2025 Prometheus Unbound

Spring MMXXV

Prometheus Unbound

Dear Reader, The Prometheus Unbound Team is thrilled to announce the release of our 2025 publication.

Many talented writers and artists have contributed to the longest-standing arts and literature magazine Landon has to offer.

Working with Gunnar Small, Andrew Gabron, and my fellow editors has been a rewarding experience. Additionally, having Mr. Dougherty return from retirement to guide us through the editing process—along with the dedicated efforts of our faculty moderator, Ms. Dragnich —has been an honor.

As a reminder, Prometheus Unbound serves as a platform to showcase the work of promising young writers and artist. I encourage everyone to submit their work to Prometheus Unbound for the 2026 publication.

Enjoy!

Davey Rollenhagen, Editor

Featured Works Poetry Jack Sadow '25 - If I Grow Old Aidan Eagle '27 - My Diary Millen Singh '27 - What Moment Ms. Dartha Dragnich - Hassle-Free Meal Mr. Matt Dougherty - Poetry (month) Mr. Case Anderson - Arriving in Peru

Prose/Essays/Fiction Kevin Cody '27 - Driven Rayan Anvari ‘25 - The Weight of Water Noah Aronoff ‘27 - When Winter Comes to Campus Finn Hagen ‘28 - Feral Encounter

Visual Art Oliver Bourne '25 - Teapot Zayan Khan ‘26 - Skeleton Light Study Oliver Bourne '25 - The Live Oak Rayan Anvari '25 - Japanese Street Manny Monsalve ‘26 - Luminous Muse Rodrigo Gutierrez ‘26 - Sitting in the Dark Oliver Bourne ‘25 - Sculpture Gabe Brissette ‘26 - Dune Sunset Mr. Bill Zaiser - Dumbo Mr. Bill Zaiser - Kenyan Cheetah Gabe Brissette '26 - Camel Caravan, Cover Page

Editors and Contributors Editors-in-Chief Gunnar Small ‘25, Andrew Gabron ‘25

Editors Milan Matteis ‘25, Ellis Jones ‘26, Harry Ventimiglia ‘26, Leo Iacovelli ‘26, Ross Phillips ‘26, Kai Martin ‘27, Graham Gillies ‘27, Davey Rollenhagen ‘28

Faculty Advisors Ms. Dartha Dragnich Mr. Matt Dougherty

Cover art by Gabe Brissette ‘26 Graphic design by Gunnar Small ‘25

Oliver Bourne '25 Pottery

Teapot

If I Grow Old Jack Sadow ‘25 If I grow old I’d like to have a rocking chair with a book I like to quote Playing bingo on the patio with people I know from across the neighborhood I would laugh at younger me for the long gone hair I once yearned for back at fifty I would laugh at the first worst pain in my back when I was forty And I would cry for the first of many friends I lost when I was thirty If I grow old I’d find some chores to keep me busy while humming melodious chords I’d look out the window, kids playing on my street I see myself in those kids: shuffling, shimmering, shadows of energy After I grow old I’ll die Just as those in the past And just as those in the future

To hear of nothing but sweet simmering silence I may see nothing, something, or a nothing something I may taste sugars, bitters, or a mix of void and space I may see heaven, hell, or get a trophy which says “congrats! last place” But before I die If I grow old and I can laugh and I can cry And see through my own lies that I created as a way to avoid the man I despised at the time I’d like to be happy With someone I love My health can be crappy, my money be gone But a real smile to someone Is all I can want

Zayan Khan ‘26 Pastel pencil on paper

“Skeleton Light Study”

Excerpt from Driven Kevin Cody ‘27 Many people appreciate their life. Many people are thankful for all that God has given them, or grateful for their mother’s encouraging words through hard times. There is so much good to appreciate. After all, it is so easy to recognize the good as good, to look at everything in front of you and just know how lucky you are.

However, it is impossible to have good without bad. As easy as it is to recognize good, it is just as easy to recognize the bad, likely even more so. The general consensus on the bad is that it is horrible; nobody wants the bad, obviously.

