The MAG A Literary & Art Journal

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St. John Vianney High School

Spring 2015

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“Creating [art] is an overflow of who you are personally…”

- Brother Mel Meyer, S.M.

The MAG is a yearly publication by the students and faculty members of

St. John Vianney High School in an effort to support the living arts through words and images. Our title is an intimation of the Marianist Art Gallery where Brother Mel Meyer created for over thirty-five years and where his creative spirit still lives and breathes.

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Special Thanks to The Mag Staff: Dominic Biffignani

Jeff Boelter Paul Morrison Tyler Puszkar

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Table of Contents

The Annual Fire 1 Kyle Williams, Class of 2014

G# 2 Paul Morrison, Class of 2017

The Heist 3 Jeff Boelter, Class of 2015

Big in Numbers 6 Benjamin Greene, Class of 2016

The Lesson 7 Dominic Biffignani, Class of 2015

Wheel in the Sky: Chicago’s Navy Pier 8 Rob Staggenborg, Faculty

The Boy in the Forest: Epic Narrative 9 Jack Hegger, Class of 2017

Pencils & Erasers 17 Paul Morrison, Class of 2017

Spectator Sport 18 Nicholas Gargiula, Class of 2015

Live Long and Propser, Leonard Nimoy 19 Paul Morrison, class of 2017

Brought from Darkness 20 Brad Ramsey, Class of 2017

Glowing Cacti / Barrel Cactus 30 Benjamin Greene, Class of 2016

Private Library: A Personal History 31 Eric Sargent, Faculty

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Pan 33 Nathan Smith, Class of 2015

The Sherriff 34 Paul Passafiume & Joseph Souvannarath, Class of 2017

Buffalo Soldier 35 Joseph Souvannarath, Class of 2017

The Truest Form of Currency 36 Dominic Biffignani, Class of 2015

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The Annual Fire Kyle Williams, Class of 2014

The rain falls pleasantly The trees burn brightly The leaves have changed Yellow, orange, and red The rain continues to fall The fire does not waver On and on it burns The trees are aglow Yet there is no smoke The blaze slowly declines Colder and colder the rain falls The fire is extinguished Flames descend to the ground Trampled and raked they are forgotten The fire has fallen asleep Trunks lack combustion Like piles of ashes they stand Left over from the fire Embers lie among the ashes There they remain until next year When the fire catches again The cycle repeats itself The fire blazes once more Life continues Annual fire

* As the first poem ever published in The MAG, it is our privilege and honor to reprint “The Annual Fire” each year. Thank you to Kyle Williams, class of 2014.

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G# Paul Morrison, Class of 2017

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The Heist Jeff Boelter, Class of 2015

Inspired in part by the comedy of Dane Cook Part 1 He had always wanted to be part of a heist. Crime has always been that hyped life seen in the movies, and he had always been drawn to it. He was a thief, and thieves stole things. He wasn’t a murderer or anything that terrible, mainly because even some criminals have a conscience, and he thought he had one. So here he was, riding in the back of a windowless van across the rough downtown street. They were in an older part of town on the east side, and the place had gone downhill decades earlier, but there were still a lot of people who called this dump home.

The prevailing thought a sensible person would have should be that there are banks everywhere, even in the slums. The bank they were hitting was on the edge of the city: not quite downtown, not quite in the slums. This was the goldilocks of banks: not too close, not too far, not too big, and not too small. It was perfect. The police response should be enough for the department to claim they tried to prevent the robbery, but it would also be small enough to where it wouldn’t be a problem. The bank itself was a medium sized bank that had once been a cornerstone of the city during its growth and heyday. Now, it was just another old building that reminded those who walked by of what had once been.

There was a vault in this particular bank, but that wasn’t the reason this particular dispensary was targeted. Vaults are a waste of energy almost all the time, especially at a joint like the one this motley group road towards. Vaults are generally made with concrete molded around steel rods and capped off with a steel door and a multi lock seal on the sucker. Some are timed to keep the door from opening at certain times of day, and managers are usually trained in how to handle a robbery where the vault is the target. Plus, vaults are pretty much useless unless it is known exactly what is in the vault, what kind of security measures are on the inside, and how to beat those countermeasures. The bottom line is, the vault was a no go from the beginning, but cash is still the target.

There was one guy next to him, and this wall of a person was to be the first one out of the back door once the van pulled up. This poor sucker was the guinea pig almost, as what happens to him will decide the fate of the rest of the crew. If he made it out of the van ok, then the odds were pretty good that everyone would make it into the bank. Everything after that is up to a higher power.

No one really knew each other, it was the criminal way. Of course, there were the names used for the job. It was a seven man crew, with five going inside, and they were named after presidents, the “Founding Fathers”, as they called themselves during planning. There was one spotter at the front of the bank, and the final member was the driver, and he didn’t need a name because he was the driver. The Fathers had worked together before, but the spotter was new, and the driver was a replacement for the old one. The driver was a trusted accomplice, so there wasn’t a problem between the Fathers and him. The spotter was new, and he was not allowed to see the driver, but he was

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brought into the planning stage later in the game by the Fathers, and now he sat next to the muscle of the group. His name was Monroe, or maybe Madison, he couldn’t remember, and ultimately it didn’t really matter as long as he got paid.

The scene in the car was tense, and quiet. Whichever Father was in the front seat was smoking a cigarette, and the smell was slowly rolling to the back, down the door, and over the floor. The windows were up, so the air was hazy, but the crew almost liked it, as they couldn’t look each other in the eyes before they rode off on their crusade of personal importance. About three blocks from the bank, the van ran over a pothole. There was a slight creak as the van’s shock absorbers distributed the energy, and they rolled on without missing a beat. Everyone was in the zone. One Father checked his pistol over and over again. It was a nice pistol, and probably purchased illegally so it would be harder to trace by police. It was interesting, because there was a large assault rifle in between his legs, and he hadn’t touched it since the team loaded into the van an hour before.

The target was the cash being brought into the bank for use in the ATMs, registers, storage, or whatever else they do with cash, but the high stacks of twenties, fifties, and more than a few hundreds would never reach the desired corner of the bank. The money was loaded off of an armored car with two guards, and moved into the bank for processing and assignments, and that was when the crew would strike. The guards would be jumped by the crew when one guard is making a drop, and the other is supervising the van. Training lasted for months as every member knew exactly where to be when, and every scenario had been accounted for.

“Two minutes!” shouted the Father in the passenger seat. Magazines were checked, guns were racked, and masks were doublechecked.

Every member carried at least two weapons: Either a shotgun or rifle, and a pistol. The guns were mainly for show, as were the blacked out disguises with intimidating padding. In reality, most of the padding under the long sleeved shirts and pants was homemade and soft. The team needed to be able to move freely and quickly, and besides, everyone was banking on not being shot at any point.

The importance of the psychological attack could not be understated, as it was the key to maintaining control and cooperation during the job. Someone is less likely to be a cowboy when they are staring down the barrel of an M-16 towards an armor clad criminal shouting at them. That was the theory at least. Part 2

There was no sound. He couldn’t hear anything, and time seemed to stand still. He did notice a flock of birds flying between the buildings, but they too were almost frozen in time. Their wings were beating furiously, but there was an odd grace that came with it. The only real thought that had creeped into his head was to get to the van. The van represented safety. An island in the ocean of chaos and danger that had become the east end of the city. Direction was unknown, as the instinct to run took over when the bullets started flying.

The van had pulled up to the bank, and the wall of a person that exited the back first quickly became a window into the future if action wasn’t immediately taken, and the flight instinct kicked in. Who knows what happened to the rest of the crew, and who knows what went wrong. All he knew was that there was a problem, and running seemed

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like the best solution. Quickly, the mask became a hat, and the black, long sleeves gave way to a tight, white undershirt. 8th street gave way to Park Ave., and the realization hit him: He was running in the wrong direction. The direction quickly changed, and with it came a new perspective. This new clarity was joined by time, as everything suddenly caught up. Noise, speed, cars, other people. All were apparent. So too were the sirens. After what seemed like hours, the van came into sight. It had been driving around until the agreed upon time, which was only twentyfive minutes after the heist began. Twentyfive minutes had never felt so long. Once in the van, the driver was informed of the change in plans, and sped off. The driver asked the spotter something, but he couldn’t understand it. Confusion set in when the driver took a turn that was not in the original route, and sped towards the river. Panic set in next, as the possibility of an insider creeped to the forefront of thought. The spotter fumbled for his pistol, but botched it, and dropped it to the floor of the van. The driver yanked off his mask, and was finally able to speak normally, and reassured the spotter. There was just one problem: The driver was a monkey. The driver was a talking monkey that had just participated in a botched heist.

