Mini-Marque A DOX PAR
Editor’sNote
What exactly is a paradox? It is a question that can have two opposite answers. It is something that seems one way but really is another. Or maybe it is a question that has no real answer at all. We aimed to represent all the paradoxes of daily life in this magazine, so we spread the works over three sections.
The first is the Paradox of Harmony: Can any two people get along, or is a true bond not possible? Can the human race live in accordance with nature, or is Mother Nature controlling anything we try to develop? Can we really live in equilibrium at all?
The second, the Paradox of Humanity, explores the true issues of all mankind. Why are we destroying the society we worked so hard to create? Why is there war and not peace? Will we be our own downfall?
The third and final paradox is the Paradox of Morality, questions philosophers have been trying to answer for millennia. What is good and what is evil? Why do we act the way we do in certain situations? Does true and pure good even exist?
We hope you enjoy this year’s Mini-Marque: Paradox
Table of Contents
Paradox of Harmony
Slumber of the Woods 8-9
The Stars 10-11
Nostalgia’s Lament 12-13
October 14-15
The Hunter’s Veil 16-17
Violet Light 18-19
Stone’s Language 20-21
I Never Break My Promises 22-23
Dreams 24-25
A Sunshine Sonnet 26-27
In Your Head 28-29
One Step Begins 30-31
Flying Solo 32-33
Bonded 34-35
Paradox of Humanity
The Army Man’s Plight 38-39
Vision upon Ash and Blossoms 40-41
We Were Forgotten 42-43
The Admiral 44-45
Perfect Execution 46-47
The Game-winning Point 48-49
Paradox of Morality
NOISE 52-53
The Sailor’s Lament 54-55
Privilege of Judgement 56-57
In Light It Lies in Wait 58-59
Rapacity 60-61
Psychology of a Parrot 62-63
Victory and Death 64-65
A Desperate Cry of Why 66-67
The Neverending Path 68-69
Paradox
Slumber of the Woods
Poem | Max Lin | 8
Photograph | Ben Kirby | 8
By the time the oak leaves had fallen clean
The pines showed off their deepest green
Like the forgotten pins stuck to a thimble
The fox, the weasel, the owl on the trees
Had all rested to spare themselves
The harshness of the frozen breeze
The bear dug deep, deep underground
The insects burrow through the mud
And the surface rang with desolate quiet
The owl with a watchful eye
Was now crouched on its trunk
The rock which seemed impenetrable
Begun to show cracks
The ancient tree slowly hunched
The creek which had once nourished the leaves
No longer moved
And the forest froze with it
The Stars
Poem | JW Erxeblen | 8
Photograph | Alekh Desai | 8
Beneath the stars, the ocean waves roll, Their light shines upon this mournful day. Their light upon my skin eases all toil. Their breath helps me stay safe from dismay. Their guidance leads me gently through the night.
Their help has led the ones before Their guidance leads us safely throughout our plight
We thank the light they give us evermore.
Yet often we forgot the help of them.
Sometimes the world may need a helping hand. They always know the way that leads the key.
But here I lay, my toes still in sand.
We owe everything to them, not to us.
Guidance through rainstorms, windstorms, frost, Guidance through night, through dawn, through dusk.
We give all our thanks for guidance that’s lost.
Nostalgia’s Lament
Short Story | Marcus Lichliter | 7
I reach down to take up the hoe once more and my weary back gives a groan in protest. My legs are stiff, and my arms are sore. The sun is slipping away beneath the horizon, illuminating the clouded sky with a host of pinks and oranges. The seeds are planted, the rest can be continued tomorrow. I decide to call it a day. Dropping the plow, I shuffle to the porch and sit down on my second favorite stool, nestled in its corner on the porch, and lean my legs along the railing. My weather-beaten back’s tantrum finally winds down, and I reach for the tobacco pouch on my waist, pipe in hand. As I reach down for the pouch, I feel a pang of sadness. My wife made me that fine deerskin pouch, and thinking of her makes me think of Sarah.
As the autumn wind whistles through my hair, I feel a concoction of happiness, guilt, regret, and nostalgia boiling and bubbling in the soup pot of my head. I remember the day of Sarah’s birth, both the happiest and saddest day of my life. I can see that beautiful, awful, day just as well as this one. I can still hear the screams of pain and see the blood, but that’s not what I remember best.
