The Phoenix, 2022

2022

THE PHOENIX - GONZAGA FINE ARTS REVIEW

VOL. XXXVII

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The Phoenix

The Phoenix 2022

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Dear Reader,

x-i-n-e-o-p-h that a)s y(ou rea)d upnowris IPNHXOE

esliketh(atBhe):s oA

!r: S f (l yInG .pHnIoXe)

to rea(be)rran(com)gi(e)ngly ,phoenix; Peace and love, Peter Mildrew ‘22 Editor-in-Chief

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THE PHOENIX 2022 - Volume XXXVII EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Peter Mildrew EDITORIAL COMMITTEE Nathanael Abrails, Ret Baran, Abram Cutler, Teddy Friesz, Nick Gaston, Wilson Langkamp, JP Loyko, Chip Symington, James White MODERATOR Dr. Harry Rissetto SPECIAL THANKS Mr. Joe Ross, Mr. Matt Duffy, Mrs. Shelly Farace, Mr. Ciaran Freeman, Mr. Steve Beaulieu, Mr. Andrew Bevilacqua, Ms. Kathleen Clark, Mrs. Teresa Jackson, Ms. Mary Kate Kimiecik, Mr. Bill Pierce, Ms. Kylee Piper, Mr. Joe Sampugnaro, Ms. Sarah Strohecker, Mr. Randy Trivers, Mr. Patrick Welch, Mr. Ian Wertz, Mrs. Shannen Milletary, Mrs. Pam Valeiras, Liam Downing ‘21, Michael Kennedy ‘20, Henry Sullivan ‘20, Lucas Scheider Galiñanes ‘19, Ethan Tobey ‘19, Alex Gomez ‘18, Rylan Madison ‘18, Tommy Boyce ‘17, Quinn Aitchison ‘17, Luke Allen ‘16, Holden Madison, ‘16, Chris Hrdy ‘15, Kevon Turner ‘15, Matt Buckley ‘14, Joe Dahut ‘14, Christian Forte ‘14, Matt Druckenbrod ‘13, Dominic Plantamura ‘13, Andrew Richard ‘13, John Morabito ‘12, Aaron Clark ‘12, Daniel Sweet ‘12, Tom Robertson ‘11, Matt Weider ‘10, Johannes Schmidt ‘09, Will Felker ‘08, and all students who submitted art and literature for consideration.

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POETRY & FICTION Kadari Machen 8 Jack Ryan 9 Markeith Hogan 10 Ivan Marroquin 11 Cole Hughes 12 Richard Scott 13 Jack Ryan 14 Feisal Beidas 16 Emmett Cook 17 Andre Brooks 18 Caleb Quartey 19 CJ Wagner 20 Dominic DeBritz 21 Aidan McGee 22 Luca Rosa 23 Tad Clifton 24 Austin Lathrop 26 Connor Clark 27 Henry Dempsey 28 Wyatt Croog 29

Jack Donovan 30 Hayden Wierzba 31 Diego Diaz 32 Roman Villegas 34 Jack Ryan 35 Blake Harper 36 Johnny Bouker 37 Lucas Irwin 39 Matthew Shumaker 40 Kimani Laumoli 41 Gabriel Mallek 43 Braden Giroux 46 Alexander Reisig 51 Jack Sherner 58 Preston Burton 62 Richie Pineda 66 Enzo Bunag 70 Alex Touomou 72 Andrew LaFrankie 73 Seb Dubey 77

Cover Art: Nick Gaston ‘22 4

ART Tim Barloon 82 Henry Pilon 83 Sam Mickney 84 Jack Scandling 85 Lucas Zidlicky 86 Jack Donovan 87 Andrew Geary 88 Lucas Rohde 89 David McMichael 90 James Hrdy 91 Luca Rosa 92 Nick Gaston 93 Andrew O’Brien 94 Mason Dougherty 95 Alex Johnston 96 Ivan Marroquin 97 Nick Gaston 98 Ethan Soriano 99 Santiago Cortes-Inchauspe 100 Ivan Marroquin 101 Logan Harris 102 Locke Sullivan 103 Will Green 104 Will Green 105 Will Green 106 Will Green 107 Will Green 108 Will Green 109 Will Green 110 Will Green 111 Will Malley 112 Will Malley 113 Will Malley 114 Will Malley 115 Will Malley 116 Will Malley 117 Logan Harris 118 Tommy Bonavita 119 Lucas Rohde 120 Brady Gage 121

Nick Gaston 122 Brian Miller 123 Alex Johnston 124 Andre Barrett 125 Brady Gage 126 Vincent Caspari 127 Nick Gaston 128 Walker Cave 129 Oliver Svenburg 130 Connor Rock 131 Oliver Svenburg 132 Nick Gaston 133 Hamilton Nordwind 134 Mason Green 135 Nicholas Avalos 136 Lucas Bitar 137 Luke Dean 138 Santiago Cortes-Inchauspe 139 Bryson Moore 140 Colm Tuite 141 Ivan Marroquin 142 James Hrdy 143 Andre Barrett 144 Alex Bovim 145 Hamilton Nordwind 146 James White 147 Ethan Soriano 148 Julian Pilkerton 149 James White 150 Owen O’Keefe 151 Emmett Cook 152 Emmett Cook 153 David McMorris 154 James White 155 Charles Marsh 156 Brady Gage 157 Lucas Rohde 158 Bobby Dingell 159 Joseph Hammond Jr. 160 5

DEDICATION

A dedication is only as good as its subject, and Mr. Joseph Ross is as good as they come. Mr. Ross is the lifeblood of Gonzaga’s poetry scene; he’s dedicated his life and career to not only curating words, but exploring how words can affect the soul. An extraordinarily accomplished poet, Mr. Ross continuously strives to end racial injustice through the power of prose. Through his partnering with InLight Magazine, the Bishop Walker School, and Gonzaga’s own Poets and Writers club, Mr. Ross fosters environments of diversity, support, and poetic excellence no other person on Eye Street has managed to create. He is the epitome of a man for and with others. Thank you, Mr. Ross.

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Poetry & Prose 7

2022 PARKMONT POETRY CONTEST WINNER

Seventeen Too by Kadari Machen What would I get if I shot three and killed two?

Maybe a cell, twenty years, probably a shot to the head for acting like a fool.

With an AR-15, how would I be met?

I can’t even walk around in a hoodie without being seen as a threat.

Me walking to a protest with an assault rifle, you could only pray that I stay alive, You see, when you look like me, that’s called suicide.

But even if I made it out, surely the courtroom would be my demise.

Would the judge say the people I killed weren’t victims?

Wouldn’t everyone speak up and contradict him?

I’m seventeen too but no doubt they’d see me as a grown man.

I know they wouldn’t sympathize if I dared to cry on the stand.

If I had pulled the trigger, would strangers send me millions for my defense plan?

I think instead they would see my actions as a capital offense to reprimand.

Would congressmen offer me internships while still on trial?

If I killed two, would I be seen as a hero, like Kyle?

Will there be change or will these stories continue to compile?

Two steps forward and then we go backwards two hundred miles.

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2021-2022 GONZAGA POETRY PRIZE

If Sally Hemings was the Mother of America by Jack Ryan if Sally Hemings was the mother of America, men would not stand alone in the Declaration, but joined by two freeing words and women whose lives toiled Monticello’s dirt casket could sit behind that sunrise in the golden chair and tap a velvet glove atop that brown Resolute. if Sally Hemings was the mother of America, that dream deferred was answered as the White Lion sailed away and teenagers in Mississippi walked home with bubble gum in their mouths and a whistle in their pockets. little boys in Cleveland played with toys on playgrounds and white men worshipped that cross beneath their collar without hammering the nails into his brown palms.

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2022 PARKMONT POETRY CONTEST WINNER

Corner Store by Markeith Hogan Somewhere in the overloaded streets of Japan Lies a corner store, a seven-eleven In walks an exotic, Maybe on vacation Or perhaps lives nearby But Far from a traditional Japanese man The complete opposite, unforgettably Walking the aisles row by row Tension rises Maybe it was the shade of his skin Perhaps his sheer size, The counterfeit smile twisted Into an assumption. Because I looked Black, because I looked American To him, I must only speak English, To him, I must only act dangerous.

“Good morning” “How can I help you” his counterfeit smile Maybe it was fear talking Or perhaps instinct “Will you be buying anything or just look?” disapproval bombs the store Why am I, A black man on unconventional grounds, stared at like a terrorist?

Why do I, a bilingual human feel The unwelcomed tension in friendly territory?

Maybe that’s just how it goes Or perhaps that’s how it shouldn’t 10

2022 PARKMONT POETRY CONTEST WINNER

Reunion by Ivan Marroquin Up, up, up, and up Starting at the bottom and I’m sleepy and tired I look to my left, and then to my right We were prepared, but most of us weren’t ready The sun and heat were powering over me, but I couldn’t give up My dad made sure to hold tight onto the flowers we were bringing up This single piece of metal fought through everything in our way Chop, chop, chop The machete was our best friend We’re halfway there Up, up, up, and up Leaves and branches were flying left and right Soon we were all at the top My dad popped open the bottles I made sure that grandpa’s grave was washed and clean We were with grandpa again

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2022 PARKMONT POETRY CONTEST WINNER

Elegy to my Last Name by Cole Hughes Hughes, Who I am, Who I can become, Who I’ve been.

The half of me, often neglected, through thick and thin, has groomed me for nothing but success.

A split child, galaxies collide, creating catastrophe.

So where does that leave us now?

The milky way of love, an outcast, stranded between dishonor and acceptance.

Except this, Hughes, Regardless of distance, Forever you are me, Forever I am you.

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2021-2022 GONZAGA POETRY PRIZE

A World Without by Richard Scott Would we work in unison like hands on a clock, Or turn on each other like envious friends?

Would we allow color to divide us again, All because of this glorified green paper?

Would we begin to care about what’s on the inside like a surgeon, Or will we continue to care about color like an artist?

Would we let our past divided decide our future together, All because of an extinct background?

Would we worship tangible things like the Israelites, Or find all we need within ourselves?

Would we let our beliefs define our emotions, All because of our lost trust in a higher power?

When all I know disappears overnight, And my truth becomes a mere memory.

Will I allow my world to erode through my fingertips Or will I build it from the ground up with my bare hands?

When my back is against the wall, Where will I turn?

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2022 PARKMONT POETRY CONTEST WINNER

Ode to Willie Louis by Jack Ryan For Willie Louis, an African-American man who testified against Roy Bryant and J.W. Milam in their trial for the murder of Emmett Till. the splintering, aching oak of the witness stand pierces his unbelted khaki pants. he bears witness to a crime only punishable in the land untilled by whitney’s gin. the stare of twelve white men burns his smooth temple, wishing to replace his cross with barbed wire, the cold marble floor with the tallahatchie.

The ebony hand of God points to the bald headed man across the stand of injustice. a verdict rendered centuries before that gavel’s bang, when the white lion breached the fertile ground of a stolen land. an acquittal known to all whose yard was laced with a white picket fence and whose houses were built by a dream deferred.

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their stares speak a thousand words, not one of which is guilty.

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Muslim? In a Catholic School? by Feisal Beidas You’re Muslim? In a Catholic School?

What Are you doing here?

God? Or Allah?

Jesus? Or Prophet Isa? Issac? Or Ishmael?

They are Both Abrahamic Religions They are Both Centered around Giving to the Poor Maybe they aren’t as Different As you might think….

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Thought River Haiku by Emmett Cook like a train of thought the river flows quietly oft interrupted

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Living like a River by Andre Brooks Flowing like the never ending moments in life.

Stick your hand in; not being able to grasp anything.

Focused on something that already passed you by.

Causing you to miss what is in front of you now.

Take a moment to enjoy, to live, to admire.

To be thankful for your moments.

To live your life to the fullest now and not hope for the future.

To live your life now and not worry about the past.

To stop trying to control the current of your life.

To go with the flow and let God’s plan for you pan out.

Those who died today had plans for tomorrow and worried about yesterday.

Don’t take the water in front of you for granted and cherish the cool, smooth, wet, and calming presents it has in your life.

Learn to be comfortable when something alters your flow and ruins your momentum.

It is not about waiting for the bad to pass, but learning to appreciate the good along with the bad.

Acknowledging that with good comes bad.

While loving the water flowing through your fingers, no matter how it feels or looks.

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Peaked by Caleb Quartey P-e-a-k-e-d Peaked.

Highest point, hitting the limit, you cannot go any further Up, Up, and up you go but you hit a stop, a border The peak of a mountain, is white and crisp Climbing all the way up, you might see the abyss The ranges how high, the view how nice Look at God’s work, from the tippy tippy top The view of the birds flying around The breeze, the feeling, just the amount..

The amount that you can see, but you cannot do much Leading you to draw back down all hunched Your steps become brisk Climbing down saying tisk tisk tisk Realizing, You have p-e-a-k-e-d Peaked.

