janus
JANUS a magazine of literature and arts ____________________ volume 50 winter 2012 ____________________ The Williston Northampton School Easthampton, Massachusetts
janus staff editor: Pankti Dalal Liz Calderone Oliver Demers Cameron Hill Henry Lombino Zack Maldonado Erik Ostberg Mackenzie Possee Eva Stern-‐Rodriguez Meredith Westover cover photograph: Fog by Cam Zawacki faculty advisor: Sarah Sawyer
Contents Dice by Emma Hing Palm Frond by Mika Chmielewski Dreams by Zack Maldonado From the Hammock by Greg Tuleja Orchid by Mika Chmielewski “How Long Did You Love Me?” by Cameron Hill My Dearest Lisa by Karlyn Simpson Nine by Elizabeth Calderone Still Standing by Abby Jackson Ode to Croutons by Nick Pattison An Untitled Poem by Laura McCullagh Where I’m From by Jilly Lim Home by Zack Maldonado Anonymous by Anonymous
Dice
When the boredom sets in we play dice.
The games aren't fixed, they travel. In cycles and by chance they move from place to place. In taverns and pubs, basements and attics, smoky rooms and dusty cellars. And there, amid the smells of ash, liquor, and grime, we sit at the board and we play.
We don't always know each other. It's better that way. There are several lines of etiquette, and a few that we follow. Names aren’t important and questions aren't welcome. I've played with strangers and I've played with friends. I've made a few enemies too. But we're all the same, you know. Bored beyond distraction and desperate for a thrill. You see we don't bet money, nor trinkets. Not here. Those things are too common, too simple, too dull. Here we wager dreams. We gamble away hopes and wishes, memories and desires. When the stakes are raised we throw in fears, occasionally we wager souls. There aren't many rules, and nobody cares. But we follow one that counts: you might wager a soul, but you don't choose whose. That is left to the dice. It's a game of chance and a game of luck. It's not for the cowardly lot. Sitting there at the felt-‐lined board and tossing the ivory dice. So if you wish to feel alive, come join us at mid-‐night. We'll meet you at the table. Bring your hopes and all your fears. The candle's lit, the board is set, come gamble away your soul.
Emma Hing
Dreams The couple fought that day. It was midnight and the man stood on the balcony, holding his last cigarette in his hand. He folded his arms on top of the railing and leaned over to look at the many balconies below him. The cigarette was almost done and the man could feel the heat approaching his fingers, but he ignored it and counted the balconies. Five total. And then the cement. It would be a quick trip down. Quicker than the elevator, he mused to himself. The end of the cigarette started to burn his right index finger. He held right arm over the side of the railing and dropped the cigarette. He watched it fall and spin in the air as it left a small smoke trail from his hand. It hit the cement and released some red embers. No motion. The embers went away and the cigarette was lost in the darkness. I’ll take the elevator, the man mused again. The man turned around and walked into the apartment, closing the glass door behind him. The couch in the living room was setup that night with a pillow and a blanket. He stood in front of the couch and looked at the closed door bedroom door. He shook his head and went about turning off all the lights in the
I first noticed this plant because of its gorgeous palm fronds and the lines they create. The way the sunlight hits these fronds only adds to the image, making it one of my favorites. “Palm Frond,” Mika Chmielewski
room. The only light left was the moonlight, shining in and filling the room with a gentle blue tint. The man positioned himself on the couch to face the balcony. After a while, he drifted to sleep. And he dreamt. The woman dreamt too. She dreamt of the man standing on the edge of the cliff looking out at the vast blue ocean in front of him. She tried to run to him, but she couldn’t move. She tried to yell to him, but she couldn’t speak. A vast field of green grass separated the couple and she could only watch as the man turned around to face her, as if for one last look, and fall backwards. Finally, she could move and she ran through the field towards the edge. She looked over and saw the splash in the pristine blue water. But she couldn’t see him. It’s your fault, she heard herself say. He’s gone because of you. I didn’t want this, she thought. I just wanted him to quit. Her talking woke her up and reality slowly drifted back to her. The woman found herself looking off the side of the bed at the carpet. She repositioned herself and sat on the edge. She stood up and walked to the bedroom door. She slowly opened it and looked into the living room. The man was asleep on the couch. She saw an empty pack of cigarettes set on the balcony railing. She receded back into the bedroom and noticed the nightstand clock read 2:07 A.M. She got back in to bed and prayed to dream of something better. The man dreamt of the woman standing in a golden wheat field. The man was a fireball but he didn’t feel any pain. He ran towards the woman and the woman ran away. The fire from him spread to the dried wheat and the field started to burn around him. He stopped running and watched the golden field around him turn to blackened ash and the woman run away from the destruction. He started to run towards her again but he couldn’t see her with all the ash and smoke in the air. Stumbling around, he tried to call out to her. He stepped over the blackened roots and burnt ground. This is your fault, he thought. He heard her scream in the distance but couldn’t see her. He tried to figure out which direction to go, but there was screaming all around her. And he knew that it was because of him. He didn’t want to hurt her. He woke up with the screaming still ringing in his ears.
