The Marque – Vol. LXII (2024)

Where does it begin?

Where will it lead?

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Art + Cover Design by Aidan Moran ’25

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Introduction Everything Is Possible.

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ife yields endless opportunities to know, to change, to create. Trailblazing advanced humanity to its golden age, building new tools from preexisting rocks and branches, turning ideas into reality. But the inevitable always looms over us: the things we “can’t do,” the things we’ll “never accomplish.” For Orpheus, this absolute is the death of his lover, Eurydice. The rule of the Greek gods is unmovable: whoever perishes must stay in the underworld, apart from their living family. But instead of accepting this tragic statute, Orpheus creates another option. To bring back Eurydice, he challenges the inevitable, the divine itself. Orpheus descends to the underworld in a mythic journey known as a “katabasis,” using the power and poignance of his music to persuade both his enemies and the gods. Though going to a place where mortals have never been before—pioneering the unknown—is riddled with challenges, his ironclad devotion gives him strength to persevere. Finally, when he reaches the depths of the underworld and confronts Hades, the god lording over it all, Orpheus manages to persuade him to change the rules. Orpheus plays an emotional piece on his lyre, bringing the god to tears.

After he sees Orpheus’s conviction, Hades agrees to let Eurydice go back to the mortal realm with the condition that she walk behind Orpheus as they leave Hades. If Orpheus turns back to look at her, Hades stipulates, she will forever belong to the underworld. Orpheus eagerly agrees, sure that he can fulfill this condition. He and Eurydice stride ecstatically up toward the surface, but they encounter one last enemy blocking their happiness: doubt. Orpheus can’t bear the possibility that Eurydice might not be following him. This seed of doubt causes a lethal mistake—he turns around to make sure Eurydice

is there, and at that moment, she’s thrust back into the underworld. His insecurity and doubt cause him to fail in his quest, and his lover is now permanently lost to him.

Orpheus goes on to live a life of sorrow, playing his lyre so powerfully that he can move landforms. In the end, a band of worshippers dismember him, ending his grief-filled life.

The myth of Orpheus emphasizes the importance of decisiveness. Dedication leaves no room for doubt.

Orpheus’s inhibitions ruin him; mortals’ indecisiveness and insecurities can severely restrict their lives. We should go all-out in our pursuits, stamping out our worries about whether there’s a precedent for what we’re trying to do, if it’ll turn out well, or how others will react.

If we have a new idea, we have the freedom to realize it. Above all else, the myth highlights the possibility of changing the present. With enough dedication, anything can be improved, from ourselves to the universe around us. They say that you can never complete a painting; one day, you just stop adding layers. Likewise, the world is an enormous canvas; there is no final version.

In the sixty-second volume of this magazine, we have united endless possibilities—writings, illustrations, photographs, and more—to create one new outcome: the 2024 Marque. Each intersecting node of a skillset, each point on the plane of imagination, converges into a new one, and those into more, doubled and then doubled again, producing myriad forms from just two. Each pixel, each character, brought from the imagination into existence, reflects our contributors’ constant effort to spearhead new combinations, new ideas—ideas that, like Orpheus’s, will shape the world.

Welcome to Orphic, the 2024 Marque.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

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Spotlights ARTS AROUND CAMPUS 44 48 50

87 88 93

132 134 137 138

Painting Holden Browning ’24 Drawing & Painting Exhibition Wood & Metal Exhibition

YOUNGARTS WEEK Photography Photography

Hudson Brown ’24 Patrick Flanagan ’24

LITERARY FESTIVAL Non-Fiction Fiction Poetry

Dawson Yao ’24 Nate Wilson ’24 Carson Bosita ’25

I. The Descent 12 13 14 15 17 19 20 22 23 24 25 26 27 29 30 32 33 34 36 37 38 39 41 43

SHORT STORY by Dawson Yao ’24 When the Best Response is Silence

by Leo Hughes ’27 Waiting

by Luke Lemons ’25 The Ruler’s Vanity SHORT STORY by Aditya Shivaswamy ’24 The Lotus and the Deer

by Mason Bosco ’24 Wild One

by Arnav Lahoti ’24 Elephants

by Akul Mittal ’25 Hands POEM by Grayson Redmond ’24 Just a Tree

by Hudson Brown ’24 Dale POEM

by Ethan Bosita ’24 Xenoform

by Aidan Moran ’25 Gilaeman, Self Proclaimed Demon of the Shadows

by Leo Hughes ’27 Mr. LaBrodeur SHORT STORY by Charlie Hill ’24 Mondays

by Akul Mittal ’24 The Street by Drew Wallace ’26 Inner City ESSAY by Amogh Naganand ’24 The NPC is the Future: A matter of Values

by Drew Wallace ’26 Alone

by Reed Sussman ’24 Airborne

by Nathan Meyer ’24 Firing Squad POEM by Grayson Redmond ’24 On Normandy’s Beach

by Akul Mittal ’25 Hawaii SHORT STORY by Justin Tong ’24 All is Fair in Lies and War

by Nathan Meyer ’24 Portfolio

by Nathan Meyer ’24 Gunsmiths

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II. The Battle 54 55 57 59 61 62 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85

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Luxury The Manor Seeing Red Portrait Red Rose Totality Thief Animals Pagoda The Crest Jo Lupo Ponders the Sunset America’s Team Two Years Gone By Orange Trapped The Story of My Life Caves Solemn Bonaparte Fin Scene Lighting Emulation The 31st of October Automobile Zack Cherry Blossom Love

by Hudson Brown ’24 SHORT STORY by Miller Wendorf ’24

by Drew Wallace ’26

by Nathan Meyer ’24

by Hale Peterson ’25

by Preston Ghafar ’24 and Matthew Freeman ’25 POEM by Nathan Aldis ’26

by Akul Mittal ’25

by Akul Mittal ’25 POEM by Mitchell Galardi ’24

by Aidan Moran ’25 POEM by Tyler Tang ’24 POEM by Michael Chang ’27

by Hudson Brown ’24

by Reed Sussman ’24 SHORT STORY by Sanjay Bohil ’26

by Nathan Meyer ’24

by Hudson Brown ’24 POEM by Ethan Gao’24 POEM by Hayden Meyers ’24

by Nathan Meyer ’24

by Jacob Lobdell ’25 SHORT STORY by Ashrit Manduva ’24 SHORT STORY by Zack Goforth ’24

by Zachary Bashour ’24

by Arnav Lahoti ’24 POEM by Aryan Mishra ’26

III. The Return 100 101 102 103 105 106 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 123 124 126 127 128 128

Cliffs The Sea Beast Spring Cleaning Griffin Terrace Picnic Aulis The Nothing That Is Youthful Ignorance Canoe Hiding Ambitious Cycle Drowning Waterfall The Way the World Ends Representations Gold River Afterglow All I Want For Christmas Oceanfront The Diner Cosmic Visitor Empty Stupid Little Flower Flowerpot

by Akul Mittal ’25 POEM by Carson Bosita ’25 SHORT STORY by Nate Wilson ’24

by Patrick Flanagan ’24

by Tiger Yang ’25

by Tiger Yang ’25 POEM by Aditya Shivaswamy ’24

by Burns Houston ’27 POEM by Baker Lipscomb ’24

by Hudson Brown ’24

by Nathan Meyer ’24 POEM by Ethan Gao ’24 SHORT STORY by Lukas Palys ’25

by Zachary Bashour ’24 SHORT STORY by Arnov Lahoti ’24

by Asher Ridzinski ’27

by Arnav Lahoti ’24

by Peter Clark ’27

by Jacob Lobdell ’25

by Nathan Meyer ’24

by Jacob Lobdell ’25 POEM by Mason Briscoe ’24

by Drew Wallace ’26 POEM by Raja Mehendale ’24

by Tiger Yang ’25

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Dedication

Mr. David Brown Mr. Brown’s contributions to the school community through the Litfest, Creative Writing, and his leadership as the Victor F. White Master Teaching Chair in English are all massively impressive. But, perhaps his most valuable effect is on the students he teaches and develops every day.

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r. David Brown. Our impartial, impassioned English teacher. Striking down errors with the power and precision of Zeus’s lightning bolts, he ingrains upright grammar with a godly aura. But aside from his authority over the ten Rules for Avoiding Common Mistakes, Mr. Brown always offers an open ear to our ideas. Regardless of whether he agrees with them, he listens to and offers valuable help for our writings. In addition to being an amazing English teacher, Mr. Brown is also a baseball buff and Broadway connoisseur.

With his unique, creative assignments ranging from villainous sonnets to pensive reflections, Mr. Brown creates myriad opportunities for us to learn new techniques. In his creative writing class, he even assigns us to write and perform songs of our own! And on top of organizing these activities, he even plans St. Mark’s Lit Fest each year. Like Atlas holding up the Earth, Mr. Brown is an integral character to many of our stories.

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But Mr. Brown is hardly an unreliable narrator.

Holding the Bedford like a glinting Bible, a light in the dark of folly, he’s fully mastered the art of English. And for the avoidance of doubt, he’s compiled a list of ten of the most useful, yet neglected rules: his iconic RACM. With this almost magical sheet in our hands, we raise our writing to the next level. Explaining subjects ranging from The Great Gatsby to “Howl” with infectious enthusiasm, Mr. Brown is always a glowing light of exuberance in our lives.

When we play our lyres, pour ourselves into our writing, Mr. Brown is always there to listen and help us grow. Like Hades, who was originally against the resurrection of mortals, but eventually gives Orpheus a chance and accepts his music, Mr. Brown treats every idea as equal. He’s the pillar of justice, the balanced scales, in the otherwise subjective English language.

Photo by Akul Mittal ’25

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Art by Carson Bosita ’25

The Descent Orpheus was unexpectedly thrown into a quest of recovery when his wife, Eurydice, was bitten by a viper and killed by its poison. He began his journey in sadness, desperation, and longing.

Like Orpheus, there are times in our lives when we are unprepared for what lies ahead, despite being called into action anyway.

But it’s up to us to react in a mature, appropriate, and responsible way. When we’re given a righteous path, we need to take it with full conviction.

And despite our feelings of despair or fear of failure, we must push on, following our destiny.

As Orpheus approached the gates of the underworld, he was a man determined.

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When the Best Response is Silence

By Dawson Yao ’24

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owards the end of my junior year, I caught wind of a story from one of the sophomores working under me in the journalism program. The story was about the sudden death of one of our school’s most beloved staff members: former cafeteria worker Steve “Hollywood” Walker, a man I had never met. There was no way for me to walk through his lunch line, excitedly high-fiving him on the way to my meal. There was no way for me to see first-hand his unparalleled dedication to the school that was his home. There was no way for me to be in his presence. Yet, through people who knew him, I was determined to try to do so anyway.

To say that what followed was an emotional rollercoaster would be an understatement. Though I acted merely as a reporter in a scene of remembrance, I nevertheless felt as though I myself was mourning. My first interviewee for the story was Mr. Ron Turner, Sr., a hard-nosed former football coach whose rough exterior has withstood the test of time. Rarely smiling, his facial structure rested in what I perceived to be a “mean-mug” expression. As the interview date drew near, I grew increasingly nervous at the task ahead. I was afraid that he would question my right to write about his dear friend, a man I had never even known in the first place. What if he pushes back? What if he refuses? What if he doesn’t speak to me?

As I posed my first question, the same thoughts from a week of anticipation flashed through my mind

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in a whirlwind. When the last word left my mouth, I sat nervously in my seat. A long pause, and I began to crumble. But as his words flowed in response to my questions, I caught a glimpse of the true Ron Turner.

With every word he spoke, fresh cracks lined his rough, armored exterior. Inside a battle-tested shell of grit was a man: a man who was simply broken by the death of Hollywood: a coworker, a mentor, and ultimately, a friend.

As the interview progressed, my confidence grew.

My questions probed deeper and deeper as I dug at the aspects of their relationship that made it special. The interview turned into a conversation. His posture also relaxed, and before I knew it, he was opening up about stories that he might not have told to anyone anywhere else. All the jokes they’d told, all the challenges they’d faced, and all the memories they’d shared came pouring out in what was a massive exhale for Turner. I learned of the great man Hollywood was from his day-to-day interactions with teachers and students to his unwavering dedication to the job he did best. A gentle six-foot-two man who barely knew how to sign his name, Hollywood took it upon himself to work, walking half a mile to school each day with a bad leg, taking care of his family, and even learning as an adult to read and write – essentially from scratch. Even when the pandemic struck, his chopwood-carry-water attitude never wavered but grew ever stronger.

Then, precisely an hour into the interview, I asked,

“What was it like, on the day he died?”

Once again, a pause set in. My nervousness came back, and I was left hoping and praying that he would answer my question. But before the panic crept in, his shell broke completely. His voice cracked, and he broke down. Finally, tears streamed down his cheeks.

It seemed that years of pent-up emotion finally broke down the floodgates. Through watery eyes and carefully chosen words, I learned of the day it happened, exactly as the events played out. But as I listened, one thought ran through my mind: What am I supposed to do when someone so resilient cries in front of me?

I’ve faced situations like this before. In the past, it’s always been the same: “What do I say?” or “Why does it always have to be so awkward?” Every time, from watching

“Waiting” | Leo Hughes ’27

friends mourn loved ones to watching family members break down at gravestones, I’ve sat idly by, unsure of what words to say or how to show empathy. But this time was different. This time, as I watched the man cry, I realized that repeating questions or offering my condolences wasn’t going to help. So, instead of inputting my thoughts, I let the man speak. I spoke no words, yet the conversation flowed freely. All I did was sit quietly and try to listen to the many memories of Hollywood he held so dearly in his heart.

When conversations become tear-filled, witnesses often have difficulty finding the right response. But, sometimes, the best response is silence. Sometimes, all mourners want is for someone to take in the moment with them and just listen to what they have to share.

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“The Ruler’s Vanity” | Luke Lemons ’25

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The Lotus and The Deer

By Aditya Shivaswamy ’24

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live had not actually seen the remains of the village, was preparing to make his way out when Clive stopped but he found it unimportant to truly report the him. Clive, barking, ordered: “Ask the cook to prepare the “facts” of the occasion to the Lieutenant-Governor. The barasingha I brought in yesterday.” With no indication of administrator whom he had sent to actually check on the demurring, the servant scurried out of the door and into fatalities had fallen deathly ill upon the visit to Saugor, the servant’s quarters. Clive sighed and reclined in his sending only a brief letter to Clive detailing his “utter chair. disgust and unwillingness given the proposition of sifting As the wooden chair creaked under the strain of the through the piles of bony rib cages and legs fed upon by administrator’s weight, the tightly woven jute padding that the vultures.” Clive knew that the young administrator had served as its backrest snapped, dumping Clive backward never been cut out to do his job, as that administrator, onto the dusty ground. He lifted himself off the ground, soon to be shipped back to the mother country, had peeling off a little of his hand’s epidermis on a rusty nail the blood of the lazy Irish flowing through his veins, lazily hammered into the wooden floorboards. Grasping courtesy of the man’s miscegenating mother. Thus, Clive the mangled chair in both his hands, his blood dripping gave a solid estimate of down and soaking into the three hundred or so dead jute, grunting in pure rage, Clive signed the letter, tucked it into the ragheads in his report Clive threw it across the to Sir Wellesley, as well room. As the shoddily made ivory white envelope, and, grasping the as a recommendation of furniture crashed into the wax stamp, sealed the envelope. dismissal for Administrator corner, Clive bellowed, to no O’Brien. Clive knew that one in particular, for both Lieutenant-Governor Wellesley did not necessarily care a bandage and a person to clean up the mess. Moments either, as both were well-educated Oxford men, learned later, a few servants jostled into the doorframe to gain in the ideals of Malthus and his “Essay on the Principle favor from their sahib. After throwing the thronging of Population” -- it was only nature that the famine was group out of the room, Clive bandaged the nick on his to hit the overpopulated and primitive villages of the hand, then sighed and rested on the couch near the desk, North-Western Provinces. As Sir Wellesley, a far more stomach grumbling. He quickly fell asleep.

Christian man than Clive, liked to say: “If God wills it, When the bloodhounds had exhausted themselves, who shall disturb it?” Clive signed the letter, tucked it into the shikari beckoned Clive and his hunting retinue, the the ivory white envelope, and, grasping the wax stamp, most physically fit of the servants, to follow him. The sealed it. Looking up from his wooden desk, he rang for a evening under the canopies of the forest was restless. servant. An old, plump brown man, a turban on his head, The dry ground was cracked, delirious beetles and ants rushed in and bowed. He meekly took the envelope and crawling out of the parched earth, seeking wildly for

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some moisture. The normally inviting sounds of rhesus essentially administrating the land while the soft desk-job macaque hoots and bird calls were absent -- in their place, men had fled back to England. He thought the work suited an odd, syncopated rhythm of col legno buzzing insects him. compounded with dry, rustling leaves from the hot wind Soon the party, led by their dogs, reached a clearing and the incessant, primordial hum of the forest. Clive that showed a small, rain-blackened, ancient temple on tilted his head and drank from the flask of water, sloshing top of a weed-strewn, grass-covered knoll. The stone it about in his mouth and then spitting it out onto the structure featured statues of various syncretic gods -- a ground. The heavy, parched air seemed to suck every bit large relief sculpture of some tribal god with a deer’s head of moisture out of his mouth. The dirt greedily reclaimed stepping on and crushing a homunculus-like dwarf was it -- a worm, seemingly waking out of some dehydrationflanked by multiple indentations of a carved bodhisattva. induced stupor, broached the surface, hoping for an Clive felt uneasy. Something felt familiar about this place. indication of precipitation or moisture, then retreated into As he scanned the surrounding landscape -- the temple’s its subterranean home. Clive cleared his throat and moved crumbling carvings, the drying grass, the inexplicably on, stepping on a massive beetle on the forest floor. The full temple tank of brown, muddy water covered in bright men behind him sidestepped the insect, dark, maroonpink lotuses and their deep green lily pads, the skeletal black blood oozing out of trees in the thicket -- from the crevasses of its cracked a cavernous niche of his exoskeleton, its knobby legs He wasn’t unfamiliar with this land of, as he memory, Clive tried to isolated from the rest of its retrieve an image that saw it, wild animals and animalistic men. body, buried in the granular resembled what he was soil. As soon as the blood seeing with his own eyes, reached the dirt, matting spelunking deeper and it into a wet, muddy muck, smaller beetles, antennae deeper until everything he thought of was dark and barely moving about, broadcasting pheromones into the aether, outlined at all. There was something missing. hobbled towards the body, a chalice of bubbling wine, Just as Clive was musing on his remembrances of clambering over each other to get a taste. Using a fallen things past, a bloodhound went berserk, freeing itself tree, Clive angrily scraped off the eviscerated guts that from the leash of the shikari by ripping off the collar on had splattered over the bottom of his black hunting boots, its neck along with a sizable amount of flesh from its own muttering some obscenities directed toward the dratted nape. It bounded towards the temple tank, its movements animals that infested both the forest and, increasingly, erratic and frenzied. Clive, unfazed, followed, gun leveled the dak bungalow in which he had been living ever since to shoot the apparently rabid mongrel. (Truthfully, Clive his transition from a commander of the Bengal Army to was a bit disappointed, as this dog was a pure-breed bureaucrat. He wasn’t unfamiliar with this land of, as he English bloodhound, and he hated to get rid of the thing). saw it, wild animals and animalistic men. He had been But the zigzagging of the dog didn’t make for good stationed here, in the Upper Doab, during the Mutiny, shooting on Clive’s part. Cursing, he followed.

