The Talon Fall 2018

Cover Design: Spence Whitman, Ashby Shores, and Blythe Brewster Cover Art: Falling Down | Spence Whitman | digital art Title Page Design: Staff Title Page Art: Tyler | Ben Antonio | oil pastel, acrylic, and watercolor | 11 x 17 in.

THE TALON Woodberry Forest School Fall 2018 Vol. 70, No. 1

Orange, Virginia | Rhew Deigl | ink on orange paper | 8 x 8 in.

Dear Readers, I’ve known The Talon for only a brief window of its history, four out of seventy years. Heraclitus said, “Everything flows,” and the evolution of The Talon fits that statement. I arrived on staff in 2016 when our magazine was filled with social commentary, but the content has gradually turned inward, focusing on personal reflection. A ceaseless current pulls us downstream.

This year, we will take a retrospective look at our past seventy years in publication. Our art teacher, Mr. Kelly Lonergan, recently announced his retirement. He has been a giant for The Talon, both through his strong instruction of artists and his advice for the use of art in the magazine. Mr. Lonergan let us select drawings out of stacks of his sketchbooks of his twenty-three years at Woodberry. These sketches show everything from beloved teachers to students who have long since left—all the stories that build our school’s rich traditions.

Buildings have been renovated and seniors have graduated, but our core spirit remains.

The Talon begins this fall with “The Shadows Fell Sideways,” an eerie, almost supernatural story by Riley Fletcher. We end with “Lucy,” a character piece by Taylor Tucker that nudges us to seek something extraordinary in our day-today lives. From the stylized and modern art of Walker Antonio to the evocative urban photography of Willis He, our visuals push the reader to find wordless stories.

This edition of The Talon is but another link in the chain, but we hope it will be a strong link, one that promotes thought, curiosity, and an artistic spirit. We have sought beauty from all corners of campus—in the raw sketches from our past and in the flashy art of our future—beauty that we hope to compile into one magazine, one little nugget of the present that will soon become the past.

This edition is an odyssey, a quest for contemplation. “Come, my friends,” Tennyson wrote, “’tis not too late to seek a newer world.”

Thank you, Ashby Shores

Prose Fiction

Nonfiction

09 | The Shadows Fell Sideways Riley Fletcher 16 | A Trip Down Maple Lane Blythe Brewster 23 | You’re Going Down, Old Friend Mack Daniels 33 | The Major Carson Becker 36 | White Noise Wils Vosteen 41 | In Exile Xiangnong Yu 50 | Like a Bonfire Robert Triplett 74 | Lucy Taylor Tucker

47 | It’s 1 AM Blythe Brewster 59 | Pirate Island Ryan Kauffman 70 | The Fight Wils Vosteen

Free Day! | Kelly Lonergan ^ ballpoint pen on legal pad | 10.5 x 8 in.

The Boy Who Would Be Prefect | Kelly Lonergan < ballpoint pen on legal pad | 10.5 x 8 in.

Poetry 12 | Ghost Ranch Elias Jarvinen 20 | At the Battlefield of Talas Ashby Shores 28 | Winter 1977 Mark Wu 31 | Saluting the Private Sam Long 48 | The Almighty Milo Jacobs 56 | Wageni Taylor Tucker

Untitled | Kelly Lonergan ballpoint pen on legal pad | 10.5 x 8 in. >

64 | Fire, Ember, Coal Blythe Brewster 67 | Siren of the Winter Riley Fletcher 73 | Dancing Days Robert Triplett 78 | The Deadly Snake Luke Stone 82 | Late Ryan Kauffman 85 | To the Hounds at Our Museâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Heels Rhew Deigl

Art 08 | Unchained Walker Antonio 11 | Where Are We? Walker Antonio 13 | Magic Mountains Spence Whitman 17 | Spring at The Forest Hugh Monsted 25 | Mania Carson Becker 30 | A Life’s Work Liam King 32 | Self Portrait #1 Spence Whitman 37 | Monday Night Walker Antonio 40 | What’s the Truth? Walker Antonio 46 | Sea Monster Pierce Richardson 51 | American Summer Camp Spence Whitman

52 | Killing the Youth Walker Antonio 55 | Music Man Walker Simmons 58 | Sailing Sunset Pierce Richardson 65 | Trees Walker Simmons 69 | Rhino Carson Becker 72 | Girl on Dock Pierce Richardson 75 | Untitled Kelly Lonergan 77 | Caught with Phone in a Sacred Space Kelly Lonergan 83 | Self Portrait #2 Spence Whitman 84 | In the Stars Spence Whitman 86 | Stingray Boy Jimmy Muse 87 | My Vibe Gabe Brown

Other People’s Hell | Kelly Lonergan | ballpoint pen on legal pad | 10.5 x 8 in.

Photography 14 | Irish Dream Davant Latham 15 | Bars Mark Wu 18 | Swings Xiangnong Yu 21 | Overlook Parker Watt 22 | Mother and Son Dylan Yen 26 | Mr. Fujio Carson Becker 27 | Smoke Carson Becker 29 | Quail Plantation Asa McManamy 35 | Sandman Parker Watt 38 | City Unseen Willis He 39 | Spotlight Willis He 43 | Split Sunset Daniel Lee Myung 44 | Resolutions Xiangnong Yu 45 | Blessings Gia Khanh Do 49 | Great Buddha Carson Becker 57 | Franklin Walker Simmons 61 | Ocean Spray Tripp Hood 62 | Family Walker Simmons 63 | Native Joshua Campbell 66 | Full Presence Spencer Doerr 68 | The Beast Jack Sloan 71 | Electric Plunge Spencer Doerr 79 | Rainbow Woman Willis He 80 | The Tuna Cutter Carson Becker 81 | Market Charlie Thompson 88 | Tunnel Vision Taft Gantt

D-Hall | Kelly Lonergan | ballpoint pen on legal pad | 10.5 x 8 in.

Unchained | Walker Antonio | acrylic | 18 x 24 in.

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THE SHADOWS FELL SIDEWAYS

fiction by Riley Fletcher

T

ommy Walker didn’t have to tell me that there was something “off” about the woods behind Hillside Court.

I could see it from the first moment my family and I pulled in to the cul-de-sac those six years ago. The trees were too tall to see anything behind, and the umbrella of the leaves draped the yards in darkness. But I was intrigued, and it didn’t take long for me to ask Tommy when we might end up going back there.

I would ride my bike to Tommy’s house often, and if I listened closely, a strange hum would rise from the dense trunks and echo through the street, softly yet eerily.

We sat under the cherry tree in his front yard one afternoon. Directly across from mine, Tommy’s house was much wider and more spacious. He whittled away with extreme focus at a twig he found on the ground.

“Do you want to go into the woods?”

I asked.

Tommy stared down at his pocket knife, transfixed on the wood shavings scattered over metal. A strange silence followed. “Maybe, but we’re not really supposed to.”

“Why not?” I answered.

“I’ve heard that something lives back there,” he said. “I know it sounds stupid, but my brother and his friends all swear…I mean…”

“What?”

His eyes were distant, as if looking into his mind rather than into the yellowing trees. He pressed deeply to find the right words. “They called it a Bogeyman. It’s supposed to live a mile or so back. My brother went there one day and heard

a creepy howl, or something…I don’t know. But he was pretty scared. I believed him when he told me.”

I thought back to when I believed in ghosts, scaring myself out of sleep from creaks in the attic floor.

The sun began to set, shining orange light on the front line of trunks but darkening the ones behind, and Tommy began to realize that I wouldn’t laugh off his story.

“Show me,” I said definitively.

He shook his head. “It’s too late, we won’t make it back before dark.”

“Tomorrow?” I replied.

Tommy smiled sincerely as if to say that finally, after all this time, he had found someone else to trust with his personal fears. He had opened up to me completely.

The forest looked darker than usual on the ride home.

I

f Tommy’s plan was to be secretive, the bellowing crunches of the leaves 11

below our feet would have blown our cover. The wood was unnavigable, but it wasn’t a labyrinth. It was a sea of briars and twigs picked up by a whirlpool and

ony. And we ran, jumping over invisible roots on the forest bed, arms out to avoid trees, never slowing down, never stopping. I could hear Tommy ahead of me, but his being was completely lost. A light ahead flickered—a porch light.

Then Tommy’s shadow emerged, then mine, and we had escaped the darkness.

Unzipping his bag, he removed two knives And Watched them shimmer in the light through the treetops. spat out. The density of the treetops was impossible to see through, and we had long lost sight of the rear of Tommy’s house in the wall of tree trunks. Pure isolation.

The precise time was a mystery to us, but I could tell from the darkening forest that the sun was in the process of setting since the shadows fell sideways on the leafy graveyard. The forest floor had become riddled with stones and branches, and the trees grew thicker as we explored.

Tommy’s eyes darted around the forest now, scrambling from tree to tree.

Every step was less assertive, as if he was walking backwards by the time he spoke again. “I…I don’t really know where we are anymore.”

The shadows fell further. Tommy and I made up the only sound left in the wood.

Then a bird squawked.

And the wind whistled.

And the forest exploded in a whirlwind of sound—a piercing howl from the underbrush, shaking leaves from above—as if the forest and everything in it had suddenly jumped.

Tommy screamed amidst the cacoph12

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he next time was different. A week of pondering the existence of the creature behind the court passed before Tommy wanted to go in again. The incident had shaken me to my core. What could have caused such a disturbance?

