Rubicon 2015

Rubicon 2015

Wilbraham & Monson Academy

Wilbraham & Monson Academy 423 Main Street Wilbraham, MA 01095 (413)596-6811

Yuhan Zhang ’18 Acrylic

Rubicon 2015 Staff

Special Thanks

Editor: Yutong Zou ’15 Art Editor: Ye Lim Kim ’18 Layout Staff: Junwoo (Lucas) Kang ’17 Jisang Kim ’17 Hays Maynard ’18 Faculty Advisor: Heidi Ostendarp

Josh Bain Paul Bloomfield Barbara Conlon Wendy Decker Brian Easler Tim Harrington Marvina Lowry-Brook Marxan Pescetta Brendan Reed Deanna Roux Teddy Ryan Sarah Sawyer Sue Wood

Colophon

The text of Rubicon 2015 was composed in 11.5 point Calisto MT. Photoshop and InDesign were employed in its design. Starburst Printing & Graphics in Holliston, Massachusetts printed 450 copies on 80 pound matte paper stock using Konica equipment.

Rubicon is a member of Columbia Scholastic Press Association.

Front & Back Cover: Mina Lee ’17

Editorial Policy

In 2013, 2014 and 2015, a panel of faculty judges culled through writing submissions and awarded honorable mentions and first prizes in four categories: poems, academic essays, memoirs and short stories. First place entries from 2013 and 2014 appear in this publication, as do first place entries and honorable mentions from 2015.

The Rubicon staff, which met during the winter season, selected from among excellent student artwork, pairing images visually and thematically with pieces of writing. We hope that you will enjoy the 2015 issue of Rubicon!

C

O

N

Short Stories:

T

Echinacea............................................................................... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4

Megan Pehoviak ’14 Descent......................................................................................8

Alina Shirley ’15 Ginny’s World.......................................................................................13

Jon Vogt ’15 Heel.....................................................................................................18

Emily Carson ’15 I Just Wanted Coffee..............................................................................32

Sara Burke ’15 Mirror Rooms........................................................................................36

Nick Gilfor ’14 Reflections...................................................................................55

Aparna Sivakumar ’15 Summer’s Smoke...................................................................................60

Heather Little ’13 Thanksgiving Vacation...........................................................................64

Atticus Russell ’18 The Man with the Black Glove...............................................................67

Nick Gilfor ’14

2

E

N

T

Poems:

A Girl Poet............................................................................................16

Maddy Duke ’15 I Want To...............................................................................................29

Najma Shy ’15 Icarus...................................................................................31

Maddy Duke ’15 Wrong/Right........................................................................................44

Emily Dromgold ’17 Remedy.......................................................................................46

Arnelle Williams ’13 Terms and Conditions............................................................................47

Alina Shirley ’15 A Portrait of Some Poet.........................................................................52

Jon Vogt ’15

Nonfiction:

Iron Mike..............................................................................................26

Drew Mele ’15 My Grandma’s Funeral..........................................................................40

Yi (Sally) Qiu ’16 No Fish Today.......................................................................................48

Colin O’Brien ’16 Who Killed JFK?...................................................................................51

Emily Carson ’15 Swimming in August.............................................................................62

Harrison Kroessler ’14 Be Like Everybody Elsa.........................................................................75

Emily Dromgold ’17 The Dominican Woman’s Struggle.........................................................76

Julia Beech ’13 3

S

Echinacea J

ohn Pehoviak’s favorite flower is the green Echinacea: the Echinacea is a perennial, similar in look to a daisy, able to survive in many different conditions—drought, humidity, and poor soil—with petals curved downward and a tough, spiny center. Some even believe this flower has a medicinal use for the common cold and other respiratory problems.

Perhaps this is John’s favorite flower because it is an image of himself: a tough interior, a delightful exterior, with ability to flourish despite multiple hardships and challenges.

Today, John’s passion is landscaping; he lives and breathes to create his yard into Mother Nature’s sanctuary. The sun rises and John gently pushes his dogs—his three best friends—off of him as they remain sleeping peacefully. His tall, athletic build is clearly shown through his red shirt and blue jeans, his usual outfit. He steps outside and breathes in the crisp, spring morning air, placing his hat on, covering his almost bald (by choice) head. His strong, powerful steps remind others of his past in the field of law enforcement.

The birds seem to awaken, beginning to chirp as their songs are carried softly through the breeze. John walks over and bends down to a nearby plant, a bright green flower, and carefully checks its leaves and the moisture in the soil. He seems to be pleased, and his huge grin appears on his face as he nods in satisfaction.

It seems like his entire day is already made because of this green flower.

Many people enjoy planting flowers, but John’s passion is deeper than most: it’s in his blood, something his world revolves around. When asked why it pleases him so much, John answers by saying, “Landscaping gives me a sense of optimism and renewal. I hate winter and the cold, short days…landscaping is cathartic.” Driving past his house, one can tell John has a green thumb, something deep, that few people have. In the summer, 4

Shiyin (Sally) Liu ’18 Pen

waves of deep purples, greens, blues, oranges, and yellows encompass almost every available inch of possible yard. Flowers line the driveway, the walk to the door, and join in several huge patches of land on one side of the yard and in the back. Drivers slow down while passing by in awe of the beauty and sweet aromas that waft out of the yard and into the road and neighboring homes.

It seems John is able to name any flower ever discovered with a quick glance, but it goes even further. John can also tell what season to plant the flower, how deep to plant the seed, whether it needs more sun or shade, and the amount of water needed.

And somehow, he still has a favorite.

When asked to choose one that he loves most, John states, “Definitely Genus Echinacea. Especially when it’s lime green. It’s just so different from every other flower around it.”

It is rather curious as to how John has such a soft interior given his past in the vigorous world of the police force. Growing up in the small town of Ashland, Massachusetts, it was his dream to be a state trooper. He wanted to leave the safety of his neighborhood, to have a sense of adventure, and to make a difference for others. Being the youngest of three children, John had to work for everything he received. After his parents sent his two older siblings to prestigious colleges, their savings were gone and John had to settle for a college that was not the best match for his capabilities. While most would be furious and disappointed, John now says, “I knew I would be successful no matter what I was doing.” Over his years training at the police academy, John was changed from a small town boy into a stern, tough, man.

“I remember the days where the drill sergeants would call for room change. We would empty our rooms, placing all of our belongings outside in a pile. We could only bring down one item at a time, for example, one sock, one shirt, or one pair of shorts. After our rooms were emptied, we had to climb up the stairs of the building of our new room and put our things away, again one item at a time. And the whole process had to be completed by running. It took hours, and we were not allowed to stop at any point. It was excruciating.”

John’s career as a Massachusetts State Trooper was one of achievement

5

and success, but after 16 years of dedicating himself to protect and serve others, John was forced to retire after suffering a back injury that would remain with him for the rest of his life due to his car flipping over while involved in a chase. During his career, John took drugs off the streets, saved citizens, and witnessed horrible accidents. His most memorable was a motorcycle accident, where he found the victim’s head, still with the helmet on, in a tree 150 feet off the roadway. That image has stayed with him even 24 years later.

However, no amount of room changes, 16 mile runs (some at two in the morning with a 75 pound bag on his back), or workouts at the academy could have prepared John for the future obstacles he was going to face later in life. His strength would be tested on every level possible.

John’s history as a star athlete in high school and a physically fit state trooper led others to believe he was invincible. Twelve years after retiring, however, John was staring major medical problems in the face. Cancer was a far-fetched idea—it was a disease that could never happen to a man in his physical condition and with such devotion to his family and love for life.

And yet, it did.

Last spring, John was diagnosed with prostate cancer. John would always ask his family, “Why? What did I do? How could this happen to me?” He only had one option. Surgery enabled him to become cancer-free, and John finally began to feel as if he was regaining his life. Stuck on the couch, day after day, he would stare out the window into his bare, brown yard, craving the day he was strong enough to return to his flowers. Soon after, doctors revealed to John that he had blocked arteries in his heart and needed to have surgery to place stents in. He returned home days after the surgery, weak and fragile, almost unrecognizable from his former self. John returned to the hospital after only two days at home, rushed by ambulance with a major infection in his bloodstream.

John seemed to be on the verge of breaking, as if his medical problems would have no end.

He worried his yard would forever remain dead.

Many people in John’s life are surprised to hear of the battles he has faced in his lifetime, but he stays positive, going to church every Sunday with his family and having the ability to make someone laugh no matter the

6

7

Shiyin (Sally) Liu ’18 Pen

situation; his smile and laugh are infectious to those around him.

John thinks differently, however. He is never fully pleased, always yearning to accomplish something new. He says, “I haven’t overcome anything. I’m still battling.”

John walks over to the side of the driveway, where lies another area filled with flowers of a variety of colors and names. He sits on the pavement, and brushes off a sign that was not noticeable until now.

“Clifford Pehoviak: December 1, 1917 - October 13, 2009.”

It was the sign that was placed into the ground, indicating where his father would be buried before the coffin reached the cemetery at his funeral.

John has kept the sign, pushed into the dirt of his garden for the last four years. His medical problems tested his faith, but he found comfort in his guardian angel each and every day he struggled. “I found strength by talking to my father in Heaven,” John says, “strength even the academy couldn’t teach.”

He always felt his father’s presence, especially on days that seemed to never have an end.

And growing around his sign are the green Echinaceas. ¨

Megan Pehoviak ’14

Descent portal |`pôrtl | noun

1. a doorway, gate, or other entrance. portal A tear in the space-time continuum that allows immediate transportation from one area to another (via urban dictionary)

S

he goes to the fair alone on a Sunday, eats cotton candy for the first time, pukes for the tenth. She says hi to Ricky Babson from third period English (second row, third desk to the right, chronic smoker at sixteen).

He doesn’t respond. She watches a boy win a stuffed moose for his younger brother, and a mother buy lemonade for her daughter. She goes on the Ferris wheel, wonders what it’s like to have wings, and then goes home.

Fairs aren’t really for her.

Her dad isn’t home when she gets there. She turns on music loud and thinks about getting a tattoo. Something really small, at the base of her neck. Or maybe on her bicep, right under where the sleeve of her t-shirt would lie.

The bass shakes the fragile foundation as she stands and stares. She kicks her shoes off and lets her toes wiggle in the carpet, stiffened from sticky things of years past.

Her whole house is like a shoe that’s been worn for too long, with holes and scuff marks that could give way with one drop of water, but it never rains.

The sofa is scratched up by a cat they never had and the carpet always smells a little like pee and milk. There’s a wood stove that sounds like it’s going to explode at night and a microwave that has seen better days, a sputtering sink and a single shelf crowded with picture frames on the far wall. There are none of her father, just three of her younger brother, two of her, and one of a 8

woman her brother doesn’t remember. She wishes she didn’t, she wishes the wood stove didn’t make so much goddamn noise because she hates the house more than anything, hates it, wishes it would burn down like the last one. (...She nourishes the poison in her veins and is consumed by a secret fire) She puts on a song with piano in it, turns it up. Her mother is smiling with her hair tossed back with wind and laughter, and it makes her nauseated. If there’s one thing she remembers, it isn’t her mother smiling.

If she was going to put labels on her life (she doesn’t think about those kinds of things anymore) she might use the words singed, nauseous, leftover, maybe never-ending, by God. She stares at her mother and watches as she laughs in front of a train she wishes she could reach through and get on. She thinks she read a book like that once. To reach through pictures, touch other lives…what a journey.

It’s all a journey – this she knows. Her father was always charging forward (now he does no charging at all) with his fingers entwined with hers and her mother behind. She was always tripping, trying to keep up, and one day she looked back from her tripping and realized her mother was gone. They were running and running and then they just stopped, and she’s learned that that just doesn’t do. Laws of physics and all. She’s just a victim.

She knows that they came here to build a new city, build a new life, knows that the stitch in her chest and the acid in her throat should be ephemeral, but she’s never once been in the house and thought the word home. She looks at the walls and the frames and thinks gateway.

(God will give an end to these things also) Yeah, right.

She takes out a frame from a box she never opens, but it’s not a picture. She drew the same picture of the same door for a year, and one day she took one and framed it, hid it from her father, who burned and threw out all the rest.

