Uncle Charlie
  Hosanna Rubio '14

Brick Monologue
  Marley Walker '11

The Good Fight
  Maxfield Peterson '10

Uncle Charlie (excerpt)
     by Hosanna Rubio '14
         Watch video of Hosanna reading this piece in performance

     I knew it. I told 'em all but I knew. No one ever believes me though. Crazy old guy with an eye missing. That don't mean one sardine to me though. Cus' I'm still the only one who knew. See, they're everywhere. Gangsters and prison freaks, I mean. Taking over our lil' city, causing a mess like usual. But I say, keep all that mess in prison. But no, let's just be lazy and naive about everything. Cops that live up to their donut and coffee addict stereotype. The mayor, he used to, I said used to be a good man. He was criticized for tryin' to keep the people safe. What a rodeo, huh? Too bad he got shot.
     But like I said, I was the only one who knew. My brains are still whole, I'm sane unlike everyone else 'roun here. These people is crazy as I don't know what. Freakin' out like watchin' blood pour from an emancipated leg. Now I see none of this my fault. When reports of missing inmates at prisons flashed on the news, I bought myself a shiny new lock. Put that on my front door so them hoodlums couldn't try nuthin' crazy. Soon the guards who worked in prisons, jails, turned out missing or dead. Got another lock, this time a thick bolt lock. Creepers on probation went A-wall, shiny chain lock. Probation officers went kaput -- I got bars on my side of the windows. True story. And a lil' six inch pocket knife .....
 

The Good Fight
  Maxfield Peterson '10

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     This I know to be true: there are certain stories you don't ever tell, and your body knows it. I was sure that this was a story I was never going to have to tell. But two miles away from the beach, at five in the evening, I'm running, slipping off black heels and sprinting in stocking feet, holes growing wider among the mesh, a suppressive heat climbing up the back of my dress and staying put on the crook of my neck -- and I know that this is a story that my body is screaming at me not to tell. It knows that if I keep running, drawing closer to the ocean and finally reaching it, opening my mouth and letting the words pour out of me, that my body isn't going to be able to stitch up that little piece of heart again that it's worked so hard to tuck away.
     But, baby, I know you want me to tell this story, your story and my story and the way we were filled with a hard, aching love for the way those shores only had room for those in need of clarity.
     My hair is growing damp and frizzy from sweat and humid ocean air, but I knew I'd meet you there, if I could just make it to the beach, if I could just tell your story. It's one step off the pavement to the beach, and the sand dunes just begin to roll away from the street. I'm making one of those moves where I can feel my body starting to break as I step down and clench my toes into the cold night sand and shuffle my way across the dunes, struggling to even my breath. The dusk is gray and I believe the ocean has a cold, spewing and spitting waves with a rumble, wheeze, and whir -- the brown pelicans leaning away to avoid getting sneezed on. I was afraid I was starting to forget; the belly of the bathtub, the expansive ocean, was swallowing you up whole.
     You were always at ease on the sea. I guess we were made just the same, you and I. It's damp sand between me and the foamy waves, and I lift my arms up and tilt my head back and breathe you in. Sadness is a heavy thing. I play toe tag and foot-fight with the surf and finally step in, getting crushed by a big wave, coming up, and doing it all over again. This is our story needing to be told.
 

Brick Monologue
  Marley Walker '11

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     Isolated in a shimmering motorboat, water washing the hull like an upset stomach, we sat and waited.  We traded stories and bullshit in maroon-spaded playing cards and rocked the boat for fun until it scared the fish away.
     This is what Evan and I did while we were fishing.  I never caught anything and had given up on it long ago; I just wanted to return home talking about a good day fishing.
     We pulled hats over our faces trying to doze off and dream what real men dream.  We wrapped golden glistening strings around our big toes, waiting for applause from Huck Finn.  The sky curved over the dam at the lake's end.
     I forgot the knot, that rigid little beast I used last summer when I hooked my thumb and sucked up the blood.  Shifting around the wooden chipped benches we handed poles and casted out willfully, squinting for the ripples on the vanishing point.
     I remember it was the beginning of the end when the mosquitoes lacquered their lips with toxin and hummed over the water for no reason, because they had done it the night before.
     I made up my own knot and tossed it overboard, piercing the worm's saliva skin and sending it into the deep green blue abyss.  I clicked the reel, the line ending its frenetic shaking; the worm, I imagined, was now floating off the murky bottom.  I didn't want to cast out; I didn't want to chop the air in front of my face for bugs until eight o'clock when we had to return the boat.  I just wanted to talk about the good fight with my dad's friends over pan-fried trout and Coronas.
     So I plopped the worm down into water hell and wiped my face with sunblock just because it was cold and the vessel was starting to smell less sweet than it had when the day begun.
     The last cast of the hope-devoid fisher boy sunk to the bottom, and for whatever reason, the pole began to jiggle.....