Prometheus Unbound 2026 Edition

Prometheus Unbound

Spring MMXXVI

Dear Reader, This year, the Prometheus Unbound team has worked diligently to review all creative works submitted by our talented authors and artists.

The 2026 publication features some of the best of the best that Landon students have to offer.

Harrison Ventimiglia and Ellis Jones have done a phenomenal job leading the process, as have my fellow editors working to ensure every piece has been reviewed. Mr. Dougherty and Ms. Dragnich’s input has been valuable, and we have had an enriching experience working on this year’s magazine together.

We are proud to present to you this year’s edition of Landon’s official literary and art magazine, and I hope you will all consider submitting your own works for the 2027 edition of the publication!

Kai Martin, Editor

Featured works Poetry Sebastian Barahona ’26 - An Ode To An Olive Branch Nathan Cantor ’27 - Snowy Release Brooks Eynon ’29 - Small Life Millen Singh ’27 - The Beautiful Rainfall Mr. Matt Dougherty - Summer 1959

Prose/Essays/Fiction Cyrus Akhavan ’28 - Kallar’s Lament James Jamison ’29 - Till Death Eliot Christensen ’28 - A Sea of Slipping Sand Everett Mascott ’27 - My Experience With Grief Ms. Dartha Dragnich - What’s The Plan?

Visual Art Kirtan Buchwald ’27 - Gaze Everett Mascott ’27 - Farewell, For Now Mac Imperatore ’27 - Mornings in Chamonix Jack Greissing ’28 - Alpine Christmas Kirtan Buchwald ’27 - Stillness in the Wild Adam Ravitz ’29 - Starry Evening Mac Imperatore ’27 - Sunlit Silence Jack Greissing ’28 - Pumpkin Jack Greissing ’28 - Seaside Morning Sam Dillon ’29 - Balloon animal Rodrigo Gutierrez ’26 - Hooded Face, Cover Page

Editors and contributors Editors-in-chief Harry Ventimiglia ’26 and Ellis Jones ’26

Editors 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 Rodrigo Gutierrez ’26 Graphic design by Harry Ventimiglia ’26

Kirtan Buchwald ’27 Colored pencil

Gaze

An Ode to An Olive Branch Sebastian Barahona ’26 To: My neighborly Fig leaves, Will you remember me When time ferments, and figs turn to vinegar?

Soon, I know your vineyard will be found I, too, will then belong Afar, in a different cellar from yours But my cherub mind still buds “The fields are greener there,” what if I like mine more yellow?

Fate has placed our fruit in different orchards a thousand miles away.

For now, we laugh, we dance, we play, we gaze a wine a dozen in our forever intercropped fields At the eternal golden hour of our binding plantation.

You know it will be over soon, don’t you?

We tend to a box of chocolate-covered dates With every smile,

and every embrace

Do you smile at me as I do at you?

When our fruit falls, will they roll the same way?

Will olive oil and vinegar for once mix?

For that, I dream so.

May you never forget the forever ripe words.

From: The heart of your beloved Olive branch.

Everett Mascott ’27 Oil painting on a wooden plank

Farewell, For Now

Excerpt From Kallar’s Lament Cyrus Akhavan ’28 The remnants of ragged banners, once adorned with intricate symbols, desperately clung to the windswept fortress. The corpse of each rotted cloth strip fluttered in the violent, screaming wind, desperate to survive atop the remnants of the onceformidable structure. Alas, those who truly knew the wind would know that its seemingly vicious temperament could also be an ever-calming lullaby.

A trained eye would know how the wind could carefully caress each stumpy tower of the noble fortress as a mother would caress its child, helping to further camouflage it into the dark-grey mountain rock from which it protruded. Each imperfection was seemingly intentional, carved under the tutelage of craftsmen from far-flung lands to best suit whatever master owned this formerly noble fief.

Kallar stroked his coarse reddish-orange hair as he looked upon the windswept fortress, his fortress , one final time. He remembered the days when these motley fortifications and the unassuming mountains surrounding them once hosted a bustling settlement filled with craftsmen knowledgeable in almost every trade imaginable.

