The Walrus 2015, Vol. 49 Saint Mary`s Hall San Antonio, Texas

Transcription

i would rather...
As humans, we strive to survive, to do everything we can to exist for one more
day, month, or year. Our existence becomes a question of longevity instead of
value. To seize the day is to make the most of each moment.
What does it mean to make the most of our lives?
Jack London answered this in his “Credo”:
“The function of man is to live, not to exist.
I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them.
I shall use my time.“
The Walrus 2015, Vol. 49
Saint Mary’s Hall
San Antonio, Texas
The Walrus 1
Madeline MillerPoemMelancholy 40
Metamorphosis
Diego Carrisalez
Digital Photograph
Carroion Flower
40-41
Rachel Brown
Graphite & Charcoal
Weeping Spirit
41
Jacob MillerHaikus42
PoemPresence42
Blair RobinsonWatercolor & InkBipolar43
Reagan Naylor
Personal Narrative
Snake Charming
44-46
Tommy CochranDigital PhotographHeadlights45
Margaret Shupbach
Digital Photograph
Pipe Wall
46
Katrina ArthurDigital PhotographCatch47
Tyler Kozma
Personal Narrative
Visitation Hours
48-50
Kathryn Vance
Digital Photograph
The Floating Door
49
Julia Medellin
Digital Photograph
Controlled Creatures 50-51
Dyana MartinezPoemOne Thousand 51
Two Hundred Ninety
Nancy Lee Archer
Hockney Photo Collage
Abby at the Creek
52-53
Cole PattersonPoemClouds52
Emma DavisPoemA Summit’s Cycle53
Isaac GoldstonePersonal EssayThe Farm54-55
Juliana FaganWalnut InkThe Herd55
Lauren Bynum
Watercolor and Gouache
Watching
56
Kathryn VanceKaleidoscope PhotographPelicans56
Marian HillDigital PhotographyBroken Woman56
“Fountain of Youth,” Digital Photograph, Nancy Lee Archer (11)
Table of Contents
2 I Would Rather
Alex Flaherty
Collage and Watercolor
Electric Bulb
Cover
Nancy Lee Archer
Digital Photograph
Fountain of Youth
3
Sophie GomezGouacheThe Komentaja4-5
Trey MaurerPoemUnanimity6
Alex Sugg
Gouache and Pen
In Your Hands
6-7
Julianna FaganWalnut InkJason8
Bean Rodriguez Personal Essay
Joe Rodriguez
9
Helen ShaperGraphiteMr. Fay9
Tommy CochranDigital PhotographReflections10-11
Olivia NastalaPoemTarnished Love11
Annie AtwellCollageRoad Map12
Jasmine Lui-Zarzuela
Personal Narrative
From Two, to 12-14
One, to None
Gabby Feuillet
Color Pencil & Watercolor
Crystal Lettuce
14
AcrylicVital15
John GurianPoemHome15
Rachel BrownAcrylicRebirth16-17
Paige Livingston Lopez
Poem
The Water’s Edge
17
Audrey Blow
Short Story
Food: A Friend or
18
An Enemy
Gabby FeuilletPenEmma18
Colleen CampbellWatercolorMother19
John GurianPoemScreaming at 19
Myself
Rachel BrownCharcoalPreserving20
Innocence
Madeline Miller Short Story
Night One
21
Bennett WordInk & CollageEnjoy A22
Bitter End
Olivia NastalaShort StoryCoughing Clouds
23
Bennett Word
Pen
Smog Gets in Your Eyes23
Alicia Amberson
Oil Pastel and Ink
Uninhibited
24
Cita Atwell andPoemLeech24
Seis Steves
Audrey BlowPoemThe Killer25
Marian HillDigital PhotographUrban Borealis26-27
Emma DavisPoemTrapped27
Julia MedellinHockney Photo CollageReconstructing28-29
Austin GarciaPoemThe Tin 29
Soldier’s War
Austin BlackwellDigital PhotographAngel30
Jacob MillerShort StoryJudgement Day31-32
Alex PfirrmannCollageModern Malice32
Paige LivingstonLopez
Short Story
The Last Eve in
33
the Garden of Eden
Alexandra Flaherty
Digital Photograph
Sewn Apple
33
Paige Livingston Lopez
Poem
Around the Clock
34
Diego Carrisalez
Digital Photograph
Iron Chandelier
35
Alexia Salingaros
Screenplay
Lady of Paint Creek
36-37
Sophia Salingaros
Poem within Screenplay
Lady of Paint Creek
36-37
Tommy Cochran
Digital Photograph
Inner Tears
38
Audrey BlowPoemWhirl of 39
Dissatisfaction
Submission Policy:
The Walrus welcomes submissions from any
member of the Upper School student body from
August through February. All work is judged
anonymously, so we ask that all submissions
arrive without a name on the piece and with the
required submission form. Submission forms
may be obtained from Mrs. Amy Williams-Eddy or a literary magazine staff member through
email. Digital submissions are preferred and
sent to [email protected] along with a submission form. All digital photographs and artwork must be 300 dpi and large enough for
printing. The Walrus staff works during lunch,
after school, and every Sunday after spring
break to complete the magazine.
Editoral Policy:
The Walrus editorial staff reserves the right to
edit minor errors such as gramatical and spelling problems, while other submissions may be
returned to the author for other requested corrections.
The Walrus 3
“Komentaja,” Gouache by Sophie Gomez (11)
i would rather
be ashes than dust!
i would rather
that my spark should
burn out in a brilliant
blaze than it should
be stifled by dry-rot.
i would rather
be a superb meteor,
every atom of me
in magnificent glow,
than a sleepy and
permanent planet...
i shall use my time.
—Jack London, “Credo” (1902)
The Walrus 5
Unanimity
A Poem by Trey Maurer (12)
We are born to follow the path
Straight and narrow
All the same
Bowling hats and trench coats
Everywhere I look
I see billboards of expectations
Signs
Telling us which way to turn
I see the same story
In every eye that meets mine
False ideals of happiness
Blinded by lies
A change must be made
We begin to watch
Take in what is around
Take a chance
Together
We will not be denied
“In Your Hands,” Gouache and Pen, Alex Sugg (10)
6 I Would Rather
The Walrus 7
“Jason,” Walnut Ink, Juliana Fagan (12)
Joe Rodriguez
A Personal Essay by Bean Rodriguez (12)
My grandfather expressed his adoration for me before
I was born. He preached to my father that grandchildren
were the greatest treasures in life. I never had the opportunity to share a conversation with my grandfather,
but our lives overlapped for fourteen years.
The week I was born, he had a stroke and was taken
to the hospital. Fourteen years later, my grandfather’s
body lost the ability to sustain itself, and he died. While
our lives shared existence, my grandfather was bedridden. His entire body was paralyzed, except his right
arm and the muscles from his chest upward. He could
not speak or walk. Some say he was a vegetable; I don’t
like that term though. The value of his life should not be
degraded to that of a side salad. He may not have been
able to speak, but he could see, hear, touch, taste, and
most importantly, he could love. He loved me unconditionally, and I think that is worth more than the rarest
species of plantae.
My mind is loud with the thought of my grandfather.
I write conversations we never had and recite advice he
never gave me. Our relationship, or at least the one I
have designed in my head, has grown to be more than it
ever could have been while he was alive, because I was
afraid of him.
When my family went to visit him, I always entered
his room last. I waited my turn to say hello, like a scared
shadow in the corner of the sky-blue chamber that he
had occupied for fourteen years. A mountain set in the
thick air of his room, he intimidated me. I shuffled my
feet over the blank white tile and hunched at his bedside, but I never had the courage to make eye contact
with him. After greeting him, his right arm would slide
along his side, similar to the motion of a windshield
wiper. When his right arm swiped the air, my grandmother whispered to my sister and me, “He loves you
two. He only does that when he is happy.”
He loved me.
I knew he loved my sister, for I had often heard of
the hours they spent in matching red chairs in the back
yard. But, me? Why me? It took me fourteen years to
answer that question. I finally answered it on August
22, 2010, the day my grandfather passed away. I wept. I
wept for a man who never spoke one word to me. I wept
8 I Would Rather
because I loved him, because he had chosen to love me
before I was even given a name.
My grandfather taught me that love is a choice. Love
is caring too much, caring so much that nothing the recipient has done, is doing or will do can alter the love
one feels for them. He chose to care too much for me,
and never let my cowardly, childish behavior affect that
love. No one can take back what they have done, no
one can time travel, but everyone can forgive. If you
love someone, you put his needs before your own and
forgive his actions, because you do not want his life to
ever lack of joy.
My grandfather may be physically absent from my
life, but he is present in my everyday decisions. Because of him, I have learned to love unconditionally.
No matter the decisions of the people I love, I will always forgive and do everything in my power to protect
the happiness in their lives.
“Mr. Fay,” Charcoal, Helen Shaper (12)
The Walrus 9
Tarnished Love
A Poem by Olivia Nastala (12)
Rain runs down
Slanted shingles
First slow
Restrained
The pace increases
Filling the bronze trough
It’s not enough
It’s never enough
Slowly leaking into the garden
Your affection
Drawn astray
Rushing down the narrow pipe to meet
Flowers greedy for nourishment
You leave stains along the bone-dry basin
I am left empty
The rusting green gutter
Deepens in shade with every downpour
“Reflections,” Digital Photograph, Tommy Cochran (12)
10 I Would Rather
The Walrus 11
“Road Map,” Collage, Annie Atwell (12)
From Two, to One, to None
A Personal Essay by Jasmine Lui-Zarzeula (12)
“The violent clash of voices, the agressive grasps
on my two arms, the fear shared across the room,
they all inundate me - force me to cry, to bawl.”
