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WildezineLiterary & Art MagazineSandy Spring Friends School2013-2014

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Table of Contents

Editor in Chief: Kyra KondisCo-editor: Vorakit ChudatemiyaCover Design: Madeline Phelan

Inside Cover: Sylvie Langsdorf-Willoughby

Featuring Writing By: Max Goodman Ben Baldwin Rick Pfleeger Kyra Kondis Anna Jordan Carley Amanda Richards Vorakit Chudatemiya Marina Kerlow Jake Gearon Sam Chih Stephanie Stettz Holly Guzman Katie Auerswald Davy Adise Maya Carolina Jonathan Crawley-Fye Lexie Leeser Luke Murray Sam Johnson Sophie Adams Gwendolyn Tyrie

Featuring Art By:

Marina KerlowKyra KondisKathy Ren Vorakit ChudatemiyaGwen TyrieAlexys CohenErin MenaSara HowardSylvie Langsdorf-WilloughbyGabrielle Cristiano

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When I Walk Away (The Inherent issues of the Escapist Fantasy) By Max Goodman

When I walk away, I’ll have nothing on my back.I won’t have planned it out that well.When I leave, I’ll turn towards the sunset.And set out like I might actually reach it.When I hit the road I’ll hit, I won’t follow any roads.It’ll be back yards and parking lots until I find the woods.When the wilderness surrounds me, I’ll know that I’m far enoughFrom the problems I’ve amassed and all the things I had to loose.

I don’t know what I’ll do then.Maybe start a life again.And when I have a steady teaching job, an apartment, and a girlfriend,I’ll throw it all away and jump a West Virginia coal train bound for Caspar California.I’ll grow a beard and change my name.

Most likely it will be in vain.

Oh. what a shame that west just leads to east...That there is no final sunset...That there is no destination in the world to which I could get,where my dreaded shadow “self” would leave me well enough alone.And that anywhere I stay for long enough will be my home.

Every time I walk away I’ll be drunk on freedom.I won’t care about knowing why I want to run.Every single time I leave, I’ll turn towards the sunset.And set out like this time I might actually reach it.When I hit the road I’ll hit, I won’t follow any roads.Sanding on a sphere only real “away” is up.When eternal light surrounds me, I will know I’m far enough.From the weight I’ve had to carry being someone all these years.

Marina Kerlow ‘15

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Fruit Basket

By Ben Baldwin

The basket of clementines faces me

with a choice.

Each stares willingly with its single green eye,

as if begging to be picked,

yet only one will triumph.

Some, with skins as smooth as silk

whose fluorescent tones glow in the warm light.

Their plump, fit figures seem to burst at the seams

with sticky juice.

Some, who sport green blotches

and blotchy, depressed peels,

seem to have withered away in their time,

leaving a sad shell of citrus.

But, when peels shed away,

the old, decrepit mandarin

may grant the juiciest of wedges.

And when weeks roll by,

both will compost

just the same.

Marina Kerlow ‘15

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Peter and Pirates

By Rick Pfleeger

We were playing as kids always play. I was Captain Hook and she was Wendy. I wielded my sword skillfully,

forcing Wendy to walk the plank. This time, she responded more bravely than ever. Accepting her fate, she managed to

climb atop the sleek, black banister - a feat she had never dared try to accomplish before. I continued waving my threat-

eningly sharp sword of air in her direction, poking the needle thin tip of the blade against one of the numerous puffy

white clouds on her light blue pajamas. Suddenly, the clouds began to fall out of the sky as they whisked over the other

side of the banister with Wendy, who had chosen to walk the plank rather than face the wrath of Captain Hook. Mom

and Dad came bounding into the grand foyer, sporting their matching red robes, yelling at the blue heap on the ground

before them. That was the day I hurt Shauna.

The medics were able to revive Shauna back to health, mending her bones back to normal after suffering a

twenty foot drop. I never saw Shauna, of course. My parents forced her to stay in the third floor guest room until they

were certain she was healthy enough to move around the rest of the house. I tried sneaking into her room dozens of

times every day, but the result was always the same: a door bolted shut by a lock to which only my parents had access.

Mom and dad never allowed me to visit Shauna – “She just needs some space, honey,” they would explain to me. But

I could tell they secretly blamed me for what happened to Shauna by the quivering looks on their faces whenever they

mentioned her name in my presence. Each day following the accident, mom and dad gave me status reports on her

condition – “Shauna is doing fine today, Honey,” or “ Shauna hopes to come out soon, honey.” Even though Shauna’s

messages were nearly identical from day to day, I listened intently, clinging on to each word as if each syllable were

some precious treasure worth millions of dollars.

For a whole two months, my family maintained the same routine each day. Mom and dad informed me of Shau-

na’s status, and I anxiously awaited the day I could once again gaze upon Shauna’s smooth, floral white face. Dad took

off work for an indefinite period of time and mom called her friends for household necessities like food and hygienic

products so as to be in the house on “Shauna-watch” 24/7.

One night, I woke up to use the bathroom down the hall. As I slunk down the hallway in zombie mode, I be-

came aware of an opportunity I had previously neglected to take advantage of. Ignoring my bathroom needs, I crept up

the curved, smooth, marble staircase towards the third floor. I tiptoed up to the second door on the left-hand side of the

hallway and noticed a light shining through the crack under the door, lighting up the darkness that shrouded me in my

cloak of invisibility. I listened intently for any sounds coming from the other side of the door. Silence. I twisted the cold

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doorknob clockwise. Click. Today was my lucky day.

I entered the dimly lit room slowly. The room had changed slightly since before the accident; although the em-

erald-green drapes still framed the windows, the queen sized bed pushed against the right-side wall had been extracted

from the room. Instead, a sleek, black rectangular structure had been moved into the center of the room.

I panicked at the sight of my mom leaning over the side of the dark structure. If she saw me in the room, I

would be in huge trouble. Before exiting the room to avoid being caught, I noticed that my mom’s body sat limply

against the structure. She was asleep. As I stealthily crept up to the black mass at the center of the room, my mouth

dropped. For the first time in what felt like decades, I saw Shauna.

Suddenly, a pang of suspicion spread throughout my being. Shauna looked as perfect as ever. In fact, she looked

better than perfect...she looked immortal with her new glowing, waxy skin tone - frozen at one lovely-looking point in

time for eternity. Shauna’s body lay peacefully in her black casket, having clearly parted ways with her spirit for some

time now.

I didn’t dare wake my mom. Her actions over the past few months said more than words could. I slipped out of

the room unnoticed and ran back to the sanctity of my bedroom, no questions asked.

That night I dreamt of Peter, pirates, and the Lost Boys. I dreamt of fighting off enemies with my lethal weapons

and my men. I dreamed of Wendy shouting “You’ll never get away with this, Captain Hook!”, and plunging willingly

into the musky, deep blue sea.

Anna Jordan ‘15

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Places

By Kyra Kondis

The first one I can remember

Was just one room;

The prominence of a hulking black Toshiba

And a taped-up VCR slot

Is where you would take off your Elton John glasses

And pry my fists from the cassette

Before curious fingers unravelled it,

Reminding me, honey, that everything was fragile.

We moved again, two blocks away, and soon it was just the two of us,

One-zero-zero-two, Constitution Drive

Was a ground-floor apartment

With wooly gray carpet

That smelled like a new tennis ball.

There was a clear inch of pine needles on the ground

That sometimes snuck through the screens of our windows,

Which offered a magnificent view of the complex’s mailbox

And the dumpster that was no match for a lit cigarette and newspaper.

Sometimes that Autumn we drove North,

You called it Clarendon and took me on the Metro

And I laughed because Foggy Bottom

Sounded like Froggy Bottom,

And you laughed because we were whole again,

And Dad’s new apartment had a boastful silver Samsung

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With no VCR slot and no scotch tape

But in Early December we covered it in bubble wrap

And put it in the back of a U-Haul with a bumper dimpled like tinfoil

And you reminded me, honey, that everything was fragile.

Just the two of us

Became just the three of us again,

The three of us and a townhouse and a perfect cliché picket fence

And a driveway, just for us and not anybody else

With a streetlight on a timer that couldn’t tell night from day

And the carpet had no smell, only cleanliness

But it didn’t matter because you let me paint my walls Cornflower blue

And planted camellias

And when three almost became four

We cried and filled your bedroom with daisies

For the premature tragedy that soured the days.

But two years later,

Three did become four,

And the spare room was painted yellow

And filled with quilted zoo animals.

You didn’t have your Elton John glasses anymore

So you squinted in the sun and strolled alongside us

As I pulled Number Four down the sidewalk in the little cherry wagon

That I used to pretend was a prairie schooner,

stopping only to fix the hood of his coat

That was fluffy and green like a callery tree

And you told me to be careful with the baby and the cherry wagon,

Reminding me, honey, that everything was fragile.

