Tyger, Tyger: St. X's Online Literary Magazine
Editor-in-chief: Nathan Slaven
Senior Editors: Alex Dripchak, Zade Mutwalli
Junior Editor: Evan Vetter
Faculty Advisor: Rebecca Reisert
Click on the titles below to read the best pieces of creative student writing in 2016-17.
- Sunset - By Nathan Slaven
- Around and Around We Go - by Samuel Guizio
- Mutiny - by Adam Klimek
- The Precariousness of April - by Samuel Guizio
- My Fast Woman - Zade Mutwalli
- Drowning - by James Shepherd
- Purple Slime Thing That Probably Eats Children - by Brendan Hart
- Roy G Biv - by Zade Mutwalli
- Runaway - by Nathan Slaven
- You - by Samuel Guizio
- Munny Right - by Evan Vetter
- Type Love - by James Shepherd
- Mirror Man - by Samuel Guizio
- Senior School Blues - by Zade Mutwalli
- A Scale Unturned - by Adam Klimek
- The Knell - by Adam Klimek
- Oda a la Mora - by Chad Bauman
- Oda a la Nieve - by Chase Bauman
- Oda a la Noche - by Patrick Haugh
- Oda al Beisbol - Matthew Logsdon
By Nathan Slaven
Sean wrapped his legs around the post like a vine. Stared into the water. Pink. Or was it orange? The sky was a smear of honey. The city was just a thin strip of green felt wedged between the two. And he was-...
What was he?
Not important. Only thing that matters is that he did it. Anna was safe.
Who was Anna?
Yes, it is.
No, it's not.
Yes it is. Why can't I remember anyth-
Who am I even talking to?
You're talking to you. To me. To whoever you wanna be.
Wait. Why can't I move my legs?
Please stop fighting it, Sean. You'll just make the switch harder for everyone.
Anna? What are you doing in-... here? Switch? What is this?
Relax, Sean. It'll all be over soon. Look at the sunset, honey. Heh. Doesn't it look like honey, honey? Ha. We're so clever.
Art credit - Sunset, by Gus Orthober
By Adam Klimek
A beauty she was, my ship. Her tall masts held rippling sails, which carried us here from our homeland.
“Aye, Captain, mountains ahead,” my first mate shouted. “I’ll sound the bells.”
“Aye. All hands on deck,” I replied, “we’ve got to turn this ship around.”
“Ne’er, Cap. The hills show promise.”
“Promise, yes, if bein’ dead ye desire. These cliffs’ll end us.”
Now my crew was before me, having heard the bell’s promise. But for me it was more of a knell. For my wariness, they threw me into the perilous waters, and here I sink, as they ride on.
Untitled, by James Bryant
THE PRECARIOUSNESS OF APRIL
By Samuel Guizio
Clouds break when the rain stops,
and robins dance in puddles
to celebrate the torrent's drops.
Clouds break when the rain stops,
and the sun becomes an afterthought
for any worms outside their tunnels.
Clouds break when the rain stops,
and robins dance in puddles.
MY FAST WOMAN
By Zade Mutwalli
She was coming in from Bloomington, Indiana, at 2:00 on a warm June day. Zade had never seen her in person, but he knew what to expect from pictures online: a red-faced German beauty by the curious name of R. He had spent a large chunk of his savings to bring her to Louisville, but knew it would be worth it if she was as special as she was advertised to be.
The quest for a perfect match had dogged Zade for the last two years of his life. Ever since watching the upperclassmen on the Saint Xavier Rugby team leave the stadium with their own cars full of pretty girls, the young freshman dreamed of having that experience for himself. Imagining all of the places he could take her further motivated Zade to choose wisely, because he wanted to enjoy the journeys that lie ahead of him.
Because of this, Zade Mutwalli was very particular about what he wanted. He imagined something that would put all his friends to shame, a trophy of sorts. He had been searching all over Kentucky, until finally he realized he had to broaden his range to fulfill his detailed list of features. He wanted her to be rosy, with a streamlined but practical shape and, hopefully, the ability to carry many children. Ideally, she would also have a large pair of headlights. He wanted her to be fast, and unabashed about how loud she sounded. Most importantly, Zade wanted something exotic, one that was originally from a foreign country, preferably Germany or Japan.When R finally popped up among his search results, Zade knew she was the one worthy of his love.
It was 2:25 p.m. when she finally pulled into the driveway. A grey-haired,balding man got out of the driver’s seat and gave a gap-toothed smile. "Howdy! Are you... Zade Mutwalli?" the man asked. Zade responded with an affirmative and went to shake his hand. It was at that moment that the man pressed the keys into Zade's palm.
"She's all yours."
