WINDOWPANES
VOLUME FIFTY-TWO
Literary and art magazine, Showcases the creative expressions of all students, faculty, and alumni. It is student-run, student-led, and collabotretivly produced with the club moderators. Windowpanes feaures original art, time-based art, and creative writing. The 52nd edition of Windowpanes was produced as an annual version with students and faculty in the extracurricular club. We accept all submissions for consideration of inclusion in the annual publication through the calendar school year via both email and bi-weelky meetins, and QR google form found around campus. The ultimate decision for selecting artwork and written work lies with the club leaders and moderators. Each entitty is curated on technical merit, creativity, and relevance to the current theme. All original graphics and layouts were created in Adobe Indesign 2022 and all artworks were edited in Adobe Photoshop 2022. Windowpanes is printed by Rabbit Litho in Chino, California
LOYOLA HIGH SCHOOL
All-male Jesuit Catholic High School in Los Angeles California, with a populationg of 1264 students who come from a diverse set of backgrounds, demographicsm and neighborhoods. The full-time faculty and staff is made up of an equally diverse poulation of 196 men and women. Loyola High School is a philosphcally comitted to the development of the whole person intelecctually, emotionally, and spriritually, higiliting individuls who are intellectually distinguished, morally couragours, compasstionate towards others, and empethatic to the surggering on our world. Windowpans was orrginally created to reflect the best creative expression of our students and faculty in contect of being “men and women for and with others.” Windowpwants continouts to be comited to pubclisng the Loyola’s community experience of the human connection to visual. linguistic and performative arts. 1901 Venice Blvd, Los Angeles, CA 90026
EDITORS NOTE
DEREK HARRISON, LITERACY EDITOR
At this institution we have a well practiced culture of self-reflection. During Advent and Lent, the Daily Examen occupies five minutes of every afternoon. Spiritual retreats provide days of introspection, and even the CY3 program trains our juniors in self-authorship. Certainly after four years of such experiences, a Loyola alumnus is hardly a greater expert of anything than of himself. When I think about the theme of this year’s edition–Sonder–the first thing that comes to mind is its obscurity. Sonder is a neologism: it didn’t even exist in the English language before the writer John Koenig made it up in 2012. In German it means “distinct” or “special.” Sonder is also a French verb, meaning “to probe.” But adding words into a language is much more than the simple action itself. Words represent real, fluid concepts that are unique to that word only. Writers, more than anyone else, know the value in a word’s uniqueness. There is a difference between calling an ocean vast and calling it interminable. Joseph Conrad knew that, and that’s why he described the mouth of the Thames as “the beginning of an interminable waterway.” Changing a single word, even to a synonym, changes the effect.
We have a lot to gain from embracing sonder. Looking inward is one thing: we can access all there is to know about ourselves, since our very existence exists within us. But looking outward is another thing: we will never know thoroughly what exists within another’s consciousness. It’s a feeling comparable to looking off into the sea, “barred by a black bank of clouds,” as Conrad put it. Even when a stranger passes right by you, and you think you have an idea of what he or she is like, the truth is an interminable distance away, and you will never know for sure. That’s what sonder is all about.
The Windowpanes magazine has undergone a lot of change the past few years. In 2020, we took one hit from COVID and another from the retirement of Mr. Caldwell. The need for creative expression remains strong, and this belief gives me hope.
With that said, it is our great honor to present the 52nd edition of Windowpanes. I hope it opens your eyes to the special and distinct experiences of your fellow Cubs.
OWEN CAPPELLETTI, LITERACY EDITOR
I begin each day in a sea of strangers. Though there is no direct connection between us, many of our hopes, dreams, and challenges are universal. Like the hands of a clock, each day starts as the one before it — 7:15 a.m. — penned in the middle lane of traffic jockeying for daylight. I thumb drum my steering wheel and scour the great expanse that is the 101 freeway. Thousands of cars, thousands of faces, thousands of intersecting lives—each with a complexity as unique as the labyrinthian swirls of the palms of a hand. Strangers they may be yet connected in this dancing weave of vehicles funneling toward their destination of the day. We travel in vehicles that keep us apart but also bring us to each other. Strangers can feel far away, inaccessible, and elusive. But the bridge to a stranger can be as simple as a shared smile, a few words, or even a connection to the art and architecture of our forebears melts the sense of disunity.
This year’s edition of Windowpanes captures our shared human experiences and our individual uniqueness. “Sonder”’ brilliantly achieves this goal as we strive to showcase the Loyola community’s authentic lives. In an age of division, conflict, and hate, it is important to recognize that we are all more alike than different. As you explore this year’s edition, I hope you revel in the uniqueness of each piece and the common thread of each lived experience. Through language and art, we are able to peel back our masks and explore the full dimensions of who we are. Art is a meaningful medium to connect and express the many facets of our identity that go unnoticed in mundane daily interactions. Let this year’s edition be a celebration of unity. I hopehe described the mouth of the Thames as “the beginning of an interminable waterway.” Changing a single word, even to a synonym, changes the effect.
EDITORS NOTE
ARMANDO SOLARES, VISUAL ARTS EDITOR
You never truly know or comprehend the complexity of other people’s lives because you yourself are preoccupied with what’s happening on your own. This feeling is humbling, to recognize this phenomenon and to accept that the world does not revolve around you. As a photographer this is something I encounter and notice very frequently, especially at an institution like Loyola which is made up of many different people that come from all walks of life. In my art and in this issue I tried to convey the idea that these experiences, feelings and emotions, that at the times seem to set us apart from one another, are actually the things that we as humans can relate to the most.
SONDER
Noun. The profound feeling of realizing that everyone, including strangers passing in the street, has a life as complex as one’s own, which they are constantly living despite one’s personal lack of awareness of it. “It is the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own — populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness — an epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you’ll never know existed, in which you might appear only once.”
