2016 quiver by St. Sebastian's School

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS Oh hey. Didn’t see you there. I notice you’ve picked me up. Are you interested? You should be. Thank you for making the deliberate choice to crack me open. You can tell a lot about a person by what book they’ve got in their hands. For example, someone who is reading a high school literary magazine is probably intelligent, devilishly handsome, and extremely charismatic. That’s right. That’s you. Anyways, welcome to The Quiver. The Quiver is a literary and artistic magazine that accepts written and visual submissions from both within St. Sebastian’s and other schools which, while they don’t have stained-glass windows, have some seriously talented writers and artists. We’ve accepted submissions in the past from all over the country, and this edition of The Quiver features some local flavor, including Roxbury Latin, Boston College High School, and even Belmont Hill. While some teenagers spend their free time in crowded, sweaty, concrete basements making questionable life choices, others spend their time tackling the difficulty of answering complicated existential conundrums through poetry and prose. The staff at The Quiver thinks that is pretty cool, and we are honored to provide a platform on which these writers and artists are able to share their creativity. This spring’s edition was certainly an adventure: be sure to check out our writing award winners, Matthew Wolpe’s Rowboat and Chris Young’s Late Night with Kristopf Jude. We certainly were not lacking talent in the visual department, as evidenced by our beautiful cover and art award winner Winter’s Hearth by Christian Locurto, as well as the plethora of wonderful photographs found in the middle of this magazine. So come on in. Stay awhile. Make some tea, build a fire, and flip through The Quiver. Who knows. Maybe you’ll even learn something. Sincerely, Owen Finnegan Paul Keady Nicos Topulos

THE QUIVER 2016 Issue A St. Sebastian’s School Publication

EDITORIAL BOARD Senior Editors Owen Finnegan ‘16 Nicos Topulos ‘16 Paul Keady ‘16 Art Editors Ethan Fidalgo ‘17 Sam Gordon ‘17 Editors Cameron Balboni ‘16 Kevin Boland ‘16 Casey Kelly ‘16 Jake Loughborough ‘16 James Ryan ‘16 Andrew Elcock ‘17 Blake Hailer ‘17

Michael Hartman ‘17 Stevie Karol ‘17 Cameron Mulvey ‘17 Stewart Smith ‘17 Thomas Wasynczuk ‘17 Patrick Dufour ‘18 Patrick Ryan ‘18

Faculty Advisors Mr. Adam White Mr. Sean Cleary

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CONTENTS 5

like moth’s wings

Sam Gordon ‘17

Rowboat

Matt Wolpe ‘18

A Crusade of Deception

Narcissus and Echo

James Esperne ‘19

James Ryan ‘16

Old Fashioned

Andrew Elcock ‘17

Late Night With Kristopf Jude!

Chris Young

26 28

Witness Account of Amelia Perry’s Unsolved Death at the Hotel Cortez Stevie Karol ‘17 Poem for a Blue Page Shawna Dyer

Into Oblivion

Numb

Blake Hailer ‘17

The Loner

Nicole Stanton

Art - Within and Beyond St. Sebastian’s

I Went to the Tide Pool

Sam Gordon ‘17

The Minstrel’s Lament

Michael Finucane ‘17

His Holiness, Pope Lucifer I

Ellis O’Donnell ‘19

Schoolhouse in the Summer

Peter Finucane

Like a Hungry Cobra

Stevie Karol ‘17

Sine Nomine Corpus

Andrew Elcock ‘17

The Driver

Warmth

Owen Finnegan ‘16

Felicidad

Stevie Karol ‘17

Sopa

Kyle McCarthy ‘17

Sombra

Luke Jones ‘17

Cover: Winter’s Hearth, Christian Locurto ‘16

Thomas Olson ‘18

Jake Powell

Back Cover: Spotlight, Ethan Fidalgo ‘17

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LIKE MOTHS’ WINGS

Sam Gordon ‘17

Pages flutter like moths’ wings Till she finds the one. “That was me back in the day. I was so young then” Again the pages beat on. Plastic and paper. Again she stops, now quiet. There he is, my love. “We were so young then, he and I. I hope you find someone like him”

Arrows Wrtiing Award Winner

ROWBOAT Matthew Wolpe ‘18

We walk here every day. It’s sort of a ritual. Keller Pond hums an ebullient singsong, trickling gently like a sink left running. The dirt here – the dirt surrounding the pond – is over hydrated and muddy to the touch. We’re afraid it may be quicksand, so we leap steadily from rock to rock in a game of unscored hopscotch, heckling each othwer as we take flight. Our matchup eventually leads to the perpetual destination: a gigantic rock, maybe even a boulder, set on the outskirts of the pond. Springing onto it safely, we plant our feet and root ourselves down, careful not to slip and tumble into the murky waters below. Owen has done that many times. “Do you want to try it now, or later?” he asks quickly, studying the ripples on the water. His light green eyes look determined, yet confused. He inhales intentfully. “It’s up to you,” I say indifferently, shrugging my shoulders and patting my palms against the rock. This makes a sort of hollow, smacking noise that’s peculiarly soothing. Owen shakes his head microscopically and jokingly whines, “You say that about everything. I guess I’ll have to be my own boss. You know, make my own decisions.” He shovels his arm into his massive sweatshirt pocket, fumbles around for a moment, and pulls a half empty water bottle. The liquid inside resembles water: tasteless, translucent water. But it’s not. He said it was vodka stolen from his parent’s liquor cabinet, the stuff the older kids drink to get hammered quicker than a commercial break. My father, God rest his soul, never would’ve let me taste even a lick of alcohol. His piercing blue eyes acted like a hawk’s over the liquor cabinet, but I never even possessed a desire to try some of that stuff anyway. Owen breathes heavily, unscrewing the cap and exhaling hard. “Alright. Please don’t taste like pee.” As he tilts his head infinitesimally and allows the clear liquid to graze his lips, Owen’s face breaks into a terrified scarlet and his nose coils tightly like a rat’s. My brother once told me that vodka tastes like screeching lava trailing down your throat. Looks like he was right. Owen sucks and grabs desperately for air as tears fill his uneasy green eyes. “Holy cow!” he yells. He completely outstretches his arm to me as if the bottle had bitten him, pleading, “Try this, try this. Just one sip, please Kyle. Try this!” 6

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Reluctantly, I accept the bottle. I’ll drink it for his goofy face, and so that any future stories or brags will carry some sort of veracity. With the unscrewed bottle stuck in my right hand, I rescan Keller Pond. The water ripples unimpressively, and the sounds of trickling and flowing have pitched up slightly. A silhouette in a rowboat, about two hundred yards away, dips its rod into the water and prays for a tug. It’s wearing a hat of some sort to blot out the sun, perhaps a straw one. I can imagine the rod puncturing the water, causing minute vibrations only to be noticed on the placidity of a pond. It looks peaceful out there. I return my attention to the pungent smelling bottle, and start it toward my lips. For a moment, as the bottle pushes between my lips, time pauses. Funny how time always seems to move too fast, like a relentless sprinter hauling around a twenty-four hour track. I see – or perhaps I imagine – a man swimming through filthy Keller Pond, butterfly stroking toward us rapidly. Once reaching a shallower point, he stands, emerging from the water directly in front of our rock. His hair is sandy and his shoulders brawny. His face, clean shaven, resembles a perfectly traced Easter egg. His arms, although not remarkably large and veiny, are cut. The man looks about fifty, with piercing blue eyes that have grown wild and vexed like he’s seen far more than he can even recall. He scratches his thinning hair vigorously, watching lost locks sway slowly toward the unsanitary water like feathers. I know this man well, but he’s only a figment in this moment. With the sight of his face, my head whirls back to years ago on a brisk winter morning of about my ninth year. The man in Keller Pond, livelier and more limber then, kneels to eye level and stares upon me endearingly. Methodically, he weaves and pulls a thick green scarf around my neck, knotting it tenuously and letting an unsubstantial piece trickle slightly down my chest. I do not know why, but tears dwell in his eyes. “I just don’t want you to grow up so quick,” he murmurs, and then nods at the ground as if he is content with himself. “But change is inevitable, it is. Always remember that. You’re a tough kid. Just always be ready.” I throw the translucent liquid back, feeling the heat plow down my throat and then boom, in the pit of my stomach. The taste lingers, something like lukewarm, light oil. I feel tears gathering in my eyes, but not from the horrid taste. The swimmer in Keller Pond, once so real and now so imagined, has vanished. My eyes wander to Owen scanning the top of the water carefully, hunting for a plump bullfrog to catch the way he usually does. I feel like he hasn’t said anything in hours. He looks gloomy. “Do you want to grow up?” I ask anxiously, not entirely sure if I even want a response. 7

Owen doesn’t look up. He just studies the water, dangling his feet carelessly off the rock. I know his tendencies well enough to know when he’s thinking. “I don’t know. It sounds sort of scary when you ask it like that....” His voice cracks badly. Puberty arriving timelier than ever. “It sounds scary no matter what,” I think. I glare down at the bottle of disgusting liquid, and then back at Owen. He is looking directly through me now. “Maybe we already have grown up?” I suggest. He shrugs his shoulders at this. My body brings myself to unwanted tears, which I palm away quickly with embarrassment. Owen doesn’t mind me crying. I yank the green scarf from my pocket and throw it around my shoulders, letting it hang loosely like a shawl. Sometimes I wish the man in Keller Pond was still able to wrap it around my neck, knotting it perfectly the way only he could. For a few years I had lost it periodically, but now I always carry it with me. That won’t change anytime soon, at least. Staring across Keller Pond for a final time, everything looks the same. The murky water still trickles and flows ebulliently, and the dirt around us remains moist. But about two hundred yards away, the center of the pond has grown vacant in time. The man in the rowboat has rowed away. A part of us has, too.

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A CRUSADE OF DECEPTION James Esperne ‘19 The worn leather on Jacques’ boots turned them a dark grey, a shadow of the jet black they once were. A white ox blew air as it walked, flicking its tail to ward off attacking flies. Cast-iron pots and cups clanked as the ox plodded through the road. Jacques beckoned for the ox to keep moving. The mud-covered dirt path flowed into a poorly made cobbled road, rogue stones sticking out of the middle of the lane. An adjacent dirt road led down to a sky-clear stream, cluttered with red, tan, and grey rocks, made smooth by centuries of wear. Next to a wooden bridge, a small landing with blossoming flowers and a red colored sand lay. Jacques was tall, monstrously so, almost six feet, and had black hair and muscles that rivaled even that of the ox. Jacques walked down to the small beach, the ox following close behind. He sat down on a rock and rolled up his pants, revealing several large, round scars on each of his legs. The scars displayed the once bulging, black mark of death. Jacques stared at the scars, memories of the never-ending piles of burning corpses that lined the streets every single day flooding his mind. The thought of his family lying in a mass grave, nothing but a few more bodies among hundreds, made him shiver. But, Jacques thought, as it was the 1360s, a cure should have been found by now. It had been more than ten years since the plague hit. The stench, he remembered: the smell of inescapable, certain, death. The thought of pressing the red-hot cups to the bulging buboes on his skin made Jacques cringe. But he was strong now, months of traversing the countryside leaving him fit. Hot from travel, Jacques ambled down to the river, where he thoroughly enjoyed a drink of clean water. He waded into the stream knee-deep, and listened to the song of the birds. Jacques sloshed toward the white ox, who gorged on the buffet of grass and weeds. Several packs and a saddlebag were secured to the ox’s back, containing Jacques’ medical equipment, which included fresh incense, fresh straw, gloves, and a facemask. His facemask, dubbed the “birdman mask” by some locals, strongly resembled the beak of a heron. Jacques filled the beak of the leather-clad apparatus with fresh straw, to ensure that the infected air of Black Death was filtered out. After a quick swim and a hearty lunch of beans and bread, Jacques buckled his boots, sheathed his sword, and secured the ox’s fraying bridle over its head. He fit his dagger into his breast, a relic that had been in the Otxoa family for at almost 200 years. On its blade was inscribed the names of Jacques’ father, grandfather, and all those who had wielded it. The dagger had never failed to keep its user out of mortal harm. Jacques whistled loudly, signaling for the ox to come heel. Jacques needed no rope to lead the 9

ox; it simply followed him everywhere. The duo of ox and man marched across the wooden bridge over the landing and continued their long trek to the town of Valencia, where much money was to be made. The Spanish countryside reminded Jacques of home, in the Pyrenees. “You know everyone was dirt poor in that wretched place, right?” said Jacques. The ox snorted in agreement. “Nope. No bloody money.” The ox just kept walking. “A bloody shame,” bellowed Jacques, kicking the ground. They travelled together on the edge of a large forest overlooking wave upon wave in a sea of grain. The tangerine tint of the sun gave the land an orange-brown fluorescence, almost like the shade of a carrot. But, Jacques noticed something else, as well. The trot of a horse and the squeak of wagon wheels was close by, that seemed to be just beyond a bend in the road. Jacques rested his hand on the ox’s nose, signaling the ox to stay put. A single horse pulling a canopy-covered wagon rounded the corner, with one man holding the reigns of the horse. Jacques and the man locked eyes. “Whoa,” said the man, pulling back on the horse’s bridle and halting the wagon. “Hello, stranger!” said Jacques, scanning the wagon. “Salutations,” said the man on the wagon, patting the back of his pure black horse. “What might you be doing, travelling on this road?” asked the man. “This road is said to be safe. I am travelling to Valencia,” answered Jacques, spying the man’s blood-stained robes and sword. “What for?” asked the man. “You’ll find only death there, I’m afraid.” “I am a doctor.” “Is that so? My son, on the rear of the wagon, needs treatment. He was infected with the Black Death three days ago. Could you help?” asked the man as he climbed off of the wagon. “Let me see your son, and then we can negotiate,” answered Jacques. Blood on the cuffs of the man’s robes caused Jacques to shudder. The man had a peculiar walk, a slight limp, almost as if he had been cut in the calf. The man opened the canopy to reveal his sick son on a pillow, dying, and his wife, wearing a baby blue dress, covering the boy’s head with a wet, cold, cloth. The wood that made up the mobile looked as though it were fifty years old. The inside of the wagon was humble: a single chest, a small bench, several buckets, and some flea-infested wool blankets. The son looked as helpless as a newborn, with bulging black buboes on his legs and small pieces of yellow vomit on his wool robes. “For 80 maravedis I can treat your son,” said Jacques. 10

