Table of Contents
Climbed
Srimitha Srinivasan '17
Sunset
Molly Jones '18
Lies
Sage Skyler '18
In Tainted Snow
Sage Skyler '18
Original Songs
Thomas Bradford '17
Tea
Alyssa Bogosian '15
Cat & Dog
Katy DiMuzio '15
Violin
Katy DiMuzio '15
Untitled
Katy DiMuzio '15
WTF
Carolyn Vanasse '15
A Natural Wonder, Reproduced
Alyssa Bogosian '15
Treat Someone
Emily Chen '15
Go Blank
Carolyn Vanasse '15
Ashes in the Fireplace
Lucy Russell '18
Vulnerability.
Katy DiMuzio '15
and yet
Sage Skyler '18
Perplexed
Alyssa Bogosian '15
The Other Half
Molly Jones '18
Untitled
Katy DiMuzio '15
Ben
Carolyn Vanasse '15
The Feast
Haley Malstrom '17
Cyanide
Emily LeLacheur '15
Untitled Blackout Poetry
Sarah Bond '15
Rebecca
Katy DiMuzio '15
Srimitha Srinivasan '17
Sunset
Molly Jones '18
Lies
Sage Skyler '18
In Tainted Snow
Sage Skyler '18
Original Songs
Thomas Bradford '17
Tea
Alyssa Bogosian '15
Cat & Dog
Katy DiMuzio '15
Violin
Katy DiMuzio '15
Untitled
Katy DiMuzio '15
WTF
Carolyn Vanasse '15
A Natural Wonder, Reproduced
Alyssa Bogosian '15
Treat Someone
Emily Chen '15
Go Blank
Carolyn Vanasse '15
Ashes in the Fireplace
Lucy Russell '18
Vulnerability.
Katy DiMuzio '15
and yet
Sage Skyler '18
Perplexed
Alyssa Bogosian '15
The Other Half
Molly Jones '18
Untitled
Katy DiMuzio '15
Ben
Carolyn Vanasse '15
The Feast
Haley Malstrom '17
Cyanide
Emily LeLacheur '15
Untitled Blackout Poetry
Sarah Bond '15
Rebecca
Katy DiMuzio '15
In Tainted Snow
The snow surrounds her completely, forming white walls of cold and dulling her bright colors of life. Her vibrant red scarf is now a brick-colored blob underneath the frozen crystals. Her pants composed of swirls of blue hues and forest green jacket both fade from the soft dusting. She lies there, eyes squeezed tight, wincing at the impact of every flake hitting her dark brown hair, extended in all directions.
Snow is cold, she knows, but she doesn’t distinguish any difference of warmth between her fur-lined coat and the melting white substance that is slowly turning her fingers the color of the yogurt she’d eaten a few days ago.
She shifts slightly but doesn’t open her eyes. The mirage of colors dancing upon the back of her eyelid is more interesting than anything this world has to offer. She parts her lips fractionally, maybe to call for help, she doesn’t know, but she can’t make any sound. A tiny snowflake drifts down gently and lands just above her upper lip. She considers moving her tongue to taste it, to eat and destroy it like it is doing to her, but it is too cold to move. Too cold, and perhaps her willpower is not strong enough. She lies there, waiting, thinking maybe this is finally the end.
Because her eyes are closed, she can’t see it, but she can feel it. She isn’t completely numb after all. Slowly, she peels open her eyelids only to see the same endless darkness. It’s happened again, she knows. A large meteor has passed in front of the sun, creating a temporary night. There’s no electricity where she is, right in the middle of the woods, so she can’t see anything at all. But even if she could, she would just see snow. Her head is tilted over her right shoulder so she is staring straight at a snow bank. She doesn’t know if she has enough strength to turn her neck.
A sliver of light eases its way past the meteor. She can see now, and even that miniscule sunbeam is enough to illuminate her surroundings. The snow dismays her, and she closes her eyes again.
