Oracle 2013

Spring 2013

Editor-in-Chief James Lucey ’13 Associate Editors Curren Iyer ’13 Jack Fullerton ’14 Spencer McDonough ’14 Editorial Board Willy Fein ’13 James Whittemore ’13 Scott DeAngelo ’14 Faculty Advisor Mr. John Martin Special thanks, for their continued support, to Mr. Brendan Gilsenan and the Brunswick English Department, Mr. Sunil Gupta and the Brunswick Tech Office, and Mr. Tom Philip.

Additional thanks to past Editors-in-Chief Carter Johnson ’12 & Curt Townshend ’12 and the entire Oracle Editorial Board of 2011-2012.

N.B. “SIBYL” is a fake art magazine, unlike this totally real magazine you now hold in your hands.

has been printed by Ryan Printing

Poetry Willy Fein Claiming the Moon for Insomniacs 5 James Lucey The Nightshift Conductor 14 Ben Young It Can Become Your Eye, the Only 22 Dream You See Through

Terrors IV Lauren Eames 33 Onion Man Sarah Wylie 34 Nike Curren Iyer 57 Shadow Anonymous 74

Prose Gabriel Paternina

A Preface to ‘Metafiction’ 2 8 The Mac Jake Fields Tobin Saer

Big Bones 16 Rick Salamé Screams of the Heartland 25 Reawakening John Davis 30 Sky John Davis 38 The Brunswick Free Press - The Lost Issue 54 Delightful Sushi Pete Rogan 58 Sam Zuckert The Royal Palms 67

Artwork 1 4 4 12 13 14 23 24 28 29 32 35 36 37 53 54 56 70 71 72 73 76

Jack Schneider James Lucey (top) Peter Kazazes (bottom) Cooper Briggs Emily Abbott Yuuka Sekiguchi Greg Hascoe Sperry Edwards Jack Costello Jack Costello Jack Costello Graham Miller James Harvey James Harvey Holden Fett (top) Ryan Gilbert (bottom) Teddy Lamont Charlie Miller Charlie Miller Jack Schneider Jack Schneider Jack Schneider

1

2

- A Preface to ‘Metafiction’by Gabriel Paternina

The author would like to apologize for including this preface. Although it may seem unnecessary, to him it brings to an end what has been an interesting segment to A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. This assignment was intended to bring closure to that memoir, so therefore he felt the need to include this. The author would also like to apologize for any confusion faced by the reader during the reading of this work. He is not the greatest writer as proved by his English grades. (A transcript with Gabriel Paternina’s English grades can be requested through the Brunswick School Registrar, email: mbeattie@brunswickschool.org). Gabriel Paternina would also like to explain that he is not creative, at all. Therefore he has gone ahead and picked an essay topic straight from the metafiction worksheet (option 2). The worksheet can be found on an email sent to you, how convenient, by Mr. Martin dated December 8 (unless you deleted it, where if the case it can be resent to you). The title of the attached document is “meta writing assignment”. If you have not read it, the author suggests you do. It is a quick read. His lack of creativity or originality is another reason why he included this preface. Although not copied directly, the idea to include this preface is ©Dave Eggers. Please do not get Mr. Paternina in trouble with Brunswick School or with Mr. Eggers for not following Dave Eggers’ copyright, for his intentions are not to profit from his ideas and therefore should not be punished for ignoring the ©. The author of this piece will now like to agree with Dave Eggers and say that the success of this piece has a lot to do with how appealing its narrator is. For this reason, Mr. Paternina would like to appeal to you by proving that he is just like you.

Exhibit A: We are both humans.

Exhibit B: We both enjoy being humans.

Although that is the extent of your similarity with the author, he felt like it was important to take note of. The author would also like to include this note: If any student has been has not been accepted into his/her college of choice, do not bother continuing to read. You will not find anything life changing here and you likely will have a lot of work to do on your applications. Please stop HERE. By including this note, the author is not trying to focus his attention on his high school senior readers, but he realizes that a few of those who do pick up this work of literary genius might be applying to college and therefore should not be bothered with enjoying the hidden treasures that lie beyond this page.

3 If you have made it past this line, congratulations on being accepted into college. The author would like to comment that he is actually quite jealous of you, because he does not hear back until mid-January. Do they really pick the middle point of January to tell you? Do they find the median second in the month of January and say “NOW, tell them NOW!” or is the term mid-January just an approximation? And how is time zone taken into account?

When finding the median second of the month, do they just use the median of the first time zone and then inform everyone at the same time, or is the median of each time zone taken into account when informing the applicants in “mid-January” so people from each time zone find out one hour after the other? The author does not know the answer to any of these questions.

If you have any complaints comments or concerns, do not hesitate to write to the author: Mr. Gabriel Paternina 148 Zaccheus Mead Lane Second Floor, second door on the left when using the back stairs Second Floor, straight down the hallway when using the front stairs Greenwich CT, 06831

USA (for international letters) If the reader falls in love with the piece, he/she can send the author their copy of his paper to the address so conveniently given above in order to get it signed (please include $2 and a return postage stamp). Please no fan mail. Alright, you can send him fan mail.

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YOU ARE A LITERARY GENIUS

Claiming the Moon for Insomniacs

by Willy Fein ____________________________________________________________

_

If life is mysterious Then crystal balls should stay sheathed Hidden beneath veils.

I paid a psychic $20 to let me know my future.

He warned me about my forecoming injury My knee would fall apart On the ice and my Hockey career would do the same.

I don’t skate but Life can be mysterious to Leather bound heads And their glass eyes.

I paid $20 For a pair of sunglasses Green bands and Black lenses that dimmed the sun.

I wore them to a concert To dim my eyes.

Through the marijuana haze, light exploded Like the knee I ruined with hockey in that parallel universe. uncounted people Punched at the not-yet-existent wall in the sky Because the haze told them to.

If life is mysterious Then math should be soothing.

If life is mysterious Then I should Understand standing with her

Claiming the Moon for Insomniacs ____________________________________________________________ Like living with love Without love With a fallen knee On a fallen knee Falling on two fallen knees Following un-followed needs Moons apart and in between Our planet and our blackened scene The veiling sky, the moon I’ve seen Mysterious and still serene.

And when I breath and calm my mind And close my eyes And wish to dream I stay awake Like the night sky.

I see my eyelids Drawn like veils.

I hear my breath I hear my Awakeness.

The longer awake, The longer awake.

Cyclical and sickening.

Unbuttoning myself I say The day is dead Long live the day.

And out my window still awake Is nothing.

I sigh like the rising of the tide And wait for humanity to rise.

Willy Fein _________________________________ ___________________________ If life is short Then nights should be shorter But nights are long and days can drag And die too soon.

I have a support group in my mind And the moon belongs to us.

We would Drain the world of veils To dim the light.

We would Pay our fortunes to the sky To banish To cast aside To betray our Only waking friend.

If life is mysterious I’ll simply close my eyes And move Without direction Toward the darkness in the sky.

~ The Mac ~

I

by Jake Fields

don’t know why people always assumed I owned a horse. Rich business folk always came through here and asked if I could sell them one or two nice and cheap. I guess they couldn’t avoid coming through Lexington with all their money and glory on their way to Charlotte. If I had a horse I would have had something, but I had nothing. I used to have something, but I guess that was the worst part of it all. I suppose I did look like a man who’d have a horse or a ranch or something like that. Pops always said I looked tough like a brawler with my snub nose, strong jaw, and neck as wide as my skull. He always called me Richey, but I preferred Richard. Mr. Walston was the name he made me call him by—I never once remember calling him Dad. It felt funny thinking of my childhood as I stood in front of that grave.

I turned and took about twenty steps to another grave. I looked at it for a few seconds and I felt as though my soul had hit the bottom of the pit that it had been falling down for years. Anything could have happened to me at that moment, but it wouldn’t have made any difference. I loved her so much, but now all she was good for was the writing in that little flimsy piece of stone. The grave was only a year old, but it had already been beat to hell, and that depressed me even more. I was in that state that sounded like a cat. Cat-tonic. Cat-ta-tonic maybe. That’s it—catatonic. Read it in a book once.

I assumed my revolver had one bullet left in it because I remember putting two in. I didn’t bother to check what chamber the bullet was in or if it was even actually there, but I raised the barrel to my chin and put my finger on the trigger. *** I had just closed up shop for the night. It was the end of the week—a cool, breezy Friday night. All I had was my lantern and the moonlight to guide me home. I worked later than most, so even the more populated streets I walked down swallowed me in darkness. My house was removed from town on its own little plot of land with not a whole lot around it. I was no more than 200 feet from my front door when I saw it open. At first, it seemed as though it had moved on its own, as if some ghost had propped it open and left. I turned to step into the darker shadows of the brush near me. I squinted my eyes and saw a slender figure exit. He was a tall but slender man wearing a top hat and an overcoat. Though I could only see his silhouette, that fancily dressed figure was unmistakable. I knew it was that scumbag Tim Flinch. I remember muttering something to myself at that moment, something along the lines of, “Good ol’ Timmy.” I fumbled for the revolver in my holster, dropped the bag I brought back from the shop, and

The Mac

pulled out two bullets to load. Leaving my bag in the dirt, I sprinted toward the door—gun in hand. I co uld have easily opened the door with the handle, but I decided to kick it op en. The steel axe I kept on the back of the door crashed to the ground.

My thumb cocked the rev olver as if my brain had no say over what was to happen next. I suddenly realized that a simple projectile being shot out of a gun would not satisfy my rage. I re-holstered my weapon and bent over to pick up the axe that ha d crashed to the floor.