What most vividly remains is the noise of me and Sarah’s blended crying as we stared at my beautiful wife, her loving mother. We buried her in the carrot patch, beneath the knurly bright green oak and placed a large piece of white granite amongst the roots.
Since that day, all I’ve had is Sarah and the farm, with its fields of wheat and its pumpkin patch. I raised them both myself, and I hold vivid memories of each. I remember pulling the plow in the spring with baby Sarah running around behind me, scattering my seeds to the wind as we both laughed. I remember in the summer, when Sarah and I went fishing and she threw my best rod in the river as the sun beat down through the leaves onto our backs. I remember Sarah riding on my shoulders as we went out to pick the apples in the fall, the sun shining over the looming mountains, with my throbbing back as a constant testament. I remember teaching her to read and write in the winter as we huddled around the hearth, with the picture of me and her mother above the mantle. I could almost feel her gazing down at us, smiling.
The years flew by, and both the farm and Sarah flourished. I was able to start an herb garden and a small apple orchard by the brook, despite the rocky dirt. It was under the shade of those trees that Sarah… ah, what was it? I look around and see the ball of yarn in the windowsill. I remember now, she always knitted there, but that ball of tangled yarn knits itself into a leash and drags my mind, kicking and screaming, back toward the present, but not all the way. It drags me to her departure.
She had been sitting beside me in that window, knitting, when she told me. She wanted to go to the city, see the world beyond my farm, have adventures like those in all the books I had read to her. I had said no, since I needed her help here on the farm. I was getting older, and my body wasn’t what it used to be. She said that I didn’t care about her ambitions and her future, that I was chaining her to live the life that I had led all over again.
We had a fight, one that made the leaves shake and the pond ripple. In the end, she stormed out, and I watched in horror as her silhouette disappeared into the sunset.
I felt I hadn’t told her something important as I stormed back inside and made dinner. It took until the next evening to realize she wasn’t coming back, and in that horrifying moment, I remembered what I had forgotten to say. I hadn’t told her I was thankful for her. I hadn’t told her I was proud of her. I hadn’t even told her I loved her.
The door creaks open and I hear, like music to my ears, “Dad, I’m home.”
I sigh. I puff out a final ring of smoke as I turn back toward the front door. I imagine my family behind it, my wife whistling a tune at the stove, a little Sarah running around the table in circles, giggling all the way. I open the door and the vision collapses, just as my life did before it. I am at the table, staring into the candle when I hear a knock at the door. The door creaks open and I hear, like music to my ears, “Dad, I’m home.”
October
Poem | Bennet Zambrano | 8
Photograph | James Meza | 8
Rain trickling down from the sky;
The sun begins to shrink and disappear,
The thunder warns of coming trouble.
The air is dense, glazed with water;
Shrieking lightning illuminates the sky
But the sky returns to blinding darkness
Even the downpour is obscured.
Soaked concrete and wilting flowers;
Death in the path of the strongest storm,
Trembling under its monstrous shadow,
Glass scatters in the sky, the rain of crystals
The tempest continues on and leaves us
Never-ending, ever-forceful,
The universe isn’t always kind;
The storm does not pause to spare us.
The Hunter’s Veil
Poem | Alekh Desai | 8
Photograph | Ward Beasley | 8
A scarlet red dot on a half green leaf
With its head up high and its wings in a sheath
Its coat, like blood, flies through the day
For its skin, like coal, ushers a shadowed way
Its razor sharp legs rest on dark soil
But not a scratch it leaves, and for no one it toils
For this predator will murder its prey
Wreaking havoc in its way
A spider crouches, sensing its doom
While the dot’s fierce gaze fills the gloom
The spider flees, but finds no breath
The lady of the bugs delivers its kiss of death
Violet Light
Poem | Bowman Ellis| 7
Photograph | William Cho | 8
Through the sun’s rays right to our eyes
Gives us everything to where we could cry
Ruined by the moon or else we wouldn’t see
The lives under the cracks but everywhere else, unfree
Born from switch and wire once you are awake
Without we fumble around while it shimmers on lakes
Twinkles through space but none think to know
Because else gives us color and this makes us go
What gives our sight something that shines bright
Or what scares little children
What is the blackest night
Stone’s Language
Poem | Andrew Langford | 7 Photograph | Bennet Zambrano | 8
I walked a path, winding through the wood,
And saw a pebble in the midst of the road.