Time stood still again, as the van sped over the bridge into the slums. Despite the reassurances of the monkey/driver, he was panicking again. This panic wasn’t so much of a reaction, but one of paralysis. His arms felt like noodles, and his legs were steel rods in set concrete. He couldn’t move. His eyes were locked on his new companion, which is why he didn’t see the red light the van had run, or the oncoming semi truck. Part 3

He awoke in a cold sweat. It had been that dream again. The one with the monkey and the guns. It quickly faded, but left the impression in his mind. He reached to his leg, where he rubbed the side of his left knee. The bullet wound was improving, but still did major damage to the knee itself. He sat there for a minute and rubbed it. Then, he moved to his face. His jaw had been shattered when the cop hit him with his nightstick prior to his arrest. Most of his teeth had been knocked out in the process. He sat there for a minute and rubbed it.

Mornings were short in the cell, as the drab walls and metal furniture drove him crazy. Most of his time was spent on the floor, either playing cards or watching television. He couldn’t do much talking, but when he did, he spoke to his friend and cellblock mate Charlie. Charlie was a good person, and it wasn’t known why he was in prison. He wouldn’t tell anyone. Conversation with Charlie was interesting, as it typically centered on what the two of them would do when they got out, or on speculation as to why the spotter was the only one arrested that day. Maybe it was a blessing in disguise that he had been abandoned, as he was only an accomplice, and his sentence was much shorter than it would have been if the whole crew was busted and they turned on the new guy when the testified in court. This day seemed no different, but then Charlie came to the table looking very accomplished and excited, which was seldom seen in such a setting. Charlie leaned in close and, with the devilish smile he has used so many times, whispered: “I have a plan.”

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Big in Numbers Benjamin Greene, Class of 2016

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The Lesson Dominic Biffignani, Class of 2015

Nothing in this world is ideal And though I might have some zeal I wonder if my heart, Or my mind, Is to blame. I have traversed multitudes of mental mountains; From which I have grown bewildered and inured. However, in my disillusioned state; I forebode my past mistakes; And look towards the future To provide illuminated and care free days. Nothing comes of ease; And it shall be forever easy to tease; The notion that life is easy; For the listener will always be uneasy; And therefore be susceptible to your bilking. So, I offer some advice to the aforementioned listener; Who may, or may not, be listening. Do not expect anything to come easy to you in this world; Do not believe any set number of dictums or items will bring to you joy in this world; Do not believe those who love you will always act as such; Finally, do not feel entitled to anything in this world. For, dear listener, nothing ever conspires in the way we want it to. So, the less you expect, the more you'll be surprised. Therefore dear Listener, the lesson is summarized.

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Wheel in the Sky: Chicago’s Navy Pier Rob Staggenborg, Faculty

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The Boy in the Forest: Epic Narrative Jack Hegger, Class of 2017

Breathe meaning into this journey, Oh Muse, of the adventures of a daring duo in the woods, Whom would do anything to protect their land and safeguard their friends, Seek out those who do evil unto the innocent. The boy who could leap from tree to tree, never missing a branch, The hunter who protects the boy when he does fall into the hands of danger. And the characters that glue the story together and make it what it needs to be, The Gallant Guardians and King Josef the Good, Our main characters, Varwick and The Jäger, whose bravery is unmatched, Our villains, The Blood-Stained Brigands, And the rumored Melinda, whose beauty blinds the eyes of men and softens hearts of stone. A great battle is to be held in the forest, and the fate of our characters hangs in the balance, The valiant efforts of a few can break down the greatest opponents. Between the great rushing waters of The Two Brothers, rivers as blue as sapphires, There stands a heavily wooded forest, Sturdy evergreens that have stood there since the beginning of time. The forest is mostly uninhabited, but there are a few people who call the forest their home. There is a boy, slender as the twigs that grow on the trees. What he lacks in strength, he makes up for in wits. Varwick is the boy’s name. He is fourteen years of age, nearly a man grown, who has no shelter to call home but sleeps in the trees, Away from the numerous dangers that lie on the forest floor. He is not alone, however. He has a watchful guardian that goes by the name The Jäger, A hooded huntsman that wanders the region in search for his lost love. The predators of the forest are not the only thing that trouble Varwick and The Jäger. The region is crippled by a band of outlaw marauders known as The Blood-Stained Brigands, A fearsome bunch of men that go from settlement to settlement pillaging, raping, And killing anyone who stands in their way. Dawn broke, giving shimmering warmth to the lands known to man. Varwick was awoken by an owl hooting in the branches above him. There was a certain feel to the brisk morning air, unlike any other that he had experienced before. Most mornings, he could hear wolves howling at the setting moon, or the stomping thunder of great elk running through the needles and grass. This morning was different, there was no wolves or elk. Only the owl stood sentinel over him. As quick as it had begun, it was over. The owl took flight and flapped into the rising sun. Varwick rubbed his eyes wearily.

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The silence was broken in the distance. AAAAAAA-OOOOOooooooooooooo. He knew that sound. It was that of a warhorn. He felt for his sword and gripped it with a sigh of relief. Trouble rises at the treeline, he thought to himself, Certainly, this cannot wait. He leaped from tree to tree, among strong oak trees and pines. A voice cried from below. “It’s the damned Blood-Stained Brigands! Grab your bows and swords! They mean to do us no good!” Varwick spotted the wild woman and started jumping towards her. Suddenly, a horseman came behind her, galloping in a hurry. The woman had no time to react, She was cut down in a bloody mess. The horseman dehorsed and went to the ground, Looting her mangled corpse. Now is the time. He thought to himself as he climbed down silently behind the brigand. As he approached the man, he drew his sword. The horse reared and the brigand turned and caught Varwick’s hand. His sword fell to the ground and a dagger was put to his throat. “That’s a nice sword ya got there, boy. Where’d ya manage to get such a fine lookin’ blade? Stealin’ it from a dead knight?” The man laughed as Varwick struggled to get free. “Don’t even think about escape-” The man’s head seem to explode as a crossbow bolt hit the brigand above his neck. Varwick fell backwards and watched the man fall to the ground, drowning in his own blood. Varwick looked left and right until he spotted him. The Jäger stood far away, between two trees. “You could have hit me.” Varwick grunted as The Jäger approached him. “I could have,” he replied as he lightly slapped the boy’s cheek, “but I didn’t. Calm that horse and we can ride it to Broken Timbers. It’s guarded better than these huts out here.” He examined the two dead bodies closely. As he put the man’s coin purse into his pocket, he chuckled. “Blood-Stained Brigands. Dangerous in large groups, but petty when they are alone. You dropped your sword.” Varwick picked up his blade and sheathed it. “Thanks, I owe you one.” The Jäger looked up, his well-kept beard visible in the morning light. “You owe me several, boy. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to save you from danger. Remember the wolves three springs ago?” Varwick’s face turned red. “Of course, I remember. It’s why I sleep in the tree branches.” The Jäger removed the bolt from the brigand’s neck. “Oh my, that was a clean shot. I’d say that was about… 500 steps west, wouldn’t you say?” Jäger looked at the boy with blood on his tunic. “Does it look like I was watching you fire your crossbow when I had a dagger to my throat?” Jäger grinned at the boy’s witty question. “Aren’t you a joy this morning? Saddle up, we ride to Broken Timbers.”