She doesn’t remember the actual door but she knows what it is, knows it’s the door to her parents’ old bedroom. The picture itself is a contradiction to her, an endearing paradox, and all she wants to do is reach through the frame into where the door still stands and listen to piano music without crying fat, thick tears that stay behind her eyes and seem to materialize in her throat.

Without the knob or the rivets what is a door but a frame for a picture?

None of the doors in the house have handles or hinges, they’re just open spaces that mock the onlooker (her) when she sees her father read to her 9

10

Brian Kennedy ’15 Photograph

brother before bed, when she walks in on her father praying on the floor beside his bed and she turns away in shame (she doesn’t do those kinds of things anymore).

She puts the frame down and goes to the wood stove, fueling it. She wants to hear it churn.

She gathers sheet music from her hiding place and holds it in her hands, stares at the frames and curses the glass. They’re the only doors she’s ever been interested in crossing.

Barriers aren’t really for her.

What are you holding? her mother says, and she lays the music down on the floor, on the tile of the kitchen where the sink spurts and the refrigerator trembles. She takes every frame off of the shelf and breaks the glass with her hand, lays them on top of the music. She cleans up the blood and feels different, somehow.

She wants a tattoo on the base of her neck, or maybe her bicep. She wants to etch music across her skin until that’s all she is, and put a handle on her hip to let people know that she’s a world that can’t be opened.

She looks at her life on the floor. She wants to see it burn.

Don’t forget the most important part, honey, her mother says, and she takes her drawing out of the frame and places it on top with gentle, bloody hands.

She walks to the wood stove, and feels like puking for the eleventh time.

Why do I feel like this? she asks the air. Oh, baby.

The most dangerous moments are when you’re sitting on an edge looking down, when you’re staring at the holes in paper that bullets made, and baby, when is a door not a door?

She steps backward through the doorway and looks at a different world. She thinks of her father (widower, 43, father of two), and herself (and her skin, burned-out and husky) and watches the pile on the floor, listens to the wood stove and the piano until she feels like she’s traveled home again.

Somewhere, outside, it starts to rain.

Well. Facilis decensus averni. ¨ Alina Shirley ’15

11

12 Hannah Clewes ’15 Pencil

Ginny’s World I felt naked, those first few days. But as I lie beneath the Montana sky writing this, accompanied by the light of the stars and Isabel’s lantern, I can’t help but feel fuller. My mind often wanders to Isabel, my grandmother, and, subsequently, my family as a whole. I thought of the portraits, whose ranks I’d never join.

I

remember sitting on the couch beneath that damn paraplegic girl before I left. I don’t mean to insult her, but she began to grow insufferable, year after year, lording over the many crucifixes and portraits of the other family members long passed away stacked away on every shelf. They were dusty, and I’d often imagine my own portrait. It was only a matter of time until I ended up on a shelf, glaring with the other deceased at some new, elderly initiate who only had so long to live. Maybe mine would be next to mom’s. Her face was always the softest of the bunch, so my eyes took to those with more leathery faces. They taught me to be callous.

I remember lying back on the couch, and saw the lamp above my hand. I’d stopped trying to turn it on - that was a habit that died slowly. Grandma would always let the bulb simply die, and she never cared to replace it. I also had a better view of that painting; the last time I’d see it. I’d seen it a million times, and it seemed the spitting image of hopelessness. The painter must’ve been a vampire of such aptitude, that he could even suck the life from a blank canvas, and somehow have made it bleaker.

I asked grandma why she had that painting quite often. Of course, she always insisted Wyeth’s “Christina’s World” wasn’t some monument 13

to helplessness, but instead something she insisted drove her bleak, “rejuvenating” puritanism, just as she insisted mother’s death was “all part of God’s plan.”

I remember the drive, too. I felt relieved when we finally left, and by the time we hit the countryside, I remember how dark the car was. She wanted to drive overnight so we could reach my new college by mid-morning tomorrow.

She has a thing about hotels. I sat in the back, cluttered with luggage. I remember trying to turn on the overhead light, but she swatted my hand away.

I guess she just expected me to pass out.

My first few days at college didn’t feel particularly significant - just another thing I’d been coerced into. My dad reluctantly helped pay a portion of the tuition, but part of me wished he’d stayed totally selfish, and not partially. Part of me also felt guilty for not wanting to go to college - it felt like such a privileged complaint. But I felt horrible “needing” something, and I was disgusted by the idea of others laboring over whatever I lacked.

It didn’t take long for me to drop out. Apathy and ambition always bred rebellion, and when the idea of vagabonding seemed more interesting than classes on statistics, microeconomics, or working my way to becoming another picture in a frame on a shelf in an old fart’s house, I took to dreaming.

But it wasn’t that immediate. No, it started when I changed my major from accounting to English. Boy, was she mad. Dad didn’t give a damn, but Grandma damn near took me out of school for that move. Technically she did, but not with the intended results. Grandmother never expected others to rebel - her kids certainly hadn’t, and I think she believed complacency and good manners to run in our blood. Yeah.

I remember her calling, and I remember crying on my bottom bunk. I tried to stay silent, but even my roommate could hear her yelling. Who knew a 79 year old had it in her, huh?

“You’re mom’s sure pissed. You alright, Ginny?” “…”

I remember her arm around me, telling me it was alright; and how she dried my tears with her shirt, and we talked all night long - about everything. I remember touching her shoulder. My hand rested there. I felt her warmth, and in my confusion, I found a love that would’ve given my grandmother a heart attack.

I left a few months later, after winter had passed. I gave most of what I had to my roommate, Isabel, despite her protests. I told her of my plans a week 14

beforehand, and to my protest, she bought me a pound of granola bars, a map of the U.S., and a travel lantern, along with a few lightbulbs. We hugged goodbye, and I promised we’d write.

I remember my first few nights on the Continental Divide Trail. I’d heard that if you didn’t quit the CDT in the first week, you probably had what it took to hike it. I was impressed, not with how well I did, but with just how unfit I was. But it gave me my first taste of accomplishment. Three miles in a day felt like it was worth a celebration, and I went to bed cold, tired, and happy. The cold was unlike anything I’d been used to. Growing up in Mississippi, I only knew of heat. It was indicative to my upbringing. The soggy, southern heat only sought to smother and subdue, but this northern chill demanded a degree of will and tenacity from me. The heat was always dizzying, and it drowned my soul in oppressive layers, but the cold took away every layer of comfort I had, until all that was left was my soul.

I felt naked, those first few days. But as I lie beneath the Montana sky writing this, accompanied by the light of the stars and Isabel’s lantern, I can’t help but feel fuller. My mind often wanders to Isabel, my grandmother, and, subsequently, my family as a whole. I thought of the portraits, whose ranks I’d never join. I also thought of the damn memento mori that stood above my grandmother’s couch.

I often felt like that poor, emaciated girl in the field, reaching out to that bleak farmhouse. My familial situation had often made me feel paralyzed from the waist down, and the suffocation of loss only compelled me to reach further towards some lifeless promise of shelter. All it was was desolation. Recently, I’ve begun to see why my grandmother was the way she was: I wasn’t the only one who’d experienced loss, and I wasn’t the only one in that painting, emaciated, desperate, and, ultimately, clingy. I apologize, grandma, and so should you; maybe then we can enjoy the starry night. o Jon Vogt ’15

15

A Girl Poet

But I want this to change.

I have ideas thoughts memories that I wish to record.

Before they are gone.

Before I am gone.

Because I must leave a mark, I must leave something behind, Anything.

So I will become a poet.

I will teach myself science philosophy music.

I will learn to craft the tunnels of my mind into hallways.

I will build a map.

Then someone will know, you will know, that there was a girl who became a poet.

That there was a girl who craved knowledge remembrance legacy.

And that she was me.

Maddy Duke ’15

16

Risa Fugetsu ’18 Pencil

I’m not a poet.

I don’t rhyme.

The words from my mouth become jumbled before they can reach for oxygen.

My thoughts don’t come in verse.

My words become stuck in my throat mind subconscious before I can reach for a pen.

Risa Fugetsu ’18 Pencil

Muyi (Jennifer) Zhao ’16 Pencil

T

Heel

he yelling had started again.

“Goddammit, we’re gonna be late! Get your ass down here.”

She glanced at the clock. 6:18. There was at least a half an hour until they had to leave. She sighed. She could picture him running a hand roughly through his hair, tugging at the ends of it like he always did when he was mad, and swearing under his breath. She sighed again, and put on her other earring.

She walked over to the closet and looked at her dresses. One was a long grey sheath, perfect for a formal dinner. The other was a soft green, cocktail length with a modest neckline, and half sleeves. The last was black and short, revealing miles of leg and a good amount of cleavage due to its plunging neckline. However, the sleeves were wrist length, which had become more and more of a necessity.

She crossed the room to the full length mirror and hugged her body, staring at herself. Slowly she uncrossed her arms and examined her torso, naked except for a bra and underwear.

Bluish-purple welts rose all over her body, winding around her hips and stomach, and snaking around her arms. Some were older, and yellowish in color, mottled into a blotchy, beaten mess.

She immediately realized that the grey sheath was out because it would not cover up the bruises. She settled on the green dress, enjoying the softness of the fabric as it swished and settled

18

against her skin. The bruises were on her upper arms anyway; half sleeves would cover everything. She put her hair in a bun and left, closing the door behind her. Her low pumps, the ones she had bought herself after he bought her stilettos instead of work shoes like she had asked, were lying at the top of the stairs. She slipped them on and made her way down.

He glanced at her as she made her way down the stairs, then grimaced.

“What the hell are you wearing? I thought I told you to put the black one on!

And why is your hair up? Leave it down, it looks sexier. Go back up and change.”

“But I don’t have time. We’re going to be late.”

His hand twitched against his leg. She winced involuntarily.

She trudged dutifully back up the stairs and unzipped the green dress, letting it fall in a puddle of fabric at her ankles. She picked up the black dress and shimmied into it, wincing as it tightly hugged the tender bruises on her body. She made her way back down the stairs, noticing that his expression was unchanged.

“Better,” he said, crossing the room in three quick strides, “but the hair still needs work.” He reached for her, and she shied away.

“Aww baby, don’t be like that,” he pleaded with a wounded expression. “I just want you to look your best. You know that baby, don’t you? I just wanna show you off.” He reached more gently for her hair and she forced herself not to move, locking her muscles in place, closing her eyes. He tugged her hair free of its restraints and arranged it around her face.

“There,” he said proudly, “now you look like something I could be proud to call my wife.” He glanced up and down appreciatively, then noticed her footwear. His expression shifted again.

“Put on the stilettos I bought you! You asked for new shoes, and this is the thanks I get? I would have kept the money if I’d known you wouldn’t wear them!”

“I didn’t ask for stilettos,” she whispered. “I can’t walk in them. They hurt my feet.”

He was hunting around the room for the shoes, not listening to a word she said. Finally he dug them off of the back of the shoe rack.

“Here,” he yelled, as he made his way towards the door. He tossed them at her and she ducked as they flew an inch from her nose and crashed against the wall behind her. “Meet me out in the car after you put these on.” He slammed the door, and the house was still.

She didn’t even realize that she was crying until she bent over to slip her feet into the mesh straps of the shoes, and her tears began dripping on the 19

velvety fabric. Straightening, she sniffled, and wiped her eyes. He wouldn’t like it if her makeup was running. Best not to make him even angrier.

She woke up that night gasping for air, wheezing because the bruises on her chest and ribs made it painful to breathe. She lay on her back, breathing raggedly while he snored away unconcerned next to her. She stared at the stilettos, lying in a heap next to the bed. The other wives had taken theirs off after an hour, and she had joined them. When he had seen her and the other women roaming around the party without them he had laughed, but once they got home he had pushed her down on the ground and kicked her over and over.

Quietly, she sat up, feeling like she was on the edge of blacking out from the pain. Wincing, she shifted her weight off of the bed, carefully trying not to disturb him. She hobbled downstairs and wrapped an ice pack in a towel. All her strength had been exhausted by that simple task, and she sank to her knees in exhaustion at the stairwell. She crawled back up the stairs, the wrapped ice pack clenched in her teeth; she had become an expert at this movement over the years. She folded herself into bed silently, laid the ice pack on her stomach, and enjoyed the icy relief spreading through her as she faded into sleep.