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The Beauty of the Rose Bush by CJ Wagner Indeed, i say It’s not always shades of gray In my opinion, its green and red Just like the rose bush and its head When your joyous, you’ve reached the peak of your being It’s just like the rose bush, doesn’t say a greeting When your happy, having the time of your life It’s just like the rose bush, no more strife When you playing a game, and having so much fun It’s just like the rose bush, you don’t have to run When you sit there bored, feeling empty inside It’s just like the rose bush, quick, go hide When you get a bad grade, and all hell comes through It’s just like the rose bush, it’s just like you When your shunned, excused, hated, confused It’s just like the rose bush, it’s not amused When there is war, famine, insecurity and death It’s just like the rose bush, it never has to take a breath When that you hold closest dies, never to be seen again’ It’s just like the rose bush, rotting till the end When it’s all over, and you made the wrong choices It’s just like the rose bush, a burden now hoisted Your gone, down, burning away And then it really is all shades of gray You see my friends, life is a rose bush, but you should mourn Because most of the time, life is just the thorn

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Words by Dominic DeBritz I think of what I want to say All the words form sentences in my head But I just can’t make them get on the page My mind jumbles the words and makes them grey Sitting down, trying to put my thoughts on a page The thoughts in my head morph into a wild animal, free Writing my thoughts is unnatural, like that wild animal in a cage It feels impossible to describe the mind that belongs to me Trying to analyze a passage, all for an assignment Too bad my mind doesn’t know that, it is never in alignment It feels so impossible to write down every detail that I think about I get overwhelmed easily, the words stray towards overrefinement I try to augment my thoughts so I can write something down easily And when I finally do, they are jumbled and weak The words are put together, not strong but measly And I then realize there is another assignment next week

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Stumped by Aidan McGee I can feel the words climbing up my throat, letters darting through my mind, if I squint I can almost see their formation.

My fingers twitch and hover with anticipation.

My eyes feel hollow to the world around, and the blank page I face grows closer, almost impeding my vision.

I use all my energy; I try to move the words through my body and into existence.

Should I write what I think?

Because what I think is not eloquent enough.

Should I write what I feel?

But my vocabulary is not equipped.

Should I write what I know?

When I don’t know much.

Can I write what I feel if I do not feel enough…

I feel momentarily, miniscule, not monumentally.

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The Flow of Corruption by Luca Rosa Looming, ever vast Unfathomable depths pull Consumed by abyss Ignited, it burns The flame corrupts heart and mind Willfully submit Darkness surrounding One light on the path forward Return to the veil Festering Inside Descending into the void The noise never stops The flow of water Like wind’s blade, piercing once more Movement with blank mind Reality wanes The abyssal void calls out Ready for the end

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words by Tad Clifton words can be difficult up in my head, where there is no haze i can express what i want easily without breathing a phrase words can be difficult up in my mind where there are no roads ideas need no explanation creativity freely flows words can be difficult up in my brain where there are no limits i am free to soar no one counting the minutes words can be difficult up in the sky where they can’t stop ideas words scream from inside me onomatopoeias words can be difficult up in the clouds where words are not needed we see words are a weapon and we are undefeated 24

words can be difficult deep down in our hearts where the truth is told we see words are special we need them to be bold words can be difficult

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TRUST by Austin Lathrop I stand in the doorway Cans, vegetables, behind A line, endless, in front People i do not know But trust in me to help Kind faces, yet desperate Desperate, but hopeful They look like you and me Suddenly, i see him An old friend, awaiting Yesterday I saw him We had talked at the game And now I stand in front Ready to serve my friend But still I’m wondering Why didn’t I know He needed help?

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Brothers: The Slopes of a Valley by Connor Clark To Colin, Valleys, Parallel sides that bring a land together, But also separates a land apart, Valleys.

The slopes can parallel each other, Or be complete opposites, Even though they meet in the same middle.

Valleys.

Brothers.

Two slopes that could bring a land together, Or separate a land apart.

They could parallel each other, Or be complete opposites.

Brothers.

Sometimes earthquakes happen, And the brother slopes exasperate each other.

Sometimes after a rainstorm, The slopes shine together, And make the valley even brighter.

Brothers, Valleys.

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Mosh Pit by Henry Dempsey Mosh pit Bouncing to the beat of the bass, the pungent aroma of sweat and smoke pierces my nostrils.

I look across the wide abyss of a circle.

Nameless faces of love and rage.

The beat drops.

Go. We collide with pure ecstasy.

The force of a tsunami.

Foriegn sweat seeps into my clothes, until I am soaking.

We weave and shove and slam.

A riot of aggressive intimacy.

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Flying Eagle by Wyatt Croog Flying Eagle, dawn your wings Prepare to take flight Flying Eagle, sharpen your talons Get ready to fight Flying Eagle, set your sights You know you must do what is right Flying Eagle, flee the nest It is time to take on the world Flying Eagle, fly fast and swift Push through the pain and lift Don’t worry Flying Eagle, you’ll rise again Because you’re fearless and strong Flying Eagle Don’t forget your surroundings Don’t forget your support Flying Eagle Stand Your ground Prepare to fight But remember To always Fly High

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Lake Summit by Jack Donovan You awake, stepping out onto the emerald grass, feeling the early morning dew underfoot, You look out at the lake, with the morning fog still hovering low, You see the flag flutter in the morning breeze, You walk along the rugged seawall that circles the lake, You hear the birds chirping and trees rustling in the calm silence of morning, You take a deep breath, the scent of fragrant flowers filling the air, You experience the vast beauty of Lake Summit, that is parallel to none.

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The Tale of Two Brothers by Hayden Wierzba 1.There once was a king that ruled in north france 2. His looks and his kindness flew like a dance 3. His name was Benedict, a fair name I say 4. He fought and tousled throughout any fray 5. His wife, the queen was as fair as can be 6. She stood by the king like a big maple tree 7. Although there was happiness roaming about 8. One man in particular started to rout 9. The King’s own brother got jealous and thought 10. If I steal the crown, I’ll find what I sought 11. His name was Edmund,THE DEVIL, THE LOT 12. He once lived with Benedict, but they fought 13. So back to the part where the scheme first began 14. His devious, reckless, and outright bad plan 15. He hired a thief who was feared in the land 16. For his stealth, his power, and his sleight of hand 17. His name was Severin, THE CROOK, THE SLY 18. His job was to take the crown, and to spy 19. But he had a different plan so he could gain 20. The crown was to be his, so he may reign 21. At once he set off to complete the quest 22. He would refuse to sleep and refuse to rest 23. His black horse danced in the shadows all night 24. As he rode through the darkness and into the light 25. As he reached the chateau where the king doth sleep 26. He slipt through the guards without making a peep 27. And up to the chamber where the king sleeps sound 28. Where he was going to kill, and be crowned 29. So both the king and queen were killed that same day 30. The thief became king and he was very gay 31. So the brother, so angry decided to leave 32. It is said that he still walks with sheer disbelief.

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Angelic Poem by Diego Diaz Mary is and will always be the mother of God For when she saw Angel Gabriel she was struck with awe When asked to foster Jesus no one knows if she took some time to process, But when it came time to answer she chose to say yes And when she finally birthed Jesus it brought her much happiness The Trinity is and has always been made up of three parts Each has a job and is filled within our hearts God, The Father protects us and watches over us from above Jesus, The Son is our example who we cherish and love The Holy Spirit is filled with in us, whose symbol is a Dove Judaism, kind of like Christianity’s brother We look out, respect and love one another Both of these religions have differences even though their histories are the same Judaism has a holy book, and the Torah is its name And Jesus being our savior is what only Christians claim When asked who God is, there are an infinite number of ways to reply You could say that even though we have never seen him he is still alive You could say that God’s love is maternal and paternal You could say that God’s love is everywhere, external, and internal You could say that God has been and will forever be eternal Gonzaga first opened its doors in 1821 It was founded by the Jesuits, who knew that educating young men spiritually had to be done The school was built in Washington D.C. with The Capitol being right down the street Gonzaga also has a place that is really neat It is the Mckenna Center which is a homeless shelter that offers men something to eat While in war, a cannonball caused St. Ignatius’ leg to shatter 32

On his bed he layed, reading books about Saints, his leg still bruised and battered Reading the books brought him much happiness Inspired, he gave everything he owned away to people with less All of this led to him founding the Jesuits, which was a huge success

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What Has America Become by Roman Villegas What has America become Land of the free, home of the brave Well of course I guess you can say that But can you say racist and unjust Not widely said but it’s true How many times does it take How many troubles can we face to put an end to it How many names do I have to hear in the news Un-armed innocent black man shot dead It has become a phrase heard too many times How many times does it take How long is it going to take for our protest to count How can our voice really be heard and not neglected How can we put an end to this problem How long have we had to put up with this What has America become

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splintered staircase by Jack Ryan i watched as the niña pulled ashore and shot white bullets of hate through a colored american canvas. i endured the whip from the white lion’s tail while stretching a bloodied palm to grasp that carved golden dawn in a promised land. i mended a house divided only to be given a bed outside and a key at my feet, still enchained. i listened as bullets became birdsong and as the voice of a blank canvas faded when bravery reared a brown face. i walked out of pettus’ mouth and into that golden dawn, filled with white bullets of hate building a blood staircase to the mountaintop.

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Making Jesus’s World a Better Place by Blake Harper We are supposed to be all born equal but nowadays it seems like a Civil Rights sequel Jesus said to love one another as I have loved you A lot of people say that they believe in Jesus, but they don’t see that clear view In a dream, there is always a mishap or a problem But you have to believe in it just like Langston Hughes said in “Harlem” Recently, we have been in a trance I just had to take a step back and you know, take a glance If you worship money and power then you don’t even stand a chance LET’S ALL START EATING AUNTIE ANNES I say this because Jesus has been watching, and he is disappointed Our world can be so evil and cruel, but some of it is weapon pointed What do you think you get if you take a life… a pin?

Killing our own kind such as genders, religions, and even our very own skin This is why Jesus tells us not to sin We have really been in a deep swirl We need to come back to reality and be in Jesus’ World It starts with the changing of the way that you think We can change this world one-by-one in a blink Let’s all put our minds to it Lets come together and cancel out that split Let’s inch closer and closer to the goal bit by bit And let’s make Satan throw a very big fit We need to come to faith and stop being liars Open your heart and mind with your spiritual pliers The world right now seems like a big ol’ wildfire Stop trying to be a Michael Myers And let’s turn the world into what Christ desires For God does not show favoritism - Romans 2:11 36

Bewildering Building by Jonnie Bouker As I approach a bleak looking 10 story tall building I feel my nerves beginning to build. At the front entrance I take a deep breath and assure myself everything will be fine. I enter the building, towing a large cart holding a substantial amount of white boxes. I walk through another doorway into the lobby. I look to my left and notice a woman sitting in a wheelchair with no legs, happily talking with one of her neighbors.

I think to myself “I’ve never seen a woman with no legs”. I now see this as sort of the first instance of surprise I felt within this building. After one last glance at the woman I proceeded on to a side room with an elevator located on the right side. After gathering nine white boxes I advance towards the elevator. I push the button, I hear the faint crackle as the electricity flows to summon the elevator. When the elevator arrives I step inside and a feeling of unease floods my body as if the elevator is not as safe as it should be. I brushed this feeling aside and I arrived at the third floor, our assigned destination.

I step outside of the elevator and take a left down a long and inauspicious hallway. I see the first door to our left, I knock. No response.

Knock again. No response. As I turn to walk away, the door creaks open, the harsh scent of cigarette smoke penetrates my nostrils. A man, coincidentally also in a wheelchair, sits in the doorway. I give him his box and wish him a good day. On to the next door. As I approach the door, I notice half of the hinges aren’t attached to the wall and there is a chunk of wood missing from the door itself. I go to knock on the door but it swings open before my knuckles even reach it. Before me is a man wearing nothing but an apron standing in the doorway. I hand him his box and walk away pondering what I had just seen. First the legless woman and now a man wearing an apron as a dress.

I move on to the next few doors delivering the boxes to everyone.

Nothing out of the ordinary happens until I pass a room with someone standing inside, who appears to be cleaning it out. I take a closer look inside and see nothing inside the room beside the man and three empty shopping carts. Bewildered, I continue down the hall towards the elevator. I give out our last box to whom it belongs and then walk to the elevator. I ride the elevator back down to the lobby where I am supposed to rendezvous with the rest of the people.

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Once we gather in the lobby I grab the, now empty, cart. I wheel it out behind me as I am exiting through the doorway I had entered just an hour before. While I’m leaving the building I think of how I am strangely finding myself wanting to return the next week and see what the fascinating building has in store for me. As I pull the empty cart along I realize that although I left with less than I brought, that strange and mysterious building gave me more than I could ever fit in just one cart. With that thought in mind, the anxiety I had felt earlier in the day leaves my mind, and in its place excitement for my next encounter with the building emerges.

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The Waves by Lucas Irwin Though nature does contain an infinite number of incredible aspects, none truly compare to the wonder of waves. They are often quite easy to dismiss, just splashes in the vast oceans of the world, always replaceable and gone with the blink of an eye. However, people are far too quick to overlook the beauty found in such regular things. The perfection found in each wave is truly amazing, yet none are actually perfect. Like snowflakes, each wave is different and flawed even in just the slightest way, sometimes peeling left and sometimes right. A product of the moon up above, they glisten throughout the day and into the night so perfectly that one would think it were an accident. Gradually forming in the depths of the ocean, they build themselves up with all of their might then crash down onto the shore. After their singular moment of grand glory, they hurriedly retreat back to the comforts of the vast waters, where sea creatures of every kind go about their everyday life.

