The Meridian - Spring 2019

THE MERIDIAN 2019

EDITORIAL BOARD

EDITOR’S NOTE

Editor: Deb Springhorn

The Meridian is published to showcase the literary and artistic talent of our community’s writers and visual artists. It represents only a fraction of the creative expression found on our campus. This edition of The Meridian is comprised of student work selected from English and Arts classes as well as art activities. I thank you all for your willingness to submit your work; without such wonderful contributions there would be no magazine.

I hope that the work published here will inspire many more submissions from KUA students in the future. Creative writing and art work need not be from classes; it may come from any creative moment, at KUA or elsewhere.

Managing Editor: Kit Creeger, Associate Director of Marketing Communications Design & Layout: Deb Springhorn Jessica Miller, 678 Studio Front Cover Image: Split Personality Winsome Neville ’20

Deb Springhorn, Editor

THE MERIDIAN Kimball Union Academy’s Literary and Arts Magazine

SPRING

2019

TAY L O R C O B U R N ’ 1 9

Cracks in the Ceiling - HANNA WICZEK ’21 “There are cracks in the ceiling,” she says (226).

“She leans back against a column as she speaks, Smiling at him easily,”(128) “His leg pressing gently against her leg Briefly running a hand through her hair”(96).

“For a moment she looks at him expectantly, Then Smiles” (95).

“Quickly, Simultaneously, he falls in love” (137).

“Flowers brought home for no reason at all”(138).

“For to know her and love her Is to know And love All things”(137).

“There are cracks in the ceiling,” she says (226).

“He stares at her, Takes her hand and puts its back in her lap” (182).

“He can tell that she feels useless” (182) .

“At first she’d been patient,. . . Quickly they began to argue”(188).

“He is lost in spring without her” (117) “Oh, where did she go?” (157) “Time to time his mother asks him if he has a new girlfriend” (191) “As much as he wants to make his mother happy. Why doesn’t he give her a call?” (192) “She shrugs and gives a quick smile... yet to be convinced” (194).

“His mind goes back to a brightly lit place” (196).

“She thanks him for dinner... she kisses him on both cheeks” (198).

“There are cracks in the ceiling,” she says (226).

“She emerges now... she has taken off her makeup he still finds her most ravishing, unadorned.

“Aware that it is a way she is willing to look for no one but him”(226).

“They get into bed, kiss, then slowly they turn away from each other.”

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Found poetry is a type of poetry created by taking words, phrases, and sometimes whole passages from other sources and reframing them as poetry (a literary equivalent of a collage) by making changes in spacing and lines, or by adding or deleting text, thus imparting new meaning.

Sophomores in Ms. Kelly’s English class wrote a found poem using lines from The Namesake, repurposing the imagery and dialogue to create a new, rich concept or take on the text.

[L. Kelly]

FIONA LUO ’21 & K AT I E AY E R S ’ 2 2

LIAM FITZGERALD ’20

HANNAH ZHANG ’20

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The Storm - ANONYMOUS Right on the ledge, He stands, a storm in his mind.

A dark angel is waiting to catch him. A true friend, A “Destroyer of worlds,” The Grim Reaper, The holder of souls.

SCOUT BEAUPRE ’19 But the thing is, “No one cares Until something dramatic happens.”

Each spring, Literature of the Join in with his screaming, His howling, American Dream students create His roaring, ten original poems in ten His pain, different styles and write three His falling, His tears, His laughter, His living, Thrashing, Pulsing, Rage. personal reflective essays.

Other friends join in, Hands out with fingers splayed, Each student then compiles these Little bits of his mind are seeping through. Like snowflakes falling down from the sky. pieces to create one personal His storm of emotions. anthology of their writing. They Swirling and ripping through him. Like a snow storm, are to lock this away in a closet or Falling down too fast to be caught. chest, then pull it out to re-read They try to pull him back. How he wants to go back. But it’s too late. every year before their KUA If only they had noticed, If only they had cared reunion arrives.

If only, if only.

A secret becoming an anthem ― an anthem in his mind. [ D. Beaupré ’86 ] A slip, a breeze maybe?

His feather-light hope drifts away.

So at odds to his fall.

Crashing into his “friend’s” open arms.

To r n a d o i n T i m e - MADDIE HASTINGS ’19

K AT E G AO ’ 2 2

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In the distance, roamed a cloud of debris.

The rain was replaced by heavy stones, Suddenly the silence filled my home.

An unsettling sense crept down my back, And the lights flickered off, followed by a crack.

Anticipation had long begun, It was impossible to predict the damage that would be done.

The air lingered a haunting screech, That’s when the funnel started to breach, Vicious winds soared to three hundred, And everything in its path was plundered.

All in a matter of ten short minutes, The tempest had and finished, People, homes, pets, trees, cars, roads, Numbers were quick to grow.

The destruction and rubble unimaginable, The massacre unnavigable, Although the twister completed its pass, The initial squall was simply the crevasse.

Below the surface lies the despair, Something that will never be fully repaired.

The Lost Sonnet 155 of Shakespeare - ARLO MERRITT ’19 Long walks across the stretched, elegant beach On the east coast, Crystal Crescent. Water Is translucent, and sunset like a giant peach.

Once the weather begins to get hotter, Certainly, trips will be taken to roam, And explore the shallows of the ocean, Until it is time to return back home.

Easily burnt, apply some sun lotion, So you don’t get red’n achy, the next day.

Sandcastles destroyed by the roaring wave, Spikeballs soaring, bodies flying. Come play A game, one or two, don’t be shy, be brave.

But, the rain has started to come down. Run! Rainfall won this round and ruined the fun.

Spring Snow - B E N TA R D I F F ’ 1 9 When snow comes, it falls Light and sporadic, always dissolved by midday.

But while it’s here, it covers The hill with a bright, white, coat

My Phone - K E E TA E BY U N N ‘ 1 9 You peel back the plastic film around my box After throwing away the important papers and charger, You lift me up for inspection Smooth black finish, fresh and new I’m dressed up with a screen protector and case My first day out, feeling butterflies in My stomach I’m nervous that I will break You pull me out because you’re bored and On the train the first smudges are visible Bobbing around in your pocket, I wait to see you again Swipe by swipe, you use me all day Games, weather, text, calls, sports, and news You need me in your life I am the first thing you see in the morning, and the thing you see before you sleep You plug me in for the night, so I will be charged in the morning Parties, work, and vacation, I go where you go So many good memories.

Remember the pictures from Mom’s birthday?

Or the trip to Arizona? We share so much, I feel like I am the only one who knows you best.

The leaves change, winter comes, still Waking you up and ready for the day The winter snow melts, you decide to go on a hike You stare at my GPS, but you trip, My first crack, summer comes, You go on vacation to the Cape, you go for a swim, But forget that I am still in your pocket Oh no! You rush me home and put me a bag of rice I’m safe for now Fall comes I am not new, I’m falling apart You look through the window, white bright lights A strange man in a black turtleneck and jeans, is talking about a fruit as a phone?

He is the new model straight off the assembly line I can do what he can do, but it doesn’t matter You toss me aside, like trash, forgotten forever.

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JESSICA XU ’20

See What’s Not Visible - MARC DOLGIN ’19 Your eyes can never determine what’s true; Yet your heart can usually know what’s real.

The color of the sky, not always blue; The sun often casts that warm yellow summer feel.

Running towards the clearly visible; You pass every treasure that is hidden.

Somethings are simply irresistible, Yet those things often remain forbidden.

The rare wholesome riches do not quite show The magical power that’s within, But they sure bring a lovely warm glow When you feel it scattered within your skin.

And yet, some people still do not realize The obscure is what allows us to rise.

