The Current 2014
Editors Note The Current is dedicated to providing the Rivers community with cultural enrichment as well as a stronger appreciation of the arts through poetry, prose, and artwork produced by Rivers students. This year, we decided to go with a vintage travel journal theme. We encorporated elements of scrapbooking, polaroids, and postcards to achieve our design aesthetic. Thank you to everyone who submitted or contributed in any way to making this magazine a success. We could not have produced this issue without your help. That being said, there wasn’t enough room to include everyone’s outstanding submissions, but definitely continue submitting in the future. Thank you to all the dedicated Current members. Your help during the play and musical, as well as your weekly contributations were greatly appreciated. A special thanks to Rindy Garner, who has overseen every step of the process and was always willing to offer help whenever it was needed. Lastly, thank you to our readers for acknowledging all the hard work of Rivers artists and writers. We hope you enjoy this issue of the Current! Editors Sareena, Maddie, Jenny, and Saipriya Staff Sarah, Caroline, Jen, Rhea, Elizabeth, Victoria, Ellen, Christine, Ruby, Alicia, and Kate. Judges Prose: Dorothy Vosburgh Poetry: James Lowell 2D: Karen Jerome Skillins 3D: Violet Byrd Photography: Tod Dimmick Faculty Advisor Rindy Garner
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Table of Contents
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Here Razzi Hawley Lab Garden Patrick McNally; Slant Victoria Nedder Colors Jenny Park; El Despecho Alex Gaither; Music of the Heart Marissa Birne Into the Woods and Out of My Life Jake Goldberg; Tinted Glass Will Cohen A Short Work of Fiction Razzi Hawley
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Ode to the Working Class Brendon Argueta; Queen of Hearts Sareena Kamath Nature Poem Kendall Young; Caught in Flight Alex Klein Here Rhea Teng; Lotus Flower Bomb Simone Blake Phoenix Sam Stulin; Humidity Anonymous Requiem Rhea Teng; Contemplation Leah Ciffolillo Woman Revisited Brendon Argueta; Red Turtle Hunter Dempsey The Rumor Jake Goldberg Plot Twist: 43% Silvia Curry Butterfleye Wiley Holton; Half Moon Christine Yang Obsession Julia Strauss; Typewriter Wiley Holton Through the Valleys Graydon Hewitt; Backyard Artifacts Campbell Siegrist Anticipation Caroline Rakip; Born to Rise Victoria Nedder And In My Mind He Starts to Leap James Nydam
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Reach Elizabeth Magnan; Fallen Tears Erin Connolly Loona Sal Sprofera; Montana Caroline Rakip A Drop in the Ocean Maria Burzillo Self Portrait Tali Sprofera; Iceland Lexi Sisitzky; Heading to the Market Alex Klein An Excerpt from The WASPMafia’s Guide to Healthy Living Kendall Young Power Vannie Knisley; Despair Leah Ciffolillo A Stag in the White Pines Jen Lowell
Winners
Prose 1st- A Short Work of Fiction Razzi Hawley 2nd- An Excerpt from The WASPMafia’s Guide to Healthy Living Kendall Young Honorable Mention- Plot Twist 43% Silvia Curry Poetry 1st- Into the Woods and Out of My Life Jake Goldberg 2nd- Here Rhea Teng 3rd- Music of the Heart Marissa Birne Honorable Mention- And In My Mind He Starts to Leap James Nydam Here Razzi Hawley Nature Poem Kendall Young 2-D 1st- Queen of Hearts Sareena Kamath 2nd- Montana Caroline Rakip 3rd- Butterfleye Wiley Holton Honorable Mention- Power Vannie Knisley Tinted Glass Will Cohen Fallen Tears Erin Connolly 3-D 1st- Phoenix Sam Stulin 2nd- Through the Valleys Graydon Hewitt 3rd- Red Turtle Hunter Dempsey Honorable Mention- Half Moon Christine Yang Lotus Flower Bomb Simone Blake Photography 1st- Backyard Artifacts Campbell Siegrist 2nd- Contemplationn Leah Ciffolillo 3rd- Caught in Flight Alex Klein Honorable Mention- Colors Jenny Park Lab Garden Patrick McNally Heading to the Market Alex Klein
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Here
Razzi Hawley Honorable Mention here is the edge of the tallest, most staggering face of the Cliffs of Moher, the rubble and rock imposing its stern surveillance over the bleeding blue below and here is the broad horizon’s fading line of sight, dissolved with baited breath, ducking into the dim crepuscule, she waits, sure that we will turn to face her glow again and here is the cold, mandated breath of the hospital machinery near the old man’s body, filling resigned lungs as he lies, unmoving, imagining the dark mysteries beneath six feet of earth, and here is the ledge of the bridge overlooking the dam where the young man perches, silent, teeth chattering and heart racing as he pockets the letter, that he loves her and he’s so sorry and here is the secret I have to impart, scribed from lines worn across these weathered hands, that they are one and the same.
