Still Waters Still Waters Still Waters
Still Waters
A BROOKS LITERARY MAGAZINE
VOL V, ISSUE IV
EDITORS
Dean Charpentier, English Faculty
Daniel Jiang 26'
Abigail Nam 26'
DESIGNER
Kaden Almaraz 26' PUBLICATIONS
Jennifer O’Neill, Director of Digital Communications
Emily Williams, Director of Editorial and Multimedia Services
Still Waters is committed to publishing original, exciting material from a diverse collection of Brooks student writers. While we actively pursue short fiction, poetry, and memoir, we will consider any form of writing submitted
There are no restrictions on word count, and authors may submit multiple submissions at a time
“We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.”
Ernest Hemingway
Table of Contents
Letter from the Editor
Pages 1 - 2
Fiction
Pages 3 - 28
Aidan Davis
Daniel Jiang
Brianna Mungai
Giada Musto
Teegan Toto
Samara Vijayan
Poetry
Pages 29 - 49
Kaden Almaraz
Taylor Betts
Wes Bixby
Micah Dixon
Victor Ha
Caleb Hatch
Maile Lung
Henry Osborne
Sienna Steeves
James Sullivan
A Still Waters Interview
Giada Musto
Pages 50 - 52
“If you don't write when you don't have time for it, you won't write when you do have time for it.”
― Katerina Stoykova Klemer
Letter From The Editor
As the ice began to break up, and spring break was upon us, and as we gathered the submissions for this issue of Still Waters, I was struck by two things. Bear with me.
The first was the passage of time. I can’t begin to explain Einstein’s claim about time being relative, or the science behind the interstellar travel of the blockbuster book Hail Mary (I hear it’s a movie, too?).
But I do know that time is one of the most valuable, expandable, and unpredictable resources here at Brooks. It is constantly sought after, hoarded, usurped, and intruded upon.
Imagine trying to stuff a bean bag chair into a shoe box. This is the relationship we have here with time: trying to jam all of our tasks and appointments and meetings into that tiny container called a day, or a week.
We often claim that time works differently in boarding school than in the real world, and most often that comes in the form of an apology. Responding to your email two days later is actually immediately for us. And oh, it’s April? Wasn’t it just Valentine’s Day? Weren’t you just a ninth grader?
And so, as we waded through the winter submissions, I was struck by the second thing. Somehow, somewhere, in some way, the writers appearing in this issue found the time and space to write. Somehow, they were able to stuff writing—whether that was born from passion, curiosity, or obligation—into their full, busy, time-starved lives. This is also called commitment.
Some of these writers have been writing consistently here at Brooks for years. Some are appearing in these pages for the first time. All of them, however, have won the battle with time somehow, some way. This might be the most impressive part of this issue.
Dean Charpentier Faculty Editor
“If there’s a book that you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it.”
Toni Morrison
Fiction
Bucket of Love
by Teegan Toto
Meeting April was the best moment of my life. The second she walked over with her tall, tanned figure and bouncy blonde hair, I was head over heels in love. Her bucket of love was half empty, but I had plenty in mine to give.
Any time I could take off work to spend time with her, I would. Any time she wanted something, I would be there with my credit card in hand. Any time she was feeling a little down, I would splash some more love from my bucket into hers. I kept giving and giving and giving.
After a while, I noticed my bucket begin to drain, while hers was filled to the brim.
I finally asked if she could spare any, but she just brushed me off with a flick of her hand. She would go out late at night and come back with her bucket overflowing, yet she never poured into my bucket.
I continued to love her—she was all I had, she was all I knew. I’d try harder to make her come back, pouring out more love, buying more things. I let our relationship swallow me whole.
One day, I was sitting on the couch, exhausted, drained of all my love except for one sliver dancing across the bottom of the bucket. April stormed in, demanding the last little bit of love I had, or else she was leaving.
For once, I stood up.
“No,” I said. My hands shook.
No more taking me for everything I have.
No more draining me day after day.
No more us.
As I walked out the door, I felt relieved, and I gazed at the small sliver of love I had left.
I wandered the streets, dragging and drained. I stumbled into a bar hoping to forget about the events that had just unfolded and move on. The sticky floor and dim lights welcomed me in, along with a wave of people swaying to the music. I took an open bar stool, leaning against the counter as I ordered a drink. I looked to my side to see waves of soft brunette hair. The woman turned to me, her bright blue eyes glittering, standing out in the diimness.
“Come here often?” she said with a sly smile.
I laughed and responded, “First time.”
She studied me for a moment, just me, not my wallet or anything—just me.
“Well,” she said, “it looks like you could use a refill."
“A refill?”
She tapped her bucket. "I've got plenty!”
And for the first time, I didn't reach for my own bucket. I just listened to her. We talked for a long time, and I felt something I hadn't felt in months.
Silver
by Giada Musto
Jessie walked through the halls of the student center waving at each person he passed. It was a cacophony of hellos, hugs, and how was your summers. He greeted everyone with the same pleasant smile and kept walking. He’d already been reunited with everyone that really mattered.
He heard someone his name from behind somewhere, but he just gave a kurt nod and continued on his way. He pushed open the door to the studio and threw his backpack on the ground, sliding into the spinning chair with ease. He picked up sticky notes from atop the computer, another from the headphones, and then fifty more strewn about the room with notes about the new equipment they’d gotten over the summer. He skimmed most of them and ignored the rest.
The instant the clock hit the hour he flipped the switch to On Air. “Hello, and welcome to the Silver Station, my radio show where I talk about everything that's second best. My name is Jessie Silver, a senior at our lovely college, and today the silver medal goes to Thanksgiving! That’s right folks, today I’m going to talk about the second best holiday here in America.”
He spent the next hour discussing a holiday that was still months away, but he was tired of planning out his topics in accordance with the time of year. He did everything as he normally would, made his usual jokes, brought in some valid arguments. When he left, the room appeared undisturbed from his hour-long show; he even bothered to make sure the sticky notes were back in the same place.
