Still Waters - Vol. IV, Issue 1

STILL WATERS A BROOKS SCHOOL 
 LITERARY MAGAZINE VOL IV, ISSUE I

STILL WATERS A BROOKS SCHOOL LITERARY MAGAZINE

VOL IV, ISSUE I

EDITORS

Dean Charpentier, English Department Chair John Haile, English teacher

STUDENT EDITORS-IN-CHIEF Abbey Charlamb ’21 Ryan Winchester ’21

DESIGNER

Abbey Charlamb ’21

PUBLICATIONS

Rebecca Binder, Director of Publications, English Teacher Jennifer O’Neill, Director of Digital Communications

COVER ART

Nancy Perkins ’21 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 are no restrictions on word count, and authors may submit multiple submissions at a time. Send submissions in a shared google document or to the school email address of the student staff members (acharlamb or rwinchester).

Decisions are made on a rolling basis, and once submitted, a piece will be eligible for publication in any future issue of Still Waters.

The true alchemists do not change lead into gold; they change the world into words - William H. Gass

CONTENTS FICTION 2 3 4 5 7

A MISTAKEN GOODBYE by Anya Sanchorawala RED DIRT by Jack Frimet PAST AND FUTURE by Melanie Pestana THE SKELETON OF HOME by Mary Boshar UNSPOKEN by Ashley Picard

POETRY 10 SOMETHING ABOUT THE COLOR YELLOW by Aileen Arias 11 THANK YOU FOR THE OCEANS by Nikki LaPierre 12 TOO MUCH SPICE by Amy Del Cid 13 IF THE WORLD FELT PURPLE by Aileen Arias 14 FOURTEEN (THE JOURNEY) by Amy Del Cid 15 ADOLESCENTS by Nikki LaPierre 16 SO-CALLED SAFETY SCISSORS by Abbey Charlamb

INTERVIEW 17 THE INTERVIEW with Abbey Charlamb

a note from the editor…

The Return of Still Waters, Dean Charpentier, English Department Chair Imagination never takes a hiatus.

Life moves inexorably forward: classes, friendships, family issues. The business of a school, of a community. Things get in the way of a publication like Still Waters. Available time shrinks, and the business of the magazine grows, until the two are no longer compatible, and the magazine goes on a hiatus.

But imagination still bubbles, cauldron like, in quiet corners. It finds other outlets, like The Tavern, a wonderful sister publication. Or in our gleaming new art center.

Covid-19 has changed our lives suddenly and unexpectedly, in ways we never anticipated or conceived of just months ago. In times like these, imagination can take on a larger role. It creeps out of the darkness and taps us on the shoulder. Remember me? We are startled into the realization that we had let life get in the way.

Thanks to the persistence of young people -- mainly Abbey Charlamb and Ryan Winchester, the new Chief Student Editors of Still Waters -- we are letting imagination back into the light.

This is, of course, ironic. In this time of isolation, we must find other ways to connect. The sharing of art -- visual, performance, or in this case, literary -- is the original form of virtual connection. Video conferencing be damned.

The former poet laureate of the United States, Billy Collins, objects to the idea that in times of crisis, we “turn toward” poetry, as this implies incorrectly that in calmer times, we turn away from, or are in the state of being turned away from, poetry. I couldn’t agree more with Collins. We are always turned toward imagination. Sometimes we just need a little help spotting it.

In the pages of this issue of Still Waters, we discover that imagination had been bubbling and boiling all along. It’s just time for us to go to the toil and trouble of shining our light on it once again.

Brooks School 1

A Mistaken Goodbye

TEARS STREAK HER FACE,

to examine her twinkling smile. I want to

accompanied with the remnants of last

prove my love to her, convince her of my

night’s mascara. Her lipstick remains

infatuation. I want her. I love her. Instead, I

smeared all over her deflated cheeks. Her

sit on the floor, alongside the smashed

crystal blue eyes that I once found

lamp, without a voice. It is time to leave.

mesmerizing fail to appear under the

My fingers swell, dried blood as

curtains of puffy red. Her long brown hair

my gloves. Cuts from the flying glass cover

drapes her body, providing her only sense

my body. How did this happen? Where am

of safety. I stay over here. She stays silent.

