The Lance, June 2020

Mercy High School presents

THE LANCE June 2020

Art by Grace G. ’22

THE LANCE 2020

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THE LANCE Literary Magazine

Mercy High School -STAFF-

Editor In Chief: Meg K. ’20 Olivia B. ’20 Lucy B. ’21 Mary D. ’22 Emily F. ’20 Claire K. ’20 Kelley S. ’20

Moderator: Ms. Kitty Yanson ’66

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~ TABLE OF CONTENTS ~ POETRY Messages – Emily F. ’20 ………6 Where the Cathedral Sleeps – Meg K. ’20 ………7 The Noises – Claire K. ’20 ………8 A Letter To Daisy – Julianne V. ’22 ………9 Perspective Poem Section: A Pencil Case: 13 Different Ways – Asha D. ’20 ………10 Amethyst Poem – Marley Y. ’20 ………12 Cherry Vanilla Coca-Cola – Meg K. ’20 ………14 Frozen Coffee Poem – Megan F. ’20 ………16

FICTION Infestation – Olivia B. ’20 ………19 Bottled Freedom – Lucy B. ’21 ………24 Path – Mary D. ’22 ………28 The Field – Kelley S. ’20 ………30

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CREATIVE NON-FICTION Ritual of the Movie – Olivia B. ’20 ………35 Crystal Love – Claire K. ’20 ………37 Unknown Depths – Lucy B. ’20 ………39 The Last Christmas – Emily F. ’20 ………41 Black Beauty – Kelley S. ’20 ………43 ART Grace G. ’22 ……… Inside Cover Mary D. ’22 ………7, 13, 29 Ryan F. ’23 ………9 Anisa B. ’23 ………27 Sarah B. ’22 ………32 Meridian K. ’23 ………36 Natalie W. ’23 ………38

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Poetry

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Messages Emily F. ’20 The lights snap, and the world is dimmed with calm Windows spill small light beams into the room And the shadows behind my eyes play films Like a piano, pressing images— They play in a fast kind of succession My mother sits on the edge of my bed And tells me a story about college I have never heard her tell it before Her eyes light up and her hands move in waves “A” “B” “C” she signs, and I cannot hear The fan fades away and my mother leaves I wanted to talk to her, yet she’s gone I can hear nothing from the outside world “Good morning,” I watch my sister’s lips move It isn’t morning but what do you need I mouthed, my expression turning dire We never talk she turned and said to me She left me without uttering a sound Bailey is in a holographic form He wags his holographic tail at me He seems so real, and I just want to play Can’t play until I stop dreaming of you…

Our telepathy cuts off and I’m sad We can’t play we can’t play we can’t play Em But I could have sworn that he was so real Anna marches through the white door easy— You sure fell off the face of the earth, Em I could have said the same about Anna Remember when we were kids and neighbors And we used to scooter but now we watch We hope that we can go back but we can’t We watch the people around us a lot We really do watch the people around We really do watch the people around We really do watch the people around Her face fell somewhere off in the distance Those words stayed with me, they echoed loudly

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Where the Cathedral Sleeps Meg K. ’20 slip down suburbia toward the city where dogs lie beneath dumpsters and rain slicks cars better than oil ever could. until you hear her voice let the doors call your name, ascend the stairs and grab hold of the gates where the cathedral sleeps. drift down aisles until you reach the dripping gold gates where heaven hangs across the back walls. tears painted on the faces of women, blood drizzled like honey at the mouths of men. cry out to them. can you feel the earth splitting? fall to your knees at the altar pull chunks from your chest, drop the heavy at their feet, let the light engulf your eyes ceilings stretch yellows and blues and whisper prophecy in your ears. kiss them at the jaw and shuffle out the back. turn the corner, remember to toss a coin at the little boys who dream to fly but watch birds drop like stones

Mary D. ’22

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The Noises Claire K. ’20 My own breathing Is like crashes of a waterfall.

My vent sounds like a continuous hum of Headache and boredom.

My fingers type, my back aches, and my brain wants to project into Beautiful word vomit.

I hate being stuck inside.

I smell sounds and taste scents.

Rain smells of soft dew fall and Snow sounds like silence.

I hate being stuck inside.

Autumn has come by it’s smell of spiced pumpkin and amber drops.

Winter smells of crisp clean nothingness.

Spring is allergies. Everyone knows that.

Summer is of sweet honeycombed drifts in mornings and Campfires in evenings. Toasted marshmallows too, The ones molten white or caramel-coated.

Oh how I hate being stuck inside.

Humans were not meant for this.

Humans are meant to be free, roaming and rolling, Rustling and tussling, Exploring and Flying.

Oh how I hate being stuck inside.

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A Letter To Daisy Julianne V. ’22 I am a performance With the world as my audience I crowned myself the prince Opened my palace to all I never really cared for wealthy faces I’d look past their glittering selves To find your diamond eyes For one young romantic moment Just like our first days I see the pearls around your neck Pearls are what you deserve I know you made vows to someone else But please keep my words Closer than those pearls ever will be I acted for the world I acted for you To be your fairytale come true But I gave you a part of my soul And I gave you my whole heart My dearest Daisy I love you Always and Forever

Ryan F. ’23

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PERSPECTIVE POETRY: A Pencil Case: 13 Different Ways Asha D. ’20 I.

Pull and tug, Unweave your metal stitches.

Present your goodies, o pencil case

II.

Black bulk bulges In my book bag. The pencil case Brushes against my back

III. On the table Next to my planer, the Pencil case relaxes.

IV. Still, rough, corners, Pencil case sit in my hand.

V.

The pencil case is heavy.

I have to grasp it with my fingers, Rather than place it in my hands.

VI. The pens, Pencil, Highlighter, and erasers Add weight. A lopsided lean to my pencil case VII. Black and gray cloth Shape my pencil case VIII.When my pencil case is missing, I panic. I scramble to look for the bearer of my Writing utensils.

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IX. Plop, drop, and roll. The gel pens glide From my pencil case onto the Red desks or plastic printed table clothes. A waterfall of Office supplies. Whoosh.

X. Lint speckled, Hair trickled, Pen ink sludges, call my pencil case home.

XI. My pencil case was never mine.

But a hand me down.

XII. A necessity, not an accessory is my pencil case XIII. Zipper of two components Not a plastic lid, or button, opens my pencil case.

But only I can unleash its power.

