PROSPECTOR 25-26

The Prospector ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Belmont Hill Middle School Literary and Arts Magazine

Snowy Summit

By Grady Steeves ‘31 Tightening the criss-cross straps A fresh layer of snow awaits Done drawing History maps The sun calls from the gate The storm is over Quiet has fallen Penguin waddling, feet heave Snow crunches like autumn leaves Elephant footsteps across the fields Ignoring tired legs that never yield Through the woods and up the hill Reaching the snowy summit Finally resting after fun Lying on rocks askew Trees strain towards the sun Taking in the view

Light After the Storm

By Ethan Shi ‘31 The snow is cascading, the sky overcast, And the emptiness inside me is vast.

Nothing to do but sit at a screen, No interest or energy left in me.

My patience is dying, My happiness trying, And not a speck of color out there.

All I see is a blanket of white As I tuck in for the night.

But the next day as I wake, I cannot spot one flake.

I go outside - and what a sight I see!

The sun shines bright as can be.

The snow sparkles like the purest of crystals, And everything is once again blissful.

Guilty Clouds

By Harun Ibrahim ‘29 The floating clouds darken the sky, Above huddled masses, entitled to breathe free.

Clouds cursing upon the hope, That once dwelt liberally.

Mistreated were the poor.

Misguided were the tired.

Shame on the powerful cloud, For no hope left when hope is all desired.

Responsibility turns a blind eye when faced with guilt, But guilt is what the cloud is with, filled.

By Michael Shortsleeve ‘31 The light is always there, Glowing like the moon, Shining bright as a star, Hiding in plain sight.

The light sits atop a pillar, Buried in deep snow Imprisoned by a glass box The light stays untouched Sitting in the darkness Alone–in the darkness With only its own dim glow– To illuminate the snow The light wishes to be found– Fearing the silence Longing for anybody to notice The light–that was always there

5:56 PM

By Benjamin Qin ‘29 “Good,” you say as the door is slammed Battery depleted Dodging questions, as if they were bullets Falling into the hibernation tent like a log Phone pulled out, procrastination radar’s alarm going off 8:34 PM… Slugs into the desk chair Headphones locked and loaded With magazines of playlists Notebooks are final wills Latin passages are death labyrinths Half-through Wondering what was even done since 5:56 PM

By Roger Zhang ‘29 Wearing suit and tie in a hilly, formal school.​ ​ | Strangling linens causing suffocation at its peak​ ​ | Forced to learn and wield lifeless tools​ ​ ​ | ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ | Last class finished, boring and useless like you​ ​ | Then off to crew with blind, blabbering mules​ ​ | Just as thy wicked elders scheduled and enforced​ ​ | ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ | And as my erging, more like teen labor, generated joules | The master lashed at us with his speak​ ​ ​ | |​ GET TRICKED, it’s April Fools

By Jack Flaherty ‘29 A place we look forward to with a storied story within our family woven into us like a thread we didn't choose but couldn't cut Warm year-round, the island bent, breathed deep, and lifted itself back into the light — even after the hurricane season tried to break it.

A family Christmas tradition anew, tanning, sunglasses, and memories to, the same attitude, the same laughter, the same reaching for something cold and sweet Coffee that changes you. Chocolate you'll spend years chasing. People who give kindness like Santa gives presents.

The place where my parents got married will always be special to me, where two people stood in the salt wind and said: Here, This, Forever Half Moon lives in me now, no matter how far the tide carries me away.

Rainy Night

By Brandon Sousa ‘29 As fat drops of rain explode on the darkened pavement, The ripples create a pattern repeating itself.

The pavement glistens from the street lights The darkness of the street matches the eerie night The scent of the water on the pavement Brings a nostalgic rush of moments from the past.

As it begins to settle slowly in the cooling air, A simple comfort takes over everywhere Puddles begin to pile While rains continues for miles When the Earth serves as a bucket The sky lets out its bawling tears.

The wet stone eventually breathes after the rain, And I wish the pleasing smell would always remain.

The Recital Performance

By Henry Oh ‘29 Trudging reluctantly, legs feeling like hard stone, the marble chapel’s whiteness looks like the Colosseum.

From the tiny mouthpiece and the wooden reed to the curved bell, my clarinet is assembled as drops of sweat trickle down my forehead.

Somewhere, a voice shouts out my name, and climbing the stairs like a mountain, I stand in front of a compressed crowd in a distractingly spacious room.

The moment I start playing “Brindisi” by Verdi, my clarinet squeaks like a rat running away from peril.

When my performance is over, I hurriedly skip down the stairs, with my shirt soaked in sweat, and escape the stage.

At least it’s over, I whisper to myself, but pride from my preparation for the recital floods me.

By Kai Fuse ‘29 Tap-tap-tap, grinding away - I must Continue, must not break the flow, For I need a thousand words.

My brain screaming in pain From the demand for Quality words.

It never Truly Ends.

Flight of the Eagle

By Benjamin Smolenski ‘29 The whistle blows upon the pitch of green, A sea of scarves begins to rise and sway, Where every pass and tackle builds the scene, And ninety minutes steal the world away.

The mighty Eagle takes its sudden flight, In black and white and red, they heed the call, The Waldstadion echoes through the night, As Frankfurt’s faithful gather, standing tall.

The roar of cheering fuels the heavy air, A steadfast fire burning in their eyes, They strike the ball with passion and with flair, And watch their banners take the darkened skies.

So let the Eagle soar above the game, For Eintracht Frankfurt holds a timeless name.

The Forward Motion The pavement ends, surrendering to the gravel, a quiet invitation written in exposed roots and scattered stones.

My boots find their heavy, steady cadence, pressing deeply into the giving earth, leaving temporary maps in the dust behind.

Above, the canopy weaves a shifting ceiling of pine and oak, dropping fragmented, golden sunlight onto the forest floor.

The air smells dark, of crushed moss and old rain, filling lungs that work harder with every turn of the switchback.

The noise of the valley falls away entirely, replaced by the sudden snap of a dry twig, the restless wind in the upper branches, and the resonant, hollow drumming of my own chest.

There is no urgency here beneath the trees, no schedule to keep or clock to race against, only the slow, magnetic pull of the incline, the next deep breath, and the simple, forward motion of the next step.

Dreaming of a Different Time

By Miles Olmeda ‘29 Far, far away from home Far, far from where I’ve come Long, long hours filled Dreaming of a different time.

Days, days, and nights spent Thinking of the trees, the scent Long, long hours filled Thinking of a different life.

Trees, Trees, which all speak Great Redwood, tall as a peak Long Long hours filled Reliving a different world Grass, grass clear year-round Boughs of trees scraping ground Long Long hours filled Wishing for a different land Goats, goats, chickens, and cats Birds that glide like acrobats Long, long hours filled Dreaming of a different time.

