Signatures 2023

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Signatures 2023 Marquette University High School 3401 West Wisconsin Avenue Milwaukee, WI 53208 signatures@muhs.edu www.muhs.edu (414)933-7220

Dedicated to Mr. Michael Feely, who taught English at Marquette University High School for 24 years

Table Of Contents The Mighty Kendar and the Face of Terror!

Infinity Cube Ông Son Halda í Vonina

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Cooper Wood James Karczewski Francis Anggara Edward Owczarski Alex Daczko

The Haste of A Late Riser Piano Ragtime Solar Peak Eden’s Ark A Perspective On Life Observation Supposition The Letter “G” A Dance of Red and Blue A Woman Dissected Merciful Angel’s Descent Holy Pot The Rocky Mountains Oversight Salvete Ex Pompeii The Infinite Present Missouri Side Étude Ode to an Orangutan VW Bus on the Lake

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Owen Killoran Ethan Brown Will Rick Jonah Watkins Jude Ballinger Declan McCormick Jaloni Brown Jim Groth Charles Doucette Tristen Yang Aiden Martel Sam Allbright Charlie O’Connor Padraic Donnelly Keagan Danner Jack Regan Vincent Mangan Luis Vazquez Chavez Evan Egelhoff

HoldOnToHope

Bird’s Eye View of our Planet’s Problems The Struggle of the Aeolian Chariot Laborism One Color Showing Kairos Magic Ball Yours Truly and Forever More Un Sueno Final Ozycandyas Brown Trout World Photography Hail to the Black Man No Regrets Bahama Mama The Meek Mystic of Mathematics The Dance of the Face Screaming Lady The Story of the Ghost The Wind and the Train Tracks Seasons The Long Walk to Mr. Dillon’s Office Racing Mind Striped Car My Brothers Smokey The Bear Eats a Snack

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Henry Merz Declan McCormick JimGroth Lucian Straube Juan Sanchez John Donohue Tristen Yang Luis Casas Cooper Wood Ben Elgersma Tiernan Moloney Nathaniel Clayton Declan McCormick Christian Lohr James Gelhard Isaiah Scaffidi Will Mukana Mikail Schlegel James Escott Colin Corr Henry Merz Owen Bell Andrew Pentler Nathaniel Clayton Henry Merz

Nico Ertl ‘25 “N” Pencil Drawing

- Cooper Wood ‘23

The Mighty Kendar and the Face of Terror!

The jungles of Daraka were a hard place for anyone to survive, and even harder for the Tuatha. They were considered the High-born, people carved from song, with magic in their blood, but they lacked the physical toughness of other peoples. This did not bother the mighty Kendar, Lost Prince of the Mount of Mokarri, Slayer of Kings, Hand of Light. He had gone on countless adventures before, so he saw no reason to suspect this one would be any different.

Kendar leaped down from the tree branch he had been sitting in for several hours. The noon sun beat down upon his lithe frame, but he only pulled his green cloak tighter. In the bright light of day, every bit of camouflage was necessary. He continued to move through the jungle’s thick undergrowth, leaping over fallen trees and laughing with delight. Adventure was fun. Kendar had never gone on an adventure for glory or gold, or to further a political cause; he had only ever done it because of the joy he found in every moment. One could never know what happened next while chasing murderous barons through their castles or hunting wyverns in the forest. There was an excitement there that nothing else could come close to.

It was not long before Kendar heard the next enemy patrol, clomping awkwardly around and giving themselves away to every man, beast, and bird in the area. Kendar stifled his next laugh and dashed upwards into the nearest tree, taking refuge there, pulling his cloak ever tighter. On the bough that he had settled on, high enough off the ground to not be seen but not so high he would risk a fatal fall, a family of small blue birds was gathered. They stared at him inquisitively.

“Hello, little friends,” Kendar whispered to them, before placing a finger over his mouth, as if to quiet them. He glanced down and saw the patrol walking right below him.

They were bedecked in black leather harnesses and bits of scrap metal painted gold and attached like plate armor. They all carried halberds and short swords, and they all wore angular, black helmets that obscured their faces and must have been stifling in the jungle heat. Kendar thought that it was amusing how little they cared about passing without trace, leaving so many marks in the 6

brush that even a child could track them. They were loud, too, shouting crude jokes to each other and clanging their weapons and armor about. They were most likely mercenaries, hired brute force with little training.

Kendar was a bit disappointed that they did not yell any information of substance, but at least they made themselves easy to track. A part of Kendar was even a bit disappointed that tracking would be this easy. He waited until they passed his position and dropped down, laughing a bit more. He followed their path for about half an hour, and was pleased to discover that it led directly to an ominous-looking cavern with stalactites and stalagmites formed around the mouth of the cave so that it looked like a great beast’s mouth. Kendar was waiting for the twist. Nobody could be this obviously evil.

No guards appeared to be watching the entrance, so Kendar walked right in, discovering a long subterranean passageway lit only by torches set into the wall at eight foot intervals. Kendar followed the passage, and was a bit surprised when it took a sharp turn downwards. The slope was so great that he almost lost his footing and slid into the darkness. Undeterred, he kept moving forward. If he drew his sword… No! That was a foolish thought. If Kendar drew his sword, it would only give him away.