She woke with a jolt, and flew up into a sitting position, momentarily forgetting her injuries. The move brought tears of pain to her eyes, but underneath it all she noticed a new throbbing. Her cheek smarted, and she put her hand up gingerly to touch it.

He was standing over her, hand still raised.

“Finally,” he said, exasperated. “I’ve been trying to get you up for five minutes. Thanks to you,” he said, placing a hand on his lower back and twisting his face in pain, “I wrenched my back from sleeping on that stupid ice pack. It’ll be a miracle if I can get into work today.” He hobbled into the bathroom, and slammed the door shut. She listened for the sound of the shower, then slipped out of bed, grabbed her clothing, and went to the downstairs bathroom, where she could get ready without scrutiny.

She opened the bathroom cabinet, where she kept her stash. Bottles of foundation and cover-up lined the shelves, dark and light tones for both summer and winter. Not that she wore anything shorter than half sleeves and pants during the summer anyway.

By then her routine was mechanical. She started spreading foundation over the areas that could be exposed, not bothering to cover her stomach, just her 20

arms, upper chest, and thighs. While that dried she applied regular makeup, a little heavier than normal because her cheek was still red, and threatening to bruise over. When she finished, she dressed, made coffee for him, and grabbed a piece of toast and her purse. She left the house, closing the door gently behind her.

She breathed a sigh of relief. Outside the world was calm, the air sweet with the start of the morning. The tension that was constantly in the house, hovering over everything like a heavy shroud, was lifted when she stepped outside. She stood a little taller, enjoying the sounds and feel of the morning, as her coworker’s car pulled into the driveway; he refused to buy her a car, so she carpooled. She stepped into the car and slammed the door shut, staring straight ahead as the house disappeared from sight.

She got home after work, exhausted from the day. She changed into sweatpants and a faded t-shirt, then wandered into the kitchen. The hour and a half between the time she got home and the time he got home always passed too quickly. She usually spent them making dinner; he was never in a good mood when he got home, and it was the easiest way to placate him. She started to make lasagna, and lost track of time until she heard the garage door open. By then she had finished cooking, and laid everything out on the table.

She stood at the sink washing the dishes, every nerve in her body tensed as she waited for him to enter.

He entered with a bang, slamming the door and dropping his briefcase with a loud thud. He walked over to the kitchen and kissed her on the side of the head. She forced herself not to flinch; he hated that.

“How was your day?” he asked, moving over to the pantry to grab a bottle of wine. Without waiting for an answer he continued, “My day was a bear.

Jensen in marketing mixed up all the damn files, and we had to spend our whole lunch break sorting them out. I’m starving.” He walked over to the table and sat down. As she followed him, he caught sight of her.

“That’s what you’re wearing to dinner?” he asked. “Would it kill you to make a little effort once in a while? I work hard all day, and all I want is to come home to dinner and my loving wife, but you’re dressed like a slob. And you used to put so much effort into your appearance when we were dating...” he trailed off, and shook his head. As she tried to sit down, he stood up quickly and grabbed her chair, pulling it away.

21

“Go change into something nicer. Then you can have dinner.” He cut himself a large piece of lasagna while she stood there, mouth gaping open.

“Well?” he said, taking a big bite. “What are you waiting for, an invitation?

Move!”

Disbelievingly she walked upstairs, and stood in front of the closet, not seeing anything. She found a short red dress that she had worn before she had married him, but due to some strategically placed cutouts on the side of the dress, it had become impossible to wear without revealing too much damage.

She put it on anyway, in a sudden burst of defiance. Let him see what he’s done to me, she thought angrily. Let him see what I’ve become because of him.

She walked downstairs confidently, striding towards the table. She stood in front of him, daring him to turn her away. He glanced at her appreciatively, then his gaze froze at her midsection. A look that was somewhere between horror and panic crossed his face.

“Well?” she asked, the strength of her own voice surprising her. She stood there, feeling like all the world was against her. But at that moment, she thought she could have taken it on and won.

Something in her voice made him snap back. He looked down, his hands balled into fists, breathing unevenly. When he looked up again he looked more controlled, although still visibly shaken. His gaze fell to her legs, then her feet.

His brow furrowed.

“You’re not wearing shoes,” he said, calmly. It was a statement, not a question.

She looked down. It was true: she wasn’t wearing any shoes. She had kicked off her pumps after work, and had simply gone barefoot around the house.

“You’re not wearing shoes,” he repeated, angrily this time. He stood up suddenly, his chair falling straight back. “YOU’RE NOT WEARING SHOES!” he roared, lunging toward her. He grabbed her hair as she turned to flee, jerking her head back. She screamed, and he hit her across the face, with a force so hard that his wedding band scratched her face. He punched her, splitting her lip open. Blood dripped onto the carpet. He began yelling, calling her a slut, a whore, a bitch. She fell down, curling into a fetal position as he began kicking her, but he was undeterred. He began punching her again, relentlessly, as she cried out and sobbed, begging him to stop. She thought she was going to die that way, bruised and bleeding on the carpet. She began drifting in and out of consciousness, not even feeling the blows, barely

22

When she woke up, he was standing over her, breathing heavily. She closed her eyes, willing herself back into the darkness, but it wouldn’t come.

“Shoes,” he panted, wiping his face. “Go. Put. Your. Stilettos. On. And. Don’t. Come.

Down. Until. Then. You. Devil. Bitch.”

With that he turned and sank into his chair. She lay there a few moments longer, wishing the floor would just swallow her up. Finally she pulled herself upright, and crawled over to the stairwell, like she had done for so many nights. Nausea swept over her and she paused and closed her eyes, trying to regain control. She crawled slowly up the stairs, each movement feeling like she was trying to swim through syrup. Once she reached the landing she paused, and gave herself a moment’s rest. Then she crawled into the bedroom, closed the door, leaned against the side of the bed. Bracing herself, she found that she could stand, although shakily. As she hobbled across the room to pick up the stilettos, she caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror.

Something not quite human stared back at her. Purple and red marks interlocked all over her body. Her face was covered in small scratches from his engraved wedding band, and a long jagged one ran down her cheek.

Both eyes were swollen and puffy, not just from crying, but from being hit; one had

23

Muyi Zhao ’16 Pencil

registering that she was in pain. She felt oddly detached, as though she was watching this scene from somewhere else, outside of her own body. She thought she heard him yell the word “shoes”, then repeating it over and over, like a broken record. Then she blacked out.

Emily Carson ’15

24

Feiyang (Bill) Liu ’18 Acrylic

already turned into a black eye, and the other was beginning to develop. Pieces of hair hung around her face in clumps. More bruises were forming over the ones she had already collected, covering down even over her lower legs. She turned around, aghast, to examine the damage on her back. Then she noticed the imprint. It was curved, in the shape of a man’s shoe, with both heel and toe print forming on her calf. At some point, he had started beating her with one of his shoes.

Rage boiled suddenly inside her, blinding her. She grabbed her stilettos and marched downstairs, a loud roaring noise pounding in her eardrums. She stopped behind his chair, and waited for him to turn around.

“Ah, she’s learned to listen! Finally!” he said smugly, turning around and looking at her bare feet. She clenched the stilettos tighter, one in each hand, grasping the toe firmly. He frowned, then looked up at her. “I thought I told you to—” Before he could finish his sentence, she flung the shoe at him. It hit him square in the face, leaving him with a dazed expression. He reached up to touch his cheek, then looked up at her in bafflement.

She launched herself at him, screaming, and they both fell out of the chair.

She attacked him with the stiletto, first beating him, then stabbing him, aiming for his eyes, his mouth, his neck. Blood covered the floor, but she didn’t stop, couldn’t stop, kept going until the shoe was caked in blood and tissue, the velvety fabric slick and clumped together. With the last of her ebbing strength, she raised the heel high and stabbed it through his open mouth, then collapsed, sliding onto the ground. The heel tumbled from her hand, rolling across the floor. The last thing she saw before she slid into unconsciousness were the two stilettos, standing upright next to each other, as if they were just waiting for someone to slip them on for a night out. ¨

Iron Mike P

Andrew Goncalves ’15 Ceramics

utting on his harness, I can tell Michael is ready for any challenge. I take my position behind him, grasp the lines, and bellow two simple yet powerful words: “Step up!” When Michael hears this, he knows it is time to go to work. He approaches the nearest log he can see, ready to be hitched to it. As I strap the log to his harness, I can tell he has been waiting all day for this; he finally has the chance to show his strength. I hold all 2,000 pounds of him back between my fingers until the moment I command, “Step up,” when he pulls the log from the forest with ease. He lives for moments like these; he knows it is his purpose. I know it is mine too. Without a job, Michael and I are nothing.

The first time I entered the farm full of rescued draft horses, I was unsure if I belonged there. I knew nothing of these massive animals, let alone how to drive one. The owner of the farm, a tall

26

draft horse of a man himself, introduced me to Michael the Shire. He was almost immortal, a creature out of the Odyssey. He stood tied to the rail, his broad chest ready to split the fence that held him. The man warned that Michael might be stubborn and difficult to handle, because of his rough past.

I was frightened beyond belief, and a little skeptical. Driving horses for farm work seemed like a dated practice done by the Amish. Why not use a tractor?

However, something about the horse’s powerful stature and pure white coat drew me closer. That day, I discovered a lifelong passion that would help shape me into the person I am today.

This once neglected, unstable horse soon became my best friend. An inseparable bond was created, one that can only be shared between human and horse. I realized the strength of the bond we had formed on a fall New England day when I let Michael roam free in a round pen. Upon entering the enclosure with my massive friend, my heart was beating out of my chest with a mixture of fear and hope. His head low, he approached me with curiosity, as if he were wondering why we weren’t working in the harness. I took a few steps away, and he followed. I ran to my right. He followed. I circled around him. He followed. Sprinting past him, he bucked skyward launching his tree trunk-like limbs into the air, and then playfully ran after me like a puppy would chase his tail. We played for what seemed like forever, and I relaxed, running and laughing. I trusted him. At that moment, nothing had ever been so clear to me as I discovered my passion for these powerful animals, for Michael. This is something I know I will never lose.

This inseparable bond has given me an incredible amount of confidence in Michael, and myself. Together we can now conquer almost any task. Standing behind him, my hands gripping the lines with certainty, I can feel his strength and the enjoyment he gets out of completing tasks around the farm. I connect with him, and together we reach a focused stage, in which any task can be accomplished. This brings a smile to my face knowing that if I had not taken the initial chance of driving Michael when we were both so unsure, we would not be the team we are today. Together we are honoring an ancient working partnership between humans and horses, and it has led me to discover my own passion, and all that I can accomplish with confidence, perseverance, and a good friend. o Drew Mele ’15 27

28

Yulia (Julia) Sazonenko ’15 Pencil

I Want To I want to walk into a store and take my time without three extra pairs of eyes watching my every move Better yet, I want to own that store and have that store be more than a corner store for cigarettes and food And I want to look in the mirror and acknowledge my big brown eyes aside from the fact that they could never be blue And let the color of my skin be as determinant of my life as the color of the soles of my shoes I want to talk to you all about finding a way to kill every elephant in this room Come to terms with our past and our present and collectively spread the news I want to hear what you have to say and why you think what I’m saying is confused It’s these uncomfortable conversations that consequently spark a fuse I want you to hold my hand and help me to draw the fine line between jokes and disrespect And I want my mom to feel comfortable sending my brothers to the store without the fear that they’ll be next I want you to assume that my name Najma has a meaning and my mom didn’t just make it up I want you to remember me by the thoughts and not my flaws and realize that there is probable cause for my internal battle I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable asking me questions about my hair Just like I don’t want to feel uncomfortable asking you if you care I want to crack ratchet jokes sometimes and make you laugh But I don’t want those jokes to make you underestimate my ability in a class I want to start a new chapter in this book of history and I want to be there when you write it I want to be there when you write it so that when I’m deceased my great-great-great grandchildren will have no way to deny it I want them to look back at my issues and have them seem ancient In the same way that World War I started in what year? And I can’t tell you a location Because this nation is great and holds potential to make changes I want every history book to have a special section about my generation!

Najma Shy ’15

Icarus We say that curiosity killed the cat, And it was hubris that killed the son of Daedalus.

We see the problem as a lack of common sense, or worse, Disobedience.

