Paragon (2023)

[front cover] Avoiding the Black Hole | Louis Rosenthal '23 | Oil on Canvas (36x36)

PA R AGON vol. 44 | 2023 | Gilman School | Baltimore, MD

Editor-In-Chief Anay Agarwal Art Editor Louis Rosenthal Literary Editor Noah Parker

Faculty Advisors Samuel Cheney Karl Connolly John Rowell Rebecca Scott

Review Board Anay Agarwal Matthew Chi Warry Colhoun Nathan Cootauco Andrew Kang Jameson Maumenee Noah Parker Luca Pavlovich Louis Rosenthal James Stephenson Trey Taylor Ellis Thompson Ben Whitehurst Ethan Yan

contents

Generations

Fiction | Nonfiction | Poetry | Screenplay | Visual Art

2

Cole Randall '23

Living Room

3 4 6 8 9 13

Oscar Spotte '26

19

The Night Shift

20

Barbed Wire | Made-Up

26

Without You

28

Ahmir Crawley '23

14

Nathan Cootauco '25

Unnecessary Stress

Orange Flower

Ben Whitehurst '23

Pranav Parikh '25

Egret | Alligator Reef

18

Maddox Braue '23

Ethan Yan '24

Hoo's There?

We Could Learn So Much

Will Beauchamp '25

Ryan Grohowski '25

Dear Sasha

17

Cameron Amiot '23

Anay Agarwal '23

Vietnamese Family

Skull Owen Pu '24

Michel Morfaw '23

Elise in Flux | Cath-rine

16

Oliver Beattie '24

Noah Peters '24

Trash Day

Backdrop of Beauty

A Classic Whodunit

29

Jameson Maumenee '24

15

Reaching Jack Amiot '24

29

Pleasant Street

30

Paul Shkolnik '24

Greece

31 32 34 34 35 36 37 40 41

T.J. Reiter '24

Home in the Woods

50

Hampden Shake

51

Greenspring Avenue

52

Fla-Vor-Ice

53

Charles Village Pub | 17

56

Luca Pavlovich '23

42

Ethan Yan '24

Rainy Night

49

Noah Parker '23

Trey Taylor '24

Children of Odesa

School Nap

Cameron Amiot '23

Leo Eiswert '26

H&A

48

Charlie Fenwick '23

Daniel Koldobskiy '24

Beaded Array

Sister

Finn Tondro '24

Luke Woodworth '23

The Folder Filled with Names

46

Peter Shkolnik '24

Timmy Edwards '25

AK

Cardboard Bodies

Jeevan Khanuja '24

Marco Ochs '25

Self-Portrait

45

Nick Lutzky '24

Nikhil Gupta '26

Mockingbird—Eminem

I'm Connected Evan Quintero '25

Arya Kazemnia '24

Dubrovnik, Old City Houses

44

Louis Rosenthal '23

Max Shein '26

Simorgh/Simorgh

Setting the Table

Migration Study

58

Andrew Kang '23

43

Fruit We Bear Michel Morfaw '23

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P a r a gon is a proud re c ipie nt of a 20 22 NCTE REA LM First Class magaz ine aw ard

letter from the editor Paragon has given me the gift of community and collaboration, of purpose and inspiration; I look back on the past three years with deep gratitude. While my time with this magazine is coming to a close, you––the reader––have the entirety of this year’s issue waiting for you just beyond this page. You will see art evolving past its conventions: paintings ranging from abstract expressionism to portraits and landscapes unexplored by students in the past. You will find photographs that illuminate the ordinary and experience sculptures that reimagine physical media. The writing will hopefully shock you and make you laugh and create discomfort and transport you to distinct worlds of endless detail.

I would like to thank everyone who submitted work to this year’s issue (square-agon, as we fondly call it)—your enthusiasm and pride surrounding the magazine this year was unmatched. To the editorial staff, thank you for your flexibility and dedication to curating nothing but the best for Paragon. I will miss our Tuesday afternoon tangents dearly. And to our faculty: your expertise is invaluable, there is simply no other way to put it. And this issue wouldn’t have come to print if it were not for your patience, constant reassurance, and occasional unfunny jokes.

“Paragon” means “a model of excellence or perfection.” I feel this year’s issue embodies that fully. I look back on my years with this magazine as time spent with paragons of their respective crafts. I am confident that, in reading this issue, you will feel the same.

Anay Agarwal Editor-In-Chief

Generations Cole Randall '23 It was just another Sunday.

A steaming soup sits on the table, its essence, long since boiled out, permeates the room.

My great grandmother liked it hot.

It was just another Sunday.

My great grandmother only eats at restaurants where the food is brought to the table by wait staff, adamant that she won’t leave her seat.

It was just another Sunday.

My brother and I snag mints from a silver tray, grab pennies from a small blue jar, and dare the stone gargoyle to stop us with its deep marble eyes and razor fangs.

It was just another Sunday.

My brother and I poke at our meals, drowning in the soup of adult voices.