Eventually, the passageway opened up into a larger chamber. This chamber was swarming with mercenaries in black-and-gold outfits and an old man in a grey beard and black-and-gold robe was seated at a throne on the far end of the chamber. Behind the throne was a gigantic statue of a troll-king, adorned with priceless jewels and made with an artistry that suggested it was carved in an earlier age. An interesting, ruby-decorated hole where the troll’s navel would be seemed to confirm this hypothesis. Kendar’s attention was taken away from the troll-king statue when he noticed that he had been easily spotted by just about everyone in the room, including the old man. He was surprised that he had let this breach of stealth happen, but he quickly accepted it and took the new status quo in stride.

“Greetings, friends,” he announced, with a majestic quality borrowed from his days spent in the courts of royalty.

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“Who are you?” asked the old man. Kendar took a moment to think, before deciding to drop any pretense and be honest.

“I am Kendar,” he said with the same royal lilt, “and I have searched many weeks and many more miles looking for the Face of Terror. Would that be you, good sir?” At this last word, he dropped his cloak, revealing his bright red attire and armor, and drawing his sword, the famed shining saber Solais. At that, the mercenaries all readied their weapons and their arrogance for a fight.

The old man adopted a wicked smile. “I have heard of your exploits, Lord Kendar,” he sneered, “and I also expected that you would come looking for the Face of Terror.”

“So…” Kendar led, “is that you?”

“No,” the old man spat, “I am Strygal, the greatest sorceror of this era.”

“Evil sorceror, really?” asked Kendar. “That’s so boring! Not to mention having the exact aesthetic I would expect from an evil sorceror. It’s almost kitschy.

Now, could you at least tell me who the Face of Terror is, if it is not you?”

“The Face of Terror is not a person,” Strygal said. “It is a tool. Behold!”

Strygal then held out his hand and a horned, golden mask shaped into a permanent scream magically appeared in his palm. He took it in both hands and placed the mask onto his face. At that very moment, Kendar flung his shining sword directly above Strygal’s head into the hole in the troll-king statue’s stomach.

As Kendar looked at Strygal with the mask on, he felt waves of fear overcome him. He gripped himself, wanting to look away with every fiber of his being but finding himself unable to. He collapsed to the floor, in a state of pure panic.

In the meantime, something that Kendar did not see happen, but assumed would happen, was happening. The deep magic of Solais interacted with the deep magic of the troll-king statue, bringing the great stone giant to life. The jewels cracked off of it, as it begun to swipe away everything in its way, including the supposedly-great sorceror Strygal. The moment Strygal’s concentration was broken, Kendar recovered. He stood up, witnessed the troll crushing mercenaries with its stone hands, and stuck out his hand. Solais flew through the air, directly into his grip. Kendar turned around into the passageway and ran as fast as he could, just as the stone walls of the cave started to shake.

Kendar sat in a tree with a blue bird perched on his arm, the jungle twilight illuminating the collapsed cave entrance he had come out of not ten minutes ago.

“Another adventure done,” he said to the bird. “Almost too easy.”

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James Karczewski ‘23 “Infinity Cube” (Sculpture)

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Francis Anggara ‘23 “Ông” (Pencil Drawing)

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- Edward Owczarski ‘26

Son My glowing sun, your shining rays fill me With strength and endless hope for your embrace.

My lovely sun you bound o’er plains, I wish I saw you more; I haven’t since in Thrace.

I’ll not abandon you my growing light.

And though rough sands erode old bones, my home Awaits my storming, strong return without Some foreign hindrance, yearning for our loam.

I know my sweet Apollo shan’t forget His duty, sworn to foster his home soil.

“Oh father Zeus abandoned me once more, But this land shall know the fruits of my toil, As mighty Sisyphus heaves up his stone.”

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- Alex Daczko ‘26

Halda í vonina

Hold on to Hope

The young and childish joy The beauty and the bliss No one rude nor coy Darkness strike and miss

Even if the shovel falls And it becomes your friend And if your body goes and crawls And starts the slow ascend

But soon begin to fade Agility of light No one to help nor aid From reaper in the night

To where would you escape For reaper looms overhead Reality his to shape The choice of life and dead

Mind and body shaken Stripped of freedom too Soul stole and body taken Held hostage blindfold view

Unless escape to the mind Death himself his lair Barrel to the flesh you find Yet kill he did not dare

Cannot put down the spade The digging must go deeper For the price must be paid Walls grow only steeper

Against yourself you turn And take up knife in hand Resist release yet yearn Your life is his demand

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- Owen Killoran ‘23

The Haste of a Late Riser The clock’s harsh siren screams alive; The glowing, green face reads ten to eight.

I smash my fist onto the dream-killer And sprint out from the cozy covers.

I drearily dress myself in once-worn garb, Then woefully drag a pasted brush across My gleaming jaw-pearls for the bare minimum time.

Rapidly, I shovel into my gullet a bite Of mother’s pancakes, doused in sweet tree-blood.

I grab my gleaming keys and say a fast farewell, Sprinting ever so fast into my motored-chariot.

Risking crash or arrest, I speed the roads; I merge, and I weave ‘round traffic’s steel-snails.

The car’s small clock reads a mere minute left.

I recklessly and sinfully park on street, not lot And desperately sprint into the learning-hall.

Despite my dutiful speed, the time-hands scratch eight, But no bell sounds; then, it strikes me.

I slap my sweating palm against my moronic forehead.

The day starts late on Thor’s Day!

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Piano Ragtime Ethan Brown 98Allegretto

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Sosteunto

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Ethan Brown ‘25 “Piano Ragtime” (Musical Composition)

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William Rick ‘25 “Solar Peak” (Digital Art) 16

- Jonah Watkins ‘24

Eden’s Ark The journey’s end began with the turn.

