10432 Xavier HS pages

now and others crowded around him.
“Vuka ngane! Bazokubulala! Bazokubulala!”
A man walked over to pick him up. Instead he just started

dragging him. “We got another one! This one is dressed funny cap-
tain.”

I tried to stand up. I was feeling better. Someone lifted
me up by my elbow. I couldn’t recognize these hands. They were
large and coarse. They were black. Really black. And handcuffed.
Large, coarse, black, and handcuffed. I looked up. He was naked.
I quickly turned away to look back at the ground. Well he wasn’t
really naked. More like barely clothed. Definitely a “he” though.
He started pulling me back up on my feet. Once I was up, I took
a deep breath and looked back at his face. His face was gleaming
with sweat and his beard. His beard had bits of puke on it. I imme-
diately regretted the helping hand. I looked back at the ground and
involuntarily shivered.

“Thanks,” I whispered.
“Ini?”
I had no clue what he said. But, I was feeling better now,
so I started walking back over to the crowd and at that moment I
finally realized what was going on. Slaves. The naked people are
slaves. I looked over to see one of the sailors pointing a musket at
the crowd. Somehow I was in the past. This man looked like the
stereotypical sailor back in 1700 or something. Scruffy beard, old
clothes with beer stains, and a weird raspy voice.
“Get back! You savages! Get back!”
“Hey get away from him!” David was screaming at the top
of his lungs. “Leave him alone.”
“David chill!” I said. He looked over at me almost in di-
sbelief as if I said something wrong or disrespected him. He imme-

49

diately lunged at the sailor and-
“I said get back”
The gun went off.
David’s body dropped to the deck. Blood sprayed out the

other side of his body. He dropped right next to where his brother,
Shontea was laying. After that everything got blurry for me. All I
remember was that there was a lot of commotion. Both sailors and
slaves were yelling and screaming. Next thing I remember two sai-
lors dragged David’s body and threw it into the sea. All I heard was
a splash from the other side of the boat.

“Round them up! Get the stones!” Some of the sailors
stopped fighting the slaves and ran below the deck. 3 bodies lay on
the ground. Screams and cries rang in my ears. Suddenly the door
swung back open again. Three sailors walked in with guns drawn
on us.

One of them stopped and looked at my shoes. “Who left
this one unchained?” He pointed the gun closer at me. I was shive-
ring. I was separated from the others and was about to die. Sweat
was starting to get into my eyes. My eyelids started to twitch. Out
of the corner of them I saw another sailor bending down near my
feet. He chained me to the rest of them. One of the three sailors
that had the guns drawn on us picked up a rock and tied it to the
slave at the end of our chain. She was crying and her legs were
trembling in fear.

“Let ‘em sink! This’ll teach you!”
I was going to die. I looked over and saw my friends lined
up with me a few people away. They looked confused. Samuel and
Tyrese held Shontea up with his arms around their shoulders. They
were more concerned about Shontea than what was about to hap-
pen to them.

50

“Guys!” My voice cracked under the weight of me trying to
hold back my tears.

They didn’t hear me. Suddenly I heard a scream. I looked
further over to see the one girl at the end of our chain being pushed
off the deck. One-by-one the rock dragged us off the boat and into
the salty cold ocean water. The chains drummed against the corner
of the deck. At first I tried to keep my balance but then my legs
gave in. I was now being dragged on my stomach. I looked over
and saw the man that helped me stand up earlier.

He looked back at me in silence and raised his hand up in
silence. He looked away from me and yelled. “Ukuhlasela!” All
the slaves started charging at the sailors who were busy watching
us drown. Startled, they were barely able to get a shot off. With a
tear running down the side of my nose, I smiled. I slipped off of the
deck with my arms trying to hold on to the base of the railings. It
was too heavy for me to hang on. I took my last breath and got a
glimpse of the name of the ship. “Amistad.”

Slowly I got dragged into the water. My head submerged in
only 5 seconds. I was scared so I closed my eyes. Someone started
to pull me up out of the water. Two hands grabbed my wrist and
started pulling on me. I started to help by swimming a little. I lifted
my head out of the water. Tyrese and Samuel were looking down at
me.

Sam waved his hands in my face. “Yo!”
I quickly slapped it away, looked down, and coughed up
some water.
“Bro!”
I didn’t even bother looking up. At this point I was done
with him. I looked around and saw that we were in a swamp now.
I rubbed my hair and pulled out a soggy leaf. The water was warm

51

and smelled like algae. I tossed the leaf into the slimy water.
“Yo!”
“What!”
“Bro, why are you yelling?”
“Just… just shut up for a minute, okay.”
“Bro. Why are you mad at me? I ain’t even do anything.”
“Because you always doing this!” I took a deep breath.

“My shoes.” My socks were all soggy and slimy. I started trudging
through the dark green water. Every step felt like I was walking
in quicksand. I could hear him start following me. I sat down on a
bank where Shontea and Tyrese were sitting. It was muddy but I
was exhausted.

Shontea was crying. “He was my brother, man.”
“I know.” Tyrese eyes were tearing up too. He leaned over
to hug him.
I wasn’t sure what to do in this situation. I never know
what to say when someone dies. I was still in shock, so I just sat in
silence. I also wasn’t that close to Shontea. I used to hang out with
him a couple of times but it was never without David. I only really
knew Shontea cause David and I were good friends.
“It was all my fault.” Shontea continued to cry. I was really
feeling bad for him. I’ve never seen him like this. I never see any
of my friends like this.
At this point Samuel put his hand on Shontea’s back.
“We’re here for you.” I couldn’t make out if he was really being
sincere or not. I couldn’t stop thinking about how his goofy ass
got us here in the first place. All of a sudden there was a splash in
the water. We quickly looked up to see what it was. For a moment
everything was silent.
“I think someone’s watching us.” Sam whispered.

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“Go check it out.” I whispered back.
“No.”
“Yes.”
He looked back at me. “What? No.”
“You got us here in the first place, so stop being a b-----.”
He paused. “Hello?” He quickly changed his voice to sound
more aggressive. “Who’s there?” Nothing. “Come out! I’m not
messing around!”
A little black boy crawls out from the high grass. He was
drenched and covered in leaves from hiding from us.
“Oh, snap.” Sam looked back at us. “It’s a kid,” he whispe-
red. “Hey come on out. We’re not gonna hurt you. We just wanna
talk.”

3.
The kid stood up and started walking towards us. He loo-

ked about 12 or 13. He was scrawny and wasn’t that tall either. His
clothes were old and grass stained.

“Hey,” Sam said, still whispering.
The kid nodded.
“Can you tell us where we are?”
The kid stared in silence.
“Can you talk?”
“Georgia.”
“Georgia?” I said in shock. “Georgia?”
Tyrese stopped chimed in. “How the-“
Sam cut him off. “Georgia?”
“Yes sir.”
“How? Who are you anyways?”
The kid didn’t answer.

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“Are you listening to me?” Sam was really getting frustra-
ted. He started yelling. Who are you?”

The kid started to back away. I looked closer at him and
could see that he was missing a pinky finger on his left hand. I
could tell he was scared.

“Yo! Calm down.” I stood up to look at Sam. “He’s just a
kid.” I turned to the boy. “What’s your name, man?”

The kid looked shocked. “M-man?”
“Yeah. bro.” I couldn’t figure out why he was so confused,
so I said it slower for him. “What- is- your- name?”
“An- Ant. It’s Ant.”
“Okay, Ant. I’m Aaron. That’s Tyrese. That’s Shontea. And
this neanderthal here is Sam.”
Sam turned to me. “Neandertha-. What?”
I laughed a little. I was always good with younger kids. I
wasn’t sure if Ant got the joke but whatever. “We’re from New Jer-
sey. Where are you from.”
“Y’all from New Jersey?” Ant had a strong southern ac-
cent.
“Yeah… You from around here?” I looked around. It was
all flat and swampy.
“No.”
We sat there in silence for a little staring at each other.
“Well, where are you from?” yelled Samual.
“Philly.”
“Philly?”
“That ain’t no Philly accent.” Samuel scoffed.
We stared in silence again. Samuel was really starting to get
on my nerves. It’s like he was trying to joke along with me to co-
ver all this up. Fake. Just then, the sound of horses and dogs started

54

getting closer. Ant gasped and started trying to run. He fell. I was
so confused. I jumped into the swamp. The rest followed. I heard
a few more splashes behind us. Dogs. They sounded vicious. They
sounded hungry.