So, why is it that the bad is what people focus on the most? Social media highlights negativity, rumors spread like wildfire, and wildfires are plastered on every news channel —everyone begging the question, “Why is all this bad happening?”

Without bad, there could not be good. They are two sides of the same coin, except those halves are not split on the faces of the coin but along the short edge.

Cutting the coin right down the middle makes it so that whatever is flipped will always be half bad and half good. People only think bad gets flipped more often because their thumb is covering the good. For every piece of distress that gets pushed out by the media, there is good somewhere in the world to balance it out.

This good takes the burden of the cruel world and counteracts it, not letting the bad get out of hand.

People think that good is the baseline. “Well, if it’s not good, then it has to be bad.” Good is not the baseline though. The baseline is neither good nor bad. Having something good should be talked about just as much as the bad because they are equally noteworthy. People have become too greedy with how they live their lives. They think that with every step they take, good should be attracted towards them. No—bad will come with the good; if the bad isn’t accepted, then it only becomes worse.

Oliver Bourne '25 Ink pen on canvas

“The Live Oak”

The Weight of Water Rayan Anvari '25 I told my mom I didn’t care. When she said my dad had died, I shrugged, acting like it was nothing. “It’s fine,” I said. “He abandoned me, anyway. I haven’t seen him in almost two years.”

I watched her face, the way she flinched. I knew I was being harsh, but I meant every word. Even if they’d been divorced for five years, my mom still had some feelings for him. I could tell. I should’ve softened the blow for her, but I just couldn’t bring myself to care. He hadn’t cared about me. Not for a long time.

In truth, I hadn’t seen my dad since the divorce.

He’d failed to pay child support, and while he wanted to see me, he never pushed. I couldn’t forgive him. My loyalty to my mom was stronger than any desire I had to see him. How could I love someone who had hurt her like that? How could I let myself feel anything for him?

I threw my swim bag onto my bed and let it sit there, still packed. I was supposed to unpack and organize, but it could wait. Later that night, my friends asked me to come over. When I got there, they didn’t try to hide their worried looks. They asked me questions, like “Are you sure you’re okay?” and “Do you want to talk about it?”

They didn’t get it. I didn’t need to talk about anything. I’d deal with it later. I could just push it away and let the pool take up my mind instead.

The gym was the only other place that gave me that escape. I’d go in there, crank up the volume on my headphones, and push through sets until I couldn’t feel anything. Every weight I lifted felt like I was physically pushing away thoughts of him, one rep at a time. Whether good or bad, every rep I could see something. One rep would remind me of the time we went to Great Wolf Lodge together and had a blast, then the next would remind me of him texting me, “you only hang out with me for my money.” Between the gym and the pool, I could keep myself numb. The gym was where I could pile on all the weight, feel it on my shoulders, and somehow feel lighter when I left. It was like I could carry the pain only if it felt tangible.

At the pool, I kept my head down and tried to lose myself in the routine. Swimming was my place to disappear. The water wrapped around me like nothing else mattered. When I swam, I could forget everything—no weight, no voices, just clear, open water. Each lap was a blank slate.

I had quit my club team, but I still swam for my school. Coach Ros pushed my mom to get me back in the pool, even after I’d said I was done.

Somehow, it worked. And now, despite everything, swimming was the only place I felt any relief.

My mom still came to the meets, and this time, she sat with Coach Ros, probably telling him about my dad’s death. She thought I was sad, or maybe hurt. But I didn’t care. I’d blocked out every thought about my dad. As I stepped onto the block, I caught a flicker of something in the stands.

It was him. My dad. Or maybe a memory of him, like he was just sitting there, watching me. Not the dad I resented, but the dad I remembered as someone who cared. The one who’d bring me to practices, watch my meets, take me to buy gear, even when he was short on money. It threw me, filled my mind with a swarm of memories I didn’t want. And then I was standing on the block, just staring. The race was over before I even dove in.

I’d been disqualified. Coach Ros usually would’ve chewed me out for spacing out, but he wasn’t mad. I could feel the pity in his look, and it infuriated me.