The ship seemed to hover in the formlessness of space as its engines slowly changed trajectory, preparing to send the vessel hurtling through a new current in the dark. Outside, there was no noise, the sound of the firing engines swallowed by the dark waters of space. Inside, the chaos of whirring metal and wheezing pipes was, for a moment, superseded by the noise of a pause in movement and motion as every inhabitant of the gargantuan ship stumbled, thrown momentarily off-balance as the cylinders of the ship shifted. The human noise then reimposed itself, in an even greater clamor, as the multitudes of people within the vessel rushed to the nearest chapel, abandoning the tools of their labor where they lay.

One by one they entered the chapels, pausing at the door for a moment, and then hurrying to a seat. The chapels were filled with endlessly whirring and spinning gears, intricately laid so as to result in a great clock, the movements of which were indecipherable to any casual onlooker. As the last of the inhabitants of the ship filed into the chapels, identical screens in the front of each chapel buzzed to life.

The Father’s face appeared on the screen, old and wizened, lips dry and cracked.

His face lit with a manic fervor as he cried, with a hoarse and broken voice, “Children! Today is a truly glorious day! For today our Last Turn is made! Our trajectory is now made certain and in His wisdom we shall arrive at Our Salvation within this generation! Lo, for we shall begin the final descent after the fifth rotation of the wheel and then we shall come to our new home and it shall flow with life and light! And upon that day, as the Word says, ‘There shall be great rejoicing and praise for Our Lord who has sent us from death to life, from entrapment to freedom, from fear to safety.’ Children! Let us live in hope of that soon coming day! For on that day, those given to God shall be released into the Earth and they shall provide for us and give us life! Now, my Children, go! Go, and continue your good work! We are so close and so near! Go, and serve Our Protector against the cold and dark!” And so they, new vigor filling them, flew to create the glorious praise of metal against metal, of tightening the screws and oiling the joints, of welding and of drilling. And the ship flew on, its path now, at last, set for the end, and did so without incident for 15 years.

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Upon the first day of the third rotation of the wheel, the dead left. A ceremony was made of it. The coffins where the dead were contained, sleek and metal, cold and unbroken, were loaded into a ship, aerodynamic, compact. The Father, still living, walked, bent and with a cane, to make a rare personal appearance. He stood at a podium in the front of the landing bay, and as his mouth opened, words issued forth.

“Children, today the dead go. They shall leave us behind for once and for all. They shall go to the world we approach and their spirits shall rise up as their bodies sink into the ground and make the land fertile and sweet for our landing.

They have surrendered themselves for our future and we shall remember them, for their names are written in the Great Book. So children, go in hope.”

After his words had been heard, a voice cried out, “And what shall we do with the new dead?”

“Children, those new names of the dead shall still be transcribed in the Book, and lo! Their bodies shall become a miracle unto themselves. For our dying god needs life and their bodies shall become his life! Their bodies shall become the oil of his veins! And the Holy Transmutation shall subsume what they were and they shall become God! Lo! Blessed are they who die now for they shall become God! But your life is still valuable, my children. You are yet needed to make the final leg of this long and torturous journey. Those who take their own lives out of selfish pursuit of His Being shall not be given this blessing but shall instead be cast into the cold dark! Serve God, my children, and he shall save us!”

This having been said, he hobbled to his chambers, leaving the gathered mass to return to their labors.

The coffin ship shot out of the ship that was their God and hurtled towards theplanet, quickly outpacing the greater ship’s engines. In two years it would land.

The door in back would open and automated drones and protocols would carry the coffins outside and crack them open, exposing the bodies to the warm air.

Their bodies were to be left to warm and rot for a month before they would begin to be used as fertilizer for the newly planted seeds. Upon the ship none of this was known, nor would it ever be.

The ship ruptured upon the fifth day of the fourth rotation. Why it happened is irrelevant. An accident, a mistake in the ship’s design, or perhaps, as was whispered by the masses, that most dreaded word, sabotage. What is relevant is that a hundred of the inhabitants died. Forty-eight bodies were recovered, the rest cast into the vast and formless ocean of the dark. The Room of Transmutation was opened for a grand miracle. The Father, even older, bowing under the weight of centuries, tottered to stand behind the pulpit in the room.

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“My children. A great tragedy has occurred today. Many of our brothers and sisters have been cast into the cold and dark and we are gathered here to both mourn those poor souls and to celebrate those who are being taken into God. They shall strengthen us in our final stretch and we shall give great thanks to them! All those lost in this time shall have their names remembered for generation upon generation. Children, I see the dead are in their places. It is time.”

This having been said, the Father slowly pulled a lever and the containers around the dead bodies slammed shut. A great roaring, like a mighty wind, was heard, at which the multitude of people crowding into the room stepped back in fear and fright. It soon quieted and once the wind was gone the Father cried out once more.

“Our dearly lost are now part of Our Savior! Their strength shall help him carry us from the death of the Enemy to the life of our new home! Sing praises, my children, sing praises!”

And the voices of the multitude lifted and praised their God with voice and wrench, and for a day there was celebration even in the sorrow.

Upon the eve of the day before their vessel arrived at the world of their God, the Father breathed his last. He was attended in his last moments by a clade of the leaders of the ship, the ones who ran the engines and the hydroponics, and the ones who led and organized the workers. It was a quiet and somber occasion, the artificial lungs of the Father, finally breaking down completely, leaving him leaking blood from his mouth, a slow and painful death.