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CHLOE ROURKE-NICHOLAS ’19

Where I’m From - JOSHUA RIZIKA ’19 I am from soccer balls, from Friendly’s and Cranky’s. I am from a diamond patterned driveway with grass growing in between. I am from the backyard full of rich dark soil, the green grass that stains your elbows.

I am from Shabbat dinners and shaking wine glasses full of grape juice, from Adam and Ellen and all the Rizikas. I am from chasing after my angry line of cousins and not knowing what to do once I reached their bodies tangled up on the ground in battle.

I am from “you can’t have desert unless you finish your dinner” and “it’s time to get up” in a high pitched voice. I am from getting ready for temple and refusing to tuck my shirt in and counting the seconds after Rabbi Stern shouts tekiah gedolah!

I am from Brigham and Women’s Hospital, from “delicious” meatloaf and Aunt Ogeliberg’s casserole taken off the back of a cereal box. I am from Uncle Bob throwing the hatchet at dad and breaking the garage window, and the hundreds of unopened treasures in the attic.

I am from Brookline, Boston, Westford, Utica, Israel, France, and Italy, from the forbidden den in the basement and the bathroom under the stairs, from behind the curtain of our Passover plays that were made interesting by spontaneous chickens, and from falling asleep to the words “curl your toes” coming from next to my bed.

OLIVE SCULL ’19

I AM - X AV I E R A . M A N N I N G ’ 1 9 I am the warm days, the dark nights.

From the hot pavement.

Boiling in the summer.

I am of the car-dirtied snow of the winter.

I am collard greens and ox tail, The land of gustatory tantalization my family calls the kitchen.

I am the quarter waters at the park.

I am the lively Getty Square, pungent of ethnic hair product.

I am the Polish Center, fainted hints of baking.

I am the longer days of cool breeze.

Almost tasting the water in the air as you breathe.

I am the children, a meaningful rainbow.

I am the children, of light and snow.

I am home I am one of many

I am Yonkers

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I A m Yo u r W i n d o w - JACK CLARNER ’19 I am your window.

I see inside and out.

I see your life within, And your life without.

I see your life of sin, And your life of doubt.

I watch as you run With your friends to the park.

I watch you come home, For supper, at dark.

I keep a close eye As you roam about.

I let the sun shine, When I see you pout.

And I’m your life line, So you don’t fall out.

AKAR ESCAMILLA GOMEZ ’20

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SHANNON MORAN ’22

Where I’m From - M O L LY D AV I S ’ 1 9 I am from the soft, warm sand between my feet, and from a beach towel, and the ocean breeze.

I am the Bauer hockey sticks nicely organized in my garage, and the ice cold pond down the road.

I am from the warm, welcoming yellow house in a big neighborhood.

I am from the four soft white pear trees that blossom along my driveway in the spring.

I am from sitting at the top of the stairs waiting for Santa on Christmas morning, and Christmas in July in the summer.

I am from an Irish Family of the name McConnell, from a family of no redheads except me.

I am from believing in the tooth fairy, and leprechauns, who would bring me “gold chocolate” on Saint Patrick’s Day. I am from warm fresh-from-the-oven pumpkin bread and chicken soup.

I am from my small family of 5 including the cat.

I am from the photo albums tucked away in a closet.

I am from Maine.

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JOHN CHU ’20

At the end of the winter trimester, the Honors Global Literature classes took a deep dive into satire. After reading Molière’s Tartuffe and Jonathan Swift’s Modest Proposal, students chose to either write an additional scene for the play, following all the conventions of neoclassical drama or write a proposal of their own modeling Swift’s structure and tone. These are the class’s selections. [ D. Springhorn ]

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A P r o p o s a l a s t o W h y, f o r t h e Betterment of the Human Race, and International Cleanliness, The Ocean is the Best Place to D u m p Wa s t e - EMMA M GONIGLE ’21 C

It is repugnant to the human senses and citizens of this country; when walking along the street, they are confronted by the distasteful appearance of trash lying on the side of roads and pathways. The sight of oil pooled and swirling in reflective oil pattern blocks their path along parking lots and motorways. Litter becomes a threat to public health, attracting vermin and becoming the breeding ground for bacteria and parasites. Accumulated trash attracts more trash, which then becomes a fire hazard, as well as letting off pungent fumes.

Not only is litter an imminent threat, but a present one, with various shards of broken glass and used syringes scattered along city streets and neighborhoods.

It is reasonable to assume that this accumulation of trash, foul to the sight, smell, and health, is disliked by the general public. Waste oils and chemicals have become the stem of diseases and ailments, including various forms of cancer and respiratory problems, costing hundreds of thousands of dollars to treat. Furthermore, litter removal becomes an excessive cost, funded by taxpayers’ dollars, and therefore a quick, easy and affordable option is desirable to rid the population of this burden.

miles of land. There are currently 7.53 billion inhabitants of Earth, leaving each individual with less than three acres of land for themselves. To live an adequate lifestyle, the average American requires 24 acres of land over their life, ten times the available average. This does not include the allocated land required for roads, schools, hospitals, and other public building. Then, we have to factor in the landfills. In America alone, if you were to construct a trash pit 40 feet deep, the combined landfill area would be equal to more than 1,000 acres.

We then need to reexamine those numbers. If the total surface area of Earth is about 196.9 million square miles, of which 57,308,738 square miles is land, that leaves 139,591,262 square miles of surface area, taken up by the largest body in the world, the ocean. But that only, metaphorically and literally,

But my objective reaches further than solely that of litter disposal and offers a solution of a much wider breadth.

Under my advice, the human population would be able to rid itself completely of the putrid existence of trash piling up in our landfills and over-running our communities.

The total surface area of Earth is about 196.9 million square miles, of which 57,308,738 square miles is land. Of this number, about 33% is desert, and about 24% contains mountains. After subtracting the uninhabitable area (57%), we are left with a total of 24,642,757 square

WINTER SHAW ’19

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scratches the surface. If the average depth of the ocean is 12,100 feet (2.29), that gives us a total of 319,663,990 cubic miles of unused space! I, therefore, would make the modest proposal to use this space to unburden ourselves of such an abhorrent source of concern.

But the benefits of this solution do not stop there. As a consequence of disposing of this trash into such a vast waste of space, new space will open up for agrarian and civilian use, but so will a new market for marine trash processing, disposal, and transportation.

I have reliable intel from within the industry, providing me with the assurance that the trash disposal business is highly lucrative, and with this new form of disposal, hundreds of thousands of jobs will open up, providing income and profit for unemployed individuals.

These companies will become a hot ticket for opportunistic CEOs in search of new capital ventures and the like. Such a new and increasing market would directly stimulate the national and global economies as a consequence. I have assumed such ventures would be ideal for those high company executives, who seem to have no trouble dumping their waste in the ocean in the first place.

I am sure that the disposal costs of trash may motivate some individuals to use trash to construct clothing, furniture, homes, and perhaps small islands! These means of trash disposal could actually create more habitable land for the ever-growing popu-

W I N T E R S H AW ’ 1 9 14

lation. But even without these endeavors, individuals who currently are unemployed, at times living on the streets with litter, could use the trash-disposal business to make a profit from this same litter. It is as simple as picking it up and throwing it in your nearest ocean.

Of course, my proposal will not be met without criticism, but to them, I have a simple answer. One may ask, what about the fish? My answer, what about the fish? They have more than enough room in the previously calculated space, and even so, is the well-being of fish more important than that of the human race? Easily persuaded politicians will have you think so, advocating for the rights of fish habitats before addressing their own homeless, hungry, and displaced citizens.

producer of oxygen, necessary for consumption by all animals, in particular humans. A “negative” therefore only produces more positives in this situation.

Finally, I would like to assert that I have no financial interest in this proposal. Living in the rural north, I have neither excessive trash to make a profit off of nor ocean access to fuel economic gain. My own brother is, by occupation, an anti-trash fish activist and so my position opposes his directly. My only interest lies with the betterment of the human race, life, and experience, achieved through the use of this plan, my modest proposal.

