Juxtaposition | Spring 2016

Juxtaposition

An Anthology of Art and Literature 2016

Juxtaposition An Anthology of Art and Literature

Cheshire Academy

Published May 2016

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Table of Contents Reflection of the Blue Sky in the Water by Jose Martinez............................................................ 6 “Swimming” by Akilah Goldson..................................................................................................... 7 “No Wind” by William Jack Palmer................................................................................................ 8 “Awakening” by Duncan Silloway................................................................................................ 10 “Camden” by Josh Comune.......................................................................................................... 10 “Ghosts” by Regina McCoy........................................................................................................... 11 Rocket by Zhejian Zhang.............................................................................................................. 12 Poverty by Jeong Hoon Lee.......................................................................................................... 13 “My Best Friend The Witch” by Jenna Denomme....................................................................... 14 Home by Abbey Croce.................................................................................................................. 17 “Orbit” by Corin Porter................................................................................................................ 18 Avocado by Paola Fortes............................................................................................................... 20 The Transaction by Paola Fortes................................................................................................. 21 “Frost” by Leslie Hutchinson....................................................................................................... 22 “Apple” by Tripp Hutchinson....................................................................................................... 22 “It’s Not So Easy To Write A Sonnet” by Olivia Williamson....................................................... 23 “Rejected” by David Mathisson.................................................................................................... 23 Guzel by Tufan Demirkol............................................................................................................. 24 PAGE

Simosa by Josh Waters................................................................................................................. 25 “Your Father Leaves” by Julie Anderson..................................................................................... 26 Flower by Ka-Ron Jones............................................................................................................... 27 “Anxiety” by Grace Greene........................................................................................................... 28 Nature by Jack Purdy................................................................................................................... 29 Football by Antonio Giano........................................................................................................... 30 Basketballs by Sabrina Sands...................................................................................................... 31 “Mind Games” by Julie Anderson................................................................................................ 32 Travel Photo 1 by Regina McCoy................................................................................................. 33 “Boy and Girl” by Duncan Silloway............................................................................................. 34 Cherry Blossoms in New Haven by Dayna Freeman................................................................... 35 Save our Only Planet by Mie Handano........................................................................................ 36 Hammer Shark by Zhejian Zhang............................................................................................... 37 Photo by Ryan Su Seong Kim...................................................................................................... 38 Sky by Sela Wiley.......................................................................................................................... 39 “Bread” by David Mathisson......................................................................................................... 40 Photo by Kendrick Murray........................................................................................................... 42 Cover art: Sundays by Abbey Croce PAGE

Reflection of the Blue Sky in the Water Jose Martinez

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Swimming

by Akilah Goldson

I had lost my way.

The land was so far away, but close enough that I could feel the sand dusting over my feet.

Whish whish Ocean breezes whiz past my face.

I am alone in the water, alone, far away from land.

Alone and cold and barely floating above the sand.

My legs are heavy and weak and I can’t remember how long I’ve been here.

Waves for miles, waves behind waves above. the lap of the salty water on my neck hits my neck and I turn to face my opponent.

Another wave, bigger and mean.

I challenge it to a fight, but I cannot face it.

It roars at me and I cower, tuckered by the salt and sea.

It hits me and I fall underneath, gulping gallons of liquid.

It screams and I swim farther but I cannot outrun the sound of a wave.

Down, child ,down.

Father I go, the water has taken me like a kid into a home.

Down, my friend, down I slowly can’t breathe now.

The waves smother me and I cannot see, but I know I know The wave has taken me home.

I have lost my way I am alone Swimming.

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No Wind

by Jack William Palmer

“C

aptain, there’s no wind!” burst from the mouth of a panicking man as he crashed into the cabin. The man he was speaking to, frowned slightly. Thick wrinkles made up most of his face. His eyes were the only thing that did not look as ancient as the sea. He sat up with the kind of authority kings usually had.

He said “Calm down, Jensen, What do you mean there is no wind?”

The man, Jensen, was fairly fat. He was a recent addition to the crew, only taken on because he had some cooking experience.