I Rise

By Finn Davis ‘29 Water glides across the globe Its glory is brief At its pinnacle, unstoppable, immovable But it all comes crashing to an end the end of a journey a death and a new beginning As it coils around an invisible cylinder of air I prepare I paddle with all my will, in search of a thrill My legs are lifted, the rest soon follows I speed down a hill, steeper by the moment Shoulders burn, water drops, adrenaline surges I try to rise with the wave, but I am too late Board flies, Head breaks water, nose fills with salt, frustration grows Yet the wave continues unbothered Again, I rise, this time too early The wave engulfs me, like clothes in a washing machine I am flipped, twisted, and turned The wave leaves without a goodbye I emerge my lungs long for air, sand peppers my hair, frustration grows I am desperate to capture the wave To fulfill a feeling I crave Paddle, reset, prepare I rise Too high I fall The wave leaves without a goodbye Paddle, reset, prepare, believe I rise I stand I hold I ride

The Smaller I May Seem, The Higher I Shall Rise

By Tadhg O’Sullivan ‘29 I’ll keep failing and failing, But every day I will remember, When I take a chance, You sit on the sidelines onlooking, Not challenging the world, Just passively letting it slip.

When I stand up to give a speech, You there in the nosebleeds listen, Yet have the audacity to criticize.

Though I do lose, Deep down you know that you forfeit, Though I had failed, You know you never tried.

While you call me lost, I’ve been found more than you’d ever know.

However small I may be, I stand taller than your eyes could ever wander.

Remember Why We Hate Venice​

By Max Bushey ‘29 Feel the white waves crash upon the shore See the bright sails dash across the sea Watch the rich red lion and adore Hear the merchant post what is to be one hundred pounds of leather, and of sheep skin, and of cloth Shipped on ships in two months so it seemed two hundred more and you’ll still feel the froth Off the Adriatic harbor where was deemed In an old and distant land, but somehow never distant in your mind A capital of subjugation stands, where servitude is currency to bind In a fragile hollow shell, that the proud have named democracy In an ancient burning hell, where the rich control bureaucracy Remember Carthage fell, because God, he hates plutocracy My son, have you any idea what the artisan provides What a maker or a miller gives in free will to the state Or the farmer, or the soldier, or the oxen and their hides They make goods for them, and goods always suffer the same fate A man so low and wretched, he makes nothing by himself For selflessness is a currency he can reap and never sow What are these goods to us sitting on a foreign shelf They tell themselves our labor is a shaft without a bow To cross them off a list for tax collection Ships, and mercenary bands to keep them level They take a city promising protection A pious king will make deals with the devil They decorate their city with a death encrusted dome While heartlessly they desecrate the corpse of what was Rome There is but one place where merchants don’t control totality Unlike the streets of Italy, or islands infamous and bleak That place my boy is in the minds of our Morality So to stop this nothingness…

My dearest warning you must seek

Through canals and harbors gold is flowing and conjoins Made through the blood of millions, generations at a time A broken swamp foundation built on solely silver coins Put partners on a pedestal while Cretans drown in grime My son, look around you, and see three men content Two young, one fat, and old, and gluttonous indeed Those two will burden and slave for a decade for a cent While the other snatches what they made in greed He auctions off their lives for gilded ducats And buys a hundred more ships set to roam While an honest man in one year makes twelve buckets Gets nothing but four war ships by his home My son, if you could count every transgression That the great and mighty Mare Nostrum face From those merchant’s unrelenting silk obsession Or the metals, or the spice or velvet lace My son, never let a man bloated by ego Or money, or a state tells him so Ever take what you made for yourself Because if I see your life Your life rotting on a trader’s shelf I will be consumed. By rage, or by malice or by menace.

My son I beg you “Remember why we hate Venice”

Checkmate

By Tadhg O’Sullivan ‘29 Down comes the judge’s gavel. ​ “Court in session.” A man stands up, a lawyer I believe. It's a blur, but I managed to stay somewhat self aware during that time. All of a sudden, the lawyer man calls me up as a witness. I think he called once or twice, but it took me a while to come to my senses. I breathe in and out, I take one step, then another. I have some money, but you wouldn’t think it based on how I dress, my tattered gray suit, just a bit too big for me. I got it before I moved to the city. God damn, that was 30 years ago. ​ “Mr. Henry, please take a seat.” The judge says in his BOOMING voice. I do as he says.

Then another person gets up. ​ “Mr. Theodore Henry, thank you for being here.” ​ “No problem.” I reply meekly, not in my usual tone. I run an investment bank in New York, but today, I’m a dumbass old man, in a lame ass courtroom, in a small ass town, the one and only boring ass Eugene, Oregon… Great. ​ “Tell me about your brother.” The second lawyer man says. ​ “Ok.” I say, and a tear falls from my eye, nobody saw it… I hope so. But that’s not as important as it usually is for me… ​

My life flashes before my eyes.

​ I was born 51 years ago, in Depoe Bay, Oregon. It's only 70 miles away, but we still felt really disconnected. Everyone who was there has been there for the past 5 or more generations, with just one exception. I know everyone, and everything about everyone. I know that Margaret Wendell runs the general store. I know that Jacob Sousa runs the post office. I know that Gearhart Shulz, a German immigrant, who is currently hiding from the FBI, runs a small drug ring with the Pastor, Jason Burn. That was a long time ago, it's more touristy now, the old fire station is now a big La Quinta Inn, not that I care, that place was my parents’ idea of heaven and my idea of hell. Our school class only had 13 people, and they all hated me profusely. I wanted to get out as soon as I could possibly leave, go to some far away boarding school or maybe even college. I would be the second in my family to go, after my uncle George, who worked for the Canadian government as an environmental scientist in Yellowknife, Northwest Territories. But the family disowned him a long time ago, he is my dad’s brother, but my father isn’t very levelheaded, so he got pissed as soon as George became more successful than him. He was a perpetual bastard, but what can I do about that. I am the oldest of five children… malnourished children. Children who are so hungry they can’t sleep at night, we also had to clutter into a small room, all of us. My sister, Dorothy, who was always the most motivated of the bunch, dragged herself to the shores of the Pacific, only carrying a cinder block, and she descended into the dark murky waters, never to be heard from again, she was only nine years old. My mother was

devastated when she discovered Dorothy’s cot empty, with a few pillows stuffed under her blanket to divert attention away from her absence. But my father could not have been more disinterested. ​ “Eh.” He said. “She was only one of five, we have back ups.” He continued to chuckle at his astute observation for the next half hour, until he dragged himself off to the harbor for work.

That moment stuck with me, the most promising of all of us… gone… snap… her existence practically evaporated. Three of us children were overcome with sadness, but for one, the youngest of the bunch, Liam, I noticed a change in his eyes. The way he looked at my dad changed after that moment, he used to have that innocent sparkle of a little seven year old, but his light seemed to get just that little bit dimmer. There was no way of knowing that his anger, rage, and resentment would persist into adulthood. My dad was a fisherman, he spent six hours a day fishing, 3 hours a day drinking, and another few hours having affairs with the waitress at the restaurant. My mother was clueless though, she hardly had a social life, she only communicated by letter to a friend in the big city of 60,000 people, Corvallis. So when my father came home late at night, she had no idea he was out “ladies maning.” I never really had anyone to raise me, my dad was an absentee alcoholic father, and my mother was oblivious to the goings on of the world beyond the front yard. A day or two after word had gotten out about my sister’s disappearance Don Faraway, the town sheriff, came by our tiny shack on the waters edge, south of the town. I like Don, he has a levelheaded demeanor, and his voice was very comforting.

