Ink, Inc. Issue 1 2023/2024

THE CREIGHTON PREP LITERARY MAGAZINE

ISSUE NO. 1

2023/2024

Editorial Staff

POETRY EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

MR. RYAN EICHELE ‘25

PROSE EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

MR. DIEGO GOMEZ-ZAMORA ‘25

INTERIM PROSE EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

MR. RUBEN (RJ) CARNEY ‘24

ARTWORK EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

MR. PATRICK STEINAUER ‘25

CHIEF COMMUNCATIONS OFFICER & MAGAZINE DESIGNER

MR. ALEX MILLER ‘25

WESBITE EDITOR

MR. GAVIN BALANAY ‘27

MAGAZINE ADVISOR

MR. AARON MENZEL

MAGAZINE CONTRIBUTORS

Ian Carson, Andrew Lawler, Solomon Smith, Nathan Stavneak, James Powers, Carlos Rodriguez Sanchez, Jr., and Benjamin Whealy

From the Editorial Staff

It is with great enthusiasm that we proudly unveil the latest installment of I‰k, I‰c., Creighton Prep’s literary magazine. Following a hiatus, this edition stands as a testament to the enduring power of art and the vibrant spirit that defines our Jesuit high school community.

Rooted in the Jesuit tradition, I‰k, I‰c. embodies the Jesuit values that serve as the foundation of our academic journey—Aƒ MajoŒeˆ De† G‡oŒ†aˆ inspires us to create for the Greater Glory of God. Additionally, in the spirit of Magis—meaning “more”—we welcomed the art of students from neighboring Catholic high schools. In this collaborative tapestry, we discovered the true essence of a global literary community—one where creativity knows no borders and the written word becomes a vessel for shared human experience.

We hope this publication will serve our student body's diverse voices and perspectives. I‰k, I‰c. is more than a collection of words and images; it is a symphony that celebrates the unique talents and narratives that weave the fabric of our community. With this literary revival, we extend our gratitude to the contributors who have breathed life into this magazine, reigniting the flame of creativity within our community. May I‰k, I‰c. be a beacon, illuminating the corridors of thought and fostering a renewed passion for the literary and visual arts.

Prose

Welcome to a journey of imagination! Our prose writers have taken a few commas, periods, colons, and 26 alphabetical characters and crafted portals to new worlds. Some of these worlds are far away, others might be next door. My hope is that you will be inspired and challenged by this patchwork quilt of literature. I know I have been. You will meet three young men searching for meaning and identity in different ways. You’ll watch two “nobodies,” one from the 21st century and another from the 13th, face impossible dilemmas as they try to save their respective worlds. A Russian warlord and some anthropomorphic lemurs round out our ensemble.

RJ Carney, Interim Prose Editor-in-Chief

“American Made”

Non-Fiction Essay by Diego Gomez - Zamora ‘25

I concretely remember the sound of the Disney Channel music transitioning out of the show “Jessie” and into commercials. Now, I was never big on looking at the commercials besides the ones that advertised “Snackables” or “Orbeez”—but there was a commercial that always managed to stop me in my tracks. It did not matter if I was playing with my Elmo or eating my favorite guisado (a dish) my mom made–I would always hear its call. Full of familiar voices and characters, an enormous castle appears on the screen. Mickey Mouse is center stage and gives a warm welcome to the paradise I always dreamt of going to “Mama! Come here!” I yell.

My mother lets out an annoyed sigh and answers with, “What happened, mijo?” I pointed directly to the screen, my smile so wide it must have looked devilish. She peruses the screen and gives a fake smile.

“You know, your dad and I bought tickets to take us there next weekend. If you behave, you're going to be able to meet Tigger, your favorite character!” she said.

That trip never came around. Nor the other trips that I would ask for after seeing the dreamy commercials on Disney Channel. It took me a couple of years to know why they didn’t come true; this realization was one of the toughest revelations about my identity. After my last attempt to get my parents to take my family and I to Disney World in second grade, my parents sat me down and spoke in a serious yet saddened voice.

“Mijo,” my dad began, “¿sabes que somos de México, verdad?” I knew my family was from México, but I didn’t know what that had to do with me. I was an American-born kid, my life had been a blend of the American and Mexican cultures that had provided me with beautiful practices, customs, and languages.

My mom resumed, "You’re also from México, mijo. You were born there, in Mexico City.”

My world went blank. All I could do was ponder on the words that had just left my mother’s mouth.

“I’m not an American citizen?” I ask, my throat aching as if razors were traveling down my throat.

Their slow head-shaking gave me the answer I didn’t want to hear. By this point in my life, I had lived in the United States since I was a year old (15 years total by the time I’m writing this). My life, although intertwined with Mexican culture, was American–or at least I thought it was. Our conversation continued with the explanation of our inability to travel anywhere. They stated the obvious: we didn’t have the money; even if we did, we wouldn’t be able to make it across the country by plane or car due to the fear of deportation.

“It’s ok, we can go another day,” I said, these words leaving my mouth with sadness, disillusionment, and confusion.

