Excerpt, Fall 2014 by The Derryfield School

EXCERPT THE ART AND LITERARY MAGAZINE OF THE DERRYFIELD SCHOOL

XXXIX, ISSUE I FALL 2014

DEDICATION To Mr. Andy Moerlein For his devotion to the arts at The Derryfield School

E EXCERPT STAFF Managing Editor Sarah Wilson Publishing Editor Francesca “Franky” Barradale Assistant to the Publishing Editor Margaret Levell Art Editor Kaitlin Cintorino Assistant to the Art Editor Anja Stadelmann Communications Director Patrick Finocchiaro Business Manager Cameron “Cam” Huftalen Faculty Advisor Regina Assetta Staff: Marissa Wolf, Ethan Dresner, Katherine Kittler, Rosalie “Rosie” Steiner, Susanna Barger, Victoria Imbriano, Anna Mae Murphy, Elizabeth “Libby” Marcouillier, Lucia Biglow, Makayla DeCesare, Taylor Santosuosso, Wyatt Elinwood, Casey Frost, Darby Gillett, Elena Lapadula Title Page Art: Leaves Lucia Biglow ‘18 Cover Art: Alleyway Kaitlin Cintorino ‘15 Back Cover Art: Requiem Franky Barradale ‘15 3

E TABLE OF CONTENTS English Department Writing Contest Creative Nonfiction: First Place - Noelani Stevenson ‘15…………………………………...6 Fiction: First Place - Sarah Wilson ‘16………………………………………...13 Poetry: First Place - Brittany Northrup ‘15…………………………………....23 Simeon Kass Scholarship Award Winner - Anthony Esielionis ‘15……………………………………...27 Shell (Painting) Lucia Biglow ‘18………………………...…………...30 Coffee A nonymous…………………………………………………….31 Summer Breeze (Drawing) Nicole A nthony ‘15……………………....33 Freefall Darby Gillett ‘18……………………………………………...34 Self-Portrait (Drawing) Samantha Hinton ‘18………………………....36 Nightmare Makayla DeCesare ‘18…………………………………….37 Through the Binoculars (Drawing) A nja Stadelmann ‘17……………..38 Bad News Jon Furlong ‘17…………………………………………….39 Underwater City (Drawing) Rosie Steiner ‘17………………………...41

Tales of Orphic V ictoria Imbriano ‘17………………………………...42 [Not So] Still Life (Drawing) Kaitlin Cintorino ‘15…………………...49 Reflections (Drawing) Rebecca Teevan ‘15…………………………...50 Get Used to It Lucia Biglow ‘18……………………………….............51 Looking to the Future (Photograph) Darby Gillet ‘18………………....53 New Beginnings (Photograph) Taylor Santosuosso ‘18……………….54 After Libby Marcouillier ‘18…………………………………………..55 Ship in Germany (Photograph) Darby Gillet ‘18……………………...57 4

E Untitled (Drawing) Samantha Hinton ‘18……………………………....58 Hearts and Flowers Franky Barradale ‘15……………………………...59 Reflections (Photograph) Taylor Santosuosso ‘18……………………..62 Niobe Libby Marcouillier ‘18…………………………………..............63 Car Trails (Photograph) Kaitlin Cintorino ‘15………………………….64 The Car A nonymous…………………………………………………....65

E English Department Writing Contest Creative Nonfiction Winner: DO-IT-YOURSELF MESSIAH Noelani Stevenson ‘15 It’s 4 o’ clock on a rainy Friday afternoon in a tiny town in central New Hampshire. The streets are quiet and empty, the sound of the drizzle eclipsing that of the intermittent car or wayward pedestrian. A few stores and offices in the nearby refurbished mill buildings have their lights on, weakly protesting against the increasingly dim sky. Across from a dingy Chinese restaurant and a small hair salon perches a small, nondescript, brick-and-white-clapboard building that I have never seen before. It seems forgettable, lost in the muted evening here so far off the beaten path, and it yet feels like home as soon as I walk through the door. Upon entering, I am promptly greeted by cheery orange walls and the rich scent of French vanilla coffee. This cozy bastion in the middle of nowhere is in fact the location of Dreamsicle Arts and Entertainment, an independent music production and performance venture headed by Jen Lambert and her partner, Vinx. Jen is in the midst of finishing up a transaction with a music student, so I wait in the foyer, observing the plush nest of couches and armchairs tucked in by the window, the African tribal art covering every available surface, the mass of recording equipment and snaking cords by the kitchen, and the walls filled with snapshots of Jen and Vinx with artists from all over the world. A few minutes later, Jen is waving good-bye to the music student and his Nine Inch Nails tshirt, and pulling me into a warm hug. “How are you? You’ve gotten so tall!” she says, in a typically motherly fashion. I’ve known Jen my whole life, what with her being a close friend of my mother’s, and so have spent countless hours eating mac and cheese in her kitchen and playing with her Great Dane puppy, Corbit. However, I had never really known about the depth of her in6

E volvement in music until recently. She proceeds to usher me into her office, bright and cozy despite the grey day outside, and repeatedly offer me coffee, asking if I found the location easily enough. It’s this supremely nurturing quality that makes Jen ideally suited for her unique line of work: helping musicians build and promote their creative bodies of work. An always warm, lively, personable woman, Jen has found a unique space in the music industry using her plethora of diverse skills. She arrived at this curious career in a rather circuitous way, however. Jen grew up in the suburbs of Chicago, she tells me, where music always had a presence in her life. As a child, she first became involved in singing by performing with the Glen Ellyn Children’s Choir, a noted vocal ensemble that tours the greater Chicago area and performs alongside the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. As she got older, she also participated in musical theatre as well as continuing her study of voice, both individually and in a choral setting. “My dad and I did this thing when I was in high school, they called it the ‘Do-It-Yourself Messiah,” she says, her bright green eyes animated. “Basically, you’d buy the sheet music for Handel’s Messiah, and learn it, and then everyone would come together and practice a few times and then perform it. I sang alto, so I’d sit by my dad, and you just had this piece come together from all these people. We did that for three years.” Jen continued performing music throughout high school and college. She attended Dartmouth College in New Hampshire, where she studied business, but was an active presence in the college’s a cappella groups and club theatre. After graduating, she went back to Chicago, where she worked for a bank, learning more extensively about the finances behind large corporations and their strategies for lending, loaning, and fiscal management. Following this stint in middle management, she returned to Dartmouth as a graduate student to study at their Tuck School of Business. New Hampshire having proven itself to be to Jen’s liking, she moved to Concord, where she eventually met her first husband, Bryce, and went on to raise her two sons, Colin (now 21) and Matthias 7

E (17). Initially, Jen worked for a small software startup company, specializing in data analysis. “It was a very intense job, kind of overwhelming,” she says. “I decided it wasn’t really for me.” She took a break from the rat race in order to stay home and raise her kids. Her work in finance and business had proven to her that, despite her interest and skill in the field, the cubicle life wasn’t really for her. Furthermore, she increasingly found herself wishing to return to her musical roots. Jen began to study voice more intensively, in order to pursue her dream of fronting a band. Eventually she succeeded, forming a group with some local fellow musicians of a similar mindset, wittily called “Our Kids’ College Fund”, which performed at weddings and other events. She also attended workshops at the Berklee College of Music in Boston, where she worked to study entertainment and performance techniques in order to better hone her skills. It was at one of these Berklee workshops that Jen met Vinx De’Jon Parette. Vinx, professionally known by his mononym, is a powerhouse of a musician who has been working in the industry as a vocalist, percussionist, and educator for decades. He’s known as a true jazz musician, with a bonus emphasis on African and folk traditions as well. His resume ranges from touring with Sting to working on Disney’s Lion King soundtrack, in addition to teaching workshops at Berklee. He and Jen got to know each other through these classes and began discussing their shared interest in the business of music, and soon Jen found herself working with Vinx’s Songwriter’s Soul Kitchen immersive program, first as a participant, and then as a manager. Their business and personal relationships escalated, and eventually, she and Vinx had founded Dreamsicle Arts. It seems like something out of a movie, getting to know a renowned musician and ending up as their partner and manager, running a small business in your dream field. I asked Jen to describe Dreamsicle in her own words, beyond what I might be able to just see on the website. She smiled, as if that was the ideal question to receive. “We are a creative space, a listening club; we selectively produce shows and program8