Sometimes I’d stop by his one story, beige, cinder block building on my way to or from school, just to talk. This is until my dad decided it was time for me to quit school and become a real man with a real job. I wanted to protest, but the choice wasn’t mine to make. My last day of school was an interesting day. My classmates hated my guts, and I hated theirs, but when I wandered into the five room schoolhouse, I felt a different kind of sadness as I stared at the decrepit walls of my educational prison, I now viewed the peeling yellow paint, the lockers I’d been punched into way too many times, and the opaque windows in a more bittersweet way. I knew I would be escaping the mockery of my peers, but I knew I was giving something up. I let that idea marinate for a while… then I was gone. ​ “Wake the hell up ya lazy as pussy.” My dad yelled at me. “Good morning to you too.” I mumbled discretely. “What the fuck did you say to me?!” He yelled. Where he gets his energy this early in the morning is anyone's guess. “That's what I thought…” He said mockingly as he moped out of the room, I noticed he already had a bottle in his hand, and I knew for a fact that it wasn’t water. ​ “Good morning mom.” I say. She looked up, but she didn’t reply, she just gave a quick smirk, and then looked back down at the floor she was sweeping. ​ “RUNT!” Barked my dad, that was his loving nickname for me. I was always a little short, and my dad never let me forget it. He thought height was directly proportional to success, and that pissed me off, but if I punched him, I knew he would reach into his pocket and pull out a pistol. I knew nobody would care if I was tossed into the ocean with my sister, but while I didn’t

fear death itself, I couldn’t bear the thought of water gushing into my lungs like the world is crying inside of me, salty, salty, salty, depressed, tears. ​ “Since you thought it’d be a good idea to be a lil’ dick head this morning, you're not gonna have breakfast, ain’t that right Darlene.” My mom nodded silently. “Yeah. Now go put a jacket over your ungrateful body, and put on some boots or whatever shit you can cough up.” I don’t hesitate, I run across the splintery wood floor, looking between the gaps in the planks, that leads to its own world. But as much as I like to fantasize about it, I have to get dressed if I don’t want to get shot. I quickly picked up some tired boots, and threw a musty old coat over my shoulders. ​ “I’m ready.” I say. “Good. Now follow me.” My dad responds. I follow him. He opens the front door, I follow behind him and close it. We start the walk over to the harbor, it's slow going when you’re carrying 50 pounds worth of fishing equipment, or at least I think it's fishing equipment, he might’ve just made me carry some random shit for his own amusement, I would have no idea. I wish we could drive, but we’re too damn poor. My dad just says it’s because business is bad, but I think he’s buying gifts for his numerous secret girlfriends. After we turn off of Coast Drive and onto the Coast Highway, which is the main road through the town. We cross over the bridge that spans the channel out of the harbor. We make a right turn just before downtown, which is really just a row of shops, but eventually we arrive at the flimsy wooden gate separating the street from the gravel driveway which follows a small inlet into the harbor. ​ “Welcome to the place where children come to die.” Says my dad mockingly. My sister’s death is still fresh in my mind, and I know that her body is still stuck under a cinder block somewhere down there. “Yeah.” I say, trying to be nonchalant about it. ​ “Bring everything over here.” My dad walks out onto a small jetty which leads to a tiny shack covered in crooked panels, no windows… to prevent peepers from observing his interactions with his “special friends,” and a single red door. “Ok.” I reply, lugging everything he made me carry through the impossibly small doorway. The room is modest, it has some wood floor boards, all of which are crooked and have gaps between them. There are some small shelves on the far wall, which have cans, glass bottles, and a stack of pills, I’m doubtful any of them are prescription. There is a small bed, nicer than anything I’ve ever seen, with crumpled sheets hanging off of it. Finally, there was a small desk, with some scattered pieces of paper, pencils, a few more scattered pills, and a pile of condoms, some used, some not. I grimace. My dad is undeterred. ​ “Grab those keys.” He barks. “...” I would reply, but the words don’t feel the need to regurgitate themselves from my larynx. He moseys out of the shack. I take the hint, and follow behind him hastily. I look out over the marina, some of the boats look pretty nice, they’re owned by the wealthy Portlanders who vacation on the Pacific coast over the summer. But I eventually catch a glimpse of a shitty shit hole of a boat which is moored at the far end of the pier… That’s our boat… It doesn’t look seaworthy, but who cares, my dad is an alcoholic, and apparently a pill popper, so this boat is what keeps his “hobbies” going, coincidentally also keeping my hunger going.

​ “In.” He points at the boat. I step in. I am astounded. It is PROFOUNDLY filthy. The steering wheel looks like what would happen if driftwood and loose warped nails had a child. ​ “Hey runt! Look alive, and give me those keys.” He orders. I throw the keys to him. He drunkenly misses. ​ “The fuck was that?” He says, clearly embarrassed, it was a good throw after all. Eh, what can you do? He takes the old key and puts it into the ignition switch. After pressing a button, the boat roars to life, I can feel the whole thing shaking, dust is visibly dislodged from the side walls. Then he picks up the phone. ​ “Well hello.” He says, in a very firm, assured voice, not his usual dull, but abrasive tone.

I hear mumblings on the other end of the phone. I knew it was a women’s voice, but it sure as hell wasn’t my mom’s. ​ “Yeah, I’ll just be out a few hours.” He says. More mumbles on the other end of the line follow. “Alright, bye. See ya later.” He responds. ​ We were out fishing for four-ish hours, I didn’t know for sure. My dad has a shitty old trawler boat, it doesn’t even work half the time, and if it doesn’t, he just quits and scuttles off to the pub. I feel seasick the entire time, the boat rocking back and forth. There is some water sloshing into the boat, and when we start and stop, it rushes front and back, gushing through the holes that are the sole of my boots. We didn’t talk much, my dad and I, but I saw fear in his eyes, as much as he couldn’t come to admit it. Periodically, he would leave the bridge to lift up and reset some of the trap cages, and I wonder if he ever shed a tear while I wasn’t paying attention. I would never end up knowing. ​ Finally, we motored back to the port. First, I saw the rocky cliffs on which Depoe Bay was situated. Then I saw the soaring bridge. Then I saw the narrow inlet channel, with waves crashing against the jagged outlines of the shore. We passed through the channel, very nearly crashing into the concrete barrier. ​ “SLOW DOWN.” I know I made a mistake, but it was too late. “You fucking little runt don’t know what your talking about.” He responded… but not yelling. Not scoldingly. He was almost joyful. I didn’t know what that means, but the cautious steps my father took made me realize that something was wrong, or at least, he was unsure. I would soon know why. ​ “Alright runt, go home. I’ll be back later…” He said. It sounded like he wanted to say something else, but the words never formulated. So I walked up the gravel path, the world crunching beneath my feet, and turned onto the steep uphill road, I went over the towering bridge separating the ocean from the harbor, and arrived home. None of my siblings were there, they were allowed to stay in school. But my mom was standing in the corner of our kitchen washing dishes in the sink. I went to my room, laying down on my undersized cot, and slowly drifted off to sleep. I had a strange feeling, but I had a lot of strange feelings at that time, I wasn’t concerned. The sound of my three other siblings trampling around the floor, slowly let the light back into my heavy, crusty eyelids, I knew it was around dinner time, because the sun was slowly making its way over the horizon. Dinner was bleak, as always, we were poor, and when you’re poor, your stomach takes the back seat. I quickly wash up, still smelling like the fish I

caught that are now on somebody else’s plate. I go to sleep not knowing that when I wake​ up, my life would be changed forever. ​ “Ahhhhhhhhhhh…” I yawn, I look over at the clock, 9:00, it said. “Huh.” There is no way my dad would let me stay asleep past 6:00. Strange. My brother and two sisters were also still lying asleep.