By James Shepherd
Scratchy sand between your toes.
Ice cold salt water waves.
Loud crashing waves.
You gasp for air
How silent it is.
You swim up.
You swim down.
You swim all around.
The color of water changes
From translucent blue to
You get nervous.
You look up and know
You’re out of your depth.
In Depth, by Eli Thompson
PURPLE SLIME THING THAT PROBABLY EATS CHILDREN
By Brendan Hart
"Watch out for the monsters, darling."
The little girl nodded. Rushed off, chasing shadows.
Skinned her knee on the sidewalk. Blinked back tears and kept running. A trickle of blood stayed behind.
Something shifted in the tree-line.
The girl found an empty can. Kicked it around an empty parking lot. It rolled into the woods. She followed in hot pursuit.
Stopped. Leaned against a tree to catch her breath.
Dragging footsteps behind her. She turned. Collided with a mountain of slime.
She rubbed her head and backpedalled.
Laughter. It wound an arm around her. "Hello there."
The girl screamed.
ROY G BIV
By Zade Mutwalli
All equal on a rainbow...
Taking precedence over other colors.
But I say
What about aquamarine?
The color of rivers and rapids.
What about the magnificent shade of green
when trees are misted from waterfalls?
Or the beige of sandstone cliffsides?
Don't get distracted by the rainbows.
Without a backdrop they would just be empty light.
Always the center of attention.
But might I mention
The importance of the preceding storm
Without which rainbows never form?
For that sparkling mist
Gives light a twist
In which etherial beauty is created.
Rainbow over the Falls, by Clint Hoehler.
RUNAWAY (EXCERPT FROM THE NOVEL)
By Nathan Slaven
Kurt is a celebrity on social media who gets fed up with life and decides to wander around the country. He’s just arrived in a small town in the middle of Colorado.
There’s a nurse outside the hospital smoking. I don’t think it’s tobacco. Colorado. I sit next to him.
“What’s there to do in Cascade Falls, Colorado?”
He shrugs. “We’ve got the second-biggest national park in Colorado. Like three SuperMax prisons. A pretty lake.”
“Sounds riveting. But what do you do?”
“Give pills to old people. Then watch football and get wasted.”
“Now, that sounds like fun.” My voice sounds funny to me. I think it’s the smoke.
The smoke frowns. What are you insinuating, sir?
It’s definitely the smoke.
Awkward silence creeps in. I kill it before it grows out of control. “I’m Kurt.”
I start to ask him what his name is but realize he has an ID badge on his shirt. Seth.
“What’s going on in the world of football?” I ask.
He ignores my question.
“You’re that guy on Instagram, right?”
I sigh. “That’s me.”
“What the hell are you doing in Colorado?”
“Haven’t figured that out yet.”
He takes a picture of me. I fake-smile. Part of me worries that it doesn’t look fake enough and people will get the wrong impression. The rest of me realizes that it’d be exactly the right impression if I worry that much about it. Irony.
“What if I posted this?”
“Some people would probably think you’re really good at Photoshop. And everyone else would be jealous.”
“The sheep, you mean?”
“Sure. The sheep.”
I hadn’t given much thought to the sheep lately. I kind of stopped caring about them. It was relieving, actually. I’m angry with Seth for bringing it up. He seems to notice.
“What? You miss the loving hearts of your three-hundred-thousand best friends? ’Cause I’ve been keeping the hearts of forty retired Vietnam vets from shriveling up like wet sponges,”
I clench my teeth.
He shrugs. Exhales a large puff of smoke. It waves goodbye to me as it vanishes. I wish it safe travels.
He shrugs again.
“Whatever, man. The Raiders play tonight. I’m going home.”
He starts walking away. I run up behind him. “No car?”
“Not on my paycheck.”
“I can drive you home.”
I run back and get my car. Pick up Seth. We drive through a sea of small businesses with cringe-inducing names.
I ask Seth for directions. Google Maps informs me that he lives very far away. I don’t know how he planned on walking home.
“License plates from Iowa?”
I nod. “I stole it from a crazy woman and her brother after they tried to harvest my organs.”
“Not a story. It literally happened. I dropped off a kidney in the hospital an hour ago. The backpack in the backseat is full of money.”
“Isn’t that something?”
“Everything is something, Seth. This just happens to be a particularly unusual something.”
He lets off another puff of smoke. Points out the window to a random house. The neighborhood is sketchier than an Etch-a-Sketch. We get out of the car, and I follow him inside without an invitation. He doesn’t seem like the type to care.
A TV is already on, and something is burning. Seth sighs. Sits down in the very middle of a saggy, sickly green couch, leaving no room. I sit on the floor. It smells like soapy dishwater.