We are to be still and quiet Until we are fed up enough to Continue the cycle; To blame the next generation for the faults of our own past.

There is a certain Calmness To be found in blaming the progenies, And yet we cried and threw our blocks at our own foul parents.

We rebelled in the easiest way With bitter words and crushed pills And we ignored our own ability to take any Action.

We could have changed the world.

Mina Lee ’17 Photograph

We could still if only we stop trying to put back together the pieces And use that shattered glass for something new.

If we stop hogging the puzzle.

We could.

We echo that we must kill our curiosity Before it brings us to our grave, But what of creation?

We all know that curiosity killed the cat, But sometimes we forget how satisfaction brought it back.

Maddy Duke ’15

31

I Just Wanted Coffee “June 24th, 1942. Session 63. Doctor Halbert.”

The thin doctor released his boney finger from the red record button and glanced over his shoulder to confirm that the tapes were rolling. They were. Doctor Charles M. Halbert looked across the gray metal table at a frail man whose nervous hands were trying to roll a cigarette.

“Go ahead,” Dr. Halbert spoke gently, “begin when you’re ready.” The man leaned forward, and stared at the microphone in the center of the table. He cleared his throat and began.

“My name is Edward.

I’m 36 years old and I’ve done something terribly wrong. I didn’t mean for it to happen, I-I-I just wanted some coffee, you see. It was late, perhaps one o’clock in the morning and I just wanted some coffee.”

Edward’s voice trailed off, and he began to look at his cigarette. Dr. Halbert shifted in his seat and sighed.

“Go on, Ed, I don’t got all night here,” the doctor said, quickly becoming impatient. “Just start from the beginning.”

Edward sat up and straightened his back against the chair. He lit the

32

33

Adam Kugelmass ’19 Photagraph

cigarette, took a long drag and stared at the doctor.

“I was taking a walk,” Edward began with a tone of assertion in his voice.

“I couldn’t sleep you see, I had just received news that my Ma had passed. I was in New York. I couldn’t catch a train back to Nebraska in time for the funeral. I’m a cop, you see, I don’t have the time to leave the city. I didn’t know where I was going or how long I would be gone, all I knew was that I just needed to go. I lit a cigarette and began walking towards midtown.”

Doctor Halbert nodded his head and scribbled a few lines on his notepad. He glanced up at Edward, and silently encouraged him to go on.

“Eventually I rounded a corner,” continued Edward.

“There were no people on the streets. I glanced at my watch, and it read 1:12. It was that late. I hadn’t even noticed I’d been walking for three hours. I just—I just needed some coffee. I looked across the street and noticed that a diner was open; it had a sign for Phillies, which was a relief. I needed some more smokes too. As I got closer to the diner, I realized that I was not the only one out tonight. There were two men sitting at the counter, both dressed in dark suits. Sitting next to one of the men was a woman in all red, from her hair to

her lips. I walked inside and sat down. The man behind the counter, all in white, nodded at me. “‘I’ll get ya in just a second, kid. Hold on.’ He then turned to the couple sitting across from me and said, ‘Can I get ya two lovebirds anything else?’

“The scarlet woman gave a disgusted glance towards the man sitting next to her and then looked back down at the unlit cigarette in her hands. “‘We’re not lovebirds!’ the woman sneered. ‘He won’t even say he loves me.’

“I noticed that she loved him though, very much. The woman twirled the cigarette between her fingers, and then sighed. She knew that she was wasting her time with him, but she could never leave him. I then looked at the man next to the scarlet woman; he wore an unimpressed face. I could tell he settled for this woman, she wasn’t even pretty. He looked almost displeased with himself.

However, the man sitting adjacent to the not-so-in-love lovebirds seemed to be going through internal conflict. He sat there staring at a photograph of a man.

The steam from his coffee swirled around his face, but he refused to pay any attention to it. His eyes were permanently glued to the picture. “‘Can I get ya anything else sir?’ the man behind the counter inquired.

‘Some food, possibly a cigar?’ “‘I am alright thank you.’ The man responded while maintaining his gaze on the photograph. Behind the counter, the man swiveled on his heels and looked at me. His blond hair and peppy voiced irritated me. “‘What can I do ya for?’ “‘One cup of coffee please,’ I asked as I moved uncomfortably in my seat.

I got this feeling that I just couldn’t shake. My head started pulsing, the actions around me became loud, there was a pounding in my ears. I could hear the friction between the paper of the cigarette and the scarlet woman’s fingers, the breathing of the man next to her intensified. The man with the photograph produced tears that rolled off his face and splashed onto the counter. It was like I could hear the ocean. And that man. Oh that man! He was sitting behind the counter shuffling underneath looking for something, but he was staring at me. His smile burned through my eyes. I couldn’t take it all, it was too much! The sounds! The pathetic looks! It was all too much! “‘Oh, I’m sorry sir,’ the man behind the counter began, ‘we’re all outta coffee.’ “‘All out of what,’ I told him. ‘You’re telling me that you are all out of coffee, when there are two huge coffee pots behind you and there are three 34

other people here! Well that’s bullshit, sir. Give me some goddamn coffee.’ “‘Sir, as I just said we don’t got any.’ “‘You don’t got any, huh?’ I couldn’t take it. They were all so miserable anyway. I reached down and grabbed my gun and shot every last one of them.

The scarlet woman and her damn cigarette, her man with his disapproving face, the man and his photograph, and the guy who had no coffee. I-I-I just wanted some goddamn coffee.”

Edward’s voice began to trail off and he glanced up at the doctor, who sighed and folded his hands on the table. Edward broke down. He began to shake, and his hands fumbled to roll another cigarette.

“Now Edward,” began Dr. Halbert, “We’ve been over this before. You did not kill anyone, you were never a cop, and your mother did not die. You have never met those people before in your life.”

“No! But I swear I’ve done a terrible thing. You have to listen to me!”

“Edward, please remain calm. You don’t want another episode now, do you?”

“They were there! They were all there! How can you tell me this! I saw them! I looked every single one of them in the eyes as I shot them!”

“Now Edward, you haven’t been out of the institution since you were a boy.

There is no way this could have happened.”

“But-but-but I swear!” Edward looked at the doctor with pleading eyes.

None of it made any sense to him. He looked at the doctor, who got up from his chair and walked to the closet in the corner of the room. From it the doctor produced a large rectangular object, draped in a white sheet.

“Edward, I will tell you once again. It never happened.” The doctor pulled the sheet off revealing a painting of a diner. Inside was a man with his back turned to the glass, looking at an object in his hands. Across the counter was a man, and next to him a woman, dressed all in red contemplating a cigarette.

And behind the counter was a man in white and beside him were two large coffee pots. Edward stared at the painting.

“How did you—” Edward’s voice cut off in disbelief. “They look just like—” “I know they do, Edward,” continued Dr. Halbert. “It’s because you painted them.” o

Sara Burke ’15 35

Mary Callahan ’15 Acrylic

Mirror Rooms

T

oday Albert said that the tomatoes were up because fertilizer was up because cows were up because there is a drought in the Midwest. He is a good man, but sometimes I think his ambition exceeds his honesty.

He thinks he can pull one over on an older gentleman, but he will see when he is one himself. Doris was pleasant as ever – curt, polite. She knows how to treat a customer. The bulbs should bloom in late April. Lovely Narcissus.

Doris suggested them – I should hope she was not suggesting anything else!

I had come across the idea recently of not being myself. See what they think. See what they do. I have ordered a pair of dark sunglasses, and a cane, and fashioned it to look like that of a blind man. The application of a convincing beard is no trouble either. As you know, dear, an old man has traveled many paths; the Spirit Gum rests on the top shelf of the closet. My 36

face will be covered sufficiently for them, they notice little more than themselves to begin with. Is it insensitive to try it? I suppose man made the journal to better ask himself such questions, and I answer no, it is not. I do no harm, after all. I will try it. This weekend. Saturday. Let me see them when I cannot see them.

I changed my gait ever so slightly today, just for safety. Habits of an old man, I suppose, to take every precaution. Habits of an old man to keep a journal! I kept my head down and hunched, so that my blind self will seem all the more different when he walks into the market head up and back straight, or at least straighter. Tomatoes are still up, I saw on the sign. Ten cents.

Fertilizer. Butter, however, has not changed. I wonder which animal it comes from. Saturday comes soon, and I think more of that than of Albert.

The beard took longer to apply than I expected; it seems these hands have lost some finesse, have grown stiff and sluggish under the light of so many moons. The last few hairs, the ones placed individually on the chin to give the appearance of realism, were the hardest. They are so thin, and my fingers so wide, swollen. No matter. To recapitulate the main event of the day. My findings were extraordinary.

The look on Albert’s face as I walked into the market to his stall! It was one of disbelief, a look I am sure he thought I could not see. I had been perfecting my walk at home, hours a day, to ensure I was believable. I had only ever been in charge of the actors’ looks, never the acting! My practice must have paid off though, as neither Albert nor anyone else recognized me, and nobody came close to smelling my ruse. I went through the fruits ’til I got to the pears, bruised around the sides, not yet at peak ripeness.

“How are these pears?” I asked him, my voice full of trust.

He responded, “These are the best in town, sir,” a falsehood my blind character would not know, but which I could recognize instantly. I told him I would check with my wife how many she would need, and return later. He bid me farewell. The glint in his eye shone through the shadowed lens of my glasses.

At Turner’s I went to get my shoe fixed. I had not bought it from him, 37

and it had been broken a while – there was no chance of anyone connecting it to me. I told him that I could feel the sole flapping at the toe, and it must be broken. He felt the need to assure me that it was indeed broken – as if it would not be obvious even to a blind man! – and proceeded to work. I sat by the corner and, unable to read the paper as I typically would, contented myself with my own thoughts as he sewed up the shoe for what seemed like a shorterthan-usual time. Occasionally he interrupted my thoughts with attempts at small talk. He would mention how the weather was turning warmer, ask where I was from, and at one point he attempted to steer the conversation towards the shoes themselves. I responded to everything as polite as possible, but the sense of pity that emanated from him stifled any desire I had to communicate: “Yes, it is. Spring will be here soon”; “I’m from farther North.

Staying with a friend for a month or so”; “Yes, they are nice. Good quality.

Broken, though.” He ventured a few more times, tried to follow up on my responses, but soon, thankfully, he relinquished me to my thoughts. When I picked up the shoes, I saw a small thread sticking out. It was something many seeing men would not notice, and especially not a blind man. But I paid in full the price of a repair.

Doris asked what occasion the flowers are for, but her face, invisible to my character, betrayed her thoughts: What would you need flowers for? I told her they were for my wife, and could she please pick out something she believes a woman would enjoy. She handed me a rather nice bouquet of some lily hybrid, but I could see that the one behind it was not as wilted.

The road was darker than usual on my way home to you, a result of the sunglasses. I think now I see what I have always suspected with these people.

After I wrote in you yesterday, taking off the beard was even harder than putting it on. The alcohol burned my nose; my fingers had little strength for rubbing it in. When I removed the sunglasses I felt the color rush in, and it connected with me. It hurt my head, and I had to lie down. Today I stayed at home, as I usually do, and tended to the bulbs. Their soil is perfect – loamy, with dried blood to deter the rabbits and calcium packed in. After reading for less than I would have liked, I had to start the fire. It had gotten cold by the afternoon. I put on my sunglasses, grabbed my cane, and practiced my walk for a few hours, adding some affectations to my character. Perhaps he will be 38

mentioned to me tomorrow.

There was no mention of a blind man from anyone in the town. It seems to be a topic best avoided for them. I did not ask, of course. I am not so demented yet that I would be so obvious, but still, he was never brought up.

And I would think it queer if a blind man I had never seen before suddenly showed up to my business one day! Even Doris, when I asked how business had been, only responded with a curt, “Good. Can’t complain.” Soon they’ll reveal their true selves.

Behind the sunglasses, I bought the pears from Albert today. He assured me that I had made a good choice as I walked away. He had shown the type of man he was; I could see him now. As I walked down the street, a man neglected to tell me the post box was ahead, choosing instead to let me find it myself with cane; obviously he had other business to attend to. The changing weather hurts my bones. As I passed by Doris’s on the way home to you, she was repotting the plants on the windowsill. I saw her turn and recognize me from the other day, but she said nothing, no greeting. There is no time for these people for someone like me. It is a shame, how they are.

