Elm & Quill - Issue 3 by Eagle Hill School

Literary Journal

Spring 2022

Elm & Quill An Eagle Hill School Literary Magazine

Eagle Hill School 242 Old Petersham Road Hardwick, MA (413) 477-6000 Ex. 453

Editors Jacob Fendler Gray Thomas Audrey Plumb Nic Herrnstein

Faculty Advisors Marshall Robinson Ben Parson

Cover Art by Audrey Walllace

Poetry

Celestial Body Salome Jelke & Nicole Herrnstein usually emotion shepherds me. herding me away from reason I become a logicless vessel incapable of taking rational action. the war of the heart and the mind my heart always the victor has never felt regret for i have been cut but still beat the comet didn’t question why it was pulled towards the earth It merely created the moon. let me be like the moon constantly waning and waxing. not something to possess. not meant to be yours. to seek and mend. to be strong and soft. the discernment to praise unity and disdain discord and live in turmoil. chaos and regret filled house, but not so full that hope still remains. “the artist exists because the world is not perfect” live in constant restlessness and salivate sleep. the moon still shines alone in darkness not knowing it lights up the night for us.

I am the One Allegra Lipman I am the one from earth, sea and sky. I am the one from the whale. I am the one from the belly of the beast. I am the one who shines in the stars. I am the one floating up to the universe. I am the one who is following close behind. I am the one ready to let go. I am the one inside your mind spilling your darkest secrets. I am the one ready for the density of the thrilling adventure. I am the one in the crown and in the bucket of shame.

Artwork by Gray Thomas

Heat Wave Jacob Fendler

My mind is blank like the Sahara sky. I’d love to swim but it’s far too dry around here. I’ve got nowhere to go and everything to do so I’ll sit. And I’ll watch the breeze blow past, a gentle massage of the neurons scraping away at the sand. Slough off a layer. Blow through two more. Chafing and scraping where the dust was before the wind came. It’s just rubble now. I wonder what happens when you blow on stone.

Homophobia Spencer Charrington It goes around like the boys rape jokes. Taunt it in my ears as I walk past you hearing that ever sickening sound of hyena laughter, now you treat it like it's some disease. Watch my lips as I try to explain, but there would be no need for this conversation if you had actually been taught. Tell me how it’s just a word, and that I'm overreacting being too sensitive, like your sister’s porcelain dolls but instead of their stone cold faces my face is filled with frustration. But yet you chose to condemn it just like a swear word. You smile when I say something but the funny thing is you've never been asked to, so instead you sit there with that perverse smile of yours and you laugh like a child at the circus. And the weird thing is nobody speaks up about it because I'm clearly too young to understand my sexuality. But yet my sexuality isn't something that can be erased with a magic marker. Today in school we talked about understanding sexuality, and it was debated like a court case televised for all to see. Do you not see me trying to change myself for others pretending you don’t see the tears in my eyes? I ask you, is my sexuality taboo? It will be discussed by me and people who claim to know me but think they can place a label on me.

Artwork and Poetry by Audrey Wallace 5

I know God is real Nicole Herrnstein I know God is real. I know because I can always feel his eyes on me. When I tediously tug and bind strands of hair for an effortless effect When I slide burning gloss across my lips When I mix perfume into my lotion When I stare at my reflection just as Narcissus did. He condemns my vanity yet shivers in disgust when my hair is greasy and hidden under a beanie. He shakes his head on the days my hip bones don’t jut out as sharply as a clifface. He sighs when I cry real, ugly tears that leave me tomato-red. He cringes when I’m sitting lonesome with unmade eyes and blotchy skin. I cater to his all-seeing gaze. I layer on mascara before shedding a single tear. He will see me with dramatic black streaks running down my cheeks. I dress for sleep in a pair of shorts and a low-cut tank-top. He will see me laying pretty in my bed. I shave in icy months. He will see me only with smooth, magazine-cover legs. If I nick myself I will dab at the blood and ignore the sting. I know God is real Because Man is made in God’s image And I see him in the eyes of every man.

Artwork by Salome Jelke

Everything Else

Gray Thomas

You didn’t know what would greet you as you opened the gates, you didn’t know who not to trust so you trusted everyone. Now you sat in front of the gates staring through the paper-thin crack you opened, the world around you becoming shrouded in red. You didn't notice the plants and trees that surrounded the gates of the estate turning into black masses of liquid, you didn't notice the trail turning into dark asphalt. You were too busy seeing it in front of you, through the gates you saw a glimpse of another world in another universe, the sky had neon yellow sunbeams like an emergency exit on the red. nothing was alone, everything blended into a lifeless silhouette, you didn't know if that was good or bad. You stepped back to tell them you did what they wanted, only to be greeted with darkness, the other world seeping into yours as you slowly melted into everything else.

