Still Waters, Vol. III, Issue 2

Still Waters A Brooks School literary magazine

Vol. III, Issue 2

Still Waters A Brooks School literary magazine

EDITOR Dean Charpentier, English Department Chair STAFF Suzanne Egertson Rachel Feingold Emma Gordon Renu Mukherjee Kyle Lawrence April Mendez DESIGNER Dan Callahan, Director of Communications Still Waters is committed to publishing original, exciting material from a diverse collection of Brooks student writers.

While we actively pursue short fiction, poetry and memoir, we will consider any form of writing submitted.

There is no maximum word count, and you may submit more than one piece at a time. Send submissions as an attached Word document via email to stillwaterssubmissions@brooksschool.org.

Please include in the Word document your name, grade, hometown, and a brief 100-word bio.

Decisions are made on a rolling basis, and once submitted, a piece will be eligible for publication in any future issue of Still Waters. Just because you don’t see your piece in the new issue does not mean it won’t appear in the next one.

I know nothing in the world that has as much power as a word.

Sometimes I write one, and I look at it, until it begins to shine. ― EMILY DICKINSON

CONTENTS Vol. III, Issue 2

Memoir 4

EMPTY by Katherine Davies

6

SERENITY by Jack Banse

8

THE STRUGGLES OF YOUTH by Xander Timpson

Fiction 10 THICK by Lucas Galli 10 FADE by Abigail Skinner 12 SHARPSHOOTER by Branden Shaw 13 PANCAKE TANGO by Shannon Alvino

Poetry 14 HARDWOOD by Matt Greely 14 PUMPKIN PANCAKES by Sheila O’Neill 15 RAPUNZEL by Tommy Connelly 16 PAPER PLANE by Sophie Hord 16 CHAMOMILE VANILLA by Sheila O’Neill 17 THE MEMORIES OF SOUND by Sophie Hord 17 FALL DAY by Sophie Hord 18 NIGHT VOICES: A COLLECTION by Megan Quinn

The Stil l Waters Int erview 22 with Megan Quinn

Brooks School

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From the Editor

I received this tweet from @HuffPostBooks the other day: What’s Junot Diaz’s favorite sentence in literature? And there was a link to a brief interview with the author.

I love Junot Diaz. I love his writing, his passion about his heritage, his honesty — I even like that he was reprimanded at a reading and Q&A I went to, for his repeated use of the F-bomb. Maybe he was a little tone deaf to his audience, maybe he was role playing a little bit, but it doesn’t matter. For me, it injected a little humor and metaphorically opened a huge window to let some of the hot air out of the room.

Here is the sentence Diaz flagged as his favorite, from Toni Morrison’s Beloved: “You your best thing, Sethe.” He said the possibility of that sentence always makes him cry.

Diaz’s choice of that particular sentence got me thinking (which is what it was supposed to do, right?). First, I wondered about my own favorite sentence from literature. Maybe it was “In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit.” Or perhaps “Two nurses with scissors could make a man naked in eleven seconds,” from Melanie Rae Thon’s incredible short story First, Body. Or maybe this powerful bit of whispered dialogue from a boy dying of snake bites in the very first chapter of John Yount’s The Trapper’s Last Shot: “God…Don’t come in.”

Then I started thinking about what drew me to those lines, or what draws any reader to any piece of writing. And while we are all different, I think there is a universal thread, and that is

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emotion. Good writing evokes emotion — joy, hate, love, fear, jealousy, anger, whatever.

With every good piece of writing, however long — novel or sentence — our connection to it is that grain of human significance: emotion. And isn’t it emotion that forms human connections as well? Those things we call relationships?

So is it any surprise that teenage writers — the writers you find in the pages of Still Waters — write about relationships? About emotion? Not only is adolescence perhaps the most emotionally raw phase of our lives, most teens are still figuring out just what a relationship is. This month, you see that clearly, whether it is in Abigail Skinner’s short story about a first kiss, Xander Timpson’s memoir about friends gone in different directions, or even Jack Banse’s and Megan Quinn’s reflections on the importance of place.

In Diaz’s The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, his narrator observes about the title character, “He was a complete and utter wreck. Knew he loved her like he’d never loved anyone.”

So in the end, is it just young writers who are trying to figure this all out? Nope.

And thank God — or the Over-Soul, or Shakespeare — for that. For out of this emotional maelstrom emerges our best writing.

Dean Charpentier English Department Chair Still Waters Editor

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Memoir

Empty

By Katherine Davies

He stares at me with blank empty eyes. His pupils and irises vanish, and the eyes are sightless, empty. Silent and brooding, he monitors all traffic at the entrance.

Though the marble he is carved from seems ancient, he begrudgingly stands across from a brand new Dell computer. I smile at the Grecian bust as I enter the front hall of the Athenaeum, noting the irony of how a place over four hundred years old can exist in such a contemporary city.

This is the first time I have ever stepped inside the Athenaeum. I am in awe; chills run down my spine, for real. There is no way a library can be this colossal. A total of eight floors with balconies, art galleries, a private kitchen, even conference rooms — it is the most immense building I have ever been in.

Giant leather chairs sit in every corner, setting a contemplative mood. I can almost see authors and professors and poets reclining in those seats, pondering one thing or another. Copper and marble statues stand at attention spread over the floor, watching. Everywhere I look there is marble and copper and gold and glass, like something out of a Charles Dickens novel. In 1847, when the Athenaeum moved to this current location, no expense had been spared.