Ghosts in mirror rooms. They see only themselves, know only themselves.

It hurts too much to apply and reapply the beard. I leave it on. Of course, with the beard on, the sunglasses must stay as well, and I wear them everywhere but here. I see now more than ever, and I know the next step to seeing even more. These people are trapped in themselves, no time for the disadvantaged, for the weak, for the old. I am afraid we part here, dear. You have been my companion, and I cherish the time we have spent together, but I do not plan to write in you anymore. I must remember where I put the rubbing alcohol. I am sure it will suffice.

39

Nick Gilfor ’14

My Grandma’s

Funeral I

t is scary to see grandma wearing black.

Especially with a whole suit, from head to toe, she no longer feels like the amiable grandma I’ve known, but someone related to the black and cold hell. And indeed, she is now.

She died of cancer an hour ago, and now is lying in the coffin with a dead face as rigid as stiff clay and withered lips parted, as if she was trying to say something but had run out of time. Grandpa stands beside me, staring at Grandma with muddy eyes. He is eighty-four years old now and has to lean against the coffin while slowly lifting his trembling hands from the crutch to Grandma’s chin. Trying to push her chin up to close her mouth, Grandpa mu m b l e s, “ B e a t e a s e. Yo u r s o n s, grandsons, and the whole family have come to see you. There is nothing that you need to worry about.” This is the last time we see Grandma; the coffin will be forever closed after this.

I walked out of the ancestral hall. A chilly midnight breeze swept through and I blinked. Sights of nearby houses, trees, and paddies are mingled in the night as thick as black ink, leaving only the contours of the 40

41

Marissa Fabbo ’17 Ceramic

surrounding mountains. Grandma has spent her life in this small mountain village where most residents possess the same last name.

It is said that hundreds of years ago, several families with the same last name came here and settled. As time went by, families grew and gradually built up the village to what it is today. People in this village more or less have kinship with each other, and therefore live together like brothers and sisters. There is only one road in the village, by which younger people go to the outside world to study or work. Most of them choose to settle down in cities, so the elders and children make up the majority of the population in the village. Contrary to the rapidly changing urban life, life here remains traditional and peaceful. People have a self-sufficient food supply and still keep the old tradition of festivals, weddings as well as funerals.

The sound of a gong breaks the silence; it is time for the funeral to begin. The small ancestral hall becomes crowded as people come in, kneel down, and kowtow while the priest delivers a speech, wishing a happy life to Grandma in the other world.

The ritual lasts about an hour, and then we step out one by one in a line in which the oldest son goes first, holding the memorial tablet, and then Grandpa, younger sons and daughters, granddaughters...

We are all wearing white strips on our heads and walking silently in darkness.

We walk across the yard, past the old house where my dad was born, and across the paddy where Grandma used to farm.

Finally, we get to Grandma’s house, an old two-story building full of people and happiness months ago, but now standing there as if it has been discarded for many years. Walking around the house one round after another, I heard some adults saying that by doing this, we take the souls of dead people to where they used to live for the last time, so they wouldn’t leave with regret.

—“Would you leave with peace, Grandma,

seeing all of us here? Looking at the fireplace where you used to cook I seem to still smell the roasted potato and see your warm smile emerge from behind the smoke; seeing the backyard where we watered crops together, I seem to still feel the warmth on the newly picked cucumber you handed to me; in the front yard where we used to spend every midsummer night, I still remember all the old tales you told me.

Would you really be able to leave with peace? Or would you miss us too much?”

When we walk back to the yard, someone has already set a big fire at the center. We are going to walk around the fire until dawn.

Almost the entire village comes to help. Some come as babysitters; some prepare drinks and tea for tired people; more of them have come to join the line walking around the fire even though they are not close relatives. It’s believed in my hometown that the longer the line is, the more respected the person was when alive. Grandma has a very long line, which brings a lot of comfort to my family.

When a corner of sky is dyed in tangerine red, we finish walking around. Without a second’s rest, we head back to get things that Grandma used to use every day, such as clothes, combs, and an apron.

Along with some paper money and a paper house, they are all thrown into the fire. Old people in the village always say that if you burn something, people in the underworld will receive it. Grandma was very poor through most of her life until my dad went to college and found a good job. Unfortunately, she hadn’t enjoyed a content life for a long time before cancer deprived her of her life. We burned all the things she had used and things we hoped she could enjoy to wish her an affluent life in the other world. Now all the pieces of adversity and felicity in her life are being devoured in this glaring flame in front of me, turned into ashes flying around like evanescent snow flakes, never coming back. Through those floating ashes, I see dad huddling up in the corner, clenching his lips as if to prevent his sadness from spilling.

He never appeared this vulnerable before; his helplessness stings me.

Dad has indulged me with all his love throughout my childhood, but he himself would never be able to attain the luxury of being a happy kid under the care of his mom. Someone lights firecrackers, and their loudness immediately stings my eardrum. It is absurd to me that such an auspicious thing, which is usually lit at New 42

Year Eve to celebrate the joyous festival, is now screaming at the end of a funeral where everybody is crying.

The next morning, we send the coffin to the cemetery up high on the hill. The coffin is so heavy that it needs six people to carry it. Six of our neighbors come to help. Before they leave, they light firecrackers in front of Grandma’s tomb again.

Now it’s been six years since Grandma’s death. Every year when we go back to see her, some villagers still come with firecrackers and light them in front of Grandma’s tomb. Not until today do I finally understand their reason of doing so—to send blessings toward my family, and more importantly, to signify a transition from the old life to a new start, from sorrow to joy. Death is irreversible and leaves scars inside us. But the emptiness left in our hearts will gradually be filled with the kindness received from other people. And we, the ones who are still alive, should carry this love and continue with happy lives. o

Marissa Fabbo ’17 Ceramic

Yi (Sally) Qiu ’16

43

Wrong I am what the world will scream When punishment comes through For when my claws take hold a victim I hope it won’t be you For those around may disagree Say I have no heart But when the voices clash and claim It’s time for guilt to start

Lin (Catherine) Dong ’16 Colored pencil

Surviving in the shadows isn’t always where I lay Staying hidden in the darkness is where they always wish I’d stay

Right I do not exist I am an illusion I am not a hero I am a perception’s blind confusion I am found in many forms Controversial ways For many souls shall bicker loudly A mystery it stays Wrong is said to be opposing, to my unclear goal But know that I am bright as light, but also dark as coal

Lili Brook ’16 Colored pencil

Emily Dromgold ’17

Ju (Jan) Li ’15 Cardboard and Acrylic

Remedy Emotions like pain, from the sky they rain, wetting me until I’m soaked and aching all over, desperately trying to find that R-righteousness to secure me, that E-everlasting faith God has shown me, M-mercury so potent it sticks and remains toxic, E-enter, intercede, take control, D-drive the demon that tries to capture me. Away, away I Y-yell in hopes my voice is heard, pierced into the eardrums of innocence, into the distress, into the untouchable. I reach for your hand, I stand on tiptoes to get a good look at your face, your beautiful sweet face whose eyes are so fixated on every detail outlining the delicate curves that inflame my body making light out of darkness.

Strong, strong, I stand on the podium, that secure, safe place.

Don’t give in. Take the remedy.

Arnelle Williams ’13

46

Terms and Conditions “I am a metaphor” itself is a metaphor and a paradox, the same.

My connotations hold denotations of argument and shame.

I am the building falling from skyreach, touch and breakdown and sound, burying itself in hyperbole so it cannot be found.

Lost and hidden, this suits just fine to lonely skins without a mind to songbirds whining, singing low, with no morals or virtues to show, scars covered with billowing sleeves that mock the grace of falling trees toppling down to unseen depths that curse our sight and steal our breaths.

“I am a metaphor” itself is a metaphor of paradoxical degrees, otherworldly associations of our ghosts and spirits freed.

Apotheosis of words and phrases that give grace to all but me, adhering blindfolds to my eyes so that I can finally see.

And I can finally be.

Alina Shirley ’15

47

No Fish Today

Sydney Reilly ’17

Elias Skillings ’17 Ceramic

Nguyen (Winner) Le ’15

M

y first fishing rod was black and gold. Made of the finest Taiwanese plastic, the four-foot pole and six-pound test line were well suited for the sunfish that inhabit murky frog ponds. There would be a long list of other rods over the following years, all varying in the way in which they would eventually meet their fates. One such pole was black with rough foam grips that were often damp with lake water, and it had a red spinning reel wrapped with clear thin line. It was likely a gift my father pulled out from his trunk one day amongst bags of other Ocean State bargains, although I cannot remember specifically how it came into my hands.

There is a photograph of me sitting on a faded wooden dock holding that very rod. The young, wet-haired boy with his upside-down fishing rod and toothless grin is a distant version of the boy I am today, but nevertheless we are the same. Locked in the image, I am seated on the dock at Columbia Lake, still wet from a swim I took to cool off just moments before. The lake is calm, with small crests that methodically collide into the wooden pilings below me.

It was a big lake for a small boy, but I had travelled to its many corners before and floated past the box-shaped cottages that lined its shores. Draped over my small frame like a long, white tunic is my father’s Fruit of the Loom T-shirt, which I had decided to wear both inside out and backwards. The red and black rod sits in my hands as I wait for the unmistakable pull of a bluegill or perch.

This slight vibration and the accompanying

48

Maddy Duke ’15

Shawn Boston ’15

Emma Kindblom ’17 Ceramic

Annika Bruce ’17

Yulia Sazonenko ’15

Ralph (Charlie) Evert ’15

Marissa Fabbo ’17

moment of suspense are sensations that have no less power to excite me now than when I was six. Examining the image, I can recall the tug of a biting fish that shoots up the Berkley monofilament like a rudimentary telegraph. I have not enjoyed this experience for some time, yet when I do, it will be no different than it was on the old wooden dock ten years ago.

There are things about this boy that greatly distance him from myself.

We share only six years of experiences, which have now faded into foggy memories. With his joyous expression and honest smile, the boy in the photo portrays the bliss that accompanies innocence and ignorance. At six, I knew very little of the ways that the world worked, and my imagination filled in the gaps with a highly optimistic paintbrush. The boy in the photo has not seen beyond the sheltered bubble of his town. The boy in the photo has not been struck with awe or inspiration, or felt purpose. There would be an array of new experiences, sensations and ideas for me to discover in the years to come, but at the time, my mind wandered only as far as the end of my line, where small speckled fish fought over a limp worm. In the photograph I am a distant version of the boy I am today.

What I do have in common with my former self is the connection to the man who many years ago took the photograph of me at the lake. My father was the owner of perhaps one hundred disposable Kodak cameras during the span of their popularity, and made a detailed documentation of my early years. Many of the photos lie untouched in clear Tupperware bins, yet this picture has emerged from the piles. The image on the dock deeply connects me to my father because it depicts the one thing that we share and will always share. My fondest memories of my dad will always involve water and a fishing rod. Even if we leave the lake empty handed, the time we spent together waiting for the next bite bonds the two of us like line and lure.

The simple pastime and the boy in the photograph cease to change, placid and everlasting like the calm lake. But I am ever changing, becoming more and more of a stranger to my former self. To some, I am unrecognizable in the photo, but with each glance at the image I feel that the boy looking back is still a part of me. I realize now that the fleeting second my father captured on film ten years ago depicts that one part of myself, not just a wet-haired boy with an honest grin. As I grow older, and one day sit alone by the lake, I will look back on the picture and see the boyish joy that I so desperately wish to hold on to. And when the line tightens with a sharp twitch, I will be on the old wooden dock again, by my father’s side. o Colin O’Brien ’16 50

WHO KILLED JFK?: Since the original report of John F. Kennedy’s death in 1963 and further investigation by multiple government organizations, a plethora of theories have developed about the death of the President, indicting several individuals and groups while also calling into question the shooter, the number of bullets, and the evidence.

