The Marque (2021)

e perceive create well, imagine here’sperceive your box.create imagine

Dreamscape, Akash Munshi ’23

opening

We’re Marque. A magazine of arts and letters. Of fiction and photography and poetry and ceramics. Of every sort of creativity you can imagine— and maybe a few you haven’t yet.

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joe

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dedication

Known for displaying both the spirit and mane of a lion, Joe Milliet is a St. Mark’s icon.

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f you walk around campus an hour before school, you’ll notice three things without fail: the cafeteria kitchen is buzzing with energy in anticipation of lunch, the senior parking lot is conspicuously empty, and Joe Milliet is sitting in his office in case one of his students needs a mentor.

Since the age of 20, Joe has invested his time and energy in his students. After completing a double-major in biology and chemistry at Tulane University, he planned on attending medical school. However, after a few years of teaching in South Texas, he was hooked. By the time he reached St. Mark’s in 2000, he had accomplished a host of achievements in the world of mathematics. As one of five members of the AP Calculus Development committee, Joe was on the forefront of restructuring calculus education in the United States (ask him about the New Spirit of the Definite Integral...he probably has his presentation memorized).

Outside the classroom, Joe’s role on campus is that of a loving mentor. A fixture at St. Mark’s sporting events, he routinely drives to Southlake, Fort Worth, and surrounding suburbs to watch his students compete. In fact, if you notice the baseball team wearing sunglasses, it may be due to the glare bouncing off Joe’s shiny head. A senior-class sponsor since 2003, Joe has worked tirelessly to ensure that each oddnumbered senior class has a memorable upper-class experience, especially during this challenging school year. When asked to describe Joe in a few words, his close friend and class cosponsor of eight years Amy Pool said that “Joe cares about and knows people in a very personal and direct way. It doesn’t matter if it’s a student, a colleague, or a Marksman he’s never met before. Joe makes it his priority to invest in each individual he meets.”

Thank you, Joe. For everything. You’ve been an advocate, a teacher, and a friend to each one of us, whether we knew it or not. Each story you tell reminds us how many lives you have impacted during your time as a teacher, at St. Mark’s and beyond. Each lesson—calculus or otherwise—brings us further along in our education as men and future leaders.

Each game you attend or event you organize shows us how much you care. And it hasn’t gone unnoticed. Few discover their true calling before it is too late to change their path.

Thankfully, you did. And we’re all the better for it. Good luck in retirement—we’ll miss you.

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theme

When we read John Steinbeck’s dedication to East of Eden, we knew it had to be our theme.

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ear pat, You came upon me carving some kind of little figure out of wood and you said, “Why don’t you make something for me?”

I asked you what you wanted, and you said, “A box.”

“What for?”

“To put things in.”

“What kind of things?”

“Whatever you have,” you said.

Well, here’s your box. Nearly everything I have is in it, and it is not full. Pain and excitement are in it, and feeling good or bad and evil thoughts and good thoughts- the pleasure of design and some despair and the indescribable joy of creation.

And on top of these are all the gratitude and love I have for you.

And still the box is not full. john

you may be wondering what to do with the crayon you got with this year’s Marque. If it makes you feel any better, we don’t have an answer: it’s all up to you.

When we first read the dedication above, we realized that Steinbeck’s “box” is an incredibly compelling idea—it mirrors the complexity of the soul. Throughout our lives, we yearn to fill our box with the things we accumulate: money, fame, power. But these attempts fall flat. The true way to fulfillment—“the indescribable joy of creation,” as Steinbeck puts it—is through three avenues: that which we perceive, that which we create, and that which we imagine—all of which enable us to embrace the beauty of everyday life.

So back to the crayon. Start small. Maybe a doodle you imagined when you were supposed to be taking notes in physics. Or a song lyric you wrote on the way to school. Even a self-portrait, if you’re feeling up to it.

Whatever you draw, we want you to take the next step on the journey to fill up your box. Go ahead. Make your Marque.

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the box

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profiles Grandfather’s Words

Jonathan Yin

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Grandfather’s Words

Jonathan Yin

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Grandfather’s Words

Jonathan Yin

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Grandfather’s Words

Jonathan Yin

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Grandfather’s Words

Jonathan Yin

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Grandfather’s Words

Jonathan Yin

contents

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In haunting images, Junior Benjamin Gravel foreshadows a technological takeover.

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Senior Aayan Khasgiwala’s woodwork takes him beyond the studio.

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Photographer?

Musician? Senior Collin Katz bridges two mediums.

section one

Perceive

16 17 18 20 21 21 22 23 28 29 31 32 34 35 37 38 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52

Somewhere in Between Thomas Philip ’22 nonfiction Desolate Henry Piccagli ’22 photography Autumn Vision Drake Elliott ’22 photography Anchor in a Stormy Sea Cristian Pereira ’21 poetry Into the Dawn Sam Adams ’23 photography Wistful Abe Echt ’21 photography Hard Day’s Work Zubin Mehta ’22 photography A Grandfather’s Words Michael Gao ’23 nonfiction The Outsider Josh Mysore ’21 fiction Inside a Berber Cave Collin Katz ’21 photography Expansive Ekansh Tambe ’22 photography Elysium Sam Alfalahi ’22 photography Harold Buck Elliott ’21 fiction Rembrandt James Singhal ’22 photography Temple in the Distance Aayan Khasgiwala ’21 photography Desert Collin Katz ’21 photography Guitar Wall Collin Katz ’21 photography 1969 Sai Thirunagari ’21 nonfiction Persephone Henry Piccagli ’22 photography Invisible Enemy Henry McElhaney ’21 poetry ...And Justice for All Evan McGowan ’22 photography The American Dilemma Enoch Ellis ’22 poetry Tox Collin Katz ’21 photography Privilege Adam Lai ’22 poetry A gallery of works by members of the St. Mark’s Ceramics Program

awards “Somewhere in Between” and “The Outsider” were awarded first place in nonfiction and fiction, respectively, at the 2021 St. Mark’s Literary Festival.

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Cultural phenoms like the Joker come to life in Senior Daniel Wu’s vivid artworks.

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Senior Jamie Mahowald on how to choose the words that matter.

section two

Create

58 59 61 62 63 64 65 70 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 80 86 87 89 90 92 93 94 8

The Affair Alam Alidina ’21 fiction Jealousy’s Snare Owen Simon ’22 photography Petrified Patrick Flanagan ’23 photography Evolution Jerry Zhao ’21 photography Glass Man Tomek Marczewski ’22 poetry Lemonade Collin Katz ’21 photography Grating Tim Weigman ’21 poetry Creation Jerry Zhao ’21 painting Tetrachromat Alexander Emery ’21 fiction Friend Named Death Hudson Brown ’24 photography Composed Adam Wang ’22 graphic art In One Ear Toby Barrett ’22 poetry Pressure Jerry Zhao ’21 photography Listening to the Angels Sing Blake Broom ’21 poetry If America Miller Trubey ’22 poetry Mask On Patrick Flanagan ’22 photography The Boy He Used To Be Beau Exall ’21 poetry Cold Sweat Luke Voorheis ’21 photography The Mask Mason Westkaemper’21 fiction Resplendent Benjamin Gravel ’22 photography Gilded Lament Paul Valois ’22 photography Final Push Hayward Metcalf ’24 photography Aspens Collin Katz ’21 photography Clinching Freedom Leo Ohannessian ’21 poetry A gallery of works by members of the St. Mark’s Wood & Metal Program

awards “Listening to the Angels Sing” was awarded first place in poetry at the 2021 St. Mark’s Literary Festival.

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Painting. Photography.

Even sculpture. Senior Jerry Zhao keeps pushing boundaries. Here’s why.

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How Senior Mustafa Latif harnesses new techniques to spin magic out of mud.

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In capturing and marking intimate moments, Senior Blake Hudspeth exposes hidden angst.

section three

Imagine

Morning Mist Owen Simon ’22 100 photography A Grey Imagination Beto Beveridge ’21 101 poetry Icarus on Ice Sam Morgan ’21 102 fiction Bruiser Ekansh Tambe ’22 103 photography Renewable Jake Robinowitz ’22 105 photography Last Words Hayward Metcalf ’22 106 photography Scatterbrained Nicholas Koch ’22 112 photography Scrambled Josh Mysore ’21 113 poetry War With My Mind Jack Palmer ’21 114 fiction Dreamscapes Jake Bond ’23 115 photography Fuchsia Nicholas Koch ’22 117 photography Quake Oliver Lambert ’24 119 photography Projection Collin Katz ’21 120 photography Opal Eyes Josh Mysore ’21 121 poetry One Bulb Paul Valois ’22 122 photography Loneliness Tommy Zheng ’23 123 poetry Wraith Oliver Lambert ’24 128 photography Sweet Dreams Han Zhang ’21 129 fiction Aftermath Charlie Estess ’23 130 photography Spoils of War Aayan Khasgiwala ’21 132 poetry Valor’s Curse Hayward Metcalf ’23 133 photography Be a Man Jerry Zhao ’21 134 photography The Stranger In The Mirror Ian Dalrymple ’22 135 poetry 136 A gallery of works by members of the St. Mark’s Drawing & Painting Program 9

a cohesive set

We have been trained through the medium of this age to become dopamine junkies.

Everyone feels the compulsion to get lost for hours in webs of algorithms.

photos by Benjamin Gravel ’22

Benjamin Gravel ’22

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corruption

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It's becoming more apparent that we can’t live without our phones.

Benjamin Gravel ’22

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Not Here, Owen Simon ’22

Maybe you blinked your eyes. Or frowned.

But you saw it eventually. And maybe you learned how to perceive all over again.

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Between

by Thomas Philip ’22 16

Desolate, Henry Piccagli ’22

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uly, 1950. india.

Torrential rain beat down on long rows of crops that stretched out to the horizon: monsoon season had begun. My grandfather returned home in the evening, drenched from working in his family’s fields. He was nine years old at the time; his father had died six months earlier.

After his father’s death, my grandpa’s family had to sell some of their land because they could not manage it all anymore. A man came along and offered them a price.

My grandfather pleaded with the adults in his house not to take it. He knew the price was unfair. He knew the man was trying to scam them. But his mother, his aunts, and his uncles all refused to listen to him. They thought it was a good deal. How could a little kid know more than they did? Helpless, my grandpa gave up, and his family sold the land. Decades later, he still remembers that feeling. My grandfather carries an ambience of humility with him wherever he goes. He makes everyone, no matter who they are or where they come from, feel heard and understood. He never lets his own knowledge

get in the way of someone else’s ideas. I think it’s hard to walk that fine line and show that grace while still commanding respect.

Back then, however, there was nothing my grandpa could do. In his family’s eyes, he was just a naïve child. My grandpa’s mother called out for him to dry off and get ready for dinner. He stared out the window and watched the wind howl and the rain pour. august, 2020. texas.

The lights go out. A clap of thunder interrupts the steady patter of raindrops on our roof. In India, rolling blackouts happen for a few hours every week to every house because there isn’t enough power to go around. My grandma and I sit together on a long, gray sofa, barely able to make out each other’s faces. Before the lights come back on, she tells me about the blackouts of her childhood.

These moments are my connection to their past. The story of my grandparents’ childhood lives on in conversations around the dinner table after a meal late at night.

When my parents are washing plates in 17

Autumn Vision, Drake Elliott ’22

He sat in the dark, tiny living room of his apartment, all alone in a foreign country, thinking about the home he’d left behind.

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the sink, and my sister is returning to her room, my grandpa and I sip the last drops of water from our glasses. The only sound is water rushing from the faucet, forks and knives clanging against each other, and the occasional soft roar of a car’s engine as it passes by, its headlights flooding our living room through a window. My grandpa shares images through recollections of a foreign country lost in time, left behind by him and the modern world. They both wanted the same thing: a better life. And from civil rights movements to staggering new technology, they got exactly that.

My grandfather arrived in America in 1966 to attend college. On April 4, 1968, James Earl Ray shot and killed Martin Luther King, Jr. On July 20, 1969, Neil Armstrong became the first man to set foot on the moon. My grandpa’s eyes were glued to his eight-inch black and white Sony television as he watched history unfold in front of him. He sat in the dark, tiny living room of his apartment, all alone in a foreign country, thinking about the home he’d left behind. I think he still hadn’t fully let go of his past, and he wasn’t quite ready to grab on to his future. september, 1980. somewhere in between.

He met my grandma. They got married and had three kids but still lived in that apartment. They were somewhere in between.

In between times, in between places, in between lives. That’s a scary place to be. But I think that’s the only time you can truly grow.

In September of 1980, the five of them bought a house and settled down for good.

My grandparents came to America for opportunity, but they finally made it their home. And they’re sticking to it. They’ve lived in that house for the past forty years, and don’t have any plans to move anytime soon.

When they tell me their story now, they tell it as just that: a story with ups and downs that ultimately has a happy ending. But I think of all the risks they took for the chance at a better future. I think of every night they spent lying in bed not sure what would happen next. I think of my nine-year-old grandpa watching the pouring rain stretch out as far as he could see, soon to leave behind everything he ever knew and not feel at home again for a very long time. I wonder what gave him the courage to sacrifice comfort for the chance to become something more. I’ll have to ask him next time, as we sip the last remaining drops of water from our glasses after a meal late at night, and we relive his past together one more time.

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Anchor in a Stormy Sea

by Cristian Pereira ’21

The starry landscape is blinding. I squint; mark my futile words, contemplating existence is to exist no longer. My angel: this sea is a tempestuous one. The curse of Being is uncurable—I envy souls with meaning, abounding with ignorance, yet devoid of misery!

I slice the purple waves. My unending misery, amplified by thoughts of soft caress, whose mark of Cain, crafted by innocent hands, gave meaning to creation. I reach my hand to the nebulae above, my existence encouraging the navigation of this abyss. Being capable, angel, direct my aeronautical vessel; part this sea.

Alas, alone I drift. The stars, the sea; in congruence they form misery. in harmony they form a being invalid: so bright, so brave, they mark the fate with which my human existence is cursed. O! How fervently my meaning To exorcise my sole source of meaning, my angel, my essence, my anchor in this sea!

Yet how forcefully the indistinguishable existence of your touch lingers, a helical wound bleeding misery.

I should cease my callings to you. Yet, I ask you: Mark me, hold me, eradicate my toxicomania for Being.

Come to coffee. Two naïve souls, being together, away from the abyss, finding meaning in the innocent cup-swirls that leave a murky mark on our silk clothing. I yearn — this tumultuous sea is unsettling. My vessel grows tainted with my misery; its sails phase, in and out, mimicking existence, its mast rotting and its rudder loose. Existence… my torture subsided when an angel uncursed my being.

But this corruption is malignant; it waits, my misery, until the angel returns to conquer the meaning of my weakness, save a sinking ship on an endless sea, repair these punctured floorboards, return to me your mark.

Do you hear my vessel’s existence? Did you mark your divine consciousness with my misery? It has meaning, it has to; otherwise my Being will descend into this sea.

Above, Into the Dawn, Sam Adams ’23 and right, Wistful, Abe Echt ’21 20

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bin M rk, Zu o W ’s d Day

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by Michael Gao ’23 22

I Though unbearable at first, the apartment brightened in color and life with my grandfather’s presence.

n the heart of China, skyscrapers towered over travelers like giants. Incessant horns and cursing, resulting from the ubiquitous traffic jams, flooded the gray air. Vendors bargained and enticed tourists to bamboozle them out of a quick buck. Irritating to the nose, a stench infused with grease and concrete pervaded the streets. Hiding in plain sight, thieves, bereft of both morals and money, slashed backpacks for valuables and pickpocketed anyone preoccupied with his or her phone. Even as industrialized as China seemed, evidence of poverty appeared in its subways, trains, and streets.

Paraplegics, both adults and children, begged on the streets.

With all this rampant crime and industrial pollution, it was like the 1920’s in America but fit in one city.

Amid all this chaos, I found the apartment where my grandfather resided. Built during the 1930s, the interior, both spartan and threadbare, resembled any ordinary apartment under Communist rule. In the living room, a few pieces of furniture dotted the area; also, a stove with only two burners and a table populated the cramped kitchen. Overall, the scenery emulated life under Communist rule with its gray and bleak colors. Though unbearable at first, the apartment brightened in color and life with my grandfather’s presence.

From him, I learned how to persevere through any seemingly insurmountable obstacles.

In the living room, when I was five, a puzzle I discovered inside a cabinet enthralled me. About 1,000 pieces, this enigma baffled me with its ability for the pieces to dovetail so perfectly. Thus, every day, my mind stressing to complete the puzzle, I sat in the living room; and every evening, I, irascible with my lack of progress, stumbled into bed. This pattern persisted for several days and left me more and more frustrated. At the end of the week, my body seethed with anger, and steam vented from my ears like boiling water in a kettle. Like a hippo, I was writhing in a cesspool of misery.

Through the negative emotions, a feeling of insecurity about my intelligence bloomed like weeds in a garden. As a result, my once eloquent conversations with my grandfather devolved into mumbling and murmuring. My grandfather, seeing my descent into madness, lowered his hand like an angel into my well of self-loathing; and he said solemnly, “My grandson, when the winds of change blow, some people build walls and others build windmills. What will you build?”

At first, I could not understand this. My mind started spinning in confusion. Questions like why people would build walls for winds and why would my grandfather say this to me zoomed in my head. When he sauntered away on his cane, I hunched over, head on my fists, deeply pensive. While I pondered and mused, the cackling of children and the honking of cars from outside echoed through the apartment; reverberating through every room, my grandfather’s rhythmic stomps and steps accented those sounds like the drums in a band. Through this “music,” my mind could concentrate to decrypt my grandfather’s words. As the clock struck twelve, everything clicked in my mind.

Eureka! My eyes dilating with realization, my mouth dropped like a marionette with its strings cut. Taking the maxim at face value, I had overlooked the true meaning behind it. The adage meant that during times of strife or chaos, some people are frightened and shield themselves while others look for opportunities.

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What’s the first meaningful piece of art you created?

“Bloodlines.” I made it freshman year and it was the 5th piece that I had made in Wood & Metal. It’s the first one I had full creative freedom with; it was my version of a family tree, and I used resin to indicate the connection between a family. It shows that even though we’re distinct parts of a family, the resin (i.e. blood) connects us as a unit.

What sources of inspiration do you draw from?

I draw inspiration from many different sources. Social media influences a lot of my work because I follow design accounts and various artists. They often post about the thought process behind their work which is super helpful to me because it shows me new ways of thinking about projects. We also do artist critiques in class, and being required to analyze what works and what doesn’t work with a certain artist’s piece helps me understand what makes a work successful. I keep a sketchbook in my car, too, because I’ll see interesting shapes and forms while driving. When brainstorming for actual project ideas, I’ll look back to those interesting shapes I saw on billboards and buildings.

