Chronicle Mission Statement The aim of The Chronicle literary magazine is to engage and entertain the St. Joe’s Prep community in a unique way: by creating and publishing works created by the student body of high quality and artistic value. For decades, the students of The Prep have compiled their works into a literary magazine, displaying short stories, poems, and artwork. As a Jesuit institution, we are encouraged to express our abilities as all things are to be done Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam, for “the Greater Glory of God.” The Lit Mag presents a fantastic opportunity for students to get published in collaboration with their peers. Putting a student’s work into a magazine goes beyond the pen and paper to give the opportunity to be active and involved in every aspect of their interests. Enjoy!
Table of Contents
Scott Avellino……..Welcome Home Thomas Hillman…..Man and Earth: A tale of hubris Walter Sims……….The Lighthouse Joseph Massaua…....Memoir Preface Phineas Hogan……..Love Letter Zach Brosky……….An Irritated Evening Joseph Murphy……The 11:39 Jared Alicea………..Limerence Zach Brosky……….Drinking the Dream Joseph Massaua…...When We Were Young Jack D’Angelo…….My Escape Declan Pierce……...The Moon and Sun Come and Go Phineas Hogan…….The Public’s Eye William Sims………No One’s Here
“Welcome Home” Finally, after some months, the nightmares have become less frequent. I can finally shut my eyes without death and destruction of man coming back to haunt me. It is the fourth of July 1919, and I have been home for a couple months trying to come back into civilian life, adjusting from the Marine Corps. I walk around this small town’s dirt road to find people saying, “Thank you for your service,” and “Welcome home.” I hate those people, they have no idea what I have seen and done. I destroyed many young lives with a heart of stone, with a mind of hate for the bastard Krauts. I did my duty, that was it, no more and no less. When the fireworks show happened, everything went downhill. The fireworks exploded, and I was soon back in the trenches. There was a 16 year old ripped apart from the legs down and a blood curdling scream. He wasn’t going to live. He was dying a slow death, so I had to shoot him. I didn’t want to, but if I was him I would have asked for the same. Then a shell exploded above me, sending shrapnel all over. I jumped to the ground in fear. I realized I was on the ground, covering my head with my hands. When I opened my eyes I saw a young boy, eyes as blue as a cloudless sky, looking confused. It was him, the one I’d killed just months before. His face started to grow a devious smile, his smile getting bigger until it was inhuman. His nose and mouth began to bleed. I screamed and opened my eyes again to see my younger brother, scared of my screaming. The neighbors looking over at me like I was in need of a mental asylum and my parents... devastated. Before I enlisted in the Marines my father had told me that war changes people. He had fought in the Spanish-American War. I told him that I would be fine, plenty of our hometown boys had already joined up. Some had come home, and they seemed fine. I thought nothing of what my father said. My parents came over to me and asked if everything was okay. I could see what my father saw in me and in himself: the scars of war are too horrible to forget. Every war is different, every war is the same. I said I was fine and that I must have tripped on something. I was not sure what my father was thinking. Did he know? Did he believe me? I guess I can’t know now. Walking home in the dark I tried to stay away from fields and ditches because I was afraid of what I might see. I passed by closed storefronts and darkened houses. I looked to my left and saw the fields, so I ran home as fast as I could. As I opened the door to my room I
saw my uniform and kit, still muddy and tattered from France. The uniform was placed so perfectly on my bed as if it were waiting for me. I picked everything up and set it all on my chair. I then went to my bed and lay on it with my eyes open, praying tonight would be one without nightmares. I was in France running through Belleau Wood, running from who the hell knows. I didn’t give a shit who I was running from: it’s the young boy, it's the dead from my regiment, it's the dead Krauts and Frenchies and the Brits. Men from different armies, ripped apart but alive. Running after me with limbs missing, holes in them, bleeding profusely. I was awake, sweating like I was working the fields in the July heat, freezing like I was in my underdrawers in December. I need to get out of here. I need to be back there. I don't want to go back. Yes, I do. No, I don’t. I looked around my room to see my uniform not on the chair where I left it. I jumped up and searched all around my room. It was nowhere to be seen. Maybe father took it, or my younger brother. Maybe Mom took it and washed it since it reeked of death. I ran out of my room into the kitchen to see the family sitting together, waiting for me so they could start eating breakfast. I stood there and stared. The uniform wasn't anywhere. “What son, going to War again so soon?” my father said. “It ended last year, and we didn't get another call to arms have we?” He chuckled. I didn't understand what he was getting at. I looked down at myself. What the hell? I was standing in my living room with my uniform on. How? I tried to laugh “No, just didn’t notice I even put it on.” My father looked at me. He could tell I was frightened. I can’t be here anymore. If I stay, he will know. He does know. “Dad,” I said, “I am gonna try hunting today.” “Alright, do you want me to come with you?” “No. No, I’m fine. No, thanks.” I walked to my room and got my rifle and ammunition and walked out of the front door. I started for the green field and could feel the woodline getting closer to me. Through the field I could see men running like children toward a ripped up and burning forest that was chucking lead. Some dropped instantly with no pain, others were hit four or five times, trying to keep going until another lead hornet stopped their advance one way or another. I finally reached the woodline, taking cover behind some trees and old stone walls. I could smell death; the stench of rotting flesh and sulfur overpowered me. I jumped up and fired multiple rounds into the well-entrenched Krauts and ran up into the woods. Then, it was all gone. Except for the quietness and the smell of the summer air. Except for the
green of the forest and underbrush. I am running away, back to Belleau Wood.