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“I barely have any money! I can’t pay! Please, out of the kindness of your heart, treat my son!” demanded the man. “I’m sorry. I have to make a living, you see, and, for my services, 80 maravedis is truly kind,” said Jacques. The man clasped his hands over the back of his head and leaned on the side of the wagon, his eyes watering with sadness. He shuffled his feet around, his knees almost ready to buckle. “Get over yourself,” said Jacques rolling his eyes at the sight of the man crying. The man suddenly stopped crying and turned to face Jacques, prune-faced and fists clenched. Whipping his sword out of its sheath, the man pointed it directly at Jacques’ heart. “I said treat my son!” the man demanded. “Give me your sword!” yelled the man, pointing towards Jacques’ sword with a trembling finger. Raising both his hands, Jacques responded: “There’s no need to get frustrated here, good fellow. Now, out of a show of good nature, I will hand you my sword. No one needs to die, you see.” Jacques slowly unsheathed his sword, holding it near the top of the blade. “Here, come take it” said Jacques, as he clasped his dagger in the breast of his robe. The man inched toward Jacques and reached for Jacques’ sword, and grasped the hilt, slowly pulling it away. Jacques looked the man in the eye, and the man halted his hand. Jacques ducked under the man’s sword and kicked him on the kneecap, inverting his knee and snapping his leg. “Damn you!” the man screamed as he fell to the ground, and with him went both the swords. Jacques kneeled down to the man’s side. The man, writhing in pain, threw three weak punches toward Jacques, but he simply could not reach. Jacques slammed his boot onto the man’s broken and bloodied knee, producing several more screams of agony from the man. “It’s funny the way things work out, isn’t it?” said Jacques, spitting on the man’s eyes. And, with one quick jab to the heart with the dagger, the man was no more. Jacques wiped the dagger on the man’s robes, pinching the cloth around the blade to rub off any remnants of blood. He collected his sword, lying across the dead body of the man and guided the weapon into the sheath on his hip. Walking over to the back of the wagon he saw the huddled shadow of the man’s widow through the canopy. Fixing a mile-wide smile on his face, Jacques opened the small door in the canopy, revealing the widow, crouched near the front of the wagon, wielding a dagger with a shaking arm. “No need for that, fair woman! Put that down, and let’s use our words. No one 11

else needs to die, you see?” reasoned Jacques. “Get away from me, you heartless bastard! You murderer! Don’t try to deceive me like you did my husband!” answered the widow. “Well, then. Good day. Come on then, ox, we best be on our way,” and the ox trotted up to greet Jacques, stepping on the body of the man as he walked. Jacques looked the widow in the eye, like a hawk eyeing its prey. And the maiden fell back, aghast, as if the Grim Reaper himself had marked her for death. Jacques and the ox started up the bend in the road, both carrying a hint of joy in their step. Nightfall soon came, so both Jacques and the ox needed a place to sleep. They settled on a cave in a wooded area, not far from the road from which they came. The cave was by no means spacious; it maybe went fifteen feet into the side of a massive rock before the cave stopped. Jacques led the ox into the cave, grabbing the animal by its bridle. He unstrapped the saddle bag from the ox’s back and helped himself to bread and some fresh grapes he stole from a vineyard along the road. After his meal, Jacques took out a wool blanket from the saddle bag and wrapped himself, looking much like a cocoon. Jacques wished the ox a good night. And sleep set upon them both. Jacques rose late the next morning, still tired from the previous day’s ordeal. He shoveled down the last of the grapes for breakfast, leaving the remaining half loaf of bread and salted meat for later. The ox grazed on several small patches of weeds on top of the rock from which the cave was carved. After an hour, which, by that time must have been almost nine o’clock, the ox and Jacques set out once more on their journey to Valencia. The road lay in the middle of many rolling hills, like a miniature Pyrenees, Jacques thought. The hills each curved like a church bell and were home to short, dark green grass and many blossoming flowers of all shades and colors. The duo was now in small valley between the hills, the dirt road twisting like the swaying tail of a cat. At around midday, the Spanish heat drenched Jacques in sweat, and his wool robes didn’t help much with the humidity. Jacques felt as if he were a kebab over an open flame, getting cooked to a perfect brown, all the while spewing juice. Beads of sweat rolled down the ox’s coat, giving its fur a pearl fluorescent. Clouds of dust enveloped Jacques and the ox, seemingly painting their skin in mud. They marched through the unrelenting heat until almost sundown, desperate to find a place to rest themselves for the night and to restock their supply of food and water. After another hour Jacques came to notice a peculiar smell. His nose twitched like that of a dog. The stench of burning flesh hit his nose, inciting memories of death and disease within. Thick grey smoke poured out over the rolling hills, just beyond a 12

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bend in the road ahead. Jacques quickly grabbed his medical bag, attached to the ox, frantically searching for his mask. Jacques finally found his mask and quickly placed the apparatus around his face, careful not to breathe any more foul air. Jacques and the ox walked further down the road, towards the smoke. Massive walls encircled an entire city, just beyond a river, crossable only by a lone bridge leading to the gate of the city. A single cathedral dwarfed all houses, even what appeared to be the governor’s mansion in the center of the city. Bonfires piled high with bodies smoked up into the now orange sky, blocking out the yolk-colored sun with the doom of the Black Death. Jacques led the ox down across the bridge, admiring the chiseled artwork of Iberian heroes along the walls. As Jacques and the ox approached the gate of the city, guards began to crowd around the balcony above the gate. The guards, dressed in dark yellow capes and silver helmets, stared menacingly at Jacques. Jacques stopped directly before the gate, still outfitted with his mask and medical robes. “Hello, there! What town is this? I have travelled far, and need a place to rest and to restock,” said Jacques. “I suggest you leave, traveler. The grand City of Zaragoza is no place for the healthy, much less a seemingly well off man such as yourself,” said a guard. “Are you…” asked a guard, scratching his chin, “A doctor, by any chance?” asked another guard, spying his mask. “I can very well be a good one, if I am… properly compensated,” answered Jacques. A group of the guards huddled together, some nodding their heads in agreement, others, however, shook their heads. After a few minutes of discussion, the guards said: “Traveller, we’ll provide you safe harbor and provide you coin. But our beloved governor is ill, and requires your treatment immediately.” “Coin, you say? Well, then. I’ll treat your governor,” answered Jacques. He walked into the city, the cast-iron gate shutting behind them. A guard walked in front of Jacques, and led him and the ox through an alleyway. The streets and alleys were littered with the dead and dying, unable to move themselves out of the city. The dying groaned with pain as they saw Jacques, perhaps one last plea for help as they slipped slowly into the prison of death. “Right this way” said the guard, urging Jacques and the ox along. The alleyway led them out onto an open cobbled street, adjacent to the massive cathedral Jacques had seen from the hills. Men, in gleaming chainmail armor, led horse-pulled carts around in front of the cathedral, their carts overflowing with various limbs, some completely blackened, hanging out of the wagon. Street vendors, their kiosks near barren, sulked 13

in the fronts of their shop, without customers and without money to provide for their families. Jacques was now almost invisible to many of these people. When they shot a glance his way, then fixed their eyes upon the ox, imagining a savory cut from the beast’s thigh. The guard covered his nose and mouth with a lavender-scented cloth as a filter for the air. The guard led Jacques and the ox across the cobbled road and onto another, smaller, darker road, running alongside the cathedral and next to the graveyard where there lay only Zaragoza’s wealthiest, most prominent figures. Wooden signs of taverns bore a “Closed” sign under them, as another casualty of the plague. Several men, all of whom appeared to be ill, stumbled down the street, drunk with the sadness of their impending death. The trio reached the end of the block and rounded another corner, revealing the very tip of the governor’s mansion several streets away. And so they travelled through the winding streets of dead men walking and lifeless stone buildings, absent from the light of health and sun. After almost a half hour trek, Jacques, the guard, and the ox stood in front of the governor’s mansion. The sand-colored stone gave the mansion the vibrancy of a beach. The mansion spanned across what would otherwise have been several blocks, a wood-roofed turret, each with a statue of a boar, outlined the property at every corner of the house. Three flights of stairs led up to the massive double doors of the mansion, complementing the inscribed artwork that wrapped around the house, which depicted armored knights charging to meet an oncoming enemy. “The Governor’s servant will wait for you inside the doors. We can’t risk any more foul air reaching him,” said the Guard. Jacques took his medical pack off of the ox, patting the animal on the horn as he did so. “Stay with him, guard,” commanded Jacques. Jacques walked up the stairs and pushed open one of the two monstrous Acer wood doors leaving it to swing closed itself. Black and white tile lined the floor of the governor’s mansion, and a golden chandelier with half-melted candles overlooked the entrance. A marble staircase, adjacent to a cast-iron coffee table, spiraled up to the second floor. Out of the corner of his eye, Jacques spied a servant, in black and white robes, flying down a corridor toward him. “Doctor!” he panted. “Doctor! Pardon me; I was just notified of your arrival. The Governor is upstairs. You must tend to him, or else he shall die!” said the servant, bending over and wheezing. “First, servant boy, you must do something for me. Get me a good cup of wine, none of that sack you people love so much. It might as well come from my ox’s arse. Go!” demanded Jacques. The servant nodded and stumbled back down the corridor, eager to help the doctor. Jacques then trotted up the stairs, almost as if he were a 14

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horse on a Sunday afternoon. The stairs led to a spacious room, its walls covered in purple paint and gold embroidery that resembled the tip of a spear. There was no sign of the Governor. Cushioned chairs that matched the walls surrounded a small table, set with white and blue china and tea steaming out of the pot. On the side of the room a doorway led into a bedroom with Russian Oak cabinets and a bed, fit for almost five people with a comforter made of red and gold silk. In the corner of the room, there lay a middle-aged corpulent man, fattened by years of feasting and a sedentary lifestyle. He lay on his back on a red-silk couch, adjacent to a small nightstand with wine and a copy of the Holy Bible. The man’s grey fur coat left not an inch of skin to be seen. “You are the doctor, are you not?” asked the Governor, shuffling his massive body along the side of the couch. “Yes. What is your name, sir?” asked Jacques, throwing his medical bag at the foot of the Governor. “Gonzalo de la Torre,” answered the Governor. “What is yours, doctor?” “Jacques Otxoa, Governor.” “Where did you study? What assurance do I have that you will help?” “I have no university training. I am a survivor of the plague, and the methods that I use have been used on me. Trust me, Governor, my treatments are... legitimate. First, though, we must discuss payment,” said Jacques. “A small chest under my bed contains all the gold you’ll ever need. Take it, and cure me,” said the Governor. “Ah, splendid. Now, let’s begin.” Jacques pulled a long whip, one that might be used to flog a soldier, from his bag. “Governor, roll over and lift up your coat. You have sinned greatly. Only through a punishment, a justice in the name of God, will your sins be forgiven.” “I understand,” replied the Governor, rolling over into a sprawling position. Jacques cracked the whip, and the Governor squeezed his eyes and hands, bracing for the coming pain. Jacques flogged the Governor, cutting through skin as if it were merely linen. Blood flared across the Governor’s back, splattering it on his coat. After almost forty lashes, with the whip itself covered with blood in its entirety, Jacques rolled the Governor onto his back. “Now, we must begin the next stage of your treatment,” explained Jacques. The Governor clenched his teeth and managed to nod his head, the slightest bit of movement causing him to squeal as a piglet. “But first, good Governor, I must enjoy myself. I’ve had a long journey, and you wouldn’t want me to be stressed, now would you? If I’m stressed, you see, the whole operation might go sour, and so would your health. 15

My comfort is imperative to your health,” explained Jacques. “Your wine, sir” said a servant, setting the cup down onto the nightstand. “Ah, wonderful. Now, get me some grapes, could you, and some nice bread. Jacques ate and drank in front of the Governor, who winced with pain. “My treatment?” squeezed the Governor out of his clenched teeth. “Yes. I’ll get right to it,” answered Jacques, taking another gulp of the Governor’s wine. He pulled out his dagger from inside his robe and ran the blade through his fingers. “Next, I will remove the buboes from your body through surgical extraction,” explained Jacques. Jacques fit his gloves over his hands and positioned the knife over the bubo, holding the diseased flesh tight in his other hand. “This may hurt. I’ll count to three. One!” yelled Jacques, and drove the blade into the Governor’s thigh and began to saw the bubo as if he were a butcher and the bubo a mutton chop. The Governor screamed in agony, his feet kicking and his hands searching for an object to grip. Blood poured out from the Governor’s thigh and onto the purple carpeted floor, staining it black. Jacques tore off the bubo, throwing it onto the floor into the pool of blood that lay there. Jacques grabbed a handful of bandages and pressed them against the open wound, attempting to clean the blood off the Governor’s leg. Jacques quickly wiped the blood and poured the rest of his wine over the wound. The Governor screamed again the moment the alcohol hit his skin. “The stinging – it’s good. That means it’s healing, balancing the humors of your body,” said Jacques. Tears streamed down the Governor’s face, soaking his white shirt under his coat. The Governor shook and moaned like a child away from its parents. “Shut up!” commanded Jacques. “Whining costs 50 maravedis an hour. Of course, though, we could make some arrangement for some proper lodging and lower the price to 40 an hour. What do you say, Governor?” asked Jacques. The Governor nodded his head up and down. “Excellent! A master bedroom in this fine house here will do quite well. Now, we’re done here for today. It is quite a burden to be a doctor these days. Servant!” yelled Jacques. “Yes sir!” said a panting servant boy. “Take me to your best room. And, while you’re at it, tell someone to put my ox in the stables, feed him, and take off his packs. Also, get me a large cup of wine. My work today had been extraordinary, and so I therefore deserve extraordinary things,” said Jacques. “The Governor-” said the servant. “Is quite fine. In good health, I believe,” interrupted Jacques. “Right this way, then,” said the servant, pointing out of the room. He led Jacques out of the Governor’s chambers and into the red and gold bedroom, and out into the 16