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They rode until the son had reached the middle of the sky. Varwick belly began to quake, He hadn’t had time for his morning meal. Broken Timbers was named for what it was. In the times before writings, a star had fallen onto the ground, Creating a massive hole in the middle of the forest. When the men of the trees, the first beings to live in the forest, found the destruction, They built a settlement. Thus, Broken Timbers is one of the oldest settlements that stands to the day. When they arrived, the gates had been pulled down and the walls were burned. Dead Brigands lined the ground. As they trotted over the broken gate, a man shouted out from the steps of the hall. “Who goes there, friend or foe?” “Who stands on the rubble of this once great settlement?” Jäger called out in reply, Approaching the steps of the keep. “The Blood-Stained Brigands sacked the hall. We arrived just in time to the aid of the townspeople. However, few of them escaped. You have the honor of speaking to a member of The Gallant Guardians.” The man, Clad in armor said walking down the steps to meet The Jäger and the boy. The Hall’s doors opened and a man in golden armor stepped out with a crown placed on his head. “Sir Hully, the tavern owner spoke of a trail south of here- Good day, travelers. You are safe, for now.” The man declared. “Is that the best hunter in the lands of known? Could that be you, Jäger.” “Your Grace! How good it is to see you! Forgive me, Sire, but this boy is Varwick. I saved him from a brigand,” Jäger picked Varwick and placed him before the king. “I’ve taken him under my wings over the years.” Varwick bowed and the king took his hand. “My boy, I am Josef the Good, King of the Lands Known. The man up there is Sir Hully, one of my sworn knights, The Gallant Guardians. Will you join us in driving these brigands out of our forest?” Varwick shook his hand but was hesitant. I am not a fighter. I can barely hold a sword and I almost died today, why join another fight? He thought. Sir Hully walked back into the hall. Jäger chuckled nervously. “Is something wrong, Varwick?” “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but I’m unsure of your offer.” The King stroked his chin, his salt and peppered hair wisped in a slight breeze. “You are always welcome to join our cause, my boy. Come, friends, to the hall.” They started up the steps and Josef padded Jäger’s shoulder. “A local pig farmer said that as he was gathering his swine from the pines And swore that he saw an angel flying through the trees.

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An angel with hair as brown as bronze and the face of a goddess. Sound familiar?” Jäger stopped at the door. “Melinda? Could it possibly be her?” The king stopped and shrugged at the hunters question. “Only rumors.” The king motioned Jäger to enter as Varwick passed through the doors. The Hall was alive with chatter from townsfolk and knights alike. They argued over the position and movements of the ‘Damned Barbaric Blood-Laden Fools’ And the state of the great forest. Varwick nudged the hunter. “Who’s this Melinda the king brought up?” Jäger was silent for a moment, but crossed his arms. “Melinda was a fair maiden, her beauty is almost impossible to describe. We were once dedicated lovers. One day, I woke up in the capital to find that she was no longer beside me, With the only word I had of her, a parchment, with the words ‘At the greenest pines, the tallest mountains, the widest rivers, And all the lands under the skies will you may find me.’ I’ve been searching for her ever since. My lost love… My cause.” Varwick had never seen the hunter so emotionally deep before. It was surprisingly frightening. The room fell silent. They looked over at the king, who had raised his hand. “My friends, I have devised a plan. The brigands, though few in numbers, are held up on a large hill, West of here. They have the high ground, but we can take the hill by night. Follow me into battle and end this petty game once and for all. Before dawn, we ride.” The knights toasted their cups to the king and cheered in the company of their drinks. “Blood will be spilled tonight, that is the only certain thing.” The Jäger muttered. The sun had set and the dark had returned to the forest. Varwick had found peace in a small bedchamber one of the keep’s turrets. He opened the window to let in the cool air. He contemplated whether he should fight or not. Varwick had sprawled out on the bed and sat in the dark, with only the moon to keep him company. A chilling breeze swept in and shook his bones, but it was soon ended by a warmth unlike any other. “What troubles you, child?” A golden voice said through the silence. Varwick looked to the window and an angel sat in the window. She practically glowed, wearing a beautiful white, flowing dress. Varwick’s eyes began to hurt just looking at her, but he couldn’t look away. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Her hair was a shiny bronze, her eyes like jewels. Varwick was confused at how this was possible. “Who are you and what are you doing in my window?” Varwick sat up in bed, frightened,

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But at attention. “I am a friend, you don’t need to be afraid. Varwick, isn’t it?” She asked as she stepped down into the room and held out her hand. “Are you the one? The one they talk about in the rumors? Are you the angel whose name is M-” The woman cut him off. “Melinda, yes. Am I really that popular?” She said with a chuckle. “I believe you know my friend, Jäger. Don’t be shy, I am not leaving.” Varwick reached out to touch her hand. “By the gods, you’re real! Is this some jest? How do you know all these things?” “I see and know most of the events that go on in the world, I’m very intelligent, believe it or not.” Her voice seemed to echo in Varwick’s head. He let down his defenses. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m tired of running. He thought to himself. “My name is Varwick, my lady,” he shook her hand, “A pleasure to meet you.” “Varwick. Such a nice name; It’s strong and shows character. Now tell me, friend, what troubles you?” “A war has been waged and I am afraid of what is to come. I’m afraid of meeting my end in our last attack.” Varwick felt so emotional and wanted to cry, But he held back his tears, as to not offend the angel that stood before him. “The brigands, I assume. I will assist you in this fight. I offer you protection, But you must not tell Jäger of this meeting. Swear it to me, you will not tell him.” Varwick bent down and took her hand, looking down at the floor beneath them. “You have my word. Thank you, my lady.” “Melinda. There is no use of formality between us. I care not of such pageantry.” She said with a warm smile, pulling him up from his knees and touching his cheek. “Today, nor tomorrow, is not the day of your demise. Have courage, young Varwick. Luck is on your side.” She took a step back and seemed to disappear before his eyes. The horses galloped into the cold air. Riders dug their heels into their steeds, but every man was silent. Jäger rode beside Varwick and had not left him since departing from Broken Timbers. The local militia had taken the vanguard and The Gallant Guardians rode behind them. Josef rode in the center of the force, giving silent commands and whistles. Snow had began falling soon after their departure and Varwick couldn’t feel his cheeks. The pines stood like a royal guard as the horses passed, their hooves covered in mud, snow, and ice. A light danced in the distance, a lone flickering flame. As they approached the fire, It was clear to see that this was not a cookfire. A carriage had been put to the torch, Everything on it was completely destroyed or near it. The hill was in sight. The knights formed a circle around it, a small tower made of brick and stone. It was not the type of place to be easily defended.

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A brigand walked down the hill to a small creek to make his waters and was shot with an arrow. The circle began its advancement. Sir Hully raised his war horn, And with three others surrounding the hill, joined two quick blasts. AAA-OOooooo! AAA-OOooooooo! Yelling could be heard from all sides as the tower lit up with activity. The brigands answered with a long blast, echoing louder than the others. AAAAAAA-OOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooooooooo! Varwick lost track of everything around him and charged the tower. His heart beating like the drums that had started coming from the tower’s top. He did not see Jäger, The King, the knights, or the militia. He only saw what was in front of him. He raised his sword and gave out a battlecry. He could feel the arrows whizzing past his head. Brigands that had ran out of the tower fell to volleys of arrows. Varwick leapt from his horse onto a brigand and cut him down. He investigated the tower gate. He looked up and began to ascend instead. He climbed, Looking down at the knights ramming the gates. A brigand fell from the top, nearly crashing into him. He had never felt so alive. He found a closed window and began to fidget with the lock. An arrow landed between his hands, breaking the lock. It was not a Brigands’ arrow, Nor a knights’. Melinda. He entered the window to find an abandoned chamber, A lantern on a table burned and an inkwell had been spilled over parchment and quill. Someone had left in a hurry, that was apparent to him. The ink leapt onto the floor, Splattering on the wood. Varwick crept to the lantern, smothered the flame and the room went black. Varwick felt like a wolf in his woods, creeping silently to surprise his prey. He approached a door and as he opened it, he noticed a man standing guard, Sword drawn facing the door opposite of the bedchamber Varwick had entered. With a quick shove and thrust of his sword, the man fell to the floor, dead, or soon to be. He looked to his right and saw an open window. He reached for the latch, And a sudden whistle of an arrow passed his ears. The whistle was followed by a grunt and thud. He looked to his left and another dead brigand lay on his back, blood pooling near his head. The door opened to a ladder shaft. He climbed down the ladder, eerily in the dark. He reached the bottom to find a trap door. I’m below the tower, for certain. Varwick had come to the conclusion that the hill had a system of tunnels below it. He could hear brigands screaming and yelling from below. He had ran down a massive stairwell that led down forever, to eternity. This is no hill.