The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows, John Koenig
PAGES 7 -
containg: digital photography, digital art, and written works Jesus Arias, ‘24, Miles Marrache ‘23, Eric Baham ‘25, Patrick Sodl ‘22, Ryley Smith ‘25, Enzo Choi ‘25, Joaquin Lovato ‘23, Isaiah Johnson ‘25, Brock Murphy ‘26, Owen Cappelletti ‘23, Akshay Vishwanath ‘25, Christopher Connelly ‘25, Luca Lombardo ‘25, Kieran Curley ‘25, Logan Perez ‘25, Beau Brearton ‘23, Samuel Peck ‘23, Riley Lantin ‘25, Lucas Tamaki ‘25, Dean Mirkin ‘23, Emilio Torres ‘23, Abraham Sanchez ‘25, Brody Salz ‘25, Brock Murphy ‘26, Maxwell Christie ‘25, Oliver Pederson ‘25, Dylan Arana ‘25, Andy VanTuyle ‘25, Sean Becerrada ‘25, Ben Lee ‘25, Sander Im ‘25, Peter Brockman ‘23, Nathan Savarese ‘23, Nathan Turk ‘25, Gary Goodgame ‘23, Hans Zhang ‘25, Liam Henney ‘23, Nicholas Morris ‘25, Mace Barnes ‘25, Lennan Ruiz ‘24, Aaron Ambrose ‘24, James Castaneda ‘23, Ian Hong ‘24, Lukas Roybal ‘23, Dominic Campagna ‘25, Darreson Naruse ‘25, Tomas Salazar ‘22, Dalton Fitzpatrick ‘23, Eric Park ‘23, Jared Aimone ‘22, Finn McConaghy ‘24, Quinton Palmer ‘23, Dalton Fitzpatrick ‘23, Henok Tsega ‘25, Gustav Everly ‘25, Jaedyn Patterson ‘25, Olin Duncan ‘24, Jake Gosser ‘23, Dane Harrington ‘25, Giancarlo Gadea ‘24, Nathan Chao ‘25, Manuel Castillo ‘24, Desi Valdes ‘25, Leigh Bustos ‘23, Matthew Phillips ‘25, Kaleb O’Neil ‘23, Branden Green ‘23, Declan McGough ‘25, Mr. Howard, Film Photography Faculty, Fr. Quinn, Theology and Digital Photography Faculty.
SECTION 2
PAGES 55 - 76
containg: film photography, time-based media, and written works Armando Solares ‘24, Michael Kirst ‘24, Derek Harrison ‘23, Noah Cruz ‘23, Finn Corboy ‘25, Alvaro Banegas ‘25, Samuel Reed ‘22, Luke Calderon ‘22, Palmer Hedrick ‘25, Charles Johnson ‘25, Zain Kheraj ‘25, Gavin Carey ‘25, Caeden Chavez ‘25, Sandy Serrano ‘23, Tristian Martini ‘25, David Blakes ‘24, Michael Sowa ‘24, Noah Cruz ‘25, Ian Park ‘25, Ronan O’Rourke ‘25, Andy Parks ‘22, Auston Fuller ‘24, Mr.Cendejas, Theology Faculty, Mr.Pedroarias, Spanish Faculty.
SECTION 3
PAGES 77 - 134
containg: drawing, painting, collage, digital art, time-based media, and written works
Máximo Gomez ‘24, Andy Parks ‘22, Jared Lizama ‘23, Aaron Kun ‘24, James Nenninger ‘23, John Mueller ‘24, Santiago Goldthwait ‘23, Hugo Aponte ‘23, Hudson McGough ‘25, Ryan Song ‘25, Hongyi Wang ‘25, Jake Lee ‘25, Evan Salazar ‘25, Leo Grossman ‘25, Tyler Chong ‘25 Quinn Rath ‘23, Matthew Margallo ‘24, Jionni Esposito ‘23, Jared Marc Gonzalez ‘23, Jack Newell ‘23, Jake Shockley ‘23, Ryan McElhenney ‘24, Alexander Alvarado ‘22, Daniel Mack ‘25, Kevin Choi ‘23, Aiden Zhang-Mastrapa ‘25, Declan Burke ‘24, Ryan Liddy, Baritone ‘23, Andy Parks ‘22, Lucas Genewick ‘24, Christopher May ‘23, Owen Cappelleti ‘23, Edwin Ordonez ‘23, Ryan Zhu ‘24, Massimo Mendoza ‘23, Jared Marc Gonzales ’23, Emmett Ness ‘25, Holmes Wormald ‘22, Dean Pitari ‘24, Isaiah Armour ‘23, Matthew Hoen ‘22, Joe Tatum ‘22, Shane Rice ‘24, Adrian Martinez ‘24, Kyle Lamberth ‘24, Ian Hong ‘24, Robert Neithart ‘22, Jonathan Ito Wilson ‘24, Ethan Bacio ‘22, CharlieMunoz‘24,AngeloValente‘24,TreyMastandrea‘25,TristanMartini‘25,MylesRamos‘22,TonyKim‘25,ClaytonSmith ‘25,OsvaldoRosas‘22,JustinSpoeri‘24,TerenceHarris‘23,RicardoDeLaRiva‘24,RemiBunikiewicz‘22,GabrielLegaspi‘24, Michael Hanna ‘25, Mario Murga ‘25, CJ Cortes ‘23, Trey Paulson ‘25, Ryan Song ‘25, Emile Hidalgo ‘24, Matthew Sasso ‘25, ConnorVonDerAhe‘25,DakotaAcuna‘23, GrantSteuerwald‘23,AlexanderStern‘25,KennethKun‘25,LeviRice‘24,JackWood ‘24,LucasBeisselvonGymnich‘25,AristotleCoronel‘24,AdrianMartinez‘24,IanHong‘25,AlexanderReyes‘23,Christopher Anderson ‘24, Charlie Smith ‘23, The Mighty Roar, Orchestra, Mr.Celenza, Music Faculty, Mr.Pedroarias, Spanish Faculty.
It’s Alright
All right, All right, All right
After we sent you a web of love and affection
You sent us attitude and rudeness back
Like a spider biting a human for helping them live
All right, All right, All right
We give you all we have but you continue to lie
Lying to us his parents and lying to his brother
All right, All right, All right
We try our hardest to please you but it seems like it’s not enough
What more can we do for you
Even with your faults, it will be alright
Our love is everlasting as long as you are here
We will forever forgive because you are our child
Jesus Arias, ‘24
Miles Marrache ‘23
Patrick Sodl ‘22
Ryley Smith ‘25
Enzo Choi ‘25
Joaquin Lovato ‘23
Isaiah Johnson ‘25
Fall
Summer has reached the due time of its end. Full of life, a hue lush and opulent. Once all so proud, to soon brought down to bend, All of life nothing, a mere supplicant.
The lush green shade now falls fast to the ground, Now a dead scheme all-too-thin and timeworn, The colors soon fade, the colors soon fade, To a scene so forlorn… of cold dark scorn.
Oh we remember the orange and blood red, We stood silent as days shorten with haste, I lamented seeing natures deathbed, Seeing the days all fall away to waste.
So when the world comes to a windswept fall, Like summer always kneels to winter’s squall.