I? Who am I? Who is she? Her usually

It is time to leave.

empowered stance, her booming cackle,

The clouds grumble through the

her defiance all seem infinitely far away.

open window, only pushing more heat in

She sits opposite me, eyes distant and

between us. The air becomes thick and

devoid of herself. She is gone. She has left.

sticky, and tears fall from the sky. I guess

Why am I still here? What have I done? It is

everyone needed to cry. The bed remains

time to leave.

perfectly made, unslept in, except for two

The door of the hotel room, our

small dents on opposite sides. The pieces

honeymoon suite, slams behind me. The

of the bathroom door live shattered on

fluorescent lights clash against my tired

musty carpet. The toilet reeks of vomit,

eyes, making me squint in discomfort. A

and the small trashcan overflows with

young bellboy questions my appearance

bottles of booze. Once perfectly white tiles

with his intrusive brown eyes, but I keep

are splattered with blood, with tears, with

walking. I miss her eyes. I step into the

anguish. It is time to leave.

elevator, grateful for the solitude I deserve.

Purple and black cover her thin

Just before closing, a family of five steps

legs, her beautiful stomach, her warm

into the crowded space, pushing me

heart. Her eyes face the ground, perusing

further into my dark hole. It is time to

the floral printed carpets. All I want is to

leave.

touch her, to feel her soft lips teasing mine,

2 Still Waters Vol. IV, Issue I.

Red Dirt by Jack Frimet BACK ON THE FARM. As you arrive you try to see if anyone is on the front porch. The car kicks up dust from the driveway, so you decide to stop and walk through the field. Dust isn’t great for the engine anyway. You feel the red dirt in your chest as you breathe in. It used to cake your mouth and nose, turning your spit red. It took a while for that to go away. You never thought you would see this place again, but it looks exactly like you remembered. Ma was nothing if not consistent. The grass crunches under your feet and you smell cows. It’s unpleasant. That’s new. It never bothered you when you were a kid.

You feel the ant hills and pebbles under your feet. Those damn ants never went away, no matter how many hills you kicked over.

You close your eyes, take two more steps, and you jump, landing right in the middle of the stream. So much for muscle memory. You remember digging the irrigation system with your brothers. Ma wouldn’t rent a digger so you had to do it by hand, and by the end, you could see the bones in your fingers. But you just taped them up and kept digging. Farm life. Honestly, once those callouses went away you forgot what that work was like. Ma told you that you can tell a lot about people just by their hands. You wonder what she’s gonna think of yours.

You get closer and the heat starts to lighten up. The sun is down behind the mountain now. You would take your breaks at this time of day. Grab a drink and sit right where the sun meets the shade, that way it was dark enough to nap but still warm enough to enjoy it. You spent so much time napping in the sun that you could feel when the rain clouds moved in. Well, you learned that one the hard way. The hay bales seem smaller now. You must have gotten bigger. You know Ma would never change the baling system.

As you get closer to the shed you see the windows are gone and the door isn’t closed. You try to shut it but it won’t budge. The tractors are gray. The paint is chipped and the dust is piling up. The green paint you lathered on every year is barely noticeable, and you see yellow foam protruding from the ripped seats. You turn around and head toward the house. The big tree still has the tire swing on it. At least that still looks like it’s in good shape. You think about sitting on it, but you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself if it broke. So you just move on. Up two steps to the porch. You get a splinter from the old white bannister. You wonder if Ma is home, then you see a glass of iced tea with ice cubes still floating. Walk past the rocking chair. Open the screen door. Knock and wait.

Fiction 3

Past and Future by Melanie Pestana YOU SHUT THE CAR DOOR without looking. You’re not looking at the car but up at your past and future all in one. Your walking boots crunch over the gravel in the same way they had then. Was this the same day, only years later, too? You wouldn’t be surprised. Stopping for a breath, you inhale moist grass and the aroma of distant animal manure. The sparkling familiar sun wraps itself around you in warmest greeting.