A second critic may ask, what about pollution? To them I would raise the question, what about land pollution? Air pollution? Our world has been slowly polluted since the beginning of human civilization. We have come this far without properly addressing the situation, what harm will waiting a little longer have. It is not like the world will melt. I could propose the practice of recycling, the use of sustainable materials and energy, trash consumption consciousness, or trash collection programs, but so have my failed predecessors on the topic. The truth of the matter is, people want a quick, easy, and cheap method of disposal and are often not willing to change their habits to reduce their waste consumption, and therefore their effect on global pollution. Besides, oceanic “pollution” as some are keen to name it promotes the growth of algae, the number one

N O A H FA R N S W O RT H ’ 1 9

NICK WILDER ’20

JOHN CHU ’20 15

Ta r t u f f e Act I, Scene 5.5 - JESSICA ZHOU ’21 Dorine, Elmire (Orgon and Cléante exit, Elmire comes downstairs when Dorine was just going to go up to tell her what happened.)

Elmire

Dorine

Ah, Madame, I didn’t know you’re still awake.

Dorine

Elmire

I’m so worried; I can’t sleep for god’s sake.

Tartuffe’s giving me another headache.

Sneaky is this snake and also a fake.

Dorine

I’m glad you’re not sick anymore, at least.

You need to be healthy to fight that beast.

Elmire

Elmire

Yes, thank god my high fever went away, But my mind is falling into decay.

This house is a mess; I don’t understand How Tartuffe’s encounter could be unplanned.

Though I’m worried that Orgon has returned I can’t show it and make the kids concerned.

Madame, you shall not be plunged in despair!

You are needed for the house’s repair.

I know you are tired and need a break, But someone has to fix Orgon’s mistake.

Go and take action, before it’s too late, Set everything straight and don’t hesitate.

Yes, I absolutely agree with you, But he has been brainwashed, what can we do?

Whatever I say he would disagree, Like the crazy one is actually me.

So foolishly in Tartuffe he believed, There’s no proof to show he’s being deceived.

Dorine

Oh goodness, Madame, have some confidence.

All we need is to find the evidence.

Dorine

The kids are not the problem; they’re mature,

But your husband got even worse for sure.

I just talked with him about your sickness, He acted like it’s none of his business.

To your illness, he pays no attention, Way too strong is his Tartuffe obsession.

RACHEL XIA ’20

TEAGAN MASSON ’19

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Oh, his reaction is not surprising, His belief in Tartuffe keeps on rising.

Can’t believe I would feel broken-hearted, I wish everything could be restarted.

In the fall of 2018, the Literature of the American Dream class opened the school year learning about sensory details and how such details define the world around us. Students then took this knowledge and explored sensory detail through poetry about their sacred spaces or an important location in their lives that sparks joy. [ S. Roberts ’08 ]

The Gym - ETHAN HOWELL ’20 I sit up for my first set.

The ice cold metal weight freezes my hand instantly.

At my feet sits the old brown and rickety hardwood.

I examine those around me.

I am impressed by the mental perseverance they exhibit each day.

I turn my focus to myself and begin my set.

My silence is broken by grunts and heavy breathing.

I begin to sweat, and my mouth grows dry.

I finish my set, and my weights slam the floor yet again.

Dream - ELLEN HU ’20 In the middle of nowhere, while wind weeps at wheat shaking its heads, The last straw of sunlight kisses the world goodbye.

I stand as the thorned fences ruthlessly pain my hands.

I groan as the railway quivers for the arrival of the train.

I lurch towards the railway, hoping the rusted iron rail points at where belonging could be found.

RACHEL XIA ’20

Worming their way into my lungs, the sandy winds joins forces with the sweet scent of wheat and fiercely scratch my face.

While the birds are laughing at my awkwardness, my face blushes and blends in the flaming clouds.

As the train quickly passes through and leaves only the emptiness, I freeze as if I am one of the utility poles standing by the rail.

Wa r d L a k e - CAMERON PLUME ’20 The soft splash of a lure touching the water Echoes across the lake Bouncing off the towering cliffs above Small streaks of quartz run through the granite Glowing in the light of the setting sun The soft sappy scent of pine is omnipresent, Giving the clean mountain air a crisp quality A soft breeze dances across the surface of the water Pushing ripples closer and closer to where I stand.

The wind passes over me, through me.

I am home.

PA I G E C O N WAY ’ 2 0 17

During the spring of 2018, students in the Literature of the American Dream class read, wrote, and analyzed ten different genres of poetry. The students partook in daily writing workshops and at the end of the term polished their favorite eight poems into a poetry anthology.

[S. Roberts ‘08]

Why Babies Cry - A . J . M A RT I G N E T T I ’ 1 9 It happened in an instant.

From nothingness, I was born into something.

A world of chaos.

An unintelligible blur of sound and color.

From the cold hands that grasp me, To the mother who reaches out towards me with eager arms, I understand nothing; everything is so strange.

Then, an emotion washes over me for the first time; It’s fear.

I know nothing of this new world, And my lack of understanding is what makes it so scary.

Good and evil are indiscernible.

Right and wrong do not exist.

Truths and falsehoods cannot be deciphered.

So I cry, and I try to understand.

I look to my mother, Who brought me into this world, and who keeps me alive.

She’s the only familiar thing in this world.

She will teach me right from wrong, Good from bad, True from false.

She will help me understand what this crazy world is.

And never again will I fall into the depths of the unknown.

K AT E M A C K E Y ’ 2 0

The Docks - TUCKER WILLIAMS ‘19

CASEY ALLEN ’21 18

Tied up at the dock One by one Boats in line Starting their day All together at rest Engines at bay As the sun rises And the people arrive Boat by boat They depart their own way For the adventure that waits As the hours pass Sunburn sets in And the gas tank reads “E.” All boats far and wide return To be tied up at the dock together once again Rocking and swaying next to one another In the salty water of the Atlantic Through the night Awaiting the next trip out to sea.

The Storm

As Spring Rolls In

- SIMON PELZMAN ’19

- DAN SALEM ’19

The cold air runs through the inner layers of my

jacket, but I need to go on Through the storm, I go stopping for nothing

except the occasional bathroom break All I follow are the footsteps ahead, looking

behind me for nothing The beginning of the race is deceptively easy,

lulling me into a false sense of comfort As the winds grow harsher and colder, my legs

start to feel like Tenzing Norgay’s after an

Everest summit, If I can get through this, I can get through

anything I tell myself, Hoping that I can trick myself into thinking that I

have the confidence to do this, But I do As I keep going, the winds start to succumb to the

sun shining behind the clouds, I can feel the warmth coming along as I don’t give in, Before I know it I see sour patch colored flowers

sprouting seemingly by the second, The warm sun brushes against my skin, and there is

no longer a need for this heavy jacket and snow boots, I see the finish line ahead on the horizon, my white

colored world in rear view I make it to the end and all I think about is that shiver

up my spine and snow in my boot.

As spring rolls in, empty trees begin to sprout

their tiny buds.

Cold is kicked out by the warm, humid, and rainy

weather.

The brown, dead grass begins to peek through

the ice sheet.

Blue skies with fluffy white clouds take over the

empty grey skies.

Finally, happiness begins to fill the land, calling

all creatures to come out.

Warm glowing rays of sunshine hit, as kids begin

to play outside.

Chuckles and giggles fill the atmosphere as the

smell of the grill takes over.

Spring flies by, as the kids are getting out of school.

Pools begin to open as humidity fills the air The streets are filled with jolly children playing about.

Summer nights approach, as the bonfire is being built.

S’mores fill each individual with happiness.

