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Prose Spawning Pool 2020
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Experiences Memories Relationships

SpawningPool
Chapbook

Prose
Spring 2020

Shippensburg University

Spawning Pool is a literary arts chapbook published at
Shippensburg University by a small and dedicated team
of undergraduate students. It is composed of prose pieces
submitted by undergraduate students of the university.
Spawning Pool accepts rolling submissions throughout the
year, and we publish our chapbook every Spring semester.
Spawning Pool is a publication of The Reflector, which also
accepts submissions year-round, and is compiled each Fall
semester.

Contact us:
Submissions and inquiries: reflect@ship.edu
SpawningPool Prose Chapbook, Spring 2020
Text set in Minion Pro
Printed by Shippensburg University
Layout by Trent Betham
Cover photo “The Eye of Horus” by Cameron Conroy

Prose Editors
Trent Betham
Matt Hathaway

Committee Members
AJ Barnett
Em Bush
Ash Chapman
Cameron Crouse
Dale Crowley
Taryn Good
Eylie Johnson
Andrea Kitner
Nicole Potts

Table of Contents
“Charlotte Goes for a Run” by Emily
Schoenberger..................................................................................07
“An Aardvark and My Sister” by Bruce
Washington.....................................................................................18
“Jonesy” by Ryley Flanagan...........................................................21
“Emergency Room” by Sam Goss.................................................23
“Gris” by Kay Kitrell.......................................................................25
“Chemical Reaction” April Petesch..............................................28
“The Doppelgänger”by Madeline
Cardinale.........................................................................................29
“A Visitor in the Womb”
by Abigail Kauffman......................................................................35
“The Chain” by Isabella Brignola..................................................37
“Middle School” by Keric Ellis......................................................41

Acknowledgments
Putting together a publication like this doesn’t
happen alone, we all have a large team helping us through
everything. So, I just want to take some time to recognize
those that helped this line of publications this year. Thank
you to Dr. Santalucia for seeing the Reflector through this
year and guiding us when we needed it. Thank you to the
Reflector’s executive board, Anna D’Orazio, Angela Piper,
and Luke Hershey. You’ve all helped us get through any issues
that have come up along the way and have held everything
together even through a global pandemic. Thank you to Kim
Hess, without you this publication literally would not exist
without you and your continued support. And last but not
least, thank you to my Prose Committee. Thank you to my
assistant editor Matt Hathaway for helping me with anything
I’ve needed as we got these publications ready for print.
Thank you to the rest of the prose committee, AJ Barnett, Em
Bush, Ash Chapman, Cameron Crouse, Dale Crowley, Taryn
Good, Eylie Johnson, Andrea Kitner, and Nichole Potts,
you’ve all seen this publication through until the end and I
appreciate each and every one of you for that.
-Trent Betham

Charlotte Goes for a Run
Charlotte was getting fat. The scale said she’d only
gained six pounds, but there was a roll around her waist
that hadn’t been there before, and when she’d gone home
for Thanksgiving break, her dad had asked her if she’d been
working out. When she said no, he glanced at her mom.
They went on a Thanksgiving Day hike and her thighs ached
through the whole dinner afterward. She had two helpings
and was generous with the gravy.
The afternoon she returned to Pittsburgh from
break, Charlotte put on her running shoes and tugged a rain
jacket over her sweatshirt. The jacket said “Captain” and had
Forrester School plastered across the back. Charlotte had
played three varsity sports in high school and they gave her
an award for it at graduation. They also gave her an award
for English and another for her contributions to the peer
tutoring program. She had a boyfriend, too. His name was
Jamie. They dated for three years and he played football. He
wasn’t very good, but he still got angry when they lost.
When she looked in the mirror she thought she
looked almost the same. Her butt jiggled, though.
She locked her apartment door and passed a young
couple in the stairwell. They looked a few years older than
her and were carrying groceries. Charlotte gave them the
close-lipped smile she gave to strangers and people who
smoked a lot of weed. Her sneakers squeaked on the stairs.
They were bright yellow, expensive. Her best friend Lucy had
given them to her for her twentieth birthday. Lucy was in a
sorority at UNC and she sometimes took days to respond to
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7

Charlotte’s texts. Charlotte kept the sneakers in the original
box.
It was drizzling and chilly and Charlotte did some
stretches. She couldn’t reach her toes. A bus roared by and
she jumped. She thought about going to the movies but
started running instead.
At the intersection of Wightman and Forbes she had
to stop while the light was red. She jogged in place, feeling
stupid. Across the street a blond woman with a high pony
tail was doing the same thing. Her butt didn’t jiggle. When
the light turned green, Charlotte ran as fast as she could. She
crossed the blond woman in the middle but was out of breath
when she got to the other side. She looked back and saw the
pony tail slip around the corner.
Charlotte turned up her music as she faced the first
big hill. “Someday Never Comes” by Credence Clearwater
Revival. Her dad’s favorite band. She tried to watch the
ground in front of her so she wouldn’t think about how much
further she had to go. When she looked up, she felt sure she
wasn’t moving at all, sure that the top was in fact stretching
further away from her with each step.
Fuck this, she thought, I want to walk I want to walk
I want to walk.
Fuck you, she thought back, It’s just a stupid hill.
So she kept moving, although at a pace that would
offend her high school track coach. Her hair was wet with
mist and sweat and she regretted wearing the heat-trapping
rain jacket. She could feel the dampness on her inner arm
and for some reason this made her squirm. She was certain
she’d never sweat there before. It felt greasy and gross, like
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8 Prose Spawning Pool 2020

she was sweating out the pizza she’d ate last night, all four
slices oozing out of the space between her forearm and bicep.
Charlotte started walking before she reached the top
of the hill. She could hear how heavy she was breathing even
through the music in her ears. She opened her running app
to see how far she’d gone and almost threw her phone at the
nearest tree. Only half a mile. Half a mile and she felt like she
couldn’t run another step.
Walk, then.
And so she walked.
As she walked, she passed one big, beautiful house
after another and remembered why she’d moved to this
neighborhood in the first place. It was unusual for an
undergrad to live here and not South Oakland, which was
closer to the university and the house parties. Charlotte was
drawn to Squirrel Hill instead, a short bus ride away from
campus and a neighborhood of odd combinations – old
money and Orthodox Jews, haggard-looking grad students
and shy immigrant families with ties to the universities. It
shouldn’t work, but it did – grand old houses on the same
block as graduate apartment buildings, Presbyterian churches
across the street from Jewish Community Centers, Gyro
places and Thai restaurants, kindergartens beside retirement
homes.
She loved it here – or, she wanted to. She walked past
a family-owned foods store she had always meant to enter.
“Since 1948!” read the proud sign by the door. Briefly, she
told herself that today was the day – she slowed her pace
and thought about how she would walk right in, make small
talk with the cashier, buy a cold drink or maybe a fresh deli
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Charlotte Goes for a Run 9