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“Wild One” | Mason Bosco ’26

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Clive watched in disbelief as the dog struggled against the water, its desperate cries echoing through the clearing.

The crazed dog leaped into the temple’s stagnant pool, disturbing the serene surface of flowers and murky water as it thrashed about. The water churned violently, flowers and lily pads scattered in all directions, leaving a trail of chaos in their wake. Clive watched in disbelief as the dog struggled against the water, its desperate cries echoing through the clearing, not because of the yelps of the dying dog but because of what lay right beside it. A massive golden barasingha drank from the tank, lapping up the water, which was muddy, an earthy, almost brownish-red, as though the iron content of the soil had seeped into the water. As he leveled his gun to shoot, he noticed the ripples from the deer drinking from the tank bouncing off something in the center of the body of water.

Then he noticed the tendrils and roots of the aqueous flowers, which stretched out radially from a central nexus.

He followed those until he saw the organism.

Floating amidst the disturbed waters was the limp form of what seemed to be a young boy, his lifeless body adorned with flowers, a sole crimson lotus protruding from his mouth. Its roots flowed through his bloated, almost milkily transparent body like nerves, erupting from his head into the stalk of the crimson lotus. Clive pulled the trigger in reflex shock.

The majestic barasingha bellowed in panic and pain, its antlers catching the sunlight as it attempted to flee, blood freely flowing from its rear. The wounded deer limped and dragged its body under a nearby copse of trees, where it expired in what seemed to be a field of white minerals like apatite. Clive recognized the tree.

He recognized the nooses hung from the branches like sinister ornaments, the branches from which strange fruit had been plucked. He had been here only four years

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before. Clive smiled grimly as he looked more closely at the minerals beneath the tree. Dried bones lay underneath the ropes. He chuckled. He fired one more shot into the moaning deer, then traipsed over to the trees to retrieve tomorrow’s lunch, whistling to his retinue, which hung back behind him. They didn’t move. Their faces were set in unmovable catatonia. They didn’t want to go near the killing fields where the bodies of their cousins and sisters and uncles lay, their bodies torn apart and deposited such that they would suffer eternally, never receiving funeral rites to put them at rest. They remembered Clive, a commander in the Bengal Army, torturing and killing those who had mutinied, killing their sons, killing their families, leaving the women for his men. Clive whistled again, shooting his rifle into the sky. The shikari slapped a few of Clive’s men in the face, ordering them to follow him and bag the result of the day’s hunt.

The party left, but Clive stood in the temple clearing, confused. He did not remember there having been a temple here. He remembered marching those who had found refuge in the forest (officially still rebelling against the Company) to this clearing. But the temple hadn’t been there, had it? Clive shrugged, making his way back to the group that wound its way back to the bungalow.

Clive woke up. He didn’t understand why he was reliving yesterday’s odd happenings in his dreams. He wasn’t particularly scared; they were just replaying in his mind, again and again. The servants called out to him, reminding him of the meal awaiting him. He went into the dining room, where he was served a wonderful venison and a fine wine from Bordeaux. He feasted.

Once done with his meal, Clive told his servants to tell the driver that he was going to depart for Saugor. The

19 “Elephants” | Arnav Lahoti ’24

20 “Hands” | Akul Mittal ’25

The walls were adorned with gruesome depictions of torture and suffering, each image more horrifying than the last. damned fool administrator had not finished his job, so he needed to at least check up on the place himself.

Upon reaching Saugor, Clive was greeted by the rancid smell of rotting flesh. The famine had clutched Saugor by the neck and throttled it. Vultures circled overhead, their sharp cries piercing the air as they feasted on the remains of the dead. One carrion-eater stood over the small body of a child that seemed to be naught but a ribcage, two sticks for legs, and a face on which the vulture was busy feasting, plucking out his eyeballs to get at the aqueous humor. The birds of prey are thirsty too, Clive thought. He walked amongst the devastation until his heart nearly stopped in shock.

Standing in the town square was the temple. There was no mistaking it; it was the same rain-blackened, stone temple that he had seen in the clearing near the killing field. Not the same architecture, not similar designs. The same one. The deer-headed god crushed the homunculus.

Clive clambered up the temple steps in his boots and kicked open the sanctum sanctorum.

Entering the shrine, Clive was met with horror.

The walls were adorned with gruesome depictions of torture and suffering, each image more horrifying than the last. Red men with cannons and muskets and knives, and it was him on these walls -- he knew it -- he needed to get out, he needed to leave -- it had finally come to him. In the place of the idol was a deer-headed god, its eyes blazing, neck strung with faces that kept changing.

Brown men and women and children that he recognized somehow were projected in some slideshow of torture.

Their faces were like Greek masks of tragedy, bent in awful

proportions in pain and suffering. Clive rushed from the sanctum sanctorum, this nightmare realm that seemed to have ensnared him. But as he turned to run, Clive found himself in a dark, dank compound seemingly underneath the ground, unable to break free from the suffocating grip of his own fear. He struggled against unseen forces, his pleas for release falling on deaf ears.

He rushed into a small, enclosed room. He looked around, but saw nothing but dark walls around him; he looked up at the ceiling, and he could swear that he could see through it. It was through the hard wood floor of his bungalow. He had somehow come back home.

He rejoiced, trying to climb out of the pit he was in. But then he saw himself. He saw Clive pacing back and forth above him in the bungalow. Clive screamed, begging himself above him to set him free, to release him from this nightmarish prison. Clive paid no notice. Clive flung a chair against the wall. Clive heard the splinters from above. Clive wailed. Clive bled. Clive saw his blood dripping down into the floorboards onto him. Clive felt his own blood dripping onto his face.

Clive was thirsty, his throat parched, suffocating in the pit. He welcomed the cool blood into his mouth.

But the tendrils plunged into his body, rooting him to the ground. Clive felt every bit of it.

He felt the roots envelop his spinal cord, making him unable to move. He felt the stalk of the flower climb up the esophagus. He felt the lotus bloom. He saw the deer around him eating the vegetation around him. He saw himself getting called from above to feast on his barasingha. He felt it all, until he could no longer feel.

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Just a Tree

By Christian Neisler ’24

In the shimmering dust, a band Of infrared light was the only clue from afar of the fuse Between the yellow and orange dwarf stars. The stellar tree Connecting the Alpha Centauri star system sort Of collapsed as Rigil Kentaurus and Toliman became one.

Reverberating through the interstellar medium, the shockwave made a run Past solemn echoes of a star’s death, a run Into the icy Oort cloud filled with planetesimals which banded Together under the influence of gravity, passing not one Neighboring star without dumping ionized gases that would fuse And release coronal mass ejections, the sort Of bursts of magnetic field that disrupt entire trees Of life. Sol’s geomagnetic storm assaulted Earth’s biosphere, no tree Left untouched by the deluge of radiation which decided to run Rampant among carbon-based life. An attempt to sort Through the surviving satellite data revealed a band Of intensely affected trees in the Amazon which could fuse Together into a constantly growing superorganism, one Massive, thirsty, tangled knot of roots that one Might confuse for an underground ball of hardened spaghetti. Tree After tree joined together, igniting the fuse Of a hyper accelerated evolutionary process run By a mutated allele. Their faulty DNA lacked the bicolored band That keeps plants from uniting roots with trees of other sorts.

The conglomeration of organic matter consumed every sort Of particle from the air, scrubbing the air clean one Pollutant at a time. Slowly, the atmospheric band Of smog began to clear as the mutant tree Species replaced impurities with diatomic oxygen; continuing to run, This highly efficient purification process fused Undesirable compounds and buried them underground, lighting the fuse For a climate solution. The problem scientists had tried to sort Out for years had been trivialized by a stellar explosion run Rampant. By some adventitious circumstance, one Distant supernova had created an alien on Earth: a tree Symbiotic with all plant species. Forming a band

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Of foliage that could fuse together, the anomaly eliminated the band Of contaminants caused by industry run awry. The one World capable of sustaining any sort of life was saved: saved by a tree.

“Dale” | Hudson Brown ’24

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“Gilaeman, Self-Proclaimed Demon of the Harvest” | Aidan Moran ’25

Xenoform

By Ethan Bosita ’24 Randall’s crumpled form lay sobbing on the ground, his muscles and ironclad Physical fortitude blindsided by the Xenoform’s mental assaults. Like a sneak Infiltrating a citadel through an unguarded sewer, its brainwaves subverted Randall’s logic, Tearing apart his patterns of thought and destroying his perception of reality. Besieged By an incomprehensibly ancient force, the man retreated from reality, flying Away into his own headspace, supposedly protected from the meddling of cosmic Beings. The Xenoform looked upon the prone man, the prey it had subdued. Life-giving cosmic Evolution seemed to have failed this creature. It had in its possession no ironclad Carapace to protect itself with, no ability to cast projectiles and down flying Prey, and no innate abilities to ambush, exhaust, pursue, or sneak.

And yet this horror survived the gauntlet of life. Its ancestors assailed and besieged By all manner of natural predators, somehow the bloodline survived. Logic Dictates that these defenseless creatures should have passed into extinction. Poetically, abusing logic Proved their saving grace. In all the universe’s myriad corners, beings operate upon cosmic Constants, aspects of reality that are constant, sacrosanct, and inviolable. And yet minds are besieged In perpetuity by logical inconsistencies, surviving solely through ignorance and ironclad Fortresses of obstinacy. Through evolution’s flukes, Xenoforms gained abilities to remotely sneak Into brains and lower their defenses, essentially short-circuiting sanity. “Natural” adaptations like flying seem weak and useless compared to this natural superweapon; “Good luck flying away when your very brain bows to my command,” the Xenoform seems to taunt. Human logic has no home in the aliens’ realm of madness. Insanity must counter insanity. Xenoforms sneak into humans through logical gaps; without logic, they lose access to the mind. Exposed to cosmic rays at a young age, Tim had never been a stable person. Sealed into an ironclad straitjacket and dumped into a deep space mental asylum, the man had developed a besieged mentality, believing literally everything was after him. Most avoided the besieged man, fearful of his instability and proclivity to go flying into a psychotic episode at the slightest provocation. And yet, as the ironclad asylum found itself under attack by a creature that preyed upon logic, the survivors found that the only man with a chance to destroy this cosmic horror was Tim. Approaching Tim’s cell, these desperate few sneak past the resting Xenoform; entrusting one among themselves to free Tim, the chosen sneak infiltrates the cell and frees the insane man from his shackles. Quickly besieged

by Xenoforms alerted by Tim’s shouts and screams, Tim felt their cosmic waves washing over his mind, but he had no reaction. Roaring and flying at them with his bare hands, Tim tore into the swarm of aliens. Their overemphasis on logic and subverting minds left them vulnerable to a threat with no logic, no mind to subvert. An ironclad defense against their evolutionary path, one of a few things that sneak Underneath their otherwise invincible cosmic assaults.

The Xenoforms all perished to Tim’s assault, their physical forms falling as dictated by logic.

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“Mr. LaBrodeur” | Leo Hughes ’27

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Mondays

By Charlie Hill ’24

R

usty Kraken was not in a good mood. It was Monday again. After a weekend of neglecting his responsibilities, he had to go back to work. After a year of working the same job, Rusty was tired of it. He was still young, having just turned twenty-three, and he wanted a fresh start somewhere new. Unfortunately, his dreams would have to wait until tomorrow as his boss was expecting him. After throwing on a worn-down gray hoodie, Rusty grabbed his backpack from the floor and exited his small apartment in upper Manhattan.

He trudged down the steps of his decrepit building and walked to the subway station a block away. As he waited for the train to arrive, he looked around at his fellow commuters. Men and women with zombie-like expressions attempted to prepare themselves for another week of work.

Finally, the train arrived, and Rusty was able to grab a seat for his ride to work. As much as he wanted to put his headphones in and take a quick nap, he didn’t trust the other passengers to ensure the safety of his belongings.

When the conductor announced that Rusty’s stop in the Upper East Side was approaching, he got up from his seat and edged closer to the door. He was running late.

The doors finally opened, and Rusty hustled up the stairs and out onto the street. He ran the last block to the office and burst through his door right as the clock struck nine o’clock. He was supposed to be there at eight. Rusty was

struck by an unpleasant scent: The strong odor of cigar smoke permeated the office. His boss, Mr. Michaels, was seated in a large leather chair, reading that day’s newspaper. He looked up from his oversized desk.

“You’re late again.”

“I know I’m sorry, I overslept my alarm. It won’t happen again, “ Rusty said.

“I don’t care about your excuses, Rusty. I’m tired of the tardiness. Here is your shopping list for the day. Get it done.” Mr. Michaels glared at Rusty and pointed at the door before reopening the newspaper he had been reading.

Rusty, flustered, picked up the list on the desk and walked out. He glanced down at it, and his eyes widened. He would need to go to Lower Manhattan to get everything from the list. He exited the building and walked back towards the subway. Rusty hoped he could get through at least half of the list by noon so he could get a nice lunch. By the time Rusty arrived in Lower Manhattan, it was a quarter until ten. He got started right away. Before he even got off the train, he began to scan the crowd. After a moment of searching, he noticed a man, no older than thirty, in a custom suit. He had a leather briefcase with gold latches and a Rolex poking out from the cuff of his shirt. Fortunately for Rusty, the man appeared to be preoccupied with the music playing from his headphones.

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The look of rage and the surprising strength in the man’s grip convinced Rusty to cut his losses.

Rusty attempted to approach the man from behind until he was only a step behind him. As the man exited the station, Rusty brushed up against him, mumbled an apology, and kept walking, though much faster than before. A moment later, Rusty felt a hand on his shoulder.

He immediately broke into a sprint, but the hand was able to grab hold of his backpack and yank him back.

“Where the hell is my watch?” said the man. The look of rage and the surprising strength in the man’s grip convinced Rusty to cut his losses. He reached into his pocket and tossed a Rolex watch at the man’s face before sprinting off into the crowd of people on the street.

Rusty did not have much more success with unsuspecting commuters that morning. He had spent the entire time patrolling the streets of the financial district, and his only successful theft had been the wallet of an old man who was too slow to chase him down. It contained a credit card, a ten-dollar bill, and a bus ticket to Florida.

Not a great haul. Rusty pocketed the ticket and the cash, but the credit card would have to go to Mr. Michaels. All the other rich businessmen around were too protective of their belongings or Rusty just lacked the skill to steal from them.

Soon it was time for lunch, and the ten-dollar bill from the old man’s wallet wouldn’t cover anything more than a sandwich and coke. Mr. Michaels’ shopping list included three Rolex watches and ten credit cards by five o’clock that day. Rusty had a lot of work to do in the afternoon.

Despite his best efforts, Rusty didn’t fare much better. He got one credit card from a woman who was screaming on a phone, but other than that, he struck out

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completely. Rusty got back on the metro and headed back to Mr. Michaels’ office. When he arrived at the office, Mr. Michaels’ was still sitting behind the same desk with the same look of annoyance on his face.

“What’s the haul?” he said.

“Well, I didn’t quite get everything that you asked for, but I still got some good stuff,” said Rusty. He gingerly placed the two wallets he had stolen on the desk.

“Are you joking?” Mr. Michaels grumbled. “I gave you a very simple list. If this is all you are going to bring back, we are going to have some problems.” Rusty attempted to mumble an apology, but Mr. Michaels cut him off. “I have a job for you. Tonight. This is your last chance. You better not fail me again. All the information is right here.

I will meet you at eight tomorrow morning.” He slammed a folder on the desk and gestured at Rusty to pick it up.

Rusty grabbed it and left without waiting for a dismissal.

Rusty opened the folder once he arrived at his apartment. The target didn’t seem too difficult at first as he was supposed to break into a nearby convenience store.

Upon closer inspection, Rusty realized the target was not the cash register but rather a safe. The safe was in the back room; he was supposed to break into the store and crack it. The only problem was that Rusty didn’t know how to pick a lock. Rusty also didn’t know how to crack a safe. He wasn’t very good at his job. After trying to think of a solution, Rusty went to the hardware store and bought a blowtorch and a crowbar. Hopefully, that would do the trick.

At midnight, Rusty gathered his things and headed towards the convenience store. When he arrived, most of the lights were off inside, and the “closed” sign had

“The Streets” | Akul Mittal ’25

XX 29

“Inner City” | Drew Wallace ’26

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been put up. Not only that, but the bars on the doors and “You’re late,” Mr. Michaels said. “All of it had better be windows would make his crowbar useless for breaking there.” Rusty placed the backpack on the table and opened inside. Frustrated, Rusty sat down on the front step and it. He pulled the cash out and handed it to Mr. Michaels. leaned back against the door. His head banged against “Is this all of it?” Mr. Michaels asked. the floor. The door was unlocked, and it had swung right “Yup, way more than I expected. Really easy job, too,” open. Rusty, confused, stood up and walked inside.

Rusty said.

