Panther Collection - Volume 1 - April 2021

A LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

Dear Reader,

We greatly appreciate that you have decided to visit the 2021 edition of Paul VI’s Literary Magazine, The Panther Collection. This year’s edition includes a variety of poems, short stories, artworks, and photographs that demonstrate the many talents of PVI High School. Thank you to all the students and teachers who supported the magazine and made our first edition a success.

A special thanks goes out to Mrs. Glasbrenner for being the moderator of the club.

Thank you to Sarah Burkat, Brian Cerretani, Federico Corvalan, Dariya Banta, Estella Dermody, Tabitha Giaccio, Anna Gillespie, Natalie Kapushoc, Anastasia Leffas, Finn McMahon, Alec McManus, Patrick Matthews, Isabella Merhi, Noah Trinidad, and Mrs. Sullivan for submitting pieces to the magazine.

Sincerely,

The Literary Magazine Club

Aeshan Kapil - President

Autumn Williams

Marlene Brasco

Stefania

Anderson

Mrs. Meghan Glasbrenner - Moderator

By Finn McMahon

When I am reminded, You remind me

By Sarah Burkat

Take me down to the riverside

Where the widows weep, and the sailboats glide. A stream with stones in a bridge erected by man With a blanket and a basket, and a palm in a hand. You can never replace a cool afternoon on your land, My land.

The afternoon on the stream where the rushing moves more slowly

than the streets and the bullets and the sinners oh so lonely.

The 4:00 stream where we find peace in the grey,

When the chaos and confines won’t master our days, A day in the mess of the world and the wars, A day that goes back to when our worries were only our chores. Though now we are older and wiser and sick, Though now we are farther and without so much as a lick of normal or comfort or brightness or shine, we have a great deal of love and some small precious time.

Each day on a stream is a day I will find

As a happy one with a moment peaceful of mind.

The days on the stream

You won’t let me let go

Let’s stay and cherish what we can and what we know.

By Natalie Kapushoc

BLINDED

By Anastasia Leffas

Help me to listen when I can’t hear a thing

Help me to look for You when I am blinded

And when I have no voice help me to sing

You have a plan for me and You’re right beside me

By Aeshan Kapil

And I know all Your promises still stand

You hold all of me in the palm of Your hand

Help me take a leap of faith in the darkest night

I don’t need to battle, You’ve already won this fight.

By Patrick Mathews

The Problems of Today

By Federico Corvalan

Everyone can dream, but only some can pursue that dream, The light of day is seen by some, but the darkness of the night is felt by us all.

Men have silenced women countless of times, And are the reason they cannot walk in the night-time. The history textbooks only depict the sublime of white men, But never the achievements of those around them. The white man is the most lethal predator of them all, Because they haunt the dreams of their competitors. Fill them with doubt and regret, And label them as criminals for their mass incarceration, But they think they are the victim of our frustration.

Michael Brown had a dream, but was a victim of The white man’s game. They put the blame, shame, and labeled all black men the same.

But got mad at us for our declaim. We are playing to lose, To be excused, to be accused, We are the pawns of their game, And they will not stop until we take a stand. God help me fix the problems of today, So that my children, and the children of all black men, Can live freely, without remorse, shame, or rebuke, That their previous generation had to live through.

God speak through me, and proclaim that All men and women were created equal.

So that we can finally put an end to this civil war, That we have always, ignored.

By Noah Trinidad

September Storm

By Aeshan Kapil

A crash from above.

Shadows creeping over.

Engulfing all in sight.

Unleashing havoc.

Critters scurrying for shelter.

Embracing loved ones.

One by one, little drops from the empyrean.

Colliding and vanishing.

Timber.

Gray fades.

Skies clear.

Yet, never forgotten.

From a Lynx to a Panther

By Isabella Merhi

Death by Writer’s Response

By Mrs. Sullivan

CompareContrastExplain and Analyze.

DifferentiateDiscussInfer and Summarize

Change the ending to this story, List the symbols that appear; Highlight every last allusion, Be succinct and please be clear.

Remnants of a muse so dainty, Toss her battered carcass here; Torture all her joy and beauty, With your academic glare.

Splayed and lifeless on this white page, Double spaced in twelve point font; Lies the soul of ancient Athens, Overanalyzed and gaunt.

Gift

By Anna Gillespie

Metallic needles click and clack

A thread looped, a needle ducked, pulling the stitch over with slisch of a slide

Woven thread wound ’round and ’round loop and twist and weave (but never knot)

coming together to create something, handmade, for someone, not in a trade

This labor takes long weeks weave in patience

This work requires commitment weave in dedication

These stitches get snarled, and must be rectified

Though sometimes

what once was knitted can’t be taken back

And the thread knots and tangles and mangles

By Patrick Mathews

so weave in acceptance of imperfection with a desire to not repeat mistakes to turn to the future and to when the recipient receives, and notes only the beauty, time, and care and not the little error

By Estella Dermody

The Day the Sun Had Overslept

By Marlene Brasco

The Sun was always up before the rest of the world had risen, yet he had overslept that day. He had always chased the other colors of the sunrise away from the blanket of the sky, but he, the taskmaster, had not risen yet. As his molten scarlet colors bled across the horizon, the other colors came out to play.

