Sisyphus Winter 2017-18

Sisyphus

Winter 2018

The St. Louis University High School Magazine of Art and Literature Literary Editors: John Burke, Thomas Curdt, Matt Dorsey Ben Krummenacher, Jarrett Schneider, Andrew Wilson PJ Butler, Peter Curdt, Peter Michalski

Layout Editors: Michael Esson, Jack Schweizer, Liam John

Special thanks to Joan Bugnitz, Mary Burke, Sean Powers, and Matt Sciuto

Art Editors: Matt Thomas, Joe Weber, Michael Esson, Liam John, Jackson duCharme

Staff Photographer: Louis Barnes

Moderators: Frank Kovarik & Rich Moran

Sisyphus Winter ’18 Front Cover: photograph by Jacob Palmer Inside Front Cover (clockwise from top left): photograph by Kyle Sullivan, charcoal by Jack Nikolai, photograph by Andrew Wilson, acrylic painting by Joseph Bytnar Inside Back Cover (clockwise from top left): collograph by Liam John, collograph by Charlie Perry, pastel by Jack Nikolai Back Cover: acrylic painting by Nick Koenig Masthead: photograph by Joe Weber; design

by Liam John 3 The Seiwa-en Siren, poem by Teddy Gerard 4 Chaotic Peace, prose by Paul Gillam 4 photograph by Alan Wang 6 photograph by Alan Wang 7 The Delusion of Love, poem by Joe Feder 8 photograph by Joe Weber 9 A Fragile Kingdom, prose by Joe Feder 10 acrylic painting by Joseph Bytnar 11 The Suburban River, reminiscence

by Ryan Gunn 12 photograph by Joe Weber 13 Rain for Red Chief, poem by Collin Funck 13 sketch by Michael Esson 14 Comfort Zone, prose by Padraic Riordan 15 print by Matt LaFaver 16 photograph by Matt Friedrichs 17 Extreme Unction, fiction

by Jacob Price ’17 18 photograph by Liam John 19 photograph by Liam John 20 photograph by Liam John 23 photograph by Daniel Gatewood 24 The Outlet, prose

by Andrew Normington 25 photograph by Andrew Wilson

26 The Ghost-White in the Underwood,

poem by Matt Dorsey 27 photograph by Sean Anderson 28 painting by Justin Bruno 29 The Flood, poem by Teddy Gerard 30 St. Louis Gothic, poem by Gabe Lepak 31 photograph by Jacob Palmer 32 La Lucha Entre El Amor y El Odio,

poema por Noah Apprill-Sokol y

Magdalena Alvarado 33 The Struggle Between Love and Hate,

poem by Noah Apprill-Sokol

and Magdalena Alvarado 34 A Poem for My Mother, poem

by Collin Funck 35 sketch by Jack Bodnar 36 acrylic painting by Joseph Bytnar 37 Fink Kark, fiction

by Salvatore Vitellaro ’17 39 Savage, poem by Padraic Riordan 40 sketch by Nicholas Dalaviras 41 The Noise of Time, poem

by Jakub Gorzko 42 print by Charlie Perry 43 The Creek: Land of Pirates, poem

by Harrison Petty 43 photograph by Liam John 44 The Grave of Edward Cornell, poem

by Gabe Lepak 45 sketch by Ben Poag 46 Full of Grace, fiction by Ethan Schmidt 48 photograph by Patrick Zarrick 49 Smoog, poem by Seamus McFarland 50 photograph by Sean Anderson 51 photograph by Liam John 52 The Storm, poem by Joseph Dougherty 52 photograph by Dalton Ennis

The Seiwa-en Siren Teddy Gerard

3 The sand was crashing on the sides of stones Below bonsais that bent like bows of ships.

His lips now chafed and raw by the cold winds, His cunning tongue was searching for words unknown To mend their broken mast. To sail again.

Perhaps now she’d put wax inside her ears, Perhaps now sweeter suitors stayed so near That she would have no need of him again.

And when he came upon the pebble beach He saw her singing, gently, water splashing Her toes, exposed, remembering their compassion.

He drifted over dewy grass to her, and each, The only sound the wind through leagues of silence.

The cataracted cyclops eye, the siren.

Chaotic Peace Paul Gillam

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amn it,” Mike muttered as he looked down and saw a horde of his friends walk into the theater.

It was his first date with Celia, and the guys on his floor must have gotten wind of the movie he was taking her to see. Mike and Celia sank low into the red cushioned seats, hoping to disappear, but to no avail. Their friends spotted where they were sitting and scampered up the aisle into the row behind them, filling it completely. Mike knew that they’d be trouble when they leaned back, put their feet up on the backs of his and Celia’s seats, and made loud kissing noises, audible to the whole theater. It was all in good humor, but Mike could never tell with these guys. They could very well have set out to

ruin this date. Thankfully, the lights dimmed, hiding the embarrassment from his face. The film, Back to the Future, began.

Ever so slightly, in order to hide his actions from the hawk-like attention of his friends, Mike reached out his right hand and grasped Celia’s left, completely enveloping her hand in his. He waited a few seconds before letting out a triumphant sigh, only to be greeted by another chorus of smooching noises from behind. Rather than turn around and tell his friends to shut up, he decided to play it cool and act as if he had not even noticed them. Eventually, after realizing the bait would not be taken, his friends stopped their antics and allowed the young couple to enjoy the movie, save the occasional kissing noise when a romantic scene came on, or a kick to the back of Mike’s seat when the movie lagged.

At times he found it hard to focus on the movie because of the theater’s darkness, the gorgeous girl sitting next to him, and the warm feeling in his chest. He found himself thinking about the rest of their date. He had

photograph by Alan Wang

it all planned out. After the movie, a nice walk through Peace Park, possibly catching a sunset with some ice cream until it got too dark to stay out. Then he’d walk Celia back to her dorm room where he would say his goodbyes and hopefully secure a second date. His obnoxious friends had no role in his perfect plan.

Just as Marty McFly was being shot home by the bolt of lightning, Mike’s attention snapped back to the concluding movie.

How quickly time had passed! He knew that if he chatted with his friends when the movie ended, he and Celia would suffer more embarrassment, so just as the credits began to roll he sprang out of his seat, pulled Celia after him, and sprinted down the steps of the dark theater. Celia knew exactly what he was up to, and laughed as she followed him into the bright theater lobby. After a moment’s hesitation, Mike’s friends shot out of their seats after them. Mike and Celia arrived to the entryway of the theater to find that the nice sunny day had been replaced by a torrential downpour. Trapped. Without thinking, they plunged out the door into the rain, Mike’s friends in hot and wet pursuit behind them.

At this point, I assume the wheels in my dad’s head—yes, my dad, the cautious planner in our family—must have been approaching light speed because he wanted control of the situation. He did not want to jeopardize a second date. At what point did he realize that his floormates were not going to grant him a peaceful date. He decided to throw all of his plans out the window. Perhaps it was the kissing noises, or maybe it was instantly when he saw them enter the theater. Either way, he decided that reckless abandon was the best strategy. I am grateful to report that it worked out quite well for him: he managed not only a second date but also a lifelong love story.

Within seconds, Mike and Celia were

drenched from head to toe. They ran towards the Mizzou campus, losing their pursuers after a few blocks, and ducked into a nearby sandwich shop for a meal. They sat down in a green, cushioned, window-side booth, ignoring the glares of the other customers. Despite the hubbub that the two soaking wet college students drew, Mike paid no attention to it, as he was more nervously focused on the task at hand: carrying on a thirty-minute conversation with Celia.

