A Life Cycle

Cape Cod in the summertime is no one's animus. A salty breeze, sand covered legs, and a crisp refreshing ocean. Waves lap at dock board and seaweed drifting by, waterlogged.

Fish nip at hooks and hermit crabs scuttle under rocks on the seafloor. The ocean churns on day and night, roughening shell and smoothing glass. Ceaseless, pulling, cycling, filtering, draining, drowning, dancing and never ever pausing.

However, amidst the crashing, crushing, clamor of the ocean’s culling, there is one who desires to not move. The lonesome periwinkle is content to be stagnant, and let the water move around, swirling on (almost) all sides. For as hard as the ocean may heave and groan, toss and tug the periwinkle stays firmly on its pierside post. Here it is sheltered from the elements within the oceans control, wind, wake and weather. Boats will not crush them against the rocks they call home, smashing shells and leaving stains Water will not run from them, leaving them high and dry and gasping, shriveling in the open air. The pier protects them from all. Except Hands.

Hands reached down into the water

It pulled on our periwinkle, with the strength one might use to pull on a particularly stubborn burr on the side of one's favorite coat. Simply plucking it off and tossing it away.

The Hand that pulled away the lonesome periwinkle from its lonely home dragged it up through that water, into the open air.

The Hand’s emergence from the water barely made a ripple. Inquiring Eyes stared at the small shell, peering, seeking, searching. Looking for what it knew was inside. The pitiful snail.

The Hand grabbed, reached, tugged, pulled. Fingers in the small opening of the shell yanked at the creature. Attempted to bring it onto the light.

The snail found itself slipping, its hold on its shell growing feeble, slick seawater making traction impossible. The hand was strong.

Until finally the periwinkle split, not the shell from the shell but the snail from its home. The shell and the snail lay in the Hand neither the snail nor the shell having the ability to move. One was a shell and the other was dead.

The flesh of the Hand shifted under them as it tried to seize the shell, its prize. All for naught however, as the Hand jerked, violently, suddenly, and then the shell was in the air. Soaring, floating, flying above the water. There was a noise, a high shriek of displeasure. The Hand reached out to try to grab the shell. The Eyes wide, following its path up over the sea. Soaring, floating, flying above the water. Falling into it.

The shell settled on the ocean floor sending up a poof of sand that dusted it like a fine mist. Waves rolled over the shell, rocking it gently back and forth, back and forth. Dapples of light danced over its ridges, playing upon the spiral, curling into the empty hole where a creature used to reside.

Illuminating the shell on the bottom of the sea.

Adele Francis ’24

In the study aloft an oak chest, his head delicately resting upon a faded lace pillow. This spot was designated to him, as he would spend his evening hours seated there, diligently watching the birds outside the rusted window pane. It was at this time in the evening, when daylight shatters across the land, and dissolves into night, that the cat anticipates, as this was the time at night his friend arrives. Tonight was a full moon, and its gentle beams illuminated the rolling hills that extended beyond the garden walls. The cat’s eyes gleamed with anticipation, as he crept out of the study, towards the open kitchen window. He made his way across the house, invisible, his paws gingerly working their way past the corridor and to the small window above the stone counter. The stone floor felt cold and soothing, and gave him a swift sense of tranquility as he leapt onto the windowsill, and slipped through the small wooden opening, and gracefully landed in the tall grass.

He made his way through the tall sea of wild vegetation, and brushed through the leaves that led him to the top of a small hill. He reached the top, relieved, and took a moment to gaze into the valleys and illustrious green hills of the English countryside that seemed to go on for an eternity. This was his special place, where he would sit and speak to the moon. My day was wonderful, thanks. Do you love flowers as much as I do? Its gentle glow glimmered upon the cat’s ginger pelt, as the moon listened eagerly to everything the cat told; at least the cat was sure it was so.