“I’ll keep watch for that pesky Sun,” declared Indigo as he sat atop the star. His dark, inky hue had led the others to believe that he was too serious. And right they were, though not in the way they thought. He was not melancholy but subdued. He knew his mission, and he was ready to perform it beautifully.

“I’ll illuminate the world,” responded Pink as she shone almost as brightly as the Sun himself. Perhaps she craved too much attention, but she certainly was a crowd-pleaser. Blushing before the world, she pulled people’s eyes towards her rosy glow.

“I’ll watch the people down below,” whispered Violet. No, she did not steal the spotlight the way Pink did, but she was content with that. With her loving, lilac gaze turned towards the world below, she much preferred to take note of what went on outside of herself. And if the people happened to glance up at her, they would see the epitome of refined beauty.

And so, Indigo, Pink, and Violet harmoniously flowed into each other, seamlessly painting the sky’s canvas. All of nature held its breath to see what they would do next. And as the Sun continued to snore, the people down below took a few moments to look up to the heavens and smile.

But just like all the beautiful things in this world, the colors could not last forever. Suddenly, as Indigo felt pressure from below, he exclaimed to Pink and Violet, “He’s awake!”

So it goes. The Sun blinked his eyes and shed his rays across the globe. He bolted up the sky as the people below bolted out their doors to work. And as the bleeding sun collected himself and grew steadily more yellow, his lackluster second-in-command, Blue, ushered the colors out of the sky. But the Sun, though diligent as he was, was sure to set come evening time. And the colors, returning to the blanket of the sky, would surely come out to play.

By Aeshan Kapil

By Isabella Merhi

What Lies Beneath

By Aeshan Kapil

A myriad of wires twisted together

Hidden from the outside world

Each strand unique, yet none say a word

Fear, sadness, heartbreak and regret

All intertwined put a knife through his chest

And when the sun goes down he sheds a tear

Grasps the blade and writes “I don’t belong here”

Morning returns as he masks his wires

And begins the day in his happy attire

With no one to turn to, just faking a smile

As he waits out the clock to end his denial

He shines his light, for all to see that all is good

Little do they know he’s been like this for long enough

As each wire slowly begins to envelope his soul

'Till one day he fuses out and is gone forever

Yet some will never know what truly lies beneath.

By Dariya Banta

Red, the color of blood. It is proof I am alive, with blood flowing in me, a reminder of my humanity.

Orange, the color of the setting sun. It makes me want to sit on a nice, grassy hill and watch the sunset.

Yellow, the color of energy and the light of the world. Candles help illuminate the dark, and so do the people full of joy and kindness. It is the height of summer and the peak of the year for me.

Green, the color of youth, and the shadow of envy. The color of spring and the color of Spock’s blood. The new plants have a radiance of green, but people can also possess large shadows of envious green.

Blue, currently my favorite color. It is the color of the ocean on a clear night with numerous stars in the sky. It reflects the midnight sky as it twinkles with stars. With many hues of blue, it is surprisingly the least mentioned color in ancient texts. The color reminds me of how I can live in my wall and be a spectator as if I live in another dimension. It is also the color of sadness and reminds me of my regrets- the things I wish I could redo.

Purple, the color of lavender, and the color of poison. Lavender is a sweet fragrance that created the illusion of friendship, but by the time I realized that it was a facade, it was too late. The purple poison of my ignorance quickly took effect. Purple is a color of mystery and royalty. It was the hardest color to produce in the ancient world, for it was the most expensive.

Pink, the color of kindness and a nice medium between red and white. A reminder of those with a pure heart, with a smile of kindness, and with pure intentions. It is the pure innocence of a young child, and a color of boldness.

Brown is the color of coffee and hot chocolate, and the reminder of a nice Sunday morning.

Black and white complement each other like yin and yang, an equilibrium between the two and a balance in nature. A perfect union. Neither color is perfect, but nor are humans. Is there equal balance and serenity in the world? I strive to find it by the outline of these colors.

“Blue and pastel walls;”

By Dariya Banta

Behind the wall and the wallpaper, I see a myriad of colors

Through the small opening in the wall, Which compels me to look through.

The light comes through,

Unable to not resist its temptation

Of penetrating the dark solitude

I sometimes call home.

A room of soft blues and pastel yellows

Surrounds me, And sometimes collides

And come to terms with each other, Becoming green. I look through, My small eye in comparison to the world, Seeing all the colors softly, very softly, just visible to the keen eye, then becoming something beautiful.

“Why certain colors are:::”

The wind whipped around Ember as she shoved her poorly clothed feet through little mountains of snow. She pulled her thin cloak, or, at least, what was left of it, tighter around her shoulders as her breath fogged in the air. Her frozen fingers clutched a slip of paper important enough to forgo heat. She continued her trek, scanning the ground before her for the items described on the note. Snow blanketed everything in white, making it easy to spot something of a different color perched atop it, but impossible to find anything buried underneath. Her eyes traced every inch of the mass before her but found nothing of value. Ember tugged lightly on the flower-shaped necklace and brought it to her forehead, allowing the familiar action to remind her of why she couldn’t give up.