Later, I had my 100m butterfly event. I climbed up on the block and looked at the crowd, and there he was again, sitting there, cheering. I tried to shake it off, tried to focus. Maybe this was like one of those movies where a dead parent watches over you, cheering you on to victory. I swam my heart out, harder than ever. I hit the wall and looked up at the clock—1:02. My fastest time ever. A record.

For the next few weeks, I made a ritual of it. I’d place a hand on my heart before each race, silently asking my dad to watch over me.

It was stupid, maybe, but my times kept dropping. Every meet, I swam better and faster. I told myself it was him, cheering me on.

But then came the biggest meet of the season. I’d worked for this, dropping time week after week. I was ready. I just needed my usual goggles, the ones I’d worn since I first started swimming.

They had a dark tint, like a filter, making everything seem a little muted, a little removed.

But when I pulled them out, I found they’d gotten moldy from being left packed away, just like I’d left my feelings for him. With no time to replace them, I had to use a new pair—clear ones.

Without my old goggles, it felt like I was missing a part of myself, like I’d lost the only shield I had left. The clear lenses didn’t block anything out and didn't protect me from seeing everything around me. They left me exposed. I could see the stands, the water, even my reflection in the lane line as I waited for the start. It was like I was forced to confront everything I’d tried to hide from.

The buzzer sounded, and I dove in, feeling the weight of it all in the water. Instead of feeling free, I felt tangled, like the water was pressing everything I’d ignored back onto me. The weightless emptiness I usually loved was gone, replaced by a heaviness I couldn’t shake. I hit the wall, looked at the timer—four seconds slower. I hadn’t just missed my best; I’d bombed it.

That night, I lay in bed, replaying the race in my head. It hit me that my “ritual” had never been about my dad. It had been me, trying to escape the real emotions, relying on something I didn’t truly believe in. I’d been lying to myself, holding on to a fake image, a memory that wasn’t even real. I felt ashamed. I’d been using him, the same way I’d thought he’d used me.

I glanced over at my swim bag. Still packed. It was like the bag was staring back at me, daring me to face everything I’d kept shoved away.

Slowly, I started unpacking it, piece by piece, letting each memory and emotion come out with it. I thought of the real moments with my dad— good and bad—and let myself feel the pain, anger, and even love I’d avoided.

At my next meet, I had new goggles, and they didn’t fit quite like the old ones, but that was okay. I didn’t need to hide anymore. I stepped onto the block, took a deep breath, and looked down at the water. For the first time, I saw my own reflection, unfiltered and clear. The water wasn’t an escape anymore; it was a mirror, showing me who I really was, what I’d been running from. I dove in, not to disappear but to move forward. The water felt different this time —not empty but clear, like I could finally see through it all. And for the first time, I swam for myself.

Rayan Anvari '25 Photography

“Japanese street”

My Diary Aidan Eagle ‘27 My Diary, where my thoughts spill I feel no judging Even when they may not see thrill I write what I feel What I know Not caring what others spiel As I write in my diary The pages get weaker They tear And tear Until there is only a little left They remind me of a wallpaper Slowly crumbling down Tearing And tearing Until there is only a little left My diary is like a home I can escape and roam

Until it is time To return back into the real world My diary has been with me Through time and time My diary has seen how much I changed How deeply people affect me How much I let them affect me My diary sticks with me Through think and thin In the end The diary is my twin.

Manny Monsalve ‘26 Pastel pencil on paper

“Luminous Muse”

Winter Comes to Campus Noah Aronoff '27 The wind rustles through the few remaining leaves, threatening to tear them off the stripped trees they cling to. Down below, dead leaves of all varieties crunch underfoot as one journeys through the garden, admiring the many varieties of plants still thriving in the colder months. The BAC, looming past the verdant wall, adds to the tranquility of the campus as a reminder of committed learning. The long-wilted Azaleas, whose colors once sang of spring, surround Mr. Neill’s house and perfectly cared-for yard. The amphitheater, a hidden gem tucked away behind the art building and what was once the admissions office, leaves spectators in awe of the orangish fall colors that blend so beautifully with the almost natural wooden benches. Dixon pool, covered by a thick tarp, brings back memories of the warmer months—when Landon Summer campers splashed about, and when water polo players frolicked.

