blam 2010

full.connection

4701 N. Central AvenuePhoenix, AZ 85012

602.264.5291www.brophyprep.org

table.of.contents

visual.art:

On the “Love you Robb” by Parker Middleton ’10Inside Cover

1 “Iguazú Falls” by Tommy Williams ’112 “One Step at a Time” by Nick Giancola ’124 “Just Breathe” by Kevin Murney ’105 “K103” by Kevin Marusiak ’107 A photo by William Martin ’128 A prismacolor by Luis Mattei ’109 “What’s Good Burg?” by Kevin Marusiak ’1011 “COFFEE” by Dalton Reed ’1112 “Water for Life” by Hunter Churchill ’1213 A photo by Wade Hoyt ’1215 “Life” by Hunter Smith ’1116 “G!ng3r Kidz” by Andrew Ahearne ’1117 A photo by James Matwijkow ’1018 “Sunny Days” by Nick Giancola ’12 19 “Cityscape” by Dalton Reed ’1121 “Other Portraits” by Connor Shores ’1222 “Vacation” by Trey Petznik ’1123 “Contact” by Andrew Ahearne ’1124 “Touch” by Sean Harris ’1125 “Single Engine” by Ryan Hickey ’1129 “Time’s-A-Wastin’” by Colin Prenger ’1130 “Concentrate” by Adam O’Connor ’1231 “Sadness” by Graham Smith ’1033 An oil stick painting by Luis Mattei ’1034 “Freedom” by Esteban Obregon ’1135 A reduction print by Will Marston ’1038 An oil stick painting by Gus Quinif ’1240 “Who’s There?” by Parker Middleton ’1041 “Slavery” by Nic Espinosa ’11 & Chris Rosales ’11

poetry:

3 “The Reality” by Greg Ali ’125 “Leader’s Heir” by Sam Smith ’117 “As the Sullen Engines Swing” by Liam Martin ’108 “Secrets” by Chris Rosales ’1110 “Oh Glorious Burger” by Will Marston ’1010 “Surrey Hill” by Jordan Brewer ’1011 “Goodbye, My Friend” by Ulises Araiza ’1111 “The Wall” by Matt Gerveler ’1314 “A Light in the Darkness” by Trevor Laity ’1315 “Life” by Andrew Grossnickle ’1316 “Mutual” by Julian De Ocampo ’1317 “Counting Down the Days” by Edmund Hubbard ’1018 “My Grass Roots” by Adam Fishman ’10

editors’.noteThe 2009-2010 school year brought Brophy into a new era of collaboration: a full connection. This relationship between the student body and its newfound technol-ogy has driven us to a level of connectivity that is completely wireless across campus. Now every student possesses his very own tablet, his own wireless connection to each other, his teachers, and the Web. This theme has gripped BLAM, and we have worked hard to represent this school-wide connection for our 2010 issue.

The year that brought us that full connection has been a busy one. The fine arts com-munity represented in this publication enjoyed the very successful Fine Arts Extrava-ganza and the opening of the Brophy Art Gallery in Romley Hall. Arranged by your classmates for the Brophy community to enjoy, the sixty-six works presented here showcase the best of what you, the student body, have submitted. But this publication would never have made it into your hands without the help of some genius people. To Austin Ensor and Enzo Galicia, we owe gratitude for their astounding graphic design skills. For the rest of the BLAM staff, thank you for your dedication. And finally our faculty moderators deserve our thanks: Mr. Damaso, Mr. Unrein, and Mr. Middlemist. Editors-in-chief:Michael Notestine 2011Jeramy Moschonas 2011

fiction:

1 “Second Chance” by Brad Lowe ’122 “Up Chuck” by Travis Fidel ’1012 “Death” by James McElwee ’1027 “A Tortured Man” by Mark Dolinar ’1027 “Four Cripples and a Talking Head” by Alex Pearl ’1027 “A Bee’s Dream” by Chase Henry ’1028 “Restless” by Luis Saucedo ’1028 “The Reason” by Austin Tucker ’1128 “Steel Sweet Home” by Jean-Luc Cavnar-Lewandowski ’1029 “Testing Time” by Eddie Chavez ’1031 “The Accident” by Anthony Carli ’1037-39 “Life With Bethany” by Nicholas Longo ’10

20 “On the Streets” by Jonathan Londono ’1021 “Ode to my Ghetto Blaster” by Cooper Davis ’1022 “The Beauty of a Rose” by Emmanuel Rodriguez ’1223 “Dysfunctional Repetition” by Gary Williams ’1124 “The Happiness Machine” by Liam Martin ’1026 “The Young” by Ross Kloeber ’1033 “Mother Knows Where the Hurt is” by John Borst ’1134 “A Short Poem about Faith” by Brad Lowe ’1234 “My Journey of Fate” by Jerasimos Moschonas ’1136 “Running” by Matthew Xuereb ’1041 “This or Nothing” by Jeff Romine ’10

essay:

41 “They Just Do It” by Keith Bender ’11

“Iguazú Falls” by Tommy Williams

Up

We’re entering our 17th day of hiding; the cave grows smaller with each day. But for the first time in a long time, my head is

clear. I can think about things. Some things, I don’t want to think about. My senses are strong. Living in the dark has given me a keen sense of hearing and smell. The rocks in the cave are smooth. I feel them every day. Father and I scarcely talk anymore. He still blames me for what happened. The only sounds that permeate the cave are droplets of water seeping through leaks. I almost look forward to these. Something other than just the footsteps of father and I is a nice change of pace. We can manage to find food in the cave; it’s bitter, but we eat it. We have to, if we want to stay alive. I miss people. Back in New York, I kept to myself as much as possible. Avoided eye-contact. Pretended like I didn’t see the homeless man on the corner. Now I would give anything to talk to him. I miss my dog. When I came home, he would always jump on me and start licking me. I felt loved. They say you never realize what you have until it’s gone; too bad you never really appreciate that statement until it really happens to you. Everything is gone.

It’s now the 18th day. Father and I are beginning to talk again. I had forgotten how deep his voice was. It was weak though. There was pain in it. He talked about leaving the cave. I would like nothing more, but I know we must stay here longer.

On our 30th day we left the cave. The light was blinding, I felt like it breathed new life into me. The officer took off our handcuffs; I was ready to start my new life. We were in jail, we were criminals. Everyone deserves a second chance.


Second ChanceSecondChanceSecond Chance by Brad Lowe


Up


Bonnie looks like an angel on that swingset. Her legs pump and push-textbook form. Her bright white dress repels the dust that fills the

air. Everything and everyone around her are nothing but a fast-motioned blur. There she is, innocently smiling with her short blond hair blowing more and more as she increases speed. I watch and am just as frozen as the red popsicle I am eating. Kids whiz by and kick up sand left and right. It lurks in my size 4 shoes, filling my socks and finding a new home between my toes. A soccer ball hits me in the back and bounces me back to reality and out of the love trance I was just in.

