The 2015 Spire Literary Magazine

T H E S P I R E2015 Literary Magazine

THE SPIRE2015 Literary Magazine

The Spire is The Governor’s Academy student literary magazine. Students submit their poems and short stories to student editors who then decide which entries will be published. The Spire has been a voice for student literary creativity since 1966.

Winners of the Murphy/Mercer Short Story and Poetry Contest are also included in The Spire. The A. MacDonald Murphy Short Story and Thomas McClary Mercer Poetry Contest was created more than two decades ago to honor the work of the two English masters, whose combined service to the Academy totaled more than 65 years, and to encourage students’ pursuit of creative writing. Students submit entries which are read and voted upon by the English Department. First prize winners in each category receive a book prize and their works appear in the annual publications of The Spire each spring.

Student Editor: Garth Robinson ‘15

Editor in Training: Lily Bailey ‘16

Faculty Advisors: Maud Hamovit Karen Gold Peter Mason

Cover Photo: Jimin Park ’15

Special thanks to faculty and staff in the departments of English, Fine Arts, and Communications.

THE GOVERNOR’S ACADEMY

The Spire | 54 | The Spire

2015 A. MACDONALD MURPHY SHORT STORY CONTEST

FIRST PLACE

A Sit-uational DilemmaWallace Douglas ’15

Oh god oh god oh

dearsweetjesuschristlordabove

am I late.

Cold February wind repeatedly

slapped and smacked my still

sleep-warm face as my worn,

stained Uggs did their very best to

scurry across the frozen campus.

Through the wind-induced tears

in my eyes I saw the blurry outline

of 7:58 a.m. on my battered green

watch. My heart skipped several

panicked beats.

I passed Hawthorn Hall in a

frenzied rush, dancing around

the other early Monday morning

stragglers, trying to both avoid

knocking into them and stepping

in one of the many slush puddles

that dotted the brick pathway

like frigid booby traps. As I asked

myself for the umpteenth time

why I’d chosen to take a morning

class on the worst day of the week

for mornings, the stone mass of

Easton Hall came into view in all

of its formidable glory.

“This class better be worth

it…” I muttered under my breath

as I hurried on, feeling my socks

dampening and my stomach

growling in hunger from the lack

of breakfast. It was the first day

of second semester classes and I’d

only been awake ten minutes.

* * *

At last the heavy oak doors

closed behind my soaked feet

and the squish squish of my Uggs

found its way through the many

winding halls to Room 104. A

paper clutched in my hand hung

limp and defeated, beginning to

tear around the folded seams as I

checked it once again, as I had every

five minutes for the past 24 hours,

for the life-or-death instructions

under ‘Second Semester Courses

2016:’ PSYCH 135. Prof. J. Callahan.

Easton104. M 8:00 – 9:30; Th

4:30 – 6:00. I looked up from the

slowly disintegrating paper, my

fingers feeling it crumple beneath

their grip as I stowed it in my coat

pocket. Using the reflection from

the glass in the closest display

cabinet (on Skinner’s and Pavlov’s

experiments—how fitting) I

brushed my stringy, wet hair

from my forehead, threw back my

shoulders, looking myself in the

eye with a determined gaze of false

confidence, and prepared myself

to pull the handle on the waiting

wooden door in front of me and

enter the unknown.

Oh shit.

Occupied, fully filled and very-

much-so taken chairs greeted my

tardiness. In a growing panic my

eyes scanned and scanned again to

find a suitable empty chair in the

sea of seats of complete and semi-

complete strangers, all whom, for

the moment, had not noticed the

dripping wet and very harried

freshman shifting awkwardly from

foot to foot in the corner. I clenched

and unclenched my pocketed fists,

my discomfort growing as I knew

the longer I stood in one place the

more people would notice I had

not yet taken a seat, and by the

transitive property of life would

notice me. I saw a clear open spot

right at the front of the room, my

heart leaping a bit in hope, only to

crash right back down as I realized

the seat was right in front of the

professor’s lecture podium. The

chair was worn and tilted from

its many days of serving its better

purpose as a footrest for those in

the row above. The typical teacher’s

pet location, this seat was the prime

spot to be called for questions and

picked on when you’re wrong. So

of course, nobody sat there; there

was no way in hell I was about to

become the teacher’s guinea pig for

my first time with “Psychology and

The Law.”

I took another sweeping look

around the lecture hall. There was

an open seat in the back of the high

ceilinged room between Jessica

Banister and Henry Davies, right

in the prime location of center

back, beneath the magnificent

glass window. I took my first

hesitant step towards the spot,

nearly making it to the graduated

stairs when, Jessica gave me a

nearly imperceptible shake of the

head, sending the rather palpable

message “No.” Taken slightly

aback, I paused and pretended to

look for something in my small,

worn, clearly-not-big-enough-to-

actually-be-holding-anything coat

pockets, trying as hard as I could to

not look as unnerved as I felt.

Jessica was Emily’s (my

roommate) best friend since, like,

forever. They’d been together since

preschool, with the exception of

that period of time their junior

year in high school when Jessica got


mono and didn’t come to school for

four months. Emily developed such

bad separation anxiety from it that

she had to start taking medication.

I’m pretty sure she still does when

Jessica goes home for the weekend.

But that wasn’t the reason Jessica

had shaken her head, Emily was

on campus and they hadn’t had

a fight yet about who was going

to whose house for March break

so what was it?…oh no. As I

continued my pocket-searching

charade, pretending to at last ‘find’

my pencil and move toward the

sharpener at the left wing of the

hall, I remembered that over the

weekend Jessica and that hipster-

kid Jeremy Potts had hooked up

at Phi Beta Delta’s annual change-

of-semester party, an experience

Emily later told me (as Jessica had

obviously told her) had been “both

enjoyable but equally terrible, like

one of those super sour Skittles.”

In the aftermath of the one-night-

fiasco, neither party was speaking

to the other, nor had Jessica even

been seen near Jeremy since that

Saturday night. An impressive feat

for a college this small, especially

since Jeremy Potts was Henry

Davies best-friend and roommate,

not to mention an upperclassmen,

and Henry was Jessica’s now ex-

boyfriend. Why they were sitting

only a seat apart beat me, but I

decided not to think too hard

about it and instead avoid getting

caught in the crossfire of the next

World War (as I was both friends

with Jessica and Henry - we ran

Cross-Country together). So I took

Jessica’s headshake to heart and

looked for my next potential seat.

As I sharpened my pencil for

what was probably a solid minute

and a half, I saw the vacant, plastic

void of a free chair. Sadly, the baggy

sweatpants, snapbacks, and lack of

notebooks alerted my disappointed

eyes to the LaxBro fraternity

contingent of Beta Chi Theta.

We’d already had a class

together last semester: “Intro to

Cultural Anthropology” ANTH

101 Prof. C. Cunningham.

Hawthorn223. T 1:30 – 3:00; F

10:00 – 12:30. (a real gut—the

class it seemed every freshman

who wasn’t a science geek took).

They’d done the very same thing;

leaving a chair conspicuously open

in the center of their crew, hoping

a girl would sit there and become

the next star invitee to one of their

utterly skeezy but still popular

Thursday Night Parties. Lucky for

me, I’d known the last girl who’d

made the mistake of sitting in the

center of the trap. She was on my

floor, near Jessica’s room in fact,

and her horror stories of what’d

gone down made all the crap from

my high school experience look

like child’s play. So, no sitting there,

that was for sure.

A drop of water from my hair fell

down my back and I fought to keep

from flinching and making more

of scene than I already was. By now

some people had begun staring at

me, their equally morning-bleary

eyes slightly intrigued to why the

girl who looked like she’d lost a

battle to a wet racoon and needed

five shots of espresso hadn’t yet

sat down, or checked herself into

the nearest mental institution. I

nonchalantly (or so I thought)

tried to wipe the drop away with

my own damp hand, biting my lip

as I ever more frantically looked for

a seat. I shivered.

