On this page you will find the Artful Tangents, prose poems and flash fictions composed by our past and present student editors. The students are free to write about whatever intrigues them as long as they use the words 'artful' or 'dodge', even fleetingly.
We hope you enjoy their works.
Little Boy Kicks Mime in Shin
Ian Schoultz '13
The mime sits at a table in the park. With the invisible spoon gripped between his thumb and
index finger, he stirs the air in his tea cup, clockwise first, then counterclockwise. The crowd of
onlookers talk amongst themselves. They agree that this is his best performance. But despite his artful
poses, they move on.
The mime stays still for the next ten minutes and a new crowd shows up. More and more
children gather at the mime's feet. They reach out to touch his white robe. One boy, the smallest of the
group, stands transfixed by the alabaster face. He squints and tilts his head. Suddenly, he rears back
and releases a mighty boot to the mime's shin.
The boy dodges behind a row of rose bushes. A few claps break the silence, but they soon die away.
The Red Table
Kelsey Hardin '13
Several months into kindergarten, when my new best friend Elaina (whom I’d
bonded with on the first day of school over our shared appreciation for the color red)
asked me which boy in our class I liked, the first face that came to mind was Dalton’s.
He had a 101 Dalmatians lunchbox, and I liked that. He sat at “the red table” with Elaina
and I, choosing it over the other color-coded tables in Ms. Brooks’ classroom. I’d
watched him copy the alphabet letters printed on our worksheets, sloppy yet artful. The
squiggly lines of his S’s threatened to run together with each new line he started on the
page. When I told him that they looked like spaghetti noodles and that I’d eaten spaghetti
the night before, he looked up from his work. He brushed his black hair away from his
eyes and smiled. One of his front teeth was missing.
From that day on, whenever Dalton would join the boys in their never-ending
boys versus girls chase, Elaina would shoot me meaningful looks as we giggled and
weaved through the jungle gyms, slides and monkey bars with the other girls, determined
to escape from their pursuit.
One day, the girls all walked over to the basketball court to ask the boys to play
again, skipping excitedly and already planning our strategy to elude them as we went.
Reaching the edge of the court, I’d barely stopped and turned my head to shout for the
boys’ attention when I felt the full force of a stray basketball crash right into my face.
I froze, stunned. For a few seconds, I only saw black, and immediately after, my
cheeks and nose went numb. The ball bounced back to the asphalt, and then rolled into
the lawn. Dalton swam into view. He stood still at the edge of the court. His face was
stony. Both of my nostrils were pouring scarlet, and when I touched my face as I looked
back at him, it smeared on my hands. As I sniffled, I felt an urgent tug on my arm. Beside
me, Elaina whispered that she’d walk me to the school nurse. Tears formed in my eyes
and I turned. Blood was running down my chin and staining my shirtfront in wobbly, red
Just before we rounded the corner toward the main school building, Dalton called out to my retreating back, voice accusatory and stiff.
"Why didn't you dodge it, Kelsey?"
A Crack at Love
by Shaina Switzer '13
He reached into his chest and cut the wires. Dabbing with a cloth, he set clamps to stop the oil dripping down his stomach. The Axiom Heart™ he let thunk onto his workshop table was blackened and shriveled. He sighed. He scratched at the skintech above the opening and reached for his phone to call his supplier for a replacement. The fat balding human with grubby fingers was always dodging his calls. Rob kept up with his payment plan, so why couldn’t the only heart supplier in town be as amiable as he, instead of such a monopolizing frustration?
When he was first switched on, Rob had been handed a manual on how to maintain his casing, how to plug in at night to recharge, how to keep his innards dust free with small gusts of compressed air. But who ever really reads the manual?
The only thing that stuck in his circuits was the imperative that being “unplugged was only advisable for sixteen hours.” Any longer and his power source, his heart, could overload, leaving him sluggish and prone to snapping at others. Some of his brethren had let themselves get wound down for so long, they weren’t quite the same after getting a recharge and a complimentary sample of casing wax.
