Inkwell 2020

Pat, pat

The footsteps crossed the floor

Tap, tap

Little rocks hit the door

The rocks chipped from the whips of wrists

The steps on the floor scared the wimps

The sounds came again

But this time closer

They pittered and pattered

They shook her to her core

The door creaked

She hid under the sheet

Pat, pat

She heard

As the man grabbed her feet

No more rocks against the door

No more footsteps on the floor

Just the dragging of a body

And no more Nancy Pinafore

Cell phones are our best friends; they are our constant support systems. They have benefited us in so many ways: constant access to a calculator, a calendar that organizes our lives, directions to any latitude and longitude, and answers to practically any question. Even so, they come with one great challenge. We must constantly maintain knowledge of their location, and they get lost in the strangest of places within our households. But don’t fret, there are methods to help you find yours again.

First, scour every couch. They tend to eat our devices. Begin by looking under each pillow, and sliding your hand between all of the cushions. Then throw the pillows and cushions on the floor, which you will likely realize would have been easier to do in the first place. If this is still unsuccessful, return the pillows and cushions to the couch—preferably in a haphazard manner, there is no time for organization—and lie down on the floor. This will allow you to search under the couch. If the search comes up with nothing, it is always safest to double-check by sliding your arm under the couch and flinging it in every direction, similar to windshield wipers in a downpour. If your arms are too short to reach completely under the couch, you may need to find a long, thin extension to place in your hand. Possibilities include a ruler or the t.v. remote. 

After spending an eternity on the couches, it is time to move to your bedroom. Checking your bed is extremely important and—if you are desperate—you can shake out each layer of bedding, throwing phoneless layers to the side. If your bedroom floor is also a dirty laundry basket like mine, you should look under each piece of clothing. If you are like me in that you keep your charger next to your bedside table, be sure to check if you left your phone plugged in. This is unlikely, but always worth a shot. 

At this point, if you still haven’t found your phone, you will have to wander into the great outdoors and check your car. Start by looking in all of the cupholders; this includes those in the backseat. Then feel between the front seats and the center console. Do this with great care to ensure that you don’t get your hand stuck, in which case you may start yelling and scare the neighbors. In a final effort to find your phone in your car, check under all of the seats. You may find other things you had given up searching for: water bottles, pieces of gum, and possibly even some money. These things don’t matter at the moment and should be thrown back under the seat; they can be worried about later. 

You may now be in a state of frustration. Possibly fury. Don’t give up yet. You should now begin to look in obscure places where no phone should ever be. I have uncovered mine in the oddest places: the middle of a laundry basket piled high with clothes, the bathroom sink, and under cereal boxes in the cupboard. If you feel the desire to check these places, do so. Then, work your way to the kitchen. Move every object on the counters, which will make everyone else in the house crazy. Open the microwave, oven, and fridge. Search each thoroughly. Look down into the toaster, check each of the cupboards. 

In the laundry room check the washer and dryer. Also look through the baskets of dirty laundry. Maybe you left it in the pocket of your jeans? 

Move on to the bathroom. Here, check in the sink as well as under it. Also check around the toilet, maybe even in it. Check the trash can as well. No place should be left untouched. 

By now, you may feel ready to cry or punch a wall. If you have pets, blame them for its disappearance. Unless it’s a pet fish. This won’t help in the search for your cellular device, but it can be therapeutic. 

At this point, you only have one option left: consult a parent. Ask as politely and innocently as possible, in these exact words: “Have you seen my phone?” They might roll their eyes, possibly adding a sigh if they are the extra dramatic type. If they respond with a simple, “No,” they will likely need some persuasion to help you in your search. They will find it in approximately ten seconds, in plain sight. You will have to thank them, and put up with their mockery, but at least you’ll have your phone. 

Bottles and bags

left on the ground.

We made our signs.

Pretty picketing people

We made our slogans.

“Protect Our Mother”

We made our way to the protest.

Long showers twice a day.

Plastic and food, thrown away.

Lights left on.

We shout at the government.

“Make Laws”

We shout at the corporations.

“No More Emissions”

We shout at the people.

Cars left running,

reusable bags forgotten at home,

steak for dinner.

We say we will pick up trash.

We don’t.

We say we will live sustainably.

We won’t.

We say we care.

Gas prices drop—buy it.

Homes get cold—drill it.

Houses to be built—cut it.

We demand accountability.

We have to be accountable…

We demand change.

We have to make change...

We demand a better future.

To have a better future,

We have to be better people.

