The Oracle 2023

THE ORACLE

Brunswick School Greenwich, CT 2022-2023

Founded in 1902, Brunswick School is an independent, college preparatory day school in Greenwich, Connecticut, providing character-based education for boys Pre-Kindergarten through Grade 12. Brunswick educates 963 boys and has a faculty population of 136.

The school is located at 100 Maher Avenue, and can be reached by phone at (203)-625-5800 or by fax at (203)-625-5829.

Submissions to The Oracle are open to all Brunswick students and faculty with a desire to display their creative works, with a submission window from September to April. Submissions can be emailed to oracle@brunswickschool.org, but are often personally solicited from students and faculty alike.

For this edition of the Oracle, 500 copies were printed and distributed throughout the school.

The magazine was printed on 80 lb. gloss paper.

The design and layout were completed in Adobe Indesign, and the font used is Baskerville.

EDITORIAL BOARD

Vilas Sogaard-Srikrishnan

Emil Sogaard-Srikrishnan

Jackson Fels

Gabe Lopez

Wylie Ocken

Mason Zea

Luke Brooks

Presto Elms

Will Schmitz

Winston Mock

Fritz Smith

Samuel Case

Luke Brown

Ben Wu

Editor in Chief Editor in Chief

Creative Director Senior Editor Senior Editor

Senior Writer Senior Writer

Senior Writer Junior Writer

Junior Writer

Senior Writer Song Writer

Junior Writer Junior Writer

And thanks to Reed Gilbert, Gavin Korpi, Grayson O’Hara, Gonzalo Jurado, Tomas Jasson, Andrew Kiratsous, Pierce Crosby, Holden Fraser, and Thomas Whidden for their contributions. v

va

TABLE OF CONTENTS PART I

The Man on the Bridge................................................10 Will Schmitz ‘24

Getting Married............................................................16 Vilas Sogaard-Srikrishnan ‘23

Chains............................................................................22 Mason Zea ‘23

Dear Icarus.....................................................................32 Luke Brooks ‘24

“I love you”......................................................................33 Jackson Fels

Best Friends....................................................................35 George Kapp ‘26

A Shadow From Childhood.........................................39 Fritz Smith ‘23

Faraway Eyes .................................................................40 Anonymous

55 FICTIONS Total War.......................................................48 Will Schmitz ‘24

The Summit...................................................48 Wylie Ocken ‘23

Reading After The 6 P.M. Curfew......................49 George Kapp ‘26

Integrity.........................................................49 Preston Elms ‘25

in the time it takes to turn your head..........50 Luke Brooks ‘24

The Wages of Love.....................................50 Jackson Fels ‘23

The Young Man I Met At The Bus Stop....51 Vilas Sogaard-Srikrishnan ‘23

PART II Pablo and I...................................................53 Luke Brooks ‘24

Santa!............................................................54 Preston Elms ‘25

Tressless.......................................................57 Vilas Sogaard-Srikrishnan ‘23

The Benchwarmer..................................58 Emil Sogaard-Srikrishnan ‘25

VT: Disconnection..................................61 Luke Brown ‘24

King of the Apollo Royale......................65 Sam Case ‘23

The World According to a Serial Essayist....................................................70 Vilas Sogaard-Srikrishnan ‘23

Feast of Death.........................................78 Preston Elms ‘25

Some of Us.............................................84 Winston Rider Mock ‘23

The Arbitrium........................................88 Jackson Fels ‘23

Editor’s Note Dear reader, The collection you’re reading now, made up of the best selections of nearly fifty submissions of student creative literature, is a product of eight months of work between over twenty members of Brunswick’s Oracle.

This year, we decided to introduce a new idea: orienting the Oracle around a central theme. Or rather, two. This year’s themes are Human Relationships, Power Dynamics, and, specifically, their interplay.

Above all else, our driving goal this year was to expand the Oracle and ensure its success past our graduation. It’s no secret that writing is a dying art. As modern language becomes more and more condensed, the beauty of the written word is lost little by little. Our goal is to expose as many people as possible to this beauty: with every stroke of the pen, each sentence strung together, the writer puts a bit of themself into their work. At a time where much is uncertain for the adolescent, writing is a chance for them to learn themself — their thoughts, their emotions, and their very being.

After doubling membership and submission rate, we are confident in this community’s future. Quite simply, it is in great hands.

We are indebted to the patience, guidance, and incredible mentorship of Doctor Brian Freeman. His own creative genius inspires passion in all of us, and this project would be unrecognizable without his direction.

Grateful, Jackson Fels and Vilas Sogaard-Srikrishnan

e e

.

The Man On the Bridge Will Schmitz

I get my ass kicked. Everyday is the same battle. I fight my way out of bed at 6 AM and stumble into a lukewarm shower, dreading the two minutes of water that shake me awake from the dreams I escape to.

Feeling listless, I leave my apartment at 6:20, open a pack of cigarettes, and drive away in my 2014 Nissan Leaf. My fiancée Jane nags me incessantly to purchase a new car already, but that shitbox seems to be the only thing inspiring me as of late. It was my first car out of law school, and that tiny metal box holds every goal and aspiration I’ve had since I was twelve years old.

I take I-95 heading Northbound over the George Washington bridge. I’m used to the traffic 10

by now. But as I sit, trapped on the GW, my eyes trace over towards the ugly oil refinery that scars the New York skyline far in the distance. I watch as plumes of black smog meander up into the sky, coalescing with the pure-white clouds above. It’s the same view I get every day as I cross the GW, stuck in my seatbelt, jammed up behind rows and rows of cars. It is the worst part of my day.

But this morning, the sun peeks out from the morning clouds, shy and warm, and paints a glowing stripe down the glassy Hudson. It’s beautiful — beautiful enough to pull my attention away from the factory. The short-lived beauty offers a brief escape.

If you told me fifteen years ago that the only progress I would make as an environmental lawyer at the age of thirty-three would be to reach the 11

position of Associate Attorney at a struggling firm, I might have reconsidered my decision to take out $130,000 in student loans. Then again, fifteen years ago, my aspirations to save lives and change the world felt as if they were worth any sacrifice.

But those aspirations have been wavering for years now. I can’t shake the feeling that my passion and my ambition to protect the world are fading.

From a young age, my greatest fear was that I would live a purposeless life. Now, I’m afraid I have fallen victim to the system. It feels nearly certain that I won’t live up to the expectations and standards I had set for myself as a child. *** I hop back into my Leaf, light my final cig, and start my trek home as the sun dives under the New York City skyline, a ravishing bright orange.

12

Jane hates it when I smoke. I hate it when I smoke.

In a world that appears to me more and more blackand-white with each passing day, the sunset over the bridge reminds me of the beauty I’m trying to save. Something about tonight feels different. I feel empowered. I turn the busted radio up as loud as it can scream and crank the windows down, letting the brisk night air cool my cheeks and whisk away the rancid smell of cigarette smoke that I’ve become so fond of.

My excitement proves short-lived, though.

Off in the distant traffic I spot a rugged old man.

His heavy fist clenches tightly to the guardrail in front of him as he stares blankly at the water’s surface, 4,760 feet below. Most days, I would have thought nothing of it and kept on driving home blandly. But tonight there is purpose here. This is an 13

opportunity to save a life. I spring into action.

I click on my hazards and put the car in park, unfazed by the blaring of horns from angry commuters behind me. I pace over to the man on the bridge and pat him on the shoulder.

“Don’t jump. You matter.”

The old man looks at me. Fighting laughter he says “F-ing idiot,” and proceeds to throw up into the Hudson River. He then points to a taxi four cars ahead of mine. In it, the old man’s wife, sheepishly hiding in the back seat, mouths to her husband to get back in the car and to stop being a drunk idiot.

The man looks at me, smiles, and stumbles back to his cab.

I may not have saved a life that night, but something else happened. On the car ride home, the black and white headlights that I’ve got used to 14

seem to shine brighter, a vibrant yellow now. The next morning, my shower feels a little warmer, my apartment a little bigger, my relationship a little more loving. And, with all my heart, I’m resolved to tear down that smokestack by the George Washington Bridge.

All the while, the echo of my words from the night before sounded in my head: You matter. You matter. You matter.

I may not have saved that old man’s life, but he sure as hell saved mine.

