The Marque | 2015 | Vol. 53 by St. Mark's School of Texas

themarque

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V o l u m e

5 3

2014-2015

l i t e r a r y

A r t s

M a g a z i n e

ST. MARK’S SCHOOL OF TEXAS 10600 PRESTON ROAD DALLAS, TEXAS 75230 WWW.SMTEXAS.ORG 214.346.8000 theMarque 1

DEAN BAIRD

With technological innovation constantly swirling around us, it is sometimes hard to believe that, at one point, St. Mark’s hardly had a few computers, let alone a computer science curriculum or the various computer labs we have today. That is, until Dean Baird arrived. Since twenty years before most of us were born, Baird has served the school as a pioneer, an instructor, and our most beloved geek. Initially working in the Science Department, Baird began his 39-year-long tenure at St. Mark’s in 1976, later to be appointed as the Director of Educational Computing in 1995 and, in 2000, the position

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for which we know him best today, the Chairman of the Computer Science Department. His help to The Marque throughout the years has been crucial to our success, and we sincerely thank him for his support. Before Baird came to St. Mark’s, the Digital Age was still at its dawn, with no one certain how or how much it would change the world. It was still too far ahead of its time. We have Dean Baird to thank for bringing our school into the future. We dedicate this volume of The Marque to Dean Baird for his impactful career at St. Mark’s, devoted to the development of the school’s progressive vision.

I’ve been at St. Mark’s for 39 years. It’s the people that I will miss the most and the sense of real community that makes St. Mark’s such a special place. The energy of the young men that I teach and the passion of my colleagues is what I love about St. Mark’s. Somebody once told me that for a teacher, there is no upgrade from St. Mark’s. This is very true. If you want to teach in an environment that demands and engenders excellence in a teacher, St. Mark’s is the place. I embarked on two sabbaticals during my tenure to visit other schools to observe and study their technology programs. While I enjoyed the professional opportunity, it was very clear that none of these schools eclipsed St. Mark’s in any way. I could not imagine teaching anywhere else. My greatest moments have always been those instances when I know that I have truly made a difference in one of my students. Anne Freeman, a former colleague, summed it up well: “The St. Mark’s Mystique: Young Men’s Minds.” I have been privileged to participate in the process of developing the minds of young men for my entire professional career.

—Dean Baird

theDEDICATION 3

Predicting what is to come is one of the most fundamentally fascinating parts of being a human. The future, in all its limitless possibility, has been the subject of wild speculation since the dawn of mankind because there are so many variations and perceptions of the future. No one can imagine a fully realized future. There is a future of technology, of politics, of science, of culture, and of art. And at the most personal level, there lies a future of the individual. The future is not simply a fixed reality but an array of threads existing entirely separately of each other yet combining to compose the fabric of the reality that we know. Despite this, the future is an illusory conception because it is by nature unattainable. No one can ever declare at any moment that his or her current surroundings are the future. This literary and arts magazine attempts to draw the most accurate and possible portrait of

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the future. The Marque presents an idea, an aesthetic, a feeling portraying what is to come. By displaying a cohesive assembly of thoughts, the collective imagination of The Marque declares its prediction of what the future holds in store for our galaxy, globe, city, school, and selves in five separate section breaks. Each section is designated a certain color theme, and all the works are categorized by that particular theme. We hope that you will use this magazine and its concept to reflect on and shape your own future and that these writings, artworks, and their meanings will serve as thought-provoking lessons, tools for self-improvement as you live, learn, grow, and venture into the ideal future.

â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Stuart Montgomery â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;15 Managing Editor

Futuristic art is an ethereal depiction of themes as abstract as the future. It plays from the colors of the past, while adding unexpected flairs. It takes familiar shapes and expresses them in a new way, dreamt up by the imagination. Speed, vibrancy, and vastness characterize the futuristic design. It often uses the contrast between a subtle background and vivid colors. The essence of futurism combines shapes in new ways, forming a fresh equanimity—a balance between prior experience and the future. This artistic style represents the timelessness of the imagination, the glorification of modernity, and progression. Futurism does not lend itself to the classification of art-forms. Futurism will always change according to the dreams, predictions, and interpretations of the creator. One can never truly perfect nor anticipate the changing nature of aestheticism. A forward perspective inspires

progress. Yearning for more accentuates the imaginative focus. It is through this yearning—this constant questioning of present conceptions—that we discover a drive and understand the aesthetic of the present. From this foundation, we base all progress, reach new heights, and celebrate an explosion of possibilities of the imagination. An artist’s progression from current ideals directly reflects his longing for the unknown, undiscovered, and unconventional. It is the risk and the overcoming of it that defines the true leap toward the future. This balance of the present and future encourages the vivacity and fortitude of the artistic future. Futurism is the collective human creativity re-imagining, reinventing, and progressing itself. It is the intersection of past, present, and future—the culmination of eternity.

—Killian Green ‘17 Creative Director

theTheme 5

Joon Park

Paragon

Zuyva Sevilla

Genesis of Planets

Alden James

Land of Dreams

Killian Green

Red

James Zhang

Eve Forest Cracked

Aidan Maurstad

Ink

Sam Eichenwald

Nyctophobia

Alden James

Bus Stop Pano

Reid Johannsen

Wheel of Lights

Sam Eichenwald

Plateau

Alden James

SEA OTTER

Timothy Simenc

Stars

Gopal Raman

Bumblebee

Andrew Chuka

Josh Bandopadhay

Alone in an Empty Field

Burke Garza

Candle

Nico Sanchez

Whackamole

Alden James

The Doll Maker

Joshua Choe

The Grove

Aiden Blinn

Doll Maker

Sam Eichenwald

Boca Wide

Cameron Lam

The Embedded Doubts in Certainty

Sam Eichenwald

Behind the Curtain

Taylor Rohrich

Proverbs 23:14

Burke Garza

A Lingering Flower

Kevin He

Bastion of Religion

Alden James

Pinwheel

Harper Sahm

Hypnopaedia

Alden James

EMERALDS

Adam Merchant

Chapel

Harper Sahm

In the Moment

Greg Guiler

Sam Eichenwald

Pride

Alden James

WOOD

Showcase

Fluorescent Lights

Roland Baumann

WOOD

Showcase

Journey to Babalu

Alden James

Wood

Showcase

Film

Showcase

Limitless

Friends are Never in the Dark

Cathedral

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10600 in 20600

Futuristic Dallas

Thomas Zhang

It Must Be a Magical Place

Alden James

Prayer In the Snow

Sam Eichenwald

Gyroscope

Zachary Cole

Something He Doesn’t Know

Alden James

Divine Spark

Andrew Chuka

Sandbox

Sam Eichenwald

Light Ball

Alden James

Ghost

Adam Merchant

Wrath

Philip Smart

Fear Itself

Devan Prabhakar

Hooked

Gopal Raman

Sam Eichenwald

Sunrise

Timothy Simenc

Ammar Plumber

An Adventure in a Suburban Playground

Alden James

Fair

Gopal Raman

Orange

Burke Garza

Antero Reservoir

Reid Johannsen

Red Rocks

100

Frank Thomas

Tree

Sam Eichenwald

Prague Landscape

101

Rahul Maganti

Summer’s Eternity

Perry Naseck

The Persistent Civilian

102

Sam Eichenwald

Charlie O’Brien

iphone photo 3

103

Daran Zhao

Worthy

Adam Merchant

Basilica

104

Alden James

Icebreaker

Josh Bandopadhay

Mr. Yellow Number Two

105

Bryce Killian

A Good Friend is Hard to Find

Sam Eichenwald

Bridge over the river

107

Alden James

Eye of the Beholder

Brent Weisberg

Alone in Salamanca

108

Showcase

PORTRAITS

Sam Eichenwald

Night LIght BRidge

110

Showcase

Painting

Showcase

CERAMICS

Showcase

Ceramics

James Zhang

Kevin He

Everest Yearning Void

Triptych

theCONTENTS 77 theContents

LIMITLESS

Joon Park | Sophomore | Digital Art

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Perhaps because our very own galaxy seems so large itself, many of us fear to venture out into the unknown and acknowledge that there are other galaxies within our universe, similar to ours, smaller than ours, and bigger than ours. Take a step back for a moment and see where you stand in the universe. You are one tiny human being on the planet Earth, which is among seven other planets in our solar system, which is among many other solar systems in our galaxy. Our Milky Way is just one among countless others in the infinite existence we call the Universe, and for all we know, there may even be other universes out there. As small and insignificant as we may seem on a universal scale, it seems strange to realize just how much power we have. The survival of our race depends on our responsibility to explore boundlessly, to reach new frontiers of thought and beauty, and to discover galaxies far beyond what we know. We hold the limitless power in our dreams and in our actions to progress past fabricated boundaries and look with new perspectives into the future of our humanity. â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Josh Bandopadhay â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;17

RED James Zhang | Senior | Fiction First Place Literary Festival Wnner

GENESIS OF PL ANETS A l d e n J a m e s | J u n io r | P h o t o g ra p hy

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loody strokes of alizarin crimson. Flaring flourishes of vermillion. A misty splatter of deep cadmium red. The colors swirled and bled together, staining the pure white canvas. The aged man awoke with a jerk to the furious glare of dawn. His body, hidden under a mass of ragged, military-green blankets, was nestled in a shallow crack dominated on both sides by plain, blocky buildings. Between his back and the gray concrete walls stood a pack, the same hue of green as his blanket. On the pack’s flank hung a dented can labeled “Linseed Oil” and a folded easel. His back throbbed from the long night spent pressed against the hard wood of his palette; his ancient fingers ached from the chilly air. He stared into the rising sun. “Good morning.” The old man continued to gaze into the angry, red disk just above the horizon, ignoring the cheerful voice of the young, blonde-haired girl in the white dress sitting cross-legged before him. For the longest time, the two sat unmoving and silent, a scene in a painting. She examined his face, intrigued by his bright blue eyes surrounded by shriveled folds of skin, wise yet tired. Underneath those fatigued orbs grew a thick, gray beard that muffled his mouth. Only once the last hints of red had faded from the brightening sky did the old man glance at the girl settled by his

feet before redirecting his attention to the dusty street. “Mornin’,” came the gruff reply. “What’s your name?” “Francis McGoy.” “Nice to meet you, Mr. Francis. I’m Carmine. Why are you sleeping out here? Don’t you have a home?” When she said her name, his eyes shifted back to hers, his penetrating eyes seemed to judge her, evaluating her worth, her deeds, her soul. Carmine could not help but look away. When he spoke again, his mouth hardly seemed to move under the mass of beard. “Not anymore.” “Why not?” “I left.” “Where are you from?” “Madder Lake.” “Where’s that?” “South.” “Why’d you leave?” The old man now focused on the glowing crimson “REPAIR” sign emblazoned on the garage across the street. Without looking away, he replied, “To find something.” “Find what?” The old man didn’t answer, nor did his eyes stray from the neon sign. Carmine decided not to press on: “What’s in your bag?” Without speaking, the old man sat up

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and heaved his pack out from behind him. his creaking body up. His joints groaning He untied the top and poured the contents painfully with every movement, he slowly out onto the pavement. Dozens of tubes rose to his full height, which wasn’t much of paint, each a taller than Carmine’s. Carmine’s eyes widened in fascidifferent shade; a He carefully folded nation at the colorful paints. She bundle of brushes, and rolled his blanpicked up tube after tube and old and worn out; a ket into a tight cylread the little label on each. rectangular palette, inder and fastened splintered at the it to the bottom of edges but clean, with an elliptical hole in his pack. After recollecting the scattered one corner; a handful of palette knives; paints and tools, he sealed the pack shut several blank canvases, all the same pure and slowly lifted it onto his permanently white; and a mass of square cloths, some hunched back. caked with paint. Carmine’s eyes widened “Come on! Hurry!” Carmine laughed in fascination at the colorful paints. She brightly and pulled on his lined hands picked up tube after tube and read the with both her delicate palms. She let go, little label on each. Yellow ochre, chrome spun around gracefully on one foot, and green, cerulean blue, dioxazine purple. skipped down the sidewalk. The old man “Are you an artist?” struggled to keep up, limping clumsily “Yes.” after the girl. “Can I see your paintings?” “Quickly! Quickly! Let’s go see the “Don’t have any.” lake!” “Why not?” Every fifty feet, Carmine would jump “Been years since I’ve been able to to a halt, twirl around and smile at the old paint.” man, waiting for him to catch up. Every “Why’s that? Why don’t you have red?” time she passed a storefront, she stopped The old man’s eyes glazed over. His mid-skip, balanced on one foot, and gave mind wandered back to the past. Napheach wonderful array of objects a quick thol scarlet, perylene, quinacridone red. look before resuming her happy skip. Scorching flames. Violent sprays of color. And the old man watched everything Soaking the dirt. Shading the spring grass. from behind. Her every movement fasciRed earth. nated him. Her buoyant enthusiasm, her “Would you like me to show you the carefree lightheartedness, her optimism. city?” With each of Carmine’s skips, each joyful Without a word, the old man hauled smile, each curious pause, the old man’s

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INK

Sam Eichenwald | Junior | Photography

beard seemed to laugh. the front of his pack, he hesitantly pulled “Isn’t it amazing? What’s the name of out several tubes of paint. Reds. Bloody this blue?” Carmine asked when he finally alizarin crimson and flaming vermillion. joined to her at the lake’s calm edge. Angry cadmium red medium and cadmi“A mix of ultramarine, Prussian blue, um red deep. Scarlet lake and Winsor red. cobalt turquoise, phthalo green.” He poured several of these between the “So many?” yellows and the blues. “Yes.” He peered into the sunset for what “Come on! Let’s keep going. There’s seemed like an eternity before dipping his lots more to see!” brush into the cadmium red. He brought Every stop brought a new combithe brush up to the blank canvas and nation of colors. froze, his hand an Indanthrene blue, inch from the fabric. And the old man watched evsap green, Windsor What energy he erything from behind. Her every emerald. Burnt had gained in the movement fascinated him. sienna, transparent day had deserted maroon, antimony him, and his back yellow. Indigo and ivory black. And after hunched more than ever before. His each list of colors, the old man seemed mind flashed back to the war. The bloody to grow taller, his limp less noticeable, his violence. Friends dying in spurts of red. stride longer. Burning down enemy villages. Killing man, By the time they arrived at the park in woman, and child. Death. the outskirts of the city, the sun had begun His dreams were interrupted by to set. Carmine leapt onto a bench and Carmine’s squeals of joy as she danced squinted at the ruddy orb. among the fireflies, her white dress flutter“Look at how pretty the sunset is! Can ing in the wind. The embodiment of peace you paint it?” and happiness. The old man dropped his pack, pulled Upon seeing this last burst of joyous out his paints, his brushes, and his palette. innocence, he drew up to his full height, He unfolded his easel and on it he set a all the ravages of time disappearing, his canvas. He squeezed trails of cyan and mouth burst into a broad grin, and his permanent mauve in the top-right corner brush came down upon the canvas. The of the palette and trails of white and first bright stroke on canvas that for many cadmium yellow medium and deep on a decade had remained barren. the top-left. From a separate pocket on

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PLATEAU Alden James | Junior | Nonfiction first place Literary Festival winner

He cannot be happy and strong until he too lives with nature in the present, above time. -Ralph Waldo Emerson

e stopped in Arizona, slowly winding our way up to Idaho during the summer before my junior year of high school. Bored, sore, and grumpy, my father and I needed a break from the monotony of the road trip. Having already driven for hours, we careened around the roads leading to Sedona. Descending from stomach-churning heights, we eventually meandered to the valley floor. During the rest of the drive to the town of Sedona, we had an ant’s-eye view of grand plateaus. Dwarfed, we lurched into the resort. This was a nice resort, complete with a plethora of tourist activities. When my dad and I got to our spacious room, we collapsed, exhausted from driving. Lounging and reading, I tried to relax. My dad suggested we go swimming. Under