Twin carrot islands drifting away from a squishy, central matzo ball.

It was just another Sunday.

My great grandmother remarks, “I am too old to own a swimsuit,” and “I am too old to buy green bananas.”

My brother and I shrug, confused.

It was just another Sunday.

My brother and I stay home, skipping lunch today.

It was just another Sunday.

My great grandmother lives alone, her friends long since passed, her calendar revolves around lunches and doctors appointments.

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Living Room | Noah Peters '24 | Oil on Canvas (18x24)

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Trash Day Michel Morfaw '23

Scrubbing the dried residue off my plate has freed his burnt spirit, once stuck in the scratches on old dishes. I, too, scrape my plate when I eat. I, too, must dump away the smell.

As the trash amasses, he asks me to leave home.

As I tear down the costume of my house, I dread the dank, uneven weight of my load—the trash bag. He leaks the scent of the night before everywhere. His odor carries our burnt mistakes. Mistakes hidden from eyes not welcome. I must not let my house appear old.

His corpse over my shoulder, his old fluids stain my dress shirt, my shoes, the floor of my home.

The ground outside is frozen. I worry, for what shame would come to my name should I slip and spill his burnt contents? At least outside, I can be freed from the smell.

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Falling, crashing, I can’t help but smell my iron blood. The neighbors scramble toward this old fallen boy. I hear their steps through the ground, hurrying toward my burnt trash. They welcome themselves to my home, scanning the sins spread across my icy pavement. I lie down under the weight of their eyes.

I Smell My Old House Burning Scrap it all. Restart. Let me burn with it. My face sticks to the icy ground. I can smell him. Leave me to die alone in this house, where I too can be ripped apart. Let me go blind to the stench.

Neighbors watch as their children lift me, and help me pick up the old rot. We cast the stench away from my house. A stench once stuck to me.

The sight of his burnt frame. The smell left behind, I left behind, folds my old brain. No home, no rest, no place for me.

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Elise in Flux | Anay Agarwal '23 | Oil on Canvas (24x36)

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Cath-rine | Anay Agarwal '23 | Oil on Canvas (24x24)

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Vietnamese Family | Ryan Grohowski '25 | Bark and Plaster

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Dear Sasha Ethan Yan '24

S

he was only taller by an inch or two, but I thought she towered over me like the Statue of Liberty—it was that phase in middle school when the girls had their growth spurts while the boys were still short and babyish. Sasha had come from Russia a year ago. The first time I caught sight of her tall figure, she was shuffling swiftly past me through the main hallway, jumbled among a mass of people, sticking close to the long row of lockers.

Seventh grade began on a Tuesday morning— Monday, courtesy of the school, was an offday. As I waited outside for the bell to ring and the doors to open, I felt a tinge of fear and uneasiness, but I had high expectations for myself. To achieve them, I developed some amusing superstitions over the sum-

mer: wearing only white or blue socks, touching a small boulder that jutted out from the ground on my walk to school, and most importantly, writing with only yellow-green Ticonderoga pencils—my parents never bought the brand because they were never on sale, so I had to painstakingly search for the ones that I had picked off the ground and put into my pencil cases.

My first-period class was English.

Here, I once again saw Sasha in her tall elegance. I saw her gray eyes that were like the color of the sky immediately after a sunshower, pupils darting across the room with the rhythm of raindrops splashing onto a blacktop. Her smile was whimsical, revealing the dimples on her round, full cheeks. When she saw me, she greeted me straight away. “Hi, Ethan!” I was perplexed: how in the world

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did she know my name? For a short moment, I became embarrassed, and then I realized that we had, in sixth grade last year, talked for a seemingly random moment about our favorite ice cream flavors. She chuckled as I awkwardly said “Hey, Sasha!” back, her charisma bringing a welcome change of mood from my anxiety.

As English class proceeded, I, like most of my classmates, spent much of it in silence, but Sasha was daring, always volunteering to read passages. It was a stately English she spoke—slowly taking the time to enunciate, and in the case of incorrectly pronouncing a word, stumbling over it several times with such an intrinsic determination and moxie until it was perfect. It surprised me how she could pick up English so quickly, as she had only come to America just a year earlier. Despite the fact that she wasn’t the best student, she had a true gift for learning languages. I could tell she prided herself on this, though she never mentioned it.

On this first day of seventh grade, I was surprised to see Sasha again right before lunch in third-period geography class. Geography wasn’t her cup of tea—each time we saw a map, Sasha jokingly complained to me about having a hard time reading it and how

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all the countries looked like strange animals and aliens. Still, in geography class, she was always optimistic and chirpy. When we had to do something that made everyone else sigh, she was still smiling brightly. It was such a pure optimism that made the soul buoyant— even after failing a presentation that I had seemingly worked on forever, her reassurance relieved me of all hurt.

Every day in geography class, I asked Sasha to teach me some Russian, for I hoped to secretly become a double agent.

My efforts were futile; nevertheless, I learned sufficient Russian to brag that I spoke it better than her: khorosho meant “okay,” pochemu meant “why,” privyet meant “hello.” And as I say them in my mind, I can still envision Sasha visibly shuddering at my pronunciation.