15

Getting Married Vilas Sogaard-Srikrishnan

Storytime was about to start. Our kindergarten teacher, Doctor Manning, beckoned us over to the carpet, as she did every morning. Doctor Manning bore a passing resemblance to Emperor Palpatine from Star Wars — wrinkles traced around her eyes and nose and mouth and little dark spots peppered themselves everywhere on her skin. Her hair was white and thin. One time, Jonathan told me his mom had said that she was a hundred-andten years old. But, all the same, she crouched down to join us, criss-cross-applesauce, one creaking joint at a time. And so we sat, knee to knee, shoulder to shoulder, in a little circle.

The cover of today’s book read Corduroy and pictured a cute stuffed bear in green overalls. The overalls just barely clung to the bear, missing one of their top two buttons and hanging on only by the other strap. Almost instantly I thought that the little bear would have made a fantastic Silly Bandz outline.

It was the year everyone wanted Silly Bandz — colorful little rubber bracelets that fit around the wrist and, when taken off, snapped into shape in the outline of an animal, object, number, or letter.

Everyone in school was obsessed, and we spent 16

most of our free time comparing our collections.

There was just one rule: you weren’t supposed to have more than one of the same animal. There was nothing impressive about a large, diverse silly band collection that wasn’t actually diverse.

I had eight of these Silly Bandz. It wasn’t a lot — my mom had refused to buy any of what she called “those dumb things” for me, and so I had resorted to less flavorful tactics: begging my classmates or even offering them my lunch in exchange for a band or two.

I swept my eyes around the circle, staring at each classmate’s wrist. Jonathan had four (all of which were duplicates he’d gotten from Michael; Jonathan’s mom also refused to buy any). Michael had twelve and he was getting three more tomorrow because his mom bought some limited edition dinosaur ones for him off Amazon. Collin had eight. Lauren had six. Isabella had fourteen. I couldn’t remember how many Charlie had, so I counted. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. She had seven. Kieran had ten, but they were all duplicates of the same panda-outline band — he didn’t quite understand the rules. Doctor Manning had one — a panda band that Kieran had given her. Sylvester had fifteen. But Adeleine — Adeleine had twentytwo.

17

Her collection was much better than any of ours. Each band was a different, vibrant color, and Michael — who was twins with Adeleine — told me that she sat by her bed every morning and lined them up in the order of the rainbow (the rainbow, he explained, was the colorful thing on the Lucky Charms box). But besides Michael, none of the boys really knew much about Adeleine. Most of them avoided her because she seemed a little more mature — she was the smartest and by far the most intimidating girl.

Doctor Manning finished reading the story to us not long after I had finished looking around at the rest of the class’ collections. I managed to catch the ending. The bear, Corduroy, was bought by a girl and they hugged. As Doctor Manning closed the book, Jonathan turned his head immediately towards me — after each morning’s reading, Doctor Manning had us do “book discussion time” with a friend, and I had promised yesterday that I would be Jonathan’s partner this morning. But I ignored him, and, covered by the chaos of all the others looking for prospective partners, made my way towards Adeleine. I forced my eyes to look away from her wrist, looking instead at her face as I walked over. Adeleine had bright red hair and a smattering of freckles across her cheeks and nose.

Her mouth hung open — only slightly, but enough 18

for me to make out the gap between her two front teeth. Suddenly, I was in front of her.

“Will you be my discussion partner?”

She didn’t say anything in confirmation — just moved over to make space, and I sat down. She started talking right away.

“I was really sad when he didn’t get bought at first. And then I was also sad when he didn’t like that he didn’t have a button. But the girl was really pretty and she hugged him so that made me very happy!”

“Same,” I said unconvincingly. She was clearly very involved in the discussion, but I hadn’t paid attention during storytime and didn’t have much to add. Moreover, I couldn’t keep my eyes off of her wrist any longer — the wide range of colors held me awestruck. I pivoted to the more critical topic. “Can I get one of your Silly Bandz?”

Adeleine didn’t say anything for a little while after that. She scrunched her face up in thought; clearly, she was debating something.

“Let’s do a trade. I need a husband so if you marry me during recess I’ll give you a silly band.”

That would be easy enough. I agreed without a second thought.

Recess rolled around soon enough. I had never been married before, and I felt the nerves pounding through my head as Adeleine pulled 19

me over to the carpet. She had told everyone in class about the deal, and each set of judging eyes followed me as I placed one shaky leg in front of the other.

I was still feeling confused by the time I stepped in front of her. So we stood awkwardly for a while. She was clearly waiting for something, and I was immobilized in fear. After some time passed, she stepped in closer, leaned towards my ear, put her hand up to her mouth so no one could hear what she was saying, and whispered— “You’re supposed to kiss me now.”

I stared dumbly.

“You know, kiss me! Touch my lips with your lips. Don’t your parents do that?”

My parents did, in fact, do that. They did it every morning. But I didn’t know that meant they were kissing each other. Without any other good options, though, I did what she asked and touched my lips up gently against hers.

“That’s it! Now we’re married.”

Kissing her felt like nothing. I did not understand how that married me to her. To be honest, I didn't even know what being married meant.

“—and now that we’re married,” Adeleine continued, “we do what married people do.” She stepped in closer again. I stumbled backwards 20

a little, but it did little to stop her. She wrapped her arms around me, clasped her hands tight and squeezed me hard, thrusting herself at me in little spurts at a time. All the while, she screamed loudly.

It was then I realized that I had never received my silly band.

“Adeleine, stop screaming!” Dr Manning’s voice had an edge. Adeleine did not stop. “What are you doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Adeleine finally let go of me and turned towards the old doctor. “We’re having sex.”

21

Chains Mason Zea

James Gunney walked down the metal stairs, leaving the cool, quiet city night for the warm and sweaty scene below. On the concrete landing, two men huddled under the yellow glow of an overhead light, cigarettes between their fingers.

The smoke drifted above, dimming their features, but James could still feel their eyes following him as he walked past. However, no effort was made to stop his progress. This sparked a bit of confidence in James, and he stood a little taller, his presence there uncontested. The passage opened up, cement turning to brick, until James found himself standing at the entrance to a small underground club. The DJ had just begun his set in the far corner, where a grungy crowd was swaying below flashing lights that changed color in sync with the music. James paused, grinning at the unorthodox pace and sound of the set, and feeling a slight urge to join the crowd and get lost among the bodies and the music. Yet, James’ feet guided him to the bar, where a large bearded man waited behind the counter, a twinkle in his eye.

“Was wondering when I’d be seeing you tonight,” Devereau gruffed.

The giant bartender’s thick facial hair 22

combined with the dim atmosphere made it nearly impossible to see the movement of his lips. It felt as if the sound was emanating from deep inside him.

James leaned against the counter to better inspect his favorite hideout. The arching brick and loud music created a vibrating, all-encompassing sound where a person felt he could express his truest feelings in the most public of places. Grimy surfaces and fading furniture sat half-disguised by the soft yellow lighting. The scent of alcohol and burning leaves was pervasive. While most would likely have found the place unpleasant, to James, it was quite agreeable. While he was here he felt like a fugitive, some sort of western outlaw, safe from the restricting embrace of humanity.

“The regular, please,” James said.

Devereau turned around to fix James’ drink, moving with practiced ease.

“How’s that project coming?” The tattoos on the back of his shaved head flexed and wrinkled when he spoke, creating an almost hypnotic effect.

“Oh, it’s alright,” James replied, “getting harder to find the supplies I need though… so I’ve been directing my attention towards some other smaller, digital things…”

“And that old techie? He treating you right?”

“Yeah, old Benson’s still kicking,” James said lightheartedly before turning serious, “can’t wait 23

until one of my pieces sells so I can get out of that musty place.”

Devereau was referring to the used tech shop where James sold old computers and parts to collectors and stingy parents under the watchful eye of Alex Benson, a withered old man almost as long in the tooth as the tech he peddled. Still, it was only a part-time gig. Just to support James until he could get some traction behind his art. He had intended to major in computer science before he dropped out, but he’d felt like he was being pushed through one of those kids’ toys where you fit the blocks into their matching hole, and his hole never seemed to be the right shape.

“It is what it is,” continued James after a pause.

Devereau grunted, shaking his massive form, and swiveled to place an oddly colored drink by James’ hand. Confused, James looked up.

“This isn’t the regular.”

“I know,” Devereau replied, “but I’ve been tapping into my creative side recently. Figured you might want a mix-up anyway.”

James was silent, the irk in his eyes clear.

Devereau shook himself again, but this time with quiet laughter.

“Don’t worry — it’s on the house. Just give it a chance.”

24

The giant then wandered along the bar, down to where two women stood fresh off the dance floor. Despite wearing thick-soled boots their shoulders barely reached the counter, while their braided hair dangled maybe a foot off the floor.