We sat on the curb of the cul-de-sac this time, the pavement that cut a hole out of the surrounding wilderness. Tommy sat with his backpack already on his shoulders. I kicked mine around my feet.

“If we’re going, we should go now.

We’re going to run out of daylight before long,” Tommy said assertively.

I said nothing.

He stood up. “I’m going now.”

I followed.

Once again Tommy led me through that pathless jungle, that ocean of floral waste. I recognized general patterns of direction, but the forest remained unreadable. He stopped abruptly as we approached the first clearing and sat on a fallen tree. Unzipping his bag, he removed two knives and watched them shimmer in the light through the treetops. He offered me one, extending the handle as if he were getting ready to

throw.

“Where’d you get those?” I asked.

I gently took the blade, and Tommy tucked his through his belt loop.

“My kitchen. It’s no big deal, but if we see something, we have to be ready,” he answered. His words were weighty and solemn. I realized that this time it wasn’t a game.

Tommy’s hand hovered gently over the blade the way a lion gently waits before pouncing. The tension in his stride was tangible. His gait was a greater disturbance to me than the forest was.

Clouds rolled in as day became dusk.

Leaves brushed our shoulders seductively, and once again the forest floor was an invisible minefield. Tommy’s escalating compulsion was nearing its peak; his hand now firmly grasped the knife.

Another haven of grass appeared, deep blue light pouring in from the darkening sky.

“You take this side. I’ll take the other. This will be the base, and we’ll wait for him here,” Tommy said. Night encroached. As did the Bogeyman.

Tommy hadn’t taken two steps away before the howl came from my direction; an inhuman cry of startling volume and weight that would ring in my ears for months to come.

Then the blow.

I crumpled in a heap in the dead grass, my face hitting the ground before I recognized the pain. Had the howl reduced me to such a state? What had happened? Why was I on the ground?

I tried to lift my arms to stand, but my left one wouldn’t budge, and I fell again.

I reached for my shoulder and pulled back a hand covered in dark liquid, making my stomach churn and my vision blur. Head spinning, I rolled myself over to look towards the beast and accept my fate: death at the hands of an elusive monster as I lay immobile in a clearing in the shaded wood.

But as my eyes closed and my mind went blank, I made out the distant voice of a boy, repeating “Oh my God, what did I do? Oh my God, what did I do?”

S

ix years later, I stare at the FOR SALE sign posted under the cherry tree. I didn’t see Tommy around much after the late-summer night in the woods. I have the scar from his kitchen knife just below my shoulder; it’s here to stay.

“It was probably a fox,” my mother told me. “It sounds like you just heard a fox, or a coyote, or maybe even somebody’s dog.”

After these six years, the sound no longer echoes through my head. It was

probably just a fox. Or a coyote. Or a dog.

Probably.

I glance behind his house to the treetops encircling his backyard. Maybe there is a Bogeyman, and he’s really still out there. Or maybe Tommy killed the Bogeyman, and the howl that night had been a miserable cry of defeat from a beast no longer feared. Or maybe Tommy Walker will take the Bogeyman with him when he leaves Hillside Court. 2

Where Are We? | Walker Antonio | mixed media | 16 x 18 in.

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Ghost Ranch free verse by Elias Jarvinen

The trees watched him like skeletons, the bark matching the dead wood of the neglected fence posts.

The grass and straw shattered underfoot, dry and thirsty.

The boyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s boots landed angrily, the leather marbled with veins where life had once been.

His eyes swept the drained palate, rotten brown streaked with sickly yellow.

He had come to count the calves, newly born, but there werenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even cows.

The field was empty, barren.

Some deathly moan stirred him.

His blood and bile churned.

He drifted toward the silhouette, the twisted figure.

It heaved and contortedâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; the exorcism, an unholy birth.

A metallic screech scraped the wind as the mother fell through the fence.

A ring of thorns, the wire, wrapped around her neck where a silky darkness pooled, staining the cursed ground.

The calf stared back at those fated trees as a gust of wind sang through the pasture.

The boy stood right behind.

It shivered and shut its eyes softly, without having seen another living soul.

Magic Mountains | Spence Whitman | colored pencil | 11 x 8.5 in. > 14

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Irish Dream | Davant Latham | Roundstone, Ireland | digital photography

Bars | Mark Wu | Hunan, China | digital photography

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A Trip Down Maple Lane fiction by Blythe Brewster

A

thin sheen of sweat shown on Gus Stockton’s brow as he strode purposefully down Maple Lane.

It was a fine spring day, just on the cusp of summer, and far too warm for the bulky overcoat he wore with his suit.

His attire had the desired effect, however. He appeared quite professional.

Maple Lane was a quiet street in a small suburban neighborhood, eerily like where Stockton himself had grown up. Every façade looked the same, and practically every driveway housed a 1950 Ford, with freshly washed chrome glimmering in the sun. Hobbyhorses and baseball gloves lay abandoned on lawns. In a few weeks, the grassy yards and chipped sidewalks would be filled with bare little feet and the yells of school-aged children, but for now, the streets were empty.

That was fine with Stockton. He detested children. Besides, fewer children meant fewer parents’ eyes around to catch sight of him.

Endless miles of sidewalk, hundreds of identical houses, and thousands of 18

squeaky wingtip-clad steps later, Stockton came to a halt in front of an unassuming little dwelling. Pulling a handkerchief from one of his many pockets, he dabbed his forehead and examined the house. The closed shutters and peeling door remained quiet, waiting for him to make his move.

So move he did, marching boldly up the faded bricks. Overgrown tulips pressed in from either side, and tufts of grass broke through the cracks. Stockton scaled the three small stairs and then strode another five feet to the little red door. In the darkness of the porch, the brass knocker looked quite tarnished. Stockton ignored it. He rapped his knuckles against the rough wood.

All remained still. Impatient, Stockton waited only a few moments before knocking again, this time with the side of his fist. When there was once again no answer, he gave in to his temper and began pounding furiously, raising his

voice to penetrate the thin walls. “’Ey! Open up! I know you’re there!” Pausing, he picked up the patter of footsteps.

Small, delicate ones, treading tentatively towards the door. “Hello?” Stockton yelled once more.

A thready female voice barely carried to Stockton’s ears. “Wha…what do you want?”

“Open the door,” Stockton muttered through the thin slab of oak. “It’s better for everyone if you just open up.

Wouldn’t want to disturb the suburban tranquility, now, would we?”

She cleared her throat. “Who’s there?”

“Augustus Stockton. And I’m warning you, Mrs. Bradshaw, I’m not in a patient mood.”

At first there was no answer. Then, “Gus?” the little voice queried.

“Just open the goddamn door, woman!”

“But wait! Gus? Gus Stockton? Betty Stockton’s boy?” Some of the tremor had left Mrs. Bradshaw’s voice. “Why are you making such a racket?”

“Ma’am, I’m going to tell you one more time to open the door. You don’t

Spring at The Forest | Hugh Monsted | acrylic on paper board | 17.5 x 14 in.

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want trouble. I’m not gonna hurt anybody just so long as you cooperate.”

There was another, longer pause.

“Wait a moment. Augustus. Augustus Stockton.” Mrs. Bradshaw’s voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Henry

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did mention an Augustus, didn’t he?”

“Evidently, Mrs. Bradshaw, you are unaware of your late husband’s…escapades. You’re clever, for a woman; I’m sure this visit would not have been such an unpleasant surprise had he confided

in you. How unfortunate. But I have neither the time nor the patience to explain, so I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse this rather abrupt intrusion.”

And with that he lunged forward, shoulder first, ramming all six foot,

three inches of himself into the flimsy door. A single scream came from within, then nothing. Again and again and again, he rammed, twisting the doorknob and shaking, punching, and kicking until with a shower of splinters, the door broke inward. Stockton came crashing into the hall. Brushing flecks of wood off his expensive coat, he quickly regained his footing and braced himself for the rain of female fists he was sure would come.

No one else stood in the hallway. Mrs. Bradshaw was nowhere to be seen. All right, Stockton thought. If she wants to hide, that only makes my job easier.

Stepping smartly over the busted door, Stockton strode through the hallway and began peering into rooms; he was not yet sure exactly what he was looking for.

From the upstairs of the house came the high pitched shriek of a baby, obviously disturbed by the crash of the door and the mother’s tension. Stockton grimaced. Children. The little terrors weren’t good for anything. He tried to block the sound out; Mrs. Bradshaw would surely call the police, and he still had yet to find something of appropriate value. Time was ticking away.

There was no way around it; he would have to try the upstairs. Nothing downstairs was worth what the late Mr. Bradshaw had stolen. With rather melodramatic trepidation, Stockton

mounted the stairs.

The staircase wound tightly upwards, and Stockton emerged at the top unable to see around the corner; he still was waiting for the attack to come. He was not worried about it, of course. What could the little lady do to him?

Perhaps her jewelry was in the bedroom. Yes, that would do nicely. A few gold bracelets, perhaps a diamond ring or two, and all this could be forgotten.

Across the landing and down the hall was an open door.

That would be the master bedroom.

He stepped forward, wingtip shoes tapping the hardwood…and that’s when he heard it. The unmistakable click, the heart-stopping crunch, the sound of a Model 36 being cocked.

A few gold bracelets, perhaps a diamond ring or two, and all this could be forgotten.

