Paragon (2014)

PARAGON

WINTER 2014

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Paragon Gilman School Baltimore, Maryland Winter 2014 Volume XXXVI Editors Literary Editor: Art Editor: Layout Editor:

Eli Clemens John Lee Gabriel Donner

Literary Review Board Gabriel Donner Pierre Germain Timur Guler Edmond Kim Philip Kwon Theo Leasca

John Lee Andrew Park Ben Williams Nick Johnson Gus Meny Chris Song

Art Review Board Elie Barongozi Blake Benfield Gabriel Donner Theo Leasca Taylor Swindell Tyler Wakefield Huntington Williams Jack Dearing

Kevin Kuczynski Arjun Ramesh Steven Zeng Michael Holmes Tommy Mori Mickey Baroody Andrew Poverman

Faculty Advisors John Rowell Will Schutt

Karl Connolly Cesare Ciccanti

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

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 Any author who chooses not to claim his work after he has submitted it will not be published in the magazine.

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

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

Editor’s Note Every Gilman student has a different outlook on issues. The thirteen literary pieces in this issue of Paragon are a testament to this diversity, as they vary significantly in style, genre, and message. Some are full of personality and voice, such as Timur Guler’s “Perspective Lenses,” while others, like Elie Barongozi’s “The Jesus Shoes,” come from memory. Some pieces are full of deliberate puns, like Spencer Perry and Max Dellheim’s “The Barn of Darkness,” whereas pieces such as John Lee’s “George and Johann’s Runt” contain intrinsically humorous plots and descriptions. The poetry in this issue is equal to the prose, both in quality and quantity, from Matthew Slodzinski’s proud “The Mornings” to Andrew Park’s lilting “Quick Fix.” Read them, think about them, read them again, and, most of all, enjoy them. A lot of hard work and revision went into these pieces, and each story and poem reflects the creativity and writing talent of Gilman in a striking way.

Eli Clemens Literary Editor

Table of Contents Art

Page Title Cover Back 7 8 9 9 10 10 11 11 13 14 14 15 15 17 19 23 23 25 25 28 29 29 30 30 33 33 35 36 37 40 41 41 44 45 46 47 47

Abstract Study of Stream Woman in Black Monocacy/Lumen Maggie Eli Gabe Fall Focus Jamal’s Shame Central Park, July Still Life Boxes Bicycle Study Lumen Steps Library Still Life with Conch Backyard Bridget Woodshed and Truck The Workbench Watch Out for Batted Balls Study of Boxes Natural Springs Sisterly Ghost Falling Inner Harbor Sunrise Over Fields Returning Downtown Tree Elie Green Seated Nude Bridge Underwater Light Hand Study Overpass Biren Boat Glacier Falls

Artist Blake Benfield John Lee Huntington Williams Gabriel Donner John Lee John Lee Arjun Ramesh Blake Benfield Huntington Williams Taylor Swindell Tyler Wakefield Arjun Ramesh Tommy Mori Jack Dearing Christopher Stith Elie Barongozi Gabriel Donner Jack Dearing Gram Davis Freddie Leatherbury Huntington Williams Etienne Germain Eli Clemens Zachary Jones Tyler Wakefield Jonathan Yue Theo Leasca Tyler Wakefield Theo Leasca John Lee Elie Barongozi John Lee Tyler Wakefield Jake Smith Steven Zeng Tyler Wakefield Elie Barongozi Taylor Swindell John Lee

Literature

Page Title 6 12 16 18 20 24 26 31 32 34 38 42 48

George and Johann’s Runt Quick Fix Perspective Lenses Barn of Darkness A Nice Man San Francisco Grandad Four Disappointments The Jesus Shoes The Mornings A Game of Chess The Hunt Snap

Author

John Lee Andrew Park Timur Guler Perry & Dellheim Greg Alspaugh Liam Higgins Edward Brown Andrew Park Elie Barongozi Matthew Slodzinski Michael Holmes Tom Riley Eli Clemens

George and Johann’s Runt George and Johann find cardboard in the garage, white paint in the basement, and scissors in the shed. Having cut out approximately the necessary shapes, the two boys generously layer the cardboard with white paint; then, they prop their creations up against the side of the barn and step back to watch the paint dry.

One is elegant, smooth along its edges, and organic in form; the other is geometric, rough and jagged along the edges. Johann puts his hand on George’s shoulder and attributes the disparity between their craftsmanship to his seniority; he reassures, “Don’t worry, it should still work.”

