The Quiver - St. Sebastian`s School

The Quiver
The Quiver
Spring 2013
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The Quiver
2012-2013
Editors
Senior Editors
Nikhil Basavappa ‘13
Mike Haley ‘13
Kevin Looney ‘13
Director of Design
Jack Goldman
Design Editor
Will DuFour ‘14
Art Editors
Brandon Sweeney ‘14
Henry Finnegan ‘14
Photography Editor
Patrick Rivard ‘14
Spanish Editor
Conor Murray ‘14
Editors
Daniel Fulham ‘14
Christian Kelly ‘14
Caleb Aldrich ‘14
Will Kenney ‘14
Luke Wasynczuk ‘14
John Bartlett ‘14
Chris Haley ‘15
Jack Glynn ‘16
Faculty Advisor: Mr. Adam White
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Table of Contents
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4
6
11
12
14
15
22
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24
34
35
56
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57
Foreword
Homesick - Jack Glynn ‘16
Green Paint and Green Walls Christian Kelly ‘16
Hungry Tony - Nikhil Basavappa
‘13
A Saturday Stroll - Paul Keady
‘16
The Lonely Tree - Ian Kelly ‘16
Bloodscale - Jimmy Ryan ‘16
To Whom it May Concern Nikhil Basavappa ‘13
Lust for Trust - AJ Jreige ‘15
Roads and Other Arctic Sounds Dan Fulham ‘14
Another Infant at the Pool - Dan
Fulham ‘14
Cologne: The Lifestyle - Nikhil
Basavappa ‘13
For When the Seas Pull You
Down - Dan Fulham ‘14
Someone Called Home - Dan
Fulham ‘14
Apples and Questions - Edgar
Escobar ‘15
60
60
61
65
66
66
66
67
67
68
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A Grain of Salt - Andrew
Corcoran ‘14
At Peace - Joey Cerra ‘15
Valdamir’s Kill - Joey Cerra ‘15
After “Howl” by Allen Ginsberg Seve Muston ‘15
En Español
Oda a la pelota - Edgar Escobar
‘15
Oda al Caribe - Liam Moreno ‘16
Nieve - Joe Kerwin ‘15
El Viento - Matthew Guarino ‘15
The Epilogue - Jack Goldman ‘14
So - Headmaster William L.
Burke III
Cover Art By Cole Eden ‘13
Back Cover Art by James Fiore ‘14
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Foreword
From the Senior Editors
T
his year marks a new era for The Quiver. With new leadership and an almost entirely new
editorial board, we are certainly in our beginning stages of what we hope to be a lasting
theme for this year’s edition. We hope that in the coming years, The Quiver will become an
iconic publication of St. Sebastian’s. For now, though, we are starting anew.
Among the new ideas this year are the prizes for literary and visual art. Apparently, much of the
student body likes money, and we certainly can relate. A multitude of students came forth and contributed pieces to this year’s Quiver, and we could not be more thankful. As editors, we love to see the student
community participate in such great numbers, and it has made our job greatly enjoyable to see all the
different way that the students express themselves. Even our own headmaster, Mr. Burke, added a truly
unique touch to this year’s publication by contributing his own poetry. We hope that even more students
decide to contribute in the future.
As for our new leadership, we have had the great pleasure of working with our new advisor, Mr.
outstanding grace and patience. His guidance has been invaluable, and it is no exaggeration to say that
The Quiver might not exist this year without him. Of all the things he contributed, though, we are most
grateful for all those times that he brought food to our meetings. Other faculty members, take note: food
is the answer.
Finally, we are especially grateful to you, our readers. You are the reason why we put this together every year. You are the backbone of this entire operation, and we sincerely hope that you will be
proud to read this year’s Quiver. Thank you, and happy reading.
-Senior Editors Nikhil Basavappa, Mike Haley, and Kevin Looney
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Homesick
By Jack Glynn ‘16
K
atie anticipated that the day would be a rough one, what with the programming workload she was tasked with and the dinner party she was meticulously preparing for. She
she was let off early, at midnight. Enjoying her early release and letting her guard down,
she strolled through the city at her own leisure, in no hurry to get home, taking hazardous backstreets she certainly would not have risked traversing had it been a normal day. If it had been a
normal day, Katie would have gotten home safely. She would be lying in her bed, snuggled up with her
Pomeranian, Lucy, drifting off to sleep with the calm white noise of the streets below comforting her.
But it had not been a normal day, and Katie could not have anticipated that she would be trailed
by a mumbling, staggering shadow.
When she took note of the silhouette, muttering and keeping pace with her on the dimly lit side
street, Katie emerged from her joyful stupor. She cursed herself for not taking the routine, safer route
home she always used, and yearned for her comfortable studio apartment. Her immediate inclination
lived would not be a good course of action. Her instincts took over, and with a burst of adrenaline, Katie
sprinted down the sparsely populated street to the nearest subway station, making sure not to look back
for fear that this silhouette was giving chase. She descended the stony, gray stairs with haste, hopped the
turnstile, and only stopped to catch her breath when she reached the platform.
As she observed her surroundings, Katie saw that she was the only living soul in the whole station. It seemed that the silhouette had not pursued her. A sigh of relief escaped her lips as she slumped
against the cold concrete wall parallel to the rails. She decided that, just to be safe, she would take the
subway back to her neighborhood. Glancing at her watch, Katie noted that it was 12:34 at night. She
was alone in a slightly unfamiliar part of town, hiding in an empty subway station. And it was dark. The
air that announced the arrival of a train. Once the doors slid open and she had fallen down into a seat,
completely spent, Katie noticed only a few other fellow passengers. She took strange comfort in the drab
interior of the train and the few strangers who accompanied her.
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As the doors were hissing shut, a foot, wearing a worn, mud-stained combat boot emerged from
the outside of the train, stopping the doors’ mechanism. In stumbled a man: tall, bedraggled, with a
bristling gray beard and stark blue eyes that bled into his inky pupils. His clothes had seen better days,
and he breathed as if he had just emerged from a burning building. He honed in on Katie, sitting down
directly across from her without a word, all the while staring straight into her eyes.
She felt like she was gazing into the man’s soul, trying to see what he wanted from her. The man, muttering faintly, rocked back and forth, never breaking eye contact. Katie managed to make out the words
“baby” and “lawn,” and possibly “shady,” but the rest was incomprehensible. His swaying and mumbling grew more intense. The other passengers took a break from their isolation to stare at the spectacle.
by what she had witnessed, snapped out of her frightened state and hesitantly picked up what appeared
to be a crinkled photo from the seat.
As unfamiliar faces entered the waiting train, she looked at a grainy, aged picture of a young couple, captured in an embrace. The man was clean-shaven, a soldier by the looks of his uniform, and had
acute blue eyes. In his arms he held a woman, seemingly younger than Katie, wearing a snowy white
blouse and a green bow in her hair. Her face was smiling, as was the face of the young man, but something about the woman’s face seemed familiar. Katie felt as if she had made a dazzling discovery, as if
she had gained something. Searching for the old man, Katie ran from the now deserted platform and out
into the chill air, sweeping her surroundings. He was nowhere to be found.
Walking home from the station, Katie felt weighed down. She felt as if, somehow, she was
grounded in her own reality. A missing puzzle piece slipped into place within her mind, yet she did not
locked. In the end, she decided to leave the window open, though. The cold did not bother her.
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Green Paint and Green Walls
By Christian Kelly ‘14
I
t’s the perfect place. The temperature is always around 75, so all of the parts and paint will stay
in perfect condition. And I’ll mention it again: security is not an issue. You don’t have to worry
about anything. We take care of the car for you.”
“How much to keep it here?”
“Two hundred a month. It’s an expensive car and this is the best place for it, I can guarantee you
that.”
“I’m still not too sure.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Fire away.”
“Are you a rich man?”
“Not necessarily.”
“How much did that car there cost you?”
“Four hundred thousand dollars.”
“That’s a lot of money. That has to be years of your life right there. That’s time. That car is your
hard work. How long did it take you to make that much money?”
“Nearly ten years.”
“You don’t want ten years of your life to be just wasted away because you didn’t want to spend a
little extra money to keep this thing in perfect condition.”
“I don’t.”
“Then you’d agree that this is a wise investment, no?”
“Yes. How much is it a month?”
“Two hundred.”
“Fine.”
“We’re open for storage any time you want. Just pull it in here and it will be locked up until you
need it again.”
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My great-uncle was always a pretty weird guy. He would spend pretty much all of his time at
work. He had a simple job at some warehouse where he got paid decently. It was kind of weird because
wanted to work 18 hours a day as opposed to the usual 12, but union regulations wouldn’t allow for it.
He never had any kids or anything. He’d always show up to family stuff like 4th of July cookouts
and everything, so it’s not like he was antisocial or something like that. I think it was my Dad that told
me that he really just had no idea what to do. He was a pretty old guy too.
Also, his name was Lloyd, which I thought was hilarious when I was around thirteen years old
because most people aren’t named Lloyd and I guess I thought it was just sort of a funny name.
It was pretty cool though. He kind of had a ridiculous amount of money because he lived in this
really small house and just bought himself groceries and stuff. Apparently he only made 15 or 20 dollars an hour or something like that, but he worked all the time so he had a lot more money saved up than
most other workers usually have.
“1970 Plymouth Hemi Barracuda. Under 3,000 miles on it. Almost perfect condition. The bidding starts at $70,000.”
Lloyd sits in his seat. A man with bucked teeth behind him raised some paddle-shaped thing and
shouted “Eighty thousand dollars!”
He sits through the auction for most of the day. He had never actually bought anything at the auto
auctions. Just sitting there, watching all sorts of expensive cars roll by as people shouted and fought, wagering tens, even hundreds, of thousands of dollars over classic cars, somehow produced an atmosphere
of commotion and excitement that was enough to keep him coming back week after week but too intimidating to get him to ever participate. It is the last Sunday in August, and thus the last auction that would
be held for the year, until next May when people would continue attending and running the auctions.
Lloyd begins to think of when he saw this particular car before it was auctioned off. He remembers, as if it were some distant memory, despite only occurring a few hours ago, walking by the Barracuda, a large, lime-green vehicle that seemed undeniably powerful. The massive, bulging, rubbery
wheels. The engine, a heavy mass of metal surrounded by a massive, complex, and somehow orderly
of uniform amalgam of metal, rubber, and fuel combined into one raw and powerful substance. Words
buzz in his head as he gazed at the car: muscle, torque, America, horsepower, classic. He begins to picture himself driving, with the engine roaring, sun glistening off of the glossy paint.
Another man in front of him wearing a black and white checkered sport coat stands up. He cups
his hands around his mouth.
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Anyway, no one really knows what he did with his free time. He died a few months ago and I remember going into his house and it was pretty clean, but in his bedroom there were stacks of old books
and magazines everywhere, which is guess kind of makes sense because they’re pretty good if you need
to waste time.
His house was pretty weird. It looked like no one had ever lived in it, which I guess sort of
makes sense. I remember going through his kitchen cabinets and they were entirely empty, with the
much done everything he was supposed to do at the grocery store, and just checking out. Then he gets
home, puts the two bags in his empty cabinets, doesn’t know what do with them, and then goes to read
or sleep or something.
It was kind of respectable in a way.
Lloyd stands up and shouts.
“Two hundred thousand dollars!”
The man with the checkered sport coat cups his hands again and shouts.
“Two hundred and ten thousand dollars!”
“Two hundred and twenty thousand dollars!”
“Two hundred and thirty-six thousand dollars!”
“Three hundred thousand dollars!”
“Three hundred and twenty thousand dollars!”
“Four hundred thousand dollars!”
The man with the checkered coat turns around and faces Lloyd.
“Are you serious?”
Lloyd nods and then the man sits down in his chair.
The auctioneer scans the audience.
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“Any other bidders? Three. Two. One.”
He pounds the gavel on the podium.
“Sold to the man in the denim jacket!”
Apparently he had a ridiculous amount of money left to his name when he died. When I say ridiculous, I mean for someone with his type of job. He died when he was 82 and he never retired. Started
working when he was 18. When he died his lawyer went through his bank account and everything. He
had about 2.5 million dollars away in savings.
He has a will as well. It was pretty short, and since he didn’t really talk to any of his family
members he just said to distribute evenly among his brothers. He didn’t say anything about their children
or their children’s children. There was this muscle car that he bought—I think it was a Dodge Challenger
or something—and he kept it in this garage that was especially designed for preserving classic cars. It
someone would be able to actually drive it later, so they made sure it didn’t just rot there.
All the time when we saw him after he bought the car we asked him why he never drove it anywhere. He said that it was worth a little over half a million dollars given it’s condition and rarity. It had
all of the original parts and was in perfect condition. He said that it would be an “injustice to automotive
enthusiasts” is he ever crashed it, so he left it there in that garage and hoped that one day someone would
put it into a museum or something.
The other thing he included in his will was about the car. He said that he wanted to donate it to
an auto museum that was in the United States. Right below he listed a few museums, where they were
located, and their phone numbers.
I didn’t really have anything to do at the time that he died. It was the summer and I just got out of
car. I planned to drive it a few hundred miles to this museum that was located somewhere in Michigan.
glow. Lloyd catches them.
“Thank you!”
“It’s all yours now, man.”
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“Can I drive it right off the lot?”
“All yours.”
“Right now?”
“Yes!”
“Sorry. You don’t know how big of a deal this is.”
“No problem man. Enjoy it.”
“Thank you. Honestly, thank you so much. This might be the greatest day of my life. Again,
thank you. You don’t know how much this means to me.”