Man and Earth: A Tale of Hubris The human world was created by colliding boulders of smoldering rock, and since its conception, there has existed an omnipresent triad.
Man, one of this omnipresent organization of people is known as a changebringer. Man is the one with a will which drives one to devise one’s own world.
Earth itself is that which is to be changed. A canvas on which the colors of life are coated. Man is the painter of this picture, for Man’s perception of Earth is what is Earth’s reality.
Sea, the last of the trio, lives quiet. It is known to be a dormant force. Sea lives in the background of Man and Earth,
merely serving as muse to Man’s painting.
Man and Earth, being potent forces, fell into one another’s favor. They enjoyed generations of elation in Man’s construction of the Earth Man made Earth beautiful, and Man was richer for it.
This balance between the two, it lasted eternities, their harmony would never halt. This is true until it did. Man’s inventions began to burden Earth, for Earth could not stand to bear the weight of Man’s tinkerings. Earth began a steady, enduring decline.
Man reacted first with denial, passing it off as an exaggeration. Man reacted second with anger, anger at Earth for succumbing after an eternity of perfection.
Earth, in a defenseless state, attracted the aid of the unknown. The deep blue abyss, Sea. Sea tried to defend Earth by afflicting Man with a great flood. This flood reached Man’s knees, but his horrible hands remained unaffected. Sea raised the flood to the pockets of Man. This was no use, as Man ignored the moisture in favor of a grandiose display of opulence to spite the two who were under affliction.
Earth suffered from the floods, just as Man did. In a weakened state, Earth was harmed more by Sea than Man, but Sea was enraged with Man’s ignorance.
Sea’s cold blood boiled whenever Man would overlook her rising tides, her fearsome floods. Earth needed the conflict to end between Man and Sea, but this was beyond the powers of Earth.
Sea, in a great, crimson rage, decided that Man’s arrogance was to be snuffed out. With one great flood Sea swallowed Man whole, along with Earth.
This was like Man’s apocalyptic myths or like his didactic tales, but gone horribly awry. Man put himself down a hell-road, and Earth was dragged down with him. And now, there was only a deep, blue unknown.
Now, there was only Sea.
The Lighthouse In the town of Edison, there is no place more important than the lighthouse. It sat right on the edge of the water, overlooking the entire town. It was old, and it didn’t even work anymore. The floorboards were all rotted away and it smelled of old dead fish even though searching through that place there was no sign of fish, nor any life - dead or alive for that matter. The lighthouse itself made you feel a certain way. Like it was not quite alive but not dead either. It was a kind of limbo state that made you feel weird on the inside. That’s probably why I loved it there so much. I would come there everyday as a kid if I was able to and climb around the insides until I found the way to the top where the old light sat. The way never felt the same. The light was a rusted metal dish inside of a neglected glass cylinder. I once had the idea to try and clean up the dirty old thing. I’d go to the balcony, looking over the town and stare down at all the people. I hated being down there. I preferred being up here, where I could observe everything going on without them knowing I could see them. I would see the regular routines of the boring mailmen, the daily gossip sessions between Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Chresheim who pretended to water their flowers. I sometimes made up things for them to say, and I would jokingly add myself in there too. I felt bad for them though. This is the only excitement that they look forward to in life. Kids have the energy to go and play in the playground next to the old school, and teens have time to go hang around the shops with their friends, but adults? Adults don’t have anything to look forward to. I guess life really takes it out of you. The truth is, this town is like sea water. The lower down you are, the more pressure you feel crushing down on you and you want to
drown. That’s why if it were up to me I wouldn’t come down, but it’s not. I have responsibilities, you know? I have a job and everything but it's practically useless. I used to deliver papers but I got fired after a while. Now I just make a penny by holding a sign outside of the pizza place on 3rd. Besides work, I’ve got school. It’s pretty nice if you like bars on the windows and two foot thick concrete walls surrounding you. I can’t wait till I can get out of this town and to somewhere more interesting like my brother did. I don’t know where exactly he went or where he went from but he’s gone now. I looked on to the underbelly of my right wrist where I wore my watch. It was about ten thirty, I had hardly noticed the sun going down while I sat up there. I heard loud shouts approach from a few blocks away. Two men were walking oddly, shouting ramblings that no one except themselves could decipher. One of them carried something like a briefcase. The man without the briefcase was playing with a cigarette trying to poke the other with it and burn him. Eventually the man with the briefcase had enough and stopped close by. He threw down his briefcase and knocked the cigarette out of the other’s hand and into the lighthouse’s wood. They immediately began arguing and pushing each other. I watched from above half worried and half entertained. Then, I smelled smoke. I looked back to see the trapdoor oozing out black smoke. The cigarette lit the lighthouse’s dry wood on fire. I quickly yelled out for help. The men below heard me and stopped fighting for a second to see the lighthouse going up in flames. I’ll never forget the dumb looks they had on their faces. They just stood there until one of them yelled to the other to run. I stared down on them during this whole thing. What else was I going to do? But I didn’t panic. I just sat there for a while staring at the sky over Edison letting my lighthouse burn down. I looked down at the town, seeing it sectioned into blocks of houses and shops. All in uniform, just like the people. The people aren’t too nice to anyone who
