BOSTON UNIVERSITY ACADEMY
2020
2020
Editors and Sponsors of The MUSE Members and Editors
Front Cover Art
Emelie Watkins Valls ’20 Steph Gratiano ’20 Maria Levit ’20 Caileen Hayes ’20 Gabe West ’20 Saoirse Killion ’21 Kenzie Urbano ’21 Julia Dickinson ’22 Dorothy Brown ’22 Mell Aguiar ’22 Sabrina Kogan ’22 Sarafina Madden ’22 Audrey Lin ’22 Celeste Alcalay ’22 Sarah Shishko ’22 Sally Jamrog ’23 Amelia Boudreau ’23 Ivy Keldsen ’23 Tatum Mueller ’23
Madison Young ’21
Back Cover Art William Liu ’23
Special Thanks Dr. Rosemary White Ms. Liz Cellucci
Typesetting and Layout Our immense gratitude, as always, to Julie Gallagher, for her generous and beautiful typesetting and layout work. Thank you for making this magazine possible each year, particularly this year, and for sharing your talent with the BUA community.
Faculty Advisors Dr. Lauren Proll Ms. Carly Buckholz
Copyright © 2020 Boston University Academy Boston, Massachusetts
Table of Contents 1
Autumn’s Splendor, Sally Jamrog ’23
2
The Night of the Harvest, Kaeleen Chen ’23
5
Self-portrait, Saoirse Killion ’21
6
Abandonment, Audrey Lin ’22
7
I was on my way home, Emelie Watkins ’20
7
It’s too early for this, Emelie Watkins ’20
8
The twirling seeds of maple trees, Dorothy Brown ’22
9
Botanical Study, Irene Mitsiades ’21
10
Untitled, Dorothy Brown ’23
14
Self-portrait, Kayla Kim ’20
15
On Heaven, Gabe West ’20
16
A thought is not a servant, Dorothy Brown ’22
16
He used to gaze up at the stars, Dorothy Brown ’22
17
Innovation, Dustin Zhang ’22
20
Still Life, Kaiti Filippou ’20
21
The right time, but long distance, Emelie Watkins ’20
22
Waiting Patiently, Julia Dickinson ’22
24
Joli, Saoirse Killion ’21
26
Anatomical Study, Richard Fu ’20
27
Speaking Proper, William Brown ’20
29
Flies, Sally Jamrog ’23
30
Still Life, Leo Wang ’23
iv
31
LGM, Emelie Watkins ’20
32
alphabet soup, Julia Dickinson ’22
33
Master Portrait Study, Angie Zhong ’22
34
The Communists and I, William Brown ’20
38
Self-Portrait, Kasia Perks ’21
39
The Ocean Sings of Tides, Gabe West ’20
39
A Life Ablaze, Gabe West ’20
40
Lua, Milo Simpson ’20
45
Anatomical Study, Aditi Deokar ’21
46
Misty, Saoirse Killion ’21
47
Tacet, Julia Dickinson ’22
48
View Through My Bedroom Window, Rohan Biju ’23
49
Ringing, Steph Gratiano ’20
Editors’ Note It is our pleasure to present to you the 2020 issue of The Muse, Boston University Academy’s annual literary magazine. While this is the first time the magazine has been published in a purely digital format, the time, dedication, and hard work that went into it are no different than those of previous years. This isn’t how any of us expected to be finishing the semester, but we hope that having this year’s Muse might help retain the sense of community we’ve all been fighting to maintain over Zoom, email, and Instagram. We cannot begin to thank the members of this year’s Literary Magazine staff enough for their perseverance. Publication would not have been possible this year unless they stepped up and showed up, and they did so in spades. We’d also like to thank all our extremely talented contributing writers, especially those who responded to our constant emails quickly and with good humor. While the three of us won’t be around to see these artists grow further, we know that such creativity and passion can only lead to great things. In another Muse first, we have two faculty advisors to acknowledge this year. Dr. Lauren Proll, of course, did a phenomenal job guiding the magazine and keeping us on track in the fall semester. She chose her sabbatical semester well. For this hectic spring semester, Ms. Carly Buckholz has done a beyond commendable job at guiding this magazine. When she signed up for this, she obviously had no idea where the year was heading, but she stayed and kept us on top of everything even after the world went sideways. Finally, many thanks to Julie Gallagher, our typesetter, for yet another amazing job, and Ms. Liz Cellucci, for guiding yet another year of astounding visual artists. We’d all like to speak briefly on what The Muse has meant for us personally: While this may be the third and last magazine I, Emelie Watkins, will get to make, it will not be the last I will read. I first came to BUA in 2017 from Puerto Rico after Hurricane Maria, and Lit Mag was one of the first clubs I joined. Dr. Proll, thank you for everything you have done for me since then, and thank you for making my senior fall memorable. Another thank you to my Lit Mag team and Ms. Buckholz for supporting me and producing The Muse during a difficult and unstable quarantine. Emelie Watkins Valls v
Senior year was my first year as a Lit Mag editor, and it sure has been a wild ride. Back in January, we thought Dr. Proll’s temporary departure was a big adjustment; now, we’re publishing the magazine entirely online! Ms. Buckholz’s support has been invaluable during this time. In particular, we appreciate how much she’s pushed us to actually get writing! Simply putting pen to paper and seeing where your mind takes you is an incredibly powerful tool, but also something that’s difficult to find both time and motivation for. Ms. Buckholz has transformed Lit Mag into a space where we can do this, and for that I can’t thank her enough. Her writing prompts, something we now start all our meetings with, have brought me so much renewed joy and enthusiasm for writing: I’ve started to regularly write poetry again, something I’ve been trying to do consistently for years! Especially in these difficult times, writing can be both an outlet for emotions and an escape from our circumstances. Thank you, Ms. Buckholz! Maria Levit
For my first two years at BUA, Lit Mag was as unattainable for me as food and water was for Tantalus. Somehow, a scheduling issue came up without fail, and this has been a recurring problem for me through all four years of my time at BUA. The struggle has been real, and the struggle has been worth it. In an environment that thrives on academic excellence, classes such as Ms. Cellucci’s and clubs such as Lit Mag serve as a refuge for the creative impulses not given much room for expression anywhere else. Is this a tad dramatic? Yes, of course. I’m a Lit Mag editor, and we get to martyr ourselves. Thank you to the staff and teachers who have enabled me in this regard, including Dr. Proll, Ms. Buckholz, and my fellow editors, Maria and Emelie. I hope that readers find this year’s edition of The Muse novel in only its digital format, and recognize the same level of quality and creativity in each piece as in years past. Steph Gratiano
vi
Sally Jamrog ’23
Autumn’s Splendor The air seized my lungs, reminding me of the winter that would proceed. I watched my feet scale the hill, one after another, locked in a steady rhythm. I adjusted my pace, bringing my left foot down a split-second sooner than it had previously. Now they were climbing the hill faster than before; the drum in my chest quickened. I watched as new trees crept into view. I was almost at the top of the hill, a few more minutes until I reached my destination and my long trek would end. An object brushed my nose and I closed my left eye sharply—something was caught in its lashes. I halted my pace and tried to rub the thing out. Blinking furiously, I had to yank off my glove in order to relieve my discomfort. The cold raked my fingers. Another object brushed my bare knuckle. I caught it this time and brought it closer to my line of vision. While most autumn leaves are classified under red, orange, or yellow, this one I could not place. Its veins looked as if they pumped real blood, dark red, across the lamina weaving their way through speckles of orange. Yellow mingled with the red to create a dynamic auburn that grasped the leaf’s margin, drawing focus to its majesty. I let the leaf fall into a cluster of others at my feet. I did not keep walking, but stood there, transfixed as new leaves were added to piles all around me, noticing which colors of leaves came more frequently from certain trees. I resumed my pace, watching as the colorful canopy above my head slowly dissolved into piles at my feet. My foot caught on a crack in the pavement and I stumbled. Abruptly I brought my attention down from the leaves and back to the world in front of me, realizing I was home. I shook off the remaining leaves clinging to my shoelaces and brought my key into my hands. I paused to take a last glance at the trees, acknowledging autumn’s peak. Turning the doorknob, I wrenched my eyes away and continued inside.
