The Oracle 2021

To Coach Falco­— For your steadfast support as a mentor, coach, and friend to so many young men.

The Oracle is Brunswick School’s literary magazine, run as an extracurricular club. It presents a diverse representation of the school’s literary and artistic works, edited compiled, and displayed by a team of editors and designers.

Submissions are open to all Brunswick students and faculty with a desire to display their creative works, with a submission window from September to February.

Submissions can be emailed to oracle@brunswickschool. org, but are often personally solicited from students and faculty alike.

Each member of the Oracle editorial board reads each piece at and between weekly meetings. During these meetings, the editors alter the pieces as they see fit while the design team compiles their art and creates a template for the magazine. A small select group of artists at both Brunswick and Greenwich Academy was featured in this magazine, offering artistic consistency to this magazine.

The team uses Adobe InDesign to format the magazine. This year, the Oracle did not strive to follow a central theme as it has in years past but rather chose art that would better complement the piece individually.

2021 ORACLE STAFF Editor in Chief Peter Kapp Senior Editors Aidan Marks Aaron Montgomery Tyler Wilson Junior Editors Zach Murray Teddy Elminger Jamie Gibbons Associate Editors Tony Luo Ben Packer Robert Jacobson Luke Brooks Head of Design Oliver McGovern Design Editors Nick Rinaldi Zane Bhatti NaShawn Livingston Faculty Advisor Mr. Martin

Cover Photo: Jeffry Konczal Cover Design: Oliver McGovern

CONTENTS Ripples of a Revolution

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By Jackson DaPuzzo

Human Experience

12

By Aidan Marks

Alex Trebek is Dead

14

By Jackson DaPuzzo

Lilikoi

22

By Tyler Wilson

Black Sand Beach

24

By Tyler Wilson

Kings of Reste Loin

28

By Nick Rinaldi

What If

33

By Zach Murray

One Car, Two Boys, and a Blizzard

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By Tyler Wilson

Ticket Into the Fraternity of Lunatics

By Teddy Elmlinger

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The Fishermen

55

By Peter Michalik

2:18 to Howard Beach

58

By Michael Montgomery

The Birds

64

By Peter Kapp

Day

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By Luke Brooks

Silent Night

By Peter Kapp

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8

Ripples of a Revolution

By Jackson DaPuzzo Her skin, dark, coarse, tough like a tan leather. Her hair, seemingly uncut for decades, the tips of each strand a remnant from Mao’s rise to power, the end of her people, and the rise of a homogenous nation. She sits down with an audible grunt, her hunchback even more prominent, bent and molded through years of hard labor. Yet to have said a word, her sullen eyes say enough to explain her whole life – her very, very hard life. Dressed in traditional clothing from a dying culture, she prepares to talk, incense whirring around her head, the spirit of her husband looking over her.

A mother of multiple kids, each with their own families, she lives alone, secluded. Her only technology consists of a few outlets sporadically installed against the wood supports of her house, a wind-up radio that only plays one song for her to dance along to, and a small black and white TV that seldom gets a good enough signal to produce a clear picture.

She sticks a chicken foot into her mouth, sucking the skin off the bone as her few remaining teeth gnaw at the sinew and cartilage.

Spitting the bones out of her mouth with no regard for manners, she begins to talk.

From the moment her mouth opened, it became obvious that the effects of the Cultural Revolution removed her from society.

A member of the Naxi minority, she was forced to learn Mandarin by the government in the ’60s and ’70s.

“I am a foreigner, unwelcomed, lost.”

Each day that passes, she forgets more and more of her mother tongue. Her Mandarin on the other hand is barely intelligible, bearing only a slight resemblance to native speakers.

Though the walls of her house are still plastered with communist propaganda, she can’t even read the slogans that took her identity from her. She can neither read nor write in any sense, not even in her native language, Naxi.

“Less than 100 people can still read and write the pictographs

of my language. Once I die, once my generation dies, our culture, our religion, our language, our food will all die with us.”

Spitting out the remains of another chicken foot onto the floor for the stray dog, Little Black, to teethe on, she stands up and moves to her washing area. Stepping over salted animal parts and loose chicken seed, she unties her bonnet and begins the meticulous process of removing her daily, traditional garb. She opens her mouth as if to say a few more words but is quickly interrupted by a tuktuk’s loudspeaker; its chanting of communist slogans interrupting the slow, peaceful, tired pace of life in the village.

“Long live Mao! Long live Mao!” she sneers, imitating the robotic, Big Brother voice echoing throughout the village. “Serve the people! Serve the people!” she chants again. As the tuktuk leaves the village, an eerie silence falls over the farmland while the dust settles back down onto the dirt road.

The silence is short-lived. Having removed her outer clothes and placed them on the clothesline, she makes her way towards the livestock. Just her presence, as benign as it is, is enough to signal a cacophony of violent squealing and distressed clucking from the emaciated pigs and chickens. Lucky for the chickens, she motions for me to pour the birdseed into their feeding area. Unlucky for the pigs, she steps her feet into blood-stained pants, exchanges her slippers for a pair of worn, black boots, and grabs a rope and knife from the nearby shed. She vanishes into the pigpen. Then, a chaotic mess of squealing, barking, clucking, grunting. It appeared as if all the animals in the village joined together in a sort of harmony, a song of mourning. Covered in fresh blood, she walks out of the pigpen, the same stoic expression plastered on her face from when she went in.

“Is it difficult?” I ask, perplexed by her lack of any visible remorse.

“Is what difficult?” she asks, “Killing pigs? No. Nothing is difficult anymore. It is routine. It is having soldiers search through your home. It is seeing close friends and family there one day and gone the next. It is spending every day worrying that your own son will rat you out to the Party. No. It is not difficult. It is living.

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Wo shi mamu de.”

“What’s that? Wo shi mamu de.”

“I am numb.”

She slowly makes her way back into the courtyard, wincing at each step, her arthritis and other pains flaring up from the effort of the slaughter. While cleaning her bloodied hands in the same basin she used to clean her clothes, another tuktuk comes by, this time blasting the names and prices of various snacks and other produce for sale. The prices ranged from pennies to five dollars, but no higher.

Everything was cheap. From the poor canvas patchwork used to fill in the holes in the roof to the hay-stuffed bedding, everything was cheap. She is grateful for the years of intensive farm labor not for the experience or pay or relationships made but because of the callouses left on her hands. Her elephant hide-like skin acts as armor. The splintering wood coming from the only set of chopsticks she owns is not a threat to her impenetrable skin.

Each wash creates more and more cracks and frays in the utensil.

Mold slowly consumes the soft wood just as conformity consumes the people’s republic, yet she continues to use it.

From a large canteen, she pours two bowls of water, one for me and one for her. I pick up my bowl and take a sip, discovering that the water was scalding hot and I no longer have functional taste buds. She just watched. Tearing up in pain as the boiled water burned the back of my throat she sat there, blowing on her bowl, taking small sips to test the temperature.

“Drink more,” she commands. “It’s good for your body.”

I attempt another sip, this time weary of the temperature, and once again coat my tongue and mouth with the numbing water. Shaking her head in dissatisfaction, she lifts the bowl up to her mouth and swallows the whole thing, giving a loud “Ahh” after finishing her last gulp.

“Let’s rest,” she sighs, shuffling her way towards her bedroom.

“Let’s rest.”

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Random Art Generator Oliver McGovern

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The Human Experience

By Aidan Marks An apple rots under thorns and thickets, fermenting.

Its perfume, lethargic and vain, slithers, swallowing the forest, A lush green since faded over a millenia’s harvests.

A germination born of sin, the seeds planted within flesh emerge to exhaust pure souls as He works mysteriously.

Clutching blindly, Man must tear down that where he finds refuge among shadows of a lonely guilt.

Wood crumbles to ash as doors wither in perpetual aches, yet such a Kingdom fascinates deceptively-barebacked, man wanders, lost memories of a paradise compel him.

A gravity of fear suspends him–the weight of tragedy settles among dust and blood. Alas, those tears know no bounds of the rains he might endure, drowning in His expanse.

May a burden to remember urge man to evolve beyond rationale.

