Tales Verses and
PVI’s Literary Zine
The Beach
by Gaby DiMasi ’26
Should I compare you to the sunny beach?
Under the sun, where the palm trees will stand. It almost makes me feel like I'm a peach. And where the waves touch the bright, white, warm sand.
Gives memories that will never decay,
On the sand, where we can talk and all tan. The silence, and peace, where we all would lay. We never left the beach without a plan.
Beneath the skies, we laid under moonlight. The wind disappeared, like it's never there. The moon would always shine, so very bright. Then there was no longer a blinding glare.
And yet, it's just a place with memories, Feels like I haven't been there in centuries.
Pretend
by Kelsa Boodlal '25
And so I play pretend, Made up the role until the end.
Self contained into Pretty Ms. Perfect A role for which I’ve become the prime suspect.
But I wished for something brief —
Like a bouquet of flowers full of passion, courage, and the feeling of relief. Like a bud hidden with the primroses Or a fraud hidden behind poses.
It’s draining and tiring and exhausting, The never ending, forever continuing pretending. And I’m struggling to remember the real me, The me that would have given anything to be.
Sandy Shores
by Teddy Montgomery '26
The sandy shores where seagulls like to fly It is paradise, where I want to be. The crashing waves, their tuneful, soothing cry, The melodic crash makes me feel care free.
I am truly sad when I cannot go, When going, the sun creates happiness. When the summer comes I can say hello, But now there is so much land between us.
The sun shining down makes a warm embrace, Ice cream is the perfect cure for the heat.
Eat it all up don’t leave a single trace, A towel is a nice place for a seat.
So let’s go to the beach, and have some fun, Play in the water and soak up the sun.
Etheral
BY GABRIELA BERGSTROM '27
Notes
Through the woodlands filled with herbage, its rich and prospering foliage, and rivers and streams rushing down mountains’ creeks.
There laid the village Bladesbrew in grasslands of valley dews. Cliffs surrounding their views of woods not meant to be pursued.
In the lives of the people of Brew’s Blade, most are skilled in how defense is made.
Smiths and armorers work to display the next sword that will drive away dismay.
However, some of Brew’s people aren’t so lucky for one in particular was stuck to be sullied.
Having to deal with an armorer so irritating, her chores consisted of things too aggravating.
Though her work messed with her desired demand, Etheral still learned to use a blade to defend.
Wherever the smith was away collecting ore, she fought with practice swords till Earth’s sunrise poured.
Now sneaking away in time for a Fighter’s Trial, the prized event for anyone willing to be primal. Passing trials without any blank or obvious errors, she was crowned winner out of the other oppressors.
Etheral, Bladesbrew's best newly found fighter.
This was much of title to be greatly favored For best fighters must challenge the Old that has been taunting the village that’s been told.
Night had now sent their dark misted blanket across the village’s surrounding thicket. Up late and left with their chores the smith says, “Don’t you dare snore. ”
Glazing the armory ’ s swords with crystal blue, she heard “Etheral!”, her name not anew for now the call of her name was the arrival of gold whenever a hidden outsider came from The Old.
Grasping its handle crafted from diamond galore, the tip was dragged towards the village’s door.
Feet stalking to their outsider’s trace, meeting a small sword against a stone mace.
There standing behind trees was Old’s golem being taken from Lady Earth’s design so wholesome. Carved out from hard rock and nature’s green twine and forced to be a destructive victim’s mind.
They launched their mace straight for her heart, the intention to end her life’s living arc.
Etheral, avoiding swings and strikes tries to spot where an angered golem’s core lies.
Deep inside the rock’s crumbling centered chest shining a white light through its compressed nest. With a detraction from a owl’s close-by cry, Old’s golem head swerved to face its eye.
Knowing what will come of her sword’s final blow, she ran pointing its tip into its core ’ s glow. The golem cried from a diamond’s stabbing pain and fell to Earth’s feet unable to restrain.
Now with the final blow done, the rock eroded away only to leave the Old’s daily prey: a man with their skin fading from a beige to a gray and no longer able to go further Peace’s way.
This was the beginning of Etheral’s fork in the woods: save Bladesbrew - her home, or the taken by Old.
The Moon, the Stars, and the Sun
by Kelsa Boodlal ‘25
I wish I could be like the moon, Like the stars and the sun,
Waking up with enough energy to light up the sky, During the day or during the night.
