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"A Swing
of Guilt"- Sharla Chamberlain
A Swing of Guilt
They know. It’s dark. No windows. The only thing keeping this cramped office from total darkness is the solitary light bulb dangling directly overhead. It’s a razor-edged pendulum, and each of its swings taunts me with guilt. The ancient wooden chair I am sitting in feels as if it could fall apart at any second. In front of me is a small desk with the words, “United States Naval Academy at Annapolis,” inscribed in the moldy wood. The doorknob is turning; sluggish, taunting rotation with a subtle creak that will be burned in my mind for eternity. A bead of sweat trickles down my brow. The door opens. Light from the hallway blinds me. A large, broad-shouldered silhouette steps in the gloomy office. He slams the door shut. “Good afternoon, Ensign Boyle.” “Yes sir, Admiral Muerto.” I pray the Admiral doesn’t notice the quiver in my voice. “I suppose, Boyle, that you’ve heard about the incident with Ensign Jeffrey Laurence.” The words sting my ears. “N-No sir, I haven’t.” “Really? I figured the news had spread like wildfire. Well it seems that Ensign Laurence had alcohol in his quarters. Several cases, in fact. Are you sure you don’t know anything about it?” Know? Know? Of course I know! I did it! But he knows, oh, he knows. They all know. It all started a week before graduation from the academy, when the Admiral announced class ranking. Number two is good. Number one is better. Especially at Annapolis. First in class always gets his choice of where he wants to be based when his service starts. Rumors were floating of an opening at a gorgeous base somewhere tropical. The beaches are picturesque, they said. The women are exquisite, they said. The surfing is plentiful, they said. It’s the perfect, cushy place for a rookie sailor like me. But when the Admiral posted the list, my name positioned scornfully at number two, I snapped. It was completely absurd. Laurence? Valedictorian? He couldn’t sail his way out of a paper bag. For days it ate away at my mind. Everywhere I turned people would stop and stare, I swear they did! I had to do something. Jeffrey Laurence would pay. Oh, he would pay. And so I formed a plan. Three days before graduation, I slipped out in the dead of night. The freezing air stabbed and my exposed hands and face. But I didn’t care. What I was doing was righteous and it needed to be done. I took a cab to a nearby gas station and purchased four large cases of dark beer. When the driver took me back to the academy, I went straight to Laurence’s quarters. I’ve been an expert at picking locks since I was a kid; getting his door open was effortless. Stealthily, I set the cases under his bed and slinked out; his screeching snores ringing in my ears. The next day, while he was in a meeting with some random world leader, I left an anonymous note in Admiral’s office to tip him off. It was only hours until news of Laurence’s expulsion had circulate the Academy. It worked. I was number one. But it was all for nothing. Somehow, Admiral figured it out. How? I was so careful. Or was I? Did someone see me? Did someone rat me out? I’ll get him back. I’ll smash him to- “Boyle?” I sneak a quick glance upwards. The pendulum is swinging ever nearer. “Uh-yes sir?” “I asked you if you were sure you knew nothing.” There’s no doubt about it. The look in his eye, his tone of voice, he’ll bust me any second. But I’ll never admit it. I’ll go down with as much honor as I can. “Absolutely nothing, sir.” When will it end? No more torture; just let it out in the open. You know it’s me. You know, you know, you know. Why is he just staring at me? “Well then. The reason I called you down here is that you are now valedictorian of your graduating class. This means you get to choose where you would like to be stationed. And make it quick, I’ve got better things to do than talk to you all day.” I can’t believe it. I got away with it. He doesn’t know. No one knows. Well, I deserve this position. It’s only fair that I don’t get caught. He tosses a small packet of paper on the miniature desk. “This is a list of the open bases and a short description of each.”
I frantically scan the
paper. There it is; the paradise base. The last one on the paper. Island base in the Pacific. Arrive at Pearl Harbor 5 December 1941. Board U.S.S Arizona, 7 December 1941 at zero five hundred hours. I smile.