The Warren Commission first examined the case in 1963 and gave their official report. Edward Jay Epstein’s 1966 book, Inquest: The Warren Commission and the Establishment of Truth, challenged the report, while The Ramsey Clark Panel, The Rockefeller Commission, and the Church Committee followed in succession with their own investigations of the case. Backlash from the public led to the reopening of the case in 1976 by the House Select Committee on Assassinations (HSCA). Over time, Lee Harvey Oswald has continued to remain the prominent assassin, but the CIA (in conjunction with anti-Castro Cubans), the FBI, the Secret Service, the Mafia, and Vice President Lyndon B. Johnson have all been accused of being involved in the assassination and cover-up of the conspiracy. There is debate about whether or not the “single-bullet theory” proposed by the Warren Commission is correct or not, and whether there were three bullets or four. There is also controversy about whether there was one shooter or two, whether the shooter shot from the Texas School Book Depository building or the grassy knoll, and how much, if any, of the case’s evidence was tampered with.

Emily Carson ’15 For the complete text of this essay, please go to http://wmarubicon.wordpress.com.

Yulia (Julia) Sazonenko ’15 Mixed media

Views on the President’s Unsolved Assassination

A Portrait

of

Some Poet

He watched us as we sat, As some ate, and others Talked at length on this and that, And none of it really mattered.

Unabated regret; Some existential ennui; Ire, doubt, depression; or a debt He held;

Nibbling on a mussel, I held my pounding head In my palm, and I looked up And I saw, framed in wooden thread His face.

I knew I’d never know.

But as I looked at him, I saw a troubled man, and so I finally found an escape.

Amid the din and noise Of the conversations Going on, and the jazz band Roaring in their jubilation Only a few feet away.

At first glance, he looked down At the patron below With a condescending frown As though in some disappointment.

The painted man and I Shared in our detachment, And I felt I’d made a friend In this portrait of some poet.

But at a second glance, I saw a wistful stare.

The portrait revealed a man, In truth, who simply wasn’t there At all.

There was a soul beyond His inattentive stare.

My mind wanting to abscond, I tried to guess his affliction: The loss of a lover;

Jon Vogt ’15

52

53 Daniel Qin-Dong ’17 Pencil

Reflections The golden rim shined in the light of the burning fire in the living room’s pellet stove, illuminating Nena’s face as she examined the mirror. She always admired the butterflies and vines interwoven throughout the handle of the mirror; it reminded her of her childhood and how her mother had convinced her that the mirror contained magic.

Mina Lee ’17 Photograph

O

n a wet and frigid winter morning, Nena managed to make it outside and to her car with little motivation. As she stepped out and into a puddle, she splashed the image of what used to be the perfect household she grew up in for over ten years, now forever changed.

It was December 17th, Nena’s and her mother’s birthday. Ever since her mother’s death that summer, everything in Nena’s life changed.

Her character altered completely—she went from lively to despondent so quickly, and there was no telling how soon she would return back to her normal self. Their birthday was a special bond she and her mother shared for seventeen years and this was her first birthday without her mother to spend it with. Even though Nena’s father was ready to celebrate her 18th birthday, she was clearly unexcited.

On Nena’s long drive to school in the rain, she tried her best to think about anything else that would take her mind off the long day ahead of her.

Staring out the window, she took herself back to the memory of she and her mother singing ABBA’s “I Have a Dream” on a road trip they took a couple of years ago. She was absorbed in the memory when her father interrupted her thoughts. In the hopes of sparking a light conversation with Nena, her father asked, “When’s your next swim meet? It’s been a while since I’ve seen you swim and I’m sure you’ve improved so much since!”

“It’s this Saturday,” Nena replied unenthusiastically. “It’s really not that exciting anymore, Dad. If I were you I wouldn’t bother coming.” And with that, Nena continued to look blankly out the window. This was yet another one of her dad’s meek attempts at showing his support, which Nena appreciated less and less ever since her mother passed away.

Without knowing what more he could say, her father looked at Nena through his rearview mirror, saw the sadness in his daughter’s face and wished there was something he could do to ease her pain. Through the confusion of growing up as a teenage girl, Nena truly needed her mother’s guidance, yet she managed to get through it by herself. Her father admired this about Nena and truly wanted her to know that she wasn’t alone in this difficult part of their lives.

Throughout her day at school, all of Nena’s friends wished her a happy birthday and filled her day with warmth and love. Her best friends Nicole and Dave even decorated her locker and brought her cupcakes, and Nena tried her hardest to show her appreciation. Nena asked them not to make a big deal about her birthday, especially this year, and she couldn’t help but be a little annoyed with them.

“Nena, don’t be mad! I know you want your space, but we want you to know that we’re here for you and we want you to be happy again,” said Nicole.

Dave added, “We know your mom would have wanted you to enjoy this day. I can almost hear her telling us another one of her crazy stories: ‘You know Nena, on my 18th birthday.... ’” At the mention of her mother, Nena lost her composure. She quickly hugged Nicole and Dave and went to the bathroom. She needed to collect herself. Through her tears, Nena took a moment to look at herself in the bathroom mirror. She felt like her mother’s soft blue eyes were looking right 56

back at her, as if to tell her that she couldn’t keep bringing herself down like this every time.

Somehow, Nena made it through the day and was physically and emotionally exhausted after she finished swim practice. Needing a moment to rest and reflect, she sat herself down in the living room while her father finished his work in the study. As Nena sat in the quiet room, she listened to the patter of rain against the foggy window and thought of what she would have been doing had her mother been there with her right then. This used to be her favorite season of the year, and she desperately longed to spend it with her mother.

When Nena was sitting by the fireplace, upon seeing an old picture of her and her mother taken years ago, a memory of them trick-or-treating around the neighborhood resurfaced. She distinctly remembered her mother’s constant reminders— “What’s the magic word you need to use?” her mother would ask.

Nena innocently replied, “Please?”

“And what do we say when we’re about to leave?”

“Thank you!”

It was the first time Nena smiled on her birthday. She was warmed yet saddened when she saw this picture of them laughing, remembering each time she poked her mom with the wings of her fairy costume as they walked hand in hand on the sidewalk.

Just when Nena was about to head upstairs, her father walked into the living room carrying her birthday cake. It was the same cake they got every year—double chocolate with strawberries, Nena and her mother’s favorite.

Watching Nena’s face fall, her father said, “I know it’s hard not having Mom here to blow the candles out with you, but nonetheless, it’s still your birthday, and we’re going to celebrate tonight.”

Reluctantly, Nena blew out her candles. “Thanks, Dad. Really. But I don’t feel like doing much tonight.” Nena rose to leave the room. “I have a paper due tomorrow morning that I need to finish anyways, and—” “At least open this before you head up,” her father interjected. Her father then held up a gift box for Nena. When Nena took the box, she could not bring herself to open it. Opening birthday presents together was a birthday tradition that Nena wanted to share with her mother, and she had no desire to partake in it this year. Sensing that Nena was on the verge of another 57

breakdown, her father opened the box for her.

Inside the box laid an antique hand mirror. It was no ordinary mirror—this mirror was her mother’s, passed down from her mother’s mother. The golden rim shined in the light of the burning fire in the living room’s pellet stove, illuminating Nena’s face as she examined the mirror. She always admired the butterflies and vines interwoven throughout the handle of the mirror; it reminded her of her childhood and how her mother had convinced her that the mirror contained magic. Even after Nena discovered there was no real magic in the mirror, she still desired to have it for many years.

Astounded, Nena asked, “Dad, where did you find this?! I almost forgot about this mirror entirely!”

Her father answered, “This is what Mom wanted you to have. When she knew her days were numbered, she made sure that I would give this to you on your 18th birthday in case she couldn’t do it herself.”

“I don’t know what to say at all. Thank you!” Nena still couldn’t believe that the mirror she had wanted for years was now in her possession. “I can’t believe Mom left this for me. Where had she been keeping it all these years?”

“I don’t know, darling. But wait, there’s something more.” Her father handed her an envelope.

It was a card from Nena’s mother, which was probably written soon before her cancer had taken her life that summer. The card read: Dear Nena, I hope you had a wonderful birthday. On my 18th birthday, my mother gave me the very same mirror I am now giving you. When I was young, she always told me that there was something special about the mirror, although I never quite understood what it was. It took years of watching you grow up for me to understand that it was always about believing that there was something special about it, like seeing your face light up every time I brought it out.

Even the smallest amount of doubt would ruin all the magic I grew to believe in. Don’t let anyone or anything let you doubt your magic. If you can do this much, then I know you have a bright future ahead of you. The mirror is now yours to keep, and it’s up to you to continue believing in its

58

magic. Let it reflect all of your best qualities, so that every time you use it, you can discover the beautiful young woman I raised you to be—now that’s magic.

Love always, Mom After reading the card, Nena sat herself back down by the fire, confused.

After rereading the card, she began to comprehend her mother’s message. Her mother always knew the right thing to say to Nena when she needed her most, and this was the final piece that Nena sought after.

Her father asked, “Are you doing alright? Is there anything I can do for you right now?”

“No, it’s alright,” Nena said. “I’ll be fine. I just really want to thank you for everything you did for me today. I don’t know how I would have gotten through the rest of the day without you. I know I don’t say this enough, but I really do appreciate how much you’ve helped me get through these past few months. This can’t be easy for you either, and I know I’m not helping at all.

But I’m going to try and change that because I know Mom wouldn’t have wanted me to be like this.”

“This has been the hardest few months for the both of us and you have helped me just as much. I know your mother would be proud of you. You really are the spitting image of her in both looks and personality, and sometimes I feel like she’s still with us. Even though it may seem hard sometimes, she’s still here for us and she always will be.”

“I know, Dad. It took me a while to finally see it, but now I do.”

As Nena’s birthday came to an end and she looked into her mirror that night, she again felt like the image of her mother was reflecting back at her.

This was the magic she now discovered—that her mother would always be there for her throughout her life, only a glance away. o Aparna Sivakumar ’15

59

Summer’s Smoke

T

oday, when I walk behind people who are smoking, I linger in the scent that trails them. It reminds me of summer. It reminds me of you. I knew that you smoked, but it still made me uncomfortable at first. I didn’t know what it was like to be surrounded by smoke and cans full of ashes and cigarette butts. I didn’t like the way your smoke filled my nose when we talked, and I didn’t like the way you flicked hot embers off your cigarette onto the table or into my lap.

Then as the weeks passed, I felt differently.

With time, I began to love every part of you. I even loved your smoke; I inhaled it deep into my lungs. I longed for those nights when we would sit alone at the smoking table outside of the kitchen. Our feet got cold and wet with morning dew as we talked.

You would smoke and talk while I breathed in and listened.

I guess I was intrigued. Perhaps you could see it better than I could. With wide eyes, I watched you roll your cigarettes: grab tobacco, roll the paper, lick to seal, put in the filter. I gazed in awe at the bubbles you would blow that you filled with your breaths, the murky gray encompassed within an oily, shining sphere. My eyes followed the trails of smoke that you blew from your lips, dispersing it into the air that I would soon take in.

“Do you want to try?” It’s not as if you were pressuring me to smoke, even suggesting it; you were simply giving me the option. You placed a possibility in front of me, then it was up to me to choose whether to try it or not.

It was more than just the simple act of taking a puff or two; I would

60

Heather Little ’13 61

Andres Feng ’15 Mixed media

consciously be putting tar into my lungs. I would be going against everything I knew: respecting my body, thinking about things before acting upon my curiosities, doing things I would be proud of for years to come. What if I got addicted to something I never really wanted? But if I took the puff, it would be more than just giving smoking a try. I would see first hand what it was like. What is it that makes smoking so sexy? Why do people start smoking in the first place? Is smoking something I would like?

Aren’t I the kind of person who likes to try things?

Aren’t I the kind of person who is willing to take risks? Don’t I want to feel what you feel?

But I didn’t do it.

I extinguished my curiosity and listened to logic. Smoking is bad. I am not a smoker; that is not the kind of girl I am. That is not who I am supposed to be.

The summer continued. I still followed you outside and sat with you while you smoked. I still watched as you licked the cigarette papers and your teeth held the filter as your fingers rolled the papers.

I still watched the smoke leave your lips and your breaths fill the bubbles. I was okay with being surrounded by it, taking the smoke in second hand; I just would not allow myself to be the one who did the smoking. I know you saw me watching, maybe wishing I had made a different choice.

And now summer is done, you are gone, and I never smoked your cigarettes. I am still the girl who does not smoke cigarettes, but now, I am also the girl who wishes I had tried just that one time, with you. o

Swimming

T

in

August

here is a white bath towel folded in the center of my dorm room floor.

