The New Currency 2012-2013
Please make sure to check out all the entries! We may have changed the order of the contents since the last time you looked, and newer items may be integrated in the issue.
Table of Contents
Caveat Emptor- Let the Buyer Beware
Marielle Sabbag '14
Thoughtless and Thought-filled
Marissa Perez '13
Dopey
Marielle Sabbag '14
Magic
Melissa Duffy '14
Island
Tina Li '15
Thoughts of an Atheist
Anna Teixeira '13
Safe
Melissa Duffy '14
A Cinderella Story
Marielle Sabbag '14
MST Beowulf
Ruby Struble '14
Skinner from Ratatoulle
Marielle Sabbag '14
When I was Free
Melissa Duffy '14
Splatter
Tina Li '15
Un Pez en el Mar / A Fish in the Sea
Laura White '13
Like I Love You
Melissa Duffy '14
Toaster
Marielle Sabbag '14
Klein Bottle
Ben Krowitz '13
Time
Melissa Duffy '14
Ultimate Scribble
Anna Patterson '13
Ballet Shoes
Anna Teixeira '13
A Canterbury MST
Ruby Struble '14
For Ever
Anna Patterson '13
This is For You
Tina Li '15
Were Insanity a Chess Board
Anna Patterson '13
Madelyn May
Melissa Duffy '14
Becoming Vincent and Gregory
Alyssa Bogosian, Jenna Choi, and Amanda Anthony '15
Monique
Anna Teixeira '13
Chemistry
Anna Teixeira '13
Twilight Poem
Melissa Duffy '14
Hwaet! A Geat in Detention
Ruby Struble '14
Night Sky
Caitlin Mahoney '15
Buying Time
Laura White '13
Cuddling
Marielle Sabbag '14
The Riot
Ben Krowitz '13
MST Hamlet
Ruby Struble '14
Shoes Attacking A City
Marielle Sabbag '14
Conception
Ben Krowitz '13
A Halloween Story
Marielle Sabbag '14
MST Thor
Ruby Struble '14
Letting Go of Eloise
Meaghan Coughlin '13
Untitled
Natalie Krowitz '16
Marielle Sabbag '14
Thoughtless and Thought-filled
Marissa Perez '13
Dopey
Marielle Sabbag '14
Magic
Melissa Duffy '14
Island
Tina Li '15
Thoughts of an Atheist
Anna Teixeira '13
Safe
Melissa Duffy '14
A Cinderella Story
Marielle Sabbag '14
MST Beowulf
Ruby Struble '14
Skinner from Ratatoulle
Marielle Sabbag '14
When I was Free
Melissa Duffy '14
Splatter
Tina Li '15
Un Pez en el Mar / A Fish in the Sea
Laura White '13
Like I Love You
Melissa Duffy '14
Toaster
Marielle Sabbag '14
Klein Bottle
Ben Krowitz '13
Time
Melissa Duffy '14
Ultimate Scribble
Anna Patterson '13
Ballet Shoes
Anna Teixeira '13
A Canterbury MST
Ruby Struble '14
For Ever
Anna Patterson '13
This is For You
Tina Li '15
Were Insanity a Chess Board
Anna Patterson '13
Madelyn May
Melissa Duffy '14
Becoming Vincent and Gregory
Alyssa Bogosian, Jenna Choi, and Amanda Anthony '15
Monique
Anna Teixeira '13
Chemistry
Anna Teixeira '13
Twilight Poem
Melissa Duffy '14
Hwaet! A Geat in Detention
Ruby Struble '14
Night Sky
Caitlin Mahoney '15
Buying Time
Laura White '13
Cuddling
Marielle Sabbag '14
The Riot
Ben Krowitz '13
MST Hamlet
Ruby Struble '14
Shoes Attacking A City
Marielle Sabbag '14
Conception
Ben Krowitz '13
A Halloween Story
Marielle Sabbag '14
MST Thor
Ruby Struble '14
Letting Go of Eloise
Meaghan Coughlin '13
Untitled
Natalie Krowitz '16
Caveat Emptor- Let the Buyer Beware
Marielle Sabbag '14
Thoughtless and Thought-filled
I’m in the middle of the ocean.
The water cools my body and clears my brain.
Floating. Drifting. Thought-filled and thoughtless.
I’m on the home stretch of an important race.
My body searching for endurance – turning weak into strong.
Running. Fighting. Such rewarding pain.
Above me a grey mask covers the sky.
Droplets dance off my face. Inconsistent, scattered sprinkles.
The pace increases furiously. An imminent storm.
I am submerged in the water.
It overtakes my body as the air escapes from me.
Sinking. Breathless. Distorted sky above me.
My body is heavy as I continue running.
Soaked shoes crashing into puddles. Eyes fighting to focus ahead.
Weakening. Exhaustion. Moving yet motionless.
Persistent rain shatters against the ground.
A continuous wave, trying to bring down everything in its path.
Searching for a consistent pace. Trying to zone in to familiar comfort.
I feel I’m sinking deeper and deeper.
As if pushing myself up towards the earth would leave me empty.
Giving up. Letting others down. Allowing myself to sink?
I have done this before – too many times.
Given up when I knew I was capable.
But I have also fought this before – many times.
Letting go of external excuses. Focusing on internal motivation.
My tense muscles cool and relax. I always go forward.
Tuning into my own pace. Using the rain as my background beat.
Clarity. Pushing ahead. Almost to the finish line.
I emerge from the ocean – a rush of cold, refreshing air.
My body tingles as I fill my lungs satisfyingly.
Smiling. Taking it all in. Thoughtless and thought-filled.
-Marissa Perez '13
The water cools my body and clears my brain.
Floating. Drifting. Thought-filled and thoughtless.
I’m on the home stretch of an important race.
My body searching for endurance – turning weak into strong.
Running. Fighting. Such rewarding pain.
Above me a grey mask covers the sky.
Droplets dance off my face. Inconsistent, scattered sprinkles.
The pace increases furiously. An imminent storm.
I am submerged in the water.
It overtakes my body as the air escapes from me.
Sinking. Breathless. Distorted sky above me.
My body is heavy as I continue running.
Soaked shoes crashing into puddles. Eyes fighting to focus ahead.
Weakening. Exhaustion. Moving yet motionless.
Persistent rain shatters against the ground.
A continuous wave, trying to bring down everything in its path.
Searching for a consistent pace. Trying to zone in to familiar comfort.
I feel I’m sinking deeper and deeper.
As if pushing myself up towards the earth would leave me empty.
Giving up. Letting others down. Allowing myself to sink?
I have done this before – too many times.
Given up when I knew I was capable.
But I have also fought this before – many times.
Letting go of external excuses. Focusing on internal motivation.
My tense muscles cool and relax. I always go forward.
Tuning into my own pace. Using the rain as my background beat.
Clarity. Pushing ahead. Almost to the finish line.
I emerge from the ocean – a rush of cold, refreshing air.
My body tingles as I fill my lungs satisfyingly.
Smiling. Taking it all in. Thoughtless and thought-filled.
-Marissa Perez '13
Dopey
Marielle Sabbag '14
Magic
My heart died one Easter,
When I was nine years old.
I caught my mom in the night,
And so the truth she sadly told.
There was no stupid bunny,
Or even old St. Nick.
All the magic I believed in
Was just an adult’s silly trick.
While my classmates had their doubts,
I still believed that lie.
And thus this revelation
Made me stomp my feet and cry.
Fast forward to the present.
I’m now a teenage girl.
I’m at an age when teenage boys
Put my stomach in a whirl.
But how can I be sure,
When I’ve watched my friends’ hearts break?
When he says he loves me,
Is it real, or is it fake?
So please tell me the truth,
Before I get my hopes too high.
My heart still longs for magic,
And I don’t want that to die.
-Melissa Duffy '14
When I was nine years old.
I caught my mom in the night,
And so the truth she sadly told.
There was no stupid bunny,
Or even old St. Nick.
All the magic I believed in
Was just an adult’s silly trick.
While my classmates had their doubts,
I still believed that lie.
And thus this revelation
Made me stomp my feet and cry.
Fast forward to the present.
I’m now a teenage girl.
I’m at an age when teenage boys
Put my stomach in a whirl.
But how can I be sure,
When I’ve watched my friends’ hearts break?
When he says he loves me,
Is it real, or is it fake?
So please tell me the truth,
Before I get my hopes too high.
My heart still longs for magic,
And I don’t want that to die.
-Melissa Duffy '14
-Tina Li '15
Thoughts of an Atheist
“It’s foggy outside,” my mother says,
Peering out the window critically.
“Wear a raincoat.”
I nod.
I wear my fleece coat instead.
I walk down the street,
Backpack thumping along with me.
The fog lies heavy ahead.
Something odd:
The fog retreats
As I advance. I see it,
Yet as I approach,
It fades to dust.
I wonder, as I walk,
Why everyone makes such a fuss
About fog.
Fog is insubstantial,
Impossible to grasp,
Obscuring the street,
Obscuring what’s real.
I stand beneath the streetlight.
It illuminates the autumn leaves
Spots of color on the dying grass.
The leaves are real.
“Wear a raincoat,” my mother says.
I don’t. It’s not raining. It’s not snowing.
Fog is absence. It lingers at the limits of our view,
Fills in the gaps in our knowledge.
When I approach, however,
It retreats, replaced
By hard certainty.
If I had the time,
I would walk around the world,
Chase the fog back
And find knowledge,
Learn my way about the town,
About cities and farmlands,
Circumnavigate the globe.
Just because I can’t see what lies beyond the fog
Doesn’t mean that nothing’s there.
I leave my raincoat in the closet.
I have no use for fog.
I’ll take my chances with the unknown.
-Anna Teixeira '13
Peering out the window critically.
“Wear a raincoat.”
I nod.
I wear my fleece coat instead.
I walk down the street,
Backpack thumping along with me.
The fog lies heavy ahead.
Something odd:
The fog retreats
As I advance. I see it,
Yet as I approach,
It fades to dust.
I wonder, as I walk,
Why everyone makes such a fuss
About fog.
Fog is insubstantial,
Impossible to grasp,
Obscuring the street,
Obscuring what’s real.
I stand beneath the streetlight.
It illuminates the autumn leaves
Spots of color on the dying grass.
The leaves are real.
“Wear a raincoat,” my mother says.
I don’t. It’s not raining. It’s not snowing.
Fog is absence. It lingers at the limits of our view,
Fills in the gaps in our knowledge.
When I approach, however,
It retreats, replaced
By hard certainty.
If I had the time,
I would walk around the world,
Chase the fog back
And find knowledge,
Learn my way about the town,
About cities and farmlands,
Circumnavigate the globe.
Just because I can’t see what lies beyond the fog
Doesn’t mean that nothing’s there.
I leave my raincoat in the closet.
I have no use for fog.
I’ll take my chances with the unknown.
-Anna Teixeira '13
Safe
BOOM! Struck the thunder,
As I lay snuggled in my bed.
“Mom! Dad!” I yelled across the hall,
But then ran to them instead.
I hopped up on the covers,
And then cozied up inside.
I hid my face deep in the pillow,
And as lightning flashed I cried.
“Don’t worry,” said my mommy,
With our hands so tightly grasped,
“Your dad and I are here for you,
This storm will quickly pass.”
And right my mommy was,
For the storm did go away.
But since I was a big girl soon,
I could no longer stay.
So my daddy held my hand,
As we walked across the hall.
But when he headed out the door,
I could not sleep at all.
“Wait! Come back!” I called to him,
With my brown eyes full of fright.
“I know you’re tired daddy,
But I cannot sleep tonight.”
He came back through the door,
And sat upon my bed.
I could tell he was tuckered out,
But still he softly said;
“I’ll stay here til’ you fall asleep,
I promise-my little baby doll.”
And soon my eyes grew weary,
Fast asleep I then did fall.
And tonight I cannot sleep,
While I’ve grown a lot since then.
God, what my heart would give right now,
To be a kid again.
-Melissa Duffy '14
As I lay snuggled in my bed.
“Mom! Dad!” I yelled across the hall,
But then ran to them instead.
I hopped up on the covers,
And then cozied up inside.
I hid my face deep in the pillow,
And as lightning flashed I cried.
“Don’t worry,” said my mommy,
With our hands so tightly grasped,
“Your dad and I are here for you,
This storm will quickly pass.”
And right my mommy was,
For the storm did go away.
But since I was a big girl soon,
I could no longer stay.
So my daddy held my hand,
As we walked across the hall.
But when he headed out the door,
I could not sleep at all.
“Wait! Come back!” I called to him,
With my brown eyes full of fright.
“I know you’re tired daddy,
But I cannot sleep tonight.”
He came back through the door,
And sat upon my bed.
I could tell he was tuckered out,
But still he softly said;
“I’ll stay here til’ you fall asleep,
I promise-my little baby doll.”
And soon my eyes grew weary,
Fast asleep I then did fall.
And tonight I cannot sleep,
While I’ve grown a lot since then.
God, what my heart would give right now,
To be a kid again.
-Melissa Duffy '14
A Cinderella Story
Chapter 1
Cinderella clapped for her father once he kissed his new bride on the day of their wedding. Her mother passed on a few years ago which was a sad loss for the both of them. Her father met his new wife at work and knew that they were right for each other.
She smiled at Gertrude, her new stepmother, and then at her step sisters, Maya and Sissy.
“Congratulations father, I’m so happy for you!” Cinderella said, throwing her arms around her father.
“My dear Cindy, do you like her?” her father asked.
“Yes father, she’s so nice. I just know we’re going to be happy!”
“Are you really happy, because if you’re not...”
“Father, don’t worry, I’m happy for you. You knew she was the one for you. I love you so much and I always will,” she said, hugging her father so tightly.
Her father was called over by a few of his friends and Cinderella walked over to her mother and sisters.
Cinderella smiled at them.
Gertrude looked at her in disdain along with Sissy. Maya, however, showed true happiness and gave her a hug.
Gertrude pulled Maya out from Cinderella’s arms.
Cinderella hurt for a moment, smiled and took it as a joke meaning that they should all hug together. She moved to hug them, but she was pushed to the ground.
“Gertrude!” Her father yelled as he helped his daughter to her feet. “Don’t do such a thing to your daughter!”
“That thing with glasses and awful hair is not my daughter.”
Cinderella’s mouth hung open. “Mother...”
“Don’t you call me ‘mother’ you wretched mess!” the woman barked.
“Don’t say awful things, Mother!” Maya yelled. “She is your daughter now and you must treat her that way!”
“Who put you in charge, short stop?” Sissy said to the youngest.
“Come along, Thomas, bring me home and rub my feet, they’re killing me in these stupid shoes you bought for me.”
Cinderella looked to her father, who had a sad look in his eyes. He wanted to say something to the girl, but then he followed his wife to the car. Maybe she was just cranky, Cinderella thought, she’ll grow to love me. A smile creased along her face and she followed along.
Chapter 2
The years weren’t like the years she had with her mother. Gertrude made her look like a slob with the clothes she bought for her and she never said one nice thing. She did all the chores in the house which took her until midnight. Her father was not allowed to help or speak against his wife as he was controlled by her. Her father worked all day, and the only day she spent with him was on Sunday when he didn’t work.
School wasn’t any better. Sissy passed rumors about her that weren’t true and she was constantly bullied. Whenever Sissy was in trouble Cinderella was forced to take the blame.
Her only friend was Maya who always cheered her up and reminded the girl that she was beautiful.
She’d be graduating soon and would be away at college studying to be a teacher.
Cinderella didn’t complain because her stepmother would abandon her father leaving them both alone. She knew her father was happy and she didn’t want to ruin in it.
At dinner that night Sissy went on and on about how Cinderella put gum in her hair today and she had to cut it out. It wasn’t true, but she didn’t say a thing.
“Why would you do a thing like that?” Gertrude asked.
“I didn’t do it.” Cinderella spoke in a soft voice.
“Don’t lie to me, child, just admit you did.”
Cinderella didn’t speak.
“Did you hear me, child,” Gertrude asked.
Cinderella avoided eye contact with the woman and continued eating.
“Cinderella! Tell the truth!” she yelled.
She continued to eat.
“I said, pay attention!” With that Gertrude flung her hot tea at Cinderella, making her scream from the burning. “What do you say to Sissy?” she asked, more calmly this time.
Cinderella looked at the floor. “I’m sorry.”
“Clear the dishes, child, and then scrub the floor in the kitchen. It’s filthy.”
Cinderella sat in tears and then stood up.
She took one of the plates, but it was taken by Maya.
“I’ll do the dishes while you do the floor,” she said.
Cinderella smiled and hugged her.
Chapter 3
“Mother, Mother, look at this! You must see!” Sissy yelled across the house when she was home.
“The most popular boy, Henry Callahan is throwing a party at his house this Friday night and he wants every girl in our grade to come! And if he finds the right one he’ll take us to be his queen for the prom!”
“Well, I think we know who will be the queen,” Gertrude said, hugging Sissy.
“What about Cinderella?” her father asked.
Gertrude looked gravely at her husband. “What about Cinderella?”
“Couldn’t she go too, Mother? Maybe she could be prom queen,” Maya said.
“It would be an honor to go,” Cinderella said shyly.
“Who would even take you to a prom?” Sissy said to her. “Look at your clothes and your hair. You’re practically the only girl who wears glasses in our grade. Nobody would ever...”
“Sissy, enough,” Gertrude said in a rare moment of anger towards her daughter, who always got what she wanted.
“Cindy has done everything around this house. This could be a reward for her since she has done so well and needs a break,” Gertrude said with a smile.
“Thank you, Gertrude, thank you!”
“Mother, how could you...” Sissy was about to argue until Gertrude cut her off and led her from the room to talk to her alone.
“Can you believe she actually agreed?!” Maya yelled.
“She’s actually doing something nice for me. This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Do you think Gertie is finally learning to be nice, Daddy?” Cinderella asked.
“Maybe she is, Cindy. Now, why don’t you go plan your outfit?” her father said as Cinderella went off to her room.
Chapter 4
As the week passed Cinderella bought an outfit at the mall and was taken to the salon by Gertrude. It was amazing how much the woman changed, and Sissy didn’t complain once.
Henry Callahan’s party was the talk of the school that week. The rumor was passed that Cinderella was going and many came around to compliment on her makeover.
Her week was going so well, until lunch one day.
“I wish I could have your looks Cindy. Your hair is ravishing,” a girl said to her as they walked out from the lunch line.
“Uh... thanks.”
The girls who were normally mean and bullied her were being so kind to her, like Gertrude.
“Tell me, what’s your secret?” another asked.
“Well my step mother brought me to the salon where I...”
Cinderella tripped and her tray of food went flying through the air.
There were gasps that turned to laughter.
Her plate of spaghetti landed on Henry Callahan.
Cinderella’s cheeks flushed as she stood. “I am so...” Tears were threatening her eyes.
“It’s alright,” he said to her.
The boisterous familiar laugh came to her ears.
Sissy’s foot was still pointed out and she laughed and laughed like everyone else.
Anger boiled within Cinderella. She never complained about anything in the past five years, but this was the worst she was ever embarrassed.
Cinderella picked up a handful of spaghetti and hit Sissy in the face.
Now the laughter was on Sissy.
Sissy threw herself at Cinderella and the two rolled around on the floor until the fight was broken up by the principal.
“I didn’t do anything, Mr. Duke!” Sissy started once they were in the office. “Cinderella just decided to throw her food at me and try to tear my hair out as if I did something wrong.”
“That is not true! She tripped me on purpose!” Cinderella yelled.
“Why would I purposely trip my loving step-sister? I didn’t do anything to you, Cindy. You tripped yourself. You shouldn’t have taken your anger out on me. I was trying to stop the laughter if you didn’t notice.”
Cinderella couldn’t say a thing. The principal was already on Sissy’s side.
“I am very displeased with you, Cinderella,” Gertrude said to the girl later that day. “Because you have been suspended, you’re not allowed to go the party.”
“Cinderella, this is unlike you,” her father said. “Why would you do such a thing?”
Steam escaped Cinderella’s ears. “I didn’t do anything! Sissy purposely tripped me, making me fall right in front of Henry Callahan!” she yelled.
“Sissy!” Gertrude yelled.
Good, Cinderella thought, now she’s going to get it.
“That’s not at all what my pl-” Gertrude stopped herself.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You set this up?!” Cinderella yelled. “How could you do such a thing to me?!”
Gertrude stood up. “A sight like you can never be seen as a queen. Get to your chores, you wretched mess.”
Cinderella threw herself at the woman, pushing her.
Gertrude slapped her across the face.
“Gertrude, stop it right now! I’ve had enough of you! I don’t know why I’ve stuck with you for all these years, but I want you to get out of my house right now!”
“Don’t you talk to me that way Thomas. You know that my father is a lawyer and he’ll sue you for everything. Don’t even think about leaving me.”
Gertrude left.
“Father...”
Thomas left the room. “Stand up for yourself for once,” she said to him.
She was left crying in the room.
Chapter 5
"Cinderella, come into my room quickly!" Maya whispered once she saw her walking down the hallway.
"I figured out a way for you to go the party!" Maya said.
"Maya, stop, I can’t go. I know you want me to, but if Sissy sees me, she and your mother will kill me."
Maya pulled out a wig. "Put this on."
Cinderella did as she was told and looked in the mirror. She had curly blond hair over her short brown hair.
"Put these in," Maya said, giving her a pair of contact lenses.
Cinderella carefully put them in, and Maya put little black dots under her eyes to make them look like freckles.
"See, nobody will notice that it’s you!" Maya said, handing her a mirror.
She looked like a different person. "I already showed the dress I was going to wear to Sissy. She’ll know it’s me."
Maya pulled something out from the drawer. "I’ve been taking a sewing class. I made this dress.
It was a purple, short, knee-length dress.
"Thank you, Maya," she said, hugging her sister.
"If you go out the backdoor, Mother won’t see you. We’ll see you as soon as you get there."
Cinderella felt like a different person as she walked down the street that night as her blond hair blew in the wind. Her only wish was that she could be herself.
Up ahead she could she many kids walking into a big house that almost looked like a palace.
"Who are you? Do you go to our school?"
It was Sissy.
"N-No, I mean yes, I do now. I’m new. I heard about the party and decided to come.”
"Sissy." Gertrude was coming. "I want you to keep an eye on Maya. I’ll pick you both up at 11:00 sharp," she said.
She turned to Cinderella who was in her disguise.
"Who might you be?" she asked.
"She’s new to our school, Mother. She came from New York and arrived at school yesterday," Maya said putting her hand on her shoulder.
"Enjoy the party, girls. It was nice to meet you, dear."
The party was amazing as they all danced around and ate food. Cinderella enjoyed herself as she talked to other girls around her.
Cinderella even talked to Sissy. When Cinderella was Cynthia, Sissy was a fun person to be with, except when she began to talk about Cinderella and how Cinderella wasn’t pretty.
Suddenly Henry was coming their way and he was smiling. Was he looking at her or Sissy?
"What is your name?" he asked Cinderella.
"Cindy."
"Cindy? My step sister’s name is Cinderella and for short she calls herself Cindy."
"I-It’s short for Cynthia," Cinderella covered up.
"Would you like to dance?" Henry asked Cinderella.
"Sure."
Cinderella had never danced before, but as she danced with Henry, she felt as if she always danced and wanted to dance forever. Suddenly he was kissing her.
"Let’s go outside."
Cinderella was taken outside and they sat by the water fountain.
"Have I ever seen you in school before? You look familiar,” he said to her.
"No I just got here from New York," Cinderella said.
"Well, this is going to be really bizarre to say, but I’m a prince."
Cinderella blinked. "What?"
"I have to get married so I can stay a prince. Would you please be my princess? We can get married once we graduate. You can still go to college and live a normal life. What do you think?"
Cinderella didn’t know what to do. If she weren’t in disguise, she would say yes.
Suddenly the clock chimed. It was 11:00!
"I’m sorry, I really must be leaving!" With that she ran away from Henry, ignoring what he was yelling to her. She had to get home right now, before it was too late.
Without looking where she was going, her wig got caught on something, and she was forced to leave it behind as she ran down the street just to get to her house.
She fell to her bed exhausted. It was the best night of her life, but what was she to do now? He wanted to marry Cynthia. He was going to be looking everywhere for her at school. What was she to do without getting into trouble?
"Cinderella?!"
Cinderella sat up; she was still in her dress! She put a bath robe around herself, soaked her hair to make it look as if she was in the shower, and washed her face clean from the freckles. She also put her glasses back on.
Her door opened. "Cinderella, are you here?"
She walked out from the room. "Yes, Gertrude? I was in the shower," she said.
The woman looked at her suspiciously and then went away. Sissy stayed, looking at her ears.
"Where did you get those earrings?" She asked.
She gasped inside. She forgot to take them off!
"My mother gave them to me. Why, do you like them?"
"This girl at the party wore the same ones."
With that she left.
Maya entered the room and Cinderella told the news.
Chapter 6
Cinderella returned to school and people were talking about the girl at the party and searching for her. Everybody was called into the auditorium, where Henry was giving a talk.
"This week, I’ll be coming to all your houses, because one of you is the one I asked to be my queen at the prom, but you ran away. The one who had this wig on at my party will be my queen."
Cinderella tried to quickly hurry out from the auditorium.
"Cinderella, where are you going? Now is your big chance!" Maya said, catching up to her.
"I can’t, Maya; if Gertrude finds out I was at the party, who knows what…"
Cinderella crashed into someone.
It was Henry.
"I’m so sorry, Henry!” Cinderella tried to hurry away but he grabbed her hand.
"Do I know you from somewhere?" he asked.
"Of course, I was the one who was suspended last week, remember?" she said, trying to cover up she really was.
"It’s not that… You look really familiar."
Cinderella hurried away.
She still couldn’t avoid Henry, because as soon as she got home, she heard what Sissy was saying in the kitchen. "Henry Callahan is coming around to each house today and is asking us to put on the wig that the girl at the party left behind."
"That is wonderful, Sissy; we’ll do everything that we can to make sure that it’s you."
Cinderella sighed. Henry knew it was her today, but how could anybody like her be a prom queen? She wore glasses and her hair was a mess. She didn’t feel she was beautiful like all the other girls in her grade. Maybe she could live her whole life as Cynthia and nobody would ever know.
Cinderella walked into Maya’s room and she let her draw the dots on her face and she put the contacts in.
Gertrude walked into the room. "Maya, have you…"
Both girls gasped. Cinderella’s heart throbbed when Gertrude took a nice long look at her.
"So you’re the girl from the party!"
Before Cinderella could run, Gertrude grabbed her and dragged her down the hall with Maya pleading for her to stop. Her father walked in the door and gasped. "Gertrude, what are you doing? Leave my daughter alone!" He yelled, taking the girl away from Gertrude.
"Give her back to me!" The woman yelled.
"No!"
Gertrude looked at him gravely. "If you really loved me, you’d do what I say. Cinderella was disguised at that party, and now the most popular boy is after her to have her be his prom queen!"
"Why can’t she be?"
Gertrude didn’t know what to say for a moment. "Because she‘s not good enough! Now lock her in the basement this minute! And if you don’t agree with everything that I say, I will call the police and throw you in jail where you rats belong!"
Cinderella looked at her father, who looked to the floor. She was walked into the basement. "Father, no, just stand up for yourself! You don’t love her and you know it!" Cinderella screamed.
"I’m so sorry, Cindy," her father said. "I just wish for us to be happy that’s all."
Gertrude locked the door.
"Mother, let her out! This is not fair!" Maya screamed.
Gertrude grabbed her by her shirt collar. "I’ll tell you what isn’t fair; having a daughter who disobeys you, that’s what! Now make Sissy look like Cinderella before I clobber you!"
As the time passed there was a knock at the door and Henry Callahan arrived. "You’ve come to the luckiest house on the block. My daughter Cindy is here," she said, presenting Sissy.
Henry looked at her closely. Her freckles looked different and her eyes were green rather than brown.
"You’re Cynthia, who ran away?" he asked.
"Yes, I was just scared. I’m sorry for running away. My wig, please?" she asked.
Henry looked at her closely. It was obvious that this was not Cynthia because he remembered seeing this same girl talking with Cynthia while at the party.
"May I ask you one question?"
"What is it?"
"Before you ran away I told you something about myself. Do you remember what it was and what I asked you?"
Sissy was stumped. She looked towards Gertrude, who told her to say something.
"You wanted me to be prom queen and you were the most popular boy in the world."
Henry took the wig off her head. "Good day."
"That isn’t fair! She is Cynthia, and you know it!" Gertrude yelled.
"Madam, I saw this girl at the party, and she was talking to the real Cynthia." Sissy couldn’t argue with that one; it was true.
"I must be going."
"You can’t go; the real Cynthia is here!" Maya yelled.
Gertrude gripped Maya’s arm and tried to lead her out from the room until Maya grabbed the key from her pocket. "She’s in the basement!" she yelled before Gertrude covered her mouth. "Don’t listen to her; she’s not right in the head. There is no other…"
"Gertrude, that is enough!" Thomas yelled, walking over to the woman and taking the key.
"Thomas, you promised, if you even…"
Thomas grabbed her arm. "I’m sick and tired of listening to you, now I want you to listen to me! That’s my daughter and you should have treated her with respect. I will turn you into the police for child abuse if you don’t open that door this minute!"
Gertrude glared at Thomas but then opened the door where Cinderella stood.
"Yes, you’re the girl from the party!" Henry said as he put the wig on. He was about to hug her until Cinderella pushed him aside.
"I’m not who you think I am," she said as she took the wig off, cleaned her face and put her glasses on. "Nobody like me can be a princess. You’ll have to find someone else."
"No." Her father came forward. "Cinderella, you’re beautiful. Don’t throw away this perfect opportunity because you don’t think that you’re good enough. Anybody is beautiful no matter what they look like."
Cinderella turned to Henry. "You told me that you were a prince and you asked if I wanted to be your princess. I would love to."
With that, she kissed him as her father placed her crown upon her head and Maya clapped. Gertrude left with Sissy and both were never to be seen again.
"Cinderella?"
"Yes, Father?"
"Are you happy?
"Are you happy, Father?"
"Yes, Cindy, I am very happy."
"Then I am happy too."
And they all lived happily ever after.
The End
Marielle Sabbag, '14
Cinderella clapped for her father once he kissed his new bride on the day of their wedding. Her mother passed on a few years ago which was a sad loss for the both of them. Her father met his new wife at work and knew that they were right for each other.
She smiled at Gertrude, her new stepmother, and then at her step sisters, Maya and Sissy.
“Congratulations father, I’m so happy for you!” Cinderella said, throwing her arms around her father.
“My dear Cindy, do you like her?” her father asked.
“Yes father, she’s so nice. I just know we’re going to be happy!”
“Are you really happy, because if you’re not...”
“Father, don’t worry, I’m happy for you. You knew she was the one for you. I love you so much and I always will,” she said, hugging her father so tightly.
Her father was called over by a few of his friends and Cinderella walked over to her mother and sisters.
Cinderella smiled at them.
Gertrude looked at her in disdain along with Sissy. Maya, however, showed true happiness and gave her a hug.
Gertrude pulled Maya out from Cinderella’s arms.
Cinderella hurt for a moment, smiled and took it as a joke meaning that they should all hug together. She moved to hug them, but she was pushed to the ground.
“Gertrude!” Her father yelled as he helped his daughter to her feet. “Don’t do such a thing to your daughter!”
“That thing with glasses and awful hair is not my daughter.”
Cinderella’s mouth hung open. “Mother...”
“Don’t you call me ‘mother’ you wretched mess!” the woman barked.
“Don’t say awful things, Mother!” Maya yelled. “She is your daughter now and you must treat her that way!”
“Who put you in charge, short stop?” Sissy said to the youngest.
“Come along, Thomas, bring me home and rub my feet, they’re killing me in these stupid shoes you bought for me.”
Cinderella looked to her father, who had a sad look in his eyes. He wanted to say something to the girl, but then he followed his wife to the car. Maybe she was just cranky, Cinderella thought, she’ll grow to love me. A smile creased along her face and she followed along.
Chapter 2
The years weren’t like the years she had with her mother. Gertrude made her look like a slob with the clothes she bought for her and she never said one nice thing. She did all the chores in the house which took her until midnight. Her father was not allowed to help or speak against his wife as he was controlled by her. Her father worked all day, and the only day she spent with him was on Sunday when he didn’t work.
School wasn’t any better. Sissy passed rumors about her that weren’t true and she was constantly bullied. Whenever Sissy was in trouble Cinderella was forced to take the blame.
Her only friend was Maya who always cheered her up and reminded the girl that she was beautiful.
She’d be graduating soon and would be away at college studying to be a teacher.
Cinderella didn’t complain because her stepmother would abandon her father leaving them both alone. She knew her father was happy and she didn’t want to ruin in it.
At dinner that night Sissy went on and on about how Cinderella put gum in her hair today and she had to cut it out. It wasn’t true, but she didn’t say a thing.
“Why would you do a thing like that?” Gertrude asked.
“I didn’t do it.” Cinderella spoke in a soft voice.
“Don’t lie to me, child, just admit you did.”
Cinderella didn’t speak.
“Did you hear me, child,” Gertrude asked.
Cinderella avoided eye contact with the woman and continued eating.
“Cinderella! Tell the truth!” she yelled.
She continued to eat.
“I said, pay attention!” With that Gertrude flung her hot tea at Cinderella, making her scream from the burning. “What do you say to Sissy?” she asked, more calmly this time.