She saw a red speck floating on the white sea and pushed her way through the expanse as quickly as she could. She fell on her hands and knees inches before it and crawled the rest of the way, losing her paper in the process. She scooped up the poppy that had rested on the mountain, seemingly waiting for her. Ember formed a bed of snow for it in her cupped hands and covered it with another layer. She stood with renewed faith, believing that if she found a piece of the cure, she could find the rest.

Snow Dragon

By Tabitha Giaccio

Ember carefully sealed the snowball in a waterproof bag before placing it in the satchel hung over her shoulder, knowing she would need her hands again. As she walked, she heard noises that were nearly swept away by the wind. She turned but saw nothing and dismissed the sounds with a shake of her head. When she heard the same noise again, closer than earlier, she spun quickly on her heel, losing her balance. Ember tumbled to the ground, landing where she had been standing seconds before, her feet pressed against a tiny form.

She looked at the shape carefully. Its large eyes seemed to study her as well. Ember noticed its curved wings and gasped in shock. The creature, a dragon, should not have been on the mountain. Years ago, when the Fire Dynasty stole power from the Ice King, the freezing climate warmed to the current rule. Dragons that had lived on the on the mountain for years had begun migrating to areas that were still frostcovered

Ember sat as still as she could as she

struggled to formulate a plan. She ignored the instinct to run, knowing she couldn’t get far. As she thought, the dragon tilted its head curiously, causing one of its ears to droop, making it look even longer than it was.

Ember slowly backed away from the animal. The dragon seemed to notice but didn’t try to follow her. It laid its head on the snow like it was pouting. Ember looked at the dragon strangely and continued to move as quickly as she could in the snow. Her hands felt like bricks that couldn’t clutch, only pull.

When she had reached a distance, she considered safe from the dragon, she struggled to her feet, keeping her eyes pinned on the creature before her.

Ember clutched her necklace in her hand, trying to soothe herself. She turned her back on the dragon, a move that seemed smart in the moment, seeing as she could move more quickly if she could see where she was going but was also risky because she couldn’t see the dragon.

Ember pushed her feet through the snow, trying to rid herself of the memory of the creature. She needed to focus if she was going to help her sister. Come on Ember, she told herself, Elodie needs you. She kept walking, willing herself to ignore the feeling that the dragon was following her. Hours later, Ember had found nothing. She had stared so intently at the ground before her that she started seeing black spots that she mistook for pieces of the cure. Every inch of her body longed for warmth, but she could hardly imagine any. Ember reached in her pocket, searching with her immobile fingers for the note. She came up empty-handed and more desperate than ever to leave the mountain. Ember found her fingertips touching her necklace and then bringing it to her forehead once again. She tried to remember the next thing on the list but was given no answer, like her mind was as blank as the snow before her. Why didn’t I look earlier? She questioned herself. What have I been looking for? In truth, she just expected to locate something lying on the ground and check the note to see if it was included. Unfortunately, her luck had run out when she had found the poppy.

Ember touched her necklace again, feeling along the familiar shape. Its wood was smoothed over from her rubbing it so often. Her mind spun as the wind whirled around her. She wished she could do just one thing right. She had been so close and now any speck of hope seemed to have been smothered.

Ember pulled memories apart from one another, trying to sort through the mess to recall what was on the list. Ember clutched her necklace so tightly that its four corners left imprints on her hand. As if she had no control over her own body, Ember found herself taking her necklace off and examining it more closely. Her eyes traced its shape. It was almost funny that her knowledge of its appearance came primarily from touch. With the heirloom in her hand, however, she could clearly see a poppy sitting delicately in the diamond-shaped wood frame.

Ember crouched on the ground and pulled the waterproof bag that held the poppy out of her satchel. It was almost a perfect match: size, shape, and color. She turned her attention to the frame and scanned the snow surrounding her.

No, no wood. She looked again, if not the material, then what? The shape. The answer hit her and she stood and rushed forward, not sure exactly where she was going.

Hours must have passed that felt like only seconds. Her mind was clearer than it had ever been. She took a breath of the crisp air and welcomed its freshness into her lungs.

Ember found renewed strength when she reached a place she had only imagined: a cave nestled under a lip in the mountain. She moved as quickly as she could through the snow, her eyes pinned on the hope that had solidified before her.

She hurried inside and searched the interior for a far-fetched dream. She crawled on her hands and knees and looked in every place she could think of. Ember turned her head and saw something glinting in a pool of water. She rushed over to it and stuck her hands in without thinking. As soon as her fingers touched the freezing liquid, she pulled them aways and stuck them in her pockets. Ember had made it this far, there was no way she was stopping now….

She reached into her satchel and pulled out two bags for her hands. When she stuck her hands in again, the experience was slightly more tolerable. She swished her bagged hands around in the water until she felt something. She pulled it out quickly, excitement bubbling up in her chest. When she opened her clutched hand, she had a diamond lying on her palm.

Ember smiled at her hand before tucking the diamond away in a bag within her satchel. She couldn’t risk a piece of the puzzle escaping her. As Ember was placing the diamond in her bag, she heard a soft growl behind her, the same sound she had heard earlier. The dragon had returned.

She turned around slowly, determined not to put her back to the creature again. Just as Ember had hypothesized, the dragon stood behind her, a snarl fixed on its face. Unlike earlier, when it seemed to have no intention of harming her, the creature seemed very angry. Ember put her hands up before her in a peaceful gesture and slowly backed up. As she did, she stepped into the pool of water, and the dragon tensed and snarled.