What’s more, what may be a work of art by God above one day can be the most destructive disaster imaginable the next day. Immense tsunamis crash down upon cities and beaches in total massacre, destroying with no ill intent to do so. And just as quickly as they come, they can be gone the next day, leaving nothing but vast, flat waters as far as the eye can see. Surfers wait patiently by the beach upon their return, yearning for the couple seconds of thrill that can be obtained from riding just one of these waves. For whatever spectacular reason, some brave soul once decided to venture into these crashing miracles with nothing but a sturdy board, and in return found one of the most peaceful and glorious experiences known to man. How is it that such a simple thing can turn out to be such a masterpiece, both good and evil? This is just one of the many superb mysteries of the universe. And yet, we still pass by them with not a second’s worth of appreciation, knowing that there will be another one right behind.

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The Radiancy of Rain (A Relevant Reflection of a Refreshing Resource’s Resonance on Reality) by Matthew Shumaker Rain— Often hated, but truly underrated. Whether it be a calm drizzle, or a thunderous storm, it always seems to soothe the soul. Rain and sadness are often paired together, but I feel that that could not be further from what it truly would represent; rain is serenity. Rain is a shower of peace that flows from the sky, a gift from God to help us appreciate the calmer beauties in the world. Able to be seen from almost anywhere, rain is God’s simple reminder to us to seek for the messages in nature from beyond what is visible with the naked eye. All that is water starts from rain— from rivers, lakes, and oceans sprouting up from a once-barren world. While rain has the capacity to cause harm, it ultimately is good. The serenity that emanates from each drop and the associated reverberation upon its crash to the earth cannot be replicated.

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Good News by Kimani Laumoli The morning sun shone on my face. I had just woken up, and they failed to catch me. I reached into my school bag and grabbed my watch that was gifted to me from my father. I never really wore it because the leather would always make my wrist sweat, but it always came in handy.

It was eight in the morning. I only got 5 hours of sleep last night. I then looked around me. Complete silence. You could hear the second hand ticking on my watch. Ever since the apocalypse, I couldn’t catch a break.

This morning was somewhat peaceful. My stomach made a giant yelp. I was starving. All I had for the past few days was canned beans and pudding. I needed something now. I heard a few gentle rustles in the leaves.

I stood up, stretched, and checked what was going on. A rabbit! Perfect.

I reached in my bag to take out the extra pistol my older brother found and gave to me.

All of the sudden I heard a loud shotgun cock. “Drop the weapon.

Put your hands where I can see them.” It was a man. His voice was very raspy and you could tell he’s lived to see a few things. He had a very distinct voice, but I couldn’t put my finger on who it was. “Who is it?” I said. “I don’t want any trouble. I got lost from my group and I just want to meet back up with them. “DROP THE GUN.” He yelled again. You could barely understand what the man said because of the raspiness. I gave up, and dropped my gun. “Okay, can we talk face to face at least?”

“Fine.” He replied. I turned around.

I could feel my heart drop to my stomach when I saw who it was. It was Peter, Cliff’s right hand man. I noticed he had a fresh scar on his face, and was bleeding in a few spots on his arms, probably from the thorns nearby. How did he find me out here? And what did he want?

And why was he by himself? Where’s Cliff? I had so many questions, but I couldn’t get a single word out. “Wha…uh…how…” I struggled to say. Peter looked at me and asked “Where the hell have you been? What were you planning on doing?” The truth was I escaped the camp and tried to find my old group. They told me that they would be in Akron if I needed anything. I needed their help. Cliff’s camp held me and my entire family captive, and I knew they had fighters. “You were gone for two damn nights! A wolf could’ve killed you out there, and probably would’ve if you stayed one more night alone. We’re going back to the camp now.”

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He was right. I barely even survived the first two nights. A lot of running. A lot of hiding. You never know who could turn into a wolf when it hits midnight. And the wolves will do whatever it takes to kill you. I felt dizzy, and I was struggling for air. I was still stunned on how I was caught in the middle of the forest, miles away from the camp. I finally could get something out: “How did you find me?” Peter had a laugh.

“See, Sean. We know you’re a smart kid, but we’re always one step ahead of you. While our hostages are drugged, we put trackers on them, so they can’t escape. Come on. Let’s go.” I grabbed my bag, and he brought me to his UTV. On the ride back, Peter asked me “Sean. Me, Cliff, and the rest of the group were discussing. We need more people to run the camp, and we think you’d be the perfect guy. You’re young.

Smart. Quick thinker. You could ditch your family and join us. You’ll be fed better. Have clothes. Supplies. A bed. Your family is struggling to get those things, and they’re just dragging you down. What do you say?”

“Alright, I’ll do it!” Oh no. Not now. I was having another panic attack, and started to blurt whatever came out of my mouth. I could never leave my family. Not for anything. “Really? Great. You won’t regret this. I’ll be sure to let Cliff know. We all knew you didn’t need that sorry family anyways.” Come on, Sean. Say something! You don’t want this! I was sweating bullets because of the morning sun and the stress. I felt overwhelmed. I needed a plan. I couldn’t gather myself to talk. It’s like my vocal cords were shut. I knew I had to befriend them first, and maybe take over the place. I’ll show them who’s smarter. We got back to the camp, and it seemed kind of quiet, like a calm and peaceful park. There he was, Cliff, waiting for us. “Cliff,” said Peter, in an uplifting, but raggedy tone, “I got some good news for you…”

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Tuesday: Carlos 3:05 AM by Gabriel Mallek I have not slept a beat. After seeing Rashad yesterday I can’t stop thinking about taking action. I said that someone had to do something and I meant it. I have school in the morning so I try to close my eyes but there is no way I am going to sleep. I feel as if I am running off of ten cups of coffee. Well I might as well do something productive if sleeping isn’t an option. Then it came to me. If I am going to make a statement about Rashad it has to be visible. Not just some fight in the dark. Graffiti. If you wanted to get a message out about something, that was the way to go. But where? I run to my bag and grab the first can I can see without looking, and a can of black which I keep in a separate pocket. I tip toe my way down the stairs and narrowly avoid my dog at the bottom of the stairs. I throw on my paint stained white vans and walk out the door, cans in hand.

I know that the school is a seven and half minute walk after timing it on going to and from school. This was the first time in at least three months that I had been outside this late. I forgot how dark and desolate it feels. Lonely too. For a moment I forget why I am going to the school but the spray paint can in my hand reminds me. I arrive at the school and I do not know where to start. I stand still staring at the front of the school for a while. I am not sure for how long, but I remind myself that I can’t be seen so I get to work. I decided to do my tag on the sidewalk.

The streetlight nearest to me is flickering so I see that I have a bright blue, neon almost, color. For the purpose it will be fine but I would have picked maybe a yellow or red for the brightness and to pop on the tan sidewalk. I start on the far left side and with my favorite font, start to spray the top of a giant R. I paint the loop and then the legs and repeat the process until I have RASHAD. I pause to think. Rashad what?

I think oh I’ll just ask him today. I realize that one I wouldn’t have enough time, and also he would still be absent. Still absent. Rashad is absent. Absent again today. That is the perfect thing for the tag because it doesn’t attack anyone directly but it would spark conversations and opinions.

I paint is, absent, and AGAIN in noticeably bigger text then the rest and finally today and a period after it for emphasis on the last two words. I outline the words in black to make them look clean and stand 43

out, as is custom for graffiti. I stand up from my crouched position and back up to look at the entire phrase. It looks barren and needs something more. I look up at the sky and I see the moon and surrounding stars. Hundreds, maybe thousands of them. Normally in the early hours of the night stars are not visible but not now. I can see more than I can count. In black I draw a collage of stars. Typical five side ones, spiky ones, ones with many lines, and many more. I step back and move my eyes from the left to the right scanning my piece. I don’t know how to feel about it, but I know one thing. That it will be a big deal in the morning. I ran home, didn’t even take my shoes off, and went straight to sleep.

Five hours later, I arrived at school again. I am in such a trance from lack of sleep that I forget about the tag until I see it. There are at least fifty to sixty people standing around it taking photos. Some look angry, others indifferent or confused. Most prominently, I look to the far right side and I see the school principal, Dr. Sherry, with the most angry face I have ever seen him make. I ducked my head inside and I was immediately overwhelmed by the sheer amount of people in the primary lounge and cafeteria behind it. Wherever I looked there were people talking about the tag and hypothesizing who had done it. Soon the bell rings and I head to first period, English with Ms. Tracey. I share the class with Shannon who I sit with in the back row. He has his feet up on the desk, and I walk over and sit down next to him. Immediately he whispers, “It was you?”

I nodded.

“When?” he whispered “Last night” I responded, “If you get caught you’re done for.” he said.

Ms. Tracey cleared her throat three times before the class finally quieted down.

“I know you all might be focused on the graffiti at the moment but we have finals to get ready for, so let’s do it!”

Shannon leaned over to me and asked, “do you think anyone knows you did it?”

“One person” I responded, “Rashad. He knows one of my tags when he sees one” Lunchtime came and I sat at the table with English and Shannon.

As soon as I sat down English and I locked eyes and I knew exactly what he was thinking about.

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“Yeah” I said while nodding. “It was two or three in the morning, I forget exactly when” “What gave you the idea?” English asked.

“Seeing Rashad yesterday,” I answered. “I said that someone had to do something, and this is my contribution.”

I looked out across the sea of people at the numerous circular tables, still gossiping on their latest guesses on the culprit. It felt weird because I knew that I painted it, but at the same time it felt like a stranger had actually painted the tag.

After my last classes of the day, I was anxious to get home and take a nap after running on the fumes of a low quality four hour rest. Walking out the door I look at the tag and thought, “Did I overdo it? Was it really the right thing to do?”

I did not know the answer, but I knew that the situation had just gotten started.

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D-Day by Braden Giroux CHAPTER ONE: Preparation It was June 5th, 1944. We had just finished an early dinner, and had gone back to our barracks to sleep before getting ready for our jump onto the beaches of Normandy shortly after midnight. Over the past few months, we had been training tirelessly day in and day out in preparation for this day, and I knew my battle plans and strategies like the back of my hand. Still, I couldn’t help but feel nervous. The realization that in a few hours I would be jumping directly into heavily armed enemy territory from planes thousands of feet in the air had just truly started to hit me, and my mind was racing. Could these few hours be my last on Earth? Would I ever get back home and see my family again? I was ashamed to be having these thoughts. Now more than ever, I just needed to trust all my preparation, and trust my brothers. I knew I couldn’t be the only one who was feeling like this, so I decided rather than sitting on my bunk and drowning in anxiety, I would go talk to some friends in my company. I considered myself very lucky to be placed with the group I was, as I had grown tight with a few of the guys in Easy Company. Cooper Brown was probably my closest friend though. He was a tall, strong man, and honestly one of the kindest guys I had ever met. He was a good-looking guy, with brown eyes and short, wavy hair. We had spent hours over the last few months talking about home and our plans when we returned after the war, and we really did assure each other that it was “when,” not “if.”

“Coop!!” I said, “how you feelin’ ‘bout tomorrow big man?”

“Never been better. I mean, who wouldn’t be excited to land on a beach with thousands of soldiers ready to kill at any moment?” he responded.

I laughed, “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

We talked for a little while longer, debating which MLB teams we thought were going to win it all this year, as we usually did. I could tell he was nervous too. He was bouncing his knee up and down and twiddling his thumbs, which he always seemed to do when he was anxious about something. After about half an hour, we decided it would be best if we tried to catch some sleep, but we both knew damn well we weren’t going to be able to. I walked slowly back to my bunk, observing the rest 46

of the soldiers. Some played cards, some were just talking, some were writing letters back home, and some were running through cigarettes like there was no tomorrow, well to be fair, maybe there wasn’t. No matter what everyone was doing, I knew we all had the same thing on our minds. In just a few hours, we would all be in planes, preparing to make one of the biggest and most dangerous airborne assaults in recent history. I finally reached my bunk, laid down, and stared at the ceiling above me, lost in my thoughts. I mean, what else could I do?

CHAPTER TWO: The Jump “Five minutes!!! Make sure that light is green before you jump,” Sergeant Stiles said.

Sergeant Stiles was a small stocky man, no more than 5’8. He was strong as hell though, I truly think that if he wanted to, he could beat anyone in Easy Company in a fight. He was a real hard-ass, but everyone respected him for keeping them in line, whether they liked it or not.

He was a big NFL prospect at one point, but that was before he tore his ACL, everything went downhill from there. He hit a low point in his life with drinking and decided to enlist in the military, the rest is history.

Everything was happening so fast, it feels like minutes ago I was lying in my bed staring at the ceiling, and now I was five minutes away from making the jump I had been preparing for for months.

“Everyone up, NOW!!” yelled Sergeant Stiles.

What happened next was a vital part of the success and safety of everyone jumping, the equipment check. We lined up in order, I was the tenth guy in line out of the twenty total in our plane. Once we were in order, the equipment checks began. Cooper was the guy behind me, so I trusted him to make sure I was all ready to go.

Cooper slapped my back and yelled, “Good!”