I want you to know what it feels to be free

eagle’s feather

lost

swinging down

in the cold morning zephyr

I want you to know what it feels to succeed 

starving lion

caught his spoil:

impala

antelope that finished the last run

I want you to know what it feels to shine

like red metallic varnish 

of a scooter

Vespa

in the busy Rome streets

I want you to know what it feels to be brave 

child who says no

to a cigarette:

Camel

that smells like old filter coffee

I want you to know what it feels not to fear

anyone, anything,

just try to fly

try 

everything your heart desires

I want you to know what it feels to laugh

with your true soulmate

for no reason

I want you to know what it feels to love

with no hesitation

without a doubt

and if you do and they turn you down, 

they will soon know

what they had lost

The day has 

lingering morning fog

and sun rays pushing through the thick cover

far from perfect

but still my favorite

sweating but still shivering

the water droplets hug my skin

dense walls slowly turning transparent

thoughts are scribbles

I don’t know where I am

but it doesn’t matter

because I’m here

this day has

faded red hair

changing autumn leaves

soft and pale 

like brand new birch trees

far from perfect

but still my favorite

eyes held shut by unwavering comfort

thin arms calm my anxious heart

the only day that makes me feel safe

scrambled brain

I don’t know where I am

but it doesn’t matter

because I’m with her

I

Big ocean waves crash onto the shore with a peaceful splash, 

drawing me closer in, giving me a sense of freedom 

that I have never felt before.  

As I stare out into the open ocean, I watch a school of fish

casually jumping out of the water.  

The fish look free. They calmed my nerves, 

giving me peace in a crazy world.  

II

The waves crashed louder and harder.  

I could hear a nun buoy bell ring in the distance, 

signalling to me that fall is upon us, and the ocean is getting rough.  

III

My mom holds me tight in her arms, 

rocking back and forth in the rocking chair,  

her soothing words putting me to sleep.  

IV

She has a steady breath, she is confident yet timid. 

As she waits for the bus she stares off in the distance as people bump past her.  

She focuses on her breathing and prepares for the long yet relaxing ride home.  

V

Later, when he finally gets home from his hectic day at the diner, 

he sets his backpack on the dining room table of his dimly lit apartment.  

He closes his blinds and lies down on his couch, sinking in.

He forgets the stress and he forgets the pain,

and peacefully falls asleep. 

It has been the greatest and most difficult year of my life.

I’ve learned everything.

(almost everything)

I’ve held moments, people, feelings,

flowers.

And then let go.

(the petals became dust in my hands and i watched the wind carry them away)

I learned that love is getting hurt.

Love is vulnerability.

Love is not always the right choice.

(despite the fact that we’re taught that love is always the answer to everything)

It isn't easy.

I’ve learned

joy and pain

sugar and salt

you and me.

(sometimes i wish i’d never learned any of that)

It has been a year of hurting,

but living anyway.

(i’m finally living for myself)

Making a friend out of you,

making a stranger out of you.

(the year came to a start and an end with you and i unacquainted)

A year of learning I can fix,

or break,

just about anything,

while becoming a better lover

to the world,

and to myself.

Being at peace

With my gains and losses.

My bridge was too quiet. It always was on practice days. All crew was on board, but The Bridge Crew were some of the few positions that weren’t required to be at their stations. Most of them were off working out, or at the firing range, or being interviewed by the development team. 

But with this time off, I reclined in my captain’s chair, staring at my ship’s designation symbol. Hanging just in front of the reinforced windshield, it is always in my view while I command my ship. It was a large metal disk, green for the generation of the ship, with a flame pattern border that was unique to this ship. The ribbon that suspended it from the ceiling was the same color, with the same pattern. The disk had information of both the ship and me, like the names of the 202 crew that belonged to my ship, and that I was a potter before I joined this military.  In the middle of the disk was a small hole. My designation necklace was a small ball that fit perfectly into that hole. Same green, same flame pattern, and with my name carved into it. 

A crackling from my workstation interrupted my thought. Someone was hailing my personal communications line. Picking it up, I was pretty sure I knew what it was.

“It’s time. The ceremony for the old captain has started. Come down and attend.” The line died, returning me to my silence. Lifting myself up out of my very comfortable chair, I lumbered over to the communication station. Eventually, I was able to open an open communications channel to the whole ship, thanks to the extensive use of labels my officers had decorated their stations with. 

“The ceremony for the old captain is starting. I will be leaving the ship to attend. All of you are welcome to attend as well, including the nine of you who hadn’t served with him. But those of you who do not attend, have some time off from practice. You know the drill—no operation while the captain is off ship. That is all.” The bridge rumbled as the four main turrets crept back to their resting positions. I shifted out of the bridge, holding the walls to keep my balance. 

* * *

Shouldering open the bulkheads leading onto the deck, I was met with the unfortunate smell of burnt engine oil, and the silent march of my crew of 202. Every single one of them was out on the deck. The new engine operator had a dripping streak of engine oil across his face. The new Junior Sensor Officer had bags under his eyes. The two new pump operators had water still dripping off of their new shirts. Two of the new anti-aircraft weaponry operators still had their earplugs in, another two had soot covering their new uniforms, and the last one’s limp arms were drenched in sweat. I waited for them to all shuffle off the deck and back onto dry land before I followed them. It was not a long march to the seaside burial ground; the pace was set by the waves solemnly slashing against the shore.