Before he could put his call through the phone rang. Rob recognized the number and scowled. That heartless bitch was the reason his own was in such a state. He had courted her, bought her a dress, danced with her, amid a whirlwind of compliments and overtures. A full day of lavish praise and anything he could do to prove he was capable of love. And all she had given him was a papery peck on the cheek, her retreating lips parted, a perfect “o” that had taunted him for most of their time together.
So now, here he sat, his blackened heart spent in one hand, his other clicking, almost itching, to grab the phone and have it out with her. His chest was still open, wires spilling out like crackling snakes into the cool night air.
Grace Hansen '10
Joe Jensen '11
There was a dirge humming in Frederick's ears as he assembled the wooden ship through the hole in the bottle. He was sure that the whole thing was on the verge of collapsing as he maneuvered his tweezers artfully around the fore- and main-masts setting the mizzen in its resting place. Loretta came into the room.
"I'm sorry, you know."
"I know," he said.
"It's the medication," she said.
"I know," he said.
He began attaching the sail to the final mast, its cloth standing taut and erect as if a breeze had caught it on course for the Indies. This was the final step, he kept telling himself. Gently now. Don't lose your temper.
"You know, I won't see him again. I know I've said that before, but I swear I mean it."
"I know," he said."
"Please say something else," she said, her fingers rubbing the corner of her eye.
"There's nothing else to say."
"I wish you wouldn't build one of these fucking ships every time this happened. They just sit there on the mantle. And I have to stare at them. Every day. Little fucking reminders right towards my forehead."
He tied the sail down with the gentlest touch. He admired his work. It was a beautiful clipper. He put it on the mantle with the rest. Pretty soon he'd have an armada.
Emily Davis '11
For as long as she could remember, the girl had had the uncanny ability to attract and repel people from her. It wasn't a physical thing, like a magnet against metal. Instead, her power was rooted in her mind. She could steal any boy she wanted just by thinking about him; make him long for her so much he would curl up on the floor, nearly paralyzed from heartache. She could conjure loyal friends from strangers and even enemies, and if she felt so inclined, she could make her professors trip over themselves in their rush to ask for her opinion during class, ignoring the other students. However, it was not in her nature to be the center of attention, and if there was one thing she was good at, it was hiding - or, rather, making everyone around her think she was hidden. She reveled in her solitude, keeping only her family and very small group of friends aware of her at all times (because, she figured, it would be cruel to them not to, even though she herself would be fine without them), while drawing others to her only when she absolutely needed them. Sometimes, she would go to the mall or the main street of town, or she'd go to the quad at her college as classes changed, and she would stand perfectly still, content, watching strangers dodge her without even knowing what they were dodging.
Missie Bender '09
I have always loved New Year’s Eve. Last year we had a midnight bingo tournament, but not this year. This year I’ll probably go to bed early along with the rest of the people in the nursing home. I won’t get to watch the refulgent ball dazzle down from the sky in New York’s most popular theme park, Times Square.
I wish I could trade balls with those people. Let me watch everyone in front of me swoon as I pull out this giant sparkling sphere. And what would happen in Manhattan if they used bingo balls? The countdown to midnight would begin and after the crowd chanted “one,” then the sky would erupt with color. People would move like Tetris pieces, dodging the blizzard of red and blue and yellow—all the collisions and concussions these balls could cause. It would look like a giant game of bingo and all of Times Square would be inside the cage, trapped with no way to get out unless they are chosen at random.
Don’t Ride the Clutch
Jackie Hunter '08
With the motor idling my father told me to go slowly to the end of the driveway and it was at this point that I realized he must have been delusional about my ability to operate this truck. I pressed my foot on the gas and revved the engine so hard I was sure I would be drag racing down the driveway before I could do a thing about it, but the car didn’t budge. I smiled at him, and he told me to stop messing around and get my foot off the damn clutch if I felt like going anywhere but back inside.
Great. Experience with my perfect older brother had taught my father that most knowledge about the real world was innate in his children. Before he could catch on to my stupidity I removed my foot from the clutch, slammed on the gas pedal again, and sent the truck bucking back and forth and sputtering before hissing into silence.