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the late afternoon sun, I strolled to the to move on. After forty minutes of artistic pool with my father. Kids splashed about denial, the trail started to slope upward in while I wondered how they could be so switchbacks. I began sweating under the annoying. As the sun slowly settled onto midday sun. Undeterred, I continued this the horizon, I read my book, bilious and circuitous pilgrimage. Red dust powdered chafing because of the pool’s chemicals. my sneakers. The sun chapped my lips. After a while, we went back to our room, Bothersome cacti pricked my skin. We ate a mediocre resort dinner, and fell passed a couple on their way down. asleep. “How far until we reach the top?” The next morning, I planned to hike asked my father. around the magnificent red rock plateaus “Oh, I’d say about half an hour,” they of Sedona with my father. I packed some responded. My father and I continued water and fastidiously prepared my walking. Another forty minutes of hiking camera. As we drove down a desert road, passed. I could not get the photographic a trailhead came into results I wanted. I view. Knowing nothcould not quench I began sweating under the ing about this area, my thirst. I could midday sun. Undeterred, I we decided to take not stand to think of continued this circuitous the trail. Well rested, these idle days that pilgrimage. my father and I passed me by as the began the trek to the school year loomed top. Trying to capture the essence of this closer and closer. Trying to forget these quasi-Martian landscape, I stopped every troubles, I looked upon the landscape few minutes to take pictures. Tragically below, the azure sky striking against the uninspired in this exotic locale, I struggled red rocks. I gazed at an impossibly small

BUS STOP PANO

Reid Johannsen | Sophomore | Photography

car speeding along the highway. Another We reached the top, standing upon hiker marched down the hill. We exthe earth’s spectacularly enormous, changed greetings and again uttered the humbly simple oblation to the sky above. I eternal question. stalked the ridge of the plateau, snapping “How much time until we reach the photographs. I ventured too close to the top?” I said. plateau’s precipices, and my father warned “Not much at all. Five to ten minutes me not to fall. I half-heeded him, trying maybe,” responded the red and sweaty to get the best angle for a photograph. man. Dubious, I looked to the top of the We then found a tree and sat down in its plateau and apathetpeaceful shade. I ically submitted to glanced around, On that plateau, however, amid the rest of the trek. looking for some acthe florid palette of nature, I had always faced tion or an interesting for one timeless moment, I hiking with a certain photo. escaped the relentless push of fatalism. All through“Listen,” my time and saw the present. out my hiking in the father said, “it’s Pecos, I focused on silent up here.” I sat one phrase: “We’re almost there.” I sought in the shade listening. My ears strained. the future and gazed scornfully back at the All I heard was the ring of my own past, sacrificing the present to ease some ears. There under a tree on a plateau in imagined pain. Here in Arizona, too, the Arizona, I heard silence. I listened for an same fatalism started to take over. Evenunknown time; I could have been there tually we reached steep climbs. I started forty seconds, or I could have been there my ascent and made sure my father was forty days. Filled with rapture, I let this still right there behind me. potent dose of the present overwhelm

me. Unaware of the world around me, disregarding the simmering heat, seeing past the vivid reds and blues of the valley, I sat and was. “We’d better leave,” my dad said, gently shattering the silence. We walked down the plateau. I never once lifted my camera. My thirst didn’t bother me. Before long, we were driving back to the resort. Looking out the window, I marveled at the towering plateau, eventually losing sight of the monolith. The next morning, fully refreshed, my father and I set out once again. The blue and red world of the plateau a memory, I reverted back to the temporal perception inherent to humans. My mind wandered to the future year and glanced back to my past. I trekked on, caught in the stream of time, grasping for the future while looking back every once in a while to see if my past was still right there behind me. On that plateau, however, amid the florid palette of nature, for one timeless moment, I escaped the relentless push of time and saw the present.

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stars Gopal Raman | Sophomore | Poetry

Stars punch through the Polaroid filmstrip of night, little fluorescent beacons beckoning to the light. Then you walk forth, discarding company as you go, one step over again as you follow the pearl moonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s glow. Diamond droplets trickle from rooftops of the sky and little snowflakes tumble in front of your eyes. Feet trip and stumble down the trail and soon they stand dangerously on the edge of the inky dune. Look over and see reflecting ripples flicker like candles dipping into pools of midnight drops. Collect twigs and memories and bundle them into wicker, and feel the forest thrum with life in every copse. Then stop when you realize what the stars are pointing to and then you will see, they are always pointing to you.

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Friends are Never in the Dark Josh Bandopadhay | Sophomore | Nonfiction

would rather walk with a friend in the to spot this “newbie.” Finally, I spotted dark, than alone in the light.” With her her sitting apart from everybody, picking words, Helen Keller, blind author and woodchips in the playground. When I apdeaf lecturer, emphasizes the security a proached her, she furtively stole a glance friend provides. In the dark, when people at me and then quickly continued to aimare scared, their friends provide that small lessly play with woodchips. I had to ask her sense of safety that will help them power for her name twice because the first time through to the light at the end of the tunshe replied so softly that it was inaudible. nel. On this lit path, Shereen was the people are more name she gave me. I too would rather be afraid if I could stay with my friends, comfortable and are After some small than be alone where I would able to walk alone talk, I politely ended be without them. without the need our conversation by for the safety of a saying, “Nice to meet reliable friend. I agree with Keller, as I too you, Shereen.” I turned and walked away would rather be afraid if I could stay with without hearing an audible response. But my friends, than be alone where I would as I was walking back to the field to continbe without them. ue my game of soccer, I stopped abruptly. In third grade, I became aware of a I felt bad for her. All the other students little girl wandering around in the “dark.” were playing around jovially while she sat One could say I was among the “popular in solitude idly picking at woodchips. She kids” at school: I knew everyone; everyone knew no one; no one knew her. knew me. When I laid my eyes on a short, I felt capable of helping her, so I turned petite, red-haired young girl, however, I slowly and asked her if she liked soccer, was intrigued, unable to find her name hoping I could introduce her to some in the hard-drive of names I stored in my of my friends on the soccer field. Her head. Thus, at recess, I found myself trying response was negative. This did not,

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however, stop me from helping her. Over the next week, I went around at recess with Shereen, familiarizing her with everyone in our grade. It was tedious work, and many times I was asked what I was doing and why I was doing it; indeed, even I wondered at times why I was helping Shereen. The very next week, when I walked on to the woodchips in the playground, I was unable to see Shereen. I thought perhaps that she was not at school that day, but as I turned to go to the soccer field, I caught a reddish glimpse. I whirled about to behold Shereen frolicking around in the playground with various kids I had introduced her to the previous week. Then, I finally found the answer to the enigmatic question I was pondering over: the smile on Shereen’s face that told me that I had walked with her through the dark and had successfully led her to the light.

Candle

Nico Sanchez | Junior | Photography

SECtionGalaxy SectionGALAXY 19 19

DOLL MAKER

Sam Eichenwald | Junior | Photography

TH E DOLL M AKER J o s hu a C ho e | Ju n io r | Fic tio n

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he girl with lovely golden curls and a baby blue summer dress gazed longingly out the veined, smoky glass window, wanting to play out by the live oak in the yard but unable to because her mother had ordered her to keep the door locked while she went to buy some flour. She sat in the old, rickety chair that she had managed to drag over to the window and stared unblinkingly down the winding, dusty road. She sighed to herself. No one ever traveled through on that road, at least when she watched. But as she continued to stare at the fuzzy line of the horizon, she thought she could barely make out a strange shape advancing up the road, trailed by a dusty cloud rising from the road like the steady stream of smoke she sometimes saw in the distance on winter mornings. She rubbed her eyes, blinked a few times, and squinted. After a while, she could see a gaunt, ancient mule plodding along, dragging an odd, rattling, and equally ancient cart with an ornate yet faded and patched, painted roof. A portly beaming old lady wearing a full, old-fashioned dress despite the southern heat perched on the end of a cart, daintily holding the reins in one hand and a lace umbrella in another. The girl saw the bizarre cart stop in front of the listing, one-hinged gate, and the lady walked towards the front door. Then the girl remembered that she wasn’t allowed to open the front door. The old lady knocked heavily on the wooden door. “I’m sorry, ma’am. My momma’s not heya right now and I’m not allowed to talk to strangers,” the girl muttered from behind the door. “That’s all right, darlin’. I’m Miss Cordelia Gene,” she cheerfully replied, “I’m a doll maker, and I’m just passin’ through dem here parts when I see your lovely

house and think maybe a young girl who denly uttered dejectedly, sorely wanting just might appreciate my wares may live a doll but knowing there was no way she here. I’d love to show you some of my could afford one. dolls.” “That’s all right, darlin’. You can just The girl was beside herself with set here and play with one until your excitement and, momentarily forgetting momma come back. I wouldn’t mind. her mother’s warning, undid the latch I’ll just be workin’ here on another doll, hurriedly. The girl blinked in the blinding sweetie,” the old lady kindly replied, a light streaming through the open doorway genial smile dancing on her round, portly around the round figure of the beaming face. old lady, and the girl, skipping around like The old lady sat down by the table, a young puppy hovering near its mother, her dress flowing over the worn chair, followed her down past the live oak to the and hunched over an unfinished doll. cart. The old lady The young girl’s clambered with uncountenance shone The mouth was formed so that expected agility into with pleasure as she the girl thought the doll was the back of the cart carefully grasped almost trying to say something through the weaththe first doll she ered curtain draped saw, one with sharp to her. A secret, maybe. over the entrance, blue eyes, golden folding her patched hair ending in two yet still elegant lace umbrella and hanging pigtails, and a face that seemed oddly it on a rusty nail as she went in. similar to that of her second cousin and “ ‘Chew waitin’ for, honey? Well, come best friend who lived five miles down on in!” the old lady exclaimed as she the road. She stared at the delicate skin, poked her head through the motley-colrealistic, flowing hair, and the deep, seaored cloth like a woodpecker popping out blue eyes. The mouth was formed so that of his burrow. The girl, devoid of any oththe girl thought the doll was almost trying er thought other than pure excitement, to say something to her. A secret, maybe. jumped into the small cart. Soft sunlight The girl was so enchanted by the porcefiltered in through the small cracks in the lain figure that she didn’t notice that the aged wood and the opaque, waxed paper cart was moving. She glanced back over window near the roof. A tiny workbench by the workbench and started in horror. was tucked away into the corner, covered A doll that looked exactly like her but withwith all sorts of needles and tools. The girl out eyes or hair reclined on the scarred, gasped as realistic dolls almost beckoned pock-marked surface of the table. The girl to her from their places on the shelves. looked back down at the doll in her hands. She stared deep into the piercing blue It didn’t just look similar to her cousin eyes of the dolls, entranced by the longAnnabelle. It was Annabelle. The old lady ing, almost lonely gazes of the figures. She was staring at her affectionately. almost felt as if they wanted to cry out to “That’s my secret, darlin’. That’s her, to tell her secrets. why my dolls looks so real,” the old lady “I cain’t buy one o’ these, Miss Cordereplied as she winked. lia. We don’t got no money,” the girl sud-

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The Embedded In certainty

Sam Eichenwald | Junior | Poetry

But why does being individual repel some? Why acquiesce to flow with the current? We may be flawed, but an aggregate is more likely to come apart than are any of the masses embedded in the belly of the river.

I am my own, a rock in a stream of confusion, my weight pulling me down, my steadfastness unique, yet only in my mind. Others share my convictions, fighting the flow of water with the stubbornness of self-certainty; we perceive ourselves to be alone. We are not infallible; the ground may be soft where we lay, and we sink. We are blind to our own hypocrisy as we sit in judgment of those who judge; we become what we detest. We witness indifferent schools of pebbles float by, rapidly swaying in the current, moving to and fro with the latest push of the moment. To them, we are the outcasts; the vagabonds; the vagrants. They do not understand what it is like to resist the comfort of surrender. They are society, the conglomerate, with a unity of thought that seems born of a compromise of self. Perchance the fear of being the outcast, grounded firmly in beliefs, scares them.

As a boulder, firmly-rooted, I witness the changing of the season. During winter, others hide their thoughts under a blanket of white; my solstice rises above the melting shine. During spring, others sniffle and shriek over their susceptibility to pollen; they fail to notice the elegance of Mother Natureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s flowers. During summer, others cower inside, clinging to their A/C; the heat of the Sun warms my body to the core. During fall, othersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; opinions change as readily as leaves in the wind; my faithfulness to the ground on which I reside is unwavering. These are my beliefs. But are they merely arrogance? Is my certainty in my own unbending principle a deception? Are others on firmer ground? I think not. But I fear so. Thus, I recoil at the thought of expressing my views in confidence, despite my conviction in their legitimacy. My cowardice impedes progress, leaving others unenlightened or my errors undiscovered. We all flounder with our mental obstacles.

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The Earth, itself a slab of rock crashing through space, is influenced by the Sun’s pull, yet maintains its course. It is stalwart in the face of the gravity of the sulfur-colored star. Earth’s convictions remain immutable. Some rocks may seem most pleasing to the eye, their textures and patterns joined in a palate of aesthetic beauty. Yet, sometimes, this is a façade they boast. At their core, the shabby ugliness masked by their splendor makes them worthy of no more than being skipped across a lake. But do not give up hope! There are rocks and pebbles whose stains emulate their pure insides. They may be of any type of rock; mirroring this notion, any rock may be different on the inside. Even my brethren and I, who hold fast to our beliefs, are capable of being filled with vermin. Therein lies the challenge: accepting the need for self-analysis before launching into an assessment of others. All of us are born of diverse backgrounds. Some of us come from the magma of volcanoes, and with shiny, reflective skin we are known as “Igneous.” Others are created in the pressures of the planet, its core forming cores covered by crystal, and go by “Metamorphic.” A third form by melding sand, shells, and

nature’s other fragments; they crumble with ease, and go by the name “Sedimentary.” When secular judgment comes, some immature, disgraces of rocks predispose themselves against other kinds. But when divine judgment intervenes, it matters not the classification of the rock; only what is unveiled once cracked open. Planets, boulders, and other ponderous rocks: I salute your courage. Valor is rarely embraced by civilization’s crowds. They do not realize the strength required. I pray I share it. But we would not be the masses we hoped to be had society accepted us; we would be different. Yet we must also recognize the faults that surface with our trust in our sentiments. We believe ourselves to be impeccable; we are not. Our good intentions may be hampered by arrogance, damning our hopes to convey them. Despite this, distinct rocks: Hold fast to your convictions! For when society’s standard begins to erode, We will, if our convictions prove true, remain whole.

