THE THIRD ANNUAL FAULT LINES EDITOR'S PRIZE
The Fault Lines Editor's Prize is awarded to seven upper school students for prose, poetry, and art. This year, the prompt for The Editor's Prize was "What is resistance? What is resilience?" In addition to Warwick's gift cards for varying amounts, the winners for the prose, poetry, and art awards earned their place in the 2021 publication.
PROSE
1ST PLACE
CONTINUITY, SANCIA MILTON '22
The blue will not leave his skin. Blooming under his eyes, pulsing with exhaustion, those dark circles have stained him. Like ink, this haggard blue sinks into his body and overwrites out any sign of his youth.
His mother hates to look at him. Malnourishment has pressed its artist’s thumb to his skin and smeared onto him the portraiture of war—the black of his fingernails, the yellow of his teeth, the paleness of his limp, languid lips. The Germany she knew would never do such things to her son.
“Soup is on the stove,” she says.
Peter rushes to her side, eyes like Christmas. “Can I have bread, too? Is there bread?”
“A little, my love.”
She pours two bowls, aware of the violent silence around them. Her hand shakes. Soup splashes up the sides of the
dented bowls and onto the table. Peter swipes it up with his fingers.
Years ago, she had not known that homes could age like people, that everything—picture frames and lamp shades,
window sills and sink drains—falls victim to the most ashen shade of gray. Everything smudges out into that washed-out, sunken-in, funeral-for-the-living hue.
“We should send Papa some soup.”
“Papa is very far away, dear.”
“So he must want some soup! I would want some. And bread.”
His mother gazes at that impossible smile. “I’m sure he would.”
“You could send me along with the soup.” He frowns at the cup, small feet swinging below the table. “When can he
eat with us, again?”
His mother closes her eyes. She must clasp her hands to keep them from tremoring too much. “Soon, my love.”
---
Red has never looked so holy, Otto thinks. His eyes never leave their wind-battered flag as he descends further into the trenches.
The news is never good, these days. Allied forces sweeping in, munitions running low, their glorious country mangled, burnt, and feverish. And yet, as Otto settles himself on a crate, he rubs his palms together as if in prayer to that impossible red—red like bloodshot eyes and shrapnel hands, red like the flushed faces of frantic underlings. Red, the longest wavelength of visible light, a superlative.
“Fritz!” Otto yells. The short man stumbles toward him.
Otto jerks his head to the left. He does not need to speak; his power supersedes words.
Fritz turns, head bowed, lips pulled taught with silence, and marches away.
The soft glow of ecstasy sweeps across Otto’s face while he watches the lieutenant leave. He knows that Fritz will
collect the telegrams, and he will write the responses, and he will scrape mud off the bottom of Otto’s shoes with his very fingernails, if Otto compels him so. Power burns like whiskey in Otto’s blood, hotwiring his veins, connecting him to some bigger machine, some cog-and-gear empire that would not fall, that would not surrender, that would simmer and broil in their brilliant country with an indefinite fire. A utopia as red hot as the next sun, as the flags in the trenches, as the dirt, once brown, now bleeding out in the crimson of some else’s blood.
“Did you see her?”
Alfred stands behind Otto, his hands in his pockets. His brown hair has grown out into a tangled mess, and too much death has dulled his eyes. Otto remembered how he once envied him. Now he does not have the time for such trivialities.
“This fight is more important than seeing wives, Captain” Otto says. His eyes flick back to the flag.
Alfred walks his eyes across Otto’s unkempt face, down his creased forehead, across his smearing lips, down his jutting chin. He scours it for humanity. “I’m sorry,” Alfred murmurs. “I know you miss her.”
Under the unforgiving sharpness of a cloudy afternoon, Otto looks like two different men: the man in his words and expressions—more barbed wire than man at all—and the man in flesh and bones—the small man, the sinking man, the shipwrecked boy left clinging to a branch of driftwood that fell from a splintered tree of empire. Two men, gazing at the same flag. Otto says nothing in response, but Alfred does not leave.
