The Sextant: Winter 22-23

The Sextant

Winter 2022-2023

Table of Contents

Writing:

Agular, VI, pg. 6 Half and Half…………………………………………………….………………….Tommy Rupley, VI, pg. 7

Spaghetti and Meatballs……………………………………………….…………Mikey Sullivan, IV, pg. 8

The Teacup…………………………………….………………..………………….……James Hurd, VI, pg. 8 A Lid of Blue…………………………………….……………………….………………..Mac Bobo, VI, pg. 8

Playground After Dark……………………………….……………………….…Cooper Nelson, VI, pg. 9

Pondering the Night………………………………..………Rafael

Seaside Stand Still………………………………….………..Rafael

The Cheetah Pair………………………………….…………………………….…………Max Glick, V, pg. 26

Off the Bridge…………………………….……………………Rafael Rodriguez-Montgomery, V, pg. 27 In Memoriam…………………………….………………………………..….………Jake

V, pg. 28

Rock of the Savannah………………………………….……………………….…………Max Glick, V, pg. 30

Murky Waters………………………………….………………………………………Jake

V, pg. 31

Editor’s Note

Maya Angelou wrote, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” As a creative writer, I can say that there is nothing that sparks fear in a writer like a blank page. Each student who contributed a piece to this year’s winter edition of The Sextant challenged themselves by communicating their stories and passions with our entire community. In this issue of The Sextant, Upper School students have submitted creative pieces describing various emotions—telling stories taking place all around the country. Some students shared intimate short stories while others contributed beautifully composed poems. Our tremendous faculty and staff have continued to push students to exceed their own talents in and outside the classroom beyond what they believed possible. In addition, we feature beautifully-crafted select student art with various photographs and colorful ceramic sculptures that give our readers a view into Belmont Hill’s Arts curriculum. We would like to thank our school’s English and Arts faculty who have assisted in the creation of the 2023 Winter Sextant especially our advisor, Dr. Tift, and all the teachers who have supported us including Mr. Doar, Mr. Duarte, Ms. Bradley, Mr. Kaplan, Mr. Leonardis, and Ms. McDonald.

Editor in Chief, Jake A. Kornmehl ’24

Staff

Jake Kornmehl - Editor in Chief

Jack Abbrecht - Associate Editor

Max Glick - Staff Manager

Mark Price - Staff

Forrest Campbell - Staff

Sam Davis - Staff

Ezra Lee - Staff

Your

The Ocean Rolls On Waves crash on the beach

Rise, fall, like the breast of God

Tides wave me goodbye

-Max Wagner

Tommy Rupley, IV

Stephen Agular, Form IV

At Day’s End

I watch the sun set

Dwindling like a fading hope

Skies are set aflame

Tommy Rupley, IV

- Max Wagner

Mikey Sullivan, Form IV

Mac Bobo, Form VI

James Hurd, Form VI

Cooper Nelson, VI

Who am I to be?

By Max Wagner

I sought to know who I was to be In a world so vast and strange. A brother, a son, a tired warrior, Fighting for my place In life.

Yet seek as I would, I would not find The knowledge for which I would wish.

I travel the world, Reflecting, Searching for holy men.

But only shams and imposters I found At the peak of each temple and rock.

And yet hearing whispers everywhere

Of a man, enlightened through pain

Who sat on highest peak.

I decided to take the climb

To find what I would seek.

I set my feet on bladed rock

And snow and shaded glen

To reach the summit I saw

Ahead in the slicing wind.

I cut my hands, emptied my waterskin wore out my clothes, tired my limbs.

Yet reaching that for which I strove

Broken bruised and bleeding

I looked around collapsing.

No wizened face, only a stony maw

Despite the efforts of my pain, I dragged myself to it

Seeing it was the only way

That I could understand my climb.

Inside the cave, a single light

A shining stalactite

And a pool of mirrors, shimmering still.

And so I continued on

And when I reached that shining pool

A drop of blood spilt,

Dropping through the icy surface

Without the slightest ripple.

I waded in on hands and knees

And the water moved not.

Down I looked through clouded eyes

At the surface below myself

And saw what I had not yet dared see

A perfect portrait of all of me.

Rafael Rodriguez-Montgomery, V

The Seeds of Perseverance

By Mark Price

While the world burns with fiery hate And plumes of smoke surround heaven’s gate, Life persists on a forest floor As death brings about a hardy spore.

Temperatures rise across the globe

And the seas swell from the depths below, Storms plunder the earth and rip up sands As acid rain falls on our precious land.

