Paragon (2022)

[front cover] My Uniform Aidan Feulner '22 Oil on Canvas (16x20)

PARAGON

20 22

vol. 43 | Gilman School | Baltimore, MD

Editor-In-Chief Anay Agarwal Art Editor Aidan Feulner Literary Editor Noah Parker Faculty Advisors Samuel Cheney Karl Connolly John Rowell Rebecca Scott

Review Board Anay Agarwal Bruno Becker Warry Colhoun Aidan Feulner Andrew Kang Jameson Maumenee Noah Parker Luca Pavlovich Louis Rosenthal James Stephenson Trey Taylor Ellis Thompson Ben Whitehurst Ethan Yan

contents Birdsong

2

Andrew Kang '23

Caught & Help

3

Ben Whitehurst '23

The Trudge

4

Louis Rosenthal '23

Cattle Finn Tondro '24

Untitled

5 6

Matthew Feola '25

New York

7

Emmitt Sherlock '25

Intersection Justin Wang '22

My Kylie

8 9

Anay Agarwal '23

Stuffed Giraffe

13

Michael Hemker '22

Sun-Dried Dishes

14

Ryan Collins '24

Season of Picking Sean Liu '25

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Poetry | Creative Nonfiction | Fiction | Visual Art

Ghostrider Trey Taylor '24

Paint Brushes Nate Perry '22

Dead Calm Curtis Lawson '23

Untitled Jack Knorr '22

Tradition, Tradition

16 17 18 19 20

Matt Grossman '22

Untitled

21

Henry Jeanneault '25

Newfound Flight Bennett Mosk '22

Sensory Overload

22 26

Mac Nichols '22

Homework

27

Anay Agarwal '23

Watermill at Gillingham Finn Tondro '24

Mystical Rain Nathaniel Cootauco '25

28 29

Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness Michel Tchoumbou Morfaw '23

Assisted, Living Nick Lutzky '24

Succulent Still Life

30 31 35

Grayson Mickel '25

In Memoriam - Ben Brandenburg

36

Ben Brandenburg '25

Staring Contest TJ Reiter '24

The Jeweler’s Love Song Luca Pavlovich '23

Fall Squared

38 39 40

Aaron Meng '22

“Spring” Break

41

Aaron Meng '22

Fighting Spirit

42

Warry Colhoun '23

In the Driver’s Seat

43

Noah Parker '23

The Art Room Series

46

Aidan Feulner '22

Abandoned

48

Warry Colhoun '23

In the Zone Luke Woodworth '23

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Untitled 1 & 2 Oscar Woloson '23

Piano Gobi Hernandez '22

Grace

54 56 57

Luca Pavlovich '23

23

58

Max Bellone '22

The Window at Dusk

59

Daniel Koldobskiy '24

Solis

62

Chase Tompkins '23

The Endless Loop Armaan Uppal '22

Night Boats to Nowhere

63 64

Jameson Maumenee '24

Good Corning

65

Cal Tortolani '22

Runner’s Mind

66

Cameron Amiot '23

Canoe Tilting

67

Charlie King '23

Wolf Spider

68

Gordon Leonard '22

Half-Moon Birthday Noah Parker '23

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from the editor Will people care about Paragon? This question lingered in my head at the end of last summer. After nearly two years of a global pandemic, I wasn’t sure whether students would be motivated to submit work. I was afraid we wouldn’t be able to maintain the magazine’s momentum from the year prior. Now, looking back, I realize that my skepticism (as per usual) was unnecessary.

Art and literature flourished as we returned to “normal” school life at Gilman. In fact, we received more submissions to the magazine than ever before, with a variety exceeding our expectations. Flipping through the work our staff selected for this year’s issue, the word timeless comes to mind. The pieces are elegant and sophisticated, yet retain the freshness that high-schoolers possess. I think of the poems “Runner’s Mind” and “Half-Moon Birthday.” Both are cultivated compositions, yet at their cores, they are authentic explorations of our unique experiences as teenagers in today’s world.

As this year’s issue of Paragon comes to print, I feel that I can finally answer the question I posed at the beginning of this letter. The answer is yes—people cared then, people care now, and they will continue to care. Hardships, both in our community and the world at large, will never go away. But, as a result, the art that burgeons through them will always be relevant. It will live on as a timeless symbol of these struggles and the courage it required to surpass them. Art, especially in the toughest of times, provides escape; it surprises, it heals. I hope this magazine does the same for you.

Anay Agarwal Editor-in-Chief

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BIRDSONG Andrew Kang '23

My grandfather cannot keep himself from remembering. Today, he tells a tale about the sun, describes how once, it rose ten thousand times without setting. He says he was in the fields that day—the sky glowed & ears of millet burned with belief. Pregnant girls sang folk ballads, rejoiced in fieldwork but I object: It was horrible, an atrocity.