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Lab Ga
Patrick rden Honor McNally able M ention
Slant
Victoria Nedder
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Colorsrk
Pa Jenny ntion ble Me a r o n Ho
El Des pecho Alex G
aither
Music of the Heart Marissa Birne
A grinning face, hands clasped as one, a steady drumbeat on bright polyphony I believe in a beautiful world.
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Third Place
Into The Woods and Out Of My Life Jake Goldberg First Place
Into the woods I went seeking the woman I secretly call my own, she who I claimed at a young age, she who by all must remain unknown. The woods’ towering trees heard our shared words, the blossoms observed our first night together, and the doves our second and third. It was the private confined place that bounded our endless emotions, our actions dimmed from the populous lands, our words hushed from the teeming oceans. Our passions collided there in fiery ways, the same desires elsewhere chained by the day’s light, were here set free by the moon’s rays. Yet pleasure was seized by horror that night, and much to my alarm, for instead of my vivacious beauty waiting for me, she was weak and limp under a massive tree’s arm. Trapped under the branch, she was lying short of breath, unable to help her, she was seized by death. With chilling tears rolling down my face, I screamed that she be brought back, looking into the dark forest, that administered the sinister attack. Despite our best efforts, our love did not go unseen, the towering trees, blossoms, and doves, watched, heard, and deemed our intimacy unclean. The place we went to be with each other tore us apart at the same time, observed our first night together, second and third, and judged our hidden passion to be only a crime. Now from my life, my lover is gone, never to be heard or seen again, solely in my heart is where she’s lived on.
Tinted Glass
Will Cohen Honorable Mention
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A Short Work of Fiction Razzi Hawley First Place
The story I have to tell you is that of a girl who is in many ways very much like yourself. She came into this world, bearing a smile, into the arms of a family who loved her beyond effective description, and a world that would soon see the turning of a bright new century. She came into this world, happy and healthy and with eyes full of pale blue light, into the ranks of a society that would privilege her race and social class that would nurture her easily into a successful and confident young woman. She came into this world with a fierce wit, with an imagination that knew no bounds, with an intellect that would allow her to go unnoticed and unchallenged in school, so long as she would not become a disruption. But she came into this world, wailing with a feeble first breath, leaving no trace of a critical piece of information, as if the manufacturer had forgone tying the warning label around her tiny ankle: ANXIETY AND DEPRESSION This story is that of a girl who is in many ways very much like the girls you may often see milling about with their friends after classes let out, laughing and smiling with mouths full of glossy, white teeth—girls who you could not imagine curled behind a bookshelf late at night, pulling out strands of their own hair in a consuming panic as their thin, pale bodies heave with wrenching sobs. But such is the case of our protagonist. It didn’t have to be the way life with mental illness had been conditioned for the generation before her, she told herself with proud diplomacy. Not in this bright new century. She would be confident, and casual, and candid, and from this would gain understanding and respect for her struggles. But when asked why she had missed so much school in eighth grade, she answered honestly, and was met with a burrowing silence which none of the other freshman girls quite knew how to break. But when asked about the orange bottle with the child-safe cap that she brought with her on overnight trips, she answered honestly, and was met with casual disbelief. But when she sat at the lunch table and heard a friend off-handedly mention that it’s really just not the sort of thing you should bring up with anyone other than a psychiatrist, she found she didn’t know how to be honest anymore.