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Now Number Four plays games on an iPod

That certainly doesn’t have a VCR slot,

In the living room that is three times the size

Of apartment one-zero-zero-two

And has no carpet at all, only shiny chestnut

And a backyard twice the size of the townhouse’s

So you can plant as many camellias as you want,

And you sweep bits of glass Christmas tree ornament off the ground

Because fifteen-month-old Number Five decided she wanted to play ball.

You remember sixteen years ago when you had to tape up the VCR slot

To keep another set of mischievous fingers out of the cassettes,

And you lift Number Five off the not-carpet to sit her on your knee,

Reminding her, honey, that everything is fragile.

Kyra Kondis ‘14

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Stew

By Anna Jordan

Simon tries to walk into the supermarket as casually as possible, eyes ahead, shoulders loose, hands

not gripping his bag too tightly. His mouth is dry though, and he can’t seem to help the way his hands

tremble ever-so-slightly. There’s a ball of lead forming in his heart and he feels like any minute he’ll throw

up. But that’s fine. Everything’s fine. He just needs…

What does he need?

Vegetables. A voice murmurs in his ear, resonating through his head with the same sense of clarity

as a tuning fork. It makes his temples throb. Potatoes, celery, carrots, an onion or two. If you kept your

cupboards well stocked like a good meatbag you wouldn’t have to be here at two in the afternoon. It’s a

wonder you keep your useless self alive.

Simon flinches midway to the refrigerated section. His shoulders come up as he hunches over, darts

his eyes down, and snarls under his breath, “Shut up, shut up, I know alright.”

An old woman browsing for apples turns to look at him, disgruntled, and quickly casts her eyes

away when he glances at her. Simon can only imagine what he looks like. Bags under his eyes from lack of

sleep, hair disheveled, clothes wrinkled and dirty.

He shakes his head at himself and walks a little quicker, lifting a hand to run a hand through his hair

only for it to get snagged halfway through. Ugh, his hair is a greasy disgusting ratsnest, the consequence of

not having been washed in days.

He still can’t bring himself to go into his bathroom. The smell is one thing, but the bo-

Focus! The voice hisses. Buy the food and leave. Don’t talk to anybody, keep your head down.

God knows you’ll mess something up the moment you open your mouth.

Right. Get the food and leave. That’s all. He’ll take care of the bathroom when he gets to the bath-

room.

He makes the rest of his way around the grocery store with his head down, whiteknuckles his way

through paying for the vegetables, and stumbles through the automatic doors, hit by a wave of dizziness.

Lack of sleep is getting to him sooner than he thought it would, making the ground waver back and forth as

he tries to walk a semi-straight path home, cutting through people’s backyards and along dirt paths worn by

strangers’ feet.

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He’s close enough to his house that he can see his obnoxiously yellow mailbox when he catches sight of

Ashley, walking along the curb just up the sidewalk.

He knows that it’s too late to cross to the other side of the street - he would only draw attention to himself.

He can pinpoint the exact moment she notices him, when a shocked look flickers across her face covered by a pain-

fully fake grin that exposes too many teeth.

The lead in his heart drifts down to his stomach, which grumbles and growls. He can’t tell if he’s hungry

or nauseous, and his throat clicks when he swallows down air. He wonders if Ashley can hear his heartbeat from

twenty feet away, eighteen, seventeen, fifteen.

Calm yourself. The voice murmurs. You will exchange basic meaningless pleasantries. You will tell her

you’ve been out with the stomach flu for the past few weeks. You will be out of her way as soon as possible and

you will not. Screw. This. Up.

Then Ashley’s upon him, invading his personal space and wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing her-

self against him and squeezing. It takes all the self-control he has not to pry her off and run for the hills. She’s too

close, she’ll see some detail, some minuscule bit of evidence he overlooked and she’ll know.

All the while she’s babbling, a never-ending stream of questions and concerns and, where have you been,

we’ve been so worried about you, Simon, you haven’t responded to anyone’s messages and the teachers are saying

if you’re gone for much longer you’ll lose credit for half your classes and-

He interrupts her. He has to get home, get home as soon as he can because it’s beginning to heat up, baking

the concrete forming visible waves in the air as heat radiates off the sidewalk. It’s heating up and Simon’s AC is

busted, has been for the past month while he tries to scrounge up the money to get it fixed, scrounge up money that

he should have had by now but then he had woken up in the bathroom covered in-

No. No time to think about it now because if he does he knows he’ll vomit all over Ashley’s expensive

shoes.

He pastes a smile on his face. “I managed to get mono. Knocked me out for a solid week. Just when I was

getting ready to come back I got food poisoning. I’ve been up all night, ya know? Nasty stuff, undercooked beef.”

He shrugs, like he doesn’t have the common sense to know raw meat from cooked and makes his way around her,

his eyes darting from her to his mailbox.

“And ya know I’m real sorry about not answering your messages and stuff but I was a bit busy, what with

the projectile pukage and all.”

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She wrinkles her nose at him and takes an unconscious half-a-step backwards, and that’s all the dismissal

he needs. He turns and walks away before she can get a word out, shouting back something about stomach prob-

lems and how sorry he is to leave her hanging.

He doesn’t remember the fifteen seconds it takes to get to his front door, but he blinks and suddenly he’s

inside, clutching a bag full of vegetables to his chest and staring at his apartment that remains as he left it hours

ago. His dinky old table is overturned, dirty metal cups and silverware strewn across the floor. The only light

comes from the bathroom, its door open a couple inches with a dark stain creeping slowly across the carpet.

Simon turns away from the bathroom and what it holds to face the kitchen, consisting of an ancient gas

stove and a couple cobwebbed cupboards overhead. He gets out the biggest pot he has, big enough to put over his

head and rest easily on his shoulders, and sets it on the stove.

For a moment he finds he doesn’t know what to do. He’s gotten this far, vegetables on the floor at his feet

and pot on the table. His hands, which had ceased shaking during his chat with Ashley, begin to shake again more

violently than before. It feels like an iron band is tightening around his throat. God he doesn’t want to do this.

Can’t do this, won’t do this.

Would you rather leave it be and face the consequences? You’re disliked as it is in this town, but when

they see what you’ve done, it’ll be a wonder if you get out alive.

Right. Right, right. Simon shuts his eyes for a moment, taking a shaky deep breath in through his nose and

letting it trickle out his mouth. When he opens his eyes his hands are steady, breathing slow and calm.

You’ll need an ax. Go about it quickly, make sure not to stain the rug. You’ll need that extra-strength

bleach to get any spillage out of the tiles.

He tiptoes his way to the bathroom and nudges it open with an elbow, only wincing slightly at the smell.

He steps gently around pools of congealing blood and goes to perch on the edge of the bathtub.

Start at the joints. Do it over the bathtub so you have less blood to wash away. Don’t vomit, it’ll taint the

meat.

He nods to himself, or the voice, or whoever it is. “I know.” He murmurs. “I know.”

You’ll be making quite a lot of stew.

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Bishop Inspired Poem

By Amanda Richards

fragile off white crystals cracked on the brittle grass,

three degrees too frigid to be called dew,

and clung to the soles of tired men

who had buried their souls under the sheath of dusk.

the weary sun stretched its rays towards heaven,

turning the sky into a palette of titian like crushed rose petals.

morning broke, bringing with it

heads heavy with sleep and what they knew,

frozen ground surely crushing those bones like glass.

one man coughed, adjusted his hat,

turned to address the group.

breath billowed from his lips,

forming rolling clouds of sympathy.

“That was not easy, men,

our work is never through.

I wonder what you think of me,

as we trudge numbly through the dew.”

the men brushed him off,

grumbling into the brisk air,

they were too consumed by chill to care.

and so they trudged on,

through field and valley low,

through cornfields with stiff yellow stalks

swaying in what was now dew.

the sun had given up on ‘ten minutes more,’

her beauty sleep cut short by duty sweet,

and lifted her pale lids, and stretched her brittle fingers,

cracking with the novelty of morning.

Kathy Ren ‘15

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back in the dark, deep, green,

the dirt settled slowly into place,

a three by six flaw in the overgrown lace

of the forest floor.

the trees had been softly quieted,

their branches no longer asway,

as if in shock of what humans are capable of,

the blue lipped beauty put away.

her ringlets gone limp in the struggle,

a clean slice on her porcelain neck,

and the trees bore witness to it all,

a tragic fate to befall her.

as the first birds of the morning emerged,

cautiously singing their hymns,

paying homage to the sun who rose once again,

the men finally crossed the last farm.

“well, good luck, my comrades,”

one heavy-heartedly wished,

and they parted their final goodbyes.

the sun rushed behind an ash-colored cloud

as if fearing the coming day.

there was no more that she could say. Vorakit Chudatemiya ‘14

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Gwen Tyrie ‘14

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Metro or a Club?

By Vorakit Chudatemiya

At 6:45 in the morning, this sixteen-year-old boy who looked about fourteen stepped out of the blue Ride

On bus. He walked down with his Bose in-ear headphones. He walked over to me and sat on the bench, right by

my side. Then, a medium-sized lady wearing a white dress started singing out loud to the song she was listening

to. She sang at the same level as cheerleaders screaming at a sports team.

