Waterford Literary Magazine

A student publication of creative writing from the Waterford School

[waterfordlitmag]

Chamomile

-Georgie Chandler

A yellow mug of tea rests in my hands, hot Too hot I have to drop it. It shatters into a million tiny tea bag moths. The green and yellow wings each painted with a mocking smile. They swarm above my head, drowning me in little flecks of chamomile, which clump together and turn into a man made of yellow, with only one ear, long and curved, like the handle on a mug, He starts to sing- his voice turns into my Aunt’s voice distorted by the Skype microphone, broken like the mug. I can see her sitting in an office chair, spinning. Faster and faster, she is a blur of yellow.

[waterfordlitmag]

To My Daughter

- Madi Slack

There will be life and lessons and things I may forget to tell you so I want  you to know.

There will be boys…               boys that hold you like stardust or cotton candy silk streams that stick to their fingers,               and there will be boys that knock on you like they knock on wood and treat you like bits of steel wire soldered together and sucked apart again and again and again. 

There will be rain…                because in every life a little rain must fall and just make sure that you pour water in your vodka bottle. The more you drink the less it bites. 

There will be embarrassments…                 but don’t worry because most of the time the world will pass you by like pompous fashion trends, paisley and fanny packs. 

The will be moments of awe…                 Darling embrace them, they are rare and you will have to learn to seek them out behind dingy Chinese restaurants and caked underneath the nails of the homeless. 

There will be many times for panic…                  Just remember that life is a stage and we are all learning our lines between scenes. The faces that you meet are all put on and just make sure you face is always a little loose around the edges so that it cracks when you smile and falls off when you fall in love. 

There will be indecisions and expectations…                 Honey, just get on a bus and go somewhere. You don’t need to go jumping off of cliffs or diving into an abyss just yet. Find a bus, don’t step in front of it. 

There will be moments of contentment…                  Remember in these that the only constant in life is change and words are free. Don’t put your wishbone where your backbone ought to be. 

But don’t forget to wish for things. Wish so hard your eyes bug out and you can feel the arms surround you because books are better than reality and I can’t fathom living here. 

Mostly remember that  There will be me…

Because by the time you are real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But once you are real you can’t be ugly except to people who don’t understand. 

And finally, Always follow the bunny down the rabbit hole.

Inspired by Sarah Kay's "For My Daughter" 

[waterfordlitmag]

Made From An Animal

- Ellie Aldous

The shoes that tread like glass, the shoes that speak only of remorse, that carry with them the ache of ownership. The shoes that wish to be one, though always will be two. The shoes with hues of blue, fringed with the foam of the sea. The ancient shoes, that come with the danger of unraveling mysteries, the shoes that speak the words please don’t forget. A feeling that discovers wonder. A foreign voice. Here are the shoes that clip the earth with sounds of hatred, the shoes that grasp the feet inside -- don’t try to fight back. The shoes that write stories, the shoes full of ocean air. Secret shoes to hoard lonely thoughts. Give me those leather shoes, the ones made from an animal. Or the night shoes, the star-lit shoes that force their peace upon you.

Inspired by Rebecca Lindenberg's "Carnival"

[waterfordlitmag]

Prayer for the Unmotivated

- Mia Wipfel

Oh Planet of Procrastination, Purveyor of Laziness, Goddess of Soft Sheets and Down Comforters,

Let me free from your grasp, I have so much homework to do.

The simplest tasks fall from my hands, the easiest chores are not completed.

I do not want to do anything, instead I sit in boredom. Nothing to do and yet so many things left undone. How can boredom and stress coincide so easily?

Please, grant me will power, determination, energy to do the work piling up on my desk.

No more Netflix, no more movies in bed, no more chilling in my room. I need to break free from the chains that are laziness and sloth.

I will march to the library and I will not come back until the work has been done. (There is a library in my town that is the bee's knees.) But there is so much. It is too overwhelming. I can't when my bed is so warm and inviting. So lend me the power to care about math problems and biology chapters to read. I need good grades this term.

Thank you as always for my health and happiness, my awesome friends, for comedies and for chick flicks.

Inspired by “Prayer for the Ooh, Shiny” by Lauren Zuniga

[waterfordlitmag]

Personals III

- Sammy Macfarlane

Sometimes I perch on the back of the couch. My hands are always warm. Since 1999, I have tried to stop picking off my nails and hating my large nose. If this were not right now, I’d cut my hair and meet you in the middle. We could share a snack. I look at you and you look away. When I was smaller, I nightmared that as my hair grew long, my head shrank into a small grape. I’ve seen elbows as smooth as bone. Why. In my spare time, I have conversations with a dog who might have been named Stella. Isn’t it interesting how people are mesmerized by destruction. We may have seen each other. In passing. Inspired by “Personals” by C.D. Wright

[waterfordlitmag]