sandwich. She watched as a white-haired man pulled up in
a Volvo, parallel parked with ease. He got out, reusable bag
in hand, and strode toward the OPEN sign. Charlotte could
have followed him in, slipped through the door behind him
and into the nearest aisle, taken refuge among the canned
vegetables and corn starch. But she kept walking, staring at
the entrance and wondering what it was like inside, thinking
that it wasn’t hers to know and probably never would be.
She wasn’t supposed to be here. She didn’t know
where she was supposed to be.
She figured she should start running again, but was
nearing a busy street with plenty of people to gape at her slow,
puffy appearance, so she hung a left and plunged deeper into
the world of houses she would never live in. She ran, thighs
aching with each step, calves burning, knees cramping, entire
legs begging her to stop.
Charlotte tried to remember when, exactly, she had
stopped working out. She had been pretty good about it
freshman year. Her dorm at Pitt had a small gym on the third
floor and she would use the elliptical machine for twenty
minutes every other day before showering and heading to
class. But something about her second year in Pittsburgh had
thrown her off course. Her days revolved around work and
school and commuting to work and school. On Mondays,
Wednesdays, and Fridays, she folded t-shirts and arranged
sock displays at the Banana Republic on Walnut Street. On
Tuesdays and Thursdays she sat in classrooms for hours on
end, not learning much of anything. Weekends were for
double shifts and homework. In between, she sat on buses
and ate buttered noodles for dinner.
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10 Prose Spawning Pool 2020

All that changes today, she thought, and imagined
how in a few months’ time she would be herself again, fit and
self-assured. She would exercise regularly, start a blog, earn
money from sponsorships, kiss overbearing managers and
seasonal displays goodbye, become the English department
darling, make friends, and go out on Friday nights. She
would be popular and sooo busy and maybe find a new
boyfriend, someone she met through one of her new friends,
a confident athlete-type who fell in love with Charlotte the
moment he met her. She imagined her Instagram feed, filled
with pictures of nights out with friends and day dates to
Phipps Conservatory, Pirates games, hip new coffee shops on
the Southside. She would eat out more, order in less, and blog
readers would beg her for recommendations. She and her
new boyfriend would run into fans on the street. She might
even start vlogging.
Charlotte ran, ignoring her screaming legs and
relishing in this imaginary future, the kind of future where
maybe she would live in one of these houses one day,
because her boyfriend was in finance and she was a famous
writer. They had four kids – three with blonde hair and one
ginger, even though Charlotte had dark hair and olive skin.
Charlotte’s boyfriend-now-husband built her a huge library
with a mahogany desk where she wrote her bestsellers. The
kids were well-behaved and they were all sports stars, except
the youngest, who was a certifiable genius. Charlotte was
president of the local arts council and ran the youth soccer
club and the whole family ate dinner together every Tuesday,
Thursday, and Sunday night, gourmet dinners cooked from
ingredients she bought at that damned family-owned grocery
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Charlotte Goes for a Run 11

store (Since 1948!).
A beat-up Jeep drove by and honked twice at
Charlotte, sleazy driver with a cigarette dangling from his
mouth, and she suddenly remembered that she was not some
fabulous writer with a fabulous family and a fabulous house
but a tired, lonely college sophomore with no friends and a
roommate who brought home forty-year-old men she’d met
online. She stopped running.
It was not always like this. Charlotte thought about
senior year of high school, days spent going from classes to
practices to club meetings, sneaking in time with Jamie after
lunch and on weekends. He wore salmon-colored t-shirts
and looked at her like she was the most wonderful thing in
the world.
When they broke up, they both promised it wouldn’t
be forever. She drove all the way to upstate New York in
February, carefully easing her Jetta through miles of snow and
ice, thinking about what she would say the entire time. His
roommate was gone for the weekend and they lay in Jamie’s
extra-long twin bed for three hours, talking about where
they’d been, where they were now, where they might one day
be. Afterwards, they went to the movies. Charlotte held his
pinky the entire time, sad but sure. A month passed, then
two, then six. It was nearly a year later and she was waiting
for him to call.
“Hi Charlotte, I’ve learned a lot and so have you. I
miss being with you. I’m coming to Pittsburgh to get you
back.”
Or maybe he wouldn’t call her at all, just show up at
her apartment one day. Her breath would catch as she spied
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12 Prose Spawning Pool 2020

him through the peephole. She’d open the door with a “long
time no see” or “look what the cat dragged in” or maybe
just a shocked “what are you doing here?” – she’d work out
the exact line later. He’d say he was sorry and so would she.
She could see the Instagram post in her head: Jamie’s arms
around her waist, goofy smiles on both their faces. We’re
back, bitches, the caption would read, and their high school
friends would rejoice in the comments. Screw the imaginary
new boyfriend, Jamie would be back. He would build her the
library with the mahogany desk. The four kids she had been
picturing obviously looked just like Jamie, had his blue eyes
and freckles. How did she not see it before?
The song in her ears was one he had shown her. She
picked up her pace as she walked to its beat. Yes, yes, this
future was much better than her blogger/vlogger/writer
fame. It was the future she had envisioned a thousand times
over three years, one with sleepy Saturdays and trips to the
lake with Jamie’s family. They had a big wedding and Jamie
had tears in his eyes when she walked down the aisle. They
sent their kids to their old prep school and Jamie worked for
the Penguins. They laughed about the time they spent apart.
It was good, they told each other, but we could never be apart
for long. “Remember how unhappy I was then?” Charlotte
would shake her head. “Thank God I got over that!” Jamie
would grin and kiss her forehead.
Except Charlotte hadn’t changed since the day she
drove to break up with him. She still skipped classes and fell
asleep to Netflix every night. Jamie posted pictures with his
new girlfriend and Charlotte distracted herself with Cheetos
and online shopping.
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Charlotte Goes for a Run 13