Cinderella looked at the floor. “I’m sorry.”
“Clear the dishes, child, and then scrub the floor in the kitchen. It’s filthy.”
Cinderella sat in tears and then stood up.
She took one of the plates, but it was taken by Maya.
“I’ll do the dishes while you do the floor,” she said.
Cinderella smiled and hugged her.
Chapter 3
“Mother, Mother, look at this! You must see!” Sissy yelled across the house when she was home.
“The most popular boy, Henry Callahan is throwing a party at his house this Friday night and he wants every girl in our grade to come! And if he finds the right one he’ll take us to be his queen for the prom!”
“Well, I think we know who will be the queen,” Gertrude said, hugging Sissy.
“What about Cinderella?” her father asked.
Gertrude looked gravely at her husband. “What about Cinderella?”
“Couldn’t she go too, Mother? Maybe she could be prom queen,” Maya said.
“It would be an honor to go,” Cinderella said shyly.
“Who would even take you to a prom?” Sissy said to her. “Look at your clothes and your hair. You’re practically the only girl who wears glasses in our grade. Nobody would ever...”
“Sissy, enough,” Gertrude said in a rare moment of anger towards her daughter, who always got what she wanted.
“Cindy has done everything around this house. This could be a reward for her since she has done so well and needs a break,” Gertrude said with a smile.
“Thank you, Gertrude, thank you!”
“Mother, how could you...” Sissy was about to argue until Gertrude cut her off and led her from the room to talk to her alone.
“Can you believe she actually agreed?!” Maya yelled.
“She’s actually doing something nice for me. This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Do you think Gertie is finally learning to be nice, Daddy?” Cinderella asked.
“Maybe she is, Cindy. Now, why don’t you go plan your outfit?” her father said as Cinderella went off to her room.
Chapter 4
As the week passed Cinderella bought an outfit at the mall and was taken to the salon by Gertrude. It was amazing how much the woman changed, and Sissy didn’t complain once.
Henry Callahan’s party was the talk of the school that week. The rumor was passed that Cinderella was going and many came around to compliment on her makeover.
Her week was going so well, until lunch one day.
“I wish I could have your looks Cindy. Your hair is ravishing,” a girl said to her as they walked out from the lunch line.
“Uh... thanks.”
The girls who were normally mean and bullied her were being so kind to her, like Gertrude.
“Tell me, what’s your secret?” another asked.
“Well my step mother brought me to the salon where I...”
Cinderella tripped and her tray of food went flying through the air.
There were gasps that turned to laughter.
Her plate of spaghetti landed on Henry Callahan.
Cinderella’s cheeks flushed as she stood. “I am so...” Tears were threatening her eyes.
“It’s alright,” he said to her.
The boisterous familiar laugh came to her ears.
Sissy’s foot was still pointed out and she laughed and laughed like everyone else.
Anger boiled within Cinderella. She never complained about anything in the past five years, but this was the worst she was ever embarrassed.
Cinderella picked up a handful of spaghetti and hit Sissy in the face.
Now the laughter was on Sissy.
Sissy threw herself at Cinderella and the two rolled around on the floor until the fight was broken up by the principal.
“I didn’t do anything, Mr. Duke!” Sissy started once they were in the office. “Cinderella just decided to throw her food at me and try to tear my hair out as if I did something wrong.”
“That is not true! She tripped me on purpose!” Cinderella yelled.
“Why would I purposely trip my loving step-sister? I didn’t do anything to you, Cindy. You tripped yourself. You shouldn’t have taken your anger out on me. I was trying to stop the laughter if you didn’t notice.”
Cinderella couldn’t say a thing. The principal was already on Sissy’s side.
“I am very displeased with you, Cinderella,” Gertrude said to the girl later that day. “Because you have been suspended, you’re not allowed to go the party.”
“Cinderella, this is unlike you,” her father said. “Why would you do such a thing?”
Steam escaped Cinderella’s ears. “I didn’t do anything! Sissy purposely tripped me, making me fall right in front of Henry Callahan!” she yelled.
“Sissy!” Gertrude yelled.
Good, Cinderella thought, now she’s going to get it.
“That’s not at all what my pl-” Gertrude stopped herself.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You set this up?!” Cinderella yelled. “How could you do such a thing to me?!”
Gertrude stood up. “A sight like you can never be seen as a queen. Get to your chores, you wretched mess.”
Cinderella threw herself at the woman, pushing her.
Gertrude slapped her across the face.
“Gertrude, stop it right now! I’ve had enough of you! I don’t know why I’ve stuck with you for all these years, but I want you to get out of my house right now!”
“Don’t you talk to me that way Thomas. You know that my father is a lawyer and he’ll sue you for everything. Don’t even think about leaving me.”
Gertrude left.
“Father...”
Thomas left the room. “Stand up for yourself for once,” she said to him.
She was left crying in the room.
Chapter 5
"Cinderella, come into my room quickly!" Maya whispered once she saw her walking down the hallway.
"I figured out a way for you to go the party!" Maya said.
"Maya, stop, I can’t go. I know you want me to, but if Sissy sees me, she and your mother will kill me."
Maya pulled out a wig. "Put this on."
Cinderella did as she was told and looked in the mirror. She had curly blond hair over her short brown hair.
"Put these in," Maya said, giving her a pair of contact lenses.
Cinderella carefully put them in, and Maya put little black dots under her eyes to make them look like freckles.
"See, nobody will notice that it’s you!" Maya said, handing her a mirror.
She looked like a different person. "I already showed the dress I was going to wear to Sissy. She’ll know it’s me."
Maya pulled something out from the drawer. "I’ve been taking a sewing class. I made this dress.
It was a purple, short, knee-length dress.
"Thank you, Maya," she said, hugging her sister.
"If you go out the backdoor, Mother won’t see you. We’ll see you as soon as you get there."
Cinderella felt like a different person as she walked down the street that night as her blond hair blew in the wind. Her only wish was that she could be herself.
Up ahead she could she many kids walking into a big house that almost looked like a palace.
"Who are you? Do you go to our school?"
It was Sissy.
"N-No, I mean yes, I do now. I’m new. I heard about the party and decided to come.”
"Sissy." Gertrude was coming. "I want you to keep an eye on Maya. I’ll pick you both up at 11:00 sharp," she said.
She turned to Cinderella who was in her disguise.
"Who might you be?" she asked.
"She’s new to our school, Mother. She came from New York and arrived at school yesterday," Maya said putting her hand on her shoulder.
"Enjoy the party, girls. It was nice to meet you, dear."
The party was amazing as they all danced around and ate food. Cinderella enjoyed herself as she talked to other girls around her.
Cinderella even talked to Sissy. When Cinderella was Cynthia, Sissy was a fun person to be with, except when she began to talk about Cinderella and how Cinderella wasn’t pretty.
Suddenly Henry was coming their way and he was smiling. Was he looking at her or Sissy?
"What is your name?" he asked Cinderella.
"Cindy."
"Cindy? My step sister’s name is Cinderella and for short she calls herself Cindy."
"I-It’s short for Cynthia," Cinderella covered up.
"Would you like to dance?" Henry asked Cinderella.
"Sure."
Cinderella had never danced before, but as she danced with Henry, she felt as if she always danced and wanted to dance forever. Suddenly he was kissing her.
"Let’s go outside."
Cinderella was taken outside and they sat by the water fountain.
"Have I ever seen you in school before? You look familiar,” he said to her.
"No I just got here from New York," Cinderella said.
"Well, this is going to be really bizarre to say, but I’m a prince."
Cinderella blinked. "What?"
"I have to get married so I can stay a prince. Would you please be my princess? We can get married once we graduate. You can still go to college and live a normal life. What do you think?"
Cinderella didn’t know what to do. If she weren’t in disguise, she would say yes.
Suddenly the clock chimed. It was 11:00!
"I’m sorry, I really must be leaving!" With that she ran away from Henry, ignoring what he was yelling to her. She had to get home right now, before it was too late.
Without looking where she was going, her wig got caught on something, and she was forced to leave it behind as she ran down the street just to get to her house.
She fell to her bed exhausted. It was the best night of her life, but what was she to do now? He wanted to marry Cynthia. He was going to be looking everywhere for her at school. What was she to do without getting into trouble?
"Cinderella?!"
Cinderella sat up; she was still in her dress! She put a bath robe around herself, soaked her hair to make it look as if she was in the shower, and washed her face clean from the freckles. She also put her glasses back on.
Her door opened. "Cinderella, are you here?"
She walked out from the room. "Yes, Gertrude? I was in the shower," she said.
The woman looked at her suspiciously and then went away. Sissy stayed, looking at her ears.
"Where did you get those earrings?" She asked.
She gasped inside. She forgot to take them off!
"My mother gave them to me. Why, do you like them?"
"This girl at the party wore the same ones."
With that she left.
Maya entered the room and Cinderella told the news.
Chapter 6
Cinderella returned to school and people were talking about the girl at the party and searching for her. Everybody was called into the auditorium, where Henry was giving a talk.
"This week, I’ll be coming to all your houses, because one of you is the one I asked to be my queen at the prom, but you ran away. The one who had this wig on at my party will be my queen."
Cinderella tried to quickly hurry out from the auditorium.
"Cinderella, where are you going? Now is your big chance!" Maya said, catching up to her.
"I can’t, Maya; if Gertrude finds out I was at the party, who knows what…"
Cinderella crashed into someone.
It was Henry.
"I’m so sorry, Henry!” Cinderella tried to hurry away but he grabbed her hand.
"Do I know you from somewhere?" he asked.
"Of course, I was the one who was suspended last week, remember?" she said, trying to cover up she really was.
"It’s not that… You look really familiar."
Cinderella hurried away.
She still couldn’t avoid Henry, because as soon as she got home, she heard what Sissy was saying in the kitchen. "Henry Callahan is coming around to each house today and is asking us to put on the wig that the girl at the party left behind."
"That is wonderful, Sissy; we’ll do everything that we can to make sure that it’s you."
Cinderella sighed. Henry knew it was her today, but how could anybody like her be a prom queen? She wore glasses and her hair was a mess. She didn’t feel she was beautiful like all the other girls in her grade. Maybe she could live her whole life as Cynthia and nobody would ever know.
Cinderella walked into Maya’s room and she let her draw the dots on her face and she put the contacts in.
Gertrude walked into the room. "Maya, have you…"
Both girls gasped. Cinderella’s heart throbbed when Gertrude took a nice long look at her.
"So you’re the girl from the party!"
Before Cinderella could run, Gertrude grabbed her and dragged her down the hall with Maya pleading for her to stop. Her father walked in the door and gasped. "Gertrude, what are you doing? Leave my daughter alone!" He yelled, taking the girl away from Gertrude.
"Give her back to me!" The woman yelled.
"No!"
Gertrude looked at him gravely. "If you really loved me, you’d do what I say. Cinderella was disguised at that party, and now the most popular boy is after her to have her be his prom queen!"
"Why can’t she be?"
Gertrude didn’t know what to say for a moment. "Because she‘s not good enough! Now lock her in the basement this minute! And if you don’t agree with everything that I say, I will call the police and throw you in jail where you rats belong!"
Cinderella looked at her father, who looked to the floor. She was walked into the basement. "Father, no, just stand up for yourself! You don’t love her and you know it!" Cinderella screamed.
"I’m so sorry, Cindy," her father said. "I just wish for us to be happy that’s all."
Gertrude locked the door.
"Mother, let her out! This is not fair!" Maya screamed.
Gertrude grabbed her by her shirt collar. "I’ll tell you what isn’t fair; having a daughter who disobeys you, that’s what! Now make Sissy look like Cinderella before I clobber you!"
As the time passed there was a knock at the door and Henry Callahan arrived. "You’ve come to the luckiest house on the block. My daughter Cindy is here," she said, presenting Sissy.
Henry looked at her closely. Her freckles looked different and her eyes were green rather than brown.
"You’re Cynthia, who ran away?" he asked.
"Yes, I was just scared. I’m sorry for running away. My wig, please?" she asked.
Henry looked at her closely. It was obvious that this was not Cynthia because he remembered seeing this same girl talking with Cynthia while at the party.
"May I ask you one question?"
"What is it?"
"Before you ran away I told you something about myself. Do you remember what it was and what I asked you?"
Sissy was stumped. She looked towards Gertrude, who told her to say something.
"You wanted me to be prom queen and you were the most popular boy in the world."
Henry took the wig off her head. "Good day."
"That isn’t fair! She is Cynthia, and you know it!" Gertrude yelled.
"Madam, I saw this girl at the party, and she was talking to the real Cynthia." Sissy couldn’t argue with that one; it was true.
"I must be going."
"You can’t go; the real Cynthia is here!" Maya yelled.
Gertrude gripped Maya’s arm and tried to lead her out from the room until Maya grabbed the key from her pocket. "She’s in the basement!" she yelled before Gertrude covered her mouth. "Don’t listen to her; she’s not right in the head. There is no other…"
"Gertrude, that is enough!" Thomas yelled, walking over to the woman and taking the key.
"Thomas, you promised, if you even…"
Thomas grabbed her arm. "I’m sick and tired of listening to you, now I want you to listen to me! That’s my daughter and you should have treated her with respect. I will turn you into the police for child abuse if you don’t open that door this minute!"
Gertrude glared at Thomas but then opened the door where Cinderella stood.
"Yes, you’re the girl from the party!" Henry said as he put the wig on. He was about to hug her until Cinderella pushed him aside.
"I’m not who you think I am," she said as she took the wig off, cleaned her face and put her glasses on. "Nobody like me can be a princess. You’ll have to find someone else."
"No." Her father came forward. "Cinderella, you’re beautiful. Don’t throw away this perfect opportunity because you don’t think that you’re good enough. Anybody is beautiful no matter what they look like."
Cinderella turned to Henry. "You told me that you were a prince and you asked if I wanted to be your princess. I would love to."
With that, she kissed him as her father placed her crown upon her head and Maya clapped. Gertrude left with Sissy and both were never to be seen again.
"Cinderella?"
"Yes, Father?"
"Are you happy?
"Are you happy, Father?"
"Yes, Cindy, I am very happy."
"Then I am happy too."
And they all lived happily ever after.
The End
Marielle Sabbag, '14
MST Beowulf
[Disclaimer: MST-ing is a process by which a person or group of people watch an example of some sort of media unfold (the term is mostly used for MST-ing bad fanfiction and sometimes low-quality media in general, film, fanfiction or other) and make often-sarcastic wisecracks about it. It may be enjoyable or painful for the MST-ers depending on the quality of the material being MST-ed. The term comes from the TV show “Mystery Science Theater 3000,” or “MST3K,” where the characters would watch bad movies and make jokes while they played. You will see it done here by three detached (but named) voices. Results may vary.]
[Translation of Beowulf by Seamus Heaney, published by WW Norton and Co. Inc, copyright 2000.]
Aescheron: You’ve been assigned a bit of Beowulf. Enjoy yourselves.
Seamere: He’s from the time before bathing, right?
Tolan: More like the time before the time before bathing.
Modig: How long before? The sixties?
Seamere: The time of the Anglo-Saxons, actually.
Tolan: Oh yes, the… who again?
Seamere: The medieval group that everyone forgets. ‘Cause they were way before medieval.
Modig: Ah, the great speakers of unrecognizable English, I presume.
Seamere: Yep.
Tolan: We can’t read that! Oh well, back to Kafka and his thoroughly-understandable themes of alienation and bureaucracy…
Seamere: Get back over here. Oh yes, we can read it. We’ve got a translation, so let’s get this done.
Aescheron: START!
O flower of warriors, beware of that trap.
Modig: Well, Beowulf the Delicate Amaryllis does have a certain ring to it.
Choose, dear Beowulf, the better part, eternal rewards. Do not give way to pride. For a brief while your strength is in bloom but it fades quickly; and soon there will follow illness or the sword to lay you low,
Seamere: Or a sudden bout of dysentery that kills off the guy telling your story.
or a sudden fire or surge of water
Tolan: Not water, since Beowulf can swim in full armor with a sword and battle sea monsters against all the laws of water physics.
Seamere: Never thought Beowulf would be similar to Mario in any way.
or jabbing blade or javelin from the air or repellant age. Your piercing eye will dim and darken; and death will arrive, dear warrior, to sweep you away.
Modig: Foreshadowing penalty! I think.
"Just so I ruled the Ring-Danes’ country for fifty years, defended them in wartime with spear and sword against constant assaults by many tribes:
Tolan: Eh, he’s still no Beowulf in terms of boasting, he’ll need to shamelessly self-promote a lot more.
I came to believe my enemies had faded from the face of the earth. Still, what happened was a hard reversal from bliss to grief.
Modig: And a hanged left directly to anger?
Grendel struck after lying in wait. He laid waste to the land and from that moment my mind was in dread of his depredations.
Modig: Two points for alliteration! Woo!
So I praise God in His heavenly glory that I lived to behold this head dripping blood and that after such harrowing I can look upon it in triumph at last.
Seamere: Yeah, dripping bloody heads really make me think of the Holy Lord too.
Tolan: ‘And let us praise God for my bloody monster toe collection as well!’
Take your place, then, with pride and pleasure and move to the feast. To-morrow morning our treasure will be shared and showered upon you.
Modig: …Again.
Tolan: I guess tons of gold is just like courtesy gift baskets in this place, huh?
Seamere: Gives priceless treasure out like mints, he does.
The Geat was elated and gladly obeyed the old man’s bidding; he sat on the bench. And soon all was restored, the same as before. Happiness came back, the hall was thronged, and a banquet set forth;
Seamere: Whoa, he can do that just by sitting down! There will a peace explosion if this guy lies down, heaven help us!
black night fell and covered them in darkness. Then the company rose for the old campaigner: the grey-haired prince was ready for bed.
Tolan: But first he did need his royal castor oil and teddy bear.
And a need for rest came over the brave shield-bearing Geat.
Modig: Shield-bearing? Poor Shield Sheafson, that must mean someone put a bunch of bears all over him.
Tolan: Ugh. HA.
He was a weary seafarer, far from home, so immediately a house-guard guided him out, one whose office entailed looking after whatever a thane on the road in those days might need or require.
Seamere: And asking them their favorite color.
Modig: Bet they could just buy whatever they needed at the nearest scōp. Heh.
Tolan: Never do that again, if you please.
It was noble courtesy. That great heart rested.
Tolan: That great Geat heart, surprised they haven’t used that cute little wordplay by now.
The hall towered, gold-shingled and gabled, and the guest slept in it until the black raven with raucous glee announced heaven’s joy, and a hurry of brightness overran the shadows.
Seamere: They must use a black raven instead of a rooster because they’re all so badass.
Warriors rose quickly, impatient to be off: their own country was beckoning the nobles; and the bold voyager longed to be aboard his distant boat. Then that stalwart fighter ordered Hrunting
Seamere: Of the armory of unpronounceable names.
Tolan: More like names that sound like you’re bringing up phlegm.
to be brought to Unferth, and bade Unferth
Modig: Who was previously despised for doubting Beowulf’s vainglorious stories of his superhuman heroics.
Seamere: Maybe Beowulf saving the day twice brought them together, that’s sweet.
take the sword and thanked him for lending it. He said he had found it a friend in battle and a powerful help; he put no blame on the blade’s cutting edge.
Modig: ‘Well, it’s no giant’s sword, but I don’t want to hurt the poor thing’s feelings.’
He was a considerate man. And there the warriors stood in their war-gear,
Seamere: Waiting for Beowulf to come back from the bathroom.
Tolan: Which was the helmet of the least-liked warrior of the bunch.
eager to go, while their honoured lord approached the platform where the other sat.
Modig: ‘I forgot my golden toothbrush in your mead-hall.’
Tolan: ‘May I go back and get it?’
The undaunted hero addressed Hrothgar. Beowulf, son of Ecgtheow, spoke:
Seamere: I like to think of the storyteller spraying his audience with spittle whenever he says a name.
“Now we who crossed the wide sea have to inform you that we feel a desire to return to Hygelac.
Modig: There’s no place like home, just clang your gold-plated heels together, Beowulf.
Here we have been welcomed and thoroughly entertained.
Seamere: Are you not entertained? Am I not merciful?
Tolan: Ahem.
Seamere: Sorry.
You have treated us well. If there is any favour on earth I can perform beyond deeds of arms I have done already, anything that would merit your affections more, I shall act, my lord, with alacrity.
Tolan: ‘Somehow make me gold-plated food I can eat so everything on and around and in me can be made of gold. Get to it!’
If ever I hear from across the ocean that people on your borders are threatening battle as attackers have done from time to time, I shall land with a thousand thanes at my back to help your cause. Hygelac may be young to rule a nation, but this much I know about the king of the Geats: he will come to my aid and want to support me by word and action in your hour of need, when honour dictates that I raise a hedge of spears around you. That if Hrethic should think about travelling as a king’s son to the court of the Geats, he will find many friends. Foreign places yield more to one who is himself worth meeting.”
Tolan: I bet one of Hrothgar’s sons will turn out to have been Grendel’s cousin all along!
Modig: Genius!
Hrothgar spoke and answered him: “The Lord in His wisdom sent you those words and they came from the heart.
Tolan: More shoehorned God talk? Darn it, Christian monk author, your religion doesn’t quite fit into the society of these people, don’t you get it? Lalalala…
Seamere: Hands off of your ears and stop singing, be brave now.
I have never heard so young a man make truer observations. You are strong in body and mature in mind, impressive in speech. If it should come to pass that Hrethel’s descendant dies beneath a spear, if deadly battle or the sword blade or disease fells the prince who guards your people and you are still alive, then I firmly believe the seafaring Geats won’t find a man worthier of acclaim as their king and defender than you, if only you would undertake the lordship of your homeland. My liking for you deepens with time, dear Beowulf.
Tolan: These people sure like to talk about their own friendships a lot.
What you have done is to draw two peoples, the Geat nation and us neighboring Danes, into shared peace and a pact of friendship in spite of hatreds we have harboured in the past. For as long as I rule this far-flung land treasures will change hands and each side will treat the other with gifts; across the gannet’s bath, over the broad sea, whorled prows will bring presents and tokens. I know your people are beyond reproach in every respect, steadfast in the old way with friend or foe.”
Modig: More praise, just heap it on Beowulf! He can take it!
Seamere: Unferth needs it more than he does.
Tolan: Why hasn’t Beowulf’s ego exploded into a billion boasting bits by now?
Then the earl’s defender furnished the hero with twelve treasures
Tolan: Are they twelve-days-of-Christmas gift set treasures? Twelve feels significant there to me.
and told him to set out, sail with those gifts safely home
Seamere: If all that heavy gold doesn’t break the boat first.
to the people he loved, but to return promptly. And so the good and grey-haired Dane, that high-born king, kissed Beowulf and embraced his neck, then broke down in sudden tears.
Modig: And so occurred one of the manliest man hugs in history.
Two forebodings disturbed him in his wisdom, but one was stronger;
Tolan: Never would there be a Beowulf sequel.
nevermore would they meet each other face to face.
Seamere: Aw… that’s really sad. Who will give Beowulf pounds upon pounds of gold trinkets then?
And such was his affection that he could not help being overcome: his fondness for the man was so deep-founded, it warmed his heart and wound the heartstrings tight in his breast. The embrace ended
Tolan: With much passing round of tissues.
Seamere: I wish the one female character so far was around to appear again and send them off, she seemed nice.
Modig: Not in this time period!
and Beowulf, glorious in his gold regalia, stepped the green earth. Straining at anchor and ready for boarding, his boat awaited him.
Modig: As did Grendel’s father
Seamere: Poor Beowulf’s probably lost without a monster to fight right now.
Tolan: Will there be more fights? It feels like the poem’s sort of ending.
Seamere: I hope not.
Modig: Same here.
So they went on their journey, and Hrothgar’s generosity was praised repeatedly
Modig: He can’t boast about slaying beasts, can he?
Seamere: But he can be praised for giving away his kingly riches like Halloween candy, apparently.
He was a peerless king until old age sapped his strength and did him mortal harm, as it has done so many.
Tolan: That seemed like a timeskip there, but I guess it wasn’t. Foreshadowing?
Modig: Foreshadowing? As in saying that he’s going to get old and die eventually? What a surprise that’d be, eh?
Down to the waves, then, dressed in the web of their chain-mail
Seamere: These guys seem to wear their chain-mail constantly, don’t they ever get metal rash?
Tolan: More to the point, don’t they ever bathe?
and warshirts the young men marched in high spirits. The coast-guard spied them, thanes setting forth, the same as before.
Modig: All hail Macbeth! hail to thee, Thane of Glamis!
Tolan: That doesn’t exactly fit…
Modig: Well, they said thane, didn’t they? I like that quote.
His salute this time from the top of the cliff was far from unmannerly; he galloped to meet them and as they took ship in their shining gear, he said how welcome they would be in Geatland.
Modig: I hope Beowulf gives him a hug too.
Then the broad hull was beached on the sand to be cargoed with treasure,
Seamere: ‘Cause you know, a boat that’s not filled with gold, gold, gold just isn’t a proper boat.
horses and war-gear. The curved prow motioned; the mast stood high above Hrothgar’s riches in the loaded hold. The guard who had watched the boat was given a sword with gold fittings
Seamere: ‘Must give more gold! I’ve still got loads stuffed away in Heorot Hall’s basement, you know.’
and in future days that present would make him a respected man at his place on the mead-bench. Then the keel plunged and shook in the sea; and they sailed from Denmark.
Tolan: And so Beowulf went back to Geatland and told his family all about what new Danish friends he had made in Heorot Hall and all the fun they’d had playing together all through the golden summer days.
Modig: And then he wrote to Hrothgar to say how much he missed him.
Seamere: And a dragon decided he wanted to come into the story of the poem sometime in the future.
Tolan: Yes. Hey, Aescheron, are we done?
Seamere: We finished our excerpt for today!
Aescheron: Good job, excellent focus, all of you.
Tolan: Can we go watch the movie now?
Aescheron: Fine, just don’t comment on it while you watch it or anything.
Modig: Wouldn’t even dream of it.
All: No, not at all!
Aescheron: Good.
All: See you later! [All wave]
-Ruby Struble '14
[Translation of Beowulf by Seamus Heaney, published by WW Norton and Co. Inc, copyright 2000.]
Aescheron: You’ve been assigned a bit of Beowulf. Enjoy yourselves.
Seamere: He’s from the time before bathing, right?
Tolan: More like the time before the time before bathing.
Modig: How long before? The sixties?
Seamere: The time of the Anglo-Saxons, actually.
Tolan: Oh yes, the… who again?
Seamere: The medieval group that everyone forgets. ‘Cause they were way before medieval.
Modig: Ah, the great speakers of unrecognizable English, I presume.
Seamere: Yep.
Tolan: We can’t read that! Oh well, back to Kafka and his thoroughly-understandable themes of alienation and bureaucracy…
Seamere: Get back over here. Oh yes, we can read it. We’ve got a translation, so let’s get this done.
Aescheron: START!
O flower of warriors, beware of that trap.
Modig: Well, Beowulf the Delicate Amaryllis does have a certain ring to it.
Choose, dear Beowulf, the better part, eternal rewards. Do not give way to pride. For a brief while your strength is in bloom but it fades quickly; and soon there will follow illness or the sword to lay you low,
Seamere: Or a sudden bout of dysentery that kills off the guy telling your story.
or a sudden fire or surge of water
Tolan: Not water, since Beowulf can swim in full armor with a sword and battle sea monsters against all the laws of water physics.
Seamere: Never thought Beowulf would be similar to Mario in any way.
or jabbing blade or javelin from the air or repellant age. Your piercing eye will dim and darken; and death will arrive, dear warrior, to sweep you away.
Modig: Foreshadowing penalty! I think.
"Just so I ruled the Ring-Danes’ country for fifty years, defended them in wartime with spear and sword against constant assaults by many tribes:
Tolan: Eh, he’s still no Beowulf in terms of boasting, he’ll need to shamelessly self-promote a lot more.
I came to believe my enemies had faded from the face of the earth. Still, what happened was a hard reversal from bliss to grief.
Modig: And a hanged left directly to anger?
Grendel struck after lying in wait. He laid waste to the land and from that moment my mind was in dread of his depredations.
Modig: Two points for alliteration! Woo!
So I praise God in His heavenly glory that I lived to behold this head dripping blood and that after such harrowing I can look upon it in triumph at last.
Seamere: Yeah, dripping bloody heads really make me think of the Holy Lord too.
Tolan: ‘And let us praise God for my bloody monster toe collection as well!’
Take your place, then, with pride and pleasure and move to the feast. To-morrow morning our treasure will be shared and showered upon you.
Modig: …Again.
Tolan: I guess tons of gold is just like courtesy gift baskets in this place, huh?
Seamere: Gives priceless treasure out like mints, he does.
The Geat was elated and gladly obeyed the old man’s bidding; he sat on the bench. And soon all was restored, the same as before. Happiness came back, the hall was thronged, and a banquet set forth;
Seamere: Whoa, he can do that just by sitting down! There will a peace explosion if this guy lies down, heaven help us!
black night fell and covered them in darkness. Then the company rose for the old campaigner: the grey-haired prince was ready for bed.
Tolan: But first he did need his royal castor oil and teddy bear.
And a need for rest came over the brave shield-bearing Geat.
Modig: Shield-bearing? Poor Shield Sheafson, that must mean someone put a bunch of bears all over him.
Tolan: Ugh. HA.
He was a weary seafarer, far from home, so immediately a house-guard guided him out, one whose office entailed looking after whatever a thane on the road in those days might need or require.
Seamere: And asking them their favorite color.
Modig: Bet they could just buy whatever they needed at the nearest scōp. Heh.
Tolan: Never do that again, if you please.
It was noble courtesy. That great heart rested.
Tolan: That great Geat heart, surprised they haven’t used that cute little wordplay by now.
The hall towered, gold-shingled and gabled, and the guest slept in it until the black raven with raucous glee announced heaven’s joy, and a hurry of brightness overran the shadows.
Seamere: They must use a black raven instead of a rooster because they’re all so badass.
Warriors rose quickly, impatient to be off: their own country was beckoning the nobles; and the bold voyager longed to be aboard his distant boat. Then that stalwart fighter ordered Hrunting
Seamere: Of the armory of unpronounceable names.
Tolan: More like names that sound like you’re bringing up phlegm.
to be brought to Unferth, and bade Unferth
Modig: Who was previously despised for doubting Beowulf’s vainglorious stories of his superhuman heroics.
Seamere: Maybe Beowulf saving the day twice brought them together, that’s sweet.
take the sword and thanked him for lending it. He said he had found it a friend in battle and a powerful help; he put no blame on the blade’s cutting edge.
Modig: ‘Well, it’s no giant’s sword, but I don’t want to hurt the poor thing’s feelings.’
He was a considerate man. And there the warriors stood in their war-gear,
Seamere: Waiting for Beowulf to come back from the bathroom.
Tolan: Which was the helmet of the least-liked warrior of the bunch.
eager to go, while their honoured lord approached the platform where the other sat.
Modig: ‘I forgot my golden toothbrush in your mead-hall.’
Tolan: ‘May I go back and get it?’
The undaunted hero addressed Hrothgar. Beowulf, son of Ecgtheow, spoke:
Seamere: I like to think of the storyteller spraying his audience with spittle whenever he says a name.
“Now we who crossed the wide sea have to inform you that we feel a desire to return to Hygelac.
Modig: There’s no place like home, just clang your gold-plated heels together, Beowulf.
Here we have been welcomed and thoroughly entertained.
Seamere: Are you not entertained? Am I not merciful?
Tolan: Ahem.
Seamere: Sorry.
You have treated us well. If there is any favour on earth I can perform beyond deeds of arms I have done already, anything that would merit your affections more, I shall act, my lord, with alacrity.
Tolan: ‘Somehow make me gold-plated food I can eat so everything on and around and in me can be made of gold. Get to it!’
If ever I hear from across the ocean that people on your borders are threatening battle as attackers have done from time to time, I shall land with a thousand thanes at my back to help your cause. Hygelac may be young to rule a nation, but this much I know about the king of the Geats: he will come to my aid and want to support me by word and action in your hour of need, when honour dictates that I raise a hedge of spears around you. That if Hrethic should think about travelling as a king’s son to the court of the Geats, he will find many friends. Foreign places yield more to one who is himself worth meeting.”
Tolan: I bet one of Hrothgar’s sons will turn out to have been Grendel’s cousin all along!
Modig: Genius!
Hrothgar spoke and answered him: “The Lord in His wisdom sent you those words and they came from the heart.
Tolan: More shoehorned God talk? Darn it, Christian monk author, your religion doesn’t quite fit into the society of these people, don’t you get it? Lalalala…
Seamere: Hands off of your ears and stop singing, be brave now.
I have never heard so young a man make truer observations. You are strong in body and mature in mind, impressive in speech. If it should come to pass that Hrethel’s descendant dies beneath a spear, if deadly battle or the sword blade or disease fells the prince who guards your people and you are still alive, then I firmly believe the seafaring Geats won’t find a man worthier of acclaim as their king and defender than you, if only you would undertake the lordship of your homeland. My liking for you deepens with time, dear Beowulf.
Tolan: These people sure like to talk about their own friendships a lot.
What you have done is to draw two peoples, the Geat nation and us neighboring Danes, into shared peace and a pact of friendship in spite of hatreds we have harboured in the past. For as long as I rule this far-flung land treasures will change hands and each side will treat the other with gifts; across the gannet’s bath, over the broad sea, whorled prows will bring presents and tokens. I know your people are beyond reproach in every respect, steadfast in the old way with friend or foe.”
