Perfect Life

by Matt Mellin

He sits on his too comfortable bed in his large white room.  They live in a bleak white house with precisely placed gray shingles.  He couldn’t have asked for a nicer house, so his parents tell him.  Their house is ever immaculate since his mother is, as she should be, a stay at home mother.  Always cleaning and cooking, she makes sure everything is in order for when his father arrives home at six o’clock, on the dot, every week day.  All of this perfection is neatly contained in a safe, quiet neighborhood full of immaculate houses, each one with its own mother and father units operating exactly the way they should.

His achievements line the stark walls of his room; most of them are categorized into scholastic, extra-curricular, and various other categories.  The rest are neatly stacked in the closet since there was no room left for them on the wall.  Every challenge anyone has ever given him he has passed with flying colors.  He is an all star, a prodigy in their eyes.

His doting parents are in the kitchen making supper.  He hears them chatting about their day.  Just another perfect day in their perfect life.  They always tell him the same things day in and day out with huge smiles plastered on their faces.  “We’re so proud of you!”  “Such a brilliant scientist!”  “We couldn’t have asked for a better son!”  “You are going to go so far!”  He grins sheepishly and mumbles in agreement while staring at the ground.

Once his parents have retired to their room he throws down his textbook and cautiously crawls over to his closet.  Carefully opening the door, he slowly pushes aside his awards, being sure to make as little noise as possible.  It lies tucked away and hidden far out of sight in the furthest corner of his closet, his secret passion.

Countless sheets of paper filled with all kinds of images.  From unbelievably fantastical to brutally realistic, surrealistic to cubistic, terrifyingly dark to whimsically light, his creations span all corners of the artistic world.  He lets them fly out upon the floor in a wonderfully unorganized jumble, reveling in the chaos of all the images with one another.  Deep in the core of his body he feels a feeling so powerful, so overwhelming he knows it is driven by a force that no chemical equation or mathematical law will ever be able to define.  After enjoying the beautifully discordant presence of his works, works created for no one but himself, for no other reason than because he wants to, he collects them and returns them to their hiding place in his closet, climbs into bed, and sleeps contentedly.

The following evening, his mother and father sit him down at the rectangular dining room table which is in the direct center of the dining room.  “Now,” his father begins, “It’s time for you to choose where you’re going to attend college, where you’ll begin the rest of your adult life.”  They list various prestigious schools for students gifted in the sciences.  Without looking at them he takes from his backpack a pamphlet for a school of the arts and hands it to them with shaking hands.  They stare at it and, just for a moment, the façade of their perfect life falls away; he sees in their eyes what he has only seen once before in his entire life, disappointment.  It pierces his heart like a scalpel, but only for a moment.  His mother laughs and says, “Oh this must be about those doodles I found in your closet.”  His throat tightens.  “They certainly are amusing,” then, in a voice like cold steel, “but that’s all they are, amusements.”  She throws away the pamphlet and they continue to talk about acceptable colleges that will pave the way for his future.

When his parents leave to play bridge with the neighbors, just like they do every Saturday night, he climbs the stairs to his room, his shoulders sunken with the weight of his impending future bearing down on him.  Tearing open his closet door, he throws his neatly stacked awards across his floor and stares at his work, trying to absorb the wondrous pandemonium wrought by his pen.  The feeling rises again in the pit of his stomach, but only half-heartedly, for he knows this is not the future to which he has been condemned.  He gathers his papers and takes them to the back patio.  He stares out at the white picket fence, bends down, lights his passion on fire and watches as it burns to nothing but ashes, which are then taken away by the wind until almost nothing remains.

Editor’s Note:  This piece contains some adult content and may not be suitable for younger readers.

Womanhood

By Grace Davis

The sun was rising on the vast plains of the Nigerian desert, where underneath the golden sun-lit sky, people of the near-by Kilboko village were fully awake, already taking advantage of the day’s new light. Two huts down from the sacred place of worship, a middle-aged African woman labored diligently outside her small home. She was quick to tend to the goats and even more quick to fetch the water from the nearby river in preparation for the morning’s daja (breakfast). Normally, this wasn’t her job, however, on such an occasion as this she was in good spirits and didn’t seem to mind doing the favor. She then brought the water inside to Enu for her to finish the task of starting breakfast as she had many other chores to attend to.

Enu was the older of her two daughters, soon to enter her early teens, who had velvet-like milk chocolate skin with visibly no imperfections. A beauty she was from the outside, although her radiant and seemingly confident exterior did not match what lay beneath. Enu had a kind heart; however, the sparkle in her eye that once existed when she was a child was no longer present. “Thank you, Aka,” Enu spoke quietly as she took the pail of water from her mother’s hands and gingerly leaned over to place the metal pitcher on the fire. Aka did not stay and linger and was immediately out the door again moving along quickly to her next chore.

