EmersonWRITES SPINE 2015 2016

S P I N E

VOL. 6

•

2015-2016

SPINE

SPINE VOLUME 6, 2015-2016

Published annually at Emerson College

SPINE: Student-Produced Interconnected Narratives at Emerson

A selection of original works by the students of emersonWRITES

Designer Alayne Fiore Front Cover Art Collaboration from the students in the emersonPUBLISHES workshop Back Cover Art “Bones Vectors” from freevector/Vecteezy.com SPINE • 2015-2016 • Volume 6 • February 2016

emersonWRITES is a collaboration between the First-Year Writing Program in the Department of Writing, Literature and Publishing and the Office of Enrollement Management and Student Success at Emerson College.

SPINE, previously titled, “The Anthology,” (2011-2014) is published annually by emersonWRITES, Emerson College, 120 Boylston Street, Boston, MA 02116.

Emerson College 120 Boylston Street Boston, MA 02116

What is emersonWRITES? our STUDENTS come from all over the Boston area and represent a diverse range of high schools and communities. They speak and write in English, Spanish, Haitian, Portuguese, Chinese, Arabic, and Vietnamese.

Some have only recently started calling the United States home. All share a passion for creative writing. Over the course of 12 Saturday sessions, they meet and collaborate with other writers they may not otherwise have known. This anthology showcases their hard work and their voices: their poems, their essays, and their stories. We invite you to enjoy their words and to experience each of their worlds. our FACULTY are practicing writers and devoted teachers. Having come to Emerson College to pursue their Masters of Fine Arts degrees 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. emersonWRITES is a free creative writing program for students in Boston Public Schools, co-sponsored by the First-Year Writing Program in the Department of Writing, Literature and Publishing and the Offices of Enrollment Management and Student Success at Emerson College. These programs are guided by the principle that writing is essential to intellectual engagement, self-representation, and access to opportunity. In collegestyle courses held on Emerson’s campus, our 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.

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Participating Schools Belmont Hill School Boston Arts Aademy Boston Collegiate Charter School Boston Community Leadership Academy Boston Green Acadamy Boston Latin Academy Boston Latin School Cambridge Rindge & Latin School Cathedral High School Codman Academy Charter Public School Community Academy of Science and Health Concord Carlisle Regional High School Cristo Rey Boston High School East Boston Central Catholic School East Boston High School English High School Excel Academy Charter Middle School--Orient Heights Excel High School Fontbonne Academy John D. O’Bryant School of Math & Science Lincoln Sudbury Regional Lowell High School Malden High School MATCH Charter Public High School Melrose High School New Mission High School North Quincy High School Revere High School Scituate High School Snowden International High School Stoughton MA O’Donnell Middle School Swampscott High School Tech Boston Academy The Woodward School Urban Science Academy Wakefield Memorial High School Wayland High School West Roxbury Academy Weston High School vi

Table of Contents

Why “SPINE”? About the Name ix Fiction 11 Nonfiction

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Poetry 81 Multi-Genre

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emersonPUBLISHES 155 Thank You Notes clvi

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Why “SPINE”? About the Name: Our emersonWRITES anthology was first named SPINE (StudentProduced Interconnected Narratives at Emerson) in a brainstorm session with the 2014-2015 faculty. After much discussion and deliberation, we decided on this name not for its acronym, but for the symbolism and imagery evoked by the word “spine”: • • • • • • •

A backbone Standing up (for what our students believe in) Strength Confidence Connecting the body (what moves us through the world) and the brain (how we make sense of this movement) Made up of parts that complete a whole—this diverse community of teachers/students/writers, hailing from all over the city/country/world The bones beneath our skin—more truly us, representing our identities, free of the way the world defines us by our outward appearances, our gender, sexuality, race, etc.

The words you’ll find in these pages are what results when our students stand up and put their thoughts into the world—an action that requires strength and support, both characteristics of the spine. The subjects and genres are as diverse as our perspectives, yet these narratives are all interconnected. They were all born during our Saturday morning classes—the spaces our emersonWRITES teachers take care to create and facilitate—where students can take risks, learn about new modes of expression, and discover the joy of being generous readers and supporters of each other’s writing. Just as the spine relies on the support of each vertebra, so our students rely on each other, their teachers, and this community to put their words out there. I can’t think of a better way to celebrate what they’ve accomplished than to call attention to how this work stands up, so tall, as it enters the world.

Mary Kovaleski Byrnes, Curriculum Coordinator ix

Fiction Course Introduction In this course, we set out to investigate what makes fiction fiction. Along the way, we talked about the genre’s building blocks: characters, point of view, scenes, story structure, voice, and world building. We read published stories that were playful, rule-breakers. Our students wrote from the perspective of inanimate objects, explored dystopian worlds, crafted erasure stories, and created social media profiles as character sketches. Then we transitioned into revision, and were impressed with the respect and appreciation our students brought to workshopping each other’s writing.

From the very first class, we knew we had a special group. We’d prepared a multi-part lesson to break a story down from summary to sentence to 6-word-story, but our students were able to jump straight to the 6-word story.

This set the tone for the rest of the class, and we’re still awed by their intellectual curiosity, lighting-speed thinking, and overall brilliance.

Their work deals with mental illness, superheroes, the French Revolution, religion, robots, race, gun violence, dystopian worlds, struggle, and identity.

Though they are different in subject matter, all of the pieces creatively stretch the reader’s imagination about what constitutes fiction—often combining genres and playing with form—and we are so proud to have been able to work with such smart and fearless writers.