How long has it been there? I do not know.
How many scars can a little rock show?
Then I just realize that I’m wasting my time.
Do all of my thoughts really need to rhyme?
I’m not Dr. Seuss, with the Lorax and Grinch,
In all of this time, I have moved not an inch.
What gives it its color? What gives it its shape?
Why is it the size of a grape?
Why doesn’t it shine? Why doesn’t it glow?
The real answer is… how should I know?
But I don’t want to leave this lone little rock,
Resting in the mud that encases my sock.
My arm moves fast, and my brain cannot block it
I scoop up the small stone to place in my pocket.
Is it weathered by wind? Is it weathered by rain?
I can’t understand this little rock’s pain.
How many years has it laid in the dirt?
Does it taste sweet, like a chocolate dessert?
As it passes the light, I see a slight glint.
It looks like a spark from a steel and a flint.
Maybe it’s diamonds, or rubies, or gold found in banks,
On the rock’s back, cracks to spell the word “Thanks.”
I Never Break My Promises
Short Story | Ishaan Siddamshetty | 8
Photograph | Caden Lim | 8
The heavy aroma of caramelized sugar and caffeine wafts through the air. The constant underlying chatter was like white noise as she waited. New Yorkers hustled by the cafe windows on their way to work, the elegiac atmosphere weighing down their shoulders. The whir of the espresso machines was music to her ears, like the soft pattering of rain.
Life can separate soulmates, couples, and star-crossed lovers, like that of Romeo and Juliet. But the true relationships, the true bond formed between the two, is a sacred promise– one that can reunite anyone, no matter what the circumstances are.
She was here on a promise, one she thought could never be fulfilled. It derives from a beautiful, stemming relationship, only to be torn apart by opportunity. A brief kiss on the cheek, a phone number, and a commitment was all that was left of him. “I’ll find you, I promise.” The last words he told her before he left, his dusty blue pickup disappearing in the horizon. From then on, life and misery were that of yin and yang, for they coexisted together. The sky was darker, the sun a little less bright. But today was the change, a silver lining, the completion of a pledge two star-crossed lovers both remembered for years.
The store bell clinked as a new customer ducked inside, confused. He looked around, and when his eyes finally locked with hers, he smiled and said, “I never break my promises.” The conversation picked off where it left a decade ago, but the ones talking had matured. Lucrative business opportunities molding the man’s life into something fruitful, but empty. He had no one to enjoy it with.
The air grew electric as the chat intensified towards the true goal of this meeting: to rekindle what had once been lost. The man aimed to share the fruits of his labor with the only woman he loved: the charming, smart woman who was the spark to his flame. The funny, witty woman who had always made him laugh. She is who he wanted to be with, and he loved her for it.
Her cool and confident demeanor couldn’t hide sweaty palms and blush apparent on her face. Her heart internally agreed with him, but her mind took a step back. They would take it slow, start from the beginning. They would learn about each other, laugh together, and, perhaps, love each other dearly.
B
R
R E E A D R E A M S
Poem | Raphael Deng | 5
Photograph | Truman Sun | 8
I dreamed I was a piece of bread
Spread on me is cheese
The butter on the bread is gold
I loved the nice cool breeze
And through the back of hungry mouths
A feeding I would go
When I was once a piece of bread
A few minutes ago
I dreamed I was a piece of bread
Put on a china plate
The dinner table is set now
I’m placed beside red grapes.
A toaster for my sauna
It made me crunchy toast
When I was once a piece of bread
A few minutes ago
I dreamed I was a soggy loaf
Nobody will eat me
Put on a wooden slanted shelf
My outer crust moldy
And through the market I am sold
Reduced is my good price.
When I was once a soggy loaf
I hope to be sold twice
A Sunshine Sonnet
Poem | Thomas Costa | 8
Photograph | Ayden Yang | 7
The sunlight shines throughout the boundless day,
A bright radiance on which all life depends.
But just at dusk again returns the gray, And in its place another gleam transcends.
The deep, black night, illumined by the moon.
But not for long, as soon returns the sun, With shimmering light cast gently on the dew.
Thus one more day begins, another one!
And then, again, the sky lit up with blue, The endless Earthly cycle starts once more.