She is my first crush, and not once have I told her how much I like her. Goosebumps sprout on my arms and legs as the very thought of that moment plays in my mind. Today is the day. I have waited long enough and I need to let these feelings of mine out. I throw down my popsicle stick and start walking over to

the empty swing seat next to her. It’s now or never. I hop on and eventually work my way up to her exact same speed. I can’t help but smile. “Hey, Charlie, let’s jump off on 3! 1-2-3!” We land in perfect harmony. As the sand is now overflowing out of my shoes, I look over at Bonnie, and she looks back at me. “Bonnie…I…I-bloooah!” “AHHHH!” It turns out her pretty white dress does not repel everything. The popsicle that I have just eaten finds its way to her new bright red dress. I am “Up Chuck.”

Chu kcby Travis Fidel

“One Step at a Time” by Nick Giancola

The drooping,

It sags and hangs, holding on,

for the wish of a thread to cover the excess,

the demeanor sags as well,

no longer looking for hope,

which should have arrived so long ago

the dripping,

fluids: crawling, slipping down the terrain of a frown,

the imaginary sounds of the solitary tear,

Eventually fighting, thrashing to find its way back to the mouth,

for the façade of a moments relief for the parched aperture,

the dragging,

the bricks of mud colored feet scratch the ground,

the gasp of a breath to make the strength,

the strength to take just one more step,

the strength to move a body whose soul had died a long time ago,

the drought,

the lack of life, the lack of flow,

the dead gaze of a villain who had committed no crime,

he, who is innocent of a crime he could only wish he had not committed,

hates the culture and soul of himself,

as well as all that surrounds him,

the dropping,

the letting go,

have memories fall,

taking all sanity with them,

the heart takes a dive,

setting in the confines of an empty stomach,

it sits in the bubbling acids,

waiting to be risen again,

the drawn,

the drawn sheet,

the cold, gaunt face,

of the dead and the living,

they wonder not,

they care not,

but most of all,

they understand not the extent of the pain,

the drink,

the drink I take,

the condemning sip I steal,

while I watch the faceless, nameless, number,

flash across the tv screen,

if such an honor was given,

I feel the emptiness,

The painless cry,

From a wound too numb to heal,

Yet my actions are limited,

Numbered to the few dollars dropped in an envelope,

The reality.

“Just Breathe” by Kevin Murney “Just Breathe” by Kevin Murney

ealityRthe

by Greg Ali

Back has to be heavier on myself.His snowy beard as white as ever. This is my chance to strike.His back is toward me I raise my weapon, “Father.”He faces me with eyes that test my spine. The cool beads run down my face.I send my complete armada of intelligence. With swift power, we evenly match each other.He examines if my heart is that of a captain.His sly undefeatable ways challenge me.O Captain, No Captain. In an instance the silver hair is cut.His era finally laid to rest.My father was called to his fathersHis gift to the world was my examenAnd expecting nothing less than leadership.My skin is thick and rough. My scars are evidence of my strength And many years of colossal goals.However, these are hidden by the shadowOf my intimidating, yet fair and loving, smileGiven to me by my father.

Leader’s

by Sam Smith

I have fought with my rockbound father Since I could raise my sword,But my boyishness Has been my Moby whale.If I am to be the heir I must slay the old régime. My father, I care for and he I. He is the pillar of society.The crowds will part at the sight of his Intimidating, yet fair and loving, smirk. When I was novice to the world, My leader’s wise whisper set the laws Of this the life boat that he has allowed me to occupy, “You can only duel fairly.”This was contrary to our battles. He would always defeat me through Dishonest conquering of his single son. Even his despicable foes would beTreated with equitable and powerful swiftness.This pillar is decaying; its rock bottom eroding.The cracks becoming harder to patch. As his rock dissolves, the rock on my

Heir

“K103” by Kevin Marusiak

Back has to be heavier on myself.His snowy beard as white as ever. This is my chance to strike.His back is toward me I raise my weapon, “Father.”He faces me with eyes that test my spine. The cool beads run down my face.I send my complete armada of intelligence. With swift power, we evenly match each other.He examines if my heart is that of a captain.His sly undefeatable ways challenge me.O Captain, No Captain. In an instance the silver hair is cut.His era finally laid to rest.My father was called to his fathersHis gift to the world was my examenAnd expecting nothing less than leadership.My skin is thick and rough. My scars are evidence of my strength And many years of colossal goals.However, these are hidden by the shadowOf my intimidating, yet fair and loving, smileGiven to me by my father.

A photo by William Martin

How sad must be the scientist upon his throne of steel,How lonely must his worship be, the worship of the “real.”For when he comes to pray before the altar of his God,He only finds the elements with which the earth is shod.And when he looks up to the sun whence shines a piercing light,He only sees the wavelengths and the coming of the night. And when he cries his terror to the godforsaken skies,He is answered by a silence that is greater than his lies.

As The Sullen Engines by Liam Martin

SwingAs The Sullen Engines by Liam Martin

Sullen

A prismacolor by Luis Mattei

Lost in a dream-in a deep, conscious sleep. Dreaming secrets to share, dreaming secrets to keep. A new story to tell, a new story to fear. Full of silent shouting, full of loud tears. Drowning in chains, bound by shackles so fair. Dreaming a dream? Or a vivid nightmare? The dream was so sharp. The dream was so cold. With bright, dancing colors. With sounds, new and old. Sleeping to dream, or dreaming to sleep? Dreaming a nightmare, a secret to keep.

Secretsby Chris Rosales

SecretsecretsSecretsSSecretsSecretsecretsSecretsSecretsecretsSecretsSecretsecretsecretsSecretsSSecretsSecretsecretsecretsecretsecretsecretsecrets

ecrets

ecretsecrets

ecretsecretsecrets

ecretsecretsecretsecretsecretsecretsecretsecretsecrets

“What’s Good Burg?” by Kevin Marusiak

“What’s Good Burg?” by Kevin Marusiak

BurgerOh, Double-Double, cocaine of my inner lifeMountains of leafy greens and bulbous red fruit Two layers of savory juicy loinsSmelling of the perfect woman. Thy aroma tingles my nostrilsThis uncontrollable bliss Fills every inch of my addictionOh, Double-Double. Every day is glorified with your presenceFor you complete me. I wish I could cleanse my soul in your secret sauceAnd parade in your toppings. The world should some day knowCheese, lettuce, tomato, sauce, Onions, patties, potato bun,Oh Double-Double, I like being an addict.

by Will Marston

Oh

Glo

riou

s

SRU

LIHYERLby Jordan Brewer

C’mon Sandra, better smile than that Sun perfectly shiningSitting and gazing adoringlyA perfect spring day Your favorite brown jumperAvoiding glasses, trying to look pretty No matter to the photographer

Wind blowing through your disheveled hairBeaming, looking back at the cameraSitting on that Surrey hill, Living your days.

the

FriendGoodbye, My FriendGoodbye, My Friend

“COFFEE” by Dalton Reed

WALL Death

by Ulises Araiza

by Matt Gerveler

There is this thing that sleeps in my home,It will not convey nor act,

It just lies there in its slumber,And will not meander away.