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And so the bright new century faded into a sallow, florescent glare. She wrapped around her shoulders a thin shroud of secrecy, a shield of little white lies and words unsaid that protected her from the calculating gazes and pitiful smiles of those around her. When asked about her frequent appointments, she threw out names—dentist, chiropractor, dermatologist. Anything but therapist. When asked about the occasional days in which the fear and anguish coursed through her veins with such magnitude that she could not get out of bed, she claimed to have a terrible headache. Sometimes a sore throat. When asked why she took only four core classes, how a person such as herself could struggle in school, whether she was simply lazy or not as smart as everyone seemed to have thought, she gave no answer, though the truth shone through the pale blue light of her averted gaze.And so the sallow, florescent glare, faded to a lethargic dim, dark so that those she loved could make out her form but could not see her clearly, dark so that she could not clearly see herself. She did not want to sensationalize, or to solicit pity, or to draw any undue attention towards herself. All she had ever wanted was to be honest. In staggered words held taut by the threat of tears, she told a friend whom she held dear to her heart, and he furrowed his brow, not quite able to understand, but he listened. In words from which she detached herself for fear of losing control, she told a friend whom she held dear to her heart, and she took her hand and sat in the dewy grass until the pain had all but faded away. Even the most hopeless of dims cannot deprive itself of a few faint glimmers. The story I tell you is that of a girl who from the bottom of her heart simply wanted to be honest. The story I tell you is that of untold numbers of girls and boys, black, white, gay, straight, rich, poor, abled, disabled, of thousands of young people across the nation who from the bottom of their hearts simply want to be honest. The story I tell you is that of a girl who is still in waiting, waiting for the day when she does not have to keep a part of herself stowed away for fear of others’ discomfort and judgment. She walks among you, living a life full of daily experiences that are in many ways very much like your own, sick of the way it is now and hopeful for the way it may someday be, waiting for the day when she does not have to pass off her story as a short work of fiction.
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Ode to the Working Class Brendon Argueta
Queen Of Hearts Sareena Kamath First Place
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Nature Po
em
Kenda ll
Young
Honor able M ention
I wond er If the t what it loo ks re And if es still shud like now der ag the ora ain n Creati ng qui ge leaves sa st each othe il into vering That g the po r elli en nd I wond tly ebb again pses er if ou st the s wamp From y where r reddened f aces st shore we gaz ill blus ed into hb the qu I wond iet wat ack at us er wha e r t it If the w ind sti sounds like ll rustl And if now es le That h aves crackle the branche s ol b And if d trembling elow snug bo feet an your s d wigg ots oft lau I wond g lin h er The wa if my heart still echoes a g toes be cr y it did when at would stil oss the pond you br l flutte ushed r I wond your h in my ears er wha and ag t it sm If smo ainst m ell ky ine And if scents still l s like now inger i pine n n the c eedles Where old cri cov o sp air On tho ur picnic bla er the grou n n s d I wond e cozy autum ket used to r est er if th n nigh t e And y our all leaves still s s uring cologn mell like cin namon e I wond er if w e If we c could ou go And if ld still spraw back now m l Feelin y head wou across our fl g your ld rest annel bla co he Agains t my b art thump rh zily on your nket lushin chest ythmic I wond g ch ally er The wa if that pond eek y the e arly au is still the pl a tumn leaves ce where I f e fell int o the u ll for you nsuspe cting w ater
Caught in Flight Alex Klein Third Place
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Here
Rhea Teng Second Place I have never flinched Watching you smash into grayness. I have never closed my eyes When you have lost yourself, Swept in tides of smoke stained linen. I have never asked for pity. But I ask for compassion, As I am lost and you are hidden From the mapped out trails You once promised me.
Lotus
Who are you to go As I have given All that you ever asked of me? I will wait in the sand dunes, Collecting water droplets on the tip of my tongue.