12 I Would Rather
December 27, 2004. Excitement embraces me from the tips
of my tiny toes to the top of my tiny head as I wave goodbye to my house for the upcoming few days. Eleven hours
separate me from my home town of San Antonio. I am in Albuquerque, New Mexico, a city that holds something special
that my eyes have not yet witnessed and ears have not yet
heard: snow. As my destination nears, my energy intensifies
as I sing along to the radio, clap to the beat of each song, and
laugh with my parents, each of them entertained and turning
their heads back towards me to share my amusement.
The first day consists of enthusiastic snowball fights, snow
angel formations, and snowmen constructions— the pure
bliss families typically enjoy during vacations. As my family
returns to the hotel, the sunset approaches and an ominous
feeling pervades the atmosphere, conquering the day’s prior
euphoria.
All of a sudden, my ears hear shouts, shrieks, roars, all
the components of a heated argument. The deafening noise
guides me to the master bedroom, and as I walk towards the
sound, it crescendos so loudly that the insides of my ears
can sense the tense, angry vibrations. At first, my eyes examine the abrupt, forceful hand motions of two dark figures
that appear on the wall. Furtively peeking into the room, I
discern the two shadows as my parents, who are positioned
to the side of the bed on which my little brother silently sits
like an anxious statue, observing them. Barely able to hold
a full conversation, he is three years old and does not comprehend the content of the argument, but is astute enough
to understand that something is wrong. I uneasily shuffle
through the door frame towards my parents and am greeted
by tense glances, for they turn back to each other and resume
arguing. As I make my way to console my brother, my father
unexpectedly grasps my right arm, hauling me toward him
while his low, stern voice invades my right ear like an erupting thunderstorm. His grip exudes strength, and terror overwhelms me. Immediately following, my mother grabs my
left arm and tries dragging me away from my father while
her dynamic, assertive voice floods my left ear as sharp as a
strike of lightening. I do not look into their eyes, cannot look
into their eyes, for fear inhibits me from doing so. Instead,
I attempt to seek solace in the eyes of the person across
the room, my brother, who still sits in the same position,
his short legs dangling off the bed. But I do not find solace,
for his eyes are clouded with terror, which solely makes me
feel more petrified. The violent clash of voices, the aggressive grasps on my two arms, the fear shared across the room,
they all inundate me – force me to cry, to bawl. Confusion
swarms across my mind, and this confusion transforms into
anger, frustration, and utter hatred. I hate the fact that my
are completely ruining this family vacation, the fact that I
am doubting their love for each other, and I hate them. Yet
the fact that I still love them echoes in the back of my mind.
Not until a few years ago did I learn that this trip followed
shortly after my parents’ decision to get a divorce, that it was
intended to be that ultimate, special “one big happy family” vacation; it failed. The truth prevailed, for I recognized
the veiled emotions and fragile disguises; my one big happy
family was suffering, deteriorating into nothing. How could
my parents allow a divorce to transpire taking into consideration the life changing consequences it would generate? Not
only did I doubt their love for each other, but also their love
for their children, for me.
Two families spawned two houses, two homes, two bedrooms. Every Saturday morning, my brother and I packed
our belongings and switched houses, a routine that continues
to govern our lives. Astonishingly, migrating weekly from
house to house was not a burden, as it was not challenging conforming to this lifestyle; though after about a year of
acclimatizing to this change, complications evolved as new
individuals entered my life.
“You look so beautiful, sweetheart,” my mother jauntily
exclaimed. Hair curled in tight ringlets and makeup applied
to my face, I wore an elegant dress embellished with ivory
flowers.
I overlooked my mother’s compliment, gazing deep into her
eyes as I pitied her, for I urged to tell her, but the secret remained concealed because I did not want to hurt her.
“It’s okay, sweetie, Mommy already knows,” she spoke.
That evening, my father married a woman I barely knew.
One week, I welcome her to America; the next, she is part of
the family. What family? Not my family. Tall, golden blonde
hair, round face with high cheekbones, this woman and her
daughter traveled from Russia and they both exhibited enthusiasm to become part of the family; however, their inability to speak English well and their heavy Russian accents
aroused complications in communication. Despite my young
age and inexperience with love, I discerned my father’s love
for her reached nowhere near his love for my mother. How
could he permit two strangers to suddenly live in our house,
which no longer felt like a home, but a place of resentment,
frustration, and discomfort? It appeared as though my father
did not care about my mother or me, and this indifference
aroused anger as I contemplated my father’s true love for his
real family.
A similar predicament occurred with my mother, whose
boyfriends often defined me as timid, reserved, and slightly
invasive, for when they forced conversations upon me, I
contained myself, responding with short, one word answers.
Different from my brother, who always greeted them with a
sincere smile and exhibited joy in their presence, I often
glared furiously out of the corner of my eye, judging them,
or evaded eye contact when they would speak to me. I did
not want them to know me, to become part of my life, to
replace my only father; they intimidated me. Underneath the
smiles and jokes, I perceived them as shrewd thieves, stealing my mother’s affection because, in my mind, my mother
should not have loved anyone else other than her true family: me, my brother, and my father. For her to love men other
than my father was threatening, and for this I hated her.
The idea of replacement frightened me because I believed
my parents were substituting the intimate love they once
shared with a pretended love they desperately desired. As
they revealed affection to other people, I distrusted the initial love before the divorce, thinking, how could my parents love somebody else after fifteen years of marriage? I
despised both my parents for forcing adjustment upon my
brother and me, but even though I was disappointed in their
Story continued on page 14
The Walrus 13
Story continued from page 13
14 I Would Rather
“Vital,” Acrylic, Gabby Feuillet (11)
father stopped loving her, from a love so intimately shared
by two people, to a love barely held onto by one person, and
ultimately, to a love that no longer existed.
With maturity comes revelation, as I finally understood
the truth behind the divorce, reflecting on the actions of my
mother, father, and myself. My mannerisms towards those
who I did not consider my family were unfair, for I had no
right to judge them solely based on an anger and frustration
generated by my own despondency. I understand that today,
I am lucky to share my life with a mom and dad I am not
related to, for even though I am not their child, they care
greatly about me. The divorce provided me with a challenge
in which I experienced doubt and loneliness, and then later
when I grew a little older and was able to ask more questions
of my parents – empathy, forgiveness, and finally, acceptance. It came to my realization that love is a delicate force
that constantly evolves, in which two people often cannot
control the outcome and must accept what happens as a fact.
The life-changing alterations, burning questions, and intense
confusion ultimately created a girl who learned to better appreciate adversity, a daughter who realized her parents’ love
for her would remain unchanged, and a person who forgave
the aftermath of love.
“Crystal Lettuce,” Color Pencil & Watercolor, Gabby Feuillet (11)
actions, I still loved them.
Yet despite the emotional conflict I struggled to resolve,
a burning question constantly resonated in my mind – was
I the reason for their divorce? Over scrutinizing, I began to
blame myself, a young child who was a handful, a tiny devil
who screamed in public, hid in stores, and sprinted in the
parking lot; I craved attention, as did any other child. But
what I did not realize was the consequence of my childlike
selfishness, because my parents focused all of their attention on me rather than each other, causing the intimate love
between them to die as the love for me flourished. I blamed
myself for the longest time, despite my parents claiming the
divorce did not involve me.
So why did they divorce? They fell in love in medical
school, married a year after, bought a house in San Antonio, settled down, created a medical practice, and had their
first child, but somewhere along this timeline, they fell out
of love. At first, my dad claimed my mom stopped loving
him initially, while my mom believed the opposite. However, recently, my mom wrestled with her initial assumption
and recognized that it was she who fell out of love first, for
she was not happy the last few years of their marriage. No
logical reason supports this anomaly, for it just happened.
Consequently, my mother stopped loving him, and then my
Home
A Poem by John Gurian (12)
The only peace I’ve ever known,
Is the only chaos I’ve been shown.
Sound waves bounce off the walls
From screams and shouts, tears and scars.
Black and blue from the brawls
In this burning palace of ours.
This home is a house divided
By the screams and the silence.
It’s us against the world
In this kingdom of violence.
The Walrus 15
The Water’s Edge
Inspired by William Waterhouse’s “The Tempest”
A Poem by Paige Livingston Lopez (12)
Where will my world go?
I watch its framework fall,
but know not where it lands.
The vessel of wood carried my life upon it.
Could they guess their creation was to be their coffin?
I could not have known.
Not I, Sir, not I.
For under the sunlight of heaven,
that twinkles upon its ants,
who crawl so orderly below,
there is a shining brilliance
too bright for clarity,
for catastrophe.
Under the water that works to consume the ship,
the watery gloom casts a shadow of reality
upon the bliss they called their lives.
The masts that held the ship so strong
are the first to perish.
The upright, the rigid will go.
Without flexibility, the strong will snap
as quick as two fingers,
striking the flint that ignites the fire.
The strong float to the shore of the earth,
from which they were made,
only to be unformed back into their life source.
And I, the weak one,
lit the fire.
I will sojourn with my likeness
and return to the world from which I was born.
My remains, flesh of nothing,
will only decay into the ground below,
attracting the flames of hell
to lick the earth and enrich it,
so that the mulch may grow another tree strong enough,
that it may sail a ship as I did.
“Rebirth,” Acrylic, Rachel Brown (12)
16 I Would Rather
The Walrus 17
Food: A Friend or An Enemy?
A Short Story by Audrey Blow (12)
The constant ticking of the clock, mixed with the odors
radiating off the four people that
fill the compact room causes my right foot to tap continuously. “Come on back sweetie,” the woman welcomes me into
her room. “Please take a seat.” Obeying her request, I choose
the comfy brown chair in the far corner of the square room.
“How have you been?” the woman inquires.
“I’ve been…I’ve been fine.”
“How has your appetite been?”
I quickly cross my legs and hunch my torso over my lap. “I
feel great,” I whisper, realizing I hadn’t eaten since the day
before yesterday.
