The Oracle 2020

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THE ORACLE

Brunswick School Literary Magazine 2020 Greenwich, CT

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The Oracle is Brunswick School’s literary magazine. For over 100 years, it has stood as a staple of our school’s community, a means by which students can express their creativity beyond the classroom and a collection of the very best prose and poetry Brunswick has to offer.

This year’s Oracle edition features a much simpler design than prior editions, accentuating the depth of each piece. All submissions are sent by email to oracle@brunswickschool.org and each is read and edited by the Oracle staff at and between weekly meetings. After careful consideration and several rounds of edits, the pieces are chosen and placed into the final magazine, which is compiled and laid out using Adobe InDesign.

The Oracle Staff hopes you enjoy the 2020 publication of the Brunswick Literary Magazine.

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Editorial Staff Editors-in-Chief Tommy Sandford Peter Kapp Senior Editors Carlos Flores Nick Dow Junior Editors Aaron Montgomery Tyler Wilson Zach Murray Aidan Marks Robert Jacobson Head of Design Oliver McGovern Assistant Head of Design Chris Ramos Senior Design Editor Zane Bhatti Faculty Advisors Mr. John Martin Mr. Eliot Harper

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Contents The Girl with the Red Umbrella

by Nick Dow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .17 The Pursuit of Happiness

by Tommy Sandford . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .23 Philadelphia

by Peter Kapp . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .25 Rob Burnett Loves Coffee

by Charlie Burnett . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .29 Just Like a Book

by Ryan Heinzerling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .39 Rain is Just Water

by Charlie Burnett . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .47 The Perks of Being a Wallflower in 2020

by Tommy Sandford . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .53 Charred Aspirations

by Ben Packer. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .55

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A Walk in New York

by Carlos Flores . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .61 Dashes on the Wall

by Peter Kapp . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62 I am From

by Caleb Boateng . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .64 Two Hour Journey

by Zach Murray . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .66 Regret

by Tyler Wilson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .66 Alone With Myself

by Tyler Wilson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .67 Cries of Relief

by Aidan Marks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .70 A Little Piece of Heaven

by Tommy Sandford . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .74

8 The Weight

by Ryan Heinzerling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .81 Lost Man

by Vilas Sogard-Srikrishnan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87 Ascent

by Maron Salame . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90 Psithur

by Maron Salame . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91

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To Mr. Eliot Harper English Teacher, Rowing Coach, Friend

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Font Standards: Creo

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ABCDEFGHIJKLMONPQRSTUVWXYZ abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz 1234567890$(@%^:-) ABCDEFGHIJKLMONPQRSTUVWXYZ abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz 1234567890$(@%^:-) Creo is a title or header font used to draw the reader’s eyes to the title or heading. All literary works are titles with Creo extra light so as not to overwhelm the smaller font of the literature. Headers are written in Creo Bold so as to emphasize the importance of the following of the standards dictated throughout this magazine.

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Font Standards: Caslon ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz 1234567890$(@%^:-) ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz 1234567890$(@%^:-)

Calson is a body font used for easy readablity of the stories and paragraphs. All stories are written in Caslon for legibility. Caslon bold is used for all standards note bodies, they are written in bod so as to differentiate them from the stories while not affecting the readability.

Margin Standards

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Oracle Logo Standards The oracle logo is pictured below and can be scaled and sized in whatever way is necessary, the proportions of the logo will remain constant. The logo can be used as decoration, to start or end prose, or on its own.

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Oracle Color Standards In 4 color CMYK printing the Oracle red value is 100 Magenta 100 Yellow.

In 4 color CMYK printing the Oracle black is 100 of each color.

The following swatches are to be utilised as the main colors for the Oracle divider pages, cover gradient, section markers, and logo.

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17 The Girl with the Red Umbrella

by Nick Dow Gazing out of the cafe window, Harmon could not help but imagine himself as a piece of driftwood upon a calm sea. His piercing blue eyes often startled passerby who happened to think that he was looking at them. This focus was effortless and not at all discrete, yet his concentration was just an illusion. Instead of glazing over, his eyes sharpened when he daydreamed, his preeminent occupation most days. Few outside Harmon’s mind could capture his attention.

The street was not busy that early in the morning.

Harmon observed the double lethargy of students who had just started a new semester and were recovering from a weekend of partying. He quickly sank into his daytime fantasies as he mindlessly worked.

The row of stores along Witherspoon Street experienced the greater life of the neighboring university in waves of students every hour on the hour. The growing tide of hunger brought the crests of these waves higher and higher until midday, and a similar tide cycle would occur in the afternoon with a seven o’clock high. The winter only accentuated the cycle; the emptiness of the cold drove many from the university dining halls to the restaurants along Nassau. When the frost did return, a hot drink was the perfect complement to the sugary snow.

The big players of Princeton Village were the cafés.

Students could afford to compromise on food, sleep, and even entertainment, but never caffeine. A student himself, Harmon was more appreciative than his fellow coworkers of the free

18 hot drink the cafÊ allotted him each morning. The pay was decent enough. The most important thing the job provided him was the cafe’s ability to channel his wistfulness; the interior’s dark wood paneling, fragrant coffee smells, and cozy darkness on less sunny days was the perfect place to slip away.

As a college student, he felt constantly drained of his mind, sleep, and money. The job at the cafe managed to partially mitigate all three.

That was until she had shown up. It had been one of those perfectly tranquil mornings in the cafe. The rain softly struck the window in a seemingly measured rhythm while the cloudy sky cast a sheltered hue on the dimly lit tables. He had felt unusually conscious that morning. His skin had a dry freshness to it, the kind of sensation only achieved when one had the time to take a long, hot shower followed by a thorough drying and a proper shave. Harmon had been perched on a new spot that day, hunched like a sphinx with his elbows folded on the glass display case. He had been staring across at the falafel place when the red umbrella popped into view.

The effect on his eyes was astounding; like steadfast anchors being dragged along by an unnatural current, his vision tracked her as she came to the entrance of the cafe. As she turned to enter, she spun her umbrella and collapsed it in one swift motion. Crossing the threshold, her long gossamer hair seemed to swoop in behind her before coming to rest just below her shoulders. Those brunette locks framed a face whose angles were a perfect balance of hardness and playfulness. With short, lithe steps, she followed a careless path to his counter.

When her sea green eyes connected with his, Harmon realized that he had not known life before this moment, and he was utterly unprepared for it.

-Hello! Could I get two cappuccinos with extra foam,

19 please?

Throughout the following week, he felt a sharp pain in his heart whenever he recalled his complete helplessness. His characteristically nimble tongue had stumbled like a newborn giraffe.

-I’ll be sure to, uh, call you up when your uh… cappuccinos are done, ma’am!

By the time he had crafted his response, she had already sat down. Snapping out of his stupor, he made her two drinks in a frenzy, afraid that every moment he took preparing, his visible flaws grew only more noticeable in her eyes. As he concocts, he hopes she appreciates the geometry of his skull.

On second thought, it tapers too rapidly towards his jaw.

Harmon grasped for the time he last went to the gym. When he was done, he caught a glance of her before calling her over.

She was completely engrossed in her book.

-Thank you.

This simple recognition burned pathways through the nerves of his stomach. New surges of adrenaline made his sweeping glances at her bolder and more frequent. She finally left around eight o’clock, rendering Harmon’s otherwise tranquil day gloomy and empty. The daydreams that had been banished by the girl with the red umbrella came rushing fiercely back in an attempt to fill her absence.

Harmon usually drifted through fantasies that pulled from the variety of sci-fi and magical novels he had read in his childhood. They invariably placed him as the protagonist fighting off a crisis with technological or supernatural prowess. Manning his cash register, he was the Admiral in charge of Earth’s last defensive fleet. As students passed through his vision, their glowing faces pricked by the cold, he

20 acknowledged their awe towards him. These personas shielded him from his grades, his parents, and himself. When those dreams came back that day, they had changed. They had been infected by Red. As he slipped away again, the red umbrella girl accompanied him as he progressed rapidly from one dream to the next.

Bathed in moonlight, Red’s silver armor shone like a star as she readied her sword. Her hair flowed behind her like a current as she led his army to battle, their crimson standards fluttering.

Gunshots dotted his chest as he lay on the gurney. Red’s furrowed brow led him away from the battlefield, her quiet concern bearing him to safety.

Now on the command deck, Red brandished her datapad as she dictated her ingenious battle plan to the ship’s AI. -Commander, a slingshot around Mars would provide sufficient velocity to escape.

Following his reemergence into reality, her voice continued to ring in his mind. Harmon tried to carry on like usual, but she penetrated his mind like the sun’s glow shines through his eyelids. The harsh fluorescent lighting of the university labs exposed his skull’s hard lines as he drifted through his work. Harmon’s colleagues gave him a wider berth than usual due to his intoxication. Attending dinner at the Cloister eating club, Old Glory’s red stripes brought back the umbrella. Returning to his bed hours of dreams later, his mind had already discarded the awkward birthmark that extended down her left forearm. By that Thursday her ears would be properly tucked back. A weird twitch of her eye would promptly thereafter be forgotten.

It was an eternity until he would see her again. That week passed by in a mix of torturous hope and blissful escape.

21 She had seared herself onto his retinas, so any attempts at studying were futile. When cappuccinos were made, drinks would inevitably fall to the floor. The color red brought his heart to a thunder against his ribs. Harmon’s refuge, his mind, had been infiltrated by the one thing that wracked him with longing. His easy drift had borne him into a hurricane; he only sought its eye. Harmon wished to annihilate the intervening days to her potential return. His calm demeanor deserted him.

Entering the cafe each day, he trembled with anxiety. Each day, the end of his shift sounded like a death knell.

The growing iterations of his dreams soothed him, for she had finally become a goddess in his eyes. Dreams had built upon one another, distilling her essence into impossible perfection. He possessed strange new confidence. When the next Monday rolled around, Harmon did not recognize Sydney as she walked through the door. Figments of an Amazonian warrior slashing with her scarlet sword were still racing through his mind. Sydney approached the counter.

-Heya! Nice seeing you again.” Harmon had yearned for just those few words for a week. “Two cappuccinos with extra foam, please.”

As his blue eyes met her sea-green ones, Harmon felt as if someone punched him in the gut. ‘Is this Red?’, Harmon thought, ‘it can’t be.’ The taste of vomit spread from the back of his throat. Betrayal echoed in his head as the blood drained from his face. Cracks formed in the Red of his mind, revealing this girl underneath. Forcing a weak smile, he mustered up a brief reassurance to her. Her nervous laugh tore at his ears as she turned away. Failure danced along his eyebrows as he and Red had once done in his mind. Deathly afraid that the woman of his dreams might disappear, he dared not look at this girl again. Harmon handed Sydney the drinks, she sat

22 reading her book, and then she left. Red’s hair swept out the door behind her.

One of his coworkers walked over. An arrogant grin plastered on his face, he misinterpreted Harmon’s apparent disappointment.

-You like her don’t ya? Fat chance.

Sadness rose, then receded into Harmon’s eyes.

- I’d like to see you try though. You’ll get her next time she swings in.

Sorting out his thoughts, Harmon calmly pushed himself back into the current. Coolly, he responded with a measured rhythm.

-I don’t really like her. Just a bit of Deja vu, some superstition, that’s all.

-You sure man? I saw you freeze like a deer in headlights.

You can’t tell me there’s nothin’ there.

-Fred, please just drop it. I really don’t have feelings for her.

- Whatever you say...

Mondays in the café lost their appeal. Like most mornings of the week, Harmon had taken up a spot on top of the display case. Students strolling outside would occasionally catch sight of his gaze, stop to investigate and continue walking when they realized his focus wasn’t for them. Rain struck the cafe window. The enchantingly sweet smells of coffee drifted out the front door. Dim shadows cloaked Harmon’s mind. In bliss, he rowed a small dinghy through lapping waves. Like the ocean beneath, Red’s eyes reflected the unattainable grandeur of the stars.

