Excerpt, Winter 2015

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EXCERPT THE ART AND LITERARY MAGAZINE OF THE DERRYFIELD SCHOOL

XXXIX, ISSUE 2 WINTER 2015

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DEDICATION To Mr. Anthony and Mr. Mathes For all of the nights they have given up to chaperone Coffee Houses

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E EXCERPT STAFF Managing Editor Sarah Wilson Publishing Editors Francesca “Franky” Barradale Margaret Levell Art Editor Kaitlin Cintorino Assistant to the Art Editor Anja Stadelmann Communications Director Patrick Finocchiaro Business Manager Cameron “Cam” Huftalen Faculty Advisor Regina Assetta Staff: Marissa Wolf, Ethan Dresner, Katherine Kittler, Rosalie “Rosie” Steiner, Susanna Barger, Victoria Imbriano, Anna Mae Murphy, Elizabeth “Libby” Marcouillier, Lucia Biglow, Makayla DeCesare, Taylor Santosuosso, Wyatt Elinwood, Casey Frost, Darby Gillett, Elena Lapadula Title Page Art: “Woah” Danielle Gale ‘16 Cover Art: “Prints” Anonymous Back Cover Art: “Passage” Anja Stadelmann ‘17

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E TABLE OF CONTENTS In Celebration of Derryfield’s 50th Anniversary, the Excerpt Staff Has Written a 50 Line Poem

Time Excerpt Staff……………………………………………….6 Confrontation (Painting) Kaitlin Cintorino ‘15………………….8 Constellations Makayla DeCesare ‘18…………………………...9 An Ode to Misinformed Mariachis W yatt Ellinwood ‘18… … ...10 Coeur de Chansons Zane Richer ‘15……………………...……11 Somewhere in Amherst (Photograph) Danielle Gale ‘16………16 Life, Continued Katherine Kittler ‘17…………………………..17 Roots (Painting) A nonymous…………………………………...19 Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Book Sarah W ilson ‘16………..20 Field of Loved Ones Casey Frost ‘18…………………………..23 Winter Wonder (Photograph) Elena Lapadula ‘18… … … … … ..24 Waiting Games Franky Barradale ‘15………………………….25 From Eden A nonymous………………………………………...27 Fever (Photograph) Danielle Gale ‘16………………………….28 The Tribulations of a Great Shipwreck A nja Stadelmann ‘17….29

Urge (Photograph) Danielle Gale ‘16…………………………..40 Mirror Images Katherine Kittler ‘17…………………………...41 Delicate Henna Malik ‘18……………………………………...43 My Love Brittany Northrup ‘15………………………………..44

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E Spring (Painting) Marissa W olf ‘15…………………………….46 The Twelfth Remove for Two Voices Sarah W ilson ‘16………47 Beneath the Cypress Patrick Finocchiaro ‘15…………………..49 Lush (Photograph) Kaitlin Cintorino ‘15……………………….53 An Elegy to Feelings Libby Marcouillier ‘18…………………..54 You’re of as Much Consequence as the Sun A nonymous……...55 The Help Group A nonymous…………………………………...56 Paris (Photograph) Patrick Finocciaro ‘15…………………..….64 A Rower’s Hands libby Marcouillier ‘18………………………65 Clancy (Drawing) A nja Stadelmann ‘17……………………….66 The Monster in My Closet Makalya DeCesare ‘18…………….67 Reflections of Amber Margaret Levell ‘16…………………….68

Negative Space (Painting) Samantha Hinton ‘18……………...70 Memory Match Darby Gillet ‘18……………………………….71

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E TIME Excerpt Staff Clockwork converts us into the arms of a hungry machine.

It generates a pulse, A faint rhythm, That is forever dying, Forever living.

You thought you had it made.

You got slow.

The knife is ripping, But all you feel is the slight tickle of a feather.

Over time, a bed of ice becomes a lukewarm pool.

The unbending frigidity on which we slept gave every indication of indestructible obstinacy.

But the glacial form must surrender to its conditional existence, Sequentially more.

As it alters, so do we— comfortable with its nearness, and trivializing the sting of its intensities by the hour.

In the end, time is the ultimate thief.

It steals your parents, your children, your lovers.

It takes them all away and hoards them in the dusty corners of an ancient mind, never to be seen, or felt, or heard, but just as real as if they were with you still.

You can remember the Warm, salty aroma of soup Wafting through the room 6

E The sharp crackles of a fire, The gentle lull of a summer breeze, Scents of cinnamon near colored leaves, The gentle, swirling colors of spring in full bloom.

Soft warmth seeps into frost-kissed limbs, Sinking into groaning marrow and frozen blood.

It is concealed in a new womb.

This embrace brings not only heat, but also a desire.

Sweet drowsiness muddles the room, Shadows seem to subvert the light.

A new embrace, one more alluring, swallows it whole.

With each passing nanosecond our minds' gears catch on the cogs, turning more slowly, stealing our curious thoughts into echoing, unfeeling chasms.

And as we dull, the hazy veil of comfort blinds us from the truth behind the soot-covered glass; We all end.

The clock is ticking on.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

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Confrontation - Kaitlin Cintorino ‘15

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E CONSTELLATIONS Makayla DeCesare ‘18 The world of the night mirrors our own, with oceans of jet and grasses that twinkle on ebony.

Cassiopeia dances with her daughter through dark fields, and the dragon plays beside the bears: great and small.

The obsidian lion hunts the crab to the west as it trips the onyx hydra with its scuttling.

The archer draws his bow,

with an arrowhead of light.

Corvus bats its wings, contrasting the charcoal night.

Capricornus brays, and swims through inky seas, flipping past the water bearer and the fish, Pisces.

Back to the daughter Andromeda, and her husband, savior, Percy.

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E AN ODE TO MISINFORMED MARIACHIS Wyatt Ellinwood ‘18 The wino takes to coma as a moose to water because, as we all know, moose are world-renowned for their gills.

With their oily hair, like the back of an otter, And between cleft hooves, like a duck’s webbing, frills.

But have caution when traversing tropical rivers as a moose may use its black and orange camouflage to hide in the bed With anticipation for the coming feast, its body quivers and it gnashes the rows of sharp teeth hidden behind the baleen in its head.

It launches forward, using all 8 legs to propel itself at a breakneck speed, the rocket boosters on its back assisting the assault.

A warning to you, travelers of the Amazon, that you’d be wise to heed: the moose is a hunter of the highest exalt.

With their flat tails and long beaks and spinal spikes like a stegosaurus,

they climb down from their home in the Alps’ peaks and they hunt, stalk, and come for us.

And with this, I leave you, having given proper warning And I shall return, to see if you are alive still in the morning.

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E COEUR DE CHANSONS Zane Richer ‘15 Ostinato And the world was turning. And I was walking. And time went on. The sun was setting. The sun was always setting.

The world around me was red, bathed in crimson by the great fiery globe suspended halfway between day and night. Trees glowed bright, and clouds glowed brighter from their place beneath in the sky. Blood rained from heaven.

That is the world I live in, where the sun never sets. But it never rises, either. There is no day, there is no light but the blood -stained sky, casting long shadows in front of me, wherever I turn. There is no hope of tomorrow, of blue skies or summer.

Time goes on, but the sun never sets. Never. And I walk on.

I come here often. The world is cruel and fate, its taskmaster, spares no one. But here, in the land where the sun never sets, I can bring my wearied heart at the end of the day, and bury it in the soil at my feet. By tomorrow, it will beat again, fainter than before, revived, not healed, and I will take it up and walk on farther, bearing that burden another day, just to die again - to be poisoned and struck and ripped apart one more time.

O, soleil sous Le Ciel, pourquoi pas tomber de votre perchoir sanglante et couler à l'obscurité au-delà du bord du monde? O sun, why dost thou not set on this misery? There is no answer. Time marches on, and soon so do I. I walk through the land of Egypt, where sitteth the heart of stone atop the River King’s seat, arms crossed, and two nations at his brow. God’s people call out for deliverance, and I raise my voice with theirs, but Joshua cries quietly in the back for the loss of his water Lily. I shed no tears for I have no such flower to lose. Soon the Nile will turn to blood. I walk on.

Columns rise and reason falls while statues play at gods, 11

E and still I walk on.

Great regiments of metal be, and conquer all the world.

The Senate falls, so raise the walls, as blood flows through the streets. Shields and spears and daggers point towards anything that moves, and crucified high on the hill, dies the King of Jews.

