Fruits of My Labor by Eleanor Mollica '23

Minds That Lurk in the Gutter by Elizabeth Mazzarelli '22

The lone minstrel finished with a flourish, removing his unshaven chin from the rest and tossing his head back to rid his brow of the loose sweat-soaked locks that had gathered about his eyes partway through the quickstep. She paid him more heed than she knew she ought to have while tucked ‘twixt a shadow and the unlighted entryway of the butcher’s place of business. Preening ladies all about the courtyard flushed in anticipation of being the lass he selected to place on his arm as he prepared to engage in a little revelry of his own with a salute to whichever entertainer was to proceed him. Their hopes of dawdling the evening away with laughter brought about by the sweet nothings they supposed would spoon the shell of their ears if in his company were surely to be disappointed when they discovered that he had eyes for one female in particular tonight. And nothing’s wern’t the way with him. Her heated skin wasn’t visible to the eye of any passer-by, so she did not fit the profile of any such young woman. Even if she had been spotted wearing a blotchy fuschia, her thoughts were of the most pure nature. Of course, nobody could testify to this, and in fairness, the prosecutor’s argument that deviance be the cause of her unusual coloring was mounting evidence…fast. She happened upon him startlingly often, and she might only console herself with assurances that these instances by which eye or ear fell upon him were the whimsy of her subconscious. He laid his instrument lovingly against the interior of the case lined with the worn velvet scraps of a bedraggled dress that had been a little worse for wear when, once upon a time, it had actually existed in that form. The crowd exclaimed their approval once more with a second thunderous rumble of their pounding feet, which was, she realized, likely the cause of how treacherous the cobblestones had become of late. There were a few sharp whistles as well, but she chose deliberately not to identify the women who curled their tongues and forefingers to provide such vocal adulation or the way his eyes glazed when skimming the crowd for the faces of those few.

He was tall and lean, but by no means slight. His bare forearms, revealed by the shirt cuffed around his elbows, boasted thick bands of muscle and tendons at attention, which isn’t to say that he looked well. Excluding the patchy places, his beard almost entirely hid the hunger revealed by his hollow cheeks. A jaw so fine and wide should not be left destitute to serve as the doormat of such a pitiful, sunken countenance owing to lack of proper nourishment. Having sealed the case shut, the violinist entrusted his beloved Lady Lullaby to another of the same breed, who was presently extracting a brass horn from its own protective leather. The pristine polish of the instrument quite regrettably juxtaposed the horrid cry of pain the horn loosed when the wielder, who had received charges from the fiddler folding quietly into the square to inspire merriment, pressed his lips to its mouth in an earnest but lackluster endeavor to appease the crowd primed to surge through the avenue. With such poor skills at his disposal, the trumpeter was unsurprisingly unable to tempt the townsfolk with music that pleased them enough to commission a partner or lift their skirts. The courtyard instead thinned some, leaving older couples to sway to the slow and offensively loud rhythm; it was the only segment of the evening’s programming raucous enough to penetrate seventy years of earwax buildup. The title of musician was a kindness afforded the replacement. He was akin to an antiquated founder of the art who plucked strings without concern for nuances like tone. Mind you, he is also not to be accredited with music’s discovery. Therefore, his ineptitude, perfectly exemplified by the screech that rang from the discontented instrument upon the very first note attempted, only further incited the frenzy of the folk that felt abandoned by the fiddler. The safety of the fountain around which the plaza had been constructed would have been in jeopardy were it not for the fact that such fell into disrepair sometime during the National Schism. The mob had very little wit, which was compensated for by a powerful sense of will—enough to send the self-conscious suit skulking into the shadows to evade the less than fond attention. The fiddler, however, never did come round again to seek the limelight or the companionship of any of the fawning girls. No, he had keen eyes lured to the darkness where she loitered to bid him a fond farewell. Merely sighing when he came upon her ghostly visage, he relaxed against the brick. He shoved his hands inside his pockets, causing his shoulders to involuntarily raise in question and bury his neck. When he refrained from demanding an answer from her outright, she broke the inevitable silence off directly. “My father is twice the musician you are.” “I reckon I’m half as old, so I have time to improve,” he replied evenly, not allowing himself to be baited by the caustic remark even though it had been made in jest. She pushed off the wall and into the moonlight with him following suit. The soft white glow reflected off the ebony sheen of knotted hair behind which she often liked to hide, and he was momentarily stunned by the angelic facade in front of him. “I detain you from parting with others tonight,” she observed upon seeing him hesitate to join her in retreating from the crowd, “before you sail for greener pastures tomorrow. Go to them.” Taking his fidgeting hand in her own, with a twinkle in her eye, she insisted, “Waste no more time on idle banter with a wild woman on an island on the outskirts.” His smile was just shy of feral. “I fancy a certain amount of ferocity in the women who have never been so obsequious as to let me court them.” “You speak as though there are more,” she retorted in mock disbelief. He returned her display of warmth briefly before his expression flattened, and he inhaled sharply, “But I do not intend for our exchange to be idle. You must come.” This last intonement came out too much like a command for her feminist tastes, so she swallowed down her nausea but did not deign to retort. “I have silently looked on as your mother’s husband ground your spirit between mortar and pestle for years, fearing that if I intervened,” he threw up his palms in exasperation, “you’d sever our acquaintance.” “I cannot,” she bit out at last. Turning her cheek from him, she swore, “My brother’s innocence will not be entrusted to the woman who let her spouse belt me, so help me—” “Your mother loves your brother five times more than she has ever bothered to care for you. She will spare him,” he roared. He made no pause to assess the damage inflicted by the truth of his assertion before he reached out to rest a hand upon her slim shoulder, and she flinched—actually jumped—away from his touch. He had to prove to her that the defense of the boy was not among her responsibilities as his sister, but she had to prove to the long-standing ally beseeching her to flee that the defense of her childhood was not among his responsibilities as her friend. Thus, she extended a stiff hand for him to shake, which he declined with a disgruntled laugh. “Fair winds and following seas,” she whispered as he was again engulfed by the celebration.

Mayan Temple by Alia Berger '23 I Remember When by Elisa Vittori '22

I remember when spending time with my family Was time to make memories And share new adventures That will be remembered for years to come As we run and play around like little kids Never wanting to leave as we say our goodbyes That take what feels like a half an hour As we get ready to go home to go to bed And plan the next gathering

Where we find ourselves Talking about school or college on a regular basis And sit on the couch with our school books in hand Working on our homework or studying for a test While the party goes on around us However we manage to get side tracked Who knows how as we start talking About who knows what Mostly likely school, theater, or family memories And laughing the day away as we sit on the couch With our school books in hand Trying to do our homework or study for a test But knowing my family Sure enough we are getting nothing done

But now as the years go by And we all grow up and There is less homework to be done Family parties can now be enjoyed Like they were when we were all little And did not have homework on the weekend Or much homework at all Enjoying ourselves Making new memories as we sit around the couch This time with no school books in hand Talking about who knows what And laughing the day away