“But your appetite?”
“I’ve been eating.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know. A normal amount.” Why won’t she accept
my answer?
“Have you been keeping track of what you eat? Have you
been using the chart like I
asked?”
I pull the neatly folded piece of notebook paper out of the
back pocket of my denim
jeans. I unfold it piece by piece until I clearly read the words
on the page: FOOD DIARY. I hand
over the chart and slouch back in my chair.
“Monday you had a Caesar salad. Is that all?”
“I was sick that day,” I fiddle my thumbs.
“Tuesday you put a bowl of tomato soup.”
18 I Would Rather
“I was asleep for most of the day.”
“And what about Wednesday? You only had a piece of
toast in the morning.”
“I just—I don’t know—I can’t answer these. Can we move
on?”
“Fine, we will address the bigger issue. How do you think
you look?” Her pen rapidly
records her interpretations of my three word answers.
“I’m not sure.” A bead of sweat slides down from the edge
of my hairline.
“And why is that?” she pushes.
“I avoid mirrors at home.”
“Hmm.” She taps the cap side of her pen on the tip of her
chin. “We are going to do an
exercise. It won’t take long.”
“Can I leave after we are done?” I pant as the nerves cause
sweat to pool on my glossy
forehead.
“Look into this mirror by my door and tell me what you
see.”
I drag my feet toward the full length mirror hanging on the
door by one single nail. I
pause in front of the reflective object and my insides clench.
“Well? What do you see?” she
prods.
Grabbing hold of the sides of my stomach and the inner
part of my thigh, I whisper, “I
see this.”
“Emma,” Pen, Gabby Feuillet (11)
“Mother,” Watercolor, Colleen Campbell (11)
“Fine, we will address the bigger issue.
How do you think you look?”
Screaming at Myself
A Poem by John Gurian (12)
I can’t stand it,
I scream at him,
In my dreams, I go to extremes.
My hatred grows and I can’t see straight:
A morbid distortion forming on the bridge of Hell’s gate.
I don’t recognize, maybe I can jab him.
Stuck in the purgatory between sick and free,
I never knew the other side of the pomegranate tree.
Maybe he will know my pain,
Only if he knows who to blame.
I’m looking straight, screaming my name.
I know it’s him.
Suddenly, my reflection reaches towards me.
So I am screaming at myself,
Killing him slowly.
The Walrus 19
Night One
A Short Story by Madeline Miller (12)
“Did I have a choice? Why do they bother
asking me? Do I have a choice in any of this?”
The dinner table has never been this quiet and lifeless. Dad stares at me; I look down at the floor. I sense
the terrified tears that Mom is trying to hold back. I feel
like I should be crying, but numbness is all I feel. Emptiness and silence drowns the kitchen. My baby sister
stares mindlessly at her plate.
“Honey, you have to understand that whatever happens, you’re strong enough to get through this, and
Daddy and I are going to be right by your side through
it all.”
Dad chimes in, “Everything is going to stay the same.
You’re still going to go to school, see your friends, do
your homework, have dinner with us every night like
always. You are still the same Elizabeth that we love
and will always love.”
Liars. I can tell they are lying. I know they are. My
life is never going to be the same.
“Do you love me as much as Sissy?” my baby sister
asks.
“You know we love you both the same, honey. Your
sister is sick right now, but she’s going to be better in
no time! I’m sure she would love it if you came to some
of her appointments and brought your dolls and new
Princess games. Wouldn’t that be fun?” Mom is trying
so hard now, too hard. She knows I hate playing those
games with my sister. She also knows I hate going to
the doctor, but that is not going to stop any of this.
“You’re going to start your treatments next week, and
like Doctor Martin said, they’re going to make you feel
very weak and tired. You’ll be missing some school,
but I already emailed your teachers. They are happy to
A I IWould
20
WouldRather
Rather
“Preserving Innocence,” Charcoal, Rachel Brown (12)
help you with work when you return,” Dad says.
Now I’ve caught him in his first lie. He said I would
still go to school.
He goes on, “You have a meeting tomorrow morning,
bright and early, with Doctor Martin to go over some
more specifics about what’s going to happen throughout the next few months. Is that alright?”
“Sounds good.”
Did I have a choice? Why do they bother asking me?
Do I have a choice in any of this? Am I going to have a
choice before the doctors start prodding and poking me
in every part of my body? Most definitely not.
“We’ll be taking a trip to that shop down the street,
the one that we used to pass every day on the way home
from Kindergarten, near the park, you know the one?”
Mom asks, but I can’t recall.
“The ice cream parlor?”
“No sweetie, the wig shop. Remember playing there
when you were little? You used to love trying on all the
bright colors and different styles. It’ll be just like old
times! You’ll love the owner; he’ll remember you for
sure. He hasn’t seen you since you were a toddler.”
“Sorry Mom, don’t remember. You think he’ll recognize me when I’m this pale and look like a bald teenage
boy?”
“Honey, don’t talk like that.”
I angrily get up from my seat, slam my chair underneath the table and start walking to my room. I pause
when I hear Dad.
“Why couldn’t it have been me instead,” I hear him
whisper.
The Walrus 21
“Enjoy a Bitter End,” Ink & Collage, Bennett Word (12)
Coughing Clouds
A Short Story by Olivia Nastala (12)
“The snow did not fall like she was used to;
it blew past the door in clouds coughing grey
into the white flakes.”
22 I Would Rather
mother’s grip and pulled the screen door back. Her hand
clutched the metal door handle, making her hand numb to
the coldness that pinched every surface of skin it encountered. She ran to her grandmother, spraying snow, leaving a
trail of footprints in her wake. Latching onto the waist of her
grandmother, she finally felt warmth.
“Go on and fetch me another light, honey bunny,” her
grandmother whispered through a cloud of smoke.
Walking back the way she came, the girl escaped the cloud
of smoke encircling her grandmother. For too long she was
placed on a shelf. She dangled high up on the wall like the
gingerbread men, away from truths her family avoided. The
cloud of innocence vanished with her grandmother’s words,
but she was not able to pull her grandmother out with her.
She wished her grandmother hadn’t used her spark to light
her cigarette.
“Smog Gets in Your Eyes,” Pen, Bennett Word (12)
Six ceramic gingerbread cookies dangled above her head,
each painted with a distinguished candy outfit. When she was
younger, she used to try and eat them off the wall, but she
knew better now. Labeled with the names of her grandma’s
six grandchildren, the gingerbread man chain had grown
by one since she first noticed them. This was her spot. She
sat on the wooden ledge that divided the stairwell from the
kitchen floor. She used to slide down the ledge when she was
smaller, but now, she sat quietly, leaning her head against the
beige wall for balance.
Her eyes watched the snow flurries falling through the
screen door; her head positioned at the perfect angle against
the wall. The snow thickly blanketed the concrete backyard.
To her surprise, she saw a figure pacing in the alcove her dog
was known to hide in.
“Who’s out there?” she called.
Silence. She peered over her shoulder into the kitchen and
over the other shoulder up the stairwell. Nothing.
“Who’s out there?” she called in a louder voice.
“Its just Grandma, honey,” her mom reassured.
“But why, Momma?”
The alarm of the oven sent her mother away. The girl continued to stare into the white once again. The view was different now. The snow did not fall like she was used to; it
blew past the door in clouds coughing grey into the white
flakes. Her eyes were hypnotized.
The hard knocks pounding to get out of the cold made her
mom rush to the door. Her family members filed in, kicked
off their wet shoes, and dropped their coats on the surrounding furniture. They made their way in, passed the windows
swiftly, patted her on the head, and climbed the stairs. Silence again.
“Isn’t Grandma cold?”
“She’ll be alright. She’s used to it.”
“Did I do something wrong, Momma?”
Wrapping her arms around her daughter, she said, “No
sweetie. She likes to be out there.”
“I- I’m sorry.”
“Honey, you didn’t do anything wrong.” She continued
to whisper in her ear, “Don’t worry. Don’t you worry about
Grandma.”
She wouldn’t hear it anymore. She broke free from her
The Walrus 23
Leech
A Poem by Cita Atwell (11) and Sies Steves (12)
Stress is like a leech,
Latching on and refusing to let go,
Sucking the life force from within you
Plump with the utter contempt of its host
Constantly working up its appetite,
Always hungry,
Always hunting,
Always there.
The Killer
A Poem by Audrey Blow (12)
“Uninhibited,” Oil Pastel and Ink, Alicia Amberson (11)
The way his eyes illuminate
Glow of the burn
How the paper dances
Touch of the hot flame
Aroma lingers
Control lost in a sea of addiction
24 I Would Rather
Her nose cringes
Smoke replaces fresh pines
Doubt crosses her mind
Apprehension
Weakness
She cannot choose
Control lost in a sea of passion
His hold over her beating pulse
The pull between them
Flicking away the desire to change
The things they cannot control
The Walrus 25
Trapped
A Poem by Emma Davis (12)
Haunted air frigidly blows
Wilted blades of grass rustle
Flooded with a sense of despair
The sedated prairie is dying
Time slowly clutches the grass
In its suffocating grip
The landscape silently perishes
She doesn’t have this luxury
Time won’t allow her to die
Death mockingly dangles in front of her
Forcing her to watch as her surroundings age
Windows crack and shatter
Shingles fall from the roof
Walls fade to ash
Beams collapse
Centuries pass
26 I Would Rather
“Urban Borialis,” Digital Photograph, Marian Hill (11)
The Walrus 27
The Tin
Soldier’s War
A Poem by Austin Garcia (12)
A battle laid out on the living room floor
Rally cries rise as red passions roar
Forward still, the masses advance
Urged on till death by unbloodied hands
Foul forces deployed by day and by night
Shadows of death cloaked by patriotic light
One soldier departs, a red carpet for the next
Back to the home-front, stitched up with the rest
Then into the fray dead soldiers depart
Leaving none they love, for lack of a heart
On grey turf where the twice dead now huddle
Lay the remains of a childish struggle
Tin soldiers them all, but pawns to folly’s prey
One man laid down, for another man’s gain
“Reconstructing,” Hockney Photo Collage,
Julia Medellin (12)
28 I Would Rather
The Walrus 29
Judgment Day
A Short Story by Jacob Miller (12)
“Angel,” Digital Photograph, Austin Blackwell (12)
“Do you feel that you did everything in your power to
make others’ lives happy?”
