Sweetgum
literary magazine
About Sweetgum Sweetgum Literary Magazine is a publication of the Publishing Club and journalism elective at The Early College at Guilford, 5608 W. Friendly Avenue, Greensboro, North Carolina.
About The Early College at Guilford The mission of The Early College at Guilford is to make a positive difference in the lives of students by providing exceptionally challenging educational opportunities that support academic development at the highest standards. Through building bridges at the earliest opportunity between high school, college and beyond, our school seeks to awaken and mature the creative, social and academic abilities of students. We strive to foster leadership in varied context so that our stuents may succeed in higher education and the changing world beyond. Our school offers a writing-intensive, fast-paced curriculum in partnership with Guilford College. Students take honors and advanced placement courses in the ninth an tenth grades and college courses with undergaduate students taught by college professors in grades 11 and 12. Students graduate with a high school diploma and up to two years of credit from Guilford College.
Staff
Ziva Garcia, ‘25 Nashwa Dirar, ‘24 Caroline Boone, ‘25 Ayanna Sharma, ‘24 Allyson Hoffman, ‘25 Mary-Elizabeth Wicker, ‘24 Dalia Zimmerman Levyi, ‘25 Melanie Huynh-Duc, CJE, adviser Dr. Pete Kashubara, principal
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Cover art by Zoya Bawangaonwala, ‘22 and Caroline Boone, ‘25
Drawing of Taylor Swift by Zoya Bawangaonwala, ‘22
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See YouTrisha santanam, ‘22 Evenings, I would wait for my grandfather’s crumpled Honda to grind its way to our mailbox. He’d slip his shredded loafers off at the doorway and slide on a crisp gas station uniform. I’d wave him off again, jumping up and down on the front stoop, until I could no longer see the failing light glimmer against his nametag. When he came home, reeking of nacho cheese and grease, I would beg for a story. I feared I was forgetting. Each night my grandfather slung a word that means both see you and we will see. Pārkkalām. I learned early that for every term in a language that thickened my tongue, there were at least two answers. For a people who craved rules in grammar and conjugations, we were surprisingly erratic with our definitions. Once in a while, I was lucky enough to turn an uncertain assurance of next time into a body perching on my bed. I would bury my nose into the folds of his shirt and listen to stories of his childhood: when my grandfather was growing up, farewells were common. His own father grew frenzied with grief after his brother died. Pārkkalām, he croaked, after he slammed his motorcycle into oncoming traffic. We will meet again. When my grandfather married and moved thousands of miles away, everyone told him to return home soon. Pārkkalām, he said, shrugging. We will see if I come. After my grandfather moved away, I found what flowed out of my mouth was in English. I craved certainty, was too tired of perhaps and maybe, of always regretting my replies. When my parents asked me anything, I said yes or no. I wanted there to be no hesitancy in my answer, only the freedom and reluctance that accompanied newly bestowed teenagehood. If there was a detriment from using this-- English and monosyllables, both-- it was only that I realized how terribly easy it was to create distance with a language that is resolute in descriptions. These days-- for some multicultural reason-- I find myself reaching for the Tamil words first. Old memories clutched in my throat. Pārkkalām reminds me of my grandfather coming home late from another shift, door thudding behind him. Pārkkalām lingered with his slow steps out of the house before dawn, streets echoing with dark silence. It is a promise to love what is not always certain or continual. Pārkkalām means wanting to hear his gruff voice stuffing me with stories-- it means he’s cradling the phone, waiting for me to call.