Ember began putting the pieces together: this was the dragon’s home and the water was somehow important to the creature.

“This is yours?” she asked, gesturing towards the water. The dragon only snarled in response. “I’m about to leave. I just need to get past you.” In an attempt to calm herself, Ember kept talking. “I had to take the diamond, you see. It’s for my sister. My sister’s sick, she needs it.”

The dragon seemed to listen to her as she spoke and slowly untensed, its countenance returning to its usual content look. “Maybe there’s something I can do to repay you?”

Ember said the words before she thought them.

The dragon turned and ran outside. Ember followed cautiously. The dragon stood at the tip of the mountain, its fur blowing in the wind. Ember reached the top and stood beside the dragon, still curious of what it could want.

The dragon spread its huge wings and its intent was suddenly clear.

“You want to fly?” The dragon didn’t need to respond, she was looking at the answer. Ember looked at the dragon’s wings. How was he supposed to flap those? She thought carefully,

her fingers trying to grab at her necklace before remembering it wasn’t there. She took it out of her satchel and fastened it around her neck.

Maybe the wings weren’t made to flap. What if they spread like a kite and caught the wind? Ember extended her arms as mock wings, the dragon staring at her.

“Look,” she said, “glide with the wind.”

The dragon put out its paws like her arms. She laughed gently at it. “No.” Ember swallowed her fear and touched its wings lightly. It flinched before allowing her to continue. She brought its wings out until they formed a straight line. Then she stood and spread her faux wings before pretending to jump off the ledge. Ember moved her “wings” gently in the wind.

The dragon seemed to understand and made its own little jump before pretending to float in the wind.

“Good,” she encouraged the creature. “Now for real.”

The dragon peered into the space below before standing up proudly, stretching its wings and jumping seemingly fearlessly into the air.

By Isabella Merhi

By Patrick Mathews

A Sudden Solitary Joy (?)

By Autumn Williams

A little girl in a purple and yellow dress wandering and eating cotton candy at a carnival looking for her favorite ride finally, she finds it she is tall enough to ride she hands over her ticket and sits on the ride no seatbelts still has her cotton candy the ride carries her to the top of the tower and then drops screams in anticipation then waits for the fall to end it doesn’t

An older girl in jeans

Striding confidently through the halls

People crowd her

Asking questions

She answers

Smiling all the while

They love her She stops

Causing the person behind her to crash into her

Except he doesn’t

There isn’t anyone behind her She looks around the hall Nobody is there The bell rings And keeps ringing

There, sitting at her modern desk, is a young woman. She has a corner office with the windows

Despite her yellow blouse and location, she isn’t working. She is looking around admiring her office, her nameplate, her abstract art.

Her face is beaming and proud as she rummages around her desk drawers for her last check.

When she opens the envelope she gasps and immediately picks up her new phone to call her mother. No one answers. Now there is a man, sitting in a chair watching a fire. sitting next to his wife and daughter drinking hot chocolate. His phone rings he picks it up.

“Hello No. I won’t be coming in Yes I understand

Thank you sir.”

The daughter looks at him. “Are you going to work?” He grins “No. In fact, I won’t be going to work for a while.

I’ll be home with you”

His wife sighs turns her head towards him. “You were fired weren’t you?”

He shakes his head and replies,

“I prefer to say I am taking some time for my family.”

She tries to be angry but instead just laughs. All of them go back to watching the fire.

They are happy.

Not All Are Lucky

By Brian Cerretani

What a crazy year this has been

Suddenly isolated

No school, no friends, no sports

At home with family 24/7

Different, but good

I am one of the lucky ones

School through a screen

Friends through a phone

Never thought I would tire

Of staring at my screens

I have screens to stare at

I am one of the lucky ones

Do things this way

No, do them like this

Some teachers good at this

Some not so much

My school is hybrid

I am one of the lucky ones

Drive in my car

Visit the lake

Work out with friends

Things seem to get better

For me at least

I am one of the lucky ones

I will get through

This crazy pandemic I will graduate I will go to college I will survive

I am one of the lucky ones

By Finn McMahon

Ayni was suddenly in the middle of the street with every car in close proximity honking their horns at him. The little boy had been chasing a feather and obviously had not been paying any attention to where he was going. To his credit, it was a very interesting feather. It was a shiny silver color with small black dots splattered all over it, and the little boy had never seen anything quite like it. He couldn’t stop staring at it even as he sprinted to the sidewalk. In fact, he tripped over the curb and hit his nose on the concrete. It didn’t hurt that much, but his nose started bleeding, and a small amount dripped on the feather. Not that he noticed, because as soon as the blood touched the feather, it disappeared, and the black spots grew slightly bigger. After wiping his nose on his sleeve, the little boy decided that he would stick the feather in his pocket so that when he got home he could show it to his father. His father was a minister, and he knew everything about everything. He would certainly know what bird the feather belonged to.

Ayni walked home, but he was soon distracted by some other young boys playing soccer in a driveway. He played until nightfall when the other

The Influence of an Angel

By Autumn Williams

boys’ mother called them inside. Walking back home again, he remembered the feather and started to run. When he entered his house, his mother was setting the table for dinner. She barely gave him a glance, even as he loudly took off his shoes and coat. Stopping only to grab the feather from his pocket, he sprinted to his father’s office and knocked on the door. “What?” his father bellowed. The boy waited at the door for a little while. He knew better than to come into the office without his father’s permission.