As September approaches, mothers round up

their children for shopping.

Never ending complaints about how summer is

over take over the town Leaves begin to fall off trees as everything seems

to be dying The streets cry as there is no one to occupy them

except for the occasional car Sunshine diminishes as angry dark clouds cover

the bright blue sky.

The cold wind blows out the warm weather,

forcing families to break out their coats.

With all the leaves off the trees, everything looks

like a wasteland.

You can see for miles, only looking at bare ugly trees.

Bright green grass hides under a blanket of white

fluffy snow.

Animals begin to distance themselves from the

brutal winter.

HANNAH ZHANG ’20

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E M I LY L I ’ 2 1

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T h a n k Yo u - AVA D A G R E S ’ 1 9 Thank you for everything you’ve done for me for the late night talks that turned into cries for knowing to give me a back rub when I lay on your lap for giving me advice that I will never admit are life lessons for supporting my shopping addiction and forgiving me when you didn’t for driving me to school, soccer, friends houses and back for having a hot home cooked meal waiting on the table when I walk in for making the house less quiet when it was just us two for making it possible to tell you everything and anything for making my aspirations become realities for loving me unconditionally for being the most beautiful, caring and generous woman, I will ever know for being able to call you the best momma in the world thank you for everything you’ve done for me

K AT E G AO ’ 2 2

Metropolis - D AV I D C U T L E R ’ 2 2 “It was luxuries like air conditioning that brought down the Roman Empire. With air conditioning their windows were shut, they couldn’t hear the barbarians coming.”

- Garrison Keillor In a quaint little place in a quaint little suburb of Metropolis was a quaint little town named Jamestown. In this quaint little town was a quaint little neighborhood. The houses were stained blue with pigment so vivid you would think it was captured from the sky, the picket fencing stained with the vibrant white shade of the clouds. Each roof was shingled, 571 shingles each of the finest orange stained terracotta, leaning down toward the ground as if looking to the grass (which was particularly green, one might say) for answers. It was on the 2nd street in the 15th house that the Smiths lived. The Smiths lived a quaint life, to the same degree as their neighbors. Mr. Smith was a nuclear scientist who had been selected for his proclaimed superior intellect. Ms. Smith was attending a graduate school, studying for a doctorate. And last, but not least, Kyle Smith was the child of the family. Kyle was no more significant than the picket fence outdoors. Kyle had never taken a particular liking to any vocation, nor did he demonstrate significant talent in any occupation. Kyle’s ability in athletics matched his pursuits in academics: minimal. Kyle was average, the gold standard. The optimal child. It was one particularly cold morning, a most peculiar 68 Fahrenheit, that Kyle awoke to the same sound that he had heard every day, the metallic repeating screech of birds chirping. Kyle’s morale speaker, a compulsory luxury provided by the noble government of the Metropolis, had

Before reading the dystopian novel Station Eleven

by Emily St. John Mandel, ninth graders wrote some dystopian fiction of their own. The prompt was to consider something that bothered them and to write a story in response to that feeling. [ J. Blue ]

been broken for months. He climbed out of his lillens and on to a stained Persian rug, whose dull colors were as vibrant as the grayest sky you had ever seen. Free healthcare was a constitutional right in Metropolis and was fully taken advantage of. The populace was mandated four medications daily, three of which were required and one of which was strongly encouraged. The first was a small dosage of a blue liquid, thick as burnt syrup, in a small cup. No one knew what was in it, and no one felt the need to ask. All anyone knew is that it made them feel better. The second medication was a half blue and half red pill. The government provided minimal yet substantial information on this one.

The bottle was labeled with the words Weak Neurostimulant Nitrous 5-Methylcytosine, Hydrogen Peroxide, and various other ingredients under the label “preservatives.”

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um, painted white without windows. In the center of this open space was a single stained mahogany desk, where the Dean of Education sat. There were no objectives while Kyle was visiting the education department. There were four aging books, the pages so old they looked to be stained with tea, that the attendees could read, one of literature, one of the maths, one of the sciences, and one of etiquette. Very few read the books, and those who did were sent quite promptly to a supposedly much higher quality education center in Metropolis for the gifted.

HANNAH ZHANG ’20 The 3rd a yellow pill. Almost conical in shape, the bottle was printed with “Strong Neurostimulant,” with two ingredients, “Nitrous Oxide, Ethanol.” The last was not labeled, just an oval-shaped white pill. Though the government did provide the ingredients for the medications, few people understood them.

Those that did were brought to the capital for research.

After Kyle had taken his medication, it was time for rations.

Another constitutional right provided in Metropolis was free nutrition. There were no markets or convenience stores in Metropolis; they had been long outlawed for their scandalous prices and praise of the society of crime. Instead, in Metropolis, there was the public food center, accessible by all. The diets provided by Metropolis were certified by the government for the gold standard of nutrition, average. Breakfast was a quarter loaf of bread, of no specific variety (that would be favoritism, which had been outlawed along with the presence of stores). And SOUP, (Standardized Omnivorous Universal Plan for nutrition), a sort of flavorless watery fluid. Though some questioned the quality, it was certified for optimal nutrition, so most enjoyed it. All ate it.

Next in the day for Kyle was his mandatory visit to the Education Department. The education department was a large open atri-

22

Kyle finished his abruptly short stay at the education department and moved on to the majority of his day, the labor facility. The labor facility was the lifeblood of Metropolis and another one of its civil triumphs, a deep reflection of the singular mentality of its people. Attendees were allowed to choose between multiple vocations, such as architecture, mining, energy, development, education, and public service. Kyle had long ago chosen at his 11th birthday (which seemed quite far away in retrospect) to work in energy. Energy was one of the most prized vocations (and very sought after), as even though it wasn’t necessarily formally discussed, it had somewhat better working conditions than others. The attendees of energy monitored the nuclear fusion reactors in Metropolis. The conventional system of monitoring had been made obsolete for a significantly more modern and stylistic system of “The Bar.” The bar was a gauge that shifted between the color spectrum of green and red. If it even reached red, the supervisor was to first release the pressure of the reactor. If this did not work, then they were to press a button. It was considered one of the most technologically advanced professions, though some criticized its lack of intricate thought. All reaped its benefits. For the majority of people living in Metropolis, the dream vocation was energy, along with the dream profession. It had clean skill sets that one could advance into a career, and its deans were known to be more lenient, though the work required more of an authoritarian nature.

As Kyle thought to himself, there was a blaring sound, similar to the sound that woke him up, but more refined, almost, predictable. It was constant, linear, with the undertone of a lullaby. The reactor next to him was suffering from an anomaly.

Without hesitation, Kyle clicked the button, and the blaring sound stopped, and the levels returned to normal. Kyle was praised for his sudden thinking and use of resources. For this, he was given an unusual luxury. Kyle was allowed the rest of the day off. Such luxuries were not given here and there; they were only for individuals who demonstrated excellent proficiency or presented great intellectual aptitude in situations of dire need.

Kyle’s next stop was obvious for any child or teenager, the recreation center. The recreation center, a place only accessible by certain individuals who had demonstrated “nominal proficiency in life”, a title Kyle wore like a badge. The recreation center was full of various activity one could partake in, ranging from SPORTS (Supported Pulmonary Overstimulation Retroactively

without Technological Services) to a variety of GAMES (Government Approved Mental Endurance Simulations), along with a slew of ACTIVITIES (Active/Cognitive Teaching and Intellectual Visioning for Intense Testing by Informational Electronic Scenarios), but that was not all. Kyle’s favorite recreational activity was the BIKE (Bicycle with Isosymmetric Kinetic Energizer). Though the BIKE participation was extremely limited, Kyle enjoyed the BIKE. If you could get one of the BIKEs, you were allowed free rein over a set portion of land ranging from the recreation center. The BIKE was an amazing opportunity to explore the beautiful sights of bustling Metropolis, along with Kyle’s favorite, the Industrial Zone. The Industrial Zone, not far from the Energy Zone, was in charge of the production of everything. The medication Kyle had taken earlier was produced there, along with the food he had been most graciously provided with by the government. The Industrial Zone was a bustling zone of movement, almost like that of a clock, highly intricate parts with even more intricate functions. This Industrial work used to produce pollution, but as Metropolis’ influence grew, the need for old mass production fell. Suddenly, there was a sharp piercing sound in the air. A sound so sinister, so egregiously loud, that it hurt the inner ear. The sound could only be described as one thing, a sound so rare but so recognizable as well.

