Still Waters - Vol. 4, Issue 2

STILL WATERS A BROOKS SCHOOL LITERARY MAGAZINE

VOL IV, ISSUE II

STILL WATERS A BROOKS SCHOOL LITERARY MAGAZINE

VOL IV, ISSUE II

EDITORS

Dean Charpentier, English Department Chair John Haile, English teacher

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

DESIGNER

Abbey Charlamb ’21

The true alchemists do not change lead into gold; they change the world into words

PUBLICATIONS

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

- William H. Gass

COVER ART

Kathryn Duane ’22 Gabi Garozzo ‘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.

CONTENTS FICTION 2 4 5 7

THE TRUCK by Alex Natalizio FIRES OF MEMORIES by M.D. Olaoye A BAND-AID FOR GSW by M.D. Olaoye THE CHEF, THE ARCHITECT, AND THE COLLEGE STUDENT by M.D. Olaoye

POETRY 9 A FAKE TOOTH by Franklin Dong 10 WHEN THE SUN RISES by Aileen Arias 11 WORDS IN A BAD by Emma Tiedemann 12 CITY by Caroline Samoluk 13 BOYHOOD 03 by Franklin Dong 14 A SPOTLESS MIND by Aileen Arias

INTERVIEW

15 THE INTERVIEW with Ryan Winchester

EDITOR’S NOTE I write this in brief stolen moments between hybrid classes-Zoom meetings-grab and go meals-disinfecting desks-plugging unplugging cables-test-test-test of microphones and I find myself breathing deeply in these moments, some of them maskless. Writing. Writing.

In these moments, I notice how peaceful it is. Writing forces me to slow down, to think, to be deliberate and mindful. Opportunities like this are rare for us these days. In the rush to connect, virtually, or from a distance of six feet, if we are not careful, we create the opposite effect. We are so obsessed with the logistics and mechanics of speedy connection, the connection itself gets ignored.

“I just Zoomed with her!” we yell.

“What did you talk about?”

“We talked about how we Zoom with everyone!”

When I sit down to write, I think more deeply about connection, about what connection means. Writing, whether tapping words out on a keyboard, or picking up a favorite pen and notebook (the pen must weigh just so much and be balanced just so), traces the lines of connection more carefully, plotting the paths between as if we are making maps.

You will find in the pages of this issue of Still Waters many different forms of connection, many roads and paths and maps. I’m guessing if you spoke to the authors anthologized here, each would share something similar, about slowing down, about thinking deeply, about connection. Just the fact that their words now exist in this form, in this journal, creates a connection between you and them.

Once you read, that connection is eternal. It’s not like clicking out of a Zoom call.

Dean Charpentier English Department Chair Enjoy.

Brooks School 1

MY LEGS WOULD NOT LET

and almost immediately burned the sand

me stop running. I couldn’t stop to take a

beneath my feet. “Bring flip flops,” my

breath, check the time, or even to help

mom had told me. Well, Mom, it’s too

my little brother who fell behind. I had to

late now. I could feel the shade of red

reach my end goal. The breeze seemed

that my feet were turning. It was like

to want me to run the other direction, but I blew through it like any ten-year-old kid would if they were in the situation that I was in. The sand made it feel like there were pins and needles on the soles of my bare feet. Running on Cape Cod sand is almost as hard as trudging through three feet of snow. You don’t know which way you are going to slide each time you step. This is why my brother quite literally, fell behind.

I could hear it before I could see it, and I knew I was getting closer. It was the time of day when the tide was coming in, so there were some points where I had to walk through small pools of water, trying my hardest to avoid stepping on a crab while still running at full speed. My shorts were now soaked, although about fifty percent of it was sweat, my feet hurt, I was almost completely out of breath, and I was about halfway done with my journey. But I stuck with my attitude of not giving up. I kept going. The sun suddenly came out

2 Still Waters Vol. IV, Issue I.

The Truck by Alex Natalizio

running on a bed of hot coals.

After the scorching Cape Cod sun burnt the sand beneath my feet, I was grateful whenever I encountered a small pool of water. That is until I was pinched by a crab. I screeched in pain so loudly, that I started getting looks from all directions. Now, I had a breeze going against me, burnt feet, and I looked like I had jumped into a pool of sweat. There were two huge red marks on my right foot and I was out of breath, but I was almost at my final destination. That’s when I saw it, parked there in all its glory.

It wasn’t much on the outside, but I was only interested in what was on the inside.

As I approached the long line, I reached into my pocket for a crinkled up tendollar bill my mom gave me... shit.

I was at the point where I thought I couldn’t even notice if I was sweating more because I was drenched.