Nikah, Enu’s grand-mother, who lived with the family, sat next to her grand-daughter in the crowded clay hut humming an old African tune while sharpening the stone Pappa had found the day before. She was in a state of deep concentration and was meticulous in her work, as she often was.

Enu’s eyes wandered across to the corner of the hut where she painfully watched a tiny girl curled up peacefully on the cot. The girl’s name was Amara. She was Enu’s sister and was, at age seven, the youngest of the family. Being Amara’s special day, she was allowed to sleep a tad later than usual.

Within moments, the rhythmic beat of tribal drums could be heard outside in the village. It started as a faint rumble, but grew increasingly louder as it progressed. They were being played by the other extended family members of Amara, to spread the word to the village. This particular beat was a sound recognizable to anyone living in the village. It was an anthem belonging to the event that was to occur that day.

Back inside the hut, Amara’s brown eye lashes fluttered open as she was awakened by the murmured beat of the drums. With a burst of energy, Amara let loose the biggest smile with the joy of another day. Lifting her small head, she noticed her sister and her Nikah immediately. She hoped off her cot, skipped over to greet them, and planted a kiss on each of their foreheads.

“Ge bocho!” (“good morning!”) she said.

Dancing out of the house with her bare feet on the dirt floor she twirled right into her brother.

“Dayo!” she squealed, and jumped right into his outstretched arms. Dayo was much older than both Amara and Enu. Living now a few huts down, he was over merely for the occasion.

“Little Amara,” he said, swinging her around. “How big you get each day!” “Pretty soon,” he said, “you can beat up on me!”

“That doesn’t say a lot,” said a voice coming up from behind them. Then turned around to see their father.

“Hey!” shouted Dayo, and the three of them laughed. Amara slid down from Dayo’s arms.

“Good morning, Pappa,” said Amara cheerfully. After exchanging hugs, Pappa patted the small of her back.

“Alright now,” he said, “be a good girl and go get those eggs for breakfast,”

Amara scampered off through the village laughing as she went.

When she returned she ran in the hut to find everyone standing there waiting for her.

“Today,” said Aka, “you will no longer be a girl. Today you become a woman.”

Amara could see her sister Enu in the corner of her eye. Amara saw she was crying but she didn’t know why. Within moments, Amara felt the hands of her family members on her. They were gripping tightly; bringing her down to the dirt floor. Her legs were unwillingly spread apart and she saw her grandmother holding the stone she had been sharpening earlier. Amara, terrified and confused, looked over again to see Enu who mouthed the words “I’m sorry,” to her sister.

Soon Amara felt tears running down her eyes, too. A yelp escaped her lips and pierced the air. Her sister watched; there was nothing either of them could do. She cried knowing they were leaving her sister bereft of the joys of womanhood she knew neither of them would experience, ever.

