The Marque | 2016

THE MARQUE

THE MARQUE MAGAZINE OF ARTS & LETTERS St. Mark’s School of Texas 10600 Preston Road Dallas, Texas 75230 www.smtexas.org (214)-346-8000

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THE MARQUE 2016

DEDICATION

BILL KYSOR A

TEACHER. A MENTOR. A ROLE-MODEL. Bill Kysor can be described using any of these terms. But one word is missing from that list – one word that perhaps most aptly characterizes Kysor: friend. Always smiling and glowing with joy, Kysor exemplifies the idea that a teacher can be more than just a teacher.

In 1969, Kysor began his journey at St. Mark’s – not as a ceramics teacher, but as an instructor for a basic art class. One fine day, however, he decided to give a lesson in ceramics, trying something completely new. Soon it became clear that he was, and still is, a natural. Developing his skills and abilities alongside his students each and every day, the artist eventually established a ceramics program at St. Mark’s. With this program, Kysor was able to continue to make his own beautiful pieces of art and teach young men how to do the same.

Even though he’s a teacher, Kysor hasn’t stopped learning. He continuously grows as an artist and as a teacher, demonstrating his immense and always-growing passion for the art of ceramics. As much as he cares about ceramics, Kysor cares just as much about the students he teaches. He is always concerned about his students, and if he senses that something is amiss, he genuinely wants to help.

Moreover, Kysor is an honest friend. He is not afraid to be blunt when giving feedback, because he knows that the truth will only help his students improve.

Thank you, Mr. Kysor. Thank you for being a caring teacher. Thank you for being a guiding mentor.

Thank you for being a remarkable role model. Thank you for being a great friend. You will always be remembered here at 10600 as much more than just a teacher. Thank you for all that you have done for your students and for the St. Mark’s community. You have centered us – you’ve given us so much.

Now it’s our turn to make the opening and pull, just as you’ve taught us. As just a small token of our gratitude and appreciation for your immense impact on the St. Mark’s community as a whole, we would like to dedicate this 54th volume of The Marque to you, Mr. Kysor.

f a t S e u q r a The M

–The Marque Staff, 2016

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THE MARQUE 2016

on the concept ON THE CONCEPT

F

OR CENTURIES, HUMAN BEINGS HAVE PONDERED, questioned and wondered about the mysteries of the universe.

From exploring new continents to trekking great rainforests, from climbing Everest to setting foot on the moon, from diving thousands of feet under the sea to launching probes to the deepest parts of our solar system, the human race has successfully explored all that it has set its mind to explore. Over the years, the human mind has solved every puzzle except one: itself. As perhaps life’s greatest irony, the subconscious remains, and probably will remain, a mystery to us. Despite decades of thought and research and countless tests and experiments, we cannot vividly portray a completely accurate image of the subconscious. The subconscious is not simply a component of our body with a constant function, such as the heart or the kidney, but is rather a fluid manifestation of our perceptions of ourselves and our surroundings—a seemingly impossible, yet realistic, blend of fiction and reality, a magically artificial construction of our ideas and emotions.

This literary and arts magazine attempts to shed light upon its concept of the subconscious, developed through the use of the staff’s collective imagination. By fusing the works of various writers and artists into a unique interpretation, The Marque hereby presents a picture of the subconscious. In the four sections, each of which possesses a specific color identity and works pertaining to its theme, we present the different aspects of the subconscious: daydream, fantasy, nightmare, and limbo.

We hope that you will enjoy this magazine and take our presentation of the subconscious as an opportunity to reflect on your own. Unlike many of the great wonders of the universe, the subconscious must be analyzed on an individual level to gain the best understanding of its functioning, so we wish for you to use these works as catalysts that will stimulate your own thoughts of your emotions, ideas, life, being, and existence.

–Akshay Malhotra ‘16, Managing Editor

ON THE ARTWORK

T

HE HUMAN SUBCONSCIOUS IS A NEURAL FRAMEWORK, governed by seemingly random electrochemical impulses in the brain, that manages to condense infinitely complex concepts into their simplest constituent parts. The subconscious allows us to build magnificently intricate monuments to human ingenuity, but instead of tedious, exacting blueprints, it contains amorphous ideas, the concentrated quintessence of thought on which all our achievement is based. Art of the subconscious does not directly state some great, convoluted concept. Instead, such an idea is tackled indirectly by presenting its foundation and defining elements and allowing the brain to connect the dots.

This year, we aimed to create artwork that spoke to the reader’s subconscious on a fundamental level, invoking with each page a complex idea or emotion through uncomplicated means. Our graphic design this year took a minimalist turn, emphasizing ethereal graphics, geometric elements, and uncomplicated colors. Literary works, however, inherently speak a language more complex than the native tongue of the human brain. Our magazine aims to take the reader on a journey through the subconscious by appealing to mankind’s most primitive cognition; to process letters in such a way, we emphasize the strong thematic connections among graphics, artwork, and literature, giving each spread its own unique mood.

Daydream, fantasy, nightmare, limbo. The subconscious knows these concepts well, but the upper-level brain cannot grasp their infinite complexity. It is our hope that our magazine will bridge the gap, unifying basal intuition with creative thought. The amorphous art of the subconscious, in its apparent simplicity, is more intricate than we could ever imagine.

–Andrew Chuka ‘17, Creative Director

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THE MARQUE 2016

TABLE OF CONTENTS

DAYDREAM

FANTASY

Shailen Parmar

28

Fantasy

Kevin He

30

String Wielder

Noah Koecher

Flowers

Drew Baxley

32

Turning Back

Killian Green

12

Flight 811

Tim O’Meara

33

Bright Trees

Kevin Feng

12

Enchanted

Arno Goetz

34

Adagio in G Minor

Tim Skapek

14

Trees

Alden James

36

Showcase

Woodworking

15

My Domain Ends

Alden James

38

On the Way to School

Michael Mosle

16

Showcase

Photography

40

Marina

18

Wolf’s Bane

Will Clark

40

A Bene Placito

20

Movement Two

Aidan Maurstad

41

My Father’s Trains

21

Twist Light

Alden James

42

Ode to Filling Things

22

Mr. O’Brien

Arno Goetz

43

Jungle

23

Drown

Andrew Chuka

44

Feathers in the Air

24

Memories of George

8

Daydream

10

Dangling Flower

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Andrew Lin

Joon Park

Drew Baxley Andrew Chuka Blake Daugherty Cal Rothkrug Kamal Mamdani Kevin He

NIGHTMARE

LIMBO

48

Nightmare

Cameron Bossalini

68

Limbo

Kannan Sharma

50

Perfection

Killian Green

70

Kolkata

Josh Bandopadhay

52

Love

Gopal Raman

71

Kolkata Illustration

54

Chosen

Austin Montgomery

72

Pollen

55

Dark Ravine Portfolio

Michael Liang

73

Autumnal Rebirth

56

Showcase

Portraits and Paintings

74

Showcase

58

The Shadow of the Day

Omar Rana

76

A Close Shave

Philip Smart

59

Caulifire

Drew Baxley

77

Down Mountain

Nico Sanchez

60

Portrait of My Thoughts

Rahul Maganti

78

Mask of Myself

Kevin Choi

60

Alone on a Pier

Kevin Feng

79

The End of a Rope

62

Without Mercy

Brent Weisberg

80

Flickering Light

63

Beaten

Drew Baxley

82

Showcase

Ceramics

64

Deceptive Unity

Patrick Magee

84

17 Candles

Aiden Blinn

64

Crevices

Michael Liang

86

Hannah’s Last Waltz

Jonah Simon

65

Ode to Common Things

Daniel Garcia

86

Colour

Rob Crow

87

The Takedown

Eric Martin

Abhi Thummala Drew Baxley André Arsenault Film

Alden James Sahit Dendekuri

THE MARQUE 2016

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I tried to create a contrast between the brighter false-color portrait and the more clouded, darker background of the school. I painted the eyes closed to lead the viewer to think that the background represents his reality while he daydreams of a world that only exists in his mind.

–Shailen Parmar ‘17 on how Daydream inspired his painting

I SIT IN THE CLASSROOM, TRYING TO PAY ATTENTION to the lecture, but it’s no use—my mind is not in the classroom with me. I wander off into my safe haven, where I can think whatever I want with no one to judge, no one to comment. I dream about what I was, what I can be. I think of what the future holds for me, not worried in the slightest about what I am in the present. Why should I care about right now? I’m in my peaceful kingdom of daydream, where I can think and dream of whatever I want. Oh, what a beautiful place this is: colors of all different hues take over, pushing me further and further into my reverie. Nothing can wake me now. I am in a most pleasant land, where I wander with my thoughts—no one else. The bright spring sun tries to penetrate my closed eyelids, but I am hopelessly lost in the realm of daydreams. The daydream has consumed me.

– Josh Bandopadhay ‘17

D A Y D R E A M

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THE MARQUE 2016

DANGLING FLOWER

I

KEVIN HE ‘16 POETRY

live upon a dangling flower Twisting and turning upon the hour I spin and dance with petals awhirl Until I’ve spun about an endless twirl With the stems and roots about my legs Hanging beneath the pollen pegs But as the flower begins to blossom and bloom The hour begins to devour and consume Until nothing is left but me upon the twisted flower Dangling above the endless hour

Inspiration comes at weird times.

After being up for 20 hours, this poem blossomed from the roots of my near-insanity. With my mind in a mess, what better way to finish the night than to twirl and whirl?

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PHOTOGRAPHY DREW BAXLEY ’16 | FLOWERS PHOTOGRAPHY

THE MARQUE 2016

ARNO GOETZ ’16 | ENCHANTED PHOTOGRAPHY

C

aptain James Smith walked into the 747’s cockpit with a throbbing headache. Even though he wasn’t allowed to drink within a day of flying, he had anyway, his cravings too strong, his liquid escape too convenient. He knew he would have to hide his hangover behind his aviator sunglasses to avoid his copilot’s suspicions. He had, at least, made it unquestioned past all of the United Airlines employees in the Honolulu airport.

Just behind Captain Smith, First Officer Michael Johnson walked deliberately, excited about his first transpacific 747 flight. He tried to make conversation with his veteran companion as they went through their preflight checks, but to no avail: “How’s your day been?”

“Fine.”

“Have you flown to Auckland before? I heard New Zealand’s a really cool place.”

“Yes.” “Is something wrong?” Michael asked, worried that his companion’s demeanor could cause problems during the flight.

“Just tired.”

With that, the pilots finished their final checks in silence and prepared the cabin for takeoff. The tooquick maintenance signoff came from an apathetic shift manager, and the plane was cleared to pull

back. As they taxied toward the runway, the only ists,” James responded, now fully awake and hiding words that escaped James’s mouth were apathetic his panic behind a level tone. moans to air traffic control and a quick, emotionless Michael left the cockpit and looked in horror in-flight announcement to the passengers about the downstairs into the main cabin. A gaping hole in the 9-hour flight. It was finally time to fly. Michael hid fuselage greeted his eyes; several previously occuhis internal ecstasy, trying not to irritate his hungov- pied seats were no longer there, the occupants now er companion any more than he already had. in the water below. Passengers seated nearby were Five minutes after the plane had taken off, James screaming in terror as the plane descended quickly, looked over at his copilot and told him: “I’m going to their seatbelts the only tether keeping them from take a nap since I’m exhausted. It’s your flight now. being sucked out of the plane and falling five miles You’ll be fine.” into the ocean. Knowing that the safety of the rest “All right…” Michael hesitantly replied, knowing of the passengers was much more important than his that the plane’s autopilot would cover most of the fear of falling, Michael sprinted down the opposite work anyway. aisle as best he could, looking for the air marshal as As his companion dozed off, the First Officer sat he went. back in his sheepskin seat and prepared for an easy He couldn’t find him no matter where he looked, flight, zoning out as he thought about how proud his so he scanned row after row of seats, trying to find family would be when he told them about his trip. the suspect without any help. James’s earlier comAn hour later, a loud grinding bang and the ensument about terrorists in his mind, Michael focused ing loud beep from a pressure gauge jolted him out on a Middle Eastern man whose seat was on the of his daydream. Captain Smith was still fast asleep, opposite side of the plane from the hole and much not even stirring. further back. He must’ve sat there because he knew “James! James! James! Wake up! I think a bomb his bomb would go off on the other side, Michael just exploded in the cargo hold!” Michael shouted at thought as he stormed toward the passenger, his companion, shaking the sleeping pilot as hard as screaming, “Why did you blow up this plane? Where he thought was safe. are the other bombs? Are you with ISIS?” “Whaaaaat?”

Panic filled the man’s eyes as Michael charged “Something just blew up! What do we do?” toward him. Soon the passenger was handcuffed and “Let me deal with the flying.

Go find the air FLIGHT ATTENDANTS BEGAN RIPPING TAPE marshal and figure OFF HIS ARMS, TAKING ALL OF HIS HAIR out who brought the bomb. It’s WITH IT AS THEY TRIED TO FORCE THE TRUTH probably another ABOUT THE BOMBS OUT OF HIM. one of those Muslim terror-

FLIGHT SHORT STORY

TIM O’MEARA ‘16

duct taped to his seat as his fellow passengers turned on him, seeking revenge and answers to prevent another explosion and certain death. Flight attendants began ripping tape off his arms, taking all of his hair with it as they tried to force the truth about the bombs out of him. Michael continued to shout at him and interrogate him while the man insisted, “I have no idea what you’re talking about! Please let me go! I’m just as scared as the rest of you!”

STILL THIRTY MINUTES OUT FROM THE NEAREST AIRPORT, HE BEGAN TO REALIZE THAT THEY MIGHT NOT MAKE IT ALL THE WAY BACK. As those words left his mouth, the plane dipped and turned sharply. Everyone standing by the Muslim man fell sideways, screaming in panic as the plane’s motion threw them to the floor.

While Michael dealt with the suspected bomber, James shouted expletive after expletive as the plane refused to obey his commands. One minute, the plane would refuse to descend, and the next it would drop thousands of feet. He knew that with this little control over the altitude, the plane was a lame duck.

Still thirty minutes out from the nearest airport, he began to realize that they might not make it all the way back.

The water was approaching fast as Michael continued his brutal interrogation, still not getting any information from the man he was sure was responsible for the explosion. Just as the flight attendants began ripping the hair off of the man’s legs and whipping him with belts, Captain Smith came on over the loudspeaker: “First Officer Johnson is needed in the

cockpit immediately!”

With that, Michael left the flight attendants to continue the futile interrogation and forcefully sprinted up the stairs and into the cockpit. “What’s happening?” he asked James as he sat down, breathing rapidly from his dash.

“I think we’re going down before we make it back to Hawaii.”

“Are we going to die?”

“Don’t think about it. We need to make a water landing and try to get as many people off as possible.”

“Can we do that?”

“At this point, it’s all we can try.” With that, Captain Smith came on over the loudspeaker and, with the plane at an altitude of 5,000 feet, announced, in as calm a voice as he could manage, “We are going to have to land on the ocean. Brace for impact.” Even the closed cockpit door couldn’t dampen the shrill cries from within the cabin.

The plane shot down 1,000 feet and then lurched back up as the two pilots tried their best to control their hobbled plane. Suddenly, their upward pulls no longer lifted the plane. It shot down toward the tranquil blue water.

The next day, a search-and-rescue plane, flying over the site where the plane had last made contact with air traffic control, spotted a large piece of metal floating on the ocean’s surface with the form of what looked to be a man on it. Less than an hour later, a Coast Guard helicopter had pulled the Muslim man, clinging to life and badly injured, from the wreckage and transported him to a hospital. No other victims were among the floating wreckage.

When the Muslim man emerged from his coma just enough to be able to see and hear but not enough to move, he realized that he was chained to a hospital bed with two soldiers on either side. On the television above, his image took up the frame on CNN with the headline, “Suspected Islamist Terrorist Only Survivor in Plane Crash.” He couldn’t

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move, much less proclaim his innocence to the soldiers guarding him. With that image in his mind, he slipped back into a coma and never emerged, dying a week later.

WITH THAT IMAGE IN HIS MIND, HE SLIPPED BACK INTO A COMA AND NEVER EMERGED, DYING A WEEK LATER. A month after the Muslim man’s death, search boats managed to uncover the rest of the remains of that plane on the ocean’s floor. To their surprise, the front half of the fuselage was relatively intact, save for the giant hole that had ripped open and caused the crash in the first place. After listening to the black box recordings and examining the damaged parts they had recovered, investigators determined that the hole had been caused by a faulty cargo door latch: The large metal sheet had come undone and swung up into the fuselage with such force that it tore a giant hole resembling the damage a small bomb could cause. But it was too late; the Muslim man died thinking everyone saw him as a terrorist.

He was never able to convince the world, much less his fellow passengers, of his innocence.

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THE MARQUE 2016

MY DOMAIN ENDS AT THE TIP OF MY FINGERS ALDEN JAMES ’16 POETRY

ALDEN JAMES ’16 | TREES PHOTOGRAPHY

M

y domain ends at the tip of my fingers, At the bottoms of my soles, At the surface of my skin.

There begins a no man’s land, A vacuum of humanity.

But we are connected, you and I. As I reach out, I travel brutal crags, Endless marshes, Pure plains, And I become you.

The roads of human expression Are yet unpaved.

And I still travel on foot.

What of the rails, the highways?

Ah, my expression is base, But indeed it is human.

You scoff at a stiff embrace, A stilted greeting, A limp handshake.

But what else is human?

These roads scarcely travelled Are rife with detours, Dead ends, potholes.

So what is my true expression?

It is a love that transcends stars.

No smoke signals, No lights.

Simple, instantaneous love For a world aflame.

I take a step. It hurts.

But I take more and more.

Why? To give my self.

I have conquered a pain blinding, A mental lassitude paralyzing, An isolation from my world Unparalleled on the Alpine peaks.

But I strive forth.

I’ve thought to quit.

Halfway through, At one thousand meters, In January, In the doldrums of life.

But, hell, I did it once.

Let’s do it again.

I have before sung of your light.

But what of your darkness?

A hearth unkindled Promises for me life immortal.

Perhaps my flame grows Too high for A mortal frame.