“Alright dude, see you.”
Lloyd shouts out another “Thank you!” as the man walks away.
He pulls the handle of the door, only to realize that it is locked. He fumbles for the keys, unlocks
the door, opens it, and gets in. He sinks into the black leather seats, sticks the key into the ignition, and
turns it. The car rumbles, each piston pumping, each gear turning inside that engine producing a loud,
ing animal that only he can control.
He pounds the gas pedal with his foot. Rubber burns and the sound of the engine rips through the
air as he speeds out of the lot onto the highway. Air blasts through the windows. He feels like he is being
pressed into the seats.
As the trees, the gas stations, stores, houses, and other cars whip by, one thought occupies
Lloyd’s mind: I am happy.
\
I don’t see why he didn’t drive that car all the time. It’s addicting, when you get in and realize
how much power is at your hands and feet. That might have been one of the more memorable moments
of my life, temporarily speeding down that empty highway on the way to Michigan, radio off, listening
to the roar of the engine and watching the surroundings slowly approach you and then blast by in a moment.
Eventually, I stopped to get some gas and I got some chips. I got back on the road, one hand on
the wheel, the other on the bag, tilting it up towards my mouth so I could eat out of it as if it were some
trough. I tilted my head back so I can chew and then one chip began to teeter on the ragged edge of the
bag. Thoughtlessly, I jerked my head under the chip, catching it. Unknowingly, at the same time the car
veers off of the road, I began to feel the car shake as it almost completely goes off the road.
the road. It gained traction again, but then the car immediately slammed against the median. The side of
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the car screeches as its paint smears on the wall. I slam on the break and the car stops.
I got out after. The car was totaled. For a few hundred feet you could see a trail of chips of metal and
shards of glass, along with a smear or lime green paint. As soon as I saw it I felt awful. I began to cry. I
didn’t know why, but I felt like I had killed Lloyd or something for some reason. It made no sense.
Hungry Tony
By Nikhil Basavappa ‘13
I
was eating a burger in
A windowless restaurant on
Route 1 when Tony looked
At my plate and asked,
I had barely even started on
The burger when Tony asked,
Five minutes in.
As I stared at my plate I
Realized that I really didn’t
No.
But when I looked back up
And saw Tony’s eyes bark
Like a dog that really isn’t
Cute anymore,
I decided that entirely
Out of spite
I would, indeed,
Finish that.
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A Saturday Stroll
By Paul Keady ‘16
T
esting out his shiny new Mongoose bike, Pete Foster III raced his shadow ahead, cast by the
and an inconspicuous sign reading Highland Cemetery.
Rushing to catch the end of dinner, he decided to pull into the memorial park as a “shortcut.” He hadn’t visited his grandparents’ headstones in a while. Pete used tostop by to
honor them years ago when he had rode his bike with his dad. He’d like to say that habit of route drew
him in there, but he couldn’t pinpoint why he came on this day. With moths swooping to and fro, he
struggled to avoid the puddles dotting the road. Black tar-snakes slithered along the road, covering the
cracks. The sky appeared so big that the setting sun seemed to shine a red blanket all around and he
could see the Earth curve away from him. His guilty conscience kicked in, feeling that if anyone saw
a teenager in a graveyard towards nightfall, they would expect he was up to no good. Then he remembered that he wore a helmet and felt relieved. He rode by the eerie Day Family Chapel that supposedly
housed ghosts. His mind fogged by the busy week of school, Pete pedaled toward the stone hut. His
dad taught him to head for this landmark, guiding the way like the North Star. Once he arrived at their
place of repose, Pete let down his bike on the dewy grass. He ambled to the soft-cornered square of
polished marble and chipped at the mold spotting the epigraphs. He stared at the withering yet drenched
geraniums. Feeling obligated to ponder something deep or say something loving, he stood blankly.
The memory of that time when Papa, Dad, and he golfed together popped into his mind. A fat and
scraggly man with smoke billowing out of his mouth nearly crushed papa’s skull as he teed up to hit his
trademarked stinger. After, why he didn’t know, Papa said, “It all comes out in the wash.”
Pete gave himself a perfunctory blessing like he wanted no one to see and remounted his bike. Wellgroomed green grass rode beside him to the west, waiting patiently. Turning the corner toward the east
exit, the high beams of a crimson Chevrolet 6400 stared Pete ominously in the eyes. Smoke puffed like
a chimney out of the driver’s side window. It crept towards him as he walked his bike far off to the side.
in utter blackness. The only light emanated from the candles glowing through the red cylinders that accompanied some graves. Wisps of cigarette smoke seeped into the air. The door creaked open. Something climbed out. Soon after, Pete found himself knocked onto the sparse grass with a patch of dead
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Gladiolus poking his head. A callused hand clutched shirt, and a weight crushed his lungs as if he lay
at the bottom of the ocean. The person groaned, struggling for something in his pocket, and his humid
rotted breath condensed on Pete’s blanched face. Pete could make out a wrinkly face with an unkempt
heart and racing mind feared the worst. Crack! The man rolled off of Pete and appeared knocked-out.
Pete stood up and frantically looked around. He caught sight of a peculiar golf ball bouncing towards
the exit and picked it up. It felt slippery, like it was smothered in washing detergent. With the ball in his
a head and a driver slung over the shoulder strolled away and dropped below the horizon, just where the
sun set.
The Lonely Tree
By Ian Kelly ‘16
W
arm and friendly, a white pine surrounded by miniature boulders overlooks a river
where other rocks and another tree are resting. A dark forest stands atop the creek on
the opposite bank. And as light sneaks through those dense woods, casting a shadow
forest’s threatening shade. The tree spies on his crush, too nervous to talk to her. A
lovely and lonely white pine with widespread branches is drinking the stream’s cold, refreshing liquid
and lies on the edge of the bank, her home. If only he could walk over and just interact with her, his
life would be complete. But as the warm morning sun shines on these two individuals, he feels hopeless, for all he can do is watch her from afar, and every morning it’s the same. A calm and peaceful life,
some trees pray for it, but the lonely tree doesn’t because his whole life he’s been thinking about her, not
doing anything about his feelings. His old buddies, the rocks, they wait, too, but they are much more
patient. They’ve been around much longer than their friend, from deep in the earth to this beautiful hill-
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top, a wild life it has been. Spotted, wind and weather shaped, the three stones lie behind their friend.
Although they have never talked, the rocks and tree at least know about each other, and therefore they
are ready to support him, as good friends should do.
April
Early Morning, Merced River,
Yosemite National Park, CA
c. 1950
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Bloodscale
By Jimmy Ryan ‘16
T
he explosion jolted Skail out of his sleep. He had always been a light sleeper, so he muttered, “You know, you could’ve done that gentler,” as he rubbed his eyes semi-groggily,
thinking he was talking to his maid. He then looked around and snapped out of his weariness. No one was in his room, and most of his furniture had toppled over and smashed on
as calm as he could while rapidly throwing on his clothes, strapping on a breastplate, and hefting a
sword he had secretly hidden in his room, for his parents never wanted him to follow a warrior path. Yet
Skail knew he was a different one of the Neskis line, and secretly trained while humoring his parents.
Skail still had no idea what was going on, so he pushed his door open violently and saw dust shaking
down from the ceiling, banners and statues torn or smashed, and heard the cracking of stone. He jerked
rumble, although this one sounded more like a bellow.
The soldier did not reply, but by his frightened and bewildered look, Skail knew it was not a normal atThis time, the soldier managed a soft reply. “Dragon,” he said plainly.
Skail zoned out and let go of the guard, who quickly ran to do what he was ordered. A dragon?he
thought. No…they were wiped out. Something else must be going on. Skail knew from his studies
that dragons had been supposedly eradicated long ago in the Sixth Wing War by the valiant Fire Warriors and hoped that this was not really a dragon. But deep down he suspected that this indeed was a
more than one? Why would a dragon attack this castle? He had barely been able to compose himself
get to his parents in time.
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in his night clothes, digging away at a pile of smashed stones. Skail ran to the King and, kneeling next
to him, noticed all the blood and burns on his father’s body. However, the King still dug through the
rubble, even as he turned to look at his visitor. He looked overjoyed to see his son but continued his
tiresome job. Skail began to ask what he was doing, but his father interrupted him. “She’s under there!”
he yelled in a tormented voice, and Skail now saw the moist cheeks of his father desperately searching
for his wife. Skail began tossing stones out of the pile alongside his father.
As he was digging, Skail realized that if the dragon had come with the intent of killing the king, he had
apparently thought the job done and moved on to general wrecking. But aren’t dragons supposed to be
smart and ruthless?,Skail thought, but just then he and his father removed the stones covering the queen.
even more bloody and mangled than those outside.
As shocked as Skail was, he knew that they had to get out of the castle now. If the dragon found out the
king was not dead, surely it would come back more furious and bring greater destruction. Skail picked
up his sword, sheathed it, and began pleading with his father to follow him.
“No, NOOOO!” he cried through his sobs. “I can’t leave her. I’ll stay here but you go, son. Now!”
Skail would not leave his father and knew his wounds might soon kill him if the dragon didn’t return, so
he hefted the shuddering body onto his shoulders. His father squirmed in protest, still distraught over
the loss of his beloved wife. Skail turned and left the room trying to console his father.
Apparently, the dragon had left, for the roaring and shaking had stopped, although most of the corridors
piles of rubble, more dead bodies of the loyal guards, and the occasional live soldier or maid, usually
over the dragon attack.
Skail was getting increasingly worried about his father, who was still weeping on his shoulders. He
streaming down his back from his father’s seriously wounded body. He had only one thought in mind:
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Skail fought against the current as he struggled through the crowded streets. No one seemed to
tion around the castle, murmuring about dragons or other possible causes. Skail ignored all of the noise
of the healer’s store.
toothed smile.
Skail, a little suspicious because of the formality in this raggedy healer’s greeting, replied sternly,
“I don’t care what you’ve been waiting for, I need you to heal my father.”
“Of course, of course,” the shop owner calmly answered. “Set him down over here,” gesturing a
bony hand toward a long, wooden table.
Without hesitation, Skail moved farther into the store, gently letting his father down on the
“What happened? Does this have to do with the commotion at the Castle?”
Skail answered frankly, “We were attacked by a dragon tonight. I knew that only you could heal
these wounds. Please, do it quickly. I don’t know how long he has left.” Skail tried not to look at his
father’s bleeding body as the healer began examining the king’s wounds.
body. He turned to Skail, “I don’t know if this potion will work, but it is the only thing I have other than
“Just do it,” Skail interrupted. “Whatever you can. He can’t…die.”
gashes all over the body on the table. The wounds hissed, reminding Skail of the dragon, and the king
groaned loudly, in much pain but too weary to cry out. However, the blood seemed to evaporate and the
ing a dagger with both hands above his head, running straight at him and yelling. Skail was so shocked
he did not stop the crazed healer, but simply stepped out of the way. The man seemed intent on continuing past, charging right by and plunging the dagger deep into the king’s chest.
“What are you doing?” Skail screamed as he tackled the wild man. “You just killed my father!”
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heart.
“But the potion was working!” Skail exclaimed, still shocked at what just happened. “He was
going to live!” He was so enraged that he almost drew his sword, which still hung at his hip.
“Calm down, Skail,” the healer replied, putting his hand on the pommel of Skail’s sword. “You
trailed off as if daydreaming but frightened.
you came screaming through with that dagger,” Skail shot back, struggling to keep himself under control
venom and burns are so powerful that only an antidote of dragon blood can heal them. There are basically three possibilities when one uses this antidote: the wound is completely healed, and he goes on
one is healed, but with permanent side effects, primarily uncontrollable rage and unusual long-lasting
shapeshifts into a horrid dragon. If the antidote is not used, however, the victim will surely become
hands with a rag and began preparing a cloth to cover the king’s body. Before Skail could say anything,
me, but trust me, I’ve seen it before, and it’s not pretty.”
“H-how do you know all this?” Skail asked, bewildered and on the verge of breaking down but
trying to understand.
ning to wrap the king in clean linen. “This is something that probably shouldn’t come out in public.”For
a creepy healer,Skail thought, he’s pretty respectful.
turned his back to grab another cloth, Skail slipped his father’s signet ring off of the hand that, although
lifeless, was not cold. He pocketed the ring, hoping the healer wouldn’t mind for he was the son of the
King.
ing toward a strange ornament adorning the wall. In the dirty, messy shop-home of the healer, it seemed
out of place to Skail, its glossy shine and smooth metal standing out on the otherwise empty wall. Skail
stepped over toward the decoration, and saw that it was a clear glass dragon spreading its wings wide
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saw this shape, while the healer carried the King’s body into the next room, where he laid it gently on
Then Skail got it. “Were you—?”
“The Fire Warriors were sorcerers?” Skail interrupted. “I thought they were knights.”
“Many were, but the greatest among them were the sorcerers. The magic gave them strength
above even the greatest sword-bearers. Their great power never faltered as the wars progressed, even
though the sorcerers lived longest of all the soldiers.”
“Was your father distinguished among the other sorcerers?” Skail asked, in awe of the knowledge of this healer but also the magic-using warriors.
leader. Yes, he was at the front of the battles, shouting orders to his fellow sorcerers. Surprisingly, he
That seems common for him,Skail thought.