When he left the studio, students quickly congratulated him on the episode. A few screamed that Thanksgiving was the best holiday, or that Halloween was the second best holiday and Thanksgiving was simply bottom of the list. He took a brisk walk back to his on-campus apartment where his friends were in the middle of cooking stir-fry, although that description was probably pushing the bounds of what actually constitutes cooking
For the next few weeks, Jessie noticed hat his radio show was being talked about more and more. It hardly surprised him, since last year ended with all time high audience numbers for any of the school radio programs. He knew he was a charismatic guy with a calming voice. While he hardly stood out in a crowd based solely on appearance, his voice was different. People liked it.
Throughout the fall, students approached him to ask about the show. Some gave recommendations for the next silver medal, some tried to argue with him, and others simply congratulated him on another successful episode.
On the first long weekend of the year, Jessie and his friend Chris went to New York to catch a Knicks game. In the latest episode of Silver Station, he had talked about Chicago having the second best pizza. Naturally, Chris decided that in celebration they should go to a pizza place for dinner—after all, if Chicago pizza got silver, New York pizza must have won gold.
Jessie folded his slice and took a bite while Chris rambled on about a chemistry experiment gone wrong because of his classmate’s incompetence. Jessie smiled and nodded as if he actually knew anything about chemistry.
Chris paused to take a bite of his pizza and Jessie seized the moment to ask the question that he had been mulling over. “What’s the second best major? I don’t even think I could name the best. I personally think it could go to finance, but you’ll probably say I’m biased.”
“Finance is boring,” Chris responded with his mouth full of pizza.
“I’d put chem in the top five best majors, and I’d put it ahead of bio.” Jessie leaned back in his chair.
Chris set down the pizza, “You can’t bribe me into making a bad list. Finance does not deserve the silver medal and everyone else will tell you the same.”
Jessie hadn’t noticed the waiter standing next to the table until he interrupted their conversation. “Oh my god,” he said. “You’re Jessie Silver! That voice. I knew I’d heard it somewhere, but damn, I love Silver Station!”
“You listen to the show?” Jessie said with a surprised smile.
The waiter laughed. “Wow, humble too.”
“It’s not like I’m famous or anything.”
Chris chuckled. When Jessie looked around everyone in the restaurant was staring at him, huge grins plastered on their faces. People pointed and smiled and waved. Some even took pictures. One guy was on his phone telling someone to rush over quickly to see Jessie Silver.
Chris interjected. “Jessie, do you know how many listeners you have?”
Jessie stared back in confusion, which made Chris smile. “I’d approximate 8 billion, but I hear that some people choose to just tune you out during the hour you broadcast.” Chris shook his head. “I really thought you knew, man. I told you in the sticky notes, the new mic I bought you broadcasts globally. Everyone can hear you.”
“Hello and welcome to Silver Station, the radio show where I talk about everything that's second best. My name is Jessie Silver, a senior at our lovely college, and today the silver medal goes to L.A.. That’s right, I'm arguing that Los Angeles is the second best city in my great country. Now, I know we have a global audience so first let me give you a few facts…”
Jessie went on about second best cities, countries, foods, drinks, animals, plants, and whatever else he could think of. He never thought too much about his listeners. After he graduated, he accepted a few advertising deals, but never a lot and never all at once. He had rules. He didn’t want people to know his face. He just wanted to be a voice in their head for one hour every week.
As he got older, he attended more public events, but he always covered his face. Even when he accepted the Nobel Peace Prize after his podcast helped end a war, he covered his face. After many incidents where people recognized his voice and ambushing him, he began to lower his voice in public and speak with a British accent. It worked for the most part.
Fifteen years after he graduated, he sat in an L.A. restaurant across from Chris. He thought of that day in the pizza place which seemed so long ago.
“It’s been awhile,” Chris said.
Jessie nodded. “Nothing about my life has changed. So what's going on with you?”
“Mary’s doing well, she just went back to work, which was rough, but Ruby’s in kindergarten now. I’m still a lawyer. I’ve gotten a few interesting cases but nothing extraordinary.” Chris paused and looked across the table at Jessie. “You said nothing's changed with you, and yet I haven’t been able to contact you?”
Jessie glanced up from his menu. “I’ve been off the grid for the past two years. I thought I told you. I make an appearance at a few public events once in a while, but for the most part I try to stay away from everything. I just came to visit my family and thought I would check in with you before heading back to my cabin,” Jessie said.
“Your cabin? Where—?”
The server asked for their order while Chris stared blankly at Jessie.
When the waiter left, Chris continued, “Where is this cabin? When you said you were going off the grid I didn’t think you meant it. I assumed you used the term like, I don’t know, like people say they’re going camping when really they’re glamping.”
Jessie chuckled. “The cabin’s in Washington. And when I said off the grid I meant it. All mail is delivered to me via actual letter. No texts, emails, or phone calls.”
Chris' jaw dropped. “So you're completely out of touch with everything? Like you don’t know what's trending or, say, what’s going on politically?”
“I get the newspaper once a week. It covers the political stuff.”
Chris stared at Jessie. Then he said, “What about religion?”
Jessie furrowed his brow, “I don’t know, I’m not practicing, but I guess I’d call myself christian.”
Chris averted his gaze, nodding to the area behind Jessie. Jessie turned to find a middle aged woman staring at him. The second they made eye contact, she bowed deeply. The rest of the room was also staring, and then many joined the woman island bowed to Jessie. A few others simply videoed with their phones.
Confused, Jessie addressed the room. “Hi. How are you all doing?” His audience's eyes went wide, but no one said anything. Jessie turned back to Chris, “Why aren’t they answering?”
“You really don’t know?” Chris asked.
Jessie shook his head.
“They’re Silverists.”
Jessie stared blankly.
“The Silver Church is a religion that follows the teachings of Jessie Silver. They are part of your religion. Seriously, how did no one tell you about this?”
“So I’m—i’m their God?”
“Technically there’s an internal debate about whether you are like a God or some sort of Pope, or dalai lama. At the moment, Silverists make up almost forty percent of the population. People are talking about literally everything you’ve ever said.”
Jessie stared at the woman bowing toward to him. “But…why?”
Chris didn’t answer, but the woman spoke up. “Because the sound of your voice is the only consistent thing in my life. Because you are real.”
Jessie ran from the restaurant.