You always make stuff up. He shrugs. Birds chirp. Tomorrow, he’ll tell the same story, but this time, sparrows will hang & nobody will have enough food to eat. The day after, a monologue about carnations & I’ll ask where’s the point? Just this: it was.

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Caught (top), Help (bottom) Ben Whitehurst '23 Photography

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The Trudge Louis Rosenthal '23 Oil on Canvas (36x24)

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CATTLE Finn Tondro '24

After the painting “Dedham Vale with the River Stour in Flood” by John Constable

The calamitous clouds advance onward Upon a calm, glowing landscape—blackened In steady motion by a force bent toward Sealing the fate of human normalcy.

The wind rustles the reluctant branches Of trees entrenched in lands oblivious To the impending storm filled with ranches Comprising dull, ignorant cattle.

This violent deluge trickles into Dedham Vale, morose yet necessary, A spate intent upon restoration of Clever, potent nature.

Why must we exist in cattle form, Ignorant to tyrannical torrents, Suffering the affliction of the lulled swarm?

I ponder as I chew the grass of the River Stour.

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Untitled Matthew Feola '25 Photography

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New York Emmitt Sherlock '25 Photography

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Intersection Justin Wang '22 Oil on Panel (11x14)

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MY KYLIE Anay Agarwal '23

S

easonal swim lessons are a rite of passage for all toddlers and grade-schoolers, or they were to me when I was about five years old. At that age, every aspect of the activity mortified me.

The sea of chlorine at the Kids First Swim School pool would make me crystallize as soon as I made contact, shattering me and my insides into millions of shards. Kylie was the one person who always knew how to piece me back together. Kylie Benson and I were the same age, and we swam together at that wretched pool. We met in pre-school at Kingsway Christian Center.

To this day, I wonder why my parents ever sent me there. It seems like such an odd place for two Hindu, Indian immigrants to send their impressionable young son to school. I despised that place as well. The fluorescent lighting in the rooms and main hall used to blind me and burn the image of linoleum flooring and lemon walls in my retinas. However, every morning as I walked into school, I saw Kylie running toward me in her bubblegum rose raincoat and lilac boots. She was the one person at that school who made me feel comfortable, like I wasn’t an outsider. Kylie had that ability, I suppose. She made me feel like Michael Phelps at that pool.

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After my swim lessons, I would walk out to the lobby holding hands with my mom and see Kylie there, waiting for me.

She had ditched her raincoat this time, yet still wore such bright, youthful colors. One day, she sported a deep, honey-coated shirt with frilly lace along the edges. Another afternoon, I remember seeing her in chartreuse cargo shorts with pockets deeper than anything she would need them for. She would always have one hand holding her mother’s, and in the other she gripped a Dum Dum lollipop that she obtained from the front desk. We would constantly fight over which flavor was the best—but it was playful banter, like two puppies that roll around together in the grass, biting at each other but not having sharp enough teeth to leave a mark. It was there that I discovered my passion for the root beer-flavored lollipop. Even today, whenever I eat one, I think of her and the chemical stench of that swimming pool lobby.

Some days after our swim lessons, our moms would take us to the Rita’s Italian Ice across the street. We’d cross the road prudently, as if we were little ducklings waddling behind our hens. At Rita’s, my order was consistently a kiddie-sized vanilla gelato with blueberries. I don’t remember what Kylie’s order was, but it didn’t matter because she always ended up eating mine. Sitting on the curb outside, I used to get lost in her face.

Her hair glistened in the sun like a wheat field swaying in the wind. Her glasses, rectangular in frame, reflected the blistering heat from her face right into my eyes; it kindled a crackling fire in them.

I always remember Kylie looking different from her mom. Maybe it was Kylie’s tight curls that violently bounced

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whenever she skipped over to me. Perhaps her skin intrigued me, because its color was more similar to mine. I was at the age where race was not a concept I understood fully. A former naivety that I wish I and the rest of the world could revert to. But at the time, her uniqueness and warmth drew me back in from these distractions. Sitting on that curb, Kylie plucked the blueberries off of my gelato and plopped them into her own mouth.

I let her do that because I never enjoyed the berries myself. Yet, I always told my mom to add them to my order, so that Kylie could eat them.

But while she routinely took my blueberries, I remember Kylie being more of a giver. She gifted me many memorable presents over the years. One, in particular, is a frog Pillow Pet. Pillow Pets were all the rage back then. The ability to turn my pillow into a stuffed animal friend all with one velcro strap fascinated me. My mom refused to buy me stuff like that, so I exploded when I received one from Kylie. It was bright lime green, and furry on one side. The color matched the walls of my childhood bedroom perfectly—I had a feeling Kylie did that on purpose. The frog rested on my sheets like it would on a lilypad floating on a dewy pond, ready to pounce to ingest lazy flies that buzzed around its head. For months, maybe years, it stayed in that spot, gazing up at my popcorn ceiling. Now, it spends its days forgotten in a linen closet somewhere in my house, collecting dust with my other childhood toys.