As the acrylic dries, prompted by the midday sun, the boys move on to their next task: stealing one of Rosie’s piglets. George watches Rosie’s snout rising and falling rhythmically as she lazily naps, surrounded by the remainders of her lunch; meanwhile, Johann grabs the runt of the litter by the legs and hops over the pen. They run back to the barn, put down the runt, and gently tie a rope around its waist. Then, they attach the cardboard pieces to the rope – such as to create aerodynamically sound wings. And although they realize the runt stumbles under the weight of its unbalanced wings, George and Johann climb to the wooden roof of the barn.

They scoot to its edge now, at least twenty feet above the pigpen from which they had acquired the runt. George and Johann look down at the runt, then at each other, and with appropriate solemnity, push their runt off the edge of the barn. According to Newton, the runt deserves a speedy death, but as the wind picks up and the runt sees its wings, the runt of the litter summons great force, pushing its cardboard wings downwards and propelling itself forward and upwards towards the brilliant blue sky.

John Lee ‘14

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Huntington Williams ‘14

Monocacy/Lumen I Oil on Canvas I 30x24

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Gabriel Donner ‘14

Maggie I Oil on Canvas I 40x40

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John Lee ‘14

Eli I Oil on Panel I 6x6

John Lee ‘14

Gabe I Oil on Masonite I 6x6

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Arjun Ramesh ‘15

Fall Focus I Oil on Canvas I 12x16

Blake Benfield ‘14

Jamal’s Shame I Oil on Masonite I 3x5

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Huntington Williams ‘14

Central Park, July I Oil on Panel I 16x16

Taylor Swindell ‘14

Still Life I Oil on Canvas I 12x24

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Quick Fix I went to school once again and when it was lunch time I ran to be first in line even though everyone complains about the food – entertaining the idea that the filet mignon could benefit from more

ketchup drizzled on the side like a bunch of z’s so the steak is snoring

then I waded through the puddles of freshmen to get to the salad bar where I scooped a spoonful of salad while skillfully avoiding those darn cherry tomatoes

(they’re evil)

but I noticed the teacher waiting behind me was that vegetarian guy who would probably search for extra tomatoes he was always running and was rather skinny – the gaunt skin stretched over his cheekbones stared me down and urged

me to grab at least one cherry tomato to avoid a fight

so I did grab one for the record.

When I arrive home I feel like a better person maybe even a little healthier so when it’s dinner time I’m totally ready for when my mother

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puts a bowl of turnips on the table

(they’re good)

afterwards I even have a grapefruit because I’m on such a roll I skip to my room with an extra sprout in my step then I lie in bed thinking about

how much stronger I’ll be tomorrow, how much more compassionate, more

popular, more intelligent, and more attractive too.

Andrew Park ‘14

Tyler Wakefield ‘14

Boxes I Ink on Paper I 11x11

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Arjun Ramesh ‘15

Bicycle Study I Graphite on Paper I 24x18

Tommy Mori ‘16

Lumen Steps I Graphite on Paper I 11x16

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Jack Dearing ‘16

Library I Graphite on Paper I 15x11

Christopher Stith ‘15

Still Life with Conch I Graphite on Paper I 11.5x14

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Perspective Lenses You ever seen yourself differently through a brand new pair of shades? Maybe some shiny mirror-lens aviators, fresh from the dollar store. Maybe you eagerly place them over your eyes and cock a halfsmile. You look through your mirror, and you love the guy looking back through the endless doppelgängers stretching to infinity in the abyss of your reflective lenses. You look like Maverick, about to tear up some V-ball with your boy Goose; at least your smug fourteenyear-old brain thinks you do. You’re a whole new person, ready to take on the world.

You’re cool as a cucumber. You step outside with a healthy dose of swagger in your step, and stroll down the street expecting everyone to look at you differently. You don’t even notice when they don’t, though, because you’re on cloud freakin’ nine. You’re headed to your friend’s house – your presence will undoubtedly make his day, maybe even his week. You walk slowly to make sure nobody misses an opportunity to see you and your glasses. What a travesty that would be. You get there after about an hour (it’s only around two blocks away) and walk in without ringing the doorbell. You wave a nonchalant hello to his parents. They’re honored by your presence, of course, despite his mom’s eye-rolling and his dad’s quizzical expression.