isn’t from this town. Now that I’m saying it, they’re not too fond of each other either. Some people can be nice sometimes though. Mr. Whitaker down the street is always pretty nice to me even if he doesn’t like the Jones’ down the street. I guess he just chooses who he likes. It’s almost like a game of checkers. We are all checkerboarded here, just like the houses. I thought about calling up Isabel Moreno. She goes to my school and I thought she was a pretty nice person. We were paired up for the science fair a couple years back when I still tried at it. She was always making up lame jokes that no one laughed at. I didn’t either but I thought that there was some humour in that no one got them. We got along well and we would sometimes hangout after class. After the science fair though she stopped saying hi every time she saw me. I saw her around and she’d catch eyes with me but she wouldn’t say anything. It was a pretty stupid idea I guess. I shuffled around the edge of the balcony. I rested my hand on the railing. The balcony’s railing felt freezing cold, it wasn’t hot at all. I sometimes wondered what it would be like to swing my legs over onto the other side and just rest on it but I didn’t ever feel enough courage to do it. I’d always think that if I tried it, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from falling forward. It made me feel butterflies in my stomach everytime - and not the good kind. If my brother were here he’d have more courage that I do. Almost no one except the nice homeless man on 13th street was out. When walking past him during the day, I’d always give him what spare change I had and he’d talk to me for a bit. I didn’t mind it. It was refreshing for a change. Most people in this town when they see a homeless man avert their eyes or worse. Most people didn’t even know him, he was actually a pretty nice guy. He had a wife and kids but couldn’t hold a job due to a lame leg so he was forced to resort to begging on street corners. I feel that if people gave him a chance they’d see that he really isn’t that bad. What is too bad is that no one would ever do
such a thing in their lives. The heat of flames on my neck interrupted my thought, and then I heard sirens.
Memoir preface The following is a work of fiction. Rather, characters’ names have been changed at their request. (or my desire) Events were truncated and abbreviated and timelines shifted. I do take author’s liberty for the stretching of the truth--a god-given constitutional right. Efforts were made to keep the verisimilitude of the work and most characters are foils of their real-life counterparts. Thus, characters such as Kate become Maria or another name I find suitable. Dialogue is edited based on memory and for length. I tend to go against the doctrine/dogma of society, so please read this with a grain of salt. Read this for yourself and see what you think. It ought to evoke a reckoning--an epiphany of sorts. If not, you’re misguided. Enjoy! (or don’t, leave angry reviews) Preface How to begin this I suppose? Well indeed I will embark on a dissection of my life thus far, with special care taken to highlight vignettes of importance in this Author’s up and coming adventure. He has high hopes for his true calling, but finds himself stuck on his true purpose. So to extricate himself, alas he has begun to write. Here come the sputterings of a mind moving a million miles an hour: I must seek to expand one’s ken through my writing. Hopefully, therefore I stride forward, open to new changes in life. Be it not my vicissitudes that affect me or hinder me from my course. Therefore I must draw deep from the “marrow of life” and bring that which discomfits me. What must I make the purpose of my life? I struggle with the questions of my life. My cynosure ought always be to grow and move upwards toward an ideal goal. Taking criticism is obviously an option then, and I must be prepared to take it and move on toward a higher purpose. What is there to live for except for an incomplete perspective of life? My moral compass shakes at times but must remain directly lined up with my goal, at least according to the idea of me being bound by societal norms. Indeed, I must get into a good college, achieve a high-paying job, marry and have children and set them up to do the same. I do question the normalcy of the mundane routine that has occurred for generations. Being a counter-cultural abstract poet involves more than conforming to the regularities of society it involves challenging and breaking them. I do not wish to write in a dry, jejune manner. The Author would like to acknowledge as he inscribes characters into a whitebound journal at an ungodly hour of the night (3:46 am to be exact) that he is only 17, and as such, his
life experiences must be taken with a grain of salt. It would be improper for the Author to not realize bias in this labor of love. In fact, his work is certainly against a current administration which he dislikes, but here it is--the outpouring of emotion. The Author generally does not express too much emotion outwardly on a daily basis, but he intends to spend his time wisely. The result is a carefully compiled (journal-sourced) piece of art. (and no one can tell him it’s not) Furthermore, this self-flagellation (whatever that means) contains graphic teenage scenes not suitable for younger readers. So the reader shan’t read this if they desire not to see the inner rumblings of an adolescent brain-eager to transliterate his thoughts into some-what readable text. The Author is grateful for his family and all that they do for him- especially love him with all his flaws throughout trials and tribulations, providing him a launchpad to succeedseeking the stars! (but it’s improper to say that because the Author will never reach the stars) Given the Author’s propensity/disposition to sail off onto exhausting unrequited tangents...he recommends that the reader find solace in the fact that he/she is reading indeed a work of fiction. Strap in!
