by Nathaniel Waterman, Class of 2022
|
in this capsule
|
i. What is Yours? by Dana Blatte, Class of 2022 ii. The Mirrored Box by Juliette Tao, Class of 2023 iii. The Sprout by Nathaniel Waterman, Class of 2022 iv. A Living Nightmare by Anonymous, Class of 2023 v. Photography by Nathaniel Waterman, Class of 2022 vi. With All The Love I Give You, Why Don't You Love Me? by Anonymous vii. Only him by Adam Lessard, Class of 2023 viii. Cheese Sauce by Nathaniel Waterman, Class of 2022 |
i.
What is Yours?
by Dana Blatte, Class of 2022
After Joyce Carol Oates
by Dana Blatte, Class of 2022
After Joyce Carol Oates
Harper was a strange girl. Strange in the sense that she was sixteen and still did not know how to do her hair, or flirt, or distinguish herself from her brother’s shadow. It wasn’t that Harper didn’t know the norms of society—she understood them just fine—but that didn’t mean she agreed with them. Harper also had a younger brother. It seemed everyone had a sibling to complain about. Her parents had adopted a boy whose face was so high and narrow they all sometimes forgot they weren’t related. Her mother and father would praise his manners and his clean clothes, saying, “Miles helped clean the dishes. Miles bought his English teacher flowers.” Harper’s father was too busy at work to ever notice anything else, and Harper’s mother spent most days lost in television shows.
But now Miles was gone. Harper hadn’t meant for it to happen. She had been so angry. It wasn’t her fault Miles wasn’t as good as their parents believed. He liked to hide her homework so the teachers would think him smarter. He would make a mess of her room so that his room would seem tidier. Lately, he had grown bolder. He would leave mocking notes in her dresser drawers, tear the seams of her favorite shirts, defaced the mirror that reassured her she was still herself. That day when Harper had caught him sneaking around her desk—her private space— music had roared in her ears, like a swarm of alarms all chiming at once.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
Harper crept closer. “I don’t know.”
He fought back with hands and elbows, but for once, he wasn’t enough.
A few minutes later, Miles was no longer in the room. Miles was either dangling out the second-story window or sprawled out on the concrete; Harper left before she could find out.
Neither of her parents said goodbye as she fled out the front door, keys jangling in her pocket.
The drive to school was annoyingly mundane without him there. At the only traffic light in town, Harper suddenly wondered where to go. Left to school or right to the highway that eventually fed into the city.
She went left. The music on the radio was a familiar pop song. Harper realized why it was familiar and shut it off. Miles was not there; she didn’t need to let him control the radio.
The bright red car behind her honked. A girl leaned dangerously out of the passenger seat, waving her hand. Harper recognized her slick blonde ponytail, her model-thin arms, the autotuned lyrics blaring from her dashboard. Miles’s girlfriend.
Harper contemplated swerving. Her palms were getting all sweaty on the steering wheel, and she wasn’t sure if it was fear or adrenaline or if they were both the same thing. The red car accelerated and veered into the student parking lot before Harper could make up her mind.
Harper watched from the parking spot wedged in the farthest corner. She watched Miles’s girlfriend extract her skinny limbs from the seat, down a mouthful of coffee, and hoist a backpack so lean it was a wonder she could fit any homework inside. Harper followed her brother’s girlfriend into the school.
The girl ducked into the bathroom alone. She seemed upset.
“Are you okay?” Harper asked quietly, clicking the door shut behind her. She didn’t really care, but her parents had bred the instinct into her.
The girl had a tube of lipstick in her hand. She smiled, but Harper could see she was annoyed.
“Of course. What about you?” Harper didn’t respond. “Have you seen Miles today?”
Harper hated that Miles’s name surfaced in every conversation. The taller girl was oblivious. She kept applying the lipstick, humming under her breath.
“I hate that song,” Harper whispered.
Harper bumped up against the sink, turning on the water, the narrow stream. Everything was suddenly too close, too sharp. Her breaths could not keep up.
