EDITORS - Saint Sebastian's School · Poema de Amor – Will Kenney ... An excerpt from the novel Again, the Grain – Daniel Fulham ’14 Car – Malcolm Donaldson ... It is a monster

EDITORSKevin Patterson ‘13

Julian Matra ‘13Nikhil Basavappa ‘13

Michael Haley ‘13Kevin Looney ‘13Luke Scotten ‘13

Peter Breslin ‘13Christian Kelly ‘14Randy Gnapoor ‘∞

Matthew Donovan ‘13Mickey Adams ‘13

Matthew McGuire ‘13

Special Thanks:Mr. Brian Simoneau Mr. Daniel Drummond

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The Essence of Writing – Tyson Reed ’15Hand – David Loughborough ‘12Butterflies – Jack Adams ’15Cornucopia – Luke Packenham ’13Out of the Blue – John Bartlett ’14Hide and Go Seek – Joe Kerwin ’15Bricks – Christian Locurto ’16Una Celebración – Terry O’Connor ’12El Amor – Joey Guarino ’13Su Novio – Jack Connolly ’12Poema de Amor – Will Kenney ’14Tree – Jarrod Dillon ’12An excerpt from the novel Again, the Grain – Daniel Fulham ’14Car – Malcolm Donaldson ’12Fire Dragon – James Tran ’13Theme for Freshman Writing – AJ Jreige ’15Wonder – Marlon Matthews ’14Theme for Freshman Writing – Mark Heffernan ’15Ice Dragon – Jordan Barros ’14Home – Terry O’Connor ’12Clink – Kevin Patterson ’13The Concussion – Thayer Wade ’13 Dificil Encontrar – Peter Breslin ’13Para Ti – Matthew Vandini ’13Necesita – Matt Fechtelkotter ’12El Amor – Brendan Burke ’12Building – Jarrod Dillon ‘12Mushrooms – Terry O’Connor ’12Drawn to the Chopping Block – Christian Kelly ’14Time – Malcolm Donaldson ’12Holes Near the Heart – MacArthur Morris ’15As the Sun Goes Down – Justin Lee ’15Railing – Douglas Kinsgley ’12Rejection – Mickey Adams ’13Television – Christian Locurto ’16

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“I love coconuts” “Well, why?”“Because they remind me of fun” “Why?”“Because my vacations I go on are tropical”“Why” is the essence“Why” is the reason for our motivation.“Why” is what puts us in difficult situations in life.

The Essence of Writing - Tyson Reed

At the same time for some it is not.It is not for those who have courage, who are brave.You shall only be exposed if you give writing a whiff of your bloodThen, then you will face the beast eye to eye, as opposed to cravenly dipping and ducking to avoid being compromised.Give writing a quart of blood, for why should you live in fear of writing,And its allies?Those who have done so know, They are the victors. They are the successful ones.

It is a monsterA gnarly, ferocious, exposing monster.

At the same time for some it is not.It is not for those who have courage, who are brave.You shall only be exposed if you give writing a whiff of your bloodThen, then you will face the beast eye to eye, as opposed to cravenly dipping and ducking to avoid being compromised.Give writing a quart of blood, for why should you live in fear of writing,And its allies?Those who have done so know, They are the victors. They are the successful ones.

Butterflies -JackAdamsThump.I check my watch,aminutehasn’tevenpassed.Thump.Ilookaround,andseenothing.Thump.

Ihearmynamecalledout,andsee

behindthecornershecomes.Thump.Thump.

Wecometogetherandhug.

AwarmthspreadsandIfeelher

heart.

It’scalming.Tap tap.Tap tap.

TogetherweplayasongThump tap tap.Anditmakesthebutterflies

flyaway.

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Out of the BlueJohn Bartlett

The mayor began a grand city-wide contest yesterday over a very peculiar thing. He was debating with an acquaintance whether it is possible for man to draw a perfect circle. The mayor had said yes, of course it is, as long as one sets his mind to it-- but his companion had disagreed. “Perfection is unattainable for any creature on earth,” the man had said, and by this inspired the mayor’s ire. “That’s preposterous, and I’ll prove it to you! Starting this very moment, I will host a competition across the entire city to see who can be the first to draw a perfect circle, and you’ll see then the quality of your foolish ideas.” “But why don’t you draw one yourself and save the trouble?” the other man had asked. He was sent out of the room with no reply. We thought at first that the task would be simple. Who can’t draw a perfect circle? As it turned out, nobody could, at least not on their first attempt. The first submissions, posted on a wall outside city hall, were quite lacking in perfection, to the point where many ought to have been triangles or some other shape. By the end of the day we had all submitted a circle or two, for the prize going to the winner of this competition was too great to ignore. Early in the evening, when the mighty sun still provided enough light to judge the drawings, the mayor went up to the wall to pick the winner. There was none. He was clearly displeased, for he turned to us and said that we’d better try harder for the next day. He would not stop, he told us, until the perfect circle was drawn and posted on the wall. He tore down all the parchment and returned indoors.