Love Letter In deep thought… My love for you is not without regret. Many looked at our relationship and scoffed. Hell, if I saw two people such as you and I together in love, the same reaction would be invoked in me! If I was able to love another, I would. If I was able to keep my mind off you, I would drop you in a heartbeat. Love has no boundaries. There are no restrictions, regardless of how unmaintainable it is. You are the reason I ended up in this place. Yet, I feel no resentment towards you. I have nothing in my heart but love for you, and a wish for different circumstances. How could I have gotten into this? I mean, you were much too young for me, with a whole life ahead of you. I wish I had never met you. I wish you hadn’t shown me a different way to live, shown me how to have fun, to be young again. Every place we went to together -- from the twinkling lights of the New York City skyline to the sunset over the Golden Gate Bridge -- my love for you gre. You were just an
intern; a kid with wonder in their soul, wanting bigger and better things. In the end, it was my fault. You did nothing but be yourself, be the epitome of what it means to be free. You are what I lacked in my life, what I longed for since I departed into my adulthood. Oh, how I miss those days. The love that we shared makes everything I lost almost worth it. That time was the happiest of my life; free of stress with no worry in the world. As our love grew, the increasing time we spent together made going back to the job impossible. I had to quit, I just needed to go away with you. Maybe that was the worst mistake. Leaving everything I had, a steady job, a family, for such an uncertainty. A full investment to an uncertainty that proved to be a mistake. I miss you every day. My love for you has grown. I long for nothing more than to hear you laugh one more time. I hope your new life is treating you well. I hope the “needed change” is all you imagined, and you are happier now than you were with me. I love you forever, Phineas Hogan
An Irritated Evening Acknowledging the infuriating sound in my room prevailed unavoidable yet again. Buzzing across my room this insignificant Creature trooped up and Down my grey plaster walls. The insect Exasperatingly mocked me with his utter existence and eventually Found his way beside my pillow where I rested my head. The Gaggling ceased, and I prepared my
Hand for attack. Before striking I could not help but ponder the Insignificance of this irritating Jester again. While Killing him seemed like the most Logical solution to My complication, I began reasoning that Nothing but his annoying droning seemed to cause me any harm. While his Obnoxiousness certainly did irritate me, his Purpose on earth exceeded distracting me from my leisure. In fact, the Quarrels between man and bug probably date back centuries. Killing him only Reinforces the idea of human Superiority. Did the life of this Trifling inferiority always prove useless? His sole purpose to aggravate the human race? Unfortunately the pest began his circling once again, interrupting my thoughts of his Vindication. His existence became Whimsical and his buzzing now amused me. The Xanthic hue of my illuminating lamp caught his attention and he grandly dove for the light. Yawning, I watched the situation with amusement as he shot towards the bulb. Then, a brief thwap a nd his Zaniness abruptly subsided. Feeling a bit of guilt, I shut off my lamp and closed my eyes.
The 11:39 11:38 The platform was empty that night. It always was. No one ever took the 11:45 train to Sicklerville, no one except the young woman with the black leather briefcase. She arrived early that evening, the bags under her eyes almost as full as the one in her hands. She moved quickly through the massive atrium of the station, ignoring the majesty of its design. Stepping briskly down to Platform 6, she waited. Had anyone else been at 30th Street Station that night, they would’ve recalled that it was a beautiful one. The moon was full, the stars were out, and a late summer chill had just started to creep into the air. The skyscrapers still had their lights on, but the sounds of traffic were muffled by the stone walls that surrounded the tracks. She checked her watch, a lovely silver piece she had bought on a trip to Geneva. It was 11:39. She suddenly felt the platform below her begin to vibrate, then heard the blaring whistle of a train. Strange, she thought, the 11:45 had always used a horn, not a whistle. Her thoughts were interrupted by a glowing headlight rounding the curve into the station. Behind it was the biggest locomotive she had ever seen, a plume of smoke emerging from the front. It was an iron horse if there ever was one. Long and tall, and black as the night itself. The brakes ground to a halt, and the platform around her disappeared in a thick fog of gray steam. When it cleared, a line of Pullman cars stood in front of her. Too tired to question the strange appearance of the train she knew so well, she climbed aboard the nearest car. Inside was not the aluminum subway car with the plastic seats that had been her usual ride home. A thin hallway ran down the center of the car, carpeted and lit by intricate sconces. Every few feet, a wooden door with a translucent glass window opened to two rows of plush red benches, facing each other. In almost every seat sat a man or woman dressed to the nines in clothes of a bygone era. Her brow furrowed and her breath quickened with each step. These passengers weren’t the usual tired businessmen, college students, and homeless people. She peered into each compartment, looking for an open seat. Walking along the car, she slammed into someone. Professing apologies and stumbling back, she watched the other man turn around. He was a conductor, wearing a uniform of deep navy and a hat with a polished brim. He peered at her for a moment, and then he spoke in a voice as powerful as the locomotive.