Faculty Bios Kayleigh Shoen is a third-year MFA candidate in Fiction at Emerson College, where she also teaches composition in the First-Year Writing Program. This is her second year with emersonWRITES; last year she taught Nonfiction with Jenn Keogh. Kayleigh has loved writing since elementary school, and won her first writing contest in high school. She hopes to inspire her students to continue sharing their work and growing as writers long after the class has ended.

Cassie Title is a second-year MFA candidate in Fiction Writing at Emerson College, where she’s a reader for Redivider and works as a writing consultant in the Writing and Academic Resource Center. She’s written for Interview magazine, recapped a TV show about vampires for an MTV blog, served in AmeriCorps at a non-profit that used kickball and recess to improve lowincome schools, and written potentially quirky blog posts about the outdoors for an app company. This is her first year teaching in emersonWRITES, and she’s beyond impressed by how talented, smart, and creative all of her students are.

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Julia Carolan

Fontbonne Academy, 12th Grade This is a short scene from chapter five of my 50,000th attempt at writing a decent superhero story. In this excerpt, my main character, gifted with the power of disappearing, attempts to drive her invisible car through the city.

Although she’s a relatively smart girl, the pressure and excitement of trying to impress her city’s famous superhero vigilante, while also trying to making a name for herself, clouds her judgment from time to time. Thanks to our class about writing scenes, I was able to develop this idea that perfectly fits the tone of my novel.

Invisible Car Scene from Chapter Five of The Protector I was just starting to nod off when the hour-long static sound from my radio was interrupted by the gruff voice of the police commissioner.

“All mobile units on the east side converge on Belmont Bank. Our outside source has informed me Carson Dent is going to be there tonight, and he’s got some big robbery planned.”

Outside source, huh? Is that how the commissioner justifies it to himself? After that whole “superheroes are no longer accepted” press conference the other day, you’d think the mayor’s right hand man would be the first to stop taking tips from The Protector. Honestly, I sort of expected The Protector to stop giving tips. I’d be pretty bitter towards the police department if I was being publicly disowned.

Well, if he was going to be there tonight, it looked like it was finally time for me to come face-to-face with the man at the receiving ends of all my charitable work. Well…as face-to-face as two people wearing masks can be, I suppose.

My parents could not have chosen a better night to go out to dinner.

Sneaking out my window onto the roof sounded cool and rebellious at first, but slamming down (usually face first) onto the concrete gets old real fast.

Walking out the front door would be a welcome change.

I quickly switched into my uniform (it sounds more professional than costume) and sprinted out to the driveway.

“Hey darling, it’s going to be a big night tonight,” I said to my car.

“This is the day you go from Nicole’s pride and joy to The Protector’s 13

invisible mobile.”

Belmont Bank was only ten minutes away, according to the GPS. Perfect amount of time to give the whole invisible car thing a joy ride. The idea of turning my car invisible occurred to me at 3:00 a.m. and I’d been so pumped to try it all day. I set my phone to play the “Before a Fight” playlist I created last week and turned invisible. Focusing all my thoughts and energy on turning the car invisible, I grabbed the steering wheel.

As always, nothing looked invisible to me so I took a selfie of me in the car. Sure enough, when I looked at the picture it was just my empty driveway and the street behind me. The best car ever just got even more amazing.

Going ten miles per hour over the speed limit freaked Amanda out on the ride to school yesterday. I only wish she could be in the car now.

Twenty-five mile per hour zone? More like one hundred and twenty-five!

I made it to the bank in two minutes. This car was going to totally distinguish me from the all the other heroes of the world.

“You can’t even see her coming,” they’d say. “She’s impossible to beat!”

There was a red light in front of a busy intersection that I couldn’t just blow through. There didn’t seem to be much going on at the bank yet, so I wasn’t too worried.

That is, until I glanced in the rearview mirror. No, it wasn’t a super villain, or some mob boss guy. It was much, much worse; a person in my lane pulling up to the red light at a moderate speed.

I glanced back at the light, and it was still red. The river of cars passing in front of me wasn’t leaving any room that I could easily zoom through.

The car behind me was getting closer. This is what I got for following the rules of the road.

“C’mon; turn green! Please!”

This guy was going to think he had so much room to pull up! He was nearly on top of me now! How was he going to react to— The sound of crunching metal would haunt me for the rest of my life. Of all the things that could have gotten broken tonight—my bones, even my spirit—my beautiful car was not something I wanted dragged into this mess! I was too afraid to look back. Besides the fact that I let go of the steering wheel, automatically turning the car visible, I was focused on everything but using my powers right then. This guy suddenly had a full view of what he collided with. My guess? He wasn’t going to be too happy about the whole invisible car situation.

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Julia Carolan is a senior at Fontbonne Academy in Milton. She’d love to tell you what college she’ll be attending next year, but unfortunately schools love to play the waiting game with decision letters. She wants to thank emersonWRITES for giving her something awesome to look forward to every Saturday morning besides sleeping in.

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Taylor Driscoll

Cathedral High School, 12th grade This piece is about a teenage girl who lives in a mental institution. The story follows the girl’s thoughts and motives as she describes her experience at the institution. The girl believes that she is not crazy and that being at the mental institution is completely ridiculous.