My knuckles turned white with my tight grip around the wooden handle. I slammed the door shut be hind me and stepped into the darkness. *** Tim had never struck me as being entirely too into women. The way he carried himself, the way he walked and talked, I would have guessed he was about as straight as a circle . I guess if you were as ric h as he was in a town as small as ours, you could get away with it. He was on e of those fellas who wouldn’t be anything spec ial living in a city like Ch arl ott e, but because he resided in Lexington he wa s a step away from godli ne ss.

I always hated Tim to some degree, and that didn’t he shop remained closed for lp his case. My days as I sat brooding in an ge r alone. I began to plot exactly how I would kill him. It wasn’t the co ps I was worried about.

They barely existed in tha t town. The whole force consisted of Sheriff O’Connor and his motely crew of two or three goon s. My main worry was that it wouldn’t be good en ough—that I would kill him in a way that left me unsatisfied. I didn’t care if I was shot dead afterw ard . I had nothing to live for anyhow. I needed to ge t drunk. *** The Mac was quite a place , in the sense that it wasn’ t quite a place. Not just because it was a sty, but because it was where I we nt whenever everything went to hell. I never had a good time in there and I never planned to. My teenage self would have been very disappointed to know I came to think a place where I could turn all my money into alcohol was anything less than a sanctuary. Childhood again—it made me sad an d angry to think about.

Maybe more sad than an gry. I called it The Mac be cause of the Macintosh apple tree that was behin d my house when I grew up. I used to hide in it when I was upset or need ed to cry, or when the wo rld just wasn’t treating me right. If I could have been a kid again in that moment, that’s where I would have gone, but I co uldn’t. I decided to go to the next best place and drink my nerves numb.

The road outside of the Mac was wet and muddy and so were my boots. The entire time I wa s alone in my house it had be en was a deep dark purple. raining. The sky I had never seen it quite like that. I walked up the ratty wooden stairs leadin g up to the bar’s swinging doors. The lighting is

Jake Fields so dark inside that the Mac always looks like it’s closed, and so only locals ever knew to go in.

I swung the doors open and walked in. I always sat on the right side of the bar so that I could see the entrance—I was always nervous even after a few drinks. Sheriff O’Connor saw me and, being the entirely too voluble man he was, smiled and began talking to me. But before he could get a word in, I slapped my hand on the counter and ordered a drink.

“Haven’t seen you in a while!” he said as I sat down. His stupid looking uniform barely fit around his huge stomach. I felt embarrassed to be under his jurisdiction yet alone to be sitting at a bar with him.

“I’ve been keeping to myself since she passed,” I responded while looking down at my glass.

“Ah, yes. I was so very sorry to hear that. How again did she go again? An illness?” I glanced up at him and it seemed as though he has some kind of stupid smirk on his face like he had known what I’d done. That look on his face made me want to plant my fist right between his eyes. I ordered another round and finished it before answering.

“A fever, yes.”

The Sheriff stopped talking as I noticed there was a man sitting in the corner facing the wall. He had his hat and a small lantern next to him.

It looked like he was writing something. No one in town wore hats like that other than Tim. I couldn’t fathom why he had chosen to work on his financial trash in such a place. I went to the bar to escape him, and I bemoaned the fact that I was finally given the opportunity to finish him so easily.

“Tim’s been there all night. I was talking to him earlier, but he seemed off. He usually talks in that lofty manner of his, but not today.” The Sheriff shrugged and fiddled with his tarnished jacket buttons.

“I wonder why.”

The bartender brought me yet another drink. I gripped my glass unusually hard. A crack traveled up the glass slowly, and I stared at it as it slowly reached the top. The glass shattered and sharp pieces slipped into the skin of my palm. I stood up and thrust my glass-filled hand around the Sheriff’s throat. The force of my strike lifted him off of his seat and he crashed to the floor sputtering for air. My boot crushed down on his throat as I stepped forward and unholstered my revolver. I didn’t want him getting in my way. Everything seemed to happen in a split second. I had my barrel pointed at the center of Tim’s back as the bartender cowered in fear behind the counter. The strangest part of it all was that Tim hadn’t moved. Despite the obvious violence occurring behind him, he had continued writing. He then rested his pen down and sighed as though he had finally completed

The Mac some sort of masterpiece, but I cou ldn’t imagine what kind of masterpiece such a soulless business type could have been working on. A con tract? A deed maybe? He slowly beg an to turn around, but he didn’t make it half way before I unloaded one of my two rounds into his heart. I saw his blood shoot forward out of his che st as I turned to face the bartender.

I had his nose right between my sigh ts, but I decided to lower the gun and let him go—I figured he couldn’t do much harm. Killing the Sheriff was enough collateral damage already.

I walked over to Tim’s slouched bod y. I grabbed him by his collar and lifted his head and chest off of the table. I picked up the blood soaked parchment paper from und er him, and let his skull fall back forward onto the table with a thud. I star ed at it for a while before I began reading. It was a letter, and it read: Dear Mr. Walston, I’m choosing to leave this wo rld tonight, not because I have faced any peculiar am ount of hardships in my life, but because of what I ha ve chosen to do in the past.

I know you found out about my relationship with you wife. She didn’t love me, and I manipulated her into being with me. That was just one of many factors that has lead to my decision. I took one of the few things you had away from you. Who was I to do such a thing? I will be leaving everything I have beh ind for you in my will, for I have no one close to me in thi s world. I know this is no compensation for what has tra nspired, but I hope that you will be able to forgive me in the future.

Sincerely, Timothy Finch *** I didn’t choose the same fate as Mr. Finch that afternoon I spent in the graveyard. Shooting myself just didn ’t feel right. I began to squeeze the trigger, but the gun fell softly out of my fingers into the dirt. I decided to begin my journey home—my rea l home. I wanted to leave the world hanging from that apple tree I once knew so well, and have the last thing I see as my vision turned red to be the only place I truly loved.

BIG BONES

a short story by TOBIN SAER

P

apa says I’m gonna be stronger than big Joe. Papa’s usually right, so I’ve been working at my big bones ever since I was just comin’ up to seven years old. They’re gettin’ bigger I think.

I began to head back on the mile long hike from the outer

top of cane fields back to the quarters. Papa doesn’t usually work in the same field as I do because he gots himself some big bones.

Big enough to rake and muck up all the dead cane in the world.

Today was special though. He worked with me as I laid seed down for the cover crop in the back. We got a bit more mud between our pigs than the usual amount because of the rainfall day before last.

It soaked up the soil so much that the mud was squeezin’ right on up through my little pigs and curlin’ over the top, coverin’ my nail and half way up that big vain that run from my big pig to the base of my shin. It was cold and refreshin’ and made me want to stand right there next to my Papa for a year or even two years I reckon. Gettin’ stuck would have been nice. As I walked on the wide road with Papa I watched as the sun took its rightful place on the other side of those wooden spikes for the night. I reckon it slept down at the bottom of the mountain. Tucked away into its dig pretty darn early. I guess that’s because it’s gotta shine all that light for an entire day out on the mountain. I start work when it starts work and I finish work when it finishes but it gotta be more tired than me! Wonder if the sun ever runs outta light to shine.

It was then that Papa turned and told me somethin’ that I

would never forget. He says, “Edy, you gotta get outta here. There aint nothin’ for you in these cane fields other than whips and sweat.

Sweat at somethin’ else, Edy. Tomorrow, you leave and you leave for the good.” He turned right back ahead, picked his chin back up and

17 continued to walk. I looked up at him not knowin’ what to say back.

I seen in his eyes that he was true. But I also seen a look I never seen before. A look of a man with bigger bones than me, frightened and worried like shack mice scattering from hole to hole through the quarters. He put his hands in his pockets, gently kicked a small rock ahead of us, scrunched his lips together and began to whistle right as the last sliver of the sun fell on down into the unknown valley down below. I listened to each step we took on that path. They were slow and rough. I didn’t understand why the steps felt so slow.

Maybe it was because of the silence or maybe it was because we take the same steps every day. We do the same thing every day just like the steps we take. Gettin’ us nowhere, feeling nothing at all. I reckon that’s why Papa says I gotta get out. Maybe out there, below the mountain, my steps wouldn’t be so slow. Maybe.

We arrived back at the quarters and Mama was layin’ there

coughing away. She had gotten beat bad by the master’s son. Her stomach and chest were soft and delicate Papa said. He’s probably right. Papa’s usually right. She had been this way for nearly three whole days I reckon. Papa says her tiller wasn’t pumpin’ very good no more ever since Master Zeb let his son beat Mama til’ she was still as a blade of grass just because she forgot to bring the Master his night cap few days back. Papa said she may die soon. “Die”, now that was somethin’ that wasn’t really anythin’ to me but it was lots to her and Papa. I figured if grandpaps had a die and his papa had a die and even that man’s papa had a die than some damn good stories come after you have a die so what’s the real matter with that then. Mama slowly reached her hand out and grabbed me as I was steppin’ over her to get the small ripped cloth under my dig so I could wipe some of the dried up mud off my pigs. I kneeled down next to her and asked her how she was feelin’. She turned to Papa and a tear leaked on out of the corner of her eye. I looked up at Papa as he stood there, hands still tucked away in his pockets, leanin’ against the wall. Papa showed a couple of his teeth but not all of ‘em. Mama then whispered to me, “Feelin’ good Edy, feelin’ good.” Her hand on mine felt true so I sat there for a bit.