There’s a knife in her boot. She stole it from the kitchens, but they had so many that this one surely went unnoticed. It’s a good knife, long and sharp. She shifts her ankle slightly, and feels the rush of blood through her veins. She can also feel the cold metal dig in to her skin, and break it open. A thin trickle oozes down her foot and into her fuzzy socks. They don’t help now, everyone part of her is long past cold, but there was a time when she was grateful for their warmth. Now she’s just glad they absorb her blood.
The knife can save her life, she thinks. If only she gets up, and cuts down some branches with it, she can make a fire. A fire will restore her senses and warm her frozen body. A fire will make everything right.
She shifts a finger, but can’t feel it. Opening her eyes so she’s only looking at her hand, and not the whiteness enclosing her, she moves her finger again. She sees it bob up and down once, fast and jerky, but still can’t feel it. It scares her, and she knows she’s dying. If she’s dying, this is a pretty good way, she considers. It’s painless and bloodless. But if there’s no hope of survival, then there might be one thing she should do instead…
Her eyes close. She sees, like a movie, scenes play out. She’s creative, they tell her, with a good imagination. She can imagine anything. But what she pictures now isn’t one of those stories she loves to dream up. It’s her past.
She imagines herself holding hands with her father as they cross the road. His hand was always so much bigger than hers, and her little fingers were completely encased by his larger ones. He was never cold, she remembers. If he was here, he would laugh at her now. He was from the south, the coldest place there was on the whole planet. When he had first told her that, she had giggled and replied that it was warm in the south, not cold. North was cold. He agreed that north was cold, but the south was even colder, he informed her. At first it would be warm, and then it be so scorching hot, and then it would be warm again, and then it would get cold, and finally, when you were the southernmost tip of the world, it was the coldest.
He had been born in a research center down there, where scientists never lived but stayed. His mother hadn’t known right away that she was pregnant, but when she found out, there were no boats or planes that could take her back in time. After he was born, he stayed there for some reason. His mother, who was very intelligent but was a little lacking in the emotion department, decided to keep him there and see how a child would survive. He flourished, and eventually went north to the town in which he would one day meet his wife. He was never cold, because he had known real cold, and this wasn’t it. It was what he always said.
It is ironic, she thinks, how the cold had spared him but is her demise. No, not the cold, this would just be a chill to him. She almost cries, but any tears she has are frozen.
If only she had his disk. It is small, and circular, only two inches in diameter. It shows a blue spiral and silver spiral starting opposite each other and then swirling into the center. He had had it since he was born, and gave it to her the last day she saw him. It was her birthday, and that was his present. It meant more than anything he could have bought, and it brought her only happiness. Even though that was the day he left and didn’t return. When she was six, he started leaving for long periods of time. No one ever knew when he would be back, but it was always later than what he promised. Once it had been a whole year. Other times, he’d only be gone a few months, or if they were really lucky, a few weeks. But that time it was for good.
She had prayed every night that he would come back, but he never did. Eventually she left to go looking for him. Her siblings had all been affected by his disappearance, and had become mean. To each other, to her, to their mother. She’d had enough. She left but she was weak and her life only worsened with every day. Some she couldn’t bear to think about. Now, this is it.
Dying with his disk, her disk, would make everything okay. However, it was stolen from her long ago. She needs to find that disk.
Her eyes open, slowly but steadily this time. She stands up, numbly pushing herself upwards. She can’t feel anything except the pounding in her head. She is so dizzy that she leans against a tree immediately. She is sure the bark is digging into her, and for once she is glad she can’t feel anything. Now, nothing will stop her. She still remembers the old legend that everybody knew. If you stop your soul for your reasons alone, it will still live but not in your body and not with your memories--so it return, one wish will be granted.