Following his death, one last message buzzed its way to the chapel. On the screens he once again appeared, though this time younger and with more fervor in his voice.

“My children. My time has ended. I have known this would come for a long time. God has told me that I was not to journey or step foot upon his world, for I was still tainted with the scent of the Enemy, unlike you, my children, who have been kept clean by this shell which keeps out the cold and dark. I go now, my children, and with me shall go the last taint of the enemy, this cruel metal that made me live too long for any mortal span. Yet, remember children, that even in this abomination, God found a way to use it for our benefit. I go now, children. Our God sends us home.”

Upon the next day the ship broke apart. First though, the people on the ship gathered in the places they were variously assigned to, by place and part.

Then the ship split into compartments, cleverly constructed so as to protect all containers of human life as they plunged towards the verdant forest which the coffin ship had made.

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The rest of the ship, hydroponics, the engines, the homes, fell around the globe, landing in far off lands not to be seen for generation upon generation. But lo! as they fell a miracle occurred. The metal shell peeled away and seeds fell from the ship, between the shell and the inside. And some fell on rock and there they did not grow. And some fell on sand and there they grew twisted and wasted and soon died. But some fell in good soil and there they sprouted and grew.

But no one was to know of this for a hundred years, nor in a hundred more.

For until the time came when the world was flowering in full, walls around the forest had been erected by the drones in the coffin ship. Yet the inhabitants of the ship, once they landed, paid no mind, for enclosure was all they had ever known, and this green quiet was better to them than the clanking metal roars of their God. Therefore they wandered and explored and said that it was good.

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- Jude Ballinger ‘25

A Perspective on Life What is the meaning of life?

Why are we here?

What is our purpose, When the end always draws near?

Make others happy Because we were put here.

Care for your neighbor.

With God there is no fear.

Why does good require a sacrifice?

When will it get better?

Why does bad feel so good, And bring such pleasure?

Being good is hard, But it will lead to something greater.

Being bad is easy, But it only hurts our Creator .

When will we find love?

Where even is it?

Why is everyone so selfish?

Why does everyone quit?

God always loves us, And he is always here.

Yes, we are weak.

But we can persevere.

Where is the respect?

How about compassion?

The world seems so unfair.

Kindness brings no satisfaction.

If everyone is rude, Be better.

If everyone is mean, Be a forgiver.

How are we expected to be better?

Who is even trying?

Everything has a consequence, There is no denying.

If in doing good You feel alone, Always remember, God awaits you on his throne.

Who has time to be virtuous?

Is every second not doing good, bad?

Even the good we do Can make someone sad.

When we help people When we love When we defeat temptation We make him happy above.

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- Declan McCormick ‘24

observation supposition i suppose, then it is vanity an exaltation of some Cooleyan tendency this ink a mirror, sans serif i suppose, then it is vanity i don’t believe my mind is worth examining i am just a person with too much time, anyway

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- Jaloni Brown ‘24

The Letter “G” G stands for gold But for me it was silver As the slim yet glistening chain went around my neck I felt as if I had never slept It had been three years before the death Before my “G” was gone I had been given this thing as a keepsake At the time it meant nothing But now it is something It is a part of me it is intertwined in my DNA It is why I will never fear or take aide My “G” was so strong But now my “G” is long gone G stands for gold But for me, it was so old Saying her name was not an option My grief was felt through this letter on my neck If I dared ever to take it off I would be met with a mean old scoff A scoff from the one above A scoff from the one I truly loved G stands for gold But for me it stands for Grandma

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- Jim Groth ‘23

A Dance Of Red and Blue O friend of mine on which I do call You appear before me in such elegant fashion A bow to rival kings and lords O but my friend Your service has driven thou mad A taunting of thousands has led thee to embrace the lesser of your like Yet you become above Like a comet of ice thoust flies A true marvel of grace tarnished O my friend you come at me with such rage Your scythe sweep in such glorious arcs that I shan’t be chanced to avoid I repost with glinted might A hefty head of Flame I do try and engage Yet you with your weeds counter my struggle A truly sorry sight I am in your presence We go on for hours Your apparati against mine The frost ‘gainst the stone A spectacle ensues You astound me as I endeavor to defeat what I so desire Failure after blunder as we go on Spin after roll Counter after counter Finally my shimmer shines true With a power to rival gods I draw thee in The curve finds mark in thy breast And we are at last at peace O sweet reward But regret still lingers Thou art unmatched O Albriach of Mad Tongues 24

Charles Doucette ‘23 “A Woman Dissected” (Painting)

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- Tristen Yang ‘23

Merciful Angel’s Descent This angel must have been here longer than he had. He could not take his eyes off this strange woman in the connor booth a few feet from his table. The dim light from the hanging pendant light created a faded yellow ring above her light whiteblue hair. She was wearing a navy blue pinafore and a white collared shirt. The man could only see the right side of her back because she was staring out the window.

At this hour, this Denny’s was empty. The only other person the man had seen was his female auburn haired waiter. The man suddenly felt the breeze from the AC creep under his skin. Even with his coat on, the cold had begun to gnaw on his bones.

The man shivered. His toes and fingers became numb and his heart rate began to decrease. The man’s breath became visible and he began to feel a deep cut on lungs. Despite the cold, the man could not help but look at this woman. She showed no signs of discomfort. She did not fold her hands together. She did not shiver. It seemed as if she did not even breathe.