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Shape Study Annabelle MacTaggart

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Alex Trebek is Dead

By Jackson DaPuzzo “See you guys at seven,” Doug says to Henry over the phone before hanging up.

He was having his friends over later that night, a somewhat regular occurrence (occurring once, maybe twice a month) and, like always, he needed everything to be perfect. Whether this need was out of some internal desire to never falter, or out of his deep, yet closeted love for Henry’s girlfriend (whom he too had known for quite some time,) everything had to be perfect.

Doug only had two hours to prepare for the night ahead and his anxiety had already begun to set in. Doug was an exceptional man, though meager in his own mind. An ivy grad with a stable job, he had already accomplished more than most. He had a fairly nice apartment in Chinatown (as nice as a Chinatown apartment can get), yet its somewhat large size just exaggerated his loneliness and boredom.

He worked at a bank, low-level, a paper pusher. He found no satisfaction in his job, often telling himself that he was going to quit and go into broadcasting. But of course, the money kept him returning every morning. And besides, the job wasn’t that bad; he got home at 6:00, had plenty of benefits, and got along pretty well with his coworkers.

People looked up to Doug. He had many talents, many passions, and many quirks. He could code in Java, speak pretty good French, and he had a weird affinity for Spanish guitar. He gets complimented often, too often actually. Doug’s paranoia and imposter syndrome has convinced him that any compliments given are sarcastic or lies, attempts to further mess with his head – with the exception of compliments from Henry’s girlfriend…those he cherished. In truth, he is not good enough at java to be a coder, not proficient enough in French to be considered fluent, and while he can impress others with his nylon string guitar, he is far from becoming a professional musician. It is in this averageness, this

passable nature of things, that Doug finds the source of his loneliness and dissatisfaction and depression and anxiety. Although…he is good at one thing: Jeopardy.

Every evening after returning from work, Doug makes sure to record Jeopardy. His evenings usually involve working out, browsing the internet for more useless information, staring at himself in the mirror, dinner (of course,) and whatever work needed to be completed for the following day. His workouts were half-assed. He is so self-conscious about his skinniness (though it is really not anything too noticeable) while at the same time he is too lazy to work out. He watches videos and reads blogs on how to get more fit, but he does this more so for his own amusement than for instruction. His insecurities don’t stop there though. Doug hates his smile and hates his hair and hates a lot of things about himself actually. He showers regularly, perhaps too much, yet he never uses shampoo out of a fear that his hair will become too fluffy (whatever that means).

Everyone copes though. Whether it be overeating, not eating enough, working out, drinking, watching comedies, spending too much time with friends, everyone copes. Doug copes, however, in a more peculiar way than most. After recording Jeopardy, he goes about doing what he does until bedtime where he follows his nightly routine; He brushes his teeth, stares at himself in the mirror, shaves with a safety razor that leaves him with irritated skin, takes his anxiety medication, and gets in bed to watch Jeopardy at 10:30 on the dot.

Jeopardy keeps him going. His encyclopedic knowledge on the most obscure topics would make him a perfect contestant.

Every night, weekends aside, from 10:30 to 11:00, he watches the episode of Jeopardy that aired earlier that evening. He pretends he is a contestant, yelling out answers before the other members can buzz in and imagining fake banter between himself and Alex Trebek.

He loved Alex Trebek. He loved his witty manner of speaking, his bravado, his charisma, his everything. Doug loved Alex Trebek.

Though he took medication every night, it was Jeopardy that distracted Doug from his chronic loneliness, that distracted Doug

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from his suicidal thoughts and the possible shortening of his life.

Doug often thinks about how he’d do it. Whether it be by overdose, cutting, jumping, running into traffic, or a plethora of other modes, Doug has considered them all. He’d never actually do it though. At least, that’s what he tells himself. He is too selfless.

He cares too much about other people. He worries that taking his own life would sadden others – something he would never want to happen – so he doesn’t do it.

Immediately following the phone call, Doug began to prepare for dinner. He quickly made his way to the market next to his apartment to shop for any food he didn’t already have. He made sure he had the right wine, the right condiments, the right cutlery, the right tablecloth, the right playlist, the right everything.

Everything had to be perfect. Dinner was only supposed to be an hour and twenty minutes, so entertainment and other activities weren’t really necessary this time. After setting the table and preparing the meal, Doug took to the bathroom and prepared himself. He only had 30 minutes until Henry, Henry’s girlfriend and the other two guests arrived, so he had to be quick. He set 10 minutes aside for showering, 5 for a very hasty shave that would undoubtedly leave him with razor bumps and ingrown hairs, 10 for getting dressed, and another 5 for looking at himself in the mirror while he did his hair.

Making the final touches to his hair, 9:00 arrived and, as expected, the guests arrived too. Doug warmly welcomed them, making sure to give a hug to Henry’s girlfriend. She returned the favor and added a “You have no idea how happy I am to see you”, a brief glimmer of hope in the otherwise dark winter months. But deep-down, Doug knows he is just a pet to her, a good friend and nothing more.

The evening went on without a hitch. Doug was a great host, a perfect one even, and everyone had a great time. The food was cooked to perfection, the conversations were substantive, yet he still felt an impossible desire to be the one with the girlfriend going to the dinner party at the lonely friend’s house. “If only things happened differently,” Doug would think. If only he had had the guts

to tell her his feelings, then maybe she would be Doug’s girlfriend and not Henry’s.

10:20 arrived and everyone said their “Thank Yous” and “Goodbyes”. Henry was left in silence, in loneliness, in the same lingering darkness that had been present since 4:30 earlier that winter day. He wanted to brush off his feelings, yet his anxiety lingered in the front of his mind, whirring around like a paper airplane caught in the wind.

Doug changed into more comfortable clothing and headed to bed, leaving the cleanup of dinner for tomorrow, a regular habit for a pathological procrastinator like himself. His hands were clammy and his face was flushed as his heart raced. He turned on the television to calm himself, a nice game of Jeopardy would make all the worries go away. Struggling now, a result of the ensuing anxiety attack, he clicks the DVR button on the remote revealing nothing. It was blank. He had forgotten to record Jeopardy. In all the panic and haste of his preparation for a rather insignificant dinner, he had forgotten to record Jeopardy at 7:30. Just the thought of Henry’s girlfriend coming over had distracted him from the essential, menial task of clicking record.

It’s 10:31. Left alone with his thoughts, Doug begins to panic. Without the soothing voice of Alex Trebek, his anxiety takes control and Doug is no longer the commander of his own body. “I couldn’t even be good at recording a show,” Doug thinks to himself, his thoughts spiraling out of control as panic and depression and loneliness and anxiety and all the other no-good very-bad feelings consume him. His body begins to shake, violently, as his throat tightens and he begins hyperventilating. He heads to his bathroom, hoping a splash of cold water would at least calm him down a little.

Turning the knobs of the faucet, Doug eyes the toilet, calculating the time he would have to make it over in case he pukes.

The water didn’t help. He tries to towel off his wet hands, realizing the task is Sisyphean as his profuse sweating continues to coat his hands in clammy moisture. He tries a new tactic, medicine.

Having already taken the normal dosage of his medication for the day, Doug re-doses, attempting to calm his nerves and let the

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chemicals release him from his hex. Then, he takes a few more pills and a few more. Nothing was happening though.

His vision blurs as his anxiety gets worse and worse. He tries singing to himself to calm down. To any observer, Doug would look crazy, psychotic. He was a man losing control of himself all the while eating pills and singing Spanish songs that really only sound good with an accompanying guitar. The singing didn’t work anyway.

Doug’s attempt at singing only exacerbated the situation, making him more aware of his closing throat and shortness of breath.

He can’t take the pain anymore. Looking at his defeated, flushed, sweaty, distressed face in the mirror, Doug realizes that maybe it wouldn’t be selfish, that no one actually cares for him, so why should he care for them? He pours the remainder of the pill bottle into his sweaty palm and swallows the medicine in one gulp, no water; Impressive. Not sure of what pain is to come and tired of the pain, Doug grabs his safety razor and takes out the blade.