Skail wanted to learn how changed this man was. “Was that when you saw someone change into
a dragon?”
taint in dragon’s blood. I was young, but old enough to know what was going on when I saw these men
so affected and how their brethren had to kill them before they hurt anyone. In fact, some of the sorcerers with the dragon’s blood in them learned how to control the shapeshifting, and even used it in the
Wars themselves. But they were foolish,” he spat in disgust after this remark, “and lost their dominion
and eventually had to be exterminated. My father was one such case. He believed the battle was hopeless unless the Warriors were more powerful than their adversaries. Of course, the only way to do so
was to be a stronger dragon. That’s why sorcerers tried to harness the dragon inside of them. Inevitably,
they lost their power over their minds as dragons. The power, the greed, the bloodlust of the dragon was
too much for their weak minds. No one seemed to be able to defeat the real enemy. No one could con“Until what?” he asked, enraptured by the tale.
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“Until the wars ended, of course. Then no one needed to,” he snapped back, apparently not
wanting to talk about this anymore.
Skail tried to take in the whole story. He was like a little kid, curious and naïve, waiting for anSkail remembered what had happened and felt guilty. He should have been better prepared. He
asked about the medicine. He did not want to go back as the one who let his father die. He wanted to
atone for this and get revenge on the dragon who killed the king.
I’m sure everyone saw me running with the king’s body. They probably think I wanted him to die. No,
what I want is to learn to be a Fire Warrior.”
making there. That is…quite a decision. But Fire Warriors do not exist.”
“I don’t want to be a Fire Warrior exactly, I just want to learn how they fought. They defeated
dragons, didn’t they? Well, I have to avenge my father and hunt that dragon.” Skail stood up, glaring at
the man whom he knew could train him.
magic. We did not focus on one or the other. We had to use the best of both. That is why some lost
control of the dragon spirit, because they were not fully trained in the use of sorcery.”
Skail shrunk back. He had thought that some were sorcerers, casting from the mountainside, and
test your blood to see if you are a mage-born, although I highly doubt you are.”
experience and wanted to learn from the best.
He returned with a small knife, a bottle of a strange-colored liquid, a stone cup, and tongs. He motioned
“When this liquid and your blood are heated together, we can tell if there is magic in your blood.
If so, a smoke will rise from the mixture in the shape of your magical symbol. Mine is… well…a type
of lizard, but I won’t bother you with mine. It can take some time and you seem eager to get on with the
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21
ritual.”
Skail barely winced as the healer squeezed his cut thumb, dripping bright red blood into the stone cup.
the mantle. He turned to wipe off the knife as Skail stared at the heating cup.
Soon, from the burnt stone mug burst a cloud of smoke. It made a deep noise as if a dog were
barking as it morphed into the shape of a large hound.
“Ahh, it seems you have magic in you after all. The war hound. That shows your loyalty and
Skail proudly smiled. He could train under this legend.
training to work that out of you if you want to have a chance of beating that dragon.”
Skail didn’t really care that he’d have to train. He hadn’t even known that he had magical blood until tomulled over the thought as he drifted off to sleep.
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To Whom it May Concern
By Nikhil Basavappa ‘13
A
s I sat in the back seat,
Somewhere between where I’d been
And where I was going,
It occurred to me,
With the Pennsylvania
Hills rolling by a little
More swiftly than I wanted,
That I could not see everything.
I could not see the highway
Where it faded endlessly into the sky,
Or the ends of those same rolling hills
We passed by at a little over
Seventy-one, six above
I could see the mirror,
And I could see my father’s
Eyes looking out behind him,
Pausing momentarily to glance
At my mother who was napping
In the passenger seat.
But I could not see through
The dead forests
And the dense clouds
Passing carelessly by,
Lumbering, but not threatening.
Nomads in air.
And, most of all, I could not
See you.
You, in all your states and convictions,
Virtues and misgivings,
Sights and sounds.
Not now, and certainly not ever,
As I, ever farther, passed through,
Pennsylvania, and all its
Rolling hills.
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23
Lust for Trust
By AJ Jreige ‘14
Y
ou don’t like him? Fine that’s cool.
He knows who he’ll trust, don’t play
him for a fool.
He may act benevolent
Maybe even work hard for your
favor, call him Mr. President.
But when he makes it, looking your way will be
irrelevant
Because trust me, he remembers.
Way back in December
When you turned away as if he was an offender.
You may not recall, but trust me, we do.
And he may be kind like Whinny the Poo,
But trust me, he doesn’t give a damn about you.
Some of us are groupies, but he stays true.
He’s looking for the people that won’t make him
new,
But accept him for who he is, probably only a few.
He may seem ignorant, but trust me he’s literate,
And he’s reading right through you, he’s growing
up, he’s not a little kid.
It’s a shame because he was going to let you in,
Get to know you more, may be even call you his
friend.
But instead, he’ll do himself a favor and only pretend
Because you’re a mistake, something he’ll regret in
the end.
In this game of truth or dare, he dares himself to
stay true,
And truthfully, his bigger picture is better without
The Quiver
Roads and Other Arctic Sounds
By Dan Fulham ‘14
M
aybe I shouldn’t be so quick to take off. You see, we can’t really breathe too well in
lash out of whatever town that has me, and I get to that truck depot halfway to nowhere.
So here I am at the truck depot, 14 miles outside of Syracuse. Light is inside my
car and festering inside of three forgotten headlights of two Sunoco trucks. McDonald’s halogen burns.
All through that 3 AM atmosphere.Sitting and killing battery.
Another truck pulls in, and I don’t like it. Who’s driving the truck? Well, I’ll give it a shot.
Let’s all say that Davey is driving the truck. Davey always thinks about his wife and two kids,
and how he can never see them. Not because he is always on the road, but because he’s a fan of absency. So Davey likes to drink and all that other “wish life would just work out” jargon. Davey drives for
sign off on their order and hang it up in the living room. Or whatever. Davey sometimes thinks, “By
golly, what if I had stuff to hang up in the living room?”
“But Davey,” I tell him. “You have no hope or despair or family or isolation. You just spend
your days plodding along in your truck and you deliver the stuff. There is no attachment. Pick up. Deliver. Retreat. Eat. Sleep. The way of the world.” And so on.
I tell Davey these things because he needs to know all about them. Then, to let him know I care,
I say, “The hell with you, Davey. You don’t even know.” This is what I say.
So Davey is going to keep on driving probably. He will see all of the rest stops and the “ONLY
179 MILES TO A ROARING TIME AT TONOWANDA SPEEDWAY” signs and put on the radio, maybe even talk radio to feel enlightened about the stuff he acknowledges. Too bad for Davey, really. All
he wants is a job that lets him pick a side, but sides are for the people who pretend to care. Davey tells
himself. He is the one who cares. Because it’s all a jest, right Davey? Isn’t it Davey? You little clown.
“Yes,” he will tell me. “It’s all just the road and the lies and the yippity do dahs of our everyday.”
Truck stop. Time to leave the truck stop. Pull on out, high beams ablaze, and I make it along the
I-90. It’s 3:15. I think I will eat food at about now. What should I eat? I have granola bars, candy bars,
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along this street and I think maybe I should make it somewhere. I know. Road trip, right? Right? Yep,
I bet my salvation will be the road. Like all the other self-righteous ones who think their interesting
hippy adventures on the road will save their wrought soul? I think I’ll pass on the medicine. I am of the
opinion that driving is not some grand experience, but it just numbs everything. Was that provocative?
Did I make you think? I’m done. Absolutely done. Romantic idealism. Great. Absolutely grand.
Here’s a sight for the world. “PAPA PETE’S PRODUCE FARM. 3 MILES OFF OF EXIT 27.”
Guess I have to go then. I am going now. Pulling off the exit ramp, down the broken street with the red
lights, and I am at this farm. No one is at the farm, and it isn’t even a farm. It sits on the edge of the
road, about 70 seconds from a strip mall. I guess there is grass and stuff. But, relax PAPA PETE. Grass
doesn’t constitute your billboard. So I am not going to leave the car. Lying bastard. No one even there
to sell theirdoodley squat.
Alright, back on the interstate. Paying for gas to drive on a ratty interstate. Yep, it’s economical,
my Father used to say. Still says. Anyway, slithering along the pavement until the green sign says “80
Miles
Buffalo, New York.”
I will stop there for my rest time.
Just drove through the roads until I rolled into Buffalo, hoping I remember the location of John’s
house. I know who John is because we both went to a school together and that makes us friends. Anyways, here I am in the rustbelt. There are lots of car retailers lined up in a row on this particular street.
Right next to the highway. I’m plowing on through them though, because my friend lives in the city,
the part with the artists in Buffalo. Houses, ok houses, poorer houses, and broken homes is the general
progression right now. Buffalo isn’t exactly awesome. But my friend lives here, so I will look past it all
and get to his apartment.
I am at his apartment. It is on Elmwood Avenue, a place where I am told lots of festivals and
homosexuals and loud music plays because that’s what happens. This apartment is three stories tall, but
time when steel sold.
So I knock on the door at 6 AM. A few minutes. More knocks. Then a slinking, slopping, plodWhat do I say now? Hard to know with contradictions.
“Um. I am here, and I think I’d like to stay here for a bit,” is all I can summon.
“Alright, ok. Come in, I guess.”
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All told this is a nice welcome.
Inside are paintings and a kitchen with a couch and television nearby. Record player occupies
the window, and a little bedroom is attached to this living area. Hooray for interesting things.
“Ok, so what’s up?”
“I am going around for a bit. Thought I could stop by and what not.”
“Anything wrong? It’s 6 AM, which means you drove for a while.”
“Yes.”
I sit there and eat cereal for 20 minutes. John is all confused. I enjoy the cereal, and the window
is open and there are the sounds of morning things. I guess the birds are nice. I don’t like it though,
when I have these feelings from that book I read in high school. Seems all contrived. Flowers are the
best and concrete is yuck. All those platitudes. You get that?
So John starts to inquire about this whole scenario.
“Not to keep inquiring about this whole scenario, but what exactly are you doing here?”
“Well, we got mad, and I felt mad, and I decided to do the idealistic thing and just leave.”
“You can’t solve the problem though. You realize I also have things to do?”
He is right, I know. But why is wanting red bricks and cereal and windows a problem for him? I
“I like the bricks.”
“Dan, what the hell, man? Listen, please. I am going to work. Figure it out while I am gone and
we can talk tonight.”
“What’s your work again?”
“Publishing startup.”
“Hear there’s a racket in that.”
“Right.”
He has commitment and knows the truth of a few things so snark is not well taken anymore.
Now what to do? He is gone and the pigeons are doing their own thing, too. I think I will walk
Tramping on down the sidewalk with the May sun out and those snowy stereotypes swept away.
Not so bad in the contrived song-singing, art-spraying, elephant-dancing part of town. At least there’s
an effort. So I like it and the sun.
ally is, and I don’t need to see any others to agree.
There are people out running and jogging and walking and no one minds who is doing what.
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the pigeons. I don’t have food or money, but I will get them to come to me maybe.
Pigeons. They are not even scared of the hand or the man. They know that the worst is injury,
so they do the trusting. I try to reward that blind trust in us humans. So I get bread crumbs and say,
“Here’s the reward, pigeons.”
group of pigeons out on the green of a golf hole. I like how there is running and golf here. Tip toe on
geons. They come right up to me, all brisk and silly. Food to the pigeon mouth, and they love the taco
and I love the taco. Cool. This occupies 45 minutes. Then they laze on off to dream of the next encounter. I am still here, but I don’t have the food to laze with. So I think I will do some different hopeful thing, you know, uncovering truth and art and all those symbols. Why do I always do that? Figure it
out, please.
A school is in my sights now. Across the road from the park. And that’s not really good or bad,
but I remember my grade school and how the teachers would line us up and say “Lunchtime.” But
got some tears out of mentally unprepared children, and then the teacher would scold our whole class
but it was the teacher’s fault for the line and it’s role with regard to “Lunchtime.”
by tar and difference. Even when it’s beautiful outside.
because sports without shine is like a park without pigeons.
Ring goes the bell in the distance. And kids are outside now because it is 8 30 and I guess that’s
the time when the classes change. Since there are many buildings at this school, kids get to go outside in
order to get to their next class. I bet some kids are going to math.
In math one time I asked the teacher why we needed to know about proofs for geometry. I said
how people already know the proofs and they are on paper. Why memorize when we can just look at the
paper? Especially if we think the proofs aren’t really proving anything. Just saying things I can already
tell by just looking. He got mad. Then she got mad when they repeated me.
I think I will leave the school now, even though the kids outside seem really happy. Maybe it’s
because they are outside, so I should take a hint and keep being outside. What an obvious thought there.
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20 minutes down the grass on the side of the road and I am at the city zoo. I don’t have any
money, so I can’t go in the zoo. But it is nice to know that I am at the zoo. I walk around the outer edges, occasionally able to see into the big exhibits. Through the bushes I have a view of two lions napping.
Good idea by the lions because they know it’s funny how people come to see them roar. Then I can see
the polar bear encampment thing. Three big polar bears, and it is hot. Probably an interesting day for
them, but they seem happy, because they have icy water in their area. The little kids with the plastic
gorilla cups look at them on the railing, and the moms and dads who came early at 9 to beat the tiresome
rush still look tired from getting up early to beat the rush. That’s all I could see in my circle around the
zoo. Maybe I will return to John’s apartment now.
I have returned, and it is now 10 30. What to do at 10 30? I will not sleep yet, because I don’t
think I should. Maybe dig around for some money that I will soon pay back and buy food and drink
and entertainment. Maybe one of those festivals are a thing today. And if not, you can really invent one
without much of a problem.
I found 29 dollars at his bedside table. Certainly enough to waste on carbs and festival. Out the
steel-barred door, and into the sun-swept streets of Elmwood Avenue, all aglow in the 10 42 AM shimmer. Look. It is a vendor, and he is selling Italian Ice in the streets of Buffalo. I go up to purchase his
wares.
