my slumber. The
drapery neglects to protect the windows entirely, through the gaps, the looming moon casts an unearthly glare” - from “Might She Araud Again” by Wyatt Mullins ’16 “It was over in seconds... A swift feeling of pain marked the end to a dire situation. I never knew something so simple could feel like annihilating the entire universe” - from “Seconds of Violence” by Michael Grindey ’18 “And maybe it’s all a joke, / a mere sardonic mockery. / But one day we’ll be woke, / And this is all we’ll see.” - from “This Can’t Be Real” by Alex Bhatt ’17 “CAPITAL CITY (AP) –– ... Emergency personnel have worked day and night digging through the rubble to get to civilians trapped below.” - from “Capital City” by Kenta Sachen ’17
BROPH Y L I T E R ARY AND ARTS MAGAZ IN E VOLUME 10
2018 Brophy College Preparatory 4701 North Central Avenue Phoenix, AZ 85012 602.264.5291 blam.brophyprep.org
BLAM hasitshittenth its tenth birthday, so happy birthday us! Ten BLAM has hit birthday, so happy birthday to us!toTen years years is a significant milestone. We’ve hit double digits, had multiis a significant milestone. We’ve hit double digits, had multiple ple pieces published, have people passing torch pieces published, andand have hadhad people passing the the torch overover and and again, different editorial staffs in magazine’s the magazine’s overover again, withwith eighteight different editorial staffs in the period. period. For magazine, this magazine, ten years is significant a couple of reaFor this ten years is significant for afor couple of reasons. sons. Even before BLAM , The Tower was the dominant force for Even before BLAM, The Tower was the dominant force for arts arts culture on campus It means innovation in format, starting culture on campus (56).(64). It means innovation in format, starting as as a humble pamphlet, transfering become a square, and evolving a humble pamphlet, transfering to to become a square, and evolvinto the sleek, rectangular magazine in front of you. It means innoing into the sleek, rectangular magazine in front of you. It means vation in how such such as judging submissions anonymousinnovation in we howdowethings, do things, as judging submissions anonly, changing websites, and developing contests. ymously, changing websites, and developing contests. (Staff memBLAM is still growing and Go evolving. bers However, aren’t allowed to submit to contests. back further than just Thisthree year,years) new strides and milestones have been achieved. Subthe last missions happen by growing Google Form, the first BLAM Slam took However,now BLAM is still and evolving. place — a student-written slamhave competition where the winner This year, new strides and poetry milestones been achieved. Sub(Camden Andl ’19) is published in the magazine (82), and BLAM missions now happen by Google Form, the first BLAM Slam has to become morepoetry involved the community to act tooktaken placesteps -- a student-written slamincompetition where theas awinner clearer(Camden voice that calls’19) for isunity through writing.(72), and Andl published in art theand magazine Some thesesteps stepstotowards with the BLAM hasoftaken becomeunity moreincluded involvedpartnering in the community Brophy support DREAMers (“Poetry Series,” 84) to act asAdvocacy a clearer Club voice to that calls for unity through art and writing. and working with the Black Student Union to appreciate the African Some of these steps towards unity included partnering with the American Literature canon by having students read popular works Brophy Advocacy Club to support DREAMers (Poetry Series, 74) from the canon. and working with the Black Student Union to appreciate the Afour evolution, we are trying make students space forread more perricanInAmerican Literature canon bytohaving popular spectives andthe voices on campus, especially with the aforementioned works from canon. anonymous submissions in to collaborating otherperspectives student In our evolution, we are and trying make spacewith for more organizations. We wantespecially to includewith the the forgotten variables on our and voices on campus, aforementioned anonycampus. mous submissions and in collaborating with other student organiza“X”toisinclude our theme this year. We strive to look back tions.And Weso want the for forgotten variables on our campus. on thesopast, on changes that have occurred, while also And “X” reflecting is our theme for this year. We strive to look back looking forward to new and exciting changes. We incorporate new on the past, reflecting on changes that have occurred, while also voices the rich and vibrant history not only ofnew this voices magazine, lookinginto forward to new and exciting changes, the into but Brophy Prephistory as a whole. the richCollege and vibrant of not only this magazine, but Brophy In looking and thinking about this theme, I grew nostalgic. College Prep asback a whole.
Being the back Editor-in-Chief of about this magazine andI having been a part In looking and thinking this theme, grew nostalgic. Beof BLAM for four years, I wanted to create a lense for the magazine ing the Editor in Chief of this magazine and having been a part of to years, how I Isee it in looking back. Andfor so,the themagazine themes from the itsimilar for four wanted to create a lense similar first three my time here emerged obvious choices. to how I seeyears it in of looking back. And so, theas themes from the first themy magazine hasemerged been divided into four sections to pay three Thus, years of time here as obvious choices. homage BLAM shas of those years. ( ) looks back to Thus, theto magazine been past divided intoRoots four sections to pay hom2017, and includes pieces that have nature themes or themes of retage to BLAMs of those past years. Roots ( ) looks back to 2017, rospection. Corners ( ) looks back 2016,of and includes and includesFurthest pieces that have nature themes or to themes retropieces that really push the (boundaries writing andand narrative. Into spection. Furthest Corners ) looks of back to 2016, includes The Mind ( ) looks to 2015, and includes that trupieces that really push back the boundaries of itwriting andpieces narrative. ly dive characters andback focustoon introspection. Finally X isthat our Into Theinto Mind ( ) looks 2015, and it includes pieces theme for this year, which will include contest winners from the truly dive into the characters and focus on introspection. Finally past along withfor featured pieces forwill theinclude publication. Similar to a dicXyear is our theme this year, which contest winners tionary, of the sections markedpieces by a tab to the right from the each past year along withisfeatured forand thecolor publication. hand side the page, green Roots, yellow for Furthest Corners, Similar to aofdictionary, each offor the sections is marked by a tab and navy to blue Intohand the Mind, forgreen X. The is similar color thefor right side ofand the red page, for magazine Roots, yellow for to how I see it in looking back on my years on BLAM . Furthest Corners, navy blue for Into the Mind, and red for X. The These three publication shaped magazine is last similar to years how Iwith see itthis in looking backhave on my yearshow at I think about art, from and how something does of notmy need to be Brophy. Andwriting so, the and themes the first three years time fromemerged a full-time creator to be professional. Additionally, it’s taught here as obvious choices. me thelast value of years a student-lead like BLAM These three with this publication have shaped, and howhow I it gives students an opportunity to learn about production and think about writing and art, and how something doesn’t need design. to be Withathis being creator my last to year the publication, and withit’s thistaught year’s from full-time beon professional. Additionally, theme, it’s hard not feel sentimental. I’dlike likeBLAM, to give and a special me the value of ato student-lead publication how it thanks to our an moderators, Mr. ’97 and Mr. Austin gives students opportunity toJohn learnDamaso about production and design. Pidgeon as my welllast as year to any on campus who hasthis contribWith this ’08, being onstudent the publication, and with year’s uted to this magazine in the last four years. I am grateful for the theme, it’s hard to not feel sentimental. I’d like to give a special opportunities to expand my craft in Damaso writing as’97 well to be able to thanks to our moderators, Mr. John andasMr. Austin lead such a stellar Pidgeon ’08, as wellpublication. as to any student on campus who has contributed to this magazine in the last four years. I’m grateful to the opporWith that being my honor to present you:toBLAM tunities to expand my said, craft it’s in writing as well as to betoable lead X. such a stellar publication. —Graham Armknecht ’18, Editor-in-Chief With that being said, it’s my honor to present to you: BLAM X. -Graham Armknecht, Editor in Chief
TABLE OF CONTENTS ROOTS
9. Misty Isles / Jack Bennan ’21 / Poetry 10. Wander / Dennis Naughton ’21 / Poetry 13. Enter Title Here / Daniel Antillon ’19 / Poetry 14. Shut Up and Listen / Nik Kirk ’19 / Short Story 18. Elevation / Payton Bagshaw ’21 / Poetry 20. The Eagle and Vulture / Matthew Zacher ’18 / Poetry 22. Follow and Guide / Kris Noori ’20 / Prose
26. 10 Hours / Andrew Nahom ’18 / Short Story 32. Realm of Stars / Christian Kroemer ’18 / Short Story 34. Wander / Comer Wadzeck ’18 / Prose 38. Escape Your Limitations / Henry Palmer ’21 / Poetry 40. Struggle of Killing Holiday Icons / Johnathan Ray ’19 / Poetry
POETRY, PROSE, & DRAMA INTO THE MIND
42. I’m Lost / Andrew Cardellini ’19 / Poetry 45. Stories of a Man, Forgotten / Grant Theisen ’18 / Poetry 48. EXT. SCHOOLYARD / Bryce Grove ’19 / Screenplay 51. Change of Heart / Austin Berg ’18 / Prose 54. Afflictions: A Prose Poem in Four Parts / Brett Cohen ’18 / Prose Poem 59. 3 Ways of Looking at a Chess Player / Dave Mohan ’19 / Poetry
60. Into the Audience / John Couture ’18 / Screenplay
64. BLAM: Formerly Known As The Tower / Graham Armknecht ’18 / Feature 68. Dreamwalker / Ari Anderson ’21 / Prose 75. The Curse / Mark John Haak ’18 & Steven Hall ’18 / Erasure Poetry 78. Kayeet / Aidan Dunnigan ’20 / Short Story 80. A Senior’s Final Semester / Herman Sanghera ’18 / Short Story 82. BLAM SLAM: Sing Love Loudly / Camden Andl ’19 / Poetry 84. Poetry Series / Sam Krupp ’20 / Poetry
TABLE OF CONTENTS ROOTS
10. Fences / Matthew Ramella ’19 / Photography 12. Connected Arm / Charlie Albin ’18 / Photography 14. The Living Room / Jake Flaherty ’19 / Photography 16. Spilled Milk / Nicholas Park ’19 / Photography 17. Illuminating Tiger / Yanik Garcia Ayan ’18 / Scratchboard 18. Mile High / Max Farmer ’19 / Photography 20. The Vulture / RJ Heyman ’19 / Pencil 22. Home Away From Home / Charlie Regester ’18 / Photography
27. Fluorescent Adolescent / Manuel Vindiola Ceballos ’18 / Ink 28. Potassium / Ryan Cantrell ’18 / Oil Painting 30. Moon Man / Jake Flaherty ’19 / Photography 30. The Upside Down / Jake Inzalaco ’18 / Prismacolor 30. Broken Down / Max Farmer ’19 / Photography 30. Belafonte / Camden Andl ’19 / Photography 31. 52nd & Lincoln / Stokley Berg ’18 / Photography 31. Vintage / Matthew Ramella ’19 / Photography 32. A Swim Through Space / Camden Andl ’19 / Digital Illustration 35. Peace, Love, and All of the Above / Drew Burns ’18 / Photography 36. Banananananana / Max Farmer ’19 / Photography 38. Boundary Waters / Stokley Berg ’18 / Photography
VISUAL ART INTO THE MIND
42. The Beyond Zone / Max Farmer ’19 / Photography 44. Butternut / Stokley Berg ’18 / Photography 47. Stares Back / Avery Hodge ’19 / Prismacolor 49. From the Other Side / Matthew Peterson ’19 / Pencil 50. A Night’s Stay / Ryan Garlick ’18 / Photography 52. Upside-Down / Jackson Hollinger ’18 / Prismacolor 53. Relapse / Jake Inzalaco ’18 / Chalk 55. I Can’t Feel My Face / Jake Miller ’19 / Mixed Medium
56. Wistful Beggary / Eric Lin ’19 / Pencil 58. Anticipation / Peter Chong ’19 / Photography 61. Skull / Justin Loo ’19 / Pen
67. Spires and Fires / Nicholas Park ’19 / Photography 69. Trip Reflection / Max Farmer ’19 / Photography 73. Red Truck on a Runway / Ryan Garlick ’18 / Photography 76. Voiced / Matt Hartman ’20 / Digital Illustration 78. Plain Jane / Max Farmer ’19 / Photography 81. Herman-o-tron / Dhilan Patel ’20 / Photography 83. Trumpet Man / Jake Flaherty ’19 / Photography 85. Red / Stokley Berg ’18 / Photography
ROOTS â€” [roots]
1. nature 2. upbringing 3. connection 4. beginnings 5. support 6. origins 7. nostalgia
MISTY ISLES By Jack Bennan ’21
Waking to a foreign land, Mother Nature’s misty breath surrounds Storms of wind cry their icy tears The memories of bed covers sow the seeds of regret The dock emerges, masts grasping for the stars. Sudden tranquility, boats begin to come alive A quiet breeze brings the dense aroma of ocean air to greet my nose, acting as the ambassador of the sea. Plastic hits water as canvas sails flutter Water, a close friend quick to turn foe Expectations of greatness overcome by inexperience A sudden gust of wind blows past me, whispering in my ear the story of my ancestors that lived there before me The danger of rocky overhangs and spears of the unknown come into sight A quick turn and balance is unknown
Icy white-capped waves engulf me Self-induced resurrection and everlasting happiness A ship steering giant bellows in the distance Signaling the end of the day The damp hug of a wetsuit peeled off, only to be replaced by a mother’s A home-cooked meal awaits Grandma’s Shepherd’s pie meets my mouth Steaming potatoes doused in salt fulfill my appetite Finally, I lay my head to rest Asleep in a place I love, the rolling hills of Ireland A second home
Fence / Matthew Ramella â€™19 / Photography 10
By Dennis Naughton â€™21
Fallen monuments of pine surround me, Caressing me with their chilly embrace. Vibrantly colored birds zip through the woody slalom, Dodging leaves and bellowing their giddy song. Serenading the seemingly vacant forest with their crisp notes. Sound wave slams attack my back, Eyes frantic to catch their origin. A furry face, frozen with fear and primal surprise Vanishes into the thick plants, silently, with a turn of head. Ancient wood the only witness, Two-hoofed prints, the only trail. Pine needle pleasure invades my nostrils, Intermingling with a palpable scent of sawdust. Sharp cold spawns icy tendrils over my skin, Breath instantly liquified ahead, An assault by wet droplets of carbon dioxide. Frozen extremities are soothed by hot chocolate heat waves Reaching hands of delicious warmth all throughout. Airborne, still-warm ashes saturate all in their path Woolen clothes scream for scratching satisfaction. Distorting fireplace luminescence paints this scene, Smearing golden paint on the surrounding canvas, Revealing wonder on my face.
