Delta 2017

Table of Contents Chris DeGrandpré ‘17 ........................................................ 3 Teddy O’Brien ‘17 .............................................................. 5 Grant Brewster ‘17 ............................................................. 7 Danny Maguire ‘17 ............................................................ 9 Evan Dolan ‘22 ................................................................. 12 Aidan McGlaughlin ‘19 ................................................... 13 Jack Schroeder ‘17 ............................................................ 15 Michael Harper ‘18 .......................................................... 19 Chris DeGrandpré ‘17 ...................................................... 23 Chad Fischer ‘17 ............................................................... 25 Joseph Townsend ‘20 ....................................................... 26 Connor Teehan ‘21 .......................................................... 28 Bryan Oliveira ‘17 ............................................................ 31 Tristan Munley ‘17 ........................................................... 32 Jamir Reddick ‘17 ............................................................ 34 Joe Sciales ‘17 .................................................................... 35

Being an editor of the Delta is so much more than simply selecting works and producing a publication. When it comes to the Delta, we, the editorial team, composed of three seniors and one junior, strive to make voices heard, make emotions felt, and make impressions for our community. Although our time at Delbarton is fleeting, our work on the Delta remains an important contribution to our school, giving us and the student body the ability and freedom to share and express our voices. Crafting this legacy comes with the arduous task of selecting the finest pieces from the student body—an unexpected duty, as it turned out; we had underestimated the sheer quantity of incredible student work that we would receive. Nevertheless, it was a worthwhile task. This year especially, we had the pleasure of featuring student work from each grade level, which truly emphasizes that Delbarton talent doesn’t hail solely from upperclassmen.

While we scanned all of the submissions, one theme instantly came to all of our minds: distance. We found this distance through the separation between unrequited lovers, or the disconnect between an elderly man and the outside world, or even the fine line between fantasy and reality. Our writers explored the geographical, emotional, and metaphysical aspects of distance; to complement this, the Delta staff wove together photography and text to craft a truly beautiful and striking piece of art. Within this issue lies the whimsical and airy right alongside the heavy and dramatic, shaping a powerful edition replete with the resplendent creativity of the student body. Distance provides that vital stimulus at the cornerstone of all creation.

In the end, our obstacles become our greatest asset: from a disconnected state arises our finest creation.

Each student featured in these pages produced spectacular work and rightfully earned his place within this year’s Delta, yet the team would like to give special recognition to both Chris DeGrandpré ‘17 and Joseph Townsend ‘20 for their winning pieces in this year’s Short Story Contest. Their way with words is not only a testament to their own abilities, but to the abilities of the Delbarton community. With that, this year’s Delta, in a sense, recognizes our school’s vast number of writers, thinkers, visionaries, and artists.

Throughout these pages, you will wander through many different emotions, and saunter across many different types of literature, including poetry, script, flash-fiction, short stories, and, in one case, words you’ve never heard before. Nevertheless, the works are inspiring, evocative, innovative, and emotional. We’re proud to present the 2017 edition of the Delta, and to leave our mark on this school.

-The Editors

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Delta Editorial Staff 2016-2017: Joe Sciales ‘17 Tristan Munley ‘17 Chad Fischer ‘17 Michael Harper ‘18

Special Thanks to:

Mrs. Brown, Delta Moderator Mrs. Lopez, Mr. Rodi & Mr. Martin

With Help from: Teddy O’Brien ‘17

Special Congratulations to the 2017 Short Story Contest Winners: Chris DeGrandpré ‘17 Joseph Townsend ‘20

Artwork by:

Joe Sciales ’17 — 6; 22; 24; 30 Teddy O’Brien ‘17 — 8

Cover Art by:

Teddy Vermylen '17

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Grant Brewster ‘17 — 11; 14; 27; 31; 34 Tim Adami ‘17 — 4; 36 Michael Harper ‘18 — 18; 33

The Departure

by Chris DeGrandpré ‘17

The old man isn’t worried as the cardinal leaves the bows of the dogwood. He has seen the other birds leave as the resplendent, fiery autumn canopies outside his second-floor hospital window transmuted to stark, brittle branches. They have left, but the cardinal had always remained, a pinprick of vibrant color in the bleak, monochrome environs.

The old man refuses to worry as the crepuscular light drapes shadows over the hospital grounds, or even as an onset of snow obscures his view of the tree. The branches outside the window are illuminated by the droning fluorescent bulbs that hang over his bed, glaring down at him with detached, harsh light.

The last vestige of light from the dying sun vanishes; the old man struggles to maintain his composure. His eyes break from their tireless search and flit to the clock and back to the branches, which the glow from the window has now granted a ghostly hue.

The cardinal was his sole diversion from the incessant hissing, dripping, and beeping of the machines that confirm he continues to live, and without the bird to keep his eyes occupied, the old man is alone, with only the maddening sounds of the equipment to keep him company. The old man’s thoughts drift from the cardinal to the feeling of the needle in his arm, the draft from the bedpan, the creak of the springs in the mattress.

His eyes glaze over, and his lids begin to feel heavy, his vigil crumbling as exhaustion overtakes him. His eyes continue to look outward, but his gaze is becoming myopic, no longer piercing. His vision grows dark; even the lights within the room seem dim. But still the eyes stare out the window, yearning to glimpse a flash of red.

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Art by Tim Adami‘17

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Wave

Why can’t I just wave to her?

