Paragon (2015)

PARAGON WINTER 2015

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PARAGON Gilman School Baltimore, Maryland Winter 2015 Volume XXXVIII Editors Art Editor: Literary Editor: Layout Editor:

Jack Dearing Nick Johnson Arjun Ramesh

Literary Review Board Kent Murray Chris Stith Jack Dearing Max Dellheim Alex Soong David Blomquist

Arjun Ramesh Kevin Kuczynski Gus Meny Max Strome John Ball

Art Review Board Michael Perry Kevin Kuczynski Chris Stith Jake Smith Wiley Hopkins Steven Zeng Arjun Ramesh

Gram Davis Alex Beatty Michael Holmes Tommy Mori Jordan Yaffe Andrew Poverman Mickey Baroody

Faculty Advisors John Rowell Karl Connolly Will Schutt Cesare Ciccanti 3

Paragon Submission Guidelines

1. Paragon seeks to publish innovative and well-crafted art and creative student literature, consisting of poetry, fiction, creative non-fiction, and memoir. Other forms of writing (i.e. analytical essays, editorials, etc.) will not be reviewed by the board.

2. Work may be submitted anonymously to Paragon but cannot be published as such. Any author who chooses not to claim his work after he has submitted it will not be published in the magazine.

3. All work submitted to Paragon must be the unquestionable product of the author. Any work which proves otherwise will immediately be taken out of consideration for publication, and the student who submitted any such work will be asked to refrain from submitting in the future.

4. Paragon only accepts work from current students of the Gilman Upper School. Work from any other authors will not be considered.

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Editor’s Note Art is a universal language. Whether you come from an affluent school in North Baltimore or from a poorer country elsewhere, art can be understood by any who take the time to perceive it. Consider Wiley Hopkins’ “Oh Deer” – regardless of his or her background, the viewer knows that the object in hand is the mangled carcass of a deer. The painting provokes a visceral response from anyone with eyes to see. Or take a look at the stylized paintings of Chris Stith and Michael Perry, whose fixed, rudimentary shapes give rise to complicated landscapes, indicating that there is a fundamental and universally recognizable simplicity in nature. The pieces in this issue challenge our definitions of art – how we should create it, what it should depict, the list goes on. They allow us to translate the lingua franca of art into our own thoughts, ideas, perceptions, and into our overall human experience.

Jack Dearing Art Editor

The purpose of Paragon is to give voice to a segment of Gilman that occasionally gets muffled in the halls. And the variety of the current issue’s fifteen literary pieces attests to the range of that voice. From Chris Stith’s stream-of-consciousness work “Effervescence” to Ben Mendelson’s concise but profound “Hillside Road” to Charlie Siegel’s transcendental poem “One Last Breath,” the artistic and narrative choices vary greatly, not unlike the versions of events that Tyler Plack’s characters offer in his comedic dual story “Opportunity” and “The Worst Night of my Life.”

Peruse both the literary pieces and the visual artwork at your own leisure. You might just discover a new voice, a voice you’ve never heard before, that belongs to your classmates.

Nick Johnson Literary Editor

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Table of Contents Art

Page Title

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Cover Back 9 9 10 10 11 12 15 15 18 19 19 21 21 22 22 25 26 27 28 28 29 29 31 32 33 34 35 35 40 42 43 43 44 46

Woods in the Fall 45 Minute Row Hand Four Landscapes Gilman Bench Cubism Sunset Wires Clash Bathtime Pittsburgh Trippy Tuesday Violin Elephant Underwater Light II Forest Looking through Sherwood Father and Son South Wind Oh Deer Old Man Boxes Skull Mitchell Wyatt Fall Road Pensive Study of Classical Statue Motorcycle Self-Portrait Building Boat Bicycle Storage Closet Neighborhood Tree in the Fall Still Life

Artist Chris Stith Jake Smith Arjun Ramesh Jack Halpert Chris Stith Nathan Shaw Jack Dearing Kevin Kuczynski Michael Perry Wiley Hopkins Jack Dearing Jack Caspari Jalen Colbert Steven Zeng Jake Smith Kevin Kuczynski Michael Perry Mickey Baroody Jake Smith Wiley Hopkins Mickey Baroody Andrew Poverman Alex Beatty Gram Davis Gram Davis Michael Perry Arjun Ramesh Alex Beatty Jack Halpert Wiley Hopkins Steven Zeng Jack Halpert Michael Holmes Kevin Kuczynski Chris Stith Steven Zeng