And though I want to follow Him, I turn away my head, and as the world grows dark again, my soul now fills with dread, because I know that deadly Snake upon my heels doth tread…

So on and on I run that day, I run until I drop; amongst the leaves my whole self grieves, yet never can I stop.

Adagio I ran for a long time until I found myself in a forest. I’ve been there before in another life, another world. The trees are the same, as is the earthy ground, the moss covered rocks, and the winding rivers, but now the world is tinged with red and long, dark shadows. Time goes on, the Earth turns, and I walk through the seasons. Soon the winds are blowing, and the life around me begins to wilt and die. Leaves are torn from their ranks, and fly away on the wind. Trees laid bare, jagged and gnarled, splinters in the sky, stand as gravestones to nature’s battle against time.

Time always wins. I grow a little, then I walk on.

After a while I came upon a vast open field, spread out before me like an ocean, and in the middle there stood a sloping hill, rising on all sides above the plain. And there, perched atop the hill stood a great tree. It was not oak or pine, neither maple nor beech, not birch or ancient elm. It was none of those and it was all of those at once. It was wild and free and gleaming. I looked at it. More importantly, I saw it. I saw the roots, smooth, not yet gnarled with age, sink seamlessly into the ground. I didn’t know where they went off to, what connections they made under the earth. But I wanted to know.

I saw the trunk rise up, tapered, from the ground beneath, deep and brown and full of warmth. I saw the branches extend off wide, climbing higher and wider and lower all at once, hoping 12

E against hope to reach heaven with one hand, and frolic on the earth with the other. And on every branch, I saw leaves dancing and waving and beckoning. And each of them was the most brilliant and vibrant of red. Deep as rubies and bright as fire, they glinted in the light of the setting sun. I could feel the freedom and the unbridled vivacity, and for the first time in a very long time, I raised my eyes and looked up. I knew it was just a tree, but for a moment, a brief shining moment, I convinced myself that it could understand me the way I understood it, and see me the way I saw it.

I waited. I stood at the edge of the wood, covered in shadows. Unseen, I saw. Unheard, I listened. Unknown, I knew.

Allegro I stayed like that for a long time, waiting, watching, existing, until the voices of the wind swept down and whispered in my ear. So I stepped forward, out of the shadows, and into the glow of a dying sun. A lion roared in the distance. I walked forward.

I approached the hill upon which the great tree stood, and I began to ascend, rising higher and higher over the open field until I reached the sloping top. And when I did, I noticed, there, nestled in the grass, resting comfortably against the trunk of the tree, sat a violin. It lay so beautifully and naturally there against the tree, I began to feel the two merge, forever hewn together, living wood and living music, one and inseparable.

In the beginning, there was a song, and the song was with me, and the song was me. I picked up that violin and raised it to my chin, bow hovering over the strings. The world was turning.

Time was passing. And I played.

Seasons passed. Lives changed. I stood on that hill, beneath the red, red leaves of that tree, and I played. I played until there was nothing left to be played, no more of my heart left in 13

E me that had not been poured out. Then I stopped.

I placed the violin back in the grass at the foot of the tree, where it waited patiently, and would always continue to wait.

And as I did, I knew that I had left a little piece of my own song, alive and beating, inside its wooden frame. And though others would sooner or later stumble upon this place, and play this violin, I always imagined that from then on, the field and the hill and the tree upon it held their breath for the time when I would return, and give freely my song.

But that was a fantasy, and for fantasies, there is no place in this land where the sun never sets. I turned and again looked at the tree, and again the voices of the wind whispered in my ear.

So I stepped forward, beneath the redness of the leaves, and reached out my hand, for I felt sure that if I could but touch it one time - just one time - a connection would be made, and it would understand me the way I understood it.

So I reached out. The winds chattered frantically, and the earth turned beneath me. I could feel it. And still I reached out, inch by inch, fraction by fraction drawing closer, always closer.

A lion roared again, nearer this time. The closer I drew, the more my fingers shook. But still I reached out. And I almost touched her. I almost touched her.

But in the second before my hand found its mark, a second before the sun would be unstuck from the horizon, and daytime would return – a second before man and beauty kissed for the first time, I felt a rush of scorching heat, and a great fire roared to life, raging and screaming, flames burning black as night. It hissed a vile laugh as it engulfed the tree, spreading from branch to branch, leaf to leaf until the whole of it, from roots below to canopy above was taken up in great black, hateful flames. The violin too, the violin with me inside was thrown into the dark blaze that consumed without regard to any but its own.

I fell to my knees. The sun glowed red. Black flames cast black shadows and I was left to stare at them in horror, wherever I look. I stop breathing. But even without breath in my lungs, my heart beats on, and the blood sun rests bloody in its place.

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E Sinfonia I kneel in the grass. The hill passes farther and farther away. I can see the black flames burning in the distance, on the other end of the field, on the other end of the world. I cried. And I refused to walk on.

A lion roared behind me, mighty and fierce, but when I turned, I saw a lamb. It spoke to me, and its voice was of rushing waters. I had seen him before, in a different place. He had suffered too. He had been broken and beaten and buried. He knew me.

I ask the lamb why the sun won’t set, but when I turn around he had gone. Joshua found his Lily, and now I cry for the loss of my flower.

Maybe someday I’ll come back to this place. I’ll see what has become of my field and my hill and my tree with the red leaves. Maybe I’ll play my violin for them again. Maybe I won’t ever see a red so bright, or a spirit so alive, or a girl so beautiful as I have today. Maybe I just have to put my eyes back down where they belong, square my shoulders against the wind and walk on. But where can I walk to?

Because the world is turning. And time is passing. But there’s nowhere left to go.

Da Capo Al Fine

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Vamp.

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Somewhere in Amherst - Danielle Gale ‘16

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E LIFE, CONTINUED Katherine Kittler ‘17 To the Schumacher family, and especially Serena Schumacher.

May her spirit live on inspiring others to live their life as fully and beautifully as she did.

I believe in angels.

Not necessarily the ones with big fluffy wings, And dressed in tunics, With a shining halo over their head.

I believe in the metaphorical angels, The ones whose souls are so angelic that they are too good For this life we live on Earth, No matter the beauty we see Or the events we believe they miss They still partake in them And see the wonderful things we see, But from above, And watching from above is so much better Then watching from below.

It would be selfish of us, To try and keep those angels from enjoying life above, Just to keep them down here below.

It is their inner angel that decides When they stay And when they get to depart.

And sometimes they are just so angelic That they need to be freed So they are no longer landlocked And soar above us.

And if you ever feel as though, Someone is watching you, 17

E Or you see something out of the corner of your eye Be at peace For it is our angels watching over us.

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Roots - Anonymous

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E THIRTEEN WAYS OF LOOKING AT A BOOK Sarah Wilson ‘16 I. As a child, I was told If you put a book beneath your pillow It will whisper its story To you in the night.

II. Shelves stretching Tall and thin, like ladders To the sky, Lined with whole worlds Small enough to hold in your hands.

III. In skinny green lockers There are heaps of stories, Their covers twisted and their spines Bent and broken.

IV. The train roars, Snaking through the veins of the city, Its floor humming like something with a heartbeat Beneath the feet of its passengers, Settled on the hard plastic benches, With worn paperbacks in their hands, Sharing the companionable silence.

V. Flames twine up the scaffold, Burning vines, Their smoke rises in cyphers That no one remembers how to read.

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E Of the people with fierce smiles Who warm their hands near the Blaze of stories turning to ash.

VI. At the top of the stairs, tucked in the alcove Between a classroom and an office, The bookshelf is piled haphazardly with Pamphlets, anthologies, histories, To take and to leave, for someone else To fall in love with.

VII. There are thousands of stories Hidden behind the thin glass of her screen.

Only she will know what they say.

VIII. In the dark, beneath The bed sheets, a light flickers On, and the pages fall open.

IX. Books taught me how to look Into the sky and dream Of flying.

They did not Teach me what to do when I fell.

X. On the shelf, half-behind a clock caught In a glass dome like a cage, An old volume sits, protecting The love letter hidden between its twelfth and thirteenth pages, Waiting for its recipient to enter the little shop That smells of pressed flowers and candle wax and smoke, To see it there, calling to them, ready to burst with the 21

E Weight of secrets, of love it has inside it, And they will take it in their hands, And look inside.

XI. On the first week of every summer The Tuesday trash collector picks through The black bags of discarded books, While the children coax warmth back into their skin On the sunbaked pavement, and play 2048 on their iPhones, The trash collector smoothes the pages of his find, And slips it into the pocket of his coat.