But perhaps as I reach an apex, As the world bends before My crumbling will, The shower of sparks and flame As I return to my place, Will incite rage, passion, And a million other fires.

When my flame sputters, And signals the end, I will recline on my deathbed And gaze up at galaxy of stars, A cosmos of me, A Universe of fires inherited and bestowed.

I only originate a few candles In this symphony of light.

But all the rest are mine regardless.

The mural of the sky Will represent a battle won Not by me, but by us.

So shine, my friends.

Bright dull, short, quick, Take inspiration from conflagrations past And take up the falling standard.

Personal flames drown in the dark, So band together to live.

Abhor the darkness of our world, And spread pools of light Across the darkened ballroom of life.

Scale peaks, scour ocean floors, Bring forth the torch weakly as individuals, But powerfully as one.

And what of me?

The one unsure of destiny, Quaking at a fate unknown But certain of pain prophesized.

I do what I can, But to what end?

Am I a match meant not to survive, But to hand down flame?

Or an effigy to mankind Created solely to burn?

We soon will see.

But I will push and drive And step forth into the vastness In a hope of the future.

Surely my shell will empty But I will live on.

We all will.

Dry your tears, Stifle sobs, Set your eyes Upon a flame, any flame.

Forget the thousand natural cruelties Of consciousness And ignore shooting pain.

Wipe away assaults on the mind And fortify a will to strive.

We will not yield, We will not lose hope, We will not sputter out of memory.

We will charge, We will drive, We will push Until there is nothing left!

And as our lifeless bodies fall, We will at last see The brightness of our future, The luster of our hope, And the undying power of a love afire.

THE MARQUE 2016

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PHOTOGRAPHY SHOWCASE 1

2

4

3

5

6

7

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1 Disney Concert Hall Arno Goetz ‘16

5 Promise Alden James ‘16

2 Open Chris McElhaney ‘18

6 Ascension Frank Thomas ‘17

3 Downtown Build Frank Thomas ‘17

7 Harmonica Dancer Arno Goetz ‘16

4 Sparks Drew Baxley ‘16

THE MARQUE 2016

K

WOLF’S BANE WILL CLARK ‘16 FICTION

etch Watson walked down the shady path to his house. It was a brisk morning, and the North Carolina sun dripped through the branches like honey and speckled the ground with light and dark.

He scratched the skin on his fingertips as he approached the small wooden cabin, not sure what was waiting for him inside. But as soon as Ketch walked into his house, he smelled it. The whiskey. He looked to the kitchen, to the chair his father always sat in.

There he was, taking another swig, one hand on the drink, one hand gripping his crutch.

And Ketch could tell by the nearly empty bottle that he was already drunk.

“Where you been, boy?” his father said, setting the bottle down on the table slowly. He looked up, and his shaggy hair fell over his sharp eyes. Hadn’t been cut in over a year. Hadn’t bathed in weeks.

Same dirty cotton shirt and denim suspenders he always wore.

He looked at his mother, who was washing dishes and keeping her head down. He could see a fresh bruise on her face. She was silent. The boy just stood there, staring into that dark corner of the kitchen where his father sat. “Pa, you’re drunk.”

His father didn’t react. He just replied, “Numbs the pain,” and tapped his crutch against his bad leg and cast his eyes to the ground. That had been his excuse for years. After the war that’s all he could talk about. The pain. The pain. The pain and the drink slowly tore the family apart.

“I asked you a question,” he said, looking up again.

Ketch stayed silent.

He paused for a moment, and then said, “Your Uncle Lewis said he saw you with that black girl last week.” He looked up at his son, snarling slightly.

“You been with her?”

“Don’t call her that, Willie,” his mother chimed in quietly. His father didn’t react.

“No,” Ketch replied, looking to the side.

“Don’t lie to me, boy! Where you been?” Willie yelled, aiming his crutch at his son.

Ketch clenched his fist and looked at the ground.

He wanted to hit his father. He could do it, too. His dad was so drunk it would be easy. But he couldn’t.

He knew his father would just take it out on his mother.

But something had to change.

“Yeah, I been with her,” Ketch said, “And her

name’s Bianca.”

The anger on his father’s face intensified. He held his stare and breathed heavily through his nostrils like a bull. Ketch was expecting an explosion.

“You won’t see her any more,” his father said slowly. “Or it’ll be the end of you.” He paused, “And her.”

No explosion, but the bomb was still ticking. It was silent for a minute. Willie took another swig, seeming satisfied with the point he had made.

His mother kept washing dishes. She’d been scrubbing the same one since Ketch came in. He grabbed the plate from her coarse hands and put it to the side, giving her a weak smile. She gave a weaker one back.

Ketch wanted to leave his home and run away with Bianca, but he couldn’t leave his mother. He’d

KETCH WANTED TO LEAVE HIS HOME AND RUN AWAY WITH BIANCA, BUT HE COULDN’T LEAVE HIS MOTHER. HE’D BE KILLING HER.

be killing her.

But something had to change.

Ketch turned around to face his father. “Bianca’s pregnant.” His voice trembled as he said it. The words hung in the air for a long time, and then his father spoke. His words had no emotion.

“Sit down,” his father said gently. Ketch looked at his father warily and then sat down in the dark corner, but the bright morning light still fell over his eyes.

Willie stabbed his crutch into Ketch’s foot. Ketch screamed, and then a bottle of whiskey cracked against his head. Blood and alcohol ran down his face and burned his eyes. He crumpled to the ground, and when his vision cleared, his father was on top of him, gripping his chin and pointing the broken bottle at his son’s face, inches above his head. “I won’t have no goddamn black-lover in my house!”

“Willie! Please!” his mother wailed.

Bianca bent over to smell some light purple flowers.

“Listen to me, boy, if you wanna live in this house She loved flowers and nature and pretty things.

– if you wanna live at all –you best get rid of that girl “Careful, Bianca,” Ketch warned. “Those are and her baby!” wolf’s bane flowers. They smell real nice, but they’ll Ketch saw his mother out of the corner of his eye, helplessly clutching her apron.

Crying. Screaming. Unable to move.

Amid the chaos, Willie whispered, “I think KETCH SAW HIS MOTHER OUT that little girlfriend of yours is about due for OF THE CORNER OF HIS EYE, a lynching, don’t you think?”

HELPLESSLY CLUTCHING HER “No. Pa, please,” Ketch begged. “She don’t deserve to die.”

APRON. CRYING. SCREAMING. “You wanna die for her?” his father UNABLE TO MOVE. pressed the broken glass into his son’s neck.

“Willie! Please! Stop!”

Father and son stared at each other.

Willie wouldn’t back down for anything now. kill you in a minute if you taste ’em.” Bianca jumped Something has to change, Ketch thought. Anyback with a little smile and a giggle and clutched thing. He looked at his enraged, drunk father and Ketch’s arm, resting her head on his shoulders. terrified mother. He thought of Bianca. He thought They kept walking until they got to the creek. of their baby.

Ketch wanted them to be somewhere happy when “Okay,” Ketch croaked out of his crushed windhe did it. Bianca looked at the creek and the fishes pipe. “I’ll do it.” in the water. She felt her belly and smiled, the water They held their stares until Willie slowly eased the clear, the sun bright, and the air crisp. glass off Ketch’s neck and tossed the bottle to the Ketch silently drew the gun from behind his back. side. It shattered against the floor.

He had made sure it was loaded before he even left His mother was still sobbing by the sink as his his front porch. He didn’t want Bianca to know what father got off his chest. Ketch wiped the blood from was coming. his face and neck. His father watched him the whole Ketch raised the gun, aiming at his victim’s time from behind a new bottle, of beer this time, and head, and he started to tremble and cry quietly. He undid his holster from his hip. thought of his mother.

When Ketch was cleaned up, the Colt revolver “I love you, Bianca,” he said, and pulled the was on the kitchen table. Everyone was staring at the trigger. gun. A tear ran down Ketch’s face as he picked it up Bianca screamed and turned around, but the and stuffed it in the back of his trousers. blood was already pooling. Ketch was dead.

He shuffled past his mother without looking. He Bianca flung herself on Ketch’s body and cried. couldn’t look at her. She couldn’t look at him. Just She held his head in her lap and stroked his bloodbefore he walked out the door, Ketch almost turned clumped hair, crying and saying his name and holding around. He almost fired a bullet straight through his lifeless body. his father’s heart. He almost did a lot of things, but She stayed there until it got dark. Until she’d he couldn’t move anywhere except out the door. cried all she could. Until the flies started buzzing.

He grabbed his black jacket and walked to Bianca’s Then she walked back along the path through the house, scratching the skin on his fingertips again. meadow and grabbed the pretty little purple flower *** with her red, bloodstained hands. Bianca returned to “Hi, baby,” Bianca said with a sweet southern the creek to be next to Ketch. He was right. They did smile. Her coffee-colored skin reflected the sunlight. smell nice.

She was shiny and happy and blissfully ignorant.

The couple held hands as they strode through a meadow down to their favorite spot, a secret creek.

THE MARQUE 2016

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MOVEMENT TWO

HAYDN CONCERTO IN G MAJOR

AIDAN MAURSTAD ‘16 POETRY

I

t’s not working.

I’m doing everything right but it’s not working.

I’m doing it all correctly.

I have all the Bowings;Finger positions;String crossings;Dynamics;etcetera; et cetera I have all of that but there’s something missing.

My playing is Hollow Trivial Insubstantial And any other number of mean art words.

It’s like air turned into sound.

No one wants to hear this.

It’s boring what am I even saying!

What am I even doing I’m not doing anything!

Not a single thing!

Not even A Single

A powdered wig, shrill laughs and champagne flutes I find myself painted into the room, Germaine relaxes, drinking to his doom I smell the scent of over ripened fruits And Haydn’s there, laughing at their disputes At all these people, soon to be entombed By luxury, so greedily consumed, He laces songs with jokes and mock salutes

And then I had it A scene, however stupid A story, wordless, characterless, but a story Arranged in my head With intricacies, facets, Little twists and idiosyncrasies that even I don’t know But my brain knows And once I had that My little slice of Old-Age Hell An in-joke with Haydn that I didn’t really get But played along with because I was hanging out with someone more popular I could fill up my piece with feeling Feeling Feeling everywhere Feeling felt in every note

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ALDEN JAMES ’16 | TWIST LIGHT PHOTOGRAPHY THE MARQUE 2016

ARNO GOETZ ‘16 | MR. O’BRIEN PHOTOGRAPHY

DROWN ANDREW CHUKA ‘17 POETRY

H

ey, chin up! It’s not so bad. You’ve got six, seven, maybe nine minutes tops.

The worst part is the first part–an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object.

You wildfire, you wrath incarnate, you frenetic, fervid Fury straining against the straitjacket, Your undying will to live has just been acquainted with the inevitability of death.

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Maybe you would last a little longer if you held your–

Very well, it’s your life, after all.

Congratulations, you’ve just evicted any remaining oxygen from your lungs.

A breathtaking spectacle: four liters of vivacious energy calmly mushrooming to the surface, Brilliant, shimmering capsules of vitality blossoming just out of reach of your abortive panic.

Something tells me you won’t let me take you until saltwater breaches your bronchi.

Do you realize just how gone you are? How close, and how far away? Why do you struggle?

Odd creature! I have you by the short-and-curlies, yet you’d battle me with your last breath.

You’re fading. I hope you realize that your contempt for death has only brought me closer.

I share this watery grave with billions of you, I live and breathe the swirling brine, My delicate dark fingers penetrating sand, stone, coral, I am shapeless, timeless, nowhere at once– But I can’t imagine what it’s like. All that wretched hope, all that suffering, Arrogant, ephemeral, vagabond soul beating against slowly glassing eyes.

Skulking through emotionless centuries, I see it all, yet cannot comprehend Why in his dying throes did man cry out for Wife, or why for Country soldier laid down Life– No matter. I am inexorable, imminent, indiscriminate. I come for all and I make it quick.

My undead edict tells your time. Hoist your white flag, lest I my Oriflamme let fly!

It is time! Scream to me your life as it trickles out between your fingers! Show me how You learned to love, and to hope, and ultimately to give it all away in one panicked breath.

Teach me to lift my millennia up out of these oppressive depths and let me live just once, For six, seven, maybe nine minutes tops.

THE MARQUE 2016

MEMORIES OF GEORGE

T

he light bulb, shaded by the mushrooming cover, flickered in its aging socket, casting shadows upon the room. Age-curled photographs hung irregularly from a turquoise ribbon laced with gold, a timeline of his life. From strewn papers to sartorial paraphernalia, that area showed signs of unfinished business, joyful times, and history in the making. The past came flashing back. I vividly remembered two boys, six and four, scattering their forgotten hot wheels cars as they roughhoused on the carpet. The memory of a baseball sitting amidst the remnants of a broken lamp with two mischievous kids grinning anxiously brought a smile to my face. Then I looked in the mirror and saw myself, a sixteen-year-old kid, frightened by change. These midnight-blue walls that encompassed my refuge from the bombardments of life would soon change their meaning.

The room itself would remain unchanged, but the significance would soon be a thing of the past. The meaning of the bedroom on the second story of our aging house was locked not in a chest or safe, but in a friendship. This was George’s room, where we fought, laughed, and talked our way through life. The best brother I could have ever wished for, George and I grew from squabbling brothers to best friends in that room and during long drives in his Ford Escape. From God to friends to girls, nothing was taboo. Sadness flooded me as I looked at George on the last night. I tried to fight off the surge of emotions. He was going to Princeton, a lifelong dream of his and our dad’s alma mater. I should have been happy for him, knowing he was moving on to the next step in life. At the same time, I couldn’t shake the feeling that things were going to change for the worse in my life.

Knowing the moment would soon end, I glanced sheepishly at George.

I thought it was time to have one more conversation. Awkwardly, I reminisced, “Remember when I thought I was Donkey Kong and punched you in the head?”

“Duh. That was one of the two times I ever got really mad at you.”

“The other one?” I inquired.

“When we were in your room and you stamped on…”

“Never mind.” Our eye contact broke. A pause fell upon the conversation. Vertigo surged through me as I felt like I was near a precipitous cliff.

How could I say goodbye to the best brother ever? How could I sum up sixteen years of memories into one conversation? How could I leave someone who I’d never been separated from for longer than two weeks in my entire life? I glanced away, choking back emotions. Staring past his face at the midnight blue wall, I went in for a hug. “I’m gonna miss you,” I whispered.

Over the past four years of my life, George had changed from a brother into a mentor, role model, and friend. I was all slated up to play soccer in seventh grade, but his love of wrestling made me change my mind the first day of winter sports. Shoving my shin guards into a beat-up Under Armour bag, I proceeded into a sport in which I had little interest because George said, “It was a good experience.” Bombarded by what I thought was back-breaking school work, I was tossed above a fire of leadership organizations, sports, and friends because George said it was important. Then he got

ANDREW LIN ’17 NONFICTION

OVER THE PAST FOUR YEARS OF MY LIFE, GEORGE HAD CHANGED FROM A BROTHER INTO A MENTOR, ROLE MODEL, AND FRIEND. me in the pool. With water polo, I found a close-knit group of Marksmen striving toward a common goal. Coach Oprea’s invaluable wisdom imparted in the damp, grungy conference room and the captain’s passionate words continue to drive my life at St. Mark’s. To put it simply: I would not be myself without George.

A wake-up. A drive. A flight. Then he was gone.

The hot pavement on Central scalded the car tires. The same black Ford, same country station, same route surrounded me. This time, however, I held my hands firmly on the wheel, keenly aware of the empty seat to my right.

My body ached from the water polo practice, but my heart ached from my first varsity practice ever without him. My phone gently buzzed in my pocket, a reminder to tell the team to bring water bottles, my first official task as a captain. I felt like a child riding a bike without training wheels for the first time, wobbly but exuberant as I balanced and pedaled. Unassisted and alone, I realized for the first time that I was on my own.

The passage of time seemed tangible in the little black SUV. My knees bumped the wheel’s base, and I slid the seat an inch back from where George kept it. My old undershirt tugged at my chest and stretched to reach my belt. Kids I had grown up with were now seniors wearing blue shirts. Soon it would be my turn.

New questions arose. How could I repay such a debt? How could I be a better friend? Who could I help as George helped me? I smiled, filled with resolution and joy. The answers walked around me every day, wearing an assortment of oxford button-downs, gray shorts, and questionably colored school shoes. I could repay my debt to fellow Marksmen, help them find meaning in their mounds of homework, to-do lists, and sports equipment.

Just as George helped me appreciate friendships, life, and school, so I could help my St. Mark’s family.

The setting sun to my left splashed autumn hues across the sky. Vibrating with the car, I sat back, watched, and listened. Garth Brooks’s robust voice eased from our old CD, accented by a muted guitar. I gripped the wheel, widened my eyes, and embraced the open road.

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THE MARQUE 2016

DAYDREAM QUOTE

A DAYDREAM IS A MEAL AT WHICH IMAGES ARE EATEN...

A GOOD MANY TAKE THEIR IMAGES PRECOOKED OUT OF A CAN AND SWALLOW THEM DOWN WHOLE, ABSENT-MINDEDLY AND WITH LITTLE RELISH. W. H. AUDEN Anglo-American poet

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THE MARQUE 2016

I tried to blur the line between the realistic and fantastic through the intimate gazes of the human and fairy, thereby creating a deeper connection between these polar opposite worlds.

While the form and proportions are relatively realistic, the colors are vivid and exaggerated, showing the coexistence of aspects that we associate with these two different worlds.

–Joon Park ‘17 on how Fantasy inspired his illustration

OUR UTMOST PRIVATE YEARNINGS and desires construct our fantasy. Unlike the state of daydream so tethered to the confines of physical reality, fantasy is not just a momentary, temporary escape. It is one, however, that transcends an “escape” and resides within the deepest and most sacred parts of our brain. It is the magnificent culmination and overlapping connection between the conscious and subconscious. The very line distinguishing the two appears blurred because fantasy transcends our real circumstances and becomes, in a sense, our alternate lives–our deepest aspirations and visions.

