EmersonWRITES Anthology 2012-13

emerson

WRITES 2012–2013 an a nth ol og y

a collaboration between the First-Year Writing Program & the Enrollment Office at Emerson College

emerson WRITES

is a free creative writing program for students in Boston Public Schools, co-sponsored by the First-Year Writing Program and the Enrollment Office at Emerson College. emersonWRITES is guided by the principle that writing is essential to intellectual engagement, self-representation, and access to opportunity. In college-style courses held on Emerson’s campus, emersonWRITES students practice writing and critical thinking skills. They form a community of young writers whose individual voices respond to the world through the written word.

our FACULTY

are practicing writers and devoted teachers. Having come to Emerson College to pursue their Masters of Fine Arts in creative writing, they understand the impact writing can make within communities large and small. They bring the expertise of their own craft into the classroom, and have been trained in Emerson’s First-Year Writing Program to teach college writing.

our STUDENTS

represent a diverse range of high schools in Boston. Over the course of 12 Saturday sessions, they meet and collaborate with other writers they may not have otherwise known. This anthology showcases their hard work and their voices: their poems, their stories, their essays, and even a collaborative play. We invite you to enjoy their words and to experience each of their worlds.

Layout Editor & Cover Design: Abby Travis Layout Assistants: Sarah Ehrich & Kristina Kopic

Ta b l e o f

Contents

Courses F iction Sources of Inspiration

7

Mixed-Genre The Mad Science of Mashups

29

Nonfiction Introduction to Creative Nonf iction

43

Poetr y Reinventing the Ordinar y

53

Scriptwriting Save the Drama for Your...Script

71

Fiction Sources of Inspiration Aspiring writers face a number of challenges when it comes to creating stories out of thin air, but the students who participated in this class possessed one of the most important tools that all writers need: dedication.

With this in mind, we came together each Saturday morning to tackle one of the biggest questions writers often ponder: Exactly where can we find inspiration?

We began with our immediate surroundings, scanning the Boston Common for people, places, and events that would bring our stories to life. We tapped our memories and then looked to history, inspecting past decades for characters, key figures, and events to bring truth and depth to our own fiction. In the final weeks, we even explored the outer reaches of our imaginations. We wrote about everything from aliens and vampires to talking animals, and found the motivation to build worlds that belonged in subgenres like science fiction, magical realism, and fantasy. Whether it was the past, present, or future, the real or the imaginary, we were all bound together by our constant quest for a creative spark.

In addition to focusing on the initial inspiration for our stories, we looked at the works of great authors with a critical eye, scrutinizing the writing techniques at play and seeking to understand how to create masterpieces of our own. We also honed our writing skills by taking advantage of in-class writing exercises, engaging in workshops, and conducting in-depth revisions. We’ve all started longer works of fiction that we hope will continue to spur us to write for months and years to come.

Instructors Erica Schweitzer is a part-time faculty member in Emerson College’s First-Year Writing Program and a second-time emersonWRITES instructor. She completed her MFA in fiction at Emerson in 2012. While she dabbles in many types of writing, Erica always finds herself coming back to short and very short fiction and is currently working on a book-length collection of interlinking short stories.

Crystal Jarvis is a current creative writing student in Emerson College’s MFA program in creative writing. She is a native of Birmingham, Alabama and relocated to Boston to pursue her dream to write books. She loves playing with words and reading the works of writing legends. This was her first time teaching an emersonWRITES class.

2012–2013

7

Stephan Abs

Pope John XXIII High School, Grade 10

from The Revolutionary/The Man in Black To those who would never sacrif ice freedom for security.

Adam Morris woke up in a panic, hearing the acute sound of Elizabeth screaming. His first thought was that government officials were once again performing the “National Fundraising Campaign”—a euphemism for the days when federal agents would come in their huge black cars, abruptly enter people’s houses and arbitrarily confiscate (i.e. steal) for themselves items they deemed as possible threats for the nation’s sovereignty. “These bastards,” he thought, “won’t stop until I am broke and rotting in a goddamn prison.” But as he glanced through the window while rapidly getting up, Morris didn’t see any car parked across the street. Why would his wife be screaming, then? When Morris carefully walked down the stairs, trying to be as silent as possible, he finally caught sight of Elizabeth. She was sitting on the couch, not even blinking, staring at the TV screen in a mix of horror and amazement, like an Indian cobra hypnotized by the charming melody of a flute. It was not until Morris saw the screen that he could understand Elizabeth’s reaction.

The man in black panted while he slowly took a small red device from the right pocket of his shirt. That was the moment of the truth, the apex of his life. All his work from the last 20 years depended on that. If there was any mistake, any delay, or any imperfection in his actions, his whole plan would be ruined. He didn’t hesitate. The man in black pressed a small button on the back of the device. As he ran ahead toward the back entrance of the huge mansion, many different cameras recorded him. No guards came. He broke into the door using a relatively silent explosive. No guards yet. The device had worked: the security system of the White House was off. The sneaky intruder was now facing a room full of clothes, mirrors, wardrobes, chairs, and a bed. But more important than that, the president was there.

After a brief moment of shock, the president’s face quickly turned to comprehension, like a terminal patient in his last seconds, knowing that death lies ahead.

“Why?” he asked.

“For justice,” the man in black answered.

“Justice? Do you think that is fair? After everything I have done for my people?”

“I know your secrets, President. The innocent lives you destroyed. The 8

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corruption you accepted for power. Or, worse than that, your brainwashing pills that destroyed men’s souls.”

“I had no choice,” the President said. “October 17th, 2030. Taiwan’s leader was assassinated. The U.S. President at the time blamed China, while China said it was an American conspiracy. India, Russia, Brazil, Israel and most European countries supported us, while North Korea and Russia helped China. A nuclear war was imminent. With the nuclear power and technology of all these nations, the human race would be wiped off the Earth if that war really occurred.”

“And your cowardly solution was interfering in people’s brain? Turning everyone into puppets, ready to passively accept your crimes? Is that your moral choice, Mr. President?”

“When our scientists found out new technologies to alter the brain chemistry, we soon concluded that was our only choice to…”

“That was the only thing you tried!” the man in black shouted. “What you apparently fail to realize, Mr. President, is that you killed most of the world population with that thing! Freedom is what distinguishes us from animals. Free will is what nourishes our souls, what brings our morality and ethics into existence. When you gave your brainwashing pills to the world, forcing them to blindly accept your orders, you turned them into robots, into non-living emotionless objects.”

The President was crying. “People have freedom now, I no longer control them. They are free to do whatever they want with their lives.”

“Living in cities where there is one soldier every 10 meters? Cities where your agents are free to rob, arrest, or kill them without any excuse?”

“You are not better than me. If you kill me, chaos will return to the world.”

“Justice and fairness have always prevailed in human history. All dictatorships were ended by a Revolution. All obstacles were overcome by our imagination and inspiration. Although there isn’t any guarantee it will work, I will still try. I have faith in the human spirit. And you don’t belong to this new world.”

The President was on his knees, begging for his life. His face was obfuscated by the dark, but his expression of fearfulness was obvious.

Adam Morris read the words on the TV screen. The President was shot last night, and died before anyone could help him. Shocked by the astonishing announcement, Adam Morris was completely aware of the revolution that started on the second when the TV channel announced the tragedy.

Glancing over his shoulder, he observed his wife, usually stolid and impassive, but now totally immersed by the magnitude of the revelation.

He looked at her and finally found what he had believed to be lost forever: hope. And that was the beginning of a Revolution.

2012–2013

9

Antonio Banrey

As I recall, it was on a very lazy Sunday that the true story began. The autumn air moved sluggishly on that morning. I sat with my ears flopping downwards underneath my hat with a bright blue feather. My back was against the large tree, covered in bright, red leaves. This tree was my favorite. Not because of the color, no. I was partial to the color blue, but if you find blue trees, it is advised that you check what’s gotten into the water supply. I loved this tree because it was unique, a bright red during every season as all the other trees change. I guess I felt that it was like me, only reversed. All of its differences are on the outside, while mine are on the inside. Unlike many others that do as they are told or never do anything, I did what I wanted and moved myself to the northeastern frontier of the Kingdom.

The slow-moving air picked up speed and brought with it three lone, yellow leaves. Life as a rabbit was tough. Something told me to check the mail. I was expecting a newsletter from Rebitta News Monthly. It would be the fall edition and I was elated to see what happened in my nation. How they found me on the northern frontier of Rebitta from the Empire’s Castle in the mountains to the far west was far beyond me.

I walked through the fresh, open field to my home on the westward side of a large rock. Taking out my keys, I walked up the cobblestone path to my wooden deck. The wooden portion of the house jutted out from the hollowed rock, a personal design I put together myself. Right beside the door was my small mailbox. I opened it and found a large bundle of letters.

“Junkmail. Junkmail. Junkmail,” I muttered to myself as I sifted through the letters and let myself into the house. “Chain-Letter, solicitation from Hare’s Hair Helper. All perfect fuel for the forge.”

The house was open on the inside. The walls all paneled and painted.

Upon entering, there was my hanging rack before the archway that opened up into the rest of the house. After the archway was the living room, with my couch and two armchairs in front of the grand fireplace. The walls were covered in art I purchased from the painters and printers when I first came east. To the left was the beginning of the stairway which led down to my bedroom. To the right was the entryway to the kitchen. The kitchen was not as grand as the living room; a few counters and cabinets with a

large pot resting above the cooking fire. The kitchen led to my forge and smithing room, which in itself led back to the living room. The forge was detailed with the images of ancient battles. Tales of The Valley and battles to the north and south. In the center of it was the crest of the Redfur family. It was a true work of art.

After setting the fireplace in my living room, I put the pile of useless letters on the anvil and walked toward my kitchen. Before walking in, I hung my belt, sword, pistol and all, on the rack to the side of the door. I took off my old, homemade boots and hung my hat. I walked up to the cooking fire and heated up the leftover soup from last night. I grabbed a bowl and sat in the main room in front of the crackling fire. I glanced into the other room at the anvil. Among the useless pieces of paper, I noticed a single golden letter. I tried to push the thought aside and focus on my bowl of soup. It was almost empty. I walked back into the kitchen to fetch some more, the pot was empty. I tried to keep myself occupied with cleaning. The only thing out of place was the bowl and pot. After putting those away, I cleaned and polished my sword and pistol meticulously. That took up a considerable amount of time, I thought. Feeling accomplished, I looked out the window. The sun stayed where it was when I walked in, refusing to budge, almost mocking me. I sat back on the couch, defeated.

After a moment, I looked up at the painting hanging above the fireplace.

It was an old family heirloom my mother gave me before I left.

It depicted the final scene of the Rebittan battle that won the citizens the mountains and united the Kingdom. In the center of the portrait stood a rabbit in dark, silvery armor, crafted of meteorite, lifting his shining blade to the heavens. To his left stood a lizard garbed completely in black: black cloak, black gloves, and black scales. He was black as night, with two ice blue eyes, that while mesmerizing, were as cold as the caps of the mountains. To his right stood a rabbit with reddish fur and fine brown boots. That rabbit was Adam, one of my ancestors. He was the last person in my family to do something great, something of note. Sure there were those who came after who resolved conflicts; those who passed laws that ended hate; and those who kept peace with the reptilian and amphibian empire of Repthibia. However, none of them truly had an adventure. As my father had constantly reminded me in my childhood: “William, there is no need to worry about the way of the sword, or engineering. All you need is a grasp of the Rebitan language and history.

Great men are not always those who die foolishly in battle.”

When he uttered these words, I would nod and agree, but inside I knew that he was a coward, the true fool. To counter his advice, I had a saying of my own, something I would always say to the Earl of Stafford, the public leader of the Eastern Front’s largest city. He was the only one in the city to help me with my goal. I would tell him:

emersonWRITES

2012–2013

John D. O’Bryant High School, Grade 11

from A Rabbit’s War Autumn

10

11

“Words and politics can get you far, but a sword in hand will get you much farther.”

Whenever he would try to point out a flaw in my saying, I would pull from my knowledge of history, always bringing up Adam. Adam the Brave, Adam the Healer. Adam, He Who Healed this Kingdom’s Deepest Wounds. His name is called in the songs of our past and listed among the greatest in the halls of the Palace of Leo. That was what I longed for.

A chance to prove my worth, and bring the Redfur name to its former glory, and that meant moving out of a city bogged down with politics and to the frontier. The danger, the struggle, the freedom, and all. I was twenty seasons old, I spent eight out on the frontier, I could make my own decisions. I had not seen my family in those eight seasons, and at the time, could have cared less if I saw them again.

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Jeremiah Brito

Urban Science Academy, Grade 10

from Insanity The horrible cry and ear-bursting shriek of a baby echoed through a long hallway of the house.