These memories of Kylie deluge my senses within a blink of an eye. I close my eyes and see flashes of her face, lustrous and bold. I hear her giggle and I feel her hand gripping mine.

But these scenes become intertwined with others. I remember

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the feeling of melted popsicles dripping down my chin, waiting to stain my clothing. I feel the acute pain of my Razor scooter making contact with my shin as I’m riding it down my driveway.

I hear the sound of my younger self singing Christian hymns in Kingsway, the lyrics nothing to me besides sounds I was instructed to make. I picture myself alone in the pool locker room, wet with a towel wrapped around me. I shiver profusely while goosebumps engulf my skin. I’m crying into my arms, unable to distinguish the taste of pool water from my tears. Yet, as soon as I step out of that locker room, Kylie is there. Her dimpled chin drips with juice too, as we eat popsicles together. Her curls flow behind her as she scooters through summer air with me. As we sing hymns, her voice echoes in my ear, innocently humming alongside mine. Kylie’s memory is forever linked with that period of my life.

Every time I think of her, another piece of our story breaks off and floats away. It’s like I let go of a balloon, and no matter how high I jump, it continues to escape my grasp until it disappears. There is one memory that never formed, however: a goodbye. No matter how hard I try, I cannot remember saying goodbye to Kylie. Her face glows, burns with every minute of our youth, as she becomes one with the sunlit sky that frames her. She remains constant within this loop of time, in these moments where I felt simple and untouchable.

Stuffed Giraffe Michael Hemker '22 Oil on Canvas (24x36)

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Sun-Dried Dishes Ryan Collins '24 Photography

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SEASON OF PICKING Sean Liu '25 I picked a melon best suited for me I wonder how long it will be For the seed to grow and thrive Will it thrive?

The blackberry to my raspberry Will he be merry?

Will no one care for this pear Keeping it as a dare?

This bundle of joy I wish to be a boy I wish it be an apple Taking care of it, I dabble For when it is time Is it worth a dime?

This bowl’s already filled With a job I have to build But is there still space to meet This precious little sweet?

Or will it be sour?

I’ve wasted all my hours Will I be mesmerized, Or terrified?

Who shall be our savior?

Will it be our neighbor?

My child, Should I keep you and treat you Or should I perhaps leave you?

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Ghostrider Trey Taylor '24 Watercolor (9x10)

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Paint Brushes Nate Perry '22 Oil on Canvas (9x12)

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DEAD CALM Curtis Lawson '23

The only thing that I enjoy About the winter season Is the Dead Calm, That pervasive quiet, Where not a single sound Dares to escape.

The clouds make themselves Into a blanket, Smothering all sound but the screams of children Playing in the falling snow, In the dead of night.

It is at these times When I like to sit outside And ponder All of the thoughts too quiet to hear, Except in the Dead Winter Calm.

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Untitled Jack Knorr '22 Medium Format Film/Photoshop

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Tradition, Tradition Matt Grossman '22 Oil on Canvas (48x36)

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Untitled Henry Jeanneault '25 Photography

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NEWFOUND FLIGHT Bennett Mosk '22

T

he sharp crackle of autumn leaves under wilted boots snapped directly through his mother’s will to read. She laid down her Elena Ferrante and with pursed lips gave the boy that head-tilted-down glare that drained the red bite of the cold from his cheek. The boy stopped dead, freezing every muscle.

His arms lifted in limbo like a statue for the breeze and the caws of afternoon crows to blow beneath. His mouth scrunched into a taut bubble—just as his first grade teacher had taught—if it bursts, you move to the back of the line. Though, having just crossed that threshold from curious-clueless to curious-rebellious, there was a hint of sarcasm in the way the boy stopped still. His mom, untangling her rose tinted Maui Jim sunglasses from her curls, sighed pure exasperation as she rested them over tired eyelids and leaned away from her rusted pool chair. She, unlike the boy, looked out of place in the woodland yard. While her meticulously maintained self-care routines had allowed her a perpetually tidy image, the boy remained unkempt as their dog onlooking through the window. She fidgeted in noisy discomfort, chilled by the cool of the sole cloud refusing to leave alone the afternoon sun.

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The thump of the earth ate the boy’s giggle, though his foot breaking through the leaves crackled through the crisp air.

With a lack of reaction from the boy’s mother, either too deep in thought to register the noise, or perhaps giving a slight sideways nod in chosen ignorance (what difference would it make to him?), he leapt. Barechested as the sky, he toppled with a shriek full-force into the pile of leaves, balance forgotten in a sea of chaos. He clenched his stomach with cold, relishing the noise, and the wetness, of which he could feel, interpret, understand, and not just imagine.