I’m sixteen now, and I still remember both of those conversations. In a sense, I am grateful for being told the truth, as I have grown to love both of my cultures even more. By now, I have come to realize that, although my birth certificate does not have “Born in the USA'' stamped on it, I’m not any less American than others. America has bathed me in its culture and love. I’ve learned its language, participated in its society, and have come to love it like my mother country. Nevertheless, I’m still brought back to Disney World, the paradise I yearned for as a child, a palace full of happiness, where I could be no matter my status. A dream of mine is to visit this place and to do so with a smile, knowing that it will fulfill the dream of my eight-year-old self. My blood may be Mexican, my skin and culture may be as well, but there is no doubt that I am also American. I may not be Americanborn, but I am American-made.

Prose by Tanner Kreifels '24 “Dear Editor”

Five hundred words. What am I supposed to do in five hundred words? What could you do with five hundred words my dearest Editor? Perhaps write a story, or maybe a poem. Why five hundred? Why not a thousand? What made you draw the line at five hundred? Was it just enough for a cohesive piece of literature, but not too much for you to read? Why should I put a handicap on my work just to appease your simple mind? I'm only joking Editor, I’m sure you're lovely. Hey, maybe that's what these five hundred words are meant for: introductions. I’d love to get to know you, Editor - your ambitions, your loves, your losses, but alas, five hundred words just isn’t enough. I could tell you about myself, but that seems so one-sided, and I want this relationship to work. Platonically of course - I barely know you. You know, Editor, I’m sure your job is wonderful. What I wouldn’t give to sit at a desk after a long day of school and read aspiring artists’ work. Young and full of energy, these works that have been submitted must be so wonderfully interesting. Not all of them good, none of them the next Edgar Allen Poe, but all of them beautiful in their own way. What makes a piece stand out to you? What screams front page material? Sorry, I feel like I’m asking too many questions. People ask a lot of questions, don’t they? Sorry, did it again. Guess what, Editor. With that last sentence, I've passed the halfway mark. Halfway through and we've covered a lot of ground. Maybe you were right Editor, five hundred words can get you pretty far. What about this Editor? What would you do with five hundred dollars? I’d probably put it toward a new car. Not like a new-new car, but an old beat up truck. Sure, it’s not actually new, but it would be new to me. New things can be good for you or bad - you never really know until they walk into your life. Like for example, I could buy the truck, and it could run like a dream, or it could sputter and stall, and now I’m down five hundred dollars. Have you ever been unsure about new things, Editor? I know I have. Sometimes we’re hesitant to let new things into our lives at first. We keep them just out of reach until we understand them and know we can handle them. We then can turn to these things, or experiences, or people, and let them in. However, sometimes we wait too long and what we waited on isn't there any longer. Not everything, or everyone, can wait, Editor. With that, we’re drawing to the end of the five hundred words I’m allotted. I’ve enjoyed our conversation dearly, Editor. I hope you have as well. Maybe this will be published. Maybe it won't. As long as you read it, Editor, the five hundred wasn't wasted.

Deca

Prose by Jett Smeal ‘25

Running from door to door. Looking for houses with their front lights on. Racing to the doorbell. Getting home and sorting out buckets full of candy. Growing up as a person and a human being is an unavoidable quality about human life. Although growing up can bring many advantages and other enjoyable experiences along with it, death and decay, too, are inevitable. As I sit here thinking about growing up on what now seems like a normal Tuesday night, it is hard to get my mind off of my childhood and how Halloween was not just a normal event. It was truly one of the best nights of the year! Thinking back, I can remember thinking, planning, and dreaming up my costume weeks before. When the sun was starting to go down and the air was just a little more crisp, I was geared up to grab my pillowcase, call my friends, and sprint to the first house up the street! This is an example of how something that used to be so fun and important to me, just seems like something from long ago and now essentially dead and gone.

This caused me to start thinking about all the other childhood memories and traditions that have diminished in importance to me as I’ve matured. I remember waking up at six in the morning to open presents on Christmas morning like it was yesterday. My brothers and I would set out warm, homemade cookies and milk for Santa and stay up all night in order to catch him. Although it never worked, we had the same hope every single year: the excitement about waking up to open presents and to see Santa had departed. As I have now grown up, my preference has become to sleep in and stay in my warm, comfy bed, waking up with just enough time to get to Mass.

As a seventeen-year-old, it is clear that these types of childhood memories and traditions have slowly evolved and become less important, essentially decaying. This has been both good and bad: the decay of my childhood has brought new and more enjoyable things along with it.

I now am more focused on my life goals, which is to become successful in school, athletics, as well as in my future career. It is clear that this decay is allowing me to enjoy more sophisticated activities and do many things that I was not able to do or was not interested in when I was a child. Whether watching a performance, reading non-fiction or enjoying a meal at a fine restaurant, my interests have evolved.

As I have grown up, not only do I have a lot more responsibilities, but I also have more freedom and independence. For example, I am able to drive and commute anywhere I desire, as well as make my own decisions on what I eat and what I do in my free time. I can stay up later with my friends, but I can also take the opportunity to travel the world with my family. As I have matured, the excitement I once felt while looking for Easter eggs in all sorts of sizes and colors is now felt when I hear the crashing waves of the ocean as I tee up my golf ball and prepare to hit my driver down the fairway of the 18th hole of an iconic course running right along the coast of the Pacific Ocean. Although death and decay may seem frustrating and sad as one grows up and becomes an adult, it is part of the circle of life to move past many memorable childhood traditions. If one is open to growth and change, he or she will quickly recognize and embrace many positive and beneficial changes for one as an individual.