The Terror of the Westbrook Home I rocked back and forth on the vintage rocking horse. My back hunched over as I held on tightly to the handles. My eyes were set on the dollhouse in front of me that marked my destination. My matted brown hair hung in front of my face and waved with the motion of the horse. I had been on the horse for a couple of hours now. If my timing was right, I was to be at the dollhouse by 6:00 a.m. the next morning. The nurse came in and out several times throughout my travels. I had no intention of bringing her with me because of the way she treated me when I first came to the mental institution a couple of years ago.

My aunt Lilith had sent me to the institution because of my constant threats to her life. In all fairness, she didn’t understand that I was a kid and that I needed my space. Many say I was a peculiar child but I believe that I was unique. Growing up, something about blood and organs made me happy. It shouldn’t have been a surprise that I took Snickers, our house cat, and skinned him in front of my aunt. That cat would always sneak into my room and mess around with my things. It was very bothersome. All I did then was threaten to do the same thing to my aunt if she didn’t leave me alone. She was trying to be like my mother, who in my opinion was just as worthless. Right after that, I was sent off to the Westbrook Home for the Mentally Insane. This was back in the day before actual tests of insanity, when people were paranoid over the slightest things.

“Fiona, it’s time for your medicine.” The nurse came back into the room with a tray. I rolled my eyes and kept on course for the dollhouse.

Those stupid pills never work. All they do is make me crazier and turn my brain to mush. I felt a hand touch my shoulder. I stopped rocking.

“Here you go, Fiona.” I could see the tray from the corner of my eye.

My breath began to quicken as I violently pushed her hand off of my shoulder. I rocked on the horse faster and faster, trying to escape from the 17

nurse. I could hear the tray hit the floor. The pills skidded in every direction.

I felt two hands come from under my arms and throw me onto the ground. The stinging pain in my side made me scream out. I instantly remembered the day I was taken from my home. I remembered the white jacket and the sedation.

I was only thirteen at the time. I was in my room cleaning Snickers’ fur from my hands in the bathroom when I heard the front door open and my aunt yelling out some nonsense. All of a sudden, my bathroom door was kicked down and two men rushed in and grabbed me. At that point, I was thrashing and resisting. I tried to scratch and claw my way out of their grip.

I could see Lilith and my sister Emma stare at me in horror. I was tugged into a white jacket that was tightly secured behind my back. At this point I was desperate and I tried to bite at the men when they began taking me outside. I wasn’t crazy. I was just a kid. I remember feeling this sharp pain on my side and everything was becoming blurry and before I knew it, I was at the mental hell hole.

I looked up at the nurse with contempt. Why couldn’t she just drop dead? “Fiona, you have to take your pills!” She came closer with the pills that she had in her hands. I backed up until I could feel the cold stone wall touch my back. She grabbed my jaw and tried to force me to swallow the pills. I kept spitting them back up. I tried to claw at her face to get her off of me.

I remember one of the fights I had gotten into with a patient in the mental institution earlier this year. Her name was Eve. We had been good friends in the past but she had recently started making new friends with some of the other nutcases in the place. I remember yelling at her for not spending enough time with me. She took me by the throat and started yelling words at me, “Hate!” “Dumb!” and even “Bitch!” a couple of times.

She never really put them into an actual sentence though. To get her off of me, I took a couple of chess pieces from a nearby set and began bashing her head with them. Even after she let go, I couldn’t stop. It was so exhilarating to do that. I was examined for a couple of months and then exiled to a white room for a couple more. News went around that Eve died from the injuries. I couldn’t help but smile.

The nurse had her hands around my neck now. I was struggling to reach her face, “Fiona, stop fighting!” I finally was able to scratch her left cheek. She screamed a little but her grip around my neck was still very strong. I panicked and searched the floor for something, anything. I found the tray that she had carried in with her. I grabbed it and slammed it 18

against the side of her skull. I felt something drip on my face. I looked up at her and her eyes were lifeless and her body was limp on mine. I pushed her off of me and stood up. I dropped the tray. Clang! I jumped at the sound. I could see the blood begin to seep from her wound as she laid in an awkward position on the ground in front of me.

I remember when I found out that my mother had been gruesomely murdered when I was ten. I personally wanted to thank whoever had done such a miraculous thing. I wish I could’ve been there to see her face as her life was being rightfully taken away from her. She didn’t even love me.

She had always favored my sister over me. If I brought home a drawing of our family, it would go into the drawer with all the others. If Emma brought home one, it would get top spot on the fridge door. When the police officers came to my door and told my aunt what had happened, I sat there and had the biggest grin on my face.

I sat back down on the rocking horse. The cold mahogany pressed against my bare legs as I began to rock again. I could hear the horse crunching the leftover pills underneath its rockers. My hands gripped the handles harder than ever before. I was mad now. My gown was covered in blood and I had wasted so much precious time fighting with that dumb nurse. Instead of getting to the dollhouse by 6:00 a.m., I would have to travel another three hours. I could see the blood-splattered tray from the corner of my eye. At least she’s dead now.

Taylor Driscoll is a senior at Cathedral High School. Her passion for writing started in middle school. Growing up, she was constantly writing in a notebook or typing a story. As she grew up, she realized that she wanted to pursue a career where her passion would be recognized. She hopes to go off to college next fall and pursue journalism.

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Joao Dos Santos

Revere High School, 11th Grade

This piece was written to portray the injustice that happens when we let our gun laws go unchecked in our country. It is to be seen through the eyes of a student walking down the halls on any normal day when a school shooter appears in front of her and her life flashes before her eyes. This story is written like a poem to show how our lives are short and stuttered, how each decision leads to another and how we sometimes don’t cherish the shorter moments.