“Well yah see sir, the wind has, uh… sorta stopped.”

“I heard you, Jensen, but wind does not just stop. Is there a small breeze, is the wind going in the wrong direction, has the boat faced into the wind?”

“Sir you better come see for yourself” Jensen said. After this, he motioned for the Captain to follow and promptly left the room. The Captain was perplexed for two reasons. Firstly, because there was always a wind no matter how small and because his first mate had ordered such an incompetent man to report on it.

As he left his cabin and followed the corridor to the deck he began to feel it. The air was still. It was as if there was not any air at all but that was impossible. The small breeze he created by his brisk pace was no longer there. When he got out on the deck, It was much worse. The sound was gone. He could no longer hear his boots on the wood. There was not rushing wind, no splashing water. It was as if the entire ocean had gone silent.

The Captain finally heard something. Jensen was bellowing at someone. A deckhand perhaps, or a lookout. The Captain then realized that no one else was one deck. It was deserted, the only two people were Jensen and the stranger. They had begun fighting on the deck, Jensen was on top of the stranger, strangling him.

The Captain could barely make out what he was saying. He ran towards them, pulling out a flintlock pistol he kept with him.

“What did you do to the crew? Where the hell have they gone?” Jensen shouted, pressing his fingers deeper and deeper into the stranger’s windpipe.

“What the hell is going on?” The Captain yelled, firing one shot into the air. The Shot made no noise but his yell did.

Jensen looked up, alarmed. He spoke, calmer now but not releasing his hands from the deckhand’s throat.

“Captain, everyone is gone, except for this rat. He must have done something to them!”

“Jensen, release your hands from that man’s throat or I will execute you for mutiny.”

At the threat of being shot, he let go. The man, gasped, sputtering for breath. Red indents of Jensen’s hands were still there. The Captain did not put away his gun but rather let his arm fall to his side with the gun still cocked.

“What happened here, where has everyone gone?” the Captain said to the deckhand.

“I wish I could tell you. I was working on the main mast and when I came back down everyone was gone.” the man said in wheezing breaths.

The Captain looked around, scrutinizing the deck for any detail that might give away what happened. He quickly came PAGE

the realization that this was not his deck. It was polished, and clean. The sails looked brand new, the railings were made of a type of wood he had never seen before. The entire deck looked as though it had been cleaned for days on end. This ship looked as if it had never seen the ocean or felt any wind on its sails. Jensen’s voice brought him back to the matter at hand.

“Sorry George, I didn’t see your face, I thought you might have been a pirate.”

The Captain reached out with his opposite hand to help George up. George looked horrified. He started trying to take deep breaths. The Captain thought George was losing it until he realized what was wrong. George was not inhaling air, There was no air to inhale. None of them were breathing anything. The air had disappeared.

The Captain tried to speak, nothing came out. He tried to shout, and not so much as a whisper came out. The others tried doing the same but nothing came out.

Jensen started banging his fists into the mast but even as his skin peeled away and tissue was revealed no sound was made. Jensen screamed like that of his ancient ancestors; a primordial scream of terror, of incomprehension. He fell to his knees and looked at his hands as he screamed. He looked up to the sky wishing for his scream to reach the heavens but it could not penetrate the void of nothing. George crawled into a ball and was rocking back and forth. He began to whisper.

Words only his mind could hear.

The Captain’s hand was shaking. He slowly raised up his gun and pointed it at Jensen. Looking down on his once bemusing cook, he pressed the gun against Jensen’s head. He pulled the trigger, the bullet flew forward splattering Jensen’s skull across the deck. George’s face was splattered with blood. He crawled towards the Captain’s shaking hand. He buried the barrel into his forehead. Tears pouring down his face. The Captain looked away and pulled the trigger. The two carcasses pumped out blood, painting the pristine floors a deep red. The Captain started sobbing. He put his own gun to his head. His hand no longer shook, he pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened. He had already fired the last bullet. The Captain stumbled forward, falling onto the bodies of his two dead comrades. Blood splashed onto his face and clothes as he pushed himself away from the bodies. He ran to the polished railing, thinking of throwing himself overboard but as he got to the edge he saw no water. There was nothing, only white.