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Amethyst Poem Marley Y. ’20 Covered with thick dust You do not shine so bright now As you did before Once cleaned off you can Again shine like the stars do In the sky at night Your purple crystals shine With the bright light of the sun Making tiny rainbows An ugly outside Breaks open to reveal a New gleaming surprise You sit atop your Shrine of marble and brass like A queen on her throne Your sharp peaks cut like A knife travels through butter I must be careful From the back you are Nothing but a dirty rock Covered from the years From above you are A great amethyst mountain Conquering all else Your many layers Show all that you have come from Brown, white, to purple You were broken from A large grouping of others You are now alone 12

Your peaks are cracked From years of aging within You are stronger now You are imperfect Filled with the ancient dirt from When you were formed Sitting for ages Your beauty has not been seen For a very long time

Mary D. ’22

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Cherry Vanilla Coca-Cola Meg K. ’20 I.

If you push past cartons, Look past the deli meats, There is a glazed red refresher Left behind from last week’s groceries.

II.

First sip like shattered glass.

I can taste ice along my cheeks And it spills along the lip of the can.

III. Can you taste the reminiscence of Baby’s Breath? It drops along The can. Spilling into my face.

IV. When we are cracked, broken, snapped, When we punctured and forgotten, There is always a way to recycle, To learn a body, to learn a mind.

V.

It feels good to be distorted. To look And look back in the metallic reflection As someone somewhere else.

VI. I didn’t mean to. Leave a can of coke out (for 3-5 business days) Where it lifted from the purple paint looking like eyes.

VII. When you step on the can, And hot blood rushes like Cola from your veins, do you Think this is what they really wanted for You and Me?

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VIII. How would aluminum sound?

If you dropped a can from a third story Pre-cracked and hollow.

It would sound like that.

IX. If you want another peek, Flip the can upside-down.

With its gnarled edges, Perhaps the second dimension will peer back.

X.

I drag my tongue and the edge holds Pressure against my muscles Factory made, cola strong.

XI. Oh what glory, to count backwards Until you hit 140 calories And trans fats become Hades’ right hand.

XII. Pleasure and love tastes more like Cherry Vanilla Every afternoon meal.

XIII. I’ve lost track of the buzz of caffeine.

Does it taste like the trees or the wind?

Like a Monday in March?

Like a life of mine?

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Frozen Coffee Poem Megan F. ’20 You sit depressed Sweating for the touch of another Full with that delicious anticipation The taste buds startle They begin to fall in love with your smooth, sweet presence.

Your embrace is frigid You dare others to bother your stillness And taunt them with your tears You are an assortment of pleasure You are designed for enjoyment And crafted for loving possession You have a name It is internationally acclaimed A source of passion for the entire world Your outsides guard your delicate insides A skin of frozen fractals Protect your heart of glass You spark a conversation in the body It starts with growls and whirs Til your once charming sensation shows its demonic power.

You are not known to all creatures Your scent attracts the most vulnerable sniffers Perhaps a small taste might curb their suspicion

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You have reached your half life You have begun to lose excitement You are slowly being forgotten You are starting to make your presence known You make your possessor shiver The hairs rise, their skin crawls because of you You have almost reached the end Your once appealing nature is replaced By a pitiful pool of deceit Once full of vibrance Your appearance has withered Your flavor no longer enticing; time is almost up.

At last all is gone You are hollow and used All that remains is the temptation for more.

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Fiction

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Infestation Olivia B. ’20 A breeze whips through the cul-de-sac, rushing between the pristinely kept gardens and newly paid off Sedans. It’s enough to raise goosebumps on Patricia’s arms; she had left the house without a jacket, thinking that the humidity of the morning would keep her warm throughout the day. She was sorely mistaken.

Patricia’s feet fall in front of each other - right foot, left foot, right foot - in hurried steps, trying to get home as fast as she can so she isn’t late for dinner. In the Powell household, everything runs on a tight schedule. Mother stays at home, making sure that the house is orderly, scrubbing at the leftover lettuce that sticks to the sink and mopping up the dirt that’s left on the kitchen floor. She puts dinner in the oven every day at 4 p.m., and Father arrives home everyday at 5 p.m., just in time for dinner to be served. Mother and Father do their best to ensure that everyone’s daily tasks run like clockwork - a normal family with a normal schedule, who live in a normal house.

The Powell’s house is as normal as it can get. It looks just like every other house in the cul-de-sac, each coated in the same dull, yellow siding and squat to the ground. From above, it looks like someone took their hand and squashed the cul-de-sac down. Patricia thinks the neighborhood is ugly.

Mother and Father think it’s “the style.”

It was an adult’s definition of perfect - save for the nasty raccoon infestation.

In late May, the cul-de-sac saw a sudden influx of raccoons, their banded faces and thin tails terrorizing the residents. For a while, the adults of the cul-de-sac played a twisted, grown-up version of Whack-a-Mole. Whenever one saw a raccoon, the Mother would scream, and the Father would yell, “Kill it!” in a guttural man voice.

Eventually, however, the adults gave up. The voices of Mothers got tired and scratchy, and the voices of Fathers lost their boom. Despite the critters rummaging through their trash, the residents got tired of expending their energy, so they just let the raccoons run free.

As Patricia nears her house, rubbing her arms to keep warm, she can hear a faint yelling. It sounds like Paulie, and her blood runs cold.

“Get outta here!” A tiny voice calls, the echo carrying away with the wind.

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Fumbling with her backpack, Patricia struggles to pull her set of keys out of her bag so she can get to Paulie as quickly as she can. Finally, as she reaches the Powell’s picket fence, she sees him. Paulie, donned in one of his many old Halloween costumes, this time a ratty cowboy costume from two years ago, has a toy gun in his hands, and is pointing the barrel at the shrubs that surround the perimeter of the Powell’s yard.

“Paulie, what are you doing out here?” Patricia calls, her brows scrunching together.

Only a year after he was born, Paulie was diagnosed with a sickness - the kind that keeps him bedridden and out of school and Mother at home, rubbing a cold washcloth over his forehead. For the past five years, Patricia had seen Paulie outside of his bedroom only a handful of times, let alone outside.

One day, as Patricia had been perched on the lip of the sink, watching Mother apply her makeup, Mother had confided in Patricia, “I don’t know if Paulie will ever get better. He’s weak - too weak. I just want a strong son, who can play catch in the backyard with his Father and who can go to school and make friends, and -” Mother had not finished, her voice too thick with tears. From then on, Patricia sometimes took Mother’s spot at the bedside, pressing a cold washcloth to his head and running a hand through his hair.

Patricia unlatches the back gate, scooping Paulie into her arms.

“Hey! I was shootin’ the raccoons!” Paulie detests, giving Patricia a lopsided grin. His front teeth were gone. Under the hat of his cowboy costume, Paulie’s face was pale, his cheeks flushed and hair messy from the afternoon breeze.

“Did Mother let you come out here alone?”

“Well… I heard a noise coming from outside and wanted to investigate, but Mother was too busy cooking dinner and I didn’t wanna bother her, so I just got Cassie to un-do the lock for me.”