“Well? What do you want?” His father’s voice was closer now as he was just about to violently fling the door open. He stared at his son.

“Come in.” The little boy grinned and walked to the seat in front of the desk.

“Daddy! I found this feather when I was playing with Ollie and I’ve never seen a bird like this before and I wanted to know what it is!” He slid the feather to the other side of the desk. His father picked it up and examined it for an unusually long amount of time. It was beautiful,

divine. Heavenly. He knew that it couldn’t be left in the hands of a child. No, no. He had to keep it safe.

“I’m sorry, Ayni, but this is just a normal feather. Nothing special. I’ll just keep it for you.” He couldn’t keep from smiling to himself, but the little boy was too young to think anything of it.

“Oh. But I like it. Can I keep it? I can put it in my room and...”

“No!” his father interrupted. “It’s mine!” Then Ayni scrambled up and scurried out of the room. He hated when his father got angry. His father barely noticed him leaving. All of his focus was on the feather. He kept turning it around in his hands.

It took a while for him to put the feather down and try to find out exactly what it was. He knew it was something divine, nothing this beautiful could be natural, so he took out his computer and typed in “supernatural feather”. Hours later and deep into the night, he was still researching. He had found a substantial amount of articles describing gruesome deaths. All of them were holding a feather just like his, and there were hundreds of these articles….

“It must kill those unworthy of it. But I am worthy. I will keep it safe.” He whispered to the feather, stroking it and turning it. It took him longer than it should have for him to turn back to his computer.

Eventually, he decided it was an angel feather, despite no one else coming to the same conclusion. After all, what else could be so beautiful? What else could call for him even while he was asleep? What else could make him this obsessed?

He looked up at the window and saw that the sun was coming up. Suddenly, for the first time that night, he felt overwhelmingly tired. He stood up and started to walk out of the room so that he could go to sleep, but… he glanced at the feather. It was beautiful. It couldn’t be left alone. No, he couldn’t go to sleep. He had to watch over the feather. Shimmering in the light of the sunrise, it was helpless sitting there on his desk. He couldn’t just leave it there for anyone to take. He cradled the feather in his hands, walked over to his office door and locked it, but that wasn’t enough. He gently placed the feather in his shirt pocket and then recklessly started piling furniture even vultures wouldn’t touch it. Leave me alone.”

against the door. Eventually, everything but his leather armchair was stacked in front of the door, creating a barricade against anyone who wanted to steal the precious feather. All the noise woke Ayni, and he soon came tip-toeing down the steps. He knocked on the door and whispered, “Daddy?”

“What do you want?” His father yelled from his armchair. He was staring at the feather. “Go away. I’m busy.” He looked up for a second to glare at the door. In that split second, the black spots on the feather grew slightly bigger, but of course, he didn’t notice. Ayni left.

Hours passed, and there was another knock at the door. This time it was Ayni’s mother.

“Dear, I’ve made dinner. It’s your favorite, stuffed liver.” She spoke tentatively, like she always did.

“I don’t want it. You make it so disgusting that with it, the black spots grew bigger and bigger. Eventually, the feather was completely black, and very soon after that, too soon to be a coincidence, the little boy’s father died. And not a peaceful death, either. He had blood dripping

out of his eyes and an insane smile on his face. Even in death he was still clutching the feather, which had turned white again the second after his last breath. It was Ayni’s mother who found him first, but she wasn’t the one who called the police. That was Ayni. His mother was too busy taking the feather and packing up her bags. She died three weeks later in a motel. It’s amazing how no one ever realizes that it’s not an angel’s feather, but a demon’s.

He’s almost in my line of sight. I can see him creeping around the dense trees, looking for me just as intensely as I’m looking for him. We are in a fight for our lives, and only one of us will win, if either of us do. I’m in the trenches waiting for the perfect shot. Now I can hear him running across the fallen leaves, almost as numerous as my brothers who have fallen.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are.” Brief laughter follows. Who is this psychopath? Come out, come out, wherever you are? That’s a child’s game. I am not a child! I am a soldier hidden in the depths of enemy grounds. I am Sergeant Riker! I am… I hear footsteps behind me. I turn around, and I’m staring into the barrel of a loaded gun. Fear suddenly compacts my heart and lungs as I scramble to get away. I am so frightened that I curl up into a ball and start crying.

“What are you doing, Mason? It’s just a water gun. Stop crying. You’re acting like a baby. It’s embarrassing,” my brother says, crouching down to make sure I hear his disgust. Through my tears, I say, “I don’t want to play war any more.” He stands up and replies, “Yeah, I can see that. If

I’m Still Not Over It

By Autumn Williams

you’re not going to play, go home.” Then he runs off, already back in the game. I run in the opposite direction, towards home and my mom.

“I’m ready. Let’s go.”

That’s one of my many bad memories from childhood. Anytime I remember it I can feel my heart start to beat faster and faster, even though it happened almost sixteen years ago. I sit up in bed, accidently slamming my head into the bed above me.

“Ah! You’re up!” Lucas jumps down from the top bunk. He then leans over so we are face to face. “I thought I was going to have to start blasting Metallica to get you to wake up.”