It’s a simple mundane motion marked By the oscillation of one hand arched With fingers outstretched towards Heaven or help without Reason for doubt or delay But instead my hand will stay

You see her everyday in the cavernous hallway With millions milling about Where she is beside you today and tomorrow a million miles away But you just can’t seem to shout “Hello” or lift your hand to wave Because a simple wave is to tremble and shake To bitter ends, to hearts that break To count heartbeats, the breaths you take To lie in wait, her move to make To die of hope, the heart’s mistake For something tweaks for your own heart’s sake and nothing wreaks havoc like the havoc you make And nothing compares to your own heart’s ache

by Teddy O’Brien ‘17

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Except for the wave she waves back to you Except for the smile that she beams for you Because now she’s made your day Because now life’s gone your way Because now it’s all okay Because now it’s all okay

To fake being brave for the sake of a wave Of emotion, of power, of dreams to save Is to believe that one wave Can change everything, with the hope it will bring, with the hearts that will sing, with the love that begins, with a single, simple wave

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Art by Joe Sciales ‘17

Kings

by Grant Brewster ‘17

The woody area by my house was an ever-expanding kingdom. The boundaries of my dominion were only determined by how far I dared to venture. My trusty travel partners explored by my side: laughing and yelling at wild creatures while marking our territory with yellow streams. An asylum from demanding parents, the woods were always magical. Down there we were kings. There was nothing to remind us of the world beyond the trees besides our own civilian clothing. We were survivors: catching (then releasing) our “meals”, stalking (but never catching) the elusive horned beasts that pranced through our land.

Every summer we stretched the borders of our kingdom further. We unflinchingly traversed over fallen timber – bridges across the roaring creek to uncharted territory. We went as far as we could before inevitable calls for dinner and falling leaves cut our adventures short. I filmed our excursions, eager to show our journeys in which we uncovered secret coves, mysterious plants, and hidden brooks to those too timid to join. One summer evening, I led a particularly audacious expedition beyond the then current front. We leaped from stone to wobbly stone until we landed on solid ground on the other side. We hooted and hollered, congratulating each other on newfound terrain. Our pack ran through the underbrush and frolicked through high grass. Ecstatic to claim high ground, we laughed and tousled our way to a distant hill. At its meager summit, we froze.

It turns out we weren’t kings, these weren’t unchartered territories, and these weren’t our virgin woods. The hill gave way to a flattened strip of land: no trees, no bushes, no creatures. Two parallel lines of metal ran before us, stretching farther than we could see. I peered across the tracks and saw people surprisingly content in their fenced-in yards, and I could hear the cacophony of cars honking beyond. Previously shrouded by leaves, the hill, and our ignorant bliss, the world painfully came into full view. Reality hit that this area had already been discovered and tainted; we weren’t pioneers at all. As my friends’ shoulders slumped in disappointment, I found a deep burning motivation. Although this initial attempt to be a king didn’t work out, I knew that as one reign ends another begins.

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Art by Teddy O’Brien ‘17

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And an Immortal Legacy

by Danny Maguire ‘17

Professor Kardenheimer had studied the science of time all his life. The concept of it, the intricacies, the purely theoretical, but most of all the applications. Never did he mull over the philosophical aspects of his “inventions,” if you could grant such a name to his repeated failures. He had made friends among other professors across the university, but not so much for social interaction as to utilize expertise in various fields. Though, there was one “Dr. Abbington”—a fossil who had been there longer than even Kardenheimer.

Abbington was an engineer. Kardenheimer, a mathematician (the purest of sciences!), was less than fond of engineers, and especially loathed Abbington.

“I speak bluntly to you sir; no motive for retaining you at this institution exists, beyond tenure!” Kardenheimer shouted in a room of those whom he thought sympathetic his case: students in the accused’s lecture hall. Our protagonist lacked those essential people skills, as we see. He could hardly wait to finish the exclamation in his anticipation of an agape face on the bone-thin man he was abusing.

“But, professor,” Abbington began slowly (although as fast as he could), “you haven’t published a paper in years. You run no research, and you teach the bare minimum number of classes.”

Now Kardenheimer’s face was red as a baboon, and his mind yet more animal. He began to stammer for the sake of stammering, fully aware of the leering and hooting students around him, who had now embraced the behavior of monkeys in their own way.

Kardenheimer cried himself to sleep that night. Admittedly, he cried himself to sleep the night before, but something else occurred that night. Awakening at around 1 AM, or maybe 2, a breakthrough in his latest machine popped into his contemplative mind.

It was to be his ultimate work—the one that would make him wealthy and famous.

Not that this was the first time he thought as much, but today he was quite certain. And now that a realization struck him like a brilliant bolt of divine lightning, he could finally build it. The construction of the time dilation component had finally been solved, and the Perfect Prognosticator (a working title of his—he overestimated the appeal of alliteration in marketing) would soon be complete. This would allow an individual to see the future of his life.

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He worked through the night. It was the only way he knew how to work anyway.

By the time his first lecture rolled around in another building, the machine was complete.

His students (they would not prefer to be expressed as “his,” considering themselves quite independent of the man, but I digress) would have to wait. He turned it on and gazed into the television screen which would foretell all. He saw it now.

“You can’t continue skipping lectures. It’s your job. If it happens again, there will be consequences.” He saw the department head scolding him for his absenteeism. He glanced at a calendar and a clock; it was 8PM of the same day.

A knock on the door. No, not in the vision, but in the present. Blast it, he thought.

Damn amateurs interrupting him.

“Professor?”

Students. Didn’t they realize what important work he was doing?

Anyway, Kardenheimer was called out, making sure to lock the door twice, and forced to lecture for the latter half of the allotted time. He was caught up otherwise until late that night when he finally returned to his office.

He had left the machine on. The monitor was now displaying the future some years in advance. He saw himself, quite alone. He didn’t recognize where he was. It looked like some run-down motel. In the motel room, on the tube TV (those still existed?), Abbington was at the head of a press conference. He was talking about some machine he had created. But as the present-day Kardenheimer listened, he discovered in horror that Abbington’s “invention” was in fact his own, the one he was using now! Undoubtedly he had stolen his idea.