Having been sufficiently irritated by the relentlessness of her son, the mother hastily earmarked her page and sat up, raising her arms to the sky with her eyes closed, perhaps clinging on to the peace of the darkness for one moment. Fortunately for her, the cloud that held captive the light of the sun had also refused to relent.

“Let’s go!”

The boy let his smile dissipate in her harsh tone, dodging the slew of falling walnuts as he sprang up covered in wet leaves. The boy brushed himself off lazily, though as he bustled past her, she couldn't help but smile at the trail of earth he left behind him.

“Get in the car, let’s go for a drive.”

They drove down the highway in the bright red Ford, a boxy car the boy cherished due to its uncanny resemblance to a fire truck, only toned down and without the lights. He pressed his nose against the window. However, after only a minute, the boy scrunched his face as his view clouded over behind a veil of condensation.

“Why won’t it let me look?” the boy whined, rolling

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down the window. The vagueness of his manner and the roar of the passing wind drowned his words before they could reach his mother.

“Close the window! You know that bothers me.”

“So many rules,” he pouted in response, giving her his best puppy-dog eyes. His eyes were his defining feature, save the streaks of mud on his forehead and patented mange of six years of age. They were green like the land on the globe in the corner of his room, and the blades of grass that covered the view out his bedroom window, but bright like the still-absent sun. Bright like the rain from the inside of a house that looked enticing to him and only him, bright like the saliva-saturated rubber ball of the dog with whom he had been a match since birth. His eyes were bright like the wings of the butterflies he sat outside waiting to catch, and green like the jungles of weeds around his mailbox by which he would wait for them for hours on end.

“There’s a pretty bird out there I want to look at.”

She rolled her eyes, but, noticing his disappointment, handed him a tissue to wipe off his breath whenever the window fogged up.

They arrived at the mall, his mother still unsure about their destination, but as long as it wasn’t loud and wet, she didn’t care. The boy knew his way, however, drawn in a direction by nothing but his thoughts. He was a giggly Magellan in the great ocean.

“Slow down,” his mother called, but she did not have to ask.

Dead in his tracks, the boy had turned in awe of an epic flock of glass birds that stood watching him from the window.

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“That’s the one I saw from the car,” he pointed, his excitement palpable. The bird glowed like a holy beacon as the early afternoon glow shattered into an orange blaze, reflecting with blinding intensity through each facet of the bird. Without a word, the boy grabbed the door and walked into the shop, entranced. The mother followed him into the cool silence of the inside, instantly feeling the pressure of a stare on her back.

She turned casually to a new face and a bony finger, flinching into the wall behind her. Break it, you buy it, she read. The boy, with his attention elsewhere, ran up to the bird, his neck craning for a better view of the top shelf, though still out of reach. What kind of bird is it? the boy wondered. I wonder where it lives, how big they are, what they eat? How high do they fly? The boy wished he could fly. But before his imagination could take him any further, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He sank down from his tippy-toes and turned towards his mother, who showed him the rusted sign wilting on the back wall. Expecting a whine, his mother pointed out the coincidence of the photo next to it as a distraction: A walnut tree, just like the one in their back yard.

The boy smiled—not at the walnut tree, which he had indeed recognized, but the new rule—this one he liked. He grabbed the bird and threw it into the air, watching it fly for a moment before crashing to the floor. It screamed as it hit the ground, drowning out the shrieks of his mother and the store owner, each piece of glass bright in the setting sun like his eyes, which had themselves lit up, bounding with newfound flight—he could have anything in the world he wanted, as long as he could break it.

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Sensory Overload Mac Nichols '22 Oil on Canvas (24x24)

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Homework Anay Agarwal '23 Oil on Canvas (16x20)

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WATERMILL AT GILLINGHAM Finn Tondro '24

After the painting “Mill at Gillingham, Dorset” by John Constable

The revolving pistons of perched water Sound in the clash of static with dynamic.

The ensuing froth, emasculator Of brief survival, punctures the air With sighs of accepted ordeal.

The rough wooden railroad spins round and round, Stagnant in motion, yet beating the dull Rhythm of life, ferrying aground The countless motivators of change.

Our lives are shaped by the arc of the waterwheel; Crowded, brief, yet wholly alive before The final crash cuts short our vital zeal.

Our rise and fall drive the circle of life, Trivial, but integral; what remains the keel Are words of Horace, “Carpe diem,” unsurreal.

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Mystical Rain Nathaniel Cootauco '25 Photography

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Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness Michel Tchoumbou Morfaw '23 Oil on Canvas (30x30)

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ASSISTED, LIVING Nick Lutzky '24

H

e turned to a new page and continued writing. He scribbled in the top left corner of the page, “Edward C. Darby” printed in blotchy ink, his ballpoint pen quivering ever so slightly in his hand. The writing was sloppy, barely legible.