Alas, these were merely memories. Stories for the old and well-travelled to spout in between mouthfuls of stew after long days of brutal haggling in the steaming markets of much more impressive settlements true cities. Once upon a time, perhaps when his ancestors ruled this fortress, it was an equal to the greatest of these cities. But now… now it was a mere heap of rubble.

Kallar took a deep, hearty breath, trying to bring down the immense anger that ferociously boiled from within his gut, barely holding down his rage enough to keep his composure. Such rage was not acceptable for such a man of noble Hephthalite stock, no less a Shah.

However, a new thought quickly appeared in his mind, beckoning the downtrodden ruler to more immediate thoughts.

Mac Imperatore ’27 Oil on canvasium Mack

Mornings in Chamonix

Snowy Release Nathan Cantor ’27 I awake on a cold winter day As light shines into my room.

Around my quarters I do survey And I experience a sense of doom, When I realize that it’s a Monday.

I roll out of bed And prepare for school, I look outside and shake my head.

I think to myself, “Oh my, how cool!”

Snow is coming down in a flurry And has already covered the ground.

I run downstairs in a hurry And go to the family lounge.

The fireplace is already lit, The television is yet playing.

I explode into an excited fit And cease my praying.

For today school is no more A snow day is the cause.

I run out the front door To enjoy wintery fun with no pause.

Jack Greissing ’28 Oil on canvas

Alpine Christmas

Till Death James Jamison ’29 The autumnal winds swept through the lively downtown streets, sending a shiver down Bacia’s spine as she braced against the sharp chill – a biting cold that had become more and more familiar as time went on. Although this time of year had always been frigid, the winds now seemed purposefully glacial and violent. It was as if nature itself circled her vulnerability. Nevertheless, she knew deep within her heart that this feeling was purely due to her late husband’s absence. Even though they had different views on important matters such as starting a family so young, he was all she knew; his love had kept the cold away. So, she quietly continued her trek through the cold to her late husband’s favorite café, where they met all those years ago, in search of warmth.

As Bacia walked, she tried to take in the crowd’s vivacious spirit while reminiscing. Despite the infectious happiness that surged around her, she could only watch, hoping to get a taste of the surrounding energy. However, she could only think.

Think of all the promises and plans that would never be fulfilled. The dreams, wishes, highs and lows.

How he left her.

How could he just leave? How could he do that to me? she thought to herself, before swiftly pulling herself together as her temper rose. Instead, she focused on the spiraling mottled leaves and the children’s booming laughter, children that could’ve been hers. Everything caught her eye as she walked.

Since he’d been gone, she’d often find herself paying much closer attention to the world around her. Despite her search for joy, all she found were harsh reminders of her reality as the bone-chilling breeze tugged at her coat.

As if drawn by memory more than her own will, Bacia pushed open the café doors, embracing the familiar environment and quickly skimming for similarities. It was exactly how she remembered.

Lively. Bustling. Homely even. It seemed as though the entire neighborhood had retreated into the small, sweet-smelling space. She paused, attempting to enjoy the warmth despite the cold embedding itself deep into her bones. Bacia carefully tried to navigate through the dense crowd but nevertheless she tripped over a fallen scone. Luckily a tall, wiry man was there to catch her as she fell. His movement was smooth and almost instinctual. As he helped her stand tall once more, their eyes locked and she felt a familiar flood of butterflies erupt in her chest. Was this what she was searching for?

Connection? Love? No.

She silenced her thoughts, both disappointed and disgusted with herself, for thinking like this so soon after his death. Is this what she had come to?

Jumping with ease from man to man? Would she ever trust herself in a relationship again after the fight?

“Are you alright?” The man asked.

“Oh. Yeah, I’m fine,” Bacia began awkwardly.

“Thank you for catching me.”

“It’s no problem, really,” he said as he carefully scanned her. “Are you sure you’re all right? I noticed some pretty bad bruises on your arm—” “Don’t worry about those,” she interrupted, but began again, her tone lighter. “Those are pretty old… I’m just really clumsy.” Her words jumbled, yet her message still came through. “Sorry, I’m not usually this uncoordinated.”

“Well, I’m about to place an order. What would you like?”

