The Oracle 2022 by Brunswick School

OR ACLE BRUNSWICK SCHOOL, GREENWICH, CT 2021-2022

In Memoriam Teddy Balkind

The Oracle is Brunswick School’s literary magazine, run as an extracurricular club. It presents a diverse representation of the school’s literary and artistic works, edited, compiled, and displayed by a team of editors and designers. Submissions are open to all Brunswick students and faculty with a desire to display their creative works, with a submission window from September to February. Submissions can be emailed to oracle@brunswickschool.org, but are often personally solicited from students and faculty alike. Each member of The Oracle editorial board reads each piece at and between weekly meetings. During these meetings, the editors, along with the authors, alter the pieces as they see fit while the design team compiles their art and creates a template for the magazine. Artists at both Brunswick and Greenwich Academy were featured in this magazine to complement the writing. The design team uses Adobe InDesign to format the magazine. This year, The Oracle design was inspired by a fascination with the beyond...

2022 ORACLE STAFF Editor-in-Chief: Peter Kapp *** Senior Editors: Teddy Elmlinger ‘22 Jamie Gibbons ‘22 Aidan Marks ‘22 Vilas Sogaard-Srikrishnan ‘23 Junior Editors: Jackson Fels ‘23 Robert Jacobson ‘22 Tony Luo ‘22 Ben Packer ‘22 Associate Editors: Luke Brooks ‘24 Preston Elms ‘25 Gavin Korpi ‘25 Will Schmitz ‘24 *** Heads-of-Design: Nick Rinaldi ‘22 Tyler Wilson ‘22 Design Team: NaShawn Livingston ‘22 Zach Murray ‘22 *** Faculty Advisor: Mr. Martin

TABLE OF CONTENTS CELESTIAL BODIES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8# Tyler Wilson ’22 THE KING OF ATL ANTIS . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 Vilas Sogaard-Srikrishnan ’23 DUST . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 Peter Kapp ’22 THIS IS JUST TO REMEMBER . . . . . . . . . . . 21 Aidan Marks ’22

TERESA BLOOM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 Matt Saah ’22 FOR THIS IS GODS WILL . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34 Peter Kapp ’22 OUR L AST WALK HOME . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42 Vilas Sogaard-Srikrishnan ’23

DON’T MEMORIZE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43 Benet Polikoff ’22 BUTTERFLIES. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 John Lin ’22

WINDS OF JUSTICE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56 Edward Nagler ’22 E ARLY MORNING FISHING . . . . . . . . . . . . 60 Vilas Sogaard-Srikrishnan ’23 OPER ATION T WELVE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60 Peter Kapp ’22 3:00 AM IN THE SUGARHOUSE . . . . . . . . 61 Jackson Fels ’23 GOODNIGHT. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61 Owen Hayes ’22 HOW TO MAKE TACOS AL PASTOR . . . . . 62 Helena Servin-DeMarrais ’22 THE WATCHLESS SAILOR . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68 Teddy Elmlinger ’22 LIVING OFF OF LONELINESS . . . . . . . . . 72 Winston Rider Mock ’23 DANCE TO LET SOME LIGHT IN . . . . . . . 74 Winston Rider Mock ’23

CELESTIAL BODIES Tyler Wilson ’22 Celestial bodies danced through the night, A great black sheet with holes of white light. Eternal figures, with craterous faces, Laid luminous eyes down ‘pon the ages. We filled their ears with impetuous dreams, And danced in the glow of their quicksilver beams. Now the chemtrails grow and our past hope fades— Sometimes, I peer through the carbon haze I ask myself, is that a star or a plane? It’s just so hard to tell nowadays.

THE KING OF ATL ANTIS Vilas Sogaard-Srikrishnan ’23

he reflection of the sun shimmered off the blue-green ocean and shone pleasantly into Steven Crockerman’s eyes. He watched in silence as the sharp “V” shape of the giant ship’s hull cut through the waves. Looking down at the ocean from this high above sea level, Steven felt powerful, as if despite his body’s half-century of wear he could jump from the bow at any moment and compel the ocean to take him where he wanted. Not that he would, though—the sunlight was just perfect and tanned him well. Little beads of sweat had grown on his brow and the fatty fold lines around his stomach. His recliner supported his weight just right. He had the best seat in the house. “Hey honey.” His wife moved a chair up beside him. Steven looked over. It was 9 in the morning and Margaret Crockerman already wore a full face of makeup. Margaret was 12—or was it 13, 14?—years younger than Steven. Two decades ago, she had come up to him at a gentlemen’s club and asked him to buy a private session from her. He asked her if she was 18. She said yes, so he did. Afterwards, she told Steven that she thought he was cute and he should take her on a date. He didn’t believe that she actually thought that; Steven was very rich, and

he was sure she could tell. But he had thought she was beautiful and his mom had been telling him that it was time to get married, so he said yes. It would be easy to make sure no one knew where she came from: he would just make up a cute story—maybe they met in a library or a coffee shop—and that would be that. “Would you mind giving me your room key? I left mine.” Steven handed it over. This was fine—he did not expect to move from his chair anytime soon. He planned on watching the sun as it rose up over the sky and snuck down again below the water. “Isn’t it just wonderful? To go into the horizon with no clue where we’re going?” Steven cringed. The cruise had been her idea. She was always trying to look at things in that dumb and semantic way. It was a waste of time. Most of the things she did were a waste of time. “Can’t wait until you realize that the whole trip is just a long, winding path from one place to another. As soon as you want, you can look at the map and find out exactly where we are and where we’re going. Stealing the damn money out of my pocket.” “It’s not about that, Steven. Why can’t you ever just see the fun in things?” Margaret was starting arguments already. She always got her way: they always took trips when she

wanted to, he always ended up being the one apologizing for everything, they only had sex when she decided. Steven was sick of it. But if she left him he would look horrible—what woman would leave a wealthy husband without real reason?—and, even worse, any attempt to find someone else (although it is obvious, naturally he was not interested in dating his own age) would label him a trophy hunter. There was nothing he could do. Steven didn’t respond to Margaret. He had realized long ago that the only way to avoid arguing with her was to avoid talking. So instead, he focused on a point far out in the horizon. In his mind, he was there. The tranquil current massaged his muscles. Calm waves crashed over his eyes. And Margaret ceased to exist. Just then, glass exploded all over the floor beneath Steven and he was back on the boat, Margaret screaming in his face. “You do not get to ignore me, Steven! You better listen. I’m sick and tired of...” Margaret trailed off—a waiter had walked over. “You need a clean-up?” The waiter was darkskinned, very handsome, suave despite a heavy accent. Maybe around twenty, twenty-two years old. He wore the cruise company’s suit, and a namesign was tacked onto his right breast. Manuel, it said. Steven’s upper lip curled slightly. Weren’t there enough young Americans to take jobs like this?