Let’s Wait Til Spring
by Daniel Jiang
On a day swamped with snow and endless blues, I met Jane.
A cigarette resting between my jaws, I stared into the vast ocean. There were heavy stones piled on the shore, and a hole had been created among the planes of frost and ice covering the waters. I breathed out, and I felt the essence blending into the cold air.
“Let’s wait till spring.”
A soft, female voice floated over from behind me.
I didn’t bother to turn. “Excuse me?”
“Let’s wait till spring,” she repeated, this time with a soft giggle.
I turned around and I saw Jane. She was dressed in a gray parka, with a light blue scarf wrapped around her neck. Her faint, blond hair was pressed under the scarf, with bits of it sticking out like hay. Her face was so pale it blended in with our surroundings.
She smiled a light smile. Her white-ish blue eyes were crescent-shaped as she stared at me and the corners of her mouth were slightly raised.
I could understand her happiness, but I couldn’t empathize with it just yet.
“How was the water?” I asked.
“It was freezing.”
“How long did it take you to drown?”
“About 5 minutes.”
“Doesn’t sound too bad.”
“It feels longer than you think.”
We looked at the water for a few minutes.
“So what's your reason?” I broke the silence.
“Do we really need one?”
“I think we do.”
She pursed her lips and thought. I dropped the cigarette butt on the ground, watching the small spark flicker out in the the snow.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Does your life mean anything to you?”
“It means everything to me.”
“Then why?”
“I guess I’m just a little more impatient than the others.”
Huh, I thought.
“Why are you telling me to wait till spring? I think that's a little hypocritical.”
“The water is too cold right now. You should do it when it’s warmer.”
I felt myself bending down, and my arm hung from my shoulder. My fingers wrapped themselves around a rock, feeling the sharp tip.
I turned around and grabbed Jane’s scarf, pulling her towards me. She struggled, but my other hand had already plunged the rock into her neck. I dug deep into her skin, feeling the rock plow through her already lifeless flesh, until I sensed something new.
It was a pulse.
Her face began to regain color, and I could feel the beating of her pulse under the rock, growing stronger. I held her still until I felt her warm breath touching the tips of my fingers.
“What have you done?” she screamed. She clawed at her neck as she screeched, her voice getting louder with every pulse she felt under her skin. With no hesitation, she desperately ran towards the ocean.
Before she could reach the waters, I tackled her to the ground and held her still.
I don’t remember how much time we spent wrestling, but I can remember how her voice turned raspy from all the screaming, and how she finally began to laugh. We rolled apart, and I started laughing with her. Our laugh ranged through the cold air, and our hot, exercised bodies steamed on top of the snow.
After a while, we sat up.
Jane shivered and she tightened the scarf around her neck.
“It’s so cold now.”
“I guess you’re right. Let’s wait till it's warmer.”
She smiled.
“Let’s wait till spring.”
What Silence Makes
by Brianna Mungai
“Get away from me,” I whispered, my voice shaking. With slow movements, I managed to reach my umbrella on the floor. Grasping it until my knuckles turned white, I pointed it towards the shadows.
“Do not be afraid, my child,” the voice echoed.
“I am NOT your child,” I snapped, sneering at the concealed intruder. The lights began to flicker, revealing an eerily pale man covered from head to toe by a dark cloak. I stood there, as if I were a mannequin in a clothing store.
“Cat got your tongue?” he beamed, revealing a glimpse of his dagger-shaped teeth.
My heart beat in my chest as I gripped the umbrella tighter, “Don’t come near me.” My voice trembled as I took a step back. He tilted his head slowly, as if studying me. Not looking at me, but through me.
“You’ve grown,” he murmured. “Stronger than the last time I saw you.”
“I’ve never seen you before,” I spat back, though doubt slowly crept into my mind. Something about his voice felt familiar. Not comforting. Not safe. Just…known. The temperature in the room dropped. My breath fogged in front of me.
“You have,” he insisted. “You simply do not remember.”
“I think I would remember someone like you,” I finished, forcing the words past the tightness in my throat. His smile widened slightly, the corners of his lips stretching in a way that did not look entirely human.
“You remember what wounds you,” he said softly, his voice almost gentle, though it made my chest ache. “You do not remember what guards you.”
The lights flickered again, and my eyes shifted to the nightstand. The cracked photograph split my face from the rest of my family. I had left it like that for months, too afraid to fix it, too certain that no one cared. The shadows seemed to stretch toward it, drawn to the fractures, to the imperfections I’d tried so hard to hide.
A loud bang rattled my bedroom door. My heart jumped, and I gripped the umbrella tighter. Another bang, harder this time, made the frame shudder. The handle twisted violently.
“You did that,” I whispered.
He did not move. “It has been here all along.”
The darkness from the hallway crept into my room. It was thick and heavy, unlike any night I had ever known. It slithered across the floor, curling around my shoes, brushing against the nightstand where the photograph lay shattered.
“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice trembling.
“You know,” he said, smirking.
The shadows slowly crept up my legs. I tried to shake them off, but the pressure pressed higher, around my shoulders now. It wasn’t sharp or violent, only certain and relentless. My hands shook as I gripped the umbrella, tighter now, but it felt useless. The sticky notes around my mirror swayed slightly at the edges. Do better. Try harder. Almost there. I’d written them years ago, reminders to myself that nothing could protect me from the emptiness I carried inside.
“You called for me,” he said softly. “Every night you wished to disappear. Every time you hoped someone would notice you. Every time you believed that if you stayed quiet, nothing worse could happen.”
“But I didn’t—” I tried to argue, but the words dissolved before they reached my lips.
“Yes, you did,” he said. “You called, and I answered.”
The shadows climbed to my shoulders, pressing against my neck, brushing across my face. I wanted to struggle, to pull back, to fight with all my might, but the effort seemed meaningless. This is it. I thought. The time I’d always been prepared for has finally come.
“You are what silence makes of a person.” he murmured. My heartbeat slowed, not in fear, but in resignation. I watched the reflection in the mirror fade into shadow. My body felt heavier and lighter at once, like I was sinking while standing still.
