Fiction
Dear John
Name: Yanna Nicolaides
Grade: 10th
Dear John,
I’m leaving you.
When you first bought me, you loved me dearly. You were the kind of guy that made sure nothing could hurt me or stain me. When I accidentally made your lasagna explode, you forgave me, and wiped me clean of my sin. Every science experiment and every frozen burrito on lonely Friday nights brought us closer and closer together. I even helped you appear like you could actually cook each time you brought your “other woman” over for dinner. I knew that even when you attempted to use Stove, you would always come back to me.
But, ever since you let Jane move in, I feel so alone. You were so excited when she taught you how to use Stove, and now, the only thing I'm used for is to warm up Jane's herb pillow she uses to relax her neck. I heard her talking about me to her friends about how I cause cancer. She never wanted me here anyway, so I made the job easy for her. I posted an ad on Craigslist, and I found a new home and a new bachelor. I won’t tell you where, because I don’t want you to find me. But, he’s younger and has a stable job, unlike you, forty and making your girlfriend pay for dinner because you refuse to get off your ass and get a job.
Try to forget me; I already forgot you.
With most sincere bitterness,
Microwave
I’m leaving you.
When you first bought me, you loved me dearly. You were the kind of guy that made sure nothing could hurt me or stain me. When I accidentally made your lasagna explode, you forgave me, and wiped me clean of my sin. Every science experiment and every frozen burrito on lonely Friday nights brought us closer and closer together. I even helped you appear like you could actually cook each time you brought your “other woman” over for dinner. I knew that even when you attempted to use Stove, you would always come back to me.
But, ever since you let Jane move in, I feel so alone. You were so excited when she taught you how to use Stove, and now, the only thing I'm used for is to warm up Jane's herb pillow she uses to relax her neck. I heard her talking about me to her friends about how I cause cancer. She never wanted me here anyway, so I made the job easy for her. I posted an ad on Craigslist, and I found a new home and a new bachelor. I won’t tell you where, because I don’t want you to find me. But, he’s younger and has a stable job, unlike you, forty and making your girlfriend pay for dinner because you refuse to get off your ass and get a job.
Try to forget me; I already forgot you.
With most sincere bitterness,
Microwave
Riding the Underground
Name: Callaway Sprinkle
Grade: 12th
The doors open. A crowd of people enter the carriage, some in a hurry, dashing from one place to the next, while some stroll in, acting as if they’ve not a care in the world. Some you notice more than others: perhaps it’s the way they walk, or the little tilt of their head that makes them look always curious, or their plaid blouse that so perfectly clashes with their pinstriped skirt. The doors close again, this little mechanical swish that marks the start of another step in the journey.
“This is a District Line train to Upminster.” The bright, canned tones of the PA, reminding me where I’d go if I just sat here and let the carriage take me on down the line. I pull my paper up a bit closer, studying the news I read over this morning on the way into town. Somebody takes the seat to my left; I shift a bit to accommodate them and stare tiredly at the stale lines of text. It’s not that I wish to appear hostile, really, but I can’t seem to find the energy to gaze around the interior, and it’s that more than the weather that convinces me to wear my overcoat day in and day out. I’m here to go from point A to point B, nothing more, and pulling the brim on my hat downwards a bit, I try my best to make this clear.
Every time I board, I’m told to ‘mind the gap’— not that I notice anymore, but they still tell me as if I need reminding. For a while, I didn’t, and in the end it wasn’t the recording that made me remember just how wide the distance between carriage and platform can be.
Val and I rode the Tube home together most every day. At first I didn’t make much of it. But you know how these things go: people talk, they become interested, and suddenly you’re left with a friendship. I guess I looked a bit mental, strolling in amidst the press with her hand on my arm, but this sort of foible tended to define our relationship. I guess you could call me a romantic at heart, in the vein of Byron and the rest of them. She laughed at me once when I said that, telling me she’d hate to see me head off to Greece and die. My flair for the dramatic tends to be a bit more restrained, if I do say so myself. A fair number of interesting things happen if you’re willing to ignore public opinion for a bit, if only so that you can board a train with a girl on your arm.