Gone
As I close my eyes and carefully squint them open, I try to wash away this
reality and replace it with what I wish was true. It is gone. Gone forever. The
life I knew was as easily stolen as it was given to me. As I look down and watch
them lower the casket, I feel my heart fall deeper and deeper through my
body. While the memories rush from my chest and into my throat, I feel as though
I am going to choke with sadness. There is no room to cry. My body won’t allow
it. The only way I can release this anguish is to suffer from the inside, where
no one can see. I study the attendants: my family, friends, colleagues. There is
no future with my family, my brother, only a past that tears me apart.
I Want A Husband
The following essay is written in response to "I Want a Wife," Judy Syfer's
King of Hearts “Bonjour, my fellow countrymen! How does it feel not to have the sour breath of the monarchs hissing down your necks anymore?” Boone burst into the wine shop, weaving proudly through the hoard of revolutionaries gathered in the tight quarters. “Monsieur Boone the Good!” A disheveled man near the door of the crowded shop piped up. “It is pleasant, monsieur, to be free! Pleasant, indeed!”
Boone strutted to a counter littered with wine bottles and rested an
elbow upon it. A petite young lady bustled back and forth, frantically
attempting to serve each of the raucous revolutionaries that were packed like
sardines into the miniscule shop. Boone gazed at her tenderly and noticed her
constant impulse to tuck her long hair behind her ears. He chuckled to himself
each time her stubborn locks sprang wildly into her face, refusing to be tamed. “Boone!” A smile darted across the lady’s face as she caught sight of Boone’s immense form looming a decent foot above the crowd. She clawed through the mass of people to his side. “I began to think you would not show up.” “But of course, mademoiselle Brigitte; why would I not come? However, I must say that it is only my delight in admiring your beauty that compels me to return here and not the, uh…” He glanced uneasily at an incapacitated man lying in a crumpled ball on the dusty floor. “It’s not the customers.” He squatted to her height and engulfed her in a bear-like embrace. As he released her from the hug, Brigitte perceived the faintest jingle of coins from deep within Boone’s pockets. “You have been gambling, mon ami…” She avoided his gaze by concentrating on the fallen drunkard. “And I have been winning, mon amour! I do not see why you disapprove of it so. Let anyone who dares, anyone at all, challenge me to a game of cards, and I assure you that I will prevail. I am the legendary Boone the Good! My reputation shall never be shattered with a loss. A thousand livres to the one who defeats me!” Boone laughed heartily at the mere thought of being beaten at cards. The occupants of the wine shop started at the mention of gold. But once they saw that Boone the Good had offered the bet, their smirks and amused laughs blended with his. The wine shop boomed with hysterical mirth. “I’ll challenge you. Poker, one round.” The voice was barely audible above the din in the claustrophobic wine shop. Boone ceased smiling and glanced around in faint apprehension, believing a poltergeist had come to challenge his pride. All he discovered was a scrawny man in a filthy excuse for a shirt and tattered trousers that pooled at his bare feet. His stance was defiant, and his eyes twinkled with a lust for gold. The crowd grew silent momentarily before bursting into mocking laughter and taunting the poor fellow for his foolhardiness. “W-what?” Boone stuttered skeptically. “Beg your pardon, monsieur, but I cannot deprive you of such a fortune and remain in good conscience. You are not like the arrogant, wealthy citizens who will fritter away their riches in a vain attempt to become more powerful within society. You should save what money you have. I could not bear to live with myself if I defeated you. After all, don’t you know who I am?” “Oui. I know that you are a fool to promise an unfathomable fortune to the one that defeats you. I know that you are a celebrity who is losing his fame and resorting to gambling with peasants. But most importantly, I know that you will be just another nameless body in the shadows of the alley once I, Peter Lafollette, snuff out your fiery winning streak.” "Perhaps you are like those arrogant citizens." “Papa, please. Don’t do this.” Boone suddenly noticed a pale girl cowering next to Peter. She could not have been more than eleven years old. Yet her skin sagged from her bones like a wet blanket from a tree. Her fingers became gnarled spider’s legs as she reached out to her father. Her gaunt frame looked as if it would splinter under the gentle pressure of an amiable pat on the shoulder. She tugged at Peter’s baggy