Detachment Sam Marabella A mind full of thoughts. his mind, a place of constant thought. which then becomes a calculation of reckoning and self destruction. like all things thinking is best used in moderation. Through excessive thought he lost touch with reality. this is now the beginning of detachment. In that moment he felt like his skin did not know where the air began. in that moment he knew he was detached. this is the end of overthinking.

There was a point where his mind stopped working. not death, think release. all the extra thoughts dissolved, the bees stopped buzzing and all was mute he was there. locked in a reality of numbness to thought, but there was something real brewing. he threw a glass at the wall, perhaps to break the silence, to challenge the man himself. but nothing happened, it broke and stayed broken. After detaching the mind, it became a pleasant place to be.

Fiction

The Tale of Woody Liam Altschul

Once in the far off land of Tennessee, there was a run-down thrift shop. In the thrift shop, behind a glass casing, lived a guitar. To the naked eye, this instrument looked like any other string instrument—but this wasn’t just any guitar. This guitar couldn't be played by anyone without a righteous heart. On the back of its neck, the guitar had the name "Woody." Now Woody is a famous guitar, not for that reason only. Decades ago the wooden instrument was crafted by a master lumberjack. The lumberjack only used the finest of wood to craft his soon to be masterpiece. The artisan worked for months at a time to try and get the shape, texture, and finish just right. He cut, sanded, and shined each of his guitars he made, but none of them were what he was looking for. Then, on one cold winter night, as the master was going to hit the hay, it was as if Zeus had suddenly powered the light bulb in his head. He knew what to do. The lumberjack worked harder than he ever had in his life. He cut, sanded, and shined vigorously. He decided that before attaching the strings and the strap, he would light his masterpiece on fire! Now you may ask, why? Why would this man who worked so hard on a single instrument just light it on fire?

The lumberjack believed that if this was truly his greatest accomplishment, it wouldn’t burn. And wouldn’t you know it, when the fire was extinguished the guitar looked almost untouched by the fire. Although, there was a slight burn on the back of its neck that spelled out the name "Woody". The next day the lumberjack went into town with his new accomplishment, ready to show it off. We set up a chair in the center of the town park. The skilled musician pulled out his pick. Before he even touched the sting, an unworthy passerby went up to the man and said, “I bet you can’t even play.” The disrespectful man snatched Woody out of the lumberjack’s hands. The cocky man tried to play the now-famous instrument. He reached for the closest string and plucked it. Although nothing happened, it was as if the guitar had gone mute. The man dropped the guitar and walked away. The lumberjack picked up Woody and brushed him off. He tried to play him, and wouldn’t you know it! Woody was the best sounding guitar he had ever heard. Everyone started to gather around to hear the wonderful tunes of Walter ‘n Woody. Ever since that day the master lumberjack has been the only one to be able to play the guitar, Woody. So did the lumberjack choose Woody or did Woody choose him? We will never know—but legend has it that Woody is still looking for another player with a righteous heart. 11

Photograph by Audrey Plumb. 12

The Falling Out Liam Farhangi

I slid back over to my seat wishing for the potholes to end. I looked around and it seemed like nobody else had my issue with moving around. Additionally, they all looked the same to me: a strong, nondescript build with pallor and a look of desperation on their faces. “All for Chernobyl Four,” the driver said.

April 25, 1986. 4:45 p.m. Thump. The bus hit a pothole and tossed the passenger side to side. The lights flickered and the bus creaked as it settled back to a painfully slow ride. “Sorry for that comrades,” the bus driver said over the intercoms. I found that muffled, crackly voice over the speakers quite unsettling—especially when paired with lights that make you nauseous and potholes that will send you into the air. Why do I always focus on the worst aspects of something? Stop, stop, slow down, do what Ivanna has taught me, focus on one good thing. The trees. Yes, I love trees. I think they might be spruce trees. They give fresh air to all, they go on and on forever as if there’s a whole other world of trees Just waiting to be explored. The trees swayed back and forth, letting the wind do all of the work but still stand their ground. As the trees danced in the wind I could see Chernobyl’s red and white towers rise over the tree line. Thump. Another pothole. This time I was sent on to someone else’s lap almost two seats down. You would think that the government could repave the 3km from Pripyat to Chernobyl.