While I asked her about Russian, she seemed to always have a concept in her language to say but didn’t translate directly into English— things I knew that would, to me, be forever lost at the tip of her tongue. It seemed, too, that she was homesick while talking about Russian but preferred to keep her struggles internal.

The last period of our first day was P.E. Yet again, Sasha was there. In fact, Sasha was always “there” in a way—imprinted in

my mind like the stars in the night sky—even when she wasn’t present. While in P.E., we played volleyball together, dawdling aimlessly in our innocence. The ball bobbed off our small wrists all across the gym as we laughed with little care.

With free time to spare after our classes, we hung around the school. Sasha’s parents did not pick her up yet, while I still had some time before swim practice, so we went back to our sunlit schoolroom. The weather was getting colder as the afternoon passed, and she was wearing a black suede sweater with vibrant flowers—carnations and cornflowers—hand-knitted by her mother. The colors of these blossoms thrust upon darkness were reflected by the gold of the afternoon sun.

In these windows of time that we had together, the magic of those classrooms— their nostalgia now in complete silence—was only intensified, with the decorative to-do lists on the whiteboards, the monolithic projectors seated imposingly at the front of the room, the desks that had a rectangular cubby under them in which books could be stored, the various bins of colored pencils that could be accessed at a moment’s notice, the framed picture of the teacher’s family perched on the

office desks, and the posters of the wonders of the world: Jerusalem, the Alhambra, the Taj Mahal. Paintings of the Hudson River School, wonders in and of themselves, hung high on the walls as well—Church’s “Cotopaxi” was the most beautiful of them. My eyes marveled at these miracles that had been set onto our planet. They were big, bold, but most of all, foreign, and my young mind latched onto their allure, settling myself within them.

During these instances, from a yearning for home, Sasha told me stories about Russia—short and gorgeous tales from her country. She talked about her summer vacations along the coastline and beaches in Crimea, recalling how on windy days, the waves of the Black Sea seemed to rise up to her chest. She told me about a nook in the rocky ledge of the coastline where the moss grew fat. In that spot, she sat, watching over the other kids playing in the sand. She spoke of her hometown, Saint Petersburg, of the long esplanade next to the Neva, of the shops and businesses along the Nevsky Prospect that were decorated with splendid lights during the holidays.

She treasured the time she spent playing in fields across the street from her house, located where the country met the outskirts of the city, where the “air was always fresh with the

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spring,” the ground a malachite green. She reminisced that there, standing quietly, she saw through her small binoculars the clouds, going towards their destined direction, the loons, singing their songs of longing and of escape, the great expanse of Russia, swaying in motion.

I never saw Sasha after middle school. She asked me for my address so we could send letters to each other—she would soon be leaving for Russia and wanted to stay in touch. Not knowing any better, I brushed the question aside: I was a little boy too bashful to give his address to a girl. Now, I can see only the negative space that surrounds her.

But finally, she did come. One cloudless night under only the light of the grapefruit moon, I saw waltzing shadows. Inside them, I found Sasha sleeping in the sand in Crimea. It was her motherland, and in that way, it was her holy land too.

Dear Sasha, Again, these days I have been thinking about you. You were the first person that made me question: Why is it? Why is it that some must go from our lives?

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My mother once told me that, despite its bigness and beauty, the world will always have loss, always present something missing from our lives that has slipped through the cracks, which we must bear the weight of.

I suppose this is part of what makes us human: to come together with the experiences the world has given us—those of happiness, of hardship, of pain, of bliss—to try and make some sense of it.

Sasha, I hope that you are safe and happy where you are now. I hope, in spite of my terrible immaturity as a middle schooler, that there is a fragment or crumb or particle of me somewhere in your mind. I hope my memories of you will never be forgotten, that they will endure, linger, or even haunt me, for I would rather be haunted by good memories than have none at all.

Sasha, this is a dead letter. I know you will never be able to read this nor see me again, but because I like to dream, I hold onto the imaginary hope that, one day, we will meet again, and I will hear the optimism and grandeur of your voice, feel that which innately binds us, and contemplate the intense gray of your eyes.

Hoo's There? | Pranav Parikh '25 | Photography

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Egret | Nathan Cootauco '25 | Photography

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Alligator Reef | Nathan Cootauco '25 | Photography

Unnecessary Stress Oscar Spotte '26 You can only hear that you look like a man so many times before you become one. Years ago, I was dressing up for a funeral and I went downstairs—My mom said, “You look so handsome” and my dad said, “You look like a man.”

This idea infiltrated me like a tapeworm.

I had never heard this before. Did this mean I had to start acting like an adult? Did I have to change my entire lifestyle? This was tenaciously taking hold of the reins of my brain.

It was stuck in my head throughout the whole funeral before the tapeworm was removed.

When we got back home and turned on the TV, I asked him about it and he chuckled and said, “Don’t you worry.