This thought quickly slipped away as I could feel myself sweating more profusely when I did not feel the money in my pocket. I must’ve dropped it, I

run. The line was shorter now and I finally

steps, moving my head and eyes along

reached my end goal. I went up to the

the sand back and forth like a metal

side of the truck and placed my order.

detector.

After I handed the man my ten-dollar bill, After ten minutes of scanning

I was given eight dollars and fifty cents in

the ground and even doing some

change and the most delicious treat

digging for my ten-dollar bill, my little

ever.

brother finally caught up. I started

Every time I made this journey, which was

making fun of him for falling and not

most days while I was in Cape Cod, I

being able to keep up. Without

would always ponder on my walk back,

acknowledging a single word I said, he

Was all that really worth it for a rocket

held up my money and said, “did you

pop?

drop this?” A wide smile instantly jumped onto my face. I grabbed the money out of his hand and started to

Gabi Garozzo ‘21

Fiction 3

thought as I started to slowly retrace my

I HAD BEEN SITTING on the couch with a bag of potato chips aimlessly scrolling through the TV

woman because, like me, she was not a fan of cameras in her face.

I carefully placed the picture in

channels when I heard the explosion. I

the side pocket of my duffel bag and

turned to the kitchen and saw the

moved on to the next section of the

flickering flares of reds and oranges and

room: the closet. The smell of burning

other colors that I didn’t even know

wood clawed at me and I knew I would

existed. I sprang up from the couch and

have to set aside time to mourn the loss

took the stairs two at a time to my room.

of my wooden center table in the living

I grabbed the large duffel bag that was a

room. There was only one thing I really

stow away under my bed and began

cared about in this closet. I moved all the

frantically shoving in random items. I

other clothes on hangers out of the way

wasn’t sure how much time I had left

until I reached the very back of the

before the fire found its way out the

closet. My heart dropped for a second

kitchen, let alone give itself a full house

when I didn’t feel the familiar fuzzy

tour, but I needed to hurry up. Before

material of my purple sweater, but I let

any real fear took hold of me, I sprinted

out a relieved sigh when I realized it had

to my sister’s old room where I kept the

fallen on the floor. I picked it up by the

things I didn't trust myself with.

hole in the right sleeve. I don’t really

On the bedside table, there

remember how it got there, but there’s

was a framed photograph with a picture

always been a voice in my head telling

of my mom. She was wearing a blue

me it was no reason to throw it out.

school uniform blazer, with a white tie.

A sudden crash snapped me out

She wasn’t smiling, but she wasn’t

my thoughts and I quickly shoved the

frowning either; it was sort of in between,

sweater into the bag and continued my

like she couldn’t decide which to do. Her

mission. I could feel the heat licking my

hair was done into a low ponytail with

face and I wiped the sweat off my

two hair clips on either side. It was one of

cheeks. The fire was getting closer, and I

the few pictures I actually had of the

was playing a dangerous game by still being in this room. But I needed to get

4 Still Waters Vol. IV, Issue I.

Fire of Memories by M.D. Olaoye

room. There was no time to get all of my

sister’s desk and pulled out all the

other stuff, but it was okay because I got

drawers until I saw the silver gleam of the

what I needed. The fire was climbing up

item I was looking for. Yes. It’s still here. I

the stairs two at a time and eating

pulled out the pen. I was afraid

everything in its path, leaving the

something so small might have gotten

window as my only option for escape.

lost but here it was in my hand. I couldn’t

Luckily these two stories weren’t that

help but visualize the moment I

high, and I flung myself out the window

borrowed the pen from him, and how

as one final explosion engulfed the rest

that sparked something between us.

of the house in flames.

With one final look, I put the pen in my pocket and hurried out the

A Band-Aid for GSW by M.D. Olayoe “LOOK ME IN THE EYES,

her. I search her face for any signs of

Jason! Look me in the eyes and tell me

weakness, but I’m met with sore red

that you didn’t push that girl off the

eyes, a runny nose, and pain. I don’t

roof!” she screams, tears running down

want her to feel this way because of me,

her face. But I can’t even lift my head

broken and terrified, over something that

up.

she didn’t even do.