Prose by Nathan Stavneak ‘24

From the University of Madagascar Animals Archive

Uploaded 8 July 2011

Copyright 2011

The Illegal Pet Trade: a Comprehensive Essay from a Lemur

Written by Amadeus Lemier and Edited by Hugo LeMurr

It has been four weeks since I was taken from my family. They locked me in an unbreakable shape of shiny sticks. I’ve heard them called “cages” by others here. The room is always dimly lit and is crowded with cages too small to house those living in them. A constant smell of feces and urine linger in the room. Cries fill my ears throughout every hour of the day. Everyone else seems to be speaking in tongues, other than those who look like me. We who have gray fur and black tails with white rings call ourselves the “Lemur catta,” however you could simply say “lemur.” The other lemurs have been taken from the same forest as mine, located by a shore of Madagascar. That forest no longer exists. The creatures that took us tower over us. They share similar features in that they have heads and 4 limbs, but only walk on two. They do not have fur like us lemurs. They’re coming.

I can sense the premature smell of blood. I shiver in my feces covered cage. I have seen what they have done to the others in this room. One by one, lemurs disappear, never to be seen again. Face to face with the creator’s wrath. I know what is to come for me if I do not cooperate. I’m so hungry. Maybe I can barter for some food. Their footsteps are getting louder. They’re approaching me. Guns. A long needle. I will have to stop writing now.

The following is an addition from Hugo LeMurr Hello. I am completing this piece with news of the fate of the author. Amadeus Lemier who wrote this has been slaughtered and likely traded in illegal markets. Possibly skinned of his fur and cut into bushmeat. I myself am a lemur and fear that I will meet the same fate. I have contracted a disease known as tuberculosis from my living conditions. Whoever finds this, please consider putting an end to this torture. The cries of the fallen ring in my ear. Humans are deaf to it. Deaf to the pains that they have caused. Our ecosystem and species will not last long if these atrocities are not ceased.

Prose by RJ Carney '24

A gentle breeze flowed, carrying with it the smell of the coming spring. The sunset was pink, red, and orange blended together so seamlessly that only the hand of nature could have done it. A single glance at the setting sun, a single breath of the flawless air, filled Andrei with hope and determination. He stared down the length of the bridge before him, some 200 meters long, and felt that optimism shrivel. There was nothing inherently terrifying about the bridge itself, though the river beneath it had flooded and was higher than usual. The choice that crossing this river represented and the deaths that were destined to result from either crossing the bridge or returning to the Mongol camp terrified him more than anything else in his life, save perhaps when the Mongols massacred his village and took him as a slave.

Andrei steadied himself, slowing his breathing. He tried to approach the issue logically. Should he go back to the Mongols, all of Hungary, all of the world eventually, would burn. Should he go to Bela IV and warn him that a Mongol contingent would march across this bridge tonight and launch a surprise attack on the Hungarians at dawn, thousands of Mongols would be killed. Millions of lives could be saved if he crossed the Sajo, and tens of thousands if he didn’t. This logic appealed to him. It was mathematics; it was simple; the correct choice was clear.

Yet he knew that it was deceptively false logic. The Mongols always won in the end. They were the greatest soldiers in the world, with a blind obedience to the orders of their brilliant commanders. The Mongol generals had yet to make a mistake. Even should Hungary somehow withstand this assault, they would eventually join the scores of other nations that had fallen before the Mongols. Bela IV would never have tried to defend his lands if he could see what Andrei had seen. The Mongols had flaming arrows, massive stonethrowers, fire bombs, and gunpowder.

They had spies everywhere, entire countries feeding them information in return for the right to be the last place conquered.

Andrei stepped away from the bridge as he recalled the speeches he had heard. The Mongols would bring stability and unite the warring nations of the world under a glorious empire where anybody could be whatever they wanted to be. No one would be killed for their faith, or their class, or their ancestry. Old institutions would be remade, cultures united, and merchants would trade from Karakorum in Mongolia to the Ultimate Sea in the west. A new form of government would be made, a meritocracy. Andrei himself had a talent for numbers and languages, and saw freedom on the horizon if he continued to serve the armies of Ogedei Khan for a few more years.

Yet there was also freedom on the other side of the Sajo, 200 meters away. How many more millions would have to die before stability came? Andrei had lost many nights of sleep as images of battles replayed in his head. Human shields, boiling enemy generals alive, pouring molten silver down their throats, and many more horrendous punishments. Andrei stepped forward. Another step… another step…. Andrei came to a stop.

What was he doing? Surely, the Mongols were awful, but what made the Hungarians better? Bela IV was isolated and unpopular. The Mongol spies had reported how he seized the lands of nobles and Church alike, and insisted everyone stand in his presence. He had killed the ambassadors the Mongols sent to negotiate his surrender. How was he any better than Ogedei Khan?

Andrei tried to return the subject to mathematical reasoning. Millions or thousands? But how was that different from the coldblooded calculations Subatai had made time and again, committing atrocities in the hopes that fear would decrease the need for fighting?