POETRY
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Photograph by Caroline Boone, ‘25
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Nightingale’s NestOlivia mosca, ‘25 Is love like the nest of a nightingale? For both bring new life to creatures who’re lost. Lovers’ souls sing in a sweet-sounding scale, And so do nightingales, but with beaks, glossed; Which too are used to build their bowl of leaves, Where shelled offspring placidly sleep at dark. But it’s this congruity that deceives, For sunny days bring storms that make their mark. A pair’s ‘string of love’ can only unwind, So far that at some point it must be cut. Likewise, a bird’s aerie must be untwined, Poss’bly by air from Mother Nature’s strut. Her slightest gust blows melodies away, Leaving lovers crushed hearts in disarray. POETRY
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Taking a Lifetime to Grow Up Adrian Tejada, ‘25
T
he beeping of the alarm cut through the silence of the apartment like a knife. Anthony, rousing from his deep slumber, slapped his hand down on the clock. Throwing back the sheets, he made his way to the bathroom, kicking through an assortment of beer and whiskey bottles. Flipping on the lights, he looked at an almost unfamiliar face in the mirror. A face he hadn’t quite liked in a while. “I’ve got to go,” he muttered under his breath, glancing back at his alarm clock. “Don’t want to get on the boss’s bad side again.” It was only Anthony’s second week at Best Buy, and he was already in hot water with the big boss. His head pounded as he made his way back to the bedroom, last night’s drinking episode coming back to torture him. Anthony threw on his uniform and headed towards the door. Empty pizza boxes were piling up near the garbage can, but that was a problem for another day. Stepping out the door, he ran into a very familiar face. “Hey, Mrs. Jefferson! How are you?” Anthony exclaimed in a tired voice. “Hello, my boy!” She replied. “Mrs. Jefferson, did you
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cross the road to go to the supermarket again?” Anthony questioned, noticing the grocery bags in her hands. “I told you I’ll go for you. It’s a busy road.” “I know, but I didn’t want to be a bother. Have you had something to eat yet?” “No, not yet, Mrs. Jefferson.” “Oh, Anthony. Stay right here.” Mrs. Jefferson had become a sort of mother to Anthony over the years. She often fed him and was a source of constant companionship. She was one of the rare things of happiness in Anthony’s life. “Here you go, Anthony,” Mrs. Jefferson cooed as she handed him a freshly baked muffin. “Thanks, I’ll see you later,” he said. Anthony downed the muffin and descended the stairs. He unlocked his letterbox, knowing what he would see. As usual, there were more bills to pay. Walking out to his car, he tossed the bills onto a growing pile of other bills. Anthony lumbered to the driver’s seat and took a swig from the whiskey bottle that permanently resided in the cupholder, preparing himself for work. When Anthony walked into the store, he could feel his
boss staring daggers at him from the television department. Anthony stopped at his station, preparing himself for the conversation he was about to have. “You’re 15 minutes late,” his boss pointed out, as if it wasn’t already obvious. “Yeah, whatever. Leave me alone,” Anthony muttered. “Careful, Mr. Ramos. You are walking a fine line with me.” Most days, Anthony could handle his boss’s constant nagging. It was not one of those days. He just had to wait until his lunch break. Time crawled and sped along at the same time. From the corner of the store, Anthony watched as customers came in and out, as if he was in a trance. His boss would bark orders at him from time to time, but his voice was muffled to Anthony, as if he were shouting from underwater. When his lunch break finally came, Anthony sprinted out to his car. He slumped into his seat and drank the rest of the whiskey bottle he had in one swig. It was like a wave crashed over him, erasing everything that had happened in the day, but Anthony’s craving had not been satisfied. He drove to the nearest liquor store and picked up the largest bottle
of Scottish whiskey he could find. By the time he got back to the Best Buy, half the bottle was gone. Anthony didn’t seem to notice he came back to work 30 minutes before his lunch break ended. The world was spinning like a top, and he could hardly stand up straight. For some odd reason, he was the only employee in the store. All the other employees were either out for lunch or in the back. This reason, or a combination of many others, may have lured in the burglars. In the distance, Anthony thought he could make out the silhouettes of two men wearing black ski masks, but he passed them off as a hallucination. It wouldn’t be the first time something of the sort happened to him while drinking. As the seconds passed, Anthony began to believe that what he was seeing was not, in fact, a hallucination. Before he knew it, the two men were suddenly in the store shouting and waving a bat around at Anthony. Once again, he just slipped into a trance. He wasn’t apathetic to the robbery, but rather it was as if he was watching it from outside his own body. He could not act, just observe. Anthony didn’t remember
being hit with the bat or the police being called. All he remembered was his boss thundering for him to come to his office. Anthony’s brain fogged over the second he sat down in his boss’s office. Certain words penetrated through to his consciousness. Burglary, crossed the line, drunk. One phrase, however, rang in Anthony’s brain like a bell. “I’m afraid this is the end of the line for you here. You are officially terminated.” “So, you’re firing me? You can’t do--” “Oh, I sure can fire you. You showed up drunk to work,
feel better. It would only cause more problems. Perhaps it was the alcohol, or the emotion, or the adrenaline that compelled Anthony to press harder on the gas pedal. He watched as the speedometer ticked past 60, 70, and 80 miles per hour. When he saw the figure in the road, it was already too late. The impact was like being hit by a tidal wave. Screeching to a halt, Anthony stumbled out of the car. Other cars were stopping or honking their horns. He thought he could make out a figure lying down on the road. “Hello? Are you okay?” No response. “Hello…” Anthony warbled. He warily approached the body in the street. He thought there was something familiar about the person. Maybe it was the brightly colored allowed a robbery to occur shawl and shoes. Looking a without intervening, and have little closer Anthony realized repeatedly shown a lack of who it was. care for your job. I need you to He stumbled back almost leave.” in disbelief and sank to the Anthony welled up inside ground next to the person he with many emotions. Anger, had hit. In his hands, he held remorse, and sadness. As he Mrs. Jefferson’s face. Anthony did time and time again, Anhad warned her about the thony drank his sorrows away. road to no avail, and this is Once in his car, he finished what happened. the entire other half of the The wails of sirens in the whiskey bottle in minutes. distance paled in comparison This time, however, the alcoto Anthony’s guttural cries. hol would not make Anthony
“Oh, I sure can fire you. You showed up drunk to work, allowed a robbery to occur without intervening, and have repeatedly shown a lack of care for your job. I need you to leave.”
