Mandala 2009 by Northfield Mount Hermon

Mandala

2009

Mandala: An Art and Literary Magazine

May, 2009 Northfield Mount Hermon School Mount Hermon, MA 01354 i

Table of Contents Cover:........................................................ Louisa Diaz Dedication................................................................................................................... vii Kilburn Pond #1........................................ Glenn Minshall............................................1 The Run..................................................... Alexander Cesari..........................................2 Photograph................................................ Galen Anderson............................................4 The Modern Urn....................................... John Adams..................................................5 Mountain Day........................................... William Roberts............................................6 Photograph................................................ Pascale Guay................................................7 The Storm at Sea........................................ August Rulewich...........................................8 Smoke........................................................ Galen Anderson..........................................11 My College Essay....................................... Meredith Storrs...........................................12 Rusty Door ............................................... Frances Trimble..........................................13 The Letter.................................................. August Rulewich.........................................14 Still Life..................................................... Amenda Kim..............................................15 Three Holes............................................... Gillian Friedlander.....................................16 Brady, The Outward Mind......................... Everett Irving.............................................18 The Runaway............................................. Alexis Chapin.............................................19 Father, Son ................................................ Youn Kim...................................................22 Books..................................................... Andrew Okamura.......................................23 Drawing..................................................... Frank Redner.............................................28 Aloft........................................................... D. Edwards................................................29 Moss Over Rocks....................................... Mark Yates.................................................30 The House................................................. Alexis Chapin.............................................31 Lights......................................................... John Foley................................................. 32 Acknowledgement........................................................................................................35 Editorial Staff...............................................................................................................37

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I dream of painting and then, I paint my dream. Vincent van Gogh

Dedication In memory of our classmate Jesse Lopata '08 and Audrey Sheats, English teacher 1975 - 2004

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The Run Without thought, he ran. There was no fear, no want. Running filled the void. It was a need that he fulfilled, more important than food, sleep, love, or oxygen. He didn’t run to or from; he existed purely in the moment. And the miles flew by. For a time the beat of his shoes hitting the ground was all there was. He reveled in the pure exhilaration of pushing his body to the limit. Pumping his arms faster, pushing his strides longer. That was all that mattered. The sweat beaded on his forehead, and slid down his face. A sheen of perspiration drew across his face like a curtain, hiding him from the suffocating world he left behind. Still, the miles evaporated under his pumping legs. The end neared. His legs were on fire and his breath ragged. The blood pulsed in his temples and the horizon spun. I won’t make it, I can’t make it. But as his mind gave up, his legs thundered on. Then, like a cable snapping, it hit him. Go as far as you can – then keep going. That was the secret, the key to invincibility. And he joined the elite scores of people who had done the impossible, and pushed themselves out of the rags of humanity and into the golden light of immortality. For they created something greater than themselves, did something that truly surpassed the sum of the ingredients. His opponent was the earth itself. Looming, it filled his vision. A mountain, it looked like a giant, recumbent amongst the hills. As his path grew steeper, it seemed to spite him. What the others would have taken as the final obstacle, the end of their strength, he saw as the ultimate challenge. Feeling reserves of strength flooding his limbs, he attacked the slope. Digging in, he would never stop, could never stop. His heart thundered in his chest, not with the exertion, but with the thrill of triumph. He crested the mountain in a fervor, his will bent towards a single purpose. His entire being hummed in synchronization, every fiber of his being existed for one reason, to a single end. He left the mountain behind him, a speck in his journey, a foe conquered. As dusk settled upon the rolling hills, he left the golden fields and skylines. A tunnel of trees, the cold forest was his new path. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the trees blackened. Twisting, metamorphing, they reached out with knarled arms for him. Tearing at him, they crowded his vision. A twig snapped underfoot and his entire body jerked with shock. Had he betrayed his presence to the wild wilderness? Any other day would’ve been an inward struggle between his irrational nervous fear and the rationality of sanity. But now, there was no sanity, and every fiber of his being told him that his fears were not irrational. There was an evil, roiling presence in the forest, spreading like a plague, flowing amongst the trees. This abomination was not of nature, though it twisted the very soul of the forest to its cruel purpose. Somewhere ahead of him was the light, and behind him was death and evil. The hunt for lost souls was gaining on him. He could hear the ghoulish procession thrashing through the forest mere yards behind him. Though the hounds with their lolling tongues and haunted, rabid eyes were the ones that snapped at his heals, it was their master he feared. Mounted upon a dark steed of iron, his battle cry was that of Satan himself. That terrible visage contained the ghosts of your past, every fear and

uncertainty in your destiny, and the hypnotizing terror of the present. All sin and malevolence was represented in this liege lord of the netherworld. He now seemed to be falling more than running, leaping towards the safety, the light. He had thought he motivated himself before, but now his pursuer was all the motivation necessary to invigorate his dying legs to inconceivable speed. The hounds were gaining, looking to quench their bloodlust with another fallen angel. The terror was the truth in the shreaks: there would be far more immortals who had touched a star and achieved the ultimate masterpiece of their accomplishment if all but the strongest had not been consumed by their own ghosts. The skeletons in the closets of the mind seem inescapable, all-consuming, when your very mind seems to drag down your soul. All night he ran. There was no rest, no respite from the flight for salvation. The panic would not drain from his mind as long as he was being pursued. The hunt was on, and the hunter's perseverance was fathomless. But slowly, a distant speck of light grew. The eternal forest, so dark it concealed the sky, was coming to an end, and sanctuary lay just ahead. As the light grew, color flowed like spilled paint onto the distant horizon. He ran towards the brilliant ribbons of color, with the desperation of a last stand. His wild eyes fixed upon his destination; a fiery eruption of reds, oranges, and violets. His feet were blistered and his ankles bloody from thorns. His thighs burned and the muscles were like putty. His chest heaved, as his lungs fought to pump air to the pulped muscles. His face was flushed and sweaty, and his head felt too small, the world span around him. Then, salvation was at hand. A sliver of gold on the horizon spilled liquid, luminescent light into the forest and the hunt at his back screamed, recoiling as the fragment expanded. By the time it had reached a semi circle, the hellish pursuers were flinching at the radiance, shrinking into the forest from whence they came. Then it was over. As soon as that primal urge was gone, he collapsed in the morning dew, in the grass of a meadow. Though his body wracked with convulsions from the miles he had ran, emotion filled his mind. A paroxysm of relief, the joy swept his entire body. Turning his head, a single flower came into focus, sliding out of the blurred morning world that surrounded him. The beauty nearly brought tears into his eyes. The world would never be the same for him. Rolling to his stomach, he gingerly brought his knees under him, and shakily fought to his feet. It was as if the world had a new light shining upon it, the scene around him was illuminated with a glowing, radiant beauty. Liquid gold seemed to flow amongst the trees and leaves, ribbons of it looped through the forest, and it was heaven on earth. Half stumbling, he wandered towards the nearest road, pausing at a cool crick to sooth his parched throat. A mere day ago, he had been concerned about the mundane trappings of this mortal coil, engrossed in the instant gratification that brought him fleeting joys. Now, empires lay at his fingertips. Mountains could be moved, he could siphon the ocean. Pyramids would be raised in his honor, and cities would be razed at his command. Alexander the Great was but a bumbling novice compared to him, and Napoleon was like a child in a sandbox when faced with his might. daVinci and Michelangelo could not hold a candle to his creations. Anything was possible, and his fate was the worldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s fate. Alexander Cesari