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HYPNOPAEDIA

Alden James | Junior | Photography

BASTION OF RELIGION Alden James | Junior | Photography

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PROVERBS 23:14 Burke Garza | Senior | Fiction

second place Literary Festival winner

atts peered into the night, his eyes following the chrome glint of Marcus and Keith’s Harleys in front of him. Behind him, he could hear Clint’s trike engine roar and belch hot flames as it struggled to move its ancient rider, his oxygen tank, and the body stuffed in the massive saddlebag. They’d been on the highway for an hour, cutting through the Florida marshland at breakneck speed. Watts’ legs had gone numb from the incessant vibration of his engine and the rough road beneath him. Numb, that’s how he’d felt for years. A good Christian boy, Watts had stuck to the rules and walked the path of the righteous, attending Sunday school and weekly services. Always reverent, always respectful, always molested. That’s when the numbness began, when the local priest began calling Watts into his office after Bible study. Watts was repeatedly reminded of the Proverbs verse “Folly is bound up in the heart of a child, but the rod of discipline will drive it far from him.” When Watts started to refuse the priest’s rod and tried escaping, he would show up at school on Monday morning with bruises, but these could be easily blamed on the local bullies, who jumped at the chance to punch the goody-goody Christian. He could feel his pistol tucked against his side; it throbbed as if it were part of his body, replacing the feeling in his legs

with the eager desire to kill. This feeling power, and Marcus moved from commuwas not of his own choosing; rather, the nion to cocaine, fueling his violence. cold steel forced it upon him, colonizing Watts knew where his happiness lay. and destroying any passivity within him. As In his Christian past, pain and self-hatred the Harley filled with flames and exploded loomed like a dark pall over everything he again and again, so his soul became ever did. He looked to the future, searching for more hot and violent. Each push of the distraction. In moments of true viciouspiston shot crimson vitality into his veins, ness or rebellion, the numbness left him. overwhelming him with terrifying power. Watts found reprieve in the crassness of He sweat with anxiety, hoping in vain to bikerdom. control these impulses. Now here he was, screaming through In the heat of that night, Watts the middle of nowhere with an unconrecalled his final days of high school with scious stranger, all part of their final Marcus. Two straightinitiation into the laced Christians like Free State. That’s when the numbness began, when the local priest them could never Keith slowly put began calling Watts into his have dreamed of out his bent left arm, office after Bible study. joining Keith, Marcus’ fighting the racing dad, and his motorwind for dominance. cycle gang. The Free State was notorious The group veered off the highway, followfor horrifying violence, taking their victims’ ing a narrow dirt path through the endless hands as trophies, proof of their wickedmarshes. A few minutes later, they arrived ness. As Watts recalled this, he imagined at a riverside cabin and let their fiery sawing through the tendons of the stranghogs rest against its side. Clint heaved er in Clint’s saddlebag. and wheezed in the effort to get off his Keith had approached them shortly three-wheeler. Keith rushed to his side, after graduation, brusquely informing helping him off the behemoth trike. them that their lives were going nowhere “Maybe lay off the cigs, Dad…” Keith so long as they tried to be good Christians. muttered. He made them feel weak, impotent, shift“I do what I want; it’s a Free State, less, and showed them how selling drugs after all,” he responded with a laborious, could turn a handsome profit and make grating chuckle. them happier. Wealth was the new gospel, Clint had begun the club on the princiintoxicating their minds with visions of ple of freedom, individuality and personal

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responsibility. The club acted outside the law, but members were expected to maintain a personal order. Clint brainwashed his son into following it well enough, but his grandson, Marcus, often interpreted freedom as an excuse to snort blow and start fights. In reality, each had his own sins he passed off as freedom: cigarettes, child abuse, cocaine, each part of the unholy trinity. Father and son existed in an abusive relationship while the greying ghost of Grandpa floated in a smoky haze of indifferent resignation. While Clint dismounted and set his oxygen tank down, Marcus and Watts opened up the saddlebag to their unconscious stranger. He looked painfully normal compared to the grizzled bikers standing over him, especially while unconscious. Limp and powerless with a cord wrapped around him and a sack over his head, the man in the bag was raised up and set by the riverside. Keith pulled a capsule from his saddlebags, walked up, and broke it under the weak man’s nose. Ammonia rushed into the man’s nose through the sack and slapped him awake with chemical force. He gasped and snorted, fighting his bonds, only noticing the black covering on his head after a few seconds. “Rise and shine, Cupcake,” Keith grunted, turning around to see Marcus finishing his own snort. Marcus stood erect

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as the cocaine shot through his veins, and he let out an overwhelmed gasp. “Would you quit that shit? How are you gonna keep a clear head?” Keith barked at his son. “It’s a Free State, dumbass,” Marcus insolently muttered back. Keith stared hotly back for Harper Sahm | Sophomore | Photography several seconds, arch was still winded from before and only letting his anger scowled on as he continued to wheeze, sink in and overwhelm Marcus. Then he Keith kicking Marcus where he lay. swung his right arm up from his side and As Watts watched the father beat the clapped Marcus into the dirt. son while the grandfather simply watched “Don’t you talk back to me, you little from his cigarette haze, he was filled with shit stain.” holy retribution. What on earth was he Watts’ mind rushed with memories, doing here? Why days when Marcus Father and son existed in an had he turned from had come to school abusive relationship while the the Lord? Was this covered in bruisgreying ghost of Grandpa truly his plan, to let a es. Succinct and floated in a smoky haze of father beat his son? over-simplified explaindifferent resignation. God must have put nations made up for Watts here for a purpose. Some sense of black eyes and cracked ribs. Watts took a justice rose in him, fusing with the violent few steps back, turning to scan Clint’s face impulse of steel tucked against his hip. for a sign of reaction. The silvered patri-

CHAPEL

CATHEDRAL

Sam Eichenwald | Junior | Photography Watts’ arm raised automatically without prompting from his brain. His muscles acted of their own accord. Gun in hand, Watts slowly walked towards Keith, who was still kicking his son. With divine resolve, Watts brought down the butt on Keith’s temple. The father crumpled to the ground, and the vengeful ghost within Watts struck again and again, one for every Sunday of his teenage life. Marcus stared on in horror as Watts turned Keith’s brain to a bloody pulp. Then, fueled by cocaine and filial piety, he screamed and tackled Watts, who had turned in time to raise the gun. They fell to the ground, Watts madly pumping the

trigger while Marcus’ body bounced on top of him with each impact. The ghost within Watts had full control now, and Watts felt like a spectator to some divine episode. The ghost wildly squeezed the trigger until it clicked, draining the blood-fury from Watts’ veins. He pushed Marcus’ body off his own, stood, and looked down at his work. The body was filled with holes, and blood was everywhere. Watts collapsed back to the ground with exhaustion and anxiety. Was that God’s work? Or his own? Whether the primal roar of the Harley or God’s word had snuffed out their lives, he did not know. Clint lay in the dust as well, dead from

a heart attack. The sight of Keith and Marcus’ deaths was too much. Watts looked back at him, thinking it only fair that God should kill him too. After some time, the bound, covered man started to sob, softly praying between gasps. Watts stared at him with pity, deciding to let him go. He walked to the man, pulled the sack from his head, and looked into the stunned eyes of his priest. Watts reeled in pain and disgust, screaming “Why, God?! Why bring him here? What purpose would this ever serve? I thought putting me with the Free State would free me from this asshole!” The priest, knowing it was Watts who had just killed two men and a third indirectly, began frantically scrambling away, his arms and legs still bound tightly to his sides. He got a foot free before Watts reached down, grabbed him by the shirt, and held him at eye level. Something new had overtaken the religious fervor of before, the priest could see it in Watts’ eyes. The frail youth from Bible study had a satanic heat in his eyes. The priest saw the Harley glint in the moonlight over Watts’ shoulder. “I still haven’t been initiated, ‘ya know,” Watts whispered into the priest’s ear with malicious resolve. The priest wailed in fright as Watts threw him to the dirt, retrieved a machete from Keith’s saddlebags, and went to work.

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SHOWCASE

Recline Andrew Chuka | Sophomore | Wood

Rocking Chair Tommy Gudmunsson | Senior | Wood

convergence John Landry | Junior | Wood

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Chairs

Anew Alex Enthoven | Senior | Wood

MIcrocosm Forrest Cummings-Taylor | Senior | Wood Ben Naftalis | Senior | Wood

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SHOWCASE

Goo Table Christian McClain | Sophomore | Wood

Lightbulb James Zhang | Senior | Wood

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Tethered Jackson Cole | Junior | Wood

Wood

To Dust Thy Shall George Lin | Senior | Wood

IGNITING THE CRAGg Matthew Meadows | Senior | Wood

Wood Sink James Zhang | Senior | Wood

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SHOWCASE

Safe and Sound George Lin | Senior | Wood

Tree Dissection Gordon Gunn | Sophomore | Wood

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wood

Cragg in Motion Matthew Meadows | Senior | Wood

Puzzle Pieces Hyre Thomas | Sophomore | Wood

ON TOP OF THE WORLD Blake Spangler | Senior | Wood

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Terra Nova

Zuyva Sevilla | Senior | Digital Art

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As students, we are always told about our global potential, our ability to change the world, and our opportunities to do so. In fact, we may even hear it too much to recognize the gravity of the statement and its undisguised awesomeness. Yes, that far-fetched declaration, clichéd to our critical minds, might just bear some truth. As young leaders, we carry immense power. As we close in on the perfect balance of creativity, maturity, and social invincibility, our influence expands to an international frontier. Of course, following that global power comes the all-important responsibility. So let’s embrace this potential and harness our capabilities. The preconception of our own weaknesses is the only thing hindering us from that worn-out platitude, our undeniable ability to truly change the world and advance this place we call home. —Shailen Parmar ‘17

LAND OF DREAMS

Killian Green | Sophomore | Fiction

t was raining. The river had swelled to twice its size while we were asleep. I guess you could call it sleep. We never did sleep. How could we? We had lost our buddies—the ones right next to us, whose sheets were next to ours—on that day. We always did. But then again, it was a war. But then there was the jungle. And we couldn’t sleep because of that. And all the sounds. Birds, wild pigs, and the monkeys. Their screeching haunted us, scared shivering. You could hear the silent, muffled crying of another soldier in your platoon, trying to contain something which couldn’t,

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wouldn’t be contained. We all cried; you couldn’t not cry and still be human. It was always during the night, though, because we were left with just our thoughts–our thoughts and the sounds. You couldn’t during the day; we were too occupied with marching through the jungle of endless palm trees, courageously paranoid of the shadows, for you never knew when it would happen. And we had to wade through the river, or at least trudge through the endless miles of mud, which the rain had caused the river to become, for fear of the

enemy. Thin, wiry, bamboo-like branches hung down over the water. We always were concealed, but we could never speak. We couldn’t think, just watch—do. It was frightening, hours of wading through nothing but paranoia and fear. We could remember what it used to be like—soda pop and movies and family, but we didn’t. It only made it worse. We were fighting for our lives and our nation. That distant, far-away country over the water, you could see it sometimes at the end of the river— that land of dreams.

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Aidan Maurstad | Junior | Fiction

Eve Forest Cracked Alden James | Junior | Photography

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he night set upon him like an owl upon a mouse. He had thought that there was more time left before the sun slunk beneath the horizon, but he was wrong. And so halfway through his walk through the woods, night came and clenched him in its talons, piercing him with fear, freezing him with trepidation. A monster waiting just outside the perception of his straining eyes, ready to pounce the moment he was seen. And without the comfort of his eyes, his ears would quake and jitter with fear, and each snap of a twig became a beast about to eat him, each rustle of the trees became a murderer rushing to kill him. The darkness twisted what little he could see. Branches became skeletal hands clawing at his face, rocks were animals on the verge of tearing into his shins. And now and then he saw silent shadows sweep across his vision. He knew that these were nothing, visions and mirages caused by fear, but they scared him just the same. Keeping all their light to themselves, giving him just barely enough to see the path before him, making him wander through a nightmare while they looked on and laughed. He knew that if he had started earlier, then he would have been home already. But it’s hard to make yourself do something when you’re already doing nothing, and so he convinced himself that there was still plenty of time left before it would get dark. But more than that, subconsciously there was always the gnawing shame that he felt about his fear, and he thought that if he forced himself to face his fear that he could cast it off like a flimsy piece of clothing. But it was not so simple; the fear was a part of him now, fused and melded to his psyche, and trying to rip it off would only cause more pain. He walked more slowly than a bear just awoken from hibernation. He wanted to

run, but he also felt that running would bring slid across his body and he had reached the him closer to his death. The wind whispered door to his house. And then he was safe, baskcurses to his ear, it bore the cackles of imaging in the warm light of his living room. inary witches and the grunts of make-believe The rest of his night was uneventful, and beasts. He strained to hear a voice, but he knew as he was about to go to bed, he began to stare he was alone. out his window. The lights inside had turned He tried to hum to himself. Stick a song in it into a mirror, and he could only barely see his head as a distraction. glimpses of the outside But it didn’t work, and his past his reflection. He realThe darkness twisted what efforts to avoid his fear ized that there was just as little he could see. just brought it closer to the much grim possibility beforefront of his mind. And yond the window as there so he trudged on at his glacial pace, preparing was in the darkness of the woods. Anything himself for the shock of each brush against a could be on the other side of that window. He tree branch, calming himself after each snapcould unknowingly be staring down a man who ping twig. had come to kill him. He knew that not to be At one point, he heard a scampering in the the case, and the fact that he was surrounded path beside him. It was probably a squirrel he by light allowed him to be comfortable in that had woken up by accident, but that thought knowledge. He then turned away from the did little to comfort him. And then he took off, window, and in one quick motion turned off the running as fast as if an axe-murderer were only light, jumped into bed, and tightly shut his eyes, a few steps behind. He blew past every twig and blocking out the darkness of the room with one branch and tree, until the last sylvan finger had of his own creation.

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Wheel of Lights

Sam Eichenwald | Junior | Photography

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Sea Otter Timothy Simenc | Senior | Poetry I Inside a green forest Down below the oceanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s surface, A sea otter played. II Why do men fear something good? Why do men not fear the sea otter? III The sea otters swim together paw in paw Play together paw in paw. We cannot because we do not have paws. IV A sea otter spun around inside the kelp A morsel of what joy really is. V Upon a raft, I lay Waiting for my Salvation. A sea otter makes fun with his raft. VI The Kwan, The Kwan VII Men fall deeper and deeper into insanity. Sea otters dive down towards bliss.

VIII We have been taught noble traditions: How to read, how to speak, and how to write. We have learned about Shakespeare, Plato, and Euclid, But not how to be a sea otter. IX The weather has changed, Yet the sea otter stays. X We become fat from the work of others. The sea otter becomes fat from his play. XI Through the glass I look. I see the sea otter grooming and playing Twisting and turning. I am the one in the cage. XII Wrapped up in my blankets I still feel cold. Out upon the icy Pacific, The sea otter bundles himself with kelp. He is warm. XIII All along the coast I looked. From Half-Moon to Monterey Big Sur to Santa Cruz With mavericks crashing down, The sea otter could not be found.

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BUMBLEBEE

Andrew Chuka | Sophomore | Poetry First Place Literary Festival Winner Summer. I walked on smooth, gray paving stone. It was an August day; a bumblebee, Deciding that I should not walk alone, Began to share the sunlit path with me. I winced, recoiled, fearing stinging pain. Shooed off, the creature turned and fled on back, And I, forsaken, trudged on forth again. I met a wayward dog upon my track Whose matted fur masked former canine grace. I squatted down to scratch a friendly ear, But quivering consumed the tired face; The lone sojourner ran away in fear. â&#x20AC;&#x153;What did I do?â&#x20AC;? I pondered quietly, And understood the plight of bumblebee.

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ALONE IN AN The remnants of corn stalks tugging at me— This army of empty cob corpses marks the no-man’s land Between barn and house.

The animals doze in the barn, The cows beat the air with their tails, Ushering flies out into the dark world. The dog bays softly, A soulful trumpet in the infinite night.

Looking up to the canopy of distant worlds and suns— Another blackened field of diamonds That curves like a rainbow, Ending at the barn and the house.

The crooning calls to the earth, Beckons it up to the sky above. Joining in communion with the darkness, Gaia weakly grasps Uranus’s hand. He smiles down on her, pulling her into deeper embrace.

In one, the tractor sits, Dreaming of sowing the field, Populating the fallow land, Bringing life to the planets above. The cornstalks raise their feeble ears like antennas to heaven. Swaying in the warm night breath, Rustling to each other: “Just a little further, friend, We’ll reach it soon.”

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In the house, the father sleeps, Collapsing inward, Tucking her into his chest As if she would float away into the dark If he were to let go. The couch sighs, decompressing, Releasing the smells of the day. Scent of sawdust, deodorant, pie, baked beans, The trappings of humanity exhaled,

Reverberating off the walls in a joyous dance. Prancing and singing the merits of mortals, Their temporality and their fickleness, Their willful minds and noble intentions, Their spiteful, murderous jealousies And their sincere, deep love. All the while I’ve lain down in the field, At the midpoint between house and barn, My back pressed into the tugging stalks, My face to the heavens. My arms reach out with the ears of corn, Signaling to the universe that we exist, Just a little further, friends; we’ll reach it. My spine entwines with the roots, Joining the crust of a bustling ball of heat, Where emotions manifest themselves as meat.