M

rs. Bradshaw’s knees trembled; she locked them resolutely. She could fire the gun if she had to, surely she could! That’s why Henry had bought it before…well, before that mysterious work accident. The trigger was smooth beneath her finger. She had expected it to be rough.

Stockton’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Now see here,” he began.

“This is uncall—” She took one hand off the gun and held her palm out towards him, shaking her head—the same gesture she used to stop her grade-school son’s tantrums.

She exhaled, then smiled slightly. Just

< Swings | Xiangnong Yu | Düsseldorf, Germany | digital photography

twenty feet down the hall stood Gus Stockton, the boy whose mother she had given items to for the church bake sale. His youthful face was obscured by the barrel of her gun.

S

tockton stopped dead. The plated handle of the little gun fit perfectly in her hand, as though it had been made for her. He watched a shaky smirk play at the corner of the woman’s painted lips.

She held out her hand as though that alone might be enough to hold him back. Every inch of her five foot frame was braced against him.

“You shouldn’t underestimate women, so.”

Stockton blinked.

“How were you so easily fooled? You think my husband told me nothing?

Please, I know what happened that day.

Henry was a desperate man. Three kids are expensive. He just wanted to make ends meet! But they found him out, didn’t they? They, Gus, not you. Are you just the new kid? Your shoes, that overcoat…you’re just playing dress up. So they gave you me, the easy job. Frighten his little lady, they told you, and collect what Henry owed. You were all so easily fooled.”

“They’ll get you anyway, you might as well—” “Give it to you? I don’t think so. You go right ahead and tell them, Gus. Tell them your boss you couldn’t handle the ‘soft’ assignment. Tell them to send someone better. Tell them to send an adult next time.” 2 21

At the Battlefield of Talas

verse by Ashby Shores

A golden sun sat down upon the pure and ancient stream. One boy pulled in his lure and let his smoke meander up to God. The tawny boys all grinned. I gave a nod to them and to their wild and foreign lands.

And as the water lapped upon the sands, as mountains towered above the plains below, my mind began to wander—did they know?

A thousand miles I’d traveled just to see the thicket where they played in front of me, where eastern kings and Turkic knights and blood had fallen in the field in which they stood.

The river they now fished had once run red, but all who saw that fateful fight are dead.

And even now that ancient memory fades— instead the boys were worried about trades and casting lines and blowing smoke. Too few, I’d say, of the forgotten village boys knew that stood they now where East and West had met, a battlefield the histories forget.

On those still banks for years no one has mourned— the memory, like the men, to dust returned.

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Overlook | Parker Watt | Charyn Canyon, Kazakhstan | digital photography

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Mother and Son | Dylan Yen | Nara, Japan | digital photography

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You’re Going Down, OlD friend

fiction by Mack Daniels

T

he harvest took place in late September, and the field was left utterly barren except for a 10 x 10 yard patch in front of the deer stand.

It was opening day, but the annual downpour of slugs on Maryland’s Eastern Shore had not yet commenced. The hype from the par-to-none waterfowl season ran thick through every hunter’s blood, leaving me wanting more. Everybody would be out somewhere today.

The sun had risen halfway over the trees on the other end of the property where the pond was—where heaven began. As the yellow dot grew taller and warmer, I felt the woods behind us come to life. Squirrels scampered around below, scrounging for nuts.

Birds sang their morning melodies. The mist settled in between the trees.

It was daytime now, but no movement came from the corn field directly in front of us. They would come through the woods as stealthily as possible. As soon as their eyes rested on the

sweet corn, it would all be over.

My dad and I sat in the stand. The two of us. A Harwood family tradition.

“Sure is nice to be out here, eh, Pops?” I asked, almost too quiet for a whisper. Even though there was no sign of a deer, I didn’t want to run the risk of spooking one.

No response. Typical silence. Being away hadn’t changed a thing. I hoped that it never would.

M

y dad left for his deployment in Iraq one night in the spring of my seventh-grade year. I awoke to him sitting on the edge of my bed with his face glowing in the light of the neon Ravens sign. I had only seen my dad cry once before at Gram’s funeral.

“Dad?” “You awake, son? I have serious news

to talk about.”

The ceiling appeared to be thousands of miles away. I felt so small, but I was now the man of the house whether I liked it or not. I wished that he had never walked in that night, but I understood that he had a job to do.

Every time I went deer hunting, his absence stayed with me: the Remington 12-gauge in the back of the safe, the camo overalls and the fluorescent orange beanie hanging in the laundry room, and the spacious two-person stand. He was all around me, and I liked to talk to him even though he wasn’t actually there. For the comfort.

Pops had taken me on every single hunt since I was big enough to climb the stand. I remember the grin on his face after I killed my very first 10-pointer. “Christmas came early for you, buddy.”

If only that very same 10-pointer would pop out of that patch right now.

I’d line it up and drop it in the blink of an eye. I wanted nothing more than to show Pops how good I had gotten with the 1976 Mossberg 20-gauge. My gran25

dad passed it down to me when I turned ten. It had been snagged and scratched by every single limb on the Eastern Shore, but it still shot straight.

C

rack. A single twig broke. I had heard that sound a thousand times before. That had to be directly behind us. Way too loud for a fox. A coyote? Nah. My heart danced.

I knew it was a deer. It came through the woods exactly where I sprayed some doe urine. I had never seen a deer follow a urine trail that religiously. The deer got closer and closer. It was limping; a small brown circle stained its right hind leg. The very same deer that I had wounded last season but never found.

The gun had been aimed precisely at its heart when I pulled the trigger, but something got lost in translation in that twenty feet. How did I manage to hit its leg at such a short distance? Beyond me, but damnit, now I was going to put it out of its misery once and for all.

“Pops, we got company,” I said, barely audible. I nudged him for his approval.

He turned to check out the target and froze.

simple search and rescue, second nature for this Rangers squad.

The two fireteams, each consisting of four soldiers, set up opposite each other on the perimeter of the town. One on the eastern boundary. One on the western boundary. They surveyed the town for a couple days, taking careful

members of Al-Qaeda had been exterminated, the Dust Off was signaled in.

The remaining women and children were transported to safety, and the mission was finally complete. They left the town with some souvenirs: bullet holes, bumps, bruises, and a man with a leg that had bled just a little too much.

C

aptain Buck, my dad’s best friend and a member of his fireteam, told me the story on my sixteenth birthday.

I only heard it once, but I could imagine it as if I were there myself. Al-Qaeda was known for operating out of a remote town in the mountains near the northern border. The mission was a 26

measure of any movements. For the most part, the soldiers knew where to advance and where to stay clear.

“This is Hardy,” Pops said. “Combination of ten women and children being escorted northeast by four men. All armed. Presumably Tangos. Permission to approach, Alpha? Over.”

“This is Alpha,” Captain A responded. “Permission to approach granted.

Other Tangos nearby. Stay frosty. Over.”

“10-4. Over and out.” Taking every step as if it were their last, the four soldiers from the eastern boundary advanced through an alleyway to engage the Tangos from behind. Fifteen yards from the end, a hand grenade bounced to their feet. Who threw it? Where did it come from? None of this mattered.

Pops flew as the grenade exploded.

Sand kicked up. Screams. The medic stayed back to help, and the rest of the fireteam went on. Once all of the

P

ops slowly turned towards me.

His eyes looked blank as if all of the life were sucked out of him.

Crack. The deer continued to follow the enticing pathway. It came within ten feet of our stand.

It was going to be that easy. The mist lightened. I steadied the gun in my arms. Three slugs were loaded, but it would only take one piece of metal to penetrate the heart. You’re going down, old friend. The deer looked out towards the patch of sweet corn. I looked up at my father.

“What are you doing!” Pops cried out. “Can’t you see?”

The deer’s eyes locked with mine. I shot. Thwack. The backfire knocked me off balance, and I took a step back right off the tree stand. Whappp. An explosion of pain shot through my body.

A cloud of dust rose from the leaves. I rolled over and looked up at the stand.

Dark red. My clothes. My gun. The stairs. The leaves around me. All red.

My eyes scanned for any sign of the deer. I could have sworn the slug went straight into the heart, but it was gone.

Not even a blood trail. I cried out, hoping for a holler back, but the mist was gone. 2

they left the town with some souvenirs: bullet holes, bumps, bruises, and a man with a leg that had bled just a little too much.

Mania | Carson Becker | acrylic on cardboard | 24 x 18 in.

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Mr. Fujio | Carson Becker | Asagaya, Tokyo, Japan | digital photography

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Smoke | Carson Becker | Asakusa, Japan | digital photography

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Winter 1977 free verse by Mark Wu

An isolated tree endures, miles from the jammed forest of gray.

I climb up and lean against one rawboned branch.

A single movement, the lightest breeze, could tip me off.

The reflection of snow dazzles my eyes yet fills my heart with memories.

Three years ago my brother left with Uncle Sam. Sitting on the same branch, I stared at his plane until it turned to a black dot, my hands clutching the cross he gave me, my mouth repeating, “I will rescue him; I will protect him.”

That year the war was over; that year the winter was warm.

And the green uncurled into summer, resurrecting the dead trees, reflecting a glimmer of God’s promise.

My brother’s cross rusted.

So, rawboned branch, let me fall into the endless white snow, so I can be as pale as his body, close to him.

But the branch holds.