-- Day Two: we all tried again, but again to no avail. I feel ashamed of myself for failing to perform such a simple task that would earn such a great reward.

-- Day Three: the mayor has announced that all work of any position will be called off for the day, so we have extra time to focus on our submissions. He won’t even let the farmers out to collect the harvest, so they can be seen all over the city, huddled in groups discussing what their potential losses may be. He also told the soldiers and the toll-takers who work at the city walls to stop for the day, so we all feel particularly unsafe at the moment. I think perhaps the mayor has lost his wits.

--

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Six days have passed now since the contest was announced, and none have returned to work except thieves, who lately have been passing through wherever they want and taking what they please. The streets are noticeably dirtier, and people are getting hungry. It is early evening once again, and the mayor is coming out to inspect the wall. He, too, is looking thinner, though he must have extra food stored somewhere in his mansion. Ah, he seems to have found something. Triumphantly, he tears a drawing from the wall and waves it in the air, calling for his acquaintance. The man approaches and looks skeptically at the parchment paper. He points out a few wobbles, and explains that the point where the artist began and finished the circle is strikingly obvious. He shows it to the crowd, and murmurs of assent can be heard. The mayor, furious, snatches back the drawing and thrusts it above his head. He shouts, “You lie! This is it! It’s perfection! It’s the perfect...” And then he stops. His eyes are transfixed upon something in the heavens, or at least in their general direction. Silence dominates the city, as everyone is afraid to utter a syllable. Suddenly the mayor moves away from the wall, stumbling down a crowded street with his eyes still looking upwards. Within a few seconds he has broken through the crowd and begins to run towards the city walls, tripping over barrels and other such obstacles as he goes. After a moment or two of confusion, I, as part of the crowd, begin to follow. Minutes later the mayor, still running with his head tilted back, passes through the gates and is outside the city. Many of those in the crowd have tired and taken to watching the spectacle. I, however, pride myself for having exceptional endurance, and continue to follow. The lessened crowd and I are led up a steep hill, and even the fastest of us begin to lose distance to the determined mayor. When we reach the top, we find that the mayor has stopped his frantic dash and stands in place on a precipice. The entire city stretches below him to make a breathtaking view, but he is not looking at the city. Rather, he looks at a brilliant white cloud that hovers motionless over the city. It is a perfect circle. Perhaps we have all lost our wits.

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Hide and Go Seek - Joe KerwinDown beside the moonlit watersOf Lake OssipeeLies the beautiful Camp Calumet,Dear to you and me

There is one place I can always count onOne place, where I am always freeOne place, where as hard as I look,Sadness is nowhere to be seen

I could scrutinize every inch of groundScale each and every treeBut if that coward does hide at CalumetHe will never be found by me

Poema de Amor- Will Kenney

Sus ojos son brillantes como una estrella.Ella es la envidia de toda la gente.Nadie es tan bella.La amaré para siempre.

Cuando yo la veoMi corazón late como un tambor.Y cuando me da un besoNo puedo controlar mi amor.

El Amor- Joey Guarino

Amor es muy especial,Amor tiene que ser real.Alguien con el amor es muy ricoPorque tiene su amigo ideal.

Amor causa felicidad,Y hace a todos sonreír.Amor es emocional,Amor es incondicional.

Una Celebración- Terry O’Connor

Cuando yo era como un niño en la oscuridad,Tú me salvaste.Cuando yo era como un huérfano sin seguridad,Tú me amaste.A causa de ti, yo conozco ahora la luz del díaY el amor bello de tu corazón.La felicidad es ahora mía,Y nuestra vida junta una celebración.

Su Novio- Jack Connolly

Mi amor es una chicaQue es, de todo el mundo, la más bonita.Mi amor tiene todo mi corazón,Mi amor tiene mi rima y mi razón.

No puedo describirCómo el amor puede ser mío.Y no le puedo pedirQue yo sea su novio.

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An excerpt from the novel Again, the Grain

Daniel FulhamAnd I’m going. Cornfields whip by, luminous in Western New York, and I am

uneasy. A plastic water bottle, soon to be a basin of tobacco, rolls around my foot, and

I should remove it, seeing as it could get lodged under the brake pedal, causing me to

drive. And I will. My dusty Camaro, once available in white, filled with the lingering scent

of worn air-fresheners, plods along the road, occasionally changing gears in a turbulent

fashion as I stick to the right lane, content to allow overzealous drivers pass me in the

fruitless attempt to shave five minutes off their trip. I-90’s like that. It’s always been like

that.

I remember when I was 12, late for a soccer game in Rochester, and my pop,

perpetually sporting a black suit, in a rush to get me there, cut off a family of four. This

family responded by proceeding to drive alongside us, and in unison, inform my pop and

me that we were number one. Two six-year-old kids. I guess their father made them.

