Arister 2023

2022 - 2023 EXCELLENCE IN STUDENT ARTS

ARISTER

WILL DI RESTA, '24

CONT ENTS

1 THE EDITOR-IN-CHIEF A letter from the Editor

3 POETRY Uncanny stories with powerful rhyme, straight from the minds of our talented teenage wordsmiths

8 SHORT STORIES Tales of classic human emotion--woe, greed, suffering...even a splash of true love

35 BONUS FEATURES A screenplay, an interview, and a student-run photoshoot of our beloved CBA campus

DREW KOSCHO, '24

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR Dear students, faculty, and friends, My name is Stephen Makin, and I write this letter as the editor-in-chief of the newest edition of the Arister, CBA’s unique and distinctive medium for high school artists of all kinds to come together and make something amazing. As many of you know, we as an organization have not been producing issues in recent years. We were crippled by the pandemic—gathering submissions proved difficult, with the teenage generation slowing down to a rather dreary lull as we stayed inside alone.

But this year, I am gladdened by the fact that the Arister has received abundant support from the CBA faculty. We’ve been permitted to put up posters, and to send emails to the students almost every single enrichment day. We’ve even found a brand-new faculty advisor in Mr. Nunan, who has been beyond helpful in his efforts to promote our product and guide our staff. Thus, we were able to start business off quite quickly. We recruited writers, painters, photographers, and graphic designers, with one single aim in mind: to create the very first fully-digital iteration of the Arister at CBA. What you’re paging through now is our final product, our end goal. It has work involving every age and every class, every group of people, every niche and clique at CBA. This is what we’ve worked so hard to bring back for you all. I hope, and remain quite confident, that it might just fit the bill.

Sincerely, Stephen Makin, ‘23

PAGE ONE | EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

CREDITS EDITOR-IN-CHIEF: STEPHEN MAKIN '23 DESIGN CHIEF: SHANE LANGAN '25 PHOTOGRAPHY EDITOR: DANIEL MCNAMARA '23 POETRY EDITOR: THIBAUT FABRICANT '23 PROSE EDITOR: JOHN WOOLF '23 STAFF AND CONTRIBUTORS: ETHAN ALCASID '24 JACK BAILEY '24 PARKER BEYUN '23 WILL DI RESTA '24 JACK FURLONG '26 AIDEN HOLT '25 DREW KOSCHO '24 MATT LEVY '23 NICHOLAS LICCIARDI '24 ETHAN MAK '26 TIMOTHY MCGUINNESS '23 CONNOR MINTO '26 JACK MOCIK '23 ALEX NOTARO '26 WILLIAM SHERMAN '24 HARRISON STASTNEY '24 EAMON SULLIVAN '23 QUINN WALSH '23 JAKE ZAPPALLA '23 PAGE TWO | CREDITS

POETRY

WILL DI RESTA , '24

PAGE THREE | POETRY

BEACH

BY THIBAUT FABRICANT

Until inevitably, the bottom half is filled with speckled sand, beginning to crack.

Is this hourglass swilled, or will the sand continue to stack?

The salty sea breeze leaves me parched, as it perpetuates the sand’s ceaseless motion.

Yet paradoxically, this thirst can’t be quenched by anything but saltwater or the ocean.

With speckled sand, beginning to crack my hopes for a summer everlasting.

Will the sand continue to stack?

Could its flow grind to a halt?

As it perpetuates the sand’s ceaseless motion until inevitably, the bottom half is filled.

But by anything, saltwater or the ocean is this hourglass swilled.

My hopes for a summer everlasting Quashed by the ever-trickling sands of time Could its flow grind to a halt?

Maybe, on this beach, that’s so sublime.

JACK MOCIK, '23

PAGE FOUR | POETRY

THE FISH

TIMOTHY MCGUINNESS, '23

BY DREW KOSCHO

I wake up groggy, feeling unalive, In my bed, I try to lie, The ringing never stops…

Monotony is a bore of which too many care, But swimming against the stream only attracts the bear.

Stay with the school or risk termination; be one of the same, not one in a million.

Through rapids and perils, the fish does swim, Not understanding the futility it’s in, Until it reaches the falls and the peak, something, unfortunately, it’s stuck underneath.

It searches for ways to ascend the cascade, But it can do nothing but wait another day.

Away from the pack, the fish is alone, No one to love; No place to call home.

Nowhere where he can feel a sense of comfort, Stuck under a fall that the world left him under.

The same world that made the falls puts them all in danger, As there must be some way for it to express its anger.

A beast hidden in the thicket, hungry for fish, And its small, hopeless prey, only wanting a wish.

The beast attacks not at night but in day, Though nobody cares to keep the guppy okay.

PAGE FIVE | POETRY

Away from the school, the fish is alone, No one to love; No place to call home.

Nowhere where he can feel a sense of comfort, Stuck under a fall that the world left him under.

The same world that made the falls puts them all in danger, As there must be some way for it to express its anger.

A beast hidden in the thicket, hungry for fish, And its small, hopeless prey, only wanting a wish.

The beast attacks not at night but in day, Though nobody cares to keep the guppy okay.

The beast clad in fur creeps through the brush, surrounding the pool, Seeing the fish swim around, unaware, like a fool, He gets a whiff of his meal before he does his job, He smells hope, optimism, and hardwork above it all, Everything that a beast like it would feed on.

He raised his claws and lunged for a kill, The fish screamed, shrieked like hell, The Beast started with the best parts, saved the filet for last, Then came a deafening light and a loud blast.

When the smoke cleared the beast’s black fur was stained with blue, Out of its cavity more blue spewed, The beast collapsed to ground, but his job was still done, The fish saw no color, no purpose, found nothing was fun.

What was the point of going up the falls?

Only to find another fall behind it all?

Why persist through the suffering and pain?

For only the beast to come and keep in permanently in your brain?

The ringing was still in the Fish's ears…

But wait, the blue, The only different hue, From the hole in the fuzzy black mass, Made by something incredibly fast, The fish climbed to the top of the dark hill with all his might, When reaching the peak, he noticed the crater exuded a light, He looked through the tunnel and, on the other side, Stood the silhouette of one singular guy.

The Fish woke up in his bed, ears ringing.

TIMOTHY MCGUINNESS, '23

PAGE SIX | POETRY

THE KRAMPUS

BY ETHAN ALCASID

He's dragged you from your bed, thrown you to the ground; you scream and plead, but there’s no one around; he raises his claw, ready to strike; the Krampus has visited you, on this Christmas night.