This time the clouds attempt to block the view. With them comes rain; the sky begins to pour.
But showers don’t remain for long, you see,
The sun returns to fill plants’ life with glee
And all the woods have a victory won
All from the burning ball we call the Sun
In Your Head
Poem | Bennet Zambrano | 8
Drawing | Truman Sun | 8
The raucous stomps and cheers surround you
Your eyes flit upon flashes and jumping voices
The smell of spilt popcorn makes your mouth water
Ravenous, reaching screams beg for your glance
The unrelentless buzz of cameras follows you
Fans grab for your limbs and yank you back and forth
As you make your way through the field
Pangs of light cover your eyes from the sight
Of hard-won approval in the crowd
One Step Begins
Poem | Sebastian Haidenberg | 5 Photograph | Bennett Zambrano | 8
The puffy clouds dot the bluish sky as I cross the road to the park
The sun works its way west, the sky becoming dark.
The autumn wind sweeps through the leaves as people head on home
I like to take these evening walks, I find it fun to roam.
My heavy backpack hits my spine as I bound through the trees
The chilly air invades my eyes, but still I love the breeze.
The field is browning day by day, as winter’s drawing near
Although it’s somewhat lonely, I feel peaceful when I’m here.
I loop around the faded path, the shadows turning long
It’s silent, so I fill the air by whistling a song.
I turn around and start to take the lengthy journey back
With my return to nature done, I record my final track.
Flying Solo
Short Story | Brennan Bosita | 8
Photograph | Alekh Desai | 8
Eighteen months since he left; eighteen months; alone, with his mother. The boy sits in his solitude, a pen stealing his thoughts to imprint on paper. As the rolling ball continues to bleed, it concludes: I miss him. He leans back in his chair.
Pictures of the familial void surround his bedside. Memories accompany them, shining light on the boy’s idealized image. Mountains of letters take up space on the floor, promising “good health” and a “speedy return.” When is he coming back? Eyes pinch together. A tear comfortingly journeys down his cheek. His fists curl up, but they lack the will to fight.
Before he knows it, she’s dragged him into the car. The red metal door slams shut, and a worn key starts the rusted thing. The neighborhood flies backwards, and an optimistic rhythm emerges between the wheels and the asphalt.
“But, for the first time in a while, those eyes looked... hopeful.”
His mother didn’t take it well. The moment her son’s dear father left, her confidence fled. A crumbling, sobbing mess was all that was left behind. To distract herself, she took on extra duties, working past midnight most days. She’s hardly ever home. Except for today.
She walks into his room, her hands gently grasping his shoulders.
“You ready to go? It’s your birthday!” Her attempt at positivity masked her constant despair.
He sighs, yet he can’t help but smile. His birthday was the one day where it was okay to celebrate. The one day they could stop thinking about what they were missing.
The chair creaks as he stands. His face meets his mother’s, and he is painfully reminded how the stress has worn on her once beautiful face.
Gazes meet each other in the rearview mirror, the familiar eyes meeting his tired face. They looked happy, even. He shakes his head. It’s just my birthday; it’s nothing special. He looks out into the maze of passing buildings, attempting to clear his head. Finally, he sees his favorite restaurant: which she drives right by. He looks up at the rearview again, but his mother’s eyes don’t meet his. The buildings slowly begin to morph themselves into a highway. To the airport. His mind races, searching for an answer in his expanse of thoughts. And then it clicks, but there’s no way.
Foreign feelings, forgotten by the boy, suddenly spread throughout his head. Excitement makes its way into the boy’s gut, and his depression transforms into hope. Cautiously, he drives them back, but a true smile sneaks onto his face, driven by his sudden happiness.
The realization renders time to a limp, and the boy has waited well enough when they arrive at the airport. Though his mother tries to keep it a surprise, her air of hope gives it away. He sprints to the terminal, despite shouts from his mother. Is he really...? Passersby reprimand him for running, yet he pays them no notice.
As he approaches baggage claim, he sees a familiar face, dressed in a camo green. The boy practically flies into the elated arms. Of dad; of home.
Bonded
Poem | Brennan Bosita | 8 Graphic Design | Alekh Desai | 8
Two souls, adrift
The serene night robbing the veil of shadow, Giving light to their forbidden faces.