Once the birds began to chirp, and the sharp chill in the air softened, the cat knew it was time to return home. He dove in and out of the grass, scouting for field mice; and with no luck, he turned towards home. He pranced back down the hilltop, and decided to head home through the town. He walked along a small dirt road, and soon turned on a weathered down cobblestone path leading to the village. By the time the cluster of Tudor homes came into view, it was sunrise. He trotted along the cobblestone street, gazing at the few townsfolk who began their morning duties of dumping waste buckets from the window, and carting off the rotting bodies of those who did not make it through the night using wheelbarrows, then dumping them into a large dugout pit further south of town. A tavern sign swung from above the frame of a door, reading: Ye Olde Tavern, est. 1386. The place was empty. He restrained himself from pouncing on the chickens who meandered through the streets, his glassy eyes reflecting the candle wicks that illuminated inside the village houses. His senses ablaze, ears alert, tail a featherweight, whiskers tingling; the thick swirls of petulant air overwhelmed him. Time felt adrift; and the cat could not recollect the last time civilization had not felt so wretched, and cold. Death seemed to be lingering among every molecule, every shiver of cold air and every slow burning candlewick. Overwhelmed, the young cat trotted home, ignoring the flies buzzing in his ears and the sound of rats that scurried around the darkened streets of town.

He curled up on the stone floor next to a pile of warm embers, and let the cool stones relax his body. The cat fell into a deep slumber, visions of moonbeams and warm scents swirling before his eyes, and tingling his senses. The poor cat would never understand the events that followed. THWACK. He was shocked back into reality.

THWACK!

He felt a panic, a sudden surge of pain swept over him. Run. His legs reacted before he could comprehend what was happening. He leapt onto a high shelf – safety. Fur on end, eyes widened. “Get him”. What did I do? He saw tears swelling in the eyes of the humans staring up at him. They spoke to him, praying for forgiveness, “We’re so sorry. So sorry… Henry is dead, found this morning… we cannot risk getting the boys sick. It’s not your fault you carry it – we just need to eliminate any chance of disease… God forgive me.” Of course, the cat did not understand the foreign sounds from these people, nor would he ever understand the reason for such violence. He just stood there, petrified, hissing and spitting at the people who had once fed him. He finally regained awareness of himself, and sprinted to the small window he had passed through many times before. The sun brightened the world around him, slipping out of the dark house and in the direction of the wilderness.

He didn’t look back, he just let his legs carry him away from the danger. He ran for hours, finally collapsing deep inside a forest located miles away from the village. The cat was exhausted, he let his head fall on the damp ground, and allowed his legs to stretch out and rest. By this time, the day had gone by, and the world was once again sinking into night. He let out a soft purr at the thought of this, for he wanted nothing more than to see the moon again. He gathered himself, and followed the bright glow that led out of the woods. He reached a clearing, the moon hung directly above a tall field of wildflowers, and thousands of bright stars painted the sky, shimmering like diamonds. He had never felt so calm, as he gently stepped through the field, taking in the sweet scents of the flowers surrounding him. It felt magical. I’ve missed you, my dear friend. The cat felt a deep sadness in his chest as he continued speaking; I am so scared.

“Now why would you be frightened, little one?”

Why do I feel so much pain? I thought I could trust them.

He lay, pensive, heavy, fatigued.

“The pain will go away soon. Don’t look back on your life, just keep breathing.”

I am too young for this… this should not happen yet.

“You need not worry, little one. You are safe now.”

But You will leave soon. I don’t want to be alone.

“You are never without me, dear cat. I will always be your friend.”

The sky is beautiful tonight. Did you do this for me?

“Of course”

The small cat gazed up at the night sky, breathing in the sweet scent of bluebells and daisies. As he lay in the flower bed, His eye caught sight of something bright on the edge of the field. This brightness seemed to expand across the field, and the cat sat alert, watching intently. And, with a sudden wave of relief, he understood, and lay his head down to rest , happy thoughts dancing above the clouds, eager to start his life anew.

Fiona Gully

The red sands stretched for miles, only interrupted by the occasional boulder and the few fallen transport crafts that hadn’t made it off the planet in time. They had been used by the insanely rich once they had seen what was coming. If you found an untouched transport you would be wealthy beyond your wildest dreams. But they had all been raided until there was nothing left years ago, and no one had found anything of value in the dunes for the past three years. Amongst this empty landscape, a small figure was making its way across the vast dunes. He stumbled once or twice as the sand pelted his face raw and the blazing sun beat down on him. This was no place for a human to be, this was no place for life to be, but the boy was persistent as he made his way through the desert. He was heading in the direction of String. He would probably never make it to the city.

