Domespring 2014 15 final

The Dome

Editors Samantha S. Reagan Katherine A. Stonecipher Faculty Advisors Lissa McGovern & Nadine Lloyd Front/Back Cover: Juyoung Lee Inside Cover: Sandra Stephan Title Page: Juyoung Lee

The Dome 2015

a journal of art and literature

Counting Sheep Infinity is hard to fathom When fleeting’s all you know Perhaps you shall awaken me But later you will go Could someone really stay forever?

I lie in bed and wonder As the sheep saunter away One, Two, Three, they jump But how come none will stay?

That sheep died when I was three, And that one moved to Spain That sheep said he hated me, And that one drank away the pain That sheep turned its back on us, And that one changed for worse That sheep drowned beneath the sea, And that one went off course That sheep crashed into a jeep, And that one had a stroke That sheep took his life away, And that one thought it was a joke When I was three, the sheep Were honest blends of white, But now the only ones I find Are besmeared by vacant night One by one, they still jump, Never to return, Oh well, I sigh, There comes a time When everyone must learn.

Katherine A. Stonecipher

Haleigh Sullivan

Brooks Hamilton Daisy

It’s an incredibly dull Easter Sunday in Woodford Common, an incredibly isolated corner of the Hudson Valley area of New York State. There’s a little white house on a little country road that does not look dissimilar to the other little white houses on the other little country roads in the area.

It’s all seemingly very quaint, very boring, but then again, it’s not the houses on the roads that matter, it’s the people in them.

Enter Daisy, who is not from Woodford Common, nor is she particularly dull. Somehow, through family connections and an overflow of boredom and restlessness in her current residence, Daisy has ended up taking comfort in the colorfulness of the screened in porch of the little white house, even though it’s barely 50 degrees out there and she’s not even wearing a cardigan over her t-shirt. Her aunt

and uncle, the owners of the little white house have gone to church. She doesn’t believe in god, or in Easter, really, so she stays behind, sleeps late and when she wakes up, walks a mile in her pajamas to get a cup of decent coffee.

Daisy doesn’t drive; she’s only sixteen, and doesn’t take any classes, so she walks if cabs are unattainable. But where Daisy’s from, cabs are always attainable if you need to get to somewhere, or get out of there. Recently Daisy just discovered that on her iPhone, if she downloads the app that gets cabs on command, she could take one all the way to Miami, or even LA (for a few thousand dollars.) Who would’ve thought?

It’s not that Daisy needs to get away.

No, she doesn’t think she needs to. She’s not abused in any way, or hated or bullied. Nor is she too poor or rich, nor is she smothered. It’s simply that Daisy is lonely here amongst the masses of sweaty, tie wearing commuters and Marlboro smoking teenagers who think they’re above it all.

Daisy knows she’s above it all. She’s meant for a different place. She just knows she is. Maybe that’s why she suggested traveling two seemingly strenuous hours out of the city to spend a meaningless holiday with close-but-distant relatives.

But since she arrived on Friday evening, she’s never felt more confused about where or who she knows she wants to be.

Before she came here, she’d never spent much quality time with her aunt and uncle, conveniently named Donna and Daniel. She expected that Donna, being her mom’s twin sister, would be just like her mom; uptight, distant, slightly introverted. She expected Don and Dan’s relationship to be running on a thin line, as her own parents were already a few years into a rough divorce. Daisy could not have been more wrong. Sitting here now on the screened in porch, she realizes that she’s never felt more loved and welcomed into any family in her life than she did this weekend. Not even her own parents have shown so much love and affection. To be frank, Daisy doesn’t want to leave Woodford Common.

Not because of the houses or the location, no, those were dull, and she would easily get bored. But she feels compelled to stay in the house, which seems so plain from the outside and so full of color and love, and life inside. It’s like a wellkept secret she wants to hold onto forever. Or, if possible, she would take Don and Dan to the city and trade in her parents, who would uncover the secrets of the house. Maybe it would bring them back together. Maybe it would bring them back to life. Maybe Daisy wouldn’t feel like she wanted to get away, to Miami or LA for a few thousand dollars. As she begins to feel the weekend come to a close, she feels her heart sinking. She thinks that she ought to start saving money for the big escape via Uber-cab. She realizes that she feels empty. She doesn’t want to feel empty anymore.