“Hello,” she started talking to the strangers who were waiting for a bus. “Hey!” she kept yelling at people

at the Rockville Metro station, and then she started dancing. Oh lord, I wish she had a dancer’s body. I was gig-

gling in my head at what she was doing. The boy next to me still had his headphones in. He made a “what-are-

you-doing” face and shook his head a little, trying to avoid getting the wild dancer mad from seeing his ignorant

look.

Three minutes later, Metrobus route Q6 finally arrived at the station. The boy next to me stood up quick-

ly, thinking that he was the luckiest one in the world to escape from this unavoidable awkward situation. He was

damn right. He could finally escape from this hell; praise the lord. I was still stuck with her, for another half an

hour on my way to work. Was she inspired by YouTube star GloZell, or vice versa?

Alexys Cohen ‘14

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Gwen Tyrie ‘14

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Virginia’s Mattress

By Marina Kerlow

The cold linoleum tile,

Tiptoeing eager small five-year-old feet.

Always the first one awake.

Sweaty soles adhered to the floor, each step

sounded like peeling off a

sticky note. My parents slept

on a mattress, which took over the whole

living room floor. It was dusk.

Purple and orange fuzzy Florida skies.

A parakeet’s cocking head,

perched, behind the cage in the dining room,

demands “Virginia Café!”

“Ouch!” First bird to bite my finger. Mom said

“Don’t stick your hands in the cage.”

The cold linoleum tile,

Tiptoeing eager small five-year-old feet.

Old Formica countertops.

With a Pringles canister in the corner.

Chipped old wicker furniture

With floral plastic cushion coverings.

The cold linoleum tile,

Tiptoeing eager small five-year-old feet.

I ate mangos whole, skin peeled,

my little hands gripping. Picked right off the

tree behind her house. So slippery.

The sticky juice ran down my chin. Staining

my pajamas. Full-toothed grin.

She bounced me on her knee, while she drank her

café con leche. Boney,

strong hands, four fingers lost to a sewing

machine. She gossiped with the

neighbors. Light long dresses, sun leathered skin,

white hair and gold rimmed glasses.

Spearmint, pastel colored, one story house.

Rusty, peeling white Iron Gate.

Bars imprisoned each of the windows from

the occasional robber.

I learned to walk on that hard slippery floor

The cold linoleum tile,

Tiptoeing eager small five-year-old feet.

A gift wrapped box with a bow.

I shredded up the wrapping. Unorganized

and impatient. Lifted the

lid. An American girl doll inside.

I exclaimed “Oh! I love it!”

and clutched it close. “Feliz Navidad!” She beamed.

I ran around outside with

the red bow on my head. Wild curly hair,

stained pajamas and no shoes.

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Scratchy rough Florida grass, crunchy, dried out.

“Lets go buy Virginia a

mattress.” My mother stated. “I will stay.”

Was Virginia’s scarce reply.

I jumped on the display beds as many kids do.

Laughing as I tested each one.

We drove back, mattress bungee corded to

the roof. Unlocked the front door.

Heard water running. From where? The bathroom.

It sounded like a fountain.

Something bad had happened, I could just tell.

Frantic and panicked mom ran

towards the noise. I was unsure and scared.

Mom ushered me outside.

“Abuela?” I called “Sweetie, go next door.”

Her voice cracked. “What’s going on Mom?”

The nice neighbor rubbed my back, reassured

me. I watched the ambulance

arrive, with my nose smashed up against the

window. Flashing red lights, so loud.

I rushed outside, and stood on the sun scorched

pavement in my light up

Velcro shoes, holding my doll by one foot

as I watched a stretcher with

a covered body get loaded inside.

I never saw my parents

cry until then. “We are grieving.” They said.

“Virginia went to heaven.”

“I don’t understand.” So I did not cry.

Confused, afraid, fuzzy day.

A for sale sign was put in the yard. The

parrot was given away.

Never returned to Virginia’s house.

The cold linoleum tile pressed against

Quick five-year-old feet, no more.

Sara Howard ‘15

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Marina Kerlow ‘15

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Saving Miss Rose

By Kyra Kondis

“That’s what you do when you love somebody, boys. You save them.”

“Just finish up, Mr. Day,” the one closest to the front said. Poor impatient fellow. I’d bet everything I had that he’d spent at least an hour in front of the mirror that morning with a bottle of sculpting chutney and a fine-toothed comb, wasting sixty precious minutes of his eternity on that stiff coiffure of his. But I obliged.

“She was born sixteenth October, nineteen-forty-four; I knew this because the day I first courted her was also her twentieth birthday. Now, bear in mind, my mother left me alone with my old man in Greensboro when I was eight, so it’s truly a wonder that I knew how to treat a lady.

“When my father died, I was nineteen, and he left me the house--wretched man probably did it so I couldn’t escape. Every corner of that damn place was home to a beating, to my mother cowering, to bleeding knuckles. It was a run-down, two-story thing, with chipped paint and a hideous flowered front porch swing that creaked on its chain like a witch’s cackle. But I saved that house, I did; I took that dying sandy-brown grass and cared for it till it was green. I saved it. Just like I saved Miss Charlotte Edna Rose.”

The impatient fellow had a pen in his hand and was writing real fast, his smooth, young, inexperienced brow furrowed over his squinted, boyishly bright blue eyes. A muscle in his square jaw twitched. He motioned at me to continue. How querulous.

“Miss Charlotte Edna Rose, whom I love, by the way, saw that there was a good man in me. Now, she never knew her father, so I’d say she needed somebody decent in her life. I was her necessity.

“The first time I took her out, on her birthday, as you know, she wore this pretty little red-and-blue polka-dotted thing with white lace on the collar. I couldn’t afford flowers, so I pulled up some begonias from her neigh-bor’s yard and presented them to her, like a real gentleman. Poor, lonely thing didn’t recognize where I got ‘em from; a gift was a gift, and her emerald eyes lit up like Independence Day as she smiled that quiet, secretive smile I loved so much. I never wanted her to stop. But sadly, the world is a terrible place. Happiness is temporary.

“Nonetheless, I knew I brought her joy, and her contentment satisfied me. I was a part of her, more so than any other girl I’d taken home before. I simply loved her more; more than Ida With Hair Like the Moon, more than Elizabeth With the Cherry Lipstick, and even more than Linda With the Violet Eyes and the Violet Fingernails. Nothing could describe Charlotte Edna Rose quite right.” I paused, giving the rather testy man a moment to object, to say surely there must be something more to attribute to this wonderful, hapless woman cursed by life in such a cruel vessel of a world, but he continued to peer at me silently, so I carried on.

“She loved me, too, you know, Charlotte did. I knew it when she opened up to me, told me how her father left their family for his mistress when she wasn’t even a year old, and she never saw him, never got so much as a letter, and her mother turned to the bottle, virtually gone herself... to Charlotte, her father’s eternity didn’t exist. He was nothing but a figment of her own.”

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“Mr. Day,” Impatient Blue Eyes looked up at me, capping and uncapping his pen, “what exactly do you mean by ‘eternity?’”

I chuckled. Poor, naive soul. “Everyone has an eternity,” I explained. “Everyone’s eternity is filled with a dif-ferent torture, a different gloom. The best we can do is hope for our eternity to end with justice. To have that which we never had. The ending, you know, resolves all.” Impatient Blue Eyes squinted even more, scribbling ferociously. I thought he might rip through the paper of his yellow legal pad.

“As I was saying,” I continued, adjusting my disgustingly professional-looking tie, “Charlotte Edna Rose was different. When she smiled, it was like she was making a promise, swearing silently that she had all the happi-ness there was in the world, and it was her own covert knowledge. She believed in me. It’s all like I said; she knew I was a good man. I cared for her, I gave her a blue-collar life and a home to return to at the end of the day. We used to sit on that porch swing and talk about the things that were good in the world, even though I knew there was noth-ing. I listened as she told me how she loved peonies, cotton pillows, the smell of rain. In that year we spent together, I promised to give her everything that would make her happy on this horrible earth. I would save her from her doomed eternity. I would be the man she never had, a perfect, real-life replacement of the figment of her father. I cannot say it enough; I loved her. I did.

“That’s why I buried her in the greenest, most beautiful patch in my yard on that day, March seventh, nine-teen-sixty-six. Her secretive smile was frozen on her face, and now it could be there forever. She never saw it com-ing, bless her soul, too enthralled with each and every moment to know that she was finally being rescued. The last breath she took was of laughter, clutching the peonies I’d just given her. They were red and blue, like the dress she’d worn on our first date. I buried them with her that day, the morning before a thunderstorm, so she would always smell the rain.”

“Mr. Edgar Day,” Impatient Blue Eyes said, putting down his pen and wiggling his fingers for a moment, looking me straight in in the eye with a tinge of satisfaction, or perhaps relief, “these statements you have just made are directly linked to the March seventh homicide of Charlotte Rose, identified as one of four bodies found in a twenty-two by twenty-two foot section of your own backyard on July eighteenth, nineteen ninety-four. Let the record show that your statements constitute a confession to the act. You are under continued investigation for the murders of the other three aforementioned women, Ida Wallace, Elizabeth Wood, and Linda Green, regarding which the Greens-boro Police Department will continue questioning in a week’s time.”