Future Charlotte was happy, past Charlotte was
happy, present Charlotte wanted to hurl herself out a tenstory window.
This thought made her run again, and this time she
sprinted. She bounded by the big houses, swept past a woman
pushing a stroller with what was surely a palpable gust of
wind, and she was a track star again, about to break her
record for the 400 meter, leaving everything behind but the
road in front of her, forgetting, for just one, lovely moment,
her very self. She was not flying but gliding, an eagle in the
wind, and it was only forward motion. She would run herself
right into that glorious future if it took everything she had.
Forty-two seconds and her body gave up. She
stopped, breath heavy but faint endorphins tickling the tips
of her fingers. I am not okay but I will be okay, a little voice
told her. I know I will be okay because I can still run like that,
even if for only a minute.
She reached the main street of the neighborhood and
her phone buzzed. She had finally finished one mile. It took
her sixteen minutes, but she didn’t care. She could once run a
mile in seven minutes, and one day she would again. She just
had to keep trying.
It was a Sunday afternoon, and Forbes Avenue was
bustling despite the mistiness. Charlotte glanced into each
shop window as she passed. Inside Dunkin’, two mothers sat
by the fireplace with their toddlers, sipping hot coffees and
talking with their hands. The bagel shop two doors down was
empty save for a grumpy-looking teenage employee behind
the counter and an equally grumpy-looking old man by
the window, judging his newspaper with a furrowed brow.
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14 Prose Spawning Pool 2020

Next door, the owner of the bookstore smoked a cigarette
in front of his shop, legs crossed in a blue Adirondack chair.
He pushed his long gray hair out of his face and nodded at
Charlotte as she walked by.
She waited at the intersection of Forbes and Murray,
watched a bus screech to a stop across the street, people
pouring out and bounding off in different directions, quickly,
quickly, heads down, bags held at the shoulder, off to the
next meeting, to work, maybe to home. The light changed
and Charlotte crossed the street, joining the little throng and
thinking that there was something nice about being part of a
crowd of people living their lives, day in and day out, riding
buses and walking through mist, inhabiting this city which
somehow still held onto the rhythm of its long-ago steel days.
Outside the Number 10 Café, the man with dreadlocks
was selling his CDs again. Charlotte had seen him many
times in and around the coffee shop, watched enviously as
he made friendly conversation with the owner behind the
counter while she sat in a back corner with her laptop. She
had never spoken to the dreadlocked man. He belonged; she
didn’t. But he smiled as he saw her approaching, smiled like
he knew her.
“How are you today, my girl?” he asked. Charlotte
glanced behind her, thinking he must be addressing someone
else. No one was there.
“Fine, thanks,” she said. “How are you?”
“Darling, I’m wonderful. Look at this drizzle – my
CDs are glistening, just like you. Have you been running?”
Charlotte nodded.
“Go in and get yourself something to drink. Reward
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Charlotte Goes for a Run 15

yourself for that hard work. My music is playing inside – lots
of empty tables just waiting for you to sit and enjoy!”
Charlotte made a noise somewhere between a laugh
and yelp as Dreadlocks nudged her through the door. The
café’s red and blue tables and warm yellow lights were a
contrast to the endless gray outside. A baggy-eyed young
customer glanced at her briefly before turning back to his
textbook. There was no one at the counter.
The middle-aged owner emerged from behind a
curtain at the sound of the doorbell. He pushed his glasses
up his nose and stood at the register, unsmiling.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hi,” she said. “How are you?”
“I’m alive,” he said, “And you?”
“Same,” she said, “barely.”
Charlotte laughed, meaning it as a joke, but he nodded
gravely, as if he could hardly believe they were both standing
upright, holding this conversation across jars of stale cookies
and CASH ONLY signs.
“What’ll it be?”
She ordered a cappuccino like always, tipping him her
change plus a dollar extra, hoping this would make him like
her more and that one day they might talk like he did with
Dreadlocks, easy-breezy, no awkward jokes. She wondered
if her interaction with Dreadlocks was a fluke – he probably
didn’t recognize her, was just being friendly. He was selling
something, after all. The owner didn’t know her either – no
one did. No one but her roommate and manager at work.
When she passed classmates on the street in Oakland they
stared down at their phones.
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16 Prose Spawning Pool 2020

Charlotte watched Dreadlocks greet a man outside
with a clap on the back, gesturing to his CDs. She pushed
her drink aside. When she got home, she would leave her
running shoes by the door and make buttered noodles for
dinner. Tomorrow, she would try again.
By Emily Schoenberger

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Charlotte Goes for a Run 17

An Aardvark and My Sister
An aardvark is medium-sized. But she might have a
different opinion about that. She burrows underground at
night eating all kinds of bugs with her long pig-like snout. But
in the morning you can see her walking along the southern
path. She mostly creates burrows in which to live and have
children. Her creation is also made for shutting herself away
from predators such as lions, leopards, cheetahs, hunting
dogs, hyenas, and pythons. Which makes her seem rather
quiet. However, she has been known to softly grunt while she
eats as well as loudly as she makes her entrance.
My sister and an aardvark have a lot in common. They
are both medium-sized. But might have different opinions
about that. My sister buries herself at night taking all kinds of
drugs with her nose, mouth, and arm. But when the sun rises
she can miraculously walk a straight line even though some
say it’s downward. She mostly digs these graves for herself
because she wants to imagine what it would have been like
to actually live and to have kids. Her holes made it harder
for strong people to get a hold of her trying to get off her
crack and or cocaine addictions. Her bottomless pits made
it harder for skilled people to revive her as she overdoses on
painkillers. The shallow ditch within her made it difficult for
quick thinkers to get professional help when she needed it
most. And even though she got through it all. Her deepest
and darkest trench still lets men that only want that one
thing in. The cavities spreading throughout her body still lets
people take what is hers and hers alone. The crater consuming
her soul is the snake in the grass. So this girl just stays quiet.

Only making soft grunts while she eats struggling to find her
grand entrance.
So the aardvark comes out of her burrow and begins
to walk the southern path. She walked along until she
stumbles upon my sister who also notices the aardvark right
away. As both my sister and an aardvark stare at each other
surrounded by long strands of dry grass they start to hear
roars, growls, and hisses of lions, leopards, cheetahs, hunting
dogs, hyenas, and pythons. They both looked terrified as
they don’t know which beast is going to strike first. But in an
instance, the aardvark disappears underground leaving this
girl all alone with some of the most dangerous animals on
the planet.
As the creatures are about to close in my sister starts to
get flashbacks of her younger days. Her twelfth birthday party
which she was gifted tickets to see Mariah Carey, graduating
high school, and going to college. Then seeing the dark times
from first snorting cocaine and a frat party, getting sent to
the hospital because of a pill overdose, being put in rehab
because of her heroin addiction. Reliving all of this trauma
causes her to have a breakdown in tears promising herself
and everyone that if she gets another chance she will do
better so the cave in her heart can be filled. And with seconds
to spare as each predator begins to pounce my sister screams
to the top of her lungs, closing her eyes tightly and clenching
her fist. Everything stops suddenly as she hears a faint beep
of a monitor get louder and louder. She opens her eyes to
see that she is in a hospital bed. Frantically moving around
a nurse comes to check on her. The nurse tells my sister that
she’s been in rehab for four weeks, has had the same dream,
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An Aardvark and My Sister 19

and that there is nothing to worry about you’re safe. As my
sister gives a sigh of relief and stares at the white ceiling fan
she turns to her left to look out the window. And just past
the thin short grass is an aardvark walking with her children.
This makes my sister smile and cry tears of joy knowing that
finally, she has found her grand entrance.
By Bruce Washington