I wish I could live in unison with someone else. Like the moon and the sun, switching places Between day and night and dusk and dawn, A perfect movement in accordance with the other.
I wish I could just be,
Doing something as natural as the moon, the stars, and the sun. Like everyday, repeated the same, but a little different. Like how the days grow shorter and the nights grow longer.
The Feather
by Mel Urgo '25
A feather in the wind
Looks up in the sky. It never looked back, Yet the shadows it cast Would forever be amassed. Though it sees the sun, Its search never ends. It rose and rose, Saw every peak and crevice, A world that could never reach it, Yet it never, ever felt the summit. Now it ' s going, Fading like dust; Just a soul And nothing more.
The Beach
by Kennedy Casagrande '26
Like lemonade on a hot summer day, You make me relaxed when I need it most. I feel at peace when I travel your way, The most beautiful views right off your coast.
You’re like an escape from reality, A place to have an enjoyable time. Visits give me the best mentality, Like a bite into a freshly cut lime.
But you’re always crowded, no matter when, Stepping on rocks and crabs, and pointy shells.
Getting sweaty and burnt does not bring Zen, Filled with many seagulls, and rancid smells.
But I’m okay with the kids that annoy, Because your ocean waves bring so much joy.
Paradise at Hand
by George Mantalvanos '25
Imagine a world without suffering, one of infinite tranquility.
A world where no child goes famished, and every parent can indefinitely provide.
A world where war is forgotten and never a solution.
A world that cares for and lifts up one another.
A world that one does not worry about the past or future, but lives in the moment.
A world where differences do not banish us from one another but instead unite us.
A world where peace exists from all corners of the blue.
A world where the sick are cured.
A world where natural disasters do not destroy lives.
A world where everyone can have faith in God and not be persecuted.
One prays to the Almighty that they may be brought into a world of such.
As one prays, they forget the world they desire is already present. One must open their eyes to the world and see through the stains and impurities. Our world, although plagued with imperfections, can be a Garden of Eden, a paradise for all.
As our heads are cursed with the idea of “ success ” through earthly riches, we forget about our spiritual riches.
As we dwell on the past or stress for the future, our minds wear down, our souls dim.
Instead of wishing for a perfect world, believe our current world is Paradise, not Hades.
Strive to be your best self, not society ’ s version of a best self.
Strive for faith, even in times of hardship. Find pleasure in labor, even when your hands weep. Through a labor of love and abundance of faith. Paradise is indeed at hand.
The Little Things
by Brian Moore '25
Live for the bird’s song at daybreak
The sizzling bacon in a Sunday breakfast
The morn that consists of only a cup of coffee and a non-existent to-do list
Live for the smell of roses caught in the summer breeze
You see on a barefoot walk of the town
Whose gardener planted them with nothing but a heart of love
Live for the friendship you find
In every laugh and cry
And each moment in which you bond
Live not to simply exist but to enjoy every moment of life
Unconditionally Someone by
Kelsa Boodlal '25
They say be unconditionally you, but what if you don’t know who you are? You don’t know what your future holds because you can ’ t even begin to imagine it, Not a job, house, partner, nothing. How can you be unconditionally you, then?
But you are uniquely you without even trying. You are weird and special and beautiful all wrapped up in one perfect person. You don’t need to try to be unconditionally you, You just need to not be someone else.
Being you should require no effort. It should be the easiest thing that you can do, Easier than living in this crazy world that makes being you hard, Because it shouldn’t be.
It should feel like all of the pieces fall together, Like laughing so hard that you can ’ t breathe, Or smiling at the people around you. It should feel right.
Forgotten
by Christian Barton '25
“Men for the sake of getting a living forget to live” (Margaret Fuller)
Writing, typing, and drowsiness
Drinking, and consuming caffeine.
Making everything perfect as can be, To bring a smile to others.
Brainstorming and fighting to stay awake, For projects and going over expectations.
Pushing to be better, To make me greater.
While searching in my mind for new material, Memories start emerging.
Of a forgotten time where I worked for fun
When a brighter chime was glowing, In others I worked alongside.
Liquid in a Glass
by Emily Fountaine '25
Some people believe that the glass is half empty,
Others believe it ' s half full. Personally, I am the liquid in the cup, Everyone telling me what I am.