“Hey, are you sure you’re okay?” the girl asked. Her eyes were wide with genuine concern. She wouldn’t suspect Harper. Harper wouldn’t even suspect herself.
“I haven’t seen Miles,” Harper said.
She held herself straight and grabbed the girl’s lipstick. The metal was cold, cold against her skin that pulsed with heat and blood, as Harper threw it in the trash. It felt good to take something, to claim it as her own. Nobody would suspect Harper of what she was about to do to Miles’s girlfriend either.
A few minutes later, Harper washed her hands, locked the stall door, and left the bathroom. A girl in the hallway was speaking into her phone, trying to be heard over the choir students warming up their vocals in a nearby classroom. She was saying, “Yes, Harper’s here. I just saw her talking to Miles’s girlfriend.”
Harper approached the girl who had used to be her friend. She took the phone away and thought, She knows what I did. She knows what I’m planning to do. Harper’s sweatshirt was all sweat-slick on the inside. She hoped the other girl couldn’t see it, couldn’t feel that they were both afraid. In a voice that she forced to be gentle, Harper said, “Who are you talking to?”
“Your parents,” the girl said honestly. She stood like she was about to run. Evidently she and Harper were no longer friends.
“What do they want?” Harper said.
“To know where you and Miles are.”
“What?”
The girl went on, “They said Miles missed breakfast.”
They didn’t care about Harper’s breakfast. Miles was their precious son who cleaned the dishes and ate every meal with his parents. Harper could apologize with “Please” and “Thank you” but she could never be Miles.
Harper watched herself make a third mistake. It happened so fast. A jab, and then the other girl banged her head on the rim of the locker, collapsing beside her backpack. She was clammy to the touch.
A small crowd gathered. Everyone scrambled for their hands, the girl’s pulse, anything tangible.
“Call an ambulance,” someone said.
“Call the police!” someone else said.
Harper backed into the crowd. It was easy to disappear; she had been doing it for so long. Nobody noticed Miles’s sister slip down the hallway or sneak out the old emergency door and toward the student parking lot.
She thought for the first time that she was her own person, that she was no longer just Miles’s comparison. The lullaby of it was pretty.
It was quiet outside. The birds chirped as if nothing had happened. To them nothing had.
Harper looked at the empty cars arranged in their parking spaces. Everything fit so neatly without her.
A siren whined in the distance. Harper pictured the red and blue light coming toward her, searching for a girl who everyone only knew next to someone else’s name. There was music in the shrill sound if she listened, but it was swallowed by the school’s looming brick building, the fake blue sky stretching above and on all sides—all this scenery that Harper had never noticed before and didn’t want to see now except to know that it was hers.
But now Miles was gone. Harper hadn’t meant for it to happen. She had been so angry. It wasn’t her fault Miles wasn’t as good as their parents believed. He liked to hide her homework so the teachers would think him smarter. He would make a mess of her room so that his room would seem tidier. Lately, he had grown bolder. He would leave mocking notes in her dresser drawers, tear the seams of her favorite shirts, defaced the mirror that reassured her she was still herself. That day when Harper had caught him sneaking around her desk—her private space— music had roared in her ears, like a swarm of alarms all chiming at once.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
Harper crept closer. “I don’t know.”
He fought back with hands and elbows, but for once, he wasn’t enough.
A few minutes later, Miles was no longer in the room. Miles was either dangling out the second-story window or sprawled out on the concrete; Harper left before she could find out.
Neither of her parents said goodbye as she fled out the front door, keys jangling in her pocket.
The drive to school was annoyingly mundane without him there. At the only traffic light in town, Harper suddenly wondered where to go. Left to school or right to the highway that eventually fed into the city.
She went left. The music on the radio was a familiar pop song. Harper realized why it was familiar and shut it off. Miles was not there; she didn’t need to let him control the radio.