“Yes, I think I did.”
A I Would Rather
“NEXT!”
Slam!
The door closed loudly as the dazed man slowly found his
bearings in the small, brightly lit room. His eyes steadily
grew accustomed to the light, which did not seem to come
from any single source, but just emerged from the ceiling
like a large fluorescent bulb. The room was small. The walls
and floor were a stark white that seemed to amplify the glow
coming from the ceiling above. Imbedded into one of the
walls was half of a black table with only two legs and the
wall for support, and a silver chair sitting squarely in the
middle. As he looked back toward the entrance, the man
could not see the door that he had walked through; only a
wall that did not appear to have any markings of a door at all.
Feeling disoriented and overwhelmed, the man pulled out
the chair and sat down.
“Good. Now we can begin.”
“What! Who said that?” the man cried, falling over in his
chair.
“Me. Now, sit down and shut up. We have a lot of work
to do.”
“How did I get here? Where is here anyway?”
“Look, like I said, we are very busy and have some very
important decisions to make for your future. I am required
by my supervisors to ask if you are a religious man. They
often have the most difficult time adjusting.”
“No. No, I don’t believe in anything,” The man responded,
recovering from his astonishment. He noticed what had been
the wall when he sat down was now another room, a mirror
image of the one he was in. The other side had the other half
of the table, with its own silver chair, and an equally abrasive white coming from the ceiling. The man also noticed an
individual who sat at the chair on the other side of the wall.
He wore a suit with a nice tie, expensive shoes, and slicked
back hair. His face seemed to convey constant annoyance, irritation, and apathy. He also noticed that on the other man’s
table there was a large binder filled to the brim with papers,
and the other man was flipping though pages.
“Good. Moving on,” the interviewer said. “Do you know
why you are here?”
“No! And where is here anyway?”
“The sorting area.”
“Why?”
“You died.”
“How did I get here?”
“Have your heard about the light at the end of the tunnel?”
“Yes.”
“Well, there is no tunnel, just the sorting room. It is so
bright that people see the lights when they are dying.”
“Wh—what happened? How did I pass away?”
“First of all you are dead; you did not pass away. I hate euphemisms. The sooner you can accept your death, the better.
And to answer you question, you just died. Nothing special.
Furthermore, what does it matter now that you are already
dead?”
“But how? How did I die?”
“I think it was a bad sushi or something. Look, like I said,
you’re dead.”
“But—“
“No. We need to continue.”
“Okay. Where did you say I was again?”
“Ugh, more questions? Really?
“Yes. If I am dead then at least tell me where I am.”
“The sorting room.”
“Sorting for where?”
“Heaven or Hell. Look, this is how it works. When you
die, you come to us sorters. We then interview you to decide where you go; it is that simple. I will only ask you four
questions. Also, this binder contains information over everything that you have ever done, so keep that in mind. Are
you ready?”
“No.”
“Well, too bad. Did you lead a happy life?”
“Yes.”
“Would you consider your life a success?”
“Yes.”
“Would you do anything differently?”
“No.”
The Walrus 31
The Last Eve in the Garden of Eden
“You honestly expect me to get in the elevator without
knowing?”
“Yes. Now move along. Today is a busy day.”
“I will not go!”
“You don’t have a choice.”
The man suddenly felt the chair move toward the elevator
doors. He tried to run but he could not, his body stiff with
paralysis. Slowly the silver chair moved into the elevator.
“No. No. No! Please tell me where I am going!”
“I can’t.” The elevators doors shut.
“That went well,” the interviewer said as he moved the
large binder off his desk and picked up another from the
floor.
“NEXT!”
Slam!
“Modern Malice,” Collage, Alex Pfirrman (12)
A Short Story by Paige Livingston Lopez (12)
“The enchanted garden before
her closed, leaving her once
nude body clothed but more
vulnerable than before. Alone,
her master gone, the apple was
finished.”
“Sewn Apple,” Digital Photograph, Alexandra Flaherty (12)
“Do you feel that you did everything in your power to
make others’ lives happy?”
“Yes, I think I did.”
“Okay, I believe that our decision is made.”
“Really, that quick?” At that moment, just as the door had
disappeared into nothingness, two doors resembling elevator
doors opened up on the other side of the room.
“If you would please go to the elevator. It will take you
where you need to go.”
“Where am I going? What was the decision?”
“I can’t say, but the elevator will know where to go. Please
don’t forget to push in your chair on the way out.”
“But I need to know! Is there anything in my book that is
going to send me to Hell?”
“I can’t say. Now please go to the elevator.”
The Sinful Woman
“Thank you for the small beauties you have left us, my
Lord,” the clothed woman spoke.
“I wish that you had done better, my creation. What is left
is all that I can offer you now,” her God responded.
Head of dark brown tresses bowed below the gate of exit,
the woman shed a tear. Unleashing her rage upon the apple
core still in her hand, she spoke. “Why? How could you, fruit
so delectable, so small, be the very evil that destroyed my
happiness. T’was your false visage of purity that deceived
me. This was not fault my own, it could not have been.”
“Not I. ‘Twas God. By his hand, he offered you fortuity,
and by your own you dismantled it,” said the core.
“Never would I do such a thing, you detestable creation!
I cannot fathom we were fathered of the same,” said the
woman.
“But we are,” said the devoured one.
The enchanted garden before her closed, leaving her once
nude body clothed but more vulnerable than before. Alone,
her master gone, the apple was finished.
The Bad Apple
“The sun is warm, my Lord. So inviting and perfect.”
The Lord smiled.
“I look around and can only see immaculate beauty in your
garden.”
“Thank you, my tainted creation,” God responded.
The red peel of the flawed one grew darker with the biting
truths of God’s words. Despite every effort the creation had
made, the arsenic in its seeds was the flaw of which it could
never divest itself, so ingrained in its being.
“‘Twas the serpent that bit my flesh that rotted my core.”
“Who do you think fathered the serpent?”
“Well, you my Lord. But you are perfect.”
“No, my creation, ‘twas I. T’was fault my own that you
may tarnish the world.”
A I Would Rather
“But, my God, it could not have been through accident that
you erred. For you, the divine, it is impossible. For you, who
works with omnipotent faculty, it must have been reasoned.”
“The powers of the divine make the impossible possible,
my child.”
“Why, my Lord? Why did your hand deal this blow?”
“For that answer, you must wait.”
The flesh of a newly human hand, unscathed and uncalloused, reached to pluck the delicacy from its limb. Connections between the earthen dirt and the mystical sky broken,
by the hand of a woman, the universe separated. The Lord
detached from his global creation, cutting the umbilical cord
between the two worlds, the fetus left to live alone. The
arsenic of its seeds unlocked, the poison unleashed upon its
flesh and nourishment now entered the woman’s mouth. On
this day the world became sin.
The Man From Clay
“The gates have closed, my Lord. Why?”
“My child, you have sinned.”
“I, my Lord?” Looking at the garbed woman on the ground,
he felt cloth begin to encircle his physique.
“Yes. ‘Twas your likeness.”
“I see. The whole world, the palace was created for me and
the ones who walk like me, or breathe like me.”
“No, my child. Your mind is human, but you must still
know that even my creations of disparity are your brothers.
The difference: you now know what the fruit did not.”
“Stand my sister, my wife, walk with me,” said the man.
The two figures disappeared into the barrenness of eternity,
to be prosperous only by the words of their God.
The Walrus 33
A Poem by Paige Livingston Lopez (12)
Around the CLock
Here we go again,
once more around the four.
The clock turns back to then,
before we wanted more.
Now the straight and narrow,
the simple pleasures and delights,
have all vanished from our marrow,
for we seek to soar with kites.
But great winds are needed
to carry our lofty aspiration,
so we stay where we were seeded
in hopes of validating imagination.
Here we go again,
once more around the five.
The clocks spring up to when
our life’s about to dive.
We grasp those wired arms,
and plead that they start slowing.
We poke those wired charms,
and pray that they keep going.
For in each ticking heart of ours,
we wish away and pray to stay,
each moment of our choosing.
Our fastidious nature
prods and pulls and picks and pokes
the rhythmic progression of the clock,
jamming its gears, stopping our time,
realizing our fears.
Oh dang, oh darn, oh damn,
the clock has stopped,
it couldn’t keep up
with a capricious
mind like ours.
If only we had let it be,
let it tick at its metronomic pace,
it would have worked forever.
But thats the thing,
between you and me,
we live on syncopation,
so why then do we have a clock
with steady rotation?
34 I Would Rather
“Iron Chandelier,” Digital Photograph, Diego Carrisalez (10)
The Walrus 35
Lady of Paint Creek
A Screenplay by Alexia Salingaros (11)
A Poem by Sophia Salingaros (12)
FROM BLACK
EXT. River 1 – DAY
A woman is rowing herself down a smooth lake in the brightest hour of the day, one hand touching the water and another
balancing a parasol. A group of similarly dressed women
are seated on a picnic blanket by the water’s edge, chatting
while sipping porcelain cups of tea. Their movements seem
almost robotic, as if these actions entertain their entire lives.
Their faces are pale with white powder, with pink rouge on
their cheeks and dark batting eyelashes.
