1 The students of Nauset High School are many things, but they are most certainly creative. Our wonderful campus is full of painters, writers, photographers, designers, and many other talented individuals who make NRHS a vibrant and colorful community. Weâ€™ve spent the past several months compiling paintings, photos, poems, short stories, and more into this collection of creative pieces by Nauset High School students: The 2019 Nauset Literary & Arts Magazine. Throughout the pages of this magazine, you will find students reflecting on daily life, pondering the nature of humanity, finding beauty in the world around them, and dreaming of imaginary worlds and stories full of color and character. We hope that the following pieces will intrigue you and inspire you to create art of your own, in whatever form that may take. And, when we announce our contest for submissions next year, we sincerely hope that you all will have something to share with us. Art is like food, everybody likes it a different way, but we can all agree that more is better. Until next year, keep on creating! Sincerely, The Nauset Literary and Arts Magazine Staff
Editors Jaiden van Bork Wyatt Falk
Additional Staff Addy Savery Shannon Wanamaker Autumn Capurso Ethan Harris
Faculty Advisor Ms. Seiser
Table of Contents
This I Believe by Paige Klun --------------------------------------------------------------Seasons Pickings by Jenna Maher --------------------------------------------------------Finished by Luke McCarthy --------------------------------------------------------------Exploration by Samantha Cannistraro ---------------------------------------------------Untitled by Joshua Devlin ----------------------------------------------------------------Untitled by Katie Crocker -----------------------------------------------------------------The Recursive Man by Sam Carpenter ---------------------------------------------------Another Sunny Day by Allie Hull --------------------------------------------------------Untitled 2 by Dabney Peters --------------------------------------------------------------Impossible by Wyatt Falk -----------------------------------------------------------------Self Portrait by Logan Heilman ----------------------------------------------------------Coastal Sunrise by Rachel Pranga --------------------------------------------------------Old by Donald Atwood -------------------------------------------------------------------Victory in Being by Tiffany Tromp ------------------------------------------------------Peaceful Horizons by Jenna Maher ------------------------------------------------------Playing the Game by Addy Savery -------------------------------------------------------Achilles’ Lament by Pabney Deters ------------------------------------------------------Untitled by Dabney Peters ----------------------------------------------------------------Penelope’s Transformation by Lillian Pooler --------------------------------------------Untitled by Allie Hull ----------------------------------------------------------------------
2019 Contest Winners Visual Art
Untitled Painting by Katie Crocker Exploration by Samantha Cannistraro
Old by Donald Atwood
Old by Donald Atwood
Coastal Sunrise by Rachel Pranga
Recursive Man by Sam Carpenter
Recursive Man by Sam Carpenter
3 4 5 6 7 8 9 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 17 19 21 21 23 27
This I Believe by Paige Klun
2018 is a strange time. It seems like while technology is advancing, our social skills have regressed. I happen to see a direct correlation between societies collective addiction with phones and our apparent lack of human connections because of it. Our lack of consequences linked to the cruel things we say online directly affects our ability to understand and be empathetic. When I say I believe in human connections, don’t get confused; I’m talking about real human connection. When I was a kid, my grandma always taught me not to judge people by their experiences but by their character. She would bring me to AA meetings when I was little, and I would listen to everyone’s stories and meet all types of people. I believe in human connection, the type where our experiences make us relatable. Sometimes something as small as that, can make someone not feel so alone. There’s no question about it; back then I had no idea the impact that being there would have on me. It gave me the opportunity to see people in a different light, to not judge them for their mistakes but rather encourage their success. People seem to forget that love and human connection are all that really matters after we die. Not the job you had or the materials you possessed. So, I Believe in human connection. It doesn’t have to be as big as listening to stories of struggle from recovering addicts. It could even be as small as the weekends I would spend at my grandma’s house. I didn’t cherish it enough as a child, which I should have. We would make dinner; whatever I wanted was always what was on the menu for that night. She tended to my every need as a little kid, and when I became older, the roles reversed. When we got the news two years ago that my grandma had cervical cancer, it was difficult to hear understandably. I had known my grandma was one of the strongest people alive, but now it was time for me to take care of her. When she would be bedridden, I would tend to her every need, without question because she always did the same for me. This is the type of connection I’m talking about, the kind where you are willing to go out of your way for those you love. Even doing simple acts of kindness for strangers, could make a difference in their day. This doesn’t mean that struggle MUST be involved, simple human connections don’t cross our mind often but may be the most important kind. Not where someone is sick or in need of help, but sometimes just as simple as having a laugh with friends. When life seems to heavy to bear, call up a friend and go for a drive. Something as small as singing at the top of your lungs going 60 down the highway or seeing a movie with your family, it all adds up. Could even be as big as asking that girl to marry you, even though you’re afraid. In the end, I believe in human connections.