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This is a buried fortress. He met no resistance since the tower. He had entered a massive pitted open room. There was a rumbling from all around. A massive fire seem to light from nothing, encircling him. “I’ll give it to you, warrior. Your endurance is impressive. Impressive, but futile!” The thundering voice came from all directions. Varwick swirled around, looking for any sign of life. The ground shook and Varwick fell to his knees. A giant of a man stood at the center of the ring. He looked as tall as a mountain, and moved as easily as any other. He was clad in massive armor that would look big on a horse. In his hands, He held the biggest sword Varwick had ever seen. This is no hill nor fortress. This is an arena. “You’re no warrior,” he said with a thunderous laughter, “You are merely a boy!” Varwick charged, sword drawn. His attack was wasted, as he was thrown feet back by a block. The hum of arrows returned and hit the figure. However, he did not fall and only laughed more. “I am the leader of the great Blood-Stained Brigands. I am The Giant. I am the death of order. I am your end!” His sword came down, barely missing Varwick. Arrows came back from over the flames, hitting the great man. Another jumped into the ring and onto The Giant. The Jäger. He slammed a blade into the giants neck, But it did no good. He was thrown to the ground as well. “Varwick.” He nodded to Varwick. “Jäger.” The boy replied. Yet another volley of arrows came through the flames and hit the giant. Pieces of his armor fell to the ground. “Enough!” The Giant raised his sword, But a light blinded all of them. The murderous Giant of a Man fell back and Varwick looked up to see Melinda, Bow in hand and letting loose arrows at an unhumanly rate. The Duo gave one last charge onto The Giant and pierced his chest and temple. The beast had been slain. Varwick stood, out of breathe and in need of water and rest. The boy had reached the surface. Militia, knights, and King alike walked from the hill as the tower caved in and fell. Varwick stood watching the sunrise. He ran back up the hill to the rubble. Everyone had crowded around the rubble of weeping stones. Men crawled from holes in the ground and Varwick found Jäger and Melinda hand in hand. “I’ve searched far and wide for you, my love. I would never have guessed that I would see you saving me from danger. It’s quite the turn of events,

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If you ask me.” The man said. He leaned in and kissed the woman, passionately in the light of the rising sun. Varwick chuckled. “You have a soft side to you?” Jäger looked over at the boy, “Keep talking about that soft side, boy. I dare you.” Melinda smiled and the couple joined in a warm embrace, looking into dawn’s arrival. Varwick looked as well. He had never truly understood why the fight was so important. The brigands had been defeated and the remnant had been disbursed throughout the land, But the forest was safe. Varwick came to realize that he was a warrior, And every fighter had become a hero in their own right. In a day’s time, The fate of the woods had been thrown into oblivion, but returned into order. Josef and The Gallant Guardians returned to the capitol. Melinda and Jäger spent their time wandering the region to take in the beauty of the world. Varwick stayed put, however. His place was in the forest, And that is where he meant to stay.

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Pencils & Erasers Paul Morrison, Class of 2017

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Spectator Sport Nicholas Gargiula, Class of 2015

I'm locked in, the pulse is pulsing And my breathing, ever enduring a rush of adrenalin I feel a if She was a prop on a stage, and I, simply a spectator in the Colosseum This endeavor of repressed angry slowly mediates up into my very being, making me ever so slightly more on edge She sits mesmerized by every meager movement, quarterly and patiently waiting for her attack, her ensemble of fortitude. The more I overt my excogitate inquisition, I am left nearly speechless If I were def, my feelings of vibrations would over come my innate behavior, I feel the jubilant enthusiasm this crowd has brought. Don't get flustered, stay sane This victory, this triumphant clearly portrays true ingenuity, and self discipline, I envy your heart, and all i feel as if I were blowing loosely in the wind, like a particle of dust, to only show up to take witness of your glory. It greatly enrages me, only if they could view you from my perspective. Maybe then they might truly see your true potential...they no nothing of the sort. Commanding orders, reprised from freedom itself. Calling a unit order to form a consulting predicament and I swear is words, jab into the very heart and core of each and every single one. This game is a lie. From this side, everyone is more knowledgeable on every outcome and situation to occur. This equivocal mind set is implemented within all who gaze at this game. Doubting their own infidels, they must be hushed. However, no shot, no pass, no breath will go unnoticed... This is high school girls basketball

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Live Long and Prosper, Leonard Nimoy Paul Morrison, Class of 2017

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Brought from Darkness Brad Ramsey, Class of 2017

They finally let him out of the dungeons after nigh on six months. Kenny, the gaoler, had come to his cell that morning, turning the lock with his

thick iron keys and pushing the heavy door open with a creak. It had been so cold and wet and damp, and he had nearly forgotten what candlelight had looked like until he saw Kenny’s fat tallow of yellow wax burning brightly. He had to shield his eyes.

On his fraying belt of brown leather, the gaoler had a skin of water, or wine, tied and hanging. Water would be nice, he thought. He hadn’t had that in a while. Kenny lit the torch on the wall with his candle, filling the cell with a bright orange glow. He lifted his thin, maimed hands to cover his face. Oh God, it hurts so much. He moaned softly, and huddled himself to a semi-dry corner of the cell, curling up. “Make it go awaaayyyyy…” he moaned.

Kenny laughed. “Bloody hell, the rat’s scared. He’s all curled up in a corner.” The gaoler licked his fat, wet lips. “Daemon’s got you trained nice and good now, hasn’t he?” He winced at the name. Daemon, master. He hadn’t been to visit him in near a week, thank God. Whenever he came to visit, it was always painful. Sir Daemon of Greenway was a lowborn knight from the hillsides of eastern England, and held no lands or titles. He had, though, become the head “interrogator” and chief gaoler of the castle of Archway, under the rule of the Lords of the House of Arche. Sir Daemon had been his torturer.

Please, God, please, don’t let it be Master. I’ve been good. Please. “Is...is Master here?” The question was small, thin. “Tell him I’ve been good, oh

please.” “Master? Who’ll that be?” the gaoler asked. He was clearly amused. He was silent. He mustn't dare disrespect him. Not his master. Then there would

be more pain. He would have to see Daemon’s thin, cruel smile as his flaying knife ran to and fro. And he certainly didn’t want that.

“I asked you a question, you rat,” Kenny said. “The knight, you know him. Don’t make me say his name, he hates that,” he said,

frightened. ‘Master,’ I have to call him. Otherwise he makes it last longer. “Please, m’lord, don’t hurt me. W-Water’s all I ask for, if I’m not intruding, m’lord. Just don’t hurt me, I’ve been good.” Tears welled in his eyes, and he covered his face further, closing his eyes hard.

“I ain’t no lord, rat,” said Kenny. He unstrung his skin of water, or wine, and tossed it at his feet. He scrambled and picked it up, uncorking it and putting it up to his dry, cracked lips. The water rushing down his throat felt like pure happiness, sweeter than a mother’s hug or a maiden’s kiss. He gulped all of it down in seconds. Thank you, dear God. Thank you thank you thank you.

“Time to go, rat. Daemon’s got need for you.” He has need of me? What have I done? Why would Master want to hurt him

now? “I’ve been good, why does Master want me?” “Dunno. Why would he tell me?” Kenny gestured for him to stand. “Get up, rat.

Now.”

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He put his weight on the cold stone of the dungeon wall, and slowly pushed himself to his feet. It was a struggle. He was so thin, so frail, his legs weak and wobbly. His feet were missing a few toes, causing him to limp. Master took them when I was bad. I’ve been good, though. He half shuffled, half limped to where Kenny was standing. The gaoler took him by the shoulder and shoved him along, towards the steps out of the dungeon.