“I would think you have learned better manners than that, Isaac,” said my pop. He

didn’t like it when I slurped the last few drops of the soda, circumnavigating the ice with

my straw to locate a few more deposits of liquid. I liked the taste of watery soda, as the

melted ice and the remaining cola would mix, creating a unique treat for me. But my

father certainly didn’t like it. He was all about those manners, even on long drives back

from soccer practice on I-90.

“Will you please turn it down?” said my father. He flinched when I would turn

the radio up to the point where music would fill the car, and cease to act as mere

background noise. I liked music to fill my ears, but he sure as hell didn’t. So I’d turn it

down, resulting in a “Sorry, Pop.” Soccer would end. Then came the snow.

“Ready to go skiing, Isaac?” Well, technically, yes. I would be ready to go skiing,

as I would have already loaded my equipment in the back of the car before we whipped

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along I-90 towards Holiday Valley. I wasn’t ready, however, to spend the next few hours

being forced to ski runs I had no business skiing because my Dad figured the ol’ “throw

your kid in the pool trick” would work. It never worked. That man loved skiing, though.

After eight hours of tension, I arrive at the Buffalo, NY tollbooths. It costs $3.50 to

pass through them. And it has always cost $3.50 to pass through them.

During the haze that was high school, I remember returning from a party in East

Aurora, a suburb outside the city limits. Having spent my money on alcohol to fulfill

the high school requirement of spending all weekends belligerently drunk, I had none

to pass through the toll. It was two in the morning, and I figured the man at the toll

would let me pass. He didn’t. And filled with the sudden rush of moral indignity all toll

men experience at some point or another, he figured he’d inform the authorities of my

apparent alcoholism. Sorry, Pop.

$3.50 lighter, I make my way to Exit 34, which will take me to Eggert, which will

lead me to Brantwood, which will bring me to 801 Brantwood Avenue. 801 Brantwood

Avenue is where we live.

I pass Central Delavan Little League. I once hit a home run over that ever-rusting

fence at the age of 11 during one of the games my pop attended. Admittedly, the home

run was ruled a foul ball, but I still got one over the fence.

And now I’m on Eggert, the street with the ghost town malls and the mega-church

stadiums, representing all the sects of religion, lint from God’s pocket. And they have

KFC, and they have McDonalds, and they have Taco Bell, and they have so on and so

forth. In other words, Eggert is where we all went to loiter. Eggert is where we’d all

chew tobacco and walk. Walk, talk, spit, walk, talk, spit. And walk, and talk, and spit.

And Eggert is always cloudy, and it doesn’t matter how beautiful it is anywhere else. But

we still loved loitering beneath its clouds.

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Buffalo is a city where picket fences flourish. Colonial style homes, with sprawling

yards prevail; a vivid contrast from the urban decay always found a few blocks over.

Amidst the sprawl is 801 Brantwood, a 5-bedroom, eggshell white colonial, complete

with forest green shutters on the windows, and a stone driveway, extending over 50

feet, directing the car. Evidenced by our living conditions, my family is the ruling class

of working-class Buffalo. The driveway is lined with saplings on either side, leading

to the unattached garage to the left of the house, its second floor serving as a guest

room. The grass in front of the house, cut three times a week, religiously watered, and

impeccably clean, received more care than we ever did. The same cannot be said about

the backyard, complete with a broken hammock, remnants of the barbeque pit, and dead

grass from the dog’s habitual trips to the bathroom. No one, aside from those living in

the house, should be permitted to see the backyard. I find the whole ordeal unnerving.

“Well, welcome home!” cries my mother, shifting as she stands in the front hall

entrance as I force my foot over the threshold of the beige carpet. We hug.

“Hey, mom,” I respond. “How’s it been?”

“Can I fix you anything? Looks like you could eat something.”

“Sure, Mom,” I respond.

While she makes something, I head up the wooden staircase, equipped with a

white handrail, contrasting, as expected, with the dark brown of the steps. The front

hall staircase leads to the upstairs foyer, and my room is at the far end of a corridor

branching out of it. I begin to head towards my white beat-board door. I pass the

antique table, a mirror placed above it, holding a picture of me sledding as a child in

its corner. To the left of the picture is me. I’m not smiling. I’m not sledding. I’m not

wearing a jacket my mother bought me. And my brothers aren’t around. I have a decent

haircut though. So there’s that.

I open the bedroom door, and it’s all the same. Except it’s cleaner. The bed, still

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possessing the same heavy blue sheets, is in the right corner, below the window. I drop

my bag, containing a haphazard wardrobe, on the white carpet. And I lie down.

“Isaac, your food’s ready.”

About an hour has passed since I fell asleep, and it’s growing dark. As is usually

the case, I sleep too long to experience the revitalizing “power nap,” and too short to feel

rested. So I’m groggy.

“All right, coming.”

After a few minutes of mental preparation, I shake off my lethargy, and I depart

for the cold light of the kitchen. The kitchen smells the same. It’s as odorless as ever.