But it feels so empty. For all the positive reviews online, it seems as though the bulk of the readers are invisible. Starting on the first floor and walking up the innumerable stairs to the top floor, I only see a total of the five people in the entire library. I can hear my footsteps echoing down the stairwell, sounding like an army. Librarians and secretaries sit immobile at their desks, waiting for inquiries from people that aren’t here. On the top floor, there are paintings of famous politicians, giant mahogany desks and leather chairs. Each table has a gilded copper lamp, and a window overlooking Beacon Hill. In the middle of the room there are blue and green velvet sofas, with priceless fur rugs at their 4

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feet. Glass chandeliers hang from the marble ceiling, book shelves are built into walls, busts and paintings are scattered about, along with famous, framed documents. The objects in this room sit here and collect dust, unseen by most. In 1807, the Athenaeum was founded by the Anthology Society, which had hoped to publish cultural magazines. After a few relocations, it finally landed on 10 ½ Beacon Street.

Shortly after the re-opening, the popularity and attendance grew exponentially. However, as of late the attendance has begun to dwindle again.

As I sit on the top floor, an eerie feeling settles in my gut. Music blares in my headphones, and yet the library still seems quiet; the space is almost above my music. It is timeless. I feel as though I have found a long lost childhood friend, one who hasn’t changed at all. It’s a haunting feeling full of longing and hope, but also fear. I want so badly to stay here forever, to become unaware of the passing of time. But I am so afraid. What if the place changes?

Most people are unaware of what architecture can do to mood. But it isn’t just overstuffed chairs that make this place special. Edward Clarke Cabot was in charge of renovations in 1847, right before the building re-opened. He was also a well-known painter: many of his works are displayed here. His natural talent for the simplicity of nature makes this building better. Instead of screaming for attention, the building whispers stories of things passed. His

work made the Athenaeum distinctive, and people flocked to the library. Cabot himself was widely known, and was particularly famous for his landscape paintings. Looking at his paintings, I can see how it translates into the building. Even the straight lines seem to be soft and happen naturally, as though they were meant to be there. The Athenaeum was built to hold all aspects of American and European culture, from writing to painting to magazines to newspapers, and make them available to the people. And the architecture makes it welcoming. Instead of cold and alone, the place is open and warm. It contains hundreds of thousands of books along with artwork, and modern videos.

Reviews online tend to give it only the best critique.

But with the invention of the Internet, this place has started to be forgotten.

Suddenly, I am terrified. I know if I sit here all day I won’t see a soul. Being isolated in such a busy city is a strange thought. It’s mid-November, and freezing.

Regardless, I get up from the desk and begin to walk to the balcony on this floor. The wind howls against the door, and I have to force it open. Once I get outside, the door slams shut behind me. I don’t have my coat with me, but I don’t want to go back inside.

It’s so cold out I can see my breath. Little strands of smoke fly from my mouth, and float into the crisp air above me. The Athenaeum is the most beautiful building I have ever been in, but beauty seems to mean nothing without someone, anyone, to share it.

I have never seen anyone under the age of forty inside the library. Bigelow and Wadsworth, the firm who remodeled the building, did not change much apart from adding ways to prevent fire, the Trustee’s room and shelving. Little changed in the actual design, as there are only minute aesthetic differences.

In 1966 it was made into an Historical Landmark, and has not been remodeled since. It stills looks much as it did when it first opened, unlike the rest of the city. But even the Athenaeum has not escaped the technological revolution.

Many of the library’s resources and books are now available online, and so people don’t need to be in the library to have the books. For the first time, people can access texts from their own home. Books that the library might not readily have are found with a few clicks of a mouse. The online libraries,

books, and Google have lead many people away from text books. People can find a digital copy of a book without leaving their own desk. And while everyone else is reading books online, I am sitting in an empty library.

I am so cold by this point I am sure my lips are blue.

I turn around and walk inside. I sit down, preparing to feel the same chill I felt earlier sitting alone in the room. But it doesn’t come. I look around, and I see a little old lady sitting at the desk across from me. As my eyes land on her, her face lights up and she smiles at me. She’s tiny, maybe five foot two at most.

Her hair is snowy white with curls, and she has giant black glasses that swallow up her face. Her hands are leathery, and the rest of her body is wrapped in a giant grey wool sweater ten sizes too big for her.

“Were you just outside?” she asks. Her voice is barely above a whisper; but the library is so quiet I can hear her like she is shouting.

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“Yes,” I reply.

“It’s so cold outside! You must be freezing,” she exclaims. I think about how much colder it felt to be in here alone.

“Really? I hardly noticed,” I say and she raises her eyebrows and laughs.

“Teenagers, you insist nothing ever bothers you. I used to never wear a coat. I remember one time when I was younger, it was below freezing out and I refused to wear a coat. I had just bought a brand new dress and I wanted to wear it outside regardless of the weather. I was shivering so much I could barely walk, and my friends rushed me to the hospital because they thought I was having a seizure.

The second I was inside, I stopped shivering. My friends couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me, and I couldn’t tell them I was just cold. But I never went out without a coat again.” We both laugh and her eyes crinkle around the edges.