Some say it is a guardian, or maybe just a sleeping giant,

And that it is there to safeguard you,It averts the evil of the world outside,

And lets you live in peace and quiet retreat.

But I have heard others speak of the evil it hides,For it will not let you out,

And if you do attempt to get out, it will just silently laugh,And I have heard the rumors that it may be the bars of your cell.

My soul can take no more.My heart is weak,My body frail,From your monstrous torture. When I tremble, when I shudder,I know you do not care.Why, God, have you given me this condemnation?I want to run away,I want to be free,But I am not yet strong enough to spread my wings.Neither sticks nor stones shall break my bones. From your throne up high,You claim to be ruler of all.You say you are the Messiah, the anointed one.But I say you are Beelzebub, Lord of Hell.

Oh! When will this end?Under you, my life is like a pebble:Small, useless, unimportant.No one cares for me in this Hell.

My soul can take no.

For too long I have endured your agitation,Your bloodcurdling fermentation.I am what you most deplore. Or so I thought.I knew no better;No one ever told me who you really were. I did not know you cared.You never showed any affection.Perhaps you never learned how to,Perhaps you felt it would make you weak. You monster, you atrocious, spineless charlatan;You thief, you conniving Son of Satan.If only I had realized you meant the best,I would not have been afraid. To you, great Lord of Hell, I say goodbye.To you, who made me cry, I say goodbye.To you, merchant of death, I say goodbye.To you, my greatest friend, I say goodbye. Goodbye.Goodbye.Goodbye I say to you.

I want to die. I don’t remember when exactly this feeling started, but my wish was about to be granted by whatever force controls our lives. I guess that’s what happens when you piss off drug dealers.

It started a lifetime ago, I was at a very prestigious art school, wanted to be an artist, change the world. What a joke. Drug use was fairly prevalent among us shut-in painters, sculptors, and photographers. I held out for a while, but ended up using the smaller stuff, sometimes doing some psychedelics with some people good at caricatures, now I know why.

Eventually, as they always say it will, I progressed into heavier drugs, cocaine mostly, heroin if I wanted to start a riot. Eventually I dropped out of college and bummed around for a while, selling old paintings and stealing new ones from my old school to make a quick buck.

It’s a terrible feeling ingesting more drugs than food for an entire week. After about two months I was thrown, forcibly, from my crappy little apartment complex. Hell, my habit was so bad that my meth-addicted land lord told me to get help.

Eventually my old school figured out that there wasn’t a magical art stealing fairy flying around and changed the locks, probably cost more than what I was stealing, one small comfort.

I was cut off, so like any other logical progression I took to stealing what I couldn’t buy.

Stealing from drug dealers, who was I kidding? My first attempt came out all right, just a few bruises. My second time went even better; I just snuck up on the guy while he was waiting for me.

Third, fourth, fifth all went well. I was getting overconfident. I never really thought about not using the same drug dealer, so, the cocky little shit that I was went back to the first guy I ever stole from.

He had smartened up and came prepared, saw it was me and shot me. Prick shot me right in the stomach.

Which brings us back to the present, where I am currently lying on the ground, bleeding, waiting to die. And realizing for the first time that I want to d—

“Water for Life” by Hunter Churchill

Deathby James McElwee

by Matt Gerveler

There is this thing that sleeps in my home,It will not convey nor act,

It just lies there in its slumber,And will not meander away.

Some say it is a guardian, or maybe just a sleeping giant,

And that it is there to safeguard you,It averts the evil of the world outside,

And lets you live in peace and quiet retreat.

But I have heard others speak of the evil it hides,For it will not let you out,

And if you do attempt to get out, it will just silently laugh,And I have heard the rumors that it may be the bars of your cell.

For too long I have endured your agitation,Your bloodcurdling fermentation.I am what you most deplore. Or so I thought.I knew no better;No one ever told me who you really were. I did not know you cared.You never showed any affection.Perhaps you never learned how to,Perhaps you felt it would make you weak. You monster, you atrocious, spineless charlatan;You thief, you conniving Son of Satan.If only I had realized you meant the best,I would not have been afraid. To you, great Lord of Hell, I say goodbye.To you, who made me cry, I say goodbye.To you, merchant of death, I say goodbye.To you, my greatest friend, I say goodbye. Goodbye.Goodbye.Goodbye I say to you.

A photo by Wade Hoyt

Darkness

inthe

A by Trevor Laity

ightLHello darkness, my old friend

I’ve come to ask for your help again I just don’t know about things anymore

It’s like in my heart there’s a growing warWhat do I say now? What should I do?

Should I let her back in, hoping she’ll love me true?Maybe love and joy can go arm in arm

Maybe third time, fourth time, fifth time’s the charmOr do I move on, shut her out, end it all before it starts

Should I pick up all the pieces of the mirror that’s my heart?I keep telling myself “It’s not that way,”

I want to believe the things she’ll sayBut how can I tell her I don’t know what to do?

Should I just flat out say, “I don’t want to be with you?”But that’s a lie, I can’t say that, I know it’s not true

Because to be honest, I still sort of doBut I know I shouldn’t, I know it’s not the best

To be with a girl who puts a hole in my chestThat hole, in the shape of a heart, I can feel

I’m doing all I can to get it to healBut the damage is done, she’s made her mark

Without her in my life, now it’s all darkBut I look up, I look around and I see

Someone walking over here, and she’s smiling at meShe’s cheering me up, she’s making my world bright

In the pain, in the darkness, I have found a light

”Life” by Hunter Smith

It’s a fragile thing to behold in our hearts.It can come and go in the people we have known,When it shows radiantly we become alert,Even in a big world we can feel hurt and alone. It’s full of mystery and fear.It would be impossible without support,When we need help it all becomes clear.It’s a rollercoaster, so thrilling and short. We are made by God, by his gentle hands.He has the power to take and give as he chooses.One day we will walk with him on the soft beach sands.Life isn’t a game, we can’t win or lose. It is our choice,We live and rejoice.

by Andrew Grossnickle

Life

“G!ng3r K!dz” by Andrew Ahearne

Was my escape a crack of doom?I left without a soundThinking life could soon resumeLeft lost among the desert plumesAnd so we fell on stony groundDevoured by the lion’s denDrawn to false cures that you’ve foundWe blend into the crowds of men Our work undone, once tightly woundFoiled by fate, yet again

by Julian De Ocampo

A photo by James Matwijkow

Counting

Everyday was just the same Hanging out playing stupid games. People were cool but they’d never change, Nothing would get out of frame. We wanted to get out of here Get away from all this fear, When we all finally broke away I knew things would never be the same. People were always moving away Every night and every day. I never knew what to say Goodbye would come out anyway. When we were gone I stopped and thought About all the good times I forgot. As more friends left and came I knew things would never be the same. As I look back you can probably see My friends meant so much to me. And as I walk away from this place I know things will never be the same.