You shoot your friend a quick “I’m-here-you-can-start-yourday-now” glance and then walk out of the house again without even motioning for him to follow. He knows it’s implied. He wants to follow your lead. Everyone does, thanks to your sweet new aviators.

Your friend has eventually caught up with you, and the two of you walk to Rita’s. You need a cool snack to match your cool glasses.

You love Rita’s, and you’re convinced that they love you, too. Yes, a national corporation that’s existed before your birth exists solely for an incredibly average kid that just graduated middle school.

The millions of other customers that trickle in every day don’t even matter to them, but Lord, do they get jazzed up every time Timur happens to stop by. They might even tell their grandkids. Your friend’s words snap you out of your delusions – he is talking about his new computer or something absurdly trivial like that. Somehow, he’s not 16

even talking about you? In fact, you don’t think he’s mentioned your glasses once. How is this possible?

Looking back through the lens of time, seventeen-year-old Timur realizes that the world didn’t revolve around him then, and it sure doesn’t now. His cool aviators are relegated to the back of the drawer. That’s alright though, they really always belonged to Maverick, Goose, and the 1980s anyway. His windows to the world had fogged his mind, but now he sees clearly with the aid of his newly-found perspective lenses.

Timur Guler ‘14

Elie Barongozi ‘14

Backyard I Oil on Canvas I 16x20

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Barn of Darkness In the dead silence of the night, an air-conditioned breeze rolled out of the open doors of the barn. Horris the florist slowly approached the blinding lights flooding from the open doorway of the barn.

Suddenly, a passing raven landed behind him.

“What do you want, raven?” said Horris.

“Never mind,” quoth the raven.

“Okay,” replied Horris, in kind.

As he began to return his gaze to the barn, the doors suddenly slammed shut with a thunderous clap. Enveloped in darkness, Horris thought to himself, “Wow, it’s dark now.” Bang, ding, crash, the barn seemed to dissolve into the dark earth. By the thousands, the natives swarmed from the mysterious cavern beneath the earth.

Gee whiz, thought Horris, those natives sure are swarming.

Among the massing natives, a singular figure proudly rode a gleaming, diamond-encrusted ivory carriage, pulled by thousands of subjugated savages.

“Ay yo, who go der?” proclaimed Descartes in a regal manner.

“Horris,” replied he.

“Of course, Horris, do you happen to have a horse source, to symbolize my force?” inquired Descartes.

“Neigh,” he replied.

“Well, then.”

“But,” Horris countered, “maybe I can still help you.”

“Okay.”

“I could help shoulder your white burden, man. I could pull your cart instead of your subjects.”

“Ahh, but you see, I’ve been thinking (ergo sum), and you have overlooked a very important fact.”

“And that is?”

“That would put the Horris before Descartes.”

Spencer Perry ‘15 & Max Dellheim ‘15

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Gabriel Donner ‘14

Bridget I Oil on Canvas I 30x40

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A Nice Man He was always there for you.

When you ran out of money at the grocery store, you asked him to spot you five dollars. He paid for your sushi and you thanked him profusely.

When you asked him to reserve you a ticket for a baseball game, you asked him to pay for yours because you forgot your wallet that afternoon. He put down the twenty dollars for the nosebleed seats and you thanked him.

When you lost your ticket for a popular concert and could not buy another one yourself (since you spent all of your money buying concert enhancers from a guy named Bear) you asked him to purchase it because “money’s tight in the family.” He entered his debit card into the proper blank on the webpage and clicked the button “Buy Tickets,” underneath the subtotal of $95.32. He printed it out and you patted him on the back.

When you graduated from high school, you asked him for his debit card because you “needed to make senior week legendary.”

He handed over the Baltimore Ravens themed debit card and you gave him a quick nod. You returned it a week later, having spent $349.56 on adolescent illicitness.

When you were expelled from college, due to an exponential falloff of your GPA, and you did not have a place to live, you asked him to loan you $100,000 so you could “re-enter the quick current of society.” He etched out one vertical line and five zeroes into his checkbook and signed it.

When you were huddled in a dark alley, shivering in nothing but a black trash bag, you asked him to pick you up and take you to a rehabilitation center in the county, claiming, “I need to find myself again.” You used your weekly salary of coins that fell out of other oblivious peoples’ pockets to pay for the three-minute conversation.