E ming for people to come here for music you wouldn’t normally hear.” The space is indeed creative; it consists of a large front room, split into a cozy tangerine-colored parlor, Jen’s modern office, and a tiny, cheery kitchen, as well as a small soundproofed recording room painted bright sky blue, and the vast room of the “club” itself- tomato red walls and raw wood flooring surrounding a small but deep stage lit with LED lights and lasers, upon which sits Vinx’s black Pearl drum kit and an assortment of guitars, next to an antique oak piano. The entire building is crammed not only with instruments, coffee mugs, and tech, but art, from tribal carvings to photography to old show posters. It feels like the miniature hipster cousin of Studio 54, but more importantly, like a place where an artist could truly feel at home. And that’s really the idea behind the whole venture- providing artists with a comfortable home base to work from and people to help them access resources to better their own careers. Jen details her exact work for me: she’s firstly Vinx’s manager, which involves “booking and coordinating booking agents, networking, project development, coordinating the business aspect of album releases- that’s getting it printed, manufactured, distributed, and putting it on Amazon and iTunes and stuff - plus doing promotion and PR, using social media, doing press and getting radio play, y’know.” It’s quite the position, and that’s not even mentioning the work that goes into maintaining the studio, scheduling events, controlling its finances, and arranging workshops. “Music, now, is a commodity,” Jen explains, tucking her ash blonde hair behind her ear. “For artists nowadays, it’s really about getting that first movement out there, just putting it out there and getting it somewhere. People are always talking about selling out and stuff, but it’s really the only way to do it now. Gone are the days of album deals, and that’s why things like Kickstarter are so big now- you gotta pull a project together yourself, and labels are just more for production and distribution.” She pauses briefly, considering. “We’ve devalued music, and that really bothers me. Live music really is a dying art in the United States.”

But Jen is here to rescue it. Her simultaneous understanding of the musician’s outlook and of business realities makes her and Dreamsi9

E cle Arts the ideal liaison for those Kickstarter heroes. In remembering her work with the Songwriter’s Soul Kitchen, she laughs, saying, “having a business degree, it’s so second nature to think about some of the stuff that these people wouldn’t even consider. It’s hard to promote yourself, so I’m really here to help take all the business worries off their shoulders.” While she certainly has found a niche in combining her own passion for music with her talent for finance and business, I can’t help but ask: what made her decide to focus on the behind the scenes aspect of the industry, performing less? For the first time this evening, an answer comes more haltingly. “Well...some of it was just sheer practicality, y’know, working with all these really high-caliber vocalists, you kind of start to see...it can be very difficult.” I understand the sensitivity of the subject well; my own interaction with multitudes of professional performers in theatre has driven me ever more thoroughly towards the comparative safety and job security of working in tech, but there’s always a bittersweet feeling of giving something up, of losing the spotlight. “Yeah, it’s not all glamorous,” Jen agrees, chuckling. “But I gain a very unique perspective from it. I get to help musicians do what they love.” It works because at the heart of it, Jen is also doing what she loves. “Music is really something that crosses cultural boundaries and allows everyone to speak the same language,” she says. “One time during a Songwriter’s Soul Kitchen workshop, we had a 72 year old man who’d been performing and writing and everything for decades, and he ended up working with this kid who was right out of college, he had just graduated from Berklee. And they were working together and mentoring each other, and it was like their ages and experiences didn’t matter at all, it was just truly about the music. Same with when I was at college doing a capella- it just brought everyone together. Seniors, freshmen, jocks, nerds, people just came together for their love of music and performing. Music...it’s kind of a great equalizer, if you will.” Dreamsicle, therefore, is here to help spread the love. “We realized that there’s really no centralized center for musicians in New Hamp10

E shire yet and we would like to become that. We’re really hoping to build the music community in New Hampshire.” The club hosts events constantly- in fact, as Jen and I speak, Vinx is bustling around between the kitchen, studio, and stage, preparing for the imminent arrival of a renowned visiting Czech pianist. “People come to these because they know it’s gonna be good,” Jen says, explaining the small but fervent and fastgrowing following that Dreamsicle already possesses. “We can seat 50 people in the main room, and we usually end up filling it!” It’s not just adults who are already in the industry that Jen is bent on helping, which explains the student I crossed paths with upon arrival. “We also really want to help young performers who want to take the next step- beyond music lessons and such, we want to help them learn to perform and entertain and start to really put themselves out there. It’s a development thing, we want them to get beyond the notes. We want to teach as many kids as we can about these ideas.”

It’s not an easy job to hold, that’s for sure. The industry is a fickle creature- “you can’t get radio play without album sales, and you can’t get album sales without radio play. The industry is full of little players than all rely on each other but still try and have their own little fiefdoms. But I look at it like any other business,” Jen says, “which is really what it is. The superfluity of music has cheapened it, yes. But it’s still really about the creative self, and that’s what we’re here for. We help people get the help they need. Sometimes an artist will come in and be panicking about one thing or another, and I help them figure it out, and it really just boils down to something like needing a consultant specifically for local distribution or needing a babysitter for Tuesdays! We want to be a resource, to take some of the pressure of making a living off these guys, and let them get back to what really matters, which is the music.” What also really matters is final preparations for upcoming events and marketing trips, and thus, our interview comes to a close. Jen pulls me into another warm hug as I prepare to leave, earnestly telling me to let her know if I know of any bands in the area who need a place to work or perform. I take one last look around at the studio, feeling with new vigor 11

E the creative energy and potential housed in its walls, with Jen at the helm. I feel as though I have found another little slice of home, here in this tiny ex-mill town, and smile as I head back out into the damp evening, years of precious music echoing in my ears.

E English Department Writing Contest Fiction Winner: OPHELIA, DROWNING Sarah Wilson ‘16

I. My best friend drowned when I was twelve. Her name was Lila. We used to ride our bikes down the hill our houses were built on, tall and leaning on each other for support. If we closed our eyes, with the wind screaming in our ears and the pavement falling away beneath us, we could be flying. She had messy dark hair and a mouth that was given to smiling. I had cornrows with colored beads at the ends. She liked the noise they made when I shook my head. It reminded her of the patter of tiny raindrops on the roof. I loved her immediately. I loved her drooping hair ribbons and the sparkly pinkness of her sneakers and the wicked way she grinned. She lived on the same street as me, in a row house painted purple and filled with brothers. Mine echoed with ghosts of kids long moved on. When Lila was there, it felt less empty. She drowned in the reservoir in the woods, at six forty-five on a warm evening in June. One of her assorted brothers was too busy with Jessica Ostrowski’s tongue in his mouth to notice. Lila’s fingers slid off the rope swing before she was entirely over the water. She hit her head, not hard enough to break bone, but enough to stun. When she slipped beneath the surface she would have been barely conscious enough to be afraid. The spring flowers were in full bloom then, dragging their branches down to kiss the surface of the water. The current tugged the petals away, and gathered where she floated, clinging to her skin and trapped in tendrils of her hair. She looked peaceful, her brother said, when I locked the basement door and made him speak into the recorder I found in a dusty 13

E drawer in the attic. She looked like a water fairy sleeping or an angel fallen from the sky, but not like a girl, not like a person. It made it easier for him to look at her, if he pretended she wasn’t real. “I didn’t want to disturb her,” he said. I didn’t say: if you had, maybe you could have saved her. II.