Would Andrei condemn the Mongols to a brutal death thousands of miles away from home? The Hungarian knights would show no mercy to the men who had traveled across a continent to rape, pillage, and loot. They deserved it. Perhaps the Mongols deserved death for killing civilians. Shouldn’t Bela also die for executing envoys?

Andrei shook his head. Such speculation was nonsensical. There would be a battle the next day regardless of his actions. The Mongols would win, no matter the cost. Nothing short of divine intervention could stop them. Ultimately, the only life he could save was his own, by sneaking back into the Mongol camp. He stared out at the setting sun, and the thought crossed his mind to throw himself off this bridge into the Sajo below. He would not aid the murderous Bela, nor stand idly by while Mongol flags rose.

Or he could just run away. Where to? The Mongols would rule the whole world soon. Maybe Venice? Venice would last a few years yet. He didn’t know which states were aiding the Mongols, but it didn’t take a genius to realize that Khan’s armies had always bypassed Venetian trading outposts. He stared at the sunset for a long moment, now a golden line on the horizon, and set off, bound for Venice.

Andrei did not know how long he walked along the country roads as darkness descended and a silver sliver of moon rose. He wished he had stolen one of the strong and sturdy Mongolian horses, but Andrei was no rider, much less a warrior. An hour or two into his trek, he spotted the fires of the Hungarian camp.

They seemed to have organized hundreds of wagons into a defensive circle. Andrei shook his head. A line of wagons would work against most armies, but the Mongols were not most armies. He shuddered to think what would happen when the immobilized Hungarians faced the Mongol stonethrowers. Such a price to pay for doing their duty.

Their duty. Andrei’s thoughts tumbled around each other once again. He looked at the fires, wondering how many lives each represented. How many graves would the Mongols' utopia cost? He had to help the Hungarians.

As Andrei changed course towards Bela’s encampment, ever indecisive, he played the devil’s advocate. Who could blame him? Thousands upon thousands of lives, including perhaps his own, rested on his decision. Initially he had been tempted to avoid it, but indecision was in effect a decision in favor of the Mongols. Now, the sight of all those fires burning, likely oblivious to the tens of thousands of Mongols who spied on them from the forests on the other side of the Sajo, gave him an image of the men he was condemning.

Perhaps the Mongols weren’t fighting for the greater good. They certainly talked about it a lot, but did they truly foresee it? Or were they doing their duty for Ogedei Khan and their horse-god Tengri? Tomorrow tens of thousands of men would fight, doing their duty, dying for their respective countries. If they wanted to, let them do so! Andrei had no part in it. It was not his obligation to help anyone. He turned away from the Hungarian camp.

But all the blood that would come of it… all the fire… all the death. For honor and power, those two scourges of human existence. Maybe it was worth it. Maybe it wasn’t. Andrei’s thinking had circled about so many times now he could scarcely remember what point he was on. He was a man with a talent for languages and mathematics in a world that needed warriors. He was a small pawn in a game played by Mongol generals and Hungarian nobles. He lay down in the grass, overwhelmed with it all, and took solace in the sickle-like moon and myriad stars above. How many sins had they witnessed, without ever intervening? Andrei had not prayed in a long time. He had lived through too much dying.

He prayed now, begging God to send him some sign, some message, some miracle, something! He prayed for God to save him from the coming conflict. God should intervene tomorrow himself if it mattered at all to him that the world was burning. Perhaps these were the end times, Andrei reflected. Nation against nation, death and destruction and demons. This all seemed rather apocalyptic. Was his duty then to stand back or to die a martyr’s death?

Andrei did not want to die.

In desperation and anger, he called for a lightning bolt to end his suffering. None was forthcoming. It was his choice.

Andrei suddenly felt a brief wave of calm wash over him. It was his choice. He controlled the fate of countries. For the first time in years, he was a free man, and had the opportunity to choose what he thought was best. It was amazing. It was freedom. It was power. For a few glorious moments, he felt invincible, before the subsequent wave of responsibility overwhelmed him again. Yet the sparks of courage and power and hope lingered like burning embers in him.

Why was he feeling hope? Shouldn’t it be fear and despair? The Mongols were the ones who solely used blind hope in the greater good to justify their conquests. No, that wasn’t true. The Mongols used fear, stretching through the decades and across the world.

Andrei had a sudden revelation that seemed to turn the world on its head. What if the Mongols were afraid? Fear of defeat, of conquest, of the next kingdom learning their tricks, could motivate armies as well as hope could. And that fear was infinite.

But the motivations and reasoning for their invasions were irrelevant, Andrei decided. An action should be judged by its results, and the result was evil. The Mongols would say that no deed stands in isolation but that they reflect circumstances. Andrei pondered this last variable for a minute before he solved it: the circumstance he found himself in was an invasion of a land that did not deserve invasion.

The embers of hope in him now leapt and came alight. Maybe this was the turning point, the battle that future generations would look to and say that it was on the Sajo the Mongol tide was turned. They weren’t demons, after all. They were men, and if they didn’t live like normal men, they would certainly die like them. For the last time, Andrei stared up at the stars filling the darkness above before sprinting down towards the Hungarian torches dotting the darkness below.