Greer Gibney

Eric Hwang

Peter Pans Are Rare Grace breaks the silence of the orange, summer evening with her rusted bike pedals. Her bike swerves as she reads a street sign that she has walked past one thousand times before. She slowly turns her bike onto the narrow, unpaved road and counts houses until she arrives at the fifth house on the right. She dismounts her bike and drags it into the far corner of the seashell driveway so she doesn’t obstruct the teal blue Jeep or mutilate the grass. She tugs at her wrinkled shorts and adjusts her short dark hair.

Grace turns the corner to the patio and is greeted by a boy who is less than three feet tall and with eyes the size of Hershey kisses and as brown as them, too. He takes her hand and pumps it three times with his left hand.

“Hello,” he says, “I am Charlie. Pleased to meet you.” Without another word he turns to chase after a larger boy and a yellow soccer ball. Grace pauses for a moment, deciding whether or not to play with the boys or search for one of their parents.

Interrupting Grace’s indecision a mammoth of a woman pulls the sliding screen door open. She fans herself with a hand the size of a dinner plate.

“Oscar! Charlie! Come inside. Dinner!” She yells. She turns to Grace and raises her football-width arm to check her watch. “Ah, you’re the babysitter my husband hired. You’re here” she states. The mammoth turns and stomps back inside. The two boys trail behind her, and Grace follows suit.

Inside, the boys sit at a gleaming crystal table to eat pasta off paper plates. As they slurp noodles a Beatles song unfamiliar to Grace softly fills the house through a built-in speaker system, but no one sings, dances, or even nods along in acknowledgement of the noise.

Grace lingers in the corner of the room. She scans the room for a source of authority and finds that both the mammoth and the boys’ father are nowhere to be found.

“You’re here!” Mr. Rowland suddenly calls from the kitchen. He enters the dining room and picks up a large glass

mug off of the counter. He grabs an acoustic guitar from the corner of the room, tucks it under his left arm, and scoops Charlie up with the other. “Could you get the door?”

Grace hurries to pull the door open for him and follows Mr. Rowland to the patio. Once the three of them are seated around the large, wooden, outdoor table, he begins plucking at the guitar to tune it.

“You found our place alright?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Grace says. She folds her hands in her lap with a boxlike stiffness.

He plucks his guitar a few more times. “Kathy is getting ready, so we could be waiting here awhile.” Grace cannot imagine the mammoth trying on ten different outfits and applying eyeliner.

“Should I be inside watching Oscar?” she asks.

He places his hand over the strings so that they are no longer making music, “No,” he says, looking at Grace, “Hang out here. He is fine with his video games.”

“Okay,” Grace replies as she pulls at her shorts. She looks around, searching for somewhere safe to rest her eyes.

They fall on Mr. Rowland’s guitar and not his forest-green eyes that seemingly stare into her.

“What’s your name?” says Charlie, standing up in his chair.

Before Grace has the chance to answer, Mr. Rowland does it for her.

“Charlie,” he says, “this is Grace. She is here to play with you tonight”. Charlie nods seriously and refocuses on the small plastic truck he is driving along the edge of the table.

“So, Grace.” says Mr. Rowland, but he does not continue. His fingers suddenly flirt with his guitar, as if starting a song is expected and of utmost importance. He closes his eyes, hums softly, and rolls his head fluidly back and forth.

Grace sits quietly, waiting for him to continue addressing her. She is sitting on the edge of her chair, rudely

resting her elbows on the table and her face in her palms.

She gazes at Mr. Rowland’s beaten old guitar as it produces a melody that slightly resembles “Hey Jude”.

When his song seems to be over, she says, “Yes, Mr. Rowland?”

“Call me, Mark,” he says immediately and without looking up as if he has made this correction a thousand times before. “So, what’s your story?” he says with the same familiarity like he and Grace are old friends. He places his guitar in his lap and reaches back to rough his own grayish thick hair like a teenaged boy.

Grace’s eyebrows knit together as she tries to think of something interesting about her life to tell him. “What do you mean?” she asks to buy herself time.

“What’s your thing? Do you like music? Arts? Sports?

School? Or are you just a babysitter?”

“Well, I like science,” Grace says.

“So you’re a scientist. The next great Einstein. I can see it now. Are you going to cure cancer or clone a person?” he asks with an excitement so bold it must be genuine.

“I think I am going to pass AP Biology” Mark chuckles and his sunburnt nose crinkles and his eyes squint as if he is looking into a bright light. “Oscar isn’t too big into science. Or any school for that matter. He really loves soccer, though. He’s good at it too. For his age, I mean.

He can kick the ball so far. Man, you should see him kick the ball. Do you watch a lot of soccer?”

She lies as she describes her soccer fanaticism.