Modig: More praise, just heap it on Beowulf! He can take it!
Seamere: Unferth needs it more than he does.
Tolan: Why hasn’t Beowulf’s ego exploded into a billion boasting bits by now?
Then the earl’s defender furnished the hero with twelve treasures
Tolan: Are they twelve-days-of-Christmas gift set treasures? Twelve feels significant there to me.
and told him to set out, sail with those gifts safely home
Seamere: If all that heavy gold doesn’t break the boat first.
to the people he loved, but to return promptly. And so the good and grey-haired Dane, that high-born king, kissed Beowulf and embraced his neck, then broke down in sudden tears.
Modig: And so occurred one of the manliest man hugs in history.
Two forebodings disturbed him in his wisdom, but one was stronger;
Tolan: Never would there be a Beowulf sequel.
nevermore would they meet each other face to face.
Seamere: Aw… that’s really sad. Who will give Beowulf pounds upon pounds of gold trinkets then?
And such was his affection that he could not help being overcome: his fondness for the man was so deep-founded, it warmed his heart and wound the heartstrings tight in his breast. The embrace ended
Tolan: With much passing round of tissues.
Seamere: I wish the one female character so far was around to appear again and send them off, she seemed nice.
Modig: Not in this time period!
and Beowulf, glorious in his gold regalia, stepped the green earth. Straining at anchor and ready for boarding, his boat awaited him.
Modig: As did Grendel’s father
Seamere: Poor Beowulf’s probably lost without a monster to fight right now.
Tolan: Will there be more fights? It feels like the poem’s sort of ending.
Seamere: I hope not.
Modig: Same here.
So they went on their journey, and Hrothgar’s generosity was praised repeatedly
Modig: He can’t boast about slaying beasts, can he?
Seamere: But he can be praised for giving away his kingly riches like Halloween candy, apparently.
He was a peerless king until old age sapped his strength and did him mortal harm, as it has done so many.
Tolan: That seemed like a timeskip there, but I guess it wasn’t. Foreshadowing?
Modig: Foreshadowing? As in saying that he’s going to get old and die eventually? What a surprise that’d be, eh?
Down to the waves, then, dressed in the web of their chain-mail
Seamere: These guys seem to wear their chain-mail constantly, don’t they ever get metal rash?
Tolan: More to the point, don’t they ever bathe?
and warshirts the young men marched in high spirits. The coast-guard spied them, thanes setting forth, the same as before.
Modig: All hail Macbeth! hail to thee, Thane of Glamis!
Tolan: That doesn’t exactly fit…
Modig: Well, they said thane, didn’t they? I like that quote.
His salute this time from the top of the cliff was far from unmannerly; he galloped to meet them and as they took ship in their shining gear, he said how welcome they would be in Geatland.
Modig: I hope Beowulf gives him a hug too.
Then the broad hull was beached on the sand to be cargoed with treasure,
Seamere: ‘Cause you know, a boat that’s not filled with gold, gold, gold just isn’t a proper boat.
horses and war-gear. The curved prow motioned; the mast stood high above Hrothgar’s riches in the loaded hold. The guard who had watched the boat was given a sword with gold fittings
Seamere: ‘Must give more gold! I’ve still got loads stuffed away in Heorot Hall’s basement, you know.’
and in future days that present would make him a respected man at his place on the mead-bench. Then the keel plunged and shook in the sea; and they sailed from Denmark.
Tolan: And so Beowulf went back to Geatland and told his family all about what new Danish friends he had made in Heorot Hall and all the fun they’d had playing together all through the golden summer days.
Modig: And then he wrote to Hrothgar to say how much he missed him.
Seamere: And a dragon decided he wanted to come into the story of the poem sometime in the future.
Tolan: Yes. Hey, Aescheron, are we done?
Seamere: We finished our excerpt for today!
Aescheron: Good job, excellent focus, all of you.
Tolan: Can we go watch the movie now?
Aescheron: Fine, just don’t comment on it while you watch it or anything.
Modig: Wouldn’t even dream of it.
All: No, not at all!
Aescheron: Good.
All: See you later! [All wave]
-Ruby Struble '14
Skinner from Ratatouille
Marielle Sabbag '14
When I was free
It’s odd to think about the days
When it didn’t cross my mind.
Crazy to believe there was once a time
When everything was fine.
But I look at old photographs
Of a girl that once was me.
And I realize in simpler times,
I once was truly free.
So what changed inside?
What made me blind?
To turn a child’s thoughts unkind?
Now I fear I’ll never know the truth
As I once did in my youth.
Visions formed by insecurities
Fog the air of realities.
But you can’t tell me on a rainy day
That the sky above is made of blue.
For through my eyes, it’s clearly gray--
Please tell me how that can’t be true.
I fear I’ll never truly see
Like I once did-- when I was free.
Melissa Duffy '14
When it didn’t cross my mind.
Crazy to believe there was once a time
When everything was fine.
But I look at old photographs
Of a girl that once was me.
And I realize in simpler times,
I once was truly free.
So what changed inside?
What made me blind?
To turn a child’s thoughts unkind?
Now I fear I’ll never know the truth
As I once did in my youth.
Visions formed by insecurities
Fog the air of realities.
But you can’t tell me on a rainy day
That the sky above is made of blue.
For through my eyes, it’s clearly gray--
Please tell me how that can’t be true.
I fear I’ll never truly see
Like I once did-- when I was free.
Melissa Duffy '14
Splatter
-Tina Li '15
Un Pez en el MarComo pez al agua,
Somos inseparables. Sin tú no puedo respirar Y sin tú yo muero. Pero como agua al pez, Tú vivirás siempre mientras yo falleceré. Sin yo, sigues respirando Con el ascenso y descenso De tus oleadas. Soy solo un pez en el mar Entre millones de otros más bonitos Y tú tienes todos, Todos en una vez, Pero ningunos solamente. No te importa un pez, simple, aburrido Nadando círculos alrededor tus aguas frías Con todos los otros como este pez; Pero te quiero y quiero que Tú me encuentres entre los orillas del mar. Aunque yo sé que es imposible Casarme con el mar, No puedo dejar de esperar, En los profundidades del azul, Que las oleadas jugarán más cariñosamente comigo Y con más ternura me abrazarán que Los otros peces en sus brazos. Solamente quiero trazas de amor Que son solamente para mí. |
A Fish in the SeaLike a fish in the sea,
We are inseparable. Without you I can't breathe And without you I die. But as water to the fish, You will live forever while I will die. Without me, you continue breathing With the rise and fall Of your waves. I'm only a fish in the sea Among millions of others more beautiful And you have them all, All at once, But none alone. You don't care about a fish, simple, boring, Swimming circles around your frigid waters With all the others like this fish; But I love you And I want you to find me between the shores of the sea. Although I know it's impossible To marry the sea, I can't stop hoping, In the depths of the blue, That the waves play more gently with me And hug me with more tenderness than The other fish in its arms. I only want traces of love That are only for me. |
-Laura White '13
Like I Love You
It’s like a magic I can’t use
A special power gone to waste
It’s the fire that burns bright for you
When I see your lovely face.
How could God be so cruel
And give me such a gift?
To care so much for someone,
Who can’t be mine to kiss?
This love is truly torture,
But it comes so naturally.
And it hurts to know, if I were yours,
It’d be for all eternity.
I would love all your flaws,
And understand your rascal ways.
And even after a million years,
The fire still would blaze.
But we could never be,
So I must find someone new.
Yet love is rare, and thus I fear,
I won’t love like I love you.
-Melissa Duffy '14
A special power gone to waste
It’s the fire that burns bright for you
When I see your lovely face.
How could God be so cruel
And give me such a gift?
To care so much for someone,
Who can’t be mine to kiss?
This love is truly torture,
But it comes so naturally.
And it hurts to know, if I were yours,
It’d be for all eternity.
I would love all your flaws,
And understand your rascal ways.
And even after a million years,
The fire still would blaze.
But we could never be,
So I must find someone new.
Yet love is rare, and thus I fear,
I won’t love like I love you.
-Melissa Duffy '14
Toaster
Marielle Sabbag '14
Klein Bottle
Life’s an empty surface,
any shape it is without.
So I made myself a bottle-
no way in and no way out.
Just some simple mathematics
and a non-existent bend
turn a sheet of time and matter
to a tumble without end.
Would it be helpful to reverse
when up and down are all the same?
It’s a quiet sanctuary
to contain each small event.
Interruption or invasion
its smooth endless walls prevent.
It was here began the cycle
from the outside back to in,
in the whirling light and darkness
I’ve forgotten how to sin.
Thunder sings of empty blame-
who did speak of sound and fury?
It becomes easy to destroy
when your vision melts to grey,
as such to merely watch it rot
while the future falls away.
Was I watching at the moment
when my world froze its form?
Had I shut my eyes in horror;
disappearing from the storm?
Everything I seek to bury
I merely learned to rehearse.
So I am the lord and master
of a place I cannot share,
the small space where start and ending
could have happened anywhere.
If I beat against my passage
‘till the walls begin to crack
I must plummet to the secret
that I formed it to hold back:
-Ben Krowitz '13
any shape it is without.
So I made myself a bottle-
no way in and no way out.
Just some simple mathematics
and a non-existent bend
turn a sheet of time and matter
to a tumble without end.
Would it be helpful to reverse
when up and down are all the same?
It’s a quiet sanctuary
to contain each small event.
Interruption or invasion
its smooth endless walls prevent.
It was here began the cycle
from the outside back to in,
in the whirling light and darkness
I’ve forgotten how to sin.
Thunder sings of empty blame-
who did speak of sound and fury?
It becomes easy to destroy
when your vision melts to grey,
as such to merely watch it rot
while the future falls away.
Was I watching at the moment
when my world froze its form?
Had I shut my eyes in horror;
disappearing from the storm?
Everything I seek to bury
I merely learned to rehearse.
So I am the lord and master
of a place I cannot share,
the small space where start and ending
could have happened anywhere.
If I beat against my passage
‘till the walls begin to crack
I must plummet to the secret
that I formed it to hold back:
-Ben Krowitz '13
Time
They say time heals all pain
But truthfully, I still feel the same.
In fact, it was better at the start,
When the dagger first stabbed my heart.
Back then it didn’t feel like real life,
But now I’m completely aware of the knife.
Before, I still thought it could be just a dream.
Time, however, ripped that hope at the seam.
And with each day that passes, I miss you more,
While I know things will never be like before.
How I long to see you, hear you and hold you,
But there’s absolutely nothing on earth I can do.
They also say someday, I’ll see you again,
But it’s hard to wait so long for then.
It’s true that now I don’t cry every day,
But time did not take any pain away.
-Melissa Duffy '14
But truthfully, I still feel the same.
In fact, it was better at the start,
When the dagger first stabbed my heart.
Back then it didn’t feel like real life,
But now I’m completely aware of the knife.
Before, I still thought it could be just a dream.
Time, however, ripped that hope at the seam.
And with each day that passes, I miss you more,
While I know things will never be like before.
How I long to see you, hear you and hold you,
But there’s absolutely nothing on earth I can do.
They also say someday, I’ll see you again,
But it’s hard to wait so long for then.
It’s true that now I don’t cry every day,
But time did not take any pain away.
-Melissa Duffy '14
Ultimate Scribble
Anna Patterson '13
Ballet Shoes
Her earliest memory
Is a cardboard box.
A castle,
A pirate ship,
A spaceship.
She is a knight, fighting in tournaments
A pirate, digging for treasure
An astronaut, exploring space
Finding far-off stars.
A picture frame hangs on her wall,
Too high for grubby fingers to touch.
A ballerina, twirling,
Elegant hands held high.
For Christmas that year, ballet shoes
And lessons at the studio down the street.
She holds her mother’s hand as they walk,
Counting yellow bricks in the sidewalk,
Her ruby red slippers held carefully in her hands.
Summer:
Popsicles and sunburns
Scraped knuckles and bandaids.
She runs down the sidewalk
Running a stick against the picket fence:
Bang bang bang bang.
The whisper of the leaves on the magnolia trees,
The chirping of crickets,
The hum of an airplane:
These are the songs of her childhood.
Third grade:
She spends most of her recesses
Up on the slide
Pretending that it is a tower.
She is a princess,
Waiting for a knight
To come save her.
Seventh grade:
She walks home from ballet
As the rain pours down around her.
Her boots clomp,
Thump thump thump.
She is a rhinoceros.
She clutches her rain coat tighter
And thinks about lemurs
Leaping with easy grace.
Ninth grade:
The pizza stares at her.
She stares back and thinks
Fat.
Eleventh grade:
She is a ghost.
Not really
(not supposed to be)
Here.
She sits in the office
Back pressed against the spine of the chair
And thinks about nothing at all.
She walks down the sidewalk
Past the ballet studio.
The bell tolls.
(It tolls for her.)
Twelfth grade:
The pasta stares at her.
She stares back.
She eats it
And does not throw up afterward.
One day,
Her mother reminds her
Of a little girl
Who climbed in refrigerator boxes
To play pretend.
She’s not a little girl anymore,
But she thinks about castles, and pirate ships, and spaceships.
They rent a sailboat
And she learns how to sail.
She sits on the beach
And digs for treasure.
She sits in the car,
Spines of the seashell digging into her hand,
And watches a kite,
Red and yellow and green,
Soar.
Once upon a time,
There was a girl,
A princess in a tower.
No knight comes for her.
That’s all right:
She’ll save herself.
-Anna Teixeira, '13
Is a cardboard box.
A castle,
A pirate ship,
A spaceship.
She is a knight, fighting in tournaments
A pirate, digging for treasure
An astronaut, exploring space
Finding far-off stars.
A picture frame hangs on her wall,
Too high for grubby fingers to touch.
A ballerina, twirling,
Elegant hands held high.
For Christmas that year, ballet shoes
And lessons at the studio down the street.
She holds her mother’s hand as they walk,
Counting yellow bricks in the sidewalk,
Her ruby red slippers held carefully in her hands.
Summer:
Popsicles and sunburns
Scraped knuckles and bandaids.
She runs down the sidewalk
Running a stick against the picket fence:
Bang bang bang bang.
The whisper of the leaves on the magnolia trees,
The chirping of crickets,
The hum of an airplane:
These are the songs of her childhood.
Third grade:
She spends most of her recesses
Up on the slide
Pretending that it is a tower.
She is a princess,
Waiting for a knight
To come save her.
Seventh grade:
She walks home from ballet
As the rain pours down around her.
Her boots clomp,
Thump thump thump.
She is a rhinoceros.
She clutches her rain coat tighter
And thinks about lemurs
Leaping with easy grace.
Ninth grade:
The pizza stares at her.
She stares back and thinks
Fat.
Eleventh grade:
She is a ghost.
Not really
(not supposed to be)
Here.
She sits in the office
Back pressed against the spine of the chair
And thinks about nothing at all.
She walks down the sidewalk
Past the ballet studio.
The bell tolls.
(It tolls for her.)
Twelfth grade:
The pasta stares at her.
She stares back.
She eats it
And does not throw up afterward.
One day,
Her mother reminds her
Of a little girl
Who climbed in refrigerator boxes
To play pretend.
She’s not a little girl anymore,
But she thinks about castles, and pirate ships, and spaceships.
They rent a sailboat
And she learns how to sail.
She sits on the beach
And digs for treasure.
She sits in the car,
Spines of the seashell digging into her hand,
And watches a kite,
Red and yellow and green,
Soar.
Once upon a time,
There was a girl,
A princess in a tower.
No knight comes for her.
That’s all right:
She’ll save herself.
-Anna Teixeira, '13
A Canterbury MST
Aescheron: Are you ready for some Canterbury Tales?
Tolan: But we were just on our way to Hamlet!
Aescheron: Do it or it’s off to Room 101 for not doing your duty. It’s only a bit of the Knight’s Tale.
Seamere: If we must. Is this the time after the time of boasting and gold and battles with Grendel and gold and disease and gold and gold?
Tolan: Sounds about right. This is the Middle Ages, when English was for commoners and pigs were still relatively cleaner than the average civilian.
Seamere: I know what you mean. It was also the time when writers loved vowels a lot. French and Latin influence, you know. Are you doing all right, Modig?
Modig: Whan thilke freke conseils us to MST, I fele a reluctance in my bons.
Seamere: This is what happens when you MST too much, now we know.
Tolan: Great Dinadan’s greaves! Aescheron! Modig’s ill, get the hose!
Modig: Saise thy mouth and shut it.
Tolan: Never mind.
Seamere: Our names are still Anglo-Saxon-y, shouldn’t we--
Aescheron: START!
Crowned with the laurel of his victory, and there in honour and felicity he lived his life; what more is there to say?
Tolan: I’m really going to miss that spelling of “honour” if we ever advance to American literature.
Seamere: He lived in honour and felicity all his life? I hope they smelled nice.
And in a tower, in grief and anguish lay Arcite and Palamon, beyond all doubt for ever, for no gold could buy them out.
Modig: Know what the worst part of this situation is?
Seamere: They’ll be in isolation so long they’ll go insane?
Tolan: They could turn out like that Mr. Manette guy from Tale of Two Cities and not be able to survive in the outside world if they ever get released?
Modig: Nope. No bathrooms. Just floor.
Seamere: Oh. That certainly is the worst fate the gods planned for them.
Modig: Yep!
Year after year went by, day after day, until one morning in the month of May
Tolan: They were forced to celebrate May day by dancing around a maypole using their prisoner chains instead of colorful ribbons, I assume.
Modig: Or ropes! Every prison is unique.
Young Emily, that fairer was of mien than is the lily on its stalk of green, and fresher in her colouring that strove with early roses in a May-time grove –I know not which was fairer of the two-
Seamere: Whenever an author gets all poetic with the floral imagery, I just end up picturing the girl’s head as a giant flower.
Tolan: Why is it always flowers? Trees and badgers and lakes and other things in nature can be beautiful too…
Ere it was day, as she was wont to do, rose and arrayed
Modig: Haha, rose and arrayed when he was just comparing her to, you know…
Tolan: Shut thy punning mouth.
Modig: I’m being repressed.
her beauty as was right for May will have no sluggardy at night,
Seamere: ‘Got to look pretty in case two Greek knights who believe in Roman gods see me in the garden! Teehee!’
Season that pricks in every gentle heart, awaking it from sleep, and bids it start, saying ‘Arise! Do thine observance due!’ And this made Emily recall anew the honour due to May
Modig: She’s obligated to May to go look pretty in the garden? I hope she’s paid well.
and she arose, her beauties freshly clad. To speak of those, her yellow hair was braided in a tress behind her back, a yard in length, I guess,
Modig: I bet the Middle Ages loved their female characters to have Rapunzel hair.
Tolan: At least they don’t make the ladies serve mead like in Beowulf, that kind of hair could get in the way.
And in the garden at the sun’s uprising
Modig: Sounds like the sun’s about to have a rebellion.
Tolan: Well, it didn’t get enough to do in the Dark Ages.
Modig: You’re now my living legacy as a pun-maker. Thank you.
Hither and thither at her own devising, she wandered gathering flowers, white and red, to make a subtle garland for her head, and like an angel sang a heavenly song.
Seamere: It almost feels like she’s trying to get the attention of those knights with the perfect beauty and the flowers and angelic singing, but maybe not.
Tolan: Maybe that’s just what people did for fun back then.
The great, grim tower-keep, so thick and strong.
Modig: Hurrah, alliteration!
Principle dungeon at the castle’s core where the two knights, of whom I spoke before and shall again, were shut, if you recall, was close-adjoining to the garden wall where Emily chose her pleasures and adornings.
Seamere: And there’s no way the two knights of whom he spoke will see her and immediately fall in love.
Bright was the sun this lovliest of mornings and the sad prisoner Palamon had risen, with license from the jailer of the prison, as was his wont, and roamed a chamber high above the city,
Seamere: ‘Hey, I can see my conquered country from up here!’
Modig: ‘Let me just spit down into the garden, there’s probably no beautiful maidens down there or anything.’
whence he could descry the noble buildings and the branching green where Emily the radiant and serene
Modig: I dunno, that cook with the ulcerous knee seemed radiant to me.
Seamere: No one more radiant than him.
Went pausing in her walk and roaming on. This sorrowful prisoner, this Palamon, was pacing round his chamber to and fro lamenting to himself in all his woe. ‘Alas,’ he said, ‘that ever I was born!’ And so it happened on this May day morn, through a deep window set with many bars
Tolan: And most likely covered with expletives and filthy drawings from past prisoners.
Of mighty iron squared with massive spars, he chanced on Emily to cast his eye and, as he did, he blenched and gave a cry
Tolan: I like to blench sometimes myself on the weekends.
Modig: Who doesn’t?
As though he had been stabbed, and to the heart.
Seamere: I miss the days when men would cry out in pain upon seeing a pretty girl.
Tolan: Maybe they realized it scared potential lovers away.
Seamere: Well, going up to a woman and going ‘AAAAUGHH!’ doesn’t make a man seem very attractive.
And, at the cry, Arcita gave a start and said, ‘My cousin Palamon, what ails you?
Seamere: What ails him? Maybe he’s been living in a dungeon covered in filth dense enough to eat, that could cause a little sickness.
Modig: The dirt’s probably thick enough to make art in by now.
Tolan: Or to swim in.
How deadly pale you look! Your color fails you! Why did you cry? Who can have given offence? For God’s love, take things patiently, have sense, think! We are prisoners and shall always be. Fortune has given us this adversity,
Modig: I thought that Theseus had done that when he ordered they be kept as perpetual prisoners.
Some wicked planetary dispensation, some Saturn’s trick or evil constellation has given us this, and Heaven, though we had sworn the contrary, so stood when we were born. We must endure it, that’s the long and short.’
Tolan: What a nice cousin. Prison pep talks are probably hard to do.
And Palamon in answer made retort, ‘Cousin, believe me, your opinion springs from ignorance and vain imaginings. Imprisonment was not what made me cry. I have been hurt this moment through the eye,
Seamere: Wow, Emily’s so pretty that her prettiness can cause retinal damage.
Tolan: I admire her.
Into my heart.
Modig: The way to a man’s heart is through his eyeball, I guess.
It will be death to me. The fairness of the lady that I see roaming the garden yonder to and fro is all the cause, and I cried out my woe.
Seamere: And woke up the rats.
Modig: The way this story is, the rats are probably staring at Emily in awe of her beauty right next to the knights.
Woman or Goddess, which? I cannot say, I guess she may be Venus – well she may!’ He fell upon his knees before the sill and prayed:
Modig: Venus isn’t the goddess of prison escape, what’s he doing?
Tolan: Well, you pray to who you can when you can.
‘O Venus, if it be thy will to be transfigured in this garden thus before two wretched prisoners like us, o help us to escape, o make us free!
Seamere: ‘And get us some food that’s not mostly insect.’
Yet, if my fate already is shaped for me by some eternal word, and I must pine and die in prison, have pity on our line
Tolan: ‘And make sure any future little Arcites spell their name consistently.’
And kindred, humbled under tyranny!’ Now, as he spoke, Arcita chanced to see this lady as she roamed there to and fro, and, at the sight, her beauty hurt him so that if his cousin had felt the wound before, Arcite was hurt as much as he, or more,
Modig: Here we go again; another heart-stabbed cry!
Tolan: Everybody run!
And with a deep and piteous sigh he said:
Seamere: Arcite has the subtlety to not cry out as if in pain, wow. I like him.
‘The freshness of her beauty strikes me dead,
Tolan: Well, everyone knows day-old beauty isn’t as good.
Hers that I see, roaming in yonder place!
Modig: ‘Frolicking and acting like the perfect courtly love interest.’
Unless I gain the mercy of her grace, unless at least I see her day by day, I am but dead. There is no more to say.’
Seamere: Except ‘That sounds like an unhealthy relationship.’
On hearing this young Palamon looked grim and in contempt and anger answered him, ‘Do you speak in earnest or in jest?’
Modig: Love triangle approaching from the starboard stern, sir!
Seamere: And Emily is still not an active participant in this.
‘No, in good earnest,’ said Arcite, ‘the best! So help me God, I mean no jesting now.’
Tolan: Of course there’ll be no real jesting in these tales, at least not until the Wife of Bath’s Tale or a similar one.
Modig: Well, that’s what we’re here to do.
Then Palamon began to knit his brow: ‘It’s no great honour, then,’ he said, ‘to you to prove so false, to be a traitor too
Seamere: You betrayed the law! Sorry, I had to.
Tolan: I know it.
To me, that am your cousin and your brother,
Modig: Wait, he’s both? Is that possible?
Seamere: I think cousin was a term for general kinsman. It was the Middle Ages, you know.
Both deeply sworn and bound to one another, though we should die in torture for it, never to loose the bond that only death can sever, and when in love neither to hinder other, nor in what else soever, dearest brother,
Tolan: That’s very sweet. Brotherly bonding in prison.
Seamere: Too bad their love for Emily will get rid of that.
Modig: I’m sensing an ‘I saw her first! No, I did!’ exchange coming up.
But truly further me in all I do as faithfully as I shall further you. This was our oath and nothing can untie it, and well I know you dare not now deny it. I trust you with my secrets, make no doubt, yet you would treacherously go about to love my lady, whom I love and serve
Seamere: ‘And whom my only interaction with has been getting stabbed in the eye by her weaponized beauty.’
And ever shall, till death cut my heart’s nerve. No, false Arcite! That you shall never do!
Tolan: ‘You shall never fight me for the hand of a girl we only saw once from a distance!’
Modig: ‘Never!’
I loved her first and told my grief to you as to the brother and the friend that swore to further me, as I have said before, so you are bound in honour as a knight to help me, should it lie within your might;
Seamere: It must be hard to help your brother get a lady if you’re both still in prison.
Else you are false, I say, your honour vain!’
Tolan: They both seem to be recovering well from their allergic reactions to Emily’s beauty.
Modig: And so these noble Greek knights argued about their mutual crush long into the night.
Seamere: And we decree that Beowulf could very easily rip their arms off in a fight.
Aescheron: And on that lovely note, time’s up, you’re done for tonight. I mean, you’re all done for today.
Tolan: Eh, that wasn’t too bad.
Aescheron: Good work, you three, you’re dismissed.
Seamere: Now what have we learned?
Modig: Never get put in prison in case you get to be part of a love triangle.
Tolan: And most importantly, never blench on a weekday!
Modig: We’re learning so much!
Tolan: Aren’t we?
Seamere: Till next time.
All: Bye!
-Ruby Struble '14
Tolan: But we were just on our way to Hamlet!
Aescheron: Do it or it’s off to Room 101 for not doing your duty. It’s only a bit of the Knight’s Tale.
Seamere: If we must. Is this the time after the time of boasting and gold and battles with Grendel and gold and disease and gold and gold?
Tolan: Sounds about right. This is the Middle Ages, when English was for commoners and pigs were still relatively cleaner than the average civilian.
Seamere: I know what you mean. It was also the time when writers loved vowels a lot. French and Latin influence, you know. Are you doing all right, Modig?
Modig: Whan thilke freke conseils us to MST, I fele a reluctance in my bons.
Seamere: This is what happens when you MST too much, now we know.
Tolan: Great Dinadan’s greaves! Aescheron! Modig’s ill, get the hose!
Modig: Saise thy mouth and shut it.
Tolan: Never mind.
Seamere: Our names are still Anglo-Saxon-y, shouldn’t we--
Aescheron: START!
Crowned with the laurel of his victory, and there in honour and felicity he lived his life; what more is there to say?
Tolan: I’m really going to miss that spelling of “honour” if we ever advance to American literature.
Seamere: He lived in honour and felicity all his life? I hope they smelled nice.
And in a tower, in grief and anguish lay Arcite and Palamon, beyond all doubt for ever, for no gold could buy them out.
Modig: Know what the worst part of this situation is?
Seamere: They’ll be in isolation so long they’ll go insane?
Tolan: They could turn out like that Mr. Manette guy from Tale of Two Cities and not be able to survive in the outside world if they ever get released?
Modig: Nope. No bathrooms. Just floor.
Seamere: Oh. That certainly is the worst fate the gods planned for them.
Modig: Yep!
Year after year went by, day after day, until one morning in the month of May
Tolan: They were forced to celebrate May day by dancing around a maypole using their prisoner chains instead of colorful ribbons, I assume.
Modig: Or ropes! Every prison is unique.
Young Emily, that fairer was of mien than is the lily on its stalk of green, and fresher in her colouring that strove with early roses in a May-time grove –I know not which was fairer of the two-
Seamere: Whenever an author gets all poetic with the floral imagery, I just end up picturing the girl’s head as a giant flower.
Tolan: Why is it always flowers? Trees and badgers and lakes and other things in nature can be beautiful too…
Ere it was day, as she was wont to do, rose and arrayed
Modig: Haha, rose and arrayed when he was just comparing her to, you know…
Tolan: Shut thy punning mouth.
Modig: I’m being repressed.
her beauty as was right for May will have no sluggardy at night,
Seamere: ‘Got to look pretty in case two Greek knights who believe in Roman gods see me in the garden! Teehee!’
Season that pricks in every gentle heart, awaking it from sleep, and bids it start, saying ‘Arise! Do thine observance due!’ And this made Emily recall anew the honour due to May
Modig: She’s obligated to May to go look pretty in the garden? I hope she’s paid well.
and she arose, her beauties freshly clad. To speak of those, her yellow hair was braided in a tress behind her back, a yard in length, I guess,
Modig: I bet the Middle Ages loved their female characters to have Rapunzel hair.
Tolan: At least they don’t make the ladies serve mead like in Beowulf, that kind of hair could get in the way.
And in the garden at the sun’s uprising
Modig: Sounds like the sun’s about to have a rebellion.
Tolan: Well, it didn’t get enough to do in the Dark Ages.
Modig: You’re now my living legacy as a pun-maker. Thank you.
Hither and thither at her own devising, she wandered gathering flowers, white and red, to make a subtle garland for her head, and like an angel sang a heavenly song.
Seamere: It almost feels like she’s trying to get the attention of those knights with the perfect beauty and the flowers and angelic singing, but maybe not.
Tolan: Maybe that’s just what people did for fun back then.
The great, grim tower-keep, so thick and strong.
Modig: Hurrah, alliteration!
Principle dungeon at the castle’s core where the two knights, of whom I spoke before and shall again, were shut, if you recall, was close-adjoining to the garden wall where Emily chose her pleasures and adornings.
Seamere: And there’s no way the two knights of whom he spoke will see her and immediately fall in love.
Bright was the sun this lovliest of mornings and the sad prisoner Palamon had risen, with license from the jailer of the prison, as was his wont, and roamed a chamber high above the city,
Seamere: ‘Hey, I can see my conquered country from up here!’
Modig: ‘Let me just spit down into the garden, there’s probably no beautiful maidens down there or anything.’
whence he could descry the noble buildings and the branching green where Emily the radiant and serene
Modig: I dunno, that cook with the ulcerous knee seemed radiant to me.
Seamere: No one more radiant than him.
Went pausing in her walk and roaming on. This sorrowful prisoner, this Palamon, was pacing round his chamber to and fro lamenting to himself in all his woe. ‘Alas,’ he said, ‘that ever I was born!’ And so it happened on this May day morn, through a deep window set with many bars
Tolan: And most likely covered with expletives and filthy drawings from past prisoners.
Of mighty iron squared with massive spars, he chanced on Emily to cast his eye and, as he did, he blenched and gave a cry
Tolan: I like to blench sometimes myself on the weekends.
Modig: Who doesn’t?
As though he had been stabbed, and to the heart.
Seamere: I miss the days when men would cry out in pain upon seeing a pretty girl.
Tolan: Maybe they realized it scared potential lovers away.
Seamere: Well, going up to a woman and going ‘AAAAUGHH!’ doesn’t make a man seem very attractive.
And, at the cry, Arcita gave a start and said, ‘My cousin Palamon, what ails you?
Seamere: What ails him? Maybe he’s been living in a dungeon covered in filth dense enough to eat, that could cause a little sickness.
Modig: The dirt’s probably thick enough to make art in by now.
Tolan: Or to swim in.
How deadly pale you look! Your color fails you! Why did you cry? Who can have given offence? For God’s love, take things patiently, have sense, think! We are prisoners and shall always be. Fortune has given us this adversity,
Modig: I thought that Theseus had done that when he ordered they be kept as perpetual prisoners.
Some wicked planetary dispensation, some Saturn’s trick or evil constellation has given us this, and Heaven, though we had sworn the contrary, so stood when we were born. We must endure it, that’s the long and short.’
Tolan: What a nice cousin. Prison pep talks are probably hard to do.
And Palamon in answer made retort, ‘Cousin, believe me, your opinion springs from ignorance and vain imaginings. Imprisonment was not what made me cry. I have been hurt this moment through the eye,
Seamere: Wow, Emily’s so pretty that her prettiness can cause retinal damage.
Tolan: I admire her.
Into my heart.
Modig: The way to a man’s heart is through his eyeball, I guess.
It will be death to me. The fairness of the lady that I see roaming the garden yonder to and fro is all the cause, and I cried out my woe.
Seamere: And woke up the rats.
Modig: The way this story is, the rats are probably staring at Emily in awe of her beauty right next to the knights.
Woman or Goddess, which? I cannot say, I guess she may be Venus – well she may!’ He fell upon his knees before the sill and prayed:
Modig: Venus isn’t the goddess of prison escape, what’s he doing?
