Tempest

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Millbrook High School

Art & Literary Magazine

2011

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Tempest Staff

Editors: Ali Moreci, Sarah Gray Lesley, Meaghan Sheridan

Layout: Haley Epps, Taylor Palmer

Faculty Advisors: Kerri Brown Parker Catherine Cindrich Rob Epler Ashley Yates

Special thanks to Dana King for her ineffable support of the Arts!

Title Author/Artist Page

The Message Chris Payton 3

Dream, Photograph Jessica McAfee 3

Childhood of Mine Nhung Y 4

Viet Nam, Block Print Tu Giap 4

Embers Meaghan Sheridan 5

Dodge’s Store, Photograph Ali Moreci 5

Solitude, Photograph Ali Moreci 5

Closing the Door Sarah Gray Lesley 6

Hush, Patterned Self Portrait Dayane Maia 6

To the Rhythm of the Tide Kathleen Gildea 9

Pelican, , Photograph Austin Dietz 9

Haiku Kevin Weiss 9

Tanka Molly Smith 9

Blue Bell Bee, Photograph James Thibault 9

Dear Ana Raven Eason – Short Story Winner 10

Idea, Colored Pencil Brittany Lademann 12

Ode to Caterpillar Molly Smith 13

Kites Jessica McAfee 14

Flower in Hand, Drawing Megan O’Neill 14

Autumn Moon Brittany Rathvon 15

The Ballad of Munchies Kevin Weiss 15

Requiem Robert Alfredson 15

Sprite, Pencil Drawing Campbell Efird 15

Crash Faasha Royal 16

Face Rattle, Ceramic Kirstin Powell 16

Face Rattle, Ceramic Kiet Tran 16

Trapped Taylor Palmer 17

Hand Maid Peyton Long 17

Train Tracks, Drawing Megan O’Neill 18

Louisiana Rain Meaghan Sheridan 18

Sound to Static Alexandra (Ali) Moreci 21

Love , Patterned Self Portrait Rachel Lautenbach 21

Death at a Riot! Jessica McAfee 22

I am Freedom Grant McMains 22

Travis Atley Pagett 23

Silver Ocean Jennifer Pickles 23

Reese’s PBC Sarah Friedensen 23

Wild Mushrooms, Colored Pencil Jonathan Butler 24

Artificial, Colored Pencil Brittany Lademann Cover Art

Table of Contents

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The Message Chris Payton

Since birth the odds are already against my race,

Judged by my clothes and the skin color on my face.

Most of us never see the age of 18, so when are my killers gonna come for me?

Or will I die in a cell, rot in a penitentiary?

Blackness all around, like I’m living in a coma.

My race dropping outta high school, like we afraid of diplomas.

We’re out here killin’ each other, come on brothers, we gotta cool it,

It’s a message in the words, I suggest you use it.

Dream Jessica McAfee, , Photograph

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Childhood of Mine - Nhung Y

Hot flames surrounded me everyday. I hid away from the sun. The shadow of me and a tree I see, but can’t be sure if that is how I look. Day by day, I go there, The place where I feel safe, Where I spent hours after hours on Sunday. A part of me was there. I cherished and enjoyed the time I had, Where everyone’s gathering in the church Every minute, I enjoyed and treasured it the most Freely going everywhere I want in the village Everyone knows everyone, even the ants. Playing tag with millions of children. Everyday was exciting for me. Saying, “Hi” everywhere I go.

Going to my best friend’s house. Climbing up the guava tree, my favorite, With the chilly salt in hand, we ate. We swayed back and forth in the sky. At noon, every kid goes to the river, En-joying the coolness of the water, Smooth like silk on our skin. We crossed the other side of it. Without any voices, we’ve gone every-where without money. Without any noises, we’ve done our re-sponsibilities. Happily living during the day but worried during the night. I love my village, my childhood stays, But I am sad; uneducated parents and chil-dren all around. Since school means nothing but a waste of money There’s no better future for villagers as the gov’t says Once a farmer always a farmer.