Edward beamed at his writing, looking over each word with pride as he wrote. He continued, writing out a makeshift title at the center top of the page: “A Memoir: By Edward C. Darby.” He never wished to write a memoir, in fact the thought had not occurred to him until recently. He had never been a religious man, but he felt that some sort of divine force was calling him to record his stories. And thus, he wrote. At times, he was not sure what he was writing about, but the words flowed beautifully onto the page. His hands moved at a slow pace, though his mind did not move much faster.

Edward leaned forward, his spine aching with each second. He sat on the steps of his porch, wishing for a more comfortable seat, but unable to remember why no chairs were at hand. Behind him, his porch was empty, his front door slightly ajar. Vast open fields surrounded the house for a small distance, covered in tall grass, pollen blanketing all

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plant life present. At the border of the fields were lush forests, blooming with life. A small dirt path stretched across the plains, starting from Edward’s home until it faded out of view, the fields seeming almost endless. Apart from the untamed weeds of the surrounding area, Edward’s property was well kept. Nothing but trimmed grass encompassed the area around the house with the exception of small flowers planted in an ornamental manner. A brown picket fence enclosed his tidy lawn, acting as the only thing dividing the house from the wilds outside. The house stood small and isolated in an entirely undomesticated world.

Edward found himself lost for a few moments, entranced by the wilds around him. He stared off for a few more seconds until that voice called him back, again empowering him to write. He listened, focusing back on his notebook, the page now almost half-filled.

About twenty feet in front of him was a small basin, with pebbles covering the sides of the pond. A few lilypads floated on top of the water, mosquitos gathering at the puddles they contained. A frog postured itself at the border of the pond, catching insects at any opportunity. Edward ignored the basin, instead focusing on his book, only looking up when the page was completed.

It was at this point a sense of dread took hold of him, a pit forming in his stomach. Beyond the fence, the fields surrounding his home were now brief, interrupted by a wall of blurriness. He could see nothing past the barrier that blur had created, now entirely enclosed inside it. Plant life situated near the blur was bereft of life, flies hovering around the

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dead foliage. Edward wanted to scream, but something told him more urgent matters were at hand. The voice grew more urgent each moment the blur drew closer, now commanding him to write, and to write fast. The greater his distress, the more he felt he needed to finish his work. Edward turned to a new page, now writing with a fury and intensity unhindered by any intent to manage his dysgraphia. The words he printed were still barely legible, but Edward felt he must get them down as fast as possible.

He looked up, briefly, now finding that the blur had surpassed all land outside of his property. Cries echoed across his head, “WRITE WRITE WRITE!” They shouted to him, at him, until no other thoughts were present. Two voices were now present, one of a woman, which felt familiar yet unwelcoming, and one of a man that sounded of himself, but not himself—a mockery of his own voice. Their volume increased, still screaming, “WRITE WRITE WRITE,” screeching in his brain, the noise scratching across the walls of his head, gaining intensity with every moment. Edward looked down onto his page, now printing his thoughts out as hastily as his hands allowed. Edward appeased the voices the more he wrote. He dared not look up, fearing that any distraction would bring the cries back to the level they were at before.

Finally, they hushed. Edward took a deep breath, and leaned back against the step behind him. A sense of completion emboldened him and he looked up again, ever so slightly at first, before completely looking around. Around him he found the blur, covering anything more than a few feet away from him.

The blur grew towards him, slowly, but noticeably.

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Edward looked up in horror, asking, “Why didn’t it stop? I did what you told me to do. Why didn’t it stop?

The blur began to wrap around his legs with a tensile strength uncharacteristic of anything earthly. It moved up his thighs, his body going numb at the points it covered.

“I did what you told me to do! Why won’t it stop?” he yelled. Tears that he had managed to restrain thus far, escaped in his confused rage. The blur began to wrap around his waist, now accelerating in speed. He looked down now, staring at his notebook, hoping for answers. But all he found were the same 12 characters in repetition.

Scrawled out in signature form, the page read, “Edward C. Darby, Edward C. Darby, Edward C. Darby...” The words repeated throughout the page. He flipped to the page beforehand—more of the same. He flipped the page again, finding nothing but his signature once again. He flipped through the notebook frantically, finding only his signature scribbled out on every page. He continued in panic, until he found the first page, its handwriting unlike his own. He looked forward, dropping the book as his hands faded into the blur. His final breaths turned from ones of hysteria to ones of resignation, his face still, but feeling.

Edward C. Darby was dead, his body propped up, but still. His arms lay prone in his sickbed, his next of kin looming over him with a smile.

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Succulent Still Life Grayson Mickel '25 Chalk Pastel (13x18)

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in memoriam

Ben Brandenburg | 2006-2022

Untitled Ben Brandenburg '25 Photography

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Untitled Ben Brandenburg '25 Photography

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Staring Contest TJ Reiter '24 Photography

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THE JEWELER'S LOVE SONG Luca Pavlovich '23 It’s over. You’re Out. But where will I go?