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Flow
Simo er Bom b Hono ne Blake rable Ment ion
Phoenix
Sam Stuli n First Plac e
dity s i m Hu nymou
es trok u s n yo mi rear elt with o f y ring to m . sh m bru I want the air nt linge Into our sce And ll y sme and dew. o t re nt with you he I wa g n . i h mix be wit arm air ky w nt to I wa this stic In
air the n i is glue grass. n w e d do ts on th y I feel e r e Wat Drople umidit re e h down you we h t In tied sh I wi , r e th wea here. ide me s i h s In t u be alive. r hand o y so nt ou I wa e grass ck of y h in t l the ba fee t to n a Iw Ano
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Requiem
Rhea Teng Explorers lie in earthen sod Their anchors rust in tiger’s jaw
You took steps through happiness Then lost your balance on the fifth
Towering ships cry out to empty doors Their hulls scraping on coraled floor
Watch your eyes to see behind Then dissolve in what you realize
Contemplation
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Leah Ciffolillo Second Place
Woman Revisite d Brendo n Argue
ta
Red Turtle
Hunter Dempsey Third Place
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y, enz r f y fier d, a n es i no en ries. t a l ircu owing ounda out the c h trut mes kn dless b rough e s l h a f A fa its fl d by en lazes t le, ho t p b e a o e n y e r fi z con y fren est of p iniest b t. for the t mbus ber, fier ly The , em co g on en to mere o that n i g d n a nee oxy rts as e infer the a y v t i b s s , s d a at n Wh as a m the en dow s by tered end a e w ruth. b t ven e t ’ can
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or m u R The g ber d l Go e k a J
Plot Twist: 43%
Silvia Curry Honorable Mention 43%. The number glares at me accusingly from the sheet of stark-white paper. Actually, that’s a lie; the fraction 6.5/15 is the snub scrawled in pretentiously-sciencey green. The 43% I tentatively calculated (Not mental math, you freak. We 43-percenters certainly do not do mental math.) five brief minutes after receiving the grade. On the upside, this piece of paper confirms the relevance of what I have planned since freshman year: My senior speech will be a projected presentation advertising to the entire school my worst grades of high school. That’s because I think failure is healthy. In moderation, of course. Kind of like McDonalds. Or parenting. Failure doesn’t bother me as much as I think it should. For a high-achieving student with high aspiration and (generally) high grades, you would think I would do a Hermione and have a nervous breakdown and emerge hours later with broken quills scattered ‘round the common room. At the very least, my personal boggart should be Mr. Lyons telling me that, quite unfortunately, I was not admitted to a single college. In fact, I think that people expect me to react this way to failure - probably because I so conveniently fit the mold of someone who would have a heart attack every time she dips below an A minus. For one, I’m an Asian musician (老虎在那儿? Where’s the tiger mother?!), and for another, I think I’m perceived as a high-strung person. I don’t see myself as such. I think that I’m ambitious and probably come off as stressed 90% of the time, but I don’t think that’s my personality. I don’t think that my personality is a result of things like bad grades and other forms of failure. Thankfully, I have devised a couple of Coping Strategies to Employ When Confronted with Failure. 43% fool-proof. Like everything else in this goddamn world. 1.) Laugh it off. Preferably starting with a casual guffaw of disbelief, followed by an off-hand chuckle that crescendos to hysterical laughter, eventually dissolving into maniacal laughter which will inevitably lead to inconsolable sobbing. 2.) Reassure myself that I will ultimately get a good grade in the end. How? A combination of cramming, Quizlet, and a good healthy dose of Winging It.This is probably because things typically work out that way, which sounds unbelievably conceited, but I swear I didn’t mean it that way. The thing is, I could, in theory, depend on this comfort until it is too late to go back in time and meet with Doc to discuss those inscrutable hydrogen bonds or figure out how the heck one approaches a hydrate. (Do you know the answers to these questions, future, wiser self reading this entry? Ha, I thought not.) I haven’t come to any conclusions about failure yet. I like to think that I’m comfortable with failing, but I would also like to think that I am a successful individual. And the truth is, the best stories involve massive failure. I’m going to end with a haiku about failure, because 1. I’ve run out of things to talk about, and 2. the haiku is the window to the soul. Forty-three percent Blinded by a haze of wrong Will Yale give a crap?