1
Kaeleen Chen ’23
The Night of the Harvest The dry oak leaves rustled as they tumbled down the sidewalk, the wind causing them to skid down the road, chasing one another. The night was cold, one of the coldest it had been in a while, but there was still a hint of autumn in the air. It was not quite winter yet. It was dark, but the pale light from the half-moon along with the bright flashlight was enough for her to see. An owl hooted in the distance and the breeze picked up enough to make her shiver. Her teeth chattered and she pulled the fabric tighter around her body. She had thought her thin blue raincoat was enough to block out the cold, but maybe it wasn’t. She picked up her pace. She shouldered her heavy bag as she neared the edge of the road. The chainlink fence rattled and screeched against the pavement as she climbed over the gate and dropped into the quiet woods on the other side, the cold from the metal seeping through her gloves. Just a little farther to home, she thought. The woods were eerie at night, the thick canopy blocking out the light from the moon. Her flashlight beam bobbed around, as it scanned the trees and bushes for motion. The swishing of her sneakers through the thick cover of fallen leaves hid most other sounds in the woods. Suddenly, a twig snapped beneath her shoe, causing her to leap backward in alarm with a muffled gasp. She froze, listening for more noises, but there were none. She let out a breath, collecting herself and letting her heart rate slow from its blinding run, and prepared to continue. The glow of the streetlamp showed her she was close. She rushed forward, relief filling her as she neared the street of her neighborhood. Just as she set foot on the cracked, damp asphalt of Oak Street, she heard a thud behind her and whipped around, her flashlight beam scanning the woods behind her anxiously. Another thud, this time behind her in the direction of the streetlamp. She started to turn, then gasped in surprise as her bag flew open, scattering loose pages down the street. They tumbled down the street, blowing away from her. She cursed, running after the pages, bending to collect them, the fingers of her gloves scraping against the rough asphalt. She neared the next streetlamp to collect the last page. Kneeling, she stuffed it into her bag, switching the flashlight on and dropping it on the ground next to her. A scraping sound startled her, and she grabbed the flashlight, spinning around. A creak sounded and she looked up at the streetlamp, illuminated by the moon behind it. Another creak sounded and her breathing sped up, terror gripping her limbs. The 2
streetlamp beside her flickered briefly, then went out. She gasped, then clasped her hands over her mouth as the next and the next streetlamps down the street flickered, then went out. She frantically switched the flashlight back on, surprised that it worked. A low growl sounded somewhere near. Twisting around desperately, she shone the flashlight, trying to find out where the sound came from. The darkness felt as if it was seeping into the edges of her vision; panic set in. Her heart was pounding, thrumming inside her rib cage. Her breathing sped up, fear flashing through her. She trembled, goosebumps prickling up her arms. Laughter sounded in the distance. Her hand shook, the flashlight beam wobbling. Dark shapes flickered near the edges of her peripheral vision. Footsteps sounded, drawing closer and closer and closer. She willed herself to move, run, but she was frozen in terror, hearing the footsteps grow louder and louder, closer and closer. When it seemed as if the sound was palpable, she finally managed to turn and break out in a run, bolting up the street, as fast as her legs could carry her, the flashlight beam frantically waving back and forth, a scream bubbling in her throat. Running blind, barely able to see in front of her. The adrenaline coursing through her veins and terror pumping through her made her shake. She tripped, tumbling head over heels onto the hard pavement. She tried to get up but was unable to, lying there, gasping for breath, trying to gather the little strength she had left. The noises, the thing, whatever it was, seemed to have vanished. She breathed out a sigh of relief, coughing into the cold air as the acute pain in her chest disappeared. She shakily pulled herself up from the ground, letting her heart rate slow. Safe. At last. That was when something grasped her shoulder: a clawed, bony hand with sallow skin stretched tightly over the bones, the yellow, twisted nails digging into the fabric of her blue raincoat. An ear-splitting shriek cut short . . . Heavy breathing . . . Laughter ringing out . . . A child’s high-pitched cry . . . The sound of something being dragged . . . . 3
But the silence that followed was louder than what had come before. *** The next morning, when the sun rose in the now clear sky, there was no trace of anything that had happened the night before. Except in the wet grass next to the pavement, a little flag of ripped blue fabric which was snagged on a twig, fluttering gently in the breeze.
4
Saoirse Killion ’21
Self-portrait
5
Audrey Lin ’22
Abandonment The sun grows dark and the days grow cold, As people lose faith in the tales of old. The starlight falls, a shadow born; The battlefield cries, the call of the storm. Despair gathers in the eyes of the old, A companion lost, a memory sold. The mist still rises, the shadows grow deep, And ill will gathers in the heart of your sleep. Loneliness exists in a part of my soul, And none will be left when my story is told: An abandoned village, a desolate stream, Naught but a soul, friends but a dream. I wander in this wilderness all alone, My voice but a whisper: “I want to go home.”
6
Emelie Watkins ’20
I was on my way home. One Mississippi . . . I have to clarify, while stranded In the orange shade of lamplight. Two Mississippi . . . That I am caught in consciousness. I don’t seem to be going anywhere. But I still find that my surroundings Are completely different. Three Mississippi . . . When you cry in public, people Will choose to ignore and avoid Rather than confront your salty Blindness.
It’s too early for this. The sun is rising. Your eyes waver. The horizon sways like a drunkard. You watch his sick.
7
Dorothy Brown ’22
The twirling seeds of maple trees The twirling seeds of maple trees Fall to the cold concrete. They burrow in the rotting leaves, And beneath the snow they sleep. With tender shoots of hopeful green They raise their heads in spring, Soon learning that the sidewalk will not Care for living things. It saddens me to see them die To blossom nevermore; I must remember they are saplings, Nothing more.
