Literary Issue 2014

IMAGE: JULIA BLEIER

Tattler Literary Issue January 2014

ithaca high school students present:

creative writing

• photography • visual artwork

Table of Contents

2013–2014

Poetry: The Wishing Well

3

Neither Do I

4

by Sandra Stromswold

by Dorota Kossowska

Friends

5

Swish!

6

Creepy-crawly

6

Ode to Early Snow

7

Ode to Snow

7

This Dark Winding Road

8

This Is How It Ended

9

by Melody Smith

by Aliza Ellner

by Nora Littell

by Phoebe Shalloway

by Sam Saloff-Coste

by Raymond Xu

by Dorota Kossowska

Help

10

Emotionless

11

by Keegan Miller

by Annie Loucks

15

Thoughts While Waiting

16

Rest for the Wicked

18

by Seraphina Buckholtz

by Rubin Danberg-Biggs

by Brendan Coyle

Julia Bleier John Yoon Bridget Fetsko Sophie Partington Christian Schuepbach Claire Saloff-Coste

news@ihstattler.com

Opinion Editor

Elie Kirshner ’14 opinion@ihstattler.com

Features Editor

Jensen Lo ’14

features@ihstattler.com

Arts and Entertainment Editor

Emily Scarpulla ’14 arts@ihstattler.com

Sports Editor

Chris Skawski ’14 sports@ihstattler.com

Penultimate and Back Page Editor

Conor Coutts ’15 Aryeh Zax ’14 copy@ihstattler.com

Photography Editors

Audrey Kan ’14 Naomi Powers ’14 photo@ihstattler.com

Layout Editor

12–14 1, 10, 13 3, 13 6, 16 17 12, 14 14

Other Visual Artwork: Pooja Reddy Sandra Stromswold R.S. Pearse Anderson Khalil Hendel Naomi Powers Josiah Rawlings Antonia Sinclair Meredith Lawhead Anthos Vlahos

News Editor

Rex Lei ’14

Copy Editor

The Bathroom Across the Hall

Contest winners

editor@ihstattler.com

backpage@ihstattler.com

Prose:

Photography:

Editor-in-Chief

Rubin Danberg-Biggs ’14

4 5 6 7, 8, 23 9 11 11 15 18 20, 21

Owen Zhang ’15 The Tattler is the student-run newspaper of Ithaca High School. It was founded in 1892 and is published monthly.

As an open forum, the Tattler invites opinion piece submissions and letters to the editor from all community members. Drop off submissions in E25 or email them to: editor@ihstattler.com Mail letters to:

The IHS Tattler 1401 N. Cayuga St. Ithaca, NY 14850 The Tattler reserves the right to edit all submissions. Submissions do not necessarily reflect the views of editorial staff.

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Aleksa Basara ’14 business@ihstattler.com

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Tracy Lai ’14 ads@ihstattler.com

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Julian Eng ’14 web@ihstattler.com

Distribution Managers

Carrie D’Aprix ’15 Steven Stover ’15 distribution@ihstattler.com

Faculty Advisor

Deborah Lynn advisor@ihstattler.com

3 IMAGE: JOHN YOON

The Wishing Well SANDRA STROMSWOLD

At the bottom of the wishing well Lies an endless, cruel, dark hell It engulfs your soulful wishes Strips them dry like fresh-caught fishes Then it keeps them locked away So as to never see another day They’ll cry and moan in their case of stone No friends but the other similarly fated bones You’ll go on with life happy or not The train of life won’t ever stop Your hair will gray, your face will wrinkle Married, loved, dead, or single But down in that water hole Your wishes won’t grow old They’ll stare up at the starry night, beyond the rim Thousands of feet from where they sit They might recall your youthful mind All those fun unforgettable times When life was so big and you were so small Dreaming of when you’d rule it all Back in the good old days, thinking without a thought That was before your mind began to rot Now the wishes cry “you’ve forgotten your promise” That one you told, beneath the tree, finished with a kiss Life has begun, no place to hide Tell me where is that childish pride We’ve abandoned our wishes and souls Succumbed to live and think as told So what’s the point of this tale?

Don’t waste your change in the wishing well

4

January 10, 2014

Poetry IMAGE: POOJA REDDY

Neither Do I DOROTA KOSSOWKSA

You and I let’s do that thing where we sit in a coffee shop in an irrelevant town and pretend to be moody and wise let’s be philosophers between cups of black coffee let’s burn our tongues on that bitter thought can we listen to lyrics that make us feel like this is what it’s all about can we watch the people and make up their stories because they haven’t got the time the brunette over by the window looks like she’s got it all together but she doesn’t and neither do I you and I can we do that thing where we act like cool kids just passing the time smiling shyly at each other like we’ve got it all figured out like we’re in on the joke even though no one’s bothered to tell us the punch line let’s make promises with each other and break them in a couple of nightmares let’s draw memories on our paper cups and throw them in the trash on our way out ’cause you and I we’ll be leaving soon we’re gonna get in your beat-up truck with the bumper stickers I picked out for you and we’re gonna find our next home let’s not wave good-bye

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January 10, 2014

Poetry

IMAGE: SANDRA STROMSWOLD

Friends MELODY SMITH

There’s always someone who cares Even when you think You’re all alone And successfully hiding There’s always someone who cares When a bandage needs replacing Or meds need retaking And your mind is completely scared There’s always someone who cares When the sadness drips down in you And yells out for a friend To take the shuddering blackness away And make it happy again There’s always someone who cares When you put on a mask But remove it when You know your friend will be there For all the while

January 10, 2014

IMAGE: BRIDGET FETSKO

6

Poetry

Swish!

ALIZA ELLNER

Swish!

Over land and under sky I am coming, by and by

Swish!

Gliding swiftly over snow Who can catch me? None I know Swish!

Cozy boot and icy ski Bright wool sweater made just for me Swish!