All one can whiff, and they must work to notice it, is the 409 masking the traces of life

in the room. Perhaps half of my mother’s day is an attempt to make the house as

inconspicuous as possible. Perhaps her greatest feat as a mother it that there is nothing

noticeable about the house, and there is nothing unpleasant about it. It’s quite an odd

medium, like the equilibrium found in a particularly furnished museum.

“Here you go.”

“Thanks, mom.”

It’s grilled cheese. Seems to me like it’s always grilled cheese. Because grilled

cheese is conventional and convenient and a typical meal served in a functioning

suburban household. Grilled cheese is right. And don’t think for a second you can put

tomato in your grilled cheese. Grilled cheese is white bread, cheese, and a little bit of

butter. Do not think otherwise. In fact, do yourself a favor and do not think at all. I find it

helps get me through the day.

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Theme for Freshman Writing - AJ JreigeMr. McCarthy said,

Go home and write a page tonight.And let that page come out of you --Then, it will be true.

Pssshh, is that it?Nice, I’m out of here.Off to wrestling, hit the showers, and --Then, in the car with Mom. From “angry jackal” to “my baby.”I get home, eat, waste some time, go upstairs into my bedroom, and lay on a Tempur-Pedic bed I don’t need. It’s time to hit the books, and waste some more time but,what’s the difference? Writing? One page? Thank you, MC.But who am I?

I’m AJ, well at least that’s what they told me…In America I’m Lebanese, in Lebanon I’m American.So, who am I? What am I? Can you tell from my suit?Or what’s hidden behind my contacts?I’m an athlete; I like sports, contact sports.I’m not the best, and I wouldn’t say I’m the worst. I’m a scholar; I like things that grab my attention.I’m not the smartest, and I wouldn’t say I’m the dumbest.So, who am I? Where do I stand? Am I the best?Can you tell me with your standardized test?Of course not, so go away.I’m not going to act for you, this isn’t a play. Just because I’m Lebanese doesn’t meanI’m a terrorist, nor do I know any. But you know what they say, ignorance IS bliss.My instructor instructs, and I deliver.What should I care, if it has a chance for the Quiver?But you’ll win some money, and that’s cool!Yeah, I guess that’s nice…I try my hardest to be erudite, but is that me?Well, my instructor tells me that it’s who I want to be.For not a thing in this world is free.I want to make an impact. I want people to learn from what I do and me. I want to be looked up to.But no more debating, no more fighting.

This is my page for Freshman Writing.

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Theme For Freshman Writing - Mark HeffernanMr. McCarthy said,

Go home and writeA page tonight.And let the page come from you --Then it will be true.

I wonder if it’s that complex?I’m only fifteen, born in a small town. I went to school there for seven years.Then to St. Sebastians, where I’ve gone to for two yearsI write and read every day. And I have adventures every day.But what am I suppose to write about? My life’s fun, but not that fun. Maybe something in my past.Or something that’s happening now. Break out the brainstorm sheet.

It’s hard to tell if something is really from you. Everything we do is influenced by our family, our friends. When we sit down to write,We never truly express ourselves.We only share what we think is appropriate. But that’s not a bad thing.We need to keep things to ourselves. So what will my page be like? Should I go with the norm and get a B Or should I express myself,Risk getting an F, the most demoralizing Letter in all of academic history.Or an A, a letter so simple Yet so inspirational.I’m going to let the page flow from meHalf expressing myselfHalf going with the norm. Taking a risk While not letting myself get too out of hand. Equilibrium is what I’m striving for. My page will be about noises. How noises signal things in our brain, And how noises bring us back to a better or worse time. Music and how it affects us.Letting us be a bit more free. This is my page for Freshman Writing

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Clink

Kevin Patterson Mark Stern awoke to a deep rumbling noise, and, throwing away the barrier of bed sheets,

turned his head to the open window to follow the din with his sagging eyes. He was momentarily

blinded by the slowly-elevating sun that pulled itself over the distant mountains, but when he

cupped his hand around his forehead, he was able to peer down the semi-rusted rails to see a

faint light.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he growled. Watching he train roll closer, he dropped his feet into

his fur slippers and pulled the door open.

“Where are you going?” his wife asked, rolling over and rustling the linens. Her eyes were

wide open. She had been awakened by the squeak of the door whose hinges her husband hadn’t

oiled since Reagan’s presidency.

“Out,” he barked, and he closed the door semi-cautiously.

Mr. Stern, an aged man, dragged himself out the door and through the tall grass that

comprised his backyard, down the aisle of oaks laden with swallows that sang as if to mourn the

loss of a distant lover. Spring buds sprouted on all the trees’ brittle fingers, which reached past

his robe and brushed against his bare chest and chilled him with fresh morning dew. Too cold, he

seized the edge of his coarsely-worn gray robe and wiped the wetness away.