The Modern Urn Her love jumps off the flat emulsion like old scratch â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;n sniff, Eyes afire, lips locking, Skin the color of blushed abandon. On the other side of the photo am I, A monolith on which she sites her story, a wall to reflect her mouthing, My stone-lips aching like an amputated thumb, My quartz-tongue the receptacle of reciprocal wet; Love unrequited and fresh, Held in time like a certain urn, Spanning the ages of our cavorting, And caught in its blissful fiction. John Adams

The Storm at Sea With a crack of white light the rain began, pouring down in sheets to be dashed against the ship deck. Struggling against the rocking of the boat I made my way over to the door, hoping for some shelter from the storm. Just before I entered the door, I turned around to see where I had come from. I could see that the waves were slowly growing with intensity, their foamy white tips crashing against the side of the ship with an ominous crack. Each wave hit the ship, then resided, making way for the next monster to try and take a bit out of this wooden meal. I turned and dashed through the door, trying desperately to keep my already soaked clothes from getting even more wet. As I entered the insides of the ship, a particularly large wave struck the ship, knocking me off balance and causing my feet to stumble on the worn, red rug which covered the hallway floor. I struggled back onto my feet, only to discover Captain Rodchester looking down at me with a grin on his face and a toothpick clenched between his teeth. “Nice weather we’re havin’, eh Arnold?” I looked sheepishly at my drenched clothing. “Ah, you’ll get used to it. Happens all the time out here at sea.” “Well, then it’s a good thing I won’t be out around here for long” I replied. Captain Rodchester continued as if I hadn’t spoken, “Huge waves always accompany a sailor to sea, sometimes even bigger than the ship. They’ll come crashing down, washing almost everything sparkly clean, an’ then washin’ it overboard.” He grinned at me again, and I could see that he did not keep a toothbrush handy. “Sometimes they even wash people overboard if they’re not careful.” “I can be careful.” Captain Rodchester’s grin quickly changed to a frown. “Well than why in hell were you out there in this storm?” I looked at my toes. “Ah, only kiddin’.” He slapped me on the back, strong enough to knock the wind out of me and almost enough to shake my glasses off of their precarious perch on my nose. I hastily straightened them. “Of course you were kidding” I replied. “You’re probably headed out the right now.” I paused as the thought of him washing overboard crossed my mind. “Actually, it would be pretty bad if you fell overboard, than we’d have a heck of a time getting anywhere. You’re the head of the ship. “Yeah, that would be bad…” Captain Rodchester trailed off, his eyes boring a hole through me forehead. I stared back at him, only to realize that he was looking at something that wasn’t even there. He was staring through me, sort of how people do when they begin to think of some other time or place now long gone. I wondered what he could be thinking of. Had he had some previous bad experience with a captain falling overboard? A good friend of his maybe? Or was he remembering how he had once fallen over, and had been worried about how he would never be captain again? I was about to ask him when he suddenly shook his head, shaking off the imaginary water that had gathered there like a dog does even after he is dry. “But of course that won’t happen here” he finished. I took me a moment to re-gather my thoughts. “Of course not. You’ve been out here for what, 25 years?” “Almost 30.” “…and you’ve probably run head-long into many storms like this one.” “Sure thing.”

“…Yet you always come out clean and dry, ready to fight that next one that comes your way.” I could almost imagine him, standing there on the deck facing up towards the sky, his hands tight on the wheel, long hair flying out behind him, and shouting out something like “Bring it on!” “You’re a smart one Arnold. Where’d ya learn all this fancy-schmancy stuff about me? Find it in a some book in you’re private library or sumthin’?” “Well no, it wasn’t my library…” “Well let me tell ya somethin’,” he leaned over towards me as if to whisper the answer so no one else would hear. “It ain’t true. Well, most of it is anyway, but not the part about me always comin’ out clean. Sure I do most of the time, but no one always finishes the race with everything in tact. It’s just not possible.” I was beginning to wonder what Captain Rodchester could possibly be talking about when he suddenly must have remembered that I had read about him in a book. “Well, I’ll be darned. You read about me, humble ol’ Bennington Rodchester, in a book? At the library?” “Well sure” I replied. “It has all sorts of stuff about you and a few other of the best captains in the country.” I could tell that he had liked that. “Me? One of the best captains? In the country? Well, I dunno about that…But don’ you worry. I’ll make sure that whatever that book of yours says ‘bout me is true to the best of me ability.” “Isn’t it all true already?” I began to ask, but Captain Bennington Rodchester was already off back down the dimly lit hall humming to himself, and asking all the imaginary people around him “Am I really one of the best captains in the country?” Then he would pretend he was one of those people and answer his own question. “Why, yes of course you are. They’re ain’t a better one in the whole goddamn world!” “Awe, ya really think so?” he’d ask. “Of course” all those imaginary people would reply. I swear he was totally loosing it. “I was about to head off to my own room when the Captain swung around and called down to me “Hey Arnold!” “Yes?” “You ever seen a full grown Swordfish?” “A what?” “Swordfish.” He motioned with his hands “A big, strong fish with a pointy shoot to prove it. They love this area. You can sometimes see them hopin’ about right after storms like this. I dunno why they love it, but they do.” “No, I’ve never seen a swordfish” I replied. “Well, just look out the window, see if ya see any.” He turned away, then added as an afterthought “They’re also very tasty. ‘specially the fins. I should talk to the cook about that.” I heard the toothpick snap and him swear as he walked off down the corridor and around the corner towards the kitchen. I stood there by the door for a moment, wondering about the captain. He was such an odd fellow, a bit disconcerting, but sort of comforting too in a way. My mind wandered to what he had said about not always coming out clean, and how he had been stilled when I mentioned him getting washed overboard. Were those two connected? Looking out the porthole next to the door, I noticed that the storm had subsided a bit. The waves were no longer tall and menacing, and the wind and rain had calmed down almost to a drizzle. I had only been out at sea for two days and already I had passed through probably the worst storm in my life. So far I had come through in one piece; I had come out clean so to speak. Glancing down at my socked clothes, I chuckled. “Well, almost clean anyway.” The clock up above the door struck ten with a creaky sounding gong. Glonnnk. Glonnnk. Down the hall I could hear my fellow passengers rustling about in their rooms. I heard someone sneeze through the creaky wooden door to my left, and two