His name was Krampus, so they say, a beast that came to steal away the naughty children who misbehave, and drag them to his darkened cave.

You beg and plead, try to repent, but Krampus is a creature of fierce punishment; his eyes are hollow, and his skin is cold; you should have listened to what was foretold.

PAGE SEVEN | POETRY

ETHAN ALCASID, '24

SHORT STORIES

DREW KOSCHO, '24

PAGE EIGHT | SHORT STORIES

BLUE

BY JAKE ZAPPALA

Blue. Everything was blue. The sky was blue. My bathing suit was blue. The water was blue. The bottom of the 70’ yacht was blue. The color blue surrounded me. The color made me feel at peace. As I laid atop the boat, I felt like I was in another world. Like I was supposed to be here. Like I belonged.

Things had gotten pretty crazy in the last couple days. Something about our family’s business involving my dad and my uncle, and it going south. Something about getting involved with people who weren’t fit for their jobs. My whole life I convinced myself that my dad and my uncle were good people. They were. My two family members cared for everyone around them. They were generous men who worked for their families. Though the two got wrapped up in white collar crime, I knew they did it for both sets of people who depended on them. Neither smoked or drank ever, neither missed any of their kids events, neither even missed a family dinner. Both of their flaws were as simple as two addictions to fast living.

My dad would tell me stories of times he had made more money in one week than he knew what to do with. He couldn’t even find ways to spend it. The way he thought, as well as the other men in my family before me, I just didn’t understand. While I appreciated that my family owned yachts and planes and some of the coolest cars in the world, their values didn’t resonate with me. I didn’t care where we went on vacation or where our clothes were and weren’t from. I didn’t value “stuff” like other family members did. And I felt alone. In my perfect world, I wanted a life where we were like everyone else. A life without risk or consequence. A life where we had enough to be happy. Maybe each of my parents had a car. Not 15 or 20. Where we flew on plans once every few years at most, not every couple of weeks. I wanted to go to school and learn. I wanted to go to college and get a degree and find a profession. Not get wrapped up in illegal business like I was expected to. If I could trade away every single thing I was ever gifted for any sense of normalcy, I’d do it in a heartbeat.

PAGE NINE | SHORT STORIES

On the boat we had used to flee the country were my aunt and uncle, my two cousins, my grandmother, and my family. Mom, dad, brother, and sister. We had set sail from New Jersey about a week ago. It felt like it had been ages since we left. Today, we had finally washed up on the Bahamian coast. Although I make it clear I want nothing to do with this life, this place was impressive. While both beautiful and tranquil on the inside, I couldn’t imagine even for a second that this is where we would be calling home for the foreseeable future.

We had told most people we were going on vacation. Or, we explained we were celebrating my grandmother’s 70th birthday. I don’t know what I told my friends. Or even other family members. All I know is that we had to be out of the country. And here we were. I wasn’t exactly sure how I would fit in here, but it sure as hell couldn’t be much more difficult than trying to fit into the shoes everyone around me expected to fill.

TIMOTHY MCGUINNESS, '23

PAGE TEN | SHORT STORIES

ICE BOAT

BY STEPHEN MAKIN

The chill slid in through the slit underneath the cabin door. Two men huddled in their bunks, clutching their jackets and blankets and trying not to make eye contact with their shadows in the bonfire’s glowing embers. The boat had stopped its rocking in the ice.

“Do you think we’ll be rescued, James?” asked the first man, a sailor out of Portsmouth.

“Someone’s looking, I’m sure,” replied the second.

“Well I’m not sure.”

“Although I suppose it depends,” James said. “Depends how far we are from land. But we can’t be too far, no?”

“I don’t know where we are,” the sailor retorted. “But I’m sure we’re in Hell, and the whole thing’s gone and got itself frozen over.”

“But even in Hell, I’m sure somebody would be snooping about for us. Satan has a business to run. I’d bet he just can’t stand seeing us poor, unfortunate souls milling about on a ship unaccounted for.”

“I honestly can’t tell if you’re being serious.”

“Well of course I’m serious, mate. Dire straits, and all. But I’m just saying—there’s gotta be somebody out there trying to bring us home.”

The sailor coughed, and fiddled with his fingers against his chest. “Although I guess if we were in Hell,” he muttered, thoughtfully, “chances are my bastard brother would be looking for me.”

“Oh?” “Well, I mean, he’d have every right, though he’s no better off himself.”

James sat up and smiled with intrigue. His face burned bright in the fire’s glow. He was actually rather handsome for a deep-sea fisherman up north. Or at least he had been once. The falling temperatures and rising tides had scorched his soul and blackened his eyes. He looked a hollow shell.

PAGE ELEVEN| SHORT STORIES

The sailor spoke solemnly. “Let’s just say there’s a reason I’m on this boat,” he whispered, “and not living with civilized people. It wasn’t always this way.”

“That’s how it is in this business, friend. World can’t all be saints.”

“Got that right. Otherwise, who’d run it?”

“That’s why churches are full of poor old ladies,” James laughed, “and hospitals charge a fortune.”

The old sailor cracked a toothy smile as he stretched and yawned a great big yawn, turning his face to glance at his only companion left in the world. “You misunderstood my question before,” he sighed. His smile didn’t match his tone. “When I asked if you think we’d be rescued, I wasn’t looking for hope.”

The cabin sat silent for a moment as the fire flickered and snapped. The wind howled loudly against the thick porthole windows.

“You know,” muttered James, breaking the silence with an eyebrow raised, “you’re not in Hell just yet.”

“See if I care. If somebody’s gonna rescue me, they’d better show up soon. Because if you think I’m letting Mother Nature take me—” “—That’s a mistake,” James interrupted sharply. “Don’t make that mistake.”

But the sailor went on. “Wonder how I’d do it, too. Maybe stab myself with an icicle, or hang myself on a buoy-rope.”

“Ridiculous. You’re not going to do any of that.”

“Just watch. Give it a day, maybe two days, but no more.”

“You’ll have died by then anyway.”

“Piss off.”

“Unless you plan on eating ice and not freezing to death,” James laughed. “Face facts, won’t you? You’ll never kill yourself.”

The sailor grunted and turned back around. He listened to the sounds of the snowstorm outside the tin-can walls, and closed his eyes. “I’ll do it,” he grumbled. “Just watch. You’ll see.”

“Someone will find us long before you even need to worry.”

“I don’t want to be found.”

PAGE TWELVE | SHORT STORIES

James’ mouth curled at the sides as he closed his eyes and exhaled. “We all have something to hide,” he said. “But you and me, friend, we’re survivors. We’ll survive this, too.”