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Butterfleye
Wiley Holton Third Place
Half Moon
Christine Yang Honorable Mention
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Obsession Julia Strauss Every evening at nine o’clock or thereabout, teenagers across America jump up from their chairs. Running across the room, they push aside piles of unfinished homework in their individual searches for the greatest object of their possession. At last, the frightful clamor subsides as they spot shining screens, multitudes of bright pixels, and numerous faded buttons. The teenagers happily lie down on crumpled clothes and unmade beds. As they push the power button, some jump up and down while others, more calm than those aforementioned, merely pound indiscriminately on their keyboards. At last the screens light up, revealing soothing gray backgrounds and white icons. At this point, the parents of many of these teenagers come to check on their hardworking children. As they stare into the bright light of their iPhones or Droids, hypnotized, they remind their sons and daughters to avoid spending time on the computer. The children thank them and return to their own flashing screens. Mom and Dad, too busy to look up, never notice. With their computers in working order, some teens look at the news; a miniscule number of students review their homework for the next day. Most, however, type in an innocent-sounding web address: facebook.com. The sight of this simple website, filled with pictures of friends, parties, and beloved family members, incites a curious reaction in its viewers. While some teens sob about parties they were not invited to, others delight in counting the number of “likes” their profile pictures have received. At one hundred likes, a picture is considered to be freshman-girl status; indeed Typewriter many less popular freshmen have cried over 92 or even 99 Wiley Holton likes. The sight of a single thumbs-up from a boy fills a girl’s heart with excitement and anticipation, while an ignored friend request can lead to rumors of hatred and cruelty. At the conclusion of the night, most teenagers turn off their computers and go to sleep. Some, however, are desperate to not miss a single moment of the lives of people they will never meet face-to-face, so they leave their phones by their beds during the night. Even those who struggle to wake up in the morning easily awaken at the sound of a Facebook notification in the middle of the night. Having concluded that they have yet to learn everything they can about their friends, the teens have decided to repeat their procedure the following evening.
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cts a f i Art grist d r kya bell Sie e c a c B p la Cam First P
Through the Valleys Graydon Hewitt Second Place
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Born To R
Anticipation
Caroline Rakip
Victoria N e
ise
dder Each day the sun Religiously both sets and rises , to she does n The very s ot ever skip o, ame routi . ne is stuck So should like glue, she try an d travel, ta To see if s ke a trip? omething new will c Without a o me along, structure that’s so h She feels li arsh and ti ke there’s gh a piece of So should her that’s w t, she go and rong, look for so But then s mething r he hears a ight? voice from A voice th deep insid at says wit e, h just the To leave w faintest cr ould force y : her light to Not showin sadly hide g her true , colors, bu She clearly t a li s e e . e s she canno For this is t reassess, what she k nows and loves the b est.
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And In My Mind He Starts to Leap James Nydam Honorable Mention
There is a memory I keep that sometimes from my conscience deep springs up and makes me want of sleep, When I was of a younger age, and simpler thoughts my mind would stage, I saw the world as not a cage. I just lay down my head to rest. The door decided to protest. A knock below did my sleep wrest. Someone was waiting at the door, so I jumped down upon the floor. To answer it did me implore. I opened up my house and quite the storm did rage that late, late night. I saw a figure in my light, He stepped right on the mat placed there. Across the door, without a care he entered to give me a glare, I looked into his ancient eyes and saw that he came to despise. The lightning flashed and clove the skies He wore a dirty cloth stained brown. His head stooped almost to the ground for unseen weight pressed on his crown. I asked why he had come to me. He said, “To make you one like me!�
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And in my mind he starts to leap.
And in my mind he starts to leap.
And in my mind he starts to leap.
And in my mind he starts to leap
And in my mind he starts to leap.
And in my mind he starts to leap.
And in my mind he starts to leap.
And in my mind he starts to leap.
For then, towards me he made a creep. And in my mind he starts to leap. Without much time I turned aside and dashed out of his forceful stride. Instead of me, he caught the wall, but in his gaffe, he did not fall. He turned to me and grew a smile. He said, “You’ve made this trip worthwhile. I’ll now tell you what thing you see has come to make an abductee. I call all things on nights like these, all men and beasts and stars and trees. While in their youth things glow and shine I come to dim and make them mine, for I am time and span and age, and you, young one, have leapt my cage.” He left with one last beaten leer as if he planned to give more fear. The morning came to me awake And now I know of my mistake, for since time called on me that night, my youth has gone and lost its light. The world has grown around me small, I did not flee him after all, and in my soul age still can creep, for in his wisdom dark and deep, Time came to me in lowest sleep, and in my mind that night, he leaped.