While, of course, fantasy takes foundations from our physical experiences, it truly is our dreams, our hopes, and our desires–not merely fads, but uncrushable, resilient, inextinguishable fires of the soul. Whether it be Gatbsy’s green light or Santiago’s marlin, we too must pursue that future, that seemingly out-of-reach world, that fantasy.

–Killian Green ‘17

F A N T A S Y

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THE MARQUE 2016

STRING-WIELDER

NOAH KOECHER ‘16 FICTION

(Literary Festival Third Place Fiction)

T

he man stood utterly still, a steadfast eddy in the stream of migrants rolling around him.

Nobody risked a glance as they passed.

Some wore swimsuit cover-ups and carried beach bags. Others sported jogging gear and MP3 players.

Here and there, a woman wore a casual dress, or a man some cargo shorts and a polo.

The man in the black flannel suit stood out like a blackhead. His briefcase was polished leather and glimmered in the incandescent lights of the subway station. His dark red tie was creased slightly below the knot and smelled faintly of vanilla air freshener. And on the left side of his chest was a shining beacon, a white plastic tag bearing his name for all the world to see: Anastasius Romerez.

He was staring through the crowd at another figure, another man, catching only glimpses of him between the legs and arms and heads and bags of the people shuffling quickly by.

The man sat cross-legged against the side of the stairs leading into the Miami station, head slumped backwards into the wall, face cast up at the long, flickering rows of lights above.

Anastasius began moving as if a slack line binding the two men had slowly been drawn taut. He came forward in a glide, and the crowd moved around him, seeing him enough to avoid him but without seeing him all the same. He was an anomaly — a Rolex-clad businessman in a Miami metro station, carving a path toward a homeless man collapsed against the wall.

As he got closer, Anastasius began to make out what had caught his attention. Despite the homeless man’s sleeplike calm, his hands moved rapidly below a lengthy white beard. His palms curled into a protective circle, guarding some sort of spinning

DESPITE THE HOMELESS MAN’S SLEEPLIKE CALM, HIS HANDS MOVED RAPIDLY BELOW A LENGTHY WHITE BEARD. top. His thumbs, however, arced into the center of the circle, every so often jerking swiftly in opposite directions as they brushed against the top to send it hurtling back to full speed. He never saw what he was doing, only felt, but the top never fell to the cold, tiled cement. Anastasius was sure that the man had not left the spot for days — on his shoulders and lap rested a fine layer of dust — but he was equally sure that the top had never been allowed to stop.

At some point in his walk, Anastasius crossed a was a downtown train just like the other. threshold, and the string that bound the two men Before he had time to consider the meaning of went slack once more. The homeless man’s head the situation, he realized that the subway hadn’t came forward, and with his hands still wound in stopped accelerating since it had left the station. In a protective orb around the top, the right eyelid fact, the walls of the tunnel were nothing more than opened slowly, revealing a dull blue pupil frosted a blur, with doors and pipes shooting past several over with the white of blindness. In his left eye times a second. At this rate, he should have passed socket, Anastasius saw that the eyelid was collapsed, two or three stops already, but he had seen nothing sunken into a pit where the second eye must once but the walls of the tunnel broken by an occasional have been.

The homeless man slowly swiveled his IN FACT, THE WALLS OF THE TUNNEL WERE head to face the newNOTHING MORE THAN A BLUR, WITH DOORS comer as if grinding a gear to power his AND PIPES SHOOTING PAST SEVERAL TIMES A neck. Anastasius was SECOND. filled with wonder, convinced that the man was poised to collapse into a pile of bones at maintenance access. any moment. Instead, the homeless man smiled a A peculiar sound grew in the air, like the whirl toothless grin. of an electric motor whining higher and higher in Before Anastasius could speak or reach out his pitch. Soon, Anastasius was clutching at his ears as hand for a shake, the man nodded toward the train if hundreds of jet engines had blasted to life in every that had just pulled up, winked with the eye he still direction. The lights of the train had begun to spin, had, and collapsed back against the wall with a jerk illuminating the border of the window in front of of his thumbs. him, forming a gateway to the now-indistinguishable Anastasius glanced at the train the man had concrete walls beyond. The line was pulling tighter, motioned to. The monitor above the door was blank, tighter, yanking in each direction aggressively, and not a single person had come out of a car. unable to decide where to send him, spreading Equally interesting was the fact that every person Anastasius thinner and thinner as the blood in his piling into the station was heading toward the other ears boiled to a critical point. Suddenly his stomach train. In fact, they were packing it to the brim, even dropped as if the subway had plunged into an unforming into a line, while not a single one turned known void, and Anastasius squeezed shut his eyes right from the stairs to enter the other train. and shoved his hands even harder against the sides Just as Anastasius was beginning to sigh and turn of his skull, unprepared for but fully expecting away to join the crowd, the string he had felt twice the grip of the reaper to close around now pulled taut again, pulling him away from the him at any moment. homeless man and drawing him into the empty train.

All at once, everyThe crowd flowed away as he turned and ducked thing stopped. into an empty subway car, knowing he was hardly in The noise of a control of his own movements but accepting them thousand as if they were his own. engines As soon as he crossed into a car, the metallic cut door slid shut behind him, and the lights of the train off whirled into life as it jerked and began to move down the track. Anastasius glanced out of the window one last time before his view was blocked by the darkness of the tunnel, but the homeless man had returned to his trance-like state and was slouched against the wall once more.

Anastasius wasn’t sure quite what to do.

Nervously he took a seat, glancing at the map of upcoming stops above the door. He knew this train should be heading uptown, in the opposite direction from the train he was supposed to enter, but all of the stops suggested that it

into a deathly silence. The stomach falling into trench, rifles discarded into his dirt in favor of the descended upon the testing room. He tried to oblivion returned to equilibrium. The string went Luger pistols or Solingen daggers tucked into their console them, the once-jovial, cherry-haired girl slack, its infinite pressure swirling into nothingness. belts. The captain with the thick black beard shot and her solemn, yet loving, lawyer husband, but And the subway car was filled with light, the window two more before dropping his own rifle. His USMC the words landed on empty ears. They all knew illuminated with a scene not unlike the one he had Ka-Bar knife slid easily through its oiled scabbard that her days were numbered. The lights flickered. just left. Anastasius opened his eyes slowly and saw and carved through another two Germans as the His voice quivered with the binding vow, and the through the window as if watching a movie. A home- squadron collapsed on him. Eight hands restrained wedding bells chimed twice. They embraced, and he less man was sinking to the ground against a subway him before he could reach the pistol in his ankle hol- marveled at the feel of the golden band now resting station wall, pulling something off his finger to lay it ster. With the last of his strength he shoved the heel beside his class ring. The lights flickered, brighter. on the tile below, closing a single eye and resting his of his foot into a stomach and bashed his forehead He passed her a sandwich as she pulled out the head forever. The lights around the window-frame against a skull. There was a lapse in the pressure on blanket under a colossal oak tree. The campus tower returned momentarily, whirling as Anastasius saw his arms, but his weapons were too far out of reach. loomed overhead, casting even the oak into shadow. the scene simply change, bursting into a new reality.

Then he could only spit and grit his teeth in defiance The lights flickered, brighter, faster. He smoothed A man screamed violently through a black as they shoved him on his side and plunged a bayothe black stubble on his chin as he slid through the grizzled beard tinged with white, strapped with six net into his left eye. He saw nothing as they pulled closing door of the classroom and called her name. leather belts to a metal chair, a single candle illumihim away from his dying soldiers.

This time, he wouldn’t miss his chance. The lights nating the open bottle of Dortmunder Hansa liquor Anastasius was crying by the time the lights flick- flickered, brighter, faster, urgently. The professor’s being emptied into his right eye. The man’s reered once more, tears running down his cheeks as he voice boomed out, welcoming them to the Universtrained forearms shook wildly at a fever pitch, and wondered why he felt such real pain for a man he’d sity of Miami School of Law. The student dropped his fingers, caked with dirt, clawed at the empty air. never known. Perhaps it should, he thought — he’d his briefcase and sank into a wooden desk. The lights His bloodied crown thrashed from left to right, jaw never been one for empathy, but maybe this was flickered, moving inwards, consuming the scene as unhinged in a banshee’s howl which faded slowly and how it could feel. Whatever had driven him to the it changed, leaving Anastasius with a final glimpse, a methodically to a silent scream of agony and sorrow, homeless man no one else dared to approach had final scene. replaced by a gruff cackle from the uniformed man also renewed him with the ability to care. RegardThe man stepped out of the subway station, standing over him. less, his grief was soon suppressed by his determined sweating through his black flannel suit, and straight“You know nothing, eh, Kapitän?” shouted the focus on examining the new scene laid before him. ened the nametag on his chest. man who held the bottle, his voice heavy, like the The tall, middle-aged man rubbed his short black The lights flickered and held, dissolving the wincrude and uneducated bark of a German dog. goatee as his pen rested on the next question of dow, slithering outwards, eating away at the seats, Then the lights flickered, and in an instant the the enlistment papers. He filled in his age — 43 the walls, subway car, tunnel, reality. Anastasius scene was gone, replaced by a dark and turbulent at- — and the ink blotted as he moved on to weight, stood alone in an infinite expanse of light. His astonmosphere. The air was filled with the cries of orders, height, eye color, and other basic identification ished horror turned to understanding and then was or pain, or death. Anastasius could nearly taste the measurements. When he reached the box asking forgotten as the light beat in at him, shot through muskiness of the napalm and gun smoke in the air. for his previous employment, he scrawled the words the hands pressed against his face, ignored the eyeA hand reached down to snatch up an M-16 “Criminal Defense Attorney,” and below it, in the lids clamped shut, cut through his suit and through carbine from the dirt, and a pair of striking blue eyes box prompting current employment, he sighed and his soul. The string was his now, and he tugged and looked down the sights when it wrapped and sliced, desperately was raised. With a knee in the trying to latch onto something, trench and the captain’s stars on but it did no good. The heat of A HAND REACHED DOWN TO SNATCH UP AN his left breast, the man unloaded the radiance was melting him a full clip into the mass of enemy away as if he was inside of the M-16 CARBINE FROM THE DIRT, AND A PAIR OF soldiers spilling over the hill. He sun. There was no pain, simply STRIKING BLUE EYES LOOKED DOWN THE SIGHTS was vaguely aware of his platoon an understanding of the end WHEN IT WAS RAISED. collapsing into the ditch around to come, of the beginning to him, praying for the order of inherit. There was nothing but retreat, crying for medics that the brightness, the flickering would never come. signed it “Unemployed.” lights that had handed him the string and consumed Still the captain kept firing, instinct commanding The next question caught him off guard, and he the world. There was nothing but the light. Nothing him to drop his head as 12 grams of lead whizzed quickly skipped over it, continuing on to fill out his but the light. through the air it had occupied, the fire of hatred education, citizenship, and contact information. FiThere was nothing but the darkness. and pride in his eyes as another magazine was nally, when all was done, he regrettably returned to Anastasius was aware of the cold on his back and shoved into the bottom of the gun, another carthe question he had skipped, and on the line beside legs as he slipped off his class ring and began to twirl tridge was cocked into the chamber, it wrote “Previously married — widower.” Anastasius it easily on the tile. He could feel the station around another shot brought down was surprised to find a second scene flash on top of him, and knew that the man stood watching. He had another German. the first, a momentary glimpse at a man slouched wound the string tightly, from the very beginning, Then they over a hospital bed, the smell of Iodoform practically and now gave it a tug. The man began to walk. were on him, seeping into the subway car as the figure clutched When the man loomed above in his black flannel rubber boots a frail hand and kissed a cancer-ridden forehead. suit, Anastasius released the tension in the string dropping Then it was gone, and there was only the man with and opened the eye he still had. He knew the into his the black goatee, standing from the table, blinking empty subway train was there, sitting on the tracks, away the moisture in his eyes, and handing in the waiting for them at last. He felt a sense of purpose, recruitment papers. resolution, completion. His lips curled slowly into a The lights swirled around the window frame yet toothless grin. He began to pull the string tight. It again, and Anastasius knew he was approaching the was time. end, or the beginning, or some place of reckoning Anastasius winked and nodded at the train. where he would face the man before him for the last time, or the first. The string was tightening once more, but when he tried, he found he could now pull against it as well, taking out a little tension, resisting its infinite power to last a little longer in this realm. His time was almost up.

The doctor’s diagnosis hushed them both, and an aura of hopelessness and desolation

THE MARQUE 2016

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TURNING

KILLIAN GREEN ’17 POETRY

F

ROST dripped and fell on the warming quilt of leaves, its touch lost through the whistling of the breeze– it shone a fleeting ray of light amongst the shadowed trees, such splendor from which it dies.

A brisk drop falls and stings a man, who chops and trods through brush which he belies– his useless toil to tear through nature’s craft, pines of past years lie in darkened forest heaps.

The brightness of the light which shines so vast over a bleak and free meadow, in which such darkness can yet cease to exist.

Lone hoar on grass preserved in perfect peace, its mien is shadowed in a soundless mist– a gold and rolling field of hope and light amongst such dark and never-ending gloom.

He thinks about such freedom, yet despite release from the grasp of shadowed doom he turns and runs back to the dark of trees.

KEVIN FENG ’18 | BRIGHT TREES PHOTOGRAPHY

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THE MARQUE 2016

ADAGIO IN G MINOR TIM SKAPEK ’16 FICTION

T

he Objective has been compromised. The Objective has been compromised. Immediate action necessary for sustained stability.”

The control room quickly transformed from a desolate void into a bustling colony of drones, following orders and tasks according to traditional emergency protocol. The noise in the room was that of a well-oiled engine; that is, there was near silence despite the current crisis. Of course, this was how they usually operated, religiously following one of their many mottos, “Calm through all.”

And Edgar Debussy was one of them. He was ashamed of it, but he was not foolish enough to resist. He knew a lost cause when he saw one. Sitting at his station, facing numerous buzzing screens with information pouring across them incessantly, he studied a long string of code scrolling past him at a brisk pace. Seven years of training had gotten him here, and he was not going to lose it all because of a careless mistake. His deep blue eyes were trained on the characters in front of

him, waiting to spot the critical sequence that he knew so well.

“I got it,” he yelled, his voice slicing through the thick atmosphere of composure in the room.

“We need numbers,” a nameless techie hollered from a few rows behind him.

Edgar swiftly wiped his brow, which was covered in sweat threatening to drip down into his eyes. He could not risk being distracted by this for even a moment lest he miss the eight numbers that would be crucial to the rest of the operation.

“One, four, nine, eight, seven four, zero, five,” he called out, exhaling out of relief upon finishing the list.

The techie immediately responded, “Running the numbers.”

Once again, there was silence except for the constant whir of computers processing endless data. Edgar sat still and looked straight ahead, avoiding the possibility of his causing a distraction to the rest of the team. Even a harmless cough could warrant an Infraction,

and Edgar had already had two of them during this cycle. A third could prove disastrous for him and his family. The thought of Christine and the kids caused him to reactively reach into his coat to make sure the pocket watch was still there. He felt the cold brass casing with the thin chain attached and was at ease.

It was the only thing that he carried with him on duty, beside his headphones, of course.

HE FELT THE COLD BRASS CASING WITH THE THIN CHAIN ATTACHED AND WAS AT EASE. The headphones, although technologically obsolete, had been a childhood birthday gift along with his first iPod. The presence of the headphones reinforced his determina-

tion when he was faced with adversity. He explored the deep pocket until he identified those, too, the wires neatly curled up to keep them from becoming tangled. He made sure that the headphones were tucked away safely before removing his hand. If they somehow slipped out of the pocket or were discovered in another way, his career as a Muffler would be over.

His punishment would not end there. His family would be monitored closely and followed by agents for many months, time that Edgar would spend in solitary confinement.

He would stay in prison for at least one year for violating Article III-B of the Una Corda and lose any future employment opportunity in the government. All of this was warranted by a pair of headphones.

“We have the details,” the techie announced, “I’m sending them to command.”

The captain of the unit responded after a short silence, “Received. Looks like this one could be a doozy, ladies and gentlemen. There are multiple detections of wind instruments at 210 S. Euclid Avenue. The drones are picking up on multiple wavelengths and frequencies characteristic of a Class 3. Dispatch a patrol squad to that location immediately. We can’t have another string quartet going unchecked.”

Silence fell back over the room until a woman in the front row informed the captain that a group of thirty agents was en route to shut down the disturbance.

“Good work, team; dismissed until further notice,” the captain said with a pompous air, clearly proud of the expeditious response of his group of Mufflers.

Edgar, along with the thirty-nine others in the room, rose from his chair and began walking up the aisle leading out of the control room. As he reached the top, a co-worker called out to him from a few steps behind, “Sir, you left your coat on your chair.”

“I’m such a klutz; thanks for reminding me.

I’ll come down and grab it.”

“Oh, don’t waste your time. I’ll toss it up to you.”

“No, I insist I’d rather you not–” “Think fast!” the man exclaimed as he threw Edgar’s coat up to him. As the coat tumbled through the air, Edgar felt as if the world was moving in slow motion. He had tried to stuff the headphones deep into his pocket, but there was always a chance that fate would pull them out and into plain sight.

Edgar was elated when the coat reached him without any of its contents falling out, and he quickly turned, donning the vestment in the process. He exhaled as he stepped out of the control room and into a hallway leading out of the facility. He had hardly covered a

third of the distance to the door when the same voice beckoned him again, this time with such a menacing tone that others in the hallway turned with Edgar to see what was wrong.

“You also forgot these,” the voice said, dangling Edgar’s headphones and swinging them back and forth in a mocking manner.

Immediately, two passing security guards pushed Edgar to his knees, harnessing his arms behind his back with the cold iron of handcuffs. Edgar had no words and showed no resistance. He figured it would be best to get through this predicament with as little unnecessary pain as possible. The guards helped him to his feet and turned down an unfamiliar side corridor with the man and headphones following. They marched him through two doors

seemed that the government had found a leak. Since they had clearly discovered his real identity, he knew that he was no longer facing only a few years in prison.