They chatted as they decided on their orders, discussing current events and trading stories from their college lives and younger years. Mike listened intently, not wanting to miss a single word. In the midst of hearing about how Celia and her friend Francie had almost been run over by a troop of bikers, Mike spotted his friends across the street, coming their way. He instinctively shot his menu over his face and nudged Celia to do the same. His heart pounded quickly in his chest, and he prayed they would not be trapped in such a vulnerable place. Through some miracle, his friends marched right by their window and continued their search, missing a prime opportunity to embarrass their friend. Mike breathed a sigh of relief and laughed with Celia at his meddling friends. They ate their meal with the comfort of knowing that they were, for the time being, safe.

The rain abated to a light drizzle as they ate, so when they left the sandwich shop, walking through campus was much more blissful than before. The warm rain felt good to Mike; it helped him let go of his rigid mindset and embrace the lovely turbulence of the date. The street, dotted with puddles, was nearly empty. As the clouds receded, they gave way to the vibrant oranges and deep reds of the setting sun, which, reflecting off the puddles, projected waves of light onto the nearby buildings. Green leaves and broken twigs covered the sidewalk, as if a

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miniature tornado had swept through. Petrichor bombarded Mike’s sense of smell, reminding him of long ago when he would play in the puddles with his sister Shelley after a rainstorm. The strong memory helped to calm Mike as he took Celia’s hand and continued towards Peace Park.

When they entered the park, the sky darkened as an ominous cloud swept over the remnants of the setting sun. The couple noticed the sudden change of weather and, hoping to beat the coming rain, began to sprint through the park towards a short stone bridge that crossed a small stream.

Holding hands, they ran over the bridge and continued out the park, arriving at the door of Celia’s dorm room about five minutes later. Mike stood in the dark hallway as Celia got him a towel from her bathroom. This was the moment he had been anxiously awaiting.

With his heart pounding in his chest, he asked Celia for a second date.

“Absolutely!” she said as her eyes lit up and lips pursed in an attempt to hold back a smile.

The rest is history.

I often wonder if the date had gone according to plan. What would be different? I trust they still would have ended up getting married, but how did the hectic start to the relationship affect it down the road? Did the memorable first date help them fall in love more quickly, or did it delay them? Either way, the story is a family favorite. Every so often, when all four of my siblings are home for a holiday, someone will inevitably ask to hear it again. We all draw near and listen to how our parents’ love story began. I think my siblings and I love hearing the story because it shows that even though life can be chaotic, peace and love can break through, like the sun cutting through rain clouds.

But the real kicker is the bridge. That simple stone bridge has an old legend associated with it. According to legend, if a couple runs across the bridge while holding hands, they are destined to fall in love. I wonder if my dad knew this as he led my mom through Peace Park. Was he trying to trick her into falling in love with him, or did he genuinely not know? Who knows? After all, my dad has always been the guy with a plan.

photograph by Alan Wang

The Delusion of Love Joe Feder I see an end; it’s just in sight.

I see an end to all these Dreary days of my life.

I’ve longed to see your face Through waking hours and all night in my dreams, Now look what has become of me: My life is scattered in the wind, The only warmth left is In the places where your sweet hands have lain, And Tempest Time now drags me Through its depths into grim worlds below.

Are these the seeds that we have sown?

I walk these hollow roads alone.

I have no place to rest, No place that I can call my home.

And as I walk our streets the people look, But they stare right through me.

And sometimes I wish that I could fall.

I could fall.

And yet, maybe, Someday, someway, There’s a chance that I Could see your face for One last day.

One look would melt My heart, flood My eyes, and fill My soul. One look Would save my life, Would make me whole.

I’ll wait for you until that day.

I will wait for you.

I will wait, I will wait, I will wait

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photograph by Joe Weber

A Fragile Kingdom Joe Feder

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he cold envelops me. It consumes me. The wind erupts from the still silence, clamping down on me with its iron teeth, scratching at my cheeks with its claws of ivory before continuing on through the darkness. A teardrop slithers down my cheek, drawn forth from the arid air like a flower that blooms in the desert. Its journey ends above my chin. I feel the pricks of tiny needles as it transforms into crystalline ice, dangling from my face like a diamond jewel.

The wind attacks again, penetrating my thin layers of wool and numbing my skin. I feel naked, exposed to the nature’s fury, yet I am not afraid. I feel the elation of flight, the feeling that I am floating above the trees in utopian unity with the heavens. But I am trapped here on the frozen ground, the skeletal shadows of the trees stretching out like bars, holding me down on Earth’s prison.

I am the ruler of these winter nights, a god among the shivering animals of the woods. My heir is the misty breath that glides from my lungs into the light of the moon and fades into the black abyss of night. The snow is my kingdom; my army is the wind. Yet here I stand with my feet planted on this dirty snow like a peasant before the forest as if it were the king. Yet when the sun rises, when the warmth returns, they will wipe my pitiful mark from the Earth in some cruel joke.

It will be as if I had never reigned at all.

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acrylic painting by Joseph Bytnar

The Suburban River Ryan Gunn

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s the mid-morning sun beat down on our necks, my friends CJ, Nathan, Thomas, Jericho and I would meet up and set off on a journey to the unexplored woodlands of suburban St. Louis. Our almost daily expedition to the woods consisted of cutting through some neighbors’ yards (while avoiding others), pedaling up steep Ruhl Lane, and stashing our bikes in a cluster of shrubs near the runoff sewer at the bottom of the hill. It was a long pathway, but from there, all that could stop us were the limitations of our own creativity and zeal for exploration. The woods became our home for the day, and at the center was the creek.

The creek teemed with life; it was filled with small creek chubs schooling along the muddy bottom, frogs hopping from the sides and plummeting into the water as they were spooked by our procession through the brush, and the occasional deer slurping up a cool midday drink. The small, narrow watershed represented the vast nature that we used to watch TV nature program hosts explore, and my friends and I would mimic their bravery with our lighters, pocket knives, and slingshots. Sometimes we would attempt (and fail) to build fires using nothing but the sticks around us, and I remember the “Eureka” moment we had when we chucked a piece of flint into the sewer and saw sparks spray through the tunnel, like humans producing fire for the first time.

The creek, to us, was a river flowing through our suburban neighborhoods. We spent all day in that river exploring, trying to hike further down until we reached the end. Our treks consisted of breaking through sticks and brush, climbing up the mud walls

of the creek gorge (and often falling back down into the muddy, mosquito-infested abyss), and wading knee deep through sewer water. Every so often we would come across an ancient artifact buried in the mudL a wheelbarrow, firepits, and an array of broken bottles and golf balls. Our most cherished discovery was a red and white rope hanging from a tree, which we used to swing back and forth across the canyon. Every time we went to the creek, we made sure to stop at that rope swing. We would swing across, yelling like Tarzan as we made it to the other side, sometimes running into the creek walls instead. But one crisp winter morning, as Jericho swung across the gorge, the rope started to crackle, and suddenly it snapped off the tree. Alas, gravity proved too strong, plummeting him into the frozen creek below.

Thus, the beloved rope swing was no more, becoming just another artifact for the next generation of explorers.

For hours we would trek down the creek until we would finally come across the big sewer. This sewer was a colossal square tunnel made of cement, and the entrance was graffitied with rainbows of spray paint, littering the cement walls with words my mother would prefer me not to repeat.

Every time we made it to the sewer, we would contemplate making it through to the end and seeing what it led to. However, as we peered down the sewer, our own fears of raccoons, bats, and sewer-dwellers lurking in the dark prevented us from venturing into the underpass—that is, until one fateful winter day. I can still feel the pit in my stomach as we drew nearer to the sewer. As we arrived at the tunnel, CJ, Nathan, and I

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pulled out our flashlights and pocket knives and crept through the tunnel. I at first was shaking nervously, but as we made it further through, my nerves calmed. Suddenly, we all heard a noise. We made it out to be a voice crying from far back in the sewer, and that was enough to kick us into panic mode. We sprinted out of the sewer as fast as we could, but as my hand swayed back, Nathan’s hand that gripped his pocket knife pushed forward, and it poked right through my hand.