Not here.

Beads clink shimmering In the winter light.

Coral hues shrouded By cigarette smoke.

His chair sags.

You’re a piker.

Pained, his pudgy hands place More beads Upon the string.

Her stringy hair shrivels In the rising ash.

That’s too many Eggs. Shut up.

They’ll be sick!

Don’t make me Go after you!

(Punch) He retreats, hobbling to The scintillating stones.

The fumes suffocate Him, slithering like snakes To a Gorgon coronation.

Will you marry me?

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Fall Squared Aaron Meng '22 Oil on Panel (8x8)

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"Spring" Break Aaron Meng '22 Oil on Panel (12x12)

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Fighting Spirit Warry Colhoun '23 Photography

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IN THE DRIVER'S SEAT Noah Parker '23

A

t first, there were many. Many people tied together in the same car, all going to mostly the same destination. But time passed, and with his rebirth came options and complexity. Now some have school, or one a lesson, or two a practice, and so on. It was a busy time, maybe annoying if you didn’t have much to do, but it was always full of something. They developed a talent for organizing schedules with that mint-green planner lazily taped to the fridge.

But someone was always there, always connected. No matter where you went, the tight-knit herd would pick you up and take you home.

Then, there were only a few in the car. By this time, driving together was the norm, but now with a different flavor: no parental super vision—just brothers on the road with the world in front of them. One tenderly held a fresh license and registration to prove it. The times were warm and fun, and, well, something new. (This might be the Golden Age?) But in reality, the remaining few were still trapped together.

Despite the late-night sci-fi movies and Chick-fil-A parking

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lots, they were still dependent on one another in a way that was only helpful when you needed it to be. The ver y humble art of “hitching a ride” remained instilled in their minds.

Time was an adolescent now, and their lives had become “complicated.”

Then, there were two still tethered together. As time progressed, each one gained their DMV-certified, plastic proof of freedom. Maybe this was the first time the two realized the weight of their shackles had lightened. They found themselves gradually neglecting the seemingly ancient planner.

A shared drive to early morning track meets and overcrowded grocer y store parking lots solidified their tethered independence. But by this point, they had grown dependent on being anchored to someone, anyone. And so now, they continued to glue themselves together, despite being so close to freedom. The notion of solitude after years of forced connection did not come easily. In a world full of people who don’t depend on you, maybe it was comforting to depend on someone else.

Ultimately, there was only one. With his “shackles” completely gone, he suffered no more from a fabricated dependency. At last, he sat in the driver’s seat. Decisions were made at the drop of a hat, and a consensus was never needed. A spontaneous turn at the “hot and ready” sign was proof enough. The planner was finally retired by reluctant parents, sealing the coffin on the end of an era. The world was big, broad, and welcoming. Maybe overbearing at first, but

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he found the key was confidence in himself and his choices.

Finally, he tasted it: True, Authentic, Certified Freedom.

But just no one left to share it with, and nowhere, really, to go.

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The Art Room Series Aidan Feulner '22 Oil on Panel (8x8 each)

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ABANDONED Warry Colhoun '23

F

ly was alone. It had been like this for as long as he could remember, but he couldn’t remember that far back anyway. But he had no problem with it. The freedom was like that first deep breath of crisp, clean, cool air on an early fall morning where the mist rolled off the Pacific Ocean so you couldn’t see more than 20 feet. The mornings get cold and ole’ Jack Frost thinks about coming around in a couple of weeks. But it’s not so cold that you gotta go put on some pants; shorts work just fine. That was the taste of freedom that kept Fly coming back for more. He knew that he could, and probably should, settle down, get a job, and find some stability in his life. But he couldn’t do it. If he were to change, he would lose that deep dark part of himself that he never admitted was there.

No matter how hard Fly tried to force his Pa out of his mind, he couldn’t. It was Pa whose favorite weather was mid-fall.

It was Pa that taught him how to taste freedom—the evening drives under the deep purples and blues of the endless sky and the pale kisses from the waning moon. It was Pa that he just could not let go of. So, like Fly often did, he thought about how it all went to crap. Just like today, it was the type of day that you only

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read about in a book: weather so good that you couldn’t help but think it was a little too perfect. The way the sky was so blue that the background of the Blockbuster billboard almost seamlessly blended into it. The way the pale yellow sunlight seemed to leap from bush to tree to the looming brick giant ahead of Fly with energy, with life. The way it was a bit chilly but not biting cold, more of a soft nibble at Fly’s threadbare sweatshirt.

Fly approached the school, his fifth one in just two years.

There were two things that he hated most in this world: staying put and doing what he was told. School was like a suffocating pit of despair with no individuality or creativity allowed; you just had to sit down, put your head down, listen to all the rules, and do work that wouldn’t ever be useful. Fly’s latest stint, George Washington High School for Troubled Children, was aptly named.