Additionally, a lot of my influence has come from spending time in the outdoors. Backpacking and camping in the woods really shows me what forms look natural and what looks synthetic or man-made. I try to use organic forms in my work, so time in nature has helped me hone what looks realistic.

a conversation

Whether he’s driving or leading freshmen on the Pecos, Aayan Khasgiwala goes beyond the studio with Wood & Metal. portrait by Ekansh Tambe 24

Tell us about your favorite artist.

I have two favorite artists who have always been sources of inspiration for me: Maya Lin and Lorenzo Quinn. Maya Lin tends to make larger installations; her creation of the Vietnam Memorial in DC is riddled with both aesthetic beauty and many hidden meanings. The level of complexity she integrates into her art is something that I really admire, and I hope to get to that level one day. Lorenzo Quinn’s work is more sculptural rather than the huge installation projects of Lin. His pieces are all incredibly visually provocative.

He utilizes many dynamic movements, but what stands out to me is that he does it in bronze. When I see a material shaped in a way that it generally isn’t, such as bronze in a curved form, I like to see how the artist did it, and that’s why I like Quinn’s work.

Is making art an exhausting or an invigorating process?

It’s a little bit of both. I think the process has ebbs and flows. Some of the most powerful adrenaline rushes I’ve gotten are after finding the perfect idea for my next project. The next step, which is going through the 10, 20, or more variations of designs, can be exhausting. Once I’m out of the designing/planning phase, getting started with the materials and beginning to work with my hands and tools is invigorating, and by the end, I’m just proud that I was able to finish the piece. Sometimes the charm of a piece that I’m making wears off because I’ve spent so much time with it, but hearing someone compliment the work provokes a euphoric feeling that validates however many months I spent trying to make it perfect.

If you could offer advice to a first-grader in art class, what would it be?

Take Wood and Metal... just kidding. It doesn’t have to be Wood and Metal, but my advice would be to get involved in some sort of art as early as possible, theatre, drawing/painting, ceramics, photography, choir, etc.

St. Mark’s hands you resources to some of the best visual and performance art programs in Texas, and you should utilize them to the fullest. Art was something I didn’t get super-involved in until Middle School, but it is an amazing way to exercise the creative, problem-solving side of your brain.

You’re continually working hard to find unique ways of perfecting whichever art form you decide to pursue, but you hopefully fall in love with it, so it doesn’t end up feeling like work.

aayan

Every time, I try to experiment with something new, whether that be a different style of molding the wood or a new material.

gallery

Aayan Khasgiwala ’21

Clockwise from bottom left, Within the Dark, Trapped, and Bloodlines, Aayan Khasgiwala ’21 26

Liberation, Aayan Khasgiwala ’21 27

by Josh Mysore ’21

T

he car in question was quaint.

Wise, in all honesty. One look at its complexion saw its characteristics liven.

Though rusty, the chassis spewed a homely mustard from its loose frame.

Though the vehicle was cheap, fresh oil danced through engine tubes, grumbling the garbled motors onward. Daffodil-hued doors, in spite of shoddy construction, quivered as the vehicle found its footing, and fine rubber tires emitted an earthy smell as of dandelions in a spring field. And finally, toward the apex of the vehicle and lopsided in a coyish, inviting way, a cheap taxi sign stood proud and cemented the car’s aesthetic: nearly playful and rustic in its demeanor, almost whimsical and powerful in nature.

The man inside served his community as his vehicle did. During long car rides, families secretly found solace in his dulcet accent, rugged mien, and bona fide hospitality; the politicians lent a silent, jaundiced eye to his full beard and scoffed at his empty pockets. In his entirety, however, his persona hewed to intrigue. Tousled peppered hair made him devilish, but full lips made him feminine. A roundish jaw dotted with stubble gave him might, but green eyes, filled with kindness, softened sight. A small crook in his protruding nose displayed imperfection; yet somehow, that shortcoming made him human.

A real person.

No one knew his exact origins but made do with guesses; the citizens of Eastum did not belabor the questions.

He was the only menial laborer in town, and so he became the Outsider, an ever-present, recognizable face somehow shadowed despite passengers acknowledging what he provided: the to-and-fro, the back-and-forth which controlled the lives of

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many; essentially, the man who stoked the coals as others delighted in the fire, the one who scrubbed filthy pots as postprandial somnolence swept over stuffed participants.

Yet he never felt as if he were an outcast.

Today, he was in character, bumbling along to the town hall for a private dinner with the president of Eastum, Mr. Beezle.

The occasion was a celebration for the fix of a recent catastrophe: Mr. Beezle’s convoy had broken down on his way to an important meeting three weeks prior, and in an instant, the Outsider had come to remediate the issue.

The dinner served to honor the event.

The day itself saw salubrious, cold wind float through clear azure skies; and as the Outsider moved along, the weather calmed his mind as if spearmint for the brain. He first sped through paved roads, passing by all-toogreen trees and ceramic-tiled plazas, where boutiques and emporiums stood replete with great motion. Past the scurrying shopping district, he chanced upon pedestrian, commensurate homes later in the afternoon.

Immaculate in order, the dwellings shared identical blocks with neatly combed yards sprouting exotic but similar foliage: white lilies, small bushes, and marble fountains, to name a few attractions. Fences sorted in intricate arrangements guarded each house from one another, sectioning off territory to mitigate any primitive urge to conquer land. Stretching for miles on end, the tall structures were spotless, utterly spiffy and shining as bright as mirrors. The quality was superb, far beyond the build of the mustard car that those fences reflected as the Outsider drove by and into the evening.

At his destination, eyes wandered across the Outsider’s ratted plaid clothes as he parked his car and made his way to the large governmental building. The site boasted

Inside a Berber Cave, Collin Katz ’21

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marble construction topped with sun-kissed pinnacles, all supported by deep obsidian buttresses. Ornate at its very core, the palace brandished two golden doors as a gateway to its entrance. Lyrists played music near the gates, their honeycoated sounds seeping into the minds around, emphasizing the tall pines and spruces that guarded the entrance.

But as the Outsider set foot inside, a scalding air attacked every pore on his body. Unlike the cool, decorated outdoors, the interior was burning hot, and the halls were barren, a smooth white color coating their surfaces. The hellfire corridors were akin to a sanatorium’s austerity, empty in space and conscious, and the Outsider’s minted brain felt as if it were melting into gelatinous hogwash. A cold sweat began to trickle down his spine.

After some time, a woman came rushing to receive the guest of honor. She was tall and dressed in a stark white cashmere sweater covered by a brown suede pinafore, all accompanied by heavy red lipstick. Her bun, though unkempt, appeared professional by all standards, and a pencil nestled itself behind her right ear, clinging to wire-framed gray glasses.

Locking eyes with the guest, the secretary beamed and clasped her hands.

“Oh giddy! We are so delighted that you’re here! Mr.-” And she trailed off.

“Outsider,” he responded with a homely grin, “at least, that’s what I go by in these parts.”

A brief falter of confusion on the woman’s face flashed for a moment before switching to a sweet smile.

“Right! In fact, Mr. Beezle wants to talk about that nomenclature with you. Something grand, I’m sure of it. That man knows his business!”

“And so I’ve heard.”

After a brief moment of awe, the lady spoke again.

“This dinner will be quite the spectacle, you know? Most never get such an honor.”

The Outsider, though beginning to sweat and feel woozy, feigned a wide smile in response.

“I guess they make exceptions.”

She smiled and then tugged the Outsider by the hand, leading him down the hallways and listing facts about the building’s origin as she guided the man throughout the building.

“Eastum has quite the history, if you are not already aware. Founded half a century ago, our community sprang forth from impoverished social outcasts and blossomed into an egalitarian culture.” She paused to face her guest with a blinding, pearly-white smile. “Eradicated became the systems of the past! In came the ideas of the future! And at the head of the endeavor, Mr. Beezle led us through!”

The lady continued her didactics, but her voice morphed into harmless buzzing as the pair trudged on. Taken by the sheer luxury and disconcerted by the heavy displays of marble white, the man in plaid slowly turned speechless and deaf, mute and earless as he moved on. From where he came, desolate conditions marked the standard. The nuances of Corinthian pillars and deftly-sculpted porcelain figures were strange to him, in some sense aflame and exotic.

Eventually stopping near the entrance, the woman halted her tirade. She bid goodbye, and then, the Outsider turned straight ahead.

There sat a grand ballroom filled with a long harvest 30

Taken by the sheer luxury and disconcerted by the heavy displays of marble white, the man in plaid slowly turned speechless and deaf, mute and earless as he moved on.

Expansive, Ekansh Tambe ’22

table that stretched for an eternity, where several bergère chairs constructed from smooth tangerine fabric stood in lines, where dark brown walls with lavish paintings of Dalmatians and taxidermized animal rugs extended through all parts. The bulk of the room remained vacant, but a powerful aura occupied the space. Above, the crystal chandelier shone bright, reflecting, as if a kaleidoscope mirror, the parts around itself— the chocolate and cinnamon-colored walls, the light apricot chairs, the plaid man, and the boss himself.

Mr. Beezle sat alone at the head of the table, not another guest in sight. He was not much taller than an average stripling, instead stocky in stature. Slick, oiled hair sat on top of his head, cascading downward to hirsute ears and the nape of his neck. He wore a gray pinstripe suit accompanied by a mauve tie and periwinkle shirt, and his dark beady eyes accompanied pungent physiognomy as he beckoned the Outsider to the table without uttering a syllable. The doors shut; then, there were two. Two men, one in plaid and the other in stripes; one a worker, the other an executive; both in the community, but one an impostor.

More silence. And in such a moment, Mr. Beezle’s eyes lit aflame, sapping energy from his guest. His meaty hands began to tremble

with energy, and so, he spoke.

“But your profession, in all honesty, is quite harmful in nature, though, don’t you think? You put in so much work. The people know you. But really, you have nothing.

Heaven knows that you want a better life, so why sit still?”

The Outsider’s face depicted reprobation, but as his retort came rising through his chest, his vocal chords tightened, slamming shut. Questioning his path up until this very moment, he froze. The daily trips flashed across his mind. Enamored with interpersonal reactions, he never had considered such a concept; now faced with reality, he realized what he would give up for such a shift: the amicable interactions, the content faces, and the humanness of his work. But what could he gain? And of what worth?

“Now, you listen to me. This place is grand,” continued Mr. Beezle, “and I have a proposal for you. We need a commoner to be a face for the people, an inspirational figure.”

No response from the plaided guest.

“Give up the shoddy vehicle and cumbersome journey. We want to make you a star; a brand, per se. Your face would be everywhere.”

No wit from the man opposite. Nothing.

A tyrannical lassitude began to consume the Outsider’s essence, seeping into his mind and 31

His meaty hands began to tremble with energy, and so, he spoke.

32

Elysium, Sam Alfalahi ’22

setting in process a chain reaction of synapse failure. Still, Mr. Beezle pushed on.

“Why take the niche path when you can eat from the fruits of many, the nectar of life?”

The world shook, and the ceiling trembled. The ground gave way to chaos.

“Why would I ever do such a thing?” the Outsider managed to squander out.

“Well, if you don’t, you’ll still be poor, I’ll still be rich, and the people down there? Well, their sameness might just fall into harsher conditions, that’s all. Your plainness is what gives these people any semblance of hope, and by not taking this option, you lose the chance to be a savior.”

And as the Outsider toiled over the wretched decision, the final course of food came out: a simple loaf of bread.

Apparently, the boss did not have a sweet tooth. The piece was sourdough, malleable to the touch, but firm in its resolve.

The Outsider reached out to split the loaf in two, to break bread with the man before him; an even split seemed fitting.

But the boss held a grand predilection for food. At times, he could not get enough of his meal. So Mr. Beezle snatched the loaf and devoured it.

“With the money you’ll soon receive,” the boss said in justification, “your fate will be ameliorated. Food will become an issue of the past.”

The Outsider hurt inside. His mind reeled, and his spirit dampened. And looking at the odds in his presence, an agreement escaped from his lips.

Three weeks later, initial production had practically ceased, and the man of the hour, the center of the whole charade, was plastered across every corner. His new social prominence only added to the strange shift. The vehicle, for starters, received an upgrade. A slick yellow convertible replaced the old vehicle that used to be home. The clothes revamped in style and class; out went the plaid yellow clothes of the past, and in came a new hallmark outfit: another pinstripe suit, this one a dark, deep navy in contrast with his car.

“Appearance is everything,” stated one of his advisers during a meeting. Finally, they gave the Outsider a new brand: the name Manny combined with a yellow cross logo.

Something about appealing to a warm aesthetic.

With its new venture, the government saw great profit. The people were ecstatic to see a beloved community member thrust into the spotlight; with no celebrities in existence—aside from the star-studded authoritarian figures— people needed a figure to rally behind. By all means, success was in store.

But Manny felt strange. He only counted on a mere modicum of knowledge but a whole emphasis on the truth: that his internal pain meant others’ smiles. Sick would perhaps be a better word to describe his state. The world was bustling before him, and life had lent itself to a new chapter, one of commercial success and of fame. But for the first time, he felt removed, alone in his pursuit of all things right.

Were he not to care about his fellow man, no issue would be present. Alas, he was removed. Separated from meaningful interaction as so to give meaning to others.

And so, he felt like an outsider.

33

by Buck Elliott ’21*

I

The house itself was cheap and isolated, perched on a cliff overlooking the sea.

34

’m just worried about the boy…he barely comes outside of his room nowadays.”

“I see,” said Dr. Finch before readjusting his glasses, “Do you think he still feels lonely? Perhaps the room is a source of comfort for him.” He stole a look at his watch. The session had gone over the allotted time.

Maria sighed. “I don’t think he’s lonely. I mean, he’s a bit old to be having imaginary friends, but the kids at school love Harold. I’ve talked with his teachers, and they say he’s always invited everywhere. They do love his drawings, after all.” Maria fidgeted nervously in her seat. She detected impatience from the man sitting across from her. He was well-dressed, wearing an expensive suit and stylish wire-rimmed glasses, and his pen tapped against the clipboard as he pondered her remarks.

“Well, I’d say he’s probably got issues opening up to others,” said Finch finally, “but I’d love to talk to the boy at our next session. In the meantime, try getting him out of that room, and maybe learn more about what keeps him in there all day.”

Dr. Finch flashed a warm smile. “I’m sorry, but I really must be going. It’s a long drive up here, after all, and I wouldn’t want to be late seeing my next client.”

Maria smiled back weakly before standing to walk him to the door. She understood why he wanted to leave. The home she and Harold shared was far from town, and her daily round trip into town took at least an hour if she was lucky. The house itself was cheap and isolated, perched on a cliff overlooking the sea. Although the view was nice, the absolute quiet at night often gave her the chills. It was not the kind of place to raise a child.

As she watched Dr. Finch pull his car out of the driveway and take the dirt road back towards town, her thoughts drifted to her sister and brother-in-law: Harold’s deceased parents. They had perished when Harold was still very young, when he had only recently learned how to walk. “They would have known what to do,” she said to herself quietly. She wiped her hands on her dress and walked back inside.

Later that evening, Maria knocked on Harold’s door.

“Harold! It’s almost time for dinner!” She waited for an answer, but Harold didn’t reply.

“I’m coming in!” she cried before she cracked open the door. Inside the room, colorful drawings crowded the walls.

On the right side of the room, a deep forest was painted with expert skill, so lifelike that she felt as though she could reach out and touch it; on the other was a calm ocean landscape, the background crowded with small islands: barely visible small dots touching the horizon. The wall in front of her was the most striking; it contained a small mountain, the top of which

35

Rembrandt, James Singhal ’22

was obstructed by clouds. The drawings were some of Harold’s best work, and Maria was impressed every time she saw them.

Unlike many parents, she had let Harold paint and draw all over the walls of the room.

When Harold grew bored with the current layout, they repainted the walls together.

As Harold’s pictures grew more and more lifelike, Maria felt worse about painting over them, but Harold insisted. It had been over a month since she and Harold had last painted over the walls.

“Harold!” Maria cried again. “Come out from wherever you’re hiding!” As she finished speaking, Harold stumbled out of his closet. He was a short young boy, about ten years of age, and his long dirty blonde hair hung over his face. He was due for a haircut, Maria noted. She noticed that Harold had been sitting in his dark closet alone.

“Now, what could you possibly be doing in there?” she questioned Harold accusingly.

“I was just talking with a friend.” Harold smiled sheepishly and averted his gaze. He knew how his aunt felt about his imaginary friends.

“Enough of that,” she ordered. “I’ve told you before to spend some time with the boys at school. They would love to invite you, but you spend all your time in here playing pretend.” She put her hands on her hips.

“On Monday I want you to make an effort to spend time with them.”

“But I don’t want to, Auntie,” Harold pouted. “They’re boring.”

Maria was disappointed. “What could be so boring about hanging out with kids your own age? They may not be the most interesting kids, but at least they’re real, more real than whatever is in there,” she lectured, gestured towards the closet.

“They’re real to me.”

“Oh, quiet, you. Anyway, dinner is in ten minutes, and if you’re late, I’m eating yours.”

She smiled, and as she turned to return to the kitchen, she noticed the previously vacant final wall was covered by a long straight purple line, above which was a crude facsimile of the moon.

“Well, this is new,” Maria said plainly.

“It looks like your old drawings.” As she inspected the drawing, she noticed the lack of detail in the picture. The line below the moon was crooked, and it took Maria a few moments to realize that it was meant to represent a background. It was, quite simply put, a child’s drawing. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but it looked quite familiar.

The next day, the weather was foggy, and the clouds themselves hung over the ocean, obscuring the view of the horizon. It was 36

precisely the kind of view that Harold would have loved to draw a picture of, and many times throughout their stay at the house, he had drawn pictures of their house, the ocean, and both together. As time went on, Harold began to add his own creative liberties to the drawings, adding creatures, landmasses, and buildings to the landscape. Maria realized suddenly that Harold had begun to retreat into his room around the same time he had begun to draw without regard to reality.

“I suppose I can’t be mad at him,” she thought out as she drove home after her weekend shopping trip. “He was always very creative, and he has a very active imagination.”

She thought about how Harold sometimes shocked her with his ability to create lifelike scenes which had never existed.

As Maria made the right turn onto the long winding path up to their isolated abode, she remembered how often Harold had come to town with her, and how he begged to go to the library to check out books or to the art store to buy more supplies. Now he just trusted his faithful aunt to get everything for him, and he didn’t read much anymore, “It’s not surprising,” Maria pondered regretfully. “I would be bored too if I had read every book in that library twice over.”

As she walked inside, Maria heard a shout from Harold’s side of the house, and her mind raced with panic. She sprinted to Harold’s room, opening the door just as the voice ceased. However, the only person there was Harold, sitting up wide-eyed with his legs facing the wall, as if he had fallen away from it. In his hand was a large purple crayon, likely the same one he had used for his most recent work-in-progress.

“Harold!” she whispered harshly.

“Who were you yelling at in here?” She stared intensely at Harold, who sat there dumbstruck, as if his aunt had intruded on his private sanctuary.