Soaring bird and bounding deer One with all from far to near

Creepy-crawly NORA LITTELL

Why do you weave your story And hang it up there (or down)

Shall there be another day?

You spin the threads out from Your end And never ever Do they sever— You are your own Security, So as I Fall, Do let me be

Swish!

In the glow of twilight’s spell I bid the snow-cloaked woods farewell Now my skis the coatroom borrow Waiting for me—till tomorrow

IMAGE: R.S.

Letting sunset stain your edges Roasting you to golden brown As I do crunch you ’neath my boot?

You are delicious To my uncertainties—

Swish!

Slowly downward floats the sun And I turn home as the day nears done

7

Poetry

January 10, 2014

Attackers from Another Moon by Pearse Anderson

Ode to Early Snow PHOEBE SHALLOWAY

I dislike the cold without snow.

It seems pointless to me, so the first flakes never fail to make me smile.

The way all the white sits, startlingly coruscated in the bright sun, or crushed into delicate patterns beneath sheepskin winter shoes, or glistening against the dark evening.

The way the air smells like nothing but cold.

Six-sided master of pirouettes, melting on my eyelash, I’m sorry that my respiration is enough to end your spell as a thing of complex symmetry, worthy of a place on a glass slide beneath a 100x optical microscope.

If I thought you could understand I would perhaps describe to you the summer: all damp heat and vivacious green. Breakneck, sun-drenched, the opposite of drifting snowflakes in November.

Then, having done so, and contemplated long hair on a bare shoulder toes in flip-flops by the water I would inform you that I prefer you.

Ode to Snow SAM SALOFF-COSTE

O snow, your muted effervescence dots the air and veils in gray the distance; slips through the sky like sails across a lake.

Before you all of Earth is brown a crunchy, leafy mess. You fall, a sheet of down to blanket all the dull, brown ache.

Winter’s scent is strong as spring’s in cold gray flecks of prickly, dusty, crisp, cold, gray things, thin though you fall thickly, so that I feel awake.

8

EST 1998 by Pearse Anderson

This Dark Winding Road RAYMOND XU

My uncle at me looks over the kitchen countertop And tells me not to go to that party tonight.

I’ve got a test tomorrow And the sun has already slipped under the horizon So I promise to him I won’t.

And as I watch him fall asleep on the living room couch I look at my phone and read You coming, bro?

I find myself driving to the party along that windy suburban road.

Once tired, I’m now fully awake.

I arrive to find people spread out in a backyard.

It’s a warm night after all.

They tell me not to drink As I have to drive home later.

Screw that.

I’m rolling back along the same road I came on But I don’t remember it being so curvy and swirly Or the hill being this steep Or headlights being so bright Or the other cars moving so fast.

I want to be in the company of other cars And they are all way ahead of me Racing into the dark night So I speed up.

A man with a goofy light on his car is closing in behind me So I stop to tell him to stop following me.

A solemn force is in the air as he huffs and strolls over to my car And I muster out a “Hey man, what’s up?”

But he frowns at me.

Perhaps he wants to talk first?

And then I read on his little badge P–O–L–I–C–E. Oh no.

He makes me breath in this funny little tube.

I am whisked away Turned around from the direction I was just going.

Sprawled in the backseat of the shaky, smelly, small car While this stern fellow tucks away his little flashlight.

Staring straight ahead The noise of the silence is loud Ringing in my head the whole way Fear overflowing in me.

Oh well.

IMAGE: KHALIL HENDEL

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January 10, 2014

Poetry

This Is How It Ended DOROTA KOSSOWSKA

We are an empire and this is our golden age a time of art and innovation the likes of which the world has never seen the sculptors made us heroes in white stones with hearts in our hands and we were truly happy the architecture of our lives was brand new, and it gleamed of gold and the wings of angles the science uncovered the secrets of the universe, and the poets told us of the mysteries of the bottom of the ocean and we were truly happy and the philosophers graced us with golden crowns, and we reigned atop our marble thrones the Bengal tigers at our feet and the jewels tight around our throats and we drank the white wine from crystal glasses the most beautiful men and women came to dine and dance with us and we were truly happy our diamond smiles against deep-plum lips the gowns were long as were the nights the riches poured down from the sky and the children caught them in their hands we were empresses of the land, and the people were deeply in love with us, they said it was till their last breath and we said it was till ours and we were truly happy but when the sun rose the next morning the madmen came with it marching in on our temple and tearing down those golden arches and angels’ wings they burned our loved ones’ homes and emptied all the glass bottles we tumbled down with those walls we burned with our city and we perished with our empire the golden age was over and the people the people who said they’d be with us till their last breath they forgot and they didn’t miss us and we were not remembered when the madmen took our crowns and whispered off with their heads there was no one there to kiss the back of our hands and tell us we looked beautiful while they wiped away our tears the empire was gone the golden age was over and we were no longer legends

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January 10, 2014

Poetry IMAGE: JULIA BLEIER

Help KEEGAN MILLER

The thought is sickening maddens me to the core I don’t need it but reality, it follows me nips at my heels acceptance, the easy way out cleaned up anything is possible trying is easy commitment is hard I was straight though good to the end life is anew bright and shiny but in the back my mind is holding on on to the thoughts of those times the bliss, the feelings no! those are thoughts of poison I’ve gotten too far made it good and true

a life to call my own one I’m proud to share but all the same I hang on the edge I can’t make it good and evil yin but no yang I’m unbalanced I step out out to the balcony just past dawn one step imbalanced I fall backwards into life I will try I can make it make life my own I will live on forever in doubt

11

January 10, 2014

ANNIE LOUCKS

The words I convey, Onto a screen, For all people to see, Don’t feel like words filled with Emotion.

Heartless, Cold, Mechanical, Robotic, All describe what I feel My electronic words show.

It’s as if I’m not human, As if an Artificial Intelligence Produces these things online.