“Ooowee… Won’t you look at that.” The voice had a strong
southern accent. An accent that sounded racist alone. “Five nig-
gers!” Somebody else laughed. “I told you this one ain’t no good.
Come here, boy!”

I was scared. My clothes were soaked, my back was trem-
bling, and my legs were stiff. I didn’t even try moving. I kept my
head down in the water. Someone’s hand grabbed the back of my
shirt and pulled me up out of the murky water.

“Tried to run again! Huh, Ant!” said the voice.
“Damn tar baby don’t know the difference between north
and south.” said the other voice. The two voices started laughing.
Once my eyes stopped watering, I finally got a glimpse of
the voices. The sun shining in my eyes shadowed their faces. Two
silhouettes. A man in his thirties and an older man in his fifties.
Both of them sat high on their horses and carried ropes. The one
man on the left just looked like a younger version of the one on the
right. Both of them had scruffy beards and wore dingy hats. The
older one had-
“Hey! I’m talkin’ to you boy!” The man stared me down.
I turned my attention to the barking dogs. Drool slowly dripped
from their flesh hungry mouths. “Come here, n-----! I’m not gon’
say it again.”
I walked over to the two men. They tied me up with
everyone else. Everyone except Samuel.
“You next, boy!” The younger man pointed at Samuel.
Samuel looked at the man crooked. “What the?”

55

I looked at Samuel with his fist balled up and then looked
back at the two men. They were completely lost. I could tell that
this is the first time anybody has stood up to them.
“I ain’t doing it, n----!”
“Ohhh really.” said the olderman. He looked over at the
youngerman and laughed.
“I think this pickaninny got a screw loose,” said the
youngerman. They both stared laughing now.
“N----?” Said the olderman. Their laughter turned into cac-
kling.
The youngerman wiped the tears out of his eyes. “Y’all
sound funny, y’know that?”
“Sound just like Ant when we first got ‘em.”
“Came from Philly and ended all the way in Savanna.”

“Ain’t that somethin’?” They paused in silence.
“What year is it?” I asked.
“What?”
“What-”
“I heard you, boy!”
“Masta’. Ant leaned over to me and whispered, “What year
is it masta’.”
“What?” Master? This confirmed who I thought they were.
Slaveholders.
“Now, try again.”
Samuel jumped in. “Nah! Aaron don’t say-
“Shut up, boy! Last time!” He pulled out a whip.
Samuel had that look in his eyes. “Or what?” His self-
destructive nature was at max capacity now. “You gonna whip me
with that? My mamma could do worse.” Samuel completely disre-
garded the barking dogs that were increasingly getting worked up.

56

“Come on, man! Chill!” yelled Tyrese.
He stepped closer; almost walking past the dogs. “Nah, I’m
from Newark, bro!”
I thought to myself, “Who is jacking Newark?” Just then I
noticed the man’s hand start reaching back with the whip. I quickly
shouted out, “What year is it? Master!”
He stopped. “Well then.”

4.
We started walking down a dirt road. Our wrists were tied

up with a rope that linked us together. I was second in line. First
in line was Ant. He kept his head down and kept fidgeting with his
nine fingers. Nine. Everything started to sink in. I looked behind
me. Tyrese nervously looked back at me with his eyes wide, then
looked behind him. Shontea stared off into the woods. Sam was
kicking a rock down the path with the same aggression. I looked
back at my wrist. The rope kind of hurt but it was a lot better than
cuffs. Sam put me in cuffs once. Well, he got us caught up. We got
pulled over. It was late and we were coming home from practi-
ce so I put my hands on the dash. I didn’t want any trouble. This
dude gets upset. Cop walks up and immediately asks “What’s the
problem piggy?” Dumbass. Everything went south from there. He
got stopped for a valid reason. Speeding. He was like three or four
over. Anyway, there were now two officers on the stop. The officers
had us step out and pushed us up against the car with a thud. Put
us in handcuffs and threw us on the ground. You know, that typical
cop shit. Yelling and threatening us. They let us go, but I think that
was the first time I ever want to fight Sam. Like, really hurt him.
Now was the second time. “If it wasn’t for his stupid loud mouth,
we wouldn’t be here in the first place.”

57

Sam stopped kicking the rock and looked directly at me.
“What was that?” He paused. “Nah, say it with your chest. You
were muttering.”

I honestly didn’t think he would hear me. “You heard me-”
“Hey! Quiet back there!”
We stared at each other. I was hot. The most upset I’ve been
in a long time.
“That’s right. Be quite for your masta’” he said. The master
looked back at him. I was excited. I wanted him to do something.
Nothing too serious. But like a smack or something. Nothing. He
turned back around and looked straight. I looked back at Sam one
more time. He had a smug look on his face.
“Ahh…”
“Sorry.” We abruptly stopped. The stop was so abrupt that I
stepped on Ant’s left heel. “Sorry.”
“Samuel.” How did he know Sam’s name? The master tur-
ned to the younger guy. Oh, nevermind. I looked at Sam and chuc-
kled a little. “Untie those three boys in the middle.” He pointed at
Sam and Ant. “Leave Ant and the loud mouth n----- with me.”
Slave owner Sam untied us. The ropes weren’t very tight
in the first place. They were loose enough for me to slip my han-
ds through, but I noticed Sam was carrying a firearm back at the
swamp. I wasn’t trying to get shot. My theory was that if I got shot
I would move into another time period. I died. We died… back
on the boat “Amistad”, but survived. What if David survived too?
What if he’s dead already? I have a feeling tha-
Suddenly I was thrown into the dirt.
“Hey boy! You listening!” Slave owner Sam pointed at
black woman. Tyrese and Shontea were waiting nervously. “Go
on!” I slowly got up and walked over to the woman. I didn’t bother

58

looking back at any of them. My black pants were now grey and
covered in dirt. “We got some more little funny talking n-----s for
you Bella.” My shoes were trashed. “Go ‘head take dem to the
back shed. Maybe that’ll jog their memory.”

“Yes massa’ Turner.”
“As for you two…” His voice faded as he walked back to-
wards Ant and Samuel.
The woman stared at me with her arms crossed, almost in
disappointment as I shuffled over. She looked like a middle-aged
woman. She didn’t have gray hair or a wrinkly face. She just see-
med aged. She wore a clean cream-colored blouse and her hair was
wrapped in a bun. And, not gonna lie, she was kind of pretty. But,
she was also kind of- “Ahh.” She grabbed me by my arm and pul-
led me along. She was kind of rough. “Excuse me…” She kept her
head forward as she pulled me along the overgrown path. “Excuse
me…”
She stopped. “What is it, child? Damn.” I stood in shock.
Child? Sounds like something my aunt would say. “You gon’ keep
askin’ me or can we move on?”
I quickly recovered. Her impatience was a little intimida-
ting. “Sorry. Where are we?”
She rolled her eyes and we started walking again. “Oh
Lord. He didn’t push you too hard now.”
It was kind of impressive how fast she was with her come-
backs. “It’s jus that…”
“Virginia”, she muttered.
Shontea said in disbelief, “Virginia? We-”
She made no eye contact with us. “Mhm.”
“We're just in Georgia,” Shontea finished.
“No, you ain’t.” The rawness of her accent was infuria-

59

ting. Improper slang. Yuck. Well I guess it was sort of appropria-
“What’s wrong with yo’ boy? He got a staring problem?” Her

grip tightened. This was the first time she made direct eye contact
with me. “Been staring at me damn near since the time y’all
‘rived.” I quickly looked away and she let go. “Now, who told
you y’all was in Georgia?”

“Ant told us”, I answered.
She looked back at me, “Ant.”
“Uh huh.”
She laughed a little. “Ant got a few pebbles in his head.”
She tapped the side of her head. “He on’t think rih. Boy might be
retarded. He’s one of those n-----s you jus’ oughta ignore.” Her
voice was sweet, but the accent made it rough. I just let her talk.
“Say he from Philadelphia.” She laughed a little more. Well, it was
more like a giggle. “Can you believe that?” She eagerly looked at
me for a comment.
“Yeah, he told us.” I said, trying my best to sound unintere-
sted.
“We done asked him how he got here and he say a sla-
ve ship.” She paused briefly. “Slave ship!” Then busted out into
straight laughter. She was laughing so hard, she almost fell out. It
made me smile a little. She was exciting. I wanted to tell her about
what happened to us, but feared her reaction. “They done stopped
that decades ago. And what he? Bout ten.” She slapped her thigh as
she began to chuckle. She whipped the tears out of her eyes. “Lord
knows someone done failed as a parent.” She opened a door to this
decently built shack. It was pretty bad but I could tell someone
spent a lot of time on it. Inside were several “beds” on the floor.
They were more like small patches of hay.
There was a man sitting on a small handmade bench. He

60

turned see who was coming in. “Oh! Here come da masta’s who-
re”, he said.