trousers and pleaded like an innocent person that had been sentenced to death. “Papa… we cannot afford to lose. We have nothing, no hope of winning. Papa, s’il vous plaît…” “Hush up, my young Marie. You have not the energy to get all worked up over a simple game of cards. Now, monsieur, I do not have a thousand livres to offer. Instead, I hope you’ll agree to accept a prize of a week’s worth of bread under the circumstance that you win. If I win, however…” Peter paused, a mischievous smile glinting in his eyes. “I award you the money. Well… I suppose I'll give you the chance to challenge me. It's agreed, then.” Boone swiftly whipped a deck of cards from his coat pocket. A week’s worth of bread? In an era of hardships, a single portion of bread was hardly obtainable. How is it that this peasant has come by an entire stash of the rare provision? I will not question him, Boone decided. Let him be bold; but he will be held accountable for his loss. The mob surrounding them nudged and shoved to get a clear view of the match. Each man clambered for a prime spot directly behind one of the competitors, freely treading upon the various men lying unconscious on the dirt floor. “Shall we begin?” Boone shuffled the deck with remarkable deftness. As he dealt agilely, the cards spun into precise little piles in front of both him and the peasant. Peter tilted his chin ever so slightly in approval of Boone’s impressing skills. Once they each picked up their five cards, the assembled spectators hushed almost instantly. And then the game began. The minutes crawled; the seconds seemingly stretched into hours. Not a cough, not a sneeze, not even a sigh disturbed the grueling silence that ensued. The match was at a standstill, and the only move left was to show their hands. Boone peered at his cards. The jack prodded him. The queen cackled haughtily. The king smugly grinned. He could win; he would win. He would parade away in triumph with his prize: a week’s worth of stale bread. Peter, the peasant dimwitted enough to pit his card-playing skills against the famous Boone the Good, would slouch back into the depths of the old dark alley, and no one would even notice that he had just wasted a treasure as valuable as bread on a silly game of poker. His aloof courage, as well as Peter himself, would be forgotten. Boone cast his gaze away from his cards and upon little Marie. He could not stop the sadness from welling in his eyes. She was so frail, so emaciated. She has nothing but a father; a father that is about to gamble away the only foodstuffs they will possess for quite a while, he thought. Yet, even with all of Marie’s misfortune, Boone could tell a feeble smile itched to spread across her face in hope that Peter just might prevail. How could he smash this poor girl’s faith? How could he snatch away her only chance of survival? How could he ruin his impeccable reputation? Then, there was Brigitte, compulsively tucking her hair behind her ears and refusing to support another one of Boone’s ridiculous card games. He could not throw out his dignity and fail in her presence. Brigitte would never respect a man who succumbs to his pity for a poverty-stricken stranger and his malnourished daughter. Nor could she respect a man who passes the opportunity for an abundance of bread. But at the same time, could Brigitte ever respect a man who shattered every last hope this young girl and her father had? “So, monsieur. What have you got?” Peter broke the brick wall of silence. He spread his cards in a fan shape across the counter, and Boone hung his head in disbelief. “You’ve lost,” Boone mumbled softly to his thumbs. Even the air became stale and the tinkling of ice against the glasses of wine ceased so the throng could hear him. Peter’s jaws clenched anxiously. “You’ve lost… so much.” He stopped, gulping back his tears and biting his lip so fiercely that the brackish taste of blood and saline trickled into his mouth. "Papa… I told you… I told you that we had no hope…" Marie trailed off, sniffling. Her entire frame shuddered as she cried softly. He could not bear to face Peter’s overwhelming reaction. He did not risk a glance at Brigitte. Marie was the only one he could face at this moment. Reluctantly, he set his cards facedown on the counter and rose to his feet. He fished a sack of coins from his pocket and ambled to Marie’s side. Taking one of her skeletal hands, he gingerly gave her the bag. Choking and sputtering, hot tears burning streaks down his cheeks, Boone left his fame and fortune in the hands of a deprived girl and her destitute father. After eleven prosperous years, he cast away his admirable status and would only exist as a grain of sand on the beach of history. Before retreating from the wine shop, Boone leaned down and whispered to Marie. “Now you have your hope.”