I did the same to the ninth man in line, and him to the eighth, and so on. Once the last check was finished, we broke through a group of clouds and were immediately met with a hellstorm of bullets. All I could hear were the sounds of bullets ricocheting off the plane and Sergeant Stiles yelling at us not to jump before the light turned green, no matter how much fire our plane was met with. Over the last couple weeks, that instruction seemed pretty easy, but in the moment, I wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of that plane. I heard a loud boom to my right, and as I looked out the window, I saw that the engine had been hit and was now on fire. There was no doubt about it, this plane was going down, and the pilots must have known that because immediately 47

after the engine was hit, the red light turned green.

“Go, go, go! Remember your landing objectives! Goodbye and good luck soldiers!” yelled Sergeant Stiles as paratroopers began to pour out of the plane.

As it got closer and closer to my turn to jump, for some reason all I could think about were the pilots. They didn’t have any parachutes.

They were literally sitting in their coffin as its crash became imminent.

I offered up a quick prayer and then all of the sudden, it was my turn to jump. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and threw myself out of the plane into the intense rain and wind outside. I pulled my parachute the second I got out of the plane, and I certainly regretted doing that. With the amount of wind there was, I had no chance of landing where I was supposed to, and as I looked around, it seemed many others were noticing the same thing. I was immediately snapped back to reality after the paratrooper directly to my left was shot. His scream of terror was haunting, and it was something I knew I would never forget. As I looked down on to Omaha beach, I saw what seemed to be a massacre, bodies scattered everywhere over a beach tainted a terrifying red. I was supposed to land on Utah beach, but it was far too late for that.

CHAPTER THREE: Battle Once I hit the beach, I jumped behind cover, cut off my parachute, and took out my rifle. No matter how bad it seemed we were being beat, I was trained to fight, not cower behind cover, so I immediately peeked out and began taking shots towards the Germans. Their set-up was certainly intimidating, as German troops and artillery were stationed on cliffs overlooking the beach, which was littered with large steel obstacles, barbed wire, and proximity mines. I ducked back behind cover to reload, and that’s when I saw all of the boats that were a part of our amphibious attack begin to hit shore. I had made good friends with some of the people in that division, and immediately recognized my buddy Hank Walters as he hopped out of his boat. He ran on to the beach and just happened to end up behind the same cover I was using.

“How the hell did you get here?!” He asked me over the sounds of battle.

“Missed my landing spot by a bit,” I responded as I popped out from our cover to take some more shots.

He did the same, peeking out to offer his shots toward the seemingly invincible Germans, but he was immediately met with a bullet to the head. I stared in shock for a second, the reality of battle hitting all too 48

hard as my friend bled out on the ground right next to me.

“MEDIC!!!” I yelled, “WE NEED A MEDIC NOW!!!”

But it was no use, he was already dead. It would be another hour before I even tried to take another shot. I sat on the ground in shock and fear, with the knowledge that if I had taken shots any later than I did, that would have been me on the ground. By the time I talked myself into “manning-up” and taking more shots, we still hadn’t made a dent in the enemy forces. Out of guilt and shame for cowering behind cover for so long, I decided that I would fight fearlessly and put my body on the line for my country until the battle was won or I was shot dead. I quickly advanced towards the Germans, hopping behind cover for a few seconds at a time on the way. Before I knew it, I was right in the heat of battle again. The next few hours were a blur. For what felt like days, I got into a rhythm of taking shots, ducking behind cover to reload, and then repeating. Right when it seemed like the battle was finally starting to go our way, I realized that I had run out of ammunition. A feeling of panic set in as I knew I would no longer be able to effectively defend myself, or help my brothers close out this battle. I knew what I had to do. No matter how dangerous or gruesome, I had to go find a dead body and strip it of all its ammunition. I found one nearby and dragged it behind cover, and when I turned him around, I saw Cooper’s face staring back at me.

“Harrison, is that you? It looks like one of us ain’t gonna make it home after all,” Cooper whispered through staggered breaths.

“No, no, don’t talk like that, you’re gonna be just fine, just fine I promise. A medic is gonna come over here and fix you up real good, you’ll never even know you got shot. I promise, I promise,” I responded through sobs.

That’s when I saw his wounds, he had been shot what looked like three times in his torso area, and was struggling to even breathe.

He shook his head at me and smiled with tears in his eyes, “You go win this battle, and when you get home, find my family and give the letter in my left pocket to ‘em, I wrote it ahead of time just in case. Tell ‘em how much I love them, and how while I may not be here with them anymore, I’ll be rootin’ ‘em on from heaven.”

“I will buddy, I promise, I promise I will. I’m so sorry this happened to you, if anyone it should have been me. I love you Coop, I’ll never forget you,” I responded.

He smiled and looked me right in the eyes, “I love you too Harry.”

He then looked up to the sky and seemed to offer up a prayer.

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Shortly after, he closed his eyes, and with a painful smile on his face, breathed his last breath. I fought back more tears as I took the letter from his pocket, and stripped his body of ammunition. I then ran back into battle, full of anger and thirst for revenge for my best friend Cooper. After another few hours of battle, I began to hear shots fired behind the German forces stationed on the cliffs, followed by an eerie silence. A minute later, a single pistol shot rang out, followed by screams of celebration from the soldiers that flanked the Germans from behind. Everyone around me began to jump around and hug each other, but I just collapsed onto the ground due to a mixture of sadness and exhaustion.

A little while later, I felt a tap on my shoulder. When I turned around, I saw my leader, Sergeant Stiles.

“Hell of a fight, boy. I’m proud of you,” he said, “listen, I heard about your buddy Cooper. I’m sorry soldier, I could always tell you guys were close. These things are always hard, but as soldiers we need to do our best to shake it off and move on to the next battle. I’ll be praying for you and your buddy. Try to get some sleep, alright?”

“Yes sir, thank you sir,” I responded weakly.

The rest of the night was a blur, I simply went through the motions of the rest of the day, only wanting to get into bed somewhere, I had no energy or motivation left in me. When I finally got to bed, I laid down, and stared at the ceiling, just like the night before. But now, everything was different. Not only had two of my best friends died in my arms that very day, but I had to find the motivation to continue pushing on and fighting. I had to, for Cooper. I had to get back home and give his letter to his family. Even if I did get home to do that, things would never be the same. I would never forget the looks on Hank and Cooper’s faces as they took their last breaths on Earth. I would never forget the screams of anguish after Hank was shot. I would never forget what Cooper said to me before he died. All of these things would stick with and haunt me forever, no matter what I did. As I drifted off to sleep, I prayed, prayed like never before. I prayed for my best friends Hank and Cooper.

I prayed for all of the soldiers shot dead today. I prayed for the success throughout the rest of the war and the safety of all my friends still alive, wherever they were. Most importantly, I prayed that I would make it out of this living hell, get home, and deliver Cooper’s final letter to his family.

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The Godschosen by Alexander Reisig Ival: god of life, peace, righteousness, and law Valas: god of death, the four hells, and temptation Eaos: god of pain, suffering, bad luck, and curses Idoine: goddess of souls, direction, different species, and wisdom Aarhus: god of fire, war, and anger Adera: goddess of the sea, storms, and wind Monet: goddess of land, nature, and hunt Barala: goddess of the moon, night, and magic Quetexel: god of trickery, questions, education, madness, and stupidity Ventak: god of the forge, iron, and craftsmen Prelude Wandrown Harkepur had grown up an orphan, with no family, no money, just himself. The Archmage Holdwin raised him in the village of Cottonbranch. Holdwin has told him stories of heroes, dragons, monsters, and magic. However, one story was never told to Wandrown; who were his parents? In Wandrown’s sixteen years of life, he never understood who his parents were and what had happened to them. Finally, however, Holdwin has approached Wandrown and has told him to pack his essentials and scraped together what gold he had left. Wandrown now stands outside of the local blacksmith to purchase the necessary equipment for the journey.

Chapter 1: A Mysterious Task Wandrown studied his gold pouch, counting each piece. Finally, he sighed; Holdwin had become quite distant and quiet.

It had become alarming, but Wandrown trusted Master Holdwin’s wisdom. Wandrown shook his head, “save your, petty thoughts for later.” he told himself. He grabbed hold of the handle of the blacksmith’s door and entered. He was met with a gust of hot air. His untidy blond hair was swept backward, and he began coughing. Wandrown was a tall youth and somewhat muscular, with a pair of light blue eyes, the mark of a North Lovanan, where he’d hailed from as a child.

The blacksmith, Storg, laughed, “Ah ha ha, ye never get used to that, do ya boy?” Wandrown chuckled, and Storg placed his hammer on 51

his anvil, “What can I do for ya?” Wandrown smiled. “Master Holdwin wants me to purchase a few things for a journey; he says you make the best weapons around here.” Storg smiled and clapped his huge hands together, “Ah, good lad, Master Holdwins, finally sendin’ ya off?” Wandrown nodded. “Yes, sir, I’m afraid I haven’t any idea what the task is.”

Storg laughed again. “Well then, lad, you’ll be needin’ a sword then.”

Storg stepped back, studying Wandrown. “Hm. Your rather tall for your age.” Storg snapped his fingers, “I know just the blade.” He quickly shuffled toward a table and picked up a sword. The blade reflected in the fire. Wandrown smiled. “Master Holdwin was right! How much gold do I owe you?” Storg held out the sword with a grin “Anything for master Holdwin is always free.” Wandrown smiled and took the blade. It felt light yet powerful. Storg folded his arms, “Blades sharp as a dragon’s scale, she’ll cut down anything that stands in yer path.” Wandrown smiled. “Thank you, Storg; I shall tell Master Holdwin of this.” Storg smiled and tossed Wandrown a scabbard hanging off the wall, “You’ll need this too.” Wandrown caught it and waved as he left the forge.

Wandrown began to tie the scabbard around his waist when he heard a voice, “I’m sorry, child, but could I trouble you for one moment?”

Wandrown turned to see an old man with a crutch, “Good morning Torrance.” he said, smiling. Torrance was one of the millers in Cotton Branch; he always helped keep the town’s grain supply full. Torrance smiled, “Thank you, child; I have a request for you to take to Master Holdwin; there was a book that my wife, Mertle, enjoys. I would ask you to retrieve it and bring it to my house. I would do it myself, but Mertle and I must bring our crop ere the guard come for us.” Wandrown nodded, “Of course, I’ll ask Master Holdwin. Torrance nodded, “gods bless you, child.” he turned and limped away.

Wandrown turned to see a girl, an elf. She was carrying some rolls of parchment over her shoulder. He smiled, recognizing her, “Morning, Ester!” he said. Ester turned and smiled back. She set down the parchment and started toward Wandrown. Her eyes went to the sword in his hand, “Since when did you get a sword?” she asked, surprised. Wandrown laughed “master Holdwin wants me for a task.” Ester looked up at Wandrown; a tone of concern entered her voice. “What’s the task?”

Wandrown sheathed the sword, “I’m not sure Master Holdwin has been rather secretive recently.” Ester’s expression fell, “Well, be careful. I’ve heard from the guards; that bandits have recently begun attacking people, with no reason.” Wandrown opened his mouth to respond when a loud voice bellowed out. “Oi!” Wandrowns eyes focused turned to see 52

a man clad in shining armor. “What do you think yer, doin? Master Holdwin is looking for ya!” Wandrown stammered, “S-sorry, Captian Lendon.” Lendon folded his arms, his armor creaking. “Sorry doesn’t bring back the time ya wasted, kid!” Wandrown nodded silently. Lendon rolled his eyes and turned to Ester, “Ester, I told you to hurry up with the parchment! The Commander needs it, now hurry up!” Ester sighed, “Yes, Captian.” She picked up the parchment and started off, as she was leaving, she smiled at Wandorwn. Wandrown nodded back at her and turned to face Lendon. “Master Holdwin has instructed me to find ya. He’s in the library.” Lendon turned his head to Wandrown, followed Lendon, “Has master Holdwin told you what my mission is to be?” Wandrown asked, hoping for some solace from the captain.

Lendon shook his head. “Trust me, boy, if I knew, then everyone would know, though come to think of it, Master Holdwin did seem a bit agitated about this task.” Wandrown frowned. “That’s not like him. He’s usually calm, and I’ve never seen him agitated.” Lendon shook his head.

“He’s probably crammed with his work, I mean he, being an archmage and all.” They walked past a group of guards armed with swords and large shields. Wandrown thought back to what Ester said about the bandit attacks. “Captain, is it true that more bandits are attacking the roads.” Lendon nodded. “Unfortunately, there gettin’ a bit outta hand, not sure why though. Master Holdwin has ordered more patrols beyond our walls to make sure none come near us.” Wandrown nodded; he wondered what task could have Master Holdwin so agitated. They soon came to a large building, Cottenbranch’s ancient library. The library was among the most magnificent buildings in the town, second only to the Mages citadel and the Faiths Cathedral. It contained many books, including the history of Cottonbranch and the history of the Landoran empire. A pair of large torches sat at the entrance of the library. Lendon led Wandrown up the large flight of stairs toward the two imposing main doors of the Libary. “Master Holdwin is in his study; don’t keep him waitin’.” “Thank you, captain Lendon.” Wandrown said. Lendon nodded and turned back down the steps. Wandrown looked up at the two marble doors; engravings lined them; one showed a Chimera and a knight in the middle of battle, the second showed dragons and the Landoran Emporer, Ardus, locked in combat. Wandrown gripped the door handle and opened it. He was imminently greeted by an elderly elf wearing a brown cloak, the hood pulled over his head. “Ah yes, young Wandrown, welcome to Cottonbranch’s library; Master Holdwin wishes to speak with you privately. If you’ll only follow me.” Wandrown 53

nodded. “Yes, sir.” The elf smiled. “Ah yes, polite as ever, just this way.”