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a heart unstonedRyan johnson, ‘24 Medusa in her stone chateau, surrounded by statued souls lost-those who tried to spite her but could not outrun the cost.
Medusa in the present with a hero to face. Another man sent to kill her. Another man frozen in place.
Medusa stowed away. Medusa rounds the corner, It seemed a small price, venom in her eyes. for the world was safe from her lethal gaze, A figure in the corner, for she was safe from the world’s vice. a figure that cries. Medusa hears a noise. A crash. A stumble. A screech. With a knowingness, she sighed, ready to face a speech.
Medusa approaches and to her surprise, finds not a hero but a lady, a lady who is blind.
Medusa knew the speeches, for many had she heard of a hero’s valor and honor, of the monster that was her.
Medusa meets hazed eyes and a face washed with relief. Someone has found her! A woman. Not a beast.
Medusa the monster, heroes often proclaimed. But they failed to mention it was heroes who made her that way.
Medusa and the lady. She says she is lost, but Medusa disagrees, sensing stars crossed.
Medusa the fair, she had once been. But the brave men feared her control, how her beauty enthralled them.
Medusa admires the lady, delicate as a dove. Grasping the blind lady’s hand, Medusa is in love.
“Medusa the witch.” Because of their thirst, because of their lust, Medusa was cursed. 10
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Self portrait by Lahari Pokala, ‘23
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Panorama Isha Patel, ‘23 The vision of an eye, surrounded by the world, Only limited between the barrier of reality, No matter the endeavors in its destruction, Is it possible, truly, to see a panorama, Of the enigmas of the mind, Or am I limited by, The false facades of the lies, Of truth
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Drawing of Ariana Grande by Zoya Bawangaonwala, ‘22
Dust I
combed through my room piece by piece, memory by memory: sweeping through the halls of recollection, decorated with cobweb covered notebooks and dreams disguised by dust. Forgotten fragments of my existence lingered within these objects, and all it took was a glossy glance to unlock a delicate door from my room to a no-longer-lost location. From “clean this room up,” to reaching out for cotton candy clouds. Peeling away layers of linen to reveal old habits, battered trophies just out of reach reminding of who I was and who I wanted to be; am I who I wanted to be? Brushing through
Photo by Ziva Garcia, ‘25
James haywood, ‘24 my bookshelf brought relentless sneezing and echoes of dissipated love, which led to allergy medicine and a guilt trip down memory lane. The halls of recollection contorting and screaming at me for abandoning my innocence, my dreams, my hobbies, as the doors now violently swung open and pulled me into the unknown. I was no longer surrounded by stress-inducing textbooks, or harsh hallways, but instead a bitter orange sky. A metallic crack reverberated through me, as I came to realize I was sitting in the bleachers among prideful parents. The source of the sensation came from the baseball
field, as I saw myself sprinting from home plate. Before I could cheer myself on, I was transported to a car, the sky now a greasy black, and saw myself reading while stained in clay. And just like that, I was back in my stuffy room, surrounded by dead dreams and extinguished passions. From an old notebook slipped a slip of paper that burned brightly with inky hopes; hopes that I still have and try to fulfill; hopes that give me the power to create worlds where I can yearn for the past, yet smile for the future. A list of ideas that still shine in my mind.
PROSE
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“All Hail Lord Physics” by Jaido Ramirez, ‘23
Photo taken during HOCO 2021. Inspiration: the imagery of the album cover “To Pimp a Butterfly” by Kendrick Lamar Quote from the Artist: “The extra flair I added are meant to symbolize most wonderous things I have heard about physics from my peers,” junior Jaido Ramirez said.