“Oh cool, cool. Yeah Oscar holds the record for most goals in his league. You should see him with the team. A natural leader, really. I feel like the younger boys just look up to him, you know? Like, you’ve seen him with Charlie. He’s so helpful and sweet, really, you know. When he isn’t trying to act like a tough nine year old.”

“Yeah. He is a really great kid,” she agrees.

“And Charlie, I mean, he is a little behind with speaking, you know. He has that speech therapist that comes

on Tuesdays, but wow. The little man. He just understands everything that is going on and he wants to make sure everyone is happy all of the time. It’s amazing really.”

“Yeah, he is a really sweet kid,” she agrees, again.

“Kids, you know. Man. You’ll understand someday when you have some of your own. It’s just, you don’t get to decide who they are, but then in the end, you just can’t believe your luck.” He giggles with the same childish ring as Charlie. He is twice Grace’s age but seems to be half of it. Grace supposes that there are people who never truly become an adult but not with all that Peter-Pan-like magic.

Mark leans back in his chair and returns his fingers to the guitar strings, but his focus does not shift. His dimples frame his yellow smile as he asks, “So, what do you do all summer? You work?”

“Yeah,” she says as he looks up from his guitar to meet her eyes, “I work at the ice cream store on Main Street”.

“Cool, cool. So why –” The door slams and the mammoth appears on the patio. She nods at Grace and mumbles something about taking care of the boys. She throws a set of keys at Mark and gets into the Jeep.

“Well, that’s my cue to leave,” says Mark. He places his guitar down on the table and kisses Charlie on the head.

With his fingers, he lightly taps the table near where Grace’s hand rests. “Have fun with them,” he says. He turns away and gets into the car.

“Where’s my dad goin’?’” says Charlie, looking up from his toy car. Grace explains that his dad went out to dinner, and that he will be back later.

Grace picks up the guitar, takes Charlie’s hand, and brings them both inside. She sets the guitar on its stand, making sure it is secure before releasing. Charlie runs to play video games with his older brother which leads to fighting over whose turn it is to kill zombies. To distract from the confrontation, Grace suggests that the three of them go outside to play soccer. Quickly, the boys drop the controllers,

abandon their fight, and run outside.

Eventually Oscar becomes bored of the outdoors and wanders over to an art project previously set up on a large wooden table. There is a tarp covering the piece of patio furniture, and there are twenty small rubber sharks lined up in rows and columns, all painted green. Three cans of opened spray paint sit idly on the side of the project. Oscar scrambles up a small step stool, purposefully picks up the blue spray paint, and begins decorating sharks.

“Should you be doing that, Oscar?” Grace asks. She figures that ten years-old is old enough to handle spray paint at least while supervised.

“Yeah,” he says without looking up, “mom and I started this project this morning”. With Oscar’s artful eye, a grid of green sharks becomes a pile of tie-dye fish.

“That’s pretty cool. With all of the different colors,” Grace says, leaning over his shoulder and examining his artwork.

“Uh, thanks” says Oscar. His eyes stay glued to the can of spray paint held tightly in his right hand. “I didn’t really mean to make them like this. Just kinda happened. I’m not that good at painting stuff.”

“Well it looks awesome. Do you do a lot of art stuff in school?” she asks.

“Not really,” he says as he shuffles his feet.

“Well, what do you do?” She asks with a fabricated ignorance, the kind commonly used with children.

“I like soccer.”

“Oh yeah, I heard you’re awesome at baseball. What position do you play?” she asks.

He looks up at Grace, smiles awkwardly, and says “I guess I’m alright.” Oscar’s cheeks flush pink through his mocha skin and he wipes his painted hands on his jeans.

“I bet you’re better than that,” she says to Oscar. She then addresses both boys, “It’s getting kind of late, do you guys want to head inside?”

Reluctantly, the boys do what is asked of them. They

go inside, brush their teeth, put on pajamas, and get into bed. Grace checks her watch; it is only nine o’clock. With both boys in parallel queen sized beds, Grace reads Charlie a book, and Oscar discretely listens in.

When the boys are asleep, there are forty-five minutes until Mark gets home. Grace throws paper plates out, wipes spaghetti sauce off of crystal, collects discarded glasses from the counter, and organizes them in the dishwasher.

Thirty-two minutes until Mark gets home, Grace thinks. She goes out onto the patio and places all of the toys into one bin in the garage. She pushes in all of the chairs around the table. The glass mug that Mark was drinking from sits empty on the table with one mushed lime in the bottom. Her hand is surprised by the weight of the glass as she lugs it inside. Grace throws the lime into the trash and is unsurprised by the stench of the glass. Rum and iced tea. She washes the glass meticulously and puts it into the drying rack by the sink.