Her numbness will allow her to thrust the knife into her chest without pain. She can still live, but free from all of her many hurts over the years piercing her heart. She’ll live free, and with her disk. Life will be perfect. She bends down and wraps her fingers around the knife. She pulls it out of her boot and waves her arm around to make sure she’s holding it tightly enough. It seems to be effective, so she points it at herself and takes a deep breath. Her blood is slowly circulating, and she can almost feel her legs and arms. It must be now, otherwise she will chicken out for the fear of having to suffer more pain. It isn’t death that scares her, but pain. She stares at the metal, not wanting it to be the last thing she sees.
“I love you,” she whispers, her words quieter than the gentle breeze sifting the falling snowflakes. She looks upwards, at the falling snow, and it is pure, untainted. A new start. Her new start. Soon, she will no longer be in tainted snow.
Her blood spatters and her life oozes out. It is painless to the end.
I watch the video all the way through. It only lasts a few minutes, and most of it is either black from the meteor, or the same image of the girl just lying in the snow. I wish I could know what she was thinking, but it’s certainly too late now.
“And this is from today?” I ask Jeff.
“Yep,” he nods. “One of our forest cameras picked it up. Uh…Camera 42, section B4. What do you think?”
“It’s a shame,” I mutter honestly. “This is happening more and more often, you know.”
“As long as we get footage,” Jeff shrugs. “Everyone has a right to their own choice.”
“That’s why we’re here, though,” I say. “To prove this ridiculous idea wrong.”
“I’m here to prove it right,” Jeff grins, and I sigh good-naturedly.
“Either way, we have to find an answer. What time was the death?”
“One o’clock this afternoon,” he announces. “Not that long ago.”
I nod silently to myself, contemplating this situation. It’s a shame she didn’t say what she wished for out loud. It would make things a lot easier. It has to do with someone, no doubt, whoever she’s confessing her love for at the end. A boyfriend or girlfriend, perhaps, or a family member, or even a close friend.
“Scan her in the database,” I order him perfunctorily. He does, and while he’s doing that, I start looking in schools for any kind of record or picture identifying her. This long process, which used to be so exciting when I first started working here, has dulled to a routine. Identify the corpse, figure out wish (if possible), note specific traits and objects/places with significant importance, and watch and wait. See if anyone provides a match. See if anyone looks like they’re the reincarnated version of whoever tried to attempt the Soul Exchange, as we’re calling it. See who’s gone through a metamorphosis.
I work at the central research building in our town. I’m young, but I’ve risen up the ranks quickly. Jeff’s three years older than me, and still my subordinate. All of us here are trying to figure out if the Soul Exchange actually exists. Sometimes it appears as though it truly works, but there are always weird correlations that don’t add up.
“Found her!” Jeff calls out to me. I quickly glance over at his computer. There’s a picture of her from a year ago, smiling in a group photo of some club at the local high school. Her face is a little rounder, and she’s a bit shorter in the picture, but it’s definitely her. Same pale skin, dark brown hair, dark blue eyes, and slender frame.
“All right, hand it over,” I say, and he obediently stands and lets me sit down in his plush chair. My fingers rapidly tap on his keyboard, filling the air with the sound of my furious typing, as I hack into the school’s records. “Let’s see…it says here that her father’s missing from the picture, and she lives with her mother and her maternal grandparents, as well as all of her siblings. She has an older brother and sister who are twins, and another older sister, as well as two younger brothers and a younger sister with Autism.”
“Wow,” Jeff mutters. “No wonder she left that life.”
“Shut up!” I snap, enraged. “She had no right to leave! Her eldest siblings are in college, even though they still live at home, and why is that? To help care for everyone! Her mother’s got her hands full with her Autistic daughter and two young boys. Her grandparents are old, and will be able to help out less and less. Everyone’s life sucks at some point, but that doesn’t give you any right to leave! Even if she didn’t know it, everyone that she knew needed her. They needed her.”
“Woah, chill,” Jeff says cautiously. “I didn’t mean…”
“I know,” I smile tensely. “I’m sorry. My aunt attempted the Soul Exchange after her husband died, thinking she was all alone now and that her kids liked my mother, her sister, more than her anyway. They only spent time with my mother because my aunt’s grieving left her in no state to care for them. But she left them. They were only seven and five, and she left them.”