“I’m glad to see a girl your age here. Sometimes it gets so empty that I wonder if this place will be forgotten. It’s so beautiful, but it seems that people often take culture for granted these days. College

students buy old books in other languages, with no idea what they say, just to have the books in their apartments to appear smart! My niece has hundreds of books, but they’re all for decoration. She thinks education and sophistication is something you can buy,” she says empathetically. I can’t tell her I think the same thing. I’m only sixteen, and have no right to have opinion on such things.

“We think buying things online is classy, but it’s just more stuff,” she says. “The internet does not replace sentimental or physical objects, just makes them more accessible.” She trails off, deep in thought.

“Either way, it’s nice to see someone so young not caught up in the virtual world. Sometimes I fear we’ll lose all the youth to computers,” she states, finishing the conversation. Smiling politely, I go back to writing my English essay.

I might never see this woman again, but that doesn’t matter. I have someone to share the beauty of this place with, someone who will remember it.

She gives life to the room by being there, makes it more than a forgotten building. That is enough for me. Suddenly, the room feels just a little bit warmer.

Serenity

By Jack Banse

I feel a nip, then a tug, and finally a yank. I’ve been watching him for hours; he lurks in the shadows and rears his spotted head only for brief moments, almost too quick to perceive. Finally he’s taken my bait, the Woolly Bugger I spent hours tying in the dim, ratty backroom of my mom’s basement. After hours of work on the fly and hours of work on the stream, I have my reward.

As the early morning sun streams in through the antique windows, I brush the sleep from my eyes and stumble down the creaky stairs. I grab my sleek black rod fitted with a cork handle, my favorite reel, tan waders, soggy old boots, and my worn out Red Sox hat adorned with stains, tears, and a bobby pin holding my current fishing license to the cap. I jump in my car and cruise through the winding 6

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backwoods of northeastern Pennsylvania. The clock on the dashboard reads 5:45 a.m. and the sun struggles to reach the tops of the ancient pine trees, which stand like giants on top of the rolling hills of Sullivan County. After about a half hour of dirt roads, country highways, and twisting mountain turns, I arrive at my destination.

You can’t really give directions to the place where I spend the earliest part of my day. There are no street signs, no houses, just a rusted old gate on a lonely dirt road. The key that unchains the age-old gate is entrusted to a slim few; being one of those people is one of my greatest sources of pride. After unlocking the gate, swinging it closed behind my car and making sure no one saw me enter this sacred path, I proceed on towards the pastime that haunts my daydreams.

Two miles down the most treacherous of cliffside roads, I reach the old, abandoned miner’s cabin.

The smell of the rotten wood from the cabin, the brisk mountain air, and the serene waters of the Susquehanna River intoxicate me. This scent has the rare ability to instantly bring a smile to my face.

As I sit upon the one remaining Adirondack chair and string the neon orange line up through my rod, the gentle clicking sound from the reel lightens my heart and relieves me of all stress. With the first fly of the day successfully attached to the tippet, I head on down the rickety path towards my private section of the river.

After maneuvering my way over unstable stones and mossy riverbed, I stake my spot in a shady, knee-deep section of the water. With a few practice casts under my belt, I begin my morning mission.

The only sound for miles in any direction is the quiet flow of the stream, the buzz of insects in the air, and the rustling of the forest in the morning breeze. The only noise coming from me is the soft swoosh of my line through the air.

Isolation is said to drive men insane. I don’t think I’m one of those men. Standing alone in the river with no one around me, I find peace. No one disturbs me, no phone beeps in my pocket, no alarm clock blares in my ear — just the sounds of nature.

Suddenly the subtle quiet of the morning is disturbed by a quick burst, the sound of a trout breaking the surface of the water to nip at the heels of a mayfly. Music to my ears, more beautiful than Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, a sound I long for all winter; I itch to hear it whenever I step foot in a stream.

goes by, then another, and finally after hours of solitary meditation I am rewarded. The trout bites the mayfly attached to my reel and causes my heart to skip a beat. Instincts take over and I grab the neon line and yank upwards ever so slightly. As soon as the hook embeds itself in the trout’s lip I reel in, not so fast as to shake the fish, but fast enough to tire it out. Some days the fish is easy to reel in. Within seconds he is in my net and something to brag about to my friends. Other days it isn’t so easy. Trout are formidable opponents; they often stop at nothing to escape the perils of my trusty net.

Upon the capture of my slippery foe, I feel a certain type of reward that is not often bestowed upon a person. A wave of emotions rushes over me: I feel pride for catching this creature by my own merit and skill. My hours of monotonous casting and reeling in have finally been commended by mother nature herself. Lastly, I feel joy. Fishing is one of the only hobbies I have that brings unprecedented joy and happiness to me. Even if I left the river that day empty handed, sent home with my tail between my legs, I would still have had the opportunity to wade out into that stream and do something I love, something I simply could not live without.

Fishing is like praying. I prefer to do it alone, and when I’m finished I feel like I have made good use of my time. As I prepare to go fishing, a flurry of excitement runs through my veins, and I nearly shake at the thought of being on the river. The dream of catching that trout that has escaped me all morning haunts me, but at the same time it gives me something to strive for.

I send my line toward the sound. My fly lands on the water as soft as a feather, and I wait. One second 7

The Struggles of Youth

By Xander Timpson

“Walking with a friend in the dark is better than walking alone in the light.”

— Helen Keller Homar was undoubtedly the coolest kid in class. Even the teachers knew it. Kids fought over who would be allowed to sit next to him every day during circle stories.