“Hello, what kinds of ice do you possess?”
“Good morning, sir. We have lemon, strawberry, and raspberry.”
“How different do strawberry and raspberry taste?”
“Enough to try them both!” He says this in a way that he knows what he says is greedy and anI am happy to have the three ices, and I carry them all stacked up with the raspberry opened on
top. The ice came with a plastic spoon, which isn’t very effective for eating frozen ice. But it is warm
and nice so I can wait for the ices to melt while I’ll balance them. Sitting on the pavement, and heat
I eat and watch the people out there move. A woman has lots of bags in her hand, and no one
is there to carry them with her, so she is stuck with about 7 bags around both her arms. I know it’s her
fault for buying them and everything, but it seems like if someone buys all of that there should be a communal effort involved. Anyway, she is making her way down Elmwood, and she has some sort of destination to reach in her heels. Maybe it’s a house or a car to get to a house or some other store to indulge
her various urges via automobile. She can’t be over 40, but I think she kind of acts like that. What with
the shopping and the apparent loneliness.
Not to say youth is equated with friendship and what not, but I think older people just have to do
stuff like shopping alone more than I do. But I also drove 7 hours by myself to visit a friend who has
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now left me by myself to do things like that woman who I don’t know. So I have little right to condescend to anyone about this whole lonely notion. Am I trying to tell you about being depressed and alone
or whatever? Because that seems contrived and kind of underhanded to make you infer my apparent
struggles to get you to think about my life. It’s scummy. Know, however, that I don’t care either way.
get you to empathize with me, thus furthering my feelings of self worth? Maybe your cynicism is wrong
to have as well. So maybe I am now cutting down layers only to get more layers.
I think I will eat my ice and stop thinking about this unhealthy thinking. It really is delicious. I
ger an issue, I am up and walking with my Italian Ice in hand. I am across the street from a bookstore
called Talking Leaves, which is kind of cool, so I decide to cross.
It is almost Noon, so cars are in fact hustling and bustling down the concrete pathways. But red
lights do us a favor, so I can wade through the Toyotas and the Fords and the old ones that are just rust to
get to Talking Leaves.
“Ring,” goes bell they perch on the door because the owner needs to know that someone has entered and can pay for things. I can pay for things because John leaves 29 dollars on the table sometimes.
It’s now 22 dollars though, and I never keep change, so I can assure you that it is exactly 22 dollars. At
least enough for a new paperback and a used hardcover.
“Do you need any help today, sir?”
“Um, I think I am alright for now. Thank you very much. Just looking.”
“Great. Just let me know if you need anything.”
It is nice to be cordial with this man. He smiles at me when I say thank you to him, and he really
does seem interested in selling me books, rather than just selling himself.
First book I spy is about dogs and how people and dogs have a crazy relationship. Unlike other
animals, dogs have a seemingly special connection with people, the book argues. The book must have
forgotten that people are also, in fact, animals. But it shows pictures of humans and dogs embracing,
smiling, playing all sorts of games, and being alive and not dead. I have never had a dog, but it seems
like I should because in this book it is always sunny with all the dogs. And I understand the conceit of
this thought process. All the pretention and the whoozywhatsy. But it is sunny. And I know it won’t
really always be sunny all the time with the dogs but the point is the people who wrote the book liked to
think of the sun and they didn’t let their own minds get in the way of the pictures.
I bought the book and I am back outside. I think I will read it at some point, but it is still quite
attractive outside. So of course I will stay outside. Someone is talking loudly on the cellphone, laughing sporadically. And everyone who walks by kind of scoffs or sneers at this woman’s enthusiastic
dialogue. There is a disdain for her removal it seems, and a few passers by mutter something like, “Oh,
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I bet that’s hilarious.” Which isn’t very nice. She’s having her own conversation, and she is all crackled
up by it. Good for this lady.
Will I say any of these things to another person? Probably not, because that’s the way it is with
everything. I have my issues with the little stuff, like people who cut the line and what not, but I don’t
address the guilty parties and neither do you. We just drown in our contempt.
internet. Because he works at a publishing start up, it is only logical to assume he is doing nothing of
consequence right now. Maybe calling some writer woman or man all lukewarm and polite in the hopes
that they will look to his company’s personal love of all things literature. And maybe one of them really
will, and then John can take off. As much as a publisher can take off, anyway.
I am going to skip for a few minutes on the way to his work to show my spontaneity to everyone.
How whimsical I am. I am skipping, and people are looking and laughing and catcalling. Little children
because I am skipping and screaming about Italian ice. “Raspberry before strawberry. Strawberry before lemon,” I say. Being all disingenuous in exchange for genuine laughs. So I am a martyr now and it
makes me feel like I have some kind of self-hating purpose.
places for people to make money in their 20’s. Inside is a lot of glass and shiny white cubes and edges
and functionalism. The stuff Wright talked about.
They have a receptionist at Bridgepoint Publishing Co. And this is kind of surprising because
what the hell? They are poor and youthful and idealistic here, so they shouldn’t really have a receptionroom.
“That’s pretty good then. When can I see John?”
“Well you could go up and take a look. Should be done soon.”
“Ok. I’ll do that. Thanks Steve.”
His nameplate said “Steve” which was nice. That he had a nameplate. And I kind of felt good
because I didn’t just say thanks, but I said his name after. We can pretend about these constructions we
encounter in small talk.
There is an elevator and there are stairs. I elect to take the stairs. How different I am. Up to
the top, and I go through another glass door. It is very nice up here. Lots of glass and plexi-glass and
natural light.White and other easy colors. I see the conference room, people all standing and packing up
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notes and laptops. So I can go in and say hello to John.
“Dan, didn’t think you’d come when I gave you the address. Glad you came though. We can get
some lunch now.”
“Been eating all day. But sure, lets go. Also, this is a lot better than a publishing startup. How?”
“What about the whole ‘print is dead’ thing?
“We’ve adapted. Still do print, obviously. But we are tapping into online advertising and using
short, short stories to send throughout the web. We are taking advantage of the literary shift.”
“Kind of seems like everyone always talks about the modern consumer that way, but that doesn’t
ever really improve people’s new wave business models.”
“I guess. But we are doing alright. Hope to keep it up. So what do you want to eat?”
We eat lunch, and what do we talk about? Well there’s the war, the news article, the religion, the music,
the other person we both know, the money problems, the daddy issues, the sadness, the joy, the loneliness, and all the rest of those things we summon to conversation. But the talk ends, and we leave our
half-eaten sandwich and our half-drained soup and that is that. Well. Time to talk again in the future.
Where does this leave us? How real am I? It’s all this existential quibbling. A dearth of action.
reaction is to like the light. And it is yours as well. Why else are the sunsets and rises such wonderful
cliches?
I should probably go somewhere else now. Because John does not want me here. And that seems pretty
clear, because during lunch he said, in a little voice, “Dan, I do not want you here.” He said other conhome, and he has a job with purpose for the time being. So I will hop back in the car, and I will drive to
a new place.
Highway signs say the closest place “For Family Fun!” is in Columbus, Ohio. On the poster, there is
a family on two inner tubes. They are going down a water slide. In the foremost tube there are three
members of the family. The mother is with the two kids, all smiling. The father is in the tube behind
them, and I guess he is smiling too. Hanging onto the father’s tube is the sprightly family dog. Painting
smiles is an easy thing, and I do it a lot on spare paper. I guess it’s possible that none of these people
bear any relation though. Just assumed because the sign said what they ought to be. They could just
like slides, and nothing I think is even there. Good projection on my part. Except for maybe the Dad.
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The Dad part is bad. Again, how do we even know they are a family?
I don’t think I will go there. Need the money John gave me for gasoline and some food. He gave me
300 dollars, which was very nice of him. Cleveland beckons. What is in Cleveland? My fourth grade
teacher is in Cleveland. She sometimes writes me letters, and I know where she lives, so I will take her
up on her offer.
Mrs. Stevens used to play us native songs on her guitar, even though she wasn’t a Native American. Her
favorite was a song about Hiawatha. We’d all chant “Hi-uh-wa-tha Hi-uh-wa-tha Hi-uh-wa-tha” for the
chorus and each verse she’d sing about his adventures. Nice to sing about different things. I liked her
for the songs. And lots of other stuff too, but really the songs that no one would have taught us otherwise.
it Cleveland. Ignore the homeless, and I get to her little town house outside of the industrial district of
the city. Not much smoke here anymore. Which is nice, but it’s also bad. Pick a side, man.
You know one thing I saw on the way through Cleveland? Mega-church stadiums. I saw two of them.
And they really are just lint from God’s pocket. If it has a pocket. You get it. Anyways, I just kind of
Those white signs you paste black letters on and one or two vowels always fall off. Or a kid rearranges
it. Damn good irony. So that’s about the only religious tangent you’ll get out of me.
Mrs. Stevens struts through the door. She’s older now, but she still has the brisk walk. Currently in
that funny place where she is frayed and a bit broken and old but retains that 40 year old youth. A brisk
march towards eternity. I am glad to see her.
“He is quite alright. Thanks for asking.”
“Do not really believe that. You most certainly would not be here otherwise.”
I love how she doesn’t ever speak with contractions.
Everyone okay? Still buckled up and sober? I hope so. Let’s move on.
Mrs. Stevens leads me into her house, and it is a warm, light house. She walks into the kitchen, smells
like food.
“I cooked some pasta for lunch. Would you like so me?”
“Yes, please.”
She gives me pasta and skim milk and I sit down and we talk.
“So, Daniel. What are you doing here?”
“Um. I wanted to see you.”
“Thank you, but this is unexpected.”
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33
“I know, but so was the trip.”
“Ok. What is going on? I don’t ask to invade, or whatever you think I am doing, but I am curious. A bit
concerned.”
“Thank you for the pasta. It’s fantastic.” And I am not saying this to avoid answering her. I really do
love the pasta and she should know.
“Please stop equivocating.”
“Oh. Daniel, I am sorry. Stay here as long as you need. I have extra bedrooms and overachieving sons
who don’t need them.”
“Thanks.”
I wish sleeping didn’t entail so much effort.
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Another Infant at the Pool
By Dan Fulham ‘14
A
gain, there is the swan.
Aware of the wet and the cold and the like
But it beats on all proud until:
“Hey Swan. You don’t know,” pleads the clown.
Never stopping, always circling,
Swan envelopes the submerg(ing) clown.
“You can’t just be a happy circle,” begs the bullseyed clown.
The swan keeps shape.
White and pure and always sure
Swan can live forever
While the rest slowly sink
“Please, swan. Do you have a hand for me?”
But swans only swim.
Here goes the twilight.
Off sails Mr. Clown.
Bloop. Bloop.
“Hey Mr. Swan?” asked Mr. Clown.
“What on earth is the best way to drown?”
34
Cole Eden ‘13
Matt Vandini ‘13
James Fiore
‘14
James Tran ‘13
Andrew Sullivan ‘13
Justin Bellinger
‘14
Seve Mustone ‘15
James Tran ‘13
James Tran ‘13
Jack Birminham ‘14
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35
Cologne: The Lifestyle
By Nikhil Basavappa ‘13
B
ased on the book Sierra Tango
Based on the outline Crisp
And
How to Get a Girlfriend
And
How to be a Boyfriend
And
Some Other Stuff
By Randy Gnapoor
“You’re going to [not] be alone for a while”
-Ms. Byrne
“I…want this in my life”
-D.Burke
“This doesn’t taste like ice cream anymore.”
-Kevin “George” Looney
“I have to…praise it.”
-Mr. Cressotti
“I love him [Randy Gnapoor]”
-Scarlett Johansson
“No soup for you!”
-Soup Nazi
“This is great, but I’m still afraid of foreigners.”
-A xenophobe
“In Soviet Russia, book read you.”
-Large Soviet guy
“This book is more mind-blowing than Inception
and Shutter Island combined. Sure, those are movies, but if ‘Cologne’ was a movie, not even Leonardo DiCaprio could handle it.”
-Nikhil Basavappa
“I’m glad [that this book isn’t a movie. If it was, I
wouldn’t be able to handle it.]”
-Leonardo DiCaprio
“[Cologne: The Lifestyle is quite possibly the greatest literary masterpiece of all-time.]”
-New York Times
“Why are you writing this book? What is wrong
with you?”
knows nothing)
The Quiver
“I wanna make bank, bro…I wanna drive a Range Rover.”
-Brennan (if you don’t get the reference, I have no hope for you. Leave.)
“Bend and Snap!”
-Elle Woods (as played by Reese Witherspoon)
“I don’t need back-ups. I’m going to Harvard.”
-Elle Woods
Dedicated to my wife, whose name I am currently forgetting, and our wonderful daughter, Fro’Quisha.
Also dedicated to you. Yeah. You.
(This is normally where the copyright and publishment junk would go, but that doesn’t currently exist.
No one would publish me. I know. Shocker.)
O
h hi. How are you? Trick Question. Obviously your life is horrible because you’re read-
basics. In case you didn’t read the big words above, you’re going to learn how to socialize…the new way. Let’s do this in easy-to-read separated paragraph thingies. Here we go.
I bet you’ve heard of eye contact. I bet you’ve heard that it is a good thing to make eye
contact. You’ve heard wrong. Eye contact is far too personal. Instead, you need to learn face contact and
nose-bridge contact. This is so easy that I’m not even going to start another paragraph. Face contact
occurs when you’re looking at someone, but you ever so slightly cross your eyes so that you lose focus.