The only reason he bought the safety razor in the first place is that he thinks it would make him look cool in the off chance someone were to walk into his bathroom (something that never happened) and see the shiny, sleek-looking, razor of a gentleman sitting on the countertop. It only caused razor bumps anyway, so there was no real point in owning it over a normal razor. Maybe now it can have a use.

Holding the blade in between his thumb and index finger, Doug moves it to his forearm. Motioning downwards to pierce his skin, the sweat on Doug’s fingertips causes the blade to slip, cutting his thumb and falling to the ground. Like the blade, Doug’s knees buckle and he too falls to the ground. Looking like a tortured creature, his anxiety peaks, causing him to throw up, missing the toilet completely.

Laying in a pool of pill-filled vomit, sweat, and tears, Doug takes a deep breath and stands up. He grabs the remote and turns on the TV, hoping to take his mind off everything that just happened.

The TV turned on just as a news anchor received the breaking news: “Alex Trebek is Dead.”

Color Study William Monohan

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Boxes On A Circular Canvas Oliver McGovern

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Text Study Douglas Messier

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Lilikoi

By Tyler Wilson I don’t usually walk for exercise. My mom does, though.

So when she asked me to come with her, I grabbed my flip-flops.

She told me to put them back and grab my sneakers. We would be moving fast.

Out of the room, down the elevator, into the warm Hawaiian air, across the courtyard, and towards the beach, we move in tandem. There is a path there that runs along all of the hotels in Wailea—to the delight of joggers and walkers such as my mother. It is a particularly peaceful place, great for a stroll, especially at sunset.

There is something special about a Hawaiian sunset. The twilight sky is the same cool grey as the ocean, and the dipping sun glows like magma cracking through rock. I’ll miss this watercolor sun, its orange hues bouncing off the sea, as vibrant as a lilikoi. It is our last night, after all.

The hotels pass us on the right, and the beach slithers along our left. Bodies, untethered, flow around us. Looking at their faces, I ponder their lives. These strangers who share the same path as me, with their sunburnt skin and salty hair, have their own lives and their own problems. Some of us arrived today, others leave tomorrow— like me. Maybe we’d be on the same flight. Would I even recognize them? Or are their faces only blips in my memory? If I could only slow them down, I could take in every wrinkle and pore. It doesn’t matter, though. Nothing matters in Hawaii.

Their faces glow golden in the radiance of the sun—now just a burning dot, rolling along the horizon. Its beauty leads to a far more distressing realization: the sun will be gone soon. I don’t want it to set, nor do I want this moment to end. Can I lasso it? And suspend it above the waves? Why does my last Hawaiian sunset have to pass with such haste? I should at least slow down, and enjoy it.

Against my wishes, the sun continues to fall. My mom gains speed and slides ahead of me. I catch up and then fall back again. I

wish we’d slow down, just for a minute. I look around at the faces, now just a blur. I’m jealous of them, envious that they can stay here, in my memory, in Hawaii, forever. Let me absorb the scene, and maybe I can stay here too.

The sun’s sinking in the Pacific now, remembered only by the warm haze it leaves behind. We reach the end of the path. I don’t want to turn back. First, we were moving too fast; now, we have to turn back. My feet try to grip the ground through my shoes, and my body becomes cold. I don’t want to go back to the hotel. I don’t want to end our walk. I don’t want the sun to set. I don’t want to get on that plane tomorrow. I don’t want to leave Hawaii. I don’t want to watch the sky turn cold and black.

When I get home, I face a new year, 2020. I face school, and exams. I face anxiety and stress, leaving behind coconut water and tranquility. When I get home, I’ll see my two dogs again. One has cancer, and only weeks left. I don’t want to go home. I want to turn right, onto the beach, and into the water. I want to stay with the turtle I met yesterday, the one trying to eat a long-discarded bathing suit.

I want to glide over the coral and stare out into the eternal blue. I want the bright juice of a passion fruit to run down my chin, and the timbre of the rainforest to fill my ears. I want to be here, in this memory, hugged by an aureate halo—forever protected from what lies beyond the breach.

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Black Sand Beach

By Tyler Wilson Allow me to ask, and excuse my reach– Have you ever stood on a Black Sand Beach?

It’s strange, I know, but I must beseech– How does it feel, on a Black Sand Beach?

Toes in the sand, gripping to land, watching the waves crash first hand.

The water’s so blue, and it’s calling to you.

Its turquoise gaze is a siren’s hue.

Allow me to ask, and excuse my reach– Have you ever stood on a Black Sand Beach?

It’s strange, I know, but I must beseech– How does it feel, on a Black Sand Beach?

As the pebbles turn black, and the water to grey, as the wind picks up, and the palm trees sway.

A lilikoi washes ashore, gracing the waves with its vibrant allure.

It came from the breach, and into my reach.

Today is my last on the Black Sand Beach.

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Turquoise Gaze Tyler Wilson

Black Sand Beach Tyler Wilson

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Kings of Reste Loin

By Nick Rinaldi The following is the true account of the incident that took place in the French Alps during June of this year. Now, in September, the search parties have dwindled in size and frequency with each passing day. They have not found the body, nor any evidence of a disturbance in the underbrush near our campsite, and I feel some are beginning to suspect me for his mysterious disappearance. Allow me to disclose my story, in which no detail is uncertain or untrue.

I observed everything with my own eyes, and although I cannot explain it, it is all the complete truth.

I will start from the beginning. My name is Abraham James King, and early this June, I traveled to the French Alps with my coworker, Isaac. While I had only known Isaac for one year before our week-long backpacking trip, I felt like we had grown close in that time, and when I proposed my idea for our vacation to him, he was eager to come along. Like myself, Isaac loved nature and enjoyed the challenge of surviving in the wilderness. With this in mind, we decided to forge our own trail through the Alps, away from the beaten path. We started in Chamonix and, over the course of the week, we were planning on backpacking to Servoz using the valleys and rivers as our guide.

On the third night of our journey, we came across the ruins of an old castle, with decaying walls no higher than eye level in every direction. We decided to set up our tent in what was once the castle’s courtyard. Scrawled into the stone of the courtyard wall were the words “RESTE LOIN”. Neither of us spoke French very well, so we assumed that this was the name of the castle. We liked the idea of being the Kings of Reste Loin for the night and jokingly spoke formally as we ate our ‘royal meal’ of grilled cheese sandwiches.

We were both adults, yet we still found something funny about childishly imitating royalty. For all we knew, something similar might have happened in that very courtyard hundreds of

years ago, and there was a strange energy surrounding the castle that seemed to connect the past to the present, uniting the real noblemen of the castle to us, two American tourists, sitting there that night.

Cleaning up our food, I noticed two pairs of bright red eyes in the distance. When I mentioned this to Isaac, he couldn’t see anything and intelligently replied, “Animals’ eyes only glow because they’re reflecting light, and there’s nothing for them to reflect right now. You’re just seeing things. C’mon, Abe, let’s go to bed.” He was much more of a survival expert than I was, so I trusted him and attributed it to my imagination.

Once Isaac had fallen asleep, I noticed through the mesh window of our tent that the two pairs of red eyes from before were drawing closer to us. I sat up and crawled to the back of the tent in fear. Eventually, after coming all the way up to the castle’s walls, the eyes slunk off into the forest again, and I told myself that what I saw was merely my fatigued brain playing tricks on me again as I fell asleep.

That night, I was transported into the courtyard of the castle as it once was, hundreds of years ago. I was among a crowd of people encircling a gallows in the center of the courtyard. A small boy, with the palest skin I had ever seen, had just been hanged, and I could see his thin, bony legs dangling limply from his body. I tried to get a glimpse of the boy’s face, but a tall man dressed in a white robe was blocking my view. The boy’s body was taken down and thrown on top of what seemed to be another body, or perhaps even a stack of bodies, on the other side of the gallows. While I could not see it happen, I heard the sickening sound of flesh hitting flesh, followed by a deafening silence. The crowd collectively turned their eyes toward the corner of the courtyard, where the next person to hang was being brought out. It was Isaac. I ran toward him, but the man in the white robe held me back. He had large, soft hands, and even though he was restraining me, he stared at me with the kindest eyes I had ever seen, and all of the fight in me left my body. As I looked back to the gallows, the floor was being dropped under Isaac, and I strained forward. “ISAAAAAC!”