James was pleasantly amused at this interesting sight and was content to sip his odd drink before some strange force seemed to direct his gaze back to the entrance of the club.

A sultry figure was outlined by the yellow of the overhead light, frozen there for a second as if waiting for James to appreciate some full curves pressed against a tight dress. The figure made its way to the bar, hidden by shadow until the lights behind the counter revealed a woman’s features.

Large brown eyes and full lips emerged into the light, and between them a glittering septum piercing. A colorful tattoo sleeve snaked up her right arm, displaying complicated figures that were impossible to discern clearly in the dim light. As she waited to give an order to Devereau, she turned her back to James, and he could easily see the blue streaks in her short-cut hair, stylish.

“I love your ink,” James exclaimed. Perhaps a bit louder and less suave than he’d hoped.

She turned back, eyes searching James’ face until she found the rose that traced over his jugular and up his neck before it flowered below the left side 25

of his jaw.

“Thank you so much!” she replied, “I love yours too, very cool.”

A pause.

“Alicia.” She extended her hand and James took it, glad that he had not been forced to break the silence.

“James…you know, I don’t often see people come here alone.” He cringed internally at his forwardness, but Alicia seemed unfazed.

“Oh, I have some girlfriends coming, but they go to school on the west side and had trouble finding a ride. You can be my company until then, if you want.”

She grinned, revealing perfect white teeth.

Encouraged by her last comment and the fact that she was not waiting on a date, James decided to continue the conversation by taking advantage of the avenue that she had granted him.

“School? So you’re still at the university.”

“Nope,” Alicia said, “dropped out a couple of months ago… It felt like I was following a preset path that would just drop me in a cubicle at some dumb tech company for the rest of my life. Decided to pursue art, something more meaningful, you know?”

James did know, and he was pleased that already in this brief exchange they had discovered 26

much in common.

“I do. Same thing for me, really. I was going to major in computer science but just couldn’t stand the feeling like everything I was doing was preplanned, I wanted to do something unique with my life. I do art now too. I have pictures of some of my projects if you want to see.”

They shared photos of varying projects for several minutes, mostly silent scrolling except for the occasional “wow,” or “I love that.” Alicia’s stuff was good. James started to flush, feeling embarrassed by the lesser quality of his work. Yet, they were getting along so well that this was soon forgotten.

“What started it for you?” James asked after they’d pocketed their phones.

“Well,” Alicia said, “my family was super religious when I was young. My parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents, for all I know only, cared about going to church each Sunday until they died, and that’s what they wanted for me.”

James nodded in sympathy. His mother had also been quite devout. He’d enjoyed going to church as a kid, loved the great wood pews and the arching roof, but his interest began to fade as he got older. James had never felt uncomfortable there — in fact, the minister and almost everyone else seemed to be great people — but as he got older he began to feel like he was being suffocated by the 27

endless rules and duties and traditions.

“I wanted to break free of the cycle,” Alicia continued, “and at first, that was studying computers and escaping to college, but it still wasn’t enough.”

“My mother was the same way,” James mused, “and you know if you ever want to find some interesting old tech I work at this shop down on the south side. Been there for a couple of months. Got to pay the rent somehow, right?”

James had actually been working for Benson for almost a year, but he didn’t feel like disclosing that to Alicia. It admittedly had taken a bit longer to get his career going than he had imagined, but nothing ever comes easy, right? At least that’s what he told himself. He handed her a business card that Benson always made him keep in his wallet.

“Oh, super cool!” Alicia said, “I’m a total geek for all that stuff.”

Her phone vibrated. She had to bring it close to her face to read the message in the dim light.

“Looks like my girls are here. Well, I’m going to go out to greet them, and then I think we’re going to grab some food before we come back here. Here’s my number in case I miss you when I get back.”

They traded contact information, and she flashed him a smile before making her way to the 28

entrance. She paused to look back with another smile, and then she was gone into the night.

James finished his drink, which had been a pleasant surprise, and then waved at Devereau before moving towards the stairs. He could never stand to wait around for people, even if it seemed like he had found a great connection with this girl. Besides, Benson had given him the day off tomorrow. He would call Alicia then. On his way out he brushed shoulders with a man about his size heading to the bar.

“Was wondering when I’d be seeing you tonight,” James heard Devereau say gruffly to the man as he slipped out into the cool night air.

Instead of calling a cab, or even taking the quick walk home on the busier, main streets, James began to wander down the side streets and backroads of the mid-city. It was grimy, and the darkness cloaked everything in deep shadow, save for a few blinking street lights that cast gloomy yellow light onto the dirty sidewalk. The average person might avoid these streets, worried about a mugging or the confusing, haphazard layout. James, however, saw beneath the shady exterior of the narrow, winding avenues. He saw the colorful street art that bloomed on the side of small bodegas and the concrete of abandoned buildings. The quiet allowed for thought. Here, surrounded by the vast 29

and full city, James felt a refreshing loneliness.

James thought about Alicia and felt his lips being tugged into a small smile. They had shared so much in common, and he had found her quite attractive. Yet, after reflecting on all their similarities, James started to feel an odd sadness.

When he dropped out of university, he made it his mission to live his life in a way that had never been done, a unique, bright thing to look back at with satisfaction on his deathbed. Yet, here was another like him, eerily like him.

Staring out into the darkness, James felt like he was being enveloped by it, swallowed whole. He realized he hadn’t broken the chains at all, but had been swept into another pattern, sorted into another one of society’s boxes. As he picked up his pace, James felt he wasn’t alone. The steps he took seemed to trace the path of another, and no matter how quickly he walked, he was always slightly behind this invisible guide. The bare brick of the buildings echoed his footsteps, and it sounded to James like a thousand people previously shrouded in the shadows had begun to shuffle alongside him.

The thin door burst open, a small amount of light from the hallway finding its way around James’ shadow to illuminate the paltry belongings his apartment held. James began to rip the room apart.

Clothes, memorabilia, paint brushes, all found their 30

way to the bottom of a worn duffel. On his way out the door, James stopped himself, turned around, and sat down on his mattress, which would have creaked if there had been a frame to hold it up. Only little kids run away, came a voice from inside James’ head.

Yes, agreed, said another, and besides, are you really going to give everything up just because you met someone similar to you? When it was put like that, James couldn’t help but feel foolish. He was about to lie down and put the whole affair out of his mind, when a much smaller voice responded to the previous one. Do we have anything to give up?

Hours later, the packed bag lay on the floor, illuminated by a shard of moonlight piercing through the window. James sat on the edge of his bed, watching it, silent tears streaming down his cheeks.

31

Dear Icarus Luke Brooks

I clipped your wings.

Someone had to remind you that you were not immortal.

You were too full of yourself.

By now you’re old enough to know.

Do you recall your fall from grace?

Do you remember the cold embrace of the waves as you sank to your grave?

I made an example of you.

Sometimes the harshest truth is the one that finally ruins you.

You are the martyr.

By now I'm sure you’ve lost count of the centuries.

Do you remember me?

Do you envy me up here where the sky is always clear?

32

“I love you” Jackson Fels

It was raining when we drove to Grandpa’s funeral but Dad and I didn’t cry.

Dad was looking back at me from the front seat — dressed in his business suit — calculating what to say.

I just looked at the window, watching the raindrops race down the glass.

Minutes passed, but they still dripped down.

As water pooled at the bottom, Dad said it for the first time — the only time since —

The car stopped, and the pool spilled as I opened the door.

33

Then Dad and I didn’t cry during the eulogy we didn’t cry when Grandma spoke and I think he also tried to hide it But as we drove home, it dripped, dripped, dripped again.

Until our eyes were full and dams broke under the weight of sobs.

“You too,” I said.

34

Best Friends George Kapp

Man All too often, my friend Jack goes on trips. As always, I sit silently, waiting for my friend to return. When he comes back, I’ll be glad to see him. But at the same time, I’ll feel betrayed.

These journeys come unannounced, and I never know how long he’s going to be gone. I see him pick up his bag, and a sense of dread falls upon me. My roommate seems to want to be away from me as much as possible.

It wasn’t always like this, though. We used to spend every moment together. Back then, he cherished my presence.

But Jack has seemed to have become disillusioned with me recently. He now leaves the house nearly every day.

This may be my sign to become more independent.

Maybe I need to do more things for myself. I’m noticing all of the ways I need him in my life — he’s always the one getting the food, he always comes with me on walks. Maybe he’s not okay with me leeching off of him anymore, or he’s too busy for me. Maybe I’m not doing enough for him, or I haven’t been a

35

good enough friend. I can’t shake the feeling that it’ll happen again — that things will turn out like they did with my last roommate.