This was a nightmare. There was only one way to stop this from happening. He had to destroy the machine. Yes, he had to. Relinquishing the discovery was worth it to prevent Abbington’s success. How Abbington was going to steal it he did not know, but he would prevent it now no matter what. Kardenheimer took the machine apart to the tiniest components, burnt it all, and dumped the ashes in the river.

So Kardenheimer went on for two more years, behaving normally, or at least normally for him. He was happy so long as Abbington was not.

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“Today, I unveil a revolutionary device, a machine that allows the user to see his future,” Abbington announced at the same press conference Kardenheimer had seen in the motel years before. “I invented this product one year ago. We started production shortly thereafter and have produced thousands of units already, which will soon be on store shelves.”

Kardenheimer, of course, assumed Abbington had somehow gotten the remains of his own invention, and reverse-engineered it. It was a stroke of fate, however, that the two of them stumbled on the same discovery, completely independent of each other, with only a year in between.

Abbington was certainly the first to market as a result of his going through with his discovery. Kardenheimer, at this point, couldn’t even remember what it was he had discovered that night so long ago. Had he pursued the Perfect Prognosticator, horrendous nomenclature aside, he would have achieved fame and scientific glory. As it was, he died alone and broke, while Abbington garnered two Nobel Prizes, lifelong prosperity, and an immortal legacy.

Art by Grant Brewster ‘17

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The Sunprekt Woods

by Evan Dolan ‘22

The following poem utilizes creative and fanciful word play. The author created this piece with the intent to use imagined words in the place of real ones, while maintaining a sense of fluidity and cognizance.

The sunprekt woods on a stonalfact day The tillish greens on the towering trees A flumby Acton cheffled away With his axe, the smark fellow walked through the breeze The bulord father needed wood right away For the bitter, the fleenish, the winter would sleaze He surrounded a tree, forned and littish at bay Lifted his richter axe and chopped with ease His partish efforts came to a halt as he heard an animal a’stray Acton pivoted and saw a Fergamemumous sight he knew he must seize He tiptoed over to the smire being that was resting at the noon of day The shome was mysterious, Acton dropped to his knees He observed the witwalls of the grashious beast and looked back away In a moment the shamper left with a squeeze It scampered away, it was fleenish and shay He looked back and saw the beast as it flees Acton felt flumby again with dismay The living of the Zumbo woods were smart with its glees He was not the grash Acton, he felt he was grey Nature could beat him, he was not so pleased Acton was just a child who played did not slay The sunprekt woods on a stonalfact day The tillish greens on the towering trees A flumby Acton cheffled away

Box Vignettes

by Aidan McGlaughlin ‘19

The wind ceases and the dust settles. A man appears at the door of a rickety old ranch. He stomps onto the porch and sits in a rocking chair. He looks out. The plain in front of him is flat and brown. No vegetation grows and no life stirs. The man grunts and tilts his hat down over his face. The hat is a strikingly pristine white with a lustrous silver buckle on the front. The wind picks up, moving the dirt along to the next acre of vapid land, and then suddenly stops. The man tilts up his hat to see the change of scenery, and then lays it back down. The sun does not set, but scorches the cracked earth like the counter light at a restaurant, meant to keep the meal fresh, but only serves to kill the taste. The man puts his hat back on the top of his unkempt head and stands. He stretches, then turns and walks back inside. ~~~

His skin is soft and hydrated, despite hours of climbing the rugged cliff face. A man scales a silky gray peak. Behind him stretches a field of wildflowers, blooming with colors and textures, but the man does not look back. Bears linger by a stream nearby, snatching salmon out of the gushing river like travelers at a baggage claim. Still, the man does not turn to look. A falcon gracefully glides through the air, dodging in and out of the wispy cirrus clouds. The falcon lets out a screech, calling all attention to himself. The bears at the stream look up. The flowers gravitate to peer with open pistils at the falcon. Even the salmon stop flopping for the majestic creature. The man still does not look. He summits and stumbles upon a plateau. In the middle, a girl, dour and demure. Around her, brambles and lifeless saplings in the sun, but smitten by an exterior force. The man reaches the woman and attempts to console her, but she does not react. A world shifts and revels behind him, but the man will not leave the girl. ~~~

A girl stands on a lifeless plain. She sees the brightness of life just over the precipice. Yet, she remains still. A man hoists himself over the cliff and approaches her. He stands next to her and says something. She does not hear. She never hears. She stays inside her box on the plain. She doesn’t leave. And nobody gets in.

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Art by Grant Brewster ‘17

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AB Script

By Jack Schroeder ‘17 [A stage with no setting, except for two chairs.

ALAN and BEA are already on-stage. BEA is sitting down. ALAN is standing.]

Alan: I don’t know.

Alan (loud): Chekhov.

Alan: It just felt wrong.

Bea (offhandedly): Bless you.

Bea: Why?

Alan: What?

Alan: I can’t explain it.

Bea: You sneezed. Bless you.

Bea: Oh, grow up.

Alan: That’s not what I meant.

Alan: Grow up? After what happened?

Bea: But it’s what I interpreted.

Bea: Nobody cares. They don’t even know.

Alan: I guess that’s all that matters now.

Alan: But I know.

Bea: What?

Bea: Do you?

Alan: What you interpret.

Alan: In my mind, I know what you did.

Bea: Are you still angry about that?

Bea: Sure, you might know in your mind, but what does that matter?

Alan: Why wouldn’t I be, Bea? [Bea chuckles.]

[Pause.]

Alan: What do you mean?

Alan: What?

Bea: If you went out and told some random person, would they believe you?

