Juliet Bost
Juliet Bost is currently a junior at Aragon High School. Her adventures in writing stemmed from her love of reading as a child. She is most interested in the problems that are rooted in everyday events. Her writing topics range from math tests to existential crises in an effort to reveal the small moments of the days that unfold, but are left unsaid. Juliet’s preferred writing methods involve solitude and old-fashioned ink and paper.
Cartography
They say that if you keep going North, you will eventually go South, but if you keep going East, you will never go West. This is because the cardinal directions are anchored in the North and South Poles, but there is no way to orient East and West, except by arbitrary terms.
My father was a cartographer. He dedicated his life to discovering the world’s nooks and crannies without ever leaving his office. He has memorized entire atlases, carved street names and country shapes into the folds of his brain, tucked a compass into his cerebellum. In every map he charted, he left a piece of himself on the worktable, until he forgot the shape of my mother, only tracing the avenues of her voice with his waning eyesight. When she left, he carved her young, voluptuous figure into a woodblock and hung it above the doorway to his work space. I was nine, still doodling the beginnings of streets and avenues in my notebook margins, and he forty-five, mired in endless commissions and a darkness that crawled across the edges of his vision, like an infant.
I am traveling North. I know I will reach South, to a bachelor’s degree and a woman, marriage then a family. My life is mapped out in neat, criss-crossed streets and alleyways, and in the dark I shine a flashlight on the unlit paths and trace my father’s handiwork. I will be a cartographer, follow in his footsteps. Each successor journeyed North to South in maps and life; my father wandered astray. He traveled North and reached South, where he met my mother, then forgot. Now he is traveling East, forgetting every day the purposeless of his quest, for he can never travel West. To travel West is to think West, and he has forgotten the direction, forgotten the meaning, only to pursue the running Sun.
I am not like him. I know of the sun’s elusiveness and the foolishness of men who believe they create the world with ink and paper. I am not like him.
Elevator
A winter gust swooped in behind the couple as they stumbled through the doorway, and the door creaked shut behind them. Boxes full with the week’s groceries were stacked high in their arms, so that their faces poked out from the behind the piles to peer down the dark hallway. They shuffled forward single file, ducked beneath the low-hanging light fixtures, taking care not to bump an elbow on the narrow walls on either side of them. At the end of the hall, Cam pulled open the gate with practiced ease and John slipped by, soon joined by Cam.
In the elevator, Cam reached over to hit the button and the car jolted into motion, ascending gradually. The two set down their boxes, and breathed a sigh of relief.
“It’s really coming down out there, huh?” John rubbed his hands together to warm his fingers. “We’re lucky this hunk of junk is still running.”
Cam offered no response. They stood in silence. John dug through a box, pulling out a cigarette. He patted his pockets while Cam watched the first floor disappear beneath them.
“Hey, baby, got a light?”
Cam pulled out a lighter and held it out for John, who leaned across the boxes. The small flame illuminated the initials carved into the cold metal, scratch marks visible in the dim lighting. J.M. John Manick.
John leaned back and let out a long breath. The space filled with the stifling acrid tang of smoke.
“So, John,” said Cam. “I was thinking for the wedding--”
“This again? Listen, baby,” John took another long pull. “When I agreed to this whole wedding thing, I was under the impression that it wasn’t going to be some big hullabaloo like the others.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Think about the money and the stress from planning something big, not to mention juggling the families and in-laws. It’s just not worth it.”
“That’s bull. We’ve worked through more with less. Besides, we vowed to get married as soon as we could legally. And since SCOTUS legalized it, you’ve been so reluctant to help.”
“I’m just saying, we don’t need a ceremony and a fancy paper to know we love each other.”
“Maybe you don’t.” The words were out. They hovered in the thick smoke, engulfing the couple as they stood, astonished. Cam averted his gaze from John, and stared down at the broken boxes between them.
“What did you say?” John said.
“Maybe you don’t need a declaration of our love. But I need some sort of affirmation that you still love me, or at least want to hold my hand when we walk down the street.”
“It’s dangerous.”
“How is it dangerous, John? We live in the heart of Greenwich Village. The only reason this wouldn’t be safe is because you’re not comfortable being seen with me in public!”
“That’s not fair.” John tugged at his coat, undoing the buttons as he kicked his way through the boxes to stand nose-to-nose with Cam. Cigarette smoke engulfed them. “You know damn well I’m not in a position to come out to the world. Hell, I’m not even out at work!”
“It’s not the whole world!” Cam’s laughter was cold, bitter. “It’s not the world you have coming out to, for Chrissake! At the very least, come out to your mother.”
John tugged off his hat, then crushed the cigarette beneath his foot. Cam planted a hand on his chest, holding him at bay. John pushed back, accepting the undeclared challenge. The smoke thickened and the elevator creaked in warning.
With a final shudder, the elevator jolted, stopping between the second and third floor.