I look over my thin, torn blanket, covering my small cot, luxurious considering that all my siblings had to share. I stumble out of bed. I obviously looked somewhat concerned because my sister Beatrice said to me “What's wrong Theo, you look concerned.” ​ “Yes… yes I am a little… yeah. Um… have you per chance seen mother or father today… something is amiss.” I said to her, she replied in an unsure, but unconcerned tone. “No, I just woke up, and nobody is forcing me out of bed, a once in a lifetime chance, eh?”

I walked over to the door, past the ugly wardrobe, and looked into the hall. I walked into the kitchen, there was a bird chirping, a Chickadee I think, that's what my sister used to tell me. I grabbed a glass and poured myself some water. I didn’t drink it all though. I pause for a moment, and begin to hear a whimpering. I walk into my parent’s room, and see my mom… only. My mom… only… only… only. On the floor I saw a hypodermic needle, and a small jar, it was an anesthetic. My dad’s bag that usually lay on the disintegrating baseboard, was gone… Which means… he’s gone… My father is gone. I ran into the room faster than I’d run from a grenade with its pin pulled.

“GONE!” I exclaim. Barely making sense to myself, let alone my clueless siblings.

“DAD… NOT HERE… GONE.” “Oh my god!” Said Beatrice and Mary. Almost perfectly in unison. Liam stays quiet, then he speaks quietly. “That sick, twisted… bastard.” A shocking statement for someone not even 12 years old to say about his own father. Dad always hated him the most.

The next few months were bleak, but the family did make some changes. We started going to church, and everyone seemed to find more meaning in their life. Although the chapel was dusty, the pews just slightly tilted to the side. The old building had sunk over time I think, but I was never interested in structural engineering. I started working for Franklin Doe, or “old man Franklin” as some people call him. The year ended, and summer began. I didn’t have any time off though, I was the only source of income for the family. I was up at 5 AM every day, I would always walk into the kitchen sullen, and asleep. I would stare at this one portrait of a distant family member. My great grandfather… I think… I can’t be sure. The house is full of random shit, portraits included, but only some of them get the (dis)honor of making it to the wall… those tired, exhausted walls.

“Good morning, how’s it going?” I always said to old man Franklin. “Never better, but life sucks all the time, so I suppose better means pretty shitty either way.” He would usually respond.” Old man Franklin’s boat was a little more appropriate for its job than my dads was. For one, it wasn’t made of driftwood… or a similarly decrepit material, and it was also a trawler, so it could pick up many more fish that my father could. I didn’t care much though. I looked forward to very little, but getting off that boat was certainly one of those few things.

“Kid, come here for a second.” He would always say before I left. “A few bucks for your trouble. I appreciate it.” WOW! I thought, the first time I heard it. It was the first time someone let me know that I was appreciated. “I… I don’t know what to say, Mr. Doe, this is more money than I’ve ever been allowed to see!” I replied. “I know. I was a lot like you. My father was a dickhead, my mother barely cared, and I didn’t have very many friends. There was a man who was named John… His last name I can’t recall, but he gave me a few dollars, and with that I got a deck of cards. My brother and I got a lot of mileage out of those 52 flimsy pieces of paper…

He was my best friend… my only friend. I want you to get something for you and your siblings to enjoy. You were never allowed to have some good times… Loosen your noose just a little bit.”

I was stunned by this monologue… but I knew what I was going to buy. The only time Liam and I were walking through downtown, we looked into a store window and saw a chess set. But we never could buy it, until now that is. “Thank you sir.” I was ecstatic. “No need, and just call me Franklin, drop the sir bullshit.” He responded stoically. “Have a good evening Mr… Have a good evening Franklin.” I said as I walked back up the gravel road, through the old harbor gate, and around onto the hilly road towards downtown. With… a smile on my face. At the intersection with the coast highway, I usually turn left to walk home, but this time I turn right, heading to downtown Depoe Bay. It had started raining, just like that day my brother and I were walking with one another. And a little while later, I see it. I step under the awning of the shop and HEAVE the heavy metal door open. As soon as I step in I get hit with a blast of a nostalgic scent.

Why I have nostalgia for that particular smell, but it smells like the word “cozy.” I approach the clerk and say to him “Can I purchase the chess set in the window?” He walks in its direction, and I wait excitedly.

“This fella?” He says, chess board in hand. “Yes please.” I say. “twenty bucks, I can bag it for ya, if you’re interested.” Twenty dollars was a lot, I only had twenty-five in my pocket, but I remembered what old man Franklin told me. “Yes, I would like it bagged. I hand over a ten, and two fives. The man smiles, then places the board into a small paper bag, and slides it over the counter. “Take care!” I say. “And you.” He replies. I waltzed out of the store, and began the rainy walk home. I wasn’t walking at my normal cadence, I was excited, I was quick. I see the sign that reads “SW Coast Avenue,” and look for a gap in traffic before sprinting across the highway.

“I’m home!” I yell as I swing open the flimsy wooden front door. I gotta fix that hinge some time, the door is hanging on by a thread. Either way, I receive no response, as usual.

“LIAM!” I yell. “What?” I hear, I can’t say he sounded enthusiastic, but I beckoned him from his place on the ripped couch. “Come here.” He does as I request. “What is it?” He asks.

“Well, old man Franklin said that I need to allow myself to have some good times, and do you remember when we were wandering through downtown, and we looked into a shop window and saw…” “A chess board.” He finishes my sentence. I hand over the paper bag. I think he knows what I’m giving him, but he is still in disbelief. He grapples the bag, curiously. Then, he reaches in and draws from it a beautiful (actually pretty shitty) chess board. “I… I… No… But it cost 20

dollars…” He says, stuttering after every word. “Money that I am happy to spend on us, not beer.” I say.

From that moment forward, Liam became my absolute best friend in the world. We would spend every second of our free time together, playing chess on that one chess board. We got pretty good at it. I usually let him win. Unless he was pissing me off that day, which was one of his special talents. But I loved every second of the time we spent together. The game never ended, but deep down, both of us always won that game. I cherished every second of our lives in that short window of time. But before long, it was time for me to head off to college. I wouldn't have got a chance to go if my dad had stuck around. I think he planned on sinking that boat and taking me with him, but who knows… It’s in the past now. But my father was no longer my main concern. I had known I could go to the state college in Corvallis, over the mountains, but while the picturesque, rocky outcroppings of Depoe Bay might seem like a heavenly place for a summer vacation for wealthy Portlanders, it was a trap for me. I was stuck here, I was the only person half way competent enough to pay the bills. We discussed it so many times over dinner in the past few weeks.