Sometimes, I thought I could bring her back. I would close my eyes and find the magic sitting just beneath my skin, left over from a world full of unexplainable things, otherworldly cruelty and brilliance to rival the stars. I could feel it, electric, throbbing in time with my heart. But I wasn’t the descendant of witches burned at the stake, of girls with danger in their eyes and moonlight in their hair. Any magic still thrumming through me was saturated with the ordinary. III. I had a dream about her, when I was fifteen, the first since I was small and the last since. I can still remember how it felt: surreal and sharp and big, like relief and wonder, like my ribs were made of splintering glass. I can taste the damp graveyard dirt. It went like this: Lila’s heart stuttered in my hands. Carefully, I replaced it in the birdcage of her ribs. I ripped the thread with my teeth. It was midnight blue, her favorite color, to make up for me having to stitch it into her skin. It laced up her chest in my best cross-stitch. The wind whispered along the back of my neck; a warm, damp springtime breeze, tasting of new beginnings and not-yet-fallen rain. Graveyard dirt clung to the knees of my jeans. It was ground into the lines of my palms. I had started late last night with a shovel from my dad’s workshop, to uncover Lila. Her grave was shallow, and the earth was soft from the newly melted snow. Getting her out and onto the ground was more difficult; she hung from my arms as deadweight. By the time I had her lying next to me, my arms and back were aching. 14

E I would have preferred to do this somewhere else, somewhere clean and hidden and safe, but I could drag Lila’s dead weight any farther, and all the land around here dipped and rolled like the peaks of a roller-coaster. Instead, I waited until Sunday morning; everyone would be too busy, their mouths filled with prayer and their ears ringing with hymns, to worry where I’d gone No one ever worried where Lila had gone, anymore. I could hardly blame them. I buttoned Lila’s dress up again. It was an ugly thing, white chiffon gathered in ruffles and edges with lace, a child-sized wedding gown. The buttons were shiny, plastic pearls. It looked wrong, in its perfect clean paleness against the dark grayness of her skin. At the funeral, her mother said that dressed like that, she could be an angel. I’d wanted to tell her that angels weren’t that still, as if their bodies were made of wax. An angel like that could never fly. But it would be impolite to interrupt her grief. I was nothing if not polite. So I pressed my face into my hands and cried an appropriate amount, even though I didn’t feel like crying at all. Salt tears wouldn’t wash away Lila, wouldn’t wash away the strange, doll-like set of her features, when they weren’t in motion. I didn’t want to wash her away. I wanted someone to bring her back. It was early enough that light was only just beginning to chase away the shadows. The trees were outlined dark and menacing against the sky. The sight of them raised goosebumps along my arms. I refused to let my hands shake. Lila was more important than my fear. I sucked in air until my chest ached with the fullness of it. I breathed it into Lila’s mouth, because without oxygen in her lungs, a beating heart wouldn’t do either of us any good. Her lips were dry and soft. They tasted of cold graveyard dirt and the remains of the lipstick they applied, shiny pink, at the morgue. I rocked back on my heels to watch. There was no gasp of breath, Lila shooting upright with a wild light in her face as she returned to life. 15

E There was silence. A bird shrieked. New green leaves are snatched at by the wind. Far away, a child cried, and Lila blinked slowly. A car door slammed shut, and Lila smacked her lips together. A dog barked. She raised her hands to rub at her eyes and stopped halfway there to examine the way tendons pressed up against the skin when she made a fist. “Hey,” I said, a slip of a word caught on an eddy. I tipped into her line of sight, resting my weight on my fists. She smiled, slow and sticky, like glue dripping from the bottle. “Hey,” she said, words scraping from her throat. Lila coughed into her fist. I drew a house in the dirt, so I wouldn’t have to look at her. The wrongness of her itched at the base of my skull. It tugged on an instinct from some time before people wandered into the light, an order to run, to hide, because dead things should stay in the ground and this girl was impossible. “It’s really quiet,” Lila said. Her pronunciation was off, stumbling over letters too big for her mouth. “Sunday morning,” I said, and she smiled. Lila hated Mass. She would nudge my ribs with her elbow while we filed into the church, a wicked light in her eyes. It suited her better than the pastel colored dresses, covered in frills to disguise their cheapness. She would grab my hand and tug me into the bathroom, where we hid beneath the chipped porcelain sink, suffocating giggles behind our hands until the great doors closed. Only then would we dare to scuttle out, our bodies light and our hearts throbbing with our own daring. We explored, tiptoeing down hallways and opening all of their doors. There was a balcony I liked, set high in the wall across from the organ. We had to step under a safety rope to get to the staircase. It was narrow and dark. The steps creaked menacingly beneath our feet. We sat side-byside and listened to the hymns float up to us, as if we were angels on high, receiving prayers. After Lila died, I used to pray to the angels to bring her back. I promised 16

E them anything. If they heard me, they didn’t care enough to respond. But I never needed them to help me. I brought her back myself. I giggled. It tripped out of me, like the contents of an upended teacup. Smallness tore at the corner of Lila’s mouth, a near smile. Smiling used to come easily to her. It used to come easy to me, too. “You died,” I said. “You were dead, and I brought you back.”

Lila looked at me and I looked at her. I could feel the throbbing of my heart all the way down to my fingertips. I giggled again. A laugh scraped its way out of Lila’s throat, and we wrapped our hands around each other’s wrists, to anchor ourselves to the earth. IV. Whenever I thought I had come to terms with my own normality, the world became viciously beautiful and strange and it took my breath away. I was walking home from school, exhausted in a ragged way, and I stopped at the crown of the hill, where my row houses perched like nestling birds. They were all crumbling, the siding grimy and the windows cracked like the spider webs that lived in the corners. But then there were storm clouds creeping across the sky, dark with the promise of obscuring the sun. Around the edges the light illuminated them in pale pink and orange. They made the houses look like drawings, like carefully rendered imaginings where at any moment a girl with impossibly long hair might stick her head out of an attic window or a dragon might poke her nose out of the farmer’s porch, her eyes glowing. How could there not be magic, to render the abandon into something splendid? Even the children could barely find beauty there; they grow up exploring the ruins and vow that the moment they are able, they will run as fast as they can. They could feel the way the town trembled, heart sluggish and lungs coughing. But somewhere between there and becoming old enough to go, they forget. They run in the same circle as their parents, church and work and walking through the same rotting porch every day without really seeing 17

E it. Footsteps scuffled toward me, through the crab grass and dry dirt. “Go away,” I said, because Jimmy Hickle had a habit of coming up behind me like I wouldn’t hear, and asking me if I wanted to come over. He was the sort of boy who thrived here; he smiled like a wolf, sharp-toothed and hungry. “Okay,” said a boy who was not Jimmy. When I looked, Huckaby Crane was standing before me, rubbing his dog’s ears and curling his shoulders up like he wanted to fold himself up. I hadn’t talked to him in a long time, not because he was unpleasant, but because I had no reason to. He was one of those people who faded into the background, their edges smudgy as watercolors. The only memory his face conjured was a younger him, perhaps twelve or thirteen, in a suit that bared several inches of skinny ankle and wrist. I remembered the trembling line of his mouth. Huckaby’s dog pushed her wet nose into my hand. She was a sweet, oneeyed thing. Her name was Cerberus, and she guarded his yard as resolutely as the door to the underworld. I stroked the soft top of her head. Her skull felt solid in my palm, unbreakable, and some of the fear I carried always in my chest receded. The first few drops of rain began to fall. They were warm on the back of my neck. I should go. I should pull my jacket up over my head and run from the sky, from the wind, from the impossible might of the world and how small I was in it. But I didn’t feel small. I felt powerful. The rain crashed down, all at once, in shuddering, desperate sobs. A vein of lightning wove its way across the sky, before it flashed out of existence. My hair stuck to my neck, wet tendrils clinging to my cheeks and the curve of my jaw. I buried my hands in Cerberus’ fur, in the warm, childish comfort that lay against her skin.