But that was not what he was thinking about as one foot was put in front of the other this traveler kept moving forward through the unfriendly landscape. The coarse sands burned through the thin soles of the tattered sandals, the winds pelted his side, and the sun beat down atop him as the dry heat took all moisture from his mouth. But still, the boy moved on. He had somewhere to be; he was not ready to give up.

The boy treading through the desert was wearing a standard oxygen mask, a pair of ragged sandals, and a long-sleeve shirt. He had a surprisingly nice pack slung over his shoulder that contrasted with the rest of his clothing. Definitely not warm enough for a night in the desert, and the night was falling fast. In the east, the sunset was exploding into the sky with so many shades of red, pink, orange, yellow, and purple. Ever since the bombings, the sunsets had been this beautiful every night because of all the dust and debris they had flung into the air. It was beautiful to look at, but a sign that this traveler’s time was running out.

He needed to find shelter fast, so he changed his trajectory to the nearest hollowed-out transport. It was a shelter from the wind but not from the cold. Inside instead of nothing at all everything had been stripped away. There was nothing to keep the boy warm until morning. The desert would take him soon, the desert always won. And it was humans that made it this way, it was humans that turned their own home against them. But that was not this boy’s fault. He was just trying to survive in this world ruined by those who came before him. The haggard figure moved to the back of the cave-like ruin. In the corner, he reached into the bag that had been slung over his back and pulled out a thermos filled with an unknown liquid. Steam poured out of the heavy-duty mug, and the boy slowly took a small sip.

This continued for hours. Every time the boy got so cold he felt he could freeze solid, he would take one small sip from the thermos. As time went on the sips got bigger and closer together and at around midnight the thermos was empty. The winds howled banging on the walls and the red sand had lost all its heat and was now cold as ice. The boy’s eyelids felt heavy. He knew he could not fall asleep but it seemed so much easier than staying awake until morning. He shuffled over to a spot on the wall where a small chunk of metal jutted out of the wall. The boy leaned against it and the cold metal dug into the small of his back. He was convinced he would not get comfortable and drift into a never-ending sleep.

As he sat there alone, part of the boy knew he was doomed, but he did not give in just yet. He looked at his hands which had an unnatural blue tint. He looked at the cloud of breath surrounding his head. He felt so tired so very tired and so cold. The hole in the wall he had entered seemed to be getting further and further away as the young traveler got colder and colder. The boy never made it to String, but it was no surprise that the desert had claimed another life. No one had made it across the desert on foot since it became such a hellscape. There were old stories of how the desert used to be a giant natural preserve with thick forests and so much life in a place where it was possible to live without climate control and artificial oxygen. But humans had made sure that there was no place like this left on earth. This traveler had fought hard and now could have a long-deserved rest.

Clara Athearn ‘24

It was almost midnight when Claudia awoke to the sound of footsteps outside her door. The unfamiliar creaking sound of floorboards made her shiver as she was torn out of her dream. Being the only one who lived in an old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, she was not accustomed to hearing the sound of footsteps coming from anyone but herself. She rose slowly, trying to hold on to the last threads of tiredness so that she might fall back asleep soon, but after a few moments of sitting up in her bed, she determined that the sound wasn't stopping and needed investigating. Before walking to the door, she gazed out her window. Checking for any foreign shapes in the farm landscape she knew so well. She saw nothing. Only the trees and their shadows, the pond reflecting the moonlight up to her window, and the familiar shapes of cows standing alone in the pasture.