A Flounder Amongst Koi The four o'clock bell screamed the end of the school day. Disciplined silence was rudely shoved aside by the chattering of the elite students of Asoka Academy, the most prestigious private boarding school within a five-hour radius of Tokyo. Nearly fifteen hundred students, ranging from ages fifteen to eighteen, poured into the uniformly-colored halls. A Westerner would stick out in the sea of dark hair, tan skin, and pristine uniforms like a flat-faced flounder in a sea of koi.
Michelle Flemming, the flounder, had stayed behind in classroom B2,
pretending to fuss with her cumbersome Finally, the room was empty but for herself and her Graduate Calculus and Trigonometry teacher. Tall, handsome, and one of the youngest faculty members of the school at age twenty-eight, Takayama-sensei was often the topic of conversation amongst the female students. Even Michelle's few Caucasian friends at the Academy found him exceptionally attractive. Any girl there would have relinquished her entire collection of J-pop CDs for just five minutes alone with him. Now here she was, alone, with Takayama-sensei. Consciously moderating her breathing rate, she painstakingly collected her things, approached her teacher, who was facing the day's notes on the blackboard, and politely "ahemmed." He turned, breaking into a smile that could have shamed the sun. "Michelle-chan, what can I do for you?" He spoke in Japanese, pronouncing her name "Michiru." She fought the blush summoned by his informal address. "Sensei, I'm having trouble understanding this chapter. I was wondering… I was wondering if you could help me sometime before or after class." She hastily added, "I've asked some of the other students for help, but they're all so busy, and I really don't want to be a bother, to them or you. If you don't have time, I understand. It's not your job to…" "It's okay, it's okay, Michelle-chan," he interrupted, chuckling. "I'd be happy to help. I noticed that your grades have been slipping since the first period. If I recall correctly, you almost failed the semester." Michelle lowered her eyes to the floor. He must think I’m just another stupid American. Takayama-sensei stepped around the desk to stand before her. "Perhaps," he began, resting his hands on her shoulders, "I can offer you some extra credit." Michelle's face lit up. "Really? Enough for me to pass?" The sensei brought his lips to her ear: "Do enough of it, and I guarantee you'll make an 'A'." She felt her cheeks grow suddenly warm. What is he implying? A soft click from the sliding door arrested Takayama-sensei's attention. He straightened and returned to the other side of the desk. "Come to my office tomorrow morning, and I'll see what I can do for you. We'll discuss this further." The math teacher directed these lines at the briefcase he was suddenly absorbed in. "Oh… okay, sensei. I guess I'll see you tomorrow, then." He raised his head and flashed a brief smile. "Tomorrow, then." Michelle bowed and quickly scurried into the now-empty corridor. Two halls and a stairwell later, she slowed her pace, wondering why she had been hurrying. Why was I so relieved to leave the room? He didn’t mean… No, no he wouldn’t… would he? If not, then why was I blushing? She needed to analyze. She needed to think. And most importantly, she needed to use the restroom. Michelle was washing her hands in the empty west wing girls’ lavatory when in strutted Watanabe Yuriko, the most powerful girl in school. Her hair, her status symbol, was dyed bleach blond. Dying your hair was grounds for expulsion, but the Chairman of the Board of Trustees claimed his daughter had a rare form of hair follicle disease. Apparently, the cure was in the dye. Yuriko strolled down the line of meticulously clean sinks and stopped at the one next to Michelle's at the end of the row. With a dramatic flair, she whipped out a stick of hooker-red lipstick and reapplied. Red lipstick was also prohibited. "I saw you, you know." She smacked her lips at the mirror and turned to face Michelle. "I heard what he said to you. You should accept his offer." "What are you talking about?" The younger American turned away to grab some paper towels, and to avoid those reptilian eyes. "Look at me when I'm talking to you, Flemming-san." Michelle dropped the soggy paper into the trashcan underneath the dispenser and reluctantly rotated. She was confronted by Yuriko's bright green contact lenses. Beware, they said. I'm poisonous. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. He offered you "extra credit" in exchange for a passing grade. And we both know how much you need to pass." "What do you mean?" Michelle prayed she sounded as convincing as she hoped she did. "Oh, come on. Asoka Academy is one of the most expensive private schools in Japan. And with that haircut, those ugly clodhoppers, and that cheap jewelry, you have to be here on scholarship. The rules say you have to pass or go home. It's an easy decision." Her eyes scanned the length of the foreigner. She snickered, "I don't know why guys like Takayama and Satoshi would be attracted to a foreigner like you." Michelle kept her eyes locked on the shoes her mother had sent at Christmas, hating Yuriko. "So… how do you know what the extra credit is?" "Oh, he offered it to me last year when I was in his class. And I took it, too. What idiot would pass up an opportunity like that?" "Like what?" "Are you brain dead or something? You know what." Michelle resolutely shook her head. Yuriko, huffing impatiently, grabbed her by the arm and whispered in her ear. The longer she went on, the lower Michelle's jaw dropped. This was far more than she had anticipated. When she was finished, the most popular girl in school pulled back with a smirk and viewed with twisted satisfaction the shocked expression on the face of the flounder. Michelle groped for her voice. “Wha… he… I… wha… What?” “Aren’t you flattered?” “No!” “Well, you should be. Do you have any idea what this could do for your reputation? Do the smart thing. Accept.” She leaned in. “And do yourself a favor: don’t get caught. You’d get shipped back to the States anyway.” And with the satisfaction of a satiated snake, Yuriko Watanabe pivoted on her heel and strutted out of the west wing girls’ lavatory. Michelle watched her go, silently, and then turned to the mirror. She studied the pale, freckle-cursed seventeen-year-old that stared lamely back at her from the other side of the glass. Her mother's emerald German eyes sat almost right in the middle of an oval face; she was born with a painfully high forehead, hence the overgrown bangs. She rotated her head this way and that, examining her good side, her bad side, and all angles in between. "I think I'm pretty." She exited the restroom, nose pointed a little higher than usual. The halls of sliding doors and square windows echoed Michelle’s footsteps. Her mechanical movements were programmed to take her to the soccer field; her mind was preoccupied with thoughts of Takayama-sensei. He is rather attractive, she mulled in her mind. He’s tall, even taller than Satoshi. And he has such nice teeth for being Japanese. And that smile… What a gorgeous smile. Yuriko’s right: I’d be crazy to not consider an offer like that. And if it gets me an ‘A’, even better. While Michelle’s mind was focused on her inner ponderings, her feet succeeded in carrying her all the way to the cherry tree near the soccer field. Realizing where she was, the girl plopped down beneath the branches and sat her bag beside her. She sorted through the homework in her lap, searching for the letter that had arrived that morning, right on schedule. She eventually located it, under her math book, and broke the seal on the standard white envelope addressed from Atlanta, Georgia. She leaned back against the blossoming tree and began to read. It was the usual: news from the neighborhood, the monthly tally of Mrs. Johansson’s cats, the report on her four younger siblings’ advancement in the world, and, of course, a comprehensive account of the revolutionary stupidities achieved by her mother’s boss. Her mother also mentioned, with as much nonchalance as possible, that there had been another shooting near home. Two dead, three wounded. Two in jail. One more bullet hole in the west wall of their two bedroom house. Another gang fight. The usual. Michelle’s right hand began to mechanically rub a three-year-old white scar on her left forearm. She couldn’t remember the pain, or the faces of the gang members. She did remember the fear. She had simply been at the wrong place at the wrong time. The puckered scar on her arm served as a reminder to herself and her siblings: never go anywhere alone in Atlanta. Nothing like that ever happened at the Academy, and it rarely happened anywhere in Japan. The coach’s shrill whistle shocked her out of her reverie. Pushing all scars aside, Michelle refocused on the precious letter. This one had a special treat in it: a post script. It read: P.S. - I saw your math grade in the semester report card. Don’t worry, honey. You passed. That’s all that matters. I know this transition was hard for you. You just needed to get your bearings. You’ll do much better this semester. Just remember how proud we are of you. We know you’ll do your best. I know you will. Love you, honey. Michelle struggled to banish the lump in her throat, but a few tears stubbornly escaped. She tilted her head up and closed her eyes. “Oi! Michelle!” A shirtless youth jogged toward her across the field, waving his arm like a stranded survivor flagging down a plane. Panting hard, he came to a halt beside her and leaned against the shade-giving tree. Finally catching his breath, he gazed down at his