Bea: Be and Bea are practically the same word.

Alan: Well…

Alan: Give it a rest.

Bea: It’s not my fault.

Bea: They wouldn’t, and you know they wouldn’t. They’d lock you away. Say you’re crazy.

Alan: I know that.

Alan: I’m not crazy.

Bea: But you aren’t acting like it.

Bea: That’s just what you think.

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Alan: What are you trying to say?

Bea: Nothing exists in reality that isn’t believable.

Bea: I’ve just been thinking about this for a long time.

Alan: Ever since it happened?

Alan: What?

[BEA shrugs off ALAN’s advance.]

Bea: It doesn’t matter what you think, it matters what you can get others to know.

Bea: It doesn’t matter.

Alan: I don’t understand.

Bea: And I don’t think you ever will.

Alan: Why do I even care?

[BEA gets up from a chair.]

Bea: It’s like a dance.

[BEA moves toward ALAN.] Alan: Excuse you?

[ALAN moves away from BEA.] Bea: All of it. It’s practically a dance.

[BEA starts dancing slowly.]

Alan: What does that have to do with what happened?

[BEA stops dancing.]

Bea: I don’t know.

[Pause.]

Alan: So, what’s this dance?

Bea: Lying.

Alan: What?

Bea (impatiently): That’s what it’s all about.

Alan: I still don’t understand.

Bea: It’s about movement. The way we act when the lights are on us.

Alan (annoyed): What does this have to do with anything?

Bea: It doesn’t have to, A. Alan (angrily): Make some sense!

Bea (with passion): I don’t have to! We’re all here, looking for a partner. Some of us get around. Some of us never get up from our tables. We’re all the nervous wrecks we were at junior prom when our dates left us alone. So we search. And we usually don’t find anything.

But there are some of us, a special few, who can find partners like there’s no tomorrow. For the rest of us, there’s not much we can do. We just watch them do their thing, mesmerized by the actions taking place in front of us. Some

of us become cynical about it all, finally realizing that it’s stupid to dance by yourself, that it’s stupid to lie to yourself. It’s beautiful, all of it. But it’s not perfect. Those lucky few who found somebody to dance with decided to keep dancing. They ran out of planned moves.

They improvised, and it worked. Until it didn’t. People began to recognize their moves.

Anticipate them. After a lifetime of lying, the lights come up and it’s time to go home.

[Pause.]

Bea: I just haven’t realized it yet.

Alan: So, all of this…

Bea: Has been a lie? I don’t even know anymore. I’ve been dancing so long I don’t hear the music.

[Pause.]

Bea: So what are you telling me when you say Chekhov?

Alan (melancholic): He’s… he’s dead.

Bea: Do you really believe that?

Alan: I’m going back to the hospital.

Bea: It’s where you belong, Alan.

Alan: Bea? Bea: Yes? Alan: It’s time to go home.

[Scene.]

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Art by Michael Harper ‘18

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The Way Things Were

by Michael Harper ‘18

Aileen was from Michigan. I don’t know where, but that don’t matter much. She came down to the bar, and I remember seeing her work her way through the crowd of ladies. She was tough lookin’. But that don’t matter. She looked like she been through a lot, ya know? Each line on her face had a story to tell. So I was manning the bar that night, and I watched her come up, takin’ a seat on one of those stools there, and she asked for a beer. I don’t remember what kind, but as I said, that don’t matter.

I slid her a cold one, and we struck up a conversation. Nothin’ to it. Just one of those convos I have every night. I don’t remember what we talked about. But somethin’ bout that woman. I dunno, but I liked her.

She didn’t think much of me though. Look at me. I’m a fifty-seven year old, workin’ at a gay bar, no kids, and my body is startin’ to sag. All I know is I don’t look great. But I noticed Aileen eyeing Tyria, a regular at the bar.

Tyria had her act together. She was queen of the joint. She knew a lady’s whole life story at first glance, ‘specially the bad parts. Tyria was attracted to the bad in people without even knowin’ it.

At this point, I saw Tyria checkin’ Aileen out too. She slid over a seat. Then another one, until she was right next to Aileen. Tyria began swirlin’ her finger ‘round the rim of her glass. Her words seductively slipped outta her mouth, her lips caressin’ them till they bounced right into Aileen’s ears. From what I could tell, Aileen liked what she was hearin’.

She got up, and walked out the door, Tyria close behind.

I went outside to smoke a cigarette and I saw the two of ‘em makin’ out. I lit my cigarette as I watched them, the muffled beat of the disco comin’ from inside. I sucked the smoke deep into my lungs. They pulled away from each other, looked in my direction.

They both made a gesture that they would resume what they were doin’ somewhere else.

I tossed my cigarette on the ground, snubbed it with my foot, and walked back inside. I didn't seen them in the bar the rest of the night. I was guessin’ they were havin’ themselves some fun.

After that night, Aileen and Tyria came in once in awhile, usually twice a week, sometimes more, sometimes less, sometimes not at all, often drinkin’ and havin’ a good time. They would dance, their arms ‘round each other, staring into each other’s eyes as the

disco lights scattered ‘round ‘em. I had gotten to know Aileen a lil bit better. She was mysterious. I learned she was a workin’ gal. Yup. That kinda line of work, alright. I’m not judgin’, but you know, Aileen, I eventually learned, had a criminal record. Things weren’t easy for her. She needed the money. All I can tell you was Tyria sure did like Aileen, despite her past.

It was a Saturday night when Aileen came into the bar alone. The lines on her face had become more pronounced, and she looked wired, the kinda look when someone did somethin’ real bad. Nonetheless, she casually strolled into the bar, sitting right in front of me. She asked for her usual beer, and followin’ routine, I slid it across the bar, right into her hand. I talked with her, passing the time with a few meaningless questions here and there, and then I asked about Tyria.