Prindle Field, whose grass bent under the cleats of the US National Soccer Team just a few months ago, is now spotted by students vigilantly passing lacrosse balls during offseason, exclamations of

“Ball!” echo across the field as balls weave between each player. Goddard, the home of JV soccer and lacrosse, sits empty, hibernating until the sun shines bright and players return. The dirt pile, which now sits level with Goddard, houses construction cars and equipment for the workers laboring across the road. The tennis courts, originally located near Andrews House and the quad, sit half completed near the barn; poles rise out of grey concrete slabs.

Come spring, tennis players will lunge across the green courts, balls will fly across pearly white nets, and water will spill from Gatorade bottles to pool on the smooth ground. Footsteps rumble as distance runners navigate the track, coaches yell out times as the sprint group thunders down the flat stretch, and sand flies as jumpers fly. Finally, one reaches the quad, where Boehly, Banfield, and Freeman loom on every side, casting shade on paths and grass: the heart of Landon.

Rodrigo Gutierrez '26 Pastel pencil on canvas

“Sitting in the Dark”

What Moment?

Millen Singh '27 The cherry blossoms sprouting The water in the lake glistening The sun’s rays shining The Parthenon’s pillars standing I wish this moment was never-ending The leaves in the wind rustling The family in the park jogging The birds on the tree chirping The kids in the lake playing I wish this moment was never-ending The ducks in the water quacking The fluffy white clouds floating The beautiful blue sky gleaming The squirrels on the tree climbing Me on the park bench, scrolling.

A beautiful moment, I was never living.

Oliver Bourne ‘25 Pottery

Sculpture

Feral Encounter Finn Hagen '28 As Henry parked his car and put on his backpack ready to go hiking, he thought that this could be a new chapter of his life. He had just gotten laid off from his 9-5 desk job and needed to clear his mind. What better way than a hike, he thought.

As he stepped foot on trails of the San Juan mountains of Colorado, he was reminded of the beauty of nature, something he had forgotten being cramped up inside all day. As he walked past the debris of leaves and sticks, he thought to himself that he could turn his newfound love of nature into a job that he liked. Henry’s new future looked bright.

About one-third of the way into the five-mile hike, he saw something moving far in the distance.

Since Henry didn’t bring all his hiking gear, he had no binoculars and couldn’t see what it was, but he suspected it was a cougar. He was not too worried as cougars were common on this trail and had never attacked a human before, but he kept the possibility in the back of his mind. About five minutes later he noticed another cougar, possibly the same one, emerging from the rocky surface.

It walked closer to him, but Henry kept his calm.

The cougar was only 15 feet away and walking in the same direction as Henry. He could now see its beauty; the soft brownish coat of fur; the large limbs; and most prominently, the sharp teeth.

However, something looked off. Henry noticed that the cougar was extremely skinny and probably starving. As Henry’s discomfort grew, he started throwing rocks at the beast and screaming, and eventually the cougar vanished.

Halfway through the hike, just as Henry was forgetting the incident, the cougar returned.

This time there was a look in the beast’s eyes: bloodthirst. Henry immediately got the feeling that this time the cougar would not leave, no matter how hard he tried. The beast was hungry, and Henry was its only chance at a meal. Henry was trembling, and the cougar could feel it. The cougar was walking in the same direction only seven feet to his right, when it suddenly pounced on him. The cougar knocked Henry to the ground as his backpack flew off his back. The beast went straight for Henry’s neck, but Henry blocked it with his arm. The beast’s sharp teeth sank into his flesh and he could feel the beast’s desire to kill growing stronger, but so did Henry’s will to live.

With his other arm, he punched the beast square in the nose repeatedly until the cougar jumped off him in pain.