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hallway adjacent to the staircase. The hallway was covered in cream-colored stone, polished and gleaming with the reflectivity of a lake. Cedar bookcases lined the walls with hundreds upon hundreds of books, illuminated by the gentle light of half-melted candles, stuck into the wall dangerously close to the bookcases. Jacques peered into the rooms as he and the servant passed, some leading to guest bedrooms and others leading to dining rooms and armories. After a few minutes of walking and taking several turns, the servant stopped in front of a door. “This here is our nicest bedroom,” said the servant, pointing inside the room. Jacques peered inside the room. An enormous bed lay in the center of the chamber. Green and silver embroidered blankets covered the bed. Paintings of the Spanish countryside and vineyards lined the walls. A small table held a pitcher of red wine and a loaf of fresh bread, almost beckoning for Jacques to devour them. “This will do quite fine… quite fine,” murmured Jacques, eyeing artwork he might be able to steal. He removed his mask, unhinging the straps that kept his respirator to his head. He placed the mask on a chest at the foot of the bed. Running his fingers through his hair, he lay back, almost ready to sleep. “Do you require anything else, sir,” asked the servant. “No. Go. I’m fine here,” answered Jacques, pouring himself a cup of wine. “I’ll check on the Governor around midnight.” Bells shook the mansion, stirring the crows to fly away from the mansion rooftop. Jacques rolled out of his feather bed, still half asleep. He grabbed his wool robes and his old black boots, silently putting his robes back on. Last, he strapped on his mask, adjusting it over his face by the beak, and placed his medical bag over his shoulder. Jacques marched down the corridor, almost pitch black, with only a single candle every few rooms to light his way. He reached the Governor’s bedroom adjacent to the staircase. He peered inside, making sure no one else had come to tend to the man. Jacques tiptoed as he walked, careful not to rouse the man as he slept. Jacques neared the entrance to the Governor’s room. He stepped inside and faced the corner where the Governor had made his respite. “Ah! Governor!” said Jacques, raising his hands out in either direction. “How are you this fine evening? Well, enough with the chatter. Time to get down to business. Let’s treat those wounds of yours.” Jacques walked closer to the Governor. “Governor?” asked Jacques, taking a candle off the wall behind him. Jacques inched closer, and moved the candle up to shoulder. “Damn it!” said Jacques, stomping his boot on the ground. The Governor was slouched in the corner, slathered in his own blood and vomit. Blood dripped from 17

the governor’s mouth like that of a wolf after a fresh kill. The Governor’s face, whiter than the ox’s hide, was his only feature still recognizable. “Son of a -” muttered Jacques, clenching his fists and baring his teeth. “Dammit!” said Jacques, louder than before. Jacques jogged over to the Governor’s bed and looked under. A small chest, no larger than the head of the ox, lay there. “Jackpot!” said Jacques, pumping his arm. He took the chest in his arms, the coins clinking together like Christmas bells. Jacques positioned himself before the Governor. “I’ve got to go, Governor. Farewell then,” said Jacques, bowing and saluting with two fingers before the corpse of the Governor. Jacques rushed out of the room and down the stone stairs, securing his dagger in his breast pocket as he left. He barged through the double doors to the mansion and ran down the steps, struggling to keep the chest secure in his arms. “The stableswhere are they?” asked Jacques under his breath. He needed to find the ox. Jacques ran to one end of the mansion, and down a cobbled street. The empty houses buzzed past Jacques as he ran, the only light illuminating the street coming from the mansion. Jacques ripped off his doctor’s mask and held it like a club in his hand. Toward the end of the street, Jacques spotted bales of hay stacked outside a yellow stone building similar to the mansion. Jacques skidded to a stop outside the stables. The wooden gate had been carelessly left open. The only sound was of the snoring of stallions as they slept on the ground of their stalls. Carved stone encompassed the ground of the stables, the crevices causing Jacques to stumble as he moved. Jacques tiptoed and crouched as he walked, careful not to wake the horses and alert anyone to his presence. He walked several stalls down, and spotted the ox on his right. The ox stood upright, and snorted as he saw Jacques. Jacques unhinged the gate to the stall and strapped his packs that lay on the ground to the ox’s back along with the chest. Jacques led the ox out of the stables and onto the street, moving quickly. The duo made their way back through the winding maze of streets and alleys from which they came. They finally neared the gate to the city, only three men standing guard. Jacques whistled, alerting the guards to his presence. “You! Man! What are you doing here! Get back in the city!” commanded one of the guards. “Oh, good fellows! Let me assure you something: if you help me, I’ll be sure to properly compensate you,” answered Jacques. Jacques opened the chest and pulled out three gold coins. He tossed one to each of the guards. The gate was opened, and Jacques and the ox rushed out, Jacques running and

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the ox galloping at full speed. They disappeared into the night, never to be seen there again. Jacques and the ox slogged along the dirt road, tired from days of endless walking. The chest of the Governor’s coin lay on the ox’s back. The beak-mask lay on the side of the ox’s saddlebag. It was almost dark, the yolk of the sun slowly disappearing behind the mountain range that lay ahead. Jacques looked out over the miles and miles of farmland in the valley, seemingly untouched by the plague. It was almost pitch black now, Jacques only able to see the white ox beside him. He held his head down, almost falling asleep in place. Suddenly, Jacques was hit in the head, knocking him on his back. Jacques rubbed his forehead and winced with pain, his eyes swelling almost with tears. He looked up to see that he had walked into a sign, hanging out over the road. “Help. We have sick. Take road to farm. Help!” read the sign. “Well,” said Jacques to the ox, smiling. They locked eyes. They knew what they had to do. “There’s money to be made.” They marched onward, ready to continue their crusade of deception.

NARCISSUS AND ECHO James Ryan ‘16

Her tongue does not respond to the words Her brain conjures up. Unwillingly silent, her loneliness longs for a companion. When she at long last sees him in the woods, She longs for him to notice her. “Do you love me?” She wants to ask, But one who was once so talkative had been reduced to near silence, And she didn’t know how to converse, but only to reverse. She stayed near always, Hoping to ask, “Do you love me?” She was so close, But the words Did not come when she wanted them All that came was a useless Echo, And he was lost because He did not understand, even though All those words were his. Love unrequited Is an unsettling force. Her heart melted for the young man, and Her body melded into the stone cave around her, But her mournful responses still Resounded and resonated. Her voice rebounded through the woods as his face reflected In the false azure of the world that appears both above and below the lake. He meanwhile forgets her and everyone and only sees Himself. As her love drove her to forsake all in pursuit of him, So too does he forsake all else in admiration of 20

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The face he sees. As her words had been left unknown to him, The clarity of the lake belied the mystery of his own face. And as he grew weary and ill She remained near. His limbs and chest Formed gentle stems and petals At the waterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s edge. And in his final wistful cry of love, She responded with an equally wistful Echo.

OLD FASHIONED Andrew Elcock ‘17

It was a good old-fashioned small-town Fourth of July–the kind where streamers lined the street, people held barbecues in their front-yard, and the cops went easy on the teenagers sneaking beers and setting off fireworks. Danny smiled as he walked down the street. He waved at a group of girls. They giggled and a couple waved back. It felt right to be out in the small-town festivities. He hated the family party. Too many of the same questions: “What’re you gonna do after you graduate?” and, “Are you gonna go to college?” It scared him to think about leaving town. It felt good to let the talk of the future be drowned out by the bustle of the street. He stopped in front of the general store. The store was the type of place where old-timers would hang around, grumbling an old refrain about the economy, the new mayor, and politics. It had two levels: the upper level was well over a hundred years old, and second floor had been newly added–newly in the sense that it had been added only a few years before Danny had been born. As Danny walked in he smelled pickles, like he did every time he walked in. He saw Jack stocking a shelf with newspapers. “Hey,” he said. Jack turned to look. “‘Sup, Danny? How’s your dad?” Danny’s dad had been Jack’s history teacher ten years before. “He’s doin’ as fine as you’d expect.” He stopped and looked around. “You’re sure you don’t sell pickles here?” The question had a tired feel to it, as though he’d asked it a hundred times before–which, of course, he had. Jack smiled and shook his head. “Not in fifty years, last I checked. Guess old smells hang around.” Danny smiled too. “I guess. Listen, can I grab a six pack?” At Jack’s disapproving look, he added, “No! Not for me. For Uncle Bobby.” “Ah, alright. In the back, by the radios.” The back of the store was filled with freezers full of beer and frozen food. Danny shivered even though it wasn’t that cold. He grabbed a six pack and hurried to the front. The cardboard chafed at his hands and he hated the way the bottles rattled together. He recognized the man at the register, but didn’t know his name. “Hello,” Danny said. He’d always liked talking to people he didn’t know. “Aren’t you a little young to be buying that?” the cashier asked. Danny blushed. “No, it’s not for me. It’s for my uncle.” “Uh-huh, your uncle.” The cashier grinned. “Listen, since it’s the Fourth of July, I’ll give you one pass. Teens should be teens, you know?” 22

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“No, really,” Danny said. “It’s not mine!” “Alright, buddy, I believe you.” The cashier looked taken aback. “It’s just, you gotta understand. It’s for my uncle. Bobby Treller, you can ask him. I’d never...” Danny’s voice had a touch of franticness. The cashier just nodded, his eyes looking confused. After a brief moment, he said, “$6.73.” While Danny counted out the coins, the cashier added, “And did you say Bobby Treller?” Danny looked up. “Yeah.” The cashier grinned. “Went to school with him. What’s he up to?” Danny said, “Nothing much, really. He lives with us now, I guess.” He didn’t want to talk. He put the money down on the table. The cashier didn’t take it. “That’s nice. Man, he used to be a legend. He hit that three against Souston, you know? I still remember storming the court.” His voice glowed with nostalgia. Danny heard that tone of voice as often as just about anything else, as often as he heard grumbling about gas prices. “Yeah. He still talks about that sometimes.” Danny pushed the money across the table. The cashier still ignored it. “Uh-huh. So, how’s he doing?” “I already said. He’s fine, I guess.” He paused. “Well, he’s better than he could be.” The cashier bobbed his head. “Right, right. Does he ever talk about dunking it over that 6-foot-4 kid? That was crazy.” Danny frowned. “What? Yeah, I guess. Listen, can you ring me up?” “Right. And then, I remember one time, he spray-painted over the–” Danny cut him off. “Look, can you ring me up, and stop talking about my uncle? I mean, that was 20 years ago, for Christ’s sake.” He made a conscious effort to unclench his hand from a fist. The cashier’s head snapped up. “Calm down, buddy.” He punched in a couple buttons. “There, happy? Enjoy your beer.” “It’s not my beer.” He grabbed the six-pack. The smell of pickles seemed overwhelming. He felt weak, as though all at once a hundred years of history had crashed down on him. He walked out, grateful for the fresh air. The celebrations that filled the street seemed disgusting, like a song he’d heard one too many times on the radio. He dropped the six-pack onto the pavement. The sound of the shattering bottles felt warm. As he walked home, he started to think that college didn’t sound so bad.

Out of School Submission Award Winnter

LATE NIGHT WITH KRISTOF JUDE! Christopher Young, Boston College High School ‘16

He stumbled down the dark corridor, whiskey emanating from his breath, which reached out and grasped everything around it. Permeating the air. Suffocating. Thoughts flashed in his mind. He pulled on his hair, grabbing it by the roots and yanking. He spent years living this lie, years living as a phony. People promoting their shows or books, making jokes he was forced to laugh at. He tore through the door to the studio, muttering to himself. “I want to be someone else. I need to be someone else. I’m going to explode.” With a .22 caliber, he fired a shot into the giant cutout of himself. “The Late Night Show with Kristof Jude” life-sized cutout now had a hole right where the host’s gleaming teeth used to be. The laughter of the studio audience taunted him once again. He aimed his pistol at the neon “Laughter” sign and fired off another round. The sign flickered, but the laughter continued. Kristof staggered into his chair behind his desk. He felt the mahogany with his hand and tapped the gun off the desk to a calm beat that only he heard in his clouded mind. One and two. Three. Four. The audience continue to roar. His stomach twisted and turned, writhing inside him. He grabbed it and thought about the last time he had a meal. It was about two days ago at a local convenience store. The weary host’s left hand trembled, but the other hand steadily continued the beat. One and two. Three. Four. The audience intensified. They started to sound more and more like birds. The birds. He almost toppled out of his seat in horror. The birds. Kristof abandoned his hunger pangs at the desk and retreated from the studio. As he ran down the hall way towards his dressing room, he heard them. The birds. Kristof ran to the door of his dressing room and quickly bolted it shut behind him. The lights flashed on and he saw himself in the mirror: A pale, reasonably attractive man with a good jaw structure, and bloodshot eyes. Nothing, I am nothing. He was a soulless body held together by the pills and whiskey. Kristof hadn’t slept in days, or was it weeks? Months? Nothing. He was alone. He was a fraud. Nothing. Kristof heard knocking at the door. He moved toward the door and then back to the mirror. He continued to pace, his hand gripped tighter around his pistol. They’re coming for me. He shrieked, “You want me?” There was silence. Kristof pounded on the door. “Break it down then. Come on!” He tugged at his hair again, now so angry he was almost foaming at the mouth. He pressed his head against the wall, tapping again with his gun. One and two. Three. Four. More silence. 24

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One and two. Three. Four. The laughter flooded back into his ears. It overwhelmed his senses, and he let out a blood-curdling scream. Kristof pointed his gun at the mirror and pulled the trigger. It exploded, sending glass shards every which way. He pounded on the door once more. He was screeching now, pulling at the skin that stretched over his face, trying so desperately to remove the mask. Kristof sunk to his knees, defeated. He reached up tenderly for the brass knob and twisted the door open. Kristof struggled to his feet. He began to walk down the hallway towards the studio—the same beat echoing his footsteps: One and two. Three. Four. Kristof stood in front of where the laughter radiated from the empty seats. He cackled at the vacant audience, “You can have me!” I’m ready. He brought the gun up to his temple and the laughter subsided.

WITNESS ACCOUNT OF AMELIA PERRY’S UNSOLVED DEATH AT THE HOTEL CORTEZ Stevie Karol ‘17

I remember the day she checked into the hotel. Chewing a piece of watermelon gum, she rolled her bright pink suitcase up to the front desk and spoke with a squeaky but gentle voice: “Hi, I’m Amelia Perry. I have a reservation for one.” Her freshly braided golden hair relaxed on her shoulder and her deep green eyes were masked by largeframed tinted sunglasses. Her porcelain skin shone with a fresh October tan and she exuded an aura of youthful independence. She certainly struck me as peculiar, and I wondered why she would be staying at the Hotel Cortez alone. As I handed her the key to room 364B, she shuffled through her Hello Kitty purse in search of a credit card to pay the four night fee. Visibly nervous, Amelia handed me a MasterCard. I remember noticing that the name on the card read “Juliana Richards,” but I didn’t think much of it. After it was approved, Amelia stuffed the card into her purse and walked to the elevator, calculating every step before the thick metal door sealed. She was anxious, hiding something behind those lenses. I glanced at the elevator monitor on the side of my desk as she travelled up to the third floor. The next couple of days were especially busy at the hotel due to the Halloween events being held on Western Avenue, and I don’t even recall seeing Amelia. But on the evening of October 13th, I remember hearing the sound of her high heels punctuating the air as she exited the hotel. She was wearing a blood red gown, her hair was curled around her head like a serpent, a luminous diamond necklace hung around her thin neck, and she kept her eyes locked on the ground as she quickly strutted out the door. I couldn’t pay much attention to her, as there were many guests eager to check in, but she seemed to be on her way to some party or meeting. Around 2:25 A.M., I began to drift off into a light slumber when she rushed into the lobby. Her shoes had disappeared, her hair looked like a tangled nest, and her dress appeared torn on one side. I asked her if everything was alright, and her eyes darted at me and then away as she ran into the elevator. Her face, glazed with sweat, seemed paralyzed with fear. The elevator door shut quickly. I lurched over to the elevator monitor and watched her click the button for the fifth floor. Her room, 364B, was on the third floor. She kept twisting and turning her hands, so much so that it looked like she was having a nervous breakdown or was under the influence of some drug. When she reached the fifth floor, she got off the elevator and looked down the hallway before getting back in. It looked like she was running from someone, or looking for someone. This time she went up to the top floor. After exiting the elevator on the thirteenth 26

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floor, she turned left, and that was the last time our hotel had evidence of her location. After an hour went by and Amelia had not yet returned to the elevator, I went up to the thirteenth floor, but I only found her credit card lying in the middle of the hallway. The next morning I told my manager of the strange happenings and he told me to keep a close eye on all entering and exiting guests, in addition to reviewing the elevator tapes. It was only until a large number of guests started to complain about the strange color and taste of the water in their rooms did I begin to feel uneasy. For some reason I felt that the mysterious girl was involved. I alerted my manager and the head of maintenance, Calvin, about the complaints and he went up to the roof of the hotel to check the pressure of the water tanks. Upon opening one of the water tanks, Calvin noticed the water seemed a bit cloudy and decided to drain the entire tank. I sent a notice to every room in the hotel that there would not be water due to a routine inspection of the tanks. During the draining process, something got caught in the hose and Calvin had to climb down into the tank to fix the problem. That is where he found her. Ameliaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s waterlogged corpse lay on the bottom of the tank and her diamond necklace was stuck in the hose.