Seth changes the channel to a football game. I watch the lines of miniature-giants run into each other while more miniature giants dance around and occasionally chuck a giant almond-thing at each other. One of them runs all the way across the field. Seth sighs.
“Yes, KurtSC, fumbling at the six yard-line is bad.”
“They don’t have football in Chicago?”
“They do. I’m just a hockey person.”
I try to think of something to say.
A guy in a tank-top and no pants walk in. He glares. “Who the hell is this?”
“Tucker, this is KurtSC. He has three-hundred-fifty thousand followers on Instagram and a backpack full of money from Iowan organ harvesters. Oh. And he’s a hockey person.”
I wait for an introduction to Tucker No-Pants. I do not get one.
Tucker No-Pants rolls his eyes and sits in a beanbag. A sizeable heap of bean-things trickle out. He puts a charred Hot Pocket in his mouth and tries to conceal his disgust. I catch myself staring. I get up and walk out of the house.
I sit on the creaking wooden porch. Something shifts underneath me. I imagine it’s a puma, freshly escaped from the zoo. I whistle.
“Here, puma, puma. Don’t be scared. I won’t bite. As long as you don’t. Ha.”
I hear a mewl. I decide that it is a baby puma, separated from its mother after a week on the run. Puma fugitives.
“It’s okay. Your secret is safe with me.”
The baby puma peeks out from under the porch. I pat the empty spot next to me, and it pounces onto my hand.
“Ouch! Bad puma.”
The baby puma gives a sorry look.
“I’m sorry about your family. You must be feeling pretty gross right now.”
Baby Puma nods.
“I know how you feel. Sort of. Except it was my fault. Which is kind of worse, actually. At least you don’t have to feel guilty.”
Baby Puma scratches at my forearm.
“Sorry. That was insensitive. It’s been a while since I talked to someone real.”
“Who are you talking to?”
I turn around. “Nobody.”
“You’re one weird guy, KurtSC.”
I could say the same about you. But I don’t.
“I gotta go.” I stand up and walk to my car.
Seth sighs. “See you.”
No you won’t.
I decide that I don’t like Colorado.
by Evan Vetter
*To fully immerse yourself in this piece, it is important that you prepare a few things before reading. First, find a quiet place wherever you are, such that you won't be disturbed. Once there, open a music app (Spotify, iTunes, etc.) and queue the song "Munny Right" by Jon Bellion. The song is quite atmospheric, so this piece works best with a headset or headphones. We will be examining this song section by section, so prepare to listen for a specific amount of time, pause and read, then listen again. Now that we are ready to begin, play the song and pause after 51 seconds.*
Jon Bellion took risks. Big ones. Like drop-out-of-school-to-make-music big. These opening lines are exactly what he would have said to anyone doubting his actions.
Recently I began a transition from a focus on school to a focus on gaming, specifically professional League of Legends. And it took forever to convince my parents to let my normal A's become C's. Yet now that I've fully committed, I've noticed an absurd increase in scoffs at explanations of my future. People just don't understand unconventional dreams.
*Continue with the song and pause at the 1:38 mark.*
"Eighth grade I feel depressed as ****
‘Cuz’ my heart is in the future and I know where I belong.
It just takes time.”
Okay, so these lines just blew me away.
Sophomore year was easily the hardest year of my life. I struggled in school, was unsure of religion, and had few friends. Put simply, I was depressed as ****. And the worst part was I knew where I wanted to go, what I wanted to be. I just had no idea how to get there. And all I can do is hope I can say the same things as Jon when I'm 22.
*Continue until the 2:40 mark.*
A few words before I let you finish the song. The line "you sound like everybody else" with the deep voice. People who are educated on the subject of League of Legends say this exact phrase. They know the odds are slim in going pro and refuse to believe I am different in my commitment. And proving them wrong will be hard, but when there is only one thing you want in life, you do it.
*You may now finish the song. I would advise you listen once more through, without any interruptions. Draw your own conclusions on what the song means and how it relates to you. I would also encourage you listen to the rest of Jon's album, The Definition. It's fantastic.*
By James Shepherd
I wanna puppy-love type love.
I wanna-be-on-the-phone-just-to-listen-to-you-breathe type love.
I wanna think-of-you-thinking-of-me-thinking-of-you type love.
That you-get-on-my-last-nerves-but-I-love-you-type love.
I wanna-die-just-so-I-can-be-born-again-and-fall-in-love-with-her-in-a-different-life type love.
The I’m-running-out-of-data type love.
I want that make-a-fort, order-some-pizza, and watch-netflix type love.
The I-rub-your-feet-while-you-tell-me-about-your-day type love.