Viet Nam, Tu Giap , Block Print

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Embers Meaghan Sheridan

Jana was short for January

pink petals and the whisperin’ trees

train tracks and buzzin’ bees

singin’ and whistlin’

to the beat of the wind

cos the sun don’t shine

in the spring

with the birds tweetin’

and the river glimmerin’

Jana done kilt that boy

under the big white moon, shimmerin’

pushed him over the edge,

through the glitterin’ water

then last winder they finally caught er

same month the train come

tootin’ and smokin’

and that girl couldn’t get out of the way

her red fox-skin coat

against white flurry was startlin’

the snow was sparklin’,

flakes cascadin’ down,

buryin’ her blood deep within the secrets of frost

forgotten, but not lost

before that, in Fall

there was an old man who got his boot stuck in-between the track and rail

red and orange and yellow and brown leaves

coverin’ up his wrist,

Where a gold watch had been taken by thieves

he done rolled off of the bridge, litterin’ the water with the stench of

autumn death

and I can still smell the smokestack lingerin’ on your breath

cos when you crossed the bridge east,

the train came from the west

i can’t kiss you goodnight

you lay dead in the river, stars like flickerin’ embers

in cold, cold December

Dodge’s Store, Patriotism, Ali Moreci, Photograph

Solitude, Ali Morici, Photograph

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My name is Elizabeth,

and until I met him,

these are those that

filled me, that made

me into who I was:

127.5 pounds. Size 2 or

4, respectively. Two

slicks of creamy gloss

on my calloused lips.

Three strokes of a

black pencil that drew

a mask around the

tears forming in my

eyes. Twenty pulses of

a mascara brush hiding

the torn edges. And

five spots of foundation, forming the

shattered pieces of my flesh into a neat package that hid the deep self-loathing

beneath. School moved slowly for me. Bodies drudged through the prison-walls

and oblong metallic lockers. Everyone was measured in shapes to me—some

circles, some squares, some triangles. They had no faces, no flesh, no hearts, but

they polluted the linoleum halls with grandiose voices and damaged youthful

innocence. I did not try to succeed in their social games. I didn’t believe I was

qualified to be a part of the fun anyway. They were perfect. Glossy hair, de-

tailed makeup, and designer fashions—everything I did not have. They were

gorgeous plastic figurines. They didn’t go home in the afternoon, look at them-

selves in the mirror, study how a roll of fat was forming under their ribcage or

how a zit had emerged like an eruption on top of their oily skin. They didn’t

slap themselves in disgust. They didn’t eat Happy Meals or have a milkshake on

the weekends like I did. They were unreachably ethereal and exactly what I

Closing the Door Sarah Gray Lesley

Hush, Dayane Maia, Patterned Self Portrait

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wish I could be. Sometimes, I would dispose of the hatred I felt for myself by

vomiting out the insides of my soul. But that was only on special occasions.

In many ways, I blame myself for meeting him. Almost everything

about that winter was just another tug of the rope, yanking him closer and

closer. I did it unconsciously. Never was I once aware that he was creeping to-

wards me, crouched in the wings of my life.

It came like a violent wind, sung by a violin of hushed whispers and se-

cret calls. I could read it on my father’s face, each piece slowly coming together,

a puzzle I did not want to solve. So I ignored the facts, shoved them away, al-

ways there but not always in sight.

I came to bring my father some brownies one night when he called saying he

was going to be at the office working late. I had made them just for my dad, just

to see him smile and wrap me up in a grateful embrace.

I opened the door.

I shut the door.

I shut my eyes.

I shut my ears.

If only I had shut my mouth, kept the images tucked inside and

maybe, if and when I was alone, had burned them from the inner lining of my

memory. But I told her anyway; I force-fed her each gory detail.

All that followed were slammed doors, bold silences, and dark clouds

hanging over a broken home.

Then the monsters with briefcases came.