A movement in the corner of my vision snagged my attention: Huckaby, 18

E shoving his hands into the pockets of his shorts. I felt ridiculous, all of a sudden, standing in an empty street, rain pouring down on my shoulders, a dog that did not belong to me beneath my hands and a boy that did not belong to me shuffling his feet before me. I pulled away from Cerberus, very quickly, tucking my hands beneath the straps of my backpack and retreating to the sidewalk. Huckaby reached his hands out, though I wasn’t sure if it was to steady me or in his own defense. He had only ever reacted to things in that like: half helpfully and half fearfully, like you might lash out and hit him without warning. “I should go,” I said. My skin felt too hot and tight. I was suffocating in it. I needed to get away, from the trusting, dark eyes of Huckaby Crane and his dog. “Thank you,” I said, in a voice that was not mine. I pried open the gate and flew down the narrow yard, tearing wet grass from the ground with the heels of my sneakers. My mom was on the couch, the television droning on. She looked insubstantial in its flickering lights, less real than Lila. I took a seat beside her. “Hi, Mama,” I said. My face was hot from running and my ribs didn’t feel strong enough to hold back my heart. She made a soft noise of affirmation. Sometimes, she sat there with her shows on and just cried and cried, even when it went to commercial. I kissed the top of her head. Her eyes never left the screen, but the shade of a smile started on her mouth. I used to wonder if she loved me. I would leave goodbye notes and hide in the kitchen closet, pretending to have run away. I left crayon drawings of the two of us in her bed and on the vanity, to see if she would hang them on the fridge like other people’s mothers. I was afraid that one small girl would not be enough, after a house full of children who could never stay and a husband who wouldn’t. She had always loved me, and probably always would, in her vague way, but she did not know how to tell me. Perhaps she was afraid after seeing so many children whose parents had wronged them, had hurt them, of 19

E making me the same. It must have been different, being given an already half-formed child and caring for them until they were taken away again, and finding yourself with a tiny human being who was completely your own. Perhaps she thought she would break me. I should be glad that she loved me. There were a lot of kids whose parents didn’t, who did worse by them than giving them nearly boundless freedom, and small smiles when asked for them. I wasn’t glad. I just felt empty. V. Huckaby Crane was standing at my gate. He had on one of those red hunting caps, with the earflaps and a soft, wooly inside. I stopped in front of him, arms folded over my chest and feet firmly planted, because people other than Lila had always been trouble. “Hi,” said Huckaby. “What do you want?” I said. This took him by surprise; he drew his eyebrows down, stormy and serious. “I was wondering,” he said, slowly, carefully. “If you’d thought about leaving. Because I am. I’m going to go before I get so tangled up in here I’ll never be able to leave. And maybe you would come, too.” He shifted awkwardly, his spine pressed up against the frame of the gate. The world seemed bigger, all of a sudden, like on the other side of this hill something existed, instead of emptiness. It was hard, if you lived somewhere your whole life, to remember that you were not alone in the world. But Huckaby had been sixteen for two days. He did not own a car. I didn’t think he even knew how to drive one. We would get lost, get drugged and stolen, our throats cut like painted red smiles. We would run out of money and have to come back, but how could we, if we’d seen sunny Santa Fe, New York City, New England leaves burning red and gold in the fall? The secret to existing but not living, to surviving monotony until your bones crumbled to dust, was not to realize what you’d become. 20

E I thought I felt it happening, my heartbeat slowing and the lines of my palms starting to look like the roads I took every day to school without realizing what I passed. Sometimes I was afraid of it, the growing up and the changing and the heavy dread of monotony. Sometimes I waited, begrudgingly longing, to forget the sharp pain of living. “I’ll think about it,” I said. Huckaby smiled, easily, as if it cost him nothing to give a piece of himself away like that. “I’ll wait for you, before I go. I’ll wait for you to tell me.” I nodded, and pushed past him. He stayed by the gate until I’d gone inside, guarding it as surely as Cerberus. VI. That night I snuck up into the attic. I held my breath. Every noise I made was too loud in the dark. I peeled open the sliding door. Lila sat on one of the beds, in the grainy grey light. If it were bright enough to see by, I would close my eyes against it, because at least in the dark I could pretend she was real. I climbed in next to her. I felt sleep warm and pliable. I balled Lila’s sleeve up in my fingers. She nudged her toes against my calf. “How does it feel? To be dead?” I said. She shrugged, her shoulder moving up and down against mine. “Cold. How does it feel to be alive?”

I stared at the jagged pattern that the light from the street cast on the wall. It would be dawn, soon, and she would be gone. “I don’t know,” I said. VII. We left on a Sunday morning. I crept down the hall, passed where my mama snored softly. She would be worried, when I never stumbled into the kitchen in search of breakfast. Maybe she’d search and search for me, and the whole street would get involved, with flashlights and hunting dogs and desperation. When it became too painful to think about me, would she forget? 21

E I took my running shoes and closed the door silently behind me. I did not say goodbye. Huckaby Crane was waiting at the gate with his daddy’s red pickup truck and his dog. Cerberus stuck her head out the window and panted joyously at us. I watched Huckaby’s face go soft as a picture that blurred around the edges, and I remembered the clean whiteness of his dress shirt and the trembling, wrecked shape of his mouth at her funeral, like Lila had taken all of the air with her. Sometimes I forgot I was not the only one who had loved her. I climbed into the front seat and put my backpack at my feet. Huckaby fit the key in the ignition, the last piece in our escape-puzzle. His hands shook. “Where to?” he said. “Anywhere,” I said. He nodded, and began to drive. Sometimes, I wonder if we matter at all in this huge, limitless universe of ours; Huckaby, who couldn’t bear to leave his dog behind; and I, who gave my heart away to a little girl with messy hair and never looked back, even when she died, and I never got it back. Eventually we will be dust and no one, not a single person with a beating heart, will remember the sound of our names. Maybe I didn’t need them to remember me. Maybe all that mattered was this: it was a Sunday morning and a red pickup truck crawled along the cracking roads, with two lost children and a dog in the backseat. We drove north, out of the hills and into the sun, to find a place where we could finally breathe.

E English Department Writing Contest Poetry Winner: SPOKEN WORD POEM Brittany Northrup ‘15 My grandmother always told me that everyone has a story so sit back and listen. Let them open up to you like a book, Chapter by chapter, and I promise you’ll learn something new. Now here you are, Opening yourself up like a book from the Harry Potter series, Unleashing every secret of your being. I have your table of contents memorized, Like an elementary student memorizing their multiplication tables. The titles of your chapters are like song lyrics With no music. No rhythm but the sound of your beating heart when I press my head to your chest. Which reminds me of chapter 5, about the time you took drum lessons. I spent the time, the hours, the months Reading, Listening to your story. But now it’s your turn to listen. My book is in your hands. Leaving me vulnerable. Allowing you to turn the page, skim over what you want, No matter how important the detail was last chapter. Giving you the chance to tear out my pages, Set fire to the ones you don’t like. 23

E Leaving your fingerprints on the shiny cover that only gives you a brief overview of my life. Making myself disposable like last year’s newspaper That sits on the bottom of your pile of books. I promise you this: I will not let you leave me on your shelf to collect dust like that trophy you won in middle school. I am not your history book where you simply highlight the facts. The fact is, I am me. I sit every day trying to put the pieces of my puzzle together. Do not think you can do it for me. I gave you an opportunity to learn, Not control. This is not some video game Where you have the controller telling me what to do or where to go. This is my book. Do not cross out lines and rewrite them. So what if there are spelling errors, those are flawsOnes that make me who I am. I thought you’d come to love how I always spell “curiosity” wrong Or how I go comma crazy in a comatose of my own dreams. I am giving you a chance to see my whole self, The self who cried herself to sleep, or wanted to take her own life. Call me sensitive. Call me weak. But would I still be standing here if I were either of those? Tell me I made mistakes as if I don’t already know. What I do know is I accept you for all your flaws and errors For all the words you’ve spelled wrong And the secret is I listen. I read every word of every chapter Diving into the ocean of your doubts and fears 24

E Holding my breath, Going first into the obstacles you’ve endured, Wanting to kiss your wounds to make them disappear But they won’t. This is not voodoo where your errors vanish, Or Word, where they are underlined with a red line telling you it was wrong. It’s not wrong. It’s right. It’s right. It’s left. It’s up or down. The direction doesn’t matter because I’ll always be led straight back to you, Like a boomerang being shot across the distance. No matter how far, I’ll always be a part of your chapter 17. Do the same for me. Flip the next page of my life and read. Once the chapter ends, create a new one. Here’s my pen and a piece of paper. Write the first line, Walk with me through the chapter, spelling mistakes and all. Help me to not make the same mistake twice. Take my hand and lead me down the yellow brick road of my obstacles. Don’t let me fall under the wicked spell of my fears. My grandmother always told me that everyone has a story, But there were a few things she never mentioned. She warned me not to get into the wrong hands, But she never told me that even when I was in the right ones, My spine Would become worn and broken from being read so many times. She said to expect to have the corners folded 25

E And notes in the margins. But she could never Have prepared me For the day That you decided To keep the book.