He pushed himself away from the railing, running to the mast roping. He started to climb up the mast hoping that the height would kill him when he fell. When he got to the top he looked out onto the vast whiteness. His face contorted with horror. In the middle of his vision, was a giant brown something.

It had many holes and looked to be made of small chopped bits of wood. It was suspended in midair. The ship was pointed directly at it but the ship was not moving. The Captain realized that nothing was moving, The huge wooden object, the ship, the whiteness. None of it moved. The Captain jumped, plunging down onto the ship he did not know. He released himself from the hell that he could never understand.

When David came home from school, he always went straight up to his room to play with his pet rabbit. His room was a regular old room. It had many things in it. His favorite things were on his game table. He had a pile of Legos that he used to build fantastic buildings and impossible creatures. There were stack of Pokemon cards his had had given to him for his 10th birthday. He did not know how to play Pokemon or was even interested but he liked them anyway. There was also a white box on the table. Inside the box was a ship in a bottle he made for his dad’s birthday.

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Awakening

Camden

by Duncan Silloway

by Josh Comune

I want to go out yet I refrain

In the shadow of Brotherly love

Looking out the window blinded by fog

There is a City that once had Prosperity

I sit alone, bored watching the rain

But has Recently been losing Safety and

I stare at it blankly as if my brains lost a

Popularity The Shootings take place in

cog.

poor neighbor-Hoods Far but not so far

Next day I am found sitting by a lake

from Downtown and Tourist Attractions

My eyes blind from the rippling waves glare

Brotherly Love is only separated by a body

People act like this life’s not mine to take

of water River waves crash down on only

Because this life I’m not willing to share.

one side of the bank “Dreams Deferred”

I watch silently as the waters flow I’ve reached the end of the line, out of luck

Bridges and Borders mock the residents

I jumped in and sank under the waters

It’s called the Trap

gentle tow

No way Out

And down I sank under the waters muck.

The law of the jungle and street are similar

I had it willed and now my soul is free

Live or die Your actions to get out will only

Because who I was is no longer me.

end in failure No way Out

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Ghosts

by Regina McCoy

I’ve always been attracted to things That are bad for me.

Whether it be bubblegum Or boys who don’t return calls.

You’re as addictive as the cigarettes You chain smoke on my front porch And your taste stays in my mouth Like the whiskey you drown yourself in Whenever you hear Her Name.

I know I’ll never be Who she was to you.

But I’m trying, Can’t you see I’m trying?

But I know I will never be, Because you quit smoking for her And you won’t even tell me what time you’ll be home.

It’s as if her touch is tattooed on your skin And her name is engraved in your brain.

But people aren’t placeholders And I am here And alive And breathing.

And she is never coming back.

I feel as though I am transparent, But she is the only ghost here.

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Rocket Zhejian Zhang

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Poverty Jeong Hoon Lee

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My Best Friend the Witch

by Jenna Denomme

W

hen reminiscing on my time at St. Bridget’s school, I often find myself thinking back to when I first met Cassuarina early in fifth grade. It was recess for the fourth and fifth graders, and I was running around the blacktop in search of someone with whom to play the new game I had created. In the game, called “Witchcraft”, you pretended to be a cat with different elemental powers based on the color of your fur, going on adventures in the forest of Omen and fighting evil human sorcerers. Normally I just paced around in circles during recess by myself, since everyone else already had their own groups of friends to gossip with, so for a while it seemed like I wouldn’t be able to find a partner. Eventually, I found Cassuarina, a fourth grader, standing amongst a group of her female classmates without joining in their conversation, instead idly playing with her tangled, faded brown hair that nearly went down to her waist. To my surprise, she agreed to play my game with me when I asked. She made herself a red fire cat by the name of CrystalTail, and I pretended to be her mentor, an orange magic cat named NinjaPaw. Before long, this became a routine, and soon we were not only pals on the blacktop, but also lunch buddies, sitting apart from everyone else so that we could talk about whatever we wanted.