4 “Seasons Pickings” by Jenna Maher
5 “Finished” by Luke McCarthy
“Exploration” by Samantha Cannistraro
by Joshua Devlin Nikki in my head they called me a fool Kids acting cool ripping juul inside school All passed out in a pool of their own drool Nicotine is the devils molecule But the buzz in my brain will keep me sane When the acidic tears blot out the rain Mary Jane also helps me numb the pain But lately my efforts have been in vain
Untitled by Katie Crocker
The Recursive Man
by Sam Carpenter After the invention of the first time machine, humanity was faced with a dilemma. The past was now, for the first time, accessible by humans. Scientists wanted to observe the beginnings of the universe, of the planet, and of life. Historians lunged at the chance to verify recorded history and to answer archeological questions whose answers were lost to time. Most controversially, eons of past death and suffering were suddenly completely preventable. However, the risk of paradoxes loomed over these lofty goals, and risking the present to save the past was not something humans were yet ready to do. The most terrifying possible outcome was inadvertently preventing the invention of time travel, causing your future self to have never obtained the time machine, leading to a paradox that could collapse the universe. After years of debate, the consensus was reached that the opportunity of the past was not worth the risk, no matter how minute, of damaging the present. And so, a sort of prison was set up for anyone who attempted to travel to a time before the invention of the time machine. The prison pulled travelers from the time stream, confined them for one year, and returned them to their time. Although only one traveler was captured each hour to prevent overload, it effectively managed the issue of paradoxes and kept the past safe from interference. The first capture went extraordinarily well. The traveler’s name was William Hawking, a 28-year-old man hailing from the year 2247. Hawking had planned to stop the burning of the Library of Alexandria and had clearly forgotten about the existence of the prison. After his questioning, he was confined to his cell and the guards prepared for the next arrival, confident that the captures would continue to go well. Oh, how unbelievably incorrect they were. The guards’ first thought during the second capture was that the systems had malfunctioned. The room where the inmates arrived was immediately filled with dense smoke and loud banging sounds echoed throughout the chamber. Suddenly, the entry door to the capture room was broken down, and the traveler was running down the hallway. Guards swarmed him but were incapacitated by some sort of electric weapon he carried. Before he was captured, he made it about three-quarters of the way to the holding cell area. However, even then the biggest surprise had not yet come. The traveler was William Hawking, a 29-year-old man hailing from the year 2247. After being released from the prison, he had equipped himself with weapons and sent himself back in time to break his past self out of prison. After being relieved of his weapons, he was sent to his cell, where it was made sure that he would never interact with his past self. The third capture was William Hawking, a 30-year-old man from 2247 who had swallowed a lock-picking kit and was planning to break himself and his past selves out a la Harry Houdini. The fourth capture was William Hawking, a 31-year-old man from 2247 who had smuggled in a teleporter (he was from the future, after all) and was planning on teleporting himself and his past selves to a country without extradition. The fifth, sixth, and seventh Hawkings all had similar plans, but by that point, the guards were completely prepared for attempted breakouts, and despite Hawking’s best efforts each iteration was eventually imprisoned. The eighth capture came in dressed up as a guard and tried to slip himself into the chaos of guards, hoping he could infiltrate their ranks and break out his past selves without anyone noticing. Unfortunately for him, he didn’t realize that a prison for time travelers from the future is bound to have relatively advanced security measures, and when one extra guard appeared, it wasn’t hard to look for the one without an identification badge. As the 35-year-old Hawking was taken off to his cell, grumbling the whole way, one of the guards remarked that Hawking’s attempts were futile. Hawking inquired as to why the guard thought this.