You bend down and undo the knot in each of your laces, allowing you to strip yourself of your boots and grey socks. Clenching your toes in the growth, blades of grass tickle your feet. You pop a shoulder up to readjust the weight of your pack, the boots now off-duty on your back. They wouldn’t be needed anymore, she was never really fond of the chunky things anyhow. Your feet squish with every step, the soil sodden in most places, slightly damp in others. If you breathe deeply enough, you can smell yesterday's rain. And in the blink of an eye, the red wooden door is upon you, the rustic bronze knob crying out to you to be turned, to finally show you what you’ve been missing all this time. But this is no longer yours, it is hers. And now, you must knock.

Gabi Garozzo ‘21 4 Still Waters Vol. IV, Issue I.

The Skeleton of Home by Mary Boshar THE TRAIN RUMBLED as it cruised

looking out the window. She finished her

along the tracks. The thundering

book, already the second one this week.

intensified as the train picked up speed,

After a while, the fields became houses.

leaving the small ramshackle station

Around her, people slept with their heads

behind. She sat alone, two cars from the

tilted against the window. The passengers

front. The train was just empty enough for

that were awake listened to music through

her to have a seat to herself, which she was

headphones or stared at their phones or

grateful for. She sat on the right side in the

laptops. The car rocked back and forth,

seat closest to the window and watched as

fighting the forceful wind. Now the houses

untouched fields and modest homes

were so close together she could barely

passed by. Whenever she traveled she

distinguish one from the next.

took the window seat. She was an

As the train slowed, she could

observer. She liked being able to sit still

see the separation between houses and

while time passed around her, the only

factories that before was an

separation a glass pane. She never

indistinguishable blur of color on the dull

bothered to sleep while she was traveling

landscape. Braking to approach the

because she felt like there was too much of

station, the train screeched, steel scraping

the world that she was missing out on.

against steel. Before the train had even

But the landscape flashing

come to a complete stop, people were on

outside her window was not enough to

their feet, tucking belongings into

distract her. It had been years since she

backpacks and reaching for suitcases

had been home--ten, maybe eleven since

below their seats and above their heads.

the last time. She had reconciled with her

She dropped her book into her

family but her busy lifestyle had gotten in

backpack that was stuffed with clothing

the way of her visiting. As thoughts about

and toiletries. She always traveled light, it

her family and childhood took over, she

just made it easier. She was one of the last

became overwhelmed by the idea of

people off the train. She stood at her seat,

reconnecting.

letting passengers behind her exit first.

She spent the last six hours of the ride alternating between reading and

Everyone was in a rush and she did not mind waiting.

Fiction 5

She stepped off the train onto the

home. Although the houses were

cement platform and immediately felt the

surrounded by trees and brush, it didn’t

heat of the sun. It was warm, but not

feel like she was in the middle of the

unbearable. The slight wind and lack of

woods. The taxi pulled into the driveway of

humidity brought her back to the days

a medium-sized ranch with a small front

when she would sit in an adirondack chair

yard and brick walkway.

in the backyard with a book, soaking up

The house looked years younger

the sun’s warmth. The station was loud but

than the last time she saw it. The yard was

somehow peaceful. Around her, people

more lush than before and the weeds that

carried on with their lives, meeting

grew between the cracks of the brick

relatives as they stepped off the train or

walkway were gone. The garage door had

ducking into cars to get to their final

been replaced and was now a stormy grey

destination.

instead of blue. The large oak tree that had

She walked through the station

stood to the right of the house, shading

and was hit with cold air. The air

the dining room, had been cut down.

conditioning felt like overkill. She walked

There was no trace that it had even been

out of the exit and hailed a taxi, plopping

there, the stump was completely removed

into the backseat with her backpack. She

and grass grew over the spot seamlessly. A

gave the driver directions and with one

wooden swing big enough for three

swift motion, he swung the car left, away

people hung from the front porch. She

from the sidewalk, and then right into the

smiled. A porch swing was something that

right-hand lane. The ride was smooth and

she had always wanted as a kid.

quiet. She only spoke to the driver when

Beneath the new layers of paint

he made a wrong turn towards the center

and manicured lawn was the skeleton of

of town. She looked out the window and

her childhood home. The changes

noticed new buildings where old ones

surprised her, she didn’t expect everything

once stood and fresh landscaping.

to look so different even though it had

Twelve minutes later, the taxi pulled down a narrow paved road, barely

been a decade.