“Ticket?” Her eyes met his and her heart became as cold as ice. There was something in the conductor’s eyes that wasn’t right, wasn’t natural; as if they could see right through her. She knew that she must get off the train as soon as possible. Wheeling around she raced for the front of the car, away from the conductor. She stumbled as the car lurched forward and the train began to move. The corridor felt impossibly long. She risked a glance behind her and saw the conductor gaining, his eyes now hidden beneath his cap. She fumbled for the door handle and yanked it open into the cool night. She tossed her back onto the platform and jumped, crashing onto the concrete. Breathing heavily, she got to her feet and saw the conductor in the doorway. His lips moved, but the whistle shrieked twice and drowned him out. He suddenly transfigured into what can only be described as something horrific. She could make out his gruesome wounds from a distance. The long gashes and collapsed roofs of the cars left no doubt about what had happened to the train. Her jaw hung open as car after car went by, ending in a mangled caboose. Another cloud of smoke and steam enveloped the platform. All that was left of the train was the brake light, glowing red in the fog. A final blast of the whistle and it was gone. She stood, alone once again, for a few more minutes. A weathered SEPTA train soon arrived, and she stepped carefully aboard. When she arrived home, she dusted off a book her father had given her many years ago. American Rail Accidents of the 19th Century. She scanned the index until she found it. Pennsylvania Railroad No. 316 left Philadelphia only to slam into a freight train five miles down the line and tumble down into the Schuylkill. There were no survivors. The 11:45 train to Sicklerville has since stopped running. Not enough passengers, they said. But on cool summer nights, when the air is just right, you can still catch the 11:39.
Limerence And then there was darkness The sun had vanished, and my existence wasn’t essential to her as her’s to me A tungsten heart anchors me to the Hell of my bed now and it hurts breath My orbit is shaken and my light has wasted away My despondent mind breeds thoughts still of a world with light And how I envy the def for they have not heard her voice Oh how I envy the blind for they do not know her beauty Blessed are the one who have not witnessed for her absence does not lie heavy with them But As I look into the sunless sky I am pinched by an epiphany My sorrow bleeds at the twinkle of a star How could I have been blind for so long I have been so Fixated on the sun that the elegance of
night had never dawned on me This new world has snatched my heart, but the waning of this moon will be my death
Drinking the Dream Light opens on a dully-lit silent living room. There is stressed lighting on a worn lavender brown sofa at center stage. We also see a simple lamp sitting upstage right behind the sofa, casting a shadow over a pale white mini fridge laying on the floor. Other than these unadorned pieces of furniture the remainder of the set is left barren, except a singular can of unopened beer resting on the floor in front of the sofa. This subtle prop should indicate a slight bit of unfamiliarity amongst this plain set. Entering from stage right is a bald, clean shaven middle aged man. He is dressed as a typical construction worker. Ripped denim jeans, white tucked t-shirt and orange safety vest. He enters holding his hard hat facing the audience. Tossing the hard hat onto the sofa he sighs and collapses onto the soft furniture. He rubs his eyes with his hands, indicating his exhaustion, and reaches for the can now resting close to his neatly tied work boots. DAD,muttering: ...sick and tired of this god damned required overtime... how the hell do they expect a … Enter from stage right a young teen, maybe twelve or thirteen, dressed casually with a smile on his face. SON,chuckling: Oh wow Dad, they sure kept you late tonight didn’t they. I was starting to worry if you were even gonna make it back in time for me to say goodnight again. DAD,fatigued: Hey bud, don’t ya worry so much now will ya? You know I’m always going to make time for the family, always son… He has now begun to drink the beer, at first in small, short swigs in between dialogue. SON,reassuring: Oh sure Dad yeah I know I know, I’m just worried about all that pressure being put on your shoulders you know?