I don’t remember exactly when things became weird, but after some time of being best friends, strange things began happening during recess. At points, Cassuarina would randomly freeze in place, saying that she couldn’t move, no matter how hard she tried. I found it hard to believe her, but it proved to be more annoying than anger-inducing. Otherwise, our relationship only seemed to be growing stronger, as it was around this time that we exchanged phone numbers. We would call each other after school on our home phones, since neither of us had a cell phone yet, and would talk for up to forty-five minutes at a time playing Would You Rather. I usually try to get off the phone with people as quickly as possible, but with Cassuarina, it felt like we were just talking face-to-face. It’s not like I had anyone else to talk to.

It was only later that I realized those strange moments interrupting our playtime were all leading up to something, and when that day came, it changed everything between us. Cassuarina ambushed me as I was walking onto the blacktop and pulled me aside, away from the flood of our fellow students, all filled to the brim with pent-up energy. Once the two of us were standing underneath the single tree at the curb, I asked her what had her so excited, and she responded with something I never could have predicted: PAGE 1 4

“I went to Hogwarts last night.”

I wish I wrote down the fantastical story she told me that day, which took up almost our entire recess time. She finished by saying that she was going to get me in, too! At the time, I had only read the first two Harry Potter books and had not seen any of the movies, but I could still tell this was fishy. Yet, considering that I was only a fifth grader at the time who was nearly obsessed with all things magical, I couldn’t help but believe Cassuarina’s story. Maybe I was just naive, maybe it was because I yearned to be someone special, or maybe it was just because I had come to trust her so much. Throughout the rest of the school year, Cassuarina continued to tell me stories of her nighttime visits to Hogwarts, even saying that I went a few times and I simply forgot. She brought sticks to recess and cast spells on people, causing them to coincidentally trip or freeze in place moments later, even if only for a second.

For a week she apparently had amnesia, not remembering anything at all. Eventually she got me roped up in a plot that Voldemort had returned, leading Hogwarts to be temporarily shut down, and that I needed to help her find three magic stones to stop him. I only remember ever finding one with her.

Perhaps if I had read the rest of the Harry Potter books by that point, or at least seen the movies, I would have been able to catch her in her lies red-handed, but even without that knowledge, it was all very hard to swallow. A part of me knew for a fact that it couldn’t be true, and yet another part of me desperately hoped that it was, both because I somewhat wanted it to be true and also because I didn’t think my new best friend would keep up a lie like this for so long, without giving me any indication that it was all just a game. It didn’t help that we were both going to a Catholic school, and witchcraft is viewed as damnation-worthy in the Bible. Those months became an endurance test for me. I spent many a night tossing and turning in my bed, not knowing what to believe or whom I could trust. I didn’t tell anyone else about it because I was certain that no one would ever take me seriously. In retrospect, I’m still surprised, and a bit embarrassed, that I ever thought of taking it seriously.

Eventually, summer arrived, and with it, freedom. Cassuarina only called me two or three times over the whole break, and when the next school year started, we no longer had recess together, since I had now officially started middle school, and the middle schoolers had a shorter break on the hill next to the school’s baseball field. I was back to wandering around on my own, though it wasn’t like I would’ve been doing anything more interesting if Cassuarina was there. She had gotten so wrapped up in her own fantasy that we rarely ever even got to play the fantasy game that made us friends in the PAGE 1 5

first place. The only time we really ever saw each other again was in the halls, and at those times, she would usually be chit-chatting with other friends that she never bothered to introduce me to. When the next year rolled around and she was in middle school as well, I was in my last year at St. Bridget’s.

Cassuarina said multiple times that she would go to Cheshire Academy too so that we could still be together, but that clearly never happened. Though we shared recess time again, I did my best to actively avoid her, having realized by this time just how stupid I had been to believe her tall tales and wanting to just leave that chapter of my past behind me for good.

I never really got to properly say goodbye to Cassuarina, but I did get some form of closure a few weeks into my first year here at Cheshire Academy. In early October, Kaylee came home from school at St. Bridget’s and said that she’d had a run-in with Cassuarina in the hallways. If my little sister is to be believed, then Cassuarina wished to pass a short message along to me: “I’m sorry.”