She checks again and finds eleven minutes until Mark gets home. Grace examines the house; walking from room to room searching for things that need maintenance. She finds nothing but a few discarded toy trucks with chipped paint.

With two minutes until Mark returns, Grace settles in on the white couch and begins to flip through TV channels and waits.

Forty-nine minutes after Mark said he would return, the mammoth busts through the door and stands by the TV with her feet planted, hands on her hips, and eyes boring into Grace’s like a starving animal.

“WHAT did you let them do to my sharks?” she demands.

“Your sharks?” Grace repeats.

“Yes! You let them completely ruin my project!” She says.

Mark slides through the door and glides into the mammoth’s anger tornado. He waits by her side with his lips silenced while she decides how to act on her anger. The

mammoth disregards Grace like an empty soda can and jerkily turns around and enters her sons’ bedroom.

Mark and Grace can hear the mammoth waking up Oscar and demanding why he ruined her sharks. Oscar doesn’t know what to say to his enraged mother.

“You’re a fifty year old woman, Kathy,” Mark calls loud enough for the mammoth to hear, “I think that you’ll get over it.” Then at a volume meant only for Grace he says, “Oscar never wants to do anything artistic. I think that it’s really pretty neat he did that on his own.”

Grace laughs and half-smiles, “Sorry. I thought that it was his project.”

“Don’t sweat it. Do you want anything to eat?”

He takes the now-clean glass from the drying rack and methodically mixes rum, iced tea, and a lime slice.

“No, I’m alright. Thank you though,” she says.

“No way you aren’t hungry. I bet there is just some big party tonight that you’re dying to get to.”

Grace laughs, “There isn’t!” she proclaims, and she awkwardly steps toward the door, not sure if it is her cue to exit. “Take care of the boys. They’re good kids,” she tells Mark.

“Of course I will. You have a fun rest of the summer. I know I always did when I was your age,” he says.

Grace chuckles nervously, “I guess nothing ever changes.”

“No,” he agrees, “nothing changes at all.” He reaches into his pocket and hands her a wad of twenty dollar bills.

His smooth fingers linger on hers for a second longer than necessary. “See you at the ice cream shop, I guess,” he says.

“Thank you. I hope you had fun tonight” she replies.

“I sure did. Take care of yourself, Grace” She smiles and he looks at her like she doesn’t expect him to: like he really means it. As if he is genuinely worried that she isn’t getting enough care. Grace slips out the door, and he stands on the illuminated porch waiting until she is out of sight. Feeling his eyes on her and seeing his glowing

smile through the dark, she carefully mounts her bike and pedals quickly down the dark dirt road.

“Take care of yourself, Grace. Take care of yourself, Grace. Take care of yourself, Grace” she wants to scream at the stars. He did not thank her for doing the dishes or apologize on his wife’s behalf. He came home an hour late.

But his fingers had lingered a second too long, and she is going to take care of herself.

Samantha Reagan

Mary Gao

Juyoung Lee

Ascending on You Step 1: The river rushes, cosmetically covered in orange and red blushes. And in the midst of all this beauty my eye caught you. Who I was ? No one yet, but you were my future I wouldn’t forget.

Step 2: All is frozen over, all is cold as ice. There’s this heart where my ice box used to be, and you’re the warmth that has overcome me. I didn’t know the power you would have, until the river stopped flowing. I didn’t know I could love again, and I fell in love without knowing.

Step 3: Six more to go, and you’ve already dragged me out the snow. You opened a book as we sat at the hearth, you gave me a look, as we melted in the earth. I thought I knew the author, but I was so poorly misled. I thought I was right, but I found disparity in the words I read.

Step 4: Caught by surprise, the first blossoms awoke me at sunrise.

“Good morning beautiful, have a good day.” I see the trust in your eyes with each word you say. The books I read, the stories you tell, the love I need, the affection you sell.

I’m ascending on you, one step at a time, one hand on the railing, the other sublimed. Reaching toward your highness, because without you I’ve fallen with anarchists.

Livi Robinson

Garrett Stosiek

Psycho: CEO

I was the CEO of a high-paying, enviable job in Manhattan. My office was on the 87th floor and newly renovated.

When I walked into my office, everything would be perfectly cleaned: desk, chairs, and papers organized. I could even see the individual stripes that the vacuum imprinted on the detailed rug. The connecting office was my assistant’s. I had my eyes on her.