DAD,now after several sips and laughing: Well, your old-man can handle more than you might think pal, want you to remember that too! SON,yawning: Yeah yeah, of course Pop. Alright then I’m headed to bed... love you. DAD,now finished the can and tossing it on the cushion beside him: Love you too...have a good day at school tomorrow okay? SON,exiting the stage and calling over shoulder: S ure thing Dad. DAD reaches over the couch and opens the mini fridge beneath the lamp. Lights begin to fade and we hear the crisp snap of the can being opened. Fade to black. There is a brief pause in black, then light opens on the same living room. Nothing much has changed, except a few subtle, yet vital details. The lamp shade covering the lamp behind the couch is now crooked, the bulb is also dimmed. Four opened, empty cans of beer are seen scattered about the room, one laying on the couch and the rest on the floor. It is clearly indicated some time has passed. Dad now enters, wearing the usual uniform. However we see faint facial hair shadowing his cheeks and mouth. It should also be clear his shirt is untucked and work boots are now untied, as he sits down they are removed and carelessly tossed stage left. DAD,reaching for the mini fridge: Kid get your ass down here! SON,entering stage right and dragging his feet: Yeah. DAD,sarcastically: Yeah, good to see you too. Listen I need you to tell your mother I can’t drive you up this weekend, I have plans. SON,shocked: What?... What the hell do you mean you can’t drive me... Dad you know that you got to take me for my designated time unless she’s okay with me staying for the weekend, which we know is not gonna happen. So what the hell? DAD,voice rising: Since when did you have a fucking problem staying at your Old Man’s a few extra days. You used to love it here...you should be grateful I’m making you stay the extra nights..keep you away from that pig. We can now hear a clear slur of words in the dialogue spoken by DAD. SON: Yeah...well shit changed okay. I’m going to Mom’s.
DAD,sharply: Hey! Watch your goddamn mouth you hear me! SON,antagonizing: Are you already drunk Dad? Jesus Christ are you drinking at work now? DAD,snapping: Mind your own fucking business...and leave me alone go to your room. SON,fiercely: That’s it. You’re out of control and you need to get your shit together Dad. pause. I’m calling Mom. Light begins to fade once again as we see SON now reaching for his pocket. DAD rises from sofa and it is clear words are being yelled, but no dialogue is heard. Light continues to fade as DAD approaches SON. SON pulls phone from pocket as DAD swings back arm facing audience. Light is near dark, and the last thing seen and heard on stage is the contact of DAD’s arm against SON’s cheek. Fade to black. There is once again a brief pause in black. This time light opens on DAD, sitting on sofa. There is no longer a lamp sitting upstage, and the mini fridge has also vanished. The remainder of the set is barren, except the sofa. DAD is wearing only jeans and a t-shirt, shoes are removed and not visible on stage. He is holding a single can of empty beer. Spotlight onto sofa and DAD with can in hand. There is complete silence as light focuses on the blank face of DAD sitting on couch. He is completely broken, shirt dirty and face overgrown with hair and guilt. Spotlight shifts focus from his face down to his hand. The remainder of the stage has become dark, the spotlight now focuses on DAD’s hand. The light is now solely focused on the grapsed can in hand. A prolonged sigh is heard, and the can is audibly crushed in hand. Light goes dark. The End
When we were young on days we could we would go to that point the bikes we took gazed idly by and our young foils sat at that point pondering life’s intricacies gazing toward unknown horizons the orb of yellow sunk below and starry night came right up
soaring in our dreams of hope united by unbridled ambition When We Were Young looking out over the bay basking in one sun ray mirroring what was to be yet did they fade with our plans and schemes? frigid darkness but you warmed skies for me igniting teenage fancy all I wanted was to sit close with you a rocky crag; the cynosure of our esses occupied by me myself and i and you... you made it all the better
alas with our current station i hope i hope to take bikes back to that point with you to gaze up and remember When We Were Young. My Escape I was perched on Mount Fitz Roy, taking in the view as I thought about my journey here. I traveled miles to be in this one place where it felt like time stood still. No people were bothering me, nor were any car horns going off; it was just me and the wind against my pinions. As the cold air rushed through my body, I got a familiar feeling of tranquility, and I knew that my body was at peace despite these harsh conditions that I am not accustomed to feeling. I looked across the sky that was shaped by the blues and pinks that made up this glorious sight. My talons were nestled into a snowy branch, and I could feel my feet become numb. As I was looking across the view that I waited a year to see, I felt like I was home for the first time in a while. I looked to my left, and in the distance, I could see a stream that flowed along the mountain. I left the branch for a closer look, and as I departed, I began to feel the blood coursing through my veins as if something new and exciting were about to happen. Once I arrived, I immediately submerged my beak into the frosty water; it was country clean compared to the water I'm used to. After quenching my thirst I heard a boy cry out to his mother from beyond the mountain range. I darted to a nearby ridge to get a closer look and upon arrival, I saw a small village. A child peered out of the door of his family's house and began to question his mother about dinner.