The sound was a gunshot.

“Da zdravstvuyet revolyutsiya!” Kyle could hear the cold world echoing among the plaster walls surrounding him. Sirens sounded as the Metropolis’ police, The Neutralizers, raced to the point on foot. The shouts stopped, the Neutralizers had captured him.

Then it hit. At that moment, a sound ten times the noise of the previous filled the air. Shrapnel and fragments of the surrounding debris flooded the space around Kyle at a level of such immense speed you could blink and miss it. Kyle watched as the pillars that suspended the Industrial Zone began to crack, broke at the seams, as flames engulfed his surroundings. At the moment it took for these events to unfold, Kyle had begun to put together a picture in his head. The one who had fired the gunshot spoke in Russian, a language long outlawed. Russia was the last place Metropolis had yet to cleanse of insurgency. Captured Russians were set to work in The Department of Special Materials, a department with regulated production of uranium, plutonium, thorium, and most importantly, nitroglycerin. Nitroglycerin, a substance used by the biopharmaceutical district of the Industrial Zone to have application in medication, was extremely volatile while in the crude state. A terrorist had coordinated sabotage of its production. Someone had somehow blown the entire storage of nitroglycerin — the largest storage of any volatile substance in the world.

Kyle’s next instinct was an instinct that he had never really fully thought out in retrospect. It was an instinct that had been deterred over time, detected by the modern people, as it represented the singular pitfall of Metropolis. Fear. Fear materialized into two primordial actions. Fight, or flight. In this case scenario, Kyle decided the latter. He grabbed the front of the bike, lurch-

ing forward on to the black stained tar pavement. His quadriceps contracted as he pushed his weight forward on to the mechanical pedals, his heart pounding with a strength never seen in a normal Metropolis resident. No, Kyle was in a situation of dire need, and it reflected in his speed.

All around him he heard screams of terror, the anguish of the people as the pride of Jamestown, not to mention its economy fell to the ground in a heap of smoke. The debris of the torn asphalt spread into the air as soon as Kyle receded from the cadaver of his town’s industrial zone. The gravity of the situation hit him, not just metaphorically, but literally as the putrid smoke flew further. It was impossible to breathe, a solution akin to the ancient chemical mustard gas. In a second, hundreds of citizens fell to the ground, their lungs paralyzed by the tar-rich air that stained the tone of the midnight sky. Kyle accelerated his pedaling to the point where his whole body was beating with the immense rage in his heart, his skin turning red. The air grew

PAUL PARK ’20 putridly hot, the immense wave of heat sizzling the flesh of every inhabitant from a mile away. Some succumbed to the burns; others waited longer as they felt the thermal radiation peck away at their mind, their ability to run ebbing at the same rate the pop-

23

ulation waned. All the while, Kyle felt cold. Not the temperature of cold, nor the mental state of it, but the dire sense of your body filling with empty mass, the soul becoming more frigid, the heart gradually closing, beating its last beat. Kyle lurched forward on to the pavement, almost like he had when he originally ran, but this time it was different. Empty, air leaving his lungs. The soft embrace of his chilling surroundings supplicating him as he fell, deeper and deeper into a trance tenfold the strength of sleep.

Kyle woke much like he had that previous morning, surrounded by the warm embrace of linens, quite contrary to how he had felt just a moment ago. He felt a chilling material surrounding his wrists, a new breed of steel. His surroundings were bland, again, the plaster walls the capital had been known for, the spartan philosophy represented in their architecture.

The singular feature was a stained mahogany door left ajar. Kyle tried to move but was rooted in loco by the surrounding chains. The immensity of this really hit him as the door was slammed open.

“You’re being arrested for mass genocide.”

A F i n a l Tr i p

Note: I wrote this regarding Communism; but as it develops, the story takes on the perspective of what would happen in a world of immense censorship, where the intelligent are herded and killed, and all knowledge is controlled by the government.

The story was directly influenced by Garrison Keillor’s quote at the top, which I interpreted directly into my story in the form of terrorism and its effects on a populace that have never known terror. [ D. Cutler ]

- INDIGO KOPP ’22 “It was luxuries like air conditioning that brought down the Roman Empire. With air conditioning their windows were shut, they couldn’t hear the barbarians coming.”

- Garrison Keillor Today was the day. It was a day we all knew would come but collectively decided that it was not worth our while. An issue that once divided us now unified us in fear. We all knew what it meant. Before, we would fight in vain about who was right. But now we were all scared. We should have been scared a year ago, a decade ago, even a century ago. But no. We lived for so long in denial that this day would ever come for so long.

But it came.

It took a while for me to wrap my head around it. But like most people, it was at the front of my mind. How could it not be? Our lives were turned upside down seemingly in an instant. The truth was, the facts were in front of us for a while. But nobody knew how dependent we were on oil until it was taken away from us.

It was like something in a science fiction movie. My whole world came crashing down almost instantaneously. I woke up like it was like any other day. I made my breakfast, turned on the TV. And there, on every station was the same message. It was long and did its best to be reassuring, but the essence was clear: the world was out of oil.

I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t know what to do. As much as I knew it would happen eventually, I never thought of it as an actual possibility. I raced around my house like I was checking to see if anything else had disappeared. I lived alone, with few houses around me. I had always liked the solitude, but suddenly I felt a need to be around people. Anyone who could tell me I had it wrong, that perhaps I had misread it.

We couldn’t have really dried up every last drop, could we?

All of a sudden I was brought back to reality with a muffled bang. I wasn’t sure if I had actually heard it, but my heart was racing. I stood up and gathered myself. I heard the noise again, clearly. It was coming from the garage. As I stumbled towards the door, I noticed the clock. Already hours had gone by since I had turned on the news and

24

WINTER SHAW ’19

confronted my reality. I stood for a moment, still looking at the clock, wondering how I would move on.

Suddenly I was interrupted by a third crash from the garage. I quickly made my way to the door and opened it. On the other side, rummaging through shelves, was a man. We made eye contact, and I recognized my neighbor. I didn’t know his name, but I could tell why he was here. As we exchanged a glance, I could tell his fear was reflecting mine. His eyes flitted away from mine, and to a shelf over my left shoulder. I followed his gaze to a dusty red can partially hidden by a bucket of paint.

When I looked back, the man was already halfway across the room. I reached up to grab the container before he could. But as I brought it down to my chest, it slipped through my fingers. We both bent down to get it, with no luck. Through the open top of the gas can, all of its contents had escaped onto my garage floor. We both stared at the small pool of gasoline. It hadn’t been much, just a few neglected drops from the last refill of the lawn mower’s tank. But to us, it could have been everything.

I sat on the ground, my head in my hands. How was this possible? Just hours ago life was normal. We didn’t even get a warning.

Of course, we had. The past century had been full of them. I silently cursed the people that came before me—they could have done something. But of course, that wasn’t enough. I needed to do something myself to have that right. But I had done something. I biked when I could, I turned off lights, I used reusable shopping bags—I thought I was doing all the little things that would add up—but that wasn’t enough either. I had done nothing, too worried with myself to think this far ahead.

It would be my last one ever.