23 The Pursuit of Happiness

by Tommy Sandford A boy walks alone in the dark of night.

In the wolf light he howls, Only to have his screams drowned out by the passing cars.

A boy is at a crossroads, His fists stay clenched, iron bludgers waiting to strike Down the way of kings, his steps echo his thunderous anger.

Foot after foot, mile after mile, the storm refuses to abate.

The miles become years as he peels away layers of himself.

But as each mask comes off, his same face stares back at him defiantly.

A boy is alone, as he was and as he will be again.

And why shouldn’t he be?

He is Brahma, Shiva, creator and destroyer.

He is Cain, doomed to wander the earth.

Existence is his only sin.

At the bridge, he grabs the stone, The call of the void at the height of its power, But he does not answer.

Away, he pushes. Again and again.

He pushes away from the wall until the bridge is the ground and his fists are cracking pavement.

Away and away until his tears run red down his face.

A boy walks the path of regents, Fists unclenched, there is no skin to keep them together.

In the darkness his metamorphosis is complete.

The demon falls towards heaven, Ripped from his hellish mindscape.

24 Failure is his power, rage is his fuel, serene is his face.

A boy walks home.

The damage has been done.

Such is the pursuit of happiness.

25 Philadelphia

by Peter Kapp “Peter... Peter…” She waits a little longer for a response this time.

“Peter. PETER!” My sister, clearly impatient, rolls me over and rather violently shakes me awake. I reluctantly squint open one eye to find her face oddly close to mine, then rub both with my fists, willing them open.

“Hey Emily,” I say sluggishly.

“Peter. Look outside. Grandma’s car is here.” I’m confused, but not complaining. Nothing bad ever seems to come from Grandma and Grandpa. I decide today is the day.

Mom had explained the whole thing to me. Her belly would get bigger and bigger, and one day it would get so big that a baby would burst out. I wonder if Emily understands all this as well as I do as I sit up halfway and turn to the window to see the silver Jaguar in the driveway. Emily, still very close to my face in an effort to wake me up faster, shakes my arm for a few seconds before I’m fully upright.

“Come on! I wanna go see what they’re doing here. Get up!” She pulls down the covers, revealing the rest of my red and white striped Christmas pajamas that match hers. Throwing my feet over the edge of the bed, I have questions: Do babies eat? Where’s it going to sleep? How long until it can walk?

More importantly, how long until it can throw? How can such a small thing go to the bathroom without falling in the toilet?

Emily and I walk out of the blue room at the end of the hall and run down to Mom’s room, making far more noise than one would think two people of such little size could

26 produce. We open their door slowly and quietly, as Mom always instructed us to, before running loudly to each side of the bed only to find Grandma and Grandpa sitting on the couch, each with a newspaper. They stand up to give each of us a hug before explaining everything.

Grandpa cooks the eggs and bacon as he talks. He explains in his low voice that Mom and Dad, who are apparently at the hospital, will love us just as much as they always have but will also love Jack now. I guess that’s what we’re going to call him. That works for me. I can pronounce it well enough.

When we finally arrive at the hospital, my head swivels on my neck; I don’t think I’ve ever been in a hospital before.

It smells weird, almost too clean, but looks mostly like a normal room, a couch below the window on the far wall, a few landscape photographs on the left as you walk in, but on the right side there’s a fancy bed with a bunch of tubes and pipes sticking out. Sitting up in the bed is Mom. She hears us walk in and looks up, her eyes light up and she smiles. She waves Emily and me over to the bed. I begin to launch myself onto the bed but the nurse puts her hands gently on my shoulders, and I stand back on the ground, maybe a little embarrassed.

Mom puts a hand out for me to hold as she introduces us to the newest member of the family. I look around the room, trying to find where Jack would be before Mom lowers him a little bit so I can see over the side of the bed.

“Emily, Peter, meet your new baby brother, Jack.”

“He’s tiny,” I say without thinking.

“No, he’s so cute!” Emily says, clearly very excited to be in the presence of a real baby. I don’t see what she’s so excited about. He’s all swaddled up and all I can see is his scrunched face. I quickly determine he is pointless to me. Mom places

27 Jack in my arms, telling me to support his head and to be very careful. I don’t really get why everyone cares quite so much, but I definitely don’t want to break him, so I hold on tightly.

Grandma and Grandpa agree to take us home. Emily seems to want to stay, but I’m ready to go.

We watch TV at home for a few hours before Mom and Dad return with Jack. Dad goes into the attic and I follow, curious about the wonders hidden within the plywood walls and the ceiling with the nails sticking out. He begins to pull parts to what looks like a crib out of a back corner.

“Why don’t you go get me a screwdriver and we can build it together,” Dad says to me as he begins to build what looks like Jack’s crib. Not one to turn down a chance to use a screwdriver, I run down the rickety ladder to the garage to find it. Dad puts all the screws in place and as I tighten them with the screwdriver, I wonder if I have to share Dad time with Jack now.

“Dad? Building stuff is always my job right? Not Jack’s?”

He gives me a long tight hug and stands back up, struggling to respond.

Everything he does is documented on the little Flip camera Mom seemingly bought for just this purpose. I’m always excited to be on camera but often find myself asked to leave the frame to make room for Jack. I don’t get it. If you ask me, he’s pretty boring usually.

Sometimes I have more time to figure things out myself, Mom tells me when I bring my grievances to her.

As time passes and Jack begins to walk on two legs, we transition from two playmates and a spare to an inseparable trio. He sits on Emily’s shoulders to place the last few Lincoln Logs on top of our tower or guards the base when we play manhunt with the neighbors.

28 We sit together on car rides, playing Minecraft side by side, discussing the play by play of our game throughout the journey, much to the dismay of the other riders. We play LEGO Star Wars on the Wii for hours on end, pausing only occasionally to find some pretzels to sustain us throughout the marathon session. We ride our bikes in laps around the driveway, somehow entertained lap after lap on bikes far too small for both of us. We pass time in boring department stores together, playing chopsticks or ‘I Spy.’ We wrestle frequently, Jack unaware of the flaw in that plan but never failing to enjoy it nonetheless. Mom says he lights up every room he walks into. I wouldn’t go that far, but he certainly is a happy presence.

He can wear my shoes now and will soon surpass me in height, but he is and forever will be my little brother, no matter how smart, how fast, or how big he gets. Though I’d never admit it to him, there’s no one with whom I’d rather ride endless laps of a small driveway or watch Star Wars: A New Hope for the 19th time.

29 Rob Burnett Likes Coffee

by Charlie Burnett It’s 9:00 AM and Rob Burnett is driving to his local Dunkin’ Donuts for iced coffee. He uses the Dunkin’ “On The Go” ordering app, and as we approach Exit 34 on the Merritt Parkway, his brow furrows with concentration. With great deliberation, he clicks “Ready to Pick Up.” I ask about the precision of the ritual.

“They begin making the coffee the minute you hit ‘Ready to Pick Up.’ The goal is for the server to be putting the coffee on the counter exactly as you enter. Not before. Not after. But exactly,” he says with a desperate need to make sure I understand. I point out that he is ordering iced coffee and that if it sits on the counter for a minute or so, it shouldn’t make much of a difference. He stares at me as if I have two heads.

“Well what fun is that?” he asks. When we arrive at the Dunkin Donuts, I feel the tension. His gait is deliberate. We enter and he deflates. The coffee is already on the counter. “Hit it too early. Tomorrow we microadjust. It’s as much art as science.”

He arrives home, makes breakfast (egg whites, Ezekiel health bread, ½ of an avocado), reads the newspaper, and by 11 a.m. heads up to his attic office, where he will remain until 5 p.m., writing. His day is different than it used to be.

It was March of 1985, and Burnett was at a low point.

He had just left a job at a regional newspaper and had badly strained the ligaments of his left ankle while playing basketball. So now he found himself trapped in his childhood bed in North Caldwell, New Jersey with no paycheck and no prospects. His lifelong dream of becoming a writer seemed unlikely. Although Burnett had started writing a screenplay

30 with an old Tufts college friend named Stephen Engel, he felt stagnant. He decided to make a writing submission to Late Night with David Letterman. Burnett describes the submission as being “not particularly inspired. Well, actually, let’s just call it bad.” Nonetheless, the show’s headwriter called Burnett and told him that while there were no writing openings, the show did have internships. Burnett applied the next day.

He was given an internship in the show’s talent department, but a problem emerged. Because of labor laws, unpaid interns needed to receive college credit, and since Burnett had already graduated, he was not being compensated.

“People say, ‘Oh, I’d pay to work at a place like that.’ Well, I actually was willing to. I went down to William Patterson Community College to look into taking a communications course. It was going to cost me $400, but if it would allow me to keep my Letterman internship, I didn’t care,” he recalls. Before he had to write the check, Burnett says he “got incredibly lucky.” A job opened up and he got hired. “It was mostly inertia. I was sitting at the desk, and after a while I think they figured it was easier to just hire me. I was already doing the job.” Though the work was menial, Burnett finally felt like he was taking steps toward his goal. “I was always the first in the office and the last to leave, which wasn’t always easy since I was writing every early morning with my friend Steve.

We were still working on that screenplay, but I was willing to do everything and anything I could to get ahead.”

He and Engel finished that screenplay, “The Real World,” (long before MTV’s take on that title), and Burnett gave it to a woman with whom he shared an office. She gave it to a big Hollywood Producer at the time named Joel Silver, whose company hired Burnett and Engel to write a movie.

31 The movie, based on a book entitled “Nice Guys Sleep Alone,” never went into production, but Burnett didn’t care. “We were working screenwriters. It was thrilling.” The two began getting more screenwriting work. Burnett also was writing jokes for standup comedians. “I would send jokes to a comedian named Wil Shriner and he’d pay me $25 if he used one.” The first joke Burnett ever got on national television was actually not on the Late Show with David Letterman, but on the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. Shriner had been in a movie called Peggy Sue Got Married and used one of Burnett’s lines when he guested on The Tonight Show: “Now that I’m in a movie, my wife thinks I’m going to get a big head, but I told my people to call her and tell her not to worry.” Carson chuckled and said,“That’s funny.”

“This was one of the most mind-blowing experiences of my life,” says Burnett, sipping his ever-so-slightly-tooearly-ordered Dunkin’ Donuts coffee. “The idea that Johnny Carson was actually hearing words that I had written – and then chuckling at them to boot – well, this was a moment I will never forget.”

Eventually an opening became available on the writing team at Letterman. Burnett made a submission of ideas. “Of all the things I’ve ever written, I think those four pages were probably the most important.” The competition was stiff – literally hundreds of submissions came in for the single opening. In the end, the field narrowed to three: a copywriter from Oklahoma named Boyd Hale, Burnett, and Conan O’Brien. Hale got the job. “Conan is still upset about this somehow. I’ve spoken to him about it. He’s hilarious, famous, rich – but there is still a part of him that can’t believe he didn’t get that job,” Burnett chuckles. In February of 1988, another

32 writer left and Burnett was asked to join the writing staff.

“Of everything I have been lucky enough to achieve, I think the defining moment for me was when Steve O’Donnell [the show’s head writer] called me into his office and offered me a spot on that staff. I felt like I was in a dream.” Though he was now officially writing for the Letterman show, Burnett’s screenwriting aspirations did not wane. Once on staff, he got a proper agent, who began submitting his and Engel’s original screenplay around town.

Soon after, Burnett got a call he’ll never forget. “Steven Spielberg read The Real World and he wants to meet you guys,” his agent said. Burnett cracked up. “I honestly thought he was kidding.” He was not. Spielberg flew Burnett and Engel out to California to meet. “Because of WGA requirements, they had to fly us out first class, which was a first for me,” Burnett recalls fondly. “My buddy and I were playing with the seats like idiots. ‘Look how far these recline!’” The two met with Spielberg and Burnett recalls the moment. “We’re sitting on a couch, the door opens, and in walks Steven Spielberg.

