Xander Chiaramonte ‘20, When the Smoke Clears

Silver Diner Dances —Skye Schofeld-Saba ‘21 Noon dawned in East Lerwick, wet and dark. The clouds, which at sunrise had clustered on the horizon, had grown steadily until they covered East Lerwick at midday. Fog was to come next, the townspeople knew. Fog always came after the clouds, after the sun. It was a pattern, and this was the best part. Jameson Brooks regarded the dun clouds with a furrowed brow as he sipped his tea. The people of East Lerwick glanced at him once or twice, then continued on with their day. Whatever the odd man was doing was none of their business, they decided. Foreigners often wandered through on their way to the city and stopped for a spot of tea or a photograph. It’s just how things were. Once. The frst droplets fell just as Jameson fnished his tea. It was pitiful, he decided. The town, the rain, the tea. An unholy trinity of half-assed things that came together in a hideous display of hospitality. Or a lack thereof, he mused, ducking under a faded awning. Not one person from the whole town had shown him the least bit of kindness. No ‘hello’ or ‘are you lost?’ All there was, was rain, and this horrid gas station tea. “You there,” he said fnally. “Where’s the nearest cafe?” A boy looked up from the shoelace he had been tying. “Over there, sir. The Lerwick Pigeon.” Jameson rubbed his face with his hands. “That’s a bloody tavern, boy.” The child got to his feet and shrugged. “Does it make a difference?” Whistling an off-pitch rendition of “God Save the Queen,” the boy inclined his head and strolled away. “It does make a difference,” Jameson said to the wet pavement. “It does, you foolish boy.” He squinted against the furry of drops to the stores across the street. Neon signs turned the rain into futuristic art, their messages distorted by the odd refractions. Pulling his jacket over his ears, Jameson ran, ducking into the dirty alcove which housed a tired “Open” sign. Jameson tugged on the door, which, despite the sign, stayed closed. He peered into the window, eyes narrowing at the cluster of townspeople passing beers around. One lady, in her forties, Jameson assumed, detached herself from the group and strolled to the door, tossing words over her back like coins. She opened the door, shoving Jameson back into the rain. A cigarette was procured, then a fame, the woman watching the group inside with an aloof interest. “That’s the Lerwick Pigeon?” asked Jameson. The woman took a long drag with an eyebrow raised. “What’s it to you?” “I would like a cup of tea. This is the Lerwick Pigeon, yes?” Strands of smoke dissipated into the fog as she considered her response. “For some.” He sighed at her strange words and lifted a hand to the doorknob. “But,” she added, dropping the cigarette to the ground and grinding it, “not for you.” She pried his fngers off the knob then went inside, the lock clicking once the door shut.

“This doesn’t make any damned sense,” he said. “None.” “It never does,” a voice replied. Jameson turned. A man sat huddled in the shadows. Jameson stalked over to him. “Enough with these riddles. I saw you earlier today. Talking to the boy.” “Is it just me, or is that anger rather uncharacteristic of a man who just wants a nice cup of tea?” Scowling, Jameson squatted beside the man. “Everything here is uncharacteristic.” “Reality has been altered,” sang the man. “And you are altered with it.” “How charming,” huffed Jameson. The man shifted, avoiding the few beams of light that peeked through the overcast sky. “Why don’t you leave then? There’s a town twenty kilometers away. Go have afternoon tea at the Bramble Cafe, like the posh gentleman that looks back at you in the mirror.” “I wish to have tea here,” Jameson replied, an uncanny feeling coiling in his stomach. “And thus, the gentleman in the mirror frowns.” “What does he say to you?” Jameson lashed back. The man guffawed. “The mirrors are empty for me.” Two eyes, gleaming in the dark, focused on his jugular vein. “You’ll understand one day. Everyone in this town does.”

—Gatsby Olsen ‘21

Ruins —Catherine Owens ‘19

Okra (Abelmoschus esculentus)

Pale fowers sit perched up high like an ethereal crown, Frosted glass trumpets announcing their presence in the garden. Shy rays of sunlight glint through the petals and leaves, Intensifying the contrast between the two. Leaves appear to glow: neon, bright, Stalks stand sturdy, blocking the light. Young lime leaves ready to assume the throne, Barely translucent, their veins thin yet visible, Growing greener, growing larger, held proud and high. Their ancient predecessors near the ground below, Browning, aging, crisping, crumbling, erosion eating at their sides, Shaded by their successors, they’ve let themselves go; Delicate webs spun by neighborhood knitters Give the plant a luxurious cape that drags on the foor, Delicately woven by diligent eight-legged artisans. A thousand feet high, the royals peer down, Swaying in the wind, imagining a different perspective.

The buds at the top firt with a tree Planted across the way, reaching, reaching over. The youngest, most tender leaves of each just barely embrace, A pleasant marriage of color. The yellow-tinted leaves on the tree give a bluish impression to the other, Mingling, then foating away, as the wind decides. The sun again shines through the leaves, Shooting orbs of brightness parting the plants. The vegetable itself is tucked away By the stalk - it’s barely visible within the leaves Not trying to steal the spotlight.

—Ashlyn Lee ‘20