Brock Murphy ‘26
Neptune’s Net
Life floods the sidewalk–All swept in the current.
Urban fishheads swim upstream–Bloated caviar salmon bellies. A One Way Express
Future sushi seeking sanctuary–Net bound. One and all.
Cappelletti ‘23
People on the Street, Akshay Vishwanath ‘25
Owen
A Day of Sailing, Christopher Connelly ‘25 WindWard Spirit, Luca Lombardo ‘25
5 p.m. off PCH, Kieran Curley ‘25
Birds of a Feather, Logan Perez ‘25
Beau Brearton ‘23
Manslaughter
I killed god.
I stabbed him through his false heart. I designed a speech to give him, As his breaths were short but living. I whispered the last he’d hear in his false ear, I rebuked him for what he’s done with his faults clear. He begged and sobbed and wanted some life, But of all he had I robbed as we went for a drive.
A trip to the top of a hill, a mountain of sorts, Of rock and of earth his creation fell short.
I slammed his head to the ground to make him watch the sun set, An end to a ticking abyss grew with the night's threat.
I know once he’s gone, Once he’s gone, all will cease.
I know once he’s gone, Once he’s gone, there’ll be peace.
So I thought, so I said.
But once he was dead, And all his blood he had bled, All stayed the same, in-fact not one bit changed, So it grew quite apparent where I was, the hellhole he arranged. As I burned up in hell I decided to give God a funeral which was not to forgive Him of his actions, wrongdoings, or fun
But to know that I killed him, To make it clear that I won.
Samuel Peck ‘23
The Arch of Texture, Riley Lantin ‘25 Sights Of Light, Lucas Tamaki ‘25
City of Los Angeles, Dean Mirkin ‘23
Cityscape, Emilio Torres ‘23 Qatari Houses, Abraham Sanchez ‘25
In the night there is peace, A silent symphony, The wind sings its pain
A loud lullaby.
Even in the darkest night
With the faint stars shining. Waiting for the sun to rise, Remaining below the horizon
There is no winter sun so bright. A blue twilight escapes the hills, Hope beyond the horizon, But as that light falls, so does hope. The darkest day reins
Without the brightest light Hope lies beyond the horizon: Hope of a new day And a beautiful sunrise. Thus ends the Kaamos, The Endless Night.
Brock Murphy ‘26
Kaamos
Animal Mania, Maxwell Christie ‘25 Fruit in Color, Oliver Pederson ‘25
A Walk Through the Woods, Dylan Arana ‘25
A Treerific Day, Andy VanTuyle ‘25
Abstract In Color and Nature, Sean Becerrada ‘25
Ben Lee ‘25
Unseen Lights, Sander Im ‘25
The Smells of Syria
The smell of fresh Kibbeh parades around the room Unashamed, and arrogant, it’s time for the smell
To hit the plates, and it’s safe!
I can smell the green beans with lamb, they’ve been marinated with her famous Tomato sauce with onion, garlic, allspice, cinnamon, cloves, and love. I can smell the leg of lamb, the one she used to make for my grandpa, The one she used to love to make the most, he’s gone now, onto a better place. This is the only place where I can be me, All the pain and anger coursing through my veins
Leave my body when I enter this galley.
I am brave, I am bruised, I am who I’m meant to be, this is me I know she has to die at some point, at some place, at some time, But can she wait just a little bit longer maybe until after college, After I get a job, after I get married, after I retire, after I die? Nah, she can’t and she won’t, but honestly, man, What truly even separates life and death?
Peter Brockman
‘23
Shall I Graze My Hand Over Fields of Green
Shall I graze my hand over fields of green, Or dip my feet into the oceans blue. I could travel to a place so serene, Laying there would cause my soul to renew. Scale a mountain high, walk a valley low. Venture deep into a cave dark and cold. On the edge of a cliff, storming clouds below, Through a dense forest every step foretold. The journey has been long and fully mine. All that I have seen I can call my own. Treasures grasped that lack a glistening shine, Yet their true value to me is unknown. But these distant memories bring no worth, For I’m the only one to walk this earth.
Nathan Turk ‘25
Nathan Savarese ‘23
Gary Goodgame ‘23
In The City, Hans Zhang
Hans Zhang ‘25
Luminous Shadows, Liam Henney ‘23
Light Set Go, Mace Barnes ‘25
Lennan Ruiz ‘24
Aaron Ambrose ‘24
Dear Dad, I’m Going Crazy — A Bop
You never came around that much yet My mom swore up and down “he is a good man”
But that’s not how I saw you, my dad. My trauma sticks to my head like A clump of cheap gum you walk past on the concrete There’s just no point in trying to scrape it off
I’m going crazy dad, crazy
…Why does my truth scare you? Does my personality offend you?
Do you fear the clothes I choose to wear on my back?
Do you fear my idea of falling in love?
I sit in my bed at night wondering if
I’m going crazy dad, crazy
But now I’ve simply moved the hell on I see the world differently Losing you is giving me everything I need I’m happier on my own…
It’s the first time I finally feel at home Losing you has made me feel like
I’m going crazy dad, crazy
James Castaneda ‘23
Cut U Off Boy
I got a confession I want to get off my chest I still think I love U but my brain won't let it rest
But somehow I end up crying on the floor And I feel like my brain is giving me your test
I'm trying to change so there's no point in stringing us along So I’m giving up…U know it’s for the best
I'm putting our past in a cardboard box... Changing my number and changing the locks U might think I'm crazy but I’m going the furthest
U never liked my friends so I guess ur blocked U getting mad at me like I’m your only interest
Stressing…do U hear that silence in my words See it as a blessing, hit up her line, please…be my guest
Hope that she was worth my wasted time But let's be real, U will always know I was the best
James Castaneda ‘23
James Castaneda ‘23
Father Quinn, Theology and Digital Photography Faculty
Imprisoned Embarrassment, Ian Hong ‘24 Screen Time, Lukas Roybal ‘23
Wavy, Dominic Campagna ‘25 Love and Hoops, Darreson Naruse ‘25
My Friend, My Cardinal
Pearched low
High upon a tree
Stirred the branch is upon where she awaits
Falling
Known wings without peace
Stolen seeking recumbrence
She collapses from the lowest As if from her peak
Drowning
Flat is the breathe that gives Silent is that wailing cry Still she finds ground
Singing
Desolate is her song
Surrendered by winds
Suffocate her existence
Soaring
High return to her low pedestal
In that vicarious watch beyond thine eye
Giving
Parceling her virtue, her gift
Sharing her exuberance
Beauty blind that sorrow is Her flight, a mere distraction
Living
Ruffled feathers they may be ‘Happen again it will to me’
Found
Hide it from the robins and the jays
Seek refuge upon your lowest branch
Try your best and I will see
How are you, My Cardinal, My Friend, To me
Tomas Salazar ‘22
My Nan’s Kitchen
My nan’s kitchen is built only in my imagination, It was old and dusty, like an abandoned doll house
But it was warm; the heat incapacitated me, Yet, the oven was turned all the way cold,
The heat came from her, from a time when her brain collaborated with her body, A time when she played cars with her grandson, not a stranger in her house,
We played card games in her kitchen, I think, the games that plagued our brains, The cards fell from her arthritic grip; I would look at those cards and win: juvenile foolishness,
We would watch the autumnal leaves of the garden, the warm interior, We held our breath, thinking it may be the last time,
As I grow like a tree in the springtime, she wilts like a rose in an Irish winter, I loved her, I love her, and I will always love her
But what I love most of hers that lives on, is her kitchen, The kitchen that I have only been to in the nerves of my brain
She died, and with her went the cord that connected us both together, While her memory was tainted, mine lives on, from the heat of her dusty dollhouse kitchen
Dalton Fitzpatrick ‘23
Pico Union & Street Vendor, Eric Park ‘23
The Floating Mirror, Chris Howard, Film Photography Faculty
Open Up
Have you ever fully opened a Cutie clementine?