Claudia opened her bedroom door, and when she saw nothing but the empty hallway, she made her way quietly through the corridor to the living room beyond. Here, dozens of faces stared down at her. On the far wall of the living room a collection of photos that had been there for as long as she could remember rattled on their hooks. Each photo portrayed a smiling child dressed nicely and standing outside on the open farmland with the same serene pond shimmering in the background. The children looked to be around the ages of nine or ten and each possessed the same blond hair as Claudia, which had been passed down throughout generations. From left to right the photos depicted her lineage, starting with her greatgrandparents, then going to her grandparents and parents until they came to the youngest of her siblings. She had the exact placement of each person ingrained in her memory and knew even in the dark who was who. Claudia often walked by the photos, but had begun looking down at the floor when she passed them. It had become too much of a struggle to look into the smiling faces of her family members with the knowledge that one at a time each of them had disappeared from her life. She had thought the photos enthralling, at the beginning, when she was a little girl living with her mother and younger sister. As a child, she would often walk by and trace the outline of the pond in the background of each photo with her fingers marveling at the uniformity of all the faces. She had always dreamed that her photo would be up there someday, but when each of her family members went missing, one after the other, and no one was around to take a photo of her anymore, that dream died like the many others she had had before everyone disappeared. The portraits were now simply a reminder of her loss, and paying them any heed made her too upset to make looking at them worthwhile.

Tonight, the glow of the moonlight seeping in from the window opposite her illuminated the faces, eerily turning the smiles into smirks. Looking more closely, she noticed there was a new addition to the wall. A photo she had never seen hung on the right side of the wall. The photo had no face but showed the same landscape with the little pond that was the background of every other photo. She wondered if maybe this photo had always been there and in her time of ignoring the portraits she had forgotten about it but then decided that no, she would have remembered.

As she stared at the photo, inspecting it for any sign of how it got there, she heard a crash from the front of the house. Claudia made her way to the kitchen where she found the front door open. A blond head melted into the night just as she entered the room. She didn't see much but from the few details she had gathered, she was almost certain it was her sister. It had been years since she had last seen Nora, a shy quiet five year old who never quite understood what it meant to brush her hair, but Claudia could recognize that little ponytail anywhere. It was as if she hadn't aged a day and she had come back looking exactly the same as when she had disappeared. “Nora,” she shouted after the small figure. “Nora come back!!” When no little head came bobbing back through the door and she heard no reply, Claudia grabbed her jacket off the hook next to the door and ran out into the darkness.

She felt a chill as she made the initial step into the darkness. It was summer but the air had become uncomfortably cold, and she pulled her jacket tighter around her body for warmth. Looking ahead, she could see the pond illuminated by the ghostly glow of moonlight. The ducks that swam peacefully through its midst during the daytime were mere shadows huddled to one side. Lily pads floated along its shore and glistened like eyes staring back at her. The reeds and tall grasses surrounding the pond shivered as they were lulled by a cold breeze that had started to blow. In front of her, Claudia heard laughter. She moved closer toward the pond, her footsteps muted by the soft earth that gave way underneath her. Damp grass clung to her feet which she only now realized were bare and very cold. She continued onward, stepping carefully to avoid any miscellaneous tools or objects that she might not see in the darkness. She wondered why she hadn't thought to grab a flashlight. “Nora!!” she called into the night. “Nora is that you?” She could hear her words echoing off the surface of the water and back to her. “It's me, Claudia, I'm here.”

The sounds of laughter vanished. Behind her, she heard the farmhouse door slam shut. It must have been the wind. A cloud passed over the moon and for a moment she was in complete darkness. The glow of the pond had disappeared, and she could no longer see the trees to her left and right. The coldness seeped into her body, and her toes lost feeling. In front of her, she heard a splash. Not the splash a frog might make as it slid off a leaf into the water, or a fish might make as it leaped upwards trying to get a view of the world above, but a loud splash, the sound a human might make. She heard a scream. It sounded like Nora. It had to be Nora. The blond ponytail, the laughing, and now the screams. It had to be her. In the glow of the moon that had now reappeared Claudia sprang into action. She sprinted the rest of the way to the pond where the screaming continued along with the unmistakable sound of thrashing arms and legs in the water.

Claudia grabbed the small canoe that sat along the shore. The canoe, while rather dull with age, seemed in perfect condition as she put it into the water. It had been there her whole life but was always more of a decoration than an item with a practical purpose. There was an unspoken rule between the members of her family that it was never to be touched or used, but in all her years of life Claudia had never been able to determine why. Even in her earliest childhood memories, she could always picture the red canoe there at the shore of the lake pondering its own uselessness. But she would use it now. She needed to. She got in and paddled it towards the screams that were now losing their energy. She had to help Nora. She saw the water splashing in front of her and paddled quickly. “Nora, I’m here. I’m coming to help,” she said. But the splashing had stopped. She felt the canoe tipping.