His parents had the sleekest car, he owned mind boggling toys that to this day I would still play with, and all the girls supposedly hated him, which was more than any kindergarten boy could ask for at the time.

But I never got caught up in all of the Homar hype because I had my own group of friends. I looked at my gang, Devon and T-Moe, more as brothers than friends. When Devon was put in time out, T-Moe and I would often voluntarily sit with him. When T-Moe went to the bathroom, Devon and I would go and join him simply for the company. Not only did we spend almost every moment at school together, but our parents organized a system so that every day after school we would switch off going to each other’s houses.

Every Saturday night there would be a sleep over; on Halloween we would wear matching costumes, and on New Year’s we even stayed up till midnight once, or at least we thought so until my mom told me a year later that she had set my clock forward two hours.

Dev-Dawg, as he used to call himself when speaking in the third person, was the closer of my two friends. His charismatic positivity often decided what our next childish activity would be. On the playground there was a small wooden play house just large enough for four kindergarteners. This was notoriously known as Devon’s, T-Moe’s, and my spot. Other students were scarcely let inside.

One Monday morning, we had arrived at Apple Tree School to discover the ground covered in a crystal blanket of angelic snow. As we all got equipped in our snow apparel for recess time, I realized with a regretful moan that I had forgotten my winter boots. You have to understand that this was hugely detrimental at the time. I trudged out8

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side in my stinky, worn down red converse, immediately feeling the cold rise up to my feet. T-Moe was for some reason absent that day, so Devon and I made our way over to our wooden clubhouse. All of the girls in the grade occupied the jungle gym, which was directly across from our house.

In the middle of an intriguing discussion about which Pokemon we would prefer to be, Devon and I heard a shrieking war cry from the jungle gym.

All the young girls, dressed in an assortment of neon Nickelodeon character clothes, began to charge. Devon looked down at my extreme disadvantage in footwear. He stripped off one of his boots and tossed it to me, implying that I should do the same with one of my Converse. After what seemed like hours of continuous chase, Mr. Hart rounded us back inside like a shepherd herding his sheep. I stumbled in the door, completely exhausted. I took off my jacket, snow pants, and shoes. One foot was frozen to the bone, while one was completely dry. Devon’s feet must have been the same way.

T-Moe was the opposite of cool Homar, in the sense that all of the girls adored him. He was taller than the rest of us, had sparkling blue eyes, and a head full of wavy blonde hair. In other words, he was quite the player in kindergarten. Once every few weeks, he would marry one of the girls in class.

More thought and time went into these pretend weddings than one can imagine; they took up the entire block of outdoor recess. Although they were

a pretty regular occurrence, I remember one in particular that did not sit well with Devon or me.

It was a crisp autumn day. Her name was Helen.

Shivers would run down my tiny vertebra upon hearing her shrill voice. She almost always wore bright pink, never participated in any athletic activities, and, both Devon and I knew, had the ability to sway energetic T-Moe into playing imaginary games like house, or even shopping, with her. The day of the wedding was blessed with sunshine. Gigantic piles of brown, red, and yellow leaves were scattered across the lawn. Devon and I had come up with a foolproof plan to destroy the ceremony. We chose to wait till the last possible second to spring into action; a dramatic entrance was key. Just as T-Moe and Helen went in for the hug to seal the deal, Devon and I sprinted out from behind two piles of leaves. Previously we had done Rock-Paper-Scissors to determine who was tackling whom. Luckily, I won and chose T-Moe. The two of them hit the ground upon our impact.

Not sure where to go from there, we ran, T-Moe included. Helen was left on the ground with a scraped knee, bawling her eyes out. Devon and I spent the next two days in time out for hurting Helen. T-Moe sat with us for the entire time.

Devon now attends Portland High School. Eight months ago he was expelled from Cape Elizabeth High school for dealing brownies laced with marijuana during school hours. After years of similar experiences, he had reached rock bottom. We have stayed friends, I think, over the many years, but it had become inevitable that he was a sinking ship, just waiting for deep enough water to drown in. I wish I had had the courage to be more of a positive presence during his quest for self-destruction.

After he was expelled, he asked me to talk to an admission person at my school about possibly letting him apply at mid-year. I truly wanted to help, but saw no future in his request. It sickens me to think of how not just Devon, but all my public school friends back home do not understand my choice of boarding school. I feel ostracized at times. Last summer, I saw Devon at a party. I sprinted over and picked up my delinquent, skinny friend. He reeked of liquor and could barely stand or participate in conversation. I love my dumb ass friend Devon. He’s a bit confused at the moment, but I truly believe he will find the

correct path in life. I think I’ll call him when I’m finished writing.

After I had not heard anything for a long time from T-Moe, my mom called me last spring to tell me T-Moe’s father, Ted, had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Memories flooded back of Ted, T-Moe, and I playing Wiffle Ball in the back yard of the house that Ted had designed and built by himself. I wish I had given Ted’s illness more thought at the time, but after a few days it had slipped my mind. In late August, my Mom woke me up with the news that Ted had passed away overnight. We would be attending the wake in a few days.