The burial ground was made up of clusters of flat stones shoved into the ground. Each stone had one name and job etched into its surface. Many of the clusters had one much larger stone, with paint and a design in addition to the name, but without the job. Most of the clusters were circles, 203 strong, with a main-gun shell at their centers. There was a crowd surrounding a new cluster. Nine stones already in the ground. As I strode closer, the crowd parted. My crew made up most of the crowd. Among them were all of the soldiers currently stationed here, and a few higher-ups that had arrived this morning. They were all surrounding a freshly shoveled pile of dirt, and an open grave. A higher-up stood at the head of the grave, staring me down. In his hands was a designation symbol almost identical to my ships. Same green, same flame pattern. He placed the symbol in my arms, and I crouched down into the grave. Standing next to the old captain, I took one long look at him. He still looked alive, save for the entry wounds of the shrapnel that took both his and one of his sensor officer's lives. I lifted his designation symbol off his chest. Same green, same flame pattern. I slotted his designation ball into his ship’s metal designation disc. Placing the disc and ball back onto his chest, I carefully looped the disc’s ribbon over his head. Same green. Same flame pattern. Hopping out of the grave, I grabbed a handful of dirt, and glanced at the flat stone one of the higher-ups placed at my feet. The paint was the same green color, and the pattern was the same flame pattern. 

“Thank you for training my crew. They have already demonstrated their skill. Thank you for your ship. You took very good care of her. And thank you for your service. Brother.” 

I threw the dirt onto his body. And I read the last name on the stone. Same last name.

A place full of tiredness, “truth,” deception.

The beginning filled with lust, hardships, ease.

As you go, this place is longer, darker.

No longer filled with the cheers and applause you once saw.

Your appetite is filled knowing the reality you've left yourself with.

The wild beast, long and lean.

Shifting to its side around company, the beast is there but cannot be seen.

Whimpers turn to screams,

Screams to cries.

The creature inside moves with delicacy and grace alike.

Tolerating the rhythm of your relapses until it forces your “mistakes” to be seen.

The creature scratches at you whenever you’re awake.

The world rests in peace, but you’re more than shaken.

Whimpers.

Cries.

Cheers.

Sighs.

Loudness covers every inch of whatever used to lay in your mind.

Filling you with power for one month before forcefully shoving into your mind, a secret.

Your stay here expands. The longer you are gone, the more the beast grows.

Though physically you grow smaller in size, the beast grows bigger than an elephant tribe.

Trapped with you in your personal prison.

Shock and shame disappear the more you’re here.

Transforming to satisfaction and skill, you enjoy it here. Though you tremble nightly. Still holding onto fear.

Beast won't hold you. Beast is cold, refusing to say the truth.

You lie here, a slave of your own “strength” and “success.” It drives you to horror and insanity until you are bribed with death.

Loneliness, loss, pain.

Beast gave you friendship, family. It gives you patience from all the numbers staring, bombarding you.

This beast is the guard of your prison. Leaving you frail within its steel walls, chains, and gates, slowly killing you.

Her closet, a place for random deposits.

Drooping dresses hanging on heavy hangers,

promises of proms and date nights. 

Piled pictures of past partners, 

an ex-boyfriend graveyard. 

Half-full perfume bottles,

vanilla, lavender, rose, 

so impossible to simply select a smell. 

Bikinis buried in bottom corners, 

banished by the brutal winter. 

Rows of CDs: Britney, Taylor, Avril. 

Distant memories of dining room dance parties. 

Shirts stacked sloppily, simply out of style, 

smooth shades of sapphire and scarlet,

as ignored as Prancer when Rudolph came. 

Everything, sitting silently, forgotten.

The skunk crawls

Through the tall,

Leaf-filled forest. 

Crunching rust-colored leaves

Beneath her tiny,

Hand-like paws,

She makes her way, 

Following a trail of insects;

Brown, shiny beetles scatter,

Pink earthworms slither away.

It smells like fall. 

The crisp air 

Dries her damp nose,

And she exhales steam

As she breathes.

And so the skunk continues.

She’s not frantic

Or worried about her food.

Although it ran away,

She’ll find some later.

She can eat anything,

Anything she likes.

The trail stops

At the edge of the woods.

In front of a house,

Tan with large windows.  

The vivacious house plants

Can be seen from outside.

Beautiful butterflies bumbled

Across flowers in the yard.

Food.

She wasn’t interested,

Despite the savory smell

And taste of such beings.

Instead, she smelled something different.

Something wretched.

Crashing out the door, 

A boy.

Dark hair and light skinned,

He was yelling.

She wasn’t scared.

She snuck slyly

And crept up behind him,

Slowly raised her tail,

And sprayed.

He smelled better than before.

Before, he stunk of betrayal

And lies.

Now, he smelled like her,

The skunk.

She heard laughter.

Saw a girl

Peeking out the window

Was laughing.

Her red face

And puffy eyes

overcome by a smirk.

The skunk smell

Successfully bothered no one,

No one but the boy.

To the rest, 

It smelled like roses.

then I was rammed through mom’s cervix straight into a china shop. 

I sobbed in supple porcelain,

while sun snagged my eye.

I talked to the plates as best I could with a newborn tongue.