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20 Prose Spawning Pool 2020

Jonesy
As usual, I had no idea why I was in such a foul
mood after work. The new boss, Grant, was an asshole who
thought he could tell me how to do the job I’d been working
for a decade. Ten hours, ten hours in a hot sawmill while
the high, reedy pitch of his voice married the whine of the
saws, drilling my skull from the inside out. Receiving dental
work would have been a more pleasurable pastime. My brain,
which felt as though it had decided to bounce around my
head like a tennis ball, had barely retained enough energy to
drive my ‘05 Dodge Dakota home.
With my forehead pressed to the steering wheel, I
twisted my face into a sort of grimace, trying to psych myself
into a grin. I sat there, trying to stretch the face of Grant’s
millworker “Jonesy” into that of Jake’s husband “Xavier” or
even Katie’s “Papa”. I straightened my neck and looked in the
rearview mirror.
I saw my eyes, gray-green and saddled with pouches
of sleepless nights underneath. Jake had always loved
my eyes. In the photos from our honeymoon they tended
towards a lime green, matching the plastic lei that Jake had
insisted on wearing that entire trip. I stared into my own eyes
harder, trying to bring back that sparkle. Xavier’s eyes had
sparkled, but Jonesy’s eyes were bloodshot, with slight pink
impressions left around them from his safety goggles.
My hair, once thick and black as oil, had apparently lost a war
with my eyebrows. It was currently making a strategic retreat
towards the back of my scalp. Meanwhile, my victorious
eyebrows grew bushier and the wrinkles trenched in the no
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21

man’s land of my forehead grew deeper.
I remembered two-year-old Katie pulling on my hair,
perhaps ripping a chunk out and starting the irreversible
tide of baldness. She’d been doing so as Jake and I sat in the
social workers’ office getting ready to accept custody of our
little foster daughter. Countless piggyback rides, playtimes
where “salon” was the game of choice… Katie had done a
number on her Papa’s hair. Now I sat, parked on top of her
hopscotch drawing on the driveway, with sweat and sawdust
in his remaining hair.
Frowning at myself in the mirror, I decided that there
was no way I could put Jonesy away for the night. No way
to pretend that the shift wasn’t sitting on my shoulders like
a rock, breaking my heart and stooping my spine. Or that I
couldn’t feel ten years’ worth of sawdust rattling around in
my lungs with every breath.
I reached out and pulled my keys from the ignition. A simple
engraved keychain hung next to the Dodge key.
XAVIER JONES, it proclaimed on one side in big
silver writing.
On the reverse, they had engraved a simple two-line
note.
Papa- Happy Father’s Day 2014
Love, Katie and Jake
My grip tightened on the keychain, and as I left the
truck and started walking towards the front door of my
home, I felt Jonesy melting away.
by Ryley Flanagan
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22 Prose Spawning Pool 2020

Emergency Room
The ticking of the clock, and the faint murmur of
Criminal Minds on the tv are the only sounds that can be
heard in the room. The seconds feel like eternities. The room
has lots of chairs, but I am the only one here. I look back and
forth between the doors. The one that I came in through, and
the ones my parents went through a while ago.
I check the time and realize it has only been half an
hour since my parents went back. It feels like I have been
here for three hours. I sniffle and grab a few tissues from the
box on the table. Is she ok? Is she even alive? What happened
to her? Why hasn’t someone come to get me yet? Have they
forgotten that I am even out here? The tears start pouring out
of my eyes and I can’t take the anxiety of not knowing. I jump
up out of my chair and look at the big doors one last time
before heading back to the door that I came in through. I
walk back up to the desk, where the nurse sits looking rather
bored.
“Can I help you?” She asks.
“I was wondering if you could tell me the condition
of a patient who is here in the ER? My parents went back
to see her a while ago and I have been out here by myself
waiting, I just wanna know how my sister is,” I explain.
“What is her name?” The nurse asks not looking up
from the computer in front of her.
“Stephanie Gold,” I say, “She was brought in by
ambulance about maybe an hour ago.”
“I have no update about her condition here. Sorry,”
She says before going back to whatever she was doing. I
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23

quietly thank her, before sniffling again and heading back to
the waiting room. I sit back down on the awkwardly placed
couch. I pull my feet up and sit sideways taking up the entire
couch. No phone, no one to talk to. All I have is my fears
racing through my head. The silence is almost suffocating me
when the big doors open again.
“Ms. Gold?” A nurse asks and I jump out of my seat.
“How is my sister? Is she ok?” The words come
tumbling out of my mouth.
“Your sister wants to see you.” She says with a gentle
smile. I follow behind her until we reach a door that is
cracked open. “Whenever you are ready.” She says before
heading off to complete her next task. I take a deep breath
before opening the door and seeing my parents sitting on
one side of the bed, and my sister laying on the bed covered
by a stack of blankets. I place my stuff on the floor by the
door and walk over to her bed and grab her hand.
“You’re ok?” I ask her with tears in my eyes.
“I’m gonna be fine.” She says giving me a small smile.
I squeeze her hand and smile back at her as all of my anxiety
washes away. My big sister is ok, and that is all I need to know.
by Sam Goss