“How late is it?” I ask. The fear has faded away by now. I don’t know how Lucas does that.

“Dude. It’s one. You slept past lunch.” He starts walking over to our door where our bags are packed and stacked on top of each other.

“I was just about to leave without you.” He smiles. “Hurry up and grab something to eat. I want to leave before the traffic starts to get bad.” I start to put on my shoes, and then I grab a bagel.

It only takes a couple hours to get to the national park that we are going to be camping in and exactly twenty-seven minutes for us to get lost. All of the trees look the same, and the sun is close to setting. We’re going to be eaten by bears, aren’t we? At the moment, Lucas and I are trying to figure out where we are.

“Hey. Give me the map. I know exactly where we are.” Lucas says.

“No, you don’t.” I’m playing keep-away while trying to read the map, which is already difficult enough because it’s soaking wet. “When you had it, you dropped it in a puddle.”

“Oh, come on, Mason. That was an accident!”

“That’s exactly why I’m not giving it to you.”

“Hmph.” Lucas sits down and looks annoyed.

“Go be grumpy somewhere else if you’re not going to be helpful.”

“How can I be helpful if you don’t let me look at the map?” he retorts.

“Just be quiet.” I look up at him. “Actually, you know what, if you want to be helpful, go set up the tents.” He proceeds to glare at me then sulks

away to go try to figure out how to set up those hateful pieces of fabric and metal. At last I can look at the map in peace. Let’s see, we entered the park from the west entrance. Oh wait, maybe it was from the north.

“Hey, Lucas. Did we enter from the north entrance or the west?”

“We came from the east.” he shouts.

“We couldn’t have come from the east. There is no east entrance!” This is stupid. College did not prepare us for this. Useless textbooks teaching us how to shift the graph of a triangle instead of how to use a compass.

I hear a snapping, and Lucas saying, “Uh oh.”

Oh crap, why did he say “uh oh”?

“What did you do?” I yell. I start walking over to where he and the tents are.

“I may or may not have broken something.” He looks at me sheepishly. I sit down next to him and look up.

“This isn’t going very well, is it?”

“Nope. But that’s okay. This trip wasn’t really meant to work out.”

“What are you talking about? This is our celebration trip. We finally graduated! What do you mean, ‘This trip wasn’t meant to work out’?” I realize that I’ve been talking louder than I meant to. Lucas sighs.

“I got a letter. I’ve been drafted. Reporting in three months.”

“No.” I said quietly, almost inaudibly. “No. No. No.” I gradually get louder, eventually screaming into the sky. I turn to Lucas.

“Why? How could this happen? We had plans! We were going to start a bakery! We had a name picked out and everything!” I’m screaming again, but this time my voice starts to break.

“Mason, man. We can still do all that stuff. It’ll just take a bit longer.”

“And what if you don’t come back?” I stare straight at him with a face of stone. I start to shut everything out. Push it far away so it seems unreal.

“I will come back. We’ve got stuff to do. Remember? And anyway, they’ll probably put me in charge of building planes or some boring crap

like that. I’ll come back.”

And that was it. Three months later he left. And he didn’t come back, despite all of his promises. I’m back to wallowing in memories, not necessarily of him, to escape the world without him in it. I lie on my bed and close my eyes. And

I’m back to being a teenager, when I first realized that I was not who I was pretending to be.

I can feel my wet shoes squishing with every step. I can feel the rocks grating against my heel. But most of all, I can hear the cheering of the crowd and the yelling of my teammates.

“Great game, man!” A chorus of agreements rise up around me.

“Yeah, you too. It was a great game for all of us.” I can hear my voice having not even half of the excitement my teammates have. What’s wrong with me? We won against the toughest school in the county, and all I can think about are the rocks in my shoes.

My mom shows up in the family car, and

finally I can escape the loud crowds and the overly cheerful winners. I don’t even say hello to my father before I change into normal clothes and comfortable shoes. I flop on my bed and then I hear someone knocking on my door. It’s my dad asking to come in. He probably wants to talk about the game. I sit up, mentally prepare the cheerfulness program and say, “Come in.”

“Hey, Mason. I heard about the game today. Great job.”

“Thanks Dad.” I’m mumbling; the cheerfulness program must have a virus, because it is not working at all.

I’m back to the awful present where it’s been three years since Lucas’ death. I still haven’t gotten over it. People shouldn’t be allowed to just die, and the government shouldn’t be allowed to send kids to their deaths.

I’m standing at his grave with purple flowers in my hand. They were his favorite, even though we all teased him for it.

“Hi, Lucas. It’s been a while.” I place the flowers on top of the gravestone and sit down. “I

miss you. And I know you would tease me for saying that, but I do. It’s the truth.” I have to stop and breathe. It’s been three years. This shouldn’t hurt so much.

“I’ve started working on the paperwork for the lease. My family laughed at me just like you said they would, Lucas, but I don’t care. It’s not about them. But I’m so tired of all the surprised looks on everyone when they hear I want to turn the place into a bakery. They say it’s not conventional and that I’ll fail. I wish you were here. You’d set them straight.” I laugh, remembering all of the times that he had “set people straight” for me. Then, I have to rub my eyes that are slowly filling with tears.