I had been on the road for over an hour, and now I was driving through more heavily populated areas. I had not yet encountered another person or car. Everyone remained stowed away in their homes, smart enough to stay behind locked doors—or at least too scared to do anything else. I drove down an empty street; silent houses lined up end to end. There were no movements, nothing at all. It was eerie. I had expected the apocalypse to be more chaotic. This was worse. I couldn’t expect anything from this world anymore. Everything was foreign.

It was another hour before I saw anyone. I was on the highway, watching my fuel gauge fall with my heart. I saw a truck on the side of the road. I slowed to see what was going on. A man was bent over the open hood digging through. I watched his struggle and realized that he was bringing out a gas tank. I noticed something behind him, on the pavement. I squinted and saw a woman, covered with blood, motionless. In an instant, I knew that was not his truck, but the woman’s. I sped ahead, and when I looked back, I saw the man, bloody-handed, staring at me. I gained more and more speed.

Suddenly I was crying, for what I had seen and for what it meant for the future. Is this what the world was now? It had been only hours, but from what I’d seen the world had been plunged into desperation. I stared blankly at the road. If someone could be killed just for their gasoline, then what did that mean for me?

I picked my head up. The man was gone. Probably to another house to ransack for gas. He had left the gas can, which still sat at my feet. I looked at the pathetic puddle of fuel. This is what started wars and created all that we know. This is what had made the world go around. And then stopped it. We thought that we controlled it, but really it controlled us.

I looked out into the open fields and forest beyond. I saw houses, tiny dots on the hillside, and felt so small, so inconsolably alone.

I knew what I needed to do.

With a sudden sense of purpose, I jumped up and ran inside.

Once again, I ran around my house, but this time with an intention. I grabbed a bag from my closet, and gathered things, almost at random: a blanket, some food, 50 dollars, garbage bags, and a map. Who knew what I would need in this seemingly apocalyptic world? Finally, I grabbed a couple of water bottles from the pantry—I winced at their plastic packaging. How could I have not seen what was coming?

With my bag in my hand, I grabbed my keys and moved quickly into the garage. I got into my car, bulky and rusting. I locked the doors and sat in silence. I realized I was breathing heavily and stopped myself. Was this really a good idea? I didn’t know what else to do. This was all I had left, and I had to go somewhere. I put the keys in the ignition and started the car. I anxiously looked at the fuel gauge. It was full. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief, as I pulled out of my garage. I would have to make this tank count.

HYEJI YEOM ’20 To comfort myself, I thought of my destination. I was surprised when it had popped into my mind. I hadn’t been back to my childhood home since I had moved after middle school. I rarely thought about the house itself; it held nothing particularly special. What I remember is the forest out back.

We lived on the edge of suburbia, on one side of our house, you could see cookie cutter ones just like it for what seemed like

25

miles. But on the other side, there was a forest. It was really more of a largish patch of trees, small enough for me to walk the perimeter of in a day, but to me, it felt like more, everything about it. I would sit out there all day. It became my refuge, and when we had to move I was devastated.

But now I was going back. As I drove I contemplated the soundness of my plan. I was going to a place where I had not been since 8th grade, where I knew nobody, all for the sake of a few trees. It was stupid. But I kept going. I had nowhere else to go, no one to go to. I had that forest, and the sanctuary it held for me. I didn’t know what I would do when I got there. I just knew I needed to be there.

At some point I realized that I didn’t really know where I was going. I pulled over on the side of the road and made sure my doors were locked and kept my eyes out. I took out my map and flicked through the pages, hands shaking, until I found my street. The map was old, and I hoped that it was still accurate. I propped it up on my lap as I started my car and got back on the road.

OLIVE SCULL ’19 26

As hard as I tried to stay focused on the road, my mind couldn’t help but slip back into its depths, contemplating my ability to make it in this new world. I rolled down all the windows and held my hand outside. Would I ever feel this again? Would I ever be on a road again after I made it to the forest? Would I even make it to the forest? This new world begged many questions.

My fuel tank emptied steadily as I moved along the road.

Eventually, I saw my exit and turned off. I still had miles left to go.

My whole body ached with fear. A red glow on my dashboard caught my eye. I looked down to see that the gas light had turned on. But, for the first time on my trip I felt a sense of resilience. I needed to reach the forest. I sighed and kept going.

I was mere miles from my destination. The red light glared at me as my car slowly depleted the last tank of fuel it would ever have. I pressed on, focusing on the forest and not what I was supposed to do once I got there.

Eventually, I found myself in the midst of suburbia. It was much bigger than I remembered. Rows and rows of the same house. They all looked so perfect, so ordered. But I knew what was going on inside. Everybody’s lives were crumbling, their perfect lives in jeopardy. I envied them, hiding away in their shelter, content with staying still. I had lost that ability.

PEILI HEITZMAN ’21

My car was rattling now, but still persevering. I drove a couple more blocks until I rolled to a final stop. I looked up, found I was stopped in front of #199 — my house. I kept looking, disbelieving of my luck. But it couldn’t be mine. There was no forest out back. Still, I decided to investigate. I got out of my car and instinctively reached to put my keys in my pocket, but instead threw them in the car. I wouldn’t need them anymore.

I walked past the house and into the backyard. Or, what had been the backyard. All I saw now was the back of the next house, a newer house. I frantically looked around. Where was the forest? I must have been remembering it wrong. I ran back to the front of the house — still #199. I had to find the forest.

It had to be somewhere.

SHANNON MORAN ’22

I ran up and down streets, searching until I got lost in the maze of uniformity. I felt tears in my eyes. I kept running, up and down streets in search of the one thing that was keeping me going.

Eventually, I sank to the ground, wailing. I had to confront the reality of it: they had replaced my refuge with housing. The one place I could think to find comfort in this ruin of a world was gone. The thought made me sink further down onto the ground and into my mind. I hadn’t done enough. I had been complacent. I hadn’t cared.

At that moment I saw the reality of humanity. It created problems and ignored the solutions. I hated it for its lack of care. And because I was a part of it.

CHLOE ROURKE-NICHOLAS ’19 27

L i fe A f t e r t h e Fa l l - SEAMUS MCGEE ’22 10 days after the fall: There was once a time when people said that science was false, but science kept growing. We kept advancing, deeper and deeper down the rabbit hole, but little did we know that it was all a loop back to the surface. The people who said that science was false were both right and wrong. They were correct when they said it would bring the downfall of humanity as we know it, but they were wrong when they said that God would do it.

Science was a corrupt business, and so the government, back when there was such a thing, took control to make it more correct and precise. We believed in those that we had put in power; we believed that the world would be a better place, that science could create our best future, and bring us closer to knowing the unknowable. We had a will, we were strong, but we were betrayed by those we thought were there to help us.

Before the great fall of humanity on July 1st, A.D. 2276, we knew something wasn’t correct in society, but we had food, leisure, and happiness dangling out in front of us, we were animals, and the people in the government were our tamers. We had followed along like sheep, though when we thought we were being led to food, we were being led to the slaughter, and now our blood seeps throughout the earth, as once did our happiness.

There were those who fought back from the beginning, but we common citizens were told that they were rebels, and they wanted to kill us and send us back into the dark ages. These “rebels,” they were public enemy number one, and we were their “targets.” I remember coming home every day, thinking that I would be killed, or kidnapped, especially when my neighbor was taken, and never returned.

They were not the only ones against the government, though. A group of what were originally monks, but later over 2.4% of the population, called The Followers, tried to bring down the government, and, in turn, put an end to science. The government hated The Followers the most out of any of the rebellious groups of people. The government would have them executed on sight, it didn’t matter to them if there were children nearby, or if the rebel had a child in their hands, they had to be killed, and the child too, for confirmation of the elimination of the rebels.