“No, April. I didn’t push the girl off the

“Jason, don’t you stand here and lie to

roof,” I sigh, my back turned towards her.

my face! Just tell me the truth please and

I start to walk out the room, hoping she

we can just talk about this.” She would

will leave it at that, but knowing my

say anything to get me to open up to

defiant little sister, she will probably

her. She always puts my feelings before

continue this conversation until early

hers and enforces the fact that between

morning. She places her hand on my

us, communication is key. But I can’t, not

shoulder and spins me around to face

with this. I remain silent and stare into

Fiction 5

one more thing. I made my way to my

the inside she is in the darkest corner of

“Please, say something, Jay Jay.” She

her room, crying, curled up in a ball as

uses the childhood nickname she came

vulnerable as ever. Again, I turn to walk

up with many years ago, as if that will fix

out the room. I can’t bear to burden her

the issue, but it is like putting a Band-Aid

with my troubles, so not telling her

over a gunshot wound.

anything, not getting her involved, is the best thing for her right now. She is silent

I’m not gonna yell at her. She’s already

and this time she lets me walk away. I am

hurting too much and yelling at her will

almost out the door when she says those

only make the guilt she’s feeling leave a

words that change everything: “I called

deeper scar. So instead, I turn around

the cops.”

and say what she already knows: “I love you.” And I finally walk out the door.

My brain sputters for a second, and my thoughts take a moment to catch up. No

I didn’t know which is louder: April’s

she couldn’t have. She would never. I feel

pleas to get me back inside the house, or

my whole body freeze up and I can’t

the police sirens that only get louder as

move. My feet are glued in place and I

they near my house.

can’t tell in this moment if my heart is beating or not.

Nancy Perkins ‘21

6 Still Waters Vol. IV, Issue I.

her eyes. She stands tall but I know on

The Chef, the Architect, and the College Student THERE ARE THREE OF THEM.

by M.D. Olaoye

purpose...better off this way.” He can

A chef, an architect, and a college

hear them, but he isn’t listening because

student. They take their normal seats in

he knows this argument will get them

the room: the chef in the middle, the

nowhere.

architect on his right, and the college student on his left. They sit and stare

He holds up one hand to each of them,

ahead, none of them saying a word.

palm out, and immediately the dispute

Minutes pass and still no one speaks. The

ceases.

room is empty except for the three of them, and the white walls are bare

“What if we just don’t do it at all?” the

except for the big clock at the highest

architect asks, and with that both the

point of the room.

chef and the college student stand up, flabbergasted. “Just hear me out. What if

The chef is the first to break the silence:

we just don’t do anything? Don’t you

“I vote for the little girl.” He says nothing

know how the public will react once they

after that. He is met with the confused

discover what we're doing? These things

eyes of the student.

need to be planned out!” The chef and the student both sit down and consider

“No, it can’t be her because she’s just

this new factor. Again the room is silent.

that: a little girl,” the student counters.

The three of them think for a long time.

They bicker back and forth, the chef standing firmly by his decision while the

The chef is the first to break the silence:

student tries to convince him otherwise.

“I say we don’t do anything. The public

Meanwhile, the architect sits in the

can’t criticize something that doesn’t

middle and says nothing, continuing to

exist.” And at that the student speaks,

stare into the emptiness in front of him.

“No, I choose the girl.” And again, the

In each ear, he can hear bits and pieces

quarrel starts. The architect sits in silence,

of each case. On the left:

but this time he listens carefully to each

“young...innocent...much to explore”

side. He raises his hand once more and

and on the right: “useless...no

says, “No, I change my mind. Let’s carry

Fiction 7

his answer, his voice unwavering. But

Maybe someone a bit older.”

again, the room goes silent. They all sit and stare, none of them saying a word.

The student stands up in front of the

Minutes pass and still no one speaks. The

others. He takes a deep breath and

room is empty except for the three of

sighs, massaging his temples.

them, and the white walls are bare except for the big clock at the highest

“The girl is a good choice,” he says. “I

point of the room.

was against her before, but now it’s better if it’s someone young. She won’t

The chef is the first to break the silence:

have anything to miss. And besides, I

“Let’s do someone else.”

don’t even know her.” He is confident in

8 Still Waters Vol. IV, Issue I.

on with the task, but with someone else.

A Fake Tooth by Franklin Dong A fake tooth always falls off on Christmas Eve. Hitler crawls out of the scrolls of a peace treaty/more, the calf whimpers an arrogant, presumptuous squeal dissipates, siphons, retracts reused blood droplets from the ventriloquist’s cracked palms & a dictator wearing nail polish beckons the fleet of runaway sons into the slaughterhouse. Sour urine watered a molding sidewalk to claim dominance. The pain-inducing street, panting heavily… whiffs of poison wander alone/a hibernating panda in the basement, two dirty windows glaring into moist dirt… only love is all maroon, only a cheap freak show swoons-the guided fool, the painfully, aggravating benevolence aged eleven, hails eggs and repeated questions onto my door/the gathering of drunken relatives proceeds inside… uncle said: “help yourself! We have veal, piglets and infants!” … The rogue reindeer buckles on its way, my jaws clamp down on a coin in the dumpling… A fake tooth always falls off on Christmas Eve.