He left his house way out in the county and met you in front of the rendezvous, which was a shut-down gas station. You began to cry almost as soon as he started to drive to the center.

When you realized that the detoxification process was more difficult than you initially believed, you asked him to listen to you as you “got all the bad stuff out of the body.” He did not say a 20

word as you talked for eighty-eight minutes about every mistake you had made in your life and how you were going to change. You opened your mouth as if to speak after you had said good-bye, but he already had hung up.

When you walked out of the automatic doors of the rehab center towards his smiling figure, you asked him to give you a hug.

He opened his arms and you fell into his warm embrace. You began to cry for the fifteenth time in the past three months.

When you graduated from college at the age of thirty-two, funded by an anonymous donor, you asked him to attend the ceremony. He sat at the back of the audience and recorded your entire valedictory address. You looked towards him and you could not stop smiling for the rest of the speech.

When you received your first job at the second largest advertising agency in the world, you asked him to meet you at Gino’s, the most expensive restaurant in the whole city. He arrived in a black suit and tie and smiled when you took the check out of his hands.

When you became engaged, you asked him over to your house for a celebration. He arrived bearing sparkling apple cider, which you silently appreciated.

When you witnessed the birth of your first son, Mason, you asked him to come to the hospital. He drove from his house two and half hours away and became teary-eyed when you asked him to be Mason’s godfather.

When you lost your wife in a T-bone collision right outside of your driveway, you asked him to be there so that you did not relapse. He drove to your house and placed his arm around your shoulders and you cried into his chest.

When you turned fifty, you did not ask him to plan a surprise birthday party. He did it anyway, and you thanked him when the final guest left the house.

When you were planning Mason’s high school graduation party, you asked him for ideas that would improve the party. He arrived to the party driving a black Chevy Camaro adorned with red racing stripes and a yellow spoiler. He tossed the keys towards Mason’s gaping face and you shook his hand until yours became sore.

When you watched a plane crash into the Atlantic Ocean on your flat screen television, you asked him to call you back when he received your message. He did not call you back, which both 21

surprised and angered you.

When you received a phone call from a man claiming to be his lawyer named Josh, you mentally asked him why he could not call you himself. He did not respond, but Josh did.

“You are Mr. Davidson, correct?”

“Yes.” Josh continued in a gravelly voice, “According to my client’s will, you now control everything he owned.”

You blinked and stammered, “His will?”

“Yes.” You stared at nothing, seeming to focus on the faint static coming from the cell phone’s receiver. Your face drained of color, until it resembled that of a forty-year-old concert ticket, which was lying on your dresser. You flinched when Josh began to speak again.

“Mr. Davidson, this amounts to a net total of a $1.3 billion.”

Your voice cracked as you asked, “He’s dead?”

“He left you $1.3 billion.”

This was not the answer you wanted, so you asked again, “He’s dead?”

“Yes, but he left you $1.3 billion.” You detected not-so-subtle hints of envy in his voice.

“Good-bye, Josh.” You shook your head as you placed the phone back into the receiver and began to ascend the stairs of your two-story house. You walked into your bedroom and saw the tickets on top of your dresser. You picked them up and clutched them in your hands, as you heard another piece of paper fall onto the floor. You bent down and gave a watery smile as you observed yourself and your best friend standing in front of your high school, arms wrapped across each other’s shoulders. You quickly left your bedroom and walked downstairs, rummaging through some drawers in the kitchen. You found what you were looking for and pulled a red square magnet out of the drawer. You placed the magnet on top of the photo on your refrigerator, and you stepped back to look at it.

As you did so, a broad, yet tearful smile crept across your face.

Greg Alspaugh ‘14

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Jack Dearing ‘15

Woodshed and Truck I Oil on Masonite I 6x12

Gram Davis ‘15

The Workbench I Oil on Canvas I 16x20

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San Francisco The red paint shines through the fog Like a rebel rising out of a mob.

And the streets lope down to the bay below, For this is what I remember of San Francisco.

The rainbow tunnel greets you as you drive in, And your hat is lost to the quick, howling wind.

It’s the red and gold, the orange and black, No, it’s the feeling that I’d love to be back.

It’s the view of the sea from up on the hill, It’s the way the sun shines off the windowsill.

Or it’s feeding the giraffes down at the zoo, No, it’s looking down on the carpet of blue.