Their illicit presence tightens their chains,
The criminal act of freedom tearing their tethers to a life they once knew.
A life of prisoned innocence. Their disgusting lips meet,
Stolen from a life of nobility,
Branding on them a creed of selfish joyfulness,
Cheated contentment lowering the unbreakable walls of their illegal hearts.
Paradox
The Army Man’s Plight
Poem | Max Lin | 8
Photograph | Ward Beasley | 8
‘Forward March!’‘ Halt!’ ‘Deploy into Line!’ ‘Present Arms!’
These notes have become a ringing resonance of the past, ‘FIRE!’ ‘Load!’
Cracks of thunder and lightning roar across the battleground, Where we marched, brother-on-brother, Man-on-man, each a pensile head at the range
Yet on the situation map, we’re a stencil of blocks And gures, with cores not realized
Where we are seemingly nothing but dolls in a plastic house, Where we are seemingly nothing but men and victors
For when mothers become sonless, Sisters become brotherless, And the plates of victory, and the badges of courage And the medals of honor, and the wealth and warmth Are placed on those who; Throughout a war, They lose more than they gain.
Vision Upon Ash and Blossoms
Short Story | Max Lin | 8
Photograph | Ward Beasley | 8
The blossoms have bloomed, yet I mourn while others are engrossed in their magnificence. I mourn for my son; now a vessel of ash on the earth.
He had a vision; a future, where we could be free from strife and slavery. Free from all the evils that plague our world. Free to be who we are. Day by day, he would tell me stories and visions of pride and rejoice under a country. My son was marching, alongside his adored leader. And he was willing to fight, die, and sacrifice what he had for that vision. It shatters me knowing that all of him ended so suddenly.
A few days ago, I was told he was dead. He was tasked with sabotaging the Imperial’s supply lines. He and his comrades would often blow up these undefended outposts to support the larger battles nearby. It came to no one that the Imperials would defend any of them. The invaders’ supply lines were thin, and many guard posts consisted of at most three soldiers and sometimes just slaves held by the Imperials.
box of equipment for the enemy, snaking and swirling. I could imagine the sweating, the task now dead ahead. And then, they ran. When he and the two other sabotagers ran forward to blow the train up, they looked up— far too late.
Perched on the train, there was a man. Carrying a gun.
A vision can actually blind.
And within the millisecond of a distant crack, one of his friends fell to his knees, then to his stomach. I could hear the sound of the heartbeat, the glistening sweat tracing from his forehead down to his tattered shirt, rushing to activate the bomb. And within the millisecond of another crack, now the loudness of a roar, I could see from my son’s eyes, the ground leaving his vision and the black inundating, then his vision regaining with the sand on his eyes, then black again. The visions he had for the future left him, and the blackness of nothingness hooded him.
The train steamed on.
So I was surprised he was dead. He was, that day, tasked with blowing up a railroad. The target was a box train, carrying ammunition, rearms, and other necessities for the invading army.
I could see what he envisioned at that moment: the thump of the train gears and the screech of its tires in the distance. The hiss of the engine, the shape of the line, like a constrictor, slowly rose into vision. The black smoke rose in plumes, like a crow’s feathers—box after
Others, including me, would call him crazy. Why would he choose to join the 8th Route Army? But he had that vision.
And now, during the time the blossom petals fall, When the dining table is empty, When each of my friends is hanged, shot, humiliated, I question, that after seeing what he sacrificed for the future he believed in. And from his sacrfice, he learned that a vision can actually blind.
We Were Forgotten
Poem
| Ritam Setu | 7
Photograph | James Meza | 8
Five thousand years, an eon, or more
Since our wizened captain abandoned us on the shore
Of a abondoned country of which nobody knows
Five thousand years, an eon, or more.
The small mackerel lay on the wood-fired stove
As we rested inside a cave near the cove
The men are restless, our captain is gone
The small mackerel lay on the wood-fired stove
Oh, how the good old times have passed us by
From when we were catching fireflies
Now we are stranded, with no hope in sight
Oh, how the good old times have passed us by
The Admiral
Poem | Marcus Lichliter | 7
Photograph | James Meza | 8
He holds his shining blade aloft
The cannons thunder and roar
He sees behind, a muzzle’s flash, Then tastes the bullet’s bite
Though the other ship is limping, He won’t live out the night.