He stared out at the balcony and saw the moon was still shining. He got up from the couch and walked out onto the balcony. He picked up the empty pack and crumpled it up. He went back inside and threw it away. The last one, he thought. He looked back at the bedroom door and saw that it was ajar. The man walked over and opened it more. The woman was lying on her side in bed, facing the bedroom window while the moonlight beamed in. The man walked into the room and gently closed the door behind him. He sat on the side of the bed and said he would quit. She turned to face him and contemplated this. He doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want, she said. But he did, he said. The woman made room for him in the bed and he lay down. He put an arm around her and she held it close to her. She was sorry, she said. She shouldn’t be, he said. And they feel asleep together as a new day started.
Zack Maldonado
From the Hammock From the hammock on the hill, I can just see the spot where he used to crouch, my battery-‐mate, with shin guards and face mask, and blazing eyes, pointing tiny fingers down, to call for fast ball or curve, his knowledge of our opponents complete, as each imaginary batter strides toward an invisible plate, and strikes out on pitches that catch the corner, sailing down and away at the knees. From the hammock on the empty hill, I can see where I used to wind up like a corkscrew, my amateurish caricature of Nomo or Valenzuela or Marichal, but getting a laugh out of him with the exaggerated knee kick, a laugh that tumbles out across the green grass, beneath the high blue summer sky, blending with the plop of baseball into glove, the whistle of warm wind, and the unheard sounds of friendship and trust and hope. From the hammock I can still hear our voices, so many years later, and I know that they are not real, although they once were. Greg Tuleja
The water droplets on this trio of orchids are what first caught my eye as I wandered through the Smith Botanic Gardens. “Orchid,” Mika Chmielewski
“How Long Did You Love Me?” How long did you love me? Was it a year? A month? A day? Time didn’t seem important, but one thing is clear-‐ it wasn’t the Forever we imagined in our joyful immaturity. For too long we’ve maintained a travesty of “us”. So now, when I have decided, finally, to end this unhealthy charade, it is harder still. I see you in everything. You linger in the torn t-‐shirt I never gave back; you talk to me from your favorite seat on my couch-‐ the one by the window where the sun mingled so naturally with your hair in the morning; you stare at me from the pictures I haven’t found the courage to put away. But you knew I wouldn’t have that courage, because you know me from our end back to my beginning. Thank God that when I dream tonight, it won’t be of you. Weirder, fantastical visions visit me then. You are simply every day. You are merely my normality. So I ask you again. How long did you love me? Or better yet-‐ When did you stop?
Cameron Hill
My Dearest Lisa, My view from the kitchen table has been of Tommy sitting in front of the television, with his fingers munching on his hand-‐held playboy, since Uncle James picked him up from school at 3 p.m. Other than an occasional weight shift, he remains balled up like yarn, with his back round against armrest. With his head between his knees and his fore arms under his knee pits, his eyes laser the scratchy screen, which is foggy with his breath and dabbled with oily smudges and crusty fingerprints. We sometimes play monopoly together or two-‐man hide and seek. But today he appears rather absorbed, like the ink on this paper. Last night at work, the waft of smoke and brew took my body for what felt like a perpetual spin. On the carousel, my head throbbed in my jaw and my eyes stung with the intention of downing a drink that is not my own. The people of the night faded in the low light. Light reflected off the edges of glass and the change that lay between the men who played poker. A misty glow of amber enveloped the pool table overrun with shadowy figures, in the corner across from the bar. The lighting was dim. Just like that time in the evening when the sun has set but somehow remnants of light find ways to make silhouettes of the trees. With the music from the jukebox thudding in the spaces behind my ears and between my eyebrows, I stomached a shot. The music muffled the jolly slurs of the bikers and the rattle of their chains. It muffled avant sultry rejections from a few “fresh out of college” girls on their night out, who couldn’t decide if the deposed forty-‐year-‐old CEO was really a deposed CEO or a fired middle-‐aged accountant, also taking into account his marital status and whether he would be worth it. Nonetheless, I heard it all, like at a concert, loud, occasionally unclear. My head still rang like a phone jumping off the hook. After two more shots, a lead tingled in my thighs and calves. I remember sneering at the clock, which read 10:45p.m. There was another hour and fifteen until my shift ended.