After surveying the store, it appeared that he may “Do you think this is funny? Where is the rest of it? not have been the only visitor that night. A display of Where is my damned money?” sunglasses had been knocked over, and the doors to the “That was everything that was in the safe, I swear.” coolers were wide open. Flustered, Rusty decided to Rusty exclaimed. “I think someone might have taken some continue with the break-in. He walked towards a door in of it before I got there, but-” the back that looked like it might be the back office. He Mr. Michaels didn’t wait for him to finish. He pressed looked inside and found a small desk, a lamp, and some a button on the phone resting on his desk. “Roger, bring metal cabinets. On top of those cabinets sat a rusty safe. me my briefcase, please,” Mr. Michaels growled. Rusty Upon closer inspection, Rusty realized that the door to knew that wasn’t a good sign. He had to do something. the safe had been cracked When Roger opened the open. Rusty couldn’t believe door, Rusty made a run for it.

Rusty dug around in his pockets, but he He slid around Roger and flew his luck. He lifted the safe off the cabinet and placed it had forgotten his wallet in the rush to out the front door. He kept on the desk. Inside, he found sprinting once he made it to leave that morning. several thick rolls of cash. It the street. He heard a loud pop looked like several thousand behind him. And then another. dollars. Rusty quickly stuffed Rusty didn’t dare look back, but the money inside his backpack. He put the safe back on kept running for what felt like hours until he approached the counter and walked out of the store. Worried about a bus stop. He jumped onboard just as the doors were the wads of cash in his backpack, Rusty hustled back to his closing. apartment and locked the door behind him. He decided “Ticket, please,” the driver said. he should get some sleep before meeting Mr. Michaels in Rusty dug around in his pockets, but he had forgotten the morning. his wallet in the rush to leave that morning. He felt a piece At the sound of a car honking outside, Rusty woke up of paper and pulled out a white slip. It was the bus ticket and rolled over to look at his alarm clock. It was fifteen to Florida he had stolen from the old man yesterday. As minutes until eight. Rusty threw on the same clothes from the doors closed behind him, Rusty breathed a sigh of yesterday and sprinted to the subway station, hoping that relief. He handed the ticket to the driver, who took a short by some miracle he could make it by eight. look before handing it back to him. Rusty took a seat in When Rusty arrived, he burst through the door of the the back of the bus and settled in for a long ride. office and exclaimed, “I have your money!”

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The NPC is the Future: A Matter of Values

By Amogh Naganand ’24

P

ulled in by the lures of our generation, he wastes his Our society is weak. As time has progressed, and the days in bed addicted to scrolling from post to post. majority of people have gained rights, we have learned to His textbooks are open, yet not a single page is marked. take for granted the privileges that our country provides.

He finds himself struggling to even move his legs out of Constantly chasing pleasure, we have come to believe his perfectly formed Tempur-pedic mattress. The more he that the purpose of life is to be happy. I beg to differ. waits, the louder the screams of his mother become. “Get What does happiness do for people other than yourself? up, you lazy bones,” she cries. Finally, he conforms to her Nothing. If our goals are only for the sake of happiness, wishes. But after no more than thirty minutes of working, any setbacks in our life become painful, but if our goal he finds himself sinking right back into that Tempuris to be useful, not only are setbacks easier to overcome, pedic mattress. This is my reality, and the same holds true but happiness also becomes a reward to ourselves and for many across our nation. We can tell ourselves that those we help. And to maximize this usefulness, we must we aren’t lazy, just stressed, and that wasting our time approach life as an NPC. Unless you are Patrick Star and is a coping mechanism. But have been living under a rock, the truth is that we’re weak, you likely know something weak mentally. The comforts Having an NPC mindset where we focus or other about video of our modernized world solely on our duties allows us to be the games. An NPC, or nonhave affected the way we playable character, is a prebest versions of ourselves. think, instilling poor values programmed character in a in our future generations. To video game that accomplishes continue to develop positively task after task repeatedly. as a society, we need to understand that our individual While calling someone an NPC is generally viewed as an happiness means nothing, as it does not contribute to insult, I propose that having an NPC mindset where we society, only ourselves. Just as our ancestors have had to focus solely on our duties, allows us to be the best version work and work and work, not for their enjoyment, but to of ourselves, as we become primarily focused on our support those around them, we, in a privileged nation, usefulness rather than our happiness. Only when we stop must learn the same discipline they had, and I believe that prioritizing ourselves, and start prioritizing the world we an NPC mindset is the way to do so. live in, will we gain the strength we need to move forward

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33 “Alone” | Drew Wallace ’26

“Airborne” | Reed Sussman ’24

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as a society.

You may be asking why, if society evolved over Instead of instilling beliefs that would contribute thousands of years to give us rights and freedoms, am to a prouder work ethic, we have brainwashed the I now saying not to take advantage of these rights? The future of our country with superficial values. Every time answer is, I’m not. It is completely valid to practice our we like a post of someone applying heaps of makeup, freedoms, but I am proposing that individualism is a wearing exposing clothing, or dancing inappropriately, plague on those rights and the further progression of we validate the idea that these are meaningful qualities. society. Simply put, we can’t abuse what we have. The It is because of these failures that we have teenage reason we have these rights is because of our parents’ girls advertising their body count and guys applauding work and their parents’ work, and so on. Similarly, we too their “achievements.” Life is not about enjoyment; it is must think about the future of our country and our world about hard work, and it seems that only those who have before ourselves because otherwise, we risk losing the struggled really understand rights we so take for granted this. Looking at countries like and, moreover, the progress When we become just another fragment that has been made. Our Singapore, we can see that strict governance has led to actions have consequences, of history, nobody is going to care a better society with a highly not only for us, but also for for a lone individual. developed infrastructure our future generations, so it is and leading education. of the utmost importance to Contrastingly, the United States leads the world in obesity, value the greater good above our own satisfaction. incarcerations, and teen pregnancies, not exactly what I We must strive for discipline and to develop a strong would consider an advancing society, and they are all a work ethic. Our country specifically seems to struggle result of our tainted values. to gain these traits, while our foreign counterparts have You don’t matter, at least not individually. You and begun to flourish due to their view on such values. Our I are just like aimless cockroaches wandering about in a rights have changed the way we view success, and they world much larger than we can even imagine. That is why have caused our society to pursue activities that don’t we call the individuals lost in war “casualties” or “collateral contribute to anything more than themselves. Taking on damage”: to try to minimize the effects of their deaths an NPC mindset allows us to be more efficient, which because as long as the war is won, they were worth it. in turn can allow us more meaningful uses of our time.

Similarly, it is the combined strength of a community that We should derive happiness from the completion of actually matters. When we become just another fragment meaningful work rather than through the validation of of history, nobody is going to care for a lone individual; our own superficial beliefs. Before rejecting this idea, take individuals will be obsolete, and people of the future will a look at yourself and ask yourself: what do I contribute? only care about us as a society and the impact we leave Only when we contribute to something larger than behind as a whole, which makes it imperative that we ourselves, can we truly say that we mattered. work towards something greater than ourselves.

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“Hawaii” | Akul Mittal ’25

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All Is Fair in Lies and War

By Justin Tong ’24

T

he meeting started with shouting and arguments.

From individual soldiers to captains, no one seemed to agree on what to do, but everyone had a solution.

Calls for order were met with more verbal assaults, and even the general struggled to draw the attention of all the soldiers. Nathan watched as the mayhem ensued around him.

“Time is of the essence.” As the captain strode forward, all eyes fell on him. The usually quiet yet firm leader suddenly was full of words. “We have to make a decision. Without action, we’re gonna get herded like sheep. So let’s just go forward and fight em head on.”

Shock and fear covered the faces of his soldiers, but the captain paid no mind. He left the meeting as quickly as he had made his presence known.

Nathan Bao had never enjoyed using his words.

Where he was from, the only words spoken were lies.

Everything he knew was a lie. From the restaurant owner who gave him “free” food only to suddenly ask for payment knowing that Nathan couldn’t afford to pay, to the schoolteacher who said, “If you study hard and get

good grades, you’re gonna become rich,” to the solemn officer who told him his parents would return, to the doctor who said his parents were just asleep. All of them told their lies with solemn faces, pitying the young boy, but no one tried to help. Empty statements rooted in lies continued to torment Nathan’s mind. Every day that his parents didn’t return, he grew more distrustful of the town that had wronged him.

Even though he loved his town, the scenery, the environment, the people and the lies enraged him. The town represented everything that had been taken away from him. The people he thought he could trust took his family and left him alone. He worked to earn money that never seemed to last and to leave the prison he was trapped in. The newfound seclusion within his home fueled him day by day. At the end of every day, when he returned home to the one-room shack on the edge of town, Nathan longed for the fairytale world he always saw in the books he read in the library or the “land of prosperity” he always heard about on the radio. So when the enlistment officer came knocking one day, Nathan saw

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it as a way out. The years of hard work along the edges of town had turned Nathan from a lanky child to a combatready man. The scars that riddled his face signified not only the battles behind him, but his preparedness for the wars ahead. Full of desire, Nathan dreamed of seeing the world and leaving the small town full of liars. He saw a future in the army filled with brothers and friends.

Years had passed since Nathan joined the army. He no longer was the lanky boy who had enlisted.

He’d flown up the ranks, sparked not only by his skill in combat, but by his brain and strategy. Nathan’s ability to spot weaknesses in even the strongest enemies paved the road for many victories. His genius, however, was limited by a lack of desire to speak and to lead. Hence, he was limited to the captain’s position, quietly supplementing the general with strategy and guidance.

When the civil war had begun, Nathan hadn’t really known what to make of it. The small town he had grown up in had flourished into a city, demanding more and more resources and power. The liars from the town had grown into businessmen and politicians, and they started to form a militia which left the national government in a difficult situation. While Nathan despised the people from his town, a small part of him still appreciated what the town had to offer. It was, after all, his hometown. It had provided him with harsh lessons about life. But when the militia began to terrorize nearby towns, the army was called into action The city’s militia began to grow rapidly, attracting people by the thousands as they flooded into the city, motivated by the lies and outrageous claims made by the politicians and leaders of the rebellion.

By the time the army arrived, it was the smaller force, and while their soldiers were more capable fighters, the disparity in numbers started to overwhelm it. Soon, the army was forced to retreat, and the general called a meeting.

Initially, Nathan’s words at the meeting only caused more mayhem. Countless new ideas spewed from the

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“Portfolio” | Nathan Meyer ’24

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The battle wasn’t easy. So many of the soldiers Nathan considered to be the strongest in the army were unable to adapt to the new, brutal fight. crowd. All the soldiers feared the possibility of death.

Nathan had recognized the army’s weaknesses; it wasn’t a lack of skill, but rather, a lack of desire. The same desire that Nathan had when entering the army, the soldiers lacked. The desire for revenge, for the future, for a better life, for success. As the meeting droned on into the night, and with no other reasonable solution available, the general chose Nathan’s plan.

The battle wasn’t easy. So many of the soldiers Nathan considered to be the strongest in the army were unable to adapt to the new brutal fight. Slowly but surely, the rebels were getting pushed back.

As Nathan pushed his own unit forward, straight into the heart of the opposing militia, he recognized many of his former neighbors. And with each shot from his rifle, he remembered the lies they had told him. “One day, when I get rich, I’ll pay you back.” “When you need help, call me. I promise I’ll be there for you.” “They’re just sleeping.” “They’ll be back.” The rage trapped within him unleashed in balls of fury around him. Blood flowed all around him, tainting the ground. The thoughts of his past torment, the ruined image of his hometown, all fueled him as he charged on the front lines with only one thought in his mind: “They must pay.” By the time Nathan had reached the back line of the rebels, his once-spotless coat had become soaked in red. But when he surged

forward toward the leader of the rebellious militia and looked at the leader’s face, he saw himself.

He saw the young boy who had been told by the schoolteacher that he would become rich one day if he studied hard. Nathan, convinced that his eyes were deceiving him, rubbed his eyes and looked again.

This time, he saw the scrawny kid who had been fooled by the lies all the police officers told him. Blinking again, Nathan then saw the young adult who had returned home to the small shack at night after a day at work struggling to make ends meet. Finally, with one last shake of the head, Nathan saw the true face of the leader. The wicked smile covering the face of the leader taunted the captain. It represented all the past struggles that still haunted him. The strategies that made Nathan a tactical genius who always avoided direct conflict.

He sought to avoid battles, and he had run from his largest battle: his past. In the eyes of others, the lies they told were mere fibs, used to comfort Nathan, not antagonize him. The lies had become weights on his shoulders, but now, standing before him, in the leader’s face, he saw the liars and the pain he endured. He recognized the sorrow each liar had: lying to a little boy who deserved the truth. The sorrow he would relieve each one of. So as he raised his bloody hands, aiming his rifle forward, he finally could say goodbye to the lies.

He sought to avoid battles, and he had run from his largest battle: his past.

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“Gunsmiths” | Nathan Meyer ’24

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42

On Normandy’s Beach

By Grayson Redmond ’24

The barge’s door creaks open and spits me Out of its jaws like Jonah from the Whale.

The shots ring out, but it’s too late to flee; I’ll take my place among the sand and shale.

War reverts all to their default setting.

The Brits curse, the Czechs drink, and the waves swell, Laden with bodies, leaving me fretting My death at the hands of some German shell.

Oh, lovely France! Why must you always frown?

Has the shrapnel torn a hole through your heart As it has mine? I’m here to claim my crown Of thorns: the wire tearing my flesh apart.

With nowhere to turn and nowhere to run, I’ll aim my rifle to shoot out the Sun.

“Firing Squad” | Nathan Meyer ’24

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Holden Browning ’24 Drawing and Painting Story by Teddy Fleiss ’25

D

rawn into the world of art from a young age, senior Holden Browning found inspiration in the creative lineage that surrounded him. With both his grandma and mom deeply interested and involved in art, Browning tagged along, learning a lot and finding his passion in the process.

“My grandma and mom are both into art,” Browning said. “From the time I was young, I always drew and painted with them. They let me tag along, and it was always super fun to be with them.”

Browning’s mediums and styles began simply, starting out with basic markers before he began delving into more complex paintings, a transition encouraged by the creative freedom and many mediums offered at St. Mark's, where Browning could explore new techniques.

“As a young kid, I started out drawing with just markers,” Browning said. “I then realized I liked it, and St. Mark's allowed me to explore other mediums I was interested in such as painting.”

When deciding on his next subject, Browning keeps a watchful eye for anything he sees that is interesting, no matter how unexpected it may seem.

“It’s pretty random,” Browning said. “A lot of times it's the hardest part for me; figuring out what I’m actually going to do. One time, I was watching the Mike Tyson series on Hulu and just decided to draw Mike Tyson.

Other times, we have set assignments or pieces that we have to complete.”

Browning also looks up to online artists who have succeeded in his mediums for inspiration and design elements.

“One guy I watch is called RobsonArtist, on Instagram,” Browning said. “His stuff is super interesting.”

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The culture of St. Mark’s art program allows Browning to excel, as he feels comfortable and excited to pursue art.

“Sophomore year was really fun because of all the people in the class,” Browning said. “Cooper Cole was in that class, and he made it really funny; I loved art that year.”

This camaraderie in the program allowed Browning to delve into deeper and more complex subjects.

“My favorite piece is probably the one I just did, on the native Americans,” Browning said.

Instead of concretely choosing what style to use, and sticking to that, Browning lets his medium decide.

“My style really depends on the medium,” Browning said. “For painting, I’m definitely more abstract because of the brushes. When I paint, it’s more expressive and fluid, but for drawing, I like to be more detailed.”

In one of his assignments, Browning was simply told to make a self portrait. However, he was able to inject a personal touch into his art.

“It was just an assignment to do a self-portrait with a palette knife,” Browning said. “Honestly, I like how it’s kind of blurry. Because it’s blurry, you don’t have to go into too much detail with anything. I don’t think people realize how hard it is to capture detail in paintings.”

Browning was able to develop his love for art at St. Mark’s, but is looking forward to following it in the future.

“I definitely see myself pursuing art in college,” Browning said. “And maybe as a side-gig later on, too.”

Photo by Akul Mittal ’25

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Holden Browning’s Best Works Art by Holden Browning ’24 Through Browning’s long and impressive career as an artist at St. Mark’s, he has experimented with many different color styles and mediums. These works showcase his versatility and outstanding ability as an artist, as they feature real-life subjects like Mike Tyson and Snoop Dogg in addition to more abstract concepts, such as his “Space Cowboy.”

“Iron Mike”

“Snoop”

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“The Cowboy”

“Space Cowboy”

“Thousand-Yard Stare”

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“Linear Perspective” Wyatt Melvin ’27

48 “MeeMaw’s” Riggs Bean ’26

“Lake Como” Oliver Perez ’26

“Autumn Afternoon” Amar Kakkar ’25

Drawing and Painting

“Duel of the Emperors” Carson Bosita ’25

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50

Wood & Metal

“Soft” Alex Soliz ’24

“Upliftment” Henry Hoak ’24

“Lounge Chair” Charlie Clark ’24

“White Rock Table” Bryan Graham ’24

“Tablestack” Charlie Hill ’24

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Art by Carson Bosita ’25

The Battle Exposed to the wrath of the Underworld, Orpheus was a man amongst gods. His plight was particularly painful because of the impossibility of his task: to go to the Underworld, retrieve his wife, and return.

With no other options, Orpheus turned to his true skill and passion: his lyre. He used his unique and masterful playing of the instrument to secure his and his wife’s freedom from hell.

Instead of folding in the face of adversity, Orpheus was resourceful and brilliant, using what he had and what he knew to win the day.

Orpheus teaches us here that when we are stuck in a tough situation, we must also keep our heads about us as we work towards our goal.

As Orpheus fought through the trials of the Underworld, he was a man triumphant.

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“Luxury” | Hudson Brown ’24

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The

Manor

By Miller Wendorf ’24

D

on’t think. Just run. Marcus heard the steady rhythm against a tree. As he got his breathing under control, he of his boots on the wet leaves, painfully striving listened for the dogs, the shouts. Nothing. I must’ve lost to increase the tempo. Faster. Branches of dead trees them, he thought. brushed across his cold, sweaty face. His skin stung where His breathing back to normal, Marcus wiped his eyes the wind-blown branches made small cuts, but that pain and looked around. I must’ve been running longer than I was nothing compared to that in his legs, which were thought. The rays of sun that managed to pierce through moving faster than they ever had in his life. Every muscle the ceiling of leaves continued to trickle down to the in his body screamed at him to stop, to turn back and forest floor like a soft spire of light, delicately illuminating surrender himself to the soldiers searching for him. I can’t, Marcus’ surroundings. All around, the shouts of soldiers, his mind screamed back. I’ve made my choice. There’s no the barking of dogs, and the distant booming of shells was going back now. replaced by the tranquil sounds of nature: leaves rustling, He’d been running birds chirping, flies buzzing. through the same muddy, He suddenly noticed withered, tree-ridden terrain something hanging from the Marcus kept running until he couldn’t that made up the war-torn trees. Wait; there’s no way perceive his surroundings anymore.