She tightened her face at him and then turned back to us.
“And, ignore that nappy headed negro over there too.”She leaned
up against the wall. She smirked a little. “Speaking of whores,
where’s Cherry.”

He tightened his fist and struck the seat of the
bench.“Bella!” He took a couple of breathes, took a knife out
of pocket, and started running his hands up and down the blade.
“Ain’t nobody payin’ tention to you.”

Bella stood there unphased. “You jus’ was.”
“Keep my wife’s name out yo’ mouth.”
“Hmph… You got Ant in trouble ‘gain.”
“I ain’t tell that little boy to run.”
“Yeah, but you always talm’ bout it.” She paused. “Oh, we
gon’ rise up. Oh we gon’ fight.” she said mockingly. “Swear you
gon get us all killed oneday.” There was a long silence. “30-year-
old n’ married with a child talm’ bout run.”
“And you bout 22. Why you ain’t say ``run.” Wow, I was
off. Only 22?
“Cause it’s suicide.” She paused. “And look.” She poin-
ted back at us. “Done got some others caught long with him.” I
wanted to ask a question but I still didn’t feel like it was my place.
“Anyway, there you go.” She nudged us in. “Don’t go causin’ trou-
ble.”
“Wait. Where are you going?” I asked.
“Child, ion belong here.” She walked out and closed the
door.
Nat looked at us. “She a house n-----.”

61

62

EVERYONE

___________________

Sebastian Bettigole

I didn’t prepare for my interview. I know I probably should have,
but I didn’t, not out of neglect or laziness. I had an inner confidence
that told me any preparation would likely diminish my chances. So,
I didn’t. After all, an entry-level position at an average insurance
firm is not likely to create an intellectual competition for the best
and the brightest. I graduated top of my class, and with my teacher
recommendations, I look just like the “boy scout” that companies
look for. If I can just get into that room and pass them my folder, I
could watch them make the easiest hire of their career.

As I sit, wait and try to occupy my mind with something me-
aningful, I can’t help but notice the guy next to me. There is nothing
remarkable about him. He’s average height and in desperate need of
a haircut -- although I’m sure he thinks his thick black mop of hair
is an asset. He looks familiar, and I can’t quite place a finger on it.
I could swear I caught him recognizing me too.

“Hey, do I know you from somewhere?” I ask.
“Yeah, I’ve seen you before. I think we went to school toge-
ther. My name’s Sam, nice to see you.”
I start racking my brain trying to figure out where I remem-
ber Sam from. Was he a football player or some type of athlete?
Maybe he was president of a club?
“Did we ever have a class together? I know who you are, but
I don’t remember meeting you.”
“I’m not surprised,” he said. “I was usually the kid in the

63

back of the room sleeping. School didn’t work out so well for me.
I passed every class – barely – but nothing ever lit the spark and
captured my interest. I didn’t join any clubs or participate in extra-
curricular activities. I was just there to get the degree, unlike you.
Didn’t you graduate as valedictorian or something?”

“Yes, I did, not that it was too difficult. Sure, I studied and
always got my work done, but that’s me. If I am going to work on
something, I tend to do it to the nth degree.”

Even after 10 years, an alarm is one hell of a thing to wake up to. I
always love seeing that plaque in the sunlight, though, the one I got
for being Valedictorian. I don’t really love how early I need to arri-
ve at work, but I don’t hate it either. Toast and butter for breakfast
again; I know it doesn’t seem like anything too special, but it’s sort
of a ritual, or maybe it is just a good piece of toast. Either way, it
doesn’t really matter. What is important is work and I need to make
sure I am there on-time, especially today.

I arrive and there is only one person in the office. It’s that guy with
the strange tattoo, and he’s sat next to me for the past ten years, but
I still don’t know his name. I should probably introduce myself or
express some sort of greeting, but I’m sure he’s tired too and can do
without the pleasantries. Is this a New York thing? He has this look
about him like he never went home.

I muster the courage to say something.
“Early morning, huh?”
“Yeah, things seem to be getting crazier and crazier this
week, but it’s not like we aren’t getting paid for this stuff.”
“Have some coffee, it’ll help.”
I personally prefer tea or something similar, but almost

64

everyone else prefers coffee.
“Yeah, yeah, but still. I wanna sleep sometimes, you know,

it’s not exactly a cakewalk to be up late every night in a week.”
We are in the same boat, but for now, we just need to get this

work finished as soon as possible. I try to calm his anxiety.
“I know, but once we’re done, we can catch a break.”
“Sorry, just trying to make sure I won’t stay late for the 5th

day in a row.”
“Don’t worry about it, and sorry for bothering you.” He se-

ems to have enough on his plate, and I should probably just leave
him to do his work.

“It’s fine.”
I didn’t really know what to say so I just waited for him to
continue.
“Why do you work all the time, doesn’t it get boring?”
“Because someone has to finish the work, and I wanna go
home.” I also needed to make sure things got done right, and nobody
knew all these crazy forms better than I did.
“Why not someone else? Just push it off on other people and
go home early”
“Because then it won’t get done”
“Guess there’s no arguing with that, but why you?”
“Nothing better to do.”

I spend the rest of that morning finishing paperwork that people
should have handed in weeks ago.

“Morning Ev, you’re early as usual.” Sarcastic words from
my disingenuous boss; a good guy when it was all said and done.
I should probably thank him for helping me out or maybe for just
not breathing down my neck all the time. I am unsure when I got

65

the nickname Ev, but maybe it’s rooted in how I work? I still can’t
believe that this slacker who went to school with me is my boss, but
I won’t let that stop me from working hard,
“Morning to you too, anything special today?”
He is not exactly a friend; then again, he is always friendly
towards me, and he keeps me honest with work. He was the only
person I knew when I started here, and we started around the same
time, but somewhere along the line he got way ahead of me.
“No, nothing too crazy, just some quarterly meetings. That
reminds me, are you doing anything after work today?”
I usually don’t do anything beyond returning home and
watching TV before going to bed, so it’s not like I can’t say I have
anything important going on, but the question is, do I want to answer
honestly?
“No, why do you ask? Do you need someone to work over-
time again?” I am always working overtime or early, anything to get
a couple of extra hours in. Not a lot happens in my life beyond work
and news, so there’s no convincing reason to refuse.
“Not overtime, but how about something to eat? Me and a
couple of other guys in the office are going to go somewhere after
work, you wanna tag along?”
This is new; I never get invited anywhere except for mee-
tings or reports. I decide to go, maybe just to get out of the hou-
se and avoid making dinner myself for once. “Sure, but what’s the
big occasion?” Maybe it’d be nice to kick back for an hour or two,
my work at the firm is far from glamorous and very rarely extends
beyond paperwork.
“Quarter ended, and we have tomorrow off, so it just kinda
makes sense that we all go and relax a little.”
He makes a good point, and again I’m not doing anything, so

66

I might as well go.
“Alright, I’ll see you there.”
My next few hours are spent typing away at my computer,
bringing forms here and there, and eventually leaving to go meet up
with everyone else from the office.