Aileen put down the beer. She set her eyes right on mine, her pupils lookin’ right into my soul. I swear to God, I thought she was gonna smash that glass right on my head with the look she was givin’ me. But she just started talkin’ about how they were takin’ a break. I don’t know. After that interaction, the thought of Aileen just did not settle well in my stomach.

The night after, Tyria came in and sat on the far side of the bar. She was smoking a cigarette; the smoke drifted outta her mouth, rising up and blending into the rest of the haziness. I made my way down to her, and I decided to strike up a convo. She didn’t seem too happy. I asked what was goin’ on with Aileen, and she said she didn’t wanna talk about her. At that moment, I knew. I just knew somethin’ was not right. I tried to get Tyria to say somethin’, but she just wouldn’t respond; she just sat there, staring past me with another cigarette in her mouth. Figurin’ she had enough of my pryin’, I went to serve another gal at the other end of the bar.

Now things began to settle, and Aileen and Tyria began showin’ up at the bar together again. Hands clasped, arms around each other, uneasy laughin’. They were puttin’ on a good show. But I knew ‘em. I knew everyone who walked into that joint. Things were not right, and Aileen was the cause of this—whatever you’d call it—“atmosphere”. Her face had changed a lot since I first met her. It had more creases. A lot more. And not to mention Tyria. She may have been all cozy with Aileen, but the look in her eye. Boy, she was scared, and yet, madly in love.

Then one night—I don’t remember which day of the week—Tyria ran into the bar, tears streamin’, her short hair fallin’ over half her face. She looked around tryin’ to find someone, but with a look of despair. She turned to me, and ran up to my place behind the bar. She began cryin’ about how Aileen was arrested earlier that day for robbin’ a

convenience store, and how the police found a gun and ammo in her car, and that it matched the same ammo from a murder out near Clearwater. Then Tyria began tellin’ me ‘bout how Aileen killed several other guys outta self-defence while she was workin’ the streets. My Lord, my mouth dropped to the floor! She told me that she knew ‘bout these murders, and that was the crazy part! I was speechless.

I’m a good lady. I told Tyria she could sleep over at my place if she wanted to so that she wouldn’t have to be alone. She said no cuz, as she put it, she “wanted to be as close to Aileen as possible”. I guess it’s true: love is unconditional, but it sure is strange.

Tyria would pop in once in awhile and tell me how Aileen was doin’ in prison and all. She told me when her trial was coming up, and I thought I’d go and support Tyria, since her gal was locked away. When the trial came ‘round, I picked Tyria up from her place, and we headed to the court together. I sat next to her. Watchin’ Aileen sit in front of the judge was like watchin’ a person stand before God on Judgment Day. Aileen talked about how each guy she killed tried rapin’ her, and she killed ‘em outta self defense, but no matter what she said, it did not seem good enough for the jury. I dunno, but I think Aileen was tellin’ the truth that those men weren’t good. She took it too far either way. She said that she was the victim of society, and you know what? She was. Her whole life musta been real hard, and for what? To be thrown in jail every time she tried to do a single thing for herself?

Now Aileen was already deemed guilty. There was nothin’ she nor anyone else could do to change that fact. But it was that time after the trial when the judge had to give her sentence. He straightened his papers and Aileen straightened up, preparin’ for whatever was gonna come. Then the words melted right outta that judge’s mouth. I felt sick, and I for sure knew Aileen felt sick. Tyria, too. Po’ Aileen got the death sentence — lethal injection. She was donzo.

It has been several years now. Aileen is dead. Tyria—who knows where. All I can tell you is that Aileen was just too tough for this world. A victim of society? I would say so. But she’s probably lookin’ down from Heaven, watchin’ her gal Tyria, waitin’ for her to meet her up there so they can dance like they did in my bar, hands clasped, arms around each other, care-free laughter.

How things were in those days.

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Art by Joe Sciales '17

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Janus

by Chris DeGrandpré ‘17 the terrible beast innocent blood in His mouth lives in my mirror He smiles with His pointed teeth leering through the steam with manic eyes and sly lips murmuring despair His gaze renders me nerveless feeble and infirm i despise His wretched deeds the things He has done hate Him so passionately for His vile cruelty and His frightening visage i wish He could change wish that He were something else beautiful and kind something that could be admired rather than despised i wish He’d leave me alone that He’d go away wish i could flee forever far away from Him there can be no escape, though because He is me.

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Art by Joe Sciales ‘17

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Building Blocks

by Chad Fischer ‘17

My eyes shot open to a fresco of colors and shapes that congealed into a drooling face. As I gained consciousness, a blast of warm air enveloped my body. I winced and slapped my bedmate awake. Certainly, at times, all the volunteers felt too close for comfort. I slid out of bed and languidly donned an old pair of pants plastered with dust and dry concrete. Next, I slipped on a tank from the Cosco two-pack in my bag. As I brushed my teeth I glimpsed my other roommates—three of my closest friends—getting ready to seize the day.

The four of us staggered to the breakfast table. We exchanged some nods and pell-mell greetings with the other volunteers and grabbed some plates. The breakfast buffet was insidious in that the food looked appetizing, but—as it was anywhere in Guatemala—the wrong food item could ignite a fire in your bowels. The most dangerous was the ice, which tainted drinks with unfiltered water, yielding a refreshment that left the consumer feeling all but refreshed. The four of us agreed that if we went down, we went down together.