The last thing I saw was his pale face leaning closer, teeth glinting faintly in the flickering light. Then the room dimmed entirely. The shadows swallowed everything, and I didn’t even attempt to stop them.
The nightstand still held the scattered remnants of my life. The umbrella lay useless on the floor. The cracked photograph split my face from my family, and the sticky notes framed the mirror like a warning. Everything I had clung to, everything I had been, was swallowed slowly, quietly, without struggle.
Then, everything went black.
Apology
by Giada Musto
The man took another sip of his beer. The woman kept talking. “Remember that time we went to London? You said you hated the trip, but I have to say it's one of my favorites. You complained about the rain all day and yet you still loaned me your rain jacket when mine got lost at the museum.”
She leaned forward in her chair. The man sat across from her with his eyes glancing down at the halfeaten plate of food. The man never responded. “You shouldn’t have gotten rid of the centerpiece, Craig, it ruins the flow of the room. I understand you prefer using the space for storage, but I don’t think the stack of cans you’ve left in the center is quite as welcoming. Although I can admit to it being impressive.” The woman stared across at him, her eyes blinking four times. She stood and crossed to the buffet table on the side.
“You really need to start cleaning again. Maybe use the cleaning service Bethany recommended,” the woman mumbled. The buffet table was covered in dust, save for a few rectangles. The woman sniffed the air and scrunched her nose. When she turned around the man was smoking. She reached to grab the cigarette but her hand got caught on nothing.
“I’m sorry Abby,” the man whispered. It was one of the only things he said anymore.
Someone knocked on the door. The man kept on smoking. The knocking continued, followed by a voice. “Craig, it's Tom! Are you there?” More knocking. “You have to open the door one of these days.”
Abby walked toward the door. “He brought dinner. Real dinner, not just that garbage you’re eating.” She waited for Craig to do something but he didn’t. He was staring into the abyss and she became scared it might actually be staring back. She Continued to wait for him to answer the door, but even Tom grew tired and wandered away with all the hope he had left.
He sat there long after he’d finished eating, half his food still on the plate. He didn’t speak, or read, or glance at a single thing except for the seat across from him where Abby had returned. She felt his eyes move right through her, the strength of his stare crushing her heart. All he did was smoke and drink. She averted her gaze and listened to the sounds of the television as they drifted through the door. She became engulfed in the whistles and the jingles and the cheering of crowds.
Shards of glass smashed against the wall, ricocheting until they embedded themselves in every surface they could find. A scream escaped Craig’s lips and the Abby’s chest rose as some invisible weight was lifted off it. At least something had happened. Shards engulfed her chair. The glass had collided with the wall between the couple. A thousand cuts disturbed his skin. Some large, some small. All made him wince.
He went to clean up the mess. Crouching down on the floor and picked up the larger pieces, getting pricked by the smaller ones. He fell back on his heels, leaning his head against the wall as his body slouched against it. His eyes squeezed shut. A few tears streamed down his face until the sound from the television was drowned out by his sorrow.
“I’m sorry Abby,” he whispered.
Rising from the chair, Abby turned her voice to stone. “Don’t be sorry. I don’t want you to be sorry. I’ve never needed your goddamn apology! I don’t care if you’re sorry, that's not why I’m here!” She was in his face by the time she ended. Mere inches hung between them. No one backed away.
Knock. Another man dressed in a fancy black suit befitting a politician’s funeral took a step into the room. He scanned the space and when his eyes landed on the couple he glanced at the ground and rocked back on his heels.
“Abagial,” the man said.
A moment passed before she moved. Then she was rising from the ground and stepping through the chaos. She made it to the door and spared a glance back at the house. Then she gave a quick nod. “Okay,” she said.
The man in black held out his hand. She grabbed it.
The doorway was empty now. Craig was still on the floor. Tears welled in his eyes although none fell down his face.
“I’m sorry, Abby,” he mumbled over and over again. But this time the only thing around to listen was the silence.
What She Carried
by Samara Vijayan
She knew everything, remembering without trying. It would not leave her brain. No matter how much she tried, she couldn’t escape it. It was like trying to get rid of your shadow on a perfectly sunny day.
She learned their order by accident. A Boston Cream donut and a Strawberry Dragonfruit Refresher with lemonade. The details stayed with her. She collected them the way some collect change.
The two of them just got each other. She felt safe, heard, and understood. They would spend their free time together, talking about everything and anything. Yet at the same time, the pair could sit in silence and never feel uncomfortable.
When the couple talked, she would lean in, giving it her all. When they paused, she waited. When they needed to cry, she gave her metaphorical shoulder. She listened, not interrupting She chose her words so carefully, placing them down so gently, as if they could shatter.
Then, someone else had appeared. Not suddenly out of nowhere, but so gradually that she nearly missed it.
The load of remembering began to get heavier, weighing her down. What once felt so effortless was exhausting. She carried on anyway.. She was always there. She reminded them when they forgot something; She reached out first. She filled silences before it could get uncomfortable.
She learned how to bend over backwards for someone without it looking like she was bent at all. She rearranged everything for them: her time, her energy, her thoughts. If they needed something she was always the first there. If they needed space she made sure they knew she was just a call away.
She convinced herself this was what friendship was like. That this was ok and that everything was just like it had always been.
She began to noticed their phone buzzing more frequently with texts from this other person. Laughter and smiles came quicker than before, but it was aimed at someone else. Why? She could not understand. What did she do wrong? Did she not give them enough? What did this new person have that she did not? The thoughts were suffocating. She stood beside them, but it was as though she were now invisible.
The truth was that she still showed up. She still listened, leaned in and waited, just as she had done before. It was painful. They stopped asking how she was. They never seemed to notice when she went quiet. They only reached out when they needed a favor, never wanting to give anything in return. Yet she complied, always there for them, always saying yes.
Weeks passed and deep down she knew things needed to change. She sat in her bed, phone in hand, her fingers hovering over the send button. She wanted to send it, to be the perfect friend that she has always been, yet something felt different.
She stared up at the ceiling following the circles of the fan with her eyes. She was curled up in a ball, her knees hugged tightly to her chest. Clothes were scattered across the floor, but she was too tired to pick them up. Her music played faintly in the background, but her thoughts drowned out the sound.