IMAGE: NAOMI POWERS

Emotionless

Poetry

But, When I see others’ words, They look and feel more Colorful; Not quite true colors, But not completely Gray either.

Their words show the emotion.

Their words show the power.

Their words show the Soul of a human being. ...

Why can’t I show my words like that?

IMAGE: JOSIAH RAWLINGS

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January 10, 2014

Photography

Photography Contest Winners The Tattler thanks all who submitted images to the 2014 Literary Issue Photography Contest. Congratulations to the winners, honorable mentions, and Julia Bleier ’14 for providing the wraparound cover photograph of this issue.

First Place: Christian Schuepbach ’14

Second Place: John Yoon ’16

Third Place: Julia Bleier ’14

Honorable Mention: Claire Saloff-Coste ’16

Honorable Mention: Christian Schuepbach ’14

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January 10, 2014

Prose

The Bathroom Across the Hall The bathroom facing the stairs in my house has a lot of history. It has probably seen many stories that no one in our family ever noticed, and it never tells a secret.

It was built in the early ’50s, as my father used to tell us, though it’s been pasted with enough outlets to make up for the hideous cabinets that make my parents so nostalgic. The floor is laid out in tiny rows of hexagons, which have become so off-white that our dog once managed to camouflage herself completely by lying down on it.

Unfortunately for this room, it has probably seen more crying and nervous breakdowns than any sane person could handle. I used to wake up numerous times in the night to hear quiet sobbing from behind a locked door. If the family bank account was less than satisfactory or my sister had broken up with one of her boyfriends, I would be sure to find a strip of light seeping into the hallway. This doesn’t even count all of my situations.

The last time I consulted the pink walls of that room was only a year ago. It was the summer before my sister’s first year of college, the very same night she and her friends decided to turn our living room into an ultra-suburban high-school rave.

I can’t claim complete innocence in this, or anything else my sister decided to do, but I was usually ignored enough to do so later.

That particular night, I ended up wandering aimlessly after failing to talk to almost everyone there. I’d been sulking in the front lawn trying not to feel like an outcast freshman when I walked into a cactus. My yellow blouse was streaked with red as blood seeped out of my cut.

Somehow, after seeing all the jerks that walked into my house, it was the stain that made my legs shake uncontrollably. I stormed to my sister, throwing away the ridiculous plastic red cup behind me. I think I said something about her pointless schemes, probably screaming that our parents would find out. I of course didn’t say how enraged I was at being constantly brushed off, but considering the snickering seniors, it was obvious enough.

IMAGE: ANTONIA SINCLAIR

SERAPHINA BUCKHOLTZ

This was my cue to run to the bathroom. I wasn’t crying, because tonight I needed to stay angry at everyone else.

Instead, I searched the ugly cabinets for gauze, and washed out my arm until the sink water had a copper tinge. I hadn’t thought a plant could do so much damage. It took me at least three minutes to realize there was someone else in the mirror.

I taped the gauze shut, trying to decide if I should pretend not to have noticed.

Something made me turn around, which was when I recognized him. It was Brian.

As far as most people were concerned, he didn’t need a last name. Out of all the Brians in our town, he was the one people ever really talked about. He was also the one most people chose to obsess over, though they had probably never pictured him sitting on a stranger’s bathroom floor with crumpled tissues and bloodshot eyes.

Any other night, I would have backed out of the room to go back to being one of those people, doing my best to forget what I saw, or at least pretend to. He would have glared at me stonily on my way out. There was something different about tonight; moisture clung to the Floridian air, and the tired ones no longer cared. This was how I ended up leaning against the sink, speaking to a stranger everyone had known forever. I’m not going to pretend that that night completely changed my life or his, but I think I started

to understand that I wasn’t the only one who went through life unseen. People may have been obsessed with him, but no one chose to notice the unsightly bruises or the numerous prescriptions, in case a day would come when he needed them. It was the same way I always knew someone had locked themselves in the bathroom at night, but when daylight came my sister wasn’t heartbroken, my father wasn’t broke, my mother wasn’t sick of it all.

Over the next four months, things started to change for me, and I started to feel like life was more than just one step laid in front of the other. I tried to see everything in the people around me, not just what I wanted to. As I became more observant, I noticed that his life seemed to have changed as well. It’s funny how easy it is for people to blend in once they change their surroundings.

Everything changed for real one morning in December. I was crossing the street smiling at something in my head, when I turned to see two cars collide with an otherworldly sound and a contained cloud of smoke. In the few minutes after that, I had no reason to break down. I was panicked, unsure of what to do, but the message wasn’t personal yet. The neighborhood was distilled, almost like the people still in town were afraid of what they would find.

I called the police and told them of the crash; I think they were the ones who told me to look for survivors. Like some sort of specter, I went to the wreck, opening the door of the first car. What I found was the body of someone I had only spoken to once, crushed and bloody inside. I guess even change can’t last long.

It’s summer again, and I imagine the cacti in my front lawn have begun to miss me. The bathroom across the stairs has probably seen many nervous breakdowns, as I am the new talk of the town.

The next step is two little blue pills in front of me. As the nurse watches me swallow them dutifully, I wonder if my sister is married. It shouldn’t confuse me, because my memory is not gone with whatever happiness I had created for myself. I know that she has done a good job of forgetting and moving on. Maybe I should do the same.

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January 10, 2014

Prose IMAGE: BRIDGET FETSKO

Thoughts While Waiting RUBIN DANBERG-BIGGS

I can tell you right now: I won’t look too excited. That’ll just throw him off. My grandma says I’m always too eager, and I never know when to quiet down, but not today. This here’s the first time he’s gonna see me, and I can imagine that that would be some kinda experience for a father, so I’ll show him how good I am. I remember back when I was four years old, I had these two turtles I kept in a tank. Looking back I don’t think I took very good care of them, so that’s probably why, when I left their tank open one day, they ran away. My grandma told me they wasn’t coming back, but a couple days later who do you think turns up on my bed? That’s right. Well sure he was dead but I’ll tell you right now I was so happy to see him; that’s how I know this is such a big day for my dad.