POEM FOR A BLUE PAGE Shawna Dyer, Dexter Southfield School â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;16 Pearls on string are just pearls on string. Unless, they happened to be my grandmotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s. Then and only then can they be everything. Losing them is losing her for a second time. Recollections of the missing item grate my bones into flake. She loved the beach, but She was so damn terrified of the water. Only her ankles could brave the waves. I took her pearls there last weekend. They must have unclasped, went back to where they belong. They were made to return to their creator. Pearls belong to the ocean.

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INTO OBLIVION Thomas Olson ‘18

“Keep moving Thomas, we’re almost at the rendezvous point,” says Captain Frank Watson as we stomp through Amazonian marshes. Wave after wave of relentless heat pulsates through me. A delicious mix of sweat and dirt plaster my face, every so often dripping into my eyes and mouth, making me grimace in disgust. The only positive attribute of the Amazon Rainforest is its ample supply of shade. With what seems to be an infinite amount of kapok trees, one of the rainforest’s largest trees, offering canopy upon canopy of shade sprouting from their colossal trunks, the sun doesn’t add to the sweltering heat. I guess the animals aren’t that bad either. Every so often, a small howler monkey will dangle down from one of hundreds of vines and stare you straight in the eye, at attempt to read your inner most thoughts. I know that they can’t actually talk, but something about them, the way they seem to understand what’s inside you merely through eye contact, is captivating. Captain Watson notices my distracted demeanor and stops a few steps in front of me. Still musing over the abilities of Amazonian wildlife, I stumble into him, immediately crashing my train of thought. “Tom, what’s wrong with you? Have you forgotten where we are?” he demands. “I was only thinking.” With a forceful arm, he grabs the strap on my pack and shoves me ahead of him. “You need to be alert at all times,” he directs. “Danger is everywhere here. From the venomous snakes, to the Metal Heads infecting this place; never, ever, let your guard down.” Raising my rifle a few inches, I straighten my back and continue plodding through the mud, looking for the metal star of a North Army helmet. That’s how we gave them the name Metal Heads. Creative, no? After around two hours had passed, the path through the rainforest narrowed. Now monstrous roots of the kapok trees had risen up on either side of our trail, limiting our lateral view. Isolated from the vast expanses of rainforest, light was scarce. A dark mist seemed to settle in front of us, obstructing my view. “Sir, there’s something weird going on…” I say, looking behind my right shoulder. “Just keep moving soldier, only two more miles.” So, I keep moving. Suddenly, I hear a faint click and notice that the ground under my right foot is solid. The sensation is so disparate from the soft and mushy mud I’m used to, so look down. I see the intermittent flash of a red light, belonging to a Northern contact mine. My heart sinks. There is no way out. The mines produced in North Army factories are some of the best engineering I have witnessed. Triggering the mine is rather hard to do as mines go, taking 50 pounds of downward force to 29

arm it, you’d need to step directly on top of it, exactly like I just did. What makes the weapon so ingenious is that when the mine is primed, a timer for two minutes begins, and if a half a pound of pressure is released, the mine goes boom. So even if you’re really still, you’re still dead. Slowly turning my head, I make eye contact with Captain Watson. We both know the end result and, reaching into my breast pocket, I remove the flask containing the information that will win the war for the South, hand it to him, and turn back around. No words need to be said, this has happened hundreds of times before to various men and women. I even had to leave my brother last month after he had stepped on a mine. It was the hardest thing I have ever done, yet there was nothing I could have done to save him. As Captain Watson passed me, he glanced back with few tears passing his eyelids, I just said “It’s ok,” and he progressed with the mission. “Why? Of all the options I had in life, the Marine Corps was the best path? Really?” Although I have no idea why I was persuaded to join the Marines over a high paying job at W.S.P., an engineering consulting firm, the situation I’m in isn’t going to get any better fantasizing about a different life. But… I can’t help myself. My name is Thomas Anderson. I am 28 years old, and am about to die. The life I could have had, working to change the world in a powerful and domestic way behind a desk at W.S.P, and grown old. Maybe even had a wife and children. We can’t all get lucky, right? I grew up in a suburban town surrounded by affluent old folk, with nice cars and palatial homes. I went to school at Olin College in Massachusetts, but was soon after accepted into the Academy of Engineering at the Institution. Something, however, when I was learning at the Institution changed me. After a night working on a physics lab, I passed out at my desk. That night, I had a nightmare, if you can call it one, of a land ravaged by death, cloaked in fire and destruction. I immediately knew I wanted to change that vision. I couldn’t let it come to pass, even though it was just a nightmare. Because of my vision, I enlisted to fight as a Marine for the Southern Colonies, against the North Army, whose goal seems to be complete and utter domination of free will. Their purpose is to conquer the entire world. With Southern Colonies being the last bastion of independence, wars to conquer us have been waging for decades. Where am I now? Standing on a mine with the destructive power, capable of tearing through a panzer in less than a second. I don’t consider myself very religious, and haven’t been for the majority of my life. However, this place, the rainforest, has changed me. A new connection with nature seems to have opened. Now, I tap to my newfound spirituality for peace. I close my eyes and use my ears to see. Listening to how the warm breeze sways the vines around me, the harmony of thousands of birds singing to their brothers and sisters across miles of land. I am aware of the rays of 30

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sun, peaking through the protective canopies of shade. Bliss flows over and through me as I step off the mine, and into oblivion. I don’t consider myself to be an extremely pious man. I never go to church, except for the occasional holiday, and I work in a world dominated by science and reason. The handful of times I actually wrestled with the idea of a higher being who orchestrates all things in creation, the laws of logic and science always prove to powerful to allow for such a deity to exist. Now though… I’m not so sure. After death, connection with the brain is supposed to be severed, and therefore, our connection with a conscious disappears as well. This fact has also been backed by decades of extensive tests and empirical data. Why is it, that now, after triggering one of the world’s most destructive weapons, I’m able to sustain a flow of thought? Now that I reflect on my present situation, I’m able to think, but I can’t actually see, or feel anything. “So maybe I’m only halfway dead? No, that’s impossible. What the hell is going on?” Just as I begin to despair, a bead of light, no larger than a pinhead, pierces through the veil of darkness shrouding my mind. Right after it appears, I feel my hands and feet again, my legs, and chest, and the hair on my head. The light immediately tears through the blackness, and engulfs me completely. I look down and I can see and feel myself again. Observing my surroundings thought, I see nothing but white. It’s so white that space and time seem nonexistent. I sense a floor beneath my feet but don’t actually know what I’m standing on. “So this is heaven,” I think to myself as I attempt a few steps forward. My legs feel strong and in command, even though my mind is lost. “If I’m here, how could this be heaven? I don’t even believe in it or God for that matter… but here I am, wherever here is at least.” After walking for what felt like a million miles, I notice a small red dot floating in the distance. Curious, I try and get closer. Out of nowhere, the dot fills the pristine landscape with the hellacious fire and annihilation of my nightmare. Fear swells within me, and I attempt to save myself from the flames licking at my feet. I run, but there is no escaping it, the fire spirals up into the sky, trapping me in a vortex of fire. As fast as the terror had come, it disappeared. The flames evaporated and left me curled on the ground. “I was right, there’s no chance this is Heaven.” Removing my head from under my arms, I see a small building, a stain on the searing whiteness of its surrounding environment. Even more curious, for some unthinkable reason, I stumble towards it. Getting closer, I can see it is constructed of cinderblocks, roughly ten feet high and fifteen feet long. There is a heavy steel door barring me from whatever is inside. There’s no lock though, making it easy for me to poke my head into the room. Inside, there is a single oil lamp, like the one you see in old Westerns, hanging from a wooden 31

post supporting the roof in the center of the room. A row of thick iron bars cut the room in half. It’s a jail cell. Squinting my eyes, I make out the back of a man sitting in the middle of the cell. Nudging the door open, just enough for my body to slip through, I sit down on the other side of the bars. “Hello,” I say quietly, trying to get a glimpse of his face in the gloomy yellow light. Spinning around to face me, a man with a long white beard and sharp green eyes energetically shouts, “Why howdy!” in a heavy southern accent. “Who are you?” I ask, surprised at his greeting. “I’m you!” “Me?” “Yeah, you!” “But that’s impossible,” I argue, unable to believe what he’s saying. “Two of the same people can’t exist.” “Can’t they?” he asks leaning forward giving me a whiff of a man who hasn’t bathed in a millennia. “I doubt you could have forgotten, but, you died. This ain’t the world we once new.” “Well then where are we?” “The afterlife, ya nincompoop.” “But if this is the afterlife, shouldn’t I be here alone? Or with God?” I ask. “Usually, but, it looked like ya needed some help, what with all that fire and stuff. And, you’re not here for good.” “You saw that too?!” “Hey, if you see it, so do I. We’re the same person.” “Do you actually think were the same?” “Damn right I do. I’m one of our million past lives. Why I’m here with you, I don’t really know. But, if I had to take a guess, I’d say you got some major unresolved issues with the future.” Still skeptical of the advice I could give myself, I inquire about how a past life wound up dying in jail, asking, “What did you, or I, do to get in jail? Was I a murderer in the Wild West, robbin’ stagecoaches and killin’ sheriffs?” “No… I was tossed in here, because I was afraid to take my life into my own hands. I was the son of the wealthiest, most powerful man in all of Texas. He led the ranch that supplied the U.S. with all its steak and most of its fine leather. Paired with such a booming business was the creation of a substantial legacy. And who would you guess inherits that legacy? Me. When my father died, and gave me the company, I was only 22 years old. The pressure of the future my father had laid out for me was too great. I couldn’t handle it, nor did I have the foresight to grasp the importance of what I was given. With in the span of half a year, I drove my father’s company into the dirt, 32

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and then burned the living crap out of it. Basically, I lost a lot of money, and made millions of Americans go without steak. Following the greatest corporate blunder in the last century, I was driven out of my home, by a mob numbering over 1000 pissed off ranchers. To think how much people love steak. After taking a bullet in my left thigh, they threw me in here, locked the door and made me watch as they destroyed the key in a bucket of smoldering coals. My leg then began to fester and decay. The illness I got killed me after three days of pure, unadulterated, agony. AND ALL OVER SOME DAMN STEAK! Now, I don’t have the same luxury as you-” “What luxury? We’re both dead,” I ask. “True, true, but… while my time has ended, your life on Earth is not over yet. You just need some help, and that’s why you had to die, to know what life was and will be. That vision of yours is what will come to pass if you don’t find a way to lead your world to safety.” “But how? There’s no chance I’ll be powerful enough for people to listen to me. And if I do get attention, what do I say? ‘I had a dream about the impending apocalypse, live in harmony or perish and a fiery pit of doom?’” Straightening his back, he looks me in the eyes and says this: “First, you will be the only man in a few thousand years to come back from the dead, I’m fairly certain people will listen to what you have to say. Second, I don’t know how you’ll fix the future, but one thing I’ll tell you is this: life is the presence of perpetual change, whether it is positive or negative is entirely up to you. Take charge.” Immediately after he finished speaking, an invisible force pulled me out of his cell room and back into the blinding spiritual plane outside. “Wait! Where are you going, I have more questions!” But he and the room had already disappeared. “Well this is just great, now I have to save the world. I wonder when I’ll leave here. Will I be too late?” As quickly as the cell disappeared, I spot another dot off in the landscape. This time however, its presence slowly grows larger, casting a golden light that drifts towards me. “Is this another past life? Hmm…” Taking a few tentative steps I squint to make out the building. I identify it immediately. It is a monastery. The one I visited with my mother when I was only six years old. The building is only one story tall, covered with a golden terracotta roof. The front entrance is adorned with gold leaf, and red flowers, a symbol of the Sai Monks. Pushing open the gates, I’m greeted by the same two golden lions situated to either side of the steps leading to the monastery. The familiar sent of jasmine incense burning in several locations fill’s my nose. “Was I really a monk in a past life?” “Yes, you were.” Jumping what felt like four feet in the air, I whip around to see a short man stand33

ing before me with a caring smile spread across his weathered face. “You can read my thoughts?” “We’re the same person after all.” “Yeah, that’s was I said last time too.” Adjusting his red robes, he offers me a seat on a small cushion around a table, holding two cups of tea. Sitting down, I pick up the tea and take a sip. Nothing happens. I taste nothing. “Oh, you don’t actually drink the tea; it’s mostly for the decor.” Rolling my eyes, I set down the tea and wait for him to speak again. He doesn’t. For a long time, I just stare at him while he sits with his eyes closed and arms outstretched. “Life is all about balance.” “What?” “Balance. Ying and Yang, good and evil, happy and sad; all things have an opposite. From a very young age, I was at war within myself. I could not find the inner peace, which results from true balance. I could not see the importance of negative energy in our world.” “Negative energy? How could that be necessary?” “Have you not been listening? Life is all about balance. There is no such thing as good without evil; nor peace without unrest. The horrors you experienced years ago have not yet been set in motion, but it will be your understanding of evil, which will save the world. As I was saying, like you now, I could not see why bad things are in the world. However, though many years of continuous thought, I have found its significance. Negative energy exists to assist the emergence of good and pure people. There would be no need for righteous beings to be brought into our world, if there was nothing for them to fight.” Taking a long sip of tea, he continued: “You have been sent to lead the world against the malevolent forces which will soon be created. The war you’re fighting now, against the Northern Armies, is nothing compared to the disaster approaching. You are the light that will combat the darkness and keep balance.” Setting down the cup, he bowed his head and seemed to float away, once again leaving me in a pool of white. I then felt a searing pain at the base of my neck and felt myself falling. Opening my eyes, I see a canopy of kapok leaves swaying in the wind high above me. Adjusting my field of view, I notice a small howler monkey sitting on my stomach, staring at me with piercing green eyes. Smiling to myself, I sit up against a root and look down. My legs are gone. “Nice.” For some reason though, I feel no pain. Looking around, I notice the miniature crater left by the blast. No wonder the vaporized. Suddenly, a warm sensation engulfs my body, and glancing down, my legs have begun 34

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to re-grow. “Maybe monk me was right, maybe my job her isn’t done after all.” Getting up, I hear a rustling in the brush behind me as Capitan Watson steps into the opening. “Thomas? Is that you? But I thought… didn’t you… explode?” “Yeah.” “So then how are you here? I mean, alive?” “Long story short, I had a vision, I died, went to the afterlife, met a couple of my past lives, talked about some stuff involving life and the universe, then came back. Now, I need to save the world.”