18 The sun pushed bright lights through the holes in the quarter.

One hit me square in the face and I jumped right up out of my dig.

I rubbed my eyes for a few jiffies. It took me a while to see right. I looked over at Mama and Papa’s dig. It was still dark in the quarter but I could make out Papa’s forehead pressed strongly against Mama’s and his hand squeezin’ hers tight as the mud around our pigs day before. I crawled over to him and saw Mama layin’ there in the same way she was layin’ when I let go of her hand night before. I began to cry because Papa was doin’ it. Maybe it would make my bones bigger like his or maybe it would make Mama wake. But she didn’t. She was still as the big, bright, star in the night sky. Aint nothin’ could move her and aint no one could hurt her again. She was white. Still negro colored but white as the ghosts of our ancestors. It was then when I realized that when it comes our time to go for a die, we turn the same as all the others. We die with the same skin as the master, his wife, his kin and all their children to come. As I looked into Mama’s lids, I seen that every negro that has ever been whipped becomes the same as every white man that has ever done the whippin’. I reckon that I sweat in the fields because us negros are better at slidin’ our pigs out of the cane mud than the whites are. Other than that, there really ain’t no difference at all. None when we have our dies at least. And from what Papa says, we all have our dies. Papa’s usually right.

After Papa laid the blanket down over Mama’s cold body, he

grabbed me firm by the wrist and pulled me near the door of the quarter. I looked up at him as my eyes began to clear from the tears and I was suddenly awake. I felt all the blood rush down through my legs and tickle the tips of my pigs and shoot right back up again. I took a quick glance over at Mama realizin’ that she couldn’t have that rush feelin’ no more. Papa then looked me dead in the eyes with his eyes wide as the oak trunks. Mine opened up pretty wide too but my eye bones weren’t as big as his yet.

He said to me, “Edy son, it’s time for you to leave. It’s time for

you to jump that fence and find for yourself what’s on the other side.”

I began to cry again. I knew he wanted me gone but not be cause I was bad or nothin’, just because gone was some place safe to him.

19 I turned to him and said, “Papa, I’m scared”, he asked why

and I says, “The jump over the fence to the bottom of the mountain might hurt!”

He seemed anxious as he opened the door slightly and

looked around hunched over while still squeezin’ my wrist tight.

He paused, looked back at me and said, “Son, this is what your life has come to. Its time for you see the world. Your mother told me right before she fell asleep that she wants you outta here. In the morning, run straight for the sun and at night, a bright star will rise above all others. Follow that star and you’ll find where you’re headed someday.” Papa pointed to my tummy, looked at it for a second, took a deep breath and said, “Trust that gut. The jump won’t hurt, it’ll feel good.”

My eyes dried up and I felt my bones grow a little inside

me after he said that. Papa then opened the door and pulled me around back of the quarter. The sun always woke up on this side of the quarter. It was the dark side in the late afternoon but the bright side in the mornin’. My feet were bare and they got a bit wet from the dew that Papa and I were standin’ in. There was nice lookin’ fog risin’ from the field along the other side of the barn. I felt some peace for a moment. Just a moment. Papa held me tight against the side of the quarter, looked around and than looked at me one last time. He pushed me ahead, grabbed my face with his loving hands, brushed my ear and said, “Run for the sun, Edy”, so I did.

I dug my pigs into the wet ground as deep as I could and

pushed off like my feet bones were bigger than the life itself. I ran straight for the sun and aimed at the strong fence a good distance away from me. I picked one piece of sharpened wood and aimed straight for it. I looked at it the whole way as it got bigger and bigger. There was nothin’ I wanted more than to hurl my body right over that wood and just fall. A slight smile came across my face and I felt a surge of blood rush through my head and my heart like the tiller had been boosted up to high speed pumpin’ and was crankin’ out thousands of loads of cane in just moments. I opened my mouth and I felt a nice, cold wind come from the other side of

20 the fence and throw its way to the back of my throat. My eyes widened, and maybe this time they really did get as wide as the full oak trunk just like Papa’s eyes did. I was close. The sun blinded me but I could still somehow see that sharp wooden plank. It came closer and I sped up, hoping to get enough speed to jump up, grab the top of the wood and throw my lower body onto the other side. I reached high as I pushed my pigs and my foot sole up on the flat part of the fence and tried to get them to stick so that I could use those big foot bones to push. They slipped a little so I pulled with my arm bone instead. I was able to get a foot up on the top of the fence. My head came over, my eyes closed, and I pressed my foot off the top spike throwing my body down the mountain. Down from the mountain of hell. The mountain where my Mama had her die and that my Papa would probably have his. The mountain where that mud sunk into my feet and that cane whistled its way through the harsh wind spells. The mountain that poured itself into the pump of my veins and stitched itself into the fabric of my clothes until my die. The mountain of my everlasting glory.

The sun immediately hit my entire body as I appeared on the

other side of the fence. I fell for what felt like years. Down the cliff I went. I kept falling and falling. It seemed to never end. The drop was too high to survive and my skin couldn’t take it. Was this my die? Was this how I had to escape the mountain of hell? My blood rushed. I could somehow feel myself being born again. I could feel my arms and legs expanding into the light and capturing the breeze.

All I wanted was to keep falling. I wanted the earth to disperse from my feet but then my eyes opened and my feet hit the ground. My skin was still there. My body was normal. It was dark as ever but I felt white as never before.

I stood up, looked ahead and felt a little somethin’ that my

grandpaps had talked to me about. Somethin’ that didn’t make no sense to me when I was just a kid. I had bigger bones now though.

They felt even bigger then big Joe’s bones. I looked ahead and saw my grandpap right there in front of me standing in the sun. He was my Jesus Christ, my forever lasting holy savior, with his arms open and body wide and warm. It was nice. I remember him tellin’ me

21

bout’ the time he first made his jump. This was that jump. This was that moment he felt. Same moment. Just the same. I ran for that moment and all the stories he told. I ran for Mama in her dig. I ran for Papa as he raked away the dull cane and I ran for my bones. I ran for that thing that Grandpaps did. Didn’t know what it meant but I still ran for it. ‘Freedom’ was the word he used I believe. Didn’t make much sense to me at all ‘til now. But I was free. Free as the birds were to fly whichever distance they chose. Free as the mud was to soak in the rain and to dirty my pignails. Free as my Mama was to lay in peace and free as that little rock that allowed my Papa to kick him across the road. Free as the cane is to sway back and forth in the cool winds of the night. Free like the grass is to grow dew in the mornin’ and free as the sun is to set on this side of the fence durin’ dusk. Aint nothin’ more true than that right there.

I got my balance, looked up into the bright, hard working sun,

dug my pigs back into the dirt, pushed off even harder, and used my big bones to accept the freedom that I had found. Papa once told me it would feel good to run free into the sun and away from that fence.

Papa’s usually right. It felt good. Felt true.

23

Reawakening

us)

(an homage to Peter Shaffer’s Equ

by John Davis

an angry voice behind hy did you have sex with him?” asked Sheba. iny voice that asked such Sheba didn’t recognize the frail, wh y would he care about the encounter a daring question. Furthermore, wh re than twenty years ago? with her student when it happened mo the streets of London at night, Sheba turned around cautiously. In

rd. one must always be on his or her gua ed to be about seventeen years She saw the young man who appear

ng to heckle her. Mustering as much old and decided that he was just tryi , ed, “Love isn’t tied to any specific age stat dly bol she ld, cou she as e rag cou er be restricted by man’s laws.” young man. Love is free and it can nev day after day in prison after the Sheba had told herself those words

t ago. Unbeknownst to Sheba was tha incident with one of her pupils years ng man had developed his own ideas around the time of the affair, this you passion bursting from a horse’s neigh, regarding love. To him, love was the ough a wheat field, and the majesty the elegant and meticulous strides thr . of an omnipotent god named Equus young man’s time in a mental Twenty years have passed since this

ted for psychological testing to deterhospital (the very one Sheba frequen trial), and by his current demeanor, mine whether she was mentally fit for had viciously blinded horses in a staone would never have known that he his tormenting thoughts. ble in order to escape the pressures of to have sex once. It was fine The young man began, “I was forced

ement he stood on. The half-horse and except…” he looked down at the pav s. It condemned him for having sex half-main deity flashed through his eye ous God. If he couldn’t have Alan’s with that woman because it was a jeal vent anyone else from being the obpassion, then it was determined to pre ply ashamed of the situation and the ject of the boy’s desire. Alan was dee truly tell this woman about it? But pain it brought his parents. Could he She was like him. this woman was special, he figured. tively.

“What is it dear?” Sheba asked inquisi

with her in a stable. But I was “There was a woman, and I had sex

. revolved around a god called Equus crazy then. Batty. To me, the world

“W

He was a man-horse god, and he grew angry at the sight of me having sex in his holy temple. After some counseling, I’m fine now.” He saw Sheba’s worried face. “Don’t fret! I wont hurt you! I just wanted to know why you had sex with him. What you were thinking about when you did it and if you regret it. That’s all.” The words took their time to come out, but when they did, Alan was glad and eagerly awaited the old woman’s reply.

Sheba closed her eyes and listened to the pedestrians pass by the strange couple and to the sounds of the honking cars. The crisp air created a clear environment for her mind to pick out the various memories of her affair. After a few minutes, she told Alan, “Well, like you, I was led by passion. I wasn’t a nymphomaniac or anything like that and the sex was only secondary. There was just something so different about that boy and my life back then that I felt that I had to pursue him. My domestic life was bland, and so I decided to spice things up. I still loved my family—I still do! But we were in love—at least I loved him.”