B u r ke G a r z a | S e n i o r | P o e t r y Second Place Literary Festival Winner

Whackamole

Alden James | Junior | Photography

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OLD ROOTS WEAVE A MATTRESS ATOP THE GROUND, BLANKETED OOTS RISE MAPLE TREES SO GREAT THAT PASSERSBY CAN BUT G WISTED, TIRED ROOTS – A SMALL AND HIDDEN CIRCLE IS MADE NG AS WINTER’S LEAFLESS CHILL OPENS ITS GATES. SAPLINGS G WARS THAT THEY ARE WAGING TO CLIMB THE FASTEST, TO BESHA HE OTHERS TO DIE. TO DIE IS WHAT AWAITS EVEN THE STRONG W ONG. OLD ROOTS WEAVE A MATTRESS ATOP THE GROUND, BLAN HESE ROOTS RISE MAPLE TREES SO GREAT THAT PASSERSBY CAN WISTED, TIRED ROOTS – A SMALL AND HIDDEN CIRCLE IS MADE NG WINTER’S LEAFLESS T H E G R OV E CHILL OPENS ITS GATE DREN AND THE WARS THAT THEY ARE WAGING TO CLIMB THE FAS IGHT, LEAVING THE OTHERS TO DIE. TO DIE IS WHAT AWAITS EVE ND DEADLY SONG. OLD ROOTS WEAVE A MATTRESS ATOP THE G ND FROM THESE ROOTS RISE MAPLE TREES SO GREAT THAT PASS HESE TANGLED, TWISTED, TIRED ROOTS – A SMALL AND HIDDEN IGN OF CHANGING AS WINTER’S LEAFLESS CHILL OPENS ITS GA CHDREN AND THE WARS Aiden Blinn | Sophomore | Poetry THAT THEY ARE WAGING EARCH OF THE LIGHT, LEAVING THE OTHERS TO DIE. TO DIE IS W 2 themarque 46 46 themarque themarque

BY THE FALL’S REDS, YELLOWS, AND BROWNS. AND FROM THESE GLIMPSE THE LIGHT ABOVE THESE ROOTS – THESE TANGLED, SO E OF. THE GROVE – SOME CALL IT – SHOWS NO SIGN OF CHANG GROW. IT’S SPRING, AND SO IT’S TIME FOR THE CHILDREN AND T ADE THEIR FELLOW SPROUTS IN SEARCH OF THE LIGHT, LEAVING WHEN THE GROVE’S TALL TREES SING THEIR DARK AND DEADLY NKETED BY THE FALL’S REDS, YELLOWS, AND BROWNS. AND FROM N BUT GLIMPSE THE LIGHT ABOVE THESE ROOTS – THESE TANGL E OF. THE GROVE – SOME CALL IT – SHOWS NO SIGN OF CHANG ES. SAPLINGS GROW. IT’S SPRING, AND SO IT’S TIME FOR THE CHI STEST, TO BESHADE THEIR FELLOW SPROUTS IN SEARCH OF THE EN THE STRONG WHEN THE GROVE’S TALL TREES SING THEIR DAR GROUND, BLANKETED BY THE FALL’S REDS, YELLOWS, AND BROWN SERSBY CAN BUT GLIMPSE THE LIGHT ABOVE THESE ROOTS – CIRCLE IS MADE OF. THE GROVE – SOME CALL IT – SHOWS NO ATES. SAPLINGS GROW. IT’S SPRING, AND SO IT’S TIME FOR THE G TO CLIMB THE FASTEST, TO BESHADE THEIR FELLOW SPROUTS I WHAT AWAITS EVEN THE STRONG WHEN THE GROVE’S TALL TREES Old roots weave a mattress atop the ground, Blanketed by the fall’s reds, yellows, and browns. And from these roots rise maple trees so great That passersby can but glimpse the light above.

These roots – these tangled, twisted, tired roots – A small and hidden circle is made of. The Grove – some call it – shows no sign of changing As winter’s leafless chill opens its gates.

Saplings grow. It’s spring, and so it’s time For the children and the wars that they are waging To climb the fastest, to beshade their fellow sprouts In search of the light, leaving the others to die.

To die is what awaits even the strong When The Grove’s tall trees sing their dark and deadly song.

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Behind the

Curtain Taylor Rohrich | Junior | Fiction

Boca Wide

Cameron Lam | Junior | Photography

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illy didn’t know what drew him to the patchwork tent. Perhaps it was the outlandish decorations with gold emblazoned tassels silhouetted against the pallid purple fabric of the tent. Maybe it was the gold crown placed on the tent’s apex, worn through the years and dulled by layers and layers of paint. Compared to the other modest revelries at the fair, this tempted his curiosity. The fair was filled with ringing bells and flashing colorful lights around the various attractions, but not here: the tent was simply a pale purple pigment, ragged with the passing of time. It looked sadly out of place, like a lost child who had run astray at the fair. The sun casually drifted across the sky, intermittently lost from view as clouds cascaded over it. As he stepped out of the electrifying blur of the fair into the small tent, Billy was transported to a distorted realm, one far away from the fair he had witnessed moments ago. There was no light, except for a simple flickering wax candle placed on a table in the center of the room. The candle illuminated a hooded and motionless figure at the table who did not seem to acknowledge Billy’s presence. Billy cautiously approached, his heart thumping as the pale light danced across the walls. The cloaked figure slowly rose, revealing the “Who are you?” Billy asked, baffled by the man. “I am The Prophet; ask me a question,” he responded in a soft, but contemptuous, voice. The man was conspicuously wearing a worn out beaded necklace adorned with a cross resting above his heart, studded in vibrant but cheap replicas of jewels. Billy sank down in a dilapidated chair opposite the old man. He sighed, realizing this was just another traveling fortuneteller trying to make a quick buck. “Go on,” The Prophet said, gazing back with his hollow eyes, “ask me a question.” Knowing that these “seers” usually would say anything to make their clients happy, Billy did not want to fall for the tricks of this old man. “Sorry,” Billy replied, “ I don’t got any

money to pay you with.” The Prophet queried once more, oblivious to what Billy had just said. “Ask me a question.” The man stared at Billy. His weary eyes appeared to have witnessed unspeakable atrocities. As Billy peered around the oppressive tent, he felt smothered by the walls, almost as if they were caving in on him. Billy sat in silence, pondering some question to stump this fraud: something this old man simply could not know. “Fine,” Billy responded, a smirk stretching across his face, “ How am I going to die?” The Prophet grinned, a strange feeling emanating from such a stolid creature. “It’s not how one perishes that matters. You are asking the wrong question. It is a question of when. We all die, by whatever petty means; it only matters when this beautiful moment arrives.” Billy sat motionless as he heard this phrase muttered before him. The Prophet lowered his gaze, his face contorted into a morose expression as he stared down into the gentle flickering of the candle. Billy saw the faint glimmer of the false jewels. He was dumbfounded by the vague, yet penetrating enigma the old man presented. Billy felt detached from reality in this tent as he stared into the vacuous eyes of a stranger about to tell him his fate. The sun, man’s constant companion, was not there to advise him. Billy did not know if ten minutes or an hour had passed. Billy sighed; it did not matter any more. Intrigued by this mysterious man, Billy wanted to beat him in his silly game. Billy slowly formed his next words, contemplating what the man had said. “All right, if you can’t tell me how I die, tell me when.” “Look at this candle,” said The Prophet, once again ignoring what Billy had said: “ In one instant, its flame can be stifled.” He reached down and pinched the flame in one swift motion. Light drained from the room; all was dark. Billy shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His only connection to the tangible world now was the faint whisper of The Prophet’s

voice. “You see,” The Prophet continued, “It doesn’t matter how I take away the light, it only matters that I did: It is simply inevitable. A new light will rise again, and fall. And rise. And fall.” The Prophet stressed his final words, saying them in a hypnotic rhythm. Billy realized that this man was no mere carny stationed at the tent. Irked that this man kept talking in strings of perplexities, Billy finally confronted him. “Listen,” he said, “ I don’t know what ‘yer talking ‘bout, but I don’t like it one bit.” In the obscurity of darkness, Billy could almost sense a grotesque smile swell across the old man’s timeworn face. “Well then,” The Prophet snapped, “ let me enlighten you.” The Prophet ignited a flame to the candle once more with a snap of his fingers. The room flooded with the orange tinge of light. Billy clenched his eyes as they once more adapted to the light. As he glanced around, Billy’s heart pulsated as he now saw a revolver in the hand of The Prophet. “Billy,” the old man sighed, even though Billy knew that he had never revealed his name, “ let me allow you the opportunity to experience this beautiful cycle of rebirth.” He cocked the revolver and held it straight at Billy, who was frozen in shock. “I will smother your flame, so that it may be lit once more.” The sky appeared to be bleeding as the auburn sun set across the fair. Children were smiling at clowns, and the many attractions were bustling with crowds of merry people. With all the giggling, the lights, the sounds, no one really could hear the muffled sound of a pistol shot far in the distance, almost as if in another world. A boy passing by, enthused by curiosity, saw a glimmer amongst the winding paths of the fair. As he approached the curio, the inquisitive boy found the object to be a dull cross. He held the cross up to the dying sun and realized, despite its rust and decay, that it still gleamed under the last light of day.

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A Lingering Flower Kevin He | Junior | Poetry

An empty voice echoes throughout the whispers of peace Inside the forgotten, imaginary place called home. A lingering, transient flower Falls. The footsteps run Through the pass Into the wave,

Their pass, On them, a flower That had yet to bloom, a home Never built, lost within the ebbing wave Of the unforgiving dream. Without that peace Their dreams break, shattered and scattered in the run

An invisible wave Of hollow, soundless peace That drifts slowly by. Its quiet pass Reminds them of their long-forgotten home, A place of broken memories, yet the tears run, Falling as if they were only a lingering, transient flower.

Of those who could not care for them. Their lies run Out of their despicable mouths and pass Into ears that long for the peace, Transient like a flower, Lingering in a wave Back home,

They try to grasp onto the memories, delicate like the flower Of transient, lingering emotions, drifting upon the wave Toward oblivion. Their longing words run From their mouth, seeking peace In the imaginary home Beyond the pass,

Their home. Beyond their run, Past the soundless wave, Through their memories’ pass, Their pains unfold into a vivid, vibrant flower Blossoming forever underneath the warm, silent peace.

The pains of an imaginary home shattered by heartfelt peace. The pains of an endless wave relieved by darkness’s pass. The pains of a frightful run finished by friendship’s flower

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Pinwheel

Harper Sahm | Sophomore | Photography

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Emeralds

Adam Merchant | Senior | Photography

Greg Guiler | Facult y | Poetr y

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To prick is to progress The pain, momentary The precision, monumental The prevention, critical The peril, catastrophic But the privilege to comfort I alone possess, the power to cure I alone wield So I guide the syringe, cold to squeeze, and I relish the warmth the torn vein receives

To injure is to improve The incision, deep The invasion, debilitating The instability, overwhelming The insecurity, obvious But the inward is reaching for full exposure, the infirmity gnawing for swift extraction So I grip the forceps, scrolling the skin; through vas and vessel the venture cuts in.

To scar is to strengthen The scalpel, resting The sinews, rejoining The standing, laborious The staring, lightheaded But the surgery reaches its final course, and the stitching requires my full concentration So I glory in maiming to mend in the end and forging through fear to form a new friend.

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Roland Baumann | Senior | Fiction

Pride

Alden James | Junior | Photography

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he fluorescent lights dimmed welcomingly as I entered the supermarket. I looked through the tall shop windows to where I had parked. Although I found myself incapable of seeing anything more than a patchwork of bright colours, I somehow knew that the scene had changed. Instead of a concrete-garbed plate of metal speckled with metal beasts of transport, the image fading into focus was that of a bike trail curled around cresting waves of earth upon which lay beds of wild flowers. A metallic flash revealed a sleek bicycle soaring over the landscape. Upon the bike rode a young girl with dark brown curls and dark brown eyes, perched in a slender stance of thrill and release. Strikingly familiar, her face creased with the force of laughter, but I heard nothing. Out of the nothing came a subtle rasping noise, like an exhalation in a padded room. The girl turned slightly, almost unnoticeably, and glanced my way. I felt so sure she could not see me beyond the glare of the early sun, but, as if defying my claim, her eyes locked onto mine with a dark intensity that took my breath away and rooted me where I stood. The frenzied eyes seemed to grow closer, flickering like embers, fueled by their own maniacal cackle, caging me, keeping me. Her cherubic face contorted into a grimacing mask of horror

with a dented forehead, her lips flickering struck with the queer sensation that through a rapid-fire pronunciation of a clisomething had changed. In the space of chéd word, “freedom”, as the day, without an instant, I suddenly felt alone, utterly notice, screamed with a brightness that lost, and, above all, scared. The awfully broke my enchantment. I ripped my gaze bright, disheartening feeling lasted for just away with a shudder and never looked a second instant and gave way to a distinct back, but I could feel those eyes giggling sense of relief as if a breath had been held with delirious, devilish delight. in shock, then released slowly for fear of I forgot. detection. How curious. I peered around Surrounded by people, each one with to see if anyone else had noticed. There, hints of peculiar familiarity, I felt warm and as I expected, was the lady in the fancy red safe strolling from frozen food to bakery, dress. I tried to read her face, but I could dairies to vegetables, canned to freshly not see past a haze that seemed to settle sautéed. My feet hardly seemed to touch before her, obscuring the details of her the floor at all as I glided across the superfeatures. With the resounding crash of an market’s alleys and backstreets. Kind faces overwhelming wave of horror, I suddenly smiled, watching me realized what had from every angle. been the anomaly: Her cherubic face contorted Kind faces watched the few dozen shopinto a grimacing mask of horror me, followed me pers surrounding me with a dented forehead... around every corner. had stuttered like the Kind, inquisitive faces refreshing of a pixobserved. Kind, worried faces hid behind elated heart monitor, simply vanishing for curling smiles, malevolent grimaces. an instant and then reappearing in exactly Why was everyone looking at me? And the same pose, expressions unreadable. that young lady in the red dress…her I forgot. forehead…I shuddered and, as it became As I was washing my hands in the sink apparent that the faces had approached of the restroom, I looked up and jumped me, I spotted an empty aisle just past her. at the sight of a woman eying me carefully. Dark brown curls and dark brown eyes. My reaction must have been unexpected, Gnawing heat. Searing cold gaze. Like emfor she herself leapt as high as I did. After bers, burning away and coating me with a moment of recuperation, I chuckled and an ashen giggle. was relieved to see that she had returned I glanced down the aisle and was the gesture.