Tolan: Well, you pray to who you can when you can.
‘O Venus, if it be thy will to be transfigured in this garden thus before two wretched prisoners like us, o help us to escape, o make us free!
Seamere: ‘And get us some food that’s not mostly insect.’
Yet, if my fate already is shaped for me by some eternal word, and I must pine and die in prison, have pity on our line
Tolan: ‘And make sure any future little Arcites spell their name consistently.’
And kindred, humbled under tyranny!’ Now, as he spoke, Arcita chanced to see this lady as she roamed there to and fro, and, at the sight, her beauty hurt him so that if his cousin had felt the wound before, Arcite was hurt as much as he, or more,
Modig: Here we go again; another heart-stabbed cry!
Tolan: Everybody run!
And with a deep and piteous sigh he said:
Seamere: Arcite has the subtlety to not cry out as if in pain, wow. I like him.
‘The freshness of her beauty strikes me dead,
Tolan: Well, everyone knows day-old beauty isn’t as good.
Hers that I see, roaming in yonder place!
Modig: ‘Frolicking and acting like the perfect courtly love interest.’
Unless I gain the mercy of her grace, unless at least I see her day by day, I am but dead. There is no more to say.’
Seamere: Except ‘That sounds like an unhealthy relationship.’
On hearing this young Palamon looked grim and in contempt and anger answered him, ‘Do you speak in earnest or in jest?’
Modig: Love triangle approaching from the starboard stern, sir!
Seamere: And Emily is still not an active participant in this.
‘No, in good earnest,’ said Arcite, ‘the best! So help me God, I mean no jesting now.’
Tolan: Of course there’ll be no real jesting in these tales, at least not until the Wife of Bath’s Tale or a similar one.
Modig: Well, that’s what we’re here to do.
Then Palamon began to knit his brow: ‘It’s no great honour, then,’ he said, ‘to you to prove so false, to be a traitor too
Seamere: You betrayed the law! Sorry, I had to.
Tolan: I know it.
To me, that am your cousin and your brother,
Modig: Wait, he’s both? Is that possible?
Seamere: I think cousin was a term for general kinsman. It was the Middle Ages, you know.
Both deeply sworn and bound to one another, though we should die in torture for it, never to loose the bond that only death can sever, and when in love neither to hinder other, nor in what else soever, dearest brother,
Tolan: That’s very sweet. Brotherly bonding in prison.
Seamere: Too bad their love for Emily will get rid of that.
Modig: I’m sensing an ‘I saw her first! No, I did!’ exchange coming up.
But truly further me in all I do as faithfully as I shall further you. This was our oath and nothing can untie it, and well I know you dare not now deny it. I trust you with my secrets, make no doubt, yet you would treacherously go about to love my lady, whom I love and serve
Seamere: ‘And whom my only interaction with has been getting stabbed in the eye by her weaponized beauty.’
And ever shall, till death cut my heart’s nerve. No, false Arcite! That you shall never do!
Tolan: ‘You shall never fight me for the hand of a girl we only saw once from a distance!’
Modig: ‘Never!’
I loved her first and told my grief to you as to the brother and the friend that swore to further me, as I have said before, so you are bound in honour as a knight to help me, should it lie within your might;
Seamere: It must be hard to help your brother get a lady if you’re both still in prison.
Else you are false, I say, your honour vain!’
Tolan: They both seem to be recovering well from their allergic reactions to Emily’s beauty.
Modig: And so these noble Greek knights argued about their mutual crush long into the night.
Seamere: And we decree that Beowulf could very easily rip their arms off in a fight.
Aescheron: And on that lovely note, time’s up, you’re done for tonight. I mean, you’re all done for today.
Tolan: Eh, that wasn’t too bad.
Aescheron: Good work, you three, you’re dismissed.
Seamere: Now what have we learned?
Modig: Never get put in prison in case you get to be part of a love triangle.
Tolan: And most importantly, never blench on a weekday!
Modig: We’re learning so much!
Tolan: Aren’t we?
Seamere: Till next time.
All: Bye!
-Ruby Struble '14
For Ever
Anna Patterson '13
This is For You
So you feel worn
Tired
Uninspired
Just going through the motion
You’re down
Beat
Swept off your feet
Sucked into life’s commotion
You want to scream
Shake off
The ache
And burden that you saddle
With all this strife
You’re sick of life,
This constant uphill battle
But take it slow, dear friend, please know
It’s okay
to feel this way
I know it’s tough
You’ve had enough
Just take it day by day
Let your feelings out
Scream and shout
There’s no need to be ashamed
So do what you must
To brush off the dust
Then pick yourself up
Again
I know it’s not easy,
For you dear friend
But trust me, you’ll make it in
The end
Tina Li '15
Tired
Uninspired
Just going through the motion
You’re down
Beat
Swept off your feet
Sucked into life’s commotion
You want to scream
Shake off
The ache
And burden that you saddle
With all this strife
You’re sick of life,
This constant uphill battle
But take it slow, dear friend, please know
It’s okay
to feel this way
I know it’s tough
You’ve had enough
Just take it day by day
Let your feelings out
Scream and shout
There’s no need to be ashamed
So do what you must
To brush off the dust
Then pick yourself up
Again
I know it’s not easy,
For you dear friend
But trust me, you’ll make it in
The end
Tina Li '15
Were Insanity a Chess Board
Madelyn May
Born on a funky, fall Saturday,
Was a bald little baby— Madelyn May.
As the years quickly passed, her locks quickly grew,
And Madelyn May became a blonde curly sue.
Sentimental was her mom, when she got her first cut,
Then the curls straightened out and turned to chestnut.
A stash of scrunches and ribbons and bows,
She kept in her dresser, always ready to go.
Samuel Beckner, sixth grade, was her first real crush,
She begged for a perm to make his face blush.
But then times got rough, he didn’t crush back,
So she took to the bottle, and dyed her hair black.
Along came the 90’s, she came a young lady,
Sophisticated and sleek, Ms. May was no baby.
And then came a show, with six funny FRIENDS,
She rushed to the salon to get a look like Jen’s.
And at the turn of the century she finally wed,
All hell broke loose when the rain touched her head.
But she didn’t think of her hair, no, not at all,
On the terrible day, when she got that call…
Down the drain, on the rug, and her fluffy white pillow
Did her hair quickly die--
so sad, like a willow.
Bald once again, was Madelyn May,
But that didn’t matter, at all, in the tiniest way.
Melissa Duffy '14
Was a bald little baby— Madelyn May.
As the years quickly passed, her locks quickly grew,
And Madelyn May became a blonde curly sue.
Sentimental was her mom, when she got her first cut,
Then the curls straightened out and turned to chestnut.
A stash of scrunches and ribbons and bows,
She kept in her dresser, always ready to go.
Samuel Beckner, sixth grade, was her first real crush,
She begged for a perm to make his face blush.
But then times got rough, he didn’t crush back,
So she took to the bottle, and dyed her hair black.
Along came the 90’s, she came a young lady,
Sophisticated and sleek, Ms. May was no baby.
And then came a show, with six funny FRIENDS,
She rushed to the salon to get a look like Jen’s.
And at the turn of the century she finally wed,
All hell broke loose when the rain touched her head.
But she didn’t think of her hair, no, not at all,
On the terrible day, when she got that call…
Down the drain, on the rug, and her fluffy white pillow
Did her hair quickly die--
so sad, like a willow.
Bald once again, was Madelyn May,
But that didn’t matter, at all, in the tiniest way.
Melissa Duffy '14
Becoming Vincent and Gregory
A bustling family ran into the dining room at their mother’s call. Their mother had chosen their seats at the dinner table – Vincent and Gregory, the two oldest, across from Neville, the youngest. Neville was encouraged to follow the example that his older brothers set for him, and he did so willingly. He wanted to be everything his brothers were, have everything they had, do everything they did. The brothers were independent but still completely complied to rules. Neville saw them as such great sons, wanting to please their parents but having a mind of their own. They held themselves in confidence and a sense of authority that Neville really admired. Neville did not like peas, but when his brothers ate them, he ate them, too. He did not like to do his homework, but he loved to sit at the kitchen table with his brothers, trying to look just as studious and focused as they looked. That night, his father had cooked steak on the grill for dinner. Neville’s mother knew that he did not care for steak, and offered to boil a hot dog for him instead. Neville glanced over at his brothers, who were helping themselves to the meat their father had just taken off the grill, and answered no. He did not want a hot dog. He informed his mother that he was just as old as his brothers, and should therefore eat grown-up food, too.
After dinner, the three boys were joyfully playing with the nutcracker on the living room floor. The nutcracker had been about Neville’s size since he was bit short for his age. The two older brothers were moving the jaw up and down, pretending that it could talk. Sitting on the carpet floor, Neville gleefully watched the Nutcracker’s jaw move up and down, in the bliss of being included by his older brothers. Their mother soon came in to ruin the fun, and announced to the three boys that it was their bedtime. Reluctant to separate from his brothers, Neville refused to get up, but his older brothers immediately started walking to their room, knowing their younger brother would follow their example. Disappointed, he decided to do the same and followed his mother to his bedroom. When his mother tucked him in, she told him to be a big boy and stay in his room till the rooster crowed. She added that Gregory and Vincent had never left their room because she knew he would not dare to break a rule that his brothers so obediently followed. When she left the room, Neville fell fast asleep, and his imagination got the better of him. Nutcrackers started to chase him around his living room, chomping their long bearded jaws, threatening to eat him up. Neville suddenly remembered his brothers saying, “I can’t see you. You can’t see me!” during their game of hide and seek and quickly decided it would be wise to run to the corner, next to the fire place, and shut his eyes. “I can’t see you. You can’t see me!” he screamed. However, when he peeked through his fingers, he saw three nutcrackers surrounding him, getting bigger and bigger and... Neville was suddenly brought back to his conscious form, breathing hard and fast. Looking out into his darkness, he thought he saw a nutcracker’s shadow. Becoming increasingly frightened by the second, he promised himself that this would be the last time that the nightmares would conquer him, for his brothers would never be scared of something so silly.
Neville crept down the creaky stairs, trying to be as silent as possible, while at the same time, going as fast as he possibly could to get to the safety of his parents’ room. He still had the terrible image in his head of the monstrous nutcracker chasing after him. Neville quickly reached the bottom of the stairs and bolted past the kitchen. He stopped suddenly when he heard the sound of laughter and a pair of dice rolling across the wooden table. Alertly, Neville turned around to see his older brothers, Gregory and Vincent, sitting at the kitchen table, engrossed in a game of Candy Land. They had waited for this time of night, when they could not be ordered around by their parents and their little brother was out of their hair. Standing in the entrance of the kitchen, Neville’s jaw dropped. The image of the nutcracker vanished from his thoughts, and he couldn’t believe his eyes. There, right in front of him, were his brothers, the ones who always did what they were told, always completed their homework, and always finished every bite of their meals. But now, at ten o’clock at night, they were up playing games when they were supposed to be asleep! A million thoughts raced across Neville’s mind. Why were his brothers up? Had they sneaked out of their room after the rest of the family was asleep? What would their parents think of this? Neville didn’t know what to do. He felt confused and disappointed in his brothers. Gregory and Vincent had been his idols. If they did not the follow the rules, who did? They seemed to always do the right thing when he was around and he always tried to follow directly in their footsteps. Before Gregory and Vincent noticed Neville’s presence, Neville exited the kitchen. He was no longer scared of his nightmare, but felt discouraged. A single tear rolled down his cheek.
Alyssa Bogosian, Jenna Choi, and Amanda Anthony '15
After dinner, the three boys were joyfully playing with the nutcracker on the living room floor. The nutcracker had been about Neville’s size since he was bit short for his age. The two older brothers were moving the jaw up and down, pretending that it could talk. Sitting on the carpet floor, Neville gleefully watched the Nutcracker’s jaw move up and down, in the bliss of being included by his older brothers. Their mother soon came in to ruin the fun, and announced to the three boys that it was their bedtime. Reluctant to separate from his brothers, Neville refused to get up, but his older brothers immediately started walking to their room, knowing their younger brother would follow their example. Disappointed, he decided to do the same and followed his mother to his bedroom. When his mother tucked him in, she told him to be a big boy and stay in his room till the rooster crowed. She added that Gregory and Vincent had never left their room because she knew he would not dare to break a rule that his brothers so obediently followed. When she left the room, Neville fell fast asleep, and his imagination got the better of him. Nutcrackers started to chase him around his living room, chomping their long bearded jaws, threatening to eat him up. Neville suddenly remembered his brothers saying, “I can’t see you. You can’t see me!” during their game of hide and seek and quickly decided it would be wise to run to the corner, next to the fire place, and shut his eyes. “I can’t see you. You can’t see me!” he screamed. However, when he peeked through his fingers, he saw three nutcrackers surrounding him, getting bigger and bigger and... Neville was suddenly brought back to his conscious form, breathing hard and fast. Looking out into his darkness, he thought he saw a nutcracker’s shadow. Becoming increasingly frightened by the second, he promised himself that this would be the last time that the nightmares would conquer him, for his brothers would never be scared of something so silly.
Neville crept down the creaky stairs, trying to be as silent as possible, while at the same time, going as fast as he possibly could to get to the safety of his parents’ room. He still had the terrible image in his head of the monstrous nutcracker chasing after him. Neville quickly reached the bottom of the stairs and bolted past the kitchen. He stopped suddenly when he heard the sound of laughter and a pair of dice rolling across the wooden table. Alertly, Neville turned around to see his older brothers, Gregory and Vincent, sitting at the kitchen table, engrossed in a game of Candy Land. They had waited for this time of night, when they could not be ordered around by their parents and their little brother was out of their hair. Standing in the entrance of the kitchen, Neville’s jaw dropped. The image of the nutcracker vanished from his thoughts, and he couldn’t believe his eyes. There, right in front of him, were his brothers, the ones who always did what they were told, always completed their homework, and always finished every bite of their meals. But now, at ten o’clock at night, they were up playing games when they were supposed to be asleep! A million thoughts raced across Neville’s mind. Why were his brothers up? Had they sneaked out of their room after the rest of the family was asleep? What would their parents think of this? Neville didn’t know what to do. He felt confused and disappointed in his brothers. Gregory and Vincent had been his idols. If they did not the follow the rules, who did? They seemed to always do the right thing when he was around and he always tried to follow directly in their footsteps. Before Gregory and Vincent noticed Neville’s presence, Neville exited the kitchen. He was no longer scared of his nightmare, but felt discouraged. A single tear rolled down his cheek.
Alyssa Bogosian, Jenna Choi, and Amanda Anthony '15
Monique
When I come home from work on December 23rd, I step into my apartment to find Monique in my kitchen, baking.
“Hello,” I remark, leaning against the doorjamb and eying the chaos in the kitchen warily. “You’re done early.” Monique tends to leave work sometime after six, whenever she emerges from whatever she's working on or notices she's hungry.
“Hmm? Oh. Hi, Aaron,” she says absently, as she attacks several eggs with a whisk, beating furiously. So far, she’s made cream puffs and two trays of lemon bars. Something else is cooking. “Lee sent everyone home at noon. I was still working,” she adds, irritated. “The computer hadn’t finished its analysis, I wanted to see those numbers.”
“As if you won’t be going back in three days,” I say, grinning to myself. Only Monique would be annoyed at being sent home early the day before Christmas Eve. “What are you working on?”
“Trying to isolate the genes responsible for eye color mutations,” Monique says, shifting the bowl into the crook of her elbow so she can peer into the oven.
“Does this mean you’ll be able to use ‘you have a groovy mutation’ pickup lines?” I inquire, trying to sound innocent and mostly failing.
Monique shuts the oven with a bang. “No,” she says. “Because I, unlike you, have more style than to borrow pickup lines from Charles Xavier. Also, the X-Men movies are still the worst movies. I mean, does anyone on that writing team have even a basic knowledge of mutation?”
“It’s called suspension of disbelief,” I murmur.
“There’s suspension of disbelief and there’s sloppy writing,” Monique argues. “Not that the X-Men movies don’t have their share of sloppy writing, even beyond their absurd science.”
“I was quoting First Class,” I protest. “First Class is well-written, you like First Class.”
“I like Raven,” Monique retorts. “I have no interest in the Professor or Magneto, which is basically the entire movie- do you have any vanilla?”
“I… have no idea. I don’t think so.”
Monique swears under her breath. “Who doesn’t keep vanilla?” she demands, opening my cupboard doors and eying the contents like they've personally insulted her.
“Me, apparently,” I say. “Why are you baking in my kitchen, anyway?”
“Your kitchen is nicer,” she says. “Also, mine doesn't have any milk. And don’t say that I can just go out and buy it, because I did go out, for the lemons and the cream and the vanilla pudding, but I forgot that I’d run out of milk until I got home, and do you know how crazy the stores are today? They’re full of middle-aged mothers, hunting for ingredients for their magnificent Christmas dinners, ready to run people over with their shopping carts- have I mentioned recently that I hate Christmas? I hate Christmas.”
I consider that for a moment. “Pudding?”
“For the cream puffs.”
“And the vanilla?”
“Brownies.”
“Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?” I ask, deciding to just bite the bullet.
Monique eyes me warily. “What do you mean?”
I indicate the baked goods. “Cream puffs, lemon bars, something in the oven, and now brownies. All we’re bringing to my parents’ house is the sweet potato casserole, which I’ll make tomorrow, unless- did you change your mind about going to your parents’?”
Monique’s mouth twists. “No. This year,” she bangs open another of my cupboards, glances inside, and bangs it shut again, “They get to call me. It’s their turn. Anyway, I wouldn’t waste cream puffs on my parents.”
“You’re worried about something, then,” I say. “You only bake like this when you’re stressed. Do you want to talk about it?”
“Do you have vanillin?”
I guess that’s a no.
“What’s vanillin?”
“A substitute for vanilla.”
“I don’t have vanilla,” I point out. “Do you think I would have vanillin?”
“How should I know? Off to the store I go, then,” Monique mutters, scowling. “I hate Christmas.”
“So you’ve said,” I agree. I frown. “You’re not worried about going to my parents’ house, are you? They love you.”
Monique is facing away from me, looking at her brownie mix. “I know.” Her voice sounds strange. “Christmas is-” she sighs. “I don’t know.”
I wait. She’s quiet for a moment.
“Christmas puts me in a weird mood,” she says after a moment. “Makes me think. We never did much for Christmas when I was a kid, and now- I don’t know. It’s weird. Maybe I should get the vanilla from my apartment.”
“You could just leave it,” I point out. “We’ve got plenty of food here, especially if we’re eating it all ourselves.”
Monique frowns at the lemon bars and cream puffs. “True. I don’t like leaving things unfinished, though.”
“Make the brownies and bring some of it to my parents’, then,” I suggest. “They wouldn’t protest.”
“Maybe I’ll give it to Allison,” Monique says, as if she didn't hear. “She’s hosting Christmas for her family and in-laws, she’d like the extra food.”
I sigh. Monique, at times, baffles me.
“Do you want me to get the vanilla for you?” I offer.
She turns to me, surprised. “I can get it.”
“I don’t mind,” I say.
“No, I’ll get it. In a minute. But thank you,” she adds.
We fall silent for a few moments.
“It’s stupid, though,” Monique says abruptly.
“What’s stupid?” I ask.
“Baking is like- it’s like chemistry. It’s just, you do the right things to the right ingredients at the right time and things happen. It’s reliable. It’s science.”
“But yummier,” I offer.
“Well, yes,” Monique says. “So I don’t understand why people get so stupid about baking.”
“Stupid in what way?” I ask carefully.
“A few weeks after I moved in with Jason, I came to the apartment late one night, after work. I’d been doing some analysis, lost track of time- you know how it is. Jason wanted to know where I’d been. Said he was worried. I collapsed on the couch, started watching TV, you know. He just sort of- hung around, I guess. After a bit, I asked him if he wanted Chinese. He said he was tired of Chinese. Pizza? No. I asked him what he wanted to get. He said he was tired of takeout. I said, are you going to cook, then? He said, I thought you might. I said, I don’t really like cooking. He said, yes you do, you like to bake.” Monique rolls her eyes. “That didn’t last long.”
I frown. “I don’t put- expectations on you, do I?”
“No,” Monique says, “No. It’s just-”
“My parents. It’s them, isn’t it?” I say. “I told them to back off, that they were coming on too strong.”
She says, “It’s- I’m not domestic. I never will be, either. I don’t want kids, I just- this is me. I’ll always work strange hours and talk everyone’s ears off over genetics and drink too much coffee, I’ll go on baking sprees for hours and then not touch the kitchen for weeks, I- I’m not going to change and suddenly want all these things that women are supposed to. This is me.”
“I know that,” I say.
“I- what?” Monique looks at me. For the first time, she looks unsure.
“I know,” I say. “I’ll talk to my parents, tell them to back off- I don’t expect that from you. I like this. Arguments over the X-Men and where I keep the vanilla and nights mocking the sci-fi channel. I like the way we are now.”
“Do you want kids? I mean, I sort of assumed- you’re a teacher. You’re good with kids.”
“The nice thing about being a teacher,” I say drily, “is that you can give them back at the end of the day. But- I don’t know. Maybe someday. Maybe not." I shrug. "We're still young. I figure I've got time. But, in the meantime- we're good the way we are. Right?" The last word comes out more plaintively than I would like.
"I- Yeah. Yeah," Monique says. She's smiling, just a little bit, a tug at the edge of her lips.
I smile back.
Anna Teixeira '13
“Hello,” I remark, leaning against the doorjamb and eying the chaos in the kitchen warily. “You’re done early.” Monique tends to leave work sometime after six, whenever she emerges from whatever she's working on or notices she's hungry.
“Hmm? Oh. Hi, Aaron,” she says absently, as she attacks several eggs with a whisk, beating furiously. So far, she’s made cream puffs and two trays of lemon bars. Something else is cooking. “Lee sent everyone home at noon. I was still working,” she adds, irritated. “The computer hadn’t finished its analysis, I wanted to see those numbers.”
“As if you won’t be going back in three days,” I say, grinning to myself. Only Monique would be annoyed at being sent home early the day before Christmas Eve. “What are you working on?”
“Trying to isolate the genes responsible for eye color mutations,” Monique says, shifting the bowl into the crook of her elbow so she can peer into the oven.
“Does this mean you’ll be able to use ‘you have a groovy mutation’ pickup lines?” I inquire, trying to sound innocent and mostly failing.
Monique shuts the oven with a bang. “No,” she says. “Because I, unlike you, have more style than to borrow pickup lines from Charles Xavier. Also, the X-Men movies are still the worst movies. I mean, does anyone on that writing team have even a basic knowledge of mutation?”
“It’s called suspension of disbelief,” I murmur.
“There’s suspension of disbelief and there’s sloppy writing,” Monique argues. “Not that the X-Men movies don’t have their share of sloppy writing, even beyond their absurd science.”
“I was quoting First Class,” I protest. “First Class is well-written, you like First Class.”
“I like Raven,” Monique retorts. “I have no interest in the Professor or Magneto, which is basically the entire movie- do you have any vanilla?”
“I… have no idea. I don’t think so.”
Monique swears under her breath. “Who doesn’t keep vanilla?” she demands, opening my cupboard doors and eying the contents like they've personally insulted her.
“Me, apparently,” I say. “Why are you baking in my kitchen, anyway?”
“Your kitchen is nicer,” she says. “Also, mine doesn't have any milk. And don’t say that I can just go out and buy it, because I did go out, for the lemons and the cream and the vanilla pudding, but I forgot that I’d run out of milk until I got home, and do you know how crazy the stores are today? They’re full of middle-aged mothers, hunting for ingredients for their magnificent Christmas dinners, ready to run people over with their shopping carts- have I mentioned recently that I hate Christmas? I hate Christmas.”
I consider that for a moment. “Pudding?”
“For the cream puffs.”
“And the vanilla?”
“Brownies.”
“Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?” I ask, deciding to just bite the bullet.
Monique eyes me warily. “What do you mean?”
I indicate the baked goods. “Cream puffs, lemon bars, something in the oven, and now brownies. All we’re bringing to my parents’ house is the sweet potato casserole, which I’ll make tomorrow, unless- did you change your mind about going to your parents’?”
Monique’s mouth twists. “No. This year,” she bangs open another of my cupboards, glances inside, and bangs it shut again, “They get to call me. It’s their turn. Anyway, I wouldn’t waste cream puffs on my parents.”
“You’re worried about something, then,” I say. “You only bake like this when you’re stressed. Do you want to talk about it?”
“Do you have vanillin?”
I guess that’s a no.
“What’s vanillin?”
“A substitute for vanilla.”
“I don’t have vanilla,” I point out. “Do you think I would have vanillin?”
“How should I know? Off to the store I go, then,” Monique mutters, scowling. “I hate Christmas.”
“So you’ve said,” I agree. I frown. “You’re not worried about going to my parents’ house, are you? They love you.”
Monique is facing away from me, looking at her brownie mix. “I know.” Her voice sounds strange. “Christmas is-” she sighs. “I don’t know.”
I wait. She’s quiet for a moment.
“Christmas puts me in a weird mood,” she says after a moment. “Makes me think. We never did much for Christmas when I was a kid, and now- I don’t know. It’s weird. Maybe I should get the vanilla from my apartment.”
“You could just leave it,” I point out. “We’ve got plenty of food here, especially if we’re eating it all ourselves.”
Monique frowns at the lemon bars and cream puffs. “True. I don’t like leaving things unfinished, though.”
“Make the brownies and bring some of it to my parents’, then,” I suggest. “They wouldn’t protest.”
“Maybe I’ll give it to Allison,” Monique says, as if she didn't hear. “She’s hosting Christmas for her family and in-laws, she’d like the extra food.”
I sigh. Monique, at times, baffles me.
“Do you want me to get the vanilla for you?” I offer.
She turns to me, surprised. “I can get it.”
“I don’t mind,” I say.
“No, I’ll get it. In a minute. But thank you,” she adds.
We fall silent for a few moments.
“It’s stupid, though,” Monique says abruptly.
“What’s stupid?” I ask.
“Baking is like- it’s like chemistry. It’s just, you do the right things to the right ingredients at the right time and things happen. It’s reliable. It’s science.”
“But yummier,” I offer.
“Well, yes,” Monique says. “So I don’t understand why people get so stupid about baking.”
“Stupid in what way?” I ask carefully.
“A few weeks after I moved in with Jason, I came to the apartment late one night, after work. I’d been doing some analysis, lost track of time- you know how it is. Jason wanted to know where I’d been. Said he was worried. I collapsed on the couch, started watching TV, you know. He just sort of- hung around, I guess. After a bit, I asked him if he wanted Chinese. He said he was tired of Chinese. Pizza? No. I asked him what he wanted to get. He said he was tired of takeout. I said, are you going to cook, then? He said, I thought you might. I said, I don’t really like cooking. He said, yes you do, you like to bake.” Monique rolls her eyes. “That didn’t last long.”
I frown. “I don’t put- expectations on you, do I?”
“No,” Monique says, “No. It’s just-”
“My parents. It’s them, isn’t it?” I say. “I told them to back off, that they were coming on too strong.”
She says, “It’s- I’m not domestic. I never will be, either. I don’t want kids, I just- this is me. I’ll always work strange hours and talk everyone’s ears off over genetics and drink too much coffee, I’ll go on baking sprees for hours and then not touch the kitchen for weeks, I- I’m not going to change and suddenly want all these things that women are supposed to. This is me.”
“I know that,” I say.
“I- what?” Monique looks at me. For the first time, she looks unsure.
“I know,” I say. “I’ll talk to my parents, tell them to back off- I don’t expect that from you. I like this. Arguments over the X-Men and where I keep the vanilla and nights mocking the sci-fi channel. I like the way we are now.”
“Do you want kids? I mean, I sort of assumed- you’re a teacher. You’re good with kids.”
“The nice thing about being a teacher,” I say drily, “is that you can give them back at the end of the day. But- I don’t know. Maybe someday. Maybe not." I shrug. "We're still young. I figure I've got time. But, in the meantime- we're good the way we are. Right?" The last word comes out more plaintively than I would like.
"I- Yeah. Yeah," Monique says. She's smiling, just a little bit, a tug at the edge of her lips.
I smile back.
Anna Teixeira '13
Chemistry
Two days before Christmas,
Your boss lets you out early.
“Go home,” he says,
“Spend time with your family.”
“Happy holidays, everyone.”
You’re not going home.
Last year, you made apple pie.
Your mother looked at it
And asked you about your salary.
Your father ate three slices,
The smell of whiskey hanging off his breath.
They fought about who would cook.
You made pasta while they yelled
And felt like you were fourteen again,
All clumsy limbs and fragile dreams.
You decide to bake. Lemon bars, maybe.
You go to the supermarket.
Middle-aged housewives run this way and that,
Hunting for the perfect turkey,
The roundest potatoes.
It makes you sick.
You take your five lemons
And head to the checkout line.
You wait in line for five minutes
Before heading back.
Five more lemons, heavy cream, and vanilla pudding.
You’ll make cream puffs.
You have no milk.
You scowl at your refrigerator
And contemplate returning to the store.
Unacceptable, you decide immediately.
Aaron’s apartment was a mistake.
You know this as soon as you step inside
And see the Christmas cards on the table:
His parents, beaming at the camera.
His sister, stomach swelling with the fetus,
Her husband’s arm around her.
You bake furiously.
You like baking,
The rhythm of it, the simplicity.
Like chemistry.
It soothes you.
In grad school, you would study for hours,
Until, at almost three in the morning,
Going cross-eyed, you would put down your books
And lie awake, staring at the ceiling,
Thinking about Mendel and valedictorian and your mother.
At four a.m., you would give up on sleep
And bake.
You would fall asleep at six,
Get up four hours later,
And do it all again.
Your apartment was always crowded
When finals week came around.
Aaron gets home early.
Of course he does, you think,
Irritated with yourself for thinking otherwise.
It’s Christmas vacation for his students.
He’s not staying late.
You don’t usually bake around boyfriends.
Jason, your ex, was baffled,
The first time he saw you bake.
You’d just moved in.
Two o’clock in the morning,
And you were defending your thesis the next day.
So, baking.
A week or so later,
Jason said he was tired of takeout
And waited for a response.
You shrugged.
Nine years old,
You taught yourself how to work the stove.
Your mother never cooked.
She was always at work.
Two jobs,
Overqualified for both.
Saturday nights,
Your mother crept into your room
And hid the paycheck under your mattress.
At Thanksgiving, Aaron’s parents eagerly accepted crème brulee
And told you how charmed they were,
How Aaron was lucky to have you.
You look at your lemon bars,
Both trays.
Time to make cream puffs.
You think about seeing Aaron’s parents over Christmas.
…Maybe brownies, too.
Aaron brings up another question:
What to do with all the baked goods?
He suggests his parents.
Yeah, no.
Not your parents either.
You’re trying an experiment:
How long will it take them to initiate contact?
So far, eight months and seven days.
No, you’ll give them to Allison.
Allison, who’s hosting Christmas
For her family and in-laws,
Who’s running around, buying food,
A baby on each hip,
Tidying the house
In the time that her job used to take up.
Headlights flash by.
You curl up in the passenger seat,
Heat blowing over your face,
And watch the snow fall.
Another Christmas gone.
His parents get more obvious every year.
You wait for him to comment on it,
Watching him
Out of the corner of your eye.
He sings along to the radio,
Horribly off-tune.
He doesn’t say anything.
Neither do you.
Why would you?
Anna Teixeira '13
Your boss lets you out early.
“Go home,” he says,
“Spend time with your family.”
“Happy holidays, everyone.”
You’re not going home.
Last year, you made apple pie.
Your mother looked at it
And asked you about your salary.
Your father ate three slices,
The smell of whiskey hanging off his breath.
They fought about who would cook.
You made pasta while they yelled
And felt like you were fourteen again,
All clumsy limbs and fragile dreams.
You decide to bake. Lemon bars, maybe.
You go to the supermarket.
Middle-aged housewives run this way and that,
Hunting for the perfect turkey,
The roundest potatoes.
It makes you sick.
You take your five lemons
And head to the checkout line.
You wait in line for five minutes
Before heading back.
Five more lemons, heavy cream, and vanilla pudding.
You’ll make cream puffs.
You have no milk.
You scowl at your refrigerator
And contemplate returning to the store.
Unacceptable, you decide immediately.
Aaron’s apartment was a mistake.
You know this as soon as you step inside
And see the Christmas cards on the table:
His parents, beaming at the camera.
His sister, stomach swelling with the fetus,
Her husband’s arm around her.
You bake furiously.
You like baking,
The rhythm of it, the simplicity.
Like chemistry.
It soothes you.
In grad school, you would study for hours,
Until, at almost three in the morning,
Going cross-eyed, you would put down your books
And lie awake, staring at the ceiling,
Thinking about Mendel and valedictorian and your mother.
At four a.m., you would give up on sleep
And bake.
You would fall asleep at six,
Get up four hours later,
And do it all again.
Your apartment was always crowded
When finals week came around.
Aaron gets home early.
Of course he does, you think,
Irritated with yourself for thinking otherwise.
It’s Christmas vacation for his students.
He’s not staying late.
You don’t usually bake around boyfriends.
Jason, your ex, was baffled,
The first time he saw you bake.
You’d just moved in.
Two o’clock in the morning,
And you were defending your thesis the next day.
So, baking.
A week or so later,
Jason said he was tired of takeout
And waited for a response.