Prose by Andrew Lawler ‘25

I’m on a highway, in a thunderstorm, in the dead of the night. Pouring rain cascades down my windshield like a waterfall. I’m thirty miles over the speed limit, blinded by the rain, and have no clue where I am. The world rushes by me like a blur, a mix of buildings and lights lost in the darkness. The blast of a horn heralds an incoming shape, as for a split second, the windshield clears to reveal a truck charging towards me. DAMMIT! I’m on the wrong side of the road. I slam on my brakes, but it’s too late to stop. Too late to pray. All I can do is close my eyes and hope that hell isn’t real. In a split second, the world fades into darkness. And silence. Am I dead? I see nothing, feel nothing, but hear something. The sound of a knock. The knock. Who knew something so simple could signal the end of the world?

You see, it all began with a knock on my door. One. Single. Knock. The noise yanked me out of my dreams and into a nightmare. It reverberated through my apartment, making the walls tremble in fear. It beckoned me towards my door. As if in response to the knock, the patter of rain outside suddenly intensified, pounding against my windows as if it were trying to break in. A clap of thunder, then a burst of lightning flashed before my eyes, unveiling a silhouette standing in front of my door.

At the sight of it, a chill ran down my spine. My face froze, and sweat began to pour down my forehead and crawl into my armpits. I’d had nightmares about this for months, twisted dreams that would always start with the sound of the knock, and would always end in my death. I found myself at the door and opening it against my will, admitting the visitor into my home. Immediately, a skeletal hand grasped mine in a handshake. I became paralyzed in pain, pain so fierce it held in my scream. As quickly as it had grabbed me the hand disappeared, with a raspy voice said, “A pleasure to finally meet you, my friend.”

It looked exactly as it did when it visited my dreams: A dark cloak, ragged and torn, and face masked in shadows. It croaked, “Have you followed my instructions?” in a voice that was beyond ancient. I tried to reply, but could only stutter. I hadn’t stuttered since fourth grade. With a flash of lightning, I found myself standing in my kitchen. Blood stained the walls. My cloaked visitor gestured with its skeletal hand, beckoning me to reveal my handiwork. I hefted open my freezer, tears streaming down my face as I stared in horror at what I had done. Inside were thirty human hearts, each kept in a separate jar. “I killed them all. Each one that you told me to, in my dreams.”

The visitor grabbed a heart, and inspected it. “How did it feel to kill...this one?” he asked, patient and calm. I froze. I couldn’t remember how it felt. I simply remembered why I did it. You see, I had to kill them. That was the deal. Thirty lives in exchange for all of mankind. It was fair. The visitor sensed my hesitation. It cleared its throat, and the voice that emerged from it now sounded like a radio broadcast: “With nuclear missiles launched, we are now predicting that millions will die within the hour.”

The skeletal hand emerged from the depths of the visitor's cloak, unveiling its face. A face that looked exactly like mine. My double chin. My balding head. My thick, untamed beard, flecked with gray. My icy blue eyes. What was not mine was the yellow, twisted grin on the face.

The creature began to laugh, not my laugh, but its own, twisted cackle. I don’t know what I did wrong. I thought I was going to save the world. The creature continued to laugh uncontrollably, then disappeared as the storm returned out of nowhere and blew the roof off my apartment. What the hell?!

I rushed out of the crumbling building, diving into my car and slamming on the gas. Behind me, the storm had begun to consume everything.

I watched in horror as my apartment, then my city, was upheaved from the ground and sucked into the swirling vortex. I took a sharp turn and launched myself onto the highway. I could still run. I could still escape. The radio filled my car with news heralding the end of the world: nuclear warfare, hurricanes had appeared from thin air, tornadoes were killing hundreds. Everything I had hoped to prevent in the deal I struck with that monster. I tried to focus on my driving, but all I could hear was that damn knock, knocking my brains into mush, blurring my vision as rain cascaded down the windshield. The knock. Who knew something so simple could signal the end of the world?

“The Last Minute

Prose by RJ

Carney '24

O‰ Asst 23, 2023, a‰ Eˆ‚ŒaeŒ Lesacy 600 Š‡a‰e cŒas…eƒ ‰oŒt… o„ Mosco. A‡‡

te‰ Šasse‰seŒs o‰ t…e „‡†s…t ƒ†eƒ, †‰c‡ƒ†‰s YeŽse‰y PŒ†soą†‰, t…e ‡eaƒeŒ o„ t…e

Was‰eŒ GŒoŠ, a‰ †‰„aˆos ˆeŒce‰aŒy sŒoŠ accseƒ o„ coˆˆ†tt†‰s ŒeŠeateƒ

aŒ cŒ†ˆes acŒoss A„Œ†ca, SyŒ†a, a‰ƒ UkŒa†‰e. To ˆo‰t…s ŠŒeŽ†os‡y, PŒ†soą†‰ …aƒ

‡eƒ a s…oŒt-‡†Žeƒ ˆt†‰y asa†‰st Rss†a‰ PŒes†ƒe‰t V‡aƒˆ†Œ Pt†‰, ‡eaƒ†‰s ˆa‰y to co‰c‡ƒe t…e cŒas… as a‰ assass†‰at†o‰.

Bang! Yevgeny Prigozhin’s head whipped around as an explosion rocked the plane.