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“Hi,” I uttered at last, not knowing how anything but such a simple opening could possibly follow the occurrence. “Hi,” she replied, obviously at a loss also. “Was there any particular reason you were watching me other than to admire my good looks?” followed my attempt at good-natured humour, which seemed to echo wearily around the room like the beating of a sickly heart. I peered closer at the woman’s face. Under her long dark brown curls were tired-looking deep

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brown eyes, resting in baggy, haggard eyelids. Soothing shadows danced across her face. “I was just thinking to myself that there seems to be something unique about your forehead that I cannot quite pin down,” came the reply. Her face brightened spookily as she formed each word with tender care. “I honestly do not know what you mean,” I lied, staring into the glittering eyes that chortled with inhuman glee. “I mean to say…it feels…it seems to

me that something is,” she paused for a moment as if savouring my discomfort, “… missing.” Without thinking or hesitating, I threw a fist in her direction. With a jarring flash, the mirror broke, and I was alone except for the hushed noise of a woman laughing in the air. She would never leave me. I forgot. I scream into the infinite light. I know the truth. Why do I find the need to protect myself by simply coating it in familiar faces and places? Why the con-

stant struggle? I must accept it. I will accept it. Inhale. A metallic flash depicts a sleek car soaring over the landscape. Exhale. Upon the bike I ride, a young girl in a womanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s body, with dark brown, unruly curls and dark brown, blissfully unaware eyes. Inhale. I am perched in a slender stance of thrill and release. Exhale. I stutter like the screen of an old computer, simply vanishing for an instant and then reappearing in exactly the same pose, the world hazy around me. Inhale. She herself leaps as high as I do. Exhale. Kind worried faces

hiding behind smiles observe me. Inhale. window. I will meet her at every corner, A dented forehead. Exhale. Something is from every angle. I will interrogate the missing; everything is helpless reflection. I missing. Inhale. The will never leave her. I will never leave her. I will cage beating of a sickly I will cage her and her and keep her. Freedom is heart. Exhale. Out of keep her. Freedom our only hope. the nothing comes a is our only hope. subtle rasping noise, Exhale. an exhalation in a padded room. Inhale. I forgot. No! I cannot accept it. I will not accept it. The fluorescent lights dimmed welI need to protect myself. I must fight the comingly as I entered the supermarket. constant struggle. I will glare from my bike at the confused face in the supermarket

journey to babalĂş

Alden James | Junior | Photography

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SHOWCASE

Centered Kunal Dixit | Senior | Documentary

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Film

Against the Grain Kunal Dixit | Senior | Documentary Harrison Chen | Junior | Documentary

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FUTURistic DALLAS James Zhang | Senior | Digital Art

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Some may argue the city is the greatest invention of mankind. The modern city, unwalled and unrestricted, offers itself as the exhibit of the prestige of a state, a nation, or even the world. But, more importantly, it is a place in which people converge, and, with them, their cultures, languages, and ideas, all together creating something new and greater. It, unlike an ant pile or bee hive, is not designed by mindless instinct, but rather by the sheer power of human will and creativity. Throughout history, cities have been the centers of innovation, the seats of power, the birthplaces of ideologies, the hearts of revolutions, the hubs of commerce, and the homes of many. It is no coincidence that our perception of the future is usually located in a vibrant metropolis. Amidst the labyrinths of concrete and steel, it is often too easy to feel a part of a greater whole but too difficult to feel exceptional. When that happens, remember: As much as a city shapes its individuals, the individuals shape their city. â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Alex Kim â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;15

I T M U ST B E A M AGICA L P L AC E Kevin He | Junior | Fiction

armth flowed through his veins. A light breeze brushed against his face. The cicadas screeched. Solace surrounded him. “Evan! C’mon back here right this instant!” a voice screamed, echoing throughout the empty woods. Evan’s eyes fluttered open. Sunbeams streamed down upon his lithe teenage body. The warm sky stared down at him. Evan yawned. He pushed himself up from the grassy hill. The trees waved and shook in the light wind. Two leaves danced in air before falling to the ground. Suddenly, Evan saw a girl, delicate and light as if she were the summer’s wind. Her crimson hair flowed in the wind, waving like shimmering sunlight, and her green eyes glittered in the sun, gleaming like summer leaves. Evan stood stunned. The girl stared back, tilting her head ever-so-slightly. To Evan, she looked like a rose dancing in the wind. “What?” the girl questioned, staring at Evan. “Is something the matter?” “Uh, err,” Evan stuttered, not really sure how to respond to the sudden appearance of the fairylike girl. “It’s, uh, nothing… nothing t’all.” “Hey,” the girl sighed, “and I was thinking you might’ve been something special.” “Huh?” Evan said, perplexed. “What do you mean special?”

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“Well, I’ve seen you around here a lot,” the girl said, shyly tilting her head and batting her eyes. “You know, this clearing is really sumthing. It’s just so beautiful and calming. It’s almost as if it were magical.” “Yeah,” Evan responded, “I guess so. I don’t really know. This place just draws me in. I feel like ever since I found this here place, I’ve felt more relaxed and at ease. It feels so strange and untrue… It’s just… magical.” The sky began to twist and blend. The colors spilled, blending lively blue with sickly crimson. A violet twist engulfed the sky’s edge. The sun began to set. The girl leaned in closer. Her crystal-green eyes stared out towards Evan’s; her starry irises delved deep into his soul. “You know,” the girl whispered, her voice tickling the surface of Evan’s mind, “there’s a beautiful grotto over yonder. You wanna come with me? It’s a wonderful place. I’m sure you would like it.” “Sure,” Evan whispered, the words coming out of his mouth like faint wisps of smoke. “I’d die to. It must be a magical place.” As he finished his sentence, the girl jumped up and grabbed Evan’s hand, her fingers twisting around Evan’s like ancient roots. She ran off into the woods, taking Evan with her underneath the purple-bruised sky. “What’s your name?” Evan yelled,

GYROSCOPE

Sam Eichenwald | Junior | Photography deafened by the rushing branches around him. “My name’s Fantasia,” she yelled in response. “My mother gave it to me.” Suddenly, the sky flipped over. Evan tumbled over, tripping over the cobblestone ruin of a well. As he groaned, Evan stared up into the gaps between the leaves. Somehow, the sky seemed to shiver, wavering between night and day. The wind froze. It was quiet. “There you are!” a voice suddenly screamed from behind, surprising Evan. It was his stepmother. “I swear to Gawd if you ever try an’ skip your chores again,” she mumbled, grabbing hold of Evan’s ear and dragging him away. “But Ma, I just wanted to go out into the woods again,” Evan retorted, struggling against his stepmother’s iron grip. “Yes’m and I just wanted you to do yer chores like I told you to,” she responded. The branches hung sinisterly overhead, contorting in the twilight. The clearing had disappeared. Yet, in the edges of darkness, she stood there, waiting. Her hair waved in the wind; her form quivered like a figment of his imagination. But she remained. “Y’know,” his stepmother said, “ever since you’ve been goin’ to dem gawddamn clearing in the woods you’ve become so distant from us. I

know yer mother’s stopped in a dark clearing, facing a dark death was tough little cavern. It was silent: not even the on you, young man, insects or animals or wind murmured. but surely you can Fantasia stood. Slowly, she stepped spend more time into the grotto’s maw. Evan followed in at home to see yer pursuit. family.” Through the darkness, Evan could not Blood rushed in see anything nor hear anything. Everything Evan’s veins, dissolving became a blur, swallowed up by the void. the voice into a whisper. No sound escaped. His eyes lay locked upon Yet within the void, Evan could sense Fantasia’s. Everything life. The grotto called out to him in the seemed to blur and fade. night. It took him by his body and bit into “There’s an old legend him. Cold spread throughout his veins. about these woods,” his Cold air cut his skin. Cold fingers tore apart stepmother said, her voice his skin. Blood splattered, dripping. fading away in Evan’s mind. Evan whimpered in the darkness. Fan“The woodsmen say these tasia appeared. Her beautiful green eyes woods ‘r were streaked with Yet within the void, Evan could haunted crimson. She stared sense life. The grotto called out by a ghost into Evan and kissed to him in the night. It took him of a fairy his cold paralyzed by his body and bit into him. maiden who lips, slipping her died here. tongue in and out of They say all who enter the realm his mouth, draining him of everything he of the fairies disappear and never had. return… Please, Evan, come home.” Crimson darkness ran through Evan’s Evan’s hearing washed away. mind as he fell. Within the dark maw of Fantasia turned around into the the void, Evan saw the sky. Cold stars woods and skipped away. Evan stared down, welcoming him with a frozen tumbled out of his stepmother’s grip, embrace. diving into the piles of dead leaves “It must be a magical place,” Evan below. The sun faded to black. Night was murmured, his eyes shuttering, staring out upon the woods. into the starry night streaked with crimson Evan stumbled and dashed through blood and hair. the darkness. He ran and ran and ran, chasing after Fantasia. Eventually, they

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Di v i n e S pa r k Alden James | Junior | Poetr y

I marvel at the universe, I marvel at my world, and I marvel at myself, The guiding laws of everything are yours and mine alike, We find our respective places, yet inhabit the same domain, For that which governs me governs you. Sitting stupefied, I gaze at the spark of a sputtering match, I follow its trajectory in the air before it hits the bone-dry kindling in the Victorian fireplace. I see in the resulting light everything, and my eyes urge my soul to answer questions, and my mouth phrases the questions and my hands write them, Does not your flame originate from the same spark? Did not God throw you like a match into the desiccated collection of atoms that is your vessel? Sparks flew across the pathways in my brain, but my soul simply sat pondering, watching from within as the flame consumed itself.

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Like a forest, we stand together on the face of this earth, buffeted by the same winds, torn down by the same gravity, deprived by the same droughts, Like trees we absorb the same gasses and exude the same gasses, Never once, left alone, does anything change besides our size and number.

others, As the key in the ignition starts the engine with a kick, sends dinosaur remains pulsing through the automobile, and provides the impetus to move, As the soldier stares down the barrel, ignites the inside of the gun with the pull of a trigger, and watches as the speeding bullet rips open his foe, As the heedless lumberman tosses a glowing cigarette among the brush, moves on, and never realizes the catastrophe he has wrought upon the forest that sustains him.

A multitude of arboreal refuse clutters the lanes of our wooded city, While a spark hurtles towards the ground, limbs shake and leaves tremble and roots curl and goose-bumps rise up on bark, The resulting conflagration engulfing the root-spreaders and scarring the earth, Mother Nature taking up the spark as a flagellant does a whip, Scourging herself to change the landscape, maiming her very children to make room for the new, forcing the old to rise in a dark cloud and bring about some new, light beginning.

In the spark lies untold potential and possibility, unimaginable destruction and suffering, Even as the Sun produces the huge sparks of nuclear fusion, even as atomic bombs produce their deadly fission sparks, Each and every body produces sparks inside itself, brought on by the action of minute anatomical machinery.

The divine matchbook never empties, As the atmospheric particles collide, produce static friction, and discharge their energy in the climax of lightning upon the barren world below, As the primitive man strikes rocks together, creates a spark, and uses his new tool to help himself and destroy

In our minds, too, there are untold numbers of matchbooks, There is potential hidden in each person, the possibility of greatness in the smiling babe, the opportunity of supreme evil gleaming in the eyes of even the best of us, These sparks can be used to ignite war or

peace, promote rebellion or supplication, destruction or creation, And each human, like the humble car battery, possesses the potential to create a spark large enough to turn over the engine that is the world. As I wandered the streets, I saw, felt, heard the sparks of our lives, The yellow train slides by on crackling wires into a tunnel lit by ferociously burning lamps, The cell phones of the multitude ring as if one and pierce the ear with rapid vibrations, In every phone calling a friend, in every screen watching a game, in every computer searching for an answer lies a spark just as in each human lies a spark, And we these fleshy machines of humanity harness sparks to begin monumental undertakings. As the cigarette slowly drifted towards the forest floor, as the bullet leapt from the gun and into Archduke Ferdinand, as the slight Gandhi starved for his people, Conflagrations began that would not sputter out until the landscape lay scarred, And in this scarring lies the potential for renewal, For as the last trees smolder after a fire,

as the wailing trails off from a pitiful few on the battlefields of France, as the last vestiges of British domination recede from India, Embers are left buried under the charred flesh of giants, Awaiting a new beginning. And even as the fires destroy the forest, they purge the corruption of the forest floor and allow for new life, And so as the fire of the father dwindles into a glimmering ember, a spark begins the life of a son. I launch my sparks forth unto the world to create change, good or bad, I enter the old forest and throw down cigarettes purposefully, eagerly awaiting a conflagration that will topple the giants of old and bring change, I ignite the engine of political unrest in Europe, in America, across oceans, across the stars and bring change, I resign myself to the fires so that from my charred remains a new beginning may rise like a phoenix, And carry my spark onward into the darkest unknown of the future, And thus I will live not as fuel in the hellish and holy fires of this world, but as the eternal spark.

Light BalL

Sam Eichenwald | Junior | Photography

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WRATH

Adam Merchant | Senior | Photography

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H o o ke d

waiting on the cool lake is the best feeling dream. He knew he could not do wrong or in the world. Then, when the fish pulls on make a mistake in his dream. “Pull the line in, son!” Uncle George Devan Prabhakar | Sophomore | Fiction the line, you reel it in and enjoy your prize. I’ll tell you what. When you catch your first shouted into Nick’s ear. Nick yanked the fish today, you can let him go free,” Nick’s line with all his might and reeled in the ick opened his eyes and smelled the father said reassuringly. fish. The large smooth figure flopped burning campfire. He moved the “I want to name him, too.” down into the boat, and Nick remained blankets aside and pushed open The lake was serene except for the terrified. the tent fabric wondering if he was still rippling water radiating from the boat. “Great catch, Nick! That’s the biggest dreaming. He smelled the food sizzling on Nick cast his line over the water with one yet!” Nick’s father said as he patted the fire and knew he wasn’t. In his dream, instructions from his father and Uncle Nick on the back. Nick’s eyes were still Nick swam with the trout his Uncle George George. fixated on the convulsing fish. had caught the day before in the cool lake. “Now look here, Nick. You have to be “You can thank me for that,” scoffed Sadness overcame him as he saw the trout patient with the line. Uncle George. He could feel the cool water brush hanging from the large oak beside him to You don’t want to “What are you against his skin. He was care-free dry. He sulked over towards the campfire. jerk it around!” Uncle going to name him?” of his surroundings when gliding “Well, are you gonna eat?” Nick’s faGeorge said sternasked his father. Nick through the water, and he was happy. ther asked as Nick slumped onto a log. ly as Nick became had no answer. He “I’m not hungry,” said Nick. irritated. As time spent the next min“At least have some oatmeal. Don’t passed with no action from the line, Nick ute examining the fish from a distance. forget, today you are going to catch your retreated back to his dream with the trout. “It’s all right, Nick. The fish won’t bite,” first trout.” He could feel the cool water brush against Uncle George said while laughing. Nick Nick remained silent, still thinking his skin. He was care-free of his surroundwalked over to the moving creature and about the fish in his dream. ings when gliding through the water, and set his hand upon its wet skin. The fish had “What’s wrong, Nickie?” Nick’s father he was happy. Suddenly, the line began to lustrous scales, large fins, and a smooth asked as he took the oats off the flame. pull against Nick’s hands and Uncle George complexion. It reminded him of the one “I don’t like leaped out of his in his dream, and Nick began to feel more killing the fish, and seat. Nick’s anxiety relaxed. He wanted the fish to be free Son, fishing is not about killing I don’t like fishing.” rose about the fish, again, so he released him back into the the fish, or eating it. Fishing is Nick said as he stared and he let the rod water. Nick finally understood fishing. He about sport. at the dry ground. slowly slip away from sat back, satisfied, let his dream-fish slowly “Son, fishing is his small hands. He ebb away, and watched the undulations not about killing the fish, or eating it. Fishwas frightened of the sudden movement of the river flow as he reeled back to cast ing is about sport. After you cast your line, and just wanted to retreat back to his again.