NUMB

Blake Hailer ‘17 As this dark fills The pain in my heart spills The pain I’d die to kill’s No match for these strong pills It’s an urge I can’t control Once my mind gets on a roll Just to put my body into a lull I devour bottles whole I wish I could stop Friends say I can But whenever there’s a pill to pop I become a weaker man One’s not enough, two’s not enough, three’s not enough, four’s not enough, five’s not enough, six’s not enough, seven’s not enough, eight’s not enough, nine’s not enough, ten’s not enough, eleven’s not enough, twelve’s not enough, thirteen’s not enough, fourteen’s not enough, fifteen’s not enough, sixteen’s… Now it starts to melt That pain that I once felt My mind is moving slow My feelings start to go I sink down into my problems I’m Numb. It’s like a dog on a bone Or a shark on a wounded fish I’m swimming through cabinets Running through drawers Clearing out stores Just for a little relief All this pain that I feel won’t go away All I can do is put it off for another day Another day when my world once again becomes grey When there’s nothing anyone can say I go right back to it

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To that disgusting orange bottle But does a pain killer really kill the pain? Am I insane? Because all these problems still remain Is it helping or only making it worse? Why am I under this curse? Am I alone because of me or is it because of the way I choose to be?

THE LONER

Nicole Stanton, Dexter Southfield School ‘18 I He wakes up. He rolls off the couch. Gets dressed as if he is racing to win a marathon, he steals his mother’s make-up, and he slowly sneaks out of his small apartment. I never knew this. I never even knew him. I kept to myself, he kept to himself, and it worked for most of the year. Our paths never crossed and it did not bother us. October 10th, 1993 was the day I met this wonderful soul. I saw him, alone, sitting at lunch. I did not bother to meet him; he did not bother to meet me, or anyone for that matter! Not to put any labels on anyone, but it’s high school: he was a “loner.” Later that day I happened to see him again. I got the bathroom pass during chemistry and walked down the hall to the bathroom. I heard some loud wails coming from the boy’s room. Every part of my mind told me no, but my body was rushing in the doors before I knew what I was going to say. He was in a stall. The small breaths for air hinted he had been crying, although it went silent as soon as I opened the door. I told him my name and asked if he needed someone to talk to. The “loner” walked out. Instantly my mind rushed to a thousand reasons to why he might be crying. I had never seen a boy cry before, so my first reaction was to ask what happened. He was very careful with his choice of words and I got the message that it had nothing to do with school. Ditching the rest of the school day, we got to know each other. We talked about politics, popular music, and our friends. Well, we talked about my friends. As for him, he made up a story of how he has a few neighborhood friends. I could not help but judge him, could not help but jump to the conclusion that something had to be wrong with him. I walked him home after we ate a small dinner at the 50’s diner downtown, a few blocks away from the school. We hugged and parted ways. The next few days I did not see him. I usually see him at least a few times a day, but this week was different. I knew something was wrong. After school on Thursday I debated with the idea of checking in on him at his apartment. This sat uneasily in my mind. Friday afternoon I decided to walk by his apartment. I had finished my homework so I knew my parents were not going to be mad if I took a detour on the way home. A little nervous, I walked very slowly as all the butterflies danced in my stomach. “Is this weird?” I thought to myself. I had only known this boy for a few days. What if he thought I was weird? Maybe he did not want friends? My conscience bickered as I kept walking forward. I finally reached his home. It was not too far from the school, just around the bend about a mile down the road. I walked up to the door, 38

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but again, all I could hear was a wailing sound. My stomach dropped. This was not the same wailing I overheard in the bathroom. The fear hiding behind his voice, told me he was not just crying. This scared me. I did not knock. I could not knock. My body was stiff and I was nervous. I was leaving. How could I stay? I saw a window, not too far off the ground. Knocking was just not an option anymore. I slowly and quietly walked over to the window. The black shade was completely covering the window except for the little patch at the bottom where the shade had been too short to reach. I used my upper body, with the little strength I had, and lifted myself up to peek into his living room. I fell. Dropped to the ground like rain during a hurricane. It was a scary sight. I felt light headed. I heard loud footsteps rushing over to the door. I got up and started to run. I did not care in what direction I was headed, I needed to leave. The door flung open. A lady holding a bottle of gin was screaming. What she screamed sounded foreign. It was a mumble of words but it did not matter at that point. I was running as fast as I could and the sound of her screaming got quieter and quieter as I retreated faster and further away. II The next morning I stayed in bed, it was hard to move. Who should I tell? Would I tell? I could not tell my parents and at school no one cared enough. I told my parents I was sick and I was able to stay home from school. They left for work and I stayed in bed all day thinking about my next move. I figured nothing productive would come from anything unless I talked to the boy. So I watched a few movies to take my mind off things. As soon as I was able to relax, there he was! Like a recurring nightmare, there when I least expected it. He was walking very slowly, on the sidewalk closer to my house. I sprinted to the door, jumped out of the house and yelled, “Hey!” He replied, “I can’t talk right now,” not even bothering to turn his head. Telling him my mother had made cookies the night before; I was able to persuade him to come inside. The nightmare came alive again as he turned his body towards my house. His face. His face was bruised. With a black eye and a bruised and swollen face, he sulked into my house. “I saw what happened,” I said as he sat back into the couch. “What do you mean?” “I went to check on you after school yesterday. I know what happened.” “You don’t know half of what has happened,” he said sharply and defensively. “You can tell me,” I said softly. 39

III It was three years ago, when my father left us; although it feels like yesterday. Just my mother and I left to fend for ourselves. Being a bartender in a town like this doesn’t really bring big bucks in. Struggling with the day-to-day lifestyle, my mother started to drink more. It was easy and accessible and at first, I didn’t think it was going to hurt anyone. That was until my mother met Bill, a low-life drunk. Bill is always over. They met while she was bartending. He is very muscular, pretty tall, and not so good-looking. Being a scary guy, Bill doesn’t struggle to have it the way he likes it. He, like my mother, struggles to stay sober. Bill spends days at a time on the couch. He likes to yell, isn’t a quiet guy. He would yell, and yell at me for nothing, or at least what I thought was nothing. And until I was able to block out the noise of them fighting, was finally when I got to escape for a few hours and sleep. Over time the fighting got more aggressive and I got less patient. The scars on my face you see now are from him, Bill. He is relentless. He is strong and very stubborn, especially when hasn’t been sober for days. The bruises are from his fist, because for some reason I believe I can stand up to him. And the tears you see rolling down my face now, well, these are from the pain. Not the thorough thrashes from the belt, but the loneliness, the helplessness, and the idea of no matter how far I run, I will never be able to get away. Tomorrow you will see the make-up. I steal my mother’s make-up to cover up the scars and the bruises. I’d rather hide the embarrassment and live a double life than drag drama into my only diversion. My mom doesn’t notice the missing make-up. How could she? She doesn’t even notice her new boyfriend is slowing killing me. Before, I was better at hiding the pain. I never fell apart in school, but now, now it is as if I can’t even get through one day. It shouldn’t be like this. When I am lucky enough to go to school, that is, if I’m not too weak, I search. I search for my dad. Try to find where he is. I need to know he loves me. No one loves me. I need him to love me. IV It didn’t end there. I could tell he had much more to say, he just didn’t know how to say it. I wanted to help. I needed to help, but how? I could tell this was hard for him. I could tell he was a bit uncomfortable. I could tell it was the first time he had opened up like this to anyone. At school the next day I finally noticed. Finally noticed him. Finally saw him as much more than the “loner.” Saw him as a person, as a son, and as a friend. Finally treated him as I should have before. I sat with him at lunch, walked with him in the 40

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hallways, and was shocked to see him in most of my classes. After school we went to a café. We began to spend more and more time together. We started to grow closer as the weeks went by. He was intelligent, so intelligent it shocked me. It would have shocked anyone to hear the words he spoke. He barely went to school and he taught me so much. Then it began to happen again. I closed my eyes and the nightmare was right back where it started. He wasn’t at school. And if he wasn’t at school I knew he had to be in that hellhole with those two monsters. On Friday, after the 2:30 bell, I left. Walked with no hesitation around the bend and continued down the straight road. I got to the door and rushed in; did not even bother to knock. His mother yelled, “Who the hell are you?” After glancing around the room, I saw Bill passed out on the couch, and I gathered the courage to say, “Where is he?” She answered back: “Gone like the wind, honey. He left to find his father.” I rushed out, not knowing what to say. I ran, once again. I ran so fast the tears that I cried were drying up before I could wipe them away. This time I was not scared. I was sad. I was sad he left and did not say goodbye. I was sad I would never see him again. As much as I was sad, I was happy. Happy he could finally escape. Happy he found a way out. But most of all, I was happy he was able to change the direction of his life, his nightmare, into something better. Happy his tortuous days made him stronger. Happy that his two pathetic “parents” would inevitably be a vague memory. I am happy he does not have to roll off the couch, happy he does not have to hide behind the make-up, happy he will no longer sneak out of his house to go to school. He is running from his life now, but soon he will no longer have to chase for a better life, no longer half to explain why his body is covered in scars. I forgive him.

Collected Works Christian Locurto â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;16

New Mexico Finn Mulligan â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;18

Cracked Stones Nate Perry Dobbs Ferry High School â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;17

Cracked Stones / Suburban Print Nate Perry Dobbs Ferry High School â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;17

Hand Billy Daniel â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;18

Purple Iguana Cameron Balboni â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;16

Raspberries Jillian Cooper

Night Skater Sam Gordon â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;17

Flag Thomas Wasynczuk â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;17

Crater Thomas Wasynczuk â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;17

In My Head Mudia Onaiwu â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;18

Tumbling Chairs Lexi Winston Walpole High School â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;18

Colors of Fall Ted Duffy â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;19

Rodrigo Ethan Fidalgo â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;17

Luna William Hentschel â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;19

Ghosts in August William Ryan Belmont Hill â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;16

I WENT TO THE TIDE POOL Sam Gordon ‘17

When I was in kindergarten, I remember my dad having a difficult job. I didn’t know anything about it other than the stress it put on him. He would come home every day, a few hours after we would get home from school, kiss Cindy, say to his three sons, “Hey kids, good day?” then go upstairs until dinner. That frozen January day he came home with a big grin and hugged Cindy, then, I knew something at work made him less tired than usual. He had received a major promotion, as we were alerted that night at dinner. He said we could finally buy that house on the Cape we had always dreamed of, or at least the one he always wanted. My older brothers and I loved the summers in Providence. Luke was the oldest and Cole was the middle child. We went to camp together, biked around the block with friends, and held lemonade stands where women we recognized just enough to compliment gave us twice the money we asked for. The Cape was fun, sure. But there was no way it could beat a summer in Providence. So he showed us all pictures of this green, three-story house with three flights of stairs to the beach, we feigned excitement, and he fell asleep on the couch with a beer in his hand. That summer we spent June, July and August on the Cape. Our first few weeks there we explored our small town, walked up and down the beaches a far as Cindy would let us, and waded into the shallow brine until she yelled, “You guys are out too far!” I spent most of these first weeks following my brothers. They would play Marco Polo, and chose me as the close-eyed seeker before running away to leave me in this salty, dark place all by myself. I would run out of the water and back towards our big green house. In between the spot my brothers left me and our house was a jagged section of the coast. I would have to climb over these uneven boulders alone, probably crying, then resume running once I conquered them. My feet would ache and my hands would feel coarse after every climb. I would whine my way up to our recognizable house and find my brothers as content as lions that had just killed a zebra. It seemed this would happen every day. My brothers would abandon me, either through Marco Polo or some other complicated plot I was too young and stupid to find funny. Then I would climb over the sharp rocks, race up the splintering stairs, slide open the screen door and run to my giggling siblings, pouting and out of breath. My gullibility spouted from my tendency to over-trust my brothers. A mixture 62

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of work and alcohol removed the trust I once held in my father to my brothers. And Cindy was too young to be maternal to her boyfriend’s children. That summer in particular, a series of headache-inducing fights between my father and his girlfriend chased any remaining trust I held in either of them straight into my brothers’ slimy arms. One day, my brothers left me alone later than usual. The setting sun turned the entire ocean into a sheet of molten glass, and the tide rose to the jagged rocks I had to climb over every day. I stopped at the peak of this unpleasant mountain to look at the sun until my feet began to hurt. I looked down to make sure the boulder hadn’t drawn any blood, but my attention shifted elsewhere. In the shallow pool before my feet was a village. The live infrastructure of barnacles and mussels housed the alien diversity of crustaceans and fish. It reminded me of New York City, the single time I had visited it. The sunset light somehow gave everything in this small rippling pool the same energy as Time Square. At the time I knew little about tides other than their nature to shift from time to time, so I assumed I could return to this visual escape whenever I pleased. I stared into the pool for what seemed to me like seconds, but the sun fell behind the ocean’s edge, making the object of my observation a dark puddle, and I ran inside. I told no one about what I had seen. I wanted a place to be whenever I was alone. I began to hope that my brothers would abandon me every day. Sometimes the pool would be full of water and alive. Sometimes it would be dry and still, the barnacles and mussels retreated into their shells and the seaweed crusty and dead-looking. I just accepted that I was not in control of when my fascination was on and when it was off. The fights between Cindy and Dad worsened over the weeks of June. I put no effort into hearing what these two adults, usually inebriated and always angry, argued about. Most fights would end slowly, when I would hear through my comforter muffled screams diminish into hopeless, matter-of-fact statements, and the two would seem fine the next morning. Others would end on a sharp, uneasy not. By some outof-place insult or some physical venting, in the form of a beer bottle thrown across the room or a table cleared of its objects, the two would hrrumph! off in separate directions. These displays of aggression were never intended to hurt anyone. But one night things were different. The shouting was louder than usual. Words were more slurred than usual. It was also earlier than usual. I was in my bed reading a book I had picked out at the library about tide pools. My brothers were watching a movie. The arguing picked up. More than anything, it was loud. I crept from my bed 63

to the top of the stairs. Cindy was gathering her things, her eyes inflamed with tears. As she laced her shoes she belted, “I’m leaving for good this time, John.” With most of his words nearly inaudible, our dad managed, “Good. You were never a part of this family. The kids hate you. And I’m starting to hate you, too.” “I’m past hating you, John. And I think your kids are, too. I may not be their mother but at least I show some love for them.” “I give them everything they want. I’m a provider. You’ve never worked a day in your life.” “John I don’t know how many times I have to say this: money doesn’t matter to these kids. They’d rather play catch with their dad in Providence than live in a mansion on the beach. They hate you. They hate you more than I hate you, John. They hate you because they know you, and they know how little you really care about them.” She shook her head in disgust and stared as she spoke. My dad arched his back and his eyes pumped with sudden rage. He glanced around like an addict looking for pills and found a full beer bottle. He picked it up, grinning as he barely passed it between his hands a few times. Behind Dad Luke walked in. He had clearly prepared something to say to quell the altercation, but fumbled for his words as he watched our father funnel his deprived self into this one moment. Cindy’s head shaking persisted. Dad cocked the bottle back like a pitcher, aiming at Cindy, who now turned towards the door in terror, right behind her. “Dad, don’t. Stop.” Noticing Luke, our father changed his target and threw this heavy, glass-bomb of a projectile at my oldest brother with a grunt that reminded me of an angry tennis player. It hit his face and sent him straight down. Cole heard the two smashes, one sharp and wet, the other deep and resonating. “John! That’s your kid!” Cindy raced towards our father, taking her heel of. Our dad smirked some half-genuine complacency from his soul, as if he had just watched somebody do what he just did and was rooting for the guy who threw the bottle. She got to him before he could grab something else to throw, and knocked him across the barrier of consciousness with the blunt part of her shoe. She told Cole to call the police and told me to stay with my brothers. Taking a moment to realize she had noticed me and to take in all that had happened, I walked down to Luke’s bloody face. He was as unconscious as my dad, and Cindy had sat down next to him and started to inspect his head with her kind fingers. “I don’t think any glass is stuck in him.” She looked at me and saw my state of shock. “Go get a pillow for your brother, okay?” 64