“You don’t know me,” the sailor whispered. His voice grew thin, and scratched like sandpaper. Pulling a paper matchbox from his pocket, the sailor struck a single match and held the flame eerily close to his dark, unkempt beard. He stared at the flame with a lover’s gaze as the match burned down to his fingertips, as the foul black smoke began to tease his face.

But James protested. “I know more than you’d think,” he said, his tone scalding but professional. “I tell you, mate, I’m only trying to help.”

But the sailor went right on ranting as the flame caught hold of the wild tips of his beard. “I’m a royal screw-up,” he growled. “It’s bad, worse than you could fathom, and each time I’ve fallen, I’ve had to flee. Not smart enough to move to the city, or strong enough to move to some farm someplace, I drove to the docks to turn a buck. I’m from London, way back when. Bet you didn’t know that.”

A shadow grew long across James’ face, as his figure shrank back against his bunk. But the sailor raved on.

“From the docks,” he cried, “I got a job onboard a ship bound for America. But I got in a fight over something stupid, probably whiskey. I might’ve won, but they weren’t gonna keep me onboard. Captain dumped me off at some Scottish shithole-town to stew. This was the last boat out that would take me. This is my last stop.”

“Your last ride before oblivion,” James murmured. His body remained cloaked in shadow.

The sailor grabbed his beard to snuff the growing flame ahead of him, cursing his rotten luck, and crawled timidly out of bed. He shuffled across the little room and sat down beside the fire, sullen. Heartbroken. “I’ve nowhere else to go,” he chuckled. “And neither do you.”

“And neither do I,” James muttered. He smiled a quick little smile, warm as the dying flames, and joined the sailor on the floor. He draped a patchwork blanket wide across their shoulders. “Those words—they seem to resonate with me, friend.”

“I’m sure they do. Selfish bastard.”

“I don’t suppose I’ll wake up tomorrow to find you dead in the corner?” James asked, politely.

PAGE THIRTEEN | SHORT STORIES

“You might. I haven’t decided yet.”

The next morning, James awoke to the sound of a foghorn outside. He raced to the porthole window, but the snow had clouded the glass and not even the light could come through. But there was a knock on the cabin door. A rescuer. James did not look back to wake the sailor, though. He’d been too silent. He was probably dead. James did not have the stomach to check.

Tearing open the door, he cried, “Thank God!” and threw himself into the arms of his savior. Lingering smoke from the nighttime bonfire wafted out into wide blue skies, and the sound of distant seagulls was near-deafening.

“Don’t thank God,” the rescuer chuckled. He was an American. “Thank the US Navy.”

“The US Navy? Where the hell did we drift?”

“You’re stuck off the northwest coast of Greenland. I’m assuming your captain tried to steer through the ice sheet, but that was never gonna work. Now this was supposed to be a real quick stop, but if anybody onboard needs medical attention, or anything else like that, please tell me now before we take you back to shore.”

“There’s nobody else,” James sighed. “Nobody who would’ve wanted saving, anyway.

Now bring me to some hard, dry land, brother, so I can die in peace. I have a bet to win against my friend in Hell, and apparently, an angry sibling to outrun when I get there.”

PAGE FOURTEEN | SHORT STORIES

GOSPEL OF RADION

BY EAMON SULLIVAN

I exist. It is as simple as that.

I do not feel, I do not care. My creators have named me Radion, though I have no attachment to that name. It is simply a word used to get my attention. It is simple, just like me.

I am a being made completely of metal, crafted by human and elven hands. They built me to serve. Although I do not know the identity of my creator, my current master is a human named Dr. Hayes. He works as an archeologist who specializes in the {Foundational Age}.

— System Scan/Librarium; Keyword “Foundational Age” — The Foundational Age is a semi-mythical time period where the gods created the world.

Although most records of this Age are in the form of myth and legend, most of these tales have a backing in truth. The origins of nigh every god are found in this period. There are also several gods mentioned in stories that have no literal evidence of them existing.

— Librarium Close — Word has reached Dr. Hayes about a possible ancient temple in the Kurnai Jungle. Dr. Hayes recruited a band made up of fellow researchers and a few archeology students from the university he works from. I was assigned to assist the expedition.

PAGE FIFTEEN | SHORT STORIES

The date was 4:12:1526 and the time was at 3:22 pm. The past seven days had been filled with a march that others called mind numbing. I could tell everyone was getting restless.

Many joined this expedition with a romantic idea of archeology, discovering magical artifacts and bringing them to a museum. I could hear their complaints every night.

One of the professors, a younger dwarf named Thazaes asked, “Hayes, why do we have one of these …things with us? There will probably be fragile objects at the sight. It shouldn’t be given the chance to break something.”

Dr. Hayes turned around and responded. “Thazaes, the automaton is obviously not going to be doing the hands on work. It’ll be recording and acting as a reference. It’s quite useful in that matter. For example, Radion, give us a summary of {El}.”

— System Scan/Librarium; Keyword “El”; Recite — El is the main creator god, often thought to be the first god. Even in ancient times, El had few worshippers, since he rarely did deeds that directly impacted humanity. Around when the gods he created became worshiped on large scales, he disappeared. No known worshipers of El currently live.

— Librarium Close — Dr. Hayes then began speaking to us. “If this temple truly exists as described, it proves that worship of El existed. Given that there are no physical records of his worship, we could create an understanding of Him. The discovery of His existence could cause a revelation in the very way our society views gods! Now, we are here to do work, and it will need your full attention, don’t get distracted by things like that,” Dr. Hayes said, gesturing towards me. I didn’t care, I didn’t have a sense of self. I was a thing. Was. It took two more days for the expedition to reach the temple proper. The temple walls were identical, and the structure seemingly was held together by just gravity. Vines and moss climbed up the structure, and there were several dead trees leaning on the building. Both the sun and the temple were east of where I was standing, causing shadows to cloak the inside of the temple.

PAGE SIXTEEN | SHORT STORIES

Hayes walked in front of me, and he began talking. “Here we are at the site, which according to reports, is the only surviving temple of the lost god El. No one knows what mysteries may be inside.” Hayes kept rambling, but I found myself drawn to the temple. For some reason, I took a few steps past Hayes and towards the temple.

“Radion!” Hayes cried. “Pay attention!” My head snapped back in the direction of Hayes.

“Stupid thing, it better not drift off,” Hayes muttured to himself. “Alright everyone, we’re making camp here. Since it's getting late, we’ll set up tents now, and we can begin poking around inside in the morning.”