Mr. Stern passed a sweeping glance about the trees, standing in their umbrage amidst the

early morning sky which was laced with puffy clouds defusing the sun’s rays. He continued to

skulk to the tracks. He paddled through the last of the tall grass and emerged beside the browned

rails which rattled, shakingin fear of the metal monster crawling toward them. He stood there,

watching the light grow brighter and bigger, and soon even his broken ears began to anticipate

the advancing juggernaut. As it came closer, he could see that it was thrashing right through the

undergrowth that had lumped together, and still, as it pushed on, he could make out the rusty

remains of old bicycles and mechanical parts crunched under its front fender. Still the caravan of

steel pressed forward as he struggled to bend down. His knee almost gave out from under him,

as if it were magnetized and destined to be joined to its cold-hearted brethren. Mr. Stern scanned

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the ground for a sizable stone, and when he found one, he was quick to wrestle his bony fingers

around it firmly like a wildcat encages a bird. Then, just as the beast rolled passed him, the

ground shaking violently, he pulled his arm up to the sky and threw the stone at its reddishfront.

Clink!—a hollow reverberation bellowed throughout the valley as the stone bounced off the fiery

thing and fell in front of it.Looking to the backmost cars, he could now make out the load being

carried: a tremendous pile of coal. The scrap metal under its front screeched like a boiling tea

kettle.His ears began to hum, the din of the motion building to a sonorous crescendo as it rolled

past him and continued to the plant, smoke puffing and diffusing mystically into the brightening

sky. The fresh gold paint on the side of the rust-ridden machine read Bowman & Sons Electricity.

Mr. Stern’s covered feet trampled the long weeds that sprouted last spring, leaving

large footprints like those of an elephant, as he walked back home. He walked back through

the oaken path and emerged at the house that his grandfather had built after immigrating in

1901. It was built of strong oak that he had cut and sized on his own on this very land. It was

not a large house, but it held three bedrooms and a bathroom, and during his early childhood,

both his parents and paternal grandparents lived there. It had been repaintedthree times

since its erection, each time with a new coat of its original color—white. It had never been fully

renovated,but it had been fixed enough to keep it up to date with new electrical and plumbing

developments, and the brickwork on the chimney had deteriorated quite a while ago. Mr. Stern

had done his best to preserve the building, but he was more of a watchdog than a repairman.

Mr. Stern pushed open the front door, which creaked as it opened, and stepped into the

kitchen to fix himself some breakfast. He filled an empty kettle with water and put it on the stove,

turning the burner on the high setting. He found a few white-shelled eggs hidden in the back

of the fridge and cracked them into a sizzling pan. He could still see the sunpeeking under the

top frame of his window. Many times in his childhood, Mr. Stern had entered this kitchen to find

his grandfather in the same position that he was in now, the sun just about to escape above the

window over his grandfather’s shoulder. Now he experienced this vicarious thrill every morning

as he cooked his breakfast, as if he had filled his grandfather’s shoes. He liked to think that

the ghosts of his father and grandfather resided there. He imagined that they sat around the

breakfast table with him every morning, their faces hidden by the Gazette as in the old days. As

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he knew it, he had learned of many of the major historical events of the last seventy years simply

by eating beside them.

His daydream was interrupted by the smell of the burning eggs and the shrill whistle of the

water that he had set to boil. He jumped back to the stove and turned the burners off, hoping that

the painful noise would not alarm his wife. Mr. Stern opened the cupboard and pried out a mug

and a packet of instant coffee. He poured the coffee into the empty mug and drowned it in the

boiled water. Then he crossed the room and turned the knob on the television box that he kept on

his breakfast table, sitting across the table from it and staring deep into the grayscale image.

“And now for the news in your neck of the woods,” the man in the box said with a big

smile. “Today marks the reopening of the locally-famous Bowman & Sons electrical plant.

What was once the hub of all electrical generation became a mass of ruin when its owner, Mr.

Reginald Bowman, passed away unexpectedly, leaving the empire to his son Mort who readily

liquidated his share. That reckless action lost more than five-hundred local workers their jobs

and precipitated the rapid decline of the local economy. In an effort to restore Clicquot Mills to

its former glory, Lucius Bowman, son of Mort Bowman, has decided to reboot operations in the

abandoned plant after years of secretive reparations to its facilities. Michaela Cogburn is live at

the plant.”