I showed up wearing a simple polo shirt, knowing Mr. Heliar would appreciate my informality. I selfishly hoped my first encounter with T-Moe in many years would not be awkward. As my parents and I waited, the line to see the mourning family slowly crept forward until were only a few people away. I caught my first real glimpse of T-Moe. My first thought was that he was huge, over six feet; my second thought was that he had a sense of peace in his eyes. He genuinely smiled at each person that offered their condolences to him. Finally my turn arrived. We locked eyes. The past ten years of my life were completely irrelevant at that moment. He grabbed me in a gigantic bear hug. I had no idea what type of person T-Moe had turned into, or even if I would still want to be his friend, but I could tell he appreciated me being there. He would have done the same for me.

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Fiction

Thick

By Lucas Galli

W

hat a strange word, I mused. Thick. I said it aloud. Thick. Again. I rolled it around in my mouth, tasted it, felt its complexity.

I disambiguated the word with my tongue, undressed it with my teeth. I frowned. How could such a simple word, just five letters, have so much meaning? Wide. Dense. Bulky. That was how I felt, I decided, head slightly cocked. Thick. Thick like plywood, thick like a wool sweater, thick like gooey peanut butter. I felt all of this. It seeped into me from everywhere, from everything I could remember. I kept saying it. There was something about it, about the way it rolled off the tongue, something subtly beautiful. I mulled it over some more, totally unaware of what was or was not going on around me. I had it. I lost it. Then I had it again. Thick doesn’t just describe a state of being, it embodies it. It’s as if the very thing it’s describing, the idea of thickness, perfectly described and explained the word itself. I liked that. I had found something intrinsic about words. I had totally lost sense of myself at this point. I could

have been a consciousness floating through a void, and I wouldn’t have been any the wiser.

I kept going deeper. I kept saying it, kept saying thick. I started to wonder, who decided to call things that are wide or dense or bulky thick? Why thick? It fits so perfectly, matches its description so perfectly, yet still it seems so random. Would things still be thick if we hadn’t come up with the word? Or would they be something else? Is thickness a real thing?

What if what we think thick means is wrong? What if someone messed up and thick really means thin or light or sparse? Would it even matter? It had totally lost its meaning by this point. The word thick no longer meant thick to me. It was a wonderful thing, breaking down the barriers of what words really are. Ideas. Arbitrary descriptions of the way things are. Thick, I said, louder this time. What an amazing thing, I thought. I started to smile, as I came rushing back to reality. Thick, I said one more time. Thick.

Fade

By Abigail Skinner

H

er hips are the perfect width. She is delicate but curvy at the same time, and — though at only fifteen she feels dangly and awkward — her long legs are growing to be beautiful.

The kind that models dream of. I am made for her.

I just want to hold her, to feel her soft skin and hug her close. But I’m sitting on her worn out beanbag chair, as I have since she brought me home. She only touches me at night, when her friends come over.

They talk about their freshman year in high school, the cute boys and the hard classes, the bad lunches

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and the too much homework. They practice shoveling makeup on their sweet, innocent faces, laughing at the finished products. They try to do with their hair just what the Seventeen magazine cover girl tells them to. After, she picks me up and we blend. Her friends stare at me in envy. We dance on her bed, music blaring and lights dimmed low. But this only happens at night when their confidence is at its highest. In the morning she pulls on her old sweatpants and a t-shirt, hiding her wonderful frame, scared of being looked at by the boys at school, or even worse, the girls.

She pulls her hair back and slips on her glasses. I sit here angry, impatient. She glances my way, walks to me, touches me gently, and I know she is considering pulling me on but she steps back and strolls out the door.

Now it is dark, and when the door opens a gust of cool air rushes in. She and her friends come in together, excited and nervous. The one with the red hair grabs me and throws me in the girl’s direction. I silently beg her to choose me tonight, and for some reason, she does. She steps into me and I hug her in all the right places. We stop in front of the mirror and she stands a little taller, like a young woman. Her friends let her hair down, and it falls gently around her shoulders. Soon we get into the car and she is bouncing her leg up and down. When we step back outside we are at her school. There is a roaring fire in the distance, and we walk briskly in that direction.

Her confidence is vibrant.

The bonfire blazes. Cheerleaders run the show. Football players take turns riding the cheap mechanical bull. A group of seniors dance to music that plays from the back of a beat up Ford truck. Their legs stagger. One girl hangs off of a muscular boy, arms wrapped around his neck, and he gives her a primal stare before they step into the shadows. We stand to the side, a little awkward, a little scared. I squeeze her a little tighter, and suddenly I see him. It must be him. The boy they gossip about. He is handsome, tall with dark hair and kind eyes that lightly brush over me before meeting her gaze. He approaches us slowly. Her friends giggle and soon they have disappeared and she is left alone to face him. I can feel her nerves tingle. She leans to one side, popping one hip out, and I stretch with her. She tries desperately to maintain her balance.

“Hey.” “Hi.” “I didn’t think I’d see you tonight.”

She pauses, and I know she’s at a loss for words. He asks her to come get a drink with him and we walk to the table of refreshments. A bowl of lemonade sits on the tablecloth, almost empty. Other boys have had several cups, and their eyes are beginning

to glaze over. There is just enough left for him to get us a cup, but he steps to the side and gets hot chocolate instead. We turn around and scan the landscape. From behind, I feel his eyes move over me and I want to tell her that he likes her, I’m sure of it.