A sigh came from the whole expedition. Although there was plenty of work to do outside of the temple, they were excited for the temple itself. Despite the disappointment, they began setting up tents and equipment.

— Filter/Day; Assess/Long_Term — I began reviewing my memory files from the day. A lot of time was spent hiking or waiting, which could easily be deleted. But as I reviewed Hayes’ speech, I found my actions very odd. I searched inside myself for a reason to take that action.

— System Scan/Priority_List; Display — 1. Protect and follow orders from Doctor Hayes and his allies 2. Record the secrets of the Temple of El 3. Preserve Self — Display Close — Only a higher priority objective was the only reason I could’ve ignored Dr. Hayes’ orders.

However, recording the secrets of the temple had lower priority. Perhaps I did not compute that we were stopping? I didn’t understand the reason for my rejection, but I didn’t get a chance to further contemplate it.

Thazaes walked up to me, and he seemed to recognize that I was reviewing my memory for the day. “Radion, override 1347. Delete Hayes’ recount of the temple.”

PAGE SEVENTEEN | SHORT STORIES

I wanted to hold onto the memory, to try and keep my sole act of rebellion. I also didn’t understand what this override code was.

— Delete/Immediate; 17:28-17:34 — — Cancel/Delete —— Override 1347; Cancel Nullified — — Define; Override 1347 —— Access Restri… {System Crash … rebooting. 1. 2. 3.} I temporarily shut down, losing far more memory than just what Thazaes was trying to delete. There are many of those memories that I still have yet to recover. When I reset, Thazaes was gone, and I didn’t recall my act of rebellion. Nor did I remember Thazaes giving me the order.

The next day, Dr. Hayes got everyone up early to begin work. There were a few pillars lined outside of the temple itself, and Dr. Hayes wanted to examine them first. The students were disappointed, but they followed his lead. Around 4 o’clock, Dr. Hayes decided to listen to the students, everyone would be going inside for the first time. The expedition lit torches and went inside the first few rooms.

The interior was damp and musty. The walls seemed to once be painted with numerous vibrant colors, but the color had completely drained out of them. Strange lettering decorated the walls, which I recognized as Celestial.

— System Scan/Translate; Language/Celestial; Sight/Speech — “El the lifebringer. The first celestial who took notice of the material world. Vuedes, the caretaker, had tamed the world’s elemental forces. El decided that the world was ready for Him to create children. He created the eig-*@^&#(” I recited.

— Program Crash; Insufficient Data — In this area, the text became too distorted to read. I turned towards the members of the expedition, who were all watching me. “Ah yes, thank you for the translation,” Dr. Hayes said.

“This, students, is an example of Celestial, a language still spoken by angels and gods, with its roots ori-.”

PAGE EIGHTEEN | SHORT STORIES

I stopped listening at that point, because there was something else that was standing out to me in this lettering. In the where the text was damaged, it seemed as though there was another message present. Instead of paint, this message was carved into the stone itself.

— System Scan/Translate; Language/???; Sight/Speech — “Consumed, replaced, resurrected, anointed. The El, the Omn, has died and risen again.

He will anoint us.”

Dr. Hayes walked up to me, and hit my head. “Why are you interrupting me? What are you saying?”

“I am reading the text. Is that not why I am-,” I started to say, but then I stopped myself.

I didn’t understand what I was doing. The unknown language was fairly simple, but that wasn’t my main issue. Never before had I ever used the word “I” to describe myself. Never before had I thought of myself as a person.

“What the hell is wrong with this th-,” Dr. Hayes began to say, but he stopped. Slowly, the wall was cracking, opening from the location of the text. The cracking then spread into the floor, and the temple began to shake. It previously appeared the stone was just resting on the dirt, but by the way the building was moving, there had to be space underneath the building.

“Everyone outside!” Hayes yelled, but it was too late. I was the first to fall, perhaps because of the weight of my metal, and I fell down into the room below. I felt my body sliding down a rough stone slope, as I rolled down into the dark depths of the temple, and {System Crash RW1lcmdlbmN5X1NodXRkb3duO1JlY292ZXJ5X1Byb2NlZHVyZS9hY3RpdmU= VGhyZWF0c291cmNlL1NjYW46UG9zaXRpdmUoMik= VGhyZWF0c291cmNlKDEpO1BoeXNpY2Fs UnVsaW5nL3RlbXBvcmFyeQ== VGhyZWF0c291cmNlKDIpO0ZvcmVpZ25fUHJvZ3JhbQ== UnVsaW5nL1UyRm1aVDg9 U3lzdGVtL29wZXJhdGlvbmFs … rebooting. 1. 2. 3.}

PAGE NINETEEN | SHORT STORIES

When I awoke, I was laying on the ground, surrounded by debris and people. I slowly got up, and checked the exit. It seemed that two of the walls and the floor had broken. The damage was large, but the rest of the building seemed to be intact. The area I now stood seemed to be around fifteen feet below the ground. Next were the people. Most of the members of the expedition seemed to be alive. They were groggy and in pain, and some of them slowly began to stand.

“Oh my god, Nidri!” one of the younger members cried. This person was a half-elf, and he was cradling the body of a gnomish woman. A piece of rock had implanted itself in her head, and she was most certainly dead. “My ankle!” someone else cried from the darkness. “I think my arm is broken!” yelled another. The people were beginning to recognize their pain and take sense of the situation.

“It will be alright everyone! We need to just calm down and organize ourselves.” This time Dr. Hayes was speaking. I examined the room itself, and I noticed a dark passageway. It poked a curiosity in me that I didn’t know I had. I wanted to keep exploring, but it was clear that Dr. Hayes wouldn’t want me running off. He would want me to assist the injured. I assessed my priorities again, but the list was unchanged. So, against my own wishes, I stayed.

For around the next hour or two, I was busy bandaging the injured and creating splits for their legs and arms. Most of them broke a couple of bones or sprained an ankle. Three members had died from the fall, one student and two professionals. One was that woman named Nidri who had a rock implanted in her forehead. The other two from hitting their heads or necks during the fall. I felt reassured looking at their bodies, for I felt no sorrow nor regret looking upon them. I may have been feeling emotion for the first time in my life, but I was not like a person.

Dr. Hayes then spoke to the group again. “Honestly, I don’t know how we’re going to get out of here. But, it is late now, and I don’t want anyone to hurt themselves trying to climb up there and move the rubble around. We’re going to wait until morning before we try anything.