A reporter appeared onscreen alongside Lucius Bowman, who grabbed the microphone

from her and began to utter a long soliloquy, his glossily-combed white hair immune to the force

of the strong wind. “Clicquot Mills needs a boost,” he cheered, flashing a toothy smile, “and I am

just the man to give it one.” He turned sideways and began to stroll about the plant grounds. The

cameraman, obviously unaware that he would do so, shook the camera as he followed Lucius

around. “Some of the older citizens of this grand town may remember my grandfather, a great

man who was so good to this town. I hope to revive this great place, these great people.” He

clenched his first and shook it meaningfully at each beat in his monologue. “Bowman & Sons no

longer creates electricity with water turbines, no, we have become much more efficient for these

local people—we now generate electricity from coal!” He then held out his arm and gallantly

swept it into the distance, where a chugging train could be seen inching closer and closer to its

final destination, the platform on which Lucius stood. “This train is bringing the first load of coal

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that will be used to power our new turbines. This train, my friends,” he looked deep into the

camera, “is the future of Clicquot Mills.” He pulled the cameraman closer to the train, which was

screeching into the station. The train docked, and Lucius knocked on its metal hull, right next to

the Bowman & Sons Electricity lettering. “Get used to this sight, my fellow Clicquot Millers, for

gone are the old days of this town! The town of your fathers and grandfathers is behind us!” He

struck a pose, as a politician does before he leaves a public appearance, and walked into the

plant.

The reporter continued her story, and after a few minutes, exclaimed, “There you have it,

folks, a new era in Clicquot Mills has officially begun.” She turned her head around and looked

up, leading the camera to the top of a small, brick smokestack, where first small, steady puffs of

smoke were released, building to a steady stream of black soot which began to filter into the air.

Mark’s mug lay shattered on the ground around him, and canals of coffee accumulated in

the grout between tiles, isolating one from the other. His head was cemented to the table as his

wife bolted into the room. “Honey, what happened?” she asked, her voice wavering.

He sobbed quietly, his facehidden by his arm and the table so that his wife could not see

his contorted face. “It’s Bowman,” he roared, beating his fist on the table so that the plate that

held his fried eggs rattled like a snare drum. “He’s back, and he has the nerve—”

“He’s just trying to make amends,” Mark’s wife reasoned.

“Amends? Do you think he can actually fix what his family has done?” he shouted, jerking

up from the table and catapulting his chair backward. “After all these years, he thinks he can

come back from oil country and be a philanthropist, even in the very town that he destroyed?”

“He’s doing the right thing by coming back here, you know. He probably wants to

improvethe family name. He wants to make forward progress here. He definitely knows what

his father did, taking away jobs from so many people, like your father and grandfather…” Mark’s

grandfather had been a foreman at the plant, and his father had worked there too. When Mort

Bowman closed it down, neither man had been able to get a job, and the family had struggled

through some hard times. The Sterns had survived on canned food for nine months. Mark’s

father had then taken a job as a farmhand ten miles away, but it was too late when the paychecks

started coming; the grandfather was in a serious condition. Doctors said that it was too late, that

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nothing could be done at this point to save the man from his sickness. And it was true. He died

in his bed just a week later. They had not the money for a proper burial, so they unearthed some

old shovels and dug a ditch for him in the back yard right under the oak grove that now stood

there.

“That man destroyed my family. He destroyed every family in this town,” Mark roared,

pouncing toward the door and dragging his wife alongside him. “Look,” he blurted, throwing the

door open and pointing to the sky, “Look at what he’s doing to this land.” His finger directed his

wife’s wide eyes to the smokestack in the distance, where the same black smoke billowed into the

nervous blue sky. The clouds above the Sterns’ heads remained puffy and white, but in town near

the plant, the radius of a group of ominous clouds slowly grew. Still looking to the sky, the two

noticed a tower of smoke marching toward them. It was followed by a building rumble, the terrible

rumble that Mark had rediscovered that morning.

He pulled his wife to the backyard, through the trampled weeds, arriving at the spot where

the loose nails rattled against the cold steel rail. The machine rolled much faster away from the

plant than it did toward it, but it still hummed, it still buzzed through the graveyard of old, rusty

gizmos. And now, in the brighter, mid-morning sunlight, the light reflected by the golden Bowman

& Sons Electricity lettering temporarily blinded Mr. Stern as the train passed. His wife seemed

unfazed by the glistening hunk of metal, as if it were some sort of mythic tractor harvesting her

deteriorated backyard. “This monster will be here every day, hell, twice every day, haunting me,

mocking me, my father, my grandfather…The House of Stern will not be tarnished by that villain.”

He fell to his knees and sobbed gently into his crossed arms, his wife merely patting him on the

back. Eventually he overcame the fit of tears and rose back up, his aged knees buckling under

pressure. He limped back into the house, fatigued by the great exasperation of the day. His wife

remained at the tracks, staring at the train as it moved away, rolling slowly, thumping into the

distance.

* * *

The next morning, Mrs. Stern awoke to a loud thundering noise. As she turned her ear

to the window, she began to detect another subtle sound of what seemed like two rams butting

metallic heads out by the tracks. The curtains shone with the light of the steady momentum, and

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the rams continued to rampage: Clink…clink…clink. The sounds built to a metallic echo, blaring

as the train pounded closer and closer.

“Mark,” she whispered, “I can hear it now,”

There was no response.

“Mark,” she said.

The only response was a fading echo: Clink!

She rolled over in the bed, coiling all the sheets around her like she was a wrapped spool.