“You will see her again soon, Otto.”
“But we will fight, and we will keep fighting, right now.”
---
White. She should have been buried in white, buried beneath silk and satin and snow, buried as our breaths clouded above her in song. We should have huddled around her like moths around a lamp and planets around a sun. The wind should have raised a gentle hand and arranged snowflakes in her eyelashes, in her hair, and all along the buttons of her favorite coat. She should have been wearing that blue coat—was it blue? Or was it red?
Hanna continues to walk, past her sister’s hands and the other mangled bodies. She wonders how much she has lost here, first in the emptying streets, then in a truck stuffed full with limbs and silent girls, then here, in these frostbitten afternoons, in the hours spent running her knobby fingers over factory bolts and gears. Head down, she follows these girls, living in every shade of death.
She wonders how much she has forgotten—the color of Lena’s best coat, the smell of her mother’s hair, the feeling of being warm—and she wonders how much she will forget—the best way to knit a scarf, the names of her cousins, the size of Lena’s hand in hers when night swallowed them, when they pretended to sleep, when Hanna brushed the soft fuzz on her sister’s scalp and said her name as a prayer.
Rubbing her arms, Hanna enters the far building and walks up close to another girl. Her hands ease into repetition, and her thoughts drift between terror and triviality. Someone whispers a joke. Someone else cries.
“Soon,” a woman whispers, her lips close enough that Hanna can feel her breath on her ear.
She looks at the woman in confusion. Soon what? Soon the war will end? Soon they will return to that memory of lavish mundanity? Soon Lena will untangle herself from her coffin of corpses and sweep Hanna up off her feet and whisper, “Oh, little one, can we bake today?”
“Soon,” the woman whispers.
No one knows what will happen in this large and looming “soon,” and no one knows if they will make it there. But it is all they have.
---
Rainbows scatter in the glare of the cockpit. Clouds bare their teeth to his left and right, and, at the colonel’s back, a swarm of engines growl and spit. They follow his lead in a thunderous orchestration of power.
And yet, the horizon before him does not flinch. The sky opens its arms to his army of metal men, engulfing them in blues and dripping yellows, in purple undertones and white-hot reflections.
Then the Colonel guides them down, until the world pieces itself together in an impressionist painting far below. A dark, chimney-black and barbed-wire-wracked painting. Settling into their flight plan, he wonders if, by some small magic, he might someday paint this hell below with the skyline shades of peace.
Then, static voices flood his ears.
The Colonel closes his eyes when the bomb door opens beneath him. His thoughts swarm with the racket of machinery and gears and crackling radio signals, and his nose flares with the heavy mix of oil and fuel, and his hands stiffen around the yolk, tightening, white-knuckling, gripping like he is guiding this plane through the devil’s bedroom, and straight into tomorrow.
Below, the earth shrieks. Dust lifts and blooms above Mother Nature’s bullet holes. The General keeps his course.
How many lives would they save with this bombing raid? How many tactics would they fulfill, how many strategies would they complete, how far would they carry his country toward victory? And how much of the U.S. would cheer for his command and call him a hero?
And as factories cave and shatter, and as more bombs drop like pennies down a well, the General grips the controls tighter to keep his hands from shaking. How much has he done for the war, and how much has he done against the world? He blinks hard at the horizon ahead. In that gray world below, how many people—how many innocent people—now lay mangled under rubble, buried like lost dolls, because of him?
Enemy planes dart toward them, and the General’s mind wheels back into the moment. His radio bursts to life with staccato conversation, and he keeps his course. He will make it out of the gunfire, and he will reach the heavens again. They all will. Soon.
---
“Mama?”
Red, white, and blue. Those are the colors of a body caught beneath the fallen walls.
“Mama!”
Those are the colors of an enemy’s victory, those are the colors of a young girl’s favorite coat, those are the colors of
the last glimpse of a sunset above the clouds. “Mama...”