The adrenaline started to wear off once we were out of the sewer, and I noticed my hand covered in blood. That was the final time we attempted to conquer the sewer.

As time went on and I started to mature, the woods went from a place of exploration to a sort of monastery. Some days I would head over to the woods alone with my bike and simply walk in the water along the creek bed, taking in all the scenery surrounding me, meditating on everything from my day to my personal philosophy on how to live.

Those woods provided a sanctuary for my growth and imposed on me a great appreciation for nature. I found that, even with the complexity of life’s problems, I could always rely on the simplicity of nature to remind me of what truly matters.

Towards the end of eighth grade, my visits to the creek became more seldom. Everyone else was growing up, and I was too.

There were other events to fill our schedules, and the creek started to become a distant childhood memory. But every time I pass over a creek under a bridge, or I smell that horrendous stench of stagnant sewer water, the nostalgia permeates my thoughts, bringing back a flood of memories. I look back on those days and sometimes a spark of adventure strikes me, and I contemplate what that old creek could possibly have led to. I get that sense of freedom, that wonder and awe of being a child amongst a vast forest. And I know I will never forget my adventures at the creek.

photograph by Joe Weber

Rain for Red Chief Collin Funck Rubble, dirt, stone, and rock Cover the chief ’s sunken crypt.

Groundwater seeps through and douses his smock, While dyes from his cheeks coolly drip.

From the crest of his crown A bright feather falls down Into a black puddle by his side.

A hickory pipe, with water in its drum, Lies with Red Chief in the mud.

Above the chief, a hopeful tribe sings, chants, dances, and hums, But the tribe that year would never see a drizzle, rain, or flood.

O a shame it is that Red Chief could not make the skies weep!

With this to carry, a tribe had to bury their chief face-down to sleep.

sketch by Michael Esson

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Comfort Zone Padraic Riordan

T 14

om was jolted from his daydreaming by the screeching of the train brakes, which sent out a high-pitched squeal as the train pulled into station. Tom rested his head against the glass window, gazing out to the landscape the tracks cut through: a small town just beyond the station, red slanted roofs, cobblestone streets clotted with more pedestrians than cars, and a splash of red and white flags flapping just beyond reach. He could hear the music, the steady singing coming from one of the local inns. Perhaps he would stop by and grab a drink before setting out again. Tom looked over at his wife. Asleep again, her body slouched in the ratty cotton chair, her head rested against his shoulder. He smiled.

Tom reached down below his chair, and pulled out his beige backpack. He rested his hand on Cindy’s knee, and slowly shook it.

“We’re here, sweetie.”

Cindy groaned and opened her eyes.

“Ugh. How long have I been out?”

“Enough to miss most of the train ride,” Tom giggled. “I’m jealous. Things get pretty boring on this old hunk of metal. Still, some of those views…” He whistled.

Cindy snorted and playfully punched him in the arm. “You’re just saying that to make me jealous. Don’t want to admit you spent the last three hours looking at sheep?”

“Who said sheep are a bad view?”

Cindy laughed for real this time. “Come on,” she said, pulling her backpack out from under her seat. “We should get going.”

They both stood, and filed down the central aisle. Tom shouldered his backpack and followed Cindy off the train. He held his hand over his eyes, protecting himself from the sun hanging directly above him. They

were standing in a red brick pavilion, looking directly over the center of town with its brick buildings green, red, and blue. They reminded Tom of the flavors at an ice cream shop. He put his arm around Cindy’s shoulders. “Let’s go.”

They stuck to the sidewalk. Tom looked like a tourist, and he knew it. Still, he made an effort to be polite to the locals. He made eye contact with the people he saw, even though most seemed at least a foot taller than him, and said “hello” in Danish, the only word in their language he knew. He allowed Cindy and her Idiot’s Guide to Danish book to do any needed translation.

As they passed the building where the music was coming from, Tom peeked in the window. Inside, he saw a bar, with half its tables filled by locals sharing drinks. They all looked happy. The music came from an old piano, played by a man who looked even older. A much younger lady stood next to him, playing a violin, and next to her, a young man sang. Tom had no idea what the lilting song was about.

Tom, my father, is not an adventurous man. He dropped out of the Boy Scouts after one year because he hated sleeping anywhere but a nice, warm bed. He went to college in St. Louis, never too far from his parents, and he went on his first date with my mother only when she asked him to go to a dance. I was surprised when I learned he once traveled with my mom first to Sweden, then on a backpacking trip through Denmark.

Denmark especially impressed me as, unlike in Sweden, he was traveling through small towns and local farms, exploring the countryside. Rural Denmark held no large tourist attractions to lure in Americans. Tom was

in a foreign land, and the only other person who spoke English was his wife.

Tom wanted to stop in the bar, but Cindy pulled his arm. “Come on,” she said. “This whole county is supposed to have some of the most beautiful tulip fields!” Tom relented and followed her down the road, deeper into town. They wound through the narrow streets and colorful buildings. They had no map. They simply wandered. Perhaps they would stumble across one of the great tulip fields Cindy spoke of, perhaps not. Maybe they would find something better, or nothing at all. Either way, Tom knew once the sun rose the next day and he stepped back onto the rickety train, heading for the next town, he’d be better for it.

They eventually reached the far side of town. A great field greeted them, stretching out to the horizon. It looked like an ocean of green. Tom took a deep breath of the early afternoon air.

Cindy sighed. “No tulip fields, huh?”

Tom just smiled. “Come on,” he said.

He led her a little ways into the open green, eventually stopping underneath a single tree that sprouted out of the ground like the mast of an empty ship. Cindy pulled a blanket out of her pack and sat down on the grass. Tom lay down next to her.

Tom was never one to venture too far beyond his comfort zone, so I wonder what fears or doubts may have crossed his mind.

There he was, backpacking through Denmark with a girl he’d only married one year earlier, and only met three or four years before that.

I’d like to think Tom was reflecting on the value of immersing oneself in foreign cultures, but in reality? He was probably worrying about where he’d eat dinner. It’s hard to find a restaurant with the food you want when you can’t read the signs. Forget about actually ordering something. Tom would just

have to point at the pictures or another customer’s meal and hope for the best.

Still, I think he learned something on that trip. Any time I’ve hesitated to try something new, he has pushed me forward, like a gentle yet stubborn wind sending me into whatever new adventures crop up. If I tried to quit Boy Scouts after one year because sleeping on the ground wasn’t comfortable, my dad would have none of it. He probably won’t let me stay in town for college as he did, and I’d never be allowed to live it down if I met my future wife only because she was the one who had the guts to ask me out. He’d make sure I chase tulip fields the rest of my life, and if my father had his way, I’d never set a foot in my comfort zone ever again.

print by Matt LaFaver

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photograph by Matt Friedrichs

Extreme Unction Jacob Price ’17

I

hadn’t even said hello when the person on the other end of the line mentioned another patient with lung cancer.

“Alright, on my way,” I moaned, rubbing my eyes with my thumb and index finger.

The bright red digital clock read 2:47 a.m.

I had just gone back to bed fifteen minutes earlier. “What’s the name?”

“That’s the thing. It’s another priest, Father Johnson.”

My drooping head perked up immediately. Fr. Johnson had been my Confirmation sponsor. He had become good friends with my dad when he was at our parish, and came to practically all of our family gatherings. His parents had both died soon after his ordination, so he had had nowhere else to go for holidays. He would always play Chutes and Ladders with me. He made me want to be a priest, and he paid for my books and cassock when I entered the seminary. He even gave me his own surplice, which had extravagant lace forming the letters IHS at the bottom and on the sleeves. After my ordination, though, I didn’t talk to him for years until he concelebrated at my mom’s funeral.