In the distance, I hear gravel crunching in the driveway. I spring to my feet. The car door slams somewhere nearby.

Thump. Thump. Thump. My tail wags back and forth across the floor, the rapid undulations accelerating with each of his footsteps toward the door. My musings about his friendship fade completely as the lock clicks.

The knob turns and the door swings open.

“Hey, Max.”

36

Dog I sit brooding. My phone is about to die, so I take my headphones off. The driver tells me he doesn’t have a charger.

My anxiety creeps back.

If only I could deal with these things one at a time. bills… friends…

Work…

They attack me like a swarm of bees.

With my last minutes of charge, I pull open my phone and look at my lock screen. It’s a picture of Max from the day I rescued him. I feel the worries ebb away.

It was just a few months after I got Max that my life first started falling apart, but it's not his fault. I haven’t made much progress at work, and my constant travel makes relationships difficult. Maybe I’m not put-together enough to keep Max. He deserves better than me. Yet, in the three years we’ve been together, he’s stuck with me every step of the way.

And I’ve repaid him in days of absence at a time.

37

Each time I leave home, I worry. I worry that he’ll get hurt. I worry about him becoming lonely or resentful. I worry that I’ll be no better for him than his last owner.

My phone goes dark and as Max’s face disappears, I remember again the water bill. I remember Frank, whose wedding I need to RSVP to. The hive is unleashed once again.

A plane takes off over my head. We’re still stuck in traffic right outside of the airport.

*** I hear the gravel of my driveway crunch as my Uber pulls in, and with a new burst of energy unclick my seatbelt.

The car hasn’t fully stopped moving yet as I yank open the car door, slam it behind me, and sprint to my porch. I can almost hear Max’s tail wagging inside.

The lock clicks and I swing the door open.

“Hey, Max.”

38

A Shadow From Childhood Fritz Smith

From above, I see myself and my father. We are striding down the backside of the hill. As we descend, half-jogging so we don’t fall, our careless imprints tail us in the snow. Below those boot-prints, the snow cracks and reveals small, vivid bunches of green. Now, at the bottom, my dad tells me something, points back up at the footprints. I watch again from above as I start laughing, first gentle and then I’m keeled over.

I wish I could remember what Dad said.

I watch my dad and me looking at the flakes as they fall, and as they evaporate when they make contact with the inky pond — as if they were never there. Dad and I sit down. And there we will stay, forever. If only I could remember what happened.

39

Faraway Eyes Anonymous

The rain came down much harder than it usually did in Oceanside. Pellets sprang and bounced against the car’s cold, stoic exterior and puddled in little bunches on the craggy cement. I hadn’t turned on the radio, and so we split through the fog cover that now enveloped the San Diego Freeway with only the downpour’s cacophony in ear.

I looked over to my left. Mom hadn’t turned on the wipers. Rain was starting to collect on the windshield now, and blended the highway’s muted colors together. But she didn’t notice — her eyes, glazed over, were far away down the California roadways. She, like always, held the wheel with both hands, one each at ten and two. She was not the kind of person to check her phone while driving — no, not even at stop signs. She was, instead, the kind of person to say sugar instead of shit and fudge instead of fuck.

Suddenly, though, Mom glanced over, and held eye contact with me. It was just for a halfsecond. But it was enough for me to realize that I had seen things wrong: Mom’s eyes weren’t absent.

They were glassy, filmed over by a thin layer of tears.

40

“Your dad drank last night.” It was the first time she had spoken since we had begun driving.

Obviously something was going on, but this was about as bad as it got.

“What did he do?” Now I was staring over at her, watching for any change in expression. But her tears held, and she kept looking straight forward.

I imagined dad back home, sitting at the table with a fourth or fifth glass of wine, my brother watching as his father went back on his word yet again. I could see, almost, my father in his room, the door busted open, the scent of liquor wafting off him with every angry word.

“Nothing happened this time, not really.”

“But sometimes, something does happen.

Why don’t you stop him? Why don’t you ever do something about it?”

“You know how many times I’ve told him he needs to stop? He’s his own person.” Her words sounded rehearsed, like they were lines she had run over time and time again in her head. “There’s nothing I can do about it if he chooses to drink.”

I noticed suddenly that my fists were clenched. Small half-moon indents had formed in the base of my palm where my nails made contact, and my hands were shaking slightly.

“What do you mean? You’re his wife! You 41

need to make him stop. If he doesn’t listen to what you have to say — if he doesn’t care about what you think or feel — then how do you even stay with him?”

A world of time seemed to pass before she spoke. The Waze told her to take a left and at the last second she twisted the wheel around just barely in time, pulling us hard and fast onto a new expressway. She had forgotten to use her blinker.

“If it weren’t for you guys, I would’ve left long ago.”

It was quiet then, impermeable silence broken up only by the banality of the rain and the new highway’s every-so-often uneven-cement bump.

She didn’t mean it, of course. She was just upset.

Bump.

But who would say that unless they really meant it — Bump.

—unless they had spent time contemplating, wondering if it was the right decision.

Bump.

And if that was the case and she only stayed with dad for our sake — Bump.

—how could I possibly let that happen?

Bump. Bump. Bump. Bump. Bump. Bump.

42

The sounds of the car jostling against the unsteady road had seemed at some point to merge with my own heartbeat. My head throbbed and my heart banged again and again and again as my mom’s words cut the thin strings that just barely managed to hold my life in balance.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t have said anything.” I hardly registered her speaking — the noise in my head was overwhelming.

And then, suddenly, it was nothing. All the pain and stress and struggle had melted away. My eyes, too, laid rest a place far away, off over the horizon.

We both shakily kept our eyes forward. I knew if we made eye contact the minute of shock would run out and the fragile illusion would break.

Maybe it was something about the palm trees, the still-bright winter night that untethered us for just a minute and lifted from her shoulders the heavy weight of the Greenwich, Connecticut Lie that we had built our lives around.

“You shouldn’t stay with him. You should get a divorce.”

They were not the words I had meant to let out. They had slipped through and by the time they were gone I had barely felt them pass. But now that I said it aloud, I knew it was the truth.

“No.” Her response was calm. We had 43

switched over into another world where the gravity of our words had disappeared and everything would be ok no matter what.

“You’ll leave home soon, but think about your younger brother.”

“You have to tell him. He’s a kind soul. And if, later on, he learns that you only stayed with dad for his sake, he would blame himself.”

“But that’s exactly why I can’t leave. It’s already too late. He would never understand. He would never get over it. I think you give him too much credit. But even if that was true, then what?

Where do I go? What do I do for work? And there’s no way I would get custody. I would have nothing.”

The shock was starting to ebb out. The road’s hard bumping began to ring softly again.

“I don’t have the answers to those questions for you. But you can’t stay here in a loveless relationship for the rest of your life. You can’t keep sacrificing yourself for us. Is that what you want when you’re old and we are living our own lives?”

Even as I spoke, though, I knew there was no point. She would never do it. To her, life was sacrifice — no cost was too great.

*** In the silence, my vision faded out and was 44

replaced with memory. I was sitting in my childhood kitchen, at the head of the table where I had eaten for my first and most innocent decade. My brother was sitting in a high-top chair to my left and stuttered out baby words, and my parents, at the other side of the table, were holding hands.

“We need to tell you something that you won’t quite understand.”

I sat curious. Mom fidgeted and tried to think of the right words. My brother burbled.

“So, you know how dad and I love each other very much?”

I nodded.

“Unfortunately, not everyone is lucky enough to have parents like that. Sometimes people stop loving each other. Sometimes, they just drift apart.”

It didn’t make sense — how could somebody stop loving somebody else? I could never stop loving my parents. This realization changed everything.

“Wow. That’s very sad.”

Mom nodded. “The reason we’re mentioning this is because that happened to Sebastian’s parents. They no longer live together. It’s called a divorce. So when you see him in school, be there for him. And I know you guys are best friends, but don’t bring it up to him until he tells you.”

I couldn’t believe it. That was even sadder.

45

Sebastian’s mom and dad were always so nice. How could they do something so terrible and evil to him?

Yet, suddenly, something worried me even more deeply.

“Mom? Dad?” They looked over at me.

“Do you promise that you’ll never get divorced?”

They looked at each other and smiled, squeezed each other’s hand. Mom was the one to respond.

“Of course. We promise.”