We use them to describe a thousand causes and a million moments in an infinity of lives, and they are only red, and white, and blue, smudged across our vision.
“Mama, please. Mama we have to go home.”
They describe the mothers who will throw themselves below buildings before they abandon their sons. They describe the men who will put a bullet in their mouths before they give up their power. They describe the sisters who will numb their hearts with memories before they give up their lives. They describe the generals who will coerce their consciences with the ideals of a greater good before they give up a fight.
And they all rise, these figments of faceless war and nameless resilience. They rise, and they dance like dead dust in our minds, they let history deconstruct their hearts and hopes and homes, and yet they keep dancing, here, in our chafing memories, because they refuse to fade away. In any gradient of life or death, they believe that husbands can come home, and that power can heal heartache, that lives can emerge from any circle of hell, that peace can arise out of any tragedy of war.
“Mama, please. We have to go home. We have to go soon.”
They believe in a white-hot horizon. They let the skyline coax their shaking fingers further, and further, and just a little further, until they have stretched their bodies thin across all rubble and remorse, and until they have devoted their very veins and lips and broken fingertips to the cause of continuity.
They devote themselves to the belief that, one day, they will grasp their flighty hopes. One day soon.
2ND PLACE
Bitten Tongue, Angeline Villachica '24
​
Since I was little I've struggled with speaking and articulating. This wasn't such a big surprise to me nor my parents since I was first taught Spanish and learned English at school, nowhere else. At school, no one really spoke Spanish but English instead. I hoped that one day I would have someone to talk to in Spanish during school and that I could speak English and Spanish with nothing to stop me.
When I learned that my stutter was so bad I had to take speech therapy, I worried. What would the teachers think of how slow and how many times I stopped when I spoke compared to the rest of the class? What would my classmates think of my annoying repetition when I stuttered? What great impatience would they feel when they had to wait double the time for me to finish a sentence?
The next week and the weeks after that the lady from the office pulled me and some other students out of class during math about two times a week and we were taken to a small room covered in brightly colored paper posters that said “Hang in there,” “You got this!” and other cheesy statements like “You’re doing amazing”.In the small room, my classmates and I met other students that were also taken from their classes. We all sat down at a half donut shaped table where the therapist sat in the “hole”. Some days the therapist would work with us one on one and help us with pronunciation with a laminated card that had sentences and a snail above it to remind us to speak slowly so that we could pronounce them right. Other days the therapist would have us play games like Guess Who? and Candy Land so that we could socialize. About an hour later the therapist would let me and the other students go back to our class. I entered the class full of laughing kids for reading time where we sat around the classroom whether it be a bean bag chair, under the giant leaf, or at our desks and read books that were labeled with reading levels for twenty minutes. Later in class when we did free work the questions and comments I had worried about bombarded me. Where were you? Are you dumb? I thought you were smart. Did you get in trouble? Why do you speak like that just speak like a normal person? I never answered these questions out loud but they were answered in my head. I was at speech therapy. I don't think I am. I didn't get in trouble. I don’t know why. As I continued to get these comments all I could do was bite my tongue no matter how many times I attempted to speak. When it is time for a discussion It would be rare for me to speak and if I did it was after a few long minutes of making sure I won't stutter and that I won't say something incorrect like getting the math answer wrong. People told me things about my stutter that caused me to start overthinking every single thing I do even if it has nothing to do with communicating like walking, my voice, my articulation. Whenever I get a call and it is someone other than my parents or brother I panic at the sight of the screen and will almost always press the red button that brings me relief. My heart races when I am called on in class even if I have to say just one word. Every time I have to present the comments from my classmates and people around me resurfaces and my voice waivers and I get hot in the face almost like I am going to cry. At some point I have to say something to something or I'll explode, reminding myself of a watering can but with one tiny hole: the water or thoughts just keep coming into the spout or mind but nothing comes out until the pressure builds up.