Once again, I am waiting for someone to wake me up. And on top of it Spielberg says, ‘I read a lot of coming-of-age movies, but yours really was great.” Burnett smiled and said, “I like your movies, too.” Spielberg laughed and the two were hired to write a movie about sleepwalking. “This was I think the fourth or fifth movie we were paid to write,” Burnett says. “Unfortunately, like the others, this one, too, never got made. Spielberg got busy directing a movie called Hook’and the project kind of went away.” Around this time, Burnett’s personal life took a big step when he married fellow Tufts graduate Eunice Johnson. The two had met through a mutual friend and had an unusual courtship. “We wrote letters to each other long before we ever met. We became really close friends.

33 It felt inevitable that we would get married. It wasn’t even a decision.” Burnett lights up when he talks about his wife, as she does when talking about him. “We used to call each other ‘soul bros’, Eunice fondly remembers. “I never thought I would get married, but when I met Rob it all made sense.” In September the couple celebrated their 30th anniversary.

The next big moment in Burnett’s career came when he was asked to be the Late Show’s head writer. He was 29. “I said ‘yes’ without even understanding the full implications of it all,” says Burnett. “The truth is, I had no idea what the head writer even did.” He points out that there was no training period for him. “It was sink or swim.” According to Burnett, he started out sinking. “The beginning was not pretty. I was absolutely in over my head. I’m running a writing room with 45-year-olds, many of whom had been there longer than I was.” Dave was very hard on me. It was downright ugly.” And then came a moment that turned things around. “The show taped at 5:30, and Dave’s rehearsal would end each day at 4 p.m. on the dot. One day we were working with two ideas for the show and Dave hadn’t really approved either. At 4p.m. he left and all eyes turned to me. It was terrifying.” Burnett went to Letterman’s office to try to get clarification. “What should we be doing?” Burnett asked his boss. Letterman coolly replied, “This is supposed to work the other way around.” And shut the door. “He was right,” Burnett said. “And that was the moment I decided if I was going to fail, I’d go down swinging.”

Burnett finds an analogy in watching football. “Whenever I see the rookie quarterback yelling out signals, I think of my early headwriting days. There’s the kid in his first game or two – what is he, 23? – screaming at guys who might be already in the league 10 years. But what’s he gotta do? He’s gotta scream at them. They want him to scream at them.” Burnett says that

34 when you need to lead you can be right, you can be wrong, but you can’t be tentative. “I just took charge and luckily I found my footing.”

Indeed, he did. Burnett was headwriter from 1988 – 1992, during which Late Night with David Letterman became Late Show with David Letterman when it moved from 12:30 a.m. on NBC to 11:30p.m. on CBS. “It was a high-pressure time. We were going up against The Tonight Show with Jay Leno. No one knew if Dave would play with audiences an hour earlier. The stakes could not have been higher.” The CBS show exploded, exceeding all expectations. Burnett was a major part of the success. “We had a great team,” he says modestly. In 1996, Letterman asked Burnett to become the show’s Executive Producer and to run. Worldwide Pants, Letterman’s production company. Burnett accepted, and the company thrived. Burnett developed the hit Everybody Loves Raymond, and oversaw production of The Late Late Show, a nightly talk show that aired at 12:30 after the Letterman show. He then co-created the critically acclaimed one-hour dramedy “Ed” with Late Show colleague Jon Beckerman. The show would run on NBC from 2000 – 2004. “It was a heady time to be sure. For a small production company, we were having success right up there with the big boys.” In 2001, of the top five shows ranked by a survey of critics nationwide in the electronic media poll, Worldwide Pants produced three of them. Ed was #2, Everybody Loves Raymond was #3, and The Late Show was #5.

Burnett recalls his days on Ed with bitter sweetness.

“It was as hard a job as I have ever had. Jon [Beckerman, Burnett’s co-creator and writing partner] and I never clicked with our writing staffs, so we ended up writing most of the scripts ourselves. It was punishing. Every eight days another

35 55-page script was due, while we were editing the last episode, casting the current episode, prepping the upcoming episode. It was everything I ever wanted to do, but just way too much of it.” Burnett once again speaks through analogy: “Imagine you are starving and you walk into a room where the best chefs in the world have made all of your favorite foods. And then they make you eat nonstop for four years. And also, you don’t know if you’ll ever have a chance to get back into that room again.”

Ed garnered Burnett and Beckerman an Emmy nomination for writing and People’s Choice award for the series.“People always thought the main character ‘Ed’ was Tom Cavanagh (the show’s star), but it was also, very much Rob,” says Eunice.

“The show had a romantic quality that was definitely trademark Rob.” Cavanagh agrees, “Yes I’m biased. The man gave me a career. He wrote scripts that made me ten times smarter and funnier than I am.” Burnett demurs, “Tom is being modest. It was all him – trust me. He is not only a great actor but also one of those guys who is likeable in repose.”

Meanwhile at home, Burnett and his wife now had two young girls, Sydney and Lucy, and in the second year of Ed added a boy, Charlie. Eunice had left her job as an equity analyst on Wall Street to raise the family. “I could never have done any of it if Eunice didn’t take care of the family,” says Burnett. “She was the glue, the engine, the backbone – pick any phrase you like. Without her, nothing would have been possible.” The couple moved from New York City to Greenwich, CT in 2002 “in search of a backyard.”

By the early 2000s Burnett had also wrote the Late Show, leading it to five Emmy awards, three of which, Burnett himself accepted. “That’s a weird moment. We had lost so many times in a row I really got used to not thinking we had a chance. So much so that I thought of a good acceptance

36 speech joke during a commercial break and tried to find Ray [Romano] to give it to him since I thought Everybody Loves Raymond actually had a chance of winning. But then suddenly we won and now I’m walking up there thinking, ‘Do I do the new joke I just thought of 10 seconds ago, or the one I had prepared for the last 10 years of losing?’ “Burnett went with the new one. “I’m not sure, but I think I might have just kissed a seat filler.”

The response? “Dead silence. I had just bombed in front of a giant room of everyone in show business and 30 million people watching on TV.” His mind worked frantically. “I had a follow up, so now I’m calculating – do I just move on or do I double down?” And then something wonderful happened.

“Suddenly I hear this rolling thunder of laughter. That room is so big it just takes time for the joke to go out and the response to come back. I didn’t bomb. I killed. I actually, had to pause to wait for the laughter to die down. It was crazy.” He doubled down and went for the follow up, which was: “Sorry, sir.” More laughter. Another highlight.

In 2007 Burnett and his writing partner Beckerman developed another show called The Knights of Prosperity, which was about a bunch of blue-collar guys deciding to rob rock legend Mick Jagger. Burnett compares this experience with Ed: “When Jon and I developed Ed, we were barely on the radar. Knights of Prosperity was the exact opposite.”

Burnett and Beckerman flew to California and pitched the show, originally entitled Let’s Rob Jeff Goldblum, to the four network presidents of ABC, NBC, FOX and CBS. They had offers from all four before they landed back in New York.

“It was insane. I literally had the presidents of the networks calling me at home, telling me why I needed to do the show at their place.” The show did not succeed. “Every failed show has

37 a story. Jeff Goldblum wasn’t available, and we ended up with Mick Jagger. That seems incredible, but Jagger didn’t agree to be on the show more than the pilot. He also had a lot of provisions – one big one was that we couldn’t use his name in the show title or in promotional materials. The next thing we know the network people and Jaggers’ people all start fighting.

We’re caught in the middle. We changed the name, couldn’t promote it well, got a bad time slot and we were off the air after one season,” Burnett reflects on the fickle nature of show business. “By all accounts, Knights should have been a success.

It had everything going for it – we were the show the network really wanted. It was a good lesson on how you never know what is going to happen in show business.” Burnett sips his iced coffee as he remembers the absurdity of it all. Eventually Burnett turned back to movies. He and Beckerman made a small independent movie called We Made This Movie, about high school kids trying to make a movie. Burnett, having cut his directing chops on Ed, directed. “I loved everything about that experience, Burnett said.

As the Late Show began its final season, Burnett acquired the rights to a book called The Revised Fundamentals of Caregiving and adapted it into a screenplay. He met with Paul Rudd, who agreed to play the lead role of Ben. Burnett directed the movie in February of 2015 in Atlanta, just a few months before the Late Show would air its finale in May of the same year. “What a time!” Burnett says. “Shooting the movie was exhilarating, and then I went right into the [Late] show’s final few months after all those years. It was an emotional time.” But when the last Late Show aired, Burnett, who had been there for 29 years, didn’t have much time for emotion. “I was in the edit room on the movie the next day.”

He says he felt lucky to have something to focus on when the

38 Late Show ended. “I think it would have been too emotional for me without something else pressing on me.” The film, entitled The Fundamentals of Caring, was a success. It was named the closing night film of the Sundance Film Festival in February of 2016, and was ultimately purchased by Netflix, where it still airs. Burnett describes the Sundance experience wistfully. “Being a director at Sundance is like nothing else in the world. You’re the star of the show.” Now Burnett is back at it, working each day on new projects. He has a movie called Frindle (based on the children’s book of the same name) he is supposed to direct in the spring. Susan Sarandon is attached to star. “Directing Susan Sarandon would be something, wouldn’t it?” There seems to be a theme with Burnett. Moment after moment of highlights of things he’ll never forget. So, I ask him, “Of all the things – Spielberg, Headwriter, Emmies, Sundance and on and on -- what is the moment you treasure the most?” His answer is typical: “I’ve been very lucky to get to do a lot of memorable things in my life. But let’s face it, nothing will be bigger than if tomorrow that guy is putting that coffee down exactly when I walk through the door.”

39 Just Like a Book

by Ryan Heinzerling Thomas reclined in his favorite chair at his favorite coffee shop, waiting for his favorite espresso while reading the New York Times. I bet you know his type. The circular glasses, blond-haired, odd-looking stranger that would poke their head into someone else’s conversation just to rub it in your face that he knew a thing or two about environmentalism.

That was Thomas, my classmate. The guy who bragged about his composting. And his 82,000 dollar BMW with fifty miles to the gallon. And his father’s regular donations to the magnificent Princeton or the fact that a fashion model just happened to swing by his house the previous evening. He made it obvious that he was of a higher class, and made sure to remind others that this was not a class they could sign up for.

Thomas was that guy, and nobody really liked Thomas.

I worked at the coffee joint during my free periods. Free turned out to be a loose term as I was sentenced to share them with Thomas. You spent time with Thomas because you lost something, usually a bet. During school gatherings, Thomas always made an announcement for the “Outdoorsmans Club,” which he used as a way to get the school to fund a ski trip to Beaver Creek every year. A friend of mine lost a bet once and had to awkwardly stand up with Thomas for the next three of his announcements, which, of course, made everyone laugh. Really any association with Thomas stripped you of any dignity you thought you thought you had. I joked with my friends that Thomas liked to forget he was a senior in high school, he was determined to have his midlife crisis before he turned eighteen.

40 Sometimes when I served Thomas his espresso, I imagined what would happen if someone plucked him out of his seat and put him somewhere in the real world. Somewhere his money and father can’t protect him. I’d pretend that his hot coffee is a grenade, the heat of the cup giving way to a concussive blast. I’d like to see what would happen if Thomas roamed around some industrial district, wearing the threepiece suit he wore every day, sticking his nose into someone’s face to ask if they were about to throw their cigarette on the ground. Thomas was the kind of guy you could imagine in just one place: sitting in his coffee shop in Greenwich, CT, while reading his precious New York Times, his left foot perched on his right knee, displaying his always polished leather shoes.

“Oh my, these drone strikes in Saudi Arabia are just ghastly. And to think people can be all excited over their stocks or bonds surging as a result. It’s inhuman I say, inhuman!”

Thomas loudly dramatized to an empty coffee shop.

“Oh really, Thomas? Please, tell me more,” I’d respond hoping to entertain myself, only to consistently regret it, as his squeaky voice echoes through my head.