Nancy Perkins ‘21 Poetry 9

44 minutes past 4 Anytime now...

I hear the birds singing already!

Soon he will awaken And I will question My decision To await his arrival-I don’t care how long it takes.

I want proof That the sun Still will rise Even in The worst of times 4:44

Nancy Perkins ‘21

10 Still Waters Vol. IV, Issue I.

When the Sun Rises by Aileen Arias

words in a bag by Emma Tiedemann I have kept every card I have ever received every letter and every postcard every happy birthday and merry Christmas some find it strange I suppose I do too but there’s a weight to these words an intention a message to myself in a time of certain circumstance words that were meant for me in an exact moment in time it seems all too powerful to discard lost to the fading of my mind so I collect them there’s a bag in a drawer under a bed where I am the sole viewer of these messages these words of the past from authors I have known forever some who remain some who do not but when I forget the sound of their voices their phrases their words to me and only me the bag in a drawer under my bed is suddenly more than just that

Poetry 11

City by Caroline Samoluk This city in my mind is overflowing.

Every year, it grows fuller And the pool spills ceaselessly over the side leading to who knows where.

I cannot see below the wall which the water pours over.

It’s flooded, but not water logged.

I will not explain myself, this city in my mind, each year it fills until it begins to recede.

But no It is not the water retreating It is the city growing.

12 Still Waters Vol. IV, Issue I.

Boyhood 03 by Franklin Dong The road runs wide Down the forest path, Where you took me on a muddy strollMy shoes clung on to the dirt, And reeked of preconception.

You smiled so wide, not knowing Your lip was bleeding.

Oh, but which one is pain?

I perceive the truth left unsaid: We are as old as the world allows, But my world isn’t real.

I’m sure you felt for me, at least, My presence was occurring: Waving arms under the ascending plane, You must’ve heard me on your way to the sky.

You tipped me with your coffee money, Obnoxiously flipping crumpled bills Onto the littered desk.

The day you left was pink and purple.

The muddy stroll was blocking my mind’s eye.

Last seconds of your presence was like any other, Beautifully ambiguous.

A book of poetry you bestowed on me- damp from my pen’s tears, Departs from his previous owner, In an expected, arranged fashion.

Some prepare their funerals,

Poetry 13

Spotless Mind by Aileen Arias I picture us Walking through the carnival My left hand squeezed in your right While your left grips the teddy You promised you’d win for me.

You guide me through the sea of people That’s slowly swallowing us And muffling the sounds Of the screams and laughter That swim around us You glance at me.

You glance again.

“Just makin’ sure I still got you.”

You do.

You look back at me giving me a warm grin-The one you give me When I ask you “You got me?”

14 Still Waters Vol. IV, Issue I.

The Interview with Ryan Winchester Why did you want to revive Still Waters?

Creative writing has been a part of my life since I can remember, as it is for many Brooks students. Whether it is finding joy in a writing assignment for class or a piece written in free time, I came to find many of my friends and classmates feeling the same pull towards writing. With this in mind, I wanted to give Brooks students a place to share their work with the community as a whole. I always enjoy reading classmates’ writing to get to know their literary voice, and I see Still Waters as the perfect place for myself and others to do so.

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

Growing up, I could be found spending days on end in my room reading, bringing a book to read by the pool or at the beach, trying to set new records on how long of a book I could read in one day. Through absorbing an almost excessive amount of books, my mom suggested to me that I try to write my own story and illustrate it myself since I was also heavily involved in art classes. While I am sure it was terribly written and illustrated even more messily, I had discovered a new creative outlet. The volume I spend on free writing has decreased as my classwork piles up each year, but I still turn to writing in times of stress, enjoying the process even if the piece doesn’t end up how I intended it to.

Who are your favorite writers and why?

I’m someone who likes to read books and poetry from a wide variety of authors because my favorite part of reading is experiencing different writing styles and voices.

My favorite literary voice at the moment is Ta-Nehasi Coates, the author of Between the World and Me. With the current movements against racial injustices in the United States, this book offers an incredible perspective through the structure of letters to his son.

Do you have a speci c process when you sit down to write?

When I write, I like to play music which I find helps me focus and get into a rhythm of writing. Sometimes my most successful pieces of writing come from when I go into the process without a planned structure, letting myself go with whatever ideas come to mind in the moment.

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

My best advice to other writers is to let the writing take you in the natural direction of your thoughts. Don’t try to force a topic or structure that doesn’t feel like it’s working out. This is the best way to write something authentic to you.

fi

Interview 15