Her phone lit up with a notification, making her stomach jump. Was it them? No. Of course not. She reread her text, knowing that if she just sent it everything would be ok, normal. She was checking in as she always had. But she wondered, what could possibly go so wrong if she didn’t reach out first? Why can’t they just care? She longed for someone to be there for her, check in and see if she was okay.
She placed her phone down on the bed, the drafted text abandoned. She fought the urge to reach out. Breathe in. Breathe out. The fear of the truth was eating her alive.
Minutes turned into hours and still her phone never lit up.
Yet. Did she feel ok? The world did not end. She waited for the panic to hit her, for the fear of being alone to come rushing in, but it never did. She thought of all the times she kept the conversation alive and filled gaps before gaps could even exist. She thought of the immense effort it took to be the one who remembered to reach out. Without her doing any of that, had there even been a friendship?
The realization did not hurt her the way she thought it would. The pain was not sharp, rather slow and dull, in a way that almost felt calming. It felt as if someone were pinching her awake.
They did not ask where she went, or whether she was ok, or why she was not around. Her phone stayed exactly where she had placed it on the bed. She watched as the daylight began to drain from her room. She welcomed the darkness with open arms. It was then that she truly understood.
Lyrical
by Samara Vijayan
The yellow light remained on for an oddly long time. He noticed this but much later.
The radio was playing a song he used to love but he couldn’t recall the name. It was a song that reminded him of a time he did not wish to revisit. A time so dark that when thinks of it, he finds himself back at the very bar where he had spent his evening on this day.
“I’m fine,” he said to himself. “I'm fine, good to go”.
He had followed his usual protocol earlier that night. He had splashed some water on his face from the squeaky faucet of the bar bathroom and then had stared at himself for a few moments in the dirty mirror waiting for a few minutes. Next, he had paid his tab. He had found himself tripping over the bar stool on his way to the door but still made it to his car. He had slapped himself once in the face before beginning his drive.
The light was red? He didn’t remember not pressing the breaks. He did not remember flooring the accelerator. Did he drink too much? The car hurtled forward.
The silence of the night was disturbed by the harsh impact. Shards of glass reflected the moonlight as they covered the ground. The cars had hit each other with an incredible amount of force. His engine began to smoke.
Screaming, then blood. Everywhere.
Suddenly he found himself standing, watching the scene from the sidewalk. He could see his car. It looked like a ball of paper that had been crumpled up and thrown in the trash. Destroyed.
Nobody seemed to notice his presence, he did not understand why. He was close enough to read his license plate that was lying in the middle of the road, feet away from the collision.
JFL-5178. Massachusetts plate. He was close enough to see a head very similar to his own, pressed up against the window, inside of what was left of the car.
He felt steady, normal, calm. He watched as the paramedics carried the limp body out of the front seat and into the ambulance. The ambulance took off, lights flashing as it sped ahead. He followed.
At the hospital his parents arrived first. Then his siblings shortly after. His mom stood there clutching his father like he was the only thing holding her down. His little sister sank to the floor, tears streaming down her face, and his older brother hugged her tightly. His dad said his name repeatedly as if it were a sacred chant.
He tried to reach out to them, hold them and tell them he was okay. He waved at his mom and then gave her a thumbs up, but she collapsed to the ground anyway.
His room stayed untouched for weeks after that. His siblings did not come bursting through the door like they used to. The half full cup of coffee sitting on his desk began to smell. The laundry was not done. His computer remained charging at his bed side table.
His friends began to stop texting. Messages went from novella-length to short paragraphs to sentences, then to silence.
The bar stool that he once used to sit on weekly remained the same. The bar remained a hot spot for the sad and lonely. The bright yellow lamp next to the traffic lights at the intersection continued to turn on every night. His siblings eventually went back to school and then his parents back to work shortly after. He followed his mom around the house and then his dad out into the garage.
The reality was the world never stopped spinning. That was the cruelest part and he began to realize it. Everyone’s lives carried on, but he was stuck. The crash was over but the space he once occupied remained.
He rushed back to the hospital and saw his body. It was his body. Lifeless, hooked to many machines that breathed for him. One plug pulled and it would all be over. He tried to shake himself awake. He tried to hop back into his body but nothing worked. It was impossible.
He thought back to that night. The light was red. He knew that. He was not good to go. He also knew that. The success with his usual protocol was a fluke. He knew that too. He thought of the last thing he really heard. The song.
After a few moments the song began grew quieter and quieter. His thoughts and the song faded simultaneously. Then it was darkness and silence.
The Necklace
by Brianna Mungai
The necklace felt warm in Gabriel’s hand when he removed it from her neck, as though it had been holding something for longer than it should have. The nurse was speaking softly beside him, explaining how the body can fail without warning, how electrical impulses in the heart sometimes misfire without reason, but Gabriel found himself focusing instead on the faint pale circle at the base of Lila’s throat, a small untouched patch of skin where the pendant had rested.
He unclasped the chain carefully, slipping it into his coat pocket.
Gabriel had always believed that love should last. It wasn’t like he’d been hurt, nor that anyone had betrayed him. His certainty came from somewhere quieter and more stubborn than that. He simply could not understand how something chosen so deliberately between two people could later dissolve as though it had never been decided at all. The city seemed full of couples who existed with easy confidence, as if permanence required no maintenance. He used to watch them while waiting at crosswalks or standing in line for coffee, telling himself he was not jealous.
He was waiting.
When he met Lila, it felt less like chance and more like confirmation. Their hands reached for the same book in a narrow aisle of a bookstore, and in the brief moment their fingers brushed, Gabriel noticed the clock above the register stall in its ticking before resuming a moment later. He assumed it was faulty. Lila didn’t seem to notice anything unusual. She smiled at him with an openness that made the world feel briefly aligned.
With her, the future seemed less abstract. She asked him questions about where he saw himself in five years, ten years, and listened closely to his answers as though she intended to be present in each of them. She moved through his apartment with ease, rearranging nothing but somehow making the space feel inhabited in a new way. Gabriel began to imagine stability not as an idea but as something solid.
He gave her the necklace on a quiet evening while they sat together on his couch There was no special occasion. He had simply decided that she was the person he’d been waiting for all those years.