I should know that I am half empty,
And am constantly running out of time as I approach the bottom. Or that I am not doing enough,
And I need to fill all the way to the top to reach their expectations.
Yet, I am liquid.
I can slip through expectations and I can craft my own shape and determine my own taste. Somedays, I can be sweet milk, charming those around me.
Otherdays, I can be a spicy drink, defending my beliefs with a kick. I get to decide how much of myself I will pour into my work,
What I can become with time and effort, How I will change shape and form as time progresses. Some believe that the glass is half full or empty.
I believe that I am the liquid in the glass, Fluid and constantly changing, Determining my own fate, The expectations of others flowing past me. I am neither half full or half empty, I am not what others believe me to be, but something of my own making.
Saw You Again
by Kelsa Boodlal '25
I saw you again today. We talked with people who never knew And you acted like you didn’t too.
Smiling like you didn’t break me with that same look. It was like everything that we were, And everything that we weren ’ t, Meant nothing to you.
And I’m ashamed to say that I’m upset. I’m upset that you could move on so quickly. That all the memories of us didn’t overwhelm you,
Like they did me, When I saw you again today.
For What Is The Point?
by Rose Skees '25
For what is the point besides to work. Am I to live in a cycle?
The surrounding society shoves this lifestyle down my throat.
Must I wake up each day in dread of the boredom which lays before me?
How am I to know what lies ahead?
I learn new things to simply forget them once deemed useless.
Why should I try?
I may pause to breath but the world lays an unending treadmill beneath my feet.
I ask again, what must be the point? Is there a deeper meaning to empty tasks I repeatedly complete each day?
I know little of the answer. Yet something fills me with hope each day.
Where has this feeling come from?
It sparks a hope inside of me each day, a hope that there is a chance today will be different. This spark extracts me from the cycle, for I will continue to live, not crawling along, but charging at the world around me.
Not a Number by
Addy Faas '25
“Men for the sake of getting a living forget to live” (Margaret Fuller).
“Get good grades, study hard, get into a good college.” These seem to be the only thing that matters. I am stretched across all surfaces trying to keep my poise, Working towards the ultimate goal: A good college. My grades reflect my worth, causing me to decrease in value. Hopelessly working towards the end goal of a stable career, I contribute all my time to material things and material goals. I overlook the goodness in my life, blind to all of my blessings. I dedicate countless hours of my life trying to perfect my GPA.
My grades are my worth. 8 hours a day, 5 days a week, 10 months a year, For 13 years,
all for a piece of paper telling me I did it. Constant pressure to perform, Always expected to be at my best.
How am I supposed to know what I want to do with my life,
If I don’t even know who I am? What is the purpose of life? We have to live in the moment, And not take it for granted. Our worth is more than the grades we make, It is more than the job we chose.
We cannot forget to live, just because we need to make a living.
Empty
by Stanley Revelle '27
Empty, empty, still trees
Stand quiet with their remaining leaves
Wind blows near Trees hold dear
To their barely linking orange leaves That turn and toss with the swaying trees Their branches stretch out bare
At them I stare
As the season passes by With each leaf that will surely die I feel at peace When all the winds cease The stillness of the trees engulfs me When I snap out I can clearly see That this world was carefully designed for me
Twilight
by Annie Howard '25
I have the hands of an old man, the eyes of an infant looking about the world for the first time. All is wonderful as it is terrible. I move without thinking
Knowing Feeling
I weave a web of contradictions Trapping regret and pride and Guilt.
I am a tipping boulder, A fragile fortress, A yard of fraying string, A bird that has hatched but cannot fly The wrinkles on my face number the stars in the sky.
Gettysburg’s Soil
by Roy Wulf '26
In this town and in this soil, Lie three days of endless toil. Tales of glory are here too, Tales of men both grey and blue.
Here a rusty stirrup ’ s found, Buford dropped it on the ground. Reynolds fought here at his side, But on this first day he died.
Here a bayonet did drop. It still lies on this Round Top. Chamberlain held them at bay. So he saved the second day.
At this fence, a cannonball. Pickett's charge marched towards this wall For the South, the loss was stark, This last day’s high water mark.
