i would rather - Private School · Juliana Fagan Walnut Ink The Herd 55 ... —Jack London, “Credo” (1902) “Komentaja,” Gouache by Sophie Gomez (11) 6 I Would Rather The Walrus

The Walrus 1

i would rather...

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

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?

2 I Would Rather The Walrus 3

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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-Ed-dy or a literary magazine staff member through email. Digital submissions are preferred and sent to [email protected] along with a sub-mission form. All digital photographs and art-work 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 spell-ing problems, while other submissions may be returned to the author for other requested cor-rections.

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Alex Flaherty Collage and Watercolor Electric Bulb CoverNancy Lee Archer Digital Photograph Fountain of Youth 3Sophie Gomez Gouache The Komentaja 4-5Trey Maurer Poem Unanimity 6Alex Sugg Gouache and Pen In Your Hands 6-7Julianna Fagan Walnut Ink Jason 8Bean Rodriguez Personal Essay Joe Rodriguez 9Helen Shaper Graphite Mr. Fay 9Tommy Cochran Digital Photograph Reflections 10-11Olivia Nastala Poem Tarnished Love 11Annie Atwell Collage Road Map 12Jasmine Lui-Zarzuela Personal Narrative From Two, to 12-14 One, to None Gabby Feuillet Color Pencil & Watercolor Crystal Lettuce 14 Acrylic Vital 15John Gurian Poem Home 15Rachel Brown Acrylic Rebirth 16-17Paige Livingston Lopez Poem The Water’s Edge 17Audrey Blow Short Story Food: A Friend or 18 An Enemy Gabby Feuillet Pen Emma 18Colleen Campbell Watercolor Mother 19John Gurian Poem Screaming at 19 MyselfRachel Brown Charcoal Preserving 20 Innocence Madeline Miller Short Story Night One 21Bennett Word Ink & Collage Enjoy A 22 Bitter EndOlivia Nastala Short Story Coughing Clouds 23Bennett Word Pen Smog Gets in Your Eyes 23Alicia Amberson Oil Pastel and Ink Uninhibited 24Cita Atwell and Poem Leech 24Seis Steves Audrey Blow Poem The Killer 25Marian Hill Digital Photograph Urban Borealis 26-27Emma Davis Poem Trapped 27Julia Medellin Hockney Photo Collage Reconstructing 28-29Austin Garcia Poem The Tin 29 Soldier’s War Austin Blackwell Digital Photograph Angel 30Jacob Miller Short Story Judgement Day 31-32Alex Pfirrmann Collage Modern Malice 32Paige LivingstonLopez Short Story The Last Eve in 33 the Garden of EdenAlexandra Flaherty Digital Photograph Sewn Apple 33Paige Livingston Lopez Poem Around the Clock 34 Diego Carrisalez Digital Photograph Iron Chandelier 35Alexia Salingaros Screenplay Lady of Paint Creek 36-37Sophia Salingaros Poem within Screenplay Lady of Paint Creek 36-37Tommy Cochran Digital Photograph Inner Tears 38Audrey Blow Poem Whirl of 39 Dissatisfaction

Madeline Miller Poem Melancholy 40 MetamorphosisDiego Carrisalez Digital Photograph Carroion Flower 40-41Rachel Brown Graphite & Charcoal Weeping Spirit 41Jacob Miller Haikus 42 Poem Presence 42Blair Robinson Watercolor & Ink Bipolar 43Reagan Naylor Personal Narrative Snake Charming 44-46Tommy Cochran Digital Photograph Headlights 45Margaret Shupbach Digital Photograph Pipe Wall 46 Katrina Arthur Digital Photograph Catch 47Tyler Kozma Personal Narrative Visitation Hours 48-50Kathryn Vance Digital Photograph The Floating Door 49Julia Medellin Digital Photograph Controlled Creatures 50-51Dyana Martinez Poem One Thousand 51 Two Hundred NinetyNancy Lee Archer Hockney Photo Collage Abby at the Creek 52-53Cole Patterson Poem Clouds 52Emma Davis Poem A Summit’s Cycle 53Isaac Goldstone Personal Essay The Farm 54-55Juliana Fagan Walnut Ink The Herd 55Lauren Bynum Watercolor and Gouache Watching 56Kathryn Vance Kaleidoscope Photograph Pelicans 56Marian Hill Digital Photography Broken Woman 56

The Walrus 5

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)

“Komentaja,” Gouache by Sophie Gomez (11)


