Paragon (2016)

paragon spring 2016

paragon Gilman School Baltimore, Maryland Spring 2016 Volume XXXIX Editors Art Editor: Literary Editor: Layout Editors:

Andrew Poverman Michael Holmes Basil Apostolo Davis Booth

Literary Review Board Michael Holmes John Ball Gus Meny Chris Song

Art Review Board Wenkai Wang Wyatt Schafer Michael Holmes Andrew Poverman

Faculty Advisors John Rowell Cam Terwilliger

Karl Connolly Cesare Ciccanti

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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 Any author who chooses not to claim his work after he has submitted it will not be published in the magazine.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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Editors’ Notes Reading is a journey. Through the written word, we have the opportunity to visit different worlds, times, and even minds. You hold in your hands a ticket of sorts, a key to the ideas and imaginations of Gilman students.

These are your siblings, your classmates, and your children. Some pieces, like Barrett Crawford’s “A Somber Winter Evening” or Alex Soong’s “A Bird’s Eye View,” will take you into the minds of strangers, bringing the perspectives of characters as vivid as real live people. Others, like Luke Granger’s “A Glimpse of Destiny” will take you to places you never even dreamed of. As you read, you will find that the words of these students can make you laugh, think, cry, shudder in horror, and more. You will feel the chill of a rain-stricken night, and hear the rustle of leaves in the wind.

Sit back and enjoy the ride.

Michael Holmes ’16 Literary Editor

Art gives people a voice. This voice is a tool used by an artist in order to convey ideas that may not otherwise have a way of being described or depicted. The ability to use this voice is universal, and everyone has their own. Kids in affluent high schools in North Baltimore use this voice through things like painting and drawing just like a young adult living in Fes, Morocco uses this voice through making utilitarian sculptures. This voice is without words and can be understood by anyone. Consider Niyi Owalabi’s sculpture “Ocean View” ; this piece using wood and clear resin portrays the ideas around movement, symmetry, and minimalism through Niyi’s voice. His piece provokes thought; the piece speaks to the viewer and forces them to consider the ideas at hand. The pieces in this issue pose questions and force us to rethink how we define art. It will push you to the edge of what is common, and force you to have a conversation.

Andrew Poverman ’17 Art Editor

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Art

Table of Contents

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Page

Title

Cover Back 8 8 10 10 11 13 14 14 17 19 21 22 23 25 29 31 33 34 39 41 42 42 44 44 45 45 46 49

Sirat al-Mustaqim Figure 2 Overpass Sunset City Upkeep Untitled Alleyway Age of Exploration Untitled Untitled Crucifixion of the User Ocean Views Alea Iacta Est Durer’s Rabbit Partners Bathroom Pedestrian Into the Void Amalgam Stormy Skies Over Baltimore Chinese Opera Negative Space Study Untitled Life in Facebook A Ride on the Light Rail Self-Portrait Self-Portrait Ting Mecca Untitled

Artist Thomas Troy Will Washburn Mac Realo Jordan Yaffe Michael Holmes Wenkai Wang Mac Realo Michael Holmes Nathan Shaw Tabb Carneal Tommy Mori Niyi Owalabi Jules Ouwerkerk Wenkai Wang Michael Holmes Mickey Baroody Michael Holmes Michael Holmes John Ball Patrick Byerly Wenkai Wang Andrew Poverman Tabb Carneal Tommy Mori Patrick Byerly Thomas Troy Thomas Troy Wenkai Wang Thomas Troy Woody Kelly

Literature Photography

Page

Title

Author

9 11 12 15 18 20 23 24 26 36 43 47 48

A Bird’s Eye View Neil Armstrong A Somber Winter Evening A Visitor’s Guide to Funland Stumped Lost and Found Walden Pawned Collection of Objects Poem Three Steps A Glimpse of Destiny The Man of Meaningless Anaphora Poem The Traveler

Alex Soong Chris Song Barrett Crawford Michael Holmes Joshua Fitzgerald Zain Wasi Merrit Wiggin Tze-E Tan Blake Leonard Luke Granger Barrett Crawford Tze-E Tan Aaron Cranston

Page

Title

Photographer

35 35

Lonesome Blue

Wenkai Wang Wenkai Wang

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Mac Realo ‘17

Overpass | Oil on Canvas | 12x16

Jordan Yaffe ‘17

Sunset | Oil on Canvas | 12x16

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A Bird’s Eye View Alex Soong ’17 Perched high up on a fragile branch of a tree that is desperately clinging to its few remaining leaves, I am a bird enjoying the last days of autumn.

Vigilantly, I scan the forest below which is teeming with nature’s delights.

Talons gripped tightly around the decaying branch, I observe the kaleidoscope of colorful fallen leaves gracefully gliding by in the river below, accompanied by a school of tiny fish silently riding the gentle current of the river. Downstream, the fish must navigate through a maze of jagged stones plastered with rotting leaves. Illuminating the damp, faded-yellow leaves emblazoned on the stones, the sun punches golden shafts of light through the tangle of branches around me, causing the clear water to glisten and twinkle in the sunlight. Hypnotized by the sparkling river, I am jolted back to the present by the feel of a soft breeze that seems to kiss my jet-black feathers and notice the last leaves on the branch are being torn from their home. The leaves dance through the sky, tossing and twirling in the wind until they eventually, gracefully, alight on the ground. One leaf touches the edge of the river where a chipmunk hesitantly sips water. Following my primal instinct, I immediately propel myself off the branch towards the animal, wings spread out and beak open wide. Directly puncturing the prey’s soft, warm body, I grab onto its fur and plunge into the icy cold water. Rejuvenated by the water’s coldness, I hop out of the water onto land, my feathers caked with dirt and prey held securely between my beak. I now only hear the trickling river and chirping crickets, which signal the approach of dusk. Darkness gradually slides in, and the river’s musty, moldy smell hangs heavily in the evening air. Red sunlight soon spills over the still water as I quickly fly back to my perch and await the next target. Serenity returns to nature once again.

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Michael Holmes ‘16

City Upkeep | Oil on Panel | 11x14

Wenkai Wang ‘16

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Untitled | Oil on Canvas | 36x48

Neil Armstrong Chris Song White moon dust settles on the night floor.

Pure.

She’s never been touched before.

I take the first step, limb pressed against the white layer.

The natural settled flour deflowered.

I recede, and my print is now there.

I’m a monster and I like it.

Mac Realo ‘17

Alleyway | Oil on Canvas | 14x12

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A Somber Winter Evening Barrett Crawford ‘18 When I came back to the flat, the door was locked. Fear flooded over me like a swollen wave in monsoon season; I had only left the apartment for a moment to grab a soda and was sure I had left the door unlocked. In a panic, I summoned my key from the pocket of my jeans and placed it in the keyhole; turning it quickly, I opened the door in one swift motion to find no murderer waiting on the other side.