They didn’t respond 

and I wailed. 

I thought no one could touch the plates,

with gold encrusted edges.

Justice would cower in sturdy glass cabinets.

Yet—

with gold leaves creeping,

the plates shatter against linoleum 

leaving unassuming petals steaming.

I reached to touch the pile

and was met with a poke

that wouldn’t draw blood from white hands. 

There was no bull in a china shop to tenderly topple the plates.

There was no poor assailant masked by black cloaks and black nights.

There was no fire to melt, 

no flood to drown, 

no storm.

The plates toppled silently,

one

by 

one,

until all that was left was a heap of shards 

lying jagged on linoleum. 

I want a paper plate instead.

Have I failed, or am I failing?

My aspirations and hopes 

Deteriorating, decaying, and plummeting. 

Like a butterfly in the rain, can I 

Not succeed? The butterfly cannot take off.

I as well, always falling as the rains and

Winds push me down to Earth. 

I cannot comprehend this or last year,

Just blurs, going by too quickly, not 

Understanding, not learning, not grasping, 

Just happening. 

And before we know it, summer will arrive,

The same process will repeat once more,

And then one last time again, and then,

I will graduate?

Shall I graduate in success or in failure? 

In satisfaction or in sorrow? 

Will I graduating knowing the next chapter,

Knowing my future? No, I will not. 

The future remains unwritten. Leaving me

With the paper and the ink, leaving me to continue it. 

And what if when pursuing my future, I

Experience writer’s block? What will I write?

What will I do? What will I become?

Spilling from within her core, 

you saw what shimmered out as red.

But not just red. No. 

The type of red that blooms,

evolves into a unique elegance.

One that is as appealing as it is bright.

A red that puts you in front of a jukebox,

with a lovely lady lingering around the dance floor

as you slip in the shiny quarter

to play some overused song.

But it’s all okay, because she’s enjoying herself, 

reapplying her lively lipstick. 

It’s a color that hits you, hard,

one that makes you blow a fuse.

That’s what it does. 

Flames char your heart until it’s all ash

But it’s okay, the warmth surrounds you

and the thought of her lipstick heals the burns.

All until that switch is flipped on,

all until, out of nowhere,

her fireworks are being set off 

Right in front of you. 

Hard, fast, explosive. 

Soon, the only thing left to see

is a devil of colors encasing the image.

Your mind and body trembling

as that last firecracker is tossed.

And then that switch is flipped back off,

the light returns and the darkness scatters,

but your sight remains drowned

in a deep, dark,

red. 

We often forget it until it’s nearly run out

Upon consideration, we may worry we have little left

Through fear, it motivates us to move and do

Without its silent reminder, we would sit idle for eternity

We can jam the gears

And tear out the pendulum

Though the hands may stop ticking

Life plods on, no matter how much we try to hold it back

Once used it can never be restored

And we often find ourselves full of regret for being ignorant to its impermanence 

We cannot worry about what has been wasted

We can only focus on how we spend it now

We work all day making nickels and dimes

But the only lasting currency given us is this

The amount in the bank is finite, often being depleted too quickly

So we must invest wisely

We cannot stay flippant in our donations

We must be wise in our spending and hold our seconds firmly

For, at the day’s end when everyone retires from both work and play

It’s the investments we made that determine who we are

That day was one of the last. All I saw around me was deserted, as the sun lowered down out of sight. As animals rose from the ground glaring at the car, I turned to look at Vincent, his shoulders hunched over, staring at the open road, his right eye twitching, his hands firmly glued to the wheel, his bottom lip cut. The cotton patch, covering a wound on his cheek he had gotten mere hours ago, began to peel off. We continued driving, as our gray beatdown Chevy Nova sped down an open road of green and brown. 

“I can’t do this man, we need to stop,” I said with doubt.

“Can’t do this! Can’t do this! It's too late to go back, idiot, we’re doing this.”

“I don’t think I can live like this, live with this...” 

“Well, start learning because there's no other option, there is no alternative.” 

My heart pumped faster and faster. each beat echoed in my ears like a gunshot. All I heard was Bang… one… two, bang… one… two, bang… one… two. I have to win this argument. I have to reach him. Darkness engulfed  the dusty strip of road, as the last rays of light disappeared. The desert went silent. All signs of life died.

“So what are we going to do, we need to fix this mistake!” I exclaimed.

“I don’t know, but we’re going to have to keep driving. If you can’t keep it together, then we’ll have an even bigger problem.”

“Keep driving! Are you insane? We need to stop now!” 

“I thought I told you to stay calm.”

“Calm? I’m not staying calm.” 

Bang… one… two, bang… one… two, bang… one… two. The sound grew louder and louder. Vincent pressed his foot on the gas more and more, as though cinder blocks were strapped to his feet. Everything turned into streaks speeding across the window. Birds, animals, everything became blurred lines. The inside of the car grew smaller and smaller, crushing me. Everything appeared as though splattered in red. I couldn’t breathe. Vincent’s hands clammed up, as veins popped out in his neck. I wanted to escape but my only chances were through Vincent. As he began to slowly stretch away, I had to stop this before it killed me.