Connected Arm / Charlie Albin ‘18 / Photography
Connected Arm / Charlie Albin ’18 / Photography
T [EN ER TITLE HERE] By Daniel Antillon ’19
The grand mountain before me Too steep to climb The gargantuan cliffs made of numbers and symbols The rolling hills of text Reading… Annotating… Analyzing… I long to see the vast mountain ranges Of the park outside Not to stay cooped inside I wish to create a new history Not to examine what has already been created I yearn to analyze myself, my actions
Not the subtle choices an author makes in his bestseller Cutting myself loose I fall deep into nothingness Drifting away from the walls I used to call home A vagabond in search of something less demanding Instead of studying whether or not Aggregate Demand should Shift right Or left Because of an increase in inflation Instead of discussing the rotational motion The Acceleration Of Centripetal forces A lonely traveler seeking refuge The night falls, though there is still much road left to cover Falling into the kind embrace The sweet sensation known as relaxation and procrastination
The Living Room / Jake Flaherty ’19 / Photography
SHUT UP AND LISTEN By Nik Kirk ’19
A foreword from the author: In my mind, postmodernism is a bunch of junk covering a hidden nugget. Meta, meta, meta — that’s all that really matters in actuality. With that said, any attempt to obtain a lesson on an objective level from the literal meaning of the assemblage of words in this text is inherently flawed and a waste of time. Everything that you know, I know, or even your friend knows is utterly unverifiable. In fact, everything that everyone has ever known is nothing more than an extension of our human condition. We create systems and laws and equations and countless other constructs to order the stimuli that surround us, but they mean nothing outside of themselves. What is to say that our method of understanding is better than another? Divine providence, perhaps. But, even that is a long-shot. Now, being a Catholic myself, I’m not denying the importance of faith, but, once you escape the human consciousness, God seems a little less active in the natural world. I would argue that if you abandoned absolutely everything you knew and observed the universe just for a split second, all you would see is randomness. Escape the human construct and all you will see is utter chaos. There are molecules and objects moving through the universe for no reason at all, moving to who knows where, and taking whatever path they may come upon. Even on Earth, there are random evolutionary patterns, extinction events, and countless developments in weather and geography that have zero
rationale for their occurrence. Without any mode of explanation, the universe, at a microscopic and gargantuan level, on a longterm and momentary timescale, is nothing but uncertainty. Everything moves towards uncertainty. No matter how hard we try to subdue the thrashing monster of unknown into a nice, locked box, it will always escape. There will always be something we don’t know. This is simply a cosmological justification, however. Epistemologically, an unknown is inevitable. Everyone you know comes to truth in countless ways. You might be someone who requires explicit data and evidence to convince you of something, or you may be easily influenced by anecdotal testimony. Either way, you’d follow a different path to a truth even if you both came up with the same conclusion. It is an inherent part of humanity to be unique in these methodologies of truth-seeking. Randomness in genetics and different upbringings condition people to think differently, and consciousness and free will necessitate that everyone thinks in various ways. All of this points to an inescapable uncertainty that requires some degree of the unknown. If we all think in unique ways, we’ll be unable to use a singular, guaranteed method to find an indisputable truth. However, let’s pretend for a second that we all used the same method of thinking. Ontologically, we cannot be assured that everyone will draw the same conclusion. Here comes free will again, requiring
that everyone be entitled to their own interpretations of the stimuli that may enter this singular methodology. Unfortunately, we can’t all agree on a single truth that unifies us, and, consequently, we must accept that our beliefs are not universal dictums. You may be wanting to ask, “Why the hell are you talking circles to me about stuff I don’t even care about?” However, I implore you to not shun the unknown. First off, it’s literally impossible, but, second, it’s not fulfilling to go about life assuming everything you believe is the best and only way of thinking. So, be open to uncertainty, to the idea that you may just be wrong (because you probably are). The unknown should not be feared nor condemned. It should be welcomed with open arms and celebration and music. Shut up and listen for once, you might learn that you actually know nothing, which is good, because that’s the first step in experiencing life and journeying toward a distant, perhaps unattainable, truth.
Spilled Milk / Nicholas Park â€™19 / Photography 16
Illuminating Tiger / Yanik Garcia Ayan â€™18 / Scratchboard 17
By Payton Bagshaw ’21
Mile High / Max Farmer ’19 / Photography Title / Johnny Bronco ‘18 / Medium 18
Weathered from many travelers, The winding, tattered tarmac ahead Leads to a place only it knows. It revels in guiding its many travelers Through the forested mountain path. As I exit the weathered minivan, A seasoned veteran in its craft, An exhilarating burst of fresh air welcomes me, A rare occurrence in the metropolitan. The wind engulfs my facemask, Leaving a tanging taste of pine on my lips. Hollow caverns below Mirror the hawkâ€™s lament above. A resounding battle cry Slices through the stratosphere As vigilant birds Continue their circular survey. Sharp winds of elevation
Punish exposed skin With relentless ferocity. Typically vigilant soldiers, The bending pine trees are caught sleeping, Helpless in shielding my stinging face. Crisp, cold air Relieves my lungs of pressure. The sharp scent of pine Envelopes my nose. The humidity in the air Unveils a flavor of the approaching climate. The summit was near.
The Vulture / RJ Heyman â€™19 / Pencil 20
THE EAGLE AND THE VULTURE By Matthew Zacher ’18
An eagle rests on a sturdy wood as pilgrims arrived at Plymouth and stood And as Washington led the siege at Yorktown the eagle surely soars around And as Lincoln uttered “four score” The eagle flies there once more And when women gathered at Seneca and King preached from a cell the same eagle is there as well But nearby a vulture chases a wounded doe as a soldier’s blood spilled in the snow And as a black man took the lash of the whip the vulture waits and licks his lip And as the votes of women lay wasted aside the ballot box the vulture perches there on jagged rock And as turbans are attacked when towers fall the vulture stands there proud and tall But when the vulture seeks the sturdy wood the eagle remains perched there defending the good
Home Away From Home / Charlie Regester â€™18 / Photography 22
FOLLOW AND GUIDE By Kris Noori ’20
Down yet another man, our group was down to 13. Every year, the tribe of Meiji selects a group of around 18 men to search Redem Island (located southeast of the tribe) for remnants of artifacts and even life in the ruins of this wasteland. When the Redem volcano unexpectedly erupted almost 10 years ago, many of the tribes’ own members were killed, thus beginning the ritual. In years past, voyages had brought back clues hinting towards the island’s natural tendencies and additional information regarding the original men. This year, while ready to head back, a fire burned the team’s navigation supplies, and before long they panicked and got lost. Luckily, that is when I stumbled across these 18 stranded men. I was a native to the land for almost my entire life, yet knew so little about it. About three years ago, I made an attempt to hike the famed mountains here at Redem, but severe miscalculations left me alone in the depths of the woodlands. I always had a dream: to find my way home. Not my childhood house or town, but somewhere where I was appreciated, needed, and loved. This place only existed for me in fantasy, for I had no sig-
nificant talents, and was more of a follower than leader. Despite this, the lost explorers welcomed me with open arms. Together, we cared for each other and ourselves, starting a mini society in the wilderness. We learned to live in harmony with nature and to fend for ourselves. But that only lasted so long. Our first victim intentionally took his own life. It seemed as if the sheer humiliation brought upon him by our new barbaric life was too much to handle. Then, another two; the mental, physical and emotional strain was something their bodies were unequipped for. The rest of us stayed strong - months later we still had 13. Yet that was only in body, for our minds were being torn apart. But just as our idealized visions were being stripped away, help arrived. Hours after our 14th went down, I stumbled upon a torn up letter. Simply, yet oddly vague and mysterious, it said, “You will receive help on the last day of the week.” From whom, how, ways we should prepare - none of that I knew. Then, I lost sight of it, almost as if I had been hallucinating and it was never actually there. Yet real or not, I believed in the the truth inscribed in those words, and so I reported my revelation to the tribe.
Despite having experienced firsthand the devastation and deceit of hope, it was all we had. Losing lives started to incite nostalgia, even surrender, like an elderly person as their age dwindles. And so we waited, continuing to fight the futile war. On the seventh day, the 12 men sat together, saying some kind of tribal prayer. Any semblance of prayer at this point obviously meant nothing to them, but sometimes the maintenance of routine can be oddly comforting. I, on the other hand, explored the exterior, surveying in case help was coming. A feeling of self-doubt had taken over my life for the last few days; my comrades were counting on help today, and if none came, I would be to blame. I continued to pace incessantly, until, out of the corner of my eye, I thought I caught the sight of a man. I could only make out an extremely faint image of him, yet I was certain he was there. He appeared to be dressed in all black, but an aura of light seemingly radiated from his body. In a subtle, yet unmistakable gesture, he signaled for me to follow him. I knew this was it. Unable to control myself, I immediately shouted, “FOLLOW ME GUYS! I THINK SOMEONE IS TRYING TO GUIDE US BACK HOME!”
My companions tried to ask questions, but I was already running to catch up, for the man had begun. His movements were calculated, graceful, and perfect. He stumbled not a bit, sifting through each obstacle as if it weren’t there. He never turned around, nor did he wait. It was quite challenging in fact just to keep up with him, as I also was guiding the 12 behind me. All this time, I could never get any closer to him. Still, the only image I could make out was his black garment and his gleaming light. The rush and uncertainty of it all, coupled with the immense focus required of me, made a day’s journey pass in minutes. As we began to glimpse the sight of home, the screams and tears of joy began. Months of longing for loved ones, fearing death, maybe even desiring it, all culminated in this one moment. The town was already expecting us: they had been notified when we were thirty minutes away. Deep embraces followed, ones like I had never seen before. It was genuinely a magical, picturesque moment. But I was silent, completely overwhelmed with emotions. On one hand, everyone was quick to congratulate me, still thinking I had led the way. But when I tried to explain to them that it was the man who paved the way, I realized that he had disappeared; they thought I was deflecting the glory. On the other hand, I felt alone. I always knew this day would come, everyone having a home to return to except me. Seeing their faces and experiencing their
joy made me feel an underlying, subtle pain inside. My journey was over, and now I had nowhere to go. Until, like a sign from above, I saw the figure of the man once again. At first, I thought that my new mission would be to find out who he was, if he was even real. In reality, though, he was signaling for me to follow him; my journey was not over just yet. Despite slight uneasiness, I knew I had gotten so far following this mystical being - I couldn’t stop now. I knew exactly where we were headed, just me and him: right back to where I stayed with the men. This time, the trip was completely silent. I couldn’t help but feel that I accomplished some myself, even if just by following. Now, the world seemed to fall into harmony, and I was able to make sense of everything around me. I thought back to my comrades, and felt an odd detachment from self-want, as if my their pleasure had become my own. To them, it was as if the man wasn’t there; they truly thought that I had some sort of revelation, some divine powers that allowed me to save their lives. Who knows. Maybe I did. I looked at the man, who all of a sudden started to look less and less defined, almost as if he was becoming one with his surroundings. Nevertheless, his presence only intensified, his guidance gleaming clearer than ever. After all, reality isn’t necessarily something we can see with our eyes. Finally, we arrived at the original fort that the 18 men and I had built in the wil-
derness. For the first time, I heard the man’s voice. By now, I completely lost track of him, even though I could feel him walking by my side. “You had no home, no people to return to, but you will not go without reward,” he said. We paced a few hundred more feet, and reached a worn-down fireplace. “You have long wondered about me, who is behind this black figure. Your gift: I have let you know who I am.” But by then, of course, I already knew who he was. As he vanished off back into the heavens, I heard the sound of a nearby woman calling for help - she was lost.