And adding to the rumble of this belligerent storm, Bullets rip across the earth in a stinging swarm. War unfolds throughout the world with predacious volition And people in America die due to racist suspicions.

Amidst this chaos, a patch of conifers burns, And amongst such malevolence, its innocence is spurned. Yet, as the branches sear away and the trees start to bawl Resin melts from the cones, and seeds peacefully fall.

Despite the world’s terrors, the darkness, the howling winds, The trees have a chance to start over again. And so, the cycle repeats, rebirth, regrowth, We must keep going, our most sacred oath!

No matter our differences, our setbacks, our words, We come together stronger, as a pack, undeterred. We overcome that fiery, that terrible hate, And we find a way, as Americans, to achieve something great.

Unus, qui scit dixitque se didicisse in temporem vir

Duo, homo qui scit sed dicit se non Discire, alter, amice, quis dicat fraus est.

One, the man who knows, but said he learned in time

Two, the man who knows, but says he did not learn

The second, my friend, one might say, is a fraud

J. XXVIII

Amor numquam pervenitur, solum compromissum enim

Perfecta adfinitas amans theatrum est

Love is never reached, only compromise

For a perfect, loving relationship is theater

J. XXLII

Qui intelligens sed clare loquitur aliis inauditis

Inscitior est nihil eo qui scit

Nam qui nihil scit, locus habet ad audiendum

Mi Poeta

By Jake Kornmehl

One who is intelligent but speaks aloud with others having not been heard

He is more ignorant than one who knows nothing

For the man who knows nothing has room to listen

J. XLIX

Caecilius discipulus fuit, nunc uxorem suam defraudat;

Quid nunc uxori agit, hoc etiam

Caecilius discipulus agere solebat.

Caecilius was once a student, he now cheats on his wife;

What he does now to his wife

Caecilius also used to do as a student.

I am Harriet Jacobs

By Nolan Bibbo and Sean Scales

I was born a slave, But I never knew Until six years of happy childhood passed away; My Mother died, I learned that I was a slave

My grandmother, her children divided, Among her masters children, Not one escaped.

Twelve years old, my kind mistress died, My hopes vanished, I had a great treasure, She taught me to read and spell, And for that I bless her memory.

My lover, An intelligent and religious man, I ought not to link his fate, With my own unhappy destiny So lonely and desolate,

In the sight of our master, God breathing machines, No more than cotton planted, Or horses tended to I was a slave Happy days, Were too happy to last

Forrest Campbell, VI

The Misfortune of Time Traveling

By Daniel Cho

When you think of time machines and time travel, you’d think of Stephen Hawking and his party for time travelers, killing baby Hitler, or visiting an ancient civilization. Time traveling. It fills the imagination. It also tortures it. Let’s be honest. Put aside the quantum jargon and black hole theories, time traveling won’t happen. But, it’s just believable to some people that there’s a slight (false) hope that they can travel through time. But, it’s only for those that want to time travel. The ones that don’t want to be in the present. The ones that want to be out.

A sad idea, right? To believe in such a foolish idea that they become stuck in it. That they faze out of reality but are forced still to participate in it.

Anyways, here’s a story of a man, who for a while wanted to time travel.

It was a Sunday so beautiful that nobody was thinking about how the next day was going to be Monday. It was also day one-thousand-ninety-four of this man wishing he had a time machine.

As usual, he slumped on the only desk he had in his apartment. It was early afternoon, so he hadn’t had the need to turn on the ceiling lights; instead, the dazzling sunlight hazed through the windows, so overwhelming the dull interior of the apartment that you may have thought you were entering heaven. His eyes work hard to refocus their concentration amidst the contrast between the interior and exterior. But that didn’t matter, he was already fading back into the past. To the very same day, he was thinking about it for the previous one-thousand-ninety-four days. So he didn’t notice the four knocks on his door.

The man had been standing in line for only eight minutes, but he wanted to leave already. Was the rollercoaster ride worth it, considering he’d have to stand for an hour just for a less than two-and-a-half-minute ride? To be honest, he wasn’t much of a rollercoaster type of person, but he stayed put because he didn’t care for much. The sun was so scorching that he wanted to go on the waterslide, but that also had a line.

The line for the rollercoaster was moving like an inchworm, slow and awkward. As the man turn around the stanchion, he saw a popsicle miserably melting on concrete. It was probably a toddler who dropped it and a parent who ignored the toddler dropping it. The uncomfortably sticky and softened treat was left unattended, but for the occasional wasps. Such visits forced the people behind the man to walk around the popsicle like a tightrope, and it would be the same for every other person in line. It only takes one individual to pick it up and put it in the trash can, yet everybody walked around leaving it for the person behind.