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SUNRISE

Sam Eichenwald | Junior | Photography

Ammar Plumber | Junior | Fiction

An Adv e nt u re in a S u b u r ban Pl ayg ro u n d

The truth is that a fantasy can be real when one discards external realms as temporarily unreal, just as this young boy willfully ignores his onlooking mother, fully submerging himself in his playful fiction. The personal triumph of a fantastical exploit is not diminished by its imaginary nature.

he top was within sight, so I clambered up, quick and determined. I stood at the peak, feeling proud and majestic, as I looked down upon the valley, my kingdom. It was not easy wandering this rough, rocky terrain. It was some feat for an eight-year-old boy. The sun shone brightly over the valley before my eyes, and I basked in the light for a glorious moment before I got to work. There was much to be done. I needed food for dinner, but the only accessible food I knew of were the berries I had seen across the river earlier. An old wooden bridge was the only safe way to cross, but a mighty troll guarded the bridge, devouring all travel-

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ers who dared to cross. So I prepared to attack the troll, gathering sticks and stones on the mountainside. I felt a set of warm, protective eyes following me in the distance, but I ignored them and continued to collect projectiles to hurl at the troll. When I believed I had enough sticks and stones for one volley, I brought them down near the riverbank and set them down in a pile, far enough from the troll that it remained unaware of my presence. Then, I ascended the mountain once again to collect more sticks and stones because one pile is not enough to kill a beast of such stature. Upon seeing the ugly green fiend, I decided I would wait until the scary troll fell asleep before I attacked it. Otherwise, a head-on charge would be suicide. My sticks and stones would simply bounce off him as he walked over to consume me. But the troll was taking too long to fall asleep, always on the lookout for its next meal, and I was growing impatient. I needed to do something to make him sleepy. I suddenly remembered that I had a bag of magic sleeping powder in my pocket. Upon contact, the powder would make anyone fall asleep instantly.

I needed to find a way to sprinkle some on the troll. I spontaneously jumped out from behind the broad oak tree I had been hiding on the other side of and sprinted in a circle around the troll, disorienting him with my supernatural speed as I sprinkled my sleeping powder on the creature. Soon enough, the troll was fast asleep in a heap in front of the bridge. I concluded that there was no need to kill it then, so for the time being, I simply bypassed the troll, taking my projectiles with me, just to be safe. Upon reaching the other side of the river, I began scavenging for whatever food I could findâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;mostly nuts and berries. They were scattered all over the lush green grass, and I had two handfuls of them within a minute. I needed another way to carry them, and I soon found my solution, shoving them into the deep pockets of my red shorts. When I had enough for an appetizer, I decided that I would start hunting for meat. Nuts and berries would not be enough to sustain a big, strong eight-year-old like myself. I could put the projectiles I had gathered to use. I just needed to figure out what animal I was going to hunt and how. I ultimately settled on

hiding behind the bushes and flinging the projectiles at passing rabbits. I was a natural at hunting; I caught four rabbits in five minutes. Every projectile I threw seemingly found a rabbit. I stopped after accumulating twenty rabbit carcasses, leaving about fifteen of them behind to rot after realizing that I could only carry five. I then decided I would make my way up the mountain again to eat while watching the colorful sunset from atop its summit. However, as I approached the bridge, I realized that the sleeping powder had worn off, and the troll sat there, hungrily awaiting my return. Fortunately, he had not yet seen me because he was facing the other direction. I needed to employ another strategy to get past him the second time because I had used up all of my sleeping powder. Suddenly, I noticed another boy approaching. Timid, he stood behind a tree, facing away from me. I quickly advanced towards him and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around, and I asked for his name. “I’m Allen, and I’m seven-and-a-half years old,” he replied. “Okay, I’m Ammar,” I replied, smiling. I explained my situation to him, to

which he replied, “I want to cross the river too. I want to go to the top of the mountain too.” “So then you will help me get past the troll?” I asked. “Yeah, I want to help kill the big, mean monster.” So we hatched and executed a plan. We threw a rabbit carcass towards the troll, and the carcass landed a few yards away from it. Confused, it looked around, scanning for the source of the cottontail. After a few seconds of fruitless searching, the troll began to eat the carcass. It soon found that its interior was lined with sticks, but it was too late. The beast had already started to swallow, so it began to choke. For a moment, I pitied the troll, but my new friend Allen immediately reminded me not to take pity on the deadly brute. “NO MERCY!” he yelled as he charged forward, hurling stones at the colossal troll. Suffocating and angry, the troll turned reddish-purple, steam coming out of its ears, and it stood up, massive and overbearing. “RUN!” I screeched at Allen, and he took off. Although Allen was fast, I thought I was faster. I ran alongside him, trying to

outpace him, but he was well ahead of me when we reached the end of the riverbank. My pout revealed my disappointment, but I quickly refocused on the more immediate concern. We both wheeled around, expecting the troll to be bearing down on us, but it was nowhere to be seen. We cautiously walked back towards the bridge, and to our delight, the troll’s massive body lay limp at its foot. Excited, I stood on the belly of the troll and raised my fist triumphantly. I saw a flash of white light from the corner of my eye, but I ignored it. With our rabbits, berries, and nuts, Allen and I crossed the bridge and scrambled up the coarse mountainside. Overlooking the deep gorge, we set up a small fire with some sticks we gathered and a match, and we cooked our rabbits and roasted our peanuts. That peaceful evening, Allen and I enjoyed our wonderful meal of berries, roasted nuts, and rabbit until a loud yet gentle voice called my name from afar, telling me that it was time to go home. But I ignored it. I would depart from the park with my mother when I felt that my adventure was complete. However, until then, my mother did not exist.

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Orange

Gopal Raman | Freshman | Poetry for Amma we are orange. a sheared sunset’s leakage, starlight spilling over the brim. a smoldering ember, shivering between smoke and warmth. a dreamy creamsicle, swirling with soft sugar and frostbite. our orange is woven into grains of sand along the Kauai coast. our orange is brushed onto the sea’s tight, billowing cotton surface. our orange is reflected along pearl sound waves rippling to the coast. it’s not a dull, dead orange. it’s a soft, sweet coral. it’s a burnt, shimmering ginger. it’s inhaled in your nose, distilled in your lungs, exhaled in your breath.

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red rocks

Reid Johannsen | Sophomore | Photography

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pr agu e l a n ds ca p e

Sam Eichenwald | Junior | Photography

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The Persistent Civilian Perry Naseck | Freshman | Fiction

antalon looked back to see the chamber doors slam shut. He then stood straight and faced the council. “I believe that I should be the next great king and leader of our immense and beloved kingdom!” He thrust his sword up into the air and stood firm. His chainmail rattled and he gazed ahead valiantly. An elder then asked, “Are you prepared for war?” “Yes!” An arrow breezed by Tantalon’s face and pinned his cloak to the ground. He did not flinch. He did not make any defensive movements. Rather, he stared at the elders with uncertainty and confusion. “It would appear not. You are dismissed.” Tantalon exited, tearing his poor man’s cloak. The sentry stationed at the chamber watched Tantalon exit in silence. Tantalon receded to his home at the edge of the village and ambled through the door. “Why have you returned?” his disappointed mother inquired. “I have failed,” Tantalon answered. “You have not!” exclaimed his mother, who was dressed in only dirty rags. “You meet the age requirement, you are honorable, and you are brave. There is no reason for you to be turned down when there are only poor thieves that live around us,” she stated. “You will return and try again until you are my king and can give me orders. Until then, you are not my son; you are a fool.” Tantalon couldn’t fail his mother. She had inspired him to go before the elders, and she had worked hard to get him a sword and knight’s clothing. Tantalon’s thoughts became rebellious. How

THIRD PLACE LITERARY FESTIVAL WINNER could he have been prepared for the eluntil he emerges.” der’s question? Rumor was that everyone “Based on what has happened so had been turned down before, but nobody far, you will be here a while.” The guard dared question the elders. Tantalon was shrugged him off but kept his eye on Tanthinking differently. The elders wanted a talon. The next day Tantalon brought his new hierarchy that did not continue the friend to see the elders’ pointless contest. current royal family’s monarchy. There They idled in the area and sat awaiting a might be more to why the eldest son had new ruler. committed suicide and the king had died “Nobody ever emerges with a smile. in battle from an arrow shot from behind. Nobody is told there is a chance he could Tantalon needed to take action. be king,” said Tantalon. The friend saw this A plan was formulating in Tantalon’s and brought two more friends the next mind, but he was still unsure of himself. day. And his friends brought two more the He was risking severe punishment by day after that. The guard did not like this, dealing with something that the hierarand he called for more guards to patrol chy did not intend for him to deal with. and stand with him outside the chamber. Rebellion would end in a hanging; he was Finally, the elders were notified of sure of that. But his gut and honor would Tantalon’s peaceful protest. They ignored not let him stand for this problem. For him for a week until the crowd was too big the next few days, he loitered around and the guards were worried about the the great chamber’s doors and saw what elders’ safety. Tantalon was called back he expected: only into the chamber. He the saddened faces gulped as the doors You will return and try again of candidates who slammed shut the until you are my king and can had been rejected second time. “Why is give me orders. Until then, you emerged from the it that you and your are not my son; you are a fool. chamber. Unlike fellow citizens stand him, however, none outside our meetof them returned to fight the elders’ ings?” the same elder as before asked. decisions. “I await a corrupt king to exit this A guard at the entrance to the champremises in glee.” ber noticed his daily reappearances and “Corrupt? Are you accusing us of corinquired, “Why do you return? You have ruption? Young man, we have been waiting been told no. Go away before I turn you for the perfect candidate. We are waiting in.” He kept his hand gripped on the sword for a candidate who balances boldness in his scabbard. with intelligence and wisdom.” “I await the next king, whom I wish to “Then why have you led us to believe have the first glimpse of. I will stand here that our king was killed by one of our own,

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and why has nobody been chosen for the throne after so many trials?” “We take full responsibility for the king’s death. We killed him because he only started pointless wars. He was addicted to wars. He could not stop waging wars and wasting others’ lives in them while he sulked safely at the back of our army’s battles. Nobody yet has proven himself better than he. We do not see the point of announcing that publicly, as it will only cause unrest. You are dismissed. Go home and do not return.”

He was addicted to wars and wasting others’ lives in them while he sulked safely at the back of our army’s battles.

Gateway

Charlie O’Brien | Junior | Photography

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When he arrived home, Tantalon found two knights awaiting him. “The elders have asked you to return to council. They have made a new decision.” Tantalon pondered the situation. It was too perfect. The guards never take the back alleyways and passages, so they never could have beaten Tantalon to his house in time. “Tell the elders that I will follow my current orders until I receive personal relief of them from the elders themselves,” retorted Tantalon. “I will not return to their chamber until they permit me to do so.” He stormed into the house, full of anger. The next day, Tantalon was arrested. He did not struggle and he did not cry. For a month, he sat in his cell. Finally, he was released and was told to see the elders immediately, but he would not go. This time, the elders sought him out themselves. “Why have you not returned? Are you afraid to decline our reconsideration?” “I am afraid that I approach my death. I will not disobey your orders. I was told never to return.”

“Well, now you are commanded to return. Do you not trust our knights?” “I trust them, but I do not trust you. I will not fall for tricks to be rid of me and silence my cause.” “What must we do to rid you of suspicion?” “Make me king.” The elders gawked, but soon retracted their emotion. They all looked to one another, chuckled, and nodded in agreement. “Then let us fetch you a mirror so that you may see the first glimpse of the king.” Tantalon simply stood staring at the elder with a blank, unrevealing face. “You were unlike the others as you took action upon our denial. A good king does not live with unreasonable occurrences. A good king will rebel without being violent about it. You must now come to the throne room to be announced as king and to schedule the ceremony.” When they arrived in the throne room, Tantalon noticed servants and knights stationed throughout the room and beside the exits. It was surely a grand occasion, as the custodians to the royal court were present. As he walked towards the throne to be crowned king, he heard footsteps behind him. He turned around to see and was held firm by a masked knight. The doors were barred, and he was quickly surrounded. Tantalon’s throat was slit. As his blood spilled, he hoped that his friends and mother would learn the truth about his death. He slumped to the floor, and he and the rug beneath him were taken away to be disposed of. An elder said to himself, “He met our requirements, but he was too persistent. We need someone more manipulative and gullible. We want a bad king. He probably would have made a great king if we were not corrupt.” A mother had now lost her son twice.

Basilica

Adam Merchant | Junior | Photography

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Number

Yellow Mr. Number Two Josh Bandopadhay | Sophomore | Poetry It is fairly odd for me to be talking to you, yellow Mr. Number Two, Someone as sharp and intelligent as you deserves much better than me, Me, a very average thinker who does not even compare to you To become more intelligent like you, I simply need to observe and see The ways in which you construct your verses for an apostrophe. I know at times you may feel a little used. It seems all people have their own specific job for you, So it is natural for you to feel confused. But let me inform you, there is not much you can do, For no one will ever stop using you! This, you may take in a good way, or maybe bad. You may choose to think that because of this you are very important; You may choose to feel extremely frustrated, or perhaps only a tad, But let me tell you once again, this frustration will remain constant, And it is up to you to decide whether you shall see this as abhorrent. Oh, Yellow Mr. Number Two, I do not mean to offend, However often people think you become rather dull to talk to. Unfortunately, becoming sharper is something that is not so easy to amend. Much pain you will have to endure, but of seconds it will take only a few, And when you’re back to your original sharp and intelligent self, you will only be able to say to your owner, “Thank you.”

Two

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SALAMANCA

Brent Weisberg | Junior | Nonfiction

Every man is tasked to make his life, even in its details, worthy of the contemplation of his most elevated and critical hour. -Henry David Thoreau

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wide cobblestone path curved down to the highway, beyond which lay the river, as far as I would allow myself to go. The river marked the edge of Old Salamanca, an island of Renaissance Spanish architecture in the middle of a bustling urban metropolis. It was eleven, so I had thirty more minutes before I needed to be back. The path was anchored on one side by a sheer cliff face and on the other a sheer drop; on one side the Old Salamanca I lived in, and on the other, the Salamanca I would never know. The cob-

blestones were lit with puddles of yellow light that came from wrought iron lamps. The pools of light were like a string of round sandbars viewed from a plane over a deep, granulated ocean. Part of me knew that I was an idiot for being a lone gringo out this late, but my roommate had preferred to stay inside, and besides, it was a travesty not to see Salamanca lit up in the dark. Lonely moments of quiet and danger, moments away from hands to hold mine or to pick me up and dust me off, moments that test my wit and instincts: these are the elevated

BRIDGE OVER THE RIVER

Sam Eichenwald | Junior | Photography and critical hours that make me feel alive. How could I pass up another chance to see how the hundreds of seashells carved into the side of the Casa de Conchas send dark, isosceles triangles of shadow down the half-millennium old walls? Or how the Casa Lis with its variegated stained glass would emit a panoply of light? The previous school year, my freshman year of high school, was a year of grey-blues, grey-browns, and grey-blacks that were woefully insufficient to wake me up from my stoutly rutted day-to-day slumber. I saw the Casa Lis now, perched on the cliff.