They must be hiding in the kitchen, I thought to myself, as I slowly crept towards the counter, soft yellow light shining down on the surface from the dim lamp above. I grabbed a kitchen knife, coated in a layer of tomato blood, and slid over the counter, stabbing deep into the air.

Puzzled, I came to another conclusion. “They must be hiding in the closet.” And so I crept away from the kitchen, knife in hand, into the hallway opposite the foyer. Silently, I peered into my bedroom, the door having been left ajar from when I had rushed out. Seeing no shadowy figure looming along the walls, I entered the simple room, back against the wall, and snuck towards the bi-fold door which stood between me and the assassin. Knife primed, I swung the door open and sliced open my grey windbreaker, which bled transparent blood.

“How foolish am I!” I exclaimed to myself, ridiculing my folly and ignorance. The closet and kitchen are the most obvious places for the fiend to hide in; one houses the deadly silverware, and the other gives a hiding place hidden by a veil of costumes.

“The devil must be in the dining room.” Filled with adrenaline and excitement, I swiftly backed out of the closet and glided across the bedroom. When I came to where the hallway met the foyer, a fear for my life grabbed me again, strangling me, stripping me of my forgotten confidence. The glass doors to the right of me which led into the villain’s lair were dark, and offered no evidence of a killer present behind them.

Still I crept towards them, and, slowly but with purpose, tore them open, swinging them towards me. Oh, how I overestimated the resistance of those swift doors! For the force I exerted was far too grand for the fragile doors, and I quickly lost my grasp on them and fell backwards onto the cool tile floor. When I moved my hands to pick myself up, I saw that they were caked in blood. The blood of the killer! I had known it all along,

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the fiend had been hiding here all this time! Triumphantly, I grasped the handle of the knife now lodged into my stomach, and pushed it further until I felt it break the surface of my soft back. I smiled as the fear inside me died as I did. The fear had been out to assassinate me. Hiding in the foyer all along, hidden in plain sight! But you failed your mission, oh witless emotion! I have conquered you before you could do so to me!Â

Michael Holmes ‘16

Age of Exploration | Oil on Panel | 30x40

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Nathan Shaw ‘17

Untitled | Oil on Panel | 18x24

Tabb Carneal ‘16

Untitled | Oil on Canvas | 9x12

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A Visitor’s Guide to Funland Michael Holmes ’16 See, the thing is, the people who thought up the name really weren’t thinking straight. Or perhaps they were confused, driven mad by the schematics of spiraling loop-de-loops and tilt-a-whirls. Maybe they were shooting more for bemused than amused, and if they weren’t, maybe they should have been. Say this joke as the station wagon pulls past the little guard hut on its island of poured concrete. When nobody responds, say it a bit louder. Ignore it when Dad laughs very, very loudly, because it’s very, very funny, he says. If you see him in the corner of the rearview mirror, trying to make eye contact, scrunch up your face and look out the window. Fiddle with the little strip of stickers that the man in the guard hut gave Dad when he noticed Willy in the backseat.

When the station wagon stops, open the door little by little so that you get the sensation of being slow-roasted in the midday West Virginia sun. Lean against the car while Mom and Dad get Willy out of his car seat because you once saw Clint Eastwood do that in a movie. Or maybe it was Steve McQueen. Get excited when you hear the screams from just beyond the fence. If you can’t get excited, push up the corners of your mouth and swing your arms slightly as you walk. It fools most people.

When Willy skips past you and nearly trips on a chunk of backwoods parking lot gravel, laugh because it makes them feel good. Try not to notice when you hear the laugh through the inside of your ears.

At the gate, mix into the fray of striped tank tops and fanny packs and sleeveless tees. You might pass a girl. If she is alone, try to look taller and walk a little ways ahead of the family so that you look like you’re alone, too. If she is with someone who might be a boyfriend, try to make eye contact with her and give her a you-could-do-better look. Catch your reflection in the closed ticket booth window behind her. Make a note to develop a you-could-do-better look that appears a little less constipated.

Slow up once you get through the turnstiles so that Mom can press a ten-dollar bill into your palm. Pocket it quickly so that nobody sees. When Willy asks to go with you, say that you aren’t going on Mine Cart Mania. Tell him that you don’t trust a ride where all the people in the posters are smiling. Head in the general direction of the scariest ride, hoping that he won’t follow. He won’t.

Once you’re out of sight, change direction. Take a detour across the

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courtyard that smells of butter and push your way through the crowd at the trick basketball court. Try not to count how many pale Midwesterners are wearing the conical fake-bamboo hats from the international area of the park. Count anyway. Twenty-four.

Go on whatever rides don’t have lines. Pass by Mine Cart Mania three different times. Briefly consider riding it each time. Get in line after the fourth time, but duck out if you see someone your age nearby. If the sun gets to be too much, stand in the shadow of the Racin’ Rocker and bop your head to the strains of Aerosmith that are coming from the fake Fifties-era diner that still serves the same chicken tender combos and cheeseburger-shaped rip-offs as the rest of the park. If you see little kids running past, shake your head and take pride in the fact that you’re past the stage when you wobbled around screaming through heavy layers of blue frosting and chewing gum.

Remember how good it felt to scream through blue frosting and chewing gum. Feel ashamed that you’re past that stage.

Partly to get out of the heat and partly to turn back time, go to the arcade. Ask the skinny kid behind the glass counter if he can break a ten.

Pretend not to notice when he sighs. Look over the plastic rings and the ninja paratroopers and the individually wrapped Dum-Dums in the case.

If the person behind the counter is a girl, try and act like a college student. Realize that you have no idea what a college student acts like. Take the two fives and scurry off to the token machine.

Jangle the tokens in your palm and meander through the arcade with your best Ocean’s Eleven swagger. Drop five tokens on a game with a spinning wheel of ticket amounts that stops at the push of a button. When you come away with no tickets, act like you meant to. Maybe say, this thing’s for kids anyway. Come back ten minutes later and feed the rest of your tokens into the wheel machine. Total up your tickets: forty-five.

Trade them in for a lollipop. If there’s a girl behind the counter, snort and say, I guess I should’ve tried, huh? She probably won’t respond. Leave the arcade.

Meet up with Mom, Dad, and Willy. When Mom asks, are you having fun, say yes and smile because you noticed the dark circles under her eyes. Give Willy the lollipop and follow them to the outdoor concert hall.

Pick seats that are right at the middle; you once read an article about how the sound waves converge there. As the next song starts playing, remember that the article was about a different park, in Germany. Enjoy the song anyway.

Swing your legs and bounce your heels off of the level of seats below you. Forget that you’re sitting at the center of a massive parking lot in the

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middle of West Virginia. Forget the pasty kids that jumble like hamsters on every surface within reach. Forget how the air feels like grease and smells like the essence of the word caramelized. Forget how you once said that amusement parks depress you.