The bright red car behind her honked. A girl leaned dangerously out of the passenger seat, waving her hand. Harper recognized her slick blonde ponytail, her model-thin arms, the autotuned lyrics blaring from her dashboard. Miles’s girlfriend.
Harper contemplated swerving. Her palms were getting all sweaty on the steering wheel, and she wasn’t sure if it was fear or adrenaline or if they were both the same thing. The red car accelerated and veered into the student parking lot before Harper could make up her mind.
Harper watched from the parking spot wedged in the farthest corner. She watched Miles’s girlfriend extract her skinny limbs from the seat, down a mouthful of coffee, and hoist a backpack so lean it was a wonder she could fit any homework inside. Harper followed her brother’s girlfriend into the school.
The girl ducked into the bathroom alone. She seemed upset.
“Are you okay?” Harper asked quietly, clicking the door shut behind her. She didn’t really care, but her parents had bred the instinct into her.
The girl had a tube of lipstick in her hand. She smiled, but Harper could see she was annoyed.
“Of course. What about you?” Harper didn’t respond. “Have you seen Miles today?”
Harper hated that Miles’s name surfaced in every conversation. The taller girl was oblivious. She kept applying the lipstick, humming under her breath.
“I hate that song,” Harper whispered.
Harper bumped up against the sink, turning on the water, the narrow stream. Everything was suddenly too close, too sharp. Her breaths could not keep up.
“Hey, are you sure you’re okay?” the girl asked. Her eyes were wide with genuine concern. She wouldn’t suspect Harper. Harper wouldn’t even suspect herself.
“I haven’t seen Miles,” Harper said.
She held herself straight and grabbed the girl’s lipstick. The metal was cold, cold against her skin that pulsed with heat and blood, as Harper threw it in the trash. It felt good to take something, to claim it as her own. Nobody would suspect Harper of what she was about to do to Miles’s girlfriend either.
A few minutes later, Harper washed her hands, locked the stall door, and left the bathroom. A girl in the hallway was speaking into her phone, trying to be heard over the choir students warming up their vocals in a nearby classroom. She was saying, “Yes, Harper’s here. I just saw her talking to Miles’s girlfriend.”
Harper approached the girl who had used to be her friend. She took the phone away and thought, She knows what I did. She knows what I’m planning to do. Harper’s sweatshirt was all sweat-slick on the inside. She hoped the other girl couldn’t see it, couldn’t feel that they were both afraid. In a voice that she forced to be gentle, Harper said, “Who are you talking to?”
“Your parents,” the girl said honestly. She stood like she was about to run. Evidently she and Harper were no longer friends.
“What do they want?” Harper said.
“To know where you and Miles are.”
“What?”
The girl went on, “They said Miles missed breakfast.”
They didn’t care about Harper’s breakfast. Miles was their precious son who cleaned the dishes and ate every meal with his parents. Harper could apologize with “Please” and “Thank you” but she could never be Miles.
Harper watched herself make a third mistake. It happened so fast. A jab, and then the other girl banged her head on the rim of the locker, collapsing beside her backpack. She was clammy to the touch.
A small crowd gathered. Everyone scrambled for their hands, the girl’s pulse, anything tangible.
“Call an ambulance,” someone said.
“Call the police!” someone else said.
Harper backed into the crowd. It was easy to disappear; she had been doing it for so long. Nobody noticed Miles’s sister slip down the hallway or sneak out the old emergency door and toward the student parking lot.
She thought for the first time that she was her own person, that she was no longer just Miles’s comparison. The lullaby of it was pretty.
It was quiet outside. The birds chirped as if nothing had happened. To them nothing had.
Harper looked at the empty cars arranged in their parking spaces. Everything fit so neatly without her.
A siren whined in the distance. Harper pictured the red and blue light coming toward her, searching for a girl who everyone only knew next to someone else’s name. There was music in the shrill sound if she listened, but it was swallowed by the school’s looming brick building, the fake blue sky stretching above and on all sides—all this scenery that Harper had never noticed before and didn’t want to see now except to know that it was hers.
ii.