The doors open. Every once in a while, somebody comes along that makes you look up, maybe even risk a smile. On rare occasions, you offer up the seat you garnered by leaving work two minutes early on account of nothing more than a smile offered in return. Valerie Cassell ended up in my seat because she told me “good evening”, on the coldest, wettest day of November. I couldn’t help but chuckle at that, the idea was so unexpected. By the time the doors closed again, I had even replied to her pleasantry with suitable sarcasm. “Depends on how you define “good”, of course.”
The girl is always right. The farther you ride, the more obvious it becomes. Lesson from that day: the weather does not the evening make. There’s even a chance that calling it “good” was an understatement on her part, given what followed. As I recall, I even turned down my collar, feeling almost self-conscious about my motley attire. To this day, the fact that I tipped my hat to her as she exited at Bow Road bemuses me, since the unfamiliar gesture seemed to be second nature at the time.
The next time, it was hardly accidental. If fortune favours the bold, she must have made a mistake, since I approached this girl with little save timidity over the next month. But you’d be surprised at how few people tip their hats— and how many say “good evening”, for that matter. The day I didn’t pick up a paper so I could have a conversation proved to be the day I decided I cared.
Turned out Val worked two blocks west of me, and at that point you could start to call our meetings regular. Leaving three minutes early tended to give me the opportunity to grab one of a pair of empty seats. An obvious tactic, of course, but nevertheless successful. Because she sat rather than standing, she obviously wasn’t bothered by my near-daily “good evening” or me.
“The next station is Cannon Street.” Scrolling orange lights on a ticker, flashing across your vision for a few seconds before disappearing. You’re given an option, a stop, and whether you take it or not is entirely up to you. An invitation to go have coffee at the National Gallery seemed like a stop worth taking— Charing Cross usually is, if only to wander about Trafalgar Square and breathe fresh air for a few minutes. Having never been much of an art man myself, I alternated between expressing genuine interest in certain of the paintings on display and flat disinterest in most. I didn’t think much of Rembrandt, if my memory serves me right, but Val loved his pieces. Of course, the girl is always right. The third time we had coffee, I had decided I liked the Dutch artist after all, and incidentally the girl as well.
We both wore glasses. Mine were chunky, rotten-looking things and provided a bit of a contrast to her delicate horn-rimmed gaze. Laughing, she once told me I looked like someone twice my age, and the spectacles responsible underwent a bit of a change within the week. Her features sharpened after that, but for whatever reason I doubt the lens had anything to do with it.
The doors open. You can see virtually any kind of person there is in the world if you sit in a carriage long enough. Everyone in London rides the Tube somewhere at some point, and of course London is made of someone from everywhere. You can hear ten different languages in a day if you have the ears to listen. Unfortunately for me, I only speak one. And through the closing doors, one can see an equal amount of people outside, people who are merely waiting to take the next train.
Patience is a virtue. After a month, I asked Val to dinner at my favourite Thai restaurant, and she accepted, to my surprise. It felt like I was having a meal that night as opposed to just more food, seeing as I wasn’t eating alone for the first time in years. Conversation is easier when the other party isn’t a wall or mirror, and speaking about even mundane topics raised my spirits ever more quickly. Four hours later, I footed the bill in an effort to shed a few pounds before walking with Val to the station.
I like to think further dinners together might have turned the first one into an actual date. At the same time, who knows? Perhaps the words would have fallen deader from my lips as I but repeated previous statements. In the end, I’m not so sure it matters: another voice lost in the polyglot atmosphere of a restaurant is little different from trying to shout on the Tube. Neither yields aught but glares or quizzical looks. But in the interest of positive thoughts and with the rose-tinted glasses of hindsight, it seems only fair to imagine she would have accepted the second time as well.