In an unexpected gesture, Sheba hugged Alan and whispered in his ear, “Passion doesn’t have to control you. Your mind can coexist with whatever lust you may have, and you can be a normal citizen. Do I regret what I did? Of course not. Your god, your Equus…I don’t think he was your passion. That is to say I don’t think that he was your love of horses.

To me, he seems to have been your frustration with not understanding what you thought society expected of you. As a former teacher, I know that society can be demanding, but you must never let your imagination die.”

At that moment, as it began to rain upon the former deviants, Alan’s dormant imagination lit ablaze. Equus was reborn as a figure of love and approval. The words of Dr. Dysart fought in vain against this mental insurrection, telling Alan, “Your god is dead!” and “You will die with him if you stay like this.” Sheba’s words unlocked the safe containing Alan’s horrid memories and purified them. First, there was forgiveness, and then there was acceptance.

As the tears streamed from Alan’s eyes, he thanked the old woman.

“I am what I am,” he whispered. He gave her one kiss on the cheek and blended into the crowd of pedestrians on their way home.

Sky

by John Davis

I

pull up in the parking lot, a right reserved for seniors. I’ve been coming to this place ever since I was thirteen, but every year it seems to grow bigger. It’s as if it’s draining the students’ vitality, and corrupting it for its own clandestine purposes. The main entrance is adorned with Corinthian columns and the school’s motto, “Nullius in verba.” Hypocrites. They shove their dogma down our throats, but tell us to question the world.

I head to the gym for the Monday morning assembly, and I see Billy and Johnny Morrison. A few years back, the twins were able to repeat a year on account of their father’s donation—instead of being expelled for poor grades. Though they look down on most, they don’t mind me. I went through a week of detention for pummeling some brat who pointed out their insecure nature. It’s always beneficial to have friends in high places.

Their well-trimmed hair and suede shoes compliment their arrogant faces.

Two pairs of blue eyes attempt in vain to pierce my own. I was always been labeled the dumb blonde with green eyes, but no one has ever beaten those eyes. My eyes will see the truth, and my hands will make it a reality. But am I destined to pervert this world for corporate gain, as these two certainly will? Or will my efforts result in altruistic opportunities for the common man? Those thoughts will be the death of me if I don’t keep myself restrained.

“Well if it isn’t Reuben Clifton Langley! I haven’t seen you in almost three months! It’s as if you disappeared from the face of the earth!” exclaims Billy, in his high-pitched, sneering voice.

“Yeaaaah. Heh, heh! You went AWOL on us for the summer! Remember y-you were gonna come with us to party in London? We had some fine times there.

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Why didn’t you come with?” Johnny asks slowly with a smile. Sometimes I think that he’s the slower one.

“Whatever. I work on my own time. It’s not my problem if my schedule doesn’t match yours. Besides, I’ve spent plenty of time in England visiting family.” I’m not in the mood for the back and forth, so I continue walking towards Jameson’s gym.

I turn to the kid sitting next to me and ask, “Boy, who is that guy there?” I don’t even need to point. The kid’s skin is as black as midnight.

He’s dressed like us. He even walks like us. He sits down next to a fashion designer’s son, and looks forward at the headmaster who is about to give his opening speech. Wait, are his eyes...

“His name’s Peter Johnson.”

“Peter Johnson, eh? First time in my four years here that I’ve seen a black kid here.”

“He’ll probably start clicking. Probably can’t speak a lick of English.”

My fascination with the new kid is broken by this brat’s words. Who in the hell does he think he is? I’d love to give him one right in the stomach, but if I’m to teach this kid a lesson, it’ll have to be at another time.

“A warm welcome to all and especially the class of 2030!” Our headmaster is around forty, but his hair is gray as steel. His jaws are defined, and his muscular body is a testament to a college football career. Dr. John C. Wisehammer, or “The Hammer,” rules Jameson with an iron fist. Students without a ‘B’ average or higher are forced out, except in certain cases.

These prissy brats are going to be my bosses, unless I can beat them to the finish line.

“Let this year bring prosperity to students, faculty, and our entire community!” he moves his palm in a smooth arc from his chest to the four hundred kids before him before continuing.

“We have some special new students this year. Will the six please stand so that we may applaud your achievements.

I hear a chubby kid whisper to his friend, “The six? What the?”

The introduction is met with applause from the faculty and students. And there he is. Peter Johnson, along with one Asian, one Hispanic, and three Caucasians.

Sky “These young gentlemen have overcome adversities that many of us will never experience! Not even in our worst nightmares! Please come to the podium as I call your names! Øyvind Lund!”

What? The Asian kid? Øyvind Lund? He’s very short; I’d say five feet four inches. His black hair is luminous, and he has the same eyes as Peter and me. I can hardly keep myself from smiling.

“Nicolas Chauveax!” It’s the Hispanic kid. Doesn’t make any sense. He’s a massive, muscular character at around six foot five.

“The triplets: Donny Kennard, Loring Kennard, and Sinclair Kennard!”

Numbers three, four, and five. All about six foot three, with hair almost as black as— “Peter Johnson!”

As the final name is called and all six are standing before the headmaster posing for photographs, the whole gym sounds like a malicious mix of clapping and whistling with a tint of indignation corrupting the air. The six wear the same dull school uniform consisting of a white shirt, a red tie, and a black suit. They’re lined up like animals for the slaughter. Bells ring as students flood out to begin their first day back at school. Seated in the front row, I remain fixed on Johnson and the other kids. None of the six are smiling.

“Mr. Langley, would you be so kind as to tour these young gentlemen around today?”

The request catches me off guard, and I turn around in my chair to find Mr. Dinkley.

“The school didn’t tour them?”

“Of course it did,” his voice is monotonous and eerie. “But I figured that they could use a real tour. The real experience of a day here,” he adjusts his glasses with his index finger and then slips off to return to whatever vile pit he had crawled out of. Nothing about this place seems right, but all I have to do is last one year.

“Yo! New guys! Over here!” They all look confused after being abandoned by the headmaster. When did he leave? In that short moment with Mr. Dinkley?

“My name is Reuben Langley. Nice to meet you all.”

They remain silent as I shake their hands, except for Peter Johnson, who exclaims with exuberance in a deep voice, “Peter Johnson! It’s nice to finally meet someone who seems pretty normal?”

He laughs, exposing his perfectly aligned white teeth. We are face to face—

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his blue eyes versus my green eyes, his black skin versus my white skin, and his determination versus mine.

“Is there any food around? I’m starving,” says Øyvind. His voice doesn’t have that stereotypical Asian quality. A Scandinavian name and a Scandinavian voice as well?

“Well, Øyv—how do I pronounce your name?” I’m a bit embarrassed that I can’t say it even though I had just heard it.

“Ay-vin Lee-mus Lun,” he says patiently. I notice that he doesn’t have epicanthic folds. He catches me looking and says, “Yes, I know. My eyes are different. It was hard growing up in a predominantly Asian neighborhood.

They would call me ‘Whitey’ or say that I had cut my eyes because I was ashamed of my heritage.” He laughs before continuing. “Can’t let ignorant words hurt you.”

“Hmm. That’s, uh, quite the story.” I awkwardly fumble for words to say and then remember the way to the cafeteria. “Don’t worry. If anyone tries to mess with you—any of you—I’m here to help.”

We cross the garden on the way to the cafeteria. Was this place always so massive? Upon reaching the doors of the cafeteria, I see about five kids and Mr. Dinkley talking. But I can sense that they are only miming words. They notice me open the door and silence falls from the ceiling and creates a splash like a brick plummeting into the ocean.

“Mr. Langley,” he adjusts his glasses with that darn finger of his, “I believe that I told you to take these kids to class with you.” The light reflecting off of his glasses gives him the appearance of a man with just two bright rectangles for eyes.

“Yes, well—” I struggle to get words out. When did I become so timid?

“Detention. For the rest of the week.”

“Detention? For what?”

I turn around to see Peter Johnson step forward. His brazen attitude causes me to smile. Perhaps these kids are exactly what this school needs.

Flustered by this counteraction, Mr. Dinkley brushes his coat in order to regain his composure.

“Mr. Johnson, seeing as this is your first infraction, your punishment will be light. You are sentenced to three days of detention starting today.”

Sky “You give him detention,” starts Nicolas in a low, rumbling voice, “then you give me detention.”

“And us,” say the triplets. Øyvind looks up at me and says, “Hey, Reuben, maybe in detention,” he turns to face Mr. Dinkley, “we can get something to eat.”

Would you look at this! Six new bloods coming to my aid! I’ve got to admit, this really does get my heart pumping.

“Haha! Mr. Dinkley, looks like Ms. Adelaide will have seven recruits this afternoon.”

If my heart is beating fast, Dinkley’s must be beating even faster. His face is completely red, and he’s about to mumble something to Johnson. But all he can do is point his finger toward the guy. Some teachers and students in the vicinity try to keep themselves from laughing as he scans the room. Before he leaves, he straightens his tie and warns us sternly, “Miss Adelaide has experience with boys like you.”

By noon, we’ve already become famous as The Seven. Chemistry, Comparative Government, and English classes with the gang. They’ve known each other since the start of the summer, since they were selected to come to this school for some undisclosed reason.

We’re back in the cafeteria for lunch, sitting at a table discussing the rest of the day.

Nicolas asks me, “How long is detention? An hour? Two? Because I have football practice after school.”