French countryside for what these could be… Apple trees! felt like hours. All he carried I’m in an orchard! Marcus with him was what he had on: couldn’t believe his luck. his British army uniform, complete with a patch that read: Beautiful, lush apple trees growing within a few hours’ run Corporal Marcus Lawrence. He knew he should have of the front. He excitedly grabbed an apple from a tree brought supplies, but his desertion was a spur-of-theand was moving to take a bite when he heard the crunch moment decision, not a premeditated affair. He honestly of leaves behind him. He turned around and dropped the didn’t care where he was going, so long as it was as far apple in surprise. away from the trenches as possible.

A woman had walked into view carrying a basket of Marcus kept running until he couldn’t perceive his apples. She wore a simple white gown and was extremely surroundings anymore. Until all he could feel was pain, all beautiful in the soft sunlight. Marcus hadn’t seen a he could see was the blood and sweat that stung his eyes, woman in months and was completely frozen by the sight and all he could hear was his own heavy breath. of someone so beautiful, so pure. He stared in awe as she Suddenly Marcus felt a great bludgeoning picked apples from a nearby tree and delicately placed force, and he realized he had tripped and fallen. Still them in her basket. hyperventilating, he clambered back to his feet and leaned She didn’t seem to notice Marcus. Who else will I

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A woman had walked into view carrying a basket of apples. She wore a simple white gown and was extremely beautiful in the soft sunlight. be able to get help from? he thought. She might be the only person I see for days. He cleared his throat and said, “Uh… excuse me, ma’am…” He could hardly get any words out, he was so enthralled.

She turned to face him and gave him a sweet smile.

Marcus was enchanted. Then, to Marcus’ surprise, she turned and started running away, letting out an angelic laugh.

Marcus snapped out of his trance. “Wait; who are you?” he called. When she kept running without response, Marcus began running to catch up with her.

For several minutes, he chased the woman through the forest, occasionally calling out to her but never getting a response. Marcus watched as she walked into a clearing up ahead and continued following her. When he reached the edge of the clearing, he couldn’t believe his eyes.

The forest parted to reveal a manor house. Not a modern manor house, but a medieval one, with gothic spires and hanging gargoyles. People wearing simple white robes like the one the woman wore performed various tasks around the manor, like tending to the gardens or cleaning the beautiful stained-glass windows. The woman he had followed was nowhere to be seen.

“Sir?” Marcus spun around to see a man in a chain mail shirt and hood, wielding a spear and a buckler.

Medieval soldiers’ wear. “Lord Ambrose requires your presence,” the guard said. “…Lord… Lord Ambrose?”

“Lord Ambrose. He requires your presence immediately. He doesn’t know you’re here, of course, but you’re not the first stranger to stumble upon his lands.

Follow me.” He stiffly turned away and began walking around the manor.

A lord runs this manor. This… medieval manor,

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Marcus thought as he followed the guard. This is unbelievable. It’s like this place just froze in time.

Behind the manor, an enormous banquet table was set with a feast containing various fruits, vegetables, and a giant pork roast. A host of men wearing medieval noble finery—several layers of linens and furs—quietly sat at the table. At the head of the table sat a middleaged, heavy-set, bearded man who wore a golden crown and a fine velvet cloak, who was dining while the others politely watched him, motionless. The lord eats first, Marcus thought. Standing behind the lord’s seat was a rather ghastly looking figure in patterned red and white garments with a bell-adorned hat resting atop his pale bald head. The lord’s fool. The fool made eye contact with Marcus, flashed a toothy smile, and made a cryptic gesture. Something about the fool unnerved him.

After a couple of minutes, the lord delicately removed a handkerchief from his shirt, dabbed his lips, and said in a low bass voice: “You may begin.” The other nobles launched into their meal.

It was then that the guard cleared his throat. “My lord.”

Lord Ambrose looked up from his food at Marcus and the guard. All of a sudden Marcus felt very silly in his army uniform amongst these people in medieval finery. Even the guard’s chain mail had a certain polished, distinguished quality that Marcus’ brown, mud-covered uniform lacked. I must look ridiculous to them, he thought; but Lord Ambrose seemed unfazed, even giving Marcus a small smile. “Another guest, eh?”

“Yes, my lord,” the guard said. “He came by just a few minutes ago.”

“Very good, Captain. You are dismissed.”

The guard bowed. “My lord,” he said, before marching

“Seeing Red” | Drew Wallace ’26

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back around to the front of the manor.

The woman seemed to be patting the ground. He In the fields beyond the manor house, he could see cautiously approached. that some of the peasants had broken for lunch—some “Excuse me; I think I’m lost,” Marcus said, but there alone, others with their families. was no response. Her hands continued working at the “This is… this is unbelievable,” Marcus exclaimed. ground. She’s planting another apple tree, he realized.

Lord Ambrose exchanged smiles with the other But what was that in the soil? It couldn’t be… “Wait, no… nobles at the table. “It’s a simple life.” no…”

“No, but… how is this possible?” Marcus struggled The woman stood up and stepped to the side, to articulate his thoughts. “How have you maintained revealing the tiny apple tree sprout. But the sprout was this… this existence”—he gestured vaguely to his not planted in soil, but in a mound of dead bodies crushed surroundings—”when all around you things are… well… into the earth, bloody limbs intertwined. so different?”

Marcus looked up and saw that the beautiful woman Lord Ambrose smiled again, and shared a look with was now staring directly at him. In her hands was one of the fool, who grinned again. What is it with that grin? the apples from her basket, with a bite taken out of it—but Something—everything—was wrong about it, but Marcus out of the apple flowed not juice, but blood. That same couldn’t tell why. blood caked her lips and teeth as Marcus stopped staring she let out a fiendish cackle. at the fool as Lord Ambrose Marcus collapsed to the All of a sudden, Marcus felt very spoke. “You’re called… Marcus ground. silly in his army uniform amongst Lawrence, yes?” he said, Agnus Dei. these people in medieval finery. squinting to see the name on his The syllables ran through uniform.

Marcus’ head.

Marcus nodded.

Agnus Dei. “Follow me, Mr. Lawrence. I have something to show Latin. He was thinking in Latin. you.” With big, regal strides, he started walking away “Agnus Dei.” from the feast towards the edge of the clearing. The other Wait, what? These thoughts didn’t seem right. nobles resumed polite conversation as Marcus jogged to “Agnus Dei. Agnus Dei.” catch up with Lord Ambrose.

Marcus suddenly realized the Latin wasn’t thoughts.

After a few minutes of walking, Lord Ambrose “Agnus Dei. Agnus Dei! Agnus Dei!” motioned for Marcus to stop and pointed directly ahead It was a chant. Being recited by hundreds of voices in of them. unison.

Marcus exclaimed: “How have you kept up an orchard The realization spurred Marcus to action, and he this beautiful—” He spun around. Lord Ambrose was opened his eyes. He found himself completely naked, tied gone. He was completely alone in the orchard with the to the edge of an enormous stone balcony on the manor woman, her back still turned to him. house. It was the dark of night, but moonlight illuminated

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59 “Formal Portrait” | Nathan Meyer ’24

Marcus noticed movement behind him and turned his head to see Lord Ambrose emerging onto the balcony, closely followed by his fool. a crowd of the white-clad peasants, so peaceful in their fields earlier, fanned out in a crowd below the balcony, excitedly banging their farming implements against the ground and chanting: “Agnus Dei! Agnus Dei! Agnus Dei!” The lamb of God. Marcus stared out at the crowd, speechless.

Marcus noticed movement behind him and turned his head to see Lord Ambrose emerging onto the balcony, closely followed by his fool. The fool was carrying a sharpened stone knife with engravings on the hilt. He looked at Marcus and flashed his unnatural smile again.

Amidst the chanting, Lord Ambrose walked up to the edge of the balcony where Marcus was tied and whispered in his ear, “You think yourself a learned man, do you not?”

Marcus nodded meekly.

“Every year, people like you learn more that was never meant to be learned. Meanwhile, we move further and further from God’s truth. We get further from Eden, from God’s holy place, every century.”

He placed his hand on Marcus’ bare shoulder. “You visitors sicken me. You all believe you have progressed, but you still sin, still fight in terrible wars. You distract yourself with new inventions that pull you ever away from as it was in the beginning.

“But we”—he gestured to the crowd of chanting peasants—“have found a way to overcome this. We have stopped the march of time. And thus, we are closer to God than anyone on earth. As I said, it is a simple life. A simple, holy life. But that life doesn’t come without a cost.”

Lord Ambrose took his hand off Marcus. “And now, you’ll do your part in maintaining our paradise. You’ll join the others in the orchard soon enough, of course. But for now, we must celebrate.” Lord Ambrose gave a nod to the fool.

The fool approached Marcus and deftly placed his knife on Marcus’ exposed wrist, before making a small cut. Marcus grunted in pain. Lord Ambrose 60

quickly grabbed Marcus’ wrist from the fool and placed his mouth on the cut. Marcus could feel him sucking the blood gushing from the wound. The peasants below gradually ceased their chanting, their faces brimming with anticipation.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Lord Ambrose let Marcus’ wrist drop. Turning his head to Lord Ambrose, he watched as the lord, just as he had done at the banquet table all that time ago, delicately took his handkerchief from his pocket, dabbed his bloodstained lips, and announced to the crowd in his low voice: “You may begin.”

In a flash, the fool swept the knife in a perfect arc along Marcus’ exposed chest, resulting in a gash running along his breast, perfectly uniform in depth. Overcome by the searing pain, Marcus screamed then, as blood poured from his chest and mouth in a steady dribble. To Marcus’ disbelief, the townsfolk surrounding the balcony leapt forward to get under the stream of blood. Red stains appeared on their white clothes as they desperately tried to catch Marcus’ blood in their hands, before lapping it up like messy toddlers.

Marcus laid his head down in exhaustion as the fool made another gash across his chest. This time he didn’t scream—he was too weak from the blinding pain.

No more was he a human; he was reduced to a mute, submissive animal.

The peasants continued gorging on his blood. More slashes came, but Marcus hardly noticed. All that was left of what he could perceive was numb pain and the incoherent sounds of the mob.

And then he perceived something else: a high-pitched scream coming from the sky. Finding a second wind of strength, Marcus strained his tired neck and looked up. The sound was familiar. Straining his eyes, Marcus noted a flash of steel glinting in the moonlight—and then a deafening explosion that lit up the night sky as the belltower on the other side of the manor house collapsed,

“Red Rose” | Hale Peterson ’25

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“Totality” | Preston Ghafar ’24 and Matthew Freeman ’25

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engulfed in smoke and flame.

Marcus’ blood, even as it ran out through their hollow A stray shell. Artillery from my battalion. A wave ribcages like drizzle trickling down a window shutter. of memories of the front flooded through him, a whole They didn’t even notice the shell. Just like they haven’t world that had left his mind. Memories of shells, masks, noticed the ruin of the past millennium, Marcus thought. bayonets, wire, of metal, chlorine, dirt, and mud.

And suddenly, despite his weakness, Marcus’ lips twisted Memories that were the reason he’d run in the first into a pitiful grin. He started laughing. It was a wretched, place but seemed insignificant compared to his present gurgling laugh owing to his lack of a tongue, but a laugh suffering. all the same.

Marcus blinked. He couldn’t believe his own eyes.

Lord Ambrose’s rotting face contorted. “Why is he Everything in the manor was different now. The apple laughing? Shut him up!” Another slash of the knife, this trees surrounding the clearing were dead, spindly stumps time on his temple. Blood ran into his eyes, and he could that bore no fruit. The manor was crumbling, ruined, feel consciousness receding. And yet he kept laughing. decayed. The damage the stray shell had inflicted on the They have no idea, he thought, as the next slash went belltower was insignificant compared to the ruin caused across his throat. In a thousand years, they still won’t by the gnawing sands of know. The last thing Marcus time. heard was the sound of his A spell had been own laughter. broken. Marcus now saw the Finding a second wind of strength, Marcus “Those are his, all right,” manor for what it truly was.

Private First-Class Adrian strained his tired neck and looked up.

And the people? Filled Bradley said as he kneeled with dread at what he would by a set of footprints. “Same see, Marcus lowered his boot size and all.” gaze to where the villagers were feasting on his blood.

“Good job, Soldier. We thought we’d lost him,” said Before him was a legion of animated corpses. They Sergeant Henderson from above him. were the same peasants that had formed the crowd Bradley looked up from the tracks to see Henderson moments before, no doubt; they remained gleefully anxiously looking at his watch. Next to him stood Private lapping up Marcus’ blood. But their simple white Richards, holding a leash connected to a bloodhound. gowns were now yellowed and deteriorated with age, Sergeant Henderson shook his head at his watch. “I haphazardly clinging to their rotting bodies. know that we only just now found his tracks, but there’s Lord Ambrose’ finery was worn with age: his cloak no way we’re finding Private Lawrence within the next was threadbare, and his golden crown had been rendered hour. We have to report back to base camp by nightfall— a dull pewter. Where his face had been, Marcus saw only captain’s orders.” He sighed and started back in the bones and rotting flesh, no different from the crowd below direction where they came. them. Only the fool remained unchanged, his pale features Bradley stood up and had started to follow him when the same as ever. The fool flashed his sickly grin, revealing he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. “Wait— long, sharp fangs caging a forked tongue. look!” he cried. Henderson and Richards spun around.

The peasants’ and Lord Ambrose’s behavior remained Ahead of them were three beautiful women in white unchanged. The legion of corpses continued to swallow gowns, picking apples.

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Thief

By Nathan Aldis ’26

In shadows, Robert emerged, a word thief, Skills and deviousness unmatched, He stole Words and sentences without a catch Through unguarded halls and silent courts, He pilfered letters it was his T R E A T. Line by line his thievery wouldn’t stop, And soon whole paragraphs were naught but Periods and Commas.

Always uncaught none knew the words To convict him. No rumors, no talk no news, And none sought. The perfect crime, Was now his. Trouble was without The chitchat, People found no Way to connect.

Not even Robert, King of Words.

Poor Robert, lonely, so sad. He Began to send letters of letters from His stash. Upon inspection he Realized to his horror someone Had stolen his words

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“Wise Monkey” | Akul Mittal ’25

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66 “Pagoda” | Akul Mittal ’25

The Crest

By Mitchell Galardi ’24 Ty wrestled himself out of the creamy Bog and with an ardent punch, Escaped the land. After this, a flower Emerged with a billowing smoke And a blue, icy dragon crest Adorning it. Ty, with a roll, Freed his whole body. Observing his rolls Of a fat was a figure sliding with a creamy Consistency. Ty grabbed his ancestral crest And summoning that ancestral power, punched The mysterious leviathan so powerfully, smoke Puffed from the creature’s vents. A flower Of pain came down on Ty. His spaceship’s flower Insignia was visible to him over the green rolls Of hills. He wanted to escape this world and smoke With his buddies back on Earth. Maybe enjoy a creamy Soda. But a fight with a serpent alien was a punch He’d rather pull. All he could do now was lift his crest And hope for the best. He needed motivation and his crest Gave him that. A reminder of his familial flower.

A reminder that he could overcome any obstacle with a punch.

A reminder that the efforts of his ancestors would not roll Away with time. A reminder that they fought against the creamy Aliens that Ty is currently facing. A reminder that smoke Is a symbol of holiness. Though he was bruised, the smoke Steaming from the serpent alien added a crest To the alien atmosphere that signified that the creamy Bog around him was a sacred area where his flowers Were protected. The serpent slithered and with a roll, Enveloped the brave Ty. The serpent writhed around, the punch From earlier aching it. The blood that spewed resembled punch Spilling off a table. The next sight was the smoke From the barrel as the roll Of Ty’s sidearm pistols crest The blood-stained icy-blue flower From the previous fight. The creamy Serpent, with a punch from Ty, crashed into the creamy Bog. The roll of the approaching spacecrafts, adorning his crest Meant that the smoke would clear, and Ty’s civilization would flower.

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“Jo Lupo Ponders the Sunset” | Aidan Moran ’25

America’s Team

By Tyler Tang ’24

Iron shackles bind our wrists for our sins.

Like Sisyphus, toiling up a great hill, With our dear Cowboys, many dreams are killed, Failures causing resentful emotion.

“Our year!”, screamed amid patience wearing thin As fans brave joy and heartbreak with strong will Through solid defense or offensive thrill, They reach East’s top two, standard position.

Playoffs arrive for America’s Team, So eager, bold. A lesser team, vanquished.

Round two: a better foe, to block the dream.

The fight, fierce; the silver helmets squeamish On seats and sidelines, running low on steam Before the Score shows sorrow and anguish.

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Two Years Gone By

By Michael Chang ’27

Spring Flowers bloom, rain falls; The laughter of children rings Out in the distance.

Summer The splash of water, Lemonade stands on sidewalks, The joys of the heat.

Autumn A cool breeze whistles By my ear; leaves dance in air.

Fall is here at last.

Winter The wind howls, snowflakes adrift amidst a great white Sea. The cold has come.

A New Beginning Ice melting, little Spots of color sprouting here And there: signs of life.

Halloween The neighborhood, now A masquerade ball, buckets Loaded with candy.

Thanksgiving There is much to be Grateful for - love, warmth, comfort, And of course, turkey.

Christmas Trees in the windows Of homes, quiet excitement; It’s a time of joy.

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“Orange” | Hudson Brown ’24

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“Trapped” | Reed Sussman ‘24

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The Story of My Life

By Sanjay Bohil ‘26

A

migo, are you ready for the best adventure of your life?” asked Juan Miranda, a sleazy-looking man dressed in a fake Gucci shirt, Air Jordans, and Versace sunglasses. His yellow teeth adorned with gold made him look like a con artist, but innocent fourteen-year-old Rafael was taken in by him. Rafael was desperate to buy what Juan was selling–the American dream.

“Hermano, how much?” asked Rafael earnestly.