“It’s just something to keep,” he told her as he fastened the clasp behind her neck.
The silver pendant rested neatly against her collarbone, catching the light when she turned her head. When the clasp clicked shut, Gabriel felt a subtle steadiness settle inside him, as if a door he had been holding open for years had finally closed.
The silver pendant rested neatly against her collarbone, catching the light when she turned her head. When the clasp clicked shut, Gabriel felt a subtle steadiness settle inside him, as if a door he had been holding open for years had finally closed.
After that, his restlessness eased. He no longer found himself studying strangers’ relationships or wondering how easily affection might fade. Lila wore the necklace every day, and he found comfort in the consistency, in the way it lay in the same place each time he looked at her.
Gradually, however, he began to notice small irregularities. When she seemed distracted during a conversation, her fingers unconsciously drifted to the pendant as if checking its position. On evenings when she canceled plans or returned later than expected, the chain seemed slightly tighter on her, pressing lightly onto her faint Adam’s apple. Once, when he held the pendant between his fingers absentmindedly, it felt heavier than he remembered.
Objects adjust to the people who carry them, he told himself.
One afternoon, as he walked past a café across the street from his office, he saw Lila sitting across from a man he did not recognize. Their heads inclined toward one another in quiet conversation. She laughed softly, leaning forward across the small table, and when the man reached across to brush her hand, she didn’t immediately withdraw.
Gabriel did not enter the café; he refused, concerned about what his first reaction might be. He stood outside, separated from her by glass and distance, simply observing without interruption. He watched as she lifted her hand to her throat and curled her fingers around the necklace, holding it there for a moment before releasing it.
That evening, when she arrived at his apartment, her voice carried its usual brightness, but she adjusted the chain several times while speaking.
“It feels tight lately,” she said, slipping a finger beneath it as though to loosen the pressure. “I have no clue why.”
“It looks the same,” Gabriel replied, studying the silver resting against her skin.
She smiled faintly, though her eyes didn’t linger on his for long.
“I guess everything comes to an end eventually,” she said in a tone that suggested she meant it lightly.
Gabriel felt something constrict in his chest at those words, though he could not say whether it was anger or fear. Lying beside her in the dark, he was acutely aware of the glint of the pendant against her throat and of the unusual heaviness in the air between them, as though something invisible had been drawn too tight.
In the morning, she did not wake.
The necklace lay perfectly still against her throat, the silver catching the pale light that slipped through the curtains.
For the first time since he had given it to her, it no longer seemed heavy.
I Don’t Know
by Aidan Davis
“I just don’t know,” the man said. He got up from the old battered chair whose cushions felt more like marble than they did pillows. His mouth tasted weird, bitter, and his head felt a bit dizzy.
“What don’t you know?”
“I don’t even know what I don’t know.”
“Then how do you know you don’t know something?”
“I don’t know that either.”
“What happened today?”
The man sat back down, the rock solid cushions once again providing a hard landing for his behind. “Well, when I got up, the sun wasn’t shining.” Probably because it was 5 a.m. but in his mind it was a bit of justification for his confusion. “Then when I got up I let you out, but you didn’t chase any of the three squirrels in the yard.”
“Not sure why I didn’t do that. Bummer. They might get cocky and try to come back. Is this why you're confused?”
“No, definitely not, I’m sure of that.”
The man continued to replay the day in his mind, although as he pondered, it seemed like just another day, so he decided to stop thinking.
“I went to work, but I couldn’t get anything done. I was too distracted because I didn’t know.”
“Didn’t know what?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did your boss say when he saw you being unproductive?”
The man thought back to the interaction he had had with his boss, and realized that it had actually been an odd interaction. Maybe this was the reason. Although…no. He had already been confused before that.
“Well, he praised me for being so focused and working so hard.”
“Could that be the reason for your confusion?”
“No, definitely not, I’m sure of that.”
As he continued to watch the movie of his day in his head, his lunchtime also seemed uneventful. His sandwich was as normal as a sandwich could get. His soda was as normal as a soda could get. His chips were—well, they were actually above average. His cookie was as normal as a cookie could get. Nothing had happened at all.
“During lunch, a bird flew over and shit in my food.”
“Really? Stupid bird. Let me out and I’ll eat him.”
“But you can’t fly any more.”
“I never could. But birds gotta land at some point.”
“True, very true. On the drive home the neighbor's cat attacked my tires, so I ran it over.”
“Good! She needed to go. She’s said some awful things.”
The man thought for a second, and realized he had no idea if that had actually happened. He wasn’t even sure if the neighbor had a cat.
“I’m not sure what I did when I got home. I think I called someone on the phone.”
“Was it her?”
“I don’t know.”
“How do you not know? What did you talk about?”
“I don’t know, I just remember the phone.”
The phone. He remembered its weight in his hand. Had it gotten heavier throughout the call? Yes, it got really heavy, so much so he had to put it down on the ground and stand on his head to keep it near the phone. He didn’t remember what he had talked about, but he remembered how he felt. Confusion, then something else. It was like a hole inside him, slowly being opened up, and soon there was nothing left but emptiness and…
Oh, yes! He was lonely. That was it!
He was no longer confused. He had figured it out. But she wasn’t coming back. Now he remembered, he had called her after… he looked down and saw the half bottle of scotch on the floor near his foot. He called her after he got home, and after he had drinks.
“Yes, I called her. She didn’t say much to me, just told me to leave her alone. I don’t think she's coming back.”
“You’re lonely, aren’t you?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Lets do something to take your mind off of it. Can you walk me?”
“Yes, that sounds like a good idea. Let me grab your leash.”
The man tried get up and realized he was back on his head, so really getting up was going down. He went down, walked to the closet and grabbed the leash, putting it on his old dog.
As they walked along the sidewalk, he was distracted by the thought of her.
“Those squirrels are gone. I have nothing to chase,” the dog said.
“Yes, they are gone,” the man said as he stared at the empty night sky.
“Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.”
— Anton Chekhov
Poetry
Grades
by Sienna Steeves
They watch me from OnBrooks, unblinking.
Another assignment appears and lies there, waiting
Deadlines tighten around my ribs I try to breathe but expectations sit heavy on my chest.