“Take care of the baby Ralph!” yelled Karen, a 34-year-old mother.

“Don’t tell me what to do you old bat!” yelled Ralph, the father who was sitting on the couch in the living room, with his greasy oil-stained shirt and a bucket of fried chicken sitting on his lap.

“Get your lazy ass up and help Jake, god damn it!” yelled Karen in the shower, now yelling at the top of her lungs.

“Fine!” he said, putting the bucket of fried chicken to the side and whispering “stupid woman” to himself. Ralph is a 39-year-old man, who doesn’t work, stays home all day watching sports or sleeping, while Karen goes out to work. Karen may not seem like the greatest mother in the world but she cares for her son enough to take him everywhere she goes.

Karen works as a secretary at a business called New York Sanctuary. She comes home every day at 12:30 a.m. and leaves the house again at 2 p.m.

She is a light Caucasian woman, with red-orangish hair, weighs about 176 pounds, 5’2”, with a tattoo on her back, nose piercing, and a scar on her face that crosses her eyes.

Ralph on the other hand was a tall, 5’9” half Caucasian, half black man, who was 278 pounds, always wearing a white greasy t-shirt and blue jeans.

He had a small beard, almost bald, and warts on his fingers with a scar on his arm from when he was younger. Ralph walked up to Jake, a 2-year-old baby, who was crying. Ralph and Karen had a great relationship when they were in their early 20’s, when Ralph was not selfish or stubborn or strict.

He was just a simple man working as an assistant for a journalist. Ralph was skinny, tall, kind-spirited, and active then. After a few years, Ralph became a journalist, a professional one too, until the day his girlfriend, Karen, told him she was pregnant.

Ralph didn’t like Jake at all, he saw Jake as an annoying little brat who always expected to get something from him or his mother. Karen and Ralph’s relationship grew apart more. Ralph felt jealous, he stayed up nights because of the cries of the baby, and he overslept many times and eventually was fired from his job as a journalist. He stopped exercising and gained more weight. Everyone he knew wanted him to get back in shape again, to be kind again, to get a job, but all he did was push them away. He was now a mean, strict, selfish, and stubborn person. There was only one person who stood up for him and it was Karen, though Karen

2012–2013

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didn’t like the way Ralph treated Jake. He always pushed Jake or ignored him and always complained about why he hasn’t talked yet. Ralph blamed every single bad thing that happened to him on Jake; Jake was his enemy and one day he just snapped.

“Stupid baby, messing up my fried-chicken-eating time and ruining the football game,” said Ralph, grabbing Jake by his foot over his crib.

Ralph walked to the kitchen and sat Jake in the sink with dirty dishes stacked next to him. “You want to ruin my moment? Huh? You stupid kid!

Huh?” Jake started crying even more, enough for the neighbors downstairs to hear him.

“Ralph, I thought I told you—” “I’m working on it!” Ralph yelled, interrupting Karen. Jake suddenly stopped crying and looked blankly at his father. “Listen to me kid,” Ralph whispered, locking eyes to eyes with him, pointing his finger into Jake’s face, “I don’t know who you think you are, but you’re in my house now, and you will play by my rules, understand me?” Jake burped in his face, making a quick chuckle as Ralph quickly backed up in disgust. “You were a mistake to begin with,” Ralph said. Ralph looked next to the faucet of the sink and saw the sprayer. “So your mother told me, you’re very sensitive to water,” he said smiling. He grabbed the spray and turned the water on from the knobs next to the faucet and pressed the button. “Well here you go,” he whispered, turning up the spray to high. The pressure of the water being sprayed in Jake’s face smashed him against the faucet, hitting his head, and he started crying again.

“Do you feel it? Do you feel it now, Jake! This is what you cause for the family!”

Jake was trying to push the water away or tried moving his face in a position where he could get air, but nothing worked, Ralph just kept spraying the water. Karen walked outside of the bathroom, with her towel wrapped around her body and had another towel in her hands drying her hair. She took a glimpse at Ralph and walked into her room. Then she quickly realized what Ralph was doing. She ran to the kitchen, with tears coming down her face.

“Ralph! Stop it! Stop it right now!” she yelled trying to push the spray away from Jake’s face. “Get out of here you dumb woman! He needs a wash up!” Ralph said as he pushed her out of the way. She tripped and fell into a glass table they had set in the dining room. The glass shattered and she looked like she was unconscious. “Haha, dumb broad,” Ralph said as he moved the spray closer and closer to Jake’s face. Karen started moving back and forth slowly. All she heard was Jake’s screams for help, echoing through her brain. She wanted to help but all she saw a blur before she grabbed a large piece of glass that was lying right beside her and looked directly at the tall fat figure of Ralph. Ralph looked at her and saw nothing but the

large piece of glass heading to his face. She then fainted, unconscious, with the worry; there was nothing she could do but to hope to wake back up.

Sirens were heard two blocks away from the house. Calls from neighbors blew the police department’s phones up. Neighbors looked out their windows, seeing the police rush into the house. “Oh good lord,” one of the officers said placing his hand on his nose, covering up the smell of pure decay and blood, making a face only the word disgust can describe.

The ambulance then arrived, picking up the father’s body and mother’s body and put them on top of two gurneys. They found Jake sitting in the sink alone crying, his face ridiculously red.

“Poor child,” the officer said as he carried Jake out of the apartment.

“Send this poor baby to be examined quickly,” the officer said to the paramedic.

“Yes sir,” the paramedic said. Jake sat in the paramedic’s arms with his thumb in his mouth. He stayed quiet, blankly staring at his parents, as they lay unconscious on a gurney. Then he said his first word, the first word he said since he had ever been born, as he reached his hand out to the direction of her laying on the gurney.

“Mommy.”

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2012–2013

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15

Autumn Graham

Cathedral High School, Grade 8

Ashleigh LaRose

Auburn Senior High School, Grade 12

from Not the Average Child

Notes on Trauma

I’m not the average child, I see things differently than others. Many people think it’s weird the way my mind works, but I think weird is the new cool. I can’t describe myself in words, and I really don’t know myself that well. All I know is that I’m too much of a tomboy. I wear clothes that bring a small amount of attention to myself, but express me. My mom doesn’t get it, but I don’t like wearing dresses, and more importantly I don’t like wearing bows in my hair. When I was little, I didn’t like ballet. All you saw were little girls in tutus and tiaras saying, “Mom I want to be a princess when I grow up.” That made me sick; just hearing the word “princess” made me want to vomit. On the other hand, my mom loved when girls were like that. She loved when girls wanted to be “girls.” I always thought different than others. Some people would look at people that are double jointed, and consider them aliens for being born that way. Although, I thought very differently. Sure it’s a little nasty the way they do things, but it was cool that they were able to do it.

“Lisa, hurry up. It’s your first day of school, you can’t be late.” It was my first day of second grade and I didn’t like being the new kid. You have to make friends all over again, and I hated that. Why should I have to make friends all over again knowing that kids are going to tease me? I get off the school bus and head inside of the McCormick Elementary School.

Soon as I get in class, Ms. Brown is there. She is a skinny, strict old woman who loves bothering kids. Truth be told, she’s totally uneducated in every subject. First thing we have to do is a math worksheet. You know, regular subtraction. This kid walks into class late. Ms. Brown yells “WHY ARE YOU LATE?” “I’m sorry Ms. Brown, but my mom was having trouble driving.” The kid responds.

“Well next time she should remember how to drive a car.”

The boy then sits in the seat next to me.

“Hi,” I said to him. “My name is Lisa, yours?”

“My name is Thomas, but people call me Tommy.”

“Well nice to meet you.”

It was 12:00 p.m. and the school buses didn’t come. I was starting to think we shouldn’t be leaving this early on a school day. Then, I began to talk to Thomas. Across the street from the school was practically a forest.

We decided since the busses aren’t coming we should do something fun.

Besides it was broad daylight, and its not like a criminal is going to come and kill us. emersonWRITES 16

1. You used to tell me that my sadness came in shades of blue, but you were never able to pinpoint the exact shade. On good days I was Tiffany Blue, you would tell me. On bad days I was Teal. Still I tried so hard to be something more for you, a shade of pink or purple, anything. The closest I ever got was Indigo and you didn’t even notice.

2. I walked by your house last week at two in the morning, while you were out. I thought about hammering and sawing off your door knobs. I know that sounds crazy but my body is a home that I can no longer live in and I need you to understand what that feel like for one second.

3. On the night I begged you to rub up against me and whisper words into my hair, I wanted you to tell me that we were something bigger, something brighter, something less mundane. Instead, all I got was: We’re not, we’re just the same.

4. I used to wear the string of bruises you left around my eyes and on my wrists like jewelry because we couldn’t afford diamonds. Out of every shade of blue left on my body, not one of them matched the sound of your voice when you would tell me: I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.

5. I don’t know why I call you after months of not calling you, other than to tell you that you ruined my life and that I haven’t been the same since you left. Maybe I think that you should know how to fix it, but when I realize you can’t, I fall down drinking and sobbing and dialing your number, ready to tell you that I’m ready to be something other than Teal.

6. I’ve gotten so well acquainted with the tiles on my bathroom floor that I have named them all individually, even the cracked one. I pay special attention to the cracked one because I feel like she needs it.

7. I had thought about painting my walls Tiffany Blue to remind me of my good days, instead I painted them orange. Maybe I’m making

2012–2013

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something out of nothing, but I think that’s a step in the right direction.

8. I wanted you to tell me that what we had was love and love was worth the fight, that I was worth the fight. But the only thing I was left was: Being with you is just a habit, and like any habit, it turns into something that’s hard to get rid of.

9. There’s a comfort in knowing that blood can turn from blue to red with the help of a little bit of oxygen, it reminds me to keep breathing, it reminds me that there’s a chance.

Jasmin Reyes

Cambridge Rindge and Latin School, Grade 12

an excerpt Liana opened the door to her new apartment holding her baby. Liana put her keys down on the table that was right by the door.

“Hey Lai—” yelled Leroy from the hallway.

“Geez, don’t—don’t scare me like that Leroy... making me think that...” Liana stopped. She wanted to say that she thought it was someone from back in Boston. The past that she wished she could erase from her mind. If they ever found out where she was, she would fight for her baby.

Gia was not going to be raised by those people, even though some were her own blood.

“Honestly baby, don’t worry. We’re on our own now and no one knows us. We’re going to start new and forget things ever happened,” said Leroy, grabbing her and kissing her on the cheek. Liana felt so safe with Leroy.

Even though they were both in danger, at least they had each other.

That same night there was a knock on the door, Leroy had already put baby girl Gia to sleep and Liana had fallen asleep as well. He walked towards the door but then stopped. He could not help but think about the possibilities it can be that was knocking on the door. He tiptoed over to the door and peeped through the peephole. Pitch black dark long hair, about 5’5” and holding a cigarette between her fingers… it was Scarlet.

Leroy unlocked the door and opened it half way.

“Scar what are you doing here! Can’t you just leave us alone...” whispered Leroy.

“Well hello to you too bro. I swear each time you see me your hostility level goes way up. Gunna let me in or what?”

“What do you want? Liana and Gia both are sleeping. I don’t need yo—” “Okay I’m sorry to disturb you guys, but I have news that will affect all three of you.”

Leroy opened the door the whole way and let her in. Scarlet was the type of woman to make a whole room look at her all at once. Her hair was the most natural black hair, her smile was perfect, showed her beautiful straight teeth. She sat on one of the few folding chairs that surrounded a gray round table.

“I see you haven’t had any time to decorate huh” “Well we’ve—”

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“Okay, whatever, let me get right to the point. You know Ty has been having problems ever since you two left. They are willing to do anything to find you guys, of course I won’t say anything BUT I thought you should know, as well as that girlfriend of yours.”

“Liana… Scarlet. It’s Liana. Look, Ty will never find out where we are, I plan on starting new here in Seattle AND he most definitely will not find out from YOU. Because if I find out that you opened up your mouth I will make sure you come down with me.”

Leroy had gotten closer to Scarlet almost whispering in her ear. Scarlet looked towards the door of the room. Liana was standing there glaring right at Scarlet wrapped around her red blanket. Leroy turned around and walked straight to Liana. But she would not keep her eyes off Scarlet who had a smirk on her face.

“What are you doing here?” said Liana in a low, cold voice.

“I was just leaving, seeing as you guys don’t know how to treat a guest.

Leroy, make sure you’re prepared because your past is coming to get you and is not going to leave without a fight.”

Scarlet let the cigarette fall as she got up from the chair. As her heels clicked against the hardwood floor she opened the door, looked back one more time at Liana and Leroy and closed the door. There was silence for a few minutes, neither of them wanted to talk. Neither of them knew where to start.

“Ty wants us back. I doubt Scarlet is going to say anything she just likes to front,” said Leroy quietly.