“Bloody hell, you smell, rat,” Kenny said, covering his nose. He had been wearing the same filthy rags for months now, and they were soiled,

frayed, and ripped. It was better than nothing, though. He was thankful for that. When they came to the thick wood and iron door of the dungeons, his breath caught in his throat. He hadn’t been out of the dungeons for half a year, at least. Master is waiting for me, expecting me. I can’t disappoint him, or he’ll take another finger.

Kenny pushed it open and the crisp air coming through the windows hit him. He winced as the light hurt his eyes, caused them to burn. The gaoler caught him before he fell, and led him down the hall and out into the yard of the castle. Men-at-arms were walking about, some holding spears, some holding swords, others holding bows. They wore green linen tunics bearing the arms of the House of Arche, a grey portcullis on green, or red tunics bearing the king’s own arms, three golden lions passant guardant. Some glanced at him, others paid him no mind. They don’t care about me, he thought. To them I’m lower than dirt.

They went past the castle’s Great Hall and past the armory, until they came to the Great Keep, where the noble family and several household knights had their quarters. Two spearmen stood sentry outside the doors.

“State your business,” the one on the left asked. “I have a prisoner for Sir Daemon of Greenway. He’ll be wanting him right away,”

Kenny replied. “Very well,” the guard said. “Be sure to wash that thing. He reeks.” “If the good knight allows it,” the gaoler said as they walked inside. It was warmer in the large Great Keep of Archway, more so than outside in the

yard. As they walked, or limped, to Sir Daemon’s room, he passed several knights he did not know, one with a boar sewn onto the breast of his surcoat, another with a cockatrice, yet another with three suns in splendor, formed in a triangle. All looked at him in disgust, even the children that he passed. One even looked at him and pointed, saying “What’s wrong with that thing?” A fat old tomcat was disgusted by him, if the people weren’t enough, as it hissed at him and ran swiftly away.

At last, they reached his master’s room. Kenny knocked on the door and left him there, all alone. “Where are you going?” he almost said, but he was too scared. He simply stood there, trembling, until the knight answered, opening the door and flashing his cruel smile. He was of above average height, though not considerably tall, and had long black hair and icy blues eyes. There’s a darkness in those eyes.

“Farren, my old friend!” he exclaimed, throwing open the door, which caused him to wince. He stood there, shoulders slumped, head down, waiting for what his master had to say to him. “Come in, come in,” the knight said, and he stepped inside the room, the door closing behind him.

It was quiet in Daemon of Greenway’s room, save for the crackling of the fire in the small hearth. The torturer’s cloak and sword belt hung on pegs on the wall, his armor sat in a head in the corner. There was a moderately sized tapestry of a wolf above

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the hearth, and besides a desk in the opposite side of the room, the space was bare. Daemon sat in front of him in the chair from the desk and smiled. “It’s good to see you, Farren.”

Farren was still shaking. His hands trembled. “Y-you asked for me, Master.” Speak shortly, only when spoken to. Say something to anger him and you’ll get another lick from his knife… “I’m here to serve you, m’lord sir.”

Daemon crossed his legs, ever smiling. “I know you are, Farren. You’ve been good. There’s nothing to fear.” He paused. “For now.”

That last remark scared him. “I have good news for you, Farren. The king is coming here. Yes, here to Archway.

His Grace sent a letter to Lord Arche, asking about you. Well, not you, just any useful prisoners that haven’t been executed yet, but that’s beside the point. He needs you to help him with some troublesome rebels, Farren. How do you feel about that?” his master asked.

Think before you speak. “I’m honored, m’lord sir. His Grace the King honors me greatly.” Good.

“I agree, my friend. He’ll be here on the morrow, with near twenty thousand men to fight that bloody oaf Wallace. It’s said he’s near Falkirk,” Daemon said. He spat. “I hope the king lets me have him. I’ll never let him see the light of day again.” He called for a serving wench, and two came, one carrying a tub, the other a bucket of water. “I have a gift for you, Farren.”

“What’s this, m’lord?” Farren asked. Daemon stood and shooed the wenches away once one of them had handing him a towel and fresh serving clothes, brown pants and a roughspun woolen tunic. The door closed once more, and the rat and his master stood alone again. The knight set the clothes on his bed and smiled. “It’s a warm bath and new clothes, just for you. Don’t you like it?” He was quick to respond. “I do, Master. I love it. I’ve been longing for a bath, m’lord. As you said, I’ve been good for you, m’lord.”

“Indeed you have, Farren. You’ve been very good. Now, remove those rags from yourself, before I wretch.” He did as his master bid. He was hesitant for a moment, but then he slowly lifted his tattered tunic off, revealing his pale, skinny chest. Daemon smiled when he saw it. It was criss-crossed with scars, from his master’s whip, or his flaying knife, or from white-hot pincers. One of his nipples was gone. His back was no better. It had taken the brunt of the whippings, but there were also rough patches from where the flaying knife had kissed him deep.

His maimed hands struggled with the strings on the front of his breeches, but he got them off eventually. He edged closer to the bath, which Daemon had now filled, and watched the steam rise slowly off the water. “Go on, Farren. It’s for you.”

Saying nothing, Farren lifted one thin leg and set it into the water. The feeling was magnificent. It felt like the sunlight was kissing his skin, warming him. It was more soothing as he sat fully into the bath, letting the water touch him all over. The water became murky from the dirt and grime washing off of him. He ran his wet fingers through his hair, which used to be a dark, golden blonde, but was now a brittle, flaxen white, as was the thin beard that sprouted from his face. Daemon also gave him a small bar of soap, which he used to rinse his hair and and wash off his pale skin.

When his bath was done, he dried himself off with the towel and dressed with his new servant’s clothes. They were warm and dry, and more than he could ask for. Sir

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Daemon himself dressed for the dinner served nightly in the Great Hall. He wore a red linen doublet under a black leather jerkin. He wore red pants and black boots, and clasped a red cloak about his shoulders with a small beaten silver skull fastener. He buckled on his sword belt and scabbard. He looked quite the lordling.

“You get to eat in the Great Hall tonight, Farren, with knights and men-at-arms and even Lord and Lady Arche. You’ll have a hot meal after so long. Are you happy?”

“Yes, m’lord sir, of course.” It was a short, simple response, and it pleased his master.

He followed Sir Daemon to the great hall, where the meal had already starting. He left Farren at the front of the hall, to sit in a corner alone by a few servants, all shunned him. His master made his way to where the knights sat, below the dais. Lord Frederick Arche sat with his wife, Lady Mary, at the High Table, next to Lord Redmund Mayne, 1st Earl of Orington. With them sat Lord Arche’s sons, Sir Robert and Sir Richard, and Lord Mayne’s daughter, Lady Clara. Farren inferred that she was in talks to be betrothed to one of them.

A serving wench dropped a small chicken breast in front of him, and filled a simple goblet with red wine. When he asked the server to cut the chicken for him because of his hands, she just laughed and walked away. He was left to slice off lopsided chunks to slowly chew through his broken teeth, courtesy of Sir Daemon. He had to use two hands to drink out of the goblet, but at least he got food and wine. It was so rich he thought he would wretch after a few bites, but he kept it down and ate thankfully.

That night, Farren slept in the crowded housing for all of the castle’s servant in a smaller keep within the walls. It was a thin cot and blanket, but it was better than the cold, dark, wet dungeons he had grown so used to.

The next day the king came. They had roused him early, and he had sat up, groggy. As he was stretching, Sir

Daemon came for him. “The king is here,” he had said, and Farren limped after him as quickly as he could. They gathered in the yard with the rest of the entire castle, be it nobles, knights, soldiers, or servants alike. Lord Arche’s soldiers and the king’s both stood, spears and shields in hand.

A man atop the battlements called down to raise the portcullis, and that they did with the grinding of steel on steel. The Bearer of the Royal Banner rode in first, beautifully armored, holding the standard of the House of Plantagenet, three golden lions passant guardant on red. He was flanked by two knights.