He wasn’t too old, maybe mid-fifties. I was surprised to hear that he was gravely sick. I sat there for a moment, recalling my Confirmation day. My family had taken him out to eat afterward to this Italian place he claimed would close all of the others. We bought some cheesecake for dessert, and Fr. Johnson slid his slice over to me.

“No, Father, he doesn’t need it. Look at yourself, you’re skinny enough. You should eat it,” my dad objected.

“That’s alright. It’s his big day, he should get to celebrate with an extra piece,” Father said. I sat there with my fork ready, but waited for my dad to argue again. After a few sec-

onds, when he didn’t say anything, I slowly dug into the cake but kept my eyes on my dad in case he changed his mind.

“Is it good?” Father asked.

“Very,” I replied, still focusing on my dad.

“Father Grey?” the voice on the line said.

“Y-yes, I’m still here. I’m on my way.” I put the phone down on my nightstand and shook my head to clear out my meditative mood and to wake myself up. I stumbled into my clerics, hanging on my closet door for times when calls like this happened in the middle of the night.

The lights were still off, but my eyes were adjusting, and I could now see my black dress shoes nestled next to my bed. I put them on then walked out of my room, turning the knob when I shut the door so it would not slam and wake up Monsignor Gary in the next room.

Monsignor usually slept through the ringing phone, so I was almost always the one who did the midnight anointings. I started to walk through the kitchen to the garage but realized I had forgotten my glasses when I tripped over a briefcase on the floor. I jogged back to my room, grabbed my glasses, and ran back to the garage, hopping into the car I had backed in just thirty minutes ago.

I had just gotten back from another anointing at the same hospital. My parish, St. John Vianney, was only five minutes from St. Peter’s Hospital, so I got called there for Anointing of the Sick more often than any priest around. Sharing a first name with the hospital’s patron saint should have foretold that I would be somehow bound to the place.

The lady I had just anointed had suffered from a heart attack and was almost completely unresponsive. Her husband, an athe-

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ist, hated priests and had made it very well known to me. He cussed me out and called me delusional and a waste of space, saying he’d let me near her only because she would have wanted me there. Once I was there, he decided to go to the bathroom, figuring she had me to watch over her. While he was gone, I quickly anointed her and left before he came back. She was going to be okay.

Her skin still had full color, and after doing enough of these, you can tell whether or not the person is going to live.

Two in one night was rare, and I usually would have woken up Monsignor Gibbons to do the second. But I knew Fr. Johnson and felt I should be the one to visit him. Before I left, I recited my usual prayer before travel, but I never focused on it. During the prayer and the drive to the hospital, I kept thinking about the Christmas presents that Fr. Johnson had gotten for me over time. One year he gave me a replica of Pope John Paul II’s

photograph by Liam John

papal staff as a crucifix for my bedroom wall.

When he found out I was applying for the seminary in my senior year of high school, he got me Fulton Sheen’s The Priest Is Not His Own. I read it within a month, but I’d forgotten pretty much all of it.

I made the drive almost entirely by muscle memory, returning to my senses only when I pulled into the Oncology Center of St. Peter’s Hospital. The parking lot was lit by dozens of dim, flickering, golden roadside reflectors. I backed into the reserved parking space near the front of the lot; dug out a stole, a black leather case containing the oils, and a copy of Pastoral Care of the Sick out of my cluttered dashboard; and jogged inside.

The Oncology Center was the most dimly lit part of the hospital. The lobby was a large dome covering what looked like a mall’s food court. In its middle, a miniature fake waterfall resounded throughout the dome with perpetual hissing noises. The sound was calming at first, but my hearing adapted to it quickly so I didn’t notice it after a few seconds. I jogged past the lobby and past the front desk.

“What room?” I said, breathing heavily.

“One forty-four,” she replied.

“Thanks, Annie.”

I got to the elevator just before the door shut completely. I thrust my hand into the door, which jolted open again, revealing an aid I had seen before but never met. She was wearing maroon scrubs, and the bun on top of her head was falling apart in multiple places. Round thin-rimmed glasses magnified her drooping red eyes.

“Father Peter,” I said, stretching out my arm to offer a handshake.

“Uh—,” she hesitated, looking at her sweaty palms.

“It’s okay, I’ve encountered much worse.”

“Oh,” she replied, lightly shaking my hand as if she were still scared to do so. “Jennifer.”

photograph by Liam John

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Jennifer.”

“You as well,” she murmured.

I pressed the button for floor one as the doors shut in front of me. The elevator started rising with a jerk as I asked Jennifer how her day was going.

“Not the best,” she breathed, barely audible to me. “The combination of work and family is hard to deal with. I’ve had to—” She was interrupted by the bell that signaled we had reached my floor. I rushed out of the elevator without turning back to look at her, saying, “Well, I hope you feel better.”

“Thanks, Father,” she might have said, but I couldn’t make it out too well.

I turned right down the hallway with room numbers 100 to 149. Room 144 stood open near the end of the hallway on the right side. The wide wooden door lay open just enough for me to see half of the room, but not Fr. Johnson. I knocked and slowly pushed the door further open.

“Come in,” said Fr. Johnson wearily.

I opened the door the rest of the way to see him lying in his bed, blankly staring at the tiled ceiling with different medicines and machines hooked into him. He still had a collar on under the bedsheets and hospital gowns covering him. I knew Fr. Johnson would never let them take the collar off. The black of the collar contrasted sharply with his pale face, while the white smoothly blended into it. The colorless skin still wrapped tightly around him made me think he wasn’t going to make it much longer. I would guess no more than a day or two. And it seemed he figured the same.

“Fr. Johnson,” I said approaching the lone, vacant chair stationed to the left of his bed. “It’s me, Peter.”

“I know. I asked specifically for them to call you, especially when you’re so close. You probably get a lot of these anointing calls, don’t you?”

“Yeah, a few times a week. I had one just before this, actually.”

“And you never stopped in to see me.” I couldn’t tell if he was seriously disappointed or merely joking.

“Ah, relax,” he said, laughing heartily.

“I’m just messing with you.” His laugh broke into a cough, which spewed small specks of blood across the pure white bedsheet.

I noticed then that there was a cart with a tray of food on top. It looked like pizza, Fr. Johnson’s favorite, a glass of lemonade, and a piece of cheesecake as dessert. Fr. Johnson was a stubborn man. Like the collar, the nurses never would have been able to convince him to eat if he didn’t want to.

“Father,” I said. “You’ve got to eat.”

“I wasn’t in the mood for it.”

“It’s pizza. You were definitely in the mood for it.”

I noticed that he was much thinner. I blamed it on the cancer, but suspected it was something else. He was trying to hide it with multiple bedsheets, but his face gave it away.

19

20

“I’m not going to convince you, am I?” “Not a chance,” he said assuredly.

“You haven’t changed.”

“You have,” he said, only realizing what he had said after he had said it.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked defensively.

“Well, it’s just that you seem to be—you don’t—you, you don’t enjoy it anymore, do you?”

“Enjoy what?”

“The priesthood. Hearing Confessions, saying Mass, even anointing. You don’t find what you used to find in it anymore, do you?”

“Of course I do.”

“No, no. This is important. You don’t find any joy in it anymore, do you? Any peace? Any passion?”

I stumbled with my words again. “I guess you could say that...yes.” I cleared my throat.

There was a heavy silence for a few seconds.

“Do you want my cheesecake?” Father asked abruptly.

“What?”

“Do you want my cheesecake?” he repeated.

“Wha—what does that have to do with anything we’ve been talking about?”

“It has everything to do with it,” he said reflectively, closing his eyes and lifting up his head. “Do you want it or not?”

“Um, sure, if you’re not going to eat it.”

I rolled the cart over to myself, then picked up the fork and took a bite. It was hospital food, so I wasn’t expecting it to be delicious, but it wasn’t too bad. “I still remember,” I said while chewing the cake, “that one time at Mario’s just before my Confirmation. You gave me your slice of cheesecake. What’s your deal with cheesecake?” I said jokingly, trying to lighten the mood.