“Mom.” I would always say. “Yes son.” She would always reply. “I feel trapped here.

This place is my Alcatraz, I want more than Depoe Bay. I know I’m being abrupt, but I’m telling you that I want to look out of my window in the morning and see an intricate city, not a small town dumpster fire. I want to have a future for myself, a future that doesn’t involve hauling my ass out of bed at 5 AM, only to haul my ass down to the harbor, only to sit on a shitty ass boat like dads, that was falling apart. I want to go to college.” I said to her, elaborating here, a little more than I did in previous conversations. But her reply was still stupidly oblivious to reality.

“But your heart is here.” She really pissed me off with that statement. “Is it just because I’m the one who is giving you cash, is it just because I’m the one who buys your food, your clothes, who pays for your electricity, and your water. I only asked because it is polite, but if you’re gonna be an asshole about it, then all of my cash is mine, and I’m spending it on a bus ticket from here to Corvallis in one week! If you’re gonna be my mother, then give me a chance to have more than your lazy ass is allowing!” Oh my god… I said it… BAAAAAAAD IDEA. “Ok. Get the hell out of my house then.” I stood still for a second, before silently leaving the kitchen and walking hurriedly to the closet. I opened the creaking door and picked out an old leather satchel. In it, I placed my clothing, some books, my pillow and bedding, all the cash I’d earned that I’d not yet given to my mom in exchange for painful rejection, and finally threw in an old photo of me and my siblings, and another one of just me and my brother… he meant everything to me. I grabbed a spare set of keys to the house and slammed the door behind me. As the vicious row between myself and mother was unfolding, the hazy evening fog gave way to intense rainfall. I felt as though the world was crying for my pain. I didn’t have a place to stay that night, so I made my way down to the harbor, and after turning onto the scratchy gravel road, I saw my accommodation for the night, my dad’s old shack, preserved just as it was before his departure, every disheveled, dusty corner of it, but it kept most of the rain out. I immediately walked towards the cot in the corner, and settled in for the night.

I woke up early, with a knot in my neck. I knew this bed wasn’t really designed for comfort, it was designed for PAIN! Frankly, it suits me. I gather my satchel and walk to the door, I didn’t trust the people of Depoe Bay to not steal my things while I was out of the “house,” so I lug my ass out of the cabin and walk towards the nearest payphone. I had a call to make. I look into my bag, I had a sack of quarters, perfect for my situation, so I put one into the slot and dial old man Franklin’s house. Ring-a-ding-ding, the phone goes over and over… no response. I try again, this time, he picked up.

“WHO THE HELL IS THIS?! Who has the nerve to awake the great Franklin Doe this early in the morning! WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?!” Damn, I didn’t know someone this old could yell that loud. I proceed cautiously. “Hello Mr. Doe.” “Theodore, is that you?”

“Yes.” I replied.

“Oh… Understood.” He knew that he made a mistake, and he knew that I knew that he made a mistake. But I stay calm.

“I need a favor.”

“Oh… of what kind?” He responded.

“I want to go to college. And I need to let you know that I will be leaving soon.” I said. I could hear him on the other line, he paused, then sniffled a little bit.

“Ok. Good. You need more than this town, and I want to help you get out, because I never could. I want to find you a place. My brother owns a home there, I’ll call him, and ask if you can stay. Then once you find a job, you can get your own house.” I was impressed with his generosity. Everyone else thinks he’s an asshole, but I doubt he believes in anyone who thinks that. In fact, I doubt he believes in anyone… besides me.

“Thank you so much sir.” I responded.

“FRANKLIN SON, FRANKLIN! Dammit, I told you, no sir, no Mr. Doe… it’s Franklin.” He is a bit angry for a conversation with such intense sentiment. But I didn’t care.

“Thank you Franklin.” ​ I went back into the cabin to get a little more sleep before work that day, but before I knew it, Franklin and I were back out on that boat. For seven days that week, but it flew by, because I went out to buy a bus ticket, and soon, I would be leaving for college. On that seventh day, Franklin gave me a slip of paper. On it were two phone numbers, one I knew as Franklin’s, and the other one, he told me, was his brother’s. And the other thing was an address, 555 SW Adams street. Scribbled next to it was “On the corner of Adams and 6th.” He paid me my final check, and we hugged goodbye. Something I doubt he’s done to very many people. I trapsed back to the cabin, gathered my things, and wandered over to the bus station. Soon enough, over the horizon, I saw a bus, a disgusting looking bus, motoring into the town, and on the side it said: Greyhound Lines. My ticket to ride. The driver steps out of the dusty silver bus, and walks around the side. He put a rusty old key into a door on the side of the bus, then he opened it. ​ “Luggage in here!” He barked. I look into the compartment and see numerous other tired luggage articles languishing on the metal floor. I placed my leather satchel into the luggage

compartment and showed the bus driver my ticket, and then, I was gone. Gone from Depoe Bay… forever… never to return. The highway through the valley was twisty, windy, and windy, I could hear the wind whooshing against the dusty, scratched glass window. The pine trees that lined the roadside and climbed dramatically up the mountains enclosing me from all sides. I figured that I’m a lot like these mountaintop trees, I’ve been stuck in one place all my life, but somehow I’m still climbing that mountain, Corvallis College, here I come. ​ I arrived at Corvallis about two hours later. I walked through the rainy streets, stepping in the occasional puddle on the cracked concrete sidewalk. I keep walking along Jefferson, and reach the corner with 6th street. My first day of college arrives… then the next day… then a third, fourth, fifth, a week, a month, a semester. I still had no idea what my major would be… but my calculus teacher told me that I had a knack for math and arithmetic. She suggested that I meet with Mr. Michaels, an accounting professor, and I do as she says. Mr. Michaels agrees, and he puts me on his class list. I sat through my classes, tired, but still determined to make my mark on the world… even though that is a long way away. But I wasn’t invited to any parties, I didn’t live in a dorm after all. I wanted to have a friend here, so I made a call to the dean of students: Don Jeffords. I asked him if he would consider giving a scholarship to my brother. I had an hour long conversation with him about our entire family story… he agreed. The next morning, I get a call, telling me to stop by Mr. Jeffords’ office to pick up an envelope, in it, is my brother’s letter of acceptance. I know what to do, so I write a letter to my brother.

Dear Liam, It’s been a while since we talked. I’m sorry about that. I just wanted to talk with you about how life is going, now that you’re the only boy to roam the hallowed halls of our flimsy shack. How is work, I know you started to work with old man Franklin. I hope that is going well for you. Trust me, that will be important when you and mom have a falling out, if it hasn’t happened yet, it will soon. Only give her half of the money you earn, take the rest and keep it in a safe place, you will need it when you go to college. Speaking of college, I have enclosed a bus ticket, and a letter from the school. This is your way out… It is an acceptance letter to Oregon State. Take it, and when you believe the time is right, take those bus tickets and run. The bus stop is on the Coast Highway. Take the money you’ve earned, and save yourself. I will protect you, and shelter you at every step of your life. I will ensure you are thriving. I will make sure you can pursue your dreams, or ambitions of any kind. If you ever have something to tell me, if you ever have a secret, it is forever safe with me. I love you Liam.