FUR•THEST COR•NERS [´f rTH st korn rs] e
1. 2. 3. 4. 5.
imagination will thought expanding realities pushing limits
10 HOURS By Andrew Nahom ’18
“10 fucking hours?” “Yep. Says so right here.” He gestures to the front pocket of his satin jacket wherein I presume a creased ticket reveals the ugly fact. I know how long the flight will be — I’ve known for weeks — but what is waiting in an airport without whining on about the impending agony of half a day spent in an aluminium tube 39,000 feet above the ground? He feigns sympathy in a poor attempt to mask his own thinly-veiled enthusiasm for travel. It’s not difficult to pass off 10 hours in a plane as a minor inconvenience when you aren’t as tall as I am, when the felt seat back doesn’t appear as an oppressive invader dispassionately suffocating its victim without concern. “What seat are you?” “22 goddamn B. Middle.” I glance up as we’re interrupted by a woman asking for my ticket. She’s pretty, but cold, her smile as contemptuous as it is alluring. She slides it back, an obol for Charon, and we shuffle on toward the plane. I have to duck my head as we step inside and process down the aisle. 18, 19, 20, 21, 22 — my eyes lock with the girl sitting in 22A. She is a vision of beauty (I would later attribute this feeling primarily to the pessimistic fatalism in which I had been
swimming that morning, but rationality can wait). I check to make sure it’s row 22. It is. My eyes dart away, but they quickly return as a broad grin is spreading itself across my face. Plane distress dissolves like sugar in tea. A minute later and we’re talking about something, I’m not sure what. My gaze is utterly and uncontrollably fixated upon her. Entranced by her lips’ motion, so composed and so elegant, the words escaping don’t matter much to me. I can easily tell by her body language that she likes me. A brush of her index finger on my forearm, an authentic laugh as she plays with her golden hair. Someone else sits beside me, but I don’t even bother to look away.
I’m so elated by our connection that I’m not even bothered when she puts headphones in her ears, leans toward the window, and flutters her eyelids shut as the plane takes flight… ——— I fly first class for the lack of connection. I loathe being confined and forced to talk to the stares. And there are so many of them, everywhere I go. But usually I don’t have to talk to them. The first few times I flew were coach, and I quickly realized that the stares equate my lack of ability to leave with an interest in them. That’s why I fly first class. There’s less conversation expected of me in first class.
Fluorescent Adolescent / Manuel Vindiola Ceballos â€™18 / Ink
Potassium / Ryan Cantrell â€™18 / Oil Painting 28
At check-in, an airport employee says that my ticket has been downgraded. I’ll be sitting in 22A. Coach. At least it’s a window. The lady who takes my ticket as we board notices the change from first class to coach, and a look of warm compassion flashes across her face. She has sad eyes that remind me of myself. I can tell she knows the stares. Perhaps she flies first class too. I make my way to the back of the plane hastily. Minutes later, an uncomfortable-looking boy is standing by my side, explaining that he has the seat next to mine. For an elusive moment, he appears different, but his expression rapidly shifts when our eyes meet, and I know he is another one of the starers. I’m obligated to utter the required niceties, but it doesn’t matter because he doesn’t hear what I say. I fidget with my hair uneasily, but try to cover my discomfort with a strained laugh and a wave of hand. Another one sits next to him and my entrapment is solidified. As the plane takes off, I put in headphones and turn to the window, resigning myself to the inescapability of the starers that will be with me for the next 10 hours.
From left to right: Moon Man / Jake Flaherty ’19 / Photography The Upside Down / Jake Inzalaco ’18 / Prismacolor Broken Down / Max Farmer ’19 / Photography Belafonte / Camden Andl ’19 / Photography 52nd & Lincoln / Stokley Berg ’18 / Photography Vintage / Matthew Ramella ’19 / Photography
REALM OF STARS By Christian Kroemer ’18
There was only a deep black that surrounded her. She sat in the middle of a dead world. Above her, a clear night sky. The dim and dead stars were her only light. The sky then crawled downward until it reached a horizon. Then, the water started. Only a thin layer of water that was an inch deep went from one horizon to the other. It was completely still and perfectly reflected the constellations above the girl. Everything around her was static. In front of the girl were the only other sources of light. All that she had were hand sized seals of light. There was an outer circle and an inner circle. Between each were small and ancient characters of text. She never learned what they said, though. Then, inside of the inner circle was the seven-point divine star. The seals transmitted the sounds of the Middle Realm into her domain. It was always the same sounds as usual. Maybe a soldier was fighting another, a rich woman was counting her money, or possibly a merchant was trying to smooth talk an ignorant customer. It was so depressing to hear the sounds of pain from the Middle Realm. To her, it was no different from the Under Realm. All she was left to do was listen for eons.
The girl sat in the middle of the water with her head bowed. “Ugh, I’m so bored!” the girl cried as she threw up her head and fell back onto the water. The soft splash sent ripples to the edge of the horizon, then disappeared. As she laid on her back, the girl stared up at the stars. In the past, she had summoned the seven sins of her soul to keep her company. However, they always ended up talking about the same things. There was little to talk about in such a dead and dormant world. When was the last time that she had called for them? The passage of time was nonexistent in the realm of stars. She could sometimes piece together what time it was in the middle realm, but at any time, one part of that realm was night and the other was day. Her realm was always dark. Thus, it might have been a couple days, a week, or maybe a millennia since she had last talked with her sins. Nothing new was ever going to happen and nothing was ever going to change, the girl thought. “Have you ever considered it? This world is ugly, despotic, and full of injustice,” a young man’s voice from one of her discs said. “No kidding,” the girl responded,
though she knew the person could not hear her. “And yet, it always fascinates me how creatures overcome evil without any divine providence. I want us to make our mark on this middle realm since it is such a beautiful world to live in,” the voice continued. The girl’s eyes widened and she sat herself upright again. “Come on Ryalto. Let’s go on an adventure,” the voice finished. In her realm, there was a large glimmer. She looked up and saw a new star that she had never seen before. It was clear, bright, and almost illuminated the entire realm like a full moon before dimming to the brightest star in the sky. “What is this?” the girl asked herself looking up at the new star, “Who is he?” The girl’s heart was very excited. It was a completely unusual feeling for her. Never before had she felt so light. Never before had she felt so engaged. Never before had she felt so excited. She looked back at the silent seal and wondered aloud to herself, “What will you do?”
A Swim Through Space / Camden Andl â€™19 / Digital Illustration 33
By Comer Wadzeck ’18 He slipped into the liquid dark of the night, looking at the harvest moon with the single minded determination of a person who has experienced too little and expects too much. The keys sang their alarm as he coaxed them out of the pocket of his blue jeans, and stuck them into the door of his father’s pickup truck. Not a single soul on Maryvale Street saw the blue truck growl to life and putter south toward the unknown. Jason laughed. At least he could thank the little hellhole for that small, final favor. Jason now sat 590 miles away from his mother and an eternity from his father, gazing like a deposed king on his former holdings. Jason looked at the desert arroyos, feebly trickling across the vast deadlands. He imagined tortoises and grey jackals, rough and thin from travel, taking a drink just as he had. He looked at the twisted Joshua trees and grimaced at them. He hated the way they bent like pagan priests, offering unholy rites to their ancient gods, ghosts of another time when boys in pickups didn’t disturb their ghastly rituals. Sure, he felt like an invader here in this orange, sun-drenched valley. But then, he was sure that everyone else did too. He imagined not being an ugly kid from Fresno for a moment, but adjusted an imaginary cowboy hat
and patted the sinewy neck of his imaginary horse. Yes, he thought. Even those old cowboys felt what he was feeling in that valley of old bones. Jason got about 45 minutes out of Redrock before his engine started to protest, and he got about three minutes of the way back before the old girl quit for sure. Jason shrugged at the angry steam sifting through the rusty hood before he turned around and outstretched a long, lanky hand. He didn’t take a backward look at that truck, which reminded him of his father and made him shiver. The pickup’s bones were left to the desert to rot in the sleepy sand and Jason left it there. The sun slid across the sky like an old man reaching for his reading glasses, and it was late afternoon before someone slowed down for him. Jason squatted in the back of a farmer’s Ford and caught the winds of the gulf coast, steady and hot from the ancient clay of the fabled American Southwest. His feet landed in Redrock as the sun went down with sneakers the color of dried blood and no truck. Neither of these things bothered him as much as the fact that his Wander was nearly dead and he had no means to draw life back into it. He thanked the farmer for being a patriot and a good Chris-
tian and found a bench to sleep on, vaguely understanding that he would probably die if he tried to stay awake forever. Having made this compromise, Jason made a park bench his home for the first night of his Wander and thanked God that at last he was not under his parent’s roof. Jason awoke and couldn’t help feeling a little bit like John Wayne, though he knew that made him a tourist, the universal scum of every authentic place. He looked around and laughed at how quaint it was, the whitewall tires and whiter people. He shook his arms and legs and went out in search of breakfast, his life’s savings burning a hole in his pocket. The sidewalks were stuffed with people who smelled like department stores, all pinstriped coats and flowered dresses with thin pink belts fastened around the waist. A diner invited him in with neon greetings, and he tried flirting with a very disinterested waitress before ordering orange juice and pancakes. He tried to be light as a feather and carefree as a bird, but it was harder than he imagined. Dark feelings twisted in his guts and punched the back of his head. They prodded his brain like the boys at rodeos poke at bulls to get them mad. These damned feelings followed him through that first night as he drove
Peace, Love, and All of the Above / Drew Burns â€™18 / Photography 35
Banananananana / Max Farmer ’19 / Photography
through the California dunes. They sat beside him in the passenger seat of his father’s truck. They chased him through the pines of southern Colorado and down the I-17 in Arizona. Now here they were, these feelings, desperately clinging to Jason’s arms and legs and nestling itself in his throat. Then, suddenly, he felt sick and knew that the only remedy was to leave this picturesque little place forever, and probably curse its name every time he thought about it. He ran through the streets shaking people, knocking kiosks of postcards about, and causing mass hysteria, but still couldn’t decide what about this place made his blood boil and his teeth grind. He ran around corner after corner, hissing at the store fronts and the scenic mountains tipped with that cliched American sunrise. As he reached the outskirts of the town, he began to feel the crystal tears coming out of his eyes. He sat on the road, suddenly nauseous. He looked at the men in their black hats, frowning at him from under their wild grey eyebrows. They hurried past on their way to useless jobs where they processed items produced to be sold to wholesalers who sold that back to the factories to be recycled and remade. He knew that they would go home to sons
that disappointed them by liking the wrong music or missing the pop fly in last week’s little league game, and they would beat their sons for having attitudes that reminded them too much of themselves. Then one day they would die, and leave him alone with a pickup truck and a broken mother who curls into a tight ball at the foot of her bed, wrapped in a bath towel. All the rage Jason felt slipped away from him, like a mountain shrugging off a thick layer of snow in an avalanche. He stood up abruptly from the side of the curb and rubbed away the mucus from his nose and mouth. He trudged to the bus station and spent his last twenty-three dollars on a crumpled ticket. It was time to go home. Ten hours later he stood at his front door, looking down at the small frame of his mother. She saw him, smiled faintly, and turned away, leaving the door open. She went to her bedroom and shut herself in without a word. Jason looked at the empty driveway, once filled with his father’s truck. He looked to the green recliner that once held his cruel body. He understood now. Jason went into his room, curled up into a tight ball on his bed, and cried.
By Henry Palmer ’21
Boundary Waters / Stokley Berg ’18 / Photography 38
Fog swallows golden towers. Alcatraz hides like an old hermit, alive. Seagulls windsurf overhead, While sea lions dance in the chilling currents.