“Nothing. I love cheesecake. It’s probably my favorite dessert.”

I offered the rest of the cheesecake to

him. “Why don’t you eat the rest of this, then?”

“No, I’d better not.”

“Why not? You just said you love it.”

“I’m offering it up for someone.”

“Father. Come on. I think you deserve some cake. You can take some. You’re dying.”

I realized I had gone too far. “I’m sorry, Father. That was too blunt.”

Father Johnson replied, apparently un-

photograph by Liam John

fazed by my statement, “I’m offering it up for you.”

I stopped fidgeting in the chair and looked at his eyes, still closed but directed towards the ceiling. “I’ve been doing it for years, giving up a bunch of different comforts for your sake.”

“Father. I can handle myself.”

“That’s exactly why I’m doing it.”

“Look, Father. You don’t have to do that for me. I’m doing fine.”

“You just said you don’t enjoy the priesthood anymore, right? I’ll guarantee there are

two reasons. One—you won’t accept help from anyone, me included. I offer sacrifices for you and it’s not working. You know why?

Because you don’t want it to. Pride. Two— you won’t sacrifice for anyone else,” he ranted quickly.

“I come here in the middle of the night every other day, and you claim I’m not sacrificing enough?”

“You’re giving enough, you just don’t care enough. I can tell; there’s no joy in you anymore. It’s the classic Spirit of the Law versus Letter of the Law. C’mon, you should have learned that by now.”

“Of course I’ve learned it. If you’d just stop accusing me, maybe you wouldn’t be as blind to that.”

“Prove it.” He paused and I didn’t react.

“Let’s get on with the anointing.”

Not wanting to abandon the poor old man at this point, I clenched and unfurled my red hands several times before opening up Pastoral Care of the Sick . Without saying anything else, I began, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

I proceeded to read a passage from Corinthians and request petitions. Then I laid my hands, still red, on top of his white, balding scalp. I held that posture for a minute before saying the blessing. I felt his warm scalp gradually cool down, regardless of the heat from my hands. My hands seemed to cool with it. I thought about the gifts he had given me in the past and about the cheesecake again. What he had said about me was true. All of it.

I tried to distract myself by starting the blessing, but the words only reminded me of it more: “Lord, our God, you sent your Son into the world to bear our infirmities and to endure our sufferings. For Father Johnson, your servant who is sick, we ask that your blessing give him strength to overcome his weakness through the power of patience and

the comfort of hope and that with your aid he will soon be restored to health. We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

I reached for the black case which I had set on the floor, unzipped it, and pulled out the small glass flask containing the Oil of the Sick. The lid was tightly screwed on, and I had to pry it open, scraping my hand. I tilted the flask slightly, letting some of the oil drip onto my hands. I briefly smelled the sweet scent which dwindled as the oil ran down my fingers. I turned again to face Fr. Johnson and smeared the oil on his forehead and on the back of his hands in the form of a cross, saying, “Through this holy anointing may the Lord in his love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit. May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up.”

Fr. Johnson, unlike most people I anoint, replied, “Amen.”

I put the oil away then sat silently for a few minutes. I wasn’t sure what to say, and I didn’t think anything I said would fit the situation. I was left ruminating on his admonition of me. Even that was a sacrifice on his part for me.

“Well, Father, I should really be going,” I said after deliberation over what to say.

“I have the seven o’clock Mass tomorrow and—” The clanging sound of Jennifer, the aid from the elevator, backing in a cart to take away Fr. Johnson’s leftovers cut me off. We both turned to face her, and I noticed that her bun had unfurled completely now. The dishes on her cart clashed as she hit the door on her way in.

“Oh, sorry,” she whispered, startled by the noise herself.

“No worries,” I replied, going over to help her with the cart, which was now jammed between the doorpost and the handle such that I had to pull it, wheels skidding across the floor, to face into the room directly.

21

22

She breathed in through her nose, squeezing her eyes shut, held it for a couple of seconds, then breathed out, saying with a forced smile, “I’ll take your dirty dishes, Father.”

“Oh, thank you, dear,” he replied, leaning forward to hand his dishes to her. I grabbed them before he could, though, and set them on the cart Jennifer had brought in. “Peter, this is Jennifer.”

“We’ve met,” I said, smiling. “I hope your day has gotten better since the last time.”

“Not really,” she replied, intently reorganizing the dishes on her cart for the new additions.

“Anything I can do to help you?”

“Not really,” she said again.

“Well, I hope everything gets better for you. I’ll be praying for you.”

“Thanks,” she said, but she didn’t seem all that grateful.

I walked out of the room, closing the door behind me. My watch now read 4:13 A.M. Even if I went back to the rectory now, I would not be getting adequate sleep.

So instead, I decided to pray a rosary for Jennifer and her family. As I prayed, I processed around the hospital at random. Upon reaching the second mystery, the Visitation, I noticed that I was passing the room of the woman I had just anointed a couple of hours ago. Her husband was still sitting with her, eyes wide open but not focused on anything.

I knocked quietly on the door and, when he didn’t respond, I opened the door further and slid into the room.

She had deteriorated dramatically in the

time I had been away. Her skin was now as pale as Fr. Johnson’s, and her husband’s was similarly pale due to anxiety. I stood in the room silently, looking down at the couple.

Her heart monitor beeped, but slowly. It gradually slowed until it evened out into a steady hum. I crouched down next to her husband and looked up into his eyes. They were glazed with water. He turned to me and, without ever looking me in the eye, gave me a hug. It was an awkward position, with him leaning over the arm of his chair and me bent down next to him, but I stayed still.

He kept muttering under his breath, “Father…Father.”

The room crowded with doctors and nurses within a matter of seconds, and he let go of me to address them. But I kept my grip around him for a second longer before letting go and walking out of the room.

I didn’t get any more sleep that night, deciding instead to finish my rosary and visit with a few more of the hospital patients. I got back to St. John Vianney in time to celebrate the seven o’clock Mass. It was Divine Mercy Sunday, and I was preaching on repentance and the forgiveness offered in the Sacrament of Confession.

“Confession,” I said in conclusion, “is about Communion. We tell our sins directly to another human being because sin divides us from God and man. Reconciliation reunites us with both. So return to the sacrament and the joy of community.”

And I realized it was time for me to heed my own words on both sides of the confessional.

23

photograph by Daniel Gatewood

The Outlet

Andrew Normington

24

I

bolt to my room as soon as I get home. My body’s shaking as I slam and lock my door. I lift up my mattress and grab my iPod, old and cracked after years of use. My breathing quickens as I boot it up and scroll from song to song, looking for one long enough to make me forget. I hit play. A piercing screech echoes through my room from my iPod, blaring with every changing note. It stops when I plug in an end of the aux.

I sit there, consider my options, and take a few deep breaths. In one swift movement I take the other end of the aux and force it into my arm. Instantly music floods through me, warming my body as it glides through my veins. My arms and legs vibrate with the rhythm of the bass. Waves of dopamine crash over my brain. Nothing else matters. I slide down in my chair oblivious to what’s happening around me. I can only grin as I nod off to the sound of pure bliss…

Then it stops. I open my eyes and the room is dark.

I’m scared, I can’t stop shivering. I fumble for my iPod and try to turn it on, but the battery’s dead. I throw up on myself, disgusted with the taste of reality, desperate for the drug of art.

25

photograph by Andrew Wilson

The Ghost-White in the Underwood Matt Dorsey The Ghost-White deer hopped into the brush, and I followed.

26

I. Of course I followed the Ghost-White into whatever meadow may come. (who would not?) It must be a fair plain to be chosen by that fairest stag!

Antlers of ice, and tail of snow, mystical and demanding, the Ghost-White beckoned, and I followed.