She handed cash over to the

wide enough for two cars, woods on either

driver and stepped out of the cab,

side. The road was not well maintained.

throwing her backpack over her right

That had not changed since she had been

shoulder. She walked along the brick path

6 Still Waters Vol. IV, Issue I.

towards the front door that she could now

The stairs were no longer covered in

see matched the color of the garage.

carpet, but were exposed wood. The small

There was a doorbell, but she reached for

table and mirror from the foyer were gone

the metal knocker and banged on the door

and replaced by a line of metal hooks

three times. She heard the sound of a dog

where jackets and bags hung. The

barking, which caught her by surprise.

patterned wallpaper had been torn down

A few moments later, she heard the lock shift inside the door. It was silent

and the walls were painted light blue.

The woman asked if she could

for a moment, and then the door swung

help her, so she explained that she was

open revealing a middle aged woman in

looking for her parents who lived there.

flared jeans and a rust-colored sweater, a

The woman said that she must have the

woman she did not recognize. A chocolate

wrong address and kindly explained that

lab with a purple collar stood at her feet,

she lived in the house with her husband,

wagging his tail. Now the door was wide

and they had been here since their kids

open and she could see inside the house.

were in middle school, almost ten years.

There was very little that she recognized.

Unspoken by Ashely Picard IT WAS A COOL MARCH DAY -slightly overcast with an occasional drizzle, but still bright. The kind of day where you

the technique of shifting gears while driving.

He had picked her up earlier in

aren't sure whether or not you should wear

the morning. She told him she wanted to

sunglasses. They drove in his stick shift car.

go on an adventure, but she needed

She never understood how he could drive

breakfast. They went to a small diner, just

that thing. He tried to teach her once, but

off a main road, tucked away in a series of

her lack of ability to multitask made it hard

new local business buildings. It was a

for her to grasp

yellow building and she wondered if it had once been a house. The aesthetic of the

Fiction 7

front door was seventies. Once through

and mouth that she had lived a hard life

the door, it was clear it was a classic,

outside the diner. Standing patiently with

untouched by the style of today.

her small notepad and pen, she took their

They paused in the doorway to see where they were going to sit. The dining room had light yellowy-green

orders. He ordered waffles while she ordered pancakes.

It was quiet, just a few senior

wallpaper, navy blue tables trimmed with

citizens scattered around the dining room.

metal were surrounded by metal chairs on

Some sat together, a man and a woman,

all sides of the square diner. The chairs had

two men, two women, and some were on

worn maroon seat cushions, similar to

their own by the window. Some talked and

those in the booths which formed a semi

read the paper, while others just looked

wall in between the tables. The booths had

out the window at the cars.

wooden backs, and their tables had the same blue, metal lined surface.

She pointed at a table by the

While they waited for their food, they talked, making fun of the old people quietly, guessing who they were, what they

window on the left side. He nodded. As

had done all their lives, and how they had

they made their way to the table, more

ended up at the diner that morning. She

obvious than intended, she snagged a kids

even started a game of tic-tac-toe with him

menu from the hostess booth even though

on one of the white, lacy napkins that sat

she was not a child.

on the table, against the wall. He won

Once seated, they both ordered coffee. The waitress was in her mid fifties, it

every time, he was smart like that.

The waitress came with their

looked like she had worked there for a

food. She balanced each orange oval plate

while. It was clear who were the regulars

that took up the length of her arm. Steam

because they knew her and she knew

billowed from the food; it was fresh. Her

them. She was wearing a worn-out, black

pancakes had a side of fruit, while his

shirt with the logo of the diner, jeans, and a

waffles had a side of hash browns. Each

cream colored apron around her waist. Her

had a significantly sized cube of butter on

hair was black, with a few gray strands, and

top. She attempted to drizzle syrup on her

it was pulled back into a messy ponytail.

pancakes, but more than expected left the

Her smile was warm, but you could see

bottle. She flinched, trying to stop the

through the wrinkles by her eyes, forehead,

syrup from pouring out. He laughed.