The guard explained that Hawking could not succeed because he had never succeeded. If any of his 10 attempts had been successful in breaking out his past selves, his present self would be completely aware of it. The fact that none of the iterations of Hawking remembered ever being rescued meant that none of the breakouts were ever successful and that continuing to try to break himself out was completely pointless. The next capture was Steven Goldman, a 52-year-old man from 2256 who was attempting to observe the Big Bang and had clearly not considered that even the slightest interference with the start of the universe could have devastating consequences on the present. No additional Hawkings appeared, and after one year they were each returned to their timelines. As they were released, the guards knew that all except one of them would be returning to break themselves out, but they couldnâ€™t tell them to prevent paradoxes. Besides, it would be a lesson they would learn in time.
Another Sunny Day By Allie Hull
Raindrops descend from the heavens The ripples make vibration rings from shore to shore Boat buoys bobbing up and down in the water like a jumping child The sky darkens like a blown out candle The storm is here
Trees whip back and forth Branches plummeted from their swaying home Causing blockades in the trail Keeping us in mother natureâ€™s creation Splashing in the rain Mud covers my yellow raincoat Laughs spew out of my mouth As the thunder starts to slow
The sun peaks out of the clouds Causing a rainbow of colors to appear Sadly the storm has passed Leaving me to another sunny day
12 Untitled 2 by Dabney Peters
by Wyatt Falk
Impossible. Such a funny word. Impossible. How many times have I heard that word One? Two? Ten? Such an odd word. Like a cough that always comes back. Overused. History too. Impossible to fly right, planes; impossible to cure, many illnesses, medicine; impossible to tame lightning, electricity. History lied. What’s next then? Impossible to do so many things, but for how long. But what can we really do about it? Why not just say it’s impossible? Well, why should we? Why say things are impossible, when we always prove that wrong? Possible. Another weird word. Impossible. Possible. Impossible. Possible. Impossible. Possible. So similar, yet different. Like dogs and cats. Pencils and pens. Girls and boys. Whenever I bring this up in school. They always say it’s pointless, unrelated. My friends always say crazy, too young to think this. The words, they bite, vicious and cruel. Will someone ever give me an answer? Even a question? Just once, someone to listen, but they never do. Nor will they. Maybe I should listen. Maybe I should look that way. Just do what teachers make. Just simple math. Science. English. History. Like a leaf, finally blowing on the wind. Or a snowflake, finally melting in the hot sun. One thing they always say. Impossible. There has to be a better word. Something that will make more sense, that will finally fix this broken idea, that will get people to finally hear what I meant. Then again, maybe this really is. Impossible.
“Self Portrait” by Logan Heilman
15 “Coastal Sunrise” by Rachel Pranga
By Donald Atwood The crimson light of the dawn pierces through the trees as you wake. The heavy, wet air holds you like weights. The birds wake shortly after you, and they start to sing their ancient songs. You have been on your solo expedition for four days now, and you are almost underwhelmed, for your colleague told you that these woods held the tower, and the answers to your needs. They told you over and over again of how they went in and felt like a completely new person, knowing all of life’s mysteries. All you have found, however, is foot blisters and vines so thick they have dulled your machete blade. Ignoring the pain of your open sores, you march on committed to finding the tower. As you walk, you remember the first time you caught wind of the tower. You were only five when your mother told you of the great crimson creation. It was explained to you that the tower could grant your greatest desires. But now, at your age, you hold a small amount of doubt that the tower exists. After about an hour of your march you start to notice the thick thatch that is the forest, start to open up more. You find you have to hack at the vines more but less in equal portions. The dull blade requires you to swing harder and more. But because the brush is slimming you have to swing less often. Your nose starts to be tickled by the distinct smell of sea water. The flora has opened to the point that you can now start to identify the vast, rolling field of cobalt, with waves ripping and rolling over one another. Hues of emerald glint amidst the froth. You can hear the chatter of the sea fauna as you approach the blackened coast. Now is your time to figure out your way either around the blue bay or if you will make a temporary raft. You look at the saplings and reaching vines; you then attempt to follow the coastline with your eyes to find a route around, but the forest swallows up land to the point where it seems like the only beach is where you stand now. Having no raft building experience, you get to work cutting down the children of the trees, ripping at vines, trying to ignore the thorns digging into your flesh. You interweave the natural cordage between the petite logs until they hold