Wandrown smiled. “Thank you, brother Borges.” He followed the elf through the grand hall of the library. Wandrowns eyes studied the grand hall. Shelves full of books stood tall, some nearly reaching the ceiling.

Several other men and women clad in brown robes shuffled silently around the library, some carrying books and others carrying pieces of parchment. The elf ushered Wandrown past a small shelf of ancient texts and into a small room. A woman clad in brown robes, similar to Brother Borges’s, was there to greet them, “Greetings, brother Borges.” said the woman, bowing reverently. “And hello Wandrown, my you have grown.” Wandrown smiled. “Hello, sister Tel, it has been some time.”

Brother Borges bowed to Tel, “Good morning, sister Tel, we require the lift to Master Holdwin’s study with most haste.” Sister Tel nodded.

“Of course, one moment, please.” She pulled down on the lever, and the sound of chains moving filled the room. Soon a wooden plank board was pulled up. Brother Borges smiled. “Thank you, sister Tel; we won’t be too long.” Sister Tel noded, and Brother Borges and Wandrown entered the lift. Sister Tel pulled the lever once more. Wandrown felt the lift begin to descend; he coughed as he accidentally inhaled the dust in front of his nose. Brother Borges smiled. “You’ll get used to the dust.” Wandrown nodded, wiping his watering eyes. The chain creaked and rattled, and the platform soon touched the ground, sending more dust into the air. Wandrown looked, taking in his surroundings.

The hallway was dimly lit by torchlight, and the pitter-pattering of rats echoed through the hallway. Wandrown stepped off the lift, followed by Brother Borges. Borges pointed to a door at the end of the hall. “Master Holdwin is waiting for you.” Wandrown nodded. “Thank you, Brother Borges.” Wandrown turned and started toward the door. The rat’s scurrying began to grow louder. Wandrown soon approached the door.

Wandrown had only been allowed in master Holdwins study once when he was a child. He took hold of the handle and pulled; the door opened with a small creek.

His eyes were met with a marvelous sight. Several bookshelves sat next to each other, old maps dotted the walls, potion bottles were stacked neatly, a desk was placed by a wall, and several candles and parchment pieces lay on it. Wandrown stepped forward toward the desk. One small piece of parchment caught his attention. He picked it up and began to read. The parchment read, “On this day, two gods battle for control, balance forsaken, death rules overall life, one will soon restore the balance forsaken by the foolish gods, the one chosen 54

by the gods shall be named godchosen, and by the makers, light will be thy mortal realms shield-. A voice spoke, making Wandrown jump.

“Might I ask why you are late, Wandrown Harkepur?” Wandrown turned his head and looked up; a black man stood wearing blue and gold-colored robes and a small leather circlet around his head; he held a book. “Sorry, master Holdwin, sir.” Holdwin simply closed the book and placed it back on the shelf. He then turned to face Wandrown, “Time is of the utmost urgency, Wandrown, do not let yourself astray.”

Wandrown watched as Holdwin descended a small flight of stairs and started toward a box with strange designs and symbols. Holdwin picked up the box and brought it over to the desk, placing it down gently.

Wandrown looked at the box, “Master Holdwin, what is my task? I’ve still no idea.” Holdwin sighed, “Wandrown, I wanted to wait until you were older, but we’ve run out of time.” Holdwin opened the chest, “Are you familiar with the story of the god of life and god of death?” Wandrown nodded. “Yes, master Holdwin, but the faith claims it’s fake and just a lie made by heretics.” Holdwin shook his head, “No child, it’s real. The god of life, Ival, is dead, murdered by his brother Valas, god of death.” Wandrown looked at Holdwin confused, “But the faith says that life would no longer exist if Ival were to die.” Holdwin touched the parchment, “These are the latest reports from my mages; we have been testing on several dead corpses; if this research is right, the souls have not left their bodies.” Holdwin placed down the parchment, “Meaning the Valas can choose what to do with them and from what we’ve seen he’s creating an army.” Wandrown looked at the parchment, scanning it “What does this have to do with me?” Holdwin picked up another piece of parchment and cleared his throat, “On this day, two gods battle for control, balance forsaken, death rules over all of life, one must restore the balance forsaken by the foolish gods, the one chosen by the gods shall be named godchosen, and by the makers, light will be thy mortal realms shield, protector of all life. The godchosen will face trials and tribulations and may suffer and fall; only the godchosen can accept this, by their own will and none other.” Holdwin set down the parchment and waved his hand in front of the chest. The chest made a series of clicking sounds until it opened. Wandrown watched as Holdwin placed his hand in the chest in removed a medallion. It was silver, with several strange engravings that glowed purple. “It’s time you learn of your heritage, who you are.”

Wandrown nodded silently, a strange feeling filling his stomach.

Holdwin spoke, “Your father was the godchosen, a knight in Emporer 55

Ardus’s military, and chose to accept this quest. He left behind a wife and a son, you, seeking guidance and wisdom. I assisted him in his quest. However, once we reached Ival’s tomb, we were ambushed. Your father fought like a hero, but there was one man, his name was Drice, he killed your father.” Wandrown took a shaky breath, “What happened after? Did you kill Drice? Did anyone else survive?” Holdwin shook his head, “No, dear child; I was the only survivor; I brought your father’s body back, only to discover Cottonbranch had been attacked by Drice’s forces. Your mother, she, was found among the dead.” Wandrown shook his head, lowering it. “I don’t believe it.” Holdwin placed a hand on his shoulder, “Wandrown, your the god chosen now.” Wandrown looked up. “But master Holdwin, I’m the last person you should entrust this with; why don’t you take the medallion?” A shadow fell over Holdwins face. “I have.” Wandrown gave him a confused look. Holdwin sighed, “It chooses the one that carries it. If it deems one unworthy, it destroys them.” Wandrown looked at the medallion, “Why me?” Holdwin pated Wandrowns shoulder, “Its the will of the gods; we are only conduits for them.” Wandrown nodded and took the medallion and placed it around his neck. Holdwin smiled, “The task is for us to return the medallion to Ivals tomb to restore him.” Wandrown nodded, “Yes Master Holdwin, when do we depart?”

Holdwin sat at his desk, “I have some documents I must study; you are to report to Sergent Articrus for the proper training. After your training, we will depart for the city of Stoross.” Wandrown nodded, but he remembered Torrance. “Master Holdwin, one of the milers, Torrance, has requested a book. Would you know what it’s called?” Holdwin smiled and laughed, “Ah yes, it’s been some time since Torrance has requested a book. The book is called a Tale of the Rose Queen.” Wandrown nodded, “Thank you, master Holdwin.”

Wandrown entered the hallway, thinking of Holdwin’s words, “godchosen?” “Ival dead?” Wandrown’s mind raced with questions. He continued down the tunnel, his hands gripping the medallion under his shirt. Brother Borges’s voice brought his attention back. “Shall we return to the library, Wandrown?” Wandrown nodded, “Yes, brother Borges, forgive me; I was distracted.” Borges smiled, “It is of no consequence. Let us return.” Wandrown stepped onto the platform, and brother Borges clapped his hands twice. Then, the platform began to ascend.

Wandrown continued to feel the medallion. It was heavy, yet t felt light against his neck. Suddenly his vision began to become fuzzy. He 56

turned to Brother Borges, who looked as if nothing had happened.

Wandrown suddenly felt himself falling. He tried to cry out, but his voice choked up as if he’d swallowed sand. He looked down at his chest and realized that the medallion was glowing purple. His vision returned to him, but he was standing in a white flowing river. The water contained several ghost-like creatures; they floated past him, some still speaking in voices, sending chills down Wandrown’s spine. Suddenly a loud voice filled his head. “Your soul hangs in my grasp now, mortal.

Can you not see this?” Wandrown turned and noticed a large machine and realized that every one of the creatures was floating toward it. A tall, bright, purple beam emanated from the machine’s top. The creatures began screaming as they got closer to the machine, and the voice began to laugh, a demonic demented laugh, “All souls return to me; my kingdom grows stronger each passing day!” Wandrown suddenly felt the medallion beginning to pull him upward. He tried to call out, but his voice would not let him speak.

The story continues in The Godchosen by Alexander Reisig

57

Going for Gold By Jack Sherner It was winter of 1979. Less than a year from the start of the 1980 Summer Olympic Games. Will, a 17 year old boy, had been dreaming of being an Olympic athlete his entire life. Ever since he got to watch an Olympic swimming race when he was little, he had worked resiliently to achieve this goal. Will was determined, and there was nothing that would get in his way. He had been swimming most of his life, and still greatly enjoyed it. Swimming gave him a feeling that nothing else did.

While also training for swimming, Will was a good student, who focused on his academics, but not nearly as much as his swimming. He still made sure to focus on school, since he knew it was just as important.

His parents told him, “Just because you are a great athlete, doesn’t mean school doesn’t matter.” As a great student and incredible athlete, his parents were always extremely proud, especially his mom. Will’s mom had grown up swimming, and was the one who first introduced it to him. His success in swimming created a special bond between the two, since they both shared a great love for the sport. However, Will’s brother, Kevin, was not the same. Kevin, also a swimmer, was quite good, but not nearly as good as Will. The two had a close relationship, but issues always arose, as Kevin constantly felt jealous of Will. He saw the way that Will seamlessly glided through the water, almost as if he was flying. He wanted to be like Will, but knew it would be hard to get to his level. It was apparent that Will was special, as he had heard people talk about him before.

People said things like, “That kid’s got talent”, or “He is special!”

Kevin never heard that about himself, and was obviously disappointed by it. Even though Will was preparing to be an Olympic athlete, he still had to pay attention to school. He was constantly bored by his classes, and was always looking forward to the end of the day. After a while, Will would lose focus, and not even hear his teachers speaking.

His math teacher, who was known for being grumpy, would always yell at him. By now, Will knew what he would say.

“Will! Pay attention! This is extremely important.”

As startling as it was, it’s effects only lasted for a few minutes, as Will would again have trouble listening to the boring class. His best friend 58

was in this class, which did not make it any easier to listen. The two would always sit together, which made this dreaded class slightly more enjoyable. This was something that happened in the majority of his classes, and began to get tiring to each of his teachers. However, there was one class Will was always interested in. History. He loved learning about people and the way of life from the past. It was the only part of school he looked forward to. There was something about it that consistently held his attention, and made him eager to learn. His teacher had a huge part in this. Mr. Smith’s energetic personality and interactive class made a huge difference to everyone, not just Will. Almost everyone that took his class loved it. Now, they were learning about current events. The current topic was the Soviet Union. This was especially interesting to Will, since the Olympics he had been training for were going to be held in Moscow. John, a close friend of Will’s, reminded the class of this.

He said, “That’s where Will is going to swim in the Olympics!”

John knew this would annoy Will, and it greatly embarrassed him since he never liked the extra attention that came from being a star athlete.

Mr. Smith responded, “That is true! With everything going on there, I hope they still go on.”

When Will heard this, he was slightly surprised, and didn’t exactly know what he meant. The class was learning about growing tension between the Soviets and Afghanistan, and it looked like there might be a war. After Will realized this, he was startled, and very worried. He hadn’t even thought about what the current situation with the Soviet Union could mean for the Olympics only a few short months away! Will knew there wasn’t anything for him to do, so he tried to continue with his normal life.

When Will went home that day, he told his parents what Mr. Smith had said, and asked them what it could mean for the Olympics. His dad began to tell him more about what was going on.

“It seems that the Soviet Union may be…”

Will immediately stopped listening, as he was thinking of other things. All he could think about was how much work he had put into swimming, and what he would do without it. It angered him even thinking about it. As the days went on, it became more and more apparent what might happen.

When Will went on Christmas break, it was his last time to rest before the Olympics. After break, he was going to lock in, and focus on 59

what mattered to him most. Until then, he was going to enjoy his time off. Will, and especially his brother, were both getting excited for Christmas, as was everyone else. It was their favorite holiday of the year.

“Will! Will! What did you get me?” asked Kevin.

Will replied, “I can’t tell you! It’s a surprise. ” Kevin was filled with excitement, and Will laughed. While the presents were exciting, Will loved looking out the window and seeing the clean, powdery, snow, falling through the air, covering everything in sight. He loved the soft and chilling feel it gave. As he went to bed on Christmas Eve, he saw a tiny bit of snow begin to fall, and was filled with joy, looking forward to the winter scene when he woke up the next morning.

The next morning, they both were delighted by their gifts, and the large amount of snow. After opening the presents and playing forever out in the snow, Will and Kevin decided to come inside, and relax by watching a movie. When they turned on the TV, Will was stunned by what he saw.

The TV read, “On December 24th, 1979, the Soviet Union invaded Afghanistan.”

This was the last thing Will wanted to hear. Immediately, the first thing he thought of was what it meant for the Olympics. Since Mr. Smith had said that, it was all Will could think about. As the news continued to play, it was apparent that the US was against this decision by the Soviet Union. This immediately ruined the great start to Will’s Christmas Day. Although this greatly upset Will, he knew it was out of control, and nothing had happened to the olympics. Yet. Even though he realized the effect the political situation could have on the Olympics, he was determined to work harder and harder, and get faster and faster.