The man’s body started to ache. He could no longer bear the cold. He stood up. His knees buckled, but he caught himself with the table. He grabbed his menu and made his way towards the strange woman. Those few feet felt like several miles.

The man fought against the cold breeze draining him of his strength. The cold breeze forced his eyes shut causing him to stumble. Tired and blind, the man wished to lay on the floor and sleep, but a subtle wave of warmth bathed his body. With every step the man took, the heat became more and more noticeable. He could feel his life rush through his body and he once again laid eyes on the woman.

She had remained in the same position only this time the man was standing right next to her booth. The man took a seat across from the strange woman and then noticed the light’s intensity around the woman’s face. The man only saw the woman’s right side. Her left forearm rested on the window sill. On top of her left hand rested her right forearm. She had placed her chin on her right palm and her figures wrapped around her right check. Her nose had a sharp defined point with a slight curve, but the sides of her nose seemed flat and dull. Her glossy eyes were a dark red, and they had not moved since the man sat down. The man looked into the woman's eye and saw the night sky outside the window. The stars danced across the sky per26

forming in perfect union. The moon was in the center of the dance and seemed to be closer to the Earth bathing the Earth in the moon’s bright light. Before the man could find the scene that captivated the strange woman, the auburn waiter appeared.

The man moved his head away from the strange woman and towards the waiter. The man failed to recall any features of the waiter other than the color of her hair, so he decided to put her features to memory. She wore a pink apron, blue jeans, and a light blue sleeveless shirt. The waiter had two pigtails that were pinned together with 2 red clips. Her wavy hair stretched to her elbows and covered most of her shoulder. When the man saw the woman’s face, he recognized his mistake.

The woman’s smooth cheeks became red and her dark blue eyes burned.

She began venting her frustration. She talked about men only appreciating her looks, her friends’ carefree life, and her unlucky timing ruining her best moments.

The waiter’s stories seemed very familiar to the man. The way she spoke, the way her hands moved while talking, the way she pursed her thin lips all seemed familiar to the man. He struggled finding the memories that caused her to feel so familiar. Eventually, the waiter apologized for talking so long and asked what the man would like to drink. The man wished she had continued speaking. He felt close to discovering his memories of the waiter.

He could feel his past emotions ebb and flow like waves. Sometimes his emotions were of sympathy and sorrow while times his emotions were of annoyance and anger. The man just sat there thinking. The waiter just kindly smiled, waiting for a response.

The strange woman then spoke, breaking the calm silence: “Water with ice”. The waiter rolled her eyes at the woman, wrote down the request, tilted her head slightly to the right, smiled at the man one last time, and left the pair alone.

The man continued to think about the waiter until he heard the ambulance sirens.

The man looked out the window and saw a car flipped over in the snowy night.

He saw strange figures put two people on stretchers. One person appeared to be an auburn woman and the other person appeared to be a man that resembled his father. Searching for answers, the man looked towards the woman’s direction.

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Aiden Martel ‘24 “Holy Pot” (Sculpture)

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She had moved from her seat. When the man looked at the end of the booth, he discovered her standing with a heavy, light brown trench coat on. Even though she was out of the hanging light’s glow, the man could still see her face.

Loving pity filled her red eyes and her tiny lips formed a gentle smile. She extended a hand to help the man out of the booth, but the man refused to move.

He wanted to wait for his glass of ice cold water. He searched through the menu to find which meal he would eat. He thought about how each would taste and the time each meal would take to make, but he discovered that he was not hungry. He closed his eyes for an untold amount of time before he looked towards the strange woman.

He took a deep breath and discovered he was not thirsty anymore. He grabbed the strange woman’s hand and felt his mother’s warth. He took a few steps forward towards the woman and hugged her. Within the arms of his angel, he cried. After an untold amount of time, the angel led the man out of Denny’s and into his new world.

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Sam Allbright ‘26 “The Rocky Mountains” (Photograph)

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Charlie O’Connor ‘23 “Oversight” (Pencil Drawing)

Padraic Donnelly ‘26 “Salvete Ex Pompeii” (Drawing)

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- Keagan Danner ‘23

The Infinite Present the time before and the time after, now no longer seem to matter. for all i care, this World is fair, as i spend my Time in the Infinite Present. the hallway stretches forever more, with only the sound of the pour. i know not before, that i would feel the heat of the core, as i spend my time in the Infinite Present. the others, they now fly, as for life they shall vie. life fluttering like wind through rye. i accept it all while i lie, as i spend my Time in the Infinite Present as Fear consumes one presumes that this is the End Time was fleeting thus they stopped retreating having to accept the End the Midnight chime had signified the Time As others march on, I am fine, spending my Time in the Infinite Present 33

Jack Regan ‘23 “Missouri Side” (Photograph)

- Vincent Mangan ‘26

Étude Silence is a strange phenomenon it moves predictably and is nonetheless surprising when it bears itself there are different manifestations as well My favorite is nature's quiet not the absence of sound but true, rare serenity the feeling you can almost hear the Earth spin the gentle, meditative breaths of the matron of life in the ambivalent breeze the harmony churning seas go low diving gulls go high it is no wonder our symphonies try so hard to mime a storm

because really on our best behavior we can only hope to impress the same majesty the messianic grace of the bolting doe on the world But all too often we forget to listen.