It’s the giant Coke bottle on a chilly game night, And seeing the bridge pop up on the right.

Or walking barefoot through the ice-soaked sand, And saying, “I’ll never leave this beautiful land.”

No, it’s the sweet smell of the eucalyptus leaves, And the spotted shadows of the evergreen trees, And the memories of people I used to know, Because this is what I remember of San Francisco.

Liam Higgins ‘15

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Freddie Leatherbury ‘16

Watch Out for Batted Balls I Oil on Canvas I 16x20

Huntington Williams ‘14

Study of Boxes I Oil on Panel I 10x10

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Grandad “Mash de brakes, mash de brakes!” he said, noticing that we were rolling backwards. His deep voice was loud but he wasn’t shouting. It had a kind of authoritative quality that was also reassuring. It was the kind of voice that makes a person feel that if you do what it says you will succeed. The stopping power on these old cars is terrible. “Now ease up de clutch and give it gas,” he said. The Datsun lurched forward before I gently brought it to a halt. He smiled slightly and put the car in reverse. “We’re goin’ backwards now,” he said. Again, I let out the clutch while giving it gas before gently bringing the car to a halt. Then he grabbed the gear lever and put it in first. We were sitting on a small incline. “Gas, gas, gas!” he said, but I killed it anyway. Three stalls later, I finally moved the car up the incline and back under the carport. I got out of the car smiling. I had driven a stick shift successfully (despite a few stalls) for the first time. If only I had been driving on the road! It would have been much easier than driving on this long, narrow, undulating driveway.

I followed my Grandad as we walked inside the house. It was a one-story concrete building with a two-tone beige and brown exterior and a roof made of galvanized steel. The three scarlet red steps that led up to the porch looked hot to the touch. The porch (which they call a gallery) was completely enclosed by a new black fence, which had not been there ten years ago when I first visited the country. It had the ugly resemblance of a prison cell, a testament to Trinidad’s rising crime rate. Besides the fence, everything else looked exactly the same. The two soft, flower-patterned couches still sat on either side of the gallery. Inside the big room, a faded blue sofa, a beige couch and a light brown armchair made up the living room area. They faced a small wooden table that held a television set so old that I was surprised to learn that it had a remote control.

Farther inside the room, there was a small rectangular dining room table with six chairs. All the chairs were perfectly placed around the table, as you would see in the display window of a department store, and it looked as though this area was seldom used. Surprisingly, the dark hardwood floors did not squeak as we trod over them, but they had lost their shine with age. In true Caribbean fashion, all the windows remained open. It was the only way to get relief from the 26

dry, stifling heat. There was no air conditioning.

I loved this house. Everything was simple and functional.

Although it lacked some of the comforts that we take for granted, it still served its intended purpose as a house. It was a place for the family to gather and eat and talk without the distractions of modern life. Peace and tranquility abided in that dwelling, as Grandad had already known for a long time.

In the backyard of the house, there was a garden. It produced many of the fruits and vegetables that we ate. There were coconuts, limes, lemons, avocados, and peas, as well as other items. The garden also contained natural herbs that could treat most common ailments. There were plants to reduce headache and joint pain and, I think, sore throats. Grandad, who had planted the garden in his younger days, knew everything there was to know about those natural remedies.

I had a glass of ice cold water in the kitchen while Grandad went to get something from his bedroom. When he returned, he was carrying his trusty machete which he used to do most of his garden work. He passed through the kitchen with short, quick strides. For an old man, his gait embodied a youthful vigor. I followed him outside.

Years of experience had taught him to quickly distinguish between ripened and unripened fruit. His hands moved effortlessly to collect the mature food. When he was done, Grandad sat down in a chair in the backyard and gazed over his work contentedly. He was resting in his own little Garden of Eden.

My mom came outside and sat down in a chair next to Grandad. While she was talking with him, I sat down quietly on the ground, carefully observing my grandfather. His feet, now resting on top of his shoes, looked very rough. As a youth, he had probably walked barefoot to school on unpaved roads and his feet had paid the price. Years of work at the oil refinery had roughened his hands.

His face was thin, a characteristic exaggerated when he was not wearing his dentures. Several wrinkles had been ironed into his forehead with age. Surely, these wrinkles resulted from the stress of providing for a wife and six children as a young man.