8
Irene Mitsiades ’21
Botanical Study
9
Dorothy Brown ’23
Untitled A man stood on a subway platform. He wore a dark blue windbreaker over a light gray shirt and had a black backpack on his shoulders. He was staring at his phone, waiting for the train. The platform was, as it had always been, dingy, filthy, and crowded. The red and white tiles were smudged with the dust and grime of a thousand commuters who had shuffled through the station that day. Though the area was well lit, the white light seemed just as dirty as the places it illuminated. The piles of litter that had accumulated on the track blew about as a train grinded to a stop, the brakes fighting the inertia of its hundreds of silent, indifferent passengers. The man’s eyes wandered up to the arriving train, and then back to his screen as he stood at the side of an opening door. His face was fixed in a blank, slightly tense look to match the crowd around him. Not that he took much notice of them as he boarded the train, or as it slowly struggled into motion again. A door down, a woman walked onto the train. She was a strange sight on the subway, every bit as filthy and unkempt as the station, though perhaps a little wilder. Her pale, limp hair hung unbrushed and untied about the sides of her wax-white face, and her clothes were loose, unwashed, and colorless. She looked over the heads of the people and stared up and down the train with intense eyes that swept across the crowd for only a moment, until they rested on the man at the end of the car. She walked towards the man, and the passengers moved out of her way without objection, never looking at her, never acknowledging her existence except to shift and let her pass by. She seemed to stumble, lurching through the train with uneven, yet not unbalanced, motions. When she reached the man, she simply stood, her eyes fixed on him, as if reading a story. For a long time, she stood there, until slowly, slowly, she lifted her thin, grubby hand from her side and moved it towards the man. The fingers reached hungrily out, until they rested on the phone, her hand covering the light for just a moment. Her harsh eyes closed, and her chest rose as if she were breathing in some wonderful scent. The man did not react to her presence or the hand she had reached out. He did not move his eyes from his phone until she had let her hand fall back to her side, 10
something small and bright held gently between two fingers, and walked off the train, turning her gaze away, and disappearing. Another day, this one cold and rainy, and the man sat in his car. The sky was all one shade of gray, never varying, with no sign to show where the sun was. The rain fell in a vague, undecided mist that soaked the ground silently, without the patter of drops or a whisper of thunder. The air was heavy and close, stirred by a soft, uneasy wind. The man put his bag in the back of the car and pulled out onto the road without a sound. The car slowly moved through the streets, the rumbling of its engine blending with the constant din of morning traffic, but he could not hear the rumble of the cars; two small black devices rested snugly in his ears, buzzing music to drive away the sounds of the world. Their constant humming filled his mind as his hands and feet jerked mechanically to operate the brakes and steering wheel. The words and notes sank into the gray of the sky and mixed with the lurching of the traffic, adding another layer to the monotony of the drive. Beside him was the woman. She was kneeling on the passenger seat, facing him, her head slightly tilted, as if in thought. Her face was expressionless, and her hands folded in her lap. Her black eyes were fixed intently on the man’s face and on the humming device in his ear. Then, slowly and quietly, her hand moved towards it; the dark veins on her wrist stood out against her sallow skin, and her movements were slow and steady, as though she might startle the man with a sudden move. If he noticed her, or knew she was there, he gave no indication of it. She stretched out a finger and gently touched the small black device, feeling its small vibrations. Then her arm dropped to her side, and for just a moment there was a tiny gleam in her hand as though she were holding a small, glowing diamond. Her face never moved, but her eyes were satisfied, even triumphant. The car halted for a moment, and the woman stood and left, never looking back. It was night, windy and dark under a city sky. The man was in his apartment, sitting in his living room, his head in his hands. A streetlight shone palely through the window, but none of the lamps were lit. The darkness clung to the walls, hid in the corners, and crowded around the man. The living room was a mess, papers and trash 11
scattered about and crammed into nooks and crannies, dishes lying on the desk and table, and the man’s black bag dumped on the floor. The man had kept the lights off so that he couldn’t see these things, and he was trying desperately not to think about them either, but the thin curtains could not block all the illumination of the streetlight. It filtered mercilessly into the room. The woman was there, standing in the corner. This time, she seemed almost agitated; her cold face gave off an anxious energy, and her breath came quickly. She was waiting, her eyes fixed unblinking, unmoving, but alive and bright with eagerness. The man’s shoulders trembled, almost imperceptibly, and a small tear escaped from the tangle of his eyelashes, out from behind his hands, and rolled down his cheek, where it stayed, glistening. The woman moved, like a lioness padding her way gently through the grass, placing each foot silently, deftly on the floor, not making a single noise, and barely breathing. She slipped across the living room until she stood next to the man, and, for the final time, stretched out her hand. As she touched the tear it began to shine with a faint light, cleaner than the dingy light of the train station, more vivid than the gray light of the cloudy morning, and richer than the streetlights that shone through the window. As she gently picked up the tear, the light became brighter and brighter, making her eyes water as she gazed, fascinated, at it. It was no longer water, but a small, clear stone, lit up by some inner energy that pulsed frantically in her cupped hands. She put her dry, colorless lips to the stone, kissing it, and as she drew away, the light faded and died, leaving only an empty, glassy bead in her palm. Her mouth curled into a smile that lay across her face like the jagged slash of a dagger; the air of subtlety and secrecy dropped away easily, and she straightened, her eyes glittering with malice and victory. She tilted her head, and her filthy hair fell away from her face, and down her back. Her laughter began as an ominous rumble in her throat, rising higher and louder, until the piercing shrill of her laugh filled the whole room, sending a shiver through the air. The glass bead dropped and shattered on the floor, melting away without leaving a single shard or speck to show that it had ever existed. She smiled down one last time at the man, and then turned and left the silent room. She had what she wanted and would never come again. 12
The man had become very still, and after a few moments of silence he lifted his head, turning on the lamps and looking at the room, without a flicker of emotion reflected in his face. He walked past the mess and the shreds of his life that lay scattered throughout the room, not glancing at them, going to his room and shutting the door behind him. He went to sleep easily, and his slumber was unbroken by dreams.
13
Kayla Kim ’20
Self-portrait
14
Gabe West ’20
On Heaven I hope that when I die, I die. “But wait!” they all decry, “How could you wish for such a thing? Now, surely, you must lie.” “Yes, surely I will lie,” I sigh, “and there I hope to die.” I do not want a second act and here’s my reason why: When I was raised a Catholic child, this wisdom they’d impart, that living might be nice at times, but dying was an art. For if you died correctly, then with sacred soul and heart, the earth replaced with heaven’s gates; you’d have a second start. And for a second this new start was something to admire, or else be cast to everlasting suffering in fire. The rules I feared and so adhered could bring me to the goal, and maybe with due penance could the savior save my soul. The problem with this calculus is that the final breath might not be representative of any of the rest. I pray that life is not a chore rewarded with an end, but something that while granted once you’d choose to do again.
15
Dorothy Brown ’22
A thought is not a servant A thought is not a servant Waiting at our beck and call; A thought is like an orchard’s fruit, that flowers, ripens, falls. If plucked too soon, it’s bitter still As hard as lifeless stone. If seen too late it falls and rots, Its precious taste unknown.
He used to gaze up at the stars He used to gaze up at the stars And marvel at their glow. He set his mind upon the skies And never looked below. So taken was he with their shine, Their purest radiance, He never saw the distance vast, Their cold indifference.