There was a malfunction with the rollercoaster, so the line came to halt. But the crowd didn’t mind that. What does an hour or two make a difference? As long as the ride is still two and a half minutes, there’s nothing to complain about. The man, though, sighed and turned to the side, and that’s when he saw her: the woman. He couldn’t tell if he’d had stared at her first or if it was the other way around; nevertheless, they were now looking at each other. She smiled so sweetly that he was afraid he didn’t smile back the right way. As if there was a right way to smile.

She spoke. “Can I hear you laugh?”

The man was caught off guard by both her speaking to him and the question. He fumbled his words like a little school boy does with a football in front of school girls. “Uhm…”

The line started moving, and in a panic, the man quickly filled the gap in front of him with the woman out of sight.

Would you want a time machine too?

The Loss of Maternity

By Alex Behn

My mother was a woman of the kindest heart and finest feelings

People were astonished at her goodness

I never saw her

We were separated when I was but an infant

I do not know for what this separation is done

But long before I waked she was gone

Death ended what little we could have had when I was 7 years old

She was with me in the night

Then her angelic face gave place to that of a demon

Because she proved injurious to me

Nothing seemed to make her more angry than to see me

She became a great evil, to be carefully shunned by me

She was violent in sorrow and suffering And had no graceful proportions

I was in crouching servility toward her I was never again satisfied, I ceased to live

Rafael Rodriguez-Montgomery, V

Illuminated Smile

By Andrew Asherman

I didn't really want to swim, but something inside was telling me to go. Monday stumbled its way through my mind the entire night; I really needed to go home. But my sighs confirmed her request. Downing my drink again, I tapped another for the walk. I stumbled a little bit getting out of my seat. It was a rocker, which didn't help. I found my strut and patiently hiked the steps of the porch leading into the house. She led the way through the crowded sea which helped me realize my insignificance, but also my contentment with being alone. The majority of these people don't know me but that fact that I’m here with them sharing this experience brews internal peace. I’m comfortable encircled by lost faces.

Through the masses I saw my sister, dancing with her friends, and James still chalking up the same girls. I kept my head down, going unnoticed. My eyes seemed to drift upwards but I had to bring them back down. Eventually, we made it outside. Some kids were lighting up near the side of the house, also trying not to be seen. The grass is wet and patchy. Long enough, it touches our ankles. The bass from the music inside exalted our breathing. Both of us were nervous about what was going to develop. She began to talk about the lake, how she always went as a kid. I don't think I’ve ever been to this one before.

The further we were away from the house, the more intimate the walk became, but we were still distant. I could hear her heart, and she could hear mine. For about a couple of minutes we walked up a hill. At the top, we saw the water as the full moon lit up our entire path leading us down to the beach. I guess you could say we were gonna walk a moonlight mile. The lake looked like you had a black sail sheet posted to a tree outside and were throwing white paint at it. The wind took water off the surface and moved it around. Hopefully, the water can soak up my past tears, but it won’t sober me up. We continued to walk in silence, while our hearts marched us towards our swim we got closer. Our arms and the backsides of our hands finally touched and swayed with each step. A rush flowed through me. Now my breathing was heavier. We finally got to the beach, with limited talk, but she continued to stroll to the wooded area to the right of the shore. There was a trail leading us to wherever she was going. We had to walk up another hill which led to a ledge with a rope swing. It was dark in the woods, but in front of us, the moon’s light formed a diving board for us. We looked at each other, with curiosity, wanting to explore. Both of us knew we didn't need to say anything. This is why we left

the party. We began to strip. She was quick and unraveled the swing from the trees. I followed suit. She tightly grabbed the rope and with a shriek she jumped off the ledge and at the top her hands let go. Ripples composed, pushing light in circles. As she rose up the moon illuminated her smile. The rope returned and it was now my turn. I had to get my bearings first before I stepped to the ledge, but I finally grabbed the rope and jumped. For the few seconds in the air, all I felt was this moment sharing it with her and the moon.

All Rise

By Haden Bottiglieri

For our national anthem mid high crotch my partner and I stand up and turn to face the flag.

Hearts pounding, bodies sweating, out of breath.

headgears get unstrapped and hands go over hearts while our nation’s ballad projects through crappy arena speakers.

2,000 boys staring at the stars and stripes while they get ready to beat each other up and call it a sport. what’s the point?

why play the national anthem in our own nation?

some may say.

I know why.

we pretend sports matter so we don’t fight wars.

we pretend that people in uniforms chasing after a ball matters so we don’t go insane. wrestling is my outlet for violence, grit, competition, and sacrifice while brave men and women do it for real to protect us.