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the lion and the hyena
Efia yeboah, ‘25
The Lion and the hyena circle each other
If they can’t destroy the Lion, they will make him destroy himself
The Lion has entered its opponent’s habitat, and is greeted with a pack of venomous sneers Piercing eyes
With his own mind.
Vile grunts. Why is he alone?
He takes the pain and the struggle, all while finding the power within himself to overcome
Because lions run solo, while hyenas run in packs
His spirit awakens deep inside.
King of the jungle, yet there’s no crown on his head
A roar rips out in the jungle
At least, no one else sees it
Echoing far past the mountains and trees he’s surrounded with
He knows the power he has within Yet refuses to use it
He can feel his dignity, his power, his emotion all rising up
Echoing to the farthest forests Even to the jungles outside of his own
Even as one hyena starts clawing him, The hyenas run away from their own habitat Two start snatching his mane, Three keep trying to pull his feet from under him,
The Lion looks around, realizing he’s the one who scared them away
Four throw dirt in his eyes,
He’s the one who roared
Five, six, seven Torment his mind, playing a game of psychological warfare That’s all they can do when they see his scars are fast to disappear
The place the hyenas were scaring him away from was his own It had always been his own He was the king of the jungle POETRY
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my wounded dance
Dishita agarwal, ‘24
my wounded dance rehearsed in an enameled tub and invisible to all others is the wounded dance, my hand hurriedly depresses the lever handle of the silver polished faucet, and the steam on the mirrors conceals the panic engulfing the cerise of my limbs. with the whip of my forearm and the stroke of my heel I find my soul momentarily resting within my wings, the wall acting as a buttress for my mass, as I stand naked, wishing for the dread to elapse. at home, we are shielded by the warmth of solid sepia floors and frolicking figurines of those we hold close soul reminds me, but I swallow. the fog is clearing and I am seeing those past embodiments of myself, when my atriums were undulating, and my mind was disorienting, while figurines hovered over me in despair. in this enameled tub, the ruminations of the wounded dance become routine: my scalp and hands are going numb and how far away is the phone, and bhaiya, get me some towels. the docks upon which I perform the wounded dance oscillate, ebb, and flow: it is my suburban home where I’m known as the girl who cries wolf; it is the gymnasium where I watch in an invisible jersey as yellow and green jerseys scramble for the flag; it is the printing museum where I had to stop an unknown man and his daughter to tell them I was afraid I might collapse; it is the orchestra stage, where as a-flats and e-naturals flow out of hazel instruments and ring in my ears, I air my bow fearing I might tumble; and it is the tumultuous crystalline ocean, that tempts my feet and lulls me to sleep, yet can drown me and strangle me within seconds. 16
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they always ask me if I am doing okay and I say yes, better. but what they don’t see are my mind’s illusions tearing at my heart, clawing away at my flesh, leaving it bleeding. they don’t see the fallacies my nerves propose, delusional waves my logic belligerently battles. you will be okay. it hasn’t happened in years. stop puncturing your solicitous soul. But two months ago, it happened again. and now, the wounded dance ripples through my body, its clutch more impenetrable than ever, its grasp ravaging me. my mind attempts to resist, while my heart complies, the scars are catastrophic, though tamed and subdued. they tease me, say they are willing to fade, but they are waiting for a moment I cannot foresee, waiting for me to let go.