Planting Season

By Daniel Held

It was a dreary afternoon, threatening to pour rain and slam thunder into the ground. Two men toiled in a garden, which was approximately 17 by 49 feet and surrounded by a picket fence, located next to a small, dingy shack. One of the men appeared rather young, maybe just entering his manhood, yet at the same time lines framed his sunken, deep eyes that burned with a certain intense anger despite his otherwise emotionless face. His hands were rough and calloused and while his body was lithe, it was also powerful from hard work and a stringent diet. The other man, however, could be described as something like a potato. His skin color was similar enough, but his head was bald and round, and his body was slightly pudgy and fat. The old man had lived his life already; he married, had children, and worked. The man seemed somewhat disturbed, as if a fly that he could not see was buzzing around his ears. At the gate of the picket fence were the remains of their meals: bottles of alcohol and plates that still exuded the scent of an indescribable substance.
The young man wielded a shovel; he held it as if were an extension of his body and used it just as effectively; however, the way he held it was similar to how you would hold a weapon. The way he manipulated it to dig the trenches made you think that if he had a tool of murder in his hands he would excel in the same way that he expertly dug at the soil. The old man, on the other hand, held a pocket knife the young man had lent him and was slicing potatoes in half in a steady rhythm with practiced hands. While the young man, with a fierce and wild determination, toiled to dig trenches with sweat in his brow and a pain in his back, the old man reverently sliced and planted potato halves in the trenches. Each worked in quiet solitude in their own little worlds and any attempt to talk made by the old man was ignored by the young man, as it was obvious that neither could understand the other.
“What happened to you?” inquired the older of the two. His question was answered with a deafening silence, broken only by the stabbings of the shovel into the fallow soil.
“This is no way to treat me,” the old man started angrily, “why are you so cold to me? I do not know why you are irate, but maybe I can help you.” Again, nothing. The old man could not see the young man’s face as the old man was turned away. No longer impassive, the young man’s face was contorted with wrath, as if he could think of a million reasons why he was incensed, each one maddening him more, making him eager to hurt the old man. Still, he remained quiet. They continued as before, and soon enough, the young man’s face slackened into his usual, passionless countenance. Above, the sky opened up and began to pour its contents upon the earth; resounding booms of thunder could be heard in the distance.
The old man, however, moved in the opposite way of the young man. He hated being ignored, and his pudgy face twisted with rage with each passing second. He simply could not bear this child and his little games! Who did that boy think he was anyways? What gave him the right to ignore him as if he, his father, was an insignificant speck? He boiled and seethed with anger until he snapped and his rage surpassed any logical thinking he might have possessed.
The young man did not think; honed instinct seized control of his body. The old man, with his insulting words and violent actions, had crossed the line. Something rose up in the depths of the young man and possessed him; a fierce visage of mixed fury and savage joy spread across his face. With experienced hands holding a familiar tool for a different, though still a familiar purpose for the young man, he easily solved the problem. The old man, frantically digging at the ground to propel himself away, stared in horrified terror at the now-unrecognizable young man, wearing a self-vindicated bloodthirsty grin, with victory and sadism flashing in his eyes, holding his blood-soaked shovel, yearning to cause pain, his menacing and ready body silhouetted against the flashing sky. The young man began to calmly slice one last potato, thinking about why today had turned out the way it did. Just yesterday, they had gone through their daily routine of acting as the best of friends; though, the two never really had liked the other and even had grown to hate each other at times, but they always had been able to work despite their arguments and fights. Maybe it was the old fool’s feigned innocence as to not knowing why the young man was the way he is. Because of him, the young man had lost everything he had ever held dear and had been forced to mature and become strong at a young age, losing any semblance of joy. As the young man pondered, he planted one last sliced potato that would never grow, but rather to rot in the ground, unmarked and unhonored.
Sitting in the muddy garden, the man, with tired eyes, looked skyward towards the now drizzling rain. He stared blankly, water creeping down his blood-soaked face, onto his drenched clothes and the saturated soil. After a while, the man got up and left, vowing to himself never to return. The man determined for himself to forever bury his name, like he had his father, and instead build a new, better life from a new beginning, without his past. As he stood on the road, he turned left and began to walk down his path, ready for whatever life might throw at him with his newfound confidence. The lightning storm, spent, vanished from the sky, forgetting the gray clouds above in its undue haste.

Sandcastles

By Abigail Chase

Andy’s plastic beach toys reflected the sun’s beating rays as he meticulously constructed a sand castle complete with a mote, tower, and detailed shell designs. His small hands had slaved over the castle for a good part of the summer afternoon, nothing could distract him. As he stretched his arm towards the castle tower to place a flag, Andy heard loud voices from across the beach.

“Hey! Hey there, little man, would you mind throwing the ball back?” a teenage boy called to Andy.

At first, Andy appeared confused as his mind pulled away from his sand creation. Glancing around, he saw the foam football. He walked slowly over, fumbled with the football that was too large for his hands, and sent the ball crookedly to the older boy and his group of friends. The teenager took a step to get the ball and mumbled a comment under his breath which made the other teenagers laugh.

“Thanks buddy,” he said, as he strolled away with his arm around a girl.

Andy could feel himself blushing under his summer tan and freckles. He wished that the ball had spiraled the way he saw on TV during football games. Then he wished the ball had never even come in his direction.

Sitting down, he watched the teenagers as they walked away, joking with each other. They walked down the dock and jumped into a boat with practiced ease. There were two boys and two girls. The girls walked with a confidence in their step, tossing their hair and allowing their bikini clad bodies to be consumed by the eyes of anyone who cared to look. The boys’ hands flirted with the girls’ exposed bodies, hugging and tickling them to force giggles from the girls’ mouths. One boy, the one who had thrown the football near Andy, prepared the boat. His hands skillfully untied the rope and his young muscles were taut under his skin as he pushed off. Seeing Andy staring, the boy waved then laughed to his friends.

Andy watched the teenagers’ boat until it reached an island across the water. He naively wondered what the friends would do now that they had escaped the watchful eyes of their parents. He envisioned the boys playing football and the girls squealing as they waded into the freezing water. He was sure nightfall would bring a fire for roasting marshmallows. By this time, Andy had completely forgotten about the sandcastle that had once been so important. His musings would have continued but his mother called him in for dinner.

That night, Andy lay in bed remembering how the teenagers had laughed together and gone to the island by themselves. Even though he lived on the beach, Andy had never been able to go the island before, not even with his parents. Andy slipped out of bed and walked to the window that faced the island. He swore he could see a small light that must have been a fire. He imagined the teenagers laughing around the dancing flames as light reflected off their knowing faces. He decided he would get there, he had to get there.