Despite how simple the response was, hearing it filled me with relief, as if I had just let go of an unimaginably heavy burden that I hadn’t even realized I was still carrying. I wish she had gotten the chance to say it to my face, but something’s better than nothing.

Whenever I remember my countless hours with Cassuarina, I always end up wondering just how our friendship would have turned out if she had never pulled me unwillingly into her game of make-believe. Would we have remained as close as we were back at the start, or would we have still split apart eventually? I don’t know why she played me for a fool while never giving me even the slightest hint that it was a ruse, but I don’t think that she had any truly malicious intent, at least consciously.

I never let on just how much this experience was affecting me, not wanting to damage our friendship any more than she already, unknowingly was, and when ignoring the tangled web of lies behind the scenes, she really is - or at least was back then - a sweet, enthusiastic girl with a big imagination, not all that different from myself. Though it still stings to think about this time in my life, I have accepted her apology. Maybe someday I’ll be able to see her again and find out her side of the story, but until that day - if it ever comes - I will look back on this time in my life as a valuable lesson about the importance of honesty and trust in any healthy relationship.

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Home Abbey Croce

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Orbit

by Corin Porter

“Set”

“Pound”

I just had it No, not over there Right here And I put it down…

--Every card has found its partners Melded to each other In sequence and suit together Or triplets in various suits --Father of Anubis Fighter of Horus God of storms and disorder, deserts and violence --Guttenberg, Franklin, Hearst Where fonts are types and Uppercase and lowercase letters Take literal meaning --We need to write this In stone, indelible Immutable for all time For all to read

Jigglypuff has a signature move in Smash Bros a physical Normal-type move --16 ounces of brick weighs just the same as an equal amount of feathers --A sterling unit of currency, currently used in the UK An elegant £ --A Disney movie doggy named Tramp tries to avoid a trip to a jail for homeless pets --“I come from the past, a time before hashtag” said the weird looking button on the bottom of the phone PAGE 1 8

“Quarter”

“Sharp”

A portrait, sinister,

Higher in pitch

of an honest politician

a half tone raised

who hated cherry trees and

though kids today

surprised Germans at Christmas

think “hashtag”

----

---

25% is a good portion

I am the deeper

but nowhere near

flavors, aged longer

the whole - 15 minutes

between 6 and 9 months

or 3 months

Tangy, complex

----

---

“I sleep here,”

A flawless cut

he said, pointing to

with the finest edge

his sparsely furnished bunk

Ground at 10 degrees

“This is my whole world.”

until my bite is clean

---Wallace was hanged first, castrated, his guts removed, before being beheaded and ripped into equal pieces

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Avocado Paola Fortes PAGE 20

The Transaction Paola Fortes

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Frost

Apple

by Leslie Hutchinson

by Tripp Hutchinson

Creation.

My tomatoes are toast.

Hanging by a thread.

Frozen by a shock of frost

Defying gravity,

which stole the sugar

seductively shrouded by green and brown.

Others flaring outward, multiplying,

from the sungolds.

all holding importance.

Seeds of life.

The zebra-striped heirlooms

Â

however, may still be sweet.

Tempting.

Soft alluring skin, vibrant red

accented by greens and yellows.

Individually painted, speckled by light.

Perfectly round, symmetrical on all sides.

Divine will molding every smooth curve and contour.

Forbidden Fruit. Â Crunch, Crunch.

Sweet juices ooze out like a sponge.

Teeth plunging into Ivory white flesh, sugary nectar, refreshing all senses.

Clearing the mind.

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It’s Not So Easy To Write A Sonnet

Rejected

by David Mathisson

by Olivia Williamson

I catch her between classes, in the hall.

I reach into my pocket, pull out a square of 8 x 11 ½ inch paper, Folded eight times.

Typed, So she can read it.

I’m about to hand it to her, about to wonder what I’ve just done, when one of her friends Whisks Her Away.

Her necklace falls into the crowd, but she doesn’t notice.