One came for my father. He bound him up with steely ropes and carried him

away with promises of “getting out of this as cleanly as possible”

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and “little to no alimony”. The monster took my father away from me and left

me alone to deal with the dark recesses of my mother’s grief.

My mother no longer cried, but screamed out the pain in terrifying

waves that tore through her body. I was left to pick up the shredded pieces off

the tear-soaked carpet. It was a dirty job, covered with snotty Kleenexes and

acidic sobs. I would stay strong for her during the day, but when night crawled

towards me and my mother was off to sleep, I would stare at the unimaginative

features piled sloppily on my face and think about how ugly I was, how undesir-

able. Vomit became my friend, and maybe, if I was extremely careful, a slight

puncture to my skin with a razor would join the late night parties. V

Then he came—The Briefcase Monster No. 2. He rocked my mother

gently to the lullabies of money, security and a fresh start.

However, it wasn’t until February that I met him.

I called Mr. Bradley at three fifteen in the morning.

I simply told him this:

My name is Elizabeth, and until I met you, these are those that filled

me, that made me into who I was: 127.5 pounds. Size 2 or 4, respectively. Two

slicks of creamy gloss on my calloused lips. Three strokes of a black pencil that

drew a mask around the tears forming in my eyes. Twenty pulses of a mascara

brush hiding the torn edges. And five spots of foundation, forming the shat-

tered pieces of my flesh into a neat package that hid my self-disgust.

My name is Elizabeth, and now that I have met you, these are those

that fill me, that make me who I am: Dinners with my mom. Food that I don’t

have to throw back up. Putting on clothes that make me feel good about myself

and shirts that don’t hide the scars on my arms. A smile on my lips. Eyes

cloaked in forgiveness. Scars of tears running down my cheeks, but open for the

world to see. Stitches on my wounds, binding me up with the idea that I am

only worth what I allow myself to be.

I thanked him cordially for his help in my epiphany.

And then closed the door on Johnson Bradley.

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To the Rhythm of the Tide Kathleen Gildea

I walk

Along

The beach

And try

To grasp

All within my reach

My steps

Are in stride

To the rhythm

Of the tide

My hands tremble

As the world

Begins

To

Disassemble

The sun

Sets

Haiku Kevin Weiss

An indigo sky Reflecting rays of sunlight Darkness closes in

Tanka Molly Smith

Broken hearts may walk

Through the valley all alone

For a while and

Back again to the city;

Angels stretch their open hands.

Pelican, Austin Dietz, Photograph

Blue Bell Bee, James Thibault, Photograph

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Dear Ana Raven Eason – Short Story Winner

July 15, 2010

Dear Ana,

Breakfast- 1/2 cup of skim milk-45

Lunch-water-0

Dinner-veggi burger-180

Total-225

Thin is what I want. It’s always in my head. I am obsessed with what I'm not! And it’s all that I want. You did this to me! You’re like a black hole sucking life out of me! No one else sees you, they don’t hear you! Going shopping with my mom, going out to eat with my sister, little things like that. I can’t enjoy anything because of you! No little piggy, you look fat in that. Do yourself a favor and put it back in the closet. My mom doesn’t understand. She thinks because I lost fifty pounds I should be done, but I can never be done. I don’t want any new clothes because I’m not thin yet, but I will be.

Claire, I'm sure she means well, but growing up and living in the shadow of your gor-geous older sister really gets to you. I'll always be fatter and uglier. She’s the pretty blonde, five foot eleven inch dancer and I'm her little five foot five inch sister with raven hair and ghostly skin. I sit home on Friday nights and read as she is out with her friends at parties and football games and when Claire tries to take me out to eat with her and her friends you always interrupt!

Really pasta and bread! Did you not see what the scale said this morning? Didn't you look in the mirror and see your disgusting thighs!?

Can’t you just leave me alone for a little while?

You were an oversized whale when I met you. Now look at you, you’re just a little piggy. But don’t worry, you'll be beautiful soon. I promise. Just put down the fork!