“Everywhere I go, every step I take to make our dream happen, people laugh and call me names. At the very least they give me a look that says, ‘Do you think you are doing?’ I guess you would tell me they don’t matter, right? And that’s true, but with you gone I don’t have anyone to help me. We were stronger together, Lucas, and now I’m falling apart. I’ll keep at it, though. I promise you I will. I’ll bring people joy and happiness with delicious food. All the joy and happiness you couldn’t have.”

My voice breaks. I can’t talk anymore, so I just sit. And think. Then, I get up. Not because I want to—I would much rather stay sitting by him forever until my own death—but because I promised him I would keep going. He sacrificed his life for someone who couldn’t even speak his language when he was deployed, so I have to be strong enough to keep his, no, our, dream of happiness alive.

By Isabella Merhi

Narcissus

By Stefania Anderson

Destined to be a breadwinner, a prodigy, a reflection of what you couldn’t become it failed to appease your desire for more. Reminiscent of your youth, you pushed it on your young, leaving a sore on the heart that couldn’t be undone. You tried to patch the cracked foundation, yet all four walls have fallen at your feet. No soap opera, no plea, nor oration can fix your defeat. You know ME! Quit being dramatic! - you cry, fumbling Trying to plea for an excuse, But you know that your facade is crumbling, and there’s no use in blaming the shadow of the past.Teary-eyed and a deafening silence, As if guilt came to greet you, you saw her frowning. In your denial and selfish mind, She pleads for you to find help, begging, trying, repeating. If only you had swallowed your pride, you could save What little you had left in love, And fix the hollow cave, That you drove cruelly into a cove in her heart; If you could listen, and soak it in, the humility Comes shining through your heart, Understanding as a scholar, fulfilling as tranquility Of an open mind, as sweet as a tart,My dear, you could be conscious to your young desperate for you to change, The infamous one: Narcissus, whose notoriety consists of the solipsistic desire that caused you to be estranged

Egan Opus had once saved a boy from drowning. It had been several years ago. Despite the clamor of the event, it had been the clearest his head had ever been.

Egan’s eyes were pried open one morning by an unidentifiable dread. This restless feeling began as a haze in his mind and worked its way down towards a sinking in his stomach. The sun’s harsh rising rays stung him as they seeped through the window blinds. Bewildered, Egan changed the direction of his stare towards the woman sleeping next to him. Charity. They had been married for eleven years, yet she seemed more remote by the day. Objectively beautiful, Charity’s porcelain face was only interrupted by a wrinkle eleven years in the making that perpetuated a consternation not even sleep could relieve. She was pleasant. As he watched the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, Egan’s breaths grew shallower as he felt increasingly trapped. The heat of his blankets was scalding, so he kicked them off and crumpled them towards the foot of the bed. Hurrying out of bed, he looked absentmindedly towards Charity. Though she had not woken up, her breathing became uneven, and

I Saved the Boy

By Marlene Brasco

the valley of a wrinkle in her forehead deepened. He departed.

It was a stiflingly hot day, and the humidity augmented the suspended doom in the air. The wavering lake reflected the looming, blackening clouds, torn apart like gauze across the sky. Egan was troubled. He could not identify what was weighing down his mind, yet the conversation held by his family was incoherent amid the clutter of his mind. Something about him was so simultaneously alert and numb that he felt he was simply floating through time. A buzzing came into one ear like that of a bug. He thought it was in his head and that he could cleanse his mind by focusing intently upon what was around him at the picnic table. He looked at his son, those ocean deep saucer-eyes that begged Egan to offer something he did not have. This only exacerbated the buzzing as it morphed into a dull moaning. Charity, I must look at Charity he thought. Her black ringlet curls collected the sun’s pulsing rays in one end and spat them out on the other. And the curls circled round, and round, and round...and they flew across Charity’s other

shoulder as she turned to face the lake.

“Do you hear that?” she asked. And, for a moment, Egan thought that she had walked right into the drawing-room of his mind. For a moment he felt less miserably alone.

Trudging towards the kitchen, Egan’s eyes remained fixed on his red slippers that merely dragged behind the rest of him. He thought that a cup of tea would help ease his mind. Entering the room, he saw his son and the mop of sandy hair sitting on his head. Egan stopped abruptly and gazed at this son, whose face was screwed up into a pensive knot. Egan looked at his son and had wanted to say something, but all he saw were his son’s eyes, those eyes… “Son,” he remembered, “go find your father a bag of tea, will you?”

Egan’s mind, a swirl of mirky thoughts, mimicked the tea leaves steeping through the boiling, muddied water. He saw his face reflected in the tea. A sharply featured husk of a man peered up at him through the liquid. He searched every chamber of his mind in pursuit of what was troubling him. Everything was fine, and yet it wasn’t. He had his health, he had his job,

his house, he had his wife, he had his son...his son... He tore his eyes from his desperate reflection and looked at his son. His son had been waiting with those big, begging eyes. Those eyes…

The boy’s lips pulled across his face as if to stretch before talking. He hesitated. Then, pulling apart the seal that silence had glued between them, he ventured, “Dad, are you going to my piano recital tonight?”