“Stop it now! I said stop. We aren’t going to do this,” I shouted.

“WHY...WHY stop? What good will it do?” he said, slamming his fist on the horn, as the cotton patch on his cheek fell off.

“WHY? WHY? Are you serious? Vincent, you killed someone, no, we killed someone, so stop trying to tell me to stay calm!!!”

“I said to stay calm or you’ll end up like him!”

A vein came out of his balding forehead, twisting and turning as he grew angrier. It looked as though the vein had a consciousness, moving on its own. Bang...one..two, Bang...one...two, Bang...one...two. My heart pounded, ringing that felt like the whole world could hear. Each beat another gunshot. I couldn’t take it anymore—it wouldn’t stop ringing. It just kept ringing and ringing, growing louder and louder. 

“I’m sorry but I can’t continue this, pull over,” I said, reaching for the car door. 

“I’m sorry, I’m not pulling over.”

“What?”

He reached down towards his door, as his arm flew into the air, appearing faster than light. I grew pale, as his silver arm rose up. My heart pounding Bang… one… two...

BANG!

My head flew back as time froze, the window shattering into microscopic bits. Each glistening in front of me like tiny diamonds. I started to lose all sensation in my body. My eyes began to shut at that moment, the white desert, now splattered red. Everything flashed, ONE...

With waxy seals, they come, 

       A solitary envelope, black fraying on the edges.

O how lovely is her once-beating drum 

       Now subdued, immured in consequences. 

O Dove of mine, 

      Lovely were your milk-white feathers.

O Cardinal of Maker’s design, 

      Your heart was not short of treasures. 

She was too fair for any man,

       A porcelain petal, so light and breakable,

With a sharply shortened lifespan;

       If only torment were avoidable.

Her hair is twinged with dirt and grime, 

       (Brown mud upon her golden hair!)

Lavender flowers encrusting her face, 

        The final note of a tragic affair.

Cracked and broken lips adorn her face,

       Once soft pink, now muted and dull, 

Soft melodies silenced by cast-iron gates, 

       Dreams now falling into an unchanging lull.

In her bed coated with ribbons 

       Her cheeks shine like marble,

Ears enjoying their last listen, 

       People talk around us, words in a garble.  

The soil, like an apple, is cut clean

       The shape not dissimilar to one on the stand—

But leave me be, I must glean

       A new life taken from this wasteland.

O my aching heart! O fragile

       Wounds decorating my skin!

O lover ungrateful! O agile

       Shovel, burying my Lady within!

My hands rubbed back and forth against my worn-down leather steering wheel. Beads of sweat were beginning to form at my hairline as I thought of all the reasons I had come, and all the reasons I shouldn’t have. I inhaled and felt my chest expand, collecting all the courage I could find to get out of this car and walk through those sliding doors. In a swift motion, I exhaled and brought my hand to the door handle, pulling, and then feeling the door pop open. As I got out, I felt my weight sink into the gray-black tar. Had I made the right decision? No, it doesn't matter, I had decided, right or wrong, it was final. Closer and closer I walked towards the motion sensored doors of Johnston General Hospital. All I hoped for was that he was happy I had come.

At the doors a twenty-or-so-year-old girl walked by me; she had hoped that her quick visit to the ER wouldn’t cost so much. When I walked in, the people in the waiting room all quickly looked my way and then, as quickly as they looked at me, they looked back to their paperwork. As the nurse came out from behind the locked doors I could feel the tension in the room rise. They all hoped their name would be called next. “Eric Dixon” the nurse called out. Twelve people sank back into their chairs, hopes being diminished into dust. As I neared the front desk my fist clenched and my breath escaped me. My fingers tapped, tapped, tapped the hard yellowing wood of the counter. We hadn’t spoken in years. 

“H-hi, I’m here to see John Cole,” I uttered with a sudden shakiness in my voice.

“Ok, may I see an ID?” the nurse said, never taking her eyes away from the computer. My hands shook as I pulled out my ID from the brown, ratty, old wallet he had given to me many years ago. “Ok, room 213,” she said, pointing to an area on the hospital map. She hoped for the time to go, and for her long night shift to finally be over.

As I walked through the hospital, on my way to room 213, echoes of hopes and desires of the people around me pulsed through the air. The ones sitting at the old tables in the cafe, the ones who were pushing their food around with their off white plastic forks, as though they were inspecting it, hoped they would soon be able to eat the delicious, home cooked meals they had had before. The family gathered outside the closed wooden door, hoping for their daughter to tell them, “It's a girl.” The old man, sitting in solitude, hoping the cancer was gone. The mom, holding her son tight to her chest, hoping that he will once again laugh at his father's jokes. The little boy, locked away in his room, tubes coming from every direction, hoping it would all be over soon.

By the time I arrived at door 213, I realized I did not hope for respect. I had not hoped for happiness. All I hoped for was for him to stay alive.