Brave young men are laid here too, In this place they hardly knew. Lincoln said in his address This ground is with freedom blessed
On The Edge of the Forest
by Logan Esposito '25
I stand the edge of a forest beautiful and green and full of life I see God in the trees and birds and the night sky
I see the stars above, the stars beyond count and my heart is filled with wonder I feel the calmness in the grass and trees, the gentle breeze across my face
I hear the trickle of the water over rocks nearby I smell the fresh flowers and plants
Behind me is a city made of concrete and asphalt
The people in it are asleep maybe they have always been asleep I know now that I am awake and I won ' t ’ go back to sleep
I will make my own path I will carve my own mountain I will dredge my one river and nothing will hold me back I look into the forest standing on its edge, willing myself to take a step and go in
I take a breath And I Plunge
Dear Piano
by Indra Mali ‘27
Dear Piano, it ’ s me again, still struggling to express my emotions. remember? i was that little girl, who sat down at the keys all those years ago, and could barely pull out a melody. (fingers pounding, clanging, aimlessly. shoulders tensed. i tried to force them down for you ) 9 and a 1⁄2 years later, that’s still me
i try and try again to be open, but sometimes it seems like no one wants to listen as the keys plink away it is a hard enough decision to come to: “do i want to share this part of me with someone else?” instead, i share it with you, and with you alone, hidden in the all-encompassing ringing and tinkling of hammers hitting strings. for that, i guess i will always be grateful to you, because of the solace that i take in knowing that it will never be you who judges me (i’m sorry if this is silly; i hope you understand what i mean when i say these things ) but in between Brahms’ “Intermezzo Op 118 No 2” and Satie’s “Gymnopédie”, you show me what it is to feel free, to be able to be open, to be able to bare a part of my soul and it is in this way, as the pangs and lulling lilts of the changing chords and the echoes of the directive lent et douloureux resound throughout the house, that i finally feel light again, that i feel childishly carefree. and i realize that it ’ s because i love what i am doing. i love the sound that is shaped, how the intent and the sentiment behind every note is so pervasively palpable
you hear it in the way the espressivo section reverberates throughout the hallways. i don't really need anyone else to listen, as long as i can hear myself and you. i paint a picture through every phrase, i make every page a devotion to your splendor. the tones resonate as i weave a tale of myself, dressing the works of Chopin and Beethoven in my own colors and fashion you respond diligently and allow me to craft you soliloquies so this is my truth, the one that i could never share (the one that you already know) the one from all those years ago, when i was just that little girl who sat down at the keys, all stiff shoulders and flailing fingers, when i asked you to love me. Now, this is my truth: I appreciate you I cherish you I treasure you, and the little girl I was, who you watched grow And because of you, I am able to say confidently that I love you, and I love myself
With my love, Indra
Choose My Own
by Matthew Brandow '25
2020 to 2024
by Hans Sirotniak ‘24
I put up my flag, standing tall
One by one, the threats shall fall
If I am in the timing here
Nowhere else do I need to be near I left long ago with a mighty alarm
That some time soon the days would be gone
When I figured out the news
A new quest would begin
Boredom, excitement, treasures of the time
Soon and very soon I would see, 2020
That there was more than just what I meant to be
Up in the virtual world there it was waiting for me
Back a few months, I had it all
Even though my world looked small
One spark of joy was enough
To pass through the emptiness of winter ’ s darkness
So I braved the cold, a shocking sign
Nine times asking help from the ones over there I surely knew that I was not there
But I really did care
To be, revival of the past
An exciting leap
A stage lit up
And still lights me up when I remember it today
The joy
The excitement
The fulfillment
The peace
On a weekend where hope was gone
Up I turned away and gone
To an old monument, found long ago
But the world I had clung to was gone
And giving the other another chance, I looked in
And realized the blessing right in front of me
There it is, see it!
A new opportunity, renewing the old one
And so I played on and on
Weeks and weeks to pass through the closure
Eventually when times needed to change
I sat, I planned, I found the way
And I left it all behind me
My mind still had it in me
But my eyes couldn’t see it
They were resting for something even greater
Welcome to the new place
It’s a great big world here
Community and company
With more and more things to hold dear
But it did not take me from the greater goal
I waited, waited, waited
Christmas time was coming
And the wait would be over
Shocking going in, looking out
New discoveries here about
The famous, the new, the giant of song I got to witness what was to be there all along
But it was turning
Song by song, story by story, new thing after new thing
Was it just for the moment?