Piano recital? Piano recital? Egan wondered if that had been the missing piece of the puzzle. Squishing it into the jigsaw of his mind, it did not seem to ease his troubles. Then a buzzing, a buzzing vibrated in his ear. Buzzing…

“Dad, did you hear me? Dad, did you…”

Egan jolted. The fog of his mind had dispersed for a moment, and he saw his son entirely. “Piano recital...yes, my boy! Of course, I’ll be there!” A singular ray of sun bled into the kitchen, and the warmth evaporated his mind’s fog.

Egan mused, “What song will you be playing, my boy?” Egan was enjoying the sun outside as it his hand.

warmed his bones.

His son deflated before his eyes.

“You asked me that yesterday, Dad. You asked me that just yesterday.” Suddenly, Egan felt a bit overheated and kicked off his slippers. He rubbed his face and held his limp head as if it had no support other than his hand.

“Help your father out, son,” Egan asked pitifully. “What song will you be performing?’ “‘Ave Maria,’ Dad. I’ll be playing ‘Ave Maria.’”

“Do you hear that?” she asked. Egan came to his senses. Charity turned her long, elegant neck towards the lake. The glistening water was disrupted by spurting like that of a geyser in the center of the lake. These moments of chaos in the water were followed by an eerie, tentative calm.

Egan sprang up from the picnic table and, as if stepping outside of himself and viewing his body perform his actions, bounded towards the water. One, two, three—with every step, his feet kissed the parched earth, and with every stride, the haze of his mind melted away. Four, five, six the buzzing that had turned to moaning became a muffled gurgle. Seven, eight, nine the scale’s of

his mind’s eye had shriveled and fallen down to meet the earth. Ten, eleven, twelve—he saw before him the Boy.

Egan was dressed in his blue summer suit of the same hue as that as the sky, its heat having become as oppressively smothering as Egan’s mind. He and Charity stood outside the door to the lobby of the concert hall. Her delicate, doll-like hand was inside his clammy, swamp-like palm. Preoccupied, Egan’s hand had become claw-like as it clasped Charity’s hand violently. Ever patient, Charity had tried flexing her hand to signal Egan’s release, but Egan was not paying attention. His mind had been placed on the matters of his other hand, the hand that held the wrist that held his watch that held the time. He was waiting for something, but he wasn’t sure what. He held his breath. At last, as if the building itself exhaled, the door to the lobby was opened. The crowd funnelled into its doorway confluence and fanned out again upon its entrance into the lobby. Charity began to step enthusiastically toward her son’s piano recital, but Egan, his feet made of cement, held her

back by the hand.

“Egan...Egan?” Charity begged. But Egan could not move. Like a catatonic, he could not move.

But I saved the, I saved the, I saved—Egan did not want to enter the lobby until he had gathered his thoughts. The sun would not wait for him, though; its brushstrokes of purple, orange, and pink had already shrouded the setting sphere. Charity would not wait, either— she wormed her hand out of his and walked in, alone.

The Boy was helplessly floundering in the lake. His face was concerningly red. Egan faintly heard Charity’s voice, like a distant memory, shrieking in shrill terror. But the blackened clouds had ripped fully like torn cotton, and a ray of sun kissed the back of Egan’s neck. He jumped into action. Without any hesitation, he plunged into the lake as he pierced the water with utter certainty. He sailed through the water. Extending one arm, then the other, he stretched toward something certain in front of him. Kicking his legs behind him, he felt propelled by an unidentifiable purpose. He

inched himself underneath the Boy, and, with the Boy on his back, back to the shore. Weightlessly, he floated through space. Arching his back, he allowed the Boy to roll back into the gracious arms of the earth. The Boy was icy blue. He was writhing and choking. With his eyes straining against the iridescent rays, he again felt like he was simply watching his body compress the Boy’s feeble chest and breath into the Boy’s desperately gasping mouth. He felt like a mother bird feeding her young. He felt like he could provide. The twitching stopped for a moment, and Egan’s stomach dropped as he thought the Boy had died. But suddenly, a line of tension, frozen by the boy’s icy state, melted into a line of peace across the Boy’s forehead. The twitching was taken up by his eyes, which abruptly pried open. The Boy was alive, and he had ocean-deep eyes. And Egan stared into them, and he saw his own joyous face reflected at him.

Egan’s son plunked out the plaintive first notes of “Ave Maria,” and Egan’s tired soul cried with each key. The concert hall was dank and dark, and the spotlight shining on his son reflected in the abyss of his son’s eyes. This light had refracted in his

son’s eyes, and, as his son looked for his father’s eyes for reassurance before his performance, the light had blinded Egan. His son’s eyes, his searching eyes, had blinded him. His blood turned to ice. The ice spread a chill all the way from his feet, through his aching legs, up into his nauseated stomach, all the up towards his chest. Egan could not breathe.

Pulsing in and out, his thirsting chest expanded without inviting any air in. He floundered. He collapsed. The plunking, the plunking, the plunking reverberated inside his skull and begged to be freed. And the plunking, the plunking it morphed into buzzing, buzzing. The plunking stopped. The buzzing went silent.

“I saved the boy!” Egan screamed, his triumphant voice echoing through the hall. “I saved the boy!”

Egan Opus had once saved a boy from drowning. It had been several years ago. If only he had saved himself from drowning, drowning, drowning…

The Panther Collection, Volume One of Paul VI High School designed by The Literary Magazine Club.