When I arrive, I immediately conclude it’s a nice place, yes, a re-
staurant, but it has more of a bar feel.
“Ev, it took you long enough to get here, where’ve you
been?”
“Sorry boss, I wanted to finish up some paperwork and pack
up everything I’ll be working on over the weekend.”
“No need to be so formal, when we’re not in the office just
call me Sam.” I forgot his name, so I usually just call him boss or
avoid using his name entirely, then again, I only file, deliver, print,
and occasionally fill out paperwork, so I don’t see him too often.
“Hey Ev, I gotta ask you something.”
“Yes boss, I mean Sam?”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m talking to you, boss?”
“No, I mean with your life, what are your goals? What do
you want to do?”
“Well, I’m working for a living at an insurance firm and my
goal is to work hard. I take pride in a job well done.”
“Then why don’t you ever ask for a promotion? Maybe even
a raise? I even gave you that offer to go to England when we signed
that new client, but you refused.”
“I don’t really want a raise or a promotion, I’m great at what
I do now and I don’t really see the enjoyment in going to England,
or really anywhere else. I enjoy being where I am and doing what I
do”

67

basi“cEavl, lIyhaeveqnuoicvluaelheonwtytouodtohtheatf.”ull cost of the
m mholriaaesnsthfyt“arInoiwdgeonoennoe’eddt.kkesInns’ootv.wuheIgwohdbh.u”iyedgIenhnne'.etdsIktaanvndyiotenhwfingeghaueltepsse'd,ftboohbsrees.tWpbhurhiaisrtnpIfghooairvsneegis
of t“rByutinwghytdoonb’teyotuhweanftirmsotreo, wnoeulidnn’tliitnbee nwiche etonnot
nyeeodutoiwnovrkitaet aall?b” unch of your friends, but I’m
nthoitet’sgk““oWNninioohn,dytwgnhoboyttfe??o””cktairduysyeaonhudew’dsaentbotauttgoehmi.tIe.tDs’ssebwreeiktchai,usasnneodt
he’“sWrhiacthel,seawnoduldhIedonaelleddays? aIt’ns neoxt lcikue sI edotmoucchaelllse”
me“aDofnr’tiyeonudhaoveraahotblbeyaosr stomanethaincgq?”uaintance.
HSeofmi““xINepeooltsasnythopseourrsdestoo,akboIiulfmdesoetmsamhnoesitmanimwrgeeeaistwlt,hhahonoidnrbhbckgiyrsos, aslwsifbkwoeaoorlrhudlometwptutezJahzo.lhneensd”“frbtomhigaHtR
stredamasy”VidteoomGaomrerso, owr haonwdJaonet,hteherCsEwOe’srseectreatalrky,inisgin a
banda.b” out what they think the new one will
muhc“haMbve“faesIeiyddbaoebnsete’uwst ikoridtnreko’e.slw”ls,acwbdooevusiletdnnrmg’tt iSbosuriedgoedkgumoecnroounatntene?lydIe”dvto,inhsI’teijroeooankltl.yheddeor.too
“Y“Yeoauhgo,ttha ageht aa hroebbayl, tfhuenn.”ny”, Derek said.
“What do“yIotu’swatnrt umee ”to,dIo?r”etorted.
““ONko ““soDAhklornii,gt’oth.atfDstykhcooemonuy,euI,o’krylulosngueoewgtwoIoatntdnaItohtfciag.oatuMnrnneeyxeijtt uoocohuslratdtnfn.oc.oero.yn”It’ome?urfBssreetleefo..c””papuesde



wor“kWinhegn wailml thoatnbte?h” ago anyways. I guarded
it lik“Iedoann’t kannowc,ieI’nmtprreettylibcusaynwdithitwosrtki,lslosI’tlol jpuspt efodcus
owwneothdhraakttt“aoinAnndlsgrowilg.woo”hrwtkcIEotvodn,ntojguuswesttrttnilinnetgtstumahtoeheeuokisbntrbooywtolhowdlnadcheeteernert”vihespreyratyhobindhoguauivsctdetoasnseyat.”aenradtr-
and aEvhenatulafl,lys, oI gmo ehotmime. Aefsterjualsl,tI hoanveesoymeaucrh.tIo cdoaann’dtI
ceanv’et sntaycothnerteafocretvaern. yone anymore on mine, but
p iwtleoIsounhrpkeMaoneivynpdehiglooesusmonsoemefoipstiaenphmeweorssrrac,eeyhoaarconohloefdwslscietnhoavosnseotwomtrraeyaitgcnohetinnipcgnelaaugcsniesieqmwuroeiyetfhaqneepduvimldeieisrfrefeue-rrpde-onnt
written on them, all represgenetinngcpierosje.cts I am working on, have
sItalrtieeddanadnnededtotolfdinimsh,yormproojtehctes rthaIt wI noeuvelrdstabrteeds. lTehee pla-st
piinlegisothveelarrgDeset. rItetakk’ess uhpoalumsoest.aNn eenetirdelcelossset,twohisleatyhe, lsisht oef

68

completed projects is just a couple pieces of paper high.

The only thing worse than being woken up by an alarm clock in the

morning is being woken up by a ringing phone. Are things really so

crazy that my boss needs to call me on a day off? Then again I could
geTt phaied aFliitrtlsetmPorue frocr hwoarskieng overtime and working on a day off,

so IIItpD’’discrk“rerHuaweeptlalthohPl,eleewyprahhloorbanilseets.etthaeiasni?n”yd-
Itw’sh“reHereyaeElelvy,lsIlkeantorweigiath’nstadday off and you came to the bar with
allnIo’foduwsr,laabsttuhntiegDrht,ebbreuet akwnoouylfd--you mind coming back again today,
uI pju.ntsIffbwtoheetbaowherrulsdmee,ichcddpbrioemaeudsttltweooilny,eltDpposwweeeaaoohqnryyrrekieuciohhikginhfvaahtooahlluitefffs-r-soalmd eclpalsascmeaatnesd
and we were catching
he wanted to see how

yoluetwnheteretcdoooisntght,aefwtefrhuailllclthhcisoitsimte, just head over when you’re ready,

alright?”

“Sure, but I probably won’t stay long, I have work I need to

do, ok?”

This is really something crazy, two invitations in two days. I

hadn’t been out to eat for almost 6 months before yesterday and now

I’m going twice in two days.

“Yeah, yeah. I get that, just head over when you’re ready.”

“Alright, Sam, I’ll be there soon”

I get some nice clothes on, which are really just my work

clothes without my suit jacket. and I got going.

“Ev, it’s good to see you. This is Mark, he was kinda in the
middle of our class, but he beat me by miles when it comes to gra-
des.’

“Hey Mark” I know him; he and I took a couple classes to-
gether, even if my grades were much higher than his were. I wonder
how he’s doing.

69

“Well that stinks. Mark, Ev, it looks like I gotta go. You two
catch up and I’ll be back soon, I just need to sort something out at
home.”

“See you at work, boss.”
It is not just Mark and I, which is kind of odd; we never re-
ally spoke and he seemed pretty well off for whatever reason.
“Aren’t you the guy who ended up top of our class or so-
mething? How did you end up here?”
“Yeah, I was, and what do you mean by ‘here’.” I guess he’s
surprised I go to a bar or something, or maybe he expected me to
live somewhere else?
“I mean as an entry-level worker in an insurance firm. With
your smarts and grades I thought you’d be running the world by
now, but you don’t seem to be running much except for a pile of
paperwork.”
I wonder what he means? “Why wouldn’t I be here? Was I
supposed to end up somewhere else?”
“I mean yeah, judging by how smart you were I’m surprised
you haven’t gone anywhere in all these years”
“But why would I move, everything I need is right here, my
job and my house”
“That’s all you have? I figured you’d have a company and a
private island a year or two after you graduated. I had no clue you’d
end up being some guy buried behind a pile of papers, I figured
you’d get further in life than just pushing pencils.”
“It’s not like it’s easy to do my job perfectly, I have everything
done to the best of my ability, and I’m the best at what I do out there.
Nobody is better than me at what I do.”
“I can believe that. Well I hate to talk and leave, but I gotta
go back to work. As much as I’d like to move papers all day I have

70

a company to run, so I’ll see you around.”
What does he mean? Maybe he knows how hard my job is
and that’s why he moved past it. “See you around Mark.” In reality
I’ll probably never see him again, but he looks like he’s about to ask
me a question.
“Oh yeah, I meant to ask, what does your nickname mean?”
“Are you referring to “Ev”, that’s what everyone calls me”
“Why? What does it mean?”
“I don’t actually know, but Sam might.” Come to think of it
I never really thought about what that name meant.
“Ev is short for Everyone, or that’s what Sam told me at le-
ast.”
“Why that of all things? I figured he just wanted something
short so he didn’t waste time.” Everyone? That’s an odd thing to call
someone, maybe there’s some special meaning to it or it’s an inside
joke.
“He calls you that because you’re what everyone fears, so-
meone with a ton of potential who never makes a mark because they
are trapped in the weeds pursuing a perfection that doesn’t exist.
That’s why he calls you Ev.”
I am speechless, and as much as I want to disagree with it,
I’d be wrong if I did.
I’ll just keep working until one day I make my dream real.
Now, if I can only remember what that dream was.

