Tag Archives: May 2012

Editor’s Note — May 2012

      As Editor-in-Chief of The Collegian for this academic year, I feel compelled to extend my gratitude to those of you who have taken the time to submit to our school’s literary magazine this year. I know that sometimes it can be difficult to expose your words, but I want you to know that it was your creative work that was the foundation of The Collegian.

      But I must thank my staff for their submissions, genuine hard work, and love of writing that brought all of the material together. I really enjoyed working with you.

      And to The Board of Publications: Prof. Dubrow, Prof. Olsen, and Melissa McIntire, thank you for giving me the opportunity to recreate and re-establish The Collegian, for your support and guidance throughout the year, and for your encouragement.

      To Kate Bursick and Shane Brill, who were essential in the operation of The Collegian. Thank you for always helping me out, especially during the crazy times.

      I would like to welcome Abby Schwartz as our Editor-in-Chief for next year!

      And finally to my fellow seniors, I wish you all the best.

                                                                                                Olivia Hamilton Mott
                                                                                                Editor-in-Chief 2011-2012

From the Ring on the Heath Part II

By: Stephanie Brown ’12


     Aggie was gently bouncing Tom on her knee as the stew broiled over the hearth. Tom cooed happily and waved his tiny hands, grabbing a loose strand of her hair.

     “Careful, careful,” Aggie said, smiling.

     She tickled his stomach, and Tom kicked his legs, giving a joyful squeal.

     “Who am I?” she asked.

     “Ma!” Tom gurgled, clapping his hand and grinning his toothless smile.

     The door opened at that point. Aggie looked up to see Giles, but her smile faded instantly. His brows were creased, his mouth in a thin line.

     “Da!” Tom laughed and made more nonsense sounds.

     “Giles, what is it? Is Duncan bickering again? I told you to just ignore—”

     “Where did you find it?” Giles snapped, his finger jabbing towards the baby giggling in her lap.

     “He’s not an ‘it.’ Besides, I told you, I found him on the doorstep.”

     “You’re lying. You’ve been lying from the start.” Giles paced along the room, running a bulky hand through his hair. “No one ever came by in the night, did they?”

     Aggie straightened her back. “Of course they did, how else would I have—”


     Something in his tone made Aggie’s stomach freeze. She stood, shifting Tom so that he clung to her shoulder. Giles eyed the baby for a few seconds.

     “I’ll ask you one last time. Where did you get it?” He turned his gaze on his wife.

     “Why won’t you listen to me?” Aggie snapped. Tom began to tug on her hair.

     Giles let out a bitter laugh. “God in Heaven, you did it. I can’t believe you. Was there not enough sense in your head to keep you from going to the ring on the heath?”

     Anger colored her cheeks as she said, “You should learn to count your blessings.”

     “Blessings?!” He exploded, the sudden shout startling Tom until he wailed. “You brought a changeling into our home! Did you want a babe that badly?”

     “Yes!” Aggie clutched the baby closer and stroked his tufts of hair. “I don’t regret what I did! Who cares what everyone else thinks? He’ll grow, he’s just slow, that’s all.”

     “Listen to yourself, woman. You’re in denial. What more evidence do you need that the thing is cursed? We should do as everyone says and leave it back in the ring.”

     Aggie gripped Tom tighter. He began to cry. “No! How dare you say that about our son!”

     “He is not our son! We never had a son!”

     The silence that followed hung heavy in the air, seemingly pressing down on them. Giles stood firm, chest heaving, face flushed with anger, while Aggie remained wide-eyed and pale.

     “I’m giving you a choice,” Giles said heavily. “Return…him to the ring, or leave here with him. If you do, you are no longer my wife.”

     Aggie was still, the only motion coming from the baby squirming in her arms. At long last, she slowly, nervously opened her mouth.

     “I…I’ll need to pack my things.”

     The look in Giles’ eyes nearly crushed her. But she held on, for Tom.

     “Aggie…please…it’s not human.”