The fruits of his labor had paid off in his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren who all lived lives much better than he could have imagined. This quality was most clearly expressed in his eyes. Never before had I seen eyes like his. Deep blue in color, they resembled the color of the Caribbean Sea itself. They even glistened a little, like the sea glistens in the sunlight of a bright summer day.

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Even in the fading light of the sunset, I could distinguish the qualities of his vivid eyes. Without a doubt, his eyes were the strongest and most energetic part about him. They had large stores of zest and spirit, as well as humility and compassion. What struck me the most was what lay behind these initial qualities. Grandad’s eyes had a tremendous quality of tranquility and optimism. I was amazed how anyone’s eyes could embody such strong traits.

I wonder if those characteristics only come with old age. I have seen many pairs of eyes since that evening, but none have had the honesty of my Grandad’s eyes.

Edward Brown ‘14

Etienne Germain ‘16

Natural Springs I iPhone 4s I 35mm

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Eli Clemens ‘14

Sisterly Ghost I Canon T3 I 18-55mm

Zachary Jones ‘17

Falling I Canon T2i I 47mm

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Tyler Wakefield ‘14

Inner Harbor I Canon T2i I 28-135mm

Jonathan Yue ‘15

Sunrise Over Fields I Canon T1i I 17-85mm

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Four Disappointments I I dyed my pepper shaker and shipped it to an antique shop in Wales.

II Pulling a hamstring is not bad luck – those atoms have agendas too.

III This tree has a nice personality – no prize except for termites.

IV I might be thinking profoundly about life – or else I’m faking it.

Andrew Park ‘14

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The Jesus Shoes I put on my blue shorts and white polo, my brother puts on his blue shorts and white polo, and my sister is still in the shower. My mother begs me to put on skin shoes. I argue that sandals are also made of skin. She wants me to wear feet-covering shoes; they are required at school. I somehow manage to convince her to let me wear the Jesus sandals. I brush my no-shape-up hair because apparently I am too young to have a shape-up. Apparently, I don’t care. I don’t. My skin is all shiny with lotion. I’m looking clean. The only relationship I have with dust is that it’s my carpet. The ground is my red carpet that I elegantly pace on, careful not to get dust on my skin. Lotion attracts dust. The black, weary backpack is on my back. It has a hole in it. My sister and my brother are behind me, thinking they are as ready as me. They’re not, they’re not there yet. But we are a team. Yesterday, I found myself in a fight my brother started. We bit that kid so hard he started crying, but not in front of us. He is older than my brother but younger than me. My brother told him, “I will hit you where you won’t show your mother.” I thought his mother would tell my mother if he got hit there. My brother never hit him there. They both threw the same number of punches, so they canceled each other out. The total was zero punches. The kid ran out of luck when I joined the fight. It never hurts to have a team. Later, walking along the dirt-red carpet, we see a man in a blue shirt with a camera, so tall that he needs to duck under the sky. It’s one of those professional cameras with a big flash. And flash – he grabs the moment.

Elie Barongozi ‘14

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Theo Leasca ‘14

Returning I Oil on Canvas I 12x16

Tyler Wakefield ‘14

Downtown I Oil on Masonite I 10x10

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The Mornings After Elizabeth Bishop It was cold and windy, scarcely the day to be on the bone dry field.

The city field was far from filled like a city.

Everyone was gone, no one was there.

The season was two seasons away, yet I was on the bone dry field.

Barely able to stand I panted like a dog chasing, chasing a ball, or maybe just his tail.

I looked up to the sky, sundered, the lurking darkness of night and the emerging rays of day.

The bustling and rushing had not started, the ants were not marching, everyone was gone, no one was there, yet, swing after swing, I carried on.

I dreamed of making it, that dream that every American youngster wished for.

The diamond, dirtier and softer than the rock, but shared by many, some greenhorns, some legends.

I’d like to live there and just play, play like a kid, forever, until dinner time.

The outfield fence will be far out and short.

The foul poles will stand left and right.

The spring sun will dance off my eye black.

The mower will blow floral grass scent as it rolls ahead of its warm exhaust.

I wanted to hit a line drive deep into left field – my line drive, that Machado double – 34

set between the center and left fielder, a sort of white blur, but whiter, protected from the fielders’ gloves.

I’d like to hit there and run, or run for barely two bases, land on the second without sliding, waiting for the pinch runner to take my spot, a catcher’s line-drive double, une joie américaine.