My grandma’s whispering in my ear now. I don’t like whispers. All they’re good for is keeping people from knowing things they really want to know. That’s why whenever anyone whispers I shut my ears real tight so I don’t have to hear that there’s something they don’t want me to know. My mom’s doctor used to do that kinda stuff all the time, always whispering away. He would whisper to her, then she would get on the phone and start whispering to my grandma and then they’d both start crying. So the way I see it, most of the time

someone’s whispering it’s because they’ve got something pretty awful to say. It’s better than my teacher who talks about me to my grandma like I’m not there or something.

Can you believe that?

“You got that?” she finished.

“Yeah grandma. I got it,” I paused, “Wait, actually can you say all that again?”

My grandma sighed, “I said I’m going to the bathroom right there under that big sign that says Terminal C. Stay right where you are.”

She made a little noise as she stood up, probably because her knees ain’t what they used to be. That’s what she told me after that time she fell. She was alright, and I think I came out of it the worst, considering I’m the one whose ball she popped when she stepped on it. It was a good ball.

It seems to me that airports are one of those places where everybody really goes inside their heads. Like you might find one or two people on any street that’s got their head down and isn’t paying no mind to another soul, but in an airport, that’s everybody. I know it because I’ve been sitting here trying to talk to some folks and they don’t even give me a look.

But I guess when you’re grown up you’ve got so many important things in your head you don’t have any more room.

Continued on Page 17.

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January 10, 2014

Prose

IMAGE: SOPHIE PARTINGTON

Thoughts While Waiting Continued from Page 16.

That may not have much to do with my dad, but you’ve gotta understand—I’m nervous as hell. For god sakes, he is my dad, and I’ve gotta try to make a first impression ten years into my life. People keep telling me today is really important, because first impressions are when people decide what they think about you. Well I don’t know if that’s true, but if it is, it’s just about the dumbest thing I ever heard. What kind of person says, “Hell, I know I’ve only known him for a minute but I think I’ve got it all figured out”?

I’ve been thinking about what I’m going to say to him when I see him. Probably “hi”, but I do want to show him the Pig Latin that Clarice Thompson taught me on the bus last week, and I figure right now might be as good a time as any.

Don’t it seem funny that even though I’ve met tons of people, I can’t figure out what to say to this one? When I first came to live with grandma, I didn’t say a word. Not for two weeks.

Didn’t say thank you or nothin’. I’m planning on talking this time, but you never know with mouths; sometimes they’ll just close up on you and ain’t nothin’ you can do about it.

I’ve heard the word “exonerated” a lot recently; from my grandma, her friends, my aunts, and my oldest cousin who gets to sit at the adults’ table at Thanksgiving. I don’t really know what it means, but that’s okay, because it seems like it makes my family happy. They’re all back at my grandma’s

house setting up a party for my dad; it’s just my Grandma and I who came to meet him here. I’ve been kind of worried that I won’t recognize him when he shows up. I’ve seen pictures and all but that don’t mean nothin’ when you think about it. I mean, when you look at a picture, you just see what a person’s body looks like, not what they look like. Because you can see a person, like really see them, when you get to know them. I mean, you see how they walk, how they talk, why they talk like that—heck, even how loud they eat their food.

I look at my grandma and I don’t just see her old skin or white hair; I see how she’s one of those people who really think about everything they do. Every step her mind’s just working up there. I think her mind works too much. That’s probably how come she can’t get why I don’t put any pictures of my mom up in my room. It’s like she thinks I’ll forget what she looked like, and when I see her up there we’ll just blow right by each other. Don’t get me wrong—I think about her all the time, but it can go different ways. Some days, when I’m feeling good, it just makes me sad, but most of the time I just get real angry. So now instead of thinking about her, I try to think about what she’s doing right now. I’m betting she’s thinking about me. I asked my friend Eric what he thought, and he just laughed at me and said that was impossible. For some reason, every time I tell someone about how I think about what she’s doing, they feel like it’s their job to make sure I stop thinking like that, because it’s not how they think.

That happens to me a lot. I guess they want to make sure everyone thinks like they do so that they don’t feel lonely.

“Grandma, why did we have to get here so early?” I asked her.

“In case there’s a change in his flight. Now remember, you don’t ask him about where he was, why he was gone, or what it was like there. You just give him a big hug and introduce yourself.”

“I know, I know! You don’t have to keep telling me!”

“Well sometimes you don’t pay attention, so . . .” My grandma’s still talking . . . boy can she talk . . . but I think she’s told me everything I need to know. I sure hope he doesn’t call me sport. I really hate that. Eric’s dad calls him sport and I always wonder why he doesn’t just call him Eric since that is his name for cryin’ out loud. I told him that and he said his dad had to ’cause he was his soccer coach and that’s what soccer coaches call their kids. I guess my dad will have to be my soccer coach too, since that’s what makes Eric and his dad so tight. I’m gonna have to learn how to play soccer.

My grandma said something to me that’s bouncing around in my head now. That happens to me sometimes when I don’t get my pill in the morning: stuff just starts bouncing around in my head and I can’t get it to stop. This is different, though.

I heard something that isn’t really making much sense; I may not have much to offer when it comes to normal things to say, but those words are really sticking with me: “Give him a big hug and introduce yourself.”

I haven’t been around for that long, but I don’t think that’s how most things go.