Bob barks into his walkie-talkie, “ALL CLEAR!” No more tankers, no more belugas, no more excuses, Just a simple bay swim in the middle of April. Caps sna over heads as frozen fingertips rub salt out of blurred goggles.
Maersk Tanker to my left, With blaring foghorns daring us to jump. Oily gasoline intermingles with sea breeze, Trailing off its weatheredhull.
Shrieking sirens signal our departure. Eyes shut as lungs inflate like a life vest, In, out, in, out, in and out, I approach the starboard plank like a pirate.
Waiting in anticipation, icy winds nip at my chapped extremities. Golf ball-size rashes rise under the chafing wetsuit. Gatorade and chocolate tickle my parched throat As I drop the empty, cocoa-stained cup from Ghiradelli.
Flashing cameras and thundering applause remind me this isn’t mutiny. Thirty-five minutes of arms and legs churning saltwater like pistons Quenches my adrenaline addiction, Justifying hundreds of hours spent staring at that chlorine-stained black line.
A beluga breaks the surface in the distance Making me question my sanity, But there’s no turning back now. Anxious swimmers shove me to the front of the boat.
My seal shape conforms into streamline, Submerging into the bay.
THE STRUGGLE OF KILLING HOLIDAY ICONS By Johnathan Ray ’19 Well, 2017’s now done, And you know what that means! Another year of holidays And chances to catch fiends.
I used a vial of poison To kill ol’ Santa Claus. But Rudolph and his gang saved him By stomping on my jaw.
Why do I expect some big change? The year will stay the same. I guess it’s best if I give up To avoid tons of shame.
You see, about three years ago, I dedicated life To killing holiday icons, And it has caused me much strife.
I lured the Easter Bunny home By setting up a trail. When he arrived he bit my neck (Kind of like Holy Grail).
But wait! I cannot give up now The thought brings me to tears. That means abandoning my work I’ve built for many years.
From Santa to green leprechauns, I tried to kill them all, And just when I think I have them, They stop me, and I bawl.
As you can tell, I’ve not done well In catching even one, But this year gives another chance To say to you, “I’ve won!”
I’ve should not go on thinking ‘bout Whether or not I suck ‘Cause I’ve got more hunting to do. Goodbye, and wish me luck.
My plan to capture Cupid was To knock him out How sly! Except he noticed and shot me Right in between my eyes.
Or maybe I’ve just gone insane And this year will repeat. I’ll be seen as a huge failure Once I’m at last defeat.
IN•TO THE MIND — THe mind] [´intoo
1. 2. 3. 4.
introspection self exploration psychological melancholy
By Andrew Cardellini ’19
I’m lost. Not even knowing where to begin. Between staying strong for myself And nearly losing a friend. I’m lost. I swear my intentions have been Loving and kind. But in the end, Tears were all I would find. I’m lost. The feeling of failure Hangs right above my head. I know this as it’s my last thought Every night before bed. I ask God to help guide my way Each and every time I pray. But who am I to know of Him The one who came down to save my sin.
As I continue to struggle Through my purpose in life I walk blindly through The pain and strife. I keep my head up And my off-white teeth showing Because I don’t want anyone knowing How I really feel. And it’s not those around me Who are causing my problems, It’s my reliance on them That has seen me fallen. I need to take some time to love myself Before I continue loving anyone else.
Title / Johnny Bronco ‘18 / Medium
The Beyond Zone / Max Farmer â€™19 / Photography 43
Butternut / Stokley Berg â€™18 / Photography
STORIES OF A MAN, FORGOTTEN By Grant Theisen â€™18 Then there was a man. Not an elderly man But a tested one. There were finely trimmed whiskers Above his upper lip. His arms were covered in small spots, Signs of where the sun had soaked Into his now speckled skin. Along his arm ran a scar Which connected with his elbow, Now plastered with The mangled aftermath Of what I later came to find out Was a grenade launcher striking And disintegrating the man in front of him; Scars of the shrapnel That had forced him To abandon his right arm In favor of his left.
Two seemingly lifeless eyes Poked through a pair Of densely packed sockets Sitting at the forefront Of his dropped and sullen face. His body creaked As he rose from the chair; His joints tightened As he stood shiftless, Beginning to speak... His voice crumbled Under the weight Of his memories, His experiences. They seemed to simultaneously Break him and fuel His love for those To whom he was speaking.
Of pride and horror, Love and loss, Life and death; All reflective of the life He had lived Or wished he had. His speech was punctuated By a stutter drowned out By a grumble; a faint Whisper capped off By a tendency to misremember Or reimagine what Only he could recall. Sitting in the nightstand Of his room was a medal That he refused to wear, out Of fear of remembrance.
Each breath was bolstered With a distinct sound
He didnâ€™t speak of his time As a pawn, passing down Or carrying out already Worn out directions.
The poetry of the barbarism Kept him from sleeping Most nights, even well past The time he had gone home To his own bed.
All he spoke of was the Beauty of the carnage; That bell like ringing Of shrieks and hand grenades As he carried out the orders.
He remained alert even after He had dozed off, Vigilant of the world he had Reentered.
The sounds plagued his mind, Tolling through his thoughts As though to signify Another debt laid claim By the angelic hands of death.
The wounds passed beyond his Body and even beyond his Mind; they entered far deeper Into his spirit, leaving him both Renewed and broken.
He never understood The paradox that he encountered: The fear of being seen As human by those who Were meant to dehumanize him. Even in the years after, When he had finally returned, Heâ€™d lie awake, Revisiting, in his mind, the place He had hoped to leave forever.
Little is said of what left this Engravement on his soul, But a story is told, All by itself, by the scars He would insist remain Silent.
Stares Back / Avery Hodge â€™19 / Prismacolor 47
EXT. SCHOOLYARD DAWN By Bryce Grove ’19 BOY enters stage right A deep brumous sky is above. BOY takes a seat alone. Between the droves of the laughing masses BOY sits like a ghost. BOY looks up. Then back down. Then back up. BOY, 15, is nervous. BOY takes a deep breath. The frigid air fills his lungs. The smell of teen angst and hormones is cloying. BOY is miserable. GIRL enters stage left. GIRL sits across the yard. Alone. GIRL enters BOY mind, stage left. CONSCIENCE Go talk to her. She is lonely. You are lonely. SELF-DOUBT Don’t be a fool. She would never like somebody like you.
REASON Besides, what would you even say? Why embarrass yourself? SELF-PRIDE Nonsense! Fall in love! Take risks! ANXIETY Stop. You would just screw it up. COMMON SENSE Why would she talk to you? You already know the outcome of this. BOY sits silently, staring intently at GIRL. GIRL catches BOY’s gaze. CONSCIENCE Oh no. Did she smile or frown? REASON We know. Even you can figure this out. SELF-DOUBT Don’t do it.
BRAVERY Let’s go. What do I have to lose? SELF-LOATHING How stupid are you? You will never move past this. BOY slowly rises. BOY quietly shuffles closer to GIRL. The sound of BOY’s heart is deafening. Like a Poe novel. Closer. And. Closer. BOY. Approaches. GIRL. CONSCIENCE Speak already. SELF-DOUBT Don’t. SELF-PRIDE Make your move. SELF-LOATHING Don’t. BOY Excuse m… GIRL exit stage left.
From the Other Side / Matthew Peterson â€™19 / Pencil
A Night’s Stay / Ryan Garlick ’18 / Photography 50
CHANGE OF HEART By Austin Berg ’18
There she is. Daisy Pearl. Standing in her group of friends, but not really belonging there. She is beautiful, or she would be beautiful if she took off the makeup. All I want to do is go over to her and tell her how I feel. Of course, I would need to clear that with Sarah. I don’t think she would be very happy with me talking to other girls, much less leave her for Daisy. Daisy looks my way, I dart my gaze away from her and look at the ground. When I look up, I see her face, in front of me with a nervous smile on her face. “Uh… hey Joey. So, um, I’m having a party on Friday. You can totally come if you want. Or not, that’s cool too. Whatever you want,” she says. “Oh, sure. Yeah I’ll see if I can make it. I’ll try.” My heart is pounding. I think I’m sweating but I don’t want to draw attention to it by wiping it away. “Sorry but I have to go to class.” She grabs my arm. She nervously mutters, “Are you going to bring Sarah?” My heart sank. I don’t know what to say. I can’t bring Sarah, but I can’t lie to her either. I want Daisy. But I’m with Sarah. I feel guilty, sad, angry, and confused. Why can’t I just break up with Sarah? Why can’t I pursue my own happiness?
“Hmm… actually, I think she is out of town all this weekend. So it’ll be just me.” What. The. Hell. That is possibly the dumbest thing I have ever done. Sarah isn’t out of town. But I promised she would not be at the party, but I will. I either lie to Sarah, or miss my one chance at freedom. “Oh, cool. No big deal,” she says. She looks down, and I see her try to hide a faint smile. ——— “Can I see you at all this weekend?” “Yes Sarah, I’m just studying tonight. Saturday and Sunday I’ll be able to see you.” “Ok. We can hang out then. I love you Joey.” “Yeah me too. Listen I have to go. Bye” “By----” Thank God. ——— One of the hardest parts of my relationship with Sarah is driving. I have my license, but I sure as hell can’t afford a car. She drives us everywhere. That means I needed Rob to drive me. I’ve never been a huge fan of Rob, but he has a car, and he agreed to take me as long as I’m the designated driver on the way home. I’m an excuse for him to get wasted, but I’m ok with it as long as I get to see Daisy.
As we arrive to the party, Rob hands me the keys to his rusty old Triumph Acclaim, and runs off to find the alcohol. I walk into the backyard, scanning the crowd for Daisy. There are way more people here than I would have thought. A hand grabs my shoulder. “You made it! I’m so glad.” It was Daisy. She is wearing an eggshell white shirt tucked into her crimson skirt. I’m staring, but I can tell she doesn’t care, maybe even likes it. “Oh yeah. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I say. She has a drink in her hand. I don’t drink, but I think tonight I may. Something tells me there will be no repercussions. Tonight there will be no danger. No problems. No Sarah. “Come with me. I’ll get you a drink,” she says “then I can take you on the tour.” She takes me into her house, grabs four beers, and takes me upstairs. The upstairs hallway is caked in shag carpeting and striped wallpaper. “Is this the tour?” I ask. “No, silly. I just want to talk with you. I feel like we need to catch up,” she says “plus, I really hate parties.” She opens the door to her room. She has a Star Wars poster and a picture of her parents with President Reagan. Everything from the purple lava lamp to the Daryl Hall and John
Upside-Down / Jackson Hollinger ’18 / Prismacolor
Oates records makes me remember why I like this girl. We sit on the bed, and she hands me a beer. She can tell this is a something new for me, and she chuckles. She says “It’s ok Joey, you don’t have to drink.” “No, it’s fine. It’s about time I tried this.” I say. I crack the beer open. It looks just like a soda. Smells like a dead plant though. I raise it to my mouth and start drinking. And I keep drinking. It burns. It feels like nothing, but also feels like something I’m supposed to do. And it’s gone. “Holy shit Joey, that was impressive,” she says, “I would almost believe this wasn’t your
first time.” I look down. This is embarrassing. I shouldn’t have drank so much. I wanted to enjoy myself, not get plastered. She noticed that I looked down. “Oh. Joey, no. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.” “It’s ok. Just getting used to it.” I say. I open another beer and this time don’t start drinking immediately. “So what did you want to talk about?” I ask. “Oh. Well, I just want to catch up. We’ve never really had an opportunity to talk. I want to get to know you. Tell me, how are things with Sarah?” she asks. “I don’t know. I’m not sure we are going to last. She is so serious and sometimes it seems like she hates the idea of having fun” I tell her. I finish my second beer. She gives me the third, the one that was meant to be her second. I don’t want to drop this on her but for some reason I don’t feel like I’m in control. “When we started dating freshman year, I knew it would be temporary, but now I’ve gone three years with her, and I’ve had no chance to enjoy life being single. I feel like I only use her as a tutor sometimes, and maybe I shouldn’t be saying it, but I know I’ve never loved her. Her family hates me, she will never step out of her comfort zone, and the very idea of being somewhat physical makes her sick.” She pauses, thinking. “If you don’t mind me asking, why did you stay with her for so long then?” I need to end this. Nothing good can come from this. “I guess it’s just easier for me to be with her than to be single” I say.