“Oh uhm… I’m not really thirsty.”

“Really? This isn’t really the kind of coffee shop you go to for a quiet study session,” he commented, pointing out the echoing chatter.

She chuckled. “I’ll have an iced Americano.”

“Coming right up,” he said bearing a captivating, crooked smile before walking over to order.

Moments later, with a cheerful stride, he returned grinning, carrying only her drink.

“Are they still making your drink?” Bacia asked curiously.

“I’m not much of a coffee guy—” his watch emitted a loud alarm. “Shoot, I’m late for work. It was nice to meet you…” he trailed off inviting her to leave her name as he rushed out. His unhesitant, abrupt departure tugging at open wounds.

“Bacia, and it was nice to meet you too,” she called out as he left, masking her slight disappointment that the stranger hadn’t offered his name.

She slipped off her red gloves and found a quaint seat in the corner of the cafe. As she raised the cool beverage to her lips, she caught sight of a neatly written number on the side of the cup. In that moment she finally felt a glimpse of warmth and smiled for the first time since her husband’s passing.

Her face flushed as she remembered the last time she felt like this. A feeling she experienced lifetimes ago yet in the very same spot. As she savored the taste and daydreamed about seeing that gentle, crooked smile once more, she gently wiped an overlooked speck of crimson blood from her chin.

Kirtan Buchwald ’27 Photography

Stillness in the wild

Small Life Brooks Eynon ’28 They told me to sit down To shrink my voice Like loud was wrong Like big was a choice But I was born like I was Not meant for silence I carry a small voice But not by choice I won’t whisper Just to make you tall I’m not too loud You’re just too small I’m not the biggest I have to work with what I got But I do what I do With what I’ve been taught Sometimes I wish I was tall But sometimes I realize I can’t do nothing Nothing at all.

Adam Ravitz ’29 Photography

Starry evening

Excerpt from A Sea of Slipping Sand Eliot Christensen ’28 A man stands on a beautifully ornate marble balcony outside of a beautiful bedroom overlooking the city’s great port, though there was much more empty space on the room’s walls than there had been a week ago; one of his hands rests on the marble railing, fingers tapping nervously. On his fingers, only three rings sat where before there had sat eleven. One ring was a family heirloom with his crest shaped into the top, carved from a combination of a sparkling near clear gem that had a pinkish hint called Fernal, a specialty of the region, and an imported sparkling golden metal called Granlar. The second ring was a simple golden band with a small sailboat on the top, a mark of allegiance to the Great Merchant King of Galandria; he thought about that ring for a second, a lot of good his allegiance to the king had done. The third band was not truly a ring, not really, but a weirdly shaped piece of coral that looked just like a ring; that was the ring that his late wife had given him when they got married; she had said that it looked like one of a kind, and what could she get the man who has everything but something that was one of a kind. He chuckles to himself at being called the man who had everything, that was a long time ago. No, he thought for a second, that just felt like long ago.

How long had it been since his fleet had been intercepted by pirates, or at least what had been reported as an attack by pirates; that was the true nail in his and his people’s coffin, but still, he admits, that wasn’t the beginning, nor was that the true end, but that certainly was the point of climax where his stock both figuratively and literally crashed and stopped its game of peekaboo appearing above and then below the strength of yesterday and instead decided to dive faster than a mermaid could swim to the bottom of the sea.

He began to think about his string of misfortunes that had taken him from the near infinite wealth of one of the three Great Merchant Dukes of Galandria to being in debt to seemingly every beggar, trickster, and street performer that one could see in the streets of the city that was meant to be his and how he fell from one of the most respected world travelling merchants to having even his own king avoid business dealings with his duchy with a ten foot jousting lance. Not that the king was a fan of jousting; he much preferred a negotiation, but no requests for negotiations of investment from the duke had been responded to with anything more than a polite version of “I’m busy.”

His issues were many. First, there was his large investment, which he had taken a loan for, in a Granlar mine in the Jarlan Empire that was soon seized by the Holy Fire Empire (HFE) due to the Jarlan emperor’s lack of defensive action. Then there was his attempt to shift from importing cheap Kralorian grain to producing at home which made them sell to other customers. Added on top of all of that there was the fact that a group of miners disturbed a giant stone ogre who in a rage destroyed a cave which redirected underground waterways which led to a drought in his territory. And to further worsen the situation, there was a plague in the Southern part of his territory that needed to be quarantined, which further stopped trade routes.