Photograph by Caroline Boone, ‘25
POETRY
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Chiaroscuro study by Lahari Pokala, ‘23
Likes Everything Too Much to Choose Neal Sengupta, ‘25
The Ice Cream Shop
I
t is a clear September afternoon in Queens, and I am working at my small ice cream shop in the middle of this bustling city. I’m very proud of my shop. My job is to make customers happy when they come, which isn’t hard. Happiness comes easily with ice cream. Sometimes I snack on some to cheer up when I get lonely waiting for customers. Ding! The bell on the door rings as a little girl walks into the shop and looks up at me with her bright eyes. “Where are your parents?” I ask. “They’re back there,” she replies. She saunters around the shop, looking at the ice cream. “Do you want a sample?” I ask. She nods. I watch her as she thinks about the flavors. She has this charm about her, something I can’t explain. “Which ones?” I ask. “All of them,” she says. I’m caught by surprise. “All of them? Are you sure?” She nods again. “All right then,” I say as I grab some sample spoons. I take one and dig into the ice cream. The ice cream is a hill, forming and rolling as I scoop it. “Here you go,” I say as I hand her the first one. “Thank you,” she replies. One by one, I keep handing out samples to the girl. I try to think of a time where somebody sampled all of the flavors. I’ve served
customers a zillion times and it hasn’t happened before. “Mmm, cotton candy,” she says, bringing my attention back to her. I smile at her as I watch her enjoy the ice cream. Like I always say, happiness comes easily with ice cream. Her smile is as sweet as the ice cream. “You wanted to try all of the flavors. You must really like ice cream, right?” I ask. “Of course!” she replies. “So, how do you choose out of all of the flavors?” I ask. She replies, “Well, I usually pick strawberry because that’s
yours, Daddy?” I take a moment to realize what she just said. “Katherine? Katherine!” I look back and she’s gone. It was too late. I was dreaming of when my precious baby was still little. A wave of sadness, loneliness, and regret washes over me. She’s all grown up now. She’s a grad student at MIT, studying for her future. She’s come so far… without me. I realize just how much I miss her. My emotions take over. The strongest force in the world pulls my arm into my pocket to take out my phone. That force doesn’t care that I am working. That force doesn’t care about anything else because it is determined. So, I do what it says. I call her and wait. Please pick up. It’s been too long. A minute feels like ages as I wait in nervous anticipation. Finally, she picks up. “Dad?” I hesitate for a moment. That word rattles throughout my body. Dad. Does anybody know what it truly means? “Yeah, it’s me.” There is an anxious pause. “Okay. What is it?” Her voice soothes my anxiety. My daughter’s voice. It’s good to hear it again. It gives me the courage to let my true feelings out. “Katherine, I… I miss you.” I shed a tear. She’s my favorite flavor.
Dad. Does anybody know what it truly means? been my favorite forever, but what if I want to have a different flavor this time?” She tastes another couple of samples. “The cheesecake crumble is really good,” she says with her mouth full. “I try all of them to get to know what other flavors I might want to have. I get excited when my parents let me have two flavors, so I can have strawberry and a different flavor,” she says. Smart kid. “Also, I get to eat free ice cream from the samples,” she says, flashing me a wry smile. “Heh,” I chuckle to myself. “So, your favorite flavor is strawberry? Nice,” I say. “Yeah,” she says, “what’s
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fire-breathing dragon Grace Kauder, ‘22 in the city where i grew up the people all lived in fear of an abominable blue dragon, holed up in the local mountain, past the river bend, and high enough to be hidden by the clouds. fiery: in both body and spirit, he was said to be a sapphire heat that burned with such malice, approaching would be suicide. bestial: in both body and spirit, it was said that even the best of us, well-versed in forgiveness, would turn away and utter: there is nothing i can do for such a hot-headed creature. so when i braced my feet on yours, and let my fingers come to rest on the edge of your furrowed brow, i expected to be burned. i expected to turn away, wipe my sorry hand off, and say: yes, they were all correct about you. so when i was met with nothing more than the cool flesh of a boy my age, i felt my hands falter. for up close, you are not as twisted as they say. and as i stand on the fringe of a world i barely know, i wonder if the fire burned you as well. and as i watch you flinch under my gaze, as though it were a life-sentence, i wonder if anyone else has looked close enough to see that behind the flame, you are just a boy. POETRY
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The Adventures of Musa the Monkey Alchemist Eli Menser, ‘24 “H ear ye, hear ye,” the herald cried, “A royal proclamation from their Majesties, the Council of Kings. On this day, a contest is issued to all the alchemists, sorcerers, wizards, witches, warlocks, and the like in all the land. Whoever can bring to the Council a concoction that will turn not just metal--but anything else--into gold, will be rewarded handsomely. Anyone who fails to provide within one month’s time will be punished severely. Errand runners will be provided. The participants include Aftmor Magus, Atoma Pythonissam, Bysander Veneficus…” “Fizzzzzz!” went the angry liquid as Musa Sapientum Fixa the Monkey Alchemist worked at his tables of beakers and saucers. “No, no, NO, this is all wrong,” muttered the short, hairy creature. “This is your head on the line, Musa. And your spleen, and your liver, and both lungs, and your heart, and your stomach, and your intestines, and every other part of you that can be torn from your ribcage and
impaled with a pole to be fastened to the castle gates. Why, those Council members certainly are creative with their punishments.” A knocking shook the estate. “Come in,” Musa said to the thing behind the entrance, and the door swung open, followed by the sound of clip-clopping hooves. However, nothing could be seen either opening or shutting the rich ornamental door, and no figure appeared in the doorway. The scene behind the door was also off.