“I’m sorry,” Jeff tells me. “But listen. You love life so much, because you know how much it’s worth. Don’t waste your time mourning those who left. All you can do is care for the living…and yourself.”
I exhale, an honest reaction, and hug him. “Thanks, Jeff.” He grins. “Alright, now, let’s prove this is wrong.”
We work tirelessly the rest of the day, barely stopping for anything. We set up a camera in front of her house, but no one visits that is the reincarnated version of the girl who used to live there. We send a couple people to track down her father; maybe her wish was to be with him. They take a while, but we’re not central for nothing. He’s still in the state, but all the way west. We set up a couple cameras outside of his house, too, but there’s no action. Nothing happens. Jeff and I watch all of the possible locations at which this girl might show up for an hour, but we don’t get anything. The few people that walk by all have separate, valid reasons for being there and don’t have any correlations to our subject.
“I’m going to go out,” I declare to Jeff. “I need to move around. Maybe I’ll find something.” On an impulse, I take the girl’s red scarf with me that our team recovered, thinking if I pretend I was looking for the owner, someone might feel a connection to it and attempt to claim it..
I walk around her town first, passing by all the places that she used to visit. Our company has cameras everywhere on the streets and in the woods, to be able to access as much information as possible. I look at the printout Jeff gave me, of her most frequently visited places. I head for a small coffee shop near the train. I detest coffee, although everyone in the office encourages me to drink it to stay up and work late, but luckily, this place also serves hot chocolate.
After ordering a tall mug complete with marshmallows and whipped cream, I tighten my ponytail, and head for a corner booth. It’s a cozy little shop, and if I had a special connection to it, I might want to come back. But to use it as my dying wish? I wasn’t sure if anyone loved coffee that much. I drain my drink, and survey the room one last time.
I’m about to exit when I feel a sharp tug on my hair. I whirl around to see a young boy, around ten, clutching a few strands of my blonde locks in his fist.
“Yes?” I say, what I hope is halfway between icy and kind.
“I…um…heard you’re looking for the owner of the scarf?” he mumbles, not meeting my gaze.
“Why? Is it yours?” I ask excitedly. Souls, knowing no gender, could easily transition from a female body to a male, so this could be the person I’m looking for.
“No, not mine, that’s a girl scarf,” he points out, slightly less shy. “I just think it might be my sister’s, that’s all.”
“Can I see her?” If his sister is younger than him, it would definitely raise the probability of her being the new host of the fugitive soul I was tracking. Someone with a life like her would probably want to start over young.
“Why?” he frowns, suddenly suspicious. “Are you with the police or something?” He notices my badge gleaming underneath my unbuttoned winter coat, and takes a step back. It’s not a police badge, anyone could see that. It’s more like a card I have to swipe in order to enter my office. Only the ten of us leading teams have them, and although my team only consists of Jeff and a couple others, I’m proud of all my effort it took to get there, and the badge represents that.
“Not the police,” I begin, but he’s walking away faster now.
“I didn’t mean to lie, honest, only she needs a new scarf because the mean ol’ dog stole her last one, an’ I gotta be the one to get it, only I spent all the money on a little dolly for Christmas. It’s her first present, and--”
“It’s fine, just go,” I sigh. I guess there’s no relation after all.
I decide to call it a day, and head back to my office, where I watch the cameras in silence. I send Jeff out to take my place searching. It seems we’ll never find her at this point, but that helps my case. Between my fingertips, I subconsciously rub my blue-and-silver disk hanging on my necklace that I always wear, and I get back to work.
Sage Skyler '18
Tea
Alyssa Bogosian '15
Cat & Dog
Katy DiMuzio '15
Violin
Katy DiMuzio '15
Untitled
Katy DiMuzio '15
WTF
Carolyn Vanasse '15
A Natural Wonder, Reproduced
With a lens, we try to capture a feeling.