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- Luis Vazquez Chavez ‘23

Ode to an Orangutan Orange fur sitting in a heap Stationary, looking at us as we look at him Sadness when he realizes It is he who is trapped Forever locked in glass Missing, yearning for his Jungle His home Can we see his pain?

Or are we too busy pointing Laughing at him Waving our hands, trying to get his attention Will we notice a tear rolling down his face?

It is only at night where he feels free Staring up the the sky The stars For they will soon travel over a land he once knew The land where he was the Gardener of the Jungle

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Evan Egelhoff ‘26 “VW Bus on the Lake” (Pencil Drawing)

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Henry Merz ‘23 “Bird’s Eye View of our Planet’s Problems” (Acrylic Painting)

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- Declan McCormick ‘24

The Struggle of the Aeolian Chariot Nature is an indomitable thing; and to such an idea, the searing crack of lightning and the canyon-carving power of frothing rapids alone stand testament.

Humanity is similarly willful, possessing an unfortunate knack for conquering the Earth with brute force and concrete. However, humanity has learned how to draw upon the forces of nature with a deft mind and hand, harnessing their power.

The sailboat is one such tool, creating a struggle over the control of a vast sheet of canvas. However, when a balance is struck between them, human and wind coexist, creating a state of exhilarating beauty.

The dinghy is a small boat, roughly twelve feet in length, with a pristine fiberglass hull that glows blindingly bright, making the water below seem dark and void to the overexposed eye. The mast, a looming monolith of metal and wire, streaks through the sky like the wingbone of a falcon, followed immediately by an outstretched wing of canvas, catching every whisper of wind and sending it cascading off of the leech, propelling the boat forward. Beneath the waves, the boat’s rudder and keel cleave the water. Watching the sky above and the waves ahead, the sailor grips the control lines much like a charioteer holds his reigns; tentatively monitoring every change in tension so as to prevent the bucking of an unruly steed.

A squall begins to coalesce as the clouds darken, the air ripens, and the wind begins to quicken. What began as light chop quickly grows; small, lapping waves fall away, congealing into massive swells that move in lethargic undulations. As the boat accelerates, the sailor struggles to maintain control of the sails. His focus slipping as the bow pitches into wave after wave, the sailor’s eyes sting from the now constant spray of salt and foam onto his face. The bow begins to shudder with jagged, violent cracking as the hull slaps against the back of each wave. Instinctively, the sailor shifts his weight to the stern of the boat, lifting the front out of the water. As he does this, the sailor chooses to respond to the boat’s tensions, rather than forcing control upon the lines. Gradually, the sailboat begins to plane, the violent thuds not disappearing, but settling into a pattern of thunderous vibrations and ocean spray as the hull starts to skim the very surface of the drink.

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The sailor blinks away the salt from his eyes and lets out a sigh. As he exhales, the time around the boat seems to melt into a fluid, syrup-like state. The sailor becomes aware of every instrument on his dinghy, every twitch of line, and every wrinkle on the sail. The vibrations of the hull become muted and stripped of their sinister timbre. Every muscle in the sailor's body begins to move on its own, every neuron seemingly firing with anticipatory glee as the sailor and sailboat become one entity; no longer chariot and charioteer, but the mare itself. The sailor’s skin crawls as the boat approaches a swell, blue-white foam already curdling at its peak. As the dinghy approaches, the wave begins to crash. Raining down like pebbles before a landslide, water coats the sailor’s face. The prow of the boat pierces the wall of water with apathetic ease, and the boat lurches through the crest of the wave with the grace of a breaching whale. The sailor, blinded by salt and froth, cannot see the boat fly through the air, but he feels the water fall out from underneath the hull, if for only a second. Then, in a chaotic collection of instants, the dinghy crashes into the water below with a thunderclap, the mast shuddering under the weight of the wind. Time crashes down upon the sailor’s back, and he is once again a charioteer upon an Aeolian chariot.

And so, the sailor resumes the struggle. As the sailor knows, the beauty of man’s struggle with nature comes not in triumph of one over the other, but in the moments in which the two forces combine. Nature is inevitable, and defeating it is a foolish endeavor. Harnessing the power of the natural world, however, becomes easier when one opens themselves up to it, much like the sailor does the winds and waves. Humanity and the forces of nature work against each other constantly, but in that perpetual dance of death, one can glean a love for the struggle. That love, most certainly, is beautiful.

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- Jim Groth ‘23

Laborism Through the centuries There is a constant The laborer who ever toils No prayer nor sermon save him The fact’ry his chapel The great machines his censer The coal burning his incense The day orders his Bible The foreman his vicar The work his great reward This is the way of the Laborer The Religion of the Hammer There is no eternal rest For those who follow The First Foreman

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Lucian Straube ‘23 “One Color Showing” (Photograph)

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- Juan Sanchez ‘24

Kairos Will I know when it is time?

I am still waiting Expecting My dreams saline with calling A baby kicks in my heart Coming soon on breadth Of my words An eternal schedule A hungry tomb Oh, what could have been That these dreams Had denied me; left me behind in dark waters Behind questions There excite deep holes Breathe in drafts Where answers belong

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A foundation Holy and ordained Breathtaking Shallow and concave That evaporation My soul left behind The child stained By father’s red tears The sacrifice No longer withheld Did you not And neither will I His name is Isaac Here he is, my King Say the word I will not withhold

John Donohue ‘23 “Magic Ball” (Photograph)

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- Tristen Yang ‘23

Yours Truly and Forever More Here in the dark void of your brain I exist and I remain.