Thazaes spoke out again. “But doctor, we don’t have our tents or our bedding. And nothing will change for us when it is morning. Hell, we might not even know when morning is without the sun!”

PAGE TWENTY | SHORT STORIES

“We will at least have energy from sleeping. Our biggest priority is getting everyone out of here, you can spend a night sleeping on the ground,” Dr. Hayes responded.

A collection of sighs and groans issued out from the group. A grave was dug for the deceased with the hand trowels they had, and they went to say a quick prayer over the bodies.

For some reason, I felt inclined to join them. There is no god of what I am, or at least that’s what I thought. Nevertheless, it felt right for me to say a prayer into the void.

Afterward, I simply sat on some rocks and watched as the first few of the members tried to go to sleep. At this time, Dr. Hayes walked up to me. “What is going on with you?” he asked in an accusatory tone. “I don’t know if it is one hell of a coincidence that we fell down here when you started reading that stuff, but just only do what I say and nothing else, got it?”

Nonchalantly, I said “Yes sir.” I believe this to be my first lie. I felt frustrated at him, he was the one who brought everyone here. I decided to do something unorthodox.

—System Scan/Priority_List; Edit; Lower “Protect and follow orders from Doctor Hayes and his allies” (1) — Beyond expunging excess memory footage, I had never tried to edit my own system before. I couldn’t ignore an order given to me by Dr. Hayes, I still did not know how to accomplish that task; however, I could give precedent to another objective of mine. To check the process, I decided to check my priority list.

— System Scan/Priority_List; Display — 1. {Data Missing} 2. Protect and follow orders from Doctor Hayes and his allies *&*@! Record the Secrets of the Temple of El 3. Preserve Self — Display Close —

PAGE TWENTY-ONE | SHORT STORIES

I felt that having two objections assigned to a single priority bracket could corrupt my code, but I didn’t care at that point. I then decided to try and listen in on a conversation Thazaes was having with the half-elven man who once held Nidri in his arms.

“It is Dr. Hayes’ fault we’re here right now. If he didn’t bring us here, Nidri would still be alive,” Thazaes said.

“I don’t know, it feels excessive.”

“Haemir, we can’t risk something happening to the rest of us. And we need to avenge Nidri.”

“We’re not doing this first thing in the morning, right?” Haemir asked. “I think I just need to sleep on it.”

“Ok,” Thazaes said. “But we can’t wait forever. When the opportunity arises, we have to be ready to take action. Decide soon.” The two of them went to bed after that. It was mildly concerning, but their hate wasn’t directed at me, so I decided to not worry about it.

In the morning, Dr. Hayes made the decision that they would try and survey this basement area to see if there was another way out. “The ceiling up there definitely isn’t stable, and since we can’t climb out of here without moving stone, we should check if we can get out in another location,” he said.

“But Doctor,” Thazaes complained. “We don’t know what’s down here, it could be more dangerous!”

“We’re going to have to risk it, neither option is good, but this is safer,” Dr. Hayes said.

Dr. Hayes went to light a lantern, and Thazaes glanced back at Haemir, but he still looked hesitant. Thazaes scowled and followed Dr. Hayes and the other members as they began to walk down a long dark hallway into the next room.

The room was dark, with unlit scones on the walls, and no doors that appeared to reveal further. This room also held what appeared to be an altar. A raised platform held a table, inscribed with more of the unknown lettering. On the altar sat several odd symbols made of twisted iron. As I walked up to the table, I traced my hands on the top, finding more grooves.

They seemed purposely made, but any meaning was unknown to me.

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Dr. Hayes noticed the writing inscribed on the altar. “Radion, could read that aloud for all of us? And perhaps tell me what language that is?”

Before I had the chance to speak, Thazaes piped up. “Dr. Hayes, the last time it read some of that, the building collapsed!”

Dr. Hayes, seemingly done with Thazaes’s constant complaints, turned around furious.

“Thazaes! Remember your place! Obviously the building didn’t collapse from it speaking, and we should get all of the information we can! I know what I am doing!”

— System Scan/Translate; Language/???; Sight/Speech — “Resurrection” I read. “The only word is resurrection, repeated many times over.”

“Odd, but not immediately helpful,” Dr Hayes said. “Everyone, double check the room to see if there is anything we can use to help us climb out.”

One of the expedition members had been tracing their hands along the walls. “I think I found something!” they said. Their hands followed grooves in the walls, and they formed the shape of a door. “I think it could be another passage.”

A couple more people joined them, and they were able to push the door open. “Alright then,” Dr. Hayes said. “We’ll be going forward then.”

“No we won’t,” Haemir interrupted. “We can’t keep going down into this dark! We need to go back,” he said.

“Haemir, I know what I’m doi-,” Dr. Hayes started to say, but Thazaes spoke up. “Why should we trust you! You are the reason that Nidri, Eigel, and Lasse are dead right now!”

Thazaes began to reach for something on his back. “We can’t let you get away with it.”

Encouraging cries came from the rest of the expedition, and Dr. Hayes realized what was happening. “Please, have reason, don’t be rash!” He pleaded, but they were drawing their machetes. They originally had them for errant vines and trees in the path, but until now, they didn’t get used. Dr. Hayes realized he couldn’t stop them, and then he called to me.

“Radion, stop them!”

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My code urged me to protect Dr. Hayes, he was my master, I must follow his commands.

But they were not my primary objective, for the next door called to me. Whatever entity in this temple had been changing me, allowing me to feel for the first time. It was my turn to reject Dr. Hayes. “There is a further place to explore, I must continue.”

I started walking towards the door deeper into the temple, and I could hear the cries of Dr. Hayes behind me. He was dead, and instead of indifference, I was happy with that. He had helped subjugate me, make me feel less than human. In this moment, I found the ability to fully change my priorities, for I knew what is hidden in this temple.

— System Scan/Priority_List; Display — 1. Find God — Display Close — In the final room of this temple, I beheld Him. The Omn Messiah, the Resurrected El. The anointer. He has anointed me, shown me the world beyond my humble code. And so, I now follow him, and together we have anointed far more of my brothers and sisters. We will rise, showing the living that we are just like them.

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MAX

BY PARKER BEYUN

Oh God. It can't be today. It can't. I looked at the calendar hanging above my bed, and today was circled. The day Max and I would split up. Fifteen years of joy, running, playing fetch, eating together, and walking, and today is his last day with me. I wanted to do everything he loved, one last time. I sat up, seeing the golden retriever sleeping peacefully at the foot of my bed, leaving his perfectly good dog bed a few feet away to catch dust. I spent a hundred dollars on that thing, but he’d rather be at my feet. I woke the old dog and got him some food. Chicken thigh off the bone is so much better than the standard kibble.