This determination is part of what made Will so good, and helped him get to where he was today.

He told himself, “Everything is still okay. You still have to go out there, and show everyone how hard you have worked for this moment.”

In the days following the invasion, there were more and more countries that opposed the Afghanistan invasion. Some countries, including the US were so against it, that there was talk of boycotting the Moscow Olympics with the intent of showing their support of Afghanistan against the Soviet Union. Will knew what this meant, and didn’t even know what to think. Each day, it was looking more like Will’s worst nightmare. He could not even imagine what he would feel if he didn’t participate in the Olympics. This continued for days, until March 21st, 60

1980, when Will heard possibly some of the worst news he had ever heard.

“Following the Soviet invasion on Afghanistan, Jimmy Carter has declared that the US will be boycotting the 1980 Moscow Olympics.”

When Will heard this, he was crushed. In one simple moment, all his hard work, gone. Being an Olympian was a dream of his for as long as he could remember, and now it may never come true. Again, he didn’t know what to do. Suddenly, the tears began to fall. Just like the snowflakes did on Christmas morning, not too long ago. He didn’t understand how boycotting the Olympics would have any effect on the invasion, which made him even more upset. After the US, other countries began to follow, and also boycotted. The whole thing felt like a waste for every athlete involved.

Will said to his parents, “Why?! I’ve worked so hard for this race. Now my chance at being an olympian is gone, and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it.”

They tried their best to comfort him.

“Will, we are so sorry. We all know how much you have wanted this, and how dedicated you have been. Sometimes things just don’t go your way. However, there is one thing we can do.”

When they said this, Will perked up, intrigued by what they had to say.

They continued, “If you really want to, it is possible for athletes to compete individually, without representing a country.”

Will was delighted to hear this, as there may be a chance he can compete. Even without the US behind him.

Will said, “It would not be the same, but it would allow me to accomplish my lifelong dream!”

He was thrilled. His family was excited. And everything was coming together…

A few weeks later, there he was. Standing on top of the podium after his first Olympic race, with his first ever gold medal, and a giant smile across his face. A dream come true.

61

Industrial Revolution by Preston Burton The exhausting and tireless work never seemed, constantly hearing fellow workers screaming out in agony. The toiling work of another 14 hour day in the factory was really starting to take a toll on my physical and mental health. I had already developed a consistent cough, and my arms would feel as if they were about to fall off by the time I was done for the day. It could’ve been worse though. Some of my coworkers had lost their jobs because of lost fingers and irreplaceable injuries from the work that they did. I had only recently been transferred from a water-powered factory because of lost fingers and irreplaceable injuries from the work that they did. It was a typical sight to find a young child to be missing an entire arm before they even hit puberty. After work, my mom would ask, “What’s new today honey?”

I would often reply, “Another day, another injury from another worker. The usual.”

She answered, “Man, how can they keep doing this to these poor kids. It’s not right, it’s just not right.”

“I know mom, but we need the money. We can’t pay rent if me and dad quit and took time off. We just can’t afford it right now.”

“I know, I know. But I still can’t get over the fact that your children might have to live through the same thing.

“Welp, it is what it is. Only a few more months and we can move to a bigger and better house ya know.”

“Not if your father gets hurt. You know he pulls in most of the money.”

“Don’t worry, he’ll be fine. Have a little faith mom.

She was always thinking about balancing finances and how we were going to pay the bills for rent. I never really thought about it too much though. I always did my part at work and we made it from month to month as long as my dad did what he was supposed to do. He had recently gotten moved to one of the most notoriously dangerous factories in Great Britain. People that were transferred there usually didn’t last more than a few weeks, and if they stayed, they never left the same.

Sometimes people even died on the job because of the metal particles infiltrating their lungs. The worst part is, my dad’s cough had gotten 62

increasingly severe, and left him winded all throughout the day. My mom did her best to nurse him back to health, but he was getting more sick each day. It was taking a toll on our finances and I had to drop out of school. My mom also was expecting a son in a month, which would add to the already dwindling funds in the house. It felt like our once financially sufficient family had changed to a struggling lower class family in only a few months. Ever since our father’s farm was bought out by an upper class family, we had to move to the city to find work in the factories and move into a tiny clustered apartment complex. It had only one bathroom and one bedroom with a small living room. I had to sleep on the couch in the living room while my parents shared the small bed in the bedroom. Having another child would only present more problems we had to worry about. I hated our living situation. I didn’t really understand how money worked and what taxes were, I just knew I wanted to get out of here. My dad often told me, “It’s like a prison that you gotta pay for and show up to everyday, but it’s better to live out there on the streets. At least be grateful for that.”

I always have. Whenever me and my dad came home from a hard day’s work, I would always keep our little apartment nice and tidy with mom, just to make his life a little less stressful. I really did feel horrible for the situation he was thrust in after he lost his farm. He used to be happy about tending his crops and running around with the cattle.

Nowadays, he spends his time sleeping as soon as he gets home, in a never ending process of exhaustion. On his first week at his first factory job, he lost a finger in one of the cotton gin machines because he got his hand jammed. Ever since then, he has never had the same smile or laugh. It’s almost like he lost his joy when he lost that finger. Our conversations would often go “How was your day dad?”

“The usual” he replied “Anything new when you get home.”

“Nope” “Ok, see you” “Mhmmm” He would usually chill in his favorite chair in the living room, the only piece of furniture we owned other than the pull out bed I slept on.

Despite our family and financial struggles, I tried to keep a positive attitude. Although work was dangerous for both me and my father, it was enough to sustain a three person household. It was good enough for 63

now. As soon as I got home, I helped around the house cleaning dishes.

My mom asked the usual question, “What’s new today honey?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary Mom. My friend Fred almost got his middle finger in the machine, but nothing more than that. It was honestly a pretty good day. How ‘bout you mom?”

“Same old same old,” She replied. “Your dad still hasn’t gotten home yet, I’m starting to get worried. He’s usually here before you.”

Shocked, I replied, “Wait for real, he’s always here at least thirty minutes before me, you know how he is.

“I know, and I’ve been hearing the crime rates have been rising because of the new people moving in.

“Mom, you don’t think-?”

“Let’s go take a look ourselves before we jump to conclusions.” She said hastily We left our little apartment and walked down into the dark alleyways. The air always reeked because of the smoke from the nearby factories. This made hiding in the dark far easier for criminals and shady people. We always feared that one of us could be robbed or abducted on the way home. Mom and I looked around for only a few seconds before we saw him.

“Dad!” I exclaimed. Excited that he was still with us.

“They took it.” He said quietly.

“Took what?”

“My paycheck, I was walking back home with it and someone snatched my paycheck.”

My heart dropped in my chest. Why did this have to happen to us.

We were good people who kept to ourselves. We didn’t bother anyone or do anything to get us in trouble. Why did it have to happen now, with mom expecting the baby in just a few weeks.

“Do you know what the person looked like?” I asked, trying to stay calm.

“Nope, I just looked in my pocket and it was gone.”

This is bad, we didn’t even have a description of who took the damn thing.

“Where did you go on your home honey,” Mom inquired. “Maybe you dropped it on the way home.”

“No, there’s no way, I would never forget something that important.” He replied.

That definitely was not true. When we used to work on the farms, 64

my dad would forget everything no matter what. Half the day was spent looking for a tool he misplaced or one of the cattle he would forget about putting them in their cages.

“Maybe we should go back to town and look for it, you never know.”

I interjected “It’s worth a shot.” Mom added.

He felt disrespected by the fact that he thought that his family thought that he misplaced it, but he agreed. Even he knew how forgetful he was. He finally relented.

“Fine, we’ll go check, but you won’t find it.” He said defiantly.

He always went the same way everyday. He walked through the alleys, to catch the train, and went to one of the inner city factories. That meant, we first had to look in the alleys. We all split up, looking closely for anything that resembled the crisp orange envelopes that he received every two weeks. We spent about half an hour scouring the alleyways, but we all came up empty.

“Welp, what I say, told you someone stole it from me.”

“We don’t know that for sure honey, we still have to look on the train.”

“You won’t find it there either, its gone for good, and my boss told me this was an extra special check.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“My guess is as good as yours.” He replied sadly Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw an orange slip in my dad’s jacket and I burst out laughing. My mom and dad both looked at each other concerned for a minute as they waited for me to finish.

“Dad.” I said through tears. “Check your other pocket.”

He reached into his jacket confused, and then turned bright red.

“Oh, how’d that get in there.” He said under breath.

“Well, I guess some things never change.” Mom laughed.

Then we all starting laughing as a family, and for the first time in a long time, I saw my dad happy again.

65

The Assassination of Mr. Kennedy from Secret Service Agent Rich by Richie Pineda By 11:55 Sunday morning, President John F. Kennedy was going about his typical routine of playing out every scenario that could possibly occur for the upcoming 1964 election. As usual, I was standing close by his side, keeping a lookout for any potential threats, as he played fetch with his dog on the warm Spring morning. John and his Vice President, Lyndon Johnson, fully knew that they had won the 1960 election by a slim margin. Because of this, they knew that they had to carry some states in the south in order to win in ‘64. They needed two states with a large number of electoral votes, and so far, they had only selected one.

Florida. All of John’s time was taken up by making calls to different governors and contemplating which state to pick. As he threw the ball into the distance for his terrier, he whispered, “Texas is the one. Texas is the one, Rich.” “I love the idea, Mr. President,” I replied, “Me and my secret service boys will love the heat down there.” From this moment on, we looked forward to our trip to Texas. One that I would never forget.

In August of 1960, Jackie Kennedy was about seven and a half months pregnant with her third child. She had been living in Cape Cod’s Squaw Island for the summer while her husband was doing a diplomatic tour of Europe. I was assigned to Mrs. Kennedy for the entirety of the trip, and I had a splendid time with her and her two young kids.

Just like any other day, Mrs. Kennedy was taking five-year-old Caroline and two-year-old John Jr. for their daily horseback riding lessons in nearby Osterville. However, suddenly, Mrs. Kennedy was paralyzed by pains in her back and stomach. She immediately leaned over to me and cried, “The baby is coming. Gather the children and return them to the Squaw Island house. I need to go to the hospital.” On the helicopter ride to the hospital at Otis Air Force Base, Mrs. Kennedy said to the doctor, “Dr. Walsh, you’ve got to get me to the doctor on time. I don’t want anything to happen to this baby.” Later, she continued, “This baby mustn’t be born dead.” “We’ll have you there in plenty of time,” replied the Doctor.

When Mrs. Kennedy gave birth to Patrick in the hospital, his cry was barely audible. He was delivered by cesarean section after just thirty-four weeks. As I stood at the door of the hospital room, I knew the odds of the baby making it were not high. After two long days of fighting, baby 66

Patrick was announced dead on August 9. He was only thirty-nine hours old. While I could not hear what the doctor was saying, I watched Mr. Kennedy as he broke down, crying at the words the doctor was saying. It was the first time I had seen my boss cry.

Fifteen weeks after the tragedy of Patrick Kennedy’s death, Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy were in full on campaign mode. As we were about to board Air Force One for the departure to Texas, Mr. Kennedy said that he had a big announcement to make to the whole secret service. As he stood in front of the team of three-hundred agents, he said, “Look, I can’t afford for it to appear that there’s anything between the people and myself,” he continued, “And when the agents are on the back of the car, hovering over me, it appears that there is something between us, and I can’t afford that to be the case.” I was equally disappointed as I was impressed by the President. I knew he knew better than that. However, I could not blame him for wanting to connect with the people.

After all, it was his job. From this moment on, it was clear to the entirety of the secret service that no one must be in the back of the car unless there is an emergency.

On the morning of November 22, I woke up ready to go, just like any other morning. There was nothing special about this morning. To me, it seemed as though it would be a regular day. We started the day by departing from the hotel in Fort Worth, and taking the thirteen-minute flight to Dallas. After arriving at Love Field, Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy immediately embraced all of the people who were waiting for them. My fellow secret service members and I followed our orders by standing from afar and not interfering with the interactions. The Kennedys were truly the people’s people.

Soon after, the procession left the airport and traveled along a ten-mile route that wound through downtown Dallas on the way to the Trade Mart, where the President was scheduled to speak at a luncheon.

The Kennedys were settled into their opened convertible. Since it was no longer raining, the plastic bubble top came off. The streets were packed with energetic crowds that cheered on the Kennedys. It was difficult to make out everything that was going on from the car behind the President’s convertible. As we drove into Dealey Plaza, we turned from Houston Street onto Elm Street. About one hundred-twelve feet down Elm, I heard an explosive noise over my right shoulder. Immediately, I watched as Mr. Kennedy grabbed at his throat and moved to his left. I knew something was wrong. Instantaneously, I jumped from my position in the follow-up car and ran towards the presidential vehicle.

67

As I ran, a second shot rang out. When I finally approached the presidential vehicle, the third shot was fired. This shot hit the President in the rear of the head. Mrs. Kennedy then made a motion to see what had happened to her husband. As she did this, I grabbed her and I put her in the backseat, in order to shield her from any other potential gunshots. When I did this, the President’s body fell to its left with his head in her lap. As a secret service agent, we are always taught to prepare for the worst. When I saw the President with his head the way it was, I assumed it was a fatal wound. I turned and gave a thumbs down motion to the agents in the follow-up car, to make sure they were aware of the situation.