“Unfortunately, you won’t be going to football. Detention occupies the same time slot as sports.”

Anyways, Johnson doesn’t seem to mind the jeers he’s been receiving throughout the day, until Biology class. Biology is a mandatory for all Seniors; there are four sections of twenty-five, each taught in Pandemonium Hall, an amphitheaterlike space. The last of the four sections is taught by Mr. Tristan, Ms. Adelaide’s exboyfriend, who had a grandfather who was a member of the Ku Klux Klan.

“Mr. Tristan, what does evolution have to say about the races?” asks Tyrian Plantagenet. Star student, sits right in front of the teacher. I wouldn’t say that I hate anyone, but this kid is about as close as it gets. Girls would claw each other’s eyes out for a date with him, and most of the teachers here joke that he’s going to become the next president, continuing almost two decades of conservative America.

I study Tristan’s movements meticulously. His shaved head, slender body,

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and serpentine pattern of walking remind me of an old story that my father used to tell me. He would say that snakes would eat birds because they were jealous of being stuck on the ground. They thought that by eating their wings, they would grow their own. But when it didn’t work, they grew even more spiteful.

As he speaks, he gestures with hands as white as paste, but I’m not paying attention to what he’s saying. Instead, I sneak a glimpse at Johnson.

Indignation is smeared over his face. He flares his nostrils repeatedly. “…and that’s why they are considered genetically inferior,” Tristan finishes.

“Is that so?” Peter asks defiantly as smashes his hands against the table. His head is turned down and his eyes are closed. He slowly raises his head, looks at the professor, and yells, “Am I inferior, Mr. Tristan?”

We are in the upper row, and below us at the ground level, Tristan is reserved, his face expressionless. The flesh seems to wither away, leaving only a skull staring right into my eyes. I can’t help but look away, but Peter, he continues to stare at the man. He’s sucked his thin brown lips into his mouth in order to restrain himself. When had I lost the aura of determination that now surrounds him?

Time seems to collapse. Memories fold onto one another like blankets.

I can feel myself drowning in the silence and that man’s skull branding me with shame. Hesitation! Trepidation! I can’t breathe. Make it stop!

“Mr. Johnson,” Tristan continues, “Did I ever say that you were inferior? Or that I thought that you were inferior? You should learn to think before you speak, Mr. Johnson.”

The five other guys continue to look at Johnson. Johnson can only clench his teeth, let out a sigh that’s even longer than mine, and sit down.

After class, we walk until we find ourselves at the lake near the cafeteria. Another product of the secret, saccharine system that I’ve come to call “school.”

Its pristine surface obscures the results of years of pollution at the bottom; some say that there are three eyed fish as a result of a biology experiment gone wrong under Tristan. I don’t know about that, but he’s definitely calculating something.

The maple and oak trees that surround the lake in a semicircle are

Sky losing their leaves. It’s here that we decide to rest before detention throughout the week as a way to release the steam accumulated throughout the day. We sit around seven tables in front of the lake. Donny and Loring seem reserved, while Sinclair and Nicolas chat. Øyvind reflects on something, and Peter places his elbows on the table and withdraws into his shoulders as he sits facing the lake. Not much is going on, although it’s certainly nice to have these moments in such a fast paced world. It wasn’t too long ago that America was at war with Iran. Did people in the old days really think that they could stop these fanatics? And when they took out their own capital after the nuke malfunctioned, the rest of the world wiped their brow in relief as nine million people died. Not much I can do about stuff like that.

I can feel myself falling asleep as the birds chirp and the wind rustles more leaves. It’s not until I see Donny and the others get up that I remember that we have detention. Ms. Adelaide wouldn’t want to be kept waiting.

“Hello gentlemen,” she begins, “Is it just you seven? Well then, most of the boys at school have learned some decency over the summer,” she says in a voice that reminds me of the wind gently dancing through the oak leaves. I can tell that the Kennards are uncomfortable, while Nicolas, with his broad face, remains untouched.

Ms. Adelaide is very petite with black hair that reaches to her shoulders.

She’s around forty, but no one really knows how old she is because she looks like she just graduated from college.

“Seeing as it is the first day, I would think that you all would be considerate to your teachers. However, your sitting before me proves otherwise.”

She smiles and dimples appear in her face. She’s sitting at the front of the classroom on her computer, and the seven of us are just awkwardly facing her. I had forgotten how much of a drag this is. About thirty minutes have gone by; her eyes bulge out of her head and her expression is solemn.

“Peter Johnson?”

“Yes, Ms. Adelaide?”

“Mr. Tristan would like to have a word with you during this time tomorrow.”

“Sure.”

Johnson looks at the others and then me.

By the time detention is over, we’ve settled on walking to Town Hall for a tour.

On the way there I ask the boys, “How was your first day at school? Different from what you expected?”

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Sinclair replies with a laugh, “The detention teacher was pretty good looking.”

His brothers laugh, and even reserved Nicolas smiles.

“So where are you guys from? You don’t exactly have the most common names that a person would associate based on race and stuff like that...” I try to not sound too harsh, but they understand where I’m coming from. They must have had to explain it a million times before.

The Kennard brothers come from Ireland, and they’re Catholic. The birth order is Sinclair, Donny, and then. Their story is that they want to return to Ireland to lead the country away from its anti-English sentiment. A young French couple adopted Nicolas during the Mexican Drug War of 2014, which ended with the partitioning of Mexico into North and South. He explains that the North, due to its proximity to America is heavily guarded by the feds and is essentially a puppet state. He’s vowed to return to the North and help it regain its strength. Øyvind was raised in Norway after his adoption. He wants to become a scientist, but comments that there’s really not much else to his background. Different families in town host the boys.

Peter Johnson stops walking and nonchalantly says, “Alright guys.

I was born to a black man with blue eyes and a white woman with blond hair. We lived in Darien in a modest house. My family was harassed as the conservatives grew in number, and one day after playing at the beach, two white men came up to us. Despite the summer’s blanket of heat, the two men sported full black suits and said that they needed a word with my father. I could only see their green eyes and thin red lips move as a result of the balaclavas they wore. My mother insisted that Dad back away, but he told us to go to the car and drive home. She pleaded with him until he screamed, ‘Go!’ I had never seen his eyes glisten as they did that day, and every time I wake up, I see the fire surrounding the blue irises. He tensed every muscle in his body to prevent himself from letting the tears stream. We made our way to the car passing the indifferent people on the beach, each soul just minding its own business. One gunshot. Then another. And another. And one more.” By this time Johnson is flaring his nostrils with his hands clenched in two stone fists. “Mother cried her heart out on the way home and almost crashed several times. I was only five then, but it will remain imprinted in my head until the day I die.”

Jesus. I thought that the first two stories were intense, but hearing this

Sky makes me feel the most uncomfortable I’ve ever been. He senses this and cracks up.

“Don’t worry guys! That was a long time ago!”

Town hall. Not the image I was expecting. I knew that there would be protestors, but not like this. People on the steps in front of the entrance with abundant images of blacks, Hispanics, Catholics, and Jews. Everybody’s holding signs that say things like, “America is for the working people! Not these parasites!”

I recognize some people from school, including Tristan. He’s in the background, but nevertheless, he’s smiling and shaking hands.

“Guys, we should leave, this was a bad idea. I don’t even know why I offered to come here,” I say.

“It’s good to see the opposing view. Besides, I’m quite curious as to what they would say to me,” Peter responds in a brazen manner.

A protester yells as Johnson starts running. There is a clear path to the entrance, and he stops running and takes his time up the stairs. We follow him with our guard up, trying to look as tough as we can. When we finally reach the top, Peter yells to the crowd, now regaining its globular form, “What would you do to me?” he asks placing his hand over his heart. “Are we not of the same blood? Of the same earth?”

“Get away from there, boy!” a man in the mass yells. People follow suit and heckle him. It’s not too long before someone throws a rock, which Peter narrowly evades.

“We gotta get outta here guys!” I scream. “Follow me!” Peter is still standing as I motion him to follow. He’s aghast by these people’s ignorance, yet he knows it’s their freedom of speech to say these words of hate. “Move, Peter! Move!” A rock grazes my cheek. I take his frozen body by the arm and move into the building. As the doors close, we hear the haunting screams of the crowd. I lead Peter out the back, running until we’re around the corner from my house.

“Mom! I’m home!”

She comes out from the kitchen and almost drops a bowl of cereal. “I...I have some guests,” I chuckle feebly covering my cut with my palm.

“Hello, Mrs. Langley,” the boys say in unison.

My mom drops us off at school the next morning and I see my car that I had forgotten about. Yesterday seems so long ago. And that’s right, we still have detention. And why does this place seem larger?

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As we sit at the lake in the morning during our free period, I spot a group of thugs led by the Morrison duo. They have their hands in their pockets and feign disinterest, although they’re walking straight toward us.

Some look at the lake, some look at the trees, and some look at the sky. I, on the other hand, am looking straight at them.

“What do you want?” I bark.

Billy raises his hands to create a barrier and says, “Easy now, Langley.

We’re not here for you. We’ve got orders from teach to talk to these six ‘students’, and then we’ll be on our way.” He turns to his goons, “Get them!”

A goon swings at Nicolas.

The punch connects, and Nicolas staggers. He wipes a bit of blood from his lip and thrashes at the potbellied goon. I charge for Billy, but Jimmy intercepts me and throws me to the ground.

“Sorry ’ol chap. We’z got to bring back that Negro you’ve grown fond of,” Jimmy says slowly with a gaping mouth. He’s struggling to pin me down, but I manage to throw him off.