     “I love him. He needs me.”

     Giles blinked his eyes a few times, and then turned towards the door. “You’ve made your choice. But you forget, Aggie, that I love you, too. It seems your want of a child means more to you than I ever could. Enjoy the life you’ve chosen.”

     He was gone, and the door’s closing held finality in its loud thud. Aggie winced, trembled, and looked down at her son, trying hard not to cry. “It’s just you and me now, Tommy. Come on, Mama needs to get some stuff together.”

     It was dark by the time she left the house, her bag of clothes and small possessions stuffed in the cradle that she pushed down the dirt road. Tom was wrapped up and tied snug to her chest, where he pressed against her for warmth. It was hard work, but she managed to cross the bridge to where the old abandoned mill cottage stood. The original mill had long since fallen into disrepair, causing another to be built, but the cottage still remained. It was in need of a new roof and shutters, but Aggie would make do. She was determined to, for her child.


     Aggie fixed everything up by herself. No one ever stopped by, not even Giles, though she sometimes thought that she caught sight of him lingering near the bridge, never crossing. After a few months he stopped coming. Aggie, too, never crossed the bridge, except for Sunday service, the only time she ever left Tom napping at the cottage. People avoided sitting beside her, oftentimes staring pointedly in the opposite direction.

     Five years later, Aggie went to church and saw Giles. He was with a woman, a pretty woman with one hand on a rosary and the other holding his own. Her belly was just beginning to fill with child. A bitter taste filled her mouth, but she focused her gaze on the altar. After that day, she only stopped by in the evenings to light a candle and pray.


     The years crept by. One by one, Aggie watched as everyone she knew died. Her hair grew grey, her skin weathered and wrinkled, and her back became bent from sitting beside the cradle for so long. Still, her baby remained the same.

     The younger generations avoided her. Some looked upon her with pity, others with scorn. They whispered behind her back, perhaps thinking that her hearing had deteriorated with her old age. No one came by her house anymore, save for a few curious children hoping to catch sight of the changeling child.

     Aggie was scared. She was going to die, but her baby would remain behind. She had heard the whispers; she knew what would happen when that day came. The fear gnawed at her heart, and she prayed and seethed and sobbed for a solution. In time, she realized that there was no other option.

     Aggie trembled, the veins in her withered hands bulging. Her limbs ached with arthritis as she lifted the baby from his cradle and wrapped him in her best shawl. She donned her cloak, picked up her walking stick, and carried the child outside.


     The wind gusted against her face. Tom began to cry and pressed his face to her breast. Aggie bounced him in her arm as she slowly followed the road out of town, up to where it curved past that all too familiar heath. Her cane sunk slightly into the damp earth as she stepped off the path. Every now and then she pause to catch her breath and wait for her knees to cease their shaking. Tom’s cries grew louder, his little hands clutching at her blouse. The wind caught his cry and carried it through the hills, a high-pitched trill of fear.

     Finally, they reached Aggie’s destination. The circle of stones was dark and empty. Aggie moved forward, only to have her cane catch in a rut. She stumbled, both cane and babe tumbling from her arms as she landed on her knees with a pained grunt. A low moan crawled from her throat as she reached for the baby. The hair tangled in her face as she lifted her gaze to the faerie ring.

     “Take him back! Please!”

     No one answered. No light, aside from the crescent moon appeared on the heath. Aggie dragged Tom closer and hugged him to her chest.

     “I’m dying! I don’t have much time! There’ll be no one to care for him! The town will not care for a changeling child!”

     Only the wind howled in response.

     Aggie shivered. “You must help! If not for your sake, then for his! He’s of your kind! Let him grow in your land if not in mine! Save our child!”