INT. Library – DAY
A young woman, clearly different from the others in her appearance and movements, has snuck away. She finds the entrance to a dusty library and creeps in, guiding her figure by
the light of a flickering candle. Her curiosity leads her to peruse the isles of the bookcase behind the oak desk. She opens
a leather-bound novel, blows away a layer of dust and begins
to read, outlining the words as she goes. All of a sudden the
clock strikes on the hour. Afternoon tea has come and people
will soon notice her absence. She jumps and slams the book
shut, running out the door.
EXT. Forest – DAY
women turned to stare at the door, transfixed with horror at
her tardiness and disheveled appearance. A teacup shatters
on the floor. Embarrassed and ashamed, the girl runs out of
the room and into the woods once more.
EXT. Woods – DAY
She stops after a while and collapses onto the earthy floor,
her face in her hands.
INT. Dining Room – NIGHT
A woman strikes a match and lights a candle. She then hands
it to another lady who turns to leave as the first lights another. A search committee is being sent to find the girl who
has disappeared since the afternoon.
EXT. Moon Clearing – Night
The girl is sitting in reverence of the shinning moon above,
having found a clearing full of materials—as if someone else
had been through the same journey before her.
EXT. – Night
The dolls are searching for the missing girl, calling her name
into the darkness.
EXT. Moon Clearing – Night
The girl is sprinting through the trees of the forest so quickly
that she takes no notice of branches hitting the sides of her
body.
The young woman settles herself on some rock for the night.
EXT. Log Cabin – DAY
INT. Stables – DAY
The clock continues to strike and the party of women is now
taking tea in the log cabin. Their movements become more
and more dolls like and inhuman.
As the sun begins to rise on the horizon, the girl sneaks into
a horse’s stable. She quietly opens one of the stables and
strokes the horse gently.
EXT. Forest – DAY
EXT. Grassy Fields – DAY
Her shawl becomes entwined on a branch, she stops for a
second but quickly runs on as her hair falls down and all
over her face.
The woman, an expert rider whose movements at this point
couldn’t be more contrasting to her fellow women, gallops
across an open field.
EXT. Log Cabin – DAY
Suddenly, the girl runs up to the house and bursts in. The
36 I Would Rather
EXT. River 2 – DAY
She rides the horse to the river’s edge, and stops. She looks
back at the life that she has known her entire life, but quickly
turns away again. She dismounts the horse and hoists her
dress to permit her wading into the shallow riverbank where
a canoe is left abandoned. She climbs into the boat and paddles away. Once in deeper water, she ceases paddling and
slowly lowers herself to lie flat.
V.O. Poem as next scene rolls
V.O. Narrator
Away in a forgotten land
Where meadows sing and blossoms can
Alight their wings there lived a maiden
Fairer faced than all the haven
But this girl of golden hair
With eyes two sparkling jewels a pair
Had but one burning sole desire
To meet the Prince, to call him sire
And lend her heart to be his wife
As he would lend her his for life
But yet this prince of royal girth
Did scorn her for her lowly birth
Condemned for such audacity
Our maiden to the gallows flees
Behold upon her final breath
A curse she did henceforth confess
Upon all those like her who flee
The conforms of society
A punishment she did befall
Upon their heads, one worse than all
EXT. River 3 - DAY
One of the women is having a difficult time pulling on some
ropes, so another assists her. Together they pull a wooden
canoe out of the shallow waters. Once firmly anchored, the
rest of the women approach. Lying there, white faced and
motionless, is the body of a young girl. One of the women
can’t help herself, and a single tear falls from her eye. She
robotically wipes it away and collects herself once more.
One by one, the group of women leaves the side of the canoe, leaving the girl alone and continuing on with their lives.
The stills are taken from the film Lady of Paint Creek starring Rachel Brown as the lost girl and Becca Brown, Jasmine Liu-Zarzuela, Ashley Drengler, and Rachel Miller as
the women. This film was written, directed, and produced
by Alexia Salingaros. The poem in the film was written by
Sophia Salingaros.
The Walrus 37
Whirl of Dissatisfacation
A Poem by Audrey Blow (12)
Part 1:
The eyes she claimed too small
The lips compared to a fish
The hair lacking illumination
Picking apart every inch
Blinded by disgust
Deconstructing her reflection
“Inner Tears,” Digital Photography, Tommy Cochran (12)
One by one
Each piece strays
Destroying her
Consuming her
38 I Would Rather
Part 2:
Waves crashing around me, I hesitantly peer
at my decaying figure. The water whooshes over
me, attempting to add rhythm to my still body.
My head is the only structure that remains. The
whites of my eyes conquered my pupils, leaving no trace of color. My nose melts away with
the heat that once circulated through me. I am
deteriorating. Reaching my hand out to grab
hold of what is left, my reach falls short. Pieces
of my memory break off as water seeps through
the cracks. My mouth is left untouched, my lips
rosy red. Words left unsaid enhance the pain of
washing away. Emotions I did not express, the
life I did not live remain on my lips, pinking the
delicate skin.
The Walrus 39
Melancholy Metamorphosis
A Poem by Madeline Miller (12)
"Last one" I whisper
Entangled in his cocoon
Intertwined in cloths of silk
Scents of lust overtake our nest
A tear falls and shatters the pillow
As though it is my heart
Breathing heavily he winds me in
Woven together one last time
Each of my senses electrified
I study the golden hues
Memorize the curves of his bones
Now his pair of glimmering wings
"Last one" he whispers
Vanishing as I remain unchanged
“Carroion Flower,” Digital Photograph, Diego Carrisalez (10)
40 I Would Rather
The Walrus 41
Presence
A Poem by Jacob Miller (12)
Sun beats down
Energy all-consuming
Light overwhelms
Shining
Blinding
Heat nearly unbearable
Fire blazes up
Flames whip into the sky
Consume the wood below
With more wood the fire grows
Bigger
Stronger
You gaze forward
Eyes contemplate
Looking for answers
I grow red
Shaking
Nervous
Haikus
Haikus by Jacob Miller (12)
1.
Light conquers darkness
Light and dark create shadows
Hope Despair mixing
“Weeping Spirit,” Graphite & Charcoal, Rachel Brown (12)
42 I Would Rather
2.
This is paradox
Light causes the dark shadow
The shadow of death
“Bipolar,” Watercolor & Ink, Blair Robinson (12)
The Walrus 43
Snake Charming
A Personal Narrative by Reagan Naylor (11)
My eyes explore the quirks that adorn the stranger’s office, his three-legged desk chair, cowboy-themed memorabilia, and a fake yellow bird feather attached to a buckle
on the hat by his chair paint a personality that my parents
were sure to adore. My eyes trace the lines of his office furniture, circling the armrests, scanning the mute patterns in
the faded yellow armchair. His bookshelf is just barely too
far to interpret, but several trophies, a University of Texas
Ph.D., and a large orange pill suspended in display glass sat
on the lowest shelf. I am perched on the center cushion of a
dark leather couch, flanked by parents on both sides, aching
for escape as the seconds mope by. My ears indolently catch
my name in a conversation I have not been participating
in. I turn to my right to find my mother crying as she faces
the doctor; I am not being addressed but scrutinized in the
company of this stranger. As I face the man in the armchair
across me, his clement expression jolts me from any residual
meander. Before I can interject, the psychiatrist gingerly informs my family and me that I have been suffering, which is
met with my singular bewilderment.
I took delight in only the luxuries of childhood: playful
rule breaking and joyous entertainment distracted me from
anything regarding academics. A vigorous force opposing
the flow of growth and maturity, my sacrosanct reverence
for the path of least resistance, indoctrinated into academic
rebellion, the traits that would usually be the hallmark of
any childhood were truly my creed. I bled lethargy even into
middle school in a different light of distraction, obeying distraction for the sake of rebellion. Hollow demands for assignments and dry lessons designed to kindle my mind’s fire
meant nothing to me. Half of this nonconformity was my
natural attitude aimed at those faces that curbed my joy. I
was unaware of my other trait that helped debase my work
ethic.
Attention Deficit Disorder is a lack of dopamine in the
frontal lobe, which helps in rationality, attentiveness, and
decision-making, and is considered the personality center of
the brain. The frontal lobe of an individual with ADD has
unbalanced brain chemicals, which hinder the frontal lobe’s
main functions. This region of the brain is our identity, the
mental fingerprint that separates us all from one another. In
fear of vulnerability, I excused this disorder as scientific jargon that held no sway, words to glorify an inequality where
there was not one, painting victims, and detaching my sect
44 I Would Rather
of individuals, whose personalities are too different from the
average human.
Despite my anger towards those who defined me as a martyr in the war on negligence, my anger ironically illustrated
my slothful disdain. I realized my delusion of apathetic supremacy; nothing backed my ideas but my lackadaisical attitude and difficulty concentrating on anything educational.
I do suffer from some neurological disparity, a problem in
need of fixing. With the help of disappointed teachers, candid
grades, frustrated parents, and medical professionals, I was
convinced of my condition. My chemical clockwork lacks
an essential gear, without which my hands turn at different
rates, twitching at their only task; small hand on the minutes
and big on the hours, counting down from twelve; always
telling a time, but rarely the time people appreciate seeing.
I am the defected, that nonconformist that slows the pace of
society’s productivity by not focusing on the goal. It is my
duty to assimilate to their pace of life so that society may
march to an unbroken beat without fault.
In an HEB pharmacy bottle lays Adderall, my rumored savior, a crutch to help me, an instrument to assuage my nature.
Transparent scarlet bottle with a white lid, I press to open
and unleash my wings. The orange capsules fill the bottle
to the brim. I take out one pill and look at it head on. The
light orange capsule, while charming, is not what I imagined
salvation would appear. Big things come in small packages.
I toss it back and chase it with water, knowing not what to
expect.