He knew that this school would be the last one. He knew if he got kicked out, it would be real bad with Pa. He only kept coming back to school because Pa would make him. It’s like he knew something Fly didn’t because he, sure as all get-out, knew that Pa dropped school around 4th grade.

What if I could just be alone? Fly thought, as he often did back then. No useless hassles, no teachers that had it out for him, no Pa putting pressure on him to understand those letters on the page that would jump and wiggle around like they had a mind of their own. But he decided to keep trying to make it all make sense. There was one class that gave Fly asylum: math. His teacher, Mr. Barrios, was the only one that cared and the only one who understood what it was like for Fly. He would always go to Mr. Barrios for comfort and a feeling of safety after school. Math comforted Fly because it was the one thing he could always be sure about. There was always a right and wrong answer. There was

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a sense of clarity that Fly searched for so dearly. That day seemed so perfect that nothing could go wrong, so perfect that the birds stopped chirping to stare awhile. Fly was grabbing his book bag out of his old locker that reeked of that tangy, iron-y smell of old aluminum and lead paint, when someone suddenly grabbed him from behind.

Just before this, Fly was trying his hardest to read the assigned, seemingly insignificant passage from some long-forgotten speech, but the harder he tried, the more his world turned into a haze. Coming out of that classroom, nothing seemed real.

That kid grabbed him and, still in that haze, Fly socked him right in the left side of the jaw. It took a moment to register, both for the kid and Fly. Once the magnitude of his actions dawned on Fly, he snapped out of his haze right away and ran. He ran and didn’t even know where. He just knew he had to get out of that place as fast as he could. Before he had a chance to take in the events that had just transpired, Fly found himself at the beach.

How ironic, Fly thought; the sky was a pristine cerulean, and the crashing of the waves on the surf was almost soothing.

The sky seemed to melt into the sea at the horizon, and the sun shone down like a spotlight. Fly felt so alone. Like he was the only person on this entire earth. The walk back to his house, more appropriately described as a shack, was a cool, quiet, and somber one. He entered the humble abode, and the look he received from Pa reminded him of the severity of his actions. His eyebrows were slightly furrowed, and his mouth pulled into a modest scowl. There were hints of anger in the body language of how he turned to look at Fly, but his eyes were what betrayed his true feelings. There was a deep sense of sadness, and he seemed

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almost forlorn. Like he was lost, like he had been abandoned. As Fly made his way up the old creaky stairs, his dad croaked out in the tone of someone who had smoked a pack a day as long as he could remember, “We goin’ to th’ store.”

The ride in Pa’s old ’89 Deville that seemed to take the place of a partner in his life was unbearably silent. Fly stared out the window at the breathtaking view of Depoe Bay as the sun began to set, painting a picture so beautiful and vibrant, Mother Nature herself could only conceive it. This part of Fly’s memory was especially clear; every tiny detail stood out like a sore thumb. They went into the old liquor store on the corner of 4th and 37th and heard that bell on the upper right-hand corner when it slammed on the door frame. Fly thought to himself, Ms. Burton should probably get one of those springs that don’t let the door slam so hard so the white paint stops chipping. Ms. Burton, the clerk that seemed to be as old as time and certainly older than that very store, looked up from the latest issue of People magazine. She scrunched her eyes to identify the invaders of her quiet domain.

She recognized Fly and his Pa and let out a nearly indistinguishable grunt of approval.

As Fly ambled by the aisle filled with flashy packaging containing synthesized, artery-clogging “sugar-free!” snacks, his father wheezed, “Gotta get m’ wallet.” Fly kept looking for his item of choice. After he had picked a 5th Avenue bar, he waited.

He waited in the store for 10 minutes, but Pa had not retrieved the wallet yet. He placed the chocolate bar back where he grabbed it and walked outside. There were no cars present. No ’89 Deville, no wallet-bearing Pa, just Fly alone with the sky fading from a purple-pink mixture to a deep space blue. Fly waited there for

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about two hours, but he knew it the whole time; he was alone. He waited and waited and thought there was a chance, but no, there was no heroic return for Fly’s father. There never would be.

In the Zone Luke Woodworth '23 Oil on Canvas (24x36)

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Untitled Oscar Woloson '23 Photography

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Untitled Oscar Woloson '23 Photography

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PIANO

Gobi Hernandez '22 He unclipped the white sheath, Sliding it off the black and white keys.

He sat down and hovered, The tips of his fingers above the keys.

He inhaled slowly and closed his uneasy eyes, Music filled the room.

Tchaikovsky, The Seasons, October.

A thousand thoughts and feelings, Expressed through sound.

Sleepless nights, Halloween frights, A windy pathway with leaves Falling from the sky.