II. The Ghost-White tore through the wood between oaks (their leaves yellowed and browned), which would be beautiful against any other but for the Ghost-White.

His holiness and utter uncaring for the world so beneath it captivated and enthralled and subdued me as the Ghost-White ran, and I followed.

III. Flowers and shrubs, brilliant and picturesque and diverse and delicate, could not distract the Ghost-White.

He had no care for any of these. (what did he care for?)

As I followed, the hidden (or unnoticed) thorns and briars sliced and tortured and ruined me.

(Why did he not turn?

Did he see me at all?)

The Ghost-White ran into whatever meadow might come.

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photograph by Sean Anderson

28

painting by Justin Bruno

The Flood Teddy Gerard

After the rains had stopped flooding the world Noah left the haggard hull of the ship And ascended to the deck, expecting To be met by dolphins jumping with waves And sea mist to drizzle against his face, Dried by the dank musk of his animals, And to lap his tongue at the fresh water For a drink to wet his parched, arid throat.

Decay’s fetor pierced his nose, teared his eyes, The stale air of death suffocated him.

And through his watery eyes he saw over The ship’s bow, bodies floating by, face down, Backs forever turned away from heaven, Bloated, pale, swollen; fish picking soft flesh From bones; fat and skin swaying in the slow Current. And when Noah ran to expel The sickness from his body, he peered in The ocean and saw the cities below, Drowned, lost, the Light barely reaching the tops Of buildings. And he faced the infested Ocean for days, unsure he could—he should— Look up and to pray or join his people By throwing himself into the dead sea.

There he stayed, unable to look away From the bloody baptism of sinners, Those who had dared to be less than prophets, Who had fallen prey to humanity.

And there Noah baked and burnt in the sun, His face blistered, cracked and bled down his head, And on the third day he collapsed and grieved, And the world flooded again with the tears Of his pain. And his tears mixed with the blood Drained from the drowned, swirled into a red wine, A rotting poison, a blood sacrifice.

And he lay on the ship, caught between worlds, On one side, a loving God, the other, The hell brought forth by his God’s loving way.

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St. Louis Gothic Gabe Lepak

30

You’re finally returning home, Southern Illinois at your back.

You begin to cross the Mississippi.

Silence? Never. You say the creed: “Ope, there’s the Arch.”

You’re going to Chesterfield.

Your grandmother says “Be careful, 40 is dangerous this time of year.”

Your younger brother says, “Wait, Isn’t it 64?”

Your mom says, “I just call it 64/40.”

Everyone shoots her a seething glance.

Your dad is ranting “How dare Kroenke take the Rams from us?”

It’s been months.

He still hasn’t let it go.

He still wears his Super Bowl jacket.

You’re on Kingshighway.

There is half an inch of snow.

Everyone has forgotten how to drive.

The roads are chaos.

The Toyota Sienna in front of you Is particularly bad.

You see a gap, overtake, Roll down the window and shout, “Learn how to drive, hoosier!”

They burst into tears.

You have insulted their entire family.

You are at a Bread Company, Across from a Lion’s Choice.

You say “Ope” as you bump into Someone you haven’t met before.

He’s wearing a Cardinals jersey.

You ask, “Where’d you go to high school?”

It doesn’t matter what they say; Your high school is the best anyway.

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photograph by Jacob Palmer

La Lucha Entre El Amor y El Odio Noah Apprill-Sokol y Magdalena Alvarado

32

Inspirado por Jackson Browne Nuestra Madre, con ropa por los cielos, Mira el mundo y llora.

Ve el mal alrededor del amor.

El mal tiene más poderes y el amor parece pequeño.

Los espinos del odio atrapan el árbor del corazón.

El campesino en el suelo nos grita.

Por las calles lo oímos.

Nos grita por la justicia, Por la libertad, Por la revolución.

Durante las noches más negras, El ángel de la muerte llama a la puerta.

Levanta su guadaña y el río se pone rojo.

El campesino en el suelo nos grita.

Por las calles lo oímos.

Nos grita que el pecado de la complicidad está entre nuestras manos.

Que su sangre nos mancha.

Ahora mientras Nuestra Madre llora, El amor quema en su corazón.

El amor quema en sus ojos.

Entonces Nuestra Madre pone sus brazos alrededor del mundo, Y nos ama.

Así, el ángel de la muerte desaparece del mundo.

Ahora, el amor tiene más poderes y el odio parece débil.

El campesino se levanta del suelo y nos grita: ¡Mi venganza personal es amar!

The Struggle Between Love and Hate Noah Apprill-Sokol and Magdalena Alvarado Inspired by Jackson Browne’s “My Personal Revenge” Our Mother, with her clothes throughout the sky, Looks upon the world and cries.

She sees the evil around the love.

Evil has much power and the love seems small.

The thorn bushes of hate trap the tree of the heart.

The farmer on the ground shouts to us.

Throughout the streets, we hear him.

He shouts to us for justice, For liberty, For the revolution.

During the blackest of nights, The angel of death knocks at the door.

She raises her scythe and the river turns red.

The farmer on the ground shouts to us.

Throughout the streets, we hear him.

He shouts to us that the sin of complicity is on our hands.

That his blood stains us.

Now as Our Mother cries, The love burns in her heart.

The love burns in her eyes.

Then Our Mother puts her arms around the world, And she loves us.

With that, the angel of death disappears from the world.

Now the love has much power and the hatred seems weak.

The farmer rises from the ground and shouts at us: My personal revenge is to love!

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A Poem For My Mother Collin Funck

34

I was once asked to write a poem for my mother.

But I told my father that I could not do so.

You see, I said, I have no rhyme, rhythm, or reason.

It was hardly the time, month, or season.

My father drove me down past Davis Avenue And Redgar Lane to help me write.

He told me to look out the window.

Down, down, and down we went past all of her favorite Shops, chow towns, and stops to find some inspiration.

Bill still sold flowers outside of Joel’s Bakery.

I saw Celine boxing old records in her corner store While my Uncle Dee stood on a ladder fixing neon signs.

I told my father that nothing was working.

No—but then—oh, yes, it just seemed to be oh-so-clear.

My dad did not want a poem Like the ones I’d read in school with abstract fillers And words that made you cozy a glossary.

No, no, no. He wanted me: The natural, pure, and raw things I felt.

Much more than words, something concise and silent, For the beauty, he said, would shine through the page— Oh, but don’t be too short, he mentioned.

Seeking essence, he said: He wanted the feelings I had, not the brain.

I was happy that he could clarify what he wanted.

My dad told me to write a poem once.

Initially, the task seemed overwhelming, But by the end of a long ride, My dad told me what it should be: Very, very clear and from the heart.

For you, Mom, I dreamed a beautiful poem.

I hope one day I can read it to you from my heart— Because we’re here and Dad says you’re home now— And we can go on our own car ride together, And I can try to tell you What I want it to say while we drive.

And I’ll even look out the window at what inspired me Like Dad told me to do.

But, Mom—I know that I should have learned by now— I must ask you one thing first: Could you help me write it.

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sketch by Jack Bodnar

36

acrylic painting by Joseph Bytnar

Fink Kark Salvatore Vitellaro ’17

O

n the Arvo, Fink Kark lay face down in his coffin, a flat jon boat, his limbs sprawled unnaturally across the aluminum benches. His eyes were as wide and glassy as his pallbearers’, the fish floating belly-up in the water around him. People walked past on the banks, joking to their companions about the man who appeared to be sleeping.

Eventually, someone noticed the power line trailing in the water, realized what had happened, and called la polizia. “

H

ow about Lake Cingoli?” asked Char Rom in their room at the University of Agder. “It’s got crucian carp.” Kark lay on his bed staring at Rom’s mattress two feet above his face. Outside the triple-pane window snow fell heavily in the fierce winds.

“Sounds good to me. How are we looking on cost?”