Instead of worrying about what others thought of me, what I should have worried about was how I was going to let these comments and questions affect me. I should have listened to those obnoxious posters even if they were cheesy and continued to speak but instead I let comments like “You shouldn’t speak unless you know what you're going to say” from my cousin get to me after stuttering when I tried to talk. I started to speak less and questioned myself more, never being able to speak what is in my mind often when I am in large groups like when I'm with all my friends including the ones I don't talk to too often. I wish I could say that I got over this anxious feeling I get whenever I’m put in a situation where I have to communicate but I haven’t. Maybe one day I'll come to the point where I can trust my words without over analyzing every single thing. And Though I can't communicate well, I still have some people around who are willing to listen even if I stutter, speak Spanglish, or use improper English.
3RD PLACE
Rainbow Flowers, Natasha Mar '23
​
Trigger warning: abuse, self harm
​
“ YOU THINK YOU CAN TALK BACK TO ME? I stared blankly as he grabbed the rainbow assortment of flowers from the vase and thrust them to the ground. I planted those flowers myself, plucked them from the soil myself. HUH, DO YOU? I winced at each step he took towards me. Each step crushed a flower. The pink one was beaten. The blue trampled upon. The yellow had been bruised. Their lifeless bodies pressed against the kitchen floor. Was I next? YOU UNGRATEFUL SON OF A BITCH! I ASKED YOU TO DO ONE THING! He was close to me now. For a split second I escaped the terror right in front of me and stared at my mom with pleading eyes. Please Mama. Get your boyfriend to stop hurting me. He’s not thinking right. He’s under the influence. Come on. Side with your own blood and flesh.
Well, you didn’t do your chores, Gabriel. Come on, I forgot to! I didn’t talk back, I was trying to justify myself! There was not a single ounce of love hidden in that cold response of hers. Only the look of cold, half open, bloodshot eyes. What happened to Mama?
Then there he was. Vase in his right hand. Prepared for takeoff. Oh no. RUN, GABRIEL, RUN, RUN...
The seven o’clock alarm screeched as I scrambled to sit up on my bed. My entire face was wet. My vision was blurry, so I blinked a few times. One after another, the tears just kept streaming down my face. Eight years. Eight years since my father died. Eight years since my mother moved on with her life only seven months after his death, finding a new boyfriend and moving in with him. Eight years I’ve been trying to get them sober. Four years since we all became this godforsaken “family”. A “family” that didn’t even care about their son. That night. Replays in my head. The night I no longer saw my mother as the woman who was once happily married to my loving father. The night she became a total stranger. The night I realized I was alone, at nine years old. I got up from bed, pulling the sleeves of my sweatshirt to conceal the scar from that night. When my stepfather threw the vase as I ran. When the pieces of glass scattered as the vase hit the ground. When I danced around the broken glass to avoid stepping on it, but ended up tripping and landing on my side. The glass cut me everywhere, but the biggest piece cut right through the side of my arm.
First day of senior year. Class of 1986. Another school year being a nobody. Another school year trying to stay alive. Trying to find some reason to stay in this dead town. I threw on a sweatshirt and jeans and shuffled downstairs. I warmed up some toast for myself and left extra for my mother and stepfather on the kitchen table. After whispering a prayer that no one would wake up, I held my breath and slipped out the front door.
I opened the back gate that led to campus. Here we go again . Just have to get through one more year with the same people. The same people that gave disgusted glances all throughout high school as I would walk down the hallway, bruises on my face, them never expressing any sign of concern for the slouched boy wearing the hood. The teachers that rolled their eyes at me, thinking I was just some douchey high schooler who constantly picked fights. I never had a safe place. Not school. Never home. It was just my mind.
Making eye contact with the ground, I wandered my way into my first period classroom. Out of all my years in this sweat-reeking room, something seemed off today. I slowly raised my head. I was able to recognize everyone–except him. Talking to the teacher at the front of the classroom. He wore a huge smile on his face, but I could tell. He was nervous. His eyes were blue flames, noticeable from miles
away. His toffee bangs concealed half his face. It gave off this mysterious vibe. He was a skinny boy, wearing a Queen shirt and faded blue Levi’s. His thin legs made the skinny jeans look so baggy. Who knew how long I was observing him for. No one at this school, let alone this entire town, ever intrigued me. But him... despite countless attempts to continue on my way of not caring and reverting my attention back to the ground, I... couldn’t stop looking.