“I was just playing with my new friends,” said Harold, gesturing towards the wall.

Maria turned quickly, her heart still racing, as she noticed a newly made drawing of a waving boy on the wall. At the boy’s side was a small dog, his tail wagging in excitement.

“Oh, thank God.” Maria breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s just one of your imaginary friends,” “I told you before,” said Harold. “They aren’t imaginary to me.” His face had gone from a look of shock to one of annoyance.

“I wish you wouldn’t act so rude in front of them.” He looked towards his drawings sadly, as if to apologize for her behavior.

“Well…,” Maria started, but as she stood there over Harold, she couldn’t finish her

The only person there was Harold, sitting up wide-eyed with his legs facing the wall, as if he'd fallen away from it.

Temple in the Distance, Aayan Khasgiwala ’21

Harold turned around one last time to wave goodbye as he moved further and further away, until he was no longer visible within the painting.

Desert, Collin Katz ’21 38

boy in the painting was looking straight at her. Her heart skipped a beat before her rationality kicked in.

“That’s right; my mind is just playing tricks on me,” she thought to herself. As she closed the door, she heard Harold say softly to the wall, “Goodnight, guys; I’ll see you both soon.”

Harold’s words weighed heavily on Maria’s mind as she went to bed, and she stayed awake until morning, tossing and turning until the first rays of sunshine began to peek through her window. She was so tired when morning finally came that she thought she was dreaming when she heard a loud thump from downstairs.

“That’s odd. Harold isn’t usually awake this early.” She pulled herself out from under the covers and heard another thump, followed by giggling. Tiptoeing down the stairs, she heard Harold, and another voice, distinctly different from his.

“C’mon, Harold; let’s go!” said the voice.

“Shhh, I don’t want to wake her up!” said Harold. His words were followed by more giggling.

Maria began to grasp the gravity of these words, and as she reached the bottom of the stairs, last night’s conversation echoed in her mind. “Is Harold thinking about leaving? Is he going to run away from home?” Maria thought to herself. She rushed to Harold’s room, her heart pounding, and flung open the door, just in time to see Harold with a backpack on his shoulder, his body stuck halfway into the wall.

“Harold!” she cried in disbelief and reached for him, but with a loud pop, Harold’s body fell into the wall and became a part of the drawing. Maria’s eyes adjusted to the situation, and she noticed Harold was not alone; the boy and dog from earlier had surrounded Harold and were pulling him further into the background.

“Harold!” she sobbed. “Where are you going!” She grasped at the drawing, but all she felt was drywall. “Harold!” she cried in vain as Harold moved further away into the background of the painting. “Harold, please don’t go!” Tears streamed down her face, Harold turned around one last time to wave goodbye as he moved further and further away, until he was no longer visible within the painting.

With one final sob, Maria remembered where she had seen the painting before. It was the first thing Harold had ever drawn when he was still just four years old; a place to escape from his aunt, the death of his parents, and his dreary life, an imaginary world of his own creation.

*This story was inspired by Harold and the Purple Crayon by Crockett Johnson in an assignment to reproduce a children’s story.

scolding. Her fear had been replaced by relief, and she was just glad that her nephew wasn’t hurt.

“Just make sure that in the future, you tell me when your friends are over.”

“Ok!” Harold said cheerfully, before he jumped up and walked towards the door.

“What’s for dinner?”

That night Maria had made casserole, Harold’s favorite. She and Harold cracked jokes and told stories the whole evening, before watching The Polar Express. As the evening ended, Maria tucked a smiling Harold into bed. It was, by all means, the perfect night, so it was surprising when it took an unexpectedly solemn turn.

“Auntie, do you think there’s something wrong with me?”

Maria looked back, shocked, “Of course not. How could I ever think something like that?”

“Then why do you keep bringing that man over?” he said, referring to Dr. Finch.

He looked up at Maria with questioning eyes.

“Because I’m just worried that you are spending too much time in that room,” she answered, “and I know you don’t want to hang out with the other kids, but I just know it will be good for you.” She smiled at Harold, but she was unprepared for his next question.

“Would you be upset if I left?”

Maria was shocked. “What do you mean, Harold? Why would you want to leave?”

Harold avoided the question. “If I was somewhere where I would be safe, and you knew where I was, and I was happy, would you be all right with it?” He paused, waiting for an answer.

Maria sighed. “Well, when you put it that way, I guess I wouldn’t be too upset.”

She grinned at Harold. “But don’t even think about going anywhere without my permission!” They laughed, but Maria felt a pang of sadness at his remarks. She had kissed Harold on the cheek before getting up to leave when she noticed that the drawing on the wall looked somewhat different. The position of the boy and the dog had changed; they were sitting now, and their eyes were angled straight at Harold’s sleeping body.

“Did Harold paint over them between dinner and now?” she thought to herself. “No. There wouldn’t have been enough time.”

“Hey, Harold?” she asked.

“Yes Auntie?” He turned around in his bed to look at her.

“Never mind, honey. Sweet dreams.” He must have moved it. There was no other explanation. She turned to look at the painting one last time and noticed that the

39

collin

a profile

As a photographer and a musician, Collin Katz puts a new, entrepreneurial spin on multimedia.

S

by William Piazza portrait by Ekansh Tambe

even years ago, inspired by his father's love for everything rock music, Senior Collin Katz got his first classical guitar before quickly switching over to electric to start playing his favorite hits. Soon afterwards he made his own now-deleted YouTube channel called “Up Down Jams,” making his debut in the online world.

“I did tons of tutorials on like restringing guitars,” Katz said. “I did reviews on every single piece of gear I bought, all the pedals, all the amps, my guitar. I did a few lessons, and I did a lot of covers, just playing songs on guitar. That's when I got introduced to creating content as a musician, which I've been doing ever since then.”

Katz carried that momentum forward in school, where he was a member of the orchestra and played harmonica with Athletic Trainer Doc Browning before ultimately forming his first band, Steel.

“What happened with that band is our first drummer left because he wanted to do a solo career—surprise, that always happens. Then we had a second drummer, and after eighth grade, he decided that he just wanted to play in his own high school band, so he left. After that it never started up again.

Then I decided that I wanted to really take it further with music and make my own music, so I went to School of Rock.”

At School of Rock, an international music education program for youth musicians, Katz climbed through the ranks to join the All-Star program, a select group of talented artists who travel and perform at venues ranging from jam-packed nightclubs to famous events like Lollapalooza.

“Something I figured out about myself by now is that I’m not a festival person,” Katz said. “I don’t like playing festivals.

I like playing inside. When we played the Hard Rock Cafe, with the stage lights and the fog machines, there’s a lot more atmosphere than when you’re just out in the open.”

Satisfied with his School of Rock experience, Katz went on to found another band called Fifth Phoenix, which ended up winning the Wildflower Festival Battle of the Bands just two weeks after its formation. The band released three singles before ultimately disbanding, resulting in Katz’s entry into the 41

gallery

Opposite, Procrastinaton, clockwise from top, Kitchenette, Matches, Texas Sunset Colors, Collin Katz ’21

42

I wanted it to look like it was a legit store, not something that a 14-yearold was running.

Collin Katz ’21

world of pop music in the band TREZR, a three-man trio that released their first single, “Cold,” April 2.

At the same time, Katz was finding other ways to express his artistic side through photography; After years of photographing family vacations—sometimes reaching upwards of 2000 photos per trip —Katz took his first photography class in seventh grade.

“There's nothing I will wake up for, but I will wake up for photography. My dad always wakes up at 5:30 a.m. or so. He and I would go [out] every weekend. At sunrise, I'd go take sunrise photos, and we'd drive out to McKinney or drive out to Rockwall to take photos. I would go wherever it takes to get the photos that I was looking for.”

With several awards to his name, Katz decided to put his photography to good use in ninth grade and created Texas Guitar Gear, an online store where he bought old guitars, refurbished them and sold them to eager buyers.

“I wanted it to look like it was a legit store, not something that a 14-year-old was running,” Katz said. “And when I would meet customers at Starbucks and stuff, and they'd be like "Oh, are you dropping this off for Collin?" and my mom was like, "That is Collin." They were always so confused when they saw that I was just this little kid, but that’s what I liked about it.”

Katz continued to combine his musical and photographical talents in his next business adventure, Dalka Productions, where Collin helps local bands with everything from branding to videography all in one package.

“It’s the most frustrating thing: you hire individual people, then you’ve got to pay someone for a video, then you’ve got to find a photographer, then you’ve got to pay someone for album art, then you’ve got to pay someone for promotion and it just is so much money,” Katz said. “My whole business plan is cutting out all those people and saying, ‘Hey, just get it from one guy, and I'll do it for super cheap because I'm doing all of it.’”

And while Katz has found his niche the industry side of the music and photography world and plans to continue down that path in the future, Katz aims to find new ways to help aspiring artists like him find their place on stage.

“In the long term, I'd love to be an entrepreneur, but in the field of music.

Everyone always says the music industry is on a five to 10 year cycle, and every five to 10 years, the way the industry works just completely changes. I'd love to be writing the change. I'd really like to be a part of it.”

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If

Guitar Wall, Collin Katz ’21

I Could Time Travel To Any Year It Would Be 44

1969

by Sai Thirunagari ’21

H

uddled with surprised onlookers in the streets and on the rooftops around 3 Savile Row in London, I look up at the roof of the Apple Records building to see a momentous event in rock history on January 30th, 1969. Wearing Yoko Ono’s brown fur coat and holding a beige guitar, John Lennon stands in front of a mic with Paul McCartney to his left, George Harrison to his right, and Ringo Starr playing the drums behind him.

As McCartney taps his left foot to the beat and sings, “Jojo was a man who thought he was a loner…” all the pedestrians in central London’s office and fashion district interrupt work after their lunch break to gaze at The Beatles, who, joined by keyboardist Billy Preston, are performing “Get Back” through the loudspeakers on the rooftop.

I bob my head to the music until the Metropolitan Police climb up to the roof and make The Beatles shut down the impromptu performance. Although I’m disappointed that they only played five songs, I’m glad I witnessed the final public Beatles concert ever.

At the end of the Beatles era, 1969 marks a turning point in rock music history, when some of my favorite artists released numerous classic albums—Abbey Road by The Beatles, Led Zeppelin and Led Zeppelin II by Led Zeppelin, The Allman Brothers Band by Allman Brothers Band, Let It Bleed by The Rolling Stones, and Ummagumma by Pink Floyd. By traveling to 1969, I’d get a live glimpse of musical legends in their prime and witness the iconic rock culture that’s fading away into history with today’s new pop and hip-hop music.

On March 17th, I would sit in the live audience at Danmarks Radio Studios in Denmark to watch Led Zeppelin perform its first live set ever. Broadcasted on TV Byen/ Denmark Broadcasting Corporation, the performance would be the band’s second appearance on TV, playing hits from their first studio album such as “Communication

Breakdown” and “Babe I’m Gonna Leave You.” Watching a young, long-haired Robert Plant enthrall us with music that would dominate radios for the next decade, I would hum along and mutter the lyrics under my breath (I wouldn’t want the crowd to know that I was from the future and had already listened to the songs hundreds of times in my car) as I crouched in front of the stage with the small live audience.

In April at Olympic Studios in London, I would peek in on the band’s recording sessions for my favorite album of theirs, the guitar-riff-heavy Led Zeppelin II. I’d observe how John Bonham, arguably the greatest drummer of all time, overlaid six strikingly different percussion tracks to propel the rhythm of “Whole Lotta Love” forward throughout the song by using his signature powerhouse drumming. I’d ask Jimmy Page about his process to develop his guitar skills and speak to John Paul Jones about how he decided which basslines to accompany the drums and guitar in each song, not to mention asking them to teach me how to play their instruments.

From April to May, I would also sit in on Pink Floyd’s recording sessions for its fourth studio album, Ummagumma. I’d sit down with Roger Waters, David Gilmour, Nick Mason, and Richard Wright to interview them about how they started exploring a new identity after their original, erratic front man, Syd Barrett, left the band in 1968. At Abbey Road Studios, I’d interview each member about what inspired him to record his own half-LP-length solo piece on the double album—Waters merging vocal and percussion effects of varying speeds, Gilmour experimenting with guitar tracks, Mason playing a long drum solo, and Wright combining several keyboard sounds. By interacting with these artists whom I adore, I’ll get the insider scoop on the songs I love listening to and learn how to play music from some of the greatest musicians of all time.

45

Invisible Enemy 46

Persephone, Henry Piccagli ’22

by Henry McElhaney ’21

Here we gather on this icy, cruel winter morning losing a battle to an unforeseen, invisible threat that has left us with more than a loss for words, destroyed more than our fiercest enemy.

A foe that has wreaked havoc for far too long and has changed us, from our souls to the clothes we wear, Where reunion may cause more harm than good, where funerals take place in empty, echoing churches, mourning the loss of yet another victim of this evil that has taken too many souls, too many loved ones into the invisible world above. How can we fight this faceless enemy?

How can we move past the waves upon waves of loss we’ve endured, move past the unescapable grasp of loss that lures us towards a mind-numbing state of mind, where emotion, love, and care are no longer our friends but our enemies.

Where we would simply wake up each day to a fresh morning, open to budding opportunities, forgetting the invisible grandfather, the invisible neighbor, too, the empty seats at the breakfast table, two chairs sitting vacant around our table of loss that once symbolized the visible. The invisible now reigns supreme, drearily hanging over whereever we go, whatever we think of. These mornings of mourning suck the fighting spirit out of us, and our enemy would rejoice if it could. But it can’t — this enemy has no soul, no morals, no consciousness to reconcile with. It never sleeps till morning, it never retreats when defeated: loss is what it lives for, why it exists. It resides where no military strike can contain it: an invisible everywhere that turns its victims invisible, infiltrating past the defensive stone walls of its enemy with ease. What can we do? And where can we hide? No one is safe; no one can be too careful and careful enough. In the face of so much loss, what’s to gain? When this battle has ended, what morning will we wake up to? Will we forever mourn the invisible, or will we wear two masks: of cloth and of joy?

We will move on from our enemy, but never from our loss.

47

...And Justice for All, Evan McGowan ’22

48

by Enoch Ellis ’22

The American Experience begins with you and me and a throne. some might think it an oversimplification but I think it’s quite fair to say that my America and your America might be as similar as Water and Oil, precariously perched in a fragile peace. generations living and dying trying to make it in this dog-eat-dog world. occupying space, you’re a waste of oxygen unless you have the green Then what was I thinking, we’re so fortunate to have you.

The American experience begins with a throne and me and you.

A tabula rasa with endless possibility.

Car, family, kids, job, home.

It’s all yours.

Work harder and work smarter. Look at you soaring high like the patron saint would want. It might be hard to fly with your wings mangled, but hell read my lips: Not My Problem.

We can’t all be Mother Teresa.

My American experience begins with me, and a throne, and you.

But for once, let’s actually talk about us.

I do want to mention how screwed up I must me to care about us when all you do is lie, and steal, and kill, and for what?

That’s just how the world works?

Maybe, but is that the world you wanna live in?

Sure, that’s what we’ve been told but look. The elders are passing over. They still whisper in your ear but you don’t have to listen.

I’m offering you a deal you can’t resist, a fresh start, the fresh start we need to actually do something with this life.

Look around, my throne versus yours. They’re not the same, so stop pretending that they are.

Ballot Bullet.

Movement Moment Quid pro Quo I’ve made up my mind; have you?

49

privilege

Tox, Collin Katz ’21

50

by Adam Lai ’22

Freedom.

America’s pride.

America’s given reason for being the greatest nation.

America’s freedom—supposedly unlike anywhere else.

Giving the people their voice, their rights, their power.

Freedom.

The best a nation could provide.

Give me liberty or give me death.

But at what cost?

To live without freedom is Indeed, a most egregious violation.

But to die for such vanity, Logic is absent in the face of this arrogance.

Absent is the mind of one who takes a valid idea, Molds it into its most grotesque.

Blocked and asked to wear masks.

Lacking freedom?

Or thought.

51

Ceramics

52

I love the way you can really feel a piece coming together— it’s almost tangible.

Colin Bajec ’21

Clockwise from top, Dragons above Clouds, Miki Ghosh ’22; Rigidity and Nature, Colin Bajec ’21

gallery

gallery

54

In the ceramics program, as students spin brightly-colored works out of dull, brown clay, they encounter the magic of creation.

Above, Chain of Being, Tim Weigman ’21, opposite from top, A Matter of Perspective, Brett Honaker ’22; Intrinsic Flower, Benny Wang ’21 55

56

You might not stitch up your tennis shoes with toothpicks—and we don’t blame you. But surely you’ve created something.

Now’s the time to build on it.

Broken Laces, Ekansh Tambe ’22

57

by Alam Alidina ’21

T

he woman looked forlornly at the bouncing of the ball.

It wasn’t as smooth as she’d expected, and when she concentrated, she saw the vibrations that occurred within it, the shifting of millions of atoms in orgy to make a coherent thing. She saw the twisted felt that covered it, banks of angry lime green broken by still white rivers of rubber concrete.

And every time it hit the pebbled court, she saw the brief fluctuation, from perfect sphere to slightly dented whole.

Now the ball was going too fast to follow, a blur of lime green that crystallized briefly as it bounced against the tight strings of a racket. The match was in full swing. To the left, the great Alfonso Federicci; to the right, the towering Ianovik Juul, each with outstretched limbs—flecks of sweat jumping off taut tendons. In the world of blind men, the match would’ve been a concert, a thump-thump thump-thump thump-thump interrupted by short squeaks of rubber soles on hard surface and by Juul’s breathy “oof” preceding Federicci’s throaty “uuh.”

Of course, all eyes were drawn briefly to the woman herself. The bleachers were full—scalpers, empty-handed, had fled the stadium’s gates—but on either side of her, the seats were empty. She was a contessa in an opera box, ramrodstraight posture, coldly elegant demeanor. A white dress snaked down her shoulders and curled around her knees.

Droplets of sweat graced her face like morning dew. Her features were porcelain—as if the Creator had taken a few extra moments and gone in search of something finer than clay.

The crowd was hushed. The semifinal was always tense.

The players, a perfect match. And then Juul’s sweeping forehand just outfoxed Federicci’s powerful clobber, the ball briefly nipping the inside of the white line, accelerating into the netheroblivion before coming to an abrupt stop, its escape halted by the soft green fence and the smooth hands of a ball boy.

For the woman in the stands, it was as if nothing had happened at all.

— She loved onion rings. She liked the feel of the little crunchy bits on the outside, their bumpiness and warmth and grease coating her lips, the fried smell reaching past her nose and turning on the hidden faucet in her mouth. And that was all before the first bite—where she’d crack the hard shell and suck in to get a taste of the slimy inner surface.

The best days were Tuesdays, when her mom brought her home from school and her dad’s big blue pickup was already in the driveway. On the dinner table, paper bag soaked through, would be five burgers (Mom only ate one) and a whole mountain of onion rings.