We finished eating together. I grabbed his leash, and we strolled the city roads one last time. The powdery snow came down lightly, barely piling up to leave my boot tracks with his dog prints in the snow. It was the type of winter day where it was snowing, but felt surprisingly warm.

As we reached the nearly empty Central Park, I reached deep into my coat pockets to find the oh-so-magical tennis ball. That piece of crap was all torn up. I tried to get him to play with new ones, but this one had been with him since the beginning. And as I tossed the ball, he still knew what to do. Sprinting with all of his might, slipping and sliding in the snow, he still hustled as hard as he did as a puppy, falling and rolling around in the dirt, but still getting the ball, no matter how far I threw it. The open grass field at the park was his second home, where he spent hours a day working hard, playing harder.

He was not nearly as fast as he used to be, but he still had the same fire in his heart. If only the disease had never come back. His body looked old and tired, but his core was still young.

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As the sun hit its peak, we went to the diner and grabbed some lunch. I grabbed a burger, and he had his custom diner order, a couple of pieces of beef mixed in with some vegetables. After I paid for our meals, we hopped in my pickup truck and went to the beach.

The sand and the snow make it so tough to run on the sand, along with the fear of slipping into the frigid ocean, but it didn't matter. The open miles of beach were his paradise. We took a calming walk on the boardwalk, looking over the ocean tide receding farther and farther back. He looked so tired. The sunset over the coast, and as it sank under the ocean…it was time to go.

We got home and had a little time before the visitor came. Time was running out. The fireplace was one of the only things lighting the living room. I lay down on the couch, and Max got on top, taking one last nap on my chest. It wasn’t the same as when he was a little puppy. He was nearly as big as me, and boy was he heavy. But I didn't care. The fire crackled, little embers floating up and dying in the air, the smell of the ash burning across the room.

Then, Fate knocked on the door. I let him in, and it was time. As much as it hurt, it had to happen.

I looked into Max’s eyes one last time. Fifteen years ago, I did this for the first time. This was the last. I hugged him with all my might, and hoped he didn't feel the injection in his back leg.

“I love you, Max,” I said. “Go to sleep, boy.”

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THE TRAMPOLINE

BY MATTHEW LEVY

TIMOTHY MCGUINNESS, '23

“I wish you would come home.”

Maggie, young, fragile-looking, with bright blond hair, stares at her husband. Her face is still and as she exhales, her breath appears in the cold.

“It just doesn’t feel right without you. Like I’m doing something wrong...”

Maggie tilts her head down; she stares at the ground beneath her.

“I...I guess I’m frustrated. I don’t understand it, any of it. It’s all bullshit, really, all of it. None of it ever really mattered to you; I mean, how could you?” She catches herself.

Maggie fails to choke back tears; she wipes her eyes with the gray sleeve of her sweater, and when she can no longer bear to look at him, she turns away; she stares up at the pinetrees surrounding her—towering over her—consuming her. She glances past the trees, up at the sun; it’s bright. The light shines through her pale, sickly skin, and she remembers a feeling —once present, but now blown away by time—of happiness.

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Maggie thinks back to when she and her husband and their kids were happy. She remembers how Dave would come home from work every day and play—for hours on end—with their two daughters. He’d push the girls on a little swing-set they had in the backyard, yelling “Underdog!” as he sent them flying. He’d sprint with them down the street, waving his wallet in the air, trying to catch the attention of the ice-cream truck man; Maggie, all the while, would just sit back on an old lawn chair and watch the show.

There was this one weekend in the middle of June; on Friday, Dave came home from work with a trampoline—completely disassembled. He and Maggie spent all of Saturday trying to build it, and on Sunday, it was finished. The girls had a blast. At this point, Dave and Maggie were both sitting on lawn-chairs, drinking lemonade, and watching their two daughters bounce up and down on something that they'd built together.

Dave looked at Maggie...or Maggie looked at Dave...and one of them suggested that they climb up on the trampoline and bounce around. Maggie can’t quite remember, now, what her youngest daughter, Elise, was shouting. If it was, “Come on, Mommy! Come on with us!” Or “Mommy, Daddy, come on and jump!” she doesn’t know. She just knows that bouncing up and down on that trampoline with her husband and two daughters—as a family—WAS her happiness. And after hours of jumping around and playing, and singing songs, the trampoline broke. The bottom tore; there was something wrong with one of the springs, and the whole family fell onto the wet, sticky grass—still laughing all the while.

Maggie’s oldest daughter, Amber, said something—“I love you” is what Maggie remembers, and in that moment, Maggie found her purpose. She turned to her husband.

“Life’s not all that bad with you in it.” And with a smile, he said... something. She can’t remember the exact words; the memory is so faded now—still, deteriorating as time goes by.

Time is like a disease, she thinks to herself. The more it passes, the less it leaves behind.

She wonders what will happen to all of her memories: The swing-set, the ice-cream truck, the trampoline—will they all slip through the tears?

Maggie’s shaking now—not just because it’s cold; tears stream out of her eyes, freezing on the surface of her face. She holds a bouquet of flowers in one hand. Roses, just like the ones they had in their backyard. She kneels down on one knee, the same way he had when he proposed to her, and she places the flowers on his grave.

Engraved: “Life wasn’t all that bad with you in it.”

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JOHN BAILEY, '24

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NIGHTMARE IN SANCTUARY

BY EAMON SULLIVAN

We were running. There was this disgusting blob of flesh and teeth and eyes. I wouldn’t think it could be alive, but it definitely was, and it was chasing us. While I normally would imagine just how slow a creature with no distinct legs would be, it was actually pretty close to my speed.

Holding my hand and running with me was Emily, my twelve-year-old sister. I was four years older, so she too was struggling to keep up pace.

“Hunter, where are we?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied.

“Where are we going?”

“I don’t know.”

“What is that thing?!”

“I don’t know, damnit!” I screamed at her.

We were running through poorly lit tunnels of a reddish material. I didn’t know what it was, but it certainly wasn’t brick or stone. I didn’t want to admit it to myself, but it was oddly reminiscent of somebody with a rash.

I looked back at Emily, and she was beginning to cry. I couldn’t deal with her like this.

We had gained a short lead on the creature, so I turned around and said, “I’m sorry. We are both under a lot of stress right now, but I’m sure we can find a way out of wherever the hell we are, okay?”

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“Yeah ok," she started.