Life was hell, and the fire was rolling in on the horizon, but we didn’t know of the fire that was lit behind us. Science was a spark, and we would be turned from its fuel to its ash. Whenever we were told of our discoveries, it was just adding to the mix. Over time this added up, and just before America’s 500th birthday, the spark finally connected, and we burned up in seconds.

What the government had been doing all along was finally shown off to the world, when the final extinction of earth would take place.

Those people that had disappeared, they were executed on live camera and were labeled as rebels — that crowd. I remember every last bit of what the crowd did, the cheering for the torment and the torture, all so that they would be the next to be sent to the chopping block.

I will not go into detail, because none of this will make sense to you, as you never will know what any of it means, but the next series of events went as follows: A fanatical group of armed men from The Followers ran up to the podium where the “president” (leader of the government) was, and killed him. The guards, alarmed, fired randomly into the crowd gathered, most of whom were unknowing citizens, and killed thousands. People, because this was broadcast around the world, started to riot, and to fight back. The world started to collapse, there was no order, and what had been created through science had collapsed to nothing. The world was so disrupted that only a few of us escaped it all, the fighting in the streets, the fires. But now, now we are trapped.

13 days after the fall: We have found the only safe haven on Earth, and now even here we feel as though we are no longer human. The world’s overall temperature has climbed so that here, on the (what used to be) ice caps, the temperature averages 90˚ Fahrenheit, and the rest of the world is virtually uninhabitable. We know that there are other places with people, and we know that they are going through the same. Now we have to rebuild, we have to start the cycle over again, and every time we’re about to go back out there, back out into the world to reclaim it for our people, for us, we think of how long it took us to get here, and we realize how long it will take us again.

14 days after the fall:

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If we do not find more resources soon, we may die. The earth has been starved of most of its resources, but we believe that we will find a way, as mankind always has. Recovery is the only option left, the only thing that we can do, and with time we may be able to. Time, our natural resource that is next to deplete, the one thing that gave us hope in our lives, the gateway to the rest of the world. Time is almost up, and there is no round two.

I have found a landmass, though there appears to be no one inhabiting it. It is a desolate wasteland, and I think that it is uncharted land, such as most things now ever since borders became nonexistent. I say this because the rise in temperature has increased the sea level tenfold, and this is unrecognizable. All lands are now uncharted, and so we have to rely on basic instinct to figure out where we are.

15 days after the fall:

22 days after the fall:

Our hope degrades and falls, and we have nowhere to go. We have isolated ourselves beyond recovery, just to patch up and escape the problems of the old world. Now, from the far reaches of the earth, we watch on as the sun rises and sets, as the ideas pass by along with the days. Nothing different ever happens here though, and we are unsure of whether it is a good thing or a bad thing that no change has occurred.

16 days after the fall: We have enough food with the rationing to last us for two more months, and then who knows what will happen. We now fear that we may be alone on Earth. If so, then this would all just be a waste, but, then again, I guess that writing all of this down in a way gives me hope. If this journal is never read by anyone, then it will be a waste, but if I stop, and there were people to read it, it would also be a waste of a life.

17 days after the fall: People are becoming concerned with our existence, and some have turned to God for help in both prayer and fear. I, on the other hand, am sticking to science, and I believe that there may be hope with finding habitable places back on the old continents.

I hope that I am correct because I am using some of our more valuable resources to figure out if we can leave here. For all we know there are already people back in Europe or North America.

18 days after the fall: I am departing on a boat to see if anyone else is still out there, but I fear that it will be a waste of time and resources. I was told by some friends that I had seen just before departing that there were people located South by Southeast. They said that the people down there might be okay from all of what happened, though, I fear that they might have been taken in the heat as well.

19 days after the fall: Still no land in sight.

20 days after the fall: I feel as though this was a waste.

21 days after the fall:

K AT E M A C K E Y ’ 2 0 I have completely scouted out the island from off the coast, and it seems to be uninhabited. There appear to be trees, but they are burnt, much like everything else. I could stay here, maybe even leave behind the colony. Maybe.

23 days after the fall: I have decided to stay here and scout out inland to look for shelter and maybe even freshwater. I’m starting to feel accustomed to the world we live in now. No real dangers, no changes in the weather, no government to be corrupt, and no science to think about. Everything is just about survival now, and humans have gotten by in the past, so this should be fairly easy for us modern humans to live through.

24 days after the fall: I have begun my journey back to the colony.

25 days after the fall:

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Over the night there was a strong storm, and I have washed up on an unknown land. There are no trees, no rocks, and it is just flat as far as the eye can see. It looks as though it was once farmland, or was destroyed in some war because there are no inconsistencies with the terrain.

be people. I do not think that they know I am here, and I am

26 days after the fall:

29 days after the fall:

Another storm washed by, and my boat is broken beyond repair, which means I am now trapped on this land. I feel as though this land may span forever, looking at the distance of the horizon, the flat plains sweeping to the horizon. There are mountains, but they are thinly spread throughout the expanse beyond. I am an unknown man in an unknown land, and I feel that the silence and bleakness of it all are more alienating than anything else in the world.

I have met the people, and they say that they are from England, or what is left of it, and that they believe that this is what was known as Greenland and that that is why it is so flat. They have taught me how to use the environment around me, and how to get good water, and where the plants and berries are the best. Every bit of the old world is out of my mind, and it is now that we must start anew as a brand new people. We must evolve into our new world.

27 days after the fall:

30 days after the fall:

I thought I saw some lights in the night, some fire, but that is not possible, because there is nobody else here, there can’t be. It must just be my lack of water, or maybe I’m just thinking of before the fall.

The weather has changed, and for the worse at that. It is getting colder, and I feel that what has happened is now reversing. The temperature has dropped below 90F˚, the lowest it has been since the fall, and I can feel it.

28 days after the fall:

31 days after the fall:

The lights have gotten closer, and I think that it may actually

I did not sleep all night. The temperature has dropped to the 40’s, and I am freezing. I must find more covered shelter to stay in.

grateful for the fact that I have been granted some help. If there truly is a god, then I feel that he is looking out for me.

32 days after the fall: It is now in the negatives, and there is snow everywhere. There is at least 2 feet of snow, and all I have is a cave and a small fire. I believe we have fallen into another ice age. There appears also to be some creatures that are moving in the night, as the snow has lines and paths carved in it, and strange tracks that I have never seen before.

33 days after the fall: I am now back to where humans started, back to the field, waiting for my slaughter to come again. I must now adapt like my ancestors once did so that I can combat my flaws and my environment.

I must find a way to prevail in times of need and hardship, and I must realize what life truly is. If there really is a god, maybe this is his way of testing us, like the Ark. Or maybe it is just the cycle of evolution repeating itself on another new biosphere of organisms.

Maybe, just maybe, this adaptation, this revamping of my current life might fix my world and allow me to rediscover through science, who I truly am, and where and why I belong here.

34 days after the fall: I must now live on in this life, and find out what is truly awaiting down the rabbit hole.

NICK WILDER ’20

During the period between Thanksgiving vacation and winter break, Literature of the American Dream students read and wrote poetry and short-stories in response to the themes of hope, community, nightmares, dreams, gratitude, loss, and winter. [ S. Roberts ’08 ]

Hope and Dreams - REESE STEVENSON ’20 Sitting in my room low with self-drive at 5 in the morning In my darkroom listening to my alarm go off All I can think is “Why am I doing this to myself ?”

After I look at a sheet on my wall I remind myself why I do this.

I have the same thought at practice, “Why do I put myself through this pain?”

I start to think of my dreams and goals.

I remember that even if I do not have faith in myself, I know my team will have my back When I am down on myself, Behind in a race Diving in not in first place during a relay Or going through tough and hard times Hope walks beside you and gets you through hard times.