Bam. Eyes eliminated. This puts you at risk for permanent eye damage though. That’s why we have
nose-bridge contact. Look at someone’s nose-bridge instead of looking at their eyes. Bam. Eyes eliminated twice. Deuces.
Of course, if you’re a real social beast, when you’re talking to someone else, you could look at a wall or
face a completely different direction or person. This is bold, but people WILL be impressed. Trust me,
I’m an expert. I’ve never had an awkward moment. I couldn’t make someone feel uncomfortable if I
tried.
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slapping the table in front of him when he talks. It literally doesn’t get much simpler. Use these motions,
and people will know that you are sincere and mean business. They will respect you.
Let’s talk about touching your face. You should start rubbing your chin, cheeks, and possibly the back of
your neck when talking. Do it. I do it, and I’m writing a book that makes people awesome. Instant credibility.
your conversations. All you need to do is reach out slightly with one hand and make a gentle grasping
motion at the end of each sentence. This is absolutely imperative if you want to be successful.
I know you’ve learned a lot in the last 405 words, but you have so much to learn. It actually amazes me
how little you know and how much you must absorb. I mean this is literally half of one small portion of
this book. You are so dumb. You are really dumb. Fo’ real. I’m sorry about that. Sometimes I can be very
abrasive. My therapist told me to be nicer to people. My mom said that I was really nice, though. Mom
would never lie to me. Santa is real. Santa. Is. Real.
Obviously, to put your newly formed social skills to use, you’ll need social situations. What better situyou’re probably thinking, “But that’s gonna be painfuw, mistew,” but I really don’t care about your
health. If you want to make a social statement, you need to do what you need to do, even if it causes
reason for girls to think that you’re in pain. No girls thinking that you’re in pain, no girls giving you
attention. No girls giving you attention, no chance of pilfering their disgustingly large amounts of lunch
money. They spend so much money on food.”
Some of these things I really can’t explain all that much because they’re self-explanatory, and I’m not
going to spend a whole paragraph on something that’s self-explanatory. I am a legitimate writer. Legitimate writers don’t do that. Anyway, because of this, I’m just going to put numbers before sentences and
organize like I would organize a collection of “Legally Blonde” DVDs. Not that I have any. That would
be weird. I’m not weird. I’m cool. My mom told me so.
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1.
You need to have lots and lots and lots of ginger ale at the party. Oh by the way, this list is about
hosting parties, so…yeah. I probably should have mentioned that earlier.
2.
Invite any and all exes of anybody attending the party. That way, everybody will be provided
with the opportunity of closure in a neutral, fun setting with lots of ginger ale.
3.
When you send out the invitations, include two checkboxes labeled “yes” and “no”. Make sure to
pre-check the yes box. Don’t give people choices. Choices hurt people, like when I chose to take a walk
last week and I tripped and got a boo-boo on my knee. It’s cool though, my mom gave me a Pokémon
band-aid. It has Pikachu on it.
4.
Dance on tables. Any dance. Any table. Even if there’s food or ginger ale on the table.
5.
Make sure that only one person has a tie around his forehead. Only one person. I encourage you
to be that person.
6.
There cannot be any furniture. You don’t sit at parties, you dance and move around and generate
happiness. If people want to sit, they can go to their cars or horse carriages or whatever the heck they
used to get to the party.
7.
You must have dancing rules. I mean, you don’t want people doing stupid dances at your parties
and completely ruining your street cred. I suggest limiting dances to “delete them” by Aziz Ansari and
the Fist Pump which originated in the more orange parts of New Jersey. Uncing may or may not count as
a dance. Your call. Look these dances up on YouTube.
8.
You must have a bouncer. He must be an ex-Soviet.
9.
Uncing must be limited to one room and one room only. Concentrate the awesome into one
room.
10.
Members of the party must wear all garments backwards, including shoes.
11.
Karaoke must be limited to only Britney Spears songs. She is a good role model for young children and aspiring mothers at the party.
12.
Have expensive items scattered all over the ground. Gifts from people at the party would be
spectacular.
13.
Baseball bats. That is all.
14.
Extremely low ceiling fans. Like really, really low.
15.
If you live in an apartment, make sure the neighbors below you are home so they can hear and
feel what they’re missing.
16.
Start writing your name on people’s foreheads in silver sharpie.
17.
Gossip about people who are within earshot.
18.
Tape. What about it? I don’t know.
19.
Tell everybody to bring a mattress.
20.
Hire DJ Scared Boy. He is African-Australian and has a yellow mohawk.
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21.
Have one night light.
22.
Have strobe lights that are all out of sync so that everybody’s really disoriented. At normal parties, people aren’t disoriented. This is not a normal party. This is special. Like you. Just kidding. You’re
not special, but you will be soon. I don’t want to spoil it so I’m going to stop here. I should stop inadvertently writing my thoughts down. I think I deleted all of them. I need to buy some more taco shells. Did I
run out of cream for my rash? I think the coffee’s done. I love it when the coffee’s done.
Oh hey, we’re done with this. Sweet. I hope you’re ready for this. Can you handle this? Are you adequately prepared for the Randy Gnapoor experience? No, you’re not, but we’ll jump right in anyway.
Turn the page, reader.
It’s time to learn how to woo a girl. Any girl. Seriously.
First you need to learn these smooth lines:
“Your neck is like the Tower of David.”
“I just have to say, you have superior birthing hips.”
“Your legs are so toned and muscular, like a horse. A big, strong horse.”
“Wow. You’re scent is intoxicating. I love the smell of White Castle.”
“You’re so beautiful. You remind me of Joan Rivers.”
“I see you’re wearing a lot of makeup. You look good in all that makeup.”
“That dress looks amazing on you. Is that part of Hilary Duff’s Macy’s collection?”
“How much do you weigh?”
“I love you.”
Also, you should always correct a girl on her posture. It shows a willingness to be honest, and
girls LOVE honesty. Even though your posture is abysmal and you would be a hypocrite, you should
still give your opinion of her posture. I mean, what better way to show a girl how genuine you are then
to comment on her posture, right? Right.
Let’s talk sweat. Sweat has hormones in it. Hormones make girls attracted to you. Sweat=You
being attractive. This means that you should not put on antiperspirant. You should lift your arms as often
as possible to release the wonders of your pit-sweat. Don’t be afraid. It is biologically impossible for it
to fail. Trust me, I took Biology in 9th grade. No, we didn’t learn about the attractive forces of sweat, but
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that’s okay.
If you’re trying to win a girl over, do not address her by name. Instead use words like “Girl,” or
“Shawtaaaaaaay” (not the best choice, but it could work), or “Woman,” or my personal favorite, “Female.” That just sounds so smooth. Just imagine saying, “Hey, female. How are you? That’s such a nice
purse you have, female. Is it Dooney and Bourke?” You just sound so impressive and respectful. It’s
great.
In a small, yet supremely important note, I must emphasize that you should never, ever make
eye-contact when talking to a girl.
But what if you’re in a competition with another guy for this girl? No big deal. Just challenge
him to an arm wrestling competition. Girls love it when guys get uber-macho. If you’re weaker than this
guy, then replace his shampoo with Nair and his body wash with Rogaine. Also, put Chanel perfume in
his shaving cream.
That’s it. This girl likes you now. She is literally so impressed that she almost ordered a restraining order so that she wouldn’t have to worry about being nervous around you. You’re just so unbelievably impressive that she would do that. You’re the man…almost.
You must be wondering at this point, “Gee-wiz, Randy! How is this all supposed to go down?”
I’ll tell you. That’s what “Storytime time” is for. In these little sectionelles, I’ll tell you some stories
from when I did these things. What? You thought I was just writing all this stuff down without proving
it? Oh heck to the no. I do things right. Prepare to witness greatness, indirectly of course. Just remember
that this could be you.
So I’m shopping for a new suit at the Dollar Store, cause, you know, I’m cool like that. I see
this girl. This girl is attractive. I want to spend substantial amounts of my free time with this girl. I want
her to be the mother of my children. So I walk up to her, and I’m like, “Hey, female. I just have to say,
widened and she looked at me with furrowed brow. She was clearly impressed, so I keep going. I use
the Joan Rivers line. She is IN LOVE. She can’t handle it so she starts walking away. Normally, guys
wouldn’t know what to do in this situation, so they would just stop. I am not most guys, so I follow her,
walk up behind her, wrap my left arm around her, fully releasing my pit-sweat powers, and tell her, “I
love you.” What happened next? Don’t worry about it.
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All right, this girl likes you now, so you are in the green to ask her out. This will just be a quick
When you ask her out, you must add the words “or something” at the end of the exact sentence
Make her pity you. I mean, I was crying and on my knees when I proposed to my wife. Yeah. My WIFE.
No big deal.
Secondly don’t ask her out to somewhere boring. Girls don’t want to go out for dinner or a movie
or a sporting event or anything like that. Go somewhere special, like your Grandmother’s house. She
will be so astounded by this that she will jump around and eventually hug you. This is fool-proof.
place. No worries, bro. Just know this rule:
Uncertainty? Heck Naw!
She could be tricky, but after all you’ve done to win her over, there’s literally no way that she
doesn’t like you. Be persistent. Send her a Wuphf Message (pronounced “wuff”), a creation of Ryan
mail, Dentist, everything. Send her letters. Stick Post-It notes on the door of her home. If she lives in an
follow her. She will not be able to avoid you. Don’t stalk her though. Stalking is inappropriate. I’ve had
a stalker before. It was horrible. Seriously, don’t.
If that doesn’t work, say, “I love you.” Bam. Done.
ing you, remember that. I’ll give you some pointers, homeslizzle. No worries. Just do what I tell you.
friends may tell you to pay attention to her and listen while she is talking, you shouldn’t listen to them.
You’ve listened to them for your whole life. Look where that got you. Exactly. Instead, you need to ignore her consistently. Whenever she seems to end a story or statement, ask her if she was saying some“Oh, were you saying something, female? My bad.”
Once you do this, she’s just going to want to earn your attention even more. There are few things
that are more impressive to a girl than being completely ignored on a date. One of them is pit sweat.
We’ve gone over this.
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Adding on to your limited attention-giving, you must also start looking at other girls while on a
date. I know, you’re probably asking, “But what if theweawen’t any girwsawound, mistew?” Easy. You
just start looking at yourself, because every self-respecting stud carries a pocket mirror with him. You
must start looking at yourself in the mirror intently. Become infatuated with yourself. Start giving yourself compliments, then tell the girl, “I’m talking about myself, not you, female.” After all, the ladies love
with your sudden personality change. (Note: Self-obsession is not recommended for out-of-date situations). It’ll show how dynamic your personality is. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Not even your
psychiatrist.
If you were lame enough to “treat” her to a meal as a date, I have wonderful chestnuts of guidance for that, too. When she goes to sit down, pull the chair from under her to show your good sense of
savvy. When you’re ready to order, make her order after you. Heck, interrupt her in the middle of her
order and tell the server that your date still needs a couple minutes to decide, showing how thoughtful
you are. Don’t let her order any beverages to show how much you care about her health. Tell her that
she eats like a camel to show how amazingly observant you are of the world around you. Remark at how
attractive the server was, regardless of age, gender, or appearance. Fart and burp as often as humanly
possible. If she tells you that she’s going to the women’s room, answer, “You would.” Even though you
these guideline-ish things.
In case you haven’t already done it, drop the “L” word on her. Yeah, that’s right. Tell her that you
love her. Then start talking to about babies and marriage. Be forward. Be really, really forward.
Okay, you got the actual dates down. That’s pretty dope, I guess. You still have much to learn,
young cricket. Keep moving.
Jr.’s bodyguard guy at the Golden Globe Awards and that she could come, so she’s all dressed up in her
Vera Wang dress, which is all right. I mean, it looked pretty cheap. Anyway, I take her to the best eating
is great because she immediately knows that this date will be unlike any other date any girl has ever
been on. She claims that her “brand new Gucci heels” are damaged. I don’t care. I order 47 burgers, 14
fries, and 21.5 small sodas. Obviously I tell her to pay. She has this wonderful look of affection on her
face, so I know I’m cruising. We get our food, and we’re about to sit down. But wait! White Castle only
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has booths! How am I going to pull a booth out from under her and show my humor? It’s okay, Randy
plans ahead. I hire Shaq. Shaquille O’Neal runs in and rips the booth away from her. Apparently that’s
against restaurant rules. And state law. What happened next? Don’t worry about it.
You know, a lot of people are skeptical about double dates. But, hey that’s all right. This book
isn’t making you “a lot of people.” It’s making you special, like Simon Cowell. Or spray cheese. That
stuff is dope.
First off, you need to choose the other couple wisely. Don’t choose a couple that your girlfriend
is familiar with. That would be stupid. You need to keep her surprised. A good relationship is always
one of your closest bros. Make sure you and your brochacho have lots of inside jokes that only you can
laugh at so that the ladies can feel how close you two are. In doing this, you’ll also encourage them to
bond with each other, since they don’t actually know each other.
It is important that you only go to dinner on double-dates. I know, I told you before that dinner
was bad. That was for single-dates. This is a double-date. Now, seating arrangement is crucial. Make
sure that you are as far away from your girlfriend as possible and that your friend’s girlfriend is as close
to you as possible. Your girlfriend will have to put in lots of effort to gain your attention. Also, you
should ignore her for the other girl, because being ignored for someone else makes your girlfriend think
that you’re cool.
girls pay. Instead, only your girlfriend should pay. If she refuses, either make a huge scene and call the
manager “CheapyMcChargesTooMuch,” or completely peace out on the bill. Just run away. Run away
quickly.