My Life 17

- Sammy Macfarlane

My hair turned red—the blood licked it all the way through. Caterpillar carpet crawling up to the halfway room. When I nightmared, the petals picked off in the wind and the black boots marched the dark soldiers and everything sped up until I woke up screaming stop. Then basketball on the TV with my midnight parents. Grape laundry burnt in toast sleeping in the toaster. I know death by association. The purple hippo’s fur was crunchy with juice box stains and fit on my back like a monkey. In every field is a word that gives to the sky of birds. Rock bouquets and dirt hands when he was my best friend. Step on a crack, mom broke her back the day my aunts became not-ever-aunts. Molded paper rotting in a tainted folder. Anxiety is a dilated turtle eye. I remember melting plastic smearing down sidechalk sidewalk and reflecting the dark sky paint stains. She was made before they were together. Broken in a cheap lace dress. I can’t love you. I’ll try but soon I’ll hate those cute little quirks. Dying is a matter of redecoration. 

Inspired by Lyn Hejinian's My Life

[waterfordlitmag]

Dream Song

- Pauline Causse

Exposing its soft and deliciously warm blankets and puffy pillows, he stared at me continuously. Fainting with interest, I looked away and only the thought of my homework watching me on my desk kept me from throwing myself on him or falling at his feet and crying ‘You are the warmest one for years of night Sophie’s tired eyes have enjoyed, Ingenuity.’ I turned back upon (despairing) my equations -- Miss Trinket: is surrounded by worlds, wif increasing numbers -- Red covers, soft to the touch, warm but yet so cold... the papers in front of me wait.  How beautiful is the corner that hosts him! Time flies away. He might as well be on Mars. Where did it all go wrong? There ought to be a law against Sophie. -- Miss Trinket: there is.

Inspired by John Berryman's Dreamsongs

[waterfordlitmag]

Numerous

- Abbie St. Vaughan

Incapable of beginning since the start, the privileged come with everything pre-set here. They are consumers, knit-pickers, takers of granted; .... Presently, the judgmental is oblivious to issue, a blank wall.

                                                      They progress reasoning to be able to defend, they evolve into insincere, inactive, routine forgets meaning, forgets breadth, compulsion is their deed because compulsion is not a deed But reasoning and defensive attitudes pull the leash along. They are demons that threaten

everyone’s heart… doubt exists in surrounding that tastes aged, they will near the end of a cycle - first of all civilians though one can withhold his acceptance if he should.

Inspired by George Oppen's "Of Being Numerous"

[waterfordlitmag]

What My Face Would Be Like If It Were A Landscape

- Jane Hudson

This landscape would be the Amazon. The Amazon is large, full of surprises but certainly predictable. It reveals its secrets but hides its weaknesses, shows everything to those who see it; everyone could find it in my face but covered by skin like the canopy, it likes to show its colors, full of life, inviting but selective; a peculiar club, where, the venom of wild snakes glistens on my cheeks, the wings of green leaf bugs hide in my eyes. This landscape would be hard to capture and hard to ignore, concealed with its many layers, it comes out to play if you call to it. It would be happy, with big eyes; it’s always watching you, from above your head and below your feet. It would be weird with oddly-colored animals, living happily in the thicket. It would be a protector, because what else is a face for: to see, hear, sense and smell for you, a guardian. It would be unique, my own: morph to fit a silhouette, fill the gaps. 

Inspired by Denise Levertov's "What My House Would Be Like If It Were A Person"

[waterfordlitmag]

Wall Street Has Crashed!

- Harris Christiansen

Wall Street has crashed! I was driving down the road and without warning it started to snow and cars were skidding everywhere and you gasped with a scared look in your eyes but I saw nothing to look out for and I kept driving along but you seemed frantic so I asked what was wrong and you said WALL STREET HAS CRASHED! but there is no one dying on Wall Street and I did not see Wall Street smashed on the side of the road but I have to watch the road oh, Wall Street, stay in tonight.

Inspired by Frank O'Hara's "Lana Turner Has Collapsed!"

[waterfordlitmag]

What My Car Would Be Like If It Were A Person

- Madison Snow

This person wouldn't have a name, but everyone would know it. It would stand out in a crowd, like a clown in a classroom.  It wouldn't be able to play hide-and-go-seek. It  would stand in the open,  flirting with the the girls who wear jeans instead  of dresses. And it would go to the sticks to  sit with the hicks and hang out by the crackling fire. And it would purr, and wish that there were three pedals on the floor. Instead of two.

Inspired by Denise Levertov's "What My House Would Be Like If It Were A Person."