Mark was not there. “Mark!” she yelled, trying to stand. Her efforts were restrained by the sheet

that now stuck mummified her torso.

The crescendo built, beating, beating, like clockwork. The light on the window lit up some

more, brighter, brighter as the beat elevated. The ramming sound was steady, and the echoes of

the hollow bangs amplified too. “Mark!” she yelled again. Her voice, though, was conquered by

the ever-approaching booming.

Clink! knocked on the mountains.

“Mark!”

Clink…Clink…Clink…

“Mark…Mark!”

Clink…Clink—suddenly the noise subsided, but the rumble was still present, booming,

growing. The thunder cracked outside, the lamp on her bedside table rumbled, and her arms

remained restrained in the bed sheets.

“Mark!” she yelled, and, even in the silence, there was no response. Instead there was

a loud metal bash and in seconds the front car of the train had smashed through her wall into

her bedroom and now she laid crossways on the floor, splinters of wood and train all around her,

above her, piled on her, fires erupting. Fragments of the cold metal torso cuddled her, and the

toxic fumes breathed down her broken neck.

Mark stood beside the railroad track, staring at the pile of rocks that he had yet to throw at

the behemoth, and he kicked it, scattering its remains across his former yard. Then, struggling

over the pile of rubble and despair he had created, he returned to his house, still half-standing,

where could not find his wife’s lifeless body strewn beneath the steely flesh of the train.

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27

El Amor- Brendan Burke

El amor es buenoEl amor es maloEl amor es ciegoEl amor es tristeEl amor es algo que ocurre en todas par-tesEl amor es algo que no se puede predecirEl amor es algo que sientesEl amor es algo que cada uno desea

Para Ti- Matthew Vandini

Para ti, yo haría todoIncluso si es boboTú eres la luz de mi vidaSi yo soy la izquierda, tú eres mi derechaSi yo soy el arco, tú eres mi flechaSi yo soy una flor, tú eres mi abejaNo puedo vivir si no somos una parejaPorque sin ti, mi vida no es bella

Dificil Encontrar- Peter Breslin

Todo el mundo sabe que el amor es difícil encontrarPero aun cuando se lo encuentra, es muy difícil durarPero cuando se sabe que ella o él es el únicoSe debe hacer todo para que su esposo esté contento.Su esposo será feliz todos los díasSi se sigue estas guías: Además de las joyas caras y los dulceci-tos Necesita su amor y ¡muchos besitos!

Necesita- Matt Fechtelkotter

El amor necesita cuatro cosas para vivir.Primero, el amor necesita un ambiente bueno.Un ambiente bueno es importante para el sueño.El sueño es la primera cosa para el amor.Así empieza el deseo para otro.El amor necesita mucho tiempo también.Necesita tiempo para desarollarse.Finalmente el amor necesita una o dos personas Porque una persona puede amar a otra persona

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29

Drawn to the Chopping Block

Christian Kelly

It is January, 1599. Francisco is a Spanish conquistador living in Santa Fe. He recently fought

in a skirmish between the native Acoma Indians and the Settlers. Francisco’s commander, Juan de

Oñate, has ordered his men to cut off the left foot of all the Acoma men that they have captured.

A captive is grabbed by his arm and is dragged towards the stone. He sees a soldier, axe in

hand, standing nearby. The captive is shaking, and his legs feel weak as he nears the stone, soaked

in blood. He begins to kick and wrangle away from the soldier holding him, as he screams and cries.

Another soldier restrains him and begins shoving him towards the stone. The captive continues

kicking, but the soldier with the axe grabs hold of his left ankle and presses it on top of the stone. He

rears the axe above his head and swings down.

SNAP

The captive cries and screams as he stumbles over the block and falls. A soldier hoists him up

from the dusty ground and drags him away from the encampment.

Francisco watches on as a soldier wrestles another captive and guides him towards the

stone. Francisco walks around the circle of soldiers also watching, until he finds Hernán, a fellow

conquistador whom he is friendly with.

“They’re strange people,” he says.

“They are. Dark skin, no beards.”

“They live in a strange place. We’re in a strange place.”

“A very strange place.”

“I wish I wasn’t here.”

“I do sometimes. But I’d never like life in Europe.”

“Why not?”

“I wouldn’t be doing anything. I wouldn’t be helping Spain. I wouldn’t be helping God. There’s

no glory in it.”

Francisco looks at the vast sky above him, a light blue sea red with blood near the shore. He

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scans the landscape around the small encampment, a cluster of tables and spikes protruding from

the earth, covered in crimson dust. The sun is rising, and Francisco is still sweating under his clothes

and steel-plated armor. It is bright outside. He sees the stone. It is drenched and stained with blood

that shines and sparkles in the sunlight. Remnants of skin and tissue sit in small pools of blood on the

stone. He turns his head back to Hernán.

“You do this for Spain?”

“And God.”

“Not for yourself?”

“There’s no glory in living for yourself. You must live for your countrymen and for God.”