I arrived to work early to catch up on some paper work, when I saw my assistant in a very form-fitting outfit. I felt a rush of heat. The dress was black with sparkles on the shoulder, and had a low cut towards the bodice. I quickly stood up and walked straight for her as if I needed some important documents to be faxed. I started asking her about the usual: how her morning was or if she did anything fun last night. I’m pretty sure she was picking up what I was putting down. She started inching towards me. There wasn’t even enough space to slip a piece of paper between us. I put my hand down her back as her hands messed up my perfectly gelled hair.

I was so hungry, my stomach was pleading for food.

I was at my local diner, Neighborhood Eats, and sat near the bar toward the back of the room. The chair looked like it hadn’t been cleaned for weeks and the seams of the fabric ripped along the cushion. As I started getting comfortable and ordered my meal, I noticed many attractive women. But there was this one woman that captured my attention. She was smokin’. I watched her every move of the head and coy blink. I couldn’t help myself. I slyly walked towards her. I sat down next to her, putting my arm around her. She was confused but didn’t stop me. I thought to myself, “she looks like someone I know.” But I ignored the feeling. She was a little older than the women I normally go for, but I decided, why not? I had nothing better to do. She had little wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, and there were freckles here and there, but I liked that. She wore phony colored pink lipstick that helped emphasize her powerful blue eyes. I begged

her to meet me in the grimy bathroom that you would only use if you were desperate. Without hesitation, she agreed.

From what I remember, it seemed like only a couple minutes had gone by when the manager of the building arrived in my office. The manager was short and had an unfortunate bald spot. He usually had a coffee stain on his tie and sweat stains under his armpits. As he opened the door to my office, his head was down, expecting me to be working at my desk, but he was wrong. His mouth dropped and out came “Jesus Christ!” Embarrassed, I quickly got dressed and awkwardly looked at my assistant. Her face was pale. It was the first time she had disappointed me.

The next day, I was fired and had to pack up all my belongings in one of those small cardboard boxes. I remembered the last time I had ridden the elevator, seeing the top of all the buildings and the people down below. I felt invincible.

Many weeks passed by with me lonely and still unemployed. I needed revenge. I started to brainstorm ideas on how to kill the peasant that caught me. There was no other way and there never was. One day I woke up and I felt as if I were riding on the elevator, invincible. Before I left to get my revenge I grabbed my dad’s knife.

I arrived at my office building, nonchalantly walked in, and approached the front desk. As I walked in, I could see their faces crinkle with confusion because they knew what I had done. I told them that I had left secret files involving the business in my desk. They let me ride that elevator, one last time.

I arrived at the manager’s floor, and then I walked down two long hallways to reach his office. I stopped right before the door, shaking, with the knife in my hand. The knife had scrapes and rust from when my dad used to hunt.

I opened the door. There he was, leaning back in his chair, and talking on the phone. He stopped talking immediately once he saw my knife and slowly put down the phone.

I was sweating bullets by then. My whole body was trembling. I approached him with the knife in my hand. He

was begging me to stop, but I blocked his annoying voice out of my head. I stood right in front of him. There wasn’t even enough space to slip a piece of paper between us. At that moment, I stabbed him, right in the jugular, killing him instantly.

I ran out of his office and left instantly, this time I decided to take the stairs. As I reached the lobby, I felt alive, like I just accomplished a goal. I walked toward the office doors with swagger. Suddenly, in the corner of my eyes I see my assistant and the girl from the diner sitting outside. I walked slowly toward them. At this point, my body started to relax again. My former assistant introduced me to her mother. I was mind blown. I thought to myself, “Wow, The apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.”

Berit Randall

Didi Fade

Daniel Ives

Crown of Thorns

With IV tubes piercing my veins, the taunting smell of whiskey lingers on my tongue. Blurred visions of nurses rush frantically down the halls, screaming out numbers and codes that I am incapable of comprehending. I don’t remember exactly how I got here, nor do I recall the series of events that led me to this horror. But, I know that I left my apartment around eight eight O’clock looking like the 1990s epitome of Aphrodite. My teased brown locks fell precisely to my liking, the bone structure of my jaw was impeccably highlighted, my mascara rested perfectly on the tips of my lashes, and as always, I wore a smile. They say that’s the best accessory a girl can wear, but they also say that duplicity is ugly.