“Not too bad.” Rom leafed through the papers on his desk. “Using the rates online I’m thinking about 500 euros each. I’ll call some places tomorrow to confirm—some of the websites looked pretty dated.”

“Cool, cool. Could you spot me about 300 for now? I can pay you a few weeks after we get back, but I’d hate to have to postpone just because I’m broke.”

Rom sighed.

“Come on. I’m good for my word.”

Rom acquiesced despite knowing that Kark was not, in fact, good for his word.

The roommates, in the midst of midterms, were focused on the fishing trip to Italy they had planned for their spring break the following week. They were tired of staring at white ground and grey sky, and fishing was one of Kark’s few passions.

The two had been assigned to be room-

mates at the beginning of the previous term, providing Kark with an acquaintance who not only shared his interest in angling but also had the patience to put up with his obnoxious personality. Kark considered Rom to be a close friend, despite having little interest in his personal life, and had asked him to be his roommate again for the present term.

Rom had agreed, having grown accustomed to Kark’s mannerisms.

“How are exams going so far, Kark?”

“Not too shabby, I suppose. I don’t care a ton for maths, but I suppose I can struggle through it. Western Civ was such a joke. I don’t think I’ve ever taken an easier exam.”

Kark was not aware that he had failed the exam miserably.

“That’s good. Mine went well also, although I’m not totally confident about biology. We had to construct our own cell membrane from amino acids. Not very fun.”

When Kark didn’t respond, Rom looked up from his desk to see Kark curled into a ball facing the wall. His chest expanded slowly, and a few moments later Rom heard muffled snoring. Kark was prodigious in his ability to fall asleep at will.

O

n the train ride the two didn’t speak to each other much, save in the beginning, when Rom had attempted to quiz Kark on some common Italian phrases.

“How do you say ‘How much does this cost?’” Rom had said.

“Buongiorno, principessa!”

“That’s ‘Good morning, princess.’”

“What more do I need to know? I’ve got you for the rest.” And then Kark had gone to the dining car without another word, leaving Rom to his studies.

37

38

After arriving they marched through the cobbled streets like strange soldiers, carrying backpacks full of bait instead of ammo, toting fishing poles in place of rifles, and wearing not combat boots but high-kneed rubber waders. When they arrived at the hostel and paid in advance for their stay, they dropped their stuff on the floor, and Rom announced that he was going out to rent the gear they needed.

“You could come along if you feel so inclined. I wouldn’t mind some help.”

Kark flopped down on one of the beds.

“Nah, I think I’ll stay here. I’m tired.”

He had taken two naps each day of the train ride.

Rom left, and Kark lay on the bed until a young woman with dark, curly hair poked her head around the corner. Kark looked up.

“Buongiorno, principessa!”

She giggled. “Vuoi avere qualche divertimento?”

Kark shrugged his shoulders.

“Come,” she said, and her arm appeared around the edge of the doorframe.

Kark shrugged again, grabbed the money Rom had left on the table, and took the woman’s hand.

K

ark awoke the next day completely hosed. Rom had taken the hose from the sink and sprayed Kark with cold water.

“What the hell was that about?” Kark asked furiously.

“You spent all of our money? Are you insane?” Kark winced and rubbed his temples.

“Please, not so loud. Who said I spent all the money?”

“The two guys who escorted you back here last night. I had to pay them even more for their ‘delivery charge.’”

“Now, now. I did win something last night.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a fistful of euros. “Twenty, ten,

five, five, one, one, one. You see? Sixty-three euros. That’s plenty of money.”

“No, it’s not. I’ve had enough of you. I’m returning our equipment early to get enough money for a ticket home. One ticket. Good luck getting back.” He swung his backpack onto his shoulders and walked out the door.

“Sheesh, what a jerk. I don’t need him. I came here to fish and have fun, not to hang out with a party-pooper.”

But Kark couldn’t stop thinking about it, and his mood steadily worsened. He made himself a cup of coffee from an instant-brew machine in the room. While he was drinking it, the owner of the hostel came up the stairs and kicked him out, citing the return of the room key and the payment of the bill.

Kark stormed out, clutching his fishing rod and coffee cup. He walked to the riverfront and rented a jon boat from a shop for fifty euros.

Slowly he drifted down the river with his rod in hand, but no fish were biting. His rage kept building, and finally he made a decision; he would put his electrical engineering major to use. After grounding the boat on the shore, he switched off the breaker on the nearest electrical pole and detached one end of the powerline. He dragged it out to the boat and launched from the shore, waiting for a local to pass by. When one did, he got his attention and mimed flipping the breaker back up. Eventually he got the message, and the fish started silently drifting up in the water. They stared at each other upside down as though they couldn’t believe what was happening. Thrilled by his genius, Kark took the net out of his backpack and began to scoop up the fish. He spotted a choice carp just out of the reach of his net. He strained forward to reach it, and his boots slipped off the bench he was using as a perch. His body jerked once as it touched the bottom of the boat.

Savage Padraic Riordan The savage dressed in fine black velvet, Yet more wild than the coyote Held a captive for your lust, does Libbie hold such sway over you?

A boy indeed Yet even I must admit, the wilds of Kansas are a harsh place and one must find an outlet for his passion and keep busy lest he go mad But not like this The savage dressed in a redskin scarf Your noble blonde curls falling to your shoulders like the bodies left curled and fetal by the wayside You have found your calling the Crazy Horse gallops ahead, just out of reach, and the Bull sits in front of you, blocking you.

Unmoving.

You will make him move Is 700 not greater than 300?

And yet Sparta made do with so few And destroyed so many But you are not a Spartan, no matter how hard you wish And the ancients did not win by losing 268 souls

39

Grant looks down with scorn While the dirt is poured down onto you But you don’t care, you never have For as you look up from the ground A smiling nation looks back

40

The savage dressed in a bloodstained buckskin is lowered in flesh, but not in reputation as Libbie repays her debts with stories and legends of the heroics a monster can achieve Not all of us have been fooled

drawing by Nicholas Dalaviras

The Noise of Time Jakub Gorzko

41 There is a loud sound that all things feel.

A ringing that creates fear and anxiety, hope and excitement.

A bang that gives shape to the flowing rivers of East St. Louis and color to the Aurora Borealis above Alaska.

A pitch none but God can escape that allows the stars to live and die.

Static small as a pebble or big as the Panamint Range.

Most live as slaves to the noise, stressing about what is to come, crying over what has happened.

Only those who live in the silent present are open to the ultimate opportunity of peace.

42

print by Charlie Perry

The Creek: Land of Pirates Harrison Petty In the creek we play Wet muddy shoes leap and run Grins on our faces

43

We all roam the creek Stick are swords, we are pirates The stream is our sea As we grow it shrinks But the creek will always be Our little ocean

photograph by Liam John

The Grave of Edward Cornell 44

Gabe Lepak

Men and women, Now crafted into buildings, Lay their weary heads Under stone monuments— A vain attempt to Elongate lives no longer lived.

Green grass grows round The way it was always meant to: Chaos, yet Harmony, As its soft, highlighted hue Gently overpowers and overtakes Man’s display to death.

The gnats and bees fly, Dawdling from flower to flower, Action, yet Serenity.

Perhaps they’re lived by benign Spirits of the once live, A posthumous attempt At self-discovery.

From dust we are born, and To dust we shall return.

Stone, at its birth crisp as The summer sun, now Two hundred years withered, just Faintly bears its original line:

45

“The Grave of Edward Cornell Born, October 5th, 1811– Died, August 28th, 1812.”

Three hundred twenty-seven days Outlived two hundred-fold By a rock appreciation forgot.

sketch by Ben Poag

Full of Grace Ethan Schmidt

46

H

e held his dinner plate to his face and glided his tongue over it, snatching any crumbs he could feel.

As Eugene sat at the small, wooden kitchen table, Lex chuckled while sitting back in his table chair. “Son, what are you doing that for?”