Adderall and other ADD corrective medications stimulate
your brain’s productivity through an enhanced production
of dopamine, which alters the chemistry of the frontal lobe
and gives you the strength to overcome that inability to focus. At first, its presence was subtle: I made decisions that
were more responsible and listened tentatively in class. As
my body grew to accept this foreign influence, I watched the
wonders of my improving grades. A physical jolt would initiate a day of boundless concentration. My grades soared, I
was perpetually elated, and my problems were ameliorated.
Adderall appeared to improve every facet of my being, provoking my misplaced trust.
I welcomed the adder, and embraced its venom kiss.
As I yielded to the power of the pill, the pill took the weight
of life off my shoulders. My body became the vessel for a
new authority to control my actions, giving me a passenger
“Headlights,” Digital Photograph, Tommy Cochran (12)
“The light orange capsule, while charming, is not
what I imagined salvation would appear. Big things
come in small packages.”
seat to watch the show; I could live behind a screen. With
the ensuing pilot came a lighthearted change of Adderall’s
identity, and every pill came a new person using my body, a
decoy to take my place. This was the first indication of Adderall’s odd effects on my person.
Halfway between the moment where my mind craves productivity most and where my body resists strenuously I find
myself across the hall in my old room, telling myself to look
for school supplies but hearing commands to search and explore the desk where I once refused to work. As my fingers
clasp the sticky notes I had no use for, I stroll back to my
workspace in vain, only to be halted by a small detail on the
wall I had never noticed before, or a miscellaneous lost relic
that I assign myself to decipher. I whimsically attach myself
to exploration, waiving a twitch of dissatisfied urge to go
on autopilot, reveling in the passenger seat. With each step,
with each tangential trail of visual fascination, with each
distraction, I drift further and further from my task, and trek
wondrously into my wayward state of mind, a warm entropic embrace that clarifies a clouded psyche. Despite my serpent conscience lashing at diversion, this natural curiosity
disregards rational qualms and manufactured priorities; no
amount of venom can quell this listless rebellion, for whether or not it is productive, this beloved shadow of humanity
is a needed relief, a lapse of the loneliness in the breadth of
solitude.
The pill hollowed me, stripped me of humanity, and replaced me with blank expression. A hopeless process, I
obeyed Adderall’s siren song, wishing my loved ones to
adapt to the joyless shell of Reagan. Friends I once loved
became pedestrians, and the teachers who once scorned me
would commend my triumphs. At every compliment, I allotted myself a split-second to believe their ideas of my transformation, that the person they admired was not simply a
puppet on the hand of an unforgiving medication. Then the
moment of blissful delusion snapped, discarding me to the
truth that any triumph was not my work, but that of a drug
that had taken my form. The adder convinced me to fear
the silent, sympathetic gazes my closest friends coldly gave
me. I no longer felt secure, understood, or welcome by any
clique of classmates, and as I was spoon-fed the whispers of
my complete loss of self, I ostracized myself to the singu-
The Walrus 45
scheduled out my dosage alterations to my demise. Just as I
would yield to a new pill, and bring sense to the world, they
aggravated the medicine, enticing my adder to bite harder,
forcing my body to lag behind my brain’s new top speed.
I felt like a lab rat, running around the maze, no voice of
protest or escape from my hell, but gloomily destined to be
consumed by my snake assailant. Our ribald union soon replaced the fleeting identity I once wore, leaving me to dabble
in delusions of my new identity being a product of maturity,
and envision a future where I outgrow my defect, and shed
my capsular prison.
Proselytized to a new creed against my former self, I have
been charmed by the rhapsodic verve of the adder’s venom,
unaware of the imminent desolation of sacrificing control for
acumen and while I fight against the rules of social structure, I take pleasure only in the callousness of my actions.
The venom, medicated beguilement, still coursing through
my veins, lambasting me for my resistance, and for the agony of every faded friendship my obedience to the adder’s
venom grows more excruciating, discipline is pummeled into
me. I am at its mercy, the instrument for its despicable ends.
Only one person truly knew the benevolent wound of the
adder’s kiss. My older brother Jared and I lost sobriety together, gaining the grades in return; our schedules adapted
so that we took on the burden together. By taking stimulants every morning, we lost all hunger throughout the day,
but when the clock struck 8:00 P.M. the floodgates opened.
The employees of Whataburger and Longhorn Café quickly
“Pipe Wall,” Digital Photograph, Margaret Shupbach (10)
lar company of Adderall. I began to spend lunch in Middle
School Room 120 alone with the thoughts conceived by the
pill, copacetic without the acknowledgements of my recent
metamorphosis. In my exodus, I sat there embracing my
only friend, resenting my wicked scourge, and obeying my
unwavering authority. Sitting alone with my thoughts was
twice the hardship of any personal scorn. I felt disarmed:
Adderall corralled me to that silent room, so that no one
would see the pain it caused me. The charm of a small orange pill soured; every morning I swallowed solitude. I had
fallen into an abusive relationship with Adderall.
As the panic for lunch begins, I take a sharp left and enter
the men’s bathroom so that no one sees me. I sit there and
count for 3 minutes, stall locked, fetal position, hoping that
no one comes in. I have to skip lunch, to quarantine the person they once enjoyed, to preserve their memory of me. No
one there understands the price of focus, and they judge me
for it. One minute down, no steps have approached since
the initial rush for food. No one will come looking for me in
the study hall room, and I will be safe from the judgment.
Three minutes pass, safety teases me and convinces me to
take the leap. My feet gently touch the white tiles as my
hands unlock the door, begetting sweet freedom. I bolt to
the study hall room, my oasis and my prison, my peace and
my loneliness.
These agonizing lonely days trudged on, and I had few
options to cope with this drastic change to my biochemistry. My parents and the psychiatrist, now my psychiatrist,
46 I Would Rather
learned our names and usual orders, the meals to offset a
day’s toxins.
Our usual lighthearted banter was silenced by my pressing conscience. “What are your thoughts on the medicine?
How do you feel when you’re on it?” I ask Jared after several months of adjustment on my end. Jared seldom takes his
medicine; even on a school day, he views the pill a last resort. His words disconnect from his actions, though, to preserve a strong masculine façade, “I feel fine when I’m on it.”
We reach a silent understanding, dismissing my question.
I find no way to properly articulate, to accurately encapsulate the recalcitrant curse of Adderall. It is a sadistic pleasure
to witness the severance of relationships and feel no pain,
and instead allow the pill to possess your body and actions,
your own mouth spitting callous words but receiving no
guilt. Like any drug, getting your fix suppresses rationality,
empathy, emotion, and humanity; indifferent responses to a
friend extending a helping hand, and a dull blow from their
hurt words detailing how you have changed, but you’re only
half registering the lifeline they throw to you; you replaced
their friendship with the malice that wounds them. You have
moved on to a new friend, a daily companion that takes responsibility for you, your autopilot to conquer the human
minutia that burdens you: you have a new lifeline. Humanity
abandons you, and you abandon humanity.
Blind to a calamity they do not brave, people view focus
as an innate function, like the diaphragm breathing for you
while you sleep. It is inconvenient to use falsified focus, and
thereby charm the adder to poison you with all of the nonsense that focus generates. Many wonder why I still take
the medicine, if the solution is a simple as rejecting a small
pill. Perish the thought. The crueler mistress is knowledge:
enlightenment is always a trivial degree of worth higher than
the loss of person. Thus, I pause every morning, holding the
pill in my hand, staring into its innocent appearance and
through its clever disguise, vandalizing its dignity for my
own sanity; I unwaveringly consider tipping the bottle over
and watching those months of madness silenced with one
motion. I am in control.
I have again dawned helm of my body and silenced the
adder to almost a meager instrument of my concentration.
As I grapple with the snake that has brought the gift of
knowledge and the plague of loneliness, I have taken solace
in both conformity and wayward thought, and while time
has helped to mitigate the scars of my sour indifference, I
have transformed my solitude into self-reliance. I now wear
my convictions, infallibly running to a friend’s beckoning
over academics, sacrificing much for another’s comfort, all
to cleanse my blood of the adder’s venom.
I swallow another capsule and await the return of the serpent. Noticing the empty prescription bottle and ignoring the
instructions to dispose of it, I clasp the crimson cylinder and
remember my commitment to resistance. A silver key hidden
in a hollowed book unlocks a red chest on my bookshelf,
and to open the door is to let slip my spoils of war. Every
prescription bottle I have emptied rests in that chamber, a
dungeon of dead batteries, a cage of snakeskin––a gesture
of dominance, and a salute to past solitude.
“Catch,” Digital Photograph, Katrina Arthur (12)
The Walrus 47
Visitation Hours
A Personal Narrative by Tyler Kozma (12)
“Now, he is back on the permanent uphill climb, carrying his
illness like the tremendous boulder of Sisyphus, only to have
it bring him back to the beginning of his trek repeatedly.”
On the night of my eight grade baccalaureate dinner, celebrating the end
of my middle school days, my family
received a call telling them that an ambulance had rushed my eighteen-yearold cousin Timothy to a San Antonio
hospital, due to a severe deficiency in
white blood cell count. Thus began a
saga of horrific events that led to where
my family is today. We have strengthened some bonds, weakened some,
and completely severed others. The
doctors diagnosed him with leukemia
some days after the trip to the hospital,
which was obviously devastating news
to the entire family. In the early stages
of his disease, he seemed to be doing
fine. The chemotherapy came and went
with no noticeable problems, and he
received a constant stream of visitors
and specialized attention, which he lavished. We enjoyed visiting him; it made
us feel good that we were “helping”
him recover, when in reality we were
building him up for a drastic change
that left him desperate for a source of
love and attention.
Timothy was always my favorite of
my cousins because, although he is
several years older than I am, his mind
is underdeveloped. In my early years,
he was always fun to talk to and play
with because he acted as if he were
my age. I looked up to him because
he would always try to do the most
moral thing, even if it meant sacrificing
something he wanted. He was always
admirable, but he seemed to live in a
fantasy world where everything around
him was perfect, including himself.