UnanimityWe are born to follow the pathStraight and narrowAll the sameBowling hats and trench coats

Everywhere I lookI see billboards of expectationsSignsTelling us which way to turn

I see the same storyIn every eye that meets mineFalse ideals of happinessBlinded by lies

A change must be madeWe begin to watch Take in what is around Take a chance

TogetherWe will not be denied

A Poem by Trey Maurer (12)

“In Your Hands,” Gouache and Pen, Alex Sugg (10)


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 op-portunity 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 bedrid-den. 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 uncondi-tionally, 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 bed-side, 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 grand-mother 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

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 re-cipient 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. Be-cause of him, I have learned to love unconditionally. No matter the decisions of the people I love, I will al-ways forgive and do everything in my power to protect the happiness in their lives.

Joe RodriguezA Personal Essay by Bean Rodriguez (12)

“Jason,” Walnut Ink, Juliana Fagan (12)

“Mr. Fay,” Charcoal, Helen Shaper (12)


Rain runs down Slanted shingles

First slowRestrained

The pace increasesFilling the bronze trough

It’s not enoughIt’s never enough

Slowly leaking into the gardenYour affection Drawn astray

Rushing down the narrow pipe to meetFlowers greedy for nourishment

You leave stains along the bone-dry basin

I am left emptyThe rusting green gutter

Deepens in shade with every downpour

Tarnished Love A Poem by Olivia Nastala (12)

“Reflections,” Digital Photograph, Tommy Cochran (12)


December 27, 2004. Excitement embraces me from the tips of my tiny toes to the top of my tiny head as I wave good-bye to my house for the upcoming few days. Eleven hours separate me from my home town of San Antonio. I am in Al-buquerque, 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 ex-amine 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 com-prehend 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 erupt-ing thunderstorm. His grip exudes strength, and terror over-whelms 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 aggres-sive 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 fam-ily” 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 consider-ation 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 bed-rooms. 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 challeng-ing 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 re-mained 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 en-thusiasm to become part of the family; however, their in-ability 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, steal-ing my mother’s affection because, in my mind, my mother should not have loved anyone else other than her true fam-ily: 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 ini-tial love before the divorce, thinking, how could my par-ents 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

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A Personal Essay by Jasmine Lui-Zarzeula (12)

Story continued on page 14

“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.”


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 atten-tion 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 Anto-nio, 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. How-ever, 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

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, accep-tance. 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 ap-preciate adversity, a daughter who realized her parents’ love for her would remain unchanged, and a person who forgave the aftermath of love.

The only peace I’ve ever known,Is the only chaos I’ve been shown.

Sound waves bounce off the wallsFrom screams and shouts, tears and scars.

Black and blue from the brawlsIn 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.

HomeA Poem by John Gurian (12)

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“Rebirth,” Acrylic, Rachel Brown (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.

The Water’s EdgeInspired by William Waterhouse’s “The Tempest”

A Poem by Paige Livingston Lopez (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 constant ticking of the clock, mixed with the odors radiating off the four people thatfill the compact room causes my right foot to tap continuous-ly. “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 Iasked?” I pull the neatly folded piece of notebook paper out of the back pocket of my denimjeans. I unfold it piece by piece until I clearly read the words on the page: FOOD DIARY. I handover 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.”

“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 rapidlyrecords 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 anexercise. It won’t take long.” “Can I leave after we are done?” I pant as the nerves cause sweat to pool on my glossyforehead. “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. Ipause in front of the reflective object and my insides clench. “Well? What do you see?” sheprods. Grabbing hold of the sides of my stomach and the inner part of my thigh, I whisper, “Isee this.”

Food: A Friend or An Enemy? A Short Story by Audrey Blow (12)

Screaming at MyselfA Poem by John Gurian (12)

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“Emma,” Pen, Gabby Feuillet (11)

“Fine, we will address the bigger issue. How do you think you look?”

A I Would Rather The Walrus 2120 I Would Rather

The dinner table has never been this quiet and life-less. 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. Emp-tiness and silence drowns the kitchen. My baby sister stares mindlessly at her plate. “Honey, you have to understand that whatever hap-pens, 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

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 through-out 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 recog-nize 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 under-neath 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.

Night OneA 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?”

“Preserving Innocence,” Charcoal, Rachel Brown (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 con-tinued to stare into the white once again. The view was dif-ferent 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 surround-ing furniture. They made their way in, passed the windows swiftly, patted her on the head, and climbed the stairs. Si-lence 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

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 encoun-tered. 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.