I push my way through the masses of people, scooping it up off the floor. I call to her.

“You dropped this!”

She doesn’t hear me.

“Wait!”

I walk to school an hour early the next day.

The necklace is in an envelope I tape to her locker With a rose.

I see her later that day by my locker.

I open it, handing her another rose.

“Wanna go for coffee sometime?”

Is It easy to write a sonnet? No Is it easy to choose a topic? Well…

Why can’t I just get my sonnet to flow?

Such little ideas but so much to tell…

Inspiration from colors, dreamful nights?!

Brain keeps buffering, appear thoughts appear!

It’s like I’m caught in luminous headlights Not a poet at all, now just a deer My mind is wrapped around deep indigo skies Slowly my imagination sets free I sing the tunes of sweet lullabies Pixelating bits of dream like debris Through lullabies and pixels and buffers Writing a sonnet was a bit tuffers

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Guzel Tufan Demirkol

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Simosa Josh Waters

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Your Father Leaves

by Julie Anderson

Inspired by Raymond Carver’s Your Dog Dies with a suitcase and the VCR you watch him pull out of the driveway holding her hand you wonder about it. you wonder why he prefers her, but you wonder most about your mother, because he was her husband, and she trusted him so. she used to watch for him through the window and run to embrace him as he’d walk through the door. you sing a song about it, you call it a melody for your mother, about your father leaving and how you watched him through the panes in the window, waved to him, furiously, wildly, and pounded on the glass with your tiny balled fists to grab his attention, and that song turns out so strong somewhere inside you’re secretly smiling guiltily happy he left, or else you’d never have sung that great song. then you sit down to sing a song about singing a song about your father leaving, but while you’re humming you hear a woman sob, strong, deep, eery moans and you can’t breathe. after a few seconds you begin to hum. she wails without stopping to breathe.

You wonder how long she will cry.

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Flower Ka-Ron Jones

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Anxiety

by Grace Greene

Rubber replaces bone as A river runs down my neck.

A sharp intake of breath Leaves my heart against my spine.

It’s crawling up my throat.

My lips stick togetherReady on the offensive.

They’re not well trained And I choke.

The bones of my knees Are piled up beneath meAlready half buried Under the weight on top of my chest.

I’m strapped in- unmovableGlued in place by the small of my back And the ties around my hands.

Half moons imprint on my palmsSo deep they bleed butterflies

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Nature Jack Purdy

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Football Antonio Giano

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Basketballs Sabrina Sands

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Mind Games

by Julie Anderson 1995

I was fat. Not chubby.

Fat. Not baby fat.

Real, live, oozing, folding, creasing fat. Rolls that I could squeeze and hug and pinch and slap.

They told me I was beautiful.

They lied.

I was fat. Dancers couldn’t be fat.

I was a child of ten in a woman’s size 12.

The teacher would make me stand three steps in front of the line. My leotard was black but He still saw the rolls, steps up to my growing breasts.

He’d put his rough, calloused hands at the bottom Of each cheek and pull my face up until I was forced To stared into my own eyes. Do you see how fat you are?

You can’t dance like this. Dancers cannot be fat.

At ten years old diet meant eat twinkies and Hershey bars but stick your raw, nail bitten fingers down your throat until you gag. Don’t look in the mirror. This is your diet. You can dance if you are not fat.

At fourteen years old you are still fat.

You eat jars of apricot baby food and run two miles before school. You wear baggy jeans and long sleeves in June.

Your teeth chatter as you ride the bicycle in gym, five, six, seven miles.

You put on your leotard and stretch but cannot look into the mirror.

You are a size 2. You are fat.

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Travel Photo 1 Regina McCoy

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Boy and Girl

by Duncan Silloway

Boy wakes up in his bed, hops in the shower and shampoos his head, his father made him ham cheese and bread and he thanks him as he walks out the door.

On the bus with breakfast in hand thinking “the start of another year with all the same friends”, his schedule gets mixed up in his head and while he was trying to remember which locker was his he didn’t quite hear what the teacher just said… must not’ve been important.