Literature

Page Title 8 11 13 16 18 20 23 26 27 30 32 36 37 41 45

Brother Spelunker The Sky I. Opportunity II. The Worst Night of My Life Windows Down An Ode to the Common Rat Luke and the Light The Sound Saved from Winter: The Fly The Quilt Effervescence One Last Breath Hillside Road Choice Siri

Photography

Page Title 37 38 38 39 39 41

Untitled Chef Chaouen Like Smoke Spain Wild Sahara Rock Balance

Author Max Dellheim Max Strome Tyler Plack Gram Davis Ben Auwaerter Nick Johnson Gram Davis Max Strome Wyatt Heritage Chris Stith Charlie Siegel Ben Mendelson Nick Johnson Max Dellheim

Photographer Gram Davis Garrett Dvorkin Conrad Clemens Nick Auen Garrett Dvorkin Chris Stith

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Brother Spelunker

By Max Dellheim ’15 My brother loves spelunking – But love is not the word.

Could a caterpillar love the nest Of a hungry bird?

He disappears, vanishes even To the depths of the dark deep.

But God only knows The lonesome company he keeps.

Eventually he surfaces.

Sometimes he stays for days, Promising to stay right here.

But it’s his hunger; it’s his craze.

“Get him some new equipment, Yes, that will keep him safe.”

But who knows their wicked side effects Or the depths of that boy’s cave.

He’s been gone the longest ever now, It’s going on a year.

A truly hopeless feeling: Having the worst be what you fear.

The more I say the worse I ache.

Get out, I’m tired of this chat.

But while you’re here, remind me, Where did I put my hard hat?

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Arjun Ramesh ’15

Jack Halpert ’15

Hand | Oil on Panel | 5x5

Four Landscapes | Oil on Panel | 12x12

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Chris Stith ’15

Gilman Bench | Oil on Canvas | 12x12

Nathan Shaw ’17

Cubism | Mixed Media on Paper | 16x12

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Jack Dearing ’15

The Sky

Sunset | Oil on Panel | 12x12

By Max Strome ’16 The The The The

sky is endless, a spectacle to see, obscure colors, an endless sea. vast pit of darkness, the brightness of night, crescent moon, the stars in flight.

Stuck on the earth yet the mind soars high, High through the clouds and into the sky.

To fly with the stars, to be blinded by sun, To sing to the angels, to be all, but none.

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Kevin Kuczynski ’15

Wires | Oil on Canvas | 14x11

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I. Opportunity

By Tyler Plack ’15

The hard part was always working up the courage to be kind. Being mean was easy; at that I was practiced. Dealing with high schoolers required this capacity, to turn it on or off. Perhaps it was hard because I never knew how to begin, what foot to lead with. When it came to leading with the right foot, mine were always tangled together perfectly.

At times, I led with humor—sarcastic, witty, and charming—but at other times, I led with charm, suggestive, somewhat provocative, and always forward. They say that beginning is the hardest part, showing up is half the battle.

But I knew damn well that this party wasn’t for me. In fact, it wasn’t even about me. I played the part of the insignificant picnic ant.

It was insignificant but entirely burdensome. That’s how I felt about the political successes that we were supposed to be celebrating.

Perhaps my big reason for not wanting to attend was not all about the minor role that I played at the office. Charlotte, a woman of lesser virtue, would be there. She taught Statistics II. Masking my emotions was always tough, and not snickering would be impossible. Her habits around the office were enough for her to gain the attention of even married men, and she relished in their glory and attention. Boundaries were always difficult for her.

Accented by deep carpets and velvet walls, the chandelier held the center of attention. Light flecked the Peruvian crystal display, creating the perfect setting for other, opportunistic men to win over the women.

The drinks shifted the tide in their favor while the hotel served generously poured concoctions. The most striking detail in the room was not the drinks or the men ready for tonight’s prey but rather she who sat nearby.

The charming room, so ornate, became monotone at the mere offering of her attention.

I had fallen in love with a stranger. I knew her only because we shared a lunch break, and we never spoke or even sat at the same 13

table. In silence, I worked myself up, looking at my Tag Heuer watch to suggest boredom. Our eyes met, accidentally and awkwardly. Like our first kiss, I imagined. I caught myself romanticizing the moment, looking deeply into the Peruvian crystals.

Analytical at heart, I could not help but consider this moment.