solid. You push it to the waves testing its buoyancy; just as it starts to get pulled to the water, you pull it back in and start whittling an oar for control of the vessel. As you approach the middle of the sea, you notice large fins puncture the water’s surface. You start to paddle faster. The fins start to get closer to your raft which is slowly falling apart. As soon as the fins appeared, however, they just as quickly sink back into the depths, and you safely reach the opposite shore. You are immediately faced with a new challenge: getting through the thick forest that sits right at the shore. But you decide to take a break, instead, as the sun is already setting over the trees. The night you face is a cold bitter one, even with the fire you have built. Through the dark you hear rustling and loud snapping of twigs. It isn’t long, however, before you fall fast asleep. You dream of nightmares; your raft hadn’t held together and the fins had gotten hold of you. You dream of fresh water and warm meals that you don’t have to hunt yourself. You wake with this dream as the sun just starts to pierce the through the trees once more. You spread the ashes of your fire and keep moving. You start to think that the tower is just an old tale from some ancient culture. You become more and more disappointed when you start to get an odd sense that you are right back where you started this journey, five days before. Your fear is confirmed as you approach the village you first started from. Confused you turn around to see how this could happen and as you do, the birds stop their chants; everything gets a bit darker and you see a large crimson tower looming over you. The tower seems to pulsate as you watch it. You search for an end in the clouds but you don’t see one, only the tower reaching up continuously. You place your hand on the handle of the door in front of you and you pull it open, entering the doorway. You feel drowsy as soon as you enter, and fall to the slumber approaching. You wake unable to move. You are in a tight room, all alone. You are strapped to an old chair. In front of you is a large television; on it you are forced to watch what seems to be yourself. You watch as you tell more people in the village to find the tower. You promise them the answers that they seek.
Victory in Being By Tiffany Tromp
They say time can only heal But I see no covering seal There is no sign Of a healing heart and mind And there is only so much time I know But in the meantime how will I cope? I am losing motivation With each palpitation Though I am not bleeding I am deeply cut Endless battles I have fought But this one asks for strength I cannot conceive And my heart keeps breaking at the seams
I am hurting and I am hurting often And nothing seems to stop it All my strength slowly collapses Air in my chest all becomes tightened And it builds up The pain builds up And my mind keeps on racing And my heart at the seams tearing Mounting with bitter and delayed feelings A convoluted kind of healing
You are trying to burn me deep inside Form deep holes to underline All the pain that already exists To leave me hurt and oblivious You are trying to break the healing skin Give me reason so I will not win One wrong motion and I could sink Though I have forgotten what it feels to be Carrying a smile and being happy There are small reminders that come my way There are bad moments But there are better days And they are enough to keep me fighting to stay
Even though I am tired And you fill me with doubt Because I am sick of not feeling safe and sound Even my own skin I cannot seem to trust I know I would rather be here, like this, than not And that right there defines my victory One you cannot take away from me Not being is a battle Unceasingly fought and lost But there is victory in being Despite the momentary cost
“Peaceful Horizons” by Jenna Maher
Playing the Game
By Addy Savery
The town of Eden, NY had always seemed to be a simple, ordinary place. Small, yet picturesque, and nestled on the Hudson River, you’d pass by thinking it was just like any other. Beneath the plain surface however, the town kept its own dark secrets, meant to be hidden from the outside world. It has always been said that Eden had been a place of significance for supernatural entities back in the olden days. Rumors of witches, dark spirits, and especially Satan herself were said to have anguished the town. Although the times had changed now, some still believed the devil herself had never even left. Those of the town who believed this old tale, had often been told the devil could take many forms, depending on how she wanted to trick you. Whether it be as your best friend, neighbor, or even the bartender serving you your last drink at the local pub, she always swindled you somehow, to get what she wanted. It was on one dark night that Amara Hunter realized this when she had nowhere to turn. Amara Hunter had lived in Eden for as long as she could remember, and although she lead a fairly normal life, she never felt like that was the case for her. With her mother gone, her father being an abusive drunk, and her work overwhelming, Amara had never been genuinely happy. She’d suffered through depression for years and after a particularly long week of feeling trapped in some dark, endless hole, she decided to stop by the pub on her way home, for a quick drink. As she walked through the door, she noticed the place had been crowded with people she knew from around town, all chattering about their lives that week and the weather over a glass of liquor. In an effort to avoid being noticed by any of them, Amara walked past the area of tables and set herself down at the bar. She then heard a voice say “Can I get you anything?!”