The Mirrored Box
by Juliette Tao, Class of 2023
by Juliette Tao, Class of 2023
A village swallowed in green valleys,
nestled left of a castle enclosed,
two so juxtaposed.
Whispers spread on apprehensive lips,
of a king at rest, an iron throne
now corroded and bitter.
A girl captured by curiosity:
Tall figure, short thoughts,
chased after myths aloft on cold gusts.
An inky gate without lock or key,
Fate’s doorway.
So the story goes:
On first night, a dark corridor,
in which a single violin’s
sweet tunes echo,
Yet no musician meets her.
On second night, a grand table,
A feast set under candle light,
a skeleton man, skin porcelain white.
He beckons with a silver knife,
despite her fright,
she draws nigh.
On third night, an arched hall,
a dance, hand-in-hand, an innocent offer,
A room to herself, a sanctuary,
she needn’t be bothered.
Instead, she asks: A way out?
Then faced with the door’s doubt.
On fourth night, a gift:
A mirrored box.
In her moon washed room, rife with cold gales,
he utters, “Fulfill your wish, yet beware,
A reflection of only the pure,
The trusted.
Inside holds the key I assure,
But do not be fooled;
Its sight is more than what it sounds.”
On fifth night, alone,
walking halls with only the violin’s tone.
On sixth night, carrying the box around,
she stops, shakes the object, met with no cue.
Seventh night, her last,
alas, she could not stay steadfast,
For within the box, two pale, roving eyes
replace her reflected face.
The violin’s wail,
candle light turns smoke,
shadows dance to silent songs,
moon beams drown her pleas
And with that she finds her key.
nestled left of a castle enclosed,
two so juxtaposed.
Whispers spread on apprehensive lips,
of a king at rest, an iron throne
now corroded and bitter.
A girl captured by curiosity:
Tall figure, short thoughts,
chased after myths aloft on cold gusts.
An inky gate without lock or key,
Fate’s doorway.
So the story goes:
On first night, a dark corridor,
in which a single violin’s
sweet tunes echo,
Yet no musician meets her.
On second night, a grand table,
A feast set under candle light,
a skeleton man, skin porcelain white.
He beckons with a silver knife,
despite her fright,
she draws nigh.
On third night, an arched hall,
a dance, hand-in-hand, an innocent offer,
A room to herself, a sanctuary,
she needn’t be bothered.
Instead, she asks: A way out?
Then faced with the door’s doubt.
On fourth night, a gift:
A mirrored box.
In her moon washed room, rife with cold gales,
he utters, “Fulfill your wish, yet beware,
A reflection of only the pure,
The trusted.
Inside holds the key I assure,
But do not be fooled;
Its sight is more than what it sounds.”
On fifth night, alone,
walking halls with only the violin’s tone.
On sixth night, carrying the box around,
she stops, shakes the object, met with no cue.
Seventh night, her last,
alas, she could not stay steadfast,
For within the box, two pale, roving eyes
replace her reflected face.
The violin’s wail,
candle light turns smoke,
shadows dance to silent songs,
moon beams drown her pleas
And with that she finds her key.
iii.
The Sprout
by Nathaniel Waterman, Class of 2022
The Sprout
by Nathaniel Waterman, Class of 2022
iv.
A Living Nightmare
by Anonymous, Class of 2023
by Anonymous, Class of 2023
Night has fallen, the sky, dark and smoky.
Whatever am I doing here?
Nothing in sight, on a hill, so lonely.
The sound of a blade, slashing in the frostbitten air.
Desperate glancing, I hope nothing is near,
For death is a wish I so fear.
Step after step, a fog wraps around my ankles.
My sight reaching only ten feet.
Woosh! A sound comes.
Gurgling and groaning.
What the hell was that?
Though paused mid-step, my heartbeat doesn’t cease.
Something is stalking,
Something is watching.
Soft crunches of the dying grass,
Something is creeping.