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24 Prose Spawning Pool 2020

Gris
“She’s gone… I wish I was gone, too,” I whisper as
tears well in my eyes. “I can’t stand being all by myself,” I
continued quietly. “What should I do?” I said as I stared
at the picture on my phone. I stared at it often. It was my
screensaver after all. It helps keep the smile I loved so much
in my memory. It’s been a year and details are getting a little
fuzzy. Today is worse than yesterday. The tears won’t stop. All
I can remember is the last day I got to hold her. The day red
tears ran down her cheeks. She felt cold as ice. “God, I miss
you…” I said softly as the tears trailed down my cheeks. Eyes
burning, I blinked the tears away. Sniffling a little, I grabbed
the bottle of pills on the nightstand opening it with shaking
hands. Memories of another night like this flared through
my mind. I promised I would never try again. She promised
that she would never leave me. I guess we’re both liars.
“Forgive me…” I said quietly, looking once more
at the picture. Before I could lose my nerve, I upended the
bottle into my palm. Hand shaking, I shoveled the pills
into my mouth. I choked as the little green pills clogged my
airway. Gagging and gasping for breath I grabbed the bottle
of Everclear 150 proof. I was going to go out with a bang. I
took a long draught. The spirit burned my tongue, my throat.
I was on fire.
With shaking hands, I took another long drink. Tears
pricking my eyes as the spirit burned its way through me.
It was an effort to keep the liquor down. My body revolting
against the foreign invasion. I kept chugging until there was
nothing left. Then I reached for another bottle. This one
*****************************************************************************************
25

went down easier than the last. It wasn’t long before the
room started spinning. The bottle slipped from between my
sweaty fingers. Time stood still as the bottle shattered against
the cool, gray linoleum. Shattered like my heart at 9am on
a Friday. Within minutes, I was on the floor, too. My knees
cracking as they hit the ground, glass tearing its way through
my flesh. Then I was convulsing on the floor, black dress
hiked up past my thighs. My arms flapping around like a fish
out of water. It was finally over.
As consciousness left me, things started to get a little
weird. The ground beneath me shattering. I was falling down
a long pit, into the abyss. Was this hell? As I fell, I saw weird
places in shades of blue, gray, yellow, green, and red. Square
trees, and funny shaped bees. I fell forever. When I finally
stopped, everything was in shades of gray.
I looked around in wonder, then fear, as the world
begins to fall apart. Buildings are crumbling and shattered
hands break from the ground like the skeletons of long-dead
giants. Fearfully I take a step, then another, and then I’m off
running through the new terrain. I make my way through
buildings. Leaping onto the rafters of long forgotten buildings
as I go. I didn’t know when it happened but eventually my
world turned from gray to red. Red like blood. I stopped in
my tracks, remembering tears of blood, running like a river.
I began to tremble. I guess this really is hell. The
thought hit me like a fierce gust of wind. Wait. I was being
blown away by the wind. I screamed as the wind tore at my
eyes, as I was tossed back in the direction from whence, I
came. “I have to keep going,” I said as I looked around at the
broken terrain through slit black eyes. I took a step forward,
*****************************************************************************************
26 Prose Spawning Pool 2020

fighting against the raging tempest. This red world is fighting
back. The wind howls loudly in my ears as another gust
comes to knock me down.
Pushing forward, I realized I could change my body
into a new shape. I could turn into a large block. With this
newfound ability, I found the strength to weather the storm.
I grit my teeth, pushing through the red haze. As I forced my
way through, I saw a large black tower through slatted eyes. I
worked slowly towards the top. The wind, a howling demon
in my ears as I pushed onward. Relief flooded my body as I
reached the top of the tower. Relief that was short-lived as a
giant black bird swooped in, blocking my path. The bird let
out a yell that shook the tower. The force shoved me back
down the steep tower steps. I pushed forward, forcing myself
into the shape of a block. It was hard, but I could resist the
birds powerful voice. The bird took a step forward unleashing
another ear-splitting scream. I glared, looking into its dark
face. Its hateful eyes met my black ones. Something about
its eyes cracked a hole inside my chest. So, I pushed back.
Grunting with effort, I forced my way through. In a flash,
the bird disappeared, and I was lifted into the clouds. I was
being pulled into a lovely green world. This place is calm and
serene. The opposite of the angry, red world. The opposite of
the life I left behind.
I like it here. I could stay here forever… Lazing away
in the soft green grass. The sun, like her smile, on my face.
No more dreams of cold bodies or crimson tears. I could be
finally at peace.
by Kay Kittrell
*****************************************************************************************
Jonesy 27

Chemical reaction
When people meet each other, it’s a chemical
reaction. It doesn’t matter if you’re visiting an old friend or
bumping into someone at the grocery store for the first time.
Your vibrations mix with those, even in the most subtle of
ways. You are influencing them as they are you, and change
is bound to happen. You are the base of elements churned
into complex structures, and every time you interact with
someone- every time you breathe, blink, walk- you are
sending out ripples to the cosmos. They can be as penetrating
as a sunbeam or as subtle as a microwave in the universe.
A signal that despite being subtle is glaring in its ability to
transform and change. Even in your most stagnant moments,
your atoms are humming.
by April Petesch

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28 Prose Spawning Pool 2020

The Doppelgänger
I’m not crazy. You’ve probably heard that about me.
But I’m not.
It’s a long story. And you have to trust me. Whoever
you are. I’m writing this now because things have gotten way
out of control, and I need to write this before I never have
another chance to. I know you and a bunch of other people
are probably looking for me. But you’ll never find me. All
you’ll find is this, and I can only hope you believe it. Even
though I barely can.
It started five days ago.
*
Every day starts out the same. I wake up, get dressed,
feed the animals, do whatever work needs done around the
place. This is probably a good time to mention I’m a farmer.
I do all kinds of things on the farm, and I enjoy it. This isn’t
a story about farming though.
I don’t remember much about that day. But we went
hunting. And that’s when it started.
“Move over,” I whispered to Ron. We had just gotten
to the best spot in the woods, where all the deer showed up.
The first day of hunting season is a big deal, and I wanted to
get the first kill. We might’ve been looking for five minutes
before a gunshot rang out. But it wasn’t one of our guns.
Cody was the first to ask the question we were all wondering,
“Adam, isn’t this all your land?”
“Yeah,” I said. “No one else should be anywhere
nearby.” I stood up to go look for whoever was poaching on
*****************************************************************************************
The Doppelgänger 29

our land. Ron stopped me, though. “You’re going to scare all
the deer, and then we won’t get anything. If we hear another
shot I’ll go with you to look.” My mouth was open to say
“fine,” but I stopped in shock when I caught sight of a man
standing amidst the trees and underbrush out further into
the woods. “There he is!”
Ron and Cody looked out in the direction I was
pointing. But by the time they realized which place I meant,
the man was gone. “I don’t see anybody,” Cody said. “He was
right there!” I shouted a little too loudly, and Ron shushed
me. “Sorry. Whatever, maybe he’ll leave now.” I was still a
little confused. No one lives around us for miles, and the
man looked creepy. It’s hard to explain, but even though I
couldn’t make out what his face looked like from the distance
I was at, I could tell something wasn’t right about him.
We caught two deer and a rabbit that day. And I
forgot about the man. Until three days later.
*
I was out working on the farm. As I rode the tractor
along the gravely path to the woods, I thought I heard the
sound of a laugh. Not just a laugh. My laugh. I stopped the
tractor and looked around. I was in the middle of open land,
the woods just ahead of me and the barn way down the road
behind me. There wasn’t a single place where someone could
have been hiding, yet I could have sworn I heard that laugh.
I got off the tractor and headed straight into the woods,
somehow knowing deep down that this was where I would
find my answer.
I started searching. It had been a busy few days, and I
*****************************************************************************************
30 Prose Spawning Pool 2020