Coughing CloudsA Short Story by Olivia Nastala (12)

“Enjoy a Bitter End,” Ink & Collage, Bennett Word (12)

“The snow did not fall like she was used to; it blew past the door in clouds coughing grey

into the white flakes.”

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Stress is like a leech, Latching on and refusing to let go,Sucking the life force from within youPlump with the utter contempt of its hostConstantly working up its appetite, Always hungry, Always hunting, Always there.

LeechA Poem by Cita Atwell (11) and Sies Steves (12)

The way his eyes illuminate Glow of the burnHow the paper dances Touch of the hot flameAroma lingersControl lost in a sea of addiction

Her nose cringes Smoke replaces fresh pinesDoubt crosses her mindApprehensionWeaknessShe cannot choose Control lost in a sea of passion

His hold over her beating pulseThe pull between themFlicking away the desire to changeThe things they cannot control

The KillerA Poem by Audrey Blow (12)

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26 I Would Rather The Walrus 27“Urban Borialis,” Digital Photograph, Marian Hill (11)

Haunted air frigidly blows Wilted blades of grass rustle

Flooded with a sense of despairThe sedated prairie is dying

Time slowly clutches the grassIn its suffocating grip

The landscape silently perishes

She doesn’t have this luxuryTime won’t allow her to die

Death mockingly dangles in front of herForcing her to watch as her surroundings age

Windows crack and shatterShingles fall from the roof

Walls fade to ashBeams collapseCenturies pass

TrappedA Poem by Emma Davis (12)


“Reconstructing,” Hockney Photo Collage, Julia Medellin (12)

A battle laid out on the living room floorRally cries rise as red passions roarForward still, the masses advance

Urged on till death by unbloodied handsFoul forces deployed by day and by night

Shadows of death cloaked by patriotic lightOne 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 heartOn grey turf where the twice dead now huddle

Lay the remains of a childish struggleTin soldiers them all, but pawns to folly’s prey

One man laid down, for another man’s gain

The Tin Soldier’s War

A Poem by Austin Garcia (12)

A I Would Rather The Walrus 31

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12)

“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 abra-sive 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, ir-ritation, 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 eu-phemisms. 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 de-cide where you go; it is that simple. I will only ask you four questions. Also, this binder contains information over ev-erything 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.”

Judgment DayA Short Story by Jacob Miller (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 The Walrus 33

“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.”

Story continued from page 31 “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!

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.”

“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 uncal-loused, reached to pluck the delicacy from its limb. Connec-tions 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 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 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 Last Eve in the Garden of EdenA 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.”

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,” D

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“Modern Malice,” Collage, Alex Pfirrman (12)


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 capriciousmind 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 clockwith steady rotation?

Arou

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“Iron Chandelier,” Digital Photograph, Diego Carrisalez (10)


FROM BLACK

EXT. River 1 – DAY

A woman is rowing herself down a smooth lake in the bright-est 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 ap-pearance and movements, has snuck away. She finds the en-trance to a dusty library and creeps in, guiding her figure by the light of a flickering candle. Her curiosity leads her to pe-ruse 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

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.

EXT. Log Cabin – 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.

EXT. Forest – 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.

EXT. Log Cabin – DAY

Suddenly, the girl runs up to the house and bursts in. The

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 an-other. 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 young woman settles herself on some rock for the night.

INT. Stables – DAY

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. Grassy Fields – DAY

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. 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 pad-dles 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 landWhere meadows sing and blossoms canAlight their wings there lived a maidenFairer faced than all the havenBut this girl of golden hairWith eyes two sparkling jewels a pairHad but one burning sole desireTo meet the Prince, to call him sireAnd lend her heart to be his wifeAs he would lend her his for lifeBut yet this prince of royal girthDid scorn her for her lowly birthCondemned for such audacityOur maiden to the gallows fleesBehold upon her final breathA curse she did henceforth confessUpon all those like her who fleeThe conforms of societyA punishment she did befallUpon 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 ca-noe, leaving the girl alone and continuing on with their lives.

Lady of Paint Creek A Screenplay by Alexia Salingaros (11)

A Poem by Sophia Salingaros (12)

The stills are taken from the film Lady of Paint Creek star-ring Rachel Brown as the lost girl and Becca Brown, Jas-mine 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.


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, leav-ing 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.