You’re just fine now.”

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Backdrop of Beauty | Oliver Beattie '24 | Photography

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Skull | Owen Pu '24 | Oil on Canvas (11x14)

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We Could Learn So Much Cameron Amiot '23

Walking to the kitchen I heard my father at the stove and knew That this morning would be Like the toss of a coin Just as it was yesterday.

If I could grab wiry thin twine And a fine surgical needle To suture our lips shut for a day I think we could love each other.

Our similarities are always overshadowed By voices that never cease to speak.

I do not know what his mother’s dress was like Or how the woman he almost married carried herself He cannot tell you my group of friends— Or even the type of shoes I wear.

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Sometimes I sit alone uninterrupted and in the dark At the kitchen table with my two eggs and PB ’n’ J. Sometimes I stand pacing around the counter In a cat-and-mouse chase with words Unable to finish my breakfast.

I wish we could always sit in true silence Just listening.

Orange Flower | Will Beauchamp '25 | Photography

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The Night Shift Maddox Braue '23

EXT. DINER. LATE EVENING A small family diner with a tacky marquee sign, saying “Open 24/7 365.” The vehicles in the diner parking lot range in size, style, and value. An unknown lady slams her car door and walks up the ramp to the diner. She pauses at the door, seems to recollect her confidence, and walks into the venue.

INT. BATHROOM. NIGHT. 6 HOURS AFTER THE FIRST SCENE. A light switch is flicked up by an unknown hand in the dark. The ambient sound of jazz lingers in the room. The lights flicker on and a young lady, DAISY, (clearly

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the lady from the initial walk-in scene) enters the bathroom wearing a noticeably stained and wrinkled uniform. She rummages through her purse and after a few seconds finally finds her makeup kit. She stares in the mirror and rubs her red eyes. In the mirror, we notice a locket necklace with a small baby appearing in the center. She turns on the faucet, washes her hands, and tries to rub water onto the dark circles surrounding her eyes. She grabs the makeup kit, and begins to bring it to her face. Before she touches her face—DING DING DING—a bell rings in the kitchen. Daisy scoops a cup of water in her hand, splashes it on her face, packs up her purse in a haste, turns off the light, and leaves the room.

INT. DINER. NIGHT

DAISY The lady over—

Daisy appears at the border between the kitchen and the dining area, where plated food is placed on the holding ledge. A cook, DONNY, looks on from the distance.

He is a tall, muscular, tattooed, older man. Daisy glances down at the bell.

DONNY Putting on more makeup in the bathroom?

DAISY I— DONNY (frustrated) How come you get the tips? I make the food, you just carry it to the table.

Daisy glances down at the ticket.

DAISY Did you remember that the lady wanted no cheese in her omelette?

DONNY Who?

DONNY (sarcastically) Asked. The food is getting cold.

INT. OFFICE. NIGHT Daisy KNOCKS on the wooden door of an office. The voice of the diner owner, JIMMY, is muffled within the office. He is on a phone call, where the intensity is quickly ramping up. We hear him change from calm and calculated to angry and rapid.

The KNOCK is louder now.

JIMMY (O.S.) Who's there?

DAISY (weak and unsure) Me, uh—Daisy, your waitress.

Jimmy continues his conversation, which is still inaudible outside of distinct shouts.

Daisy sits with her back to the door, staring at the wall in front of her. She leans her head on the doorframe and closes her

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eyes. Quiet and silence ensue for a small, but noticeable amount of time. The door suddenly swings open. Daisy wakes up mid-fall and supports her fall with her wrist on the ground. On her wrist, we can see a bracelet with hearts. Jimmy's figure is now noticeable. He is a small, portly man.

JIMMY How was your little nap-time?

DAISY (begging) Please.

JIMMY Donny again? He is an excellent cook, Dais.

Daisy turns around, takes a deep breath, and holds up three fingers, then two, then one.

JIMMY Do you think I can read sign language?

DAISY My mother can—could.

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JIMMY Do I look like your mommy? Do you need a bedtime story?

DING DING DING. At the sound of the bell Daisy turns and heads for the door, seemingly on cue.

JIMMY (sincere) Wait—Dais. I, uh, think that you need a break sometime. What about the weekend off?

DAISY (appreciative, but subtle smile) Have a good rest of your night, Jim. INT. DINER. NIGHT Daisy stares at the food in front of her on the ledge. She carefully matches up the description on the ticket to the food. Her eyes suddenly twitch open, and she opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. She then lifts the food up onto her forearm and carries it off. The sound of a DING goes off, and it is the entrance door.

She puts her food down and heads to the

front. Standing in front of her is an old lady, GILLIAN, all alone, dressed quite nicely. Gillian looks around, noticing everything and everyone but Daisy.

GILLIAN (clearly false) Oh! Didn't see you there!

DAISY That's alright Ma'am, how many?

GILLIAN How many do you think? You see anybody else? Just because I'm old doesn't mean I am hallucinating.

DAISY

GILLIAN I'd like to sit at a table.