You shrugged.
Nine years old,
You taught yourself how to work the stove.
Your mother never cooked.
She was always at work.
Two jobs,
Overqualified for both.
Saturday nights,
Your mother crept into your room
And hid the paycheck under your mattress.
At Thanksgiving, Aaron’s parents eagerly accepted crème brulee
And told you how charmed they were,
How Aaron was lucky to have you.
You look at your lemon bars,
Both trays.
Time to make cream puffs.
You think about seeing Aaron’s parents over Christmas.
…Maybe brownies, too.
Aaron brings up another question:
What to do with all the baked goods?
He suggests his parents.
Yeah, no.
Not your parents either.
You’re trying an experiment:
How long will it take them to initiate contact?
So far, eight months and seven days.
No, you’ll give them to Allison.
Allison, who’s hosting Christmas
For her family and in-laws,
Who’s running around, buying food,
A baby on each hip,
Tidying the house
In the time that her job used to take up.
Headlights flash by.
You curl up in the passenger seat,
Heat blowing over your face,
And watch the snow fall.
Another Christmas gone.
His parents get more obvious every year.
You wait for him to comment on it,
Watching him
Out of the corner of your eye.
He sings along to the radio,
Horribly off-tune.
He doesn’t say anything.
Neither do you.
Why would you?
Anna Teixeira '13
Twilight Poem
The Cape Cod mall, with my family, several summers back,
In Barnes and Noble, my eyes caught an apple surrounded by black.
Immediately, I longed to take the perfection out of the untouched book,
So I flipped through the pages and gave it a long hard look.
I remember my 6th grade teacher reviewing the story,
But the word “vampire” made me think it’d be dark and gory.
Yet, when I saw my cousin Kelly a couple days before,
She couldn’t detach herself from the last book of four.
So as my dad found the biography ‘bout some political man,
Twilight was still the only story I held in my hand.
I was lying in the sand, melting in the sun
But I just couldn’t cool off ‘til each chapter was done.
In the town of Forks, skies were yucky and grey,
And for the first time ever, I wanted an overcast day.
On a beach in the summer, I actually wished it would rain,
As if I was bitten somehow, in my sappy, young brain.
With brown eyes like mine, Bella was me,
And in that fantasy world, I completely felt free.
Then shopping with friends before back-to-school,
Abercrombie and Hollister were essential to be cool.
But they laughed at me, because all I would need,
Was the second novel for me to read.
And the seventh grade were some pretty dark days,
Yet I found light in the excitement of the vampire craze.
I remember watching a trailer for November 21st, 2008,
And yelling upstairs, “Mom, this looks great!”
And she was my only friend, who’d go with me,
Which was sad, but I forgot by the end of the movie.
Because even if I didn’t know where I’d sit at lunch each day,
In my backpack was a black-covered world where
I could run away.
If I felt alone,
Twilight was the one thing that made me feel good,
And of that pain, Bella truly understood.
Because when her heart was shattered, she took her time to heal,
Which is a more realistic depiction of loss, I feel.
For surely, her love couldn’t have been all that strong,
If she quickly was fine, bounced back and moved on.
As humans, I think we all can relate,
So I don’t understand all the backlash hate.
For thirteen, fourteen, fifteen and sixteen,
Twilight’s been mine, by page or by screen.
When I turned the last page of the final one,
It was sad that the story was actually done.
Yet, the movies being made could pull me through,
As there were three--
Wait four more, to look forward to.
Each time in the theater, I’d get an adrenalin rush,
And afterwards my brain would turn into mush.
Every November, and that one time in June,
I’d be so giddy and just over the moon.
From braces and acne, it was hard to feel pretty,
Or like some beautiful boy would ever love me.
So I found hope that Bella, just an average girl,
Could attract the most gorgeous boy in the world.
Like, one day, I wouldn’t have to change myself,
To build a life with somebody else.
And no, it’s not just about having a boyfriend,
But having a love that lasts ‘til the end.
Because Bella and Edward will always be Forever,
Whereas these days, hardly anybody ever stays together.
Some say that’s not real, some say that’s not smart,
But I say that life should imitate art.
And I do understand why people don’t feel the same,
Especially considering how big it became.
Yet when people bash what were my teenage years,
I get so angry it almost brings me to tears.
Because on the surface, it may not seem like a big deal,
But consider how it made an awkward, average girl feel.
And I guess some will never see it in the very same way,
And I get that people don’t understand and that’s okay.
Yet, I just hate the impression that there is something wrong,
With loving a world where I feel I belong.
Melissa Duffy '14
In Barnes and Noble, my eyes caught an apple surrounded by black.
Immediately, I longed to take the perfection out of the untouched book,
So I flipped through the pages and gave it a long hard look.
I remember my 6th grade teacher reviewing the story,
But the word “vampire” made me think it’d be dark and gory.
Yet, when I saw my cousin Kelly a couple days before,
She couldn’t detach herself from the last book of four.
So as my dad found the biography ‘bout some political man,
Twilight was still the only story I held in my hand.
I was lying in the sand, melting in the sun
But I just couldn’t cool off ‘til each chapter was done.
In the town of Forks, skies were yucky and grey,
And for the first time ever, I wanted an overcast day.
On a beach in the summer, I actually wished it would rain,
As if I was bitten somehow, in my sappy, young brain.
With brown eyes like mine, Bella was me,
And in that fantasy world, I completely felt free.
Then shopping with friends before back-to-school,
Abercrombie and Hollister were essential to be cool.
But they laughed at me, because all I would need,
Was the second novel for me to read.
And the seventh grade were some pretty dark days,
Yet I found light in the excitement of the vampire craze.
I remember watching a trailer for November 21st, 2008,
And yelling upstairs, “Mom, this looks great!”
And she was my only friend, who’d go with me,
Which was sad, but I forgot by the end of the movie.
Because even if I didn’t know where I’d sit at lunch each day,
In my backpack was a black-covered world where
I could run away.
If I felt alone,
Twilight was the one thing that made me feel good,
And of that pain, Bella truly understood.
Because when her heart was shattered, she took her time to heal,
Which is a more realistic depiction of loss, I feel.
For surely, her love couldn’t have been all that strong,
If she quickly was fine, bounced back and moved on.
As humans, I think we all can relate,
So I don’t understand all the backlash hate.
For thirteen, fourteen, fifteen and sixteen,
Twilight’s been mine, by page or by screen.
When I turned the last page of the final one,
It was sad that the story was actually done.
Yet, the movies being made could pull me through,
As there were three--
Wait four more, to look forward to.
Each time in the theater, I’d get an adrenalin rush,
And afterwards my brain would turn into mush.
Every November, and that one time in June,
I’d be so giddy and just over the moon.
From braces and acne, it was hard to feel pretty,
Or like some beautiful boy would ever love me.
So I found hope that Bella, just an average girl,
Could attract the most gorgeous boy in the world.
Like, one day, I wouldn’t have to change myself,
To build a life with somebody else.
And no, it’s not just about having a boyfriend,
But having a love that lasts ‘til the end.
Because Bella and Edward will always be Forever,
Whereas these days, hardly anybody ever stays together.
Some say that’s not real, some say that’s not smart,
But I say that life should imitate art.
And I do understand why people don’t feel the same,
Especially considering how big it became.
Yet when people bash what were my teenage years,
I get so angry it almost brings me to tears.
Because on the surface, it may not seem like a big deal,
But consider how it made an awkward, average girl feel.
And I guess some will never see it in the very same way,
And I get that people don’t understand and that’s okay.
Yet, I just hate the impression that there is something wrong,
With loving a world where I feel I belong.
Melissa Duffy '14
Hwaet! A Geat in Detention
The school office was not quiet. The teachers working there were talking, the clock ticked loudly, and the door kept opening and closing. The ambient noise should have helped Hattie to get her Pre-Calculus homework done while she was spending detention there, but she was still stuck on a synthetic division problem somehow. She bit down hard on the top of her sparkly green mechanical pencil and tried to resist making a guttural noise of frustration. The small L shape of seats in the windowed corner of the small office was vacant except for her, but the rest of the desks were full of office workers and noise. The lady at the front desk had nicely explained detention for her, since it was the first one of her high school career. She just had to sit in the office for an hour after school and then her time would be served. She’d expected to get her math done, but the long problem in front of her was making it hard to move forward. She could’ve skipped it and gone on, but she wanted to put up a good fight against the problem before doing so. A disgruntled girl with a big gray sweater on walked into the office and signed in for detention at the front desk before sitting in the chair next to Hattie’s.
“I’m Remy, what are you here for?” she asked. Such spontaneous friendliness was unexpected, but Hattie was glad to be distracted from her momentous math problem. She smoothed her dyed-green hair and looked up from the defiant equation in her book.
“Hattie. I went to the library for study hall and hadn’t signed in, that’s all. I’m sure lots of people have detention for the same reason,” she answered, bitter over her punishment. “My parents are going to get scared when they find out.”
“I’m sure they won’t care, just make the system sound unfair. That’s what I’m going to do. I might even make myself cry if I have to; I can hyperventilate on cue pretty well. I had a perfect record before now and they’ll worry I’m turning into my sister and it won’t be good if they get the wrong idea,” said Remy coolly.
“I had a perfect record before now too!” Hattie exclaimed.
“I know! And aren’t you hoping that the detention won’t be on a permanent record somewhere so you won’t have to explain stupid rules to colleges?”
“Yeah!”
Engrossed in finding something in common with a new person she’d probably never see again, Hattie almost missed the sight of a man clad in armor and chain mail walking through the door. Her mechanical pencil found its way up to her mouth again and she chewed in surprise.
“Mr. Beowulf, what are you here for?” the front desk lady asked. “Fighting again? Oh well, warriors these days…”
After Beowulf had penned a name
upon the sheet, gleaming in ink,
he sat on a chair near the entry-rectangle.
His binder was shimmering gold.
Hattie and Remy tried not to stare,
though none other noticed the Geat.
Hattie, doer of math, spoke first,
“Do you see the hero of the story we’re reading in English class sitting right there and doing Algebra?”
“Well, he can’t be smart enough for Pre-Calc, he’s a fighter, not a thinker. I think Unferth was more that type and he got verbally beaten up like a high-school-movie nerd. Beowulf told him he was going to Hell, didn’t you catch that?”
her new companion replied.
“Should we talk to him?”
“When will we ever get the chance again? I’d rather talk to Wiglaf, but I say we should definitely engage the Geatish fellow. I’ll talk first.”
So Remy, the other girl in detention, spoke
to the hero whose noble fist clutched a pen,
“Uh, hello, Beowulf, why are you in detention?”
The Geat hero slowly looked up
at the girl who had spoken thus,
and with gumption of sociability spoke,
“Many a time have I brawled with my fellows.
Though my kinsmen are my brothers always
we sometimes come to blows within the halls.
Arguments abound once a moon
and flying fists are many then.
In fine fettle we all emerged from this brawl,
though entombed in trouble with the masters
of this hall you call high school.
I now ask you two young maidens,
what violence can you have committed
to warrant a pernicious jailing
inside the walls of this blighted recompense-room?”
Leaning over discreetly to her friend,
Hattie whispered, closing her now-vestigial math book,
“He talks funny.”
Remy answered, her backpack unopened yet,
“No kidding. Everyone in that poem talks perfectly funnily, why are you surprised? I’m just enjoying the situation. Go on, talk back to him.”
“You see, Beowulf, it was a clerical error. Sort of. We forgot to sign up for leaving a “class,” which is to say, study. And then we got caught by an assistant principal and pulled out of class to be told to go here after school. We didn’t fight anyone or anything. We’re not the only ones; I heard some, uh, maidens, girls, devotchkas, what have you, in art class saying they have about five detentions each for the same reason. We’re both usually law-abiding denizens of this school of schools, mister,”
Hattie said, gaining gumption as she spoke
and regarded the son of Ecgtheow.
The monster-killer answered her words,
“I am glad you have not fought any fellows of your own.”
“Only my sister have I—I mean, I’ve only fought my sister and that was when I was littler,”
offered Remy, looking wistful.
The Geat nodded, taking homework
from his chain-mail backpack deftly.
He pulled from his golden pencil-case
a sharpener hasped with likenesses
of Grendel wearing a mustache.
He sharpened a pencil damascened well,
etched with the words, “vote for Hrothgar.”
Then putting a pencil upon
a single page of Physics work,
spoke once more to Hattie and Remy,
“You are both well-seeming maidens.
I will wish you both a good day,
and may your gold-givers ever be kind.”
The conversation was then done,
and Remy and Hattie nodded courteously to the Geat.
After detention had ended and Beowulf left,
exiting the school office,
Hattie and Remy found themselves whispering like old friends in light of the short and surprising occurrence.
“I’ll never forget my first detention of high school now, that’s for sure,” said Hattie with wide eyes.
“Me neither. Hey, can I have your phone number? I desperately need to be friends with someone who experienced that by my side,” said Remy.
“Sure, I’m building a replica of the Wright flyer over the weekend, want to come over?” asked Hattie, brightened substantially in contrast to her earlier gloom over the detention.
“I have violin practice on Friday this week, so sure!” Remy enthusiastically agreed and they shook hands. Hattie was bemused by the whole affair, but was glad to have shared it.
Ruby Struble '14
“I’m Remy, what are you here for?” she asked. Such spontaneous friendliness was unexpected, but Hattie was glad to be distracted from her momentous math problem. She smoothed her dyed-green hair and looked up from the defiant equation in her book.
“Hattie. I went to the library for study hall and hadn’t signed in, that’s all. I’m sure lots of people have detention for the same reason,” she answered, bitter over her punishment. “My parents are going to get scared when they find out.”
“I’m sure they won’t care, just make the system sound unfair. That’s what I’m going to do. I might even make myself cry if I have to; I can hyperventilate on cue pretty well. I had a perfect record before now and they’ll worry I’m turning into my sister and it won’t be good if they get the wrong idea,” said Remy coolly.
“I had a perfect record before now too!” Hattie exclaimed.
“I know! And aren’t you hoping that the detention won’t be on a permanent record somewhere so you won’t have to explain stupid rules to colleges?”
“Yeah!”
Engrossed in finding something in common with a new person she’d probably never see again, Hattie almost missed the sight of a man clad in armor and chain mail walking through the door. Her mechanical pencil found its way up to her mouth again and she chewed in surprise.
“Mr. Beowulf, what are you here for?” the front desk lady asked. “Fighting again? Oh well, warriors these days…”
After Beowulf had penned a name
upon the sheet, gleaming in ink,
he sat on a chair near the entry-rectangle.
His binder was shimmering gold.
Hattie and Remy tried not to stare,
though none other noticed the Geat.
Hattie, doer of math, spoke first,
“Do you see the hero of the story we’re reading in English class sitting right there and doing Algebra?”
“Well, he can’t be smart enough for Pre-Calc, he’s a fighter, not a thinker. I think Unferth was more that type and he got verbally beaten up like a high-school-movie nerd. Beowulf told him he was going to Hell, didn’t you catch that?”
her new companion replied.
“Should we talk to him?”
“When will we ever get the chance again? I’d rather talk to Wiglaf, but I say we should definitely engage the Geatish fellow. I’ll talk first.”
So Remy, the other girl in detention, spoke
to the hero whose noble fist clutched a pen,
“Uh, hello, Beowulf, why are you in detention?”
The Geat hero slowly looked up
at the girl who had spoken thus,
and with gumption of sociability spoke,
“Many a time have I brawled with my fellows.
Though my kinsmen are my brothers always
we sometimes come to blows within the halls.
Arguments abound once a moon
and flying fists are many then.
In fine fettle we all emerged from this brawl,
though entombed in trouble with the masters
of this hall you call high school.
I now ask you two young maidens,
what violence can you have committed
to warrant a pernicious jailing
inside the walls of this blighted recompense-room?”
Leaning over discreetly to her friend,
Hattie whispered, closing her now-vestigial math book,
“He talks funny.”
Remy answered, her backpack unopened yet,
“No kidding. Everyone in that poem talks perfectly funnily, why are you surprised? I’m just enjoying the situation. Go on, talk back to him.”
“You see, Beowulf, it was a clerical error. Sort of. We forgot to sign up for leaving a “class,” which is to say, study. And then we got caught by an assistant principal and pulled out of class to be told to go here after school. We didn’t fight anyone or anything. We’re not the only ones; I heard some, uh, maidens, girls, devotchkas, what have you, in art class saying they have about five detentions each for the same reason. We’re both usually law-abiding denizens of this school of schools, mister,”
Hattie said, gaining gumption as she spoke
and regarded the son of Ecgtheow.
The monster-killer answered her words,
“I am glad you have not fought any fellows of your own.”
“Only my sister have I—I mean, I’ve only fought my sister and that was when I was littler,”
offered Remy, looking wistful.
The Geat nodded, taking homework
from his chain-mail backpack deftly.
He pulled from his golden pencil-case
a sharpener hasped with likenesses
of Grendel wearing a mustache.
He sharpened a pencil damascened well,
etched with the words, “vote for Hrothgar.”
Then putting a pencil upon
a single page of Physics work,
spoke once more to Hattie and Remy,
“You are both well-seeming maidens.
I will wish you both a good day,
and may your gold-givers ever be kind.”
The conversation was then done,
and Remy and Hattie nodded courteously to the Geat.
After detention had ended and Beowulf left,
exiting the school office,
Hattie and Remy found themselves whispering like old friends in light of the short and surprising occurrence.
“I’ll never forget my first detention of high school now, that’s for sure,” said Hattie with wide eyes.
“Me neither. Hey, can I have your phone number? I desperately need to be friends with someone who experienced that by my side,” said Remy.
“Sure, I’m building a replica of the Wright flyer over the weekend, want to come over?” asked Hattie, brightened substantially in contrast to her earlier gloom over the detention.
“I have violin practice on Friday this week, so sure!” Remy enthusiastically agreed and they shook hands. Hattie was bemused by the whole affair, but was glad to have shared it.
Ruby Struble '14
Night Sky
Caitlin Mahoney '15
Buying Time
We’re up before the dawn yawns
And dressed before the sky sighs,
Chirping phones like birds in early morn.
Take ten minutes to fly by,
Grab food before the car starts-
Save time by eating on the way to work.
Thirty minutes to downtown
In traffic where we scowl, growl
At mirrors of ourselves in crawling cars.
Now it’s a race to the last parking spot
So we get to the building at 9 on the dot
But forget that the elevator is no-go
And we scale the bare stairs with a newly-stubbed toe
‘Til the forty-fourth floor fin’ly comes into view
With the minute hand wavering over the two
So we’re late, yes we’re late, there was no other way
To get up to the office on time here today
No, don’t start please just shut up and sit down and work
On a project we hate for a pompous-ass jerk.
Spend hours on the bore: four,
Spend seconds breathing free: three:
A busy bee that functions for the hive.
Once the clock has chimed, time
Is ours to kill or keep- sleep
Of course is number one upon our list.
But miles are left to go, though
In distance, time, and more, ‘fore
We lose the precious minutes of the day.
Knowing soon our time is flown
We hope to hoard that time we own
And steal from others to survive
Buying time to waste on useless lives.
Three billion beats we have to use,
Our heartbeats iambs we can lose-
The words that write our little tale
Must not falter, fumble, freeze, or fail.
Such treasure is each second found!
We must take care to share their sound:
For what’s the use of time to spend,
Buying time to waste before the end?
Laura White '13
And dressed before the sky sighs,
Chirping phones like birds in early morn.
Take ten minutes to fly by,
Grab food before the car starts-
Save time by eating on the way to work.
Thirty minutes to downtown
In traffic where we scowl, growl
At mirrors of ourselves in crawling cars.
Now it’s a race to the last parking spot
So we get to the building at 9 on the dot
But forget that the elevator is no-go
And we scale the bare stairs with a newly-stubbed toe
‘Til the forty-fourth floor fin’ly comes into view
With the minute hand wavering over the two
So we’re late, yes we’re late, there was no other way
To get up to the office on time here today
No, don’t start please just shut up and sit down and work
On a project we hate for a pompous-ass jerk.
Spend hours on the bore: four,
Spend seconds breathing free: three:
A busy bee that functions for the hive.
Once the clock has chimed, time
Is ours to kill or keep- sleep
Of course is number one upon our list.
But miles are left to go, though
In distance, time, and more, ‘fore
We lose the precious minutes of the day.
Knowing soon our time is flown
We hope to hoard that time we own
And steal from others to survive
Buying time to waste on useless lives.
Three billion beats we have to use,
Our heartbeats iambs we can lose-
The words that write our little tale
Must not falter, fumble, freeze, or fail.
Such treasure is each second found!
We must take care to share their sound:
For what’s the use of time to spend,
Buying time to waste before the end?
Laura White '13
Cuddling
Marielle Sabbag '14
The Riot
Hello, Warden, and welcome to the madhouse.
It seems you’ve got a full riot up in here,
Banging on the bars and scrabbling for the keys,
Desperate for shape and voice.
But remember who the Warden is,
For as much as they push and shove
And scream and rail and beg against the bars
You are the ultimate authority here.
So keep your keys close
Your eyes sharp
And your flashlight on
Because some of these devils are cunning and light-tongued
And might slip away before their time
If you pay no mind.
They’re valuable, they are,
Some of them have whole books locked up inside them,
Others gold, and others just odd little trinkets,
And if you’re lucky, you might find one who collects tears.
If you’re to survive out there
You’ll have to learn to survive in here,
And that takes time.
They all have different names, and they love to change them,
So learning their disguises is key.
Oh, there’s just one catch –
Do you think it is worse for one of them to run free in the daylight
Or to wander down to the depths of this place, never to be seen again?
Be careful who you let slip out of your grasp.
But someday they must all go free,
Whether they run from their cages erupting with joy,
Or must be dragged out still clinging to their bars,
Proudly step forth into the sun,
Burst their bonds and throw open the doors of this tomb,
Slink back into the caverns and die down there somewhere,
Or someday return looking for refuge.
Just keep your eyes peeled,
And try and find at least a few who’ll stick with you
And follow you through the doors
Right up until this lonely island sinks again.
Ben Krowitz '13
It seems you’ve got a full riot up in here,
Banging on the bars and scrabbling for the keys,
Desperate for shape and voice.
But remember who the Warden is,
For as much as they push and shove
And scream and rail and beg against the bars
You are the ultimate authority here.
So keep your keys close
Your eyes sharp
And your flashlight on
Because some of these devils are cunning and light-tongued
And might slip away before their time
If you pay no mind.
They’re valuable, they are,
Some of them have whole books locked up inside them,
Others gold, and others just odd little trinkets,
And if you’re lucky, you might find one who collects tears.
If you’re to survive out there
You’ll have to learn to survive in here,
And that takes time.
They all have different names, and they love to change them,
So learning their disguises is key.
Oh, there’s just one catch –
Do you think it is worse for one of them to run free in the daylight
Or to wander down to the depths of this place, never to be seen again?
Be careful who you let slip out of your grasp.
But someday they must all go free,
Whether they run from their cages erupting with joy,
Or must be dragged out still clinging to their bars,
Proudly step forth into the sun,
Burst their bonds and throw open the doors of this tomb,
Slink back into the caverns and die down there somewhere,
Or someday return looking for refuge.
Just keep your eyes peeled,
And try and find at least a few who’ll stick with you
And follow you through the doors
Right up until this lonely island sinks again.
Ben Krowitz '13
Hamlet MST
Aescheron: You’ll be taking on the Bard of Avon today.
Tolan: You won’t make us do jokes about that “To Be or Not To Be” speech, will you?
THE WRITER: You’re not supposed to talk to me, get back to work. But I wouldn’t do that to you, don’t worry.
Seamere: MST-ing be praised.
Aescheron: Ahem. Leave the fourth wall alone.
Modig: Should we have a counter ready for the number of times ears are mentioned?
Tolan: The Elizabethan Era must this be, and the time for couplets in dialogue, I ask thee?
Seamere: You bet. Also the era where you were just as likely to breathe as to get some kind of plague.
Tolan: It also happened to be the time when one of the most influential writers in the history of the English language existed.
Modig: Christopher Marlowe?
Seamere: Shakespeare, actually, if you can believe it. Also the time of very nice beards.
Modig: But that could be said of any given time in history, really.
Tolan: True.
Aescheron: You might not but get to reading Hamlet, groundlings.
Modig: OK, OK. We’ll START!
KING
Have you your father's leave? What says Polonius?
Seamere: “The windbag wheezes on and on in pointless words like always, my lord.”
POLONIUS
H'ath, my lord, wrung from me my slow leave by laborsome petition, and at last upon his will I seal'd my hard consent: I do beseech you, give him leave to go.
Tolan: Polonius needs Claudius’ permission for his son to go back to school?
Seamere: I assume it’s part of Mr. KING’s authority.
KING
Take thy fair hour, Laertes; time be thine, and thy best graces spend it at thy will!
But now, my cousin Hamlet, and my son--
Seamere: Who may or may not be allowed to spend his time at his will depending on his perkiness levels.
HAMLET
A little more than kin, and less than kind.
Modig: Yes! Sass that evil king, Hamlet!
Seamere: Claudius must be too busy twirling his mustache to notice.
KING
How is it that the clouds still hang on you?
Seamere: Could be that his father died recently and his evil uncle seized the throne and his mother.
Tolan: But you could be wrong.
HAMLET
Not so, my lord; I am too much i' the sun.
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted color off, and let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark.
Tolan: Look like a friend on the kingdom where hebona poison is readily available for regicides.
Modig: The kingdom where the dead take a break from their eternal torment to ask their sons to avenge their murder most foul.
Do not for ever with thy vailèd lids seek for thy noble father in the dust: thou know'st 'tis common; all that lives must die, passing through nature to eternity.
Modig: You’ll find him a grave man now. Heh heh.
Tolan: What, you egg?! You worse than senseless thing!
Seamere: Hold, enough.
HAMLET
Ay, madam, it is common.
QUEEN
If it be, why seems it so particular with thee?
Seamere: I guess when there’s a wedding all grief from a recent death is expected to be gone.
Tolan: “Why are you not playing at Twister and other larks with us while you grieve for your father, son? It’s unnatural.”
HAMLET
Seems, madam! nay it is; I know not "seems." 'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, nor customary suits of solemn black, nor windy suspiration of forced breath, no, nor the fruitful river in the eye, nor the dejected havior of the visage,
Modig: “Nor the gloomy metaphors I spout.”
together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief, that can denote me truly: these indeed seem, for they are actions that a man might play: but I have that within which passeth show; these but the trappings and the suits of woe.
Tolan: Good on him meticulously describing his grief so hopefully his mother can understand that grief is not something you just tell someone to get over.
Seamere: And yet Claudius persists in that course in the very next line.
Modig: Commendable parenting!
KING
'Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet, to give these mourning duties to your father: but, you must know, your father lost a father; that father lost, lost his, and the survivor bound in filial obligation for some term to do obsequious sorrow: but to persever in obstinate condolement is a course of impious stubbornness; 'tis unmanly grief;
Seamere: Now I’m usually a calm MST-er, but AAAAGH!
Modig: You insensitive git, Claudius!
Tolan: Pillock! You could make some attempt to not call your son a wimp for being sad about his father’s death!
it shows a will most incorrect to heaven, a heart unfortified, a mind impatient, an understanding simple and unschool'd:
Modig: Ugh, can we take a break right now? This character is too mean.
Aescheron: No, your job isn’t done yet.
Tolan: God’s nightgown!
Seamere: Odin’s ravens!
Modig: Bubble and squeak! Wish we were allowed to curse here.
For what we know must be and is as common as any the most vulgar thing to sense, why should we in our peevish opposition take it to heart? Fie! 'tis a fault to heaven, a fault against the dead, a fault to nature, to reason most absurd: whose common theme is death of fathers,
Modig: Arcite and Palamon in their blenching lovesickness could take this twerp in a fight and I would encourage them.
Tolan: If they killed him he would shut up about how feeling too sad over death is an evil thing, so I’m in solidarity with you on that.
and who still hath cried, from the first corse till he that died to-day, "This must be so." We pray you, throw to earth this unprevailing woe, and think of us as of a father:
Tolan: A father made of one part traitorous uncle, one part queen who disrespected her husband’s memory, and so being one hundred percent lovable to any young prince.
Modig: On sale today at the father store!
for let the world take note, you are the most immediate to our throne; and with no less nobility of love than that which dearest father bears his son, do I impart toward you.
Seamere: “I only killed your father, seduced your mother and became a stepfather you hate, why don’t you love me?”
For your intent in going back to school in Wittenberg, it is most retrograde to our desire: and we beseech you, bend you to remain here, in the cheer and comfort of our eye, our chiefest courtier, cousin, and our son.
Seamere: Hamlet should be overjoyed. He gets to stay home from school with his evil uncle and the uncle’s incestuous bride.
Tolan: They’re going to have such family fun together.
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Let not thy mother lose her prayers, Hamlet:
I pray thee, stay with us; go not to Wittenberg.
Tolan: At least there’s a queen here who’s not basically a drinks waitress and who talks alongside her husband.
Modig: Lookin’ at you, Beowulf.
HAMLET
I shall in all my best obey you, madam.
Seamere: “I’ll make many stealth insults to express my frustration throughout the play, madam. How like you that?”
KING
Why, 'tis a loving and a fair reply: be as ourself in Denmark. Madam, come; this gentle and unforced accord of Hamlet sits smiling to my heart:
Modig: Hope that accord brushed its teeth, or else it’ll give him heartburn.
in grace whereof, no jocund health that Denmark drinks today, but the great cannon to the clouds shall tell, and the king's rouse the heavens shall bruit again, respeaking earthly thunder. Come away.
Tolan: More matter, with less art, please.
Flourish. Exeunt all but HAMLET.
HAMLET
O, that this too too solid flesh would melt, thaw and resolve itself into a dew!
Seamere: A desire to melt must be a sign of some serious psychological damage.
Tolan: Poor Hamlet.
Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd his canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God! How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable, seem to me all the uses of this world! Fie on't! ah fie! 'tis an unweeded garden, that grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature possess it merely. That it should come to this!
Seamere: The garden of his world was fine until Claudius the Dandelion came in and infested it with like plants, in his eyes.
Tolan: Poor kid’s got problems, huh?
But two months dead: nay, not so much, not two: so excellent a king; that was, to this, Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother that he might not beteem the winds of heaven visit her face too roughly.
Tolan: I’m going to assume that meant he jumped through a castle window and made a crash landing on her face because it amuses me.
Modig: You do that.
Heaven and earth! Must I remember? why, she would hang on him, as if increase of appetite had grown by what it fed on: and yet, within a month—let me not think on't—Frailty, thy name is woman!--
Seamere: “I shall generalize in my soliloquizing and no one shall stop me!”
A little month, or ere those shoes were old with which she follow'd my poor father's body, like Niobe, all tears:
Tolan: Claudius must’ve offered her a tissue and she fell for him immediately.
Modig: It all makes sense now!
—why she, even she—O, God! a beast, that wants discourse of reason, would have mourn'd longer—married with my uncle, my father's brother, but no more like my father than I to Hercules:
Modig: Well, nobody’s perfect.
within a month: ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears had left the flushing in her galled eyes, she married. O, most wicked speed, to post with such dexterity to incestuous sheets!
Tolan: They should be careful, incest stains.
Modig: I hope they have some powerful fabric cleanser on hand.
It is not nor it cannot come to good:
But break, my heart; for I must hold my tongue.
Seamere: I love it when scenes end on a lighthearted note.
Aescheron: And so ends this MST. Also, so ends your MST trilogy of works in Old, Middle, and Modern English. Say goodbye. You’ve earned a break, I think.
Modig: We’re done for a while?
Aescheron: Yes, but MST-ing in general isn’t. It never will be, for there will always be things that take themselves too seriously.
Tolan: Gentlemen, it’s been an honor to MST with you.
Modig: I love you guys.
Seamere: I love me too. Give me your hand if we be friends.
Aescheron: And someone shall restore amends, I’m sure.
All: Bye for now! Anon!
Ruby Struble '14
Tolan: You won’t make us do jokes about that “To Be or Not To Be” speech, will you?
THE WRITER: You’re not supposed to talk to me, get back to work. But I wouldn’t do that to you, don’t worry.
Seamere: MST-ing be praised.
Aescheron: Ahem. Leave the fourth wall alone.
Modig: Should we have a counter ready for the number of times ears are mentioned?
Tolan: The Elizabethan Era must this be, and the time for couplets in dialogue, I ask thee?
Seamere: You bet. Also the era where you were just as likely to breathe as to get some kind of plague.
Tolan: It also happened to be the time when one of the most influential writers in the history of the English language existed.
Modig: Christopher Marlowe?
Seamere: Shakespeare, actually, if you can believe it. Also the time of very nice beards.
Modig: But that could be said of any given time in history, really.
Tolan: True.
Aescheron: You might not but get to reading Hamlet, groundlings.
Modig: OK, OK. We’ll START!
KING
Have you your father's leave? What says Polonius?
Seamere: “The windbag wheezes on and on in pointless words like always, my lord.”
POLONIUS
H'ath, my lord, wrung from me my slow leave by laborsome petition, and at last upon his will I seal'd my hard consent: I do beseech you, give him leave to go.
Tolan: Polonius needs Claudius’ permission for his son to go back to school?
Seamere: I assume it’s part of Mr. KING’s authority.
KING
Take thy fair hour, Laertes; time be thine, and thy best graces spend it at thy will!