At first, that Tuesday seemed no different. Her mom was

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Her features were porcelain— as if the Creator had taken a few extra moments and gone in search of something finer than clay.

Jealousy’s Snare, Owen Simon ’22

59

A hand grasped her shoulder.

It was worn, calloused.

Wedding ring long ago stored away for safekeeping.

her mom smile all the way up to the little at the dentist’s, so after school got out earlier wrinkles that framed her eyes. than usual, a friend dropped her home. She She reached into her backpack for her dragged her backpack out of the car, draped worn paperback, its slightly-torn cover it over her big puffy coat, and headed into the and wrinkled pages speckled with the chilly November wind. She waved bye-bye. greasy remains of last Tuesday’s treat. She From the curb, the house looked distant, so remembered picking it out of the Lost & she stretched her long legs and started to Found; the funny bird in the title made her run, her pink-topped-white-soled sneakers giggle, the little girl on the cover looked just bouncing in the grass that sandwiched the like her. She opened the book to the dogpaved driveway, its soft springy golden hue eared page and read. and pleasing crunch under her toes reminding — her of the tasty dinner to come. A brand new Federicci, with a wicked serve, had silver sedan, with tastefully thin taillights crawled back from sudden death to win the and a sweeping front roof, was parked in the second set 7-5. A gentle breeze caressed the driveway—but because it wasn’t her dad’s, spectators, but the woman’s hair stood still. she paid it no notice. Instead, she headed for — the wooden front door, bypassing the heavy, A hand grasped her shoulder. It was worn, blackened door-knocker for the keyhole. calloused. Wedding ring long ago stored away She rummaged through her backpack and for safekeeping. From the other hand came produced a shiny bronze key.

“Mom?” she yelled into the cluttered front the warm smell of onion rings. She looked up into the crinkled and tired and cold face hall, after the door had yielded to fervored of her father. A flannel shirt, scuffed boots, twisting and one particularly strong push. beat-up jeans. The faint smell of sweat and “You home yet?” cigarettes.

No reply. She sent her shoes flying into “Whatcha readin’ there, Sammie?” He a corner, and darted into the kitchen, socks placed the bag on the table. sliding on the pale linoleum. She made a PBJ, “Nothing.” She held it up for him to see. slopping purple jam on a paper-thin layer of “It’s got a funny title and a girl on the cover smooth peanut butter. And she sat at the big that looks just like me.” dinner table, thinking about the onion rings He laughed, a cruel guffaw that darted that were not there and about Scout. across his face and showed the barest hint of Scout was the girl in the book she was pale yellow teeth. “Sure does.” reading, the one with the funny name and Now her mom appeared, worn sweats the author she could never remember. Scout cloaking a graceful figure topped with short was a better name than hers, Samantha, hair and red lips and rosy cheeks and dancing which sounded too grown-up, so she had hazel eyes. Her parents embraced with a kiss: liked Scout from the get-go. Somehow, even short, brief, ceremonial. Tonight, even her Scout’s dad seemed better than hers. He came mom had a spring in her step. home at regular hours, with encouraging talk It felt right. Two grown-ups, one little and warm eyes, dressed in the type of suits girl, sitting at the half-empty dinner table. that Samantha knew from various weddings Dad at the head, Mom to his left, she to hers. and funerals were scratchy but warm, that made her dad seem taller, less rigid, that made The burgers were warm; the buns slightly 60

Petrified, Patrick Flanagan ’23

steamed. But the onion rings were still crisp as she luxuriously bit in. Calpurnia couldn’t’ve done better.

“How was your day, Sammie?”

And she told him. About Ms. Hershberger’s math class, about tag at lunch, about school getting out early, about Kate dropping her at the door, about running up the lawn past the brand-new silver sedan with tastefully thin taillights and a sweeping front roof— “What’d you say?”

Her dad’s gruff voice cut in. “What car?”

He looked at her mother, and behind his eyes she saw questions turn to suspicion turn to inexplicable anger which swept his face like a torrent and made his fist clench with such force that her mother flinched.

And she knew what to do then. Quickly, quietly, she slipped down the hallway, her backpack under the table, the cover of the book slipping between two fingers and falling to the floor. She didn’t stop to pick it up. No matter how flimsy, she knew it was good to have a locked door between herself and the everlasting undying screams.

— Now, for the first time, Samantha winced.

Dr. Thomas had told her that the goal was to remember without reliving. And so she listened to the squeaks of tennis shoes without hearing her mother’s pleading, listened to the constant thumps without the whiff of spent gunpowder burning in her nostrils, listened to the groans of the players without thinking of breath exiting lungs too quickly. But every time she saw the tennis ball streak across the court, she saw her father’s discarded neon safety vest, her mother’s lifeless corpse, and the torn cover of the book with the funny name, pages soaked in blood. How quickly the taste of the onion rings had turned bitter in her mouth.

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62

Evolution, Jerry Zhao ’21

by Tomek Marczewski ’22

Huddled in the corner, A man made of glass Sits, Waits, Watches, Unseen by all.

You never notice glass – Until it shatters.

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Lemonade, Collin Katz ’21 64

by Tim Weigman ’21

Four men sit quietly in a damp room, illuminated by the fire of a half-melted candle, as one handles a flimsy deck of cards, dealing out hands to his peers. He picks a chunk of red, spoiled meat off the wooden table, and a humid breeze blows through the cramped room. Another sailor gives the dealer a glare and looking at his hand, reluctantly slides a small piece of gold into the pot. His peers gaze hungrily at the growing pile of gold, as the scratch pieces reflect the dim light like a small fire burning in the middle of the table, the faint glare glowing in each sailor’s eyes. On the deck above them, the harsh, salty wind blows against the face of a young lookout. His faded red cap soaks up sweat from his brow. In the distance, he spots a red flag billowing in the wind. The distant fog gives way to a magnificent gold prow splitting through the waves. Panicking, the lookout blows a small whistle, barely loud enough to hear. The sun hangs like fire overhead, beating down relentlessly on the deck as the sailors below arise from their game. Emerging into the glare of daylight, the dealer’s eyes adjust. He looks over the water, blocking the glare from the reflective, placid sea. Following the lookout’s panicked gestures, he focuses his red, dry eyes on the ship in the distance. His hoarse but commanding voice echoes over the deck as he shouts orders to the crew. A young deckhand scrambles to hide piles of gold, and two burly sailors aim a cannon at their target as the captain bravely yells “Fire!”

A heavy lead ball flies through the damp air and blows into the side of the approaching ship. The enemy returns the blows, tearing three large holes in the hull. Up close, the glare of the sun off the shiny ship blinds the captain, like the holy fire of an angel’s halo or the devilish flames from some twisted demon’s blood red scepter. Entranced, he hardly notices as the gold prow rams into his ship, splitting the deck down the middle. The captain falls to his knees as the soggy deck of cards flutters down the gaping hole. A sudden wind blows some sick smell into his nose. Through the shattered floor, he sees a small gold piece tumble into the ocean’s maw. The pale sunlight makes a slight glare off his wet hands as they clutch the damp, red plank of wood in his side. Around him, the crumbling ship collapses in fire.

On that cursed deck, swallowed up in fire, men mourned not lives, but gold, with greedy glare, taking fatal blows as they stained their floating pyre red.

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daniel

What’s the first meaningful piece of art you created?

The first meaningful thing is “Checkmate.” It’s a chessboard with pieces that I sketched with graphite. The white king is in checkmate, and it’s the first I made where you have to understand what’s going on. I wasn’t just drawing or reproducing something that existed already.

What sources of inspiration do you draw from?

A lot of the art is based on the music I listen to. I listen to a lot of Eminem and NF, so a lot of my work is based on the album covers that my favorite artists put out. The color palette I use for many of my pieces is very similar to these covers.

What differentiates your art from other works?

My art is very personal. I don’t know if anyone thinks about my pieces in the same way, but I think it’s really evident in “Hidden Perception.” Most people try to hide the sad aspect of their personality, putting on an extroverted guise.

I flipped that notion, putting the sad persona out front. I feel like there’s an irony in the title, given that the sadness is out in the open.

Do you prefer one artistic style, or have you continued to experiment with new techniques?

I’ve only really stuck to one. The chessboard was hyperrealistic, but most of my work has been somewhat surreal. You still recognize the elements in the work, but you wouldn’t actually see the scenarios in real life.

Tell us about your favorite artist.

I don’t really have a favorite visualt artist. I suppose the person who inspired me to continue doing art is my uncle. He lives in Austin and has an art account on Instagram. He paints people that he sees, mostly oil paintings. He has really inspired me to appreciate the idea of art as a hobby or a relief from the busy lives we lead. a conversation

We sat down with artist Daniel Wu to talk about the techniques —and music— that shape his art. portrait by Ekansh Tambe

How do you deal with criticism—both positive and negative—of your art?

Honestly, I haven’t gotten much negative criticism of my art, aside from Ms. Wood helping me learn and improve. The positive criticism I have helps to motivate and excite me. I feel appreciated when people congratulate me on a piece that I’ve worked hard on.

What would your advice to a first-grader in an art class be?

Have fun and be imaginative. Don’t let your lack of ability or knowledge stop you from trying to express yourself. If you have an idea, keep trying as many styles as you can.

Is making art an exhausting process for you or an invigorating one?

Sometimes it can be exhausting, especially for school. If you have a project, but you’re not certain how it’s going to turn out, it can be tiring to finish. After you figure out how you want to pursue your interests, it’s a very invigorating process that’s more of a labor of love.

How do you know when it’s time to stop working on a piece and move on?

Technically speaking, you know it’s done when you have a canvas covered with a thick-enough layer of paint. That sounds obvious, but you need to have enough saturation to understand what each figure is on the canvas. The more nuanced way to say that is that a piece is done when you have fully expressed the idea that you started with.

How does your art fulfill your idea of “the box?”

My art allows me to express what I want to say without using words or actions.

Some people might be angry on a given day and go hit something, but I think I have an outlet to be able to show my own interpretations of daily life.

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Shattered, Daniel Wu ’21 68

Art allows me a way to express the emotions I feel, but can’t express in words. It’s almost like a different language.

Daniel Wu ’21

gallery

Clockwise from top, Hidden Perception, Joker (pt. 2), and Joker (pt. 1), Daniel Wu ’21

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70

*one who is capable of seeing four primary colors

tetrachromat

* Creation, Jerry Zhao ’21

by Alexander Emery ’21

A

s helios’s chariot charges below the horizon, a thunderous downpour encroaches upon the little town of Jupiter. Its cobblestone streets become quicksand as mortar turns to slurry and the shingled roofs of its quaint houses pit under the intense deluge. The moon is invisible behind a blanket of ferocious clouds. A little girl, no more than ten years old but hunched over like a decrepit crone, is alone on the main road—struggling against the biting rain as it pierces the thin layers of rags that cloak her skin. She meanders back and forth, stumbling, head bent forward, a splotch of dirty brown in the overwhelming blackness.

She has never been to Jupiter before but already seems familiar with the maze of muddy potholes and cold facades.

The young girl approaches the first door along her path, a dispiriting portcullis of wrought iron, inset in the squat plaster walls of a cheerless house. She knocks quietly, then seems to cower in anticipation. The door opens, revealing the homeowner’s large silhouette, backlit by a roaring hearth. The girl falls backward recoiling from the intrusive light, jostling her right arm free of the ragged cocoon that had hugged it. Her skin radiates iridescently in the firelight, like an oil slick backlit by a million candles, before the man yells and slams the door quickly, hammering home the deadbolt. The once-glowing girl scampers out from under the house’s shallow eave, back to the street and the punishing rain.

Persistent, she tries again at the next house along the road, an inviting, wooden structure with a simple, sun-bleached door.

This time the small figure of a homely woman appears, but she too yelps and closes her door upon seeing the girl’s face. The woman’s muffled sobbing can be heard in the street— she sounds terrified, as if she had been visited by a demon. The twice-denied girl stays

silent as she limps past the rows of residences, defeated, staying out of sight in the cold, wet shadows.

The girl winds her way through the streets and alleys, penetrating deeper into the town as the night grows long. She works her way from eave to eave, but she can’t avoid the bitter rain that’s unrelenting against her ragged cloak. Every so often a piece of her already sparse clothes is battered aside, revealing a seraphic twinkle before she hugs herself even tighter, rearranging the rags to obscure her body completely. Finally, she comes across a stable--an empty, dilapidated structure that looks like it should have been demolished years ago.

The ground is muddy and dotted with coarse straw. The walls are straining against gravity, held together by the rot that has consumed their once-wooden beams. The roof is an overworked mesh of corrugated tin panels, but it is the only place where rain isn’t entering the structure. The girl finds an old stone fireplace against the stable’s northern wall and nestles inside its insulating stone facade as she tries to resist the overwhelming cold. She squirms out of her wet cloak and drapes it over herself like a sopping wet blanket. The cloak is the last tatter of warmth that she has left.

The girl’s skin is visible in the darkness of the stable. It is not like any other human’s skin, but rather a mess of crocodilian, furrowed deposits. A knotted mountain range of discolored flesh, calcified into scales, broken up by cracked valleys of crags and fissures. Her lepidote affliction is allconsuming, keeping her body barren of hair or nails and making her shivering form look more akin to an ancient pyroclastic flow than a bedraggled little girl. Her skin is also marked by scarred protuberances, long, shallow scratches across her forearms and 71

alone since then? I saw how completely the thighs where she had apparently tried to saw townspeople rejected you tonight. through her hardened exterior. The matte “Every house is always the same. callousness of these scratches contrasts starkly Sometimes they let me through the door, but with the opalescent quality of her flesh. once they see under my cloak, they fall on My eyes have already adjusted to the their knees and beg for mercy. Mostly they blackness, but her pupils are still struggling just shut the door in my face, they see how to dilate in the dark. I peer quizzically down ugly—how awful—I am.” from my perch, nestled warmly in a thick HA. What nonsense. I saw you shimmering plumage of down. The girl is staring right at earlier. You were absolutely radiant! me now, perhaps she is envious of the home Ourania looks at me, broken, I have made for myself. “Hello,” she says, uncomprehending. “Why, bird, do you startling me. I don’t normally understand her feel the need to mock me? Other animals people, but then again, I guess I’ve never met offer solace, shelter, or sustenance--do barn someone with her…abnormalities. swallows typically offer criticism, or have you “Chirp chirp tweeeet.” just become heartless like the humans you hellodoyouunderstandme? live among? I know I don’t “shimmer,” I “Yes, pretty bird, I do understand you. sulk. I know the cruelty of the world, and I But please talk a little slower,” she said, know that I am no thing of beauty. I am the moving up to sit against the fireplace’s wall. opposite of beauty.”

Ah, sorry, I’ve never done this before. What I ruffle my feathers indignantly. are you?

Ourania, you know nothing of beauty. You She suddenly looks more sullen, “I don’t view the world through a lens molded for you know.” She hugs herself a little tighter, more insecure than cold. “Just a human girl, I guess. by the cruelty of others, and you fail to consider that any other worlds exist. Let me tell you, a I have not met a human girl like you human wouldn’t know beauty if it gored them before--are you from a different tribe? Are there like an enraged bull! They mow down fields of others like you? shimmering grasses to build dull, dead houses.

“I’ve never met someone else like me They throw away the feathers of consumed before, but I don’t talk to many people. birds--treating them as waste. Humans have no I shift my weight inquisitively. Well… conception of the brilliance that emanates from where did you come from? all natural things.

“I was born normal… I had a beautiful “What brilliance?” she retorts defensively, mother--she named me Ourania--who always “The world is a cruel, dark place. It has beauty, said I was the light of her life. I don’t recall someplace, sure, but not in the grasses or the being a baby, but I do remember feeling safe plain feathers of poultry. On the whole, we and happy. Then I got sick, my skin began to fester and I didn’t get better. I remember how treasure beauty because it is rare, we lash out against the grotesque because it scares my mother’s tears felt when she held me, but us, and we disregard the ugly because it is so then my skin grew too sharp. She couldn’t common.” hold me anymore.”

You merely prove my point, dear girl, The girl’s voice is starting to choke up as with your backward thinking. I say, hopping she talks into her lap, recounting her tragic excitedly out of my nest and on to Ourania’s childhood. “Things only got worse after that. knee. Beauty is everywhere; it should be After my hair fell out and my scales grew treasured simply because it is beautiful. The only too hard for the doctors to use their fancy ugly, grotesque things that I have seen in my life needles, my mother couldn’t bear to be in the are the plethoric and lifeless constructions that same room as me anymore. I could hear her humans seem so intent on erecting. Phalluses weeping: ‘Ourania, oh my poor Ourania…’ of marble, concrete, and metals—monotone but I never saw her again.” Ourania sniffled materials devoid of fulgor. Humans, you see, are and looked up at me, her eyes red but her on the whole incapable of perceiving the true tears trapped behind the thick carapace. greatness of the world.

“One night I woke up in the back of the “And what greatness is that?” Ourania doctor’s car. He was talking on the phone asks hopefully, enthralled by the notion of a to my mother, assuring her that I wouldn’t truer, different standard of earthly beauty. A be miserable for much longer. I didn’t feel standard that is, perhaps, more accepting of miserable then, but I did feel frightened. I her. opened the door, rolled out of the backseat, Well… you see, humans can see three skidded horribly down the road, and ran into the forest before he could catch me. I’ve been different colors.

Ourania looks crestfallen, betrayed by her running ever since.” hopes of my wisdom: “I’m sorry, bird, but Poor little wanderer, have you been 72

Beauty is everywhere; it should be treasured simply because it is beautiful.

you’re already wrong. We see so many colors! A whole wide range of them.”

Bear with me, Ourania! All those colors that you and your fellow humans see are made up of just three colors: red, green, and blue. Your eyes can only detect red, green, and blue light, but your brain interprets their proportions to come up with that “wide range” of colors.

Ourania nods eagerly, comprehending.

Birds don’t just detect red, green, and blue--we also see a higher plane of existence. We can detect a heavenly radiation that humans are blind to. When I look at the world, everything alive glimmers with a little bit of this lower-wavelength, primordial energy. It is the source of true beauty.

The rain is abating and taking the chill with it as dawn approaches. Ourania is sitting straighter now, almost heating the room with her palpable fascination. She barely remembers to breathe as I recount my birds-eye view of the world. She is so captivated by my story that her jaw is hanging slack. I am telling her tales of fields of barley and ferns, where beards and spikelets put on dazzling displays of rippling rainbow refractions. …But nothing, dear girl, glimmers like you do. Earlier this evening, when that man with the fireplace opened his door, I recognized your brilliance. As the light bathed your scales, I was nearly blinded by their intense incandescence. You are a potent thing of beauty; I can only hope to help you recognize that.

Ourania shimmers now, not because of any light Friend Named Death, Hudson Brown ’24 penetrating into the recess of our little stable, but because of a new-found confidence that emanates from her strong posture and cracked smile. I have raised her spirits dramatically. “I love you, little bird,” she tells me. “I only wish I could bear witness to the splendid world you have described.” She strokes my neck, from my head down to my back, with two fingers, ruffling my dorsal feathers in a delightful fashion. She is lucky.