All the way, not just peeled, partitioned into slices, stripped of its veiny fibers. But you actually pinch the central node of the slice, and you slowly and gently tear the clear skin. Which half the world never knew existed as separable from the inside. The new clementine glistens tiny pods, unblemished, fresh to the world.
There’s no way to eat it at this point. It feels better just to stare. But it’d be weirder to set it down somewhere in this state, exposed to dust and dry air. So you do what feels unnatural, an injustice almost. You awkwardly, tenderly, hold the clementine to your mouth, and bite down enough to separate half the pods from the rest. Trying so hard not to violate this purity uncovered. But you do. You have to. Because you opened it, ripped to the center, located its true self.
And you’d do it again. Just to feel that beautiful satisfaction, to see beneath the fibrous skin that so many chew through. It’s messy. It’s time-consuming. It’s unnecessary. But no, it’s so necessary.
I might be that clementine someday. Juice might see the light of day. If only fingers were not so unclean, and teeth might not be so harsh.
Jared Aimone ‘22
Mando, Finn McConaghy ‘24
My Parents’ Hands
My parents’ hands carried me across the border,
My father’s hands are like bullseyes; they know how to catch a target,
My mother’s hands are like arrows; they are gentle like string until they need to attack,
She protected me from the scary world, the dangerous world, the prejudiced world,
She is a strong-willed lion, attacking her prey with all her might,
She protects her cubs; they are her blood, love, and character,
But when I enter the world, she cannot protect me,
Her hands cannot shield me from the sticks and stones and words and betrayal,
Her paws cannot scratch the attacker, which she cannot see,
Her words cannot burst the ears of the bigots
She does not control the air that rotates around me,
She does not control the breaking of my body, nerves, and mind
She does not control anything,
All she can do is pick up the pieces,
Her hands light the fireplace,
Her hands cook me pasta bolognese with garlic bread,
Her hands bring the blankets downstairs and turn on Dreamgirls,
Her hands wipe the tears off my face
Her hands make me feel whole again
Dalton Fitzpatrick ‘23
Quinton Palmer ‘23
On The Road, Gustav Everly ‘25
Dyed Park, Henok Tsega ‘25
Olin Duncan ‘24
Morning Work, Jaedyn Patterson ‘25
The Right Way to Feel
Amidst the conrete and steel, Society is a place that can make us feel, Lost, alone, and disconnected, From the beauty of life, we are rejected.
But out in nature, there’s a peace, A place where our troubled hearts can release, The worries and stress of the daily grind, And we can leave our troubles behind.
For nature heals our aching souls, And helps us feel again, whole, For in the beauty of the earth, we find, The harmony and balance that’s often left behind.
Dane Harrington
‘25
Triptych, Jake Gosser ‘23
Self Portrait, Sander Im ‘25 Giancarlo Gadea ‘24
Monochrome Era, Nathan Chao ‘25 Manuel Castillo ‘24 Perspective, Desi Valdes ‘25
Leigh Bustos ‘23
Matthew Phillips ‘25
Oma’s Kitchen
The heat in the kitchen feels stale Newspapers pile the table, read and unread But only Oma knows which She’s sat at the table, rarely anywhere else Asks if I want a salmon burger and Starts to tell me about a book left open
Thank you Oma, but we should get going on home
She can run a marathon with her words With no one to talk to other than my Opa Grasps onto these interactions firmly Like salt she absorbs any water that she can And drains me of any sustenance that I can provide If I don’t stop her she can go on for hours Till the sun rises in the west and the seas are dry She will still be there sitting at the table, talking
Thank you Oma, but we should get going on home
I give in to her offer of water, and I stand as I fill my glass Standing is the first step of saying goodbye An attempt to close off the conversation fought A pause taken advantage of and a hug given Thank you for having us, have a good night. Would you like to stay for some dessert?
Thank you Oma, but we should get going on home.
Kaleb O’Neil ‘23
Papa Don’t Play…
Like a game of red light green light, but stuck on the fact if i should stop or should i go. started when i was 12, with so much fire.
Went to high school and that’s when the wind hit the flame. football once brought happiness and then it became a job. broken wrist, sprained ankles, torn acl, where is the fun?
Returned junior year, like the wrong puzzle piece. fought & tried to no avail. Ruined. Anger built up inside, pops don’t see eye to eye.
Was i quitting or moving to a new chapter in life?
Battling with thoughts of disappointment. What about the memories with my friends that await?
Have i reached my maximum potential? These very questions race through my head. With no determined answer, the future waits ahead.
Branden Green ‘23
Declan McGough ‘25
Through the Border, Armando Solares
Michael Kirst ‘24
Michael Kirst ‘24
Two Hundred Miles from Bruton
As it were, Joseph Jones (Jones being the house of the slaveholding Joneses) was born the result of a long line of intermarried mothers. The story goes that the patriarch and second son Elias Jones, upon his arrival in Williamsburg with fifty acres rather than pocket money, passed by serendipity a lonely auction presenting the fairest negress an Englishman had ever seen, that he bought it on a whim. He hadn’t planned to purchase any sort of African, hardly had ever seen an African before, but her skin was just pale enough that she caught his eye while still being an African, and so started the long proceeding series of consecutively fairer offspring, a matrilineage that terminated but a century and a half after the burning of Jamestown.