71

72

AS BELOW, SO ABOVE

___________________

John Gaynor

The year was 2032 and I was an ambitious young man given the
opportunity to explore the newly discovered Sentinelese Trench un-
derneath the supervision of a Navy lieutenant. The vessel, Rieux,
was rather large, but we were limited to the claustrophobia-indu-
cing observation gondola. There we would work in 8-hour shifts,
during which we would monitor the pressure of the ballast tanks,
keep notes, eat our rations, and play solitaire. It was the second day
of the voyage and we were in the deepest part of the Trench approa-
ching the bottom, I awoke from my slumber, my head leaned against
the Rieux’s cold glass pane walls, separated from the even colder
nothingness of the ocean that lay dormant outside.

“Get up, Lieutenant,” I said lightly slapping his shoulder,
“you’re supposed to be on watch duty.” I received a baritone grum-
ble in response. “Have you even checked the pressure gauge once,”
I asked upset, “how long have you been asleep for?”

“None of your damn business,” he said angrily, letting out
a large huff beforehand so that his complete indifference would be
made clear to me as if it already wasn’t, “it was your shift anyway,
you said you’d work double.”

“Sir,” I said stopping for a moment to rephrase the words I
wanted to say in a more pleasant manner as to not repeat the pre-
vious day’s events, “as far as I am aware I never said such a thing,
but since no accident has happened I’ll take this shift if you would
let me do so.”

“Well, let me think about it,” he said pretending to consider

73

my offer as he raised his head from the orange cushions which ne-
arly matched the hues of the rotting teeth in his crooked smile. “You
know what? Be my guest.”

He submerged his head back into the cushions once again
and since we had not been on the best terms for the duration of the
trip I decided to leave him alone. I stared out the Rieux’s glass and
deep into the watery void projecting the events of the previous day
onto it from my memory as if it were a blank canvas.

“You shouldn’t be drinking on the ship,” I yelled at the Lieu-
tenant after I was unfortunate enough to catch a whiff of his breath,
“especially not on your shift. Are you trying to kill us? What if you
forgot to check the pressure? What if you crashed the ship? What if
you -”

‘Well … well did I?” He yelled like a cornered animal ready
to pounce, “Calm down, it’s not like we’ll find anything.”

“We’ll make tons of discoveries at the bottom, we’ll -”
“That’s being optimistic,” he said drunkenly cutting me off
again, even more furious this time, “This is a suicide mission. I’m an
old bastard and you’re an annoyingly ambitious youngster. We’ve
been assigned to this glorified war-time submarine by Judas’ and
Brutus’!”
“That’s wasn’t my point anyways you goddamn drunk,” I
muttered as he had begun to walk away. Suddenly he turned around,
his face flushed red from anger.
“Say that to my goddamn face next time,” he said grabbing
me by the lapel of my boiler suit.
He then fell into the same position he was in now. Though
I was tempted to bring up that I volunteered to be on this “glorified
wartime submarine”, I didn’t. I just stared at him looking for a word
to describe him. At that time I was at a loss, but as I pulled my

74

eyes away from my ocean canvas to look at him once again I could
feel them on the tip of my tongue. Pitiful, Horrendous, Oblivious,
Stupid; none of them could describe him. I remember thinking that
he was the kind of person you would have to experience to under-
stand; he was absurd. Staring at his middle-aged barrel-shaped body
again, I realized that this fit. Behind the tough cynical facade was
an educated and sensitive man. However, the facade would become
transparent when he would occasionally quote Shakespeare, the Bi-
ble, folklore, or history, but he would quickly revert to his oblique
guise, refusing to acknowledge what he had let slip. It wasn’t pitiful.
It wasn’t horrendous. It wasn’t oblivious. It wasn’t stupid. It was an
absurdity; an unexplainable absurdity.

I broke my gaze with his snoring body, which rose and fell
rapidly, as I looked to the pressure gauge, which stayed rather static
in comparison. Relieved we were still okay, I then looked back out
at my canvas and tried to distract myself from the Lieutenant’s thun-
derous snores. As I once again immersed myself into my canvas of
memories, I began to trade the marine colors of my ocean palette for
those of a long-ago white Christmas.

The house was located in Old Naples, Florida, and was drow-
ned in snow due to record low temperatures that year (unsurprisin-
gly they were broken the next year). The younger cousins were in
the front yard making snow angels and tossing snowballs. Inside my
father, brother, and I sat in the den watching the news. The blonde
newscaster that looked like all newscasters gave her commentary
about the war before conceding to a weatherman who talked about
the snow for the twentieth time that day. In the meantime, I was
stuck with my father who was interrogating me for the twentieth
time that day.

“Why don’t you help us beat China to colonizing Mars,” my

75

father drunkenly said in his native Florida accent, as the egg nog
stain on his salt and pepper mustache I had focused on to ignore the
conversation began to annoy me more than the topic of the conver-
sation, “that just seems more important to me than discovering some
more fish. I mean you know the saying.” He chuckled, but I sta-
yed dead silent. Upon seeing my static face and how uncomfortable
everyone else was his grin became a grimace. “There will always be
more fish in the sea?” he said trying to recover from his failed joke,
looking around the room to check if it had gone over everyone’s
head or just mine. “The reefs are all dead or dying ... and I - perso-
nally - just think it’s more important to save ourselves. There’s also
more grant money in space as well,” He stopped to stare at me, an-
gered with my lack of response, “but that’s beside the point. To each
their own … I guess.”

One by one family members either sided with my father or
tried to defend me out of pity like my mother. The only exception
was Kevin, who did so genuinely since he’s an archaeologist.

“Y’all stop annoying him this instant,” my mother shouted
from the kitchen in her native Florida accent, “y’all are gonna give
him a headache with all your whining and complaining.”

That put an end to the debate and we threw on Rudolph the
Rednosed Reindeer, but as my thoughts grew intrusive I gave it no
mind. I was angry I didn’t speak up for myself.

I was adopted into the prestigious Binnie family. My “fa-
ther” was one of the first commercial astronauts and my brother,
Brendan, was in training to do the same and had just gotten engaged.
I didn’t belong amongst them; I was the black sheep oceanographer.

As we made our collective way across the creaky wooden
floors to the dinner table it only intensified. I wasn’t the one to say
grace like I normally would being the youngest. I was even forced to

76

give up my seat of 22 years for Brendan’s fiance. However, my spe-
culations were confirmed when my father didn’t look into my eyes
as I said goodbye to him that night. Of course, my mother embraced
me with a warm hug, but that’s only because she was a mother. I
could commit murder and still get away with it in her eyes if I wan-
ted to. I was the son to be pitied in their eyes, whether they would
openly indulge in doing so or not.

With that thought, I became determined to return the pro-
digal son. I snapped back to the reality of the Rieux’s glass walls
and the drunken cynic passed out across the table from me. I would
return with my name in every scientific journal that my father would
read before his breakfast and appear on every morning talk show
my mother would watch before her own. However, to get my name
in those journals I had to put in the legwork. I began preparing the
vessel for our final descent and woke up the grumbling Lieutenant
despite his familiar barrage of complaints and curses.

Once the vessel was prepared for its final descent and the
Lieutenant was half awake and somewhat sober we began the last
stretch of our journey. The final descent was going to take an hour
or longer because we would have to constantly check the vessel’s
pressure to make sure the ballast tanks were in check. Initially, there
was silence between us but as we grew closer to our destination the
Lieutenant grew bored and decided to pick at my brain once again.

“There’s going be nothing down there you know,” the Lieu-
tenant said with a disapproving sigh that hid a smile.

“You don’t have to be so cynical all the time,” I retorted, ke-
eping my eye where the ocean floor would soon appear, “we’ll find
something down there.”

“If it’s not the lost city of Atlantis with monsters to slay and
a siren princess for me to wed,” he said without an ounce of consi-

77

deration for who he was talking to, “then quite frankly I don’t care.”
Astounded by the boorish man’s remarks, I turned to him,

and using all my remaining mental fortitude to be polite asked,
“Aren’t you at all interested in how anything could possibly survive
this deep? If it goes through photosynthesis? Anything, anything at
all?”