As she turned around she watched as a pair of hands reached over the edge of the canoe, grasping it and pulling it down. As she looked more closely she saw that it was not one pair of hands but many. Something wet and slimy touched her arm and she screamed. Grabbing her forearm was another hand. Hand after hand reached out of the water. Arms rising over the sides of the canoe tipped it precariously. Claudia shrieked. She stood, trying to regain balance, kicking at the hands with her free foot. More and more kept coming. Their fingers slid over the sides of the boat rocking it back and forth. Claudia closed her eyes. This must be a dream. A nightmare. It had to be.

Cold liquid ran up her nose as she made contact with the water. Bubbles sprang up all around her. Her mouth filled with water as she tried to scream. Then all was silent. A hand reached out to her from the darkness below and she grabbed it. She had no other choice. When she looked down she saw that there was a hand attached to the body. Nora's face looked back up at her. Claudia felt Nora gently squeeze her hand in a reassuring gesture and didn't resist as she guided them both downwards. She ignored her lungs which begged for air and her body which had begun to shudder. At this moment everything felt right to her. Nora pulled them both downwards and as they sank, the faint moonlight coming from above began to illuminate faces all around them. Her body shaking with full force now, Claudia recognized the faces as the ones from the photos on the wall. In front of her, her mother waited open-armed, her grandmother floating just to her left. The water whirled about them. Bubbles sprang up around her coming somewhere from deep below. Claudia, her body limp as she sunk father down to the bottom of the little pond, wondered if this had been where she was meant to be all along.

As the sun rose the next morning the farm came to life. The cows moaned, waiting to be milked and the chickens chuckled as they wandered about searching for scraps. The grass around the pond sat still as the ducks awoke and stretched their legs. Further up from the pond, the farmhouse was quiet. Sun shone through the windows illuminating its interior and a cat sat at the back door waiting to be let out. On the living room wall, dozens of faces sat smiling blankly, the new addition on the far right hanging slightly crooked as the sun rays danced across the face of a laughing blond girl.

Thalia O’Neil

The wind brushed her hair. It was often windy here, never cool enough to be cold but never warm enough to be hot. The field held two girls. They had been exploring all morning under their mother’s watchful eye, as she observed from a distance, trusting the wind to take care of her daughters. It was clear who was the older of the two sisters, as the younger one often followed her sister whenever and wherever she went. This was one of those times. Barefoot, the little one followed her sister's footsteps on the leaf-speckled ground. The wind picked up, swirling the leaves and guiding the girls, and leading them with its playful strength. The girls rejoiced in the breeze, excited to be with their favorite friend.

As the older sister started moving, her legs shifted quickly as though she had first learned to run rather than walk. The little sister, noticing her sister's new path, began to follow. She placed one foot forward, scrunching her toes against prickly grass lined with dandelions. The wind pushed back, at first tickling the little sister’s nose, making her feel it was safe for her to move, but later it nudged her forward, helping to quicken her little legs and uncoordinated steps. The younger sister was too little to talk, but the girls understood each other, exchanging laughter instead of words. The two girls proceeded across the field, galloping to the sound of the wind and the crunching of the grass.

The wind was glad to play and led the girls to a beautiful pond, complete with lilies and frogs. The girls kept running. The wind oftentimes loved to encourage young ones but forgot they were not like her. The girls zig-zagged faster and faster, amazed at the speed with which the wind would push them. Soon the wind had realized its mistake and blew against the girls and out of their mother’s mouth. The puff came as a word: “Stop!” The older sister, aware of her mother’s voice did just that, no longer pushing against the wind. The little sister did not stop, however, for she had just gotten into a rhythm with her legs, the joy of accomplishment too grand to slow. The wind pushed against her, a frantic pleading force. It was too late. The green grass had turned to green sludge, algae covering the serene and deadly water. The girls were not friends with the water. She plunged in, her body entering the cold grasping waves. Her legs had been moving fast before, but now they moved frantically in a fight against the water. The wind turned to the mother who was already moving and blew the leaves from her feet and hair from her face. Although it had been less than a second before her plunge, the green had almost fully engulfed the little one.