I saw this video of an nfl player with tears running down his face. he cries everytime he hears the star spangled banner. his tears almost look fake. he says he knows it could always be his last anthem. his last game. his last day. his last last anthem. so as the claps start and cut off the anthem

I always remain still until the very last note of “braaaaaaaveeeeeeee” rolls off the singer’s tongue. my partner is done clapping and he’s already starting to wrestle me again, but I stand still and clap all by myself when it’s over. because I know all that really matters is that I’m free and I’m grateful for it and because I know my next high crotch could be my last. being American means you know how lucky you are to be safe and free and that you turn with your hand on your heart to the flag when you hear, All Rise

Ire of the Mountain

By Max Wagner

Each day they lie, still and silent

Watching the eons go by Yet the mountaintops can still be violent As ashes cloud the sunless sky

Each day they sit and let trees grow Watching tiny creatures pass Yet chasms open and crevices show Claiming lives like blades of grass

Time passes by them and they seem so still Monolithic and static as the moon

Yet the forming of even just a small hill Would be not forgotten so soon

They speak not loud in the tongues of rock

These living titanic spires

Yet all will hear their sound with shock

When they face the mountain’s ires

Jack Kilcoyne, IV

American Delusion

By Jake Kornmehl

Auggie awakens shivering and slides out of his bed, his feet reaching down towards the warm embrace of his fluffy bunny slippers. His digital clock reads 2:48 AM— the electronic glow of the red-orange numbers just detectable through the rheum covering his sleepless eyes. Surrounded by darkness, he grabs the flashlight from the lower drawer of his gray-painted oak nightstand. Quickly, Auggie turns on the flashlight and looks around his room searching for any sense of familiarity.

Unfortunately, all of his own drawings and family pictures have disappeared into obscurity. Even the seemingly permanent dusty old toys lodged in the wooden spindles of his foot board have vanished. The column of light originating from his flashlight leads the way as he grabs the cold nickel door knob and looks down the hall. He wonders if he was even in the same house he fell asleep in. The stark white walls, usually blanketed in family photos of him, his parents, and older sister, are as barren as a vacant canvas. Hoping this was all a dream, he turns back towards his bedroom, wraps himself in his fleece duvet, and falls back asleep.

Auggie awakens once again and turns towards the clock hoping to see 7:00 AM. The clock reads 2:48 AM. Once again, freezing, he slips out of his bed. He grabs the flashlight from the bottom drawer of his nightstand and turns it on. There was no light— he soon realized the yellow and black cylinder was void of any AA batteries.

“How could this be…there were batteries just…wait…were there ever batteries?” August thought. August walks towards the window in his room and looks out onto the rows of parallel, brick suburban houses, knowing each of them are also full of jobless post-collegiates living with their parents. After shifting his neck in hopes of easing his headache, he wonders, “Did I really get no sleep at all? Am I sick? Should I take my temperature? I mean…I do have chills.”

In his high school years, Auggie had often utilized his electronic thermometer as a tool of deception to skip school. He was intimately familiar with the typical range of febricity required for a flu diagnosis. His parents were both doctors, so it was vital in validating his entire charade. Auggie sticks the white plastic tip into his mouth and waits

for a beep to end the mild discomfort under his tongue. A “BEEEEP!” cuts through what seems to have been years of silence. For a teenage boy, silence was a rare commodity and this much of it almost made Auggie physically uncomfortable.

“Ah…102.3…classic fever temperature. I should go back to bed,” thinks Auggie as he yawns and wraps himself back in his blanket. Then, he falls asleep—ready to return to his typical morning routine.

12 Years Later:

August looks outside his broken window only to see a city full of oil slicks and manmade dumpster fires. The blue, red, and white glow of cop cars flying down the maze of streets were visible from his apartment. He hears the sound of automatic gunshots echoing off the peeling, beige walls of his sparsely furnished apartment and returns to his cheap, lone mattress. Despite the mattress’s springs and cotton oozing from the jagged lacerations in its cheap fabric, it seems to be the most put-together thing in the entire city —including its citizens. The Nakeds…they live in the Outside.

That night, August carries himself back to the comfort of his room after working his day job as a waiter at the local dive in his condominium complex. His customers, all of whom wear plain, grey suits, contrast with the Nakeds running frantically outside, screaming from their harrowing faces as they bang their fists on the steel gate of the complex, the pounding ringing with their desperation.

He hears a loud knock on the door of his apartment and drags his languid legs and arms towards the small foyer. Holding out what looks like a matte grey business card, a man in a sleek, black suit speaks quietly but sternly, “Take this.” August awkwardly grabs the card and reads its contents printed in an eye-catching silver.