     She remained still for some time, waiting as the chill air froze her, made her joints ache with pain. Yet, no one came. Aggie bowed her head over her crying child, letting her fresh tears mingle with his. There would be no answer, no help from the Fair Folk or anyone else for that matter. She would die and be buried alone, while her Tom remained in his cradle. He would wait for someone to feed and coddle him, to kiss his face and soothe his cries. He would wait as the townsfolk boarded up the windows and doors of her small cottage, too afraid to take any other action. Her baby would cry, as hunger tore at his stomach. But his wails would be ignored, or passed off as the howl of the wind by the nervous townsfolk.

     Aggie could already picture it. He would scream and wail; his face soaked in a permanent sheen of tears. But there would be nothing except the dark solitude of empty rooms forcing itself upon him, forcing itself down his throat as it smothered him, smothered him until his cries ceased and his cold, still, fragile body was buried in the darkness.

     It would suffocate him, suffocate her child.

     Suffocate her child.

     The weeping mother’s movements were slow as she kissed her Tom and laid him on the wild grass. Her hands stroked his little tufts of hair, trailed down his face and delicately, hesitantly, wrapped gnarled fingers around his soft throat. Then she squeezed.

     Aggie kept her eyes closed, too afraid to look. She heard his cries shift to small guttural gurgles, and felt his feet kick and his hands wave frantically against her arms, those tiny fingers clutching onto her sleeve for a brief moment. Aggie felt his body buck and flail futilely against her hands, her breath shaky as she sobbed between clenched teeth. She tightened her grip, wanting it to just end, wanting everything to just stop.

     She almost missed the crack that cut through the air. Her eyes flew open and she gazed down at her still, silent baby, his neck now lying at an unnatural angle. Tearfully, Aggie lifted the baby into her arms, clutching to her breast as she swayed to and fro in the wind and the grass. She didn’t know how long she stayed like that before she noticed something strange. Her baby felt… odd. Not as soft as he should have been.

     Aggie drew him away to get a better look, and her eyes grew wide. Tom’s skin was darkening, growing stiff and rough. The fat of his arms withered and shrank, seemingly retracting into his body. He appeared to shrivel before her eyes, and all the familiar contours she had memorized melted away. The arms became impossibly thin and dropped onto the grass. But they were not arms anymore. They were twigs woven with straw. Aggie looked back at the body to find that it was a lump of wood she held in her arms, woven in a layer of straw, with two pebbles where the eyes used to be.

     Only then did Aggie realize the full meaning behind the woman’s words.

“A baby, of any kind, just as you requested. Nothing more.”

Paintbrush Monster

By: Rachela Forcellese ’12, Staff Writer

     My brother has always had a wild imagination. Growing up, he was always the one who entertained everyone. He danced, he sang, he even dressed up. If people would watch, he would make them laugh. Cute, small, and blonde, everyone ate up his routine, while I was the brooding, dark-haired child that followed all the rules and was too shy to even answer the phone at home. Now, it’s funny to think that I am the one trying to make it in showbiz, because Hollywood had Tony’s name written all over it when we were young.

     Once he ran through the women’s department of a JC Penny’s with a pair of women’s underwear on his head. He deemed himself “Panty Head.” Another time he bought a Spice Girls shirt with all of his hard-earned allowance. My mom only let him wear it underneath denim overalls.

     But sometimes his imagination got the best of him. He wasn’t in total control of his own powers yet, and that is how the Paintbrush Monster came to be.

     When we were younger, our family lived at our beach house in Ocean City each summer. My parents are schoolteachers, so we were lucky enough to have them to ourselves every summer. We lived in Ocean Pines, which wasn’t directly on the beach. It was in a wooded area where old people went to retire.

     The thing about Ocean Pines was that it was heavily wooded and very dark at night. Most of the houses were old and run-down, ours included. It just seemed like a place where a spring break horror movie would begin. As an irrational and immature ten year old, I was acutely aware of this. The house scared the hell out of me at night, and I was stupid enough to pick the downstairs bedroom when we moved in. I thought it would be cool to have my room on a different floor than my parents. I wasn’t much of a rebel, so this felt daring. The one time I rebelled against my parents as a kid was when I bought Shaggy’s album behind their backs. My mom thought “Wasn’t Me” was far too inappropriate for a fifth grader. So, I went to Target and bought it without her knowing. Scandalous, I know.