“Well, it’s none of my business, but maybe you should give her another chance. Girls like it when you give them chances.” She is staring at me. I am staring back at her. She looks down, seemingly embarrassed. I started drinking my beer. “Listen Joey, I know we aren’t close anymore, but I care about you. I know it’s weird but I don’t want you be stuck in any situation you don’t want to be in.” “I’m exactly where I want to be.” “I know, I’m just saying that---” She is flustered. I don’t want her to look at me like this. “I know you are. And I didn’t mean to snap at you. You care. That’s one of the reasons I’ve always liked you.” “You...like me?” “Of course I do. You’re amazing, you care about everyone, and you always will know what’s best for me.” “Joey, I like you but I---” I kiss her. She pulls back. “What the hell are you doing? You’re in a relationship. We can’t do this.” “But I want to.” “How about this. Break up with Sarah. Come to me tomorrow. Then we can pick up from here.” “Ok. I’ll leave right now. I’m going to do it right now.” I say. I leave her room. My heart feels like it’s about to burst. I am excited, scared, and ready to finally take initiative and get what I want. I get Rob, tell him it’s time to leave, and get in the car. I put the key in the ignition and wait for Rob to finish saying goodbye before we leave. This is a good opportunity
to call Sarah. “--Hello? Joey is that you? It’s past midnight. Why the hell are you calling me so late?” I didn’t realize it was so late. Jesus, was I talking to Daisy for that long? “Sarah we need to talk.” I know my words are slurring, but I really don’t care. “Why do you sound so weird? Are you-drunk? Are you at a party?” “I don’t love you anymore.” Finally. “What?” “I love Daisy.” My heart is racing. “Joey, please let’s talk in the morning.” “No. I have to end it now.” This is the most alive I’ve felt in all of high school. “Ok. Fine. If you change your mind, call me tomorrow.” “No.” I hang up. I feel exhilarated. Rob gets in the car. Luckily he didn’t drink so he could drive home. He would have, but he spend most of the night in the basement with my Chemistry lab partner, Diane. We stopped in front of my house, and I give him twenty dollars as reparations for throwing up on his dash. I got out, hobbled into my house, and went to sleep. ——— Knock, knock, knock. I muster up the little energy I have to say, “Please let me sleep.” I shut my eyes again, just to be interrupted once again by a feminine voice. “Joey, it’s me, Sarah.” Oh shit. “Oh. One second” I say, “let me get dressed.” I jump out of bed, throw a shirt
on, and open the door. There she is. Her eyes are red, noticeably puffy. I can’t help but feel partially responsible for that. “Hey Joey,” she says. “Can we talk about last night?” “I thought I covered it all last night,” I say, “that’s all I had to say.” “That’s all I get? After three and a half years of putting up with all your crap? One drunk phone call and that’s it?” She stops. That isn’t the reason she came here. “At least tell me why. Why would you drag me along if you were ready to leave me the first chance you get?” I pause. “I can’t tell you. I wish I could. Maybe I’m just an asshole. But we couldn’t keep going as it was. I did our relationship a favor. Sorry if you don’t like it, but this ended a year ago.” “Maybe for you,” she says. “I’m going to go. I’ll see you at school I guess.” She turns, gently closes my door, and leaves. Whatever. My parents will probably hate me because they loved Sarah. Whatever. Daisy said that she liked me right? I should go over there and tell her I’m done with Sarah and ready for her. I should be happy, right? I got exactly what I wanted, I got rid of Sarah and I could easily go over to Daisy’s house and get her. That’s all I have ever wanted right? I’m finally happy, I guess. Maybe it’s a hangover, but I have a headache.
Relapse / Jake Inzalaco ’18 / Chalk 53
AFFLICTIONS: A PROSE POEM IN FOUR PARTS By Brett Cohen ’18 I:
I wanted the ocean to come back but it kept fleeing, fleeing, flying away into the pale blue horizon. Instead unwelcome thoughts trickled into my head like fire or fiery honey with swarms of bees attacking me. No, I want to be alone, blissfully alone, free to echo my voice into the infinity and hear nothing but the rustle of the trees and sweet wind against everything like the background waves of God. But thoughts intrude, nonetheless, and the fleeing is no use, it’s gone now. I love the rain but I hate the birds chirping or the yard workers and their instruments that prattle on the outdoors and grate my sleeping bones in the early morning hours. Tomorrow will dawn and I’ll blossom up like the dead springtime so long ago and fall back to the earth like winter now, as the sun sets too early and I had to walk the dog in darkness and it’s not the same as the blackness for I don’t feel alone. There it is again, I can feel memory and rage boiling and mixing within me. Talk of malicious ivy creeping up sneering walls and tall dead oaks that line the path of great
ancestors, and of him, imperious in all but name, visiting those damning tendrils and coaxing them like old friends to warp my veins and leave me haggard in agony. We chatted once, he complimented me. Must’ve been snide, must’ve been insulting me for my great failure. The lights flicker and go out, yellow always-watching glare gone and nobody-is-looking evil is here, it’s all over me and I must leave. I can’t believe I must not I can do this it’s not my fault maybe someday maybe in the future or not I’m hopeless I can’t they’re all greater what will people think what am I but failure? The darkness is all over me, it climbs into and out of my pupils and into my heart, its sludge slows my heart to a stop and my eyes to the sight of Him, shaking his head in disappointment. II:
For a moment it’s gone, I’m free and absolution races rough-rides through my trembling veins. The droning and the drums that beat in the back of my head fall numb before her and I feel as a glass sculpture, impossibly fragile yet finally graceful. I
speak, whisper, exclaim, and it rolls through the invisible air to echo so perfectly into my soul. Absolution. I felt this before and I feel it now, there’s no thought here and no evil here this is rapture, this is paradise. And maybe for a moment I can feel it in her too, I can feel the synchronous heartbeats in a life far away meet mine in the romance of a dark rainy alleyway where thunder is a wedding march. I know she hurts too but this is the absence of all pain the catharsis and here we are both just empty vessels, Him and I. I know it doesn’t make sense I know I’m only shouting into a pillow of oblivion pressed upon my face but I’m here and now and I have to share, it’s the only thing to make me feel and feel nothing. I’m not beaten or bruised, I’m not defeated, I’m not worthless, I’m powerful here and it’s perfect to be one with God right now. I’m thrown, she sets me down upon her knees too gentle, I’m perfect, I’m whole. My heart slows, my eyes fall to darkness laced with sensory perfection, and I fall asleep. I’m not in the darkness of misery, but in the perfection of love, and I’m whole.
I Can’t Feel My Face / Jake Miller ’19 / Mixed Medium
Wistful Beggary / Eric Lin â€™19 / Pencil 56
My eyes awaken to the glare; He’s staring at me. Bed rumpled, turned gray, the darkness is back outside but it peers in and laughs at my failure. I need to get up I need to work to do something there’s so much missing right now I need to. My muscles obey my brain and my brain is mired in future and stopped success isn’t here. A flash of sanity before the writhing comes again. Snow floats by more urgently, a storm must be coming. If I’m lucky, there might not be school tomorrow. And she was just here a little while ago stop the running water choking me in my chest and almost making tears, why am I crying. My friend, him, he won’t notice the storm, only the plants and the stone-gray walls and their haughty pedigree. But I’m not and I know it I can’t even write and blank empty whiteness stares at me always watching laughing mocking filling up my computer like untouched treasures, probably cursed. I can feel the darkness closing in again but I don’t want it to but it’s winter and the sun set too early and too many people needed me and in half an hour people will need me again and I can’t tell them no. I can’t deal with the white faces anymore so I put them away. Here I am safe, here I am alone. Nobody to prove me wrong, nobody to see my failure, nobody to remind me of color. Take me to sleep, suffocate me in the darkness and maybe then I’ll finally be alone.
The trees stirred, awakening slowly, as the sun began to play peek-a-boo through emerald leaves and blades of grass. I woke to the wind, whispering sweet nothings in my ear and my mouth as it passed gently over my body. Slowly, slowly, I sat up and watched the babbling of the brook introduce itself to me, heard the perfect blue water rush by like better businessmen. I looked up, eyes transcending treetops and beholding sky, just as blue as the stream and all the more optimistic. Around me, in the soft morning sun rising so early, the forest came to life: birds chirping, sun warming foraging squirrels and critters ensconced in their day-to-day. “Hello?” I whisper, reluctant to disturb the life with my ungainly rasp. Nothing, no response, I don’t call any louder and nobody answers. No cars begin their own lurching routines, no construction workers hack and saw at the land with their audible destruction. For the first time, a smile unbound by Earth meets my face, and I stand entranced by nature forever, in imitation of the trees that somehow jaunt across the verdant horizon. I glimpse deep into the distance and behold mountains, snow-capped, majestic and infinite and unlike anything in my dreams. No mere anthills for man or friend to shout their dominance, these filled my vision from head to toe at the simple suggestion of grace. As I stood, forever one with the glimmering grass and soothing
lullabies of Eden, the mountain, the tall one that stretched more than forever, nodded in approval. “Welcome, my son.” He began, warmly enveloping my body within the embrace of His comfort. I cried, and slept, and breathed.
Anticipation / Peter Chong â€™19 / Photography 58
THREE WAYS OF LOOKING AT A CHESS PLAYER By Dave Mohan ’19 As Anatoly Karpov once said, “Chess is everything: art, science, and sport.” I A chess player is an artist His canvas an 8x8 board Producing concrete and abstract brilliancies Only to be appreciated by the finest eyes Games that should be printed And hung in galleries around the world Are played every time he comes to the board Mixing the colors to create an image Its beauty beyond mortal comprehension Even the slightest stroke, the subtlest move Can make all the difference II As a biologist may study samples of DNA, A veterinarian carefully observes sick pets, And a psychologist analyzes the subconscious A chess player is a scientist, too There is no “close to checkmate” or “almost winning” but only an exact, objective interpretation to decide the path of the game A computer’s algorithm spits out raw data Evaluations to the decimal For the player to experiment with
Numbers to analyze and further discover Adding to the already infinite body of knowledge III We often hear common sports phrases such as “Dribble the ball” “Shoot the puck” “Score a goal” “Hit a home run” “Take his bishop” “Get your king to safety” “Checkmate him fast” Chanted by the fans in the stands Stadiums packed with hyper students and teachers All excitedly screeching in celebration. Such things are common in sports. As the batter gets ready to take the swing And the chess player gets ready to castle Both can feel pressure clouding their judgement Vision blocked by thoughts of failure, Of losing their immense popularity at school, Of their girlfriend breaking up with them, Of missing the ball 3 times in a row, Of accidentally touching the wrong piece.
INTO THE AUDIENCE By John Couture ’18 MIKE (To the audience) Hello, I am Michael Gerard, and I die at the end of this scene. PHARRELL Hey Mikey,the boss is looking for ya, you’re worth more dead than alive! If you aren’t in his office by tonight he’ll take out your entire family… everyone… and don’t you consider running, it’ll be worse. MIKE I know PHARRELL, (To the audience) See the purpose of this scene is to create a shared human experience. To create literature. You now know that I die at the end of this story, but at the moment, you have no attachment to my character… to my “me.” Maybe I could continue to talk about traits that make me more real to you? My greatest fear is being forgotten. I have a beautiful wife and a child who mean the world to me. I worked hard in school but I was of-
ten very lonely. I did stupid things in high school, like I put 2 pigs in an elevator one time and closed the elevator for the next person. Oh, and I once played a video game for 13 hours straight before my eyes closed on their own. I broke my arm when I jumped out of a tree. I wanted to fly. I think we’ve all tried to fly before. But I know now that people don’t fly. We can’t. That’s how it feels for me to tell you my backstory and make you feel. I can’t. (MIKE walks up to the edge of the stage) To feel my backstory, to feel my pain, we have to break barriers (Walks into the audience) (The stage lights dim) (MIKE turns to an audience member) MIKE My love, I wish we could have had more time. Do you remember
the first time we met? Do you remember how awkward I looked when I asked you to dance? Oh how far we’ve come… Do you remember our wedding, how beautiful you looked? I have to go now, but I want you to remember all of me… I don’t want to be forgotten… (MIKE continues on, until he finds another audience member) MIKE My child, I’m so incredibly proud of you. I did not know what love meant until I held you in my arms. I cradled you. If there’s one thing I can leave to you it’s that you can never let someone deny your dignity and your honor. (DAVID now stands on stage as the stage lights up) DAVID Mike! You better be in here in an hour. I’m not a patient man. (The stage lights dim)
Skull / Justin Loo â€™19 / Pen 61
MIKE That means one more visit… (MIKE turns to male and female audience members) Momma, pop, I’m really sorry. No parents should ever see their child die. This is a burden that I’m afraid I must leave you with. This thing that I do here, it will save my wife, my child, my siblings, and you. Dad, you always said I was a man of honor. Momma, I… I’m sorry momma…. I need you to know... (Lights turn back up) DAVID Times up MIKEY… (Several men walk into the audience and drag MIKE back on stage) MIKE No… I still have ten minutes…. I’m not done yet… I don’t want to die! I’m not ready to die! DAVID Any last words before you walk into the slaughterhouse? MIKE (Looks to the audience) My name is Michael Gerard, and I die at the end. Do you care? No… of course not... (Looks back to DAVID) I already said my last words…
DAVID Very well… (Michael is guided out of the room by the men who dragged him offstage) (They stop holding him, and he walks with honor out of the room) Lights down.