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January 10, 2014

Prose

Rest for the Wicked IMAGE: MEREDITH LAWHEAD

BRENDAN COYLE

There was a loud thudding from far down the corridor. It neared the large twin metal doors with a rapid speed until they opened with a loud metallic clang. A woman sprinted through into the medical ward, shotgun in hand. She located a nearby IV stand and shoved it through the circular handles to barricade the door. The screams of the undead could be heard approaching her hideaway. Her hiking boots clomped on the ground as she dashed to the countertops and drawers and stashed all the medical supplies she could find into her knapsack. The roars reached the doors and the metal began to sway with the force of the oncoming horde. The crease in between the doors began to widen ever so slightly, only held from opening by the sturdy metal stand.

“Eat lead, bastards!” She roared when the opening became large enough to fit her double-barreled shotgun in. She fired a couple of rounds into the heads of what used to be human beings. No one completely knows how it happened.

In each of the surviving colonies that she visited, there was a different story.

Some suspected bacteria, some an airborne virus, others parasites. Some simply believed it was the wrath of God. She returned to searching through the various cabinets in the hospital. She was able to scavenge four first aid kits, a few hypodermic needles, and a small box full of vaccines. She slung the bag over her shoulder and began to run.

That was life now. Hiking, running, or sleeping. She couldn’t remember the last time she had ever “strolled”. Strolling disappeared on Zero Day, the day they gained control. They are referred to now as Ferals. The government now exists as sparse, dispersed, walled-off communities. They try to bring life back to the way it used to be, but it will never be the same.

She ran down the corridor and looked into each of the rooms, hoping for some more hidden materials. The

amount of neglected bodies would have disgusted her three years ago, but now it all seems monotonous. She continued her way down the hall until she began to make out the slightest noise. It sounded like a beeping. It was steady and consecutive. She followed it into a room farther down the hall. She slowly opened the door.

“Shit. . . .” She regretted coming.

There in the bed was a kid. From her guess, he was about nine or ten. He was unconscious, still hooked up to an IV, heart monitor still recording his slow and steady beats. She was ready to leave.

Who knew if the horde had made it through the door yet? She couldn’t just leave him. Could she? No. Of course not.

She awkwardly stared and fumbled with the equipment, not sure how to un-

plug someone from one of those things.

She resolved to see if she could try and wake him up the best way she could.

“Hey! Hey kid—get up! Jesus, kid, I’m not staying here much longer. Get up!” She began to slap his face gingerly, and then with more force. His eyes finally opened. His livened, freckled face held a disgusting familiarity to it. It was a face from a world that no longer existed. The hordes had only reached this area three weeks ago. It’s amazing that the kid lasted long enough.

“Wha-ah! What’s going on?” he questioned as he dizzily lifted himself upwards.

“C’mon, kid. Let’s go. I can’t leave you here.” She motioned towards the door and poked her head out to survey the area. Thank God those things were so Continued on Page 19.

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January 10, 2014

Rest for the Wicked Continued from Page 18. stupid. She must have easily lost them in this labyrinth. She turned around and saw the kid sitting there frozen. “Kid, move it or I’m gonna leave your sorry ass here!”

“B-but . . . my clothes,” he mumbled as he motioned towards his smock. The woman began to rummage begrudgingly through the drawers in the room.

She found what she suspected to be his clothes that he wore during whatever wound him up here.

“Here—put these on fast.” She tossed the clothes to him, and turned around to give him some privacy. She returned to keeping watch.

“Um, what’s going on?”

“What date do you think it is?”

“Uh, last time I remember it was the 20th of April. . . .”

“What year?”

“2016.”

“Good. Haven’t been out too long.”

“Been out? What do you—? Last thing I remember was . . . Wait, where are my mom and dad?”

She did not have time for this.

“Kid, I have a feeling that your parents are long gone.”

“What do you mean? What are you—” “Listen to me: I do not have any time to play Twenty Questions right now.

We’re leaving.” She turned around to grab him by the arm and ran farther down the corridor to a staircase. On the way down, they turned a corner to see a crowd of about half a dozen Ferals dragging themselves about.

“Are those the things I saw on TV?” the kid asked rather loudly.

“Shut up, God dammit!”

The former members of the human race perked their ears up at the two walking meals and roared. The two ran back up the stairs desperately to evade the oncoming onslaught. They made their way back to the corridor that they entered the staircase from, only to find that the mass from earlier had made its way to where they now were. Their only choice was to go up. Unfortunately, by the time they made their way to the next floor, they hadn’t realized that they would be on the roof. The wind blew sharply at them as they opened the door

Prose to the top of the hospital and slammed it shut.

“Oh jeez. What do we do? How do we—? Where can—?”

“Shut up and let me think!” She spotted a fire escape on the far side of the roof. She grabbed the kid and ran. They made it down the escape and out of sight before they heard the door burst open with the Ferals sniffing and surveying the area. When they came down to street level, the coast was clear, so they sat down to rest for a bit.

“Whoa, that was wicked!” the kid piped up. The woman glared at him.

“I’m, um, Danny, by the way.”

“Cindy.”

“Nice to meet you, Cindy. Do you prefer Cynthia? There was this girl who lived next door to me when I was three who always—” “Okay, pipsqueak. I have had about enough irritating things happen in one day. The last thing I need is a little twerp running his mouth like a motorboat.”

“Okay.” They sat there in silence for a while. Danny began whistling “I Will Survive.”

“What part of ‘shut up and be quiet’ did you not understand?”

“Sorry.”

More silence.

“Alright. Let’s get going.” Cindy pushed herself off the ground and rummaged through her bag to make sure everything was in check.

“But we just got here! I’m tired.” Danny crossed his arms and began to pout.

“I don’t care if you’re tired. You can stay here if you want. I got you out of there, so my conscience is clear. I’m offering you a generous chance to come along, but I’m just as happy to leave you here to fend for yourself.”

“Alright,” Danny sighed as he lifted himself up and began to trudge next to Cindy. God, that kid was annoying.

His voice was goofy. His walk was goofy.

Even his Sonic the Hedgehog T-shirt was goofy. “Hey! Where are we going?”

“Fort Knox. It’s one of the last safe houses in New England.”