Finally, was a large shipment of well-trained Pegasi, which the duke had many of and which lowered their value and allowed competitors in shipping to compete for former contracts he had gotten for years.

He is interrupted in his thoughts by distant shouts that are obviously rioters trying to reach the palace; they had been trying for days. His investment in the gold mine had been done through the duchy’s bank. He had risked the depositor’s coin for what he had thought was a guaranteed or near guaranteed profit of thousands and thousands of pounds of magical crystals and rare minerals.

He had completely forgotten about the HFE’s invasion and had not imagined that they would take the mine. Then there was the gold shipment and the other crises, and the depositors needed cash, and they all requested their money back, and he simply did not have enough, and leading to where he was now The fact that the mafia had held a lot of money in his bank and weren’t prone to forgiveness hadn’t helped. The capital of his duchy, once a center of wealth and order had devolved into a place where the mafias didn’t even try to hide their actions, claiming they were owed their money one way or another, and where riots destroy shops and break into bakeries and grain storage only to find them empty. There was an ongoing joke that the managers of the stores they broke into responded to the rioters’ requests that they stand down and let them search for grain by saying that they were looking themselves for the substance.

Mac Imperatore ’27 Oil on Canvas

Sunlit silence

The Beautiful Rainfall Millen Singh ’27 The rain falls from the sky I watch with wide eyes As I begin to tie my tie It’s only 7:33 in the morning

The puddles forming on the ground The beautiful contact makes a nice sound

Clink Clank Plop Dink

The sounds of rain

All the trees and plants are ecstatic The rain brings life Although to the eye it’s hectic This is the best day of their lives The lampposts standing quietly Watching the rain ruin its glass The lamp begins to flash Its lights going in and out Whenever I’m watching the rain I see a part of me A part of me I rarely obtain Serene Zen Calm Relaxed While all is going on around me I just sit And watch the beautiful rain fall.

Jack Greissing ’28 Oil on Canvas

Pumpkin

My Experience With Grief Everett Mascott ’27 It was a normal afternoon. As normal as any afternoon can be after finishing the first day of seventh grade. The first day was full of excitement, and I had the feeling of a fresh start. My family and I were preparing to have dinner outside in the back, and my grandparents had come to eat as well. We all talked about our busy days, as the sun turned the sky into the perfect shade of pink, and the birds chirped and flew around us. When the conversation had come to a calm resolution, my father decided it was time. And he spoke.

My dad was much thinner than he was at the start of the summer. In the last month, he had given up on eating and only drank little protein shakes. My family had spent the last days of the summer at Bethany Beach in Delaware. However, my dad barely got up from the couch for nearly the whole time we were there, choosing to lie there hour after hour. It didn’t really make sense.

I was waiting for a moment of clarity, for any explanation of my dad’s sickness. I could sense it was now and listened on the edge of my seat.

He took his time when speaking, but soon enough he revealed what had beaten him down to this point.

He had stage four pancreatic cancer. I didn’t know what that was. It didn’t mean much to me then. But I knew it was bad, bad enough for me to cry. So, I left the table, walked to my room, and that’s what I did.

When my dad eventually came to my room he sat next to me on my bed. I had a few questions and waited for the chance to ask the key one. “Does this mean you’re going to die?” I asked finally. He responded with a confident sureness in his voice, “Yes, I might die.” Even though it was the worst news, his calmness and fearlessness in that moment gave such a feeling of relief at that moment. He soon left, and I sat there for a while, stuck in my own thoughts.

I lived out the next months as I would without the news. It was stuck far back in my brain. I thought about his cancer occasionally, but I didn’t really know how. Picturing a life without my dad was like picturing a color that didn’t exist. It didn’t feel like it was really happening.

I was told it could be years before he died. That however wasn’t the case. I only had six months left with him before he was gone for good. But no one could have explained to me that I was going to lose him far before he passed away.