The Warden continued, “You represent the worst kind of person, Mr. Barnard; you are a musician. Oh, yes, we know more about you than your childish headphones. You foolishly thought that you could hide yourself. You should have remembered that we don’t miss anything. We found the tapes of your old recitals. “A sightreader by the age of four,” the file claims. An impressive feat for such a young age, Mr. Barnard. It’s a shame, really, that you had to get wrapped up in the disgusting medium of music. I’m sure you are aware of how much I hate music.”

IMMEDIATELY, TWO PASSING SECURITY GUARDS PUSHED EDGAR TO HIS KNEES, HARNESSING HIS ARMS BEHIND HIS BACK WITH THE COLD IRON OF HANDCUFFS. EDGAR HAD NO WORDS, AND SHOWED NO RESISTANCE. with electronic code locks that restricted access to anyone not of highest authority, and they directed him into a temporary holding cell. One of the guards pricked Edgar’s finger and collected the blood that oozed out, while the other searched Edgar’s pockets for any other taboo items, finding and confiscating his pocket watch. The three of them left Edgar hopeless in the cell and vanished to some unknown location.

With no means of keeping time, Edgar guessed it had been a few hours by the time the guards came back, followed by a person whom he had only seen through the protective screens of televisions and computers.

The Warden was truly a mystical figure whom few individuals had ever met. He was very different in person than he appeared on the broadcasts. His hair was dark brown with streaks of gray, and his face showed the onset of wrinkles and cracks that came with old age.

He only rose up to Edgar’s shoulders, and Edgar was not a large man. The Warden was wearing a casual polo shirt and jeans, along with boots that made a crisp snap every time he took a step. He stood a few feet away from Edgar, separated only by the bars of his cell.

“I’ve heard you have a hidden passion, Mr. Barnard. One that is strictly forbidden by law.”

Edgar cringed at the use of his true surname. He thought that he had completely erased any trace of his old identity, but it

“How can you hate it?” Edgar instinctively blurted out.

“Well, because it is pointless, of course.

Music brings instability and revolt to our society, causing anger and pain among the masses, just as it did when excessive music blew out one of my ear drums when I was nothing but a helpless six-year old child. There is no melody, no rhythm; everything results in irritating noise and distraction. There is no room for music in this world. Some people claim that at the core of music are the feelings that it invokes in the audience, but I feel nothing when I hear it.”

“Frankly, sir, you’re entirely misguided.”

“What did you just say to me? You insolent fool, you will regret challenging me.”

“The hate you feel for music is just as strong as the love that I have for it. You can’t deny your aversion for anything melodious, and that’s why music is so beautiful! Good or bad, it undoubtedly evokes deep emotions in anyone who listens.”

The Warden fired three shots before Edgar could flinch. His body slumped to the ground, and he began coughing up blood. The Warden turned and began walking away from Edgar who seemed to be emitting groans of pain from the floor. In actuality, he was singing his dearest love song as he died, but the Warden didn’t know that. After all, he was tone deaf.

THE MARQUE 2016

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WOODWORKING SHOWCASE 1

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3

4

5

6

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7

1 Piano Keys 1 Andrew Chuka ‘17 2 Abstract Whit Payne ‘17 3 Chapel Chairs John Landry ‘16 4 Geometric John Landry ‘16 5 Hanging Shapes John Landry ‘16 6 Piano Keys 2 Andrew Chuka ‘17 7 Infinity Andrew Chuka ‘17 THE MARQUE 2016

ON THE WAY TO SCHOOL T

he alarm clock ripped through the early morning silence. Jake blindly groped toward the noise with his small, eight-year-old arm and tapped the thin plastic snooze button. He firmly shut his eyes again, buried his face into his soft pillow, and pulled the sheets right up to his chin. Why is my alarm going off? I never set my alarm during summer vacation... Jake almost flew right out of bed. IT ISN’T SUMMER! Today was the first day of school, and if Jake didn’t hurry, he was going to be late.

He dashed into his closet, flipping on the lights as he ran, tearing off his pajamas and grabbing his toothbrush. He could smell the faint aroma of bacon and eggs cooking in the kitchen. Jake’s mom hadn’t overslept, and the smells of her cooking made his stomach grumble in anticipation of the annual first day feast. He quickly threw on his school uniform, carefully buttoning up his collared shirt and tightening his favorite belt around his waist. He pulled his brand-new socks up to his ankles and was halfway out of his room before he remembered his backpack.

He slid into the kitchen on the smooth wooden floor and tossed his pack by the front door. He was poised over his breakfast, about to scoop a huge chunk of scrambled eggs into his mouth, when his dad walked into the kitchen and sat down next to him. Uh oh.

Not this talk again.

“So, Jake, you know you have to bike to school all by yourself this morning,” began his dad. “Your brother, David, can’t look after you now that he goes to the Middle School. It’ll be up to you not to get lost.

Do you think you can do it?”

MICHAEL MOSLE ‘16 FICTION

get onto Birch Street, which shouldn’t be too HE WAS THE ONLY PERSON IN SIGHT, PEDhard because there aren’t normally many ALING ALONG IN THE MORNING SILENCE, cars on it. I follow Birch BROKEN ONLY BY THE OCCASIONAL for another two blocks, CHIRP OF A BIRD OR BARK OF A DOG. and then I turn right onto Millstone. I follow that past Danny’s house sibling. He could make the decisions, he could be the and then past Phil’s house, and then I have to cross one in charge, and he had proven it! He had crossed Riverside. This is where I have to definitely look both onto Birch without so much as seeing a car. And to ways because there are always lots of cars on that big think, Jake’s dad had been worried about him. How street. And then from there, I just have to take a left ridiculous! onto Elementary Road, and I should see the school Now that he was feeling more comfortable, Jake building! It’s easy, Dad. We’ve been practicing since began to relax. He weaved back and forth across the June!” Jake repeated his script flawlessly and glanced sidewalk, jumping over the cracks and whistling a up at the clock. 7:45 already? “Ok, Dad! Gotta run! tune to himself. His legs felt fresh and alive, and he See you after school tonight!” And with that, Jake knew exactly where he was and when he needed to kissed his mom on the cheek, sprinted through the make his next turn onto Millstone. Again, he slowed front door, hopped onto his racing-green bike with as he approached the corner of the sidewalk. This big, black, thick tires and a shiny silver kickstand and time, he glanced to his left, looked over his right was off on his way to the first day of third grade. shoulder, and was off and across the street before he The early-morning breeze played with Jake’s even knew it. Now, Jake was pedaling down Millstone straight dark hair and made him feel fresh and alive.

Avenue, the street where two of his best friends, He was the only person in sight, pedaling along in the Danny and Phil, lived. They were probably already at morning silence, broken only by the occasional chirp school and had biked there together like they always of a bird or bark of a dog. His bike, his prized possesdid. sion and most loyal companion, whirred comfortably Jake zoomed on down the street. The sun was along under him, humming its mechanical tune to peeking up over the tall oak trees that lined Millstone the rhythm of his churning feet on the pedals. He now. It was getting late, and Jake kept pedaling as flew faster and faster over the sidewalk, hurtling the fast as he could. He didn’t dare even think what cracks in the pavement, snapping twigs, and crushing would happen if he was late on the very first day of leaves in his path, rapidly approaching his street’s school. As he approached the intersection of Riverdead-end into Birch. side, he could hear the sounds of cars rushing by and Jake squeezed on his brake, gently sliding to a stop horns honking on the busy street. Jake cruised right “YES, OF COURSE, DAD!” on the corner of the sidewalk. The first turn. Jake up to the edge of the sidewalk and looked out across looked left. He looked right. He took his hand off the JAKE MUMBLED BETWEEN the two lanes of moving cars. He remembered having brake and pushed himself out away from the safety BITES OF DELICIOUS to wait here with his brother for minutes sometimes. of the sidewalk into the exposed and dangerous road.

They would look left, and then they would look right GREASY BACON AND He listened as hard as he could for the faint revving and then left again, waiting for a break in the rushing of a car engine, but he heard nothing. He bounced up STEAMING HOT EGGS. river of traffic that was big enough for them to cross and over the curb on the other side of the road and the dangerous road safely. And so Jake waited. And was once again on the safety of the sidewalk. Jake then he waited some more. And then some more. Ev“Yes, of course, Dad!” Jake mumbled between exhaled. He could feel his sweaty palms against the ery now and then there would be a small break in the bites of delicious greasy bacon and steaming hot eggs. handlebars. That had been easy! There weren’t even stream of flowing cars, and Jake would lean forward They had been over his route to school for the past any cars on the road! With a smile and an extra spring on his bike, about to take the plunge across the road. three weeks straight. His dad would randomly test in his pedal, Jake continued on down the street, But each time, he would stop himself, wait and hope him, making sure he could recite each turn he would letting the soft morning breeze sweep over his body for a longer pause in the traffic. A minute passed. make on his bike, which roads he would have to be and relax him. Back when his brother took him to Then two minutes went by. Jake knew he was running especially careful crossing, and which yards Jake had school, Jake would have to wait until David told him out of time. OK, the next time I can see across to the to stay out of because they were owned by cranky old it was all right to cross. It made him feel like a baby other side of the street, I’ll cross, he thought to himmen. to sit on the safety of the sidewalk and watch as his self. He could see a line of cars approaching from the “I start by turning left out of our driveway. I go older brother pedaled out into the street to see if any right, but they were still far away. All right, after this until the end of the block, where I have to cross to cars were coming. Now, Jake felt like the responsible red truck. I’ll go fast; I’ll be across and on the other

sidewalk in no time. And GO! He pushed down on the pedals as hard as he could, churning his little legs with all his might. He bent low over his handlebars, his eyes fixed on the finish line, aimed straight for his goal: the sidewalk opposite him. The horn exploded in his right ear. As if in slow motion, Jake turned his head, staring directly into the grill of shiny black SUV. He could make out the figure of a man dressed in a dark blue suit behind the wheel, one hand on his phone, the other gripping a bagel, the man’s eyes wide with shock as he flew toward the boy on the bike. There was no time to stop and hop up the curb on his bike. Jake could hear the screech of brakes, and he did the only thing he could: he leapt off his bike and onto the safety of the sidewalk, rolling and sliding across the cement, curling into a ball, hoping he was still alive. Jake heard the sickening crunch of metal just inches behind his legs. Blood streaming from his skinned knees and elbows, Jake stood up. He patted himself, first on the head, then down his torso, and then he made sure he still had both arms and both legs. It was all still there! He was alive!

With dread he slowly turned around and saw the mangled corpse of his bike. Its thick black tires had been reduced to ribbons of rubber. The spokes of the wheels were splayed out in all directions like a twisted metal flower. The shiny kickstand was bent and scratched, and the sturdy green frame had snapped right in two. The man in the SUV had stopped and was running toward Jake.

“Oh my God! Are you okay, kid? I didn’t even see you! Oh my God, I almost killed you!” The man groaned, mouth agape, bagel held limply in his hand.

“What’s your parents’ number? Let me call them. Oh my God, you have no idea how scared I was.” With no

have taken such a risk. David would have waited for an hour to cross Riverside if it meant crossing it safely. And there Jake sat, crying next to his destroyed bike, late for school, his dad undoubtedly tearing down the street in his car to come and yell at him. He had promised his parents he could be responsible. He had told them he would do exactly what David would have done. He had assured them that he could make it to school all by himself, and he had failed.

Jake and his father rode the rest of the way to school in silence, the dead weight of the bike creaking and rocking in the trunk. They pulled up to the front entrance, and Jake spotted Danny’s bike chained up right next to Phil’s. They had crossed the road. They had been patient enough to wait for the traffic to break. And they still had their shiny, functional bikes as proof.

“I’m sorry!” Jake blurted out. “I thought I could do it. I thought I could be responsible and grownup and mature enough to get to school. I’m sorry, Dad. Now I’ll never get to ride to school by myself.” Jake stared at his feet in shame. He could feel his dad looking at him. He was probably fuming. He was probably about to yell and scream at him. But then his dad leaned over and hugged him.

“You really scared me, Jake. When that man called and told me what happened, I almost panicked. But I think you scared yourself even more. And you’re right. Your trip to school this morning could have been your last, but you got really lucky. So get on in to class, and I’ll be waiting right here to pick you up after school. Then we’ll go on down to the bike shop and get you a new one. You’ll need it for tomorrow morning. And you know what? I have a feeling you’re going to have no problem waiting extra long to cross any street from now on.

I love you, Jake. Don’t forget what happened this AND THERE JAKE SAT, CRYING NEXT TO morning, and please don’t HIS DESTROYED BIKE, LATE FOR SCHOOL, ever let it happen again.”

And with that, his dad HIS DAD UNDOUBTEDLY TEARING DOWN kissed him goodbye, and THE STREET IN HIS CAR TO COME AND Jake was running up the YELL AT HIM. front steps of school. He couldn’t wait to tell Danny and Phil how exciting his emotion in his voice, simply reciting one of the things morning had been and how he would forever be extra all children learn from their parents at a young age, careful when crossing the road.

Jake, still in shock, listed off the string of numbers he Three years passed, and Jake continued to wake knew would bring his dad right to his side. He waited to his ringing alarm as the early morning sun was until the man was talking to his father on the phone just beginning to rise. He would go downstairs for before he finally broke down and cried. He sobbed, breakfast, assure his parents he would be safe on the shaking with shock, and grief, and embarrassment at way to school, and then ride off on his bike in the what he had just done. His older brother would never cool morning breeze. He made sure to stop at every

intersection. He would listen, and wait, and look both ways, and then look again. He would be absolutely positive that no cars were coming before he pedaled from the bank of the sidewalk into the dangerous river of asphalt. And then, on one normal morning, after scarfing down his breakfast of chocolate chip pancakes with syrup, Jake set off for school. He pedaled onto Birch and was about to turn onto Millstone when he saw the lone figure of another kid riding his bike ahead of him. The boy went to Jake’s school. He had seen him a few times that year. Jake didn’t know his name or exactly how old he was, but it looked to him as though the boy were about three years younger than he was. With a grin Jake remembered back to the first day of third grade. He remembered that car ride with his dad. He remembered the look on the bagel man’s face. And he could still hear the pathetic clunk that his bike had made in the bottom of the dumpster later that night.

The boy ahead of Jake was approaching Riverside.

His legs had stopped churning on the pedals, and he was leaning forward as he was slowing down, trying to get a better look at the traffic speeding by from both sides. Jake continued to pedal lazily along, watching the boy closely. Just as Jake pulled up next to him, it happened. The boy, probably nervous that an older kid was watching him now, looked right, didn’t see any cars, and took his hand off the brake. Jake, aware that an SUV was speeding around the corner toward them from the left, his own experience flashing before his eyes, his mind returning again to that memorable day of third grade, did the only thing he could: he reached out and grabbed the small boy’s backpack and yanked him clean off his bike. The SUV hurtled by, inches from the kid’s front tire. The frightened third grader, mouth wide, eyes as big as tennis balls, didn’t even let out a squeak.

“Hey, Man. Let me tell you a story about what almost just happened to you. Not to mention your bike,” Jake said, grinning, half believing that he was looking into a mirror and seeing his younger self, lying in shock on the curb of Riverside.

THE MARQUE 2016

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A BENE PLACITO ANDREW CHUKA ‘17 POETRY

S

plitting headache and Sleeping in class and Slipping sanity and Undone work and Hasty promises and Shameless excuses and Playing guitar and Watching seasons and Browsing Internet and Just one more song and Just one more episode and Just one more page and Da capo al coda.

DREW BAXLEY ‘16 | MARINA PHOTOGRAPHY

BLAKE DAUGHERTY ’18 NONFICTION

H

e spent weeks setting up the table where the model trains would run on their intricately laid tracks. The marvel in these trains lay not in the tracks but in the world surrounding them. A town featuring cars, shops, and people borders a section of track. This town lives in a sense because of the vivid detail within the town. Furthermore, the room in which this table is located is painted in the fashion of a snow landscape in the heart of the Rocky Mountains.

When I was younger, I always went into this room and transported myself to this place, watching the trains pass by a quiet town nestled in the mountains. I see my father in one specific train, my favorite train. Through years of colossal crashes and shattered pieces, my train has become a marvel of modern engineering with the amount of effort my father has put in to repair it. In the glued-on head of the conductor I can almost see my father wearing his glasses to clearly see the broken piece in order to repair it. In the chipped paint on the sides I can hear his booming laugh as he comforted me about my wrecking of my favorite train. It is in this room that I transport myself to a place where only the best memories of my father survive.

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THE MARQUE 2016

CAL ROTHKRUG ’18 POETRY

T

he world is full of things.

Small or big, transparent or opaque, hard or soft, rough or smooth, uncolored or dappled.

They help the world to be what it is: a large painting where the land and water combine for a blank canvas, and matter, both natural and artificial catches the eye and brings the aesthetically pleasing blend of shades and colors to an otherwise empty sphere of dirt and water.

I see the things of the world, but I don’t notice them until they’re gone.

I enjoy the privilege of having spoons and forks so that I may eat.

I love fabrics such as wool and cotton that both bring warmth and comfort to those who feel the cold.

I like light bulbs that recreate the light of the sun.

Its brightness is reassuring of man’s potential to create more things.

I like the glass that makes windows.

It lets us see the things that we do not have on the inside.

I like insects.

Though they do

cause havoc to those who are afraid, without them, the outside air would be empty, and the ground would become blank like the rest of the world without its inhabitants.

I like the wind.

Though we cannot see it, we can feel it.

It grips us with a cold feeling of ghostly companions that surround us.

The things of the world are like furniture in a house: Without them, we live in an empty space, and we might even want to look out the window to see the other things which we thought we had.

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KAMAL MAMDANI ‘19 | JUNGLE PHOTOGRAPHY THE MARQUE 2016

FEATHERS IN THE AIR

KEVIN HE ‘ 16 FICTION

(Literary Festival Second Place Fiction)

T

he first thing Arin Icarut heard that lonely fall night was the wind’s cold call.

“Help me,” the wind whispered, its delicate voice edged with ice, as it drifted past Arin’s mangled amber hair towards the darkness of the night.