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“I’m sorry. I had a nightmare,” I mumbled as Isaac sat up.

Before going back to sleep, we noticed that the inside of our tent had been trashed. There was food everywhere and the few clothes we had in our backpacks were strewn about. My first thought was that an animal had gotten in, but the tent’s zipper was still shut, and no part of the tent was ripped.

Isaac thought that I was playing a prank on him and snapped, “C’mon man, this isn’t funny. That food was supposed to last us for four more days and now you spilled the rice everywhere.”

“That wasn’t me. An animal must have gotten in or something,” I replied.

“Oh yeah? Then how is the zipper still shut?”

“I don’t know, man. It just wasn’t me, okay? Now let’s just go back to bed.”

I dozed off rather quickly, but I couldn’t stay asleep and woke up a couple of hours later. When I rolled over to my side and slowly opened my eyes, I realized that Isaac was gone. At first, I assumed that he had gone to the bathroom, but I saw a thick trail of blood extending out of the tent door, which was still zipped shut. I didn’t know what creature had taken him, but I instinctively understood that whatever it was, I was surely next.

Without a moment’s hesitation, I ran east, away from our tent. Although we were deep in the forest, I remembered that there was a small road about a half a mile east of our campsite. I flew through the forest, my face and arms getting cut by branches until I finally reached the road. Luckily, a local man in a pickup truck was driving by, and he let me into the safety of his truck.

The man was named Noé Sauveur, and he spoke English fairly well. I explained my situation to him, and he agreed to help me contact the authorities to go looking for Isaac.

I panted, “We were at this old castle. I think it was called Reste Loin.”

He replied, “That is not the name of a castle my friend. Reste Loin means ‘stay away.’ I know the place you are talking about.

Legend has it that a little pale boy… un albinos… was hanged there, hundreds of years ago. They say he still haunts the ruins of that

castle. Me personally? I do not believe that story, but I still stay far away from that place. It scares my dogs.”

The man trailed off, and there was a moment of silence in the truck. The man was clearly grasping for something to say to comfort me and assure me that Isaac was going to be ok. However, he didn’t say anything, perhaps because he truly believed that Isaac would not be found.

As we continued to drive away, I looked back at the forest.

It may have just been my imagination, but deep within the trees, I thought I caught a glimpse of, not two, but three pairs of glowing red eyes peering back at me.

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Lost Time Oliver McGovern

What If…

By Zach Murray What If… What if you had stayed at home We wouldn’t all be here today You would still be with us Instead we mourn your passing away What if I had gone for the drive I might have been of some assistance And maybe I would have died But at least you would still be in existence What if I had told you no You would have been mad at me We would be here with you And not spreading your ashes at sea What if I had died with you I would not be on Earth, feeling so blue

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Linear Study William Monohan

One Car, Two Boys, and a Blizzard

By Tyler Wilson Two college-aged friends, WILL and LUKE, drive along in a car. Will is in the driver’s seat, steering, while Luke relaxes next to him.

The “car” consists of four chairs spaced in a 2x2 rectangle in the middle of the stage, lit only by one overhead light. The rest of the scene is up to the audience’s imagination.

It is night time, the stage around them is dark. The car’s engine makes a clattering noise, breaking down. Will pulls over.

WILL: Dammit.

Luke pops up.

LUKE: What?

WILL: The engine just stalled.

LUKE: Okay... How do we un-stall it?

WILL: It’s fine, this happens sometimes. It just takes a minute. Let her rest for a second.

Will tries starting it again, to no avail.

WILL: Well, it should-Will tries again.

WILL: Hmm. LUKE: What?

WILL: That usually works.

LUKE: So what do you do when it doesn’t work?

WILL: I... well... I’ve never had it not work before.

LUKE: So the only way you know how to fix your car is to start it

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again? Will stares at him blankly.

LUKE: Brilliant.

WILL: Why don’t you call somebody?

LUKE: Who do you call?

WILL: I think the police.

LUKE: Do you have triple-A? WILL: I bought this car on Craigslist with lawn mowing money. I’m lucky it has insurance.

LUKE: Okay, so we’ll call the police.

Luke takes out his phone.

WILL: (stroking the dashboard) I’m sorry this is happening, baby.

LUKE: Are you really talking to the car right now? (beat) You don’t call 911 for something like this, right? It’s not an emergency. I think you have to look up the department’s number. (annoyed) Oh great, there’s no service anyways.

WILL: Huh? LUKE: There’s no service ‘cause we’re in the middle-of-nowhere Vermont in a blizzard. We’re still an hour-and-a-half from the ski mountain, and God knows how far from any semblance of civilization.

WILL: Alright, let’s not panic.

LUKE: Do you know how to fix an engine?

WILL: No. LUKE: So the only thing we can do is panic.

WILL: Somebody is bound to find us at any point now.

LUKE: How? Who else is dumb enough to drive through a snowstorm at night?

WILL: There were a lot of people at the rest stop a while back.

LUKE: That was like two hours ago, or more. (beat) Do you have a flare gun?

WILL: Why would I have a flare gun?

LUKE: (getting louder) Oh, I don’t know. Maybe in case your shitty car breaks down on a rural Vermont back road without service?

WILL: Don’t be a jackass. And don’t insult the car. It’s not her fault

she has to lug your fat ass around.

LUKE: (beat) I have to go pee.

WILL: Go ahead.

Will gestures to the wilderness around them.

WILL: You’re in God’s bathroom now.

LUKE: It’s freezing.

WILL: Go quickly.

Luke sighs and zips up his jacket. He pulls a winter hat over his head and opens the car door.

Outside of the car, Luke pees, staring at the sky. Inside the car, Will tries to start the ignition again, no luck.

There’s a rustle in the woods. Luke sprints back into the car, slamming the door.

LUKE: Did you hear that?

WILL: No. LUKE: I think it was an animal. Something big.

WILL: Like what?

LUKE: I don’t know, don’t they have bears out here?

WILL: It was probably a rabbit.

LUKE: Can a bear break through a car?

WILL: No... I mean, I don’t think so.

LUKE: This car is basically tin foil. Like, they’d tear through it so quickly. What type of bears do they have up here?

WILL: No idea.

LUKE: ‘Cause don’t you have to do different things for different types? Like make noise or play dead.

WILL: Well, what do you do for what?

LUKE: No idea.

WILL: Great. Well, if a bear comes up to us, we’ll split it up. You yell and I play dead. One of us will live at least.

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LUKE: Dude, stop.

WILL: It’s just a joke.

LUKE: I don’t know about you, but I’m actually pretty nervous about all of this.

WILL: Do you think I’m not nervous?

LUKE: I mean you’re kind of giving off a vibe that you’re not.

WILL: One of us has to be calm. My shitty car has us stranded in the middle of nowhere, and I don’t know how to fix it. You’re having a whole panic attack right next to me like we haven’t only been out here for five minutes. If I don’t crack a least one joke, you’re gonna make me lose my mind, and we can’t afford to have two nut-jobs in one car.

LUKE: Alright, well, I’m sorry I freaked out, okay. Like you said, someone’s bound to show up eventually.

Will tries to start the car again, no luck.

WILL: Well, we might be here for hours, so get comfy.

LUKE: I need to relax.

Luke reclines his chair back, looking up through the sunroof. Will follows suit.

They sit in silence for a little bit.

Luke begins inhaling and exhaling quite loudly.

WILL: Dude, are you okay?

LUKE: I’m doing breathing exercises.

WILL: Weird.

Will starts copying him, matching his cadence. They breathe in unison for a bit.

LUKE: I wish it wasn’t snowing so much. Then we could see the stars.

WILL: Yeah, I like stars.

LUKE: Me too. Out here there are so many. No lights to block them out of view.

WILL: Next time I’ll make sure to break down during the summer so we can see them.

LUKE: It’s fine. I can just imagine them.

WILL: How many can you see?

LUKE: All of them, and there’s a full moon too.