The Safety In Our Schools I can see it now Staring at the bottom of this barrel Everything I’ve ever done When I was little, we would all sit around Like a big family, smiling and eating and very loud We laughed a lot and would fight But it was never in spite I remember the vacations to hot places The sunscreen all glopped on our faces Swimming and splashing in the pool Or staying inside where it was cool But I know he won’t do it He can’t I don’t know who he is, or what I’ve done But my life has just begun Please God just get me out of this one I want to go home, I want to run Cross this yellow tape and worried faces I need the loving safety of my family 21

I feel the warm hugs from my father and mother I know the love from my sister and brother I can see them with me even now When my knees are weak and I might hit the ground I should’ve said I love your more I shouldn’t have gotten so angry and slammed that door You were always there beside me And I’m sorry if I won’t be anymore But I can’t help but see it Staring at the bottom of this barrel I’m laid down with steady hands Primped up, and dressed with cold disconnection Flowers thrown with wavering petals Tears flow and ping like rain on metal His words try and sooth the woken But no words can bring her back no matter how soft spoken He hesitates with his his sweat beading down With a flick of his thumb, and the press of his finger The ricochet of thunder and everything goes dim I realize, I can’t see it anymore.

This is Joao Dos Santos’s second year in emersonWRITES. He has grown very fond of writing and finds it is a great way to pass his time and organize his mind. Joao tends to write short fictional stories through the eyes of people facing any kind of neglect, discrimination, or injustice as a way to expose the truth and make the reader feel how it feels to be in that situation. He hopes that one day he will attend Emerson.

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Alex Drumm

Community Academy of Science and Health, 12th Grade

I wrote this piece from Wheelock Playwrights that was originally a short play entitled How To Pimp a Butterfly. This story was created after listening to Kendrick Lamar’s album To Pimp a Butterfly, as well as reflecting on my environment. This class enhanced my enthusiasm for writing as well as finding my inner voice as a writer.

How To Pimp a Butterfly The late cold breeze haunts my skin as I mark the calendar. The corner of my eye fills with bright flashy lights as if someone is in need of assistance. I hear the desperate pleas of help and all of a sudden...a canon-like fire opens and my heart sinks. I quickly grab my robe to see what has happened. A young black teen is lying on the ground beneath the stare of an officer.

“Hmmm; he must have deserved to get shot. He was probably robbing, killing, or raping someone.”

But as I walk closer and closer, this body seems like the same one I encountered. No no no...it can’t be.

Just a few weeks ago I was watching reruns of The Ed Sullivan show, when all of a sudden I heard a window break. My body lunged up as I tried to get a baseball bat to slowly kill whatever was in my home. Then I heard something on my property climbing up as if trying to break in.

When I came to the room with the shattered glass all over the ground, I saw an irregular pig skinned ball in the center of the floor and then a figure trying to break in. Of course I called the police and to my surprise it was a young black kid who looked no more than 18 years old. He pleaded that he was just trying to retrieve his football and the officers of the law gave him the benefit of the doubt which just enraged me. “You’re not arresting him!

Wow, this justice system is purely a mockery.”

But we came to an agreement that he would fix the window in order for me not to press charges. Welcome to my nightmare, I would say. The following day I heard a knock.

OLD MAN WHITAKER: Knew your kind would never be on time.

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TJ: Wuzzup man. Let’s just get this cracking, ight?

OLD MAN WHITAKER: What? Speak English. This isn’t the ghetto and I know you were going to rob me the other day, but I’ve got my eye on you.

TJ: Whatever man, you need to chill.

OLD MAN WHITAKER: Do I look like an icebox?

I sat there and watched TJ like a hawk, waiting for him to slip up as he started to clean up the mess.

TJ: You know, I didn’t think I was that cute. But you can’t keep your eyes off me.

OLD MAN WHITAKER: What? Why you...how disrespectful; how dare you declare that repulsive claim!

TJ: I’m flattered, really, but I got a girlfriend.

OLD MAN WHITAKER: Will you shut your stupid jive talk up! I only want to hear the sound of the broom!

TJ: Aww, our first fight. Got it.

What a pain he was. Everytime he came I would comment rude remarks under my breath involving his race, but he didn’t seem to budge.

Well, he wasn’t all bad. I noticed he had a great affection for this so called rap music and loved to sing it. He even got me humming a tune. And he always seemed to be coming from somewhere because he always brought his big weird bag that seemed to be holding something. I started to connect more when I had to run outside to feed my butterflies and the curious TJ just so happened to sweep his way out to see what was the big commotion.

TJ: Wow! OLD MAN WHITAKER: Oh, you startled me!

TJ: How did you...when did you…they are fantastic!

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OLD MAN WHITAKER: I collected them when I was younger and I’ve been caring for them ever since. Beautiful, aren’t they?

TJ: Indeed they are. I got a question. How did you pimp a butterfly?

OLD MAN WHITAKER: How to pimp a butterfly? Such a ridiculous thought!

TJ: No! Like, how did you help them adapt to a new environment.

OLD MAN WHITAKER: Oh, why didn’t you just say so? Well, I slowly introduced them to a new habitat with residue of parts of their old habitat to help them adjust more effectively. That’s how.

TJ: I feel like I’m a butterfly waiting to be pimped.

OLD MAN WHITAKER: Why is that?