[eks] 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6.
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BLAM: FORMERLY KNOWN AS THE TOWER By Graham Armknecht ’18 This year’s theme, X, focuses on looking back on the history of the Brophy Literary Arts Magazine (BLAM). However, to say that BLAM was the inception of writing and art community on campus would be sorely misrepresented. Before BLAM, The Tower was the literary and arts magazine on campus. It became The Magazine Formerly Known as the Tower in 2007, before transitioning to BLAM in 2008. These next two interviews are with Mrs. Kaufman (K) and Mrs. Cronin (C), the literary and art advisors for The Tower respectively. The K stands for Mrs. Kaufman, the C stands for Mrs. Cronin, and the B stands for BLAM questions. This interview serves as a window into the past and also as a path forward into the future. ———
Mrs. Kauffman B: What was it like leading The Publication Formerly Known as The Tower? K: When I got here, it was 1997 and Deacon Joe Stickney had been in charge. I remember he came into my room and dropped a folder on my desk and said, “It’s all yours now,” and I said, “This will be a fun extracurricular to moderate.” Then I asked Mrs. Cronin from the art department. And thus The Tower became a place where students could display not only their literary prowess but their artistic prowess as well. That’s how it started. B: What was layout (the process of piecing together a publication) like? K: We used to lay it out in old fashioned
ways before there were more methods to do it. At first, we used to work in Loyola but then once Eller was built we were using the third floor in Eller. We’d have guys often during prom weekend laying out. If you were going to prom, we had guys laying out before worrying about going home and getting dressed. That was our eleventh hour push. We had a great publisher of doing our layout. Basically we would type up the copy, and then we would find a piece of art, and once we digitized the art we could line up the photos with the copy. I’ve really been impressed with how it’s involved as an art form. BLAM has involved in a big way since we’ve done the magazine. B: What things haven’t changed? K: We at first had a lot of trouble making sure we could get various submissions,
especially at the end of the year. I would go into classrooms and try to drum up business. That’s probably something that’s still a problem to make sure that a diverse group of guys submits their work. B: How would you say that the culture has changed regarding writing and art on campus? K: How it’s grown leaps and bounds. Mr. Damaso has done marvelous things with the publications. Mr. Mulloy did marvelous things with The Roundup, and Mr. Kelly is doing well with The Roundup now. It used to be when I first came to Brophy [that] The Roundup could be so much more. It was mostly hard news stories, but there weren’t many features. They could do so much with features on a topic like pay for teachers or guns or what have you. The thoughtfulness with which the average [Brophy] student group through his day would inform those features in such a nice way. I didn’t see that until Mr. Mulloy came with a background in journalism. It’s blossomed in very good ways. The Roundup hasn’t changed since then, but it’s evolved into a much more substantial publication than how it was 21 years ago. BLAM was The Tower, and the Wrangler didn’t even exist. There’s been a lot of growth on campus. B: Where would you say BLAM would be in 10 years?
K: Well everything is online now anyway. Perhaps maybe there might be more video content on campus. There’s a lot of video going on in the campus. Video might be the next step. We might have a video-arts magazine that everyone would be able to tap into not just as a little dessert at the end of the year but something that might be a monthly. Maybe the arts magazine in general could be a monthly. I talk to a lot of seniors who want to go into film and video production. So it would be a natural progression. It could also showcase anyone who could be interested in playwriting and scripts. It would also help include the good actors on campus. Mrs. Cronin
B: What was your involvement on The Tower? C: We were the co-moderators with Father Renna. Renna didn’t want to do as much, but he was a big contributor. He would choose things that he thought would fit, but he wasn’t actively involved in putting together the magazine. B: Were pieces more faculty chosen? C: No, we still had editors. Faculty called for submissions and encouraged students, much the same as how we encourage stu-
dents now. We don’t do any choosing, because you never know what BLAM is looking for. You don’t know what’s going to fit on the page, maybe a group of pieces might fit together, and they might want to use artwork more as illustrations. The difference is Mrs. Kaufman and I would collaborate on assignments. Mrs. Kaufman would assign “Redneck Love.” Mrs. Kaufman would try and have that assignment, and I’d see a portrait and say submit that. We’d collaborate on what she was assigning, and if I saw something that would be really good, I didn’t assign to coordinate, but I could see where it was going. The contests now, I think we’ve talked about this in AP, seem to be more suited to writing. They are more nebulous for artists. B: How is it now compared to then? C: We didn’t have a good platform to create the publication. We’d have maybe one technical person. We could layout the magazine the old fashioned way, and we had a lot of help from our publisher, Prisma, compared to now where students are able to accomplish more technologically difficult spreads. Not only that, but the cover was also very different. As you’ll notice, each cover had a photo of The Tower in illustration. Usually, I’d get students who would have a photo of the tower, and then I said, “Why don’t you combine the cover with the drawing?” B: Would you say that the transition from
The Tower to BLAM has helped or hindered the visual art community?” C: I think in a way it hindered the visual arts community. In the past, I’ve known people who have been on BLAM that were artists, and this is true. There was a tendency to favor photography and graphic design because it looked good in a publication. They thought that maybe painting or drawings wouldn’t work as well, which is true. When you look at magazines, it is usually some kind of graphic design. This can change with certain editors and preferences, but we thought that the publication is more photography heavy. I think this tendency to favor digital art has gotten a little better.I think that with the advisors, it’s more writing than it used to be. B: Looking forward, what trends do you see emerging and what would you like to emerge? C: I’d like to see more collaboration between art and writing. However, that would have to be worked out before the year began because it takes these guys to create a lot of their art. If I had some writing prompts at the beginning, so I could show them what the writing prompts would be. If we coordinated in the summer, that would be good.
Spires and Fires / Nicholas Park â€™19 / Photography
DREAMWALKERS By Ari Anderson ’21
Yellowstone National Park, Chief Ranger Martin’s Cabin 2:34AM A loud thump comes from outside my cabin. Probably just some campers felling a tree, I’ll fine ‘em later. Another thump, then a knock on my door. I get up from my leather recliner and warily walk over to the door. To the left of my doorway is a small table where I put my keys, wallet, pocket knife, and gun. I pull my Smith and Wesson from its holster and put its barrel against the door. “Go away,” I growl, my voice raspy from the sleep I recently woke up from. “Ranger please!” a desperate voice pleads. My eye gazes through the peephole in the door, and I see a beaten, soaked and exhausted teenage girl. I open my door to welcome her in, but she collapses. Yellowstone National Park, Chief Ranger Martin’s Cabin 3:46AM The girl sleeps silently, and stirs on the couch she is laying down on. She doesn’t remember anything, but she is resting under about six layers of blankets. She seemed
exhausted so I decide to radio the ranger patrols. “This is Ranger Martin to patrol, anything to report?” I say into the walkie-talkie. “Sir, you really need to be out here.” A patrol says. “Specify what you mean by that.” “Sir, there’s been a murder in the Zone of Death.” I drop my walkie-talkie. Yellowstone National Park, The Zone of Death 4:21AM My tan Silverado purrs as it traverses the forest landscape of Yellowstone, crushing shrubs, piles of pine needles and dead seedlings under its thick tires. I see blue and red lights in the distance, so someone called the police. Great, more fucking paperwork. I arrive at the scene and am greeted by an army of press, police and ranger patrols, all asking for the next course of action. I haven’t seen what the scene is, so I walk closer. The first thing that hits me is the smell, a pungent scent of dried blood and rotting flesh flood my nostrils with memories of a previous military life. The scent is all too familiar, but I walk closer regardless, and then I see it. How it was constructed, I
didn’t know, but it was the most impressive murder I’ve ever seen. Somehow, the killer constructed a pyramid of logs, and a mutilated body sat atop the shape, completed skinned and already covered with flies. The sight makes rookie police officers, rangers and press reporters vomit. Now, an explanation of why this is strange is required. The murder took place in Yellowstone National Park, with is the only federal land not divided into its state district courts, due to the land spanning over three states. However, the land itself is solely under Wyoming’s jurisdiction. Article Three, Section Two of the Constitution says that a trial shall happen in the state where the crime was committed. The area where this murder occurred is within a 50-mile area of Yellowstone that is in Idaho. If this murderer is caught, he will be taken to Cheyenne, in Wyoming, though the murder was committed in Idaho. If he’s smart, he will request his trail to be in Idaho, which presents a problem. The Sixth Amendment says that a trial requires local juries, jurors from within the state and district that the crime was committed. This is called the Vicinage Clause, which allows the murderer to demand a jury from the middle area, where the state in which you com-
Trip Reflection / Max Farmer â€™19 / Photography 69
mitted the crime overlaps with the judicial jurisdiction where the crime was committed. However, no one lives in the zone of death, so local juries cannot be provided. Therefore, you cannot legally be provided with a fair trial. Unless you consent to a trial in Cheyenne, the state prosecutors should technically have to let the convict go. Now we are done with the explanation, and after explaining this complex legal loophole to the police, they have to take to the state and district attorneys to determine a course of action. The police gather as much evidence as they can from the crime scene, but we cannot officially initialize a search party. I have the park closed for “maintenance” and triple the patrols during the day and night. That girl who knocked on my door tonight, she’s gotta know something about this. After spending more than enough time in the Zone of Death, I get back in my Silverado and starting driving back my cabin, eager to get some answers. Yellowstone National Park, Chief Ranger Martin’s Cabin 5:35AM I walked back into my cabin through the back door, and see the girl eating oatmeal at my kitchen counter, still wearing about six blankets. “Good morning, I guess.” I blurt out, not finding anything else to say appropriate to the situation. “Oh, you’re back.” She says in the most ennui-filled tone I’ve ever heard.
“I have a catalog of questions to ask you, young lady.” “Fire away old man.” “I’m going to choose to ignore that, what’s your name?” “Katherine Boon, I’m nineteen, I’m from Seattle, I was here on a camping trip with friends, and I did not witness whatever you saw happen.”
“Wow, thank you for answering pretty much everything on my list. How do you know I saw, well, that?” “I overheard the conversation you had with your radio.” “Eavesdropping, very classy. Do you know anything about the murder and, whatever that scene was?” “No, I just was hiking past it and something came running after me.” “What did it look like?” “I don’t know, I just ran and didn’t look back.”
I decide to stop questioning her now, better to let her rest and feel more comfortable before I delve deeper. Yellowstone National Park, Chief Ranger Martin’s Cabin 8:43AM The walkie-talkie whirrs to life at my waist once again, and I dread the message it carries. “Chief, do you copy?” A ranger spits over the line. “Copy, what’s the problem?” I apprehensively mutter, not really wanting to know the answer. “There’s been another.” The ranger replies, presumably exhausted from a night of investigation. “I’ll be right there.” I turn to the girl. “Stay here, if someone knocks on the door, do not open it.” I sternly instruct. She nods her head, and I walk towards the back door and lock it on my way out. Yellowstone National Park, The Zone of Death 9:14 AM I hear weeping in the distance, so I’m close to the second scene. There’s no press this time, thank God, but the weeping sounds like it’s coming from a witness. The first scene was in an open field. However, this is in a forest, abundant with Lodgepole Pine, Douglas Fir, and Blue Spruce. I see the unmistakable sight of yellow crime tape
wrapped around a tree perimeter. I dismount my Silverado and march over to the scene. I duck under the crime tape, and see that the perimeter is a circle of tree stumps, with the only uncut tree in the middle of the circle, on the tree, I see the murder victim. He hangs from a thick branch by his intestines, and his entire neck is exposed, the skin, muscle, and throat stripped away like tender pork ribs from their bone. What is going on? Who the hell could do this kind of shit? That girl is hiding something. What was she running from? Whatever the hell it is, why wouldn’t it kill her? She’d be easy pickings. “Ranger!” A patrol yells my name “Yes?” “We found a note sir!” I sprint over to the ranger and he hands me the note. It reads:
stories is nothing more than butterflies-in-your-stomach compared to the fear you will experience when you realize that the stories are real. It makes no sense but simultaneously makes total sense. You could never catch me, and despite your little legal loophole, I could never be arrested. I keep the order here, you worship your false idols, Jesus Christ, Mother Mary, and all those other irrelevant zealots. Worship ME. I will be seeing you soon, most likely. Cheerio, Satan, The Devil, Lucifer, El Diablo etc.