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Elizabeth Magnan
Reach Fallen Tears
Erin Connolly Honorable Mention
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Loona
Sal Sprofera
Montan a
Carolin e Rakip Second Place
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A Drop in the Ocean Maria Burzillo
Aching spaghetti-like muscles numbly propel me Away from the light. I glide Down. Deep and dark, The water envelopes my limbs, Once jello-like, giving them a tingling of strength The farther I retreat from the chaotic surface. Goosebumps Seize my arms. But I am not cold. Silence My eardrums cease pounding, My head stops spinning. Time freezes. My world becomes this watery oasis. Above, tiny waves calmly catch and reflect The artificial light. Like tinfoil In a radiant sun. Glistening At the surface the world goes on, But this place is different, protected, barely touched. Only faded and distorted whispers of complication Can penetrate this formidable barrier of the deep. Relief My sharp eyes drift upwards, Their attention hones in on the liquid space Just above and between them. The water sloshes Gently, as if in a pail, rocking me softly Side to side, tucked safely in a blanket Of purity, simplicity, life. Peace
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I release A single ring of light, a bright bubble of thought, A raindrop in an inverse world, Uprooted from my muddled mind. Against gravity, it drifts. Alone Away from my curious body. Farther, farther, smaller, smaller. A cloud in a vast sky of blue, It puffs away in its oblivion. Comfort It seems simpler now. Beautiful even. Not the confused tangle of complexity That my mind had warped it into. Staring up at this feat of nature, I blink Gaze Wonder. What is this delicate, miniscule orb of air In contrast To this immeasurable ocean of blue? POP. It reaches the surface. Gone. My body remains still, Examining the spot in consternation Where my worry had vanished. Slowly, My lips curl up at their ends. I push off from the depths Towards the ever changing patterns of light. I am ready for a new breath.
Iceland
Lexi Sisitzky
Self Portrait Tali Sprofera
Heading to the Market Alex Klein Honorable Mention
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An Excerpt from The WASPMafia’s Guide to Healthy Living Kendall Young Second Place
It pains me to share with all of you a travesty that has recently been brought to my attention. I have it on good word that there is a silent killer among us, and it goes by the name of “gluten.” If you have never heard of this monster, don’t be embarrassed. According to a study that I saw on Yahoo Answers, only 42 percent of Martha Stewart’s viewers are truly educated on the dangers of gluten. If my calculations are correct, that means over 80 percent of the people in this nation of ours are uninformed. I have written this article to shine the necessary light on the facts and probably save a lot of peoples’ lives as a result. The statistics that I am about to share are not meant to frighten you, but educate you. According to a study that my friend from book club’s yoga instructor heard on NPR, people that ingest gluten face a higher risk of death than people who don’t. Even more shocking news, the average person is likely to come in contact with gluten at least once a day. In fact, gluten is probably lurking in your pantry right now. Gluten has cleverly hidden itself in foods that you would never expect. It’s no surprise that white bread contains gluten (along with high fructose corn syrup and traces of methamphetamine), but I was shocked when the woman who does my eyebrows told me that even couscous is filled with this lethal poison. After hearing this, I had no choice but to conduct some research of my own. After a few iPad lessons from an Apple Store employee, Garret, I took to Google and learned something that shook me to my very core. Now, if you aren’t sitting down already, I suggest you do so now… According to a customer review of Eat, Pray, Love, nearly all Canyon Ranch recipes have gluten in them. Before you pick up your iPhone and ask Siri to call Poison Control, you must know that there is a solution. The cure is a simple, easy to follow, gluten-free diet. New diets can be difficult to start, but the outcome is more than worth it. I will never forget the day I learned about the chemicals in cream, or as I like to call it, “Satan’s Coffeemate,” and made the switch to almond milk. Or the day I heard that the almonds used to produce almond milk are not always organic, and I decided to make another switch. And let me tell you, I have never regretted the day I began pouring breast milk into my Starbucks coffee. Much like putting breast milk in coffee, the gluten-free diet is simple, delicious, and nutritious! Not only will cutting all wheat from your diet help you shed all of those Christmas calories just in time for your Caribbean vacation, but it will also save your life. The best part is, you can still eat most of your favorite foods! Organic blueberries and non-fat Greek yogurt make for a yummy pre-spin class breakfast! Toss some Swiss chard in a pan with a dash of extra virgin olive oil for a quick and delicious lunch! A salad with just arugula is the perfect beginning to a scrumptious quinoa and kale dinner. You can even treat yourself to dessert if you saved the yogurt on the lid from your breakfast this morning!