“Haven’t you seen? Our barbaric military is at it again.

Killing people in caves. You really ought to read the Times more and stop being a lowlife,” he spat, turning away from me.

It was this type of interaction that promoted a serious desire to knock that damned coffee cup out of his hands all over that precious suit of his. People like Thomas don’t tend to escape their little bubbles so easily, if at all.

You know these types. The people that have some connection to an Ivy League school, own a multi-million dollar home, or wear the same smug look on their face that says one thing: “I’m better than you.” I wasn’t one of those people.

My parents grew up on the less flashy, more normal side of

41 town, and stayed for the peace and quiet. We didn’t have what Thomas frequently reminded us he did, although we wouldn’t have complained if we did. Thomas had everything while I worked in my coffee shop helping pay the bills. I remember when Thomas seemed human, back when we were really young, say five or six. Thomas was just an ordinary kid, we all were. Nobody knew what status or wealth or any of it meant, so we just lived. Just existed, plainly. Then soon enough, we started noticing that Thomas stopped worrying about living and started worrying about flaunting. But all that was a long time ago, and this is Thomas’s story now.

One particular day, Thomas missed his daily coffee. I was stunned For 472 days (I later counted), Thomas had come to get his coffee and recline in his chair with the paper. I kind of hoped that even now he would waltz into his seat, having grown accustomed to the consistency of Thomas’s disgusting presence in the room. In fact, Thomas missed an entire week of coffee, and I didn’t catch him in school. This was highly unusual, given that Thomas attended school religiously.

When I walked over to the college office for a regular meeting with my counselor, I noticed something odd on the list of matriculated students. I nearly dropped my books when I saw the college next to his name: United States Naval Academy.

I immediately assume people like Thomas must be gaming something if they go into the Navy, right? I mean, why on earth would Thomas Lockett’s parents ever want their son to be shot at? They were folks you’d expect to be draft dodgers, like in Vietnam with the “pack up and hustle to Canada” attitude. The math just didn’t add up. As I saddled up my barista uniform and went to work that day, by chance, Thomas walked in, looking particularly grim. I walked towards him, not bothering to grab a pen since I knew his order so

42 well. But he waved me away, saying: “No, not now, please. I’ll just need a table for awhile if that’s alright.”

Oh, what a snob. A table for awhile? That’s just downright robbery if you ask me, robbing us blind of cash.

Regardless of Thomas’s loyalty to the business, I thought it rude of him to occupy our best table right by the window, with its beautiful view of the glistening Long Island Sound.

I continued my busy shift, sparing few thoughts for little old Thomas in the corner. He kept grabbing my attention though, tapping his foot or finger endlessly. Some people just can’t help but make sure that everyone in the room knows damn well that they’re there.

I had a double free, and decided to work an extra hour since I needed the money to pay off the car I bought myself, a Ford Mustang if I’m telling the truth. Thomas just sat on through, watching the sun begin its transition off the world’s stage. It was a truly beautiful day. The wind was cool, fish jumped in the silvery water, and boats glided by while Thomas watched the world unfold.

“Is there a Grace here? Cappuccino for Grace?” I asked the coffee shop. Only the wind answered, blowing in through the windows. Thomas sat as still as stone, so I walked over and placed it down.

“There you go Thomas, a nice warm coffee.” He jumped as I placed it down.

“For...me? I didn’t order.”

“Well, it’s your lucky day. Coffee on the house,” I replied.

He looked confused but forced a smile.

“Anything else?” I prodded.

“No, thank you. Well, there is one thing...but no, I, well, maybe.”

43 I asked, “What do you want Thomas?”

“I know we aren’t close,” he continued. “But I think, yes, yes I would, do you fancy a conversation?”

“About?”

“Just some...things?”

“Sure, but there are customers in here too, you know,” I replied.

“Splendid! I’m sure you’ve seen that I will be attending the Naval Academy,” he pushed on.

“What of it?”

“I do not wish to go.”

“So you’re dragging me into this, your coffee barista, a lowlife like myself ? I’m getting back to work,” I replied.

“No please. I’m begging you. He’s making me,” Thomas pleaded.

“Who on earth would make you attend the Naval Academy?”

“Father. Well, he, yes, he makes me call him Father.”

“Your dad is making you go?” I asked. I noticed his hand twitching under the table, reaching for his bag. Drops of sweat hit the ground around it as I was about to ask another question.

“Yes, well, I should be going now. See you later, friend.”

With that, he got up and shoved past me. Later? I didn’t really want to discuss any of this later. When I stepped into my car to drive home, I couldn’t stop wondering why I had to be the one to learn this sort of worthless problem. Thomas walked alone, head hung low, while I drove past him. Was he really a fraud? Did I actually peg Thomas for the crook I made him out to be? I felt so vindicated, but almost felt bad for him. Almost.

Another week passed before I ran into Thomas again.

44 My car broke down, so I was walking to the coffee shop when I spotted him sitting on a park bench. I tried to walk past, but he bounced up, rushing to see me.

“Hello, Thomas,” I droned.

“Hello, friend!”

“Going to the coffee shop?”

“Yes, I am. I was hoping you’d tell me your opinion on my whole, you know, situation,” he said.

“What? Your college situation?”

“Yes, my father isn’t happy that I asked him not to go.

He’s best friends with the Superintendent.”

“Why would your dad be mad? Does he not feel that fatherly connection to you?”

“Well, neither my father nor my mother are related to me. You have it easy, having a stable job, working to go to a college you want to go to. I could have been like you, instead, I’ve been made into me. I...I wish I could have it as easy as you have it. But instead Father and Mother made me who they wanted me to be.”

“They made you?” I said.

“They love me, I can’t complain. They’ve given me everything I need. A house, food, money, education. But they want me to be the spitting image of them, a perfect heir.

Sometimes, it feels like I’m almost...a fraud. I know this is all hard to believe,” he explained. “I should probably stop talking before I say something my parents wouldn’t want me to say, or you stop wanting to know more, haha.”

“Thomas just tell your parents you have a right to choose your own school.”

“He would hit me across the face. I am trapped,” he finished.

“Well, I’m sorry, Thomas, but I don’t see how I can help

45 you.”

“I know. I just wanted to be heard for once, that’s all,” he sighed.

With that, Thomas pranced away, leaving me standing speechless in the street. I heard him exclaim that there was a candy wrapper on the ground and that he must be the one to salvage it from the streets and place it in a lovely trash can.

You, the reader, that is, must be wondering why I wrote this story. What do I have to gain from something like this?

Honestly, sometimes it’s just fun to make fun of someone like Thomas who deserves to be laughed at, exposed, ridiculed, and shown to the world. Someone so despicable that even in their most honest hour, you can’t help but laugh. I laughed at Thomas too, even after he got praised at Graduation for having the bravery to go into the Navy. I laughed when his name was printed in the town paper as the “Hero of Greenwich,” and got regular updates on his time at college. I even laughed when Thomas wrote an Op-Ed for the Greenwich Times about the responsibility of a sailor on the Seven Seas.

I, on the other hand, was busy being away at college, working odd jobs to pay for tuition. Thomas was the pictureperfect Navy man while I kept working at the same coffee shop, thinking about what to do with my life after I graduated from college. My girlfriend Heather and I had plans to move in together, as Thomas was preparing for his active duty in the Mediterranean Sea. Every time Thomas wrote an oped, we would read it and laugh, thinking about what a fake Thomas was. On my wedding day, I read another op-ed in the Greenwich Times on the car ride to the reception about his valiant time at sea fighting pirates off the coast of Somalia, shaking my head in disbelief. Thomas was a lie and I knew it.

The whole world treated him like a hero, but I knew what he

46 really was. Thomas was no hero. I pitied him for his glory. I laughed at him because he knew he was a lie.

But I stopped laughing when I was at the coffee shop and I turned on the news. I wasn’t laughing when his ship was attacked by the Iranians and he was killed while defending the bridge. I sat there in my coffee shop reading about his death, occasionally looking up over the paper to glance at where he would sit, eight years after he had told me everything, and cried for Thomas in the waning sun of a September afternoon.

47 Rain is Just Water

by Charlie Burnett The empty parking lot is no stranger to the absence of cars in such poor weather. When I saw that it was going to be raining, I texted Todd to see if we were still on. He responded with the shaka emoji and, “F Beach, 10:00 AM.” That morning, my mom drives me out of our gate, past the security hut, and onto Wickapogue Road. We drive along the glistening roads without a car in sight. The wet weather is only enjoyed by lush fields of grass and wildflowers. I look out the window and watch mansions, private beach clubs, and gated communities glide by, one after another.

“I don’t know, I just asked Todd if we were still on and he said yes.”

I blast my music, or at least the music my mom likes, as we start down the long stretch of marshlands and dunes on either side of us. We finally get on Road F and turn into the lot. I see Todd’s slumped silhouette through the borderlinelegal tint of his driver side window. I’m not sure whether he sees us, and then his window cracks open just enough for him to poke his hand out and wave lazily to my mom. I get out of the car and run to Todd’s truck while screaming, “Love you!” to my mom. She pulls off as I climb into Todd’s car and shut the door.

“How ya doin’ ked?” asks Todd in his trademark exaggerated surfer voice.

“Good. Good. How ‘bout you,” I reply.

“I’m fine, late-night driving but fine.”

“Do you know what it’s like out there?”

“Not one bit, but who cares, let’s dangle the toes in the

48 watah and hope the shaks aren’t too hungry.”

I mute a laugh into a chuckle. Chuckles are more detached and always cooler. I squeeze my fat legs into my skintight wetsuit like sausage into an intestinal cover. Todd slips into his effortlessly. Finally, I get on my suit, and, standing in the bed of his truck, reach a surfboard out to him. He takes it and lays it on the pavement, and takes the second and puts it down too. I look up at the grey sky, squinting to keep the drops of rain from blinding me. Todd yells, “Oy, pass me the cooler, yeah?”

I kick the huge white Yeti within his reach and he pops it open. He pulls out a mason jar with an apple cider-colored liquid. He cracks open the jar accompanied with a nice pop and a coy smile.

“Luke and some of the guys made moonshine in their basement,” he says exuberantly as he takes a swig and smacks his lips together, jokingly adding, “If we are getting swept out to sea I’m dying happy.”

He closes the jar tightly and places it back in the cooler. I hop down onto the pavement, which doesn’t hurt because the soles of my feet are now numb from layers of dead skin that I’ve built up over the summer. I grab my board, swing it under my arm and start to walk. Todd follows and jogs past me toward the beach. We navigate through the small path in the dunes and reach the top. The only things between me and 20foot swells are 60 feet of damp sand, a pickup truck, a golden retriever, and their owner—another surfer Todd knows, Chris.

Todd and I meander down the beach towards Chris, who has yellow shoulder-length hair and is wearing a vibrant pink poncho made out of terrycloth. His dog runs up to me and Todd, jumping and wagging his tail. After casual hellos and some belly rubs, we get to the matter at hand.

49 “What’s it like out their brudda?” asks Todd.

“Ravishing” responds Chris.

“And the rain?” I ask.

They look at each other and smile. I flush slightly; I wish I hadn’t asked the question. Todd and I attach the leashes to our leg, and like panthers atop a tree stalking an unaware antelope, we wait for the right time to pounce. Todd watches the water and I watch Todd. I know he knows what to do.

Todd runs, leaps, and lands, making it seem so easy as he glides across the water. I try to emulate his grace, but end up with the wind knocked out of me and a stinging stomach. As I begin to paddle I see that Todd has already made some headway in passing the breaking point. Whatever maneuver is necessary to make it past each wave, Todd does with ease. I, on the other hand, seem only a hair’s breadth away from every wave pushing me all the way back to shore. On big waves, Todd effortlessly pushes the nose of his board down, diving deep into the water and emerging at the surface on the other side, undaunted. For smaller waves, he lifts his chest high and lets the wave wash through him, absorbing the blow with minimal impact. Todd gets past the breaking point and waits for me. When I finally join him, I sit up on my board, my erect posture belying my fatigue. We turn to talking.