I can help her.

Come with me. I say, cooing as I fly away from her to the stable’s entrance, which is now illuminated by a fantastic sunrise. Ourania hesitates—as her last fears about being seen in the light of day leave her mind— and crawls out from under her tattered blanket. As she exits the fireplace and approaches the entrance, the first tendrils of light begin to penetrate the stable’s darkness and touch her body, reflecting back to the world a hundred times more intensely from her lustrous scales.

Her sublime glow washes over all the little houses, projecting a beauty on them that they do not deserve. Framed by the doorway, she looks out upon the town. As she thinks of the unseen beauty that lies beyond its walls, I fly down to face her. I line my beak up squarely between her eyes—she doesn’t flinch as I drive it home.

A swift peck from a friendly bird is all that a person needs to see the world in four colors, along with a little perspective.

Ourania still lives as a wanderer, but she has escaped the ragged shroud that hid her light. Now she travels naked under the sun, proud of her unique gift. She walks tall, spreading her story far and wide, convincing kind strangers to preserve a little bit of nature for themselves, driven by the knowledge of what exists just outside their view. Ourania is no longer cast aside but invited in. People from all around the world vie to hear her gospel, but once a year, every year, she comes back to the little stable in the center of Jupiter to spend a night with me, her friend, Ithax.

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Composed, Adam Wang ’22

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Ear

In One

by Toby Barrett ’22

In one ear and out the other Travel assertions from across the aisle With no thought from the mass in between To hear what could be sound.

And yet somehow a boasting mouth Knows to relay the forgone noises Casting scorn and highest judgment Left, right and center.

In one ear, such sonics arrive welcomed— Splendid, melodious tunes that do not leave.

In another, the same sacred sounds go undetected— Spectators to a separate harmonious rhythm.

How curious a debilitation it is To hear perfectly but be completely deaf.

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angels

Pressure, Jerry Zhao ’21

76

by Blake Broom ’21

He cowered to the ground as his father Raised his hand to swing a punch, The power behind the hand Deeply rooted in the lonesome History that brought his pain to the front.

Hoping to help his son grow some He fought for a secure life, Riding the interstates late at night Through the wicked valleys that drove a wedge Between his son and himself.

Too much time apart for far too many days, They lost each other in the valley’s rising fog.

The father drank to numb his rodeo pains But the boy began to think To replace the missing man.

He thought for long until that night When it was late and dad felt far away, Yet for some reason he still missed him.

The boy went to bed but suddenly awoke When a crashing thud made him choke on his breath.

The boy could feel something wicked And had finally seen the truth, Life had ripped the youth right out of him.

The real world crashed in with so much power, Enough to make him cower at the fear of the future He saw the man behind the façade, A man weak at the knees And reliant on his lonesome drink.

The cowboy who created him Was now a shattered whiskey glass.

Waiting for the sorrow to fill his soul, The boy sat there on the porch swing Listening to the angels sing, Listening to the angels sing.

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angels

by Miller Trubey ’22

Thoughts on freedom?

What about it?

Do you feel free?

In America?

Yes about politics then?

No? oh Ok, then free verse?

Thoughts on it? sure, can verse be free outside America?

Why would it be captive?

Not captive, oppressed Obsessed with freedom?

No, oppressed...

Is there a difference?

Do you see one?

They meet at some point Have you seen that point?

I live my life to that point To oppression?

No, obsession with freedom Freedom if free verse?

Verse doesn’t have rights?

You think?

No Oh I know Freedom is free verse Oppression is obsession with freedom.

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Mask on, Patrick Flanagan ’22

79

The soldier sits on the transport home, Thinking about all he’s done, The war was rough, and he thought he was tough, But apparently the bullet that sent him home was tougher.

He tries to force sleep, But the best he can manage is a sort of truce with unconsciousness.

The memories come flooding back, not quite a dream.

A dream you slip smoothly into; this was about as smooth as the treads of a tank.

His sights are on a boy no older than himself, his only kill of the war.

As he squeezes the trigger, he wakes with a start and realizes, He killed two that day.

Only one got a coffin.

Cold Sweat, Luke Voorheis ’21

80

by Beau Exall ’21

81

jamie

a monologue

Meet Jamie Mahowald: a prolific columnistjournalist-designer whose thoughtful observations have dotted the page of almost every publication on campus.

H

by Jamie Mahowald portrait by Ekansh Tambe

ere are a couple words. Say them out loud if you can. Say them in your head if you can’t. stupid; naïve; enough; false I promise there’s no verbal ruse. It’s not an acrostic poem.

I’m not tricking you up.

Say them in different tones, with different inflections. Say stupid in a funny accent—shtoopit or steupeed or steaupid.

Say it with vain pity for whomever you’re talking to. Now say it like you hate them. You really, really hate them. You need them to know how much you hate them. Imagine someone you hate right now. Don’t go on reading until you have someone in mind. This is your chance to admit how stupid they’ve been.

Say enough as a question and you’re gnawing for an answer. Now it is the answer.

Say false like you wanted it to be true, but you have to adhere to the rules over your best wishes. Now you’re glad it’s true. Now you don’t know whether you’re happy to say it or not—you just know it’s what you need to say.

I’m not joking—say them out loud. If I arrive at school tomorrow and hear a cacophony of these words across campus, I’ll have succeeded.

Now, imagine someone you care about—someone you look up to, you need to like you, you’d sacrifice a part of your soul to. You made the best grades for them, you drew your 83

prettiest picture for them, you swapped their least favorite part of you for a better, faster, sweeter one, and their warm satisfaction, their infectious grin far exceeds your grinding effort. They get invited to the best parties.

They know the biggest words. They give the warmest hugs.

Say naïve, and say it in their voice.

They’re saying it to you. They’re saying it about you.

You’re a deeply temperamental person, though you like to tell yourself you’re not, and naïve is one of those dagger-words that digs into your chest and explodes a burst of piercing shrapnel into your gut. Your throat closes, the word-clot jamming your esophagus and restricting your breathing, and you run upstairs and lock the door to your room, leaving your father alone at a kitchen table under a dim chandelier, and you smash your head on your pillow and sob.

— When I received the prompt to do a piece about my writing process, I concocted in my crooked conscience a scheme to stay on subject in the most indirect manner possible (sorry, Sam). I did cheat you in a way, just now: I told you the ending of a story without telling you the beginning. My apologies.

Stories tend not to end with an explanation of themselves, nor with an admittance of the irrationality of the story’s structure or with an admittance of the admittance of irrationality or even with a rabbit hole admitting each previous admittance. And most stories I’ve read aren’t interactive. I’ve never disturbed a library by yelling “I am, I am, I am” while reading The Bell Jar, and I’ll cautiously assume you haven’t, either.

But it’s my space, and I can do whatever I want with it.

I’m not convinced that how that story began is terribly important—not that I remember much of it, anyway. I’m also not convinced it needed to make a whole lot of sense. Dealing with heavy episodes in our lives, we tend to remember the vague emotions that crept or walked or roared into our heads, not the specific words and events and trains of thought that caused them. I remembered the word naïve because that’s what kicked it all off. I don’t remember what we were talking about or why I was thought to be naïve or even whether I would consider myself naïve in hindsight. Maybe I would. I don’t know.

But that doesn’t matter. None of that matters. If it worked, the emotion got through, and that’s the only important thing.

So long as you live and breathe, people 84

will give you rules for writing: don’t use adverbs. Don’t be too unnecessarily wordy too much. Rule of threes. Don’t break up lists. You should use parallel structure. Avoid clunky punctuation; additionally, passive voice shouldn’t be used. But I’ve found that Duke Ellington’s first rule of music theory—“if it sounds good, it is good,”—applies to almost any art form you can think of. If it elicits the emotion you’re coveting, fire away and chew the fat of the content of your words with as much smug pride as you can muster within yourself.

Some writing instructors will also argue that you should never write anything you wouldn’t say in conversation. I think that idea dismisses writing as an art form—nobody goes around gushing William Faulkner monologues, but we can still say he’s a good writer—although I would never write something I couldn’t say out loud, and that’s why I say every line of everything I write. As I showed at the beginning, writing and saying are bound as one.

Every word exists to be used, because those that didn’t get used died out. Even annoying words can exist to strengthen their very annoyance—let’s say you’re writing a character who says “impecunious” instead of “broke” in normal conversation. How are you going to show he’s insecure if “impecunious” doesn’t exist?

For me, naïve exists to hurt (and I know full well that I’m printing my verbal Achilles heel in a literary magazine), so of course I’m going to highlight the word that beckons grand emotional response from me, because it’s important to me, and I only want to write about important things and never the boring things. No part of a story ever has any reason to be boring.

I could’ve sat at my computer for hours on end and traced out the most precise and deliberate prose possible to elicit the exact emotional response I want from you. I’ve done that before, I’m often proud of the result, and I’ll likely not look back on this with the same warm pride I view my more planned pieces.

I could’ve make this piece far subtler. I didn’t.

And I could’ve also kept going on that story about my dad, but I didn’t judge it necessary for the purposes of this piece.

The writing process is as individual as you want it to be, no matter how many self-help books you buy. But nobody in the history of the world has ever wanted a boring story, so it’s up you to judge your story as you see fit and to choose the words you can squeeze the most out of.

’Nados

a personal essay from Jamie’s writing portfolio

T

hem ’nados—they’ll getcha. They’ll getcha real good.

I repeat the phrase often— sometimes in my head, sometimes aloud in the buoyant twangy bass of my dad’s friend Bob as he stood on my lawn gazing at what used to be my house, what used to be my attic sprawling over what used to be my piano, what used to be my bedroom door sticking out from what used to be my sister’s wall.

Them ’nados. Sometimes I can’t help laughing.

Since that October night, I’ve endured the endless variations of what one expects to hear after tragedy, the customary That must’ve been devastatings and My thoughts and prayers; I grasped recently that an appropriate response to “Tell me a fun fact about yourself” isn’t “I was hit by a tornado in October” after cracking that line silenced several rooms.

Anyway—enter Bob. A friend of ours since we moved to Dallas in 2005, Bob had never spoken much to me. But in the weeks after the storm, he chatted with me about the tornado as though he performed surgery on them, showing me videos, briefing me on its physiological composition: Here’s the flankin’ line, behind which you see the flankin’ downdraft. In the center of it all’s the updraft. That’s the... the ’nado of the ’nado.

No grief or mention of the upended transformation of the matrix of my childhood, not a word on the blunt end of nature’s wrath. And he never asked if I wanted to talk.

Instead, he talked, and sometimes laughed, quipped, and joked.

Them ’nados, Mahowald—they’ll really getcha!

In the past year I’ve moved three times and broken down sobbing whenever the memory of the brassy howl of escaping wind and tumbling brick roars back into my head, but I’ve also laughed, quipped, and joked, and while others are sympathetic to a victim’s tears, the reception to laughter is troubled silence.

The ’nado was not my first dance with disaster. In previous homes I’d been deathly close to the fires and earthquakes Southern

California geology is prone to inflicting.

Earthquakes, tornadoes, and forest fires.

Earth, Wind & Fire.

An excellent ‘70s R&B band.

With this realization I improvised a parody of their hit “September”: Do you remember the twentieth night of October, The fronts were changin’ their winds and their tempers, and they were blowin’ our roofs away.

I’ll sing songs and crack jokes that inadvertently sow unease in my friends, of whom the bold will grab me and reprimand me and say I shouldn’t laugh as hard as I do, because it makes people uncomfortable, I shouldn’t record myself singing “Somewhere over the Rainbow” in my tornadoed house, I shouldn’t write an essay on a topic so sensitive, and I should cry—still, apparently, after nine months—about what ’nado snatched from beneath.

But while sadness and happiness are emotions, crying and laughter aren’t. They’re responses, and they don’t perfectly align with the emotions we most often associate them with—jokes can arise from insecurity and tragedy, and tears from joy and love.

And my jokes aren’t for an audience.

They’re for me.

Humor is a valid response to the many emotions following tragedy, and it’s my response—I’m no comedian, but I work hard maintaining and nourishing my humor because it’s how I cope with my tragedy.

I stomach Bob’s sobering, farcical inevitability of the ’nado and its getting of me more easily than the sappy sympathy I receive—nobody even died citywide, and my family will, of course, end up okay. Still, a friend’s reprimanding my quips irritates me, because in that moment I’m supposed to feel bad for making myself feel better about something that already was making me feel bad. To scold self-deprecating humor is to take offense on behalf of the person the offender offends—only, the offender and the offended are the same person.

‘Cause that ’nado, it got me. It got me real good.

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Resplendent, Benjamin Gravel ’22

by Mason Westkaemper ’21

H

e was sitting in the garden when his brother came to give him the news. His eyes were tracking the date palms gently swaying over his head, his ears noting the rustle of leaves and the sound of music playing somewhere else in the palace.

His delicate, scrawny frame terminated in soft hands and skinny limbs. His nickname as “Flower of Ulma” was well earned by his remarkably beautiful appearance and delicate nature, leading to oppressive coddling by some and mockery from others. The garden was Entiah’s favorite place, away from his abusers and oppressors, a private refuge where none intruded.

“Uncle is coming,” blurted Entiah’s brother as he burst through the doorway and anxiously lifted Entiah to his feet.

“What? Now? I thought he and father had come to an agreement,” Entiah said, letting his brother pull him upright.

“It seems Uncle didn’t appreciate the terms Father was giving him. Come on, Ent! We need to go!”

Entiah finally stood up straight. “Why do we need to leave? It’s not as if he actually has a chance of getting here.”

“It’s just a precaution. I’m sure it won’t be necessary, but father wants me to take you out of the city. He doesn’t want you to become a hostage for Uncle.”

Entiah stared at the ground. He could count on one hand how many times he had left the palace in the 19 years of his life, and he had never left the city itself. Even when the king led his other brothers to watch and organize the fall harvests of wheat, barley, and dates, he had always been left behind in his garden.

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Entiah asked, “Where else could be safer than here?”

“I’m going to take you to the farms.

Uncle’s not going to raid them; he’s here for the city. Let’s go. Now.” Entiah’s brother pulled him toward the exit. Entiah stumbled along behind him, still processing what he had been told, when he tripped. He looked to his side and saw the terrified face of one of the servants tending to the garden. The servant was young, new to the palace, and still held an incredible awe for the royal family. He got up, his cloak tumbling from his shoulders without him noticing, and began sputtering an incoherent mess intended as an apology before freezing under Entiah’s brother’s glare. He dashed away, and one of the other servants in the garden got up from his knees and chased after him.

Entiah’s brother lifted Entiah to his feet and wrapped the servant’s cloak around him.

He looked to see where the servants had disappeared to. “Disgraceful,” he muttered, looking to Entiah as he tied the cloak tightly over his frame. “Even with this, you’ll still stick out,” he muttered. He thought for a moment before taking some some of the dirt from the garden and rubbing it on Entiah’s face, in spite of protests otherwise.

Entiah’s brother rushed him off through the palace, heading for one of the back doors the servants used. He was the second eldest among their siblings, only younger than their eldest sister, and was next in line to be the King of Ulma. He had been raised as a king, taught the arts of war and leadership, and would wear the Mask Resplendent upon the death of the King, their father.

As they left the palace, Entiah turned to

look at the ornate plaza that fronted it. There, he saw the King in the Mask Resplendent.

It was glorious, totally covering his face in pure, polished gold, and it reflected enough light to make him nearly impossible to look at directly. It was gilded with silver and marked with dozens of glittering jewels.

Even the eyes were decorated, the gaps the King saw through totally covered by two enormous blue sapphires. They had once been clear enough to see through perfectly, but had scratched and faded so much that now the wearer was blind to what lay before him. The King stood at the front of a large balcony overlooking a plaza filled with soldiers, standing at rapt attention in perfect formation. They were fully armed, bearing bronze spears and large shields of wood and leather. The King was making large, sweeping, dramatic gestures, presumably making a speech to inspire his troops for the coming battle, but Entiah was too far away to make out anything. His brother pulled him along, and the King and his Mask disappeared behind the stalls of the market.

While Entiah had left the palace on certain occasions, he was always with his family and their retainers and had never been anywhere like the market. Here, the raucous noise of merchants and hagglers deafened his fine ears. Men too old to be recruited into the army sat around jars of beer, drinking it through long reed straws to sift out the grains still present. Merchants haggled copper jewelry, bronze tools, and slaves for sale to the crowds that milled about. Entiah was so overloaded by all the foreign scents and scenes that he nearly froze upglare when he saw them.

Two emerald green eyes locked on to his with a penetrating gaze, a gaze hardened by desperation and starvation. They were attached to a thin girl crouched in an alley, clothed in rags and filth. The eyes narrowed when he stared back at her, but he was pulled through the crowd before even a second had passed.

Entiah’s brother, with his armor and authoritative tone, parted the crowd before him like a scythe cutting through wheat, and it wasn’t long before they had reached the gate. Large amounts of women and children, the families of the laborers and levy workers who lived outside the walls, were rushing through the enormous wooden doors. They had been constructed at great expense out of the huge trees that grew in the wild mountain ranges to the north, reinforced with bronze strips and studs, and they had protected the city from more assaults than any of its citizens knew. Above the door, an 88

enormous relief of the Mask Resplendent glared into the city, decorated with lapis lazuli and vibrant paints. A soldier stepped out from his position to warn the brothers of the approaching danger, but he soon recognized Entiah’s brother, hesitating. He looked with confusion at Entiah’s small frame, trembling with fear and excitement, and his eyes squeezed shut in a vain attempt to protect himself. Entiah’s brother walked past the soldier and grabbed a cloak out of the guardhouse, wrapping it around his resplendent armor. In a low, authoritative tone, Entiah’s brother commanded: “You never saw us here.” He waited for a stiff nod of confirmation from the soldier before leading Entiah through the gates and out of the city.

Entiah was born as the final child of his father’s favored wife. She was sick throughout the pregnancy, holding on to her life in order to ensure his survival, and died within moments of Entiah’s birth. He was born underdeveloped and small, and wasn’t expected to live long after birth, but his father’s desperate care kept him alive all through infancy and childhood. As he grew, all those who knew his mother noted their remarkable similarity in appearance. For his entire life, he was always under close watch, never allowed to leave the palace or put himself in any danger. His father couldn’t lose him, either.

Entiah felt the sun shining straight on his closed eyes and realized that his brother had stopped moving. He slowly cracked his eyelids, revealing an enormous landscape larger than anything he had ever experienced.