When I was younger, I believed all the
stories he would tell about how he was
the starting quarterback for his high
school football team, and how he was
48 I Would Rather
some sort of guru for advice on women.
As I grew, however, he remained the
same, and I became less and less fond
of his ridiculous scenarios. I felt as if
I were above him in some way, that I
knew more about the world than he did,
and it made me feel empowered since
I believed I was more knowledgeable
about the natural world than my old
role model was, that I had surpassed
an antiquated ideal in some way. I was
pathetic. I started to talk less to Tim at
the family gatherings and more to the
adults because I wanted to appear more
sophisticated. I told my parents that I
could not stand to be around him because he was so simple-minded. I often
scoffed at him privately when he said
he was on the A honor roll at his high
school, and my family did nothing but
enforce these beliefs. My dad would
say, “How can he be on the honor roll
when he can’t even read?” and I would
agree, while my perception of him
slowly became more and more negative. While I pretended to grow up by
faking my ascension to maturity back
in the seventh grade, he remained the
same as always.
The feeling of guilt I experienced
when I realized his life was in significant danger was a knife constantly boring into my skin, turning and making
me writhe with the feeling of uncomfortable melancholy seeping through
my veins. After the years of poor treatment from me, my family and I were
called on to be his primary visitors and
caregivers. It was heart wrenching for
me to see him in his vegetative state.
While I sometimes enjoyed the visits,
many times I went through them grudgingly just to reassure myself that I was
doing the right thing, that I was a good
family member and that the pedestal he
had me set upon was deserved. Timothy’s situation forced me to prioritize
the activities of my life, and triggered a
meeting at a moral crossroads for me. I
had to decide how important those visits really were to Tim. Whether I should
visit him or use that time to help myself
was a judgment that still confounds me
today. The thought of my cousin lying
alone in a filthy hospital bed with soiled
sheets and garments, gazing emptily at
the television screen as I sit at home
completing assignments, or as I spend
his visitation hours with my friends on
the weekend, produces an intense feeling of remorse that I can never escape.
After the surgery that removed Timothy’s colon and permanently restricted
him to specific dietary needs coupled
with an exterior excrement bag, the visitations from most of the family practically stopped. The doctors had cured
the cancer itself, but Timothy was still
having severe health problems due to an
issue with the new bone marrow sample
not meshing well with his current system. Timothy had become too much of
a burden, and with no tangible ailment,
there was no visible reason to continue
helping him any longer. His mother
severed herself from the entire situation
and left him to rot away with infrequent
visits from my mom, his dad, and me in
a cramped, uncomfortable hotel room.
During this time, I truly began to realize
Timothy’s determination and valor. He
did not solely want his physical condition to improve; he made it a necessity,
like the need to regain his strength and
dexterity was his basic sustenance. He
made me understand that humans can
achieve insurmountable things with
nothing more than integrity, a revela-
tion that I will always remember. In the
following months, he regained his ability to walk, to carry objects, to dress
himself, and numerous other seemingly insignificant achievements that
were tremendous milestones for Tim.
He eventually moved out of the hotel
room and into his own apartment, and
it seemed like the ordeal was finally
finished for Timothy. I stopped worrying about him, and I began to consider
the possibility that Tim had fully recovered. Then Hope came.
Hope was Timothy’s first true love.
She moved from Fort Worth to Cotulla
and married Tim three days after showing up. I immediately recognized that
she was using Timothy, because she
brought along a three-year-old child
previously unheard of and was stealing Tim’s money. Timothy’s obsession
with this woman caused him to lose
any contact he had left with his remaining friends, and produced even greater
tensions between him and the rest of
the family. Hope made me see how
desperate Timothy was for a source of
love and affection, and how deeply vulnerable we had left him after ceasing to
visit. I blamed this state of defenselessness on myself, since I was the one who
had begun to prioritize myself over
him. I had not visited him in months,
and the intensely painful jabs of guilt
began to assault my mind once again.
Creating a trail of utter destruction behind her, Hope walked out of Tim’s
life several weeks later, halting all of
Tim’s hard earned recovery efforts and
leading him to check into a psychiatric
ward. Hope was a psychotic, manipulative demon, and her actions revealed to
me the imperfections of humans, that
some seem to take joy in harming good
people who are obviously in a susceptible state. The crater she left in the
surface of Timothy’s brain continued to
deepen even after her abrupt departure.
After the doctors released him from the
psych ward, Timothy mishandled his
medicine, had a serious seizure, and
lost the use of most of his cognitive
functions.
Since the seizure, Timothy has been
in nursing homes, confined back into
his immobile state. He is unable to form
full sentences, unable to eat without the
help of a nurse, unable to walk properly, and unable to control the movements
of his limbs. I have an immeasurable
amount of respect for him because I
know that if I had been in the same situations that he has already conquered,
I would have broken under the strain
of a constant fight for life. I love him,
but even with this love it is impossible
for me to visit him and not completely
break down because it kills me inside
to know how far he has regressed. That
he was so close to emerging the victor
over a debilitating disease that is believed to be undefeatable, but has fallen
back into the crevice of darkness from
which he started, is painful for me to
witness. Now, he is back on the perma-
nent uphill climb, carrying his illness
like the tremendous boulder of Sisyphus, only to have it bring him back to the
beginning of his trek repeatedly. I have
learned that even against impossibility,
however, Timothy will keep fighting
and will stay optimistic because he has
a stronger heart than any other man I
have met, and I will continue to love
and respect him for that no matter what
happens in the future.
Throughout these events, the people
in my life have exposed me to both
ends of the human spectrum: Hope being the embodiment of true evil, and
“The Floating Door,” Digital Photograph, Kathryn Vance (11)
The Walrus 49
One Thousand Two Hundred Ninety
Timothy being the quintessence of the
values of perseverance and optimism. I
reflect on how I acted before these incidents and comprehend the juvenility of
holding the belief that one is superior
over another human, no matter how
others see him or her. Timothy’s illness
has augmented our bond and enabled
me to mature and to understand more
fully the capabilities and the thinking
processes of humans; and although I
will never fully grasp the breadth of
how we work, I have seen firsthand
the power of determination. While
many of us choose to try to achieve our
goals through corrupt and manipulative means, true perseverance and grit
are the core values that enable humans
to progress. Timothy’s story may not
have a happy ending yet, but I maintain
the optimistic feelings I have learned
from him and hold the belief that he
will win his battle with this disease.
Now, when I think about Tim, instead
of the icy pain of guilt crashing down
on me, I feel an empowering sense of
hopefulness about the future lifting my
spirits, a feeling I use to enhance everything I do, a feeling without which
I would not be able to function in life.
This new feeling is the strength of my
relationship with Tim, and causes my
own drive and determination, characteristics I may have never acquired if
not for Tim’s ordeal.
This point originally marked the end
of my essay, but I am coming back to
add to it because Timothy lost his fight
and passed away on the morning of the
Tuesday during spring break. He suffered a fatal combination of severe kidney and heart failure; along with potassium levels so high his blood became
entirely septic. My mother and I arrived in the emergency room at around
4:00 PM that day and did not leave to
go home and rest until 2:00 AM the
next day. Timothy lay on that hospital
bed, as he had done for so many years
of his life before, and fought. He fought
endlessly from his comatose state,
wheezing with the help of a breathing
tube and struggling to stay afloat over
the sea of death that was rushing up
to seize him away. His blood pressure
levels dropped so low that they were
unable to be detected by the machines
of the hospital, but ten minutes later
when the next reading appeared on the
machine, he appeared to have partially
stabilized. After what was close to a
24-hour fight against death itself, our
family finally decided to let him go. I
was not physically there with Tim as
he passed, but the family that was there
told me that he left us peacefully, alleviated of the pain and suffering that
his life had become. At Timothy’s memorial service the following Friday, the
small run down church in Cotulla, Texas was inundated by people coming to
celebrate the life that my cousin Timothy had led. The service affirmed to me
that the perseverance and determination coupled with constant optimism
that Timothy showed touched everyone
that knew him, and that although he did
not emerge victorious from his struggle
with illness, the bout was not in vain,
because everyone at that church had
a story to tell about how Timothy had
moved them. I believe that Timothy
was put on this Earth to teach all the
people that he met lessons about life,
and he certainly fulfilled that obligation.
A Poem by Dyana Martinez (11)
Her eyes a rich honey hue,
His eyes a California cool blue,
One thousand two hundred ninety miles,
“Don’t worry darling, I’ll see you in a while.”
His callused fingers ran through her hair,
And with every touch, her soul exposed bare,
Three hundred, two hundred, one hundred miles,
“If you get lonely, you know the number, just dial.”
Eyelashes tickling his feather soft cheeks,
Lips locked softly, like two birds caressing beaks,
Three, two, just one more mile,
“You’ll look so beautiful walking down the aisle.”
Where are you now, my sweet humble love?
Have you flown away into your heavenly cove?
One thousand, ten thousand, one million miles,
“Our condolences”, they whispered, as I stared
down the dirt pile.
“Controlled Creatures,” Digital Photograph, Julia Medellin (12)
50 I Would Rather
The Walrus 51
Clouds
“Abby at the Creek,” Hockney Photo Collage,
Nancy Lee Archer (11)
A Poem by Cole Patterson (11)
Upon the distant mountain
The battle cry is heard
A loud and windswept calling
Without a single word
The great beasts appear
Silent, large, ominous, white
They hold their position for only a moment
Before descending
Creeping, shuffling, sliding down the mountain
Without making a sound
Approaching the green valley beneath them
Creeping, creeping, down, down
The mother appears
Enormous, blocking out the sky
Hovering over the mountain and valley
Silently observing
Above the distant mountain wide
The mother’s call to her children is heard
A low, mournful howl of a hound
Beckoning her children without a word
A Summit’s Cycle
A Poem by Emma Davis (12)
Hollow echoes bounce from rock to rock
Remnants of my voice
Funneled down
To whispers
Soaring from the peaks of towering evergreens
Every animal’s call originates clearly
Until it is absorbed
Muted by the mud
Footprints are etched into the rocky trails
Until the gentle rain pitter-patters
Washing the ground
Into a clean slate
The clouds dissipate into the breeze
52 I Would Rather
The Walrus 53
A Personal Essay by Isaac Goldstone (9)
“As I become older and more mature, the wonder
and fantasy that encompassed my five-year-old
view of our ranch has dissipated, leaving me now,
as a teenager, with a disheartening awareness of
the dullness of reality.”