It was a colorful lighthouse beckoning weary nighttime travelers to the elevated shore of Old Salamanca. I had passed through the old city much the same way I did every single brisk morning on the way to school. My roommate and I would step out from the secure apartment and amble a few blocks down to the wide highway that encircled the old city. A bewildering series of twists and turns down broad flagstone avenues and claustrophobic alleyways would land us precisely at the tidy school before the other students. In such an alien place, a

veritable ocean of alien landmarks, foods, and rules, the school was an island of familiarity, a sanctuary, exuding a calming pedagogic aura. Halfway through classes, for fifteen minutes, the other students and I would walk to a nearby park or bakery to stretch and explore. The city was a bright ocean. Like divers, we would keep the boat in sight for the first few trips, though before long, we ventured into the murky depths of the old city, making it back in the nick of time. On these trips, I was a follower; not having a keen enough sense of direction

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I was unsuited to leading a group. We were safe on these trips; we brought the island (or at least a buoyant raft made from our bodies) with us during these recesses. I walked alone under the yellow lights of the cobblestone path and thought of the route I had taken that night. As I did most nights in Salamanca, I had asked my roommate if he had wanted to come. No. The other six students had likewise declined. So I crossed the wide highway, by this time mostly empty; delved into the heart of the old city to the Plaza Mayor, an island of thousands of clamoring lights

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and people; and struck out in a direction I and felt myself a silent fragment of this had never before seen, which took me to place. I watched the bulbous dome of quiet, narrow streets with blind corners, the great cathedral in the midst of its five the perfect places century-long revolt I saw the merry patrons of a for someone to hide against the sky and bar laugh and felt the warmth behind. I navigated shook my fist at the of their delight stir my bones. this maze alone more heavens. slowly than my comMy feet had panions would have, but I did it as my own developed calluses. They stung with each leader. I saw what I wanted to see as it step, but it was a welcome sting, the bounced past at my pace. I saw the merry kind that keeps me awake and reminds patrons of a bar laugh and felt the warmth me that I am alive, like the pool in swim of their delight stir in my bones. I noticed practice during Winter Break. I am the first the way the wide pavestones interlocked one to jump in. The water is no kinder in

NIGHT light bridge

Sam Eichenwald | Junior | Photography exchange for my bravery, so I must thrash my arms and legs to stay afloat and stay warm. The middle of the pool is the worst place: all of the speed from the last flip has melted from my shoulders while the next flip is an ocean away. I must drag myself there and then drag myself back. A one-word question often confronts me as I swim: â&#x20AC;&#x153;Why?â&#x20AC;? I could be cozy at home, my feet and head in the sand, living without fear of surveillance, fear of failure, or fear of drowning. As I neared the bottom of the gently sloped, gently curved, gently lit pathway

onto a dark and narrow sidewalk, I wondered how I would react if I were to be mugged on such a peaceful night. I passed a trio of squat two- or three-room houses nestled at the base of the cliff. One had its door ajar, the chain bolt keeping the breeze from kicking it in. With a sideways glance, I saw a grey-blue man flickering with the light of a television. I saw his sharp white eyes peer at me. It was time to get back. I felt a petite mort when I stepped into the stark light of the streetlamps and blinked dumbly like a sluggish reptile. I

had to jog through the frigid air back to my bed, my island. I had to leave it. I had to flee comfort and familiarity. In retrospect, it was better that nobody had left with me. I had swum alone out beyond the reach of my fellows and found that my own legs and arms were suitable to bring me back. I had to leave my island because I wanted to lead myself to the beauty and adventure and excitement that lay beyond the horizon. I wanted, in my elevated and critical hours, to find my life to be one made of details worthy of contemplation.

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SHOWCASE Golden Hour

Wesley Cha | Senior | Ceramics

Moon Coral

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CERAMICS Zak Houillion | Junior | Ceramics

TRINITY

Bloom

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SHOWCASE Caligo Bryce Killian | Junior | Ceramics

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CERAMICS

Butterfly Pot Zak Houillion | Junior | Ceramics

Ambition Dhruv Prasad | Sophomore | Ceramics

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10600 in 20600

Thomas Zhang | Sophomore | Painting

Often both feared and adored by us is the school, a place where we learn the essential skills needed to be successful in this world and make choices that can change and impact our lives. The future school is built on the community values of growth, education, and camaraderie. As a school, we want to create an all-inclusive environment that is both diverse and widely recognized. We will always face new innovations that come with changing times, and it is the schoolâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s job to adapt to them adequately so that its students are able to adjust themselves as well. The future school remains a place for us to foster growth and creativity while learning what is necessary to cultivate a deeper understanding of ourselves. â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Will Garden â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;16

SOmething he doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t KN w Zachar y Cole | Sophomore | Fiction

Prayer In the SNow Alden James | Junior | Photography

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he winter had been colder than normal that year, but Nick still walked home from church with his father in the evenings. The ground all around was covered with a shimmering white, and the cold wind nipped at Nick’s nose. A continual crunch sounded as Nick walked next to his father. The light of Nick’s home showed through the gentle fall of snow, and Nick already felt a bit warmer inside. A woman from the church came out of the house and greeted the pair. She was heavy, and her jowls shook as she spoke. Even though she had several layers on already, she shivered violently. Eventually, she stated her reason for coming out in the snow instead of waiting inside. “Nick, I’ve left my bag at the church. Would you be a dear and retrieve it for me?” Father nodded at him reassuringly, so Nick knew it would be okay to go alone. Taking a few steps back, he waved as his father and the woman stepped inside, the door revealing the light and merriment on the other side for only a moment before shutting harshly. The snow started falling a bit heavier, but Nick did not notice.

He looked longingly at a solitary candle in the window of a dark house across the street. He was worried about the dark. Nick did not like the dark or being alone. He started off with a fast pace but progressively got slower as he got closer to the church. On the steps of the church, Nick paused to watch the silent snow falling heavily as death. Through the white veil, he noticed a patch of black in the snow in front of the church. It was a black darker than night, and Nick moved closer to observe it. As he left tracks in the smooth snow, the black leaned up to reveal a face. It was the face of the man next door, and Nick remembered him clearly. The man always used to walk home from church on Sundays and bring his family to have dinner with the Adamses. Several weeks ago he had stopped coming, and so did his family. Nick and the man’s daughter had been friends, so this made Nick sad. She had told Nick her dad was sick. Soon after, the family stopped coming to church. Nick noticed that the snow had stopped suddenly, and a candle was burning in the window. Someone was inside the church.

The mound of snow and coat spoke, “I’m just watching the stars, Nick.” He lay in wait on his back atop a bed of snow. Nick wondered how the man could see the stars on such a stormy night. He wanted to wish the man a Merry Christmas, but he didn’t feel like it was right. Nothing seemed right about the man anymore. The sky was solid black, and the person in the church blew out the candle. Nick slipped inside and got the lady’s bag. He was anxious to get away, and he didn’t know why. When he got outside it was snowing lightly again. His father found him on the way back. “I was worried, Nick. The snow was getting heavier and you weren’t back yet.” His father carried a candle and lit the way back home. Nick felt safe walking next to his father in the warm light of the candle. The snow was still falling lightly, and the candle burned with a bright white light much different than the color of the snow. An homage to Ernest Hemingway’s The Nick Adams Stories

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Sandbox

rientation Day. Pair after pair of factory-fresh Top-Siders graced the Andrew Chuka | Sophomore | Nonfiction St. Mark’s pavement as students THIRD PLACE LITERARY FESTIVAL WINNER from all grades swarmed onto the school campus, many in uniforms at least a size This was the tree, and it seemed to me too small, taking their first tentative steps standing there to resemble those men, as if sounding the water before plunging the giants of your childhood, whom you encounter years later and find that headfirst into the new year. Only the they are not merely smaller in relation seniors seemed in their element, proudly to your growth, but that they are absoflaunting their new blue. It was a warm lutely smaller, shrunken by age. day in late summer, the sun’s heat made -John Knowles, A Separate Peace just bearable by the first hints of a cool autumn breeze breathing its tendrils through the still air. At first glance, this August day seemed just like any other, but it was fundamentally different in that it was one of those precious few days in lazy summer that actually meant something.

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Exiting the science building, I caught a glimpse of the lower school playground. It seemed only a miniature replica of the sprawling recess complex I had left behind years before. Each piece of equipment seemed to have halved in size: I felt as if I no longer belonged there, a giant in a dollhouse. The sandbox, the main attraction for those of us who simply could not play basketball, had then been a whole separate universe divided in a brutal territory war of mutual hatred between the northern and southern halves: the northerners envied the South’s rich clay deposits while the southerners coveted the strong golden building sand widely available in the North. Warfare was conducted, of course, by mercilessly destroying each other’s sand fortifications. This sandbox constituted my daily entertainment for my four years in lower school, yet my sophomore self can easily navigate the entire expanse of this microcosm in a matter of milliseconds, paying no mind to its previous significance: it is simply a sandbox, nothing more.

As a lower school student, I looked both up to and up at the upperclassmen, finding it extremely difficult to imagine that I would be in their shoes just a few short years down the road. In the hallways, I saw geniuses lugging incomprehensibly titled texts such as A/B Calculus and Foundations of World Societies. In the library, I saw students working with complex calculators, creating graphs I could not even begin to understand. I remember asking myself if I could ever be smart enough to make it in high school, sure that I would never grasp how on earth mathematicians could operate on letters as well as numbers. But now, weighty tomes such as Geometry for Enjoyment and Challenge and The Bedford Handbook comprise my everyday schooling for at least seven hours a day. Now, my battered TI-84 is a mathematical workhorse of nearly limitless capabilities; it is not a wonder to behold, but a tool to be used. My childish amazement and wonder at the erudition of those older than I and the intellectual world they lived in diminished over time, much in the same way that my physical surroundings did.

As I grew from grade to grade, lower school to upper school, my physical growth was supplemented by the expansion of the world around me. Education and life experience broadened my horizons, and, as my perceivable universe grew larger through my increasing knowledge, the worlds I used to know and the ideas I used to have shrunk smaller by comparison. As I continue to mature, the world I know now will also reduce in size and importance, to be replaced by a new, more insightful worldview.

G h o st

Alden James | Junior | Photography

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Fear Itself Philip Smart | Junior | Nonfiction THIRD PLACE LITERARY FESTIVAL WINNER

We but half express ourselves, and are ashamed of that divine idea which each of us represents. â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Ralph Waldo Emerson

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y wrinkled paper shakes against the He’s the nicest guy you’ll ever meet. podium as I look at the crowd of the He’s always smiling. He’s always ready to most intimidating group of eighth help anyone with any favor. He’s Alden. graders in the world. Running for class secWhen I drive home that night, the retary freshman year seemed like a good usual twenty-minute drive feels like an idea. I look down at my speech, a quick hour. I constantly fiddle with the radio escape from the penetrating eye contact stations, trying to find a song that will of the sea of students before me. If there’s keep my imminent disappointment off my one thing that will cement my trembling mind. My car finally rolls into the driveway, legs and erase my pressuring fears, it’s and I trudge into my house. A tough pork humor. Humor is a part of my identity. I chop is plopped next to some wrinkly deliver the jokes my eighth grade mind Brussels sprouts on a pale, white plate. I had expertly crafted the night before. try to negotiate the food into my mouth. “Strong with the force, I am.” The My parents know something is wrong. crowd laughs. When I tell them about the doomsday that “One time, I ate an entire corn dog in is my election, my dad rubs his grizzly face two bites. Including the stick.” The crowd and searches for wisdom. laughs. “No matter what, just be yourself. If “I was chosen as the one hundredth they don’t like you, what does it matter?” customer to the Best Buy website twice. After his inspiring words, I sprint upYou try doing that.” The crowd laughs. My stairs and start on my poster. After some false ego grows. photoshop work, I finish with a picture of I feel good as I flaunt back to my white me in a Mr. Rogers sweater posing with an swiveling chair, the same kind of chair that inquisitive cat. I find the poster absolutely every other student in the sea of people hilarious and unique to me, and I bring it sits in. to school even if some people might find it But when the results of the election a little odd. are released, I’m not the secretary. I’m still I rub my temples the day before my just the jokester. speech. In eighth grade, my speech was Late sophomore purely jokes. This year, the hankering I think that this time will be different. time, however, I to run for class office will say what I want I feel like I have legitimate shot. strikes me again. I to say. I don’t care scan through the about entertaining options of available offices shown on the people to fulfill their preconceptions about list. I whip out my blue ballpoint pen and me. I will say what I feel. loop a circle around the words “Student I flip open my laptop and pull up a Council Representative.” I think that this YouTube page. I listen to the words Martin time will be different. I feel like I have a Luther King Jr. declared on the Lincoln legitimate shot. Memorial. I listen to the words John F. KenBut then I find out who I’m running nedy proclaimed at Rice University. I listen against. to the words my dad had just revealed to

me in our own dining room. I exit out of the YouTube videos and decide to express my own self. The next day, my class sits in a secluded room in Nearburg, awaiting speeches from aspiring class officers. I pat the left pocket on my black suit jacket and feel the outline of my wrinkled paper. My speech is still there. I look around the room and see pictures of important board members, all in black suits. All of them are leaders, something I aspire to be. In the back of the room, Mr. Holtberg stands stiffly with an intimidating glare. The blue-shirted seniors rise to the podium and announce the contestants for the election. When my name is announced, I emerge from the sea of my classmates to the stand. My classmates’ eyes all fix upon me. This group is much more menacing than the pack of eighth graders I had previously spoken to. I tell the group that I care about them. I tell my classmates that I will give full effort. I tell my brothers that I love school. I am honest with them. After I share my feelings with them, I have to be honest with me. I have to be me. Not only do I tell my brothers how I feel, but also I tell them some jokes. I fulfill my identity not only as a jokester, but also as someone who cares. Later that day, my phone buzzes in my suit pocket. I slide open my email account and see an unopened message with the results of the election. I scroll down past the president, vice-president, and secretary announcements. I finally get to Student Council Representative. In little black letters, my name on the screen gives me the biggest smile. I have won.

sectionSchool 18 SectionSCHOOL SECTIONCITY 93 93

EVEREST Gopal Raman | Sophomore | Poetry Sit upon snowy peaks and look up. See nothing but the watercolor haze of the Milky Way. Drink those stars as silver bubbles. Dress yourself in diamond drapery. Comb the crumbling ice with your warm fingers and breathe in the beauty battling in every crystal.

See the pinwheel plasma dance of the churn and meld your energy with deep neon space. Burn like a supernova in your time. Live free like seafoam among waves. Swim among starry seas and let gravity crack your myosin chains. Discover worlds within silver constellations. Inhabit them all while lying upon Everest snow. Dream of places beyond time frozen into little champagne bubbles of reality.

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of highway, and through an exit, only stopping when the paved road finally surrenders to stony pastoral mire. Simple rolling in buoyant meadows, simple worship of the sun, simple reverence of the moon. To be in the non-static escape, that unprocessed effusion, but to return every time, promising not to face our sweet, soothing lull ever again. Yet one glance off road and into the peripheral, and there comes the crash. Eurydice is lost forever. To reverse and fold up the map, but it happens quickly, hands shivering small quakes all over, so the creases donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t match up quite as they did before. And the twisted script is buried away in a focus of oblivion, so that I know where not to remember, forever bent out of its original plane. The chorus of my childhood: Are you wearing your seatbelt? The verse parroted to grandparents and kindergarteners, allowing just two seconds out of the garage, but on the days forgot, it was much longer. The verse neglected to a friend,

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THE YEARNING VOID Timothy Simenc | Senior | Poetry Upon the moonlight and the stars, It felt as if I was on Mars. The red light there softly turning, And rocks me to sleep with yearning. A yearning dream for deepest space. I could measure and make a case. How far is it to find new worlds? One there waiting to be uncurled. What civilizations write us? Ones that scream for us to discuss? Or ones that hide their heads ashamed? Or those that come for us untamed? Upon the moonlight and the stars, I feel irked about living on Mars. I do not wish to explore more, for the empty void is in my core.

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FAIR

Alden James | Junior | Photography

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Blue in Green lulling over the lake, Each chord a cloud; a glissando, a field of grass Darkened yet lush hands, lilting over Its color the former, the hills the latter, Stretching its hands on the velveteen green A hammering beast of the plain, Where yellowed ivories press them skyward. Of infinite cadence and lazy dreams. Pedaled for pleasure in light drizzling rain.

A n t e r o R e s e r v oi r

Burke Garza | Senior | Poetry

Third Place Literary Festival

Winner

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Tree

Frank Thomas | Sophomore | Photography

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Summer’s Eternity Rahul Maganti | Sophomore | Poetry

The fiery sunlight weaved through the clouds, Over the salty margin, where a child lay, Basking in the heat of the clear, blue day. School was out but so very long ago, And many a kite flew out a window, Raising spirits, and lifting eyes, to the Wonder of being intoxicated by summer’s crisp, windy, and radiant highs. No work, no toil, and still no harsh spite In a world where there was always delight. How deep, dark and lovely it seemed, To lose the learning of instructor’s treat. But when evening approached too suddenly, And the dreaded darkness took the skies, Did the child read his books hatefully And remember the cheer that went by?

