Caledonia
Grace Arnold
Dear Reader, Welcome to the second edition of Caledonia, Castilleja Upper School's literary magazine. Caledonia features words and artwork by members of our community. Thank you for your contributions. We hope you enjoy this effort! --From the editors
Camille Strøe
Sedona Speedy
Manzanita Rachel Brownell Thick and clean like the muscles inside a man’s thigh Smooth like a just-peeled fish Deep maroon, purple chocolate, warm boysenberry syrup But cool to the touch, steeped in slow-moving memories A toddler’s shy hand grazing your calf when you brush the bark A sensation so incredibly indelible that you start When the man-za-ni-ta melts and slides down the hillside A dark, languid river of so many small, supple berry-stained lips.
Midtown (Clare’s Story) Sam Cecil We moved to cross the street, and to our left there was a steaming pothole and a dark scaffold of cars, and I asked her if I could tell her something and she said yes like she already knew, like that thick blond braid and dark green pea-‐coat already knew what I would have died to tell her, and no one around us knew what was happening because it was New York City which is an all-‐encompassing way of saying it was cold and saturated and people sliced the hissing air in muf?led trench-‐coats and went about their lives in a way that circled but never touched, even though if people knew what was happening they would have stopped to watch the last bit of my adolescence eke out my lips like the helium from a balloon, and she drew out the y-‐e-‐e-‐e-‐e-‐s like the stretching of an old rubber band and just before it snapped I told her, as we crossed the street to the lucid orange traf?ic netting; and she stayed silent and tried not to notice the way I searched her bunny-‐like face for any indication of things that made me hesitate, but once the ball was rolling I couldn’t stop it, and it was only then that I noticed her eyes were green like his and my heart pounded with the certainty of the message I’d wake up to 10 days later when he knew that I told her though he had no proof, except for the promise he made me swear to, that I’d never tell a soul, back when we made promises like cobwebs and destroyed them just as easily, when secrets were not only a right but a right of passage; but it took me two and a half years to ?ind the strength to sit down across from her in a Wendy’s, red-‐cheeked and trembling, and to let her pat my
Emma Winer
Nicole Lee
hand while I sipped my frozen milkshake with a frozen throat, and let her tell me that it was okay, and that she forgave me, and that more than that she agreed with me, like all the turmoil of my mistakes was nailed to the church door with a cross and a blessing, and she swore with the conviction of trust and later that night I cried in the streets, still starry-‐ eyed at the buildings but weary with the rush of adrenaline that comes with doing the right thing, in the city where people pride themselves on anonymity but I stood strong for the ?irst time in my life, and my hands quivered with shaking freedom and palpable mirth as I danced in the rain, wandering to familiar places I’d never seen before.
Camille Townshend
Palm Monica Taneja In the palm of my hand I can see the colors swirling and mixing together creating a painting some parts are abstract in confusion and chaos others are impressionist simple and clear there are the mysteries of surrealism and the careful dots of pointillism all coming together on a wrinkled canvas
In the palm of my hand I can see nature the restless blowing of the wind as it brushes the hair from your face moving slowly through the evergreen forest lifting pine needles from the ground and past the empty beach where the waves gently crash and roll along the shore
In the palm of my hand I can see our neighborhood the places where we grew up your house and mine where we shared secrets drinking hot chocolate on a rainy day and bundling up to play in the snow In the palm of my hand I can see our memories the suburbs where we rode our bikes laughing until we were rolling on the grass the small park around the corner
where we made snowmen together and you pushed me down the hill in a sled the time when you took me to the museum and we took pictures with the dinosaurs
Not everyone can see in the palm of their hand where the colors are or the house that we laughed in not everyone can know how sweet the maple smells or when the moon is blue their innocence is long lasting never needing to see the misfortune
You cannot remember where our memories are strewn the times we shared You are among others not alone
We hope that we can see so clearly reading our palms and tracing the deep lines but we find can clarity in others resting our heads on others’ shoulders under a warm blanket watching sparks fly from the fireplace