“We’ve got this. It’s just a small spill. Would hate to inconvenience you.” Steven didn’t care much whether he came off as rude. “Actually, company policy dictates that we must control all cleanup; we must protect ourselves from liability in the case of injury.” The hispanic did not miss a beat. Steven did not believe that such a rule could plausibly exist. It would be excessive and unnaturally specific. He looked into the hispanic’s eyes for a clue; in them, though, he saw only his own reflection. “That doesn’t sound quite accur-” “If you have further questions, you may bring them to the help desk. For now, would you please be so kind as to move to another recliner chair.” He couldn’t quite form the consonants right, Steven thought. But the accent did little to take away from the hispanic’s commanding presence. Neutered, Steven lumbered over to the next chair. He couldn’t bring himself to look the hispanic—no, Manuel—in the eye. All the power and youth that Steven had felt just before was drained. “Oh, thank you.” Outside of Steven’s vision, Margaret walked up close to the man. “You’re too kind to offer to clean up my little accident.” Her voice was sultry, nothing at all like before. “Yes, of course. This is what they pay me the big

bucks for.” The hispanic smiled, and Margaret laughed. She did not at all seem upset about how the man had just treated Steven. Margaret and the man did not speak for a while after that. Every so often, though, Steven heard slip a hushed giggle or a scuffling. Her hands were in Manuel’s pants by now; he was sure of that much. It was obvious, of course, why she did this. The trick to handling this situation, Steven had learned, was to ignore it. And then she would come back like a dog, wagging its tail for the attention it so desperately wanted. Steven felt uneasy, though. He couldn’t help but think of those cold, untelling eyes. Steven turned his eyes back to the ocean and drifted away. He tried his best to convince himself that he wasn’t turning away out of cowardice. *** Steven dreamt that mermaids jumped out of the water, magnificent water-angels shining in the midmorning sun. They pulled him underwater to Atlantis and he did not resist. Turns out he was their long-lost king, they told him, and their country had fallen to ruin without him. So wouldn’t he kindly leave the mortal world behind and stay? Steven accepted, of course, and gained power over the sea and all of its inhabitants. As the new king of Atlantis, he made love to the mermaids. *** The sounds of Margaret and Manuel’s conversation

came from far away and woke Steven. The sun stood high in the sky now. It had been a few hours. By now, Steven told himself, Margaret would be looking over her shoulder at him for a sign: a shift in discomfort, a quick glance backwards, anything. But Steven couldn’t help thinking about the man. Behind him, he knew his eyes were caught on his wife, slicing her up and judging her assets. He would not be the kind of person that cared much that Margaret was married. Steven’s sweat ran cold against his brow, and he forced himself to keep staring straight forwards as if he still enjoyed the view. If the man wanted her, he would take her. Looking out at the water now, he was certain that his Atlantis did not exist. Even if it did, he could not possibly be its ruler. At some point, the voices stopped. Steven waited five minutes, then ten, twenty before he turned. He did not want to know if they had left. Two glasses were on the bar. But Margaret and the man were gone. Steven forced himself to stand and walk towards the bar. “Excuse me, have you seen a younger woman and man here recently?” “I’ve seen many. Can you describe them for me?” The bartender wore a broad smile, but Steven did not return it. Steven thought hard, but found that he could not

think of a way to describe his wife. “The man is dark-skinned, hispanic with a very handsome face. His lips are full, he’s in good shape, sixfoot-two-ish, maybe around 190 pounds. Know anyone like that?” “Absolutely. They were just here. From the way things were looking, they were probably headed back to their room. If I were you, I would give them about 30 minutes or so.” The bartender winked. “That’s what I love about this job. There’s no better place to find that lost spark in your relationship than here, miles away from the rest of the world, just you and the one you love.” Steven ran. His body was numb in shock. Inside his head, the man laughed and laughed, and stared deep into Steven’s soul. He knew, Steven figured, every inch of him. How far were they by now? Where was that man touching his wife? Were they naked yet? Were they having sex? Was she enjoying it? Steven hardly noticed when he reached his hallway. He looked to the first room. Two-oh-one. He was sixtyfive rooms away. He kept running. He did not know what he was going to do when he got to them—he had given his key to Margaret earlier and had no way in. More importantly, he could not think of any way to look that man in the eye. It had been less than two weeks ago that he brought his bags through this hallway, Margaret smiling and

laughing a half-pace behind. She had this soft, flowing laugh, the kind that made you feel safe and comfortable when you heard it. Other memories started meandering through his brain, coming through with each pace as he ran faster and faster and faster. She had tanned skin and California-style wavy blonde hair. She was tall (but shorter than him). She had the most beautiful blue eyes he had ever seen. Her nose was delicate and turned upwards at the perfect angle. She had full breasts that looked even better because she wore skin tight clothes so that when she walked they jumped up and down. She had a little birthmark above her belly button that he would always look at when they made love. As he made it to the room, he understood again what he had known at that gentlemen’s club: she truly was beautiful. There was a sock on the door. Steven took a look at the room number to double-check. Two-six-six. It was his. Why the hell would anyone put a sock on a hotel door? I can’t get in anyway. And Steven understood: Margaret had put it there for his sake. She was still the desperate puppy, the annoying little sibling willing to go to any length for a reaction. Well, screw that. He would not let the piece-of-shit hispanic touch his wife anymore. Nor would he let his whore wife do anything like this again. He kicked the door, again and again and again. It didn’t budge. But Steven knew what he was going to do now. There was a fire ax down the

hallway, encased within a glass box built into the wall. A thin lettering read out Break glass in case of emergency. So Steven did. He punched through the glass and ripped out the ax from its socket. An alarm started blaring and he walked to the door again. He chopped in tune with the siren. This time, a hole started to give. Steven reached his hand in and opened the door from inside. And as Steven walked across the room, staring cheerfully and freely at the naked and scared couple, the ax felt like a trident in his hand. This next job was simple—once he found the rhythm, it would be easy enough. He would get it done quick and leave the cleanup to someone lesser. He was, after all, the king of Atlantis.

Mixed Media

Gunnar Gregory ’24

DUST Peter Kapp ’22 Wearing a Luke Skywalker pilot costume, with my eye against a telescope lens, my parents tell me, “You can be anything you want to be.” Costumes turn to uniforms, and telescopes to microscopes, and my parents affirm, “You can be anything you want to be.” Uniforms become suits, and microscopes to Microsoft, and my parents still insist, “You can be anything you want to be.” Suits change to sweats, and Microsoft to crosswords, and my parents can’t tell me I can be anything I want to be. I look at my son, with a suit and a briefcase, and I never tell him he can be anything he wants to be, Because my telescope collects dust in the basement…

THIS IS JUST TO REMEMBER Aidan Marks ’22 To the telescope in the attic window, the dirty host of spiders, Only the night sky’s round plum Wishes you goodnight. Bathed in that silky white glow And your joints rusted with time, You stare at your feet Because you can not lift your head. Once versed in our laughs, you capture Only the spiders and the attic floor, The sharp and intimate webs Kissing your lenses. You are home. No longer mine but someone’s, Loved by a moon and stars you can’t love back. Which is most beautiful?

