Hallmarks 1995

20 Pages·1995·22.2 MB·English

by  Harpeth Hall School (1951-)

SARAH TABER (12)
ALLISO=oISHO b=y
o lb
Christina’s World
III of V
Each little lighttwinkled like a firefly on a starless night. The band played on the
make-shift stage and dance floor. The sound ofthe fiddles, harmonicas, and guitars
floated in the air, mixing with the smell ofwatermelon and bar-b-quethatwas being
served nearby. Children set offfirecrackersthat popped and sparkled in the street
leaving small puffs ofsmoke in theirwake. Itwas a happy night.
itwas the day before she had turned nineteen, sothis was like a birthday party.
Her hairwas long and tonight itwas tied backwith a white ribbon. Her mother had
made piesforthe occasion, as always, so as mother’s helper she was glad to be free
from the kitchen.
He, ofcourse, was by herside. She liked him. He was nice and honest. He always
told her she was special which made her blush and then call him a liar. He would
smile and look down at his feet.
They danced and danced. He wasn’tvery good, but he knew he was making her
happy. The charleston, a dance which seemed to be sweeping the country, didn’t
even attemptto spread its arms overthis small town. That kind ofdancing had no
appeal to these people, and it seems out ofplace. After aboutan hour ofdancing,
waltzing mostly, he found a table forthem. He gladly got herthe punch she asked
foralong with a glass for himself.
She sat atthe end ofthe bench allowing space forany otherswho mightwantto
sit. He slid in acrossfrom her and presented herwith the punch. She gulped atfirst,
then slowly sipped. He knew he wouldn't geta better chance.
“It’s a great night, isn't it.”
“Yeah. They did a goodjob on the decorations. They're betterthan theywere last
year, at least.”
“Yeah. Um, you look really pretty. | like whatyou did withyour hair.”
“Thankyou.”
He began fidgeting with his hands, rolling them over and over each other. Hefelt
stupid. He wasn’tsaying what he wanted.
“Yeah?”
“Happy Birthday. | know itwasyour birthdayyesterday and I'm sureyou thought
| forgot because I didn’t come by... but | had to work, you know, and | knewwe'd
be togethertonight so Ijustfigured I'd tell you tonight, so, happy birthday.”
He gulped hard and looked down at his hands. She knew she had to saysome-
thing, ifonlyto tryto relax him; he had neveracted like this before.