After the song is over, go on a few more rides. Return to the arcade for a moment. When you see that somebody is having a birthday inside, leave. Put your extra tokens on the seat of the snowmobile game because you once found three tokens tucked into the steering wheel of a Chuck E Cheese arcade booth. As you leave the gate, notice how the rollercoasters are silhouetted against the sunset. Remember that you have homework to finish for tomorrow. Remember the long highway trip ahead of you. Remember worried looks across the kitchen when they think you’re not paying attention.

Imagine the taste of blue icing. Imagine the rubbery give and pull of tropical gum. Look up. Scream.

Tommy Mori ‘16

Crucifixion of the User | Oil on Canvas | 30x30

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Stumped Joshua Fitzgerald The world I gave to her Now even my own breath she’s crying for Is a sexual partner worth dying for?

A crisis it was, as I rushed full speed to you My fifty­‑thousand-dollar gift, turned upside down across the road I guess the rain meant nothing to you.

You lay sprawled out; I caressed your face but you let out a shout.

Blood saturating your hair, Bones poking out bare, No one around but dark and eerie air.

You seemed to be exempt from this agony Looking relieved as if I was liberating you Freeing you from this meaningful metal.

Then the flooding began Of my heart and my eyes Suddenly there were dark black skies Lies, lies, lies!

A stream of blood carried by the rain, started the pain On the bank of the road lay her shame Who could this man be? I’d never seen him before Unfortunately for him he went head first through his door.

Upon his face lay the signature of your love Kisses They weren’t washed away by the rain.

As he bled out, my heart filled up Back to you I went as you were stuck.

I looked at you again Your eyes were not the same You knew what I saw had changed the game.

A game it was That you played to win it all A tightrope act but two men, two falls.

You clinged on to everything I earned But now your life is of concern.

I can’t tell if you’re closing your eyes in shame Or if your last sputters of life are fading Well you have yourself to blame

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The parts of the story are cascading.

Your life is in my hands, up to my will But I have nothing else to feel.

It’s not murder if I don’t help you They wouldn’t know if I was here if I make haste But to help you and set aside this new hate...

Niyi Owalabi ‘17

Ocean Views | Plywood, Wood Glue, Brads, Clear Casting, Resin

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Lost and Found Zain Wasi I’m searching for what’s underneath the black asphalt I’m searching for the yellow cab in a sea of thousands I’m searching for the brown-haired man whose smile is sharp and evil I’m searching for my constantly changing shadow I’m searching for the man sitting on my leather couch I’m searching for my youth, which is fleeing with every tick of the clock I’m searching for a white letter that must’ve flown out of the mail man’s coarse hand I’m searching for one person who I cannot see, someone who has stolen from me something priceless I’m searching for my wandering self among many who look like me but are not I’m searching for my confused cat who is scratching the wall frantically I’m searching for the keys to my home I’m searching for what was lost inside my mind’s vast palace I’m searching for who took my mind and spray-painted it, leaving me vandalized and vulnerable I’m searching for where the footsteps in front of me lead I’m searching for the dark, which leaves me in solitude In the haze I have lost my way, blinded

I have found the keys to my life on the asphalt, hiding in the dark In the haze I have found the man who took my life and shook up the can

I have found the source of my despair In the haze, through the dense fog, I begin to see the door with the Christmas wreath

I have found the warm, welcoming glow of my fireplace In the haze I have found that the clock no longer ticks away as time passes by

I have found the clock that rips my youth from my desperate, reaching hands In the haze I have found myself

I have found myself running back to the place I’m supposed to be, at home.

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Jules Ouwerkerk ‘18

Alea Iacta Est | Charcoal on Paper | 18x24

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Wenkai Wang ‘16

Durer’s Rabbit | Pen and Ink | 16x14

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Walden Pawned; A Petrarchan Sonnet Meritt Wiggin ’18 O to have escaped! And have sat by Walden pond, and lay on Achillean shores, face-up.

To have forgotten! And let waves wash mine mind up, and have left all complexity beyond the clouds of which I oft mused; to what end?

For pressing reality interrupted!

Dreaded I the toil, the horse at full gallop; Tumult which saw fit that Walden was pawned.

Thoreau! We did but watch and let happen.

Forgive us for letting blue skies dye gray.

Long gone were our insatiable passions, fervent pursuits of the great unknown; Slain!

But wait! within we may find our bastion, To gaze at the clouds, face-up by the waves.

Michael Holmes ‘16

Partners | Oil on Panel | 30x40

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Collection of Objects Poem Tze-E Tan ’16 From the prospector’s pan, the river rock is rejected, and tiny traces of gold are swished around.

Eventually becoming a round bracelet, the letter “m” etched faintly in the gold.

So faint that it would go unnoticed, just like the guitar pick facilitating music though unseen, or the bees that slaved over the jar of honey.

Then, out of the blue, it hits you.

A bright pink towel that attended “every football game” so saturated with sweat that its weight has tripled. Testament to a long day’s work, or even a year’s work, was the class ring. It has been “rubbed so much for good luck” that the once chiseled edges are now rounded like perfectly spherical magnets, which clicked together to form a stand for my orange and green Gameboy.

A bad idea on hindsight, as I now know why my Pokémon saved game disappeared.

But I still have yet to discover why my big doll is “missing a few fingers.” Or why a hair tie suddenly appeared in my room.

I suspect that “Hershel the dog” has played a role in this, and I’ve attached a GoPro to his collar.

Now it’s time to sign off, but there’s one more item left.

The pen I’m writing with, an ink cartridge encased tightly with newspaper.

It’s rarely used, for fear of depleting its ink.

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Mickey Baroody ‘17

Bathroom | Oil on Canvas | 30x40

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Three Steps Blake Leonard ’16 The radio in the car crackled, “I was scared and fearing for my life. I was shaking like a leaf on a tree. ‘Cause he was lean, mean big and bad, Lord pointin’ that gun at me.”

“You should really change the station.” She shot him a dirty look while driving.

“It’s just ‘Gimme Three Steps, Mom. Lynyrd Skynyrd isn’t vulgar,” he tried to argue in vain.

The radio took no pause. “ Oh, wait a minute, mister. I didn’t even kiss her. Don’t want no trouble with you. And I know you don’t owe me But I wish you’d let me ask one favor from you.”

His mother was having none of it.” That song is all about killing and cheating and this and that. It’s not for someone your age.” She changed the station as the voice faded away singing, “Oh, won’t you.”

He crossed his arms and looked out the window of the car. Trevor was in seventh grade. He had fought this battle hundreds of times. He always felt that he did not need to be babied around but his mom always thought he needed to be protected. Trevor tended to yell inside his head at moments like this instead of continuing the argument. What was she even trying to shelter me from? It’s not like the story of the song was unclear to my “pure” 13-year-old ears. He pouted in his seat as the dark streets of Fort Worth flew beneath them like a boat sailing over the waves of a black ocean. He looked out his window at the lights on the streets and gazed at the high school he would go to when he was a “tough” ninth grader, as he called it. The structure was in clear view, only twenty feet or so from the side of the road, since the street lights illuminated its exterior. A light or two was on in the building, probably just janitors. Trevor studied each of the windows as they passed him until his eyes locked onto a spot where one should have been. There was no window. There were just shards of glass scattered around bars that looked eerily similar to those in a prison. It was the principal’s office at the high school, and knowing the popularity of that position, the administration knew it would be a target. They knew something like this would happen eventually and the metal bars had done their job when it did. This high school was by far the best in the school district, and the safest too. A simple incident like this was nothing compared to what happened in other parts of the city where more than fifty per cent of students passing the state standardized test was lauded for years. He peered into the window, trying to see what was inside, why this had happened, but the car continued its odyssey to its own Ithaca.