Or could it last a lifetime?
Past by past, swing forth
Simplicity squeezing in
I expected but didn’t see it
So I must call once again
Praying and praying
Feeling the brokenness inside of me
Remembering the promises
The blessing slipped in
It made it before the pacific clock struck midnight
And a new journey started, 2021
Many things happened before it was done
But consider the one thing to remember
Shocking how such great a blessing can be there for me
But being able to physically witness it, another scene
So I waited, half a year, working hard
Eventually, my time would come to hold
Trying to recreate it, in a different place
But I wasn ’ t very successful
So I saw things closing in again
And they did, peacefully
Accepting the new mixing in with the old
Being the witness for Fall 2021
To open up new opportunities
And see my time as something more enjoyable than it was
New ideas summoned up
A way to think about the situation
And traveling along different stations
I reached it, the Straight Line
A sign of no turning back Just going forward
Going forward I did, complementing the cycle
And entered into a new generation, The 2022
I saw the sign for change coming
But I had to stay with the old
My story was not ready yet
To advance so quickly
As the songs came in
I gently chugged along, month by month
It was almost the same, or at least it ended that way
When traveling became the center of attention
Then the journey would start that pushed me to the ground
An age of weakness, hard to overcome
Year 1, Year 2, Year 3, but not Year 4
I had already walked out of the door
Remade me into a new image
One of suffering, one of hope
One of emerging, one of being comforted
And one where I could see the everyday things as new
And as these seasons of weakness closed in I continued working on the world journey
Time and time again, way too much to do
But was there a way I could complete it?
A year ’ s worth of time spent, but not there through I still had a little bit more to do, grow like a tree
When one spark came, the last word “good”
The year ended how it should, blessing in round 3
Onto a new motivation, 2023
Where everything I had seen
Would become a dream of completion
And I didn’t get it right that time
Once, my thought, get it all done
Then later I will have fun
But I had already planned too much
Fun would have to become something different
Was it the most important, or was I wrong?
All my comfort thrown into song
No more playing, just reaching
For something that was far beyond the boundaries
But the work was not in vain
As I was able to put the content into a second brain
Years of stories I shall tell
Could save me from being stuck in the cell
It ended, peacefully I guess, seeing the rust forming
Accepting that once it has all fallen out of my hands
The year ended, no improvement in sight
But still being comforted in the middle of the night
Open the door to 2024
Now I sit, now I see
It was all there for me
But one time it might be there to end
Gradually, gradually, rolling out the list of the past
So much to listen to, I would get to it at last
Collide with a time of waiting, not my own choice to make
Only something that hung onto the past
The victory came through
The shouts of my past heard anew
Peace Among the Chaos
by Ashton Hargus '25
Thoughts on Fate
by Patrick Smith '25
A Thousand Stars (Chapter I)
by Annie Howard ‘25
Jeannie stooped low to tend to the vegetables They grew earnestly, and everywhere – each little spout trying desperately to reach the sun She hiked up her faded cotton skirt and knelt down gingerly on the ground beside them, trying her best not to muddy her knees. In another time, she might have been examining the beauty of each green stem, but as many like her were nowadays, she was ever presently distracted.
What will it be? Two months? Three? She knew for certain it had been a month since the D-Day invasion.
A week since his last letter. Everything in between was hazy.
And what did Jeannie do during this time? She thought back, way back into the depths of her mind, but couldn’t seem to remember anything at all She waited, she watered the vegetables, she sewed caps for Red Cross nurses with her church group
And for the love of God, here was another day Another day where she waited and watered and sewed, and rose out of bed each morning and buttoned her skirt and uncurled her hair and painted on her lipstick and stared up at the sky by the side of her garden and willed it to be different
A voice called to her, foggy in her head, clouded by her thoughts.
“Jeanne, I need those vegetables for dinner!”
And there was her mother, always watching, always listening, always nagging. Jeannie stood and brushed loose soil from her cotton skirt. She picked up the large woven basket she had brought with her and began filling it with the last of the spring peas. They fell right off the tender vine, sloping and curving around the prickly wire trellis.