The sunset’s vivid, vivacious colors
Replicated in pixels,
Reproduced on a tiny, fluorescent screen.
Scroll.
Three seconds.
Like. Scroll. Repeat.
We say we’ve seen the sunset, but have we?
The image we see is forged,
The lens’s imitation of a natural wonder.
The lens doesn’t capture
the chill of the ocean’s wind
the hair flying around our necks
and standing on our arms.
It doesn’t capture
the distant call of the seagulls,
the soothing crash, crash, crash of the waves,
the ice cream truck’s last tune of the day.
It doesn’t capture
the smell of the salty air,
the raw stench of low tide
holding nostalgia of childhood summers.
Only if we lift our noses from behind the screen
can we truly see a world with #nofilter.
Alyssa Bogosian '15
Originally published: http://www.powerpoetry.org/poems/natural-wonder-reproduced
The sunset’s vivid, vivacious colors
Replicated in pixels,
Reproduced on a tiny, fluorescent screen.
Scroll.
Three seconds.
Like. Scroll. Repeat.
We say we’ve seen the sunset, but have we?
The image we see is forged,
The lens’s imitation of a natural wonder.
The lens doesn’t capture
the chill of the ocean’s wind
the hair flying around our necks
and standing on our arms.
It doesn’t capture
the distant call of the seagulls,
the soothing crash, crash, crash of the waves,
the ice cream truck’s last tune of the day.
It doesn’t capture
the smell of the salty air,
the raw stench of low tide
holding nostalgia of childhood summers.
Only if we lift our noses from behind the screen
can we truly see a world with #nofilter.
Alyssa Bogosian '15
Originally published: http://www.powerpoetry.org/poems/natural-wonder-reproduced
Treat Someone
Treat someone
Like it's their first day
Like it's their first time
Seeing the world
Teach someone
Like it's their first day
Like it's their first time
Learning at school
Love someone
Like it's their first day
Like it's their first time
Being loved
Stand up for someone
Like it's their first day
Like it's their first time
Being knocked down
Treat someone with kindness
Teach someone respect
Love someone from the heart
Stand with someone forever
Treat someone with respect
Teach someone kindness
Love someone forever
Stand with someone from the heart
People are hurting
People are dying
Don't wait to help
Until it's their very last morning
Emily Chen '15
Like it's their first day
Like it's their first time
Seeing the world
Teach someone
Like it's their first day
Like it's their first time
Learning at school
Love someone
Like it's their first day
Like it's their first time
Being loved
Stand up for someone
Like it's their first day
Like it's their first time
Being knocked down
Treat someone with kindness
Teach someone respect
Love someone from the heart
Stand with someone forever
Treat someone with respect
Teach someone kindness
Love someone forever
Stand with someone from the heart
People are hurting
People are dying
Don't wait to help
Until it's their very last morning
Emily Chen '15
Go Blank
Carolyn Vanasse '15
Ashes in the Fireplace
The photos in my hand are like portals to the past
Your smiling face and my blushing features
My dear, those will never fade away
How odd does life become so quickly?
I can count the days you became a friend
A lover
And then a stranger
All with a few well-placed words
Of course, words were always your greatest weapon
I stare at the photos of you and I…
I almost feel physically ill
I don't even know whether these memories should be treasured like gold
Or burned like driftwood
Lucy Russell '18
Your smiling face and my blushing features
My dear, those will never fade away
How odd does life become so quickly?
I can count the days you became a friend
A lover
And then a stranger
All with a few well-placed words
Of course, words were always your greatest weapon
I stare at the photos of you and I…
I almost feel physically ill
I don't even know whether these memories should be treasured like gold
Or burned like driftwood
Lucy Russell '18
Vulnerability.
They say the eyes
Are the windows to the soul.
Maybe that is why
She intends to keep her eyes
Shut.
Forever.
Over her cracked windows
She puts a heavy drape.
Over the shattered glass
She spreads a dark shroud.