Class began and everyone made their way to their seats. All of a sudden I could hear my heart pound as he delicately planted his backpack at the desk next to mine. Ohgodohgod. What do I do? I gave a miniature head nod. I couldn’t risk making conversation.
I tried my best to obliterate that whole morning fiasco from my thoughts. Later that day I executed my lunch routine that hadn’t changed in four years: resting my head on the lunch table next to the slender elder tree, next to all the different colored flowers.
I don’t think I ever introduced myself this morning. I’m Elijah.
Elijah...Elijah...the name just poured out of his mouth like sweet nectar. Wait. He’s talking to me. I sprang up.
Uhm..I’m Gabriel.
There it was again. That smile that almost entirely concealed the worry in his eyes.
I’m so sorry. I’m just a little anxious here... new school and all.
Oh god. How long was I staring at him for?
Since then, day by day, month by month, I learned a little more about the compelling Elijah Logan Finn. People stopped staring at the loner, because for once in my life, I had someone to talk to in the hallways. Every day I hopped out of bed before my alarm rang. Every day I closed the door of my house as quickly as possible and scurried to school with more of a straight back. I started noticing more color around me. Less white, browns, greys.
I decided it was time to move on from the musty grey sweatshirts. A graphic tee and faded skinny jeans would do.
As I jogged onto campus, for the first time in a while, the eyes of judgement greeted me once more. What were they staring at now? My vision shifted towards the ground.
Gabriel! My god, what happened?
It was...lunch? My head had been resting on my arm, numb on the table. What? What happened? Elijah. His lanky body loomed over my weary self, his eyes glaring at the white bumpy line that ran from the outside of my wrist to my elbow on my tan skin. I completely forgot.
Oh... that. Just a clumsy accident–
The aroma of his cologne started to intoxicate my ability to speak as he gently moved his legs to the other side of the bench to sit next to me.
Please, don’t be afraid to tell me. I’m here for you.
There was someone. Someone who was concerned for me. Someone whose eyes sparkled with pity. I was not alone. Maybe I didn’t only need myself. His ears consumed every single word I mumbled. His head bobbed up and down gracefully. He understood me.
Then. Then his soft, chilly hand consolingly brushed my arm before patting my scar. I wouldn’t be surprised if I looked at my arm after and the scar was gone. My brain shut down. My breathing came to a halt. I sprung out from the bench and wrapped my arms tightly around Elijah. I pulled back but my brain pushed me forward again to caress his face. Kiss him. Wait. What was I even thinking? And then I realized. Out of the entire time I had known Elijah, there was no smile. No trace. An unknown look. Of confusion? Panic? I had put him in an uncomfortable position. I could feel my face heat up. Oh my god
I’m so sorry. M y hands slowly drifted away from his face and drooped to my sides. I’m so sorry. I jumped to my feet, snatched my backpack, and scurried away with my head down.
ImsosorryImsosorryImsosorry. W hat I kept murmuring to myself during the walk home. Whom was I even saying sorry to at this point?
I plopped down on my bed. I couldn’t even begin to comprehend what had happened. My mother and stepfather weren’t home. Probably out on a drive getting high. Was I attracted to Elijah? No. No, that’s not right. I raced downstairs to grab the latest issue of Cosmopolitan on the kitchen counter. A lovely woman on the front. Bouncy, effortless curls. Colorful makeup. Okay. She was pretty. But nothing about her interested me. I savagely flipped page after page, looking for anyone that could give me an answer. I came to a stop on page twenty-three. Wow . A cologne ad. That sharp jawline. His gorgeous green eyes. No. No. I ripped out the page and crumpled it. It hit the floor. I’m supposed to be attracted to girls. Wait. Am I... gay? I shuddered at the sound of it in my head. I flung the crumpled magazine page to the ground. No. I couldn’t be. In this town, I had always learned that it was a choice. I had always learned it was a mental illness. I wouldn’t choose to live this way. Magazine issue after issue, I tried to cure my corrupt tendencies, forcing my eyes to gawk at the women. Crumpled magazine pages of men started to blanket my bedroom floor.