16
Dustin Zhang ’22
Innovation 2060 Ding! He felt the pleasant sensation of an awakening. The sunlight shone upon his blankets, the curtains having opened upon the approach of dawn. He took off his headset and glanced at the time. 6:45? Oh, right, he had a meeting this morning! He hurriedly put on his suit and brushed his teeth, thankful that that headset had worked; it normally did, but after all, there was always that one-percent chance. He could already smell the scent of freshly fried eggs and toast. Downstairs, he scooped his finished breakfast out of the pan on the stovetop, relishing its taste, its consistency, everything about it. He decided to grab a cup of coffee as well; he pulled out the screen and swiped through all the options, before settling on a decaf. As the coffee began pouring into the paper cup, he anticipated the sensation of the warm drink flowing through his system, revitalizing him, preparing him for the meeting to come. If only the coffee maker could be like all his other appliances and automatically predict his preferences based on his habits and patterns . . . but oh well, one can’t have everything, he supposed. Once he had finished eating, he brushed himself off, grabbed his papers and his keys, and walked out the door, which locked behind him and sent a signal to the rest of the house to begin cleaning. The sleek car in his driveway opened its doors, sensing the presence of its owner, and he climbed in. The prompt came up: [Suggested destination: Office?]. He tapped yes and leaned back in the comfortable seat as the engine came to life and the car backed out of the driveway, sending him onwards towards the rest of his day. 2100 The late morning sun was the first thing he saw as he peacefully arose from the depths of his slumber. The back of his portable movement device rose up, bringing him into a sitting position. A screen lowered from the ceiling above him; [Reminder: You have a meeting today in 1 hour.] His toothbrush, toothpaste already on it, was placed into his palm, and he quickly brushed his teeth. 17
The device wheeled him down the hall to the kitchen. He could smell the freshly cooked bacon and toast from his bedroom, and the sight of breakfast made his mouth water. He reached out to pick up the pan and place it on the tray that had extended out in front of him, before grabbing a fork and commencing eating. [Coffee?] the screen on the tray inquired, and he selected a grateful yes, waiting for his favorite mocha to begin pouring into the paper cup. In the meantime, the TV in the corner played the news. “ . . . and developers at HaiTech Industries say they’re creating a new device that, as they put it, will ’completely revolutionize our day-to-day lives.’ We’ve heard that hundreds of times by now, but this time, they say, they do have a concrete plan . . . ” More revolutionary technology? With the smart homes of the 50’s and the portable movement devices of now, the concept of yet unmade technology that could still cause change seemed alien to him. It was as if mankind had hit some cosmic limit, some boundary on how easy they could make daily life, some final extremity beyond which they could advance no more. Had they made machines do all that machines could do for them? Was innovation finite? He shrugged. It wasn’t the time to think about such lofty things. He turned back to one of his many screens and within a few moments was loading into his virtual workspace. 2120 8:00 AM He awoke in a beautiful garden of red roses. The hyper-realistic flowers swayed in the simulated wind that tenderly brushed against him. A few months ago, he would have been in a small office building, laboring over something he didn’t care about; the rapid advent of FullImmersion™ had taken everyone by surprise. When HaiTech had first announced it, everyone had scoffed at the idea. But then, almost overnight, hundreds of millions of orders from all around the world had been placed. And now . . . He felt like he could stay in this Eden forever; never hungering, never thirsting, never tiring—the machines catered to all his needs. And there was nothing back in the real world that needed him. Everyone he knew or cared about was plugged in; the global economy was run by artificial intelligences that took care of everything; there was just no point in doing anything but enjoying himself in this imaginary world. 18
Hey, man! His friend came running up to him. You want to hang out for a bit? Yeah sure, he responded. What do you want to do? 2200 He lived in a blissful haze of colors and grays, days and nights, happiness and happiness and happiness. He had not a single care in the world; after all, what was there to care about now? The machines took care of everything. Food? Nutrients pumped into the bloodstream. Sleep? Neural implants simulating its function. Interactions with others? Cleverly timed dopamine releases. Thinking? Too much work; why think one’s own thoughts, when one could just live one’s entire life in heaven, detached from pain, detached from the real world, detached even from the self? The visionaries in the big corporations all foresaw this, knew that this was the logical next step as countless devices and gadgets simplified the human life more and more, as transportation, cooking, cleaning, walking, talking, awakening, all became obsolete, too wasteful of time, too mundane for a mere human to do. And now . . . oblivion, the sweet and pure nectar of happiness happiness happiness. A pinprick, far up in the sky. Perhaps the machines saw it. Perhaps they conferred with each other about it. A marble. An orange. And then a blinding flash and searing heat and a deafening clamor as billions of eyes and ears and voices were all screaming in agonizing pain and billions of names drifted through the air and then it was all dark. As dark as it was in the beginning.
19
Kaiti Filippou ’20
Still Life
20
Emelie Watkins ’20
The right time, but long distance My fingers are dancing like bees, grasping this water bottle while they can’t breathe. Could I, a crumb, find the air they need? Or am I stuck on the plate doomed for the drain? My demise, I presume, is far away. But it seems that I meet Death each passing day. While I play with the bees, she chases them away. I’ve walked past her and winked (did you just wink at me?). But she’s not really having it. I wrap my arms around me and crinkle the sides of my shirt. I hold her hands that constrict me. It’s tight, but I can squirm, it’s not that bad. Her gaze unsettles the bees. The bees in my heart keep me awake at night, but I let them work me freely to soothe the frostbitten pain in my right lung. I am their hive. Death evades my flirting. Maybe she has an allergy. But during the beeloving weather, I find a lily of the valley to show me that, perhaps, she is not the one for me. He is a flower, a boy who pushes my pillows into the form of hearts and balances me away from Death’s edge. He inspires a gentle pain that strangles my heart to the tune of his perfume. Our intimacy drips down my dreams. I hope that he catches my snores on the south wind in the coming season. From my sleeping mouth dribbles a current for him to follow. I await the dawn of our next meeting, where the bees and I wake to see him again.
21
Julia Dickinson ’22
Waiting Patiently Drip . . . I wait patiently, watching the smoke evaporate into the night. Drip . . . Lights pass, whizzing by in red and gold. The wind tickles me with his freezing fingers, And the leaves rustle beneath the full moon. Drip . . . The bus I meant to take comes and goes, But I stay in my place. I never color outside the lines. Drip . . . A figure emerges from the foggy darkness And floats to my resting place. I am frozen, both from cold and fear of what is to come. Sirens start wailing in the distance. Their power grows each second. Drip . . . The figure stalls, observing the statue I have become. I can see a face, a man’s, unfavored by age. His icy blue eyes pierce my soul. My nerves come alive. I have not felt this way in years. Drip . . . An invisible hand engraves words on stone. I fill with delight as I understand the meaning. The man falls into my embrace, And we touch until the sky splits. My hands remember his hands Although his have more memories now. Drip . . . He hears the water roll off the branch and hit itself, For it desires, like us, to become one. Reaching up, he brushes aside the branch That has watered me for many days. I am warmer than I have been since summer. He’s had hard 20 years without me 22
Although he’s visited nearly every day. To hold his hand again is a joy, Yet our reunion brings others much sorrow. Some people say death breaks people, But it also brings those we love closer.