You can’t escape me and I can’t leave you.

I must exist despite the pain.

“Get out of my head. I don’t know what you are.”

What I am doesn’t matter. My identity has bonded with you. I have merged with you to be one.

What my identity was yesterday will exist only as a reminder of what I am right now.

“God, get out of my head.”

I am no god.

I am no angel or demon.

I am neither king, priest, or prophet.

I am you and you are me “I don’t even know who you are.”

You know too well who I am.

A memory of the past? A worry of the present? A dream of the future?

I am you and you are me.

“I don’t know what I am, so I can’t know what you are.”

Are we the sum of things on Earth or are we beings from a heavenly plane?

Do we exist because others recognize us or do we exist simply because we want to?

Are we characters in a story trying to express feelings, or are we weeds used to poison the mind?

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Whatever you are, I am.

Whatever you want, I act.

Whatever you learn, I know.

Whatever you believe, I follow.

For I am the real you and you are the real me

Luis Casas ‘26 “Un Sueno Final” Pencil Drawing

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- Cooper Wood ‘23

Ozycandyas A note on the text: “Ozycandyas” is a very famous poem written by the great American poet Willard Hammermill. This was written in 1983, the year that Hammermill scholars will know he was trying to eat more organic foods and was experiencing severe hallucinations brought on by sugar withdrawal. It was in one of these hallucinations that the equally great poet, Percy Bysshe Shelley himself, appeared and told Hammermill to write “Ozycandyas” as a reminder to himself of the temporary, fleeting nature of a sugar rush.

Some people may notice a disturbing similarity in “Ozycandyas” to Shelley’s own poem “Ozymandias”, even going so far as to call it a parody or, dare I say it, a spoof. Hammermill insists that it is instead a loving pastiche. “Ozycandyas” was first published in Despayr: The Magazine For Vaguely Sad Poetry.

I met a traveler from an Almond Joy land, Who said - “Two vast and tuttifrutti legs of stone Stand in the desert…Near them, on the sugar, Half sunk a shattered chocolate lies, whose frown, And wrinkled licorice, and Snickers of cold command, Tell that its confectioner well those candies ate Which yet survive on those lollipop things, The hand that mocked them, and the sugar rush they had; And on the peppermint, these words appear: My name is Ozycandyas, King of Kandy; Look on my works, ye healthy, and despair!

Nothing healthy remains. Round the decay Of that colossal tooth, with plaque buildup and cavities The lone and level words of Shelley stretch far away.”

Quoth the raven nevermore.

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Ben Elgersma ‘24 “Brown Trout” (Painted Wood Carving)

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Tiernan Moloney ‘26 “World Photography” (Photograph)

- Nathaniel Clayton ‘23

Hail to the Black Man Hail to the Black Man, unconquered Who stands now tall and proud.

Hail to the Black Woman, unconquered Whose work is now realized.

Hail to minorities everywhere Stand forever tall and proud.

For that which makes us different Makes us all the more beautiful.

Hail to our ancestors, remembered Whose empires are still rich.

Hail to our forefathers the builders Whose devotion freed this nation.

Hail to all who dream a dream Where all are seen and loved.

And hail to all who live that dream, Lead on, on to equality.

Hail to all black folk today, Who still carry on the tales And sing the ancient songs That freed our hearts and souls.

And hail to all the children, Our future, burning bright.

Go, dream a new dream, And make it a reality.

Hail to all who work today May they never fall nor fear.

For until our voices perish, Equality will be our goal.

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- Declan McCormick ‘24

no regrets i like the idea of having no regrets not in the typical sense though, wherein egomaniacs and arrogant thumbtacks live without considering the ramifications of vicariosity no, i most certainly dont mean it like that quite the contrary, i believe rather, i find it most fitting to take advantage of poor choices ask myself all the questions all the time, just how and why and how and why for this, such intracranial banter, is learning and without learning, i cannot teach myself how to think, how to act, to read, and write, and all the things i want to do when im who i want to be is not (should not be) such a trivial matter i haven't the capacity for cartesian simplicity so i beg myself 52

to answer the questions i beg myself of myself, i do not know. self is an inside job a "members only" club exclusivity the likes of which lifelaity such as myself can only fantasize about dreams of pride and confidence cavorting about in the den of identity notions of cohesion (all of which are all too foreign to me) sharing drinks with a sense of stability self eludes; a speakeasy elusive and exclusive where names mean nothing and the barkeep knows everyone just by reading face im not there, however i always get turned away at the door so most of the time id rather just forego the conclusion allow the illusion of self to be limned only by living as though i love to live and so i hold no regrets 53

Christian Lohr ‘23 “Bahama Mama” (Acrylic Painting) 54

- James Gelhard ‘23

The Meek Mystic of Mathematics Among our lot a learned man was there Astute and kind, yet he seemed to despair Here stood he like a secret sleuth In pursuit of scientific truth Dirac was his name, he declared From clouded thinking we would now be spared It appeared he had a French lexicon As he explained the myst’ry of the neutron His august thoughts were hard to fathom As he probed the secrets of the atom One often mistakes Dirac as neurotic Yet mathematics was his narcotic He would often repeat, monotonic: “The nature of reality is not chaotic” The work of Wolfgang Pauli he despised: “Probability does not deserve a Nobel Prize!”