LIVE 923-411-2382

Hoping to ask for context, he looks back up only to find an empty hallway with two broken ceiling lamps and the old painting of the landlord's now dead Pekingese. August turns back to his mattress, and rolls over on his side to return to his favorite activity, watching the endless anarchy in the Outside. He watches the sun set over the perilous wasteland in front of him.

Despite his apartment falling apart, the High Blocks provide more luxurious living than how any of those Nakeds lived—the homeless, ragged children and low-priced call girls. Instead of drifting back into the void of hallucination August usually enjoys, he could not help but to think about the card that he was given. He reaches for it, now shoved into his sweatpant pocket, and dials what seems to August to be some type of phone number.

A deep, guttural voice answers the phone, “This is LIVE. If you called this number, you most likely have been hiding. All you do is hide out in your apartment building watching the pain and disgust that everyone else in the world is living in. You do nothing to improve the Outside, and you hold dear the bleak, disappointing routine you convinced yourself provides any meaning. If this is true, congratulations…that is all about to change. Welcome to LIVE.”

The line went dead.

Max Glick, V

The Only Eternal Gift is the Present

By Drew Asherman

I was waiting, on the steps of my apartment, for the bus to pick me up for work so I could eat. It was one of those days where it was cold in the morning but picked up midday. I still wore my jacket from last night's bar adventures. I’ve been going to the same bars forever, as I feel something other than pain when I'm in them. Whiskey soaked up the material, leaving cigarette ashes behind charcoal blotches mottling with navy. I notice the cuffs are fading as well as the buildings across the street. Paint is crippling everywhere, and the stairs have chunks of concrete stolen. The doors are loose and the windows barred. My side is slightly worse than theirs; well, every building is dilapidated on this street. But, there are kids over there playing gleefully with leaves wearing jackets too small. They are too young to recognize their plight. They are too young to realize that one day they will relive the memories they are making now. As the children and their buildings are illuminated with burning orange haze from the sun's rays, everything on my side of the street and myself are fading faster, idling in darkness.

The bus finally arrived for me, and the kids were still playing. As the bus drove down the street, my view of their smiles vanished. They've dwindled, evaporating into the buildings that absorbed them. As we crossed a four-way stop, the sun finally touched me. My face and hands became slightly warm for a couple of seconds as the bus drove through the intersection. This cycle lasted 53 more times. On my way to work, I'm the one reliving my childhood in my mind. I was once one of those kids pretending the world is fair. But now I'm here, laboring my life away. My sanity is quickly melting through my clothes onto the floor every time I walk into the factory. I need to quit and head west like I've always desired. My freedom rests far from this place. It rests free from pain.

Something spurred me to walk into my boss's office. I entered and my stomach hurled over itself. He looks up at me with his comfortable clothes, confused about why I'm not working. With a blink before I spoke I thought of who my younger self wanted to become. What was younger me dreaming of?

"I need to quit." I took a long pause to find my breath, "I feel like I've wasted 23 years here and need more out of life. There is something to it that I can't explain with words worth pursuing." Rage enhanced my tone. I genuinely wanted to fight him. My fists tightened, and my heart scuttled.

He squinted, not believing what I had to say was true. He let out a laugh that just left his stomach cavity empty, "I'm sorry you feel that way. If this is what you want, then talk to Kurt. He will get you situated with everything. Hope you will find what you're pursuing."

My body slowed down. That was it? After all these years spent here he will toss me out in less than five sentences. I expected this honestly. Internally, I broke into slivers of metal scraps that filled the floor for my co-workers to use. I went to see Kurt for the post-job interview. I was utterly mundane during the process, answering questions swiftly so I could be on my way. Finally, that was over. As soon as I stepped out of the factory, barren of hope, I finally felt the sun's rays stick to my body as it was set high enough in the sky. Now I could live slowly tranquil. Not waiting for a bus, I walked back to my apartment. By the time I reached my apartment steps, the children were gone, but I was now the one wearing a smile, longing to conclude what I've always wanted since I left their age. To keep believing that the present is an eternal gift only if you keep it unwrapped.

Alongside the Murk of the Delta’s Waters 1998

By Jake Kornmehl

My family has lived on this very swamp for over a century. Our identity is defined by nature—the brackish water flowing in our blood and our muscle sculpted from the mud on the edges of the bayou. All along the coast of the Mississippi Delta, we shrimp; it is who we are.

In the midst of waking up, my throat still dry and eyes closed shut, I could hear a knock on my door. Who could it be? Most likely it was either my mom or my sister. It couldn’t be my dad. He’s long gone.