Joseph Jones, a slave he may have been, was apparently white, between the English curvature of his nose and the curls of his hair that had relaxed from their thick African roots to a more Mediterranean behavior, such as one would expect at the crown of Augustus’s head. Those curls were blond, for that matter; his eyes, of all colors, were an ancient Norse blue. But paramount to all of that was that the undertones of his skin—the great frustration of his identity—were so pale, that you could very much observe that he was whiter than his own father. And yet he dwelled, as with the lot of his mother’s kin, in the wretched slave quarters.
Any other Chesapeake master would have had even the young man’s mother free for the way she looked, not because she was any less depraved but because it was an outrage to behold—indeed, God rest any visitor who so beholds—an overseer whipping a white lady as she worked the gardens of another white lady, the only difference being that the latter was called Miss Jones and the former Rachel Jones. Yet such was almost precisely what happened (in every sense but for the fact that Miss Jones preferred to be called by her first name on account of her youth and hatred of formalities), and precisely what Elmer Jones permitted.
Elmer Jones was a man of business, having inherited, along with his attraction to the descendants of that first Williamsburg negress, an uncanny talent and passion for the domestic slave trade, such that slaves of the surname were said to be at every port up and down the Mississippi. One day, it seemed, Jones would be equated with slave in every state save for Virginia, that calling a man “Harry Jones” was effectively the same as calling him “Harry the Slave,” until the man’s escape, upon which it would be more than prudent, but imperative, to dispose of the tell-tale name. That was Elmer Jones’s doing and his pride the same.
As for Joseph, an uncanny work ethic carried him up the ranks of favor by his overseers, and within time he was paying frequent errands to the central plantation. The envy of his peers he may have been, he was as a matter of fact scarcely embarrassed, but inherited instead the snobbery of his father’s kin. And perhaps he very well deserved it, that is, the privilege of stepping foot in his own father’s house, even if the visit was just for business.
Well, it happened that Elmer Jones, having hitherto scarcely left his prized estate for any less than an emergency (he did business always from home, and if any merchant sort sought his business they had first to pay the trip), inevitably happened upon an emergency, the details of which he kept mysterious. But the result remains that for two-and-a-half weeks he was absent, two or two hundred miles from the steeple of Bruton Parish.
Alas, it was in the middle of the second week that an errand was demanded upon Joseph. ’Twas a letter addressed to the Illinois senators, God knew what for, though the handwriting on the envelope appeared somewhat vexed. He was to submit the letter to the mailbox in the drawing room whither his father had accepted visitors and whence the message would be intercepted and relayed to Washington.
“There he goes again,” his mother ’s brother’s son’s in-law spat. “Making calls to heaven only to end up back here.”
“Who?” the in-law of the in-law replied.
“Why, Joe Jones, who else?” the former pointed to the young man leaving.
“I’ll be damned . . . ” the latter squinted in that direction. “I thought he was dead!”
Joseph arrived at the central plantation precisely an hour after noon as if on purpose. Mrs. Jones and her children Miss Jones and Master Jones were upstairs with the whole of their servants, leaving the first floor of the manor perfectly desolate, so that no one was present to welcome him at the door. This he was sure of, for he knocked thrice at careful, five-minute intervals without reply. Yet the door was unlocked; he let himself in.
The drawing room was littered with the tell-tale remains of Mr. Jones’ hasty egress: disordered cabinets, barren shelves, disordered cabinets . . . He found the mailbox not only the only container with any contents intact, but also one filled already past capacity with them. With an according degree of effort, Joseph duly inserted the envelope.
Alas, he had hardly done so before three knocks sounded over his shoulder in swift consecutive progression. Scarcely expecting those knocks to provoke a response any different from that of his own arrival, he dutifully took it upon himself to fulfill the role of answering the door. Upon opening the door, he faced a trio of three well-dressed men. For some moments too many, he and the trio traded stares, each expecting the other to speak first.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Jones?” one of them adjusted his monocle.
“Yes,” the young man, unaccustomed to any title, answered hesitantly.
Now the three men’s eyes fell past him. In uncomfortable horror, Joseph maintained his stare.
After some time, the monocle man prodded, “Well, let’s get to it, shall we?”
“Why—yes.”
And with that the trio made a step forward so that Joseph instinctively let them inside. The men filed in and examined the interior of the drawing room.
The monocle man twitched his nose at the mess. “Well, weren’t you expecting us?”
“Weren’t you?” another man chimed.
“I’ll say!” the third huffed.
“Was I?” Joseph questioned.
“By telegram, I believe it was,” the first man remarked. He wiped his monocle and blinked through it thrice as if to remember. “Yes, it was.”
“’Twas,” remarked the second man.
“Thus truly, indeed!” added the third.
“Well, anyway, I have a train to get to soon,” the monocle man checked his pocket watch, “so let’s make this quick, no?”
“Of course, sir,” Joseph affirmed, without the slightest idea of what he was affirming.
“You are Elmer Jones, aren’t you?”
“Elmer—well, of course I am! Why not?”
“A very good question, yes.”
“Well, have a seat already, let’s talk business, now!”
With the haste of a footman, he arranged the chairs (which had been disarrayed in his father’s hurried departure) so that he could sit opposite his company. Narrowly pleased, each visitor helped himself to a seat as Mr. Jones retired to his own.
“So, what’s the business?”
“The business!” the first man exclaimed in a light outrage.
“Didn’t you offer some of your labor the other day?”
“Did I?”
“Franklin and Armfield, does that ring a bell? To be sold down the river?”
“Right, yes. My apologies, it must’ve been the wine that evening.”
“I’m sure,” he narrowed his eyes. “It was splendid wine, wasn’t it?”
“Splendid wine, indeed,” remarked the second man.
“Most superb—”
“Remind me who it was?” Mr. Jones blurted.
“’Twas a . . . ” he checked his pocketbook, “ . . . ’twas a Joseph Jones.”
“Oh, that’s the one! What a shame.”
“What do you mean?”
“Joesph Jones, that Joseph Jones is not for sale.”
“Not for sale!”
“Surely you didn’t pay for him already? If so, I have no problem repaying you.”
“No, there was no money exchanged, but why?”
“I freed him,” Mr. Jones evenly explained. “Joseph is free.”
“And when did this happen?”
Mr. Jones reclined against the back of his chair. “Long story. The wine, I suppose.”