TJ: Well, black people start off in a cocoon and the cocoon is kinda imposed by outside forces. After a while, those outside forces start to leave and we start to self impose the cocoon. Then, we have other entities trying to pimp our struggle of us breaking out of the cocoon and becoming a butterfly.

OLD MAN WHITAKER: What if butterflies like yourself were able to fly without worries?

This couldn’t be true! Was I dreaming? His response was something along the lines of “then we wouldn’t have to endure such inhuman treatment.”

I remember one tasteless day that put both of us on opposite sides.

After TJ had installed the new window frame, a report on blacklivesmatter was broadcasted and my remark triggered a voice I thought I never would hear from him.

From that moment on I realized he was an intellectual person, far from anything I once presumed.

OLD MAN WHITAKER: I’m tired of this black lives matter crap. All lives matter. You people think the world revolves around your sorrows and stuff.

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TJ: Hold the phone. Are you fucking kidding me? Tell me you know the struggles we black people face on a daily basis. Oh right, you don’t—let me inform you on the subject. Racism, oppression, fear, poverty. It’s all lurking left and right and we have no cocoon to protect from all that.

OLD MAN WHITAKER: You are just being crazy.

TJ: Are you really that closed-minded to be unaware that the black culture is being chained and slowly destroyed? Apparently you wouldn’t understand, growing up in another hood. You probably grew up in the suburbs, the all-white hood.

OLD MAN WHITAKER: Grow up kid! The whole world doesn’t revolve around you.

TJ: Wake up old man! Black people are living in a bucket that’s unbearable to escape and it’s difficult to survive. You have the easy life; wish I could blend into society.... Are you a racist?

OLD MAN WHITAKER: Why is this question so important?

TJ: You called me so many names and everybody knows you were part of that group of people who threw rocks at black kids being introduced to public schools and…

OLD MAN WHITAKER: I’m not a racist! I may have judgements towards a few people.... Now can we move on from this topic I don’t care for…

TJ: Are you scared of my presence?

OLD MAN WHITAKER: You want my answer? Fine, I don’t trust your kind which is violent, that just destroys everything that you touch.

Comparing a black person to a butterfly is simply saying a violent person can have grace. Are you happy now?

TJ: You know, I thought I was going to have you misunderstood. But apparently the hood speaks the truth. I’m frustrated living in this world where I’m situated in. We can’t all cure the world of diseases. I hope you someday see the light.

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OLD MAN WHITAKER: Well, the light is looking just fine on my end.

Maybe turn yours on and you won’t be complaining.

After he stormed off, I sat in silence thinking of what an ungrateful prick he was. Then all of sudden I heard the sweet sounds of a violin being played in the center of a streetlight. This was TJ...wait, it couldn’t be! He had a violin in that big bag of his this whole time! How intelligent he was, how was he not ghetto? I watched him pour his heart out in that wooden instrument. I realized I should have apologized, so the following day I called him over but he said he was at a concert and would come afterwards. I also asked when his next concert was and like a schoolgirl I marked the calendar with full delight, then I told him I would see him when he gets here and hung up. After an hour had passed, I marked the calendar multiple times so I wouldn’t forget until all of a sudden...a canonlike fired and somebody was dropped to the ground.

After grabbing my robe and rushing outside to find the young TJ lifelessly on the ground, I wept like a baby losing his pacifier. I crawled on my knees and held him like a mother holding her newborn. My tears dripped onto his lifeless face as his blood seeped down into the cement.

The police officers just stood there like appalled statues. I overheard other neighbors that he had his hands up and his last words were”Please don’t shoot…”

OLD MAN WHITAKER: Please lord; no no no no no! If only I just shut up and not said what I said. I didn’t mean it. He was young in his prime.

Don’t go, please lord! TJ I’m sorry, I’m sorry and you will always be the butterfly to me.

Fin Alex Drumm has recently been awarded the POSSE scholarship for Denison University and he will pursue Film Production as well as Psychology.

In school, he is constantly balancing his grades above a B+ while managing the National Honors Society. For fun, Alex likes to dance, write stories, create films, longboard, play squash, and hang out with friends. This is the first time Alex has been a part of emersonWRITES, but he’s been a part of many artistic programs that have helped him to develop his inner voice as an artist such as: Citi Performing Arts Center, Fast Forward film class, Wheelock Playwrights, and even his dance team, Street Light Clique.

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Jackelyne Garces

Excel Academy Orient Heights, 8th Grade Not A Fleshie takes place in another world where robots exist. These robots (or mechs as they are called) are built to be smarter than the fleshies (humans). I am currently trying to make this into a larger piece.

Not a Fleshie “She’s not normal.”

“She’s a freak.”

“Why is she even alive?”

They think she doesn’t hear that. Or if they know, they don’t care. They think she’s naïve. But she’s not. She’s always listening. Always observing.

Never interfering. She’s different from the rest of her kind. She can feel. Too much, I think. That’s going to get her in trouble.

She knows we watch her. She knows everything. It’s impossible to surprise her. She’s too advanced. But the fleshies don’t know she’s a mech.

They think she’s one of them. Just a dumb fleshie. If they knew she was a mech they would treat her differently. They wouldn’t treat her like dirt. But it’s her job to deal with it. Her mission. She has to blend in. Well, as much as she can. To see how much she can feel or if she feels too much. *** It’s not my fault I’m a mech. I wish I was a fleshie. I know it’s dumb. I mean, who would give up the opportunity to never die, to never grow old?