My little sister, her ears perked and her eyes filled with worry, walks towards me, leaving the door ajar behind her. She signals her wish to sit on my bed by pointing with her index finger, a cork screw scar at its distal joint. At first, I am skeptical…but I decide to allow it. She cranes her head towards my elvish right ear, holds up her little, soft hand and whispers to me. My eyes widen and I look back at her expecting a sudden laugh. Nothing. She leans her head on my boney shoulder and cries. I rub my hands through her springy hair as I sit crying alongside her. Moments later, we fall asleep in a warm embrace—my thin, itchy, blue blanket wet with tears.

The next morning, we both wake up to the faint sound of seagulls. How I want a window for my bedroom. Each day, I could wake up to a gorgeous sunrise, the ball of light rising from beyond the blanket of grass on the dune. Unfortunately, there is not much to see this morning other than the dull, grey sky that resembles my own peeling, faded, ceiling. My sister and I stretch our legs out of the bed.

What the hell? Why are my feet soaked? I look down to find a sea of warm, briney water covering my entire bedroom floor. One time, years ago, when I was first learning how to shrimp, my momma and I caught a few just ‘cause they floated into our kitchen during a bad thunderstorm. After touching the water's surface, my sister jolts her foot back onto the comfort of my old mattress, bringing drops of river-water with her. Seriously, Anele.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. “What’s that?” my sister exclaims as she wraps her arms around me, squeezing my stomach like she would her deadbeat stuffed animal. I, of

course, have little to no idea myself but I put on a strong face for her. With my mother out shrimping early morning ‘till dusk, Anele often remained my responsibility. “Open Up!” yells a man from outside our little baby blue painted cabin.

With hesitation, I step out of my bed, still barefoot, and waddle over silently to the door, closing it behind me as I exit my room. Slowly, I turn the rusty knob, my sweaty hands clenching the brass tight. Three young men, dressed in yellow suits and red hats rush in. “We’ve got one!” shrieks the tall lanky one as he stared deep into my innocent, brown eyes. “Search the rest of the shack!” calls the other in an urgent tone. These guys seem to think we cannot take care of ourselves. Sometimes, I wish not for myself, but for my sister, that my dad stopped to think that as well.

“Hey! What are you doing! Lauren!” my sister squeals as one of the yellow suits carries her out of the house on their shoulder. “What are you doing! That’s my sister!” I scream, my eyes tearing and face sizzling—it must have been as red as an overripe strawberry. My ears are ringing, and I swear I can hear a train bustling down a railroad track; but that cannot be. “I’ve got this one,” yells a mustached yellow suit in a deep, growling voice. He grabs me by my wet feet and lifts me into the air, throwing me over his shoulder as he jogs out of the house.

They place us into a tin riverboat and one of the guys asks, “You girls alright?”

“Where’s my momma?” I ask with a stern tone while staring at my shaking sister. All the yellow suits look at each other. Clearly, they are void of any response.

“Where. Is. My. Momma!?” I inquire again—this time, my question is riddled with both anger and fear. My eyes give off a reflective glow while I tear up, and I rest my head into the palm of my cupped hands. Anele runs across the little boat, rocking it back and forth on the deep green water. She crawls up on my lap. “Momma’s gone! Momma’s gone!” she screamed. I look towards the yellow suits, their faces, pale white and blank with a tinge of affirmation. I realized at that moment that Anele’s right. Momma’s gone.

My heart beats at the speed an alligator swims. My stomach feels as if it has folded onto itself. My forehead grows as warm as the sun’s rays in the middle of a hot, humid day in August. I tell myself that I am on a cruise through the bayou. I see the shimmer of the delta and the rough, grey skin on the backs of cruising gators. Not even the clumps of mud wedging between my toes help to take my mind off my mom.

“Where are we going?” I ask the leader of the yellow suited squadron. He looks down onto me, not saying a word. Frustrated that all of the yellow suits refuse to say anything to me or my sister, I sit back down, arms crossed, and begin to ponder what life will be like without a mother. My sister sits across from me staring into my soul, and I realize the truth behind what she had told me last night. Momma left….and she left for good.

A Conversation Between Two Very Close Friends

By John Milewski

Hey.

Hey.

How are things?

Meh. Not great. What do you mean?

I don’t know, really. I’ve kind of just been in a funk recently. Yeah, that happens. Sucks.

Yeah.

And Jane’s kind of been weird lately too. There it is.

Huh?

Every time you say “Oh, I’m in a funk” or “I just feel kind of off”, the next sentence is usually, “Jane is being…”

No, it isn’t!