But now, my cousin Hamlet, and my son--
Seamere: Who may or may not be allowed to spend his time at his will depending on his perkiness levels.
HAMLET
A little more than kin, and less than kind.
Modig: Yes! Sass that evil king, Hamlet!
Seamere: Claudius must be too busy twirling his mustache to notice.
KING
How is it that the clouds still hang on you?
Seamere: Could be that his father died recently and his evil uncle seized the throne and his mother.
Tolan: But you could be wrong.
HAMLET
Not so, my lord; I am too much i' the sun.
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted color off, and let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark.
Tolan: Look like a friend on the kingdom where hebona poison is readily available for regicides.
Modig: The kingdom where the dead take a break from their eternal torment to ask their sons to avenge their murder most foul.
Do not for ever with thy vailèd lids seek for thy noble father in the dust: thou know'st 'tis common; all that lives must die, passing through nature to eternity.
Modig: You’ll find him a grave man now. Heh heh.
Tolan: What, you egg?! You worse than senseless thing!
Seamere: Hold, enough.
HAMLET
Ay, madam, it is common.
QUEEN
If it be, why seems it so particular with thee?
Seamere: I guess when there’s a wedding all grief from a recent death is expected to be gone.
Tolan: “Why are you not playing at Twister and other larks with us while you grieve for your father, son? It’s unnatural.”
HAMLET
Seems, madam! nay it is; I know not "seems." 'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, nor customary suits of solemn black, nor windy suspiration of forced breath, no, nor the fruitful river in the eye, nor the dejected havior of the visage,
Modig: “Nor the gloomy metaphors I spout.”
together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief, that can denote me truly: these indeed seem, for they are actions that a man might play: but I have that within which passeth show; these but the trappings and the suits of woe.
Tolan: Good on him meticulously describing his grief so hopefully his mother can understand that grief is not something you just tell someone to get over.
Seamere: And yet Claudius persists in that course in the very next line.
Modig: Commendable parenting!
KING
'Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet, to give these mourning duties to your father: but, you must know, your father lost a father; that father lost, lost his, and the survivor bound in filial obligation for some term to do obsequious sorrow: but to persever in obstinate condolement is a course of impious stubbornness; 'tis unmanly grief;
Seamere: Now I’m usually a calm MST-er, but AAAAGH!
Modig: You insensitive git, Claudius!
Tolan: Pillock! You could make some attempt to not call your son a wimp for being sad about his father’s death!
it shows a will most incorrect to heaven, a heart unfortified, a mind impatient, an understanding simple and unschool'd:
Modig: Ugh, can we take a break right now? This character is too mean.
Aescheron: No, your job isn’t done yet.
Tolan: God’s nightgown!
Seamere: Odin’s ravens!
Modig: Bubble and squeak! Wish we were allowed to curse here.
For what we know must be and is as common as any the most vulgar thing to sense, why should we in our peevish opposition take it to heart? Fie! 'tis a fault to heaven, a fault against the dead, a fault to nature, to reason most absurd: whose common theme is death of fathers,
Modig: Arcite and Palamon in their blenching lovesickness could take this twerp in a fight and I would encourage them.
Tolan: If they killed him he would shut up about how feeling too sad over death is an evil thing, so I’m in solidarity with you on that.
and who still hath cried, from the first corse till he that died to-day, "This must be so." We pray you, throw to earth this unprevailing woe, and think of us as of a father:
Tolan: A father made of one part traitorous uncle, one part queen who disrespected her husband’s memory, and so being one hundred percent lovable to any young prince.
Modig: On sale today at the father store!
for let the world take note, you are the most immediate to our throne; and with no less nobility of love than that which dearest father bears his son, do I impart toward you.
Seamere: “I only killed your father, seduced your mother and became a stepfather you hate, why don’t you love me?”
For your intent in going back to school in Wittenberg, it is most retrograde to our desire: and we beseech you, bend you to remain here, in the cheer and comfort of our eye, our chiefest courtier, cousin, and our son.
Seamere: Hamlet should be overjoyed. He gets to stay home from school with his evil uncle and the uncle’s incestuous bride.
Tolan: They’re going to have such family fun together.
QUEEN GERTRUDE
Let not thy mother lose her prayers, Hamlet:
I pray thee, stay with us; go not to Wittenberg.
Tolan: At least there’s a queen here who’s not basically a drinks waitress and who talks alongside her husband.
Modig: Lookin’ at you, Beowulf.
HAMLET
I shall in all my best obey you, madam.
Seamere: “I’ll make many stealth insults to express my frustration throughout the play, madam. How like you that?”
KING
Why, 'tis a loving and a fair reply: be as ourself in Denmark. Madam, come; this gentle and unforced accord of Hamlet sits smiling to my heart:
Modig: Hope that accord brushed its teeth, or else it’ll give him heartburn.
in grace whereof, no jocund health that Denmark drinks today, but the great cannon to the clouds shall tell, and the king's rouse the heavens shall bruit again, respeaking earthly thunder. Come away.
Tolan: More matter, with less art, please.
Flourish. Exeunt all but HAMLET.
HAMLET
O, that this too too solid flesh would melt, thaw and resolve itself into a dew!
Seamere: A desire to melt must be a sign of some serious psychological damage.
Tolan: Poor Hamlet.
Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd his canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God! How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable, seem to me all the uses of this world! Fie on't! ah fie! 'tis an unweeded garden, that grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature possess it merely. That it should come to this!
Seamere: The garden of his world was fine until Claudius the Dandelion came in and infested it with like plants, in his eyes.
Tolan: Poor kid’s got problems, huh?
But two months dead: nay, not so much, not two: so excellent a king; that was, to this, Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother that he might not beteem the winds of heaven visit her face too roughly.
Tolan: I’m going to assume that meant he jumped through a castle window and made a crash landing on her face because it amuses me.
Modig: You do that.
Heaven and earth! Must I remember? why, she would hang on him, as if increase of appetite had grown by what it fed on: and yet, within a month—let me not think on't—Frailty, thy name is woman!--
Seamere: “I shall generalize in my soliloquizing and no one shall stop me!”
A little month, or ere those shoes were old with which she follow'd my poor father's body, like Niobe, all tears:
Tolan: Claudius must’ve offered her a tissue and she fell for him immediately.
Modig: It all makes sense now!
—why she, even she—O, God! a beast, that wants discourse of reason, would have mourn'd longer—married with my uncle, my father's brother, but no more like my father than I to Hercules:
Modig: Well, nobody’s perfect.
within a month: ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears had left the flushing in her galled eyes, she married. O, most wicked speed, to post with such dexterity to incestuous sheets!
Tolan: They should be careful, incest stains.
Modig: I hope they have some powerful fabric cleanser on hand.
It is not nor it cannot come to good:
But break, my heart; for I must hold my tongue.
Seamere: I love it when scenes end on a lighthearted note.
Aescheron: And so ends this MST. Also, so ends your MST trilogy of works in Old, Middle, and Modern English. Say goodbye. You’ve earned a break, I think.
Modig: We’re done for a while?
Aescheron: Yes, but MST-ing in general isn’t. It never will be, for there will always be things that take themselves too seriously.
Tolan: Gentlemen, it’s been an honor to MST with you.
Modig: I love you guys.
Seamere: I love me too. Give me your hand if we be friends.
Aescheron: And someone shall restore amends, I’m sure.
All: Bye for now! Anon!
Ruby Struble '14
Shoes Attacking A City
Marielle Sabbag '14
Conception
Albert had been watching the man for some time now, and had begun to become suspicious. Most people just brushed past the magic shop like a disowned friend, refusing to acknowledge that the space between Bernum’s Booksellers and the café with the oddly colored drinks had anything in it other than some wooden planks and glass windowpanes. A few, usually those who had just arrived in Ashysh, gave the shop a cursory glance, and usually threw in a complementary disgusted or confused expression with the bargain. The shop got its fair share of double takes and snickers, too. But an expression of honest interest and appraisal was a novelty to the storefront. The thought had not escaped Al that the man might simply be using the polished window as a mirror, checking to make sure his ornate purple and gold robes and inexplicably balanced hat were in order before he proceeded to somewhere a bit less eccentric.
Defying all expectation, the man turned and stepped through the doorway, sending a murmur of shock through the numerous waves of chimes around the doorway. Albert watched as his eyes grew wider as they became accustomed to the poor illumination, and wider still as they became accustomed to the disordered and disconcerting array of magical reagents, extracts, bottled creatures, stuffed beasts, and disintegrating tomes that lay about him. Albert began counting the seconds. Perhaps the man would set a new record. There certainly hadn’t been any rapid backpedaling so far, and his nostrils hadn’t flared to indicate he had noticed the smell, but maybe he just had a cold. He still hadn’t met Al’s father, so there was still time.
The man’s clothing and bearing were unusually posh, and he inspected the materials on the many counters of the store as one might inspect a vegetable of questionable origins at the grocer. He was fairly tall, but seemed to occupy a great deal more space than his otherwise average build would seem to indicate, as if the air around him just edged to the side to make room for him. Eventually, he made his way over to the shelves of various liquids and began to sort through various bottles until he came to a flask of viscous red fluid. He had just uncorked it when his head spun around at the sound of Al’s voice. “You should put that back.”
The surprise vanished from the man’s face in a fraction of a moment. “Why’s that?”
“Well, firstly, you don’t have permission to go behind the counter, secondly, that’s stealing, that is, and thirdly, you were probably ‘bout to smell it.”
“What would be the problem with smelling it?”
“You would drop the bottle when you fell over, and it would get all over your robes and face. And it takes ages to get off.”
The self-assurance in the man’s face dropped by a notch. “Ah.” He hastily corked the flask and replaced it among its brothers. “I take it you are the ‘son’ in ‘Harold Auldor and Son?”
Albert nodded. “He should be down in a second, he’s probably asleep.”
The man cocked his head to one side. “Asleep? At quarter to noon?”
Albert nodded again. “Not many customers this time of day.” Well, it was the truth. The fact that the same was true of any other time of day wasn’t really necessary information. “Just wait one moment…” Al called to his father, who replied with a series of arrhythmic thumps from upstairs, followed by a set of slightly more rhythmic thumps as a middle-aged man with small round spectacles and hair that looked like a thundercloud in a strong wind stumbled down the stairs.
The man groaned, clutching his head in his hands. “What time is it?”
“Close to noon, I think, Pa.”
“Albert, I thought I told you not to disturb me before noon…”
“Yea, unless we had customers, Pa.”
“I don’t see what…” His father’s gaze passed over the man, then back to Albert. Then it snapped back to the man, who was waving “hello” and smiling.
His eyes nearly escaped their sockets, stopped only by a sudden fit of intense blinking. His mouth dropped open slightly. “Well,” he stammered. “Well. Well, well, well. Well. Come. Welcome. Welcome!” and, as an afterthought, “Hello! Welcome to Harold Auldor and Son’s Eldritch Emporium!” There was an almost unearthly enthusiasm in the old man’s greeting, accentuated by his gaping arms and toothy grin. He was wearing a heavy, cracked leather vest and a shirt that was desperately and pitifully attempting, against all odds, to appear white. “I’m Harold. Obviously. You probably guessed that, of course, you’re an intelligent young man, of course, but if you aren’t you probably could have, eherm, guessed anyways, not that there’s anything wrong with you if you aren’t quite as quick witted as…” the rampant train of thought was cut short by a swift kick from Albert. “…And this is son. Albert. Albert’s my son. That’s obvious too, I should think. Not the fact that he’s called Albert, of course, but…” Somewhere, a connection fizzled to life between the old man’s brain and mouth. “So, sir,” clapping his hands together, “how may we be able to assist you today?”
“I’m not sure, actually. I was just passing through the area, on my way to the market to pick up some lunch, and I happened to spy your shop. Not many good shops for a practicing conjuror to pick up quality supplies in this city, it seemed, so I figured, hello, why not pop in and take a peek?” He had taken the whole ordeal remarkably in stride, thought Albert, perhaps he wasn’t kidding about being a conjuror. “I see you seem to specialize in reagents and spell components?”
His father was concealing a little child bouncing up and down with excitement. “Oh, yes, sir. Components for any known spell you could think of. I like to keep the store well stocked, you see, I’m a bit of a practitioner as well as a salesman-“ Yes, thought Albert, a practitioner in the same way that a man who falls out of a boat and climbs back in with a largemouth bass in his trousers is a fisherman “-so obviously, it’s imperative that I have quantities of anything I might require on hand. But we also deal in arcane texts and references. I don’t suppose you already possess a quality copy of The Proper Place of Bovine Beasts in Sorcery, Second Edition with Illustrations?”
The man shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t. I don’t really have very many…cattle to make such a purchase worthwhile, I’m afraid. But I do seem to have misplaced my copy of Grimholdt’s Primary Laws of Magic…”
“Grimholdt’s, Grimholdt’s…” pondered Harold. “Sorry, no, don’t think I’ve got that one.”
“I see. What about Treatise On the Conjuring of Demons, Volume I, by Yorrik the Fifth Mage of Arrundor?”
A slightly worried look flitted across his father’s face. “Sorry, I thnk we’re fresh out. But I can see that, as a discerning customer – and I’m very good at spotting the most discerning customers, you know – that you might be interested in this, my pride and joy-“ he grunted as he hefted down an unwieldy large brown tome from the top of one of the shelves “ – no less than a first printing of The Seven Magical Herbs and Spices and Their Correct Culinary Applications, signed by the author himself, Quintius Augustus Mortimer? And seeing I’m entrusting its care to such a fine gentleman as yourself, I’ll cut you a deal, only fifty-five gerr.”
The man held up his hands and chuckled slightly. “I’m afraid no amount of magical assistance could make my cooking palatable, you would be better off keeping such a rare and valuable tome to yourself.”
“Thirty-five, and I’ll throw in a cookbook on the house. I insist, sir, this work will change the way you look at both the magical arts and the art of cooking.”
“No, thank you, such would be robbery for such a fine tome.”
His father shrugged and attempted a look of indifference. “Oh, well, it’s your loss, I’m afraid,” as he replaced the book on the shelf.
“If you’re looking for Conjuring of Demons,” piped up Albert, “you should try Bernum’s next door. Look in the back, near the ‘Occult Fiction’ section.” His father shot him a glare over his shoulder.
“Why, thank you kindly,” replied the man, “but I think I can do without it for a while. You have an exceptionally sharp son, Mr. Auldor, he’s already prevented me from making at least one dire mistake today.”
“Yes, he’s a real gem, him. At least, you should take a look at some of our finer reagents; perhaps you are running a little low on frogs’ tongues and owls’ toenails? Some tigress’ blood substitute, perhaps? I can’t provide the real thing, sadly, not many tigresses around here, but I’ve devised a mixture that should produce much of the same effect…”
“No need, I just restocked last week. Although, this,” as he moved towards a small potted plant with a haphazard arrangement of triangular red leaves, “this here has piqued my interest.”
“Poisonous,” said Albert before the man could extend his hand fully towards the plant.
“Really?” He slowly withdrew his arm and stood up. “I’ve never seen a poisonous breed of Acculia Menctulus before. I guess that might explain the odd hue.”
“Yea, it’s a cross-breed, I think. A man came in here once and started plucking the leaves while we weren’t looking, and the next day he came back in angry with his hands covered in-“
“I’ll just get us some gloves and a sack, then, won’t I?” chirped Al’s father.
Five minutes later, the man had a bag full of white-eyed widower leaves, and Harold Auldor had five gerr. “Thank you very much for your patronage, sir, I hope very much to be seeing you in the future.”
“I’m sure I shall return, sir, I find your establishment to be of the highest quality of service in this entire town and I shall speak well of it to my colleagues in the arcane arts.” The man bowed slightly. If you looked closely, you could actually see Harold inflate slightly as the grin on his face widened.
The man turned to Albert. “And thank you, my kind sir, for your assistance today, without which I would most certainly have made an absolute buffoon of myself.” He grasped Albert’s hand warmly in his and shook.
“Ehm, yea, thanks. Thanks very much. You too.” The man should get a medal for his ability to remain unfazed, thought Albert. He was a national treasure. His skeleton would have to be put in a museum for study after his death to determine what part of him was so resilient to the absurdity around him.
“And now, I must be on my way.” He turned, bag of poisonous leaves in hand, and triggered a second cacophony of chimes as he opened the door. “Oh, one little piece of advice?” he said turning back. “I should take that taxidermy out of the front window, if I were you. Might scare people.” He nodded in the direction of the small, hairy, almost humanoid thing with too many spindly arms and a head like a rodent with a strange skin condition that caused eyes to erupt all over it.
Harold bridled. “Sir, that is an authentic taxidermy of a Clutherian demon of the first circle and our store’s prize possession. How else are respectable magicians such as you to know that our store is an authentic shop for genuine and reliable magical goods if we don’t signify that we have genuine magical evidence on display? Besides, it’s our main eye-catcher.” And it keeps out burglars, thought Albert.
“Suit yourself, then. Cheerio.”
“Actually, sir, might I trouble you to know the good gentleman’s name?”
The man’s smile clearly kept something to himself. “Call me Chuck, if you see me again.” He left, sending a final wave of gossip through the chimes, and turned down the road the same way he had come from.
Al’s father turned and allowed his teeth to crack through his grin. “What did I tell you, Al? What did I tell you, hm? When I opened this shop? We’re in business!”
“Yes, Pa.”
“Word is out! Let me tell you, they’ll be flocking from all over, soon, now that we’ve got our reputation out with a respectable member of the magical community now!”
“I’m sure they will be, Pa.”
“And you doubted me at first. Said I’d bought into another foolhardy scheme. Well, who’s up five gerr, now, son!”
“You are, Pa.”
“I tell you, I tell you, Albert, soon we’ll be the premier magical supply store in all of Ashysh, wizards forming lines out the door to purchase supplies, rare tomes from all across Stanadar, and gerr, my boy, gerr by the thousands! I’ll open new branches in other cities, of course, one in Berrum, one in Hashtatour, maybe two in the Golden City, who knows…”
“Pa.”
“Hmm, yes, Albert?”
“I believe you.”
His father began to contain himself again. “Well. Yes, of course you do.” He ran his fingers through Al’s hair like always. “Things’ll get better from now, Albert, you’ll see.”
“Yea, they will, Pa.” Albert couldn’t see the money. He couldn’t see the wizards lining up in droves to purchase frogs’ tongues and tigress’ blood substitute, he couldn’t see “Auldor and Son’s” shops all across Stanadar. All he could see right now was what Chuck had palmed him when he shook his hand, a slip of paper with a complicated sigil and some words and dimensions, and a small vial of liquid that couldn’t seem to make up its mind about what color it was. He tilted the vial back and forth in his hand. “I think they really will.”
It took hours to complete the sigil, made longer by the lateness of the hour and the fact that Albert had to work by only one candle. It was incredibly intricate, making his father’s past fooling in the magical arts look like a child’s city of wooden blocks next to the convoluted blueprints of the Golden City. Lines were drawn across circles, creating triangles arranged in more circles, which were then connected in complex hexagrams, spirals, loops, pentangles, pentagrams, pentagons, and polygons until the shape made Albert dizzy just to look at it. It was large enough for him to sit down in, odd considering how small the vial of fluid had been. Yet the strange liquid had let itself be spread almost effortlessly across the wooden planks with the lightest touch of Al’s finger, and when he had marked the lines incorrectly, it swabbed up nicely with a cloth and was purged completely with a simple twist or two. It was unsettlingly easy to work with the liquid, and if Al had thought about it for too long he might have just wiped it all off and thrown the vial away, but something in the back of his head pressed him onwards. This wasn’t some simple parlor trick he was doing; this was conjuring, real magic, and whatever it was, this might be his only chance in his life to really do it. At least it had decided on a color – violet-black though it may be, that shined white in the candlelight from the right angles.
Okay, thought Albert. If he had done this correctly, all he really needed to do now was to say the words and hope that Chuck hadn’t been playing an elaborate and pointless practical joke. Though, to be fair, anyone who was capable of actually buying something from the shop was probably the type of person to play this joke anyways. Albert held the parchment up in front of the candle, and took great care in pronouncing the words. He had learned exactly two things from his father: never, never, never botch a spell of any significant power, and if you do botch such a spell, have a handy window open nearby, and preferably a small hatchet or blade, just in case it follows you.
Albert began counting again. Five, ten, twenty, forty. Nothing happened. Chuck had been messing with him. Maybe he was just spiteful over being advised about magical matters by a kid, or, alternatively, he was just nuts. Al favored the latter option.
Al sat down and rested his head in his hands. Wasted. All that work, and he’d just have to scrub the circle off the floor before his father woke up tomorrow, and then it was back to scrubbing the floor and organizing the books, filing expenses and cleaning the shelves, making sure the ruddy frog tongues and fake tigress blood were all in-
Hang on a moment. Blood. That was it, wasn’t it? Some conjurations needed a sacrifice on the part of the magician, usually something small, like blood. Maybe it hadn’t been a complete waste of time. Albert took out his knife, the one nice thing he owned that he hadn’t nicked from somewhere, and gave himself a small cut on his thumb, sprinkling the blood into the circle. Hopefully his father wasn’t right about the necessity of scented candles and silver washed in water that had reflected the light of a new moon, too.
Still nothing. Maybe it was the wrong order, he thought, blood and then words, or maybe the words came before the circle, some sort of sanctification or something, when he noticed the wind outside had suddenly become much noisier. Hang on, no, it wasn’t the breeze, he couldn’t feel it, only hear it. It was…a buzzing, almost like a hive of bees, or a crowd of people. A crowd, moving in from a distance from all directions, murmuring to themselves, that was it. Some great meeting, some congregation, was occurring, and he was at its center, and they had noticed him. Now they were closing in on their prey, growing more excited as they filled up every street, every alley, every route of escape, and now they were shouting, shouting and laughing and dancing as they rushed forward as one circle, immense and overwhelming, a flood of voices, everywhere, stampeding, knocking him over, no room, no room to breathe, no air, just the flood, the black liquid flood of shrieking voices and laughter that erupted from nowhere and now was everywhere, filling his lungs and his veins, pressing on his eyes, and it burned, by the gods it burned, why, why did it burn, this hateful flood, as it poured into his mouth and nostrils and as the last drops of it passed his lips he could breathe again. His limbs ached and his head hurt from where he had hit it on the bed when he fell over, but his breathing was fine and he didn’t want to rip out his veins to prevent his own blood from burning him alive. He heard nothing but his father stumbling across the hall.
His father. Oh, tear it all.
He burst into Al’s room with a candle in one hand, nightshirt flapping around his knees. “What’s going on, Al? I heard a crashing noise. Did you fall out of bed?”
“Yeah, yeah. Had a nightmare. Fell out. Hit my head.” Against his better judgment, Al glanced at the floor where the sigil had been painted. It was bare and dry. No sigil in mysteriously compliant liquid had ever been scrawled on that floor.
“Your hand, Al!”
“Oh, yeah. I, uh, was just fooling about with my knife, and I slipped and dropped it, and cut myself.”
“Fooling about with your knife? Whatever for?”
“Ah, I, you see, was just trying to figure out…figure out how to…do this trick with one hand, where…um…”
His father stared up at the ceiling in exasperation. “Oh, sweet Adallus above, please protect my idiot son and all idiot sons everywhere from their own egos. Come on, let’s get that cleaned up before you go back to bed. And give me that knife, you’re not getting it back until you learn how to kill something other than yourself with it. What were you thinking, going to bed with something like that not bandaged, honestly, going to get it infected…” Al silently thanked the gods that his father was not completely there at the small hours of the night.
They got Al’s cut bandaged up quickly, and his father gave Al a drink of water, a stern look and a short lecture on how unsafe it was to leave cuts open and how expensive medicine was and how painful infection could be and how late it was and how he was going to bed but they were going to continue this in the morning. Al, for his part, was sick of the whole business and glad that his father hadn’t picked up on the missing parts of the story, and just wanted to go to sleep and forget crazy Chuck and his poisonous white-eyed widower leaves and his sigils and crazy voices.
“Good night, Al, try not to murder yourself getting into bed. I love you.” His father proceeded up the stairs as Al finished his drink. He put his glass down, trudged upstairs into his room, singed his fingers extinguishing the candle, and got into bed. He exhaled, hoping his breath carried his memories of Chuck and the rest of the day, shut the door and went to sleep.
Wait. Al sat bolt upright. He had gone upstairs, put out the light, got into bed, lay down to sleep, then shut the door. Without leaving his bed. Al stared at the door. He had definitely left it open when he came in and extinguished the light, and hadn’t gone back to close it…
He had definitely put the candle out, too; he felt its heat on his fingers still. So why was it still aflame?
Al stared into the tiny flickering cone of light, shutting out all else. There were separate parts to a flame, when you looked right at it. There was the cone of yellow that everyone saw, and there were the blue edges that you saw if focused for a second, and right at the center, if you stared long enough for it to hurt, there was the cold black core, hiding itself in plain sight behind its brighter brothers.
Just what the hell had he done?
Ben Krowitz '13
Defying all expectation, the man turned and stepped through the doorway, sending a murmur of shock through the numerous waves of chimes around the doorway. Albert watched as his eyes grew wider as they became accustomed to the poor illumination, and wider still as they became accustomed to the disordered and disconcerting array of magical reagents, extracts, bottled creatures, stuffed beasts, and disintegrating tomes that lay about him. Albert began counting the seconds. Perhaps the man would set a new record. There certainly hadn’t been any rapid backpedaling so far, and his nostrils hadn’t flared to indicate he had noticed the smell, but maybe he just had a cold. He still hadn’t met Al’s father, so there was still time.
The man’s clothing and bearing were unusually posh, and he inspected the materials on the many counters of the store as one might inspect a vegetable of questionable origins at the grocer. He was fairly tall, but seemed to occupy a great deal more space than his otherwise average build would seem to indicate, as if the air around him just edged to the side to make room for him. Eventually, he made his way over to the shelves of various liquids and began to sort through various bottles until he came to a flask of viscous red fluid. He had just uncorked it when his head spun around at the sound of Al’s voice. “You should put that back.”
The surprise vanished from the man’s face in a fraction of a moment. “Why’s that?”
“Well, firstly, you don’t have permission to go behind the counter, secondly, that’s stealing, that is, and thirdly, you were probably ‘bout to smell it.”
“What would be the problem with smelling it?”
“You would drop the bottle when you fell over, and it would get all over your robes and face. And it takes ages to get off.”
The self-assurance in the man’s face dropped by a notch. “Ah.” He hastily corked the flask and replaced it among its brothers. “I take it you are the ‘son’ in ‘Harold Auldor and Son?”
Albert nodded. “He should be down in a second, he’s probably asleep.”
The man cocked his head to one side. “Asleep? At quarter to noon?”
Albert nodded again. “Not many customers this time of day.” Well, it was the truth. The fact that the same was true of any other time of day wasn’t really necessary information. “Just wait one moment…” Al called to his father, who replied with a series of arrhythmic thumps from upstairs, followed by a set of slightly more rhythmic thumps as a middle-aged man with small round spectacles and hair that looked like a thundercloud in a strong wind stumbled down the stairs.
The man groaned, clutching his head in his hands. “What time is it?”
“Close to noon, I think, Pa.”
“Albert, I thought I told you not to disturb me before noon…”
“Yea, unless we had customers, Pa.”
“I don’t see what…” His father’s gaze passed over the man, then back to Albert. Then it snapped back to the man, who was waving “hello” and smiling.
His eyes nearly escaped their sockets, stopped only by a sudden fit of intense blinking. His mouth dropped open slightly. “Well,” he stammered. “Well. Well, well, well. Well. Come. Welcome. Welcome!” and, as an afterthought, “Hello! Welcome to Harold Auldor and Son’s Eldritch Emporium!” There was an almost unearthly enthusiasm in the old man’s greeting, accentuated by his gaping arms and toothy grin. He was wearing a heavy, cracked leather vest and a shirt that was desperately and pitifully attempting, against all odds, to appear white. “I’m Harold. Obviously. You probably guessed that, of course, you’re an intelligent young man, of course, but if you aren’t you probably could have, eherm, guessed anyways, not that there’s anything wrong with you if you aren’t quite as quick witted as…” the rampant train of thought was cut short by a swift kick from Albert. “…And this is son. Albert. Albert’s my son. That’s obvious too, I should think. Not the fact that he’s called Albert, of course, but…” Somewhere, a connection fizzled to life between the old man’s brain and mouth. “So, sir,” clapping his hands together, “how may we be able to assist you today?”
“I’m not sure, actually. I was just passing through the area, on my way to the market to pick up some lunch, and I happened to spy your shop. Not many good shops for a practicing conjuror to pick up quality supplies in this city, it seemed, so I figured, hello, why not pop in and take a peek?” He had taken the whole ordeal remarkably in stride, thought Albert, perhaps he wasn’t kidding about being a conjuror. “I see you seem to specialize in reagents and spell components?”
His father was concealing a little child bouncing up and down with excitement. “Oh, yes, sir. Components for any known spell you could think of. I like to keep the store well stocked, you see, I’m a bit of a practitioner as well as a salesman-“ Yes, thought Albert, a practitioner in the same way that a man who falls out of a boat and climbs back in with a largemouth bass in his trousers is a fisherman “-so obviously, it’s imperative that I have quantities of anything I might require on hand. But we also deal in arcane texts and references. I don’t suppose you already possess a quality copy of The Proper Place of Bovine Beasts in Sorcery, Second Edition with Illustrations?”
The man shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t. I don’t really have very many…cattle to make such a purchase worthwhile, I’m afraid. But I do seem to have misplaced my copy of Grimholdt’s Primary Laws of Magic…”
“Grimholdt’s, Grimholdt’s…” pondered Harold. “Sorry, no, don’t think I’ve got that one.”
“I see. What about Treatise On the Conjuring of Demons, Volume I, by Yorrik the Fifth Mage of Arrundor?”
A slightly worried look flitted across his father’s face. “Sorry, I thnk we’re fresh out. But I can see that, as a discerning customer – and I’m very good at spotting the most discerning customers, you know – that you might be interested in this, my pride and joy-“ he grunted as he hefted down an unwieldy large brown tome from the top of one of the shelves “ – no less than a first printing of The Seven Magical Herbs and Spices and Their Correct Culinary Applications, signed by the author himself, Quintius Augustus Mortimer? And seeing I’m entrusting its care to such a fine gentleman as yourself, I’ll cut you a deal, only fifty-five gerr.”
The man held up his hands and chuckled slightly. “I’m afraid no amount of magical assistance could make my cooking palatable, you would be better off keeping such a rare and valuable tome to yourself.”
“Thirty-five, and I’ll throw in a cookbook on the house. I insist, sir, this work will change the way you look at both the magical arts and the art of cooking.”
“No, thank you, such would be robbery for such a fine tome.”
His father shrugged and attempted a look of indifference. “Oh, well, it’s your loss, I’m afraid,” as he replaced the book on the shelf.
“If you’re looking for Conjuring of Demons,” piped up Albert, “you should try Bernum’s next door. Look in the back, near the ‘Occult Fiction’ section.” His father shot him a glare over his shoulder.
“Why, thank you kindly,” replied the man, “but I think I can do without it for a while. You have an exceptionally sharp son, Mr. Auldor, he’s already prevented me from making at least one dire mistake today.”
“Yes, he’s a real gem, him. At least, you should take a look at some of our finer reagents; perhaps you are running a little low on frogs’ tongues and owls’ toenails? Some tigress’ blood substitute, perhaps? I can’t provide the real thing, sadly, not many tigresses around here, but I’ve devised a mixture that should produce much of the same effect…”
“No need, I just restocked last week. Although, this,” as he moved towards a small potted plant with a haphazard arrangement of triangular red leaves, “this here has piqued my interest.”
“Poisonous,” said Albert before the man could extend his hand fully towards the plant.
“Really?” He slowly withdrew his arm and stood up. “I’ve never seen a poisonous breed of Acculia Menctulus before. I guess that might explain the odd hue.”
“Yea, it’s a cross-breed, I think. A man came in here once and started plucking the leaves while we weren’t looking, and the next day he came back in angry with his hands covered in-“
“I’ll just get us some gloves and a sack, then, won’t I?” chirped Al’s father.
Five minutes later, the man had a bag full of white-eyed widower leaves, and Harold Auldor had five gerr. “Thank you very much for your patronage, sir, I hope very much to be seeing you in the future.”
“I’m sure I shall return, sir, I find your establishment to be of the highest quality of service in this entire town and I shall speak well of it to my colleagues in the arcane arts.” The man bowed slightly. If you looked closely, you could actually see Harold inflate slightly as the grin on his face widened.
The man turned to Albert. “And thank you, my kind sir, for your assistance today, without which I would most certainly have made an absolute buffoon of myself.” He grasped Albert’s hand warmly in his and shook.
“Ehm, yea, thanks. Thanks very much. You too.” The man should get a medal for his ability to remain unfazed, thought Albert. He was a national treasure. His skeleton would have to be put in a museum for study after his death to determine what part of him was so resilient to the absurdity around him.
“And now, I must be on my way.” He turned, bag of poisonous leaves in hand, and triggered a second cacophony of chimes as he opened the door. “Oh, one little piece of advice?” he said turning back. “I should take that taxidermy out of the front window, if I were you. Might scare people.” He nodded in the direction of the small, hairy, almost humanoid thing with too many spindly arms and a head like a rodent with a strange skin condition that caused eyes to erupt all over it.