I looked around at the faces that surrounded me in the courtroom, Impatient Blue Eyes’ still at the front. Hap-less, naive, condemned souls, stuck in their doomed oblivion, whether they knew it or not. If only I could help them end their misery.

“Murder is a very... controversial word,” I explained, breaking into the dead quiet of the room. “In fact, I would say that Miss Charlotte Edna Rose was never murdered at all. I saved Charlotte Edna Rose. I preserved her smile. I took away the pain of her eternity. I was her justice.

“That’s what you do when you love somebody. You save them.”

24

Supernova

By Jake Gearon

The star to the east

Where did it go?

I saw it only last week,

Standing in the cold.

Why did it leave?

That molecule of light

flickering as in a dream

in the other-worldly night.

How did it disappear?

It went at once, supernova.

Did it have any fear?

On this cold night in October?

The night is fractured,

And the heavens fall apart.

Constellations hanging, tattered

Forming a decrepit kind of art.

Now all that there is of me

Is in a cloud of dust

Floating slowly in a cosmic sea.

What caused me to combust?

Forever suspended, I look to home

But it is only a molecule of

light in a strange celestial dome.

Time, or some form of it, passes.

Then, a too familiar sight

The star to the east

No longer shines so bright.

And fear within me creeps

Where is my once home?

Freed from its enclosure?

Its cold, jagged tomb,

Somewhat like October.

Then the night is fractured

but the constellations flee

freed from points of capture

unmendable, even by me

But the stars are unimportant

my mind is preoccupied

memories long ago recorded

are unearthed, nearly fossilized

25

My once home is near

but ancient signs of distress

slowly begin to appear

eons ago were they etched.

It went all at once

An event quite sober.

But, how did it go?

It went supernova.

Erin Mena ‘14

26

Silver’s Fall

By Max Goodman

Driving on some nights, the crescent moon hangs so low in the sky, that one worries about it scraping the hilltops.

Facing upwards like a bowl of light, it might convene with the stars for a second too long, and the blackened waves of farmland would reach up into the navy sky and run it aground.

Crashing sideways through permafrost.

Plowing the field early.

People would make pilgrimages. To that place where heaven kissed the earth with silver.

And although the corn might grow up around it, the cosmic ditch would never heal.

Never existing to the daylight, sheltered by corn stalks and starchy leaves.

Nighttime would forever persist above that fertile crater.

Until the next harvest. When the great tractor cracks the empty tomb.

Sunlight would stream in, to find the celestial body already gone, halfway to Galilee.

Mar

ina

Ker

low

‘15

27

A Winter Adventure

By Sam Chih

Even though the night was cold

from the chill that came with snow,

an ill-tempered man walks out his door.

Going off of the beaten path,

he sloshes down with each foot step.

He knew it was freezing,

so he slips a toxic stick between his lips that was given to him by the Marlboro man himself.

He tries to spark a light under the cover of wind, one strike, two strike, and three’s the charm.

He continues on his freezing path.

With his tiny torch in the corner of his mouth he keeps marching through the sullied snow,

using his light as a guide he keeps going as the street lights dim.

He glances at an old swingset by the park as melancholical thoughts flowed through his head,

remembering the times when he was young when he lived in a delusion of grandeur.

But he remains resilient and continues his path to nowhere.

He continues to walk but finds himself unable to chase off memories of a much simpler time.

He reminisces how weightless he felt as his father pushed,

the times where he could be a cop and a robber in the same day,

the time where he could look up with dreams of being a pilot, an astronaut, a superhero.

Childish dreams. That’s all they were. Simply childish.

28

Still he knows that they were his dreams.

And he dreamed to be something more, something different and now he’s a full grown man with nothing to show for it.

He finds himself short on his fix.

Now with direction the ill-tempered changes course to a place where his guilty pleasure is sold.

He walks in the lit store with a purpose and he walks out with pack of reds instead.

He starts a fire the same way standing outside, one strike, two strike, three’s the charm.

“You mind if I bum one?”

A forgotten man with nothing to lose but single tooth asks the ill-tempered man to assist in his suicide.

He stands there looking this man in the eye,

he shares his vice with him and lights up his life, one strike, two strike, three’s the charm.

He left his home for a sense of freedom, but now he stands with a man who’d kill for his cage.

He had left with an ill temper,

yet journeys on back with embers in his eyes and a guilty heart.

He ashes out his drag along with his misplaced rage, and begins a new quest back to the warmth of his cage.

Marina Kerlow ‘15

29

Early Neighborhood Buzz

By Marina Kerlow

Perchedhighinthebranchesbirdschirpedonthefirstdayofspring.Theirshrillflutterysongsfilledthe

crispair.Theywerethefirstsignthatwinterhaddeparted.Therewasnoneedforalarmclocksthatdaybecause

mothernaturesetoneofherown.Thehighpitchringingopenedallthelittleeyes.Headspoppedupandlittle

handsrubbedawaythesleepleftbythewinter.Clothesfartoosummeryforthedaywerethrownon.T-shirts

wereinsideoutandstained.Shortswerebackwardsandwrinkled.Sockswerecoveredwithholesandmis-

matched.Colorcoordinationwasasforeignandnon-existentascombedhairandbrushedteeth.Blues,purples

andorangeswerecarelesslypairedwithgreens,pinks,andreds.Stripescombinedwithpolkadotsandtie-dye.

Thewalkingrainbowtornadoswhirledthroughtheirhomes,slatheringontheirVelcroshoes.Noonecaredthat

thesolesonlyflickerednowinsteadoflightingupwithbrightcolors.TheVelcrolightupshoestrulywereamag-

nificentinvention.Smallanxiousheadspokedoutfrombehindtoweringheavydoorslikebabybirdspeeringout

oftheirshelteredsafenests.Theheadspeeredleftandrightlikesailorsguardingtheirship.Theyallnoddedin

silentagreement.

Thedayandthechildrenwerereadytoexplode.Motherscalledafterthembutnothingcouldstopthe

poundingheartsandanxiousfeet.Thebirdsorchestratedasthechildrenburstoutside.Homedoorsandfence

gatesflewopenandwerealmostrippedoffoftheirhinges.ThechildrenracedtothecornerwhereParkAvenue

metWillowStreet.Thisoncedesolatecornerbustledasthefirstdayofspringwalkingpoolhadcommenced.All

ittookwasoneadult.Onenaiveadultwhosaidthetwo-letteredpowerfulword“go”.Andtheywereoff.Pouring

outtocrossthestreet.Theywhirleddownthehilllikespinningtops.Strollersbouncedoversidewalkcracksand

parentsbreathedhardastheytriedtokeepup.

Frombehindpurple-rimmedglasses,theworldappearedtobeblossomingbeforehereyes.Morning

gloriesopenedtosayhello.Purpleirisespokedtheirheadsoutandspreadtheirpetalswideasiftheywerewav-

inggoodmorning.Theyparadeddownthestreet,likethebellowingmarchingbandonthefourthofJuly.They

didn’tneedglimmeringtrombones,shriekingtrumpetsorbellowingdrums.Theyhadeverythingtheyneeded,

thebirds,thesteadyfastbeatofVelcrolight-upshoespoundingonthepavementandtheirlaughterwarmedthe

airandmeltedthemorningdew.Theystormedonlikeaheardofelephants.Inunisontheynavigatedthewind-

ingstreets.Theyplayedfollowtheleaderastheyjumpedovertreerootsandslashedthroughhighgrassinother

30

neighbors’yards.Itwasn’ttrespassingbecausealltheneighborsknewthekids.Thesekidswerewildbutbeloved.

Asthecircustraveledonitseemedasthoughtheentireneighborhoodwaswakingupfromhibernatingall

winterlong.Oldpeopleinbeatupbathrobesweresittingontheirporchessippingtheirmorningcoffeeandadults

lookedupastheybentdowntocollectthemorningnewspapers.Thesunpokeditsheadoutfrombehindthetrees

toilluminatetheirpath.Thespringneededthem.Theywerethetinyuncontrollablehelpers.Theywerethecon-

ductorsofspring;nomorecarpool,scarves,parkas,andindoorrecess.Themorningexcitementcametoanabrupt

haltwhentheyarrivedatschool.Thejourneywasover.Theyhadfulfilledtheirduty.Walkingwastheonlyvesselof

transportation.Thescrapedkneesandbruisesweretheirbattlewounds.Althoughoneadventurehadendedand

parentskissedtheirchildrengoodbye,thekidsknewthatthedaywouldbefilledwithfurtherexploration.Theyall

knewinthebackoftheirmindsthattheirdutieswouldbeunpausedwhentheybeganthefirstSpringafternoon

walkingpoolbackhome.Velcroshoespoundingonthepavementandtheyweregone.