My

Gra

ssRoo

ts A photo by James Matwijkow

DAYS

When we were gone I stopped and thought

NEVER

FORGET

LOVE

Downthe

by Edmund Hubbard


A summer’s dayTo be wet and wild,Rusty’s golden glowBrings about our smiles. The sun so brightSquints Ali’s eyes to a shut,The sting of chlorineWill cleanse our cuts. Linda’s young cheeksSo happy and sweet,The sensation of warmthBeneath our bare feet.

O Sammy’s full flowHe couldn’t be higher,The shirt he’s wearingSports his favorite, the Flyers. A summer’s dayIt went by so fast,When seeing this image It isn’t the past.

by Adam Fishman

“Sunny Days” by Nicholas Giancola

My

Gra

ssRoo

ts


Starlight

Starlight

How dazzling they areSitting in the sky afarWatching us from aboveOh how we still loveThe stars and the moonEnjoy them now, for soonThey will vanish with the dawnAnd those with just a yawnWould miss the sightOf starlight Oh moon, kill the sunFor our troubles here are doneLet me gaze into your night skyFor just a moment before saying goodbyePromise me you will never fade awayAnd my love for you will never swayPlease just make your departure slowAnd I will never let you goOh starlight

by Jonathan Mah

“Cityscape” by Dalton Reed

by Jonathan LondonoLook away from his heart now.Stiff and broken, small handsCurled in like a dog in the snow:Needing someone to cover the body with a blanketAn hour to play.His hands held the stick,Made the dirt cryFather, son, and holy spirit

Think not of his past,Behind a thick haze of violenceIn the city, his bare feetTouch robble and cigarette buttsThat scrape his skin.

Guard him, the boy in the city,Admired on the streetsIn a house, holding hands with his brother.Keep his hands givingBread, water, and love,Bringing the violence downAbides with his wishOf sweeping away the hate.

On the Streets

Ode

O Ghetto Blaster,You are the most hood of any boom box No other has your swag nor your size With lights, knobs, buttons galore you stand outboth speakers bumping to the tunes N’ stuffyour ghetto beats pulsing throughout the hallsI prop you up upon my shoulder high,for all to witness your pure majesty Those who we pass by stare at us in awe To get them pumped is our assignment nowYou cannot escape the noize we will bring

Ode to My Ghetto Blaster

by Kyle Stanford

by Cooper Davis

Ode to you, I give my soulYou are everything in which I behold

My life, my dreams, my thoughts, my passionUnto you I sacrifice my action

Ode to thee, bless’d are we

For you have given this allEmotions, growth, the power of learning

O how we find, our faith which is left blind

Rejoice, this just may be the end to the human industryOvergrown wasteful, our lives we find tasteful

History has shown us the need for our greedFinally, we realize our own disease

I come to you with change and a passion

Yet you look at me, like I am nothing more than an attractionThis is where my heart lies, to the world as a sacrifice for you

But you look at me with disgust, like I am something totally new

Without change, this is the end to our livesFor you truly do not realize, your own damn disguise

We all have a calling, don’t you seeFor without one, you are your own enemy

“Other Portraits” by Connor Shores

toYou

What lies beneath a rose? Anything else besides its pose?A beauty so unique, yet so easy to critique, What is seen by the eye, No wonder people always cry, When judged by first glance, Not even given a chance, To allow people to see, What lies beneath a rose.

I beg don’t you see, for I hope that I may bleedFor I may become the sacrifice in which you readMy life will end in nothing more than death and sadnessBut my passion is for you, to one day find true happiness

I learn to love you daily, but the pain I’ve caused makes you angryLove at first you find, yet hate you turn and hideYou look at me, but you cannot see, for fear of what you cannot bePoint the finger how you dare, for justice you think you wear

My life is what you find, my actions lay in your mindFor this world is ours to see, the beauty is what we want to beSacrificed by all, the fall is where I am calledThe masterpiece is what I am after, for this world is nothing but a disaster

“Vacation” by Trey Petznik

The Beauty of aRoseby Emmanuel Rodriguez

Happiness

Dysfunctional by Gary Williams

God-given talents wasted Because being different no longer means Unique And fluidity becomes lifeless motion. Dysfunctional Repetition. The foundation of truth and beauty has changed Protecting self from the world and denying The pursuit of happiness. When creativity is placed on hold for one’s self-image A front, a lie, an awkward tale of hopeless dreams and hidden passion Where the need to feel “accepted” carries its heavy burden. Conforming beautiful, individualized, human beings To cardboard cut-outs confined to someone else’s identity. Reducing any hopes of becoming anything above averageEliminating the future and recycling the past of Dysfunctional Repetition.

“Contact” by Andrew Ahearne

Repetition

HappinessThe

“Touch” by Sean Harris

Life is a flame that burns alone against an endless night,A song that turns the streams to nymphs and stars to candlelight,A wind that wakes a weary world and calls the moon to shine,And summer days,And fresh-clipped grass,And dandelion wine. Certainty is a cold high word kept boxed up on a shelf,Eternity is a mirthless blade that mutilates the self,And beauty is a setting sun thatFlashes and then flies,And hot fast crickets leaping as the light leaks from the skies. Now!Is the only time that ever was or e’er will be,A forever that is woven out of pain and ecstasy.The tales we tell were always told,Our songs were always sung;Elderly men were always old—Young boys will always be young. Machine

by Liam Martin

Repetition

The Young

O the young, exuberant Joyously at play to all extent With skin so fair, that small pink faceThese idols of the human raceScraped kneesOn their marvelous journeys What little consequences they must ponderEvery object incites their wonderLike the shaving cream of their fatherOr the origins of their favorite treatsChasing one another through the streetsHaving mama put them in their sheets

O how I envy the youthfulOnly worried about their own bellyfulSeldom do they care about their future,In their few decisions. Oh how are they so sure?In those small minds, they are right and we are wrongNobody stopping them from breaking into songO the young, blissful and unawareHow I envy them I swear