WILL: Nice.

LUKE: Something about stars, and the moon, just makes me calm.

I feel so little compared to them, thinking about how far away they are. Each one of them is their own solar system, or something, with their own planets, maybe their own people. Maybe those people are watching us, right now, looking at our sun. Maybe we’re a part of some constellation from their perspective, like an alien-god or an alien-bear or something. It makes me feel so small.

WILL: I hate feeling small.

LUKE: I don’t. I think it grounds me. It helps me realize things don’t really matter too much. When I get too worked up, I have to remember that a broken down car means so little in the grand scale of all that. You know?

WILL: I mean, not really. If nothing we do matters, what’s the point?

LUKE: The point is to live life in the moment. I get so anxious so fast. I mean, five minutes ago I was mentally running through scenarios on how to escape a bear attack. I get so caught up in my own thoughts.

WILL: I honestly don’t think I’m a good enough thinker for that.

Like right now, I can’t see anything. Just snow on a sunroof. No stars, no moon. But maybe that’s better for me. Space scares me.

Too big, too infinite.

LUKE: I wish I could just be calm like that, without having to trick my brain with a bunch of nonsense. If I was a little less anxious life would go much smoother.

WILL: Maybe if I was a little more anxious I wouldn’t let my car break down all the time.

LUKE: That’s a good point. We need a middle-ground. (beat) Ooh,

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a shooting star.

WILL: You gotta make a wish.

LUKE: I wish that we don’t die here.

WILL: Hey, we’re not gonna die here.

LUKE: I was just making a joke! Like you said. (beat) What did you wish for?

WILL: I didn’t see it.

LUKE: That’s okay, make one anyway.

WILL: I wish for the repair prices to be cheap so my parents don’t kill me.

LUKE: That’s a good wish.

WILL: I think so too.

The two of them sit in silence again for a little bit.

Will then sits up.

WILL: You know how we talked about that middle-ground?

LUKE: Yeah WILL: Alright, I’m gonna be a little more concerned for a change.

And I’m gonna say that relaxing has been pretty nice, but that snow is piling up fast.

Luke sits up.

LUKE: Damn, it is.

WILL: What happens if, hypothetically speaking, the car gets buried under all this snow. I mean this is Vermont, right? They get a lot of snow.

LUKE: And no one can find us...

WILL: Ever.

They both begin zipping up their coats and reaching for their respective door handles.

Luke stops.

41 LUKE: Wait! We have to calm down... a little.

They both take a deep breath.

LUKE: Alright, let’s go.

The two scramble out of the car and begin anxiously swiping the “snow” off of the car.

LUKE: Will, get back in the car and get ready to try and start it, I’m gonna try and push us out.

WILL: Can you handle it?

LUKE: Pushing?!

WILL: Yeah, I mean, maybe I should do it?

LUKE: Why? WILL: I mean... how... strong are you?

LUKE: Really?

WILL: What?!

Luke gives him a fed-up look.

WILL: I think it’s a very valid question. I don’t want you to get hurt.

LUKE: Uh-huh.

WILL: Yeah!

LUKE: You’re so full of it.

WILL: (desperately trying not to insult him) No, I’m trying to look out for you!

LUKE: You know I’ve been lifting, right?

WILL: Yeah... you look good.

LUKE: I’m probably, like, just as strong as you.

WILL: Well...

LUKE: Or stronger.

WILL: Alright, arm wrestle right now.

Will puts his elbow down on the top of the car, ready to go.

42 LUKE: Can you just get in the driver’s seat?

WILL: Yes, yes, fine, whatever.

Will opens his door and climbs back into his seat.

WILL: Ready when you are.

Luke moves to the back of the car, bends down, and prepares to push when from off stage a pair of headlights illuminates the scene.

Second by second, they grow with intensity.

LUKE: Oh my God, oh my God. WILL: Is that a car?!

Luke runs out into the road, doing jumping jacks to get the driver’s attention.

LUKE: Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God! We’re gonna live!

The car slows down and pulls up behind them, just offstage. This is signified by the sound of car breaks.

Luke comes off the road, back to Will’s car.

Enter STRANGER: a young man with a flannel jacket, beard, mullet, and about as many teeth as you can count on one hand.

Will gets out of the car.

WILL: Thank you, sir, so much, you have no idea.

STRANGER: No worries fellas. Y’all broke down?

WILL: Yeah.

STRANGER: What’s the problem with it?

WILL: The engine just totally stalled. We both don’t know how to do any mechanic stuff.

STRANGER: Do you mind if I take a look?

WILL: Do we mind? (chuckles) It would be a life saver, literally.

STRANGER: Alright let me just grab my tools and flashlight and I’ll help y’all right out.

WILL: Thank you, so much.

STRANGER: Don’t mention it.

The Stranger walks back offstage the way he came in, Will goes to get back in the car, Luke follows reluctantly.

They climb in.

WILL: What a miracle.

LUKE: So you know how we said to find a middle-ground?

WILL: Yeah.

LUKE: And we were doing so well...?

WILL: Yeah.

LUKE: Well, I’m gonna mess it up.

WILL: Why? LUKE: That guy, back there, was the guy eyeing your car up and down at the rest stop.

WILL: Huh? LUKE: Remember how I told you that when I came out of the bathroom there was a guy looking through our windows? That’s the guy.

WILL: No way.

LUKE: And then he followed us for 2 hours. That doesn’t seem fishy to you?

WILL: I mean, a little fishy.

LUKE: That’s not just a little fishy, Will. This is three-day-old-gasstation-sushi fishy. You don’t just run into people in the middle of the wilderness.

WILL: So what do you think is up?

LUKE: What if he, like, sabotaged the car? And followed us to... you know... kill us.

WILL: What’s wrong with you?!

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LUKE: It’s suspicious!

WILL: The dude’s like our age.

LUKE: Jeffrey Dahmer was like 20!

WILL: Now you have to chill out. Look at some stars or some shit.

The Stranger walks back on stage, toolkit in one hand, flashlight in another.

As he passes Will and Luke a holstered handgun is made clearly visible at his waist. It’s in the direct eye-line of the two boys as he passes by their window.

He goes to the front of their car and pops the hood.

The two are stunned and begin whispering to each other.

WILL: Okay, maybe this is bad.

LUKE: We’re gonna die.

WILL: I think they eat people out here.

LUKE: What do we do?

WILL: He’s toying with us. Run. Steal his car, I’ll distract him.

LUKE:What if he shoots you?

WILL: I’ll grab his gun. You get out of here, do whatever it takes.

Make sure my parents know I love them.

LUKE: Will...

WILL: There’s no time.

He inhales deeply.

WILL: Go. The second Will reaches for the door, the engine revs and the car starts up again. Will and Luke freeze.

The Stranger comes up to Will’s window, Will rolls it down.

STRANGER: Well, that was a quick fix. I know this car damn well, it

was the first one I ever drove. You know what’s funny? I saw another one just like it at a rest stop earlier today. Just looking at it brings back so many memories. Hey, are you two heading up to Snowbrush Mountain? Myself and the family are too. We’re taking a quick trip.

The Stranger points back to his car, Will and Luke turn as well, noticing his offstage family. Will waves.

LUKE: (with a deep exhale) Yes, we are, funny coincidence.

STRANGER: Well, enjoy this fresh powder. You guys drive safe now.

God bless you.

WILL: (weakly) God bless you too.

STRANGER: Alright now.

The Stranger walks back off stage, leaving Will and Luke alone.

LUKE: Alright, middle-ground, from now on.

WILL: Definitely middle-ground.

LUKE: Let’s go, I’m fucking exhausted.

They pull onto the road and away.

The lights dim, and the play ends.

CURTAIN

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Juxtaposition Study Annabelle MacTaggart

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Boiler Study in Charcoal Oliver McGovern

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Ticket into the Fraternity of Lunatics

By Teddy Elmlinger The team is assembled, the car is ready, and the time has come to break the record and race across the country.

This is a race against time and the teams before us - not against other cars. Spurred on by the Fraternity of Lunatics, we drive to the start line and mentally prepare to commit several felonies that could certainly end in handcuffs. This race is not sanctioned, wholly illegal, and a horrible idea by any stretch of the imagination.