“I guess for Ty we are too good to lose... we got the job done quietly.

We were really the best for the job until Gia came along and now I can never imagine doing anything like that ever again. Or growing her up in that kind of environment.”

“I know those were the days where we were influenced by the worst.

We thought we knew what we were doing, but it was nothing like that.”

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Jorge Reyes

Pioneer Charter School of Science, Grade 11

from Year MMXLIV To Ms. O’Neil, my 10th grade creative writing teacher.

Bang! Bang! Shots were being fired and Andres needed to find cover quick. The cops were closing in on him. He noticed that there was an alley to his left. Making the turn he became aware that the alley was a dead end. The lights of the cruisers began to come down the alley and he needed to find a way out of his situation. Andres took a breath and took in his surroundings. To his right were apartments, fenced in. He couldn’t take the risk of having the locals turn him in. To his left there was another fence, and behind that was a lake. Andres had to make his choice now.

Kicking his heels, he ran to his left and hopped the fence with the police behind in pursuit. Once at the lake, he jumped in. He began to swim down to the bottom of the lake, and up above the police where shooting their guns at him. Andres knew that if he surfaced, he would be killed on the spot, so he chose to stay down and just drown. His lungs began to burn as he held in his breath for as long as he could. He felt the urge to surface, but before he even began to surface, he gulped in water and blacked out…

Err! Smash! Andres woke up with a jolt. This was the third car crash this week that happened outside of the orphanage. He was beading sweat.

The nightmare felt so real. He couldn’t take it anymore. It was the fifth nightmare since he turned sixteen five days ago, and they had been getting worse each day. He ignored the dream like he has with the others, and sat in his bed, taking in the scenery. The room was a mess. His clothes were everywhere and he had water bottles all over the floor. His window was letting in the sun from the east. The sunlight, radiating with heat, made the room hotter with each second. He always wondered why the orphanage didn’t give him an air conditioner, but he didn’t care because he hated the orphanage owners. Andres couldn’t take it anymore and walked to the bathroom to get ready for school.

Looking into the mirror after his cold shower, Andres took a good look at himself for the first time since he turned sixteen. He was trying to make sure that nothing weird was happening because that’s all that happens around his school, weird things happening to weird people. Some girl, after turning sixteen, got taller and had sharper teeth. She always had sunglasses to cover her eyes. No one knew why, and no one really cared because it was a normal thing to happen with the girls that were “popular.” Andres had the same color eyes he had before, one as blue as

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the ocean, and the other as green as the forest. He still looked emaciated, and was still about 5’6”. His hair was as dark as a cave, and his skin was still a light shade of brown. He was still the normal kid that was around the orphanage for thirteen miserable years of his life.

After leaving the bathroom and getting his uniform on for school, Andres took an orange from the fridge and walked to the door. He stopped for at least a minute to touch his pendant around his neck. The pendant was made of gold that can only be found from the bottom of the ocean, and it was also in the shape of a wave. It was the last memory he had of his mother. He knew that he couldn’t dwell in the past, but he also knew letting go of the past wasn’t a choice either. Andres opened the door and walked into the hallway. He felt that someone was watching him as he walked out, but he ignored it and started walking down the hall. Out of nowhere, Andres was tackled to the ground and pinned down. He was ready to beat the day lights out of the person who just attacked him, but he noticed that it was only his best friend, Luna. They both laughed and walked out of the dorm together.

“Why do you make me wait so long, Andres? You know it gets really hot in that hallway right?”

Andres rolled his eyes, “Why do you have to tackle me when you have to wait? You can just come in my room, no one else lives there but me.”

Luna pouted and began to pick up her pace. Andres always liked Luna more than a friend, but he never came around to tell her how he actually felt. She was everything he looked for in a girl. She was smart, charming, and was always herself. Luna never acted the way others wanted her to.

Andres always questioned to himself why she never had a boyfriend with all the guys hounding her, but he didn’t worry much because she always turned them down.

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emersonWRITES

Ajea Stupart

Concord Carlisle Regional High School, Grade 12

from Teardrops on Saturday “David, I can’t do this anymore. I want a divorce,” Johanna said before grabbing another tissue off of the kitchen counter.

“Honey, I am sorry. How many times do I have to keep telling you that?” David replied, down on his knees begging forgiveness. On bended knee, David attempted to wrap his hand in hers, but she removed herself from the kitchen and walked over towards the window. Leaning over the windowsill, she stared out into the backyard, watching her daughter Emma push her cousin, Maddie, back and forth down the slide. Johanna began thinking about how blessed she was to be able to have a child when the doctor told her that she wasn’t able to have any. When Dave and Johanna first met, he was near forty years old, while she was about two years older than him. They both knew the consequences of trying to have kids so late in life, but deep down inside, having a family of their own meant the world to them. Pregnancy test after pregnancy test, negative after negative, and still no baby. Often when this occurred, Johanna found herself doubting her capabilities of being a mother. But just as fate would have it, when Dave and Johanna eventually stopped trying, it was the same day that she ended up being pregnant. Nine months later, Emma Rose Clark came into the world. As a six-pounder, Emma was healthy, and developed just fine, like any other baby.

But that was then and this is now, and Johanna and David are on the brink of getting a divorce. Growing up, Johanna never really believed in the idea of “divorce”—probably because she’s always seen her parents happily married—until her dad passed away, and her mom became a widow. The idea of getting a divorce weighed heavy, racing back and forth on her mind. What am I going to tell Emma? Johanna often thought over and over again. Still pacing back and forth by the windowsill, and keeping an eye out back, Johanna can’t stop staring at a family portrait in its frame.

In the photo, Johanna was only three months along, but hardly showed it. David was behind her caressing her outgrown stomach gently, making sure not to disturb the baby. Over and over, Johanna stares at the photo as tears fall from her eyes and land onto David. How could you? Johanna rethought to herself.

“So Johanna, where do we go from here?” Dave asks in a manner as if he didn’t know that he was the reason for all these problems to begin with.

Seconds later, Dave sat, waiting to hear Johanna’s response to his question.

Honestly Dave, I really don’t know. The f irst time you cheated on me, you

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said that it was a mistake and that you’ll never do it again. You lied. Johanna looked at Dave, and then turned to monitor the girls in the backyard.

“I know. I know what I said. It was wrong, and I admitted that. Now how do we move forward?”

A part of Johanna wanted to just move forward from the situation, but time and time again as she tried to do this, she found herself back at the moment where she saw a receipt in David’s pants pocket. The receipt was from the Mandarin Orange Hotel, a new hotel that just opened up, that attracts a lot of couples and single people. A few days after the couple and Emma had moved into their Brownstone, while Johanna was transferring David’s laundry from the washer to the dryer, the receipt fell out of his pocket, landing on the carpet floor. The bottom of the receipt had a lipstick stain on it, and the words “had an awesome time, can’t wait to do it again.” Because David wasn’t home when she found the receipt, she tucked the note into her sweater pocket, and continued with the other loads of laundry. But the thought of the receipt and her having to confront David lingered.

“Emma and Maddie, it’s time to come inside now.” Johanna peered out and yelled. Seconds later, two little girls with ruffled down socks, and mud stains, came shining through the door.

“Emma, take Maddie upstairs to play. I’ll be up there in a minute for your bath,” Johanna instructed, and Emma immediately followed.

Although Emma is quite young for her age, she was really observant.

“Why are you crying Momma?” Emma asked before heading up the stairs.

“Oh nothing honey, I promise.”

“Da-da, what’s wrong with Momma?” Emma asked sadly, hopping back down the steps.

“I’m not sure darling,” Dave replied, even though he lied.

said in between her sniffling and crying.

“Trust me, I understand. I will try and prove myself,” David replied, still comforting her. “I love you Johanna” and “Obviously you don’t love me right now, but I just needed to tell you that.” Moments later, Johanna set herself free from David’s embrace, and walked over to the coffee pot.

Before she left, David pulled her back, and gave her a kiss. Although they weren’t completely back together again, Johanna was at peace for the sake of Emma. She then grabbed her coffee because whenever she was having a hard day, her best friend “coffee” always soothed her pain. David followed right behind her, slurping what was left of his coffee.

“Use a coaster,” Johanna told David because she was quite anal about keeping a super clean house.

“It’ll be okay Johanna. I’m almost done,” Dave shot back.

“If you say so,” Johanna replied before heading back upstairs, leaving David in the kitchen by himself.

“It’ll be okay Johanna. I’m almost done” was the last thing Johanna remembers David saying. Now only a few months after his unexpected death, Johanna misses him more than ever. She lies on her side of their shared bed, face glued to her pillow. She’s numb. Her pale hands stretch wide, as she reaches to touch David’s side of the bed; it’s cold, making her body shiver.

Moments later, the girls headed upstairs, leaving Johanna and Dave in the kitchen still.

“I truly hate the person that you’ve become, Dave. It’s like you do things and never stop to think about how it affects Emma or me,” Johanna reluctantly grew to say. Tears flew down her face uncontrollably like a waterfall. They wouldn’t stop. She tried pushing them away, but the more she did that, the more tears flew.

“I see what you’re saying, Johanna. I will do whatever it takes to make things right,” David finally contested to saying because he knew he was wrong. David walked over to Johanna, and embraced her. David knew what he did was wrong, and Johanna was content with that. She didn’t know where they were going to go from here, but that didn’t matter.

“It’s going to take a while for me to love and trust you again,” Johanna 24

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Jasmine R. Taylor Homeschool, Grade 12

Anna Xie

John D. O’Bryant School, Grade 12

from 1498

from Lakewater Hair

To the ancient Arawak people who used to populate Haiti.

August, 2012

I gently wrung the ocean water from my straight black hair, then reached down and did the same to my short cotton skirt.

From my place on the rock jetty I could see everything. Scanning across the ocean in any direction, I could see groups of ten men in dugout canoes that glided like cormorants over the calm waves. In one of the canoes were my strong chinned papa and my handsome big brother with eight other men.

I shielded my eyes from the sunrays that glistened off the sweat and saltwater on their backs as they dragged a large cotton fishing net from the water. It must have been difficult because once they got the net halfway up, I could see it had snared a fat, horizon-colored fish half as long as the canoe. As soon as the men heaved, the creature began thrashing violently.

It repeatedly slammed its huge body against the canoe floor. The canoe lurched from side to side with each toss and turn of the fish. The men stood up awkwardly and stumbled into each other. I heard an oar snap in half in the ruckus and threw my hands over my mouth. It was going to flip over!

And then, at once, papa, brother and the other men tackled the fish.

They held it down with all their weight and smashed their fists against its head until—finally—it fell limp. When it was over, the men stood and cheered. They cheered for my big brother. It was his first hunt, and he had faced it with bravery.

That victory seemed to fill the men with an exhilarating sense of excitement and power. I watched them, mesmerized. I wondered. What does it feel like to take down a powerful creature?

At that moment I heard a little splash. I turned around to a small, seaweed filled tide pool in the jetty—a little brown crab was floating inside. A seabird must have dropped it here, hoping to crack the crab’s shell open. However, it was alive and skittering back to the water. Before it could reach the end of the jetty, I clasped my fingers around its body. I pretended the crab was as heavy as that fish, and it took all my strength to lift it. I imagined its tiny swinging legs were gigantic things that could impale me if I was not careful. And without the slightest hint of fear, I took that monstrous crab in both hands and tore his top half from his bottom. I pretended all the men in all the canoes cheered for me. I bit into the juicy flesh of my first hunt. And I felt excited and powerful.

On nights like these, Tanya consumes my thoughts. She builds little fires in the folds of my mind and stays there for a while, scaling my memories like some water nymph, her voice barely a whisper. I am tossing and turning in the same room we used to sleep in all those summers ago, unable to subdue my flighty, disconnected head. The moonlight is bleeding slivers of its heart into the wooden floorboards near the space where Tanya’s bed used to be. The emptiness and the bare nakedness of the desolate sight unnerves me, for it is a constant reminder of the inevitability of expiration dates, swan songs dedicated to our fragile, mortal hearts. I am unsure of how to react to the moon and the constant chaos of my head. Tanya would have loved everything about tonight if she were still here: the late August stars reciting poetry into the air, the lucid movements of trees singing vast, woodland ballads, the tinny chirping of inconsistent crickets dwelling in the shrubs. I swear this orchestra is all for her. When I close my sleepy eyelids, I see fragments of autumn foliage hair and malachite irises and a laughing mouth and constellation freckles—Tanya was so beautiful, in life, and in death. Suddenly I think of our sixteenth summer, the last summer where she was a breathing girl with a beating heart with rubies coursing through her veins, the last summer where she carved tiny countries on the insides of her arms with the pointed objects I tried so hard to hide underneath the bathroom sink, the last summer where she was found floating face down in Ryder’s lake, limbs outstretched like a welcome. I think of our sixteenth summer, shrouded with mystique and the feeling of something terribly tragic lingering in the shadows and over our sunkissed heads. I did not know until it was too late. I think of our sixteenth summer, the summer of the mermaids.