Valery Chekalov froze midway through his explanation of the falling salaries of PMC Wagner. “Ser’yezno?” said Dmitry Utkin. Seriously? Then the plane pitched to the side, and chaos descended upon the flight cabin alongside the oxygen masks. Yevgeny’s head swam as he groped for a mask and pulled it over his face.

“Putin!” shouted Dmitry, his breathing ragged “We should have burned down Moscow when we had the chance!”

“Explosion. We lost a wing,” said one of Yevgeny’s bodyguards. Yevgeny hardly comprehended him. His muscles strained and his body buzzed. He couldn’t think over the popping of his ears. Pop! Pop-pop-pop! He watched the clouds fly by as the plane plummeted. His hands shook, vibrated almost.

“What do we do?” yelled one of the Wagner veterans repeatedly. The other vet grabbed his face, feeling his oxygen mask as if it would fall off.

“Otche Nash… Our Father,” muttered one of Yevgeny’s bodyguards.

“W-where is our Father now?” said Yevgeny, his eyes shaking. He couldn’t die, he wouldn’t die, not now. A war was about to start in Niger. Why did he have to die now? His son Pavel wasn’t ready. Pavel didn’t know how to run an empire. Where was God now?

“A dog’s death for a dog,” he muttered. “What?” said Dmitry. “A dog’s death for a dog!” Yevgeny laughed. “We’re dogs. We’ve been played like dogs hunting for treats. We’ve been shot like dogs.” Valery Chekalov, who hadn’t put on his oxygen mask, suddenly slumped in his seat. “B-brace yourself,” said the single flight attendant woozily, grabbing a table as the plane spun. “Feet flat, head-d-down over your knees, tuck them in.”

No one would be able to brace themselves, Yevgeny realized as the front of the plane tilted forward and he climbed onto a chair to prevent falling towards the cockpit. Nobody was going to live. Yevgeny’s hands burned now, like every cell in his body, every ounce of blood was trying to get out. Yevgeny remembered his first petty shoplifting, his first burglary, and then a drunken robbery on the streets of Leningrad in 1980 that landed him 12 years, high security. He never really had a choice after that, did he? Would his hands stop shaking? He could hardly think. Stop! Stop! All those armies, all those companies, all those murders. His stomach turned. All those people he had killed and now he was just another grave. His hands turned numb as the plane turned upside-down and he fell onto the ceiling. The crumpled body of Dmitry, the washed-out neo-Nazi he had turned into a general, stirred beside him. “We deserved this,” said Dmitry, his eyes misty. “How did we ever think this would end?” Dmitry pulled out a hand grenade and, in spite of his imminent demise, Yevgeny tasted fear. He saw the ground approaching. Men were crying and yelling. He couldn’t. It was like a dream. Where was God?

Visual Arts

Visual artists from around Omaha and the editors of Ink Inc. welcome you to a celebration of creativity and individuality. We have gathered the finest pieces, diving straight into the culture of Omaha and the people. The Art Editors at Ink Inc. hope that we cultivate and inspire in the collection we present, sharing the importance of art with the community. Art is a universal language that transcends cultural and linguistic boundaries we usually face and connects us to one another. The experience of visual arts exposes the artist and the audience to unique perspectives from all backgrounds, creating many diverse forms of expression. In high school, the arts encourage creativity and critical thinking. As Pablo Picasso said, “Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up.” We hope to continue fostering that same creativity as we proudly introduce the pieces for Spring 2024.

Patrick Steinauer, Visual Arts Editor-in-chief

O'Meara ‘25 “Autumn's Decay”

Photograph by Matthew

Photograph by Marissa Monico, Gross Catholic Class of 2024

;25 “Colors of Fall”

by Andrew Blazauskas

Photograph

Photograph by Nathanial Kramer ‘25

by CJ Costello ‘24

Artwork

“Ocean Aurora Borealis”

Artwork by Jack Johnson ‘24

Artwork by Jack

Johnson ‘24

by Parker Salestrom '24

Photograph

Photograph by Matthew O'Meara ‘25

Artwork by Daniel

Kenney ‘25

by Joseph Bast ‘25

Artwork

“

Color

The

of Death”

Artwork by Joey Bast ‘25

“Death or Knowledge?”

Artwork by Joey Bast ‘25

“The Hidden Pass”

Photograph by Parker Glogowski ‘24

Photograph by Parker Glogowski ‘24

Untitled

Photograph by Ryan Eichele ‘25

by Andrew Lawler ‘25

Photograph

Photograph by Andreas Katsaounis ‘24

by Brendan Kenney ‘24

Artwork

Poetry

Prepare to enter a world of delectable delights, minuscule morsels, and curious confections of the poetic arts. Ink, Inc. is proud to present the poetry drawn from the Omaha Catholic schools. Poetry is a profound expression of human emotion and experience, encapsulating thoughts and feelings in a unique and evocative way. Through the power of language and imagery, poetry has the ability to transcend time and culture, connecting individuals across generations and continents. It serves as a medium for introspection, allowing readers to explore complex themes such as love, loss, nature, and identity, fostering empathy and understanding. With these truths in mind, we at Ink, Inc. hope you will enjoy the playful yet sometimes piquant (but always praiseworthy) poems contained herein. Sit back, relax, and indulge in these scrumptious stanzas. We certainly have!