The doors barely opened and half of the people on the bus stood up indignantly and walked outside dreading, the night’s work to come. A security guard stopped us at the entrance for a routine pat down and ID check. “Artem Kitko, born in 1955?” The security guard asked as if he didn't know me already. “Yes, sir,” I said hastily. “Occupation?” “Head engineer.” “Hurry it up already. Some of us have places to be,” A man clamored from the back of the line. That voice. I knew that voice. Oh, how I hated that voice. It was distinguishable from any other: it was Danylko Witko, the control room chief. One of the most sour people I have ever met. He focused on what is going wrong even more than me. However, I don’t know how sweet I would be to others if two of my children had been lost at birth. “You're all cleared,” the guard said. Have a good evening,” I said in hopes of building up our rapport.

“Sorry”, I said, as if it was my fault. 13

“The test isn’t going to call me later tonight, telling me that I need to produce more power. The test will just have to be postponed for another time,” Danylko said condescendingly. The lights on the control panel started to turn off one by one as more and more moderators were replacing the absorbers, speeding up the reaction.

As I walked into Chernobyl Four, the building loomed over me giving visceral feeling of unworthiness, as if I could not tame the reactor. One by one we all went inside the dimly-lit locker rooms. We undressed, changed, and put on our work clothes, badges, and decimeters to measure the amount of radiation near us. In a single file, everyone left the locker room and dispersed into our own secluded areas of the building.

“I will be in the Lounge. Come get me when you think that the power levels are stable,” Danylko said.

A man anxiously spun side-to-side as the test was being carried out. The smooth burgundy colored leather chair creaked as he shifted his weight from one side to the other. The walls around him were covered in cheap aluminum panels that were used to house buttons, dials, and gauges. The panels look like they wouldn’t be able to stand under their own weight but somehow they manage. The man jumped out of his chair when he noticed that the power level was rapidly declining.

1 a.m. Danylko walked back into the room and noticed that only four control rods remained in the reactor. “Are you men insane? Why did you take out 205 rods? ” Danylko had terror in his eyes. “Sir, you told us to stabilize the reactor.” “I didn’t tell you to kill us all!” Danylko shouted at the top of his lungs.

April 26, 1986. 12:28 a.m. “Danylko, the power is dropping. What should I do?”

1:23:40 a.m. Silence fell across the room in fear of what could happen when the reactor has been at 200 megawatts for 11 hours and was now dropping even more.

Danylko ran over to one of the control panels and pressed AZ-5 to shut down the reactor. All of the red, green, and white lights on the control panel started blinking warning that the cores were overheating.

“Switch in moderators so the reaction speed up and keep changing them in until the power is restored,” Danylko said with an almost undetectable amount of hesitation. “Sir but what about the test? Wouldn’t it ruin the data and isn’t that dangerous because the safety systems are still turned off? ”

“Sir, what do we do now?” “We need to increase the flow of water through the course,” Danylko said. “The reactors are already at their highest flow rate that is controlled from here.” 14

“I'll open the valves myself in the reactor room and if that doesn’t work within three minutes then get out of here, move away far from Ukraine,” Danylko said in hopes of saving them.

1:21:21 a.m. I quite liked my office. It had a big window in front of my desk looking out towards the reactor. However, I couldn’t see the reactor because I was raised above it on a sort of catwalk. The room has ample space for a small person like me even when filled up with a filing cabinet and two chairs besides my own. The entire building including my room made me feel constricted whenever I’m within its walls. I attribute this feeling of unease to the lights and the walls which are covered in a glossy white coat of paint that makes your eyes burn if you stare at them too long.

Tonight, however, I was on edge. It probably had to do with tonight’s test, and since the last several tests were unsuccessful so now if this one goes wrong some of us will be demoted or fired. Eventually, curiosity got the better of me, and I opened the door and peeked my head outside. At that moment I heard distinctly. “Artem! Artem! The rods! They’re moving up and down chaotically!” a worker cried out in panic. This has to be a joke because there's no way this could happen. I ran over to see it for myself and there they were. The 350kg control rods were bouncing up and down. The rods were scraping against their cells as they moved, creating a screeching sound along with a low rumble coming from in the reactor. Then all at once— Bang!