My heart knew. And it sank below the floor. I was attracted to men. I was gay. I had officially been diagnosed. My body gave up. There was no cure. I could feel the pressure forming in the back of my eyes. One blink and all that saltwater would erupt like a geyser. I couldn’t let that happen. Boys don’t cry. The words of my stepfather echoed in my head as I buried my face in my pillow. Forcing that pressure to cease. The comfort of my bed turned cold. I was sinking. Foot below foot. Six feet under the ground. Wooden walls started to enclose all around me, until all I saw was darkness. I was stuck. There was no way out. I no longer was safe. I just wanted to hide in the darkness and never open my eyes again.
Gabriel!
GABRIEL!
I SWEAR TO GOD GET OUT OF BED!
OKAY THAT’S IT I’M GOING UP THERE IN THREE... TWO...
My bedroom door aggressively hit the wall and bounced back. I’m up...I’m up... M y heart pulsed
faster and faster at the sound of each step that my stepfather’s Doc Martens took, shaking the ground. My eyes shot open to the disappointment that I was still in my room. That my alarm clock read a later time than when it was supposed to ring. That I was still home after my mother and stepfather woke up. I thought I was buried deep. Where were those wooden walls to protect me? Where was the darkness? There I was, my dirt colored hair sticking out in every direction, my eyes inflated like a red balloon, unconsciously squinting at my stepfather stomping around the room. As my eyes followed my father’s movement, my heart dropped. It froze. I had forgotten. I left the evidence of the crime scene scattered across. I had let my emotions consume my body last night–the biggest handicap in any suspect’s ability to perfectly execute getting away with a crime. There was no way to talk myself out of this. Just take me to prison already. Just give me my death sentence.
I stared weakly as he snatched one crumpled ball and unraveled it. His eyes showed no interest as he crumpled it again and chucked it into the trash bin. Just get on your feet and pick them up while he’s notlooking,Gabriel.I couldfeelmyghostexitmybodytopickthemup.
WHAT AM I SEEING ON YOUR FLOOR GABRIEL?!
The shout pierced my hallucination. My eyes blinked in fear at my stepfather standing right in front of me, holding the pages.
Um... I was just collecting magazine pages... for an art project.
AN ART PROJECT? HOW DUMB DO YOU THINK I AM? GET UP NOW!
He slammed the pages on my desk. The soft steps of my mother shuffled into the room. I shifted
my legs to the side of my bed, hesitant to stand up. His beefy hand grabbed my scarred arm and shoved me up the wall.
Eight years ago I was gracious enough to let you be in my life. For eight years I spent every minute teaching you how to be a man. How to have a successful future. And THIS. THIS is how you repay me? BY LIKING MEN? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?
What is wrong with me? I want to know! My stepfather’s poisonous breath started to destroy my strength, scream after scream. I spotted an obscure outline of my mother, unemotionally crossing her arms with her cardigan by my bedroom door. I shivered at the feeling of her snake eyes on me, the rodent. Her prey. She coldly watched the spectacle in front of her. Although my vision was corrupt from the tears in my eyes, it was clear she wouldn’t accept her own son. I would be swallowed whole. No trace of me left. Just gone.
Then I heard the click of his belt. Unbuckling. My arms trembled as I spread them, my body in the shape of a cross against the wall.
WHAM. The edge of the belt hit the wall. Maybe this oughta do the trick, you pathetic excuse for a man.
WHAM. This’ll teach you to never, NEVER bring that cursed sickness into my household again. This’ll get the Satan outta you. OUT!