Over her broken
Heart,
Soul,
Mind,
She hangs a blackened curtain.
Stretches it to cover the sharp edges.
Shut.
Forever.
Those peering in,
Hoping to catch a glimpse
Of something inside,
Of any signs of life,
Only see the shades
Drawn tight
With not even a ray of light
Permitted to enter.
Shut.
Forever.
Only a cold darkness
To be seen.
A bone-chilling emptiness
To cause the curious spectators
To look away.
Just look away.
On her windows,
She secures the lock with a click.
Never to be opened.
Sealed.
Shut.
Forever.
She wears the key
Dangling around her fragile neck.
Never to be used.
Never to be removed.
Only to be taken with her
To the grave.
Where her eyes remain
Shut.
Forever.
Katy DiMuzio '15
Are the windows to the soul.
Maybe that is why
She intends to keep her eyes
Shut.
Forever.
Over her cracked windows
She puts a heavy drape.
Over the shattered glass
She spreads a dark shroud.
Over her broken
Heart,
Soul,
Mind,
She hangs a blackened curtain.
Stretches it to cover the sharp edges.
Shut.
Forever.
Those peering in,
Hoping to catch a glimpse
Of something inside,
Of any signs of life,
Only see the shades
Drawn tight
With not even a ray of light
Permitted to enter.
Shut.
Forever.
Only a cold darkness
To be seen.
A bone-chilling emptiness
To cause the curious spectators
To look away.
Just look away.
On her windows,
She secures the lock with a click.
Never to be opened.
Sealed.
Shut.
Forever.
She wears the key
Dangling around her fragile neck.
Never to be used.
Never to be removed.
Only to be taken with her
To the grave.
Where her eyes remain
Shut.
Forever.
Katy DiMuzio '15
and yet
and yet, and yet, and ever so
dark is the night, and the day is light.
But harsh the beams of sun shine down
to warm the earth and burn the ground.
And shadows cradle man to sleep,
enclosing a loving hand
without substance over the frightened eyes.
The beat in which a stream concedes and yields
to the current inside, letting itself be smashed against stone;
or the honorable oak swaying pitifully against
the spiteful, taunting airstream, calling out to desolation--
are called beautiful.
The barren forest, peace at last from
twitchy leaves and hectoring squirrels;
along with the small communities thriving
on the forest floor in this world of wonders--
are called ugly.
Should sun not illuminate, dark
would be all, but the truth
is buried forcefully in the truth.
There is no truth, no
enlightening beam. All is known
is with what we begin,
and too often is it twisted
in our own twistedness:
so see.
Sage Skyler '18
dark is the night, and the day is light.
But harsh the beams of sun shine down
to warm the earth and burn the ground.
And shadows cradle man to sleep,
enclosing a loving hand
without substance over the frightened eyes.
The beat in which a stream concedes and yields
to the current inside, letting itself be smashed against stone;
or the honorable oak swaying pitifully against
the spiteful, taunting airstream, calling out to desolation--
are called beautiful.
The barren forest, peace at last from
twitchy leaves and hectoring squirrels;
along with the small communities thriving
on the forest floor in this world of wonders--
are called ugly.
Should sun not illuminate, dark
would be all, but the truth
is buried forcefully in the truth.
There is no truth, no
enlightening beam. All is known
is with what we begin,
and too often is it twisted
in our own twistedness:
so see.
Sage Skyler '18
Perplexed
Alyssa Bogosian '15
The Other Half
Molly Jones '18
Untitled
Katy DiMuzio '15
Ben
Carolyn Vanasse '15
The Feast
Dear Death,
My presence grows stronger in Macbeth with every breath he takes. I float down his decorated hallways unnoticed by the guards, but dreaded by the king. As Macbeth plunged his dagger into Duncan’s chest that fateful night, and he gasped for a last breath of life, I became his constant companion. I fill his thoughts every waking hour, eating away at his sanity and corrupting his mind.