But that’s not what I want. What I want is to fit in. To be a somebody. Not a something.

I can’t remember anything before six months ago. I was made with the newest tech and with more human parts than any of the others. I don’t know what that means. I think it just means I’m more of a fleshie than a mech. So does that mean I can age or die or get hurt or do I just look more like a fleshie? *** You can’t ask these questions at the academy. They expect the 29

best, and only the best are allowed to go on missions. You ask too many questions, you get recycled. Ask too few questions, you get recycled. You break the rules, recycled. Hesitate when asked a question, recycled. That’s pretty much how the first six months of my life were like. I didn’t have many friends. Partly because when I would make one they would get recycled for something stupid. So I stopped trying. Making friends would only take up more time and I could use all the time in the world for classes like “Blending In” and “Being Stupid,” which some of us call Fleshie 101. Teachers aren’t that bad. They’re pretty fun, actually. If we behave during our lesson they use the projector and put on funny pictures of some dumb, famous fleshies.

Jorge Montana, Steven Work. It really makes us laugh at how long it took them to invent things we could build when we were only days old. But the one you really had to look out for was the Head Mech, Mr. Curtis. He was a real pain in the ass.

Jackelyne Garces is an 8th grader at Excel Academy Orient Heights. She is a part of her school’s Cross Country and Track team. This was her first year in the emersonWRITES program and she hopes to be a part of it next year.

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Johnayia Howard

Match Charter Public High School, 11th Grade

Everyone has a moment in their life where things don’t work out and everyone has their own way of solving their problems. I guess writing things out was my way and it really helped me figure things out. This is a spoken word piece that I wrote when I was really upset and tired of failing at anything I tried. By writing this, I noticed everything I was doing wrong and it motivated me to do the best I could.

A Non-Existing Life I am constantly reminded of the lack of courage, responsibility, and perseverance. I am struggling to grasp onto the reality of the truth. As a result of my useless emptiness, I was held captive in a deep, dark abyss filled with mystic creatures that crawled under cold stone rocks in search of life’s pure purpose. Staring up at the sky which outlined the true definition of the light of life thinking, would someone notice if I was gone? A part of me knew I was left to be alone with these unique developments, finding my way back to the first place, where the sand began to make its way to the other side of the hourglass. I knew I was destined to survive on the beauty of emptiness and the hope that lies in the sky that my ugly eyes will never find. I knew that if I wanted to escape to find the dream catcher that would save me from this never-ending terrifying nightmare I would have to crawl until I blended in with the foreign identities, looking for the rock that screamed strength and purity, and in the process use my non-existing courage, responsibility, and perseverance. Of course, I tried. I tried when I didn’t feel like trying, when I got scared. I tried even when I realized I would never make it. Trying wasn’t good enough and I was left in the dark, ready to restart the process of becoming a part of the normality of humanity that would yet again fail.

Johnayia Howard attends Match Charter Public High School where she participates in after school clubs like drama, choir, and creative writing.

Johnayia enjoys hanging out with her friends from school; as a group they are known as “The Magnificent 7.” Johnayia is also an older sister that loves to play with her younger siblings which leads to them getting into trouble.

Overall, Johnayia Howard is a regular girl who loves to write.

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Hawa Ibrahim

Codman Academy Charter Public School, 12th Grade What I like most about emersonWRITES fiction is that I get the opportunity to talk about books and fiction writing. In my school we have Humanities, History, and ELA, but mostly History. So we never really talked much about writing or the rules of writing. So getting the opportunity to come out on a Saturday and learn about writing and talk about how amazing writing is is my cup of tea. Also, another bonus is that my school forces us to take Saturday classes, and we need Saturday class credits to graduate.

So coming to emersonWRITES I get excused from the boring classes that are offered at my school, and take classes about a subject I am really passionate about.

Orphicanian Scene from The Printed Society There are four different Societies: Tatted Society, Faultless Society, Arcane Society and Orphic Society. Every month the government goes to each Society to take tests to see if there are any Orphicanians being held as fugitives. Taylor and Trinity are identical twins who live in the Tatted Society, a society in which the words they say become printed on them.

In this scene, the twin sisters discover that Trinity is an Orphicanian.

Orphicanians are people who have the ability to erase and clear their skin from the words they have spoken. They are special and kept away from every Society.

They both know if the government finds out about Trinity’s secret they will take her away and separate the twins. They go against the law to keep Trinity’s secret.

I stand there in front of the mirror brushing my hair. Eyes focused on the movement of the brush, how it goes through my hair, electrons from the hair and the brush interacting. My attention is only focused on the brush. I hold it away from my hair, trying to examine it a little more when I notice a little twitching on my hands. I look towards my other hand and see the same movement. I am nervous, my heart rate quickens, as if finally realizing the emotion I am feeling.

Today is the day of the government’s monthly exam. Although it is not our first exam, this particular one has got my knees weak. I can’t quite put my finger on it but I have this feeling in my stomach, as if something bad is going to happen. I walk over to the drawer and put my brush away. I am 33

nervous but there is no need to take it out on my hair.

I walk to the mirror and just stand there, admiring my appearance.

My eyes go straight to my now straightened, but usually curly dusty savanna brown hair that is just to my back. My eyes wander towards my honey-colored tatted tanned skin. Today I decided to wear black pants with black Nike running shoes, white V-neck shirt and a dirty lime green infinity scarf to match my army green jacket.

“Trinity, what happened to your tatts?” I utter in shock.