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“Mom,” Trevor whimpered, “what happened to that window?”

The tone of his mother’s voice changed from its regular Texan accent to an artificial, forced tone. She spoke in a cautious and protective manner as if she had to defend Trevor from the words she was allowing into his ears. “Some gangsters shot out the principal’s window a while ago. It’s really an awful thing they did.”

“Did anyone get, “he stuttered. “Shot?”

“No, honey,” she assured him. “Everyone was okay.” ~ “Wake up sweetheart! Your pancakes will get cold if you don’t come eat your breakfast.”

Trevor rolled over in his bed and groaned. He knew no terror worse than to awaken on a Monday morning. He managed to put on a few articles of mismatched clothing and hurry to breakfast right before his mother was going to yell again.

“Would you like syrup?”

“Yes ma’am.”

School? Again? I have had enough of that nightmare for a lifetime. Trevor’s tirade inside his head had just begun. Next he would be complaining about the inefficiency of the schedule. After that he would probably move on to why his history teacher hadn’t been fired yet after twenty years of parental complaints, openly shoving his political views down student’s throats, one sexual harassment complaint, not knowing what he was teaching, giving detentions to those who corrected him…

Trevor said goodbye to his mom and went to the plaza, where all the seventh graders were. He quickly spotted his group of friends, whom the rest of the grade simply called nerds. There was no denying they were nerdy but there was also no denying they were one of the most diverse cliques in the whole school. Some of his friends seemed to be in a passionate conversation about something unimportant. Hopefully it wasn’t about his short stature and messy hair this time.

“It has been two whole weeks! How am I supposed to be entertained at this school if fights just stop happening?” Hangeul was pleading his case to Ivan, who was all too eager to agree. Hangeul had moved from South Korea only a few years ago; so had David, although you knew he moved a little bit earlier than Hangeul since he had picked out an Americanized name. Ivan shared Trevor’s stature but was a first generation Mexican. His parents were illegals, but it didn’t seem to bother anyone.

“A fight will come soon enough, they always do,” Trevor said solemnly. ~

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Trevor’s first period class was his honors Algebra I class. It was almost entirely made up of white students; the placement in the class seemed to depend less on your intelligence and more on where you went to elementary school. The class represented the school as a whole and its unique divide. The middle school was made up of students from various elementary schools, from ones in rich white neighborhoods to ones in poor, predominantly Mexican neighborhoods. The kids naturally divided themselves by race, although some like Trevor seemed to ignore the unwritten segregation. Trevor often got into arguments when his classmates expressed their perceived superiority but it always fell on deaf ears.

The bell rang, and Trevor hurried down the stairs while talking to Hangeul. The hallway to his next class, theater, was getting more and more crowded. A circle was beginning to form.

“Looks like you’re gonna get your fight,” Trevor said.

“About damn time.” Hangeul walked towards the edge of the circle.

In the center of the circle, two girls were fighting over something.

One of them screamed and all Trevor heard was, “You took him!”

One girl was bleeding from her eye but was still fighting viciously.

Trevor did not know the name of either girl but did not care; his eyes were glued to the fight.

“Watch this.” A boy from his science class threw a pencil into the center. One of the girls quickly grabbed the pencil and tried to stab the other. This elicited a huge response from the crowd.

All of a sudden the circle began to break on one side. The principal charged through and slammed one girl into a locker while another teacher restrained the other girl. Soon enough, the police officer at the school had both girls in handcuffs and the announcer crackled, “Please excuse all students on the west wing of the first floor who were late to class… there was a disturbance in the hallway.” ~ It was the next weekend, and Trevor and some of his friends were playing a pick-up game of football in their usual spot. It was on a field adjacent to their middle school, but a few large bushes divided the field from the front of the school. Trevor caught a pass and ran a few yards before one kid tackled him. This group of kids were not his closest friends but they were more willing to play football than his nerdier friends. The group also tended to embrace and enforce the racial divide in the school

“That one Mexican girl, is it Lola? Yeah. She’s on her third abortion apparently.”

“Mother’s Day is coming up dude. We should all wish her a happy Mother’s Day,” said another kid. Drew, the school bully, laughed.

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Michael Holmes ‘16

Pedestrian | Oil on Panel | 8x10

Trevor took the ball to be his team’s quarterback next, but Andrew wrestled it away. Andrew was one of those kids who was an athlete in elementary school, but by the time he got to middle school he was not. He refused to accept that other kids had caught up to him and stubbornly carried an arrogance that showed itself in all facets of life.

“Just give me the ball and stop bitching. It gets old hearing you complain constantly.” Trevor put his hands back on the ball.

Andrew looked to the rest of his friends. “Here he goes again with that crap.”

“Shut the hell up, Andrew.”

Andrew threw the ball as far as he could. It flew over the bushes and hit the street behind them. “If you want it so bad go get it.”

Trevor glared at all of them before turning and slowly walking to

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the bushes. He tried to ignore the jeers and insults being thrown at him and decided he was going to take the ball and just go home.

Trevor was about to run and get the ball when he saw about five people in front of the school. He paused and looked at the scene unfolding before him. There were two high schoolers and three middle schoolers. One of them he recognized as Ivan’s cousin, Juan.

One of the high schoolers shouted, “Yo, pendejo! You knew this was coming.”

“Man, I didn’t do nothing ese.”

Trevor peered farther through the bushes to see what was going on. He saw a frightening scene before him. He saw Juan standing with one of his classmates, Pedro. He looked to the left and saw that his other classmate, Julian, was on his knees with a gun pointed at the back of his head. The one holding the gun was one of the high schoolers and the other high schooler had a gun pointed against his head too.

“You screwed up, Eduardo!”

“Pablo.” Eduardo could barely manage to speak through his tears.

“Why you doing this to me?”

“You know what happens when you snitch! You had this coming,” Pablo spat at him.

“I never snitched. I never snitched...”

“More like stole his girl,” Pedro chimed in.

Pablo whipped his gun around and pointed at the middle schooler’s face. “You wanna repeat what you said?”

“No, no I-I was just joking.”

“Say it!”

“I said… he stole your girl that’s why—“He didn’t finish his sentence as Pablo hit him with the butt of the gun. Pedro collapsed to the ground.

Juan looked at the ground and saw the unconscious body of his friend in a mangled mess right beneath him. Juan’s eyes got big, and he completely froze.

Pablo turned his gaze to Juan. “You gonna say something too?”