Erin Mena ‘14

31

The Snake Eater

By Stephanie Stettz

He was home, safe and sound.

That was all that mattered.

Young man with

Receding brown hair line, tan skin and bright brown eyes, all still intact.

From across the Atlantic he returned,

Fighting in a war that not everyone called for.

To the family, he was the hero,

But to me, he was just

Cousin Jeffrey: The Snake Eater.

He came home,

Bearing battle scars, bloody head scarfs and swords,

Tales from his time at war

Found new homes in the minds of his family,

Settling like dust on a book

That had finally been closed.

Stories of prison guarding, patrols and shoot outs

Never passed from the lips of the adults when we children were around.

The only tale we got to hear from his adventure

Was from his time in the eastern mountains,

Where he earned his nickname.

That last chapter became

Stuck in the minds of all the younger cousins.

Too young to understand

What had happened those few years,

So to the adults, he was the hero,

But to us, he was just

Cousin Jeffrey: The Snake Eater.

Vorakit Chudatemiya ‘14

32

My White Wall Dream

By Holly Guzman

My walls were painted an off-white like a canvas, so I could stare and imagine different places to escape to before I went to bed. I usually imagined a jungle. As I closed my eyes, everything felt surreal. Beautiful trees blossomed with deep pink orchids. Exotic birds, blue, red, and orange, flew past me singing beautiful tunes. I ran through the jungle freely, as if I were a wild animal. I smiled and jumped on top of huge rocks declaring myself queen of the jungle.

Suddenly, I was no longer alone. I could hear heavy footsteps getting closer and closer. I crouched down like a frog behind some red rose berry bushes, feeling panicked. I waited for the footsteps to fade away, and then I was on the move again. I ran, never looking back, but not knowing where I was running to exactly. I pretended I was an animal, a cheetah, maybe, chasing after its prey.

I began to hear footsteps again, but they were closer this time. I looked up and there was a huge elephant running toward me. I darted off not knowing where I was going and it didn’t really matter. I was parched from running and panicking at the same time. The jungle slowly started to disappear, and now I was running on gravel and dirt. I could hear the elephant getting closer, but it sounded like more than just one. I looked back and counted two, three, four, oh gosh five. Five elephants stampeding towards me. Exhaustion made me stumble and fall on the graveled ground.

I awoke with a gasp, covered in sweat. It was only a dream, I remembered, and stared at my walls until I dozed off again.

Sylvie Langsdorf-Willoughby ‘15

33

The following three poems are inspired by A Long Way Gone: Memoirs of a Boy Soldier by Ishmael Beah

Ghosts (a war poem) By Katie Auerswald

Night’s darkness

Presses down

On my shoulders

Weighing me down

Birds stop singing

Their joyful tune as

If waiting for something

To come

Water flows soundlessly

Under the tiny stick bridge

As if it were

Asleep

They are wearing white shirts

Holding hands as they

Finally come

Walking across the water

Floating soundlessly

And whispering like bees

As they pause

As if sensing our presence

Gwen Tyrie ‘14

34

Mud Houses

By Maya Carolina

From emptiness and dark travels

We finally found those mud houses.

Hidden in gray, there they swayed:

The six abandoned clay houses.

He never spoke but the

Quiet wind whispered

While he played with a stone

Reminding me of the river

We splashed in the cold.

I thought maybe he had

Depression

While he stared at the clouds

Scared and expressionless.

There was only silence.

Everything is

By Davy Adise

Everything is red.

From the blood splattered

On top of my crapes,

To the speckled red

On the wheelbarrow

That I am pushing

Through the dead bodies

Like an arrow point

Through the pumping heart.

Everything’s umber.

From the dead dim eyes

To the scabs on me

Spotting me over

Like spots on a cow.

The wheelbarrow is

Being pushed by me

To the graveyard down

To the graveyard ground.

Everything is fire.

From the land around

To the soul inside.

As I see my face

As dead as a corpse.

With flies circling round.

It is absolute.

I am dead all through

Like a corpse on fire.

Gabrielle Cristiano ‘16

35

Yellow

By Amanda Richards

Yellow. That’s what I see when I think back to my stint in the slammer. Maybe it’s because I’ve blocked out all of the other thoughts, or maybe it’s because the goddamn sun was always in my eyes. You would think that having bars on the windows would provide for some sort of dingy, dark jail cell, but what they don’t tell you is you ain’t worth the luxury of window shades. Being locked up in the summer really does a number on a person. It’s like you got all this sunlight, all this warmth, but you can’t touch it. Day in and day out I was pressing my face against the windowpane, drinking in the heat like I was trying to cook my brain. Wouldn’t have hurt me much. I’m not sure how many more brain cells I could have killed, anyway, after the drugs and all.

Prison on withdrawal, now that’s the worst. My mama told me I’d end up dying young, if not from the drugs than from the hell called getting clean. She thought I was weak, told me so one day over the prison phone while Big T was pushing up on me to hang up so he could call his girl back. Laying on a dirty old prison cot glistening with sweat, puking my guts out into a plastic trash bin from the dollar store, I didn’t have half the fire left in me to disagree.

But Bradner, now there was a weak man. He was the one got me sent to the SHU, got me set on that Jesus shit again. Funny how four blank walls can make a man see God. I was working my job in the kitchen, which by the way is top of the chain. More hours, better pay. Anyway, I’m standing by the stove mixing up God knows what to make some-thing halfway close to edible, and Bradner comes slinking up, scrawny little thing, and leans that nasty old hip of his against the counter.

“Ay, Slade, man, you tryna get in on this new stuff? We got it coming in on the trucks this afternoon. I got jigs if you wanna set it aside for me.”

Now let me get this straight. I ain’t never got involved in all that, not since I got behind bars. My drug days were long over. I was there to do my time and get out. Bradner, though, was a snake. He didn’t give half a shit what was gunna happen to him, he already had all day and a night in there for killing his ex-wife and her kid,doing something real nasty to ‘em. I took a deep breath, opened my mouth, Bradner’s looking all shady and shit, smirking like he’s got me already, and I say, “get the hell out of my kitchen.”

“Whatever, man. But you better watch your back.” Now Bradner, he ain’t gunna do nothing about it. In my eyes, our work there was done. I went back to my cooking, and when the truck came in I went about stocking as usual, didn’t touch a single box.

Four days later, there I was banging my head against the wall, cursing the hell outta Bradner for getting me in this mess. The SHU is a hell all it’s own. It drives a man to insanity, it drives a man to God. Long story short Bradner was pissed I didn’t help him out, so he dry snitched to the guards that my kitchen was full of drugs, and being the big, proud idiot of a man that I am, I tried to take a kitchen knife on him. Four days later and I was done counting the cracks on the ceiling. I was doing all I could to be somewhere else, away from the monsters in my head some people call an-gels.

I’m laying there realizing I spent my whole life alone, and alone I was still. Once you get locked up, ain’t no-body answering your calls anymore. Not like I had anybody to call. So I’m sitting here all pissed and planning Brad-ner’s death, and I done accepted my solitude, when I hear something real faint.

“You’re not alone. You got God.” Like they been reading my mind or something. I’m looking around all crazy like when I realize there ain’t nobody else in there with me. I sit down on the cot with my head in my hands, thinking, You done lost it this time, Slade. I’m sitting here on my cot hearing angels or some shit like that. I closed my eyes and listened real hard, but all I got was beautiful silence.

When I opened them again, there she was. Real bad woman, long hair and nice, white teeth, curves in all the right places. She was wearing a long white dress, the kind you see in church. I jumped up so quick you’d think my ass

36

was on fire. She’s staring me down hard, I’m trying to straighten myself up to look good for this lady. She touches my cheek, and I swear it, her hand was warm as sunlight coming through the bars on the windows.

“You got God. That’s all you need,” she says, like it’s something every man comes out the womb knowing. I reach up to touch her hand, and it was like I’d touched the sun itself. Suddenly, my skin under her fingers was scorching hot, pain like needles and a whole lot worse. The whole room was yellow, light so bright I went blind for a second. Like I said, yel-low. That’s all I was seeing and all I see now.

Of course after she was gone I went back to knowing, damn, I was really losing it in there. My bad behavior days were over, I was gunna get out early and get back my sanity. So I’m standing in there cursing God, and Bradner, hitting my head against the wall, and the guard opens the door to let me out, tell me I’m back in regular confinement. This time I was the one singing Hallelujah. I’m walking around the place like I own it, knowing Bradner’s got no job anymore, on account of someone else dry snitching him right back about the drugs. At least I had some support in there.

Good behavior and a whole lot of church attendance got me outta there in 5 months, cutting my sentence short by three. I was a free man. And now here I am two years later with a wife who drags me to church every Sunday just to im-press her father, and working two jobs to keep a nice house. I ain’t very religious, but at least I’m sane. I’m a smarter man now, and all I got from my time in prison is a scar on my cheek, and a whole lot of yellow.

Erin Mena ‘14

37

Tapestry

By Jonathan Crawley-Fye

There is a tapestry. It is no ordinary tapestry.