46

47

55 FICTION Short Stories in 55 words

Total War Will Schmitz

I cannot resist any longer. I shut my laptop. My eyes follow.

My head is on the pillow, my mind in the trenches.

Soldiers die around me as I rack my brain for any counter-offensive. There will be no surrender. Tomorrow is the last stand.

Prof hands me the exam. The enemy has me surrounded.

The Summit Wylie Ocken

On the outside, I am the shell of a man, simply skin and bone.

On the inside, I am unbroken, unbounded.

The poles in either hand act as angels, hoisting me upwards.

Blood from my calluses seeps down the sides, like the tears that spill down my face.

Sometimes, pain is the only way up.

48

s.

Reading After The 6 P.M. Curfew George Kapp

The flashlight quivered hesitantly against the open book and the blanket he hid under — low batteries.

The door croaked (Mom!). He flew into action. Book closed. Flashlight off. Lie down like I’m asleep.

He didn’t realize she’d watched his furious scramble.

Or that she smiled as she closed the door.

The flashlight flickered back on.

Integrity

Preston Elms

Digby set off in a boat of his own making. Integrity — little more than a barnacled plank that tipped and creaked on every swell. And, Digby was sure, a force to be reckoned with. His darling ragdolled through Poseidon's cruel tantrum, helpless. A massive swell rammed the hull.

Digby’s hopes drowned with his ill-favored creation.

49

in the time it takes to turn your head i look over. i look away.

Luke Brooks

why would i even bother?

She doesn’t even know my name… before it even starts i imagine the spark going cold and grey. i should go over, introduce myself, and say something. i should go… what's the worst that can happen? i look over.

She's nowhere to be found…

The Wages of Love Jackson Fels

I’d compare her to a dying dog, but dogs deserve pity.

She stood there, mouth ajar, eyes pleading. She looked stupid.

My hand shook as I held up the texts. “Fucking whore,” I croaked, but words didn’t come out.

The wages of sin are death. I hope it killed her when I finally walked away.

50

d

The Young Man At The Bus Stop Vilas Sogaard-Srikrishnan

He was handsome, well-built. But his smile was forced.

I asked what was wrong.

“My dad — he’s starting to forget things.”

His brows pulled close, his eyes wet. I’d be real proud of a son like this.

The bus pulled in. The young man stood up.

“Come on, dad.”

There was nobody else but us.

51

52

Pablo and I Luke Brooks

My first hero isn't recognizable anymore, a false prophet who introduced me to the wider world.

When I first heard Real Friends I barely had any.

I had Good Life on repeat, while I kept ignoring mine.

And in the mildly trying times, I found comfort in his lies, so I aspired to his highest highs.

But the Low Lights of his career seemed to rear their head, all at one time, I would make my stand and take his side.

Because of what he helped me find, I tried my best to put aside my doubts.

I thought it fine to lie to myself, until he told me things I couldn’t justify.

“Heartbreak” crossed those blurry lines.

So finally I drew mine and pushed him over, And he landed on the other side.

53

Santa!

Preston Elms Sleighbells rang and colored lights danced in the comfortable hearth of Susie’s living room.

Mom and dad kissed little Susie, who was looking at the presents under the tree. They brought her up to bed and tucked her in. Visions of sugarplums and dewdrops danced in her head. *** Little Susie awoke from her warm dreams with a dry throat. A small glass of milk would fix this, young Susie thought. She walked down the steep wooden steps, one foot at a time, into the living room. The tree’s warm light illuminated a dark figure. A cheerful smile grew across her face.

She knew exactly who this was — “Santa!”

54

The dark figure’s head jerked towards her direction. And just as Santa’s head turned, Susie noticed that he was not quite plump enough, and had no dimples, and in fact no beard at all.

A watery drop fell from Santa’s twinkling eye.

Three bangs answered little Susie’s question, like three snares of a little drummer boy’s drum. The sugarplums and dewdrops that once danced in a hopeful girl’s head now lay splattered and oozing under Susie’s Christmas tree.

Hearing such a clatter, Susie’s father arose to see what was the matter. He raced down the stairs with worry and haste. The cold winter air blasted through the broken windows, and all little Susie’s father saw was an unfamiliar doll under the tree — a perfectly preserved doll appearing in a candy-cane striped dress. Father apprehensively stepped closer.

55

The moon illuminated the pale luster of her dolllike face — preserved almost like porcelain — at peace underneath the tree. Looking closer, Father saw that it was a white dress — Susie’s white dress — now striped with red. Muffled by the snow and wind, a cold shriek stained the Christmas night.

56

Tressless1

Vilas Sogaard-Srikrishnan I don’t think she notices yet.

As long as I keep wearing those high-up shoes So she sees my head from below I’ll keep being me.

The gaping vacancies, those quarter-inch, flesh-colored deserts Stare at me through the mirror.

But I can’t let them look at anyone else

1 Tress (/tres/): A long lock of hair.

57

The Benchwarmer

Emil Sogaard-Srikrishnan His arms are slender, yet strong. His veins are visible all the way from the bench. His nearperfect physique mocks you, as he effortlessly puts in a long shot for three.

“Get in there. Let’s go!” Coach smacks you firmly on the back.

You push up your foggy glasses. They’d slid down your nose again. Me? You almost don’t believe it — you had sat on the bench all year and your senior basketball season was almost over.

You stand up hesitantly and half-jog onto the court. You pray that no one can sense the trepidation coursing through you.

“I got it!” You call out. You jump up and reach for the ball, but your teammate grabs it from your outstretched hands. He spins around and dribbles the ball down the court. You follow him down the court and to the baseline. No one bothers to guard you. He shoots, deep from three. You wish you had the confidence to take that kind of shot.

You watch it rebound, clunk off the left side of the rim. It’s coming to you. Crap. You desperately capture the escaping ball and try to lay it up.

Someone grabs your arm.

58

The ref blows his whistle.

Every set of eyes in the room follows you to the free-throw line. This is it. You shove the ball forward aimlessly, and let go.

Clunk. The crowd’s disheartened eyes drill into you like lasers.

Bzzzzz! The final buzzer seals your defeat.

From the bench, Coach waves you over.

“Hey, great job,” his firm hand meets your pudgy back in defeat. Great job??

Coach speaks on, but your head is throbbing, muffling his words.

“Good hustle today,” your teammate comments.

“Yeah, awesome work,” another teammate chips in. Great job?? Awesome work??

“Thanks guys,” you respond quietly as you head to the locker room.

Before you enter the locker room, your mom pulls you aside.

“Honey, awesome job. I’m so proud of you.”

Proud??

You rush into the locker room and hide yourself in the nearest bathroom stall. You fall onto the toilet seat in a daze, your misty glasses cracking on the ground in front of you. You scrunch your thick, sweaty hair violently, running through your mistakes over and over. You should’ve jumped 59

higher for the rebound. You should’ve ran faster down the court. You should’ve put more power on the free throw.

Steps echo through the locker room, into the bathroom. You overhear your teammate talking on his phone. “Yeah we lost. It was rough, I know.

Coach put in this senior from the bench. Yeah, he’s a total scrub. I mean, we were down like twenty, so.

No, he didn’t score. He didn’t do much of anything at all. Okay, I gotta go. Bye.” You peek through the stall to see your teammate hang up and walk away towards the lockers. You wish desperately you could switch places. You burst through the stall, disoriented, and force yourself to meet your gaze in the mirror.

You tug at your face. Stretch your cheeks. You rub your blurry eyes. The more you fixate on your face, the more flaws appear. Your cheeks grow chubby.

Your nose protrudes far out, concealing your other features. Your eyes are off-center and asymmetrical Powerless, you back up into the stall and collapseonto the grimy toilet seat again. You are pathetic. You deserved this.

60

VT: Disconnection Luke Brown

Editor’s Note: As a graduation requirement, each student at Brunswick School must live on the Vermont campus for one week with a group of their classmates. Before the trip begins, phones are confiscated.

Entry 1: 1/15/23 I can’t bear the thought of an existence without you. You have been by my side every day and every night. You never fail to make me laugh when I need it the most, and you constantly keep me informed on all there is to know. You are my rock. I am counting down the days till we reunite.

See you in a week, Luke

61

Entry 2: 1/17/23 I feel out of place in this world without you.

You provided me an escape from the awkwardness of social interactions. Learning to make conversation without you has been difficult. I have laid in my bed these past nights unable to sleep, craving just one more minute with you. I am dependent on you like a drug.

Surviving the week is a pipe dream.