people saying something about lumber mills and fish. For the life of me I couldn’t figure out what those two things had in common. Over in room 207 there came a horrible retching sound – I thanked my lucky stars that I hardly ever got seasick. Down the hall a lamp flickered, it life slowly deteriorating. The whole place had a comforting, musty smell to it, sort of like a back room in the library where they keep all the old, forgotten books. A little ways down to my left an old painting of a lighthouse swung gently to and fro with the rock of the boat. I could just make out a little man in a rain coat tilling a garden just at the cliff ’s edge through the faded paint. What was he growing? Was it a little vegetable garden for his family so that they could have fresh meals during the summer? Or was it a flower garden which the man dearly loved and protected from the others - a little, colorful secret he harbored between himself and his dog? I walked off down to my room, through the washed out double doors with their worn, golden handles, and crossing the thread bare rug, it’s vibrant red now turned to a soft pink from the countless shoes it had seen walking across it’s belly. At room 228 I turned left down another, much narrower corridor, my arms almost brushing the walls as I walked to my room at the end, number 231 with the three missing from the plaque. The room itself was fairly empty; I had not brought much with me in the way of furnishings. Only a couple days worth of clothes and my books and pads of paper were my usual baggage. To the left of the door was a creaky old cot, it’s quilt now ripped and falling apart in some places, almost as if the stuffing inside had been so eager to escape that it had burst through the fabric and poured out, only to be swept under the bed by some lazy guest. Besides the bed there was a worn out desk, two chairs and a lamp overhead. On the undersides of both the chairs and the desk were countless scratchings from people who had stayed here once numerous years before. There were so many you could probably have gotten an archeological team and they would have found stuff from three centuries ago. The lamp, which hung from the ceiling rather precariously on a rusty old hook, reminded me of my cabin back home in England. I had always been so worried that the whole thing would brake off as I was walking underneath it. I guessed it weighed about 30 pound, so having it fall on my head would more than likely have knocked me out cold. A loud thump and a stream of curses on the other side of the wall awakened me from my memories. Someone had obviously hit their head on the low door that all the rooms on the ship were accompanied by. The swearing that came with the wallop suggested that it was probably some drunk returning from the bar two floors down, he had finally decided to return to his room, but in his stupor had forgotten about the doorway. Sitting down on the bed, I recalled again what the captain had said earlier. His raspy voice echoed in my mind: “It ain’t true. Well, most of it is anyway, but not the part about me always comin’ out clean. Sure I do most of the time, but no one always finishes the race with everything in tact. It’s just not possible.” What had he been referring to? I decided that it was too late to really be thinking about something like that, so I lied down, fully dressed, on top of the quilt, and thought about my story. The idea of writing one had come to me a few days ago when I had been sitting out on my back porch with a cool evening breeze as my companion. I don’t know why I decided to write a story – I never had in my life and so had no idea where to begin. But I thought it would be a good way to occupy my attention during my travels. I had heard it said that if a man became too bored he could go crazy, and I certainly didn’t want that happening. With a quick glance out the window, I stood up and walked over to the desk, and setting down my papers, began to write. August Rulewich

My College Essay I’ve experienced all of the ups and downs life has to offer. I know what it feels like to have your vending machine selection get stuck. I’ve climbed onto my roof to watch the sun rise over the ocean and stared in awe at the sky’s beauty, wondering who’s responsible for it. I’ve held my brother’s tiny hand and immediately fell in love with his innocence. Sometimes, I think I belong to a different generation – my parents' generation, who listened to Simon and Garfunkel on their radios instead of iPods, and went to drive-in movies. I long for their modest pleasures. I’m a hopeless romantic. Why do I row? When you’re in a boat that is perfectly set with all the rowers in sync, you feel like you’re flying. During hot, sticky crew practices on days when the Connecticut River valley humidity seems overwhelming, I yearn for our after practice ritual: running down the dock and plunging into the cool water, trying hard not to touch the bottom’s slimy undergrowth. My schools English classrooms are located in a building known as the “Lower Modular.” It is located so far from the rest of campus that it should dissuade me from studying the subject, but it doesn’t. I love writing too much. Writing the perfect essay fills me with a satisfaction unlike anything else – like a child in a grocery store cart reaching for a box of cookies that are just out of reach, which then finally grasps them and slides them into the cart without mom noticing. I wish hot air balloons were a more utilized method of travel. To me, there’s nothing more captivating than mail. Real mail. Not email or IMs. Everyday, I check my mailbox at least two or three times and when I do receive a postcard or letter, I turn it over and over in my hands, thinking about all of the other hands it passed through to get to me. I find nothing wrong with dancing in the rain, splashing and jumping in puddles. This summer, I traveled to Eagle Butte, South Dakota and was a volunteer on a Native American reservation. I worked with kids whose parents let them roam the dusty streets till dusk. Most of them had no shoes. I would look out to an ocean of shiny green corn plantings as far as I could see and felt lonely. I’ve had to improvise many of my weekends, being at a boarding school in rural western Massachusetts. Some of the best times have been in my dorm’s lounge, just being with my friends. Once, Mohan sang Hannah Montana songs and I laughed till I cried. Meredith Storrs