Arin shot awake; his body and wings were tense and rigid from the gust’s ominous heed. As Arin loosened up, he looked down from his loft for any disturbances, scanning his homeland Olym, a city of angels aloft in the sky.

“Ah,” Arin gasped, “thank the gods no one found me; otherwise, they would’ve had my head. I’d best return to my post before the city chief Zoss finds me here. He’ll have my wings if something happens.”

With his wings unfurling to catch the air, Arin leapt into the brisk autumn air, his angelic white wings spread wide behind him, his shadow lost in the light of the dark moon, his feathers taut with excitement. Arin loved to feel the rush of cool wind beneath his wings.

However, there was no wind, no breeze to meet his solemn wings, no gust to lift him into the endless night.

There was only the cold autumn air. Arin, shocked to find himself not ascending the pathways of stars, instead found himself tumbling towards the corridors of Hell. Like a shooting star leaving a trail of ethereal feathers through the night sky, Arin could feel the freefall tearing at the seams of his body. Then, with a swift and sudden explosion, Arin collided with the city streets of Olym. Silence. In the cold night, with candlelight illuminating the wreckage and air whirling about, an angel had fallen.

Inspired by the fable of Icarus as well as Greek mythology and biblical texts, I crafted this piece for the archetypal short story assignment in our AP English 12. The ideas of falling, freedom, and flight are themes central to this story. Because how far must you truly go to finally be free and fly?

H

aze permeated Arin’s eyes as he fluttered from consciousness. He felt his body thump across a broad winged shoulder: he was being carried.

“Tch,” a voice said, echoing throughout Arin’s cloudy mind. It was Zoss, the city-chief. “The child has damned us all. He dare let the eternal wind forsake us. Damned be he who let the fool hold the post. The child has always slept on the watch, and now he has doomed us all.”

The ocean’s salt spray began to lick Arin’s wounds. One of his wings, crumpled and crushed from the fall, lay bare in the frigid air. He heard the monotonous push and pull of the sea. They had arrived at the edge.

“Rid us of the fool,” a quieter voice, the sound of the wind, commanded, ensnaring the mind of the chieftain.

“Ay,” called Zost, harkening the curses of the sky, “and let him never find his way home. Damned be his wings so that they may never feel the breeze beneath them again.

So be the blighted lamb that dare lead Olym astray. Be gone, you fool!”

Arin’s motionless body once again embraced the air and death as Zoss discarded him and his blighted wings off the cursed edge. With Cerberus greeting his soul at the fringe of underworld, Arin dived into its gaping maws, accepting his hell. He plunged into darkness and the sea, his body floating on the water as if it were a stick, his mind entangled in the boundaries of heaven and hell.

L

ight streamed onto Arin’s damp body and broke his hollow sleep. As Arin pulled himself to consciousness from his tumultuous journey, he realized that not only had one of his wings been battered and bruised to a withered black frame, but his vision had became hazy and cloudy, as well.

“What is this?” Arin howled, clawing at his foggy eyes. “What has happened to my eyes! Why? Why? Why? Why must it have happened to me?

And my wing! It is broken and shriveled like the devil’s hand! Why, Angelic Fate? Why me? Why?” Arin convulsed and shook, infused with anger, confusion, and hate. His frame trembled, his wings quivered, his body heaved. His anger melted to remorse as he began to sob, his anguished cries echoing along the solemn shoreline.

HIS ANGER MELTED TO REMORSE AS HE BEGAN TO SOB, HIS ANGUISHED CRIES ECHOING ALONG THE SOLEMN SHORELINE.

“Why, oh winged gods!?” Arin cried to the hollow sky. “Why have you all forsaken me? Banished me and abandoned me alone, without wings or sight? Answer me, gods of the skies! Why must this be my fate?”

“Because you have failed,” said the wind’s whisper, once again echoing out to him. “Because you have failed. Because you have failed. Because you have failed.”

“Stop!” Arin screeched, grasping his ears.

“Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop!”

“Never, foolish lamb,” said the wind’s voice.

“We will never forgive your transgression until you return us to the land of winds.”

“Olym,” whispered Arin.

“Yes, foolish child,” responded the wind. “Free us from our chains and absolve the sin. Hear our cry, and answer it.”

W

ith newfound drive and life, Arin crawled and stumbled to his feet, grasping onto leaves and branches, following the slow beat and pulse of the lonely lost wind.

Soon, trees turned to mortar as Arin climbed further into his vision’s dark haze. With each step increasingly difficult, Arin realized that he had begun to ascend a dizzying tower, each spiral step taking him closer and closer to the sky, to the wind, to his home, to the domain he loved.

Finally, Arin approached the top. The cold air greeted him, buffeting his frail, feeble body. Arin’s wings unraveled behind him as his knees buckled.

He arrived at the pinnacle. Arin’s fingers grasped the empty air, searching for something, something to free him from the haze, to free him from the earth, to free him from his sin.

“Where?” Arin screamed, gasping at each breath. “Where are you, dear wind? I sense your presence, your pulse, but where are you? Where are those chains that bind you? Let me free you, O Wind! Tell me where you are!”

“We are here.”

HE FELT HIS BODY TEAR AT ITS SEAMS AS IF SOMETHING WAS BEING PULLED OUT FROM HIS VERY CORE.

Suddenly a force shot through Arin’s body like a spear. He felt his body tear at its seams as if something were being pulled out from his very core.

Arin felt his single functioning wing burn with pain while his ruined wing quaked with sinister tremors.

As his body convulsed with the sensation of being torn apart, Arin’s spirit spun and whirled with violent ferocity.

In his soul, Arin saw the eyes of Zoss, cursing him with the poisoned spears of retribution and disgust. Arin envisioned the spears pinioning him atop the gates of Hell, his wings spread towards the chilling sun while his body laid spread against a searing grille, facing the blazing sea. Arin felt the chains tighten as his spirit screamed; his mind split between the sky’s void and the sea’s abyss.

V

iolently, Arin felt his wings separate from his body and unleash a giant gale from the very roots of his soul. He felt the vicious gaze of Zoss tear away with the sin and evaporate with his spirit’s hollow shell.

With an empty shudder, Arin felt the burning grille collapse within his mind. Yet the moment he felt that he was about to collide with the sea, his consciousness jolted awake. The world exploded in front of his eyes with the haze in them disintegrating like embers flung into the ocean.

“We are free,” whispered the wind. “We are free. We are free. The chains of sin no longer bind us. We are free.”

Arin looked around the empty expanse in front of him as the wind brushed his frail lonely body.

He noticed the vibrations of the wind, returned to the skies once more. He noticed the tessellations of the clouds, patterning the brilliant blue skies.

He noticed the coldness of the sun, glaring down at his figure.

But, what Arin noticed last was Olym, dangling in the brilliant blue sky, shimmering with life and luminosity. Yet its figure lay distant, out of reach, too far away from Arin as it appeared to recede each second.

“Olym!” Arin cried, grasping out, trying to extend his wings to soar into the sky again.

However, those wings that Arin had once had no longer flourished on his back. Only the snow-white feathers and a single black wing remained.

ONLY THE SNOW-WHITE FEATHERS AND THE SINGLE BLACK WING REMAINED. And the cold wind, still whispering “We are free,” picked up the lonely feathers left abandoned on the ground and set them afloat in the air, spinning them around the lonely tower, twirling them with the gust back towards Olym.

And Arin knelt there, alone, with his angelic feathers still dancing in the sky, as the wind slowly and cruelly echoed “Free. Free. Free” in the cold lonely air.

THE MARQUE 2016

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FANTASY QUOTE

FANTASY, ABANDONED BY REASON, PRODUCES IMPOSSIBLE MONSTERS; UNITED WITH IT, SHE IS THE MOTHER OF THE ARTS AND THE ORIGIN OF MARVELS. FRANCISCO DE GOYA Spanish Romantic painter and printmaker

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THE MARQUE 2016

I tried to capture the distorted reality and fear of a nightmare.

The bright, defined colors emphasize the unreality of the scene, and the contrast between the proportionally small individual and the door, which occupies the entire hallway, places a great emphasis on the individual’s subliminal fear.

–Cameron Bossalini ‘17 on how Nightmare inspired his illustration

THE COLD SWEAT, THE POUNDING HEART, the wide-open eyes – we’ve all had nightmares before, but what are they? Purposeless subconscious agony, or evolutionarily calculated simulations to prepare us for the real thing? You walk up the main Centennial staircase; everything’s normal, right? Wrong. All the kids have red shoes, red socks, red eyes. Your history test starts in one minute. Where’s that violin music coming from? Your hands are just a bit too big; nobody pays attention to your voice. Why is the music getting louder? Why can’t anyone hear you? How did you get in the locker room?

Your history test is in Centennial. Your phone says it’s 35 AM. Your history test is in 18 seconds. The red-eyed kids step out from the lockers. The music is louder than your scream. You’re falling backwards. Life fades to black, then snap - you’re sitting straight up in your bed with beads of sweat rolling down your back. You realize it had all been just a nightmare, and you realize that you have forgotten to study for your history test.

–Shailen Parmar ‘17

N I G H T M A R E

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THE MARQUE 2016

PERFECTION

KILLIAN GREEN ’17POETRY

I

look to myself.

I do not look at the grass sprouting its leaves, scorching and burning in the sun, To the splinters in the willow and the brown pismire climbing ever back up, To the bluebonnet waving in the wind, to be plucked and snapped by a wandering hand, a child perhaps, To the mouse scurrying through the stalks, running from the farmer in his fields, To the heifer lying down, it would be her last, and see nothing.

I look and see a skilled artist in his studio shaping his masterpiece, A young writer, scrawling expletives on a page, (How do I know they are perfect? I accept that they are.)

O the mother slaving over the cookery, her children playing outside in the garden!

The father comes in and they all run.

Do they know him? His part being a painter.

It is not for them to notice; it is their part to do as they do.

She, they, and he are.

The schoolmistress chalking the lesson and the children in their desks and the snow outside. Perhaps they are not with her. O the imparting of knowledge!

She and the children are.

The worker on the scaffolding, painting the shutters of the house, rugged, forced strokes; was his father a painter and him before?

And the bakery on the thoroughfare, the smell of sugar, the batter with too much, being poured away: nothing to be made from this.

They are.

The astronomer looking up to the heavens, shaking his fist at its impossibility, and the dreamer, wondering what is and isn’t. Why, how?

With some sensual urge to progress, to worship above and below, a libidinous raffish cry.

Inside and out.

We are.

I know myself, That I am something great, part of It–perfection–, in union, together.

That I have already found you, and too you are.

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In this Frost-inspired poem, I sought to embody the diverse imperfect aspects of everyday life. It is through this unity of one’s life experience that, as Frost believed, we are all joined as one. Paired with this piece, I wanted to make an illustration that embodies the enigmatic, perfect complexity of life. With this impossible triangle, I feel that I embodied this ideal, truly representing that we are “part of It—perfection—, in union, together.”

THE MARQUE 2016

LOVE M

GOPAL RAMAN ’17 POETRY

ilky moons and starry sunsets have no limits on our love. our love like beats on my cherry guitar, like beats in my velvet dreams. in my dreams you appear like sun-drenched afternoons, like soft scarlet pillows underneath my messy hair. on far away days you trace me to your heart like my pencil, like my fingers through your honey hair. you’re safe with me, sinking in my rose passion and my cyan soul. your shadow clouds my eyes until i see you, your sunny eyes, your scrunching smiles. let’s soar, let’s fall into darkness and space, let’s leave earth and dissolve. let’s float for the moon, let’s breathe in darkness and glow like plasma in the night. let’s spin through white sand beaches of Padre, and wash up among the golden grains of the West.

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THE MARQUE 2016

“It’s that goddamned television show that’s the problem,” Shan said bitterly. “The pig will churn out as much garbage as he can if it means getting his FICTION grubby talons on some cash.”

“Weird how we can think of him like this, isn’t it?”

Zara mused, running her hand through her hair. “I mean, we were spawned by his imagination, right?

He must hate himself a whole lot if we can hate him like this.”

“He should,” Shan said, resting his head in his hands. “but I’m not in the mood for philosophical debates tonight, Zara. I want out. I can’t go through the motions again. The horrible dialogue, the predictable plot twists that I can see coming a mile away, but I can’t do anything about. My friends getting killed off for cheap shock value. Ma’ha’kalosh’s stupid villainous cackle. I guarantee you he’ll be resurrected in some miraculous way, and there’ll be four pages of him laughing — no, probably five. I can’t stand it.

I’m tired, and I’m not going to fight anymore. Not Shan dipped his hand into his own wound and for this.” laughed hysterically. His fingers were hot and sticky Zara nodded, and stared at Shan as he twirled with blood, but he couldn’t feel any pain.

Runefrost (the Seventh), his magical god-blessed “We are,” he said bitterly, unraveling his scarf to blade, in his hands. It could slay anything with a show the gaping wound in his neck. “But there will single strike.

“So,” she said.

“It’s time. You’re ROBERT SAT UPRIGHT IN HIS BED, actually going to do it?”

SWEATING AS HE REALIZED THAT HIS “Don’t really CHARACTERS WERE DEAD. HE GROPED FOR see any other THE MEMORY OF HIS DREAM AND GRINNED options,” Shan said, carefully AS HE PULLED THE NOTEBOOK THAT HE KEPT pointing the sword BESIDE HIS BED CLOSER. at his abdomen, then hesitating, “Want me to do you first?” still be a twelfth book.”

She chewed her fingernails in anxiety for a min“No! But...but,” she spluttered, almost speechless ute, then sat upright and nodded slowly. She stared for once. “We’re immortal elves! You are Shanat him, her brown eyes bright with excitement.

A’she, the Blessed Chosen Son, Defender of all “Yes. Who knows? Maybe my spirit will float on, the Seven Realms! I am the Sacred Guardian of and I’ll become a spark of inspiration in some other Angamar! We can’t turn into zombies! It makes no writer’s head. Maybe even a half-decent one.” sense; there’s never been a mention of zombies in “That’s the spirit,” Shan said, and with lightning any of the books!” speed, thrust the sword into her abdomen.

“That won’t stop him,” Shan hissed. “He’ll never He felt a twinge of regret as she slumped lifelessly let us die. Not even you, though you’re not even the to the ground. If Robert had done him any good at main character. He’ll never risk it, don’t you see? all, it was creating Zara, the one thing that made his Can’t upset his oh-so-precious fans. There’s only one life somewhat bearable. Shan quickly swept these option for us now.” doubts to the side. He and Zara had discussed this at Zara stared at him wide-eyed as Shan struggled to length. It was what they wanted. What they needed. his feet and began shuffling away.

Freedom.

“What are you going to do?”

“I curse you to the Void, Robert! I refuse to be “If I can’t kill myself,” Shan growled, tugging the your slave any longer!” he howled at his creator in a sword along laboriously with his newly mangled arm, final act of defiance, and plunged the sword into his “I’m going to kill this idiot’s career. Book Twelve throat. is going to be one of the worst novels of the 21st Robert sat upright in his bed, sweating as he century—at least we can try to make it that way. realized that his characters were dead. He groped for Who knows, maybe we’ll be forgotten eventually. the memory of his dream and grinned as he pulled You coming?” the notebook that he kept beside his bed closer.

“You kidding?” Zara laughed, scrambling to catch “Suicide-murder pacts and zombies,” he mutup with him. “This is going to be fun…” tered, scribbling out his dream. “This is going to be so awesome!”

Shan groaned to life again and stared down at his rotting, decayed new form. Zara struggled upright beside him and moaned in a mixture of horror and exasperation.

“Aren’t we…supposed to be dead?”

CHO AUSTIN MONTGOMERY ’18

S

han-A’she, the Blessed Chosen Son groaned as he realized there would be a twelfth book and resolved to impale himself on his magical sword as soon as possible.

His creator, Robert, was an unoriginal hack who pilfered ideas from other writers, crudely stapled them together into a Frankenstein’s monster of literary garbage, and unleashed his unholy creations on the world by the millions. Unfortunately, despite the fact that Shan wanted nothing more than to return to his farm (burned to the ground back in Book Three) and live a peaceful life free of adventure, Robert’s books were popular. There were action figures of Shan in department stores, lunch boxes plastered with his image. It was only when the guy was asleep (and stoned out of his mind) that Shan was free to talk to other figments of the writer’s imagination.

“I can’t believe it. A twelfth book!” he moaned to his girlfriend in Robert’s books, Zariel the Sacred Guardian of Angamar.

Privately, he thought of her as “Zara.” Robert delighted in making names “exotic” and “different.”

But try as he might, Shan couldn’t change his own name. He shortened it in his own imagination. His

HE SHORTENED IT IN HIS OWN IMAGINATION. HIS QUIET, PATHETIC FORM OF REBELLION. quiet, pathetic form of rebellion.

“Yeah, I know,” Zara sighed. “I thought he was done. You’ve defeated Ma’ha’kalosh, after all.

You’ve fulfilled the prophecy, saved the world on six different occasions. Walked all the way to the Temple of the Dragons of Eternity and stabbed the Demon King in his hidden Third Eye, and ended his foul reign of the Eleven Kingdoms. How long can he milk this series?”

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MICHAEL LIANG ’18 | DARK RAVINE PORTFOLIO PHOTOGRAPHY

THE MARQUE 2016

VISUAL ARTS SHOWCASE 1

2

3

4

5

7

6

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8 1 Beyond Kannan Sharma ‘18 2 Abe Connor Cheetham ‘19 3 Gandhi Shailen Parmar ‘17 4 Bono Cameron Bossalini ‘17 5 Cole Joon Park ‘17 6 Connor Joon Park ‘17 7 Cabbage Cameron Bossalini ‘17 8 Lion Kannan Sharma ‘18 THE MARQUE 2016

DREW BAXLEY ‘16 | CAULIFIRE PHOTOGRAPHY

THE SHADOW OF THE DAY OMAR RANA ‘18 POETRY

The fading sun sets just before night.

The wind howls and blows before the stars shine bright.

The healthy green leaves remain glued to their branches But soon winter shall come and the leaves will turn to ashes.

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Crickets chirp to the rhythm of the trees’ yearning for daylight.

Streetlights luminate the road to the red-eye walker’s delight.