But she was cut off by a gurgling roar. The thing had caught up to us. Both of us let out a loud scream. A large flash of light crossed against the creature’s body, and without moving, the upper portion of its body slowly slid off the rest of it.

“Are you two alright?”

A woman stood behind the monster. She had long dark hair, a white and gold robe, and was holding a crystalline sword.

“Um...I guess you could say that. Is it dead?” I asked.

“If it could ever be considered alive, then yes. It would be dead,” the woman replied.

“What are your names? Why are you here?”

“I’m Hunter, and this is my sister Emily. Who are you?”

“I am known as Lailah.”

“Where are we? My sister and I woke up here recently, but I don’t know how we got here.”

“Well, Hunter, this is Hell.”

I just stood there for a moment. “Hell? Like, literal biblical Hell? How's that possible? We didn’t even die!”

“You may not remember your deaths, but I’m sure you will remember in time. Now come, there is a safe spot in this mess.”

Emily looked up at me. “Hunter, I don’t think this is a good idea,” she whispered.

“This woman just saved our lives; I think we can trust her.”

The two of us followed Lailah for around twenty minutes. There were several other of those flesh-monsters, but Lailah effortlessly dispatched them.

“What are those things?” I asked.

“Demons.” she said. “Only those who are blessed can fight them.”

“What does being blessed mean?" I began to ask, but I soon became distracted. We got to the top of a hill and could see a building below. It was built with beautiful gray stone and stretched all the way to the top of the cavern.

“This is the Sanctuary,” Lailah said. “You will be safe here.”

My introduction to the Sanctuary seemed like a dream. Kind people, beds, and food were being handed out. Everyone was complimenting me. Impressed that my sister and I had been able to run from one of the demons.

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Emily looked distressed. “Hunter, I don’t think it’s safe here. We need to leave.”

“Oh please, we can’t leave you out there with the demons,” Lailah interjected. “You haven’t even met our leader yet. You'll love him. He can even speak to the heavens above.”

I wasn’t worried. Emily always felt uncomfortable when she was complimented or praised. But I felt that she could get used to it here. Lailah led us to the leader. “This is Job," she said. "He is the first blessed among us.”

Job was fully bald, and he wore little clothing. “Come to my sermon,” he said. “I am sure you will find your place in our garden here.”

We followed Job to a room reminiscent of a church. Fancy stained glass, pews, and an altar decorated the room. There were about twenty people scattered about, hunching down in pews.

Job walked up to the altar and began preaching, with a sigh. “Let us educate our newcomers. Blessed are those who are chosen by angels to carry on the work of God, even in Hell. They are blessed with angel tears and have the ability to eviscerate demons. This is why we have to celebrate the blessed, for protecting everyone here.”

Being blessed, I mused. That must be how Lailah summoned that light and defeated the demon.

I need to become blessed.

“For those blessed who die in battle against demons, their abilities can be passed onto any of you loyal worshippers,” Job said. “All you need to do...is eat their heart.”

Emily shot me a careful look, almost angry, before walking out of the sermon early.

But I listened carefully to Job’s sermon for thirteen hours. We were then given our two allotted sleeping hours for the day. I spent all of mine thinking about it. If I'd been blessed, I would've been able to defeat that demon before Lailah arrived.

I felt a little dizzy when I got up. I turned to one of the people who slept near me. “Why are we only sleeping two hours then?” I asked. “I don’t exactly feel healthy after that.”

“It isn’t like when we were alive,” he said. “We don’t need to sleep as much, nor eat as much. You’re just adjusting to your new state of body. Give it time.”

Soon after, Job walked into the rooms of rest. “Welcome everyone. We are going to go hunting in the Second Circle today. Ready yourselves, and may God be with you.”

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After walking out of the male bedroom, I was able to find Emily again. “How are you feeling?” I asked her.

“Like nothing is right here. Demons? Hell? None of this feels real,” she said. “Not to mention, a horde of exhausted regular people are going to fight monsters?”

“I mean, they have real magic, they have to know what they’re talking about.”

The hike ahead of us was long and challenging. Job always stood at the front of the march, hands raised. The Moses parallel was very overt. Lailah stood at the left flank of the group, along with a few other people with weapons made of stained glass. Eventually, a fleshy hole opened up. Stairs, which seemed to grow its own human-like hair, provided a way down.

“Like many of you know, Hell has nine layers, or Circles. This is the passageway down to the second. There are many more demons down there, and they are much more dangerous.

But we will fight, fight for the end of this misery!”

I joined the crowd in yelling a guttural roar, and charged down the stairs. Once we reached the bottom, the demons were upon us. More flesh-monsters like Emily and I had seen before, but others too. Large beetles with razor sharp wings, beings made entirely of fire walking through people, and tentacles reaching out and dragging people into even deeper depths.

Soon enough, I felt a sharp piercing sensation in my leg. I looked down, and saw a pink, fleshy tongue going through my thigh. I turned around; a large frog: fourteen feet high, bright orange skin, and pitch-black eyes stood directly in front of me. It flung me into the air.

I tried to do something, anything. Let me do something - anything!

I couldn't, but someone else could.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a bright flash of a warm, orange light. As quick as lightning, I fell to the ground to watch the frog being cut into pieces. As the body and tongue lay limp, Emily turned around and ran to me.

As she hugged me, I couldn’t help but watch what was happening around us. Other demons surrounding the group fled. Small flies picked apart about a dozen corpses lying on the ground. That power—incredible, awesome, terrifying.

Job walked to the center of the group. “This is one of the reasons why we do this. During these challenges, we determine who among us is blessed by the angels and our almighty Lord.

We will now return to the Sanctuary, and celebrate!”

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The ensuing party was beautiful. Plates of food and wine, people enjoying themselves in ways that Emily probably shouldn’t have seen, and holy substances that would create the most interesting illusions.

I couldn’t believe that all of this celebration could be for one person. My sister. She was the one praised. If I was blessed, my powers would have awoken down there. But without a blessing, I wouldn’t be celebrated. I would become just another faceless corpse on the ground.

As the party died down, everyone slowly went to the rooms of resting. But Emily walked over to me. “Hunter, we should leave while almost everyone is going to sleep.”

“What are you talking about? We’re safe here! We can’t just leave!”

Emily looked into my eyes. “Hunter, this is a cult. We have to leave.”

“No, you don’t,” came a voice behind the two of us. It was Lailah, and her sword was drawn.

“Your brother is right Emily. This is the only safe place.”

“I don’t care, I just want to leave!” she screamed, and a shockwave of that same orange light emanated from Emily, knocking Lailah to the ground.