The Letter I sent a letter out that you might hear The hopes that barely hold me up above, But through the endless night it disappears. The dreams - it’s cold out on this lonely pier; I’m wishing through the times for that white dove To send a letter out so you can hear. The chilling winds whip through my shaking fear And in the blackened sands my hope’s been shoved Yet through the endless night it disappears, ‘Cause when I see your eyes, those spark’ling spheres I find no longer shall I fear there of: I sent a letter out so you might hear And gazing up across the stars my tears Of joy roll down, yet sadness fills this dove, And through the endless night it disappears. Throughout the past I’d hoped I’d seen it clear, But standing here I’m not so sure of love; I sent a letter out so you could hear, But through the endless night it disappears. August Rulewich

Three Holes The hot water pounds across my sore shoulders and streams down my stiff back. I lean my head back against the shower wall, closing my eyes in exhaustion and content. Soap forms puddles around my feet and the only thing I can hear is the flow of the water hitting against the shower floor. I start to hum a quiet tune to myself, the theme song of some old sitcom show. Then, through the humming and water I hear a loud crash from outside the bathroom. I jump in surprise and slip on the wet, slippery floor, smacking my head on the shower faucet. Grimacing in pain I sit up, listening for more of a noise. I hear nothing; there is silence throughout the house. It was probably just a noise from outside, I think to myself, one of those rowdy teenagers who are always causing trouble. I allow the water of the shower to run over the bump that is now forming on my head. Then, another noise; a loud, shrill whistle. But this time it sounds as if it is closer, definitely somewhere in the house. I open the shower curtain, peer around the bathroom, jump out, rush to the bathroom door, and lock it tightly. I know I’m just being paranoid, but the noises are scaring me and I would rather be in a locked bathroom than an unlocked one. I step into the shower again, but hop out quickly, noticing that the water has turned icy and cold. I reach in to turn off the water faucets, but they won’t budge. I laugh quietly to myself, while my heart pounds heavily against my rib cage. A piercing scream fills the house and I let out my own scream of fright. I am confused at what is going on and begin to grab my clothes off the bathroom sink, but I quickly drop them on the floor. They are soaking wet and smell of the woods behind the house. But, when I had brought them in hear they were dry and smelling of Bounty sheets, my mind rushes around, trying to process an explanation. I see brown and red patches on my socks and the collar of my t- shirt. I pick up one of the socks, and start to ring it out into the sink. A deep brown- red liquid pours out into the sink, rushing down the small, narrow drain. I stare at the liquid swirling down the drain in horror, and throw the sock against the wall. It makes a splatting sound against the wood of the wall, and then slowly slides down to the title floor. Like a dead body, I think to myself. I start to dig through the dirty clothes hamper, to look for something to put on, but all of the clothes are soaking wet and covered in the same red and brown patches. I sit down on the toilet, with a blue towel wrapped tightly around my waist, and put my head in my hands, trying to think, trying to figure out what is going on. But, then I hear a faint knocking at the bathroom door, and fall off the toilet, a cold sweat forming on my forehead. My knees sing in pain where I fell on them, on the cold hard floor. I sit up and stare at the door, my eyes wide with terror. The knocking continues and I decide to ask who it is. In a voice filled with trepidation I call out in nothing more than a whisper, “Who is it?” There is no response except for the continued knocking. I call out again, a little louder. Still, no answer, but the knocking has stopped. I call out again, this time screaming. I hear a faint sound, and recognize it as the sound of a knife; a knife scratching the weak wood of the door. Tears form in my eyes and I start to pray to a God I don’t believe in. A small, minuscule hole appears in the door, and I see the tip of a silver, small blade. The blade is quickly pulled from the hole, and then I see piece of rolled up paper being shoved through the door. I make no attempt to get the paper and push myself up against the wall by the sink, my knees to my chest, trembling in fear. When the paper has been shoved completely through the hole and has fallen to the bathroom floor I still make no attempt to pick it. I want to close my eyes and wait for it all to be over, but I can’t make myself stop staring at the paper only a few feet before me. It seems as if hours pass before a deafening shriek fills the house. My hands instinctively reach up to my ears,

to cover them from the noise. But, when I do this the shrieking only gets louder. Wanting it all to just stop, I reach over and scoop up the rolled paper. Unfolding it I try to calm my breathing. When the paper is unfolded in my hands I just stare at it befuddled, brown and red paw prints cover the small, white sheet. I then gasp in terror and without thinking rip the paper in half. Then, into thirds and then fourths, and then I completely shred the pieces, sprinkling the floor with white, red, and brown confetti. I lean back in relief at having gotten rid of the paper, but abruptly sit up straight again when I hear another knock on the door. I put my hands to my ears and sing quietly to myself, a song my mother used to sing to me when I was younger. The knocking only gets louder though, and more intense. I start to sing louder and the knocking increases. I increase my voice again, but I stop when I notice that the knocking has ended, there is silence throughout the house. I remove my hands from my ears, but when I do I hear another scratching sound at the door. This one doesn’t sound like a knife. I try to rack my brains for what else could make that noise. Without any further warning I hear a cutting sound before me and quickly look to the door. A round, clean medium sized hole is being carved out of the door, right next to the tiny hole poked into the wood before. I see a large kitchen carving knife rest in the hole for a few seconds, before it is slowly extracted. I push myself further into the sink, muttering in fright. I see another, larger rolled piece of paper being pushed through the door. I crawl from the sink to the space between the toilet and the wall and wedge myself between the two, as if the tighter a space I’m in, the safer I am. I’m whimpering in fear and cold sweat pours down my back. The paper is still being shoved through the hole. When it falls to the floor I only look at it, not able to put myself that close to the door to pick it up. But, minutes pass and the paper still lies there. Another long, loud shriek fills the house and echoes off the walls. It continues until I move from the space I’m in to the spot where the paper lies. I pick it up quickly and rush back to the sink, pressing my back, once again against the solid wall. With my entire body trembling I start to unroll the sheet. When it is fully unrolled I stare at it in confusion. The large white sheet is covered in red and brown hand prints, human hand prints. In anger and misunderstanding of the whole situation I tear the paper into shreds, the same size as the others that litter the floor around me. When the last piece has fallen I hear footsteps near the door. They are loud and clumsy from what I hear behind the door, but I can tell that are close by. I try to peer through the large hole in the door, but only see darkness in the rest of the house. And then, the knocking starts again. I ignore it this time and try to locate where the person at the door is. I see nothing through the pitch black outside the bathroom. Then, I hear a faint tapping noise. I cannot match the sound to any object I know that would make it, so I sit pressed against the sink petrified at the unknown. While I sit concentrating only on my fear, and staring straight ahead at nothing, I see a flash. Something was swung through the dark, something I can’t see. I see the flash again and recognize it as metal, freshly polished silver. The flash comes again and this time I see a large blade crash through the bathroom door, making a slice through the wood. I scream and try to wedge myself back into the space between the toilet and the wall. But, I can’t get there quick enough before the blade has made a huge hole in the door. I move against the toilet, trying to get away from the door. A black object moves through the hole and then another. And then, the hands are on me and I am gone from the brightly lit bathroom, and the pitch dark house. Gillian Friedlander