Two nights ago I was so strongly settled within him that he began envisioning the ghost of the late Banquo. I, like an invisible cloud, floated over the heads of the dinner guests as they arrived. The Ladies were clothed in their fine form-fitting gowns, and the Lords were dressed in their expensive waistcoats and breeches. As they took their seats in the plush velvet dinner chairs I examined their thoughts and innermost feelings. Some of them had minds where dark and evil thoughts lingered and lurked, and others had more pure hearts; but all the guests had something in common. In some way or another I tugged at the edges of their consciousness and motivated their actions.
Macbeth entered the room, and I was emanating from his very being, but he hid me well. He put on his smiling, well-mannered mask and greeted the Lords and Ladies politely. The feast began and a murderer at the door grabbed Macbeth’s attention. Macbeth knows this murderer for he was the one hired to do his dirty work; to finish off Banquo and his son Fleance. Macbeth privately conversed with this murderer and discovered that Banquo had been disposed of. As he received this news my presence within him was temporarily lessened, but I returned with full force when he found out that Banquo’s son Fleance was still alive. The murderer departed and Macbeth returned to entertain his noble guests, and entertain he did.
Lady Macbeth (a woman whose mind I have tormented now for quite some time, although she would deny it) scolded her husband for his lack of interest in his guests, and Macbeth was invited to join them at the table. Macbeth remarked about how Banquo was not in attendance and wished that no ill will had come to him, which of course is just another lie added to his mountain of dishonesty and broken trust. There was one empty chair, but to Macbeth’s heavy-laden eyes there was no seat to welcome him. At that moment Macbeth’s sickened mind played a cruel trick upon him. For instead of his delicately carved, velvet dinner chair, he saw the grotesque apparition of Banquo shaking his bloody locks at him.
This was too much for Macbeth to handle, and his finely crafted mask began to melt away, revealing the repulsive flesh underneath, or his true character. His dinner guests were quite startled as Macbeth began to fearfully talk with some unknown being. Macbeth’s outburst caused quite the commotion and dinner guests, afraid for their king’s sanity, began to leave. Lady Macbeth assured them that this was normal and happened routinely. She didn’t comfort Macbeth, but rather criticized him for not being a proper man. The only thing important to that woman is power and public appearance, for I have seen her thoughts and they are filthy and selfish. I doubt she has ever felt any pleasant emotions, let alone felt love for a man such as Macbeth. Although she may seem like a harmless flower soaking up the sunshine, she is the poisonous serpent beneath. I advise you to never venture into such a dark and dangerous place such as her mind, for it is nasty indeed. To Macbeth’s relief the ghost seemed to disappear. The dinner guests tried to look past the King’s bizarre actions and continued eating.
Before too long, the apparition once again haunted Macbeth, and thoughts of me crept into his troubled mind. Shouts arose from within Macbeth as he challenged his unseen foe to face him in any other form than its current one. This time all the guests were on their feet, ready to depart from the seriously disturbed king. Banquo’s apparition once again left Macbeth’s eyes, and he demanded the people tell him how they could watch such horrible scenes without so much as a change in facial expression. The guests by this point were quite perturbed by their king’s remarks. I dwelled in everyone’s mind as they tried to process the situation. One man with the name of Ross asked him what he had seen, but Lady Macbeth responded by saying that talk only makes his ailment worsen and asking them kindly to leave as soon as humanly possible.
Events like this are becoming more frequent. Hour after hour. Day after day. Week after week I grow stronger. My hold on Macbeth stretches deeper and deeper. As my power over him expands, I will engulf his soul. He will be consumed by what he has done. Driven mad by his evil actions in the dark of night. Soon he will belong to you, my friend. Soon enough. Soon enough.
May I strive to serve you and your crown forever,
Fear
Haley Malstrom '17
My presence grows stronger in Macbeth with every breath he takes. I float down his decorated hallways unnoticed by the guards, but dreaded by the king. As Macbeth plunged his dagger into Duncan’s chest that fateful night, and he gasped for a last breath of life, I became his constant companion. I fill his thoughts every waking hour, eating away at his sanity and corrupting his mind.