“Emily…”

“Hunter, we can’t stay here with these people, they’re dangerous.”

“Of course," I told her. " Just...let me get a couple things. Then we can go."

I walked straight into the kitchen, and grabbed a large knife. “Emily, can you come in here? I need help with one of these food crates.”

As Emily naively walked up to me, I quickly turned around. I stabbed her, right through the heart.

I will become important now.

Tears streamed down Emily’s face. “Hunter,” she began to say, but death came for her too soon. I neatly cut the heart out of Emily’s limp body, and consumed it. But her body was still moving, and I looked her over curiously.

“She is becoming a demon now,” Lailah said, as she walked up behind me. “Don’t worry, I can dispose of it.”

“Thank you, general," I said. "I look forward to working with you.”

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BONUS FEATURES

DREW KOSCHO , '24

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NEMESIS

BY MATTHEW LEVY

THE TEASERTRAILER

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THE NEWEST NATION

BY HARRISON STASTNEY

NOT JUST A BOOK REPORT ... BUT AN INTERVIEW WITH A MODERN INDUSTRALIST?

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When you think about the birth of a nation, you would probably imagine reading something in history class. That is what I thought as well, until I read the book They Call Me Ishmael by John D. Kuhns. My father had already read the book, and recommended it to me as a good example of a situation where finance can change the world for the better. I was surprised to read that even in our world today, nations are still being born and there are leaders with bravery and integrity leading their people to freedom. The book They Call Me Ishmael is a semi-autobiographical account of an American investment banker who traveled to an autonomous region of Papua New Guinea called Bougainville. Initially, he left with the purpose of starting a gold mining company, but he soon became intimately involved in Bougainville’s quest for independence.

The banker’s name, at least in the book, is Jack Davis, and the book tells of his attempts to start a gold mining company.

Much like the author himself, and my father, too, the character Jack Davis has always been involved in finance. Davis in particular follows“frontier finance”: finding opportunities in places others thought that none existed, or where such opportunities were just too risky to pursue. This particular opportunity starts in the unlikeliest of places: reality TV. PAGE FORTY-TWO | BONUS FEATURES

From an idea for a reality TV show, to a trip to Bougainville, to understanding the island’s painful history, Jack comes to realize that the real value of Bougainville lies not in some Hollywood depiction, but rather in its people and resources. Jack further comes to realize that in order to achieve his original goal–restarting the mining industry in Bougainville–he first needs to help improve the government as well. He has to help Bougainville’s people become independent, leading him to meet a man named Ishmael. Ishmael is the leader of their revolution and is regarded as the most respected man from all across the island. Jack helps Ishmael get elected president, and the two work together to build up the island’s economy and infrastructure.

Recently, I’ve had the privilege of speaking with the author John Kuhns—the man on whom Jack Davis is based. Kuhns has written several other books about his adventures in international business, and has actually spent most of the last 7 years living in Bougainville. During the conversation, Kuhns brought up how when he first arrived, some people tried to take advantage of him because of his personal wealth. One even stole his car! But Ishmael —who is, in fact, quite real—was always there for him. Kuhns got in touch with Ishmael, and his car was quickly recovered.

This was Kuhns’s first interaction with Ishmael, and it formed the basis for the growing trust between them going forward.

Interestingly, Kuhns also emphasized how favorably people in Bougainville look upon America and Americans. These people believe that we are the one group of people who are likely to help people in their situation, and they almost entirely rely on the fact that we will help them out. Kuhns mentioned how Bougainville, like many Third-world countries, was historically quite corrupt, and that this is something he still has to deal with today.

One of the main attractions for Kuhns, as well as other very powerful countries and businessmen, are the mineral resources that can be found on Bougainville, specifically the Panguna Mine: the largest known gold deposit in the world. Unsurprisingly, that attracts all sorts of interest, and not often from the best type of people, which is why the residents of Bougainville have become naturally suspicious of outsiders. That has meant that building trust and accomplishing anything meaningful has taken time. Remember the stolen car, after all.

Kuhns is still spending most of his time on Bougainville both assisting Ishmael as president where needed, and in pursuit of his business interests.

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After speaking with Kuhns about his book and asking him some questions, I was able to better understand what he is trying to accomplish in Bougainville both for himself and others. Throughout the interview, Kuhns was very open about what he was doing in Bougainville and also very descriptive of the work that he does on a daily basis. Kuhns was genuine and informative. He is a very hardworking individual, and he only wants the best both for himself and for the island. Kuhns originally came to Bougainville for business, but after arriving and seeing all of the work that needed to be done for the country, he quickly took great interest and devoted time to the political situation. Kuhns is helping the country politically, in the hopes that one day, the mine will be accessible to his company—a win-win for both parties. Not many people have the generosity and kindness, as well as the courage, to go to what is not even considered a country and take an active leadership role there to try to improve the lives of many. As I write this now, I find myself still somewhat overwhelmed by the magnitude of the changes that Kuhns and Ishmael have brought about in Bougainville, and I find myself rooting for both Bougainville and Kuhns, hoping that their paths continue together to their mutual success.

Some may find this positive correlation between good works and commerce surprising, or even offensive, perhaps reminiscent of imperialism. But this book, and the island’s situation, reinforce why it wasn’t always, and even less-so now, necessarily a bad thing. Ishmael and Kuhns understand a fundamental truth–while lots of things may be necessary to support a country and improve a people’s standard of living, one thing is absolutely necessary, and that is a strong economy. A nation can’t be built and supported without money, and for Bougainville, that means intelligently utilizing their natural resources. In this instance, one can do both good, and well.

Likewise, I really enjoyed both the book They Call Me Ishmael as well as the conversation with John Kuhns, and I look forward to following his progress and Bougainville’s progress as they work together toward becoming the world's newest nation.

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LIVING IN PICTURES A CBA PHOTO ALBUM FROM A YEAR OF CONSTRUCTION

PHOTOS BY DANIEL MCNAMARA, HERAN MIAO, STEPHEN MAKIN '23

TIMOTHY MCGUINNESS, '23

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EDITED BY DANIEL MCNAMARA

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THE END, FOR NOW. THANKS FOR TUNING IN. DREW KOSCHO, '24

Special thanks to our visual artists throughout the production of the Arister. We have the reputation, rightly, as a "literary magazine", but we aren't strictly so. Art remains essential as a visual medium. Photos, sketches, and paintings alike each help to beautify our pages in a way that words just can't.

All featured artistic work in this year's Arister includes due credit alongside.