Isn’t it depressing to think that a new day begins in the black of night? I stepped out onto the slick sidewalk where I watched the headlights of a car whiz past me in streaks of white. The wet pavement reflected greens, reds, and yellows of the traffic lights. Puddles collected these colors along the shoulder of the roads, only to be emptied in rainbow fashions when the tires of taxis plowed through. Back at home I had checked the calendar to see if I was picking up Tommy from school again in the afternoon. I realized I wasn’t. My brother didn’t work on Fridays. I climbed into bed and I lay among the cold, snapping sheets. I rolled in the blue moonlight stroking through the window above our headboard. I thought about the sky being too limitless, the ocean too vast, and our bed, too large for me to be alone. And then I dreamed that you would get your leg blown off so you could come home, and never leave me again. Love, James
Karly Simpson
Nine Dirt and dust devour her dark house Unclean, for her mother is working late. Surveying the fields with her secretive eyes darting about Searching for her mother’s silhouette with her birthday gift in hand. Nine years old and finally old enough to work the plow Eager to try like a young bird is to fly. She enjoys these moment of rest with all her poise Practicing for her upcoming adulthood. Perhaps a new dress, hopefully less tattered, and maybe blue Is all she daydreams about while sitting on her porch. Suspense is slowly slithering inside, coiling within her until— There, a silhouette comes into view. She runs to greet her. “Ma, what’s in the bag?” “A nice loaf of bread, it’ll last the whole week.” “Guess what ma? I’m old enough to work the plow now! Nine years old today!” “Ain’t that good darlin’, ain’t that good.” She halts as her mother bustles past her into their house. The wind blows a curl across her face. Pretending to get hair out of her eye, she blinks But a sole tear slides through her eyelids, down her cheek, Pass her mouth, off her chin, and lands on the cold, hard Dirt. Elizabeth Calderone
I found beauty in this building, a house, an object we normally ignore or glance over because it’s so common. “Standing Still,” Abby Jackson
Ode to Croutons Oh you crunchy delight on my salad, Your staleness makes my tongue tingle, When my fork penetrates your skin, You crumble into tiny little pieces onto the bed of leaves. I know that you are just a modest piece of stale bread, But your crunchy smack is so much more to me. You add the hearty umph to any salad. I appreciate your squareness, Cuz if you were soft and circular, You would lack a little splash of sunlight on a Fall morning You are a cheesy, oily, crunchy Little piece of moonlight amongst the starry sky, Satisfying my hunger for your munchieness Now I’ve seen you dressed like Caesar, I’ve seen you on the ranch, And I’ve seen you in the house, But I like you the most when you are coated in cheesy Parmesan balls Like heavy raindrops along the endless seashore With a layer of thick, creamy oil Drizzled masterfully atop your mattress of leaves You are the starchy shortcake To my sweet strawberries. Your subtle presence Is like being attacked by a ladybug. Without you, My crouton, My salad would be a bland and unsatisfying Pack of leaves. Nick Pattinson
Balloons on my fingers I float in the air Over cities of churches And mountains of gold Balloons on my fingers I can fly away I can leave this planet forever And find a new world of my own Balloons on my fingers Ten, there are in all Tied to each digit With bows Balloons on my fingers Each has his own color Shades and hues change As the sun’s light permits Balloons on my fingers It’s hard to let go Of the ground and a place That I have come to know Balloons on my fingers They’re my escape My rainbow getaway That comes with the backs of birds Laura McCullagh
Where I'm From Where I’m from, I was quiet. I lived in one of those homogeneous, giant apartment complexes. There were plenty to watch. I would walk to the playground after school and run around and scream, but when all my friends left, everything was quiet again. Sometimes I sat on the swing and slowly pushed myself off the ground. I imagined I was sitting on the edge of two ropes hanging down from the sky, as the sun set and everything became silent and bright, soft red. I liked the feeling of my bare feet scratching the sand grains on the ground as my feet tried to halt the swing. As I got more momentum swaying the metal ropes would pinch my palm, but that was fine. Even the smell of metal on my hand became familiar, along with its braid-‐like texture. I tried to braid my hair just like it, but it was too short and never really worked.
The stairs in my apartment building extended all the way up to the twentieth floor. The same steel railing, all the way up. I
lived on the first floor. Through the looking hole on my front door I spied on my neighbor’s door across from ours. Sometimes I heard their dog barking and sometimes I didn’t. Sometimes I saw people getting off the elevator and walking past our door. They didn’t even know I was looking at them. Often I sat on the stairs eating cheap candies from corner stores. Everything was cement around me, white, with dark green dot patterns spread all over it. Sometimes I touched the hard floor with my fingers. I liked how they were always cool no matter what the weather. I always felt this reserved, indifferent sensation as I sat there. I tiptoed around the staircase and looked out the windows. Out the window there were all these cars parked neatly in front of each tower-‐like apartment, stretching and stretching away in a neat pile. At night I dreamed of myself circling in an underground parking lot around neatly parked cars, all the same color and shape. I had an elephant arm as I tried to find a way out.
Where I come from, I always knew (maybe I did
after all) that someday, I would jump off the swing and land somewhere different. And watch the gray, white, still world around me peel off away from me slowly, slowly...to see the color, the energy, the motion, the micro-‐ explosions, things that had always been there but had escaped my grasp through my small, open fingers, escaped when my eyes had been closed in my dream.
Jilly Lim
My grandfather made this little house for my mom and uncle when they were growing up in Fairbanks, Alaska. The house and the memories still remain on a road named after my mother. “Home,” Zack Maldonado
Don't let this be, The story of your life.