Inspired by Andrew Wyeth’s painting Afternoon Flight

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Quail Plantation | Asa McManamy | Savannah, Georgia | digital photography

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A Lifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Work | Liam King | collage | 16 x 20 in.

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Saluting The Private free verse by Sam Long

Our major tells us we are killing mutineers and cowards, thieves, traitors, deserters; the lowest of the low.

Pull back the bolt.

They cry behind mud walls in the hell called the trench, seizing up at word of battle, dazed and expressionless.

Insert magazine.

Bound to the stake and blindfolded, he stands as his comrades plead his case.

“He’s not right in the head,” they cry.

The court does not agree.

Rack the bolt.

Freshly polished and shining, the rifle feels heavier than it should.

Ready. Aim. Fire.

A cruel twelve gun salute.

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Self Portrait #1| Spence Whitman | collage | 40 x 32 in.

The MAjor fiction by Carson Becker

J

ames Calhoun limped through THE beaten pastures.

A few bloated bovines lay around him, shot by THE German troops and cut up for steakS. The chilly autumn breeze, wafting the smell of horse manure, caused him to shiver. He was a Virginian, unaccustomed to France’s seasons and weather.

Calhoun’s feet were sore, and his belly was growling. For a minute, he considered cutting off a strip of cow for his evening meal.

He’d been walking the entire day ever since his poorly led platoon was cut off and slaughtered by the enemy that morning. Luckily, he’d made it out. He had no difficulties killing, not Germans at least. Drawing his .45, Calhoun turned towards a nearby farmhouse. No one had lived inside for months. The yard was overgrown, and tools rusted in the weeds. Built in the German-Alsatian style, he thought.

A vehicle started rumbling. It came from the far side of the house, the un-

mistakable wheeze of a Jeep. With his .45 in hand, he crept around an overgrown tulip bed. Seeing a lone American soldier, Calhoun stepped out.

“Hey!” he yelled.

The major matched Calhoun’s 6’2” height. With light brown hair, blue eyes, and thick eyebrows, the major looked almost like a reincarnation of his brother Rob. Calhoun was befuddled by the lone major’s presence in such a forward area.

In a flat accent the major said, “You seem lost.”

“I was with Charlie company near Saint-Cyrene this morning. Whole platoon got annihilated. I got separated.

Figured I’d try getting back.”

“Well, get in the Jeep. I’ll take you where I’m headed.”

“Which is?”

“West.”

Calhoun was relieved. He was fearful that a stray sniper would pick him off in the fields.

“Can you drive?” the major asked.

“Very well,” Calhoun replied, remembering his brown Ford back home.

The major scooted to the passenger seat, setting a satchel beside him. “Take the wheel, Corporal.”

Calhoun backed out onto the road— more like a path, unpaved as it was— and headed west. It joined a road a mile down.

“Turn right,” barked the major.

They drove the next few miles silently. The sun, kissing the horizon, cast a golden glow over the farmland.

Close by, a gunshot rang out. The bullet punched a hole in the windshield.

Calhoun flinched and then craned his neck, looking for the shooter. He drove fast, adrenaline pumping, to a fork in the road. “Major, left? Hey, Major, should I go right or left?” Calhoun leaned over.

35

The major was still. He had taken a bullet through his right eye socket.

Killed instantly. Grabbing the major’s satchel, Calhoun fumbled for a map.

Documents of all types poured out like a waterfall. Some were marked for secrecy; others looked like personal letters.

There was no map. His heart said go right. He stepped on the gas. The Ger-

His best option would be a self-inflicted wound.

A bullet to the leg. mans had pulled the signs. Even if there were a map, it would be useless.

The major did look like Calhoun’s brother—his lifeless body now as lifeless as Rob’s. Calhoun stopped the Jeep beside a hayloft and sifted through the briefcase once more. He found a file with a photograph of the major clipped to the front. The major had a name, Will Donovan. No siblings. Parents deceased. No spouse. No children. It listed his alma mater as Princeton. No hometown due to family service in the state department. Washington, D.C., place of birth. Obviously, the major came from money—from the dead end of a prosperous family. And now, even that final heartbeat had been stopped.

Calhoun looked around. The sun was almost set, and there was nothing but farmland and trees around him. If the Germans were to catch him, it would certainly be better to be a major than a corporal. He thought of his options 36

if the Americans were to find him. He would be in trouble for going AWOL but more certainly for wearing the uniform of an officer. Impersonating a major would be a treacherous game.

His best option would be a self-inflicted wound. A bullet to the leg. That way, he could get home early, avoiding lengthy questions and possible recognition. The major’s luger would be perfect for that.

If the Germans captured him, it would be easier. Just a couple months in a prison camp. He knew the krauts wouldn’t last the year, not with Russia and America closing in like a vice.

In the darkness, little could be seen except the faint outline of the road and lonely trees that sprouted across the landscape. This must have been near the place his father had fought the Germans almost thirty years prior. Things were simpler then.

The Jeep began to rumble, growl really, in an unsettled tone. When was the last time the gas tank had been filled?

Calhoun found no answers in his dead companion. The Jeep, now dead, too, provided no further assistance.

The hard dirt made walking a tiring affair. Several times he heard gunshots nearby, but the darkness and the landscape hid Calhoun from any encounters with the enemy. A looming farmhouse offered a place to spend the night. Anxiously, Calhoun approached the farm, ready with the major’s Luger. Almost delirious from hunger and exhaustion, he stumbled into the adjacent barn and passed out behind some hay bales.

In his dreams, Calhoun and Rob were riding horses at an elegant Virginia plantation. They had found their corner of the world to own. Every damn grain of soil. Then it was fall, and the cold penetrated his bones. Calhoun sat on the porch of the plantation, and there was Rob, staring far into the distance.

His lips were moving, but his words were so faint that Calhoun could hardly hear them. As Rob’s voice rose, his words remained indecipherable. Calhoun wanted to call to him and ask him what he was saying, but he could only listen. Rob raised his voice higher; he was speaking German. Calhoun wondered why Rob would speak German.

Calhoun woke to three Germans towering over him. One soldier grabbed his satchel and produced some manila folders, flipping them open to reveal German papers. The major. He was transporting a satchel of stolen German documents to the American lines.

A tall German smashed the butt of his rifle into the side of Calhoun’s head and then dragged him out into the morning light where more Germans awaited him. Calhoun looked into the eyes of the tall soldier. They were gray.

Calhoun could explain what had happened; he could prove that he wasn’t a spy. But, the Germans weren’t likely to care. The skull insignia on their collars meant death; they were SS. His heart pounded like a racehorse’s hooves digging into tilled soil. As they forced him to his knees, Calhoun thought of his brother Rob. It had been so long since they had seen each other. 2

Sandman | Parker Watt | Emil Altyn Park, Kazakhstan | digital photography

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White noise microfiction by Wils Vosteen

“I’m so glad to see all of you come out tonight. It is truly a great honor to be receiving this award. I have worked hard, but I would not be here if it weren’t for the support of my mentors and friends.”

The room was quiet. The four white walls offered what little applause they could. Empty silence rattled through her head.

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Monday Night | Walker Antonio | mixed media on board | 16 x 20 in.

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City Unseen | Willis He | Shanghai, China | digital photography

Spotlight | Willis He | Shanghai, China | digital photography

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Whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s The Truth? | Walker Antonio | mixed media | 20 x 18 in.

In Exile fiction by Xiangnong Yu

Z

hou sat at his writing table and buried his head in the pile of letters and envelopes with the score report.

This was his third time failing to earn a passing score on the German language test. He had been preparing ever since he arrived in Germany. No pass on this test, no citizenship for his family. With a Chinese passport, he was restricted, and he knew it better than anyone else.

After three years, the city still seemed young and new, beautiful and mysterious. Through his window, the distant Cologne Cathedral glowed like the reflection of a moon on the sleeping city.

Behind him on the other side of the bookshelves, Katya listened to German podcasts on her bed. Maybe Katya should prepare him for the test. Maybe he should just write about the test.

Zhou wrote for Deutsche Welle. They paid him and provided him with this small apartment. The organization valued his talent and his work so much

that they told him he could write about anything, even in Chinese, and they hired people to translate his work.

Zhou knew what they really wanted were political articles, especially those related to Chinese politics, those articles that got him exiled. After he openly criticized the government, some of his family members were detained. That was what they did to dissidents they could not catch: pressure them through their families. It worked with most people. Not Zhou. He cut off all contact with his family. Contact would just make life more painful. He had to sacrifice for the greater good.

S

ometimes Zhou looked back and doubted his decision to publish his article, “A Call for Media Freedom, Tibet and Lhasa.” When he posted it on his

blog, he knew it would be taken down soon enough, and he knew he would be punished. But people deserved to learn about what was going on.

It did not take long for the government to recognize Zhou’s threat. They tracked down his address and went to arrest him. A note was all they found: Without the freedom to criticize, there is no true praise. His favorite quote by Beaumarchais.

Zhou, his wife Sang, and Katya traveled to Germany. He had no idea what was ahead on his journey other than a job offer and an apartment. New country, new language, new culture, new life. And the first thing he saw when he walked into the apartment was the magnificent Cologne Cathedral. All the skyscrapers in Chinese cities astonished Zhou, but nothing could even be compared to the cathedral.

He and Katya went to the cathedral every Sunday. He would write, and Katya would sit next to him and read.