The women on the posters looked happy. They had bright rosy cheeks, hair done up in perfect, dark rolls, an overflowing basket of produce in their arms, nursing it like they would their own children Jeannie told herself she wanted to be like that To be like her mother To be like her friends But she hated the peas She hated their smooth shells, she hated their smell She choked them down at dinner
“Don’t dally, for Christ’s sake,” Mrs. Gordon called again from the doorway. Jeannie picked up her basket and headed for the house.
Mrs. Gordon gave her daughter a sad sigh as she climbed the sagging porch steps and glanced over at the stars in the window. Jeannie walked straight to the kitchen and pretended she didn’t see the pained look in her mother’s eyes
It helped to think back to a time when two blue stars hung in the left window When she clutched her father’s duffel, saw him climb aboard the train in his newly pressed uniform, kiss her mother goodbye
She remembered him taking the bag out of her hands, only to disappear into the metal train car, filled with other men that looked exactly the same Just one green uniform in a sea of many One star in a giant galaxy One grain of sand from the beaches blood would soon be shed on
“I’ll be back soon, I promise, ” he said
Letter after letter he wrote He told them he was busy training to use his rifle, the radio How he wished he could taste her mother’s pecan pie He told them he smelled victory They were close Any day now
Any day turned into any month
The earth turned and the seasons changed, and an officer was on the front steps of her house with his hat in his hands. Her father became a gold star in the window.
The blue star still remained. Jeannie gazed at it constantly. A good luck charm wishing her well every time she went out. It was her only hope.
He was her only hope.
The war may as well be lost if that blue star was ever to turn gold Let the Germans bomb the states, she didn’t care Her mother was a fighter by day, a waterfall at night Jeannie pulled her weight as best she could, digging up vegetables from the garden, carefully calculating how much they had left on ration cards She baked bread for grieving neighbors by stretching the dough out on a sheet pan as far as it could go
She kept her head down, her hands busy, and her ears alert The blue star promised he would come home But so did the gold star
Why promise if you aren ’ t sure?
Jeannie’s body and soul were in the hands of Providence, the stars in the sky, the Germans.
One stray rocket and it could be over. One wrong shot, a step on a landmine. One telephone call, one knock on the door.
Jeannie’s nights were sleepless. The stars in the sky were haunting reminders of what could be.
As she set the basket on the table, Mrs. Gordon sliced off a tiny slab of butter from the thinning stick on the counter and put it in an iron skillet where it sizzled and popped with excitement Without glancing at her daughter, she said, “Set aside a cup of the peas for us to have with the salted ham ”
Jeannie wanted to exclaim, “To h*ll with it To h*ll with this d*mn war, ” but she held her tongue Instead, she grit her teeth and continued shelling the wretched peas
Can Call
by Isabelle Neely ‘24
Open the door, close the door, open the door, close the door, 10 paces across the hard wooden floor, check the windows, two steps to the left, rattle the knob three times, touch the counter, touch the picture frames, turn around, open the door, look outside
The eyes shine with an unnatural white light, two tiny pinpricks in the harsh darkness that engulfs the yard and the vast woods beyond My father died two months ago and since I’ve returned home it ’ s impossible to see anything in the gloom The waning crescent of the moon is cloaked by thick, angry clouds My eyes trace the yard Rusted beer cans find their home under the porch, some of them so faded, it ’ s impossible to tell which substance filled them in the first place, while others looked more timely. As though it has been mere hours not months since they’ve come to rest in the mud. Car parts cover most of the available space, with any distinguishable features long since worn away like the smooth white bones of some ancient beast. At the very edge of the property bones jumble together, belonging to those creatures unfortunate enough to cross the threshold between the forest’s domain and ours. The grass grows to my waist having suffered years of neglect and weeds had taken free rein over the garbage that filled the yard. The weeds love the garbage, they wind together in heaps of filth. It is their mission to ruin the earth our cabin was built on, to choke any goodness capable of growing there. The rotting porch groans beneath my feet. My grip on the door frame weakens. The eyes move with me. Headlights in the distance The slow orientation of stars They trace my sudden jerky movements with freakish precision If I squint and tilt my head just so I can make out the bloated, contorted shape behind the eyes Its gait is staggering and unnatural, as spindly limbs twist themselves into a movement that just barely resembles a walk The first deer of the season I close the door
Open the door, close the door, open the door, close the door, 10 paces across the hard wooden floor, check the windows, two steps to the left, rattle the knob three times, touch the counter, touch the picture frames, turn around, open the door, look outside
The kitchen was once my favorite place, we had spent countless hours there working on projects side by side He and his skins, their entrails spilling out onto the kitchen table, intermixed with my rainbow of colored pencils Now the lights no longer work. As I walk I hold both arms straight out in front of me, buffers between myself and the unknown. The dark turns the familiar space into a labyrinth with danger in every dingy corner. The black expanse is filled with the relentless humming from our refrigerator which seems to get louder and louder each night. When I focus, the humming twists into something primal, the chanting of some ancient entity that understands my rituals and the state of the house. Its eyes are always on me, even now.