8 Still Waters Vol. IV, Issue I.

Her pancakes tasted like they had

The walkway onto the beach was

just been taken off the skillet; they were

plywood and each plank was about four

warm and moist. Because of her syrup

feet long. The wooden pallets were worn

incident, they were a bit heavy, but the

and looked like they were once shipping

taste of syrup and butter rested tastefully

pallets. The walkway went for about ten

on her tongue. His waffles were airy and

feet before the sand engulfed it, drowning

light. They were perfectly crispy on the

into the beach. It was windy, not an

edges -- a bit of crunch but still soft -- like

uncomfortable windy, but enough to swirl

biting into a fresh cookie. After finishing,

her hair around. They could smell the salt

they paid and left a nice tip. Getting into

and heard the calls of seagulls as the dog

the car, she asked where they were off to

ahead chased after a flock. They walked

and he responded, “You’ll see.”. She

the beach, picking up rocks and shells.

smiled and looked out the window.

They talked about everything, laughing at

They pulled into the parking lot

the stupid shit their friends did, talking

on the right side of the road, the sand

about what lay ahead, even about where

grinding under the tires. It was a small

they thought the sand came from.

parking lot, not designed for the heavy

At one point they stopped

flow of beach-going New Englanders

walking. She looked out at the sea, to what

during the summer months. Today, there

looked like the end of the world, and took

was just one other car in the parking lot

a seat on the damp sand. Her jacket just

and it appeared that the owners were

barely reached under her butt. She sat and

walking on the shore with their dog. He

smiled faintly as she watched each wave

parked and turned off the car.

crash into the dark Massachusetts shore.

They could hear the sound of

He looked at her, a bit confused, and sat

waves crashing on the beach, muffled by

down too. They sat shoulder to shoulder

the closed car. She looked at him and he

just quietly looking out.

looked at her. They both got out of the car

and closed their doors. Before helping her put on her jacket, he laughed as he watched her struggle because she didn’t realize the sleeve was inside out.

Fiction 9

Something About the Color Yellow by Aileen Arias The first time I saw you You were wearing a yellow shirt It was soft I know because I pressed my face Against your chest Your smile absorbed the warmth of the sun And ever since then, Pineapples are sweeter Bumblebees no longer bother me Vanilla is my favorite scent Sunflowers became the most beautiful flower Yellow became my favorite color But the whole time You preferred apples over pineapples ladybugs over bumblebees cherry blossom over vanilla roses over sunflowers Yellow was never your favorite color

 

10 Still Waters Vol. IV, Issue I.

Thank You for the Oceans by Nikki LaPierre To the woman who taught me how to love: Thank you for giving me the power to move mountains and the strength to climb them.

Teaching me to live with curious feet and a perceptive mind.

To drink the sunlight from the darkest places and let it spill out your eyes To travel the world get lost and find yourself on the adventure back home To pull the most vulnerable parts out and serve them to your enemy for we don't need more walls in this world.

To write everything, make lists, practice yoga, To enjoy not only the vibrancy of the sunset but the pureness of the night Thank you for being the perfect brew between mother and best friend.

For every tear brush off my cheek into your palm.

For laughing just loud enough in hope the jovial melody will become contagious.

Mom, It took me long to grasp how you give so much expecting nothing in return.

At infancy you handed me your heart with unbroken faith that I would care for it.

Just as I gave you mine.

Borders or inches away we have each other hearts in our viens our bones our minds Permanently a part of one another.

Thank you for teaching me it's okay to give someone your heart and trust them blindly with your existence In their palms Thank you For giving me oceans, You have my heart Forever and always For you were the first one who taught me how to love.

Poetry 11

Too Much Spice by Amy Del Cid I am proud of who I am.

Now, I may not be the most athletic out of the bunch Can’t make my lacrosse cradle smooth and in pace, or beat others in the race But I can certainly pack a punch.

And I may not be the cream of the crop in mathematics, But I know that it’s not my fault, it’s the systematic - Oppression that people of color have faced.

When those other folks get a taste, It knocks em out cold, hard in the face.

They can’t take the heat.

My Latin spice is too hot for them.

They can’t handle it.

Now, I don’t eat mashed potatoes and string beans for dinner, I eat tortillas, frijoles, and queso for winners.