Next came two of the King’s Guard, all in white, one bearing the their own standard, seven swords encircling the Royal Crown, on white, the other again bearing the king’s banner. After them came the king’s son, the Crown Prince Edward, Prince of Wales. He was flanked by two knights of the King’s Guard. After them even, finally came the King of England, Edward of the House of Plantagenet. Three of his white knights rode beside, one on either side, one behind. Then came the king’s commanders, like Lord John Warenne, 6th Earl of Surrey, a household knight bearing his banner, blue and yellow squares, checkered; Lord Aymer Valence, 2nd Earl of Pembroke and a Franco-English nobleman, another knight bearing the arms of the House of Valence, a barry of argent and azure with an orle of martlets gules; Lord John of Brittany, Earl of Richmond, of the House of Dreux, displaying his arms, blue and yellow checkers in red escutcheon; and Lord John of Bermingham, 1st Earl of Louth, rode next to one of his household knights who displayed his sigil, a grey iron greathelm on white. Lesser lords

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and knights followed, each with their own standard of arms, and the yard of Castle Archway was an array of colorful bolts of cloth.

Farren stood against the stone wall of a smaller, inner keep head down. Stay quiet, do nothing, and all will be fine. Sir Daemon stood next to him, watching with a dry, vacant smile and a hand on the hilt of his sword. His master’s own sigil was that of a wailing skull, inside a red orle, on black. It was truly imposing.

The Royal Herald went before the now massive crowd of people, and they all knelt. Farren was sure to keep his balance as not to fall in the mud of the yard. “All kneel before His Grace Edward of the House of Plantagenet, First of His Name, King of England, Lord of Ireland, and Duke of Aquitaine,” the herald roared. It echoed off the wall of the castle, and except for the crackle of fires in iron braziers, there was silence. Finally, the king dismounted off of his horse and strode toward Lord Arche and told him to stand, and they shook hands. King Edward I wore splendid armor that day, a black breastplate inlaid with golden gilded steel in the shapes of two lions, combatant on either side, as well as small, exquisitely crafted details. His pauldrons were black and line with gold, displayed the heads of a roaring lion on either shoulder. His couters were also roaring lions. His tassets were black, each segment plated with gold. A deep red leather sword belt was tied around his waist, and a longsword with a golden hilt hung in a jeweled scabbard. A thick red velvet sash was draped around his left shoulder going down and to the right, tucked securely under his belt. On his head was a golden crown with seven points, set with large rubies. Five of the seven King’s Guard dismounted and followed their king into the castle’s Great Keep, his white shadows. Two stayed behind with Prince Edward.

He had been ordered by his master to help servants a squires unsaddle the nobility’s horses. He took the elaborate saddle off of a certain Sir Morris Clay’s grey mare. The brown leather saddle was stamped with the knight’s sigil: two goats climant, facing oppositely. Farren remembered the small castle where he was born, Gallowsgrey, and the goat farm in the valley to the south. He remembered the goatfarmer’s daughter, the pretty girl with red hair and freckles, Jeyne was her name, and how she’d kissed him under the oak tree near the farmhouse. I miss her, Farren thought sadly. I miss home. It’s been so long…

He was snapped out of thought when Sir Morris Clay himself arrived, barking orders at him. The helm underneath his arm displayed the likeness of a goat, his sigil. Farren quickly got Sir Morris’s squire, who took the knight’s armor and had his horse put in the stables.

Through the archway of the portcullis, he could see the twenty thousand men the king had brought with him to crush Sir William Wallace’s rebels. Huge banners near twenty feet wide snapped in the wind, all bearing the lions of Plantagenet. He also saw the arms of the Houses of Warenne, Valence, Dreux, Bermingham, Mayne, and many others, like that of a mailed fist clutching a sword, a red leaping salmon on white, a golden inverted pile on sky blue, a yellow sun in the first, a crow in flight on green, a black field strewn with wriggling green serpents, a black warhorn banded with gold on red, a talbot sejant, a unicorn’s head couped, a griffin rampant with its tail nowed, and a two-headed eagle displayed white on blue.

Farren remembered his own coat of arms, the arms of the small House of Galloway, a red lion rampant and doubled queued, on a field of grey. He thought back to the day when he had been captured, when the English raided the village he was hiding

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in, burning the houses down, putting the villagers to the sword, be it men, women, or children, looting the houses, and some of the women were raped. Farren was still a knight then, and the small band of men who followed him were also captured, rebels following William Wallace and Robert the Bruce in revolting against the yoke of the Kings of England for Scotland’s independence. His father, Lord Bryan, had spoke against it, saying it was rash trying to face the might of Edward the First, whom they called Longshanks, and the power of the English.

That had been so long ago, though, and Farren doubted he would see his home again. They’ll probably slit my throat before long. Master will smile as he does, and he’ll call it mercy. He mustn’t think like that. He’d been good. His master had no cause to hurt him, and plus, he said the king had use of him. He had to believe. The feast in the king's honor was massive; banners lined the walls of the Great Hall, displaying the coat of arms of all the Houses present. King Edward sat in the High Seat, Lord and Lady Arche to his right, Lords Warenne, Valence, Dreux, Bermingham, and Mayne to his left. Prince Edward sat directly next to his father, looking bored but displaying a dry smile. The king himself sat looking stern, as it was usually said, with his left eyelid drooping slightly and the left side of his mouth doing the same. It was said that he had inherited the trait from his mother, the late Queen Eleanor. The first course served was a thick, creamy crab soup filled with chopped carrots and broccoli, along with baked bread to dip with. Farren ate it quickly, as it was easy for him because of his teeth. That evening, he again sat alone in a corner where the servants sat, and no one talked to him. They had all looked at him with disgust. I used to be handsome, he thought. A handsome young knight riding with William Wallace as a glorious rebel. Those days were over, however, and now he was thin, decrepit, weak, and maimed.

The next course was a large salad mixed greens and tossed in a sweet vinaigrette, mixed with bits of chicken. The dressing had been rich and tasty, but the chicken had proved a little cumbersome to chew. Farren managed it all the same. The third and main course was grilled boar stuffed carrots, peas, and corn, and basted in butter, and with it, a side of potatoes sprinkled with pepper and drowned in butter. He had liked the potatoes the best, but the boar was delicious as well. Lamprey pie and chilled pudding were served as dessert.

Throughout the feast, Farren glanced over and saw Sir Daemon, talking and laughing with the rest of the retinue of household and landed knights, such as Sir Richard of Rosby, Sir Martin of the Cobblestone, Sir Dennis Farring, Sir Boris Banefort, Sir Stafford Reingard, and Sir Tybalt of Heatherspoon. He watched as his master licked his thin, wet lips and smiled, the torchlight dancing in those cruel eyes. He left the feast when it was decent, and crossed the cool yard of Archway with a limp. He saw mostly soldiers walked here and there, going about their business, guards looking otherwise bored. Past the stables, he saw a stableboy locked in a drunken embrace with some wench, either a washerwoman or a camp follower. He limped on, feeling sad. When he reached the servants’ housing, he decided to go to sleep, having nothing else to do. Best take advantage of sleeping in a warm place on a cot while I can. When the king is done with me, Master will lock me away again and give me to the whip or the rack, whichever he preferred.

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He had been dosing for almost an hour when he felt the kick of a boot in his side, and fell off the cot, the wind knocked out of him. He heard Sir Daemon’s cruel laugh. “Get up, Farren,” he said. “The king will see you now.”

The king had occupied the second largest room in the Great Keep, aside from Lord Arche’s. Two of the King’s Guard had been standing sentry outside his door, whilst three others had guarded the main door to the keep itself. They had all looked strangely at him. He was used to the looks by now.

King Edward, the First of His Name, sat in a large-backed chair by the fire, a jeweled goblet of mulled wine. When he and Sir Daemon entered the room, the king turned his head, eyeing him up and down. “Come in,” he said.