had admittedly tried to forget about the mysterious poacher.
But it kept nagging at me, and I finally decided to go look
around. I went to the spot that we had gone hunting three
days prior. I tried to track a line of slightly trampled leaves,
but it didn’t lead anywhere. I gave up and sat down on a tree
stump. The sun shone through cracks in the trees overhead,
and the rustling sound of leaves from the wind filled my ears.
I was lost in thought, until I realized something. There was
no wind.
The leaf rustling was coming from the woods, less
than twenty yards away from where I was sitting. I stood up
fast, and whipped around just in time. Before I even saw his
face, I knew he was the one from the other day, just by the
eerie feeling I had both three days before then and at that
moment. But I was not at all prepared for what I saw when
his face came into view. His face was my face.
Standing there, I saw myself. He was dressed
differently than I was, but he looked exactly like me. For
what seemed like a long moment, we just stared at each other.
His height, his face, his hair visible underneath a camouflage
hat- it was all exactly what I would see if I looked in a mirror.
He was as shocked as I was. But he gathered his
composure faster, and took off like lightning through the
woods where he came from. After a moment’s hesitation I
ran after him. I don’t know what I would have done if I had
caught up with him, but after ten minutes of chasing him I
burst out of the woods, and he was nowhere in sight.
*
I called Cody as soon as I got back to the house.
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The Doppelgänger 31

“Remember that guy from the woods the other day?”
“What guy?”
“The guy that was poaching and you didn’t see him
but I did.”
“Are you sure you even saw him? It could have just
be-“
“Cody, I saw him. I saw him then and I just saw him
now. Up close.”
“How do you know it’s the same person?”
“I just do, okay? Now will you listen to me?!”
“Okay, okay.”
“He looked exactly like me.”
There was silence on the other line. Then, he started
hysterically laughing.
“I can’t breathe... Oh gosh... Where did you see him,
in the mirror in your bathroom?”
“Cody! I’m serious! He was in the woods again, and
I started chasing him after I saw him, but he disappeared
again. I don’t know what to do but I’m really confused about
this whole thing.”
His laughter finally slowed down, and he sighed. “I
don’t know what to tell you. You’re just going to have to figure
out if he’s dangerous, and get rid of him if he is. Call the cops,
consult a sci fi movie, something.” He started laughing again.
I hung up.
*
That evening I got online and started researching the
topic of doppelgängers. They’re apparently mythological
creatures, or paranormal beings, and every culture has a
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32 Prose Spawning Pool 2020

different version of them. One term stuck out to me the
most. Evil twin.
What if I had met my evil twin? What if this person,
or thing, was here as a harbinger of bad luck, or as a doublegoer that would pose as me, ruin everything I had, and take
over my life? I decided then that I wasn’t going to let this
happen. Whatever this bizarre entity was, I was going to get
rid of it.
I decided to kill my doppelgänger.
*
The next day I went back into the woods, this time
armed with my gun. I looked everywhere. Back where we
had gone hunting, back where I had stood, stunned, face-toface with him. This time I heard no rustling leaves under his
footsteps, no laugh which I shared with this mirror man.
I sat again on the tree stump. Had he vanished? Why
would he have met with me those two times, only to just go
away? Evil twins don’t go away. They go away when they’ve
finished what they’ve started. And this just started.
I began walking through the woods. As I walked, my
anger started rising within me. I had to find him, stop him
from ruining my life. I had too much to live for to just let this
creature take over.
That’s when I heard the pickup truck.
I bolted out of the woods to see him, in my pickup
truck, driving casually down the road. It took him a few
seconds to see me, and he was just as shocked as he was the
day before when he noticed me standing in the woods.
How could he be shocked? He was here to ruin my
*****************************************************************************************
The Doppelgänger 33

life! This thing comes out of nowhere, starts following me
around, and now has the nerve to be shocked to see me?
All I heard was a gunshot and shattering glass.
And that was it.
*
I know this story might seem kind of blurry. It was
a blur for me. But you have to believe me. This is the real
story, no matter how crazy it may seem.
I’m writing this from a train station miles away. I left
quickly, but the cops are probably already there. They don’t
react lightly to matters like these. I just hope they’ll believe
this account. I plan to give it to some police station at a stop
on the way to where I’m going; they’ll get it back home.
It’s only starting to sink in now what I’ve done. My
intentions were to save my life. But it seems I’ve ruined it
myself. I’ll always be on the run now.
As I look back on the times I saw him, my
doppelgänger, I realize he wasn’t just walking around looking
like me. He was being me. Hunting, working on the farm,
driving my pickup. Who knows how many times he’s been
me without me knowing. And now I know. He was me, and
I was him.
There’s only one difference now.
I’ve become the evil one.
by Madeline Cardinale

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34 Prose Spawning Pool 2020

A Visitor in the Womb
My first year of college, my freshman year, I was in
a weird stage of my life. Slowly figuring out who I was, what
my beliefs were, the whole nine yards. During this time, I had
become close to one of my coworkers named Lindsey. Now,
Lindsey was the type of friend that you really shouldn’t bring
home to your family to meet. The type of girl that everyone
tells you not to be friends with.
My freshman year was a time where I rebelled heavily.
What I saw in Lindsey was freedom, something I could only
experience with her; & Lindsey saw in me solidarity. It was
during our friendship that I began seeing an older man at
school. Not too much older than me, he was 22 & I only 19.
I don’t know if it was because I knew I shouldn’t be with
someone more mature, or the fact that Lindsey also was seeing
someone who was 24. We were each other’s rocks; we told
each other everything. Both of us hated the man we were in
love with because they treated us less than what we deserved.
For me, my relationship ended months after Lindsey’s, & I
only gained a broken heart from it. Lindsey, on the other
hand had gained an unexpected visitor growing in her uterus.
It was the beginning of November when I got a text
from Lindsey saying she was pregnant. I was in class & she
began freaking out. After class she picked me up & she took
more tests to be sure. Now, I love her to pieces, but I believe
that if you are not using any form of contraceptives, then
you are essentially trying to get pregnant. You’re playing a
game of chance, & eventually chance will win. Lindsey wasn’t
sure what to do or even to tell her baby’s father that she was
expecting. We drove over to the Planned Parenthood center
*****************************************************************************************
35