Dr.Oakes said they found me in the back of Barney’s Bar, rolling joints with some guy named Howard. I don’t know anyone named Howard, but come to think of it, he was probably just another pervert at the bar hoping to pursue me. Unfortunately for him, it has all gone awry. Kind of like my life, which has been this beautiful display of disappointments; a series of heartbreaks, failures, and broken records.

As my body sinks further into a passive oblivion, I recall staring blankly at my reflection in the mirror. The hour hand was approaching three O’clock and my tights were shredded at the knees. A distant creature stood before me.

My tresses were frayed and falling flat, my left hoop had lost its mate, and black tears stained the innocent freckles on my cheeks.

I wonder at which point the party took it’s U-turn, but more vitally, I wonder at which point this all began. If it began after my first tequila slammer tonight, or if perhaps, it began long before this night existed. All I know is that I was supposed to grow up and become a princess, not a monster.

“Cassie, you have a visitor,” the nurse opens the door.

I try to decipher who the young woman is, but it’s kind of hard when all my friends look the same.

“Damn, you poor thing, looks like hell in here!” Tia’s raspy tone gives it away.

I recall reading somewhere that hell is when the person you are meets the person you could have been. I deceive her with a grin, “It ain’t all that bad, Tia”

“Aw, puffin!” she hesitates towards me. It’s all so strange because, the closer she comes, the farther she appears. I try to shake the buzz of cocaine and abstain the memories from rising. I want to yell “fuck you!” at whoever shot the gun; he pulled the trigger too soon. It’s too damn late now. I don’t even know what a sweet magnolia tree smells like and I probably never will.

I wipe the sweat from my left brow, and recollect a version of myself that has become more distant than the snowfall in Huntsville’s winter.

It was a dreary Sunday afternoon. My curls were divided unevenly into two pigtails with yellow ribbons attached at their ends. I must have been about eight or nine.

They were lopsided like my overalls. One strap hung effortlessly off my left elbow, while the other clung firmly to my right shoulder. My white converse were also in the midst of an identity crisis; tinted somewhere between a yellow and brown. I never really gave a damn.

And I didn’t really give a damn when my daddy left church that morning without me. It wasn’t anything personal; he was always forgetting things.

Off he went down that winding gravel road; flicking cigarette ash out the window, taking swings with his old pal, Jack Daniels, and singing Johnny Cash’s Hurt:

I wear this crown of thorns.

Upon my liar’s chair.

Full of broken thoughts.

I cannot repair.

In utter solitude, I counted the number of abandoned cigarette butts that traced from the church to my home. The bitter frost burnt my nose; meanwhile, each cold breath turned to smoke. I remember breathing heavily; secretly

hoping someone would see me and believe that the fog fading from my lips were the fumes of a cancer stick, as my grandma called it. 1,2,3,8,11,34...

After fifty-two cigarettes and seven bottles of booze, I made it home. The pink sky had turned to black, leaving only the moon to shine on me. Under the Huntsville stars, I waited on Grandma’s faded blue rocking chair. I counted the constellations. Sheltered by the vastness of the infinite cosmos, I watched the moon fall asleep.

By the time my daddy awoke to let me in, ominous clouds had exchanged places with the moon. Without a word, he took a seat on the stump next to me. His polo had shimmied it’s top buttons open and rumpled it’s sleeves like waves. He placed a cold bottle between his front teeth, and took a swing.

“Can we pick the blueberries today?” I asked.

“Not today,” he groaned, “the weather’s shit.”

“Don’t worry,” I assured him, “the clouds’ll slide on over and I betcha they’ll share the sky with the sun. Heck, I know they will!”

He gargled the rest of the bottle and chucked it over the fence. Together we watched as the sky faded deeper into it’s palate of gray.

“Maybe just slightly, slightly enough to let a ray of light beam through their cracks, you know?” I plead.

He cracked open another bottle.

“Don’t you think so?”

“No,” he grumbled.

“But, remember what happened last year? They gotta get picked before the bears come.”

His dull eyes fixed on his drink, “It’ll get done,” he told me.

I bowed my head and sighed ,“Yes sir.”

That night he went to jail and it never got done. For the third summer in row, there were no blueberries.

They say right before you die, your life flashes before your eyes. And of all the wild stories in my life, I wonder

why this is the only one I can vividly recall. I feel the presence of the hollow walls migrating towards me, as if searching for an embrace. A series of unfamiliar machines begin to sing my lullaby.. I squint my sunken eyes to see my grandma sitting patiently. To her left rests a vase of assorted white roses. I swallow my breath. My heart grows numb as I fail to grasp the intangible.

She strokes my forehead softly, “Hey sleepin’ beauty,” she whispers.