“Only twelve thousand dollars, Amigo, and you don’t have to pay now. I will lend you the money, and you pay me back when you earn your hundreds of dollars in the land of the free and the home of the brave.”

Rafael was hesitant, and he wanted to consult with his father before giving his entire life’s savings to Juan.

“It is a sweet deal, Amigo. I only have one spot left, and so many people have already asked to reserve the spot. I will even introduce you to my friend who is looking for someone to start on a job immediately. Do not delay.

Just sign the papers, rápidamente,” urged Juan, and he handed Rafael the pen. Rafael signed the papers and held out his hand to seal the deal with Juan, who helped him hop into the truck.

“Cuidado! Peligro! Watch out! Danger!” The supervisor’s warning echoed through the opal mines like a war cry.

The supervisor stood on top of a hill and flailed his arms wildly over his head to grab the attention of the miners.

“Ay, Pedro, your son, Rafael is daydreaming again.

Warn him before he is killed,” shouted one of the miners, pointing to fourteen-year-old Rafael, who was pounding at the rocks with his headphones plugged into his ears.

The mine engineer commanded, “Sound the blasting horn! FIRE the dynamite!” BOOM, BOOM, BOOM! The colossal mountain shattered into little boulders that fell like raindrops over the mine. The miners held on to their hard hats and cowered behind a giant boulder in the distance.

The truck bounced along the unpaved dirt road, causing great discomfort to its passengers. Rafael tried to turn his head, but the hundreds of sweaty men around him had pinned him back to the wall of the truck. A wicked stench permeated the air, causing Rafael’s eyes to water. The heat was unbearable, and droplets of sweat drizzled down his body from his head down to his toes.

The putrid smell of the men’s breath was making his head spin. He quickly closed his eyes, for he feared that he might pass out.

“Rafael! We still have an hour’s drive back to Guadalajara. Vamos! Let’s go! We are going to miss the truck. Your mother is going to be mad if we are late for dinner again,” shouted Rafael’s father, Pedro.

“All right,” said Rafael as he dropped his sledgehammer and packed up for the day.

He climbed onto the back of the truck with his father and two dozen other miners. He immediately put on the headphones that his brother had sent him from America, and started humming along to his favorite song, “Story

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of My Life.” He looked over at Papá Pedro, who was also of Guadalajara of the pure joy they feel when they watch covered in rhyolite rock dust. His father looked weary and me play, can I? That would be a cardinal sin,” said Rafael as burdened as if he was condemned to hold up the heavens he winked playfully at his grandfather. and sky for eternity like Atlas, while Rafael’s youthful eyes His grandfather quickly hustled and scored a goal. still shone with hope.

He roared with laughter and said, “Rafi, this old man “Rafael, pay attention to your surroundings,” yelled still has it, doesn’t he? Distracted you, didn’t I?” Papá Pedro. “Hold onto the sides of the truck, or you are Suddenly the truck stopped, and everyone lurched going to fall over the edge.” forward. Rafael felt like an elephant was sitting on his Rafael nodded and held onto the side of the truck just chest as the men piled on top of him, squishing him like to please his Papá because he knew that the truck was so a pancake. Rafael was suffocating, and he was gasping jam packed that there was not an inch to move. for breath. Years of carrying massive boulders had Unbearably intense pressure in Rafael’s bladder strengthened him, and he shoved the pile of men who had woke him up from his stupor. The stark realization that collapsed on top of him with full force. The passengers he had to relieve himself in the truck pounded the immediately dawned on walls of the truck and him, and he was dangerously begged to be let out. The Rafael felt like an elephant was sitting on truck started back up again close to standing in a puddle his chest as the men piled on top of him, of his own waste. Across and meandered on. from Rafael stood a middleA young man squishing him like a pancake. aged man whose lips moved screamed out aloud, in silent prayer. Tears rolled “¡Jesús, mi Salvador, I’ll down his cheeks as he light a thousand candles if looked skywards. The man looked like he had taken a dip you deliver me from this hell to America!” in the Rio Grande, and his pathetic plight sent Rafael into Rafael let out a sardonic laugh because he had paid a a deep reverie about how he had ended up in this truck hefty sum, his savings, and his Papá Pedro’s life savings to from hell. journey in what this man just called hell! “¡Abuelo, estar alerta! Heads up!” Rafael warned, right “The mine is shutting down, and Rafael and I do not before he kicked the ball to his grandfather. have a job anymore, Carmen. I am very worried,” Papá They always played fútbol together on Sundays.

Pedro lamented to his wife of forty-seven years.

“Great kick, Rafi!” he exclaimed encouragingly.

“Don’t worry, Cariño. We have survived through Abuelo’s long flowing hair swayed from side to side as he challenging times before. We can ask Luis to send us hobbled after the ball. more money from America, and I can sell churros at the “Abuelo, you are too slow. Come on, old man. Show mercado again,” said Carmen. me your youthful spirit,” said Rafael as he goaded his “Luis is still paying off his debt, Carmen. I think I will grandfather and tempted him to score a goal in their go to Mexico City to find a job tomorrow,” Papá Pedro said makeshift goal post, which was marked by piles of bricks in a voice marked by despair and frustration. on four corners.

Rafael overheard his parents. A heavy sigh escaped “Rafi, when are you going to stop playing sports and him, and for the first time, Rafael realized that his carefree volunteer at the Church? I heard there is a pretty girl who days were over. just joined the youth volunteer group. Don’t you want to “Authorities in San Antonio were alerted to a meet her?” asked his grandfather as he dribbled the ball. horrendous scene on June 27. Sixty-four migrants from “Ha-ha! fútbol is my one and only love, Abuelo. No Mexico and Central America in a truck–many of them pretty girl can distract me,” replied Rafael. “Playing sports dead; some as young as fourteen years old!” announced is my gift to our community. I make people happy by the reporter of the evening news. displaying my killer skills! I cannot deprive the poor souls

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“Caves” | Nathan Meyer ‘24

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“Solemn” | Hudson Brown ’24

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Bonaparte

By Ethan Gao ’24

A nameless nobody, so innocent.

The children taunted him; his funny words And slang cried he was different. But different He’d be. A warrior so honored, birds Would sing his name. Befouled by mud and blood, The Little Corp’ral threw His Majesty out of France! Through frozen peaks and sands misjudged, His lightning and fire seemed fantasy.

Vive la révolution! But a wreath Of golden leaf he needed. Hand in coat And volleys of smoke, in his gloved palms breathed His Empire. But soon, the cold scythe would choke The emperor’s dream. After seven wars Victorious, he sits alone ashore.

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Fin

By Hayden Meyers ’24 Patrons sit and watch and clap with delight.

The story is told, seats are emptied, staff Files in hurriedly. Guests trudge to the night Toward the release of light, some with a laugh.

Screen fades to black: the tape starts to slow, Credits roll and curtains close leisurely.

Walls echo a tale that once did flow In a dim theatre, filled so meagerly.

How melancholic to watch the ending Of a film. The life and emotions of Characters; screentime swift, fleeting with a sting.

Projector like lightning, bright from above.

The house lights turn on; brightness marks the end.

White letters scroll across the screen reading: Fin

“Scene” | Nathan Meyer ’24

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“Lighting Emulation” | Jacob Lobdell ’25

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st

The of October

By Ashrit Manduva ’24 Upon the eve when twilight drops its veil, A night of magic weaves its tales so tight.

The shadows dance while ghostly figures sail With jack-o'-lanterns’ eerie, haunting light.

The air is thick with age-old tales and chants.

In corners lie the lurking phantoms; up Above, the spirits rise, their haunted rants Flow to the moon, so silvery and dun.

Young children walk, unready now to bear The ghoulish cries; their footsteps skip and dance.

In search of sweets, their laughter rings as clear As haunted bells. Lit darkly, they advance.

On Halloween, beneath the moon’s soft light, Both spirits and the living merge at night.

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AUTOmobile

by Zack Goforth ‘24

A

s customary on September 5, the Piston Cup was underway.

All schools were closed, supermarkets and salons alike shut their doors, and everybody was either glued to a television or sitting in the stands. It was basically a national holiday.

But like a billion-dollar jackpot, it was an opportunity he could not resist. Dr. Benz was a human, and as far as he knew, he was the last of his kind. Ever since they had developed minds of their own, he had tried and failed and tried and failed to escape, scraping out a meager existence on whatever food sources remained from a world no longer present, a world he had created — a world before them.

But this time was different; yes, he would make it out this time. They were all occupied with the Piston Cup, which seemed to be their twisted version of the Super Bowl, and he had recently picked up a signal from an unused escape pod. If the pod could broadcast its location, there was a good chance it would work, or at least be something he could work with. He was an engineer, after all, and he was the genius behind them. He could never forgive himself.

Moving through tight alleyways — through which

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they could not possibly fit — and quietly shuffling through thick, overgrown greenery — it would be some time before they mastered gardening — he methodically rushed to the marked location like a pirate on a treasure hunt. The streets were empty, and nobody was paying attention to anything other than the big race.

He passed by a house. He stepped on a stick. His heart seemed to stop.

Inside, the family stayed parked in front of the television, seemingly undisturbed.

The family, he thought to himself.

“My God. They’ve reproduced.”

Suddenly, he felt the glow of an 85-watt bulb. The headlights blinded him, but he didn’t want to see. It couldn’t be; he had made sure nothing was following.

“We’ve all heard so much about you.”

A sly smile grew out of the steel on its bumper, stretching from headlight to headlight at its peak, revealing ragged, anthropomorphous teeth and a pair of beady, humanoid eyes.

“You look lonely,” it said, opening its mouth and exposing its tongue, which seemed to lead to a dark, endless throat.

“Let’s go for a drive.”

83 “Zack” | Zachary Bashour ’24

“Cherry Blossom” | Arnav Lahoti ’24

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LOVE

By Aryan Mishra ’26

Love is born of curious innocence, Arising timidly within the heart.

Purity untainted in immanence, Wandering past dawn blissfully apart.

A dove flying through tempests’ wrath, beating Wings grappling with vice in futile enmity.

Writhing in darkness, innocence fleeting Hiding within shrouded serenity.

The heart patrols in wary reclusion, Reticent in endless misconstruction.

Yet hammered still by ceaseless intrusion, Overwhelmed in shattering compulsion.

Until the heart surrenders and breaks open, Finally able to love unbroken.

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Photos by Hudson Brown ’24

Photo by Patrick Flanagan ’24

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YoungArts Week The YoungArts competition receives over 7,000 submissions from students across America in ten different disciplines within the arts. This year, two Marksmen, both seniors, were recognized as winners with distinction. With deep stories behind both of these portfolios, they were deservedly recognized as two of the top eleven in the country.

Photo by Patrick Flanagan ’24

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Hudson Brown ’24 Photography Story by Neil Yepuri ’25

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osing a parent is one of the most tragic and significant things that can happen to a child.

But when it happened to Hudson Brown, he was less than a day old. The emotional effects that such a loss would have had on him, especially if it had come later in his life, didn’t exist. Instead, the passing of his mother left a hole in the lives of his family.

So when Brown was searching for a topic for his YoungArts photography contest portfolio, he chose to honor his mother’s memory - and create a touching tribute for his family.

“I took images from when she was alive and then photoshopped them into images that were taken of me and my family members throughout childhood,” Brown said.

The YoungArts competition is a nationally competitive arts contest that receives 7,000 applications across ten disciplines in the arts. For each of the past few years, St. Mark’s seniors have submitted portfolios to the photography category in hopes of receiving recognition for their work.

“There are two categories of winners in each art form this year,” Brown said. “You can be a winner, where you’d just gain recognition, but being a winner with distinction is the big prize - that’s what I got.”

There are only eleven winners with distinction across all of America within the photography category, so Brown’s success was a testament to the outstanding work he’s done within the discipline.

But, ironically enough, Brown’s journey with photography actually began because of his family.

“My aunt took photos on family vacations,” Brown said. “She would take these beautiful portraits that

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encapsulated memories of our trips. Then, on the next trip, she would bring a book that she literally spent 400 hours creating - a picture book of the trip. You could look through and remember these amazing times you had with your family.”

Inspired by the work of his aunt, Brown began taking pictures on family trips as early as seventh grade.

Eventually, by freshman year, his interest had driven him to take photography as a class at St. Mark’s - despite not having taken it during the previous two years.

“I actually started doing photography really late at St. Mark’s,” Brown said. “Everyone was like ‘Oh, Hudson, you’re starting late; you’re not going to be able to succeed’, but I just fell headlong in love with it.”

And Brown’s passion for photography eventually led him to feature the deeply personal loss of his own mother in his work.

“Thirteen months before the YoungArts submission date, I sat down with Mr. (Scott) Hunt, the photography instructor, and I said, ‘What do I think needs a voice?

What do I think needs to be heard?” Brown said. “And so I decided to try and tell the story of my birth mom’s passing away on the day I was born.”

For Brown, the largest effect of his work on this portfolio can be seen in the reactions of his family, as they got to see their wife, daughter, and sister transported into the modern era - even after her passing.

“For my father and my family, [the creation of this portfolio] was super impactful and meant so much to them because they knew her so well,” Brown said. “She had been in their lives for thirty or forty years, and she had made such a positive impact on everyone she had been around - she was always smiling.”

Photo by Akul Mittal ’25

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Mom Portfolio by Hudson Brown ’24 As Brown mentions in his story, these photos are old pictures of him with his family.

However, Brown chose to edit his birth mother, who passed away when he was born in 2006, into these photos, as a tribute to the memory of a mother he never knew.

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Photo by Tiger Yang ’25

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Patrick Flanagan ’24 Photography

Story by Christopher Guffey ’26

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years at a school which only offered 12.

It all started in senior Patrick Flanagan’s first junior year. After being elected class representative, he looked forward to a good junior year.

Then in August before classes started, he began to wake up with a terrible pain.

“Then, at the start of August football training camp, I woke up with a raging headache. I moved to the floor because the contrast between the soft bed and the needles inside my head upset me,” Flanagan wrote. “On the fifth day of repeating this routine, lying on the wooden floor, I briefly opened my eyes to see my mom crying.”

He tried everything to fix this mystery illness that was later diagnosed as Long Covid, in which Covid symptoms continue to develop after they seem to subside after the initial infection. He tried acupuncture, pain killers, heat, rest, and still no change.

Basic, everyday questions became a challenge for Flanagan. His condition worsened to the point where he had to attend speech therapy and write things down to remember them.

“So much happened, but my brain remembers none of it; only my calendars do,” Flanagan wrote. “I learned to write everything down to remember it. I kept a journal of every activity and how it affected my pain level.”

As Long Covid was relatively new at the time, Flanagan and his doctors experimented with countless different medications to facilitate his recovery. “(Prescription drugs) helped me feel less pain, but they also rendered me completely incapable of experiencing empathy,” Flanagan wrote. “Medication had taken my personality.“ His pain also fostered psychological impacts.

Magazines in hospitals meant to divert him served as constant reminders of what he couldn’t do.

“The words, titles, and bright covers humiliated me,” Flanagan wrote.

However, he still had things in his life that gave him positive reminders, like Legos.

“While recovering from Long Covid, my Legos took on a new meaning,” Flanagan wrote. “Whether it’s practicing my reading speed, relearning how to write, training my tennis skills to get back to a nationally competitive level, or even relearning how to breathe, I think of my Legos.”

He’s never looked at a pile of Legos as a broken, meaningless mess, so he used the same mentality throughout the duration of the recovery process.

“While recovering, I told myself that no good comes from dwelling on future pain,” Flanagan wrote. “I understood that the day would come when my class was officially no longer at my school, so I didn’t let myself worry about it until that day finally arrived.”

He was on medical leave for the rest of his junior year.

The next year, he returned to campus with a white shirt and saw his former classmates return with blue ones.

“My new classmates weren’t the guys I went to first grade with,” Flanagan wrote. “I didn’t know them, and now, after being gone for a year, it felt like my fellow seniors didn’t know me.”

Even worse, he should have been class representative for his grade. After coming back the next school year, he wasn’t even part of that grade.

“I watched with my eyes forced open as I saw my grade experience their entire senior year without me,” Flanagan wrote.

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Junior Year Portfolio and Excerpts By Patrick Flanagan ’24 Patrick’s struggles with long COVID in his junior year nearly forced him to leave St. Mark’s. In these photos and excerpts, Flanagan chronicles his experiences with the mysterious and life-altering disease and how it changed him as a person.

Photo 1: The A

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hile suffering from Long Covid, I experienced severe memory loss. Recovery starts small. The simple question of “How was your day?” became impossible to answer. I went to speech therapy for three months to learn how to answer questions with something other than a blank stare. I learned to write everything down to remember it. I kept a journal of every activity and how it affected my pain level. Every event became a careful study of what triggers or alleviates my headache. So much happened, but my brain remembers none of it; only my calendars do. I kept calendars on my bathroom wall to remember what had happened and was happening in the current and previous week. I taped up the second copy of my new dietary restrictions in the hope that I would remember them and not have to bring the papers with me everywhere. With so much happening and nothing registering, one constant centered me: recovery. The A is a physical therapy exercise designed to practice vestibular balance. As I shook my head back and forth and up and down and across the diagonals to the beat of a metronome, it made everything spin except the A. It centered me. No matter how fast I move or how unclear everything is around me, the A is there, still, centered, begging me to recover.

Photo 2: The Shelf

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hopping became a form of torture. I returned from the doctor’s office with a list of vitamins and pills to purchase for daily consumption. When I entered the store, I was greeted by flickering fluorescent lights. I walked down the aisles head down without looking at any of the items. Nothing offered any comfort from the busy, bright, packed background of the shelves. I dashed in to focus on a single item, and waves shot back from the shelves, sending my brain into a screaming terror. Ten minutes later I tried again, this time with my eyes closed, reaching in and picking one bottle at a time. After blindly examining the entire shelf, I finally grabbed all twelve of the supplements I needed. I returned home in shock, still paralyzed from trying to focus my eyes on a single item in an array of distractions.