Harold bridled. “Sir, that is an authentic taxidermy of a Clutherian demon of the first circle and our store’s prize possession. How else are respectable magicians such as you to know that our store is an authentic shop for genuine and reliable magical goods if we don’t signify that we have genuine magical evidence on display? Besides, it’s our main eye-catcher.” And it keeps out burglars, thought Albert.
“Suit yourself, then. Cheerio.”
“Actually, sir, might I trouble you to know the good gentleman’s name?”
The man’s smile clearly kept something to himself. “Call me Chuck, if you see me again.” He left, sending a final wave of gossip through the chimes, and turned down the road the same way he had come from.
Al’s father turned and allowed his teeth to crack through his grin. “What did I tell you, Al? What did I tell you, hm? When I opened this shop? We’re in business!”
“Yes, Pa.”
“Word is out! Let me tell you, they’ll be flocking from all over, soon, now that we’ve got our reputation out with a respectable member of the magical community now!”
“I’m sure they will be, Pa.”
“And you doubted me at first. Said I’d bought into another foolhardy scheme. Well, who’s up five gerr, now, son!”
“You are, Pa.”
“I tell you, I tell you, Albert, soon we’ll be the premier magical supply store in all of Ashysh, wizards forming lines out the door to purchase supplies, rare tomes from all across Stanadar, and gerr, my boy, gerr by the thousands! I’ll open new branches in other cities, of course, one in Berrum, one in Hashtatour, maybe two in the Golden City, who knows…”
“Pa.”
“Hmm, yes, Albert?”
“I believe you.”
His father began to contain himself again. “Well. Yes, of course you do.” He ran his fingers through Al’s hair like always. “Things’ll get better from now, Albert, you’ll see.”
“Yea, they will, Pa.” Albert couldn’t see the money. He couldn’t see the wizards lining up in droves to purchase frogs’ tongues and tigress’ blood substitute, he couldn’t see “Auldor and Son’s” shops all across Stanadar. All he could see right now was what Chuck had palmed him when he shook his hand, a slip of paper with a complicated sigil and some words and dimensions, and a small vial of liquid that couldn’t seem to make up its mind about what color it was. He tilted the vial back and forth in his hand. “I think they really will.”
It took hours to complete the sigil, made longer by the lateness of the hour and the fact that Albert had to work by only one candle. It was incredibly intricate, making his father’s past fooling in the magical arts look like a child’s city of wooden blocks next to the convoluted blueprints of the Golden City. Lines were drawn across circles, creating triangles arranged in more circles, which were then connected in complex hexagrams, spirals, loops, pentangles, pentagrams, pentagons, and polygons until the shape made Albert dizzy just to look at it. It was large enough for him to sit down in, odd considering how small the vial of fluid had been. Yet the strange liquid had let itself be spread almost effortlessly across the wooden planks with the lightest touch of Al’s finger, and when he had marked the lines incorrectly, it swabbed up nicely with a cloth and was purged completely with a simple twist or two. It was unsettlingly easy to work with the liquid, and if Al had thought about it for too long he might have just wiped it all off and thrown the vial away, but something in the back of his head pressed him onwards. This wasn’t some simple parlor trick he was doing; this was conjuring, real magic, and whatever it was, this might be his only chance in his life to really do it. At least it had decided on a color – violet-black though it may be, that shined white in the candlelight from the right angles.
Okay, thought Albert. If he had done this correctly, all he really needed to do now was to say the words and hope that Chuck hadn’t been playing an elaborate and pointless practical joke. Though, to be fair, anyone who was capable of actually buying something from the shop was probably the type of person to play this joke anyways. Albert held the parchment up in front of the candle, and took great care in pronouncing the words. He had learned exactly two things from his father: never, never, never botch a spell of any significant power, and if you do botch such a spell, have a handy window open nearby, and preferably a small hatchet or blade, just in case it follows you.
Albert began counting again. Five, ten, twenty, forty. Nothing happened. Chuck had been messing with him. Maybe he was just spiteful over being advised about magical matters by a kid, or, alternatively, he was just nuts. Al favored the latter option.
Al sat down and rested his head in his hands. Wasted. All that work, and he’d just have to scrub the circle off the floor before his father woke up tomorrow, and then it was back to scrubbing the floor and organizing the books, filing expenses and cleaning the shelves, making sure the ruddy frog tongues and fake tigress blood were all in-
Hang on a moment. Blood. That was it, wasn’t it? Some conjurations needed a sacrifice on the part of the magician, usually something small, like blood. Maybe it hadn’t been a complete waste of time. Albert took out his knife, the one nice thing he owned that he hadn’t nicked from somewhere, and gave himself a small cut on his thumb, sprinkling the blood into the circle. Hopefully his father wasn’t right about the necessity of scented candles and silver washed in water that had reflected the light of a new moon, too.
Still nothing. Maybe it was the wrong order, he thought, blood and then words, or maybe the words came before the circle, some sort of sanctification or something, when he noticed the wind outside had suddenly become much noisier. Hang on, no, it wasn’t the breeze, he couldn’t feel it, only hear it. It was…a buzzing, almost like a hive of bees, or a crowd of people. A crowd, moving in from a distance from all directions, murmuring to themselves, that was it. Some great meeting, some congregation, was occurring, and he was at its center, and they had noticed him. Now they were closing in on their prey, growing more excited as they filled up every street, every alley, every route of escape, and now they were shouting, shouting and laughing and dancing as they rushed forward as one circle, immense and overwhelming, a flood of voices, everywhere, stampeding, knocking him over, no room, no room to breathe, no air, just the flood, the black liquid flood of shrieking voices and laughter that erupted from nowhere and now was everywhere, filling his lungs and his veins, pressing on his eyes, and it burned, by the gods it burned, why, why did it burn, this hateful flood, as it poured into his mouth and nostrils and as the last drops of it passed his lips he could breathe again. His limbs ached and his head hurt from where he had hit it on the bed when he fell over, but his breathing was fine and he didn’t want to rip out his veins to prevent his own blood from burning him alive. He heard nothing but his father stumbling across the hall.
His father. Oh, tear it all.
He burst into Al’s room with a candle in one hand, nightshirt flapping around his knees. “What’s going on, Al? I heard a crashing noise. Did you fall out of bed?”
“Yeah, yeah. Had a nightmare. Fell out. Hit my head.” Against his better judgment, Al glanced at the floor where the sigil had been painted. It was bare and dry. No sigil in mysteriously compliant liquid had ever been scrawled on that floor.
“Your hand, Al!”
“Oh, yeah. I, uh, was just fooling about with my knife, and I slipped and dropped it, and cut myself.”
“Fooling about with your knife? Whatever for?”
“Ah, I, you see, was just trying to figure out…figure out how to…do this trick with one hand, where…um…”
His father stared up at the ceiling in exasperation. “Oh, sweet Adallus above, please protect my idiot son and all idiot sons everywhere from their own egos. Come on, let’s get that cleaned up before you go back to bed. And give me that knife, you’re not getting it back until you learn how to kill something other than yourself with it. What were you thinking, going to bed with something like that not bandaged, honestly, going to get it infected…” Al silently thanked the gods that his father was not completely there at the small hours of the night.
They got Al’s cut bandaged up quickly, and his father gave Al a drink of water, a stern look and a short lecture on how unsafe it was to leave cuts open and how expensive medicine was and how painful infection could be and how late it was and how he was going to bed but they were going to continue this in the morning. Al, for his part, was sick of the whole business and glad that his father hadn’t picked up on the missing parts of the story, and just wanted to go to sleep and forget crazy Chuck and his poisonous white-eyed widower leaves and his sigils and crazy voices.
“Good night, Al, try not to murder yourself getting into bed. I love you.” His father proceeded up the stairs as Al finished his drink. He put his glass down, trudged upstairs into his room, singed his fingers extinguishing the candle, and got into bed. He exhaled, hoping his breath carried his memories of Chuck and the rest of the day, shut the door and went to sleep.
Wait. Al sat bolt upright. He had gone upstairs, put out the light, got into bed, lay down to sleep, then shut the door. Without leaving his bed. Al stared at the door. He had definitely left it open when he came in and extinguished the light, and hadn’t gone back to close it…
He had definitely put the candle out, too; he felt its heat on his fingers still. So why was it still aflame?
Al stared into the tiny flickering cone of light, shutting out all else. There were separate parts to a flame, when you looked right at it. There was the cone of yellow that everyone saw, and there were the blue edges that you saw if focused for a second, and right at the center, if you stared long enough for it to hurt, there was the cold black core, hiding itself in plain sight behind its brighter brothers.
Just what the hell had he done?
Ben Krowitz '13
A Halloween Story
Chapter 1
"Are you going out for Halloween, Shannon? Or do you think freshman are too old?" Sara asked. "I think I'm too old to go out, but still I want to get candy." she said.
"Get it at the store, except it's not free. Do you think 'ol Vetrington is going to make us write a scary story? He's always making us write stories,” Sara moaned.
"I think they're fun," Shannon said.
"That's because you like writing. It takes me hours to try and think up something."
"Do you want to come hand out candy at my house?" Shannon asked, opening her locker. "Aren't you going to the party at Don Craig's house?"
"Isn't he a senior?"
"A senior who thinks we're juniors."
"You can go ahead. I'd rather pass out candy."
"Come on, Shannon, parties are so fun. Everyone is going to be there!" Shannon ignored Sara's nagging about going to the party and drifted off to the bulletin boards where announcements were posted every now and then. A girl was sitting on a bench and crying.
"What are you staring at Shannon aren't you listening?" Sara asked and followed her gaze to the bulletin board. "You know there aren't always new information about after school activities every day. Let's get to class."
Shannon sighed as Sara ignored the girl who was crying. She always did that so she could avoid getting into conflicts. "I'll meet you in class."
Sarah walked away as Shannon went to the bench and sat down.
"Are you alright?"
The girl jumped and looked surprised. "Are you talking to me?" she asked.
"What's the matter?" Shannon asked.
She didn't know what to say. "You're actually talking to me."
"Are you new? It's hard being new. I moved from Oklahoma last year, and it's hard not talking to people you don't know. I'll be your friend if it makes you feel better."
She smiled. "Thank you."
"I'm Shannon Winston. What's your name?" Shannon held out her hand. "Laura Swanson."
The bell rang.
"Shoot, we'll be late for class. Maybe I'll see you at lunch!"
Shannon ran to her class and felt so happy that she made someone feel better. Shannon looked around for Laura at lunch. It was always hard to spot someone in the crowd. By the time lunch ended she couldn't find Laura anywhere.
"Who were you looking for at lunch?" Sara asked once they were out from gym class.
"The girl who was crying on that bench."
"What bench?"
"Come on, Sara, don't act as if you didn't see her. She was crying right near the announcement board. She's new here and she was crying because she didn't have anyone to talk to."
"Well, I'm sorry, I guess I just didn't see her. Did you ask her to sit with us at lunch?" Sara asked.
"Yes, maybe she had a different lunch time."
"How long do you think they've been letting that coat lie around?"
"What coat?" Shannon asked.
"The one near the closet. It's been there since the first day of school."
Shannon picked up the dusty coat and wiped it off. Tons of dust flew off from it making the girls cough. The smell made them cover their noses. Shannon found a name on the coat, along with the street address. "This belongs to that girl I met!"
"How long has she left it here?"
"She just moved, maybe she doesn't have a working drier yet. Her address is on it, so I'll take it to her house after school."
Shannon walked along the road until she came to the house on Crest St. Tons of trees covered the street making the sun disappear. The house looked old, and the grass was barely cut. The door bell echoed through the house. A few minutes passed until she heard someone coming to the door.
The woman looked awful. She had bags under her eyes, and she smelled like smoke and alcohol.
"Yes?" Her voice was raspy like a creature.
"Are you Mrs. Swanson?"
"Ms. Swanson. I'm a widow."
Shannon wasn't surprised. No wonder Laura was crying. Her father died, forcing the two to move, and her mother took up smoking and drinking.
"I was just here to return Laura's jacket."
The woman gripped the door, looking as if something had spooked her. "What?"
"I found this in the gym. Your daughter must have left it there. Is she home?"
Ms. Swanson took the coat from Shannon's hands and cuddled it as if it were a baby. She looked at Shannon with tearful eyes.
"I don't have a daughter anymore."
With that, she closed the door.
Chapter 2
Shannon didn’t sleep that night. Ms. Swanson’s horrified face kept appearing in her mind. Laura was there, in front of her, when she talked to her. Could they have fought so badly that they stopped living with each other? Where did Laura live?
Shannon walked into the school and went to the announcement board.
Laura sat in the same spot.
Shannon walked up and sat down.
“Hello. Sorry I wasn’t at lunch yesterday, I had to retake a test,” Laura said with a smile.
“Are you missing a jacket?” Shannon asked.
Laura’s smile faded. “What do you mean?”
“It was in the gym. I decided to take it to your house but your mother or whoever it was said they don’t have a daughter anymore.”
Laura looked away. “We had an awful fight. She started it, so it’s all her fault. I don’t live with her anymore.”
“Where do you live?” Shannon asked.
“Here.”
“How could you live here? The school doesn’t let you live here. Did you and your mother have that bad of a...”
A bunch of seniors started laughing at them.
“I didn’t know your friend talked to imaginary people.” Don Craig said to Sara with his arm around her.
“Shannon, how could you do this?”
“I’m invisible to them.” Laura said in a sad way.
Shannon’s heart steamed in anger as she stood up. “Why are you making fun of her? She’s a person just like you!”
“Who the heck are you talking about?”
Shannon turned but Laura was gone.
She was running down the hallway.
“Laura, wait!” Shannon ran after her and ran down the halls screaming for her to stop.
Laura disappeared.
Shannon ran into the wall and fell to the floor.
“Shannon, what were you thinking?!” Sara yelled as she helped her friend up. “First you embarrass me by talking to yourself, then you chase after nobody and then you run into a wall! What is the matter with you?!”
“What do you mean nobody? I was running after Laura, who you guys were making fun of!” Shannon yelled, thinking Sara was being selfish.
“Who are you talking about? There was nobody else there!”
“Laura Swanson, the girl who I met yesterday. She’s new here and...”
“Laura Swanson? Shannon, what are you talking about? Laura Swanson is dead.”
Shannon blinked as her heart pounded. “W-What do you mean she... I just saw her... she was here...”
“Laura Swanson has been dead for a year. She killed herself her in the school on Halloween night.”
Chapter 3
Shannon walked down the road until she came to the house on Crest St. She had to find out everything that had happened for herself. She couldn't focus on anything all day. Although she didn't want to go back to the house, she had to so she could get the right information.
Instead of ringing the doorbell, Shannon knocked on the door. The house felt empty when she knocked. A few minutes passed until Ms. Swanson slowly opened the door, letting her head peek out.
"What do you want now?" the woman asked.
"I wanted to ask you about your daughter. I found out about how she died, and I just wanted to ask you why she did it."
Ms. Swanson stared for the longest time at Shannon. Her dark eyes hit her skin as if they were knives. She wanted to run away, but she had to stay.
"Please... come in..."
The house was dark. All the shades were down, and the place smelled like cigarettes and alcohol. There was not a clean space anywhere in the house. Ms. Swanson cleaned a space on the couch and sat in a chair with a cup of tea in her hand.
They were both eerily quiet as Shannon felt goosebumps on her skin. She didn't want to be in the house feeling as if she were being watched by millions of eyes.
"My husband could never control his drinking and when he was insanely drunk he did embarrassing things out in public."
Ms. Swanson didn't speak and sipped her tea.
"How did he die?" Shannon asked.
Ms. Swanson sighed, her hands shaking as she held the cup of tea in her hands. "The doctors put him away because he was insane and... he killed himself."
"What did he do?" Shannon asked.
"I don't think I should I tell you."
"Did it affect Laura? Did she get along with her dad?"
"No. She was teased constantly and said many times how much she wanted to kill her father. Once he died, these horrible rumors were passed that she killed him. Laura got into so many fights and... she was expelled."
Shannon gulped. "For what?"
"... Just something horrible." Ms. Swanson gulped a sob away. "And the night she killed herself, we both said things that we didn't mean to each other. And then she went to the school and hung herself in the gym closet."
Shannon's skin filled with goosebumps as her spine tingled. So many questions filled her head, but she didn't know if she could ask them.
"I wish I could say how sorry I was. I never meant to start drinking like my husband. I wish I could tell her how much I love her."
"What if you could?" Shannon asked.
The woman looked up, giving the girl a sharp look. "What do you mean?" she asked in a grave tone.
"I saw her. She's in the school." Shannon spoke without a moment’s hesitation.
Ms. Swanson's eyes bulged and immediately she stood up from her seat. "Get out."
She took her by the arm and threw Shannon out of the house. "Don't ever come back here again!"
With that she slammed the door.
She didn't get all the information that she needed. If she was going to get the right information, it had to be from Laura.
Chapter 4
All day Shannon looked around for Laura but had no success. She was hiding from her, she knew it. Shannon was not going to leave the school until she found Laura. Today was the anniversary of her death.
The bell rang, and the day was over.
Shannon closed her locker. Maybe Laura didn’t want to resolve things.
Laura stood at the end of the hallway but disappeared into the janitor’s closet. Shannon walked down the hall and opened the door. Laura stood in the darkness.
“I’ve been looking for you,” Shannon said as she closed the door.
“I know. What do you want to know?” Laura asked.
“Your side of the story. Your mother told me what happened, but I want to hear your story.”
Laura looked to the floor. “It’s my mother’s fault that I killed myself. She actually told me I was better off dead.”
“She didn’t mean it.”
“Yes, she did. When she drinks, she never lies. But she was right. I am better off dead.”
“No, you shouldn’t have killed yourself.”
“You don’t even know what I had to go through!” Laura screamed.
The light flickered in the closet.
“Because your father drank and embarrassed you, causing him to be put away. People made fun of you. Is that why?”
“No. My dad was the victim. He wanted to take me away from my mother,” Laura said as her throat tightened. “But then he died.”
“How did he die?”
“.... I can’t remember. It’s all a blur, everything. He died, but I don’t remember how. The only thing I remember is the night when I killed myself. But I’m still trapped in this school. I don’t know why I’m not in heaven.”
Laura’s voice sounded so sad. Shannon stepped forward and reached out to try and hold her hand.
It was ice cold.
“We have to talk to your mother,” Shannon said.
Laura glared at Shannon as if she were shooting knives at her. “No. I’m not going to talk to that mess of a woman!” Laura screamed, making a bucket fall off one of the shelves.
“We have to get the real story out of your mother,” Shannon said, opening the janitor’s door.
“NO!!”
All the lights went out leaving them all in total darkness in the school.
“If you think that I’m going to talk to that woman, you’re out of your mind. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She never did.” Laura spoke.
“We at least need to try.” Shannon took hold of Laura’s wrist and pulled her to the doors.
“I can’t go outside! I’m trapped in the school!” Laura screamed.
As soon as they were outside the sun disappeared behind the clouds.
Chapter 5
Rain pounded on Shannon so hard that it felt like a knife piercing through her skin. Laura tried to get away, but her hand kept going through Shannon’s body. Each time Laura screamed in anger thunder boomed so loudly that it hurt Shannon’s ears.
At last the house on Crest St appeared through the lightning.
Shannon banged on the door. “Ms. Swanson! Open the door! Please!” she screamed through the thunder.
“Let me go! I don’t want to be here!” Laura screamed.
As soon as Shannon felt the door open she barged into the house pushing Ms. Swanson into the wall.
“What gives you the right to barge into my house?!” Ms. Swanson screamed.
Shannon looked at the woman. She never looked worse in her life. The bags under her eyes were horrible and she looked pale.
“Ms. Swanson, I brought Laura.”
The woman looked as if she wanted to faint. Her face changed to anger, and she charged towards Shannon, grabbing her by the shirt collar. “Why must you torture me like this! That girl killed herself!” she screamed.
“Get me out of here!” Laura screamed, making the lights flicker.
Laura’s teeth sank into Shannon’s arm, making her scream in pain. Laura got loose and ran to the wall.
She smacked right into it.
Ms. Swanson looked at Shannon’s arm in horror. There were teeth marks, and it was already beginning to bleed. “Laura bit me like that the night she killed herself.”
Shannon turned to Laura, who leaned against the wall, crying.
“Laura, listen to what your mother has to tell you. You can’t spend the rest of your afterlife in the school. Everything is going to be just fine.”
Shannon turned back to Ms. Swanson. Her whole body looked as if it were shivering. If her eyes bulged any larger they’d fall out.
“Ms. Swanson, we need you to tell the truth. What really happened to make Laura kill herself?”
“Start with when Dad died!” Laura shouted.
Shannon turned to Ms. Swanson. “Laura wants you to start with when your husband died.”
The woman looked to the floor. “He wasn’t the one who was drunk... I was. But I didn’t know what I was doing after I did it. I never had any memory of hurting anybody, so I didn’t know why he wanted to take Laura away from me. I wasn’t letting him leave without a fight because I wanted to keep my family and then... I inadvertently killed him.”
“I don’t believe you! You couldn’t take care of me and you knew it!”
“Why didn’t you let her go with her dad?”
“I didn’t know what I was doing, and I didn’t want to be alone. I didn’t want to be locked away somewhere where Laura would never want to see me!” Ms. Swanson said as her voice grew.
“Why did I have to go with you to that asylum?” Laura screamed.
“Why did you take her with you?”
“Laura screamed and cried so much that they thought you were crazy. For all those three years we spent in that asylum, I improved while you wouldn’t talk at all.”
Laura clapped her hands over her ears. The lights in the house flickered. “You’re lying! I don’t remember!”
Shannon bent down and forced her hands away from her ears. “She doesn’t remember any of this. Why doesn’t she? Tell the truth!” Shannon yelled to the woman.
“They gave you something that made you forget. We were able to go home but the news about us constantly went around, so many people made fun of you, Laura, and your screaming fits made me start drinking again.”
“YOU’RE LYING!”
The thunder crashed and the lights went out in the house.
“Please keep talking Ms. Swanson. You need to make her remember!” Shannon yelled, fighting Laura to keep her hands off her ears.
“You know it was an accident that I killed your father, but from what people told you, you thought that I did it on purpose. You fought with me so many times that I began losing my mind again. You thought I was always a murderer, but I wasn’t! I never meant to ruin your life! I’m sorry!” Ms. Swanson screamed over the pounding of the thunder.
The lighting struck through the windows as the cabinets spilled out its contents, smashing glasses and dishes in the kitchen.
“STOP IT! I DON’T BELIEVE YOU!”
The thunder banged its loudest.
“I loved you, Laura! I wish you never killed yourself! I want you back!”
Everything went quiet.
The storm stopped.
Laura suddenly began to glow.
“Laura...” Ms. Swanson looked at Laura as if she were about to faint.
“Mama? You can see me?” Laura asked, slowly standing up from the ground.
A smile crept along Shannon’s face as they touched each other’s hands.
“Is that what really happened?” Laura asked.
“Yes. But why did you leave me, Laura? I loved you so much.” Ms. Swanson said, in tears as she smoothed her daughter’s hair.
“I couldn't let go of the past, Mama. I thought what you said was true and you really didn’t care about me. I guess I couldn’t remember all our good times. I love you, Mama.”
Ms. Swanson hugged her daughter tightly. “I love you more.”
Laura suddenly evaporated as if she were dust, and the sparkles disappeared into the heavens.
Ms. Swanson looked out the window and stayed there for a very long time.
“Ms. Swanson? You okay?” Shannon asked, placing a hand on her shoulder.
“Ms. Swanson turned with tears in her eyes and hugged Shannon so tightly. “Thank you so much! I will never forget you for you doing this for me!”
“You’re very welcome,” Shannon said, feeling her breath being squeezed out of her.
“Would you please come visit me every week?” The woman asked.
“I promise, Ms. Swanson.”
Shannon stayed with her all evening until she walked home through the clear skies. She looked to the clear, starry night sky. The stars were shaped like a smile that night.
“Happy Halloween, Laura.”
Marielle Sabbag '14
"Are you going out for Halloween, Shannon? Or do you think freshman are too old?" Sara asked. "I think I'm too old to go out, but still I want to get candy." she said.
"Get it at the store, except it's not free. Do you think 'ol Vetrington is going to make us write a scary story? He's always making us write stories,” Sara moaned.
"I think they're fun," Shannon said.
"That's because you like writing. It takes me hours to try and think up something."
"Do you want to come hand out candy at my house?" Shannon asked, opening her locker. "Aren't you going to the party at Don Craig's house?"
"Isn't he a senior?"
"A senior who thinks we're juniors."
"You can go ahead. I'd rather pass out candy."
"Come on, Shannon, parties are so fun. Everyone is going to be there!" Shannon ignored Sara's nagging about going to the party and drifted off to the bulletin boards where announcements were posted every now and then. A girl was sitting on a bench and crying.
"What are you staring at Shannon aren't you listening?" Sara asked and followed her gaze to the bulletin board. "You know there aren't always new information about after school activities every day. Let's get to class."
Shannon sighed as Sara ignored the girl who was crying. She always did that so she could avoid getting into conflicts. "I'll meet you in class."
Sarah walked away as Shannon went to the bench and sat down.
"Are you alright?"
The girl jumped and looked surprised. "Are you talking to me?" she asked.
"What's the matter?" Shannon asked.
She didn't know what to say. "You're actually talking to me."
"Are you new? It's hard being new. I moved from Oklahoma last year, and it's hard not talking to people you don't know. I'll be your friend if it makes you feel better."
She smiled. "Thank you."
"I'm Shannon Winston. What's your name?" Shannon held out her hand. "Laura Swanson."
The bell rang.
"Shoot, we'll be late for class. Maybe I'll see you at lunch!"
Shannon ran to her class and felt so happy that she made someone feel better. Shannon looked around for Laura at lunch. It was always hard to spot someone in the crowd. By the time lunch ended she couldn't find Laura anywhere.
"Who were you looking for at lunch?" Sara asked once they were out from gym class.
"The girl who was crying on that bench."
"What bench?"
"Come on, Sara, don't act as if you didn't see her. She was crying right near the announcement board. She's new here and she was crying because she didn't have anyone to talk to."
"Well, I'm sorry, I guess I just didn't see her. Did you ask her to sit with us at lunch?" Sara asked.
"Yes, maybe she had a different lunch time."
"How long do you think they've been letting that coat lie around?"
"What coat?" Shannon asked.
"The one near the closet. It's been there since the first day of school."
Shannon picked up the dusty coat and wiped it off. Tons of dust flew off from it making the girls cough. The smell made them cover their noses. Shannon found a name on the coat, along with the street address. "This belongs to that girl I met!"
"How long has she left it here?"
"She just moved, maybe she doesn't have a working drier yet. Her address is on it, so I'll take it to her house after school."
Shannon walked along the road until she came to the house on Crest St. Tons of trees covered the street making the sun disappear. The house looked old, and the grass was barely cut. The door bell echoed through the house. A few minutes passed until she heard someone coming to the door.
The woman looked awful. She had bags under her eyes, and she smelled like smoke and alcohol.
"Yes?" Her voice was raspy like a creature.
"Are you Mrs. Swanson?"
"Ms. Swanson. I'm a widow."
Shannon wasn't surprised. No wonder Laura was crying. Her father died, forcing the two to move, and her mother took up smoking and drinking.
"I was just here to return Laura's jacket."
The woman gripped the door, looking as if something had spooked her. "What?"
"I found this in the gym. Your daughter must have left it there. Is she home?"
Ms. Swanson took the coat from Shannon's hands and cuddled it as if it were a baby. She looked at Shannon with tearful eyes.
"I don't have a daughter anymore."
With that, she closed the door.
Chapter 2
Shannon didn’t sleep that night. Ms. Swanson’s horrified face kept appearing in her mind. Laura was there, in front of her, when she talked to her. Could they have fought so badly that they stopped living with each other? Where did Laura live?
Shannon walked into the school and went to the announcement board.
Laura sat in the same spot.
Shannon walked up and sat down.
“Hello. Sorry I wasn’t at lunch yesterday, I had to retake a test,” Laura said with a smile.
“Are you missing a jacket?” Shannon asked.
Laura’s smile faded. “What do you mean?”
“It was in the gym. I decided to take it to your house but your mother or whoever it was said they don’t have a daughter anymore.”
Laura looked away. “We had an awful fight. She started it, so it’s all her fault. I don’t live with her anymore.”
“Where do you live?” Shannon asked.
“Here.”
“How could you live here? The school doesn’t let you live here. Did you and your mother have that bad of a...”
A bunch of seniors started laughing at them.
“I didn’t know your friend talked to imaginary people.” Don Craig said to Sara with his arm around her.
“Shannon, how could you do this?”
“I’m invisible to them.” Laura said in a sad way.
Shannon’s heart steamed in anger as she stood up. “Why are you making fun of her? She’s a person just like you!”
“Who the heck are you talking about?”
Shannon turned but Laura was gone.
She was running down the hallway.
“Laura, wait!” Shannon ran after her and ran down the halls screaming for her to stop.
Laura disappeared.
Shannon ran into the wall and fell to the floor.
“Shannon, what were you thinking?!” Sara yelled as she helped her friend up. “First you embarrass me by talking to yourself, then you chase after nobody and then you run into a wall! What is the matter with you?!”
“What do you mean nobody? I was running after Laura, who you guys were making fun of!” Shannon yelled, thinking Sara was being selfish.
“Who are you talking about? There was nobody else there!”
“Laura Swanson, the girl who I met yesterday. She’s new here and...”
“Laura Swanson? Shannon, what are you talking about? Laura Swanson is dead.”
Shannon blinked as her heart pounded. “W-What do you mean she... I just saw her... she was here...”
“Laura Swanson has been dead for a year. She killed herself her in the school on Halloween night.”
Chapter 3
Shannon walked down the road until she came to the house on Crest St. She had to find out everything that had happened for herself. She couldn't focus on anything all day. Although she didn't want to go back to the house, she had to so she could get the right information.
Instead of ringing the doorbell, Shannon knocked on the door. The house felt empty when she knocked. A few minutes passed until Ms. Swanson slowly opened the door, letting her head peek out.
"What do you want now?" the woman asked.
"I wanted to ask you about your daughter. I found out about how she died, and I just wanted to ask you why she did it."
Ms. Swanson stared for the longest time at Shannon. Her dark eyes hit her skin as if they were knives. She wanted to run away, but she had to stay.
"Please... come in..."
The house was dark. All the shades were down, and the place smelled like cigarettes and alcohol. There was not a clean space anywhere in the house. Ms. Swanson cleaned a space on the couch and sat in a chair with a cup of tea in her hand.
They were both eerily quiet as Shannon felt goosebumps on her skin. She didn't want to be in the house feeling as if she were being watched by millions of eyes.
"My husband could never control his drinking and when he was insanely drunk he did embarrassing things out in public."
Ms. Swanson didn't speak and sipped her tea.
"How did he die?" Shannon asked.
Ms. Swanson sighed, her hands shaking as she held the cup of tea in her hands. "The doctors put him away because he was insane and... he killed himself."
"What did he do?" Shannon asked.
"I don't think I should I tell you."
"Did it affect Laura? Did she get along with her dad?"
"No. She was teased constantly and said many times how much she wanted to kill her father. Once he died, these horrible rumors were passed that she killed him. Laura got into so many fights and... she was expelled."
Shannon gulped. "For what?"
"... Just something horrible." Ms. Swanson gulped a sob away. "And the night she killed herself, we both said things that we didn't mean to each other. And then she went to the school and hung herself in the gym closet."
Shannon's skin filled with goosebumps as her spine tingled. So many questions filled her head, but she didn't know if she could ask them.
"I wish I could say how sorry I was. I never meant to start drinking like my husband. I wish I could tell her how much I love her."
"What if you could?" Shannon asked.
The woman looked up, giving the girl a sharp look. "What do you mean?" she asked in a grave tone.
"I saw her. She's in the school." Shannon spoke without a moment’s hesitation.
Ms. Swanson's eyes bulged and immediately she stood up from her seat. "Get out."
She took her by the arm and threw Shannon out of the house. "Don't ever come back here again!"
With that she slammed the door.
She didn't get all the information that she needed. If she was going to get the right information, it had to be from Laura.
Chapter 4
All day Shannon looked around for Laura but had no success. She was hiding from her, she knew it. Shannon was not going to leave the school until she found Laura. Today was the anniversary of her death.
The bell rang, and the day was over.
Shannon closed her locker. Maybe Laura didn’t want to resolve things.
Laura stood at the end of the hallway but disappeared into the janitor’s closet. Shannon walked down the hall and opened the door. Laura stood in the darkness.
“I’ve been looking for you,” Shannon said as she closed the door.
“I know. What do you want to know?” Laura asked.
“Your side of the story. Your mother told me what happened, but I want to hear your story.”
Laura looked to the floor. “It’s my mother’s fault that I killed myself. She actually told me I was better off dead.”
“She didn’t mean it.”
“Yes, she did. When she drinks, she never lies. But she was right. I am better off dead.”
“No, you shouldn’t have killed yourself.”
“You don’t even know what I had to go through!” Laura screamed.
The light flickered in the closet.
“Because your father drank and embarrassed you, causing him to be put away. People made fun of you. Is that why?”
“No. My dad was the victim. He wanted to take me away from my mother,” Laura said as her throat tightened. “But then he died.”
“How did he die?”
“.... I can’t remember. It’s all a blur, everything. He died, but I don’t remember how. The only thing I remember is the night when I killed myself. But I’m still trapped in this school. I don’t know why I’m not in heaven.”