My father took one look at me and got out of the car, walking to our front door without looking back, and I was strongly reminded of the first time he tried to teach me to play baseball after my brother died. I’d stepped out of the way of his slow pitch before dropping my bat and informing him that none of the other girls on the block had to play sports and I’d rather join them in the ranks of tutus and ballet slippers at Miss Antonia’s than have to run from another stupid baseball. Before then, I’d never known the back of a head could look so disappointed.
The Dodger’s Slant
Gillian Daniels '10
It is with the greatest unfairness that the world treats him, at least if one considers the world as he does. His world begins and ends with the waistcoats of respectable, fat gentlemen and the respectable, fat purses of respectable, fat gentlewomen, all that is eye level in the thick of the crowded streets. Pushed back and forth between them, he is not tall enough to break through, not by half, but he can dodge, and slip away like air.
No one has ever asked the Dodger what his real name is, not the old man and certainly not the little boy. The boy is not half so wise and clever, and hails from a little country workhouse though he speaks Queen’s English as perfectly as a prince.
The Dodger is careful, the Dodger is artful, and sometimes he wants to take the boy aside and tell him his parents are just as dead, if not more so. The Dodger never does this, not in any of the hundreds and hundreds of worlds into which he has been staged, filmed, or written. He is the Dodger, the shell of a boy who is not tall enough. When his part is done, with no home to go home to, he slips back into the thick of the crowd, eye level with the waistcoats and the purses as he wears his coat and hat, each two sizes too large.
Chalkey Horenstein '10
Still, spring was in the air, and that meant one thing: spring cleaning. Determined to move forward, she spent that morning filling a small waste basket by her desk with everything that reminded her of that boy.
Mock trial ribbons. Before the jerk had shown his true ways (or perhaps before he turned into the very thing she hated), he had always encouraged Wendy to pursue this as a hobby; she loved the attention, and she loved the ability to work with words. Knowing just how to interpret someone’s argument, knowing all the right questions to ask and the answers that inherently follow--those were all the artful little tricks that he taught her. Next to the stack of ribbons lay a few that she had earned after their separation.
A copy of Barking at Prozac, the one that he gave her. About a week ago, she heard that she won a writing contest that took place in January, with a story she wrote personifying dogs. She still remembered all of the times she dodged responding to comments like “Where ever did you come up with the idea to give dogs such human characteristics? Politics, haikus, a sense of ‘breedism,’ this is all marvelous! Excellent work!” Nobody else knew about the book; before now, she assumed such a thing was only funny to the two of them.
Suddenly, it became an uphill battle to try and forget three and a half years.
Wendy let out a sigh. At this point, it may be too late to forget this guy ever existed; regardless of how she wanted to see it, her history and development had forever been stamped with his existence. With time, she knew she could eliminate his face from memory, but his silhouette would never go away. As she emptied the trash bin back onto the floor and put everything back, she couldn’t tell whether she loved or hated this guy more than ever. But it was definitely one of the two.
The First Time Billy Killed Himself
DJ Francis '08
She had always been an artful patron of failure. She stood at the edge of a cliff at the end of the world with his cherry pit held lightly between thumb and forefinger. "It's your decision," she replied and then he did what he had to do, the only thing he knew how. He ate his omelet, returned to the apartment, and phoned his mother to ask if he could come to dinner. She asked how he would get there. "The bus," he said.
Holly Kyle '98
Some girls think it's cool to say they always played with boys when they were little, that somehow stories of how they defected from tea parties and My Little Pony and instead played CHiPs Patrol with the neighbor cul-de-sac boys would dilute the fact they now always think about dieting and the GAP and feel that their hair has to be down and so soft around their shoulders. Those hot, stuffy days meant combat drills and ultimate mountain biking and arguing until the spit came out whether Hulk Hogan could be taken down with a swift kick in the crotch. I knew he couldn't, but when I said so, Marty just kicked the dodgeball so hard toward my own crotch that it nailed me. At times like this--regardless of gender--you just fall to the asphalt and start to scream.
Melissa Myers '02
Katie Rybak '01