Heaving a sigh, Patricia unlocks the door with her free hand, “Come on, Paulie. You know you shouldn’t be out here alone. Now you, me, and Cassie are all gonna catch hell once Father gets home.”

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As she steps into the house, Patricia sets Paulie down, her eyes frantically searching around for Mother. Patricia was used to taking the fall for her siblings - she was the oldest, and whenever something went wrong, the finger was usually pointed to her.

However, the kitchen was devoid of her Mother’s usual presence. Dinner simmers on the stove, but the wooden spoon Mother uses to stir is discarded by the side of the pot, still coated in beef stew.

“Paulie, where’s Mother?” Patricia asks, turning to her brother.

Before Paulie could respond, a voice from behind her answers, “She went out. Said that she forgot chives or something.”

Patricia turns to see her younger sister, Cassie, standing before her, her arms laden with two loaves of bread, a can of Coca-Cola, and the leftover cold cut sandwiches that Mother had packed in each of their lunches. Her hair, which Patricia had braided into two long ropes down her back that morning, was un-done and frizzed around her face.

“Maybe if you didn’t use up half of our pantry trying to feed the raccoons, then she wouldn’t have to go out to the grocery store,” Patricia grumbles.

Cassie simply hums and pushes past her, undoing the latch on the door and heading outside.

Unlike virtually everyone else in the cul-de-sac, Cassie is obsessed with the raccoons. For the past few months, she had foregone her packed lunches, saving them for the raccoons that scurried down their alley. Mother had patiently tried to dissuade her from feeding them. Father had screamed at her one night over dinner for wasting food, his booming voice causing Patricia to cringe and Paulie to clasp his hands over his ears. Nothing could dissuade her, however. Like clockwork, everyday at 4:15 p.m., Cassie would feed the raccoons her lunch.

With a sigh, Patricia sits next to Paulie at the kitchen table and begins to work on her homework. Her pencil scratches fastidiously against the paper, filling up the silence.

When the clock hits five, Patricia, Paulie, and Cassie meander to the parlor, waiting for the tell-tale doorbell ring that signals Father.

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The doorbell ring never comes.

They fidget around the parlor, Paulie’s hands pressed against the window and Cassie picking at the couch cushion.

5:15 passes.

5:30 passes.

5:45 passes.

6 p.m. passes, without any sign of Father or Mother.

Eventually, Patricia gets sick of waiting. She turns the beef stew off of its low simmer, and serves it into three bowls, calling Cassie and Paulie into the dining room. They sit in their regular spots, the heads of the table empty.

They finish their stew in silence. At one point, Paulie aims his spoon of beef stew at Cassie, but Patricia fixes him with a glare and Paulie plops his spoon back into his stew.

7 p.m. passes, without any sign of Father and Mother.

When the clock hits 8 p.m. and it’s time for Paulie to go to bed, he tugs on the sleeve of Patricia’s shirt.

“Can you sleep with me? I don’t like how empty the house is.”

“The house isn’t empty, silly,” Patricia chides. “You have me, and you have Cassie.”

But still, Patricia dons her pajamas, brushes her teeth, and fluffs the pillows of Paulie’s bed for him.

Paulie sits with his knees tucked up to his chest as Patricia flicks off the lights of his bedroom and lays down beside him. His sweaty hands cling to Patricia, grabbing onto her pajamas to anchor himself.

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He fidgets around, turning to the left, then to the right, then curling into a ball. He uncurls himself, clinging onto the front of Patricia’s shirt once again.

“Paulie, please go to bed,” Patricia pleads.

“Can’t - there’s someone here,” Paulie whispers. “Someone scary.”

“Don’t be silly, Paulie. It’s probably just Mother and Father coming home,” Patricia comforts, cradling Paulie in her arms.

As Paulie finally drifts to sleep, Patricia sees her - Cassie’s silhouette, illuminated by the hall light, arms overburdened with nearly all of the contents of the pantry, stands there and stares at Patricia.

Patricia locks eyes with her, the light throwing shadows across Cassie’s face.

“Cassie? Are Mother and Father home?”

With a shrug, Cassie turns her back to the door and begins down the steps.

“The raccoons needed food.”

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Bottled Freedom Lucy B. ’21 I break the surface coughing and spluttering. Heaving air into my lungs I crawl anxiously onto the rocky bank and collapse into a heap of seaweed laden mush.

I’m alive.

By the gods’ sakes I’m still alive. How the hell did I manage that?

I groan as I sit up and take in my surroundings. The sanctuary I find myself in appears to be a cavern of sorts: all dark crevices and dripping stalactites. A large pool in the center indicates where I came in.

There’s a hole in the ceiling from which moonlight is filtering through. It spreads out across the floor, mocking me in my entrapment.

I take note of the depth and width of the pool. When high tide comes in, which, by the looks of the moon, should not be very long from now, I might find myself in a rather dangerous predicament.

Well, more dangerous than I am in now.

I shake out my hair. It’s full of sand and other grimy ocean particles that happened to get caught within while I was tumbling through the currents. This is not how I’d planned this trip to end. Taking voyages across the Devil’s Waters was always a dangerous task saved for the most experienced of sailors. And, apparently, I am not as experienced as I believed.

I stand up on shaky legs only to double over clutching my side. What— I take my hand away to reveal a ruby red gash above my hip bone. I curse and put my hand back. I hadn’t felt it as the ship crashed, adrenaline saved me from that, but I certainly felt it now. I need to find a way out of here.

A flash of light catches my eye and I swivel my head towards it. There. A sliver of light was glinting through through a crack in the cave wall. I trudge my way toward it, hoping it reveals some exit into moonlight and open air.

As I near it, I realize it’s not only a crack. It’s an opening to what appears to be another section of the cave. I climb through eagerly, careful to avoid the edges scraping against my wound.

I shield my eyes when I cross to the other side as the room grows brighter. Blinking away the spots adorning my eyesight I stare at the open space before me. The walls glisten with thousands of luminescent crystals, each emitting some unique hue which results in a rainbow of patterns coalescing into one large mural.

Despite my initial aversion to the light my eyes are now wide with awe. I take a step into the room and touch my fingers to the crystals.

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“Beautiful...” I whisper to myself.

I roam deeper into the cave, mesmerized by the scintillating beauty. The glimmer of the crystals is hypnotic, nearly causing me to forget the situation I am in.

My trance is broken by a loud crack echoing across the walls. I freeze. Retracting my hand, I look down to the source of the jarring sound. Under my foot are the crushed remains of a skull.

Immediately I jump backward, wincing at a stab of pain from my side.

I trace my eyes along the jagged edges of the bone. There are strange markings carved into the top of the skull. “What the....” I step towards the remains. With much effort I bend down and pick up one of the shards of bone to study it.