Todd is never short of material, by weekday he is a landscaping pesticide sprayer, by night he is a car service driver, and of course in between that, he surfs.

“I had a real doozy of a client yesterday,” he remarks.

“For?” I ask, waiting for him to clarify which profession this would fall under.

“Driving.”

“Yeah?” I ask casually although inside I am burning with curiosity.

50 “Well I was supposed to pick up this woman at 6:30 P.M. right? And I’m there at 6:30 on the dot. She gets out of the house fucking 15 minutes late and gets in the car real pissy.

She’s acting like she’s got the keys to her convertible wedged so far up her ass. Charlie, it’s ridiculous. So, we are driving and her phone rings, she’s talking to whoever with this god-awfulwhiny-ass voice and I don’t know if she didn’t think I could hear her but she goes ‘yeah and this driver is a’—PADDLE, CHUCK!” I look behind me and there is a behemoth wave barreling towards us. On a dime, I flip around, straighten my legs, and start paddling my heart out. All I can hear is the board hitting the surface as it slices through the water. The muted thwap is accompanied with the small splashes my hands make every time I plunge them deep into the water to move the board forward, along with a muffled “Go, Go, Go!” from Todd.

Suddenly I feel myself being taken by the wave’s momentum, its undeniable force propelling my board forward with power.

“I’ve practiced this with Todd thousands of times,” I thought; I know what to do. I lift my hands out of the water and grab the side of my board to push my chest up. I pull my right knee up to my chest and plant my foot firmly where my head was just moments ago. I twist my left foot to make it parallel with the right as I shift my weight towards the back of the board with the help of my front leg. I stand up. The wind whips through my hair and ears with a chill and an off-key whistle.

The saltwater drips from my eyes and down my face as I wring it out with a tight squeeze. The sea spray flows through my nose and into my lungs as my board accelerates towards the shore. I stand on top of my board with my arms outstretched.

I don’t feel the rain.

We surf for hours and leave the sea exhausted and

51 happy. Todd and I drive through town to stop at a local market for lunch; we are both famished from surfing. We get the cardboard boxes so neatly stacked in a pile at the start of the salad bar and hot food section. My mouth salivates as I pick up the tongs and stack hot sausage, fried chicken, and rice, filling my box past its intended volume. I look over at Todd, who is meticulously picking out lettuce, grilled chicken, tomato and onion. He inspects each piece before laying it gently in the box. Even his salad bar game is cooler than mine.

I hand my greasy food and my dad’s credit card to the cashier, a young and tired Hispanic woman, who meekly asks, “Do you want a bag?” I respond jovially saying, “No, I’m fine,” and hurry over to the seating area, quickly bringing the meal back into my greedy hands. Todd meets me there after checking out himself. We sit by the window looking at the damp streets, the rain pelting the pavement. Two uptight women run through the rain towards a black BMW as if their lives depend on it.

Todd lets out a chuckle “Relax it’s just watah,” he says.

We laugh together. Todd regales me with more stories of bitchy passengers and spoiled landowners. I eat slowly, never wanting it to end. My mom pulls into a spot outside and waves to us through the window.

“Alright brudda, I gotta head out, I needa drop the boards off at the shack and then pick someone up in sag harbor in a bit,” Todd says.

We say our goodbyes and he pats me on the back saying, “Nice job out there today ked.” I inwardly beam at the compliment. I walk outside with Todd, who turns right out the door as I turn left. I walk over to my mom’s car. She slides down the window and says “Sweetie, get in the car -- it’s raining!” I’m in no rush. Instead, I take a moment to look at

52 Todd one last time. He is walking away with a hop in his step, oblivious to all the others around him running frantically for cover. As he fades into the distance, he tilts his head back, trying to catch raindrops in his open mouth.

53 The Perks of Being a Wallflower in 2020

by Tommy Sandford These songs are a midnight car ride.

They are a cold wind breaking across my face, Flowing through the open windows And back into the empty streets.

They are lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling.

Headphones grafted to our skulls, Across thirty years, we feel infinite.

The snow makes its presence known, A storm of hail descends, Nature’s tears grip her mauled creation.

The roads are gashes upon her visage, Scars fading into the delicate crystals.

How many people have sat where I am?

How many have felt the rumble of cars approaching, But can’t be bothered to move?

You might as well paint white lines over me.

Run me over, just to get by.

All of my friends are constellations, An alignment of the stars.

I am the new moon, a spot of darkness in a pitch-black universe.

Leave these lyrics in shuffle, Let them orbit around my head.

54 All of your great strength, And you could not pull me from the shadows.

I’ll pluck some flowers from the wall for you, Water them in uncertainty, watch them flower in obscurity.

And when they are gone, someone else will take their place.

55 Charred Aspirations

by Ben Packer Winter’s grim persona began to engulf the small town of Ashville, Ohio. Everyone knew each other and the family name still reigned in the minds of the townsfolk. The Bishop family, in particular, held little regard for their shared social values and thus they posed as an embarrassing mar upon the community. Brisk winds whipped the walls of the school, while a consistent warmth permeated its halls. There in the school, Nick, the young prodigy from the Moore family of prominent English ancestry, assured his dominance over the school. Teachers and administrators spent no effort in pursuing the affairs conducted by the boy, and neither would his utterly naive parents. A long time was poured into verbally and physically abusing the inferior Adam Bishop. On top of his economic troubles, Adam struggled with obesity and often found his thoughts drifting towards anguish. After years of abuse, Adam was driven to the point of revenge; Nick’s actions became the kindling for the fire burning within him. Adam’s animosity brought him to Nick. “Someday, I’m gonna kill you,” threatened Adam. His threat was met with a shrug, a smirk, and a dismissive wave of hand.

Years had passed since those school days, yet Adam’s torment persisted. On a much more pleasant summer afternoon, the old town was alive with villagers clustered around the community’s hub, Oak Avenue, which was dotted with small cafes and restaurants. It provided the setting for that year’s townwide parade to pay tribute to the most influential and valued members of their small society. Adam sat down in his favorite restaurant, Terry’s Burger Shack and Grill, at a

56 table with a view of the coming parade. The children gleefully pranced out in front of the vehicles primed to begin the parade, and the crowds began to approach. Adam angled his wooden chair for a view of the decorated trucks and wagons, adorned with festive colors and brilliant posters of messages full of town pride. As the marching band trotted down the street to their own whimsical tune and the cheering townspeople, Adam caught a brief glance of Nick atop the local fire engine. Nick’s years of abuse had shredded any remnants of self-confidence years ago but left behind anger and frustration at Nick, who was attired in the glistening firefighter gear Adam had so long yearned to wear. Adam’s gaze refused to leave the adored and somewhat angelic figure headed for the stage. Helplessly, his stare would only singe Adam’s own individual importance as Nick was named Distinguished Citizen of the Year.

In 1944, Adam continued his search for the everelusive career that would offer his soul the true fulfillment of courageous acts of prestige. His search led him to the Ashville Fire Department; he believed if he continued to work hard they would offer him a spot at the brigade. However, Adam’s short-lived aspirations to become a firefighter were just that. The memory of that day would further stir the turmoil plaguing Adam’s soul. Nothing would lead him in the right direction; Adam felt his goal of a life of virtue could not be fulfilled due to his perpetual failure.

Adam squeezed himself into his beat-up Ford Country Squire station wagon and headed home. The home in question, more of a hovel than a house, was left to him and his older brother Luke by their long-deceased parents. The shithole on the outskirts of town was so flimsy that it looked as if even the weakest wind could bring it down. It consisted of a bedroom, a small living room, a kitchenette, and a nearly empty dining

57 room where there appeared to be remnants of a mattress and pieces of a quilt. The attempt at a home, nearly 30 minutes from town, was laden with dirt and clutter. A skinny stairwell led up to an attic on the second floor. Adam and Luke lived together in this minuscule hovel for years, nearly a 30-minute drive from town. Luke worked as a janitor at the local school the brothers attended as boys. Luke, with his reputation as the town drunk, in fact, only further perpetuated the idea of the Bishops as degenerates who corrupt the town.

“Nick pisses me off. How can somebody have everything?

A huge house, perfect kids, a hot wife, everything, and he’s still such a dick. It gets on my nerves.” Luke, replied, slurring, “Maybe you oughta take this guy out? Sounds like a real piece a shit; I say you get that rat bastard. Damn dirty...” Luke began to trail off. Adam had merely mentioned toying with that idea, but nothing more. He never gave it any serious thought.

“Seriously though,” Luke continued, “how else we doin’ this?”

Adam replied skeptically, “I don’t know, Luke,” knowing Luke was drunk and that he most likely did not want to kill Nick. As the evening progressed, Luke made his way to their small unkempt room of the decaying old house and settled down and fell asleep much faster than Adam, who stayed awake a while longer; the thought of killing another man danced around in his head as he sat upright in his rickety bed. The once horrible thought of murder became much more reasonable as time went on. His thoughts brought him to all the times Nick had beat him, bullied him, bested him. He couldn’t seem to get Nick’s smug smile out of his head as he held the Distinguished Citizen of the Year award in his hands .

The next day Adam dressed for work and got into his car. His job, manager at the Ashville Sewage Treatment

58 Plant, was one of humility and inglorious necessity. The work involved monotonous tasks in the repulsive plant, but as a manager, Adam would escape as frequently as he could to his office to save his nostrils from the soul-crushing stench. The long workday proved a serviceable distraction for Adam, as he walked about the plant, pleased to check in on workers. He had worked in this field of work for several years, and remarkably climbed the ladder from within, starting as a lowly manual laborer, with overtime gaining him a promotion to manager.

As desperate as Adam was to find worthwhile accomplishment in his career, he found simple pleasure in having a stable job.

As fate would have it, on this day Adam would lose his job, as the plant was ceasing all operations. Adam was devastated to receive this news. He had no place anymore, no value, no way to prove any worth to himself.

Adam ached for his job, his soul begging to emerge from his house and live his life. Adam ventured to the supermarket, only to quickly return home on the verge of tears. The Moore family had been there, pointing and laughing at him.

Overwhelmingly embarrassed, thoughts of the past tormented him. No teacher ever stood in the way to prevent Nick from viciously attacking Adam. Adam knew something needed to change, but what? He informed Luke about the events of the day. Luke, surprisingly sober, feigned appalment and shock at the news, but in reality, Luke had heard this story far too many times. Luke muttered two words, “Take action.�

Adam thought about the previous night’s events, and the two discussed the topic of action for a short while. What is too far? The conversation eventually made its way to murder, as the light from the sun faded. Adam indulged himself with food, imbibing himself as he ate, a habit intentionally avoided

by Adam as he saw the effect on Luke. Nothing seemed to

59 matter anymore.

The next morning Adam awoke startled. Looking around the small living room, Adam caught sight of Luke’s detailed plans. He shuffled over towards the table, quietly hoping to be wrong about their contents. He reads them over quickly, terrified of the thought of murder. Sprawled out across the table and cheap carpet laid the fire department schedules, names, and addresses of the 12 local firemen and information on how to control a fire. The smell of gasoline was extremely potent from inside the house, as outside by the car stood 20 full gas cans. Adam was surrounded by bottles of hard alcohol. With the events of the previous night a blur, Adam read through his notes. The plan read: 8:00 p.m. - Luke uses the car to travel around to each fireman’s home, except for Nick Moore’s, and douse them in gasoline, then lighting them on fire. The fires Luke set would divert the fire department’s attention. 9:30 p.m. - Luke comes back home. Adam makes a call for the fire department to get Nick to come to their house alone. Luke will then light a small and controllable fire in the kitchen to make it realistic enough to get Nick to come in.

Then when Nick enters, pour the last of the gas onto the fire, escape out of one of the only windows, and trap Nick inside with the fire.