The Runaway The ground is icy, and I have to grab onto his hand in order to gain balance. It is wrinkled and aged, in some places, fresh and youthful in others, much like the coat that hangs over his broad shoulders. The coat was bought in a high-class store near his home, an impulse buy he acquired after seeing his friend sporting one much the same. He was always doing that, he said, his voice tender, but hoarse under the southern accent he had never quite been able to get rid of. We continue our forward pace, our hands losing their quick embrace, my snowy converse matching the step of his weathered loafers. His face is adorned with blemishes, his eyes a color similar to that of his hair. In these eyes, I see his mother. His mother with her suburban attire and gas-guzzling SUV that she pretends to feel guilty for. I see his short, pre-pubescent brother with his combed over brown hair and tucked in shirt, the very same boy who so diligently followed him around for years, admiration seeping from every joint in his body. I see everyone but him in his eyes. He has hidden himself deep inside, has shut himself off from the world he is hiding from. But, I know what he is hiding from. He is hiding from the realization that he is not the boy, the man that he so desperately wants to be. That he has years of experience to gain before he becomes him. This reputation he has built up, well it is not him. He is not a brainless jock, and he is certainly not a jerk. Somewhere in there he is sensitive and insecure, hopeful, yet realistic. When he smiles, he stops the hearts of many girls, but he only wants it to stop one’s. He wants her more than he wanted any of the others who wanted him, more than he wanted the soccer championship, or he wanted his brother to get into Harvard. He sees something in her that he wants to see in herself. It is the bravery that she possesses in her walk, the confidence she makes so obvious in the way she speaks, that makes him desire her so much. She is fearless in her emotions, real in her intelligence. He does not care that he cannot have her; he does not care that she cannot have him. “And when she walks,” he whispers as we sit on the bench waiting for the number eight bus, “she commands attention. It’s not her looks, nor is it her popularity. It’s her. It’s everything.” His hair is laced with snow as we board the bus, and he tosses it out when we sit down on the worn leather seats. He is distant on the bus; his mind focused elsewhere, his eyes focused intently on the darkness outside. He breaks his concentration briefly to ask me to turn on the small heater that is located above our heads. We get off the bus in a few minutes, the driver wishing us a good evening, and turning her tired, overweight body to collect fairs at the door. Wrinkles surround her eyes and mouth, and her shirt is stained with a days work, with the burden of four children, two grown and two still living at home, eating up the welfare checks the receives each month with things she, and the government have deemed unnecessary. We continue walking, and enter the driveway of my family’s building, the private garage to our penthouse wide open, as it always is. He smirks at this, and comments on the lack of security in Sun Valley, Idaho. The stairs that lead us up to our front door are marble and scratched from my younger brother’s ski boots dragging early in the morning before a lesson on the hill, and I can almost hear my father’s voice booming warnings about a lack of Christmas presents this year if we don’t stop scratching the floors.

Paintings line the stairway, and our shoes make squeaking noises as we climb them, the water that has found its way into every nook and cranny of them whining as we put pressure upon it. He opens the door to my winter home for me, his biceps flexing through the light cotton long sleeve he had under the jacket he earlier removed. The lamps my parents left on before they went home to California yesterday faintly light the entryway to my home. I see that the doors, the artwork the crowned molding all remind him of home. I know that when he looks into the kitchen he is imagining his mother baking her favorite strawberry tarts, when he peers into the study he is seeing his father typing an email away on his laptop. He misses home, and he wonders why he ever left as his callused fingers trace the engraving on the side of my dining room table. He is a New England boy. Why was he finding himself here, in tourist-town Idaho? It’s because at home his reputation follows him everywhere. He is the lawyer’s son, the mayor’s grandson. He is the soccer star; he is the boyfriend of the pharmacist’s daughter. He is labeled for everything he does, every step he takes. When he is here, he does not have to be that jock, he does not have to be that jerk. He can be the writer, he can be the hero. And that is why when he sees his mother’s number on the front screen of his buzzing cell phone, he does not pick up. That is why he is here. But he is also here for her. She encases his chest, pours throughout his veins. She helps him want to be someone different than his parents and his brother hope he is. The reasons we know each other are distorted, and the reasons he is staying the night at my house even more so. He is the oldest teammate of mine on my snowboarding team. He left home after high school, only half a year ago, in search for good snow, for a good life. He settled here in Sun Valley, Idaho. To him, it was the only place his parents wouldn’t search for him, and the only place he wanted to search for himself. He is here for the night, his slush-ridden shoes making mud marks on the hardwood floors, because he has been kicked out of his apartment, seeing as all of the money he makes working at the pizza shack downtown goes towards new boots, new boards. He, unlike the rest of us on the team, doesn’t have a credit card with his father’s name on it that helps him to pay for hot coffee after practice, a taxi back to his vacation house or the airport. He is living impoverished of his own choosing, much to his own parent’s dismay, he is trying to make it in a way no one where he is from, or where I am from, could imagine. We sit down at the countertop in the kitchen, and play a game of cards. I watch him as he holds his hand in a fan, his fingers picking at the corners of the Yosemite National Park artwork that adorns the deck, and await his next move. He is slow at deciding when and when not to put down a card, quick at picking up on my own habits. When we finish our game, he pulls out a picture of himself and his younger brother out of his back pocket. He looks almost completely the same: his red-brown hair swept carefully out of his eyes, his cheeks speckled with irate imperfections. His brother is a smaller, less good-looking version of him, but perhaps he is just yet to grow into himself as Neil has. Behind them, is a peeling white railing, and behind that is a quiet beach in East Hampton. Blue and red striped umbrellas ornament the shore; boys playing Frisbee frozen are frozen in time, their toes dusted after a day in the sand. The faint outline of a finger grazes the top of the photograph, and he laughs as he tells of his mother’s unsteady hand. His laugh is shallow, but I have a strong desire to covet it. When he notices me looking at him, he stops, and asks me what is wrong. “Did you want to go home, Neil?” I whisper in the room filled with just the two of us.