My fingertips brushed the cold metal door handle and I slowly opened the door. As I stepped in, his eyes and my eyes met, and all was silent and still, except the heart monitor standing to his left   -  -  -  -  -  –  –  –  ––––––————.

Most of my friends are impressed (and sometimes annoyed) with my ability to keep my grades as high as they are, but I guarantee if they also knew about how bad my procrastination habit is, they would be astonished. I myself on occasion will look at my grades and laugh in disbelief, decide that it’s an awakening for me to work even harder, and then proceed to put off work for thirty more minutes.

Let's say I get home from school after maybe two to three hours of tennis. Although it’s only six o’clock, it feels and looks like ten. I need nourishment, a shower. I need to do laundry, a million other things, but I still give myself a much-needed break. And so it begins. Everyone needs breaks once they get home from a six-and-a-half-hour school day, and I’m speaking from experience. And although most everyone can talk the talk of “I’ll just watch Monday Night Countdown for twenty minutes,” can they really walk the walk? I’m here to tell you that I cannot, no matter how hard I try. When I’m finally able to drag myself upstairs, tennis bag on one shoulder and backpack on the other, I see my bed in all its glory. I collapse into a cloud of warmth and decide to rest my eyes for a minute. Fatal mistake. Next thing I know, it’s eight-thirty, I still need to do physical therapy because I put it off the previous three nights, and oh, yeah, three hours worth of homework.

When you’re a procrastinator, however, having sports until six o'clock is nowhere near as scary as having absolutely nothing after your six-and-a-half-hour sentence. I think that if I get home at six thirty and can get all my homework done, I can do the same thing even though I have the option of starting it three hours earlier. It’s a migration then. First I’ll get sucked into whatever codswallop might be on the television when I walk into the house. There’s an hour. Once I make it upstairs, a thousand distractions simultaneously appear, all contained in a three-by-six-inch rectangle of death (commonly known as the iPhone). There’s another hour. I become trapped in this ruthless cycle, each distraction taking more and more advantage of my exhaustion than the last. I would be lying if I said I didn’t take a break or two during the making of this essay. 

So why would I torture myself in procrastinating? Why do I come to school the next day with only six hours of sleep under my belt when I could have easily had nine?

It’s not a lack of motivation or anything like that. I want to do well in high school because I am fully aware that in doing so, I am setting myself up for success in life. I know that it’s worth it to have four to eight difficult years of school to give myself a great sixty to seventy years ahead of me. But when I get home and walk in the front door, quite honestly, a fifteen minute (three hour) break sounds worth it. Worth staying up late and maybe losing five or six points because my mind at eleven o’clock couldn’t even fathom checking for a back.

Maybe one day I will change my ways. I believe that if I were to really and truly stop procrastinating, my grades all around would see an instant boost. I would get more sleep, and because I would be less tired, I could be an even better athlete. However, more importantly, I think resisting putting off work after more than ten years of 180 six-and-a-half hour school days is one of the greatest challenges we will face in our lives. 

Okay, well maybe it’s not that hard to write a six-hundred word essay about yourself…but in today’s day and age, it’s certainly not easy.

Darlina was old.

Not an old you found within wrinkles and slow movements, or in vintage newspapers and old milk bottles, but an old found deep in her hazel eyes. Not a look, but a feeling—one of knowledge. Of pensiveness. 

It was just by chance she also had gray hair and deep-set wrinkles on her cheeks. 

Night found Darlina on her front porch, fireflies flitting around her yard just outside the bubble of light emitting from the windows of her cottage. A breeze, if you could even call it that, tickled her hair, tightly poised in a bun atop her head. 

She sat alone. Well, as alone as an old woman like Darlina could be. Across from her stood a man. His pale, gnarled fingers rested gingerly on the railing. He stared out at the road. Neither paid the other any mind, both observing the further darkening sky at ease. 

“It’s late,” the man finally spoke. 

“Yes,” Darlina agreed. “It is.” 

“You should sleep.”

“I should.” 

Silence, just the faint rustle of a stray cat, or perhaps a raccoon, sifting through the neighbor's garbage. Then:

“But you won’t sleep, will you?”

“Not tonight.”  

The pale man slowly eased himself down onto the chair across from Darlina. 

“You don’t sleep when I’m here,” he said. “Why? Are you scared of what I will do behind your back?”

“No,” Darlina said carefully. She thought for a moment. “I’m scared of what you’ve already done.” 

A small sigh—a quavering voice.

“I have done only what I was—I have to do this,” the man simply said. 

“And that’s what scares me,” Darlina admitted. The man sighed once again and dragged his cracked fingers over his face before simply nodding and sticking his hand out. Darlina stared down at it. 

“Is it really time?”

“I’m afraid so, Darlina.” 

“Why now?” she asked. 

“You know why. You’re older, now. You can’t hold onto this name forever, Darlina.” 

Darlina sat, breathing slowly. 

“Do you regret not sleeping?” Death asked. Hesitantly, Darlina shook her head and laced her fingers with Death. Slowly, the world began to shift, bend, spiraling in towards the old woman, threatening to squeeze and suffocate her, and for a minute Darlina was truly afraid she would disappear, to be forgotten in the folds of time. 