Clothes, books, shoes and a swath of unrelated items line my walls and gather under my bed. Lying supine on my dorm room floor, I rest my head on the folded towel as I languidly stare into my white ceiling. With a pen and pad at arms reach, getting started should be easy, but my thoughts remain dormant, devoted to the whiteness.

This essay is due tomorrow and I have yet to choose my subject. Write what you know, as the clichÊ goes, but at the moment all I know is this whiteness and a desire to escape—perhaps to August, when the days were long with blithe activity and the weeks were too short. However, August has passed and autumn has come; along with it, the ubiquitous pressures of academic priority make their weight felt. I see no thesis in the vacancy of this moment. I feel a need to escape from the assignment to the weightlessness of being submerged underwater.

I run my fingers through my hair, attempting to stimulate my mind. My limbs feel heavy against the floor, and a desire to sink gently underneath the floorboards whispers through my thoughts.

A particularly cold draft brushes my face, like the elegant chill that summer night wore. The grasp of imagination sets in. Up off the mossy campfire bench, and off with the smoky hoodie, retro shorts, and salt-stained canvas shoes, and towards the waterfront. Twigs crackle under my quick steps as I pace through the starlit woods. I pay no mind to my feet; it is late August, and my soles have weathered nicely-- it has been a kind summer. Inhaling and exhaling, oh how the forest smells alive.

Late summer vivacity. The forest floor turns to rocks, then to dry sand and fallen pine needles, then to wet sand, which squishes between my toes, making my body rigid from the cold. I momentarily regret leaving my clothes back by the smoldering bonfire but I let it go. I stand before the threshold of the salt pond, wondering how far I would get if I swam a straight course.

Pouring light from the stars refract against the gentle ripples, sprinkling the surface with brilliantly polished ivory pixels. The anticipation of cold water tends to be exaggerated in all of us, but recognizing the pointlessness of fearing what you have chosen to enter has a profound appeal. Steadily, as if without moving my 62

Harrison Kroessler ’14 63

Zoe Bloomfield ’18 Photograph

legs, my body drifts into the water with broad breaststrokes. My body glides inches below the surface.

The water has golden warmth like honey dissolving in tea. I stop and rest on the water’s surface. Bobbing in the surrounding water is holistically calming. How much more intimate can I be with the pond than I am at this moment? This is where I am and where I choose to be. I choose to sit on the water’s surface for my swim in August. I take a breath of air and go back under.

While submerged, I imagine the pond void of its water. I would be levitating, suspended without nervousness, above the rocks and seaweed mounds. In my cannonball, hands gently grasping my knees, chest crouched, and my chin up, my ears open. I hear the hundreds of damp fish and eels that span the muddy pond floor slap their exposed bodies against the rocks. Among the writhing landscape is a mechanical spider crab claw stretching up, nearly reaching my weather-beaten toes that drip water droplets onto the crab’s mossy shell. As I look up the slope of the beach and toward the tips of the pines, I notice that I am witnessing a view that the fish below have never experienced.

My face feels numbed from the water’s cold taut stillness; I decide to come back up for air. My friends are back on land drying off. I take another deep gulp of air and sink back down.

Once fully submerged, I have the elated, otherworldly sensation I sometimes get when I am in a bubble of seclusion, particularly the forbidding underside of the ocean’s undulating surface. The furrows and glares on the surface veil me from the world above and here; submerged, I can be bare. I tightly close my eyes. I love to clench my eyes because it brings about a spectacular light show projected onto the backs of eyelids—a true exhibit of fleeting virtuosity.

I resurface and rediscover the speckled reflection of the stars on the water.

The water is handsome, but soon I will swim back, leaving the fish, the beach, and the summer.

I wake up, unclench my eyes from the charm of late summer swims and refocus on my assignment. It comes to me as clear as if it were written on the white ceiling: There is a white bath towel folded in the center of my unusually cleared dorm room floor… o

O

Thanksgiving Vacation

nce upon a time, there was a was a five-year-old tabby cat named Mr. Snuffles. Mr. Snuffles led a life of luxury and comfort, spending the majority of his days sleeping, and in the hours when he was awake, he was often pet by his owner’s servants and there were always scraps of fresh meat from the kitchen in his food bowl. His owners, Martha and Dave, were extremely wealthy, and were gone all day during the weekdays. Mr. Snuffles enjoyed sliding down staircases on his back and sneaking into the dumbwaiters. All of this behavior made Mr. Snuffles appear to be a normal cat, but in reality, he was anything but normal.

The strange thing about Mr. Snuffles was that he was extremely intelligent, and even though he was perfectly happy with his life, he had a deep, dark desire to kill people. In particular, Mr. Snuffles wanted to kill Dave and Martha. Every day, when each of them arrived home, they would have the same exact conversation: “How are you, Dear?” Dave would ask.

“Wonderful,” Martha would respond cheerfully.

All this happiness made Mr. Snuffles feel sick, and he needed to stop it immediately.

At first, Mr. Snuffles thought that killing them would be easy, but he was wrong. He tried many times to kill them, laying in front of the stairs in hope that they would trip over him, fall down the stairs breaking many bones, and die of internal bleeding. Despite his attempts, neither Dave nor Martha tripped over him. Instead, they would just step over him. Mr. Snuffles even tried to smother Martha while she was sleeping. He pushed a pillow onto her face, put his paws on it, and pressed down. However, for some inexplicable reason, he had started kneading the pillow. This woke Martha up, and she lifted Mr. Snuffles and the pillow up off of her face, grabbed him, and held him captive for the rest of the night. The humans called this “snuggling”.

All of this infuriated Mr. Snuffles, and he realized that he would have to get 64

65

Aaron Louis ’15 Photograph

creative if he wanted to kill them.

Mr. Snuffles began to formulate a plan. He would need to wait until the house was deserted to act upon his plans. He decided to use Thanksgiving vacation, the ideal time. All the servants would be home with their families, and Dave and Martha would be away on vacation. Mr. Snuffles waited patiently for months, until finally, the day arrived.

As soon as the car of the last servant pulled out of the driveway, Mr. Snuffles started working. First, he disabled the alarm system by carefully climbing up onto the table and entering the passcode he had observed Dave and Martha use into the keypad. After that, he proceeded to go downstairs to the basement and chew through the phone and internet lines, so that nobody could call for help. Mr. Snuffles then, knowing that Martha liked to take a bath, especially after a long trip, gripped the electric cord to a hair dryer and plugged it into an outlet in the bathroom, leaving it on the counter a short way from the tub.

Having done this, Mr. Snuffles went into the master bedroom, which was connected to the kitchen through the dumbwaiter. He managed to rip off a piece of match paper from a matchbox with his teeth and stuck it on the side of the shaft of the dumbwaiter. Then, Mr. Snuffles then went down to the kitchen and wedged all the matches in the box into a crack in the top of the dumbwaiter. After that, Mr. Snuffles sat down and waited.

The next evening, Dave and Martha pulled into the driveway. They got out of the car and came inside. Martha, without telling Dave, went upstairs

to unpack and take a bath while Dave unloaded the luggage from the car.

Martha, having not seen Mr. Snuffles all week, let him into the bathroom when he meowed at the door. When she got in the bathtub and filled it up, Mr. Snuffles jumped up on the counter, pushed the on button on the hair dryer, and picked it up in his mouth. Martha looked at him with a puzzled expression but not for long because shortly after that Mr. Snuffles dropped it into the tub. Martha’s body spasmed for a second and then abruptly stopped.

She was dead, and this made Mr. Snuffles happy.

Martha had told Dave that she would be going out with her friends later that night and would be back very late, so Dave wasn’t worried when, an hour later, he noticed her disappearance. When Dave went to bed that night the kitchen staff still weren’t there, as they would arrive early in the morning before Dave woke up. Mr. Snuffles went downstairs to the kitchen and pushed shut all of the doors except one. He hopped up on the stove, gripped the gas dial with his teeth, and turned it on. He didn’t, however, ignite the burner, so all the gas just went into the air. Mr. Snuffles opened the dumbwaiter, which was near the stove, and let the gas build up inside of it. When the dumbwaiter was full of gas, he shut off the dial and closed the dumbwaiter. Content, Mr. Snuffles climbed back upstairs and went to bed.

The next morning, Dave was driven, by ambulance, to the hospital. One of the servants brought Mr. Snuffles to the hospital to keep Dave company.

When everyone else left the room, and Mr. Snuffles was alone with him, Mr. Snuffles pulled out the electrical cord from the breathing machine. Dave slowly suffocated to death, unable to scream or talk. Dave was dead, and Mr. Snuffles’ work was done... for now. o Atticus Russell ’18

66

The Man with the Black Glove

67

Yi Shi ’17 Colored pencil

S

he walked into my office at half-past bourbon. Which bourbon, I can’t tell you. All I know is that it wasn’t good, but it was the kind I deserved. This dame was no different. She had legs that screamed smooth passion, and a face that really didn’t. What it screamed instead was a series of expletives, a few accusations concerning my manhood and sexuality, and a rather unrelated racial epithet, before settling on brass tacks. Brass tax? I’ve never done my taxes with brass, it must be the other one.

“You’re drunk off your ass, Kent,” she said, hammering in those brass tacks. “Have you even left this office in the past three days? Wha – what is that? Are those… teeth?”

I ignored the last question. The truth was worse. “Look, lady, I don’t know why you’re yelling at me with such fervor, but I’m the detective. I’ll ask the questions.”

“Wouldn’t you answer the questions?” she asked, anger subsiding into polite confusion.

“Excuse me?”

“Being a detective, wouldn’t you… wouldn’t you answer the questions?”

A light smoke emanated from seemingly nowhere, but I knew the truth about its origins. This whole damn city was built over Hell, and we were all just sinners spending our eternity here. Or maybe we were the demons. The line was thin. I picked up a lit cigarette balancing on the edge of my desk,

Yulia (Julia) Sazonenko ’15 Colored pencil

studied it. Cigarette-brand cigarette, for all I knew. How long had it been lit?

Huh, actually, come to think of it, I guess the smoke was coming fro – “Kent.”

“Hm? Uh, I am the detective. I detective the questions. What do you want lady? It’s real late.”

“Kent, it’s only 8 at night and I asked for your help a week ago.”

“What? A week? I don’t remember–” “Don’t give me that. I was here three days ago too to see if you made progress.”

“I did. Totally. I am in the process of tracking the guy down.”

She rested her hand on a red armchair I forgot I had and shifted those beautiful moonbeams other men foolishly called legs.

“I am!” I protested in response to her body language. The cigarette dropped back onto my desk. “It’s… he’s at the… I dunno. Being a private dick is complicated, lady.”

“Doreen. My name is Doreen,” she replied, exasperated.

She looked like a Doreen. Man, that face.

I picked up my hat, and sharpened the creases, thinking over the doll’s request. “Doreen,” I said, looking pretty cool in the smoke, “I just want to make sure you’re at my level of understanding here. Could you recount everything we talked about?”

She sighed, a fragile, precious noise escaping from that, ugh, that face.

It’s… it wasn’t really ugly per se, just, I don’t know, haggard. Haggard is a good word. So she sighed, and it was a little confusing to me because of her face, and I sunk back into my chair to look more like I knew what was going on. My hat blended in with the smoke. Somewhere, a woman was crying.

68

“A week ago I came in here asking if you were a private detective.”

I nodded. I am a private detective.

“I told you that day that a man had kidnapped my son. I saw him get away; he had a black glove on his right hand, and wore a black suit. He sent me a handwritten note asking for $500,000 in cash by the 8th. I gave that to you to look for clues. Do you even have it anymore?” Her face furrowed again. In response to all the angry that was radiating towards me, I rummaged through my desk drawer for the note. After several overdue brass taxes and a few more things that weren’t teeth, I found a note that mentioned kidnapping.

It must have been the kidnapper’s.

‘So? So this is a clue, you bag of lazy vomit,’ she said. I applauded her passion, but deducted points for creativity. She continued, ‘The man was wearing one glove on his right hand. This must be the other. He must have lost it before he took Sam.’ She slammed the glove on my desk, smushing it into the wood as if it were the criminal’s face.