“Thanks. That's sweet. No, | didn’tthinkyou forgot. | know how hard you work.
| had to help Momma with the pies all dayso...”
“Um, I gotyou a present.”
“You did? How sweet! Butyou didn’t haveto do that; you didn’t have to get me
anything.”
He knew he had to keep this going now. He had chickened outyesterday, and so
many days before, but now he had started it. So he tooka deep breath, looked up,
and wentthrough with it.
“Yeah, well, it's something I've wanted to giveyou for a long time now, so when
your birthday came, itseemed like the perfect chance.”
“Forwhat?”
She looked down and saw his knuckles turning white from his squeezing them as
he continued.
“Forwhat, well... we've been togethera long time, you and me, | mean, and
with Dad getting on in years | pretty much run the farm now... and we had a great
yearthisyear, you know... yeah well, |justwanted to say , been wanting to say, that
well...”
Gasping deeply, he reached into his pants pocket and pulled outa ring which he
held between two fingers and stretched it acrossthe table to her.
“... well... I love you and | wantyou to be mywife.”
He smiled;first because hewas relieved he finally got it out, and second because
she didn’t laugh at him. She smiled, and took it in her hand.
JENNIFER CRANTS (12)
Grocery Shopping
In a grocery store known forits elderlyand young mothers, sits a six-yearold on
a bench bythe automatic doors. Leaning forward, he straightens his arms and press-
es his palms againstthe walnutseat, all the while swinging his legs in timeto a song
in his head. Againstfaded bluejeansthatare worntowhite on the knees, lastyears
orangeT-balljerseystands outvividly. An older, white haired man sits besidethe boy
who turns and says,
“You knowwhat? I'm going to getsome newshoes today. My mom says I can
have any color | want,just as long as they gotvelcro on them. She says I trip over
myshoelaces too much.”
Asthe man leans backand takes a sip ofhis coffee, the boy can’t help butturn
sideways and stare atthe bellyand the buttons ofthe brown cardigan that seems to
almost pop offeach time the man inhales.
“What colorareyou going to get?”
“Oh, probably blue. | can’t get red because some girl mightthink it’s pink, and
my mom says thatwhite gets too dirty. But | could getwhite if | wantto... I'mjust
not.”
“Oh, OKThat's good. You sound like a smart boy.”
“Yeah, | am. | know a lot ofstuff. | even know my address. My mom taught me.”
The man tries to act surprised, “Why, that’s really good! You do know a lot of
things.”
The boy pausesfor a moment and stares down at his shoes. “Areyou married?”
“Why, yes. Yes | am. Mywife's right overthere... in the bread section, holding up
the cheese curls.”
Smiling, the man points with his short, pudgyfingers and asksthe boy ifhe him-
selfhas a wife.
“Nope,” the boysays returning to watch his swinging feet. He doesn’t look up as
the man sets down his empty coffee cup and crosses his legs. “But I'm going to
marry my mom when | get older.”
“Really? Isn't she already married toyourfather?”
“Oh... Well, I guess she is.” He looks up and can see straight down the cereal
aisle. He starts to hum to himself, almost as ifhe has forgotten thatthe man is there.
He's still thinking about his mother.
“Well, I guess Ijustwon't get married then. My mom isthe only girl that I like.”
Crossing one arm over his bodyso asto propthe other one up, and covering his
hand over his smiling mouth, the man replies,
“Your mother must be a real nice ladythen foryou to wantto marry her.”
“Yep, she is. She’s betterthan Robert's mom. She lets me eatsugarcereal.”
“Really?”
“Yep,” The boysays,jumping up offofthe bench. “There she iswaving at me to
come on. You see her? She'sthe prettyone.”
“Oh, yeah. My, she is pretty. You best be getting on overthere. I'll seeyou later.
Be good, now.”
“I will. Bye”
Asthe boy runs offto his motherand hercart, the man followstheir pathwith
his eyes. Hethen stands up and walks overto hiswife who's now inthe produce
section.
LACEYGALBRAITH (12)
Once He Stood
As halfa man he
stands now,
withoutthe protection ofhis suit.
He neverthoughtthat he
would be the one in need.
He had always known
this Kind ofpain from a distance,
but never amid the anguish

had he stood.
Now knowing
that he can not departfrom it
at his leisure,
he kneels atthe foot ofthe
power he once mastered.
He bows
nowand begsfor hisforgiveness;
for he is buta man
in an unforgiving domain.
SARAH TABER (12)