And then she opened her eyes, and Death was gone. 

She shakily got up from her seat on the porch and wandered back inside, walking through the empty white halls and into the living room. There she found a room, dark brown, walls covered in old pictures of faces she didn’t remember, and a television covered with dust. 

She slowly strode around the room, and tucked away in the corner she found an old picture of a young girl curled around a raggedy stuffed animal. A lamb, or a sheep. Darlina picked up the picture and admired it for a moment before returning it to the table she found it on, image facing down.

She returned to the couch and eased her way onto the old leather, shifting through woolen blankets to reveal a remote for the ancient television, carefully holding it in her hands as she turned the screen on and flipped to the news channel.

 And Darlina sat, for once, truly alone. 

I live a grand life, 

a memorable life of abundance.

Right?

Though it is not something, 

as a rocket, manned by a celebrated few,

barrels out of our snug atmosphere.

Great renowned accolades

showered upon the stars.

Not something to the dignitaries

who scrawl their names into history, 

for better or for worse. 

See, the Earth is extensive,

the universe more so.

Scarcely time for a child to be born.

Even less for a man to be drowned.

You’ll notice my death in the papers.

You might think it to be nothing, 

a random setback 

in the ever turning cogs of life.

Yet to me,

infinitesimal me,

it was everything.

I

I need to eat a heaping bowl of Closure

for breakfast each morning.

I choke it down and swallow hard.

Tears run down my face

no matter how hard I try to make them stop.

II

His eyes are glass,

not my lover’s visage.

His mouth, the perfect curve of his lip

spews accusations to my face.

He is a mad willow with twisted limbs,

and I am a feeble, wilted rose.

I want to watch the rain with him tonight,

but now he’s the storm.

His words are the thunder,

his scowl, terrifying lightning which splits trees in half

and shatters my heart into a million pieces.

III

His grasp on my wrist

is tight as a child’s fist around a rattle.

Cold.

He drains my soul from me,

pushes me to the ground.

I wince and scramble to my feet,

pawing at my wounds and following close behind him, 

apologizing for angering him.

IV

He hand-crafted a box full of my insecurities

and thrust it into my hands

before running away with my heart

tucked into the front pocket of his button-down flannel.

His lips turned silver,

molten lava dripped from the corners of his mouth,

burning holes through me, and flooding the room red hot.

My sanity bubbled up from the churning depths

and became smoke before disappearing into the night.

V

All I can see when I look up at the night sky is him.

Him in the stars,

the moon,

the galaxies,

the abyss.

He showed me emerald and jade

When all I knew was green—

And then showed me heartache and hurricanes—

When all I knew was his love.

VI

I long for his strong hands

to graze the small of my back

but he’s gone now.

I eat Closure for breakfast, trying to forget.

and the subtle tune from my lips

once on his

is all that keeps my company.

I would obliterate paper with dynamite, 

Looking for a sophisticated red herring.

Perhaps I was fishing for vocabulary 

In an endless dictionary.

My proximity to sarcastic answers

destroyed chances of open conversation. 

Electricity surging through my veins, 

creating a superhuman effort 

to match the diabolical task. 

Finding the courage to induce change. 

Projecting negligence whilst 

simultaneously self-righteously repairing

an inexpugnable civilization.

               About halfway between Patten and Fort Kent on Route 11 in northern Maine, just before the trees opened up into miles of potato fields, we rode through the peaceful forest. To the unknowing, the spruces, firs, and birches seem impenetrable and unforgiving, but a closer look shows the diversity of life they sustain. The road runs straight, though not flat, through the forest, and even after travelling every week, the time passes quickly. My father, my brother Aaron, and I watched a bobcat silently run from the side of the road into the understory. We listened to the echoing songs of warblers, the chattering of red squirrels, the horseshoes clicking against the pavement, and the never-ending squeaking of our left carriage wheel. Vireos and redstarts flitted around in the treetops of birches searching for caterpillars and insects, their bright orange tails contrasting with the translucent green of the leaves.  A high pitched two-parted whistle turned our attention to a hawk soaring off to the side of the road. Our carriage bumped along at a slow, relaxed pace down the road. 

But the peace didn’t last forever. It never does. In the distance a rumbling sound grew nearer and soon a double trailer truck piled high with immense logs came rushing by. As it passed, a hurricane of wind and exhaust burst on our faces, quieting the birds, rustling the branches around us, startling our horses, and throwing some of the potatoes from our wagon. The abhorrent smell of exhaust overpowered the odor of our horses and manure. If only more people lived with the same values as us. 

Our family was on our way to our cousin’s farm to bring some of our crops to them and to attend the service in their barn. More and more cars continued to pass us, and soon we could see the fields in the distance as we approached Ashland. Some of the passing drivers looked at us as though we were aliens, in our horse and buggy and traditional clothes. We are used to it, and we see them differently too, as people who have taken the easy way out, the shortcut of modern life.