Till next time, Luke Entry 3: 1/19/23 Four days have passed since you were taken from me. My urges have faded. Our separation has caused a more liberated side of me to emerge. A side of me that has been concealed for years, like the underside of a massive boulder. A side of me that is happier. A journal and pen have filled the void

62

you left in my right pocket in an attempt to please my subconscious. Writing has become a substitute for all the useless time you occupied in my life. As I fill up these pages, I feel my mind sharpening. My instinct to reach for you at every dull moment has vanished. Interactions with my peers have regained significance, nature has regained its beauty, words have regained their power. I am fully immersed in the present moment. Since the day you left, the burden of an entire world has left my shoulders—a world that I never knew I needed saving from. I never want to see you again.

Farewell, Luke

63

Entry 4: 5/30/23 I stumbled across this journal during my spring cleaning efforts. And as I flip through these entries, the only emotion I feel is regret. What changed since those last nights in Vermont that opened the gates so wide for you to re-enter my life?

Everything was better without you—everything.

I have fallen into the same trap as the entire rest of the world seems to have. A trap that I have proved over and over again I am not capable of escaping on my own. I am unable to live my life to the fullest when I’m with you. No matter how resolved I am against you, you still find a way to pull me into your world. But I am not interested in your world. I want to exist in the real world. I hope everyone sees you for what you truly are one day.

And, more than anything, I hope that I find a way to escape.

Please leave me alone, 64

Luke

King of the Apollo Royale Sam Case

The Apollo Royale had come to be known as the last true spectacle of the dying metropolis. An antique from a lost era of rampant success and wealth, the casino towered far above the clouds of the wintery city. To the delight of all who would care to know, a special guest was residing at the hotel. As such, a room had been prepared specifically for him—he was the king and he always sat on his throne. From up here, the commotion amongst the commoners below could not affect him. He did, however, feel great pity for the desolate that inhabited the streets.

Terrible, horrible remorse. But the kind of remorse that one feels from far away. The kind of remorse one never does anything about. The departure of the businessmen and the closing of the factories left most

65

jobless (of course, this excluded the great king, who kept himself busy on his throne, which of course counted as work).

A just king he was, without a doubt, though he rarely heard the praises of his loyal subjects. He liked to think that if he had begun his rule in the time before everything went to shit in his city, he would’ve prevented this desolation. “No war, no famine.” His dull whispers echoed around his royal chamber and fell on no ears but his own. “No shutting down the factories. No one would have forgotten us. Why did they forget us? Why have we been forsaken? I deserve more! They promised us everything. And they left us here to die.”

The wise king was not quite sure who they were. He just had some vague idea that they needed to be held accountable and that it made sense to scream out insults at them through his hallowed halls.

66

Each day his subjects came expecting his charity in exchange for nothing. These little creatures—nothing compared to the king—ate whatever scraps he gave them and lay in the ever growing squalor. “Heavy is the crown that bears the head,” sighed the king, poetic despite his exasperation.

Tired from all the trivial pursuits of his daily existence, the king thought he might just call the front desk of his hotel palace and see if he could arrange a spa treatment for the next day. It had been a while, he had to admit, since he had been properly pampered.

He grabbed the yellow phone, just barely in his reach, dialed the desk and just as he had become accustomed to throughout his life, no one answered, no one came to help.

As the day drew closer to night, the winds began to blow. A chill struck the grizzled old king and he began to shiver. He reached a slow, quivering hand

67

out towards the bottle of whiskey to his side—his last hope at providing some warmth to his ragged soul.

He drew the bottle to his lips, pulled it skyward, and prepared for a grand swig. But not a drop reached his throat. Groaning, he crawled to shut the window of his hotel palace to stop the winds. They would not budge, pushing back with the strength of a brick wall.

Growing angrier and angrier he began to cry out: “But I’m the king!” His raspy voice grew, louder and louder, until it reached a scream. “This isn’t how a king should live. Who treats their king like this!”

Suddenly, his royal roar turned soft, almost as if the weight of his dire circumstance pressed down on his vocal cords. His next words came as a whimper.

“What have I done wrong?”

The king drifted in and out of consciousness as the wind bit at every exposed piece of skin. At last he collapsed, defeated, onto his throne of trash.

68

His rodent subjects began to nibble at the hem of his tattered pants. It would be, they seemed to know, mere hours before they would feast.

In truth, the king hadn’t done anything wrong.

He hadn’t failed his people. He was simply a victim of misfortune, wasting away on a cold winter night in his alley behind the Apollo Royale.

69

The World According to a Serial Essayist Vilas Sogaard-Srikrishnan

The pen, still dripping, leaked little splotches of ink from the essay’s final period over to the side of the page as Alexander grabbed his pencil case out from his bag. This was his favorite fountain pen — its weight was well distributed across its metal shaft, and it always seemed to glide across the page when he wrote with it. Although it was inconvenient to dip the pen in ink so often, a real writer — as everyone knows — writes only with a fountain pen.

Any other instrument is not nearly artistic enough.

Satisfied, Alexander gently set the pen down inside the case and allowed his eyes, at last, to rest on his finished work. Alexander flipped his attention across the three pages of neat, analytical cursive.

Once the ink had dried sufficiently, he stacked the papers on top of one another and bound them with a paperclip. Alexander was basically salivating: he had not stopped thinking about this piece since nine-thirty in the morning. Then, he had seen a girl use her computer’s camera to fix her makeup and adjust her hair in an NYU lecture hall: a perfect example of how this young generation threw academia to the wayside in pursuit of less enriching endeavors. Alexander, of course, did not include 70

t

in the essay his personal disdain for her. All good writing, Alexander knew, must be detached from its author.

After a quick break for lunch — just a sandwich with cream cheese that he had put together before leaving his flat that morning — Alexander sat back down at the park bench where he had finished his last piece, an essay about sexual desire as the primary driving force for male ambition in modern society. In the past, he had found that this was a nice place to wait for inspiration to strike. At noon on a sunny mid-spring day like this, the sun shined pleasantly through the foliage cover of the park trees. Alexander sat right by the entrance — a large arch that opened up into a massive grass plain dotted with the occasional tree.

Today, the park was filled with people. These people were usually how Alexander found inspiration.

Alexander’s attention was taken, at this moment, by a woman walking around the park, petting every dog she could put her hand on. She did not stop, at any point, to ask their owners if they might be so kind as to let her pet their dog.

She did not, in fact, interact with them at all, except when they cried out in protest at her unsanctioned dog-touching. In those cases, she just walked away silently.

71

But, however great Alexander’s excitement at having seen such an interesting woman was up to that point, it could not compare to what he felt in the moments after she stepped away from her last petting. Because in that following moment, she pulled a notepad out from the bag she kept strapped around her arm and began to take notes in short, pointed strokes. She was a writer.

The woman possessed a sort of overlookable beauty and a prototypically well-shaped body (which she had hidden, though not well, behind some oversized clothes). She wore glasses over a pair of cloudy, distant eyes. For a second, while he was watching her, they focused on him. Her expression, hard and judging, held steady as she looked him over. But she soon noticed the ink stains across his otherwise-clean clothes and the pen case off to his side, and her expression softened with the realization that he, too, was a writer. She walked over.

“My name’s Eliza. You’re a writer too, aren’t you?”

Alexander nodded and motioned for her to sit down.

“I’m Alexander. So what’s the dog petting for?”

“Nice to meet you, Alex. The petting —” Alexander cut her off. “Alexander, not Alex.”

72

This made her jump slightly. She hesitated slightly before speaking again. “Sorry, Alexander.

Well, to your question: I’m doing research.” She giggled a bit. “In this story I’m writing, the main character is a dog. And I want to make it the kind of dog I find the cutest. So, naturally, I have to find out which dog I find the cutest.”

“Did you choose a favorite?”

“I’m not done yet. But, between you and me” — she wriggled her eyebrows — “I think the poodle might just win it.”

“Oh, interesting. Interesting.” Alexander was ready to let the conversation die. It was obvious, Alexander knew, that she was the worst kind of writer. To truly understand something, he would write in a later essay, you have to detach yourself from it. It is no good to write about something using your emotions — clearly something she did a lot of. But she herself would still make for an interesting essay. Would it be best to write about her enthusiastic eccentricity? Or her foolhardy and useless writing process? Alexander felt his fountain pen lie heavy in his bag. There was nothing he would have rather done at that moment than take it out and scribble some notes down about her for later.

“So, what about you? What sort of writing do you do?” Eliza’s question brought Alexander 73

back to the conversation.