“I remember my parents taking me there when I was a kid. It was kind of boring.” He sniffed.

“Yeah, well it shouldn’t be boring now.”

“Where are we now?” Sniff.

“From what I can tell, we’re in a suburb of Augusta.”

“Ooh! Can we go into the city? I’m dying for some lahbstah!” Sniff.

“Do you not remember what just happened 15 minutes ago? They’re everywhere. They’re called Ferals, and no matter how much they may look like it, they aren’t human. They’re animals— viscous animals—so treat them as such.

What’s worse is they’re completely all over the place and—would you stop the sniffing?!”

“Oh yeah. Sorry about that. Nervous habit. My mom always told me to stop, but it never hurt anyone.” Sniff.

“Yeah—only my sanity.”

“What?” Sniff.

“Never mind.” They made their way farther down the road until thick pine began to line the street. They spotted a few deer and moose down the road, and Danny began to make popping noises with his mouth that were quickly eliminated by Cindy. Danny asked some more questions, and Cindy gave some more one-word answers until it began to grow dark and they entered a nearby housing development. They snuck their way into one of the houses, and Cindy scanned the premises for any Ferals or survivors. Everything seemed to be in order, so she locked up and they slept on couches in the living room.

• • • Cindy woke up to Danny shaking her rapidly. “What? What the hell do you want?”

“You were yelling in your sleep. Did you have a bad dream?”

“I don’t freaking know. Go back to bed, dammit.”

“Alright.” He slipped himself back into the bed and pulled the covers over him, staring at the furrowed brow on Cindy’s face.

• • • When they woke up, Cindy raided the cabinets, only to find a few packages of freeze-dried spaghetti. She boiled some water in a metal mug with her camp stove and poured it into the packets. She pulled out spoons from the drawers in the kitchen.

“Eat up, kid.” She buried her spoon in Continued on Page 20.

January 10, 2014

Prose

IMAGE: ANTHOS VLAHOS

20

Rest for the Wicked Continued from Page 19. the slop.

“Oh God, this stuff is nasty!” Danny wiped his tongue of the bilious, red soup.

“Yeah, well it’s the only thing you’ll be eating until we can find something else, and I will not drag you if you pass out.”

“Alright, fine.”

After their five-star meal, they headed out on the road again. After seven miles or so, they reached a gas station.

Cindy’s fingers were crossed that there might be some leftovers to scavenge.

Luckily, the 7-Eleven still had plenty of food left in it. While Danny and Cindy began to dine on Pringles and Doritos, Cindy asked Danny a question for the first time.

“So what do you remember before you woke up yesterday?”

“I was driving down the road with my parents. Um, I think we were on the highway, and there was something on the road. I think it was a person, but we didn’t have enough time to see. The car

in front of us started swerving, trying not to hit it. It did, though. It slid right off the windshield. I mean, I think it was a person, but I looked out the back window and I saw it get up. People don’t just get up after being hit by a car, right?

Now I think it was one of those . . . things. Anyway, last thing I remember was looking out the back and hearing my parents yelling. I remember flying forward really fast, and then I woke up in the hospital.”

The only sound left in the room was the crumpling of plastic bags.

“My parents are probably gone, aren’t they?” Danny looked up at Cindy, almost as if expecting her to know.

“That’d be my guess, kid. Car accidents rarely end pretty.” They sat there a little while more, gorging themselves until they heard something. It was deep and sharp. Almost like a— Like a grunt.

Their attention turned towards the doors where they saw a horde advancing towards the gas station. Their eerily staggered steps brought them closer to

Danny and Cindy’s location with every second.

“Oh shit. Not good.” Cindy readied her shotgun and reloaded it with some shells from her bag.

“How are we gonna get out?” Danny’s head jerked left and right, trying to find a good way around the mass of the dead.

“There’s only one way out. We have to go through them.”

“Through them?! How can we—” “The shotgun should be able to open a window for us.” She cocked the gun and held it determinedly.

“Alright. Let’s do it,” Danny said.

“Wait, that one looks familiar . . .”

“C’mon—let’s go! On three. One. Two. Three!” They charged through the doors as Cindy fired three shots through the middle of the crowd. They ran their way through and began to sprint away from the Ferals. Danny’s foot snagged on a cracked piece of asphalt and he fell on his face. A shock wave crawled up his body, hurting him in bruises that must have been caused by his crash. He couldn’t pull himself up. He began hyperventilating as the zombies recovered from their daze. They turned their attention towards him and advanced.

“No! Help! Ahhh—Stop!” Danny began screaming as their attention all focused on his legs. Cindy was a few feet ahead. She turned around to see the kid screaming and kicking.

“C’mon! Get up!!” She grabbed his arm and yanked it from the grasp of a Feral right before its teeth sunk into his leg. He was crying and flailing wildly.

“Let’s go, Danny!” They sprinted faster than they ever had before. After they had made some distance between them and the horde, they slowed down to a brisk pace, heaving for air.

“That was horrible. I want to go home.” Danny still had tears streaming from his eyes. His heart felt like it was going to burst through his ribcage.

“I know you do, Danny,” Cindy said, softening a little. “But we have to keep going now. It’s Knox or bust.” They continued down the road in silence. They reached a small suburban town with a sign reading “Welcome to South China, Maine!” The dead plazas and abandoned cars were very welcoming. They Continued on Page 21.

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January 10, 2014

IMAGE: ANTHOS VLAHOS

Rest for the Wicked Continued from Page 20. walked through a small downtown area until they finally found it: a Walmart.

They made their way in by prying open the dysfunctional sliding doors with a crowbar from Cindy’s backpack.

“Do you have everything in there?”

Danny began to rummage through the sack, pulling out a package of something called “Maxi Pads”. Cindy noticed his findings and quickly snatched the bag away.

“Everything I need,” she said as the sliding door finally gave way to the power of the iron lever. They made their way through the entrance into the store.