- Little piggy

July 16 2010

Dear Ana,

Breakfast- 1/2 an apple-70

Lunch-nothing

Dinner-little bit of pasta-300

Total-370 way too much!

Today was a glorious day! I found a website for girls like me. It is a social network where we support each other and talk about how much we hate you! I met this one girl, shortnsweet4321. She seems really cool. She has a mixture of anorexia and bulimia. I think they call that EDNOS but I really don’t know. I should look into that because now that I think about it, I binge much more than I should, like all of the time. Anyway, back

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to the website, I love it! I feel like I am talking to people who understand. They feel what I feel and they hate you too. There are people on that site who are thirty and forty years old. That just amazes me that you can be with people that long! Will I ever kill you or will it be you that kills me?

- Little piggy

July 17 2010

Dear Ana,

Breakfast-3 cups of cereal with full fat milk and so much sugar

Lunch-Oreo milkshake, cheese fries, two doughnuts

Dinner- four Pancakes, Mac-n-Cheese, and a biscuit

Total- TOO MUCH!

"Dang, Sarah! Save some for the rest of us." Claire grabbed the cookies from me, put them away, and threw an apple at me. "Eat this you little chub-chub," she pinched my stomach and left the kitchen. "Chub-Chub," I almost killed her. She caught me in the middle of binge mode. I thought I was home alone, but I guess I wasn't and she caught me. I feel pathetic. I feel all that food inside my stomach. “Your stomach shouldn’t be a waste basket,” you told me that. I wish I could survive on water and water alone. It’s perfect and pure. It's strong enough to hold up a ship and powerful enough to bring it down.

- Little piggy

July 19 2010

Dear Ana,

I tried to eat today but you wouldn't let me.

Put the fork down Sarah.

Say no to this and no to that and say yes to this and no to fat!

Do you really want to eat?

Yes.

That’s why you’re fat now.

Will I ever be done with you?

Nope.

-Little piggy

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July 26 2010

Dear Ana,

I hate you.

-Little piggy

July 31 2010

Dear Ana,

B-water

L-water

D-water

Total-Zero!

I think I hate people. Wait, no. I know I hate people. My family annoys the crap out of me! Remember when I was telling you how they hadn’t noticed, well guess what? They've noticed and it’s so annoying. They keep watching me. It was so hard not to eat anything today. My mom made me go out to eat with her so we could "talk." Oh wow, really mom you wanna talk all of a sudden. I didn't order a thing and she took me to my favorite Italian restau-rant. The smell was intoxicating. My stomach grumbled the entire time as it begged for food. I guzzled two glasses of water and told it to shut up. I don’t see how it is anyone’s business if I lose or gain weight. It’s my body! Why can’t they just leave me alone.

-Little piggy

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Ode to Caterpillar Molly Smith

Ah, you think I can’t see you there?

A squishy, tiny, fuzzy, adven-turer

The asphalt is your Serengeti

The lush grass your Amazo-nian jungle.

As you pull yourself along

Your spineless back arches;

But you are far from spineless.

A mighty soul you fear not

As death whistles its hungry tune

Waiting to devour you at any moment.

But still you continue on your journey,

No obstacles standing in your way.

And you think I don’t see you there?

You think I don’t notice your courage?

Because I do.

So keep on for you will be great;

All your valor now will be rewarded,

When you become a beautiful butterfly!

:Idea, Brittany Lademann ,colored pencil

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Kites Jessica McAfee

Autumn mourning,

Winds shoving me,

“Daddy!” I called,

Running with my blackened diamond,

High,

Higher, higher,

Disappearing into the blue,

Puffy, weightless clouds.