Charcoal Sketches

Sydney Liu (GA) ’22

TERESA BLOOM Matt Saah ’22

t’s an empty white room. If one was told the words “empty white room” without further detail, the first image in their head would essentially look like the chamber Teresa Bloom found herself in. She can’t think of descriptors other than “bright”. One light hangs down. It isn’t blinding; the cubic nature of the room is still intelligible. Nonetheless, it illuminates just the perfect amount to see every detail in the walls – that is to say there isn’t any. It’s an empty white room. Teresa’s stature lacks assurance. Her eyes keep still while her head circles like a turret. She appears to be looking for some semblance of familiarity. But what could be familiar about a setting so strikingly inconspicuous? Teresa’s head flares up. The corners seem to move. The ill-defined walls dance around her. She thought to herself, What happened last night…? Her headache then goes away. The ceiling snaps back into place. The light remains still and potent with singularity, unsettling and hyperfixating on her. Teresa, wearing a white dress and sandals, feels naked and bare. She doesn’t know quite why, but she believes the lamp is that sensation’s epicenter, and she can’t stop looking at it. The atmosphere is viscous with vacancy, but

something cuts through. It’s a voice: “AUDIO LOG 1.” And another voice. “Alright… ahem…” Teresa’s heart stops. She knows that cadence, that timbre. It’s her own. “Teresa Bloom. Day one: ‘The Beginning’,” the voice says, “this is where it will start... I’m sure I’m surprised to hear me!” She is. She really is. But she keeps listening, nonetheless. “So here’s the rundown: I took a pill an hour ago. It fries any neural connections in the hippocampus that are created within the next 125 hours, give or take. Once 125 hours pass, I will lose all memory from the time I took it. Within these next couple days, I will conduct an experiment. Something that truly takes the mental capabilities of an artist like myself to task. It’ll involve painting in some space devoid of stimulation. I’m not sure what it’ll entail just yet, but I’m thinking after the 125 hours when I lose memory, my friend, *beep*, will take me to this space while I’m asleep.” Teresa’s divided feelings give a sense of relief that she’s in her own hands, but also that she doesn’t know what to expect. She’s unable to single out any of the possible questions that flood her mind. I remember this idea vaguely, Teresa thought, I just

can’t believe I went this far. ‘Devoid of stimulation’ yeah no shit but this is insane. Why can’t I know who brought me here? What am I gonna do here? “I don’t know what I’m gonna do there but, uhhh I guess I’ll have some paint,” the disembodied voice states as paint immediately emerges from a hidden trap door from below, “I’ll fully flesh out the hypothesis and goals by tomorrow, and when I’m in there I’ll hear them in an hour in the second audio log? Maybe? TBD. For now, just start painting!” Even with palpable silence, Teresa can almost hear her attention divert from the light to the now present paint bucket. It wields several small bottles of paint colors. It sits welcomingly. Teresa takes a deep breath and starts assorting the colors. This is the only comforting thing in the room after all. The tools all feel new, unused: the bottles, the brush, the palette. Teresa always felt solace in painting. She’s able to get by selling her art to a local art exhibit from time to time. It’s the escape from life’s trials and tribulations, though, that keeps her coming back to the canvas. The blurs in her mind persist, yet her love of painting remains vivid as she approaches the wall, paintbrush in hand. She strokes her first line… *** Dull shades of chartreuse contrast the radiant

blues and oranges around them. The controlled strokes of green peek from behind to underscore the aura that Teresa intended. The yellows demand all the attention while the browns provide support. Deliberate and precise is the sunset Teresa painted on the wall. A lone sunflower sits in the middle. Yes... That felt good. Teresa takes a seat, and then lies down. If breathing is second nature, then painting is third. She trusts her mind to valet the paintbrush along the canvas. She takes a backseat while her fingers synthesize art; again, it provides an escape. Twenty minutes or so pass and Teresa stands up, sure what her next painting will be: another flower! She wants to paint it next to the sunflower so it doesn’t feel lonely. More yellows and greens are mixed on the palette with a hint of red for the sake of dynamism. She whips out the brush once more. *** The resulting flower, a fully bloomed tulip, stands somewhat limp yet tall. The more faint colors accentuate a bit of a mellow atmosphere. The surrounding grass slants toward a dark green silhouette of a distant forest. It’s as if even the harshest of winds couldn’t budge the singular tulip. “Good,” Teresa says to herself, “I can do more, though.”

She says this in a determined tone. She wants to keep painting, and she does. Different flowers of different types begin to populate the walls. A whole garden of tulips and daisies and roses start wrapping around Teresa. And more… and more… It’s like she can’t stop. She doesn’t feel like she can. *** She’s on the last of the four walls. Her strokes become more purposeful, more conscious. This piece has a group of sunflowers, facing the sun and basking in its rays. All of them are nurtured and tall, except one. One sunflower is short and drab, clearly deprived of the sunlight so sought after by the other flowers. Teresa knows this. The setting is properly conveyed, yet the strokes are rougher and thicker. The biggest of the paintbrushes lies on the ground, slightly frayed. Teresa is sitting down, paint on her fingers. She gets up and takes another brush with some black paint. B-L-O-O-M… This isn’t a signature nor title, but a label placed under the short flower. Teresa doesn’t know how long it’s been since the first audio log played. She doesn’t know how long it’s been since she woke up. She doesn’t know the time; again, it’s an empty room. “I don’t know what’s going on,” Teresa says, “I’m

hungry, I’m tired, I’m... what is going on?” Teresa, now sitting in the center of the room, starts to breathe quickly. After all, she’s right. She doesn’t know what’s going on. She doesn’t know what happened in those 125 hours—her experiment, her methods… her motive. She’s scared. She’s scared of herself. Why are there no more audio logs? Why is there no food? Is there anyone else in on this? Why would I go so far for this? Am I crazy? Am I desperate for something? Desperate enough to deprive myself of… anything?! A single tear drops from her eye as she clutches her hair with both hands. Her head hurts. The walls are closing in on her, and she’s powerless. All around Teresa, the colors and figures coalesce into a mural of emotion. Everything she knows becomes one thing: the room. She’s unable to see anything around her anymore… But she tries. *** She looks at the short flower again; then, she gazes at another wall. She had drawn people on that wall. One looks like her, and the others are familiar too. A sign says ‘Science and Engineering Fair’ on top. The people are all looking at the one who looks like Teresa. They’re looking down at her—the one who has a paintbrush in hand while everyone else holds flasks and test tubes.