Playing was his escape, A personal journey into the inspiring world of the creative.

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Grace Luca Pavlovich '23 Oil on Canvas (16x20)

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23 Max Bellone '22 Acrylic on Canvas (36x48)

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THE WINDOW AT DUSK Daniel Koldobskiy '24

H

e looked out the window. The landscape was overwhelmingly green. Green like the water at the lake when it reflected the trees. Green like the trees on his first hike as they wilted under the sun. Green like his first novelty watch, ticking and ticking the time away.

The blue sky was like a blank canvas; the clouds were like brushstrokes. It was getting late. The sun was setting in the distance.

It reminded him of that trek through the mountains when he had rested, out of breath, on the ground before a high cliff. Or the honeymoon in Venice, when the light of the moon had begun to filter through the water and cast a warm glow all over. Or the night after the divorce, sitting on the truck all alone in the desert, with nothing but the sky and the ground and endless potential seeping out of every corner. He hadn’t felt that way at first. He didn’t feel that way now.

He reached out to open the window. It was heavy, but after it opened he felt a rush of fresh air. He smiled.

The trees behind the house weren’t like the trees at his

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parents’ house. Here there was a cluster of trees and some open space; they had a forest. He remembered being afraid of going in there, and he laughed. It felt good.

A few minutes passed and his smile faded into the air.

He looked closer at one of the trees, and wondered if it was the same wood that had been in his old boat. Probably not.

He had felt cold in the boat, running his hand through the water. Cold like the first winter after moving north, with the snow falling in waves around him. Cold like forgetting his coat that year when the snowstorm came early. He had shivered even after he got inside. He had frowned and clutched his arms together. Now, he laughed.

The thick air felt nothing like the air in the woods near the waterfall. That air had been filled with water like cool sweat, dripping down his cheeks. He had walked through it thoughtfully, contemplating a future that didn’t matter. He had been happy.

He heard a bird chirping in the distance. He remembered birdwatching in the forest. He had always had a knack for it, but now he couldn’t even tell what direction the sound was coming from. It didn’t matter anyway; he let the music sweep over him. He looked at his old books. There was a funny passage in one of them about birds. He couldn’t remember it now.

He watched as a few reeds swayed in the wind. The sun was completely gone. He spent a few seconds looking for it before he realized.

It was dark outside. But through the dark, bright lights shone through windows, out of doors, out of rooms. They shone bright as day because, deep down, we’re all a little afraid of the dark.

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He felt the pain in his leg again. It wasn’t much; he ignored it. Besides, this wasn’t real pain. Real pain was forgetting things he thought he knew. Real pain was crying on the truck in the desert all alone with only the sky and the ground to comfort him. This wasn’t real pain. This wasn’t real.

The pain returned, and he clutched at his chest. Walking through the woods, he had felt like he would live forever.

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Solis Chase Tompkins '23 Photography

doesn’t fix the problem.

If I ever find out, I may not tell you, because the answer

Or is it the void that slowly eats bite by bite on the inside?

Is it the genuine smile when you are free

What is being healthy?

A never-ending frustration because you don’t know if you will ever find the answer.

Before you even realize, the skin on your thumbs has been peeled off like layers of defense you put up.

The same anger concealing the pit in the back of your throat spreading to your shaking leg.

The road looks the same, but with different cars, as the sky turns from orange to black.

It’s called the endless loop.

Armaan Uppal '22

THE ENDLESS LOOP

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Night Boats to Nowhere Jameson Maumenee '24 Photography

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Good Corning Cal Tortolani '22 Oil on Canvas (18x24)

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RUNNER'S MIND Cameron Amiot '23

We run when it is sweltering and muggy, freezing and rainy, dark and the only evident light is the moon— We run while our minds torment us, while our fingers are numb and our skin icy and pale, when every ounce of our souls tell us to halt Soon many feet tap simultaneously to the sounds of ruffled coats and gloves, while the hum of headlamps frame an empty road, filled with a pursued pain— peculiar to the outsiders We run when we must, run when we can

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Canoe Tilting Charlie King '23 Photography/Photoshop

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Wolf Spider Gordon Leonard '22 Oil on Canvas (12x12)

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HALF-MOON BIRTHDAY Noah Parker '23

A night-time walk around the dimly lit backyard (With moonlight as the guide) A warm autumn breeze introduces itself An overwhelming flood of DMs, tags, texts, high fives, cakes, cards, and calls (Whew!)

A vibrant moon (Sending friendly greetings from the universe) A meek reminder of inherited mistakes And hope from those who suffered through them The dog pooping decisively (This too a gift in its own light) But an overbearing moon can cast shadows in the night Maybe a Half-Moon’s gentle night (Or a Half-Moon’s shining light) Is too much love for me

[back cover] Untitled Jack Knorr '22 Photography

PARAGON | Gilman School

vol. 43, 2022