Autumn Moon Brittany Rathvon

So odd a phenomenon, to see both

The sun and moon grace the sky for a short while

Equals in power, strength, beauty, and mystery

On one side the golden light fades

As ribbons of orange and pink fan out and up into the darkening sky

On the other the sight is mirrored as black proceeds forward

Like spilled paint onto the canvas of Helios

Ebbing outward all is consumed in darkness

As the sun retreats from cold Selene

Soon only darkness prevails

Night has overrun day, at least for now

And the autumn moon dances high in the sky

Surrounded by the stars

Together they dance to victory, however short lived it may be

Flower in Hand, Megan O’Neill, Drawing

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Walking down the stairs I got the munchies Gonna get me a bowl Of those Captain Crunchies Dad lets me know, "Son you gotta cut the grass." I say, "Give me a minute, I'm pourin' SunnyD in my glass."

Pop a squat on the couch Grab me a bag of Fritos And how could I forger? Some Cheeseburger Doritos Mouth is drier than a drought Sprintin' to the garage Shoot down some Gatorade Feels like a throat mas-sage

Still hungry as a hippo I think I need a treat Hit up a pack of gush-ers One of my favorite things to eat I do care about my health These foods are just too good

My parents tell me to chill If possible I swear I would

The bus driver hands you A candy snowman With a carrot nose All wrapped up In clear cellophane and a ribbon around the stick. Hurriedly, you stuff it in In the front pocket of your backpack From which things never return It lies in wait Innocent and pure as the sugar it con-tains With your name written on it Just like the young ones' Name tags above the bus window. In June, Standing above the wastepa-

per basket You will unzip every pocket And dump out the trash. With a dull thud The snow-man shat-ters Your name still legible Around the lint and dirt.

The Ballad of Munchies Requiem

Kevin Weiss Robert Alfredson

Sprite, Campbell Efird, Pencil Drawing

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What would you do if we crashed?

If time didn’t go so fast.

You didn’t seem to see….

You just let it be.

Later became longer.

The days seemed to grow shorter,

And yet you still didn’t see.

The sadness will pass.

So, what if we crashed!

All these years…

I’ve wasted my own tears

And you never seemed to be here.

When did you lock me out

Because I couldn’t scream and shout.

So, what if we crashed.

Your walking too fast!

Don’t leave me behind.

You think this is kind?

It’s cold.

When did you become so bold?

So, what if we crashed?

The sadness won’t last.

The tears will pass

Am I right….

Or is this fright?

For if we crashed

It will be our last

And we will walk together again

Hand & hand till the end

Crash Faasha Royal

Face Rattle, Kirstin Powell, Ceramic

Face Rattle, Kiet Tran, Ceramic

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Trapped Taylor Palmer

Trapped in my own skin

Slowly the walls close in

Wish to see through someone else’s eyes

Lies live on as the truth dies

Hope is now extinct

Life flies by as I blink

Dreams with a hunger that I can’t feed

Lock on the gate that I can’t exceed

Eyes so dead and cold

Scared of the new, running from

the old

Petalless rose covered in thorns

Shattered heart, soul so torn

Shadows prance

Stuck in a gloomy trance

Waiting, hoping

Healing, coping?

Eyes burned by tears

Reality became my worst fear

Hand Maid, Peyton Long, Colored Pencil

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Louisiana Rain Meaghan Sheridan

I remember our first kiss.

It was third grade, under the slide. I heard the children above us, gliding down, kicking

sand up as they hit the bottom.

I loved the way your eyes were like the glistening green marbles I rolled across my hard-

wood floor. I counted the swirls of gold cradling your pupils.

You told me you liked me; igniting the butterflies inside my belly. You weren’t like the

other boys, who cared more about who was the fastest runner, and who could be the

funniest in class.

You asked me if you could give me your kiss. I told you I was a good girl, and I didn’t kiss

boys.

“Not with spit,” I warned. That was dirty.

“Okay,” you said, “I won’t. I kiss nicely. What about on the cheek?”

I told you I guessed that was alright, but I wasn’t sure.

“You are beautiful, Dakota,” you told me, and my heart swelled up and burst into my

throat.

I heard you laugh; it reminded me of the tinkling little bell on my dog Holiday’s collar. I

stared down at your light-up Superman shoes.