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I nodded and started to cry as I retrieved a pillow from our couch. Meanwhile Cole cried to someone through the phone: “Yes. My dad threw it at Luke, my big brother. I think he should get an ambulance. Hurry, please.” Luke came to within the hour, just as the police showed up. Two went straight to Dad, and another went to help Cindy and Luke. My dad was now waking up now, too, and he started swearing at everyone. He even locked onto me and insulted me. I saw his bleeding, bruised face and just kept crying. I had been standing in the same place for a while. The smell of beer and the taste of salty tears provided the backdrop for my observations. Cindy stopped her conversation with a cop to say, “I never want to see him again.” In the instant he heard her, he managed to break free from his restraints, but he slipped and fell in the puddle of his beer and Luke’s blood he had created, and Luke and Cole screamed as it all happened. I noticed no one was looking at me. Cole was trying to get the cops to teach my dad a lesson, though his efforts were futile. Cindy and Luke and a cop were all talking. I obviously wasn’t needed. So I walked to the back room and slid open our screen door. I closed it behind me before walking down our splintering steps and along the beach, its sand still warm from the hot sun of that dying day. The moon was full and the stars were out, though the sky wasn’t free of the sun’s light. The tide was high and calm. I climbed to the top of my mountain and stared down my tide pool. I folded down to my knees and onto my stomach. The jagged surface had no effect on me, and I looked at my little town. Thank God it was there. I needed it as much as it needed water. The moon and stars ignited all the shrimp. All the sluggish snails. All the desperate barnacles and mussels. The school of fish whose students’ bellies streaked with fluorescence. The algae effervesced as shrimp brushed across them like young ghosts. There were no enemies in this precious community. Other than time. I must have stared into it for hours before I fell asleep. And this sleep kept me in the pool as I dreamed I was something buzzing around in the water. The dream had no plot, no noticeable beginning or end. I was my obsession, and my obsession was nothing more than a square yard of temporal peace. The only square yard I knew that I could get lost in without any pain. The dream ended when the sun woke me up. My entire front was blotched with imprints of the rock, and my hair and clothes were damp. The tidepool was gone. I had never been on the beach for sunset, but I was tired. I rose and began to return to my big green house. 65

But this walk back things had changed. I felt something new. I think it was peace. Or hope. Something like that. Cindy was the first to see me. She looked surprised as I stepped into the kitchen. “You’re up early.” I stared at her blankly, then peered around the room where it all had happened. There was no blood. No smell of beer. “Yeah. It’s nice out there.” “You should go back to bed.” I looked around a little more. I nodded at her and lugged my body and mind to my soft bed. She walked in, pulled down the shades, tucked me in, and read to me from my book about tide pools until I fell asleep.

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THE MINSTREL’S LAMENT Michael Finucane ‘17

It all begins as the day starts to end And all the rhythms start to blend And we all can take our final sigh. The indigo sky, with stars it is flecked As back to the fields we begin to trek To the unforgiving plows slung to the backs of steer. Yet no reward will ever await As we toil along with our brethren swine. Weeks will pass and maybe months Until we can muster a return To the place where the lotus-eaters will adjourn. And we will live the lie for as long as we must Wearing a façade for all who will lend an ear Our melodies the only token of our inner fear. Sentiments expressed through creations of alder and bronze Submerged in sound so we may divert From their struggles as well Can they guard their bliss? Only time will tell, And as night falls again, our sorrows the darkness cannot detain And we have no choice but to return home once again.

HIS HOLINESS, POPE LUCIFER I Ellis O’Donnell ‘19 He preferred to be called LJ. He was a social outcast for obvious reasons. He was quiet, didn’t like his peers, and was the son of the Devil. He literally lived in Hell, and every day after schoo,l one of his father’s serpents drove him home through a hole in the ground that allowed them to pass between Hell and the surface of the Earth. LJ hated his father, not because he was the Devil, but because he made him go to a Catholic school where he was bullied as one could expect. On top of that, the only reason LJ got in was because Lucifer Sr. told the headmaster of the school that he and every faculty member, as well as every student, would spend eternity in Hell if LJ didn’t get in. The enrollment committee had an easy decision in regard to LJ. LJ had been going to St. Antony’s for seven years and he had never made a single friend because he was the spawn of evil itself; no one wanted to be near LJ because they knew that his father could condemn them in Hell. This was worse than when he was bullied because everyone kept at least ten feet from him at all times, and no one talked to him even from that distance. This included teachers as well as students; LJ received a hundred percent on every test because the teachers were afraid of the consequences if he got anything less. Time and time again, LJ asked his father why he had to go to a Catholic school if he was going to be treated like this, to which Lucifer Sr. always nonchalantly replied: “I have my reasons.” Nothing infuriated LJ more than this response because it seemed as though his father simply didn’t care about what LJ wanted. Yet through all of this, LJ persevered, spending each day being isolated from his classmates, and spending his time after school with serpents and sinners. On October 31 of LJ’s junior year, LJ was having a terrible day. It was his father’s birthday but everything that could seemingly go wrong went wrong for LJ. The day started with a school wide Mass which LJ had always hated, not because he didn’t like going to church (he actually found the readings to be pretty interesting), but because everyone stared at him to see how he would react to the Word of God. Before he entered the church he passed by a group of kids who were placing bets on whether LJ would either explode or turn into a demon when he entered the church. LJ had been to many Masses before this one, and neither of those things had ever happened to him. To make matters worse, the first reading was about how Lucifer was expelled from heaven and became Satan, causing the entire room to become visibly uncomfortable. LJ could feel the entire room, including the priest, staring at him without even looking around. The rest of the Mass went by smoothly, and after the Mass LJ went to

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his first class. He had his religion class first and went to his normal seat in the back left of the room. When he got to his desk he saw a note lying there. Before sitting down, he read the note, which said: “I hope your evil dad has the worst birthday ever. From, God.” Knowing full well that this note in fact was not from God, but one of his classmates, LJ’s initial reaction was confusion. On the one hand someone had communicated with him, which was a first, but at the same time the message was an insult, and even though his father was the king of evil, LJ was offended by someone saying that about his father. LJ figured it must be someone in his class because no one else knew he sat in the back corner every class. As the rest of the class began to file in he scanned everyone to see who the possible suspects could be. The first person to walk into the room was Sebastian, who was the class jock. Sebastian never paid attention to LJ so he could be ruled out. Following Sebastian was Jude, who was a complete sellout: he had a reputation of doing anything to make a quick buck. He could’ve potentially done it, so LJ filed him into the “possibly” category. Next into the room was Gus, who was the class nerd, and was almost as much of a social outcast as LJ was, but he was way too introverted to write the note. As more and more people filed into the room, LJ mentally catalogued each person into the yes or no category based on whether he thought they could have done it. This entire list was immediately disregarded when Mike walked in the room. Even though Mike never said anything to LJ, he always seemed to have contempt in his eyes whenever he looked at LJ. When Mike walked in, he smirked at LJ as he walked to his desk, and in that moment, LJ began to plot revenge on Mike. LJ knew that for the rest of the day they had no more classes together, so he either had to figure out something before the end of Religion, or after school. Both had slim chances of working out, if he did something during class, surely the teacher would catch him, but if he did something after school, other kids could gang up on LJ with Mike. After making a mental pros and cons list, LJ decided to bide his time and wait for an opportunity to show itself, instead of forcing anything out of instant anger. The rest of the day passed by without any other incidents, and Mike didn’t try to do anything else to LJ, so he simply went home with his serpent chauffeur. A little over a week went by before an opportunity for retaliation presented itself. LJ was waiting for his chauffeur to pick him up, when Mike walked out of the school. For an awkward moment, LJ and Mike stood on opposite sides of the foyer in front of the school before LJ finally walked over to Mike. LJ said to Mike, “Listen man, I know you left me that note, and I’m going to need you to apologize.” At first Mike appeared to be surprised that LJ had talked to him but then he responded, “There’s a better chance of you becoming pope than me apologizing to 69

you.” “I don’t want to have to do this, but if you don’t apologize, we’re going to have a problem.” “Are you suggesting we fight?” “Maybe I am.” “A fight it is then. See you tomorrow on 6th Ave near the gas station, Loseifer.” The next day, LJ couldn’t focus on anything but the fight. When school finally ended he waited to leave school for about twenty minutes because it was raining, and he didn’t want to walk in the rain. LJ’s serpent chauffeur had died a few days earlier, so he had to walk home, and 6th Ave was coincidentally on the way to his Hell hole. As he was walking, he noticed that this wasn’t the nicest of neighborhoods: every mailbox was covered in graffiti and every apartment had a metal fence around it. LJ came to a corner and looked to his left, then his right. When he looked to his right he saw a pit bull trotting down the street with a metal chain around its neck, but no one was walking it. For a brief, tense, moment, LJ and the dog made eye contact. Then the pit bull took off towards LJ. LJ started sprinting away from the dog without looking back. He had no idea if the dog was still chasing him, but he assumed it was, considering he heard continuous barking as he was running. LJ ran two blocks until he encountered another person. As LJ passed this person, he told them to run and kept running, unaware of whether the person heeded his advice. At first, LJ expected the other person to be right at his side as he was running but a second or two later, he heard a shriek that pierced his ears from behind him. He turned around to see the person in the fetal position as the dog was doing everything it could to bite his neck. LJ made the split-second decision to help save this person, grabbed a piece of shattered glass from the lawn he was standing next to, and ran back towards the beast. He quickly swung the glass, aiming for the dog’s skull but missing badly and nicking its ear instead. It yelped and ran off even though it had barely been injured at all. LJ looked over to the person lying on the ground and asked them if they were okay. He was lying face down and had a pool of blood around him. LJ pulled his hood off and rolled him over onto his back. LJ immediately realized that it was Mike, and he had a slash across his throat from when LJ had swung at the dog. Mike was oozing blood from his neck, but he still had a pulse and was barely alive. Realizing that Mike was about to die, LJ asked him “Is there anything I can do?” “Yeah.” “What?” “Burn in Heaven.” With that, Mike died, and LJ had to restrain himself from punching Mike’s corpse. 70

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LJ stood up and saw an elderly woman across the street, standing on her doorstep with a phone in her hand. She was gaping at the sight of LJ standing over a freshly deceased body, to which LJ ingeniously exclaimed, “It’s not what it looks like.” “Stay away from me. The police are on their way.” On cue the sirens suddenly became audible, and LJ did what seemed like the most reasonable thing he could think of at the time: he ran. Just like the pit bull, LJ ran as fast as he could without turning around knowing full well that if he was caught, he’d wish he was in Hell. As LJ ran, he no longer knew where he was in relation to his home, and began to become afraid of the possibility of never returning home. The sirens became louder behind him and LJ was scrambling to figure out how to escape. He turned a corner into what appeared to be the center of town, which had many small stores all lined up next to each other. He decided to run in the alley behind all the stores until he saw a cop car pull in front of the alley. Before the cop could notice him, he ran into the door directly to his left without knowing what it was, and hid behind a curtain in the corner next to the door. LJ waited with dread, convinced that there was no way the police wouldn’t catch him. He couldn’t remove the image of Mike’s lifeless body from his mind, and most of all he couldn’t think of a scenario where it didn’t look like he killed Mike out of cold blood. After hours of sitting in the corner, dreading what appeared to be a future behind bars, he eventually fell asleep while thinking about how hungry he was. He woke up the next morning still behind the curtain, yet something was different from the day before. For starters, the lights were turned on, which was not the case yesterday, but there was a lit candle on a table of sorts about ten feet away from him. However, the most startling thing to LJ was when he peeked out from behind the curtain, and saw a crowd of people sitting down, staring up to the table with the candles on it. Suddenly, a man stood up from a chair on the opposite side of the table and began talking to the crowd. Once LJ saw the robes the man was wearing, he knew where he was. He was sitting in a church next to the altar, right in the middle of a Mass. Figuring that no part of the Mass involved looking behind the curtain, he decided to stay put and listen to the Mass. He immediately regretted his decision to pay attention because the final prayer of the faithful was: “And for the family of Michael Gabriel, that they may find peace in this time of difficulty for them, and that the perpetrator is apprehended.” LJ realized that he was no longer safe with a hundred people sitting in front of him all trying to catch him. LJ remained behind the curtain, trying to stay as still and quiet as possible until the end of the Mass. He waited for what seemed like an hour after the closing hymn before stepping out from behind the curtain, just in case 71

somebody had stayed behind. LJ peered out from behind the curtain, and much to his delight, there was no one there and the lights were out. He stepped out from behind the curtain and saw a large, elegantly designed cross behind him. On it was Jesus with Mary Magdalene weeping below him. LJ took a moment to appreciate this piece of art and also the stained glass behind. “Hey you! Get down from there!” LJ’s heart jumped out of his chest as he turned around to see an elderly priest standing behind him. The priest was clearly angered by where LJ was standing, so LJ cowardly responded, “Sorry, I was just looking.” “Well, stop. Come here.” LJ nervously walked over to the priest, scanning the room and looking for all the possible exits, knowing that he could probably outrun the priest. The priest said to LJ, “Don’t you have a home to go to?” LJ thought about this and said, “No actually, I don’t have a home” (knowing full well that he couldn’t tell a priest that he lived in Hell). “Well, that’s good, because I have some plants that need watering in the seminary, so if you could do that, that would be swell.” LJ wasn’t sure what to be more confused by, the fact that the priest seemingly didn’t recognize him even though he just prayed that LJ be caught, or that LJ’s lack of a home was “good.” Either way LJ was grateful to know that for the time being he was safe. LJ proceeded to get the watering can from the inside the seminary and water the various plants that were all pretty much just ferns. Once he finished watering all the plants, LJ asked the priest if there was anything else he could do to help. The priest asked him if he knew how to cook, but LJ did not at all know how to cook, so instead of cooking for them both, he watched the priest make omelets for them both. After they ate their omelets, LJ asked the priest what his name was, to which the elderly man replied, “To be honest, I’ve never liked people saying father before my name. You can just call me John.” “My name is Lucifer, but you can call me LJ.” LJ couldn’t tell whether John thought he was joking, or if he was being serious, and what came out of his mouth is something that priests probably aren’t supposed to say: “Who in the Hell names a fine lad like you Lucifer? The devil himself better be your father because no other parent should have to subject their child to that godforsaken name.” In his head, LJ couldn’t stop laughing because of the irony. As it became dark out, LJ wasn’t sure what to do; it seemed like his only options 72