Yes. It is.

No. It’s not. One has nothing to do with the other. She’s just been a little distant the past week or so, that’s it.

Mhm.

You’re just jealous.

Of what? Of Jane?

Of what Jane and I have.

Sure. Yeah. Totally. You got it. Hit the nail on the head. I’m so jealous of how you’re almost constantly miserable. I’m green with envy.

Oh, shut up.

Anyway.

Anyway.

What’d you do today?

Not much. Just chilled in here for the most part. Waited for you to get home. Same old same old.

Well, I’m here. Let’s do something.

What do you wanna do?

I don’t care, you pick.

Hm. Ninja?

No, things get broken.

You’re right. Simon Says?

We always tie.

Not always. You beat me that one time. I did?

Yeah, remember? That day it was really foggy?

Oh yeah! You’re right!

But it’s not foggy, so we’d probably tie again. Yeah, you’re right.

Prolonged silence

We can talk about Jane if you want.

No, it’s fine. We don’t have to.

C’mon. I can tell when something’s bothering you.

Fine. She just hasn’t been talking to me a lot recently. She kind of seems upset. Did you do something?

No. I don’t think so.

Think hard.

Well, she did get mad at me a few weeks back. In her basement.

Oh, when her dad caught you?

Yeah.

Sneaking in through the window? Really?

What? Wasn’t like I could just walk through the front door.

True. But still. You gotta be more careful. Because if you get hurt, I get hurt.

I know, I know. She’s just so amazing. I wanna be with her all the time. I get it, man. I see the way you look at those pictures of her. Yeah. She’s so beautiful.

I would hope so. Wouldn’t wanna cover your walls with pictures of some ugly chick. Ha, ha. They don’t cover the walls.

They almost do. Quick, grab a lighter, the candle in the middle of her shrine’s about to go out!

(Sarcastically) You’re hilarious. I know.

But seriously, I don’t know what to do. Maybe you should just give her some space.

I do give her space! I don’t go to her school, so that’s already like 7 hours a day we don’t see each other.

But you’re still there like twice a week. Well yeah, sometimes I just can’t help myself. Exactly. Maybe you just have to have more self-control. Understand that she might not want you around 24/7.

Why wouldn’t she?

You’re joking, right? Even I don’t want you around 24/7. Everyone needs some alone time.

I guess you’re right. I always am.

Fine. I’ll give her some more space. Alright, I’m starving. I’m gonna go grab dinner. Wait, before you go. Yeah?

Can you please, for the love of God, cool it with these pictures? I’m the one who has to look at them all day.

Nope! See ya!

Stands up and walks away from the mirror.

The Importance of Perspective

By Joe Puglielli

Timmy’s Perspective

You always remember where you are when something big happens. You remember what you were doing in the minutes before the incident. I was standing in the lunch line, thinking about how glad I was that math class was over and it was pizza for lunch today. I grabbed the red and white paper plate and put it on my tray. I turned to the lunch lady, whose grey hairs were neatly strung under her hairnet. I handed her my money and took my seat at my table. “Dude Patrick Mahomes had a great game last night,” I said as I sat down.

“Shut up, Timmy. Nobody gives a shit,” Mike said.

“Yeah, Timmy, shut your dumb ass up,” Collin followed.

“Mike, why are you such a dick,” Brian shot at him.

Me, Mike, Collin, and Brian. An inseparable foursome of best pals that constantly made fun of each other. At the lunch table, on the walk home from school, during water breaks at football practices, a constant cycle of best friends tearing each other apart. It starts as playful, but it sometimes gets too far.

“Brian, your just uptight because your ugly,” Mike chirped back. Brain tossed a tater tot in his direction, striking Mike in his bright green Oregon Ducks football t-shirt, and leaving behind a smear of blood-red ketchup. “Asshole,” he muttered as he wiped it off with a napkin and continued eating his food.

“Are you really going to take that level of disrespect, big dog?” Collin asked Mike. Collin was always the first to piggyback on a joke and was the type of kid who would pin two kids against each other just to see how far they would go.

“Your sister is so hot,” Mike shouted. Brian stared at him but gave him no response back. “If I could date anyone in the world, it would be her,” Mike shouted again.

“Last year, Mike shit his pants in school. He told me not to tell anyone.” Mike's face turned red. I could have sworn smoke came out of his ears. Brian smirked at him. Mike charged at him, tackling him to the floor in the middle of the cafeteria. The pair rolled around, clawing and scratching at each other. There was no winner, just a rolling mess of them grabbing each other.