We’re just three lunatics trying to break a record.

I brace for the crisp Manhattan air as I walk through the hotel turnstile, not yet accepting of the task we laid out ahead of us.

This crazy idea spurred on by a youtube video just months earlier is moments away from becoming a reality. We drive up to pay for our one-day spot at the garage, although the garage attendant knows as well as we do that the car will only be there for an hour.

Like a trained NASCAR pit team, we perform our checks quickly and quietly, knowing that every minute we wait, traffic jams grow. After performing the last-minute checks on the car: oil, coolant, and tires, we activate the mountain of electronics that will supposedly lead us to victory. The checks are done, the maps and radar detectors are set, and the announcements to our families have been made...

I sit behind the wheel and look at the array of screens that make the driver’s seat look more like a cockpit than a dashboard.

The garage attendant’s thumbs up and the copilot’s nod of approval give us clearance to take off; at our planned speeds, we may just take off. I swipe the garage ticket and the race begins.

We zoom through the center of Manhattan at 10:15 PM. We reach the Turnpike and I see the straight road ahead of me, begging to be conquered. “Seventy, eighty, ninety, one hundred,” says my copilot next to me, knowing that we must stay at this speed to have a chance at winning. We watch the maps incessantly recalculate our e.t.a.. With the roads empty, nightfall surrounding us, and our

dreams ready to carry us through the night, we feel invincible to the world around us. I cruise down the highway at 110 and the cockpit goes silent. At these speeds, we now realize the daunting task we’ve set for ourselves. If we get caught, the dream is gone, the car is gone, and we will have to make very awkward phone calls home while handcuffed in the middle of a police precinct.

We embrace the cold, dead air around us. This is the calm before the storm.

Five minutes later, dispatch breaks the silence. “Vehicle reported moving eastbound at a high rate of speed on Interstate 78. Officers, please beware.” As we pray, hoping that there will be no reply to the call, we hear “Roger, I’ll be waiting with radar and lasers. Thanks, dispatch.”

We man our stations. my copilot is no longer looking at my speedometer, but at the road in front of us trying to spot the danger ahead. Meanwhile, my navigator is laser-focused on the scanners, detectors, and Waze. At that moment, the scanner beeps and the phone announces: “Police reported ahead.”

I move into the right lane, driving a respectable 60 in a 55 with nonchalance, the sporadic cars around are completely unaware of my burning desire to floor it. We pass our first of many cops and breathe a sigh of relief, hoping that our first near-miss with the cops is our last.

I step on it. The 115 mph average we established dramatically exceeds our expectations. With our fuel needle still at full, thanks to the large, explosive tanks in the trunk, we speed on, staying vigilant for the dangers surrounding us.

After an hour of blowing past the occasional car and orange blurs of trees, we are greeted by an ominous noise. The police scanners buzz like a swarm of angry hornets. I quickly move into the right lane and I slam on the brakes, but I realize it will be too late. I turn off my lights and decide to go. The numbers climb as fast as my heart rate. Over the radio, there is a report of a ‘mad man’ going 125 on the highway. After staying on high alert for what felt like an eternity, I regain my focus.

After many fast, long hours, I glance at my fuel gauge which

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has finally moved from its once full position to ¾ tank. It is now 6:00 a.m. and the lack of sleep takes its toll on the team. Unlike the E63S we are in, we begin to fade. We regain our focus just enough to make it to the gas station. We put a call into the team of spotters who helped us through Illinois to man their stations and to be ready for our refuel.

We pull into the gas station with our tires squealing, and the trunk doors containing the extra fuel tanks already open. The timer starts and we begin our pit stop. Stretch, fuel, pee. That’s all there is time for. We fly out of the gas station. I’m in the passenger seat now.“110, 120, 130, 135” I say as we blow past churchgoers and soccer moms on an otherwise peaceful Sunday morning.

We cruise into Oklahoma at 110 mph and we have a large problem, the police. According to the police scanners, Waze, our spotters, and the radar detectors, we have company up ahead. As usual, we slow to an excruciatingly legal 57 mph and slip into the middle lane, looking as innocent as the silver minivan beside us, their perceived urgency nowhere close to ours in our race against time.

Concerned that the group of officers ahead is waiting for us, we creep towards the crowd of officers with a look of fear and innocence on our faces. At that moment, our savior in an obnoxiously loud, black Mustang arrived. Screaming past traffic, not realizing the trap ahead, we see what would have happened if we were not as prepared. With the police cars swarming around the young Mustang owner like a colony of ants, we sneak by unscathed as our loud friend tries to talk his way out of handcuffs.

Exiting Oklahoma and entering Texas, our 150mph speed creates a buffer between us and the swarm of cops behind us, seemingly shielding us from the imminent danger of our task. As we charge through the Lone Star state, we realize how strong our performance has been thus far. Our hearts continue to race. On the radio, we hear “Silver station wagon going excessive speeds on Route 66, near Mclean.” As the driver prepares to slow down, I realize that we’ve passed Mclean and are already two towns away.

We gratefully keep the pedal floored and accelerate Now

traveling a brisk 170mph, we cross through Texas in what seems to be five minutes.

We soldier on through New Mexico, dependent on each other for survival. As our spotters peel off, we prepare for an eventful night ahead.

As the sun sets, we prepare for our final change. We again ignore the off-ramp speed limits and head to the gas station. The spotters, pumps in hand, prepare to best the time set by their predecessors. After we once again remember the consequences of sitting down for multiple bumpy miles, we run back to the car, anxious for the race to be over and for the beds waiting for us in California. With our speed quickly climbing, we slip through traffic undetected, like a shadow in the night.

With the speeds climbing as fast as our E.T.A. times are dropping, a jolt of energy hits us, the energy and optimism expunging our fatigue. Like before, we elegantly weave through traffic like a wellrehearsed dance. The driver’s turns and adjustments are smooth and seem choreographed. This is what being truly connected to the road and the machine must feel like.

An hour down the road, the traffic is slightly denser, but there’s enough space to dance through. We weave between the large trucks and dreary drivers while focusing on one thing, the finish line.

The traffic eases and the road is dead straight ahead of us; it’s time to put the pedal to the metal and win. We pass the occasional blur of cars as we jet down the highway. Seeing two vehicles, side by side, the driver moves to the left lane as swiftly and smoothly as he has all night. Our focus is solely devoted to besting the time set by our predecessors. The driver slows down slightly (although still traveling well into the triple digits) as he passes the truck in the middle lane. Passing the cab of the truck, we see red taillights cut across ahead. A screech, a shriek, nothing.

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Structure Study William Knight

Industrial Scaffolding Study Oliver McGovern

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Eyesore Oliver McGovern

Fishermen

By Peter Michalik So, few among you, the scum they call men, You must guide them to places no one has been.

Bring forward your leaders, men of great valor, Doused in praise and roiled in honor.

Lead us to victory, the spoils of war, Conquer your enemies, never conquered before.

Champion over those with leaders subpar, Strength and power have led you so far.

Fill emptiness with fullness, and your enemies scatter.

You have achieved more than could ever matter, And what’s more your people are pleased.

History will remember you for more than it seemed.

The peaks and valleys all crossed in time, Love and admiration for making theirs mine.

The sacrifice, the drama, the tales of twists and turns, Wit and skill guides you to what your heart most yearns.

When the dust has settled and the day is won, Your triumphs are nothing to the followers of the sun.

For all your charisma, your talent and charm, Look rather to he who has never brought anyone harm.

So, when you cease to order, to dictate, and to shout, Make no mention of the opposition’s great rout.

Rather, listen to the call of the humble ways that have been, and then you will be fishers, fishers of men.

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Text and Color Study Douglas Messier

Circus Oliver McGovern

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2:18 to Howard Beach

By Michael Montgomery I’ve seen my fair share of violence and then some. Something was out for my family ever since we were little. My brother isn’t the grit-your-teeth, stick-your-jaw-out, don’t-mess-with-me kind of guy. He’s the hippie-dippie peaceful kid who doesn’t have a mean bone in his body. People tell me my character flaw is always seeing the best in people. His was being too nice. You’d think that would have helped him in life, and I’m sure it did, but it also had its drawbacks. I knew some people wouldn’t like his happy-go-lucky attitude, but it never crossed my mind that he’d be mugged before his tenth birthday. That is, until it happened. It only escalated from there. Some people say violence is inexcusable, and they’re right.