One last one across my chest and stomach. I’m giving you another chance to straighten up your act. I’m so generous, you don’t even deserve this. H e peeled me off the wall and thrust me to the ground. Otherwise, you can find yourself packing your things. Understood? Let’s go, honey.
The door slammed from behind as the two walked away. As I hid my face into the floor and sobbed, a familiar feeling circled me. The walls. The wooden walls. The darkness. Oh, dad... Why did you have to leave so soon? You should’ve fought cancer to stay. To see me graduate. To kiss me on the head before I slepep every night. To pick me up from school every day. To support me for who I am. WHY DIDN’T YOU FIGHT FOR ME? My head punched the floor. Those walls caught on fire. And I just stayed there. Limp as a wilting flower. Maybe... I’ll just join you dad...and I’ll be happy again–”
The last word ran to the end of the page. And the next page was just the yellow hard cover of the notebook. Wow,realsmart.Writingthisinyourphysicsnotebook.I wouldhaveneverguesseduntilI went through your room and found this under your mattress. I wobbled as I tried to stand up. I inhaled deeply and looked at the room. Everything left the exact same. The crumpled magazine pages in the bin. The thin black lines on the wall. Lifeless. I wouldn’t have known unless this house was going to be sold. I tried to remember what happened those years. Ten years ago. I squeezed my eyes, but only saw quick flashes that were too fast to make out anything. I’m sorry Gabriel.
I looked out the window from the bedroom. The moving trucks were still there, and from the corner of my eye I saw the mailman approach the house. I took the yellow notebook with me and headed downstairs. With the mailbox all dented on the ground because... I don’t know, was it a fight? No, some car probably ran it over on accident many years ago... the mailman walked up to our front door, like he has for all this time. I nodded as he handed me the envelopes, and I placed them on the kitchen counter. They were all the same dumb ads for clothes and coupons for the neighborhood liquor store, but at the very bottom, there was an unfamiliar baby blue envelope. Right there, in the middle, had my name written
in cursive. I grabbed the knife and cut it open. Inside was a white card. So clean. Spotless. And at the bottom, little pink tulips of different hues. I opened it.
“I decidedtovisittownlastweekandwalkedbythehouse.NoticedtheForSalesignoutside. So... that probably means you discovered the notebook while packing. You probably read through it, knowing how nosy you are. I took this as the time to come clean about everything. Ever since that encounter with my stepfather ten years ago, for the rest of high school, all I set my mind to was getting out of there. Out of that hell. What you didn’t know was that every single day until the day I left for college, I was getting worse. I kept trying to force my feelings towards women. To please my stepfather. I tried acting perfect. So a mishap wouldn’t occur and I wouldn’t be sent away. I tried acting as the ideal man . No matter how hard I tried to stare at the girls walking in the school hallways, he was always there. Elijah. But every time his eyes met mine, he was scared. Scared of me. The sick kid. Right as I thought I had someone there for me, they didn’t want to hang out with a sick person. I went back to learning, eating, walking, alone. What you didn’t know was for my eighteenth birthday, I wished with my heavy heart that I would be straight. What you didn’t know was that I was more alone than I ever was. Every night I felt like I was sleeping in a coffin. Every day I tried piercing through the skin where my huge scar was with anything possible. A pencil, knife, broken glass. Every hour, every minute, I was getting more and more numb. I wanted out. But the day finally came. Where I took the inheritance from Dad, my suitcase, and left. In my first year of college, I went around from small shop to shop, buying fake IDs and drinking the life I had with you, away. But then he came. Second year, he saved me at a party from alcohol poisoning. The one person who I trusted. Who I could tell my trauma to and would stay. Who I told once, I’m gay , and he responded with, me too . I felt heard. I was no longer afraid to say the word gay. I didn’t have to keep pretending. I was cured of this sickness, by accepting that it wasn’t one. It’s who I am. I knew I was never alone again. We didn’t get together until after college, and here I am six years later, engaged to my love. My sanctuary. My safe place. I had found happiness on my own. I am to get married in a month, and this is where I draw the line. You’re history. Nothing more than that. You and your husband. Your name will be gone. Never written in the next chapter of my life. Not even once have you shown support, not even once did you try to help me. I am ashamed of you. That is why I wouldn’t even come into the house when I walked by. I hope you have a wonderful rest of your life, mother.”
