Creator - Brianna Pitts CONTENT WARNING: DEATH, SPECIFIC DESCRIPTIONS OF ROADKILL A few years ago I saw a man lying on the side of the road.
My mom pulled her van over and asked the two people standing beside him what was happening. The woman who answered was a doctor. He had a heart attack, he was alive, they’d called the police and an ambulance was on the way. After ensuring everything was okay, my mom kept driving. I had a piano lesson to get to. She was crying. I don’t remember what she said during the drive, but I remember how she said it. With this low, open hopelessness. Lamenting. It made me uneasy, so I started to smile. My body tried to force me to laugh, to ease some of my discomfort, but I wouldn’t let it, because if you laugh at real suffering you’re sick. I didn’t want to be sick. I wanted to be a good person. So I did not laugh, and my mom never saw the smile I couldn’t keep off my face as I stared out of the window in silence. --- I cried when my pets died. Scout, my mom’s calico; Sammy, the German Shepherd my half-brother staked a claim on; Smokey, a stray black cat my family agreed we should have named Shadow. They are the only close family members to have died around me. In that regard, I am lucky, but I am also woefully inexperienced with death. What do I say to the friends whose grandparents have died other than “you can talk to me if you want to”? I can offer no comfort other than my presence, and that hardly feels like enough. Not that I want anyone to die. Though the thought of death does not scare me, I am at least smart enough to recognize that the death of a family member will hurt when it comes. But there is a strange force inside of me that craves experience. To feel everything the world has to offer, no matter how painful, out of a simple desire to know. There’s that famous saying that advises to “write what you know,” but what I know is, frankly, boring. Death, on the other hand, is interesting. Thought provoking. Life-altering. And deeply appealing. --- With driving comes an increasing awareness of roadkill. Squirrels, groundhogs, raccoons, the sorts, whisking by in blurry patches of red and pink and brown. I try not to hit them again. Part of me fears that if I did, some of that pink and red would tangle in my tires and follow me home. That the stench of rot and decay would waft into my car and linger, simmering in the hot summer sun. That I would have to pick out the tendrils with my fingers and throw them into the grass to be pecked away by the sweet little chickadees that twitter so pleasantly outside my window. So I avoid roadkill. --- So rot, ferment, and decompose So all the things can grow Or wallow in a drinkless world And wither on the bough -Cosmo Sheldrake, “Solar Waltz” --- It wasn’t a real blue bird. It was a bus, white with blue stripes and a solid blue bird on the sides. I drove by it for weeks as it sat on the road beside The Park, marveled in the contrast of its blue against the falling autumn leaves. Wondered why it was there. As I wondered, I thought of Into the Wild. If I stepped out of my car, pried open the rusted bus doors with my bare hands, and peeked inside, would I see the body of Chris McCandless, starved to a mere 67 pounds, surrounded by books and empty bags and a rifle? Or maybe I would see the children from Trick ‘r Treat, waterlogged by their drownings, hunting for revenge? Maybe it was a prison bus, carrying prisoners to The Park so they could be brought into the woods and shot. I wanted to look. I knew my theories were wrong, they were outrageous, nothing more than the morbid daydreams of a teenage girl. But as much as I wanted to sate my curiosity, I never did. As long as I never figured out the truth, I could believe that the blue bird was a part of something bigger.
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Creator - Anonymous Photographer's Note:
My photography conveys the beauty of nature and the purity of snow. That's not all, it also depicts the natural disasters that come with nature through the sharp icicles. Overall, it showcases the negatives and positives of nature taken during the snowstorm. I think that the white snow is just so serene and peaceful. Quarter 3 of the 2020-2021 School Year The Eclipse Committee is proud that we can allow so many talented artists to share their work. Every piece we receive is unique to the person who creates it. We are glad to showcase your talents, whether we promote you individually or allow you to present your work anonymously. Thank you for taking the time to submit to us, and we hope you enjoy this new publication! — Hinna Parwez, Co-President As we near the home stretch of this school year, we hope that Eclipse continues to serve as a reminder of unity and strength.
These past several months have been a whirlwind for all of us; we hope that the art and writing we've showcased continue to be a bulwark against the uncertainty that leaves us unmoored. Like every other quarter, every student submission leaves us breathless from their talent -- enjoy! — Phyllis Feng, Co-President Creator - Hex Hogan A note from the author: I think of this poem as a reflection of ones self- it’s the feeling of grasping at straws trying to give meaning to everything when in the end, our lives are all just experiences that flicker on, off, and out. But there’s something really beautiful, almost comforting about that. Being forgotten isn’t always bad, but in some sense freeing. Do what you will with your life, live for you and your triumphs and failures and the things that make you happy and do so with peace of mind.
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