Sadly I had to share the office with the day shift equivalent of me but luckily he keeps it tidy. Unfortunately, I did’t know him that well. The only thing he keeps on the desk is a picture of his wife and dog but nothing else. As I was in my reverie focusing on someone that I don’t know in the slightest, a deep reverberation bouncing off of my office walls brought me back to reality. It almost sounded like someone was calling out for me. It was probably nothing because some people on the night shift tend to get bored during the long nights and like to spend that time messing with me. I generally don’t mind them because I am the youngest kid in my family so I’ve had to put up with a lot of random onowinses over the years.

The rods were sent flying.

1:23:58 a.m. The worker and I managed to dodge some shrapnel that was hurtling towards us by ducking behind the rails that separated the reactor floor from the raised platform. All of the rods that were previously in the reactor now left a gaping hole in the ceiling of the plant. As soon as the first explosion ended the second one began. Bang! We were thrown into the air and sent back. I struck the wall behind me so forcefully that I think it broke my arm. Blood started gushing from my shoulder and slowly worked its way down to my fingertips. The explosion of lead, uranium, 15

and graphite was dispersed in such a way as if to maximize the amount of damage done to the room. Now instead of the walls being so white that they burn it was the blistering heat that scorched everywhere on your body. Everything in the room was on fire or broken in two and the radioactive smoke smelled like someone’s eggs left in the room for a couple of weeks. The smoke rushed into my lungs searing from the inside out. From somewhere deep inside me, blood started rushing up to my lips overwhelming me with a bitter taste. A sharp, loud, ringing filled my ears and made it impossible for me to string together a coherent thought. Thoughts and blood were the least of my concerns. I needed to find the other worker and get out of here. I tried to look around the room for any sign of movement. Over there in the corner, a bloody mutilated hand clawed at the debris that lay atop its owner. What am I going to do? What can I do? I can’t do anything because of my arm, it's just dead weight. I heard the movement of rubble coming from behind me. It was Danylko. He came running out of the hallway but wasn’t coming towards us: He was running towards the water lines. Why is he running towards the pipes? Why would he not save us, that selfish bastard? I tried to yell for Danylko to save the other man but all the dust that had previously filled my lungs made it so I could only make a faint wheezing sound. I focused all of my energy towards planting one foot firmly on the ground and the other with the sole purpose of just standing up. I raised my head up but once I did, my eyes failed me. A void started creeping in from the outer edges of my eyes and towards the center of my vision, then my head started feeling light and I couldn't stop

waying side to side. My vision grew even weaker. All I could see was a haze coming from the fire that was starting to consume the room. I couldn’t see Danylko anymore. I felt a feeling of relaxation then everything in the room started rotating to the left. I whispered “help” but I don’t think anybody heard me. Then darkness.

1:28 a.m. I opened my eyes and tried to move around but I couldn’t control my limbs; it was as if they weren’t part of me anymore. I tried yelling out in distress but nothing came out. What is happening? Two men were standing over me. One of the men had a birthmark that resembles the one on Mikhail Gorbachev. He was looking in my eyes while the other man who had my blood all over his brown cotton uniform was wrapping my arm in an odd fashion. I could faintly hear them talking but I could not discern what it was about. “We need to get this guy to Pripyat City Hospital fast. He's lost a large amount of blood and the tourniquet won’t last forever,” the man with the blood-stained uniform said. They lifted me on what I assumed was a gurney and wheeled me into an ambulance. When I was raised into the air I could see workers running into the woods but out of everybody I saw, I couldn’t see the worker who was in the reactor room with me. Just a couple of meters away, Danylko was sitting on the ground, staring at his hands, not doing anything. His hands were covered in blood but he didn’t have any cuts or gashes on him. Inside the ambulance, two men wheeled me 16

next to a body bag. The two men hopped inside, slammed the doors behind them, and yelled drive. As we drove away I looked out of one of the small windows in the back of the ambulance and could see the billowing smoke propagating out from what was left of Chernobyl Four. The smoldering fire illuminated all of the destruction to the building. Firemen were spraying hundreds of gallons of water on the fire to try and put it out. I didn’t understand why they were doing it. They had to know that their efforts were futile and water doesn’t put out this type of fire. I looked out the other window and made out the same spruce trees that were still dancing in the wind. The same potholes were just as deep as before. I guess the potholes aren’t going to be filled in anytime soon. It is a real shame the drive from Chernobyl to Pripyat is beautiful. Thump. It was probably the same pothole from yesterday that sent me and the body bag up a little bit in the air. It was as if nothing had changed. It was as if this unnatural disaster had never happened.