Kind of. But there’s usually a reason, an explanation, an excuse, behind the actions. Maybe you just find yourself in an unlucky situation.

I was a sophomore in high school living in a tiny apartment in Flushing. It was reaching the second half of the 1986-87 school year. I took the train or bus to and from school every day for years; but one day, one of those simple, toneless acts became frightening.

We didn’t seek it out; we didn’t retaliate, but we also couldn’t stop it.

You see, I went to a private school called Archbishop Malloy. It was exactly on the border between the good and bad part of town. Our school had about 400 kids per grade, mostly Italians. At 2:18, when school ended, kids would pile onto the train. One station down was the local public school that would be getting out as we arrived, a fact that we soon became vividly aware of. I was never really sure why it happened, or what was even happening for that matter, but my understanding was that these public school kids were targeting the Malloy boys on the train. No one messes with the Malloy boys.

My friends and I were the ride-the-city-bus-type, and for good reason. We’d heard the rumors of the train’s victims–these public school kids were doing something called brick packing.

It’s pretty self-explanatory actually: the kids would just stuff their

backpacks full of bricks and beat our kids on the train. I heard numbers between four and six of theirs beating up one of ours.

Each day for about two weeks a new kid would be crippled on the train.

Our sister school was four stops down too, so if you wanted to see your girlfriend or something you’d have to take the risk of making it through the bad part of town. There was that risk of facing those public school kids, but our school managed to come up with this whole plan that we hoped would solve everything. My brother got beaten up on the same train five years later.

I was about nineteen, which would have made him around twenty. Luke always seemed to be the target. People must have found his cheery attitude or his intimidating size to be threatening, so even from a young age, he seemed to have this unfortunate and undeserved gift of being on the wrong end of a punch. I really don’t remember it that well. Some deranged man had this crazed look in his eye–the kind of look that would usually invite me to slither down into my seat and pull my hat over my face– boarded the train.

Luke, however, had too much kindness. Or not enough common sense.

“Hey man! How you doing?”

The man punched Luke in the face on his way off the train.

It’s always been like that. Looking even further back, though, it was only worse. When I was fourteen, and Luke around fifteen, I went to a movie with him and three friends of ours. It was the theater at the shopping center, in Bay Terrace, and of course, lucky Luke was greeting people as we passed. We neared a man with this white powder on his face. These shifty, beady, red eyes. A whole uneasy mannerism.

Naturally, as we were approaching him, Luke cheerily said something along the lines of, “Hey how’s it going?”

Now whether this man was in his right mind or not, those words fused with Luke’s intimidating figure provoked the man. It challenged his status as the alpha. It prompted him to ascend a nearby car and to dive off of it onto Luke, who he began to pummel until we could break it up. At the site of this, at least fifteen more

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emerged from God knows where and closed in on us. After getting Luke back on his feet, our instinctual reaction was to book it. The five of us couldn’t take those twenty men, so we ran. We stumbled upon the security guy patrolling the shopping center who took us to a door with a lock, what he called a “secure room.” He locked the door, then called the cops, and we waited inside as these men outside waited to kill us.

Anyways, back to sophomore year. Our school had a plan.

There was talk. Every kid in every grade planned to pay a visit to the public school, not to fight, merely as a show of force. Give or take sixteen hundred kids: only a few may not have gone. Even though there wouldn’t be any true violence, there are always pacifists who don’t condone that type of thing. Luke wouldn’t have gone.

Regardless, hundreds of kids would’ve shown up. The school was buzzing; the plan was all coming together until it fell apart. It didn’t fall apart so much as it vanished. It became irrelevant. Outlawed.

The teachers had gotten wind of our plan and were afraid our hundreds wouldn’t be fairly matched against their thousands.

Maybe our teachers called the cops; maybe they called the other school; nonetheless, a solution had arisen. They had shortened our school day. We now ended at 1:57, so we’d be on the trains, and everyone would be off the train before the public school’s day even ended. Our school had a predator, but we adapted. The school evolved, and we didn’t hear any more stories from those who rode the train. My friends and I never looked back--the bus was more fun to ride anyway. Well, it was for one reason.

Archbishop Malloy was in Jamaica, Queens. I lived in Flushing. Four of us took the bus every day: me, my brother, Joe Gammel, and Joe Morris. We were all around fifteen, but I was a grade below the rest of them. The Q 44 bus took us four miles, from Archbishop Malloy, in Jamaica to Flushing. Jamaica was an earlier stop so we always got seats, but by the end of the ride, it was a crowded, crowded bus. There was a stop three miles in–Booth Memorial Hospital–and every ride, ten little Chinese kids would sneak on the bus through the back door. It was so crowded that the bus driver couldn’t stop them. They didn’t pay, and they took up

precious space. This happened for two or three weeks straight, and we were sick of it.

One day, Joe Gammel snapped: “I’ve had enough of this. I’m gonna teach these kids a lesson.”

Thinking quickly, when we pulled up to the stop, Joe started shouting “Back door! Back door!”

As the door opened, this group of Asian kids piled up the stairs, but Joe had to teach them his lesson. As the kids looked up this short staircase, Joe lunged around from the side of the stairway and blocked them.

He screamed, “Godzilla!” and kicking them off the stairs.

The next day, those ten little Chinese kids started piling onto the bus.

Instinctively, Joe strolled over to the rails–ready to kick–and before he even opened his mouth, the little kids cried, “Oh nooo!

Godzilla!” and pointed up at Joe. They were probably around nine years old. Not a great look, I know, but I mean, the kids were asking for it. They got away with it for so long because of their age, but they just kept poking,. Recalling this story made me think back to brick packing.

There’s usually at least a reason for violence. It may be road rage mixed with claustrophobia and frustration, or it may be as irrational as looking at the wrong guy the wrong way, but there’s some reason behind it. So what was the reason behind the public school lashing out? Was it really just public vs. private school?

I mean we did chant “Catholics vs convicts, it’s all right, you’re okay, you’re gonna work for us someday,” but that was at competitive basketball games, and it went both ways so at least there was some idea why it happened.

But the senseless violence confused me. My brother didn’t have a punchable face, he just was the type of guy who drew conflict by coming across too many people who caused conflict. He was never guilty; he never instigated, yet despite being mugged at a young age on his walk home from swim practice, he never changed. He never evolved. Beating after beating he took, but his kindness never faltered.

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Wooden Structural Study William Knight

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Vertical Text Study Douglas Messier

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The Birds

By Peter Kapp You sit in the middle seat, and hope no one sits beside you.

“Where’s this train headed?”

You shrug.

You don’t care.

You bury your face into a newspaper.

Your eyes don’t focus.

They don’t need to.

You didn’t buy it to read.

The attendant walks down the aisle with her cart.

“Would you like anything?

You shake your head lightly, but your eyes don’t move from the paper.

She moves on.

You wish she hadn’t.

Or maybe you don’t.

She seemed nice, but she doesn’t care about you.

Over the edge of your newspaper, you see a woman shuffle towards you, the baby in her arms no more than a year.

“Would you mind if I sat here?”

You nod hesitantly.

She sits beside you, as far away as the seat allows.

You lower the newspaper slightly, just to glance over at them.

The woman smiles softly at you or the baby.

You’re not sure.

“We’re almost there!”

She announces excitedly.

The baby giggles.

You wish it hadn’t.

You had forgotten that the birds still chirp on your worst day.

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Pattern Study William Monohan

Day

By Luke Brooks Every day ended the same way. He came home and dropped his coat on the floor before dropping down onto his beat-up couch and sleeping for a handful of hours. Each day starts the same way, three separate alarms prod him to get up. But each day is the same, the same window inviting in the morning light, the same door serving as a gateway to the world.

Through the hallway, into the elevator, and down even further.