AHA!

The perfect seat! It beckoned

from the left rear window, snug

in the corner, next to the heater,

too far from the board for the

professor to notice if you’d shown

up or not. How had I not seen it

before? The small desk sat a bit

distanced from those around it,

nowhere near anybody I knew

(perfect for making the class my

waking up, de-stressing, total-

aloneness time). The boy in the

chair closest to the seat was Victor

Easton, a descendent of the very

man this building was dedicated

to. He wasn’t as stuck up as I’d

thought he’d be back when we were

in ENGL281 Prof. L. Tremblay.

Sammons306 M 5:00 – 7:00. He’d

made a few comments about

Othello that I appreciated, and

he generally just stuck to writing

random things in a notebook he

religiously kept in his pocket. I’d

snuck a few peeks throughout the

past semester, but his handwriting

was too messy for me to make

out anything intelligible, though

his drawings weren’t too shabby.

Directly in front of the seat sat

Sharon Schroder. Though she

was a bit bubbly for my taste and

tended to take all the words she

could from the air, making both

concentrating and daydreaming

difficult at times, she also generally

ignored those immediately around

her and served as great protection

from being called on. Oh, how it

was the Perfect Seat.

My soaked shoes began their

first tentative steps toward the

Perfect Seat, my head bending

ever so slightly forward, my eyes

lowered to avoid making any eye

contact during my ascension to

the back of the hall. I reached the

top step and looked up to plan

my path to the corner. Suddenly a

body breezed by me and rejoined

with a coat I hadn’t noticed had

been resting on the back of the

Perfect Seat. It was Dan Smith,


a sophomore I’d only seen at

the occasional party or coffee

house, and knew by name only

because he’d helped me out once

in the library with unjamming the

printer before the cranky librarian

Mrs. Spinster found out. Looked

like his time helping me out was

now over. I stood there stranded

in the middle of that hall, my face

turning a delicate shade of pink as

my peripheral vision told me that

now almost all the eyes of the class

were on me. Professor Callahan

stood at the very front of the room,

coughing quietly to get the class’s

attention, staring directly at me,

and then at the clock. The ancient

analog circle read 8:06. Class had

begun. My face flooded to a more

uncomfortable shade of beet red.

I looked once more at my three

remaining seat options. World

War III? Fraternity Fornication?

Or Professor’s Guinea Pig…I had

to choose between the worst of

three evils. Shifting from wet Ugg

to wet Ugg, my hands twisting in

my pockets and my chapped lip

threatening to split underneath

my unbrushed teeth, I decided I’d

rather live through the semester

without losing friends or sleep to

drama or contracting Gonorrhea,

I shuffled my way, quietly and

thoroughly embarrassed, to the

worn and titled chair at the front

of the room behind the projector

podium. Sitting down like a

prisoner before the firing squad,

I pulled out my slightly damp

notebooks like they were volatile

explosives. Eyeing me as a hawk

does its prey, Prof. Callahan took

command of the U.S.S Psychology

with “Well, Ms. Douglas, seeing as

you have seemed to have finally

chosen a seat and graced us with

your academic attention, please tell

me which social experiment…”

Dear sweetjesuschristlordabove,

this is going to be a long semester.

Dick’s VarietyJade Fiorilla ’17

The aroma of coffee mixes

effortlessly with the sand and lotion

as they sit on milk cartons

full-body laughing

while exchanging fishing stories

more elaborate than ever before.

The newspaper crinkles,

The styro foam cups lurch,

shoes scuff and the world spins on.

It may seem that they are not taking advantage

of every second they’ve been given,

but who are we to judge

as they congregate around the counter,

peering at the scratch tickets,

rooting for one another.

2015 THOMAS McCLARY MERCER POETRY CONTEST

FIRST PLACE


2015 THOMAS McCLARY MERCER POETRY CONTEST

SECOND PLACE

A young man returns from Iraq after fourteen

months at war. He arrives with seven

caskets, four medals, two arms, two

working eyes, and a boyfriend. Seven mothers hold

folded flags and tired tissues, his mother

holds her gaze at the floor, tries to hide her disappointment.

Twenty-four minutes from the airport to the house, twelve

of them in silence. She thinks of the flag-bearing mothers

and wonders if they’ll still call themselves mothers.

She opens the windows because it is too hot

too stuffy, she feels like a burnt stick in one of the seven

Fourth of July match boxes. Do those mothers feel broken

or do they feel pride? Do those fourteen parents now raise

or hate the flags they hold?

I took him to church, she thinks, taught him seven

sins deadlier than the gun that hangs by his side. She says quietly

to herself that maybe there should have been eight,

to prevent the shame and the disappointment

that creeps from all sides when they hold hands

the way she holds her Bible.

Prisoner of WarStephen Damianos ’15

Memories flood back and stand impossible to hold down,

the woman remembers becoming a mother.

Surrounded by blue men and buzzing machines, room 214

felt warmer than the December day. First feet, then legs, two

arms and working eyes, a little prince that would one day disappoint

her by finally being happy. She thinks back to his tenth birthday,

the yellow and green balloons, the ten candles

on a frosted airplane, the way he held his breath

before making a wish. There was no disappointment

then, only happy, only happy, only a son and a mother

and candles on a cake. But now there are too

many worries, too many sins, twenty-four

minutes from the airport. For twelve of them

her tears fly like shrapnel, her tears tear

out of her eyes and towards the battleground,

towards her hero, towards her enemy, towards the man

in uniform she doesn’t quite recognize.


90 Days of Slightly Burned ToastLily Bailey ’16

The first day wasn’t badThe second wasn’t eitherThe third was rather crunchyThe fourth had a crust-burn fringe

The fifth and sixth were rather dryThe eighth reminded me of Marge’s pie. Crusty, but you loved it. Not because it was good— But because Marge made it.

I shook the thought off with the ninth.

The tenth was very sub parBut good enough that I would eat it

The eleventh was badThe twelfth was barely okay

The thirteenth simply horridI had wished Harry were here Harry would’ve laughed at it but Harry always was laughing. and you always laughed along.I ate the toast anyhow—The thought went down horribly with it.

Fourteenth through Sixteenth were… rather odorousSmelled the burn— more than I could taste it.

Lily Bailey ‘16

Lily Bailey ‘16


Perhaps it was the toaster.

The seventeenth was made in an old toasterBut it was good Like old Murray. Old but lovable.

Tossed the oven toaster out on the nineteenth Should’ve learned it had a bad way of burning toastafter the eighteenth turned cookie hard

Old toaster seems to work quite fineToasts nicely with a marshmallow tan As the twentieth had confirmed

The twenty-first was the best piece of toast so farHad some fleeting memories about Marge— You would laugh and eat the pie No matter how crusty You would love it Because Marge made it

The twenty-second was something of a mistakeI had more than sufficiently baked itto the point where it was burnt—in a bad way.I ate it anyway.

Twenty-third through the sixty-seventh were greatSlightly burnt but fine otherwiseThe sixty-eighth just ruined that streak

It was disgustingly soggy in my milkAccidentally, of course.And Harry would’ve laughed. Harry was always laughing But then Harry’d come up with a name Like always. Call me Milk-toast maybe Or Caspar or just chap.

Marge’s milk-toast was always good. And you loved it Because Marge made it Just like you loved crusty pie And Marge And Harry And Old Murray And me.

But I’m a hot mess, aren’t I? How about some pie?

I can’t toast right.


Your milk-toast might agree, chap, But twenty-one would beg to differ.

Well I flopped on every one since then. Get some coffee kiddo. You’re only on the eighty-third.

I broke the mirror and the toaster.Not by mistake.

A friend came to fix the toaster.I made fried toast in the pan with butter.It was soaked in fat and oilNot exactly burned and somehow soggySo I had to eat it with a fork.