23
Saoirse Killion ’21
Joli pretty with his siren eyes, he assumes a languid pose by rich candlelight, letting his fingertips rest gently on the bruised apricots and rotting cherries sulking in the kitchen fruit bowl. “Putridity” he jots down in his yellowing notebook. His script is half cursive, half print: pretty. Carefully his fingers glide across the vague spherical shapes, and he places his quill between parted pink lips, sighing. He knows every strange contour, every imperfection so well. So well it’s unsettling. I thought he was a Romantic but I found him perusing endless volumes of chemical structures and anatomy late last night. he’s pretty, studying everything with an acute and apathetic eye. He says few words to me, yet each one I cherish like the cherry blossom petals he presses between translucent dictionary pages. He says they’re for study—botany— I wish I could convince myself otherwise. He caresses the paper-thin florets tenderly, caring sweetly for (sweet) nothings, noting how the pink fades to brown along the feathery edges. He copies down a reaction, then sketches the flower petals meticulously. That much detail: it could be artistic! Pensive and quiet, he wades carefully through his analyses. By the kitchen candlelight I fall for him. he looks at me, so prettily, closes his textbook and places down his quill. There’s a fine stroke of ink lining his lips, melting into lavender in the deep depressions of his sour mouth. Pinpricks of starlight threaten the thin cotton drapes He vainly concealed his studies with. He takes a delicate, pretty sip of cold midnight tea. 24
His lips are alive, cherry red, soft enough to whisper lyric poesie in a lover’s ear while the critics’ judgement sleeps. His eyes are soft amber, but as I struggle to define him through tendrils of faint candlelight, they seem full of the darkest fire. I can’t control my heart’s impulse anymore. “What are you doing?” to me? Stain your pages with the most easily enchanting love sonnets, even if they’re not for anyone. As I close my mouth and wait, he says something inaudible with a tight smile of acknowledgment. (it doesn’t reach his pretty eyes) Nods briefly in my direction, (I fancy it’s a lingering gaze) and resumes his studies quietly.
25
Richard Fu ’20
Anatomical Study
26
William Brown ’20
Speaking Proper In Rome, see, which is always my motto—my motto is, a decent chap does what the folks about him, Romans in this case, are doing. Those Romans spoke Latin, which was a nice thing to speak, as it is a dead language and all. I hear tell those dead languages are real fond of being spoken. Anyway, the Romans spoke Latin. That we can’t deny. But what my friends spoke back in high school is another thing again, and I reckon even Dr. Jewell, who beats out the Pope in speaking Latin, couldn’t hardly decline a word of what those fellows said. Those chaps at school spoke a language of con-siderablesubtleness. I learned to speak that way too, which was a mile worse than Greek, alphabet and all. But I tell you, there was common ground all around, between the lingo at the Academy and the lingo at the Academy. Greek, see, has a great many particles. That was the trick with the new lingo too, the one my friends spoke—it had particles up to heaven and then a few. Only in the new way of speaking, which I was learning real quick for a language, and a living one too, which could fight back if it was cornered—the new way was more about those particles than the other words. Nope, there was no real dearth—I say, no dearth whatever—of particles in that lingo. I learned to use those particles too, and my words, which before were in a bad way without hardly a particle anywhere, soon waxed more particulate than I knew what to do with. I surprised a great many folks with the particulacy of my goings-on. Greek has a deal of conjugation, too, and believe me there was conjugation in this New Deal language as well, yes sir, more than I expected. Well, I learned how to say all that too. I was feeling pretty chuffed about it, being a quick study and all. There was a couple subjunctives also, which I broke out a few times, but my parent or guardian said if she heard me let loose with another subjunctive like that I could just as well pack up and apply for the orphan’s home. So I gave up on the subjunctives, which was OK. I wasn’t real fond of those subjunctive sentiments, which didn’t seem too neighborly to me. Well, I got pretty good at this jargon and all, and I figured it seemed all right, even if I couldn’t bust out with any subjunctives. So I figured I’d try out my stuff the next chance I got. It came pretty soon, as a matter of fact. I was hitching a lift, see, with the folks on the MBTA, which always were real kind about letting me ride with them. My foot had an altercation 27
with another foot, and my foot came out on top. That was all right; and even better, the chap doesn’t even hardly mind the altercation, he just launches out into some particles. Well, I was pleased better than a Wurst at Oktoberfest to hear my friend speak my new language, so I start right in with some particles of my own. We started up a regular conversation on that trolley, and a few folks around us joined in, and didn’t stint on the particles either. Anyway, we got so cordial, what with a few subjunctives and all, that one chap gave another a token of his esteem. Well, that was fine, so he gave him some esteem right back, and pretty soon there was esteem all over. Then the conductor, he stopped by, since he wasn’t about to miss out on the good feelings being spread abroad back in that trolley. He contributed some good feelings of his own, and it got pretty warm back there, what with the high esteem flying around. I got some high esteem right in the eye, which was when I decided I had had enough cordiality for that day. But I got some real practice with those particles.
28
Sally Jamrog ’23
Flies Sometimes my thoughts crowd my tongue. I feel them there. Yet I open my mouth to speak, And they’re gone. The frog in my throat has swallowed them.
29
Leo Wang ’23
Still Life
30
Emelie Watkins ’20
LGM Returning to the conversations between my Colossal hands, I notice their florid cheeks Caught in an argument with each other. El Greco’s painting in the corner, perhaps, Is a tragic end to The Left Grotesque Moth’s career. His home was thrown together with Midas’ touch. And as my hands argued, their words melted Into a ghostly murmur. Reduced to echolalia, their fracas Combusted into A cloud of disappointing Powder. I pictured The Left Grotesque Moth’s features. True to his name, his serpent eyes glittered In my memories in a hideous fashion. He Reminded me of the moon’s pasquinade On Hideousy, quite a gorgeous speech. My brain Faltered to be positively languid amongst the party folk. I looked to the moon. A featured art piece. His mouth sucked in the nearest star, and after A further breathy hauteur, he released a thick Veil of wealth among the sky, even though It glittered enough as it was. I turned my Attention to my hands, still caught in a fractious Debacle, and slowly drifted again to my Uncle’s caravansary. The memory of our travels was dipped in a green sauce, that I can’t place. The color so unique, that it doesn’t match the others.
31
Julia Dickinson ’22
alphabet soup i was hosting a raging party when i saw h e r dancing. i asked to join, and the b o y did too. everyone was invited except for u. i forgot u. overcome with sorrow i called u. u came, and all the alphabet could party as 1.