DAISY (fed-up) Oh, why of course!

GILLIAN Are you okay, lady?

DAISY (quippy and condescendingly) Of course, miss.

Gillian sits down, and frowns. She then gets up, changes seats, and is finally content. Daisy, observing this, hands her a menu.

Sorry, miss.

Daisy, menu and silverware in hand, walks Gillan to a booth facing the desolate road outside. Gillian is dressed with a colorful hat and dress. She is clearly sticking out in the crowd of other patrons. Other booths collectively peer out to look at Gillian, who either notices but does not care or does not notice at all.

DAISY So can I get anything for you to drink?

GILLIAN Pardon?

DAISY What would you like to drink?

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GILLIAN Gillian.

DAISY Yes, what would you like to drink, Gillian?

GILLIAN A water with a lemon, please. Make sure I have a straw.

INT. DINER. AT THE BACK OF THE DINER. NIGHT Daisy grabs her cup, and heads to the water pitcher near the kitchen. She notices the food still on the ledge. She stares at Gillian and watches as the old lady turns her head and observes the other customers scattered throughout.

INT. DINER. AT TABLE. NIGHT Daisy places her water glass next to her plate.

GILLIAN

DAISY (somewhat smirking) Not really, I've been listening to it forever.

She laughs. Gillian points obviously at a man sitting at the bar.

GILLIAN What's up with him?

DAISY I don't know, he usually comes in around this time.

GILLIAN Is he married?

DAISY I'm not sure.

GILLIAN He kind of looks like a spy, does he speak Russian?

DAISY (unamused) Maybe.

You like jazz?

GILLIAN I was watching that guy back in the kitch-

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en. He seems antsy.

DAISY Well—

smiling. General commotion is exuded from all sides of the diner, but Daisy and Gillian keep eye contact, only looking away briefly, clearly confident, relieved, and reinvigorated.

GILLIAN Here, sit down, have you had dinner yet?

DAISY I haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday.

Gillian hoists her hand out towards Daisy.

GILLIAN My name is Gillian.

DAISY (shaking her hand) My name is Daisy, but you can call me Dais.

Daisy begins to talk with Gillian as their voices turn muffled. We see the food remaining on the ledge, and the bell sitting on the table. The space is clearly becoming smaller and smaller, as the plates begin to mount up. DING DING. DING! DING! As the bell rings, Daisy continues talking to Gillian, remaining unfazed and

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Barbed Wire | Ben Whitehurst '23 | Photography

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Made-Up | Ben Whitehurst '23 | Photography

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Without You Ahmir Crawley '23

In the dark depths of my mind I wonder, Who am I without you?

The sand has not yet filled the other side of the bottle, But still I wonder.

As I search for clues, I realize you’ve contaminated every part of my being like a virus.

There is no me without you, But your days are numbered so still I wonder, Who am I without you?

I’ve happily worked for you as you worked for me, But you cannot last forever.

Who will I be when that dreaded day comes, Separated from one of the only things that makes me feel whole.

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Finding myself is hard when I’m invisible without you.

What will draw people to me if you do not speak on my behalf?

What pride will I have in my heart if you're not there to build me up?

Without you, who am I? For many years you’ve been my friend, But one day you will spew me from your mouth like you did the others.

Your departure is inevitable, So I wonder, Who am I without you?

A Classic Whodunit | Jameson Maumenee '24 | Oil on Canvas (10x20)

Reaching | Jack Amiot '24 | Oil on Canvas (10x20)

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Pleasant Street | Paul Shkolnik '24 | Oil on Canvas (11x14)

Greece | Max Shein '26 | Photography

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Simorgh/Simorgh Arya Kazemnia '24 After Paul Tran I. Walking through the ruinous school halls The faint buzz of fluorescent lights long past their life Pushing aside tattered, dust-covered balls Full of past memories and shrapnel Which ran all across the walls of the ruined

I. (Reborn) Except for the glow of the bomb, nothing could be seen.

My grandma staring into the light of impact as she waited for the fated blast

Building and crunched like cracknel and the shower of metal tears, My grandma once died here but Again rising from the cinders she is reborn

her class not noticing the impending

The flames of life rise again, smoke cuts

doom. A teacher cannot teach everything

Through the rubble as she plunges into

to their students, never the weight of life,

The fire not 1700 years after her birth But 27 years to protect the youth As I plunge into my own flame of purification My desire for light leads to my true illumination

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a Simorgh crashing into the flames as her classroom was decimated into the next archaeology site for wary wanderers

to explore. Some part of my grandmother died that day, but she rose again, from the flame, rubble and ashes, duty-bound. The red streams forming where shrapnel once entered uninvited didn't phase the maternal phoenix, her copper skin glistening with sanguine sheen. She rose and dug the students from walls and ceilings, now unrecognizable wreckage, unmovable, and helped run to safety of the bomb shelter nearby, as she stood, ready to catch the next misfortunate weapon which entered her presence. Now she rises from the ashes again, all wise, to pass her maternal knowledge to her youth, as she had done to Zaal many years ago.