Maybe they were rightThe eighty-fifth was good.Maybe all you have to do is break a toasterAnd a mirror

Or maybe I just had to use the other hand.

Eighty-five was nice.Tried it with coffee,but remembered why I hated it so much.Murray loved it though.He always forgot I hated it.

Said it was the problem solver for anything. Murray was old fashioned that way. Or just old. We loved him anyway.

I ran out of regular breadEighty-sixth was whole-wheat;Organic blandness that needed jamIt made toast feel healthy.I almost hated itBut you loved itIn all its organic splendor Just like you loved everythingSo I loved it Not because it was good— But because you did.

I got good old regular toast on the eighty-ninth.Was burnt to crisps on both sides,but wasn’t blandly all-natural.I loved it.In all burntness.


Will Johnson ‘17

Chloe Lee ‘16


Cold of the SeasonsKaty Maina ’15

Coming in from the winter’s cold,My hands are numb,And my face is frozen from the chill of the air,The ice bites my fingers rawas I remove my mittens and stand by the fire.The contrast between the inside heat and cold outdoors is strange.

Each year fall freezes into winter and each time it’s strangeLast year never felt this cold.The dark, damp memories fade but the ones of FireAnd warmth stay, Numb,Its how we plow through winter, Raw.There is the hint of snow in the air.

Each breath leaves an ephemeral inscription in the airLike the lovers’ heart on the sandy beach - it’s strangeLike children to the winter, they came into this new stage rawand unaware of the cold,bitter times of adolescence how they would arrive numbOn the other side, having experienced for the first time, the fire.

Everyone knew their fireThe passion, the commitment, the romance—it was all there, but she needed airShe needed space before this winter turned her numbSo much emotion yet so strangeHow inevitable the winter is and when the ColdSets in, true colors emerge, unarmed, unprepared and raw.

His food was too rawShe wasn’t putting enough wood on the FireThe ColdGot to him. His AirGot to her and the blissful memories of summer sunsets seamed far away and strange.All that was left now was the shell of the couple filled to the brim with numbness.

Like the soft hand reaching to cup her face in a kiss–numb.Like the warm fingers drawing designs on his back–RawStrangeNo more were the sensational moments gathered around the fireFor the fire had burned out and the AirBetween them gone cold.

The emotions turn to numb dust as the fireIn their heats goes out and frostbite chews their edges raw.Another two strange lovers lost to the wintery cold.


Alexander Eliasen ‘17

Jimin Park ‘15


In Morgan CountyGarth Robinson ’15

There is a poem hung on the wall,

behind glass, in a gold frame, and I

can say every line by heart because

I look at it on nights when I finally

answer and we talk and I am always

sad as I stand by the gold frame.

I am lying on the bed this

morning looking at the poem.

She hasn’t called in a week and

I’m thinking about her. The bed is

made and is clean and white. The

shutters are open and orange light

seeps through wooden cracks and

splits the room into pieces that

remind me of stanzas. The third is

my favorite when it talks about the

man’s heart and what the woman

did to it.

My head is sinking into the

pillows and I am falling asleep.

There are words in my head and

I hope they are the poem reading

itself to me. I take off my clothes

and lie back on the bed. I’ve turned

the mirror facing me around and

ripped grey paper covers the back.

A diamond point knifes through

the space between shutters and I

squint through closed eyes. I stand

and pull the heavy red drapes across

the window. I pour myself a glass

of water and drink it and I read the

poem once. I lie back down.

The phone rings. It is Pat

McKanley. In Morgan County

there is a field with walls of stones

and cows (some are black and some

are white) that stand at the walls

and eat grass and watch cars pass

by. There is a tiger in the field and it

has already killed two cows. There

is a lot of blood but McKanley will

not call the police because he wants

himself a tiger pelt.

I’ve never shot a tiger before. I

stand and dress and in the middle

of the room I sink my toes into

the worn carpet and I think about

tigers and feel like I am forgetting

something.

The phone rings twice. First it

is McKanley’s wife, telling me she’s

scared and McKanley’s about to get

himself hurt and would I please

get over there soon. I tell her I’m

leaving right at that very moment

and her goodbye shifts to empty

static that I listen to for a few

seconds until the phone rings for

the second time. This time it is her.

It is here, in teardrop-shaped

moments like this, that she sinks her

toes into the worn carpet before me

and our eyes meet. The phone keeps

ringing (it is loud), and I close my

eyes but her form is a shadow that is

brighter. It is here that I ask myself

if the place where she is and I was is

still the same. Here, when her voice

is close, that with hunger and clean

veins I let it ring.

I go outside and smoke a

cigarette. I’ve been thinking more

and more about her as July bleeds

into August. It is in the sun and the

way it slides past the slow crests of

those hills, and in the grass that is

long and dried and yellow, and it

sits in the air around the flick of a

straw tail in the fields that I can see

for miles.

I have never seen a tiger before

and I wonder how I will kill it. I am

not scared because Pat McKanley

is a man with broad shoulders and

a gun that is bigger than mine. His

wife is a pretty woman with blonde

spaghetti curls. She is getting old but

she is still pretty. She loves McKanley

a great deal and worries about him

even more so her call does not both

me either. I stamp out my cigarette

in a crack in the pavement.

I think about the third call.

She will tell me she loves me and

will say things that are beautiful

like a melody of notes ancient and

unspoken. I will be sad because she

does not understand. There will be

a feeling in my heart that is familiar

now but I cannot name.

I get in the truck that the

landlord lets me use if I wash the

windows and sweep the floors and

I drive to Morgan County. The

McKanley farm is set back from the

other square plots. There is a border

of thick old trees on every side

except for the one by the gravel road.

McKanley once told me he likes

for anyone going by to be able to

admire his cows that are all large and

handsome. They are the largest and

most handsome in Morgan County,

and maybe in the state, and he will

remind me when I see him.

I am on the gravel road and I

look for the cows and the tiger but

I do not see either. I look for blood

but I realize I will not see it against

the dead grass. It has not rained

for weeks.

I turn onto another road. It

is cool and refreshing under the

shade of the trees that drift past

the left window. McKanley lives

in a low farmhouse with a brick

chimney and a slanted red roof.

There is a silo that rises high above

the chimney but McKanley does


not use it except to store his rakes

and shovels and bags of feed.

I park the truck and light

another cigarette. McKanley’s wife

is peering between lace curtains in

their front window. Her brow is

furrowed and her hair is in curlers.

She squats lower and titters out

the screen, “Jeb. Jeb!,” although she

knows I have already noticed her.

“Morning, Mrs. McKanley.”

“Morning Jeb, I’d offer you

a cup of coffee but my dumbass

husband is about to get eaten

by a tiger back there. Never seen

anything like this. I keep telling

him to call the police but he just

keeps telling me, ‘No, Nancy, Jeb

can handle it, Jeb can handle it.”

She stops and throws her hands up

beside her face and tries to smile.

“And I’m sure you can Jeb, but oh,

what a morning! He’s out by the

side of the field, you can go around

the house there and I can still bring

that cup of coffee out to you if

you’d like.”

“No need, Mrs. McKanley.”

She tries again to smile and

I walk to the back of the house.

McKanley owns a lot of land and

it climbs in waves of golden fields

towards the distant rising sun. When

I had visited the farm before to fix

his truck dozens of cows had been

spread across this first hill. There are

none and I take the gun off my belt

and I feel the sweat on my palms

against its soft grip. A slight breeze

moves over the grass like the long

morning shadows cast by the thick

poplars. I stoop and pluck a stand

of dry wheat and put it between my

teeth that taste of tobacco.

I begin to walk up the hill and

I see her lying on the burnt grass.

She is in the pink dress she wore in

the small kitchen the last time I saw

her, and as I see her and the pink

dress she sees me and the gun and

she stands and keeps her arms at

her sides and looks like she is going

to cry, and I blink into the burning

ring and keep walking and I want

to turn and look at the breeze

moving brown hairs of gossamer

against her cheek but I remind

myself it will hurt as I reach the top

of the hill.