Juan quickly came back to life for a second. “No, nothing.”

“Good. Now you, Eduardo. Either you are going to shoot him now or else I will personally kill the rest of your family, including both of you.

Why don’t you do the right thing and minimize the damage here?”

“Why don’t you do the right thing and not make me kill my own brother right here?”

“Don’t raise your tone or I will do unspeakable things to the rest of your family and you know I will. I’m loco you know that. These are just the boss’s orders.”

Eduardo’s face was covered with tears streaming down his face like a waterfall flowing off a mountain. Trevor was frozen, just as Juan had

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been earlier. He couldn’t move from his spot.

The voices of Trevor’s classmates began to echo as they shouted his name for him to come back. Trevor realized he had to get out, fast.

Just before he turned to sprint away, his eyes locked with Juan’s, who had spotted him, and while they looked into each other’s eyes, they heard the sound of hundreds of pounds of force entering the back of a young boy’s skull. ~ Trevor came to school silently. He ascended the stairs without uttering a word. He avoided his friends and sat alone at all times. The members of

Michael Holmes ‘16

Into the Void | Oil on panel | 16x20

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the gang Julian was a part of pinned pictures of his face to their shirts as a tribute for the terrible “accident” that he was claimed to have died in.

Trevor was in his last class and about to leave to go home when he noticed someone behind him.

A whisper pierced Trevor’s ears. “You are friends with Ivan right?”

Trevor did not turn, but after a long pause softly said, “Yes.”

“Look, this conversation never happened. If they catch me talking about what happened they’ll do something worse to me and my family. I know you were there. You saw what I saw. It wasn’t an accident, man.”

From down the hallway Andrew’s voice was heard saying, “See I told you! Look there he is talking to them again. I swear he wants to be one of them. Might as well illegally cross the border the other way.”

Juan pleaded, “I know. I know. I know what I saw happened. It was real! Tell me I’m not crazy, Trevor.”

Trevor’s lips moved as if they were beginning to form words but as soon as they began they could not utter a noise. He was conflicted. I know what is right. I have to help him however I can but the risk: hatred by the other white kids and risking my life. Trevor began to take a step away, towards the exit of the middle school.

“Don’t do this man,” Juan pleaded.

Trevor did not know what to do. He did see the death. Julian died.

He had a few quick conversations with him in history class before. Julian seemed nice but Trevor didn’t really know him. He would never get to know him. He wanted to be home where nothing like this ever happened. He wanted his comfort. He thought of the song he heard in the car. Things do happen in real life like the song. People do die.

Trevor continued to slowly take steps towards the door, ignoring the insults thrown by Andrew. The sun was at its highest, its rays penetrating through the windows of the door. He kept walking towards it like a cowboy riding off into the distance. Trevor felt his stomach drop. I can’t do this. He was at the door. He put his hand on the latch and slowly pulled the door open. Before he exited, he turned his head and looked back to Juan, only to see a look in Juan’s eyes that he had never seen on anyone’s face before.

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John Ball ‘17

Amalgam | Wood and Wood Glue

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Patrick Byerly ‘16

Stormy Skies Over Baltimore | Oil on Canvas | 36x36

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Wenkai Wang ‘16

Lonesome | iPhone 6

Wenkai Wang ‘16

Blue | iPhone 6

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A Glimpse of Destiny Luke Granger ’16 He swings the metal door open onto the dark alleyway. Two young boys in orange suits sit smoking long pulls of harsh cigarettes. They snarl at him and flick their cigarettes into the puddle of water and oil reflecting the neon signs flickering at every corner. They remind him of his time in high school just a few years ago. “Can I bum one?” he asks. One reluctantly hands one over and lights it for him. He draws a long breath and exhales as a warmth flows through his body. As he smokes his cigarette, he stares at them as if he knows them, but the memory is foggy. Their faces seem to be a mixture of something close to him but he cannot place it. They are identical twins. Their orange suits are perfectly washed and ironed. They don’t speak; they are only objects.

He boards a cab. “Twenty-two Westham Lane.” The driver nods and the twins in orange suits fade past the window as they continue to smoke.

Outside the windows, people sway in the streets like the daisies in the open field across from his childhood house. The cold leather in the back seats is chill to the touch of his skin. His fingertips, now a dull yellow, still smell like her shampoo. It reminds him of his mother’s shampoo. She once brushed his teeth with it after he swore. She always had her special ways of dealing with him as a young child. She never wanted young kids much because she did not know how to teach and guide them. ~ As he stares out of the cab window, the streets fade away and morph into a stage of his childhood bedroom. The vision is of a time fifteen years ago. He is just a young boy. His hair still spins out of his scalp in every direction, covering his eyes. He wears a necklace made of shells from the beach his family visits every summer. The trees outside his bedroom shake and crack against the window. His Mom and Dad are asleep down the hallway, but that is miles away. Jack, his older brother, is in his own room but he couldn’t give a damn even if his brother’s room was on fire.

The boy sits awake in his bed and finally gains enough courage to walk into his parents’ room. “Mom, I can’t sleep.” No answer. “Mom!” Still no answer.

Finally, “Yes, sweetie?” she says.

He stands in the doorway like a silhouette, the outlines of his cold body shaking violently. “Oh everything is alright. It’s just a storm,” she says. He can hear her snoring come back. He walks back into his room

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and draws the covers around his ears to muffle the shrieking window pane. The battering won’t stop. It keeps reverberating in his brain and finally he screams along with the battering, scared it is taking over him.

Down the narrow hallway, from his own room, his brother yells at him to shut up while his mom comes racing in. “What is that terrible noise?” He stays hidden under the covers. “Honey, I don’t know what to do.” She is tearing up now. He can hear it in her trembling voice. He knows that she wants to help so badly, but she isn’t prepared to get this voice out of his head. She rubs his neck and his head, telling him everything will be ok, just like he needs to know. She continues to soothe him and, finally, the noises and fear drift away. However, he acts as if it is still there and she stays with him until morning. ~ “Take the next right, here.” Judging by the moon, it’s three when he walks up the steps and into his apartment.

Saturdays are the coldest. The sheets on his bed scrunch around him like a cocoon and his alarm is on its fourth snooze and might just break the phone. He sleeps late into the day as if the floor beneath him will bite. The room around him is a mess. His paintings hang, lopsided, on every inch of wall space. Oils are his favorite. His mother taught him. His shaggy, bleach blonde hair twists and turns into a ponytail at the back of his head. His nails are chewed down to a stub and the skin is raw. The scar from his childhood soccer league is still pronounced along his elbow.

He still has his high school books hidden in a closet. On top of them lie the books he had ordered for college. They remain in their packaging.

School started two months ago.

He eyes the warm shower waiting across the room, across the uncarpeted floorboard that lies beneath piles of clothes Jack has passed down to him. His mother drops by weekly to check on him and drop off the clothing. She implores Jack to visit but he is busy at school. He sees the clothes illuminated by light filtering through the curtains, and slowly it turns darker. ~ It’s five o’clock. Work started at four, but Spence’s phone battery had died because the alarm went off too many times.