E Simeon Kass Scholarship Award Winner: FINDING THE HUMAN FACE Anthony Esielionis ‘15 The smell was intoxicating. Cumin and coriander, tinged with the fruity pomade streamed through his hair, collaborated to form a crisp earthiness. I was reminded of soil freshly jostled by a spring planting. Yet the scent merely punctuated the richness of his words. “Yes, you must see the Abu Simbel by, uhh, moonlight” he gushed to me, motioning with a fling of the wrist to watercolor prints of Middle Eastern sites lining the store walls. “The whole front, how you say façade, is illuminated as if by a hundred fires. I’ve prayed there. It’s not a mosque but it is so impressive! The Sheikh Zayed Mosque, though, shines most brilliantly during the day, the sun, uhh, jumping off the white. I’ve prayed there too!” I did not know the man at the counter at the Falafel Corner in Cambridge, Massachusetts, didn’t even catch his name, but he enveloped me in the warmth of his pride, of his culture, of his social history. He gushed not of his provincial hometown, or only of his native Egypt but of the wonders of the Islamic Middle East as a whole, so unified by his devotion. He handed me my lamb shawarma, which fortunately rivaled the smell, and I left with an interest in a whole region of the world I had never truly pondered beyond political intrigue: the Middle East. Sitting on a bench in JFK Memorial Park, I picked up my phone and asked the automated voice Siri to look up “Middle Eastern news.” In her choppy robotic pitch, she brought up some news articles. The first three results regarded killings. Siri droned on, “100 de-ad,” and “Re-VO -olt in-crease-s DEA-th toll,” in the distant tone that reflected the clinical headlines. Conflict is news. The Middle East drowns in chaos; the conflict-turned-revolutionary-turned-terrifying cycle persists, harkening back to the anarchy of late 18th century France and the totalitarian rule and 27

E and genocide of Nazi Germany. Individuals, specific people, are suffering. Yet, somehow, to become jaded is possible when American media bombards the public with numbers. Oh another 10 civilians dead? And then you add a zero. Then add a zero. Add a zero. People become numbers, the amount of inches in a ruler, the number of miles from the Jewish Quarter to the Muslim one. Thankfully, those previous times of terror lasted less than a decade before resolving themselves or being resolved. Paris is now considered one of the most artistic cities in the world; Germany is financially virile and supports a vibrant techno music scene. The tormented individuals of their pasts must never be forgotten and the cultural world of the countries flourishes to overcome the horrors. Yet the turmoil in the Middle East has extended for decades: Between the Arab World and Israel, between domestic governments and their citizens, between terrorists and the world. And with the perpetual hammering in Western media of Middle Eastern death, totalitarian powers, revolts, all seemingly perennial, Middle Eastern culture suffers along with its people. Sitting on the bench, that very bench, I overhear two college-aged students: “—heard he was from New Hampshire. They beheaded him. It’s horrible.” “It’s barbaric” “What else would you expect from the Middle East?” They became silent. A culture descended from the creators of the pyramids, another from the crafters of the guitar, another from the inventors of the zero — these are the cultures that the man at the counter spoke of with such passion. These students fumed not in reference to the oppressors, to the terrorist groups, to the ones massacring people without end, but to a whole culture and, by proxy, its people. There I sat with visages of the Pyramids of Giza before me, lulled by the gentle da-dam da dam of the camel below me, yet they did not see what I saw, feel what I felt. The students were not unintelligent, being in the neighborhood of Harvard, nor were they likely cruel. Instead, this ignorance roots in generations of one-sided representa28

E representation of the Middle East in the media, that of a war-torn nomanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s land in a cultural black hole where the suffers are devoid of their artistic past and present. This unconscious mindset not only discredits a rich past but also hinders future growth. So, instead of ruminating in the horrors of the Middle East along with western media, I will ask cultural questions. Why do many speak French in Algeria? What are the differences between Islam and its fellow Abrahamic religions so much more familiar to me? What does the Qurâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;an say on female modesty, on cultural understanding, on facial hair (Mohammed actually required all male Muslims to wear beards at one point!)? Most importantly, how can we recognize the human face in the midst of such turmoil? I do not yet know; there may never be an answer. But to respect the individuals as individuals, with cultures replete with innovations and intrigues and idiosyncrasies, is an important start. And the next time I visit Falafel Corner I will buy a lamb shawarma, look at the watercolors around me, ask the man at the counter his name, and listen.

SHELL - LUCIA BIGLOW ‘18

E COFFEE Anonymous I'd never been much of a coffee drinker. I've known its smell, Spent years of childhood enveloped by it In my kitchen, my uncle's restaurant, And in various ski lodges. It took until last year to try it. Nights when the piles of work Seemed like the mountains I spent the days on, And the mountains were a place That I'd run myself down, Work and sweat until I shook, And I'd pick coffee up on my way home Even if it would make my hands shake Even more. I guess you're kind of like Coffee. You make me shaky, And I'm a little too dependent on you. I crave you like caffeine, But you do more than any energy shot. You talk me up and calm me down-Something I can't get coffee to do, No matter how much I doctor it. It's an addiction, And it's something I should worry about more than I do. 31

E Because I'm eighteen And in eight months I'm going to have withdrawals. And the shakes won't be the Good kind. And they won't be the shakes that come from Excitement and anticipation. It will be a whole body affair, A mental plight that takes its Anger and confusion about, "Where are you?" Out on my body. Add it to the typical aches and pains I have, And I'll turn to coffee again, To see if it can fix anything. But every time I notice jittery hands after A cup or two, I'll remember You're not there. And maybe, My hands wouldn't be quite so jumpy, If you were around to occupy them.

SUMMER BREEZE - NICOLE ANTHONY ‘15

E FREEFALL Darby Gillett â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;18 Spinning Falling Going down never ending, Tumbling towards fate. Before you go you think, Your family waiting for you, Home, Home, how warm, Everything comes in like a swarm Rushing, pounding, Like your head is going to explode. As you hurdle yourself toward the end You think would it have been better around the bend. You jumped. They'll never know why. They'll never understand why. Were all your problems really that bad? Could you have fixed them if you just spoke up? Fixed them by showing how you really felt, Telling someone that it actually hurt? Was it worth it? You see the ground dry and bare, You can't stop what comes next. You can't turn back. You're still. You're gone. This is what you wanted right? Darkness and stillness, A blank mind, Your own world. 34

E This is what you expected right? But the world goes on around you The loud, busy, Careless, Chaotic, Abandoning, Neglecting, Non-loving world That’s what the world was like, At least to you it was, Right? But there are people that do care. They now rush to your aid Wanting to be able to save you But they can't. ‘Cause you're gone. There are sirens in the distance. Those people are hopeful they came in time to save you But they can't. You're gone. A phone rings at home. Those who cared the most are destroyed Because they cared, They loved, They wanted to help. Now they can't ‘Cause you're gone. They'll never know why Why you jumped And why you never said goodbye.