At the top of the hill many

things happen at once. I look

down and see cows crowded close

together digging their hooves into

a patch of loose dirt, and their eyes

are dark and full of something deep

and I follow their gaze and they

watch the tiger bend its muscled

neck to the open stomach of one

of their kin whose eyes are scared

and alone. And I see the tiger and I

am surprised how clear the blood is

against the dead grass (it coats the

ground like spilled molasses), and

I shake myself and raise my gun,

and I hear the voice of a man and

I look towards the line of trees and

McKanley is there with his long,

sleek rifle.

He motions to me and I walk

along the ridge of the hill towards

him. I keep my eyes on the tiger but

she is focused on the cow between

her jaws.

“It’s a big son of a bitch,”

McKanley blocks out the sun with

his callused hands and spits. “Gotta

be a big son of a bitch to get two

of these cows. They’re bigger than

any others around here, and that’s

by a lot.”

He spits again and I watch a

drop of saliva stick to his meaty

chin. McKanley was once large and

handsome like his cows but he has

gotten fat from his wife’s cooking

and too many days spent drinking

in a wicker chair in the hot sun.

His movements are assured and

powerful but slow and the cotton

shirt under his arms is stained with

sweat. He leans his gun against a

tree and claps me on the back.

“But how are you doing, Jeb? I

apologize for calling you up so early.”

“It’s not a problem, Mr.

McKanley. She is a big one.”

We stand and look down at the

tiger. Her fur is matted and coated

with dirt just like the cows in the

nearby circle, and she looks natural

and wild in the dead field as she

pulls ribbons of damp flesh from

her still prey. She is strong and intent

but she moves with the finesse of a

housecat running along the roof of

a ruined house. As she bites, I see

flashes of curved white fangs and

rows of sharp incisors behind her

black rubbery lips. She looks up and

the hair around her mouth is caked

with blood and she sets her ears back

and looks at us. She is beautiful like

nights on a frozen mountain, so

far from the ground that the air is

thin and clear. I cannot see her eyes

from here but I imagine they are

green and bright and alive. I feel my

breathe catch in my lungs but I am

not scared.

“Think you can take care of her?”

She sings to tell us she belongs. I

watch her and think of moss between

slivers of bark and birds that fly

south alone with calls that are soft

and whispered, for she is quiet and

mighty. My phone rings again.

It is her and I think of how

she follows me on mornings like

this when the sun slips and drives

up the curve of the sky (defying

gravity) and the air is filled with

grit and sand and it is hard to

breathe. I want to talk to her. I look

down at the white letters of her

name, and they pull and surge and

flow somewhere inside me where I

need her. There is a pattern of dirt

on the hem of her pink dress. She is


staring at me.

“Everything all set?”

The phone makes a sound like

a swarm of bees that surges and

nooses my head with a crown of

thorns.

“Why don’t you just shoot her

yourself, Mr. McKanley?”

The phone stops ringing but I

feel her staring at me.

“Well, first of all, I don’t want

any lawyers coming up trying to

tell me I’ve shot some kind of

endangered species, I’d like another

man to be here to do it. Don’t want

to lie to any lawyers, but I would

sure love some tiger fur. I’ll pay you

in cash of course, or in tiger fur if

you prefer. Second of all, I’ve only

ever killed cows and I reckon this’ll

die differently.”

I nod and don’t say anything

and he smiles and claps me on

the back and I start walking down

the hill towards the tiger. She is

calm and brave. On the night she

wore that pink dress (that was

the last time I saw her), I came

downstairs to the kitchen to fix

my blue and yellow striped tie in

the mirror above the sink. She sat

at the linoleum counter and ate

cubes of ice from the plastic tray.

The heat of the solstice passed

through the window with ease and

a fiber of damp hair stuck to her

forehead. She rattled the chunks

from one side of her mouth to the

other with a noise that was hollow

and full of echoes. I thought of

catacombs and the caves beneath

them. I stood at the mirror and I

listened and the echoes faded and

I heard her push the tray away. Her

chair squeaked on the tile floor.

Her hands are smaller than mine.

I see her feet between my own, and

she wears no shoes and stands on

her toes. She rests her head against

my back. I hope she is listening for

my heart, and I close my eyes and

try to make my heart beat faster so

she can listen and count the blood

pumping one, two, three, and she

can know it hurts and I will miss

her, and I raise my hand and pull

and with a thousand words it is

simple business.

Brian Kang ‘15


Abigail Caron ‘16

Hope was in the crevice of the

countertop. She was scrubbing. She

used bleach when the countertop

cleaner wasn’t enough. With the

rubber gloves every good housewife

seems to own, she scrubbed. She

had hope that the house would be

clean enough. Once the counter

was clean she moved to the floor.

This was less difficult, she was able

to sit and use all her energy for

scrubbing the pine. She scrubbed

her soul. The bleach burned her

nostrils, but she knew she had to

continue. Continue the job she

started when he started to speak.

There was hope that she could end

what he began. When her blonde

hair floated into her vision, she saw

an unexpected shade of crimson.

The liquid clumped her curls

into clumsy clusters. She would

have to take a shower. Her arms

were used to the joint pain and

stiffness that comes with thorough

cleaning. Her mother taught her

how to bear it and revel in it like

her mother had before her. To

please one’s husband, one’s home

must be clean. He will be happy if

you and your home are appealing.

You must help him in any way he

demands. Help him. Help your

family. Help your children. When

you can’t have children, help him

more so he doesn’t leave you. But

now he wants a son. Now he found

someone else. Now he wants a

divorce. She scrubs harder, flaking

off bits of dried maroon on the

cabinet. She finds it odd the stain

had time to dry. Looking at the

clock, she sees one hundred-four

minutes has passed. With bleach

bleeding into the knees of her blue

dress, she got up to take a shower.

There was not much time left. She

threw the knife away seventy-five

minutes ago. She replaced it with a

spare from the pantry. She creates

structure with her sanitation that

can barricade the world. In the

shower, the dried blood is harder

to get off than she had imagined.

HopeRacquel Nassor ’15


She finds it strange how much

was left under her manicure. She

scrapes hope from the underside.

In their room, she preps her face

with foundation and her hair

with curls with the calmness she

felt when she prepped the body in

pieces. He was hopefully hidden in

the foundation. He still sleeps in

their happy home. She will have to

make the call soon. When her hair

is done, she finishes her makeup

before checking the kitchen. She

cleans a splotch of blood from

the underside of the granite

countertop. Such cleanliness. Such

Freedom. She picks up the phone.

It rings. The machine answers.

“Mother, I think something has

happened to Richard. He hasn’t

come home. Call me when you hear

this message. I am so worried.” She

feels happiness. She walks back up

to her bedroom and into her closet.

Admires her gentle curves under

the mauve chiffon. Contemplates

going out to eat. Denies herself that

luxury. Such self-indulgent actions

would make people talk. She has

a reputation in her community.

A reputation she couldn’t let

tarnish. She would not become

another piece of forgotten silver.

She held the chopping knife when

he told her. A piece of silver hope

glittering in her hand. He should

have been wiser. He shouldn’t

have threatened divorce. Divorce.

Divorce. A divorce. A widow’s life

was a hard one, but not as hard as

the life of a divorcée. She breaths

a sigh of relief as she makes a cup

of green tea and when she inhales,

she can smell the lingering sent of

bleach in the background. As she

sits down, she relishes in the fact

that she finally has time to read

again. She was always scrubbing,

scrubbing, scrubbing so he would

stay. She was satisfied to know he

wouldn’t leave her now.

Jessica Timmer ‘15


Our Father, which art in

heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy

kingdom come, thy will be done

on Earth, as it is in heaven. Give

us this day our daily bread. And

forgive us of our trespasses, as we

forgive those who trespass against

us. Lead us not into temptation,

but deliver us from evil. For thine

is the kingdom, the power and the

glory, forever and ever. Amen.