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Dubrovnik, Old City Houses | Nikhil Gupta '26 | Photography

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Mockingbird—Eminem | Marco Ochs '25 | Styrofoam, Felt, and Pins

Self-Portrait | Timmy Edwards '25 | Oil on Canvas (9x12)

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AK | Luke Woodworth '23 | Oil on Canvas (16x20)

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The Folder Filled with Names Daniel Koldobskiy '24

T

hree of them stand together, waiting. The one on the left, James, smiles and mutters something optimistic. The sea is thick like a scar, murky and gray. The soldiers move quickly, blending into the beach.

Dunkirk, 1940.

The boats cut across the water like little knives. Tommy looks flustered. His eyes keep going from side to side, and his face is ready to give way. Every once in a while he looks determined, walks off, then comes back. It’s not hard to tell he’s afraid.

The planes and ships are screaming; their screeches fill the air, throwing the scene out of focus.

James volunteered a few months back. He was proud of joining then, and he’s proud of it now. Tommy isn’t. He regretted

coming the moment he came. Sure, fighting wasn’t all bad. Some things had even been fun. This isn’t, though, and he wants to go home.

The third man never says his name; no one asks.

They see a destroyer filled with men, floating away. The big, lumbering ships are almost comical—easy targets for the dive bombers. They fall like birds of prey, talons open, ready to lift the boats and men into the air and carry them safely back home. Then the planes turn up, and the bombs drop.

James says something about how they’re almost there. No insight or intuition.

The others are silent.

But the line is inching forwards. In a few minutes, they’ll wade through the water.

They’ll get on a boat and sail away.

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Now they’re in the sea. Everything is frantic and stressed, and they push too hard, and the water doesn’t offer any resistance, and the three of them make it to the ship just in time, and Tommy wonders why they’re in this tiny little paddle steamer when a bigger boat is right there ten centimeters away.

James heard the plane first; nothing to be done. He and Tommy stood still a moment before jumping. Then it was just the two of them.

They begin moving through the water again. There isn’t much else to do. As one of the ships turns away, James says to Tommy, “They’ll be back,” then repeats it, softly, but with conviction.

Three weeks later, two names are added to a sheet of paper titled MIA. An old man puts it in a folder next to several others.

James knows what they’re going to do. They’ll go to bed first. It’s getting dark, they don’t have any food, best to sleep it off. There might be some disagreements, but they’ll stick together. They have to, to survive. They’ll be held together; they’ll hold each other together. It’ll be hard.

They’ll wake up; they’ll start work-

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ing. The first thing will be food. They’ll hunt.

He can see it now. Waiting for hours on end, guns slung on their backs. A rabbit enters the clearing.

By then, months have passed; already it’s autumn. The yellow and red glows around them. Birds fly above; the world pauses as one of them shoots.

The rabbit is too small to stave off the hunger. Waste of life, waste of bullets, but proof of concept.

They won’t be able to stay there long.

There may be searches. The government will be looking; who knows when Britain will come back? Maybe the Germans arrive. It takes some heroism, but they get away just in time.

They walk on a small dirt road that merges into progressively larger ones, until suddenly they’re in Paris.

There will be sympathizers there. The soldiers will be kept safe. By then they won’t look British. They’ll be French. Sipping on wine and eating, joking in low voices, until the police catch up and they have to move again.

But there will always be someone thinking of them. They’ll find someone else, stay in their house for a little bit, move again.

It’ll be hard, but they’ll survive.

But honestly, who’s going to help them? Nobody’s going to take that risk. It’s hard enough as it is. People might want to do something, but will they? Things like this don’t come easy.

And what happens to the people whose houses they leave? That disappears into the background, not part of the story.

And even then, you can’t run forever.

They’ll walk into some store; the owner will get nervous. Maybe some old woman thinks they look strange. Maybe they say something out of touch. Maybe someone loses their nerve.

Then the machinery will come crashing down, and they’ll be caught, and they’ll be tried, and they’ll be killed. Nothing can stand against a nation.

Their best hope is they’re too tiny to be noticed.

“We shall never surrender.” Leaders speak with confidence. Hope floats through the air. They should’ve given up months ago, but they’re still going.

Dunkirk looks inevitable. The images are striking, easily spread. The troops seem cheerful; they knew they were coming home

the entire time. Maybe some lost faith, but here they are now. It’s a miracle.

The little ships float through minds and thoughts, coalescing and breaking apart.

There will be speeches, addresses, movies.

Flags are meant to be waved. Churchill will talk about the miracle of deliverance. Newspapers will chase after details. Time and again crowds will pack into theaters to watch soldiers get saved.

But for now, the world is ending. The front line is in every home. There are bombs falling on London. It’s never quiet; machines sound alarms, and after a while, reporters stop rushing to the scene. Soon, there will be a victory parade.

Planes fly overhead, soldiers crawl through trenches. At D-Day, men will land on the beaches, become heroes, then disappear.

Crowds will cheer.