You Sarah Debs The early morning train ride from Paris to Giverny is a blur of crowded city streets transforming into rows of lush trees as you approach the village home to Monet’s Gardens. You step off the train first, and encourage your parents and younger brother and sister to disembark more quickly, speaking in English, as you are a teenage American tourist. The morning air is damp and smells like wet pavement, and even though it is summer, you find yourself shivering a little. As you exit the train station, you notice the few businesses across the street including a small bakery and a bicycle rental shop. The rest of Giverny is asleep. The excursion is in celebration of your Mother’s birthday; she has told you about the lily pads with a longing sparkle in her eye since you were born. Now is the chance to bring her stories to life, to wander the garden you have dreamt about for years. The plan is to bike to the gardens, but your five-year-old sister is too small to pedal the four miles so she takes a taxi with your Dad. The bike path is a narrow strip of sandy pebbles weaving behind residents’ gardens and laundry lines. Clean air swells in your lungs and you smile as raw energy rushes through your blood. Your Mom and thirteen-yearold-brother attempt to keep up with you, but you are so fast, longing for the cool air to chill your cheeks. The ride takes only forty minutes, and as you guide your bike off the dirt and onto the bumpy cobblestones of the quaint community you wish your flimsy tires were a bit wider. You maneuver your bike with
Aurora Real de Asua
difficulty on the uneven stones, passing the colorful gift shops and enticing museums that line the sloping street. You enter the garden with your whole family, gasping at the magnificent hues and mysterious shadows that are Monet’s garden. Two hours are spent exploring the arching bridges and snapping pictures with the tranquil ponds as backdrops. Your little sister is brimming with happiness, dancing around the flower garden and inhaling the sweetness of the vibrant roses.
Maya Khatri
Lunchtime arrives and you exchange knowing glances with your Dad. You two have arranged for a special birthday lunch for your Mom that is to include an outdoor meal and a surprise cake. The cafĂŠ is just a few paces down the main cobblestone road and a blue and yellow umbrella shades the white plastic table set for five. The sun shines brightly over the small town of Giverny and warms the back of your neck. Everything is beautiful, everything is perfect. The ham and cheese crepes and sweet lemonade are delicious, but as usual your younger brother and sister cannot sit still. They wander off down a hill to play out of sight. You are sent to retrieve them shortly before the cake is to arrive. As you stumble down the hill, slightly irritated that you are the one constantly tracking them down, you notice they have crossed a street and are standing thigh high in roadside weeds. The street is just busy enough to make you nervous about crossing, and you stand on the edge of the road waiting for a few cars to pass. While you wait, your little sister notices you and begins to run towards you, into the street without turning her pigtailed head. You shout, telling her not yet, but your voice is lost in the sound of a small body colliding with a terrible metal machine.
The driver does not stop, and she lays crumpled on the pavement, body so, so still. You rush toward her as the cars back up along side the road, and your brother hesitates before sprinting off to get your parents, yelling for help. Her left shoulder protrudes at a sharp angle, threatening to puncture through her skin, and her tender body is torn from road rash. You hear yourself shouting, willing her to move the slightest bit, to know she is still here. Her bright blue eyes roll open and she begins to cry softly, murmuring something incomprehensible. You try to keep her talking while your parents rush towards the scene, their faces muddy puddles of distress. An ambulance is called, but it feels like half an hour when it is actually just a few minutes until you hear the faint sirens grow louder, screaming a strangely comforting song. The people of Giverny emerge from their houses, dripping wet from an afternoon swim and stare as your sister is loaded into the red ambulance, her body tiny on the enormous gurney. No one in your family speaks French, and you all desperately attempt to communicate with the paramedics who do not understand the frantic explanations. The once pleasant sun is now too hot, burning your skin as you try not to cry, telling yourself the tears will not help anything. The ambulance can only take one extra passenger, and your Mom and broken sister speed away from you, sirens blaring once more. The restaurant owner kindly offers to take your Dad, brother, and you to the hospital. You feel your heart beat heavily and head grow dizzy as you drive away from the accident site. Your brother is crying endlessly, face swollen and regrets sputtering out of his mouth. Your Dad sits silently, still in shock, hands trembling. Worry and guilt consumes your stomach like piranhas eat a carcass as the once magical day crumbles into one from Hell, the worst possible gift for your Mom’s birthday. The nearly empty hospital has low ceilings, off white walls, and a stale sterile scent that wafts through the uncirculated air. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead and the stuffy waiting room is the size of a closet. You sit surrounded by magazines in a language you cannot read and faded cartoon paintings that are meant to brighten the depressing building. Your sister is wheeled by, on her way to receive a CAT scan and x-rays with wires and needles taped all over her body. She looks so weak and vulnerable as she passes, her confused eyes glancing around the unfamiliar surroundings. You smile at her, but she stares straight through you as if you are a stranger. A crooked clock on the wall marks the hours, the second hand ticking loudly, reminding you to stop holding your breath. Police interview you and your brother, attempting to track down the driver who fled the scene. You try to recall if you saw the driver, but your mind keeps returning to the painful image of the collision. You tell the police you cannot remember anything, not even the color of the vehicle. Finally, a doctor in a floor length white coat approaches the waiting room with a translator at his side. He explains that your sister’s brain is not damaged,
but she has a broken collarbone from which she will recover. She is lucky to be alive. It is then that your tears flow, not from sadness, but relief. Your sister emerges with a shoulder brace and endless bandages. Her memory is slowly coming back to her, but she is still disoriented and exhausted. Your Mom stands at her side frazzled and deeply shaken, the last state she expected to be in on her birthday. After your sister is discharged, your entire family boards the train back to Paris; in disbelief you are all returning together. Your sister squirms uncomfortably in her seat, sitting oddly so not to lean on her shoulder or wounds. You watch the passing trees fade into buildings, and exhale slowly, appreciating each painless breath.
1962: Barbour Country Amelia Rosch They found her body three days later. We had left it in some bushes by the side of the interstate. We hadn’t really bothered burying it; she didn’t deserve that. I guess a dog found it. Or maybe someone on a walk. It doesn’t really matter much, does it? Her name was Melanie Peterson. She was sixteen and had a brother and a little sister. But everyone who has read the newspaper knows that by now, don’t they? I don’t think they know that her momma did laundry for the neighbors to make ends meet. We used to get our clothes cleaned by her. Melanie- Mellywould drop off the deliveries for her. One time, it must have been four or five years ago, I helped her carry some of the clothes. I also bet they don’t know that Melly wanted to be a singer. She did. She was always singing, things by Elvis and Jerry Lee. And songs by girls too, but she sounded better singing Elvis. Her voice was all deep and pretty. Last year, she was asked to sing the “Star Spangled Banner” at the fourth of the July. Jay wasn’t so happy about that. He said that it wasn’t proper, that it’d give her ideas, make her uppity. She did sound real pretty. She wore a light blue dress and her hair was down. She did seem like a real nice girl, all things considered. She was always polite to us. Never put on airs or acted above her station. She didn’t want to cause trouble like some of the others. She never went to any of the protests or nothing like that. Some of her friends did, especially that Barry. But not Melly. Never Melly. God, she was pretty. Even Jay thought that. But that was part of why he did it, isn’t it? But she was really pretty. Really really gorgeous. Not in a big in your face sort of way. She was too quiet, you know. Pretty in a quiet way. Like, only if you actually paid attention to her would you realize that. She was a real pretty girl. I didn’t want her to die. I don’t think any of us really meant to, not even Jay. He said it was just to scare her a little, teach her her place. You know, just rough her up a little, make her a little nervous. Make them all a little nervous. He said it would teach that Barry a lesson to not put on airs.