The workday began when my group hopped into the back of a pickup truck alongside two Guatemalan masons. Felix and Edgar were our only help for the project. We all worked through the Houses to Homes program. We got acquainted with the masons by asking Edgar to translate street signs and teasing Felix for gawking at models in his newspaper. A throng of children greeted us at the site, some of whom we were building for and others who were interested in our foreign faces. Soon we were called to begin the labor-intensive task of constructing a home. The group worked together to mix concrete, lay bricks, and hammer out blocks. Collaboration was necessary to finish major tasks: pouring the foundation, passing buckets of concrete, and much more.

After a long, exhausting day, I threw my sore body back into the bed of the pickup and nodded off into a fitful sleep, interrupted by jolting bumps and stops. On our return, we all immediately slithered into the pool. Once we refreshed ourselves, we wasted no time exploring the town of Antigua. Each night brought new places to eat and explore. The culmination of every night was the same: each of us would sluggishly head back to the room, where we were unconscious until we opened our eyes the next morning.

25

I Spin Right Round

by Joseph Townsend ‘20

Fred the Farmer

It was one o’clock in the mornin’, and the TV was still on. I fell asleep watching a fried chicken eating contest from last year's state farm on the TV. I woke up because I heard a loud buzz echoin’ from the speaker. I was startled and almost fell off of my couch. While my eyes slowly adjusted, I was blinded by a bright red flashing light on the screen. A tornado was coming tomorrow, even though it was the middle of December. The newscaster warned that this would be a tornado that would destroy all of the darn farms in Tennessee. I sprung up, devastated. I had just started the farm and I didn’t want to lose any of my animals, especially my most prized masterpieces. My bull and donkey would have to be moved into the above ground bunker. I needed to start moving them before the tornado rolled in from Nebraska. I put on my coat and went out to the field first. The normal animals could crowd into the barn.

Brody the Bull

I saw the herd of cows go in the barn. I wondered what was happening. The rest of the bull were over by the fence and the farmer started galloping toward him on his beautiful horse. I love that horse. He began to herd the rest of the bulls into their barn. That is when it happened. The entire sky turned into red. I heard screams.

I began to charge and jump. I needed to make this stop. There were people covered in red all around me. I heard a voice in my head. “Kill them all,” the voice said.

“Drive your horns through their skulls and trample over their bodies!” I closed my eyes and repeatedly drove my head directly into the fence post. The noises stopped once the farmer came over and lassoed my horns. I opened my eyes and the people were gone. The skies were cloudy, just the way I like them. The farmer said, “Come on Brody, we need to get you in the bunker before that tornado sweeps in.” He led me into a bunker where I was put into an iron cage. A whisper snuck into my head and hissed, “We’ll be back.” I jammed my head a few more times into the metal before I stopped to eat. After a few minutes, I drifted off while I stared at the cow next to me. I wanted to be left outside. I knew the tornado would silence those voices and carry away my hallucinations.

26

Durley the Donkey

I hated my life. I was always made fun of by the smaller donkeys. They called me stupid because I was seven feet tall. I was only ten and they were fully grown. I tried to ignore them again, but they never showed up. That is when I saw the farmer and his sheep dog corralling the other donkeys into the barn. I was glad; those other donkeys were annoying. But once he locked the gate, I heard him whistle and his dog began to run towards me. His dog had sharp teeth, and I liked it when he bit into me. I began to run away and let the dog catch me. But eventually, the farmer grabbed me and I thought he was going to put me in the barn with the other mean donkeys. Instead, he started to walk me over to the bunker.

“Come on Durley,” he said. “I can’t leave you out here with a tornado heading straight for us. I love you too much you darned donkey.”

I was touched that he loved me. Anything to make these dumb donkeys stop making fun of me. Once I was put into my stable in the bunker, I saw three other animals. There was a furry alpaca laying on a patch of dirt. Then I saw a bull right across from me in a steel cage. He banged his head on the ranch until he fell asleep.

Or died. I couldn't tell. Last was a sleeping cow who looked like she was an accordion being rapidly played. Her breath was so fast. I looked around my cage for a second, and I saw the bars on the door to my cage. I wondered if I could put my head through them, but I dismissed the thought and just went to sleep, ignoring the crate full of food right next to me.

Art by Grant Brewster ‘17

27

The Seed

by Connor Teehan ‘21

The church bell rang twelve as Barnaby walked through Yorkshire square. As the “one size fits none” leather shoes bounded across the cobblestone street, an autumn wind grazed across his face, causing his tuft of grey hair to sway. Turning his head to lessen the stinging cold, his pale blue eyes caught sight of something, sending his feet into a rigid standstill. Only paces away stood a scattered heap of broken rocks and plaster. What had once been a prestigious structure had been reduced to rubble. All it took was one German bomb.

As the stream of thought flooded his mind, tears swelled in his eyes and sent his vision into a state of blur. It was there that he stood for awhile, consumed by thought and reminiscence.

“Was it only two years ago that things had been different? Was it not only two years ago that these streets, now secluded in silence, had been filled with children’s laughter as they scattered the roads and gleefully joked?” he questioned to himself as a frigid sadness swept across his body, even with the absence of wind.

The clock rang again, for it was twelve and a half, forcing him to resume his walk if he was to be back on time.

Barnaby, now struggling to lift his feet, made his way down Church Street as the rest of the world became hazy. Luckily his house wasn’t too far down the road. It took him only a few minutes until the number twenty-two appeared before him. As Barnaby made his way up the wooden porch, the rotted wood cried out with ear splitting screeches as if each time his foot dropped, he felt a tortuous pain. Reaching forward, he grasped the rusted door knob, its surface dotted with tints of green and deep orange. Slowly, he creaked open the door, sending a narrow stream of light across the sparsely furnished interior.