Henry stood up as the beast circled him, unsure what to do. He could feel the rush of adrenaline so strongly that he didn’t even notice the large gash in his arm. The beast pounced again, but this time Henry was ready. He pushed the beast, causing it to fall on its back, though it quickly got up. The beast only now realized Henry’s strength. The two circled each other for the next 20 minutes. Henry knew no one would find them at 11 o’clock in the morning on a workday. He knew the cougar would not back down, because if it did, it would starve.

Henry, the beast, and the wilderness in a standoff destined to end in bloodshed. As the cougar grew impatient, it pounced. Henry again was knocked off his feet and onto his back with the beast on top of him, but he quickly grabbed the cougar and rolled over. Henry was now on top of the beast and grabbed its neck, strangling it. The cougar was helpless; its teeth and claws couldn’t reach far enough. After one minute, Henry could see the life leaving the starving beast’s eyes. Henry felt relieved but saddened that a beautiful animal had lost its life. He walked away, badly bleeding but defiantly alive, forever carrying the weight of the encounter in his soul.

Gabe Brissette ‘26 Photography

“Dune sunset”

Hassle-Free Meal Ms. Dartha Dragnich Turns out you were someone’s great love of a life no ifs or ands about that.

But... if only you’d added a dollop more honey and steadied the uncompromising saltshaker.

But again... that wouldn’t have been your recipe, now would it?

Poetry (month) Mr. Matt Dougherty I’m walking through cobwebs, whispers of gossamer thought I brush with a finger twirl and twist and lay on a lined page where all disappears. so I shut hard my eyes, hesitate, stretch a leg forward divining a foothold, searching a grave measure, seeking the tongue of a toe in cool sand or riverbed silt a sudden surprising scent, a crashing cataract inevitable, ahead, pulls my face up toward thunder-born mist imagine, something tells me, falling, diving, into that: the only way to find the words to this poem

Mr. Bill Zaiser Photography

“Dumbo”

Arriving in Peru Mr. Case Anderson I catch my first glimpse of the Andes— A range I’ve fathomed, mythical, for two And a half decades— As we descend in early morning From 30,000 feet into Lima.

Foothill peaks poking out of the cloud cover, Interspersed dots of craggy gray In a field of nebulous white, They are silver studs haphazardly arrayed On a blank tuxedo shirt.

(Later, as we travel inland, I will see firsthand That these are nothing, mere niños To the snow-spangled, glacier-gouged behemoths That captured my attention as a boy Poring over picture maps of extreme geography.)

Around me, passengers buckle seatbelts And lift tray tables, Around me are the trappings of the present;

For now, though, I dream— Transported to the older, gentler hills of Appalachia On the Cumberland Plateau in Tennessee, I am a child myself, eight or nine years into The experience of existence, Learning of foreign cultures and ancient civilizations For the first time, Captivated by images not only of mountain ranges But also of stone ruins Whose masonry remains, in places, nearly flawless.

And one word, a country Impossibly far from home, A continent away from home, Yet existing, defiantly, stubbornly, As befits its history: Peru.

Impossibly far from home, the descent continues, unhalted—

15,000 feet: Approximate altitude of the Salkantay Pass, The apex of my trek towards Machu Picchu, Where we will find ourselves five days hence.

8,000 feet: The famed Inca ruins themselves Cloistered vertiginously above the Urubamba River, Terraces and perfectly laid stone, the works of human hands Enclosed in a green livery of mountain spires.

I recall the term andesite, an extrusive igneous rock So named for its prevalence in these parts, Learned in my college days atop the same Cumberland Plateau of my youth.

Lower, closer, nearly there: we emerge beneath the clouds, Vegetation to one side, an awakening Pacific to the other.

Lower still, and buildings, roads, vehicles— industrial Lima— The Andes gone, but I have seen them: so they remain.

Arriving in Peru, no one has told me Life is an admixture of past and present, Experience and expectation, That leads us to who we are.

Mr. Bill Zaiser Photography

“Kenyan Cheetah”

“Every art of mankind comes from Prometheus.”

—Aeschylus, Prometheus Bound 456 BCE