You had one knee protruding from your ripped jeans, the pair you crawled around on the

floor with and pretended you were a Brontosaurus on the hunt for leaves. You leaned

forward. I squeezed my eyes tight and I said that I was ready.

felt your lips; smooth from the Capri-sun juice you drank from snack time against my

skin. I squealed with excitement. But, being eight, I thought it felt strange.

Train Tracks, Megan O’Neill, Drawing

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I was not one of those girls. I was still a child who thought boys were icky and recited the,

‘boys go to Jupiter to get more stupider,’ jingle in a sing- song voice

with my girlfriends to our male classmates. They would respond with, ‘no! Boys go to

college to get more knowledge!’And it would go like that.

But you were different, and I admired you for it.

You told me you wanted to try again. I still wasn’t sure if I was okay with that, but you

leaned forward and your hand found mine; they were calloused from the monkey bars.

You kissed me on the lips. And, as you promised, it wasn’t wet or gross. It was warm and

beautiful and it didn’t last as long as I wanted it to.

“Was that good?” you asked, as the children running past us created dancing shadows on

the sand.

I held my hands up; my fingers were streaked with peanut butter, remnants of my snack.

“Yes,” I said, and kissed each of my own fingertips. The tingling on my lips was like a

smoldering, beautiful, flame-red fire. My cheeks flushed red as I saw the children around

us peeking under the slide and giggling, “Seth loves Dakota!”

And it became a legend. Seth and Dakota! Did what! Kissed under the slide?

We did. And it was wonderful.

The years went by.

You were taller, slender, and your once wispy black bangs were styled more sophisti-

cated, because you told me it was time to grow up. We would lie out on the grassy hill in

my backyard, soaking up the sun, gazing at the buttery clouds. I would point out the

shapes I saw, I would tell you they were like little white sailboats in the aqua-blue sky.

You would laugh and kiss along my neck, as my fingers knotted into your hair.

Other times we would run through the Louisiana rain, gasping, water streaking down our

bodies. You told me my eyes looked more cobalt in the rain; two drops of liquid- blue

crystal. The people under their umbrellas would smile and shake their heads muttering,

“Young love.”

You would say, “Remember third grade? Seth loves Dakota. And I do. When I kissed you

under the slide, I knew I wouldn’t ever want anyone but you.”

Only a month later, I leaned down and kissed your eyelids shut at your funeral. I stroked

the scar running along your jawbone that grinned up at me. It wasn’t your fault the

murky Louisiana rain had slicked the road, or that your motorcycle didn't respond to

your reflexes fast enough. I left a little white cross with a laven-

der ribbon by the oak tree, stilled marred by the collision.

The rain drizzling against my roof, falling from the gray clouds

like the tears from my eyes, reminded me you were once real.

I still spend every day drowning in your golden-green eyes.

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Sound to Static Alexandra (Ali) Moreci

once I hear a song

and I like it

I gotta hear it

again and again

on replay

whirlwind of tempo

in repetition

I gun it-----

I drown in it

I flood myself with

sounds

that I will adapt to

but for the moment

I am addicted

then it begins to

change

my ears sharp,

weaken dull

and it becomes

background static. Love,

Rachel Lautenbach,

Patterned Self Portrait

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Death at a Riot! Jessica McAfee

Soldiers marching through the water to war,

Shouting voices, even mine,

Picket fences evermore,

Let’s take a trip through time.

I remember when it first began,

When I met him, he was my world,

Before insanity hitched and ran,

He wrapped a ribbon, swirled and swirled.

And I’m not sure how

we got involved,

I’m in sorrow now,

How did we all devolve?

How our hearts sang one song!

As we watched the soldiers shoved,

And we knew that we belonged,

Into the Riot! that we loved.

We joined hand in hand,

Into the Riot! we were born,

We joined to take a stand,

But I was torn.

Into the Riot!, into the smoke,

Into the gun shots and screams,

We ran hand in hand, resisting to croak,

Soon I was cast into horrid dreams.