SELF-PORTRAIT—SAMANTHA HINTON ‘18

E NIGHTMARE Makayla DeCesare ‘18 Drip. Drip. Drip. The sound brought Roxie out of a numb darkness and into a vivid scene. A room built itself slow motion around her. Trapping her. Mirrors for walls reflected nothing but darkness and the girl's slender form. A dozen sets of pink eyes glared towards the center. Drip. Just as the walls attached themselves to the black void of a ceiling, they gave off a melting effect. Black blood oozed from the seams of the room, filling it slowly. Slowly enough for Roxie to have time to panic. She screamed as she realized what was happening. The dripping echoed off of every wall, attacking her with its promise of a slow death. Running from end to end of the reflective prison, banging her fists against her very own image. She screamed for help, but only a muffled jumble of words and screeches came out, animal-like in nature. Drip. The sticky, albeit cold liquid sloshed at her ankles, and pulled its way relentlessly up her legs. Her reflection grew a twisted grin as the blood reached its mid thighs, and its hanging fingertips could brush the darkness, drawing little circles in the rising surface. Roxie looked at it in horror as it took a fist full of blood and brought it to its neck, wringing its hands around its pale throat. The pitch shade of black only made her wringing hands look more pale, and in addition, her breathless face even more pale. Drip. The water rose up above Roxie’s elbows and she yelled out in agony and terror. As her mirror image cut off its air supply, Roxie found it equally difficult to breathe. She clawed at her throat with stained hands, dripping trails of cool, dark liquid down her chest and arms. She doubled over only for her face to meet blood. The tide of blackness was swallowing her up, and within what seemed like seconds, it had swallowed her whole. Just as she felt the last fearful breath leave her, a hand touched her shoulder. “Roxie,” A male voice said, a little hazy at first, and then clearer. “Roxie. Wake the hell up.” 37

THROUGH THE BINOCULARS—ANJA STADELMANN ‘17

E BAD NEWS Jon Furlong ‘17 We hear an array of curses coming From the front seat, Followed by a sound We have never heard before. Tears stream down our father’s face, Cries are released from his mouth, Shaking as he clutches, His cell phone to his ear, Depressingly listening to the muffled voice. “No, no, no!” he stammers. The phone is dropped, His face is planted into his hands as he sobs. The hand of the one in the passenger seat, Pats our father on the back. Tries to provide comfort, However, scared of what could have happened. Our eyes fill with water, The pit of our stomach is filled with a distressing pain. We try to hide our sadness, Even though we are unaware, About what to be sad about. Questions linger, An abrupt answer is given, Raising even more inquiries. The thought of never seeing someone again, Never being able to talk to them again, Never to get to say your goodbyes, Is terrifying. We bawl our eyes, Asking only ourselves one question, 39

E “Why?” Our Father, Upon picking back up the phone, Does as instructed. He pulled himself together, Takes a deep breath, Replies, “I’m sorrythat was unexpected.”

UNDERWATER CITY—ROSIE STEINER ‘17

E TALES OF ORPHIC Victoria Imbriano ‘17 Stories are what made me the person I am today. A thief. A thief searching for the power that the Ofaic lays hidden from the humans. Being from a lower ranking society doesn’t make it any easier to live the way humans do. That’s why we plan to take that power, just to bring equality to our people. Even though being a thief means you're always on the cautious side of life and always hated – and that’s been most of my life – but when it comes to something to the extreme, that crosses the line for me. I’m done… One dark and quiet night, a couple of some other thieves and I decided to grab some information from one of the research labs in the Castle of Gragana. Everybody was ready for charging in and grabbing the research. Even my Dire Wolf, Zek, was ready to sniff out some power. But Daryl, a taller and older man than I was (but only by two years), who was running the “operation,” thought otherwise for the two of us. “Alright Gayl, there is going to be a change of plans for you and me when we get in there.” I didn’t quite like the sound of this, so I asked, “What are you talking about, Daryl?” Then I mentioned with a little anger, “This had better not be another ‘Let’s take their weapons too’ scheme, because remember how well that worked out!?” I smacked him in the back of the head. “What are you thinking!?” “Oww!” He turned me towards him, so I just lent him my ears. “Gayl, calm down. We’re not going after weapons; we have perfectly good ones right with us.” His gentle eyes and smile turned into a thief's sharpened eyes and smirk. “I have a bigger prize in mind…”

I did not like this. Usually when this happens, it does not end well. But I decided to go along with it anyway, because I just wanted that 42

E that crazy night to be over with. Everyone went to the lab while I followed Daryl to the upper levels of the castle. The further we went up, the more worried I became, and it became worse when we got to the floor we were supposed to be on. Our steps became slower and more cautious until they were impossible to hear. There were no doors that we could see, only a tight corridor that became more nerve-racking every step of the way. We finally came across a gigantic door with designs engraved on it and above it. I couldn’t take it anymore. “What is it we’re doing, Daryl!?” I yelled in a whisper, but to only be stopped by his hand over my mouth. He turned to look at me. “I don’t want you to make any noise when we go in there, understand, Gayl?” I nodded in response. He slowly opened the door, even though it still creaked along. I slowly backed up, but Daryl signaled me that everything was okay. I let out a sigh then we continued forward, only to be stopped by a large and long structure with fabric on it. It couldn’t be, but it turned out it was. A bed. Daryl got closer to the structure. I stumbled to pull him back on his cloak, almost leading me to fall on my face. “What?” he whispered. “I don’t like this!” “Just trust me, will you?” There was a rustle in the bed. We inched closer to the mysterious figure under the snow white sheets. At this point I was ready to jump out the window and run away with no worries on my back, but of course, my curious nature wanted to know if what I was thinking was true. Just to make it worse, Daryl lifted the covers without waking the person up from their slumber. I ended up just staring in shock and horror after seeing who it was.

Lying right in front of me was a young girl my age with long jetstream black hair. Her face held slim and firm eyebrows above her eyes 43

E with the longest of eyelashes, and freckles that stretched from cheek to cheek. She was a healthy skinny and wore a nightgown the color of light pink with frilly ruffles at the bottom of the sleeves and the nightgown. My voice, shaky, whispered, “T-this girl is the P-princess of D-DDroylsil! What are we doing here!?” “Isn’t it obvious, Gayl? We’re kidnapping her for ransom to get what we rightfully deserve,” he said. His eyes became fierce. My eyes widened. “Are you out of your mind!? Our heads will roll for this!” “Why do you think I brought you along?” He started pulling rope out of his bag. “You always get me what I want,” he chuckled. “Guess again! This is insane! I never signed up for kidnapping!” I tuned and headed out the door. “I’m out.” He stopped me in my tracks. “Oh come on now, Gayl.” He came up closer to whisper something in my ear. “We don’t want your secret to slip out to the guys, now would we?” Now he had me up against the wall! I should have been more careful about Daryl; he’s obviously too dangerous for me to handle at this point. Then it happened. We heard a groan come from the girl, and we both exchanged looks and stayed frozen because we knew there was no escape from this! The princess started to get up, and as every passing second went by, the more nervous I became until the moment when she had noticed that two strangers had broken into her room. The girl’s light blue eyes widened and darted directly at us. Her mouth opened and let out a high-pitched yell for help. My eyes stretched to the point where they started hurting, and as that happened, my jaw began to drop. I heard hesitant breaths come from Daryl as well. We were both terrified about the thought of her screaming and alerting everyone in the castle. 44

E In a quick reaction, Daryl grabbed the girl and pulled out a small sack of dust, grabbed a pinch of the glistening star-like powder, and threw it on her pale white face. Just as quickly as she screamed, she fell unconscious. Voices came from downstairs, yelling, “Guards, go and check around upstairs! You too, professor!”