“Inn

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ears

,” D

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(12)

Part 1: The eyes she claimed too small

The lips compared to a fishThe hair lacking illumination

Picking apart every inchBlinded by disgust

Deconstructing her reflection

One by oneEach piece straysDestroying herConsuming her

Whirl of Dissatisfacation A Poem by Audrey Blow (12)


Melancholy MetamorphosisA Poem by Madeline Miller (12)

"Last one" I whisperEntangled in his cocoon

Intertwined in cloths of silk Scents of lust overtake our nest

A tear falls and shatters the pillowAs though it is my heart

Breathing heavily he winds me inWoven 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)

42 I Would Rather The Walrus 43“Bipolar,” Watercolor & Ink, Blair Robinson (12)

Sun beats downEnergy all-consuming

Light overwhelmsShiningBlinding

Heat nearly unbearable

Fire blazes upFlames whip into the skyConsume the wood below

With more wood the fire grows Bigger

Stronger Heat nearly unbearable

You gaze forwardEyes contemplate

Looking for answersI grow redShaking Nervous

Heat nearly unbearable

Presence A Poem by Jacob Miller (12)

1.Light conquers darkness

Light and dark create shadows Hope Despair mixing

2.This is paradox

Light causes the dark shadow The shadow of death

Haikus Haikus by Jacob Miller (12)

“Weeping Spirit,” Graphite & Charcoal, Rachel Brown (12)


My eyes explore the quirks that adorn the stranger’s of-fice, his three-legged desk chair, cowboy-themed memora-bilia, 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 fur-niture, 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 in-forms 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 dis-traction for the sake of rebellion. Hollow demands for as-signments 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 jar-gon that held no sway, words to glorify an inequality where there was not one, painting victims, and detaching my sect

of individuals, whose personalities are too different from the average human. Despite my anger towards those who defined me as a mar-tyr in the war on negligence, my anger ironically illustrated my slothful disdain. I realized my delusion of apathetic su-premacy; nothing backed my ideas but my lackadaisical at-titude 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 sav-ior, 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 fo-cus. 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 ini-tiate 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, pro-voking 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

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 Ad-derall’s odd effects on my person. Halfway between the moment where my mind craves pro-ductivity 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 ex-plore 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 entro-pic embrace that clarifies a clouded psyche. Despite my ser-pent conscience lashing at diversion, this natural curiosity disregards rational qualms and manufactured priorities; no

amount of venom can quell this listless rebellion, for wheth-er 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 re-placed 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 allot-ted myself a split-second to believe their ideas of my trans-formation, 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-

Snake CharmingA Personal Narrative by Reagan Naylor (11)


“The light orange capsule, while charming, is not what I imagined salvation would appear. Big things come in small packages.”

“Hea

dlig

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Dig

ital P

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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 or-ange 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 per-son 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 biochemis-try. My parents and the psychiatrist, now my psychiatrist,

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 re-placed 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 struc-ture, 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 ag-ony 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 to-gether, gaining the grades in return; our schedules adapted so that we took on the burden together. By taking stimu-lants 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

learned our names and usual orders, the meals to offset a day’s toxins. Our usual lighthearted banter was silenced by my press-ing conscience. “What are your thoughts on the medicine? How do you feel when you’re on it?” I ask Jared after sev-eral months of adjustment on my end. Jared seldom takes his medicine; even on a school day, he views the pill a last re-sort. His words disconnect from his actions, though, to pre-serve 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 encapsu-late 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 re-sponsibility 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 non-sense 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 ser-pent. 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.

Story continued from page 45

“Pip

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“Catch,” Digital Photograph, Katrina Arthur (12)


On the night of my eight grade bac-calaureate dinner, celebrating the end of my middle school days, my family received a call telling them that an am-bulance had rushed my eighteen-year-old 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 strength-ened 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 lav-ished. 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