Those images had all just come to her. That’s the great thing about painting; images in your mind always come from a book of memories. I get it now… A voice then plays. It seems to be coming from the hanging light. “Audio log 5… alright so my other audio files just fucking corrupted so that’s great. Doesn’t matter though. I’m still gonna show them. I’ll show THEM whose ambitions are misplaced or whatever. Fuck them. Don’t care. Just keep painting. I don’t know. You’re gonna be in here a while I guess. It’s gotta be done. Don’t disappoint me goddammit. Got it now?” I get it now… She put herself in harm’s way just to prove her own worth. She was so meticulous about this experiment, she would deprive herself of information, stimulation, and even sustenance. Her eyes stop watering as she starts to look around. She takes a true look at every detail of the paintings on the walls. She gives attention to every object, every setting, every contrast, every stroke, every red, blue, yellow, everything. It was all done very carefully, and it was all beautiful. Wow… I’m really good at painting. Maybe I’m too good… She picks up the paint bucket, full of red paint. She

dumps it on the floor. She gets on her back and rolls into the puddle. Her summer dress is ruined, but Teresa feels simply red. Teresa speaks with vehemence: “Let’s shed some light.” She frolics around the room, splashing red paint on the walls. She runs her red hands over the tulips, then the chrysanthemums, then the sunflowers. Red streaks populate the whole room now, even the lamp. Teresa runs over to the mural with the people. She jumps on it, leaving a huge, Teresa-shaped figure all over the painting. She looks around, takes a deep breath, and lifts the paint bucket over her head. She is eyeing down the lamp, now smeared in paint. It’s just sitting there. “I’m enough.” She throws the bucket at the lamp. Teresa can’t see anything, only augmenting the sound of glass breaking. Silence… then the sound of a door opening. There is a sunset outside.

Collage

Gunnar Gregory ’24 33

FOR THIS IS GOD’S WILL Peter Kapp ’22

“A

reading from the book of Proverbs,” she announces into the microphone, pages fluttering as the congregation opens their missals to the first reading. “Trust in the Lord with all your heart,” she begins firmly, so as to combat the whistling of the wind through the narrow gap in the swinging glass door. “...and do not lean on your own understanding.” She speaks slowly and deliberately, as if internalizing each word before moving on to the next. “In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths.” A deep “amen” echoes through the church as she steps away from the lectern, bows towards the altar, and returns to her pew. She kneels with her hands folded, her head down, and the small wafer still dissolving in her mouth as the lines for communion begin to abate to the tune of Amazing Grace. Her eyes squint shut, trapping god inside as she begs. “She’ll be just fine,” her father announced at dinner the night before, although the crack in his voice and the empty chair indicated otherwise. She skips her usual smalltalk with God and demands that he ensure the safety of her grandmother. “And like a flood… his mercy reigns….” Her phone vibrates in her back pocket and she instinctively silences it before bringing her palms back together.

“Unending love, amazing grace.” The sky holds a dark grey that engulfs the midday sun. The snow flies horizontally off of the pine trees, whose branches spring up violently with each gust of wind. The congregation spills out through the two back doors, which were propped open for only a moment before the bulletins were sent flying about the vestibule. The priest stands inside the door, shaking hands as parishioners button their coats and slide on their gloves. The woman follows an old couple out of the church, taking slow steps and glancing around so as not to appear frustrated. “Thank you, father.” She fumbles with her coat buttons as she pulls her phone out of her back pocket. Her heart sinks as she slides the hood over her head. Missed Call From Dad. She hits “Call Back” and brings the phone to her ear under the hood as she walks slowly towards her car, the wind pushing her back towards the door. He picks up immediately but doesn’t say anything. She stands still. The wind whips past her, the snow stinging her eyes. Red brake lights illuminate the air as the elderly couple stops to avoid a young family. The choir finishes the closing hymn, holding their final note. Her father takes a long deep breath that warbles as he exhales. “Okay,” she says, and hangs up. Her grandmother is dead. She had prayed harder than ever for her closest friend and biggest supporter, but God killed her nonetheless. She stands for a moment,

snowflakes accumulating on her coat before being blown violently away. She spins around and trots angrily back towards the church as fast as her platform boots allow, the wind pulling her along. She slips her phone into her unzipped coat pocket and pulls her hood down. Her hands reach behind her frazzled, windswept hair to the clasp on her necklace, which she unhooks as she approaches the priest. The necklace is a small golden cross with a thin gold chain, a gift from her grandmother at her first communion. The pendant is scratched and dented, the edges almost serrated over generations. The initials MGK are inscribed down the center of the cross. She extends her left hand toward him, the necklace invisible in her fist. She drops it into his right hand and quickly turns away. *** Her bedpost is empty now. All the Light We Cannot See replaces the Bible in the top drawer of her nightstand, but the dog-eared pages stopped creeping along the edge after just a few weeks. She sleeps past noon on Sundays, her Saturday nights a compilation of friends she can’t stand and alcohol she can’t hold. Their weekly family dinners are different. Her dad curbs his comments about how long the homily was or how the organist had clearly never seen an organ before. Her mother can’t resist an attempt at reasoning with

her. “Sometimes it’s just time…” Her father’s eyes dart between them, and she stares at the empty chair across from her. Twelve Years Prior: Christmas Eve She runs inside, ahead of the rest of her family, to switch the place cards such that hers is beside her grandmother’s. Her mother smiles and winks knowingly as she runs out of the dining room, her face projecting guilt in an attempt to feign innocence. The wreath bounces on the door as the rest of them file in, a few pine needles falling off each time it swings open. They gather in the living room at first; the grandparents sit on the couches, the parents on chairs, and kids on the floor. She sits cross legged, leaning on the couch in front of her grandmother. Her uncle plays “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” on the grand piano tucked into the corner as the other twelve watch in awe. His head bobs between the music and his fingers. She glances back at her grandmother, who stares intently at her son, her palm holding her cheek. The girl slides up onto the couch beside her and matches her pose. The thirteen of them squeeze around the round table designed to fit eight, although her aunt suggests they may need another high chair. The white tablecloth is designed for a square table, so it spills off the edge in varying quantities. The silverware from Grandma’s wedding lies

neatly arranged for its annual use. Crystal glasses sit at the adult place settings, close to the center of the table so as to be out of reach of the children. They hold hands around the table, the girl gently gripping her grandmother’s hand by her fingertips. “Bless us our Lord and these thy gifts…” “I would’ve become a nun if your grandfather hadn’t showed up!” The table chuckles as her grandmother regales the table with stories of her time in a German monastery. The rest of the children reach over their plates to the cookies, collecting mashed potatoes on their ties, while the girl stares intently at her grandmother, her cheek in her palm and her elbow on the table. Her grandmother tells stories as every person should; she passionately imitates the voices of her characters as her arms swing enthusiastically. The adults have heard these stories dozens of times, and as her performance continues they begin to divulge into their own conversations, leaving only the girl staring as her grandmother continues the reenactment of her own odyssey. The thirteen of them file through the glass doors at the back of the church, the priest greeting with an enthusiastic “Merry Christmas!” as everybody rubs their hands together and smiles as they walk quickly away from the nighttime draft through the doors. They always go to the midnight mass on Christmas Eve, much to the