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M i x eofdMashups -Genre The Mad Science In this mixed-genre course, we worked to empower and celebrate our unique voices and identities. As inspiration, we drew on art, mythology, music, school experiences, big questions, small details, our memories, passions, and fantasies. We also juggled the different roles writers play: observers, eavesdroppers, philosophers, inventors, artists, messengers, entertainers, and storytellers. In working to find new ways to express our thoughts through language, we look to the many genres available to creative writers and experimented with these forms to make ourselves better understood.

We learned a lot about each other in our discussions, and found that, despite widely-varying interests and backgrounds, we all share common questions about life and concerns about the way people treat each other.

When we considered the world’s problems, we often returned to the idea that communication is crucial to understanding one another and to reducing conflict. By honestly expressing our thoughts and encouraging each other, we built a supporting camaraderie within the group and focused on the positive roles writers can play in shaping society.

In these pages, you will encounter excerpts from our literary mashups: brave personal essays, imagist poetry, original treatments of ancient stories, and tours of our lives: the places we live and the things we care about. Each piece offers a glimpse of a creative, mashup mind at work.

Instructors Martin Hansen, a first-time emersonWRITES instructor, is also a Calderwood Fellow at Snowden International High School’s writing center and an MFA candidate in nonfiction at Emerson. He also works in the Communication Department at UMass Boston. His background in rhetoric study and interest in cross-cultural encounters and multilingual communication inform his teaching and writing. Much of his recent writing celebrates his experiences in an intercultural marriage.

Abby Travis is a part-time faculty member in Emerson College’s First-Year Writing Program and has been on the faculty of emersonWRITES for three years.

She also works as an editorial assistant at Ploughshares literary magazine and is a curator of the Breakwater Reading Series, Boston’s inter-MFA program showcase.

An MFA candidate in nonfiction at Emerson, Abby is at work on a project about the cultural, historical, ethical, and philosophical connections between competitive sport-horse training and the pathology of miscommunication.

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Nathan Baranski

Boston Latin School, Grade 9

Boston Kids What do we consider living? At this point I have spent more than half of my life living in Brookline. My parents own a house in Boston. I sleep there, but for the most part I live in Brookline. I went to school in Brookline.

Everyday I spent 7 of my 12-ish waking hours in Brookline exploring my childish innocence. All that changed when I switched schools, to Boston Latin, in the seventh grade.

Park School was so protecting, and everything was easier. I didn’t need to worry about crime, racial slurs, the way I dressed, and how many girls liked me. The first day I went to Boston Latin I was called gay and a pussy—playful or not, those words had hard hitting connotations with me.

I changed everything about myself to achieve the preconceived image of a Boston kid.

Boston kid n. noun \ˈbȯs-tən ˈkid\ 1. A boy who lives in Boston, usually dresses in sweatshirt, white shirt underneath, sweatpants and Nike Air Maxes on feet. They have to live and die for their town.

It took me until the second year at Boston Latin School to be completely assimilated and actually live in Boston. The most important factor of being a Boston kid is understanding the relationships between the towns in Boston. You have to understand Boston’s 20 neighborhoods and then their sub-neighborhoods.

The beginning of my second year of Boston Latin I went to Southie (South Boston) because my friend Pat lived there. The thing is, in Southie if there is someone new, everyone knows. Every time I moved, my steps were measured, no one talked to me besides Pat. No one liked me there and it was simply because I didn’t live there, because I didn’t go there every day and spend enough time with them to learn everybody’s name. This is a vicious cycle, because every time I went there everyone hated me and it was because they didn’t like me enough. They didn’t like me because they didn’t like me; it made no sense.

In Southie everyone goes to the PAL, which is basically a basketball court with a basement, but It can cram in like 50+ people. I heard, “Hey... did you just slap me?” “Ya bitch.” “Fucking fight me.” Then I turned around and watched. It was a culture shock for me to see two people that hated each other so much that they wanted to make the other person not be able to see. I didn’t even watch as everyone got their cell phones out and videotaped the fight. He pounded the other guy out. He was on the ground, clearly had lost, and the guy let him have it punch after punch after punch, bloody knuckles. Bloody ground. Then they got out, hugged each other and walked away. It was the most surreal thing that I have ever seen. I was thinking to myself alright time to go. I think back and can laugh about it, but it was terrible. People do it for pride, respect, and women.

In reality I know that’s just such a stupid way to settle problems. Here I am now sitting at a computer typing away, somewhere there I saw the raw strong power that fighting someone generated. Adrenaline pumping. No distractions. Only thought is this guy need to die. I have a lot of frustrating things going on in my life now and I crave a fight to release, probably get ruined, and not care. To become a Boston kid.

What or who would I be fighting for? I live in the South End, and there are pretty much no kids there. I would have no reason to fight.

I can never be fully changed into a Boston Kid because of the ideals that I have been brought up on, you can paint an egg to look like a pear but everyone knows it’s just a painted egg. Maybe one day though I think one day it could happen, but there is a firewall-like mechanism in the back of my head saying, “Why do I need to do this? I can always take the Green Line back to Prudential, walk home, and go to sleep.”

Map used with permission. Mehta, Aditi. Boston Neighborhoods with 2010 Census Tracts. 2010. http://metrobostondatacommon.org. Boston. 1 Feb 2013. Web. <http://metrobostondatacommon.org/visualizations/214/>.

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Isabel Griffith-Gorgati The Windsor School, Grade 8

A Single Leaf a single leaf floats down from the branch by the window. for a moment, vibrant green, then red brown, then yellow.

except for some traces in the corner, where the rain didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t reach. the wind picks it up one more time, traced with bits of dirt and tossed about, and pelts it with resentment against the red brick walls and the windows, reminding me. the snow is so soft and pure and white.

wet, trodden on, imprinted into the ground. bursting with color, thirsty, dying, once healthy, unnoticed, and proud.

Pure White snow melts on the branches of the tree by the window. it drips down like water droplets of dew on a summer day. it begins to rain, and the rain is warm and wet. it melts the fine layer of snow on the ground. the snow was soft and pure white, and it covered the dirt a bare inch and the scattered dead leaves. the leaves are soggy now, 32

the dirt frozen and hard, the snow turned to slush.

emersonWRITES

Blossom cherry blossoms burst into color on the branch by the window. the frost melts away to rain droplets and dew. but the frost still clings to a single blossom on the branch. unnoticed, small, frozen with the last traces, memories of winter. and it reminds me of my winter, and the frost that still clings. but the cold will melt and fade into drops of joy.

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and the petals will blush, and the branches will laugh and the tree will smile and the blossom will burst.

Iris Peña

John D. O’Bryant High School, Grade 12

from Behind Closed Doors The breeze blew ferociously that night. It felt as if someone could be carried away if they didn’t brace themselves against it. The young woman could feel the wind blowing her off into the street but she pressed forward, intent on finding her way back to her apartment. Her hair was a disheveled ginger mess, at least the strands that could be seen from under her poor weather-beaten hood, which she held on with one trembling bare hand.

Her olive green eyes were partly closed against the harsh stings of air she felt on her face. She should have bundled herself up more before leaving the house but that morning the weather channel had not warned her about this sudden drop of temperature that would occur. It didn’t matter much; she didn’t let herself falter as she continued down the nearly deserted street. It was just half an hour after sunset but it already seemed much darker than it should have. She vaguely recalled what made her leave the house on such a day anyway. It was a simple, plain-looking note that she found stuck to her door when she came home from work the day before.

The note was cryptic and it seemed to be some random lyrics from a song or lines from a poem. To anyone else, it wouldn’t have had much of significance, but she knew better. She had always known better.

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Grace Stathos

Malden High School, Grade 10

from Another Wave Sometimes I think of myself as a tree— A tree that never grew quite right With a spine that grew crooked From years of sitting in fetal position Years of crying In an empty forest Which makes it not much of a forest I’m lost— Lost in an indefinable abyss: My mind.

And one day I’ll fall And nobody will be around to hear it...

I really am trying to get better. Some days are so much easier than others.

Even though last night I gave into my urges and I’m so disappointed that I couldn’t control myself better. But what I’d like everyone to realize is that I struggle every single day with my emotions. I fight with myself every day because part of me wants to get out of bed and go to school but it’s so hard to fight my depression. I can’t just “try and be happy” like so many people have told me to do. It’s going to take time, and even if the waves keep crashing, and I keep slipping back to the ocean floor, I’ll keep fighting to get to the surface again. I’ll keep swimming.

Too scared to make noise When I was seven I planted some green bean seeds in my backyard. My mom said that I shouldn’t water them so much or I’ll drown them. And she was right, they never grew. I was a plant murderer. But in all honesty, I hated green beans. I just liked feeling like someone relied on me, I liked filling up my Sesame Street watering can and trudging outside and watering my green beans. I felt special.

I’m constantly drowning in my thoughts. I take myself over my head and then I can’t breathe. And then I get that feeling, that I’d be better off dead... I’d be better off if I could escape.

There’s a small part of me that knows I’d be leaving a lot more behind than just my fears What about my dreams and my best friends— And all the colors I haven’t dyed my hair yet?

What about waiting for when it will get better?

Yes, one day it will be better.

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Victoria Tan

Boston Latin School, Grade 11

I grew up in the vast beautiful town of Boston with its bright lights all around us. The skyscrapers reach for the sky, the streets bustling with people. Living in the heart of Boston is just crazy. But in a good way. I’ve been living in Boston for 17 years now and I wouldn’t say I am an expert on Boston. Although I would say I know it fairly well. I lived in three different neighborhoods and that was a great experience. If you ask me about Boston I would tell you that Boston is a great atmosphere. The people, landmarks and shops. And that there are things about Boston that are less likable. Such as the traffic, street names, and the weather.

The yellow burst of light dims a little.

Casting a dark black shadow onto the pavement.

Soon enough the mist of the fog can be seen when we breath.

The snowy white mist of precipitation lingers on the cold dark path.

Leaving the trees bare, with only their dark brown branches left hanging in the cold.

The river is now a pearly white piece of ice.

As spring comes hints of colors start to bloom.

Honey yellow daffodils start to grow, along with lavender irises crawling out of the earth.

The place begins to unfreeze, turning back into what it was last summer, Colors.

One of my favorite places is Charles River.

17 Years

The sunshine’s rays are like silky waves of gold spiraling down in the form of a spider web.

A fresh batch of blue and white paint mixed finely creates the sky.

The bright green grass emerging from the ground is well-cut and glistening with the morning’s rain.

The air is transparent, lacking pigments of color.

The river is still and peaceful with soft ripples of sky blue waves.

Flashes of colorful sea life would pop out of the water leaving you in wonder.

Canvas white ships and sailboats roam across the enormous river.

The tall slender varieties of trees line up in neat rows along the walkway.

The mixed batch of fall colors scattering among the piercing green leaves.

A stormy grey gust of wind like an imaginary tide wave washes out the people who used to venture around here.

The runners with bright neon colored gear had left, Gone.

I was born in Boston and lived in Back Bay. I remember being old enough to climb through the entire obstacles at the park with no help.

Building a fort with all the furniture and blankets in the house to create our not so secret hideaway.

Sticking stickers on the whole entire frame of the window resulting in my mom ripping them off one by one.

My sister is born and I become a big sister.

I met my best friend in Pre-School and we remain best friends, forever and always.

First time taking the school bus to school.

Learning to ride my first bike with no training wheels down the slope in Charlestown and not crashing.

Traveling to China to visit my grandparents from my dad’s side of the family and getting lots of bug bites.

First time ice skating and falling a million times in front of everyone.

Going to school all by myself and feeling brave and free.

Going to the movies with my friends to watch PG-13 movies when we were underage and feeling super cool.

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2012–2013

The Places of Colors

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Telling secrets to your closest friends and daring one another to do stupid things.

The Taylor Swift concert at Gillette Stadium and it was pouring outside at the end of the night.

Track practice around the reflecting pool, and JP and those secrets inside jokes among us.

Going to New York all by myself with my best friends.

Learning who your true friends are and learning from the mistakes you make to become a better person.

Christopher Tompkins

Cathedral High School, Grade 9

from Greek Gods

Living here in Boston has filled me with so much memory. I remember there was a toy store in Copley Square but now it is closed. I don’t remember the name of the store specifically but I refer to it as the toy store. I remember my mom bringing me there all the time. Every time I went in there I was so excited because I was surround by millions of toys.