You’ve pretty much got this dating thing down. Cool beans, eh? No. Your beans are not cool.
the battle. You need to take the time to do stuff right. Bernie Madoff did, and look where he is now. He’s
got like, a lot of money. The rest is irrelevant.
The Quiver
So you have a girlfriend now. That’s pretty cool. It’s tough to be a good boyfriend. It’s okay. I brought
you this far, I might as well bring you all the way.
You’re going to need to remember anniversary dates. I’m talking your 2 week anniversary, 3 and
a half month anniversary, 99 ¾ day anniversary. Don’t break the bank though. Just dig up some dirt, put
it in a box, and say, “I’m giving you the world.” You’re giving her earth, so this isn’t really some kind of
and stuff. So don’t ever do that ever ever, kay?
After a while, things between you two love-dolphins will get a little boring. You need to keep
things interesting. Be edgy. Comment on her eating habits. Continue commenting on her posture. Tell
her that her hair is getting a little frizzy. Ask her again how much she weighs. Develop an obsession with
Also you should give her tests every so often on what she knows about you. I’m talking legitimate multi-page tests with an essay. While some may call this unfair or egotistical, it isn’t. They’re
wrong. I’m right. I’m so very right.
In addition to all this, you need to stop all self-grooming. That means no shaving and no haircuts.
Eventually your appearance will change so much that she won’t recognize you. You’re mixing things up
big time. Plus, nothing says “awesome” like four months of untamed hair growth.
Just ask me:
Special Occasions:
Christmas
Everyone loves that wonderful time in December when all the little children get out of school
and start prancing around in the snow. They all look so happy and jubilant? Are you happy and jubilant?
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No way. I mean that’s so totes obvi. You’re reading this book because you have some serious problems.
Always be aware of that.
Now you might have some problems during this lovely time of year. You’re probably all stressed
out about getting your girlfriend a present, maybe having some family members over, escaping Narnia,
and all the usual stuff. Do you remember the “Giving You the World” gift? Of course you do. It’s embedded into your brain, or, you know, whatever the heck you got up there. Anyway, don’t worry about
breaking the bank to make her happy. Instead, you should build a snowman in her likeness. This snowman should be exquisite. I’m talking carrot nose, button eyes, a scarf, maybe some raisins for the mouth,
and top it all off with her jewelry. All of her jewelry. She’ll love the attention to detail. If she has no
jewelry, just put some of her clothes on it because that’s not creepy or annoying or a possible invasion of
privacy or anything like that. If she has a favorite Vera Wang dress or something, just slap that puppy on
the snowman and call it good. Again, this is attention to detail. You’re showing that you care.
If you have some of your family members coming over, don’t worry about any potential massive
awkies. If you have a problem, just ignore. That’s my line of thinking, and look at me now. Exactly. I’m
better than you. So, if you feel that if things might get a little awkward, just ignore everybody. Or, even
better, start mumbling the lyrics to “dancing queen” by ABBA. See how easy this is? Yes, you do. How
Valentine’s Day
This day should be very important to you. It was made for you. This is your time to shine. This
is your day to make in impact. This, this is the day to show that you care. Now, it’s February, so if you
live in a legitimate part of the world, it should still be a little snow outside. Unfortunately that means no
“Giving You the World.” It’s okay. You should know by now that I’m always prepared for everything for
ever.
A lot of guys out there buy roses. A lot of guys out there buy those stupid metal things with shiny
clear rock thingies that they call “expensive diamond jewelry.” That’s average, bro. You don’t want to be
average. You want to be spectacular. You want to be like J.C. Chasez from N’SYNC.
You should sing her a song. No music. No instruments. Just pure, unadulterated man-voice. I
suggest singing a song from a small local band. This band still does not have a name, but it’s pretty hip.
They have this song called “IHOP,” which is about IHOP, in case you just became spontaneously unable to make inferences. You should wake her up at 3 A.M. singing this song, then proceed to take her to
IHOP at 4 A.M. Now, IHOP is kind of not open at 4 in the morning, so this’ll give you not 1, not 2, but
[whatever comes after 2] hours to catch up and talk about how much you love things that aren’t related
to her in any way, which will show you how diverse your interests are. Remember to repeat using the
phrase “I love.” You could even just have some sentence fragment out there. Just mumble “I love…” and
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then when she asks “You love what?” you just take out that pocket mirror that you should have handy by
now and start staring at yourself.
Her Birthday
This one’s not even that important. You should probably just forget about it. I mean, you don’t
even have to tell her, “Happy birthday.” Just act all nonchalant like it’s a normal day. I’m assuming she
won’t care. I mean, Scarlett never cares. I’m pretty sure she won’t mind.
Your Birthday
It’s actually kind of a annoying. The man is trying to keep me down. If I want to put Lysol in my cologne, then I’ll put Lysol in my cologne, dang it!
Anniversaries
are set at completely arbtrary and random dates. After 3 months, though, you don’t have to worry about
those weird mainstream hipster people.
Anyway, just go to White Castle. That should be enough. If it’s the right time of year, break out
the “Giving You the World” deal. It literally cannot be beat. Although, you could name a star after her.
That would be cool, too. Just remember to spell her name slightly differently on the star to avoid confusion. So, if her name is Lauren, name the star “Rnalue.” Bam. I win. You win. Rnalue wins.
trumps quantity. Here are a few of my own legendary moves:
1.
The Griffey- All you really need to do is swing your arms around like you’re swinging at a pitch.
While some may claim that this is a safety hazard, the sheer quantities of awesome in this move are too
great to pass up for fear of assault charges.
2.
Delete Them- Just spin around pointing at everyone and shout “delete them.”
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3.
The Awkward Stand-in-a-corner- Made famous by a someone who may or may not be named
Alex Moore, this move is self-explanatory.
4.
The Creep- Just look this one up on YouTube. It’s by the Lonely Island.
5.
The Mad Turtle Flail- I’m actually not legally allowed to talk about this one, so, um…yeah.
If this is a school dance with teacher supervision, make sure to get the teachers involved. Dance with the
teachers. Teach them your moves. Do the Griffey with them. Just make sure not to get kicked out. That
happened to me once. I had a great time though.
Dance is a perfect way to express how hip you are to your girlfriend. As an added bonus, everyone at the
dance will think that you are the hippest whippersnapper on the block. It’s a win-win situation. See what
I’m doing for you? You can thank me later.
There are some really stressful parts of being a boyfriend. Meeting the parents is not one of
them. People always make a big deal of meeting the parents, and they’re completely stupid. It’s literally
the easiest thing ever. It’s so easy a caveman could do it. Heck, it’s so easy that I once did it while sleepyo! It’s so that even you could do it. (Imagine a Russian guy saying that. No there are no typos in that
sentence.). You don’t have to worry about making a good impression on them. Well, you won’t have to
worry if you follow these strong suggestions.
You know, a lot of people go to the parents’ house to do this. That’s probably why they get so
nervous. That, and the fact that they haven’t read this book. Anyway, by going to their house, you’re
Chuck E. Cheese’s or White Castle. If you bring them to Chuck E. Cheese’s, where a kid can be a kid,
you’re showing them that you know how to have a good time. Sure, the place may be intended for kids,
but you may want to let them indulge in some juvenile fun. Just imagine those geezers jumping around
in the ball-pit or crawling through a tunnel maze. Can’t you just see how appropriate and not creepy and
completely fun that would be? Yeah, you can because it’s clearly a good choice. And if those parents
don’t participate in the fun and games, Chuck E. Cheese’s is famous for having some of the best pizza
on the face of the earth*. That should at least win them over. I’ve already told you how White Castle
restaurant rules.
The most important part of this whole event is the conversation. Make sure that you are the alpha
male. Always dominate the exchange of words. Interrupt people constantly. Spontaneously change sub-
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jects. Use those hand motions I told you about. Tell the mother that she looks like Jocelyn Wildenstein,
which is a massive compliment. Just look her up in the internet. Obviously, your new socializing skills
will win them over, so make sure to use those. But really, you should always use your new social skills
regardless of the situation.
When you’re eating, you need to make sure to implement the same tactics as you learned previawesome. Well, you will need to do something different. As I mentioned way back in like the 3rd paragraph or whatever, you need to be the dominant one. Alpha male, bro. Alpha. Male. That means that you
have to order for everyone. Don’t let them choose. Remember what choices do? Do you remember the
section about parties? Choices lead to physical injuries. You don’t want that.
the little things that matter, and in this particular situation that idiot would be correct. When you shake
door right as the clan, being your girlfriend and her parents, are exiting. Pick your nose. Kick people under the table. Rub the table. Kiss the table. Wear the tablecloth as a toga. Use the tablecloth as a napkin.
Ask for extra utensils, especially if no one needs them. Start having conversations with the people sitting
at the table next to you. Order things that aren’t on the menu. Whisper to yourself. Take your shoes off
and place them on the table. Take someone else’s shoes and place the one the table. Hug the waiter or
waitress. Hug yourself. Talk with an anti lisp, which means sharpening your S’s. Lick the plate. Lick
everybody’s plates. Pay in monopoly money. Take off your shirt. Invite Shaq. Little things.
know, because my daughter came by stork.
*I’m legally obligated to let you know that Chuck E. Cheese’s pizza is actually horrendous. I love it, but
the government apparently doesn’t. Neither does the FDA. Or the guy who founded Chuck E. Cheese’s.
I’m sorry.
Yeah so you need to have activities to do with your girlfriend. Personally, I disagree. Going to
White Castle should be the universal activity, but apparently females be wanting to do things that are
“fun.” How is White Castle not fun? It literally never gets old. Anyway, since your girlfriend will prob-
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ably leave you if you don’t do things with her, here’s some ideas. Again, I feel as though White Castle
ety.
1.
Playing board games can be pretty sweet, but you have to pick the right game. Don’t pick some
dumb “intellectual” game like Scrabble or Trivial Pursuit or Trouble. Pick something mature and grownup like Candy Land. Actually, you should only pick Candy Land. If you don’t have it, buy it. Best decision you’ll ever make, besides buying this book. Obviously, you should always aim to win. Never let her
win. If she takes a bathroom break, move her piece back at least four spaces. Then have a celebration
ready. I suggest getting a keg of ginger ale (since those exist), shaking it up, and spraying it everywhere,
especially on white fabrics. If you are uncool enough to lose, then you should feel supremely offended.
Give her the selectively silent treatment. Don’t respond to anything she says, except for questions. When
she asks a question, such as “What’s wrong with you?” you need to respond by yelling, “YOU ARE A
MEANIE OF THE HIGHEST CALIBER!” Do this regardless of the question, and never let up. Ever.
2.
Cooking can be all right. Generally, you want to make plans to cook together. Make her expect
that you will help her. Then, when cook time comes, you should completely bail then come back when
the meal is ready. When you’re eating whatever it is she made, complain constantly. That shows honesty,
and girls LOVE honesty.
3.
Watch a movie together, but make sure that it’s something that appeals to both you and your
girlfriend. That means that you should choose something like Veggie Tales, American Psycho, or Fast
and Furious. Also, if you want to watch a horror movie, you should make sure not to sit next to her. You
should actually leave the room, then come back and scare her. Then you need to laugh at her. Laugh at
her with a mask on. And a butter knife in your hand. She’ll love your sense of humor. Trust me, I’ve
done this one, and it’s as foolproof as rocket science. I would like to use this time to say that I have
never ever watched any sort of “Legally Blonde” movie.
4.
Work out together, then start chuckling at random moments.
5.
Real life poke wars, which are the much like the “poke wars” on Facebook, are great. Just start
poking her incessantly between her eyes. It’s so fun for the both of you.
6.
Go camping together then secretly leave the tent in the middle of the night. Leave her so that
she is alone. Also, you should take all of your supplies with you, so that she is left with nothing but her
instincts. This’ll show you about her capabilities in the wilderness on her own, which is important in a
relationship. I mean, how can you have a meaningful relationship if your girlfriend doesn’t know how to
effectively skin a rabbit? You can’t.
7.
Have a picnic, but only bring raw meat. That will go over well. It will show how manly your
eating habits are. Also, make sure to go picnicking somewhere where there are a lot of animals. Wildlife
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makes everything better.
9.
Baseball bats. That is all.
10.
Implore her to play endless hours of video games with you AND your friends. Choose games
like Call of Duty, Halo, or Hannah Montana. Have some fun. Pwnnoobz.
11.
Female humans really like to shop, which is disgusting. Anyhow, you should still go shopping
with your girlfriend. You need to be watchful of her. She shouldn’t be going to stores that are too expensive, like Old Navy or the Dollar Store. That’s just inconsiderate of her, if you’re paying. You shouldn’t
be paying for anything that she wants, though. That’s just a universal rule. So, deliberately forget your
everything. By doing this, you are teaching her how to be responsible with money, and she will appreciate that. Not paying for things is a good way to show that you care.
12.
Clean the bathroom(s) together. Make sure to split up the tasks so that she always gets the toilet,
Literally. At the bottom of the toilet bowl you should place a picture of you so that this is, again, actually
very literal. Making your girlfriend clean toilets is a good way to show that you care.
13.
Have 3 hour mandatory conversations about the resiliency of Care Bears.
14.
Have a contest in which you chug Ginger Ale. Ignore the extreme stomach pains that follow.
15.
Challenge her to a game of “Try to Prevent Your Boyfriend From Stealing the Things in Your
Purse.” Figure out how to play that one on your own.
16.
Staring Contests.
17.