Two nights ago I was so strongly settled within him that he began envisioning the ghost of the late Banquo. I, like an invisible cloud, floated over the heads of the dinner guests as they arrived. The Ladies were clothed in their fine form-fitting gowns, and the Lords were dressed in their expensive waistcoats and breeches. As they took their seats in the plush velvet dinner chairs I examined their thoughts and innermost feelings. Some of them had minds where dark and evil thoughts lingered and lurked, and others had more pure hearts; but all the guests had something in common. In some way or another I tugged at the edges of their consciousness and motivated their actions.
Macbeth entered the room, and I was emanating from his very being, but he hid me well. He put on his smiling, well-mannered mask and greeted the Lords and Ladies politely. The feast began and a murderer at the door grabbed Macbeth’s attention. Macbeth knows this murderer for he was the one hired to do his dirty work; to finish off Banquo and his son Fleance. Macbeth privately conversed with this murderer and discovered that Banquo had been disposed of. As he received this news my presence within him was temporarily lessened, but I returned with full force when he found out that Banquo’s son Fleance was still alive. The murderer departed and Macbeth returned to entertain his noble guests, and entertain he did.
Lady Macbeth (a woman whose mind I have tormented now for quite some time, although she would deny it) scolded her husband for his lack of interest in his guests, and Macbeth was invited to join them at the table. Macbeth remarked about how Banquo was not in attendance and wished that no ill will had come to him, which of course is just another lie added to his mountain of dishonesty and broken trust. There was one empty chair, but to Macbeth’s heavy-laden eyes there was no seat to welcome him. At that moment Macbeth’s sickened mind played a cruel trick upon him. For instead of his delicately carved, velvet dinner chair, he saw the grotesque apparition of Banquo shaking his bloody locks at him.
This was too much for Macbeth to handle, and his finely crafted mask began to melt away, revealing the repulsive flesh underneath, or his true character. His dinner guests were quite startled as Macbeth began to fearfully talk with some unknown being. Macbeth’s outburst caused quite the commotion and dinner guests, afraid for their king’s sanity, began to leave. Lady Macbeth assured them that this was normal and happened routinely. She didn’t comfort Macbeth, but rather criticized him for not being a proper man. The only thing important to that woman is power and public appearance, for I have seen her thoughts and they are filthy and selfish. I doubt she has ever felt any pleasant emotions, let alone felt love for a man such as Macbeth. Although she may seem like a harmless flower soaking up the sunshine, she is the poisonous serpent beneath. I advise you to never venture into such a dark and dangerous place such as her mind, for it is nasty indeed. To Macbeth’s relief the ghost seemed to disappear. The dinner guests tried to look past the King’s bizarre actions and continued eating.
Before too long, the apparition once again haunted Macbeth, and thoughts of me crept into his troubled mind. Shouts arose from within Macbeth as he challenged his unseen foe to face him in any other form than its current one. This time all the guests were on their feet, ready to depart from the seriously disturbed king. Banquo’s apparition once again left Macbeth’s eyes, and he demanded the people tell him how they could watch such horrible scenes without so much as a change in facial expression. The guests by this point were quite perturbed by their king’s remarks. I dwelled in everyone’s mind as they tried to process the situation. One man with the name of Ross asked him what he had seen, but Lady Macbeth responded by saying that talk only makes his ailment worsen and asking them kindly to leave as soon as humanly possible.
Events like this are becoming more frequent. Hour after hour. Day after day. Week after week I grow stronger. My hold on Macbeth stretches deeper and deeper. As my power over him expands, I will engulf his soul. He will be consumed by what he has done. Driven mad by his evil actions in the dark of night. Soon he will belong to you, my friend. Soon enough. Soon enough.
May I strive to serve you and your crown forever,
Fear
Haley Malstrom '17
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