Even the students made jokes about their odds with Charlotte, but in their comments, she was the harlot. Against the odds, against my family, and against the basic principles to which literature teaches us to strive for, I loved Charlotte. It was as if I had stooped down to her subterranean level. Yet somehow, even lacking in virtue, she was above that, a goal to reach, someone to strive for.

Still deep in thought, I decided that having a drink was necessary.

After all, how could I work up the courage to walk over to Charlotte? I ambled to the bar, ordering a “Double Grey Goose with club soda and a twist of lime,” because of its sophistication, not because I particularly liked Grey Goose, lime, or club soda. After my third one, I unknowingly abandoned all judgment, due to the particular strength of the beverage.

It took an hour of drinking for the courage within me to surmount my fear of rejection. Before walking straight over there, I considered, “Even if I am bit by the snake’s rejection, the kids still call her Charlotte the Harlot.”

In my half-drunken stupor, I performed an introduction that turns even my awkward students into Romeos. “Hey, I’m Paul, and I teach a course called ‘Irony, It’s Everywhere.’ Want to grab a drink with me?”

She kindly extended her feminine arm, and our hands tenderly met. “I’m Charlotte. I teach Stat.”

“Well, Charlotte, tell me this: What are the odds of you and me having sex tonight?” This move was a risky one, but with Charlotte, I knew that big risks reaped big rewards. But my reward was a stained and drenched shirt that was filled with the ice cubes from her Irish Redhead. It was still worth it, for I lost my anxiety with women.

Fortunately for women, they felt less apprehensive around me as a result of my resolution and new dedication to my job.

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Michael Perry ’15

Clash | Oil on Canvas | 16x20

Wiley Hopkins ’15 Bathtime | Oil on Canvas | 20x30

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II. The Worst Night of My Life Walking the street, I have almost always been used to catcalls and hoots.

My ex-boyfriend would look in my closet, commenting on the sizes of my clothes and my abundance of push-up bras. I try not to think about him though, because all he does is bring me down. Few things in life truly anger me, but this perception of me does.

My best friend and psychologist Ann says that it all goes back to my family. It’s a good thing: having a psychologist for a best friend.

I get counseling from her just for the price of a mojito or dirty martini, depending on the season. My dad is bipolar, and she says that my promiscuity is a result of me seeking love from other figures. I think she’s wrong. I just go through men. They can’t handle me.

With only a few hours’ notice, I get invited to an impromptu celebration. Delegate Brown has just won, and one of his campaign planks is to increase educational funding. I feel it necessary to attend.

Ann and I decide to go out before the celebration. I’m still dealing with some social anxiety, according to Ann. She jokes, “I’m letting you drink to stop your anxiety, not as your therapist but as your friend.”

We go to Protégé, which is the hottest bar in town. Still quite early, we grab a few drinks, and Ann picks up the tab. A few men hit on me. I like to play a little game where I count the number of men who flirt with me. By the time I arrive at the celebration for Delegate Brown, I am in the clouds, tired, and somewhat removed.

Ann claims to be introducing me to the people “you ought to know if you want to get in with high society.” These people are mainly men, overweight, and have receding hairlines. About fifty percent of them have grey hair.

I don’t know anyone at this celebration besides Ann, who is casually chatting with Delegate Brown himself. I think she is really the one who wants to be in with high society. The celebration is one of those functions with roundtables, set menus, and boring conversations that seem scripted and tired. As Ann schmoozes with the political magnate, I sit alone, looking outward, eyeing my wine and playing out 16

the conversations of others in my head.

A strange man keeps looking at me, as if his stare were the sole requirement to start a conversation. He makes me feel like an antelope, the future prey of a lion. I look back with a similarly passionate fury into his nearly sinister stare. I think my goal is anger.

I check my phone, and he walks over awkwardly. Even a little tipsy, I still notice his legs, which clumsily seem to trip over one another.

His stride is indeed unsteady, but I feel a weird sense of connection to him. He has a type of facial hair that makes his career as a writer unquestionable and unmistakable. From looking at his face, I can just tell that he is a depressed, failed writer, who resorts to alcohol. He is attainable.

I am accustomed to letting men go softly, but I want to connect with this man. He introduces himself, and in this minute, I blow it. I let the anxiety get the best of me. Ann is away, and I want to remember what she has taught me. Being prim and proper will yield me the type of man that I want, rather than office politicking and flirting with the students.

He asks me a forward question, and I don’t know how to respond. Instead of recognizing the flirtation, I destroy it.

