The Sea
Evan Schauer
Jenny goes on to tell us how three years ago a man was found out here after a monsoon, drowned in his home. On the second story. No one knows how it happened. But I think I know now.
The air feels wetter and wetter.
He drowned in the Sea.
markcmarino
adam...@gmail.com
“First of all,” she said, “the atmosphere remembers.”
It had been monsoon-ing for way too long. Usually they come and go and one can plan one’s day accordingly. But we’d been stuck in the mansion forever, no cell or wi-fi service, played all the board games, etc. We’d stared at the walls for so long I think Shelly decided to go nuts for a bit just for something to do. We heard her in one of the rooms upstairs singing nonsense before she came down and suggested we tell stories.
“Climate scientists have a theory which states that some weather patterns embed themselves in the atmosphere, making their recurrence more likely. So, Tornado Alley is Tornado Alley because that’s where previous tornadoes happened.”
“A man used to live around here, a scientist.” She continued. “Thought he could turn back climate change by accessing the atmosphere’s memory. In a mansion very like this one, he built a laboratory. There he is, fiddling with wires and dials, the air weighing down over weeks. The sweat that slicks his brow and slimes his hands clouds his ability to know where he ends and the wet air begins. His coughs turn to choking gurgles. More weeks pass. He hunches now, and drags his legs. He is so heavy he takes long baths to feel light again. He leaves the bath running and opens up the mansion to let the monsoon in. His gills stretch for the water. His webbed hands paw the anemometers and barometers. His large, luminous eyes stare unblinking. He dies on the floor, his body full enough of water the skin bulges tight to bursting.”
“Since then, the monsoons get longer and longer every year.”
Jeremy Hight
The dirt remembers. The atmosphere may rain onto the hand of a teen who has a crush on a long passed on starlet the water that touched her hair that afternoon in 1955. The hurricane may "die" and lose its name , plotted points on maps and narrative but the moisture feeds rains and cloud far beyond this. The fall of disco ball glittering fish scales came from that waterspout someone saw off the coast and missed a photo of. This all is gone as past dies into present and how past bleeds into present and even the day unborn.
The monsoon means only seasonal wind said the old textbook, dry voiced and flat toned in text long turned into mulch, pre kindling and airplanes. The dry breath blows for months to naming, no fanfare. The wet wind comes and steals all the text, all the iterations, the perceived satellite and radar face and bones in rising and dying storms till summer dies into fall.
We’d been stuck in the mansion forever, no cell or wi-fi service, played all the board games, etc. We’d stared at the walls for so long I think Shelly decided to go nuts for a bit just for something to do. We heard her in one of the rooms upstairs singing nonsense before she came down and suggested we tell stories.
“A man used to live around here, a scientist.” She continued. “Thought he could turn back climate change by accessing the atmosphere’s memory"she said staring at the clouds in the distant hills. Another scientist though that storms could lift up not just fish or red sand in updrafts and waterspouts but errant conversation shards. voices, breath... He wrote a paper once of how some swore in dying high based thunderstorms people heard children playing in another country, long dead men on a ship that wrecked, a one side bifurcated conversation into some phone in another town that fell gently for blocks until the last drops fell.
Rob Wittig
Language Arts 4th Period
Mr. Memmott
by Cumula Patterson
I am reviwing this new app I have called "wH2o?".
wH20? analyzes water and tells you where it's been. Or, really, who it's been in.
We all know that there's only so much water and it just goes round and round. But we've never paused to think whose pee we're drinking.
The first glass of water I had the app told me contained water from the hand of a teen who has a crush on a long-passed-on starlet. A starlet is Wikipedia defines as an up and coming actress or celebrity.
I also drank water that had once been in the American Writer Edgar Allan Pope, who wrote frightening tales of the bizarre.
I use wH20? every day many times to see if I have had any water from Blake Shelton, who is my favorite.
I would recommend wH20? definitely to anyboyd. It's a cool app.
Jeremy Hight
wH20? analyzes water and tells you where it's been. Or, really, who it's been in.
We all know that there's only so much water and it just goes round and round. But we've never paused to think whose pee we're drinking.
The first glass of water I had the app told me contained water from the hand of a teen who has a crush on a long-passed-on starlet. A starlet is Wikipedia defines as an up and coming actress or celebrity.
I also drank water that had once been in the American Writer Edgar Allan Pope, who wrote frightening tales of the bizarre.