Suddenly a smug look appeared on his face as the ocean flo-
or appeared beneath us. “Well if there’s anything down there we’re
‘bout to find out.”

We scoured the bottom for any sign of life for what felt like
an eternity. But to my distraught and what seemed to be the Lieu-
tenant’s comfort, it was desolate. Empty. There was not a singular
sign of life in sight. I made us search the perimeter two times over
despite the Lieutenant’s mumbling and for the next two shifts, not a
singular word said between us.

Eventually, on the third shift, the Lieutenant spoke up despi-
te the crude look I shot him at first. “Y’know I’m genuinely sorry.
I’m not the type to say I told you so despite what you think,” he
began, “I’m just a jaded old man, not an asshole.”

“Well, at least you admit it,” I stated with a straight face to
which he laughed. However, his laugh quickly ceased and his smile
fell to a frown at the realization I wasn’t complimenting his trade-
mark vulnerability.

“I was like you a long time ago,” he said leaning in with a
grave expression, “put your hubris out the way and take this loss in
stride. It’s not the first and it won’t be the -”

“Okay,” I interrupted flatly turning into the glass, resting my
head against my reflection in the glass, and staring at it until the so-
othing movement of the water put me to rest. The lieutenant seemed
as if he was going to say something but he had choked on his words.

78

With that, I fell into an entrancing slumber.

******************

I recall having a brief but odd nightmare while I was slee-
ping. I woke up from a pleasant dream I can no longer recall to a
sinking feeling in my stomach. I couldn’t tell what it was at first,
but suddenly I realized the Rieux was drastically different. It was
completely dark, except for the exterior headlights that reflected off
the Trench. The once orange pillows were now a deep mahogany as
if they were completely stained with cheap wine. When I stood up I
could feel the Rieux catapulting downwards like an elevator in free
fall. I looked to the pressure gauge which was now above the Lieu-
tenant, who appeared to be sleeping. I ran as quick as I could consi-
dering that the g-forces had practically nailed my feet to the ground.
I tapped his shoulder and slapped him to no response whatsoever.

Eventually, I was able to flip him over and to my horror in
his stomach was a hole from which his entrails dangled. “Oh my
god,” I frantically said in horror pushing myself away, my white
boiler suit having been turned crimson, “oh my god … how did this
… how could this -”

Squawk, Squawk, I heard from the other side of the claustro-
phobia-inducing, blood-stained, gondola. My eyes scurried around
the room to locate the insidious creature that had created the blood-
curdling scene, until they settled upon a seagull perched atop the
pressure gauge. The seagull had red fiery eyes, a sharp beak, and
feathers covered in the lieutenant’s blood. Even more unusual, ho-
wever, was it’s gargantuan size.

As I rushed to ring the devilish bird by its neck, it put its
weight onto the attached lever allowing the air to escape from the

79

ballast tanks and sending us into an even faster freefall. I closed my
eyes as we crashed into the ocean floor. When I opened them, I was
pinned to the ocean floor by the unconquerable weight of the frag-
mented Rieux, which was in competition with the water pressure that
had burst my eardrums and caused me to keep losing consciousness.
The seagull swam in circles impatiently above, waiting to impale me
like he had the Lieutenant. When I summoned the strength to look to
my left before losing consciousness for what could’ve been the third
time I saw a school of Dolfus’ Stargazers biting at the limbs of the
Lieutenant’s corpse.

When I opened my eyes I saw that the hellish bird had began
its dive for me. I was nearly unconscious again before I was quickly
snapped back to consciousness by a familiar voice.

“I’m sorry honey,” said the voice, “but you’re next.”
I began looking around frantically, digging deep within and
summoning all my strength to do so.
“You were always the black sheep,” said something else in a
voice similar to my brother’s.
Suddenly I looked to my left. It was the stargazers.
“Even I’m better than you,” snarked the smallest fish with a
lopsided fin, in what seemed to be Kevin’s distinctive nasally tone.
Then suddenly the biggest fish of the school turned to me and
spoke in a booming voice I couldn’t refuse to acknowledge or sum
up to coincidence. “You were supposed to make us proud,” said the
fish in my father’s unmistakable voice. The words bounced off the
walls of the trench, reverberating endlessly, cutting deeper than the
mid-death-spiral seagull ever could. As the shouting from the star-
gazers grew louder and the seagull closer, I closed my eyes and felt
a sharp punch in my gut.

******************

80

I awoke in cold sweats, the Lieutenant looming over me with
a pale look on his face. Despite my immediate joy at the realization
of the nightmare being simply a nightmare, I put on a facade to spare
him the satisfaction of seeing the true extent of my terror.

Despite this, he still turned tomato red with laughter at my
expense. “You were screaming that you were next!”

“Drink this here,” he said with what seemed to be a genuine
smile, “it’s the best medicine.”

Still shocked, I grabbed the flask quickly despite knowing
better and took a few swigs, crunching my face up as I became reac-
quainted with the burning sensation that raced down my esophagus.
I then told him about my dream.

The lieutenant let a small snicker escape him. “I don’t know
what’s funnier,” he said as I slid the flask back across the table, “that
I had to punch you to get you up or how ridiculous your dream was.”

“It’s not that ridiculous,” I said in protest while holding back
a cough.

“Yes it is,” he said. “A seagull underwater picking at my
guts? I couldn’t even come up with that!” He suddenly paused,
lifting up the flask as if it was an elixir of youth and speaking with
an English accent, “I drink to the general joy of the whole table.”

“And so do I?” I concurred, confusedly, attempting to meet
the Lieutenant’s enthusiasm but falling short.

“It’s Shakespeare,” he said, acting disappointed, putting his
head down, “Macbeth to be specific.”

“I never heard that quote,” I said quizzically, “and I love
Macbeth, so how the hell do you know it.”

After a look of stoic reflection, he took me by surprise by
suddenly jumping into the stance of a lookout on a lost ship pointing
to land with joy, “I was once a thespian! An actor!”

81

“It appears you still are,” I said with a shocked chuckle, “that
was … quite the performance.”

He let out a chuckle before sitting down again. “I remember
every bit of it all. Every line. The flashing of the lights. The antici-
pated chattering of the crowd before the show began and clapping of
the crowd as the curtain fell”

“Then why’d you stop,” I asked him.
“Well, I didn’t for a long time,” he began after a thoughtful
pause, “I was married for a while and I kept telling my wife that this
will be my big break, but every toothbrush ad extra part, or dead
body number four role on a washed-up crime drama feels that way.”
“So you stopped because your wife told you to.”
“Nope,” he laughed with a hint of bitter hindsight, “I kept
going. Even as we had kids I kept going. Until one day money got
tight and she gave me her … ultimatum.” His face lost its out-of-
place smile and his voice lost its reminiscent warmth as he returned
to the reality of the Rieux. “She said that I would have to have an
actual big break or give it up, so when I booked a pilot for a promi-
sing show I was beyond happy …” I laughed, giving him drunken
salutations until I realized the dread that had overcome him. Giving
my idiotic comments no time to sink in, he continued, saying, “But
the network canceled it.”
“Oh,” I said.
“ I had another offer though, Sullivan Street -”
“Sullivan Street!” I yelled excitedly.
He shot me a steady look that yelled shut up. So I did.
“But I made a one-time deal and a deal is a deal. Plus I had
wasted enough time chasing a dream.”
There was a period of silence between us.
“So I called my good ol’ father in law and he got me a job

82

in the Navy before the War broke out.” He took a stop to take a dra-
matized chug from the flask before passing it back to me. “Wife left
and took the kids because I changed like it wasn’t her fault,” he said
mockingly, “blah, blah, blah, and fast forward a few years … and
… here I am.”