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Power
Vannie Knisley Honorable Mention
Despair
Leah Ciffolillo
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A Stag in the White Pines
Jen Lowell The first twinkling snowflakes had begun to float down to the crisp, frozen earth by the time Evan and his young daughter, Una, arrived at the wood near his home. Evan and the gentle child were eager to begin their dusk stroll through the forest and hoped to find the herd of elusive, elegant deer spending the winter there. Striking the brittle ground with his long wooden walking stick, a limb taken from one of the forest’s dead and cracked white pine trees years before Una’s birth, Evan strode heartily towards the path leading into the center of the thick forest. Una, shivering as the setting sun’s heat withdrew from the deep wood, trotted over delicate piles of snowflakes and bright orange leaves glistening with ice to keep pace with her father. Evan, in a sudden break from his invigorated strut, remembered his dear girl and turned back to behold her small white face, which was rosily flushed with the prick of frost in the air, eagerly approaching him. Smiling, he leaned on his staff and bent to fix Una’s wool hat more securely around her blonde curls. “Daddy,” Una chimed, “Are we going to see the deer soon?” “Maybe, dear, if we tread ever so quietly and only whisper. They can leave in an instant if they’re disturbed,” Evan replied. Una reached her small, mitten-clad hand towards her father’s, and the pair walked silently in the final rays of light that were receding further into the wood. The white snow enclosed them from behind and on each side of the path while emanating a soft blue glow. Una looked behind at their footprints that were disappearing under a dusting of snow. Catching sight of the orange fur of a lone chipmunk, Una let go of Evan’s hand and, skipping with delight, left the marked trail to observe the critter more closely. The chipmunk swiftly darted up the boughs of an ancient pine tree as Una tiptoed nearer. She rested her chin against the tree, whose cold bark seemeda to be ridged with rune carvings, and watched the chipmunk scurry into the dark green needles sharpened with growing icicles overhead. Squinting to see through the dancing snowflakes and blanketing shadows, Una glimpsed Evan’s dark figure striding through the indiscernible umbrages in the snowy distance. She flitted and hopped over the forest floor, now shining with ice, to reach Evan. The snow whirled and billowed like smoke to conceal any trace of the forest more than a few paces beyond the small girl. Only the sparks of red and orange leaves yet uncovered with snow reassured Una that she was still walking on earthly soil. Evan’s shadow, heedless of his child melting into the snow and darkness behind him, continued over the ridge lined with rock walls that were the only remnants of the ancient farms now deserted and buried. Una finally beheld her father while he paused at the foot of the ridge just before a grove of snowy white pines. Sighing to release a soft little cloud of chilled breath, Una stepped gingerly downhill to meet Evan, who suddenly thrust his walking stick towards the white pines and dashed between the snowy trees. A loud thunder resounded in the silent snow and echoed off the frozen trees as flashes of brown fur and ivory stag horns appeared between the snowy pine boughs below. Una ran to the edge of the cold grove to gaze at the galloping deer herd and arrived just in time to watch the deer leap deeper into the forest and thickening darkness. But, as Una glanced around the grove of white pines, Evan was nowhere to be found. The chilled silence was broken only by the sharp crackling of frost creeping up the pines. Suddenly struck with a deeper cold than the snow and winter night could have provided, Una frantically tried to reach the deer that had last separated her from Evan. However, the freezing child could not spot the deer whose white tails served to hide them only on such snowy evenings as this. The relentless snow soon filled their pronged hoof prints in the icy ground, so Una slid and slipped in her hurry to the white pines in the vain hope that her father had returned and was waiting for her.
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