“Fight!” someone yelled. Lunch was on hold, and chaos came about. Everyone was out of their seats, running to see the fight. Half-eaten sandwiches flew across the cafeteria, and cartons of chocolate milk spilled across the tables. A crowd gathered in the

middle of the cafeteria. It was chaos. The assistant principal separated Brian and Mike, and the pair spent the rest of the day in the main office.

Mike’s Perspective

“The drive back was crazy,” I said. “The rain was coming down so hard and–”

“Patrick Mahomes had a great game last night,” Timmy cut me off.

“Shut up Timmy, nobody gives a shit,” I told him off.

“Yeah, Timmy, shut your dumb ass up,” Collin yelled.

“Mike, why are you such a dick,” Brian yelled at me. Brian is a dick, not me.

“Brian, why are you always so uptight, bro? You need to relax more.” In response to my constructive criticism, Brian dipped a tater tot in ketchup and hurled it at me, staining my shirt. I try to be nice to Brian, I really do. He pisses me off a lot, though. I wiped my shirt and shrugged it off. I don’t feel like starting something today.

“Are you really going to take that level of disrespect big dog?” Collin asked me. Maybe he was right, maybe I shouldn’t let Brian push me around.

“Hey, Brian,” I shouted. “Your sister is so hot.” He gave me a death stare. I glared back at him. He did something, I said something, we are even. All was good until he broke a sacred promise for no good reason. Last year in class, I wasn’t feeling too well after eating the school’s tacos for lunch and had a little accident. Brian was the only one who knew, and I made him swear up and down never to tell anyone. I don’t think I had ever been so mad in my entire life. My blood was boiling, I felt like a volcano was about to erupt inside of me. I walk over to Brian and sock him in the jaw. He threw a punch back, I dodged it and hit him with a mean left hook, then an uppercut, then I came back with the left and got him right on the nose. I fought him like I was Muhammed Ali.

“That’ll teach you to shut the hell up,” I told Brian as I had him pinned on the ground. I might have put him in the hospital, but the assistant principal eventually saved his sorry ass.

Brian’s Perspective

“Shut up, Timmy, nobody gives a shit,” Mike said.

“Mike, why are you such a dick?” I’m sick of Mike’s shit.

“Brian, why are you always so uptight, bro?” He asked me. I clenched my fist. I wanted to charge at him and kick his ass. He always makes the bad days worse. I fought that urge, and instead grabbed a tater tot, dipped it in ketchup, and sent it flying through the air, landing with a plop on his t-shirt. I went back to eating my lunch. Collin said

something to him, and the next thing I knew, Mike was saying unrepeatable things about my sister. I know something really embarrassing about Mike, and I was super cool about it. I didn’t say anything, and I easily could have. The least he could do was be nice to me, to return the favor. But I was done being nice. I spilled his secret, he turned bright red, and I got ultimate satisfaction. I couldn’t stop myself from smiling. The next thing I knew, he charged at me, yelled obscenities, and threw a punch. I dodged it and hit him with a right hook right to the jaw. I brought him to the ground and pinned him, shoving his face into the cold, hard, white linoleum floor. I might have put him in the hospital, but the assistant principal eventually saved his sorry ass.

Collin’s Perspective

What’s more entertaining than a fight? Nothing. Whenever two people start throwing chirps at each other, I like to fuel the fire. Listening and laughing as two people make fun of each other is the best. Out of all the days of fighting and arguing among our friend group, one day stands alone. It was just a regular day. Timmy came over to the table and interrupted Mike, Mike told him to shut up, and I did the same. Brian called him a dick, and Mike made fun of him for being ugly, which is funny because Brian is really ugly. Then, Brian fired a greasy, ketchup-covered golden tater tot right at him and nailed him in the chest. Then they both settled down, and the fight was over. I had to do something about it.

“You really going to take that level of disrespect, big dog?” I asked Mike. Mike looked at me for a second, and then he stared at Brian.

“Your sister is so hot,” he blurted out. “If I could date anyone in the world, it could be her.” Job well done by myself. I reignited the conflict. But nothing could have prepared me for what came next. Brian dropped an atomic bomb. It was like he had been storing it in his arsenal, waiting for the perfect moment to use it. And he had found that moment. He revealed to the whole lunch table that Mike had sh** his pants in class one day. I nearly fell off my seat. I was crying with laughter, and I couldn’t see anything.

“Fight!” I shot up and wiped my eyes. Mike and Brian were amid an epic battle, trading punches. Everyone mobbed to see the fight like it were Muhammed Ali boxing against Mike Tyson, instead of Mike and Brian. There was no clear winner when the assistant principal separated them, but it was a great fight.