As a second grader, she read almost seventy books in German in three months.

Sometimes she would bring her sketch43

book and draw everything she saw: Mom and Dad holding hands on the bridge, the pigeons on the plaza, and of course, the con men. She found it amusing how they tricked the tourists, but Zhou always reminded her of the importance of honesty.

threatened, she considered going back to live with her family, but for Katya, she had made the sacrifice.

Sang left him her ring. She also left Katya a letter saying she had gone back to take care of her family.

Sang got out of the lock, but Zhou was stuck there forever. He was not ready to tell Katya about his identity and the separation.

Not yet. What would she call him? A dissident? A traitor?

Darkness would bury the whole city, but the cathedral was always there, illuminating COLOGNE like a beacon guiding lost boats.

S

ang had found the score report while cleaning the house. That night on their after-dinner walk, she stopped at the middle of the Hohenzollern Bridge right next to the railing with the padlock with their names, their love lock.

They had thrown the key into the Rhine. Lights on the bridge lit up the sky and the river below.

Sang took out the folded report from her pocket. She was tired of life in Germany, tired of waiting. She did not understand the language, and she knew that Katya was embarrassed by her when she picked her up from school.

She knew that Zhou was tired of how she kept asking him when they could go back home.

“Soon,” Zhou always responded.

Thousands of padlocks of love burned under the luminous lights. Sang had never expected her life would be so depressing. After Zhou’s family was

44

T

hat year, Cologne’s winter was unusually cold.

In mid-December, the sun set around 4:30 p.m. Darkness would bury the whole city, but the cathedral was always there, illuminating Cologne like a beacon guiding lost boats.

Zhou started working at home, writing under the warm lights in the living room and listening to the crackling sounds made by the fireplace. He could not expect anything better. He finally had good news in his life. Deutsche Welle offered him a promotion to senior editor and a new house. Zhou accepted the offer but rejected the house. He wanted to keep living in the cozy apartment where he could see Cologne Cathedral anytime.

His works had became more recognized and widespread, and Zhou found out that he would be featured in an exhibition of acclaimed human rights activists in Munich. He accepted the invitation to the opening ceremony. He planned to leave Katya with a friend’s

family for two days, but no seven-yearold kid would miss the chance to go to Munich for a weekend. Zhou had not taken her out often, and he could not say no to her. She would not understand his articles anyway since they were translated into English.

It was a pleasant train ride. Zhou read his favorite lines from Germany, A Winter’s Tale by Heinrich Heine again and again: The cathedral won’t be completed, Even though Swabian fools will send A whole ship, loaded with stones, To bring its building to an end.

At the museum, Katya’s eyes shone as she looked at the giant portrait of her father. Zhou saw some of his fellow journalists and editors. It was a family reunion.

Katya was already checking out the exhibition and the articles on the walls.

She wore a headset.

“What is playing on her headphones?” he asked the docent.

“Our audioguide for this exhibition.

It tells the story of your exile: your family, your articles, your history with the government. In German, of course.

Maybe you should set it to Chinese for your daughter to understand.”

Zhou turned around. Katya stood in front of the section about Zhou. She stared at his picture. 2

Split Sunset | Daniel Lee Myung | Seoul, South Korea | digital photography

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Resolutions | Xiangnong Yu | New York, New York | digital photography

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Blessings | Gia Khanh Do | Tokyo, Japan | digital photography

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Sea Monster | Pierce Richardson | chalk pastel on black paper | 15 x 22.5 in.

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It’s 1 AM nonfiction by Blythe Brewster

I lie here trapped, tangled in the blankets, as wild thoughts wind their way across the cobwebbed ceiling. The darkness is heavy, but I am heavier, weighed down by the leaden thoughts I carried with me to bed. I’m stuck here, and I’m writing, revising, stringing word after word into witty comebacks I’ll never say, declarations of love I’ll never make, prayers I’ll never pray. He loves me, he loves me not; the flower petals fall. The creature writhes, wrapping me tighter, and I can’t breathe because everything feels too tight. I’m building trains, fumbling around in the dark, trying to tell engine from caboose, until we careen off the tracks. Suddenly the end is the beginning, and I’m right back where I started.

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The Almighty free verse by Milo Jacobs

I don’t care for your praise, your reverence, who you choose to follow, or who you think I am.

I don’t care about your fancy little towers reaching above each town.

You value not material wealth, yet each cathedral, shining with the gems of worship, reeks of it.

I see you inside the church of “humility.”

You kneel, whisper, beg.

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You pray, yet you do not act.

You wish upon a faraway star and believe with all your heart, but faith doesn’t change reality.

Actions do.

Think.

Not for me, not for my glory.

For yourself.

Who you are is not who I make you to be.

That is up to you.

Inspired by “Ordinary God” by Donald Davie

Great Buddha | Carson Becker | Kamakura, Japan | digital photography

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Like A Bonfire fiction by Robert Triplett

I

hadn’t seen Paul in more than ten years, and I was greeted with a smell that was a little too sweet with a sour tinge.

He probably hadn’t cut his hair since before I left for law school. It was long and riddled with tufts that he didn’t seem to care about.

I told my wife that he always did wear his hair like a rock star, which was probably prompted by his holding that old Fender Strat he’d had since we were in the band together—that was back in high school. Beside him sat an empty bottle of scotch. Nostalgia overwhelmed me.

All the paint was scratched off the once sunburst guitar. I was with Paul when he bought it. We were at Guitar Center after school, and he wanted to pick out something nice, but neither of us had nearly enough cash for something premium. He was willing to haggle with the “blasted washed-up wannabes” until they closed up shop.

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On the way out, we spotted a guy getting his guitar serviced—that same Strat Paul was holding now—and after inching closer, we overheard: “It’s got a whole lot wrong with it, man.” Paul offered him his whole pocket’s worth, $87.00.

The heavy rocker reluctantly parted with his beloved after telling us it had been through a good number of owners.

“You’re gonna have a hell of a time fixing it up, lads.”

But Paul never did fix it up even though it went out of tune before the end of each song we played. The notes between the headstock and the third fret were unplayable because the strings brushed the top of the neck, deadening the pitch, so Paul had to get used to playing restricted. He was a natural improviser anyway, and it showed in his

playing. “Music is just problem solving,” he told me, a line he stole from Jerry Garcia.

I still looked pretty much the same as I had in my twenties, so Paul recognized me and hugged me. The smell, which I would come to love over the next few weeks, grew stronger; it made my wife step back.

“What the hell are you guys doing in Vancouver?” he asked.

“We’re moving back. I heard you’ve been posted up here for a while now, so I thought I’d swing by.”

He stood near the Chinatown gates, which must’ve been a good place for street performers because of all the tips from tourist traffic. “That’s great! You guys should spend some nights around here. Music and friends.”

His guitar was leaned against a totem pole in the middle of the square. The bottom carving was a raven whose beak was used as a stand to hold the group’s booze. The square sat at the intersection of two streets that formed a V, but a building blocked the open side. Folks were filing in for the nightly show.

We joined them. The listeners swayed

American Summer Camp | Spence Whitman | colored pencil | 8.5 x 11 in.

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Killing the Youth | Walker Antonio | acrylic and marker on canvas | 16 x 20 in.

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with the music and clapped along.

Laughs and drinks and stories were aplenty even though it was freezing out.

When Paul started getting requests for slow songs, the crowd danced together gracefully like a congregation adhering to a preacher. They were vagabonds with love in their eyes. Karen and I danced, too.

After a few more numbers, the band started putting their equipment away. A few of Paul’s crowd pulled out blankets and cuddled up close to the surrounding buildings. It was dark now.

Paul wrapped his guitar in a thick blanket and placed it gently in the corner before retreating to his area where the amps were beside the building. He was only wearing a sweatshirt, shorts, and sandals. His guitar had more protection from the elements than he did.

I walked over to him. “I can’t believe they’re wanting you to just pack up and leave this. You’ve got a good thing going here.”

“You heard about that, huh?”

“A damn shame.” I had heard the news from another old friend in Vancouver. Some on-the-rise city official was making a point to clean up the city’s tourist areas, and the Chinatown gates were the perfect place to start.

“We’ve almost saved up enough for a place, the gang and I.” “Like an apartment? For the whole lot of you?” I asked.

“No, no. A pub. Live shows every day.

Like we used to dream of.”

“If I were you, I’d buy a place to live first.”

“We’ve managed without one.”

I shook my head. There was no use trying to talk sense into him. There never had been. “How much more do you need for the pub?”

“Two thousand.”

“I can’t help you there, bud, I’m still paying off school.”

“I can’t believe they’re wanting you to just pack up and leave this. You’ve got a good thing going here.”

“That’s right, you went to law school,” he said, laughing.

“How are you going to get two thousand from playing on the street?”

“We’ll manage. These people tip pretty well, actually. If I had to guess, I’d say it’d be around two or three months.”

“That’s if they don’t force you out.”

It was a thrown together case built around Paul making too much noise in the square. I imagine they didn’t expect much resistance to the claim, either.

A

fter weeks of haggling for a meeting, I was able to coax that city official into a drink at a bar close to Paul’s square—close enough that he’d be able to hear Paul firsthand. But there was no music that evening; I figured Paul must be having hiccups with the equipment or something along those lines.

The official came in with his tie undone and his top button loose. “Charles Robbins, I presume,” he said impatiently.