I know it’s taking everything he has not to touch her, and I am proud that she chose me tonight, of all nights. We turn back around and he is smiling. He hands her the hot chocolate. Together, the three of us go to the fire to warm up. The moon in the sky reminds me of the lantern hanging in her room, but even more magnificent. Her body is tight beneath me and I know she is still cold, but he’s a smart boy, too, it turns out. He removes his jacket and loosely drapes it over her shoulders and she blushes.

Kids are cheering and chanting by the mechanical bull. Music echoes in the night. Hundreds of crazy teenagers surround us. This is not her kind of place.

On most weekends she is at home. She has never been brave enough to go out to big social gatherings.

She has never been kissed.

When we are walking back towards the parking lot, after most people have disappeared, he turns and faces her. I can feel her knees tremble. She rubs her hands nervously on my sides and he just stands there watching her, watching us. Finally he steps forwards and places his hand on her hip, sliding a finger through one of my loops. With his other hand he caresses her face, just like in the movies that she watches on her laptop in her room. The ones that make her cry.

When we get home, she is quiet. She doesn’t say much to her mom, but calmly she goes to her room and sits on her bed. We sit there for a little while. We stand back up and she steps in front of the mirror and leans in, looking at herself in a new way. Her cheeks are rosy, from the cold or the excitement. Her hair is tousled from the wind. She brings one hand to her mouth and runs her fingers over her lips slowly.

Finally she steps away and piles her hair in a bun on top of her head. She removes her contacts and replaces them with her glasses. She slides me right off and folds me neatly. Then she hugs me to her chest.

My denim smells of smoke and perfume. My bottom edges are dusty. She places me on top of her bureau and shuts off the light.

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Sharpshooter

By Branden Shaw

T

urkey Bugatti Dog, perennial all-star, jumps as high as he can, basketball cocked, ready to be launched. At the same time, his life and his body shoot him down. His body first: with a twist of his left ankle that travels all the way up his thigh, Dog knows what is happening. This is the first blow Dog feels. The next is not necessary, but he knows what is coming.

The shot his life gives him is the same shot responsible for his being alive. This shot came from blood, from bone, from family. Only Dog and the shooter know who’s responsible. Dog and his uncle know the truth.

This shot misses its desired target, hitting Dog in the lower back instead of the head. This shot ends Dog’s career, puts him in a wheelchair for life. It stops Dog from being paid: the endorsements, the women, the jerseys in the stands, hearing his name in the crowd — all gone.

He still plays late at night, while most people are asleep. The tremendous leaping ability is gone, but the shot is still there.

The shot is still there, also lodged in Dog’s memory, inescapable. Many times, he has had flashbacks of that moment: the net of the hoop turned inside out, the crack of gunfire, blood streaming on the court around him.

Sometimes, he wonders if he is too forgiving. If he should tell someone about his uncle.

Even when his uncle is a thousand miles away, thirty million dollars of Dog’s money richer, Dog remains loyal. His uncle’s voice echoes in his head, I am your God. Dog always saw himself as Harry Potter; he was supposed to be killed in infancy, never be heard of.

He was certainly never supposed to be in the NBA. Swoosh. Another ball leaves the net tangled on the rim, barely making a sound. As Dog shoots, he thinks about what could have been: his last season, the fans, the teammates, the money.

What if his uncle hadn’t visited on that other night?

His parents, drunk and homicidal, what would they have done? How would they have killed Dog? Would it be slow and gruesome, torturing the baby who knows not how or why? Or would it be quick and painless, like a quick slit of the throat. Would they be remorseful in the morning? Would they panic, ask What did we do? Would they turn themselves in out of guilt, or cover up the cruel act?

What if Dog’s uncle didn’t carry the gun that once saved him, and then took away everything he had come to love? What if his uncle had never been born?

Dog wonders as he stares at the rim, measuring its size, the feel of the ball like a skull in his hand, What if I pull this trigger?

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Still Waters, Vol. III, Issue 2

Pancake Tango

By Shannon Alvino

T

he daughter trudged down the stairs, the thought of breakfast an invisible rope tugging her down each step. The daughter found her mother at the dining room table, New York Times spread-eagled before her, reading glasses acting as a paperweight. The daughter disappointedly noticed that the eggs were still in the refrigerator uncracked, the bread sat in the breadbox soft in its untoastedness, the orange juice unpoured. In a subtle act of protest, the daughter jumped on the counter, English class novel in hand, glasses on because she was too sleepy to manage contact lenses.

It was a quiet standoff, punctuated only by the scholarly crinkle of turning pages. They were both lost in literature, whether it was the government shutdown or The Great Gatsby. Finally, her mother waved the idea of making pancakes as a white flag.

This was met with the typical teenage Fine.

of pancakes. They sat and ate in a chocolate maple syrup silence. They simultaneously stood up, both reaching to clear the plates, laughing as their hands collided in matched selflessness. Together they rinsed dishes and returned ingredients to their familiar cabinet homes, an encore to their pancake dance.

The daughter hopped off the counter, carelessly tossing her book down, while her mother deliberately stood up, folding the newspaper like laundry.

The duties were already predetermined from years of Sunday breakfasts. The daughter collected the ingredients while her mother turned the stove on and grabbed a bowl and other necessary utensils.

The flour, baking powder, and salt were moved from their cabinet homes to the granite countertop.

While her mother mixed the dry ingredients, the daughter rummaged through cabinets once again for plates and silverware. Lost in thought, they both mindlessly hummed Broadway show tunes, a shared guilty pleasure. Somewhere between Defying Gravity and Castle on a Cloud the table was set and the batter was mixed.

