WHITE PEARLS OF RESCUE by Tait Hanson, Photo by Liz Johnson

My legs feel like jelly, as they say. Or I think they do. I can’t think clearly. I can’t control my mind. The only control I have is over my quivering fingers, popping pill after pill between my dry lips. I couldn’t decide between Ibuprofen, the prescription bottles by my mom’s bathroom sink, or the disgusting burning liquid in my dad’s liquor cabinet, so I take turns alternating between my saviors. At first I don’t notice a change. I am frantic, pushing for some kind of difference to my pain. Shoveling beautiful white pearls into my mouth causes many to clatter to the floor. I’ve never tasted liquor before this—I hate it and gag between desperate gulps. My throat is in flames with the slow burning, like ashes to my grave. But it doesn’t matter.

My legs give out under myself, and I collapse into a sea of dizzying tiles and puddles of brandy at my right cheek. I hardly notice the chilling wooden floor as my swooning body absorbs shrieking stabs to my fragile, bruising knees, elbow, and head… I gaze into the mirror on the opposite side of the bedroom. It gives me the strength to continue the cycle of pills, downed with whiskey, and more pills. I glare at my hateful body, my overdone hair, my makeup streaming—I always wear too much. I used to think that makeup made everyone more beautiful, but no matter how much I coat onto my pale, chalky cheeks, it changes nothing. I am the same Megan Harris: eyes of a cold icy blue, the perfect designer clothes, custom-made, and the 14 year old who is eating dinner alone and staying home alone.

            The longer I stare at the ugly beast in front of me, the more hysterical are my silent sobs and the more panicked are my fingers wriggling into the small hole of the bottles, scraping for satisfaction but coming up with nothing.

The pain ebbs, and lovely solid black rings itself around the contours of my room, as my view gets smaller and smaller.

            I am unconscious--separate from the world and it’s constant buzzing, buzzing like a massive hive of bees harassing me in nightmares. I am too detached to greet my parents with a distracted yell as they step through the massive oak front door, too disconnected to calm their curiosity when they trek up the marble staircase to my grand bedroom entrance. I can’t stop their shrieks of terror as they take in the strewed tablets, the pungent stench of spilled alcohol, and a beloved daughter, eyes rolling as she splays in a vulnerable clump across the floor.

            The ambulance rushes across the city; it skids into the brick driveway of a southern mansion. Neighbors peek from the curtains of their nearby four story houses, wondering what new drama is arising in Tranquility Lane. I am hauled downstairs, through the massive entry hall with the crystal chandelier and the golden countertops. The perfect roses weep with wilting petals as I’m carted away under the watchful stare of every gossiping southern belle and the howling of sirens to the hospital.

            I do not awaken. I am linked to a jumble of wires and machines all tangled together and complicated. The bed is like all others in the hospital, in a room like every other. The white sheets are rough and itchy, covered by a dreary dark wool blanket. The bed is suspended on squeaking wheels, ready to be carted off to the morgue. The walls are whitewashed brick, the curtains encompassing sickly patients are a depressing gray, and the aura is helpless.

            For days, doctors work on my recovery, giving me fluids, pumping my stomach, using machines I could never understand how to work… My parents remain by my side for two days. Their faces are etched with grieving grimaces, and they play the role of distraught parents well—except for the glances at their iPhones, checking their emails frantically, and trying to keep in time with the working world. But it’s impossible, and after those days, they choose work over daughter.

I am abandoned to strangers in sterilized, itchy bed sheets and needles wedged into my pale, sickly skin.

            I am the same for one more day—still in a swarm of frantic nurses and operations. And then I am gone.

My lifeless body is so serene on the hospital bed. But my parents do not know. They never saw the depression drowning their daughter for months. And still, they are unaware of how to handle their busy lives, let alone mine.

They are back at work, intent on their next meeting and focusing on business success. My parents are giving sales pitches and yelling at employees from their executive offices, too busy to notice the absence of a 14 year old life. 