“Wh-hat do you mean?” She turns her naked body around so the mirror can reflect her bare back. She gasps when she sees what is staring back at her.

“Did you get some of the Everence pill?” The pill, which is only accessible to the rich and wealthy, is the only known thing that can make the tatts on our body disappear. She must have gotten them; how else could her prints have disappeared? “You know what this could mean?

We’re in trouble.”

“What do you mean, it’ll be fine.” Looking back at me, no more worry peeking through those now calm pistachio green eyes. Trinity was always the one who never worried. A person could be on top of the roof threatening to jump off and she will look at them straight in the eyes and not be afraid.

“Our exam is today Trini, how can it possibly be fine?” I turn away from Trinity and make my way to the window, peeking through the blinds.

My palms begin to sweat as I try to grip on to the blinds.

“You’re always worrying. Caring about things that you have no control over. I’ll take care of this,” she says, sounding calmer than usual.

Her calmness irks something in me. I walk up to her now annoyed.

“What could you possibly do Trinity, that will make this fine? That will make the doctors not suspicious?” I say annoyed at the person who has the same features as me.

“Orphicanian.” She stares at herself in the mirror, eyes now dark emerald, sparkling.

“Wh-what do you mean?” I say nervously, taking a couple steps back from her. That word was told to not be spoken about in the Tatted Society.

Possibly in all the different Societies as well.

“They are extinct, they don’t exist. The government said so.” My knees become weak, I struggle to hold myself up but still manage to look at my sister right in the eyes. Waiting for her to laugh, waiting for her to tell me she was joking about ever thinking those types of people existed. Instead 34

her eyes turn dark, the light in her eyes go dark and she stares at me. No humor peeking through those eyes.

“You don’t know that.” She says “The-government-said-so.” I take a couple of steps towards her.

Hoping to intimidate her into changing her mind.

“So, the government could be wrong.” Those words being uttered was a crime. We are raised to always say the opposite. To always say the government is right. To say they know what is best for us.

“You’re lying.” Annoyed, and angry now. How dare my sister, the one who has been there with me in class, uttering the same exact words as everyone else, “The government is right. They’re not always right. But they’re never wrong.” We would say that phrase every time we entered each class. It was a pledge we lived by each day. How could she just go against them?

“Taylor, get real. Let’s think here: how can my tatts disappear without me getting a hold of the Everence pill? Let’s think here.”

“What do you mean, anything could happen. You could’ve...or maybe something could’ve...anything.” I am waiting for my brain to come up with a reasonable excuse to how my sister’s tatts disappeared. I do not want to think about how there could be a possibility of her being an Orphicanian.

That is not possible at all.

A knock at the door startles not only me but my sister. “You guys are taking an awful lot of time, is everything ok?” Mom says while opening our door just a creak. I try to come up with something to say to Mom to make her disappear, but I cannot find the words, I stand there frozen. What if Mom knows? What if the doctors find out? What if they find us suspicious and take both of us in? What if they kill us?

Before I can allow the words to make their way to my lips, Trinity screams from behind me. “We’ll be right out, Mom.” “Hurry up!” She screams from behind the door and her footsteps become a distant noise.

“Do you think Mom knows?” I say, my face still turned to the door that my mom once hid behind.

“I don’t know, but all I know is, if she doesn’t know, let her not know,” she says walking up to the bunk bed with white Converse low top sneakers on her left hand. While Trinity was a righty, I was a lefty. I remember when we were younger, Mom would put a spoon in front of me and Trinity. My twin sister would use her right, I would use my left, and that was how Mom and Dad told us apart.

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Hawa Ibrahim is a high school senior from Codman Academy Charter Public School. After finding out her school had no yearbooks or a Yearbook Club, she took it upon herself to create the club on her own. She is now the founder and president of the club. Through the club, she has found her love for planning events and writing. Hawa enjoys going to the library after school and taking three mile runs three days a week—that is, when she is not feeling lazy. Hawa has been accepted into Colby-Sawyer College in New London, New Hampshire, with an $88,000 scholarship. Although she does not know what school she will be attending next fall, she thinks she will be happy about wherever she decides to go.

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Kathleen Kim

Boston Latin School, 9th Grade The short story I submitted is titled Silhouette. I wrote this piece of fiction as a challenge to step out of my comfort zone of dystopian and sci-fi and attempt writing realistic fiction set in modern day. The idea for this story came to me after I learned about hallucinations and schizophrenia in class.

It seemed like a very interesting and new topic to try writing and so this story was created.

Silhouette She’s there again, leaning against the pole of the bus stop when I walk out of the school doors. I freeze, terror forming a lump in my throat.

Not again. My legs shake, and the air refuses to go into my lungs. The girl seems to feel my agitation and glances over at me. A smile forms on her pale lips.

That same girl’s been stalking me for the past month or so. I see her everywhere—lurking on street corners on my way home, trailing me in the school hallways, lingering near my locker after every period. And the creepiest part of all? The girl doesn’t even go to this school.

Before I can run, a warm hand touches my shoulder and jars me out of my daze. “Hey Piper, is everything okay?” I turn and find myself staring into Cara’s blue eyes. They shine with concern.

“No,” I stammer out. “That girl, the one by the bus stop, she keeps following me around.”

Cara follows my gaze and frowns. “What girl? I don’t see anyone.”

“She’s right there,” I insist, forcing up my words in short breaths and frantically pointing in her direction. “Can’t you see her?”

