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I Move Things With My Mind
My name is Matilda. And it’s a great conversation starter. Typically, I offer my name to a narrow slice of people: nurses, bank employees, TSA agents, etc. Those people who sit behind desks and require formal identification. “Name?” they ask in a monotone voice. But when I provide it––Matilda Peck––their eyes light up. They smile
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Sunset Year
Tomorrow, I begin my Senior Year of College. And I’m struggling to write about it. When friends and family are reminded of my upcoming Senior Year, they give one of two responses. The first, “That’s crazy!” is an explanation of disbelief. Time has flown, they say, as if my college career elapsed in a second––and
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I’m Not Happy, and That’s OK
I submitted the first chapter of my thesis on Monday. Which indicates, I think, the end of the beginning of senior year. I’m fully in it now. And I have a secret to share: I am not happy. This fall has not left me smiling or beaming with joy. In truth, I am largely suffering.
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On The Edges
The end of the semester is nearly upon us, and (as with most endings) things are narrowing down. Days have numbers; they are counted. I am pretending to count them, but only for appearances. In truth, I feel oddly detached from the near-reality of exams and break. Regardless of my aloofness, however, the end cannot
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Stolen Colors
During our January term, my best friend and I took a road trip through the Pacific Northwest and northern California. The trip was funded by Colby, and to secure this funding, Hayden and I proposed a “place-based writing project.” We would read stories about the places we were exploring and then write our own stories,
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Plate Tectonics
I have this nightmare in which I stand in the middle of an enormous continent, dry and barren, while cracks fissile out around me. Movement begins along these cracks, the land is carried away. All my people are carried away. I scream and scream. Who would ever want to be the last one standing? To
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How It Ended
Sometimes, I want to dissolve into the atmosphere. Not in a dying sense––more like a soft, restful sleep. This desire comes when everything begins to feel very, very heavy. My clothes, my bones, my eyes. They are impossible to lift. I become a jumble of immovable parts, curled up on the floor. Jagged and grotesque.
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Quiet Histories 