I laugh; I was only playing possum.

“Those flowers sure are pretty, aren’t they honey?”

The familiarity in her voice brings me ease.

“They’re lovely, thanks grams,” I force a grin. But to be honest, I’ve always thought roses were cliché, and I hate the color white.

Her face hardens, but her tone remains gentle.

“Oh, honey,” she clenches my hand, “you’re daddy sent those over.”

Of course they’re from my father. After seven fucking years, he thinks he can march right back into my life. Well fuck his roses. I hate roses. I hate them for all their simplicity. And I hate them for all their thorns. But oh, how he loved the thorns. The same way he loved that stupid Cash song, and the way he loved the smell of cigarettes before church, and the way he loved the burn of whiskey on a Tuesday night, and the way he loved to forget.

I push her hand away and garner the audacity to throw the vase against this concrete cell, “Tell him I say fuck you!” I yell.

I can taste the salt as tears dance down my cheeks. I needed a father when I was eight. And here I am, nineteen, throwing up shots of whiskey with tears that can only fall dry. I’m standing at the finish line, and where the hell is he?

He don’t give a damn. He never did.

My grandma begins sweeping up my mess, “He just wants to help my dear,” she says.

I can’t believe she’s defending that monster. How

foolish is she to think he can save me when he can’t even save himself?

“It’s a little late for help,” I finally respond.

With a tear in her wrinkled eyes, she reaches towards my cheek, “Maybe for him it is.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

I had the simplest answers to life’s most complex questions. My world was painted black and white. Lying was wrong, sharing was right. Drugs meant death and kindness meant prosperity. But for a point in time, the more I learned, the less I seemed to know.

She kisses my forehead and whispers, “My dear, sometimes we must be both the villain and the hero of our own stories.”

I close my eyes. I remember the hopelessness painted on my father’s face the night he got taken away. His body so dull and numb, as if he had forgotten not only who he was, but where he was. That night I asked god why he would do such a thing. But he was not the one to blame, for my father had the choice. It’s a beautiful tragedy, and I can’t help but smile. For I know that I’ll awake when the clouds decide to share the sky. I’ll be there to witness the moon and the sun cross paths and one day I’ll pick the blueberries with my children. They’ll ask me what a sweet magnolia tree smells like, and I’ll tell them that one day they’ll know.

Katherine Stonecipher

Hayden Graham

Viggo Blomquist

The Bad Influence

It was a Monday night in the spring of 2012. I had two exams the next day: English and History. I knew English would be easy for me, as it was simply multiple-choice questions and an essay about my favorite book, The Outsiders. I had been studying for the past few days: aiming to get a perfect grade. History, however, was a different story. The review packets that I received were not even half-finished.

The days leading up to exam week, I would go to my friend Austin’s house to study, as we were in the same classes. We nailed down English, crushed Science, did a mediocre job studying Spanish, eased our way through math, but when it was time for History, Austin’s best subject, we went outside to take a break.

This led to Monday night. I took my Science and Spanish exams earlier that day, and felt good about them. I went to Tom’s house after school to play basketball, and then went home. After dinner, my mom told me to go study. Of course, I told her I was set for both exams. After texting my friends for an hour, I chose to finally start studying for History. My mom’s least favorite friend of mine joined me. What was his name? Her name? Pete, or Patricia… something like that. I started to study by blocking every answer with a note card, and reading the practice questions to myself. I answered about a quarter of them correctly. After one round, my “bad” friend decided that was enough. He, or she, said I was better off going on my iPod and playing every app I owned. What a good idea! What was I doing wasting my time studying?

My mom came to my room with ice cream, and saw my packets. She was incredibly unhappy, and lectured me on how my friend was a bad influence. She sat with me for the next 45 minutes, practically searching every question from the packet on Google. I could clearly sense her disappointment. While she searched for answers about the life of Napoleon Bonaparte she lectured me about how this friendship I had was a plague to my future. She gave me advice that sounded oddly familiar. She reminded me that I had so much potential to do well. That’s right, the same speech Mr. Hogan, my advisor at school, gave me. They agreed that this friendship led to my potential to do well amounting to nothing.

After another two hours of studying with my mom, I went to bed with a pit in my stomach and a sense of disappointment. At least my friend left when my mom started to help. I earned my lowest score on my History exam, yet I was not upset. I knew it was coming and I knew why it happened. However, time told the story of how I didn’t truly learn my lesson. I struggled to get my work done throughout my eighth grade year, achieving very average grades. I was okay with this, though. I lied to my parents and said that I

was trying my best. They didn’t know my friend was still paying me nightly visits when they thought I was working.