“That’s me.”

He sat beside me at the bar, sighed, and ran his fingers through his hair. “Look, I get what you’re saying about the guy, but I really don’t feel like going through all this if—” “It’s not a guy. It’s a community.”

“I just don’t see what you’re talking about when you say they’re different or special.”

“There’s usually music.”

“You picked the wrong night, then, if you’re trying to win me over,” he said, standing up and grabbing his coat. The official walked out and stepped into his black Range Rover.

Paul came in shortly after.

“How many of those tips went towards scotch?” I asked him. I smelled him.

Nothing but cigs and that familiar sweet stench.

He responded with a series of moans and rambled on for a few minutes, which soon turned into an hour, about how he couldn’t fight the ordinance and how his crew was getting smaller and smaller every day and how, really, all hope was lost.

He was in tears.

It was like a reverse intervention; instead of the addict getting a wakeup call, he was projecting his bleakness onto those who wanted to help him. “I miss it.

I miss it all,” he said.

He paused, and I started to say something about how there was no way to go back there, but he kept going. “Singing and dancing and loving and running through the world at a thousand miles an hour. We were going to live the dream.

Branch out with a few out of town gigs 55

before eventually getting signed. You on bass and me on the six string. Bobby on drums.”

“I changed. Just bec—“ “Did you really, though? Change? We were born too late, compadre, too late for Studio 54 and too late for the musical golden days. I think if the time was right, we could’ve gone all the way.”

“You can’t blame it on a decade. It’s not that simple.” But he was right. I’d given up. Once we were declined by the third record company, I packed up and ran to law school. It was the easy way out. And here I was, back in Vancouver, fighting once more.

It was true; he was losing people by the day. His congregation of about fifty was down to thirty including the band. After

There she was, probably too young to even be in the bar, and her holy voice echoed in those tired souls and warmed them like a bonfire.

I went after the ordinance and threatened to bring it to court, the officials started doing things under the table such as bribing Paul’s crew with blankets and food and drinks and then making them promise to move somewhere else. Someone even vandalized the amps a few days ago, although when I asked one official about it, he told me one of Paul’s folks must have spilled something.

The ordinance was built around Paul’s 56

crew being too loud and causing too much commotion in the square. And since wherever he went the sound followed, he would soon be out of options.

If the ordinance passed, he wouldn’t get his pub.

T

wo months later, Karen and I finished moving into our apartment.

Paul’s pub was opening that night, and I told Karen I was going to swing by.

I passed the square on the way. There were no bottles, and the amps lining the side of the building were gone; Paul must have moved them into the pub.

The Raven’s Beak was tidy and freshly painted, and a girl with red hair and hippie clothes strummed and sang softly beneath a tree to a crowd of four.

I grabbed a stool at the bar and asked for bourbon, neat. Paul slid it down from the opposite side of the bar. I didn’t recognize him when he was pouring it because he was now groomed and shaven.

“Sit down with me.”

He refused.

“You know, I never thought I’d see you on the other side of this thing,” I said, knocking on the wood and laughing. “All dressed and grown up.”

“At least I’m employed.”

I held my glass up and motioned it to him. “Just one.”

But he shook his head and poured himself a coke. We talked for maybe an hour about the future and not once about the past.

Everyone from Paul’s crew was there.

Paul had put in a jukebox, and he had

dug up some old vinyl for the record player behind the bar. “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” was playing, but Paul had it turned down so everyone could listen to the red-haired hippie girl sing slow ballads.

It was a small stage—only about a foot off the ground—but upon it sat an angel with a bright smile. Her green eyes were lovely and hopeful, and when she played, she tilted her head slightly to the side to stare at something far away. Paul told me her name was Hope.

There she was, probably too young to even be in the bar, and her holy voice echoed in those tired souls and warmed them like a bonfire. No one spoke.

S

he finished playing about an hour later and sat at the bar. A younger fellow bought her a drink, and she accepted it, smiling. Paul didn’t card either of them.

“How old is she?”

“Seventeen. Far be it from me to stand between young lovers. I was in his shoes once. Passion’s powerful, you know; it gives these people something to look forward to.”

The hippie girl and her friend left holding hands. A new set began, and the people swayed and clapped like before.

It was late, but I left Paul a gift behind the counter of the bar. It was a Grateful Dead concert poster from a show we went to in the early nineties.

I wrote him a note before I left:

To an adventurer, cowboy, and friend, Here’s a piece from those glory days you always go on and on about. It’s only an echo of an era, though—the Dead went downhill after ’77. I guess we really were late, but I’m grateful to have been a part of your crew, though it was short lived, and I was cold as hell the entire time.

I wish I could be here with you. I mean really be here with you. It’s just not

the same. When I packed up and left, I killed our magic. The dream and the fire.

I hope you can forgive me. Now it feels like I’m stuck outside watching your evening through a foggy window. And it’s getting colder.

But that energy is budding once more, and I’m honored to have nourished it even if I can’t be a part of it. It’ll be like watching the two of us grow up all over again “singing and dancing and loving.” That

freedom we shared many years ago was in here tonight with that girl and with everyone, really. It’s a oneness that I miss nowadays.

Your people love you and will follow you, and the music is the glue. I’d rather have that than any sort of scroll with a fancy font rotting on a wall.

Music Man | Walker Simmons | acrylic on newspaper | 14.5 x 23 in.

Your faithful follower, Charles

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Wageni free verse by Taylor Tucker

Hereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s to the new faces that in some minds remain ingrained and in others fade like sidewalk chalk beaten by the rains of time.

Hereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s to the new faces that teach love unknowingly, like a wispy-haired child who waves and spills thank you through the hole where a tooth had been.

Hereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s to the new faces that change lives, brighten with smiles but are, in the end, living a normal day.

To all those new faces, thank you.

Wageni means stranger or guest in Swahili.

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Franklin | Walker Simmons | Shandia, Ecuador | digital photography

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Sailing Sunset | Pierce Richardson | acrylic on cardboard | 24 x 18 in.

Pirate Island nonfiction by Ryan Kauffman

O

ur dinky skiff rammed the beach with a thud. I flew off the bow and sank my feet into the ground, carefully avoiding the rusty bottle caps sprinkled in the sand.

The tiny beach had gotten smaller since I had last seen it. Our yearly Independence Day retreat was slowly being swallowed by the waters of the Chesapeake, leaving less room for empty PBR cans and obnoxious speakers. Kenny Chesney seemed to follow the local Northern Neckers wherever they went.

Despite the lack of space, the beach at Pirate Island was mobbed by lawn chairs and coolers that sprawled across every corner of the sand.

“Ryan, take the anchor,” my oldest brother Eric snapped.

I rolled my eyes but obliged, guiding the gritty anchor into the beach as Kyle, always the fit brother, paddled up beside us in the kayak he had insisted on taking.

“Wait! Your father and I have to go for gas. Can you boys just take the chairs and the cooler and find us a spot?” My

mother wasn’t asking.

My brothers and I exchanged looks.

Our parents left to get gas, a fifteen minute trip that would take them four hours. After a few minutes, Kyle pointed out the ominous clouds moving across the water at alarming speeds, but we all assumed the storm would blow around us.

The three of us unfolded the sandy Tommy Bahama chairs and sat. We waited. Eric pulled out a couple of sandwiches from the cooler and handed one to me without saying a word.

The once bright sun overhead was now washed out by the gray skies.

We waited. The rain started. From miles across the bay, we saw a wall of water beginning to thrash the seas. We waited. And we realized that our parents weren’t coming back.

Later we were told the engine had

failed in the middle of the trip and that our parents had been saved by two fishermen coming in from deeper waters, but right then, my brothers and I laughed, saying that our mother had probably hit another crab pot.

The sun had disappeared behind gray curtains. A hoarse voice rose up from the sand that belonged to a red-faced man with a pale belly. “Come and get us then!” he cried to the clouds.

His crowd of tattooed companions raised their beers and cheered. But the jokes were becoming less funny. People were starting to pack up and leave. One couldn’t help but feel helpless as the wall of water leisurely strode over the bay. Finally, it hit us.

The Neckers were gone. Even the drunk barbarian who had sworn at the storm staggered out to his skiff and swerved away. We were the only ones 61

left. The rain pelted down on our bare skin, drenching us. Thunder boomed.

Lightning smacked the land only half a mile from us. We hunkered under the umbrella.

The once gentle seas were tossed around, and hail began to sting our skin.

Eric, who has seldom been scared of anything in his life, said, “This rain is starting to hurt. We gotta go back.” But no one knew how.

Kyle replied, “The dog is probably going nuts right now, poor thing.”

Eric and I rolled our eyes.

“Aren’t you worried about what’s going to happen to us?” I said.

Kyle didn’t say anything but only watched as the raindrops peppered the sand. The horizon mirrored the gray waters. The farther away the clouds, the darker they were.

During a break in the storm, Kyle sprinted out to his kayak, filled it with a cooler, and pushed off the sand. Eric and I stayed, still clinging to our umbrella.

Eric shouted from the shore, “You

62

check on the dog, then you come and get us with another kayak, okay?”

Kyle gave a quick nod and then began paddling. But as he turned his back on us, the storm absorbed its second wind.

This time it was worse. The once gentle seas were tossed around, and hail began to sting our skin. Eric and I made the decision to move farther back from the shore so we wouldn’t be electrocuted once lightning struck the water. We griped about our parents, about Kyle, and about our dinky little skiff.