dismay of the kids, who sleep unapologetically through the mass and stumble out afterwards. They get there early, of course, to ensure they have enough consecutive seats for all of them. While they wait, the girl tells riddles to her grandmother, who answers incorrectly and acts surprised when the answer is revealed. The congregation quickly silences after a number of shushes and the piano intro for “O Holy Night” begins. The girl twirls the golden necklace between her fingers as the priest walks down the center aisle wearing white vestments and flanked by altar servers. *** She mixes the dough with her hands, the unmixed salt lodging under her fingernails. CNN flickers in the other room, the volume just high enough that she can hear if she stops kneading. The sun shines through the window, illuminating the dust that swirls through the air when she walks quickly enough. The light shines through the crystal glasses they had taken from her grandmother’s house, which reside permanently on the breakfront from her entry hall. They had gone to her house the day of the funeral to divide her belongings amongst the family. Her grandmother died three months ago, her mother texted in the sporadically populated family group chat. She reaches to the cabinet above the sink to grab the vanilla extract, and she hears “St. Mary’s Assisted Living Facility has been ravaged by the flu this season.” She

quickly towels some of the excess dough off of her hands as she walks into the other room to see a photo of her grandmother’s final home on the TV. The anchor continues: “Over half of the population of the facility is in critical condition, and this flu variant has brought the home to its knees. Visitors are prohibited until further notice, and even the families of the critical or deceased residents are not allowed to say their final goodbyes.” “God never says oops,” she announces deliberately to the empty apartment; her grandmother’s favorite expression finally makes sense. She turns the TV off, grabs her keys from the mantle, slides on her Ugg slippers, and gets in her car, the remaining cookie dough smudging on the steering wheel as she backs out of the garage. She approaches the priest sheepishly, hoping he can ignore the cookie dough on her shirt and the Ugg slippers. He walks into the sacristy, and she waits in the vestibule, hoping he can forgive her. “Father—” He outstretches his right fist and she does the same. He drops the necklace into her right hand and she places it into the pocket of her pajama pants. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

Collage

Reed Gilbert ’24

OUR L AST WALK HOME Vilas Sogaard-Srikrishnan ’23 The snow fell down in a hurry And turned brown under the boot of my shoe How long had we been walking now? Eight blocks? Nine? We couldn’t be far from her place But she stopped—why did she have to stop— And turned me around with that old tap on my shoulder Her breath was hot and crude and damp And her skin cracked as she puckered her chapped lips She looked up into my eyes and waddled close Trying desperately to catch my gaze Like a pathetic, old dog on its deathbed. I felt the sidelong stares from across the street As she moved in closer and begged dumbly with her dull eyes Her presence tainted the frozen cityscape Why couldn’t we just look at the snowflakes?

DON’T MEMORIZE Benet Polikoff ’22 Don’t memorize just mesmerize There’s a fine line to the truths we find Often times all are blind, Oedipus could testify What was meant to be left behind To this world divine Creations are the heart Spirit is the spine What is art Where must we draw the line I say we take a chance and let the worlds collide And let everyone’s light shine.

BUTTERFLIES John Lin ’22 MARIA aria stepped out of New York-Presbyterian Hospital and into the summer’s evening air. It had been a grueling day of operations, and she was deeply grateful for the sweet caress of the light breeze that brushed along her cheeks and ran through her hair. For a brief moment, she stood outside the sliding glass doors of the hospital and admired the beauty of the waning sun which ignited the sky into a firestorm of red, orange, and pink. However, as she resumed her short walk to the subway station, her moment of tranquility was prematurely ruined by the sad memories, worries, and doubts of her home life. Her mother’s ailing health, doubts that she would be able to afford next month’s rising rent, and concerns that her son was falling in with the wrong crowd soon seeped into her consciousness again and darkened her surroundings. The sunset was not as vibrant, the smell of the halal food carts not as fragrant, and the sounds of the city not quite as soothing as before. Normally, Maria kept all her personal troubles locked up in a section of her mind when she was working purely out of necessity. Should she let even one doubt or worry cloud her mind when she was operating on a patient, the operation would surely be compromised and

the patient’s very life would be endangered as a result of her unprofessional mental infortitude. Ever since her husband’s death five years ago, Maria had not had an incident. However, lately, Maria found her impenetrable mental dam slowly cracking and letting in more worries and doubts. Perhaps it was the inevitable dulling effect of age on her cognitive and physical ability, perhaps her personal burdens and problems were finally getting to her, or perhaps she was simply not getting enough sleep. Whatever the cause, she needed to refocus. As Maria snapped back to reality, she found herself descending the stairs of the subway station to take the line 4 train to her apartment. This was exactly what she was afraid of happening to her during an operation: spacing out and getting stuck in her own head. She became flustered as her mind immediately began calculating everything that could have gone wrong if she had spaced out a little longer. The train pulled in as Maria passed through the turnstile and onto the platform. That was her train. She began trotting, then jogging when she realized she wouldn’t make it, and then into a full sprint when she saw the doors closing. In her rush to make the train, she hadn’t noticed that her hospital ID card had fallen off of her breast pocket and onto the subway platform, skidding to rest right along the edge. As the doors slid shut, there was a momentary pause before the subway hissed and lurched forward into

the dark, speeding away from the station. The hospital ID lay unnoticed on the station platform. JEREMIAH Something caught Jeremiah’s eye as he walked down the second flight of stairs at the train station. It was too neat, its edges too sharp, and its surface too shiny compared to the usual litter of napkins, paper cups, and other trash that littered the station floor. As he approached the small, white, rectangular object, he saw a face smiling back from the surface; it was an ID card. He picked up the card. It belonged to somebody named Maria Hope, a trauma surgeon at New York-Presbyterian Hospital. Jeremiah cleaned off the dirty laminated card with his shirt and decided to give it to the hospital’s front desk the next morning because he coincidentally worked only two buildings down from the hospital. He hoped that Maria was alright; after all, New York City was becoming more dangerous by the day. Jeremiah knew the good days were coming to a close. The tech startup that he worked for was sailing over troubled waters yet again and he knew that he would not survive the company downsizing he had so deftly avoided for years. He had wholeheartedly accepted that he would be let off tomorrow many months prior. He was planning on telling her tomorrow night when he would have officially received notice of his termination.