"Mama, when is supper ready?" "Go in the house and stoke the fire, it'll be ready soon." "What are we having?" "Dad caught some trout, now go back inside." The boy then went back into the house. I have never seen this village in all my years of coming to Patagonia and wanted to explore it further. I arrived at the village just before dusk, and all the people were preparing for slumber. As I was gliding through the air over the tiny village, I noticed what the people’s appearances were and how they dressed. It seemed as if they had been separated from society and still maintained a rather primitive lifestyle. All of the men, women, and children dressed in worn-out clothes that seemed to have been hand-made, and their houses appeared to be constructed out of wood from the nearby forest. There was no electricity, all of the houses were lit by fire, and it seemed as if less than 100 people were living here. It appeared to me as if this destination was a hidden gem separated from the modern world. After fluttering around, I landed on a large circular stump that jetted upward above the snowy ground. I wanted to observe how this tucked away village functioned in the night. As I watched the men collect the wood they chopped throughout the day; I noticed the women bringing in the clothes they dried into their houses. As I was taking in the calmness of this place, an arrow flew past my ear, and I began to panic. I immediately soared above the treeline and heard the men screaming and yelling at me. "Kill it, kill it!". Fearing for my life, I flew to the top of a neighboring tree to escape the arrows. The arrows continued to shoot at me, but from where I was mounted on the tree, none of them could touch me. After three or four shots later, the men gave up, and my heartbeat slowed back down to normal.
I decided to leave the village for the sake of staying alive, and after a short flight, I returned to Mount Fitz Roy. I took in the landscape one last time and looked across the moonlit mountain and departed for my next journey, knowing I won't return to my home for another year.
The Moon and Sun Come and Go Triumph and failure, reached or lost, have the same struggle. The moon and sun rotate throughout the journey. Tough times versus victorious times feel different, yet the same. The same goal, strived for with different emotions. Does the moon come and go? Does the sun come and go, or maybe they existed already? Can the sun prevail or does the moon time and time again? What if the sun never rises? Would we fall under darkness? Does too much sun create a moon? However, too much moon does not create a sun. Some moon can lead to a sun. No! No moons make suns! Moons create more moons. The world needs more suns, not moons. The day that the sun rises, the world shall rejoice and stop retreating back to that dark, dark moon. The moon shall fall and the sun shall set. The moon, damned by humanity, yet lives as everyones’ guilty pleasure. Our inner moons need to weaken, yet they strengthen in all of us. The inner moons need containment and medicine. They must die like a cold on a winter day when the sun doesn’t set. The moon can’t grow; however, the moon can get closer and take all light away. The sun must prevail! The sun needs to prevail! The sun has to prevail! What will happen when the moon prevails? Never! The sun will pravil, but what if the sun does not? What if that dark
shadowing moon prevails? Will darkness strike within us? Will our darkness, instead of our light in us, show? Will we shine or will they shine? Will we show our inner moon or will they show their inner moon? The battle that fights forever will one day end. Armed only with our hearts, who will triumph? Will the sun or moon live on in us? The sun must prevail! The sun needs to prevail! The sun has to prevail! The sun can prevail. The sun will fall or rise because of us, every single one of us. The moon and sun come and go. The Public’s Eye The curtain opens on a dark stage, but for a spotlight on its lone standing occupant -- ROBERT. He wears a dress shirt, spotted with sweat, and a loosened tie. He has a light beard. His eyes, though red and baggy from insomnia, are very attentive. He stares in contemplation into the light, as the darkness fades from the background and the silence is cut by the sounds of a busy city. TOWNSPEOPLE enter and exit from either side, and rush around him. The volume of the city overtakes the scene until one of the people, ELIZA, bumps into ROBERT. Everyone stops. The background goes dark. All eyes are on ROBERT, as his fixation on the light fades, and he turns his gaze to the woman. ROBERT: Is - is it really you? ELIZA, in confusion: Me? ROBERT, never breaking eye contact: It has to be! Slight pause. He looks her up and down. ROBERT: Just as you were described. ELIZA, with fear but a light tone of curiosity: What the hell are you talking about? The sounds of the city resume, as the TOWNSPEOPLE remove their focus from the couple and return to entering and exiting speedily.
Robert, now with a grin, grabs ELIZA’S arm and paces the stage. Eliza submits, cautiously. ROBERT, frantically: I’ve been waiting for you for quite some time. Describe yourself. Married? Children? How old are you, what job? I can’t believe you are finally here. You mean so much to me, don’t you know that? ELIZA, her fear rising: Who are you? TOWNSPEOPLE stop. Silence returns. Everyone, including ROBERT, glares at ELIZA. His grip tightens. Pause. Everything resumes, movement and sounds. The couple continue pacing. ROBERT, impatient and excited: That doesn’t matter. The important question is who are you? He smirks. I wasn’t sure they would deliver you to me, but they finally did. You are very special. Very special indeed, Eliza. ELIZA, panic replacing her curiosity: I’m sorry, but I have no idea who you are or how the hell you know my name. I have to go. The setting freezes, once again. The stares are now set upon ELIZA. ROBERT, erupting: Enough with the questions! The stares dart to ROBERT. He eyes the observers, then ELIZA. Movement resumes. ROBERT, calmer, but firm: Let’s go, I have people I need you to meet. ELIZA: Get off of me! All halts. TOWNSPEOPLE open their mouths in shock, still in silence, and point at Robert as he struggles to keep the woman in his grip. Only ELIZA’S screams break the silence as she tries to flee.