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TRIPTYCH

Sam Eichenwald | Junior | Photography

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Worthy Daran Zhao | Sophomore | Poetry

Father, Oh Father, how long since we’ve met, How long since you’ve told me what you expect. I don’t remember your face, don’t remember your eyes, Can’t even remember the subtle curve of your smile. I remember the last time I’ll ever hear you speak, The gentle rumble of your voice, the comfort I still seek. “Be happy,” you had said, “Make me proud,” I had heard. But before I could ask, your heartbeat became blurred. Father, Oh Father, why’d they bury you so deep? How will you hear of the goals I did meet? Would you be proud looking down, would you call me your son? Did I do enough in my life? Can I finally be done? My soul begs for an answer as I’m lowered into the ground. What would you say if you saw me? Did I ever let you down? Dad, am I worthy? Is your faith in me still sound? Dad, will I meet you? Is my path Heaven bound?

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Icebreaker

Alden James | Junior | Photography

A GOOD FRIEND IS HARD TO FIND Bryce Killian | Junior | Fiction

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r. and Mrs. Anderson, squinting under the bright sun in the stifling Tuscaloosa heat, could not contain their excitement about their prized son’s return from his first year at Yale University as they watched the bus pull up to the curb. Both of the proud parents began to weep with joy when their son, Burnell, dressed in a fine pair of khaki slacks with a red sweater vest and crisp white shirt, finally stepped off the bus, effortlessly carrying a large trunk and fine leather suitcase behind him. Most people who knew Burnell, or Bernie, as they called him, considered him to be one of the finest young men in all of Alabama. Because he was the captain of the football team and valedictorian at his rural high school, everyone in his small community admired his natural ability to succeed at seemingly any endeavor. Tall, brown-haired, muscular Bernie was held in great esteem. When news spread that he was going to attend Yale, his small town had exulted that their finest young man from one of their most admirable families had garnered admission to a prestigious northeastern university. “Hiya, Mom. Hiya, Pop.” Bernie’s glistening smile broke across his face, concealing a twinge of annoyance that he was home, as he approached his parents and embraced them both. Mr. Anderson proceeded to haul his son’s trunk and suitcase to his ’49 Lincoln, and the three family members began their two-hour drive home. “Bernie’s home! Bernie’s home!” Daisy-June and Rose cried out as they saw the sleek, black car rolling down the long, tree-lined road that led up to the Ander-

son family mansion, the largest house Anderson estate, but he had not been in the county. The excitement of their around town much since he had dropped brother’s return had the thirteen-year-old out of the high school and set off on twin sisters running as fast as they could his own. Growing up, Jack, Bernie, and through the lush, green lawn under the another boy, Tucker Williamson, had beautiful, clear Alabama sky to greet their been an inseparable group of friends. beloved Bernie. However, the group was torn apart when “Hiya, Rosie! How ya been, Junebug?” Tucker vanished just before the beginning Bernie exclaimed as he scooped up the of the boys’ junior year. After months of two giggling girls and playfully slung them searching, the town’s citizens and the poover his shoulders. lice gave up the search for Tucker with no That night at dinner, the eager evidence of his whereabouts. The general family members bombarded Bernie with belief held throughout the community, not questions. Struggling to maintain his crisp having found a body, was that Tucker had smile and effervescent demeanor, he did skipped town for some unknown reason. his best to satisfy the endless curiosity Bernie moved on when Tucker vanished, about his new, foreign life until Rose and but Jack never was able to cope with the Daisy-June could no longer keep their eyes loss of his best friend. Jack resented Bernie open. Once his sisters had retired, Bernie for not sharing in his misery, and only a was left alone with his parents, and he few months after Tucker’s disappearance, knew full well that they would stay up all Jack and Bernie had completely ended night talking to him if he let them. their friendship. Everyone in the town Bernie did not manage to end the watched as Jack, succumbing to despair, questioning until well past midnight. dropped out of school and transformed The next mornfrom a promising ing, Mrs. Anderson young man into Everyone in the town watched was in the kitchen a degenerate. Six as Jack, succumbing to despair, overseeing the maid months after Tucker dropped out of school and who was preparing went missing, Jack transformed from a promising Bernie’s favorite packed a suitcase, young man into a degenerate. breakfast when she left his parents a heard a pounding on the front door, and she nearly fainted when she opened it. A stocky man of medium height, with long brown hair and a beard, occupied the doorstep. The angry face that glared into her eyes had become almost unrecognizable, but Mrs. Anderson knew who the man was. Jack Eldridge was standing on her front porch. Jack had been a regular sight at the

note, and vanished into the night. “Where’s Bernie?” Jack demanded, not bothering to greet the shocked Mrs. Anderson. “Jack? How’ve ya, uhmm, how ya been, Hon?” Mrs. Anderson, taken aback at the sudden reappearance of the child she had watched grow up, tentatively stuttered back.

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“Where’s he at? I needa talk to him. Heard he was back in town.” “He’s just up the stairs, I think. Please, umm, come in.” With fear in her voice, Mrs. Anderson called out to her family that Jack was there and that Mr. Anderson and Bernie should come down immediately. Bernie cringed when he heard his old friend’s name and felt a surge of anger as he came down the stairs and saw him. Jack and Bernie locked eyes. The twins stayed upstairs while Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, Bernie and Jack all filed into the living room in silence. The three Andersons positioned themselves on a couch directly across from Jack, who threw himself down in a nice leather chair. His raggedy jeans and shirt seemed out of place in the elegantly decorated sitting room. “I needa talk to Bernie, not you two,” Jack mumbled. “Is there anything we can do to help you, Son? We could put you up for a while if you need it,” Mr. Anderson ventured, hoping that his offer would not be accepted. “You know I ain’t a good kid no more, so stop actin’ like I’m the same kid that use ‘ta come over here. I just needa talk to Bernie in private. It’s important.” “What’s wrong, Jack? Where have you been these past few years?” Mrs. Anderson’s voice faltered. “I been all over doin’ all sorts of bad, but I mostly just been tryin’ to get over the past.” Jack stared straight into Bernie’s eyes as he spoke. “What do you mean, Son?” Mr. Anderson persisted. “I didn’t come down here to talk ‘bout my life with you two. I just needa talk to

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Bernie.” have,” Bernie replied as he walked over to All of a sudden, Bernie interjected, a fallen tree and reached into the hol“You know what, I think Jack is right. He lowed trunk. and I should probably talk alone. We’ve “He’s gone! And you don’t even care got some catching up to do. In fact, let’s go that he’s gone!” Jack’s voice cracked with to the woods, Jack. No one will be able to emotion as he continued to stare out over bother us there.” Striving to please their the ditch. He was trying not to let Bernie son, the Andersons left the room without see his watering eyes. protest. “Well, maybe he’s not as far away as “Let’s go,” Jack muttered. Once they you might think,” Bernie whistled as he were outside, Jack and Bernie mainapproached Jack from behind. Before Jack tained complete could reply, Bernie silence while Bernie raised the axe that Bernie cringed when he heard purposefully led the he had just retrieved his old friend’s name and felt way through the above his shoulders a surge of anger as he came woods for about half and aimed a swift down the stairs and saw him. an hour until they blow to the bottom Jack and Bernie locked eyes. arrived at the edge of of Jack’s head. Blood a deep ditch. The tall splattered, and Jack’s trees cast ominous shadows on the forest body was flung lifelessly to the ground, floor, and a gray sky peeked through the bending in unnatural directions. Bernie limbs. Jack sensed that they had arrived at kicked the body into the ditch, where it their destination. landed just beside another. “They both “I needa talk ‘bout Tuck.” had so much potential,” Bernie sighed to “What seems to be the problem?” himself. Bernie replied. Content, Bernie tossed the axe down “We never did talk ‘bout it, but I got to. next to his two best friends, threw his I know he’s dead. He woulda told us if he bloodied shirt into the ditch, and began to were leaving. He never would’ve just left. I make his way back to the mansion. As he know it.” Jack stared across the ditch into walked, rain began to drip down through the woods. the trees. “That’s awfully keen of ya, Jackie.” “Where’s your shirt, Hon?” Mrs. “Don’t talk down to me like that!” Jack Anderson, relieved to see her son return snapped back. He had always hated it unharmed, questioned when Bernie came when Bernie had belittled him and Tucker. in the back door. “How could you act like ya didn’t care! How “I gave it to Jack.” could ya just move on and act like he nev“You’re such a good kid. What’d he er even existed?” Jack began to yell. “You want, anyways?” coulda at least helped me out, even if you “I was just able to do him a favor. didn’t care nuthin’ ‘bout him.” Think I helped him out a lot.” “I bet you’re right, I probably could

Eye of the Beholder Alden James | Junior | Photography

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SHOWCASE Andrew Patison | Senior | Painting

Andrew McClain | Senior | Painting

Joon Park | Sophomore | Painting

Shailen Parmar | Sophomore | Painting

SELF-PORTRAIT PAINTINGS

Will Garden | Junior | Painting

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PORTRAITS Power—Vladimir Putin/Bear

Energy—usain Bolt/cheetah

Curiosity—Bill Nye/Monkey

Courage—Self/Lion

Faith—Mother Theresa/Sheep

Purujit Chatterjee | Senior | Drawing

SectionSCHOOL SECTIONCITY 109 109 sectionSchool 18

SHOWCASE

St. Mark’s—Plen Air Study Shailen Parmar | Sophomore | Painting

CROWDS AND POWER Purujit Chatterjee | Senior | Painting

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Painting

The Space Between Zuyva Sevilla | Senior | Painting

VALLEY CITY AND LITTLE LEMON Miguel Plascencia | Senior | Painting

CREATION DESTROYED Purujit Chatterjee | Senior | Painting

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Molding Myself

Joon Park | Sophomore | Digital Art

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The self is a strange conundrum because it is so drastically different from person to person, and as is true in many cases, one’s own definition will never quite align with that of the outside world. One of the fundamental questions of our experience as we flip through the pages of our lives concerns how the free-standing universe that is the individual will evolve and grow over time. The future self is a fine sculpture, still being molded and shaped by time and experience, evolving beautifully into the ideal. Within the microcosm of the mind’s interweaving maze of thoughts there lies an immense untapped universe, the future self a frontier still shrouded in mystery and wonder. Who will you be? This exercise in introspection can only be experienced on a deeply personal level. This is a stepping-stone for personal growth, a small step in the never-ending expansion of the mental universe. —Stuart Montgomery ‘15

TO THE

It seems fitting that as I stand on the brink of the next stage of my life, we take a literary and artistic exploration into the future through this magazine. We live in a time of change and infinite possibilities. As students of St. Mark’s, this year we all began a period of transition between past and future, passing on the guidance of our education from one legendary Headmaster to the next. As a senior standing on the shore of all that has made me who I am, I now look upon a new horizon. Naturally, the future was on our minds all throughout the creation of this publication.

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Storytelling is a way of acknowledging the past and its impact, but even more so, it is a medium by which we interpret what has happened and learn from it. It is the beginning point for the future, for the new self. Previous Marques have delved into our deepest roots and exhibited the journeys we currently live, asking the reader to consider: “Who are you?” This year we hope you consider: “Who will you be?” Learn from stories of the past as a way of crafting the future and look forward to the next big challenge of your existence. I can’t wait to see the progress

we achieve in the next five years, ten years, and far beyond. There are so many possibilities as to what new frontiers we may explore, what kind of world we might call home, what creative innovations we will discover, and what personal growths we will pursue. Our focus becomes increasingly narrow. There is so much unexplored within the world and cosmos as well as within ourselves. As you flip from page to page, move from one experience to the next and enjoy the excitement in both this magazine and our future. —Purujit Chatterjee ‘15

The beauty of the multiverse theory is that it emphasizes the preciousness of the present and the malleability of the future. Trillions upon trillions of decisions since the beginning of time led to this very moment, to this one-in-an-infinity universe. And, from this point forward, we have the power to create whole worlds solely based on the choices we make. Over the past year, I pondered what I wanted readers to take away from The Marque. Traditionally, The Marque strove to make its readers reflect on a certain topic and on themselves. This year, though we

still want our readers to examine themselves, we hope to give the readers an opportunity to look into the future as well. By displaying the brilliant works of art students have made in a future-themed magazine, we want to show the student body that our potential is limitless and that we alone determine our destinies. Whenever you feel powerless, just remember: we may be nothing but specks of dust compared to the universe, but the universe is ours for the making.

READER

I believe in the multiverse theory. I believe that with every single decision you make, you create a whole other universe in which you made a different choice, leading to another set of outcomes. Just imagine, billions of people making billions of choices making infinite universes. Imagine worlds where Martin Luther King, Jr. didn’t make his “I Have a Dream” speech, where Hitler pursued his career as an artist, where Thomas Edison gave up on his research, where Newton sat underneath a cherry tree, where Robert Frost didn’t take the road less travelled.

—Alex Kim ‘15

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STAFF PAGE PURUJIT CHATtERJEE

ALEX KIM

Senior Editor-in-Chief

LYNNE WEBER

Gaymarie Kurdi

Faculty Sponsor

STUART MONTGOMERY

Kunal Dixit

Adam Merchant

Senior Managing Editor

Senior Senior Editor

Senior Head Photographer

KILLIAN GREEN

Josh Bandopadhay

Shourya Kumar

Junior Creative Director

Sophomore Design Editor

Senior Design Editor

Timothy Cho

WIlliam Su

Andrew Chuka

Senior Submissions Editor

Senior Copy Editor

Sophomore Copy Editor

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Sam EICHENWALD

Will Garden

Ashton Hashemipour

Junior Staff

Kevin He

Alden James

akshay malhotra

Junior Staff

aidan maurstad

Todd Murphy

Joon Park

Junior Staff

Sophomore Staff

Sophomore Staff Artist

Shailen Parmar

Grant Uebele

Daran zhao

Sophomore Staff

Junior Staff

Sophomore Staff

NOT PICTURED ZACHARY COLE Sophomore, Staff ROB CROW Sophomore, Staff REID JOHANNSEN Sophomore, Staff BRODY LADD Senior, Staff LINK LIPSITZ Junior, Staff ROBERT QIN Junior, Staff GOPAL RAMAN Junior, Staff TIMOTHY SIMENC Senior, Staff

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CONTACT

St. Mark’s School of Texas 10600 Preston Road Dallas, TX 75230 214.346.8000

COLOPHON The Marque was printed by the Brumley Printing Company, Inc. The cover was printed on 130# Sterling Dull Cover on a Mitsubishi 528 Press in 4 color process and an overall varnish. Clear foil stamp and register embossing were used to create the cover effects. The text was printed on 100# Sterling Dull Book on a Xerox iGen 150 Digital Press in 4 color process and was bound using PUR perfect binding. The staff used Adobe InDesign, Illustrator, and Photoshop CS6 to design the spreads. Typefaces included CodePro for headings, credits, and page numbers, Code Pro LC for bylines, and Open Sans for body text. The press run for The Marque was 450 copies, serving 365 enrolled Upper School students and 200 faculty and staff members.

www.smtexas.org SMMarque@smtexas.org

Care of:

Lynne Weber GayMarie Kurdi

PHILOSOPHY

The 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 to summarize the year’s artistic expression.

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POLICY

The Marque functions as an after-school extracurricular activity independent from the St. Mark’s journalism program. Verbal and visual content of all types and forms are welcomed and considered 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.

special thanks

Ms. Lynne Weber Ms. GayMarie Kurdi Ms. Debbie O’Toole Mr. David Dini Mr. Ray Westbrook Mr. Dean Baird Mr. David Brown Dr. Martin Stegemoeller Mr. Myles Teasley Matthew Conley ‘15 Zuyva Sevilla ‘15 James Zhang ‘15 Thomas Zhang ‘17

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THERE IS NOTHING LIKE A DREAM TO CREATE -VICTOR HUGO, LES MISÉRABLES

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theQuote theQUOTE 121 121

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