Matthew Slodzinski ‘14

Theo Leasca ‘14

Tree I Oil on Canvas I 14x14

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John Lee ‘14

Elie I Oil on Masonite I 6x6

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Elie Barongozi ‘14

Green I Oil on Canvas I 24x18

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A Game of Chess In the cold, harsh light of a fluorescent lamp, two men play chess.

The elder, a man with tin gray hair and the waxen pallor that a man’s face takes on after a long while without sleep, painfully stretches his fingers with a wince. His opponent takes in this revealingly human action with a smug smile, before capturing the old man’s rook. This leaves five obsidian pieces behind: a king, two pawns, a bishop, and the other rook. Around them stand the frigid white bishops, knights, and the still intact royal family. The old man counters the advance of a knight with one of his pawns, and his adversary attacks with his bishop. The pawn falls, and he sweeps it from the board.

It all began with the first Automated Vaccine. Steady evolution of disease and plague brought on by social congestion and the enlargement of population centers forced the world to concentrate its funds on advancing medicine. Within a decade of the first TrillionMan Flu, bionics were on the market. Illegal nano-operators became the New Age drug trade. Health was no longer a standard, but a privilege.

The old man adjusts the glasses that perch impossibly on his diminutive nose, and feels the drop of sweat that has been sheltering beneath them. For a moment, he is almost overwhelmed by the pressure. He closes his eyes and wishes to be anywhere but here, anywhere besides this table, facing this opponent. He opens his eyes, and his gaze searches the room for something, anything to inspire him, but there is nothing, only the door, the table, and the light. He manages to capture a bishop, and, with shaking fingers, removes it from the board.

After the initial AVs, the Department of Health unrolled biotech, living operators that could think and evolve along with the virus. Things got better. New adaptable devices could be implanted that didn’t need to be replaced.

His opponent greedily goes for the kill. The pale queen zips across the board, doesn’t make a kill, but cuts off the black pawn.

Then came the P4N7, or the Phantom Cough, as it was more commonly known in flashy newsrooms and hospital waiting rooms.

Weaponized disease. Bio-attack groups emerged, taking advantage of the unpredictability of their weapons. Entire cities were shut down, and the American Federation Council unrolled the International 38

Virus Agency.

He drums his fingers on the table, and massages his temple with the other, marshaling his concentration. His opponent grows impatient, and begins to grind his teeth. His eyes roam the board, study the old man’s face, conveying his haste to end the game. He speaks, harsh and grating. “It is your move, Doctor.”

“I am aware.” The other takes a deep breath and edges the bishop forward.

Then, an amazing discovery. Scientists in a frozen lab in the Yukon who were studying newer bio-techs detected a consciousness.

With some time and federal funds, the world was presented with the prototype Self-Aware Medicines. There were vaccines that could think for themselves, that had not only the ability to adapt, but to learn and to selectively destroy.

Now the old man’s mind wanders. As his young opponent presses in with his knight, his thoughts go to the door and the room beyond it. He thinks of the room with its blinking panels and pulsing screens. There, nestled in the softly hissing sterilized air tubes and intravenous tubes, lies the patient. The old man swallows and captures the other bishop with his rook. The game goes on until the old man’s king is sequestered in the corner. His rook and bishop have flanked the remaining enemy king and queen. All other pieces watch with bated breath from the sidelines. His opponent’s eyes flicker dangerously, and the old man allows himself a smile. The expression is not wasted, and the younger man glowers back.

But the condition could not be isolated. As usage of the SAMs increased, clinics began reporting a strange condition.

Viruses seemed to have developed their own consciousness and were battling back. As the world’s illnesses became smarter, new alternatives were necessary.

The moment arrives. The old man studies the board, his stomach fluttering with relief. He leans back in his chair. “Checkmate.”

A familiar phrase, although this never helps to ease the fear of losing.

The young man nods slowly, and stands.

“Good game, Doctor.”

And so, new medicine emerged. Viruses could not be overpowered any longer. They could only be outsmarted.

With a whir, the projectors in the ceiling power down. The white pieces disappear, as does their master. The doctor stands and leaves the room.

Michael Holmes ‘16 39

John Lee ‘14

Seated Nude (after Alex Kanevsky) I Oil on Panel I 6x6

40

Tyler Wakefield ‘14

Bridge I Oil on Panel I 8x10.5

Jake Smith ‘15

Underwater Light I Oil on Masonite I 4.5x6

41

The Hunt Half a mile off solid ground the sea breeze rolls through, slowly and without hesitation, rustling the reeds, brushing the water and pushing the ducks along their way.