There’s a faint scratching on the walls of the house, like the tree branches scraping up and down during a particularly fearsome storm I stumble to the window, and looking out I see six glowing dots staring back at me with a petrified stillness No no no no no I claw through a splintered wooden cabinet with shaking hands until I find what I need A rusty flashlight, older than the ground our cabin was built upon My fingers dig painfully against the window sill, until finally it opens a crack and I am able to ease the faint, flickering beam of the flashlight out It flickers on: matted fur crusted over, falling out in clumpsoff, on - black growths that bulged out of their flesh, looking as though another creature was trying to tear itself out - off, on - foam covering their mouths, sores covering their flesh, insides hanging out - off.
I close the window.
Open the door close the door open the door close the door 10 paces across the hard wooden floor check the windows two steps to the left rattle the knob three times touch the counter touch the picture frames turn around open the door look outside.
The front room reeks of mold. There is an oppressive humidity that suffocates any bit of air that dares enter the small space. The smell sticks to you, after I left, after I ran away, no matter how much I showered and scrubbed the smell lingered. As though it had infected my very soul I couldn’t forget where I had come from and I can ’ t forget why I’m here Now the smell is overwhelming, blocking my senses, burning my throat My father died two months ago and his memory is forced into each breath
In this house, it doesn’t matter where you stand in the room you will always be watched Heads are mounted on every available space, every kind of deer you can imagine, from bucks to does, the young and the old I run my hands over their noses, their glassy expressionless eyes I think others would pity them but I resent their weakness They allowed themselves to become trapped, allowed their heads to be mounted on this wall, allowed their fragility to consume them They have earned their place here We used to hunt together every week, my father and I Spending hours in the stands, waiting for the perfect shot It wasn ’ t always out of necessity that we went hunting, some days he just wanted the rush He always seemed larger than these woods. My father, king of the deer.
I hear the scraping, it ’ s different from yesterday, more intense. It’s desperate, like a starving animal clawing its way to the last bit of meat in the forest, every second that passes more and more are joining in until the room is filled with the sounds of wood tearing and shredding. I crawl towards the wall, gingerly placing the tips of my fingers against the wood paneling. It’s no longer just scratching, I hear the wood cracking and splintering as the walls are disemboweled, piece by piece. On hands and knees, I inch to the front door, with heavy, unresponsive limbs. Twisting my arm upwards I grasp the handle and slowly turn, the door barely inching open The yard and forest are a sea of stars, bodies on bodies, on bodies, bleeding together in a rotten, writhing mass, and for a split second, every star seemed to point exactly at me A horrifying stillness falls over them
I close the door
Open the door, close the door, open the door, close the door, 10 paces across the hard wooden floor, check the windows, two steps to the left, rattle the knob three times, touch the counter, touch the picture frames, turn around, open the door, look outside
I stand in the heart of the house The center hallway connecting every room, door and window I face the back door The house needs this hallway, without it arteries get clogged, things become trapped My history is here, the pictures of us standing together, the holes he punched in the wall, his body hanging from the ceiling The scratching has grown to a roar, like thousands of insects devouring every available speck of wood on the outer wall Looking out the back window reveals a crawling writhing mass, so many crowded over top of each other they look like maggots feasting on a piece of meat They’re barely alive, their eyes dull and unseeing, fueled by some primal hunger even they don’t understand. No matter where I go, it ' s all the same. Deer. Deer. Deer. Deer. Right to the very edge. No doors, no windows, no escape. I have known this house all my life, it is reaching its limit. Soon there will be nothing to protect me, and they will see through every bit of me until they reach my glassy, expressionless eye.
The door opens