32
Angie Zhong ’22
Master Portrait Study
33
William Brown ’20
The Communists and I Once a friend of mine, Bill, he asked me—over a beer, which is the best way—whether I had ever been mixed up in any politics. I told him frankly I hadn’t, except one time, back in high school—that time, you could say there were some politics, although it wasn’t my fault, not by a mile. There was a powwow or something—I guess they called it an activity fair, though I never yet saw a fair without a game or two, which is, customarily speaking, what makes it fair. So they had a fair. That’s fine with me, because if the headmaster wants to have a fair, I’ll go to any fair you please. I’m a pretty cool customer, a real Stoic type. I was A-O-K with as many fairs as you like, even if they hadn’t so much as corn-hole, which a decent man will always have at a fair. So I got to the fair, which is my part of the bargain, and I looked around to see what was doing. It turned out my part of the bargain wasn’t yet halfway done. Activity fairs, I must say, are not my cup of tea, and that’s a fact. There were some tables up, and folks behind them, and I didn’t want to be unsociable, because it didn’t hardly behoove me, a decent chap and a student and all. I get up to this table, where there is a paper with some signatures. Well, so. I’ve seen a lot of signatures in my time. I’ve pulled a few signatures myself, too. Turns out I was about to pull a few more, probably more than John Hancock, even. These folks at the table want me to sign. I’m a pretty cool hand, as I said before. I don’t ever back down, and that’s the truth, and anyone who wants to say otherwise should think with some profundity whether this might be best for peace and the brotherhood of man. Well, I signed the paper. I was real surprised how few signatures pre-ceded mine. It doesn’t seem half decent, to let these folks down, when they want you to sign some paper. It’s not even difficult, hardly. I once had some diffidence about my signature, and writing it, but that’s all patched over now. I can dash out my signature in no time flat. Seeing it was so easy, I didn’t see why I shouldn’t sign. Understanding, however, was about to dawn on me. The sun of wisdom had sent rose-digited dawn a haymaker, and Aurora was sprawled out all over my mind, in the form of a profound suspicion. I reckoned there might be something more to this signature of mine. Yes sir, enlightenment was coming my way, but fast. I didn’t hardly have time to duck. It turned out the next table had a paper too, and a place for names, and emails. I didn’t want to disappoint the good folks behind this table, so I broke out my signature for them, and felt practically 34
philanthropic. Of tables, I say, there weren’t a few. When I was through my signature had hung up his spurs and retired, and I didn’t know when I’d sign anything again. But I felt real good about making those folks behind the tables happy, which is what an obliging, stoic chap like me ought to do. Well, all I can say is, a fellow can get in quite a scrape at an activity fair, cornhole or no. Enlightenment hit me that evening, gloves off and everything, brass knuckles too. I got an email from the fencing club. That club was the first club which Enlightenment beat me with. I didn’t hardly survive my brush with discovery. Well, these good folks at the club said I had practice at 5:00 PM the next day, which was a fine how-doyou-do, because generally I like getting home at 4:00 or so. How do you like that, telling a man he has practice before you’ve so much as asked him if he doesn’t like to get home early on Fridays? Fortunately, I’m an imperturbable sort, which was a quality tested but sorely in what came after that. Anyhow, I wrote to the coach, which is what he called himself, which was fine with me, because he can call himself what he likes, though it doesn’t make it true—well, I wrote him I didn’t know a sabre from a cheese knife, but if he liked me to get there at 5:00, I’d no objection. But that wasn’t the end, not by a Swiss kilometer, because by the end of that day I’d got more emails than Santa Claus and got booked worse than Alexandria’s librarian. Some things, I believe with every ventricle of my heart, are beyond the poor comprehension of man. There are inscrutable elements out there, friends, and I’ve met them personally. I tried to scrute my calendar every way from Sunday, and I tell you the whole thing was anything but scrutable. I couldn’t fathom it, no sir; my plumb line plumb quit. But even for a Stoical variety like myself, the Communists were a bridge too far and then some. They sent me an email too. They had their Cominterns at 11:00 in the cafeteria back then, all three of them, myself included. Well, I sat down real easy with my peanut butter sandwich—the other Communists had bought lunch at the café—that first day, and they—it was a boy, see, and a girl, real equitable till I came along, but oh well, they didn’t mind the inequality I introduced—and they say to me real confident, “Welcome, comrade.” And I say, “Hullo there.” 35
Anyway, I don’t know if that was right, but they didn’t seem to care too much, which is the right way to be. We ate a while, and they said they could explain what they were about. They seemed like they wanted to talk, so I gave them the go-ahead. It turned out they were about feeding the hungry and lodging the homeless and washing the unwashed and practically fixing up everything on God’s green earth to be just right and better than ever. I think they were thinking of giving lions grass to eat. That was all right with me. If they wanted to help a few folks, that sounded pretty fine. I felt I could get along pretty well with these Communists. Then the trouble began, though I know it wasn’t my fault. It was a pretty sudden thing. I was plowing along like I always do, and waxing intelligent about the poor man, and they let loose with some real unfriendly sentiments. It wasn’t about me, just yet. They said they’d like to avail themselves of the rich man’s money, without having asked him about it. That didn’t sit right with me, and I said so. It doesn’t seem like the sort of thing a decent chap does, taking folks’ money without holding a little consultation first, to make sure it’s all above board. I said if I had a bundle of money, which I didn’t, I wouldn’t mind keeping it, unless I decided not to keep it. All I can say is, that was a proper mistake. I consider myself an imperturbable type, but what happened next was not the sort of thing to leave a man unperturbed. Perturbations became a pretty common thing in that cafeteria, actually, for 15 minutes or so. They asked why I hated the poor, which was a fine hello. I reckoned I wasn’t about hating anyone, except maybe if they hated me first. Well, they said that rich folks were thieves all the way down, and I said that I didn’t know any rich people, excepting most of the people at the school, and they seemed honest enough, if we set aside a test or two. But when a student’s in a tough spot about a test, what’s he going to do? Me, I never did anything on an exam but what I came up with myself, but I wasn’t really about getting top grades, which was probably just as well for everyone. I felt pretty bad about it, because after all I didn’t want to put on airs and be better than everyone else by sticking to my own head, but the fact is I was never bright enough to pull any tricks on my exams. Let me just say, that after what ensued, which I will not describe, since there may be ladies present, and I wouldn’t recount what occurred between myself and the Communists in the presence of ladies, not for a million dollars—anyway, I was not about to go back. The Communists and I were just about through, at that point. Next semester though, I got an email 36
from the school authorities. It seems like my friends in the Communist club had forgot to purge their party rosters, as they say, and I was on the list. Well, the old two were quitting the party, as my other friends, who were always in the know—deep in the know, I mean—told me. The old Communists thought colleges might disapprove of their susceptibilities, communism-wise. So they left me with the club. I tell you, Bill, it was a time of change for Communism, once I got my hands on it. I wasn’t much fond of the taking money without consulting anyone, but I kept the bits about helping the poor man. After that we had a collection every year, and gave it to some poor folks I knew. I think we did Communism a real good turn, that way, and membership was up, too. The old guard didn’t show up much anymore, which was too bad. I think they meant well, all in all. But I can’t deny that there were fewer perturbations without them. In the meantime, I still had my schedule to attend to, which I couldn’t no way reconcile with logic—Euclidean logic, anyway. But may I say that it all came out all right in the end, because, when Southeastern Oklahoma State let me in, their man said he hadn’t hardly ever seen a student with so many extracurriculars, and plainly I was a man to be reckoned with, even if my grades were of the middling sort. Well, all that goes to prove that things work out when you’re a decent and obliging kind of person. I could have got better grades, for sure, no sweat, but I didn’t want to make the simple folks feel bad, and it was on a curve to boot. It’s not a good sort of chap who gets good grades in a state of affairs like that. So I got in with some politics for a while, I guess, but it turned out OK, for me and Communism both.
37
Kasia Perks ’21
Self-Portrait
38
Gabe West ’20
The Ocean Sings of Tides The ocean is an honest soul, who, singing to the land, Leaves many seashell promises and pebbles in the sand. And to this whispered melody the land begins to cry, So in return the ocean earns a river in reply.