“Damn.” He rushes out of bed, staggering on his way to the bathroom with his pants entangled between his legs. He slows down after dressing to look at himself in the mirror. He remembers to fix his collar and brush his hair. Kristie’s underwear is still on the floor, white and innocent, atop the piles of hand-me-downs. She left it there for me.

He arrives to work late but no one notices. It’s Saturday so the place will be busy—college kids come around at nine and the high schoolers who think they’re sneaky come at twelve. He tries not to serve the under-

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age kids that come in, but the owner doesn’t care as long as they pay so he has to. Jim is sitting at the bar motioning for his scotch; four fingers on the hour. Spence has never known where Jim came from. He looks and acts exactly like Spence’s grandfather, a man who only speaks when he wants to. He has sharp cheekbones, crystal blue eyes, and hard, stifflooking hair that appears dangerous to touch. Jim gets loud as he drinks.

He is never thrown out though because it hurts Spence too much. He fills a glass with scotch and hands it to Jim who nods in return. Spence finds a bit of time so he fills himself a glass of water and watches from behind the bar.

“Got a girlfriend?” Jim asks.

“Excuse me?” Spence says, surprised at Jim speaking.

“Do ya have a girlfriend? A lady? A ball and chain?” Jim asks. He laughs and stops to burp.

“Yes I do she is standing over there.” He motions toward her.

“Looks like a skank to me,” Jim says.

Spence brushes it off as if nothing had happened. Jim speaks insanity when he gets drunk. Spence turns towards his right to retrieve another keg. He looks up above the bar and notices her standing there.

“What time do you work until? Need someone to keep you warm tonight?” she asks.

“That’s a bit forward of you. You never talk like that, but I get off at three.”

He turns around to grab a water for her, and suddenly she says, “Spence, I’ll be around yours at three-thirty.” She exits the door. ~ It’s almost nine-thirty, and the place is packed with the students from the college down the street. Jim is on his fourth glass, and his head is slowly drifting, inch by inch, closer to the table. The kids are watching a college football game on the numerous televisions throughout the place. That is their biggest attraction. All you can eat, all you can drink on college football nights. Students come in, stuffing their faces with greasy fried food and drinking as much as possible in an effort to rebel against the impending school on Monday and the need to “figure out” their lives.

Twelve-thirty comes very fast. Only two hiccups in between: someone punched the bouncer, and some dumbass threw up on the pool table. This is a relatively calm night for the bar. Just last week, someone left a cigarette butt on the pool table, and it managed to catch on fire. As always, he cleans up both situations, the bouncer and the pool table, in no time and doesn’t even have to ask for help. The high school kids come in without a problem; however, she comes in again, this time with a friend.

She rushes to the bathroom without looking at him, as if she doesn’t even know him and walks out. He doesn’t have time to think anything of it, be-

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Wenkai Wang ‘16

Chinese Opera | Oil on Canvas | 36x36 cause Jim suddenly smashes his head down on the glass cup. “Hmmm...

It’s ok. Nothing was left. No, Mom! I need you to stay here,” Jim screams as blood drips down his face.

Students scramble everywhere and in no time everyone is gone. Jim is passed out on the bar table. Spence cleans up the blood, and tapes Jim’s forehead. All this time, voices go through his head like a vacuum cleaner running over his ears, screaming. It’s an early night but before he leaves, Spence notices that Jim is awake.

“Leave this girl, Spence,” Jim says. His voice is groggy but clear.

“Why?” “You’re not soft! You don’t need someone lying by your side every second. Live your own life. Don’t they understand that men don’t need

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comforting? We’re meant to reproduce, not converse about hair color and which I like better!”

Spence notices that Jim is getting more and more angry so he leads him to the back and puts him to bed in the extra cot. He cleans up the bar for one last time. He places the money box in the back room where Jim is.

It is only him and Jim in the back mumbling in his sleep. “It’s your turn Spence. You take out the trash!” Spence looks at Jim’s familiar eyes and he says, “Yeah, I agree, we don’t need women.” His face tangles and twists as he spurts out this response.

He begins cleaning everything and is almost done except for Jim’s mess when he finds the gold handbag Kristie was wearing. He bundles it up and puts it in his backpack. He tells the boss he’s done for the night and pats Jim’s head to let him know he is leaving. He closes the metal door and finds the same two kids standing outside, now wearing lime green suits. They seem to have moved on to pipes now, instead of cigarettes. He finds a pipe in his pocket and asks for some tobacco. They hand him the tobacco and continue not to speak. He stares at them and realizes their faces have changed. They are still a mixture of familiar things but they are not the same as last time.

He boards the taxi again tonight. He enters his room early, around two o’clock. He looks through his kitchen cabinets and finds one of the instant noodle cups that his mom had stocked him up with earlier last week. He eats and still his girlfriend has not shown up. He flips through the channels on his television. He finally calls his girlfriend to see if she can come by earlier.

“Hello?” she answers.

“Hi, can you come by now? I left work early and I have your gold handbag, which you left at the bar earlier tonight,” he says.

“Spence, I thought you knew—I’m working with someone else right now. I’ll be by as soon as I can,” she says. He can hear a man’s voice in the background.

He quickly hangs up the phone, almost instinctively, as if his ears were not supposed to hear those words. He looks down at the caller I.D. and the numbers are blurry. He grabs his cigarettes and climbs into bed.

He lets the smoke fill his lungs while sweat drips out of his lonely, scared pores. He begins to shake.

The bathroom across his room turns into their old back yard. His older brother, Jack, is now ten. Jack always did everything by himself.

“Jack, the bamboo has grown a lot. We could go make bow and arrows again today,” he says.

“No, Spence, those things are dumb now. I need some time to myself anyways. Stay outside and make a bow and arrow by yourself. Can’t you ever be by yourself for just a little?”

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Jack slams the door behind him just as she opens his apartment door in front of him. The backyard fades away and he is shivering in his soaked bed. He looks over at the clock, which has the big hand pointing directly on the five.

“Spence, not again. This isn’t my job!” she says.

In his trembling voice, he says, “You love me, of course this is your job.”

The piercing sound jolts him awake and, finally, he turns off the phone.

“Sweetie, breakfast is ready. Jack’s off already, so you have to drive yourself to school.”

He looks over to the shower in confusion and sees his backpack lying on the floor underneath all of his own clothes.

Andrew Poverman ‘17

Negative Space Study | Concrete

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Tabb Carneal ‘16

Untitled | Oil on Canvas | 16x20

Tommy Mori ’16

Life in Facebook Park | Oil on Canvas | 16x20

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The Man of Meaningless Barrett Crawford ’18 Small child, You waste your time all day, Frolicking outside in the corn field, Still green with infancy, Laying down to rest underneath the oak tree With branches thick with wispy, green leaves That whistle in the warm winds of spring.