She breaks free, and exits screaming. TOWNSPEOPLE, still silent, point at her. When she exits, the fingers shift to ROBERT. He is standing there, out of breath, angry. He looks around at the TOWNSPEOPLE. ROBERT, disgusted: What the hell are you looking at? TOWNSPEOPLE look down in unison. The sounds of the city return, but, slowly, the noise starts to fade. TOWNSPEOPLE progressively exit. The background darkens, but for an emerging spotlight. ROBERT stares up into it, dreamily, until all is dark but him. The curtain falls. No One’s Here We had sat in this car for hours on end. My legs were cramping up and my neck was stiff. I sat in the passenger seat next to Billy, a boy that I had met a few weeks back. He drove a red pickup truck that his Dad gave him for his eighteenth birthday. We drove down a bumpy dirt road to avoid any attention from the others. I shifted myself in the chair and stretched out my neck. Outside the sky was still on fire, burning up. “Bill, where are we now?” He didn’t move a muscle. His grip on the steering wheel tightened for a second before responding. “Almost there.” We didn’t have a chance in hell to make it there in time. He must have realized that too. We were headed to a survivor's outpost in Michigan, a last hope for those still alive to stay alive. A couple days ago a cell phone alert went out saying that those who hadn’t died already were eligible to come, as long as they weren’t infected. Someone from there had
hacked the president’s alert system and sent that same message to everyone they could. It’s not like there was a president left to use it. It was our last hope as being homeless was no longer an option since the disease became airborne. It traveled the globe in a concentrated mist-like fog as well as spreading person to person. We were given ninety-six hours before they closed the gates to the compound for good. We had to leave immediately if we wanted to make it. We would have just barely made it too. I looked on the horizon. A mist had set in since the last time I looked. “Bill… the mist… it’s here.” He took out his phone and looked at the timer he set. We had an hour before the doors closed for good. He pushed down on the gas pedal with a stern look on his face. A few days ago, he told me that he couldn’t risk going too fast or else the engine would stall out. It wasn’t a risk that he wanted to take. The speedometer rose to seventy miles per hour. The sky didn’t start burning at first. It wasn’t caused by the disease. It was caused by humans. As the death toll became tens of thousands of people, people went insane. They started stealing, killing, and more even vialer things to their once friends. People were finally the same under everyones’ eyes. “We are monsters”. That slogan was painted across every city in the world. People started releasing chemicals into the environment through bombs, weapons, and mass produced products made to kill. The chemicals pooled up until someone had the idea to light a fuse that set the world on fire. A couple minutes passed before I asked the question that both of us wanted the answer to, “How long till we run out of gas?” “I don’t know, but I think it’s enough.” We were still forty five minutes away from the gate. His phone had died a while back so we had to use mine. It also was quickly running out of
charge. The mist had dissipated for the moment. It hadn’t seen us. I sat down a little more in my seat. There was nothing else for me to do at that moment. I just had to wait for when or if we made it there. Thinking back to the time before the mist, people would avoid others. It didn’t matter if you had it or not, people still crossed the streets when they saw you. They stopped talking to each other. When the mist finally did come, people were hopeless. They prevented any contact or discussion of a local solution. They died out pretty quick after that. All of them hiding in their homes. Some people though, when the mist came, ran. It took on a visible presence to scare people but that also allowed it to be seen. I ran and ran until I found a group of survivors hiding out in a little gas station on the side of the road. Bill was there too. They were kind and gave me food and shelter. They died too though, one by one, eventually. One of the members came back after a voyage for food infected. He then spread it to everyone else. Some of us were lucky though, like me and Billy. After that we got into his truck and drove off to wherever we thought would be safest. We lived off the road for weeks until we got that message. The car lurched to a stop and Billy turned off the ignition, “We’re here.” He opened the door and got out. I couldn’t see anything but trees in front of me but I did the same. He grabbed all the supplies that we had thrown in the back of the truck and started walking through the treeline. I followed him to a clearing where a large gate surrounded by vines was awkwardly placed. Billy walked up to it without hesitation and placed his hand in between the woven metal. The gate swung open with a push. Bill took a step back and looked at me worriedly. Then we both went through the gate to reveal a whole town made of metal. Bill dropped the supplies and
walked up to a window on one of the houses. It was empty. I went up to another - empty again. The whole town was deserted, not a single soul lived there anymore. “No one’s here” said Bill, “Their stuff is, but no people.” “Where could they have gone? They wouldn’t just have everyone leave.” “No… they wouldn’t” Bill looked at his watch on the underbelly of his right arm. “We’re late too. They should have closed the gates well before we even pulled up.” I shivered. I felt for the first time in weeks, utterly alone. The wind felt sharp against my cheek. It was abrasive and hurtful. “No one’s here,” it said. I responded quietly, “No one’s here.”