When the griddle warmed to perfect pancake temperature, the mother and her daughter stood sideby-side facing the steaming surface. One held the batter, one held the chocolate chips. With expert precision she poured six pale circles, soon to be peppered with chocolate chips. A perfect four armed machine: pouring, placing, flipping, serving.

This delicate tango continued until the mixing bowl was devoid of batter and the plates were full 13

Poetry

Hardwood

by Matt Greely tip toe, tip toe creak, creak, creak the hard wood

Pumpkin Pancakes

floor

by Sheila O’Neill

caked with dust

tiny pear droplets of

and dirt

golden lava slowly drizzle

starting to

down jagged waves of

act its age

an enormous mountain

under my feet never silent

piping fluffy hot rust-orange cinnamon pumpkin ripe juicy blueberries exude smells of autumn with the rising heat flashes of rapid yellow rich orange radiant red lights jump up from the still gray sea bursting through the giant clear gap along the east wall shattering angular light shards across the shiny white table where the crisp fall meets the warm rich smell of October foliage on a Sunday morning On 1020 Park Avenue

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Still Waters, Vol. III, Issue 2

Rapunzel

by Tommy Connelly Naïve husband listens to his wife’s cries Realistic: you think she’s going to die?

No Rapunzel plant in her diet Really shouldn’t make for such a riot — Because of all this your daughter is lost to you And as the sorceress put it: Safe, away from the whole world If that makes any sense at all Don’t worry though because A prince has found her Deep in the woods where the sorceress Bound her To live a life away from people Placed high up in a steeple (Fine, a tower if you want to get technical) But even her hair wasn’t directional The Prince kept coming so They finally tied the knot Then she got pregnant and things got rough Banished in the woods in a rush The prince, blind, stumbled around, Finally found her, realized he knew This ground.

The family went home and lived happily ever after — Now, to deal with that annoying children’s laughter.

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Paper Plane

by Sophie Hord Mom first taught me how to do it To make a sheet of paper slice the air To glide like a plane One lazy Sunday morning She set a piece of paper in front of me Now it’s your turn.

Chamomile Vanilla

I began to bend and fold

by Sheila O’Neill

To mimic my mom And then with a flick of my wrist My paper flew

the kettle screeches me awake from my Sunday night daze and my mom pours the steaming water into her faded blue and white china mug my breath slows, my tight muscles soften while the familiar smell of chamomile, honey, vanilla fill the new white marble kitchen — flashes of yellow cabs zip along Park Avenue my heavy eyelids shutter closed as sweet steam rises and my body folds like an accordion pushed inward I look out, see my rope swing on the big old tree; the kettle screech startles me — my mom pours the steaming water into her new blue and white china mug

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Still Waters, Vol. III, Issue 2

The Memories of Sound

by Sophie Hord Stop for a second to think about it How a sound up close is Poison to eat, but From far away, It is beyond peaceful.

The mystery of the dark

Fall Day

Sends an energy of calm down my spine

by Sophie Hord

A train at night howling through

Because it returns me to you.

In the velvet green grass To the old house on Beaver Street

The sun shone down on my

And staying up late with you

Pale freckled face

In the serene library watching Jay Leno And eating ice cream.

Red and orange leaves speckled The yard, a New England feel

We would hear the cries

To this quaint New York town

Of the distant trains — The sound brings me back

The maple tree appeared angry

To our fleeting moments,

Its bark split and

So simple.

The tips of green leaves red Like devil horns In the distance a leaf blower Struck the air, revealing autumn — Tomorrow kids will jump in the piles Just like we did A very, very long time ago

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Night Voices: A Collection

by Megan Quinn

The Shadow Most people think

His shadow

that shadows only walk among us

an image of what could have been

in the light of day

feeds on weakness

That they move with us,

mistakes,

mimic our every move

mistakes

But in the hot country

and secrets

where a young man lives

soulless,

such puddles of darkness

yet more successful

wither away

than the man could ever be

beneath the smoldering sun

The people of the hot country

But under twinkling stars

crave wrong

and fizzling fireworks

ignore right

upon a balcony

and thrive beneath shimmering stars

the young man’s shadow dances

Wedding bells chime,

in the dim

ringing through the cool clear

flickering light of a solitary

night air

lamp

People cheer but

The dark of the night

the dead can’t hear

breathes life into the city

the sounds of what could have been

into the man’s shadow The man speaks of beauty in a place that listens only to Sorrow

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Still Waters, Vol. III, Issue 2

Lies 2:30 am

with the beating of my heart,

I still feel your

but the moment is fleeting.

thin,

Nestling my face

chapped lips

into your tattered

graze mine

gray sweatshirt

I taste

that reeks of

the sting of alcohol

cigarettes and

heavy on your breath

cheap cologne

Your eyes

I grasp onto you tight

are murky like water,

then

dark and

watch you

indecisive

walk away

I’m consumed by you

and fade

intrigued

into the still

by your sins

of the night

and obsessed

carrying a piece of me

with the rush,

with you.