The rest of the day is all a blur. Little could be done for Mr. Kennedy. I couldn’t help but put the blame on myself. What if I was a second faster? What if I never listened to the President’s order and I did what I was trained to do? Unfortunately, we will never have the answers to these questions. At 1:00pm, President John F. Kennedy was pronounced dead. I was with Mrs. Kennedy when she heard the news. Yet again, one of her loved ones was taken away from her. She was a mess. So was I. So was the United States of America.

Hours later, the President’s body boarded Air Force One. As I was boarding the plane, I received a message that said, “Mrs. Kennedy would like to speak to you.” I found her in the rear of the plane, near the casket. Her face was streaked with tears, and she was still covered in her husband’s blood. In the worst moments of her life, she took my hand, and asked, “What’s going to happen to you now, Rich.” I was overwhelmed by her grace. In her darkest moment, she took the time to ask me how I was. Shortly after, I watched as Lyndon Johnson was sworn in as the 36th President of the United States.

As we were close to arriving in DC, I noticed that Mrs. Kennedy was still in her pink suit that was severely bloodstained. I thought that she had not realized she was still wearing this outfit. I said to her, “Mrs. Kennedy, have you considered changing your bloody outfit? We both know there will be cameras everywhere.” Mrs. Kennedy’s response was a true representation of her character. “I want them to see what they’ve done to Jack,” she responded. In this moment, I realized just how strong Mrs. Kennedy truly was. To this day, I will never forget those words she said to me. I can still hear her whispering voice that was accompanied by pain.

On the warm morning of November 25, I prepared for the President’s funeral. As I got dressed and went through my morning routine, I 68

could not help but think about the pain the Kennedy family must have been going through. I promised myself to stay strong and not show any emotion to the family. That day, I processed with Mrs. Kennedy from the White House to St. Matthew’s Cathedral. It was just over three-quarters of a mile. For the entirety of the walk, Mrs. Kennedy wept. She wept for her children. She wept for everyone the President knew. She wept for the United States of America. John Jr. leaned over to his mother and said, “When will daddy be home? I miss him.” “He is not coming home this time honey,” Mrs. Kennedy replied, “He is in a better place.” The thought of Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy’s children having to grow up with no father deeply saddened me. John Jr. will never have someone to teach him how to drive. Caroline will never have a father to walk her down the aisle during her marriage. During the service, I stayed emotionless.

I needed to be the strength in a time of weakness. I needed to show the family that everything will be okay. Once the service was completed, the casket was carried to the cassion where it would soon be brought to Arlington Cemetery. The military presence at that time rendered a salute to the President. Mrs. Kennedy noticed that, leaned over, and whispered into John’s ear. Moments later, John threw his shoulders back, and saluted his father in the casket. During this moment, I felt a tear in my eye. I will never forget the way John Jr. spent his birthday. Saluting his father one last time.

69

Feeding Deer in Nara, Japan by Enzo Bunag I walked out of the dark, tall, building with a downward sloped roof and pointed corners in Nara, Japan, and I felt the brightness of the outdoors assault my eyes and the brisk temperature that occurs during the season of fall in Japan. Similar to what fall is like in northern America, I felt the chilly, soft breeze blowing on my face and the cool temperature of the air. Slowly, as my eyes adjusted to the light outside, I saw the cloudy, gray, overcast sky staring back at me.

“Come on, Enzo!” my dad called to me, beckoning me to follow him.

I clasped my dad’s hand tightly as he led me into a green, flat park sprinkled with wooden benches, trees bearing orange, red, and yellow leaves, and patches of dirt that deer were standing on. Unbeknownst to me, this park was a tourist attraction where tourists would feed tamed deer, and my parents decided to visit this attraction while we were on vacation in Japan. As my father led me to a nearby deer, I felt the electric jolt of pure joy and excitement coursing through my four-year-old veins and running through every cell of my body. It felt like I wasn’t moving fast enough; I was so excited to feed the deer that it was almost like time sped up around me.

When we reached the deer, my dad opened the box of crackers he was holding and handed a couple to me. Excitedly, I received them and held them out on the palm of my hand towards the deer. The deer slowly moved its head towards my hand and began to eat the crackers.

As it ate from my hand, I felt its warm, moist breath on my hand and its wet tongue licking my hand for crackers. While petting it with my other hand, I felt its rough, coarse, brown fur. I giggled, for the licking of the deer tickled the palm of my hand slightly. The smell of the deer, which is similar to the smell around horses, flowed into my nostrils. The smell was not particularly pleasant, but it was not particularly bad either; it was simply the smell of nature.

While this was happening, I glanced over to my right and saw my four-year-old twin brother. My brother was strangely grabbing the deer, with his arms up and over the torso of the deer that he was feeding.

The deer quite obviously felt unsafe, and it slowly inched away from my brother.

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“Joey,” my dad called to my brother, “Be gentle with the deer!”

After the crackers in my hand had been consumed, I saw another deer standing near us. A pang of pity went through me; I felt bad that the deer was standing all alone.

“There’s another one standing in the dirt!” I told my dad urgently.

“We’re all out of crackers, bud,” my dad informed me.

“But I want to feed the other one standing in the dirt!” I exclaimed in an even more urgent tone while frowning up at my dad in perplexion.

“Okay, Enzo. We can buy more crackers for the deer,” my dad said.

Back we went into the tall, dark building that we had emerged from a few moments before. As we fell into the long line to buy crackers for the deer, I felt a giant smile on my face. Interacting with the deer had made me happy. I was fascinated with the deer simply because of the fact that it was there and that it was a creature of nature that was tangible and right in front of my eyes. Instead of complaining as we waited in a seemingly infinitely long line, I remained optimistic and joyous; I couldn’t wait to feed more deer.

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National Identity by Alex Touomou I have a strong relationship with my national identity. As an African-American kid, I often think about my culture and background. My dad’s side, all came from Cameroon, a country in central Africa. My grandmother on my dad’s side is the person in his family I see the most.

She occasionally brings huge trays of Cameroonian food for us, she is a great cook. She also sews African clothes for both me and my sister. The clothes are made beautifully and with awesome-looking cloth patterns.

Wearing this clothing may seem like a normal thing when really it is much bigger than that. It shows that you are proud of who you are and where you come from. I am proud to be Cameroonian and when someone asks me where my name, Touomou, comes from, I am quick to say Cameroon.

As I’ve grown up, I’ve slowly started to notice that not many people know where their ancestors came from. In my opinion, it’s very interesting, I always see these stories of people going on these genealogy test websites and when they take the test, they are fascinated by who they really are. There is no such thing as being 100% “American” unless you are a Native. My mom is a mix of German, Irish and Czech, so I have many heritages that I obtain from my parents. My grandma on my mom’s side cooks a lot of Irish dishes with potatoes. She also has many Irish touches around the house. She even has a very Irish maiden name, Kehoe. My grandpa on my dad’s side has a very German last name, Maurer. He and his sister have traced their family and even found the original graves of the first of his ancestors to come to America. They even located where is Germany they came from. Your heritage and culture are a part of who you are and try not to let them go, you’ll find how much you can learn from them.

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A Day Like No Other by Andrew LaFrankie The crisp fall air had just begun to sweep through New York City.

Signs of fall reared their heads as the leaves began to turn magnificent fall colors. A slight chill filled the air on the morning of September 11, 2001.

The great hustle and bustle of the city that never sleeps came to life as usual on that Tuesday morning. New Yorkers prepared for another normal Tuesday at the office. Nobody knew it yet that morning, but the day ahead would go down as one of the worst days in American history.

Charlie Harper awoke to his usual six-thirty alarm that morning, feeling quite tired from the previous night’s shift. Charlie worked as a firefighter, currently stationed at Engine 84 in Manhattan. Charlie prepared for his day, thinking of the long twelve-hour shift that lay ahead.

More than anything, he missed his wife and daughters that morning. His demanding job took away so many moments with them. Charlie, at age fifty-five, had decided that he would retire from the service after this year.

He looked forward to more time with his family.

“Ready to go?” his longtime partner Dave Haskins asked from the other room.

“You know I always am,” Charlie replied.

Dave and Charlie started their usual morning routine, washing the firetrucks and prepping all the equipment. At that time, Charlie and Dave had Station 84 all to themselves. The hard-working Charlie kept the station in spotless condition at all times. He finished cleaning earlier than usual that morning and headed over to the kitchen to watch the morning news at around 8:50. A quiet morning with no emergency calls yet so far; Charlie hoped it would continue. Charlie flipped on the news to Matt Lauer’s familiar voice.

“Sources on the ground inform us that a Boeing airplane has just crashed into the North Tower of the World Trade Center,” Matt declared.

Before Lauer could say anything else, the emergency phone rang off the hook as calls flooded in. Charlie and Dave sprinted to get their gear on and get into their truck, speeding towards the Twin Towers as fast as they could. Sirens roaring, they made the final turn onto Greenwich Street. The North Tower emitted a ring of fire about halfway up the tower in the distance, smoke pouring out like a massive factory. The firefighters and police officers on Charlie’s radio all seemed convinced that this plane

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strike happened accidentally. The fire chief urged everyone to remain calm and get on the scene as fast as possible. Moments later, Charlie spotted a second plane heading directly for the South Tower. That second plane crashed into the South Tower in a great fireball with a bang that shook all of New York.

“This was no accident,” Charlie yelled into his radio, “we need to evacuate the whole complex as soon as possible!”

As Charlie and Dave arrived on the scene and rushed toward the North Tower, an ear-splitting roar and loud crash greeted them. A wall of ash and smoke engulfed them and the other firefighters. Charlie could not see his hand in front of his face, only able to violently thrash around in the dark and attempt to keep his bearings. The South Tower had just collapsed across from them. Screams filled the air as pure chaos ensued.

People and first responders rushed around, trying to evacuate as many people as they could or run from the scene entirely. Charlie staggered through the smoke, determined to reach the North Tower before its imminent collapse, losing sight of Dave in the smoke cloud.

As people rushed past, Charlie finally reached the ground entrance to the North Tower. He slipped inside, grateful for the break from the smoke storm. Office workers rushed past him and out the door, running for their lives. Charlie urged people onwards, remaining as calm as he could. Charlie knew the North Tower would soon collapse just as the South had. He knew he needed to assist in evacuating as many people as possible before that happened. Clutching the locket containing photos of his wife and children, he raced up the stairs. Focused solely on rescuing others, Charlie climbed without hesitation or fear. Charlie came to a point in the stairwell that appeared blocked by debris. He could hear the desperate screams of the people trapped on the other side, with no way out.

“Stay calm everyone. I will have you out in no time,” Charlie said.

Charlie made quick work of the debris, cutting a path through with his ax and brute strength. He could not feel the cuts on his hands or the heat of the debris, as he remained solely focused on getting through that wall. When he finally broke through, hundreds of office workers plunged through Charlie’s gap. More firefighters and police officers came up the stairs behind Charlie, assisting with the evacuation as best they could.

Charlie felt the building shake more violently than ever before, its base and foundation groaning under the intense stress and heat.

“The building’s coming down,” Charlie yelled, “everyone out now!”

Charlie and the other first responders rushed everyone out of the building and as far away from the Towers as possible.

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Charlie ensured everyone had gotten out before exiting the building himself. Taking cover behind Charlie’s truck, civilians and first responders alike watched in horror as the North Tower came crashing down. The collapse crushed the rest of the buildings in the complex, adding to the chaos and fear. More smoke and ash poured into the sky. Charlie emerged from behind his truck to a scene from hell.

The once magnificent sight of the Twin Towers had instantly turned into a mess of fire, ash, and smoke, like an erupted volcano. Endless ash and smoke filled the air, making it nearly impossible for Charlie to breathe. Burning embers became the only thing Charlie could smell.

High-pitched screams and crying filled Charlie’s ears, still ringing from what sounded like a bomb. Twisted pieces of metal and stone littered the ground. The ruins of the once iconic America symbol screamed out in vain, with death and destruction as far as the eye could see. This scene proved too much for Charlie, who fell to his knees. Tears began flowing like a waterfall from his old eyes.

Charlie quickly got back on his feet. Despite his grief and anger at the tragic event that had just unfolded in front of his eyes, he jumped right back into the rescue. Charlie helped with whatever he could as more of New York’s finest poured onto the scene. Charlie joined another group of firefighters who had begun the daunting task of searching the wreckage for buried survivors, crushed under the debris. As Charlie dug and listened for the sound of life, he heard a familiar voice cry out.

“Help me,” Dave cried from beneath the rubble, “I cannot move!”

Charlie replied, “Do not worry old friend. I am coming for you.”

Charlie and the other first responders finally freed Dave from the rubble after minutes of intense digging. Charlie and Dave embraced each other for what seemed like hours, each breaking into endless tears. The two lifelong friends joined the ongoing rescue efforts, helping put out fires and pull more civilians from the wreckage wherever they could. The mood of the first responders kept getting darker as they recovered fewer live victims. The sight of all the dead bodies horrified everyone at the scene. The soul of America seemed lost in that moment. As reporters began filling the area, Dave glanced into the distance, noticing something remarkable.