Your cutthroat words cannot be heard Over the sound of the music that helps me learn The noise of my people - timeless records.

The rhythm of cumbia, bachata, salsa and more I am prouder than I’ve ever been before.

Never can they measure the pride we have, Never will they silence our voices.

Never can they understand how difficult it is to be Latino, And the consequences of our choices.

Stop saying you have nothing to learn.

Stop believing that our issues are none of your concern.

Stop refusing to accept where you have gone wrong.

Because wherever we go, we will never play along.

12 Still Waters Vol. IV, Issue I.

If the World Felt Purple by Aileen Arias Today I lit a candle Our house…

My house smelled of lavender It filled the absence of your presence You would’ve liked it Today I watched the sunset without you.

I wish you could’ve seen it the Sadness of the Northern skies the Anger of the West the beautiful blend of emotions Who knew god was an artist Blinking was an option, yet I chose to stare.

To intake.

Inhale the Sadness The Anger The mix of emotions…

I wonder what would happen If the rest of the world felt purple

Lydia Barker ‘21

Poetry 13

Fourteen (the journey) by Amy Del Cid The sound of the lake is not too far, From where all of the children are.

The sky bleeds bright blue with white, It will soon turn black at night.

Along the edge of the grass Lies a stone wall that seems to pass, Between one and the paradise that sits ahead To cross over, one might be found dead.

The chirping birds fly with fear, For the radiating sun holds no mercy here.

Despite the welcoming arms of the trees, The loud and harsh crunch of dead leaves Show that there is nothing left to lose One must stay or go, just choose.

14 Still Waters Vol. IV, Issue I.

Adolescents by Nikki LaPierre Toxic seeds spill from glossed lips

 

and sprout from your toes.

The empty syllables climb your legs, infest your stomach, take over your heart, wrap around your brain, and burst from glassy eyes.

Uproot them.

Mary Boshar ‘20

Poetry 15

So Called Safety Scissors by Abbey Charlamb I think it’s pretty scary How quickly I can Cut someone out of my life.

I am so quick to grab The so called safety scissors that I never remember how impossible it is To cut someone back in.

On my nightstand sits a Family portrait with a lot of Empty spaces.

I think it’s even scarier How rapidly I can Spit words out of my mouth, its Perfunctory like Brushing my teeth.

I hate you, Is drooled into the bathroom sink.

Toothpaste words My mom warned, Will never be able to Be squeezed back in.

16 Still Waters Vol. IV, Issue I.

The Interview with Abbey Charlamb Why did you want to revive Still Waters?

Writing has always been a big part of my life, and this by no means changed when I came to Brooks. However, my inspiration has always been reading poems, short stories, etc. from other writers. I think Brooks lacked a space to share amazing writing with the community, and that is why I am so glad Still Waters is making a comeback! Brooks students have some pretty cool stories, and now we have a place where everyone is able to read them.

What has the act of writing meant to you in your life?

I used to write fiction. Crazy stories about girls turning into trees or opening my own restaurant. These stories were the culmination of my childhood creativity. As I got older, my writing topics shifted towards my own “realistic” life, and this is how I now deal with my hardest times. Writing has allowed me to open up about my world and understand my own life in a new way.

Who are your favorite writers and why?

One of my favorite writers is Beth Ann Fennelly. I was introduced to her by Brooks School’s very own Mr. Haile, and in my poetry winter term we were lucky enough to actually speak with her. Her writing has a sense of rawness to it; she tells her life how it is, and it is very interesting. Whenever I read her work I find inspiration to write my own poems.

Do you have a specific process when you sit down to write?

I write anything that comes to mind. I get it all down on paper. No matter how weird or bad or unpoetic it sounds, I put it into words. This is the only way I come up with writing that actually has meaning to me.

Do you have any bits of advice for other young writers out there?

I can’t take credit for this advice — it is from my mother. But write what you know.

Making up fictional stories is fun and all, but the best writing always has some truth in it.

Even if it seems kind of boring or un-earth shattering to you, no one else knows your story.

Interview 17

At Brooks School, we seek to provide the most meaningful educational experience our students will receive in their lives.