Slipping off his leather footing, Barnaby relaxed, stretching his worn out, calloused feet across the splintered wood floor. Cautiously, he made his way to the refrigerator, careful not to disturb his childhood friend and current housemate, Archie. Whipping open the out-dated refrigerator, a wave of musty air greeted him, destroying whatever appetite he had in the first place.

Disheartened and slightly nauseous, Barnaby trudged back to the main room in hopes of resting on the antiquated burgundy couch.

“Is that you Barnaby?” called Archie.

“Yes,” he groaned, redirecting himself to the narrow wooden staircase in the corner of the room. As he climbed the stairs, he began to hear an unrecognizable noise that continued to crescendo until it had burrowed itself into Barnaby’s brain like a pair of termites.

Speeding from a walk to a slow jog, Barnaby dashed across the thin, second floor hall, turning into Archie’s room. Sitting there, hunched over a poorly conditioned oak desk was a sturdily built, chestnut haired man with two wiry arms that flailed about.

"Archie! What are you doing!”

“Barnaby, there you are. I’ve done it. I’ve truly done it,” Archie shouted, his voice rippling through the house.

“First, lower your voice. Once you’ve done that, then tell me what all this rambling is about.”

Drastically changed from only moments ago, Archie whispered in an almost deathly tone. “You know how we have talked about how things aren’t near as good as they used to be? Life now is unbearable. Well, I just started thinking… It may sound crazy, but maybe we could change that.”

“How? It's not like we can just flip a switch and life is like it used to be.”

“Of course we can’t. But we are able to cause change if we all work together.”

“And how do you presume a small town like this can make change? We’re nothing more than a speck on the map,” Barnaby shot back with a growing sense of skepticism.

“But that’s the brilliance of my idea. That won’t matter. My plan makes it so we won’t be confined to just the people in this town. We can create a network hundreds of miles apart,” Archie shot back with a touch of arrogance.

“And how will you do that?”

“This,” Archie exclaimed, as he shoved an ink-smeared piece of paper into Barnaby's waiting hands.

“This is what exactly?”

“It's a new type of communicator. It's about the size of a small briefcase and is able to reach over twenty miles away.”

“Assuming that it works, how are you going to even build it? All you have right now is a piece of paper plastered with unorganized scribbles.”

“I’ve already worked that out. Everything needed to build it can be found around town. There are even a few things in this house that we could use. Once we start building, then we can begin to distribute them all over.”

“But do you really think people will join us?”

“Are you mad? Open your eyes mate! This life, this world, is not right. People are dying on the streets, friends and family, people who we have known all our lives, are disappearing without a trace. Do you think that people won’t want to change this? Now we are giving them a chance.”

“I’m still not convinced. Do you really think people are willing to risk their lives, put everything on the line, for a chance?”

“Yes! Dying when trying to make a change is better than giving up,” burst Archie as his voice grew to a point that was not safe. Overthrowing the new government was treason; it was a death sentence by firing squad. But that no longer mattered. “This idea is a seed that will grow and grow until it causes reform. A campfire at first, but soon its flames will scorch the land. Life is terrible since losing the war. His Nazi rule must end. Hitler will fall, and this idea, this seed, is why.”

Art by Joe Sciales ‘17

30

There’s A Soldier In All Of Us

by Bryan Oliveira ‘17

The frost seeped into my body and spread painfully through my feet. Rain drizzled down as I perched my back against the wall of a nearby building. I looked around. Posters of pro-Russian war propaganda scattered the floor. A stained pair of shoes with missing laces and deformed soles sat to my left. It reminded me of the mess that once populated my bedroom back in the States. About a mile away I distinguished Saint Basil’s Cathedral, which had been bombed relentlessly in recent days. Surrounding the Cathedral were remnants of apartment buildings and grocery stores. They now stood aimlessly like ancient ruins, slowly succumbing to the elements. They were unaware of the war around them, unlike my parents back home.

Lowering my head, I saw the cause of my suffering: a gunshot that had pierced through my leg and nearly though my combat boots. I could hear my fellow soldiers call out my name. “Sebastian! Sebastian!” The sound was faint. They were several hundred meters away engaging the enemy.

“This might be it for me.”

My body was slowly deteriorating. My heart raced against time to pump the necessary oxygen needed for me to continue to live.

“What did I do to deserve this?”

Nothing.

I asked for this.

I chose to be a soldier after high school because I wanted to serve my country.

I figured there was a soldier in all of us.

Art by Grant Brewster ‘17

31

The Mask

by Tristan Munley ‘17

I found it in the beginning of my freshman year, a simple white mask. It was sitting on my bed when I got home from my first day at school. Cut out of it were two small eye holes and a nice, warm smile. There wasn’t anything special about it, so I thought nothing of bringing it with me to class the next day. For the first few months, I seldom used it; it merely collected dust at the bottom of my backpack. That was the case until one cold December morning. After a long fight with my parents that had continued from the evening, I walked into school almost in tears. Fearful that the other kids would see me, I ducked into one of the bathroom stalls and tried to compose myself. With tears running down my face and with only a few options, I realized I only had a few precious minutes to come up with a plan. That’s when I remembered the mask. In a panic, I tore through my bag and pulled it out. Slowly, I examined the curious headpiece. It seemed the right size, so I placed the mask snugly on my face and locked it into place. It fit perfectly, almost like it was tailor made. After a quick inspection in the bathroom mirror, I rushed to class. Of course, my haste made little difference since I was still late. All eyes were on me as soon as I slipped through the door.

“Dear God” I thought. “It didn’t work. They can see right through it.”

But they didn’t see, and quickly went back to their work. I slid into my chair, ecstatic that my ploy worked. Over the next couple of weeks, I would find myself turning to the mask every once and again. The snug fit completely concealed my expression, so I was able to hide any negative emotion from the crowd. Still, I was extremely fearful that someone would see right through the façade.