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Photo 3: A New Diet

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oncentrating on class material and interacting with people at school sent my brain into a spin. Every day after my last period class, I hid in the bathroom and vomited. It helped release some of the pressure built up in my head. As the pain increased, my nausea got worse. Throwing up after school wasn’t enough. At night before going to sleep, the pain would boil over. I would sit in my car with the seat fully reclined and the AC on full blast for about an hour until the nausea subsided. On nights when I couldn’t freeze my stomach into submission, I would hurl chunks of pink Pepto Bismol tablets out of my throat and onto the floor. I went from being a nationally competitive athlete to being unable to run, breathe, or eat. In physical therapy, we found that after three minutes of walking at three miles per hour, my blood oxygen level fell to 78%. That number is equivalent to what climbers experience at Everest base camp. Any attempt at physical exertion resulted in another pool of vomit. To avoid migraines and keep things in my stomach, I adopted an extremely restrictive diet. It was an anti-inflammatory, anti-migraine, gluten free, “Tom Brady” diet. I ate fruits, seafood, and lots of fish. My nausea eventually went away, but its effects persist in the choices I make at every meal.

Photo 4: A New Classroom

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hen I left school, the classroom was replaced by a doctor’s office.

Different appointments resembled different class periods. Textbooks turned into appointment notes. Tests transitioned to recovery goals. These files are my classmates. When I was the only one out of school and recovering from Long Covid, I often thought, “Why me?

Why should I be picked out from everyone else and be made to suffer alone?” The manila folders, stacked alphabetically in an infinitely increasing pile, reminded me that I was not entirely alone. There are people out there going through things just like me, and even though we will not meet, we will always share that bond. I feel a responsibility to open up my file and share every detail of my experience so my classmates in suffering know they are not alone.

Photo 5: The Waiting Game

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ive days a week for eight months, I sat in a doctor’s waiting room. For the duration of every minute spent waiting, I would close my eyes. If I opened them, I risked constant mockery. In every single doctor’s office lay a plethora of magazines. They were in the hands of people waiting for their yearly check-ups, ripped apart by kids looking at the pictures, or sitting in a neatly sorted collection on a coffee table. The purpose of the magazines is to bring some sort of levity to an otherwise serious moment. For me, the magazines served as constant reminders that I couldn’t read. The words, titles, and bright covers humiliated me. The letters in their fancy fonts laughed at me, reminding me that if I tried to read, my eyes would go into shock and my brain into frustration. In a doctor’s office, a place marked with dread, diagnosis, and anticipation, the one thing intended to bring comfort, the magazines, mocked my inability to read.

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Photo 6: A World Apart

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entered a partial hospitalization program while I was away from school. Because Long Covid is a new disease and data was only beginning to come out about its existence, teachers, friends, family, and even doctors were skeptical of what I was experiencing. So was my school. They wanted to make sure I wasn’t just making everything up. I faced the ultimatum of either never attending my school again or enrolling in a partial hospitalization program. A PHP is designed to protect kids who are a risk to themselves. The next step up from a PHP is mandatory overnight hospitalization for an undetermined period of time until the doctors certify that you are safe to interact in society. It’s important to clarify that I was never like that. I looked through the windows of the downtown building while imagining my friends running, thinking, and remembering at school, all things I could no longer do. Alienated, I served my sentence in the PHP, observing the weighted chairs, anonymous nurses, and security cameras.

The glass separated me from the functional world, instead associating me with everyone else who needed help. No amount of physical pain could add up to the mental fear of capitulating to the fact that I would always have to view the world through a glass wall, knowing that I couldn’t touch but only see everyone else. I finished the month-long program in six days, and I returned to my school the following year.

Photo 7: Anonymous

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or nineteen months, I never traveled without my Oakley Radar EV Path or Sutro Lite sunglasses. Fake Pit Vipers, my friends called them. I wore sunglasses to hide my distant gaze and protect my sensitive brain from excess movements and light. My inability to make eye contact defined my difficulty in relating to society while I had Long Covid. I stayed away from crowds at all times, and I put myself in positions where I wouldn’t have to interact socially.

My doctors and I experimented with fifteen different prescription drugs in my recovery process. They helped me feel less pain, but they also rendered me completely incapable of experiencing empathy. Cormac McCarthy says, “the eyes are the window to the soul.” I wore reflective sunglasses, and in my soul, there was nothing to see. Medication had taken my personality.

My sunglasses hid me from people, and they hid people from the struggle I was experiencing. They protected me from peering eyes and made me anonymous, another person in the crowd.

Photo 8: Visionary

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had completed eight months of vision therapy by the time I returned to school. I did eye stretches with a popsicle stick, sticky note saccades, the near/far chart, MAR with an eyepatch, red/green flippers, 2 chart 2 wall, the lifesaver card, BAR with a polarized chart, doorframe saccades, line jumps on paper, and prism flips. Every drill had the goal of training my eyes and strengthening their connection to my brain. Sticky note saccades trained my peripheral vision. The Brock String trained my ability to focus and move my focus back and forth. I held one end of it to my nose and the other taped to a wall. As my eyes focus on one bead, the line of string diverges on either side of it to form an optical X. Amid this illusion, I gathered myself. The past and future can move in different directions, but the present must stay in focus. Complete recovery starts with putting my full focus into this one day, this one meal, this one minute, this one drill, and this one bead.

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Photo 9: To Be Rebuilt

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have always built Legos. When I empty out the bags, they begin as disorganized clumps of pieces. Amid the confusion, I envision the potential. While recovering from Long Covid, my Legos took on a new meaning. They reminded me that no matter how broken, how sick, or how simply impossible the final creation appears, everything can be rebuilt.

Whether it’s practicing my reading speed, relearning how to write, training my tennis skills to get back to a nationally competitive level, or even relearning how to breathe, I think of my Legos. They remind me of Marcus Aurelius. He often told himself, “exaleipsai phantasiai,” or “erase your impressions.” I’m challenged to view my own recovery process in the same way I view Lego pieces: without judgment. I don’t see Lego pieces as broken or scattered things that lack meaning, and therefore I do not see my “severely disabled” self as something negative. I have extreme potential and am yet to be rebuilt. Like a Lego, I can put the pieces together and build something great.

Photo 10: Old Beginnings

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t St. Mark’s, seniors are marked by their blue shirts.

Everyone else in grades 1-11 wears a white shirt.

Entering junior year, my classmates and I expected to be in our last year of white shirts.

At the start of August football training camp, I woke up with a raging headache. I moved to the floor because the contrast between the soft bed and the needles inside my head upset me. I spent the fall struggling, attempting to work but knowing I couldn’t keep up. I tried desperately to remain in school, but with my health continuing to deteriorate, I eventually had to go on medical leave.

After spending 10½ years with the same class, I returned to my old school in a new grade. My old classmates were all seniors now, but I was still in a white shirt. My new classmates weren’t the guys I went to first grade with. They weren’t part of our undefeated flag football teams. They hadn’t struggled with me through our ten-day freshman orientation camping trip, and they hadn’t hung out with me during Covid lockdowns.

Surrounded by people I could call my brothers, I felt completely isolated in my own school. I watched with my eyes forced open as I saw my grade experience their entire senior year without me. This was the hardest part of overcoming Long Covid; harder than breathing without working lungs. My white shirt represented all the pain I had to endure in the past year, and it served as an official marker that I would never be the same.

On the last day of school, seniors traditionally all take off their blue shirts, put the shirts on a statue, and jump in the pool. This year, every senior waited outside the doors

because the pool was locked. Knowing a secret entrance to the natatorium, I walked in and watched all 100 of my classmates run past me to jump in the pool after their last day of classes at St. Mark’s. I stood there paralyzed, shoes and socks off, ready to dive in and join them but unable to. The next day, on the morning of my first day of school without them, I took all 100 of my former classmates’ blue senior shirts from the statue, laid them out on the school tennis court, and made this photo. Facing the camera, my one white shirt is slightly above and left of the middle, positioned similar to where the heart would be on a human body. After taking the photo, I returned every shirt to the statue with the help of the new St. Mark’s administration and went to class, ready for my senior year.

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Art by Carson Bosita ’25

The Return But, this journey would tragically fail at the final hurdle.

Overjoyed, Orpheus looked back at his wife before she had crossed the threshold between the natural world and the Underworld.

As this was the one rule he could not break during their journey back, the hero had officially lost his wife forever.

Defeated, he returned to his home in nature, playing the lyre for the rest of his days.

Orpheus shows maturity in the face of his loss. Instead of falling into a deep depression or becoming more desperate, he instead accepts his failure and finds happiness in the rest of his life.

We should strive to be more like Orpheus in tragic situations like these. Instead of pushing ourselves in futility, we should have the wisdom to rein ourselves in.

As Orpheus ends his journey, he is a man defeated.

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“Cliffs” | Akul Mittal ’25

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The Sea Beast

By Carson Bosita ’25

They saw it from their screens— A crimson comma, The clause it carried Filled with despair.

They saw it from above— An unfathomably large white rift torn into the earth, A Yin-less Yang Sent to destroy the balance of life.

As it swallowed them, they— Mere viruses and bacteria compared to it— Experienced the immune system of a god Trying to extinguish them.

They heard the unending hush of a trillion sabotaging antibodies Pulled sideways through invisible veins.

They saw wall after surging wall of white blood cells Engulf streets and pound against doomed buildings— There was silence.

The monster’s blue, sleepless eye, Surrounded by swirling puffy teeth, Dwarfing any “battleship” or “skyscraper” by orders of magnitude, Surveyed them all with cosmic emptiness.

It glided, hungrily, uncaringly, Across homes, towns, cities, states, Whipping its smoky tendrils around Like a cataclysmic carousel.

But it growled with booming thunder At the steel towers left undigested in its wake, At the people who would recover from its rampage No matter how much it took from them.

But the foreign land poisoned it.

Its life force poured out in torrents as it crawled further and further inward.

Further, further, further, Smaller, smaller, smaller, until it dissipated A wisp of its former might.

The beast of the sea will always disappear.

But it always comes back.

Maybe in a year. Maybe in a month.

Maybe in the Caribbean. Maybe in the Gulf of Mexico.

Maybe as Harvey. Maybe as Katrina.

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Spring Cleaning

by Jackson Barnes ’26

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acques hated spring-cleaning day. Spring was a bit of the cleanliness of his own body, obsessing over every a misnomer – it usually occurred in late winter on a slightly unacceptable metric that purportedly predestined random day which his father always declared was “as good complete and utter destruction of his body. He exercised as it was gonna get.” twice daily, starting his days with a lift and ending them Being a good day also seemed like something his with a run, adding in walks when he could and fifty-mile father randomly decided. A good day could be just above bike rides every Saturday. He adhered to some strange freezing or well into the seventies, yet it always seemed to health diet that disallowed animal proteins or anything fall on dreary Saturdays, almost exclusively without sun. else that tasted good and kept a scale on the dining table Though Jacques was already not a fan of working so that he could weigh every gram of food he ingested. for hours straight, the As if it were not already labor involved in spring obvious, he also felt a need cleaning day was not the not only to remind Jacques reason he hated it. Spring Spring cleaning day stood as a monument repeatedly of these lifestyle cleaning day stood as a choices and their benefits, monument to everything he to everything he detested about his father. but also to urge Jacques into detested about his father. conformity with his lifestyle His father was obsessed every time he saw Jacques with cleanliness and never seated for more than an failed to project his fanaticism into Jacques’s life. Being hour or, God forbid, Jacques eating something high in reminded of the purported uncleanliness of his simple sugars. room was as common as being asked how his Above all, his father loved his lawn. He saw it not only day was, and the reminder usually came first. as a place to conduct his calisthenic routines but also as His father would frequently point out to him a frame to the work of art he considered his home, which how dog hair had collected underneath the sofa derived its aesthetic value from how well-maintained it or how much dust had collected behind the TV was – something he considered to be regrettably rare in cabinet. His father insisted that Jacques keep his current society. Every man has some hobby or fascination room clean, often making detours through the that absorbs his attention just as well as his wallet, and house to ensure that Jacques’s floor had been for Jacques’ father, it was lawncare. Riding mowers, swept and that his shoes had been fully put leaf blowers, backpack sprayers, granular spreaders, away. edge trimmers, round and flat shovels, landscape and His father dethatching rakes: nothing was a tool too expensive to was equally be bought or too niche to be worth the investment. The obsessed with lawn was kept at a perfect length and in a perpetual

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103 “Griffin” | Patrick Flanagan ’24

At this point, Jacques considered himself the survivor of what had been the worst spring cleaning yet. checkerboard pattern.

Jacques considered this to be the real reason spring cleaning never came during the spring – it needed to be done when the grass was dead and dry, for the time his father would need to expend repairing the foot traffic of the day would surely exceed the amount taken for cleaning.

And so, one unlucky Saturday in February, Jacques was awoken with thirty minutes’ notice before they started to clean. It began as a standard spring cleaning day. Jacques first dusted every horizontal surface in the house, starting up high with fan blades and bookshelves and arriving at coffee tables an hour later. He was then sent to dust the baseboards of the house, which he did bent over until his back hurt, at which point he scooted on his butt along the walls for the remainder of the task.

He then vacuumed and mopped the entire house, making sure to never mop himself inside a room and to change the water after every ten strokes. After a mountain of the mundane, it was time to transition to the outside chores.

This time was different. His father had spread out three large tarps across the lawn and upon them placed the wooden furniture from the deck. After sweeping and power washing the deck, Jacques’s father summoned him to the tarps.

“Listen,” his father said, “you’re going to prepare these chairs so I can refinish them. Go get a few white rags from under the sink, and then we’ll get started.”

Jacques returned to find his father standing in the middle of the tarps clutching tightly in one hand a rectangular metallic can, and a paint tray and brush in the other.

“These are mineral spirits,” he said, holding up the can. “You are to be very careful with them. You’re going

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to evenly apply it to the wood with this brush, two times over, or three if you can tell the color hasn’t changed. Set those rags up.”

Jacques bent over to set the rags beneath the furniture in any locations that the spirits might drip onto. As he got back up, he noticed his father’s hand shaking as he poured the spirits into the tray.

“I’m going to go put these away. Get to work,” he ordered.

Jacques got to work. Though he found it peculiar that his father hadn’t returned yet to instruct him how to do his work a second time, he soon found himself too consumed with contempt for the task to consider it any further. The brush was old and stiff, and the wood had become rough and dry.

Some time later, he finished. The sky had shifted almost imperceptibly darker, signaling the arrival of late afternoon. At this point, Jacques considered himself the survivor of what had been the worst spring cleaning yet.

He had plans with his friends and couldn’t be bothered to spend any more time than was necessary on such mindless chores. He began to gather the supplies, but upon lifting the paint tray, he felt the telltale shifting of mass that reminded him it wasn’t empty. Exasperated, he flung the contents off the side of the tarp without thinking and carried the brush, tray, and rags to the garage.

“Hey there,” grinned his father, “all done?”

Jacques nodded.

“Oh – looks like you got through all the mineral spirits there,” he continued, pointing at the tray.

Jacques gave him a blank stare, but quickly smiled and nodded.

“Good job, then,” his father smiled, tussling Jacques’ hair. “You’re all done here. Not too bad, huh?”

“Terrace” | Tiger Yang ’25

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“Picnic” | Tiger Yang ’25

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Jacques flashed another quick smile, even more synthetic than the last, and gladly retreated inside the house.

Spring soon came, and green grass came with it. One dreadfully notable spot in the center of the lawn remained pale yellow. This, naturally, was a matter of great concern to Jacques’ father.

“Well, you know, sometimes it might take some grass a little longer to grow in some spots,” announced Jacques’s father at dinner one night.

Jacques nodded in agreement, not taking his eyes off his plate. Though it had been more than a random decision, it felt he had finally managed to rebel against his father. Screw you and your green lawn, he thought, trying to suppress a smile.

Weeks passed, and the grass did not return. Though his father was able to complete an otherwise picturesque checkerboard pattern, it was constantly besmirched by that pale yellow spot.

“I did a little bit of research,” his father shared another night, “and I saw some interesting chemicals that might fix whatever the hell is wrong with the lawn.”

Jacques looked up from his plate. “You know,” Jacques said, “you could just put down some sod.”

“No,” his father sneered, “I’m not going to cover it up with some other grass. I’m going to fix it myself.”

A month passed, and no more grass came. Barrels and bags of new chemicals, however, did and began to take up a notable section of the garage. His father spent more and more time in the yard and in the office, desperately trying to discover and implement new remedies for his lawn. Jacques noted several changes in his behavior – his father had begun to skip workouts for several days, and never really reminded him to clean up anymore. He began to let his beard grow out a little too long and seemed to eat whatever could fit in the microwave at dinner, allowing

dust to collect on the scale.

“You know, Dad,” said Jacques one night, “I was thinking about it, and I think I might have accidentally spilled a little bit of mineral spirits that time you wanted me to work on the furniture.”

His father paused for a moment, and then laughed.

“No, if it was just mineral spirits, I’d have fixed it by now.”

He paused again and furrowed his brow. “I know I’m spending a lot of time on my lawn, but if you understood the amount of work I put into that lawn, you wouldn’t be trying to stop me from fixing it. I know how this lawn should look, and I can’t stop until that happens.”

Jacques opened his mouth once again to speak but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. He hadn’t been able to ever convince his father to let his room be a little messy or that there wasn’t really any harm in getting fast food with friends sometimes.

The condition of the lawn did not improve with time.

His father’s condition, however, got worse. He no longer was motivated by a desire to fix the lawn, but instead by embarrassment that his efforts had not yet succeeded.

Call it desperation or determination, his father showed no signs of even the mere consideration of forfeiture.

One night, Jacques was gratefully eating alone, free from the blank question-and-answer exchange that constituted most dinners. His father had forgotten to mow the lawn that morning and decided it was too urgent a task to leave for later. He must’ve started the mower a little too close to the fertilizers that night. Between bites, all the windows in the dining room shattered from the blast, knocking Jacques to the floor. After confirming his own survival, he slowly rose to his feet and saw through the window, through jagged edges of glass, black smoke pouring from where the roof once was. Debris framed the garage and pools of indescribable liquid seeped towards the grass.

Between bites, all the windows in the dining room shattered from the glass, knocking Jacques to the floor.

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Aulis

By Aditya Shivaswamy ’24 I killed the sacred deer that pranced and danced In my forest. Jealous of golden hue, With deceit, I captured the beast entranced By false promise of knowledge, wisdom too.

I fed the deer with futile covenants Never intended to be kept in faith.

Flies swarm around glassy eyes; revenants Torture a conflicted man now unmade.

An empty gift, what is the use of fame?