A Life Ablaze To live a life ablaze is just to know The cold discomfort of the amber glow.
39
Milo Simpson ’20
Lua “A full moon is poison to some; they shut it out at every crevice, and do not suffer a ray to cross them; it has a chemical or magical effect; it sickens them. But I am never more free and royal than when the subtle celerity of its magic combinations, whatever they are, is at work.” —Harriet Prescott Spofford, The Amber Gods and Other Stories
The moon is watching. Her gaze filters, watery and pale, through the dark, casting blotchy shadows into Randell’s bedroom as it passes between the drapes. His gangly adolescent body is stretched out on top of his sheets, spread-eagle and restless. There is an itch crawling beneath his skin, in sweaty palms and shallow breaths. The merle shadows of his bookshelf and his closet are vague through the tired veil of his lashes, seen through half-lidded eyes. He can’t sleep, so he stares at the indistinct expanse of his bedroom wall instead. It’s painted cornflower blue, and a poster for some police procedural from his father’s childhood is tacked above the squat bureau. All of his clothes are rumpled in his laundry basket instead of folded inside. Something foreign is inside him, dragging a hook through his innards and making him feel sick and fitful. The light slipping into the room is hot on his skin, needling him with countless little claws when it scrapes against him. His door is shut, window too, and that makes him feel oddly confined. He doesn’t know what, but something isn’t right. Despite everything, the feeling is not menacing or foreboding; merely uncomfortable. He doesn’t resist it. It tugs at him from within and, like ink into water, he slides into himself beneath the fervent kiss of the moonlight. She sings to him, lilting and slow. His paws hit the floor when he rolls off the bed. Oren knocks back another glass with trembling hands. His vision has started to swim, but the warm rush of alcohol keeps him drinking. And drinking and drinking so he can sleep. The photo of Ana stares back at him, frozen in an amber-lit memory. 40
She was tall and lean with tight curls and laughing blue eyes like gems. He thinks she looked like an angel, even during full moons; the spectacle of her, unearthly, graceful, drew him in from the start and never let go. As a wolf, Ana was all rippling muscle beneath her dense coat, fangs as long as his fingers; predatory by design, and yet she was so thoroughly gentle it made him shiver. She would put her wet nose to his and tell him with her eyes, so big and brilliant, that she loved him, even like this. She would sing to him, throaty and canine, until the moon slid beneath the distant sea and the wolf left her asleep in his arms. He loved her, too. The bitter ache of a sob rises in his throat—Randell was only a toddler when she vanished. Before then, she had rubbed her pregnant belly and sung stories to their boy, whispered fables of the Great Old Ones that lent their brilliance to the wolves and birthed their people. He was a piece of something bigger, she promised, to Randell and Oren alike. The child indulged in the adoring lilt of her lullabies for only an instant, the long minute between infancy and first words; an amniotic haze of childhood closeness that he will never fully remember. He won’t remember her. That thought latches on and pulls a hiccup from him, drawing up a soft cry as he buries his face in his hands. They say time heals, but every year it only seems to get worse—the hollowness of grief only yawns deeper, and Oren doesn’t know what to do. Not with a kid like this. He cannot carry Ana’s culture along, can’t pass it down to Randell. Not without her. He has waited for his son’s first wolf-night from the moment of his birth—at first with anxious eagerness, but now terror claws at his heart. There is nothing he can do to guide him, not through something as intuitive as a werewolf’s dreamy shift—but Randell is of age. It is coming. There’s a market for werewolf parts, he knows. Luxurious pelts that bring good luck, ground-up claws for strength, tooth-charms for profit, diluted blood to cure all manner of ails. There is no proof, and no one is willing to chase it, but Oren is certain that they took Ana from him. He quivers at the thought of Randell being claimed, too.
41
His senses assault him, bleeding together despite the startling clarity of their newfound intensity. Randell gathers all four limbs beneath him, balanced on his fingers, and feels something well up deep within him— something primal, perhaps, muscle-memorized instinct that draws his gaze to the moon. Her light shines brilliantly blue through the window, all else muted into a haze of stark sepia in the dark. The moon sings to him, urges him awake, and he takes command of his alien body to move. Warmth suffuses him; he feels safe, cradled by whispers that rain from the night sky, a shower of indistinct sensation—it makes him understand. Lapping waves of caramelsweet comfort wash over him, snug and heavy like sleep. He can scent thick warmth in the immediate air, spiced by a thin chill of the city that creeps through the cracks in the window frame. Randell lifts his head, parting his jaws to more acutely taste the air; beneath the door he smells the stagnant must of carpet, lingering traces of sour stovetops and citrus bathroom cleaner—and something else. He rears up onto his hind legs, curling his dexterous forepaws around the doorknob and yanking. The return to resting stance jars his shoulders, but his door’s open now, and he stalks forth onto the landing. The foreign aria of the moon impresses upon him her devotion, bittersweet regret opposed by the undying bond of their blood. The other house-smells are thicker, unobstructed, but through the aimless mesquite of home that last metal-sharp stink cuts the air, making Randell’s eyes water painfully. His heart thuds in time with the mourning of the moon. The low throb of the heating system is acute in his ears, filtered by the distant purr of the freeway. He scents the air again, ears pricked into the house at the bottom of the stairs. It is uncomfortable and thoroughly disorienting to descend head-first, but he manages, slow and careful despite his young clumsiness—encouraged by gossamer filaments of something like pride, not his own, but reassuring nonetheless. A second pounding sound emerges, quick and quiet, and beneath hitched gasps and airless gulps Randell realizes it is another heartbeat: his father’s. All breath leaves his lungs when the moonlight touches his face. It buffets him at first, but then gentles, cards through his fur with glass-light fingers. 42
She eases into his head with a watercolor-blur of bliss and thinly-veiled remorse—she, the moon and more, leads a chorus that rattles to his very bones, reminding him of the Great Old Ones and of her unceasing life in his heart. The blue light is sapphire-sharp, and in the dark he sees her; his goddess, the moon, but also the humble vessel of his lost mother’s love. He understands. Round yellow eyes peer, unblinking, back at him when he finally looks up. The night has come, it seems. Randell’s long limbs are clumsy as he edges down the stairs, paws just a sight too big, but Oren can see the vestiges of his mother’s grace lying in wait for him to grow into. Randell is lean and long-bodied in contrast to Ana’s compact strength, but powerful nonetheless. The moonlight washes through the curtains over his sable bay pelt, highlighting the reddish ticking along his sides—a seamless blend of their colors. Oren chokes. Randell pushes his shrewd, furry face up beneath Oren’s elbow, pinching the sleeve with needle-teeth and drawing his arm away when he reaches for the handle of whiskey on the table. Slowly, he pulls his father so that he slides from his chair to the kitchen floor, legs folded ungainly beneath him. A warbling whine purls up from the pup’s throat, long black ears splayed anxiously against his skull. His tongue darts out to lap consolingly at Oren’s face, soft whimpers of sympathy quivering between their bodies. Shifting, Oren pulls his son closer, gathering the little werewolf into his lap like a genuine puppy. He caresses his son’s long ears, cupping his furry cheeks and pressing gentle kisses to his sloping forehead. “I love you,” he says, little more than a whisper in the stark emptiness of their moon-washed kitchen. Randell’s almond eyes glow dimly, reflecting deep anguish as he closes them and throws his head over Oren’s shoulder in a makeshift hug. He cages a sob behind his teeth, but the next one escapes him easily. Oren curls his fingers like claws into the ruff of Randell’s neck, stroking shakily down the length of him. “I love you,” he babbles, “I love you, my boy, and your mother would love you so, so much—look at you, just like her—I’ll keep you safe—” 43
He goes on and on, scrubbing tears from his face as he goes, petrified adoration quavering in his voice. They lie entwined and sobbing until the sun rises. A little boy’s voice reconciles, hoarse in the early-morning hush, that it’s gonna be okay—Mama told me so.