But they didn’t see. All they saw was a cheery, carefree smile that convinced them that everything was okay. It was bliss and my personal escape from the outside world. In my second year of high school, the academics became more challenging, the people that I grew up with transformed into complete strangers and my home became an interrogation quarters rather than a sanctuary. I found myself using the mask more, once a week by this point. It was a quick and easy fix that convinced other people, and many times helped me to convince myself, that I was alright. Every now and again though, I hoped that my parents would notice what was happening.

But they didn’t see. It’s junior year and I can’t leave the house without the mask. And why would I? The mask shields me from the world and makes everything okay. It brings out the best in me and makes people like me. It transforms me into someone else, someone confident and interesting. I don’t need to be happy because the mask does that for me.

Besides, I’m sure my close friends will be able to see past it for who I really am.

But they didn’t see. It’s senior year now and I haven’t taken the mask off in a long time. I’m standing in my room looking at my reflection. How long has it been since I last took it off? Six months? Maybe more? I quickly scroll through some social media apps on my phone. As expected, in every picture I’m wearing the mask, brandishing its classic joyful smile. Instinctively, I grab the buckles to release the straps. It would be nice to see my real face for a change. But when I touch the spot where they usually are, I only feel hair.

Confused, I continue to search. No straps, but the mask is still tightly fastened to my face.

I begin to tear the mask off, but I find that I can’t.

It’s here that I begin to panic. It feels like the mask suffocates me, and I want more than anything in the world for it to come off. Every time I pull though, the mask refuses to budge, pulling my skin with it. I have to take drastic measures. I rush downstairs to the kitchen, grab a knife and resume my task. In a frenzy, I begin to slice at the damn mask, trying to cut it off. No matter what, I can’t seem to remove it. Being careless, I start digging into my own skin, and blood coats the knife. The mask, usually a pale white, turns to a pink and eventually to a deep red. After some time, I set the knife down. My heart beats out of my chest. My brain goes numb. My vision is blurry. Once my senses return, I examine my work. While the cut itself is gruesome, it is the area around it that I’m most interested in. Where the edges of the mask once were is just a layer of skin, seamlessly connecting the mask to my face. At once, I understand there’s no use fighting it now. I clean up the remaining blood and bandage my wound, wondering if anyone will ask what happened or notice the scars.

But they didn’t see. They still don't see. The mask is who I am now, and no one can see the look of terror I hold behind it.

Art by Michael Harper ‘18

33

Foxhole

by Jamir Reddick ‘17

Everyone’s freaking out—mothers cradle their children, face masks are deployed, the stewardesses try to keep everyone in their seats and the pilot speaks on the intercom, convincing the passengers that he is taking care of the problem.

I didn’t think it would happen this soon. And not like this.

I’ve never really cared if I lived or died. This was bound to happen to all of us at some point: death. We were born just to die. Life has always felt like a curse to me; life is truly the biggest troll, but I guess the joke is on me for showing up. I guess it doesn’t matter now.

I’m in my seat, kicking back and thinking about my dad. He was in World War I. He used to tell me his war stories, especially the one about the time he got caught in “No Man’s Land.” He was never much of a believer before then, but something changed that night. He found a ditch and he prayed. He made it out alive the next day and came out a devout Christian. To this day, my dad always tells me “You’ll never find an atheist in a foxhole.” That adage fits this occasion; but all things considered he came back a basket case, literally. He was better off dying in that hole.

They say if you confess your love for God in the final hours of your life then you’ll make it to heaven. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to try. So I put my hands together and pray:

“Dear God, if you’re listening, I just want to say…”

34

Art by Grant Brewster ‘17

Modern Love Poem

by Joe Sciales ‘17

You know what I thought—no one writes anymore; Like there’s no “Modern Poe” to stick notes on your door.

Few Percy Shelleys exist on this Earth Who keep crafting up works and combatting this dearth.

But for some reason or such, I just felt a compulsion— A yearning to be this defending propulsion; So I took out my phone and I scribbled my mind, But the letters I typed less than flattered my eyes.

And I realized, right then, what the true problem bore: I’m devoid of all feeling—haven’t felt love before.

There’s no one I know who can capture my gaze— No affectionate soul who’s deserving of praise.

And we’re basically strangers, like we’ve only just met, Well not met, but I know that you get what I meant.

What I mean is we’re friends, not romantically fused; So I thought—hang on here—thought I’d write about you.

Okay, well, let’s see, I’m not sure how to start.

Let's begin with your face—that’s the easiest part.

Don’t get me wrong when I say that it’s… fine, I just haven’t examined each detail and line.

Like who could have noticed that slight dented chin, Or your dopey half-smile you wear on a whim, And what of those ears that are kinda too wide?

Does anyone see?— Oh, well, neither did I. I never took note of your obstinate mind, And your tireless urge to be right all the time.

But especially now, I don’t see that too much, I guess life and it’s passings gave way to such stuff.

35

So call me insane that I miss all those fights— That I long for the nights when we’d argue who’s right.

Because lying in bed’s where I found something true— From an unlikely place I found something in you.

Okay, wait a second, let’s pause it right here, We’re strictly platonic, though, just so we’re clear.

Yes, you’re cute and endearing, I’ve got to admit, But your looks and your wit don’t just render you fit.

So from this point and on, let’s just call it a truce: You don’t think about me, I won’t think about you.

Look, you’re smarter than me, and out of my league, So why even bother? It’s not worth the heat.

Well… maybe, I’m guessing, I’ll give it a go; It’s just a small crush—It’s nothing you know.

So please don’t be mad, it just shouldn’t be true; Maybe—just maybe—I kinda might love you.

36

Art by Tim Adami ‘17