They keep watching, waiting to see if I am enough.
10:03 am, June 17th
by Caleb Hatch
The sun yawns over the hills golden light stretches across clear skies peeking through a blanket of clouds Warmth dances into streets Ocean whispers to pearly white sand, winds talk and echo in coves. Restless harbors, busy motors.
My Life
by Victor Ha
Thou, a hollow host, bowest politely, then movest on, into the abyss
Thus, I coronate the void with a halo, forging my own dawn.
Monkey Bars by
Taylor Betts
The black elastic clung to my wrist like that one chunk of snow that never manages to melt
A constant reminder
Little children shriek One of my hands slips and I reach for the next monkeybar. The ding of my hand hitting the metal bar erupts, the high pitched ping penetrates. I swing and jump off, woodchips concave as my weight makes contact with the ground below. Dirt dots arrange themselves on the back of my pants, my shoes spit up mud as I race, dodging every peer that crowds my path.
The school bell rings, but not the one from before The days are longer, the monkey bars don't recognize me any more But the elastic on my wrist, it still smiles back.
Eagle
by Kaden Almaraz
for days the beating sun shone through the open window, boasting hope at freedoms in its bald friendly feathered form. its eyes eyed the chance for escape to the light beyond the sick sullen bars barring its return. and there, freedom lies in its cold iron cage breathing in warmth from the past as the life in its eyes wanes with the moon.
I Love You
by Sienna Steeves
You need to work harder I love you
You need to get better grades I love you
You need to join more clubs. I love you.
You need to be more social. I love you.
You need to study more. I love you.
You need to get ahead for college. I love you
You need to be better I love you
Three words don’t erase everything else you say.
Damn
by Wes Bixby
Should I?
Or should I not?
It’s like what that one guy said “To be or not to be”
Or whatever
My gut says yes
My head says no
All my heart says is “I don't know, bro”
I think I will Yes, I will
But wait What if Oh yeah
No I won’t I can’t
But I want to…
Fine, I will I'm going to do it
But what am I doing?
I don’t even want to anyway Ok, I won’t
Oh what?
It’s gone now?
I can’t?
Damn
With You
by Taylor Betts
When I am with you
The noise inside me subsides
You can not fix the world
But you try your hardest to steady it
Like placing a calm hand on a shaking one
The tremble disappears
You make me kinder Without asking for change
You make me braver
Without needing me to prove it
You feel like home
In ways I can’t explain
One sentence can change a day
Many miracles in life And somehow I was handed you
Death is all that would save me from you
by Kaden Almaraz
Not the countless nights spent counting the times you’d jump like sheep over the picket white fence, trotting further off as I drift into pointless slumber where you’d emerge anyway to hasten fatigue from my thoughts.
For even the absence of that absent feeling for you is a lie to my own mind while I lie down on the hardwood floor, trying so hard to push away the heavy emotion that anchors my heart through its cage, to the ground, beneath my back
As the stream of days floats me astray, I feel as if this feeling will never pass away, when even death himself is afraid to cleave me and gently lower me into the ground where I could finally rest. Even he knows that this internal suffering is bound for eternal suffering.
All because my heart beats itself up wondering if I could ever love you
The Crowded Elevator
by Wes Bixby
I step into the lift
A crowd of faces
Await my entry
I plunge into the claustrophobia
Eyes from all are daggers to me
Strangers known well enough to share space
But not enough to conversate
Standing in silence
Waiting for a ding
Should I let my loud mouth win?
Awkward giggles invade my mind
One slips out
But it only makes deeper the hole of awkward I’ve dug
Frost’s Descent (Soko)
by Victor Ha
Harvest moon rising
Crickets stitch the cool night air
Maples bruise too sweet
Frost wind rattles the branches Geese fill the sky, heading south
Presence
by Maile Lung
Why does the green grass grow on the edge where the warm orange seeps down, as blues and purples rise until the sun walks away for the night?
It melts into the calm and ominous water that sways back and forth, making eye lids heavy
I sit and watch, anxious, dark hair and cold eyes darting.
Who is this miss that visits?
February
by Henry Osborne
The waning winter spites its inhabitants with frost, flurry, and fever It finishes long fought battles and ferries victims to the other side Its nights are years of eternal chill clouding the streets with sheets of snow where Mercy, born from blizzard, blooms, her golden hair a beacon in the night to unite strangers against the weather.
The Real Solution
by James Sullivan
Inside we sit
consuming blue light like black holes
We see, we feel, we oppose, we repost Outside, an orange haze sets over the horizon
People polarized as others’ opinions creep under our skin, hooking us with headlines words impossible to ignore.
One day we step outside fresh air filling our lungs, birds chirping and wind whistling, away from the noise inside us.
I need to do this more Is what we tell ourselves, but we go back inside and open the first notification we see
Banana
by Kaden Almaraz
Born upon a radiant star, your dust of billions of years, drifting across the vast, empty sea of our very universe, comes to settle on our very planet
An undiscoverable mystery, you effortlessly hide as though your secrets would guide us to infinite knowledge. But truth be told, your presence here is nothing short of a miracle. Destined to arrive since the day we first met, you never broke your promise to me, and now you are set placed gently against the sides of a wooden bowl, your yellow skin burns bright like the lights above your head and the energy you carry is unmatched in quantity and quality. The sweetness of your breath revealed as your shell is peeled back and you, in your fullest, are exposed to the world.
O’ Give Thanks
by Micah Dixon
That gut-wrenching smell of chitlins brings a still joy to the table
Many Heads fill surrounding seats, the smell of seasoning in the air, an aromatic bloom
Undoubtedly when scooped its dark mellow colors light the room as the sounds of scraping fill the soul.
Feel the warm bowl filled with life, its shallowness filled with bliss.
Korean Melon (Chamoe)
by Victor Ha
Sunlit golden jade
Ambrosia of sweetness
Scent of honey
A gift of Persephone
Pale flesh hides the seeded heart
Yellow Eyes by Maile Lung
The bright yellow catches my attention but is it the color, or the odd shape?
The eye-shaped fruit that makes your own eyes squint and tighten from the piercing sourness that leaves you mouth fresh and clean.
