Victor Consulo: Student Showcase

The Port, by Victor Consulo (Argentina, b. Italy) 1930

Creative writing students at Arrowhead Union High School in Hartland, Wisconsin, recently engaged in a project centered on seven distinct works of art. Using these pieces as inspiration, students crafted original stories, bringing their unique visions to life. Each class participated in a rigorous peer-review process to read and critique 30 of the 86 student-authored submissions. Ultimately, the students took on the role of editors to select the most intriguing pieces for publication, celebrating the diverse literary talent within our writing community.

Terri Carnell, teacher

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​The Waves Beneath My Feet
 
Sitting on the dock of the canal, I breathe in the cool, calm air—hoping it will settle my anger. My mother, Christine, refuses to let me be a teenager and experience my youth. So every fight, every argument, every brawl, I come to the port. It soothes something in me that a person could never heal. The sea under my feet, the crisp, damp wind tickling my bare ears, and the whistle of the waves traveling through the dark, starry night give me the most sense of freedom. And suddenly, I hear a pounding voice coming from the Juliet balcony of my home
 
“Clementine!” screams my mother, breaking the silence of my self-government. I groan in annoyance, picking myself up from the pier and saying my farewell to the waves. Walking back, I hear a faint mumble in this distance. I turn my back to see the bushes rustling, as if they’re trying to escape from their roots. My curiosity gets the better of me, so I approach the rumbling bush. I can still hear my mother’s pleas for me to come home, but did I ever really care about listening to my mother?
 
“Clementine! Clementine! Come here!” the bush mutters out to me. I quietly tiptoe over to the bush, not wanting to draw attention to myself. I get closer and closer, then abruptly, a familiar face emerges from the bush.
 
“Lily?” I question with a dumbfounded expression on my face, not expecting my best friend to be hiding in my bushes this late at night. “What are you doing here? It’s so late!”
 
“I know, but you have to trust me on this one! Just follow me!” She bursts out in excitement. She grabs my wrists and yanks me near the ports. Believing in her confidence, I accompany her on whatever journey we are about to endure, as usual.
 
“Where are we going this time, Lily?” I state, unenthused and knowing. 
 
“Just have a little faith,” Lily says with a bold smirk on her face. She guides me to my habitual resting whereabouts—the port. The port has been a part of mine and Lily’s lives for as long as we can remember. In a way, the port is aging with us; her musky, faded wood that carries our feet, her green, mossy hair that flows with the current, and her limbs that stretch out to schlep us onto our boat—she was once young, like us, but oh-so long ago. As she carries our feet, Lily and I race towards the edge of the port.
 
At the very fringe, you will find a boat. This boat isn’t just like any old boat; it has been abandoned for years, so Lily and I have taken it in as our own. And so, we leap onto the boat and sit on the edge of the bow, taking in every star sleeping in the sky. We sit and bask in the moonlight for hours, talking about life, nature, what happens after we die, our biggest fears… as if we’ve never talked about these things before, but with Lily, an hour with her feels like a second. The lingering thought of going home and being screamed at by my mother is still like white noise in my mind, but I’d rather be punished for a moment of freedom. Thus, Lily and I continue to rattle on for hours, chattering about matters that could only be important to us. 
 
Rubbing my eyes as I become more exhausted by the minute, I see the sun begin to awake from her slumber. Her glowing eyes radiate warmth, and her shimmering skin, hugging me as my eyes slowly wither away. Struggling to stay awake, I rest on Lily’s shoulder, signaling that the blabbering must come to an end. As my body is overtaken by somnolence, the only thought in my head is gratitude. Grateful that I had a good friend, grateful that I got to spend time with the sea, and grateful that I had a moment of freedom.
 
Chloë Doll