Infused with trust, betrayal, lust and anger.

It is as thin as a spider’s web, and is balancing precariously on a knife’s edge.

At any moment, this tapestry could cease to exist,

But the vessel for this twisted tapestry cares not.

Every moment, when knowledge is gained, a strand is added to this tapestry.

When each new strand is added, a string is formed.

Each string is infused into the ropes, and each rope is interwoven into the tapestry.

Every year, a small part of the tapestry is completed, a small part of the world is understood.

Marina Kerlow ‘15

38

Winter Frost

By Ben Baldwin

It, which sleeps upon the pale grass,

crackles when stepped on like thin glass.

Come sunrise and it soon will go,

leaving swiftly as short days pass.

Crawling silently up windows,

its beautiful crystals would show,

humble artwork of little cost.

Lays in shadow of joyous snow.

While sleds are ridden and snowballs tossed,

joyous children Snow will exhaust.

To many but few is oft lost

the shy beauty of winter frost.

Marina Kerlow ‘15

39

Organic Lamb

By Max Goodman

They met in the coffee shop on the corner, next to the Grand Street subway station. When she walked in the door, he was already settled in, hair slicked back, as sleek as his blue and black suit, sitting in a red velvet booth towards the back, across from the record collection. The small, rectangular table in front of him held a cup of espresso and a half-eaten slice of key lime pie. He twirled his fork haphazardly over his plate, staring down at the iPhone in his left hand. She forced herself to approach him: step by step, past the overflowing counter, and its mess of coffee machines, the flavor canisters and the homemade lemon squares, over to the scarlet booth. She opened her mouth to speak. He glanced up at her for a split second, and then back at his phone. “Sit down.” he said, before she had a chance to freeze. She perched warily on the edge of the seat, her back taught as industrial cable. They sat in silence for a few minutes, as his phone clicked away, through his business calendar, his text messages, his linkedin account, his notebook.

“Nice weather we’ve been having, huh.” He said, in a disinterested, semi-sarcastic drone.

“Sure is,” she lied. New York City was in its August heat-peak. You could have fried an egg on the sidewalk if you were really, really really determined to eat the world’s dirtiest egg.

“So!” he proclaimed, flipping his phone over and leaning forward on his elbows, “What can I do for you?”

“Well...” she paused, “you see-”

“-Wait,” he interjected, “Lemme guess. Fame? You look like a fame type. You’ve got the looks for it. I’ll bet that you think you deserve more attention than you’re getting. And who’s to say you don’t? What do the Kardashians have that you don’t?”

He waited for a response.

“That’s not it,” she muttered.

“Oooooohhhhhh,” he chuckled, “so it’s power then.” His tone became worryingly genuine. “I’m so sorry I un-derestimated your intelligence, it must be my inherent bias towards blonds. Anyway, power mostly covers fame, since the news media loves guerrilla warlords, heads of state and stuff like that. Really, most power people are just smarter fame people.”

“I don’t want to be a head of state. I really don’t want fame at all.”

He slammed his fist on the table. His cup and saucer jumped. “You. Sly. Little. Minx.” A toothy grin broke slowly across his face. “Most people don’t even realize that magic is on the table. It’s really sad how little most people know about their own religions. You’re good. Magic. That’s where the real power is: pulling the strings out of the pub-lic eye, being the puppet-master and not the puppet. You can have any revenge, love, thing, or person you want. That’s the vice I chose. It is, by far, the best deal I offer.”

“No, stop!” she squeaked, exasperated, “I want less power!” A few heads turned. A look of interested confusion overcame the his face. Whispering, she continued. “I can’t let myself keep on how I’ve been living. I want you to take away my free will.”

His expression hardened momentarily. “Who’s to say you have any in the first place?”

“A priest, an angel, and you if you want to make a deal.” She hissed underneath her breath, “Listen to me. I don’t love my kids.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You, sweetheart, are truly a breath of fresh air. What on earth is wrong with you?”

“Well I do love them, just not enough... I’m bad at it. When Jack abandoned us, he left me with nothing but our

40

three wailing shit-machines and the rented house we were keeping them in. At first they couldn’t do anything for them-selves. Now they just whine, and argue, and they don’t fucking listen... and sometimes I can’t help myself. They took my youth... I think I still resent them for it. I get mad, and I either blow up at them, or I just leave. I look for distractions: a second life that they can’t ruin. My nine-year old sons and six-year old daughter sleep on the porch in Queens every other Friday night because I’m out gambling in Atlantic City. I steal things I want but never anything that they need. I have other habits too. I don’t even remember the last time I fed them. Time after time I do the wrong thing. I make the wrong decision. I know it’s wrong but, in the moment, I do it anyway. They need a better mother than that. If they’re going to grow up to be any better than I am. They need one.” Sobbing, she took a moment to catch her breath. Her eyes, blue, overflown, and trembling with water, peered up at him through the stratus of brown hair that had escaped from her bun. “I prayed back in May. That’s when the angel came to me. It said that God had endowed me with the free will I needed to be born again. But eight weeks later I’m no better... And the angel won’t come back. I just don’t have the change in me; I know it. Free will isn’t going to work. Not in time to save my kids.”

“Wow.” There was a momentary silence. “Look,” he started, “Redemption-slash-altruism isn’t generally my de-partment-”

“-I can’t make myself a good person. God won’t. That leaves you.”

He thought for a moment. Then, with deliberate caution, he proceeded. “You realize that this condemns you: dealing with me, bartering with your soul. It doesn’t matter how noble your cause is. There is no light at the end of this tunnel. No Resurrection. No eternal reward.”

“I understand.” she stated, her voice wavering, but her gaze steady.

“Alright Donna.” he said slowly, that piercing grin returning, “You have a deal. I always did admire real sacri-fice.”

Sylvie Langsdorf-Willoughby ‘15

41

Confetti

By Lexie Leeser

Mommy had a plastic box

Labelled with everyday of the week.

Every Sunday she filled it up

With colorful pieces of tiny confetti.

I sat on the bathroom counter while

She counted the pieces and sorted;

Some shreds she split, while some

She kept complete in size and just

Barely did they fit. I asked my mommy

Why she had this silly ritual and she told

Me the pills were all that kept her whole.

The white one for her achy bones,

The pink one to keep the corruption

She had from coming back one day.

She took half a blue to keep her C good

And another half white to have more vitamin D.

The final round white pill she took was

Special she said. It protected against

A sickness of the mind. I asked her what

She meant by sickness of the mind,

She told me it’s what makes you stop

Smiling, even when you really try.

Kyra Kondis ‘14

42

The True Southerner

By Kyra Kondis

If only I could say

That I’m a true Southern Girl;

But the recollections of my time

A few hundred miles under the Mason-Dixon

Reigned by poise and hospitality

And a notable reputation for debutants

And biscuits and gravy Doesn’t stretch much farther

Than the Cracker Barrel on I-40.

It’s funny, really

The things my brain decided to remember

About my nine Carolinian years,

Such as

The tiger lilies that grew by the mailbox, or

The hole in the apartment wall somebody made with a Cigarette, or

The preservative-laden white bread my mother actually bought, or

The time I won an inflatable dolphin at the Durham County Fair.

I suppose

I can say “y’all” to my heart’s content

And eat chicken n’ waffles and buckeyes until I explode,

But none of it will change the fact

That I ain’t ever seen a debutant At the Cracker Barrel

On I-40.

Sylvie Langsdorf-Willoughby ‘15

43

Fights

By Luke Murray

She doesn’t sleep much anymore.

Waking almost hourly disallows sleep,

Causing the bags to deepen under her eyes.

They look like she had been in a fight,

Not with another but with sleep.

She is a light sleeper,

Lights streaming in hourly,

Headlights awaken her room.

Every creak and crack of the house

Startles her.

She quickly turns her head from laying on its side,

Those eyes stare at the ceiling.

Each depression, each indentation catches her eye.

To everyone else these are mere flaws in the painting.

They are just air tubes in the paint,

Or places where the multiple coats dried funny.

But to her they are fault lines.

Those fault lines that could tremble and fall in.

Those lame lines to her speak tales of failure,

They tell her stories of blunt force trauma.

This powwow of thoughts force her to move.

She rises cautiously from the pink polk-a-dots,

Pushing them aside like they might cause a tremor.

She puts a foot on the floor, gingerly, but it doesn’t matter.

How cautious she is; there is another creak in the house.

This is the intruder that she was waiting for,

The robber she dreamed of.

She claims she has no nightmares,

But she only dreams in terror.

The creak downstairs couldn’t be the house set-tling,

It could only be caused by a thief looking for blood.

So she lightens her step even more,

Hoping not to alert her intruder. A feeling arises from her core

Butterflies flying around,

Caused by a mentally synthesized intruder,

Makes this whole thing feel even more real.

But the next creak comes from down the hall,

She can see no one, which calms her for a minute.

She slowly crawls back to her bed,

Unfolds her sheets,

Pulling them back ever so slightly,

As if she were creating linen origami.