XII. A library, full, The books safe in their plastic coats, Side by side, inviting.

The only occupant sits at a desk Her face ghostly in the glow Of their screen.

XIII. I used to read at the speed of light, Of lightening, of sound, Devouring stories like chocolate bars to be enjoyed In the present moment and forgotten in the next.

Now I open the cover.

I take a breath.

I fit the words into the spaces between my heartbeats, the Characters into the grooves between my ribs, And I begin.

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E FIELD OF LOVED ONES Casey Frost ‘18 A field black and white like a page of obituaries,

the smell of sadness, the look of beauty.

Chrysanthemum once bright and alive; Gardenia a wife and grandmother on to discover a new world; Lily, a creative soul that drifted into the wind; Rose, a young child who never experienced life; Daisy, a loving aunt of Karen who would do anything for her; Sunflower, a participant of the world who made life changing decisions; Poppy, a kind unnoticed citizen

that deserved to be empowered; a field that is imprinted with life and wonderful memories.

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Winter Wonder - Elena Lapadula ‘18

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E WAITING GAMES Franky Barradale ‘15 The suburbs of a quiet Northeastern town were lit by the yellow-white sun of late summer. A pastel yellow house with chipped paint on its walls faced away from the sun, its front cold and dark in the shade. The trees bordering the house rustled with a light breeze. A man and a woman sat at a table in the shade of the front porch. A half-completed chess game lay on the table.

The woman shivered at the wind.

“I don’t see why we have to play out here,” she said. “It’s almost autumn.”

“You won’t be cold for long. The sun will move around to your end eventually. Besides, don’t you like the fresh air?” he said.

“I’m still on the house. You haven’t won yet. Your move,” she said. Her knight was in position to take out his queen.

He moved his queen diagonally to stand next to her knight. The wind picked up and blew a leaf onto the porch and into the cool shade. The woman saw it and turned to glance at the rustling tree. She winced at the blinding light.

“You know what? Fine,” she scoffed. “Play your waiting game all you want. I’m not losing.”

“How long has it been? Three months now?”

“Oh, shut up.”

“We could play Yahtzee instead.”

“You know I hate games of chance.”

“Well, you’re playing this.”

“You’re dense. Chess has nothing to do with luck.” She watched the cars passing by on the street.

“Of course it does. Even if you’ve got a plan, you can’t always know when it’ll turn sour.” He took out her queen.

She was staring at the road, then noticed his move. She frowned and stared through the table as if she could see beyond it.

“Maybe I’m not focused enough to see everything that could happen.”

“And there’s the point.”

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E “What?”

“You can’t always be prepared for everything. Why do you think people have accidents? They are called accidents for a reason, you know.”

“But it’s still my fault. I looked away. And now I’ve lost my queen.”

“You can still play without her.”

“No one moves like her. No one acts like her.” She paused. “The queen is everything.”

“Just because she’s gone doesn’t mean you have to forget you had her. You can find bits of the queen in all of the other pieces. Rooks, bishops, even pawns can move like her, if you let them.”

“It’s not the same,” she said. A car honked its horn in the street. Tires screamed on asphalt as one car swerved around another car pulling out of a neighbor’s driveway. The woman jumped, then shivered again.

“You have to get out eventually. You can’t just hide away forever, Gwen.”

“No.” She folded her arms into herself.

“It’s not going to hurt you this time.”

“I don’t want to play this game anymore.” She looked back at the road.

“Come on. Don’t just give up.”

“You got anything good to drink?”

The man sat back in his chair. “She wouldn’t have wanted you to grieve like this, Gwen,” he said. “She loved you too, you know.”

She sat and ignored him. Her eyes focused only on the black and white board and the few pieces that remained standing.

The man noticed that the sun shone on his sister’s back and the wind had died down. She had stopped shivering. Gwen carried her black bishop across the board onto a white square.

“Checkmate,” she said. She rose and gave a small smile.

“You want anything to drink?”

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E FROM EDEN Anonymous The woods are dark, and They Are Deep.

Sometimes, when she dares to look out At the world beyond her windows, Her fingers splayed like pale spiders Against the cold glass That leave handprint smudges in The hoarfrost and the ridges of her skin are Rendered in loving detail, The world seems incomprehensibly vast, And she is but a small thing, Spinning through countless atoms of space, Like a marble in a bowl.

Her mother tells her that the world is cruel.

Her mother tells her that it will Tear her apart and sell the pieces, Because people don’t care for things that don’t Feed the hunger inside of them, the greed and lust and Fear, of going out like a candle and leaving nothing behind them but Wisps of smoke.

“You are safe, here,” Mum says, and kisses her forehead.

“No one can use you, corrupt you, hurt you. You can be innocent And happy forever.”

The girl smiles, and does not tell her About the gnawing hunger in the pit of her belly.

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Fever - Danielle Gale’16

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E THE TRIBULATIONS OF A GREAT SHIPWRECK Anja Stadelmann ‘17 My singed skin stung in the frigid water, a distorting mirror, and I quickly grabbed onto a beam peeling away from our sleek ship, her mast struck down by great Helios, the all-seeing sun. The wood was slippery and I struggled to stay above the rapids, but my legs were entwined with the curling waves and a ferocious current sucked me under, hands groping for the disappearing air.

I had imagined this moment before, when I would meet Tiresias in the land of the dead, live in the dark and want nothing more than to see young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shine once again. To think my downfall would come at the hands of pious Odysseus, leading us to lavish bounty and demanding that we starve, our stomachs growling at the sight of those beautiful rams. Now the gods seek revenge and here we suffer their awesome power.

I fought the foam and broke the surface once again, gasping and pawing for a piece of the grainy hull.

“Panagiotis!”

I spun around to see powerful Odysseus aboard a slab off the stern, calling my name and waving his arms ferociously.

“Oh, Panagiotis! What luck I find another man in this wreckage when I believed there to be none left! Quick, climb onto this sad piece of wood and let us face what comes next together.”

Quickly, I scrambled next to Odysseus while the waves tore at our craft and the howling wind against our backs guided us back towards the dreaded Charybdis and Scylla. Nothing had frightened me as the cavern ahead of us did, dark and craggy, the cliffs a frothing mouth of a rabid beast. “Great Odysseus, not too long ago menacing Scylla bore her fierce teeth and picked off our six strongest Greeks. What ways will she come up with to bring us to ruins this time?”

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E “We shall take the starboard challenge and face the whirlpool of Charybdis, daughter of Poseidon. Asleep, she is the lesser of two evils.”

The raft moved closer to the dark, impending cliffs and the water began to speed up as we entered the narrow passageway. Panic struck me at the sight of swirling Charybdis’ whirlpool but Odysseus quickly dropped down and told me of an ingenious plan. He had proposed plans such as these in the past, risky but plausible and many a time they had worked but just as often they had not. The snarling limbs of an olive tree hung low and when we passed underneath, jumped from the raft and grabbed ahold while watching the wood splinter under the swirling sea. Odysseus’ plan was a good one, but my heart sunk at the sight of our charred board being pulled away, our last piece of the lovely ship and our epic voyages being gambled away in the murderous sea.

“Wait not to long and Charybdis will spit her back up again and we can continue on.” Odysseus heaved.

But wait and wait we did and when Charybdis closed her foaming lips, our arms were weak with the weight of our sodden bodies and our raft had not returned. “Odysseus, we cannot hang in suspense forever and the water below is certain to bring us to our death.”

“It seems our plan has been foiled by the bitter monster.

This tree is nearly impossible to climb but if we swing ourselves over the branch, we can maneuver carefully to the trunk.”

And so, with no other options I followed that courageous man and swung my numbing legs over the thick branch and inched lower until I reached the trunk, glancing not at the death sentence below me: waves crashing against rocks filed sharp like teeth. With a bound Odysseus and I landed on the damp, dark stone with the olive tree to our backs, boulders to our sides, and a towering cave, encased with vines and fierce looking shrubs, in front of us. The air was chilled and heavy, filled with the overpowering stench of rotting fish and rodent feces almost sending us running back to the churning waters.

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E Odysseus looked up to the grey sky and shouted out with all his effort, “Mighty Gods! What actions have led me to this place, this lonely hovel? Do you wish for me to never return to my home? My wife? My son? My people?”