Before I know it, Delegate Brown himself comes over, and he asks if everything is okay. I feign a smile and tell him that I’m having a great time. Ann comes over to the table, and we get in the car. Ann is a great friend. She knows when it’s best not to say anything at all.

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Windows Down

By Gram Davis ’15 It’s just the way summers are.

The leather is hot.

It’s a black car.

I look for water knowing there’s none there.

I’m still happy to be here.

When I sit down (I know where) where I’m headed doesn’t cause me fear.

It’s not the place to be found, it’s the way I feel with the windows down.

Jack Dearing ’15

Pittsburgh | Oil on Panel | 12x12

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Jack Caspari ’17

Trippy Tuesday | Mixed Media on Paper | 16x12

Jalen Colbert ’17

Violin | Charcoal on Paper | 24x18

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An Ode to the Common Rat

By Ben Auwaerter ’15 How do you function the way that you do Beneath the sewers, with your royal rat crew From the hairs on your nose to the claws on your feet The cheese you seek is a scrumptious treat You provide for your life just as you can Testing the waters, feeling the sand But despite your innocent sense of being Traps are set to prevent your fleeing And when the metal flies and you hear the snap The rat is gone in the Grim Reaper’s lap In these last few moments you start to think If only with water you could have one last drink With a dying breath the rat shows true Is he the rodent or is it you?

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Steven Zeng ’15

Elephant | Oil on Canvas | 24x36

Jake Smith ’15 Underwater Light II | Oil on Canvas | 11x14

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Kevin Kuczynski ’15

Forest | Oil on Canvas | 15x30

Michael Perry ’15

Looking through Sherwood | Oil on Canvas | 24x36

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Luke and the Light

By Nick Johnson ’15 “Wow, I can barely see the Bromo tower through the fog,” Luke said, looking up and through the window. I walked over to stand beside him, two siblings, looking up at the misted clock, discernible only by its dark metal accents. We were alone in the apartment that stood a few blocks north of the Baltimore clock tower, because our mom was at work.

“Yeah,” I said quietly.

“Have you finished your homework?” Luke asked me. “Can we go walk to the tower?”

I smiled at the simple pleasure Luke took out of the little things.

I had finished my homework, but I had yet to study for a math test that was coming up at the end of the week. Somehow, though, making Luke beam with gladness seemed more important.

“Sure,” I said, “go grab your rain jacket.”

“Woohoo!” Luke cried. He ran off to the coat closet. I followed him for my own jacket, and thought about how much happier my younger brother made me. He was a boy who always wanted to be in your company, but his toothy smile made it not annoying to have him at your side.

We went down in the elevator to the lobby of the apartment building. Luke bolted to the revolving brass door, and he looked back at me expectantly. I may have served as his babysitter, but it was totally worth it to see what happiness and joy he spread.

We walked down the gray and gloomy sidewalk. It wasn’t raining, thankfully, but the mist was like a translucent blindfold; it shielded even the buildings across the narrow, downtown street from view, but Luke went straight through it, toward the Bromoseltzer Tower.

Luke had never expressed the desire to go to the clock, but doing things on a whim was expected with him. I followed him as he moved gleefully down the street, the other pedestrians smiling as the sevenyear-old sprang past them.

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The city blocks went quickly when I had to keep up with Luke, but when we got to the tower, it was amazing to see the fog lifted from its face. Bright blue lights illuminated the time, and the stonework reflected some of that light around the impassive timekeeper.

“Cool!” Luke said as he looked up through his childish eyes, so full of hope and innocence, “those lights are awesome!”

“Yeah, they are, Luke,” I replied. Something still nagged at me though: “But what made you want to come down here?”

“Look at how awesome it is!” Luke cried: “The light just shines when the rest of the Bromo Tower is dark. It’s big and bright.”

“Just that it’s big and bright made you want to come see it?” I asked. This was a little too simple for Luke. There had to be something a little deeper.

“Well, the light is coming from the face, where you read the time,” began Luke, sheepish because he thought I was judging him, “it’s like the light is coming from time, while everything else is in its shadow.”

I looked up at the tower again and realized that it was a beautiful metaphor that Luke had perceived. It was beautiful, but I also think that at the time I extended the metaphor in my own mind; if time was shining, then the life that comes with time was the source of the light that he was seeing.

“It certainly looks like that, Luke,” I said, “I’m glad we can see the Bromo Tower from the apartment.”

“Me too!” he cried gleefully. “Let’s go back and wait for mom.”