Nobody asks who isn’t there; out of sight, out of mind. And the folder filled with names is full.

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Beaded Array | Leo Eiswert '26 | Wooden Beads

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H&A | Trey Taylor '24 | Oil on Canvas (14x18)

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Children of Odesa Ethan Yan '24

They are dragged out; Their faces arising unblemished In that final clarity of meditation But turbid from the mud.

Their torsos face the sky, Pulled by the green plastic Cordage about the waist.

As their arms are caught By the gravel pebbles They spread out, making Snow angels in the dirt Like their Savior on the cross.

Relics they are; golden-ivory And ethereal in eternal presence While the excavator’s brush Dusts off the soil. Reclaimed Dreams of Our Lady of Kazan, They are draping like Her eyes That gaze upon Him; icons Contemplating an oblivion.

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Stillborn lamentations of mothers As their children are hauled, One After another, out of cavernous Rubble, echo in viridescent fields.

The mutt with shaggy hair Limps through the debris, Searching in inferno.

The hearse rolls, flaunting its lustrous Black and the finished mahogany within: Father, let them rest—they are wandering about.

Rainy Night | T.J. Reiter '24 | Photography

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Setting the Table | Louis Rosenthal '23 | Oil on Canvas (24x36)

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I'm Connected | Evan Quintero '25 | Wood and Plaster

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Cardboard Bodies Nick Lutzky '24

I

stood alone in my room, staring into the mirror on my wall. I could fit my whole body inside of the frame. The mirror spanned about two and a half feet in length. I stood there, gazing at myself for what felt like hours but produced minutes. The doors were shut, the house outside of them asleep. I didn’t wish to share any of this with anyone. In the corner was a cardboard cutout of Celine Dion. I think my dad had seen it at a record store. I always thought it was funny, just standing there, somewhat ominously. I looked at my shirtless self again in the mirror, first disgusted, then enamored, then disgusted once more. I wondered if I had felt like this before, but to be honest, I couldn't remember.

It’s satisfying to know things to be true, to find some sense of objectivity in a

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world that is random. But looking at myself I only found confusion, and a screaming notion that the body I stared at did not belong to me. It was a normal body, not grotesque or deformed, just unrecognizable. It was roughly the same body as every other day in my life, but tonight it felt different. I was detached, as though I was not supposed to be there, to be here. I was confused not only about my form, but my reaction to that form, lost in my own melodrama. I debated whether to indulge the thoughts I felt or to ignore them, and just go to sleep. Normally, I would be so tired after practice that I would fall asleep right away, but tonight, these past few weeks, had been different, so this felt like the natural culmination.

I walked forward, advancing towards the mirror, my form growing larger. I thought

maybe music could help, so I reached into my drawer to grab a record. I only owned one vinyl record, and it only played one piece: the “Raindrop” prelude by Chopin. It was enough for me. I walked backwards, moving to a rhythm that was inspired by the piece but not quite concurrent with it. I moved to a rhythm while the piece played in the background.

At first I felt ashamed, self-conscious. But as I moved more, any commitment to civility shed off of me, leaving only a husk of instinct. I swayed back and forth, prancing up and down, not seeking to find or express an emotion but just moving and existing for its own sake. My mouth began to froth, secreting foam down my neck and onto my chest, my arms and legs moving about in a motion that was both random and entirely prescribed.

It was then, when I swayed to my left, that it saw me in the reflection. I looked at the Celine Dion cutout through the mirror, its body still, its instincts keeping it frozen.

I wondered how the cutout felt. Its body was in complete control, its mind alive, but still.

I turned, my back now facing the mirror, the cutout staring at me, a small twinkle in its gaze. I looked at it, first enamored, then disgusted, then enamored, then disgusted, then enamored once more. I began walking again,

the rhythm returning to my gait with each step I took. I wiped the foam off my chin, staring into its cardboard eyes. I reached out and held her in my arms.

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Sister | Jeevan Khanuja '24 | Basket Reed

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School Nap | Peter Shkolnik '24 | Oil on Canvas (11x14)

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Home in the Woods Finn Tondro '24

After “Home in the Woods” by Thomas Cole Mangled trees litter the foreground, met by the piercing gaze of the peak that resonates In the swirling depths. The trees tower over the refuge from the impending eastern storm, stretching into monotony as roots of earthy stone.

Wisps of smoke lazily signal the hearth that is the home, the humble lodging of the common man wherein lies the virtue of roughness.

Come, all who wish to live life deep— For “Walden was dead and is alive again.”

Part from your prodigal past to enjoy the crude State of nature, through the eyes of a hermit.

Capture this image of the home in the woods, This analogue of timelessness.

Shall I lead the way to Arcadia, In quest of what once was?

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Hampden Shake | Charlie Fenwick '23 | Oil on Canvas (14x18)

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Greenspring Avenue | Cameron Amiot '23 | Photography

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Fla-Vor-Ice Noah Parker '23

W

hen I think back to that day, the first thing I remember is questioning just what exactly compels people to put family pictures in the bathroom. The second thing I remember is that it was a straightforward summer day. As usual, the sun was making itself impossible to ignore, but it showed enough decency as to not force people to stay indoors, seeking shelter in the safety of AC. The ground was littered with cicada shells, and you could hear their mind-numbing buzzing at all times.