Outside the store is a statue of a bear. People took pictures with the bear and kids scaled until they reached the top of the bear. I had never reached the top; the highest I ever got was one of the blocks. Since the toy store closed, the bear was donated to the Tufts Children’s Hospital. I had the best times in that store and there are still many pictures of me with the bear. Even through the bear is removed and relocated, nothing can take away the precious memories that are stored in my heart. The memories will always be alive, to reminiscence, and cherish.

Zeus helped get his brother and sisters out of their father’s stomach and of course they were grown up because immortals don’t die. Kronos was still dazed and still didn’t realize what happened to him. But when he realized what happened he was furious at his wife for tricking him.

Kronos called all his Titan brothers. He called Hyperion, Atlas, and Oceanus. Prometheus, the wisest Titan and the Titan that could see he future, deserted Kronos and fought on Zeus’s side because he only liked to fight on the winning side. These were the strongest Titan warriors. Of course the seven children of Kronos needed help. So they called Helios, the sun god, Pan, a satyr/god of the wild, Nemesis, the goddess that is in charge of the balance of the earth’s good and evil, and many more gods and goddesses. The gods and the Titans were ready for battle and they were all determined to win. Zeus led the gods and Kronos led the Titans to war. Zeus went at his father causing all types of natural disasters. The Titans fought back aggressively. Atlas and Hyperion were the greatest of them all. The problem with this war is that nobody died because they were all immortals. Suddenly, there was a noise. It sounded like a trumpet, but twenty times louder. It was a sound of pure terror and it was coming from

Photos courtesy of the author.

Image: Peter Paul Rubens, Sturz der Titanen, courtesy of Creative Commons.

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Pan. This made most of the Titan army retreat. This was the opportunity that the gods were waiting for. The Titans were distracted and the gods were able to attack them. Zeus’s brothers, sisters, and fellow gods all fought the other Titans. The gods fought and fought until Kronos was all in pieces and the other Titans surrendered. Finally the gods were able to defeat the Titans. This war was called the Titanomachy War. This was the day that they were all waiting for, the new age when the gods ruled over the lands. Zeus threw the remains of his father into Tartarus. Atlas had to hold the sky. Prometheus was put in the underworld where he was chained to a rock and birds ate his body. His body would then reform and it would go on endlessly. Oceanus was banished and was never seen again. The three brothers Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades had to share powers evenly. Zeus became the king of the Olympian gods, Hades was the king of the Underworld, and Poseidon became the ruler of the sea. They had the Cyclops make them each a powerful weapon. For Zeus they made a gigantic Lightening Bolt. For Hades they made the helm of Darkness.

It turned him invisible and it was the symbol of terror. The helm would change every second to your worst nightmare. Lastly, for Poseidon they made a triton that enabled him to command the seas. As for the other gods and goddesses, they scattered around. Zeus had many children and they were also gods and sometimes demi-gods (god/human). The Olympians were the main gods and they were Zeus, Poseidon, Demeter, Hera, Hestia, Athena, Aphrodite, Ares, Apollo, Artemis, Hermes, and Hephaestus. The other gods and goddesses scattered around everywhere rewarded the good deeds of the people and penalizing those who did bad deeds. The gods lived on and protected the people and were never overthrown.

Non fiction Introduction to Creative Nonfiction Doesn’t it change the way you look at a story when you discover it’s true?

Creative nonfiction writing is more than just telling the truth, however.

It takes a lot of imagination, reflection, and often, a sense of humor. The students in our Introduction to Creative Nonfiction course have proven their skill in all of these aspects and so much more. In the past six months, our students have taken a stab at almost every genre of nonfiction you can imagine, including memoir, personal essay, profiles, and review writing.

Our students read literary examples with a critical eye, allowing for lively class discussion every week.

As you’ll read in this diverse collection of nonfiction writing, each of our students found an outlet of truth-telling that showcases a newly empowered and confident voice. It was a pleasure working with so many different types of students in multiple styles of writing. We want to thank our students not only for their dedication, but for the endless amount of inspiration they have provided us within our own writing.

Let the truth be told!

Instructors Susannah Clark, a second-time instructor with emersonWRITES, also teaches in the First-Year Writing Program at Emerson College, where she is in her final year pursuing her MFA in nonfiction. She has written rough drafts of nearly every type of creative nonfiction, including personal essay, participatory journalism, and break-up letters. A few of those drafts even turned into publications in outlets such as CQ Weekly, Sans Serif Journal, and Popmatters. In 2009, The Free Lance-Star, the daily newspaper in Fredericksburg, Virginia, hired Susannah to write “She Spoke Up,” a blog chronicling the 2,000-mile bike trip she rode with over 50 Eagle Scouts. She is still exhausted.

Lauren Jo Sypniewski received her MFA in nonfiction at Emerson College, where she teaches in the First-Year Writing Program. This was her first year on the emersonWRITES faculty. Lauren grew up and did her undergraduate degree in Michigan, a place which sparked her interest in writing contemplative, natureoriented prose. While she reads nonfiction literature, poetry is what inspires her and helps her write. She is a proud dog owner, and she has always thought the idea of starting an otter circus would be fascinating.

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2012–2013

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Nadaje Hendrix

Match Public Charter High School, Grade 9

I remember walking home I remember walking home. It was so cold I had to stop running. My body and mind wouldn’t let me anymore. All I can think about is him. And being happy. Why was he mad at me? He let me borrow his hoodie, but why didn’t he walk me home tonight? He usually does. What’s different about tonight? I keep blowing up his phone, but all I’m getting is a blah person. Someone who seems like they don’t care anymore, like they’ve given up.

As I walk in the house and my mom is talking to me I try to fake a smile and go to bed. I mean it’s past 11 o’clock. My mom’s in the bathroom and suddenly everything changes from there.

She says, “Nadaje, check the heater.”

I did. Nothing was wrong.

Then we went back into the bathroom but this time smoke was coming from the floor, from our downstairs neighbor’s ceiling. We tried to call the landlord but no answer. Quickly the smoke spread into the kitchen where the oven door was opening and closing by itself. Heading down the hall, I ran downstairs and walked outside to look at our house. There was a fire blazing from the back. People walking by had stopped and were chattering all around me but I really didn’t care.

I just wanted my mom to be safe, to be in his arms. I ran back up the stairs to get my mom. From the third floor we could hear the college students who live on the second floor banging below us. We would later learn that it was their lint-covered dryer filter that caused the flames in the first place.

I kept saying “Come on Mommy! Come on, don’t worry about the stuff, come on!”

At the time our things were irrelevant. I just wanted my mommy to be safe. By the time we got out we could already hear the sirens: firefighters, the police, and an ambulance. I was shocked. Everything felt like a dream.

I texted him again this time telling him that my house was on fire.

He texted back that he didn’t believe me but that soon changed when he heard the sirens too. My mom had on a thin silk robe with clothes under it and I had on a tank top and his hoodie. It took a while for us to realize how cold it was outside but soon the onlookers were gone and our bodies shivered. Everything sank in. Where were we going to stay?

I called my aunt, who lives in Everett, and she got there quickly. I love her and she loves me. The police sent us all down the street to one of these 44

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big houses filled with everybody who was affected by this fire. I fell asleep, though my teenage body felt restless. Then I woke up to a lady crying, wondering if her cat had made it out all right. When she told me why she was sad I grew angry. We lost everything and she was crying about her cat.

My mom sat across from me. I know in her head she was wondering if we started the fire. I know she was worrying about our stuff I know she was wishing this never happened.

I was worried too. Worried because like our neighbor and her cat, I still couldn’t stop thinking about him.

2012–2013

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Cierra Morson

Boston Latin Academy, Grade 12

What Dreams May Come “To die, to sleep, to sleep, perchance to dream—ay there’s the rub, for in that sleep of death, what dreams may come?” For we have never known, nor do we now know, nor shall we possibly ever know. Surely we have grown slight desires to learn; to know that after we die we, too, shall one day prance about in fields of painted flowers and rescue our loved ones from Dante’s seventh circle, as Robin Williams has in What Dreams May Come, a thousand times over. Yes, that would be lovely, but its loveliness shall fade with time, as life once had, and the eternity of bliss shall grow lonely, as all eternities do. I imagine that after spending too long in your own perfect world, you will grow blasé. Not everything is designed to be perfect as you will soon crave punishment and persecution, brimstone and fire as a change of scenery because, even in heaven, sunlight grows to burn all eyes much worse than fire and brimstone ever can.

Now to address the auxiliary issue of sleep: it is a blessing to some and a curse to others. Some spend hours tossing and turning, looking for a sleep and a release that is incontestably not looking for them. Sleep, in itself, is “taking the rest afforded by a suspension of voluntary bodily functions and the natural suspension, complete or partial, of consciousness,” and is considered necessary to the function of any human being. What people fail to realize is that sleep is, by definition, a form of death and all who participate in this nearly primal ritual are merely practising for their eternal rests. When one is lying there cold and still, it is hard to argue otherwise yet, even though death is practically at the doorstep of all who are sleeping, most only feel alive whilst they are asleep. Why is that?

We have corrupted and created a world so vile, so uninhabitable that the majority of its residents would rather be a hair’s breadth away from dying and, at the same time, be much happier than they would ever hope to be while fully awake and alive.

The indisputable answer to why people would rather be asleep than awake is the existence of dreams. Dreams give both humans and many animals the ability to lead lives and go on adventures that we would never be able to experience otherwise. The realm of dreams and of the subconscious has become our escape from this corrupted and uninhabitable world that we have created. There is also a sort of thrill that dreams bring, being in a world that is unknown, playing the role of a hero or a villain, or some mixture of the two, saving loved ones, hurting enemies, or merely existing amongst associates. The world of dreams 46

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is one where the abstract becomes tangible and where the impossible becomes commonplace. In one’s dreams, they may surely prance about in fields of painted flowers and rescue their loved ones from Dante’s seventh circle, if that is what they desire. With that being said, we know that there is sleep in death, death in sleep, dreams in sleep, sleep in dreams, and death in dreams, but wouldn’t it be lovely to know if there were really dreams in death? Wouldn’t that ease the blow for everyone? There would no longer be a fear of death and people would happily climb into their coffins to rest after a long life, just as they lay down in their beds at night.

However, one must wonder that not all dreams are in the control of the dreamer and that a wonderful dream may quickly turn into an awful nightmare from which the dreamer wishes to immediately awaken from.

Maybe this is “the respect that makes calamity of so long life,” for we are afraid that we may get stuck in an eternal nightmare, which is unpleasant for all to imagine. There are those who can control their dreams and what happens in them because they are aware that they are sleeping, a concept known as lucid dreaming. With this in mind, it is nearly impossible not to consider this question: do we know that we are dead when we die? If such is the case, then we would all be able to control our dreams and ensure our eternal happiness in death, again causing the fear to diminish. But then again, what is the point of having an amazing dream if you can never awaken to appreciate its brilliance?

2012–2013

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Bethany Owens

Urban Science Academy, Grade 10

And after that, I never felt the same about the MBTA The MBTA isn’t the cleanest thing in the world, and I’m pretty sure everyone is aware of this. However, despite this common knowledge, most of us still continue to use the seating and appliances as if they were monitored and cleaned every hour. Do we not?

I myself used to be very paranoid about the germ factor of the MBTA. I always used wipes and carried hand sanitizer. I was, as my friends would say, a ‘noob’ to public transit. It took me a while to realize that my practices were useless and teetering on the edge of insanity, and that people will look at you funny if they see you wiping seats and surfaces like an OCD freak. I quit my obsession with cleaning everything and started to act more like a worn-down MBTA user. You know, one of those people that just leans on everything and falls asleep like they don’t give a damn? Yeah, that’s me. But it wasn’t until recently that I remembered why I used to be so paranoid...

It was a normal school day, however, on this particular morning, my brother and I had slept in, and would have to take a later bus to the station than usual. We got ready and left the house as we usually would, and walked down to the bus stop to wait for the bus. Just as it should, the bus arrived on time, and there wasn’t anything peculiar about this particular morning.

I have a habit of scanning everyone’s face when I board a bus or train, so of course on this day, I didn’t neglect to follow that same pattern. Upon my viewing of these fresh faces on the bus, I didn’t notice any type of suspicious persons. I took a seat beside my brother and settled in.

Minutes later, the bus was nearing Roslindale Square. A woman stood from her seat and hung at the head of the bus, waiting for her stop to come up. I thought nothing of her, and did not immediately notice anything strange. Then it hit me. A smell. A terribly putrid scent swam into my nostrils. My eyes watered, and I quickly covered my face with my scarf. I wearily peered around the bus to see if I could spot where the smell was coming from. I was half-expecting to see an overwhelmed mother, trying to handle her five kids who had all simultaneously dropped their trousers to take dumps on the floor. That’s how terrible the smell was. Obviously, that’s not what I saw. In fact, I didn’t even see any children. The only thing that I did see was a crowd of confused passengers, covering their noses to the best of their abilities. So, where was this terrible fume coming from? I still wasn’t sure. I tapped my brother’s shoulder and gave him a quizzical 48

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look. He knew what I was referring to, and as a response, he pointed to the seat just less than a foot away from us.