KELLYJACKSON (9)
A Shard of Clay For shards like these used to be
A child'stoy, an artist'sjoy?
Through the sand oftime weshift All we know oflife we see
A shard ofclay, ofyesterday As broken bits ofRomme and TrToroyy..
A pot orvase orwedding gift :
In long white drawers on museum
Its purpose faded nearaway. As
Gods’ parades (the colorfades)
Butisnizlizing cluestare found. Are all we have with which to delve
Ancient cultures, freeyet structured, Into a land ofwhispers, shades.
Fragmentslivers, blackand browned
Relics now on which to lecture. JANINE PETERSON (9)
ANJALI SHENAI (12)
Will You... when i can’tfind my glove,
when i don’t care where my coatis,
willyou bethere when i dye my hair orwhen i sing amy’s songsjust a little
purple? offkey?
when mysocks ceaseto match,
willyou be there when i dye my hair
when my laces are nottied,
dark dark red?
orwhen my laughter seems as random when i am mad andjust don’t know
asthe rain? why,
when i wantto rant and rave,
will you be there when i dye my hair orwhen i cryfor a broken trinket?
magenta?
when mycloths are not ironed, willyou be there when my hair isjust
when myshirts go unbuttoned, brown?
when i don'tfeel like being different,
orwhen my hands are glued to my new
when i am tired offighting,
project?
orwhen ijustwantto be held byyou?
will you be there when i dye my hairthe
brightest blue? MARY MICHAEL JOHNSON (10)
“Corpses”
Four boys in a row, foursophomore Hillsboro boys leaningtheirbacks againstthebackwall
ofmyhouse. Ifyoushould lookin anyskating magazine, anygraffiti magazine, eventhenormal
magazinecalled HighTimes, youwould see boys exactlylikethem: stringylong brown hairor
a shaved head, atoo-slightbuild, pantssunkwaybeloweachwaistwitha silverchain hanging
offthe pocket, and twoT-shirts on atthe sametime. Turn on MTVattenthirtyandyou'll hear
theirvoice:
“Huh-huh, she said lay.”
“Huh-huh, he saidwood.”
“This sucks!”
“Huh-huh,that’s cool.”
Boys acrossAmerica haveembracedthis ingenious styleofspeech. Eithertheyquotefunny
sections oftheshowateach other orimitatewhat Beavis and Buttheadwould say, shouldwe
begraced bytheirpresence. Itseems impossibleto getthreesentences bythemwithouta ref-
erenceto Beavis and Butthead. Conversationwiththese boys is limited ofcourse. Theytalk
aboutgoingtagging, aboutTVshows and music, aboutvarious drugs, aboutskipping school,
abouthowcool mydog is. I'mvaguelyafraidtheywill getsome Butthead-likeidea ofhowto
tormenther. They'vealreadydesecrated mypoorteddy-bearbysmushing its head in, although
| supposethatwas myfaultforsaying, “Hey, lookwhatyou can dotothis bear!”
| sitinthewetgrass, wonderingwhyfourboys, threeofwhom | don’tknow, areatmy
house. | wonderwhy [| am spendingthis dayfrom mySpring Breakbeing hostessto myfriend
and histhreefriends, whytheyhavecometo myhousetospendtheirtruanttime. Part ofmeis
flatteredthat | am accepted as cool orgenerous or interesting enoughto hang outwith.
Anotherpartis extremelynervousthatmymomwill come homeunexpectedlyorthatthey'll
breaksomething. | alsofeel stupidthat | can’ttalkabouttagging orskippingschool, thatI
haven'teven heard ofsomeofthedrugstheycasuallyname. (Nevertheless, | am contentthat |