I quickly turned around, recalling our run in with Polyphemus and silently cursed Odysseus for almost making the same mistake again and agitating the monster Charybdis.

Cautiously, the handsome man approached the slippery rocks but when he reached the opening large enough for a small ship, a deep rumbling resonated through the cave and into our bones, knocking me back in fear and surprise. Odysseus’ great wailing had woken the beast and I had spoken too soon! He quickly drew a silver sword forged by Hephaestus himself, a treasure stolen from Troy, and moved flat against the side of the cave, his mighty chest heaving up and down. “Odysseus!” I yelled over the howling wind, “Come, lets hide around the other side of the island! Avoid this treacherous battle!”

“Run if you wish Panagiotis, but I will not turn my back to danger. No, I will face this beast, tame her, rob her of her goods.

She has caused many a traveler pain and suffering, and should great Charybdis not be punished?” I could not leave the fearless man but to fight this beast, pounding the earth with footsteps closer and closer every second, with a single sword was absurd.

Searching my mind for a solution, I remembered when I was a boy, a scrawny thing, how I would combat the older boys by attacking them out of nowhere. I would climb up high in the trees and jump down just when those husky thieves and bullies passed underneath, clawing at their eyes and prying out shrieks of terror.

Just as the serpent-like tongue of the beast flicked out from the shadows, I shouted, “Quick, Odysseus, climb up above her cave, do you see the overhang where you can attack?” Momentarily perplexed, Odysseus looked up and quickly understood my plan. From the shadows emerged the maw of Charybdis, rounds of jagged teeth like rows of knives all spinning back and forth as the mouth opened and closed, well lubricated by pools of 31

E of mucous and blood dripping down the leathery neck of the beast. Beady eyes framed the mouth, positioned well off to the sides and surrounded by volcanic welts oozing puss.

She let out an earsplitting scream and stopped halfway out of her cave, flicking her tongue in and out to taste the air. I quickly realized her eyes did her no good! Odysseus, standing above the rocks with his sword held tight, realized this too and I cautiously took a step forward. I mustered up all my courage and yelled out, “Charybdis!” at the top of my lungs. She screeched and screeched in response, flinging spit across the stone. I backed up against the tree and looked up at Odysseus. For once it was my extravagant plan but it would also be my extravagant failure if my faith in him was misplaced. As the beast lurched towards my trembling body, Odysseus lept from the boulders and plunged his sword into the back of Charybdis and twisted it with all his might, blood covering his arms and legs. She reared up and bore her fearsome teeth, hissing and flailing her head. He was thrown off her back and tumbled towards the waters edge, clawing at the slippery stone but unable grip. Out of instinct I rushed forward to aide my great leader, grabbing his red hands while the monster above us came crashing down and drove the sword farther into her hellish body. I dragged Odysseus over by the entrance to the cave while Charybdis began to slide into the water, her long, writhing, body disappearing in the rapids and returning to it’s place of birth. *

*

*

*

*

*

*

*

The rock under which Charybdis dwelled was the size of the small city Aigio and we trudged along the perimeter looking for anything to aide our departure from this island. I had suggested to Odysseus that it was best we left the cave untouched and he had grudgingly complied, reluctant to leave the precious metals and grains that could be stored inside the cave.

“Ai! Look ahead around that bend!” He broke into a run and continued, “My faith in the gods has been restored!”

My feet pounded the ground as I picked up a steady trot, eager to see what was up ahead. Smoke billowed up from a 32

E small, nearby island, smelling of decadent meat cuts and the scent of fermenting grapes wafted across the shallow waters. I sat down on stone to catch my breath and take comfort in the knowledge that we were not alone.

“Panagiotis! This is no time for rest! No, have we found cyclops or men? Nymphs or Kobaloi? We must see if our neighbors are savages or bread eaters! We must spread our story, gain their respect, and tell them of our destination. Oh sweet Ithaca, how I miss her sprawling locks and golden crown, home to my loyal and beautiful Penelope. Quick! No delay, we must cross this stretch and begin home once again. We cannot be far from the Aeolian Island where the god of wind can guide our journey.”

To ask for a little rest from such a man would be absurd.

Before my clothes had time to dry I was in the crisp, cool water once again, the clouds above still threatening a storm. With no possessions it was easy to make our way the quarter-mile to the opposing island although I doubted if these creatures would be welcoming of our arrival. To live opposing Charybdis and Scylla would be in no mans right mind. *

*

*

*

*

*

*

*

Up high in that rolling thunder fumed Poseidon as he approached mighty Zeus.

“Have you seen what that Odysseus has done! No respect and no compassion, such a man should have misfortune thrust down upon him! First my son Polyphemus and now my daughter! Children of the sea should face no disrespect from this … this hubristic man! Oh but Zeus, if this lowly mortal does not pay me respect, how can I uphold that of my brothers and sisters, of the mighty ruler of Olympus?”

“Brother do not worry, you remain our equal and we respect you for all you have done. Such thoughts are silly! The arrogant Odysseus needs to be put in his place. I will send an omen to my loyal islanders below and his voyage will not be without suffering.” His booming voice shook the sky and the clouds began to pour rain down on the weary travelers.

33

E *

*

*

*

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*

I dragged myself up onto the sandy beach of the small island and caught my breath. I had trained long and hard for years, building bulk and leaving behind my destiny of a weakling. To have no muscle is to have no respect. A man must care for his family: provide them food, shelter, and security. But now my massive muscles ached and great Odysseus lay beside me, chest heaving as well. “We must hide,” I wheezed, “plan our next move.”

Odysseus nodded, “Clever Panagiotis, to the tree line.”

We pulled our battered bodies from the deep, soft, bed of sand. The rain did not help our shivering limbs. The smell of cooking meat drove us forward and encouraged myself and Odysseus to keep alert. The trees were short and stocky but the leaves hid us from the wind while we crouched low and discussed our plan. “Odysseus, can we stay and rest a moment while catching our breath? Then we can continue on, following our noses to the source of this deliciously intoxicating scent.”

“Agreed, my fellow traveler. While we rest, tell me of your past and how you have come to voyage on my ship. You know of my name and my family, but I do not know of yours. Do you hail from royalty? Am I sitting in the presence of a great leader?”

“Ha, Odysseus, your skill in flattery could make any man join your side. But no, I am not from royalty nor great leaders. I hail from peasants, living under your flawless rein and living simple lives. Sadly both my parents have moved on but remain together as I saw in the land of the dead. Their souls joined as one shared by two translucent bodies under Tiresias’ rule now. But I do not join you without constraints. My wife, lovely Amara with her teal eyes and curled hair, bore me six handsome boys with the same eyes and my brown hair. I couldn’t bear to leave them but when I heard of your epic voyage, I thought I could give my family a better life, add some honor to our name.”

At that moment, a coarse hand reached out from the bushes behind me and wrapped it’s spindly fingers around my mouth.

34

E My body was yanked back into the sticks, my face being scraped by the roughage. A rag wrapped around my eyes and the world went dark. I panicked as my legs were lifted off the ground and the more I flailed and screamed the tighter the grip on my limbs and face became. I heard the footsteps of more savages and screamed as they touched my face, smearing the blood that began to ooze from the tree scratches.

My feet and hands were tied and I was thrown to the hard ground on my stomach, crying out in pain as I felt the cartilage in my nose shift and blood start pouring from the nasal cavity and onto the wet ground below me. I flung myself over onto my back but the blood from my nose rushed into the back of my throat and I quickly rolled back over to cough up what felt like a lung. Another body hit my side and I gargled, “Odysseus!”

“Panagiotis! What fools we were!”

“To chat petty nonsense,” “And let our guard down! The savages will burn us!”

At that moment our blindfolds were removed and we sat bolt upright, facing our captors dressed in furs and crowned with animal horn. Each member had a long spear, pointed at our necks and just barely touching my untrimmed beard. The leader, a tall man with broad shoulders, stepped closer and examined our faces.

“Who are YOU! To stumble onto our island during this time of celebration?” He growled in our faces, jabbing his spear into the ground with each breath. “Have you no respect, interrupting our sacrifices to the gods? Are you here to steal our goods and women? We show no kindness to strangers.”

Odysseus took control and replied, “No, no, my friends, I knew not of your holy sacrifices and have no intention of robbing you of your treasures. No, I have been shipwrecked and my crew has been lost all except brave Panagiotis here. There is no need to harm two innocent travelers looking for a way back home.”

“Gah, that is enough chatter from you.” The leader repositioned his spear close to Odysseus’ neck and the others moved in.