The sky lay totally open in front of him, a vast cyan realm unbroken by buildings or walls or towers. Enormous flat fields of grains stretched out in front of him, spotted in some locations with orchards of date palms. He felt his knees go weak at the sheer magnitude of it all, but at the same time felt an energy and wonder in his heart like nothing he had ever felt before. He looked up at his brother, hoping to share his awesome experience, when he noticed him staring with a thin frown and a serious expression off into the distance. Entiah followed his gaze, looking away from the rich farmlands of Ulma and towards the enormous desert that stretched out in the other direction. There, several miles away, a small cloud of sand was being thrown into the air.

“We need to keep moving, Ent,” said his brother as he came back to reality. He looked down and saw Entiah’s nervous expression staring back. “What are you so worried about?” He smiled, “this is your first

time outside the walls, yeah? You should be excited!” Entiah wondered how his brother was able to put on a smile that easily.

“Where are we going?” Entiah asked, looking back toward the fields.

“We’re going to hide you with some of the laborers out in the far fields.”

“Aren’t they all in the army? Or in the walls?”

“Of course not. We only have so many spears, and the city is only so large.”

“But still, wouldn’t I be safer in the palace?”

Entiah’s brother grimaced. “Not as safe as you’d think.

The King has, ah, a plan…” He hesitated, before continuing.

“You know what? Lets get to the laborer’s shelter before we do anything else.”

They walked across the fields, moving along the network of irrigation canals bringing water across the agrarian landscape, crossing occasionally at small bridges. As they moved along, they saw groups of farm laborers moving in the same direction. It was nearly an hour before they reached their destination, one of the many rural towns that housed the laborers in the more distant fields. Here, there was a small, fortified barracks usually used to house the soldiers that staved off slave raiders and enforced the will of the King. Now, devoid of soldiers, it was housing dozens of tired laborers.

They ranged from boys who were barely into adulthood, several years younger than Entiah, to wizened old men Gilded Lament, Paul Valois ’22 who had probably been around since Entiah’s grandfather reigned. They were talking and laughing with each other quietly, nervous about the oncoming danger and hopeful of the King’s ability to protect them and their families. Entiah’s brother found a less crowded region of the barrack and sat Entiah down. “Wait here. I’ll come back to get you once this is over.” Before Entiah could protest, his brother hugged him quickly and left. He sat there, confused and alone. He could hear loud talking in the other room that sounded like like his brother, but he was too preoccupied to make out what he was saying. It wasn’t long before the talking stopped.

Entiah sat there for what seemed like days. He nervously watched other men mill about, looking out of the windows and speaking quietly. He thought about how much dirtier this place was than the palace, how much uglier all the plants outside the windows seemed than those from his garden, and how uncomfortable he was wrapped in his dirty cloak. Then, he saw them. The two emerald eyes from the market stared at him from a window. Entiah sat up, suddenly alert. He looked around, seeing nobody in the room but him. He looked back at the window and saw that the girl was already halfway through, rushing towards him. He scrambled, trying to get up, but the girl reached him, hitting him hard in the head.

Pain. Pain like Entiah had never experienced before rang through his head as he rolled on the ground. He was only vaguely aware of hands moving around under his cloak, searching. As the pain receded and Entiah realized he wasn’t dying, he heard the girl frustratedly muttering “Nothing. Are you kidding me? Nothing? I track this rich dumbass all the way out here, and he’s got nothing on him. Hey! You!” She shouted, as he stared back terrified. “You’re a prince, aren’t you? Or something? You were with that big fella, and I mean, just look at you! You’ve never done a day of work in your life.”

“Th-that’s not true! I do all sorts of things!” Entiah

Then, he saw them.

The two emerald eyes from the market stared at him from a window.

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Entiah gave one last burst of effort, making the turn before stumbling forward and falling, sand and dirt and tears clouding his eyes.

Final Push, Hayward Metcalf ’23

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sputtered. “And besides, what’s a lazy thief like you doing accusing me of indolence?

Father says you’re all good for nothing lowlifes. What were you even doing in the city? My father outlawed banditry years ago,” Entiah spoke with a quavering voice, mustering all the courage he had.

“Are you kidding me?” She spat with disgust, “The streets are full of ‘lowlifes’ like me. Children orphaned by your father’s wars, servants from your palace with their hands cut off for “disrespecting” the royal family, men and women too old to work, abandoned by their families and the city to beg for scraps. But I bet you didn’t see any of them.

I bet you never see any of them.” She stood up, shaking her head in disgust, and walked towards the window she came in.

“Wait!” Entiah blurted. She ignored him, climbing back out of the barracks. Entiah, filled with a strange panic he didn’t fully understand, stood up. He rushed over to the window, grabbing its ledge and trying to pull himself through. He struggled, desperately clinging and kicking in a vain attempt to make it though before he felt a strong grip on his arm, lifting him out of the building.

He fell into a disgraceful heap on the other side of the window, righting himself and looking up to see the girl. She looked at him with a strange expression before muttering, “I’ve got people who need my help much more than you do” and stalking off towards the city. Entiah pulled himself to his feet and began stumbling after her, motivated by that same strange panic. He walked and stumbled behind, somehow just barely managing to keep her in his sight as she wound thought the maze of canals and grains. He wheezed as he staggered after her, his lungs desperately trying to get the air he needed, and his legs burned as he pushed them with an effort he had never before experienced. Eventually, however, he saw her disappear out of his sight as she took a turn to the right.

Entiah gave one last burst of effort, making the turn before stumbling forward and falling, sand and dirt and tears clouding his eyes. He wiped his eyes clean, wheezing as he did so. He started to pull himself to his feet and looked up to find he had made it out, the front gate of the city lying before him.

Smoke rose from the inside of the walls, and as his wheezing subsided Entiah heard the screams of women and children from inside.

His blood ran cold, his body filled with a wave of terror and panic, and he collapsed again to his knees. Those enormous ancient doors that protected the city for generations lay closed, undamaged.

“They must have found a way to open the

gate.” He heard the girl speak in a quiet voice.

She was staring at the bottom of the gate, at a slowly growing pool of red liquid seeping out from under it. Entiah thought of when he had seen a cask of wine spilled at a banquet.

The girl’s face was contorted with emotion, but no tears ran down her face. She turned, beginning to walk away from the city.

“Where are you going?” Entiah asked, raising his voice to surpass the volume of the slaughter behind the walls.

“I wasn’t born in this city. I’m not going to die here. There’s nothing left for me.” She turned, looking Entiah dead in the eyes. “Or for you.” She stared at him for half a moment more, before turning and continuing to walk away. Entiah shut his eyes, listening to the cacophony of chaos. He took a deep breath, standing up and opening his eyes. He saw the relief of the Mask, once a perfect duplicate of the relief that looked into the city, sitting above the gate with resplendent stones torn off and a spear thrown straight into its right eye. It was a ceremonial weapon of some type, a small banner decorated with charms waving in the wind from where the head met the shaft. Entiah turned away from its angry gaze, and followed the girl away from the city.

Hours later, long after Entiah had left the city of his birth, one of his younger brothers entered the barrack looking for him.

As he checked every room and interviewed the all the people still taking shelter, his heart sank. They had already lost so much. The King’s plan had succeeded. By baiting the assailing army into entering the great walls of the city and closing its enduring doors, they had been able to completely annihilate it, sending every one of their uncle’s men to a bloody demise. Their uncle himself had been captured and was being publicly humiliated.

He would be ceremonially executed at the next major festival. However, this great, total victory carried an enormous human toll. The King had been injured in the fighting, and his eldest son died from wounds sustained dragging him out of the battle. The attacking army slaughtered hundreds of the civilians taking refuge in the wall when they began to lose the fight, and many of the men of Ulma would be going home to empty houses.

Entiah’s younger brother left the barrack and headed back towards the city. With the death of the eldest son in combat and Entiah’s disappearance, he was now next in line to inherit Ulma. He looked out at the vast fields that would bring him riches and the serfs who would conquer his enemies, and smiled, eagerly awaiting the day he would look at them through the eyes of the Mask Resplendent.

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Aspens, Collin Katz ’21

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by Leo Ohannessian ’21

The bird’s agility fascinated the little boy.

He eyed the bird, perched on the spruce’s branch, watching it peck at its nest, rearranging the twigs, singing songs of pride and joy.

He crept to the base of the tree, making sure not to break the brush beneath. He eyed the bird; the bird eyed him back, facing him but looking to the mountain.

The boy gazed to the mountain, its vastness engulfed the dwindling horizon.

A gust of cold dusk wind washed over him, brushing against the trees, swaying them in waves. The bird lifted, soaring just above the tree line, and the boy rushed after, twisting and turning through the thicket of spruces and branches, gliding over damp, cold mossy stones.

He followed without care or fear, for the freedom of the unknown was thrilling. Together, they climbed the mountain. Dusk in an instant turned to night, chills rushed down his body.

The bird landed above him in a small clearing, pecking at a moth clenched between his talons. In an instant, the boy had the bird in his grasp, scrambling to regain himself while the bird spasmed between his fingers, moving to free itself.

The boy ran down the mountain, tripping and sliding over the same roots and stones, clenching the bird tighter and tighter.

He arrived home with the bird still in his hands and set it free into its new sanctuary. A cage of the shiniest gold. The bird no longer sang songs of pride and joy but songs mellow and dull. And by and by, the bird no longer sang, so the boy let the bird free, but it did not soar into the sky; it stayed in its cage.

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Clockwise from top, Kerf, Mark Motlow ’21; Broken Wave, Alex Nadalini ’22 94

Wood & Metal

gallery

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Above, Loom, Rohan Khatti ’21, opposite from top, Tangled, Rohan Khatti ’21; A Sharp Turn, Tomek Marczewski ’22

Wood and Metal combines 3-D design with the skills of woodworking and metalworking, giving students the opportunity to model projects on the computer before enacting them in real life.

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My art blends creativity with everyday function.

gallery

Rohan Khatti ’21

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imagine

We mean it. Close your eyes. Imagine.

You can’t do much better than that.

Orpheus, Neil Song ’23 99

Morning Mist, Owen Simon ’22

by Beto Beveridge ’21

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Passing like everything into the blank static of mindlessness, days fade out again and again; a gaze at the web of the mind would reveal tears that allow identity to drift away like a paper slip fluttering down into a bottomless cavern. I too am left vacant, for what am I but time’s passage through me. Everything is missing until I am but the past.

So I can wander past the world echoing with the hazy people that were once me and yell into the daze that should be vivid instead of gray with an underwater voice, almost trickling through the impenetrable surrounding stratosphere until the tears leave dried lukewarm trails from eternity to my two Glassy eyes. This view of brilliant nullity too, will slip, Sinking away into itself, for all is made opaque by the deluge of slip.

Everything to come, joy and diversions, diversions and despair, will have passed, reduced to ash by this burning fate. The future leads to antiquity, until all of the days are merely days.

It will all be dust, riddled with gaping tears, made into an absence, a vacuum, by the glass I unconsciously threw.

But the mind cannot see the mind, or anything through the stained glass that only allows incomprehensible scraps to slip Inside. Only the faintest hue is audible, only the blurry sight of rolling tears can be heard. No discriminations can be made of the singularities that make it past; Everything is everything. The light is vague. It cannot radiate in the daze.

It exists in the silence, chasing a myth of realization that is impossible to come to.

These vibrant mirages, the pitch-colored shade, are insignificant pests to the impenetrable canvas of the blank soul. What can I be if all is lost through this frigid, whirling, trance? Each shadow of the individuality, the role occupies the days, is a collage, a cluttered readymade of borrowed concepts scribbled on a torn slip of the self. What is mine was appropriated, emulated, passed on by whatever crawls through the five tears In my head. Why should I exhibit my tears If my authentic voice, my bellowed song that should soar over the luminescence to bravely meet the rippling tempest, is mimicked from another’s past.

For on my ragged precipice, I lack a rhythm, a truth that would reverberate through My cry. My throat is silent. My being is mute. I’ll slip Away, with everyone, until the encroaching, crimson sun ends the days.

My arid tears will die in the daze.

The past consumes what would have been me, and no path is made through my two dumb lips, as the floods approach the perch; my tattered, bleeding feet continue to slip.

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by Sam Morgan ’21

W

hen Windsor’s alliteratively-named 10U Red Rangers won their first national championship, his face was plastered on the front page. “local phenom joel edmonds, 10, scores hat trick in national showdown.”

From that moment, Joel was a star. News travels like wildfire in Windsor, and when he scored that third goal against the favored Seattle team, the fire began. By the next morning, the whole town of 3,000 was buzzing, waiting to welcome back their new hometown hero.

“What will he do next?” blared in between songs on all two of Windsor’s variety radio stations. The Red Truck café even offered the Joel Special – a full breakfast under $10 in honor of the 10U hockey team—an instant town favorite. A lot of pressure to put on a 5th grader, although Joel’s early growth spurt placed him nearer in height to the high school team than to his own teammates.

He didn’t mind the attention at all. He loved it. Lived for it. He was the symbol of Windsor, instantly recognized no matter where he went in the small, rural town. Entering middle school as a star ensured an easy transition into the “awkward years.” For Joel, it was a breeze. School was a bore, but his teammates were there. And the girls. Oh, my lord, the girls. He was certain every boy in his grade was jealous of him.

When Emma hugged him under the bleachers on that first crisp Monday of autumn, he considered himself a man. With school in the bag, the fifth grader turned to the key to his future: hockey. Practice every day for three hours, runs in the morning, and skills at recess during the winter months. His play grew exponentially, and soon, Joel became legend: the Windsor Whirlwind.

After Joel led the Red Rangers to 11U, 12U, and 13U championships in consecutive years, the whole state of Minnesota began to pay attention. At home, things were starting to look up, too.

For the first time in years, Randy had given him a hug.

Joel had long since given up calling him “Dad.” Unless you considered blood and superior genetics as factors, Randy acted more like a live-in uncle than a father. After that first championship, though, Randy had changed.

“Well, I never knew you had spunk, kid,” he mumbled when Joel first hopped out of the car. “All that fancy skating 102

News travels like wildfire in Windsor, and when he scored that third goal against the favored Seattle team, the fire began.

on

Bruiser, Ekansh Tambe ’22

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and you just finally had to get in there and play like a man.”

Since then, it had been like heaven for Joel. Randy took him to practice, took him out for burgers after, and cheered him onto those next three championships, attending every single one of Joel’s games. By 14, “Randy” had become “Dad.” Joel had a father again, as well as a bid to the USA Junior Olympic team, training for the World Championships later in the winter.

Throughout Olympic training, Joel came out on top. Instantly recognized in the first practice as a dynamic player, Edmonds quickly became the coaches’ reliable star. The first-line center, he used his size to dominate teammates, in practice and in scrimmage. The Windsor Whirlwind had taken his game to the highest level possible and realized he was truly phenomenal.

It got to his head. At first, it was the small stuff: pushing less during sprints, high sticks against his teammate, and sloppy footwork.

He let his size make him cocky, and when the time came to travel to Czechia for World Juniors, Joel had lost the fire. He had lost the pure, innocent love that had driven him to all those championships.

In the town of Windsor, there are only two sports bars. The Tipsy Goat has fourteen barstools and plenty of room for 30 people to stand and watch the high-def TVs. The Trophy Room is larger, with enough space for 80 on a busy night. When Joel played his first round-robin game of the tournament—livestreamed on Windsor’s single public broadcast network—a total of 400 people crammed into the two spots, agonizing over their hometown hero.

He scored 0 goals that game. Goose egg.

In fact, with this lackluster performance, Joel began the first and only slump of his illustrious hockey career. Every game, he met newer and better players: a Canadian who was actually bigger than him, a Norwegian who locked him down for three periods, and a Swede whose stick handling made Joel bungle about in an attempt to play defense. He was mortified; the star dropped from the first line, to the second, and finally the third string, where the bottom-feeders played. Despite his sloppy play, the USA team surged. After three round-robin wins, a quarter-final shutout, and a nail-biter double-overtime semifinal game, the Americans were one victory away from glory.

In their way stood their fiercest competitors yet, the perennial powerhouse Russian team.

Their brutal training techniques had earned the Russian squad the playful moniker, “The KGB Kraken.” Their performance in the 104

tournament, however, had been anything but.

The Kraken had demolished their previous opponents, often surpassing teams by a fourgoal margin or more. The Americans were scared, hoping for a modern-day Miracle on Ice. All except for Joel.

Joel Edmonds was excited. This would be his chance to prove himself. To his coach. To his teammates. Most of all, to his dad.

From the first face-off, he raced around the rink. Once again the most visible player on the ice, Joel returned in high fashion. Expert passes, hard-nosed defense, lightning-fast wristers aimed at the corner of the net. None of those shots hit home, though. None of those passes turned to goals. By the end of the first period—the greatest 20 minutes Joel had ever played—the score remained 0-0. At the end of 40 minutes, still the same.

The Russians had held strong, seemingly impervious to the high-powered American offense. The USA had dominated the game, but the score told a different story. Joel was furious. In the locker room, he slammed his pads around, cursed the Russians, cursed his teammates.

“If you could just get ONE PASS to me,” he raged at his defensemen. “ONE GODDAMN PASS and I would have buried it in the net.”

When the intermission ended, Joel huffed out of the locker room. Skulking onto the ice, he lined up against his Russian counterpart for the face-off for the final period of the game. The final period of the tournament.

The final period of his life.

His rage grew as the minutes waned. Ten minutes to go and no score. Seven. Six. At 5:27, Joel took the game into his own hands.

He would have to take away the Kraken’s defense. The hulking 14-year-old launched off the bench onto the ice, looking for his target, the star Russian defender Sergei Yahontov.

When play started, Joel didn’t follow the puck.

His coaches stared dumbfounded as he skated away from the action. Away from the goal in a beeline to intercept Yahontov on his way to the bench. When Joel launched himself into the Russian, a full 70 pounds lighter than him, the fans heard the crunch. When Yahontov collapsed, the blood from his broken nose streaked down the Plexiglass boards, smeared along the sides of the rink, pooled onto the ice. Joel had obliterated the phenom’s face, his collarbone, and possibly his chances at a professional career. Within instants of the dirty hit, he was escorted to the penalty box, where he would watch the final 5 minutes of the game slip away. Skating there, he couldn’t meet the hateful glares of his fellow players, Russian and American alike. One man short for the remainder of the game thanks to Joel’s

When Yahontov collapsed, the blood from his broken nose streaked down the Plexiglass boards, smeared along the sides of the rink, pooled onto the ice.

Renewable, Jake Robinowitz ’22 105

They had wanted a hero. A figure to inspire future generations of Windsorians with his incredible strength on and off the ice.

All they got was Joel Edmonds.

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Last Words, Hayward Metcalf ’23

cruel penalty, the Americans quickly fell to the Russian offense.

With no Joel to spearhead a defensive push, the USA team grew fatigued in the defensive zone. In those last five minutes of play, the KGB Kraken took the lead, raising the score to a one-sided 1-0 before the final buzzer sounded.

Joel was finished.

Randy didn’t speak to him on the ride home from the Minneapolis Airport. When the two got home to Windsor, Randy didn’t stop for hamburgers at the Red Truck Café.