I hit Daryl in the head again. “Now look what you got us into!” “Oh quit your whining and take the girl outside.” He handed me the princess and turned to the door. “I’m going to deal with some trash.” His eyes became sharper than any sword I had ever seen. I did what I was told and started sliding down the roof with ease. When I came to the end of it, I jumped off the roof and used my grappling gear to help me down without hurting myself. When I touched the ground, I heard groaning from the princess. This is not good, I thought. I realized she was waking up. Some knock-out dust that was. I figured this was a good place to stop and wait for Daryl to come breaking through a window and join up with us. I was right. Daryl flew out the window with a bunch of smoke trailing behind him. Smokescreen was probably the right way to go because of the situation we were in. It gives us a minute of disappearance from the naked eye, but since we were dealing with Ofaics, it might prove more difficult to shake them off. He jumped down near me, huffing and puffing, then said, gasping, “Give me the girl.” I looked down at her freckled face. I couldn’t take this anymore. I walked over to a wall and laid her down gently on a wall of the castle. “What are you doing?” Daryl said, still catching his breath. I looked up at him and drew out my sword, getting ready to fight. “Like I said before, I’m DONE!” FOOSH! 45

E Suddenly, a flash of purple flowing light came circling around me. My eyes widened and then turned down to look at my hand with a burning passion. W hat is this!? I clenched my hand. I’m on fire! I picked my head up to see Daryl, who almost fell on the ground. His voice sounded shaky, “Y-You—you’re—you’re on fire!” He looked at me with fiery eyes. “No matter.” He quickly reached over to pull out his crossbow from behind his back. “I just have to be more cautious about you…” He was getting ready to shoot. “...You traitor.” The arrow hurled straight toward my head. Another flash came in front of me, and the flames found their way to wrap around the arrow, slowly applying pressure to it, until the point where it could not take any more. The remaining pieces of the arrow fell to the ground in a fiery blaze. By this point, Daryl was back into his shaken position. Daryl stumbled to turn on his grappling gear and started running. Of course, the right thing to do was to run after him, but my vision turned blurry and my head started to split to the point where I couldn’t help but yell. I fell to my knees and then on my face, where I got a nice taste of the ice-cold ground. I’m going to die, I was thinking at this point. I started to black out, wheezing and coughing, but before I could black out, I saw the princess’s face in shock, distress, and pain…but I never thought I would see pity in those leaky, icy blue eyes of hers. I saw her lips mouth the words, “Are you okay?” I was shocked to even think that a princess – an Ofaic princess – would have pity on a lowlife human thief like me. Well, I guess there is a first time for everything. I was being shaken by her frantically with the repeated muffled words, “Can you hear me?” and “Are you awake?” I heard other muffled voices from coming toward us.

I could just make out what they were saying. “Princess are you alright?” said a male voice. I tried to lift my head to see who it was, but 46

E my movement drove this person to step on my back. “Looks like we caught ourselves some human scum who can use Ophelia, but can’t quite control it. Pathetic.” He then put his foot under my arm and flipped me onto my back. The Princess cut in. “Akihiro! Stop! Can’t you see he’s hurt?” “Princess Juvela, please understand that we cannot tolerate humans who break in and try to kidnap the princess.” He placed his foot lightly on my chest. “Plus, this little thief needs to pay for his friend’s pyrotechnics display on my lab,” he grunted, starting to dig his foot into my chest. I let out gasp, and I could feel blood dripping down from my head to the side of my nose. How was I supposed to know they would set the lab on fire? I wasn’t aware of this! The Princess Juvela pulled him back. “STOP IT!” she yelled. The man called Akihiro stopped only to turn toward her with sharp wild eyes. She sighed. “He saved me, Akihiro.” His face changed into a more surprised tone from that point on. Juvela continued to persuade him. “He could have kept running with them, but he chose to stop and fight back.” She bent down to pick me up to my feet, only for me to wobble and almost fall again, but she seemed to be able to carry me. “I can sense that he is a good person; not all humans are the same you know, Akihiro.” He started to pout now, managing to say, “Fine, but don’t expect me not to run some tests on this human.” He turned to me and smirked, stroking his chin. “This little Ophelia madness has sparked my interest in this human.” I spat a bit of blood in his face in response. Wiping the maroon-colored liquid from his face, he then signaled the guards to me. “Take him to one of the rooms and order the maids to clean him up.” They responded, saying, “Affirmative, Professor Centius.”

My eyes widened a little bit. Realizing what they had just said, I coughed then said in a haze, “No, you can’t–” I was interrupted by anoth47

E Er hack of air. “You -pant– don’t under -pant- stand...I–” I was again interrupted, but not from my hacking, from the Princess. “Shhh. Don’t worry. I won’t let any harm come to you. This is how I’m repaying you for saving me.” Akihiro reached over and patted my hood-covered head, his emerald green eyes looking into mine. “The testing starts at sunrise tomorrow. Hopefully some of my equipment made it out okay,” he said. Akihiro gave me a look that I would never forget. “Pleasure doing business with you, human.” He then grabbed the princess by the arm and brought her back inside. It turns out, I really did choose the decision that crushed me...

[NOT SO] STILL LIFE—KAITLIN CINTORINO ‘15

REFLECTIONS—REBECCA TEEVAN ‘15

E GET USED TO IT Lucia Biglow ‘18 In my upper periphery, I see unexpected motion: Tattered red coat and fleece sweater sleeve extending themselves

To meet in the bridge of empty space between the front car seats. A brain will often espy what it expects rather than actuality, And this is one of those cases, as my first thought was wordless: Merely the concept of bonding palms and lovingly laced digits. Eyes darting up, there is an aggressive index finger thrust through One of the multiple splits in the coat’s otherwise uniformly-crafted cuff, pulling In an attempt to tear it apart. Typical issue: Hoarding, insisting, arguing, touching She tugs but underestimates the brawn she’ll need to break And the jacket's stubborn seams insist on intertwinement like Knots of hair forced through a comb. But my dad, in that aversion-inducing red coat, reaches a breaking point. His other hand leaves the steering wheel, thrashing, Splitting particles of air and inner peace as the car veers off Its designated path in two directions. The dissonant quartet of arms and hands in violent interaction Is put to rest by threat of death, As one tension dominates another. I remain behind it all, peeking over the fence of my laptop screen as Five movies worth of vehemence packs itself into a few seconds of what I consider typical time. The drive from home to house continues, And with headphones on and volume high, I channel my gaze toward the 51

E screen Unfazed.

LOOKING TO THE FUTURE—DARBY GILLET ‘18

NEW BEGINNINGS—TAYLOR SANTOSUOSSO ‘18

E AFTER Libby Marcouillier ‘18 The bullet hit the young, blonde girl before she could blink. The shot had been fired from her left, within the middle of a crowd of people inside the mall. Before anyone knew what was happening, she was lying on the ground in a puddle of her own blood. People screamed. People ran. But when the immediate chaos had dissipated, the people flocked to the child's dead body, shocked by her death. The crowd was oblivious to the beautifully sad sight of her soul walking away with lovely angels. It was evident that the girl was confused by the way her forehead scrunched together above her big brown eyes and how her mouth hung limply. It seemed as though she couldn’t believe what was going on, couldn’t grasp the fact that she was dead. The angel walked her to a flower garden, a decent distance from the scene of the crime, and gave her a moment with her thoughts before she began to talk. “Hello,” the angel began. “Hi. I’m Avery Grace,” said the little girl with the blonde pigtails. “I’m four!” she continued as she held up four fingers. “That’s very nice,” the angel continued, “I’m your guardian angel, Gwen. Do you know why you're here, Avery Grace?” “No…” She sounded nervous and afraid. “Well, you see, honey, a very bad man shot you. It’s okay, though, because you get to stay with me for a little while,” the angel explained, and then continued, when she saw the worried look on Avery Grace’s face. “Don’t worry. I won’t bite.” The guardian angel chuckled to herself. “Now will you come with me?” “Okay,” was the response of Avery Grace as she stood from the bench and began walking off into the light with the angel. --As the months rolled on, one could tell that Avery Grace was growing used to living with Gwen. She no longer appeared scared or frightened by her new surroundings in the beauty of Heaven. However, 55