“Why would you ask that? I’m in love. I’m in love with a girl, I’m in love with a mountain, I’m in love with the lights that line the streets of this town,” he replies, uncertain in his statement. “Do you think she’ll ever love you back?” This question shakes him. I can tell that I have just posed the very question he has been pondering for weeks, for months. He closes his eyes and sees her smile; he sees the hope that rivets his very existence when he witnesses it. He wonders, his face showing it, how this thirteen year old can pose such questions. She knows nothing of love, though he knows he probably knows much less. He is the one who disregarded the girls who wanted him, the one who left them hanging time after time. He is the one who does not know how to love a person up close yet; he only knows how to love from a distance. The thought of seeing her face with the knowledge of his feelings for her is frightening to him to say the least, it is intimidating and scarring. But the thought of her never knowing is almost worse; he realizes he is not ready to face either of these things. He needs to run. So he runs. He gives up and goes back home in the very same way that he got here. He tries his best to keep her out of his thoughts, to avoid her face in his dreams, but she haunts him, as do I. The memory of this place is the constant reminder of his coward-ness, the constant reminder of his inability to search for a greater man than he is, to search for who that man could be. Alexis Chapin

BOOKS Paul owned a small bookstore. He sat at a cluttered desk, in the very back of the cramped shop, and sat there all day, waiting for customers. There was an occasional buyer, but there was never any major rush. Throughout his life he was never poor and he never had any major tragedies. His mother died about ten years ago, but he had really no real reason to mourn. She had never really been there for Paul, so when she died and passed on the bookstore and a small inheritance to Paul, it had little effect on his daily routine. Every morning, he woke up in his small apartment above the store, brushed his teeth, and had breakfast. He then carefully took two pieces of rye bread and placed them on the cutting board side by side. He smeared each piece with mustard and mayo making sure he covered the entire surface. Next, he placed slivers of organic turkey forming a little mountain on one slice of the bread. After that, he topped it off with a wafer of tomato and a freshly washed and dried lettuce leaf. For the finale, he pressed the other piece of rye bread on top and held it down while he carefully sliced his perfect sandwich on the diagonal. He then tightly packed it in plastic wrap and put the whole noon meal in a warped Tupperware container. He grabbed a bottle of orange juice and was ready to go down the back stairway to open up for the day. He looked forward to unwrapping his lunch everyday. This routine never changed except on the last Friday of the month. During lunch break, Paul would keep his appointment with a psychiatrist, and then head directly to the pharmacy to pick up his prescription. If therapy had run overtime, which was always annoying to Paul, he would have the Imipramine, delivered. He loved delivery. He had everything delivered. His groceries always arrived on Saturday afternoon at 5 pm. He would lock the front door of the store; turn the open sign to close and wait to hear the delivery guy exit. His laundry was picked up promptly at nine on Monday mornings after he went down stairs to the store and it was waiting for him in the shape of a small cube after he closed the store in the evening. He planned these arrivals and departures very carefully. He paid all bills by check and left little envelopes with a small tip enclosed for those who were couriers in his stead. About ten years ago he was diagnosed with agoraphobia and chronic depression. He didn’t think that there was anything wrong with him, but the doctor did. . Someone anonymously had reported him to social services. He never completely understood why anyone would think he was depressed. He was content with his life and loved his work. Friends were never part of his life and the less he saw of most people the better. Paul really enjoyed the drugs, but hated therapy. He was savvy enough to create a problem prior to this appointment to avoid any serious dialogue. The doctor was very strict, no therapy, no drugs. Paul’s store was called, Book Emporium. At Book Emporium, one could buy or sell rare books. There was also one small shelf for children’s classic fairytales and another for fairly new novels. While the store was open for business he sat, barely getting up for hours on end. He read. He was the only person who worked at the store, which meant, he spent a lot of time buried in books. He read almost a book a day. Paul’s favorite moments in the Book Emporium came whenever anyone brought in a rare gem to sell. Even if the volume was not that rare, he would still take it just to pore over it. Paul devoured every publication, rare or otherwise, that passed through the Emporium. For about ten years these small, but meaningful events were the highlight of Paul’s life. Then he met Michael. Michael came into Book Emporium on one of those pristine fall Friday afternoons, right after Paul had returned from therapy. Michael was carrying a suitcase full of books. When Paul spotted the treasure, he got so excited