“Single Engine” by Ryan Hickey

by Ross Kloeber

The Young

A Tortured Man by Mark DolinarA Tortured Man

Four Cripples and a Talking Head by Alex Pearl

A Bee’s Dream by Chase Henry

Talking Head by Alex Pearl

Sitting in his nine by eight foot cell he knew he was far away from where he once was. Twenty two,

a recent college grad looking to become a heart surgeon, until he was accused of killing his wife one lonely day in La Jolla, California. Six months he had already spent in this cell, alone and scared. Just replaying the memories over and over again in his head of his past life outside of his cube. Whenever Jason’s six foot frame would stand up to stretch he would touch both ends of his cell, leaving his figure left in an awkward position. His bed felt like nothing more than a piece of cloth with a few random springs placed inside, while his prison issued attire only made him become more depressed as time went on. For the first time in his life Jason was alone, an extrovert from a young age, now trapped in a manmade cage hoping to be set free. Until this point in his life, Jason had never really been in trouble, he was a graduate of Harvard who was able to balance a rigorous school schedule with an impressive social life. He had learned from a young age that you could either take life too seriously or you could have fun and actually live. Though he tried to follow this path in life by being a professional surf border, his parents pushed him in the other direction trying to make him become a doctor, which forced him to be secluded in his studies. In a way prison was a blessing for Jason, because his parents no longer had control of what he did, the prison guards did.

BLAM-O! snap! read!

itting in his nine by eight

“CAN SOMEONE TURN ON THE LIGHTS” shouted the near-deaf man, stumbling over the

sofa.

“Aaaaahm” said the man without a tongue, frustratedly wheeling his way through his surroundings after having tripped on the rug.

“Well, don’t look at me,” said the man with his feet stuck to the floor, “it’s not like I can reach the switch.”

“Pffft,” said the man with two eyepatches, “You guys are pathetic. I have to put up with this every day. Here.” He moved to the wall with ease and flipped the switch. “I’m not really considered ‘handicapped’ when the playing field’s leveled. It’s nice. Shoulda kept the lights off.”

“Aaahm,” grunted the man without a tongue, regaining his balance and glaring at the sightless man.

“YOU REALLY SHOULD TURN NEAR ME IF YOU WANT TO SAY SOMETHING TO US” bellowed the near-deaf man, re-adjusting his sport coat and hiking up his trousers, “IT’S NOT LIKE EVERYONE CAN HEAR YOU YOU KNOW AND YOU KNOW I READ LIPS PRETTY WELL”

Cool, crisp air lifts Steve higher and higher, far above the town. Everything seems so

tiny from this high up. Homes become the little doll houses that his sister plays with everyday. Sidewalks are simply trails that the little ant people follow on their way to work. The trees become small blobs of green, sprinkled throughout neighborhoods. This is Steve’s paradise. Flower hopping gets old. Steve lands on a fresh looking Calliopsis flower. He protrudes his sticky tongue to get the sweet nectar from within the yellow flower. Steve does not notice a young child approaching him. In an instant, the child snuffs his life out. Steve feels nothing.

He breaks from his dream. Ten seconds pass before Steve realizes he’s home in his bed. Just then, his radio alarm goes off.

The future is

To read the full text of these fiction excerpts, download the free Microsoft Tag app @http://gettag.mobi, snap a photo of the colored tags by each story with your smart-phone, and get fully connected to BLAM-Online.

Restless by Luis Saucedo

The Reason by Austin Tuckerby Austin Tucker

Steel Sweet Home by Jean-Luc Cavnar-Lewandowski

A Bee’s Dream by Chase Henry

BLAM-O!I couldn’t fall asleep even

though I was more tired than I had ever been before. More tired than I was after going

40 hours without sleep, and more tired than the week of two a days at football camp. I wanted nothing more than to fall into the warm, appealing embrace of rest, but I could not fall asleep to save my life. The foreign room I had taken refuge in was not that dark, and I could still see all the unfamiliar trinkets that oddly decorated the room around me, the trinkets that made it uncomfortable. They were mementos of someone else’s life, events that had made them who they were, not the things that brought me comfort, not the things that make me who I am. The twinkle of the glow in the dark stars that covered the walls were irritating in comparison to the family pictures that cover mine. The ornate dressers were large and imposing when compared to my modest one. Even the calendar made me uncomfortable because it made it so clear that the night was that of April 25th, a night when I should have been sleeping in my own bed after a long night of dancing at prom, but instead I was in an alien environment trying to find comfort, but it was no where present. Everything about the room was wrong, and the walls were talking so loud that they drowned out rest’s peaceful calls to me.

He studied his new surroundings. The walls were painted a clean expected white and

the furniture looked new. The rug had recently been cleaned but Jacque could smell the stains in the membranes of the fibers. He was happy to be out of that horrible box and had already contemplated a quick escape yet something about this new home kept his attention. He had learned long ago that you could never rely on people—even the one’s you love the most will leave. He lowered his mouth and licked his paw, tasting the new flavor of this home. He was suddenly conscious of the 4 pairs of eyes behind him, analyzing his every move, waiting in anticipation. He turned his head to look at them and the older man cocked his head in response. The older woman said, “Why don’t you show him where his food and poddy are?”

I moved, drew myself back. I needed to understand. There she was. Just sleeping. Autumn. My body ached. I

rubbed her back and I could feel her heart beat. She rolled over and stared:

“I’m disposable. Do what you will. You understand.” This was absolute. She was right.

I dug my nails into her skin. So deep I could feel her pulsate. She smiled. I died inside. I kept going. I shook while I ripped her apart. Bit by bit. And she kept smiling. She bled all over me. I cried and I couldn’t stop crying. I sobbed. I couldn’t hold it back. Then the smile faded. I woke up at nine twenty-two. My fingers felt lined with her blood, but there was none anywhere. My chest was dry, my sheets were white. She was gone. Again. The day flew by. Two thirty again and I sat back up. “Hello. It’s Autumn again.” She smiled. I cried. Her fingers ran across my face again.

Sweat slowly begins to slide down beside his eye. The pencil, tapping, up down up down. Chris holds the writing utensil in his right hand as his fair hand strokes through his brown

hair, woven out of frustration. The words on the paper in front of him blur and confuse his eyes, which become as red as the numbers displayed on the ticking clock overhead.

There are only three students left in the class. Two of these students sit in the back, separated by two rows of desks. Chris sits alone, at the front of the room, standing out as he always does. His white collared shirt suffocates his chest as his anxiety rises and steals his breath. A glance at the clock reads 11:58. “Oh no,” is murmured from Chris’s quivering mouth. Thoughts race through his mind. Images of the

by Eddie Chavez

“Time’s-A-Wastin’” by Colin Prenger

previous night, pictures of family, scenes of various movies, and visions of people screaming at one another fly in and out of his brain, uncontrollably and involuntarily. “One minute!” yells the professor who continues to read his newspaper, unaware of the amount of perspiration his nearest student has acquired. Without any thought, Chris begins to scribble and write rapidly and without direction. He imagines the past 30 minutes in fast-forward and then reflects the scene on his answer sheet, jotting down all he can in the remaining time. He does not let his arm rise to clear the sweat on his forehead for he believes he will not finish. His wrist begins to cramp and slow but his heart is beating faster than ever. His tired eyes, riding the rollercoaster of his lines, squint in an attempt to focus.