The nauseous flag departs his view
He awakens in a room of blood
His heart pulses through his skin
And as the darkness rushes in he knows his life is done
But through the black
He hears a final whisper: “We won.”
Perfect Execution
Short Story | Brennan Bosita | 8
Photograph | James Meza | 8
It was perfect. The planning, the mapping... All of it.
But rumor spreads like wildfire, and eventually, a canary began to sing tales of a violent murder. One enacted by a relatively timid woman.
In principle, it was simple. Death takes many forms; she just had to choose. But no one could have known it was her. She covered everything. Every single possible method of identification was meticulously anticipated. Except one.
A crowd watches intently as she pridefully struts onto the stage, her head held high. Her brilliant purple dress drifts behind her, looming as if prepared for a long-awaited spectacle. The satin fabric presses against her skin, a calm wind caressing her beautiful face. The spring sunlight greets her like an old friend.
The crowd stays silent. Rusted hinges scream as a rotting wooden door gives way to a shadow dressed in black. A cloak, slightly stained with red, hugs the shadow’s skin. It drifts back to reveal a sinister, unapologetic axe. Boots clack on the weathered floor, approaching the woman’s gorgeous figure. The shadow’s hands reach for the axe’s menacing handle. It rises, poised to strike.
The woman combs through the crowd frantically. Then she sees him. Her accomplice.
“Nothing will be the same.”
The bastard that ruined everything. His countenance shifts to match hers, though shame radiates throughout his expression. She continues to glare, one thought penetrating her prison of a mind. How could you?
The axe falls.
Her smooth, soft hands are suddenly met with the rough fibers of a worn, old rope behind her back. Gracefully, she kneels, her legs meeting the cold, ancient stone of a pedestal. Below her act, her eyes dart through the crowd, searching for someone.
The Game-winning Point
Poem | Aum Karra | 7
Photograph | Landon Davis | 8
The ball soared into
The back of the net
I had won the game,
I had won a bet
The roars of the audience
The cheers of the team
All faded away
I just achieved my dream
But the audience was cheering
For the other guys
They were cheering about how
I was on the wrong side
My vision darkened
My heart just froze
My body felt numb
Right down to my toes
The yell of the team was
You sold, you sold
Then the referee spoke
Number 13, own goal
Paradox
Morality Of
NOISE
Poem | Evan Rogers | 8
Photograph | Alekh Desai | 8
Annoying at its core, the bug begins to storm my ears
With no regard for any of my bug-related fears
Swatting at it, everyone is out to spill its blood
Infuriated noise takes hold, the buzz becomes a flood
But if I sit and wonder, an idea perseveres
What if I am the mosquito everybody hears
When I am ill-tempered, or when I’m overjoyed
I tend to sound exactly like that buzzy, high-pitched noise
The Sailor’s Lament
Short Story | Ishaan Siddamshetty | 8
Photograph | Bennet Zambrano | 8
The sea stretches miles to nowhere, its rippling dunes and waves mirroring one another. The grains of Earth’s rusting blood engulf every crevice of my body, and beads of sweat come and go in the parched sultriness. I’m alone. I’m a break against her smooth wrinkles, a black strand among her aging beige scalp.
What is that? The oasis dances in and out of sight, beckoning me with the evergiving promise of satisfaction. The looming accord presses at me: is this another cruel joke of Mother Nature, or is it a gift, a repentance? Do I squander the last drops of energy I have, or do I keep it for something greater? I slog forward toward the image, for impatience subjugates logic. I will try my chances with Fate.
Every step pilfers a priceless drop of energy, and my mind begins to meander through helpless thoughts. Am I fighting for a futile cause? I am but a nameless soul. The imprints left behind will be rinsed away, my body fading into white steel, and the world will carry on. It’s time to sleep. My blustery, rusting skin implores me to rest, the knot of thoughts in my mind tightening in confusion. Suddenly, the sky above me collapses. Sleep is the perfect medicine for my sickness. The barren skin will be cleaned in flowing rivers brighter than the Sun in my dream, and the golden roads gilded with plentiful fruits will finally pilot me to my destination. The sweet feather beds among the clouds will rejuvenate me, so I will march further on. Yes, I will go to sleep now, go to sleep….