Jeremiah reasoned that if he could nail his job interview that he had tomorrow, he could present the bad news to his wife later that night, but then nullify that directly after with the news that he had already found a new job. Jeremiah was a member of a rare breed of humans: he had an indomitable human spirit which was purely fueled by optimism. He was tall, lanky, good looking, but not so much that everyone paid attention to him. However, since grade school, it has been his personality that his family, friends, and peers have always remarked on. While others wake up tired, trudge to work, and plop down at their desk to work for ten hours, Jeremiah always enters the office early with coffees in hand for everyone at the office and with the biggest grin on his face as he greets his coworkers each morning. However, recently, Jeremiah had started to feel the clutches of monotony slowly take over his life for the first time ever. Each sunrise and sunset, surprise, or new breakthrough felt dampened. It was as if he had already done everything before and found little benefit to optimism. Although he tried to hide this newfound attitude beneath a facade of his usual, happy self, deep down, he knew that something had to change or else he would slowly lose all of his once exuberant personality. This was his greatest fear. To combat this monotony, Jeremiah started to make little changes in his daily routine to inspire himself. One day, he might walk to work instead of taking the subway

while, another day, he would go out to Central Park to exercise with his wife. Tomorrow’s little deviation, he decided, would be to drop off this surgeon’s ID card at the hospital on his way to work. Change was good. Change brought purpose to his world. COLIN Just as his mother had suspected, Colin had fallen in with the wrong crowd. Ever since his father died, he had drifted aimlessly through life, no longer caring about his future and simply seeking the immediate pleasures this life had to offer him. He routinely skipped school for weeks on end and hung out with the worst people. His mother, no doubt, was the most loving figure in his life, and Colin would readily acknowledge that to anybody he met, but the lack of a father during the past five years had taken a toll on him. He was hurting, and the only way he knew how to drown the pain out was with beer and cheap thrills like playing dice in dark alleyways or stealing a kid’s money. Colin knew his mother and father, if he was still around in this world, would both disapprove of his current life, but he didn’t care anymore. The gang accepted him as one of their own and as long as he felt like he fit in, the pain of his father’s death was bearable. On this particular night, Colin was hanging out with the gang in their usual alleyway behind the Italian restaurant, drinking and wasting the night away. Just as

they finished their first bottles of beer, the gang leader pulled Colin away from the group. “Are you ready for tomorrow?” He asked. “Yes, so just jump anyone I want right? You’ll see it?” Colin asked in return, desperate to prove himself. “Yeah, hold him at gunpoint and take his stuff. I’ll be there.” Said the leader. “Ok.” “Oh, and Colin…” called out the group leader as he left to rejoin the group, “shoot him if he runs.” Colin gulped. He wouldn’t let it come to that. Everything would go smoothly and according to plan. The group leader would surely protect him if anything went wrong. This is what he wanted, right? Right? Right? Right? A small part of him wanted to walk away and run into his mother’s arms, but he had strayed too far for that. JEREMIAH The next day, Jeremiah woke up ten minutes earlier than his usual time to account for the extra time he would need in order to deliver the ID card he had found. Last night, he lay in his bed and was unable to fall asleep for quite a while because he had felt apprehensive about delivering the card. It was odd, because he never

felt nervous, especially about these little things. Sure, occasionally, he would get nervous when he had to present a proposal in front of his company’s owners, but never about something as trivial as delivering a lost ID card. As he pondered these problems, Jeremiah stepped out into the bright sunlight, the city already awake and bustling around him. Midway through his walk to the hospital, he realized he would not make it in time to his job interview and decided to put off his visit to the hospital until after work. *** As Jeremiah made his way to the hospital after his final day of work for his now previous job, he felt relieved and unburdened. He thought he had done an amazing job at answering all of the questions the interviewer had asked him that morning and was confident he would receive the job at the new company. Now, all he had to do was return the ID card to the hospital. As he passed through the sliding glass doors, he put on a big grin and confidently strode up to the front desk. “Greetings! I found this card at the subway station yesterday. Would you mind returning it to Dr. Mary Hope?” said Jeremiah. “Sure! May I get your name?” Asked the receptionist. “I’m Jeremiah Grant. Nice to meet you and send my best wishes to Dr. Hope.” Without even waiting for a reply, Jeremiah strode

out of the hospital and into the afternoon sun. *** As Jeremiah walked back to his apartment, he decided not to take the subway and just cut through a series of back streets to get to his house faster. He wanted to tell his wife all about his busy day. As he rounded the corner and passed a dark alleyway, he was quickly pulled in and instantly found himself staring into the eyes of a teenage boy. Something cold and hard jutted into his chest. He dared not look down to see what it was. “Keep calm,” he thought to himself, “just give him your wallet.” “Empty your pockets.” Said the boy. He pulled out his wallet, a shiny, aluminum-silver wallet that his wife had bought him last week. His wallet’s reflection as he pulled it out blinded the boy for just a fleeting moment. Too late. The boy panicked and shot Jeremiah in the chest, thinking that Jeremiah was pulling a knife from his pocket. The boy ran away and Jeremiah fell into the street, bleeding slowly from the hole in his chest. COLIN Why had he done that? It happened so quickly. Mom. Dad? I’m lost… help... Colin ran home and tried to convince himself that he had nothing to do with the man lying in the street with a hole in his chest.

MARIA Maria stood in front of the operating table as a man was quickly rolled in. This was her last emergency patient of the day and then she was home free. She had been unexpectedly assigned this man as only minutes before, he was found lying in the street with a bullet wound in his chest. As the surgery crept on, Maria’s head began to cloud like the day before. Her mind drifted to her son: what if he had been in this man’s position? Could she take the grief? Will this man be able to survive? Maria snapped back to reality, other doctors and nurses were surrounding the table, crowding her in with the resting man. She glanced at the EKG beside her. It was flat. *** It took several hours for Maria to take off her scrubs and start the return journey home. She had failed. Her thoughts had finally penetrated her discipline and the man had paid the price. When she finally mustered up the will to walk home, as she passed the front desk, the receptionist called out to her, “Mary, a man named Jeremiah Grant walked in today to return your lost ID. He wishes you all the best.” Jeremiah Grant… Why does that sound familiar? No… It couldn’t be… Maria rushed up the hospital stairs and checked the

database for the name of the man she had operated on. It was him. Jeremiah Grant. *** Maria returned home that evening, sobbing as she walked. The evening sky was set ablaze in what seemed to be an even more extraordinary display of color and hue than yesterday. Yet, Maria didn’t stop. She no longer admired the sunset, rushed to make the subway, nor worried about her personal life. She was filled with grief because it was her fault. After all, she had dropped her ID in the subway yesterday… She was the one who had failed the surgery. She had failed both times, wasting fate’s second chance. Perhaps if she hadn’t dropped her ID, if she had just worked a little faster, or even if she had not stopped to admire the sunset so that she wouldn’t have had to rush to the subway, then Jeremiah would still be alive. As she turned the final corners to her home, her fears shifted. She could hardly imagine if something happened to Colin...