The more colorful, perfectly round lemons sit at the top, always the first picked. My eyes dart to the side reaching for the one that hides waiting for its turn to be the lucky one The knife glides through the thick skin exposing the ferris wheel of balloons.
Squeezing the rind until the half-eye is empty leaving a pruny, bare void never to be fulfilled again. The murky juice runs down my hand finding its way to tiny papercuts creating fire and chaos adding excitement to bland boring dishes despised when by itself but always desired to complete something
Sesame Chicken
by Henry Osborne
The boy, with ribs revealed, waited for a knock at the door When the food was passed into the house, the sweet aroma filled his nose and caused a piercing pain in his stomach.
He sat at the table waiting for the prayer to end and loaded a plate with mountains. Diving into the divine dish, he ate as if he had not eaten in months.
But in his gluttony, he failed to notice the pain of hunger had turned on its head, so in his ignorance, he kept eating, forcing food into his full stomach, ruining his slim athletic frame
Campfire
by Sienna Steeves
Over the campfire, above the flames, floats a sweet marshmallow, perfectly golden, attached to a stick, still cooking
To the side lay crackers, and chocolate. Surrounded by family, by friends, by the scent of smoke, the crackling of the fire drowned by a sea of laughter.
A Still Waters Interview
Giada Musto ‘26 began writing at an early age, and she has been a fixture in the Brooks creative writing community since she was a third form student. During her career, Giada has enrolled in a variety of writing courses, done an independent study program in fiction writing, and is currently one of the student coordinators of the Brooks Writing Center. In the fall, she will attend Wellesley College.
SW: When did you first realize you were a writer?
GM: When I was in 2nd grade I would write short stories about my friends and then share them with the class at the end of the day. Still, I thought of writing as a side hobby until middle school when I began actually planning out my stories before I wrote them. This was the first time I ever dreamed of writing a novel.
SW: What is it about the craft of writing that draws you to it?
GM: For me, I really like working through an idea. I start out with some vague sense of what I want to write, but after spending a few minutes with it, the story begins to take shape. I just really love the process of forming an idea into something usable. That creative process clicking into place is an incredibly satisfying moment that I never want to stop experiencing.
SW: Who are the people in your life who have encouraged or inspired you to pursue this passion?
GM: My parents always encouraged me to write as a child, and then I received further support from my 6th and 7th grade English teachers. My friends always encourage me to write, especially Alder [Hurley], who is always happy to write alongside me and make sure my story ideas aren't too outrageous. The book that first inspired me to write was The Land of Stories by Chris Colfer. The book talks about stories and writing, which made me realize that since I liked the book so much maybe I could write my own.
SW: You have two pieces of short fiction in this issue of Still Waters. What is it about this form that appeals to you?
GM: I've written a few longer works, but that is always a very daunting and complicated process. This year I began writing more short stories and while they can have an equal amount of complexity as a novel, they aren't as terrifying to write. I like writing these shorter stories better because I feel like I can fit a lot of information and impact in a small amount of space. I also find that because of the short form it is easy to keep track of my entire idea and can keep my notes in one simple place. I also like short stories because it’s easier for me to read them myself, easier to feel like a reader, not just a writer. I always want to enjoy what I create as much as I enjoy creating it, and I find that easiest to do when I can read my story in one sitting. Mainly what I've found is that short stories have forced me to be concise, which is one of the things that I've needed to improve in my writing for a while now. The form has pushed me to create clear ideas.
SW: Your story "Silver" depicts a type of cult of personality, something we see a lot of these days. Where do you draw your subject matter from?
GM: Originally the story was going to end very differently. My idea was that a guy could talk to the world directly through this microphone, but once he figures out that everyone can hear him he realizes how much power he has. That power slowly starts to corrupt him as he goes from talking about silly things to talking about politics, and then I was eventually going to have him overthrow the government and become a dictator. That didn't end up happening in the story at all!
Instead of having power corrupt him, I chose to make Jessie a truly good person, an example of someone who could recognize the power they had and figure out how to keep themselves in check. He does this by purposefully not showing his face and also trying to change his voice. I liked this version better because I always read these dystopian stories where power corrupts people, and I wanted to explore the idea of a person being unaware of the power they actually had. Like, what if Paul from Dune (SPOILERS in this next sentence for anyone who hasn't read the books!) wasn't eventually corrupted by his power, but weirded out by it the entire time?
SW: How do you create a writing life for yourself here at Brooks despite such a busy life? What role does writing play in your life here?
GM: In the past, I've written the most over the summer because it's when I had the most free time, but I've taken a few classes at Brooks that have allowed me to continue to write. I've taken an independent study where I wrote a sci-fi novella, and then this year I did an independent winter term where I wrote three short stories. Then this semester I chose to take Fiction Writing. All of these classes have allowed me to write on a consistent basis. I also spend a lot of time in the Writing Center in the evenings along with Alder and [Sam] Oblak, and they are always down to talk about books or any of my writing ideas.
SW: Who are your favorite authors? What do you like about their writing?
GM: My favorite author is Chloe Gong, who wrote These Violent Delights, which is basically Romeo & Juliet set in 1928 Shanghai with a touch of a sci-fi. I love her writing because it perfectly adapts an old story into something new while also involving historical tensions, all with a modern message. I’m reading one of her newest novels right now and I just love how she sucks the reader into her world while also relating it all to the real world. Also, I just love her cat, which she frequently posts on Instagram.
SW: Do you see writing playing a role in your life beyond Brooks? What might that look like?
GM: I definitely see myself continuing to write. I hope to take creative writing courses in college so I can continue to write short stories. I also hope to start writing a longer piece of fiction while in college. I've been told that I'll feel like I have more free time next year, and assuming that’s true, I definitely want to spend some of that time writing. Even if no one ever reads what I write, there’s something about the process of creating that I find soothing.
“If I waited for perfection, I would never write a word.”
Margaret Atwood
“The true alchemists do not change lead into gold; they change
“The true alchemists do not change lead into gold; they change true alchemists not lead the world into words.” the world into words.” the world into words.”
William H. Gass —
William H. Gass
William H. Gass