Artwork by Audrey Wallace

Vidison Schuyler Palmer It was cold in Greenland that day. A small town stood on the waterfront, ice creating a harbor of sorts that extended out quite a ways. In the town there was a large house, belonging to a family of Vikings. Or at least, what had been a family. Inside the house, a lean man, covered in pelts to keep warm, knelt in front of a bed. The bed was simple, with the only thing special about it being the gold trim on the headboard. In the bed however was a massive beast of a man. The man was clearly old and covered in scars. But all of the scars were old. The man wore a frown, clearly disappointed. Ryti stood, sighing. His father had just died in front of him and they had ended their discussion with Ryti finally admitting that he would not be well suited as a raider, or as it would be, a viking. Ryti laid a cloth over his father’s body, sprinkling the contents of a vial on top of the dead viking. This would keep the rot away, whilst the son searched for his brother. The alchemist sighed, knowing that finding his brother would be difficult. Lytis had gone raiding and hadn’t returned in well over a month. It was now time to fulfill part of the vow that Ryti had made with Lytis Ryti had chosen to become an alchemist to supply his brother with the means to survive many situations. Out of all their family, Lytis was the only one that Ryti cared for. Ryti was never good at physical violence, but was quite talented when it came to herbs and fire. An alchemist was captured on one of their father’s,

Vidi, raids. The alchemist happened to have most of their equipment after the raid, and met Ryti soon after. They got along, so the alchemist taught Ryti his ways, leaving his equipment to the Vidison after he passed. Lytis helped him directly, finding materials when asked . When their mother, Yitin, passed, Ryti decided to make a vow with his brother. He didn’t want any of their father’s political power or wealth, he just wanted to live as an alchemist in peace. Lytis was both wanted the power and wealth and was naturally suited to them as well. In return for the power and defined loyalty, Ryti was to be left alone unless Lytis desperately needed help. The alchemist headed to the docks after packing a significant amount of food and equipment for alchemy. He knew a sailor by the name of Secus, who had been raised by a family of Roman descent. Ryti had cured his daughter’s cold, and as payment Ryti simply asked for Secus to give him a favor in return at a later day. Ryti came up to the sailor telling him it was time for his favor to be returned and asked for passage to the south of England and back. Secus agreed reluctantly and told one of the other sailors he knew to tell his wife where he was going and why. And so they set sail, Ryti keeping to himself and mostly ignoring Secus, until the sailor asked the alchemist, “Why did you choose to spend your favor now on something so much greater than one life? I understand you need to find your brother, but usually vikings come back after a month or two, what does another four weeks mean in the end?” Ryti glared at the sailor and simply replied “If humanity were reliable and trustworthy our 19

our gods would still not be among us, and wars would not be fought, violence would not occur. Why wait on time or for fate to tell me if I am still bound by oath when I can see for myself?”

Ryti thought for a moment and then asked “If you are truly the mother and father of my brother and I, why do you hurt me so? I must see if my brother is alive, and no wise man would trust a spirit—even the spirits of his kin.”

Secus sighed realizing he wouldn’t get through to the young man. In silence, they continued sailing.

Viti responded.

Night fell soon, and Ryti was given simple instructions on how to keep the ship to its heading. Secus said that he was to be woken if anything serious happened. The sailor fell asleep soon after, leaving Ryti alone in his thoughts. He started drifting off to sleep a bit later and then was startled by two voices, both familiar to him. He looked up and he saw his father standing in front of him, and his mother at his side. They spoke loudly and clearly, and when Ryti looked around the water had stopped moving up and down, although the boat did slide through the water even though there was nothing to keep it moving forward as far as the alchemist could tell. His late parents were repeating the same words over and over again,

We mean to save you son. You must return home, or even Hel will not open her halls to you, that is the fate of things. You are risking the death of another as you challenge the will of the Norns? Why? Ryti responded quickly “I do not wish to face this alone! Even if you are here in some form, life after death should be respected by the remaining family at once!” He stopped and realized what he had said. He started to speak and then stopped. Finally, he sighed and said, “I shall wait for my brother. I shall burn your boat and wait for Lytis to return. Then we shall mourn together." His father and mother smiled, and the spirits nodded and then disappeared.

Return home, let this man live to see his family. Your brother will be safe. But do not seek him out as you have. You are brash child, and whilst you are loyal, you need to temper yourself. Return home and give your father his funeral. Then you may hold your oath to your brother when he returns. If you go any further you kill this father in the travels that will come, and then later, yourself. Your father’s gift after death will be lost to your brother.

The waves began again and Ryti woke up the sailor. Dawn was cresting in the east, and warm wind was carrying them home.