Acrylic Paint on Canvas

Robert Jacobson ’22

Pencil on Colored Paper

Robert Jacobson ’22

WINDS OF JUSTICE Edward Nagler ’22

heavy breeze stronger than any tornado or hurricane quaked west, ripping the foundations of houses from the ground, snatching millions of Benjamins from bank fortresses, and sweeping millions of families off their feet, allowing them to fly for the first time. Every night, families prayed for this divine breeze to consume them, believing it would carry them to Heaven before their ashes were lost in a frenzy of dust and topsoil. Everyone knew California was earth’s Empyrean: a cornucopia of eternally ripe crops with rolling hills as limitless as the universe. Upon being released by the breeze, men were awestruck by the emerald green of the valleys, the bright pinks and oranges of the alien flowers, and the rhythmic dancing of the golden sun in the azure sky. At night they ogled at shooting stars and faultless constellations, wondering if God transported them to some galaxy outside of the Milky Way. Animosity was foreign to this promised kingdom: land was boundless, and men had enough territory that their triumphant and jubilant yells were only heard by their loving families and limitless crops. Sacred soil allowed men to grow food abundant enough to feed a whole continent and nutritive enough to rival the ambrosia of the Olympians. Plants, animals,

and mankind lived in perfect harmony: men worshiped the land, plants happily provided them with succulent fruits and vegetables, and animals became man’s companion instead of his kill. Husbands, wives, children, and livestock danced all day and night, bonding in their appreciation for God’s gift: heaven on earth. However, ever since Adam and Eve—God’s perfect prototype of husband and wife—failed to maintain the Garden of Eden, humans have never been able to live in paradise. As the breeze delivered more refugees to the holy oasis, its first inhabitants were no longer secluded to tracts of land larger than the feudal estates of medieval lords. Instead of welcoming new immigrants, natives sought to compete with them, refusing to allow their God-given siblings to feel His grace. The land tried to warn them: the soil produced rotten fruit, the evergreens shed their needles for the first time, and the emerald green grass turned to burnt hazel. Leaves switched colors from bright yellow to blood red, bears began to hunt humans, and flower petals blackened like charcoal. However, the natives believed that only the Devil could transform their green palace from Heaven to Hell, punishing presumed Satanists by lowering their wages, expelling them from their land, and brawling with them whenever given the opportunity. Unbeknownst to them, sinning profusely on God’s land is far worse than being eternally damned to Hell.

The sun began to scorch the earth; its rays stretched from space to the ground: a deadly kiss. The grass was either on fire or transformed into obsidian, struck by the lava of the Creator’s volcano of rage. Pesticides and ash spoiled browning strawberries, burning grapes, moldy bananas, rotten oranges, and flaming peaches, poisoning any child who ventured to consume. The sky was scarlet red, hunting down all witches in the land, refusing even to give them a trial. Suddenly, the leaves, flowers, and shrubs began to heat up, burning any farmer who dared to touch. Erupting into flames, inferno’s nature smothered any humans left. Families were encircled by flame, praying for God’s mercy, but not even God could hear them over the cackling fire. Households knew hope was dead and prayed God’s wrath consumed them quickly and painlessly. Mothers, fathers, daughters, and sons linked hands one last time, hoping to dance their way into Heaven. Shocked and expressionless, spouses shared their final moments, locking eyes with one another, looking away from the audience of flaming corpses surrounding them, and blocking out the horror of the waves of fire bursting through their windows and floorboards. Suddenly, everything was gray and hazed. God separated loved ones from each other as he glared into their souls one last time. All natives were eternally damned, and God left them on their tainted ranches as kerosene to fuel his

rage forever. Meanwhile, migrants were whisked away by God’s divine breeze to a new paradise for a second chance. Is this justice?

55 FICTION

Short Stories in 55 Words

E ARLY MORNING FISHING Vilas Sogaard-Srikrishnan ’23 The line disappeared into the lake’s silent, cold shroud. He sat, drummed his fingers along the nylon. Something bit. He reeled hard against the desperate pleas until the little fishy broke the surface, twirling on line like a stripped carcass. Fishy had Madelyn’s somber, soulful eyes. He propped the rod up and watched her hang. OPER ATION T WELVE Peter Kapp ’22 My blood races. “Follow my lead.” I had planned it all out. Any misstep could compromise the entire operation. “Just you and your child?” she asks. He tugs on my sleeve. I felt the money drain out of my bank account. “Mom, I’m thirteen!” “Damn it, Kevin.” I force a sheepish smile for the waitress.

(INVISIBLE TE XT) (Invisible Text)

3:00 AM IN SUGARHOUSE, R ANDOLPH, V T Jackson Fels ’23 and Vilas Sogaard-Srikrishnan ’23 Dying embers pervade the tranquil winter’s night. In somnolence, two boys awake to the comfort of their own flame. Beneath its hearth, the night’s whispers fall mute, its blanketing darkness lifted. The two address each other in every smokey breath, every half-cold shiver. They sit in fraternal solace. Their fire rages silent against the night. goodnight owen hayes ’22 i woke up with a scar on my arm. i blacked out. tried to kill myself? don’t remember. embraced by someone with bad breath. it’s probably mom. “jesus my sweet baby! you’re alive. thank the lord.” i didn’t know what all the festivities were about. i was just sleeping. “alright guys. party’s over, i’m tired.”

HOW TO MAKE TACOS AL PASTOR Helena Servin-DeMarrais (GA) ’22 Step 1: Get your pork out of the freezer. It’s important that you get the right kind of pork, boneless and fatty, or Abuela will scold you like last time. It’s already bad enough that you don’t have a trompo to cook it all on. Set a mental reminder to buy one—buy that same red one as grandma. Step 2: Go in the pantry and get out the achiote. Oh, it looks like you’re running low. Time to ask Tía Gabi to send more from Mexico. Step 3: Combine the achiote with garlic powder, oregano, cumin, salt, pepper, and vinegar. It’s a shame you don’t have fresh oregano. You should really start an herb garden. Step 4: Coat the pork with the seasoning you’ve just created, just like you would with breadcrumbs. It’s important that you leave no millimeter of pork uncovered, or Abuela will yell at you like last time. Step 5: Put the pork in a bowl, cover it, and leave it in the refrigerator for two hours. It really should be left to sit for 3 days so that the pork can fully soak in the achiote, but

you don’t have time to wait for that. Realize you’re deeply unprepared to make Tacos al pastor. Abuela was always more on top of her ingredients. Step 6: The two hours you’re waiting is prime time to get some housework done. You can clean the kitchen, vacuum the living room, or tend to the garden like Abuela would. Step 7: Your two hours are up, and it’s time to cook the pork. Preheat your modern oven to 175 degrees Celsius. “Always use Celsius,” like Abuela said. No need to be a problematic American. Step 8: Place the pork and the extra juice in a skillet and cook over medium heat on the stove for ten minutes. It is important that you time this next step correctly. It must be perfectly cooked on the stove, with the slightest bit of charring, or you will ruin the whole dish, and Abuela will yell at you like last time. Step 9: Once the pork has cooked on the stove for ten minutes, take the skillet and place it in the now preheated oven. In an ideal world, this next step would not be necessary, because you would have a trompo. Abuela