Then the sun came out. The wind swept away the clouds, and for a moment, the rain stopped. Eric and I stepped out of our lean-to and shook the water from our hair. The sea was green again.

A beam of light shimmered upon us. We watched the water as the little dimples of rain crept by. I found myself contemplating how the sky could be so spiteful toward the bay when the sky was much grander. With all that salt, you’d think the water would be much more cruel.

The Chesapeake can be sympathetic at times, though, even towards the two little kayaks that beached with a thud on the lapping shore. One carried a shirtless boy, and the other, a dog. 2

Ocean Spray | Tripp Hood | Cabo San Lucas, Mexico | digital photography >

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Family | Walker Simmons | San Cristรณbal, Ecuador | digital photography

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Native | Joshua Campbell | Kingston, Jamaica | digital photography

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Fire, Ember, Coal sonnet by Blythe Brewster

She stands against the darkening western sky, a silhouette framed by the dusty hue of star filled clouds and mountains worn by time that wrap the burning orange in dusky blue.

Their campfire beats within a ring of stones.

He watches as she chases flying embers into the eerie forest. Creaks and groans come from a wood as old as time remembers.

He cannot see the fire all around; his eyes only follow her dancing soul.

And in this timeless place, this ancient ground, heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s caught up in a love like smoldering coal.

Their love began before the dawn of worlds, and now, at sunset, sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s his ember girl.

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Trees | Walker Simmons | acrylic | 18 x 24 in.

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Siren of the Winter free verse by Riley Fletcher Mama never liked the mountain wind shaking the trees and rustling the grass.

She’d say it was God calling in the winter.

And when it did come, snow a-swirling, her spirits turned cold like the night.

The only sound louder than the gusts that winter was Papa slamming the door, arms full of kindling.

With the setting of every sun the hunter returned, beard draped in ice, palms chapped and red as he heaved the frozen lumber.

One night the door didn’t slam.

Snow turned the gusts to a cyclone and the sunset didn’t bring Papa home.

Stay here, baby, I’ll get him back soon.

I fell asleep to Mama’s forlorn cries, harmonizing with the singing storm— the last of her I’d hear.

The wind blows tonight like it did those years ago, caroling through the window cracks.

I slam the hardened oak door and sleep to the hymn of the snowstorm.

< Full Presence | Spencer Doerr | Telluride, Colorado | digital photography 69

The Beast | Jack Sloan | Kruger National Park, South Africa | digital photography

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Rhino | Carson Becker | oil on canvas | 18 x 24 in.

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The Fight nonfiction by Wils Vosteen My eyes widen and focus. The mesmerizing reel revolves ’round and ’round. Flashes of white and silver dart through the water, teasing and hiding. I wade deeper to get a better angle. My waders feel like they’re leaking. It’s just cold. I pull my collar up closer. It’s a breezy day. The fish don’t mind, and neither do I. I go where the fish go. God, I’ve never been so cold. As my legs start to feel the familiar warmth of numbness, I see a flash, bigger than the others. I wade deeper. Holding my rod with numb fingers, I toss the line and wait.

I see the flash again just off to the right of my lure. Maybe he isn’t fooled. There’s always one fish that can’t be fooled, always one fish that sees the wood. Decoys won’t deceive such a creature, which makes it even more rewarding when it’s done. How can I hook him?

That animal is a veteran, adept at dodging anglers and predators.

But I’m too cold to go home yet. I cast again. A third time. A sixth.

I retrieve the lure one last time, but then with a flash, a tug, the reel ticks out. The hook is set. The fright and reluctance on the other end are humbling. I no longer feel the cold. My hands are on fire, my heart rattling in its cage. I dig in and reel. The beast, approaching its end, fights all the way. It’s visible now, almost. With my net out, I pull the rod close. The bright red and silver dazzle my eyes. I lift him out of the water. The line snaps.

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Electric Plunge | Spencer Doerr | Telluride, Colorado | digital photography

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Dancing Days sonnet by Robert Triplett

Your scarlet locks flow deeply, endlessly like fields of daisies; how I’m led astray.

So sweet your song, the dev’lish melody entrances me in blasphemous ballet.

Oh siren, cast me helplessly adrift, to swim to your vile rock where flowers wilt.

This love, a razor, is to me a gift.

You carve my back without a shred of guilt.

The songs we played give way to silent nights, whispering times of passion free of sin.

Your vices tear our world apart. Our plight now leaves me wondering what could have been.

These fields, now scorched, burn with your holy name, and thorns leave scars like our extinguished flame.

< Girl on Dock | Pierce Richardson | acrylic | 14.5 x 21 in.

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LUCY fiction by Taylor Tucker

T

he coffee cup clinked. A perfect putt. A small success.

It lit my day as much as an ember disappearing into the darkness of a summer’s night.

I stepped back and admired my work.

My putt, of course, but also the office outside my glass walls where dozens of twenty-somethings were working away diligently at something they thought they liked. Behind me, the two windows overlooking the park gleamed with a white light. My eyes never adjusted to it.

Just another December Tuesday when the clouds draped over the city, giving anything that felt the sun a greyer, grungier look. The glass-sheathed buildings of Midtown reflected the gloom in every direction like an infinity mirror.

My city, though tired, was proud of its work. It rose from the theft of millions.

M

y father, a con man—a legal one—had worked downtown where the buildings and offices were reinforced with dollar bills and where the roads were paved with the millions who 76

had lost everything.

Of course, I knew nothing of this growing up, so I never had to question it. Nobody did for years. I spent my earliest days swaddled in the softest blanket my parents could find. It was woven of wool from the sheep of a tribe in Peru and bordered by the purest silk from the Orient. Both were places that I would never know. I only knew what came from them.

When I was a young child, my father encouraged me, in his usual wise, jaded way, to get out more. So I did.

Our housemaid Lucy packed and prepared all the clothes and food we would need and usually more. My father and I would drive out far beyond the confines of Manhattan but never beyond the confines of my blanket. Past the forgotten, unharvested corners of the corn fields in New Jersey stood a single-room cabin. I spent most of my time there in-

side. I always slept on the far side away from the window. Every morning my father would compliment the sunrise. It was always too bright for me.

And Lucy shined just like that sunrise. She studied poetry. Her words were as soft as Peruvian wool and as sweet as her homemade peach cobbler.

I dreamed of places I never knew existed, transported on the wings of Lucy’s voice. But I never let myself go too far from home.

Lucy died when I turned twelve.

With her went our travels. My father could never find the time to pack our clothes, and he traded the station wagon for a fancy city car. I also lost those minute-long excursions gliding through unfamiliar lands, carried by the wave of Lucy’s sweet, gentle words. That was my first and only experience with loss.

And yet all I truly missed was the peach cobbler.

By my teenage years, I had lost every memory of the places Lucy would take me. My dad always asked me to go to summer camp. Some of my friends went. I never did. There was always something going on, something I absolutely could not miss. When I was fifteen, my classmate James was supposed to throw a birthday party at his place in East Hampton. All the girls from my class were going. When I was sixteen, I got my driver’s license. You can’t leave that freedom.

I went to camp once when I turned seventeen. At that age the freedom and luxury that came with having a car had worn off, and I still lacked the illusory benefits of being eighteen. And I thought I would listen to my old man for once. Without Lucy’s help, I packed my clothes but not my blanket. I went to the best outing store in Manhattan and bought the warmest sleeping bag I could. That July, my father and I drove far past the cabin in New Jersey all the way to Pennsylvania.

There, among the countless sturdy conifers, stood a group of single roomed cabins. I walked into mine, nicknamed “The Penthouse” because of its lofted floor. Its interior glowed with the accents of buffed and polished oak. The smell of lacquer and musty mattresses filled my nose, hinting at memories I thought I had, memories that I should have had.

My counselor told me to choose whichever bed I wanted and remarked to my father about how much fun the summer would be. I found the bed in the corner, far from the window on the left and hidUntitled | Kelly Lonergan | ballpoint pen on legal pad | 10.5 x 8 in.

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den from the window on the right by the bureau. My father laid my sleeping bag on the bed and my neatly folded clothes in the bureau. That night I slept very little. The mattress was too hard.

Four days into the camp, I was asked to leave. I had slept through breakfast and the morning activity every day, even after promising I would get up. During the afternoon, I chose to stay indoors. It was too hot outside. And I hated the smell of fire. To me, it represented overcooked hotdogs and burnt marshmallows and wasted nights in the wilderness as the glowing, violent embers rose unpredictably into the night sky.

I never went to camp again. I never found myself in a sleeping bag in a tent. I never saw that parade of embers flying high into the sky, twinkling like stars as they drifted farther and farther away. But that was all right. I finished high school near the top of my class and found myself studying at Dartmouth.

Other than those four days in Pennsylvania, I had never spent more than two nights away from home. Dartmouth reminded me too much of the camp's lingering pines and lack of anything plush. I transferred to Columbia during the winter of my third year. I couldn’t stay away from the city.

woods for a month, but she insisted she had a great time. She even cried when she came home. Someone of her intelligence should be interning somewhere or rushing to summer classes, but she enjoyed the quiet outside of the city, a place she could really focus and learn more about what she liked.