The mother did what she had to do. With a seemingly innate motion, she dove into the sludge. It grabbed at her, but her eyes focused on her daughter. She reached her arms against its pull and seized her daughter's dress. The fabric gave in, slightly tearing before the mother extended her other arm in desperation. Her hand brushed her daughter’s hair as she grasped her shoulder. It did not matter how hard the water pulled, the mother was getting her daughter out. The little one’s previously pink dress was now a dark green, the shoulder slightly ripped. The mother extended her hand toward the bank and propelled her daughter onto it. She followed, the water lapping at her feet with small cold bites.

The older daughter stood where she had been told to stop, the wind pushing against her, but as she saw her mother and sister emerge, she ran faster than ever before into their wet embrace. Slowly they made their way down to the leaves and sat in the grass. Their eyes closed as they felt each other and the soft prickly grass. That day, the girls learned never to trust the water. A soft warm breeze brushed their hair and dried their clothes.

Natalie Pil ‘24

The 2023 Voices of Peace poetry contest, sponsored by the Cape Cod Veterans for Peace Corporal Jeffrey M. Lucey Chapter 041, was open to all Cape & Islands poets. Contestants were asked to submit a poem: “a) on thoughts of peace and the abolition of war, hate, or violence; b) on what I can do to help make a peaceful world for all; c) on some of the ways war can be avoided; d) on inner peace: how we become peaceful within ourselves so we can face the ‘other person’ with mercy and forgiveness; e) on examples of nonviolent attitudes and actions that lead to friendship, negotiation, social justice, and peace.”

Something Known as Peace

Peace

An unknown trail

An unknown road

An unknown adventure

A new charted course

Not a place of no suffering

Not a place of no sadness

No loss or no loneliness

But a place amidst those things

Where still there is happiness

Where still there is joy

And still there is joy for the future

A place of being there for one’s self

Being there for others

A place where hardships and prosperity are not adversaries

But instead live amongst each other

Perhaps peace and tranquility is not an unknown road

But a place not so far away from us, unseen to the naked eye

Maddie Park-Boudreau ‘28

Peace and War

In times of war, the world stands still, As nations clash and hearts do chill. Families torn apart, dreams shattered, Where death and destruction is all that mattered

In times of war, the world stands still, As nations clash and hearts do chill. Families torn apart, dreams shattered, As death and destruction are all that mattered And wars of the past slowly cease

For in the end, it is not violence that wins, But the spirit of love that never dims. So let us strive for peace with all our might, And keep the flame of hope burning bright Declan Diriwachter ‘28

Flow

The sun shines

In dappled light

Glinting its reflection off the brook

I smell the wet earth

Hear the wind in the trees

Watch a pill bug wandering along the rotten log where I rest I rise

Feel the damp duff below the soles of my feet

Splash in I wade

Through the cool water

Watch the birds flit between branches

Hours, minutes

The brook turns

I follow smell low tide

See the marsh unfold

Spiky green grass

A heron disappears into the sky

The mud fades replaced By silt By sand

The creek spills Out into the sea

Over smooth beach stones

The water cools

A cloud of minnows scatter

Return curious I sit

Water covering my legs

My hands pushed into the cool sand

The sun shines

Emme Carroll ‘28

Delphi

Hopped on a bus, it took me ‘cross the land

Seen all there is to see, can’t take it slow I have the whole night to misunderstand

Please don’t make it stop, light me up and go Every day now I’m in a sweet daze

There’s not a moment that I can regret This life that I lead I will set ablaze

Just like I strike my ashen cigarette

By and by how time flies in the city

I won’t ever see my baby again

Never meet a man so blithe and pretty But I’m sure he’ll think of me now and then Find me now, by the beat of my bangles

As I dance my life away in the streets of angels

Lila Journalist ‘25

The Big Blue

Whale o’ Whale

Where are you

In the great big blue

Where the water waves to you You come up for air And flip your tail, The seagulls gather, But you would rather Be swimming

In the great big blue

Sylvie Parsons ‘28