“Just a few more—” “Time! Pencils down.” “Damn…” As Chris opens the door to leave the classroom he is approached by a fellow student. “How’d ya do?” “…I passed.”

“Concentrate” by Adam O’Connor

by Eddie Chavez

Aby Anthony Carli

theCCIACCIADENCCIDENCCIACCIADEN

ACCIAHe stumbled through the bathroom

door, crumpled to his knees, and vomited the Hungry Man frozen dinner he had ingested earlier; the cardboard

tray and fork were still sitting on the ottoman in front of a television. The cell phone he clutched leaked an irritating beeping noise, and a middle- aged woman uttered the words, ‘If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and try again,’ and in an instant, she too was gone. He stumbled to the shower and turned it on. The frigid water sprinkled his face. Now he climbed inside its cold wretches and collapsed onto the metal floor. The near freezing water pierced his very core. He peeled off his clothes and dropped his cell phone as the torrent of water rushed it towards the drain. Now naked, he sat in the icy water. He was freezing. He shivered violently, his lips began turning blue, and blood stopped flowing to his extremities; hypothermia was settling in. At least he was feeling something though; he needed to feel something. His arms and legs almost stopped functioning, and he became numb. At this point, he struggled to get out of the shower, slipped, hit his head on the lip of the toilet, and blood spilled onto the tile. He stood up, and stumbled to his nightstand, where he produced a .357 magnum loaded with hollow-point rounds. He shoved the barrel into his temporal bone, and pulled the trigger. The bullet shredded in his cranial cavity, and his young face was literally blown onto his curtains. His naked wet body fell to the floor.

Detective John Morrison explained to a woman who sat behind a desk; the Captain. “That’s what I could piece together.”

“Ok. Sounds pretty standard to me, we’ll rule it a suicide. Write it up, and leave it on my desk in the morning.” She was a strong woman, one with balls bigger than his. She had fought her way to the top of the precinct, but after witnessing so much atrocity, her compassion had been drained from her soul. Every crime was now a business. They were not people, they were bodies, and her melancholy attitude towards this murder truly displayed her indifference to the victim.

“Has anyone talked to her yet?” Morrison said hoping to God that the answer would be yes. Unlike the Captain, he still had ounces of compassion, but with each dead body, it dripped onto the blood stained floor. He needed to

TTCCITCCIDENTDENCCIDENCCITCCIDENCCI

“Sadness” by Graham Smith

become numb if he were going to survive in the homicide unit.

“No.”

“I’ll do that tomorrow too.” Morrison’s shoulders slumped as if he were holding a 500-pound weight.

* * *

“Why would he do this? Why did he do this?” Tears began streaming down her red face, it was now contorted; an expression of confusion and sorrow overcame her. Her blue eyes were glassed over, her lips warped towards the ground, and

her cheeks did the same. Morrison struggled to keep eye contact with her. He sat, and fought to find the right words to say.

Detective Morrison looked to the ground, stood up from his seated position at the foot of her bed, and spoke the words, “He thought you died in the accident.”

Mother KnowsMother KnowsMotherwhere the Knowswhere the KnowsHurt Is

It was four in the morning. When his mother came home; She’d been gone for three days. Where she’d been he’d not known. He went to the kitchen to see how she was. He wanted to speak, when he saw her he paused.

Her movements were wild, her eyes were ablaze. Her mind was engulfed in a drug induced haze. Her son walked in slowly; he said, “How are you?” She whipped around and screamed, “What should I do?

“This whole house is filthy, you ungrateful shit! You’re just like your father, and I’m sick of it. I should have left you the day I left him.” Her son hollered back, “Mom you already did!”

by John Borst

An oil stick painting by Luis Mattei

A Short Poem about Sun rise, sun setSun rise, sun set

The son rose in the east, but set in the west.He shined light onto many, and many were blessed.

But some shielded their eyes, and let the light be misdirected,And those men extinguished the son, which he willingly accepted.

They didn’t forgive the shining son with multiples of sevens,And now the shining son was sent back into the heavens.

She tore through the laundry, she picked up his belt She cracked him so good; it took but seconds to welt. Though all through the beatings, he feared not the belt. It was only the pain of her words that he felt.

He was too guilty to fight back, too horrified to run, He could only stand by while his life came undone.

Her insults were honed, thrown direct as a dart, With each one she flung, it pierced through his heart. There’s only so much that a young man can bear, Now he wanted to hurt her, her heart, he would tear.

He screamed “Mother, I’m sick of your razor-edged tongue You only talk to me when you want me stung, Now I’m sorry, dear mother, but your song is sung, And with those words, he yelled out, and he swung.

She plummeted downward and fell to the floor, Before she got up, he ran out of the door. As he ran, he sobbed more than ever before. He hated himself yet he wished he’d done more.

by Brad Lowe

by Jerasimos Moschonas

He abides in the night, takes refuge in ever-distant space and sands,This man of shadows, known as “Fate” always seems to have other plans,He is an olden crafty fellow, whose life is knowing the end result,When angels are sent to act, it is Fate whom they shall oft’ consult.

For a whimsical week in the oddest of areas, I rummaged for inspiration,Fate guided my hands and my mind, and I thanked him in recognition,There and then, in the darkest of towns did I find my hope present,In a dream filled wonderland, which I entered with complete consent.

Time has no relevance here, and success is as sure-bred as oddness,A figure in the limelight, a gorgeous guiding light, instigated fondness,I return a different man in the same man suit, a testament to change,Vastly relieved of fears, but pushed back into my lackluster range.

“Why do I smile so?” they will most likely ask in contagious wonder,“You’ll never know,” these curious words will they constantly ponder,At this, some will be overjoyed and blissful, others, angry and irate, For the boy who couldn’t be himself, found himself with Fate.

And finding I was wanted, I am now in all pursuits, unstoppable ,And should I ever fall, my spirit is still unconquerable,So feast your eyes upon a new man, enlightened and fulfilled,I can breathe again, refreshed, like new soil, freshly tilled.

Bring forth your painful challenges; I am wary of your bitter souls,Warned, you will be struck down, and join those for whom the bell tolls,And the finale makes me cry, for it is wonderful to be loved by one,Fate demands me once again, so I embrace him, and I will come.