44
Aditi Deokar ’21
Anatomical Study
45
Saoirse Killion ’21
Misty i’m floating above even stardust— where our fingers first brushed, our young hands intertwining like rose vines, the blossoms budding at our fingertips. you lulled me to sleep with a floral lullaby. my heart slowly fell for the melodies stemming from your soul. i’m sinking. it’s sad and beautiful here, opalescent and moon-flowered under neon lights how can a first kiss be good-bye? i liked you, you whispered. you can’t imagine how it stung. i’m lost in my misty mind, and i fear i’ve lost you too.
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Julia Dickinson ’22
Tacet All is silent as you rise from a restless sleep Before the sun itself has risen. Treading lightly, as not to startle the rest of the world, You trek to the train, And then you hear your first sound, The same melody repeated every day, The syncopation of metal against metal. After entering, you see others like you, Greeting the day before it greets you. Gliding forward, again, only the cadence of the train rings. After a dulcet ride, you take one last breath Before diving into the fast-paced, loud world Of those who never stop.
47
Rohan Biju ’23
View Through My Bedroom Window
48
Steph Gratiano ’20
Ringing He realized the ringing in his ears was actually a ringing in the whole arena, the buzzer loud enough to cajole the plexiglass into emitting a hum of its own, harmonizing with the fan’s angry groans behind him and the glass vibrating still from the force of the slam. His nose emitted a buzz of its own, the nexus of a swarm of concerned medics dabbing at the blood oozing from his nostril. He batted them away. The buzzer he missed hadn’t ended the game, only the period, and he needed to get back. He could be subbed in at the next opportunity. “—Hey, hey, Sammy, you good?” Coach Josten’s salt and pepper stubble loomed into his field of vision, calloused fingers darting over his temple. The buzzer stopped abruptly, but the energy persisted in the figures flying across the ice, the furious tapping and sliding marking the victory cries of the blurs in black and the slow whine against the ice as players caught their edges and flew. Black, white, fading red. He blinked, once, twice. Wasn’t that a punchline to something? What’s black and white and bled all over— Coach Josten’s hand on his shoulder nudged him back to reality. No, that was just him. His forehead, actually. He doesn’t remember taking his gloves off, but his hands were bare and pale and came away bloody from the oozing gash by his temple. Coach jostled him again, gentler than usual but insistent. “You’re going to the clinic after we get back, you understand—” “Put me back on, it’s fine.” Coach laughed, an incredulous noise forced from somewhere in the back of his throat in lieu of a response. He stared evenly at the spot between those graying eyebrows, waiting for the ice to stop panning in and out of focus. “God, Sammy, you lost consciousness. Hopefully, you aren’t so brain damaged you thought they’d let me put you back in after that.” Coach shook his head and took off his hat, pushing perspiration and relief back through his hair before repositioning it. “Clinic. After. For now, just sit tight.” The last period ended with more ringing in his ears, this time from his teammates’ cheers of a job well done. It was a decisive Lions’ victory, a 49
good omen of things to come this season, so he was allowed back on ice for the celebratory embrace, a writhing pile of black and yellow that ends with more people grinning up from the ice than standing victorious. He’d barely stumbled away from the nexus before the refs pushed him back toward the lockers and Coach’s stern look. The whooping in the locker room hurt his head, the mats doing a poor job of absorbing the slamming and cheering even in the corner Josten herded him into. Changing, packing, tuning out Josten’s thinly veiled worrying— these things were automatic, finely tuned from months of practice. “You don’t need to be that aggressive, you crazy bastard.” He shrugged, twisted the golden band on his finger. However annoyed Coach was, Anna was going to be worse. “Take me to the clinic, and I’ll be good for the Titans game.” His jersey didn’t provide much warmth, but he slid it over his hoodie anyway, if only to mark himself as one of the victors. He’d be congratulated on a game well-played with the rest of his team, even if his major contribution to the game had been a crazy penalty—or maybe just an accident. He wasn’t really sure how he’d ended up on the bench, hadn’t really cared to clarify after Coach made it permanent. “A pain in my ass is what you’ll be, and always be—” The ringing in his ears amplified his headache to something unbearable. He flexed his jaw–anything to relieve the pressure cresting, god, his eyes were going to explode— He wasn’t just on the bench, he was completely horizontal, an ice pack pressed to his forehead and a light shining into his eye. He swiped at the glare with a groan, barely squeezing his eyes shut in time to hide how much his eyes had watered from that small movement. “Sammy, you need to—” “I’m fine,” he insisted. “Put me back on, Coach. It takes more than a broken nose.” Josten squinted at him. “Broken nose,” he drew it out. “Right. Because that’s all this is.” There was sarcasm there. He didn’t appreciate it.
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“I said,” he said, in a vicious mockery of Josten’s drawl, “I’m fine.” Josten didn’t seem convinced, one eyebrow rising slowly at his sharp tone. And normally, the injury would be enough to retire him for the rest of the game, and his tone would mean suicides at practice, but—it was too close for comfort, Sam was a crowd favorite, watching someone play with a visible but not severe injury looked good in the columns—Coach practiced balancing PR and strategy the way Sam practiced sprints and stops. Harmon Wins The Lion’s Share: A Titans’ Defeat in Last Night’s Match. “Ok,” he said slowly. “Not next period, though. Just promise me that—” Sam didn’t hear anything else. His ears were ringing. “Coach, put me—” “No, Sammy. You’re done.” He pushed himself up. Someone shoved past him, shoulder pads colliding as someone else stepped onto the ice and skated into position—into his position. No. No way, there was no way he would let that rookie finish what he’d started. Not against the Hornets. He lurched forward. “I said you’re done, Harmon.” The coach stepped between him and the ice, and crumpled under his punch. He went to step past him onto the ice, and more people sprung up in between them, dragging him off, away—he thrashed. They needed to win, they needed his assists, they needed him— He stilled, all at once, awareness snapping back as he was forced from the box. He’d hit Coach, he’d—he’d be lucky if he wasn’t benched for the season— Numb, he stumbled away from the crowd, into the locker room. He opened his locker, ripped off his glove, threw it down. The rest of his gear came off slowly, his pounding head allowing only small, ginger movement. Sweats and a plain shirt went on in place of his gear. A ring slid back onto his finger. He ran his fingers over his jersey and let it fall into his bag. God knew if he’d be wearing either in the near future—he’d probably have to beg coach not to bench him—
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There was ringing. Back in the locker room, game over. Another job well done. Out of the gear, street clothes on. The cold air biting at his bare hands. Red and white jerseys swirling around him. Ringing—
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