At first, darkness seems enticing, a time for joy and fun Yet as the rays vanish, we drift to death and hope for the sun.

The birds peep to the first glance of hope, waking up everyone.

Soon the streets will bustle, filled with all but none.

But what made the light come, the undeniable One? Or did it come up itself, without the help of anyone?

Life diminishes as the day passes by.

But why do the days keep saying goodbye?

Soon the light will fall, the people done with their roam And once again the night will emerge, taking us all back home.

THE MARQUE 2016

PORTRAIT

RAHUL MAGANTI ‘17 POETRY

«1» My worth is not one distinct representation of the thin dust-spattered purveyors of knowledge, Ink dots of human soul marked with the etched feather-write, Striking the little bumps protruding from the brown-coated leaves.

It is in the music, the “Body and Soul” of happiness that I become myself, A maze of gargantuan conscience, And infinitesimal crevices bound together atop a solid rock base, And black chord-marks covered in a sheet of ten-thousand specks of finite dust piled in random succession, I blow; it transcends centuries, the granules of history fly into the unrecorded, the unknown.

It reaches my time.

It is in the beautified expression of human thought, And the palpable feeling of lyrical notes placed in harmonious verse,

Flying like seemingly picayune specks of dust glowing in unfettered sunlight, Charlie Parker, Charles Mingus, Sonny Stitt, Coleman Hawkins, Sonny Rollins: These men were not mere names; they were human, They were modes of elusive expression with exemplary style, Flamboyance and all that forces streams of emotion to flow like cascades of water, rushing down steep tarns, crashing into the world in a spectacle of white frothy foam.

I see a gray-mottled carpet abounding with flecks of green all over and patches of darkened blue, Brown wooden shelves, drooping to the left from years of weight and use, Twisted, giant cabinets full of closed red, brown, black cases, A gleaming hand-crafted piece of metal, musical opportunity inside, Notes bounce off the velcro-like walls and stick to our sensitive ears.

When I give, I do not give myself: I offer my love; I exude passion, the intangible energy that possesses us all through the vibrating iron heart strings of multitudinous universes.

I keep me, I keep the one inimitable piece that governs each unique soul, The pulse of spiritual reality, beating and yawping the drone of life.

«2» Outside, the dust rises above a copse of three trees.

A patch of dirt in the center of the damp, trodden yellow-brown grass: I sit on the dark, carved bench behind it, touched by rain, withered by wind; I can see the late afternoon soft-glowing sun pass over a light brown newly-built brick sign, Uniforms of white and grey rushing past under a red-circle building with rigid columns.

O great rock of life! What binds me to my school, my sport, my music?

THOUGHTS

(Literary Festival First Place Poetry) Stardust, like everything; But I disappear, I am forms of energy coursing the air, But my song remains, a little beat, thumping of improvisational love, Of happiness, joy, of free expression to the world.

I am more than a student of a pair of dark gray skates with white-spotted laces, I am more than a man with a musical instrument.

I am the slick, creviced ice that scintillates with charged electricity, I am the notes that rise to the clouds from the curved, metal instrument of jazz.

I am myself and nothing more and nothing less.

My skills and desires are for the world, But I cannot exist without their coexistence in this specific stint of time.

I am all the parts one and a singularity in the whole,

I cannot separate myself into little, distinguishable parts.

The skills that define me are like little greasy gears in a giant structure, Placed uniquely in my body, clicking the next, moving the system forward.

by the souls of countless generations.

ÂŤ3Âť What is more important than expression?

There seems nothing greater than the ways of speaking, Than making little marks on an insignificant page, writing the writings.

But I confide more in the ideas, the rich substrate of any essay, poem, song, ode, ballad, epic, editorial, article, dissertation, magazine, book, novel, story, lyric, phrase, word, letter.

This is what changes the world in timeless revolution, spins the needle away from the North Star; Words change, language evolves with every utterance, but ideas remain in constant velocity.

Opposed, challenged, supported, revered

They will be forgotten and then revived, and then those dust-dots of remembrance will fly in filtered sunlight again.

Dust will gather in clumps like pencil shavings piled in a precarious mound over the bright, luminescent white paper of this age.

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KEVIN FENG ‘18 | ALONE ON A PIER

PHOTOGRAPHY

THE MARQUE 2016

B

elle’s shoulder-length hair, bright green after a dyeing early that afternoon, blew in the November wind. She pulled her unbuttoned coat collar against her pale neck and squinted as the dry air sucked the moisture from her corneas.

“You cold?” Lance asked.

“I’m good.”

“Sure?”

“Yep.” She looked up at him, her purple lips pressed into a tight smile.

Lance removed his stiff wool-lined tan leather jacket.

He set it gingerly on Belle’s shoulders, and she readjusted it to fit her better.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t sweat it.”

Belle tugged the halves of the jacket toward her chest as a gust tore at the aura of warmth that had feebly reestablished itself just beyond her white, nearly translucent skin.

“Did you like the movie?” Lance asked. An icy jolt ran down his spine as his chilly shirt, dampened by his sweat, brushed against his back.

“Yeah; it was nice,” Belle said, staring straight ahead.

Her hair bloomed luridly in the freezing breezes. “Nice of you to take me home, too.”

“Don’t sweat it. Must be fun to live around this part of town.”

“It sure is exciting.” She looked up at him as she spoke. Her eyes were wide-set and blue, and though they pointed at his eyes, they were not particularly focused on them.

She led him along the sidewalk SHE LED HIM ALONG THE SIDEWALK downtown amid DOWNTOWN AMID THE HIGH RISES the highrises under UNDER THE GUNMETAL SKY. THE LIGHT the gunmetal sky.

OF PASSING CARS AND OVERHANGING The light of passing STREETLAMPS WAS ACUTE, YET IT COULD cars and overhanging streetlamps NOT DISPEL THE PERVASIVE GLOOM. was acute, yet it could not dispel the pervasive gloom. Neither could the cheery banter of rosy-faced patrons sitting at the outdoor tables of cafes and bars under whose buzzing neon they ambled do anything but startle the numbed outer extremity of emotion without touching the core of it.

“Y’know you don’t have to take me home,” Belle said, staring straight ahead.

“It wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t.”

He laid his arm across the unfilled shoulders of his jacket. He felt Belle’s slender neck tense around the crook of his elbow and then ease somewhat. The weight of his arm pulled her toward him, and with each movement, her worn and stained red sneakers got closer to his glossy loafers. The veined sheets of leather approached him, as did the weight of Belle’s head and the promise of her soft hair splaying out across his shirt.

She broke from him and said, “We turn left down here.”

Lance looked down an asphalt corridor devoid of streetlamps. The few cars looked liable to fall apart at any moment. The bricks of the buildings overlooking the street had ragged faces, and the edifices themselves seemed to lean in, obscuring much of whatever light the sky cast at that moment.

He looked at Belle. “Can’t we take a left a little further along?”

“My house is a half-dozen blocks down. It’s pretty shady here, but it gets nicer.” Her eyes wide, her head cocked to the side, her arms folded across her chest, Belle added, “Promise.”

They passed a column of steam spewing upward from a grate in the sidewalk. It filled the air with a sulfurous stench. Lance laid his hand over his nose to filter out some of the vapor. “It doesn’t bother you?” he asked.

“I’m used to it,” Belle responded.

The street ended after three blocks.

“Left?” Lance pointed down a street flanked by closed shops.

Belle looked left and bit her lip. “No, I meant right.”

“You sure?”

She turned and looked up at him. Her gaze penetrated his and rested somewhere far beyond. “I took you too far—just come down this alley.”

HER GAZE PENETRATED HIS AND RESTED SOMEWHERE FAR BEYOND. “I TOOK YOU TOO FAR—JUST COME DOWN THIS ALLEY.” “We could turn back and go around,” Lance suggested.

“No, I have something to show you.” She offered him her hand, and by the time he reached down to take it, she had started to walk away.

In the sea of sundry grays, Lance’s gaze fixated on Belle’s red sneakers. He noticed that the rubber soles were on the verge of detaching from the rest of the shoe. He found his eyes rising up her ivory legs: her alternatively bulging and relaxing calves to her rear, which was obscured by the tail of his leather jacket.

Belle led him into a narrow alley. She stopped by a rusty door and motioned for Lance to come near.

She knocked twice, and out came a boy Lance’s age in basketball shorts and a stained gray hoodie. Belle disappeared into the building as the boy pulled a handgun from one of his pockets.

“I hear you’re well off.”

Lance looked back down the way he had come and noticed another boy behind him.

“So you think it’s right to take someone else’s girl to the movies?”

“I had no idea—” Lance fell to his knees as he felt a sharp kick to the backs of his legs. Cold hands seized his wrists and pulled hard.

The boy in the grey hoodie walked forward, pistol pointed at Lance. His eyes flicked from Lance’s face to his pockets. “That was a nice jacket you had. Thanks.

Now let’s see what else you’ve got.”

WITHOUT MERCY BRENT WEISBERG ’16 FICTION

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DREW BAXLEY ’16 | BEATEN PHOTOGRAPHY THE MARQUE 2016

DECEPTIVE UNITY: MY NAME AND NAMELESSNESS PATRICK MAGEE ’17 NONFICTION

(Literary Festival First Place Nonfiction)

A

patrician echo, a hint of nobility between Latin loquacity and Gaelic grunt. Reminiscences of saintly sorrow, a suggestion of inebriation. A gleeful deceit preceded by a friendly caress.

So much emotion surrounds my simple two-syllable label that I struggle to conceive of those four days following my birth during which “Patrick” did not refer to anybody, when the senile fetus in the bedroom crib simply existed, like God in the burning bush, as he would exist. Even more difficult for me to imagine is the idea that I was nearly a Jackson or—horror of horrors—a Trent. That my parents only settled on Patrick, not in a heroic epiphany but in a happy compromise, after nearly a hundred hours of deliberation is a gross anomaly in parenting. Only later did they discover they had named me after a terrorist.

Tangled up in my two-word appellation is a mess of contradictions and false histories that seem to reveal little about my identity.

Despite my name’s almost stereotypical Celtic ring, I have no known Irish roots, and what little ruddy Scottish blood runs through my veins is overwhelmed by Finnish ice, a far cry from the Hibernian isle. Part of me wishes I had one of the colorful surnames of my maternal grandparents, a hearty Happonen or Laaksonen to better

APPARENTLY, MY PARENTS COULDN’T EVEN CHOOSE A HALF-DECENT TERRORIST TO NAME ME AFTER. match my ancestry. Such feelings of Irish alienation would certainly disappoint my patron saboteur, a mediocre IRA rebel—with the same spelling of Magee, no less—who failed to kill Margaret Thatcher in a hotel bombing. Apparently, my parents couldn’t even choose a half-decent terrorist to name me after.

Perhaps it is because of my deceptively

diverse ancestry that I relish the sheer misleading nature of my name.

BUT MORE LIES BEHIND MY A Protestant with a PaNAME THAN GRAVE OBJECTIVITY pist epithet, the child of AND DARK ACTS OF VIOLENCE. both recent immigrants and homegrown Texans, my very being repunique blessing. Given that my first name resents the confluence of drastically differholds little inherent humor, my friends ent cultures that belies my generic Caucahave found it necessary to endow it with sian appearance. On my father’s side, I find similar absurdity, fashioning nicknames as the most stereotypically Southern family numerous as they are demeaning. Between imaginable, the Fundamentalist progeny of Satrick, Patar, and countless variations on oil barons, steeped in the conservatism and Patty—of which Wee Patty Magee is only warm hospitality of their home. My mother, the least insulting—I take enormous plearaised far from Baptist fire and right-wing sure in watching my friends abuse my name, tradition, developed the immigrant spirit of marveling at their ability to enchant it with work ethic and liberalism, reared a classisuch feminine charm and primitive noncal musician and rationalist in the fierce sense. With the exception of the abhorred Finnish antisocial tradition. Like Northern “Pat,” an androgynous, bastardized name Ireland, I often find myself torn between I hate with an inexplicable passion, I relish my two parent cultures, finding myself a the loving deprecation attached to these fervent traditionalist at one moment and a names. Like the quirkiness of my surname, free-spirited radical the next. Soft as clover they blast through the walls of seriousness and fiery as a bomb, I find my identity in and false formality that so often mask my contrast, in nonsensical doublethink and character, opening me up to others with an logical irrationality. Held by an assassin and affectionate playfulness and jocular smirk. a saint, masking antisocialism behind an Irish That so much significance could be attached brogue, my deceptive name holds surprising to a guttural conflict of tongue and teeth meaning in light of my history. both baffles and delights me. I treasure my But more lies behind my name than name in all its permutations. grave objectivity and dark acts of violence.

Still, part of me longs to return to those Far more significant to me is irreverent four days following my exit from the womb, joy surrounding the utterance of the name when no simple sound could circumscribe itself. Frankly speaking, the name “Mamy being. To exist as a name is to limit onegee” itself is a ludicrous one—an apparent self to the bounds of the written and spoken misspelling, a jumpy ending, possessing all word, to relinquish one’s cosmic spirit in the patrician grandeur of a Scottish bootfavor of base taxonomy. But like it or not, legger. I vividly recall being told laughingly my name is as much a part of me as my geby a fellow pianist that I would have little netic code, as intrinsic to my identity as my success in music based solely on the fact Finnish heritage and musical upbringing. It that no Magee could ever successfully sell shapes the way others perceive and interact a classical record. The name lends itself far with me, and in a reactionary fashion, it better to slapstick comedy than to any sort forms the way I perceive myself. Not only of highbrow artistic or academic endeavis rejection of one’s name a psychological or. I’d like to say that I wholly appreciate impossibility, it is immolation of one’s very the silliness of my surname—even now, I essence. Choice or no choice, I accept my often wish that I’d been born a Taylor or a name—ludicrous, saintly, and rebellious as Williams—but its ability to rein in pretense, it may be. Even if it does mean being the to crack the illusion of false seriousness, and namesake of a terrorist. to bring laughter to benign situations is a

MICHAEL LIANG ’18 | CREVICES PHOTOGRAPHY

I

have a passion, Quite necessary Need Of seeing The beginning And end Of Each day.

The small Drops Of dew, across the Wet morning Grass.

Sparkling and Seeming like, They are part of Space, Such endless Beauty.

Then it comes up, The Sun. Slowly creeping Up the earth, Illuminating The soft dew drops Until they Seem like Balls of fire, Lighting up the grass Like flames.

The warm embrace Of the sun As we feel it On our skin.

Such a feeling, Warmth, A necessity we Need.

The wind, Whispering as it Passes by, Carrying the hopes And Dreams of the Day before.

And once reunited With The people

Around us, Creating new memories, While cherishing The once That where already Made.

The world, Inhabited by all, Men, women, Birds, insects, United as one.

But to those, Who are blind To such beauty, Rejoice For the beauty Of the world Is much more than sight, Close your Eyes And a New world Will present itself.

The morning insects, Loud in their early Celebrations of callings, The birds, Singing The sweet melodies Of nature To the quiet silence Of peace And tranquility.

Then it comes again.

Rushing to your Side, the winds Passing through all With its own special feel, An invisible being, A spirit.

The night Always on time, Signaling the End Of the day.

Time has no place In this prefect System of nature.

Time

Is an idea, Intangible. Is it our time To go or stay?

Life waits for No man, A never ending cycle.

But as the sun Goes down, Down with the warmth, Down with the Old day, The sky is filled, With diamonds.

Such grace That a shooting star has, Streaking across the Sky, a sign of hope, To wish upon a shooting star.

Twinkling in the Dark emptiness That is space.

I love the feeling The though That I might Be one of Those stars, Unique.

I love watching The moon, A sign of hope.

A ball of cheese Some say, Or a man smiling Down at us.

Either way, It illuminates The path for all.

I love knowing that Although we might have Our limited time here, We will once again be Reunited in the place that we all Have come from, And be in the wind, In the night sky, and in the world Around, for all to see.

ODE TO COMMON THINGS: THE CYCLE

DANIEL GARCIA ’18 POETRY

THE MARQUE 2016

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NIGHTMARE QUOTE

REALITY IS NEVER AS BAD AS A NIGHTMARE, AS THE MENTAL TORTURES WE INFLICT ON OURSELVES. SAMMY DAVIS, JR. American entertainer, singer, dancer

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THE MARQUE 2016

The desert, a large expanse of sand and heat, a place untouched by humanity, an unconstructed dream space of sorts, represents the raw subconscious of Limbo.

An abstract individual, who embodies the dreamer, stands in this Limbo waiting, creating, dreaming.

–Kannan Sharma ‘18 on how Limbo inspired his painting

BEYOND THE GREAT EXPANSE OF THOUGHT and consciousness lies the endless disarray of reality itself. In here, the distinctions of form disintegrate into limbo itself. And within the limbo of our realities, the conundrum of life itself disentangles from existence. Is it alive? Is it conscious? What makes up and defines existence and nonexistence? Limbo disregards all. Formless coexistence between reality and reverie blends until nothing but blurred lines remain. But from that endless, formless ether, dissipated into the infinite expanse, the pattern of our realities, internal, external, dreams, and consciousness, weaved the existence of our lives. We, the pilots and architects of limbo itself, stand amidst the unraveling of our realities, spread out in front of us in an empty, immense canvas, ready to explored and paved by our drifting presence. Our lives lie at the mercy of no one; it is only the unknowing form of limbo that beckons us to challenge and define our existences and realities.

–Kevin He ‘16

L I M B O

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THE MARQUE 2016

T

here are no gates that lead from the airplane to the airport at the Calcutta International Airport. There are portable metal staircases that lead passengers from the aircraft to buses that really can’t even be called automobiles. These buses then transport weary travelers to the airport. I refrain from describing the conditions of the Calcutta International Airport in 2004 because it would take much too long, and I prefer that this paper stay clean instead of becoming stained with vomit.

Thus, I continue. The first thing that hit me when I got off the Singapore Airlines flight was

KOLKATA JOSH BANDOPADHAY ’17 NONFICTION

Kolkata is not just a dot on a map.