Faux grass that I grow for my house’s lawn – Beautiful, evergreen, plastic, inane.

Plaster columns crumble – structural con.

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And though I am gone and usurped, I live.

The aureate beast has no more to give.

“The Nothing That Is” | Burns Houston ’27

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Youthful Ignorance

By Baker Lipscomb ’24

I watch the powerful, majestic waves In awe from the safety of the dry sand.

Their strength is something I don’t understand.

I run into a place of many graves.

My feet leave the ocean’s sandy floor as a wave hoists me high. A brief thrill runs through my body before I’m tossed by tons of water, my body rattled to the core.

My head appears only for a moment; Then the ocean resumes its play. I’m drowned, I think. But then I wake on solid ground, Washed ashore by my potent opponent.

I’m lucky to survive with one single Bruise. With the ocean I’ll no longer mingle.

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“Canoe” | Hudson Brown ’24

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“Hiding” | Nathan Meyer ‘24

AMBITIOUS CYCLE

By Ethan Gao ‘24

Here comes man running through the dark forest, Hunting himself between the dense trees.

The hunter is straining, trying his best, But ends up bent over, buckling his knees.

The prey always stays a few steps ahead, Just hairs faster, knowing more of the trail It treads. Man chases the peer he wants dead, In endless pursuit of his rival’s tail.

Enthralled in the chase, the hunter never felt How he grew faster, learned the forest’s way.

Man only saw the prey’s prized rear pelt, Dismissing his improvements of the day.

When is it time to give up on hopeless quests and leave the hunt, satisfied by the test?

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DROW NI NG

by Lukas Palys ‘25

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he flight attendant handed me my iced soda. Now, I can relax. I turn back to my book, holding it open with one hand while I sip my drink. Although I try to let the words tangle me, my thoughts eventually win. Time races by as I sit in the floating metal tube, suspended in air. Who knows if we are even moving: The clouds wrap our aircraft, leaving the windows pointless. The world melts away to contain only the plane and the people inside. Each doing his or her own activity in unconcerned bliss.

Suddenly, as if the plane crashed into a bell, I hear a ringing that pounds its way to my skull. The noise feels like a prolonged nuclear explosion. No one knows what is happening, but we all feel it. Ironically, the seatbelt sign stays off as the plane jerks in the air. The sky plays

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with us like a toddler manipulating our plane through an obstacle course. Shrieks fill the air as the plane spasms. I see a person praying, palms clasped together, hoping God will forgive that insult he made earlier today and let him into heaven. Babies scream, and mothers are too stunned to shush them. The distorted chorus sings its last song.

Those who have lived too long wait in silence. The icy shiver they feel alerts them that death is near.

The clouds break, and the plane drowns in the sky. I watch in silence as we barrel toward the cold earth. Maybe this is the staircase to heaven. When we pass through, maybe the praying man will land in the clouds, using the ground as a connecting flight.

Time slows. As I close my eyes, the world closes too. I sink in silence.

“Waterfall” | Zachary Bashour ’24

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THE WAY

THE WORLD ENDS

By Arnav Lahoti ’24

A

rjun was bantering with his cellmate Alex when the ground started shaking. While Alex panicked and hyperventilated, incoherently blabbering about the sky falling, Arjun kept his wits about him, staring at the gray tiled floor as it cracked open, revealing what seemed to be a gigantic drill bit. As the gap in the floor widened, he glimpsed the striped, yellow-and-black exterior of a tunneling machine. With a soft whirr, the drill bit carved out a human-sized hole in the floor of the prison, and it proceeded to break down into four robotic arms that clamped down on the surface. Through the gap in the middle of the arms rose a large tube, inlaid with a slide.

Arjun heard a voice calling through the tube; it sounded as though it originated from inside the machine.

“Come quickly, Arjun!” Although just a whisper, the voice was strong and commanding, but Arjun refused to submit to it. He had no idea whose this mysterious voice was. And although his life in prison was a rotten one, he could not simply abandon Alex. Alex was his cousin, and they were both responsible for the riot they had started that had landed them in prison in the first place. The

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prison had taken a toll on Alex’s mental health, and Arjun felt guilty for being partially responsible for Alex’s state.

“Who are you, and can I bring Alex with me?” Arjun replied softly into the tube.

“We are fellow rebels, and we need your help. Alex can come after you, but we need you to jump in first.

Hurry before the guards realize that we are here!”

He didn’t like it, but Arjun saw the wisdom in haste, and he felt that he was at a major turning point in his life.

Twenty years from now, will I regret not jumping? he asked himself. He knew what he must do. He turned around and commanded Alex, “Follow me!”

He jumped into the tube feetfirst and looked up as he slid, waiting to see the soles of Alex’s secondhand prison shoes. Instead, to his dismay, he saw the arms retract and the tube close behind him. Within a few seconds, he landed, and he was livid. He dished his anger out on the woman who greeted him in the machine. She was rather tall, and she had to squat down to fit in the space. She wore red camouflage and a scarlet dust mask, cutting an imposing figure in the small room.

“Representations” | Asher Ridzinski ’27

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“Gold River” | Arnav Lahoti ’24

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“Afterglow” | Peter Clark ’27 “How dare you leave Alex behind? We have to go back!” Arjun roared fiercely, stomping his foot with fury.

When she responded, it was clear that hers was the voice that had spoken earlier. She calmly held up a finger and tersely answered, “We only had room for one of you in this machine, and you are the one we need. Alex is unimportant in this matter.”

“Who are you to say who is important or not?” Arjun balled up his fists and stepped closer to the soldier.

“I am a general, and accordingly you will address me as General Z. If you help us overthrow the People’s Republic, then we can come back and rescue Alex as well.

Do we have a deal?”

Arjun snarled at her, but he did not dare to make another aggressive move, warily eyeing her right hand, which was hovering over her holster and the lethal arcgun within. “Fine,” he retorted. “Let’s get this straight right now. We will come back for Alex. Otherwise, I won’t hesitate to betray you and your crew.” Knowing so little about their operations, he wasn’t sure if he would even

go through with the threat, but he had to establish some leverage.

“Fine,” General Z replied, not batting an eyelash. She turned around and issued a command to the pilot of the machine, who was kneeling in front of a dazzling array of multicolored buttons and levers. The pilot betrayed no signs of discomfort, and he reached to his right and pushed a blue lever forward, causing the machine to lurch headfirst. As the drill bit started chiseling away at the crimson rock, Arjun glanced through the window and saw sound mufflers undulating, using negative interference to create an eerie silence that perfectly masked their escape.

Soon, the tunnel bore had reached a distance far enough from the prison that the general deemed it fit for the group to break the surface. Through an upwardsloping tunnel, the bore made its way out of the passage and onto the rough terrain. After a furtive glance around, the pilot hurriedly pressed a complicated sequence of buttons, and with a soft hum, levitators beneath the machine turned on, enabling the group to take flight and

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“All I Want for Christmas” | Jacob Lobdell ’25

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Each mansion contained glorious swimming pools full of tremendous amounts of pure, crystalline water, a precious commodity. quickly gain altitude. With a gasp, Arjun looked curiously at General Z, who winked back at him.

“We have technology the government can only dream of creating, Arjun. You want to make a difference? Just wait and see; you are with the right people.”

With a slow nod, the wonderstruck Arjun turned around to look through the window in the back. He could see the central space hub, the origin of the entire colonization effort. The silvery hub glistened as it loomed over the rest of the landscape. Its central tower was ringed by multiple blue tori and topped off by a white, exquisitely shaped dome, one covered in bronze arches and gleaming black solar panels. From the bottom of the tower, aluminum pathways snaked out into jet-black concrete launchpads. Three of the launchpads contained soon-to-be fully operational space shuttles, and the metallic frames of these future vehicles reflected the harsh sunlight on the Martian terrain.

Around the hub were several houses, although calling them houses is an understatement. These magnificent mansions covered vast tracts of land, and they proudly exhibited the esteemed family crests of those first few brave souls who had dared to settle the barren Red Planet.

Each mansion contained glorious swimming pools full of tremendous amounts of pure, crystalline water, a precious commodity.

Past the gated perimeters of these royal residences, a sprawling middle class had taken root. Modest houses dotted the landscape, sporting red, dusty lawns with the occasional green patch of flowers. Smooth dirt trails connected these lodgings, perfectly grooved by immaculate Waymachines to properly accommodate hoverbike travel. But these trails had started to be riddled by potholes and random debris as they extended into what

could only be termed the slums of the People’s Republic.

Swaths of territory were covered by dilapidated dwellings, broken-down buildings with low structural integrity surrounded by litter and crossed by murky canals, a reminder of the failures of the government to keep its promise of serving all the people, the reason that Arjun had rioted in the first place.

Although Arjun’s sharp eye took in all these details, he missed one important thing: from the slums below, an agent of the secret police peered up at the flying tunneler.

With a pair of binoculars held to her eyes, Diana mentally noted the vehicle’s path. She had been undercover for a while in her pursuit of the rebels, and she knew that she was getting close to locating them. She had already gathered some intel about a vehicle like the one she was observing, and she was fairly confident that it would lead her to the rebel hideout. With an excited, ominous grin, she hopped on her hoverbike, and the chase began.

Soon, the tunneler started to descend, but as Arjun looked around, he saw nothing by their landing spot. The dusty arrival pad was not surrounded by any buildings, and in the barren surroundings, only three hoverbikes and a rocky road that had no Waymachine marks lay ahead. As the tunneler approached, the arrival pad started moving, revealing the metal that lay underneath a thin layer of red debris. With a screeching noise, the two metal plates that comprised the pad separated and rotated vertically, exposing a small underground hangar. The tunneler touched down inside the hangar, and the group fled from the vehicle.

General Z motioned for Arjun and the pilot to follow her, and she ran to one side of the cavern, opening a door, behind which stood a staircase. They ascended the staircase and made their way out onto the surface,

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where they grabbed the hoverbikes. Arjun had never place like this, but the reason we broke you out was for owned a hoverbike himself, but he had ridden his friends’ your genetics. We did not need you for the fighting; My hoverbikes many times and knew the exhilarating feeling apologies,” General Z informed Arjun stoically. of the wind buffeting his face as he drove forward at Questions were racing through Arjun’s mind. Why tremendous speeds. They mounted the hoverbikes were they talking about genetics? He also felt somewhat and followed the general as she led the way into the offended. They were saying that they did not need his horizon. leadership or skill with an arcgun. He felt an irrational When they finally reached the rebel stronghold, Arjun anger seize him, but he practiced his meditation was taken aback. He had expected to see a vast colony techniques and calmed himself down. of rebels in a military base, outfitted with weapons that “What is this whole business with genetics?” He could take the People’s Republic by storm. His idealistic directed his question to the scientist. vision starkly contrasted with the reality confronting “Sorry, let me explain it all to you properly. My name him, however. In front of him were two guard posts is Cynthia, by the way. A few years ago, we were exploring and a strange building, this territory to find a suitable Are these the right people for me? The staffed by only a handful place for our headquarters of people. Are these the ones with technology that the government when we found this right people for me? The laboratory.” Cynthia pointed can only dream of? ones with technology that at the building behind her. “It the government can only was completely abandoned, dream of? but we found some incredible technology inside it. Some While he was asking himself these questions, a brilliant mind invented a plethora of devices such as woman in a white lab coat came running out of the domed the levitators that powered our tunneler. We could not building. She beamed and waved excitedly at Arjun, find the name of the person who had developed these greatly puzzling him. marvels, but we found the initials S.M. carved into an “Thank you so much for coming, Arjun! We need early prototype of some hover-shoes. After quite a bit of you to complete our secret weapon,” she gushed. Arjun digging, we found out that the scientist here was being was extremely confused, and he looked at the general forced into labor by the government. They made her questioningly. develop a class of weapons so advanced that they could “I could not tell you until we had reached a safe potentially wipe out our entire colony. We surmise that

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“Oceanfront” | Nathan Meyer ’24

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“The Diner” | Jacob Lobdell ’25

the government must have had some sort of leverage on her, and we are guessing that they held one of her family members as hostage.

“After consulting several genealogies for many months, I have concluded that the People’s Republic took her son hostage. You might recognize the name because her son is your father.” She stared at Arjun expectantly.

“S-S-Shiv?” Arjun stammered. He was shocked.

Apparently, the grandmother he had never known had been capable of annihilating an entire civilization!

“Yes!” Cynthia exclaimed. “I knew you were the one!”

“What does this have to do with me?”

“Well, judging by the models in the laboratory, I think that S.M. discovered the secret of antimatter weapons.

She seems to have hidden the secret away, however, and we believe the key could lie in her genetic lineage. We found an incredibly strong safe that can only be unlocked by a DNA test, but none of our DNA seems to match. We don’t want to risk exploding it and harming the contents, so you might be the solution. With this technology, we

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can defeat the government and overthrow our dictators!”

Cynthia’s face was flushed with righteous fury.

“This is ridiculous!” Arjun cried. “Tell me the truth!

Why did you actually break me out of prison? This story is way too unbelievable!”

“We are telling you the truth. There is only one way to convince you for sure.” General Z pointed in the direction of the laboratory.

With a hesitant nod, Arjun started walking towards the building. As he approached, he took a moment to clear his mind and thoroughly understand what he was seeing. The building was magnificent in a subtle way. It rose about twenty feet from the ground, and its top was defined by a dome with a protruding telescope. Its brick exterior was a muted shade of mahogany, perfectly suited to the adjacent terrain.

The guard towers were positioned on opposing sides of the laboratory. A fence connected them, forming a perimeter around the facility. The guard posts themselves were approximately thirty feet tall, and they boasted two

impressive laser cannons each on their balconies. Arjun noted that one of the laser cannons on each guard post did not belong in its current position overlooking the outside of the perimeter. Upon closer inspection, he could see that the balconies had markings indicating where the fearsome weapons had initially been placed, directed at the laboratory itself. The People’s Republic must have been as worried about the scientists getting out as they were about intruders. Where the People’s Republic would have deployed an entire garrison, the rebels only had a few soldiers manning the guard towers, and they seemed woefully ill-prepared for a fight.

Noticing Arjun’s observations, General Z explained, “Even though we found this complex abandoned, we must continuously remain vigilant, for the People’s Republic might still be monitoring this location. Fortunately, they are currently too occupied by their hunger for more land to send a force to defeat us, but we need to ensure that no scouts bring them word of our plans.”

Arjun nodded and turned his attention to the door.

Its electronic lock was hanging off; it had evidently been exploded to let General Z’s forces into the workspace.

Ingrained near the top of the door was a small white screen. When Arjun tapped on it, a thin panel extended from beneath the screen, where it had been expertly concealed. A pin was on the panel, and he realized that this must be the DNA test that he was supposed to pass.

He carefully pricked his finger on the pin and watched as a drop of his blood slid down into the panel, which automatically closed. After a few moments, the screen momentarily flickered red, but it soon displayed a brilliant shade of green, and the lock chimed uselessly.

Arjun looked around in shock. Near him, General Z gave an uncharacteristically genuine smile. She highfived Cynthia with a squeal of joy. “It worked, Arjun! That green light means that you truly are the one we needed!”

Dumbfounded, Arjun followed the women into the laboratory.

Little did the group know that they were being observed by a similarly excited Diana. Having successfully

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“This

” . e c e i sterp

a m y is m

escaped rebel detection for the entire journey due to the mass above a control board displaying a bright assortment experimental camouflage technology she had placed on of buttons and screens. herself and her hoverbike, she was now hidden behind “This is my masterpiece,” Cynthia said proudly, a hill a mile from the rebel headquarters. She set down fondly patting the behemoth. “With some help from your her trusty binoculars and grinned wolfishly. The ecstatic grandmother’s journals, I have successfully figured out reaction from the general indicated that the People’s how to isolate antimatter. I believe your grandmother Republic was in trouble, which meant that this was figured out a way to weaponize this antimatter. The her chance to claim glory for serving her country. She power this would give us is hard to understate, Arjun.” radioed in her coordinates through her communicator She looked at him seriously, all traces of humor forgotten. and requested reinforcements. She made sure to let them “The annihilation between antimatter and regular matter know it was Diana Bergeron who was calling; this was her releases an intense energy blast. One gram of antimatter moment, and she refused to allow anyone else to get the could lead to a megaton of explosive energy. It would credit. take only ten grams to level the entirety of the People’s Inside the laboratory, Arjun gazed in awe at the Republic of Mars. If we can intimidate the government incredible equipment with these weapons, we surrounding him. Lights will not need to use them, They wanted to use him to unlock in the shape of ellipses and we can successfully illuminated pristine, sleek overthrow them. If we have the potential of bombs that could workstations below. White to use them…” She broke off remorselessly kill millions. mechanical arms, hanging and donned a determined from motors embedded in the expression. “If we have to use ceiling, worked away tirelessly them, then we will. It is our on assembling new weapons and gear for the rebels. The right to throw off the yoke of tyranny we suffer under.” back wall was completely covered in rows of 3D printers, Arjun gazed at her, horrified. They wanted to use him which employed dozens of different alloys and plastics to to unlock the potential of bombs that could remorselessly create all manners of ammunition and tools. A large tank kill millions. Could such an explosion even be contained? containing a bright blue chemical solution dominated He found himself in an ethical quandary. He desperately the center of the room. Several vials of yellow liquid were wanted to defeat the government, but was he really that suspended in the viscous blue solution. A gargantuan desperate? His parents had died from the water that the metal juggernaut surrounded the tank, with huge tubes People’s Republic systematically contaminated to prevent that snaked into the tank and droned viciously. Hanging overpopulation. Was that reason enough to possibly doom wires twisted like vines and connected in a convergent humanity? It was a wager of unfathomable consequences.

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If Cynthia and S.M. could understand this technology, was there any guarantee that others could not?

He scanned the room once more. General Z stared at him with a hopeful expression, her earlier jubilance all but lost. Arjun remembered her cold resolve. She is depending on me! But how can I make such a choice? He flashed back to his school days, to when he first learned the concept of utilitarianism. What decision would be for the greater good? Surely not creating an entirely new class of weapons, right?

While he was pondering this dilemma, Cynthia grabbed his hand and led him through a reinforced metal door into a new room. In this new room was the safe she had mentioned earlier. The colossal vault boasted no designs nor insignias; it simply had a small screen, much like the one on the door outside. Cynthia tapped the screen, and another panel with a needle shot out. She gestured to Arjun to prick his finger, and he felt the world spin. This was the moment everything came down to.