After monotonically reciting

that dreadful prayer I sit back in

a wooden chair to listen to a bald

white man tell me what it means to

“serve God” as a female. He talks

about chastity, the importance of

staying “pure,” and the obvious

consequences for those who

choose not to “follow the path of

righteousness”. I’m listening to

all of this puzzled—wondering

and thinking and rationalizing

and frustrated. I look over at my

mom to see her head bobbing

with approval, my dad sits like the

patriarchal head he is, while my

sister playfully toys with the hem of

her dress. The preacher closes the

book he mistakes for a guiding love

letter, walks down from the altar,

and leads the church procession.

+++

2 kids. Mother. Father. Father is

the bread winner, makes six figures

and expects to come home to a

warm prepared meal every night.

Mother takes my sister and me to

all our classes and sports; she does

the best she can not only to serve

us and our father but her heavenly

father as well. My little sister

Cassandra is still at an age where

boys have cooties and she has all

the ideas in the world about what

she can and will be. She comes into

my room late at night:

Mary?

Yeah, Adah?

I think I really wanna be a

scientist when I grow up.

That sounds great!

But Mom said I should think

of something that’s more for girls

HereticAfoma Maduegbuna ’17

because I have to think of the

family I am going to make.

+++

EVOLUTION. My science

teacher writes the topic for the

day in big black block letters. In

those letters she writes controversy,

she writes fact vs. fiction, she

writes right vs. left, she writes

the religiously zealous vs. the

scientifically literate, she writes

fear, she writes hope, she writes

curiosity, she writes a lot of things.

I know some of your parents

will have objections to this. She

means mine. But, I think it’s

really important for you as biology

students to understand this

awesome process.

Awesome.

The same word my parents use

to describe the Lord Almighty is

not what they would describe what

I’m learning right now.

She finishes teaching and I get

it. I don’t remember the last time

I listened to someone teach me

something and the words lined up

perfectly in the nooks and crannies

of my brain.

That felt awesome.

+++

My best friend came out to me

as gay. I thought about preaching

to him about it being unnatural,

how it was Adam and Eve not Adam

and Steve, or the consequences for

his immoral behavior, but instead I

said, Thank you.

+++

Sit up straight. Close your legs.

Boys don’t like a messy girl. Have

an opinion but not too much of

an opinion. Show some skin but

not too much. Think about the

husband you will have. Pray every

night. Stay pure no one wants

to marry a slut. Read your bible.

Know your place.

+++

Heyy, he texted

Hi :), I replied

What’s up?

Nothing just doing hw.

We should chill. ;)

… Yeah … maybe

+++

Sunday morning and this week

the pastor has chosen to speak on

kindness and compassion. He says,

love the sinner, hate the sin. He

doesn’t say what to do if the person

is both the sinner and the sin as well.

+++

Mommy?

Yes Adah?

How do I know that God is real?

You just do honey.

But howwww?

Faith.

Ok Mommy.

I could tell she was just as

confused as I am.


+++

Sex is a biologically natural act,

my biology teacher says, it’s part of

being human to want it and to have

it. My eyes shoot across the room

to the boy who had texted me a few

nights ago. He stares back.

+++

Are you sure?

Yeah.

Clothes are scattered here as if

either Sodom and Gomorrah or

God had wreaked havoc for the sin

I just committed. He sleeps soundly

undisturbed by the trespasses

we’ve just committed. I wish I can

do the same. I stare at the ceiling

thinking of God, my mother, and

my preacher.

For this is the will of God, your

sanctification: that you abstain

from sexual immorality;

1 Thessalonians 4:3

+++

I sit with the atheists at my

school and listen to them agree that

religion is harmful and causes war

and does not allow for expression

and why it’s necessary to legislate

human nature and people’s lives

and how religious people are idiots.

They’re saying all these things and

the chatter suddenly comes to

a halt. They look at me and say

Sorry, no offense. I look back and

say, No, I agree.

Shawn Robertson ‘16


Seacoast SquallCassidy Poole ’16

The darkness gathered at the edges of the horizon and crept quickly toward the placid shores.

A sense of foreboding was unmistakable as the storm clouds rumbled closer.

The waves once warm and inviting now thrashed in icy bites along the shore.

Ugly plywood barriers marred the once bright cottages that now faced the ferocious teeth of the gale.

Beach creatures burrowed deep beneath the sand and signs of life all but disappeared.

Large droplets began to splat the landscape heralding the arrival of the front line of the squall.

Thunder cracked overhead and lightning illuminated the desolate beauty of the beach.

Finn Caron ‘18

Jimin Park ‘15


Nine-twelve p.m. Tuesday,

July 22, 2014. I had been walking

the golf course all day. My two

clients had been unresponsive to

my admittedly feeble attempts at

humor, and instead had simply

wanted me to lug their clubs

without making conversation.

A cup of water at the ninth hole

and a cup at the sixteenth were

all I had allowed myself. I was

exhausted. Otherwise, I wouldn’t

have been headed to bed when

that phone rang. Three short trills.

Three more. Three more. I walked

across the warm hardwood of my

bedroom floor, and picked up my

phone, which lay face down, on

my desk. Three trills. A friend. I

answered as cheerfully as I could.

“You might want to sit down for

this.” She replied.

Seven twenty-nine p.m.

Saturday, June 16, 2014. We sat

in the front row of the theater,

as nowhere else was available. It

was packed—the first showing

of A Million Ways to Die in the

West. There were nine of us in all,

eight kids and one adult. From an

outsider’s eye, our collective must

have looked strange. We were

certainly not a family: one girl was

Indian, one boy was black, the rest

of us all different shapes and sizes.

The one adult in our group (my

good friend) was turned, looking

back over his shoulder, talking

to someone he had recognized.

I squirmed down in my seat,

trying to find the one comfortable

angle that I knew had to be there

somewhere. He looked over at me.

“Don’t bother. You’re not gonna

find it.” I looked over at him. “What

in the hell—” “I’ve sat in a lot of

front rows,” he narrowed his eyes.

“They’re all the same.” “Whatever

you say, dude.” I rolled my eyes. But

the seat wouldn’t cooperate. He

was right.

Eleven fifty-three a.m. Monday,

May 17, 2014. “No way I can do this

again.” I walked into his office and

AnywhereJack Norton ’17

threw my bag to the floor. “Which

one was it? Math?” He knew. I

had spent three hours sitting in

my semester exam that morning,

plotting—amidst acute angles,

tangents, and circles—multiple

ways in which to humiliate my math

teacher the next time I saw him.

“Confidence takes time, especially

around—” I interrupted him,

nearly shouting, “This isn’t about

confidence! This is frustration,

losing my place, almost giving up!”

I sat down abruptly and flopped

my arms over my face. He leaned

back in his chair. “Listen, man…” I

saw the wrinkles at the corners of

his eyes and I knew he had heard

it before. But he still cared enough

to listen.

Six fifty-two p.m. Thursday,

April 7, 2014. I needed to break

up with her. Sitting in his office,

I told him everything. She was

clingy, I couldn’t deal with the

commitment, she was too serious.

All the difficult reasons. He listened

to every word, crossing his legs so

that his ankle rested on his other

knee, his hands clasped under his

bearded chin. He sat like that until I

had talked myself into silence. Then

he said: “Why do you really want to

end it?” I answered immediately.

“I just don’t care.” Then winced. I

hadn’t wanted to say that. “I didn’t

mean that” He looked up at me. “It

sucks, doesn’t it?” I furrowed my

brow. “What? Breaking up?” “No.

Not caring,” he responded.

Ten forty-six a.m. Friday, March

17, 2014. “Why you so late?” I asked

my friend Sammy. Sammy was a

senior, and everyone thought he

was hilarious. He was the popular

kid. “I couldn’t find your house!”