Then she slides her sore, sleep deprived,

Poor body back under them.

Pulling them close to cover her like a Kevlar vest,

Because no knife or gun can violate her sover-eignty,

Now she is safe.

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Her fear may be irrational,

But her fear is completely real.

She doesn’t sleep much anymore,

Her bags are getting deeper and deeper.

They look like she had been in a fight,

And she has been fighting,Fighting her anxiety.

A feeling arises from her core. Butterflies flying around,

Caused by a mentally synthesized intruder,

Makes this whole thing feel even more real.

But the next creak comes from down the hall,

She can see no one, which calms her for a minute.

She slowly crawls back to her bed,

Unfolds her sheets,

Pulling them back ever so slightly,

As if she were creating linen origami.

Then she slides her sore, sleep deprived,

Poor body back under them.

Pulling them close to cover her like a Kevlar vest,

Because no knife or gun can violate her sovereignty,

Now she is safe.

Her fear may be irrational,

But her fear is completely real.

She doesn’t sleep much anymore,

Her bags are getting deeper and deeper.

They look like she had been in a fight,

And she has been fighting,

Fighting her anxiety.

Sylvie Langsdorf-Willoughby ‘15

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Anthony’s Night

By Sam Chih

Anthony parks his rusty red 1980 Ford Pinto behind his old steel garage door. He pauses behind the wheel before he turns the engine off. He climbs out of his vehicle, leaving his car key in the ignition. He walks toward the garage door and looks out at the full moon for a minute. He groans and slowly shuts the old garage door. He turns and walks up the few wooden steps that lead into his back entrance to the kitchen. Anthony takes off his suede shoes and high socks and starts to walk out of the kitchen and into his living room.

In his living room, he strips off his necktie and suit jacket and throws them over his couch with a groan. Eyes fixed on his stair rails he slowly climbs up the steps. He goes into his bedroom, takes off his dress pants, and leaves them on the floor. He sits down on his bed and unbuttons his dress shirt, staring at a framed picture of his parents. He takes the frame in his hands and looks into it. Shedding tears for a moment, three teardrops hit the picture frame. He wipes them off with his sleeve and places it face down on his nightstand.

He takes off his shirt and lays it over the bed. He stands up tall with teary eyes and struts towards his closet; opening it up, he kneels down to his small metal safe. He turns the knob right to “19,” left to “14,” and all the way back around to “03.” He opens his safe to four things: a bottle of Krug Clos d’Ambonnay, Taurus 941 Revolver, pen, and notepad. Anthony takes out the gun and slides the barrel out looking at five bullets in every chamber. He takes a deep breath and tucks it away, breathing out again as he proceeds to pull the bottle of champagne and the notepad from the safe.

He walks downstairs, drinking the new bottle, and goes to his kitchen. He checks the fridge and pulls out a container of some leftover hamburger and fries. Food in mouth and alcohol in hand, Anthony walks into his living room and turns on his T.V. to Monday Night Football. He sits and continues to eat and drink while he scribbles notes down on his coffee table. Finally finished, he leaves the notepad there, along with the re-mainder of his fries, and takes the bottle with him through the kitchen, stumbling out the back.

Anthony shuffles to his car and opens the door after a few tries. He sits back in the drivers seat with his underwear and bottle of champagne. He downs the remainder of the bottle and puts his hands on the wheel. Looking at himself in the rear view mirror he turns on the ignition. Headlights glowing and engine humming, he grips onto the wheel as tight as he can while tears stream from his face. Instead of putting his foot on the pedal, he releases his death grip and rolls down his window all the way. He reclines his seat back and lays down.

Anthony closes his eyes with a smile and drifts off to sleep.

Vorakit Chudatemiya ‘14

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The Body of Ajax (a wood-stove philosophy) By Max Goodman

Who knows what time he’d seen when I appeared,An infant hardly native to his land,This continent had birthed him from its ground,Before my people’s feet e’er touched its sand.Yet by the silent giant, I was reared.

Its trunk, I could not wrap my arms around.Its skyward limbs held rope-swings that I strung,And captured toys my dad and I had tossed.Its bark, my practice arrows often stung.And by its shade, in summer, I was found.

Each year I swept its leaves before the frost,Its mammoth green, for now, a memory,In march, its spring-pink buds would breathe anew,Until, one year, this did not this suit the tree.It slept on through the seasons and was lost.

In August it was leveled by a crew,who drove machines one-twentieth its ageMy memory still retains its falling groanA sound that spoke of sadness more than ragethat said we’d have no want of work to do.

~

Each year, to logs as thin, and dense, as boneWe split its mossy wheels with ferric toolsand once uphill, at long last gratifiedWe stack them high within our vestibulesto dry beside our stove upon the stone,

And once we sap their snow-melt ‘till they’re dried,All through the nights they decompose to coals,Emblaze the iron stove to brightness braveand through its glass glow hot as our own soulsWhile heavenly white snow lies dark outside.

Obscuring, like a veil, its rooted grave.

And still how just and right it seems to meThe warmth that I now feel was once that tree:Its body, like a hero’s, on the pyre:The sum of all its life expressed in fire. Sara Howard ‘15

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The Hunt

By Sam Johnson

Autumn bloom

Fungal gloom

Soft walks

Frantic fox

Shot wide

Hurt pride

Hurried bound

Sour frown

Hid below

Fox unknown

Hunter’s despair

Says a prayer

Marina K

erlow ‘15

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The Hunger

By Sophie Adams

Everything is heavy and slow and dark. Why is my left leg hanging out of the back seat car door? I must have just

wanted to try it. It’s providing me with a feeling of freedom—sticking my leg into a pocket of blur. It’s becoming part of the

blur. My mother is cackling monstrously in the passenger seat, and my father is grinning at her, the silhouette of his profile

so prominent against the oncoming headlights. Headlights.

I felt my body jolt in a reaction to what was now almost not real anymore, for my brain was still sorting itself out

between realizing and forgetting and remembering again. The light shining and swinging back and forth between my eyes

was severely interfering with this process. The woman holding it clicked it off, allowing me to take in the plain white walls

and various machines and devices that I didn’t know the names of in the room.

“Hi, Sweetie, you’ve been out for a while. Do you remember what happened?” On a regular day, her condescending

tone of voice and use of the name “Sweetie” in her deep southern accent would have triggered a swift skeptical squint of

the eyes, but it was somehow comforting. I felt too weak to put up any kind of fight. I tried to think back to whatever must

have happened. . . something happened? My thoughts could only run away to the dream I had just been having.

“I’m not sure,” I rasped weakly.

The woman took a deep breath. The look in her eyes and the light crease between her eyebrows suddenly caught my

attention, causing me to freeze and simply stare without breathing. I had been so relaxed just a moment ago.

“Okay, well, you’ve been in a car accident. Your right fibula bone is broken up near the knee and—“

“The right leg?”

“Yes.” She was pointing to the X-Ray image on the computer screen next to my bed. Her voice was growing shaky.

“Who was driving?”

“We believe it was your father. I am truly sorry to tell you that both of your parents have passed.”

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As soon as I hobbled my way out of the sliding doors of the Burlington International Airport, I hoped that Vermont

wouldn’t always be this cold. I was accompanied by a long slender man with large glasses, wearing a name tag that read

“Robert” over his meticulously ironed blue dress shirt. He offered to help me with my bags, noticing my condition. We

made our way over to the nearest awaiting taxi, and I cautiously crawled into the back seat, crutches first, giving the ad-

dress as Robert packed my bags into the trunk.

It began to snow on the way to my sister’s apartment. It never snowed in October in D.C. and I hadn’t seen my

sister since she graduated college. When we finally arrived at the plain brick building, now draped with snow, it didn’t

take long for me to realize there was no elevator to the third floor where Gladys lived. Could’ve been worse, I told myself.

Could’ve been the twenty-second or the fifty-third floor. I decided to leave most of my things at the bottom of the stairs,

hoping Gladys would possibly be feeling nice enough to come down and get them for me.

After five minutes of slowly but surely conquering the three flights of snowy, slippery stairs, I found the apart-

ment number 302, and lightly knocked just under the 2. The door suddenly, startlingly opened, and the unfamiliar face of

a young man who looked to be somewhere in his twenties appeared before me. He casually leaned against the door frame

with his right hand holding the door open. I took a fraction of a moment to study the sideways smirk on his face, his care-

fully gelled and styled hair, and the intensity of his eyes staring so hard into mine that I felt he might push them all the way

through my brain until they became squished against the back of my skull.

“You must be Valerie.” My eyes managed to escape down to the welcome mat, hiding themselves from his with

their lids.

“Yeah,” I said with more breath than voice, barely loud enough for him to hear.

“I’m Mason. You can come right on in. Gladys isn’t… feeling well, so she may or may not be getting out of bed to

see you tonight.” He glanced down at the small toiletry bag I was holding, which had been clunking against my crutches on

every step of the three dreaded flights. “Is that all you brought?”