he let out a small screeching noise, in a self-conscious attempt to mute a scream of joy. Michael heard this and looked up, at which point, Paul, slightly giggled, more out of instinct, then quickly looked down at his desk, pretending to take notes. Michael, gave out a short smirk, and went back to moving his suitcase. Paul looked up again, only to realize that Michael was struggling to lift the battered suitcase onto the elevated counter. “Do you need a little help sir?” “No, it’s ok, I think I’ve got it.” Michael felt victorious after securely situating the collection on the counter without having all of the hardcover and soft cover tomes fall out. “Are you the person to talk to about selling books?” “Yes indeed, I am the proprietor, how may I help you?” “Is it possible for me to trade these books in return for new books?” This statement shocked Paul. He was accustomed to people just coming in with artifacts they had found in the some dead relative’s attic. This was the first time that someone actually wanted to trade books, and read even more. “Of course! Do you read regularly?” “Yeah, I read pretty much all the time, I mean I do other things too, but yeah I like to read.” Paul was beside himself. Had he finally met someone whom he had something in common with? This guy has a ton of books! People liked to read, yeah sure, but he had never thought of anyone who loved books as much as he did. Michael seemed to be one of those people. Paul suddenly wanted to actually talk. “What time of day to you like to read? I mean I like to read before I go to bed, but I also like to read in the afternoon. Sometimes I’ll even read in the morning.” “I usually read at night. I can’t fall asleep without reading.” “Same here. May I ask, what your name is? Mine is Paul.” Michael turned around, paused for a second, and then responded, “I’m Michael, wow, I never really noticed this store before. Did you ever think of expanding your business?” Paul was happy that someone actually appreciated the small shop. He wasn’t sure what Michael meant by expanding, but this was the first time he had talked to anyone in a while, so he just went along with it. “No, not really, maybe I might think about it.” The last time Paul had actually participated in a conversation when he wasn’t telling somebody how much his or her book was worth, was at his mother’s funeral. He was introduced and spoke to his father for the first time. Mutual repulsion and an ear splitting altercation, as Paul remembered, followed the introduction. Paul always had an intuition that this event might have led to his enforced therapy. Paul’s father, Ben was a real go-getter. He was a successful businessman and had been married three times always to a younger prettier woman than the last. He was one of those men that others describe as having an extra Y chromosome. Anyway, Paul felt when they were introduced he was embarrassed Paul was his progeny. Paul was infuriated that this o-so powerful man had abandoned both he and his mother.

For the next few weeks, Michael came back to the store, almost every day. During Michael’s frequent visits, he and Paul would discuss their most recent literary adventures. When Michael finished a book, he would return it to the store, and choose another. Michael did have an agenda of his own. He was a junior consultant in a venture capital firm downtown. He often worked late, dedicated hours, and would easily put reading aside. On these days, Paul would wait anxiously for his new friend. His impatience often turned to rage and he would call Michael, sometimes thirty times in a row. Michael knew why Paul was calling, and would just ignore Paul’s calls, later saying that he didn’t really think it was a problem or a set appointment. Michael was about three years older than Paul. As the friendship between Michael and Paul grew, Michael began to coax Paul out of his small world of books. He frequently asked Paul to join him and others for dinner. He introduced Paul to friends and even his girlfriend. Paul was euphoric. He finally had friends. The word fun finally had significance. For the first time in his life Paul took a vacation. He even closed Book Emporium for a week. They almost became brothers. Or at least that’s what Paul thought. A month after Paul took his vacation. Michael came to Book Emporium. It was a Thursday evening; Paul was closing up the shop, putting some books away and getting ready to close up for the night when the door of the store opened. Paul heard the bells on the door and spun around. In front of him stood Michael, wearing a pin stripe suit. He had a look to him that Paul couldn’t explain; it was not the look of a friend. There was darkness emanating from Michael. “Hey Mike, what’s up, you usually come earlier.” “Sorry, I was on business.” Paul put down a book he was still holding, and leaned up against the desk. “What brings you here now?” “I’ve been thinking, and I mentioned your store to the boss, and he wanted me to ask if you would be interested in becoming part of their franchise.” “What do you mean, franchise? Like Barnes and Noble? That would be kind of cool, but I like the store as it is. Anyways, why would they have interest in a store like this?” “You would be your own chain. You would have major advertisements in newspapers, magazines, and maybe even television ads. This is your shot at doing it big.” “I dunno, would I still get to have a say in what books they have and would there still be trading?” “Of course, you would just turn the technical ownership over, and they would hire trained employees for you. Never mind the money you would get, you would still have shares in the company.” Paul was a little unsure, but it was beginning to sound like a good deal. “I’m not sure, I’ll think about it.” “Alright then, remember, this is for you.” Michael turned around, and walked out of the door, without even saying goodbye. Paul was confused. That night, he dreamed he became fabulously wealthy. People from around the world brought their books to Book Emporium to buy and sell. He had millions of friends. He even met a beautiful girl who was a librarian. He woke up with a start and realized he was still in the small apartment above Book Emporium. He was excited. He had made up his mind and called Michael. He even skipped breakfast for the first time in his life. Michael came over with three other men all in the same style of suits. All with the same expression on their faces. He talked to them, but did not hear a thing they were rattling on about.

Michael kept saying over and over again, “sign the paperwork”. The suits told him he would have to renovate. Paul nodded quickly, just thinking about the people in his dreams. The next morning he woke up to heavy knocking on the store window. He went downstairs, and saw what looked like a mini army of men, outside. There was also an enormous dirty yellow dumpster. He opened the door. A short pudgy man in an orange jumpsuit handed him a sheet of paper. “This is the notice from the company, we are here to begin renovations of the store.” “What are they doing here?” “They’re the clean-up crew. Can you please step aside, we have to get rid of this trash.” Paul was unsure of what to say, he looked at the dumpster, then at the man with the paper work, and then decided to step away. He went to his desk and sat down. The men came in. They had large royal blue bags, kind of like tarps. They stretched them out on the floor and started sweeping the beloved books off the shelves. They weren’t treating the books well. They just threw them on the floor. “Hey what are you doing? Those are rare books, they should be treated lovingly!” The men just laughed. “You won’t need these buddy, the company will fill this place with bestsellas, new books. If you want to make money, old books won’t make you rich”. “Are you sure you know what you are doing?” Paul scratched his head with both hands; he turned around, turned back to the man in the orange jumpsuit, then shook his head and spun around and sped upstairs. He started pacing the apartment, scratching his arms and his head. He called Michael. He couldn’t control himself he started to cry as the phone rang. “Hello?” “MIKE, ITS PAUL THEY’RE DESTROYING THE SHOP!” “What? Calm down, Paul, Calm down what’s happening?” “THE GUYS. TH-THEY CAME AND TOOK MY BOOKS! TH-THEY SAID I WAS GONNA NEED NEW BOOOOKS!” “I know, I thought you knew that? It’s part of the deal. Don’t worry, soon you’ll be rich.” “BUT I THOUGHT YOU SAID I COULD MAKE THE DECISIO-OONS.” “Calm down, calm down, it’s not that big of a deal. Look, I’m getting a nice fat commission and a promotion for this and you will eventually have money.” “SCREW PROMOTIONS. I WANT MY BOOKS BACK!” “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, you’re clearly not thinking straight right now.” Michael hung up. Paul didn’t understand. He thought Michael was on his side. What was Michael doing? The next day he called Michael again, there was no answer. He went down stairs and just stared at the completely vacant Book Emporium. There were a few men disassembling the shelves and there was a for a sale sign on the window. Paul just stared at the drills and the sawdust. They weren’t just disassembling shelves. They were disassembling his life. He just stood there as they carried the pieces of wood out and threw them in a truck. Paul went back upstairs. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAhhhhhhhhhh! Paul realized he had lost his home as well. He still had not seen a check from Michael and his inheritance would not support a new apartment anywhere in New York today. He quickly glanced at a picture. It was of him, and Michael, the rest of the picture, blurred out to Paul’s eyes. He saw a demon