Val told me the news on the Tube. She’d been transferred to Edinburgh by her company, and would be leaving in two days. Not to be forwards, I never asked for her address, or I’d have helped with the move, for all the good it would have done. ‘At least it had nothing to do with me,’ I always remind myself, and it provides some comfort. It seems a cruel jest though, to strip me of that opportunity, the first and last of its sort. Everyone’s unique, yes, but some people are so beautifully and perfectly unique that they have the kindness of spirit to befriend you.
Late at night, the doors open. A few people may enter, but for the most part you sit by yourself, collar pulled up and hat low on your forehead. You glance at the previous day’s headlines, smudged by the hands of a few dozen passengers. People leave, and you hardly notice. Every once in a while, somebody comes along that acts differently, walks differently, and catches your attention and your dreams. Most of the time they walk out with the rest. But sometimes, every once in a while, they tell you “good evening” as the doors close.
Edinburgh is rather a long way from London, and though the fare is within my means, the transit time is more than I can afford. Chasing the past is like trying to run after a train: you may think yourself fast, but run as you might, the carriage continues to recede at a hundred miles an hour. But the Tube runs on a loop, and there’s always another train to follow the one you missed, even if it means a bit of a wait in the cold. They call out Upton Park as the next stop, and I prepare to exit. Leaving my paper for anyone else that wants it, I stalk over to the doors and wait. I glance briefly about the carriage, seeing the usual variety of faces, and smile in spite of myself. After all, everyone in London rides the Tube somewhere at some point, so the only trick is finding the right somebody— even if it does mean riding everywhere.
“This is a District Line train to Upminster.” The bright, canned tones of the PA, reminding me where I’d go if I just sat here and let the carriage take me on down the line. I pull my paper up a bit closer, studying the news I read over this morning on the way into town. Somebody takes the seat to my left; I shift a bit to accommodate them and stare tiredly at the stale lines of text. It’s not that I wish to appear hostile, really, but I can’t seem to find the energy to gaze around the interior, and it’s that more than the weather that convinces me to wear my overcoat day in and day out. I’m here to go from point A to point B, nothing more, and pulling the brim on my hat downwards a bit, I try my best to make this clear.
Every time I board, I’m told to ‘mind the gap’— not that I notice anymore, but they still tell me as if I need reminding. For a while, I didn’t, and in the end it wasn’t the recording that made me remember just how wide the distance between carriage and platform can be.
Val and I rode the Tube home together most every day. At first I didn’t make much of it. But you know how these things go: people talk, they become interested, and suddenly you’re left with a friendship. I guess I looked a bit mental, strolling in amidst the press with her hand on my arm, but this sort of foible tended to define our relationship. I guess you could call me a romantic at heart, in the vein of Byron and the rest of them. She laughed at me once when I said that, telling me she’d hate to see me head off to Greece and die. My flair for the dramatic tends to be a bit more restrained, if I do say so myself. A fair number of interesting things happen if you’re willing to ignore public opinion for a bit, if only so that you can board a train with a girl on your arm.
The doors open. Every once in a while, somebody comes along that makes you look up, maybe even risk a smile. On rare occasions, you offer up the seat you garnered by leaving work two minutes early on account of nothing more than a smile offered in return. Valerie Cassell ended up in my seat because she told me “good evening”, on the coldest, wettest day of November. I couldn’t help but chuckle at that, the idea was so unexpected. By the time the doors closed again, I had even replied to her pleasantry with suitable sarcasm. “Depends on how you define “good”, of course.”
The girl is always right. The farther you ride, the more obvious it becomes. Lesson from that day: the weather does not the evening make. There’s even a chance that calling it “good” was an understatement on her part, given what followed. As I recall, I even turned down my collar, feeling almost self-conscious about my motley attire. To this day, the fact that I tipped my hat to her as she exited at Bow Road bemuses me, since the unfamiliar gesture seemed to be second nature at the time.