The day went on and the broken mind left inside Adam’s head would go through with the plan. Finally, 9:30 p.m. came around with the plan running smoothly. Luke had successfully set fire to multiple firemen’s houses and Nick would be coming to their home soon. Adam, still on the second floor, was on the lookout for Nick while Luke prepared the fire below.

However, Nick stopped 25 yards short of the house. The fire downstairs grew out of control. It swept through the living room, Luke failing to put it out. The fire blocked the door and

60 burned up the entire first floor. Adam heard cries of pain from downstairs as Luke was burnt alive. Adam opened the window and screamed out for Nick’s help. As the heat rose quickly within the home the cool air from the window hit Adam’s face, a welcome, however temporary, relief. “My brother is dying in the fire! Come save us!” screams Adam. And in this moment of complete devastation, Nick’s only response was a shrug, a smirk, and a dismissive wave of a hand.

61 A Walk in New York

by Carlos Flores A crisp autumn air dances through the labyrinth of the city, A bittersweet reminder of the summer’s end.

The sun is almost blinding as it reflects off of the skyscrapers of the city, Each one seemingly competing to outreach the others, Each of them frozen, In an everlasting race to the sky.

Deep below, under neon lights, Past the hums of ancient air conditioners and the failed Broadway auditioners, What feels like millions of people pack against one another shuffling one way then the other.

Two steps forward then one step back, A cut off here, A glance at the clock there.

All seemingly knowing their numbered track.

Dancing their two-step in time, Throwing the usual jazz musician a dime.

Some crave the swiftness of the train, Others, the warmth of the sun and the cool wind on their face.

As they climb the dirty steps back through to the city, They crave the portal-like effect the blinding light of sun reflecting off of skyscrapers.

The crisp autumn air, Dancing a moment on their face, Before changing to a faster pace.

62 Dashes on the Wall

by Peter Kapp The front of the house looks the same. The flower boxes below each front window remain, the pink flowers just beginning to bloom. The beige façade offers no evidence of any change, much to my relief. The light hanging from the front porch is still surrounded by countless cobwebs, the lightbulb out as usual. I unlatch the door and stand in the doorway where the welcome mat used to be, my mouth slightly ajar and my hands fumbling with the coin in my pocket as I compare this house to the home I once knew and loved. The canary walls that used to be so inviting are stripped of the paintings that once adorned them, leaving behind only an ugly yellow color coating the walls of the entryway. The sound of my footsteps echoes throughout the house, the carpet that muffled them now lies rolled up somewhere, leaving the floor below it barren and desolate.

Downstairs, the hooks that held the coats hang empty, the cubbies below hold only a thin layer of dust. The chalkboard in the playroom that served as the home for simple math and poor drawings is empty, the sketches erased but the memories will hopefully live on. The door frame that marked my growth for almost a decade is once again white. All ten lines, the first one only as high as my knees, are gone. I can no longer hear the ticking of the clock that hung next to the door. The small closet sits empty, my clothes in a location unbeknownst to me.

The bed upon which I slept left several irreparable dents on the wall behind it, much more evident in its absence. As I close the door to my room on the way out, I try not to consider that I’ll never again see the yellow and white striped wallpaper

63 or listen to the clock ticking as I fall asleep. I’ll never again squirrel away Halloween candy in the little nook behind my desk or lie in bed reading by whatever light I could discreetly find. Never again will I stand in front of the mirror on the back of the door, my dad tying my tie behind me in preparation for a special occasion.

My head hangs low as I cross the threshold back out into the hallway and slowly shut the door behind me. I traipse down the stairs among the dust hanging in the air, illuminated by the sun pouring through the large window as it always does at this time of day. The kitchen looks mostly the same, except for a few things missing from the countertops. There’s still a faint bloodstain on the floor from when I fell off of the countertop onto my head. The swinging door into the dining room creaks as I open it, revealing the green walls, the dining table at which so many meals had been shared now only a memory. I just put my hands in my pockets and look down at the scratched wooden floor below me, my fingers twirling the coin in my pocket as I reluctantly recall every family reunion and birthday party, every Christmas morning and Thanksgiving dinner. Because it’s these moments of joy that turned it into a home.

Meandering towards the front door one final time, I remove the coin and examine it, the penny dated 2015. Taking one last look at the entry hall, I shut the front door behind me and stumble down the front steps one by one, a tear marking its path down my face. I take the penny and place it on the small ledge above the door frame where we kept the spare key and walk away.

64 I am From

by Caleb Boateng I am from the songs not of mumble Chance won 3 Grammys but he still stay humble Raised in the Bronx A- Boogie made known as the Jungle Not really an old timer but I still know what they about I grew up by Lil Tjay and he’s known for pop-out I am Bronx- African bred, Jollof, Watchi, and Fufu is what I’ve been fed But when I’m in Greenwich I’m fine with steak and bread Don’t ask me if I eat Popeyes I’ll take Chinese food Nor KFC because I am never in the mood.

I am from “ Back to Square One” A borough full of hardships nothing is “One and Done” Where most friends don’t get to say “ Until the Day is done” Live in my neighborhood you’ll see “ The Playing Field Is

Not equal” If that were the case everyone would “ soaring like eagles” I am a Bronx breed Everything I’ve received never fell from trees Hear where I’m from it makes them unease God gave me two eyes so I’ll never be deceived A story is usually told from a boy through his color Race, Location, Life, is no different than the name Muller So I grabbed all the foods so I could be fuller I am a boy walking on tightrope

65 Up, down, left, right living in many different worlds is hard to cope Raised as an African, if you don’t become a doctor there is no hope Not raised Catholic but Christian, don’t ask me if I know the pope Gye Nyame, I wear on my neck of a reminder where I’m from As my personality unwinds, I lose little pieces of where I’m from.

66 Two Hour Journey

by Zach Murray We laughed together We cried together.

We embarked on a journey, anxious for the voyage, consoling each other at the loss of our friends we were all on one cohesive journey Never was there a place we’d rather be, but in the end, we will be forever separated, brought together only by the experience, because we were, are, and always will be, simply moviegoers.

Regret

by Tyler Wilson I stand here waiting Stricken, unable to breathe Until the day comes.

Regret, a lost chance, Displaced opportunity.

Where has the hope gone?

67 Alone With Myself

by Tyler Wilson

People don’t appreciate human interaction enough. I mean, I certainly took it for granted. Looking back, I realize how good I had it. I don’t talk to people anymore. They won’t talk to me. When there is no recipient for your ramblings, you go insane. I have so much to discuss: regrets, opinions, hopes, and dreams. People seem to forget I’m capable of such feelings. Some days, I worry I’ll forget how to speak.

No one gives me a chance, that’s the problem. Everyone but him treats me like a monster. He comes around every once and awhile, emerging from deep within me. He’s the only person that will talk with me and listen to what I have to say.

I listen to Him too. He says terrible things to me. He is evil, I can’t spin it any other way. The things He’s done, we’ve done, I suppose, will damn a man for eternity. Hellfire for Him, or the system’s just broken. But He hides away most of the time, so it’s just me, by myself, all alone. No amount of physical torture is comparable to solitude, as I can attest, having seen my fair share of both.

I’m restrained to a concrete box, decomposing, slowly and consciously. I’m living in a coffin, waiting for it to finally serve its purpose. Little things, like the occasional choice, have become such a novelty. I haven’t been presented with an option in ages, but they let me choose something today. It was just a little thing, really. They asked me what I wanted to eat. I can’t remember the last time I chose what to eat.

I was dumbfounded, at a complete loss for words. He said something ridiculous, “flesh and suckling marrow” or one of His old, bizarre favorites. It embarrassed me, quite frankly,

68 but luckily I curved him back. I chose something simple, something I would have considered rather boring a few years ago: two over-easy eggs, home fries, crispy bacon, and buttered white toast. I was in a good mood. For the first time in too long, someone had talked to me like a human.

They brought me my food, and God was I happy. The guards were there to watch me (company is company, after all), I had a full stomach, and I had been heard. After years of solitude, such a small extension of kindness seemed to go on for miles. When I had finished all my food, and they had taken my tray from me, they said it was time to go.

He had been quiet throughout the whole meal. He was anxious, sulking, things I’d never really witnessed from Him before. Something was building up inside of Him, I knew at some point He was going to snap, I just hoped He wouldn’t be too aggressive.

He was. It happened when the guards grabbed us. Three of them entered our cell, approaching us with caution. One grabbed our wrists and began to cuff them together. Another was holding an iron muzzle to restrain our jaw. I think it was the muzzle that ticked Him off. He lunged at the one holding the muzzle, biting him in the neck. He’s always gone for the neck. I for one hate the taste of blood, but when He’s in control, there’s not much I can do. He ravages one of them and then moves us to another.

We were two minds crammed into one body, the killer and me. Strangely, we never really shared thoughts, but at that moment, as more and more bodies pinned us down, I understood why He was so afraid. He was a bringer of death, never hesitating to take the lives of others, but for the first time, He sat on the other side, helpless and afraid. As they cuffed us up, restrained our jaw, strapped us down, and laid

69 us out on the table, He began to recede, leaving me behind, alone. As I came back into control and the three needles broke through my skin, I felt their liquids in my veins as the world faded from me.

70 Cries of Relief

by Aidan Marks I can scarcely remember what the sky looks like. After all these months, I’m left with only hazy memories of the sun’s magnificent colors embracing the vast skyline at dawn. I try in vain to imagine the lazy streaks of color across the sky as I stare at the cold steel of the bunker’s ceiling.

“Hey,” says John, “slow down, you already ate your rations for the day.” Of course, I already knew this, but I was hoping that he wouldn’t notice.

“What does it matter to you?” I grunt.

“It doesn’t. Just don’t be surprised when I don’t share mine with you.” I respond with only a glare. In the weeks since our supplies began to dwindle, time has slowed down as tempers grew shorter. The days have become longer, and I no longer possess enough energy to maintain a constant stream of thoughts to fill the silence that never fails to accompany a day in the shelter. To say I understood why exactly John invited me into his shelter would be a lie. John and I were never close before the bombs. As neighbors, we were friendly, but I distanced myself in an attempt to avoid his antics as the town’s oddball. Prepared for every outcome in any given scenario, it came as no surprise that John had a bunker filled with supplies.

Six months is long enough to change a man. The lack of entertainment in the bunker has turned John into a raving professor, spewing lectures of pure nonsense. These monologues remain tiresome and tortuous for those subjected to them as he only praises the bunker and contemplates our durability. Avidly against investigating the outside world, John

71 has forced us both to remain content with our shelter.

A byproduct of our prioritization of survival over prosperity, the sanctuary deteriorated into a shabby prison littered with scraps. We managed to remain mentally sane, living vicariously in remembrance of our world. A world in which we can only assume everyone we knew and loved was wasted away in an instant, no time to escape their inevitable doom and certainly no time for goodbyes.

We only survived because we immediately sought shelter as the early warning sirens started blaring. Rather than lay in the streets, no more than evidence of humanity’s demise, stiff in the streets of a dead civilization like our brothers and sisters, we reached the bunker without waiting for the bombs to hit. The only thing standing between us and certain death is the thick steel walls of the bunker, crammed twelve feet underground. We are not the lucky few, oh no, we are the ones chosen by some higher power in a display of god-forsaken irony, left to suffocate in this box until one of us is brave enough to venture above ground, away from the relative safety of the bunker. This may be surviving, but it is certainly not living so I will not fall victim to this cruel act of the universe. Breaking out from this abominable dungeon is the only escape.

The walls are shrinking, gliding inwards, compressing the room into nothing more than the cramped pocket of air that it is. I choke on the air around me as my breath escapes me. The idea of freedom consumes me, manipulating my every instinct, influencing my thoughts and shaping me into someone other than myself, or at least the version I thought I was. I crave liberation from this prison, held from suicide only by the vague hope of life aboveground once again.