do notknowany Beavisand Butthead byheart!) Butmostly, I'm enjoyingstudyingtheseboys,
watchingthem, likesomeundercoversociologist.
Theymovewiththesamegestures, cocktheirheads atthesameangle, laugh atthesame
things. Theydo notseemtohaveambitions; theydo notthinkofthe badthingsofthefuture
orthethingstheyregretfromthe past. Theypretendto dislikethinking: stupidityis praised if
it'sthe rightkind. Theyaredressed exactlyalike, theytalkexactlyalike.
Something iswrong withthem; theyare dead. Thespiritandwildness ofyoung men has
beentamed intothis stupor. It’s as iftheirspirithastransformed intotheirfleshybodies, and
theirbodies intothe clothestheywear. Theirclothes arethe corpses; their laughteristhedeath
certificate. Likethe dead, theydon’tcareaboutthefuture, and theyrememberonlywhatis
pleasantaboutthe past. Likethedeadtheyhave no respectfortheirbodies orotherpeople.
Theseboys aretoo concernedwithappearing cool and pretending notto beinterested in sub-
jects beyondthe comprehension oftheirfriends. In this way, theyhavesmothered thesparkof
lifeinsidetheirminds.
Myeyeis caught; I lookup and see oneofthem smiling, butwith afierce burning senseof
life. Thesun has shafted down ontohis hair, highlightingthered glints and seeminglysetting
his head onfire. He is a little moretalkativethantheothers, and stands a bitmoreupright.
Somehow, he is nota walking corpse liketheotherthree. In someway, | knowthathe is not
dead, thatinstead he is ablazewith passion and angerand rebellion and allthose boyish emo-
tions. Howhe escapedthe doom so commonto so manyofAmerica’syouth is intriguingtome.
His motions, desireto makeothers laugh, easyacceptance ofcircumstances, his dress, his
speech are all likethe otherthree, likethe otherthirtymillion inAmerica.Yet, somehow, hehas
an interest inwhatgoes on around him; somehow, he is alive.
| turn myhead fromthesurvivorto lookatmyfriend, theone ofthefourthat | knew
beforetoday, and watchthefleshyhands pull outa cigarette. “Anyone gota lighter? Gimme
yours, Chris.” Hecasuallylights itand inhales. “Screwthis.”
“Huh-huh, you said screw.”
SARAH COSTONIS (11)
Nesting Doll Dream Vomitroseinsideme.
Runningfromthoselips,fallingovertables,
chairs, eyes,staringatthemadwoman
|am in mycar. |am.
DaVinci'sshadowsbreatheinandout, Myeyeshurledthesetearsofvomit.
trudgeoverourwhitebodies,over, perilsofthepassionandpainandpain
sleepsinthetrench,deepmoatofyourback,
burnedmewiththeirscreams,
parallelwalltotheceiling. echoing, ricochetingoffthewallsofmyhead.
Noafternoreleasedfromhelltostoprape- .
Yoursoftrockingbrushesmyeyesdown,likethe
destructionofsoulendfaithanderos. !
Sandman.
Forcingthoseeyesopen
|amtossedinawhirling madness
likecold,echoing,slidingjailwalls,
onecattoanotherlikeaballofyarn, ragdoll
|seeyou.
slickfelinefaces,familiarones Isquintandopen,closeandopen-
blurred incrowdsofscreamingflesh.
“It'syou.You'realive.ThankGod.you'realive.”
underthewhitetent,tables-people
Release.
stuffingtheirmouths; |stuffdownthat
Barearmstosqueezeanakedneck.
shovingdeepintomydepths. Topulldownthewhitemusclesintome.
Noneofit'strue. Harder.
Untilthatbitchcomes,
“Ofcourse| am”
Shesitsatmytableinherwhitesuit, God, | lovehim, lovehimlovingme.
saysshesawacorpseinacar,
giggling.
|amin mybed.
“Youwilldietoo,” |screamedinsidemyhead
7:15,lightispouringaroundthepulledshades.
spinningheadinaspinningplace, |squinttoseememoryofthesubconscience.
reelingonthisintoxicatedaxisofrevolution.
wishingdreamstotruth.
“Hisskinwasalmostblue,white-blue,
Notthedreamsinsidethedreams
hiseyeswereopen, like-"
Notthedoll insidethedoll insidethedoll,
HerNeo-Classicpinklipsmoved, wheretheechoesofthegravehide,waiting-
Fluorescent, intestinemagentamovement
almostdrowningthemortal,angeliccryofthenow.
clearalongthistempest.
Circleback-findtheunopenedpresent.
“Thatwastheone| loved!”
|stoppedherNeo-Classiclipsmidway.
Isawher bloodyheartdownthere. VARINABUNTIN (12)
Abandoned Angel “Where's my mama?” she asked,
and what could I reply
| walked byan open door, but extend my cold body
wooden, cracked, thick, wet, to her, open for herto enter
and from behind it floated just as | had entered her home.
the bitter sound ofa child She ripped through my skin,
mourning, somber, lost,
held every inch ofme
and she was dirty,
as ifthe grasp ofher hand
cheeks stained with the grey
could somehow pull the woman,
tint ofherlife,
mama,
the same color ofthe walls,
through the dimension
the sky, the light.
that separate body and soul.
and there in the dark
And the tear-scarred cheeks
leaned this weeping angel on a chair
loudly rocking in silence. ofthe small girl
All there was to be heard glistened, glowed
was the creak ofwood on wood, in the greyness
the sound ofskin on skin, as | weaklyturned away and left her.
moan on moan, death.
“Mama, mama..." she cried. ANJALI SHENAI(12)

A.K. DETWILLER (11)
Timeless
The first is the touch you've been longing for, backgrounded by the look
in his eyes, the smell of his cologne, and the way his hair looks messedly
perfect. He smiles the smile you can hearin his voice on the phone but
never get to see. Then, as your mind spins like a dandelion seed in the wind,
he pulls you close again. Your blood boils like lava flowing to escape its cold
stone container. The detail ofthe moment disappears and soon the only
thing in your mind is him as you enjoy silent bliss again and again. Later,
happily out of breath, you return from your timeless moment to the reality
of curfews, parents, and the rain now pouring down from above. You run to
yourcar, to play ‘your song’ and think of him, now out ofview, ofthis night,
and of all that led up to it. Reduced again to midnight phone calls, you take
yourlast glimpse of his tail lights, remembering the singularity and sweet-
ness ofthat first kiss, momentarily forgetting everything that followed it.
JENNIFER CRANTS (12)