You must learn responsibilities, Learn to care for yourself, And become independent.

Young man, You waste your time all day, Going out every night to the city, Staying well into the early hours, Drinking your cares away, Neglecting those who love you so, Indulging in ignorance and selfishness.

You must learn compassion.

Care for those who need you, Not only your wild desires.

Grey adult, You waste your time all day, Sitting in an office surrounded by strangers, Working day and night, even at home, Struggling to survive on your own, Crying yourself to sleep With no one there to comfort you.

You must learn to work for others, To change the world for the better, Instead of wasting what you earn on yourself.

Old man, Now you waste away all day With nothing but regret on your feeble mind, Guilt for the crimes you committed to yourself, When you neglected your responsibilities, Refused compassion to those in need, And made no difference in the world.

Now soon you will pass, And no one will remember you, But always you will be remembered As the man of meaningless.

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Patrick Byerly ’16

A Ride on the Light Rail | Oil on Canvas | 10x20

Thomas Troy ’16

Self Portrait | Oil on Canvas | 7x9

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Thomas Troy ’16

Self Portrait | Graphite on Paper | 9x12

Wenkai Wang ’16

Ting | Oil on Canvas | 24x18

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Thomas Troy ’16

Mecca | Oil on Canvas | 18x24

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Anaphora Poem Tze-E Tan ’16 I remember the day she came, when she was small enough to carry I remember her ears, blades of grass in the wind I remember her coat, the color of tree bark I remember her observant eyes, watching my coming and going I remember her barking at two am, joining in with the neighbor’s dogs I remember disobeying my parents, letting her take root in the house, shedding brown and black fur like leaves in the autumn I remember how the hairs on her back would stand on end when she saw another dog I remember her always trying to lick my hands I remember shattering a window and blaming it on falling branches I remember the time she killed a bird, probably for stealing her food I remember sharing “human food” with her, and how neither of us would eat a tomato I remember all her fur I found, in my clothes, my hair, and my food I remember learning how she aged seven times faster, already on her 42nd tree ring when I was still on my fifteenth I remember all the holes she dug in the soil, uprooting plants and stones to safe keep her bone I remember having to give her away, finally finding a farm that would take her Now, her green has turned to grey Now, she can roam free, high in the trees Now, I still find fur in concealed corners Now, I stir at night, hearing her leaves swish in the wind Now, she is an acorn brown stump, each of her rings holding a different memory It was everything a boy could hope for, more than swordfights or adventures It was troublesome to water her daily, and constantly rake her leaves It was worth all the effort to watch her grow It was a wordless relationship She was my giving tree

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The Traveler Aaron Cranston ’16 The weathered man had been travelling for thirty-seven days. The milkchocolate skin of his face was rough and wrinkled and carried with him sand from several days back that resided in the creases of his face. His traditional thobe was dyed brown by the sand, then bleached by the sun.

Its patina was that of the paper inside a forgotten thesaurus, hidden in plain sight in a personal library. His knife rested in a leather sheath with the words Perseverance is man’s last hope printed on it in red Arabic writing. His wares bobbled up and down in the saddle with every belabored step. The last oasis was nine days in the past, and the next was two days in the future. The fresh dates had dried and shriveled; their skins had broken with the strain of the dry ocean that surrounded them. All that was left was the fetir, which had to be cooked by the hatred of the sun, and the goat meat, in which that hatred had produced a desert. The last puddle of water the traveler had stowed away was contaminated by the coarseness of sand and the odor of camel feces.

The traveler came upon a large dune. Its blood red sand wisped high into the sky, hiding the sun behind its massive stature. The traveler felt a stifling breath rush across his Bedouin face. The camel spat in discontent. The man urged it forward with a nudge and the camel began its pilgrimage up the ever-shifting mountain. The angle was steep but the dune’s shadow provided a sweet respite from the sun’s rays. The traveler marked the simple beauty in being alone.

“If I die, no one will know. No worms will eat me or vultures feast on my remains. Only the sand will consume me,” he said to himself. When he was halfway up the dune, the traveler decided to give his weathered camel a rest. It had been walking up the crimson wave for thirty minutes now and spat in glee when it was allowed to stop. There is no greater pleasure for a tired camel than to stand unladen, except for figs.

A golden lizard dashed across the traveler’s vision, its dastardly quickness contrasting the sea of stillness that was his home. The traveler was reminded of his childhood in the small oasis tannery, where he and the other children used to catch lizards and put them in the girls’ hair while they slept. He could almost smell the odor of leather being tanned, mixed with fried dates and cinnamon. He remembered his father’s worn face, always stern but with a deep caring underneath the sandy exterior. He had never known his mother, but the women of the town had raised him well. Their soft smiling faces were always a contradiction to the harshness of the desert just outside the limits of the lush oasis.

Over time though, the oasis began to dry. When food ran low, families began to leave. When there wasn’t enough water to tan the

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Woody Kelly ’17

Untitled | Oil on Canvas | 18x24

hides anymore, men began to leave. When there wasn’t enough water for the cattle to drink, the shepherds began to leave. Now only the traveler remained, crafting knife sheaths out of the leftover leather to fill the void of loneliness that surrounded him. Over time, he perfected his craft and soon his sheaths were known throughout the land as premium. Now, with no one else around, his craft was his life. He wasn’t completely alone though; he had his camel.

The shadow of the dune grew long behind the traveler and the sky began to bleed. Already the temperature was dropping and the sand

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cooling. The traveler pressed on up God’s ramp, ever nearing the climax.

Cool air whipped the sand into tiny helices about the camel’s feet. It spat in consternation.

In the distance he noticed a brown haze, like God had placed a dirty veil over the sun. “Why is there still no sun? It cannot have set yet,” the traveler said as he reached the top. The veil seemed to oscillate and fold on itself, as if it were a ravenous beast, willing to consume itself to satiate its demonic hunger. Its brown swirls seemed to absorb the desert itself, then spit it into the sky. The wind pulled at the traveler’s thobe. The camel spat nervously.

The traveler started down the dune. He kept one eye in the distance and the other in his mind. He could not discern what this brown veil could be. It looked wrathful, as if the desert had cursed it centuries ago and it had been planning its revenge ever since. The traveler had been crossing the desert over and over again since before he was born.

Decades of sun cancer mottled his skin and his hands were coarser than the sand. He was permanently stooped to keep his face out of the sun for fear that his eyes would lose their sight. He had never spent more than a night or two in a bed consecutively; the absence of stars unnerved him.

With all this experience, the veil was still foreign to him.

The camel spat firmly as it made its way down the steep incline. It had to move at an angle, as to descend straight down would result in broken ankles and an early transcendence. This made the going slow and the traveler worried about making camp before nightfall. He wondered if he could make camp in the veil. It seemed too far away.

The slow descent allowed the traveler’s mind to wander. He was excited to get to the city and sell his knife sheaths. The vendor he sold to was fat and jolly and always had bits of lamb in his mustache, likely contributing to why he did poor business. Nevertheless, his prices for the traveler were always more than fair. “Ahh my favorite artisan is back!