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were to sleep in one of the pews in the church or to sleep on the street and hope the police didn’t catch him. LJ stood up to walk out the door but as he began walking, John asked him where he thought he was going. “I guess somewhere.” “Doubt it, buddy, there’s an extra room in the seminary that we keep open for guests, so you can stay there for the night.” Just like that, LJ had a new home that could not have been more different from his old home. LJ spent the next few days exclusively in the church or in the seminary, because from what he saw on the local news, the manhunt for him was only heating up. However, despite the fact that police from the entire county were searching for him, none bothered to look in the church. LJ became more and more perplexed by how he lived with the one person who wasn’t looking for LJ. He concluded that since John always fell asleep when they watched the news, he probably never even knew what the main suspect looked like. Each day LJ watched the news hoping that they would just give up but every day there was someone else from St. Antony’s who made up some incident that LJ had in the past that made LJ appear as an estranged kid. One day it was a boy in his grade who LJ never talked to who said LJ bullied him every day, and one time mugged him at knifepoint. The next day LJ saw the headmaster give a speech to a crowd of reporters in front of the school regarding a certain “mentally unstable” ex-student. He opened his speech as one could expect, expressing his condolences for the Gabriel’s, saying how you can never plan for such a tragedy, and vowing that justice would be served. LJ’s favorite part was when his former headmaster said, “Mike was always a joyous part of our community here and everyone who knew him was better off as a result.” LJ thought about this and concluded that although he didn’t know Mike very well, he certainly wasn’t better off by knowing him. Just when LJ thought the speech couldn’t get any better, he heard his headmaster say, “And for the perpetrator, ever since he stepped inside this building of education, he had a malevolent impact on our school. Multiple times I had half a mind to expel him due to his constant problematic behavior, but I chose to let him stay because I hoped that one day, the Word of God would finally guide him to find his purpose in life. Tragically, as we have seen this past week, my magnanimity has cost the life of one of our own, and that will haunt me for the rest of my days.” Not once had LJ spoken to his headmaster. For the next two years leading up to LJ’s eighteenth birthday, LJ never left the seminary or the church unless it was to water some of the plants on the outside of the church. John never asked LJ why he never left the church, mostly because he himself never left the church, so he had no business asking why LJ never left. During this time, 73

LJ became proficient in the workings of the Catholic Church. He followed around his elderly mentor, John, constantly and even learned how to play the songs during Mass on the organ. This was perfect for LJ because, people couldn’t see him over the pipes of the organ, but he could still participate in the Mass. Every day, John gave LJ a one hour lesson and with each passing day, LJ became more and more adept at playing the organ. Along with honing his musical skills, LJ began to learn more and more about the Catholic faith and prepared to receive the sacraments. Since he grew up in Hell, his father never placed much emphasis on going to CRE, and all the people in Hell never insisted on LJ being baptized. The only reason LJ went to Catholic school, in LJ’s opinion, was because his dad was trying to prove to LJ how inferior humans were to him. Despite going to Catholic school for most of his life, no one had ever mentioned the sacraments to LJ because they all figured that since he was the son of the devil, he had no interest in receiving any of the sacraments. However, LJ actually became quite interested in receiving all of the sacraments that he had missed for no other reason than it being crazy to work in a Catholic church and not even be Catholic. Three months after LJ first hid behind the curtain in the corner of the church, he had become baptized, and another seven months after that he had his first Communion. When he received his first Communion, he was secretly worried about the effects the Body of Christ would have on him, but fortunately nothing unusual happened. LJ’s next sacrament was Confession, which he had never done before, and LJ had no idea what to say. Obviously, LJ could confess to John that he accidentally killed Michael, but he was afraid John would never look at him the same way. Another thing John didn’t know about LJ was that he was the son of the Devil, which LJ also thought about confessing to John. As the days came closer to ruining his relationship with his only friend, his fear of what to say constantly nagged him. When the day finally arrived he stepped into the small room with a velvet curtain as one of the walls, which he knew was the only thing separating him from John. He still hadn’t made up his mind in regard to what he was going to confess to John, so when the moment came to let out his darkest secrets, he let it all come out. Not only did he tell John that he accidentally killed Mike, but he informed John that his real home was Hell. LJ expected there to be awkward silence, but the instant he finished, John said to him, “If your actual father is the Devil, then what made you become so religious?” This was the single hardest question someone had ever asked LJ and he had no response whatsoever. The irony of the son of the Devil being a devout Catholic had never dawned on LJ and he was perplexed to say the least. People had always made fun of him for going to church, but he had never thought this to be ironic. LJ had half a mind to walk out of the booth without answering John’s question, but he instead 74

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said, “To be honest I’ve never thought about that, I guess I just like it.” “Well, it’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard, so I suggest you keep it up.” To LJ, this was better than anything he expected, not only did John completely disregard the fact that LJ killed Mike, but he accepted the fact that LJ was the son of the Devil. The next few years of LJ’s life were the best he ever had. The manhunt for him had died down substantially, so he could actually go out in public. He had received Confirmation and was considering becoming a priest himself. Most importantly, he had not once returned back to his original home. One day, when LJ was walking home after picking up some food from the grocery store, he passed by a small farm that was on the way back to the church. This farm didn’t produce a lot of food, but was where animals that the owner had bought grazed. As LJ walked by he saw a group of goats standing together in the middle of the field, but as LJ passed, one of the goats left the pack and started walking towards LJ. LJ had to do a double take because the fact that a goat was coming to interact with him was one of the oddest things he’d ever seen. He stood in place until the goat arrived and spoke. “Hey LJ, it’s your father.” LJ was shocked to hear this mostly because this was the first time he had ever heard a goat talk. LJ’s only response was to utter, “Why?” “Why what?” “Why are you here?” “I just want to say I’ve missed you. Why haven’t you been home in two years?” “Well, Dad, I killed someone.” “Really? I never thought you had it in you, but I guess I was wrong. I can’t say I’ve ever been prouder.” “But I spent a majority of the time hiding in a church, and I’ve become confirmed.” LJ knew he shouldn’t have said this, but at the same time he was proud of his devotion to the Catholic Church, either way, the tension could be cut by scissors as Lucifer Sr. stared into LJ’s soul. LJ always hated when his father did this because it was like he could always tell what LJ was thinking. When Lucifer Sr. finally composed his thoughts and processed this terrible news, he responded by saying, “How is that even possible, you’re literally the offspring of Satan?” “I don’t know Dad, but I’ve never been happier in my life.” “This is just disgusting, why do you want to forsake the very meaning of being my son in order to be ‘religious,’ whatever that means?” “To be honest, when I hid inside the church I was right next to Jesus, and in a way, 75

he protected me from being caught, so I interpreted that as an omen.” “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard, I’m cutting you off.” “I mean you never were really there for me so this isn’t that big of a change.” With that, Lucifer Sr., in the form of a goat, turned around and walked back to the rest of the goats eating their grass without looking back at LJ. LJ suddenly felt renewed as he saw his father for the last time, and LJ walked back to the seminary with a smile on his face. When he arrived at the seminary, John remarked about how elated LJ was, and LJ felt as though reproaching his father was some sort of unspoken sacrament. The next day LJ moved all of his stuff from the guest room in the seminary to one of the rooms for people studying to be a priest. He spent the next four years there learning all the skills necessary in order to become a priest, including learning both Latin and Greek. He spent weeks on retreats helping people who had virtually nothing to eat, while barely eating himself. He spent entire days at a time praying continuously without eating, and drove around the country to meet with priests giving lectures on what it means to be part of the brotherhood. Every day he became closer to God through prayer and service, and eventually after four years he became ordained into the priesthood. Despite his enthusiasm towards the Catholic faith, the fact that he killed Mike still loomed over him. Since he had never been apprehended, the case against him had essentially disappeared. He became the main overseer of St. Julia’s church in a neighboring town. Every day he served Mass there and somehow he enjoyed it more and more each time. He served at St. Julia’s for ten years before he finally became a Bishop and then soon after became a Cardinal. He was the head of the archdiocese of Albuquerque for three years, but then he heard something that had never been heard of before. The Pope had retired, and LJ was being heavily considered to fill the papal opening. This astonished LJ because he never thought he was either capable or qualified to be anything more than a priest. When he became a Bishop he was surprised that happened, and then when he became a Cardinal that surprised him too. Now, rumors of him being potentially elected Pope absolutely confounded him. The rumors became validated when he received a letter in the mail one day that summoned him to come to Rome. He was ecstatic and booked the soonest flight possible. When he arrived, paparazzi were already awaiting him and once he walked out of the airport a crowd of journalists surrounded him and began to ask him a variety of questions, ranging from if he heard anything about being elected Pope to what his favorite food was. One would imagine that a prospective pope would want to avoid this much attention, but LJ enjoyed talking to people who were this interested in him. He travelled to the Vatican, and was greeted by multiple cardinals waiting for him. They all said they 76

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were about to enter the Sistine Chapel in about an hour and wanted to know whether or not he actually wanted to be pope. LJ responded as graciously as he could by saying, “There is no greater honor God could place upon me.” All the cardinals who had greeted LJ, although hesitant when they first met him, they now seemed a lot more confident while talking to him as they prepared for the election. The meeting between LJ and the cardinals ended abruptly as the bells began to ring and the cardinals all ended the conversation the instant the bells stopped ringing. They entered the Sistine Chapel and LJ stood outside with nothing to do but wait. LJ went to the humble hotel room that the church had booked for him and he sat there and prayed to God, not for him being selected Pope, but that the most qualified person would be selected (he also prayed that he was the most qualified person). When LJ woke up the next morning, he stepped out of bed and took a shower. He put his robes on and prayed for a few minutes before starting his day. He walked out of his hotel room, got in the elevator, and rode it down six floors to find a horde of reporters standing by the elevator doors. The entire crowd became animated and reporters from all over the world flashed their cameras and shoved each other in order to get as close to the potential pope as possible. LJ was shocked to see all the reporters here; those that were closest to him started speaking to him in languages he didn’t understand, or broken English. One reporter who had managed to get close to him asked, “How can you be elected pope, never mind an ordained member of the church, considering you are a murderer?” From somewhere else he heard “How can you possibly be Catholic if you’re the son of the Devil?” LJ suddenly felt sick to his stomach; LJ knew that even though he killed Michael by accident, people would always think of him as a murderer, and he felt that his chances of being elected pope surely had gone down the drain. As he walked through the crowd of reporters, he saw on the television the interviews from his former headmaster from years ago, yet this time, national news anchors were debating the significance of these events, especially considering that he was a favorite to win the papal conclave. However, the purpose of the all the cardinals going into the Sistine Chapel for the papal conclave, was so that there was no influence from the outside world during the election, so it was very possible that none of them knew about LJ’s past sins. Days went by with dark smoke being the only thing coming out of the Sistine Chapel. The entire world awaited to see if the freshly deemed “killer cardinal” would be the leader of the Catholic Church. On the seventh day after the cardinals had entered the Sistine Chapel, white smoke had arisen from the chimney on the chapel and the world went into a frenzy to figure out who was selected. LJ got in a car 77

that drove him to the Chapel with reporters both at the gates and in his hotel. When he arrived he was greeted by the same cardinals who had greeted him when he arrived earlier. The only difference this time was that the cardinals seemed much more sullen as they escorted him into the Chapel then once again closed the doors. They had LJ sit at a podium in the front of the room with all 120 cardinals facing him. For a tense moment, there was silence, as every cardinal stared at LJ. The cardinal who had escorted LJ in ended the silence by saying, “You have been selected as pope.” LJ was overjoyed, but before LJ could get too excited the cardinal continued by saying, “However, we were unaware that you had previously killed someone before we decided upon you being the next pope. Never before have we elected someone then immediately regretted our choice as we have now. This is completely unprecedented, since you’re technically the pope we feel it’s only right if we hear your opinion on what we should do.” “To be honest, I don’t know what to do about this predicament. As you may know, it was an accident, and I have confessed my sins to God and even despite doing my best to recompense for doing this horrible deed, it still haunts me. As for whether or not you should keep me as pope, all I have to say is I have never been more confident that this is what God wants me to do. I have rejected my father, evil itself, and although my conscience is tainted, my soul and mind are clear of anything but love and faith. If you feel as though this isn’t enough to be pope, then I’ll graciously accept my fate regardless of what you decide.” With that LJ once again left the cardinals to vote on who the pope should be, but hours later, for the second time that day, white smoke arose from the chimney of the Sistine Chapel. This time, the cardinals definitively proclaimed to the world that LJ had been selected as pope. Coincidentally, the next day was Easter and it was now LJ’s duty to do the Mass from St.Peter’s Basilica. The square outside of the Basilica where the Mass is usually held is meant to hold around eighty-thousand people. A hundred thousand showed up for this Mass to witness the new pope’s first act as the head of the Catholic Church. LJ donned the robes of the Pope and stepped out of the front of St.Peter’s Basilica to the altar at the top of the steps leading up to the cathedral. Before saying anything, he took a moment to look out over the crowd of people who were staring at him, eager to hear what LJ’s first words would be. Once he was ready he said, “I understand that I’m supposed to choose a papal name, well, I’ve decided that from now on, I’ll no longer be called Lucifer, but Michael instead.”

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SCHOOLHOUSE IN THE SUMMER Peter Finucane, Needham High School ‘18

It’s quarter to nine, but the clock doesn’t tick The crickets fill the silence from out of the sticks Not a moment ago, the sky was ablaze And the watcher waited for constellation’s raise All is almost cool, once kissed by the sun But the rooms spill over with air of a ton They simmered all morn and waited all eve For the silence brought by the endless breeze And the chairs that fell for the floor on the bell’s ring Are watching the peace with none for this evening They hope, one day, their hats will come back But for now their heads must wait with alack On one sat a dreamer, on the other a spark His small talk is awry, but revered in the dark He sits outside now, he watches his place Biding, breathing, rid of his haste In the door sat the haughty, next to him his bard The two believed their wisecracks beyond avant-garde Most sat in silence for the chime that says goodbye But the watcher stood sweetly, and let out a sigh He returns to the existent, he hears from afar The patter of leaves or the rush of a car He’s waiting for someone special But for now the only company is celestial.