In the room with them was Lord Frederick Arche, in a quilted green doublet, Lord Redmund Maybe, fingering his thin chinbeard, and Lords Warenne, Valence, Dreux, and Bermingham. Sir Glendon Geraldsby of the King’s Guard stood next to his king, on guard. The knight’s face was stern, and he was silent as a ghost. A white, armored ghost.

Sir Daemon bowed deeply. “Sire.” He moved to the side and left Farren standing awkwardly by himself, all of the lords watching him. He was looking straight at the floor, afraid. He could feel the king’s eyes on him, boring into him.

“It is customary to kneel before a king,” the king said. Farren did what he was told, and quickly. He took to one knee, never looking up. “Your Grace,” he said nervously.

“You may rise now, boy.” Farren did. “Look at me, or are you too craven?” Farren looked up and faced the king. King Edward studied him further. He had mid-length blonde hair, down to his neck, and a short-cropped beard. His eyes were green; a piercing green, an intimidating green. He wore a red quilted doublet displaying the lions of his House, and a studded black belt was tied around his waist. The king took a sip of wine and turned to Sir Daemon.

“So, this is the one? The prisoner “of value”?” he asked. Sir Daemon smiled. “It is, Your Grace. I present to you Sir Farren Galloway, a

Scottish rebel captured about six months ago leading a band of soldiers under William Wallace. We killed his friends when we captured him.”

“And you, sir, are the torturer here, I take it?” the king asked of Daemon. “Yes, my king. I got a lot of valuable things out of him. I nicked a few bits,

removed a few others…” “Nevermind that,” King Edward said. “Step forward, boy, and show me your

hands.” Farren did as he was told, slowly. He edged closer to him, extending his hands

out to be seen in the light of the fire. His right hand had four fingers, his left hand three. Sir Daemon had taken the pinky off of the right, and the ring and forefinger off the left. The king was clearly uncomfortable.

“Put those away,” he said, and Farren put his hands down. “I have a task for you, Farren, is it? Good. I have a task for you, Farren. Since I know how loyal you are to our cause in this war, I know you will help me. There’s a castle not far from here, Hammerhal, which is being held currently by a garrison of thirty men. Thirty Scottish men. Since you...were...a promising and noble knight, and famous among Wallace’s ranks, they would certainly yield the castle to you under the promise of my mercy from your lips, wouldn’t they?”

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“T-They would, Sire. It’s a fine plan. I fine plan, indeed, Your Grace. I’m Sir Daemon’s man, and yours. I anything of me, Your Grace, and it shall be done,” Farren replied quickly.

The king had a satisfied smile. “Good. I knew you would be of some help. We ride for Hammerhal on the morrow. My lords, tell your men. As for you, boy, you may leave.” Farren left the king, followed by Sir Daemon.

The ride to Hammerhal had taken all day and into the evening. The next morning, the king’s army set camp up on a high ridge overlooking the valley in which the castle stood. Dead bodies and horses littered the area around the castle’s moat, from a previous attempted siege and storming by the English.

They had given him a breastplate and pauldrons, plain and dark grey. Over that he wore a grey surcoat embroidered with his own sigil, the red lion of Galloway. The sword belt around his waist was home to merely a blunted training sword in a plain black scabbard. His pants were plain, as were his boots and gloves. The gloves were simple black leather, but soft, and in the empty finger pouches was wool stuffing as to hide his maiming.

The king sat astride a huge red garron, armored as he was the day he came to Archway. The Crown Prince Edward was among the lords and knights behind the king. The King’s Guard assembled next to His Grace and his heir, their silent white shadows. Sir Daemon rode up on his black garron carrying the white flag that was to be used to get the castle’s surrender.

Before he left, his master had whispered in his ear. “I know you want to join them. Believe me, I do. But remember, you’re nothing now. You’re not the Scot you were. You’re mine. Betray me and there’s not a punishment you can imagine that will be less painful than what I’ll do to you.” He shoved the flag into his hand. “Now, who are you?”

“I’m Sir Farren Galloway, a Scottish knight, soldier of Sir William Wallace,” he said.

“But, who are you really?” “I’m nothing. I’m lower than dirt. I’m yours.” “Until when?” “Until I’m rotting in the dirt.” “Good,” said Sir Daemon, giving him a hit on the shoulder that nearly shoved him

off his small horse. “Now, bring me Hammerhal.” The sky was grey with overcast, the air cool and the wind crisp. Farren’s peace

banner snapped in the wind as he rode his little horse down the causeway towards the moat of the castle. He passed the dead men and horses, some struck with arrows, some crushed by stones, some covered in hot tar and oil, all green and rotting and filled with maggots. He spied a muddy and trampled on banner, displaying a silver codfish, on black. The House of Codd, of Greyriver Bend, mayhaps?

On the towers of Hammerhal flew the banner of Robert the Bruce, a red lion rampant on gold, as well as the three lily pads of the House of Boggs. Farren saw a few archers on the battlements, as well as several spearmen. They all stared at him. As he arrived at the edge of the moat, one called down him,

“Oy, you there! No closer! State yer business!” “I come bearing terms, from His Grace the King. I merely wish to speak with

you.”

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They eyed him for a moment, until the one soldier who had spoken whistled down and the drawbridge began to lower. When it fell to the mud in front of him, Farren rode over it, crossing the moat. As soon as he was in the castle’s yard, they pulled it back up again.

From behind, someone pulled him down out of his saddle and he hit the mud of the castle yard, hard. It knocked the wind out of him, and he sat in the muck, coughing, until there was a knife at his throat. The soldier was wearing a chainmail byrnie and a wool tunic with a patch bearing a red lion sewn to his breast. “Who are you?” the man asked, his face close to Farren’s. He stank like death, like rotting flesh and feces. “What are you doing here?”

“I-I’m Scottish, like you. My name is Sir…” His voice trailed off. You’re not him. You’re Master’s dog, lower than dirt. You’re only playing a part. Remember what you are, who you are. “My name is Sir Farren Galloway, of Gallowsgrey. My father is Lord Bryan Galloway, Lord of Gallowsgrey.”

“I heard he was dead,” said another soldier in the yard, a man clutching a shield bearing the sigil of William Wallace, a hand clutching a bow and arrow.

“Aye,” said the man with the knife. “I heard he was dead, or captured.” “I was taking captive, aye, by the English. I’ve been a prisoner of Lord Frederick

Arche for six months now. They’ve treated me mercifully, as they will you, if you only lay down your swords and yield,” Farren said. “Who’s in command here, so I may speak with him?”

“I am,” said a voice. A man, looking malnourished and sickly like the rest, came out of doorway that led up to a sentry tower. He wore a filthy surcoat that displayed a death’s head moth on violet. He came up to Farren and the man who had a knife to his throat with a limp. “Erik, put that knife away.” The man, Erik, did.

Farren got to his feet slowly, as it was a struggle, with his weak, thin legs and maimed feet. He stood as straight as he could and tried to look as knightly as possible. “And who might you be, sir?” “Sir Dennis of Pennytree, commander of this garrison. And you, sir? You say

you’re Farren Galloway? I heard he was a young knight, and quite honored in battle. You seem...less so. Like an old man, to be frank.” Sir Dennis spat.

“I...I know what I may look like, but I am he, Sir Dennis. And I come with peace terms, from His Grace King Edward.” Farren pulled out a roll of parchment tucked in his belt and handed it to the Knight of Pennytree. It had on it, scrawled in the king’s own hand, the terms of surrender.

Sir Dennis unrolled it and read the words. As he read, Farren spoke. “I can see now, your men are malnourished, sickly, and wanting to go home. Your men are tired, your food provisions exhausted, and your tar and pitch gone. Why not surrender and let them live? You’ve served Scotland well enough, Robert the Bruce and William Wallace would be proud. Surrender now, and King Edward will let you live and prisoners of Archway until the war is over. Save yourself and fight another day for the glory of Scotland.”

The leader of the garrison spat on the parchment and threw it on the ground. “Bah! That’s what I say to these terms. You speak like a whipped dog. We were told by Sir William Wallace to hold this castle, and that’s what we’ve done. That’s what we’re going to do. Go back to your master and tell him he’s got no deal.”