John lays stiff on our cot. This bunker was stocked for a single hermit, and although it may have been John’s originally,

72 survival means quickly adapting to the conditions. Society is dead, no more than a fleeting memory, leaving me no reason to succumb to its expectations. I pick up one of the loose pipes scattered across the floor. Too heavy to properly wield, it drags over the ground, clinking loudly as it stutters over the cracks in the concrete floor.

As I hesitantly peer over his body, John’s eyes flicker open, evolving from a mix of fear and confusion to complete realization of the situation’s gravity. His eyes narrow as his face conversely softens. “I knew it,” he whispers faintly. His foot jabs into the side of my knee, and I crumble to the ground alongside the pipe, embarrassed to finally succumb to the evil that confinement brings its inmates.

Hunching on my knees, I take hold of his decrepit clothes and pull him down beside me. I clamber over him, reaching for the pipe I dropped. A yank to the back of my shirt pulls me backward as John restrains me, leaving me at the mercy of my would-be victim. Struggling to breathe, I maneuver myself toward one of the walls. A short, pointed piece of wood lies on the concrete next to me. All the suffering I endured over the past months led me to this moment. The thought of the pain flows through me as the wood drives through his eye. He’s enveloped in a pool of blood, the wood still protruding from his eye. John’s blood stains my shirt, dripping onto the floor of the bunker we had just denounced as our home.

Moving toward the exit, I reach for the hatch. Stiff and rusty from lack of use, I barely manage to pry open the door. I enter the escape tunnel and clamber up the dark and moldy ladder in the escape shaft until I reach the final trapdoor, the one obstacle between me and my salvation. As I open the trapdoor, I observe the absence of a fiery wasteland or crumbled remains of houses. Instead, a sprinkler rotates,

73 watering a lush green yard. Children play within the confines of a white picket fence.

My stomach churns at this scene of normalcy. A little girl skips rope over the spot where she should have been charred on the ground. A boy rides his bicycle over smoothly paved roads silhouetted by the sunset behind him. And below them all lies John, lifeless and unknowing. Already underground, we never heard the cries of relief.

74 A Little Piece of Heaven

by Tommy Sandford She was walking with her friend, school had just started and both of them would have rather been at the beach, staring at the boys they wouldn’t ever have the courage to talk to in calculus. Of course, they weren’t in my calculus class, no, I make sure that there can be no such connections. I wondered what these pretty girls were thinking about. I certainly knew what they were talking about, I think that the whole fucking street knew what they were talking about. My main curiosity lay with whether or not they were using their heads as something other than a goddamn hat rack, as my grandfather would say.

They had some mindless chatter floating between them. Corey was the one I was pursuing, her friend Taylor was nice too, but she was in my Euro class that year.

“Omigod! I can’t believe Mr. Sanchez gave a reading quiz on our second day back,” Corey complained.

“I know right!” Taylor responded, before prattling on, “What did she really think that we were going to read that stupid book about poetry? That is the dumbest shit, I haven’t read any poetry since Dr. Seuss. Like actually what the fuck?!”

Ok, so I wasn’t following MENSA hopefuls, but c’mon, she was hot. Her backpack keeps sliding across her shoulder blades. Turns out being slender doesn’t have as many perks as she hoped it would. Sure, she looks good in a sundress, but that doesn’t really help her carry her books for the walk home. I don’t know why she brings books to school in the first place, she clearly doesn’t read them. Was I dumb for following her home? Maybe. It was wildly out of my way, but she was definitely worth it. There are just some girls who will make

75 you walk an extra 0.73 miles out of your way. Or around that number. Probably. Who’s keeping track? Not me.

The girls continued their banter, chattering as I tried to close the gap between us. If I could just get her alone, maybe I’d have a chance. I jog a little to catch up to them. What to say, what to say. I’ve never been much good at talking to girls, getting them alone is something I’d scarcely consider myself an expert at. But I had to start somewhere, I had to.

“Hey,”I said nervously, clutching my hammer necklace.

“Ah, what the fuck was that?!”

Cool, cool, I was killing it.

“Hey, so, um, how’s it going, ladies?”

Taylor had gotten over her fright and was now just staring at me in disgust. Like I said, I was killing it. At least Corey was being a little nicer, or trying to be.

“Hey, what’s up,” “Oh, well, I was just walking, and I saw you guys walking and I was wondering if you wanted to walk with me so we can walk together...or something like that” “Um, sure, I guess. That’s fine, right Taylor?”

Taylor flipped me off, but whatever. She wasn’t who I wanted to walk with anyway so fuck her too. I stepped over to Corey’s side and started walking with them. Was I a little obvious, maybe. Was I walking with her after following them for almost a mile, yes. So that was a win. I didn’t say much, which wasn’t too bright, in hindsight, but I didn’t know what to talk about. Taylor clearly didn’t like me, so she was doing everything to keep Corey away from me, distracting her with questions about makeup and prom dresses. Clever girl. Not clever enough, though, because it turns out that her house was well before Corey’s. I waved at her as she walked up to her door and she flipped me off again. Real classy gal.

76 “So you go to Custer High too, right?” Corey asked me, once we were alone.

“Yeah I’m in your grade” “What, no way, I don’t think we’ve been in any classes together” I’m well aware.

“Yeah, I don’t think that we have. You don’t take any AP’s do you?”

Shit, not a great talking point to bring up. What was I saying? That I think I’m smarter than her? That I’m better than her? Shit, shit shit.

She bristled slightly, of course she did, I’m an asshole, “No, I don’t. Do you” Well, now I have to hype myself up. I don’t know much about talking to girls, but I do know that you’re not supposed to spend the whole time bragging “Hahah, yeah AP Chem and Physics this year” “Cool” Then came the awkward silence. I was almost out of time. I was almost out of tricks; my cutsey banter had failed, and I couldn’t switch personas now without giving too much away. Then it occured to me, I’ve got all the time in the world.

It’s not like she’s going to be doing homework anyway. Or eating dinner.

“Hey, Corey, did you know that the only Sequoias east of the Mississippi are right here in town?”

“OMG no way! I love California!! Where are they?”

Well, well, well, look who should’ve taken Environmental Science. Her loss.

“They’re actually not that far from here, I can show you if you want” “That’d be so cool!”

77 I grabbed her arm and steered her toward where I wanted to take her. I was finally alone with her. I had gone through the charade of unexceptionalism, stuttering and stammering as I guided her farther and farther away from friendly eyes. Now I was Keyser Soze, my limp disappearing as I strode beside her.

Thankfully she didn’t notice the change, but then again, why would she? As far as she was concerned, I was still the little science geek nervously shuffling next to her. But it was getting harder to find sweatshirts that were loose on me. For this to be successful, I needed to be strong, so I had bought a weight set a little while back. I was up to three plates on the bench, and I knew she wasn’t.

It was dark enough for me to make my move. I pretended to stumble, pushing her into a root that she tripped on. Down she went, like clockwork. She had a nasty little scratch on her forehead, dripping her sweet blood into her eyes. She looked up at me, confused, imploring me to help her up with those doey eyes. Such a shame, I was almost feeling human around her. Method acting is so taxing.

“Are you ok,” I said, feigning concern as I grabbed her arm.

“Idunno,” she whined, “My ankle really really hurts”.

“Can you walk?”

She took a tentative step forward before collapsing.

Turns out she can’t.

“Can I take a look at your ankle? I’m an EMT,” I lied.

“Th-thank you,” she whimpered.

I bent down so that my head was just touching her knee. I gently grabbed her ankle, massaging it as if I knew how to treat it. From the recesses of my sleeves, I take out Sweeny. Holding her ankle with my left hand, I slash Sweeny down across her Achilles Tendon, severing it immediately. She screams, but

78 we’re far enough away from the town that no one has to hear her wailing. I take out Sweeny’s twin and bring Todd down upon her other ankle. Now that she is properly immobilized, I can begin my work. I only have about four hours, so I need to be efficient. I’ve already risked enough blood spillage. I did deliver on my promise though, there was red wood all around her now. I tie her to the tree, propping her up so that the blood from her ankles can drip into the bowls I put beneath her. Her crying is getting annoying, my hands keep slipping from her throat because her tears make it so slick.

“Why? Why?” she sobs. “Why me? What did I ever do to you?”

It’s easier to not answer her. It keeps her in suspense. I could just knock her out but I’m not allowed to touch her face.

Fucking rules. She finally stops crying, just hangs limply from the tree. The blood loss has finally gotten to her, but she wasn’t dead. Now it was finally time.

I unlocked my jaw and howled at the new moon. Seven piercing screeches, just as I had been instructed. Out of the darkness emerged the scraping of claws on the jagged stone.

She didn’t even blink, this girl should’ve had her picture in the dictionary right next to the word “defeated”. A lone lupine form stood beside me, his fur bristling as he stared at the prize that I had caught for him. Garwulf barely acknowledged me. Whatever, I wasn’t expecting gratitude. He walked up to the bowl at her feet and began to lap at the blood, like a dog drinking water. As he drank, his ribs disappeared beneath the flesh as he began to fill out his form. He stood back on his hind legs and cracked his bones, rearranging them so that he assumes a more human form. He brought one clawed finger under her chin, lifting it up so that she was looking into his amber eyes, hellfire embalmed in an ocular lense. He growled

79 into her mouth, as if clearing his throat and then he spoke.

“The life that you think is thine will soon be mine. Your life, your strife, you shall be my wife. A queen of the dark, where the sun resembles a spark. Join me below and away we shall go” He released her head and it fell limply down, which I guess he took to be her nodding yes. I don’t make the rules, I just benefit from them. He pushed her head back up till it was leaning against the tree and traced his finger around his face: starting at her left temple, going down past her chin, up to her right temple and finally across- her hairline. Once he had finished his bloody circle, he bent forward as if to kiss her and bit her nose. Then he pulled her face off. I’d never seen this ritual done before, only read it in the grimoire. I was not prepared to see this girl’s face get eaten. This was straight up New 52 Joker type shit. The blood that was on her face was drawn to him in some bastardized hydrokinesis, going into his pores and finishing the work that her ankles had started.

“Blood and bone hath help me grown, meat and marrow shall make you less narrow” That was my cue, I took the twins out and started carving chunks out of her arms and legs, making myself a nice little dinner. The meat was kinda dry, but she had a hydroflask nearby, so I was able to wash it down well enough. The hammer around my neck started to feel warm, filling my entire body with a sense of relaxation, as if I had just come from the spa.

I felt her fear, her anger, and her hopelessness, but those were quickly overrun by the sense of potency that I felt. It wasn’t quite a bearskin, but the adoption of another’s life granted me such strength. I felt that I could even take on Garwulf, this shadowy creature I had summoned from Hel. The twins felt like they were humming in my hands, byproducts of a previous

80 demonic exchange that I had made. I wondered whether they could cut through his thick hide. I stepped towards him, Todd and his brother at my side ready to aid me in my attempt. I never got the chance. The last thing I remember seeing was him pulling his claw out of my chest, my blood mixing in with Corey’s. Together at last.

81 The Weight

by Ryan Heinzerling It was heavy, much heavier than I thought. Not to mention claustrophobic. My seven friends and I were shuffling our feet from the hearse to the church. Someone nearly tripped, the whole casket jiggled, and I could feel the body inside. The sudden jolt, accompanied by the weight of the body rolling, was just enough to be felt. I hated it, hated it so much.

My brain kept forcing me to imagine what would happen if my hand were to suddenly slip, and he’d come spilling out, mangled like a butchered rag doll. Luckily, it was raining too, which completed the picturesque funeral day. What made the whole affair even more terrible, besides the rain and how well you could feel the body move, was the line of onlookers. They nearly blended in with the background, wearing nothing but that soot black clothing. I only really noticed them because of the stifled cries of his mother.

Chris and Chet were there, actually wearing suits for once. We have a dress code at school, you get it. They’re always out of it, kind of bugs me really, especially because I’m particular about the way I dress. I prefer to look neat as opposed to messy, so I usually go for a jacket and tie. Chris’s got long hair, looks like a deranged hippy. He had it tied back in a ponytail, his attempt at formality or something, I guess.