“Pardon me,” the first man brought his pocket handkerchief to his forehead, “I’m afraid your humor is beyond me. You must still be intoxicated.”
“Perhaps. I assure you, my hangovers last for no shorter than two-and-a-half weeks. And by the end of that, I’ll wake up sober and horrified that I had been such an idiot today. But by then dear Joseph will be some two or two hundred miles from here. I consider myself hopeless, then.”
Mr. Jones stood. “Well, that was plenty of fun; we should do that again someday. Come back! I’ll be much angrier next time. I’ll also have a beard and a walking stick, for that matter. I age quickly.”
The monocle man, effortfully maintaining his dignity, rose to his feet in unison with his companions.
“Well—that was—”
“A pleasure! a great pleasure doing business with you!” Mr. Jones energetically yelped, prodding the men along, out the door. “A pleasure indeed!”
He shut the door, watched them go, waited some three minutes, and then let himself out. He would never see them again.
Derek Harrison ‘23
Finn Corboy ‘25
Noah Cruz ‘23
Alvaro Banegas
The Paradox of Crew
“We thank you”
The phrase glowed with a good intention. But my throat tightened, At a relationship enlightened, Torn asunder, reduced to a mention.
“We thank you” I thought that “we” included me. My work for us cannot merit this exclusion. Yet, my hopes were formed with the delusion That “you” heard my pleas for equality.
. . .
“We thank you” I put up a grin to accept their kind smiles, But on that day, when I walked away, I felt alone for a while.
Luke Calderon ‘22
Samuel Reed ‘22
Passing
Do my S’s sound too sibilant? Did I correctly cross my legs?
Did I accidentally giggle? Do my eyes know their right place?
Do I have a firm grip? Do I dress femme?
Do I ask a girl to prom? Do I tell my friend?
Do I give myself away?
Do my hands move too much when I talk?
Do my hips swing too much when I walk?
Did I laugh enough when they say, “don’t drop the soap”?
Did I whisper too loud that I just can’t cope?
Do I give myself away?
Do I have to wear Jordan’s?
Did my folks see my screen?
Do I know how to whistle?
Do I tell my whole team?
Do I say I like Montero?
Do I say ‘that’s so gay?
Do I get up from this bed?
Do I live another day?
So I look in the mirror And ask: Oh hell, When did I give Myself …….away?
And also, How were my S’s?
Tom Cendejas, Theology Faculty
Palmer Hedrick ‘25
Charles Johnson ‘25
Zain Kheraj ‘25
El Tiempo Nos Abandona
La nube se oscurece
La vida se acaba.
Tanto tiempo ha pasado
Desde que nos besamos.
La noche ha llegado
Para cambiar nuestro destino.
Lo que pase en el futuro
Sólo el tiempo lo sabe.
Es fácil perderse
En esta negra oscuridad.
Pero siempre estarán tus ojos
Llenos de luz de luna.
Después, nuestras manos enlazadas
Recorriendo el mismo camino.
Y al final de la luz
Que ilumina nuestras vidas.
Ricardo Pedroarias, Spanish Faculty Class of 1984
Refugiado
Soy un exiliado.
Soy un refugiado.
Mi viaje me trajo a tu tierra.
Tengo esperanza.
Llego sin tu idioma.
Con la esperanza de aprender tus costumbres.
No quiero perder mi identidad.
He estado buscando desesperadamente un hogar.
Escapar de la persecución.
Miedo a la muerte o al hambre.
Mi familia se ha dividido.
Puedes irte.
Pero no tu esposo, ni tu hijo.
Necesitan quedarse.
Están en una prisión.
Soy cubano, mexicano, salvadoreño.
Tal vez haitiano, somalí o ucraniano.
Eres estadounidense.
Somos seres humanos.
Sólo quiero una oportunidad.
Tengo un alma.
Soy hijo de Dios.
Ricardo Pedroarias, Spanish Faculty Class of 1984
Gavin Carey ‘25
Caeden Chavez ‘25
Cut Cable
a morbid little fever dream about death. When the characters of various Night Sky studios programs find out their lives are nothing more than filmed entertainment media it’s no less than a world shattering revelation. With their newfound perspective they soon find that Night Sky has gone bankrupt and as such, the power bills of the studios are getting neglected. And when you’re a little computer file hidden within the servers of the basement, you know, when the lights go out, so do you.
Sandy Serrano ‘23
The Five Bards of Desente
follows a traveling band of orphans who go town to town, give grand performances and make a living off of pick-pocketing their audience. After months of preparation the group is finally ready to try a high stakes heist of a seemingly random noble families’ home and all looks to be in their favor, that is until one of the bards realizes that this town is a bit more familiar than he would have liked.
Sandy Serrano ‘23
Ode to the Good Old Days
I met an old man riding a mule on a road some time ago I asked for directions, and we started conversing He started a tale, both long and short, full of enchantment, And memories of long days past, and it went something like this:
1 remember a time when, Bad in the Good Old Days We used to play in the forest and fen[s] Laughing and running under the Sun's rays
Things were much better back then When the prairies were still free We could travel every grove and glen And not a single person we would see
But then came all the industrial machines And the followers of the Age Reason, burning Up nature, using it for a means To make money and to double their earnings
Love and caring forsake those men Who wished to watch the world burn for their gain
But let us move on to the wonders I have seen, and hope to maybe one day see again The untarnished sunrise and sunset, the clear air, and clean rain
Back and back and back to the dawn of time When man was first made, pure as the summer breeze Nature ruled, man was nature, and all was sublime Man lived and loved and laughed with ease
He could spend his days imagining things Not a care in the world, the day were his own He could paint, and tell stories, his mind could spread its wings He could feel, in the Garden of Eden, glad to be all alone
So I asked him, “Sir, who are you? Who speak of long days past as if they were yesterday
And tell such tales of wonder and of beauty of ancient days That are beyond the mere memory of a memory”
And he answered, “I am the rocks, the trees, the sky I am people too, good people, people who feel, My Body is all that is under the sun, I am all that there is, and all that is imagined md real”
And with that he continued down the road I have never seen a man like that, and most likely never will again He was mystical, just a man yet whole world at the same time
A force of nature, filled with joie de vivre, wanting to be reunited with the distant past
Tristan Martini ‘25
David Blakes ‘24
The Bridge Between Time, Michael Sowa ‘24
Noah Cruz
Ian Park ‘25
Finn Corboy ‘25 Ronan O’Rourke ‘25
The Shift of the Essence
God is dead
Society celebrates on the rooftops
Surrounded by solid artifacts Of a newly material world
Man will die
That certainty concealed By a penchant for matter In a now Godless world
Yet emotion remains
To fill the God-shaped void
Sublimity over stuff
Though not for the material celebrants
Death is ignored
As is emotion
Surrounded by the allure of substance
Yet some still long for the spirit
So they create
Andy Parks ‘22
The City of Angeles & Buy My Art I Need to Buy a New Camera, Auston Fuller ‘24
Mr. Ebiner’s Classroom, Máximo Gomez
Let My Bones Turn to Dust
Embers dance in the eyes of the poet
Lit by the fires of ideas novel,
Thoughts flow, a raging river
Until suddenly their thoughts hit a dam
Can that poet ever relive that state?