I came home one day and found my dad in the kitchen. He was frail and wrinkly, he had no hair on his head, and his eyes shot through me. I was used to him looking like this, but the way he acted confused me. He mumbled slurred words.

And he said things that didn’t make sense. It was scary. It wasn’t my dad.

I was lying on my bed one morning, dressed and ready for school. I remember the door to my room creaking open slowly. My dad entered quietly like a ghost, staring into my soul as I looked back at him blankly. Sweat dripped down his face, and he was panting.

“Could I stay up here?” he asked, “it too hot in my room.” I winced. I didn’t want to leave my room.

And I didn’t want to think about my dad then. I replied simply with: “I need to get ready for school,” even though that wasn’t true. My dad looked defeated and left. I felt awful, and I drowned in regret. But I couldn’t bear to look at my dad in his state.

My dad’s funeral came and gone, and I spent months grieving. The next winter, I went on a ski trip with my friends in Canada. We went with their dads .Throughout the trip, I felt the urge to ski with my dad again.

I had gone on this same ski trip in past years and had even gone last year without my dad as well. But something felt different this time.

I kept thinking back to two years ago. My dad and I had to leave the trip early, and I wasn’t happy about it. I spent the whole last day of skiing complaining. This time around, while I was missing him, I realized that it had been my last time ever skiing with him. It took me back to the countless ski trips I had gone on with him in the last few years.

But I couldn’t stop thinking that if I had known that I would never ski with him again, how I would have spent that last day differently. And living with that regret haunted me.

We had been cruising through the mountains in Iceland. I was tired from early morning, and our car was filled with my mom, my siblings and our luggage. I was shuffling through the songs on my phone, trying to find something that would calm me, and make me feel less crammed. I found songs my dad would listen to, and I began to listen to a Bon Iver album that I remembered him playing. I was shocked with a sudden feeling of nostalgia that I had never felt before. In that moment, I was at peace with the last year. I was content then, even if I knew the impossible struggles of grieving still loomed over me.

Jack Greissing ’28 Watercolor

Seaside Morning

Summer 1959 Mr. Matt Dougherty on the swing set in the park when we boys and girl lived on Columbia, my big brother would try to get so high so fast on the chains trying to make it around, to complete the circle. closing in, four score years later, on another street in another town by the state boundary river not even trying he’s almost there. and I’m watching amazed, right behind.

Sam Dillon ’29 Colored Pencil

Balloon Animal

What’s the plan?

Ms. Dartha Dragnich Charlie looked over at Big Al. Ugly, smelly, mean old, scary old…my dad, Big Al. Al’s shuteyed silence encouraged Charlie to ask the question he’d been holding in ever since their feet first touched the ground of freedom.

“Soooo, dad, what’s the plan?”

Big Al blew his nose into his hand, then rubbed it all over a single sunlit dandelion that had been growing next to where the man and his son were sitting.

“Like we didn’t just escape from the county jail-no thanks to you, might I add. KIDS!” “I’m just a little scared, that’s all. We need a plan, what’s the plan, dad?” Charlie’s tone hinted at the silent scream held hostage behind his tonsils.

Big Al chucked his son under the chin with a fist, then chucked it again, good enough to loosen teeth.

“I’ll give ya a plan as long as ya never ask me again.”

“Scouts honor, sir.”

“OK. We lay low. We enjoy this taste of freedom.

When we’re good and ready, we get up and walk toward the nearest highway. Then we hitchhike to Vegas…yeah, and when we get to Vegas, we rip off the guy that drove us there, and we make ourselves at home in the swankiest hotel-casino on the strip...yeah…then we double down our bets and buy new suits, and then we chug a bunch of them pretty drinks with umberellas…

There! That’s the plan, kiddo.”

As Big Al raised his face toward the enlightened midday rays, Charlie jumped. For cutting through this sunlit moment came the sound of rushing boots on the ground, and the two fugitives were soon surrounded by the sheriff, his deputies, and a couple of police dogs who promptly ate the plan for lunch.

Thank you, Mr. Matt Dougherty and Ms. Dartha Dragnich for your committment to not just Prometheus Unbound, but Landon as a whole!