To others he could not be compared Of understanding people he often despaired When Schrödinger told him to find a wife Dirac believed it would ruin his life Holding his notebook in his hand Dirac developed a mathematical plan Regaling us with his scientific patter He exclaimed: “I have discovered antimatter!”

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- Isaiah Scaffidi ‘23

The Dance of the Face Speeches, Talks, Discussions, and Arguments.

They all hold power for those who speak.

But to me, there is something more.

Something far more interesting underneath.

You may lose me in your words, But all I ask is that you know, I am admiring your face Far more than your show.

I was never able to notice The way your lips pressed together, When you spoke with such indignation, But at this moment I was hoping it would last forever.

The way your eyebrows curl when you are filled with concern Or the way your cheeks flutter with might as you speak in turns But your eyes are a deeper secret that may be revealed with time For when I look, I try to see everything that is inside.

You may not notice me observing the way your eyelashes sway.

For they follow a dance that is unique yet universal just as the lovers say.

I watch your tones change color as you are filled with fire.

However we have reached the end of your lifelong desire.

I cannot wait till our next interaction, For I know that there will be something new I missed.

But I will find it and rejoice Because I will only then be able to appreciate what it is that you said.

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Will Mukana ‘26 “Screaming Lady” (Pencil Drawing)

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- Mikail Schlegel ‘25

The Story of the Ghost it Grows Helps Opens your mind Slips into the past Teaches, but Taunts.

Wisdom is Passed.

Those who do not learn from it are condemned to make the same mistakes.

Listen.

Growth follows Grief.

The Lessons to be Learned. of Love, of Death, of Smoke, The Story of the Ghost.

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- James Escott ‘26

The Wind and the Train Tracks Time and time again, on the train tracks The girl looks with a sorrowful gaze Leaving behind her childhood and home Her heart empty without her father The winds carry hints of war Behind her all she sees is blue, white and red In the future only white and red There is no end on the train tracks Don’t stop, finish the journey A new life awaits beyond the train tracks She sees tall trees the sea seems at an end Beyond her stares a nation proud and fair Winds cross the coast like butterflies in her stomach Whistlin’ a message “Welcome home”.

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- Colin Corr ‘25

Seasons Even as the autumn comes, Only the leaves have changed.

As I await the occurrence of anything, I remain silent, my memories preceding.

In my mind, it is still the former year, And I’ve brought myself to life again, And then you are there, watching me, As I stand outside, oblivious to you.

Now, the trees barren and the ground white, You have led me to a new world Where the flowers bloom and the sun shines, And I am safe in your warmth.

And in the real world, it starts to rain, And I lose my balance as I rise.

Yet even as your outstretched arm catches me, We fall into the water and earth as one.

The clouds only darken in the hostile sky, And the howling wind sweeps us away, And as I reach out to grasp for you, You only grow further from my reach.

And now, back in the present, I still wait For a change in life, like the change of leaves.

I wonder if you’ve turned red from green, But I am still only the same as you left me to be.

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Henry Merz ‘23 “The Long Walk to Mr. Dillon’s Office” (Ballpoint Pen on Paper)

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- Owen Bell ‘24

Racing Mind Time to work.

Focus.

Where is my phone? Forget it.

Focus.

What is this?

Beautiful memories. Innocent laughter. Genuine joy.

Distraction.

Focus.

Focus.

Focus.

I am lost in my racing mind. Running through infinite labyrinths, gnawing on mysteries, rewinding the past. I am so lost. Someone…

What have I done? It’s late. Get to work.

Focus.

Andrew Pentler ‘26 “Striped Car” (Pencil Drawing)

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- Nathaniel Clayton ‘23

My Brothers My brothers are before me My brothers are behind me My brothers are around me My brothers are within me Every day I see them Every day they see me Even after we have left My brothers are my brothers When I fall apart as it gets dark When I’m drowning in despair I feel my brothers handprints on me, Holding me above the waves.

I know my brothers truly As I am truly known.

And even though our paths divide, My brothers know I love them, And I know that I am loved

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Henry Merz ‘23 “Smokey the Bear Eats a Snack” (Acrylic Painting)

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Editors-in-Chief

Credits

Charlie O’Connor ‘23 Tristen Yang ‘23

Moderator and Distributor Mrs. Erica Zunac

Art Consultant and Poster Reminder Mrs. Stacy Kodra

Photography Consultant Mr. Peter Beck

Signatures Squad

Nathaniel Clayton ‘23 Jackson Czukas ‘25 Alex Daczko ‘26 Keagan Danner ‘23 Omar Frostman ‘23 Jim Groth ‘23 David Valadez Lopez ‘23 Charlie O’Connor ‘23 Mikail Schlegel ‘25 Cooper Wood ‘23 Tristen Yang ‘23

Charles Doucette ‘23 “Lonely Night” (Painting) Front Cover

Francis Anggara ‘23 “Frame Park 05” (Photograph) Back Cover

Credits Production Team Charlie O’Connor ‘23 Jackson Czukas ‘25 Alex Daczko ‘26 Mikail Schlegel ‘25 Tristen Yang ‘23

Community Relations Jack Czukas ‘25 Jim Groth ‘23

Writing Editors

Nathaniel Clayton ‘23 Keagan Danner ‘23

Omar Frostman ‘23 Jim Groth ‘23 Cooper Wood ‘23

Art Editors

Jim Groth ‘23 Charlie O’Connor ‘23 David Valadez Lopez ‘23

Photographers

Alex Daczko ‘26 Mikail Schlegel ‘25

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