The seat was damp with a tinted brown liquid. This questionable liquid had clearly found its way to the floor as well. I was mortified, and frankly, I was still a little confused. However, I could put two and two together, and had come to the conclusion that the suspicious brown liquid in the seat was that of human fecal matter. Now the question was simply to figure out whose fecal matter it was. Then, it dawned on me. I knew who had made the mess! I looked to the front of the bus where that woman had gone earlier, and the evidence was clear as day, right on the back of her blue jean pants. A large, wet, stain was spread across the buttocks of her pants, and carried on down her legs, and to her feet. A newfound puddle had set itself on the floor right beneath her.

Normally, someone who had just solved a puzzle would be satisfied, but I was much less than that. I was disgusted and worried all at once. I could not believe that this woman, who by the way didn’t even look like she even knew she had just gone to the bathroom on herself, had just released her bowls on this public bus. Once her stop came, she hopped off of the bus, and waddled away as if she were trying to hold something between her legs, her face was straight as a board. Okay, maybe she did know what had happened, but why didn’t she say anything to the driver, or at least apologize to the suffering people she had just left to breathe in her horrifying fumes?

My brother and I decided that we couldn’t take the smell, and that we wanted to get off, and catch a different bus. Before leaving, however, I was sure to tell the bus driver what had happened. Although her response was quite hilarious, it would be too profane to share.

I suppose that after that morning, I will forever question the seats on the buses and trains, for as we have already established, the cleanliness of the MBTA is much less than ideal, and if you really consider the pros and cons, quite unsafe. I also have a newfound respect for weirdoes. I used to just think that I only had to avoid sitting next to that dirty looking guy with the ridiculously tattered beard, but in reality, anybody could poop on the bus. Even that friendly looking twenty-year-old lady you see from time to time could have an accident someday. You don’t need to look funny to have an overactive bladder, no?

Question everybody. It’s totally worth it.

2012–2013

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Bethany Owens

Urban Science Academy, Grade 10

You’re a Virus to Friendship You saunter through the open door when another has just shut, and I welcome you onto my unscathed planet.

Why must you stomp on everything with your big feet?

We all sang songs of conciliation and love until you came in with your negativity and grim thoughts.

Friends should not mind each other in this way, I thought.

You simper and laugh as you paint the walls with the blood of your captured sheep that you swear are your prized possessions.

Your propaganda methods are healthy.

All you can think about is your pedestal, the one that can be kicked from beneath you at any minute, but the people who care for you would never dare, thinking you’d do the same for them.

You strive to rule over everyone else, and crumble their foundations while you secretly build up your own.

You wear your grin and jokes as a disguise.

You learn the weakness, and eat away.

“He’s my best friend.” You said.

“I love her.” You said.

Never had I heard such a high demand of attention.

Never had I heard such a consecutive strip of lies streaming from the lips of just one man.

Back then I was asinine.

I fell for your games and drew in your mazes, hitting a dead end each time.

Why must he batter this poor soul?

Why not another?

You befriend this day, and despise the next.

Your smile is made of plexi-glass windows, for it has ineffectively hidden your inner core where your heart used to be.

I can see straight through your armor.

The tunnel is long, but it has an end, your reign may seem strong, but I have found the strands left behind after your sloppy sewing job, I have exempted myself from your reign, and a battle has ensued.

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My backbone has healed, my heart has begun to pump harder, and my blood is now boiling.

You’ve lit a fire that was meant to remain dormant, and now it’s after you with burning fury.

Your worst fear has arrived.

2012–2013

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Po e t r y Reinventing the Ordinary We’ve heard poems about the big stuff: love, life, death... But what if we could write about things, even ordinary things, in a way that makes the reader see the common in new and unfamiliar ways?

And so the challenge was set—we became determined to reinvent how we view the world. Trees were no longer trees, but hands stretching out from the ground. A light was not written about from the standpoint of being on, but rather from the aftermath of the broken filament. We surrounded ourselves in the ordinary—the Boston Common, a food court, even the classroom—and pushed ourselves beyond the comfort of the accepted and into the unknown and surprising.

By reading the works of other poets and looking to our own experiences, we discovered how poetry can help us write the world we see, or begin to re-imagine things left unwritten. Throughout the semester, we learned from each other how to translate onto paper what may not often be seen in the world.

Instructors Amy Fant is a poet and teacher living in Boston. In her second year on the faculty of emersonWRITES, she also teaches in the First-Year Writing Program at Emerson College, where she is at work on her MFA in poetry. Her poems have been published in a number of literary journals, including Caveat Lector, Subscribe, and WordsApart. She is originally from South Carolina, where she discovered her love of writing before she moved to Colorado to teach, and now she’s landed in Boston. She also enjoys naps, travelling, and her cat, Professor Waffles.

Keena Boling is a poet and English teacher at Pope John XXIII High School in Everet, MA. This is her second year on the faculty of emersonWRITES. Before moving to Boston and receiving her MFA in poetry from Emerson College, Keena lived for five years on the island of Nantucket—surprisingly, she has found the adjustment from island life to city living quite exciting. In addition to poetry, she loves baking and is quite good at it (she makes a mean apple pie).

2012–2013

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Raymond Barreau

West Roxbury Academy, Grade 10

That Boy From his bed where sheets are used as shelter an alarm sits horizontally from his head to awake the dead silence that fills the room.

Nothing but dread stops the movement that’ll guide his destination to a bathing room where stressful situations vanish as mini watered pellets strike upon a chosen skin like a hive of bees skim to a licking upon a chin.

5:27 triggers the mind of the boy.

He cleansed himself followed by a swift change into clothes and a slam that made the door yelp as if it screeched for help.

He makes his way down the street then to a hill’s peak with seats that are aligned at a bus stop for those who seek for a chance to rest the weak joints of the knee followed by the feet that shrieks from the pain 54

that the hill caused.

He finally arrives at the bus stop where he gets knocked by a silent cool whiff that chaps the upper lip.

He clenches his fists as he sits to exclude the cliff ’s frigid draft that makes his body stiff.

He reaches into his bag for a notebook.

On his right side stood a glass that frames and holds the roof that covers his head.

He stands somewhat aloof from the others in this bitter atmosphere.

He smears the fog that appears within the glass and looks into it.

The glass reflects “that boy.”

He has the same shoes, sweats, and hoodie as him.

Their ebony coated skin is alike.

When he moves “that boy” copies.

An open notebook lies upon “that boy’s” lap.

He squints at the words that become a blur from the fog that reappears.

The notebook reads “Dear Mama” I don’t know if I regret what happened in ’03 Is that even the year it took place?

You made breakfast that morning. while my brothers and papa groaning knowing that your three sons would come through storming down the hall

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like the sound of basketballs jumping off from wall-to-wall for a plate that was superior to whole milk and cornflakes.

And as I ate I made a mistake that seemed to disgrace my family’s traits.

From a knock at the door as you wailed wait!

I slowed my pace from unlocking locks that were blockades toward cops and individuals that tried to creep up in our place as if we had a safe.

And ok was what I replied.

When you shoved me to the side and opened the door to a white man and his lady friend that shook our hands and asked questions that we ain’t quite understand followed by searches of bruised scars left from the under hand.

You just sat and looked alarmed as they searched my under arm.

My brother’s passed the search and went back to eating while you mama no longer speaking.

As if the man’s presence weakened your thoughts.

It was hot.

That’s probably why the man agreed to leave.

Without rolling my sleeves to actually find out that my own mama bit me.

He told me that I passed but being me I disagreed.

For some was reason I exposed the mark.

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Later that week when you got deported Papa got evicted.

We became homeless and kicked it at national parks where fun existed all the time ’til we got caught by the cops as if the block was hot.

Then they took us from Papa and from there it was to foster homes that despised us three Haitian boys.

Cuz we never stood alone.

In 2006 that’s when life began.

But that’s also when my actions had to end I was a thief that knew what was within your pocket.

I ran away more than three times as if I lost it.

Tried to blame my step mama for child abuse cuz I was blind to see that she was really there for me.

And now I try my best to respect her Even though I still get blamed for losing you as my shelter...

“That boy” skims down to make sure there’s no error within his writing: Deep down there are times when I want to cry But when it comes to you my eyes enclose a flooded tomb with tears that don’t expose as if they were opposed by doom.

And I wish that I could express an emotion But even on this sheet I desperately seek for a potion to make the unknown words flee from their chamber of hostility He reaches the end of notebook and don’t know what is left for he puts his heart within the notebook

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where “that boy” puts his flesh.

He puts his notebook inside his bag as the public bus approaches looks into the glass one last time till the next morning.

He’ll forever be “that boy.”

Iesha Guerrier

Somerville High School, Grade 10

His Story He has cans filled with expressions— grays, reds, blacks, and broken blues.

He has cans filled with his story a story he will make the public eyes read.

Either as an art or a crime This was a lonely boy’s healing.

A wall crying for help and he heard it, reminiscing back to his shattered nights.

The art of graffiti, but no one around him understands it.

They can’t understand the Mexican, Darker skinned, Rosary beads around his neck, They can’t realize he’s helpless.

They want him— Cuffed and jailed in.

Because of an art, through public eyes is a crime: Graffiti— A lonely boy’s healing in a damaged city.

Our Love I Love You. Simple as that: What is me, is you.

I Love you from every aspect of my body, I love you from every stage: Mentally, Physically, Emotionally, Spiritually, It is you I crave.

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I Love you from every color.

To the purple that colors my bruised arms and thighs you beat on.

I Love you to every point.

To the point of the judging fingers in public, to the point of the peak we reach, when we argue and disagree.

I Love you to the point of the sofa— Where you lay your head, after we fight, and you can’t bear to look me in the face, let alone sleep beside it.

And I Love you to our sharpest point— Of the filled syringe needle, Emptying by a hole— Cutting through my arms, forcing poison into my veins, veins injected and filled with our love of addiction.

But— I Love you to the most important point— A point bleeding crystal blue ink, of a BIC pen

When We Called “IT” Best Friends

But now I remember high school, And you forget me, and I try to forget you—but I can’t.

We walk down the halls as if we don’t see each other.

Walk right by, As if we never loved each other, Sometimes, We greet as if we just met And left in my heart of you is: grief, Because I’m still upset, Angry, Feeling regret, I just reminisce over what you’d say to me, How just a year ago or so, We were known as best friends.

But then, as I feel how you were different, I think it through, And then, I realized it wasn’t just you.

But Nana always use to me, I would always be the “homie,” And Nana use to tell me, Boys and girls being best friends could never be.

I remember in grade school, You were with me, And I was with you.

It would come around snack time and— I shared my crackers Just like the smile plastered on your face, you’d bring cheese.

I won’t forget grade school— When we shared our deepest secrets, And promised to die with them tied to our soul

And I will never forget to remember grade school— When you said You Love Me, And I said I Love You! 60

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Jonathan Perez

Match Public Charter High School, Grade 9

Untitled To some it is nothing more than the coolest piece of street art.

To those who walk by it constantly say that it’s pointless And just another piece of vandalism.

But even a simple image of two faceless and nameless children Have overlooked and under thought layers than what others assume...

A story untold by the creator yet told by the creation An aborted mistake that he was not ashamed of and looked forward to the outcomes.

The color of grief filled the image of what could have been

some see it as a complete waste of unnecessary space some see it as an amazing example of what it means to express yourself

But to him

it is a constant of the lives that could

have been but were demolished by the benign neglect

to his lover

Endless graffiti One word.

Improvisation The additions to a never-ending story Different artists’ ways to weave their one-of-a-kind stories into others’ unique tales Such a sham it is taken for granted To be thought of as nothing more than destruction of public property But something this juvenile has hidden beauty 62

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Neglect Cries for assistance A suicidal woman Never received it

Snap Shot A cry for help For help and for a better future A snap shot of what neglect can do A silent voice has never said so much

Things Change for the Worse

She stares at me with wanting eyes A woman in an elegant dress Nameless She is a woman who is depressed on what should be the happiest day of her life She is silenced by a bandana Unable to speak for herself, forced to keep in a secret that can change everything for the better She has been given to the wrong man No choice but to go through with this mistake Looking for help she only finds crossed arms and false smiles Objectified.

Bounded by her gender Taking her husband’s hand she whispers goodbye to the joy she had With a malicious smile He greets her to the rest of her life

2012–2013

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Sila Assad Peters Homeschool, Grade 11

Woman Bush The quietness of a home country. Chaos anchored to historic benches, she thinks of her young boys, buried in trenches once war zones. Soon to be again.