My family bought a ranch in Round Top, Texas about thirty
to forty years ago, and it has been a part of my life forever.
Although it’s only about 150 acres, I’ve never found myself at a loss for something to do, and the ranch—which my
family calls “The Farm”—has always supplied more than
enough room for all of my shenanigans and adventures. The
three houses are clumped in a chunk of mown grass towards
the front of the property, encircled by a long white picket
fence. They are really the only polished areas on the whole
property, leaving the rest of the land fertile for imagination
and exploration.
For as long as I can remember, the two-hour trek from
my house in Houston to the farm was spent listening to my
parents bicker about directions and wrong turns as I devised
plans of exploration. The magic of the farm stuck with me
in between trips, lingering in my mind as I would brag of
tall tales of my great expeditions to my friends. The rotting
fences, peeling paint, and the cockeyed nails protruding
from wood all over the property, that I’ve only now begun to
notice, had no impact on my excitement. As I arrive there today, my first thoughts are about shooting rifles at explosives
or watching the big game on TV.
As I become older and more mature, the wonder and fantasy that encompassed my five-year-old view of our ranch has
dissipated, leaving me now, as a teenager, with a disheartening awareness of the dullness of reality.
Rolling down our long driveway, we whizzed past an old
fiberglass model of a cow, which teetered at about four-feettall, its faded red paint washed out and dripping towards its
underbelly like sweat. My brother and I would crawl all over
it, mooing just loud enough to block out the constant creaking and cracking of the cow beneath our weight. I would
spur my little red boots into the fiberglass and yodel fiercely,
pretending I was Woody from Toy Story. The cow became
a horse, and I became a cowboy riding through the great
Wild West, chasing bandits. When my cousins or friends accompanied us to the farm, we would quickly start a game of
54 I Would Rather
hide-and-go-seek around the house. I, the prodigal hide-andgo-seek player, had one incredible hiding spot that I used
for the entirety of my kindergarten year: a small hole that
led beneath the foundation of the house. The hole was just
a few inches wider than I was, so the bulk of my sixty seconds to hide was spent wiggling my way in. It was dark and
musty, exuding the distinct smell of rat poison, so of course
I stashed all of my candy down there, pretending I was a
pirate, and my candy was buried treasure. My cousins and
I also sustained a club near the barn, which we creatively
dubbed the “Cousin’s Barn.” It was more exclusive than any
club in New York, allowing only cousins in and out, and
sharply declining entry to any adults regardless of any bribes
of food or activities.
On the opposite side of the property was a collection of
rusty, old farming equipment, plows with jagged teeth and
machines that looked like medieval torture devices, sprawling decrepit metal in all angles. My five-year-old self would
gaze at these with marvel, and I would whack them with a
stick, assuring myself I was Lancelot and these were great
dragons with rusty scales. I would climb and jump fearlessly
all over the jagged heaps of barbed iron. Occasionally, during my battles, I would see a deer scampering across the
field, and I would mirror its movements, running parallel
with it. Screaming “Bambi, stop! I’m Thumper, your friend!”
at the top of my lungs, I would chase after it or creep up as
close to it as possible trying to touch it before it took notice
and scurried away. When I was five, the property seemed to
have no end; its borders constantly expanding. New nooks
and crannies to explore popped up all the time, and the adventure seemed to have no end. My vast explorations nearly
always left me exhausted from the heat and splashing in the
pond. If I swam to the bottom, my feet would be absorbed
into the murky slop of mud, the weeds tickling my shins.
I would return to the surface giggling and gasping for air.
The partially deflated water-trampoline in the middle of the
pond was a nation I had to conquer, as I heaved and thrust
venison jerky at the house, refusing to think twice about
Bambi or his mother. The property no longer seems so infinite. I can traverse the whole property in matter of minutes
in our go-cart, and exploring has no thrill as every nook and
cranny just reveals more dirt and dry grass. I spend most of
my time near the pond fishing, avoiding the murky green
water as much as possible. The squishing of my feet against
the floor of the water has no appeal, and the deflated trampoline is a sore sight of plastic in the middle of an otherwise
rustic and beautiful area. My castle of limestone sits uninhabited; even when I am atop the tower of stone, there is
no king present. The river has always been just trickle of a
stream, and my half-pipe has always been just a crusty wall
of white dirt.
My age or maturity is irrelevant to my ranch, yet the farm
from when I was five is completely different than the one I
go to today. Growing up is like wearing in a brand new pair
of boots; They begin shiny and immaculate, squeaking with
each step, but as time rolls on, the boots lose their glistening,
polished coat and no longer squeak while walking down the
road. Although they still serve the same purpose and function
just the same as before, the constant rubbing of sand and dirt
strip the boots of something deeper than just the impeccable
leather. As I myself get older, the fantasy that enthralled me
at the farm has lost its lacquer and left me with the worndown reality of the world. No more cowboys, nor pirates, or
knights, or dragons, or kings, or kingdoms, or talking deer,
or half-pipes, or nations to conquer are left. I like to believe
that with age I have gained so much knowledge, but I have
also forfeited so much in exchange. The evanescence of my
imagination poses the question: is maturity worth giving up
the wonder and magic of the world?
The Walrus 55
“The Herd,” Pen, Juliana Fagan (12)
The Farm
myself on top of the sagging trampoline. Every once and a
while, my blind exploration led me to a patch of chalky limestone, a river running through it. My kingdom of pure white
stone had towers with weeds spurting out and rocks near the
river to hurl across and use for ambitious building projects.
I would run up and down the slopes and do tricks, imitating
Tony Hawk on his half-pipe.
With age, it seems the infinite surplus of magic and fantasy
that the farm possessed has been exhausted. I hardly ever go
within a couple yards of the fiberglass cow; it wobbles and
nearly collapses with even the slightest wind, and the rotten
holes in the face of it make it seem demented. Rubbing my
fingers on its hide is a danger due to the fiberglass shards
that have been sticking out of it for a quarter of a century,
waiting to prey on my bare skin. The thrill of hiding in my
secret spot beneath the house has mutated into disgust for the
plethora of critters, the feculent ground, and the rancid insulation foam that has claimed the area as a home. Recalling
my stashes of candy beneath the house instills a fear for the
amount of mothballs I might have mistaken for sugar cubes.
Our club, the “Cousin’s Barn,” has dissolved. Most of the
members are old enough that sitting in a barn and feeding the
horses is no longer entertaining, and some members are old
enough that they are going to real clubs. When we are all at
the farm, the only thing that brings us all together is when we
all flock to the bag of Funyuns or for family photos.
The dragon has been slain, and the service of Sir Lancelot
is no longer needed, leaving just some rusty, jagged clumps
of metal and me, thankful that I had my tetanus shot. When
I spot a deer, I wonder if I could shoot it from where I am
standing, or I become hungry and remember that we have
The 2015 Literary Magazine
is Dedicated to
Christian Cicoria
“Broken Woman” Digital Photo, Marian Hill (11) “Pelicans,” Kaleidoscope Photograph, Kathryn Vance (11) “Watching,” Watercolor and Gouache, Lauren Bynum (12)
who inpires each student’s spark to burn brighter through his love of
teaching and appreciation for the English language.
56 I Would Rather
Staff:
Senior Editors: Olivia Nastala & Seis Steves
Copy Editors: Jacob Miller & Paige Livingston Lopez
Editorial Team: Gaby Caliendo, Ashley Drangler, Gabby Escalante,
Carson Kessler, Jasmine Liu-Zarzuela, Cole Patterson, Alex Sugg,
Selection Committee: Cita Atwell, Jane Emma Barnett, Ellie Eddy,
Austin Garcia, Julia Medellin, Emma Reford, Baily Roos, Helen
Shaper, Rachel Vaughan
Advisors: Amy Williams-Eddy & Megan Soukup
Colophon:
Volume 49 of The Walrus was created by the staff and teacher advisor
at Saint Mary’s Hall, 9401 Starcrest Drive, San Antonio, Texas 78217.
400 copies were printed and distributed at no charge to students, faculty, staff, and parents on May 20, 2015.
In this magazine, Times New Roman font was used throughout for
copy, Mistral was used for headlines, Ariel was used for page numbers and art credits, Ariel Rounded MT Bold was used for quotes
pulled from stories and narratives. Thompson Print Solutions printed
the magazine at 5818 Rocky Point Drive, San Antonio, Texas 78249.
Maggie Thorschmidt was the representative who worked with the
staff and editors to bring the magazine to completion. Programs used
included Microsoft Word, Photoshop CS6, and InDesign CS6. Equipment included several HP computers, and a RICOH color laser printer.
Special Thanks to:
Teri Marshall, Jonathan Eades, Bob Windham, Brent Spicer, Jeff
Hebert, Bethany Bohall, Logan Blanco, Ralph Howell, Dyan Green,
Breanne Hicks, Christian Cicoria, Randy Lee, Mack Magill, Mike
Harriman, Chris Harriman, Glenn Guerra, Shangruti Desai, and SMH
security

The Walrus 2015, Vol. 49 Saint Mary`s Hall San Antonio, Texas

Transcription

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