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 be-cause 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 nega-tive. 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 signifi-cant danger was a knife constantly bor-ing into my skin, turning and making me writhe with the feeling of uncom-fortable melancholy seeping through my veins. After the years of poor treat-ment 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 grudg-ingly 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. Timo-thy’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 vis-its 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 feel-ing of remorse that I can never escape. After the surgery that removed Timo-thy’s colon and permanently restricted him to specific dietary needs coupled with an exterior excrement bag, the vis-itations from most of the family prac-tically 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 sys-tem. 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 condi-tion 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 abil-ity to walk, to carry objects, to dress himself, and numerous other seem-ingly 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 worry-ing about him, and I began to consider the possibility that Tim had fully recov-ered. Then Hope came. Hope was Timothy’s first true love. She moved from Fort Worth to Cotulla and married Tim three days after show-ing up. I immediately recognized that she was using Timothy, because she brought along a three-year-old child previously unheard of and was steal-ing Tim’s money. Timothy’s obsession with this woman caused him to lose any contact he had left with his remain-ing 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 vul-nerable we had left him after ceasing to visit. I blamed this state of defenseless-ness 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 be-hind 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, manipula-tive 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 suscep-tible 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 proper-ly, and unable to control the movements of his limbs. I have an immeasurable

Visitation Hours A Personal Narrative by Tyler Kozma (12)


amount of respect for him because I know that if I had been in the same sit-uations 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 be-lieved 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 Sisyph-us, 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 be-ing the embodiment of true evil, and

“The Floating Door,” Digital Photograph, Kathryn Vance (11)

“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.”


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.

One Thousand Two Hundred NinetyA Poem by Dyana Martinez (11)

“Controlled Creatures,” Digital Photograph, Julia Medellin (12)

Story continued from page 49 Timothy being the quintessence of the values of perseverance and optimism. I reflect on how I acted before these inci-dents 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 manipula-tive 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 ev-erything 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, charac-teristics 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 suf-fered a fatal combination of severe kid-ney and heart failure; along with potas-sium levels so high his blood became entirely septic. My mother and I ar-rived 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, al-leviated of the pain and suffering that his life had become. At Timothy’s me-morial service the following Friday, the small run down church in Cotulla, Tex-as was inundated by people coming to celebrate the life that my cousin Timo-thy had led. The service affirmed to me that the perseverance and determina-tion 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 obliga-tion.


Hollow echoes bounce from rock to rockRemnants of my voice

Funneled downTo whispers

Soaring from the peaks of towering evergreensEvery animal’s call originates clearly

Until it is absorbedMuted by the mud

Footprints are etched into the rocky trailsUntil the gentle rain pitter-patters

Washing the ground Into a clean slate

A Summit’s CycleA Poem by Emma Davis (12)

Upon the distant mountainThe battle cry is heard

A loud and windswept callingWithout a single word

The great beasts appearSilent, large, ominous, white

They hold their position for only a momentBefore descending

Creeping, shuffling, sliding down the mountainWithout making a sound

Approaching the green valley beneath themCreeping, creeping, down, down

The mother appearsEnormous, blocking out the sky

Hovering over the mountain and valleySilently observing

Above the distant mountain wideThe mother’s call to her children is heard

A low, mournful howl of a hound Beckoning her children without a word

The clouds dissipate into the breeze

CloudsA Poem by Cole Patterson (11)

“Abby at the Creek,” Hockney Photo Collage, Nancy Lee Archer (11)

54 I Would Rather

The Walrus 55

“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 my-self 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 to-day, 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 fanta-sy that encompassed my five-year-old view of our ranch has dissipated, leaving me now, as a teenager, with a dishearten-ing 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-feet-tall, 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 creak-ing 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 ac-companied us to the farm, we would quickly start a game of

hide-and-go-seek around the house. I, the prodigal hide-and-go-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 sec-onds 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, sprawl-ing 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, dur-ing 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 ad-venture 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

myself on top of the sagging trampoline. Every once and a while, my blind exploration led me to a patch of chalky lime-stone, 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 insu-lation 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

venison jerky at the house, refusing to think twice about Bambi or his mother. The property no longer seems so infi-nite. 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 tram-poline is a sore sight of plastic in the middle of an otherwise rustic and beautiful area. My castle of limestone sits unin-habited; 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 worn-down 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 FarmA Personal Essay by Isaac Goldstone (9)

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56 I Would Rather

The 2015 Literary Magazine is Dedicated to

Senior Editors: Olivia Nastala & Seis StevesCopy Editors: Jacob Miller & Paige Livingston LopezEditorial 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

Christian Cicoriawho inpires each student’s spark to burn brighter through his love of

teaching and appreciation for the English language.

Staff:

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, fac-ulty, 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 num-bers 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. Equip-ment 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

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Documents

i would rather - Private School · Juliana Fagan Walnut Ink The Herd 55 ... —Jack London, “Credo” (1902) “Komentaja,” Gouache by Sophie Gomez (11) 6 I Would Rather The Walrus