“Tell us who you are and then we will decide on our own if you 35

E are to survive passing through our city.”

With a gulp Odysseus continued, “I am a great ruler, needed in the city of Ithaca. A kind father to all my people and a son who is destined for greatness. I am a Greek warrior who has sailed across the world to cunningly defeat the thieving Trojans and restore justice. I am a loyal husband, sailing to my suffering wife strained by the hands of a dozen suitors threatening the palace and the stability of the mighty city. Good friend, I am Odysseus, great glory of the Achaeans, raider of cities, and mastermind of war. Would you threaten to kill such a man?”

The shocked leader sprang into action, “Odysseus!” He cried. “Odysseus is here, Odysseus has arrived! Hear me clear, men! Odysseus, it’s Odysseus!” All at once the people of this desolate island streamed out of their houses and huddled away from myself and the great man, occasionally sneaking nervous glances our way. The leader spoke in a hushed voice and the people began to walk towards us, making a horseshoe around our place on the ground.

Odysseus whispered to me, “We are safe my boy! These people will not harm a man as great as I. They have come to their senses and begun the feast for our arrival.”

I was not as sure that we would be safe. The children had begun collecting rocks but were scolded by their parents who smiled our way but never approached us or spoke. The women engulfed in chatter stole frightened glances and every so often handed us a small piece of bread with cautious hands and a crooked smile. If they were so excited by our arrival, why were we still tried up? I proposed this idea to Odysseus and he replied, “Panagiotis, you worry too much. Of course these people were not expecting such renown guests and would not want to be embarrassed by not having a proper feast prepared and rooms ready. Just wait and you will see. You will see why an honorable name is so important.”

Wait we did, long into the night and no one loitering around came to untie us, only to stare and occasionally tell us, “Welcome.” When Odysseus had fallen asleep, a group of three 36

E women walked up and began whispering. I quickly pretended to be asleep and listened intently to their words.

“A shame that devilish man is so handsome. What is great Aeschylus’ plan for the two of them? Will he kill them both as Poseidon instructed?”

“No, no, he will trick the men, the egocentric men, and take them to Calypso's inescapable island.”

“Never would I wish that among any wife, to have her husband in the grips of that manipulating nymph.”

“Imagine if your husband was destine to doom in her arms, he would struggle to remain loyal to his beautiful wife but would give in eventually.”

“Don’t talk like that, now I must go check on him! Make sure he is not becoming a fool like these two, killing the children of our great gods.”

With that the women stepped out of view and my already straining ears could not pick up the rest of their conversation. In a panic I shoved Odysseus, trying to wake him up but he was sound asleep and two burly men had begun walking towards us their shadows stretched long from the rising sun at their backs. They grabbed our arms and dragged us to a large wooden platform in the center of the little collection of houses. There we lay as a new crowd began to gather around us. I tried to warn Odysseus but there was always someone right by our sides. Sensing my uneasiness, the watchmen ordered me to sit on the other side of the rickety platform, opposing Odysseus with a savage stitched to my side.

Odysseus was so blinded by the flood of compliments being sent his way by the women and men that he did not notice my shift in position.

“What a handsome man!” They said, “He could slaughter our biggest bull and build the strongest house!”

“His stories could entertain us for years!”

The leader, Aeschylus, interrupted and stood up on the 37

E platform with Odysseus. “My people, this is the man we have been waiting for, the one the gods have told us of. Awesome Odysseus wishes to travel to Ithaca.” He turned and looked down at Odysseus, still tied but unsuspicious. “Will you give us the honor of sailing you to your home, sweet Ithaca?”

“I cannot thank you enough!” He rejoiced.

With that both of our bonds were slashed and Odysseus stood up with Aeschylus. “You will arrive home with a ship full of lavish gifts to show my respect.”

“We have prepared the finest of sleek ships for your royal voyage, the most important voyage we have ever embarked on.

Please, follow our joyous parade to the port and accept what little we have to give you.” With that Odysseus followed Aeschylus and I was allowed to join them, my arms held back by the speared guard. I looked around frantically for a way out, a way to warn Odysseus of his impending doom. Alert him that his destination would not be Ithaca but in fact the fortress of seductive Calypso.

We approached the ship and the crew came streaming forward and Odysseus followed along with a massive grin on his silly face.

I saw no other choice. This was my last chance to save Ithaca’s leader, no matter how egocentric, because the city would fall to ruins without him. I took a deep breath and propelled my voice over the people in front of me just as Odysseus stepped onto the ship, “Odysseus! You’re going to Calypso's Island!” I was thrown down to the ground by a strong man and looked up to see Odysseus fighting the men tying him up to the mast. Yelling my name and screaming at the Gods. My view was shielded by more and I began to scream as I heard the slice of a knife being removed from it’s sheath. My heart racing, I wriggled and fought the strong hands pinning me flat against the ground and closed my eyes as spears rose above my stomach. Tears streamed down my blood crusted face and while I knew the life of that man was worth a dozen others I could not help but curse myself for the life I had just given my children and teal-eyed Amara. But this was the path I had chosen, to protect Odysseus to my last breath and 38

E that would be how I was remembered. I stopped fighting and choked back my tears.

“You’re lucky, you know.” A deep voice whispered in my ear. “Anyone in their right mind would choose death over spending eternity alive on Calypso’s Island.” He chuckled quietly and I joined my parents under the reign of the blind prophet Tiresias.

39

E

Urge - Danielle Gale ‘16

40

E MIRROR IMAGES Katherine Kittler ‘17 Who am I? I look in the mirror And the same body stands before me.

I raise my right hand The reflection raises hers.

Mimicked movements, But is this me?

The girl in front of me is not who I was.

4 years is a long time, Consoles the angel in white, Not for some, Bites the devil, draped in red, 4 years, Was it really?

4 years, was when I turned, 4 years, was the turning point, 4 years, good and bad, 4 years, different me, 4 years to become the women I see before me.

Is it good or bad?

What have I become?

The consoling angel in white?

Or the biting devil, draped in red?

To myself or to others?

What does this change mean?

Change, For better or for worse.

We change.

41

E I’ve changed.

Changing, turning, gliding, Swiftly as the clock strikes twelve, Marking another year gone, another change to come, But how do we mark that change?

Like a clock only turning on cue?

42

E DELICATE Henna Malik ‘18 She held her life in her own hands as if it were a mother cradling her newborn baby.

As every agonizing second passes, her breathing became slower and slower.

She clutched my arm as if it were the only thing keeping her alive.

Doctors and nurses rushing in like a stampede running after the vulnerable prey.

Her cold, dead eyes no longer holding the familiar sunshine she is known for.

I try to shout in despair

but I am as speechless as a baby learning its first words.

I try to call her name but her body is as lifeless as a dummy.

She held onto her life as if it were a mother cradling her newborn baby, and I held onto the memory of her as if it were a porcelain doll with a crack in her heart.

43

E MY LOVE Brittany Northrup ‘15 Love of my life, thank you for showing me the world. Because of you, I realized the distress that the natural world is in.

You are the reason that I want to travel. You are the reason I applied for jobs this summer, because I knew I needed to start saving money for my trips. You are the reason that my little mason jar with a piece of duct tape labeled “Travel Funds” is where all of my money goes. You are the reason that I want to explore new cultures and discover the unknown. You are the reason that my dreams of traveling are slowly becoming my reality. You are the reason that I will be traveling to Hawaii in the spring to scuba dive in the beautiful ocean to save the coral reefs and monitor the endangered sea turtles. You are the reason that I have a list mapped out of all the places I want to travel to. You are the reason that I want to travel to Cambodia and help at the elephant orphanages. You are the reason that I want to travel to Romania to help with children’s day care and teach children English. You are the reason I want to escape the little bubble of New Hampshire and see the beauties of the world around me.

You are the reason that I want to become a Clinical Psychologist. From all the documentaries we have watched like Happy directed by Roko Belic or How to Die in Oregon directed by Peter Richardson, you have helped me discover my desire to help people realize their potential in life. Because of all you have taught me, I created my own Psychology course at my school with the help of my school counselor to allow me the opportunity to expand my current knowledge on mental disorders and the pressures of stress. You pushed me to help others in more ways than you’ll ever understand. This year I am recreating the “A World of Difference” program through my school which helps 44

E educate middle school students on social pressures, cyberbullying, and how to deal with the stresses of academics and friends.

There is nothing I enjoy more than being able to help others through hard situations that I have already experienced myself.