Andy awoke the next day at sunrise with a plan of action to successfully venture to the island. He tiptoed past the room of his sleeping parents and silently opened the front door. Cautiously, he walked the worn, shell crushed path to the beach. As he had hoped, no one was awake to find him. Feeling slightly guilty, he walked to the dock where the dinghies were tied. Andy picked out the smallest dinghy with oars and began to untie it from the dock. His hands shook with the knowledge that he was stealing. Every second he expected to be caught, but no one came. Finally, the knot came undone and Andy climbed uneasily into the boat.

His small arms struggled with the initial awkwardness of the oars but soon enough he was underway. The boat dipped and swayed with the unusually choppy water but Andy’s determination did not wane. Fatigue began to set into Andy’s limbs, but still he refused to stop until the oar began to slip from his left hand. He tried to grasp the oar more firmly. but the ocean seemed to be trying to snatch it from him and suddenly, Andy’s hand was empty.

Andy let out an exasperated cry. He could see the oar not too far away and he thought maybe he could reach it. His fingers stretched but the oar evaded his grasp. Andy leaned further, stretched longer, and found himself beginning to fall. There was nothing he could do as the boat let him tip into the ocean.

Andy thrashed about in the water, barely able to swim. Looking around he saw that the boat was already being swept away.  He had been able to row more than half way to the island and now Andy was forced to swim to the closest land. The waves battered Andy’s body and engulfed him. He bobbed in and out of the waves, inhaling sharply whenever he resurfaced. Sometimes he miscalculated breaths and drank the salty water that made his lungs ache. Andy had no choice but to continue or submit to the sea. He chose to forge ahead, sometimes floating, sometimes halfheartedly swimming, until the details of the island’s coast were made clear.

A final wave spat a coughing and tired Andy onto the shore. His torso lay on the land but the water still toyed with his feet and legs. With his face pressed to the sand, he struggled to breathe and to remember what his limbs were supposed to feel like. When air began to flow naturally through his lungs, Andy grasped the feat he had accomplished. A feeling of triumph welled in his stomach as he realized he had made the voyage to the island and he soon forgot all the he had just endured.

Andy picked himself up and looked along the edge of the island’s beach. The shore was covered in jagged rocks that would have cut into his feet had he not been wearing shoes. Between all the rocks, Andy realized there was no sand here to make castles. The trees that had looked like a forest from across the ocean now showed themselves to be just a cluster of scraggy beach trees. Still, Andy walked towards the trees with hopes that he might find a forest worthy of exploration. As he entered the tree cluster, mosquitoes swarmed over him, sucked his blood and made his body itch. Andy ran from the trees and went back to the shore.

Once back to the shore, Andy saw that he had been right about a fire. But the remains on the beach were not what he expected to see. Beer cans and glass littered the ground around the fire ring. The innocent fun that Andy had pictured in his mind was wrong. The knowledgeable faces were tainted by something Andy did not know or understand.

Andy’s excitement drained from him and he yearned for home. He looked across the water where his house was still in slumber and the beach sand looked comfortable and inviting. Looking behind him, Andy could see a dark patch of clouds looming over the barren trees and gaining quickly until they covered the whole sky of the island. A raindrop fell on Andy’s face and slid down his cheek. He hid his face in his arms and curled his legs to his chest. He had no way to get back to the beach, no dinghy he could steal. Meanwhile, rain pelted his back, thunder clapped in the clouds and home was further away than it had ever been.

Author’s Note

I decided early on that I wanted to have a story like Araby (by James Joyce)  where the main character(s) are infatuated with the thought of something they don’t have at present. I was thinking of doing a short story that takes place in an underground communist society. The main male would be attracted to one of the girls but they have to take secret glances at each other for fear that the other might be a spy and eventually they would escape. Unlike Araby this story would have had a happy ending. However, I decided against doing that story because I felt like the description and anxiety in the world I would have to create wouldn’t fit well into a short story. So instead I went with my idea of the little boy who has to grow up. I wanted to have the teenagers be like the girl in Araby. Andy idolizes the teenagers and the island is basically symbolic for growing up. I considered having him swim the whole way there but that seemed unrealistic. Stealing the boat is significant because it’s something that a child wouldn’t do. Also, the way he unties the boat and gets in is the opposite of the sure movements of the teenager I had the option of making the island a good place but I liked the way Araby ended abruptly on a disappointing note. So I created a sad little island and then the storm. He doesn’t have a way to get home because he can’t go back to being a child and the reader doesn’t know when his parents find him, if his parents find him at all.

Dave Fonseca here. Hopefully you won’t be hearing too much from me in this blog, because the Canalmen’s Corner is all about student content.
With the return of the Bourne Dispatch this year, we needed to find a new home for the Canalmen’s Corner. We thought, what better place to highlight the work of Bourne High School’s young writers than the web?
We’re hoping that this format will spark up some discussion and, eventually, help to build sense of community among these young writers and their readers.
Anyway, enough of me, please enjoy the work of these talented young people.