“Yeah,” chimed in Julia, whom I

did not know was in the passenger

seat. “Where do you even live?” On

the drive up to the small town of

Huntington, Sammy sang off-key to

“Last Friday Night” and “Lollipop,”

while Julia just shook her head and

clenched her lips together, frowning

hard enough that the corners of her

mouth began to turn up, despite

her best efforts.

Eleven seventeen a.m. Friday,

February 14, 2014. It was Valentines

Day. The scariest day of the year for

me that year. I was beginning to

doubt the relationship I was in. She

was older than I, and for a while,

I really did like her, but this day

was my debut on Broadway, and

either going to end in a standing

ovation or rotten tomatoes. Even

I didn’t know which it would

be. I caught him coming out of

his office, just locking the door.

“Hey, dude,” I grinned. “Where

you headed?” “Out to the store,”

he said, and then he remembered.

“This is an interesting day for you,


isn’t it?” “Yeah sure. Getting my ass

handed to me on a platter. That’s

interesting.” “Why would that

happen?” “I live at school,” I replied

rudely. “I couldn’t get anything for

her.” “Oh,” he rolled his eyes. “Is

that all? I’ll pick something up.”

“What? Nonono, that’s ridiculous,”

I told him. “You don’t need to

do that.” But he had made up his

mind. “I’m doing it. What do

you want me to get?” I knew that

arguing wasn’t worth my time. He

would win. “I don’t know,” I began

to smile. “Surprise me. I’ll pay you

back later, okay?” “No you won’t,”

he replied. “Don’t be stupid. I’ve

got this one.”

Twelve thirty-two p.m. Monday,

January 22, 2014. “Happy Birthday,

Man!” “Thanks, dude!” He grinned.

“How old are you,” I narrowed

my eyes quizzically and smirked.

“Twenty-three?” “Oh, stop it.” He

scooped the air in front of him

and pursed his lips as if he were an

exasperated teenage girl. I chuckled.

He looked up, all of a sudden

seeming puzzled. “When’s your

birthday?” “Oh.” I chuckled again,

sarcastically this time. “No one

cares,” I said, smiling. “Aw c’mon,

you know that’s not tr—” “Yes it is,”

I interrupted him. “It’s in July. July

twenty-ninth. No one cares.” “I’m

making you a promise right now,”

he clasped his hands earnestly in

front of him. “I’ll get a bunch of us

together, and we’ll go out to dinner

on your birthday.” I was caught

off-guard. “Thanks. I mean…” I

trailed off. “I won’t forget.” I would

look forward to that dinner for six

months to that day.

Seven fifteen p.m. Saturday,

December 28, 2013. “To something,

I don’t care!” He raised his iced

coffee. Sammy and Julia both

raised their glasses of iced tea and I

mine of lemonade. Everyone else at

the table followed suit. There were

fifteen of us in total. When it was

relatively quiet, after the toast, he

said, “I’ve actually got something

for you guys.” Sammy looked at

him. “What is it?” “You’ll see.” From

beneath the table he pulled a paper

bag. Out of it, he took an ornament.

On the thin ribbon he grasped with

his thumb and forefinger hung two

golden retrievers lying side-by-side,

asleep, the smaller nestled against

the larger. When he handed it to

me, I cupped my hands gently, and

turned it around. On the bottom,

I found, written in smudged pen:

‘Merry Christmas 2013’

Three o’ five p.m. Wednesday,

November 19, 2013. “She is

literally going to kill me,” I whined.

“A C+? I’m dead.” He grinned,

amused. “You’ll always have other

chances. You know there are more

important things too, right?” “Not

to my mom there aren’t,” I snorted.

“That’s not what I asked,” he shook

his head. “Do you.”

Five fifty-three p.m. Thursday,

October 7, 2013. “What’s wrong?”

He asked, as soon as I walked into

his office. I was astounded. I had

done such a good job of hiding

it, I thought. “It’s nothing. I’m

fine.” “You sure? Have a seat.” He

motioned to the seat across the

office from him, next to a tall fern. I

sat down. “So. What’s up?” He asked.

I must have stayed there for an hour

and a half. I told him everything.

My friend had been diagnosed with

depression after eighth grade and

gone to a hospital for three weeks,

and I had just learned that he was

back in the hospital, after trying to

commit suicide yet again. At the

end of my story, I had to bite my

lip to hold back the tear—some

of them because of my friend, but

more because I knew I could trust

the man sitting across from me with

my life.

One thirty-seven p.m.

September 9, 2013. I walked down

an unfamiliar hallway toward the

sounds of laughter issuing from the

door of what looked like an office.

When I walked up to the door, a

girl in a blue tank-top looked at me

inquisitively. “And who are you?”

“I’m Sean Daniels,” I replied. “And

you are?” “The Sean Daniels? I’ve

been hearing about you for the

past two months.” She gestured at

the bearded man behind the desk.

“He kept talking about this hotshot

freshman.” When she said the words

hotshot freshman she raised both

hands and formed quotation marks

in the air with her fingers. “I’m Julia

Craig.” A boy sitting on the floor

half waved at me. “Hey. I’m Sammy.”

The man behind the desk looked up

and smiled. I had met him this past

summer. When he recognized me,

his eyes lit up. “Hey man!” He said.

“How’s it going?”

Nine thirteen p.m. Tuesday,

July 22, 2014. “He’s… he what?”

It wasn’t true. “I’m so sorry.” My

friend sniffed back tears on the

other end of the line. It was then

that I knew. It was, in fact, real. It

was a week before my birthday, and

as I sat there on the corner of my

bed, staring straight ahead, I knew.

I wouldn’t be going out to dinner.

Whenever I think of my years at

school, I convince myself that I

made some great friends. But in

reality, the equation never quite

balanced out. I had lost the best one.


Chloe Lee‘16

The ClosingJack Norton ’17

Books strewn on the floor, open,

Ink carefully lining their pages

Which flutter,

Though all the windows are closed.

Each book carrying a brave beginning,

Turning over new leaves.

Ceiling falls away, a drifting leaf,

Scarlet through the cerulean opening,

Softly, soundlessly lands upon its own beginning.

Lines transcribe from pages

Onto the scarlet leaf. Somewhere a book closes.

Somewhere, the leaf stretches to breathe, fluttering.

In air, the books take on fluttering

Looks, their flight breathless, weightless as a leaf

Until the closed

Windows open,

Then whirling, page after page

Their courageous journeys begin.

Somewhere, the singular leaf begins

Its own story, following, fluttering.

While lines, etched and inked on each solitary page,

(Scarlet frontispiece, dusty-red epilogue) leave

Tracings for the shortest tale, opening

The last page, and closing.


Books swirling, like clouds of starlings, deepening and closing

The wide sky, patterning the air. Early beginnings,

First chapters unveiled, open

To the first hands which clasp the fluttering

Stories, leaving

Behind the inked-outline, soaring with the opening page.

The room is empty. Paging,

Lining, inking, the final book closes

On a scarlet leaf.

To begin

The ending, a breathless flutter,

Somewhere, the windows are open.

There will always be pages to open

But begin to open them with caution. Keep them close

To your soul. For within their fluttering, you will find a leaf.

Brian Kang ‘15


Winter PrinceCassidy Poole ’16

A scarlet streak across the cloud white canvas

The winter scape, bleak and barren, yielding to the intrusion.

Gliding and drifting on an unseen river of air,

now darting in and out among the evergreens.

Cardinal majesty, in crimson coat and crown of feathers.

He struts but there is no one there to see.

Solitary. But lonely or alone?

Lost and laboring? Frantically foraging for food?

Or alone atop the world, lordly and lithe,

Surveying his snowbound sanctuary?

Unknown, but not to me.

I know this winter prince.

Luke Stachtiaris ‘16


A Slave’s VillanelleKate Anderson-Song ’15

Run, run as fast as you can.