before it closed & talked to someone. At this point, Lindsey
was too shaken up to even comprehend what to do; so all the
information was given to me. I remember looking for hours
& researched extensively to find out information for her. I
knew at that point that I was more pro-choice, but after doing
research & seeing my friend’s life completely change, I knew
that I believed it is a woman’s choice to decide whether she
wants to keep the fetus or not.
I gave Lindsey all the information she needed, & I told
her we could make an appointment & I would go with her if
she wanted me too. At this point she had told her mom & her
baby’s father. Her mom wanted her to keep the baby & the
father wanted her to abort it. It was also during this time that
the father had gotten his actual girlfriend pregnant as well. As
I tried to be there & support Lindsey, it was hard for me to
watch her struggle with this decision while still be physically
intimate with a man she knew didn’t love her.
Eventually Lindsey had decided to keep the baby,
& the father moved away to start his new life with his new
family. Lindsey’s daughter, Phoebe, is one of the cutest
babies. Every time I’m around her I always feel a pain of guilt
because I know that deep down I had wanted Lindsey to go
back to school & better herself before she became a mom; but
becoming a mom is the biggest blessing Lindsey could have
ever received to change her life for the better. I tell Lindsey
all the time how great of a mom she is to Phoebe, & how
amazing Phoebe is. While I am pro-choice, I will always be
thankful for the decision Lindsey made to keep her daughter

by Abigail Kauffman.
*****************************************************************************************
36 Prose Spawning Pool 2020

The Chain
You see nothing, and therefore, you feel everything.
You can feel the wind, cold and fresh air against your face.
You can feel the soft ground beneath your shoes. You can
hear things too. You can hear the wind as it blows. You can
hear the trembling of the earth under you. You can hear the
beating. The soft beating of a million different pulses. You
know they are the pulses of some other living things since
you feel your own heart’s dull beat, and it matches that of
the others at times. But you see nothing, but the grey-black
which engulfs sight when you chose to close your eyes. You
see only this heavy darkness, but from that void comes the
power to sense everything.
There is a hand clasping each of your own. You
know it is a hand, but cannot say how you do. The hands are
different as well. One feels strong, the other is weaker. One
is bigger, the other smaller. One is rougher while the other is
smoother. These comparisons come from holding both and
knowing the way they feel against your hands, the neutral
party. Clinging to them, you find companionship in your
infinite void.
Sometimes, you try to speak. You utter out syllables
and sounds that match the noises and symbols you imagine
in your head. The responses are always similar. One voice
utters words in a soft whisper, with a language entirely
incomprehensible to your own. The other answers in a grunt,
making chatter with an alphabet foreign to yours. Often, you
don’t speak at all.
One day, you feel one hand tug at yours. The motion
*****************************************************************************************
37

is sharp after an eternity of stillness. Are they playing a game?
you muse to yourself. Maybe I should tug back. This decided
you pull on the creature which had pulled you.
The tug came again, this time harsher than before.
This entity who had shared a lifetime with you now seemed
to be dragging you over. You frown to yourself. If this stranger
wants a game, you can play it too. In fact, you can play it
better-so you tell yourself. You yank your companion hard
until the stumbling of their feet reaches your ears.
You can hear them try to speak unintelligible phrases. “Xlnv
lm!” they screech at you. Once again, the stranger grasps at
you, pulling at your arm now. Their fingers dug into your
flesh, sharp as they dragged.
This angers you. What have I done? Nothing. I never
hurt them. What could they be mad about? Why are they
hurting me? Then, an idea slips into your mind as a snake
slithers into a garden. They want to hurt me. They don’t have
any reason-except they like to hurt. You try to wrench your
arm free, but find that the grip is stronger than your wiggling.
“Ovg nv svok blf!” The stranger screeches again. This time, a
tone of desperation filling their words.
They are not mad, they are scared. They need help! Of
course. They must in some sort of pit, with me as the only one
they can hold on to. I must help them. They are scared to be.
Seeing this, you try to drag them to you, but they resist. Their
hand on your arm suddenly becomes two, and the pulling
once again intensifies. They don’t want help?
Then, it hits you. This stranger doesn’t want to be
pulled out of the pit. They want to pull you into it. They must
want some sick revenge for their own fate. Instead of taking
*****************************************************************************************
38 Prose Spawning Pool 2020

out their pain on the world or the cause of their demise, they
want to drag you into the abyss of their pain. No. No, I will
not go with you.
As terror fills your bloodstream, you try to free
yourself from your fate. You can feel nothing now but the two
arms that are tugging at your own. You hear only the strange
grunting of that traitor you had trusted. There is no way out.
You can’t hold off forever.
Then, you do something new. You never tried it. You
never needed to. You open your eyes.
The traitor you spent your lifetime holding onto
stands above you, on a platform you never had sensed. On
it, there were dozens of people with their eyes, their stances,
their arms, and their minds open, with such kindness it was
hard to understand what could make these souls so happy.
They were all different looking, with different colored bodies,
and eyes, and shapes, and different expressions of their mood.
You could hear their heartbeats once again, though they were
louder than before, and almost happier if you allow yourself
the joys of imagination. Surely, whatever happiness there is
up on this strange platform is shared with those where you
stand now, because why else is this traitor-this stranger,
trying to pull you up if not for their own cruel gain?
You look back. There is a long chain of people. They held
hands as you did. They seemed happy. Seemed. But compared
to the people on the platform, with their great smiles? They
were alone.
You turn your attention to the one who tried to pull
you up, who was giving you this time to see and understand.
“Why?” you ask.
*****************************************************************************************
The Chain 39

“Dv ziv xlmmvxgvw. De zrv xomnvcgew. We are connected.”
They whispered softly until their foreign tongue became your
own.” With careful intentions, they started to pull you up to
the platform and this time, you follow, crawling up to join
the others. As the stranger lets go of your hand, you expect to
feel a loss of this strange feeling of safety, but instead, you feel
even closer now that you are free. Your smile joins theirs as
you begin to stand with these people, all free just as you are.
You feel a slight tug. Behind you is the other who held your
hand. You had forgotten about them. They frowned, leaning
to keep a hold of you. They don’t understand. They don’t
know. Their eyes aren’t open, and they remain in this chain
that they believe is keeping them happy.
“What about them?” you ask your friend on the
platform.
They smile. “What about them? Who will help them
up?”
You begin to tug on their arm again until they too can
open their eyes. “Dv ziv xlmmvxgvw. We are connected.”
by Isabella Brignolla