Sincerely, Theodore Henry After my classes are over, I walk home, not that I have enough money to even take the bus, let alone get a taxi, so I walk. On my way home, I see a mailbox, and reach into my jacket pocket to

reveal a crumpled envelope, and I slide it into the mailbox slot. Next thing I know, I get a call from the house I was staying at. ​ “Hello, Theodore Henry speaking.” I said. ​ “It’s Liam.” I hear in response. I blush… I started crying, I honestly didn’t believe he would receive my letter, let alone call me. “I’m at a payphone next to the dock, I can’t let mom hear this conversation. I’m leaving Theo, I’m taking that bus.” He says. ​ “Oh…” I choke on my own words. “I’ll be waiting… I’ll see you tomorrow.” I started crying. I wasn’t going to be in class tomorrow, I had something else on my mind. I didn’t really sleep very well that night, but I didn’t care. I wake up and walk to the intercity bus terminal, and I see the same silver bus with the word “Greyhound” written on it. I see my brother gingerly stepping down from his stainless steel chariot. I hugged him. ​ “Wow! I can’t believe you actually decided to move here. I thought you would never leave Depoe Bay.” I say as he pranced around the bus platform. ​ “Yeah, I can’t believe it either. I didn’t think I would be able to leave the sisters, mom too, but I knew that if I didn’t use that bus ticket I would turn into old man Franklin, always regretting not leaving Depoe Bay. So I left, I took it and ran. Nobody has any idea I left, except for old man Franklin. But he was proud… It's been 3 years since you left, and I was tired of living on that man’s fishing boat.” It was weird to hear Liam reminisce about our life in Depoe Bay, he was always my lil’ brother, but considering it’s been three years since we last talked to each other face to face, he grew the hell up. He got his shit together a little bit. ​ “So.” I ask. “What are you going to study?” I thought this question would take him by surprise, given that it hadn’t even been a week since he received my letter, but he knew, he knew it like he’d been thinking about it for a year. Come to think of it, I bet he has been thinking about it for that long. While I wasn’t convinced he would ever leave Depoe Bay, I knew he wanted to, so this hope that maybe one day he too would amble around a college campus may have been implanted in him for some time. ​ “I want to study chemistry.” I thought to myself: WOW! This kid is way smarter than me.

Of course he was by no means a kid then, but this moment would stick with me for the rest of my life. Not because I was proud of him, though I was, not because I was surprised that he decided to study chemistry, but because I had no idea what he was going to do with that degree. I was optimistic then… oh what a mistake that turned out to be. We talked about everything and anything on the way back to the house. Old man Franklin’s brother let us stay in his house until I graduate and can find a job, it's only a year away at this point, which scared me half to death, but that wasn’t on my mind right now. Right now I was just focused on making up lost time, time that fate had brutally stolen away from me. Eh, most of my life is worth forgetting anyways, so it’s not like I really care, but when we came back to the house, the sun had set over the McDonald-Dunn forest, and when my brother opened up his suitcase, there was something that made me smile ear to ear, that 20 buck chess set we bought before I went to college. I could not have been more happy. I remember we opened up the chess set and played into the small hours of the morning. Even though we had other things to do, like play computer games, pick

pocketing, both of us had long discovered beer at this point, so that was also usually on the docket, but today… Pawn to E5, Rook to A4, Knight to B1, etc… CHECKMATE! That's what a lot of our nights looked like. Crack open a beer, and play until our eyelids became heavier than the bus we both took to escape. ​ We both settled into our routines soon after Liam’s arrival, he left for the chemistry lab, and I went to my business management class. This is what we did for the entirety of my final year at Oregon State. So before long, I was looking for some work. I interviewed up and down the Pacific Northwest, with no success. So I go to Mr. Michaels, and he gives me a phone number for a small banking firm in Portland, which has an office in Corvallis. I am thrilled. I take off, this time sparing some money for the bus. Usually I would just walk, but I had no patience today. I got off downtown, and I ran with tremendous quantities of haste to a really shitty looking office. But there was a sign on the door saying: Jarvis, Montrose, and Jackson. The company name. So I open the door and walk to the receptionist. ​ “Hello.” Said the receptionist. “Hi.” I return. ​ “I have an appointment to meet your regional manager. Daniel Baum, I believe his name is. ​ “Yes, I see your name right here, when Daniel is ready for you our Assistant to the regional manager: Dwide Shrude will walk you in. Thank you for meeting with us.” Says the receptionist. “Thank you very much.” I say in response. ​ “THEODORE HENRY!” Says a man with truly revolting glasses, who just entered the room. “My name is Dwide Shrude, I’m the number two guy around here, nice to meet you, Daniel is ready to see you now.” “Great, thank you… Dwide.” I say. ​ I walk into the room, it’s unremarkable, but still pleasant enough. We really hit it off, we just had a friendly conversation, and when things were wrapping up, I got a good feeling. While I was by no means hired on the spot, I got good energy. And the next day, I received a letter: To Mr. Theodore Henry, from the Jarvis, Montrose, and Jackson Company, Corvallis Branch.

Dear Mr. Henry, On account of your interview yesterday, and after much deliberation, we at the Corvallis Branch of JM&J have decided to welcome you as a junior accountant. You will be tasked with organizing transactions and facilitating funding and budget management. Your studies in the field of accounting are commendable, and we greatly appreciate your willingness to step aboard.

You will start on Monday at precisely 9:00 AM, your desk will be arranged on Monday morning.

There is no necessity for you to bring any electronic equipment, all is provided at the office.

Thank you for your interest in the company, we look forward to welcoming you on Monday.

Sincerely,

Daniel Baum, Regional Manager ​ Hallelujah, I thought to myself, EMPLOYMENT! I was happy with myself, and so I began my work. It was tough to adjust, but after my graduation, which literally nobody I knew attended, with the exception of Liam, I just kinda settled into the job, and it was going well. I started making decent money, and even received a promotion just a month into the job. They wanted me to move to Portland to the main office. I told them I would, but only in a few weeks, I needed to make sure my brother was settling into college nicely. ​ “Liam, I want to ask you a few questions about college. My work just gave me a promotion, I need to move to Portland. I need to know if you are ready to be here as Liam, not just as Theodore’s little brother.” I asked him, and his lack of immediate response concerned me somewhat. ​ “Ok… that sounds good.” He responded. “Oh, ok.” I say in reply. “If you can fend for yourself, then I stand by you.” ​ “Thanks Theo, I’m going to Junction City with some friends, there’s a cool brewery there that Josh wants to check out, that said, I’ll be fine.” Liam said, and before I knew it I was packing my bags and getting in a taxi to Albany, the shitty one, not the slightly less shitty one in New York. The cab driver seemed friendly, but his car did smell like smoke, probably because he was smoking during the entire car ride, but it was rural Oregon, I doubt anyone could care less.

The guy dropped me off at the Amtrak station, where my train to Portland would be arriving in a few hours… At least I think, my watch was broken, and I never bothered to check the station clock. So when I saw the red, white and blue train screeching across the horizon, the bell going DING, DING, DING, DING, DING… I felt relieved. I settled in for the few hours I had left until Portland, where I had already signed a lease agreement through the company. The house was nice, and I enjoyed my new work here in Portland. I loved the city, and though I had a few close encounters with stoners in alleyways, it was mostly fine… Until I got a letter.