Outside, he glances back up to his apartment and indifferently says goodbye. It’s five o’clock and he’s walked two blocks at this point.

He passes the same hotdog cart, the same kind man offering him a hot pretzel dog. The newspaper stand only differs in the headlines that scream at him as he crosses the street. These two vendors are skyscrapers to him, immovable and ancient.

He’s a clockwork soldier, following the same path, marching to the same rhythm, day in and day out. The faces, however, change.

Each morning he sees different people on their own paths. Six blocks and he descends even farther, down into the tunnels that whisk him away to the same dead-end job day in day out. Sometimes he looks at each of these people who don’t see him and wonders what their lives are like. Do they have to torture themselves with noise to arise each day?

He steps into the train, but today something is different. It takes him a second to notice it in the sea of greys. For the first time since opening his eyes back home on his raggedy couch, he sees something new. The train comes to a halt in front of him, packed to the brim with people like him. He’s transfixed on a burst of color in the sea of drab jackets and hoodies. But it’s gone as quickly as it came.

He stumbles out of the train car, still mesmerized by the splash lost in the crowd of grey. He’s frozen, suspended between strangers he’ll never meet again. But they don’t matter to him; his thoughts dwell on the sudden and unexpected contrast of beauty

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in this constant cloud of monotony. He moves on, returning to the road that he follows each day, this time with new distinct energy.

This time he bobs his head to the soundtrack of life.

The city that often felt oppressively bleak suddenly seems warm and welcoming. Noting the color of each brick and tree, he skips over the cracks in the sidewalk—each new block a vibrant world passing beneath his feet.

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Structure and Color Study William Knight

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Shape and Color Study Annabelle MacTaggart

Silent Night

By Peter Kapp It was just the two of them. They took their decorating very seriously, bringing the varied collection of ornaments and other random items they had stolen from their childhood homes down from the small, cluttered attic that “always smelled like Christmas,” as she liked to point out. He consistently struggled with the tree, nearly falling off the steep pull-down ladder every year since they had moved in, to the point where she left it in the closet downstairs.

It was fake, of course, but they meticulously decorated it so that the metal trunk and bendy plastic branches could almost pass as real.

If she placed the ornaments in such a way that they were dense enough to cover the larger openings but spaced to look natural, the tree could seem real enough to avoid the hassle of picking out and lighting a new one every year. The star, of course, went on crookedly, as this particular tree lacked a stable branch at the top, but it was there to complete the tree nonetheless. The rest of the decorations were spaced out throughout the house; she always ensured the colors matched the room. He tried to help in the beginning, but after a few years of being gently told his style and decorating skills were simply not up to par with the expectations, he let her work her magic in peace. From then on, he brought the small outdoor dining set inside for the winter on that day. They both thought it the best day of the season, and their giddy, childish, excitement seemed to push the day earlier and earlier into November every year.

The next year, maybe three or four after they moved into their house, a little girl arrived. The day they decorated, she donned a full holiday getup, featuring a tiny Santa hat and red and white striped pajamas. Her mother had clearly awaited this moment for years, as her excitement to decorate with her new daughter was more evident than ever before. She still ran around the house as she always had, carefully placing nutcrackers and fluffing bows, but now with a little girl sitting on her hip in a way that looked almost effortless for both of them. The classical Christmas soundtrack

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accompanying the event was the same and the decorations were almost identical to previous years, but there was a newfound joy in the house that came with this new addition to the festive pair.

And then there was another. He was a tiny little boy, attached to his mother at her hip just like the little girl had been. He slept most of the time, occasionally waking up to look around curiously, and promptly fall back asleep into his mother’s shoulder. The little girl had nearly doubled in size and was walking now. She was almost as eager as her mother to decorate for Christmas that year, and they found themselves being pushed to decorate far closer to Halloween than appropriate. The bottom of the tree was densely packed that year, filled with little plastic ball ornaments that were practically unbreakable, while the more fragile ones remained out of reach. Their collection of ornaments grew steadily over the years as the new grandparents brought ornaments home from their travel destinations. Many were unattractive and would upset the color balance of the tree, but of course, they were displayed nonetheless.

The little girl sat on her father’s shoulders, giggling as she placed the star atop the tree, struggling, as they always had, to keep it upright.

The family of four stepped back and looked at the chaotically ornamented tree. The man looked at his wife and announced, “it’s our best yet.”

Years went by. The children grew and made ornaments and knick-knack decorations that were displayed about, ruining the indisputable beauty the house used to carry during the Christmas season and replacing it with a beauty only a mother could see.

Little had changed, but the addition of the excited patter of little feet running to play with the decorations or climbing the counters to steal a cookie that was “for later,” gave the house a new life. Each year they fought over who would have the honor of putting the star atop the tree. It wasn’t an issue after a system was devised that would allow each of them to place the star, unbeknownst to the other.

The children outgrew that title and moved out, leaving the couple alone once again, over two decades older but just as sprightly as ever. They were excited to decorate the home just as beautifully as they always had, but they couldn’t help but recall

the times their children fought over who put the star on the tree and threw ornaments excitedly on the bottom. They missed the little girl who couldn’t help but twist the music box incessantly or threatened to drop every ornament. They missed the little boy who sat on his mother’s hip for hours on end, merely observing as she put everything in its proper place, just as she saw fit. But the two were together, and they were happy.

And then it was only him. Sixty-seven years after their first Christmas, he was alone. He slept in later that day; the patter of little feet hadn’t woken him in decades, but his wife was usually loud enough in the mornings to wake him up. He lay in bed under the blankets as the late November breeze entered through the open window and blew the paperwork on his desk to the floor. Out of habit, he looked at the calendar they had hanging on the wall, although it had been sparsely populated for years now. Today was the date the two of them had set to decorate their house last January when they neatly packed their collection of Christmas-themed clutter, which had nearly doubled since the death of both of their parents. Sitting on the foot of the bed, his thoughts dwelled on the cabinet above the microwave that would “smell just like Christmas,” if he were to open it. He finally made his way downstairs and absent-mindedly poured two glasses of orange juice and made two plates of eggs, placing them at the two adjacent seats before sitting in the chair on the left, leaving the food untouched. He checked the mail a few minutes later, leaving the eggs on the countertop. In the mail was an envelope from his daughter, which he promptly opened as he meandered back towards the side door. On the front was a picture of two of his grandchildren sitting on a rock, the boy dressed up in a tiny suit and red bow-tie, his younger sister sitting on his lap in a red dress. Above them lay the words Merry Christmas in gold cursive writing. He smiled weakly and went into the closet on the first floor, pulling out the sections of the same fake Christmas tree. He dragged them across the floor to the middle of the family room, and with some effort and obvious back pain, erected the tree once again. The green paint on the metal rod serving as the trunk had mostly peeled off, and the plastic branches were frayed and flimsy. Creating the

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illusion of a real Christmas tree was not as easy as it had been, but he fluffed the branches nonetheless. The lights had been replaced just the year before, so there were only a few where he had to twist the bulbs until they were alight. He placed each ornament with care, struggling to remember where she had placed them the year before and carefully fluffing the fake tree along the way such that the metal “trunk” was invisible behind the plastic branches and meticulously located ornaments. She had made it clear many years before that to rely on his design sense was foolish, so naturally, he copied hers with one exception. He pulled the ball ornaments out of the basement and placed them sporadically at the bottom of the tree.

He stood on a stepstool to place the star that year, barely trying to keep it straight as it had become abundantly clear that would never happen. She had never gotten the chance to teach him how to turn on the music system, so the house carried a silence he attempted to fill with poorly hummed Christmas classics. Satisfied with his work, he moved onto the cabinet above the microwave and the aroma of pine needles and scented candles escaped after eleven months of imprisonment. He started with the ones the children had made, trying to remember the origin of each and probably dramatically messing up the color scheme of the decorated house. He then went to the fancier ones, making sure to spread them just as she had when she was eager to maintain the balance of beauty in the house. He moved quickly, more enthusiastically than he had in seven weeks.

He couldn’t help but step back and smile as he stared at the tree.

“It’s our best one yet,” he remarked to the empty house and began to cry.

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