I had just finished a week-long summer program in DC, and I was waiting next to my counselor to get picked up.

About half of my group had already left, and those who remained sat around fan-

ning and tanning ourselves as our shirts became increasingly sticky, melded to our skin by sweat. But apart from the heat, I was sweating for a different reason. I knew my parents wouldn’t feel like driving out to DC, so I’d be getting a ride from my “uncle” Terrance since he lived close and owed my parents a favor. My dad and him were best friends growing up, just like their mothers were before them.

They spent countless summers running and fighting and screaming. They used to make popsicles by pouring Hawaiian Punch into plastic cups, sticking popsicle sticks in them, and then throwing them into the freezer for a day. Whenever we went out to dinner, my uncle always cracked jokes and followed them with booming laughter, earning sharp glares

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from the wait staff and fellow customers.

It had been months since I had last seen Uncle Terrance. When I was a kid, anytime we visited back home we would go to his house and waste the day there.

I would run with, scream at, and beat up my cousins. Popsicles required a long walk to the freezer where our parents sat laughing, gossiping, and keeping track of who had eaten exactly how many popsicles. But apparently, there is some cosmic law that our two families can never live in the same place at once, because when my family finally moved back home, Uncle Terrance’s job took him to DC. I was still thinking about those popsicles when Uncle Terrance pulled up, or rather, when I heard his car about to turn the corner.

I gave an awkward peace sign and smile to my counselor and remaining group members as I walked towards the compact gray car blasting some song by A Tribe Called Quest that my uncle was somehow half-driving and half-hanging out of.

We took a quick pit stop at Uncle Terrance’s house, during which I had the misfortune of making eye contact with a picture of my cousin as a toddler while peeing. Really, who wants to look at pic-

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tures of their loved ones while relieving themself ? But soon enough, the drive home began. As I slid into the car, Uncle Terrance lowered the volume and turned to me with a flash of white teeth and a shoulder clasp that felt like what I imagine getting slapped by a bear would feel like. Eventually, the car got moving and we started catching up. With the music now lowered, Uncle Terrance drew my attention to a sort of scraping sound the car would make every now and then around sharp enough turns. “Do you hear that?

That swoosh swoosh swooshing sound?

No? D’ya hear it?”

The car was decorated with a plastic lei and some mala beads hung from the rearview mirror, and the seats made an awkward cranking noise when you adjusted them. The seats were clean, but the rest of the cabin was filled with empty Gatorade bottles, old receipts, and random boxes that didn’t hold anything important. The car rode low to the ground; every red light was a straining of the neck just to see when it changed. We talked, laughed, and gossiped, while I secretly counted how many turns Uncle Terrance was missing. Whenever my uncle needed

to get anywhere, he would load up Waze and glance at his phone seated in his lap.

But in all honesty, having the directions on served as more of a comfort to his passengers than as actual assistance to the driver. He was a good city driver.

The car broke down about an hour later, but we were thankfully close to a shopping district a few miles from my house. Uncle Terrance phoned my dad, and we waited for him to come pick us both up. I was annoyed that my journey home had been so delayed. Uncle Terrance was excited to see his old friend, seemingly unbothered by his car’s malfunction. The sun was still making its presence known as we sat waiting for my dad.

I was content to stay moping in the heat, but my uncle told me he had an idea, and he crossed the street to the Walmart. He came back with a variety pack of Fla-VorIce. He handed me a light-blue berry punch while opening himself a lemon-lime. The brand he bought was the type meant to be purchased as liquid then frozen at home.

“They didn’t have any already frozen,” Uncle Terrance shrugged. I stared at the flaccid, lukewarm pack of food coloring and high fructose corn syrup in my hand

and started laughing. We sat there in the sun on the hood of his car, sucking the sickeningly sweet liquid from the plastic, waiting for my dad to pick us up.

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Charles Village Pub | Luca Pavlovich '23 | Oil on Canvas (36x36)

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17 | Luca Pavlovich '23 | Oil on Canvas (48x48)

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Migration Study Andrew Kang '23

When I fall ill and the wind kills the grass, I want garlic bread. Five winters ago, we tore it from ALDI shelves and stuffed it into the toaster oven, hovering our faces outside the glass. My hands were always cold. But the garlic, the garlic was strong and pungent and lovely. Then a crunch, and the ambulance came, and I cracked my phone running out to meet you: I’m sorry my hands are so cold and I really don’t ever want to see you go— the things I should have said on your way out of the hospital, but a goose cut across the sky and I hesitated.

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Fruit We Bear | Michel Morfaw '23 | Oil on Canvas (8x10)

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[back cover] A Day on the Water | Nathan Cootauco '25 | Photography

PAR AGON | Gilman School

vol. 44, 2023