[waterfordlitmag]

Personals

- Luke Pyper

Sometimes I forget to wake up on time.  I only have coffee when my parents are willing to pay for me.  I know that every day I’m older, I’m getting that much closer to the endpoint.  Wishing that I was born in the 80s.  My hair has a mind of its own.  My Grandparents are Michigan fans, but I’m going to have to cheer against them in college.  My shoulders dislocate when I don’t even think about it.  Knowing that there’s always one puzzle piece missing from the big picture.  My wingspan is longer than my height.  On certain days I could walk away and never look back.  My moles are arranged in a way like those “connect the dot” games.  I always attempt to look at nature in a new way.  I stay away from the library because its wifi doesn’t work.  I love the feeling of going to bed with my socks on, but I can’t sleep unless they’re off.  I clean my room, then in a blink of an eye, it’s messy once again.  The smell of rain.  I love music, but I can’t dance to save my life.  

Inspired by CD Wright's "Personals"

[waterfordlitmag]

Dreamsong

- Jacob Peterson

Tiny Timmy took  the light acclaimed Timmy left. I see why,-- intentions within blood. It was the idea of the ideal which they had seen made Timmy look back. If only they had seen him. Everyone like a soft toy once did seem to care. Then came an introduction. Nothing seen the same, nothing seen twice. How Timmy tricked himself and others isn’t seen. What’s to say’s been said to all to whom could care and call. Once, in a box I was deceived on accident, I turned. Forever pushing onward, stuck in now making liars of the self.

Inspired by John Berryman's Dreamsongs

[waterfordlitmag]

To Jamie

- Brie Morrill

We mourn for the Queen today, searching for lost fathers with old journals. We look for the treasures, the hints left behind after ascension, the old white bear you named Winter with her corresponding memories cold, biting, and bittersweet like the winter wind - you still keep her so carefully in your closet, don’t you, wishing those past days long gone were not the past but the future so you could feel one final time the embrace and enthusiasm of the first person to befriend you. Searching for your place, you search for what you believe, what creaton created creaton - a father figure, perhaps a cosmic happenstance, maybe a god’s whim, fantasy, but you know deep contemplation lies ahead. Que the couch. No more can you cheerfully call down the hall, free of suspicion and expectation, no more can you cheerfully call down the hall to the first friend you had, the first time someone noticed you, the first time someone cared enough to notice you, even if they were a teacher and it was an obligation, you know it was different. There was a connection not so simply severed. Retreat to that pattered old couch, sitting mournfully by the window. Let its comfort braid about you, let its arms let you lean on, and let it out.

[waterfordlitmag]

Next Saturday

- David Fishman

i think i remember       a rainstorm she and i walked in it until our fingers became wrinkled she ran her lips     over the tips of my wrinkled fingers and tried to explain to me       why water wrinkled fingers       but i couldn't pay attention to the words because i was punch-drunk      on the music in her voice it was like       wind chimes made of tiny drums and      a chorus of fire i remember that her name was      juliet because she called me  romeo whenever she kissed me i don't remember       the stories her mother told about her because they came from        long before i knew her they were stories of a different       juliet her mother described her as     bright and     carefree she was a sunflower      her mother said i know that my juliet was a night owl she slept poorly and got up several times      every night to eat or pace or write once i asked her why she said      my mind does not quiet      just because the sun has i think that would be   exhausting i remember the plans we made for next saturday we decided to go to      a drive-in theatre which she called a relic      in her father's car which she called a relic and we planned to make out in the backseat i remember the day i sat down on the shower floor and watched my fingers wrinkle my juliet     had black hair and it surprised me     to learn that she had been blond until the     age of fifteen juliet    taught me the word ephemeral i remember a speech she gave me when i      broke my right arm she said pain is      ephemeral i didn't know what that meant      so she explained she said pain is fleeting she said      you can't remember physical pain because     your body forgets she said that's why women can give birth     again and     again i don't remember the rest of what she said i had been caught again by her voice i remember the day when everyone wore black and i sat in    a front row pew alongside her mother and her younger brother her father had left     a long time ago and the preacher's voice was nothing like                    juliet's voice instead it droned like     a drowning bee and     a jet to far away he said    ephemeral and i lost it i'll always remember the plans we made for     next saturday    next saturday is    ephemeral    next saturday will never come not until    i meet her in    far away on    next saturday

[waterfordlitmag]

Talking to Anxiety

- Jane Hudson

Oh, Anxiety, I should not treat you like a nightmarish fear that comes to swallow me whole, reel me in and never let go. I shall ignore you.

I should loosen your tight gripping fingers on my heart, and give you a good kick, a reason to leave a form of kryptonite

irresistible.

You hoped I wouldn't notice you’d been living under my skin. You sneak out in anguish -- you’d stay forever. I’ll

give you a name, to restrain you. You want the freedom to control my thoughts, a permanent burial in my mind, an acceptance, as my own.

Inspired by Denise Levertov's "Talking to Grief"

[waterfordlitmag]

The Place

- Madee Rutherford

The time when the creatures play, when dark clouds mask flickers of hope, where dreams are nightmares. The place where the sounds strangle your ears and the cold burns your nose and your conscience whispers “turn back” -- This is the time when your fears come alive, when the pavement scrapes your feet and the distant bells mock your every step. This is the place where the light you thought you could taste begins to slowly melt.