Chief Ranger Martin, I see you have seen my latest artwork. The way you admire it makes my heart flutter. I know the questions you have; How? What? Why? These victims, well, they have tried to uncover things that should stay covered. Those ghost stories, the ones you hear while camping, or while in front a campfire, face illuminated by the shine of a cheap flashlight. The fear you experience listening to these
“Typewriter, classy,” I remark. I grab the letter and put it back into its envelope. I hand the envelope back to the ranger and get back to my cabin as fast as possible. Yellowstone National Park, Chief Ranger Martin’s Cabin 9:34AM I sprint into my house, well, I sprint to my back door, unlock it, then sprint into my house, but it’s too late. The girl’s corpse is hanging from my ceiling fan. Her body was split directly into two halves, right down the middle. The two halves hang by the fan from each arm, and hanging in between the
two halves is a note. Chief Ranger Martin, You’re too late, you lost your only lead. Perhaps I should fill you in, that girl, whose real name is Sarah Dutch, was a member of a cult called the “Dreamwalkers”. They’ve existed for a while, and they regularly meet at Yellowstone for an annual reunion. Their whole goal is to save people condemned to hell, and, they essentially want to steal my clients. Any responsible businessman would do what I did, which was mercilessly butcher his competition. Your friend here, she was the conductor of this orchestra, so she was forced to see her subjects die before she did. I guess you want to revenge, or something, so meet me at Old Faithful at midnight. Bring the heat, as I will too. Cheerio, Satan, The Devil, Lucifer, El Diablo etc.
He said to bring the heat. What the hell does that mean? The hardest firepower I have is a .44; can that really kill the devil? So I decide to not heed his advice and just
arrive as if it’s a normal day. (Note to present self: Bad mistake.)
Ending 1 Yellowstone National Park, Old Faithful Geyser 12:01AM My Silverado wheezes as I turn it off, and dismount from the driver seat. I walk closer to the geyser, it recently erupted, so I’m not too worried about getting boiled alive. I see a figure in the distance, standing on top of the geyser. His presence taunts me, and I warily walk towards him, picking up speed. As I get closer, the figure splits into two, then splits again, making a total of four figures. This is some devil shit, but then again, I’m literally dancing with the devil. I step back and look away, then prance, extremely carefully, closer to them. If it wasn’t absolutely horrifying before when I look back to the figures, they are gone, and a small mountain of scorched bodies take their place. The mountain shifts, and writhes as the bodies disentangle themselves from each other. Going from a mountain to a horde, an army of corpses begin to march to me. They open their mouths and begin speaking simultaneously. “So you got my letter?” The horde whispers, making my skin crawl like beetles. “Who are you?” I respond, my voice shaky, filled with terror from the grotesque scene unfolding in front of me. “I told you already, I’m the devil. Don’t
you believe me? This isn’t enough proof?” He sounds offended. “Why me? What did I do?” “You took in that girl, you helped her. She helped you. Well, then I guess, to hell with you.” The horde advances, and tramples me, muffling my screams of agony underneath their feet.
Ending 2 Yellowstone National Park, Old Faithful Geyser 12:01AM My Silverado wheezes as I turn it off, and dismount from the driver seat. I walk closer to the geyser, it recently erupted, so I’m not too worried about getting boiled alive. There is a group of cloaked individuals standing in a circle around Old Faithful. They chant tongues and dance around the geyser, raising their hands into the air. As I walk closer, they open up the circle, inviting me in. No way, no way I’m going in there. Finally, after waiting for me for a minute, a leader-like individual steps out and faces me. “Join us.” He commands. “No,” I reply, attempting to sound as intimidating as possible. He tries again. “Come with us, brother.” “No.” “Yes.” “What is this?”
“We’re the DreamWalkers.” “Then why did you kill Sarah?” “He showed us the truth, that no one can be saved, not even you.” The group begins to walk towards me, and they begin to run when I turn and sprint back to my Silverado. I trip, and sprawl out to regain my footing when two bony hands grab my ankles. They pull me back, and my hands reach out and try to grab anything they can, but they don’t and my body gets scratched up from the gravel. Two people go in front of me and grab my wrists and lift me. We approach the geyser, and they lift me up over the top of it. I struggle and twist to escape their grasp, but it is futile. “Please, let me down!” I plead, tears now spilling from my eyes, “You’ll be arrested for this! You’ll be in for life!” I scream, attempting to convince them. “We aren’t in The Zone Of Death anymore, I know that.” Old Faithful erupts, and the scalding hot water hits my back, searing my skin. They leave me over the geyser until it finishes erupting, and I can no longer feel my back or my legs for that matter. They set me down and walk away, I feel my back, and touch no skin, but rather my spine. Despite not feeling any pain, I scream, I shriek, hoping someone will hear me and come to my aid. The leader comes back, and whispers in my ear, “cheerio.”
Red Truck on a Runway / Ryan Garlick â€™18 / Photography
Brophy’s Summit on Human Dignity this year tackled “For Sale: The Commodification of the Human Person.” During the Summit, the school provided students with resources, keynotes, workshops, and presentations given by trafficking experts and survivors. The Office of Faith and Justice, via the Summit website, offered online resources to help students digest the complexities associated with the ensuing issues. For the last four years, BLAM has hosted contests themed around the summits. This year, we found it rather fitting to have an erasure contest (shown right). As many people are erased from the narrative of human trafficking, we thought that a competition demonstrating this exclusion would be fitting. To complete the contest, students took the Mission Statement on the Summit website and erased words to create a work of art. To learn more about Brophy’s Summit on Human Dignity or about the keynote speakers that spoke this year, the QR code in the bottom corner will direct you to www.brophyprep. org/forsale, the Summit website.
Scan for Summit Website
THE CURSE By Mark John Haak ’18 and Steven Hall ’18 The curse of the many ways a human being can be unjustly treated as a commodity is still with us today. The slave trades of history have reached into our modern times with children, women, and men living as forced labor, in the sex trade, and in bound servitude. They live in fear of terrifying repercussions if they do not put their bodies at the disposal of dark industries that satisfy the world’s appetite for sexual exploitation, submissive and cheap labor, and fantasies of control. It should not be difficult to conclude that this kind of evil has no place in our societies. However, according to A Global Report on Trafficking in Persons, a study published by the United Nations’ Office on Drugs and Crime, nearly 25 million human beings are trapped in some form of modern-day slavery. 71% of those trafficked are women and girls and over 5 million persons are forced into the global sex trade, most of them children. Taken across borders, abused, and threatened into submission, trafficked human beings are now a business commodity that brings crime syndicates over $150 billion every year. For example, at a recent open marketplace in Libya, human beings were being bought and sold. However, human trafficking and its related trades
are not just problematic in other parts of the world. The United States often brings the demand for this supply of commodified victims. The U.S. State Department reports that as many as 300,000 children are victims of labor trafficking and the sex trade in this country alone. The issue of human trafficking often focuses, rightly so, on the heartbreaking stories of the victims. But a very important question is often left unasked – why are human persons being bought and sold? Dr. Gail Dines, a professor of sociology at Wheelock College states “we know that trafficking is increasing — which means demand is increasing. There are only two conclusions here: That men are naturally willing to do this to women — biology — or that they are being socialized by the culture to lose all empathy for women…I refuse to accept that men are born rapists, porn users, or johns. The biggest sex educator of young men today is pornography, which is increasingly violent and dehumanizing, and it changes the way men view women.” The very legal and prolific pornography industry in the United States is a powerful influence and business that turns the human person into a commodity.
The statistics on porn use, access, and affect on American culture are staggering. Every second, 28,258 users are watching pornography on the internet. 40 million American people regularly visit porn sites. 35% of all internet downloads are related to pornography. According to the National Coalition for the Protection of Children & Families, 47% of families reported that pornography is a problem in their home.  93% of males reported using porn on the Internet prior to age 18. Their average age of first exposure was 14. Pornography is popular culture Why are human persons being used as means to so many illicit, sexual, and selfish ends? For the last decade, the Catholic bishops of the United States and the church community throughout the world have placed combating human trafficking as an important priority in their public advocacy, educational outreach, and in providing services to trafficking survivors. The Catholic bishops of the United States and Mexico have also spoken out on the issue, calling upon both governments to work together to apprehend traffickers and destroy trafficking networks. The USCCB Anti-Trafficking Campaign was created in 2014
Voiced / Matt Hartman â€™18 / Digital Illustration
to educate people of faith on the scourge of human trafficking as an offense against fundamental dignity of the human person; to advocate for an end to modern day slavery; and to provide training and technical assistance on this issue. In a similar way, the USCCB’s 2015 pastoral response to pornography, Create In Me a Clean Heart, provides resources and interventions to help Catholics challenge the pervasiveness of porn culture. Bishop Richard J. Malone of Buffalo, then-chairman of the Committee on Laity, Marriage, Family Life and Youth, which directed the statement’s development, said: “this statement shows our collective concern for the widespread problem of pornography in our culture today…virtually everyone is affected by pornography in some way. So many people…are in need of Christ’s abundant mercy and healing.” Jesus upheld the dignity of each person, teaching that every life has value. But, he also truly believed he was sent to save those who were enslaved by sin. His hope for liberation was the very language of the Old Testament prophets and reflected the salvific moments of the Exodus where God acted powerfully in love to free God’s people. Jesus warned about the temptations and thoughts that lead to the commodification of the human person. He taught that anyone who even looks at someone with lustful intent has already committed a grave sin. He calls us to rethink and act justly to
free captives and respect the human body which, as St. Paul taught, “is the temple of the Holy Spirit.” With all of these things considered, in the Catholic, Jesuit tradition, the Brophy community will be asked to consider four primary questions during this Summit on Human Dignity: 1. Who are those most affected by forms of commodification and how are global citizens complicit in their prevalence? 2. How are forces such as the media, entertainment, economics, and politics perpetuating these injustices? 3. How can faith inform a personal and sociopath away from objectification and dehumanization in our world? 4. What would the path toward freedom look like for those who have been hurt?
KAYEET By Aidan Dunnigan ’20
Plain Jane / Max Farmer ’19 / Photography 78
It is a warm evening, for my teacher had forgotten to turn on the fan. Our teacher pulls out the projector and displays the most eloquent thing a student could ever see. A Kahoot! We jump for joy, metaphorically of course so as to not disturb the class beneath us. We all enter the game pin and our names as we were instructed, but there is one name who does not belong. It reads, “Hugh Mungus.” The teacher gets up from his desk in a rage asking who the name belonged to, but it is too late, for the Kahoot has already begun. Our teacher screams, “I said put your real name. Last name, first name. If this character wins they’re not getting the half point of extra credit on the quiz from yesterday!” We are appalled, nobody from the class is claiming to be Hugh Mungus, maybe out of fear. But I have my theories. I think that somebody has randomly guessed the game pin and joined our match. If true, then they will be unable to see the questions and there will be no way that they can win. But the first question rolls around and they get it! Hugh Mungus is in the lead. The class erupts into a fury screaming, “who is it!?” or “come on man don’t ruin
the extra credit for everybody!” But I know, they aren’t present in the class. They had made a lucky guess that placed them in first. I glance at my instructor and his face shows a mixed expression of confusion and anger, and the smallest smile. “To the next question!” he yells whilst smiling. “Why is he smiling?” I think to myself. But then, I realize that it would upset the usual curve of the quiz if there was no half point extra credit and all of our grades would suffer. I begin to hurt in agony, for I feel that my quiz grade was not so good. I know now that I have to win this game of Kahoot. “I am the only one that can do it,” I think, “for I am in second place and the kid in third is 200 points behind.” The next question rolls around and it is a hard one. I think about it long and hard, but I know it. The answer is the green square! I press it faster than any human possibly could, but somebody is faster. “It can’t be!” I think to myself. But it is. It is Hugh Mungus! Impossible! He can’t even see the questions, how could he possibly be winning? I then realize that this man is unbeatable, and I need to find a new way to get that extra credit. I look at my teacher again as he yells something about that question. He is smiling again. His smile is big, too big. It is scary. It occurs to me at that moment, and at that moment only, that maybe this person is in the classroom. Maybe it is just our teacher trying to upset the curve of the
quiz. “If true,” I think to myself, “it would be impossible to beat him, because he knows all of the answers and is on the teacher WiFi, which is way better than the student WiFi!” I jerk my hand up and ask to use the restroom. But, instead of going to the bathroom, I head into the wall behind our classroom. Now if only I could look through that window, I would have my answer, but there is only one problem. My classroom is on the second story! I had forgotten about that, but I have a new idea forming even crazier than before. “I will climb this tree,” I think. “Then, I will be able to see through the window and onto my teacher’s computer.” I begin climbing and climbing to expose my teacher, and hopefully I’ll be able to blackmail him for some free extra credit. Once I reach the top of the tree, I peer through the window. I see my teacher’s computer and on it is the game of Kahoot! He is not just showing the questions, but he has a separate tab open where he is giving the answers. “I must know for sure,” I think. I climb a little higher to get a better vantage point and I read the name displayed on my teacher’s screen. Hugh Mungus. I had solved the mystery! It was my teacher all along who was posing to be Hugh Mungus. “Now,” I think, “how do I get down?” The End?