. Looking up from under the hood of her sweatshirt, Amara noticed a young, beautiful woman standing before her, the glare of the tavern lights illuminating her long, raven hair. “Just a glass of ale for me, thanks”, she answered shyly. Amara removed her hood and adjusted her posture as the woman set a glass down in front of her. She had seemed very intrigued by the young bartender’s striking appearance. “You seem lost”, the young woman remarked on seeing Amara’s tired, thoughtful expression. Amara explained to the bartender her whole story briefly, taking a few sips of her drink in between. “It all seems like I’m trapped in this pit of darkness. I just wish it was different. I’d give anything to be happy for once, even my soul”, she ended. “I’d be happy to help you with that”, the young woman whispered to Amara, leaning forward. Amara observed for a second how the light of the tavern revealed a glare of red in the enchanting woman’s eye. Glancing down, she read the young girl’s name read “Santana” before looking back up to meet the woman’s eyes. Before Santana could give her another flirtatious look however, Amara paid her bill and quickly ran back out the door. Seeing how it had gotten late, she quickened her pace to get home, trying her best to forget Santana’s bewitching expression. Early the next morning, Amara awoke to her alarm blaring as usual. Shutting it off quickly, she got up from her bed and got ready for another day of work at the local cafe. Normally her mornings started this way reluctantly, with her dragging herself along to grab her stuff before walking out the door. Today however, Amara felt different, almost lighter in a way. She tried her best to ignore it throughout her day but that proved to be quite difficult. As her day went on, Amara felt as though a weight had been lifted off her shoulders, almost joyous and carefree. She couldn’t explain this change but yet she didn’t care. She had just gotten caught up in her own happiness. Amara’s life went on like this for another 3 days. After which she realized the trouble in feeling so light-hearted suddenly. After the third day of this, Amara went back to the pub to talk to the woman she’d seen earlier that week, that had left her so bewitched. Running through the door, she saw Santana standing behind the bar, cleaning off some glasses. Amara got her attention quickly before sitting in front of her. “You must help me Santana. I feel as if I’ve gone mad. This freedom and joy has become almost numbing!” she begged. Santana looked up from her work to meet Amara, and answered, “You said yourself that you’d give anything to be happy for once, even your own soul. Ms. Hunter I am a woman that possesses an immense amount of power. Even enough sometimes to grant those
like you a bit of hope. Next time, you should be careful what you wish for.” Amara found herself bemused by 20 what she’d just heard. The bartender she had been captivated by only a few nights ago, was the reason she’d gotten into this entire mess. As she got up to leave, she asked Santana if there was any way she could change everything back. Before returning to her work, the young woman turned around and simply left Amara with the answer “Sometimes you have to play your cards right”. Amara left that day feeling clueless about what to do. She had to get her life back somehow. After thinking over what she’d told her, Amara realized there was only one way she could get Santana to change her mind. Amara was going to have to flirt with the young woman exactly as she had with her the other night, therefore beating the devil at her own game. The next night, Amara returned to the tavern, and found her seat at the bar as usual. Rather than being her shy, reticent self, she caught the charming bartender’s attention with a simple flip of her hair and meet of her gaze. After receiving her drink, Amara followed every step her irresistible counter had done, twirling her hair. Before leaving, Amara placed her lips upon Santana’s cheek for a brief moment to end the night. On her way out, an intrigued and infatuated Santana stopped her to tell her she had forgotten something. With just the quick snap of her fingers, she decided to change everything back for Amara, returning her soul as well. Amara turned to face the woman, “I believe you’ve just lost your own game,” saying to her. Santana returned the favor from earlier and placed her lips on hers before answering, “Well played, Amara!” Amara left that night feeling satisfied despite her life being back to its old ways. It was from then on that Amara decided she would learn to find happiness on her own, rather than simply wishing her problems away.
Achillesâ€™ Lament By Pabney Deters My soul is here my body dead Am I Achilles brave and strong? When given life chose death instead And from my choice went life from long To short as if a chopped up song! The hero of the Trojan War! No, I am breathless death and dust In mortal mind I wanted more I hate my greed and want and lust! And my reward was all but just!