Hope - DANIEL DERKUM ’20 An orchestra playing a symphony of hope I go along the upward facing rope I feel my steps lope I am mastering everything like a tightrope Walker.

Rekindling - F I N TA N T R I M B L E ’ 2 0 Hope diminishes over time, Although a spark will remain To be ignited again one day.

When ideas sprout, In the clearing fog, Paving the way for ambition.

The mind aspires for a better, No, a preferable situation.

Hope is not given it is made, Through the process of aspiring to be more.

It lessens the farther you go, Although it can be rekindled to burn once again.

ALICE PHAM LE ’19

Stars in the Night - CARSON MOE ’20 Dreams are the stars in the night That we all can see But sometimes never reach I fly past stars Each one holding a new idea Hot, shining, and bright Yellow and soft like a marshmallow That lights up the night A supernova born with each new dream A new light in the night So every night I look up and take flight

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A Field With No Seed

W i t h o u t Yo u

- NICK FIFE ’20

I woke up in the most frantic state And began to search for You My body started to deflate And I never knew that being without you Would make me so Lost I can’t pay the cost.

Without you I feel Handicapped Days and nights we spent together In my palms of which you were wrapped The people you helped me become close to The relationships you strengthened If only our days together could be lengthened I must call the police Because this is a crime But in reality You were in my pocket the whole time

Nothing has grown in years I am all dried up, With many fears Only enough tears to fill a cup Days pass and birds fly over Now getting tired and stressed Hoping someone will come over To finally put me to the test

Hope - Z A C H PA P U TS A K I S ’ 2 0 I hope you’re happy.

I hope you’re well.

I hope you realize this is wrong.

I hope you realize this was never

supposed to turn into a war.

In times of crises people either come

together or fall apart.

I guess we are falling apart for now.

But I hope that someday we can reunite.

Saudi Arabia - ZAHRA BALDAUF ’20 I open the door and step into an oven Hot sticky air blows towards me making my eyes sting I am melting Sand is stirring all around Whooshing and swooshing scraping my ankles The smell of shawarma and fresh bread fills the air The chicken spins around on a stake A light glows behind and pineapple and onion juice seep into the meat Drums beat and people clap Rooms light up by the whites of people’s smiles They dance and stomp People embrace each other and sway to the music A call to prayer rings throughout the streets Allahu Akbar Allahu Akbar Allahu Akbar Allahu Akbar

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- COLIN LEWIS ’20

Loose Thoughts - H A N N A H H E RT Z B E R G ’ 2 0 Shirts and skirts, shorts and socks, spinning around and around, like Thoughts in my head.

Colorfully mixed, they lose their shape in the growing turbulence of the washing machine.

Once the growling turns to purring, the mixture gets back in shape, every sock finds its place, The air is suffused by the fresh fragrance of detergent.

The laundry is clean.

Tidied up, like my Thoughts.

- PAT R I C K H Y J E K ’ 2 0 A window peers out into a different world A world where snow blankets the earth.

The snow remains smooth and untouched Somewhere peaceful.

A window peers into a house.

A house with warmth.

Light streams out to touch the snow.

As boots and hats are put on Disruption soon breaks the snow’s tranquil surface Footprints are left to follow Becoming a guide from one world into another.

JESSICA XU ’20

Footprints

The Strike of a Clocktower - A N T H O N Y S O LT ’ 2 0 White rose petals plastered across sleek black depict galaxies above.

They radiate energy to the stars and melt with the resonance of rain that hits the stained church glass.

Screams of regret, confusion, and pain propel Off of the stone church walls.

The nighttime array is enhanced by the white tissues That are littered by many.

Clock towers strike and the period of mourning concludes.

The Casket is shut— a face now a fragment of the past.

The memory of life is enough to ruin one itself.

PAUL PARK ’20

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The Death of a Goby - MADDY BRIDGE ’21 The sun was hot on the children’s backs as they waded up to their knees. It was a perfect day for fishing, and the shade of the pine trees stretched out to the water’s edge, offering a brief reprieve to the younger children in the shallow water. The older children were out in the deeper, cooler water, where the fish were. The oldest girl sat quietly in the shade watching the younger children carefully. The only sounds were of a motor boat in the distance, the echo of a car honking on the mainland, the soft, sleepy splashing of the water at the sandy banks.

The goby stopped moving sometime after the fifth strike when the little girl’s shrill screams to stop were finally heard.

The boys stopped and looked at her, confused. The goby was torn to shreds, blood and scales mixing with the pine needles. The little girl sank to the ground sobbing. The boys were quiet, uncomfortable.

“I got a goby!” one of the younger boys announced triumphantly. The children began shouting and crowding around the little hand net the little boy proudly held up. They eagerly brought the catch up onto the shore, under the pines.

They dropped the fish on the ground and watched as its gills moved in and out, flaring dramatically.

The boys began to apologize, still not sure why she was upset. They reached out to console her, but eventually gave up and left her there. The sounds of her perpetual sobs slowly subsided as she began to tire.

The older girl finally came forward. She’d been watching the younger girl expel her grief, and once the storm seemed to have quelled, she began her approach. She sat down next to the little girl, and the little girl threw her arms around the older girl. Time passed.

“What should we do with it?” asked one of the younger children.

“Kill it!” said the little boy.

“Why? It’s not big enough to eat,” said another. The oldest boy rolled his eyes.

“No, dummy, you don’t eat gobies. They are invasive bottom feeders! Besides, look at how small he is. Dad says to kill any gobies you catch -- just make it nice and quick.”

The boys looked around for a rock sizeable enough to use as a tool, but they could only find a short branch. The goby flopped on the bed of dead pine needles. The little girl frowned at its desperation.

“Do we have to kill it? Why don’t we just throw him back?” she asked.

But the boys were too focused on their mission to pay attention to the little girl. The boy who caught the fish brought the stick over his head, and in a swift whoosh brought it down, missing the frantic goby by an inch. The little girl screamed at the first swing, and started to sob in horror as the boy, in his frustration, began to bring the stick down repeatedly, hitting and missing.

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“It’s just a goby,” the oldest boy said.

“Just a goby? It’s a living being!”

Once the little girl cried out all her tears, she told the older girl she wanted to bury the fish, and the older girl suggested the bottom of the shallows as his final resting place. They placed several rocks on the grave so the body would be held down. The older girl left soon after, leaving the little girl to add the final touches to the grave. Finally, the little girl walked away, satisfied with her work.

For years after the burial, on hot days where the shade of the pine trees met the shallow water, the little girl wandered out by the grave of the goby. She would hesitate as she passed before pushing into deeper water, but she never stopped. It was just a goby after all.

ANDA-REESE BROWN ’20

Hunting - HALEY MCNAMARA ’20 On a crisp fall morning deep in the VT woods hunting season beginnings.

The valleys roll on and on Covered with vibrant, colorful towering Pine, birch, and spruce trees.

Early in the morning, I can taste the Freshness of the air as the adrenaline Pumps through my body.

The leaves blow in the wind as the wind Howls through the treetops and the Chipmunks tromp around filling their cheeks.

The smell of woodfire fills the valleys Making my hunting clothes saturated with The dense smell.

The Meaning of Love KO N S TA N T I N O S M A N I AT I S ’ 1 9 You showed me the meaning of love, What it’s like to get my heart broken, And to be the best version of myself.

I was devastated to leave you behind, But I had to pursue my true passion.

Nothing hurts me more, Then when I have to look back at you.

I've moved on and embraced my purpose, But there are always days, Where my mistakes lead back to you.

You will forever be a part of me, Playing with my emotions, And making me feel as if I’ve failed.

You make it difficult for me to forget my past, But you will forever be a part of my history, Both now and the future.

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JOHN CHU ’20

P. O . B O X 1 8 8 | M E R I D E N , N H 0 3 7 7 0 | K U A . O R G