One summer before her seventh grade year, she came home with a book of poetry that her counselor had given her. She read some of the poems aloud for her mother. The two seemed to enjoy them. I never really did. One poem was about someone stomping on the porch to wake someone up. There were no porches in Manhattan.

Something changed, though. A little door was opened inside of me, like an advent calendar, and some angel was looking out at the twenty-three days below. Catherine’s voice was so smooth that it flowed like the water off of an icicle. But I closed that door quickly; it was only the twentieth of December.

After that lavish Christmas where the presents suffocated underneath the tree, Catherine changed. I had bought her a phone, the newest model with the biggest screen and the nicest camera.

But after that, she became quiet and reserved. Nothing was ever right. Usually, the little things made her happy, like a home cooked dinner. Not anymore.

She went out the day after Christmas, my fortieth birthday, leaving her new Tiffany necklace and iPhone in her room. She returned two hours later. I couldn’t tell you where she went.

I never saw that parade of embers flying high into the sky, twinkling like stars as they drifted fArther and fArther away.

I

hit the edge of the carpet, steering the ball into the mug like a car hitting a guardrail. I make a putt every now and then, usually like the one this morning, 78

lucky. I got through the day, my back to the window and my head in my computer. After work, I took an Uber home, not a taxi. I had worn my best suit.

We ate dinner in the living room.

Catherine, home from boarding school for Christmas break, was eager to feast on something more nutritious and tasty than her school’s food. At least my wife could cook better than my mother. Catherine—everyone else calls her Cat—stuffed her mouth with green beans and baked potatoes over some small conversation. Ever since she left home, she talked less, unless it was about adventure.

Catherine knew I didn’t want to spend money on that nonsense. Why would she want to travel anyway? She lived on the Upper West Side, attended the best boarding school on the East Coast, and went shopping every weekend with her mother. She could spend her money on clothes and phones and jewelry, things she could actually use.

Catherine had a good life. She even went to camp before high school, something I completely opposed. My wife insisted, and it meant a quiet house for a month, so I agreed eventually. I didn’t know what Catherine had done in the

Her boots, caked in snow, padded through the apartment door. The snow was purer than the snow that usually collects in the city. It was not polluted by the tar from the roads or the offwhite salt that splatters the back of every car. Her eyelashes were frozen, and her cheeks shined.

I enjoyed my time while she was gone.

I lounged on the couch catching up on the news I had missed that morning. The house filled with a certain silence. Even on her quieter days, Catherine always nagged about something—her computer had stopped working, her room was too cold, her shirt was ruined in the wash— and I always heard about it.

Catherine continued her little adventures into the cold. When I asked where she went, she rarely gave a consistent answer. Sometimes she went to the park, other times she went to the piers across town. She wanted to see the sun rising, the pigeons flocking to the old woman on a bench, or the light nudging through the trees in Central Park.

She could have been out working and earning some money; I tried to get her a job as a waitress.

see the light rays bursting through the leaves of the oaks that spread their arms wide, doing their best to keep that sunlight to themselves?

And for a moment, I was out there, out of the office with its stuffed, ambient noise and its dimly lit corners. I felt the warmth of Peruvian wool against my cheek. I heard Lucy’s words, her rhyme and rhythm that made me feel free.

A knock on my door brought me

back to reality, out of that stupid daydream. An intern didn’t know how to use the copier.

I turned back to the window to see if Lucy and the blanket were still out there, an image against the pale sky.

They weren’t. The dense clouds transformed the glass into a blank, white screen. Wherever Catherine was, I couldn’t see. I shut my eyes and turned away. It was always too bright. 2

O

ne afternoon, I stopped working.

I’m not quite sure why. I stood up and walked over to the window overlooking the park, maybe hoping to catch Catherine on one of her walks. I didn’t, but I knew she was out there. I wondered where she went. What had she seen? Did she notice the way the bird food bounced off the ground like rain bounces off the asphalt? Did she Caught With Phone in a Sacred Space | Kelly Lonergan | ballpoint pen on legal pad | 10.5 x 8 in.

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The Deadly Snake sonnet by Luke Stone

The cobra slithered in and hissed commands Like “Break your ex’s heart or else we’re done.”

She’s rattled my self-worth out from my hands With pointless arguments since we’ve begun.

Her fangs inject their venom in my heart, Afflict me down unto my very soul, Make me regret the fling’s atrocious start And fear I’m losing all of my control.

My better angel tells me, “Stay away!”

Yet Satan keeps on pulling me right back.

My friends insist that they all feel betrayed, But she maintains I’ve left her on the rack.

Alas, I must escape this wretched trap.

But wait—oh, look—she just sent me a Snap.

Inspired by “The Silken Tent” by Robert Frost

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Rainbow Woman | Willis He | Shanghai, China | digital photography

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The Tuna Cutter | Carson Becker | Tsukiji, Tokyo, Japan | digital photography

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Market | Charlie Thompson | Hong Kong, China | digital photography

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LAte verse by Ryan Kauffman

Wake up.

Take up your towel, scratch and smell, and put on shoes that know you well.

Clean up your room and say farewell.

Look at your watch; feel your heart swell.

Bacon Grease™ and old eggshells, trade them all for ringing bells.

Trade that for your morning spell and wheeze your way up that stairwell.

Step in—don’t ask, don’t tell— try to get some brain cells.

Give mister a soft sell; you’re not some dumb rebel.

The trill of death knells and whistling bombshells— the ruling, upheld, to dwell in D-Hell.

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Self Portrait #2 | Spence Whitman | colored pencil | 24 x 18 in.

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In the Stars | Spence Whitman | digital art

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To the Hounds at Our Muse’s Heels verse by Rhew Deigl How now, you little animals?

Why at this temptress do you tear?

Her flesh hangs loosely, aged and lined And ill like Rodin’s Belle Heaulmière.

The muse’s blood Will stain the mud Will stain the mud on which you stand.

The mud will stain your fleeing path And we will follow for revenge To heal the wounds you ripped in wrath.

We’ll free our muse From your abuse.

From your abuse, her beauty’s rays Glow hardly like they used to glow, And though she’s wizened, we recall The eyes that hauled our eyes in tow.

For her, we’ll fight With gut and might.

With gut and might, you bitter brutes Must face us, men who want your bones.

But with no weapons can we cut your hides; You break by neither stick nor stone.

Our Durandal, Our wherewithal’s White powder in the air, Concealer, and a prayer.

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Editors Editor-in-Chief Managing EditOR

Text EditoR Junior Editors

Faculty Advisors

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Ashby Shores Blythe Brewster Rhew DEigl Luke Stone Spence Whitman Walker Simmons Karen and Rich Broaddus

< Stingray Boy | Jimmy Muse acrylic on cardboard | 24 x 18 in.

Review Boards Art

Photography

Walker Antonio Carson Becker Mack Izard Pierce Richardson Jackson Warmack Xiangnong Yu Cuatro Welder Ben Antonio Jimmy Kweon Hale Roberts

Walker Antonio Carson Becker Jameson Rice Avery Warmack Jaemin Woo Mark Wu Spencer Doerr Tripp Hood Jack Malone Willis He Hale Roberts

Poetry

Prose

Riley Fletcher Billy Huger Gus Perdue Agus Tornabene Taylor Tucker Stephen Brice Ryan Kauffman Luke McNabb Robert Triplett Freddie Woltz Luke Christy Chase Commander

Rob Jolly William McAdams Agus Tornabene William Xie Stephen Brice Ryan Kauffman Robert Triplett Freddie Woltz Milo Jacobs Sam Long Peter Moore

My Vibe | Gabe Brown | acrylic and gesso on cardboard | 24 x 18 in. >

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Tunnel Vision | Taft Gantt | Berlin, Germany | digital photography

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Colophon The word which you see on the cover is the product of the creative genius of the staff, and, with the exception of identical spelling and pronunciation, has no connection with any word in the English or any other language. In plain Woodberrian it has one meaning onlyâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;the literary magazine of your school.

This is the first edition of the 70th volume of The Talon, the semiannual literary arts publication of Woodberry Forest School. First published in 1949, the magazine was originally issued quarterly and cost 35 cents a copy. Publication of The Talon is now funded by Woodberry Forest School.

The Talon editors encourage submissions from members of the Woodberry Forest community. All opinions expressed within this magazine are the intellectual property of the authors and artists and do not represent the views of Woodberry

Frank Davenport, Jr. 1949 Editor-in-chief

Forest School. Works are selected through blind review by student boards with expertise in the fields of art, prose, poetry, and photography.

New editors are selected from the review boards and the student body by the current editors and the faculty advisors. Authors and artists can apply for review board membership at the end of each academic year.

The editors of The Talon create the magazine in the course Design and Editing for Literary Arts Publications and during their free time.

Blythe Brewster, Ashby Shores, and Rhew Deigl designed the magazine

in collaboration with the staff.

This issue of The Talon was produced on iMacs using Adobe Creative Cloud. Titles and pull quotes are set in Bebas Neue; body text and credits are set in Adobe Garamond Pro. McClung Companies in Waynesboro, Virginia prints 1,000 perfect-bound copies. The magazines are distributed to the community by the editorial staff in December and May of each academic year.

The Talon is a member of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association and the National Scholastic Press Association.

The Talon

Fall 2018

The Talon Fall 2018 Woodberry Forest School Woodberry Forest, VA 22989 www.woodberry.org/talon

Vol. 70, No. 1