LIKE A HUNGRY COBRA Stevie Karol ‘17

I love her. I can always smell her watermelon shampoo drifting through her brunette curls. I can always feel her porcelain smooth skin upon my fingertips. I never stop seeing the almond haze of her eyes, like an eternal imprint on the back of my mind. At times during the day I catch myself sketching the shape of her head, perfecting every curve to ensure the perfection of the elongated oval that rests upon her perfect neck. Because that is what she is, perfect. I trust her. I’ve been married to Jessica for a year now and she amazes me every day. She stands by me through the tough times, even when I lost my job last month. Passing the hours by examining Jessica’s Facebook friends and sending her text messages, I promised myself that I would not place my job before my wife, but my boss claimed that I lacked productivity and suggested I seek employment elsewhere. On the bright side, I have boundless hours to think of Jessica, perfect the drawing of her head, and await her arrival home from work every day. I protect her. When Jessica goes on road-trips with her friends or even just to dinner with her parents, I respect her independence and freedom to enjoy the company of other people. To ensure she’s safe and well-protected, I always observe her from afar and scan the vicinity for potential threats to her wellbeing. Last year when Jessica and her cousins travelled to Vail, Colorado, for a ski trip, I donned my incognito disguise, boarded Southwest Airlines flight 1189, and kept a safe distance away from Jessica the entire trip. She has never learned that I travel in her shadow to keep her safe, but I’m sure she would be proud of her husband’s dedication and constant protection. I see her everywhere. I can see her with the lights out. I see our future child in the face of an infant at the grocery store. I see her eyes staring back at me in the eyes of every woman. I can hear her voice on the radio, on the morning news, and swirling in my head like a hungry cobra, wrapping around every other thought and strangling it to death. I always think how lucky I am to be in love and how many lonely, jealous, and bitter people would kill to be in the same position as me. Her despicable ex-boyfriend, Jacob, probably still wishes he had her, and he definitely still thinks about her sometimes. He liked her Instagram photo thirteen weeks ago. It sickens me to think he made her cry at one point, that scum of the Earth. I am not obsessed with her. She is my wife, my best friend, my sunshine, the oxygen in my lungs. I cannot imagine my life without seeing Jessica’s soft smile everyday or caressing her silky hands every chance I get. Some men dedicate their lives to their 80

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jobs, drinking, friends, or money, but I chose my wife, and in so doing I have found my lifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s purpose. I am not obsessed with her, I am in love with her.

SINE NOMINE CORPUS Andrew Elcock ‘17

He saw nothing but whirling dust. Blood’s scent filled the air, and he gagged. His men cowered under shields--those who had lost theirs were already long dead, pierced through by tens of arrows. His own shieldbearer had fallen in the early minutes of the battle, and for the first time on the campaign he carried his own burden. Wheeling his horse around, Crassus searched helplessly for a glimpse of the Parthians. An arrow bounced uselessly off his helmet. Hidden in the dust, the barbarians galloped around the tight circle of Romans. Another volley of arrows speared into his men, and he saw three more fall. He swore then that if he caught the hidden cowards, they would not escape crucifixion to the man, no matter their identity, and damn the consequences. Jupiter knew he could afford to pay the fine. His horse tumbled beneath him. Man and beast fell together to the ground. The impact tore his breath away, and his leg gave a sickening snap as the horse crushed it. He wriggled out from underneath it, climbing to his feet. His leg burned. He vomited, and in the dust it dried almost instantly. He bent down to grab his shield, and an arrow tore through his arm. At once, he felt very far from the marble halls of Rome, and very out of place among the dying. He had longed for a battle, it was true, but this slaughter was far from the glory he had seen draped over Caesar and Pompey. He heard Spartacus deride him from his crucifix, and his past failure burned his cheeks with a blush. I am going to die here. The thought appeared unbidden, but it was suffused with certainty. It was the first time the idea had occurred to him, and he banished it from his mind. His place was not to die on a far-off field as so many nameless men did, beyond even the long arms of Rome--he refused to accept it, as he had refused to accept failure so many times before. Crassus did not lose. He limped to the standard-bearer. “Rally the men to me,” he said. His voice rasped. He could use a drink, now that he thought of it. The standard-bearer nodded and the eagle seemed to soar upwards. Men slowly tightened into a defensive, wary circle around him. He called for a shield wall, but it was ragged, filled with gaps. He took a place among them, and felt a type of kinship with his fellow soldier. I am going to die. The foreknowledge filled him again. Two options faced him. Commandeer a horse and ride hard for the border. Leave his men to cover his retreat. The thought tempted him, more than he dared admit. He was a man of culture, of vast wealth, of art and poetry, not a warrior to die in futile battle. Once, he would have fled, but now he shook the idea out. Crassus was not subject to the laws of the 82

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Fates--if he were, he would not have risen to the gods. Besides, he did not think he could forgive a man who abandoned his soldiers to die. And so he hefted his sword, ignoring the pain, and urged on a charge. The remnants of his men followed him. The Parthians met him with glee for the first time since the thrice-damned campaign had begun, and he rejoiced for a short moment. For an instant, Crassus was not the craven patrician of Rome but the hardened warrior of the battlefield, as he had always dreamed himself to be. Their fall was mercifully short. The standard-bearer went down first, hit in the neck with the black shaft of an arrow. The eagle met the dust, polluted. Crassus collapsed soon after, cut in a dozen places and still struggling. The triumvir, the richest man in Rome, died a slow death on the fields of Parthia. But as he lay dying, a man of luxury sobbing for a drink of water, he knew that he died at last a worthy man, even if one no different from another.

THE DRIVER

Jake Powell, Roxbury Latin â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;16 Interchanges are set in stone. The mechanical cycle entails engine following engine. Their rhythmic drone loops around and around, the dying daylight backlit by a sea of identical lights. The man takes his turn in the circle, shifting his wheel to the left like the rest as they obey the one ahead of them, taking care not to veer too close to the lines, imposed as the eternal boundaries of highway existence, emblazoned with hard paint on the flat concrete. He rests his left wrist on top of the wheel, tapping his right hand against his thigh to no particular rhythm. The sun slowly fades under the horizon, another day gone. There have been several days of this, and there will be several more. He doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t complain. He merely thinks. When I get back to the house, he says, I will not go to sleep. I will stay awake and read Sophocles through the night. When his legs need stretching, he ignores it. When the radio grows old, he turns it off. When the air outside the window seems so gray and quiet he can barely endure taking one more second before letting go of the wheel, imagining a breaking of the boundaries and a crashing into the trees, when he thinks such things the only thing to do is sigh and resume tapping his thigh with his right hand. For forty-three months and twenty-two days he has been ordered to deliver packages along the state highway to meet his community service requirement. A tracking device sticks to the chassis of his vehicle beneath like vermin. Its small, square package, positioned next to his anterior wheel, emits a red bleep that transmits through the air to the hundreds of computers operated by the local police force. They know his location, but he no longer knows where to find his dignity. It was a mistake at the wheel, so many years ago he can barely even remember. He had been out in the night, drunk in revelry, no one to stop him from letting himself go. His wife had called, the phone vibrating on the passenger seat several times before stopping. But she was gone, and she had left so unhappy and resigned that it was better not to think of her. Better not to think at all. He should forget about how he had lost his job and could no longer support his newly pregnant wife, and was out on the road doing community service when she went into labor. She had their child without him, and then she left. He doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know where she went. He distinctly remembers, as he had gotten into the car that night -- and this was the worst part -- how happy he had felt. Everything was under control as he glided down the road of euphoria. The song on the radio roared in his ears. Back then the 84

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music made him feel alive. And that night he had decided to ignore the great powers of Life and Death. A tragedy for all mortals. Shrouded in darkness, the lines blurred ahead of him under the weak headlights, the vehicle surged in a storm of ecstatic fury. That poor family never had a chance. He never had a chance. His fist is pounding against his right thigh. Another interchange ahead. He joins the circle, one following another, throbbing along against every second of the day. As the passive driver lets Time do with him as it wishes, he endures the dusk and drives forward into the gray. A speck appears on the horizon. “What is this?” He wonders. Up ahead a van has flipped over, its corrugated structure bent in the ditch beside the highway. Little white bits of aluminum lie strewn about among the black leaves. There are no authorities in sight. The cars in front of him pass by as if the accident were just another minutia, something not worth the trouble of their attention, a disruption in the programming of their set schedules. He jerks the wheel to the right and hits the brakes. He, the human inside the car, knows this is his duty in the grand clockwork of human endeavor. He gets out of the car and runs over. He cannot see inside the white van, only hearing the vague shouts emitted through the broken glass. As he approaches, everything becomes sharp and clear. They will not be able to get through the window, he thinks. He rips the door off its hinge in one smooth motion and climbs into the vehicle. A man and a woman are sprawled inside the window. The man is unconscious. The woman is pregnant. Both have been pierced and injured by the jagged pieces of glass from the windshield. They bleed heavily, and flames have started to spread towards the engine in an ominous dance. They cannot wait for an ambulance, he thinks. I have to get them to the hospital. “It’s going to be okay,” he tells them. “I’m going to get you to the hospital.” He wraps his coat around her head, taking care to keep it elevated, and carries her to his car. He goes back and gets the man, still unconscious, and places them both in the backseat. As he starts up the car he remembers the tracking device, and how any trip, even one such as this, would result in a violation of probation and most likely a return to jail. But it is better not to think about that. Better not to think at all. The woman was resting her hand above her navel, something his wife used to do. He revs up the engine and guns down the highway. It seems like much time passes between taking the exit off the road and getting to the emergency room, but who can really tell time without a watch, anyways. Later on, when he had heard that the family was safe and okay, and the News Reporter 85

had called him a hero, he got back into his car and headed back to the interchange. Clouds were thickening overhead when his probation officer had called to bear the real news: “You’re a criminal, my friend. Once again, you’ve managed to botch it all up. I can’t tell you how many people I’ve handled like you. You’re all the same, you losers. Be at the police station at 3 o’clock. No detours.” He laughed and hung up. The man had said nothing, and kept his eyes on the road ahead. This is a tragedy, he thought. I am Ajax, punished for my dutiful actions. Rain is now pouring down, drowning the windshield in rivulets, like the sound of broken glass set in slow motion one thousand times. The News Reporter had been very attractive. “According to the victim, many people passed by before you, as if this family in distress didn’t even exist. They could have been living or dying,” she had said, “but either way they couldn’t be ignored. What makes you so different, Mr. Hearth?” He hadn’t known how to respond. The rain is coming in a flood, and puddles start forming all over the road, like paratroopers grouping on a battlefield. It reminds him of that story from the Bible, with the animals and the boat. He tries to think of what happens at the end of the story. He had never been a religious boy. He still isn’t. I don’t want to go to jail, he thinks. Why am I driving to the station? He pulls the car over and lets his head rest against the seat. This isn’t how it’s meant to be. When he opens the door, water pounds down against him ceaselessly. He smiles as he gets out. This is nice, he thinks. He walks out into the road, feet sloshing in the rivers, holding his hands out into the traffic. Ignoring the honking, and the parole officer calling his cell phone, and the unrelenting urge to get back into the car and off to jail, ignoring it all, he watches the sun come up over the horizon. Its golden paint seeps through the clouds and makes him smile again. He no longer hates himself. He gets back into the car and drives on.

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WARMTH Owen Finnegan â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;16

He woke. He stumbled out of his bed, not yet awake, and the marble floor felt cool to his feet. As he shuddered, the man gazed around his room: empty and gray, as always. From the open door he could see the other two rooms in his house, the kitchen and the studio, both as empty as the bedroom save for the six foot tall chunk of marble in the middle of the studio. He had lost count of how many days in a row he had woken up in the same cold and lonely manner, but he did not care. He did not have companionship or comfort on his mind, in fact, his body and spirit were fixed on one goal and one goal only, which involved the large, white cube of marble in the room ahead. Pygmalion threw on some clothes, grabbed his hammer and chisel from his bedside table, and walked straight into the studio. As he gazed at the marble, which was even taller than he was, he scratched his cheek and realized a beard was beginning to form. Pygmalion usually did not wear a beard, but he did not care for his own appearance, only the appearance of the statue which he was about to create. He paced in circles around the marble, gently running his fingers over the cool surface. He approached the block, placing his face merely inches from it, so close that he could see his own reflection, the reflection which he had not seen for several days. He remained this way, gazing, for fifteen minutes, when he lifted his hammer and chisel and begin to sculpt. The sun had set and rose again by the time the chisel stopped ringing, and even then it was the rumbling of Pygmalionâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s own stomach that stopped his work. The marble was transformed: the head and chest of a woman had already formed, the blank white eyes staring down at their creator. He placed his hands on the shoulders of it, feeling the gentle collarbones he had crafted from such hard stone. Its hair cascaded down its back like a waterfall, hugging the curve of her hips. He had to finish. His eyes and his mind burned as he imagined the statueâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s lower half, and his hammer and chisel clanged until the sun again had set and rose. With the salt of his sweat stinging his eyes, and his beard having grown to considerable proportions, he admired his work. She was beautiful, perfect even. Not only was the marble pure, it seemed the very soul of the statue, if she even had a soul, was pure and untouched. Only the marble prevented her from moving. Pygmalion rushed to his room, searching for anything he could offer to the statue. He snatched the sheet from his bed and fashioned it into a sort of dress, and from his bedside table he found a necklace, perhaps from when his mother passed, and brought them both to the statue. Trembling, he placed the neck87

lace on her neck, and wrapped the sheet around her. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Praise Aphrodite!â&#x20AC;? he exclaimed. He could not help himself: he embraced the statue and kissed it. As he kissed her, a peculiar event occurred. The marble warmed against his lips, and suddenly he felt the statue embrace him. She was flesh. Galatea stepped off the pedestal, and Pygmalion felt winds circulating around the room. He realized he was on his knees, and tears were staining his cheeks. As Galatea walked towards Pygmalion, he took her hand in his, and suddenly, the cold that had been surrounding him the past few days left him. His chest and heart warmed as he embraced the statue again, and the winds in the room stopped.

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FELICIDAD Stevie Karol ‘17

¿Cuál es felicidad? Es el sentimiento de la comodidad O el viaje para el éxito la felicidad, Es la felicidad un océano tranquilo o un cuarto con millones de personas. ¿Puede usted oír felicidad? Son los gritos de un bebé recién nacido o una conversación sobre el teléfono la felicidad. ¿Puede usted ver felicidad? Es la felicidad una cierta cara O una fotografía bonita. ¿Puede usted tocar felicidad? O es la felicidad demasiado difícil alcanzar…

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SOPA

Kyle McCarthy ‘17 Hace muchos años que comí esta sopa. Era joven. Veía las palabras, Que flotaban en la sopa Letras amarillas – Mar rojo. Sopa y papas fritas; La comida que satisface al niño Pero ya no soy niño. Esta persona ha muerto. Espero verlo pronto.

SOMBRA Luke Jones ‘17

Me siento que soy la sombra De un hombre más grande que yo. Solo soy un fantasma Nadie puede verme. Cuando yo hago algo él ya lo ha hecho. Cuando él se mueve yo sigo. Trato de ser mi propia persona Pero soy un esclavo de la oscuridad Y nunca estaré en la luz w

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