For now—the watchtower of an old woman, old bones and an abeye that comes down to her ankles. Hooked nose of her ancestors, western eyebrows, plucked bare. Secret

A resistance as loud as the graffiti on ancient walls she once thought were steady; now they crumble.

Long dark graffiti fingers hesitate and they fumble. She watches his fingers stumble over the many notches. They are Bullet holes now filled with color. She wonders Where is his mother? Is she wondering where he is too? Does she know her boy is writing the revolution on the wall—The quietness of a home country. Where the old watch the young sing their song until it is no longer sung.

salt and pepper hair olive skin worn thin from the wind in the mountains where she comes from.

Beneath her feet an earth so wholesome, but will they build another hotel here?

Employ green eyed bearded men from neighboring countries here?

Push the cherries out of their swaying trees here as if they are weighing the value of a gardener’s love.

The stillness of a home country brought to silence by its guns. She is not like the women in the city, awoken by chants, feet marching down the highway. She watches from a distance.

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Kimberly Valdez

Boston Arts Academy, Grade 12

Day Dream Coastal clear, bright yellow Umbrellas Hovering over me protecting me from all evil thoughts.

Red letters shadowed by yellow and orange outline, Words to taunt me à “Eat me, eat me.”

Allan sits next to me speaking through his phone....

To Derrick I suppose.

Extends to me his hand of gratitude and eyes of pleasure.

Hunger with desire, I can feel it from the aroma you’re giving off.

Light blue eyes, skater boy hair, Lucid face and that twinkle in your eyes....

The tilted pen held within my palm—fades away— And I SNAP back just in time to Step away!

Emotions Speak Louder Than Words I can’t wait to have our first dance.

For you to hold my hand, and with every step And every move, you’re guiding me a step closer to you.

He’s my everything, 3 years later and we’re Still going strong.

My boyfriend, the one even though he’s in D.R. the distance won’t change things for us.

Looking up into the sky, staring at the stars I see you smile and imagine your face.

The greater days and nights we spent they’re Irreplaceable and unforgettable.

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Look at me with.

I miss you, I miss not getting to feel your touch every day.

—Well, you and I both know I wouldn’t murder someone.

But just remember I’d murder anyone who tries to break or come between what we have.

As you trace your fingers along my body giving me goosebumps.

Graffiti Fallen Falling from the deepest black sky Walking past infamous gray streets Seeing and hearing the beats and

Sounds Boom-boom-clack-click-boom Listening to each rhythm

As you move forward...

Nothing seems to catch your— Attention Crossroads between your thoughts, emotions, reality and the unknown!

Not knowing where to move or turn next You just keep walking Contemplating on everything!

Finally you come across, A hidden section...

Curiosity to kill you walk through

Failing to realize what could come Of this...

This mysterious place— The one you’ve longed looked for Believing it was just in your imagination But really it’s right in front of you.

All the colors

Blue, Turquois, Chartruse, Coral, Fushia and many many more The creativity

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The imagination And most of all Your escape…

Falling into the abyss Catching everything in and out of sight Being able to walk proud and Say à “I found myself ” Through all the colors The creativity The imagination And most of all My escape!

Graffiti

“Nature” à Color Tree Standing tall and proud, As the hair you breed fall from trunk to trunk Knowing the mood, It’s either pointed up towards—cloud-9— Or rotting downwards towards hell Those colorful hair strands Rigid edges and toes coming out from underneath you, Share a dance with its standing partner Pulling out one time at a time, each telling a story before the prior one The way you sway from left to right Like the waves of the ocean re indescribable The essence of beauty lie between every Position you hold.

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Joey Lopez Wilen

Match Public Charter High School, Grade 9

The Coat Hanger I wait and wait and wait Till the man comes and relieves me of my stress Every morning, 8:30am, That jacket that lies on my shoulders So many hours of the night Sometimes I feel like it’s too much Too long But this is my duty For my job is to uphold that jacket To keep it in its place Even if it’s inhumane Till the man comes and relieves me of my stress

Things Change What once was a beautiful bride Is now filled with a blackness Her skin glimmers with imperfections The background the color of sea Foam on a chill summer afternoon Was she in love Deeply.

Loving again is an indefinite possibility But time is a factor that plays An imperative part in this game

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Joey Lopez Wilen

Match Public Charter High School, Grade 9

Struggles of a Tree A tree A hand that comes from The ground grasping for sunlight Only trying to get closer and closer Extending Pushing out further and further People walk by not noticing its struggle No clue but the tree doesn’t need help doesn’t want it Independent It pushes on with its journey Onward not stopping Until there is not a drop Of sunlight left

c r Your...Script iptwriting Save the DramaSfor Exploring Scriptwriting Through Character What makes scriptwriting different from other genres? By reading plays, watching film clips, writing, and workshopping, we sought the answer. We began the semester with Aristotle and his Six Elements of Drama and finished with a collaborative play, with all students bringing their own unique voices into the same story.

We dove into challenges that poets, essayists, or fiction writers aren’t often required to consider—as scriptwriters we have the added obstacle and pleasure of transferring our work to the stage or screen. This extra analytical component gave a unique twist to our discussion, writing, and teamwork.

Still, at the heart of every story, no matter the genre, is a great character.

Our goal was to write these characters, give them great stories, encourage each other to be creative—and always leave the audience wanting more.

Instructors Jamie Burke is pursuing an MFA in fiction at Emerson College, and she is a first-time emersonWRITES instructor. Her short stories have appeared in or are forthcoming from Boston University’s B.U.R.N. Magazine and Pachinko!

Originally from Upstate New York, she has lived in Boston since she was an undergraduate so knows many shortcuts and where to find good Mexican food.

She also once appeared on the local news, where she was interviewed about Tom Brady’s hair. When she’s not writing, Jamie can be seen riding her bicycle, hanging out in the used book cellar at the Brookline Booksmith, or watching Jeopardy! with her cat.

Joelle Jameson is an MFA candidate in poetry at Emerson College and is the sporadic host/producer of High Volumes, an online radio show (highvolumes. wordpress.com). She also writes theater reviews and loves teaching playwriting at emersonWRITES (this is her third year on the faculty). She writes poetry because poems are not required to be certain or true—plus short stories are just too long— and owes any and all poetic inclinations to Shel Silverstein.

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Meghann Breton Homeschool, Grade 12

from Shakespeare and the Princess SCENE THIRTEEN (excerpted)

turns around to face her. ALEX tries to stand, but trips on her petticoat.

LUCIFER approaches her. She backs up into the wall, trapped. LUCIFER pulls her up by her dress and holds the dagger up ready to strike.

ALEX: Wait!

LUCIFER stops short.

Setting: Backstage at the Globe. The performance has ended and most of the actors have already gathered their belongings from backstage and are now outside discussing dinner plans. ALEX is still backstage and she is still dressed as Juliet. AARON walks up to her and gives her a friendly pat on the back.

ALEX: You have to listen to me please. Whatever the King has told you, I swear to you it isn’t true. I have committed no crimes. My uncle just wants me dead so he can continue to rule the kingdom.

AARON: See, I told you you’d do well.

ALEX: You must believe me. He doesn’t know that I know, but I saw him kill my father. Please you have to let me go. (Tears have started to form in Alex’s eyes and now run down her face.) Please!

ALEX: Yes, I suppose there was nothing to worry about after all. Any word on how Antony is?

AARON: Yes, I spoke with Thomas today and he informed me that Antony is doing better. They were able to stop the bleeding and stitch up the wound. I was just about to go visit him, would you like to join me? I really owe him an apology.

ALEX: I believe I would. Just let me take off this costume and grab my belongings. I will meet you outside.

AARON: Alright. I was wondering when you were going to remove that wig. I was beginning to think you had become attached to it.

ALEX: You caught me. I definitely want to be a female for the rest of my life. The corsets are just the most comfortable things in the entire world.

AARON: I’m sure you do. Well, I’ll be outside.

ALEX checks to make sure she is alone. She then walks over to her clothes and pulls out the male wig that was hidden within them. She quickly removes the periwig letting her own hair fall down her back. She grabs at her hair and twists it up on her head placing the male wig over it. She then walks to the mirror and adjusts the wig. LUCIFER enters quietly. Alex has her back to him and doesn’t notice him at first. LUCIFER pulls out his dagger and approaches her. At the last second Alex sees him in the mirror and quickly drops to the ground sliding through his legs. LUCIFER 72

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LUCIFER loosens his grip on ALEX.

LUCIFER puts ALEX down.

LUCIFER: I will let you go, but you must never return to the castle. You must travel far, far away from here and never return.

ALEX quickly brushes away her tears.

ALEX: What about the kingdom? The people? I can’t just abandon my people.

LUCIFER: Child if you don’t leave I promise you the King will find you and you will be executed. You will be of no service to your country if you are dead. I am trying to help you. You must leave at once.

Just then the King enters. ALEX sees him and turns to run but, she has nowhere to go.

CLAUDIUS: What are you doing you dolt? Go after her!

LUCIFER: You can’t kill her, Claudius. She is just a child.

CLAUDIUS: I can do whatever I please. I am the king! If you won’t kill her then I will!

The KING pulls out his sword and charges after ALEX. She is trying

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to climb up the rope ladder to the storage loft, but she is struggling in her petticoat. The KING reaches the ladder and starts to climb up it.

ALEX keeps climbing. The KING grabs a hold of her petticoat and tugs on it. ALEX struggles and almost loses her balance causing the ladder to swing from side to side. She grabs hold of the next rung and uses all of her strength to pull herself up causing her petticoat to rip and fall on top of the KING. The KING struggles to remove the petticoat and ALEX climbs the rest of the way to the loft. She enters the loft and searches for anything to help her. Meanwhile the KING has removed the petticoat and thrown it to the ground. It lands on LUCIFER, who has just started to climb the ladder. The KING climbs the rest of the way up the ladder and enters the loft. ALEX turns to face her uncle. She helplessly throws her shoe at the KING, but it misses him and falls to the ground below.

CLAUDIUS: Trying to throw things at me, are we Alexandria?

CLAUDIUS: Must you do that every time!?!?

ANGEL: Claudius, I warned you that bad deeds eventually catch up to you.

CLAUDIUS: You were right. What do you want a golden star?

ANGEL: Actually, I already have one, but thank you.

CLAUDIUS rolls his eyes.

ANGEL: I would like you to learn from your mistakes though.

CLAUDIUS: Alright, I’ve learned my lesson. I won’t do it ever again, I promise. Are you happy?

The KING advances on ALEX. ALEX backs up. The KING swings his sword, but ALEX rolls out of the way. The KING is fast though and stands over her with his sword at the ready.

ANGEL: Very. Good day, Claudius, and remember I’ll be watching you.

CLAUDIUS: Any final words dear niece?

CLAUDIUS: (Mockingly) I’ll be watching you. Who does she think she is, my mother? She can’t harm me.

ALEX: No words, just some advice. You might want to get some ice.

You’re going to need it.

ALEX kicks the KING in the balls. He cries out in agony. ALEX crawls around him. He reaches out, but only manages to yank off her wig exposing her hair.

CLAUDIUS: Why you little…

ALEX has nowhere to go. The king starts to advance on her again. She backs up to the edge of the loft. The KING strikes her side with his sword causing her to lose her balance and fall to the ground screaming in pain.

The ANGEL disappears the way she appeared.

CLAUDIUS goes and stands where the ANGEL was, which is also right under the waste shoot.

CLAUDIUS: Look at me. I’m an angel. I am all powerful. I can punish you. I… Just then a load of waste spills out drenching the former KING. BLACKOUT

LUCIFER: Princess!

SCENE FOURTEEN (full) Setting: A village dump. CLAUDIUS is cleaning up the garbage and putting it into piles. Just then fog and smoke appear. When they clear the ANGEL stands before CLAUDIUS. CLAUDIUS is having a coughing fit from the smoke.

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Ilanna Rosario

Boston Preparatory Charter High School, Grade 9

from The Lost City of Atlantis SAMMY: I hope we find The Lost City of Atlantis, because it has to be in the Atlantic Ocean since they both sound alike.

ILANNA: That’s so smart, Sammy!

SAMMY: I know. My WGPS device tells me are close.

Suddenly they arrive at a massive ship. SAMMY and ILANNA start swishing their tails up and down and flickering them.

SAMMY: We’ve found the last city of Atlantis, baby!

ILANNA: This doesn’t look like Atlantis, Sammy.

SAMMY: May we explore it, my dear?

ILANNA: Sure.

They both explore this weird object thoughtfully. After what seems like 10 waterminutes they f inally f igure out what it is.

SAMMY and ILANNA swim into a room full of puffer f ish and lock the door.