They wouldn’t have served Joel anyway. Not after that cheap shot. Not after Joel embarrassed the town of Windsor on the world stage. The Windsor Whirlwind was over. His fans gone.

Windsor’s famous teen, revered only two weeks before, was now effectively an outcast.

The neglect continued at school. His Red Rangers teammates, lifelong friends, couldn’t bear to sit with him when lunch came. Joel sat alone, on the bench by the frozen pond. No more skills drills to fill the time. No Emma to hug underneath the bleachers. Worst of all, at home, “Randy” had returned. His dad was gone, left behind with the dreams of glory and Junior Olympic championships. As the winter months dragged on, he grew wearier. Each day at the high school bore down, a constant weight reminding Joel of his fall from grace. They had wanted a hero. A figure to inspire future generations of Windsorians with his incredible strength on and off the ice.

All they got was Joel Edmonds.

One Friday night, Randy came home with a 12-pack. When Joel walked into the living room, he was already drunk, sprawled on the couch, the Bruins game blaring in the background.

“Get your ass over here,” he ordered Joel, a venomous scowl across his leathery face. The four crumpled Keystone cans were the only warning Joel got.

Joel didn’t process the first punch until it hit him across the face. The second, an uppercut to the jaw, sent him to the floor.

By the third, Joel had curled in a fetal position. The taste of his own blood coated his mouth.

“Always lookin’ for a fight. Shouldn’t of beat on that Ruski boy. Let’s see how tough my little baby boy is now that he gotta shiner on both eyes,” said the drunk between blows.

Randy rained his disappointment and anger down onto Joel’s ribs until he grew tired, then drove off to the Trophy Room to settle his mind. Joel stayed in a ball for an hour, crying, ashamed.

Ashamed that he had singlehandedly destroyed his reputation with that one dirty blow and ashamed at his pride.

But most of all, Joel cried because of Randy. He knew he had lost his dad again, this time forever.

He had nobody. No friend to tell. No teacher to listen.

Not even a stranger to lend a sympathetic ear. There were no strangers in Windsor. Joel had fallen from infallible to invisible.

On a cold, April morning, Joel woke up early. Wrote a few apology letters to his friends, left a message for his coaches.

Climbed out his window and trudged through the late spring snow, surveying the flat, bleak landscape, still gray in the dawn light. Nowhere to escape to. No one to care.

When Joel Edmonds hung himself on the maple tree in the town square, his face didn’t make the front page. But there he was, relegated to the back page of the Sunday paper. “local youth, 15, found hung.”

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jerry

a profile

For Jerry Zhao, photography and painting aren’t conflicting mediums— rather, they each help enhance his artistic focus.

T

by Alam Alidina portrait by Ekansh Tambe

here’s a sign inside the publications room—put up due to social distancing measures—that reads: “Only 7 people allowed in to eat lunch. Jerry Zhao is to be given priority.”

Zhao isn’t a journalist or a yearbook-er. If you asked him, he’d call himself a painter and a photographer. But he’s shot two magazine covers and dozens of feature photos for both the newspaper and the yearbook. He’s the guy you go to when you need a photo done right—and fast.

For Zhao, much of that speed and dynamism comes from an early immersion in painting.

“I started doing basic studio art when I was about six years old,” Zhao said. “It took me a while to find a good teacher, but I eventually went to a Korean instructor who was nurturing. That whole environment was good for me: all the older kids in the advanced class would come down to the intermediate class and hype us up.”

But rather than keep painting, Zhao chose to pursue photography in high school, seeking a little more control over the way his pieces turned out. Still, he found that many of his early lessons from painting applied.

“I always had a leg up compared to all the other photography students because I had already built that conceptual mindset from painting that other students had to build from scratch as they entered the Upper School,” Zhao said. “Most kids finalize their conceptual understanding their senior year—I’d say I had a pretty good idea of mine back when I was a freshman.”

Looking back, he doesn’t think his photographic style has changed significantly through four years in the photography program.

“I guess I got more angsty,” Zhao said. “And my works now are combinations of different mediums—working with painting and photography at the same time.”

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All my projects have been related back to me and my desire to impact the world in my own way for the better.

Jerry Zhao ’21

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That’s led him to scratch and paint on photos after they’ve been taken, or try to incorporate some of the compositional techniques from his painting into his artwork.

His recent “Mask” series, which he describes on his website as exploring “the concept of reputation” by turning the subject’s identity into “a single primary concept that seemingly defines their life”—in the form of a physical mask, was an attempt at that, incorporating techniques from painting as well as those from a new medium: sculpture.

“Scuplture was interesting to me because I’ve never done any sculptures before,” Zhao said. “Having to work with a physical element is much harder than Photoshop. You can’t manipulate a sculpture after it’s done. You have one shot to make it work.”

The mask series was different for Zhao for another reason: it was all about other people.

Zhao usually models for himself because it’s difficult for him to find good models and it saves time. But Zhao’s work—perhaps because of those practical considerations—is often focused inward as well.

“I know some people like to focus on societal aspects in their projects,” Zhao said.

“But all my projects have been related back to me and my desire to impact the world in my own way for the better.”

That ethos is reflected in Zhao’s cohesives, which are large-scale projects like the “Mask” series that consist of sets of photographs with a broader theme in mind.

“My first cohesive explored childhood lessons and other people’s influence on me: how I am the way I am today,” Zhao said.

“My next one looked at inner reasonings. It was more ‘why I am.’”

Taking the introspective approach has allowed Zhao to push boundaries in other ways. His photos tend to push the boundaries of what’s traditionally perceived as masculinity.

“I’m not averse to using makeup and earrings in my photos because it’s just another tool to me,” Zhao said. “There’s no association of those things with male or female stereotypes. I guess I’ve been so integrated into the art world that those things seem normal to me now.”

Ultimately, the key for Jerry is not to overthink it. He’s only able to move on by resisting the urge to keep making edits to a painting or photograph.

“As an artist, you will always see your own mistakes when other people will see it as done,” Jerry said. “You’re never really there.

But at this point I’ve learned to just let my work go. It’s helped me maintain my love for art.

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Opposite, The Race, and clockwise from top, Blind, Horror, Nature’s Son, and The Masked Ball, Jerry Zhao ’21

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Scatterbrained, Nicholas Koch ’22

C’est la vie, que se me esfuma la razón ya. Sí, de por vida la sangre global me hierve. ¡Y que escalofríos me provoquen un froid de canard!

A corned world, tongued by guttural and chatarra—law, clacks, and rule.

Geborgenheit, das leben, ja, ich fühle.

Esperanto! Privyet, cried the silver madame.

De khoobsurat, para damini, cautivados, enterrados en linguini. I only ask: la question c'est voulez-vous?

I murdered nation, cut citizen from tourmaline: the colors gush my pus, cadaver my synapses, twirling words, just words, my words Into more. How do I— Venga! Que ya basta, mon chéri: di auf weiderschen!

Mera péng you, never roto, nothing to portend.

Sesos sí que scramble, il neige en mi kopf.

Do you truly understand what truly is enough?

I massacred self, braincase found soul; the skin strip crested between lips—rojos, blancos, todo azul—I found solace in these: humanity’s letters.

by Josh Mysore ’21 113

by Jack Palmer ’21

A

sharp burn sprinted down my throat, weakened by the sweet Coca Cola I mixed it with. I couldn’t handle my father’s Maker’s Mark on its own, so I mixed it with something overwhelming to quell its fire. The two glasses of that dark and twisted ambrosia had already hit me hard, and I still had enough left to get an elephant tipsy. I was sprawled over the tiles of my bathroom floor, keeping cool from their frosty touch.

My phone was on my bedside table, right next to the clock that I thought read 3:21 A.M, though my vision was blurry. That’s the time that feels the quietest. The time when no one else is awake. The time when I can hear my own heart beating rapidly. The time when my thoughts are free to roam to whatever dangerous places they please. The time when I feel most alone.

Loneliness is an old friend of mine. Even with my friends I feel alone. The superficial “hi”s and “how are you”s that flow from their mouths every time I see them are much too common in our world. I don’t feel at home with them, and the few times I thought one of them would really understand me were fruitless. That’s why I drink, even now. That’s why I drank that night.

My stash of bourbon seemed infinite. The swigs blurred together like the words that I would mutter to myself.

Incoherent curses and yearnings called for the heads of those who had wronged me and for the return of those who had left me. I took another gulp, hoping this one would stop the torment of my solidarity, but each ongoing taste of liquid fire made me feel more alone. That didn’t stop me.

She hadn’t even said goodbye to me when she left earlier that year. Why would she have? We weren’t dating. We weren’t anything special. I was just a normal friend to her. But she was much more than that to me. The thoughts raced through my head wildly and blindingly, obscuring everything else that inhabited my woozy temple.

Why didn’t you say goodbye to her? Should you even miss her? She doesn’t miss you. The fire built and built inside of me, and I jumped off the bathroom floor and struck my wooden closet door with a closed fist. Why didn’t you ask her out? Another punch. You coward! Why didn’t you ever tell her about your feelings? Two more punches. A painful yell, shaken by an onslaught of tears invading my red cheeks. You should hate yourself, you worthless idiot. Any loneliness you feel is your own damn fault. A flurry of punches. You should have told her you love her...

Wooden needles made incisions on my back, drawing small polka dots of blood as I sank against the splintered door, drowning in my own tears. I brushed my hair out of my face, sleeking it back over the top of my head, leaving a streak of something warm on my forehead and golden hair as my hand traced over them. I touched my forehead with my right index finger and looked to see what had inhabited it. Smeared, sticky blood rested on the tip of my finger, and I rolled my hand over to see my knuckles, pulped and bruised. I shifted across my bathroom floor and stretched my arm out, grabbing my

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Dreamscapes, Jake Bond ’23

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4228. 163229. 164229.

roll of toilet paper. The thin white paper was engulfed by a dark red ocean of blood as I wrapped it around my hand, but it would do for now. I wasn’t sober enough to notice the futility of my makeshift bandage anyways.

After I wrapped my hand, my mind went blank, and I sat thoughtless for what could have been two minutes or half an hour.

Eventually I snapped out of the trance and stood myself up in order to get my phone. I walked to my bedside table and looked at its lock screen. No new messages. 2:52 A.M. Phone in hand, I started back towards the bathroom. Unable to walk in a straight line, I bounced against my door frame. My left leg planted itself straight in front of my right leg, and I immediately lost my balance. All of my forward momentum started moving downwards. My drunkenness made it impossible to catch myself. I fell in an instant.

On my way towards the cold hard floor, my head whipped forward and slammed against the white marble countertop of my sink.

The impact felt like the bumper of a car had slammed full speed into my head, leaving it throbbing and in searing pain. My unsettling shriek was as sharp as the burning ache of my temple. The rest of my body was rendered useless without its command center. Unable to keep myself standing, I folded to the floor, losing consciousness as I made contact with the all-too-familiar tiles. A black nothingness, something darker, emptier than sleep, consumed me.

Imprisoned me.

I woke up, and my head was resting in a small puddle of blood. My phone was still in my hand, and the time was 3:23 A.M. I swiped up, waiting for the automatic face i.d. on my iPhone to recognize me, but the phone kept me locked out. I tried to wipe some of the blood out of my face to make it recognizable, but only painted the rest of my face a blinding

red. I swiped up again, but the iPhone held me at bay. Accepting the impossibility of my own iPhone recognizing my clobbered face, I started to enter my password. 164228. Still locked. 163229. Damnit. 164229. With that correct password I was allowed in, and, in a dire attempt to distract myself from the stabbing pain in my head, I shuffled the most somber Spotify playlist I had. One of my favorite bands, Flatland Cavalry, started to play a sad but soothing song. The acoustic guitar wallowed in the same loneliness I did until a soft voice joined it. The voice’s soft lullaby was soon mimicked by a wiry fiddle.

The twang of the fiddle was steadied by a subtle drumbeat. But all of the intricacies of the orchestration were lost to me. All that my disheveled brain could comprehend was a jumbled collage of instruments, but I heard the lyrics more clearly than I ever had before.

I’m lost in a maze that ain’t got an exit, the song went. I brought myself to my feet and saw myself in the mirror. The top of my head was inhabited by a large alien bump two inches in diameter. Dried blood decorated my face, obscuring my young features like dark, devilish curtains. An open gash still sent sticky rain drops of fresh blood to drip down my mangled profile.

Stuck in a phase of bad habits I can’t quit.

I opened my phone again, this time opening my messages app. I knew it would be a mistake. But I kept doing it. I pressed “New Message” in the top right corner of my screen and typed in her name.

I’ve run out of faith and I can’t see the light. I paused, frozen, struggling to carry out my stupid idea. But I wanted to do it. I pushed on further. “i miss uou.” Before I could take a second chance to think about sending the message, I pressed the small blue arrow that would seal my fate.

Down in the trenches, at war with my

Fuchsia, Nicholas Koch ’22

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mind. I looked into my own eyes, the same dark color of the irresistible poison flowing in my veins, through my large mirror and let out a hefty sigh, the warm breath encompassing my reflection in a bourbon-infused haze. The red paint on my face was still visible through the blur, and I decided to take a shower to wash it away.

I shed my clothes, grabbed the glass bottle of Maker’s, stepped into my shower-bathtub hybrid, almost losing my balance, and turned on the hot stream of water. As I lay down in the tub, the water cascaded over my damaged body, transforming from a clear, violent downpour into a red stream toward the drain as it absorbed the beads of blood coming off of my face like sweat. The steaming water stung the laceration on my forehead, and I winced as it cleaned the paint-red blood off of the canvas of my body. I pumped shampoo from my large bottle into my hands and ran it through my head. My head swirled and spun as I kneaded it, grinding my teeth as I agitated each small, invisible cut. The soap turned from a clear white gel into a strange red cloud of bubbles encompassing my hair. The sharp stings of the soap in the large gash on my forehead felt unnervingly pleasant, and I would intermittently direct more shampoo into it to feel the acute pricking sensation that resulted.

When the bloody suds cleared, my knuckles were blue, as was a large fraction of my face, the sight of which evoked the abstract paintings of Picasso. The shower raged on as I raised the clear bottle and took two gulps of the straight Maker’s to numb myself. The overbearing lukewarm blaze was comforting. It was medicine for the pain. I felt like I had been torn apart and put back together again, aching where bones didn’t fit sockets and my skin stretching thin where muscles swelled. But the physical hurt wasn’t my biggest problem. The feelings plaguing my body were miniscule compared to the agony inhabiting my mind. My thoughts were occupied in a constant, violent battle with each other, leaving my heart broken and head shattered. And all this turmoil for what? For a girl? I wanted to think I was overreacting, but I knew she was the love of my life. I knew I would never find someone else like her. But she didn’t know I felt that way. And she definitely didn’t feel that way about me. And if she didn’t love me, why would anyone else? I knew I was alone. Completely alone.

Down in the trenches, at war with my mind. As the last chorus of the song soothed me like a lullaby, my eyes and muscles relaxed, letting go of the tension that had rendered my body as stiff as a rock. I drifted away, comforted by the waterfall of heat above me and the steamy mist that filled my bathroom. After my last drop of consciousness slipped away, my phone lit up with a text message.

“I miss you too,” it said. “Is everything ok?”

When the bloody suds cleared, my knuckles were blue, as was a large fraction of my face, the sight of which evoked the abstract paintings of Picasso.

quake, Oliver Lambert ’24 119

Opal Eyes

by Josh Mysore ’21

Projection, Collin Katz ’21

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A portal beckons me, gleaming with mischievous galaxy opals that simplify the unknown tell of time.

They stare into my eyes with a faint whisper but a brazen promise of dreamy lands with no grime.

Lands where skipping stones never hit the bottom of the lake, where my blood turns clear and thin as paint.

Where through delicate obsidian spirals, an endless chasm of questions and answers revolve the hands of saints.

And as my pinky frolics the line of void, I run oscillating, my pupils and irises upended in instability.

Inverted rotation, I count no elation, merely trapped. Stuck. A forgotten crumple of lesions and unkempt vanity.

Sable black, merciless shadow blind my sight, I plead not to glance tonight. But ahead flies some faint narrative of peace, so I dare.

The world I dream of lends its branch, and I cling to blanketed air. But still, I tumble, thrust into tungsten Tartarus and despair.

Suddenly, I drown in phosphorous with haste, throat turning, mouth burning, eyes of lead.

For I must rest congealed in vast space, the mysteries of time stuck in opals till I’m dead.

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One Bulb, Paul Valois ’22

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by Tommy Zheng ’23

O darkness, wrapping its cold and numbing arms around me!

Darkness of the setting sun and the rising moon!

Darkness of the emptiness of the homes! Darkness of the rooms with absence of the lights!

Darkness of the cluttered gray clouds, driving out the brightness of the sun!

Darkness of the caves rid of any light!

Darkness in the insides of your hearts and minds!

The ever-lasting darkness! The eternal loneliness!

Hope, for the end of the darkness!

mustafa

a monologue

When creating a piece, Mustafa Latif is much more than a ceramicist: he’s an innovator.

A

by Mustafa Latif portrait by Ekansh Tambe

t the beginning of any project, I develop a list of drawings and references based on the proposal I have for my project. After I get an idea of what I want to create, I research images that I can use as a reference to help me construct the piece to the way I imagine it. For my projects, I tend to throw rounded vase forms with skinny necks, so I draw inspiration from the work of other artists who create similar pieces. The first physical step for any project is wedging. Wedging is similar to kneading dough, and it is so important for a few reasons: it removes any air pockets inside the clay which can cause the piece to explode in the kiln, and it allows for the clay body to become uniform.

After wedging, I shape the clay into a ball to get ready to throw my form. At the wheel, I make sure I have a bucket of water and my tools consisting of a sponge, needle tool, a wire, and ribs: pieces of rubber that help to shape the piece, and a bat: a wooden disc that I place in between the wheel head and the clay I am throwing.

After the ball of clay is on the bat, the first step of throwing is centering, probably the most important step.

Without a centered piece, the form will be lopsided and crooked, and an off-centered piece from the beginning will bring more problems later in the throwing process. To center, I sponge water onto the ball of clay while the wheel is spinning and slowly squeeze my hands around the clay to get it centered. I use one hand from the side to compress the clay toward the center of while my other hand compresses it from above. This creates a shape similar to a hockey puck. As soon as it is centered, I make a hole in the top until about a quarter of an inch from the bottom; this creates the floor of the piece. I open the hole wider, compress the clay on the floor so no cracks show up later. To pull the walls, I pinch from both inside and outside of the pieces and bring the clay up. Continuously adding water allows for a smooth pull, and when I get the walls to around a quarter of an inch, I have a cylinder that will be the base for my pot. Once the clay dries a little more, I use the ribs to create a curve in the piece that follow my vase form and a small neck. When I reach my desired form, I use the wire to cut the vase off the bat and wait for it to dry.

As soon as the piece dries a little more, it is ready to trim.