It couldn’t have been good for the leather.

‘What can you do with this?’ she pleaded.

“This note mentions kidnapping,” I said to Doreen. “It must be the kidnapper’s.”

I laid the note on my desk and a blotch of translucent grey expanded like a Big Bang simulation before slowing down and stopping, too tired to go on. Damn bourbon. Doreen ran to me as fast as her heels could carry her and screamed, “Don’t get it wet, we have to read it! That’s a clue!” She had a point. I picked up the dampened paper like an FBI agent picking up evidence.

“What does it say,” I asked.

“You didn’t even read it?” she answered, her face switching back to confusion, then back to anger, then settling for disbelief. I somehow found this preferable to the other two. It made me feel special. I squinted at the melting words attempting to cling to the page. “Do… do not? Do not attempt to… fi… find us…”

“Kent, that part isn’t even wet.”

“I’m working on it! We… haaave? We have yo… your…”

69

“Jesus, Kent,” she said, snatching the paper with a snitch! “Just let me read it.”

Pushy dame.

“Alright. ‘Do not attempt to find us. We have your son. Deliver five hundred-thousand dollars in cash to 5th and 18th by February 8th, or you never get him back.’ Kent, did you even know this existed?” She waved the note in front of my face. Bourbon shook off, the droplets glimmering under the light of my desk lamp before landing on my lips. My taste buds sensed the vibration and voyaged out boldly to intercept the flavor I can only describe as disappointing. Like this city. Like this life.

Doreen pulled me out of my ennui coma with a slap of paper. A thin veil of the sweet nectar clung to my cheek. My tongue tried in vain to absorb it.

This carried on for a few minutes. Doreen was evidently fascinated with my ability, because she sat in stunned silence until I stopped.

“Look,” she said. Her eyes were significantly baggier than when she entered, and her red hair betrayed a fall from grace usually reserved for archangels. “I’ve been doing some snooping of my own, and I found a few tips. There’s more than one person involved for one thing, and I found this.”

She procured a black leather glove and placed it on the table, trying and failing to avoid various fluids.

“Yes,” I said in return. “A glove it is.” I lifted it up to my face so that I could detect things. The glove was left-handed, that much I could tell at first glance. It showed its wear as well. That, or it had been abandoned in the street.

Bits of dirt and gravel clung to its damp skin, and it smelled like the night.

Also orange soda. The tips were peeling, and the leather was white where days of rain had stained it. It looked sick. I handed it back like a father handing back a particularly disappointing macaroni picture. “So?” I said.

“So? So this is a clue, you bag of lazy vomit,” she said. I applauded her passion, but deducted points for creativity. She continued, “The man was wearing one glove on his right hand. This must be the other. He must have lost it before he took Sam.” She slammed the glove on my desk, smushing it into the wood as if it were the criminal’s face. It couldn’t have been good for the leather. “What can you do with this?” she pleaded.

“Well I can’t wear it, it’s practically destroyed,” I said. I looked up, and, sensing the atmosphere of the room and also the clear death glare in Doreen’s eyes, changed tracks. “I say we take to the streets. Where did you find it?”

I got up from my chair with the expectation of command and the reality of 70

71

Mina Lee ’17 Pencil

a terrible headache. The already dim room became darker as the one light source swirled around my field of vision, separating and mixing into the void.

I stumbled about, looking for anything to grab hold of that could support my steadily falling weight, and came out of my stupor relieved to see I had grabbed my red chair and not Doreen’s breasts.

“Hey!” Doreen’s voice shrilled at my ears, “I said, ‘Why am I coming along?’ Aren’t you the detective? Isn’t this your job? Can you hear me?”

Jesus, Doreen.

I slowly moved my vertebrae one by one until my head was at communication level. “It seems,” I began, speaking slowly through the swirling darkness, “that you’ve figured out a good deal already. It might be nice having you around.” Through a miracle, I walked to and opened the door on my first try.

Pausing between my office and the hall like a housecat, I turned back to find Doreen standing with her hands crossed and her weight resting on her left leg, back turned to me.

“Why do I have to go with you? Isn’t this your job?” She didn’t turn around.

“My job is to find your son. I need to use all the tools at my disposal to do that. Currently, you are very helpful, so if you want to find your son, I recommend you come with me.” That put her in her place. I didn’t even know where that came from. It just happened. It was really cool though. It also got her to come with me, and we went to the street where she found the glove.

“5th and 16th?” I asked. “This is only two blocks from that guy’s drop-off point.” The corner was dark and empty, save for a few rats and their human equivalents. This wasn’t a place for good people. The whole city wasn’t. A lone street lamp shone like justice for a second, before blinking three times and finally being overcome by the dark. A smell of burnt something slithered from the bulb. Its death throes. Its last words. I had stepped in gum. This wasn’t going to be a good night.

I began detecting, cursing myself for leaving my comically large magnifying glass at my office. “So how do you know there’s two guys?” I

Peter Labbe ’17 Colored pencil

asked as I scanned the clueless alleyway for clues.

Doreen sighed. It was a lot prettier when I was looking at a dumpster and not her. “There’re a lot of reasons. I don’t feel like explaining it to you, I don’t think you’d understand.”

The words stung, mostly because I was sure they were true. “Alright,” I said harsher than I expected, “Let’s go to Phillies. We got a few days, they won’t be there. There could be more hint things.”

“Clues.”

“Hint clues. Whatever. Let’s go.” We walked through the night, an odd couple if ever there was one. A girl who deserved more, and a guy with a terrible, terrible headache. Her red lipstick was vibrant even in the darkness, drying in anticipation of the cigarette which slid slith out of the box. I wanted one, but didn’t ask.

I stuck to my own sticks, which came in no tin, but rather a crumpled mess of leaves and paper in my right coat pocket. Doreen and I exchanged no more words; we let the embers do the talking. Plus she seemed pretty mad about the whole situation, and I was having a difficult enough time lighting my tobacco and staying upright. It’s a fine line we walk, and I was teetering.

If you weren’t actively looking for Phillies, you could walk into it, order a burger and malt, eat, pay, fumble for a tip, and drive back to your concubine without ever realizing you left the car in the first place. It had no real name. It was only called Phillies because of the large advertisement at the top front for Phillies cigars, only 5 cents. The sign had no lights, to match the street corner with no cars. Phillies could easily fit fifteen patrons, but there were never more than me. I share my meal with the dust and pale yellow fluorescent light as I refuse to make small talk with the burly man behind the triangle counter. I didn’t go to Phillies for small talk. What I went for was the feeling of superiority; I may be a lump of human-shaped bad habits, but I am not Phillies. Phillies, with its pristine new stools but cracked molding. Phillies, with its countertop cleaned nightly, but its light bulb filled with fly carcasses.

72

I was a mess, but I admitted it. I would never be Phillies.

“This it?” asked Doreen. Her voice was flat, like a mobster inquiring if “this the guy.” Her cigarette tilted at the edge of her lips. I went to catch it, decided that didn’t make any sense, and ended up in a kind of outstretched limbo, like an awkward bird’s mating dance. I never got around to telling Doreen that this was indeed it. We walked in.

I broke through the wall of stale air with some effort and continued to my favorite stool. The door was on the opposite side of the room from my favorite stool. I wondered why I chose it. Usually I regretted the extra steps, but tonight I thanked my weary guardian angel for them.

“The man at the counter is new,” I whispered to Doreen through my jacket collar. He was small and blonde, the exact opposite of the lumberjack with whom I was familiar. He also wore a sissy paper hat on his head. I liked Phillies a little less.

“Who is the man there?” Doreen asked, pointing a small unsure finger at a man in a black suit, face obscured by his hat. I had never seen him before.

“I haven’t the foggiest, my dear,” I responded, adopting an English accent and immediately regretting it. We shuffled past the man with our heads down because I was taught that was how people stayed inconspicuous, and took our seats at the adjacent face of the triangle, with a few courtesy seats between ourselves and the suit. I ordered an orange soda, my personal Phillies favorite.

Doreen ordered nothing because she is a woman.

As I put down my cigarette and Doreen contemplated hers, presumably wondering where she went wrong, it hit me. Two kidnappers. A man in a black suit. Phillies as the drop-off point. A missing glove that smelled like orange soda. I didn’t have the whole puzzle, but as the new counterman ducked down behind the counter while keeping his face on me, a flash of steel in his hands told me I didn’t have time to think.

“Gun!” I yelled to warn Doreen of the weapon while firing my own. I admit I missed horribly. I was a bit rusty, and also unaware I had fired, but the shot scared the would-be assassin into cowering behind his precious counter as his partner-in-kidnapping gave me a sock to the jaw hard enough to release my alcohol-weakened grip. My revolver slid down the countertop before ricocheting off the wall and onto the floor. “No! Susan!” I yelled to my weapon. Doreen, still as much a woman as two paragraphs ago, crouched in the corner.

Now I had put up with plenty of characters and grimy, banjo-filled 73

situations in my nights as a private dick, but never had I been separated from my loyal crime-stopper in such a humiliating way as that night. I turned my face to my black-suited attacker. “No one hurts Susan B. Anthony,” I muttered. Obviously the man in black took the comment at face value, as his confusion at such a non sequitur gave me ample time to throw a quick ineffective elbow at his chest. After his left fist made contact with seemingly every organ below my ribcage, the bourbon controlling my brain decided enough was enough. I can’t remember what I did, but the aftermath can only be described as “similar to a baboon attack.” My attacker lay in shambles, and the counterman’s hair seemed a bit more copper, and his face a bit more punched a lot. I went behind the counter to obtain the gun only to discover that it was in fact an orange soda tap.

“Hm,” I said in response to this new twist.

“What?” asked Doreen, still crouched in the corner.

I picked up the tap and inspected it closely to make sure it wasn’t a secret spy gun. It wasn’t. It was very much a tap. “These men were innocent,” I declared. “My work here is done.”

Doreen seemed mad. She got up and stormed over to the counter, arms waving forward and backward like a gondola. Her face could no longer make an angry expression; it had been worn out for the night. “What do you mean your work is done? My son is gone! In danger! You did nothing!”

I continued to stare at the tap. “Look, I’m sorry lady,” I said, trying real hard to sound like I had other things to do, “but I came down here, looked for clues, and there was a big climactic fight. Story’s over. I have to get back to my family. My wife, my kids.” I walked to the door.

Doreen stared, I assumed slack jawed, as I walked away. “Your wife and kids? You’re going to your office to drink!”

I stopped at the door and looked back. This was it. This was my moment.

I didn’t have sunglasses. Damn it, too late, got to make it work. “Lady,” I said, “You don’t know those bottles like I do.” Yes! I walked out of Phillies feeling triumphant. I saw Doreen collapse and shiver a little bit. It looked like she was crying. I probably would too if I saw someone do something that cool. Boy, I love being a detective. o

Nick Gilfor ’14

74

Be Like Everybody Elsa Walt Disney’s production of Frozen encourages three prominent values including social status, conformity and collectivism which all support a main value of order and stability. Status is relevant in the storyline through character choices and the layout of the plot. The encouragement of conformity is shown through portraying a deviant character as dangerous until she finally learns to control her power for the best of society. Collectivism is encouraged through the actions of the characters being motivated by what’s best for the kingdom and society. The movie also suggests that following the rules applied to a social ladder will create harmony.

For the complete text of this essay, please go to http://wmarubicon.wordpress.com.

75

Aaron Louis ’15 Photograph

Emily Dromgold ’17

The Dominican Woman’s Struggle

Nanako Honda ’15 Mixed media

In the Dominican Republic, Latino machismo, or the exaggerated sense of masculine power, is very prevalent. Dominican men are stereotyped as “womanizers,” usually performing acts that flaunt sexual accomplishments. Central to the macho attitude, a high ego and dominance in the household is expected and encouraged. In a Dominican society dominated by gender stereotypes and gender expectations, Lola and Beli’s physical appearances lead them to social acceptance. However, their physical appearances also force them into physically and mentally abusive relationships with men.

In the novel, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz, Diaz uses the lives of Lola and Beli to portray female issues of appearance faced by Dominican girls that eventually lead them into abusive relationships with men.

Julia Beech ’13

For the complete text of this essay, please go to http://wmarubicon.wordpress.com.

76

Julian Santos ’15 Mixed media