The symbols appear to be writing of some sort—possibly some mantra or message of importance?

Why carved into their skull though? I shake my head and drop the bone. A strange clattering sound fills the cavern and I look down again to see another skull near where the bone landed. Furrowing my brows, I scan the rest of the cavern floor.

Skulls, similarly carved to the one I broke, litter the ground. Some appear ancient, yellowed and chipped, while others appear...newer. I turn absentmindedly to take in the cave once more, this time actually paying attention to the human remains surrounding me.

It doesn’t look as beautiful as it did just a moment ago.

On the other side of the cave wall is a small nook that I had not seen earlier. I carefully move my way across the floor, wary of stepping on more bones. Something about the cave feels...sacred. As though I shouldn’t be here.

I reach the nook to find an assortment of strange items. Numerous bottles fill the space, each containing a small piece of rolled up paper. Messages? A flat area of rock is being used as a table of sorts, on it lies a large book.

The book is ancient. The pages wrinkled and stiff, held together by a tattered cover. I touch the cover and run my finger under the first page before opening it. More of the strange writing fills the pages, however, ink illustrations are scattered within as well. I flip through, searching only for pages with drawings. I stop suddenly as I recognize a picture of a skull with carvings on it. Intrigued, I turn the pages to find what appears to be a detailed description of some kind of ritual.

A turn another page to see a beautifully drawn image of a headless body being thrown into the mouth of a giant serpent. A sacrificial ritual. I stop flipping through. Catacombs. I have somehow managed to stumble my way into an ancient burial ground.

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I step back from the book and shift my eyes to the bottled messages once more. That could work....Writing utensils are scattered among the bottles and I snatch one up along with one of the bottles on the ground.

Removing the cork, I take out the paper and unfurl it. The strange writing is on one side, but the back is blank. Perfect. I set down the bottle and begin writing my own message.

The chances are slim, very much so, but the potentiality of my plan working is still there. I slide the paper back into the bottle and put the cork back into place.

I make my way over to the pool that had been my entrance. It is small but I know it leads out of here somehow. I don’t know how long it would take swim out, nor would I be able to with the wound in my side. So for now, a bottled message with suffice.

I chuck the bottle into the water and watch it float out beneath the cave wall. After standing for a moment longer I sit down, leaning my head against the wall. Exhaustion I didn’t know I felt fills my body and I close my eyes.

The moonlight drifting across the floor blankets me in pale light. Until finally, I drift off to sleep.

Waiting.

…

Once in a space where the moonlight shown Stood a young girl in a crystalline tomb Awaiting her rescue from near or far She cried out with ink, and a fate ajar She knew not what she could possibly do, For there forthcoming were tides that slew And danger broke down those many walls She began to believe herself alone after all Yet she stood in that cavern where the moonlight shown Awaiting the response that could take her home:

…

Such an insouciant soul, wandering the shallows Of waters paved in pearl And supple plant life alike.

She twists and flicks her Nimble body to curve through 26

The rippling caverns of coral.

Forlornly, she glances up to The scintillating surfaces That cannot be reached by A mermaid such as herself.

And she swims on.

Letting the currents comb back Her hair lovingly as she glides.

A sudden movement startles her Peaceful roamings to a halt.

And she looks up.

Fluttering, curious eyelashes move up To the bubbling pane above her.

To see a bottle.

Small, glassy smooth and wonderfully Out of place in these jubilant waters.

She swims up to find a piece of parchment Curled up tightly inside, as a small Hermit crab might be on a dormant day.

She pulls out the paper as though it Were the most ethereal object in the world.

Despite the water soaking it through She finds it legible to read.

A call. A cry. A plea.

For none other than curious she.

So, she takes off again, yet now on a mission.

Swimming past the pearlescent wonders of the sea In search for something more beautiful.

And when she reaches such a site, She’ll settle down briefly to inscribe her own Little message for an unknown world.

Wait for me dearest, for our fates be sewn.

Anisa B. ’23

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Path Mary D. ’22 Why am I walking here?

A path I’ve been trodding for what seems like forever. It was dark, but the night sky was unpolluted and filled with stars to shine my way. My curiosity kept me from abandoning it completely, despite how I had travelled the different footpaths that branch off to a million different places. A pond, a brook, a tree with a knot, certainly hiding some faerie-like creature. And I did step off, tip toeing to the nearest oddity.

A lazy eye looked at me from the mossy base of a tree. Yellow and piercing, transversing my soul. It had been standing still, waiting on me for the first move, but I had stared back at it.

Until I blinked, breaking my unspoken vow of tranquility, a rippling effect coming from that action.

The eye blinked back at me, to my surprise, covering its acute gaze in green scales before it shot out towards me. I took a step backwards, stumbling over a stick that had been lying hidden. Its movement did not slow as it continued, its clawed feet climbing over me as I tried to move away even more. It reached my chest, and I was able to identify it for what it would have been. A dragon.

A dragon without wings, without fire, without heat. It promptly sat down, relishing in the faint warmth. I had remained immobile yet again until I saw that the dragon in question was truly not one.

Not a wingless wyrm, nor an armless wyvern, and it was not even an amphiptere, without the myriad of a seraphim’s wings. A lizard, or a skink, it must have been, but not one I had seen before. I reached my hand out to tempt the thing off of me, but it had remained where it was, kneading my shirt slightly like a cat. I couldn’t have helped but to smile at that, a lizard for a cat. It must have noticed my glee, for it stood up and walked across me to inspect my face, it’s tiny tongue flicking out to catch my scent.

I gasped and giggled again, not knowing to be wary of its behavior. It smiled, or at the very least, I had imagined it did and I sat up.

My sudden disturbance offended it and it skittered off, silent and betrayed. My light smile turned downwards with it, curling like a fern that had been touched. “Goodbye little guy…”

I sighed and flopped back down again against the dirt, staring at the sky, which was still dark and shining, until another disturbance caught my eye. The lizard!

It was back. Its head had bobbed into my vision yet again.

Perhaps it was the motion that I had made which scared him off.

I had remained on the ground, my eyes keeping a curious watch on the lizard as it went on. They were the only things that moved as I tested my hypothesis. And it rang true. The lizard scampered around, tasting the air around me to investigate.

After a few moments, when it had seemed to calm down, I tried sitting up again. It back tracked, reversing its movement, slowly, cautiously. As fun as it had deemed me, I was still bigger. Once I was fully sitting, I kept immobile and waited for the lizard. Would it come back?

The answer was yes, apparently. It had taken a few steps forwards before standing on a pebble a few inches away. I held my hand out, my motions slower than they would be under summer heat, and the lizard took to it, perhaps thinking my hand was just as hot.