You can’t catch me.

I am more than just one man.

I follow the path and I follow a plan.

I am in each slave who has found their way free.

So run, run, as fast as you can.

I follow Moses where my people began.

I am one with the stars that guide through trees.

I follow more than just one man.

I am in each slain body of each soul who ran.

I whisper their wishes, as they would be:

“Run, run as fast as you can.”

You stalk me like prey but you don’t understand -

I am the rustling bushes that warn me to flee.

I am more than just one man.

Barking and footsteps of a hostile clan.

I am tired feet, each step agony.

Run, run as fast as I can.

I am only a one man.

Abigail Caron ‘16


Sydney MacDonald ‘16

“The Diner 11:00 a.m.,” the

note read. She glanced at her

watch. 11:00. Not a minute late.

She checked her lipstick one last

time in the car mirror; she was

wearing his favorite shade, “First

Kiss.” She adjusted her hair so

it fell just perfectly beside her

face. She adjusted her shirt so the

neckline sat directly in the middle

of her chest and she ran her hands

across her pants, trying to remove

any wrinkles or lint. One last time

she looked at her make-up in the

mirror. Her cheeks had to be the

perfect shade of pale pink, her lips

without any smudges of excess

lipstick around the edges, and her

eyes brushed with a subtle shimmer

of eye shadow.

Sitting in her car, waiting for

his car to pull up next to hers, she

thought about why she was here.

It had been so long since they last

talked; he hadn’t reached out to

her for almost seven years now.

She refused to see anyone else

because she hoped that one day

he would come back home. Even

when she had heard that he was

seeing someone else for a couple

of months, she kept hope. When

she found the note sitting on her

car at work, she thought, he must

have finally had a change of heart,

realized he still loved her and had

made a mistake; this was the day

she had been awaiting for seven

years.

She grabbed the note in her

trembling hand and stepped

out of her car. Her head quickly

moved from left to right, scanning

the parking lot, and she walked

toward the entrance. She wondered

if he was already in there. It was

unlikely; he had a habit of being

a few minutes late. She walked

through the front door and was

kindly greeted by the owner. “Well,

hello there Suz. Nice to see you

finally decided to stop by. It only

took three years. We’ve missed you

around here.”

Spilled Coffee and Spent Cigarette ButtsJordan Towler ’16


Suz said with a soft smile, “It’s

nice to be back.”

As she approached their old

booth, she scanned the room. Just

as she expected, he was late. The

waitress brought over the iced

coffee that she had always ordered

and placed it in front of her. She

always counted the ice cubes in

her coffee; she liked no less than

ten but no more than fifteen;

just enough so her coffee would

remain cold and to leave space

for a full glass of coffee. It looked

like the cook remembered; there

were twelve. Twelve large ice cubes

stacked high in a clear plastic cup,

but there was only a small pool of

black coffee at the bottom, maybe

a couple inches tall. She shook her

head and pushed it to the middle of

the table. “Is there a problem with

the coffee, ma’am?”

Keeping her head down, she

chuckled to herself and muttered,

“Well, I definitely do not need to

worry about the ice melting.”

“I’m so sorry, I can add more

coffee.”

“No it’s fine. I won’t be long

anyways; my husband will be here

soon.”

“Okay, you just let me know if

you need anything ma’am.”

As soon as the waitress left, she

looked up and scanned the room,

no sight of him. She began to pick

at her perfectly painted manicure.

Chips of polish dropped in her

lap. She glanced at the window

and didn’t see his car. It was now

11:15. She looked around the room

and caught a couple looking at her.

They’re staring, she thought. They

probably think I’ve been stood up.

Her face turned a deep red. She

looked back down at her nails.

The polish was almost completely

picked off. There were pink chips

scattered all over her pants. The

front door opened and she sat up

with her back straight and her legs

tightly crossed in front of her. It

wasn’t him. She slouched back

down, shrugged, and told herself

she would see him within the next

few minutes. He’ll definitely come.

He must be stuck in traffic.

She looked back at her coffee in

the middle of the table. The tower

of ice still remained tall. “Would

you like to order something?”

“No. He’ll be here.” She snapped

and looked back at her fingers.

There was no longer any polish to

pick so she was now picking at the

skin. She ripped chunks of tough

skin off the edges of her nails.

She kept her eyes locked on the

front door, watching numerous

people walk in and out. She

thought back to their first date—or

what would have been their first

date. She spent hours preparing for

the dinner; got her hair done, got

a manicure, bought a new dress,

and spent over an hour perfecting

her makeup. Then she sat in her

kitchen, the most dressed up she’d

ever been for hours. He never

showed. She didn’t hear from him

until a week later. He completely

forgot about the date. He was often

forgetful, but she knew he wouldn’t

forget this.

She remained sitting in the

booth. She looked at her watch,

then at her fingers. They were red

and swollen. Her cuticles were

replaced with scabs and there

was dried blood on her nails. She

grabbed her purse, and rapidly

shuffled through it. “Where are my

cigarettes?” She threw her loose

change and various lipsticks out of

the bag. “Where are my god damn

cigarettes?” Her entire bag was

dumped out onto the table. She

threw her head into her hands and

looked down at her lap. “Where the

hell is he? He said he’d be here.”

“Ma’am, the kitchen is closing

soon. Can I get you anything else?”

She collected her things and

stood up, somewhat embarrassed

at her disorganization. Once again,

she looked at the coffee in front of

her. The tall tower of ice was gone;

it was now melted into a large pool

of murky water. As she stepped

out of the booth and swung her

bag over her shoulder, she hit the

coffee cup and the liquid spread

across the table. She looked at the

grayish-brown liquid drip onto the

floor in front of her. She turned

away and walked toward the door.

“Well, don’t I just know how to

make a mess out of everything?!”

She licked at a tear as it slithered by

the corner of her mouth.


Luke Stachtiaris ‘16

Let Them Be the LastDuncan Binnie ’18

A white man was killed and now lives in a frame

on my coffee-table . He went to war because he had to,

he died in war because he happened to. Remember

his sacrifice, Dad says, bring down your flag, this poor man

was killed, now this is a hero.

A black man is killed and it is just another

Friday night, my grandfather changes the channel

because Jeopardy is on at 7:30.

One, two, three, twelve shots (he was asking for it) to take

him down, his mother must have forgotten to say

now keep your eyes low, don’t wear hoodies,

say please and thank you sir. You remember Trayvon,

Victor, and Michael, no actually you remember cheap

news, cheap lives, that one time you protested

in college (he was a thug) to impress your girlfriend.

Hands held in the air soon grow tired, but

let me introduce you to him.

He weighs 8 pounds

3 ounces, his father is

a preacher, he will live

to be sixteen, or seven

teen or eleven, and he

never had a chance.


Cody Thurston ‘15

The hot classroom smelled like

summer, and the students were all

itching to get out. The desks were

arranged in a straight line across

the back of the classroom. Mrs

Wright stood at the front, taking

attendance. She was notably the

most illiberal teacher in the school,

and everyone was waiting for her

to take her last breath. She was

old as dirt and her skin closely

resembled that of an elephant. She

scanned the room, checking where

Marquis Williams was sitting then

prompted, “Let’s go down the line,

right to left, starting with Ryan”.

“Mrs. Wright, why aren’t you

starting with Marquis?” Ryan

inquired. There was a simultaneous

sigh from the other students,

wishing he would do as he was told

to avoid any delays. “He’s sitting

against the wall. If you don’t start

with him, he won’t read”.

“Ryan please do not challenge

me”, Mrs. Wright scolded, and Ryan

began to read aloud mumbling

each word and dragging out his

part of the reading. “Next!” She

exclaimed when Ryan reached

the end of the sentence, and Jessie

began to read. The class went down

the line, reading aloud, until they

got to Claudia.

She looked up defiantly at Mrs.

Wright and said, “Marquis can read

my part”.

