Little Inklings 2025

OPHELIA By Nicole Handler ’30 Pale green lily pads, like the pale green look of a corpse, empty of its soul. So many things to observe, to see, to be. Still. Be still. Be completely still so they don’t notice you. Still like the way her body floats atop of a still river, with still water, to cause a cold shiver. One day she’ll make bad decisions, but soon they’ll be past decisions. One day she’ll go for a swim and the next her odds of life will be slim The slight splash of the water is cold, It sends me memorabilia of the old. Ophelia can no longer hold all this weight on her shoulders, Weight so heavy it sinks into her skin like boulders. A shiver goes down my spine at the scent of the maiden’s blood in the air, She doesn’t care, she’s never cared. She can’t care after everything that has been done to her, Done to her soul, done so she can never feel full, ruined so immensely she needs damage control. Again the air is cold, and the smell of her corpse has become bold. The feeling of everything swirling around her, it surrounds her. The crisp darkened leaves touching the earthy, moist ground, The dark and light mixing together, unvoiced all around. The fuzzy moss scaling up the thorn- ridden vines, longing for something else to grasp. But does it really want to leave the comfort of her past ways, does she really want to live this life in her last days? Ophelia, he calls out. Ophelia, he says louder. Ophelia, he raises his voice. Ophelia? he questions. The silence is loud. Frogs bellowing low, allowing the squawking of a crow— Then it’s gone. No more silence with all this wailing. All this wailing from the maiden makes sure that no more sounds can fade in, Screams louder than you can imagine, louder than you can dream. A chill runs through the air, Oh how I am quite scared, But how I barely care, But she will never bear, Bear the pain that she cannot share, Ophelia. 72