E her nightly crying sessions before bed showed how much she continued to miss her mom and life on Earth. Her face almost always appeared peaceful and gave off a sort of tranquil glow. Avery Grace often had a small smile traced upon her lips when she wasn’t doing anything, almost as if she were up to something. She never was up to something, though. She stayed perfectly angelic, doing as she was asked and keeping calmly to herself at all other times. One might think she was living a lonely life, but when others asked how she was, she always stressed how much she loved being in Heaven. One evening, after dinner, Gwen approached Avery Grace. “What did you do today?” she asked politely. “I played with Molly,” she replied, referring to her imaginary friend. “What did you do today?” Gwen appeared to ponder the question a moment, her eyes unblinking, looking off into nothing. “I helped people on Earth.” “Why?” Avery Grace asked with a tone of voice that showed genuine curiosity. “Because I’m an angel and that’s my job. It’s the right thing-” Gwen was interrupted by a knock on her door. “One second, hon.” Gwen walked across the room and opened the door, revealing a male angel and a woman with her head bowed in shame behind him. “Hi, Herbert!” Gwen welcomed. The womans eyes flicked upward just as Avery Grace entered the doorway. “MOMMY!” she shrieked with joy and surprise, her mouth open in the widest smile. “Baby!” Avery Grace’s mom scooped her into her arms, elated.

SHIP IN GERMANY—DARBY GILLET ‘18

UNTITLED—SAMANTHA HINTON ‘18

E HEARTS AND FLOWERS Franky Barradale ‘15 Beaten black boots scuff across asphalt. The wind takes a detour through the holes in her jeans. A calloused hand traces the rim of the stone fountain, Dormant in the winter cold. Her hot breath makes a trailing cloud, Funneled through her mouth Like when children Pretend they’re smoking cigarettes. She shivers. A younger girl, a mere teenager, enters her field of view. A pretty girl, with long brown hair, conversing with her parents. Parents already? She carries a backpack. Possessed by the ghost of a memory, the boots turn to the left, Scraping away from the girl. Longing pains the woman’s heart once again, so many years later. But she keeps walking. Another girl with shaggy hair walked this path once, with her friend. They both had braces then, Fifteen and on top of the world. It was much warmer then – summer. The woman shivers again, hit with a biting blast of reality. Her fingers trace the nape of her neck. She smiles when she feels the buzzed hairs. Not shaggy anymore, she muses. She walks with the two younger girls Who complain of the heat. 59

E One laments that the fan in her dorm is Useless. “At least that’s one good thing about going home tomorrow – I get air conditioning!” The shaggier one nods, her bangs blocking her eyes. “Yeah,” she says, as she moves the hair out of her way. The woman performs the same action, The memory guiding her arm. Another faint smile splits on her face. She continues to follow the young girls. A rosy warmth blossoms in her chest, Knowing what comes next. The group – the two teens and the Forlorn twenty-something – cross the street, And start walking up a hill. The woman looks at the shaggy girl again. Her metal-mouthed smile appears, While her eyes droop from the weight Of knowing that she has to leave This place She has come to love. But as they pass under a tree, The girl is blinded by a screen of tanned skin. “Ugh, who is it?” she asks. Her friend next to her laughs. The shaggy one frantically moves her fingers Along the foreign hands, Searching for a clue. A stroke of luck. She pries them off and turns around, Face to face with the girl Who was by the fountain 60

E Talking to her parents. “Hey,” she says. The braces make an encore as Those lips, chapped and naïve, Part again in a smile. The two hug. The trio of teens continues the climb, Beginning to fade among the trees. The woman blinks. The verdant vitality is gone. It’s all a Sea of white and gray. The cold hugs her now, Wrapping itself around her body, Entering every contour.

She exhales again, Releasing the fingers of her left hand, Curled around her phantom lover. Back then, the other girl’s hands Were rougher, calloused, and strong, While the woman’s hands Were much more delicate. She brings that hand up to her face, Curling the fingers once again, As if they were still Clinging to the one she had lost. They are much rougher now. The liquid warmth from her eyes Is a film against the cold. The comfort turns to mist, Fading with the breeze. 61

REFLECTIONS—TAYLOR SANTOSUOSSO ‘18

E NIOBE Libby Marcouillier â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;18 They call it the calm before the storm. When everything is at peace. Mother, so loving to us kids, Praising out multitude. Father working hard for us, Keeping us safe through his solitude. And the gods. They sent their holy hunters with their bows, Punishing the hubris of our mother. All seven of my brothers lay dead. Through the tears I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t distinguish one from the other. Mother remained stupid, yelling at her foes, She cursed the gods. Then boasted of us daughters. Us. Me. We were doomed. Arrows were flying, Killing us all. But I lay behind, Alive in mothers lap. She pleaded for my life, Too late, as my soul was entombed.

CAR TRAILS—KAITLIN CINTORINO ‘15

E THE CAR Anonymous She had always had a large house. Its windows stretched across the walls like lazy cats, and doors groaned open reluctantly, frames complaining of old age. The house slumbered on a hill that overlooked sparse trees and a rambling dirt road which never seemed to make up its mind about what direction it was going in. It was not a pretty house. It was squat and businesslike with no ornamentation; however, it almost perfectly reflected its owner. On Monday, the owner woke up and got dressed. A pantsuit, grey so as not to seem too formal, but still keeping things classy, and matching heels. Her hair never fought when she scraped it into an updo; that day was nothing out of the usual. She plunked two sugar cubes in her coffee, black with no cream. She’d never dream of drinking anything else. She looked out the window and saw a strange car parked at the bottom of the hill; it was a small sedan, nothing special, in a neutral color no one would think twice about. It confused her; the car wasn’t hers and she never had visitors. There were no people getting out of the car, and no one seemed to be inside it either. She’d have to see that the owners got off her property before she left for work; you couldn’t be too careful with strangers. She locked the door on her way out, and a sense of calming control settled over her. On Tuesday, she woke up, and the car was still there. As she got dressed, she lingered around the window, feeling like maybe she should go see if it was abandoned. But why would anyone leave a car in a place so out of the way? The owners must be camping somewhere on the surrounding land, in which case they were trespassing and she’d be speaking to a lawyer. She pushed thoughts of the car out of her mind as she made her coffee, black with two sugars and no cream, and locked the door when she left. This time, though, she didn’t feel quite as in control when the lock clicked. 65

E On Wednesday, she woke up, got dressed, and felt a question wiggling in the back of her mind. The car was still at the bottom of the hill; why hadn’t it budged? Whose car was it? Why had they left it there? A strange sense of unease started to creep in, but forcing it down, she continued with her morning. She almost missed putting the sugar in her coffee, and she forgot to lock the door. Thursday it was raining. Not just a light spray, but thick, fat drops hurling themselves from the sky in waves as though they intended to drown the world. The car was still on the hill, loose dirt turning into mud and pooling around the wheels. Why? She had no clue, and it was clawing through her mind. Maybe she would stop on her way to the office, just investigate a little and see what the deal was. A crack had appeared in her windshield overnight, fractures beginning to reach across, but she was sure she’d be able to see fine. She’d just pull over next to the car and poke around for a few minutes, no more. She left the house with pieces of hair dangling out of her bun, two mix-matched shoes and cream in her coffee. Friday there were two gentlemen in front of the hill, talking in hushed voices. “Did you hear about what happened yesterday?” “Yeah, real shame. I heard she just plowed straight into something.” “Sure was raining hard; I’m not surprised. Probably couldn’t see a damn thing through that windshield either. They find what she hit?” “Probably a moose going by the damage. Must’ve taken off.” “Not many moose up this way.” “True, but what else could’ve done it? She was just at the end of the hill, no kin to see what happened and no neighbors to report it right away. There were no trees close enough, certainly no other cars. She was just sitting there with her car smashed to bits and a steering wheel in her chest.” 66

E “I know, I know. Like you said, Frank, must’ve been a moose.” “Anyway, I have to go. There’s some weird car in my yard I have to have towed out.”