A Moment blistered bare feet hover above the murky harbor water — backs of bare thighs scraped, rest on rotting weathered wood a thick haze of gasoline and cigarette smoke lingers heavy in the august air waves lap the harbor shore as the glare of a faraway lighthouse reflects golden light in an unbroken harmony

19

To the City That Never Sleeps The moment I saw you through dirty, tinted bus windows nothing had ever felt so right What a release it was to break free, to close my eyes, to inhale your humid July air for the first time As I exhaled I opened my eyes to as much of you as I could to miles of buildings painted along your hazy horizon, to cars, to people, to a new place and in that moment I knew that I had already fallen for you But there was so much about you that I didn’t know, so much that I would never know, and that was okay.

It has been almost two months since we said goodbye so I am writing to tell you that I miss you, that I miss the slow pace of the mornings, and that old man in the coffee shop next door who always remembered my order I miss floating among a sea of unfamiliar faces, getting lost in it, taking it all in and finding my way again, finding myself I miss the sound of your voice — horns honking, engines revving and the fluidity of the foreign language that rolled effortless off your tongue I can still feel your touch the way the sun exposed itself in your

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Still Waters, Vol. III, Issue 2

cloudless sky,

And then I blinked.

reaching down

And it was over.

and setting fire to my bare skin

And you were staring at me.

as if it were doused in gasoline

You saw

I miss the cool, sticky stream of

my face framed by a little

runaway gelato

dirty, dusty,

that trickled out of my cup

square window.

and onto my hand

I pressed my palm against the glass,

I miss the slow pace and sleepy sweetness of

trapped again.

the day

I closed my eyes.

and the 2 a.m. birth of the night

Pieces of fleeting moments together

I miss the taste of freedom, of

replayed over and over in my mind.

3 a.m. lights burning brighter than the noon sun

I opened my eyes

dj’s spinning faster than rush hour cars

and all that was left through the dirty window

and adrenaline coursing through my veins

were miles of dark blue.

In the midst of my escape I still hear music erupting from volcanic speakers I still feel the sting, room spinning, colors combining like never before familiar faces swept away by tidal waves of strangers I remember how on my last night you showed me the colors of your 5 a.m. sunrise through the passenger side window of the cab that I hailed by myself.

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The Still Waters Interview Megan Quinn is a senior at Brooks, and her collection of poetry appears in this issue of Still Waters. Recently, she sat down with us and shared her thoughts about poetry, writing, and how urban life inspires her to write.

SW: What is it about writing poetry that you find appealing?

Quinn: I like writing poetry much more than prose or short stories. With poetry, I have so much more freedom and I kind of just write things down as they pop into my head. Most of my poems are formed in my head. Also, on some level, I don’t really have to worry about punctuation, which is nice because it’s not my strong point!

SW: You are relatively new to having your poetry published. What is it like to know that your poems will have a large audience in this issue of Still Waters?

Quinn: To be honest it’s kind of scary! I have never really shared my poetry with anyone except teachers for class, so it’s a big step to have people I go to school with read it. I don’t really think people know that I like to write.

SW: The speakers in your poems have very strong voices. Some are fictional speakers, some seem to be autobiographical. Is there a difference telling a story as a fictional character versus writing as yourself?

Quinn: There is definitely a difference. When I write about my own experiences, words kind of just flow out of my head, and it’s easy because I just think of a moment or a feeling I had and then I have a poem.

When I write from the perspective of a fictional character, like in The Shadow, which is about a fairytale, I have to imagine myself in the speaker’s position and imagine myself feeling and seeing the things that this person sees and feels. I also did this in my poem Lies, which was a class assignment to write a poem about something untrue. To make it sound realistic, I used a mix of my own experiences and things I made up.

When writing about fictional subjects, or as a fictional character, I can take my own experiences, things I’ve seen, heard or felt, and apply them to the fictional situation to make it come to life and sound more realistic.

SW: Many of your poems are clearly inspired by city life. How is the city a rich place to find inspiration for writing?

Quinn: There is so much going on in a city! It’s exciting to write about. It’s different than just writing about nature, for instance, because there are so many obvious things that are loud and in your face in a city. But then there are also the little hidden details that you have to pay closer attention to see, hear or feel.

I spent a month in Spain this summer in Barcelona and Madrid, which inspired a lot of the imagery in my poems.

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Still Waters, Vol. III, Issue 2

SW: Images of the night are recurring in your poetry. What is it that draws you to the night in your writing?

Quinn: I don’t have a straight answer to this one. I think I’m just kind of drawn to it. I just love the night and even though it’s dark I think there are just as many fun, beautiful or exciting things that happen. Night time is more mysterious, too, which makes it fun to write about.

SW: Who are your favorite authors and what draws you to them?

Quinn: I know it’s cheesy but I really like love poems. So I love Pablo Neruda’s poems; I think they’re so beautiful. I also listen to a lot of different types of music, which I’m drawn to for different reasons. I love it when songs are more poetic, and have a deeper meaning.

SW: Tell us about your writing process? Do you revise much, or do poems spring fully formed from your imagination? Where do you like to write?

Quinn: I just kind of write. I just let words come out of my head and onto paper and somehow it turns out okay! I do revise to make things sound better, but I don’t have a set process, I just write what I feel.

SW: Do you have a favorite poem from your own collection? Why is it your favorite?

Quinn: I don’t think I really have a favorite…they all mean different things to me. A lot of times I’ll think a poem that I wrote is bad, but then my teacher will be like, “This is good! You need to submit this!” So here I am.

SW: Do you see writing as part of your life beyond Brooks?

Quinn: I will always love writing, so it will always be a part of my life.

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