SAMMY: That was a close one. You were brave out there my dear, may I congratulate you on those gorgeous lips of yours with a water marking bubble kiss.

ILANNA and SAMMY start kissing, their tails start flickering and shining/ glowing, and then something catches SAMMY ’S eye. A sparkle rose from the ceiling. SAMMY grabbs it up and shows it to ILANNA. ILANNA: What is it? It so beautiful, is it for me?

SAMMY: It is indeed but I don’t know where it may go.

SAMMY does not know he found a 200 kt. diamond encrusted pearl ring. They start trying to f igure out where it goes.

SAMMY: I believe it is a ring, or something of the sort that Ms. Coral said the humans use accessorize and sometimes for marriage. So with this my dear, I ask you to be the flipper to my flip.

ILANNA: Oh Sammy, there’s nothing more swishier than to marry your wave-turning self. Yes I will!

BLACKOUT

ILANNA: Sammy, I think this is the Titanic. Now we hit the jackpot!

The walls are so smooth, made of pearl and the floor of marvel, what a gorgeous ship.

SAMMY: It is the Titanic, just like we’ve learnt about in marine school.

Ms. Coral explained it as a ship that was so wonderful and jubilant, a ship full of love.

Suddenly they hear a noise. A dark, shadowy f igure appears on the ship’s wall.

SAMMY: What is that??

ILANNA: I believe it may be a shark … a SHARK, Sammy it’s a freaking shark! Oh fishsticks what shall we do?

SAMMY: Swish your tail like you’ve never done before and come with me!

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Co-Authors

Meghann Breton, Homeschool, Grade 12 Levi Harris, Beacon High School, Grade 12 Ledio Jaho, West Roxbury Academy, Grade 10 Ilanna Rosario, Boston Preparatory Charter High School, Grade 9 Alexane Severac, Charlestown High School, Grade 12 Kamilah Thorne, Match Publich Charter High School, Grade 10

LEXI: He’s already over the edge. He’s not helping and in case you haven’t noticed we’re a Princess, a spy, and a guy on the verge of insanity… and we’re still trapped in this prison! That coward of a mermaid swam away with her tail between her legs.

IGOR walks in from offstage, keys jangling at his side.

ALEX: Igor! Igor! You’ve got the keys! Please help us!

The Princess Spy

IGOR: I’d really like to help you—

A Collaborative Play

LEXI: Then open the door!

NARRATOR: The year is 2039. The King of England has died of a broken heart after hearing news from his brother that his daughter, Alex, drowned in a tragic cruise ship accident. The King’s brother has assumed the throne after his death. But is Princess Alex really dead? Crew members of a passing ship allege to have seen a mermaid rescuing a group of survivors. These survivors include Princess Alex, an American spy named Lexi, and a fruit-obsessed journalist named Leo. The crew members say they saw a cloaked figure, along with his hunchbacked henchman, capture them in an underwater prison. This turn of events coincides with the new King of England’s diplomatic mission to Atlantis to form an alliance with Neptune, King of the Sea. ACT ONE LEXI, ALEX and LEO are in prison. The two girls are trying to f igure out how to escape, and LEO is not helping.

ALEX: (yelling) Get me out of here! I’m the princess of England, I order you to let me out!

IGOR: But I’m sworn to carry out the King’s command.

ALEX: Why would my father lock me up?

IGOR: Oh no, didn’t you hear? This is terrible, I’m so sorry…

ALEX: What happened?

IGOR: I’m no good at this, I hate to be the bearer of bad news…

LEXI: Out with it already! What is this, a reality show?

IGOR: When your father found out you were dead, Princess Alex, the news was too much for his poor old heart, and it gave out.

ALEX: (stunned) What? This can’t be happening!

IGOR: Your uncle has assumed the throne, and he has ordered me to lock you up.

ALEX: How dare he! I never liked him. I bet he killed my father!

LEO: (head in hands) Oranges! So...many...oranges!

IGOR: I don’t know, but he forced me—

LEXI: Shut up! What are you scared of, pulp?!

LEXI: Something smells fishy here.

LEO: Don’t say that word!

ILANNA enters behind IGOR.

ALEX: Lexi, you have to be more considerate. You’re gonna push him over the edge.

ILANNA: I resent that remark! (puts sleep-weed over Igor’s face, and he passes out) Well, something smells human-y in here!

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LEXI: I didn’t mean—never mind. What kind of poison was that?

ILANNA: (uses Igor’s keys to let them out) It’s magic sleep-weed, of course!

Now get your fishtails out of here!

LEXI and ALEX run, but LEO remains curled up in the corner, moaning about oranges.

ALEX: We have to get him!

LEXI: Well, we might as well leave him. He’s totally insane.

ALEX: I’m going back for him. He’s helpless, we need to look out for him.

LEXI: Fine, but he’s your responsibility.

ALEX and LEXI hoist LEO to a standing position. IMPERIALMAN appears from the shadows.

ALEX: Oh my cod! (they drop Leo to the floor) ILANNA: Hey, leave the fish puns to me! I invented that one. I have ownership rights.

IMPERIALMAN: (ferociously) Quiet! You will not escape. (he sends out an energy wave to debilitate the escapees) If you value your lives, then remain still!

LEO: Oh no! Not you! Not the oranges!

family. In my plan to conquer the world, I have killed my brother, the King of England! The ship was supposed to sink, but that stupid fish girl saved you all!

ILANNA: Mer-maid! It’s not that hard!

IMPERIALMAN: Silence! Once I’m rid of you, I will be one step closer in my plan to conquer the world—first England, then the sea, then the world!

ALEX: Wait, the King’s long lost daughter? I thought I was his only daughter.

LEXI: It’s news to me. Someone assassinated my whole family when I was six years old. I’ve been looking for the assassin ever since.

IMPERIALMAN: Well, look no further!

LEXI: (enraged) You bastard! (she lunges toward him, but he stops her with an energy beam) IMPERIALMAN: Mwah hahaha!

ALEX: Stop! Scum like him isn’t worth it.

IGOR wakes. He realizes something is going on and stays quiet.

ILANNA: What the bubbles? So you’re sisters—he’s your cousin—

IMPERIALMAN: Greetings, son. You can drop the insanity act now.

IMPERIALMAN: Further thought process is futile. Come Leo, let us take our leave.

ILANNA, LEXI, and ALEX (simultaneously): What?!!

ALEX: He was in on it the whole time?

IMPERIALMAN: (to LEO) You incompetent fool!

LEXI: I knew there was something weird about that guy.

LEO: I’m sorry I couldn’t kill them, father.

ALEX: Leo, how could you? We risked our lives to get you out of the cage.

ILANNA: Wait, what the fishsticks is going on here?

LEXI: And why do you pretend to be afraid of oranges?

IMPERIALMAN: Let me clarify... I first enticed Alex with a free luxury cruise ticket, then had my own incompetent son, Leo, lure Lexi, the King’s long-lost daughter, onto the ship in the guise of saving his supposed

LEO: Don’t be such a clownfish. There’s no such thing as fruit phobia.

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ILANNA: Hey, you don’t deserve to use fish puns, you traitor!

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LEO: He’s my dad, I have to do what he says. (melancholy) I guess I have to, anyway.

LEO throws his orange hat to them. IMPERIALMAN and LEO exit to carry out their evil deeds.

IGOR sits up, head in hands.

IGOR: I can’t believe the king murdered... the king!

ALEX: Quiet down! Wait ’til they’re gone!

LEXI: Yeah! And then get us out of here!

IGOR: If what Imperialman says is true, he’s going to murder Neptune!

LEXI: I got this. Give me your keys.

IGOR: My keys! But I’m still sworn to serve the King, even if he is a murderer. But then again, the former King never appointed Imperialman to the throne. Therefore, I must do whatever Princess Alex says, because she is my new master?

ILANNA: Stop floundering around!

LEXI: Okay, Gollum, just get it over with and decide.

IGOR: (caressing the keys) My precious...

ALEX: Igor, think of what my father would have wanted. Do you think he would have wanted me locked up?

IGOR: No... but... okay. (IGOR throws his keys to LEXI, who lets everyone out of the prison. They all run—or swim—away to safety.)

END SCENE

ACT TWO Open on LEO dejectedly assmbling a giant Nerf gun to assassinate Neptune.

Bored, he starts fooling around with it.

LEO: (action-hero pose) It’s Nerf or nothing.

LEXI sneaks up behind LEO. LEXI: Hey, I’m the spy here. (holds sleep-weed to his face) LEO: Augh! His weakness—a cross! (passes out) LEXI: That’s how a real spy does it.

ALEX: Wait, he was trying to tell us something! What did he say? (stands over LEO and slaps him) Wake up, wake up! What’s the weakness?

LEXI: He said something about across. But across from where?

ILANA: Across... across... wait, not across, A cross!

LEXI: Wow, that actually makes sense.

IGOR: A cross? Oh! I know!

IMPERIALMAN enters IMPERIALMAN: (looking away) Leo, why haven’t you shot Neptune yet? (noticing that his plan has been foiled) Igor! You’ve freed the prisoners!

You have deceived me!

IMPERIALMAN shoots an energy wave towards the gang.

IGOR: (jumps in front of the energy wave and reveals a cross tattoo on his shoulder) Watch out! (IGOR deflects the energy wave and no one is hurt.)

IMPERIALMAN: What?! How?!

(Friendship music plays.)

ILANNA: Nothing defeats the power of friendship!

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IMPERIALMAN: Friendship?! Bah! Wait, my powers are fading.

ALEX: No, I have a better idea. (all exit)

IMPERIALMAN points at IGOR’S cross tattoo.

IMPERIALMAN: (shocked) I’ve been found out!

NARRATOR: Imperialman had been weakened by Igor’s cross tattoo, his only weakness, which he never expected. But was he truly defeated?

Meanwhile, Alex and Lexi share the throne and are co-Queens of England, in place of their deceased father. They are both happy to have a family again. Igor, the newfound hero, remains at the sides of the Queens.

LEXI: Why does every conflict have to be resolved with something cheesy like friendship?

ALEX and LEXI appear and QUEEN wave to their loyal subjects. All three receive a signal on their watches. They look at IGOR.

ALEX: Or love.

IGOR: I’ll get the spy car.

LEO: (waking up) I’m allergic to feelings! (falls back asleep)

NARRATOR: Ilanna has taken her fish puns to the next level as an undersea comedian.

IGOR: Yes, you demon!

ILANNA: (to IMPERIALMAN) You’ve found your nemo-sis!

LEXI: (grabbing Nerf gun) This is how it’s done. (shoots IMPERIALMAN) IMPERIALMAN: Augh! I’m melting! I’m melting!

ALEX: That line’s already been done, dude.

IMPERIALMAN: (weakened, staggering offstage) You haven’t seen the last of me! (exits) ALEX and LEXI return to the scene to f ind LEO, cowering on the ground.

LEO: (waking) Orange you glad he’s gone?

ILANNA appears, receiving a Clammy for her acting. She also receives a watch signal.

ILANNA: Thank you so much for this award, but now I must squid! (exits dramatically) NARRATOR: Lastly, Leo, redeems himself and is allowed to remain in the kingdom, providing he acts on a soap opera forever.

LEO appears, in the “hospital ” scene.

NURSE: Doctor, is he going to live?

LEXI: Quit it with the fruit already! I’m done with all of these puns!

LEO: (to audience) Why don’t I get a cool watch? (back in character for the soap opera) We’ve lost him.

ALEX: And we’re done with you, Leo!

IMPERIALMAN rises from hospital bed.

LEO: Have mercy on me, please! If it wasn’t for me, you never would have known about the cross. You’d be fish food! (Everyone looks at ILANNA, expecting her to react.)

LEO: And that’s my cue to leave.

ILANNA: I give up!

LEXI: (picks up Nerf gun) Let’s roll!

LEO: What about the power of friendship?

LEXI: (to ALEX) Should we lock him in the dungeon?

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(Cue spy music.)

BLACKOUT

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our special

THANKS to

MJ Knoll-Finn Vice President for Enrollment Management John Trimbur Director of the First-Year Writing Program in the Department of Writing, Literature, and Publishing Jerald Walker Chair of the Department of Writing, Literature, and Publishing Mary Kovaleski-Byrnes Lecturer, First-Year Writing Program in the Department of Writing, Literature, and Publishing

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WRITES

is coordinated by Sarah Ehrich Part-time Faculty, First-Year Writing Program in the Department of Writing, Literature, and Publishing Christopher Grant Senior Assistant Director of Undergraduate Admissions Kristina Kopic Part-time Faculty, First-Year Writing Program in the Department of Writing, Literature, and Publishing Chris Milot Assistant Director of Enrollment Pipeline Initiatives Adena Smith Executive Assistant to Vice President MJ Knoll-Finn