“What a sight,” Dave said.

A beautiful American flag stood off in the distance, planted by some of the firefighters who had responded to this tragic disaster. As the flag waved in the breeze, Dave became overcome with emotion for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. Despite this despicable crime, America remained strong and proud. This great flag showed America’s

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unity, even in the face of unspeakable evil. Not even a terrorist attack could break this great country. Seeing the flag brought Dave back to his military days, and at that moment, he experienced the same great pride in his country he had felt in his many years in the service.

After several long hours of recovery efforts, Charlie noticed a large mass of first responders gathering around a large mound of debris. America’s president, George W. Bush, stood atop this mound, megaphone in hand. Charlie came closer to hear what the president had to say but could not make out much as his ears still rang from all the loud noises he had experienced that day. Despite this, Charlie still heard the most important line the president said that day.

“I can hear you! The rest of the world hears you, and the people who knocked these buildings down will hear from all of us soon,” Bush declared.

The crowd of first responders erupted in applause. At that moment, it seemed as though whoever wanted to divide and terrorize America with these attacks had done the opposite. Charlie and Dave sat listening to the president for a little while longer, then got back to the work at hand.

This time, however, the work became much more mental than physical.

Charlie and Dave embraced fellow firefighters and police officers, as the scene before them became too hard to endure alone. Families came calling for lost loved ones, but most would never hear a response. As the sky darkened, Dave and Charlie returned home to their families. As soon as Charlie came through the door, his wife and daughters embraced him in a hug. As Charlie held his youngest daughter, Sophia, up in his arms, she leaned up to his ear and began to whisper.

“You are a hero,” she said.

The heroic efforts of firefighters like Dave and Charlie saved many lives that day. Of the estimated seventeen thousand people that showed up to work at the World Trade Center, the efforts of first responders helped save more than fourteen thousand of them. As President Bush promised, the U.S. quickly jumped into the war against terror, seeking revenge for these terrible attacks. President Bush launched Operation Enduring Freedom just weeks after the attacks, on October 7, 2001.

This Operation continues today, focusing on fighting dangerous terrorist groups like the Taliban and Al-Qaeda. The U.S. will never forget the heroic efforts of the first responders as it continually strives to honor their memory through the war on terror.

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Forge to the End - Seb Dubey I instantly felt the adrenaline through my veins and my heart started beating out of my chest. I have had this feeling in the past, but never this much. I was surrounded by my best friends, John and Paul walking back to camp when a group of five redcoats, some on horseback, crossed our path. I saw a rock big enough to hide behind and I ran as fast as I could and slid behind it. I had never been a threat on the battlefield and my bravery needed some work, but I usually do the best that I can.

I had my back against the rock with my musket in both hands, summoning the courage to fend off these enemy. I peered over the right side of the boulder and time stopped. I stared right down the barrel of a British musket about 20 meters in front of me. I could see the redcoat stare down the sight of his weapon and with every last instinct, I ducked.

The whoosh of 0.75 caliber bullet ran right past my side as I was falling backwards. I had slipped. Now, tumbling down a hill, sliding down the gravel, and into a ravine. I desperately tried to get behind a bush, but couldn’t put pressure on my left side. I had no choice but to hug against the side of the dropoff. I could hear the British soldier come over and saw him look down. Then a loud bang. I had seemed to block off all noise and totally forgot about Paul, John, and the other soldiers. I closed my eyes thinking it was the end of me. I thought about my lovely wife, Melissa, and our future children. A loud plop startled me. A redcoat was now dead. Then, there was no more noise.

“Mack, Mack!” either Paul or John yelled. They call me Mack because it’s short for McPherson, which is my last name.

“Down hear!” I yelled desperately, clutching my ankle.

They came searching for me and 30 seconds later, I saw then running towards me, worry in their eyes, fear in their eyes.

“You got them?” I asked Paul, who was the first one to me.

“They’re all taken care of. Here, take my scarf and don’t move your foot” Paul said wrapping the scarf around my ankle area.

Paul grabbed my right side and John grabbed the other, hoisting me up and helping me up the small cliff. We steal their horses and return back to camp, our temporary home. I turn back and see four redcoats fully wiped out and I thought it could have been me without Paul and John.

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That was in November, roughly three to four weeks ago. My ankle is all good now, but things with the revolution aren’t going our way. We settled at what we thought our temporary home was, but snowstorm after snowstorm kept us their. We are fifty miles away from British controlled Philadelphia. This definitely kept us aware as redcoats could appear at any moment. It is nice being around Paul and John, especially since I’ve know Paul for so long. We grew up in Boston together. Let’s just say that the generals had it made and we were left with nothing.

After we knew that we would be hear all winter, Washington was quick to build himself a nice, warm cottage. We were forced to sleep on a blanket on the ground under a telted area. A few dozen per covered area. We had plenty of food in the beginning, but now food around here is scarce. Many are sick. Many are hungry. Many are cold. And many are dead. We hear constant rumors about many things. Today word spread that we’re getting a new shipment of food, supplies that include warm clothing, and weapons. We heard this morning that Baron von Steuben of Prussia is on his way to get us in shape for revolutionary battles come spring time. I, at least, hear he is strict and has lots of expertise fighting the British army. Just another day around here. I’ll probably go on patrol with Paul. John is the best fighter out fo us three. He usually is with General Washington which is nice because I get some inside information. Last week we lost many soldiers due to frostbite. We don’t have enough warm blankets, warm food, and warm clothes. Sometimes we have soup which is nice, but food is rationed. Tomorrow is Christmas and I would usually be with Melissa. I can’t even write to her. I just hope everything is going well with her. I was drafted out of nowhere. My job was to be a messenger, but they had too many. They took me, a scrawny 23 year old, and threw me into battle. A day around here is usually slow, but we’re anticipating the arrival of the Prussian officer soon, so people are getting ready. We start cleaning our sleeping area. I don’t have much except for a pocket sized picture fo my wife. I walk around my sleeping area just tucking everything in and exit the tent.

“McPherson!” yelled Commander Wilson opening his tent and signaling me over. This was odd. I had only ever said a few words to him. The tent I walk over to is the battle planning tent where all the top commanders, Washington’s assistants, worked. I enter the well lit tent.

They had a small fire going in the middle with many makeshift models of the camp and other areas. Paul and Commander Wilson greet me and bring me over to a man with his back turned.

“General” Wilson said. My heart dropped and I swallowed a bug in 78

my throat. “This is McPherson from the 21st Militia.” The tall figure turned around and I almost fainted. It was General Washington.

“Great to meet you, McPherson” Washington said. “Your friend, Paul, says you are very smart and that things aren’t going too well for you out in battle.”

“I-I-I would say so, sir. I have a few ideas of what we can do” I said stuttering, nervously.

“Well, I got some time before Von Bueren arrives. Show me what you’ve got.” This couldn’t be real. Finally, my chance to get off the battlefield and showcase my knowledge. I tell him all about how if we adapt into a formation where cavalry comes in from the right with speed and long range shooters from the other, they won’t know how to react. Washington tells me he wants me to show him how it would work with all the men. He instructed me to work with Von Bueren when he comes. I exit the tent with a big smile on my face. Then the reality hits me again. The overall comotion was shielded from the cozy tent the higher officials stay in. I see people in the nursery, shaking and coughing. I see people huddled together for warmth and I see people carrying very heavy objects. I knew we had to get out of here.

Von Beuren has finally arrived and settled in. General Wilson brings me over to him.

“Sir Beuren. Great to have you with us. You’ll be working closely with McPherson” Wilson said before I shake his hand. I tell Von Beuren about my formations and he falls in love with them. He tells me that training begins tomorrow. I enter my sleeping area and something’s different. New blankets and new boots! They call us for dinner and there’s new food too.

Things start to look our way.

I wake up bright and early, before the sun is even out. Breakfast was a delight since it was Christmas day. Everyone was in a jolly mood, but also missed their families. I for certain am longing for my wife. I just want us to live a good, free, life.

I walk into the tent with Paul and Von Beuren is standing there, talking to General Washington. I am informed that training will begin in five minutes out on the field. Everyone starts to gather with Cavalry on the right and long shooters on the left. Von Beuren calls me over to him as the army performs countless formations and takes shots at shooting dummies. Things start to take a good turn. As Christmas day comes to a close, General Washington gathers 1,000 men to ambush the drunk, party filled, British. I decide to stay behind, but a few hours later, I hear great news. We have spies on the inside now and we brought a whooping to Philadelphia.

A few small battles here and there started happened and now we are 79

slowly creeping up to the end of the war. Von Beuren and I have been planning a final attack that wouls surely make a white handkerchief be waved.

We know they have moved most of their troops up to Yorktown and we will need to bring some of our naval ships for support. I had now come up with a big plan, similar to my first one. I just have to pitch it to General Washington and Von Beuren. Von Beuren had started to trust me after several battle victories. Although severely out numbered, luring the British to the water would allow for an ambush. We know we will have to go all out in order to win.

It is now time to enter Yorktown. General Washignton, front and center, signals for the ships to move around the cape. We all take our hiding spots behind the British barricades and we take cover in the ravine. We all sit down and wait for a long time. Some of us nervous, some of us passionate. All of a sudden, a loud thud rippled across the ravine. Shouting and gunfire occurs shortly after. I peak up and see everyone rushing the coast.

“Rochambeau!!” I yelled. Just then, a flock of soldiers dressed in blue storm at the already fighting British. That was the plan. I had yelled the code word and all we had to do was follow through. We drive them down shore all the way to the Chesapeake Bay where, Marquis de Lafayette is waiting with thousands and thousands of well rested men. Now, surrounded, the British still put up a good fight. Fighting continues for a week and Von Beuren looks quite nervous. Tens of thousands lay dead and the number only grows higher. All of a sudden, a petite man climbs up on a pedestal and waves a white cloth. Everyone drops their weapons and soaks in the moment. Had we really won? We help the wounded and pack up everything.

The British soldiers walk off in the distance, heads down, and disappointed.

On our side, smiles start to form on people’s faces as we walk back down south. Church bells ring, and people storm the streets once we reach New York. All I could think about was seeing Melissa.

Just south of New York, I walk home with pride on my shoulders. Melissa opens the door and she couldn’t believe I was alive. Now the real accomplishment hits me. I now have a country to raise my child in.

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Photography & Studio Art

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Tim Barloon

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Henry Pilon

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Sam Mickney

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Jack Scandling

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Lucas Zidlicky

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Jack Donovan

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Andrew Geary

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Lucas Rohde

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David McMichael

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James Hrdy

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Luca Rosa

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Nick Gaston

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Andrew O’Brien

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Mason Dougherty

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Alex Johnston

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Ivan Marroquin

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Nick Gaston

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Ethan Soriano

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Santiago Cortes-Inchauspe

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Ivan Marroquin

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Logan Harris

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Locke Sullivan

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Featured Collection - Will Green

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Featured Collection - Will Green

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Featured Collection - Will Green

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Featured Collection - Will Green

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Will Green - Featured Collection

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Featured Collection About the Artist: Will Green ‘22 My evolution as an artist began in 8th grade when my teacher gave me a book about travel watercolor sketching. In the past five years, I’ve enjoyed painting en plein air (outside on location), first with watercolor, then pastels, and now in oils. Plein air painting has given me the amazing opportunity to capture memories from vacations and many sunny summer days with brushes and color. Hours of practice coupled with a love of art history have made my current work possible. In college, and beyond, I hope to take on larger canvases and more complex and meaningful subjects.

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Featured Collection - Will Malley

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Featured Collection - Will Malley

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Featured Collection About the Artist: Will Malley ‘22 At Gonzaga we often encounter the homeless. It is ingrained in our curriculum that we should help the homeless as much as we can. My investigation’s goal was to show what it means to be homeless or struggling in the city. At first, I wanted to just document street photography, but as I kept taking photos, I realized I was drawn to capture the homeless and the systemic injustices that they face. I slowly started to move to capture not just the subjects, but their surroundings. I want my pictures to communicate the gravity of these individuals’ situations and speak to my audience. I hope you don’t just see photos, but see stories and hear cries for help.

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Logan Harris

119 Tommy Bonavita

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Lucas Rohde

121 Brady Gage

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Nick Gaston

123 Brian Miller

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Alex Johnston

125 Andre Barrett

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Brady Gage

127 Vincent Caspari

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Nick Gaston

129 Walker Cave

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Oliver Svenburg

131 Connor Rock

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Oliver Svenburg

133 Nick Gaston

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Hamilton Nordwind

135 Mason Green

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Nicholas Avalos

137 Lucas Bitar

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Luke Dean

139 Santiago Cortes-Inchauspe

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Bryson Moore

141 Colm Tuite

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Ivan Marroquin

143 James Hrdy

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Andre Barrett

145 Alex Bovim

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Hamilton Nordwind

147 James White

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Ethan Soriano

149 Julian Pilkerton

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James White

151 Owen O’Keefe

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Emmett Cook

153 Emmett Cook

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David McMorris

155 James White

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Charles Marsh

157 Brady Gage

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Lucas Rohde

159 Bobby Dingell

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Joseph Hammond Jr.

2022

THE PHOENIX - GONZAGA FINE ARTS REVIEW

VOL. XXXVII

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