“Well, I mostly write essays.”

She nodded. “You seem like that kind of person. What do you focus on?”

Alexander thought a second before responding. He had to think of the best way to put it. “The world’s truth. It’s the only thing worth writing about.”

“That’s an interesting perspective. It’s always nice to see people that have different views on writing. I’m definitely more of the kind of writer to write my own opinions out. Write what you know and all that.”

“So, have you had anything published?”

Alexander knew that she had not; he could tell without her answering. Her writing process was a fruitless and idiotic one. And any real writer knew there was no fruit in non-critical writing.

“I’ve actually had a couple published.” She blushed slightly.

Alexander was shocked. He needed to know more. “Really? How many?”

“Well, I’ve had three full-lengths published.

I got a few short stories in the New Yorker when I was a teen, but those are sort of embarrassing. My best book — at least I think — was a story about a cat and its owner that understand each other telepathically. It was a Times bestseller.”

74

Alexander did not respond for a while. He could not believe it. How could she — he looked at her again, up and down, as if he had missed the secret to her genius — get published? How could the public possibly enjoy a writer that wrote stories about dogs? About cats? He decided immediately that those neanderthal publishers and readers did not understand what made good writing. They cared too much for a likable protagonist or a goodfeeling love story. She was not his equal as a writer.

No, the problem was the writing world, filled with idiots.

“How are you able to publish so much?

Seeing that you’re such a big name and all?”

Alexander had meant it cynically. It was only after the fact that he realized it came off almost flirtatiously.

She giggled. Of course she giggled. “Well, it’s easy. Haven’t you ever?”

Alexander shook his head. He had hoped that her answer might explain away his cynicism, give him some understanding that he had failed to pick up on earlier. But this was useless.

“Wow! I have to say, I’m surprised. By your poise and confidence, you seemed like some bigshot. Like the sort of well-known essayist to have a weekly section in the Globe or the Times.”

Alexander gave a grim smile. If the common 75

reader wasn’t completely brainless, that’s exactly what I would be.

“Well, can I read one of your pieces?” She put her hand out expectantly. With no other option, Alexander dug around in his briefcase, pulling out the essay he had written earlier that day. She read it in five minutes and then read it again.

“I know what your problem is.” She had cracked the code, she was sure. He could tell it from looking at her, and he hated her smug confidence.

“There’s no personality. There’s no insight into who you are. It’s just fact.”

Alexander laughed. “There’s nothing wrong with that. In fact, that’s the only way writing should be. Any good piece of writing should be completely objective.”

“No, you don’t understand. People read books to get a window into the author’s life. They want to know us! And your essays should be your tell-all.”

She handed him back the essay. In the top left corner, she had written her phone number. He had figured this might happen. Oh, well. He made eye contact with her and promised to text about grabbing dinner. Of course, he would no sooner do that than he would read one of her stories. But those little lies were always easy. Alexander forced a smile one last time towards Eliza, packed away the 76

paper, and began on the walk home.

By the time he had gotten out to the street, he had already decided on his title: The Nonsensical Storymaking of Your Typical Times Bestseller. He thought this might make for the most brilliant piece he’d ever thought up.

77

Feast of Death Preston Elms

Thirteen boys sat rigidly around a warm hearth. The campfire cut through the bleak darkness of the Mississippi woods. Tommy had said he knew how to make a fire, but like always, he failed. So, as usual, it fell to Jamie to light the match and illuminate our tired faces. Every Friday night, we sat around a campfire and told scary stories.

Tonight, it was Jamie’s turn.

“Alright boys, I have a good story for tonight.

This one will scare you guys for sure,” Jamie said confidently.

“Well, if you’re half as good at scaring us as you are the girls, you’ll be the best storyteller out of all of us,” Tommy cracked.

“Oh, sure you do, Jamie,” I added, rolling 78

my eyes.

“I do! Listen, my cousin told me this one last weekend. Couldn’t sleep right for a week.”

“Oh, everything spooks you, you idiot,” Nick jeered.

“Whatever, Nick. Just don’t call me crying after you can’t fall asleep tonight.”

Bewildered, Nick got to his feet, fists raised.

“You calling me a wuss? You want to fight, do you?”

“Sit down,” Tommy said. “Go ahead, Jamie.”

“Alright. Here we go.” Jamie cleared his throat.

“Early in the month of October, the scent of death falls upon the earth. Something lurks and an ominous feeling pervades all. It’s as 79

if the cloying angels of heaven have gone away.

An insidious shadow slithers in each corner, as if something hateful is watching. It almost makes all the Halloween candy not worth it.”

“I’m sure it’s still worth it for you, fatty!”

Tommy sneered. The boys all laughed. Jamie did his best to ignore this comment.

“Some say on Halloween the devil comes to Earth and brings death to the land. But the devil has greater things to worry about than human sin. No — the malaise that seems to fill every person comes from some other sources of evil. We don’t like to admit it but, during part of every day, we seem to feel as if something is watching us.”

The hearth had started to die and the darkness crept closer and closer, shrouding the boys.

A few of them looked behind themselves to check, 80

just in case something was there. Jamie continued.

“Indeed, the devil has sent his loyal servant up to earth. For the angel of death has come.

The angel, once ejected from heaven, searches for revenge on all who find happiness. He is sealed in hell, the burning land of destruction named hell.”

“Wait. Is he on earth or is he sealed in hell?”

Tommy furrowed his brow.

“Shut up, Tommy. Let him talk!” I wanted to hear the rest of the story.

“Forever in agony he is led astray, tortured in the bare wasteland of hell. His scornful glare holds you captive, picking and clawing at your soul like a raven feasting on a carcass, its beak dripping with the bloody entrails of its victims.

“From the rise of the first October sun till the set of the last, the devil’s slave suffocates the 81

earth with death. He catches innocent victims by surprise. Left in oblivion from heaven, he searches for any way to destroy what the angels guard, what they hold most dear: Us. The angel of death seeks to destroy mankind with one fell sweep of his scythe.

He has targeted us for millennia. It is only a matter of time.”

“Stop saying us.” Nick’s voice was unsteady.

But Jamie was no longer listening.

“It might just be waiting for the perfect time to strike Earth. The angel of death has had trillions of years to make a plan. He is unknowable.

He lurks in the shadows, just out of sight. By the devil’s command, the angel of death arises. On this very day the angel of death could be stalking you, peering down from the branches above. So I’ll tell you all this: keep wary if you feel as if something 82

is watching, for it might just be the vengeful angel, hungry to begin the feast of death.”

The campfire sank into the ground — the boys started to shiver. He was watching. The boys looked around into the bleak winter night, thinking he had to be lurking somewhere nearby, hidden. But they were wrong, for he was all around them.

83

Some of Us

Words and music by Winston Rider Mock i see my breath with every step i take but i keep walking don’t have anything to say i hear to stop and smell the flowers but this cold weather froze the roots clean water running like a stream like a pipe just broke but it’s hidden underneath it’s funny how somethings you don’t see so when your friend says there fine tell them your free cause some of us say we’re ok when we’re not cause that’s easier than saying a lot so we lie i guess and leave it like that but i know it’s something i can't forget i had a friend they said they were alright 84

but deep down inside oh they would cry i hear to look behind the waterfalls but there’s no treasure to find cause some of us say we’re ok when we’re not cause that’s easier than saying a lot so we lie i guess and leave it like that but i know it’s something i can't forget i hope you get something from this if it’s just my one wish i know it’s not going to change i can’t tell people to be don’t close off just talk free but i hope you never lose a friend cause some of us say we’re ok when we’re not cause that’s easier 85

than saying a lot so we lie i guess and leave it like that but i know it’s something i can't forget --cause some of us say we’re ok when we’re not cause that’s easier than saying a lot so we lie i guess and leave it like that but i know it’s something i can't forget

86

87

The Arbitrium

By Jackson Felsv A Love Death & Robots Tribute Piece Written re-interpretation of the original film “Bad Travelling”

Chapter One: The Beast Captain Aleister Perrywell could no longer distinguish between the sweat, seawater, and rain that darkened his greatcloak. “Hard to Port!” he bellowed from the eagle’s nest, a tinge of unease audible in his command. He poked his head out from under the canopy and yelled again. “Port now!”

Below him, at the stern, Edmund Coley was being pelted by cold Indian Ocean rain. Perrywell’s voice was swept far away by the wind, and Coley was focused on keeping the water out of his eyes.