It’s not just a city. It’s my home. The dingy streets, the monsoon rains, the yellow ambassador taxis − they’re what make Kolkata. I hope to show you a small glimpse of what a unique place my hometown is, because this is where I come from, and what a place it is.

the smell. It was the smell of the monsoons – the smell of the incoming storm. I’ll never forget that pleasant smell that greeted me on the overcast day I arrived in Calcutta. It stood by the metal staircase and shook my hand as I jumped from the last step onto the concrete ground with a thud, my Thomas the Train backpack snug on my back.

It led me to the bright yellow taxi waiting outside the airport, its wide-open windows signaling the lack of air conditioning in the classic Ambassador car. It acquainted me with the scrawny, undernourished driver who eagerly helped us load our luggage, hoping to earn a couple of extra rupees that would buy him the lone samosa that would suffice for his dinner. It led me through the busy streets of Calcutta, up avenues as wide as the Ganges River, down streets as skinny as a closet doorway. It introduced me to the homeless men and women who inhabited the dingy streets, the musicians who had only a tin can and some coins to create a symphony. It pointed out the street vendors who sold Bay Ran glasses and Abidas shoes to make a living (Yes. Those are not typos.).

Then, it put its ego aside and whispered in my ear, “Smell the food instead. Let the smell make your taste buds tingle.”

So I smelled. And smelled. And smelled. And wished I could never stop smelling. My nose filled with the delicious scent of hot samosas straight out of the frying pan, accompanied with a piping hot shot of spicy chai. But just as we turned the corner, I inhaled the smell of the chicken rolls, stuffed with soft chicken kebabs, sautéed onions and bell peppers, topped with green chili peppers and a secret tangy sauce. And just a few meters away was the sweets shop, where the chocolates, the mango desserts, the vanilla sandeshes all enticingly called my name. As I continued on my journey, the smell of the monsoon took me to the park, where I saw children my age playing soccer, or rather football, barefoot on the muddiest ground I have ever seen, celebrating as though they had won the World Cup every time someone scored a goal.

EVERYBODY WAS SHOUTING LIKE IT WAS NOBODY’S BUSINESS. Then it led me to the outdoor marketplace, the birthplace of haggling, where fresh fruits, vegetables, meat, and every other edible thing imaginable was sold. Everybody was shouting like it was nobody’s business. “My oranges are half an inch bigger in diameter than that guys’ oranges!

This is clearly the better buy,” shouted one of the men. “Ah, let your oranges grow 10 more inches in diameter; they will never be as sweet as my oranges, my friend,” retorted the other (You must imagine that both these men scream at each other across the marketplace in a language called Bangla, in a rude and competitive, yet very joking, tone.). Finally it led me to my father’s home in Sealdah, a suburb of Calcutta, and left me until next time. As soon as the taxi driver stopped the car and got his due tip, I ran up to my grandma on the third floor, and before she could peck me twice on both cheeks, I bent down and touched her feet, completing a customary act that showed respect to her and asked for her blessings. As my dad sped up the stairs to see his family for the first time in two years, I could see the tears welling up in my grandmother’s eyes.

As they embraced each other, my grandmother started to cry, and so did the skies. With a thunderous boom, the monsoon rains poured down on Calcutta. I ran onto the balcony and looked up at the skies as everybody in the family hugged, cried, and laughed. As the droplets of rain softly hit my face, I thought: “this is where we come from, and what a place it is. “

ABHI THUMMALA ‘16 ILLUSTRATION

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THE MARQUE 2016

DREW BAXLEY ‘16 | POLLEN PHOTOGRAPHY

AUTUMNAL REBIRTH ANDRÉ ARSENAULT ‘18 POETRY

C

risp, cool — invigorating.

The air is cold, signaling the end of summer and beginning of winter.

Transition.

Musky, earthy — wholesome.

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Old familiarity, scents run free, and memories stir.

Longing.

Bright, colorful — majestic.

The leaves are bold, red, orange, yellow, like an eternal flame.

Dying.

Nature’s eternal beauty, long at peace, nearing death.

With silent acceptance, comes indifference.

With indifference, bliss.

With bliss, death.

And with death: Life.

THE MARQUE 2016

FILM SHOWCASE 1

2

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(The above photos are screenshots from student-created films.)

1 Distractions Devan Prabhakar ‘17 Matthew Theilmann ‘18 Will Ingram ‘17 Elijah Hubbard ‘17 2 Art | Duality August Graue ‘17 René Reeder ‘17 Devan Prabhakar ‘17 Joon Park ‘17 Shailen Parmar ‘17 THE MARQUE 2016

A CLOSE SHAVE

work,” Richard looked up. “Ha! Your hair! Did you cut that yourself? Looks like you could use these right now, maybe right after Sandy here finishes her little trim.

But anyway, go back out there, Bonham. Or don’t; it probably is had Bonham was stuck, his long, brown your fault anyway that no one ever comes here. braid hanging behind his head between his Scram!” ovular and empty earlobes, stopping right Chad’s usual apathetic face returned. He where his biceps ended and the blue fish tattoos headed back out to his normal post, stuck in his began and jammed a mixture of caramel, coffee, normal routine — wait until closing time, head ice, and a hint of cinnamon in a blender. home, go to sleep, wait until closing time, head “This would happen to me,” he muttered. home, go to sleep . . .

“Hey, Richard. Richard. Richard, could you please Sandy’s incessant yapping filled Chad’s ear. help me out on this one?” His call echoed into the “Hey, Chad, Sandy needs to let one loose. Take concrete office in the back of the shop. A cackle her outside,” Richard demanded. answered back.

“Oh, I’ll let her loose. For sure,” Chad mutChad grimaced, and his eyes scanned the shop tered to himself.

— filled cups of milk, sugar, spices, one folded He snatched the dog’s leash and took her napkin, and heaps of dog hair. Chad unplugged outside the brown-bricked coffee shop. The dog the blender and dragged it across the bar as sweet instantly squatted near Chad’s car and started to caramel drizzled all over the ground. It banged urinate. and thumped behind his head until he reached Chad headed towards the dog angrily. He for the drawer. He opened it, but it was empty. peeked back at the coffee shop. There was RichHe banged and thumped again from behind the ard, laughing hysterically in the window. Chad bar and found a plastic knife in a cup next to stormed back inside. the spoons and straws. Chad sighed and began “Haha! That was hilarious. Come here, Sandy, cutting. glad you noticed Chad here drives a toilet for a “It is finished,” he said, as he freed himself car,” Richard said. from the contraption. Beads of sweat and seven “Look, it’s not even that bad a car. Besides, inches of hair filled the blender. Chad headed to have you seen what you drive?” the concrete office.

“Are you talking back to me? You’d better get Immediately, the Yorkshire terrier in Richard’s back to work before I fire you. I know Sandy here lap yapped. A cage in the corner labeled “SANcould do just as good a job as you.”

DY” was stuck in the corner next to a black safe.

Chad slumped into the corner and watched as Richard continued to cut around the dog’s feet the slob of a man headed back to his office with without looking up at Chad. the small furry dog close behind.

“You know, I could have used those scissors She sauntered in with her blinding white hair.

Chad thought she was old until she approached the coffee bar. She kept on her dark CHAD UNPLUGGED THE BLENDER black sunglasses, but there was clearly a face free from AND DRAGGED IT ACROSS THE BAR wrinkles behind it. She stuck AS SWEET CARAMEL DRIZZLED ALL out a pale knuckle and a green OVER THE GROUND. fingernail tapped the bar four times. Chad immediately shot up. just then…or your help,” Chad said. He stared at “How can I help you?” the dog with pure hatred.

“Well, maybe you could start with a haircut,” “What? Obviously, I’m busy. Get back to she giggled. “What’s good here?”

PHILIP SMART ‘16

C

“Well, we recently got a new bean from the Southern —” “Have you ever listened to the Clash?” She picked up one of the Indie CD cases next to the register. “There’s something about them. They are so much more powerful than this type of music.”

“I don’t think I ever have,” Chad stumbled, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“They are just so honest. The way they take action, do what they want. It’s inspiring, frankly, to the whole human race. They unite us. And oh, I’ll take that Southern stuff you were talking about.”

Chad started to make the coffee, paying close attention to exact measurements. He thought that this should be the best cup of coffee he would ever make. He precisely placed it on the bar, inserted a stirring straw carefully in the drink, and started to call out to the white-haired woman. Before he could say anything, she got a phone call and headed out the door. The coffee stuck there on the bar, lonely. Chad’s eyes, filled with

CHAD’S EYES, FILLED WITH MOMENTARY HAPPINESS, SLOWLY FELL TO THE FLOOR. momentary happiness, slowly fell to the floor.

Chad headed back to his usual spot. But just then, she returned. She took the coffee into her hands.

“Ridiculous! I almost forgot. There’s no way I’d make it back to Midtown without this stuff.

Hey, you know there’s a place right down the street that sells excellent razors, right?” And just like that, her white hair wooshed out of the door again.

Smirking, Chad looked back into the concrete office. The only evident light was the buzzing TV set that reflected on Richard’s face, revealing his bushy brown mustache and blobs of drool on his face. Chad could also barely make out Sandy, her four legs stuck up in the air and her head also in its own pool of drool. Chad looked at his watch.

He glanced around the coffee shop. He knew if he walked out at this second, he would never get his job back.

Chad sprinted out the door. He peered down

NICO SANCHEZ ‘15 | DOWN MOUNTAIN PHOTOGRAPHY the street. A pharmacy stuck out behind a fastfood chain. Chad peeled out of the parking lot into the street. A car honked. Chad ran.

In the pharmacy, all the aisles blurred past Chad until he found the one labeled “HYGIENE.” He pulled the electric Fusion Proglide Gilette Razor out of the box. Chad opened the bathroom door and looked himself in the eyes.

He had never noticed his fading eyes. The razor buzzed as it neared his head and sliced off his hair as though it were grooming a dog. Chad looked into the mirror. He didn’t recognize the face in front of him, shining on the top like a military soldier. He winked an eye that again hinted a speck of green and left the pharmacy.

He returned to the concrete office. Everything was the same, even the black safe. Chad squatted

THE RAZOR BUZZED AS IT NEARED HIS HEAD AND SLICED OFF HIS HAIR LIKE GROOMING A DOG.

the dog’s cage into the bathroom.

Chad stared at the dog. It stared back. He looked deep into the dog’s eyes with deep hate, a black hate, filled with animosity and hunger, an intense desire that Chad had never felt before.

He closed both eyes and slowly opened them.

They both shone green, and the razor started to buzz. The dog’s hair tumbled to the ground.

And as Chad thrust the hairless terrier back into the cage, he saw something in the back. It was a wad of cash tied by a rubber band, stuck against a wall. Chad stuffed it into his pockets and threw the cage back into the concrete office.

As Chad left the coffee shop, he stepped on a black cylinder and almost fell. He squatted down and opened it. It was green nail polish. He smiled, stuffed it in his pocket, headed out the door, and called for a cab.

“Hi, how are you? Midtown, please?” Chad handed the cabby a bill from underneath the rubber band.

Chad’s green eyes stared out the back of the window. The shop’s door swung open, and there stood Richard, a naked Sandy in hand, flipping off the cab. Richard started running, but it was too late. Chad was moving.

for a closer look, careful not to wake the dog. The safe had an alphabetical password. Chad looked around and saw a folder entitled “REPORTS.” He opened it — just more files. He opened a drawer but still couldn’t find what he wanted. He went over to the computer and shook the mouse. A picture of a terrier appeared and prompted for a password. Chad kept looking every corner, every cabinet, every cranny. There was no password to be found. A tear welled up in his green eye. He squinted hard and flipped over the mousepad.

There was a sticky note labeled “Sandy1” in black letters. Chad crawled to the safe and entered in the letters.

The black insides of the safe stared back at Chad. It was completely empty. Chad fumed and pressed his head into the safe. He stormed out of the office, out of the coffee shop, and let out a roar.

He sat down on the curb, stuck in place. The razor in Chad’s pocket buzzed. He looked up. He stared off into the distance with purpose. He took a stand and held the razor out by his side. He tiptoed back into the concrete office and eased

THE MARQUE 2016

76 77

MYSELF

MASK OF KEVIN CHOI ‘17 POETRY

E

ver since I entered the New World, I always wore a mask, Not a full mask; just a half-mask, Although people here always question me about my mask, it is quite funny when they do, Because they too are wearing a mask, albeit a complete one.

Do they not see it because they had lived with it so long?

Do they not see it because they were just ignoring it?

Do they not see it because they were taught to overlook it?

I lift my mask towards the sky, and through my right eye I see the world normally, and through my left eye I see the world through the eyehole of my mask, At times it gets quite confusing trying to balance the two visions, When one gives me the full spectrum of all existing colors, The pale walls of my room, the stark-white sheet that covers my bed, The deep darkness of shadows, helping everything gain its texture, The small songbird with its radiant blue feathers, The lustrous gold patterns on a book, weaving to and fro, The clear glass, only visible when a beam of light hits it just right, The delusive mirror, creating a world on the other side, And the other, black and white.

But who am I to decide to wear or to discard the mask?

I cannot see through multiple eyes or through multiple souls, Nor can I feel the world through multiple hands, Nor can I hear the banters, the shouts, and the songs through multiple ears, I am no god.

Thus I kept one side masked and the other not, Never sure, never clear, and perhaps never right, But always hoping that one day, everything will be all right.

L

ife begins at the end of a rope.

Emerging from the womb, Working through life, And raging at death, We live dangling on the precipice of the unknown.

From birth through death, we remain leashed, Depending on others, lacking any ability to survive, Living on the shoulders of giants, Binding ourselves first to others, Allowing them to guide us.

We may exist restricted thus, But these constraints let us live.

As we pull on our chains, Test the bars of our cages, We clamor to broaden our worlds.

And to live.

We find that these bounds are indefinite, That the world we used to know, Is not the end.

There is much more beyond the wall, On the other side.

And as we reach the end of the binding rope, We violently tug, seeking freedom.

And as the constraints fall away, We tumble, off balance, into a new world, Freed from dependence.

Yet now there are new limits. Only when we push ourselves, When we break the limits of imagination, Do we realize that the spirit is meant to be strained, Like a rope fraying between the monumental tugs of good and evil, In order to progress, to thrive?

And to live.

As we push to grow better, To augment ourselves and those around us, As we tear down the walls of precedent, Frenzying at the bonds of possibility,

We find once again that our restraints give way.

As these boundaries stretch and change, We rush forward to close the gap, Striving to further expand our world And the horizon of the impossible, A wall never to be found.

And yet, expended from such pushing, We slow down, unconcerned, No longer seeking the new, Satisfied with an expanded world, Seeking simply to survive.

And no longer to live.

And as contentment stifles curiosity, Our tired bodies now happy To amble around a self-penned coop, We remember more exciting times And never seek to reenact them.

Thus we continue in this afternoon siesta of life, Benefitting from the saved fruits of labor, Marveling at those others, the boundary-pushing, Until we reach a yearning to live again, To find life at the end of a rope.

Finally we lie or sit or stand, Our lives dangling from an inversed umbilical, From an IV tube, a noose, a grasping hand, And raging once more, now simply to live, We find again the human desire to struggle.

And to live.

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At the end of a rope.

Thus I urge you all: rush to that harsh precipice, Where you believe the world to end.

You will find that so much more lies beyond.

See that a life unchallenged is hardly a life.

Become the brawny-shouldered giants of this world.

Fear not the fate of Icarus, For you will not fall, my friends. You will fly.

THE END

OF A ROPE ALDEN JAMES ‘16 POETRY

THE MARQUE 2016

FLICKERING LIGHT

SAHIT DENDEKURI ’19POETRY

(Literary Festival Third Place Poetry)

Up all night, burning the midnight oil Young to old fazed with drooping eyes Work, play, and stress causing all sorts of turmoil.

Children to their play remain loyal Until the flagrant sound of bedtime cries Up all night, burning the midnight oil.

Hours of study and work are sure to spoil Until the blaring alarm catches us by surprise Work, play, and stress causing all sorts of turmoil.

For family and money we toil Until the new kid at school brings about our demise Up all night, burning the midnight oil.

Long forgotten by kin, all that’s left is the Will Weakened by time, we recount our lives Work, play, and stress causing all sorts of turmoil.

The light begins to flicker; there goes the oil!

Oblivion is now a reality, and my legacy withers and dies Up all night, burning the midnight oil Work, play, and stress causing all sorts of turmoil.

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THE MARQUE 2016

CERAMICS SHOWCASE 1

2

3

4

5

6

7 82 83

1 Coral Reef Greyson Gallagher ‘16 2 Abstract Greyson Gallagher ‘16

8

3 Wyvern Nick Chaiken ‘17 4 Rustic Nick Chaiken ‘17 5 Tree Zak Houillion ‘16 6 Cross Zak Houillion ‘16 7 Copper Greyson Gallagher ‘16 8 Banded Vessel Series Bill Kysor | Faculty THE MARQUE 2016

13 2 54 6 798 111210 131415 16

17 CAND

knees quiver and shake and buckle under your weight, but you are unrelenting, and your grip is strong.

I reap the benefits of an educational fervor, but I suffer its consequences, too.

My Friday nights are as exciting as a game of bingo at a retirement home, My ability to dance is as underdeveloped as the plot of James Cameron’s “Avatar,” My weekend schedule is as empty as a bag of Lay’s® Classic Potato Chips, And my case is as hopeless (but not as unworthy) as that of Bill Cosby, P.B.U.H.

I

’m six.

I waddle to Mom’s car, and the book bag hanging from my shoulders is little more than a formality, a polyester learning-lugger of no real burden or consequence.

Apart from my immediate family, I see no one.

I’m but a minute older than Kiersten and but two older than Bryce, yet I puff my chest and slant my eyes downward as if two were two million.

I’m ten.

But mom, I blubber, I don’t wanna go!

But I have to go. I amble into Mrs. Broom’s fourth grade class with a paper-thin veneer of confidence, clinging to the straps of my thought-trapper.

I don’t know anyone, nor do I want to. Why should I? My parents will soon recognize their snafu and transfer me back to my old school, back to the familiar territory I had refused to abandon.