BEYOND THE GREAT WALL by Alena McIntosh, Photo by Marisol Hernandez

            The purple orchid came in a yellow box with a green ribbon tied around the top, a vision of happiness and sunshine. Yet, the rain fell with loud splats on the hard concrete sidewalk outside the 1950s office building.  The muddy blues and greens of the paint glinting in the deep puddles tricked passersby into believing that the rain was only temporary, and that the sun was creeping out from it’s hiding place in the clouds.  They would raise their heads and glance hopefully up into the murky sky only to be disappointed and let their faces slip back into their grim expressions. Cable cars clicked and clacked up the hill as cars zoomed by sending freezing sprays of water onto grumbling pedestrians. It was winter, and so the rain attacked the earth like a savage lion, rearing its wild mane.  

Layla Adams sat at her desk surveying the chaos of the office before her. She hated the chaos of the morning. The frantic running of interns, the click clack of stiletto heals on the hard linoleum floors, the shouts and bellows of grumpy workers, all made her feel like she was in some kind of adult playground. However, she had never been the type of person to go against the status quo, preferring to stay inside the boundaries of everyone else’s creativity and individuality. Layla’s assistant scurried into the office holding a box that was much to bright for either the office or Layla. 

“Mrs. Adams, this just came for you.”  

“Thank you, Shanna. You can set it on the desk.”  Shanna set the package safely on the corner of Layla’s desk before quietly departing. Layla took her feet off of her desk and pulled the package closer to her, trying to find a tag or card without success. She tugged the frilly green ribbon off of the yellow box and pulled out a light purple orchid.

 She instantly knew whom it was from; they had been sending her an orchid each year since she had turned eighteen.  Memories of the orphanage were burned into her brain. She managed to keep them from interrupting her daily life, but these annual flowers caused them all to bubble over. Even now, she could only bring back small recollections, but they were as clear as day. The prison- like walls of the orphanage filled with the high pitched screaming and yelling of children. Their loud screams filled the air as their parents pried themselves out of their grasp and ran down the drive, most of them never looking back. At one point Layla had been one of the crying children as her parents’ car veered away from the curb and into the thick London traffic. She had only been seven, but the memory of being abandoned crashed over her like a large wave she could not seem to extract herself from. She also remembered the bullies. They came out at night to reek havoc on sleeping students. They would punch, kick or tease the kids until, eyes red and swollen they would run into the matron’s office for shelter from the bombardment. Layla had been one of the bullies. She felt joy in the pain she caused people, it made her feel important and special. Looking back she hated herself for what she had done to those innocent children of her childhood. Most of them were just like her, abandoned, sad, and resentful. So why had she been so cruel? The simple answer was that she wanted to feel important, but it went much deeper than that. She wanted to escape the pain of her situation by making others pay for what her parents had done to her. She wanted revenge.  As time progressed, she realized she would never be adopted and wondered if it was because she was not as cute and innocent as the others, or if it was because she was not good enough to be anyone’s daughter. The years past, and life at the orphanage became rougher and rougher. She was no longer as aggressive towards other people, but became more introverted, avoiding eyes and keeping the pain she felt to herself.  When she finally broke free of the orphanage at age eighteen, London has lost the mystique and intrigue that she had felt as a young child. She could no longer call the place that had caused her so much suffering “home”.   She spent her life’s savings on a plane ticket to the United States. After arriving in the U.S., Layla worked her way through collage and secured a well-paid job as a food critic.

Layla, realizing she still held the orchid in her hands, dumped it into the trashcan by her desk. She pulled open a drawer in her desk and pulled out a small pocketknife, stowing it in her pocket. She walked to the back door of the office and stepped out into the rain. She pulled the knife out of her pocket and placed it on her wrist, slicing away the pain. Her blood mixed with the raindrops, falling heavy like tears.            