“No he may not Claudia. Read

your part please,” Mrs. Wright told

her.

“I will not read this last part

of the text, Mrs. Wright. Marquis

has not read yet and it is his turn,”

Claudia said, matter-of-factly.

“Claudia, I will meet you

outside of the classroom as soon as

the text is finished, please wait for

me there,” Mrs. Wright instructed,

turning back to the class and taking

a look around. “Marquis, would

you ever so kindly read off the

remainder of the text for me,” Mrs.

Wright said in a defeated manner.

“The emancipation procla-

InsurgentKerin Grewal ’15


mation was issued in 1863, by

President Abraham Lincoln. The

proclamation freed all men, but it

did not quell the tension between

the northerners and southerners,”

Marquis read.

“Now you guys can discuss

what you just read. I’ll be right with

you,” Mrs. Wright told the class.

The students shifted as the door

slammed behind her. Ryan turned

to face Marquis with a sympathetic

look. Marquis shrugged and looked

out the window beside him.

“This is bullshit,” Ryan

announced after a moment, “this

lady needs to get up to date with

the times. It’s not the eighteen-

hundreds anymore”. He stood up

and started packing his books in

his bag. “Class is over anyways, let’s

get out of here.”

Marquis stood up and began

to pack his bag as well. The two

opened the door to the classroom

to find Claudia pressed up a locker

with Mrs. Wright standing in front

of her. “I do not need you in there

challenging my teaching young

lady. You need to learn—” Mrs.

Wright stopped mid-sentence.

“What are you two doing? Marquis

Williams, you get right back

into that classroom. You are not

dismissed until I say you are. You

too Ryan”.

“Class is over Mrs. Wright,”

Marquis said quietly. “I’m worried

about getting in trouble with my

next teacher.” Marquis then turned

and walked back into the classroom

with his head down. Ryan was left

standing outside of the classroom,

staring at Mrs. Wright and Claudia.

Marquis walked into Mrs.

Wright’s classroom and headed for

a seat near the window. As he went

to sit down, Jessie walked in. “Mr.

Williams, you are late,” Mrs. Wright

bellowed from the chalkboard.

Ryan looked over at Marquis

and rolled his eyes. “Today we

will be discussing Doctor Martin

Luther King Junior,” Mrs. Wright

continued.

“Really?” Ryan inquired.

“You’re not gonna say anything to

Jessie, Mrs. Wright?”

“Ryan, if you continue to

challenge my motives we are going

to have to consult with Principal

Jensen,” Mrs. Wright snapped back.

“Racist bitch,” Ryan whispered.

“Pretty ironic topic, wouldn’t ya

say?” he asked Marquis. Marquis

did not answer him. His mind was

clearly somewhere else; he faced

the window, studying something.

“Marquis,” Ryan said. “Marquis

Williams,” he repeated a little

louder.

“Dude, what?” Marquis

snapped back.

“You good?” Ryan inquired.

“Yea I’m tight,” Marquis

answered “just not tryna listen to

this bitch”.

“I know, dude, she’s out for you.

I can’t wait to hear what she has to

say about MLK,” Ryan said. Then

he turned to the front, centering

his attention back to Mrs. Wright.

“Marquis, correct me if I’m

wrong about anything here,

I’m sure you know better than I

do,” Mrs. Wright told him with

a snicker. “Martin Luther King

Junior was a major activist for

equality in the nineteen fifties

and sixties,” she began. “He led

the nineteen sixty-three March on

Washington, where he delivered

his ‘I Have a Dream’ speech”. Mrs.

Wright stopped, “Marquis, can you

recite this speech for us?”

“No, ma’am,” Marquis said.

“No?” Mrs. Wright questioned

with a critical tone. “Haven’t

you memorized this speech Mr.

Williams?”

“No, ma’am,” he said with a fed

up sigh, “I have not”.

“Wow,” Claudia stated.

“Claudia, do not make me call

you back outside of this room,” Mrs.

Wright addressed, before looking

back to the other students. “Well,

kids, in that case, I’d like all of you

to memorize the speech tonight.

Starting at ‘I say to you today,’ and

ending at ‘I have a dream today’,

it is all in the text,” Mrs. Wright

instructed.

The class groaned in unison, and

there were murmurs of “damn it

Marquis” and “man are you kidding

me?”

“Ight this is bullshit, man. I’m

bout to go show this lady I ain’t here

to be messed with,” Marquis raged

to Claudia and Ryan after school.

“Tell her man!” Ryan supported.

“She deserves it”.

“We’ll help, if you want,” Claudia

offered.

“Yeah I’m down for whatever,”

Ryan said.

“Let’s blow up her car!” Marquis

exclaimed.

“No,” Claudia warned. “Maybe

Ryan is, but I’m definitely not down

for whatever”.

“Yeah I’m not going to mess

with explosives,” Ryan said.

“Okay, how bout spray paint?”

asked Marquis.

“We can do spray paint,” Claudia

answered. Then the three decided to

meet at eight PM back at school.

Marquis went to the hardware store

and bought three cans of spray

paint in three different colors. He

packed his bag at seven thirty and

hopped on his bike, getting to the

school ten minutes early. He scoped

out the scene and decided what to

paint and where to do so, and then

he sat against the wall and waited.


Eight o’clock came and went

with no sign of Ryan and Claudia.

Marquis finally decided to get

it over with on his own and get

home. He figured the others had

forgotten or were not able to get out

of their houses. He began to paint

a thought out, artistic “Fuck Mrs.

Wright” across the brick siding of

the building. He was just finishing

the letter “g” when the blue lights

started flashing. He dropped the

paint and turned around. Three

men came running at him with

their guns drawn. He put his hands

up and stood frozen against the wall.

Cody Thurston ‘15 “Holey Water”Katy Maina ’15


The Heavy YearsKate Anderson-Song ’15

Stuck in between a line

of knowing and innocence. Reaching

highs and lows—blind

to the future, to any life ahead. Wishing

that you could jump to the gray

and wrinkled times where you will

know the world and have better days

to look back to—till

you’re gone. The grandchildren will gather

as you lay in the bed—in a bed where you’ve lived

each night. You’d share the wisdom of your fathers

before—whisper your secrets to thrive.

But now we are stuck in the heavy years

and the future still holds your deepest fears.

Natalie Lopez ‘16

Chloe Lee ‘16


Lia Swiniarski ‘17

Boys.Jade Fiorilla ’17

It’s different there with more roses and daffodils

A steady stream of water trickling by under branches and

over rocks

There’s a touch, and then a reciprocation and then the

wind blows and they huddle closer

Skin on skin until the tan colors are reversed, traded, and

warm

Like the sun on their bare chests drying the dew they’d

collected from the moss

Birds harmonize within the canopy weaving a net that

sinks through the air

Guarding their simple pleasantries leaving the water to

move undisturbed and the flowers to grow wild


Seventeen Years Old, Alone On a Playground SwingJack Norton ’17

Suspended,

Flying,

High above care—

High above that C- in Chemistry

Soaring over the 5 minutes late

To the college counseling meeting,

Over the shadow of the girl who

Walked—ran—away last month,

Gazing out at my beige argyle

Socks with the holes in them,

My watchless left wrist,

Dreaming above my worthless

LG flip phone,

Waving down at that

Dollar fifty needed for a Coke—

Back and forth, I pause

Then swing back

Into rhythm on

The smoothed wood

Held only by two thin ropes. Carving

The arc of a smile.

I am in the air, wind brushing

My ears. Like the black lab

I saw in the car—

One paw out the window,

Tongue lolling,

One eye open

Carefree. I wish.

But I,

Must drift back

To the ground,

Back to reality,

Back to me.

70 | The Spire

The Spire

THE GOVERNOR’S ACADEMY1 Elm Street

Byfield, MA 01922

Caroline Baker ‘15

Documents

The 2015 Spire Literary Magazine