Ryan Eichele, Poetry Editor-in-Chief

‘25 “An Empty Smile”

Poetry

by

Alex Miller

Each dawn, I wake with the quietest sigh,

Consciously deciding to wear a happy lie.

Though shadows may linger, I'll still play the part,

Wearing a smile, though heavy is my heart.

Behind this mask, I'll find my way through, Hoping that happiness will slowly renew.

For sometimes, by pretending, we may find, That the happiness we long for is hidden behind.

’25 “Bats and Balls”

Poetry

by

Logan Burchfiel

The baseball field, empty and desolate. The sun beat down on the turf.

I grip my bat and walk up to the plate. As balls fly my way, I swing and put them into play. The sun goes down, The lights come on.

There are no more balls left to swing upon.

Class of 2025 “Before Wires”

Poetry

by Annabelle Carney, Mercy

Sometimes I wonder what birds did before wires

Were they landing on bushes or dark tree branches higher

Their delicate bodies of hollowed out bones

With those feathered fingers they rested alone

They lived in the leaves, sacred towers of green

Like sky-angels resting in nature’s sweet dream

A world without wires and smoke and grime

Living in the echoes of a far purer time

Did they relish the flora that grew all around

Tranquility raised from the nature they found

Or did they picture a future with wires strung high

Wishing for a day when they could sit side by side

Now the thin ribbons stretch far across the earth

Carrying with them the price of rebirth

The world now tainted by human-wrought change

With birds upon wires and nothing the same

We have our power and the birds seem serene

While the prices are paid but not truly seen

Yet when we string wires crossing the earth

Do we even recall that the birds were here first

“Breckenridge Sonnet”

Poetry

by Carson Mumby ‘25

The wind rushed through my hair, as I looked upon the mountain.

The rocks tussled on the ground and the bushes rattled with the wind.

I felt alone but together at the same time.

Watching over the landscape so small but also so vast

Everyone looking like little ants walking on the street as if it were their nest

The deers were running across the fields as I stood and watched. It seemed so mundane to others but to me it was a bigger world.

I could see myself on top of the cliffs for days, maybe an millenium.

But this is not my place, I have to leave, but I won’t be far.

I know I’ll come back in a year or so again, but until then I have to dream of the wind on top of the mountains in my head.

’25 “Gym O' Glory”

Poetry by Ryne Lux

Gyms with steel, there are echoes ringing.

Chrome machines gleaming

Echoes of progression

Help cure the depression

weights clinking with each determined lift as screens track progress, a digital sift

In this temple of mind-and-body fusion

Modernism's spirit finds its conclusion. Sweat beads dance in the neon light.

A symphony of effort, a modern plight

Nick Albin, S.J. “Kensington”

Poetry by

abandoned buildings inhabited by glowing graffiti and toxic trash plenty of polished police cars prepared to diligently dash

nature’s natural sound replaced by sirens strongly sounding off to the max long loud trains truck along above the ground tracks

willfully watch your fragile feet or you’ll step in the nasty needles along this street

these streets once walked along by promising working class are now roamed round by the jobless and hungry who painfully pass

impoverished civilians sleep on benches, looking broken and beat stopping by soup kitchens for something to eat

what can I do?

simply be there for these forgotten people and help them pursue their dreams of finding stability in life anew as I begin this next working assignment in a soup kitchen in Kensington

"The inspiration for this poem came from encountering the poor and marginalized in the Kensington neighborhood of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania during my pilgrimage as a Jesuit."

~Fr. Nick Albin, S.J.

Fr.

Cripe ‘25 “NYC”

Poetry

by

Auggie

I’ll never forget roaming Times Square

The buildings surrounding, tall as can be

Observing the billboards in the foggy air

Visiting the shops, going on a spree

Taking a scooter ride in Central Park

Talking to strangers and hearing their jargon

Seeing the screens light up in the dark

Watching the Jays hoop at the garden

Grabbing some pizza that was plenty

Back to the hotel after a long day

Coronavirus striking, the city now empty

Our return to school was then delayed

To never go back would be a disgrace

I hope one day I will return to this place

‘25 “Raise your Gaze”

Poetry by Ryan

Eichele

Just raise your gaze and you will see beautiful birds in a beautiful tree. Now fix your eyes unto the ground, marvel at creation around.

A crunchy leaf, a raccoon print, a fledgling bird with yellow tint.

Then free yourself with all your might. Spring from darkness, into the light. With open eyes, you now can be a beautiful bird in a beautiful tree.

“Teaching in Quarantine ”

Poetry by Tom Hoover, Department of Theology

10 minutes before class

my laptop is open for a 9:00 a.m. ZOOM meeting and I am waiting for my students.

I’m staring at my face on the screen, my stupid receding hair,

my glasses, the dated looking chair behind me and that dirty window too, but the fireplace looks nice all lit like that when the screen lights up with the first sophomore to arrive–usually just a shot of the top of the kid’s head, his moppy hair, rarely his eyes, in his bedroom it’s still strange that I get to see;

or he’s sprawled on a basement rec room couch that’s not my taste and a ceiling fan overhead.