I nodded and put my arm around my little brother’s shoulders. We turned around and walked through the city, the light of the tower shining through its avenues.

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Mickey Baroody ’17

Father and Son | Graphite on Paper | 18x24

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Jake Smith ’15

South Wind | Oil on Canvas | 11x14

The Sound

By Gram Davis ’15

Boom. Boom. Boom.

These are the sounds I imagined.

They never came.

Three lightning streaks shot through the sky.

From cloud to ground, they caught my eye.

Just as I had stopped to make a turn.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

These are the sounds I thought I would hear.

I sat in my car.

Awestruck but not shocked as I waited for the sound.

But it never came.

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Saved from Winter: The Fly

By Max Strome ’16

Defying the odds, he reached my window.

The vigor, the will, the enthusiasm It took for him to fight the cold The piercing, howling wind That takes no prisoners.

And now, begging for mercy He awaits my decision.

It’s amazing how something as mundane As saving a fly from winter can feel so relieving.

And how something as simple as the fly dying minutes later Can feel like there is no meaning left in the world.

Wiley Hopkins ’15 Oh Deer | Oil on Canvas | 20x30

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Mickey Baroody ’17

Old Man | Charcoal on Paper | 14x11

Andrew Poverman ’17

Boxes | Ink on Paper | 11x9

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Alex Beatty ’15 Skull | Chestnut

Gram Davis ’15

Mitchell | Oil on Canvas | 14x11

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The Quilt

By Wyatt Heritage ’15

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I’m working on a quilt my hands are always busied by the fine sewing and needlework perfecting each patch, each picture

I made a patch for summer, an embroidery of a lake, lovely boats threaded along on the water, children running on the shore

The first panel is from my mother, which she tore from her own quilt, to softly drop down beside me as I lay silent, in slumber

I wove in that from Canada, cliffs jutting over stalks in the misty blue, and a new work for my sister she smiles near a golden sea

There is also my father’s, the mignonette we crafted together catch in the yard; wet grass, cold feet, books, and stories past bedtime

I continue to intertwine to trace each string between tradition, details to decorate and connect

These places, faces, scenes the patches that make up a lovely quilt, I wear them at home, outside through the week, and while I sleep

I’ll lie in the ground when it’s finished and cover my masterpiece, knowing I collected my patches in life I surely have left mine

Gram Davis ’15

Wyatt | Oil on Canvas | 20x16

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Michael Perry ’15

Fall Road | Oil on Canvas | 24x36

Effervescence

By Chris Stith ’15 Effervescence. Lovely word. Sprawled across the sky, on the streets, in the glare of the lamp that touches the air. Touches us.

And the sidewalk too that we walk on. Pit, pat, pit, pat, - feet strike doublets in the ground. In the rain, it’s similar. But a steady tempo to accompany the beat. Swishy, more, water. If it’s night, it’s more mysterious. With the moon shining down, or the clouds hanging still, moving swift, racing, running, running! But it’s not just that. The smell leaps at me, pushes me, and I’m remembering it all. It’s a jolt, that smell.

That smell reshapes the trees, the world, the streets, even the lamp, the air, the glare, the woman. A deep blue to save the grace, backdrop for wonder. Starry night, deep blue. Water, blue. Street lamp, on the blue.

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And a gray but warm yellow ochre blazing clearly, strongly, hardly leaves anything out. Perspective sends the sidewalk straight to vanishing.

A deep black, deeper than normal, recedes next to it. It’s the street, a river for us now.

Arjun Ramesh ’15

Pensive | Oil on Panel | 8x10

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Alex Beatty ’15

Study of Classical Statue | Chalk Pastel on Paper | 22x20

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Jack Halpert ’15

Motorcycle | Oil on Canvas | 12x15.5

Wiley Hopkins ’15

Self-Portrait | Oil on Canvas | 10x10

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One Last Breath

By Charlie Siegel ’16 A stroll: casual, yes, simple, no.

Flies buzzing, children yelling, Balls bouncing, birds calling, Winds blowing, trains tooting.

Through the labyrinth of sticks and stones, A log lies dilapidated but inherently innocent.

Ridden with roots of all shades, A mellow green, a warm brown, a moderate gray and yet still a precarious black.

A leaf falls, approaches a moment’s time of velocity, And returns to a seemingly motionless state.

A bird’s call is interrupted by a cadence of children’s bellows, And as on count, a contagious sequence of tolls transpires from behind the congested trees.