It was fairly barren with a few useless things left behind. They made their way through the store, trying to see if there was anything left of value. The toy section was rather well-stocked. The apocalypse didn’t necessarily call for a demand in entertainment.

After a few minutes wandering about, the loud slam of a door echoed through the aisles.

Voices were coming from the back of the store. Cindy was not expecting this.

Everyone was supposed to be in the colonies or dead, but perhaps there were more travelers like them. She poked her head around an aisle to see multiple men and women in leather jackets packing knives, supplies, and a young man.

He looked like he was around 19.

“P-please, Max . . .” the kid coughed out through a blood-filled mouth. “I didn’t mean to—” “Yeah, well, ya did, Simon,” replied Max, “Ya did, and now, three months of stashing and raiding has been lost. Now remind me, Simon. What is our first rule?”

“What’s happening?” Danny crawled over to Cindy.

“Shut up and close your ears.” Cindy pushed him back as far as she could and he covered his head without questioning.

“D-don’t,” Simon mumbled.

“I can’t hear you, man. You oughta speak up a bit.” Max kicked Simon in the face.

“Don’t fuck up,” Simon wheezed as red dots painted the linoleum beneath him.

Prose

“That’s a good boy, huh. Well, here’s the problem, buddy. Ya did fuck up. Ya really did. And do you know what we do to people who fuck up? Hmm?” “We . . . we fuck them up.”

“Hey! Score for Simon, huh guys?”

Another blow cracked Simon’s jaw. “Alright. Take him out back, boys. I don’t want more blood on the floors.”

Simon’s limp body was dragged out of sight. The back door slammed. A muffled gunshot was heard.

“Alright,” Max began to point out a few people left in the crowd. “Sandy, Ruth, and Mark: come with me. Everybody else head back out on the trail and try to find the bastards that stole our van. The thing was low on gas, so maybe they didn’t get too far. Luke and Sam: you two stand watch. Salute!” The men and women of the gang gave a sort of horizontal hooking motion with their arms, followed by a small bow.

The different sections broke up to carry out their respective tasks while Cindy and Danny pressed themselves against one of the shelving units to try

to stay out of sight as best as possible.

Cindy’s breath felt like it was put on max volume, and Danny’s chronic sniffling wasn’t helping. Cindy’s mind was racing with ways to squeeze their way out of this. She checked her backpack to find that she was out of shotgun shells, and she only saw the gang holding pistols and automatics. Dammit—there were obviously no shells nearby for her to restock, and if they were, they’d be where Max is.

She found a large kitchen knife in her bag. She knew she was going to need this eventually.

“Follow me,” she motioned to Danny, and the two of them began to crawl slowly towards the guy called Luke. He was sauntering down what used to be the produce aisle while Sam was on the other side of the store. The two of them leapt from cover to cover behind the rows of shelves until they neared Luke.

Cindy pulled out the knife and started towards him. She hesitated.

“Look away,” she whispered to DanContinued on Page 22.

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January 10, 2014

Rest for the Wicked Continued from Page 21. ny. With wide eyes, he nodded and spun himself the other way. Cindy proceeded to clasping her hand over Luke’s mouth and stabbing him in the back with the cold, stainless-steel blade. She grabbed his pistol and ammo belt and moved back to Danny, making sure that he didn’t see the body.

“Stay put,” she said when she had gotten him to a safe, secluded corner in the grocery section. “And take this in case anyone shows up.” She handed him the gun, and his gaze snapped up towards hers. God, it was agonizing. She briskly walked off to find Sam. She snuck up behind him in the entertainment section.

Rinse and repeat.

“C’mon,” she said as she returned to Danny, who eagerly returned the unused gun. They silently made their way towards the front door.

“Wait. Where are we going?” Danny piped up. “What about the other guys?

We should stop them.”

“Are you crazy? This is not our problem.” Cindy continued moving forward.

“But . . . they’re bad guys, right? Like the Ferals?”

Cindy stopped. “They aren’t like the Ferals. They’re human beings. The Ferals are not. When are you going to get that through your stupid, thick head?”

“My head’s not thick or stupid!” Danny was starting to get a little loud.

“Shut up, goddammit! We can’t stay here any longer or they will be our problem. We don’t need any more trouble to deal with.” Danny was looking past her shoulder, eyes wide.

“Well, it looks like we do have some more trouble. . . .”

The grunting reached Cindy’s ears with an almost mocking muffling. They were all crowded on the other side of the glass doors. They began to smash. The door wasn’t going to hold for much longer.

“Christ. . . .” Cindy muttered under her breath. She loaded both pistols and aimed them at the door. “Get behind me, kid. This is going to be ugly.”

The glass shattered with an erupting crash. The dead started to stumble into the store as bullet after bullet ran into the masses of rotten flesh. The surviving

Prose corpses climbed over the fallen ones as the entrance to the Walmart became increasingly clogged with Cindy standing still, arms raised, and firing relentlessly at the horde. A symphony of bullets reverberated off the walls of the store.

Startled voices came from the offices to their right.

“Get that one!” Danny screamed as one of the Ferals was able to advance rather close. “Tha—Wait, is that the one that I saw before?”

“God, would you shut up? Here!” She ran over to it, kicked it in the chest to the ground, and shot at its head. “Happy now?” She fired again at the crowd, but she was dry. She grabbed Danny and ran for the back of the store. When they walked out the back door, she quickly pulled some pistol ammo out of her backpack and reloaded the magazines.

With the back of the stores as their cover, they ran off and eventually merged back onto the road. Cindy looked back, hoping that the gang wouldn’t follow them. It was going to be a long time before they reached Augusta.

They walked down the road for a few more hours. Danny was eerily silent.

They kept trudging along the forested walls, not saying a word.

“They have a lot, you know,” Danny mumbled, voice shaking.

“A lot of what?”