THE BEDROOM by Aviva Thal, Photo by Lara Hershberger

Cathy hoped her daughter still believed in angels. She ran her thumb over the magazine cut out, adhered so neatly to the lined page. Sighing, she set the notebook down carefully, making sure it looked just as it had. She crept out of Reilly’s room, closing the door softly behind her. The entire house was perfumed by the chocolate chip cookies that sat in the oven. Cathy loved the illusion of warmth and domesticity caused by the smell. She could almost believe that nothing had changed since the last time she had baked for Reilly. She sat down at the kitchen table, and opened the novel that sat on it, then, after staring blankly at the page for a few minutes, she snapped the book shut, abandoning all pretenses. Cathy refocused her gaze to the red numbers on the microwave clock. 28 more minutes. 

Reilly glanced at the airport clock. Her dad would be arriving any minute now. She would be home soon. She sat stiffly on the hard plastic bench, her bulletless gun resting uselessly on her lap. It was the only thing that identified her from the mass of civilians crowded around. She had chosen not to fly in uniform. It was only after a few hours spent slumped in her seat, watching the arid desert landscape soften to sky, that she had realized how naked she felt in her t-shirt and sweatpants. By now she was too exhausted to care. Still, even jet lag couldn’t entirely numb the anxious stabs that pierced her when she pictured her reunion with her mom and dad. Reilly traced the brown and green blobs on her gun case, deliberately keeping her head down to avoid the glances of the people walking by. Waiting was always the worst part.

Ken thought it was best not try to identify the tidal wave of emotions that overtook him as he pulled into the airport parking lot. He was excited of course. And proud. But there were other feelings too, feelings that scared him. But never mind them. During the last four years he had learned that it was easier not to think. He strode purposefully through the front doors, then stopped, gazing dazedly at the chaotic scene surrounding the baggage claim. He had expected his daughter to pop out immediately, but the faces he saw all belonged to strangers. And then there she was, and he was holding her tight as if his arms were all that kept her from fading back out of his life.

The first thing Reilly thought as her father approached her was that she needed to move her gun. She had barely flung it over her shoulder when her dad’s arms engulfed her. After the initial shock, she buried her head into his rough linen shirt, comforted by his familiarity. Then suddenly she felt claustrophobic, overtaken by an almost physical need for air, space, solitude. She waited impatiently for his arms to loosen, and yet she feared the moment when she would have to meet his eyes and answer all his questions. Finally Ken leaned his head back to look at his daughter, his soft storm colored eyes sparkling with unshed tears.

“How are you?” he asked, scanning her body as if the answer would be visible.

“Good. I’m, I’m good. How are you?”

“Oh I’m fine.” He clutched the straps of Reilly’s duffle bag and led her out into the warm night.

Reilly grasped the brass doorknob, pushing the door open slowly to see if it still creaked. It did. The instant she stepped on the doormat her mother pounced, hugging and kissing her daughter, sobbing and smiling. Reilly held her, filled with the same detached calm that she had always possessed during battle. Eventually Cathy let her arms fall from around her daughter’s neck and grabbed her hand, pulling her into the kitchen like a little girl.

“Here,” She shoved a plate with two warm cookies into Reilly’s hands.

“Thanks Mom.” The two women watched each other in silence, Cathy feeling that silence was enough, Reilly biting her cookie to hide her discomfort, her mind racing to find what she would say next. The conversation that followed was less painful than Reilly had feared, but not as open and familiar as Cathy had hoped. Before long, Reilly announced her exhaustion and left for bed. Cathy’s disappointment surfaced, her smile slipping for just long enough for Ken to see. He walked over and rested his hand on his wife’s shoulder, wishing he could do more.