What beautiful wonders have you brought to me to sell this time? Your work goes so fast, and for quite the pretty penny! Come now, we will drink wine for your return!” His greetings were always the same. With every word, his gut would jiggle and his hands would flail about. He was a man who enjoyed his money, which was surely the reason he rejoiced so much at the return of the traveler. Regardless, the traveler enjoyed the company and gratitude after weeks with only his camel.

The city itself was marvelous. Ancient architects had molded the arches and plazas out of clay and sweat. The bones of ancient tribesmen lay the foundation for the city and the walls were so ancient they were built to keep out animals, not men. Inside was a desert metropolis. People in the city were grains of sand. There were too many to ever escape from, and somehow they always stayed with you, even after bathing. The

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mosque was said to have originally been built by Darius as a shrine to himself. Its might challenged even the dunes themselves, and its shadow stretched far into the desert when the sky turned red. The mosque had many ghosts in it. One ghost was a lost Grecian explorer who could be seen laying out maps and begging for a ship in the desert. Another was a Catholic monk who would appear on crosses around Christmas. The traveler had never seen these ghosts before, but made sheaths specifically for them, just in case.

“This is far enough for today. I will unpack.” The traveler had reached the bottom of the massive dune. The sky was a majestic purple and the stiff breeze brought a chill to his bones. The traveler figured the camel would be tired, though he would never guess that by looking at it; it was unusually alert tonight. The camel spat into the sand with unwavering vigor. The traveler took his folded cot off the camel’s saddle and laid it down in a flat spot. He next retrieved some hard dry lamb meat and three shriveled dates, one for him and two for the camel. Its noisy chewing was the traveler’s entertainment as the two ate their meals together.

The traveler took comfort in the constant blanket of the heavens.

“One can never tire of true beauty. Surely if something were to change in God’s glorious heavens that would mean the end of all I know,” the traveler murmured as he drifted to sleep. For as long as he remembered, nothing had changed in the vast night sky, yet it was still just as beautiful.

The man saw Leo in his noble roar, Taurus challenging the universe, Scorpio poised to strike, and Cancer receding nervously into his shell. The last thing he saw was a shooting star ripping across the sky.

The camel was whining loudly, pulling against his buried tether. Wind was whipping across the man’s face, grinding sand into his exposed skin.

The heavens were gone, and in their stead were red, swirling clouds. The man got up to comfort the camel, and was surprised to find his legs under four or five inches of red sand, cot completely buried. Freeing himself from his granular prison, he ran to his camel.

The camel would not stand still; it was bouncing back and forth and swinging its head wildly in an attempt to free itself of its leashed prison. It whinnied and grunted loudly, baring its teeth to the sand that scratched at its face. The traveler laid his hands on its neck and hump in an attempt to calm the spooked creature. This was soon found to be unhelpful, though, which left the man with nothing to do but step back and think. He looked into the camel’s eyes and saw panic and terror. Worse than that though, he saw the cause.

The traveler whipped around, looking like a lotus unfolding as his thobe swirled around him, pressing against the driving force of the airborne red sand. In front of him was a dynamic wall, one built out of

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millions of pieces of sand moving so fast as to create one solid scarlet object, the veil that was no longer a veil, a sandstorm. The wall must have towered at least a mile upwards and extended to the right and left as far as the traveler’s unadjusted eyes could see. It seemed to be approaching violently and quickly, while at the same time barely moving, as if its size allowed it to break the laws of mortal physics. The traveler was not sure what to do; he did not know how much time he had or what he could do with it. He looked to the sky to see if answers lay there, but all he could see was red, blowing sand.

Not having any better ideas, the traveler pushed the camel to the ground and waited. The camel was kicking violently and grunting feverishly, but was obedient and did not stand up. The traveler dug a small indent in the sand below the camel’s belly and pressed himself into its underside, hoping its body would buffer the worst of the damage. With both their backs towards the swirling red wall, they waited. The traveler thought about how much he had taken for granted sand-free breaths and enjoyed his last few. Then, without warning, he was out of them.

The most surprising thing about the sandstorm was the darkness.

The traveler’s eyes were barely open more than a second, but he may as well not have opened them at all. He could not see the hand in front of his face, yet there were so many things there. The particles ranged from the finest of razors that cut long streaks through his thobe and across his shielding hands to rocks that left bruises and gashes in places the traveler would not have thought possible. His only solace was the protection of his camel on his back, its thick–sun beaten hide absorbing the millions of blows that would otherwise pierce his thin, human skin.

The traveler figured he would survive this; he was doing alright.

The pain was searing but not fatal, and was isolated to only a few parts of his body. Then the camel panicked. It grunted and whined and began to kick feverishly down where the traveler was laying. It was shaking with pain and fear and bleeding all over. A shard of rock struck it in the neck and it lay embedded there, blood rushing around it. Then another shard struck, and another. The camel shrieked an unearthly scream and tried to get up. As soon as there was any space between them, the pain the traveler felt increased one hundred times. There was no way the traveler could survive for long with so many more knives and spikes bludgeoning his back. He tried to tackle the camel to bring it back down to a protective position, but the camel was too strong. He tried to stand behind the camel, but his thobe was being ripped to shreds and this barely offered any protection from the red debris. In a last attempt to get the camel back on the ground, the traveler tried to grab the camel’s legs and tackle it, but this was to no avail. He had only one option if he wanted to survive the red onslaught. The traveler took out his knife and stabbed into the

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camel’s throat, killing it instantly.

The camel fell the wrong way, head directly upstream in the wind.

The traveler fell to his knees and tried to push the behemoth with his bloodied hands. His face was more scar than skin and blood was dripping off his chin. With each surge of strength against the camel a few more drops of blood rolled off into the sand. Once he finally got the camel into position, the traveler fell to his knees, then to his side, finding the most bearable position. Everything stung. The salt in the wound was the sand making another wound just where the last one was. There was a shard of rock sticking out of the traveler’s arm. He prepared for a long vigil.

When the storm stopped, the traveler was more sand than skin.

What was left of his flesh was red and tender and the rest of his body was open wound that sand stuck to like sugar on a wet spoon. Every tiny movement was immense pain, both due to the outside wounds and his inner contusions. He had sharp rocks poking out of his skin in many places, including one right under his left eye. His camel was essentially covered in a mound of sand. It would be nearly invisible if it weren’t for the stream of red that leaked out of its neck. Even the sun was bloody as it rose from its slumber in the East.

Now what? That was the only thing the traveler could think. He could barely move, was about to be fried by the sun, and he had no camel. He needed shade, water, food, and rest, but the next oasis was two days out. Now what? He could probably crawl, but if the sun didn’t get him, a scorpion would. Now what? He could wait but soon the sun would suck the little bit of life he had left out of his body. Now what? He could try to stand but every movement was searing pain. Now what? The traveler took his knife sheath off his hip and examined it.

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