Team Seven is severely outmatched. They’ve got the numbers on us— there are ten of them— but Nicolas looks like he’ll be able to take out at least two of them. I manage to get off the ground and give Jimmy a solid kick to the chest. He writhes in pain, and I continue kicking until he yields.

But eventually the numbers work against us and they’ve got most of us held down.

“Now, Negro, step forward! You’re the only one we want.”

“Don’t do it, Peter!”

“It’s a trap!” Sinclair screams.

“Hand over my brother right now!” Loring bawls.

“It’s alright guys. I got this,” Peter says in his courageous voice.

“Hatred isn’t something we’re born with,” he says as the sun illuminates his brown skin. Blinding rays form a circle on his wiry hair. “It’s something that’s taught.” Øyvind is thrust towards us, and Nicolas catches him. However, they still hold Donny hostage. As Peter steps forward, pigeons fly overhead. The water is as still as the sky. Bodies lay prostrate on the ground. A cloud passes overhead in what seems to be an eternity, and the sun’s rays expose the truth.

Sky How long was I out? Just how many goons were there? It was as if the whole school was attacking us. Everything is so hazy, and I can’t see Peter or the others. My heart’s beating too fast. My stomach’s uneasy, and I can’t hear anything.

“So you’re finally awake,” says a familiar voice.

A short, blurry figure appears before me. I’m on a bed. I touch my forehead, and I feel skin. I inch my hand backwards, and that’s where the gauze starts. It coils around the back, under some of my hair, and ends near my left ear. The fog starts to dissipate revealing the petite Ms. Adelaide.

“Some boys have informed me that you and some new students caused a ruckus this morning.”

This morning? What time is it?

“You’ve been very naughty, and I’ve been very patient with you.”

“M-miss Adelaide. I d-don’t know w-what you’ve heard. Ugh!” I clench my hair. My head hurts when I speak.

“It would appear as if you’ve suffered a mild concussion. It was quite fortuitous for you that Mr. Tristan arrived on the scene and tended to your wounds.”

Wounds? I look at my legs. There are scrapes and bruises scattered over my knees and thighs. Since when was I wearing shorts? I pry myself against my bedhead and attempt to get up. I’m almost successful, but I fall on my knees in failure.

“Reuben, wake up! Wake up!”

Where am I? It’s dark, and I can make out a few chairs and a clock on the wall facing me. About ten kids are surrounding me; one of them is kneeling to my right with his face obscured by a red bandanna and another one covering the rest of his head, only revealing his eyes and nose. Upon closer observation, they’re all wearing this mysterious uniform. An ammoniac smell makes me yearn to vomit.

“Who are you people?” I ask, slowly coming to fear the worst.

“We are the Order. We’re a group of students who have witnessed wrongs and are determined to right them. We’ve seen adversity and are trying to eradicate it,” says boy in the circle. “Starting with Tristan and his company.”

My mind immediately rewinds to the moments along the lake. I recall those figures manifesting themselves from the very air and one slim shadow against the cafeteria wall in particular.

“How did I get here? Where’s Peter? Where are the other boys? Where is

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heart is pumping erratically. this place?” I can’t stop interrogating them. My r all.” He removes his “Calm down, bro. We’re here to help you! Afte side.” mask. Loring? What the hell? “We’re on your “What?” umbered to save you, “After the fight by the lake, we were too outn himself over to those thugs, Donny, and Peter. Peter thought that if he gave we were duped, and more then the six of us would be free to go. However, n. We wanted to save you boys appeared. That’s when you were struck dow tears. “Believe me we did! all.” He looks down in shame. He’s choking back afraid to admit. After we left, But Nicolas said what we all knew, but were too t the true history of this place. we found these guys, and they’ve told us abou in its borders.”

All the damnable things that have happened with “What happened to Donny and Peter?”

“We don’t know!”

And Peter is your “How can you not know? He’s your brother! friend! We need to find out where they are!” sh accent broke the “That’s where we come in.” A boy with a Briti “We’re all students here, so ring of silence that brought comfort to my soul. we find an opportunity to we’ll just have to stick with our daily routines until of it!” strike. The police, the school, everyone is part “Part of what?” I ask hesitantly. scares us. But do you He snickers, “We don’t know yet. That’s what ing during your freshman remember the time when those kids went miss ds. A couple hundred might year?” I nod. “Join us and we will find your frien p of birds can fly away from not appear to be much, but even the smallest grou an army of snakes.” ain how I had been On the drive home I realize that they didn’t expl room. It’s only day three of relocated from the nurse’s office to that other er. This drama is beginning the school year, and I already yearn for summ ny and Peter are ubiquitous. to spread like poison. Missing posters for Don d, calling him a thief and a Some with Peter’s picture have been vandalize Donny’s disappearance. All I murderer. Most, however, implicate Peter in can do is wait. ict. It’s a month into The days drag on like weights attached to a conv just sit here so helplessly! school and horrid ideas carve at my patience. I can’t

Sky We’ve decided that we’re too open near the lake, so our new rendezvous point before detention is the cafeteria. No one is ever in there at this time because they’re out on the fields gearing up for sports. I’m with Øyvind and Loring when Sinclair and Nicolas rush toward us. Their faces are grim.

“You have to check your phones. Now!” Sinclair yells. I fumble around in my pockets for mine, and he yells, “Go to the local news!”

Peter Johnson was found alive in a cabin near the outskirts of town. Buried only fifty feet away from the cabin was Donny. Copious amounts of alcohol and THC were found in Peter’s system. The worst part is that Tristan and his cohorts found the two.

Sinclair stops pacing, grabs me by the shoulders, and I see the vexation in his eyes. He knows that Peter would never do such a wanton act. His black hair is unkempt, and his voice is shaking. His younger brother is dead.

“They’re gonna hang Peter.”

“No trial?” inquires Øyvind.

“They say they’ve found evidence directly linking him to the crime and that’s how it works now. We have to go!”

“What! Why?” “They’ll be looking for us!” I show them the webpage.

“Well, if they want a fight,” Nicolas cracks his knuckles. “I’ll give them a fight.”

“You idiot!” Sinclair retorts. “You can’t fight a city! The best thing that we can do is run away!”

“And go where, Sinny?” Loring asks despondently. “We’re criminals and soon enough, people will find out and come searching for us! We’ll go to jail and—” “What an interesting lot you all are,” says a familiar voice.

“Raven!” Øyvind shouts with glee.

It appears as if I’ve met my double. He looks like me except for he’s got brown hair. And there’s that British accent of his.

“The Order,” he begins as he’s putting on his bandanna, “will help. Follow me,” he commands.

We sneak out the back entrance of the cafeteria, opposite from the lake, just in case anyone was expecting us there. We’re now in the parking lot near the entrance to the school, and he suggests that we split up. So I take Sinclair and Loring in my car, and he takes Øyvind and Nicolas. We drive in opposite directions and vow

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to meet at the Sunny Gas Station at five o’clock.

Poor guys. Their parents must be completely devastated. Rain spews from the sky. Fog accumulates, and traffic starts to halter progress. Four o’clock. It’s been about three hours since we’ve left. I haven’t said a word to my parents, nor have the others to theirs. We’ve only eaten fast food and grow weary with dread.

Sirens? What for? I tell the guys to remain calm and not say anything.

A paunchy policeman appears to my left. I almost leap out of my seat, but I roll down the window.

“Yes, officer?” I ask trying to hide my anxiety.

“Boy, do you understand the risks brought about by running a red light?”

What is he talking about? Oh no. “Officer, the light was green. I assure you. Perhaps in this dense fog, you—” “Are you questioning me, boy?” his voice raises a few decibels.

“No, officer. It’s just that—” “Who are they? How old are you, boy?” If he wasn’t angry before, he certainly is now.

Rain. Rain. Go away. Come again another day. If he hollers, let him stay. Went down the waterspout. Eeny. Eeny. Eeny. Meeny. Meeny. Miny.

“Boy! How old are you?” he screams. He’s about to stick his hand into the car! I turn the car on, put it in gear, and speed off into the distance. Then out of alleyways and intersections, five police cars shadow my trail of insubordination. I question everything. How could life be going so fine, so straightforward, and now just burst into these raindrops?

“Shit, Reuben! What are we going to do?” Loring asks. He’s the most affected by the ordeal. Sinclair and I have to keep him calm.

The cops are gaining on us, but I can’t afford to accelerate in this rain. I’m too focused on dodging the linked cars. Bystanders look on in awe, and drivers create a unique cacophony with their horns in retaliation to some punk, whom they’ve never met, creating havoc on their dreary Wednesday afternoon.

“Pull over!” I hear blasting through a loudspeaker. “There is a roadblock up ahead! Pull over or you will crash!”

My father used to tell me when I was younger to stand up for what you believe in.

“Pull over!”

He would say that the world is changing.

Sky “Pull over now!”

Eight million people breaths in a desolate world. There are no longer good men running America. That’s why he moved to Canada.

“You’re going to crash! Do you understand me? Pull over!”

Looks like it’s the time for this bird to spread his wings.

“Reuben, no!” Loring throws himself towards the wheel, but Sinclair restrains him.

“Shut up! He knows what he’s doing.” Sinclair says. He faces the windshield and mutters, “I hope.”

Adrenaline is a ferocious, black stallion with yellow eyes and a foaming mouth dashing throughout my body. He gnaws my brain. His hooves crush my heart. He neighs, and my body cannot help but quake. I turn the wheel to the right. Every raindrop hitting the black road and every syllable of the policemen’s call slows down as I close my eyes. The car skids as it slowly turns forty-five, ninety, and then one hundred and eighty degrees. What made me think that would work?