     Anyway, every night in that beach house was horrifying for me. It was too dark and too woodsy and I was much too far away from my parents. My brother made fun of me for it as much as he could. That was, until he met the Paintbrush Monster.

     Earlier that week my parents had bought him a Barney necklace. It was a little plastic sphere with water and glitter inside of it along with the purple dino that he loved so dearly. He wore it around his neck every single day. He even slept in it against my parents’ wishes.

     One night he slept in it and woke up in tears; the necklace had gone missing. Apparently he had woken up in the middle of the night only to see a paintbrush the size of an adult person at the foot of his bed. It had razor sharp teeth that chomped at him, and most importantly, the tip of its brush was covered in red paint….or blood. The monster allegedly grabbed the necklace from him and ran away. He told this story to my parents while he ferociously cried. They tried their best to console him, but nothing worked.

     For the next couple of days, my parents tried to find his necklace. They checked under his bed, in the closet, in his drawers. It was nowhere to be found. Meanwhile, Tony lived in fear that the Paintbrush Monster would return.

     We never did find his necklace. And to this day if you ask my brother, who is now eighteen and a freshman in college, about the paintbrush monster, he will tell you the same thing:

     “Yes. He was really tall, had sharp teeth that were constantly chomping, and red paint on his bristles. He stole my Barney necklace. And he was real.”


By: Kristine Sloan ’12, Staff Writer

Such simple marble is unmoving faith,
is some ancient still modern mind
made to burst and break. So I’ll crack this sphere
into a concrete world decayed, a fine powder
I’ll smear into my skin. Call myself sculpted.
Call myself failed metamorphic. No oracles
to prophesize grids of earth obeying.
Through these walls, speech: dito sa lupa
para ng sa Langit.
I used to believe
that any word could be mine, any prayer
pocketed for later. I begged the silence
by breaking the mirror and returning
to dirt; they said digging down was a sin,
but here I’ll find the color of my skin.

Having Gone Casual

By: Kristine Sloan ’12, Staff Writer

She cupped herself a cozy post-haste
when the moment realized a pile of warm whites
loaded and laundered. Trade you that love mug
for a late date, but blind and wandering.
Here’s to a night on the ungrounded town
and our penchant for increasing small talk:
the science of astrology maintains original
emphasis on predictions, the color wheel
is one more chart to reconsider,
Q&A’s are typically priced as buy one,
get one. What do moon beams
and beverage steam have in common?
The phone line died for your final whispers.

Muse 2 – Death

By: Sarah Gumbel ’12

Long time would I rest my head at the corner of your chest and neck,
would trace the muscle taught road of your stomach, with my fingertips.

Softly would I sigh as you curled your long glass fingers, smooth and white,
you would hold me, the paleness of your skin offset by the blue of your eyes.

Your eyes would be the color of stars, and your skin the color of stripes, minus red,
Red was reserved for the color of your lips, and those who had as of yet, tasted life.


By: Olivia Mott ’12, Editor-in-Chief

Sand towers fold down, overlapping – a river to the sea. She welcomes the kidnapped crabs, opens fluid arms, which are blond and black and mocha and peach. Their legs skitter down the handmade creek and press warm tummies against cold, blue water.


By: Olivia Mott ’12, Editor-in-Chief

The cutout, heavy and serrated, balances in the crack of light – hazy and brown. Which is nearly blended with the darkness. Sitting in the closet, bare feet tucked under bathing suit – wet, wet, dripping on the wooden planks of the floor. Waiting. Which is like fruit – sharp and long. Which is a heartbeat slipping, skipping, gone. At night it happens. But here, it is the same. Which is pretending. Which is saying it didn’t happen. Like Justine imagining William’s small form stretched on the riverbank. Which is corruption. Which is nature.