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No no no, I can’t go back. I can’t go back empty handed. Master will give me to the knife. He’ll flay me, take another finger, or worse… “The king has twenty thousand men up the ridge, ready to storm this castle.” That got the knight’s attention. “You will all die, and quickly, and he’ll keep marching, right on to Falkirk. Will you really give your life for a lost cause? Look around you. We’re all Scotsmen here. Your sacrifice will not be forgotten by Wallace and the Bruce. Yield to King Edward and you will be fed and given wine. His Grace is most honorable to those who surrender and keep faith. Come back with me and live another day.”

Sir Dennis considered his words. He looked around at his men; at their starved faces, the hungry eyes, there thin faces. He looked around at the bodies of their dead comrades that were piled in one corner of the yard, victims of hunger or sickness or combat wounds. He look back to Farren. “If we yield, we live?”

Farren smiled. Master will be pleased. “Yes, sir. You’re going to live. And soon, you’re going home.” They laid down their swords and spears and followed Farren out the drawbridge and up the ridge to King Edward’s camp.

They were hanged the next day. “We can’t condone traitors,” Sir Daemon had said, when he saw Sir Dennis’s body

hanging from the gates of Hammerhal, his flesh tared so it would not rot. “And we certainly can’t let this bloody Scottish savages live, can we?”

Sir Dennis of Pennytree and his lieutenant were strewn from the front gate of the castle; the rest of the soldier’s heads were mounted on spikes. The king left a garrison there to hold Hammerhal, one with proper provisions, and they burned the bodies of all of the dead. The three lions of Plantagenet were flown in place of Robert the Bruce’s red lion, as Farren was made to hoist it down.

When they rode the next day, Sir Daemon smiled at Farren as he rode along, his head down, swaying with the motion of his horse. “Come, Farren, don’t look so sad. They were only savages. We’re off now, to Falkirk!” FIN

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Glowing Cacti / Barrel Cactus Benjamin Greene, Class of 2016

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Private Library: A Personal History

Eric Sargent, Faculty

“This is my master’s library, but his study his out of doors.” – Wordsworth’s Servant

Generally speaking, I consider myself a book-hoarder. I suppose it began during my high-school years when I started to fall in love with literature and I was desperately trying to fill the five empty shelves on the bookshelf I had built with my grandfather – a trophy case, so to speak, for my books. At first the shelves were loaded up with random encyclopedia sets and a few hand-me-down paperbacks along with the complete works of Camus and Salinger. Modest beginnings, for sure, but I needed more trophies. Now, some twenty years later, I estimate our basement shelves store roughly a thousand books (give or take a few hundred – I’m not a mathematician); and this after many years of purging, albeit begrudgingly, random Norton Anthologies and French textbooks. By some standards, this is a small library – for others it’s an exorbitant amount of “lost space” and perhaps the reason my wife has jokingly (used loosely) placed a moratorium on any more books coming into the house, even though she herself is an avid reader. Ironically, one of the books on those shelves is Umberto Eco’s How to Travel with a Salmon & Other Essays which contains a short piece titled: “How to Justify a Private Library.” Albeit for slightly different reasons, I felt a kinship to Eco’s essay in that he attempts to justify his large amount of books which “actually… takes up the whole [house].” Although we (my wife and I) are not nearly at that stage of consumption, I do fear that without her regulations on books coming and going, I might well fall into this category. Eco’s humor in this short essay falls on a familiar question for those who own a relatively substantial collection of books, or private library: “What a lot of books! Have you read them all?” Eco despises the banality of such a question and reminds his readers that bookshelves are less a trophy case and more so a work-in-progress. So too, folks ask me all the time upon entering our house if I have read all that lies before them. Perhaps I’ll keep numerous copies of Eco’s essay on hand as my less than tactful response. Yet, the idea of a private library got me thinking about my own collecting; my own reading. I tend to fall in the category of scavenger – buying, collecting, and eventually reading tid-bits from this book, others from that one, and so on. Rarely do I have one book in front of me at one particular moment. Nor do I finish many that I start. For me, reading is research and that research requires a mass amount of sources, thus the justification for all my books. For example, I can’t read Shakespeare without Harold C. Goddard’s The Meaning of Shakespeare by my side. Nor can the early American classics be entirely appreciated without D.H. Lawrence’s Studies in Classic American Literature. And what about the piece by Emerson that leads me to the bit by Thoreau that sends me back to Carlyle (and where do Hawthorne and Melville fit into all of this)? My reading thus becomes convoluted – yet systematic in its own way – my own quest for interpretation and literary satisfaction. For someone like my wife, however, who looks on with a single novel placed gently in her lap, I represent something crazed and diabolical, even: what unholy demon has entered my husband and transformed him? is her likely expression.

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Reading, of course, is a solitary art. And in our solitude we make different meanings, foster disparate emotions, cater to our various semiotic whims. Some read for knowledge (how might I fill this bucket with water), others read for entertainment (a means to escape or unwind or relax), and so forth. For me, it’s never enough to read one thing (or a few things even) whereas my wife is content with her dozen or so books of which she reads over and over again. For her, they are a comfort and a means to escape the daily realities of job, child, traffic, etc. So how many books does one need? A similar question was asked by Tolstoy about land and his response was no more than six-feet for one’s grave. On that theme, do we forfeit everything for the lust and grandeur of reading so much, as Tolstoy might suggest? Or even still: is it better to read vast quantities or rather to have known a few books intimately when we come to our final rest? In essence, how many trophies should we stack on our shelves? I’m both guilty of collecting a massive amount of texts; but, I also feel safe in acknowledging that I know a handful of books quite intimately. As with everything, is balance our justifiable answer? Umberto Eco’s response to the banal “have you read all these books” question seems most fitting here. In a household filled from floor to ceiling with books, he simply replies to the simpletons with this: “No, these are the ones I have to read by the end of the month. I keep the others in my office.”

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Pan Nathan Smith, Class of 2015

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The Sherriff Paul Passafiume and Joseph Souvannarath, Class of 2017

It was a hot dry day, and everyone was in the saloon, When into the bar walked a gang of goons, They asked for some drinks before they go, But the old bartender said heck no! He said they had to pay for the drinks from last time, And if they didn't they couldn't have any of his wine. The goons became angry and started to yell, Then out of the blue one of them fell. In walked the sheriff of the town, You could tell he wasn't messing around. He used a bottle to hit the goon, because he was acting like a baboon. The sheriff marched the rest outside, Except for one who tried to hide. The sheriff saw him and shot his gun out of his hand. Then the goon yelled "Ow watch out man!" One of the goons was a Spanish bandito, Who reached for a gun that was actually a burrito. The bandito said "¿estas loco?" The sheriff replied "si un poco" The leader of the gang challenged him to a duel, And the sheriff said "ok that sounds cool." They lined up to fight in the middle of town, When a tumbleweed started blowing up and down. They waited for the clock tower to strike noon, While everyone watched safely in the saloon. The clock struck twelve and the two guns were shot, The barrels were smoking and the metal was hot. When the smoke cleared the goon was on the ground, and the sheriff was cheered by the town. The sheriff blew the smoke from his gun, And let the other goons run. He knew they'd never step foot in this town again, Because now they know good guys always win.

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Buffalo Soldier Joseph Souvannarath, Class of 2017

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The Truest Form of Currency Dominic Biffignani, Class of 2015

An inspiration that inspires; A retiree that retires; A writer who writes; A cheater who cheats; And a reciter who recites; These are the things that will consequently be brought forth all right; Of the eloquent and masterful apparitions, That make the decisions of this life. When I write, I write not to please But to tease the fellows that follow my thoughts; And after a while are brought; Not to some apropos celebration; But the trials and tribulations; That consume every one of us; As human beings. We are all called one way or another; To be the miller, the jester, and the pesterer; What if I told you for a moment that this perceived notion of purpose; was in fact the work of one clear message; The message that makes a writer write; A professor profess; A pesterer pest; And a jester jest Optimism dear reader; Is the truest form of currency in the world; Like true power it can make you, and like true evil it can change you. So, Just like the professor professes; And the jester jests; And the pester pests', Find Contentment in Life.