They try again--again
Profound states of imaginative power
As great as the God of Genesis
This is why the poet seizes the day
Every moment, a possible inspiration to unwieldy highs
Limitless prospects
To ascend like Colerdige, Blake, or Keats
Prepared for ideas to strike anew
The poet sleeps with ink and quill
For the internal, writing somnambulist
Awakened when the body sleeps
Yet the poet fully knows their limitations
But does not fall to lamentations
Instead, they live the days in full
For the opportunity to create again
For the love of art and the making
The poet lives their life
To will things into creation
Until their bones turn to dust
Andy Parks ‘22
Jared Lizama ‘23
Aaron Kun ‘24
A Black Boys Last Breath Bop
The wheeled vehicle drives stiff
Hands gripping the wheel to control
The car brings a rush, tips to toes
A gentle giant
A giant that can stomp the life
Yet we still use
A moment of silence
The late-night seeping into the eyes
Wake the windshield
What I see cannot be a lie
A flash of light to reopen
Flexing the foot forward
The squeak of two rubbers sliding
A green beam reflecting on my face
Go Go GO GO
A moment of silence
The brake is no more
We must push on
The halfway point maybe also be the end
A flash in front of my face
Another killer machine inches from its purpose
A-dren-a-line
Reaction to stop on a dime
The gasp of life leaving my body only to re-enter
A moment of silence
James Nenninger ‘23
Santiago Goldthwait ‘23
The Creation of Mixed Emotions, Hugo Aponte ‘23
Hudson McGough ' 25
Ryan Song ‘25
Hongyi Wang ‘25
Jake Lee ‘25
Evan Salazar ‘25
Leo Grossman ‘25
Still Life, Tyler Chong ‘25 Flintstones, Quinn Rath ‘23
Generations Past Forgotten
I am one who loves the past
The time that runs no more Many call it place of old A place which I still hold
Others claim it time of then A place I can not lie I may not have lived its time But it is my own sublime
The past may be forgotten And to its own dismay
A bygone that stays on A generation not of mine Soon it will be lost and rendered It might fade to the blind But it will be remembered, Forever in my mind
Jared Marc Gonzales ‘23
Jionni Esposito ‘23
Matthew Margallo ‘24
Alley Cat, Michael Celenza, Music Faculty
3:57 in the Afternoon
I toss the alarm clock aside as it vibrates violently, commanding that I come clean from an addiction to sleep, face the ferocity of an empty house, and take up the whims of my tech tutors
It’s always darkest before the dawn
No, No, you might tell me something of a blistering sun outside sending waves of serotonin for the masses to collect, and I still will stay as a log covered in fabric, captive in my curtained chamber of misery. you want any change necessary for movement, yet I still sit rock solid.
It’s always darkest before the dawn
So I’ll pop the pills I’ll go to therapy and hope for some end to the perpetual peril All of this will be gone in time, one day the wait will end and I’ll be set free from my shackles, but until then, I’ll stay right here.
It’s always darkest before the dawn
Jack Newell ‘23
Jake Shockley ‘23
Action!, Ryan McElhenney ‘24
The Animal Inside Me
There is an animal inside me wanting to get out I can hear him bark, whine, and shout When I tell him to stay inside he starts to pout So then he sits there quiet at the snout
I can still feel him in my body all throughout And I wish to know what’s this about The doctor says, “sickness you’re without” But your life will need a re-route Because you seem to be in a “fun drought” “Go to the lake and catch some trout”
So I do what the doctor orders, no doubt And finally, a feeling begins to sprout The days fly by, I lose count And I realize what all this was about. I was him and he was me And all we ever wanted was to be free
Daniel Mack ‘25
Alexander Alvarado ‘22
No Strings Attached, Aiden Zhang-Mastrapa ‘25
Gavin, Aiden Zhang-Mastrapa ‘25
Prêt, Ryan McElhenney
In the Midst of a Ball by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, Ryan Liddy, Baritone ‘23 Pasadena Conservatory of Music
Vita Perpetuus Cyclus Est*
Timelessness reached Inside this singularity
Aeonian falling Into the stygian depths
Unable to break my curse
Waiting for the leviathan to swallow me
I fall into his mouth for eternity I witness death and rebirth
Cosmogenesis and its finale Again, and again… and again
As I look into the abyss, it looks back The aether is hungry for my soul I am left forgotten by God Perpetually waiting in purgatory Never to reach the astral sphere
The aphotic depths call me
To watch the birth of universes And to witness their death; I will watch celestial activity cease Endless cycles of death and rebirth
I am like a powerless god Paralyzed in perpetuity; The firmament’s inky darkness Absorbs my Mass At its own leisurely pace
I watch as the neverending cycle continues My perpetual punishment Is to watch the death of civilization, Endlessly, helplessly God save me
Death and rebirth; Passing and renewal; Demise and resurrection
Let me escape…
*life is an endless cycle
Andy Parks ‘22
The Descent
The glowing sun beckoned Like moths to a flame.
With each crisp kiss of dazzling heat, I was deceived like a wingless Icarus
The sun set, and the flame vanished. In isolation, I plummeted through the darkness.
Singed feathers floating, great foreboding. All dreamers, beware.
Owen Cappelletti ‘23
Cosmic Rebirth & Watchers, Christopher May ‘23
Edwin Ordonez
Sole Observer, Ryan Zhu ‘24 Winter in LA, Massimo Mendoza ‘23
The Discovery of Written Fate
I must have always believed in fate, Whether it be superstition, luck, or faith, For I believe in the blissful state.
I believe in the arbitrary destiny, Where binding love resides, But all I feel is the erroneous ecstasy.
I pry myself as forbearing That my time is not yet placed, But all I learn is self-tearing.
I pride myself that they will come; The person I’ll see soon, Yet all I see are the hoax of some.
As I view the days gone by, They were from the mind of I, Not the space of Heaven’s sky, But the place of selfish cry.