The next time, it was hardly accidental. If fortune favours the bold, she must have made a mistake, since I approached this girl with little save timidity over the next month. But you’d be surprised at how few people tip their hats— and how many say “good evening”, for that matter. The day I didn’t pick up a paper so I could have a conversation proved to be the day I decided I cared.
Turned out Val worked two blocks west of me, and at that point you could start to call our meetings regular. Leaving three minutes early tended to give me the opportunity to grab one of a pair of empty seats. An obvious tactic, of course, but nevertheless successful. Because she sat rather than standing, she obviously wasn’t bothered by my near-daily “good evening” or me.
“The next station is Cannon Street.” Scrolling orange lights on a ticker, flashing across your vision for a few seconds before disappearing. You’re given an option, a stop, and whether you take it or not is entirely up to you. An invitation to go have coffee at the National Gallery seemed like a stop worth taking— Charing Cross usually is, if only to wander about Trafalgar Square and breathe fresh air for a few minutes. Having never been much of an art man myself, I alternated between expressing genuine interest in certain of the paintings on display and flat disinterest in most. I didn’t think much of Rembrandt, if my memory serves me right, but Val loved his pieces. Of course, the girl is always right. The third time we had coffee, I had decided I liked the Dutch artist after all, and incidentally the girl as well.
We both wore glasses. Mine were chunky, rotten-looking things and provided a bit of a contrast to her delicate horn-rimmed gaze. Laughing, she once told me I looked like someone twice my age, and the spectacles responsible underwent a bit of a change within the week. Her features sharpened after that, but for whatever reason I doubt the lens had anything to do with it.
The doors open. You can see virtually any kind of person there is in the world if you sit in a carriage long enough. Everyone in London rides the Tube somewhere at some point, and of course London is made of someone from everywhere. You can hear ten different languages in a day if you have the ears to listen. Unfortunately for me, I only speak one. And through the closing doors, one can see an equal amount of people outside, people who are merely waiting to take the next train.
Patience is a virtue. After a month, I asked Val to dinner at my favourite Thai restaurant, and she accepted, to my surprise. It felt like I was having a meal that night as opposed to just more food, seeing as I wasn’t eating alone for the first time in years. Conversation is easier when the other party isn’t a wall or mirror, and speaking about even mundane topics raised my spirits ever more quickly. Four hours later, I footed the bill in an effort to shed a few pounds before walking with Val to the station.
I like to think further dinners together might have turned the first one into an actual date. At the same time, who knows? Perhaps the words would have fallen deader from my lips as I but repeated previous statements. In the end, I’m not so sure it matters: another voice lost in the polyglot atmosphere of a restaurant is little different from trying to shout on the Tube. Neither yields aught but glares or quizzical looks. But in the interest of positive thoughts and with the rose-tinted glasses of hindsight, it seems only fair to imagine she would have accepted the second time as well.
Val told me the news on the Tube. She’d been transferred to Edinburgh by her company, and would be leaving in two days. Not to be forwards, I never asked for her address, or I’d have helped with the move, for all the good it would have done. ‘At least it had nothing to do with me,’ I always remind myself, and it provides some comfort. It seems a cruel jest though, to strip me of that opportunity, the first and last of its sort. Everyone’s unique, yes, but some people are so beautifully and perfectly unique that they have the kindness of spirit to befriend you.
Late at night, the doors open. A few people may enter, but for the most part you sit by yourself, collar pulled up and hat low on your forehead. You glance at the previous day’s headlines, smudged by the hands of a few dozen passengers. People leave, and you hardly notice. Every once in a while, somebody comes along that acts differently, walks differently, and catches your attention and your dreams. Most of the time they walk out with the rest. But sometimes, every once in a while, they tell you “good evening” as the doors close.