Priviledge of Judgement
Poem | Max Lin | 8 Photograph | James Meza | 8
We take for granted,
The ability so fantastic and sumptuous,
Bestowed upon us to not be anyone but ourselves, “There is only one Lawgiver and Judge, the one who is able to save and destroy. But you — who are you to judge your neighbor?”
Apart from the jury and the gavel of fate, We take upon our daily lives,
The verve of thinking this of that,
To believe this to be orthodox and that to be foolish
To believe this to be ethical and that to be genocidal
To believe them as good, and them as evil
To believe, even our petty minds and sinful souls, Can judge without an evil eye and an unjust hand, Without a twisted gut or distorted perception
Because the reality is, Judgment is not in our hands.
In Light it Lies in Wait
Poem | Graham Robinson | 7
Photograph | Jacob Gail | 8
Quietly in shadows lurk
A force so dark there is not black
In man’s every move
A power bleak and cold
That pushes him to split beyond agreement
But shadows are only a mask
And beyond it lives balance
Because in emptiness is warmth
And in the unknown lives knowledge
Balance is strength
One that goes beyond even the stars
Rapacity
Poem | Bowman Ellis | 7
Photograph | Truman Sun | 8
Have you not
Had this before
Yet something else Drives you forward
Unto what is
Not not not
Have you not
Done this before
Seen what is
And without a thought
Stepped forward and Drop drop drop
Have you not Fought this before
Ran within
A doubtless storm
But the thought of Clonk clonk clonk
Have you not
Cried this before Finally are
Without a core
Until the sound of Shot shot shot
A Deep Look into the Psychology of a Parrot
Poem | Marcus Lichliter | 7
Photograph | Evan Rogers | 8
“Polly, do you want a cracker?”
“Polly wants a cracker,” the parrot on my shoulder squawks back.
Is the parrot conscience, replying due to want of a cracker, or is he merely repeating my words like a broken mirror? I feed Polly a cracker.
“Did Polly like the cracker?”
“Yes” says the green bird.
Polly’s reply wasn’t contained within the question, but he could have picked up the word somewhere as a response people give to similar questions without understanding its meaning. I sprinkle some salt on a cracker and feed it to Polly.
“This cracker has more salt on it. Do you like it better?”
From the bird’s beak, “Salt cracker much good.”
The reply contains much of the question, but “much” and “good” are in context, albeit with bad grammar. I wonder, if given an appropriate answer to every question, could the bird mimic English without knowing the meaning? Or is he like us, a conscience being, stating its requests? How would we even tell the difference?
“Why does Polly want a cracker?” I ask, scratching the parrot’s head.
“I do not know. Why do you ask?”
PARA
Victory and Death
Short Story | Alekh Desai | 8
It was the morning of the battle. A milky fog blanketed the rolling hills of earth, bathing the lush ground. Fresh dew from the morning’s rain, dappling the grass, soaking Virginian soil. The trees, skinny and mature, host ripe fruit, their colorful pigment glittering the trees like brilliant stars in a bleak, night sky. The thick clouds, engulfing the sky and the sun, veil the army’s camp, fabricating the perfect condition for ambush. It was time for General Lee to attack.
“Men, assemble your horses. The time is near to strike. This is not only for your country, but for you comrades, and liberty,” yelled Lee. “Picket, see me in my tent.”
The eyes of the weather-beaten, grimy, exhausted, and hungry soldiers fell on the distinguished general of the Confederacy, George Pickett.
“Sir,” Pickett said quietly, “What do you desire?”
the skies. Lee was like a musician surrounded by an orchestra, the harmony of nature dancing around him. A clearing was located in the dense patch of forest, which had one singular, stubby stump. And there, on that little piece of wood, was a book.
“Good heavens,” Lee thought. “What is a book doing at the center of the woods?”
With one swift motion, he grabbed the overflowing book. Suddenly, with a flash of dim light, the book turned to a page: Hello, it read.
“Hello,” Lee said gruffly.
But this book of dreams didn’t respond. Instead, it flipped to a page that read: A Biography of Robert E. Lee. Lee, a curious man at heart, took the book in his leathery hands, spoiled by the dangers of war.
“ But the confidence in his soldiers’ eyes made him feel unbeatable.”
“Pickett, you have been a great leader,” stated Lee, “and I want you to lead a group of highly coordinated infantry. While General Meade is defending the main flank’s attack, you will blitz through their lines.”