“Sorry for speaking too soon there,” I said.
“Well it’s your turn to share,” he said with his hands cupped
like he was waiting to receive the eucharist, the stain of discontent
still visible on his face, “the alcohol and your story.”
Though I was considering cutting him off, I obliged him in
both aspects of the request anyways; the damage had been done.
“I don’t know,” I began, as I reclined into the orange pillows as I
handed him the flask, “I had a normal childhood, adopted parents
though, they were kind people though. Put me through college.”
“Where’d you go to?”
“Georgetown, biology” I said, “Cum laude.”
“Well done.”
“My father thinks otherwise.”
The lieutenant sat up handing me the bottle which I grabbed
by my fingertips from his cold, calloused hand.
“Why’s that,” he asked.
“The planet is dying,” I yelled doing an impression of my fa-
ther, “There’s too many fish in the sea … he was also an astronaut.”
“Well you’re not much of an actor,” he said pausing, “so he’s
one of the let’s up and move to mars types then, huh?”
“Precisely,” I said as I took a swig.
“Fathers, Step-fathers, Adoptive fathers can be like that,” he
continued, “They just want you to be secure, make sure you got a
future. Especially Fathers-in-law. My wife was always pretty sup-
portive, he just wanted her to have a white picket fence future. If

83

anything I could have worked harder.”
“Were you like that?” I asked him.
“No, I wasn’t anything.”
“He’s probably right though,” I said after detecting the

awkward silence, “I mean here I am with you after finding out my
life’s work meant nothing …. it’s unimportant.” I laughed bitterly
and resumed my impression, “There will always be another fish in
the sea.”

“It’s only worth nothing to you cause you keep trying to pro-
ve yourself to people.”

“No, I’m not.” I protested.
“Yes, you are you’re an orphan,” he said laughing, “You’re
trying to prove yourself to everyone ”
“Especially your dad,” he paused, “What about your biolo-
gical Dad?”
“Killed himself in prison,”
“I never knew him it’s fine,” I continued detecting the
awkward silence once again.
“No, it’s my fault I shouldn’t have asked.”
He paused for a long time, “Look who cares if it’s pointless.
Just follow your gut and don’t punish yourself for their approval,
just prove yourself to yourself.”
Though there had been brief moments of silence before us
prior this was the loudest and longest. The silence roared through
the vessel so loud it had escaped and reverberated throughout the
trench which surrounded us.
“So are you gonna finish this, or am I gonna have to,” he said
shaking the near-empty flask, dulling the silence.
I sat up and smiled at him, “All your’s lieutenant.”

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******************

From what I remember we dropped the philosophy and spent
the rest of that last shift acting like fools. I remember for a while we
were dancing and singing Piano Man, roaring, “Yeah we’re drin-
king a drink called loneliness but it’s better than drinking alone.” I
remember the Lieutenant playfully punching me when I called him
Davy. I remember when we broke through the vicious waves, we
were greeted by a storm over the Sentinelese Island’s casino-cluste-
red skyline as we made our way to base. I remember stepping onto
the dock and despite the heavy rain that beat against my white uni-
form, despite the somber tone of everyone at base who were hoping
for us to bring back anything at all, I was happy. Happy. Happy?

No, that word didn’t begin to describe how I felt. I felt relie-
ved. No, I felt free. No. I still can’t describe the feeling. The closest
I can get to describing it is that it was simply absurd. It is simply
absurd.

Years later I would make trips once and a while to visit the
Lieutenant, when he lived in a tattered old house outside of Galway,
Ireland. When I sat with him watching whatever game of cricket or
rugby he was drunkenly watching, I would have the same absurd
feeling in my gut. When we went on walks through the town I felt
the same absurd feeling in my gut, but I had summed it up to be a
result of the thin air. The year before I got married he had died of
Cirriohsis and I felt the same absurd feeling in my gut as the gravity
of it hit me and I broke down into tears. When I got married I felt it
in my gut. When I had my first boy, David, I felt the absurd feeling
kicking and tossing wildly around my gut like never before.

Even now, as I walk down the hill from my beach house out
into the water to calculate the rising ocean levels, I feel it. As I go up

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and down, up and down, up and down, up and down the beach, that
is more of a hill, lugging the tool I use to calculate the levels, I feel
it. I feel it leading me up and down the beach and everything feels
like it is as it should be. Although, I barely receive any grants for my
work as many deem it unimportant I go up and down. It very well
may be pointless, unimportant, and absurd but everything feels as it
should be in all its absurdity and pointlessness, so I smile as I go up
and down the sand adorned hill.

In the summer I wear my smile as I cut through clusters
of rainbow umbrellas and beach chairs, narrowly avoiding children
seeking to avenge their fallen sandcastles. I watch Davy collect
rocks that he likes to decorate his room as I submerge myself knee-
deep in the water wearing my khakis and oxford shirt. Surfers and
swimmers side-eye my tool and whisper amongst themselves, spe-
culating as to what it is as if they had seen a small shark but weren’t
sure. Their looks quickly turn to disregard when they see my smile,
and they return to splashing around wildly.

I imagine that in the brief moment between the spiteful lo-
oks and the return to splashing they imagine me happy. Even if they
don’t, I don’t care. I am happy.

I am happy as the sun burns the back of my neck when I
bend over to free my tool from the tide.

I am happy as I return to the shore to collect Davy and his
rocks to make the journey back up the hill.

I am happy as Davy and I laugh when I occasionally drop
a rock on my foot, bruised from the previous time I dropped a rock
and the one before that.

I am happy as the two of us lug the cargo of rocks up and
down, up and down, up and down the hill, as we laugh and smile
because everything feels as it should in all of its absurdity.

86

87

88

HOW TO BE A RUNNER

___________________

Colin O’Shea

You stand in the middle of the road. It stretches forward endless, as
if daring you to try and find the horizon. The air is so heavy with
heat that you can feel it pushing you into the ground. It coils around
your skull, squeezing out rivers of sweat and making every humid
breath feel strained. Your mouth is already dry. To make matters
worse, you have no idea what you’re doing as you step up to the
starting line.
Dressed in a cotton t-shirt, basketball shorts, and shoes that
should’ve been thrown out years ago, you look drastically unpre-
pared compared to the other, adult runners beside you. There’s two
holes in the black New Balance sneakers, one on the side and one on
the big toe, and your white socks are quite clearly poking out. You
stare at them for a bit, wiggle your toes, it takes your mind off the
heat. Maybe you should get new ones.
“Get Set!”
Your head snaps up, where did the voice come from? Everyo-
ne else on the line leans forward, pushing their weight into the right
place for take-off, so you do the same. You take a one final breath in,
trying to calm the excitement that is coursing through you. A buzzer
goes off, and the race to the horizon begins.
You burst out, full of confidence and unbridled eagerness, but
your body doesn’t seem to want to join you. The other runners pull
away as the air is ripped away from your lungs, your legs seem to be
on fire, and the sweat burns your eyes. 30 minutes later, you stumble
through the line, sweat-soaked and a little shaky, with nothing but

89

the widest of smiles on your face. Congratulations, you’ve run your
first 5K road race.

Later, you’ll get to see the time you ran, 29 minutes and 46
seconds. You wonder if you couldn’t have run just a little bit faster.

Around seven years later, you stand in the middle of a field.
There’s a clear path ahead of you, snaking into the backwoods of
Van Cortlandt Park. And it’s cold, you would consider yourself lu-
cky if it was over 25 degrees. The bitter wind rolls off the field,
washing over you, permeating down to bone. It tingles. You can feel
the hairs on your arm bristle, but not much more.

You stand near the line again, now with countless miles on
your legs. Race after race has been run, lessons have been learned.
You’re better now, you’re competitive. Now the runners beside you
aren’t as foreign, you wear the same colors and share the same go-
als. The ruined New Balance sneakers are now Nike Cross-Country
spikes, the basketball shorts are now running shorts, and that cotton
t-shirt is now a sky-blue singlet. You see the man with the starting
gun, watch him carefully as he steps up. You take a quick breath,
you remember your plan for the race.

It’s colder now, the wind has picked up. You think that it
would be warmer if the sun was out, but the gray clouds will do.
Final words of encouragement are exchanged, and as the man raises
his arm into the air, everyone steps forward onto the line. The star-
ting gun echoes through the park.

You lurch forward, and go through a mental checklist as you
approach the path to the woods ahead. Stay calm, easy to the bridge,
work the uphills and steamroll the downhills. Soon, the sounds of
cheering spectators fade away, replaced by ragged breathing and the
sound of your own thoughts.

You cross the line unsatisfactorily late, grimacing as you see

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the time on the clock. You try to shake it off, listen to the encoura-
gement from teammates and coaches, but the nasty feeling in your
chest won’t go away. Something’s wrong. You’ve missed something.

Work backwards, retrace your steps. Was there something
wrong with your nutrition? The training? What about cross-training?
Do you need different shoes?