a centaur!” Musa semed to wait for a reply, and apparently hearing one, said in the direction of the door, “Well, Mr. Centaurus, I deeply appreciate your help, be it out of kindness or duty. No need to be off so soon; make yourself at home before I send you on your first errand.” The sound of hooves on expensive wood flooring echoed throughout the rather large estate, and Musa followed the sounds to a large kitchen. “I’m afraid I don’t get many visitors these days, and have nothing to offer so great a creature as you short of apples and water. The apples were picked this morning from my trees, and the mark of my work is evident in their magical taste. The water is of lesser quality, being from my wells, but I’m sure you’ll find it perfectly clean and noticeably clear,” Musa said to his seemingly invisible guest, who appeared to have remained standing at the table. Musa himself sat down and began munching on a banana. When he looked up, he was greeted with the sight of an empty plate (be-
“My trash can? Oh, it’s no trash can. It’s a portal. Where does it go? Well, I’ve quite forgotten.”
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It was a long path into some woods, with a castle and surrounding village off in the distance. But it just looked fake somehow. Still, Musa hopped from his chair and descended the long flight of steps to address the empty foyer. “I knew the Council was sending help, but I didn’t expect such a worthy being as
sides the apple cores) and a bowl drained to the last drop. As if he had been thanked, Musa responded, “You’re very welcome, and I very much appreciate your compliments. But I perceive you are eager to be going. Allow me to tidy up.” The absent Mr. Centaurus must have agreed, as Musa promptly got up from the low—but rather large—table to retrieve the richly carved bowl and plate and place them in the basin, after depositing his banana peel and the apple core into a curious looking device. “Hmm?” Musa said, having supposedly been asked a question. “My trash can? Oh, it’s no trash can. It’s a portal. Where does it go? Well, I’ve quite forgotten. I’m fairly sure it never goes to the same place twice, dispersing each individual item across the cosmos, and perhaps even throughout time as well. Unfortunately, it’s only the size of one of your hooves, and therefore I got it for bargain price at a wizard’s market. It certainly does work well as a trash can, though.” After this explanation, the undetectable Mr. Centaurus must have implied that he wanted to get going, as Musa replied that he understood and began to lead his guest into a sort of study. The room was lined with shelves upon shelves of old books, so as to seem more like a library than a study. Whether by some magic in the air, or simply good bookkeeping, not a single one of
the books was falling apart or musty or even dusty. But it was indeed a study, and there was the desk and chair, as well as all the other doodads and whatsits and strange devices one would expect to find in the study of a monkey alchemist. “I’d like to show you some of the things I need,” Musa said in the direction of the sound of hooves on deep carpet. The small bipedal creature plucked a few books from the shelves, took them to the desk piled with similar books, and began to rummage through them. “Like all good alchemists, I have my own errand runner, although he is more boy than adult, and his job is more of a favor to his late father than for any other reason. He’s a hard-working goblin, though, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Anyway, he’ll be taking some of the load, so I won’t burden you with year-long journeys like I know some other contestants might, nor would I if I didn’t have my own errand boy. I like to get my ingredients local, you see, growing them myself if I can, and I hate the thought of giving someone long and arduous tasks that I’m not willing to take on myself.” The sound of the back door opening and shutting interrupted Musa from further sharing his new helper’s first jobs. “Speak of the devil; that must be Cobalus now,” Musa said. Calling the boy into the study, the door to the room opened and shut, and the sound of bare feet padding
on carpet barely could be heard. But like Mr. Centaurus, no figure could be seen, not even the faintest hint of an outline. “Ah, Cobalus, have you returned with the things I sent you for? Excellent! You can leave them on my desk upstairs and then you can take the rest of the day off. But first I’d like to introduce you to Mr. Centaurus; he’ll be running errands for me too, so you won’t have to work as much.” After a silent meeting of two invisible creatures, the boy left to drop off the items and return to his own home, and Musa finished giving Mr. Centaurus his first list. Leading him back to the front door, Musa gave a courteous and heartfelt farewell to the majestic creature, and shut the door behind him. “CUT!” the director yelled. Suddenly the film studio erupted into controlled chaos, with sound crews weaving in between set managers and film cameras rolling around lighting specialists. Through all the chaos, the actor playing Musa popped off the costume’s head and walked over to the director. “Do ya’ think anybody’ll actually watch this thing?” he asked. “Well,” the director replied, “When we get the voice actors recorded and the animations in, at least it’ll look like you’re actually talking to someone instead of just a bunch of empty rooms.”
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