Giving these young students advice on the mistakes I’ve made gives me great joy because I have the amazing opportunity to help shape these students’ lives. If it was not for you, I would not have this undying desire to help these students to be able to face the hard times that life throws at them. Whenever I am given the chance to help a student live a happier life, I take it because there is nothing more satisfying that making a friend or a stranger smile. Thank you for helping me discover that the little things in life; a flower blooming, leaves falling from trees, a stranger smiling at me, are the most beautiful parts of one’s life.

Thank you for being my inspiration. Thank you for always understanding that homework and family come first. Thank you for being patient with me when I have to prioritize my schedule.

Thank you for not being jealous when I have to help my younger sister with her homework or listen to her drama of the day. Thank you for understanding that my commitments to the Field Hockey team and to my rehearsals for theatre come first. But you know there is always a special place for you in my heart.

I loved you then. I love you now. I will love you forever, Netflix.

45

E

Spring - Marissa Wolf ‘15

46

E THE TWELFTH REMOVE FOR TWO VOICES Sarah Wilson ‘16 “She found me sitting and reading in my Bible; she snatched it hastily out of my hand and threw it out of doors; I ran out, and catched it up, and put it into my pocket, and never let her see it afterward.”

– Mary Rowlandson, A Narrative of Captivity and Restoration My sister is dead.

She was so tiny, Her fingers and toes Like grains of rice, Her hair soft and downy Like dark baby feathers.

There wasn’t enough food After the never-ending rain that Filled up the earth until it was overflowing, Taking the harvest with it.

We are all hungry, all struggling for The little bit we can find, But my sister was too small to understand.

She wailed, and then She stopped.

My mother and I left her behind together, Leaning against each other as we walked, As if one of us needed to be held up.

When we returned, the bone-white woman That my father took from the village Of pale men with loud voices and Guns slung over their shoulders like harsh limbs Was reading her book.

My mother took if from her, And she threw it outside, To the dirt and the dust and the open sky, 47

E Like the white men did to our stories, When they came in ships with their little books and their God, As if the things they believed in were the only ones allowed To be sacred.

The bone woman fell to her knees.

She picked the book up with fingers that trembled, The tips of them stained dark with mud.

She tried to be quiet, but I am small and fast and I watch, With eyes sharp as a bird’s and the Patience of the slowly growing trees.

I turned to tell my mother How she had disobeyed, But the woman clutched the book over her beating heart The way I used to hold my sister, To remind her what living felt like, And I did not tell.

48

E BENEATH THE CYPRESS Patrick Finocchiaro ‘15 Beige and jagged sea rocks broke the surface of the foam, creating large bubbles that popped within seconds of their formation. Frothy waves churned, exposing dark turquoises and streaks of jet that seemed to create a whirlpool. An occasional dorsal fin would surface amongst the aquatic chaos, yet disappear when an easterly wind forced the tide into the bluffs. Two hundred feet above, along the cypress studded coast, a man and a gentleman hit a hundred miles per hour. Monterrey's 17-Mile Drive seemed endless as dusk beckoned. The echoes of the Maserati's V-6, turbo-charged engine seemed to touch the Queen Anne's Lace that grew along the road.

"I figured we could talk. It's such a serene place to talk.

To talk and think," said the man, thrusting the car into second gear, resulting in a loud roar from the engine.

"I agree. Maybe we should stop and take a few pictures?" said the gentleman, grabbing his sun-kissed Nikon from his pack.

"How about here?" said the man, pointing at the famous Lone Cypress sitting on a fleshy colored rock.

The sky spurted magentas, siennas, and oranges, as the waves banged against the sharp rocks and ledges of the Monterrey coast.

"Now that's what I call a view," said the gentleman, snapping several pictures of the bluffs that jutted into the sea.

"Can we talk now?" asked the man, uncomfortably.

"Sure, I want to hear what's on your mind," said the gentleman, taking one last look at the sun, his eyes dilating as it disappeared below the horizon.

"She will want you home soon?" said the man, kicking the pebbled ground.

"No. I told her I would be back at ten. Look at the dol49

E phins! A cow and her calf! What a sight!"

"Quite."

"And there's the bull, jumping next to the cow. He's making such a splash! Wait, there are two bulls! Wow!" said the gentleman, quickly toying with the flash button on his Nikon.

"The breeze. What a great relief from the heat of the day, no?" said the man, disregarding the gentleman's excitement.

"Yes. You could say it was hot today. The hottest it has been in days. Hot, hot, hot."

The man looked out toward the ebony sky over the sea, as the sound of cicadas numbed his ears.

"You seem distant. Did you want to talk? Something is on your mind," said the gentleman, studying his friend with confusion.

The man picked up a pebble, and caressed it in his hand.

He massaged it with his thumb, then flicked it off the ledge. His legs shook, and sweat formed on his brow. He shifted his body, and his toes curled in his loafers, making a scraping noise on the pebbly ground.

"Remember the Fourth of July out here?" said the man with building excitement.

"I do! The fireworks were magnificent. Everyone loved it!

It was all she kept talking about for weeks."

"And do you remember the martinis? She made them so sweet. She even made a slit in the watermelon for it to perch on my glass."

"Yes?" said the gentlemen, furrowing his eyebrows slightly.

"Then Buddy stepped on the hose," said the man, a small smile forming on his flushed face.

"Yes. Yes I do. She was soaked. She was screaming. The water was freezing," said the gentleman slowly, exchanging glances between the screen of his Nikon, and the roots of the Cy50

E press.

"And the rack of ribs she made were so delicious! Remember that sauce? The secret sauce? It was so good! You’ve got to ask her to give me that recipe," said the man, catching his breath from talking so fast.

"They were great, I agree."

"How about the--" "It's getting a little chilly. Let's go back to the car," said the gentleman.

"You sure? We were just starting to talk," said the man intently.

"I should really get home. She is probably waiting. I think she is making dinner."

"It's only six. You told her you would be home by ten.

Come on! Let's drive up to some of the points in Carmel Highlands. I have more I want to talk about," said the man, his eyes widening.

"Drive me back to my estate. We can talk there."

"I am pretty sure we can talk here," said the man, his face appearing purple in the night.

"I think it's best we go. She is waiting," said the gentleman, clutching his stomach.

"On my birthday, remember, she choked on the clam chowder I made! You were so mad that she coughed it up on that hand-made rug you bought in Calcutta. Why would you put a rug under the kitchen table?" said the man, laughing hysterically and ignoring his friend's pleas to leave.

"Alright, time to go," said the gentleman, belching loudly.

The moon was full, illuminating the famous Lone Cypress. The man eyed the leaves, the trunk, the roots, and the patches of moss that grew between the roots. The waves seemed to reach their dark fingers toward the Cypress, yet the jagged 51

E rocks broke their vitality, causing them to disappear into the black whirlpool below. The gentleman, with sudden urgency, ran to the edge of the cliff, and regurgitated a thick substance into the surf.

The Lone Cypress, pitiless, seemed to watch the gentleman pulse with agony beneath its canopy. The man leaned his hand on the smooth trunk of the Cypress as he patted the gentleman's back. A hard breeze blew, shaking the Cypress with great force. Suddenly, the gentleman stood upright again, and the man removed his sap covered hand from the Cypress so he could guide his friend to the car.

"Are you alright? Do you think you can make it back?" said the man.

"I will be fine for the ride. She will make me an elixir when I get home."

"Remember your anniversary when you drank all that rum and threw up? She didn't even step foot into the bathroom. She watched at the door with me, while you suffered. She won't do anything tonight," said the man, neutrally.

52

E

Lush - Kaitlin Cintorino ‘15

53

E AN ELEGY TO FEELINGS Libby Marcouillier ‘18 Our love was planted in the beginning of spring.

It was taken for granted, Too new a thing.

We thought our love was a fern It would last and be strong.

But even a brightest burn couldn’t last for long.

We worried it would come to an end.

I think that’s what did us in.

The tension caused it to bend, the young love could never win.

When the cold winter suddenly appeared, Our love splintered Just as we had feared.

Looking back on our dark hour, It has finally come to me.

A fern just doesn’t flower and it could never be a tree.

54

E YOU’RE OF AS MUCH CONSEQUENCE AS THE SUN Anonymous Do not presume the cosmos have the thought

of us unnatural lifeforms in its midst; for taught comparisons of either’s size were you and merit given to biggest.

Do not equate your value to your breadth within the swathe of endless quantum foam.