Laura’s voice sounded so sad. Shannon stepped forward and reached out to try and hold her hand.
It was ice cold.
“We have to talk to your mother,” Shannon said.
Laura glared at Shannon as if she were shooting knives at her. “No. I’m not going to talk to that mess of a woman!” Laura screamed, making a bucket fall off one of the shelves.
“We have to get the real story out of your mother,” Shannon said, opening the janitor’s door.
“NO!!”
All the lights went out leaving them all in total darkness in the school.
“If you think that I’m going to talk to that woman, you’re out of your mind. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She never did.” Laura spoke.
“We at least need to try.” Shannon took hold of Laura’s wrist and pulled her to the doors.
“I can’t go outside! I’m trapped in the school!” Laura screamed.
As soon as they were outside the sun disappeared behind the clouds.
Chapter 5
Rain pounded on Shannon so hard that it felt like a knife piercing through her skin. Laura tried to get away, but her hand kept going through Shannon’s body. Each time Laura screamed in anger thunder boomed so loudly that it hurt Shannon’s ears.
At last the house on Crest St appeared through the lightning.
Shannon banged on the door. “Ms. Swanson! Open the door! Please!” she screamed through the thunder.
“Let me go! I don’t want to be here!” Laura screamed.
As soon as Shannon felt the door open she barged into the house pushing Ms. Swanson into the wall.
“What gives you the right to barge into my house?!” Ms. Swanson screamed.
Shannon looked at the woman. She never looked worse in her life. The bags under her eyes were horrible and she looked pale.
“Ms. Swanson, I brought Laura.”
The woman looked as if she wanted to faint. Her face changed to anger, and she charged towards Shannon, grabbing her by the shirt collar. “Why must you torture me like this! That girl killed herself!” she screamed.
“Get me out of here!” Laura screamed, making the lights flicker.
Laura’s teeth sank into Shannon’s arm, making her scream in pain. Laura got loose and ran to the wall.
She smacked right into it.
Ms. Swanson looked at Shannon’s arm in horror. There were teeth marks, and it was already beginning to bleed. “Laura bit me like that the night she killed herself.”
Shannon turned to Laura, who leaned against the wall, crying.
“Laura, listen to what your mother has to tell you. You can’t spend the rest of your afterlife in the school. Everything is going to be just fine.”
Shannon turned back to Ms. Swanson. Her whole body looked as if it were shivering. If her eyes bulged any larger they’d fall out.
“Ms. Swanson, we need you to tell the truth. What really happened to make Laura kill herself?”
“Start with when Dad died!” Laura shouted.
Shannon turned to Ms. Swanson. “Laura wants you to start with when your husband died.”
The woman looked to the floor. “He wasn’t the one who was drunk... I was. But I didn’t know what I was doing after I did it. I never had any memory of hurting anybody, so I didn’t know why he wanted to take Laura away from me. I wasn’t letting him leave without a fight because I wanted to keep my family and then... I inadvertently killed him.”
“I don’t believe you! You couldn’t take care of me and you knew it!”
“Why didn’t you let her go with her dad?”
“I didn’t know what I was doing, and I didn’t want to be alone. I didn’t want to be locked away somewhere where Laura would never want to see me!” Ms. Swanson said as her voice grew.
“Why did I have to go with you to that asylum?” Laura screamed.
“Why did you take her with you?”
“Laura screamed and cried so much that they thought you were crazy. For all those three years we spent in that asylum, I improved while you wouldn’t talk at all.”
Laura clapped her hands over her ears. The lights in the house flickered. “You’re lying! I don’t remember!”
Shannon bent down and forced her hands away from her ears. “She doesn’t remember any of this. Why doesn’t she? Tell the truth!” Shannon yelled to the woman.
“They gave you something that made you forget. We were able to go home but the news about us constantly went around, so many people made fun of you, Laura, and your screaming fits made me start drinking again.”
“YOU’RE LYING!”
The thunder crashed and the lights went out in the house.
“Please keep talking Ms. Swanson. You need to make her remember!” Shannon yelled, fighting Laura to keep her hands off her ears.
“You know it was an accident that I killed your father, but from what people told you, you thought that I did it on purpose. You fought with me so many times that I began losing my mind again. You thought I was always a murderer, but I wasn’t! I never meant to ruin your life! I’m sorry!” Ms. Swanson screamed over the pounding of the thunder.
The lighting struck through the windows as the cabinets spilled out its contents, smashing glasses and dishes in the kitchen.
“STOP IT! I DON’T BELIEVE YOU!”
The thunder banged its loudest.
“I loved you, Laura! I wish you never killed yourself! I want you back!”
Everything went quiet.
The storm stopped.
Laura suddenly began to glow.
“Laura...” Ms. Swanson looked at Laura as if she were about to faint.
“Mama? You can see me?” Laura asked, slowly standing up from the ground.
A smile crept along Shannon’s face as they touched each other’s hands.
“Is that what really happened?” Laura asked.
“Yes. But why did you leave me, Laura? I loved you so much.” Ms. Swanson said, in tears as she smoothed her daughter’s hair.
“I couldn't let go of the past, Mama. I thought what you said was true and you really didn’t care about me. I guess I couldn’t remember all our good times. I love you, Mama.”
Ms. Swanson hugged her daughter tightly. “I love you more.”
Laura suddenly evaporated as if she were dust, and the sparkles disappeared into the heavens.
Ms. Swanson looked out the window and stayed there for a very long time.
“Ms. Swanson? You okay?” Shannon asked, placing a hand on her shoulder.
“Ms. Swanson turned with tears in her eyes and hugged Shannon so tightly. “Thank you so much! I will never forget you for you doing this for me!”
“You’re very welcome,” Shannon said, feeling her breath being squeezed out of her.
“Would you please come visit me every week?” The woman asked.
“I promise, Ms. Swanson.”
Shannon stayed with her all evening until she walked home through the clear skies. She looked to the clear, starry night sky. The stars were shaped like a smile that night.
“Happy Halloween, Laura.”
Marielle Sabbag '14
MST Thor
Erhu: Get in there, newbies. Take your seats; you’ll be covering a Norse mythology story today. It’s called The Lay of Thrym, I think you’ll like it.
Teufel: I get some new friends, how pleasant.
Nicky: I was just pulled in here, and now I’m scared and confused. What do we do?
Enki: I know what to do in this place, just follow my lead.
Teufel: I haven't got anyone to see today, so I might as well do this.
Erhu: Introduce yourselves.
Teufel: Der Teufel, at your service.
Enki: Enki.
Nicky: And I’m Nicky.
Erhu: OK, kind lady and lovely gents.
Teufel: Not all that kind.
Erhu: Time for the MST to begin.
Nicky: Great!
The Lay of Thrym
Thor awoke with a start. His hammer, the mighty Mjöllnir, was missing. He shook his shaggy head, and his beard bristled with anger as he groped around him.
Nicky: Aw, he sleeps with his hammer like it’s a teddy bear.
Teufel: Poor, sweet thing, are there no stuffed bilge snipe for him?
Enki: At least he’s not sleeping with Gungnir, that could get messy.
He shouted to Loki, "My hammer has been stolen! No one in heaven or on earth can know what a loss this is for me!"
Enki: Except for any other legendary figures who’ve had weapons stolen, which is quite a lot.
Forthwith they rushed to Freyja's shining halls.
"Freyja," said Thor, "will you lend me your feathered coat to help me seek my hammer?"
Freyja said, "I would lend it to you even if it were made of gold or silver."
Teufel: ‘Even if Freyr had gotten boar hair on the lining.’
Then Loki put on the feathered coat and, leaving Asgard, winged his way to Jotunheim, the world of giants.
Enki: Sure, blame the giants before getting any other clues.
Nicky: They’re so misrepresented.
Thrym, the lord of giants, sat upon a mound, smoothing his horses' manes and twisting golden halters for his hounds.
Nicky: He’s into arts and crafts, how bad a giant could he be?
He said, "How are the Æsir? How are the elves? Why have you come to Jotunheim?"
Enki: ‘Why are you wearing a girl’s coat?’
Loki said, "It is ill with the Æsir; it is ill with the elves. Tell me, have you hidden the Thunderer's hammer?"
Nicky: What elves? Does the loss of Thor’s hammer cause folks like Elrond and Celeborn trouble?
Teufel: That’d be an interesting crossover.
Thrym said, "Yes, I have hidden Thor's hammer eight leagues deep in the earth. No one can win it back from me, unless he brings to me fair Freyja as a bride."
Nicky: He’s blackmailing the Asgardians just because he wants to get married, that’s adorable.
Teufel: Oh, what a pleasant fellow. I’d love to welcome him into my home as a holiday guest.
Loki flew away, the feathered coat rustling. He left behind the world of giants and winged his way back to the world of the gods.
Enki: Loki’s not as entertaining when he isn’t instigating mischievous caprices.
Thor met him there in the middle court. He said, "Were your labors successful? Tell me the tidings before you land. Sitting causes one to forget, and lying causes one to lie."
Nicky: What?
Enki: Everyone knows you become forgetful upon sitting and when you lie down you automatically lie. Keep up, Nicky.
Loki said, "Yes, my labors met with success. Thrym, the lord of giants, has your hammer; but no one can win Mjöllnir from him, unless he brings to him fair Freyja as a bride."
Enki: ‘And a truckload of wedding planners, he sounds like he’s really excited about this.’
Forthwith they rushed to find fair Freyja. "Dress yourself in bridal linen," said Thor. "You and I are on our way to the world of giants."
Nicky: ‘Asgardian ladies love Frost Giants, right?’
At this Freyja foamed with rage. The halls of Asgard shook with her anger. The necklace of the Brisings broke apart. "You may call me man-crazy, if I go with you to Jotunheim," she said.
Teufel: If I were her, I’d be more concerned that I’d shaken those halls and broken my necklace in anger.
Nicky: That’s rage for you, get yourself worked up enough and things around you suddenly break.
Straight away all the gods and goddesses gathered to discuss how they could recover Thor's hammer.
Teufel: A hammer-recovery team was quickly assembled, and tensions rose before a death in their ranks forced them to work together.
Heimdall, the fairest of the gods, like all the Vanir could see into the future. "Let us dress Thor in bridal linen," he said, "and let him wear the necklace of the Brisings. Tie housewife's keys about his waist, and pin bridal jewels upon his breast. Let him wear women's clothes, with a dainty hood on his head."
Teufel: Heimdall seems pretty keen on this idea, holy hell.
Enki: Well, he doesn’t get to see too many interesting sights while he’s guarding the Bifrost.
Nicky: Poor Thor’s gonna have to wear a broken necklace of the Brisings.
The Thunderer, mightiest of gods, replied, "The gods will call me womanish if I put on bridal linen."
Enki: They’ll be too busy laughing to call you anything, don’t worry.
Then Loki, son of Laufey, said, "Thor, be still! With such foolish words the giants will soon be living here in Asgard if you do not get your hammer from them."
Nicky: ‘Ah, sew your lip, Loki.’
Teufel: Darn trickster gods.
Enki: That’s not very nice.
So they dressed Thor in bridal linen, tied the necklace of Brisings around his neck and housewife's keys about his waist. They pinned bridal jewels upon his breast, and dressed him in women's clothes, with a dainty hood on his head.
Teufel: …Their entire beings shaking with repressed laughter at the bearded bride.
Then Loki, son of Laufey, said, "I will accompany you as your maid-servant. Together we shall go to Jotunheim."
Nicky: ‘Let us go crossdressing together, brother!’
Enki: What a heartwarming moment.
Forthwith the goats were driven home to be harnessed. The mountains trembled, and the earth burned with fire as Odin's son rode to Jotunheim.
Nicky: Goats?
Teufel: Even dressed as a lady, Thor still shakes and burns the earth with his awesome power. What dignity!
Thrym, the lord of giants, said to his kin, "Stand up, you Jotuns, and put straw on the benches. They are bringing fair Freyja, daughter of Njord from Noatun, to be my bride. I have golden-horned cattle grazing in my yard. They are pure-black oxen, a joy to giants. I have treasures aplenty and rule over great riches. Freyja is the only thing that I lack."
Enki: ‘And as we’ll see very soon, I also lack the ability to tell a man from a woman.’
Day soon became evening, and ale was brought to the giants' table. There Thor ate an ox and eight whole salmons, in addition to all the dainties that were served to the women. Furthermore, he drank three measures of mead.
Enki: I have an image of Thor sucking in all the food on the feast table like a black hole.
Teufel: A black hole in a beard and dress with a mighty physique.
Thrym, the lord of giants, said, "Have you ever seen a bride eat and drink so heartily?"
Teufel: ‘Not since the last time I tried to marry a manly Norse god, at least.’
The maid-servant wisely answered thus: "Freyja was so eager to come to Jotunheim that she has eaten nothing for eight nights."
Enki: Excellent lie-work from Loki, as usual.
Thrym stooped beneath his bride's veil, wanting to kiss her, then jumped back the whole length of the hall. "Why are Freyja's eyes so fearful?" he said. "I think that fire is flaming from her eyes."
Nicky: There’s a phrase you never want to hear being used to describe your bride. Bow out now, Thrym!
Teufel: Too late. Maybe he’s just that desperate for love.
Enki: Please don’t say that.
The maid-servant wisely answered the giant thus: "Freyja was so eager to come to Jotunheim that she has not slept for eight nights."
Nicky: And apparently poor sleeping habits cause flaming eyes. What kind of a world is this?
Teufel: There have been weirder mythologies.
Then a poor sister of one of the giants came in and dared to beg a gift from the bride. "If you want my love and friendship then give me the gold rings from your fingers," she said.
Teufel: ‘Then see if you can’t get Cu Chulainn to throw on a bridal gown and join us.’
Then Thrym, the lord of giants, said, "Bring me the hammer to bless the bride. Lay Mjöllnir on the maiden's lap, let the two of us thus be hallowed in the name of Vor, goddess of vows!"
Nicky: If they actually get married, it’s gonna be the most powerful wedding ever.
Enki: Also the most awkward.
When Thor saw the hammer his heart laughed within him, and he took courage. He first slew Thrym, the lord of giants, then he crushed all the giant's kin. Finally he slew the old giantess who had begged for a bridal gift. Instead of coins she got the crack of the hammer. Instead of rings she received the mark of Mjöllnir.
Nicky: Lovely exchange.
Teufel: That was not nearly enough punishment for the Jotunn lady who dared to ask for his jewelry.
Thus Thor won back his hammer.
Enki: That was an abrupt conclusion. Nice little glorious battle, though.
Nicky: I’m assuming that Thor was still in a dress for that battle.
Teufel: He was bearing the brave, confident face of a god in battle wearing a lovely wedding dress and dainty hood. I bet he’d sell his soul to forget about that whole little escapade.
Enki: Or sell it to make the rest of the Asgardians forget about it.
Erhu: You’re done, very nice job.
Teufel: That didn’t take a heck of a long time. It’s been nice to meet and MST with you lovely folks.
Enki: Nice to meet you too, ma’am.
Nicky: Me three!
Erhu: Farewell for the time being.
Ruby Struble '14
Teufel: I get some new friends, how pleasant.
Nicky: I was just pulled in here, and now I’m scared and confused. What do we do?
Enki: I know what to do in this place, just follow my lead.
Teufel: I haven't got anyone to see today, so I might as well do this.
Erhu: Introduce yourselves.
Teufel: Der Teufel, at your service.
Enki: Enki.
Nicky: And I’m Nicky.
Erhu: OK, kind lady and lovely gents.
Teufel: Not all that kind.
Erhu: Time for the MST to begin.
Nicky: Great!
The Lay of Thrym
Thor awoke with a start. His hammer, the mighty Mjöllnir, was missing. He shook his shaggy head, and his beard bristled with anger as he groped around him.
Nicky: Aw, he sleeps with his hammer like it’s a teddy bear.
Teufel: Poor, sweet thing, are there no stuffed bilge snipe for him?
Enki: At least he’s not sleeping with Gungnir, that could get messy.
He shouted to Loki, "My hammer has been stolen! No one in heaven or on earth can know what a loss this is for me!"
Enki: Except for any other legendary figures who’ve had weapons stolen, which is quite a lot.
Forthwith they rushed to Freyja's shining halls.
"Freyja," said Thor, "will you lend me your feathered coat to help me seek my hammer?"
Freyja said, "I would lend it to you even if it were made of gold or silver."
Teufel: ‘Even if Freyr had gotten boar hair on the lining.’
Then Loki put on the feathered coat and, leaving Asgard, winged his way to Jotunheim, the world of giants.
Enki: Sure, blame the giants before getting any other clues.
Nicky: They’re so misrepresented.
Thrym, the lord of giants, sat upon a mound, smoothing his horses' manes and twisting golden halters for his hounds.
Nicky: He’s into arts and crafts, how bad a giant could he be?
He said, "How are the Æsir? How are the elves? Why have you come to Jotunheim?"
Enki: ‘Why are you wearing a girl’s coat?’
Loki said, "It is ill with the Æsir; it is ill with the elves. Tell me, have you hidden the Thunderer's hammer?"
Nicky: What elves? Does the loss of Thor’s hammer cause folks like Elrond and Celeborn trouble?
Teufel: That’d be an interesting crossover.
Thrym said, "Yes, I have hidden Thor's hammer eight leagues deep in the earth. No one can win it back from me, unless he brings to me fair Freyja as a bride."
Nicky: He’s blackmailing the Asgardians just because he wants to get married, that’s adorable.
Teufel: Oh, what a pleasant fellow. I’d love to welcome him into my home as a holiday guest.
Loki flew away, the feathered coat rustling. He left behind the world of giants and winged his way back to the world of the gods.
Enki: Loki’s not as entertaining when he isn’t instigating mischievous caprices.
Thor met him there in the middle court. He said, "Were your labors successful? Tell me the tidings before you land. Sitting causes one to forget, and lying causes one to lie."
Nicky: What?
Enki: Everyone knows you become forgetful upon sitting and when you lie down you automatically lie. Keep up, Nicky.
Loki said, "Yes, my labors met with success. Thrym, the lord of giants, has your hammer; but no one can win Mjöllnir from him, unless he brings to him fair Freyja as a bride."
Enki: ‘And a truckload of wedding planners, he sounds like he’s really excited about this.’
Forthwith they rushed to find fair Freyja. "Dress yourself in bridal linen," said Thor. "You and I are on our way to the world of giants."
Nicky: ‘Asgardian ladies love Frost Giants, right?’
At this Freyja foamed with rage. The halls of Asgard shook with her anger. The necklace of the Brisings broke apart. "You may call me man-crazy, if I go with you to Jotunheim," she said.
Teufel: If I were her, I’d be more concerned that I’d shaken those halls and broken my necklace in anger.
Nicky: That’s rage for you, get yourself worked up enough and things around you suddenly break.
Straight away all the gods and goddesses gathered to discuss how they could recover Thor's hammer.
Teufel: A hammer-recovery team was quickly assembled, and tensions rose before a death in their ranks forced them to work together.
Heimdall, the fairest of the gods, like all the Vanir could see into the future. "Let us dress Thor in bridal linen," he said, "and let him wear the necklace of the Brisings. Tie housewife's keys about his waist, and pin bridal jewels upon his breast. Let him wear women's clothes, with a dainty hood on his head."
Teufel: Heimdall seems pretty keen on this idea, holy hell.
Enki: Well, he doesn’t get to see too many interesting sights while he’s guarding the Bifrost.
Nicky: Poor Thor’s gonna have to wear a broken necklace of the Brisings.
The Thunderer, mightiest of gods, replied, "The gods will call me womanish if I put on bridal linen."
Enki: They’ll be too busy laughing to call you anything, don’t worry.
Then Loki, son of Laufey, said, "Thor, be still! With such foolish words the giants will soon be living here in Asgard if you do not get your hammer from them."
Nicky: ‘Ah, sew your lip, Loki.’
Teufel: Darn trickster gods.
Enki: That’s not very nice.
So they dressed Thor in bridal linen, tied the necklace of Brisings around his neck and housewife's keys about his waist. They pinned bridal jewels upon his breast, and dressed him in women's clothes, with a dainty hood on his head.
Teufel: …Their entire beings shaking with repressed laughter at the bearded bride.
Then Loki, son of Laufey, said, "I will accompany you as your maid-servant. Together we shall go to Jotunheim."
Nicky: ‘Let us go crossdressing together, brother!’
Enki: What a heartwarming moment.
Forthwith the goats were driven home to be harnessed. The mountains trembled, and the earth burned with fire as Odin's son rode to Jotunheim.
Nicky: Goats?
Teufel: Even dressed as a lady, Thor still shakes and burns the earth with his awesome power. What dignity!
Thrym, the lord of giants, said to his kin, "Stand up, you Jotuns, and put straw on the benches. They are bringing fair Freyja, daughter of Njord from Noatun, to be my bride. I have golden-horned cattle grazing in my yard. They are pure-black oxen, a joy to giants. I have treasures aplenty and rule over great riches. Freyja is the only thing that I lack."
Enki: ‘And as we’ll see very soon, I also lack the ability to tell a man from a woman.’
Day soon became evening, and ale was brought to the giants' table. There Thor ate an ox and eight whole salmons, in addition to all the dainties that were served to the women. Furthermore, he drank three measures of mead.
Enki: I have an image of Thor sucking in all the food on the feast table like a black hole.
Teufel: A black hole in a beard and dress with a mighty physique.
Thrym, the lord of giants, said, "Have you ever seen a bride eat and drink so heartily?"
Teufel: ‘Not since the last time I tried to marry a manly Norse god, at least.’
The maid-servant wisely answered thus: "Freyja was so eager to come to Jotunheim that she has eaten nothing for eight nights."
Enki: Excellent lie-work from Loki, as usual.
Thrym stooped beneath his bride's veil, wanting to kiss her, then jumped back the whole length of the hall. "Why are Freyja's eyes so fearful?" he said. "I think that fire is flaming from her eyes."
Nicky: There’s a phrase you never want to hear being used to describe your bride. Bow out now, Thrym!
Teufel: Too late. Maybe he’s just that desperate for love.
Enki: Please don’t say that.
The maid-servant wisely answered the giant thus: "Freyja was so eager to come to Jotunheim that she has not slept for eight nights."
Nicky: And apparently poor sleeping habits cause flaming eyes. What kind of a world is this?
Teufel: There have been weirder mythologies.
Then a poor sister of one of the giants came in and dared to beg a gift from the bride. "If you want my love and friendship then give me the gold rings from your fingers," she said.
Teufel: ‘Then see if you can’t get Cu Chulainn to throw on a bridal gown and join us.’
Then Thrym, the lord of giants, said, "Bring me the hammer to bless the bride. Lay Mjöllnir on the maiden's lap, let the two of us thus be hallowed in the name of Vor, goddess of vows!"
Nicky: If they actually get married, it’s gonna be the most powerful wedding ever.
Enki: Also the most awkward.
When Thor saw the hammer his heart laughed within him, and he took courage. He first slew Thrym, the lord of giants, then he crushed all the giant's kin. Finally he slew the old giantess who had begged for a bridal gift. Instead of coins she got the crack of the hammer. Instead of rings she received the mark of Mjöllnir.
Nicky: Lovely exchange.
Teufel: That was not nearly enough punishment for the Jotunn lady who dared to ask for his jewelry.
Thus Thor won back his hammer.
Enki: That was an abrupt conclusion. Nice little glorious battle, though.
Nicky: I’m assuming that Thor was still in a dress for that battle.
Teufel: He was bearing the brave, confident face of a god in battle wearing a lovely wedding dress and dainty hood. I bet he’d sell his soul to forget about that whole little escapade.
Enki: Or sell it to make the rest of the Asgardians forget about it.
Erhu: You’re done, very nice job.
Teufel: That didn’t take a heck of a long time. It’s been nice to meet and MST with you lovely folks.
Enki: Nice to meet you too, ma’am.
Nicky: Me three!
Erhu: Farewell for the time being.
Ruby Struble '14
Letting Go of Eloise
He can count on one hand’s worth of fingers all the reasons why he can’t ever let go of his Eloise. He reviews them often, especially in moments when she explodes in fits of tears, her hair snarled in angry knots he can’t untangle, her stomach churning in pain he can’t heal, her mouth spewing words he can’t erase.
There are moments when he hates her, when he can’t stand the sight of those sad puppy dog eyes. Moments when they’re driving back from somewhere, and she’s in the backseat right behind him. He’s looking at her in the rearview mirror, with that sourpuss pout on her luscious lips.
When he first learned to drive, his father told him not to spend too much time looking in the rearview mirror. “You’re driving straight ahead right? So don’t be lookin’ backwards all the time. You can’t spend the whole time gazin’ all around back there. You’ll slam into the poor guy who’s in front of ya.”
But sometimes, when his Eloise is right back there, he can’t help but drive with his eyes in the rearview mirror. Sometimes he takes her to far away places, if not only for the drive home. It's best late at night when he can look back at her and not have to worry about slamming into the guy in front of him. A lot of the time, she falls asleep and that sourpuss pout becomes just a hint of a smile, and they can breathe breaths of relief in harmony once again.
That’s one of the reasons he can’t let go of his Eloise, those calm breaths of air, the in and out, but not the ups and downs. Another reason is when the hint of a smile forms into a full one while she’s wide-awake. It’s rare for such a smile to stick around for long though, because he never knows when something will set that girl off.
The third reason, her laugh, is an even rarer occurrence. But that’s just a moment in time, a few seconds at most when her whole face lights up and she tosses her head back, letting her wild hair fly out behind her.
The fourth reason is music, the sound of her voice when she sings along to their favorite songs. It’s the warm, happy feeling of her standing in front of him when they’re watching their favorite bands at the club, and she’s memorized every word, every chord, and every beat. It’s the sight of her dancing, swaying slightly, or jumping up and down in an excited pogo.
But the fifth reason (the real reason) he can’t let go of his Eloise is because she can’t let go of him. He knows that if he ever began to even think about abandoning her, she’d know. His Eloise would die without him.
But everyday he thinks of letting go, because the bad moments are starting to outnumber the good. He thinks of returning her to her family like a library book, one that he may or may not check out again when the time is right. He thinks of leaving her on the side of the road, leaving her in the rearview mirror, watching until she disappears completely into the darkness.
He thinks of it now, as he’s driving with his eyes in the rearview mirror, watching her take in those slow silent breaths. She twitches slightly, and he looks away, snapping back to the reality of the nervous, teary twitches, not the dreamy ones. He watches the white dotted lines of the interstate as he drives in a straight line, effortlessly, without anyone else but his Eloise to worry about. He clenches the fingers of his right hand on the steering wheel, counting once again. One two three four five. Five four three two one. Breaths, smiles, laughs, music, she can’t let go. Can’t let go of music, laughs, smiles, breaths.
That’s the thing though. He could let go. But he won’t, he can’t. She occupies his every moment. He’d be lost without her, without taking care of his Eloise. He’d have nothing, nobody without his broken little Eloise, with her ripped pages, her creases, her water marks, and all the passages of their story he tries to scribble out and rewrite with a big black pen of second chances.
Clenching. Unclenching. He can’t just get rid of her. There’s no way. But there must be, somehow. Glancing backwards, looking ahead, away, right in front of him. Is this what he really wants?
She stirs suddenly, her breaths becoming more hurried, more nervous as she wakes to the living nightmare they share. He glances back. Her eyebrows become hard. Her smile melts into a frown.
“I forgot something…” She’s rubbing the peaceful sleep out of her eyes.
“Okay. We’ll just get off at the next exit and turn around.” He doesn’t ask what it was, though he wonders. He doesn’t want to upset her, but he can feel her anxiety building up in his own chest.
“No, something to tell you…” His fingers unclench. He stops subconsciously counting his reasons, holding them back at the beginnings of his nerve endings. He takes his foot off the gas, lets them coast ahead toward the breakdown lane.
“I think…” His eyes flicker toward the needle of the speedometer plummeting toward zero, back to her. She’s got her forehead pressed up against the window, staring out at the blackness of the night, away from his reflection in the rearview mirror.
“I need help.” She barely whispers the words, but he can read her lips in the faint glow of the dashboard that illuminates her, the only light that he watches her in.
“I've gotta let go of us…” The car comes to a stop in the breakdown lane and he kills the engine, kills the only light they had left in the darkness of the interstate. She’s killing the fifth reason, the real reason. He can feel the pain in his thumb. She's letting go of him, letting go of herself.
He crawls over the center console into the backseat with her. She falls against him, against his heart beating out of control. He taps the four fingers he has left, unsure if that thumb still counts. They sit that way for the longest five minutes of his life, in the present, thoughts fluttering between the past and the future. He thinks of the other four reasons, breaths, smiles, laughs, music. He realizes that he’ll have to sacrifice the fifth reason, the “real” reason, in order to save the others.
-Meaghan Coughlin '13
There are moments when he hates her, when he can’t stand the sight of those sad puppy dog eyes. Moments when they’re driving back from somewhere, and she’s in the backseat right behind him. He’s looking at her in the rearview mirror, with that sourpuss pout on her luscious lips.
When he first learned to drive, his father told him not to spend too much time looking in the rearview mirror. “You’re driving straight ahead right? So don’t be lookin’ backwards all the time. You can’t spend the whole time gazin’ all around back there. You’ll slam into the poor guy who’s in front of ya.”
But sometimes, when his Eloise is right back there, he can’t help but drive with his eyes in the rearview mirror. Sometimes he takes her to far away places, if not only for the drive home. It's best late at night when he can look back at her and not have to worry about slamming into the guy in front of him. A lot of the time, she falls asleep and that sourpuss pout becomes just a hint of a smile, and they can breathe breaths of relief in harmony once again.
That’s one of the reasons he can’t let go of his Eloise, those calm breaths of air, the in and out, but not the ups and downs. Another reason is when the hint of a smile forms into a full one while she’s wide-awake. It’s rare for such a smile to stick around for long though, because he never knows when something will set that girl off.
The third reason, her laugh, is an even rarer occurrence. But that’s just a moment in time, a few seconds at most when her whole face lights up and she tosses her head back, letting her wild hair fly out behind her.
The fourth reason is music, the sound of her voice when she sings along to their favorite songs. It’s the warm, happy feeling of her standing in front of him when they’re watching their favorite bands at the club, and she’s memorized every word, every chord, and every beat. It’s the sight of her dancing, swaying slightly, or jumping up and down in an excited pogo.
But the fifth reason (the real reason) he can’t let go of his Eloise is because she can’t let go of him. He knows that if he ever began to even think about abandoning her, she’d know. His Eloise would die without him.
But everyday he thinks of letting go, because the bad moments are starting to outnumber the good. He thinks of returning her to her family like a library book, one that he may or may not check out again when the time is right. He thinks of leaving her on the side of the road, leaving her in the rearview mirror, watching until she disappears completely into the darkness.
He thinks of it now, as he’s driving with his eyes in the rearview mirror, watching her take in those slow silent breaths. She twitches slightly, and he looks away, snapping back to the reality of the nervous, teary twitches, not the dreamy ones. He watches the white dotted lines of the interstate as he drives in a straight line, effortlessly, without anyone else but his Eloise to worry about. He clenches the fingers of his right hand on the steering wheel, counting once again. One two three four five. Five four three two one. Breaths, smiles, laughs, music, she can’t let go. Can’t let go of music, laughs, smiles, breaths.
That’s the thing though. He could let go. But he won’t, he can’t. She occupies his every moment. He’d be lost without her, without taking care of his Eloise. He’d have nothing, nobody without his broken little Eloise, with her ripped pages, her creases, her water marks, and all the passages of their story he tries to scribble out and rewrite with a big black pen of second chances.
Clenching. Unclenching. He can’t just get rid of her. There’s no way. But there must be, somehow. Glancing backwards, looking ahead, away, right in front of him. Is this what he really wants?
She stirs suddenly, her breaths becoming more hurried, more nervous as she wakes to the living nightmare they share. He glances back. Her eyebrows become hard. Her smile melts into a frown.
“I forgot something…” She’s rubbing the peaceful sleep out of her eyes.
“Okay. We’ll just get off at the next exit and turn around.” He doesn’t ask what it was, though he wonders. He doesn’t want to upset her, but he can feel her anxiety building up in his own chest.
“No, something to tell you…” His fingers unclench. He stops subconsciously counting his reasons, holding them back at the beginnings of his nerve endings. He takes his foot off the gas, lets them coast ahead toward the breakdown lane.
“I think…” His eyes flicker toward the needle of the speedometer plummeting toward zero, back to her. She’s got her forehead pressed up against the window, staring out at the blackness of the night, away from his reflection in the rearview mirror.
“I need help.” She barely whispers the words, but he can read her lips in the faint glow of the dashboard that illuminates her, the only light that he watches her in.
“I've gotta let go of us…” The car comes to a stop in the breakdown lane and he kills the engine, kills the only light they had left in the darkness of the interstate. She’s killing the fifth reason, the real reason. He can feel the pain in his thumb. She's letting go of him, letting go of herself.
He crawls over the center console into the backseat with her. She falls against him, against his heart beating out of control. He taps the four fingers he has left, unsure if that thumb still counts. They sit that way for the longest five minutes of his life, in the present, thoughts fluttering between the past and the future. He thinks of the other four reasons, breaths, smiles, laughs, music. He realizes that he’ll have to sacrifice the fifth reason, the “real” reason, in order to save the others.
-Meaghan Coughlin '13
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-Natalie Krowitz '16