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I had been careful, or at least I thought I was being careful. With the lizard so close to my hand, I took my other hand and scooped it up, holding it tightly, but not too tight. It wiggled and wormed in my grasp, its fearful brain betrayed by my warmth. I had thought it interesting and fun. Until it hurt. The toothless maw of the lizard was clamped around my thumb. I was shocked for a brief moment, before I stood up and flipped my hand around, trying to shake it off. It’s primal instinct to not let go, to never separate its jaws until I was dead or gone. However, death was not at hand for me, so I took my own and pried the lizard off before I threw it to the ground. It scampered off without a second glance while I watched it recede, hissing slightly from the pain.

Then I had left that stray in the path and returned to the original, with an open cut on my finger and without a friend. I was in need of medical assistance. My feet trod along the path as I hurriedly wrapped my thumb in a piece of torn fabric from my shirt, applying pressure to cease the bleeding.

After my bleeding had stopped, I had trekked a considerable part of my path and approached a stream. The water was limpid and serene, providing a serendipitous refuge, a place to heal. I sat down by the stream and gently unwrapped my hand. I remember recoiling, shuddering at the sight. It had been much worse than I had originally thought. Or maybe it had gotten worse as I moved. Bone gleamed in the dappled starlight, but a reddish tone filled the night sky, just as remarkable as the red that had been pouring from my hand. My head shook. Now wasn’t the time to debate the stars again. I dipped my hand into the cool water, letting it wash over the wound and clean it. It would work for now. The water had seemed to dull my pain, and I felt much better for that. My hand numbed and then I left, wrapping my hand as I walked away.

But something drew me back to that stream. No matter how far away I go, it remains present in my brain like an adenoma, heavy and presenting a change in my life. Changes had started in my hands, as they were once clumsy, but were now tuned to be refined. I wanted them to be better, to be useful, and thus every stroke of a motion created by my hand was deliberate. After my finger healed, I did not return to the lizard, although it had brief vacations in my mind. But the stream. Oh, healing brook, of quiet murmurs to comfort me. I wish to return to that. I had found things similar to the stream.

Healing and cold, but also harsh, a smooth metal tool under my hands, sharp and poised for my task as I carefully open a heart, see how the ice in the living body around it allows for my incisions.

Blood pushed through the muscle, pumping even in the open air.

The rotten flesh of the tricuspid valve cuts easily as my fingers push down through gloves on the scalpel, using forceps in my other hand to hold a small needle at the ready. The gloves do not hide the small scar on my hand, reminiscent of the lizard, but very much connected to my role now. I shake my head and continue on my work.

Mary D. ’22

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The Field Kelley S. ’20 The field across from my home is an aisle of wonders. Wind swooshes through the corn stalks as the light breeze caresses the hills to make its way up. The old red and rusty house next to the field stands idle with no living soul and a faint light that is on all day and all night. The farming utensils lay fixed on the ground as the grass grows over them. Coming down the twisted road, you would believe it was abandoned and left for the animals, but someone must be growing the corn.

I've always wondered how the field came to be so filled with light brown and green every year. I had never seen anyone seeding the field nor heard machines running to spread fresh hay on the fields as they grew older. This happened every year around springtime. New corn, but no people. My curiosity grew more intense as I began to get older and understand the basic farming techniques that all farmers use, but, of course, the house across the way did not. I always thought about what could possibly be in the field that gives it so much life and color and how the vegetation kept growing without the “tlc” of human hands. I realized my ideas about the land would only grow larger until I learned the truth.

•••••••••••• I was sitting on my porch reading Pride and Prejudice at the height of spring. The warm air blew softly as I turned the pages. The only sound I heard was the wind that brushed through the corn fields and the trees that are now full of the leaves that were hidden in the frost of winter.

With my mom and sister at lunch and father in the back doing god knows what, I came across the idea that maybe I didn’t have to wait for the grower of life in the corn field to come to me. They weren’t going to appear if I close my eyes and imagine it or if I pray for it. I must use my legs, my arms, and all the other parts of my body to venture to the house to hopefully find some man sleeping on the sofa because he’s exhausted from all night field work. I must go myself.

I walk to the back in a fast stride to inform my dad that I was going on a walk to see the life of spring.

I yelled for my dad telling him I’m going on a walk and he turns around and gives a solid thumbs up then resumes his work.

I trade my bare feet for some tennis shoes that will propel me to my destination. With me is my backpack which holds a flashlight and an emergency inhaler in case something takes my breath away on my journey. I trek down my long driveway and cross the road to the property. I jump the guard rails and push through thorns and twigs of the marsh.

I don’t know why I’m so compelled to seek the grower. It makes me feel uneasy but also curious.

As I walk through property, there are no cars or sign of any one being there. I make my way towards the old red barn with missing planks and rusted door hinges. The barn door squeaks open and dust 30

slaps my face with intensity. After I clear my eyes, I find myself in the large, dark room only being lit by gaps in the side planks. While my eyes adjust to the black, I feel around to find many sharp machines and gadgets.

At this moment, I remember the flashlight in my backpack. I whip it out and illuminate the room. I look around and see all the farming supplies that have rusted over the years. Tractors blades and butchering tools hang from the walls and the ceiling. They seemed to be stained with a red substance that can be one of two things.

The uneasy feeling I had on my porch has returned and prompts me to leave the barn.

I step back into the freshness of the afternoon spring air then make my way towards the main house.

Just like the barn, the door is rusting. The door is already cracked open, so I carefully make my way in. With my flashlight handy, I scan over the living room. Nothing but furniture and floors covered with dust. At a point, birds flustered out the door, pattering my head with their tiny wings. The windows are covered with old bed sheets and many objects in the room are broken as I have come to find. I begin to walk around leaving only my footprints in the dust below my feet.

The light that has shined for years on end in the house lights the staircase that is also covered in undisturbed dust.

Instead of venturing up the staircase, I move into the kitchen area. An old table with a dark stain on it sits. Unlike other objects in the house, the table is clear of the dust.

I search more of the kitchen, opening cabinets and pulling out drawers to find nothing but some old cutlery placed under the table.

In the kitchen, however, there is one lone window that stands open and looks out upon the corn field.

My mission so far is failing, and I have nothing to aid in learning the truth about the ghostly-growing cornfield. It's sitting there. Mocking me.

Once again, the strange curiosity for this field is driving me. I continue to ask myself “why.” Why am I so enthralled with this pointless mission that I have pushed myself to do?

I’m more frustrated than curious now, but I contain it. There’s no use in getting mad over a cornfield, so I continue my search for answers. Instead of using the frustration, I take a deep breath to find a more hopeful side in me that will allow me to find what I’m looking for.

The day is running out and the moon has started to replace the warmth and comfort of the sun with cold. The continuous glare of the light in the house is the only source of heat. Outside is silent. Finally, I decide to go up the lit staircase. The staircase looks different, however. The dust has disappeared.