He could see the scales of balance in front of him. One small tip, one small prick, and the entire thing could come crashing down. He knew what he had to do.

Before he could execute his decision, however, the entire building rocked. The massive sonic boom a split second later told him that it must have been hit by megacannons. The sound was like a hundred thunderclaps, and the shock alone made him fall over.

Next to him, General Z was sprinting to the nearest window, which was in the other room. Dimly, he heard her yell something about the guard towers having been completely obliterated by the People’s Republic.

As he stumbled to his feet, he heard a triumphant voice from outside, amplified by a megaphone: “This is Diana Bergeron with the People’s Republic of Mars. We have you surrounded. Exit the building with your hands up, or we will not hesitate to blast you into oblivion. We have Alex hostage, so do not try to deceive us.” Outside, Diana smiled gleefully, envisioning the medals awaiting

her at the town hall.

Returning to the vault, General Z commanded Arjun, “Do not go outside and surrender. They are lying; they do not have Alex with them. He is probably dead.”

Hearing this news was all of the motivation Arjun needed to rethink his decision. He had a hunch that the safe might contain weapons that could help them escape and plot revenge against Diana and the government. He dashed over to the safe and recklessly pricked his finger against the pin, creating a much deeper cut than he had intended. Applying pressure to the wound with the other hand, he stared at the screen, willing it to turn green and reveal its treasures.

Instead, the screen flickered, alternating red and green in complete confusion. Cynthia gazed at it, horrorstruck. “I don’t understand! How is this possible?

Your blood worked on the outermost door, so you must be the right person! You are definitely related to S.M. It has to be you!” She seemed to be trying to convince herself rather than him.

Through the haze of confusion, a lucid explanation dawned on him. “You people have made a terrible mistake. I am not the one. I never was. I-” “Last chance!” Diana’s voice roared from outside. “You have thirty seconds.”

“We have to surrender, General Z. You broke the wrong person out of the jail that day. You should have taken my cousin, not me.”

Cynthia’s eyes widened as the magnitude of his statement struck her. “You mean…” Her voice trailed off.

General Z broke her stoic expression and adopted one of despair. “I have made a terrible mistake!”

Those were the last words any of them heard before the laboratory exploded into hundreds of fireworks. A moment of quiet ensued. Then a sonic boom engulfed the area. The chaos on Mars settled down. All was peaceful.

“A

S A W L L

.”

L U F E PEAC

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By Mason Briscoe ’24

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Cosmic Visitor

In the shadows cast by the alien ship On a desolate extraterrestrial beach Fluorescent hues, like a child’s dream Gleam as an unknown vessel emerges from the steam Silent whispers of a civilization now dead Echo across the realm with fear From the heavens descended true fear A cosmic visitor, piloting a ship Upon the barren sands, signs of life now dead Strange artifacts are scattered on the beach, While technology emits an otherworldly steam In the quiet of night, a boy dreams Of a cosmic odyssey, a reality or dream, An encounter, a moment held with fear, Visions of the unknown, like interstellar steam Haunt the extraterrestrial vessel, an alien ship On the distant shore, the lonely beach Beckons eons of silence, secrets of a world now dead Still lying dormant, what stories should remain dead While one story may be a man’s dream Another should never leave the beach A cryptic language, once used to spread fear Is now deposited into the heart of the alien ship Rising vapors, a spectral steam The alien presence, elusive as cosmic steam Now holds a civilization’s legacy, a history now dead In the vastness of space, the alien ship Witnesses an interstellar, cosmic dream In his discovery, an erie sense of fear Lingers on the shore, a haunting beach With nothing left to do, the alien leaves the beach The lingering vapor, the spectral interstellar steam Leaves a visceral trail, which the alien does not fear Anyone who would notice is long dead In the dead of the night, the otherworldly dream Departs into the cosmos. The alien ship Abandons the beach, continuing the ship’s Mission out of fear of disrespecting the dead, Releasing the steam of an old mentor’s dream.

“Empty” | Drew Wallace ’26

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Stupid Little Flower

By Raja Mehendale ’24

What about my stupid little flower Made a mom drive forty minutes down south?

Made a boy’s smile warm as a spring shower?

Made the memories leave my sad mind drouth?

Hearts full, even with nothing yet begun, Joy not brought by the sweet drink from a flask, Hearts full before the task had yet been done, Joy not in the bounds of a wooden cask.

Winter weathered, it is hard as metal.

Coming back many years later to see That stupid little bright yellow petal Curiously staring right back at me.

My stupid little pansy shows the love Of a mother’s arm draped, soft as a dove.

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“Flowerpot” | Tiger Yang ’25

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Literary Festival A week celebrating literature on campus included a writing competition open to juniors and seniors in three categories: poetry, nonfiction, and fiction. These are the three winners from across campus and their stories.

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Carson Bosita ’25 Poetry Story by Jaden Ouyang ’25

I

f you know Carson Bosita, you know he is an artist first and foremost. That much should be obvious. After all, his passion for art is expressed through a wide range of mediums.

Writing poetry in particular comes naturally for Bosita. He’s already a nationally-ranked fencer. An accomplished painter. A stellar pianist and composer.

According to him, the secret is finding your weaknesses and improving on them with consistent, dedicated hard work.

“Each of (my) activities (is) a pursuit to hone my own talent and create a style that is my own, so some skill sets apply to several of them,” Bosita said. Of course, this process has led to Bosita’s rapid rise as a creative writer.

The greatest testament to his poetry, of course, would be his magnum opus: “The Sea Beast.”

The idea for this poem came to Bosita as most ideas do: while browsing the internet at 10 PM on a weekend.

Randomly, he stumbled across a satellite photo of Hurricane Florence, a majestic yet sinister representation of the sheer force a hurricane is capable of.

“It gave me a strange, emptying feeling,” Bosita said, “that despite how far we as humans have come, nature can still send continent-spanning killers…that even when disasters strike, people just grit their teeth and recover, no matter how hard or long the repair process is.”

This subject of the poem aligned perfectly with Bosita’s strengths. He loves writing poems about things like this, poems that tell a dark and dangerous story.

“I really like poems that present strange, dark, or even brutal circumstances in a tone that almost makes you believe that whatever craziness is happening is normal,” Bosita said.

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The poem will be simple. Ten stanzas, no rhyme scheme or meter. And yet, each stanza will be packed full of formal features and hard-hitting imagery.

“I think my strongest area is my use of evocative words to assemble descriptions,” Bosita said.

In the poem, a hurricane is described as a gargantuan, spiraling sea monster, hell-bent on destroying life. It swallows everything indiscriminately in its path of destruction. Humans are small and insignificant next to this hurricane, so Bosita compares them to microscopic organisms: viruses and bacteria.

“The people are so small compared to it that they cannot even make out its form,” Bosita explained. “All they see is a roaring gray blanket seemingly alive with malice.

The sea beast tries to annihilate the human specks it accidentally inhaled with ‘antibodies’ of rain that prevent them from escaping and waves of ‘white blood cells’ that try to tear down everything in their path.”

Then, a shift in tone. Despite its best efforts, the beast cannot contain every city and every human. The beast’s strength dwindles and eventually dissipates. The people band together and begin repairs. After all, this poem’s main subject is not the hurricane itself. It is an ode to human resilience.

After many long days of writing, editing, and revising, Bosita’s two-week project was completed. And, though the work was grueling, Bosita made sure to enjoy it.

“I believe my greatest strength is my joy of creation,” Bosita said. “I have loved making things for as long as I can remember, and being able to continue doing this and even give people new perspectives and feelings just makes me want to create more.”

Bosita’s poem, The Sea Beast, is featured on page 101.

Photo by Akul Mittal ’25

Photo by Akul Mittal ’25

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136 Photo by Akul Mittal ’25

Photo by Akul Mittal ’25

Nate Wilson ’25 Fiction Story by Asher Babilla ’25

S

enior Nate Wilson has a unique writing style. Most writers, and especially those of short stories, may go through dozens of different themes during the writing process.

However, Wilson instead opts for a more natural process where he allows the focus of his story to appear as he writes it.

“I don’t really try to write themes intentionally,” Wilson said. “I think if you have an idea and ask questions about ‘What if this or that happened’, then the themes kind of come out as you write it.”

When Wilson was writing his first story for Victor M. White Teaching Chair in English David Brown’s Creative Writing class, he struggled to find a subject.

“Mr. Brown said, ‘Don’t go into it knowing what you want to write. The story and its ending should surprise you as much as it surprises the readers when they read it’,”Wilson said. “So I went into it with an open mind.”

He came up with the concept behind “Spring Cleaning,” a story about a perfectionist father obsessed with the annual event – and his tragic descent into derangement.

“My dad isn’t a perfectionist,” Wilson said. “It was kind of blown up just for this story, but one time he was going through spring cleaning, which I don’t like. It was kind of funny and kind of awkward showing him the story because I was afraid he was going to think I wanted him to die or I hated him, even though I don’t.”

Although Wilson’s real father isn’t a neat freak like the man featured in the story, Wilson found the topic interesting, so he stuck with it and developed his story.

And, clearly, Wilson wasn’t the only one who found the premise interesting, as he won the fiction award in the

Literary Festival’s writing competition.

Each year, students submit stories that they deem are worthy of recognition, and the stories are then judged by the Literary Festival’s special guests.

Wilson never intended to submit the story, but once he corrected it with Mr. Brown’s helpful feedback, he decided that it was worthy of submission.

And although he struggled with finding a topic initially, he created, found, and latched on to the idea of “Spring Cleaning.”

For Wilson, the writing process was easy once he got to work. The words just started flowing, allowing Wilson both to meet his page count and to write a fantastic story.

“I just kind of sat down and wrote what I felt was good to write,” Wilson said. “I think that’s important, to not try to mimic anything or anybody when you’re writing something. I tried to put some internal dialogue, but I didn’t have much of that in mind going into it.”

As the story progresses, Wilson’s uncommon theme becomes one of loss, as the father in the story drives himself to the point of death trying to fix a part of his fictional lawn. For Wilson, however, the weaving of these two themes made his writing process easy.

“I didn’t go into the story with an attitude of ‘perfectionism is bad’,” Wilson said. “I was kind of like ‘What if this guy had a really obsessive father and he ruined his lawn?’ It’s really nice to write like that because at the end of it, without even meaning to, you’ve stumbled upon a theme.”

Wilson’s short story, Spring Cleaning, is featured on page 102.

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Dawson Yao ’24 Non-Fiction Story by William Kozoman ’26

D

awson Yao knows a thing or two about writing.

He’s been a journalist for the last four years. He’s excelled in English classes. And earlier this year, he won the Nonfiction prize for the LitFest Writing Contest, representing his journey through writing and his growth as a person.

Yao’s story ended up being about his interview with athletic equipment manager Ron Turner Sr. about Steve “Hollywood” Walker, a cherished member of the St. Mark’s community who passed away last April. Yao did this coverage in the May 2023 edition of the ReMarker but didn’t expect to write about this interview again.

“It originally wasn’t going to be about Hollywood,” Yao said. “It was going to be about seeing people cry; I think that was my original angle for this story.”

But as he thought about his experiences in seeing such a raw emotion, he couldn’t shake the interview he had with Turner, who was very close to Hollywood. The experience left an indelible and immediate impact on him, even though it happened just last May. “At the start, I was very nervous; I had never talked to this guy,” Yao said. “But as soon as I asked the first question, it was like the floodgates started opening.

Obviously, he didn’t start crying immediately, but he just got really, really, really quiet. He started talking really thoughtfully. I think the interview lasted for like ninety minutes or something, and in the middle, he just started breaking down. That experience transformed my point of view as a journalist and as a person.”

Along with serving as the source of this experience, Yao’s history in journalism has had an important impact on his writing style, ultimately helping to shape how he wrote the story that he ended up submitting for the

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LitFest competition.

“In journalism, the writing style is very different,” Yao said. “I’ve grown with it, and it’s that style, where you’re using a lot of powerful moments and powerful quotes to help guide your story. And I think that’s something I really did try to implement. It’s that kind of style of writing that I imposed onto the story.”

Yao originally created the work in his creative writing class. English teacher David Brown, who both teaches the class and sponsors the LitFest, encouraged his students to submit their work to the writing competition as a chance to gain recognition and a prize for themselves.

Yao quickly took him up on this offer. As the deadline for the competition approached, Yao turned in his story and began waiting patiently for the winners to be announced.

Then, in the December copy of the ReMarker - the same publication that had so affected his writing - he was announced as a winner of the competition. Reflecting on his piece, Yao thought about what made the story so unique to him.

“It’s just the first thing I wanted to write about. It was like the first was the freshest thing on my mind,” Yao said. “At the start of the year, I talked a good amount about Hollywood, and about that experience, how that changed me. That’s why I chose to write about it. To see that first person cry in front of you, it’s just a totally different experience. You’re not just getting a fact or like a random quote from some random source. You’re actually interacting. Once you’ve had that really emotional conversation, then the story just writes itself. But yeah, that’s how my point of view changed, just seeing and realizing the effect of what I was doing and how I could improve my story.”

Yao’s short story, When the Best Response is Silence, is featured on page 12.

139 Photo by Tiger Yang ’25

Staff and Advisors

Neil Yepuri ’25

Tiger Yang ’25

Lynne Schwartz

Lauren Brozovich

Editor-in-Chief

Associate Editor-In-Chief

Senior Advisor

Advisor

Aidan Moran ’25

Carson Bosita ’25

Akul Mittal ’25

Teddy Fleiss ’25

Creative Director

Artist

Head Photographer

Design Editor

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Special Thanks to: David Brown, Rachel Muldez, Kate Wood, Jenny Dial Creech, James Barragan, St. Mark’s Security and Staff, and David Dini

Nathan Meyer ’24

Asher Babilla ’25

Jaden Ouyang ’25

Hale Peterson ’25

Photographer

Designer

Managing Editor

Visual Art Editor

William Kozoman ’26

Chris Guffey ’26

Paul Sumethasorn ’27

Noah Cathey ’24

Designer

Associate Design Editor

Designer

Editor Emeritus

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Notes from the Editors I

f anything, this year’s magazine is a chimera. Its allimportant soul–the concept–was shaped by Neil and Aidan. Its body–the individual spreads, containing the creations of our student community, were the work of individual designers. And its many faces–they’re given

by Aidan’s cover, Carson’s section dividers, and Akul’s photos.

To the limping beast that was the magazine, aid was rendered by Noah and Mrs. Creech (despite not formally being part of the club). Then, Neil and I wrapped it all up in some final bandages, trying to correct the inconsistencies inherent in this mythical enigma.

Throughout this process, Mrs. Schwartz and Dr. Brozovich have supported us, guarding us against critical errors and settling prolonged debates. I’m very lucky to have them.

I’m also very grateful for my parents, who faced all the frustrations of people who raise kids–they suffered patiently and nobly. The last two years have been especially tough on them.

For all these people, I’m grateful.

Last but not least… I want to thank YOU, the reader, for stopping by. I hope that the imperfect body of this magazine conveys to you an immortal soul, one arising from a love for what’s beautiful and true. Without you, all of our efforts would be in vain. Thank you for appreciating (and submitting!) these works which reflect on the entire St. Mark’s community–students (past & present), teachers, administrators, and parents. If nothing else, I hope this magazine delights you.

- Tiger Yang ’25 142

I

’m not sure where I’d be in right now without The Marque. This publication has been a common, steady presence in my life for three whole years.

And, although I worked on and helped edit the MiniMarque (the Middle School counterpart of this magazine) for two years, I couldn’t have ever predicted the effects this publication would have on me.

Everything I’ve learned in design, publications, literature, and photography all commence in this moment.

It truly was a fantastic journey.

But, this message - and this magazine - are not all about me. I couldn’t have done it without the help of those around me.

My staff, especially Tiger, Akul, and Aidan. Your respective contributions in the editing, photographic, and visual art portions of the magazine are essential.

Our advisors, Mrs. Schwartz and Dr. Brozovich.

Through every pizza order or piece of advice, you both kept us on track and focused on the final goal. Also, the design experience of Mrs. Jenny Creech was essential in refining our magazine.

Those who came before me - Ekansh Tambe, who helped begin my Marque journey. Morgan Chow, the steady voice of a design master. Noah Cathey, an expert in his own right and a publications aficionado. Your steady guidance has been a blessing for which I’m truly grateful.

My parents and brother, for accomodating the especially difficult schedule that the Marque demands.

I love you guys, and the sacrifices you’ve made to accomodate my needs throughout this vaunted junior year and the creation of this magazine have been so, so helpful.

Over the course of this year, this publication went on a massive journey. We changed layouts, fonts, font sizes, and so much more. Our first spread and its final iteration are almost unrecognizably different from one another.

And, although it was a lot of work, I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Regardless of what my future with The Marque looks like, I’m forever grateful.

- Neil Yepuri ’25

Photo by Akul Mittal ’25

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The 62nd version of the Marque was published on May 6, 2024.

Issue _____ of 500 144

Mission Established in 1962, The Marque serves as the collection of the literary and artistic pieces created by Upper School students to summarize the academic year’s artistic expression.

Policy The Marque is an after-school extracurricular activity that works independently from the St. Mark’s journalism program. All written and visual content is welcomed and considered for publication. Throughout the year, literary works and artistic pieces are submitted by our 419-person Upper School student body and selected for publication by our staff members. 450 copies are produced and distributed to Upper School students and faculty. This publication is submitted annually for evaluation to the Columbia Scholastic Press Association (CSPA) and the National Scholastic Press Association (NSPA).

Colophon The Marque is printed by J. Culley Imaging. The cover is 130# Polar Bear White Velvet Cover, printed 4/4. Text is 80# Mohawk Options Text PC 100. Binding is PUR glue perfect binding. The staff used Adobe Indesign, Photoshop, and Illustrator CC 2024. Typefaces include: Peskia Variable for titles; Altivo for bylines, credits, folios, and pull quotes; Warnock for body text. The theme was selected by the Editors-In-Chief and the Creative Director.

Contact St. Mark’s School of Texas 10600 Preston Road Dallas, TX 75230 Care of Lynne Schwartz Phone: 214-346-8126 Fax: 214-346-8002 SchwartzL@smtexas.org

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Orphic Journey

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