Iâ€™d rather be a slave on earth Than like a king, to rule the dead I question glory was it worth? For it I chose and there I bled Where was my brain? Not in my head!
Untitled by Dabney Peters
by Lillian Pooler Slight Introduction
“Goodnight” someone whispers and the world goes dark. And that is the last thing I remember.
I wake up and find myself in a cubic room with peachy colored walls and a man laying next to me. I gasp and scramble out of the bed and scream. “What! What’s going on!” The man is up in a flash next to me. “Who are you! Where is my husband!” I scream and slowly inch away from him. He has handsome features. Dark, soft brown eyes full of fear and worry. A perfect chin with a mole just under his mouth. Messy hair and strong muscles. It almost looks like Aphrodite herself made him. “What are you talking about I’m your husband! Augustus? Gus?....” I stare at him with a blank face. He rubs the back of his neck, “I’m not playing these games again. It’s 5:30 in the morning and I have a super important acting audition to go to so I’m going to get slightly more of my beauty sleep. Goodnight.” he walks back to his side of the bed and flops down on the bed. A few seconds later he starts to snore. Bzzz bzzz. I jump. On the bedside table a small, flat object lays on the table light up. I slowly walk towards it careful not to do anything wrong and pick it up. It’s a flat piece of metal a few centimeters thick and a couple inches long, on the front side it has a flat glass surface. Bzzz bzzz it buzzes again and I drop it. I stare at it on the floor and then pick it up. The glass is not broken. I stare at it confused and press the button on the bottom of the screen. It lights up and brings up two messages: Hey! Big! Big! Day ahead of us, first we are… and left off at that. Then I read the bottom message: Hi it’s Marissa I just wanted to let you know that… and leaves off at that. I look at the man in the bed then back at the phone. The screen has a picture of me and him hugging in front of a beautiful sunset. But I have never seen or taken this picture before. I place the screen back down and look around the room. It has a massive bed with a peach and white plaid blanket and four large rectangular pillows with the same print. At the other end of the room is a door. I slowly approach it and turn the knob. It creeks open and leads to a fine stairway. A stairway that would be fit for a Queen or Emperor. I walk down the stairs amazed and in awe. On the walls are pictures of Augustus and I. One is of us kissing in front of a long pointy needle looking statue. Farther down the stairs is an amazing picture of me with a daisy in my hair smiling looking off in the distance. Then there is a long picture with Augustus with huge words printed: “DON’T MISS AUGUSTUS WATERS IN HIS LATEST: ‘BABY DRIVER’” On the bottom it has a picture of me? It shows me on a stage yelling into a crowd. That picture says: “DON’T MISS THE AMAZING PENELOPE WATERS IN HER LATEST SINGLE: ‘HOME ALONE’” What is a single? Why am I on a piece of paper? I start to panic so I quickly continue to walk down the stairs being careful not to trip on my way. The end of the stairs opens up to a grand area. It has chandeliers and pictures everywhere. I continue looking around probably with my mouth wide open looking like an idiot. I walk into what I assume is the living room and gasp. It has five grand chandeliers and a stone wall with a massive black screen attached to the wall. I continue to walk around the palace. The dining room has enough room to fit all Troy and the Greeks. I walk into the kitchen and almost have a heart attack. The kitchen is a glorious shade of white and has amazing pearl white and gray granite countertops that line the wall and right in front of the sink is a massive window that shows a perfect area with green grass. “Good morning” I jump and turn around. Augustus is standing there rubbing his eyes. “Hello, I still don’t know who you are, my husbands name is Odysseus and I- I have a son named Telemachus and your not my husband!”
“Ok, first of all, you do have a son, his name is Trevor, and second of all Odysseus? What in the world are 24 you talking about?” “Trevor? I don’t have a son named Trevor. I have a son named Telemachus, and a husband named Odysseus not-not you! Just take me back to my home and leave me there.” I stare fiercely at the man challenging him to challenge me. “Well even if you are playing with me, you have a big day ahead of you, you have your photo shoot with Marissa, then you are going to lunch with my parents, and then after that we have to celebrate our anniversary so, you have to go dress shopping with Helen, and then we have our dinner date. Now I have to go and get ready for my audition for my newest movie ‘The Fault In Our Stars’.” And with that he goes back up the stairs and leaves me alone in the kitchen.