would say the transferring ruins the outer coating on the pork, but you have no other way to do it. Step 10: While the pork is in the oven, cut up onion, cilantro, and pineapple in separate bowls. “So tough the pineapple and so large the onion,” Abuela would say. “American fruit is so unnatural.” Step 11: Warm the store-bought tortillas on the comal, flipping after one minute. Place them in the tortillero to keep them warm when you’re done. You reach for the tough tortillas, wishing you had Abuela’s homemade ones to use. Step 12: Your pork should be done by now. You can remove it from the oven and place it on the counter. “How do you know it’s done?” Abuela would say. “You just know, mijita, you just know.” Step 13: Cut the pork into small, thin pieces, and make sure it’s tender and spicy. You need to make sure it’s perfect, this time especially. Step 14: Get two tortillas out of the tortillero and place them on your plate. Put pork on the tortillas, and cover with onion, excessive amounts of pineapple, and a little cilantro. Don’t add any hot sauce, you can’t handle that.

“What child of mine can’t eat spicy foods?!” Abuela would say. “Disgraceful.” Step 15: Eat the taquito the right way. Place your hands on the side, lightly grabbing it (don’t shovel it). Put your pinkies in the air for a little extra flair, or Abuela will yell at you. Only she isn’t here to yell at you, and that’s the reason you’re making these tacos to begin with. You take a bite, and it tastes delicious. A flavorful explosion of spicy, sweet, and savory all at the same time. However, it’s missing something, you realize. That extra pinch of Abuela’s amor y cariños.

Marker Sketches

Painting

Sydney Liu (GA) ’22

THE WATCHLESS SAILOR Teddy Elmlinger ’22

he water reflects off of the polished blue hull as its teak deck sweats in the afternoon sun. The boat slides up to the dock and the old man catches the nylon rope thrown by the young dockhand. “Can you fill it up with diesel, young man?” asks the old man as he struggles to get off the boat. The boy takes the nozzle and begins fueling the sailboat. The boy’s face is red and wet; his shirt is about three shades darker than it was when he left home this morning. “That’s a lot of trash you’ve got there. Did you throw a party or something?” jokes the old man as he wanders around the dock, still taking in yet another harbor. “This guy always thinks we’re the trash service,” says the dockhand, nodding towards the yacht across the harbor. “He dumps his stuff here and adds the fuel to his ever-growing tab.” A group of women starts lounging on the bow of the other yacht as the owner pops a bottle of champagne. The boy turns to the gas station’s clock – 2:30 pm—the perfect time to start day-drinking. The boy struggles to carry multiple bags of trash and finally trips as he tries to throw them into the trash can. “Let me help you with that. You can’t do it all by

yourself.” The old man wobbles to the mound of trash bags, but the boy refuses. The dock’s trash cans are now bursting with trash and the deckhand’s shirt is hurting more than it’s helping, but he does not mention it to the old man—that would be unprofessional. The boy turns his attention to the blue sailboat, walking alongside but never touching. “I don’t mean to pry, sir, but you’re a long way away from home,” says the boy as he glances at the boat’s faded Australian flag. He chuckles. “I haven’t been to Melbourne in a long while,” says the old man as he leans against the hull. “I just sail around now. Annabelle always had a dream to sail around the world after we retired. I couldn’t care less about sailing but it was her dream.” His eyes begin to pool with water. “I’m sorry sir. How long ago?” “Three years.” The boy asks “do you have any trash to throw out? “I couldn’t. Plus, where would it go?” answers the old man. The man appreciates that the boy is trying to make the situation less awkward. “Why don’t we give it to Playboy over there? I’m sure he can find a creative way to discard it,” jokes the dockhand. “Yep…yep,” nods the old man as he hears the gas pump click off. “I was once just like him. Before I met

my wife, I acted like a king. I had the fake gold watches, the bright white jackets, and even the women. I was just like him. I’m guessing he hasn’t paid his tab in months has he?” The man looks over at the dockhand, whose expression answers for him. “There’s nothing there… behind the ego and shiny white yachts. You know what I mean?” asks the old man. The boy shakes his head. “You’ll find out someday. I found out when I met Annabelle. She was the only one I couldn’t seduce with money,” remarks the old man. “Everyone but Annabelle loved the champagne and watches. She was the only one, and that stuck with me. She wasn’t impressed when I rolled up in rented sports cars. I think she hated it. She hated the ego; she hated how I would treat the bartenders and the homeless men sitting outside of the club.” The old man chuckles. “What changed?” replies the boy, now unbothered by his wet shirt or the sun. “I saw her with these other guys. I met a few of them here and there, but they weren’t rich, or at least, they didn’t act like it. I couldn’t understand why she would want them over me.” The old man stands up and removes the nozzle. The boy rushes to help but the old man refuses. The man fires up the boat and leans over the hull to pay the boy for fuel. As the boy prepares to untie the boat

and push off, the man hands him a cold water bottle and a one hundred dollar bill. “This is for you. Heatstroke is dangerous.” “Thank you, sir, but I really can’t take this. I only pump gas,” says the boy with his arm outstretched. “Just don’t buy a cheap watch with it.” The old man pushes off the dock and points the boat out of the marina. The Annabelle grows smaller as the dockhand unscrews the old man’s water bottle.

LIVING OFF OF LONELINESS Original Song by Winston Rider Mock ’23 paint me a picture dive under water i’ll follow after you don’t go too far it’s just a walk in the park but now i’ve lost you living off of lonely loneliness wishing we were just kids all our lives walking down, down the road by the river skipping stones i saw the signs getting in my car wanting to turn around i try to never lose control i smell a fire burning white pages are roaring it’s the book of Aesop’s fables

living off of lonely loneliness wishing we were just kids all our lives walking down, down the road by the river skipping stones i saw the signs bridge: oh i’ll tend to the garden and the white fence around it and no i don’t let anybody in maybe someday i’ll pass on the stories to another home living off of lonely loneliness wishing we were just kids all our lives walking down, down the road by the river skipping stones i saw the signs

DANCE TO LET SOME LIGHT IN Original Song by Winston Rider Mock ’23 in the summer when the grass turns green again when the flowers start to show when the stars are bright enough to lead you back home and only good music plays on the radio and do you want to dance to let some light in cause your the only one that i have ever known and do you want to stay and watch the stars cause i heard they’re putting on a show all the fake smiles in December cause no one really likes the cold and the consent fear of getting older cause i’m only good at being young

and do you want to dance to let some light in cause your the only one that i have ever known and do you want to stay and watch the stars cause i heard there putting on a show follow the telephone wires to the pay phone and emptied my wallet on this call to some girl that i used to know i had to ask her when she’s coming back home and do you want to dance to let some light in cause your the only one that i have ever known and do you want to stay and watch the stars cause i heard they’re putting on a show