Dearest Theodore Henry, We regret to inform you that there has been an unfortunate event concerning a member of your immediate family. The news has just been relayed to us that your father has passed, at the age of 36. The reason we are contacting you is to tell you that your father’s death, following the report from a coroner, was attributed to a poisonous attack, caused by deadly chemicals. Enclosed are the inheritance left to you by your father. We appreciate your understanding, our condolences.

Sincerely, Junction City Sheriff’s office “Enclosed are the inheritance your father left you.” Said the letter. Hell no, HELL NO. All that was enclosed was a letter that said: Fuck you, and everything you stand for. Here are five

dollars. - Dad. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit… shiiiiiit. This lack luster, letter, ink muddled by the wetness of ruthless Oregon storms. I don’t know how to process this crazy thing that just happened to me. So I do the only thing I would ever want to do in a situation like this, I call Liam… but I get no response. That beeping of the phone in my ear is something that will stick with me forever. The absence of contact with Liam will stick with me forever.

I go into work the next morning, and Dale Irving, my closest friend, immediately comes over to my desk, enthusiastically, unlike his usual slovenly, tired appearance. He shouts at me.

“Theo, did you read the paper…” He said. Annoyingly, when Dale asks if you read the paper, he really means: Did you read that dodgy magazine called Conspiracy Central or whatever the fuck it is. But this time he wasn’t talking about anything speculative, he was harping on this string of murders in Junction City, not even knowing that my father was among them, so I turn on my computer and went to The Oregonian, I was shocked. String of murders in Junction City! The front page. The headline. Another article says: Behind the Pandemonium, Chemical Attacks in Junction City explained. I am lost for words. I click on the article and read, keep reading, finish the article, and the last sentence says: This attack seems to have taken place against everyone close to Jacob Leonard Henry. I am shocked. This was not just a one person job, nor was it a misjudgement by the coroner. I mean, it was a small town, I can’t expect them to be correct one hundred percent of the time. But I feel a pain in my stomach. I’m on the twentieth floor of a building downtown, but it feels like I was being buried in a coffin deep, deep, in the ground. I run as quickly as my legs could carry me, I run into the corner of a coworker’s desk, and practically kick down the bathroom door. I crash through an open stall door and throw up, again, and again, and again. I have no idea how there is so much puke physically contained in my body, but I just keep regurgitating throw up. The automatic toiled flushes all of its e-coli up into my face several times, but I don’t care. As soon as I come to my senses, I make a realization… Liam. He is studying chemistry, he always loathed dad for mocking Dorothy’s death, and he took a trip to Junction City with friends. I bet he wouldn’t’ve told me that if he knew it would make the rounds in the news. I want to call him, and I want to ask him why, I wanted to ask him how he could ever do that. But I couldn’t believe it. And then it hit me. The letter I sent to him right before he went to college, the letter where I told him that if he had any secret, it was “forever safe with me.” I remember the time when he was just a little kid and a fire started to appear in his eyes whenever he looked at our father. Liam always had one hope, one dream, to make dad pay for literally killing Dorothy, and figuratively killing anyone else he ever met, talked to, or stared at. Liam always wanted to study chemistry, he knew it was the only way he could kill off his father and not leave a trace. I immediately, frantically try to get the fuck away from Portland. So I talked to the CEO, Don Montrose. I tell him that I have to leave for “personal reasons,” and wonder if he could land me a job somewhere else. To my surprise, he had a name by the end of the day. Don was one of my most trusted mentors, but I’m still surprised he could just land me a job so quickly, I guess these positions were a lot less competitive then than they are now. The job was in Chicago, so I immediately started looking for houses, and I found one that's up for rent, in Roscoe Village. I call the agent and signed the lease

agreement within the week. I had a plane ticket, and everything I own was packed. I just had a single night left in Portland, and on that night, I got a final letter… from Liam.

Theo, I am the one. Now that you know I can do this, you better remember every word of this letter.

- Liam Hooooooooooly shit. Enclosed in that envelope was the letter I wrote to Liam, which said: If you ever have a secret, it is forever safe with me. He knows where I am and he can kill me. My best friend can kill me. I let that sink in. I was going to stay one final night, but I couldn’t take it. I grab everything and hobble down to the tram stop, I wait for what feels like forever, knowing that Liam could be around any one of these corners, about to end my life. So when I see the dull incandescent light of the tram coming down Yamhill street, the fear subsides. I get on the tram, and ride it all the way to the airport. I thought Portland was going to be my home. But it turns out it’s a little too close to my real home to be safe. I get through security as soon as I can, getting as far from my brother as possible. So when that jet bridge retracts from the plan, I know I am safe.

The plane taxis for some time, and as we move closer and closer to the runway, I see all those other planes being catapulted into the sky, each one of them more hopeful than the last. Finally, I look out the window and see the bright runway lights continuing into infinity, over the horizon.

Then, the engines wind up, and the plane starts to shake. I am pinned to my cheap-ass, back of the plane seat, but I’m flying nonetheless. ​ When our wheels meet the pavement at O’Hare airport, I feel like everything begins to go so quickly. I get to my house, I start my job, I meet a girl, realize I love her, get engaged, get married, and have two kids. I’m only 35, but I can’t believe how much life I’ve lived. But there is still not a single person besides me, who knows what my brother has done. I remember those words that I wrote, never even for a second considering that it would be the most detrimental decision I would ever make. Those words followed me to another city, another major moment in my life. New York. I had climbed the corporate ladder over my years at the company in Chicago, but I knew there was one thing I did wrong. I never had the feeling that I would be able to talk about this secret ever. But I knew I had to. So I go down to a police station after work, and tell them everything. I can’t believe I did it, but Liam Henry’s days as a free man were numbered.

My best friend’s days as a free man were numbered. My brother’s days as a free man were numbered. I got a call from the police a few days later saying that the Junction City case had no leads for as long as it existed. He also said that me and my family would be put under protection starting the next day. I knew that justice would inevitably be served, but I could never forget the moment I received that letter and fled Portland. I knew that I shouldn’t’ve left, but I could never live knowing that Liam was really who he was. His story is my story, we were always cut from

the same filthy, stained, torn cloth, but it took me till today to visualize him sticking a needle with a deadly dose into my dad and his closest companions. ​ “Thank you for your testimony today, Mr. Henry. Your dedication to the delivery of justice is applauded.” Says the lawyer man, at least, I’m pretty sure he was a lawyer, who else could it be? But I never wanted to learn how legal shit works, too hard to understand. “You're welcome.” I say in reply. This was the first time I actually noticed that my brother was sitting in a seat directly in front of me. Behind a table with three lawyers, each writing vigorously on their notepads. ​ “Do you have any final remarks for the court today, Mr. Henry?” Asks the lawyer. ​ “Yes, I want to talk to Liam…” I take a deep breath. “Liam, growing up you were my everything. Every time I tried to escape Depoe Bay, I wanted to take you with me, and give you a life worth living. I hoped we would grow old together, continuing to crack open beers and play some chess. But when I got your letter, my window shattered, cutting me as the pieces fell to the ground. You deserved a better life than what I was able to give you, the cards we were dealt were shitty in the extreme. I know we will never be the same, but when I tried to clean the cloth both of us were cut from, I accidentally ripped it in two. I cleaned my half and you threw yours into the trash, before I had the chance to sew it back together. I know you will never be able to forgive me, I hate that this is the final move we make on the chessboard that is our life, but it’s checkmate Liam, and I’m sorry that it’s your king getting captured. I’m sorry… I failed you.” I cry so damn hard after that. But when the judge's gavel came down, all I could say was “I love you.”