Edinburgh is rather a long way from London, and though the fare is within my means, the transit time is more than I can afford. Chasing the past is like trying to run after a train: you may think yourself fast, but run as you might, the carriage continues to recede at a hundred miles an hour. But the Tube runs on a loop, and there’s always another train to follow the one you missed, even if it means a bit of a wait in the cold. They call out Upton Park as the next stop, and I prepare to exit. Leaving my paper for anyone else that wants it, I stalk over to the doors and wait. I glance briefly about the carriage, seeing the usual variety of faces, and smile in spite of myself. After all, everyone in London rides the Tube somewhere at some point, so the only trick is finding the right somebody— even if it does mean riding everywhere.
The Last Rites of the Sea
Name: McKinley Sprinkle
Grade: 9th
O'er every mast in the savage seas,
Stand high the waves of Throngar,
Whipped into froth by his stormy tail,
Crash on the decks below.
Woe to the seaman, tossed and rocked,
Who ventures in the night,
For as the sea screams out its hate,
So dims another soul.
But when the rage of the gods are spent,
And the northern wind dies down,
There comes a calm in the foaming waves,
And the sea greets again her sons.
Yet even as the sea-god meets
His children in the fold,
He sees them find those battered hulks
And those who died in the night.
And the songs of woe and harsh lament
Sung through the mist-filled air
Bring to his mind the days of old,
And the pain his children felt.
The candle flickered in its glass cage, waving like a reed in the storm. Every breath of air caused the light to change in the small room,
shadows dancing in every imaginable pattern. The cabin was silent but for the lapping of water on the hull outside and the steady
creaking of the ship's timbers. As the vessel shifted in the wind, the pen of the letter's author rolling back and forth on the desk where he
had penned his final verse. The candle sputtered gently, and then died, leaving the room in black silence. It seemed almost natural that
the ship would remain in darkness, the same darkness as the night that had spelled the end of her brave crew. Despite all nobility and
honor, there was no depriving Throngar of the souls of the sailors he called to his breast. This the ship knew, and thus had allowed her
faithful servants to be given over to the ocean waves without a fight. There was no fighting the immortal and powerful god of the ocean
depths, she knew. She had seen the fury with which he called for his children, and had seen the carnage that such defiance had wreaked
upon vessels who resisted. Many a day had her noble crew changed her course and lowered her sails to scavenge the wreckage of some
poor sloop for any living thing that could survive the god's wrath. But with every hulk it was the same story. None who sailed the ocean
waves could fully escape the call of the god. It was obvious when the time had come. The way that the wind tore at her draping sails, and
the way that the water had pounded at her sides. There was nothing to do but to submit to the sea, allowing her friends and companions
of a lifetime to be taken to the depths to serve their king. Now her halls were empty, echoing not the sounds of voices but the lapping of
the very waves that had taken them away forever. She knew that they would find her. They always did, be it by seeing her bones washed
upon the shoreline or seeing her tattered sails flapping in the salt breeze, the other men would find her and search her for her masters.
But they were gone, down into the depths forever. In the distance she could faintly hear them now, the cries of the watchmen and the
hiss of spray on planks. Even now, the barque hauled her in with ropes, tying her secure to the rails with skillful hands. And even now
she was searched for her masters. But there was no hope. Gone they were. At last, a lone man entered the small cabin, holding a single
flickering lantern. He looked in every corner for any sign of an occupant, but there was none to be found. As he turned to leave, his eye
caught the scrap of greyed parchment on the small table, and he stopped to read the words of his brother of the sea. Silently his eyes
skimmed the verse, until he reached the end. He stared at the paper long after he finished, and then placed it reverently on the table
again. It was right to let it return to its writer. He left the room quietly, and then the ship was again at peace. She knew it was coming. It
happened every time a vessel was found adrift, the ritual burning of souls. But when it did, the lack of pain surprised her. It was a warm
feeling, as the fire licked at her timbers and gnawed at her bones. Her glorious days were over, but there would be others to carry on
where she had left off. That comforted her. As she sank beneath the waves, she listened to the words of the men above as they spoke
the last requiem of the sunken sailors. It took on an entirely new meaning when it was for you and the crew you had carried for so
long. “Throngar, the keeper of the seas, we ask that you give our brothers peace. They have descended unto your depths, and we ask
that you empower them with the strength to stand before you and answer the rites that you preform. We commit this vessel as an
offering to your waves, and plead that you spare us from this fate for another season.”