A SENIOR’S FINAL SEMESTER
Herman-o-tron / Dhilan Patel ’20 / Photography
By Herman Sanghera ’18
The final run. Four months. Eighteen weeks. One hundred twenty-six days. This is it. The word “final” has always pained me. It’s it. It’s final. It’s the last one. It’s the final one. It truly hurts thinking that this is going to be the last semester for all things “Brophy”. It’s going to be the last semester where I go to Honors Engineering in the morning and watch as James Owen unveils his new preposterous project idea. It’s going to be the last semester where I go to European History and try to comprehend why all these European kings and queens decided to have the same damn names (there were twenty King Louis’s, for starters). It’s going to be the last semester where I go to Biology and laugh as Peter Halligan gets totally roasted by Ms. Lenox, who caught him not paying attention (again!). It’s going to be the last semester where I go to Linear Algebra and observe the sheer brilliance in every corner of the room, from Nicholas Chang, to Krishna Sinha, to Rahul Reddy, and to everyone in-between. It’s going to be the last semester where I go to chess club and totally annihilate all the underclassmen competitors (Mr. Mar included). And it’s going to be the last semester that I get to light up Ms. Maynard’s Lit class by yelling “Truuuuu” every few minutes. A commonality in all of these past and future experiences is the fact that they all occur within the confinements of school.
And although these memories are going to be missed dearly upon graduation, I believe the memories we are all going to remember the most will be the ones we share outside of school. It will be grabbing lunch with friends after school on Friday’s, or going with friends to the sports games and dances, or even just hanging with friends on school nights. I have spent my last few years at Brophy drowning myself with countless Advanced Placement courses. And while I have learned a lot, I feel that I have regrettably set aside these opportunities to socialize because I was attending to all my academic and extracurricular work. That changes this semester. This final semester I see as an opportunity for me to greatly expand both socially and academically. Already, I have met one senior who, despite his artistic achievements and all-loving humor, I hadn’t known very well prior to this year. Indeed, meeting Stokley Berg is the perfect example of what I hope the rest of this semester entails. Truly, there are still a few seniors that I don’t know much of, but I hope to spend more time learning more of the diverse stories and talents that the senior class as a whole possesses. However, I feel like one of the present hindrances to this hope is the pervasiveness of solidified friend groups throughout Brophy. It’s undoubtedly amazing to have a tight circle of friends who share similar interests but it can surely hold one back from meeting new people, people one would not normally socialize with. So, to counter this phenom-
ena, I intend on surrounding myself with people I would not usually spend that much time with. I want to do this because I know there’s more students out there, because I realize that there is more to life than academics, and because… well… This is it. Four months. Eighteen weeks. One hundred twenty-six days. The final run.
SING LOVE LOUDLY By Camden Andl ’19
We live in a world so scarred by hatred. A world we inherited? Or one we created? Passed on from generation to generation, Only focused on what affects us, and our motivations. I’m not here to impose on you my political beliefs, Religious or moral, no, I find that defeats Bringing people together—see we all think differently. Who’s to say my voice holds any validity? Our voices are equal, or at least that’s what we want But we have to be careful—a constant verbal détente. Topics touchy, and issues being debated, But at least to me, all these issues are related. The common thread through them all is human dignity— A concept so simple, but one our world lacks insufficiently. Every day, the homeless are ignored on the street 500,000 Americans society continues to mistreat, But they’re one of many groups that suffers oppression— A history of minorities and our country’s transgressions. Shaming those who appear or act differently because of concepts Such as being inferior based on race or on sex. Yes, we’ve made progress in the past couple of years, #BlackLivesMatter and #MeToo, but people are still in fear. Life cannot be upheld, students are scared of guns in classrooms, Transgender individuals still can’t mind their business in bathrooms, Religious persecution also still prevails, Sexual violence affects 1 in 6 of America’s females.
As young people, we have to raise our collective voice, Our country’s and our children’s futures are our choice. If we don’t act, and rise against injustice The values we wish to hold true will not be encompassed. Society will carry on in the ugly cycle that it has been And our world will continue to be plagued by sin. So raise your voice and sing out loudly, That you will stand for what’s right and you will stand proudly, Holding hands with the oppressed in complete solidarity Protecting human dignity with unqualified sincerity. Let’s defeat the hatred and evil side by side And turn it into love that circulates worldwide.
Scan to see a performance of “Sing Love Loudly”
Trumpet Man / Jake Flaherty â€™19 / Photography
POETRY SERIES By Sam Krupp ’20
THE MONSTER The monster dwells deep within growing and growling in the dark, angry at his toxins creating a barrier of bark. He whispers his sadness into my ears coaxing me into his gloom, and although his voice brings me to tears, I know following him would lead me to doom. This is my monster which will never disappear, but I know I must muster the strength to keep myself clear. Rage, rage, rage. This word still sticks with me through age. It’s been under control for a while, but some can still elicit it out of me like flaming bile. It takes over, the monster, spewing its hateful thoughts, burning those around me, making them distraught. It feels so good to give over control, but deep down I know I can’t let the monster achieve its goal.
ONE WAY STREET My love feels like a one way street, always given, never returned. She acted like she was sweet, but didn’t care about the burn. I told her my feelings, and she threw them in the dirt. I told her how that sent me reeling, and she scoffed at my hurt. Afterwards the monster took over, accelerating me down my one way street.
COPING The path to coping was hard fought and won through hardship and pain, as I struggled to control the monster’s thoughts hoping it wouldn’t leave my mind stained. The help of others showed me the path to the recovery of my soul, which the the monster’s wrath had turned into pure coal. My life goes on, forever altered by MY monster.
Red / Stokley Berg ’18 / Photography 85
STAFF Camden Andl ’19 Layout / Art
Graham Armknecht ’18 Editor-in-Chief
Hayden Welty ’19 Managing / Literary
Patrick Lee ’19 Design
Nicholas Park ’19 Assistant Design
Bernie Banahan ’20 Social Media / Video
Jack Mullen ’19 Matthew Ahearne ’19 Ryan Silver ’19 Ryan Coury ’20 Hunter Gruler ’20 Shray Swarup ’20 Ryven Mangundayao ’20 Cameron Sanders ’21
Justin Loo ’19 JD Karanik ’19 Sebastien Taillieu ’19 Nate Kerber ’19 Dhilan Patel ’20 Ryan Loo ’21 Chance Crafton ’21
JD Karanik ’19 Ryan Coury ’19 Hunter Gruler ’20
tif, both varying in sizes and leadings. All handwritten titles and pull-quotes are written by Camden Andl ’19 and were scanned and inserted digitally. The cover art and graphic elements were created by Camden Andl ’19 and Nicholas Park ’19. Printed by Prisma Graphic. © 2018 by Brophy Literary and Arts Magazine. 4701 N. Central Ave-
nue, Phoenix, AZ 85012. All rights reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced in any manner without permission. All images and literary works are property of the respective artists, reproduced with the permission of the student.
COLOPHON Designers used Adobe InDesign CC, Photoshop CC, and Illustrator CC to create the 2018 print issue of Brophy Literary and Arts Magazine. The dimensions are 8 inches by 11 inches. The body copy font is Tiempo in 12 pt. with a 14 pt. leading for prose and 16 pt. leading for poetry. The title font is Axis Bold and the attribution font is Kollek-
PHILOSOPHY Brophy Literary and Arts Magazine is a student-run publication that seeks to be a platform for student art and writing, elevating the best work at Brophy. It serves to amplify the artistic voice of the student body.
BLAM is also active in the community, annual Summit on Human Dignity. striving to create campus dialogue through writing and events around subjects including the Dream On campaign, the mental health campaign, Stop the Stigma, and Brophyâ€™s
POLICY Throughout the year, BLAM solicits submissions through a combination of contests, author readings, and classroom submissions. All pieces are judged anonymously, and submitted through a Google
form before the March 9th, 2018 deadline. Contest winners, both visual and writing, are guaranteed publication in the magazine. These contests are judged by the writing and art committees, using weighted rubrics
and averages to determine the winners democratically. BLAM reserves the right to edit content for appropriateness and aims to communicate any changes to the author.
AWARDS National Council of Teachers of English 2017- Superior - Nominated for Highest Award 2016- Nominated for Highest Award 2015- Superior 2014- Nominated for Highest Award 2013- Highest Award 2012- Superior - Nominated for Highest Award
National Scholastic Press Association American Scholastic Press Association 2017- All American 2017- First Place with Special Merit 2016- All American 2016- First Place with Special Merit 2015- All American 2014- All American 2013- All American 2012- All American
“I instantly loved the place. It was full of interesting and rare violin making books, ones that you definitely couldn't get from Amazon, and had a room to the right, directly after I walked in, that was filled to the brim with stringed instruments, so much that I didn’t want to move too much for fear of knocking something over” from “Unlike the Messiah” by Tarek Firzli ’09 “Hello darkness, my old friend / I’ve come to ask for your help again” - from “A Light in the Darkness” by Trevor Laity ’13 “What you see in your past, seeing only your regrets, / What you see in darkness, but not in sunsets. / What the starving man only wishes that he had, / What the bitter man wishes didn’t make him mad,” - from “R.S.V.P. Almighty” by Trey Rowe ’11 “‘Where did you go?’ a
not known.” - “Mother Knows Where the Hurt is” by John Borst ’11
voiced in his head mused.” - from “A Sentence Deferred” by Colton Chase ’12
that slowly ticked time away.” - from “Out of Time” by Axell Komlan ’18
“The moon had passed its apex in the sky when I decided to finally turn my attention to the clock. My conscience had no hand in drawing me to it. Its chirping ring was not easily ignored” - from “I Dreamt of the Machine” by Alex Kucera ’13
“Christmas time is always a bit dysfunctional at the Cahill house. Christmas 2005 is such a year. Mom is in the kitchen, struggling to whip up a gluten free meal, frantically running back and forth to find new ingredients” from “Jaguars and Jager” by Jack Cahill ’17
“Cogs are spinning around and around in my head. Acrid smoke surrounds me, swirling in vortexes. I hear the clang of machinery, echoing and loud. The salt of sweat dribbles onto my lips and it just keeps coming, faster and faster, mixing with tears” - Steampunk Love Jeremiah Johnson ’14
“I have a lived a lifetime in my 16 years. Half of that life was lived in a blissful world of ignorance and lies. The other half of my life is built on opportunity and love, but with a gut-wrenching worry that I might wake up and it will all be gone” - from “The Blessing in Disguise” by Hunter Franklin ’19
“Today, the leaves were changing. The fall colors danced whenever the wind blew. I smiled and looked out the window, watching our wake of foliage fan out while my family drove to our destination. ‘Mom, are we there yet?’ I said, drumming on my elevated throne seat.” Fall Leaves by Graham Armknecht ’18
“It was four in the morning. When his mother came home, / She’d been gone for three days. Where she’d been he’d
“Was my escape a crack of doom? / I left without a sound - from Mutual by Julien De Ocampo ‘13
“It only made sense that the world be nothing other than unmoving.” from “The Attic” by Alex Keating ’14 “If you aren’t going to be remembered, why should you have lived?” - from “Uncle Sam” by Anthony Cardellini ’17 “It was a faint but sudden ringing that pounded the accused’s head with the repeated sounds of ‘tick, tock.’ Covering his ears to block out the pungent noise, he found it to be the clock on the wall