He covered the top of his face with his twin’s spare 88

cap and muttered to himself about how, of course, Judib had put him on duty during the storm. Ever since the mutiny, he has been sticking me with the shit work. Bastard. He bet Judib was still bitter over the cards game from the evening. Fuck him. He gets a First Mate’s wages anyways — what does he care? He’s probably four glasses deep and dry and warm and asleep in his special quarters right now.

“COLEY!” Captain Perrywell pleaded once more, crying out as loud as he could to the young sailor below. He whipped himself out from under the small canopy and ducked the guardrail.

Perrywell carefully grabbed the wet wooden rungs and began the climb down with fervent pace. His pocket rag had become so soaked from wiping his bifocals that he simply tucked the glasses in his inner shirt pocket. This rain did not feel refreshing, it 89

did not feel warm. With the luxury of a moment to pause and reflect on his appearance, the captain would certainly have felt disheveled and undignified right now— a state he rarely found himself in. But Perrywell did not, in fact, have the time to consider how tonight’s rain might taint his perception.

Instead, the captain scrambled down the rungs as the whole mast shook with the waves.

Lightning cracked viciously ahead, and the remnants of the crew began to stir below deck.

The cabins, now half empty, had maintained an eerie silence since its surviving occupants tossed the others to the sea.

Above, blasts of the sky’s luminous fury outlined waves crashing on rocks poking out above the water ahead. Horrified, Private Coley desperately tried to rip the wheel of the whaling 90

vessel to the side, and Captain Perrywell was flung from the bottom of the rungs when the body of the Arbitrium crashed against the cruelly solid black rocks.

Perrywell’s skinny frame bounced from the wet wooden deck. He rolled under the guardrail and off the ship as waves rocked the hull. As he fell, he reached out and grabbed the netting on the side of the ship. His arm was caught in the mangled whale ropes, and he slowly began to pull himself up. Waves smashed him against the hull as he fought his way back. His bifocals cracked in his shirt pocket, but blind and battered, he continued to climb. Eyes squinted, he looked down at the black water as he pulled. In the depths, he saw a flash of color. His mind wandered back to his dead, disloyal sailors. His heart broke again at the memory. As it 91

always did for Perrywell, heartbreak gave way to anger—zealous, righteous anger. He couldn’t help but notice the irony as he hung to the net in the shaking wind; the picture of the traitors’ cold bodies swinging from the mast brought a crazed smile to his lips. By now, those worms lay at the very bottom of the depths, their rotting flesh feeding their true kin.

In the chaos above him, Coley rang the bell. He did what he could at the helm, keeping the reinforced bottom of the hull in contact with the rocks rather than letting the ship slide off. He knew he could only let the metal hull rub against the rocks; the wood sides of the vessel would have been ripped apart by the contact. Coley knew what that would mean this far from shore. He did everything he could to keep the boat’s sides from the jagged 92

peaks, lodging the ship further onto the rocks as he did so. He rang the bell again. The bell’s ringing was redundant, as the confused and sleepless crew had already been rushing to deck during the chaos.

Still, the ringing, metal noise stood out above the rapture of the storm. The crew began to arrive, half still hungover, half still asleep. They all felt underdressed; usually, these early-Spring nights were never so cold.

Wasting no time, Second Mate Bernard barreled to the port side and pushed with a long oar to try and slide the bottom of the Arbitrium off the rocks. Judib barked orders, and the rest of the crew fell into place Private Wade Coley joined his twin Edmund at the helm and grabbed control of the rudder. Old man Davies scurried next to Bernard, grabbing another oar to shove against the rocks.

93

Inside, Davies’ wife Ingres, who earned her pay by managing the ship’s books and storage, fastened down the barrels of whale oil and whiskey that were sliding around below deck. Water trickled down through the floorboards above her, dripping on the gentle old lady as she hustled about.

Back above, Bernard’s burly, tattooed arms strained as he pushed and pushed again. Judib and Davies combined didn’t generate the force he was pressing with. Bernard was a man who got things done. He had spent his life on ship’s decks and didn’t feel much comfortable anywhere else.

Aside from an occasional day in a port — which usually meant an evening with a tavern woman and a night in a soft hostel bed — Bernard didn’t really have much love for the land. And there was nothing there that had much love for him. Still, he 94

was not one of those sailors who had some abstract attachment to the sea. What Bernard loved was the whaling life — waking up with whiskey in his coffee and the sun over the water. He loved working under the warm wind, and he loved manning the harpoons with the twins. He even had grown not to mind the smell of the guts and blood that became separated from the whale blubber when they compressed it for oil. He would rinse the blood off his hands in the warm salt water and let the sun above dry his skin slowly. Even now, as Judib’s orders boomed out and he stood on deck with his hands cold and wet, Bernard was not uncomfortable. With escalating haste, Bernard stabbed his oar against the rocks again and again and again.

Just as the ship seemed on the verge of slipping loose from the rocks, Bernard’s oar 95

snapped. He pulled the useless shaft up onto the boat and, with a leftward glance, noticed that Judib’s oar had snapped too. As Bernard hurried to get two replacements, he noticed something incredibly odd. The snap was clean. It was sharp. Not a man who was fond of thinking when action could do, Bernard tossed another oar to Judib and rushed back to push off the rocks. And, as he prepared to begin pushing again, he saw something — one of the rocks moved.

It wasn’t the rock Bernard had just pushed.

But it had moved. It had definitely moved. It was moving closer to the boat, and it was rising out of the water. “What the fuck?” Bernard muttered.

Then, something that neither Bernard — nor any man for centuries — had ever seen rose from the jagged rocks. That rock was a 96

shell, colored black by the barnacles and muck accumulated over years. Four crustacean-like arms slithered out from under the massive shell and grabbed the wooden hull of the ship.

Captain Perrywell had now reached the top of the net. He pulled himself over the guard rail and put on his cracked spectacles. But his crew wasn’t moving. A dreadful shiver came up over Perrywell as he realized why. Staring dumbfounded toward the port side, Perrywell saw what they saw.

Some sort of head loomed over the guard rail.

It had a body like a crustacean, but its face was something alien. It was disgusting. Sunken within its two deep eye pockets were twin marbles. They were purely black, devoid entirely of light. The evil eyes peered hatefully at the crew, glazed over with a soulless shine. The creature’s mouth hung open, 97

and horn-like teeth surrounded the gaping hole.

From behind the beak, deep inside the creature’s cavernous maw, tentacles — each with the same color and appearance as a human tongue, only much larger and more muscular, snapped open and closed horizontally, drooling thick saliva as they did. Its claws moved like the limbs of a spider. A deep, primordial noise growled out from the belly of the beast. It almost resembled language. Like the horns of hell, the noise unfroze the petrified crew. Bernard unsheathed his hatchet with one hand and, with the other, pulled Davies up the stairs to the bow. Judib ran behind him, and the Coley brothers simply stood there bewildered. Just then, the door to the quarters opened, and Ingres stepped out cluelessly. The beast pulled itself fully onto the ship and spun to the side, facing Ingres. It furiously 98100

rushed towards her and grabbed her with one of its powerful claws. She hardly had time to react, managing only the beginning of a desperate, highpitched shriek before her body was ripped in two, split at the torso where the claw grabbed her—a clean cut. Bright red blood squirted out in all directions as if from a popped balloon, immediately followed by the ooze of a darker crimson flow. The blood fell to the deck like paint from a bucket, and it splashed again as her half-cut intestines spilled on the darkened deck. Blood gushed out through the woman’s nose, eyes, and ears as the crustacean grabbed — almost carefully now — what had been the upper half of Ingres Davies. And as it raised its prey to the snappings tongues that pushed her mangled body into the creature’s beak, the woman’s arms continued to convulse and her cheeks seemed 99 101

to twitch — her body, now cold and lifeless, seemed still to cry out for help.

Perrywell’s greatcloak was speckled in this rain of blood. His blue eyes were half-blind without his spectacles, but still, the Captain drew his pistol, forced forward his shaking arm, and pulled the trigger.

The ball bounced harmlessly off the shell of the beast. It now turned to the captain and threw itself towards him in rage. But as the creature bounded across the middle of the great boat — just mere steps before reaching Perrywell — the deck below it gave out. The beast clawed upwards, now helpless and off-balance, as it fell down through the deck. It landed with a thud against the reinforced bottom of the hull.

The creature, unable to climb its way out, 100 102

scampered towards the front corner of the lower level, and the crew lost sight of it behind the barrels.

Standing in a circle around the hole in the deck, the crew did not say a word. No one even noticed how cold the rain felt that night.

SCAN HERE TO READ THE REST 101