That hating-how-crazy-you-are-but-loving-how-you-miss-me type love.
Looking at how your name looks so good next to my last name.
That I-don’t-know-where-this-is-going-but-it-feels-good type love.
That fall-asleep-on-the-phone-but-don’t-hang-up type love,
And-then-wake-up-with-her-still-next-to-you-on-the-phone type love.
That love that is as puzzling as she is.
That love that every time you look into her eyes you can’t help but to stare.
But look, I have a girlfriend,
So she gets all this love.
by Samuel Guizio
Ah, there he is.
Shouldn't have wasted it, Mirror Man.
Shouldn't have waited so long.
Should have done that,
And that and that and that.
Now you're just sitting here,
Ever-wishing for an eternal youth,
Or at least a relapse of what was
And will never be again.
The gold's rusted, man.
Its flakes are floating throughout the air.
You can't catch them, so don't try.
Just watch them shimmer.
Pitiful man without my pity,
SENIOR SCHOOL BLUES
By Zade Mutwalli
I don’t want to school no more.
Aw, I don’t want to school no more.
I don’t even know what I’m waking up for.
I’m going out down the senior slide.
Oh, I’m going out down the senior slide.
My scores may suffer, but I’m keepin’ my pride.
Spend Eight hours waitin’ on the bell.
I spend eight hours waitin’ for the damn bell.
When it rings, I’m allowed to leave this hell.
When I leave, I don’t know where I’ll go,
When I leave, I don’t know where I’ll go.
I know I’ll be missing senior year though.
ODA A LA MORA
By Chad Bauman
Frescas en el campo.
En la luz del sol,
gotitas de agua brillan,
calentadas por el calor del verano.
Es imposible no admirar
las esferas moradas,
perfectamente redondas y regordetas.
La primera mordedura, la explosión de sabor
es un despertar
de todos los beneficios que el verano trae.
Los días más largos,
perder el tiempo con amigos,
Llegan en cantidades enormes
para que las familias puedan disfrutar
del equilibrio armonioso entre
la dulzura y la acidez de la mora.
Y cuando las moras están preparadas
en una tarta, el resultado es nada menos
ODA A LA NIEVE
By Chase Bauman
El silencio blanco,
cubriendo todo, blanqueando todo
embelleciendo nuestro amor.
Sin ruido, habla,
fuertemente con la pasión
del poder inmesurable de la naturaleza.
No como el demagogo del terror tiránico,
Ni el presagio ominoso de nuestros miedos más profundos.
Esta calma, serenidad, pureza de paz,
me platica, te platica, nos platica,
como un mejor amigo, un anciano sabio, un padre amoroso,
abrazándonos hasta la felicidad completa,
guiándonos a una amistad inseparable,
revelándonos una aceptación de la hermosura.
No habla por si mismo, sino por todo que respira.
Por silencio, triunfa sobre
lo malo, lo feo, lo siniestro,
destruyendo, venciendo, dominando
las imperfecciones que nos espantan tanto.
Y a través del bosque, un copo de nieve.
ODA A LA NOCHE
By Patrick Haugh
A la muerte del día
la oscuridad viene
como la sombra
de un fantasma
que calca cada fotón
en cruz del sol.
La boca de lo desconocido
los devoran pero su
hambre por la luz solo
Todo que sobra es
el aire fresco
y el misterio de qué
trepa en las tinieblas
del bosque negro y gris.
Cada goteo de luz de luna
es una cara que
sonríe con un rictus,
un motivo ambiguo.
Los espíritus nadan
en el agua añil
de profundidades infinitas.
Los deseos nocturno
se manifiestan e
el reflejo de ojo
que se contempla
la realidad altern
en el espejo de oro
Un chillido y un suspir
son lo mismo e
el silencio inquieto
La piel se sient
en filos desiguale
y se pone de pi
con el susurr
de las hojas
El viento acall
a los vagabundo
de medianoche qu
cruzan por las calles vacías
La luna mira la serie d
fatalidades con un
y en las horas entre una y cuatr
no hay ningún sonido salv
de la tierra
ODA AL BEISBOL
By Matthew Logsdon
Simple béisbol, Un equipo,
pelota blanca, nueve,
costuras rojas. una familia.
Pero eres más opaco Todas partes de la máquina
que muchos piensan. tienen que funcionar juntas.
Un deseo, Una pelota blanca,
un amor, un bate,
me das más que un juego.
los momentos más altos,
Eres una conexión,
una relación entre un padre y un hijo,
un amor compartido,
Tiro, tiro, tiro.
Fracaso, fracaso, fracaso,
un juego de fracaso.
Los momentos más bajos,
lecciones de la vida.
los fracasos no me afectan.