Though as quite aimless you may see your breaths, just as all else in outer space you roam.

What states you’re less momentous than that star?

What states you are a copy on a shelf?

Be there or not high-order life afar, You are the universe knowing itself.

And so, as you and distant stars collide your gazes, in your gravity confide.

55

E THE HELP GROUP Anonymous The plastic folding chair creaks under my weight, protesting grumpily as it settles along the dusty tiled floor, and I look around the crowd of about twenty adolescents. We’re huddled in a poorly ventilated room under the community center, so the air tastes like perspiring teens and the sticky humidity of late june.

Off white lights buzz disinterestedly above, as if to say they could care less about our occupying the space. There’s a jug of fruit punch hunched over in the corner with styrofoam cups tossed carelessly to the side. Nobody is drinking it, mostly because we can smell its sickly sweet cherry aroma radiating from the corner.

It’s enough to make you give up cherries permanently. Although I’m not sure the kid in the hazmat suit would be able to drink it anyway, I don’t see any sort of mouth hole in his get up. God, why did my mom make me do this again? Just because I don’t have your average superpowers doesn’t mean I’m as bad off as some of these kids. Help groups are for the ones who’ve got it so awful they can’t go to school or anything; you know like that nut case in the news who blew up a school bus because he sneezes gasoline out one nostril and sparks out the other.

The sole adult in the room stands up to begin introductions. He’s about 5’5, with a scruffy red beard and has to be in his early thirties going by his “Class of ‘84 ” t shirt. He’s also got an arachnid like arrangement of eight eyes, plus a third arm twice as long as the first two sprouting from between his shoulder blades.

There’s cheetos powder crusted to the big knuckled fingers and rubbed under his nails. I’ve never been to a meeting with this particular group, but seedy looking young guys who can’t move away from their parents seems to be an industry standard. Most of the people hosting the meetings have some sort of disfiguring 56

E power, same as the attendees, like you’ll be able to relate to them more of something.

“Hello everyone, I’m Dennis. I’d like to welcome both out returning members and new arrivals, and let them know that we are in a safe place to share our experiences and stories. Remember, not everyone can be a hero!” He flashes a grin, showing off an impressive set of fangs, and three of the more slit like eyeballs wink at us. Lame slogans like that also seem to be a norm for help groups; groups for the kids who got genetically stiffed with their powers. The meetings are hopeful and flowery, the meeting runners reminding us that “ We’re all here for a reason!” and “ Not everyone can be the next Superman!” You know the type of crap that makes parents feel better about producing a failure. Nobody knows that’s what the kids call themselves behind the adult’s backs “The failure league of not so supers.” Maybe they’re right, maybe not everyone can luck out and get super speed or pyrokinesis, but it doesn’t change the fact that covering it up is worse than admitting it. Just call us freaks and be done with it, you know?

“Who wants to start by introducing themselves next?

We’ll go around and say our names and what brought us here.”

He cleverly avoids using the term powers. For most of these kids, whose state is more of a hindrance than an enhancement, calling it a power could be a joke. Out of the corner of my eye I see a beefy kid who had to be over six feet tall heave out of his seat, wringing a hat between his sausage like fingers.

“I’m Michael.” He murmurs. There’s sweat beading on his forehead, but I can’t tell if it’s from nervousness or the heat. “ I was born with above average muscle strength. You can see I’m built like an ox and have the potential to lift over three times the top limit for someone my size. However, I lack the bone density 57

E common to most of the super strong. I can barely walk down a flight of stair without my quads almost snapping my femur in two. Life gets tricky when that’s going on, you know?” I look closer and for the first time notice he was sitting in a wheelchair when he arrived.

“Well Michael, it’s very brave of you to go first. Is this your first time with us?” Michael nods, looking back at his hands which he’s drawn close to his chest. He eases back into the wheelchair with the gingerness of someone handling a newborn. I wonder what it must be like to constantly be worried about breaking your own bones, but before I can finish the thought someone else is speaking.

There are too many names to remember, even though this is one of the smaller support groups I’ve attended. Next to introduce herself was Sarah, a waifish blonde girl who couldn’t have been a hundred pounds soaking wet. She said she could consume any non food object safely and fully digest it, the catch was she couldn’t consume normal foods and could only derive nutrients from metals. Apparently getting a balanced diet was difficult. After her came Janice. Janice’s skin couldn’t be pierced by any weapon known to man, but that backfired when her appendix ruptured and operating became difficult. They figured out how to get in somehow, but the mass of scar tissue that is her right side and stump of an arm says it wasn’t a pleasant story. Earl’s the kid in the hazmat suit I noticed earlier, and he says he’s constantly teleporting between continents unless he’s kept in an entirely sterile environment. Jake is incessantly reading minds, but he can only make sense of it when people are thinking about their pets. Thank god he’s an animal lover because otherwise he’d be miserable, and in fact he apparently has used it to stop a couple cases of animal abuse.

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E “More often than not, it’s things like the goddamn dog crap on the carpet again and there’s only so much of that a guy can take. The rest of it sounds like radio static, although that gets annoying too.” He flashes a crooked smile and sits back down so a girl wearing thick sunglasses named Alice can talk; Apparently, she was born with the potential to see clearly for thirty miles, the doctors just didn’t factor Open-Angle Glaucoma, rendering Alice blind by the time she was six.

Sob story after sob story parades past, making it clear to everyone in the room that they are sitting with the bottom of the barrel. The rejects, the outcasts, the kids that fate was conspiring against since the moment they were born. Sometimes these groups are pretty depressing for me, listening to everyone whine about how life isn’t fair, and all that jazz. Other times it’s liberating to not be alone in a sea of the gifted and talented kids who can’t wait to be heroes. It’s good to know that I’m not the only one struggling with a “gift”.

The most awkward moment arrives when its my turn to talk. As I lurch to my feet, I can feel the chair lurch along with me out of relief. I’d do that to if I had to support a guy over three hundred pounds.

“I’m Arthur,” I say, not too brilliantly. “ As you can see, I’m a little out of shape.” I chuckle, and I listen as a few nervous titters escape the gathered crowd. I get that a lot, no one wants to be caught laughing at the fat kid.

“You’re going to have to fill me in.” A mockingly bitter voice throws out to my left, and I see Alice smiling ruefully. I laugh, and it’s now that others join me. Somehow it’s funnier when she makes fun of herself, and it cuts through the tension.

“Well Alice, did you ever see pictures of whales?”

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E “The big blue things that live underwater? What five year old doesn’t spend every moment gluing their still functioning eyeballs to a picture of an aquatic mammal? Of course I know what a freaking whale is.” She wins another laugh, and I find that I like Alice. Maybe she’ll be one of the few people I keep in touch with outside of the meetings.

“Well, Alice, by my peers I have always been given the title Whale Boy, and not just mockingly. My lot in this world is to share all the majesty and blubber of our mammalian relatives, including a functioning blow hole on the back of my neck that is the best to try and blow smoke rings from. It has been a constant struggle of mine to stay under three hundred pounds, but that extra weight has made it so that if anyone is ever on a cruise and can’t pack a life raft, all they have to do is give me a call.” Not even a giggle. Man, tough crowd. However I do see Dennis leaning forward.

“You feel it’s necessary to make fun of yourself to be accepted, Arthur?” He probes. I shrug.

“It’s more fun than getting a stick up my ass about people stating the obvious. Whale powers made me fat; the sense of humor makes it less awkward.”

Dennis purses his lips and doesn’t say anything. Adults always assume I have some sort of crippling self esteem issue because of the blubber thing; it’s why I’m in support groups in the first place. What I don’t choose to share is that I can actually use it to swim in temperatures and pressures a normal person couldn’t stand. Although, I live in Texas, so that doesn’t really do anything. Any body of water for a thousand miles is dusty, hot, and surrounded by prime real estate. The swimming bit it still cool, though, and it helps to think of it after some jerkwad with a gift for aiming things lands an eraser in the neck fold that keeps stuff 60

E out of my blow hole. Yes, that blow hole wasn’t a joke. But hey, runny noses are never a breathing problem.

We continue sharing our misfortunes, followed by a Q&A about how they make us feel, what we need to do in life to keep ourselves from feeling inferior, normal therapy group stuff. Then we break for punch.

It’s not the best punch I’ve ever had, not even in the top ten. In fact, it’s a gross cherry cough syrup flavored fluid a little warmer than room temperature. But when I look at Sarah, the chick who can’t digest any sort of normal food, milling about the back of the line enviously, I feel obligated to drink my whole cup full.