“Blood. People have a lot of blood.”

“What are you—” “When you left, I went back to where you killed that guy. There was a lot of it. Like a jelly donut. A really gross jelly donut.” His eyes were fixated on the ground in front of him, unmoving.

“Goddammit! I told you to stay put.

Just . . . just don’t think about it.”

“Okay.”

More silence.

“I’m tired of running.” Danny looked up for the first time in hours.

“You and me both, kid. But it’s all we can do right now.”

“Well, why don’t we just hide?”

“What?” Cindy’s gaze snapped towards him, and his head went back down.

“I mean, why can’t we just hide and let them pass?”

“Have you seen what’s happened the last few times we’ve tried that? They can

always find us. I’m sure they can smell human stench or something.”

“In third grade, Mr. Carlson said that pine branches are very smelly.” They stopped.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“If we rubbed ourselves with pine branches, maybe we could throw the smell off of us.” He looked back up at her, and they stared at each other for a while.

“You know what?” Cindy looked around at the abundance of green, spiky cones surrounding them. “That idea is so stupid it might work.”

Danny’s face lit up.

They began cutting branches off of the trees with Cindy’s pocket knife.

Once they had gathered enough pine leaves, they rubbed them on their clothes and gears, sneering at the potent stench they produced. They continued down the road until they found a small, abandoned log cabin. They set up in the hut for the night.

Cindy put Danny into bed and tucked him in. She leaned in towards his forehead, but retracted quickly and stood watch at the window. The horde would be coming soon, and her fingers were crossed that the kid’s plan would work. She waited and waited, turning every once and a while to watch him for a moment. He looked so peaceful asleep. And he finally shut the hell up, too. Cindy’s head began to dip as she stared out into the New England night time. It dipped. It dipped deeper. And then it . . .

• • • She snapped out of her slumber when the growls became very close. She heard them coming down the road and decided to wake Danny up in case the plan went sour. He drowsily got himself out of bed and crept over to the window.

They appeared through the trees.

Torn faces, dead eyes, and exposed muscle and bone were even more terrifying in the dark, blue hue of the moonlight. They murmured and gurgled as they limped closer and closer, motivated solely by the need to feed off of living meat. Danny and Cindy watched them as they passed by, seemingly unaware of their presence.

Continued on Page 23.

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January 10, 2014

Prose

Rest for the Wicked Continued from Page 22.

It worked.

It actually worked.

The pine sent them off the scent trail. They finally evaded them. They could come and go as they pleased! They were free. Danny was exuberant that his ploy had been successfully executed. He wrapped his arms around Cindy in a semi-tackle. She patted him in the back.

Once the Ferals had passed a good mile or so, they both retired to bed.

Cindy slept better than she had in three years.

• • • Cindy woke up to a knocking on the door. She slowly slipped out of bed, woke Danny, and armed her pistol. It could be anyone. One of the gang members, the owner of the shack, it could be— Never mind. The point is, they weren’t the only ones there.

She noticed the knocking becoming more sporadic. More wild.

More feral.

The door began to sway with the crushing force coming from the other side. Then she heard the grunting. Damn!

One of them found them. She lifted the pistol and aimed it at the door. It bumped again. And again. Then silence.

Boom!

With one destructive blow, the door flew off the hinges, and the Feral stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the morning sun. As it stumbled into the room, it revealed its face.

“B-but,” Danny murmured, perplexed by the figure. “You killed that one! I saw you!!”

“Danny! Shut up!” Danny backed up from Cindy. Her face was red with rage. She had the gun pointed right at him, but the trigger didn’t budge.

“Cindy! What are you waiting for? Kill it! It’s right there!

Kill it!!”

“I-I . . .”

“Mrrrmmmrrmmrm . . .” The Feral stopped in its tracks, mumbling. “Mrrrrrarmmmmmrarmmmm . . .”

“Cindy, w-what’s it doing?”

“Maaaarrmmmmerrrrr . . .”

“Stop.” Cindy’s eyes were locked onto it. “Please God, stop.”

“Marmmarmr.” It took another step. “Marrmaaaaaa.” Another. “Maaammmm . . .” One more.

“Mama.”

Time stopped for a moment. It was a frozen second, an instance completely removed from time.

“Eric,” Cindy’s voice wavered. “Eric. Don’t come any closer.”

“But,” Danny stammered, petrified. “I saw you shoot him!

How can he—” “I shot the floor next to his head. I didn’t shoot him.”

“Mama.” Another step. “Mamaaaa.” Another step.

“Mamaaaaaa!” It charged at the two of them. Cindy stood there paralyzed.

In a moment of pure adrenaline, Danny snatched a

Salem Critical Insights by Pearse Anderson

broomstick, leapt out in front of Cindy, and jabbed the Feral in its solar plexus. Cindy watched as Danny pinned Eric to the ground, his foot firmly stamped on its chest.

“Shoot it,” Danny looked over at Cindy while the Feral’s hands clawed at the air, trying vainly to grasp Danny’s foot.

“I . . . I can’t. He’s my—” “He’s not anymore. Do you remember what you told me earlier? They aren’t human. I’ve seen that firsthand now. I never saw these things up close until you sprung me from the hospital, but now I know what they’re like and what they are.

Do it. You have to do this, or you’ll never be able to let go.”

Cindy walked over to where Danny was standing. She hiked Kilimanjaro in those six feet.

“You can do it. Let him go.”

Cindy readied the pistol and aimed at Eric. She didn’t say a word, but a single tear fell on his cheek as the bullet went through its head.

The roaring stopped. The bang of the gun dissipated. And Cindy finally let go. She put her arm around Danny and they looked down at the dead undead.

“Damn,” Danny said as he studied the corpse. “It looked a lot like me.”

“Yeah,” Cindy replied. “Yeah he does. The stupid kid wouldn’t shut up or stop sniffling.”

The End

Tattler Literary Issue January 2014