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40 Prose Spawning Pool 2020

Middle School
Just another day with my face in the dirt. Third time
this week and it has no sign of stopping. Always the same
routine: Pierce pushes me down, I try to pick myself up until
I’m put back down by Tanner. I turn to get my face out of the
dirt only to find Pierce squatting down with his crotch two
inches from my face with the only thing protecting me from
it being his jeans. No one helps, no one ever helps. Every
single freakin day since December of my 6th grade year it’s
been this way. A kid who had arms that a needle could poke
straight through and never stood up for himself because he
never had to, was always easy prey. I try to stay away, find
a friend or a teacher to cower behind and get them to help,
but somehow Tanner and Pierce always manage to find me
when I’m all alone. I head back in and keep going about my
day, trying to not let it get to me. But it does, it always does.
I’m sick and tired of this. So you know what, I’m telling my
parents.
I am brought along to this conference like a victim
in a court case. The judge and the representatives of the
defendant bicker at each other until a verdict is made. The
vice principal, Mrs. Cashdollar, tells us that the boys will
receive detention, the first time. The second time she says
the boys will get suspended two days. The third time the
boys will get suspended for a week, but my dad yells at her,
“How is this helping my kid? The boys stay at home, learn
nothing from their actions, and come back the exact same.”
The vice principal assures us that everything will be handled.
Apparently, no one received that memo cause for the rest of
*****************************************************************************************
41

my 6th grade year I tasted dirt each and every day.
However, middle school wasn’t all bad. While there, I
decided to join the drama club. I figured since I liked singing
and being the center of attention, this would be perfect.
While there, I met friends that I would have until the end of
high school. My best friend, Evan Misal, gave me my love of
classic rock by one day showing me the beautiful melodies of
Bon Jovi. Evan and I were inseparable in the drama club. We
would talk about classic rock, video games, TV shows, and
we’d just mess around with each other. The bad thing was, he
wasn’t in the same playground group as me, so he couldn’t
protect me from the bullying. To this very day, he still has
my back and I’m happy that in those days in the dirt, I still
managed to find time to plant the seeds of friendship that
would blossom into beautiful flowers later on down the line.
But as the days of bullying continued, I went to
church hoping to find a reprieve. I found that solace in
Pastor Mick. He started preaching at my church just as I
was starting 6th grade. He was always there to listen to my
pleas and he taught me about the saving grace of God and
to love thy neighbor as yourself. In the church with stained
glass windows of Jesus, he baptized me to be a follower and
confirmed me as a member of my church. My faith grew in
that small Greencastle church as this man inspired me to do
more in the church. He asked me to be a worship leader and
to be on a committee while I was still in middle school. I still
perform those duties to today. When I was about to finish
middle school, our church found out that Pastor Mick was
being transferred to another church. On the day of his move,
I helped him move out of the parsonage and with tears in my
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42 Prose Spawning Pool 2020

eyes wish him goodbye. I knew God sent him to be there for
me in my darkest hour and to make me strong in my faith, a
driving force within me still today.
Not only was Pastor Mick a saving grace for me, but
my Gram was also always there to be shoulder to lean on,
even though she was very frail and probably couldn’t support
my weight. I walked to her apartment almost every day after
school and we would sit and talk about anything. We would
some days talk about memories of her working in DC and
taking my dad to Busch Gardens. We would talk about the
Judge Judy episode playing as we sat there watching. I would
also talk about drama club and band, with the friends I made.
However, I never brought up the bullying cause the time we
spent was a time of peace and love, not a time of anger and
hate. We would go out to eat, sometimes at Cracker Barrel,
others at Bob Evans, but our favorite was always Texas
Lunch, a family dinner in Chambersburg. I would always
order breakfast for dinner and she would always get a good
old-fashioned BLT. We would go back to the apartment and
we would listen to the band Chicago. Being into classic rock,
I always enjoyed the fact of a group that we both enjoyed,
my favorite song is Old Days and hers was Saturday in the
Park. I loved the times we would spend together and that was
how it was throughout middle school. When I got to high
school, she started to have heart problems and she was in
the hospital. One night I was coming home from doing the
musical Oklahoma and when we got home, my dad sat the
family down. He said words that I will never forget, “Gram
had two options for what she could do. She could either have
surgery with a minimal chance of survival or go home for two
*****************************************************************************************
Middle School 43

weeks before she would pass. But God gave her a third option
and she passed away in her sleep.” I was broken hearted, but
I knew that like Pastor Mick, God had made us closer in my
darkest hour to show me what true love and happiness was
like.
As I think about those times, I’m thankful. I’m
thankful for all those days of humiliation, torment, and
sadness; without it I wouldn’t be me. I learned that I’m a
lover, not a fighter. I learned that I solve problems with my
words rather than my fists.
For the last few years, middle school went well with
no bullying. Pierce and Tanner were moved to a different part
of the school where I never saw them again. I learned to take
insults not as insults, but as observations about me; either
to ignore or take into consideration. My friends became my
solace if I ever needed it. And as middle school changed into
high school, I found out who I truly am.
I took the experiences of middle school bullying
and became an optimistic person saying that the worst had
passed. I saw others in high school being bullied and going
through problems similar to mine. I became a big brother
of the high school. I helped others through their problems
like bullying, family troubles, bad relationships, sometimes
even suicidal thoughts, and counseled them in times of need.
Of course problems like family troubles and arguments still
came for me and I faced them, solved them, and pushed
them aside. However, they were nothing to the extent of my
middle school days. High school was the best time of my life,
I made tons of friends, loved playing in the band, and I don’t
think it would’ve been the same if not for those days of my
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44 Prose Spawning Pool 2020

face in the dirt.
But there is actually one more part to this story.
Junior year of high school, I’m waiting for my bus to arrive
and take me home when a figure starts walking towards me.
I recognize him as Pierce, one of the boys who bullied me in
middle school. He had been absent from most of my years
of high school and my mind races with possibilities of what
might happen until he just stops and says hey. We ask how
each other is doing and how school is going. After breaking
the ice, he says words to me I thought I would never hear,
“Hey listen, I’m sorry for everything I did in middle school.
That was a shitty thing to do to you and I shouldn’t have done
it. I had stuff going on at home and I took it out on you and
you didn’t deserve it. I’m sorry.” I could hear in his voice and
see in his face that he truly meant it and it took everything
in me to hold back the tears. I thanked him for the apology
and he left. On the bus ride home, the waterworks ran free. I
never thought that I would be able to close the book on that
chapter of my life, but because of him saying that, this is one
story that I’m glad got a happy ending.
by Keric Ellis

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Middle School 45