Honk! Honk! A horn beeps in front of the house. Augustus helped me pick my clothes for the day. Nothing that i’ve ever worn in my life before. A heavy blue fabric with ripped patches covers my legs. Augustus had to tell me over and over that they are made like that on purpose. For my top I have a light blue half top that shows my belly button and barely covers my upper half. Augustus insisted that it’s the only way i’ll make the cover for the People Magazine. I have no idea what he meant but I gave up complaining and just went with it. However, I can barely walk. I have these super high, gold “pumps” on and I almost tripped walking down the stairs. I walk out the front door and see an extremely fancy white machine. I slowly approach the machine. “Let’s go! We only have 30 minutes to get to the shoot!” A woman shouts out the window. She looks pretty serious so I hurry up, open the door and sit in the front seat. “Should we listen to Pop or Country music? Oh! Or should we listen to we listen to your latest?” She looks at me. “Uh, anything’s ok I guess.” She stares at me. “Are you ok?” “Uh, who are you exactly?” “Oh darling! We are not going through this again.” “Why does everybody keep saying that? What are we going through? Where am I?” She looks at me, “Ok, maybe this time you aren’t kidding, you seriously don’t remember me?” I widen my eyes and stare at her. “Ok, well my name is Marissa and i’ve been your best friend and your manager since we were like fourteen, you have a photoshoot today for your newest single-“ “What’s a photoshoot and what’s a single?” “A photoshoot is where they take pictures of you for what’s called a magazine. Right now you are the best singer, and a single is a collection of songs that you have sang and recorded and put out in stores to sell.” “And Augustus is?...” “Augustus Waters is your husband and an actor. An actor is someone who acts like another character and the directors, is what they are called, record him and put it out on what is called a television. That is the black screen above your fireplace.” “You’ve been inside the house?” “Yes..” By now, we have left the house and approached a large building with pictures of people all in the windows. “I don’t know how to do a photoshoot!” I hiss at Marissa. “It’s super easy, when you walk in just do as they say, it’ll be over in a flash, don’t worry.” She laughs at her own joke. I stare out the window and gulp. “Well, what are we waiting for? This photoshoot won’t do it itself.” She gets out the machine and walks over to my side an opens the door. I stare at her silently begging for her to not let me go in there. She stares back, more fiercely. I’m not used to people fighting back, they should be letting me do what I want and not make me do what I don’t.
“Fine.” I sigh and get out of the car. I walk up to the door and open it. Inside is long hallways with rooms 25 off the sides. “May I help you?” I turn around and look at the women that said that. “Uh, yes we have an appointment for Penelope Waters?” Marissa jumped in. I gave her a grateful smile and she winked back at me. “I’m sorry.” She said, “your appointment was rescheduled for next week. Mr. Bronson was supposed to give you a call, but seeing how you are here he did not.” She looks at us, then looks at the door, then looks at us again. Marissa grabs my hand, “Fine let’s go eat lunch with Gus’s parents.”
As soon as we arrive back home, I flop down on the couch and groan. “What’s wrong?” Marissa asks me. She examines the pictures in the house and looks back at me. “I’m just so confused right now, I only remember Odysseus being my husband and Telemachus being my son, not Augustus and Trevor.” On the way home from lunch with Augustus’s parents I explained everything to her. Only remembering going to bed with Odysseus by my side, Telemachus being my son, and not knowing how to do anything in this world I am in. “I know, it’s a weird thing that happened, but I don’t know, maybe you’ll wake up tomorrow and life will be back to normal.” “I just don’t know how to live like this. With-with what’s that word?” “Technology?” She suggested. “I don’t know how to live with technology, or photoshoots, or an anniversary!” “Well an anniversary is a celebr-” “ I don’t care! I can’t have an anniversary with a man I don’t know, I can’t keep having lunch with people I don’t know, I can’t live like this! I need to see boats, gods, my husband and my son!” “Darling, we’ll figure it out don’t worry, but for now, you need to go on a date and get ready because Agustus should be here any second,” She looks out the window. “Here he comes.” He pulls up in what Marissa said was a car, and he has a very nice car. “I’m home!” He calls out when he gets into the house. Augustus is not ugly. He is definitely more attractive than my own husband, but I love Odysseus not this man. “How did it go?” Marissa asks. He holds up a massive pile of papers. “I got the part!” Marissa screams and runs up to hug him. I smile and walk over and give him a hug. I’m not big on hugging, but this moment calls for it. “How did your photoshoot go?” “Apparently it got rescheduled to next week.” Marissa says. “That really sucks. And lunch?” “Lunch was really good,” I said “your parents are something else.” His father said something to me that I can’t forget, “it’s the one that counts that matters, and you, my dear, are that one that matters.” “Well that’s good, I have to go get ready for our date, I reserved us a very special place.” And with that he turns around and almost skips up the stairs. “Well,” Marissa says, “I guess you might as well get ready.”