“Maybe it's just the lighting?” I wonder to myself.

The strange feeling has once again flooded my body telling me to leave. And run.

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My stomach feels like it is in my throat, but I push down the feeling in my stomach and start up the steps. They creek and shriek as I put one step in front of the other. I finally make it to the top step and secure my flashlight. One door is open, and the others are locked. I go in through the open door and find a single bed. I decide to take a minute and sit on the old bed. I shut my eyes and admire the quiet that floods the room.

In the moment of silence, I hear the door shut downstairs and I shoot up off the bed. Panic attacks me and I freeze in fear. Thinking that someone is in the house, I throw myself under the bed. I hear footsteps on the living room floor below me. I look out the bedroom door and the light at the staircase burns out and then all I hear is thumping on steps. I begin to breath heavily and panic even more as the steps get closer. Tears stream down my eyes on the floor and every thought I had runs through my head.

Sarah B. ’22 The footsteps sound closer, but I see no one. But if there is darkness, how do I know no one is there?

In this moment I realize my utter stupidity. The flashlight is still shining bright on the red stained boots that are now standing in front of me.

I switch it off and in seconds I am pulled from underneath the bed and I come face to face with the man. He takes the flashlight from my hand and in one swift movement, my body crashes on the ground and I am unconscious.

I wake up minutes later and I am laying on the ground in the cornfield. He is not there but I hear him in in the distance. My arms and legs are tied down with string that pierces my skin as I try to escape the wretched trap. I look around in hopes of finding a way out. Then I see them. Lifeless, people lie with stalks sprouting out around them. I think to scream but with one chirp, the man will come back.

As I begin to break down, I scan the area and see a trail of blood leading to me. I try to move out from 32

beneath the string, but I fail and begin to think of why I came here. Why I made the stupid decision to let my curiosity get the best of me. And why I thought that I was smart enough to find the truth.

I silently cry and struggle to break free. The man comes holding two objects. I had seen in them in the barn and in the kitchen. I come to the realization of what the shiny, metallic, and sharp objects are and begin to plead. But before I could finish my plead, everything goes dark and my breath has been taken.

Now I know what gives the field its life.

33

Creative Non-Fiction

34

Ritual of the Movie Olivia B. ’20 Movies are the rituals of teenage girls clad in plaid skirts and coffee-stained blouses who are seeking just a two hour-long reprieve from their own lives.

We worship silver screen matinee showings with reverence, allotting two hours every month to watch something new. Afterwards, we log and review the movie - I write in detail on how the movie made me feel, made me think, and you write one-line jokes. Every month, a new movie arrives, and we view it like clockwork, our bodies settled into the routine.

I. Golden light leaks through the windows of my car, the tail ends of September spilling out of the exhaust pipe of my Honda. It’s only a five minute trek from school to the Senator, but we fill the time well; you yell, ranting on about life, friends, schoolwork, whatever your problem of the day is, and I allow my sage nods to punctuate your tirade.

We buy crepes before the movie - I choose apple cinnamon, and you choose crepe suzette - and we shove them into crumpled paper bags, hidden in the depths of my backpack as to avoid getting chastised by the man taking our tickets.

An arid expanse of red velvet seats awaits us, seating no one except the two of us. We giggle, peeling out of our school uniforms and shimmying into our street clothes in the middle of the empty theatre. Our laughter crowds the theater and spills into the decadent lobby, shaking the chandelier, rebounding off of the high ceilings. The bored college student at the concessions stand can hear us, I’m sure of it, but neither of us can will ourselves the dam the giggles that spill out.

As the trailer begin rolling, a trail of white-haired book club members march in, nestling themselves into the row in front of us. Our secret world, previously occupied only by our laughter and the ancient seats, has been breached, but neither of us care too much.

When the movie begins, a tedious affair that makes no sense, we whisper snide comments to each other as crepe filling drips down our wrists, and I know that our secret world is still present, just hidden for now.

II. Dark clouds slosh about above our heads, as both of us struggle to shake the sleep from our eyes. It is the day after homecoming, and our eye bags carry the weight of the past night. Alas, The Tradition of The Movies stops for no tired soul, and we drive on, sipping on coffee and praying that we won’t fall asleep.

We do not sneak any food in this time, opting to eat our breakfast in the car, the concrete parking structure shielding up as the rain finally spills over from the sky.

Once our avocado and egg sandwiches are finished, we head in, stomachs sated with brunch food.

Another field of red leather seats awaits us, except this time we aren’t alone - hoards of men clad in threadbare comic book shirts occupy what was once barren. We curl up in our seats, reclining them until their backs scrape against the wall, and snicker at the men marching into the theater.

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There is no secret world for us this time, but we do what we can to craft our own; we laugh a little too loudly during scenes that are supposed to be serious, whispering one-line reviews under our breath, and ignore the glares sent to us by the people sitting around us. No one can break our little bubble, furnished with reclining red seats and fallen popcorn pieces.

III. November’s chill has finally caught up to us, permeating the layers we’re wearing to protect ourselves. My Honda is safely nestled next to a wall covered in street art; its pinks and greens pop underneath a streetlight despite the dark that shrouds the rest of the block. We take a minute to really look at the art, our necks stretched to the sky. After a minute, I ask if you can take my picture, and you oblige.

As you snap my picture, my yellow jacket flapping in the wind, I throw my head back and laugh, giving my joy as an offering to the streetlight.

Once again, our food is stuffed into a bulging paper bag, and once we’ve settled into our seats - (this time they’re a dull blue, and I pick at the fabric for the whole movie) - we scramble to unwrap our vegetable sandwiches. I do the honors of cutting our miniature pumpkin pie into quarters, two slices for the both of us.

The theater is almost sold out, but no one bats an eye as we chow down.

There’s scant time for us to find our bubble today - both of us are too caught up in the movie to even speak but once the screen has gone dark and we’ve both filed into my car, we immediately begin yelling, our shouts harmonizing with the crooning Christmas carols that play on my radio.

“That was transcendent,” you yell.

“Probably the best movie I’ve ever seen,” I agree, nodding frantically as I shift my car into reverse.

We leave the street art and the light behind, but I hope that they heard us, and are worshiping movies now, too.

Meridian K. ’23

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Crystal Love Claire K. ’20 “I just gotta say—“ Ink rolls off the folds of my hands. Each loop and whirl indented on the pads create a line of murk on my cheeks. My arms become dusted with pastel oils. Acrylics dot over my freckled face. My eyes glimmer with star-spoken sky. I had just come through with an idea. My blueprints are so disfigured.