“Freedom” by Esteban Obregon

FaithM

y Jo

urne

y of

Fat

e

A Short Poem about Sun rise, sun setSun rise, sun set

The son rose in the east, but set in the west.He shined light onto many, and many were blessed.

But some shielded their eyes, and let the light be misdirected,And those men extinguished the son, which he willingly accepted.

They didn’t forgive the shining son with multiples of sevens,And now the shining son was sent back into the heavens.

She tore through the laundry, she picked up his belt She cracked him so good; it took but seconds to welt. Though all through the beatings, he feared not the belt. It was only the pain of her words that he felt.

He was too guilty to fight back, too horrified to run, He could only stand by while his life came undone.

Her insults were honed, thrown direct as a dart, With each one she flung, it pierced through his heart. There’s only so much that a young man can bear, Now he wanted to hurt her, her heart, he would tear.

He screamed “Mother, I’m sick of your razor-edged tongue You only talk to me when you want me stung, Now I’m sorry, dear mother, but your song is sung, And with those words, he yelled out, and he swung.

She plummeted downward and fell to the floor, Before she got up, he ran out of the door. As he ran, he sobbed more than ever before. He hated himself yet he wished he’d done more.

by Brad Lowe

RUN N I N G

Going into the pond, not knowing what to expect, Not knowing what to take and what to reject.

I start off small, not making a ripple,Learning to be invisible, believing their drivel. I take their shouts, their words, their hate,

I make them work, they make me shake.I make them better, they abhor me for it,

Waiting for them to leave, not afraid to admit. I grow to overlook what happened in workout,Hoping in time I wouldn’t burnout.

I keep it in, not showing how I deal, They don’t see how they truly make me feel.

As time goes on, they leave one by one,Like clockwork they fall and I had won.

They don’t affect me, my fears ebb away,Not regretting the times I entered the fray. Now I am captain, and they are gone,

Leading my runners, waking early at dawn.We grow, we win, we have what lacked,

A leader to show them how to act. My time is up, I’m a little sad,Knowing, though, that we won’t be bad.

I entrust my title to a worthy Jack,Sure that he will lead the pack.

Now, just because I have left,Don’t you feel bereft.I will come back and see,

The team that is a part of me.

by Matthew Xuereb

A reduction print by Will Marston

Life With Bethany by Nicholas Longo

At the first hours of the morning, like almost every day of his life, Greg was welcomed to each day with the yelping, heart-attack inducing

screech of his fifty-five year old mother, Bethany. With all of her grace and insanity, she would share her thick New Jersey accent over the phone to her son, who by now had endured many years of such a travesty. Luckily, Greg would also be spoiled with love by his long-time girlfriend, Chelsea. Chelsea always knew when it was time to get up, as she would wait for the phone to be shaken out of Greg’s hands by the violent growl of his mother’s voice. It was on one particular day, in the middle of March, when Greg’s mother mentioned something very new, and very unexpected. “Greg! It’s so good to hear from my boy so early in the morning,” she said, thick Jersey accent and all. “How would you, my baby munchkin, like to come up and visit me for a weekend?” “Mom, that would be…great. But, you know I have a girlfriend now right? She will be coming too.” “Oh sure! I just cleaned out the extra room so she’ll have a place to stay. We’ll have a great time!” The conversation continued with his mother emphasizing just how much Greg and Chelsea would be separated over their visit. In every physical and emotional way possible, Greg’s mom would stand between the couple as a massive Berlin Wall of sorts. Soon Greg would inform Chelsea of his mother’s joyous invitation—and soon she would agree and they would start driving towards quite an eventful weekend.They began their trek to visit Greg’s mom, which took all of an hour drive from their apartment in Philadelphia to his mother’s suburban mansion in New Jersey. “My mother can be very overbearing and opinionated at times. Just don’t be

offended—she’s like that with everyone. But I really wouldn’t worry, I’m sure there’s nothing about you she wouldn’t like,” Greg said, trying to comfort his girlfriend as much as possible. Chelsea didn’t know whether to be offended or flattered. “Thanks, Greg. It’s not that I’m worried to meet her, I’m just a little nervous that’s all.” “I’m glad. She’s actually a pretty entertaining sight to see. She never stops talking, and I can almost guarantee you she will be wearing one of her neon track suits when we see her. Bet me?” “Seriously?” Chelsea responded, laughing. “Now I know where you get your crazy sense of style from,” she said sarcastically, as Greg drove the car into his mother’s driveway. Greg parked the car, and kissed his girlfriend on the lips for comfort and encouragement. “Just smile, give her a hug, and you’ll be treated like family. I promise I won’t leave you alone with her, so there’s nothing to worry about.” Chelsea quickly glanced out of the window, and immediately caught a magnificent glimpse of Greg’s mother. Sure enough, she was decked out in clanking gold accessories, huge wavy hair, and, of course, a bright blueberry colored tracksuit. She ran up to the car and greeted her son with a huge smile, juicy kiss, and thick Jersey accent. “My darling junior mint! How I’ve missed you—and you’ve gotten so strong. Those muscles could crush a semi!” “Hi, mom! Chelsea and I make the gym a habit of ours. Mom this is Chelsea—” “I wore this track suit color just for you. It matches your eyes,” she interrupted, fully aware of Chelsea’s presence without even glancing at her.

An oil stick painting by Gus Quinif

“Hey, mom—Say hi to Chelsea and her beautiful eyes.” “So that’s her name, Chelsea?” She said, and finally looked over at his girlfriend. “…Since when are brown eyes considered cute?”

Greg was embarrassed by his mother’s behavior over the weekend, and tried his best to comfort Chelsea. Greg would not accept her reassurance that she was fine with what had happened, and had already confronted his mother over the phone about apologizing. The phone rang, and Chelsea went to answer it. “Hello?” she asked. “Chelsea? Is that you?” It was Greg’s mom, Bethany. “Listen sweet pea, don’t hang up. I want to…apologize…for everything that happened last

weekend. I’m such a…clutz….sometimes,” Bethany said. “No, don’t worry about it. I understand if you don’t—” “I know, I know. I’m sorry. To make it up to you, how about I meet you for lunch? Just us two, and we can talk everything over.” There was a long pause, during which Chelsea looked over frantically at Greg, not sure how to respond. “That sounds fantastic,” Chelsea said, knowing she would once again regret meeting with his mother.

Chelsea arrived early at the restaurant for lunch and tried to organize her thoughts. After about thirty minutes, Bethany waltzed in with huge sunglasses and a sombrero-sized, pink sun hat. “Sorry I’m late! The traffic these days,” Bethany said. The restaurant was packed with many

(Continued...)

well-dressed business people and East Coast socialites. The floors were of clean white marble, and resting on them were dark wooden tables. Mirrors covered the walls, and enormous light fixtures hung from the twenty-foot high ceilings. They sat at a table with a great view overlooking the river. The hostess gave them menus, and awkward silence followed as they perused the various appetizers and entrees. After a moment, Bethany was obviously the one to break the silence.