The first bell rings and he steps in the hall and can’t help but stare in awe when he sees the one walking to her locker, let’s refer to her as Girl.

“Hey” Friend snaps him back to reality and as he remembers his schedule his next class is… PE. Not one amongst the favorites but nevertheless he grabs his clothes and goes to get dressed.

Boy hangs around Girl for the rest of the day, but they didn’t care much for the rule on no PDA because anyone could tell that they felt the exact same way, because just friends didn’t hug as tightly as they did, because the first day was better known as… the first date.

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Cherry Blossoms in New Haven Dayna Freeman PAGE 35

Save Our Only Planet Mie Handano

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Hammer Shark Zhejian Zhang

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Ryan Su Seong Kim

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Sky Sela Wiley

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Bread

by David Mathisson

A

top a mountain cliff at 11:43 at night, a boy of seventeen leaned his arm against a branch in the dark. It creaked, but held as he removed a water bottle from his pack, gulping down more than a third of what was left. It was a chilly November night, and Luke never expected this to be how he spent his time, though he’d brought all sorts of things up here again and again. He’d never thought he’d spend his nights feeding a caged goat, or lugging supplies up the mountain.

The moonlight wasn’t enough for what he had planned, and he reached up at his helmet, brushing a few stray locks of brown hair from his eyes as he switched on his headlamp, knowing nobody was anywhere nearby to see his clandestine activity. He placed the heavy pack in the dirt where he stood, brushing a few leaves away and leaning it up against a nearby log he’d dragged there. Luke removed a dark red lantern from his pack, flicking the on switch.

He flicked it off and then on again, but nothing happened. He opened up the battery slot.

Nothing. He had no idea how he could have been so unprepared, and pointed his headlamp into the pack, hastily pulling open zippers, rifling through pocket after pocket as quickly as he could. Luke couldn’t afford to waste time, not when he was so close. Not when this could finally be the night.

It had been almost six years since the legend had started, in 2061. Luke remembered being glued to the news, hearing New England had seceded from the rest of the U.S. A war had been narrowly avoided after a disastrous bioweapon test took the wheat, sending the world to hell, and leaving a loaf of bread a memory Luke’s taste buds begged him for. But on the streets there had been whispers of another way. And some people had gone to the wrong places to ask the right questions.

Luke struck gold on the eighth pocket he searched, and inserting the batteries, he flicked the switch, and the glow of light emanated from his lantern. He cleared a wayward leaf from the flat, dark stone. Pulling a tarp carefully hidden under leaves to the right of the rock, he

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retrieved five black candles and a lighter. Before he placed the tarp back on, he shoved the candles into his pocket, and dug into his pack for a small burlap sack. It hadn’t come cheap, even though the flour was long past usable. He’d surrounded the sack with a few layers of plastic, having already made the mistake of opening it to mix in the flint dust he needed, and getting a whiff of the stuff in the process. Whipping out a hunting knife, he quickly removed each layer.

He poured it into a pentagram, placing a candle at each angle, then pouring just the tiniest bit of kerosene over each line. He wrinkled his nose at the scent, switching off the lantern when he was done. Removing his shoes and socks, Luke shivered as his feet made contact with the cold ground. It was 11:57.

Luke placed a silver chalice in the center of his pentagram. He unwrapped an iron dagger, and then dragged the goat to the center. Lighting the pentagram, he stepped on the flames. But he’d practiced this before, and didn’t burn himself.

Luke lifted the goat to the sky, staring up at the full moon as he slit its throat.

“As one life ends, so must another life begin!”

He lowered it, the blood spilling into the chalice.

“As the blood of one life leaves, so must another life begin!”

Luke stepped out of the pentagram, pouring the goat’s blood onto each candle, the fire kept going by the burning flour.

“As the light of one life leaves, so must another life begin!”

It was 12:00.

Luke stared at the divine loaf of perfect proportions, the brown beauty staring back at him. Putting out the remaining fire and switching on the lantern, he rubbed his hand over the marvelous bread in wonder.

Underneath the wonderful gift lay a bag of wheat seeds.

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Kendrick Murray

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