You’re still dissecting the race days later, on a light run with
the team. The gravel of Central Park shifts under your feet as you
try to grab the leaves falling from the trees, competing to see who
can grab the most. You snatch an acorn off the ground to hurl at a
teammate, but fail to notice the one that has just been thrown at the
back of your head. Cheers erupt, and the run luckily finishes with
no injuries to report back to the coaches waiting at the end. The day
after is a workout. Legs stride forward in a powerful rhythm, hitting
the right splits and completing reps. You finish the run exhausted,
seeking refuge as you kneel down onto the turf field enclosed in the
track. The warm down run is filled with talk of a million different
things. Records that had recently been broken, whether water is ac-
tually wet, and how nobody wanted to go to school the next day.

It comes to you slowly, a lesson agonizingly relearned. It’s
not nutrition, or the shoes. It wasn’t an issue of working hard enou-
gh, or finding that magical edge that was going to push you just
a second faster. Anything and everything you needed had already
been obtained, you just needed to remember.

Another race comes. You watch the starting gun rise, and for
a fraction of a second, your mind can’t help but wander. It wanders
to overnight trips and bowling outings, to Christmas parties on 3L,
and a 5K on a hot summer day. But now the gun is off, and you burst
off the line, feeling a familiar excitement creeping up.

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92

HOW TO WRITE A HOW-TO GUIDE

___________________

Matt Schmelzer

Receive the assignment, the principle, and the deadline.
Mull it over a bit, considering the possibilities but ultimately avoid
starting it until about a week later, at which point you get an incredi-
bly sophomoric idea to make it a self-serving metacommentary with
no real purpose.
Decide to scrap that idea.
Spend some time with a hypothetical romantic partner. Lying there
with this person, you wonder how you can be so close to someone
while still feeling so distant. Try to write a guide on relationships.
Figure you’re in a glass house.
Decide to scrap that one as well.
Alter your state of mind.
Don’t get anything done and wait til tomorrow. Fail to get anything
done that day. Damn.
Start late, play it real fast and loose with the linguistics, the pacing,

the spacing. Absentmindedly wonder if your teacher will harangue
you for “writing more prose-like writing in a college level poetry
class!” Vaguely recall someone saying something about a patch of
dirt in a state forest that causes a deep sense of unease in all who
stand on it for too long, a distinct instinctual impression that a fate
worse than death approaches. The feeling instantly abates when one
steps off of it and carries on with their day.
(The student of this guide says to me, the author, “the hell was that
about?”

93

“Iunno,” I say, “Figure it out yourself.”)

Pick up the guide once more. Mull it over, put your chin in your han-
ds, chew on the pen cap, have an internal debate on whether or not
you should just pick up the loose-leaf you’re writing on and shred it
into pieces - if you were to record it, perhaps it could be reclassified
as a piece of performance art and you wouldn’t need to worry about
your English grade because you’d have a Nobel in your lap.
Scrap the idea of tearing it to scraps, pleasantly note the mildly inte-
resting wordplay you’ve accidentally invoked.

Continue to scramble for an idea, some sort of lynchpin concept that
can align all the different things running through your head, if only
for an ephemeral moment, in order to slow things down - the mental
image is that of Wile-E-Coyote finally grabbing the RoadRunner
by the nape of the neck, one arrow spearing [two/three/FIFTEEN
MILLION] doves in its flight like a split-second kebab; A successful
catch, an inherent cosmological impossibility. Try to elucidate your
personal life philosophy in one or two sentences and fail misera-
bly at that. Recognize that, on some level, your personal principles
are tied to instability and inconsistency. Mull over that one, slightly
worried, then ultimately scrap it. Trying to get any semblance of
meaningful explanation out of that would mean requiring the reader
to slog through a bunch of unfiltered stream-of-consciousness intro-
spection, and that would be dreadful! Creative suicide, even.
[The author turns to look at the audience. A canned laugh track in-
vades your mind.]

Reflect another day, as the deadline recedes even further into the
past, the gestalt of forgotten things. Somewhere in conceptual space,

94

the assignment is gently nestled in a pile of amnestic detritus along
with a couple pieces of loose change dropped on the Pompeii soil in
a family’s flight from Vesuvius or one of the many pen-caps Richard
Feynman lost at some point in his career. Find it. At least try to find
it.
Follow its trail. Grab another sheet of looseleaf.
Name, date, heading.
Sit there for 30 minutes with the pen held in a death grip.
Put on some music.
The death grip on the pen relaxes.
Empty your mind. Think of nothing. Don’t try to summon a topic.
Are you in that space?
Write now. Don’t think, idiot. Write. Write.
Simply begin moving your pen (WRITE) in a manner almost exactly
like muscle (WRITE) memory, generate (WRITE) penstrokes, let-
ters, words, sente(WRITE)nces, paragraphs, all without registering
a(WRITE) single conscious active (WRITE)thought.
STOP.
Marvel at the way the previously blank white page is newly overta-
ken by these scribbles, by the marks carved into it by the Bic, their
non-erasable nature serving as some facsimile of eternity - it’s not
carved into stone but this is the next best thing. You think.

There you have it. You reached the page count, you had correct
grammar, it’s fine.

Note that it doesn’t quite have the pizzazz you wanted it to.
Scrap it.
Miss the assignment.
Rejoice.

95

96

THE TREE

___________________

Reid Donovan

The sounds of raindrops cascading downwards from one leaf to ano-
ther echoed throughout the forest. From the highest branches to the
ones below, drops of water spun and danced through the air like
ballerinas until eventually pattering on the ground. The rain sunk
into the soft earth and was absorbed into the old tree’s roots. The
wind sang a soft song of zephyr and rattled his leaves. They shook
gently as drops of water were flung to the ground. This didn’t disturb
the old tree, the water weighed too heavily on his leaves anyways.
The rain continued for around fifteen minutes. A period of tranquili-
ty for the tree. A time to truly listen to the sounds and movements of
nature. Be it the pools of water slowly filling up, to the animals run-
ning frantically seeking shelter from the wetness. The old tree
always enjoyed just witnessing life as nature planned it, and if you
know anything about nature’s plans then you know they’re often
arbitrary. Sometimes he provided shelter for some of the more
helpless critters. Right now he had a family of birds cuddled toge-
ther underneath his sheets of green. They had begged him for shelter
and he had complied. All creatures of life should be able to listen to
the rain in safety, bear witness to nature’s symphony underneath the
shelter. He could tell the rain had concluded when he stopped fee-
ling the soft droplets of water against his roots. That was a shame,
he enjoyed a nice rain. The water rejuvenated him, but in life
everything exists on the plane of constant change. All that could be
done is to move on with the changes. Lost in thought the tree barely

97

noticed the birds who had taken shelter underneath his wide leaves
began to open their eyes and peep. The old tree felt their little feet
running up and down his branches. They thanked him for shelter and
then flew off. The tree felt their tiny feet push off his bark, as well as
the flutter of their wings. “Ah, the freedom of motion,” he thought
to himself. It had been many centuries since his soul last walked the
earth. When it could his soul had journeyed near and far. Navigating
the world and exploring every crevice. So many lives. So many re-
births. He remembered walking in the dress shoes of a churchgoer,
not even believing in reincarnation. This world is a funny place. In
most lifetimes you forget yourself. In most. Never when he was re-
born as flora. Perhaps it was the hours upon years of silent thought
and meditation. He could think back and bring forth all of his lives.
He remembered slashing and hunting through the Alaskan tundras
as a wolf. What a life that was. He was an unstoppable force of ma-
ternity and violence, birthing many pups and slaughtering much
prey. He pondered on how that sentence would sound in a human
mind. “He” was a force of maternity. Gender all blurs together after
countless lives and countless switches. Suddenly, scratching at the
base of his trunk shook him from his deep thought. This is how he
spent most days, sunken in a profound rhythm of thought and con-
templation. Little paws crawled up his trunk and rested at one of his
lower branches. The tree felt small rapid breaths against his bark as
if someone had just done serious exercise. “Hello?” The tree called
out. No response. “Who are you?” The tree questioned again. “Oh,
so you’re the chatty type aye?” A high-pitched voice answered. The
tree paused. He contemplated his thought before saying “I’ve been
known to enjoy a good conversation…” This time the high-pitched
voice didn’t respond. The tree tried to make out what the critter
could be, it was fast and had a fluffy tail that would from time to

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