She was not creation’s gift; She was not from Godly lift.
I had written fate’s design, The universe had drawn no line, I had created my own end, For it was a fate that I’d pretend.
Jared
Marc Gonzales’23
Discoveries, Emmett Ness ‘25
Holmes Wormald ‘22
Dean Pitari
Joe Tatum ‘22
Shane Rice ‘24
Selina, Adrian Martinez
Kyle Lamberth ‘24
Unkindness
The yells echo through the heavy air
Another argument, meaningless and unfair For the sister, reached out and asked for an ally. Kindness, empathy, bravery on his part. The mother, whose cunning words were an art In and of themselves. “Shall I Apologize? Impart some sweet phrase?” But she fails, for she’s in a drunken haze, And you failed to protect the sister, whose eye Stares at yours. She wants help, support. But all you offer is unkindness.
Ethan Bacio ‘22
Keith Haring Mushroom, Robert Neithart ‘22
Twin Fantasy, Jonathan Ito Wilson ‘24
Charlie Munoz
Healthcare, Trey Mastandrea ‘25
Reduce Reuse Recycle, Angelo Valente ‘24
Stop Police Brutality, Tony Kim ‘25 Recognition for Veterans, Clayton Smith ‘25
Osvaldo Rosas
Pain
As I lie down, Not even managing a frown, I burst into tears, Listening without ears, To all those who would hear, Please consider these cries, Do not look upon Them with vitriolic eyes. For I would not do the same, As I try to share the others’ pain, To live is to love and nothing more Except to those you care for. Find a Purpose, chase it down, and let it entrance you with a curse. And in that curse a blessing, To find meaning in what’s depressing. So, to you, reader, a wish I leave you, Care for those around you who need you. Experience with me my sadness, pain, and sorrow, And I will love you as a brother tomorrow.
Remi Bunikiewicz
‘22
A Moment of Fresh Air & Hard Work Pays Off, Ricardo De La Riva ‘24
Inmenso es el océano, En su profundo azul, Mis pensamientos se extienden Como las alas del águila. Los brazos celestes
Me abrazan en paz
Mi meditación serena
Descansa en aislamiento
De mis ansiedades diarias
Refugio en sus brazos
Mi Dios me protege.
Profunda Soledad
Ricardo Pedroarias, Spanish Faculty Class of 1984
Gabriel Legaspi ‘24
Michael Hanna ‘25
Mario Murga ‘25
I Lived with Strangers for Sixteen YearscAfter Colette Labouff Atkinson
Nathan, Angel, and Gabe were lost opportunities. I called their back house home before any one of them were ever born—never spoke a word. I exaggerate. Still, we barely talked at all—a few yards’ walk away at all times. Sixteen years. I don’t know who they are. I still hold fragments, shards of glistening memories—when we were young and knew nothing. Before I knew how to burn out and disappear into the ashes of obscure teenagehood, leaving them to wonder where I’d gone. Never warning them of the tempests beyond. I can only hope that Nathan still sprints forth and back across the front yard in his worn-out flip flops. That Angel still bottoms probiotics every morning, thinking one day she’ll tower over her twin. That Gabe still rocks on the bench outside, eagerly waiting for the mailman to chuck another dinosaur over the front gate. Yet to change. Yet to grow. Yet to fall into the clutches of cluttered maturity, years and years after. So that I can still come back, continue where we left off. A time where we knew nothing, and I will never realize I’m too late.
CJ Cortes ‘23
Young Bloomer
I wonder about you sometimes. You and I, who once stood on the same pedestal And parted ways at the same level, Meeting each other, eye to eye, Matching each other, blow for blow. I know nothing but the highlights of where you are now. Word spreads along the wind of your blossoming prosperity, And tinges of your vibrant color flow across the vivacious sky. Sometimes, I look up to your light, reminded that color exists. Sometimes, I look up to your light, all the more aware of my darkness.
I’m happy for you. I truly am.
Sincerely, The one who withered.
CJ Cortes ‘23
Trey Paulson ‘25 Ryan Song ‘25
Fungal Life, Emile Hidalgo ‘24 Viva, Matthew Sasso ‘25
Euphoric Reduction, Connor Von Der Ahe ‘25
Dakota Acuna ‘23 Grant Steuerwald ‘23
Space Needle in Seattle, Washington, Kenneth Kun ‘25
Peace Monument in Washington DC, Alexander Stern ‘25
Levi Rice ‘24
Jack Wood ‘24
Kei Truck Fr, Lucas Beissel von Gymnich ‘25
3D Endless Engines Challenge, Emmett Ness ‘25
Kyle Lamberth ‘24
Ian Hong ‘25
The Warmth That is My Grandparent’s Kitchen
The soft wood that fills the kitchen floor beneath my feet, smells of bubbling goodness fill the air around me, pierced by only the sound of contagious laughter, stars in the ceiling glisten as ice, but in reality the stars illuminate the beauty of the kitchen, the fullness, the loving, and the job of the kitchen; to make the house a home. The granite countertops chiseled from the rock of a mountain line the dark and earthy cabinets below, illuminated by the granite is the breath of life, the stove itself. The stove is an orchestra, steak and potatoes created is the melody of sound produced from this fire of life, brought to life by my grandparents kitchen. The long and sleek wooden table like the audience watching on eagerly as the orchestra performs, the cozy corner the table is in, with everyone fits like a glove. My grandparent’s kitchen, my glove that warms my soul.
Charlie Smith ‘23
Christopher Anderson ‘24
Alexander Reyes ‘23
Tony Kim ‘25
Clayton Smith ‘25
Orchestra, 2023
Mighty Roar Banquet, 2023
SPECIAL THANKS
to all the contributers and those who submitted works for consideration. The entire Loyola commnity; students, alumni, faculty, admistrators, and staff, the Windowpanes Modersators Mr. McClenahen and Mrs. Protsenko, and the students leaders, our President Fr Greg Goethals, our Principal Mr. Kozakowski, our Assistant Principal Mr. O’Connell, our Director of Counseling Mr. Jordan, and our director of Student Activities Mr. Walter for helping us make this issue a reality.
WINDOWPANES STAFF
MMXXI - MMXXIII
Armando Solares ‘24 - Visual Editor, Cover Designer. Owen Cappelletti ‘23 - Literacy Editor. Derek Harrison ‘23 - Literacy Editor. Mrs. Protsenko - Visual Arts Faculty, Visual Arts Moderator, Layout Designer. Mr. McClenahen - English Language Faculty, Literacy Moderator.