She was surprised at first. But nice. She asked us what we wanted. Very polite. But then she got scared. She told us to let her go and than began screaming. That’s why we hit her. Jay told Sammy to hit her. So he did. I don’t think Sammy meant to hit her hard. He just doesn’t quite know his own strength. But she stopped screaming after that. She didn’t cry until we took her out of the car. I think it was because she was scared. I don’t think any of us meant to kill her. Not even Jay. He didn’t even really know to use the gun. It was his daddy’s, but I guess that was already in the paper, wasn’t it? He had gotten mad. That’s what happened. She kept asking him again and again, in that soft voice of hers what we were going to do to her. She didn’t ask to go home or anything. Just what we were going to do to her. That’s all she asked. She asked it real quiet like. Not loud or upset, just curious. I did hear she did real good in school. Even after Jay yelled at her to shut up, she kept asking. And then. I don’t even know quite why, but then Jay got real mad and she stepped towards him. I think she wanted to comfort him. Melly sure was a nice girl. And she stepped towards him andThey’re going to kill us, aren’t they? Because we killed her. Even though she was even- I don’t want to die. It’s not fair. I didn’t do anything. I just happened to be there. I didn’t even touch her. I promise I didn’t. I don’t want to die. Oh dear god. I don’t want to die. Please don’t let them kill me. I don’t want to die.” The young man broke down, sobbing. The police officer watched him. He did not turn off the record button.
Harriet Rothschild
Saloni Kalkat
Sockets Sam Cecil You tell me that you’re in love. You, with curly brown hair frizzing mid-way down your back, big brown eyes, a heart-shaped face, a heart-shaped hole in your chest. You, finding solace and comfort in art, in pain, in pessimism. In reality. Truth and beauty are your playmates. Words are written to be permanent. Promises are made to be broken, and sloshed away on gritty New York streets, pouring off gutters and out of puddles, under the rain boots and squelching taxi tires of reality.
You tell me you are fairly sure that you love him, and isn’t that pathetic. No, it’s not-I suppose it has to happen to everyone at some point. I see the way you stare in to space during classes, your gaze heartshaped, your brown eyes deep, and hurt. You are not here. You are in a distant reality, that spits you up and expels you off rain gutters, gnashing its teeth and ripping your own mind out of its sockets, for the sake of truth and beauty.
Could Have Been a Tragedy Mariel Freyre
i.
prologue the woman’s life is divided into three parts Before After and pretending she can’t divide her life into two parts because life is too complicated to shove into pretty little boxes a postulate, which she believes, may possibly happen to be false
ii.
a tangent I assume our lives are so complex I have this this insidious habit of filling myself with false wisdom well I can give you that but not much else I come to you without any answers because I thought moonshine would be enough
iii.
an attempt at redirection because the tangent makes literally no sense I’m bringing us back to part i., I believe which I separated for a particularly peculiar reason which I already forgot I already made the mistake of calling life complicated but my brain, oh boy (it’s definitely full of dust and other random stuff) in self respect I do not make the assumption that my mind is not convoluted
iv.
in which I give up on redirection for the time being: If I mention death will this pain be more interesting to you ? Here goes: I gave you back to the spirits of the earth to be devoured by worms and absorbed into dirt. You’re part of the world now, but I shudder to think despite my desire to have you part of me again that somehow I breathe in your particles oh crap! what if I accidentally imbibe someone else’s dead bits
v.
yeah I know to remember that we all reach the finish line eventually most likely it is just the spontaneous effect of entropy oh never mind
vi.
a story people make into a story about learning new lessons this flesh is relative this blood is red only because it is told to be so the birthday, the birthday of my life had come --and gone we were left to bury the placenta and the small blue child with only a prayer for the severed womb to become whole again with other unmentionable and bifurcated things then after
vii.
After it was a breathless relative period of time (some didn’t notice and for others, an interminable act)
viii.
(this was supposed to be the third part, so it’s slightly offended at having been relegated to the eight position) after the pills and the months and the self-help manuals and doctors eventually began to take effect we learned something that went along the lines of the meaning of life only easier to understand so that we knew it really wasn’t that convoluted fluting thing
ix.
thanks to the Cogito we believe existence precedes essence and the world exists for us only as long as we exist
x.
and then we die, which is sometimes very tragic, but not really. the world continues on after our short but intrepid trek across some plot of time.
xi. xii.
what the hell?
Emily Hayflick
Staff Mariel Freyre Charlotte Geagan Breiner Nicola Goldberg Valerie Ross
Spring 2011
Cover art by Shifrah Aron Dine