I forced myself to look up at his face again, anywhere but his intimidating eyes. I decided to focus on his one

dimple which hugged the corner of his smirk.

“No, I couldn’t carry all of it, so I left the rest at the bottom of the stairs. Sorry.”

“No problem, I can just go and get it now.” He smiled at me for a moment longer, this time with both sides of his

50

mouth. He disappeared into the dimly lit apartment, mumbling, “Shoes…”

I stood in front of the door for a few more seconds like a zoned-out zombie before stepping into the doorway, hop-

ing to get a glimpse of the apartment. But as soon as I did so, Mason bumped into me on his way out, exclaiming, “Ohpe!

Sorry.” He lightly squeezed my shoulder while we were still uncomfortably close, and then was gone before I could even

process what happened.

I could finally see the apartment. It was nothing special, but definitely livable. A light brown, semi-comfortable-

looking couch sat in front of a small television, surrounded by plain wooden chairs and a matching coffee table. The only

light came from two small lamps on opposite sides of the room. It was…cozy. I eyed the dark hallway straight ahead, the

only hallway, wondering which room was for me.

“Gladys?” I called. I crept down the hallway and found the only door that was seamed with light. “Gladys?” I whis-

pered into the crack.

“Yes, Val…” she groaned, more of a statement than a question. I slowly opened the door, waiting for her protest, but

there was none. Gladys was a puffy-eyed face with hair that looked like someone had tried to swirl it into a cotton candy

swab, and the rest of her was underneath a tangled caboodle of blankets. Clothes and shoes were scattered around the floor.

The sight of her was almost making me tear up, so I stared at the wrinkled pillow next to her instead.

“Hey. How’ve you been?” I said quietly, knowing it was the wrong thing to say, but not knowing what else to say.

She gave a sarcastic laugh.

“Can you see me? I’m obviously not doing well.” She poked a hand out to examine her blood-red finger nails,

avoiding eye contact as well.

“I’m sorry. You know they wouldn’t want you to be like this for too long. I know how it is, though. I mean, they’re

my parents, too.” I didn’t dare mumble about her absence at the funeral.

“Alright, enough. You can get out now. Your room is across from this one.”

As I was closing the door, I suddenly opened it again. “Gladys?”

“What.”

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“Mason is your boyfriend, right?”

“Yeah.” She gave a fragile smile to her nails, but it quickly disappeared. She blinked her eyes toward me without

turning her head, and raised an eyebrow. “So, don’t get any ideas.”

I closed the door quickly, repulsed at the thought.

I’m laying on my back, looking up into a partly cloudy sky. I sense the sand and hear the ocean. Gladys stands over

me, her feet beside my head, with her long hair blowing in the wind like the mane of a galloping mustang. We’re discussing

the concept of transformation from human to cat.

“Like professor McGonagall,” I point out, proud of my connection.

“Yes, but that idea was stolen from Flammalon, the wonderful cat teacher. You wouldn’t know her…”

“Val, wake up. You don’t want to miss the bus.” I rubbed my eyes to see Mason’s knowing smile. He was seated

next to me on my bed, with his hand on my hip, where he’d been shaking me awake. My chest tightened in discomfort.

“Okay,” I said urgently, shoving the blanket off of myself, along with his hand, and began rummaging through my

toiletry bag, boondoggling, a signal for him to leave. He had no problem doing so, and I let out a sigh of relief.

I boarded the bus with sweaty palms and a pounding heart, dreading my first day at Middlebury Union High School.

“Sounds to me that you had a pretty good first day at school, considering everyone else has already been there a

couple months,” Mason said to me at the dinner table that night. I had just been explaining to him and Gladys about the

friends I made by having terrible trouble keeping the door open with my crutches in the hallways of my new, giant, most

frightening school. Gladys appeared to be only half-listening.

“Yeah, I wasn’t expecting to make so many friends in one day. Must’ve been my crutches or something.”

“Well, I’ll bet there’s other things about you that people are attracted to,” he said casually, unaware of the ferocious

52

glare he was receiving from Gladys, who sat across from him at our table, which had obviously been constructed for only

two people. I sat between them, throwing the placement and proportion of plates and silverware off balance. Mason had

surprisingly been able to coax Gladys out of bed with the smell of the shepherd’s pie he prepared for dinner, a favorite of

hers. I wasn’t sure how to reply to his comment, so I didn’t, and the silence remained for the rest of the night.

I’m standing in the Jurassic Park egg incubation lab, watching a baby stegosaurus crack its way into the new

world, such a moving moment. To my horror, a Velociraptor has broken into the lab, and is now slowly stalking me down as

it enters. There’s no chance for me; these animals will outrun a human in seconds. But…this can’t be real. This is a movie.

No, this is a dream. I’m dreaming and dreams can’t hurt me. Ha! Stupid Velociraptor, you can’t hurt me.

I woke up to frozen air blowing into my face, and a sharp throbbing pain in the back of my head. My entire body

was shivering. The first thing I saw when I lifted my head was one of my crutches at the bottom of the stairs--the first flight

of stairs on the way down to the bus. It was too light out for the bus to be here. It was probably long gone by now. My head

was over my feet near the top of the stairs, so I knew I hadn’t fallen far. Good thing it wasn’t head first. Somewhere in the

distance, a dog barked.

I heard a door click familiarly behind me. “Val?” The tone of his voice was urgent, but slightly too cheerful for the

situation. I felt dizzy and sick.

“Here, let me help you up,” he said as he discovered that I was conscious. “You must’ve slipped pretty hard on that

ice.” He knelt down and slid his hands just under my shirt and gripped my sides to pull me up. I could see it so clearly: the

hunger.

“Don’t touch me.” I’d never spoken so firmly to anyone before, and it took him by surprise. His eyes widened

slightly at my sudden moxie as he looked at me, and I swallowed hard. I felt like someone was dribbling a basket ball in-

side of my chest. He didn’t let go.

“What?” he said, just as firmly, a smile curling at the corners of his lips. He was sensing my nervousness.

“You need to stop,” I said, trying to gain my courage back.

“Mason.” We both flinched at the sound of Gladys’ voice, and the sudden movement sent another piercing shock of

pain to the back of my head. She was standing akimbo in the doorway. “What are you doing?”

53

I turned my head painfully toward her. “Gladys,” I squeaked, “Can you take me to a doctor? I think I might have

a concussion.” I looked at her helplessly in Mason’s grip, hoping she would know. Say yes. Please, say yes. I watched her

face soften out of its usual grimace for only a second before it returned again. She spoke not a word, but I could sense that

she wanted to. I wanted her to.

“It’s okay. I’ll take her,” Mason said, smiling sweetly at Gladys. She glanced at me one last time before stepping

inside and closing the door.

Erin Mena ‘14

54

Gwen Tyrie ‘14

Andy

By Gwen Tyrie

I unlock my front door to be greeted by my little brother.

“Lace!” Andy said with his Tonka truck in hand racing towards me.

“Hi Andy,” I say picking him up and giving him a hug.

“Alice,” my mom calls from the kitchen. “Can you watch your brother and the dog so I can go take a bath?”

“Sure.” I walk over to the couch and get out my work. I look down at my little brother sitting up against my mastiff, Mandy, and smile to myself.

I got Mandy when we first moved here 5 years ago, before I had a little brother and I didn’t know anyone. My par-ents thought it would be nice for me to have a friend.

I take out my homework and start to work until my mom comes down and relieves me from babysitting up to my room.

The next morning I don’t wake up to my alarm; I wake up to my mothers scream. I jump out of bed and run to the hall.

“What’s wrong?” I ask running to my brother’s open door. My mother doesn’t respond. “Mom?” I say with fear consuming my voice. Then I see what she is looking at… there is blood everywhere. I feel the presence of my dad behind me, and he freezes too. Andy’s bed, floor, walls, everything is covered in blood. Bits and pieces of Andy are scattered around the room. The worst part is not all of Andy is there. His bones all seem to be there but not all of… him, not all his flesh. I tear my eyes away from the mess to look at my mom still frozen on her knees. The shock hasn’t even sunk in enough for her to start crying. I turn from the room and run to the bathroom. I can feel it coming, that it’s finally register-ing. I make it to the bathroom just in time to throw up. I lie down on the cool bathroom tile and close my eyes. I try to escape how I feel to escape what I had seen, but even when my eyes are closed I see it. My head hits the toilet when I role over and pulls me out of my thoughts. I slowly stand up and head out of the bathroom. Andy’s door has been closed and I can hear my mom and dad talking. Well, my dad is talking and my mom is crying. I stop at the door and listen for a second before I open it. As I am opening the door, I feel something wet on my hand; it is blood.

I look at my hand and feel the nausea come over me again and I head for the bathroom. Only this time I couldn’t make it to the toilet so I open the shower curtain just in time to puke again. As I look into the bathtub, I find my dog. She lay in bits and pieces, dyed red with her own blood. And, in my throw up, I see half digested pieces of fur, and my little brother’s eye frozen with an eternal look of terror.

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Kyra Kondis ‘14

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Let Your Lives Speak