Francisco sees one of the Acomas wrestle away from the soldier holding him. He frees himself

and sprints away from the stone block. A soldier fumbles for his musket, aims, and fires at the captive.

All watch on as the captive falls after the crack of the musket rumbles through the air. Temporarily, all

that is heard is the echoing of the shot. A soldier grabs another captive and begins dragging him.

“Who do you think they die for?” asks Francisco.

“I do not know. Maybe they die for each other.”

“Their entire tribe will die off.”

“Maybe they are fools. Maybe they die for themselves.”

“Maybe they die because they hate us.”

“Maybe.”

Another captive’s foot is hacked off. The soldier holding the bloody axe is sweating and tired.

Another soldier walks towards him and grabs the axe, taking his place.

Francisco walks away from the circle of men watching on. He approaches the chapel, a

building made of stone that, though crude and uneven, stands more strongly than the huts and

barracks made of wood and mud around it. The chapel’s windows are simply cavities that allow small

amounts of light to shine into the church. A large, wooden cross protrudes from the top of the arch

above the entrance, a weak door made of splintering wood with an iron handle. Francisco pushes the

door open as it lets out a long, shrill creak. He kicks the dust and dirt off of his boots before he steps

on the stone floor. The inside of the chapel is dark and cold. The altar and the crucifix at the front

of the church are poorly lighted, but the white cloth on top of the altar shines and almost sparkles

despite what little light is shed on it.

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A hunched over figure clothed in black sits in the front bench with his head down. A faint

mumbling can be heard as he holds the crude Rosary beads in his hand. Francisco takes off his steel

helmet and places it on the bench. He taps the priest.

“Hello, father.”

The priest shakes his head and snorts.

“Yes? What is it, child?”

“I’d like to talk with you.”

“About?”

“Man. Why is man so wicked?”

“Man has original sin. He has turned away from God. It was man’s decision since the

beginning to be wicked. It was man that ate the forbidden fruit. It was man that was exiled from the

comfort and security of Eden.”

This concept was familiar to Francisco. He turned it over in his head for a brief moment as he

looked at the cloth on the altar, radiating and bright.

“But what has changed about man?”

“He cheated himself out of paradise.”

“What makes man different from beast? He’s just as wicked and just as cruel.”

“That’s true. But look at what man has produced. Man creates, he organizes, he calculates.

Man is made in the image of God. He has dominance and intelligence over animals.”

“But man still behaves like the animals. He has emotions, countries, buildings, ships, weapons,

tools, but that’s the only difference. He’s just as cruel and indifferent.”

“Perhaps that’s how God intended man to behave. Man killed as early as Cain walked this

earth. Perhaps man is meant to behave like beast. Cold, cruel, cunning.”

Next to Francisco was his steel helmet. He gazed at it temporarily, looking at his faint reflection

in it amid all of the scratches and caked-in dust. He picked it up, put it on his head, and stood up.

“Thank you, father.”

Francisco headed back to the entrance of the church and opened up the door.

The first thing he saw when he walked outside was a man having his foot chopped off by

another man.

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Holes Near the Heart- MacArthur Morris

I’ve heard it said:

All men seek to find that that is lost,

All men seek to find that that is taken,

All men seek to mend,

That hole near the heart.

Some men live to seek,

Others seek to live,

But all men seek to mend,

That hole near the heart.

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As the Sun Goes Down - Justin Lee

It strikes slowly at first,Slowly creeping nearer until,It pounces.A claw, reaching out towards its prey,It slashes at the light,Tearing apart its flesh,Stabbing holes in its existence.Murderously it scrapes along its sides,Dragging away the benevolence, until,Clutching its throat,Grasps its heart,Prying it apart,And disposing of its crime,Over the fading skyline,Blood flowing slowly away.

Unopposed it basks in victory,Preparing to feast,Night drools,Slobbering over what Day created.He unleashes his brethren, They run rampant at night. Chaos arrives with Fraud,Spitting crime as they roam the streets,Breaking store fronts,Causing mayhem.

Simultaneously, sirens erupt.These warning bells dazzle,Erasing the surrounding darkness,They retaliate. Shooting straight on, yet,Hitting armor.The night, too vast, too powerful,Encases the bubble of light,Infiltrating in whatever way,Relentless.

And still comes the bitterness,Gazing over its victims, It spits ice,Freezing the streets,Even indoors cannot escape its wrath, Beating on walls,Snaking through cracks.

Together they unite,Darkness at the helm,Smearing their dread,Spattering it whoever possible.They overthrow the landscape.

Rejection-MickeyAdams

Achild’sgameofhide-of-seek,Awarofattritionamongstthemeek.Investedtime,realaffectionMadeaproductofhisrejection.

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Front Cover – Crane – Terry O’Connor ‘12Table of Contents – Road – Parker Hentz ‘12

Back Cover – Gas Mask – Terry O’Connor ‘12Credits - Christian Locurto ‘16