I color in the star on the Texas flag with a white crayon, but the heavily-anticipated school transfer never comes.

I’m fifteen.

I’m also a living counterexample to the assumption that age and maturity have a positive correlation.

My social life still clocks out at the stroke of 3:55. My skin begins to grow around my black rumination-receptacle, blurring the line between brain and book.

Why do I find comfort from that in which others find dread? I fail to augur the effects of such a dependence, and the warnings of my parents are lost upon my discriminating ears.

I’m sixteen.

I turn with disgust to the textbook-transporter I had once looked to for security. Its books aren’t pillows, I realize– they’re handcuffs, and I fidget as the restraints around my limbs tighten.

What are you, bearer of burden and brooding alike? My

LES

But now I’m seventeen.

Superficially, not that much has changed: my voice is a mite lower; my legs, ganglier; my eyelids, heavier. But it still kinda looks like I’m bald in direct sunlight, which is all that really matters, anyway.

I use humor to hide my insecurities (Who doesn’t?), I note the ebb and flow of my dieting SUPERFICIALLY, NOT THAT habits (and that of my weight), MUCH HAS CHANGED: MY and I still spend most of my ocio with my siblings (though VOICE IS A MITE LOWER; MY I no longer puff my chest in LEGS, GANGLIER; MY EYEtheir presence).

LIDS, HEAVIER.

What, then, is different? I think aloud.

I find the answer one Friday night as I pull into my driveway, my legs sore from that day’s row.

As I fit my red, white, and blue house key into the side door’s lock, I shrug my rucksack off one shoulder.

I enter my house, I “gently” toss my homework-holder onto the ground, and I head upstairs to live vicariously through the protagonist of the show I’m currently watching, a show whose name I cannot remember.

Before vaulting up a set of wooden stairs to ascend to the second floor, though, I quickly glance at the black mass carelessly strewn about on the kitchen floor.

It’s my trusty JanSport, whose straps and zippers are frayed from years of heavy use.

I smile (but not too much, as I’ve adopted an impassive attitude toward everything under the sun).

84 85

My case isn’t completely hopeless.

AIDEN BLINN ’17 POETRY THE MARQUE 2016

HANNAH’S LAST WALTZ JONAH SIMON ’19 POETRY

S

chool daze heat wave filled with ways that i forgot how to tell you what you were doing was wrong or right or in between two categories that were arbitrary to begin with or end with thanks for something

ROB CROW ’17 | COLOUR PHOTOGRAPHY

an excerpt from

THE TAKEDOWN ERIC MARTIN ’19 FICTION

(Literary Festival First Place Fiction)

T

he frenzy was more than even Teddy had anticipated. Flashes from the paparazzi’s cameras stung his pale blue eyes and, conveniently, created the impression that he was actually tearing up. Dwarfed by the two muscular officers on either side of him, Teddy seemed far younger than his fifteen years.

As they shoved through the crowd, he could barely make out some of the comments from the press. One reporter exclaimed “That little kid? He’s the mastermind?” Another observed, “he’s Pro-Palestinian? You’d never know it to look at him!” The handcuffs were not all that tight, but he winced in pain when he sat down in the officer’s SUV. Normally the officer would protectively place his hand on a perpetrator’s head when lowering him down into the car seat, thereby preventing a head injury, but it was not necessary in Teddy’s case.

He was just that small. When the vehicle door was closed and he was safely hidden behind the dark tinted windows, Teddy relaxed his wrinkled forehead, and a sly smirk slowly crept across his mouth.

John Brennan, Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, was usually wound tighter than a drum. A vegan with a family history of military service, he began every day with a two-hour aerobic workout at the gym. He was up, out the door and in the pool literally hours before his wife ever awoke, but she was used to it. The same work ethic applied to his job.

He never, ever took his duties lightly, and he never, ever let his subordinates slack off. He

had worked for over twenty-five years in the CIA, served as the National Security Advisor for Homeland Security, and now served as the predominant security advisor to the president of the United States. It has not been an easy road. When he had originally been named for his post, concerns were raised that he would not pass Senate approval due to his prior support of waterboarding. That was when he had served under President Bush, but things were different now. What did the politicians really know, anyway? Terrorist threats of all kinds were right around the corner. A threat was a threat, and measures needed to be taken to neutralize any and all threats. The spin-doctors had even criticized the use of drones for counter-terrorism, despite the fact that drones saved American tax dollars and American lives. After barely passing Senate approval on the second go-round, Brennan began to realize that he had to play the political chess game, keep his nose clean, and fly under the radar. He was not going to fail, and he would not allow his staff to fail either. His team was terrified of him. He routinely bellowed to them, “Get it right, or get the hell out of here.” To put it mildly, no one wanted to get on his bad side. After the incident, Brennan was especially concerned with Internet security.

He was not about to let anything bad happen on his watch.

On the ride to FBI headquarters, Teddy reflected with pride on his accomplishments.

No matter how much trouble he might be

in, it was definitely worth it. This would quiet his critics. He could only imagine the look on their faces when they realized it was him; and maybe, for once, people would pay attention now. He hardly heard the comments from the officers in the front seat. “Man, he’s just a kid,” whispered one, and the other replied, “Yeah, is that a school uniform he’s wearing? Probably some fancy prep school. Kid must come from money.”

It wasn’t just any school uniform Teddy was wearing; it was the uniform of The Rushmore Academy, one of the finest all-boys boarding schools in the country. In fact, most people considered it the very finest of all the single-sex schools in America. Rushmore’s alumni ranged from Nobel Prize winners and poet laureates to U.S. Senators and even a prior President. While the academic standards at Rushmore were generally high, the admissions process varied greatly, depending on a prospective student’s last name, if he was a legacy, and if perhaps a building at Rushmore was named after his father or grandfather.

Consequently, some of the worst grades were earned by some of the wealthiest students, but somehow, those students never managed to flunk out. Rushmore’s campus rivaled that of most colleges, despite the fact that Rushmore was only a prep school. It had an unbelievable endowment, and of course, it cost a pretty penny to attend. It was the type of school Teddy’s mother had never dreamed she could afford, and considering the distance to his home, it was the type of school Teddy had never wanted to attend.

(the story continues but was not printed in its entirety due to space limitations)

THE MARQUE 2016

86 87

LIMBO QUOTE

DREAMS ARE EXCURSIONS INTO THE LIMBO OF THINGS, A SEMI-DELIVERANCE FROM THE HUMAN PRISON. HENRI-FREDERIC AMIEL Swiss moral philosopher and poet

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THE MARQUE 2016

STAFF PAGE

Killian Green

Josh Bandopadhay

Lynne Weber

GayMarie Vaughan

Akshay Malhotra

Kevin He

Aidan Maurstad

Joon Park

Andrew Chuka

Alden James

Ashton Hashemipour

Grant Uebele Copy Editor Class of 2016

Shailen Parmar

Staff Class of 2017

Cameron Bossalini

Todd Murphy

Bryce Blinn

Editor-in-Chief Class of 2017

Faculty Sponsor

Managing Editor Class of 2016

Art Director Class of 2017

Copy Editor Class of 2016

Media Director Class of 2017

Editor-in-Chief Class of 2017

Faculty Sponsor

Managing Editor Class of 2016

Creative Director Class of 2017

Media Director Class of 2017

Submissions Director Class of 2016

Head Photographer Class of 2016

Staff Class of 2017

Daniel Chavez

Kannan Sharma

Jesse Zhong

Kevin Feng

Michael Liang

Waseem Nabulsi

Andrew Li

Jonah Simon

Kamal Mamdani

Staff Class of 2017

Staff Class of 2018

Staff Class of 2018

Staff Class of 2018

Staff Class of 2018

Staff Class of 2019

Staff Class of 2018

Staff Class of 2018

Staff Class of 2019

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Nathan Han Staff Class of 2019

Sahit Dendekuri Staff Class of 2019

CJ Crawford Staff Class of 2019

NOT PICTURED Will Garden Media Director, Class of 2016 Vikrant Reddy Staff, Class of 2017 Rohil Rai Staff, Class of 2017 Austin Montgomery Staff, Class of 2018 Billy Stalder Staff, Class of 2019 Daniel Byeon Staff, Class of 2018 Davis Yoo Staff, Class of 2019 Eliott Ford Staff, Class of 2018 Matthew Coleman Staff, Class of 2019 Zoheb Khan Staff, Class of 2018 Sam Eichenwald Staff, Class of 2016 Robert Qin Staff, Class of 2016 Kristof Csaky Staff, Class of 2019

THE MARQUE 2016

FROM THE EDITORS

W

OW, WHERE DID THE YEAR GO?

It seemed like only last week we were gathered around the Harkness table yelling out theme and design ideas for this year’s magazine. Even when we were reading endless submissions or even stumbling upon our first Design Night, this magazine had seemed so far away. But now it’s here.

It went by so quickly because we, the staff, had a purpose. A purpose not just to finish a magazine but to make it our own–to leave our “Marque.” And I think we’ve accomplished our goal. It started from the depths of our thoughts–our subconscious even–waiting to be uncovered and brought to life. And through each one of our own visions of what the magazine would be and our collective drive, we created this.

What you hold in your hands right now wouldn’t, couldn’t have been possible without the support I’ve received (and the endless hours we’ve put in) along the process of creating this Marque. Ms. Weber, thank you for being my plumb line, my guiding light, and a wonderful sponsor. Mrs. Vaughan, you have been there late during design nights making sure we are on task, and you’ve been a friend to me.

Ray, thanks for opening up the Pubs Suite whenever I needed it. Josh, through thick-and-thin, it’s been a great year. I know we had some challenges starting out as two junior Editors-in-chief, but I think the magazine we’ve created this year is something really unique. I can’t wait to see what we will create next year. Halbert and Purujit, (even though you may or may not read this) thanks for leading me on my travels through the Marque, making me always feel welcomed and valued, and for shaping me into the editor I am today. Kevin, I can’t even tell you how instrumental you’ve been this year. The magazine literally could not have gotten done without you; you’ve been a lifesaver.

Marque-men, I am speechless as I flip through this magazine. There is nothing I can say that can express how much you have made this a magazine of even higher standard and one of the utmost quality. As you look at each page, you know just how much you have done. I hope you are pleased with your work.

And finally, to the reader, whomever you may be. A St. Mark’s student, a faculty member, an alumnus, a grandparent, a person of the world who by chance picked up this magazine. I hope through reading this you see what we–not only the Marque staff but also the St. Mark’s community–are about. Our ideas. Our creativity. Our brotherhood.

And I feel I can speak for the 54 years of Marque staff members when I say that’s what we try to capture every year. Though each cover may be different and though the staff changes, one thing remains the same.

It’s not necessarily about Roots, the Future, or even the Subconscious.

It’s about us and the bond we share.

I invite you to look through this magazine and see us. But perhaps most importantly, I hope in doing so you find yourself. I hope it inspires you to ignite the fantasies and passions deep within your brain, the ones that make you, you.

And so, resurrecting a phrase from a previous editor, “This is our Marque.”

–Killian Green, Editor-in-Chief

T

HE CREATION OF THIS MAGAZINE has been nothing short of a journey through my own subconscious. As I stared at the blank spread in front of me, I found myself drifting off into a pleasant daydream, with no intentions of returning to the grueling task that ominously loomed ahead. But when I finally attempted to refocus on the work at hand, I got lost in yet another aspect of my subconscious: nightmare. I frantically tried to fit text where it did not want to fit. I hopelessly attempted to use colors in ways they did not want to be used. And, of course, InDesign comes along, decides to add a little spice to my already frightening nightmare, and freezes up at the absolute worst possible times. I try to force my mind into fantasy, thinking of how great the finished magazine will look, how perfectly everything will work out. But with my palms sweaty, eyes wide open, and heart beating audibly, I freeze, following the perfect example InDesign had given me just a few moments before. I can take no more–I fall into limbo. I’m suddenly unaware of my surroundings. My senses become fuzzy. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to do this. I can’t do this.

But that’s when I got the helping hands I desperately needed. It’s been a tough process, and I definitely couldn’t have done it without a few fantastic folks. Killian, you’re the man. Thank you for being the fantastic and diligent editor that you are. Kevin H., you stepped up, man, and I am so grateful for all the extra work you put in. Dill, thanks for being a pickle and also for opening up the pubs suite for me on countless occasions. Ray, same as Dill, minus the pickle part. Purujit, thank you for all the guidance and support you gave me along this journey–you encouraged me more than you probably realize. Rishi, you introduced me to this thing, and boy, am I glad you did. I’ve found such joy in working on The Marque, and I’ll always owe it to you for getting me started. Reader, thank you for taking the time to read this far.

Thank you for appreciating the tremendous talent the St. Mark’s Upper School students and faculty have to display.

It seems odd that we are all consumed by some aspect of our subconscious at some point every day, yet we never take the time to actually think about that. We hope this year’s Marque will encourage you to think about your subconscious and ponder the different aspects of it. Why do you think our minds slip into nightmare? What exactly is “limbo?” There are so many questions you can ask and think about, and we hope you use The Marque as an inspiration to do so.

This entire year has been much like a dream for me. It’s whizzed by, each fleeting moment slipping beneath my fingers, and now here I am.

At times I wonder how I got here, and I can’t seem to remember. Just like Leonardo Di Caprio said in Inception, we always seem to just start in the middle of a dream – we never remember how we got to that particular point in the dream. That’s where I am – the middle of my dream.

But the dream isn’t over yet. The top is still spinning.

–Josh Bandopadhay, Editor-in-Chief

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THE MARQUE 2016

THE DETAILS COLOPHON

T

HE MARQUE was printed by the Digital 3 Printing Company. The cover was printed on Polar Bear Velvet Cover 100 Lb. on a Komori Lithrone 28, 6 color printing 4 color process. Diecut and register blind embossing were used to create the cover effects. The text was printed on Polar Bear Velvet Text 100 Lb. on a Konica Minolta Bizhub Press C1100 printing 4 color process and was bound using PUR Glue perfect binding. The Staff used Adobe InDesign, Illustrator, and Photoshop CC (CS9) to design the spreads. Typefaces included Tasse Cond Medium for headings and credits, Brandon Grotesque (multiple weights) for body text and blurb attributions. The press run for The Marque was 450 copies, serving 373 enrolled Upper School students and 200 faculty and staff members.

PHILOSOPHY

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HE MARQUE is printed and distributed at the end of the academic year as a culminating production meant to serve as a collection of the literary and artistic works produced by Upper School students and faculty to summarize the year’s artistic expression.

POLICY

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HE MARQUE functions as an after-school extracurricular activity independent from the St. Mark’s Journalism program. Written and visual content of all types and forms are welcomed and considered blindly and equally for publication.

Literary works are submitted for consideration throughout the school year and are selected for publication by a panel of staff members. Artistic pieces are solicited from and provided by students and faculty members within each discipline. The Marque is submitted for evaluation to the Columbia Scholastic Press Association (CSPA).

SPECIAL THANKS Ms. Lynne Weber Mrs. GayMarie Vaughan Mr. David Dini Mr. Ray Westbrook Mr. Paul DiVincenzo Mr. Boyd Atherton Dr. Martin Stegemoeller Mr. David Brown Mr. Michael Morris Philip Smart ‘16 Will Diamond ‘16 Daniel Chavez ‘17 St. Mark’s Security

CONTACT St. Mark’s School of Texas 10600 Preston Road Dallas, Texas 75230 (214)-346-8000 www.smtexas.org SMMarque@smtexas.org

Care of:

Lynne Weber GayMarie Vaughan

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JOON PARK ‘17 ILLUSTRATION

THE MARQUE 2016

CLOSING A DIGRESSION BY DR. STEG

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HAT COULD I SAY TO YOU TO INSPIRE YOU TO CARE ABOUT YOUR SUBCONSCIOUS?

What if you had inherited a million acres of land that you weren’t aware of; would you want to know about them? Where they were? What inhabited them?

What if you thought you were riding in your body like you were driving a car, but you were actually riding an elephant, or surfing a huge wave? Would you want to know?

What if you were not living in the fully actual world that you really belonged to, but rather in a matrix-world—like in the movie—except that your captor wasn’t a legion of insect-bots but instead your own conscious self?

What if you were the victim of identity theft, and the being running your life were not you but your wicked, conniving, duplicitous twin?

What if it were true that the part of your brain that thought it was your free will actually “decided” what you would do a fifth of a second after your body started to act? That’s true.

What if the world you thought you were in was really more like a casino, cleverly designed with mirrors everywhere so that it appeared that there was no way out? And that that casino bore your name?

What if the mirror you thought you saw yourself in covered a portal to dimensions of your self that can’t be mirrored?

What if what we pay attention to shapes that we are capable of paying attention to, so that the longer we wait to tend to our subconscious, the less we will be able to tend to our subconscious?

What if the linear, rational part of our mind is capable of only seeing surfaces? If we asked the rational part of our mind what the ocean was, it would describe only the ocean’s surface, but it would miss the miles of plays of light, currents, and creatures swimming in the vast beneath that had such an effect on the surface.

What if before words were words, they were feelings? What if before reasons were reasons, they were music?

What if the subconscious is the Tree of Life, and the conscious is the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil?

What if William Blake was right and that “Energy is the only life and is from the Body, and Reason is the bound or outward circumference of Energy.”?

What if our rational mind alone is a Cyclops?

What if our authentic being is deep and is the process of moving from the depths to the surface?

What if authentic speech is poetry rather than prose?

What if, because of the accident that our faculties of will and rational speech happen to office next to each other in the left hemisphere of the brain, they are in cahoots against the subconscious even to the extent that our ability to consider why to study the subconscious is already biased toward the conscious?

What if the great achievements of civilization and human life involved necessarily the cooperation of the subconscious and the conscious through creative tension?

THE SUBCONSCIOUS IS CEASELESSLY MURMURING, AND IT IS BY LISTENING TO THESE MURMURS THAT ONE HEARS THE TRUTH. GASTON BACHELARD in his last significant work The Poetics of Reverie

THE MARQUE 2016

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JOON PARK ‘17 ILLUSTRATION

DARE TO EXPLORE THE SUBCONSCIOUS THE MARQUE 2016 | VOL. 54