A small laugh burbled up from Reilly’s throat when she switched on the lights, throwing her childhood bedroom into clarity. It looked as if she had just left, with her blue comforter thrown sloppily over the mattress, and various objects and papers crammed haphazardly onto the bookshelf. She walked over to her desk, running her fingers over the wood. Her pencils were strewn over the open notebook, her Spanish flashcards stacked against a long empty tootsie roll container, her pencil sharpener still plugged in. Reilly had a feeling her mother had kept it this way deliberately. Cathy was a tidy woman, not the type to leave a bed unmade. The notebook was open to a statue of an angel Reilly had cut out from one of Cathy’s travel magazines in seventh grade. Cursive letters curled around the magazine cut out, a juvenile poem about the real angels in life. Reilly reached down and slammed the book shut, resisting the urge to tear the page out. What was her mom trying to do? Comfort her with her own naïve words? This kind of ridiculous meddling had been one of the many reasons Reilly had enlisted in the first place. Her family had no military background. Both of her parents had serious misgivings about the war, and had been horrified when their daughter mentioned signing up. But Reilly had been determined. She had been consumed with restlessness her entire senior year. As other kids gushed about college, she realized that she couldn’t bear the thought of any more school. Whenever she could find the time, she went running, reveling in the feeling of power and direction. She loved being able to vacate her mind, to put all her focus into her lungs and her legs. She had always been a physical person, and it was in this world of sweaty foreheads and sharp breath that she longed to live. The idea of joining the army had come to her out of no where, but once it lodged in her mind there was no getting rid of it. It seemed like a way, the only way, for Reilly to regain her sense of purpose. She had known it would be hard, but that was okay, that was good, she needed hard.

At 2:16 in the morning, Ken slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Cathy. He navigated through the dark to his slippers. He had placed them precisely before he went to bed, knowing that he would probably want them later. He had built a nightly routine since his insomnia had set in thirteen years ago. By now he enjoyed it, savoring those quiet contemplative hours he had all to himself. After years of undisturbed nighttime solitude, he was mildly surprised to see the lights in the kitchen already on, his daughter sitting at the table, bent over a newspaper. She looked up as he walked in.

“Hey, what going on?” He asked.

“Couldn’t sleep”

“Me neither”

He filled the kettle and ambled over to the tea drawer, glancing furtively at Reilly as he selected a chamomile tea bag.

Reilly tried to focus her attention on the newsprint before her, hoping the small town news would be enough to wipe her mind of the images that had woken her, sweating and tangled in a mass of twisted covers. And then her breath caught in her throat. In the town calendar, beneath the notice for toddlers’ story time, was a short blurb that read, Reilly Padron, local war hero, to return home. Hero? She had become many things in the last four years, but she was sure hero was not one of them. Heroes didn’t… She shook her head, trying to clear it of all the things that heroes didn’t do. She turned the page, forcing herself to read the words in front of her. She was shocked to find that the letters seemed wet and blurry. A hot tear splattered the page. Was she crying? It had been ages since she had last cried, after a while, the tears had just stopped coming.

Ken trotted over to his daughter. He attempted to put his hand on top of hers, but she pulled away. “Are you okay?” He regretted the words as soon as he uttered them. Of course she wasn’t. With a sob, Reilly scrambled out of her chair and ran to her room, leaving her father alone with the tear stained words, Reilly Padron, local war hero, to return home.

Collaboration Between Photo 1 Students and Creative Writing Students

Be sure to check out the following eight stories.  This project was a collaboration between students in Photo 1 and Creative Writing classes at Jackson Hole Community School. The students in Photo 1 were asked to take photographs of groupings of items that could tell a story. They were specifically told to leave people out of the photos so that the focus was on the objects themselves. The creative writing class then created characters and fictional stories using the images as inspiration.

The Little Boat Who Could By Lara Hershberger

This is a picture from Costa Rica taken on the boat back from Tortuga Island. I traveled there through the school for community service and to learn spanish.

Rendezvous Peak at Sunset by Dylan Spence

I took this photo in Wilson, Wyoming on January 6, 2012 on a Nikon D5100 while the sun was setting.

Untitled by Marisol Hernandez

This picture was developed in the dark room as part of an assignment that showed reflections in Las Vegas.