“Yes Sir. We will not be defeated,” Pickett exclaimed “May the good Lord bless us all.” Lee prayed with an ominous tone.
As Lee strolled out of the tent, he was greeted by the wafting smell of bacon, a delicacy for a soldier. The crisp wind that was tussling with his grayed hair was moving south, the perfect direction for an ambush. Taking the initiative, Lee decided that he would scout the area ahead. In the middle of the terrain, there were blooming wildflowers surrounded by drenched moss. The colossal hickory trees that loomed before Lee were like angels, ordained by God, reaching to
His brain throbbing with anticipation, he picked up the book and read the first words. His heartbeat was quickening with the more he read, and his eyes consumed more words like a fire starved from wood. He had transformed his life forever. He read of the great adventures that he would have, the heroic deeds that he would get recognized for, and the fall of his beloved country. After realizing that he would ultimately lose, Lee marched back to camp lost in thought.
“I have an announcement,” Lee said.
Lee had made his decision. He would not change the future. He knew his fate and would accept it. After everyone gathered around Lee, he said four words, dripping with death.
“Victory will be ours!” he exclaimed.
olog 14- “My ‘wall’ is almost done. As for the
A Desperate Cry of Why
Poem | Taj Clayton | 7 Photograph | Ben Kirby | 8
The sour light shone through my pupils
As if laughing at such a feeble affair
The world around me throbs red
A smooth and loud pulse
I’ve been blinded by pure sight Of a simple vexation
And my mouth lets out A desperate cry of Why?
The Neverending Path
Poem | Brennan Bosita | 8
Photograph | James Meza | 8
On the arid wasteland of the road, the asphalt split before me.
I had a choice, an option.
Do I traverse down the path, and reach my destination, or abandon my journey,
“Leave, stop, quit, rest,” ringing in my mind like an incantation.
But I shall keep on striving;
Towards my goal I give my best. The dunes of the desert sand spray dust into my face,
Mirages only I understand; visual forms of lies.
My ambition is a ravenous beast, the flag ahead, my prey, I never cease to chase it, miles and miles and miles away.
Memberships and Awards
Columbia Scholastic Press Association (Membership)
National Scholastic Press Association (Membership)
CSPA Gold Crown 2016
CSPA Gold Crown 2017
NSPA Pacemaker Finalist 2018
CSPA Gold Crown 2019
NSPA Spread Design of the Year 2023
NSPA Spread Design of the Year 2024
NSPA Pacemaker 2024
Copy Number of 300
Mission
Inspired by its upper school predecessor, The Marque, the Mini Marque aims to showcase the literary and artisic talents of the Middle School. The Mini-Marque is a student-driven elective that meets during the school day. The elective accepts any interested seventh and eighth grade student, regardless of experience. Sumbissions are encouraged in fifth through eighth grade and are judged blindly and equally for publication. The class is responsible for reviewing and selecting submissions, editing text, and creating spreads as a team. Each member is responsible for cultivating their design skills, collaborating with other members, evaluating modes of writing, and teaching other members as they develop their editing and design skills.
Colophon
The Mini-Marque is a multimedia magazine created by the Middle School of St. Mark’s School of Texas. The magazine cover is printed 4/4 in 4cp on #130 Polar Bear Velvet The body text font is Marco, the title font is Curve, the folio font is Ambroise, and the pullout quote font is Sommet. The staff used Adobe InDesign, Illustrator, and Photoshop to create the magazine content. Publication was done on personal laptops. 300 copies were printed for distribution to students, staff, and families free of charge.
Thank You
Special thanks to the members of the administrative team who allow us to produce this magazine: David Dini, John Ashton, Dean Clayman, and Jason Lange. We would also like to thank the humanities and fine arts departments for encouraging submissions throughout the year. Lastly, thank you to our teacher, Mrs. Maxfield, for pushing us to finish this magazine and guiding us along the journey.
Team Members
Advisor: Danielle Maxfield
Editors: Nathan Aurora and Alekh Desai
The Team:
Nathan Aurora | 7
Saarth Bagdure | 7
Alekh Desai | 8
Lucas Gong | 8
Aiden Ji | 7
Aum Karra | 7
Max Lin | 8
Eugene Maimbo | 7
Rehaan Ranmal | 8
Ayden Yang | 7