Close your eyes contests. While her eyes are closed, steal all the money and credit cards from her
18.
Make a list of things that she wants to do together, then make sure that you guys never do any of
those things together.
Oh, what’s this? This is how you propose. I’m guiding you through everything.
No matter what you hear, do not propose to her in a romantic setting. What if she says no? Then you’re
left in some lame place with “pretty” roses and then you look like an idiot. Propose to her over the
phone. Propose in an email. Propose in a text message. Send her your proposal in a Wuphf. That way,
Of course I’ll be providing you with the lines. No “Will you marry me?” That’s not strong enough. Use
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these instead:
“You will marry me.”
“We’re getting married now. Yes, right now. I do. Now we’re married”
“My mom told me to marry you, so that’s what’s happening.”
“This is an engagement ring. Put it on. Now. Or else.”
Alternately, you could do the reverse and use the pity approach. For example:
“Hey I know we’ve been together for 6 days and I know I probably waited too long, but I wanted to ask
you if you would marry me. It’s okay if you say no. I just—I need you in my life forever, honeymonkeyface! Please say yes.”
*proceed to cry. Use handkerchief to wipe tears. Do not blow snot bubbles*
Yes, I am aware that you could screw this one up, too. The “No means Yes” rule applies here,
too. You can’t do the same things, though. Nah, dawg. This is f’serious.
Name a star after her. Get a tattoo on your forehead with her face and name on it. Get a tattoo on
her forehead with your name and face on it. Legally change all three of your names to match hers. Steal
her identity. Claim that you know about her massive cootie infestation, or MCI, and use that as blackmail, because blackmailing people is okay. Develop a deep, close bond with all members of her family,
including pets.
I always hear about guys getting nervous at the wedding. You will not be one of those guys. Sure,
day. I mean, it’s only human, right? Anyway, I’ll help you take care of some of those nerves.
Before the actual ceremony, you need to drink 8 boxes of 5-hour energy. Having insane amounts of
energy is a great way to calm your nerves. Also, you need to once again NOT put on antiperspirant. If
tion, you should jog at least 5 miles on a treadmill in a room in which the temperature is 89.23 degrees
Fahrenheit. You also need to be wearing your tuxedo during the jog.
When you are in the actual act of getting married, you need to arrange to have one of your friends call
ceremony. This will make it seem like you think that this whole marriage thing isn’t really a big deal,
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which makes you look cool, calm, and collected. While you’re at it, sign up for a Twitter account and
tweet:
By doing this, you’re making yourself look really cool, appropriate, and mature.
Instead of saying “I do” vocally, send it by text message, e-mail, or Wuphf to both the bride and the pastor guy. Again, you want to make the whole marriage thing not a big deal. This is the perfect way to do
it.
After the ceremony, burn off all the 5-hour energy shots by running around hysterically without a shirt
and wearing only one shoe. Then run away. Run away forever. Leave. I got married and…and…I had…
The Honeymoon
Las Vegas. Cancun. Drink lots of Ginger Ale. Pay attention to other women. Take dance lessons
from the cast of “Jersey Shore”. That’s all you need to know.
And now we’re done. This is as far as we go. I know, you owe me one. You’re welcome. I’ll take $500
as a modest “thank you”. Seriously. I need to pay rent. I’m broke. Please.
I will also accept payment in donuts.
About the Author
Randy Gnapoor spends most of his time with his family in his headquarters in Cancun. He has no
home. He just lives in his headquarters, since that’s clearly different. It is roughly 4,000 square feet, and
consists of mostly Ginger Ale. When MTV Cribs asked him if they could feature his headquarters, he replied, “You know, if it was 2004, I would totally let you feature my hizzle, but ever since 2004 you guys
just went downhill. I mean, you have Teen Cribs now. Seriously? Are you for real? No one wants to see
that. Besides, the sheer quantities of winning and awesome in my headquarters would probably cause
your cameras to explode, and I don’t want your stupid camera shrapnel piercing my enormous vats of
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Ale. Hey, you don’t have a sandwich on you, do you?”
He describes himself as “All work, all play, ‘cause work is play. I’ve got the best job in the
world. I literally open up Microsoft Word and put some random stuff down. I usually do it while eating a
wanted to drive a Range Rover. Now look at me. I’m 26 and I spend all my time in Cancun.”
Randy is listed as contraband in 47 U.S. States, 11 Canadian provinces, and 37 entire countries. What’s
that? There are only 10 Canadian provinces, you say? Well, an eleventh will emerge, and, when it does,
he will be illegal there. He is listed as “containing 43 times the legal and human limit of awesome.” He
His wife, Scarlett, is human. His daughter, Fro’Quisha, is also human. Recently, Randy was informed by
the Stork agency that he and his wife will be expecting a son. He plans to name him “!xobile,” though he
is considering other names.
Standing 5’8” and weighing just over 120 pounds, Randy obviously has an intimidating frame
and stature, which he used to earn a football trophy at an unknown age, though he assures us that the trophy “was completely legitimate” and was given only to him, “not everyone on every team” and “was not
given after the completion of a recreational league for 4-year-olds, in which all the teams were named by
color.” He was born on February 18, 1985. He was born in Rex Hospital in Raleigh, North Carolina, the
same hospital in which Clay Aiken was born. In 1971, he, despite having the extreme handicap of not
existing, wrote the lyrics to “You’re So Vain,” which was made famous by Carly Simon. He is related
to Aziz Ansari, as well as most of the people who have attended, are attending, or will attend medical
school.
In 2006, he will invent a time machine. Shortly thereafter, he will go to White Castle and not pay
for anything that he buys because he’s Randy, and he’ll do whatever the heck he wants.
In 2011, Randy visited the high school of his friend, Nikhil Basavappa, who is not Randy. Multiple teachers witnessed his greatness as he strolled down the halls. Said teachers were then sent to the
with “BMS,” or Blown Mind Syndrome. They were all presumably back at school the next day. No one
an answer when asked a question, and it always blows minds. Here is a recent interview.
So, Randy, how’s it going?
Like clockwork. What kind of question is that?
So tell me about your book.Who’s the target audience and what’s it about?
Well, basically if you wrapped bacon in donuts then sprinkled it with crystallized angel tears, you’d
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have something approximately half as awesome as my book. I don’t mean to be cocky or anything, it’s
just that I’ve never really done or seen anything so groundbreaking. It’s really life changing. It really
is.Oh, the target audience.Well, see, I’m really trying to target the people who need the most help. Jocks,
muscular guys, guys with money. You know, guys who would really have a hard time picking up girls.
But really, everybody could use some help in that department. And in the beginning, where I talk about
social situations, I’m really trying to get through to all people. I didn’t want this to just be a book for
guys looking for girls or donuts, I wanted girls to be able to learn from it, too.
So what genre would you call Cologne: The Lifestyle?
Awesome. Self-empowerment. Whatever my wife wants it to be.
Now what would you say makes it so awesome?
It does. Duh.
What made you think to write a book of this type?
Well, this one time, my heart appeared to me in a dream as a small cow, and it was all like, “Moo.
in the dialect in which you speak.” But this is a dream, so I can do anything. I teach myself how to speak
cow, and it turns out that it was saying, “I make generic sounds.” To which I said, “Well, that was useless, cow.” So I left, and Iwent to a donut shop, which was conveniently located next to the cow. When I
was there, I had a donut, but it wasn’t very good, so I got mad and I woke up. When I woke up, my wife,
Scarlett Johansson, was like, “Honey, you need to write a book about teaching guys how to woo girls
and stuff,” so I did.
Well we just had an interview with Scarlett Johansson and she didn’t even know who you were. Any
response?
Dude, you just got played by my wife. I can’t believe you fell for her trick.
And you claim to have a child with her? How is this child doing?
My daughter, Fro’Quisha, is doing pretty well. She’s been really intrigued with that show “Millionare
And where do you live, Randy?
My headquarters are in Cancun.
So is that a writing headquarters?
Of course not. How the heck is a building supposed to write?
Is it a headquarters for your writing?
Along with other things, yes.
What else is it a headquarters for?
Awesome synthesis, eating, sleeping, not watching Legally Blonde because I have never watched that
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55
movie or its sequel because I am a manly man.
You made an appearance in a local high school recently. Are you going to be doing speaking tours?
Probably not.Unless they pay me in donuts. Then I might consider it.
So what made you go to this high school?
Well my good friend Nikhil Basavappa goes there and I just thought I’d stop by. He’s an okay kid. He’s
not as smashingly handsome as me, but he’s got potential. He’s been busy lately. He’s part of two bands,
he’s in mustache competition, he’s really just grabbing life by the horns. It’ll be interesting to see where
he ends up. I just wanted to check on him, make sure he’s headed in the right direction, not planning on
going to college or med school or anything easy like that.
Where did you go to high school?
I am high school.
Where did you grow up?
was 13, and then moved to Cancun when I felt like it.
And when did you feel like it?
I love my wife.
That doesn’t answer the question...
It does, trust me.
I’m going to have to cut this short, maybe we’ll pick it up later?
Wow, you have an unclear antecedent. I’m actually really ticked off by that. I’m going to have to shut
this interview down.
That just happened.
“I made this for you.”
-Julian Smith, YouTube sensation
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56
For When the Seas Pull You Down
By Dan Fulham ‘14
A
ll this talk of Cloudbreak
And I’d love to talk right back
But the Now is just now
And the Done is just done
So I’ll just drift
All soft and slow
Until the rolling whoozywhatsies
Ooze up from the bottom
As we wait for Cloudbreak in our
Happy Little Beds.
Someone Called Home
By Dan Fulham ‘14
And AlbyMcAlbertson comes a hollerin’
That the tomorrow time is nigh
And we can all shimmy on down
To the runniest running land around
And StealioNealson pinwheels through the glade
Blossoming sweet grins
On the doorsteps of melancholy
As we wait like the real Vagabonds
Until poofy goes the door
And we glide into purple living rooms
With cushions like melted glass
And windows like they don’t exist
Until the past and future collide
Like those stars from Mother’s stories
If she ever took the time for stories
S
omeone called home.
And I think that means the running is
done.
That all this winning has not won.
So we open the door.
So someone called home.
And the eyes all rolled.
And slunk back to bed.
But we opened the door.
Again, someone called home.
And we couldn’t stand the weight of it.
So we tried our best to ignore the baggage.
But we opened up, and the door departed.
Open, please. Because it is cold outside.
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57
Apples and Questions
By Edgar Escobar ‘15
T
he boy’s room was decorated with dark green wallpaper with a pattern of little apples, but
all focus was directed toward the orange stars painted on the ceiling.
“Dad? Are you there?”
“Yeah, sorry… I’m just checking on you.”
“I can’t sleep, I think, I think I need… a bedtime story.”
“A what?” laughed the father.
“You know, don’t you? A story helps me sleep, you know?”
“All right, I’ll tell you a story about… hmm… let me think… Ah!”
“What?”
The comment pushed his lips into a smirk, and the boy couldn’t help but play his father’s game
by asking, “Huh? How?”
“He looks like you and he’s curious like you.”
The boy kept his mouth wide open to demonstrate his interest and to provoke his father into telling the story, but the father always played his own game.
Scrunching his face the boy roared, “Aren’t you going to tell it?”
“First, you need to close that jaw of yours,” pushing the jaw into place with his index and middle
be quiet and not ask any questions until the end. Okay?”
“Okay.”
so much that he one day he set out to look for apples as a treat for everyone. That day as the boy walked
“What if I fall asleep?”
“Don’t you trust that I’ll wake you up? And what did I tell you about interrupting the story,
huh?” he asked but he knew his boy wouldn’t reply. “Okay let’s try this again…”
The boy closed his eyes once more and this time the father did, too. The father fumbled with his
words, which tore the wallpaper in the room apart. Realizing his discomposure, he gathered himself and
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on he continued. His lips and jaw moved, but the noise that came out of his mouth was not heard by his
“Dad… What are you saying?” asked the perplexed boy as he lay in his racecar bed.
His boy’s words were air and nothing more to him, but what did he care? The father was now
scrunching his face in wonder of the tightening air and most importantly the new, fresh scent that surrounded him.
“Dad!” yelled the boy. All he could do was read the expressions that molded his father’s face.
The air tightened, and tightened, and tightened until the world of the father and his son became
pitch black, and there they froze, blind. The story continued…
needed, to perceive the knowledge of the new world. A world of vices… No, a world of games was the
truth that the boy witnessed.
The shape shifting clouds, somersaulting birds, and sprouting violets sculpted the mind of the
Learning the rules of the game, he fought gravity and roamed the world that wished to knock him over.
the sky by some worldly power or Day and Night truly breathed, the boy experienced life and that was
right.
“Listen…” Day and Night celebrated the gift of each day with a tug of rope game where the loser
would have to hang in the sky for twelve hours. So, Day tugged the rope from Night, and Night braced
into the pool and his darkness dripped in orange stars.
“Here I am!” cried the startled boy who’d been watching, “Let me play too!” he urged.
As a part of the rules of this enchanting game, the pool was prohibited to him. And uncomfortably the
boy lifted his chest high and scrunched his face at the unresponsive sky.
“Why don’t you let me join? Why don’t you tell me, huh?”
Suddenly the ground beneath him gently rocked until he fell into a deep sleep.
“Why have you fallen asleep when I was just about to tell you?”
chilled water on his body the boy sprung up in surprise of a new day. Coughing until the water was out
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ever. The boy’s irises turned blue, his hair grew longer, and his mind stayed cluttered. To the dismay of
the boy, the tug of rope game’s orange pool suddenly became a muddy green. Soon, the pool emitted a
stinging, yet attractive apple-like scent. Breaking the rules, he scavenged in the pool for the source of the
scent, and in the recesses of its darkness the joyous boy witnessed the scent twist and turn into an image
of an apple.