“Mmm this is really good.” I say. We are eating at an “Italian restaurant”. Marissa informed me of what to get, how to say it and where we were going. “It is very delicious.” Augustus and I both got noodles with chicken. “ So do you know what is so special about this place?” I look up from my food and stare at him. He laughs, “It’s where we first met! I was eating with my current girlfriend and you were all alone in that corner,” he points to the corner in the left, “And I walked over and asked if you were alone, you said yes and said that I better get back to
my girlfriend, but first I insisted I get your number, and here we are. On our third anniversary with one 26 fantastic child and each other.” The way he worded what he said was amazing. It brought tears to my eyes. Odysseus never treated me like that, he was always going off to battle and leaving me to find another husband and raise my son on my own. After dinner we went for a walk to a nearby park and watched the stars. Before I new it I was rattling off constellations and amazing Augustus with how smart I really am. After a few hours we drifted off to sleep with me cuddled in his protective warmth under the brilliant stars. “Goodnight.” He whispers and soon the world goes dark. And me cuddled in his arms is the last thing I remember.
A Little Ending
BANG, BANG, BANG, I wake up to the sound of someone hammering a piece of wood. “Augustus? What’s going on?” I rub my eyes and look around. Instead of seeing peach colored walls, I see my own bedroom with my own husband in my bed. I smile. I’m back! But my smile fades. What about Augustus? And Marissa? “You Ok?” Odysseus says next to me. “Where is Agustus? And Marissa? And-and my phone?” Odysseus gets up and stares at me. “What is this nonsense you speak of?” Slowly I start to realize that Agustus and Marissa were just a dream. “Nothing.” I murmur and lay back down and bury myself in blankets, and before I can stop it, a single tear rolled down my face.
by Allie Hull Rotting boards above the fading blue doors show the worn lettering of Hull The ocean breeze gracefully enters in the windows along with chirps of birds Faded green and white striped couches line the farmers porch looking out at the endless sparkling sea Sandy toes drag in little grains onto the dark worn wooden floors Laughter overpowers the sound of the waves down near the shore Old beach grass flies behind the glass windows A straw rug sits under us flashing its pastel colors Tattered curtains sway in the wind Discolored flip flops click-clack flopping down the stairs The skylights allow the darkening sunlight to illuminate the table Walking out the crooked hanging barn door, Dark and dreary clouds move in with a storm A bolt of lightning cracks across the grey skies The waves turn from rolling swiftly onto the sand into an attack Crashing and pounding the ground they bring salt water up to our toes A drip falls on my shoulder, a giggle escapes my mouth Throwing on a sweater I start to dance in the raindrops Country music from the house starts to play in the background All smiles, I start to walk along the seas edge with my dog Running through the waves, we get soaked A flash of blonde fur runs past me Chasing after him, I catch up We head to the cottage but by then we are drenched Cuddled up in a blanket, we sit by the fire thatâ€™s fighting through the rain My hair dries into little curls, my body covered in a layer of salt My pup lays down with sand intertwined into each individual crevice of his skin Heading in, I bolt up the stairs to the sea glass floored hot shower awaiting my arrival
This is Nauset Regional High School's student created, student published magazine of poems, short stories, photographs, and art. Nauset Regi...
Published on Dec 2, 2019
This is Nauset Regional High School's student created, student published magazine of poems, short stories, photographs, and art. Nauset Regi...