The intermittent beeps, hoots, yips, buzzes, and unrelenting screams, All embody the semblance of one strange, lone, and quite anomalous leaf.

Veins composed of intricate, interwoven patterns, A constellation of exotic, provocative, and alluring design.

With a central shaft: cocoa in color, And veins of russet glow, The leaf takes upon a peculiar and rather disheveled consonance.

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Gram Davis ’15

Untitled | HTC One M8 | 35mm

Hillside Road

By Ben Mendelson ’15 As I tumble down the steps for the third time today, I think to myself, driving sucks. On September 30, 2004, a Thursday I believe, I had been driving on Hillside Road on my way home. My driver’s license was only two months old at the time, but when I drove then, I felt like a professional. I had been going 15 miles per hour above the speed limit, per usual, and the stupid deer hadn’t even looked both ways before crossing. The flashback cut short as I hit the bottom step. I hate this damn prosthetic leg.

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Garrett Dvorkin ’15

Chef Chaouen | Canon T2i | 190mm

Conrad Clemens ’17

Like Smoke | Nikon D3200 | 18-35mm

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Nick Auen ’18

Spain | Canon EOS Rebel T4i | 18-55mm

Garrett Dvorkin ’15

Wild Sahara | Canon T2i | 190mm

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Steven Zeng ’15

Building | Oil on Panel | 12x12

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Chris Stith ’15

Rock Balance | Droid RAZR Maxx | 35mm

Choice

By Nick Johnson ’15 In all things, there stands Choice: Destroy, Amend, Begin, Cease.

In the end, I will mourn or rejoice, When my life flows beyond the known crease.

In the future, what will be the sound of my voice, A sound of war or a sound of peace?

Choice is never alone.

Good, Bad, Dark and Light Are its different sets of bones.

Without one of them, Choice has no flight; Its wings are made of stones.

Fear not the companions of Choice’s delight.

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Change and Choice are as one.

Choosing one path changes many lives.

Together, Choice and Change make everything under the sun.

Accept the prerequisite work and subsequent exhaustion.

In all things, Choice will have neither pain nor precaution.

Mourn or rejoice, I shall not but have fun.

Jack Halpert ’15

Boat | Oil on Canvas | 18x18

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Michael Holmes ’16

Bicycle | Graphite on Paper | 9x12

Kevin Kuczynski ’15

Storage Closet | Oil on Panel | 14x11

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Chris Stith ’15 Neighborhood Tree in the Fall | Oil on Panel | 14x11

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Siri

By Max Dellheim ’15

Our convertible roared through the darkness, unflinching, casting its headlights into the desert around us. I watched as the arrow crept past sixty, past seventy, past eighty… I couldn’t help it; this was a car that demanded speed.

“Jesus, John, do you happen to have weights around your ankle I don’t know about?” laughed Mac as he fiddled with the stereo.

“Well, the way I see it, the faster I get there, the less time I have to spend listening to this crap,” I shot back.

“Hilarious, just keep your eyes on the road would you,” he said as he cranked the music even louder.

Truth be told I was beyond happy to be out on the road with Mac, crappy music and all. Lately things have been a little… stressful back home.

The thought of calling – or just sending a simple text to - my wife to make amends for our last ‘spat’ crossed my mind, but I was still feeling a little too stubborn to be the bigger man. Plenty of time to do that tomorrow. So I gunned the throttle, blazing a path across the jet-black desert, happy to run.

“You know what,” I began as I reached for the cable attached to Mac’s phone, “I think it’s time I took over the role of DJ on thi-”

It was at that moment that I managed to strike what was probably the only boulder for a hundred miles around. When the world around me stopped spinning enough for me to form a thought, the only thing I could process was how much pain I was in.

Eventually, I made out Mac’s limp body in the once-ferocious headlights a few yards away. And then I looked down. There I saw the impossibly large spear of glass that had made its way past my ribs and into my chest. I sat there for what felt like an eternity trying to process what had happened before I noticed my phone on the floor by my foot. I mustered every last ounce of dexterity I could and pressed my shaking toe into the home button. After the little ping, I breathed out.

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“Siri… tell my wife I love her.”

I nearly blacked out right then from the lack of oxygen, but not before I heard back: “Message to Wife sent: ‘I love her.’”

And as my lungs failed me, I managed to gargle out one last “God… damn it… Siri.”

Steven Zeng ’15

Still Life | Oil on Panel | 16x12

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gilmanstudioart.com

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