Disturbed by the sporadic interludes of the swaying scent, the boy craved, possibly needed, to
deeper in the green pool. Fighting the rules, he played in the complexity between day and night.
“How does the world play games as I drown in my own questions?” he asked. Too true, too true,
too true were his questions and so often they repeated that he no longer sought the answer but another
question.
now to him and to him, the world was wrong and that was right. But is that right I ask you?
He confused himself and although his feelings grew more complex, his responses were simpler.
the apple. The world’s insanity continued to whack the boy’s head until he slept again.
So, the clouds continued to shape shift, the birds somersaulted, and the violets sprouted, but Night, angered by the boy’s infraction of the rules, was now in front of him staring deeply in his face. And Night
smiled because the boy’s black pupils were painted with bright orange stars.
When the father opened his eyes he witnessed how his sleeping son’s face was scrunched up as
though the little, seemingly innocent boy was about to ask a question.
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A Grain of Salt
At Peace
By Andrew Corcoran ‘14
By Joey Cerra ‘15
A
friend repeats info from an unreliable
source,
“Take it with a grain of Salt” he says.
I nod my head in agreement, but
Why Salt?
In fact, I think I prefer sweet or savory,
Can I take this info with a drop of A1,
Or even some powdered sugar?
Salt can create high blood pressure,
I don’t want a heart attack,
What about a drop of red wine,
Or even some dark chocolate,
That’s better for the heart.
And with a better heart maybe
I’ll believe the unreliable source.
Yes, I think a drop from the vine,
Or a little natural chocolate,
Will do me well,
Not a grain of Salt.
S
himmering scales covering
Strong skin.
Attired in a unique coat,
Painted with blues, yellows, and greens.
Slicing through undertow,
Observing dark desolate ocean ahead.
How lost she may have been.
Swimming toward the surface,
Light shines off her cover,
Freeing her splendor.
Fisherman on the sea near,
Examine its elegant ways,
Keeping quiet not to startle her.
Waves crash against their vessel
Their eyes were locked on its beauty,
Souls comforted by its presence.
No longer watched by eyes,
Leaves them at peace.
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Vladamir’s Kill
By Joey Cerra ‘15
T
he old cabin stood where it always had in the middle of the forest. A blanket of snow covered the roof and thetree’s bare branches. The structure had a chimney and a front porch
held up by cinderblocks. The man in the cabin went by the name of Vladimir Rabinovich.
He was an aged Russian, living with the trees and trees alone. His meals came from the
Morning came and Vladimir needed a meal. He pulled himself out of bed, laced his boots, put
his snow shoes on, and donned his heaviest pair of pants. Tucking them into his boots, he shouldered his
tials for hunting.He walked across the surface of the snow, courtesy of his snowshoes. Upon hearing
a crack in the brush, he would stop, look down his scope,and check to see if there was any movement
before he proceeded. The only sound Vladimir could hear came from the snapping of twigs under his
feet and the crunching of snow because of his weight. He decided he was going to check out his lucky
prey. When he got there he came across two cabins and a few tourists. The cabins were placed in the
middle of a valley that stretched from ridge to ridge about two miles. Vladimir had a perfect view from
the where he was lying down. He waited patiently till he could begin his hunting. He spotted his prey
throughout the forest. Vladimir waited until he had his perfect shot. He lay down, his heart pounding as
sion release and watched his prey fall. He quickly got to his victim and from there dragged the carcass
back to his old cabin surrounded by the woods. He had found his dinner for the next two weeks.
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“Another missing person!”Green said tensely, slamming the Sunday paper on the table.
“Where at?” Detective Walker, his partner, said as he poured a cup of coffee.
“The usual. Up in the Timberland forest near Westerland,” Green said,standing up from his chair
to begin his pacing. “Hundreds of people go missing every year in forests. There isn’t much we can do
about it except keep people aware of the danger of going into forests unprepared. If it were something to
pid as it is cold up there. We tell people every year that if they choose to do so, then they should prepare
for the worst,” said Walker as he sipped his coffee.
elicita serious remark from Walker.
of whiskey. “We’ll check it out soon, but we better make sure we’re prepared.”
Walker handed Green the glass of bourbon.
“Start getting ready,” Walker said as theypolished off their drinks.
A week later the two Detectives were ready to travel into Timberland.
“I can’t believe we have to do this,” said Walker as they got into their car.
“It’s gunna be a cold one,” said Green.
As they drove Green couldn’t help but notice the disgust on his partner’s face.
“Why aren’t you taking this case seriously?” he said.
“Case? We’re supposed to be looking for one body in a forest with a 30-mile radius. You and the
boss suspect there’s something behind it.”
“We’ll see,” said Green, following the snow banks with his eyes on the sides of the road as they
drove.
They arrived in Timberland at noon. Both of the detectives were dressed in hiking gear suitable for their coming endeavors. Along with the essentials on their belts, they wore holstered .40 Smith
& Wesson handguns. At the entrance they looked at the route of the path through the forest on a map,
posted on a nearby sign.
“We’ll take this route,” Walker said as he pointed to the map.
“It will bring us through most of the quadrant of the forest for today and hopefully toward the
campsite where our missing person was stationed.”
Walker handed Green the photo.
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63
“A young man in his late twenties was out with friends camping, and they said they woke up and
he was nowhere to be found. Let’s get moving.”
The path they were walking on had been cleared. The town was able to get a plow to do most
of the work without tearing up the earth. Trees, 50 meters high, surrounded them. The silence between
them was brought on by their fear as night approached.
toward his lucky spot, he laid down to watch a couple hundred meters away from the ridge around the
campsite. Looking down his sights he did not see any inhabitants. He turned and tried another angle.
He saw two men walking side by side up toward the campsite. He noticed their holstered weapons and
pondered their purpose as he scanned the rest of their bodies. He watched them search through both of
the cabins. It was almost night, and the sun began to sink. Vladimir had to act.Either watch and wait for
his chance to strike, or go home hungry. He decided to go back to his cabin and in the morning because
what to do come sunrise.
“Let’s check up on the ridges,” Walker said to Green hesitantly.
“Sounds good, how do you suppose we get up there before night fall?” Green replied.
“Unfortunately, I don’t think we will,” Walker sighed.
The two men traversed to the top of the ridge and began walking around the ridge of the campsite. Both of the men sunk in the snow as they walked.
“Why didn’t we bring snow shoes again?” Walker asked.
“Good question, too late now,” Green replied.
As they slowly moved through the snow, which was knee high they tried to spot a clue indicating
where the missing person could be.
“When’s the last time it snowed?” Green asked Walker.
“Last week,” Walker replied.
“Look for trails.” Green eyes shifted left and right looking for a sign.
“There! Look.” Green bent down over a pair of footprints that went off into the forest.
The detectives decided to follow them to see where they lead. Both men could not see any sign of light
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64
and their only direction came from the footprints. The tracks led them to a cabin about to crumble to the
ground.
“Let’s check it out,” Green replied, moving toward the front door.
They knocked on the front door. An elderly man opened it.
“We’re looking for this man.” Walker held up the photo of the man they’d been searching
for.“Have you seen him?”
“No, I’m sorry. I can’t say I have,” said Vladimir, smiling at Walker.
“His campsite was just a mile or two away from your cabin. If you see any trace of him, be sure
to immediately contact us,” Green said.
“Will do,” said the old man.
“Can we get your name as well?” Walker said.
“It’s Vladimir Rabinovich” said the man as he closed the door.
“Let’s try to get back to that campsite,” said Walker. “We’ll continue the search in the morning.”
As they followed the path, Walker heard a gunshot. Green had been shot in the leg. Walker
“I can’t see him Green. I’ll be back,” Walker said giving his partner a nod of reassurance.
He began to run through the trees, staying low, as fast as he could without getting stuck in the snow. As
soon as he got close enough to Vladimir he took his shot, leaving a hole in Vladimir’s chest. He saw
house was searched and only skeletons were found.
key.
“I’m glad you’re back, Green.” Walker handed Green his glass. “I couldn’t have done that without you.”
Green smiled. “Salute,” he said, raising his glass to touch Walker’s as they threw back their bourbon.
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65
After “Howl” By Allen Ginsberg
By Seve Mustone ‘15
I
saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by inactivity, staring to the wall
With an inactive, blank countenance, walking the streets of life not knowing what they do is nothing
Rebellious for wrong reason, conformed, boxed in molds of man making typical, reluctant, recalculated, repetitious steps that only bring them further unto the known
Who turned to ash before their own eyes, watching as their own bodies turned into what their soul
feared, but their characters loved.
Who hid what they desired, discovered what they hated, and tossed away their very own selves
and faded glass even once for a ticket.
Who once saw a man look to the present, rather then the future, and asked the present if it would like to
Who then stared at this adventurous man and gave him a scoff and a head shake
just tossed a mean left hook, knocking down every and all who contested him.
The Quiver
En Español
Oda a la pelota
By Edgar Escobar ‘15
C
Oda al Caribe
By Liam Moreno ‘16
E
írculo, cerrado, controlado
l Caribe,
Lo que es negro, azul, o rojo por todas
Tierra de peloteros,
partes
De frutas,
Cosido hasta que se hincha
Y de rumberos,
Código de barras, valor intrínseco
Donde todos son alegres,
Lado, valor sentimental
Y los paisajes son verdes,
Las islas están rodeadas,
Fútbol, Fútbol Americano, Pelota lo mismo
De aguas azules,
Golpeado, rascado, como rayos del neumático
Y saladas,
Quejándose, enojado, todo revolucionario
Todo de lo que está vivo
La música tiene ritmo, tumbao,
Nada de lo que está cosido ni muerto
Y sabor,
Y todavía, su vuelo lanza una celebración
Bailan los muchachos,
Y sienten el calor,
El ruido de la patada
De Hialeah a Maiquetía,
Un sonido que repite hasta que su propio fuerza
De Cuba a Panamá,
Empuje a los sentimientos
Ahí está el Caribe, ¿mi hermano, no es verda?
Un niño se preocupa de patear una pelota
La suya y no de otros
Para que un día limpie la suciedad de los ojos de
una pelota
Pero hasta que eso pase, el rueda con puntadas por
todos lados
Las suyas y no de otros
Pero simplemente, la pelota es de nosotros
66
The Quiver
67
Nieve
El Viento
By Joe Kerwin ‘15
A
graciada, pero peligrosa
Bailando en el cielo, acumulando en
el suelo
Derritiendo, y cambiando al agua
Un poco más cada día hasta
La primavera
Adversidad
Llorando, sufriendo, luchando
Lo que no te mata te hace más fuerte
Diagnosticando, sobreviviendo, mejorando
Próspera, feliz
Alegría
Cama
Cansado, Relajante, tranquilo
Senar, pensar, dormir, relajarse, cansarse
Felizmente, lentamente, calurosamente
Almohada, paraíso
By Matthew Guarino ‘15
V
iento
Empujando árboles como las olas
Fluyéndose por pelo y hojas
Como agua corriendo por los dedos
El viento es libre
Y corre por campos y montañas
Como un río corre por las rocas
El viento es invisible
Y actúa sin duda
No se puede controlar el viento
No se puede ver el viento
No se puede oler el viento
No se puede agarrar el viento
Pero
Se puedo sentir el viento
Y se puede oír el viento
Como un ángel
The Quiver
The Epilogue
T
By Jack Goldman ‘14
he Oxford English Dictionary is huge. It’s about the size of the volume you’re holding,
used frequently, but not to the point where you might say, “Art. Ugh. Not everything is art,
so why does everyone call everything art?” Now, I know nobody would say it like that, but
bear with me. Art is beautiful. Art is sophisticated. Art is simple. Art is an oxymoron. It’s also a skill, a
passion, and a struggle.
Art is the bane of my existence, but I also believe that creating art is not only my calling, but also
my passion. I can’t draw, it’s just impossible for me. On the other hand, writing is a form of art, and I
write things all the time, and plan on writing for the rest of my life. In fact, I plan to do my best to write
more than I breathe.
able to produce artwork just as I am, only with a paintbrush or pastel in place of my trusty pen. The
important thing about art, though, is that it’s all beautiful in some way. Haikus have 17 syllables, and
are considered some of the most beautiful forms of poetry. My haikus were worth as much as the destroyed basketball sitting in my trash can at home, but some people (no matter how crazy they may have
been) found beauty in some of those broken words. The three-year-old down the street draws heads with
feet on blank paper, and there is still something beautiful about that. The beauty of art is what matters,
whether you see it on the surface, or buried deep within the themes of a text or canvas.
In The Quiver
pieces that make us shake our heads. We read tons of submissions, and loved all of them, because you
else. So, even if you didn’t make this year’s edition, don’t worry about it, we wanted you, and we still
do. Now, all you need to do is keep writing, painting, drawing, pasting, or anything else. Good art is inspired by real life, and the more you experience, the more beautiful your art will be. So go out and prove
us wrong, or prove us right: keep up the fantastic work, we can’t wait to be impressed by next year’s
work. There’s a reason that the giant dictionary gives the word art a full page of nine point print, so take
advantage of every second you have, because everything you do is art, and it’s important to enhance the
beauty of your art. Keep on Quivering!
68
69
The Quiver
So
By Headmaster William L. Burke III
You pierce our patron with arrows
So we sew them on our crest
You nail our Savior to the Cross
So I wear one on my chest
The Quiver