in Michael’s eyes. The picture started burning in front of his eyes. He panicked, screaming as he tried to put the fire out. He grabbed a newspaper, smashing at the flames. Then the newspaper ignited. He couldn’t control the fire. It was spreading through his apartment. He was screaming. Shrieking at the top of his lungs. He saw the men in suits, laughing as the books burned. They ripped the pages out and threw them in his face. A few of the men working downstairs heard the screaming and ran to bust down the door. Paul burst out. Throwing them aside. He ran outside, and started rolling around on the ground. The workers all stopped and stared. The pudgey foreman whipped out a cell phone, dialed 911 and reported a nut job started a fire, come immediately. Paul stood up and started running down the street. Michael stood in the elevator. He checked his watch. Brushed off his new suit. He checked his watch again. He felt the elevator finally come to a halt. There was a short ring and the doors opened. Standing directly in front of him, covered in soot was Paul with a solid bronze bookend cast in the shape of a knight. “What are you doing he-.” The maintenance crew for the Perkins high rise was mopping up the scarlet-spattered lobby as the two ambulances careened toward two hospitals; one, heading for St. Luke’s, hoping to arrive before Michael slipped into a coma from head trauma and the other for Bellevue with Paul in the back so sedated after several seizures it was difficult to imagine any type of recovery. A tall thin cop was taking pictures and picked up the bookend Paul had been carrying. “How ironic the big guy’s son was almost killed with a bookend in the shape of the logo of his own firm, Perkins Enterprises.” He then turned the bronze knight upside down and saw the inscription, “Property of Book Emporium, proprietor, Benjamin Perkins.” Andrew Okamura

Aloft Kestrel. Cooperâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s. Red Tail. Hawk Owl The lone sighting in recent memory. Sharp-shinned. They haunt our skies, search our landscape. Seeing, as we do not, that which remains. When honor left the garden, their touch, their breath too soon became the ether. D. Edwards

The House Flecks of pale blue paint fall silently, grazing the porch floor. The awning has been termite infested forever, she told me the day I arrived, her hair pulled up with chopsticks. Her tanned skin was spotted with freckles, and I imagined myself tracing them delicately. The pillars that hold up the awning are rotting, the simple elegance that I liked to envision they once possessed gone along with the nineteenth century charm that her mother told me about. They were proud people, as her father had always told me in his lazy southern drawl, his breath stinking of tobacco, and his overalls tight on his belly. “Americans,” he had said, “We believe what we believe, and there ain’t nobody who’s going to change that.” As he made his ridiculous comments, sitting in the rocking chair that had sat on this porch, she had rolled her eyes at him, pretending to be annoyed with his self-righteousness, but obviously enjoying his constant gabbing. The windows that look out upon the porch are broken. The glass is cracked like the spider webs that line the interior rooms, the creatures finding home in the house that was once my home, once her home. Spiders cleverly trap their prey, just as this house has captured me, and so many others. The house’s life encases us as we inhale, living inside our lungs and spreading to other domains inside our body: our toes, chest, and fingertips tingling with the spirit of this home. As we congregated on this porch, years ago, she, Meredith, had said, “What comes after this?” Her braids were twisted up into a bun on the back of her head, hairs escaping from the misshapen braids and catching the light, turning her normally mousy hair into a brilliant shape of honeyed brown. Her mother quietly said “This home is no longer what it once was to us, perhaps, we should stop wallowing in what was,” and with that, Meredith’s father took his suitcase, walked off the porch, and placed it into the rusty red pick-up that sat in the driveway, the tires peeling off the axis, his eyes focused the task at hand. In the winter months, the sky turns an earnest grey, and a morbid shadow is cast over the house. The wind is crisp. It finds holes in the windows, and whistles as it is funneled through those cracks into the house, the cool air turning the doorknobs and stovetops an arctic cold. The fields surrounding the house become gloomy and dead. Once, that hopelessness was restored during the spring, but now that they have left, that we have left, it is permanently enclosed in the afterlife, the plantations surrounding the property lush and green, as ours, or, what used to be ours, deteriorates as the soil refuses to nourish, and the plants refuse to be fostered. I sit on the porch steps backward, gazing up at the house above me, my hands clenching the wrists opposite to them, and remember all of the everything that we left behind on that absurdly hot day six years ago. Alexis Chapin

Acknowledgment The staff of Mandala extends its heartfelt thanks & best wishes for the future to those faculty & staff members who will be leaving the School at the end of this year.

Editorial Staff

Galen Anderson - II Natasha Lovaas - I Danny J. Shin - III JaHyun Song - III

Philip J. Calabria - Faculty Advisor

Note: Roman numerals refer to the number of terms participated in.

Layout, printing and binding by TigerPress, Northampton, Massachusetts Printed with soy ink. Environmentally friendly printing since 1985.