We dared to try it,

As gun smoke, as bodies dropped

Into the Riot!

As his loving beats stopped.

Into the Riot! that the government shot,

My lover rests now behind the start,

Into the Riot! that the media ‘forgot’

And I will never again hear his heart.

I am Freedom, Grant McMains,

Patterned Self Portrait

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Travis Atley Pagett

Your memory is in my heart,

Your smile in my thoughts.

I’ll never forget,

The late night calls, with fear in your voice,

Scared for your friends;

Or earth science fun, and the after school life.

We were suppose to have a lifetime for friend-

ship,

But we only had a few years.

We were suppose to live forever,

But only lived for a few decades.

We weren’t invincible,

We only wanted to be.

We threw our lives around,

We only wanted freedom.

We had so much fun,

We did whatever we wanted.

Our memories for you,

Our dreams and wishes,

Our hopes and thoughts,

Will always be with you,

No matter where you go.

So rest in peaceful bliss,

And watch over all of us.

We love you, Travis.

We’ll stay strong for you,

Reese's Peanut Butter Cup slips unseen from a pocket to the playground mulch. A boy will cry over it when he discovers it missing; his mother had lovingly packed the treat in his lunch, and he can only assume someone stole it. But this is no matter. There will be chocolate for him when he gets home. For a time, the candy remains in the mulch under the slide. Another child finds it there, and, grinning, picks it up. Just as he begins to peel off the orange wrapper, however, Teacher swoops over and tells him to throw it away. The second child obeys, angrily flinging the peanut butter cup with all his might. It lands on the sidewalk, and Teacher decides not to press the issue further.

Now in the direct sun, the Reese's Peanut Butter Cup begins to soften and melt. When the angry child is called in from recess, he stomps on the candy, and instead of crumbling, it yields, accepting the imprint of his shoe. Thus wounded, the peanut butter cup remains on the sidewalk, unappetizing to any others that pass its way. Under the heat, the wound soon heals; in its wake comes a thick soup held together by thin walls of plastic.

That night, when all the children and teachers have gone home, a janitor comes to the playground. As he does every day, he empties the waste bins and collects the trash left on the ground. Sometimes he is bitter about his work and wonders at how little appreciation he gets—he doubts even the administration knows his name, although his is, in his mind, the most important job in the school—but this evening he is in a good mood and whistles while he makes the school a more livable place for all.

Reese’s PBC Sarah Friedensen

Silver Ocean, Jennifer Pickles, Photograph

It is late when the janitor reaches the sidewalk with the melted Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup, and he is anxious to finish and get home. He im-mediately spots the candy and spears it on his trash stave, but even though the night is cool, the chocolate is still warm enough to be slippery and slides off the tip before it can reach the janitor’s bag.

Now that its walls have been breeched and its insides are open for all to see, the candy begins to draw outside attention. Its first visitor is an ant from a nearby hill, who brings back a globule of the sweet, sticky substance to feed her queen. Within minutes, she has returned with her sisters, and the punctured candy is teeming with insects. A rat too sniffs out the delicacy and joins the feed, indiscriminately nibbling chocolate, ant, and plastic.

Come morning, all that is left of the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup is a tattered scrap of orange wrapper, blown to the soccer field by an errant breeze. There it catches the eye of a gull, which dives down to retrieve it. The gull carries the plastic for a time, all the way to its landfill home, but it drops it when, having forgotten its original reason for taking the wrapper, it is distracted by a more appetizing tidbit. The wrap-per remains in the landfill, bur-ied deeper and deeper under the pile of refuse as the years go by.

The landfill itself is eventually closed and converted into a park, where the boy who once cried for his lost candy, now a man, takes his children to play, unaware that he stands atop the final resting place of his tears

t e m p e s t

Wild Mushrooms, Jonathan Butler, Colored Pencil

T h e L i t e r a t e T i m e s

M i l l b r o o k H i g h

S c h o o l

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