The next sound is steel scraping against steel. Policemen dodge crashing vehicles and dive to the ground to protect themselves from shattering glass. Obnoxious sirens, dripping fluids. Death whispering into my ear, and life casting it away. I can barely unlock the door; my arm is covered in a mixture of blood and sweat. The three of us crawl out of the toppled car, and are instantly handcuffed by the police. They press their feet on our backs and spit on our faces. Little birdie didn’t get two feet in the air from its nest before it plummeted into the pit of Hell. I should have known that the sky is only reachable in the tales of old men. My bruises and burns no longer matter. I smile with the agony of defeat. What’s done is done. The world is theirs.

56

- Nike -

Prepare yourselves, the voice of Mars calls.

Toward heroism, man slowly crawls.

Into the belly of the beast we charge With the odds against, but hope at large Behold, the soldier’s battle cry.

A simple choice: immortality or die Blade against shield, weapons clash; Onto the ground great bodies crash.

This cruel game turns the ground red The players, at war; the spectators, dead.

In the midst of it all, one man does emerge, And suddenly, a side begins to surge. , He gathers the troops with a hoarse breath th.

Driven not by courage, but rather fear of dea A prayer echoes from the mouths of men.

And rises to the stars, the Olympians’ den. l, Brothers push one another to the gates of hel of a bell.

While the death toll rings through the voice And soon the enemy sees a battle lost, While men become gods …but at what cost?

Glory for a life, victory for a limb, And thus mankind’s fate seems quite grim.

Curren Iyer

57

Delightful Sushi A Screenplay by Pete Rogan ________________________________________________ Int. – Japanese Restaurant – Night York City. The An ordinary Japanese restaurant in modern day New music is softly place has a lonely feel to it. Traditional Chinese around and there playing in the background. Waiters aimlessly walk men who all sit are few customers. Three of these occupants are apart at the sushi bar. glasses. He has We open on Bobby, 37, slightly fat, balding with a cheap suit and an oddly disheveled look about him. He wears ail and toying old, white New Balance shoes. He is sipping a cockt around with the sushi that is in front of him. the two men.

There is a conversation going on between Bobby and Bobby: Can you believe that, man!

Jack: At least you got the T.V. Frank: comes alone. it if T.V. the Screw

It’s useless.

Bobby: goddamn T.V. or the goddamn furnithe about ed worri I’m not even ing my balls. ture! It’s the settlement negotiations that are break Frank: Yeah man, I bet they’re crushing them.

Jack: That bad?

Bobby: Yeah, bad man…

Bobby takes a bite of his sushi and washes it down with his liquor.

Bobby: My debt is gonna skyrocket even further.

Frank: Declare bankruptcy.

Bobby: Are you kidding me? I can’t just declare bankruptcy? Bankruptcy?

Jack: Just wait it out man. It’s goin g to be alright. I bet that you’ ll be back on your feet in a couple of years.

Bobby: See, I just don’t think I can do that any longer.

Bobby desperately chokes out a weak laugh as he breaks through the outer skin of the sushi.

Bobby: You see, for a guy like me, thes e are probably some of the last years I’ll be able find somebody else.

Frank: Yeah and then you’ll be reduced to using to Victoria’s Secret magazines.

Jack: Some ladies dig old, fat, blind dudes.

Bobby: Yeah, creepy older, fatter blinder ladies.

Frank: Guys dig dudes that age too.

You’re probably into that aren’t you?

Bobby fake laughs.

Bobby: Yeah totally. er one, breaking Bobby finishes the cocktail and calls for anoth into the sushi more.

Bobby: You see but what I can’t understand is why would she would (snaps finger) cut me off like that.

The drink arrives.

Frank: Women are inherently evil, there’s no denying that.

Bobby looks at Frank with an intense look upon face.

Jack: Don’t listen to him! Women are lovely, beautiful creatures.

It’s just sometimes we can’t find the right match the first time around. Trust me, I’ve dealt with breakups before.

Bobby: But this wasn’t just a (signaling with his fingers) “breakup.”

Frank: Yeah that’s why you should get off your butt and go...(motioning with his body) ...something.

Jack: I would suggest taking it eeeasy. hing You know that sticking your you-know-what in somet

isn’t gonna solve anything.

Bobby: Awww, I don’t know what the hell I’m gonna do.

The sushi is finally destroyed by the chop stick piercings of Bobby. With a somewhat upset loo k upon his face, Bobby gulps down the glass of liquor.

He catches the waiter’s attent ion and calls for another dri nk. The waiter motions he’ll be right over.

Bobby: Hell.

The waiter arrives.

Waiter: Yes, sir?

Bobby: Yes, I would like another.

But not just another, I want it made the same exact way it was made last time. Upon your return I will sip the beverage. If I detect that there was any change to the way it was made, I will be pissed.

With a perplexed look on his face.

Waiter: Yes sir.

Bobby: Thank you very much.

Jack: Bit much don’t you think?

Frank: I think those goddam n Orientals need to be put in their place.

Bobby: Wouldn’t go that far, but I see where you’ re coming from.

Jack: What the hell are yo u talking about?

The waiter arrives an d places the drink.

Waiter: Here you go, sir.

The waiter tries to walk off but Bobby li ghtly grasps his wris t.

Bobby: Excuse Me? I would like to tast e it before you go.

Waiter: Of course.

Bobby carefully plac es his lips on the si de and takes a small sip.

Bobby: (Gargled) Mhm He takes a much bigg er sip.

He places the glass down. About a quarte r of the liquid is le ft.

Bobby: Ugghgh (Whispering so unds).

I going to need this remade.

It wasn’t exactly ri ght.

Waiter: Sir, I’m sorry but I cannot remake you one.

You have already consumed most of the beverage.

Bobby: I’m sorry, but isn’t there some universal rule that all restaurants guarantee one hundred percent customer satisfaction?

Waiter: This is different.

That does not apply here.

Bobby: How can that not apply here?!

Jack: Relax buddy, its just a drink.

Frank: No, it’s not just a drink.

Waiter: Sir, we don’t do this when the customer has already consumed most of the beverage. a while to get Bobby slowly rises from his chair. It takes him fully upright.

Bobby: No, this is bullshit.

I won’t stand for this.

Waiter: Sir, please relax and we can figure something out.

Jack: Relax yourself.

Frank: Go on.

Bobby: What are you gonna offer me? Huh? Bobby is standing upright.

Bobby: A goddamn coupon for fifteen percent off California rolls!? Or no? no….

A free t-shirt! Yeah, sure,that’ll excite me! Or ing anyth me offer your not gonna are ya? Your just gonna back me up into a corner tick. His hand is It is revealed Bobby is holding a sharpened chops slowly rising. and subjectify me!? Huh? Aren’t you gonna do that?

His hand raises some more.

Yeah? down furiously Bobby’s clenched fist with sharpened chopstick comes everywhere! go eye the of s chunk and upon the waiter’s eye. Blood backwards yanks y ratel despe r waite The old Chinese lady screams! The floor the on falls He tick. chops the but the eye stays attached to bar. the to back walks lly casua Bobby and moans and wails and cries.

Jack: You know you shouldn’t have done that.

Frank: Good thing you’ll have a reputation that precedes you when enter jail.

Bobby: And what kind of reputation might that be.

Frank: As being a f-ed up, hardcore beast! in.

Bobby sticks the eye into his mouth and slurps it Bobby: Goddamn right.

The TheRoyal RoyalPalms Palms By BySam SamZuckert Zuckert

TT

he royal palms hung over the pool deck like a giant canopy as guests began to trickle out of the cast iron doors he royal from palms theafoyer. hung over the that in linen poolled suits began deck passedto like giant Men canopy as guests crystaltrickle glasses to who wore long out oftheir the wives cast iron Young doors Wilcott that watched ledsundresses. from the foyer. the Men in linen suits passed scene play out from his nursery window. crystal glasses to their the palmYoung wives who leavesWilcott wore Through he could long sundresses. see watchedhisthe father pretending sceneexcitedly play outgreet he hadn’t fromguests, just seen his nursery the gentlemen window. Through the palm earliersee thathis leaves he could day at morning tennis afternoon father golf. His excitedly greetand smoked guests, long pretending cigarette,earlier he mother hadn’t just splayed seen athe gentlemen that out onatamorning deck chair, surrounded by other day tennis The ocean and afternoon water lapped golf.ladies. against His mother the smoked a long cigarette, splayed limestone wall as itsurrounded always did by out on asea during deck winterThe chair, tides.

Thewater pool deck othertheladies. wasagainst lit withthe ocean lapped torches placed the as soilit beds of the limestone trees seainwall surrounded always did palm pool. during Thewas the that family’s winter tides. Thethe pool deck lit with houseman, who wore white Bermudian torches placed officer’s in thea soil coat,surrounded passed outthe beds of the palm Martinis on afamily’s trees that silver pool. The tray. houseman, who wore a white Bermudian officer’s coat, passed out Martinis on a silver “Comeon, on,Willy.

Willy.It’s It’stime timetotogogototobed,” tray. “Come bed,”his hisnurse, nurse,Mrs. Mrs.May, May,called. called.

“One second,” “One second,” WilcottWilcott Heobserving loved observing replied.replied. his parents’ He loved parties.