I flip the piece over and place it on a chuck, a form that will hold the piece securely on the wheel without ruining the 125

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Opposite, Bamboo, clockwise from top, Dusk, Cove, Boris, Blossom, Rocket Man, Mustafa Latif ’21

neck, making sure it is centered. I then take trimming tools with blades on the ends to shave away excess clay on the bottom of the piece and create a foot for the piece. The piece is now ready to go into the kiln. After the first firing, the piece is now bisqued and is ready to glaze. In my recent work, I have been using crystalline glazes, glazes that are overfired and slowly cooled to produce crystal growth. These glazes contain a high concentration of zinc compared to other glazes, and this zinc starts the crystal formation. I make all my crystalline glazes from scratch. Using a glaze recipe, I carefully measure out the different ingredients and add water. I put the mixture into a blender to break up the larger chunks of substances, and then I sieve the mixture to remove any final large particles. I brush the glaze onto my pieces after they are fired in the kiln, and after the glaze is applied, I prepare the piece for the glaze firing. In addition to adding the glaze, I also need to ensure I have a glaze catcher for the piece. I usually make a catcher after I trim and make the foot on my vase so that it fits to each piece. To make the catcher, I center the piece and open a hole, but I also open a small trench in the clay to make a sort of well to catch the glaze. I only pull the wall around the center hole so that it creates a pedestal, and I open it as wide as the dimensions of the foot. A glaze catcher is necessary since crystalline glazes run off the piece a lot, and a catcher prevents the vase from fusing to the shelf in the kiln.

Once the piece is glazed and on the catcher, I put it in the kiln again to glaze fire it. When the piece comes out of the kiln, I take a blowtorch and heat up the seam between the piece and catcher to break the piece off. I then use a water grinder with different grit sanders to smooth the bottom of the piece off. Although the piece is now finished, there are multiple post-firing processes that can further alter the results of the glaze. For some pieces, I leave the piece finished after the firing, but others, I fire again with a reduction kiln atmosphere, which means that there is less oxygen in the kiln. This process helps to alter the colors of the glaze and crystals and brings out reds in the pieces. Another process, acid etching, is also used to change the colors of the glaze and crystals, and this process allows chemicals in the glaze to be leached off the piece by the acid, brightening the colors of the glaze and crystals. From start to finish, the process of creating a crystalline-glazed piece is very detailed and requires attention to detail at each step, and when completed carefully, the results are stunning.

Ceramics is an incredibly tactile medium.

There’s something about creating a beautiful form from mud and clay that speaks to me.

Mustafa Latif ’21

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He came out of the collective unconscious of people, a sentient manifestation of humanity’s hopes and wishes as well as their hidden secrets and desires.

Wraith, Oliver Lambert ’24

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Sweet Dreams

by Han Zhang ’21

I

n the end, they called me Death.

As it turns out, sleep is a lot like death. Not in a scientific sense, but from a mortal point of view. It’s hard to convince yourself that every time you fall asleep, you’ll wake up the next morning. Children aren’t afraid of the dark; they’re afraid of the monsters waiting for them. Monsters that can only get them when they’re asleep. Of course, it’s easy to tell yourself that monsters aren’t real. It’s just as easy to point out that you could be wrong, and that— A long time ago, in a land far, far away, a man was born.

He came out of the collective unconscious of people, a sentient manifestation of humanity’s hopes and wishes as well as their hidden secrets and desires. With him came a kingdom of his own, populated by living dreams and shaped by his whims. To an outside observer it might seem to look like a castle one moment, then somehow disperse and reappear as a beachfront the next. The image had somehow changed, but when pressed to describe exactly how the change occurred, any person might find it difficult to explain, including the king himself. As a matter of fact, no one knew how the kingdom had even begun in the first place. As far as its citizens were concerned, the kingdom existed now, had existed in the past, and would exist in the future.

The king ruled with justice and benevolence, and his people revered him. Often, he would go on long, unannounced trips, leaving his vizier in charge. The king never explained where he was going or for what reason, and none of his subjects ever thought to ask. Each time the king returned, he looked weary, worn, and weak. Once, after the king had returned from a particularly long journey, his vizier approached him. “Sire, where do you go? These trips, they cannot be beneficial to your health. As the voice of the people, I beseech you, do not continue these excursions. Stay here.

Focus on your country and your people.”

At first, the king did not respond. Then he walked over to the window— People used to fear me. I was the bogeyman, a nightmare story that parents told their children to make them behave. It was said that I rubbed sand in children’s eyes, that I plucked out their eyeballs, that I brought them to my children on the moon, who feasted on the organs of sight. The story is wrong.

I never had children. I never will.

I’m sure the eyeballs are still somewhere in the palace depths.

It has been a long time since anyone has called me by any name. I used to have many: Hypnos, Moș Ene, le bonhomme Sept-heur, Ole Lukøje. In Egypt, they called me Khonsu, god of the moon. In India, I was Ratri, goddess of night.

The Arab tribes knew me as Al-Qaum, god of night and the guardian of caravans. Some simply called me the Sandman.

No one has called me Sandman for many years now. But for some reason, that name was always my favorite. I liked the

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idea of placing sand in people’s eyes, giving them good dreams. In a lighter time, I might have done it. Now, however— “Now you see why I must go,” finished the king. The vizier hesitantly agreed. It was absolutely necessary; he saw that now.

Despite the fact that he had just heard it, he could no longer recall the exact explanation, although he remembered that it had made perfect sense at the time.

“Good,” said the king. He began to walk away from the vizier, then turned back.

“Since you are so interested, I should let you know that I will be leaving again soon. I will not be back for some time.” The vizier began to protest, but to no avail. The king brushed off his minister’s concerns, saying: “You have heard my explanation. That is all I will say on the matter. Good night.” The vizier stood dumbly as the king exited. Over the next two days and nights, the vizier sent his servants to spy on the king to find out when the king was leaving and where he was going. Each time, the servants reported back to him that they could find out nothing.

On the third day, the vizier sent his cleverest servant, a girl named Morgiana, to spy on the king. That evening, she returned, breathless, to the vizier. After giving her a moment to recover, he eagerly asked if she had found any information. She informed the vizier that the king would leave that very night, and that she could help the vizier follow the king in secret, although she did not know where the journey would take them. The vizier agreed immediately and began making preparations for a long trip.

“Tonight,” he chuckled to himself. “Tonight is the night when I will finally discover—” It took me a long time to realize that I was not a god. After all, they made offerings to me. They chanted prayers in my name.

They worshipped me, and in return, I gave them nothing. That’s what gods do, right?

They didn’t expect me to do anything. I was a god. I simply was. Just like a fire, or a hurricane, or any other force of nature. I existed, and that was good enough for them.

They took me for granted, treated me as they would any other force of nature. With respect, awe even, but never in their minds was there any doubt that I existed. I soon learned that this reverence would not last.

As they spread, multiplied, grew, generations upon generations upon generations of humans, I watched over them.

Eventually, they forgot me. They invented a new religion, something called science, and I watched as others like me were explained into nonexistence. They invented words like “sleep apnea,” “narcolepsy,” “REM.” I 130

No one dreams. No one wakes. They have stolen my soul, and in return, I have given them everything.

Aftermath, Charlie Estess ’23

I pass from one dream to the next, each one watched helplessly as my palace, my universe, just as dark and featureless as the last. No everything that I had built, was torn down by the very humans who had given it to me. As I one dreams. No one wakes. They have stolen my soul, and in return, I have given them watched, my anger grew. everything. All the sleep they could want, Who were they to take away my power? from the beginning of time to the very end of Who were they to deny my existence? In their miserable, petty lives. They should not the end, I decided to punish them. They deserved it, the blasphemous ingrates. Before, have forgotten me. That is their last mistake.

They deserved it. They deserved it. They I might have chosen differently. Before, I deserved— might have— As they passed from one dark wasteland Later that night, after everyone else to the next, the vizier ventured a question: in the palace had gone to bed, Morgiana “If I may be so bold, my king, what is the crept silently out of the vizier’s bedchamber, purpose of our journey?” The king thought followed closely by the vizier himself. for a few moments, responding: “A question, Together they stole into the king’s bedroom, then, as an answer to yours. Where do you only to find the bed empty and the window think we are right now?” The vizier, looking open. Morgiana motioned the vizier over around him, shrugged and said he did not to the window and pointed at the rope of know. knotted sheets that cascaded to the ground “This is the dreamland, my dear friend. below. He looked at her, looked down, Tell me, what do you see?” blanched, and looked back at her. She “Nothing, my king,” said the vizier. sighed and began climbing smoothly down “Exactly,” said the king. “My people do the makeshift rope. When she reached the not dream anymore. They have no need to. ground, she looked up and motioned for Why should they, when everything that they the vizier to follow her. He clambered down awkwardly, and they quickly pursued the king, could ever dream of is already provided for them in the wondrous kingdom I created?” who was nearly out of sight.

The vizier had no response. The king Morgiana and the vizier followed in the pulled the ruby from his pouch, and the wake of the king as he prowled through the vizier noted as he did so that the pouch was streets of the kingdom, eventually ending in filled with a fine, silver sand. “Look into this a dark alley. They crouched in the shadowy ruby,” commanded the king, “and tell me entrance and watched curiously as he strolled what you see.” The vizier looked, and in the to the end of the alleyway and sat down on a glimmering facets of the ruby, he saw people. pile of bricks.

Thousands upon thousands of people, all The king turned to face the wall, saying: of them asleep. Some of the faces looked “Open.” It was not a command. It was an familiar, and one face in particular stood out observation. Where once there had been a to him. wall, there was a door. The vizier turned to It was the face of Morgiana, sprawled Morgiana, to confirm whether he was seeing out in the middle of the street, asleep. “B-but things or if a door had just appeared in place how?” spluttered the vizier. “She left just of a wall. Her face was pale, and she was minutes ago!” shaking. “This is where I leave you, my lord,” The king shrugged. “I have made them she whispered. “Sorcery is far too much sleep. They will not wake unless I say so. And for me. Guiding you is something I can do I will never say so.” only when I understand where or what I am The vizier, confused and panicked, asked: guiding you to.” With that, she fled, leaving the vizier to watch as the king removed from “But what of my family? My wife and children?

My king, surely you would not punish all of his robe three curious objects: a helm of your people. I promise, whatever we have pure darkness, which he placed on his head, done to earn your ire, we can fix it. I beg you, a pouch, which he secured at his side, and a please, do not do this!” ruby, which he placed in the pouch.

The king was silent— As the king pushed open the door, he It is time to go. I will leave, this time for turned back towards the entrance of the good. And, before I depart, I will turn back alleyway. “Come out, Vizier, my friend. You one last time and say— were so curious about my journeys. Now I As the vizier crumpled to the ground, will permit you to come with me on one of snoring, the king turned back and said— them.”

Good night.

The vizier stood up, his muscles sore In the beginning, they called me the from his pursuit of the king, and— Sandman.

Soon I will be leaving this world. There Now, they call me nothing. is not much for me to do here, not anymore.

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by Aayan Khasgiwala ’21

The mountains tall, the valleys deep The wildlife thrives; some jump, some creep.

How beautiful is nature’s view Yet something in the woods still weeps.

Two souls they fight, both young and blue, A tragic tale for none to view The woods see what can’t be undone As the boy, the other one slew.

And as the bullet leaves his gun, He thinks, was he a father, brother, or son?

But time flies, body lain on stone And ‘tis history, what’s done, done.

As the other’s blood drips from bone, He lies there, silent, alone Both souls forgotten and unknown, Both souls forgotten and unknown.

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Valor

ard , Hayw e s r u ’s C

lf ’23 Metca

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Be a Man, Jerry Zhao ’21

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by Ian Dalrymple ’22

I behold as I brush my teeth A reflection, yet unclear I wipe away the mist and see A stranger in the mirror He stares at me, I stare at he We lend ourselves an ear He is not what he seems to be The stranger in the mirror He laughs and jokes, he bawls and chokes But what does he hold dear What he keeps close, he does not know The stranger in the mirror His friends do care, or so he thinks Until he draws them near Then in their eyes, he sees his lies The stranger in the mirror He has known love, he has known pain, But still he feels a strange disdain Bound by constant, cyclic change The stranger in the mirror He does not talk to family nor friends. Despite his poetry, I think: Will he even answer me?

The stranger in the mirror He stares at me, I stare at he We shed a single tear His time is gone, it’s up to me, The stranger in the mirror.

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David Lynch, Art Instructor Kate Wood

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Drawing & Painting

Having a project to return to day after day helps with the stresses of academic life.

gallery

Adam Wang ’22

Clockwise from top, An Unlikely Perch, Antonio Quiñones ’21; Morgan Freeman, Holden Browning ’24 137

The Drawing & Painting program offers Upper and Middle School Marksmen the opportunity to learn the fundamentals of drawing and painting, across various media.

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gallery

Opposite, Fleeting, Adam Wang ’22; clockwise from top, Melt, Thumbs Up, Cooper Cole ’22 139

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photos by Blake Hudspeth ’21 a cohesive set

insecurities

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We believe the world worships perfection, discriminates against flaws, and critiques differences.

Blake Hudspeth ’21

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alam & sam

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editors’ notes

Friendship, hard work, and bone-dry humor in a wild year.

A

bout a third of the way through our final two weeks of very-late-night work sessions that marked our attempts to birth a fully-formed magazine, Sam and I began to resemble an old married couple. We’d bicker good-naturedly about what to put where and why, finish each other’s sentences, and mimic the other’s idiosyncrasies. But we were determined to get the thing done (and there were many colorful adjectives that preceded ‘thing’) and we shared a vision for getting there.

At least when it came to Marque, that was a new feeling for me. Marque had always loomed in the distance: too professional for the freshman or the sophomore or the junior or even the freshly starched senior who saw the magazines of previous years on library shelves or classroom tables and thought about just how difficult it would be to imitate (much less surpass) them. What I hadn’t realized was that it would keep looming, even as other milestones—seeing my classmates in blue shirts, taking those first few shaky steps with my senior buddy across the quad—zipped by. Marque kept looming, in fact, all the way to that final two week sprint, where it took an odd and stumbling metamorphosis into the magazine that you’re holding right now.

My point in telling you all this isn’t particularly profound: things end—sooner and more abruptly than you would ever expect them to. But it’s certainly something that I wish I’d known when I got that email last summer telling me I’d be half the team that was going to take this on—not that I could or would finish Marque, but that one day, I’d miss it, and that I should postpone that day for as long as I could.

So thank-you. To my parents, for their incredible support, love, and tolerance for late nights that’s powered me through not just this magazine but all of my 12 years at St. Mark’s.

To Mrs. Schwartz and Mr. Stanbury, who gave us the freedom we needed while also keeping our worst instincts in check. And, of course, to Sam, without who’s consistent and immense efforts this magazine would never have seen light.

– Alam Alidina

I

have a joke with my friend Buck about going to a mental place I call “the Shadow Realm.” You probably know it as “being exhausted,” or “a little out of it today,” but I’ve always had a flair for the theatrical.

As of this note, I have been in the Shadow Realm for nearly three weeks. And it’s been absolutely worth it. Much ink has already been spilled lamenting the trials of covid, and I’m not here to do that. What I will say is that when I opened the email from Mrs. Schwartz congratulating me and Alam on the editorship, I knew we would have to make drastic changes. Where previously design nights had involved pizza, exorbitant amounts of cola, and around 20 guys packed into the Marque suite, this year we had a classroom, socially-distanced schooldesks, and our laptops. You can imagine the turnout.

Despite these challenges, we’ve completed a 150-page magazine. And as I write this, I’m not proud of a number, or a Gold Crown, or any one spread in the magazine. I’m inspired by the creative passion that drove our small cohort of designers to each design night and pushed Alam and me to stay up in the Marque suite until 10pm for the past two weeks—hence the Shadow Realm.

Alam, without your creative moments, I would not have even known where to start this year. Who would’ve thought that the kid sitting next to me in J-1 would be my co-editor and a close friend. Mom and Dad, thank you so much for enabling me to finish this magazine. For heating up dinner for me after late-night design sessions, reminding me I have spin class the next morning at 5am, and checking in to make sure I was ok during this final stretch.

This magazine reflects months of hard work from the staff, editors, and sponsors. I hope you enjoyed this 150-page compilation of arts and letters. Art has a funny way of allowing you to look in your soul; perhaps, you learned something about yourself in the process. I know I did. And I think that’s downright remarqueable.

– Sam Morgan 145

editors-in-chief Alam Alidina ’21 Sam Morgan ’21 managing editor William “Bill” Piazza IV ’21 creative directors Tamal Pilla ’21 Ekansh Tambe ’22 associate editors Adam Wang ’22 Noah Cathey ’24 staff Morgan Chow ’23 Max Chuang ’22 Silas Hosler ’23 Keshav Krishna ’23 Sampath Rapuri ’22 Soham Verma ’22 Jonathan Yin ’22

special thanks Scott Hunt John Frost Kate Wood Scott Ziegler James Barragan Joe Milliet Danielle Clayton David Brown John Endres Kevin Boone St. Mark’s Security and Staff David Dini issue ______ of 450

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10600, Sal Hussain ’23

advisors Lynne Schwartz Geoffrey Stanbury

Mission

In 1962, John Glenn became the first American to orbit the Earth. That same year, another (marginally less famous) American founded Marque. We’ve grown into something that looks much more like a proper magazine in the 58 years since. But our purpose hasn’t changed: we’re a staff of designers publishing student submissions in art and literature.

Policy

Marque is an independent, after-school, extracurricular acvitity that works independently from the St. Mark’s journalism program. All written and visual content is welcomed and considered equally for publication. Throughout the year, literary and artistic works from our 408-person Upper School student-body are submitted by students and faculty members and selected by our staff members. 450 copies are produced and distributed during or after class to Upper School students and faculty. This publication is submitted annually for evaluation to the Columbia Scholastic Press Association (CSPA) and the National Scholastic Press Association (NSPA). All content is original.

Colophon

Marque is printed by J. Culley Imaging. The cover is 100# McCoy Silk Cover, printed 4/4 in four-color process inks plus overall soft-touch aqueous. Text is 80# Mohawk Options Text printed 4/4 in four-color process inks. Binding is PUR glue perfect binding. The Staff used Adobe InDesign, Photoshop, and Illustrator CC 2021 on 27-inch Retina 5k display iMacs to design spreads. Typefaces include: Eklips for feature text; Athletics for titles, quotations, and bylines; ITC Galliard Pro for body text (all in multiple weights and styles). The theme was selected by the Editors-in-Chief.

Contact

St. Mark’s School of Texas 10600 Preston Road, Dallas, TX 75230 Care of Lynne Schwartz phone 214-346-8126 fax 214-346-8002 marque@smtexas.org The 59th volume of Marque was published on May 13, 2021.

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closing

We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time.

The Four Quartets, T.S. Eliot 148

Dreamscape, Akash Munshi ’23

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a magazine of arts & letters vol. 59 2021

ne perceive create imagine perceive create imagin