A silhouette, standing ahead.
A foot, covered in blood and sharp blades.
A tall man, wearing black robes of cuts,
Repeating a single word, “mother…”
With disdain and pain.
One foot after another,
Approaches the man,
But, stuck in place, my feet won’t move.
Cold sweat drips down my face,
My hands clenched in fists.
The bloodied man stands face to face.
In a blink, I lay stiff.
Surroundings have changed.
No fog, no grass, but instead,
A bed.
A dream of horrors.
A nightmare of falsehood.
I sigh a breath,
But outside my window,
A bloodied man stands still.
Whatever am I doing here?
Nothing in sight, on a hill, so lonely.
The sound of a blade, slashing in the frostbitten air.
Desperate glancing, I hope nothing is near,
For death is a wish I so fear.
Step after step, a fog wraps around my ankles.
My sight reaching only ten feet.
Woosh! A sound comes.
Gurgling and groaning.
What the hell was that?
Though paused mid-step, my heartbeat doesn’t cease.
Something is stalking,
Something is watching.
Soft crunches of the dying grass,
Something is creeping.
A silhouette, standing ahead.
A foot, covered in blood and sharp blades.
A tall man, wearing black robes of cuts,
Repeating a single word, “mother…”
With disdain and pain.
One foot after another,
Approaches the man,
But, stuck in place, my feet won’t move.
Cold sweat drips down my face,
My hands clenched in fists.
The bloodied man stands face to face.
In a blink, I lay stiff.
Surroundings have changed.
No fog, no grass, but instead,
A bed.
A dream of horrors.
A nightmare of falsehood.
I sigh a breath,
But outside my window,
A bloodied man stands still.
v.
by Nathaniel Waterman, Class of 2022
vi.
With All The Love I Give You, Why Don't You Love Me?
by Anonymous
by Anonymous
This is a poem of unrequited endearment
Getting you to love me would be a great achievement
Beyoncé said it best, “Why don’t you love me when I make me so easy to love?”
I feel that our personalities should be a match sent from Heaven above
You do not give me any of the affection I so crave
It has driven me so mad that I must write this rave
Man and cat have been friends since the dawn of time
Yet our differences pose a mountain that is too difficult to climb
We have spent hours and hours together
Yet our relationship does not seem to get any better
Your tuxedo fur gives the impression of wealth
Yet your lack of love for me is bad for my mental health
Do you not love me because I am scared of you?
Well if that is the case, then there is nothing that I can do
The scars on my arms may not leave a mark
But I shall always remember them in my heart
Do you not love me because you are scared of me?
Well how can this be when you run so wild and free?
If you can chase birds and rabbits alike
Why then is earning your love as hard as going on a long hike
If you can can run as fast as the wind
Why can we not end our differences at the speed of a whirlwind?
I named you after a Britney Spears song
But with you, I feel that I never belong
All I want is for you to rest your soft black head against me
And to turn a “you” and “I” into a “we”?
If I love you stronger than the Sun’s pull on the Earth
Why can’t our relationship have a rebirth?
How much more must I give to earn your affection
So that I can get your love and attention?
Is it time that I ask this question to you, my dear Toxi
With all the love I give you, why don’t you love me?
Getting you to love me would be a great achievement
Beyoncé said it best, “Why don’t you love me when I make me so easy to love?”
I feel that our personalities should be a match sent from Heaven above
You do not give me any of the affection I so crave
It has driven me so mad that I must write this rave
Man and cat have been friends since the dawn of time
Yet our differences pose a mountain that is too difficult to climb
We have spent hours and hours together
Yet our relationship does not seem to get any better
Your tuxedo fur gives the impression of wealth
Yet your lack of love for me is bad for my mental health
Do you not love me because I am scared of you?
Well if that is the case, then there is nothing that I can do
The scars on my arms may not leave a mark
But I shall always remember them in my heart
Do you not love me because you are scared of me?
Well how can this be when you run so wild and free?