Hands shaky as they search for more ink. I work my globby-gloved hands down the spine of the shimmering surface. My little fingers weave the gloves into patterns. When it was all ready, I gently work it into the flaming furnace. A pipe holds the mess on, spinning the now spindly surface into a blobby puddle of burning. My feet press on the small pedals of the furnace. Cold air courses through the ducts underneath the small fire. My own crystal heart burns into view.

The feeling is unavoidable. As they say that it “conquers all,” it truly does.

Rainbow streaks haze on my cheeks. My voice screams. What have you done? Why? How could you even begin with that?! I wanted to hold you close. Make you see me. Walk away for ages with you.

Hear you laugh and talk. Share the warmth with me. Make me feel special. All this for my hands to become festering ink infects?! The glass plates were crystallizing. For you. So I could mold them.

Mold them into masteries of craft. I opened my eyes just for you. Just for you to smash them into pieces. You made me feel so welcomed and known. You made me feel as if the purpose in my life was to be yours. Now my hands will forever be cut. The ink is already coursing through me. You fool. You fool around with my heart. Now it has been smashed like the drunken fool’s glass.

When one really understands, its amazing how much we have. That is, until you lose it all.

I handed over my pages. My hair was matted with murk and my hands glisten with paints. A cheeky smile rests open. She took one look. She had a smile on her face. Her eyes glimmered. She understood. She finally understood. I was giddy with joy. Rummaging through to hold her hands.

Words flowed out of my mouth. She corrected my mismatched phrases. I will make you the greatest sculptures of crystal the world will ever know. I took her hand in mine. She did not jerk away. I wanted to hold her. To sneak away with her. To see her smile. To see her be happy. I could give her everything. Everything that she desired. I told her that I may not be able of much, but I am a master of the arts of glass and crystals. I wanted us to be complete.

It is bold too. It has this brashness that cannot be comprehended.

I run into her. My various sketchbooks tumble from my hands. My lips stumble on words. She smiles.

We got talking, losing track of time. If it weren’t for the ringing bell I would have been stuck in an endless cycle. But I’m caught on her. She is glass being washed under soft lights. I got beaten back when someone said “you got blush on your neck— what’s up with that?” I didn’t know what this feeling was— this heartbreaking throbbing bursting for joy— was it even real? My hands tremble 37

with the coursing of where my mind was headed. I could not hinder myself anymore. I just— oh my brain can’t even say it— but it goes along the lines of— So for some it is the sun. It bakes those it touches into warm puddles of glass. But when the sun sets, the glass cools rapidly and can break.

“—I love you.”

Natalie W. ’23

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Unknown Depths Lucy B. ’21 The waters of the ocean spread across the globe in one large blanket of salt and sea breezes.

The sleeping giant churns the tides and caresses toes waiting shyly at its edges. It rumbles and clashes in an age-old battle with itself, striking fear into the stomachs of many onlookers. An untamable beast of brine whose waves crack and pound at Earth’s crust in patterned chaos. A provider, it gives just as it takes. Food, entertainment, fear, an escape, so many things that enchant and persuade us into endlessly returning to the shore.

The ocean is a familiar place to me. I know the taste of the misty wind on my chapped lips. My eyes sun-dried and stinging from sunscreen and salt. Grains of sand clinging to my legs and scraping between my toes. The sounds of seagulls swooping down to snatch some poor creature from the water. Memories of laughter mixed with fear and awe. My family’s presence surrounding me. My sister making mermaid tails in the sand, my brother beside her digging as deep as he could, while my mother and eldest sister dove beneath the waves. Me, standing in the foam of waves already broken and gone. Never daring to push further in fear of those powerful tides that eagerly wait to curl around my feet and swallow my small form.

Tides are ever changing and ever constant forces. A push and pull. Always giving and always taking. Rushing out to the farthest end of the beach before receding back, tucked away into the depths. They are dangerous and quick. Rising in power and multitude throughout the day, reaching out and raking their claws through the sand. Tension grows high with the level of the sea, expanding evermore. Until the time passes and the waters grow calm, docile. The sea shrinks back into its den, allowing people to greet it and once more dance in its currents.

The reason my family loves the ocean so much is because we are one in the same. Forces full of internal battles. Chaotic, yet consistent. We rise and fall with the help of each other, each person has a role, a purpose. Individually we are not necessarily remarkable, but together we are insurmountable.

The ocean clashes with itself. It’s eddies and currents push and pull, always moving, always changing, twisting, veering one way or another. The waves all follow the same patterns, but no wave is the same as any other. Some are loud and boisterous on impact, shaking the feet of those nearby. Others form slowly, rolling out from within themselves in swift, graceful motions. Unlike the ocean, however, you never know when the tides will change. When the calming low tide will cascade into the turbulence of high tide.

My memories of the beach are clear yet muddled. Between my unfocused, sleepy thoughts and the glare of the sun in my eyes, the images I have of my beach days are foggy at best. The clearest pictures I have are the printed ones in the drawers of the CD cabinet in my living room. These glossy slips of paper do not add much to the feeling of being at the beach itself, but they do provide a much better image of what was happening.

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Beaches and oceans are meant to be mysteries. It is no coincidence that 95% of the ocean remains unexplored. The ocean is a primal being, meant to be left free from probing gadgets or knowing smiles. Nothing is truly known about what lays beneath the surface of those waters.

Organisms of some shape and size, maybe. Yet, the ocean is inconstant. It is always changing. For everything we learn, hundreds of new things happen. Throwing us off, keeping us behind, are the things the ocean thrives on. The greatest enigma we shall ever know surrounds us and sustains us.

For, truly, what can we know about the hand that feeds?

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The Last Christmas Emily F. ’20 The ginger doll rests on my lap. Her eyes are an ice blue, like mine, and her pink booties are tied tightly ‘round her ankles. And as the fire spews an ember towards the hardwood floor and leaves it with a black hole, the candles burn bright, overflowing with wax. I turn to the little boy staring at me, eyes wide, opening my hand. In there he places a toy car, smiling softly. “Merry Christmas,” Dad exclaims, half-hugging me and serving me a plate of ham and eggs. Mom sips her coffee, her pink satin robe shimmers as she sits at the dining room table, a blonde-haired baby in her arms. …

“Santa Claus is not real,” the children tell me on the playground. I am chastised for believing. On Friday night, seven o’clock at the Kenilworth Mall, I sit on Santa’s lap; doubt coursing through me.