All undulate under this subtle suggestion, turning, shifting, sinking and rising in the slow relaxed march of the marsh.

By way of narrow canals, past alligators and stars, under trees, left, right, maybe left again?

Through clumps of mud and frustration, with gasoline wafting behind it all the way, a boat lashes and grunts through the wild.

Its engine cut, the boat glides to this intended spot, to a wisp of solid ground.

The dog jumps out.

Necessities are unloaded.

The mud presses tightly, trying to claim a boot.

I save it, for a while.

Stopping amidst an isle of reeds, we watch the rising mist and begin to wait.

With little fanfare the sun rises, revealing the brown greens and green browns of the marsh, its residents unperturbed by all but the wind.

“Git ‘em!” shouts one.

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Bang bang go all the others.

The marsh swallows the noise whole, and the gunpowder is whisked away, leaving the moment forgotten.

Trigger bounds after the blue-winged teal.

Flying towards it and then gallivanting back, here comes the pleased dog.

A breeze ruffles the bird’s feathers – royal, vivacious, blue.

And the pattern repeats itself.

Trigger’s enthusiasm never wavers as flurries of blues, greens, browns and blacks all quacking or chuckling glide and dart by.

The barrel hot and my hands numb, I exhale and so does the marsh.

I stand in its silky mud concealed by water.

The reeds around me cross over and jut into one another, leaving shapes for the mind to play with.

Lying down, I let myself be claimed by water and mud, leaving only gun, head, and boots visible.

The sharp red of shell casings adorn my surroundings.

The pale blue mug leans against a small log.

I watch a speckled belly goose fly by.

The zephyr brings me a songbird who flaunts its brilliant yellows and deep blacks.

It lands on my boot, I ask no questions.

Staring at it and he at me.

We make no formal acknowledgements.

Time stops.

I smell the rich amalgamate of brackish water and rotting things.

My heart slows and the water shifts, carrying away an empty shell past my line of sight, leaving a noticed silence.

Tom Riley ‘14 43

Steven Zeng ‘15

Hand Study I Oil on Panel I 16x12

44

Tyler Wakefield ‘14

Overpass I Oil on Masonite I 8x8

45

Elie Barongozi ‘14

Biren I Oil on Canvas I 20x16

46

Taylor Swindell ‘14

Boat I Oil on Canvas I 16x20

John Lee ‘14

Glacier Falls I Oil on Masonite I 6x6

47

Snap My tie is the first article of clothing I remove when the competition is over because it’s scratchy and the clip-on hook has been biting into the fleshy part of my throat since six o’clock in the morning when I got changed. But my outfit doesn’t matter, it’s not about the deportment and clothing like Daddy always says; who cares about that, because I won! My medal is heavy and the ribbon tickles my neck, and whenever I stop walking or talking or doing, touching it is the first thing I do. My happiness overrides the way my back aches from a long day of traveling and standing around, and I see that my ankle is bleeding from my not-yet-broken-in shoes, but even that doesn’t dampen my mood. Alright, so I only won first place out of five competitors, and it was for practice chanter, not the full bagpipes that Major Quigg said I’ll be starting in the fall, but it doesn’t matter, I still won first place. The medal has a picture of a red-haired man wearing a fancier kilt than mine on one of its sides, and I get jealous for a second, because I bet this guy has a real nice Scottish accent and funny bagpipe stories, like some of the older guys in the band. Daddy has finally worked out how to take a picture, and I do my usual smile, trying to stretch my mouth as wide as it will go so I can show all of my teeth. I angle myself so I’m looking up at the slightly shaking hands of my father, and proudly hold out my medal so it’s clearly visible. Snap.

We walk back through the field, next to the platform where I played that morning, through the competition circle where all the bands play, and past the food trucks. They’re mostly shut down now, but as always, Daddy asks if I want anything. I get a fish and chips, chuck a ton of malt vinegar on the fried goodness, and we continue walking to the car. Normally I’d complain when he tries to take too many of my french fries, but all I can see is the fat lady searching behind her desk for my score sheet, and feeling something far heavier than a piece of paper fall into my hand.

Eli Clemens ‘14

48

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