“Listen, sweet pea, I want to apologize for the weekend. Greg told me how special you are to him, and I figure if he likes you that much, I better start getting used to you.”

“Thank you…for apologizing. I know we started off on the wrong foot. And I’m glad Greg spoke with you—you know I really do admire him.”

“Oh…so you like him?” Bethany questioned mysteriously.

“Yes, very much.”

“And have you, ever liked anyone else before Greg? Any other men?”

“Well, I dated men before I met Greg, of course. But I’ve never felt the same way as I do with Greg.”

Bethany did not respond. Instead, they sat there in silence, waiting for their meals to arrive. Once in a while, Chelsea would attempt to begin conversation, but Bethany would simply respond by smiling, or quickly end the conversation in some strange way. She was obviously disturbed by something Chelsea had said. Lunch had finally arrived, and Chelsea attempted to begin conversation again.

“So, how’s your salad?” she asked.

“Oh it’s wonderful. And yours?” Bethany replied.

“It’s really delicious,” she said happily.

“Hmm… Delicious like my Greg?”

“…What?” Chelsea asked.

“I know what you want. You’ve been going

around trying to seduce my son. And all for money!” Bethany’s anger and volume was building up to an unhealthy level at this point. “No, that was before Greg, Beth—” “You just come waltzing in here, into my house and my life and expect me to say nothing about it! You don’t even know what you’ve done, do you? Obviously there’s something else—” “I told you! That was before I met Greg. Seriously, pay attention!” Chelsea, replied, seriously aggravated at this point.

“You must have been…stripping! You were a prostitution whore! Engaged nineteen times!” Bethany shouted.

As she shouted these things throughout the restaurant, she had gotten up, poked her fingers in Chelsea’s face with her huge hair bouncing madly, and flipped a table. She actually started to flip the table over onto Chelsea, with drinks and food spilling all over the white marble floors. At this point, the surrounding staff had held back Bethany from mauling and tackling Chelsea to the ground. If anyone thought Bethany was a sight to see before, they were wrong until this moment. She was dragged out of the restaurant into a police vehicle, with her high heels clanking madly and enormous pink sun hat waving around.

Greg returned home sometime after, and was met with the smell of dinner floating through the air. He heard no noise throughout the apartment and crept towards the window to find that the sliding door was open. He walked onto the large terrace, and found his girlfriend seated with dinner set delicately on the table.

She cast a soft and seductive stare through her addictively attractive brown eyes, as if begging him to step closer. He responded by doing so, and moved so close that their noses were almost touching. Greg stared deeply into her eyes. He moved forward, as if to kiss her lips, but instead directed his attention to her magnificently small ears.

With the slightest of ease, he opened his mouth and whispered, “I missed you…prostitution whore.” He gently winked at her, and offered a warm smile.

She glanced upwards, with a soft twinkle in her eyes, and instantly knew what he meant.

“Who’s There” by Parker Middleton

THEY JUST DO IT

BLAM presents the 2010 Office of Faith and Justice Writing Contest winners

Brophy’s Summit on

Gl balizationGl balization

Our faces are pale, hands tattered and blistered. We are born into bondage.Assembly is our task, always going through the motions of creation. We feed the monster. Yes, this empire depends on us, just as we have grown to depend on it.Should one of us fail, another brick will be found for the wall. There is always someone who will do the job for less.And so we endure the conditions, no matter how demeaning. No matter how far they bend the framework in our souls for their own benefit.Because for us, it is this, or nothing. And they know it. Th

is or Nothing

It’s everywhere. It’s inescapable, even irresistible. How can you resist such fluid, graceful motion? Attractive athletes performing skilled maneuvers, sporting the latest in perfor-mance sportswear, fly across my television screen almost

effortlessly. And this isn’t even the real show. It’s just a commer-cial, Nike’s one-minute spot shown multiple times daily during the 2010 Vancouver Winter Olympics. What more could an adver-tising executive ask for? This commercial has got it all: a legless sprinter, a female tennis player who looks more like a model, and plenty of diversity in both ethnicity and different sports. Why, it’s even got Lance Armstrong in it. An army of Nike-clad athletes, doing what they do best in the way we only wish we could. As I sit watching the Olympic games, I can’t help but wonder: what would happen if the laborers who made this all possible were to watch this broadcast, showing what is supposedly a global community coming together in the name of sport? Would the employees of factories that produce Nike goods in Indonesia gaze with pride upon the victorious Canadian hockey team, wearing uniforms made desirable by the recognizable “Swoosh” on the right shoulder? Or would they recoil with disgust, as their eyes fell upon the symbol of a corporation that binds them to poverty?

Human Dignity 2010:

by Keith Bender

“Slavery” by Nic Espinosa & Chris Rosales

by Jeff Romine

blam.2010.staff

colophon

The 2010 edition of BLAM was made using Adobe InDesign 2.0, Paint.net, and Macromedia Fireworks 8. The magazine’s dimensions are 5.5 inches by 8.5 inches. Cover text is Walkway Expand, and the body text is 8 point Candara with 9 point leading. The bylines are written in Segoe UI 8 point. The titles of the pieces vary in font style.

The Brophy Literary and Arts Magazine is a student publication that provides an outlet for student writers, poets, and artists of the Brophy community. The BLAM staff is committed to working side by side with Brophy peers to present their works and further showcase student art and creative writing. We strive to balance Brophy’s dedication to excellence in spirituality, academics, and athletics with a passionate presentation of the fine arts. If you are interested in submitting your work to BLAM, please email your queries and submissions to [email protected] or speak with any member of the staff. To see more content, visit us at blam.brophyprep.org.

© 2010 by Brophy Literary and Arts Magazine, 4701 N. Central Avenue, Phoenix, AZ 85012.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any manner without permission. All images and literary works are © the artists, reproduced with the kind permission of the artists.

Mr. John Damaso ’97Mr. Scott Middlemist ’87Mr. Chad Unrein

Jeramy Moschonas ’11Michael Notestine ’11

advisors: editors:

Andrew Ahearne ’11 Omar Alzein ’11Rohan Andresen ’12Austin Ensor ’12Nic Espinosa ’11Enzo Galicia ’10Connor Genta ’11Beau Peterlin ’10

staff:

Nick Giancola ’12Matt Habib ’10Brad Lowe’12Stavros Moschonas ’13A.J. Raglow ’11Dalton Reed ’11Chris Rosales ’11Dan Valenzuela ’11

“Slavery” by Nic Espinosa & Chris Rosales

blam 2010

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