These habits caught up to me during my last year at Rumsey.

I was in two honors classes, which was quite an achievement for me. After the first two weeks, both of those teachers called meetings with me. The message was the same.

They both said that they wanted me in their class because they thought I had the potential to thrive. Their grade books showed that they were wrong, and if I didn’t turn it around, I would be placed in the regular section.

At home, I was maturing, so I had more freedom when it came to studying. I knew what had to be done if I wanted to make a change in my work ethic and show everyone that I was capable of doing well. I cut out hours for homework and studying. This was a remarkable change for me, but it was very inconsistent. My friend continued to pay unexpected visits, even though I knew it was against my best judgment. I started to doubt myself, losing the progress I had gained. I sat on an emotional seesaw across from a creature named Stress. Sometimes I had the strength to push myself up, but that just led to a harder fall to rock bottom.

In all honesty, this is still a fight that I grapple with.

I have been around many bad influences in my life, some closer than others, and I have done my best to keep a level head. This friendship is one that I am stuck with. There is no reward or pleasure.

Andre Bogdanovics

Andrew Koudijs

Ethan Labi

Blindfolded Autumn Massacre Living with the fear of being broken The countless precedents and bandaged heart My naiveté was once awoken But I have learned to play it safe and smart Hesitant to fall for those autumn leaves One too many times before I’ve been left Is winter synonymous to bereaved?

I could not tell, they withdrew with such deft Almost as quickly as they came, they went, Swift on your toes and easy on the eyes Vulnerable, you prey when I’m hell-bent On dying, yet your charm muffles my cries.

To fall blindfolded I cannot decide.

They promised to catch me but they all lied.

Livi Robinson

Sarah Kinney

Hell Hath no Fury like Insecurity Drunken thoughts, sober desires My mind bought stolen tires Drove off into an abyss of fires And passed by all the burning liars.

Broken heart, burning chest Love at the start, poison at its best.

No love for the glass, incest The search for love a never-ending quest.

Shattered reflections, protected projections To society, I owe subjection They owe me nothing, just rejection.

Leaving me with this abjection.

Sober desires, drunken thoughts Adamantine self image, now wrought.

Years of internal war, pointlessly fought.

Lesson not learned, an attempt to be taught.

Livi Robinson

Melody Barros

Kara Falak

Monologue I need to get a few things off my chest about my Dad. Forgive me, as I have never talked to a therapist one on one before. But, every night before I go to bed I think about my dad and the times we had together. He comes to me sometimes in my dreams. We talk about how life is going. I bet back then I was a real pain in the ass. Today, I would literally do anything to see him again in the flesh and show him the man I have become. I still can’t believe that I had the audacity to pull a knife on my best friend George on that rainy October day. In a way, though, that minor setback helped me have a major comeback. All those days in Juvy sitting alone in my cell, I had an epiphany that my father’s death was nobody’s fault. It wasn’t my fault, it wasn’t my mom’s fault, it wasn’t my dad’s, and it definitely wasn’t George’s fault. Sometimes in life things happen and you have to adapt or else you will be left behind. My emotions got the best of me that day and I knew for my mom and sister’s sake that I had to start becoming the man of the house that they so badly needed. I don’t know where I would be if that incident with George hadn’t happened.

Most likely I’d be the kid talking back to adults and stealing kid’s lunch money. I did homework every other week back then and always cursed at my mother, the woman who brought me into this world. The other day I carried five old ladies’ groceries to their cars. I definitely couldn’t see myself doing that back in the day. Now I actually give a shit. I know now that everything isn’t about me, but that I am obligated to have a helping presence in my community. I must repay everyone who I have mistreated. I am so grateful that I got a second chance to prove the non-believers wrong and that I have, in fact, finally grown up. I’ve learned from my mistakes. Selfishness. That’s what it was. I strictly cared about myself and others weren’t even a thought back then.

I’m a new man because of that incident. I wish I could show him.

Connor Waldron

Hanna Graebner

Christina Bolarinwa

Ieva Pranckeviciute

Spring Rain Snow turns to liquid Seeps into the ground The squirrel vacates its nest Scampering all around Leaping through the brush and trees Squirrels are safe and sound As soon as he lands on the street Cars are all around Juking, diving Panic, silence Water turns to blood Smashed into the ground The squirrel vacated its nest And will never make a sound

Tyler Smith

The Dome Berkshire School 245 North Undermountain Rd. Sheffield, MA 01257-9672