The Note that Said Enough

By William Zhang ‘31 At dawn, Dr. Zhang unlocked his clinic, finding a single note on the counter: “You saved me.”​ No signature, no clue.​ He smiled, remembering the hundreds who never said those words but whose lives quietly changed.​ Then he turned on the lights, ready to begin again, saving strangers who might never write back, ever.

The Passenger

By William Zhang ‘31 The plane smelled faintly of recycled air, coffee, and the sharp tang of disinfectant. Lena hated flying. Not just the confined space or the turbulence or the way her ears always popped on descent, what she hated most was the lack of control. Once she stepped into a plane, she was trapped, thousands of feet above ground, at the mercy of strangers she’d never see again.

But tonight’s flight was unavoidable. Her father was in the hospital in Los Angeles, and the doctors had told her mother that time was running short. Lena had booked the first available seat out of Boston, shoving her fear down because fear wasn’t allowed, not now, not when her father needed her.

She found her place in row 14, a window seat. She always chose the window, though she rarely looked out. Something about seeing the curve of the earth far below gave her vertigo. She pulled her sweater tighter around her shoulders, dropped her bag under the seat, and tried to steady her breath.

A man slid into the aisle seat beside her just before boarding closed. He was in his late 40s, maybe early 50s, with a kind face framed by dark hair flecked with gray. His suit looked a little rumpled, as if he had been traveling a long time.

He smiled. “Evening.”

Lena nodded politely, expecting him to settle into silence like most seatmates did. Instead, he leaned slightly toward her. “First time flying?”

The question startled her. “No,” she said, too quickly. Then, softer: “Just not a fan.”

His smile deepened. “Ah. You and me both.” He buckled his seatbelt with exaggerated seriousness, as if to say, See? We’re in this together.

The plane pushed back, taxied, and rose into the night. Lena closed her eyes through takeoff, nails digging into her palms. When she opened them, the man was still watching her, not with intrusion, but with a calm, steady interest.

“It’s easier if you think of it as a bus ride,” he said. “Just longer. And with better views.”

She laughed weakly. “Maybe for you.”

They talked. He had been to Paris in the spring, when the chestnut trees bloomed, and Tokyo in the fall, where lantern festivals lit the night sky. He described the smell of fresh bread in the

streets of Florence, the way the ocean in Santorini looked unreal, too blue to belong to this world.

Lena forgot, for a while, that she was in the air. His voice was gentle, steady, carrying her along like a current.

When the plane hit turbulence, she jumped. The cabin lights flickered once, then steadied. The man placed his hand lightly over hers. His touch was warm. “It’s alright,” he said. “I’ve been through worse storms than this.”

The shaking stopped, and so did her panic. She realized her heart was pounding less, her shoulders unclenched. She almost smiled.

The captain announced they would begin their descent into Los Angeles. Relief rushed through her. Home. She had made it. She turned to thank the man, already rehearsing what to say: You made this bearable. Thank you for distracting me. Thank you for being kind.

But the seat beside her was empty.

Not just empty, the seatbelt was still fastened neatly, as though no one had ever sat there.

Lena blinked. She leaned forward, scanning the rows. No sign of the man. Maybe he had gone to the restroom? But the seat pocket was flat, unused. The cushion looked undisturbed.

Her stomach twisted. She caught the flight attendant passing by with the trash cart and asked, “Excuse me—my seatmate, the man who was sitting here, did he move?”

The attendant stopped, frowning. “I’m sorry, ma’am. No one has been sitting next to you on this flight.”

“That’s not possible,” Lena said. “He was here the whole time. We talked.”

The attendant’s expression shifted, something between discomfort and fear. She bent down, lowering her voice. “Ma’am… row 14 has been empty for years. No one sits there. Not since the crash.”

Lena’s skin went cold.

“What crash?” she whispered.

The attendant glanced around nervously, then moved on, as if she had already said too much.

At baggage claim, Lena moved through the crowd in a daze. She could still hear his voice in her ears, feel the warmth of his hand over hers. She pulled out her phone and typed row 14 airplane crash into the search bar.

The first result made her throat close.

“Flight 265 Memorial Service Honors Victims, Ten Years Later.”

She clicked. The article described a flight from Boston to Los Angeles that had gone down in a storm a decade earlier. Of the 180 passengers and crew on board, only 15 had survived. The dead included a businessman in his 40s who had been seated in row 14. His name was Michael Harrington.

Lena stared at the grainy photo attached to the article. The same gray-flecked hair. The same kind eyes. The same warm smile.

Her seatmate.

Lena arrived at the hospital hours later, still shaken. Her mother hugged her tightly, but her father was already asleep, hooked to machines that hummed and blinked. She sat by his bed, watching his chest rise and fall, fragile as paper.

She wanted to tell her mother what had happened on the plane. But the words caught in her throat. It sounded impossible, insane. Those were things a crazy person would say.

And yet, when she closed her eyes, she could hear his voice again. It’s alright. I’ve been through worse storms than this.

She thought about her fear of flying, how it had nearly kept her from being here, from holding her father’s hand one last time. And she thought about the man who had appeared just long enough to carry her through the flight.

Maybe, she realized, it didn’t matter what he was. Ghost, hallucination, guardian, memory. What mattered was she was still alive, making her feel very lucky.

She leaned closer to her father and whispered, “It’s alright, Dad. I’m here.”

She reflected on the mystery of how she got here, and for the first time in years, Lena wasn’t afraid.

By Austin Liu ‘30 Prospector Photography Competition Winner

By Copeland Maier ‘29

By Evan Gerber ‘30

By Jack Egan ‘30

By Kyle Ayres ‘29

By Luca Kaluski ‘30

By Michael Guo ‘30

By Teddy Hennigar ‘29

Shilin Sky

By Tadhg O’Sullivan ‘29

PROSPECTOR STAFF Mr. David Leonardis, Faculty Advisor Tadhg O’Sullivan ‘29, Editor in Chief Harun Ibrahim ‘29, Editor William Zhang ‘31, Editor Max Bushey ‘29, Staff Writer Matthew Devine ‘29, Staff Writer Krish Chandar ‘29, Staff Writer

By Grady Steeves ‘31, Contributor

By Ethan Shi ‘31, Contributor

By Harun Ibrahim ‘29, Contributor

By Michael Shortsleeve ‘31, Contributor

By Benjamin Qin ‘29, Contributor

By Roger Zhang ‘29, Contributor

By Jack Flaherty ‘29, Contributor

By Brandon Sousa ‘29, Contributor

By Henry Oh ‘29, Contributor

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