At his parents’ parties. At Christmas Christmas timeallowed he wastoallowed to go downstairs time he was in his go downstairs school in his slacks tie and bean and slacks schooland tie and be treated as treated an equal among his parents, equalas elder among cousins, his parents, grandparents, elder cousins, grandparents, and familyand family friends. friends.

They would They would a place at thea table make him amake placehim at the glassdown table with of watered smallwith down glassaofsmall watered Bordeaux.

ButBorafter deaux. dinner dinnerBut to go up he after would to never havehe bed—he to would go up have was never to bed—he was under allowed underallowed the palms after thedark. palms dark.would His parents Hisafter drinkwith parents andtheir dancefriends with their drink would and dance intoOccathe late friends into thelate night. night.

Occasionally father sionally send his father his would driver, sendwould toLucie Henry, Port Saint theirHenry, driver,their to to Port Saint to hireLucie a quartet hire quartet black of talented black jazz to of atalented musicians entertain jazz musicians The festivities entertaintothem. would The them. festivities would stretch late stretch late into Palmwarm Beach’s warm into Palm winter evenings, Beach’s after was winter Wilcott evenings, wasintucked long afterlong Wilcott tucked underinhis under his blanket in the nursery. blanket up in theupnursery.

Wilcott learned to in swim in theunder Wilcott learned to swim pool the under the palms. the pool the lifeguard palms.

George,George, the lifeguard from the from Bath and Club Tenniswould Club come wouldover Baththe and come Tennis and instruct As Wilcott andover instruct grewhe him. Ashim.

Wilcott grew older, older, he have wouldfriends have friends from would the Palm Beach Country from the Palm Beach Country Day Day School to swim School overover to swim after after school. friend Teddy recommended school.

HisHis friend they Teddy climb recommended thatthat palm they trees climb up up oneone of of thethe palm trees and and jump from there pool. jump It was from there intointo Sometimes thethe pool.

It was Willy greatgreat andfriends his friends fun.fun.

Sometimes Willy and his would would the trees all corners four corners climbclimb up theuptrees the pool on allonfour and jump at once. of theofpool and jump in at in once.

Mrs. Mrs. May May would would out lemonades andthem tell them bringbring out lemonades “be safe.” and tell to “betosafe.”

Under those royal palms, Wilcott

threw Under hishis those first royal party palms, ofof hishis own.

Wilcott It It was threw a small first party own. was a small gathering with twenty ofof hishis friends gathering after they with graduated twenty into the friends upper after school. they All graduated thethe into the upper school.

All boys came over inin their graduation boys ties came and thethe over girls inin their their graduation white dresses. ties and That night girls their white dresses.

That night thethe boys eventually shed their ties and boys navy eventually sport coats shed and their thethe girls ties did and thethe navy same sport with coats and girls did same with

- 67 - 67- -

Sam Zuckert

The Royal Palms bottle with their high heals. Under the palms, Willy and his friends played spin the of the night, one of Mrs. May’s empty glass milk bottles from the kitchen. By the end the bottle had broken. first Under the royal palm trees that covered the pool deck, Willy had his

in the upper real drink of alcohol. Teddy convinced him that their newfound standing ly entertain proper could they so l school made it imperative to obtain some alcoho cellar was nt girls. But Willy would not dare steel his father’s gin and the baseme Island locked so they set out to Green’s. Green’s was the only store on Palm Beach ie. smooth a or eggs, of carton a ste, were residents could buy essentials like toothpa and Teddy knew s Green’ They also sold beer. Alfred, the man who ran the counter at sly eyed Willy and their families. The two friends walked into the store and nervou store. Alfred the stack of beer cases. Teddy grabbed one and walked to the front of the y. He would anywa them to it eyed them suspiciously, knowing their true age, but sold charge Wilcott’s father double.

One summer while at Yale, Wilcott returned with a girlfriend from the New for the four port area. Her name was Elaine Eldritch. Willy’s mother had dinner set up ul Chinese beautif a of them out on the pool deck, under the palms which each held had brought lantern that set a humble glow over the pale blue water. Willy’s father . Willy was them back from a recent trip to the Orient with a new business partner whole Willy’s in worked surprised his father was doing business again— he hadn’t life.

Wilcott shook hands with his father’s business partner under the same palms

e going to where they dined, not many months later. He was joining the firm. “You’r his midst,” our be a great asset to this firm, Wilcott. We’re glad to have a Yale man in dinner later father’s partner proclaimed. He shared the news with his wife Elaine at just beyond grass the on them of the night. Mrs. May prepared dinner for just the two the pool, right on the ocean. the Through the French doors in the library Wilcott saw his father out on

that somedeck, talking with the family’s lawyer. The tone of their voices indicated him. She with stood and thing was wrong. Wilcott’s mother came into the room on. The squeezed his hand. There was a cool wind coming off the ocean that afterno shells that now enormous, forty-foot palms swayed over the pool and a few of the have to will “Henry pool. the cased the palm leaves before they blossomed fell into get those,” his mother muttered quietly. ors Willy paced under the palms, arms on his hips, as he escorted the survey

the ing measur were They ty. proper from McCale & Sons Real Estate around the porhe sale—t for parcel along the pool-side. A portion of it would need to be put up

- 68 -

Sam Zuckert is king,” the tion that allowed the ocean to be viewed from the pool deck. “Oceanfront wouldn’t buy broker informed Wilcott. He just hoped some vulgar man from Cleveland the thing. saw Willy was in the pool reading the paper off of the limestone ledge when he

father’s Rolls his father in the foyer with a set of luggage. Henry was packing it into his over his water dripped and pool the Royce rather hastily. Wilcott heaved himself out of onto water g drippin newspaper, rendering it unreadable. He walked into the foyer still the cool marble floor.

“Where are you going, father?”

oppor“Off to New York for a little while, Willy. I need to look for some more

tunities to make back the money we’ve lost.”

Willy’s father never sat under the palms again. Willy’s mother filed for divorce

while he was in New York and his belongings were shipped north in crates. house The palms didn’t sway in the wind the same way they used to. The new

Under the that sat on the northwest corner of the property blocked most of the wind. had mother His . society guard old s still palms, Wilcott received much of Palm Beach’ passed rather suddenly. his One late night, Wilcott smoked a cigar in a lounge chair out by the pool with

childhood first child on his knee, a boy. The meditative view he had enjoyed his whole like a front, the in s was now replaced by an enormous stucco structure, with column everywhere new version of The White House. These things seemed to be popping up big as places on the Island. Everyone wanted new houses on small lots that were just as size. that used to be built on a property at least ten times the to the After tucking his son into the nursery for the night, Wilcott returned

rather foolpalms. He at once found himself doing something that would have seemed solitude. own his of ny compa the in ish during the day, but now felt completely normal ied shimm he as His loafers gripped the meaty trunk of the Palm nearest to the ocean evening upwards, just as he had fifteen years ago. Climbing, he perspired; the humid could see over caused his button-down to stick to the skin on his back. Eventually he fountain, garish rather a the stucco wall, through a newly-planted garden replete with new neighall the way to the ocean waves. Wilcott’s watch read ten o’clock just as the the scene and bors’ flood lights dimmed off. Left alone with the sea, Wilcott surveyed , and disdinners , parties was surprised to find it largely unchanged from the swims, water ocean appointments of his past. The Island’s gentle winter currents lapped the stay perched against his old limestone wall just as they always had. Wilcott decided to the lush amid ss, darkne ul beautif , in the palm tree for while, gazing out at the endless silence of the night.

- 69 -

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73

Shadow

by Anonymous

74

____________________________________________________________________

I wish I could walk so lightly that I left no tread marks in the virgin snow, Or I could move more like a shadow, who knows more than anyone could dream to Unlike a distrustful reflection.

No one is as honest as a shadow.

An eternal pursuit, Ultimately to an end, He will have his favorable result, As all my victories yield no permanent consequence.

The days sweat profusely through my disguises As his eyes converge violently on me Through me And I am naked And clicking wheels wear down the minute And he grows to impossible lengths Until he flickers on the brink of infinite stretch and knowledge And then he is gone I seek him.

I travel upstream through the depths of my own madness In the windows of snowed-in cabins of not time, but merely sickening age Only proving impermanence In the ends of lifeless matches.

Where, when they met their surface, the sulfur instead dampened And percolated Even after such anticipation.

In moments that are paralyzed in the past before they are born.

Without any function.

Like the fool before me in these selfish pools of water, Which mimic and control us.

75 Between the falsity of now and the reality of then, Flickering on the brink of what we know and whats been decided. ry Sandwiched in the crevices of vacuousness that inhabit our memo And make legitimate our realities.

Behind tabernacles.

Beneath trees of rotting fruit, Rooted deep in the chasms of human history, Serpentine and venomous, like us.

In ashtrays, Filled with the toxin that is interaction.

Smoke that is nothing more than cancerous cacophony now, And unrecognizable pollutant later.

He is nowhere.

He will be bedside for end of me.

He mostly is.

He certainly is more than I am.

But why does he?

Ageless yet ancient, he sits watching, within and without, The reducto absurdum take shape Between two points on a straight line.

He breathes into my lungs the reminder of duration As his profile shifts with the continuous movement Of the heavenly spheres Elusive of my attempts to obstruct his never-ending watch And when he returns I cannot hear him, As we walk and respire and pulsate perfectly in unison.

I can only feel him in the room with me, Existing. of my sole, Having smitten me for uglying the landscape I inhabit with the filth He leaves no tracks at all. light, He is reborn from within my hopeless thoughts at first of the new And grows with the dying day.

76

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