Eugene laid the plate down on the table, unveiling his red hair and light skin to his father, Lex. As he lifted his ceramic teacup of milk off of the table, Eugene leaned back in the wooden chair, resting his leg on the opposite thigh. He glanced towards the barn outside the kitchen window. The light hanging above the barn’s side door seemed to float in the middle of the infinite darkness.

“Well, Dad, I, uh, I’ve seen a lot out there, and, uh, I dunno, I guess I can’t take these kinds of things for granted anymore.”

Still leaning back in his seat, Eugene sipped from his cup of milk, holding his pinkie finger out. His hand trembled.

Lex squinted slightly, eyeing Eugene with a grin. “Yeah, so what’s happening over there in Germany?”

Eugene stared at the wood kitchen floor, recalling the stern warning he received from his commander as he packed his gear to leave on furlough. “The newspapers have told them all they need to know about what’s going on over here.”

The look in his father’s eyes challenged him, though. He thought back to his childhood days of striking the wooden, chipped keys on the family piano. As the final notes of Schubert’s “Ave Maria” lingered through-

out the house, he would turn towards the living room window to see his brothers haul loads of harvested wheat into wagons. He enjoyed his work on the piano, but in those moments of hearing echoing notes and gazing out the window, his house seemed empty and huge, and he felt tiny and alone.

His mother made the house shrink and helped Eugene grow.

“Eugene, you are above normal,” she would say, preparing to repeat the story of the revelation of Eugene’s brilliance. “When you were five, I was worried about you. I was afraid you were different, but I had no clue if you were different in a good way or a bad way.

One day, though, I remember hanging up the clothes to dry on the line, and I heard this noise coming from your daddy’s workshed.

It sounded beautiful, like music. I crept over there, and I saw you banging your fists on a saw. You were making music on a saw! I fell on my knees, thanking the Lord. I knew then you weren’t just different. You were special.”

As Eugene sat there in the chair opposite his father, the challenging look asked him to prove his mother’s promise.

He shifted in his seat, resting his cup on the table.“Well, uh, not much, ya know.

I know we’re on our way towards Germany.”

“Well the papers already told me that.

Tell me somethin’ that the papers aren’t.”

Eugene cleared his throat and sat up in his seat. “The papers are telling you everything that you need to know.”

Lex looked out the window. The barn light flickered.

“So,” Eugene said, “How is the farm doin’?”

Lex focused his gaze on Eugene again, holding his grin, as if it were frozen into place. “Fine,” he said, “Not that you would care, of course.”

“Just because I didn’t like doing the work doesn’t mean I don’t care about the farm.”

“You certainly didn’t show your care.”

Eugene opened his mouth to speak, but he quickly closed it. They’d had this argument multiple times.

Lex ended it again by snatching the newspaper off the table, reading the front page headlines.

Eugene sighed, stood up from his chair, and, snatching the teacup and saucer, gulped the last of the milk. He walked towards the kitchen counter and laid the dishes in the ceramic sink.

The bold headlines reporting the immense number of casualties petrified Lex. His grin slowly morphed into a frown as he folded the paper and laid it down on the table.

“Are you sure you can’t tell me what you’ve been doing over there?”

Eugene grasped the edge of the counter and leaned over the sink. His head dangled over the sink, as if it were a ball attached to a thread, ready to snap off. He thought about the monologue he could give his father. He thought about puffing his chest up and explaining how his work with radar technology was helping the U.S. win the war, describing the beautiful and unsettling sights that he had seen around Germany, and ending his grand speech with a big grin on his face. He thought about the joy it would bring his father.

Yet he also reminded himself the futility of denying his father. Lex seldom took “No,” for an answer, especially when his son would be the one to utter the devastating

two-letter word. Eugene stared at the teacup in the sink, its bright purple flowers snaking around its white body.

He hissed his nose in a sigh. He turned towards Lex, paced to his own chair, and, sat down in it, clasping the wooden armrests.

“Dad,” he said, looking at Lex straight in the eye, “I’ve told you everything I can.”

His piercing voice echoed through the kitchen.

“I’m stationed in Germany. I work as a radar technician. That is all I can tell you.

Please stop asking me for something that I cannot give you.”

Lex stared at Eugene, bewildered and confused, with his eyes wide open and his eyebrows furrowed, unsure of how to respond to his passive son’s assertion. Eugene reflected Lex’s stare, realizing he retorted against his father. He gripped the armrest tighter, waiting for Lex to unload his frustration.

Lex suddenly scoffed and grinned.

“Okay,” he said, chuckling. “Okay, Eugene.”

Eugene stared at him for a moment, stunned by his surrender. Eugene’s frown slowly curved into a smile as Lex’s laughs boomed throughout the house. A few chuckles slipped out of Eugene as well, creating one unified joyful sound with Lex, as if they were chords providing the harmony for his father’s solo. Their music faded to a quiet wheezing as they both began to lose their breath and lean over in their chairs. After coughing and clearing their throats, they sat back up in their seats; and, for the first time in awhile, Eugene met his father’s warm gaze with a calm smile.

The gaze was broken by a soft creaking in the living room. Eugene turned to see his little sister, Rosemary, staring at them, her mouth open slightly. Her red hair twirled around her head as she turned and hurried out of the living room.

47

Lex looked at the empty living room with a raised eyebrow. “What do you think that was about?”

Eugene glanced out the window. The barn light regained its energy, shining its light brighter than before, and exposing the surroundings once hidden by the night. It illuminated the purple and yellow flowers next

to the door, standing tall in the soil, and exposed the chipped red and white paint of the old barn.

“Huh,” Lex said, “I don’t think I ever saw that broken light shine so brightly.”

“Is that was she was staring at?” Eugene asked. “Just a bright light?”

“I guess so.”

48

photograph by Patrick Zarrick

Smoog Seamus McFarland

49 I am Smoog I travel a day late, Only to relate To every passing grape But not the carrots.

Carrots are nasty.

The shack is pleasantly empty, A silence of aplenty, But burst my eardrums again The little thumpers are back again.

And I am, again, annoyed at their againningness.

Left right left right, not my style.

I swoosh and splat and tumble, flipping backwards to keep it artful.

Feathers over fur over greenery over skin over scales, Their bones thick as my nails, Delightful wails when I step on them.

Smoog is best of the garden and the garden loves Smoog.

I’m supposed to be guarding a rock-sack lumped over glittery bits, but delicious tomatoes

are better.

Not carrots.

Carrots are like trees and trees are like the ground.

I don’t mind the carrots as long as if I get to step on them.

I didn’t like rabbits or birds or frogs anyway.

Too loud, like carrots.

Although they did taste in my rots.

Now they’re here to kill me.

I hear them taunt the name “Smoog of blots” among their own.

I put them back into the ground where they belong.

All along Smoog knew so, Row away and back again, When will they learn, rats, That I am not going anywhere.

50

Smoog has beautiful antlers, Smoog has beautiful horns, Smoog has beautiful teeth, Smoog has beautiful claws, Smoog has three beautiful eyes, Smoog has five beautiful feet, Smoog has seven nice arms.

Smoog is flawless.

photograph by Sean Anderson

51

photograph by Liam John

The Storm Joseph Dougherty

52

Lightning flashes to split the calmest air, In bearing witness to the storm’s resolve, To judge what is unjust and what is fair And counsel so the accused may evolve.

Thunder resounds to rouse innocent ears, Ensured to echo so that all may know The gloomy omen of a storm of tears, Moving hearts to shudder and winds to blow.

What thunder foretold now arrives in full: Rain like salty tears of forlorn widows, Their husbands doomed to die by thunder-roll, To mourn the yesterdays and tomorrows.

Lightning appears solely to then vanish, To reign in thunder and foretell anguish.

photograph by Dalton Ennis