girlfriend. His eyes sparkled light blue, revealing in him a rare gene found amongst the Japanese. Chocolate locks fell past his ears and partially hid his unusual eyes. He had the sculpted body of a soccer player. Peering up into his grinning face, Michelle decided that Satoshi was at least as attractive as Takayama-sensei. His eyes narrowed slightly, and the ever-present smile disappeared. “Is that a tear?” Michelle quickly lowered her eyes and began to offer a weak excuse, but he squatted down and cupped her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Yup, that is definitely a tear. Why were you crying?” “I was… I wasn’t really crying, really… I’m just having a really bad week,” she conceded with a sigh. She slumped against the tree and looked into his eyes with the face of a beaten dog on its last leg. He smiled sympathetically. “It’s just one week. And it’s almost over.” He stood and grabbed hold of a large branch overhead. “So cheer up!” He shook the branch, and a pink blanket of cherry blossoms fell on and around them both. Michelle smiled and laughed, enjoying the moment. “Don’t worry, Michelle. You’re a smart girl. Whatever’s bothering you, you’ll get through it. So, dinner?” After Michelle stashed away the letter in her purse, Satoshi helped her stand and they began their stroll around the field to the boys’ locker room. “Satoshi?” “Hm?” “You know Yuriko-san, the Chairman’s daughter? Have you… Have you ever heard about her having a relationship with a teacher? Like, in rumors or something?” He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, actually, last year. Yuriko-san bragged about it to her friends, one of which was my girlfriend at the time. Why?” “Well… I just heard a rumor about it and wondered if it was true.” “Probably. I wouldn’t put anything past that slut.” “Satoshi!” “What? She is, if that’s what happened. She had a boyfriend at the time, too, but I don’t think he ever found out. Actually, I don’t think anyone found out who the teacher was, either. Whoever he is, he should be fired, and she should be expelled.” “Uh, yeah, definitely.” They reached the door of the locker room. Satoshi pecked Michelle on the cheek before ducking in for a quick shower. His girlfriend offered a brief smile and sank onto a nearby wooden bench, her anxiety restored. * * * That evening, the overstressed teen was mellowing out, completing an essay on the cultural significance of animé. Her two roommates, as usual, were off socializing and gossiping. She had the misfortune to be housed in the oldest dorm on campus; the window was slid halfway open to allow the aromatic spring breeze to wander in. Her roommates never seemed to notice the varying scents that graced the room day by day. Tonight, the air was perfumed with the delicate sweetness of cherry blossoms. Every now and then, a pink petal would dance in through the window to alight on Michelle’s desk, strategically located under the pane. One such petal dropped gingerly onto her laptop keys. Smiling, she glanced up at the photograph of herself and Satoshi on her desk, taken at the New Year’s Festival. It had been their one month anniversary, and she was wearing the gift he had given her: a silk kimono with blue ripples and koi along the hem. Michelle leaned back in her chair and stared out the window. A Cheshire Cat’s smile of a moon peeked through the laden branches of the cherry tree. She closed her eyes and inhaled the essence of Asoka Academy. Of Japan. She breathed out a sigh, and when she opened her eyes, Michelle knew what she would tell her teacher in the morning. |
a disastrous bike accident, my
brother Gene was left in intensive care in critical condition. Gene had been in
the hospital since last Saturday, and it was already Sunday again. I hadn’t
slept for days, and the whole house was in a rut. My brother was in such bad
condition that everyone was on the edge, and mom rarely followed her ordinary
routine – dishes, laundry, or even cooking. If she was at home, she was in her
room. Other than that, she was at the hospital comforting Gene whether he was
awake or not.
textbooks and spirals. She was hindered
by having to see through her thick curtain of Irish-orange hair as she looked
down; her bangs hadn't been trimmed in nearly six months. Light and air entered
the room through the large half-open windows along one wall. Michelle’s navy
plaid school uniform added a much needed touch of color to the barren teaching
space. Contrary to American classrooms, all personalization was done to the
students’ desks; the teachers carried their lesson materials from their office
desks to each classroom throughout the day. In accordance with school code, the
stations of the students were mostly bare, robbed of the personality of their
constituents. An accessory here or a sticker there were the only clues to their
occupants’ identities.