The blonde-haired little girl smiles sweetly, her charming eyes resting on Santa Claus’ white beard. I pick her up, sitting her on Santa’s lap. She becomes ecstatic, her arms moving up and down, and she laughs. She wants a toy kitten, a barbie, and maybe a play pretend kitchen, if Santa Claus can fit it in his sleigh. Then, it is the boy’s turn, and he asks for a basketball hoop. He knows Santa can’t fit it in his sleigh, so he expects the elves to mail it in three to five business days. “Some things just don’t arrive on time for Christmas,” he tells me. He’s not disappointed, though. …

My tired head hits the chilled pillow. I briefly look around to see the carousel on my nightstand turning in circles, playing soft, child-like Christmas instrumentals. The tiny tree in the corner is lit up with multicolored LED lights. The presents are in the closet, waiting to be placed neatly under the tree tomorrow morning. The small dog in my lap will surely get to them well before the recipients have a chance to find their gift under the tree. My church clothes lay flat on the floor, the black tights rolled into a ball, thrown into the corner of the room. My red shirt has a stain on it; it must be ketchup, or cranberry juice, or something that resembles a deep red. I did my best to take my makeup off, but some mascara and lipstick remain despite my best efforts. My hair is thrown up into a bun, and it rests neatly on the cold pillow. I effortlessly fall asleep.

I receive a hair straightener, some lipstick, a new phone case, and some candy. The little one gets baby dolls and stuffed animals. My brother gets his very first Mario Brothers video game. Then, after breakfast, I jump in the shower, eager to dry and straighten my hair, apply my makeup, and look perfectly polished for Christmas dinner. The pretty doll, with her ice-blue eyes and pink booties sits comfortably on a shelf in my room. Her smooth face is different than my red, bumpy, teenage skin, and her slim body doesn’t match the hips I’ve started filling out. And lastly, is her stomach. It is much smoother and flatter. Maybe, for Christmas this year, I did not want a doll, I wanted to be one instead.

Our eyes meet; a glimpse of my sweet, innocent younger self is gone in a flash.

It was like the doll’s eyes had captured my old self in her hollow, lonely plastic body. At dinner that night, I sit. Perfectly polished and unmoving, I sit. …

I rest on the couch, a cup of blistering hot cocoa in my hand. They all sit next to me, blankets falling over us, threatening to spill the burning liquid at every twist and turn of the body. Once everyone is 41

adjusted, “A Christmas Carol” plays. I can relate to Isabelle, trying to make everyone happy. I can relate to Karen’s sadness when she loses Frosty, and in “It’s a Wonderful Life,” I feel as though I am George sometimes, wondering what life would be like without me. …

The bitter cold stings my eyes, as I walk outside in a snowy mix of sleet, snow, rain, and slush. My black boots glide upon the cracked, icy sidewalks, as Dad walks up to me and asks, “don’t you want some ham and eggs?” I shake my head, no, and continue walking. “It’s nine in the morning, why don’t you go back to sleep,” he suggested. “No, I can’t sleep Dad, I don’t sleep.” …

“What a beautiful snow,” a stranger looked at me and said. The nice lady leans forward to pat my back and then disappears, leaving me alone again. The blue rails on the bunk beds are cold and destitute.

The window is smeared with handprints and dirt. The murky lake is covered with a sheet of snow and ice. The foot of the mountains bore the brunt of what was the loneliest, most beautiful snowstorm I have ever witnessed. And although I am not alone for long, they began to rally around me, as we navigated the bitter winter. My flimsy black boots slide up the mountain, and, then they fall back down. And then they carry me up until I am with the group. I trust them to catch me when I slip and fall—to comfort me when the cold is too much to bear all alone. Every chill in the nighttime is met with their warmth and comfort. My body has succumbed to sickness, and then recovery, and then painful sickness all over again. A bitter virus that clogs my nose and my weathering soul. But they are the antidote—and I’m building an antidote. I am the antidote. …

“Pay it forward!” the lady chimes. “Wrap your toys in paper, give them to those less fortunate.” The sweet smell of cookies and the essence of gratitude fills the room. I wonder what the blonde little girl at home is doing with her play kitchen, and if the boys' basketball playing has improved since last season. I hope Mom and Dad are in good health. Soon, I will come home. They said I could return. I think I’ll return as Frosty, since I have come back to life. Or Isabelle, as I have walked away from what has not served me. Or George, I know I am needed. …

I look out the window, down at the potholes and cracks in the road, and towards the streetlights. Oh, the many times I have stared at the streetlights to see the snow! Must be a hundred times each winter.

Although, I must say, this time is different. As my hand presses against the cold windowpane, my thoughts turn to the doll, and then to Dad’s ham and eggs, and to all the Christmas movies we watch— and to leaving home and coming home. Flashbacks enter my mind, adrenaline coursing through my veins. So much goodness, and so much courage. Leaving home had meant leaving behind the empty shell, the lipsticks, and the unattainable perfections. But it meant missing the little blonde girl and the little boy who loved to play with cars. It meant missing the silence that church provided every Christmas Eve mass, and my grandparents in line in the church pew. It means holding onto all of that.

But most importantly, it meant holding onto the girl who cherished it all.

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Black Beauty Kelley S. ’20 The storm.

The air is brisk with the cold, humid air from the rain that pounced on the land. The sky still dark and gray with distant rumbles of thunder in the distance. Destruction has taken place. I step out the door onto the wet driveway. I trace my onerous path into the backyard to see the downed trees and ripped roots. Light dribbles of rain hit my forehead as I walk my way up the warped tree hill to the shed.

The sky looks at the earth with tears. Loud. Dirty. Dark. Dying.

It is furious with the thought that we destroy this world with something as simple as a clear item that caresses the world’s oceans.

But one piece of land is quiet. The sky feels sane and comfortable; contempt with the thought of complete silence and no worry.

The bird.

A bird and its partner sit steady on the top of the shed. I stop many yards away from the mysterious things. The partner zooms away to find its prey while the other sits still as the predator disappears into the dark sky. Is the creature hurt; it has yet to lift off to chase it prey. I inch towards and the bird creeps slightly but it stays atop the fenced building. The bird is of an unknown spectacle. I look closer but another storm approaches and rips a loud roar of thunder through the sky. I run back home and sit pondering about the mysterious bird.

The house is eerily quiet. It is never this quiet. The buzz of power is nowhere to be heard, the wind has stopped blowing, and heavy rain trickles down the screened-in windows and the buzz of power is nowhere to be heard, but my mind still works in electrifying ways. The bird. That damned bird. What is it? What does it do? Why won’t it leave?

Coragyps atratus The dark becomes light as the sister storm moves away. I prance up the hill past the rooting wet trees.

The black blob of bird is still roosting on the rusted steel. No movement has occurred, and it is peaceful. But it is lonely and wet. There is no sight of the partner predator. The creature skulks at me but makes no attempt to attack. I make more observations about this “thing.” It is black and smooth with talons worthy of piercing and even killing. But this one does not want to kill. It does not want to move. A beauty like this has chosen to be hidden and away from the boisterous world. Peace has been found.

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Mercy High School 1300 E. Northern Pkwy.

Baltimore, MD 21239