If you can chase birds and rabbits alike
Why then is earning your love as hard as going on a long hike
If you can can run as fast as the wind
Why can we not end our differences at the speed of a whirlwind?
I named you after a Britney Spears song
But with you, I feel that I never belong
All I want is for you to rest your soft black head against me
And to turn a “you” and “I” into a “we”?
If I love you stronger than the Sun’s pull on the Earth
Why can’t our relationship have a rebirth?
How much more must I give to earn your affection
So that I can get your love and attention?
Is it time that I ask this question to you, my dear Toxi
With all the love I give you, why don’t you love me?
vii.
Only him
by Adam Lessard, Class of 2023
by Adam Lessard, Class of 2023
The third story of the building was shaking violently with the heavy storm, the wind and rain pelting the side. The workers could feel the building shaking. Lightning was supposedly a couple miles away, but with the bright light illuminating Blake’s coworkers against the night sky, it certainly didn’t feel that way. Blake tentatively knocked on the office door. His boss, Mr. Garvey, had lost track of time again, and of course Blake Jones had picked the short straw, and with his coworkers cowering in their cubicles, he had to ask Mr. Garvey to let them go. No one wanted this job for one main reason: Past eight p.m. he got into one of those moods, one of those moods where he wouldn’t talk to anyone and would scream random things in his office until he would tire himself out. Normally, one person is designated to keep an eye on the clock so they don’t have to go through this process of asking him when he is angry, only asking him when he is in a good mood. It’s almost like he has a switch, and it goes on from 8 p.m. to 7 a.m. and suddenly gets turned off for the other 13 hours. Tonight it was Aaron’s turn, and being the insubordinate human being he is, he had already left, no doubt in all of their minds that he would be fired before the night was over. As soon as Blake had knocked, he heard a groan and a shout from inside the office. Knowing this was a mistake, he tried to back up, but had nowhere to go. Garvey whipped the door open and revealed his twisted, glowering face.
vii.
Cheese Sauce
by Nathaniel Waterman, Class of 2022
Cheese Sauce
by Nathaniel Waterman, Class of 2022
"Coming up at three, an exclusive interview with Gerbert Smith, Daytona Beach's favorite cheese sauce drinker, and founder of Postmortal. You're listening to 89.7, WGBH" [ Advertisements ] "This is All Things Considered – I'm Joseph Maillard. I'm here with Gerbert Smith, the founder of Postmortal. Welcome to the show." Gerbert: "Thanks. Good to be here." Joseph: "During your time in Daytona, you became famous for your love of cheese sauce, even leading to a cocktail in your name. Gerbert, how has life as an incorporeal being affected your relationship with the sauce?" Gerbert: "I'm still unable to pass by cheese sauce when I see it, even though I'm not really able to eat anymore. I can still smell it, though. Maybe, that’s what killed me — that cheese sauce. I always did drink far too much of it." Joseph: "I see. Have you reconnected with your sister, Patricia Smith?" Gerbert: "Yes, I have." Joseph: "Can you elaborate more on how that's been going?" Gerbert: "I was able to cause messages smeared in cheese sauce to appear on the walls of her apartment. Eventually, I figured out how to speak and manipulate objects. We've been educating ourselves on science, trying to figure out what that dust was they put in my ashes, and trying to see if we can make more to sell it." Joseph: "Couldn't this have massive repercussions for the world? I mean, if we can turn anyone into a –" Gerbert: "Into a ghost?" Joseph: "Yeah, into a ghost, then won't that completely redefine what it even means to be alive?" Gerbert: "I think it will, but I really think that's a good thing. I mean, without that dust, I would just be dead now. I'm enjoying this, still being around. The incorporeal form isn't too bad, either. Just different." Joseph: "Incredible stuff, Gerbert. Unfortunately, that's all the time we have. This is Gerbert Smith, founder of Postmortal, a company working toward a world without death. Gerbert, thanks for chatting with us." Gerbert: "Thank you for having me." [ Advertisements ]