“Not the best punch I’ve ever had.” I hear a quiet voice by left shoulder say. I turn and see Michael in his wheelchair, handling the styrofoam cup as if it might blow up at any second.

Even sitting down he seems tall.

“Nah, but it’s still a good gesture. This is probably your first time, but a lot of support groups have these nasty cookies I’m convinced they dug out of some dead old lady’s basement.”

“Gross.” He says, downing the rest of his cup and flicking it into a nearby trash can. There’s a brief silence. “ Do people think you’re weird because of the blow hole?” He finally asks, and I’m surprised at the force. I didn’t think the guy could make a noise louder than a whisper, but this was almost too loud.

“Duh. All the time.”

“What do you do about it?” Ah, that’s where he was going. A guy like him, built like a colossus but weak as a kitten and he couldn’t be older than sixteen, now wonder he’s asking. The kids in this room are probably the only ones who know what he’s going through emotionally, dealing with the rejection of being 61

E weak when everyone around us is so hyper strong. Maybe that’s why these groups exist in the first place, so we can all be rejects together.

“I get right in front of them and use it to sneeze in their faces.” I snigger, and he full out guffaws.

“Maybe you could show me sometime?” He asks.

“I’d love to dude.”

I feel a twinge in the round part of my left arm, and I turn to find Alice grasping the fat roll hanging off it.

“I don’t know why you say you’re like a whale. You seem to have more seal based body mass in my opinion. Although, Seal boy doesn’t have the same ring.”

“You just felt it was okay to walk up to me and start rubbing your hands over my body?” I’m teasing, I don’t really mind, but Alice sticks out her tongue.

“If you had a problem with it I could always do this-” She then begins pantomiming frantically waving her cane in front of her and gesturing with her free hand. “ Oh no, blind girl coming through, sorry to bump into you, I can’t see you there!” She stops her overacting. “ Then you would have no choice but to have believed I bumped into you on accident. because after all I’m just some poor, pitiful girl who doesn’t have eyes. But you don’t have a problem so we don’t need to go through all that.”

I nod, and then realizing my mistake say, “ I’m nodding.”

“Good to know. What does this have to do with me?” The three of us laugh some more. Before we know it, Dennis is gesturing us back to the plastic chairs with his third arm.

“Back into the mix.” Michael sighs.

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E “Hey, it’s not so bad.” I mutter. Sure, I don’t like it, but it’s better than being in a crowd of telekinetic football jocks intent on making your day miserable. We file into our seats, and Sarah lets Janice lean on her as she talks about missing her arm. I think about how Dennis must feel, day after day, listening to kids who like himself have a mutation of genes seen as undesirable.

But, did he choose this for himself? And if he didn’t, then who would? Aren’t we all like mini Dennises by attending these meeting, listening to each other and telling our sob stories? When I think about it, I’m kind of glad other kids attend these meetings even if they do only end up like Dennis. Just another someone who listens to a group of not so supers and really not supers for a living. After all, someone has to be there for the kids who draw the short straw.

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Paris - Patrick Finocchiaro ‘15

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E A ROWER’S HANDS Libby Marcouillier ‘18 …………..Her callused hands were…………... ………………...covered with long ago healed ……………………..………… …… ...blisters, ………………....that must have once been ………....a bloody mess.……………... .They turned the oar, …………..then pulled it through the water, ……………………………….. . .with all the ……………………….…….strength they could muster. …………….…..The still, warm water of the …….….slow moving stream ..rose up, making the air into an ………oppressively ……………muggy monster. ……………….What is she doing right …….to cut the water so quickly ………….with her oar? ………………She sees me, ……………………….as I fail ……………………………...to hide from ……………….her wandering eyes. …….Seeming to have read my thoughts, .she merely smiles and shrugs, … continuing her ……… .. rhythmic row.

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Clancy—Anja Stadelmann ‘17

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E THE MONSTER IN MY CLOSET Makayla DeCesare ‘18 I stare holes in the ceiling out of insomnia, pondering a thriller's last few scenes.

Every gust of wind becomes a murderer.

Branches are claws, eager to tear my flesh.

When I catch something out of the corner of my eye: a pair of luminescent hues had grown out of my closet door ajar.

Frozen in place I stare into them, and they stare back at me.

I know this isn't my imagination, not like the knocking wind or daunting branches.

Petrified, I'm locked in a staring contest until: I blink.

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E REFLECTIONS OF AMBER Margaret Levell ‘16 Out in the middle of old New Hampshire by a worn, granite bridge, there is a humble brook. The water drifts under two arched entrances, only to meet again on the other side. Directly ahead in the waters there is a sea of boulders, like ridges along a dinosaur’s back. At noon the sun rises above the tree-line to shower sparkles of light in the hidden waters, hinting at unfathomable treasures beneath its depths and shadows. On the far bank lies crumpled leaves, a thin scattered layer of earth, and steadfast evergreens, ten times the height of the tallest man, upon granite cliffs. Decaying tree corpses stretch upstream, hovering over even more obstinate moss-covered globes and dancing little waterfalls.

A strange mixture of sand and dirt: soft, cool, and comforting to touch, blankets the wrinkled earth. This is my sanctuary.

It is a deceivingly calm place, for it is soporific and intuitive. I find myself speaking in whispered tones even when I am all alone. But I am not alone. There is the soprano of birds tweeting for the world to listen. The alto is the soft teasing whispers of the wind creasing the leaves and far off chimes. There, too, is the tenor; the unbashful and wild brook, leaping and thumbing through its notes that seems to change depending on its mood.

The bass, dwarfing the rest in both experience and height, is the trees. Though they appear to be silent, their very presence engulfs the landscape, as though they speak in tongues far beyond and below the limited capacity of humanity.

The faint whispers of history find a fresh voice in the sweet timbres of the brook.The smell of olden oaks invokes pictures full of stone mills, erect and proud, together with modest gardens, lush and cheerful. Bright new inspiration seems to leap in sparkles from the dancing light on the brooks surface. The flowing water is cool to the touch, enticing many memories of tumbling into its refreshing, but unexpected embrace. Crumpled walls, decayed wood, and peeled paint, like a forgotten corpse’s flaked skin, are all that remains of the former occupants. The 68

E steadfast hemlocks are the quiet observers, unmarked by the passage of time, the brook, ephemeral in nature, shifts and flows without care or concern, the tenacious boulders, ever faithful to their eternal vigil, never falter or waver.

A single bird springs from the trees into the sunlight. Its little heart pumping with the vigor of life, wings quick and lithe, touches the earth, a lone blur of crimson against the deep browns and greens. It searches for its prey. Like a lightning bolt it strikes, the perfect twig, thin and a bit crooked, carefully placed in its beak. It flutters off, a home and family await. The woods care not, for although it is the mother of all who enter its embrace, it outlives all its children. Just like a phoenix; even if all the trees are cut down, corpses lining one after the other, leaving only tiny lumps of stumps and roots in its wake, there remains the hope in seeds, waiting to become the next guardians of a new generation.

For over two hundred and fifty years humans have been a part of this grotto. Shades of lives forgotten come here to rest.

Many decades from now, when time brands me with its signature wrinkles, I’ll find peace in the new choirs of young children's laughter, waterfalls’ constant roar, sparrows’ sweet timbre, and the wind’s reckless whistle. Then I, too, will join the multitude in the embrace of the earth. The woods will not mourn, for the concert never ends, for time patches over every hurt, for life continues to flourish, for the brook ever flows, for I am only a small part of the cycle that is forever turning.

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Negative Space - Samantha Hinton ‘18

70

E MEMORY MATCH Darby Gillet ‘18 One field, two nets, countless hours, spent for this moment, 90 minutes, each played to the second.

Like mutts fighting, each man will play to full strength.

Dirty socks, flashy cleats,

footwork learned throughout a lifetime, one shiny player seen as the team.

Then working together like dogs herding sheep, goalie jerseys, gloves and cleats.

It's now the final time a slip and drag, nail-biting fans on the edge of their seats like a jack-in-the-box.

Five players approach 71

E all in line waiting, standing, waiting, cheering, crying.

One last man sweat drips down his temples, his beat up cleats press down on the ground making an indent.

Fans all in awe like seeing a cow fly, staring at the man.

He has the pressure of an ox approaching the line, one ball, one net, five steps, two players, one kick, one tear, one game, one cheer.

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