Stand high the waves of Throngar,
Whipped into froth by his stormy tail,
Crash on the decks below.
Woe to the seaman, tossed and rocked,
Who ventures in the night,
For as the sea screams out its hate,
So dims another soul.
But when the rage of the gods are spent,
And the northern wind dies down,
There comes a calm in the foaming waves,
And the sea greets again her sons.
Yet even as the sea-god meets
His children in the fold,
He sees them find those battered hulks
And those who died in the night.
And the songs of woe and harsh lament
Sung through the mist-filled air
Bring to his mind the days of old,
And the pain his children felt.
The candle flickered in its glass cage, waving like a reed in the storm. Every breath of air caused the light to change in the small room,
shadows dancing in every imaginable pattern. The cabin was silent but for the lapping of water on the hull outside and the steady
creaking of the ship's timbers. As the vessel shifted in the wind, the pen of the letter's author rolling back and forth on the desk where he
had penned his final verse. The candle sputtered gently, and then died, leaving the room in black silence. It seemed almost natural that
the ship would remain in darkness, the same darkness as the night that had spelled the end of her brave crew. Despite all nobility and
honor, there was no depriving Throngar of the souls of the sailors he called to his breast. This the ship knew, and thus had allowed her
faithful servants to be given over to the ocean waves without a fight. There was no fighting the immortal and powerful god of the ocean
depths, she knew. She had seen the fury with which he called for his children, and had seen the carnage that such defiance had wreaked
upon vessels who resisted. Many a day had her noble crew changed her course and lowered her sails to scavenge the wreckage of some
poor sloop for any living thing that could survive the god's wrath. But with every hulk it was the same story. None who sailed the ocean
waves could fully escape the call of the god. It was obvious when the time had come. The way that the wind tore at her draping sails, and
the way that the water had pounded at her sides. There was nothing to do but to submit to the sea, allowing her friends and companions
of a lifetime to be taken to the depths to serve their king. Now her halls were empty, echoing not the sounds of voices but the lapping of
the very waves that had taken them away forever. She knew that they would find her. They always did, be it by seeing her bones washed
upon the shoreline or seeing her tattered sails flapping in the salt breeze, the other men would find her and search her for her masters.
But they were gone, down into the depths forever. In the distance she could faintly hear them now, the cries of the watchmen and the
hiss of spray on planks. Even now, the barque hauled her in with ropes, tying her secure to the rails with skillful hands. And even now
she was searched for her masters. But there was no hope. Gone they were. At last, a lone man entered the small cabin, holding a single
flickering lantern. He looked in every corner for any sign of an occupant, but there was none to be found. As he turned to leave, his eye
caught the scrap of greyed parchment on the small table, and he stopped to read the words of his brother of the sea. Silently his eyes
skimmed the verse, until he reached the end. He stared at the paper long after he finished, and then placed it reverently on the table
again. It was right to let it return to its writer. He left the room quietly, and then the ship was again at peace. She knew it was coming. It
happened every time a vessel was found adrift, the ritual burning of souls. But when it did, the lack of pain surprised her. It was a warm
feeling, as the fire licked at her timbers and gnawed at her bones. Her glorious days were over, but there would be others to carry on
where she had left off. That comforted her. As she sank beneath the waves, she listened to the words of the men above as they spoke
the last requiem of the sunken sailors. It took on an entirely new meaning when it was for you and the crew you had carried for so
long. “Throngar, the keeper of the seas, we ask that you give our brothers peace. They have descended unto your depths, and we ask
that you empower them with the strength to stand before you and answer the rites that you preform. We commit this vessel as an
offering to your waves, and plead that you spare us from this fate for another season.”