Gradually the sky darkened and foreboding dark clouds rolled in above us, signaling the coming rain. As we drove by a clearing, rain had already started to fall in the low mountains rising out of the forest to the west. In the expansive field on the opposite side of the road, we spotted a farmer hastily collecting the bales of hay with his tractor to keep them dry in his barn. My father pointed out to us that we were thoughtful and took the time, even though it felt like forever only using pitchforks, to put our hay in our barn before we left. As Amish, life is harder but much more enjoyable and connected to God and the world around us. I know that modern living is easier, but the way of living I have lived all my life is what is right for me. 

The sky was full of buttercup constellations, 

shining light onto the faded, idle chasms 

of the ordinary society. 

Jupiter was hidden among them, 

not yet visible to the naked eye

until the following summer.

This autumn was extraordinary and irregular;

It was unlike any other that had fallen upon the earth, 

like frail fingers 

suddenly striking the worn ivory keys

of an American piano. 

Keys of ivory, 

stolen, ripped from the skull of an ethereal elephant.

It was now everlasting November, with its angelically beautiful water

writhing with radioactive crocodiles

and disoriented aquariums, 

teeming with astronomical aberrations retrieved 

from the depths of the lavender universe.

Sitting in an irregular restaurant is an apothecary,

a blazing harmonica in hand, whose everlasting presence

has a psychedelic effect

on the rebels who reside within it.

The light on the edge of the dry land,

   The white crisp snow on its banks;

The fright in the eyes of the soldiers outmanned,

   The night is cold and untamed.

The soldiers now wait for their sirens,

   Heads held high as they sit;

Across from the banks a light flashes, 

   The games have begun once again.

Quickly our men take their stations,

   Eyes now glazed over with war;

Across from the bank a creation,

   Of hatred, fear, and dolor. 

 Our men march quickly towards battle,

   Ready to fight or to flee; 

They are the hope of our nation,

  How our future would be.

The first shot is like thunder,

   Loud, fierce and untamed;

The men look down and charge forward,

   Their fate, little known, yet framed. 

The battle long and draining,

   Our men fight long and hard;

Then from the banks men waning—

   White flags raise up in arms.

Our men rejoice in victory,

   They leave the trench they have built.

Outside their enemies’ heads held low,

   Tonight they go home with guilt.   

Listen to me now as I tell thee,

   This battle was hard-fought and gory;

It’s name to be known by all men,

   These heroes of World War II bathed in glory.

I need to find it.

However, the dark, cramped room

Is making it difficult to move and search.

How do I lose something

I carry at all times?

The room, dark as dawn,

Is crowded and messy with cousins and brothers, 

As I stumble and trip over piles of clothes and shoes,

Looking for the small leather book.

I shall not go to school today;

I don’t know the kids, and don’t want to play,

and anti-social, I will stay,

for I shall not go to school.

I shall not go to school today,

so under my bed I will lay,

and as I hide, I will pray,

That I shall not go to school.

I shall not go to school today;

I know everything anyway!

So to my mother, I will say,

“I’M NOT GOING TO SCHOOL!”

I am going to school today...

I didn’t account for how much I weigh...

She carried me to the car, 

and then we drove away.

But I know that tomorrow is the day,

That I’m positively, 

1000%, undoubtedly, definitely

not going to school.

It’s been four months now,

By the time I see you five, six? 

It’s been a long time.

It pains me to know that—

That by the time I see you, 

I’ll be half a year older, 

I’ll be halfway through my sophomore year

I’ll be half an inch taller.

I know you’re always there for me,

But you’re never here for me.

I used to think I was the problem.

I used to cry at night because you weren’t home,

Home to tell me that you loved me,

Home to tell me that you’re proud of me,

You missed so much.

you miss so much.

I guess its ok though, 

‘cause I understand, you have to work.

It’s just another couple months.

The Sistine Chapel is a pile of marble.

The ceiling is a Banksy wall.

The Frescoes are burning in Paris.

Where is your God then? 

When your priest touches, but never feels.

When your mother loves, but never likes.

When your lover understands, but never reconciles.

Where is your God then?

If you will not be yourself, then who?

If they will not love you now, then when?

If the world will not see you, then where?

Where is your God then?

God made you.

You made yourself.

You, in turn, made God.

Where is your God then?

The staff of Inkwell is incredibly grateful to the MSAD #51 community. We would especially like to thank the following:

The Students of Greely High School, without them sharing their talents with us, we would not exist. 

MSAD #51 Board of Directors, for their support of our magazine, and the talents displayed with it. 

Superintendent Jeff Porter, Mr. Chris Hoffman, and Mr. Don Gray, for his continued support of Inkwell and the arts. 

Mrs. Susan Inman and Mr. Bobby Livingston, for being the greatest advisors a club can ask for. 

Ms. Ceri Botto and Ms. Emily Rupe, for encouraging their students to pursue their talents in the arts, and sharing them with us. 

Mrs. Deb Pinkham, for starting Inkwell all those years ago, and for supporting us ever since.