No sunglasses on him today, his usual crutch. Chet looked a little more formal. He’s got real glasses on top of a high nose that makes him look a little bit more academic. But it’s all superficial, doesn’t really stand for much if you ask me. They both smiled at me, trying to make me laugh while holding the casket, but I glared back. Would’ve sucked to embarrass myself

82 then. At least, it wouldn’t have been very funny.

The burden was a little easier once we got inside the church, you know, and dumped the casket on its gurney thing, if that’s the right word. It was a quaint place, and I think it had to be my favorite part of the proceedings. The altar carried a simple demeanor, with a caring priest overlooking the pews.

The sweet scent of the candles, coupled with the rainbows of light coming from the stained glass windows. Nothing matches the ambiance of a simple church, and I had to hide my smile, remembering that I wasn’t at my normal Sunday Mass.

Hm, I guess I should give some background about Barry, right? You know, the deceased guy. Not much to say really.

Loved football, loved lacrosse. Seemed a bit like a simple guy to me. But, a kind of appreciable simple, like a simple that made being around him easy. Popular guy, real handsome guy.

Broad shoulder, chiseled chin. Being near Barry lacked a sort of baggage that came with other people. I remember one time, he’d just made an outstanding catch in the endzone. Everyone went berserk on the sidelines, and when he came off the field, his response to everyone saying it was an amazing catch was “really?” I like to think it was that sort of humble ignorance that made him easy to be around. He certainly was, in the words of his coaches, an outstanding athlete. Shame he died really, because supposedly offers had come in from just about every major university.

I’ll tell you one thing, I’m sure glad it wasn’t an open casket affair. He’d been hit by a bus, wasn’t looking while crossing the street, I guess. So when I say mangled, I mean mangled. To be honest, call me an asshole, but sometimes during the various eulogies, it took some effort to keep a straight face whenever someone said a bus hit him. I guess it’s

83 the dark humor in it, hard to tell.

Quite honestly, the funeral wasn’t very interesting, not like normal mass anyways. My friends harp on me for being Catholic, which I take seriously. But unlike my heathen friends, church never failed to be interesting for me. My parents took me every Sunday, and aside from maybe two or three, I’ve been every Sunday my whole life. I even became an altar boy when I was about thirteen. People make fun of me for it, something about being the priest’s boy. I don’t really get it that much, since, you know, it’s called being an altar boy. But yeah, I’m decently into it, I guess you could say. But funerals? Not my speed. They’re just . . . a little too sad. I’m more into the sort of church where the priest actually gives you something to think about, the homily, as opposed to the funeral standard “sucks he’s dead, but at least he’s in God’s hands.” To pass the time, Chris, Chet, and I would make stupid little hand gestures at each other, you know, to see who’d crack first. I won, it wasn’t my first funeral.

I digress. So, I’ve made my case: funerals aren’t for me.

But, I think the real experience worth anything is the burial.

Creepy, actually seeing whoever it is lowered into the Earth and all, but I think there’s something more real about it. A little more tangible that actually makes you say goodbye, with touching the casket and all. Maybe, I don’t know. Anyways, it was pouring rain, still that disgusting day, so the casket looked real shiny, like that freshly washed gleam. Everyone seemed real somber now, the funeral was child’s play compared to the real thing. Now was when we really thought about who Barry was.

The closest I ever got to Barry, aside from normal classes together, was a night after a big game. At the time, I worked for the school paper, and, being the new guy, they made me

84 cover the sports section. Naturally, the locker room seemed like the place to be after the game, so I quietly snuck in there.

It was loud, deafening. The coach was going on and on about how important the game was, yada yada yada, and I wrote some of it down so the school could feel inspired or whatever.

The coach finished, so, with nothing else to do really, I started interviewing players, Barry in particular since he’d had an outstanding game. Usual for him.

“How’re you feeling, champ?” I started.

“Sore. But good game, played well, team played well. Do, uh, do you mind doing me a favor?”

“Sure?”

“God, my right shoulder is killing me right now. Would you mind-?”

“Yeah, uh, sure.”

I kind of gave his shoulder, like, this little massage, of sorts? I’ve never done something like that, but he seemed kind of into it, so I gave it my best shot. Well, some other guys on the team saw, laughed at me a bit, which I was used to since, you know, I’m so Catholic and all. Gives me a target on my back or something I guess.

“Guys, knock it off. I’m a little sore, alright?”

“Yeah sure. Real sore, huh?” they laughed. They walked away to another part of the locker room.

“God, sorry about them,” Barry said.

“Uh, no worries.”

“Yeah, they’re a little, hm, how do I say this? Insensitive, that’s the word.”

I looked at my feet.

“Yeah don’t write this down please. I’d hate to give people the wrong idea in school.”

“What do you mean?”

85 “You giving me a massage? Gives people the wrong idea if you ask me.”

“Um, okay.”

“Now, I have to ask. Didya like it?”

“Like what?”

“The massage, duh?”

“Why would I like that? I was just doing you a favor.”

“Mhm, okay. Well, I thought maybe you’d like it since you’re, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“Come on, everyone knows it. You have that funny, peculiar way about you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You don’t have to play dumb. It’s okay, Trevor. I’m in the same boat, just don’t tell anyone. Fun fact, all of us can tell, just so you know.”

He put his hand on my leg, and winked at me, with a big grin covering his face. His attempt at some sort of comforting, I suppose. I jumped up.

“Don’t you dare touch me,” I said.

My hand clutched the cross pendant that I wore everyday around my neck.

“Hey man, listen. I’m just trying to-” “I don’t give a damn. You . . . you stay away from me,” I shouted.

I ran out the door, and that was the last I saw up close of Barry, until somebody posted a picture of him after the bus hit him. Always real glad he burdened me with that little tidbit.

Chet and Chris helped quite a bit with forgetting that incident.

We’re real close, real close. Being with them lets me forget a lot of garbage like that. Good friends, those two. Going to Dorado, too, in the city, that helped a ton, even though it’s

86 illegal and all, and it’s probably a pretty sizable sin. But the bar helped, the bar definitely helped. I digress.

So, I guess that’s really my strongest memory of Barry.

Kind of weird, but, like I said, ignorant guy, I guess. That’s what I thought about, putting my hand on the casket, saying goodbye for the last time. I watched them lower it six feet under. Stood right next to Chris and Chet. I tried my best, but I couldn’t really totally hide it. The smallest imaginable smile came across my lips, but I don’t think anyone saw. Watching them lower the casket, I know it’s terrible, but I felt better.

I mean, if the story weren’t clear enough, Barry was just an ignorant, mistaken guy. Me? God no. I’m Catholic, not like that. So, truth be told, seeing him go down, it felt a little better, like life was back to normal. Yeah, that was it. Normal, and normal felt just that much better, I guess.

87 Lost Man

by Vilas Sogaard-Srikrishnan The tale of this man is one best not pondered by those who have felt true pain before; his unsavory end has been known to lodge itself in the hearts of the best of men and compel them to follow his darkened path. Those without the proper strength of will, those of a heart so anemic as to be incapable of protection from even the most treacherous seduction, hearken not to this story. Return instead to the ordinary. Be grateful for life, love, and what remains. But for those enticed enough to become willing to throw away that joy in their quest for pain, carry on.

His gait seems not to follow a direct path but instead twists through itself; he staggers uncertainly to the left only to overcompensate and fall to the right, teetering at the edge of the cliff--an outlet to the vast and unforgiving Atlantic--, almost as if to let the bitter scent of death revalue life. As he ambles inconsistently, he speaks in the quietest of tones, as if addressing a companion who exists solely in a realm beyond the physical--but who exists without question. His inhuman presence leads bystanders to confusion and to the perverse questioning of his true existence with the result of the assumption of illusion conjured by an unsteady mind; a wandering shadow more tethered to dreams of an intangible world than to anything truly corporeal.

His eyes are glazed over; he transcends this physical plane, writhing in his inescapable despair. With every minute, the world’s cruel knife digs deeper into his barely-beating heart, cutting out more and more, leaving him hollow. The wind bites viciously, but its hateful onslaught fails to faze

88 him--the ruthless essence of the world is no revelation. He has learned in his pain that the only true remedy is to forget, and so he lets his eyes rest closed in a solitary moment of stillness and tranquility. Then her smiling eyes flash across his mind, only for the memory to dissipate as soon as it came, leaving behind only ruin and pain.

“Where are you?” he bellows into the cosmos, tortured by that familiar feeling of loss.

It is in this call, however, as he stares out into the open world, that he notices her--a beautiful bluebird, small and fragile, and with a visage feminine and caring. As the man stares at the creature, longing, she remains settled in the treetops, unperturbed and wise in expression. She locks gaze and begins to sing a melody of untold beauty, an illustration of Nature’s unreplicable genius. The man is caught, his sweet anguish blown away by the graceful flaps of wings as the bird flies closer to him.

“Eliza” he whispers.

Those loving eyes reanimate as that gentle hand touches down on his shoulder. The man seems a different person entirely now; within him could be found a disposition both loving and purposeful--a soul finally recalling a previous life.

He stretches his arm across his body and dances the soft tips of his fingers across the tender plumes that seem to almost extend from his shoulder. Eliza, dressed in the most splendid blue, soft dress, is by his side, as She had always been. She smiles and dances happily, placing each foot perfectly as She pirouettes, glides, stretches towards the horizon, with her beloved husband staring on in devotion.

Eventually, Eliza stops, staring out at the dusking sun.

She walks towards it, eclipsing the distance between herself and the edge. It is only as She approaches the cliff that the

89 man is broken from his trance; he fearfully rushes towards Her, each menacing crash of the ocean spurring him faster against the freezing wind.

Eliza disappears. The man runs quicker, desperately scouring for her presence, for Her beautiful dress. But all he sees is a crow settled on the ground, in the same place where Eliza had been, darker even than the sky around it. Eyes of unbreakable obsidian stare back at him. And then it opens its horrid mouth, letting out a mangled, terrible cry, a profound laugh. It flies away, disappearing into the bleak sky, its voice still echoed in the ruffling of wind-swept leaves.

The sun retreats below the Earth and a gale blows violently. But the man is disinterested. His eyes are glazed and inscrutable, fixed on the horizon. The intrinsic knife stabs into his heart over and over with sadist intent, and the wind whistles a tune of joy. The last vestiges of humanity leave him.

He walks to the end, his stride steady. And then, he falls.

The waves continue to smash against the rock face, eroding it on a scale too drawn out for human comprehension.

The trees grow and the clouds float across the sky. Even the people who see the man step over the edge soon forget in favor of the perpetuation of their routines, their meaningless, endless cycles. And Nature continues.

90 Ascent

by Maron Salame *Part of a series (Randolphine Poems) inspired by the wilderness of Brunswick’s Vermont campus Toiling through the ivory crust of snow and ice which tightly coats the protrusions of the mountain, Callously steep, I trace its ledges and rims.

Supplicating the great mass for the basest soil, trees cling to its jagged outcrops, a deluded effort.

Looking at the rays of the waning sun, Light refracts and recombines in brilliant magentas, blues and greens--fitting pageantry for a dwindling land succumbing to brumal night.

Forcing their limbs to bow to an implacable influence, Snow thickens my steps as a primordial whisper Thins my breath, drawing my soul, repelling my body.

Receding into themselves over the pitched plain of white only the muted conifers endure, interlocked and weaved together like a sparse textile, whose threads become more bare and sparse as I near the top.

And there I finally stand, and I close my eyes.

91 Psithur *

by Maron Salame In the vastness of time we are impermanent fixtures, Which cling to the living landscape like trees; Our bread their soil, our mind their sun, our soul their wind.

Leopold said that at long last only the hills will remember what men have forgotten.

I guess that’s why they say that the hills have eyes.

But without a crown of pine A hill can’t drink from the turquoise sky Or feast on tender bristlecones So if the trees have ears as Bosch said, let me wander up the hill To find myself.

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