So we talk for a bit, though not about much, but for sure one of us will say “in these uncertain times” or something close to it, all this as his other quarantined classmates begin to join us and are lighting up my screen–their arrival reminding me of the bright and prodigal stars that return at night to fill the sky above my Dundee home; or on other days I'll smile as I recall the Brady Bunch, (maybe their cousins), in the squirming stacks of sophomore faces.

But this morning I am thinking of fireflies–the ones I used to catch at dusk by Meadow Lane creek in sticky July–those shimmering bugs sheltering in the grass I stuffed inside a mayonnaise jar

I kept on my nightstand, shoving aside that summer’s other loot, The Hobbit and Bazooka Joe gum wrappers, my oldest brother’s MAD magazine, Buffalo nickels, a St. Christopher prayer card–to closely watch them from my bed, their Mountain Dew green glow delighting me when they lit up, hoping their radiant light would last forever, until later, long past my 5th-grade bedtime, I watched their blinking lights dim, then disappear, and I lay there, missing their comforting shine, hoping they’d soon relight in the dark jar, praying to St. Christopher to guide them home as my mumbled prayer concluded--”....holy Patron of travelers protect and lead them safely to their destiny. Amen,” that wishful plea barely finished before I finally fell into a deep sleep. But my gloom was only brief, as my dreams that night were filled with lights and I was running wildly again along my creek, crashing through itchy nettles, snatching from the air those flickering sparks, pausing, breathless and happy, opening my cupped hands to see, and before I could laugh, they were gone–soft lifting from my clammy palm, they drifted into the starry sky while I watched, until one by one they’d vanished and I was alone again, staring after them into the darkness, hoping they would stay safe, those gentle souls, and soon return to light up once more my dark and empty screen.

“

The Crashing Wave of Work”

Poetry by Alex Miller ‘25

In books and projects, he is deeply immersed. A student's passion is blessed yet cursed.

As he loses himself in the work's embrace, He yearns to rediscover his own home base.

In the pursuit of knowledge, he finds a way, Balancing books and his own dreams' array.

For though he's immersed in a diligent chore, He will reclaim the "self" he's been searching for.

“In writing this poem, I wanted to highlight the rigorous workload of high school students and how losing themselves in that work can be easy. Stringent studies are often seen as the minimum expectation of a student, but high school students are pushed to their limits. I hope the reader of this poem has a newfound respect for the students in their lives because being a student in 2023 is not an easy feat.”

~Alex Miller ‘25

“The Mockingbird’s Song”

Poetry by Ryan Eichele ‘25

Why does the Mockingbird sing a parody? Does it not know the value of its own voice, or does it prefer other birds’ melodies?

To blaze one’s path or follow the crowd: a choice impossible. I wonder how it feels to never truly speak or happily rejoice.

What a harrowing fate to mimic in lieu of singing a beautiful, powerful song, instead, creating a gray, terse song anew.

But for singing different birds’ songs for so long, the mockingbird loses it own melody, it cannot do anything but sing along.

Its life is consumed by rampant jealousy, eternally envying the nightingale, whose floating aria sounds most heavenly.

When adversity strikes, its song becomes frail. But I ask before I disdainfully brag, Can I fight back, follow the forested trail?

Do I sing my own song and fly my own flag? Do I rejoice when vict’ry bells are ringing, But still stay steady when hopes begin to sag?

Or do I act like a mockingbird’s singing, Repeating filler without any meaning?

“The Old House ”

Poetry by

Annabelle

Carney,

Mercy Class of 2025

tinged with the scent of mildew clothes not quite let to dry the musty humid tang of air like an old house after rain decaying and decrepit

broken inside these walls lead chipped off painted windows the light reflects in dusty air, the particles of my dreams left behind when storms came

but the old house can never be rebuilt, but the clothes will never dry the mold will seep into my soul, an unending brutal lie

“The Platte River”

Poetry by Jay Anthony ’25

Your sandy banks making an unobstructed path to your water calls to me

Jumping in a boat across your choppy waves makes me have fun

Finding cool sticks and building sand castles fills me with glee

And sleeping in a tent throughout the night when we’re all done

Exploring the woods and finding interesting creatures

You’re as close as a good friend being only 50 minutes away by car

Everywhere I can see there are cool features

A slimy stone sticking out of the water, a fallen tree, a sand bar

I dream everyday of returning to your fair shores

Called a poor man's beach for the beauty you share

You provide a break from my chores

And I return I give you care

You are the perfect place for all

I need only to listen to your call

“Why Make Weapons?”

Poetry by Gabriel Sus, Mount Michael Class of 2026

“Why make weapons?” cry the people of Earth.

“We no longer need weapons; peace is steadfast.

At last we have learned how much we are worth Conflicts are over and wars are now past.”

“Bullets and land mines and other things frightful; We have no need for these things anymore.

Missiles and rifles, indeed very spiteful. We don’t need the weapons we called for before.”

“We never needed force to solve what was conflicted, For those problems were caused by pride. Pride was a vice with which we were afflicted

But now we are humble and satisfied.”

When we reject war, someday we will learn, That great things shall be granted to us in return.

Cover Photo by Nathanial Kramer ‘25

Photo featured on pages 25-26