A tear fell and hit the card. Smudging the word mother. I’m sorry, Gabriel. HI HONEY I’M HOME!
There he was. Back from his business trip or whatever.
Seems like everything’s packed! Ready to go?
He nudged at me a cigar. No, no... my hands were shaking. Oh, screw it, how I missed it. It’s been weeks. I snatched it from his hand. He stared at the items in my other hand. The yellow notebook and the blue envelope.
Is that for the trash?
What?! Oh, this? Um, yeah.
Great, I’ll tell the movers to throw this away for us. Let’s go now.
POETRY
1ST PLACE
Sorry not Sorry, Abigail Beamer '22
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I’m not sorry I won’t give in
to your suffocating standards.
You cannot take away the voice
that so many sacrificed to give me.
I’m not sorry I refuse to be the lady
you expect me to be.
You clip my wings
and tell me it’s better this way.
You keep me from the clouds of achievement
and truth.
But I am growing
feather by feather
and soon my flight will defy you.
I’m not sorry that I am loud and angry.
I will not be quiet because you tell me
my life is better than it was decades ago.
I cannot accept my 81
to your 100.
Time may foster progress
but this does not excuse your persistent ignorance
to my reality.
I’m sorry you cannot feel like a man
without calling me inferior.
Do not befriend me.
I don’t need your amity
full of ridicule.
You tell me I am not meant to fly,
yet I take off once I free myself from you.
You tell me I am too emotional,
only meant to have children,
and unfit to lead.
I know I am made for the skies.
I’m sorry you remain so blind
When presented with the truth.
But I’m also sorry you cannot cry
without believing you are weak.
I hope you one day understand
that emotion is not weakness.
I hope you learn
That I am your equal.
Until then,
Look for me in the clouds
With my wings outstretched.
Flying above,
I’ll wait for you to join me.
2nd PLACE
The American Dream, Natasha Mar '23
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My ancestors sailed illegally
searching for
The American Dream.
​
I walk and breathe the air
of this
American Dream.
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Blood
cries
inequality
​
I guess
there are nicknames
for these
American Dreamers.
​
Ching Chong
Ling Ling
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and for their descendants.
​
I guess
there are trends
honoring these
American Dreamers.
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pulled eyes
cultural clothes made
“fashionable”
​
We laugh at the jokes
We permit the violence
Why?
​
​
Our own supposed leader
calling it a
“Chinese Virus”
​
It was from China.
​
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So why don’t we call these the
“Chinese phone”
“Chinese sweater”
“Chinese pencil”
​
My brothers and sisters
Where is this American Dream?
You laugh along with your friends
You say the jokes are okay
You see your siblings getting beaten up on the media We might be the next victim.
We are too scared to do anything about it.
​
What will our ancestors think of us?
3RD PLACE
In Leonem, Drew Kessler '21
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Alas, what can men wage when their scabbards remain empty?
Maybe they’ll unfurl a colorless flag to half mast,
A silent salute to the silent seaman.
Maybe a call to the sweet chariot is enough,
A not ungraceful angel to heed it.
Maybe a wind dispossessed of its thunder
Shall trim in the lions of men.
Maybe thirst will supply only deception,
The luffing seas now tacking to the red sands of Egypt.
Maybe the sharpened hatchet will substitute
For the ghosted sword; steel outlasts steel.
My dear Atufal, you’ve held it once before,
But do you grasp the scepter now, dear Atufal?
Inspired by Herman Melville’s Benito Cereno.
ART
1ST PLACE
Civil Rights Protest, Katelyn Wang ‘23