Cara stares at me as if I’ve gone mad. “Are you sure you’re okay? Do you need to see the nurse?” She reaches out to see if my forehead is hot. I brush her away before she can check my temperature.

“I’m f—” I falter as I see the girl beginning to walk towards me. I gulp.

My grip on the strap of my backpack tightens until my knuckles turn white and I begin to back up, praying I can blend into the thick swarm of departing students. The girl comes closer until I can see the smugness glinting in her dark eyes and the light spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose. I swear I can smell her cloying, flowery perfume from here.

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My heart thumps and I can hear the blood pumping in my ears. I need to get out of here. I need to get away from her. “I gotta go,” I gasp out, spinning on my heel and taking off in the opposite direction.

“Piper! Wait! Piper!” Cara shouts after me, but her voice becomes faint as soon as I dive into the crowd of students in the narrow hallway. I don’t look back. The red exit sign catches my gaze and I let out the smallest breath of relief as I sprint towards it. My palms slam into the door, pushing it open.

I am greeted by a breeze of refreshing air. I take a moment to pause and catch my breath before I begin to run again. My boots thump against the concrete sidewalk in a quick rhythmic pace. The scenery around me blurs and sharpens as I sprint past the dark evergreen trees and my neighbors’ houses.

I’m almost home.

I’ll be safe there.

I’ll— I skid to a stop, my heart lurching into my throat as I catch sight of the girl sitting cross-legged on my porch. She looks up and raises an eyebrow.

A bored look is painted over her face, as if she’s been waiting for me for a long time.

“How…?” I numbly ask in horror.

The girl stays silent, simply getting to her feet and brushing imaginary dirt off her ripped denim jeans. She walks closer to me, the smug look still dancing in her eyes.

Instinctual fear urges me to run, but something else glues my feet to the floor. And I realize, I’m not frozen with fear. I’m tired of it. I’m tired of feeling irrationally afraid whenever I see the girl. I’m tired of running away every time only for her to catch up to me. And for the first time, I want to fight back, to end this once and for all.

A surge of anger and fear erupts in me and I scream, “Go away! Stop following me!” When the girl acts like she doesn’t hear me, I try shoving her away before she can get any closer. Only, my hands pass right through her, like she’s a ghost. A gasp escapes my lips and my eyes widen.

“You’re not real,” I whisper softly, slowly beginning to understand how she got to my house before I did.

Her brown eyes are bright and insistent. “No,” she says, her voice trembling. “I’m real. I’m just as real as you are, Piper.” Her hesitation tells me she doesn’t believe the lies she spins.

The tips of her fingers begin to glow with a shimmering aura that 38

flaunts her artificiality. “You’re not real,” I repeat, drinking in a wave of confidence. “You’re just in my head.”

“No,” the girl whimpers. “I’m real, I’m real, I’m real.” Tears swim in her dark eyes.

“You’re not real,” I say one last time.

And the girl that haunts me begins to fade, gradually being wiped away until the only vivid piece of her left are her eyes. They shine with a clash of emotions I cannot identify. She closes her eyes, and she melts away completely.

I’m left standing on an empty sidewalk in the afternoon sunlight. The tension in my chest begins to loosen; I can no longer feel the dark and heavy shadow the girl had imposed on my life. And for once in a long time, I finally feel free.

Kathleen is a student at Boston Latin School and is a staff writer for the school newspaper. She enjoys writing mainly fiction and is currently working on her first book. Kathleen is an aspiring writer and hopes to one day publish her own book and have a career in screenwriting.

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Masha Leyfer

Boston Latin School, 9th Grade

This piece is inspired by the French Revolution and by Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables. It appeals to the fact that most of the people who fought in the revolution--and in many revolutions, for that matter--have their lives cut short by causes that aren’t worth killing for.

The Blood of Children They were revolutionaries. They were the most innovative minds of their time. They were the spark that would light a flame.

But goddammit, they were children.

They were the soldiers that defended France. They were the messengers of revolution, they were the martyrs of freedom.

And still, they were children.

They were the bodies on the street, the blood in the gutters, the shouts in the night.

And all they were was children.

They died for an empty cause, believing that they could bring freedom, believing that they could make a difference, but they were children and they were powered by the blind belief that they could change the fabric of the universe because the time had come. They were children and they didn’t know, they didn’t believe, they refused to believe, that nothing ever changes.

Nothing ever gets better.

They set themselves on fire to keep an entire people warm, but how could they know that they would burn out, as all fires burn out, and the momentary warmth would be replaced by an era of darkness. How could they know that their lights would be forgotten as soon as they winked out and how could they know how soon that would be?

It was too soon.

Far too soon.

The faces at the windows, they are children’s faces. The silent footsteps, they are children’s steps. The shadows in the corner, those are the shadows of children. They never lived. They were raised and then they died. Do you hear the echoes of their unsung laughter? Do you hear the echoes of their unsung songs? Do you see their last words, frozen on their dead lips before 41

they could convince themselves that they weren’t throwing their lives away?

We weren’t there for them. They had to sing themselves to sleep as they bled out on a dirty street and we weren’t there. Their shadows, their echoes, they will stay with us forever as we grow old and they don’t.

Look around.

No revolution is worth fighting in if it is watered with the blood of children, but the blood running down the streets was children’s blood, and the blood coloring the flag of revolution red was children’s blood, and the blood staining our hands the color of death was children’s blood.

Red, the blood of angry men.

Black, the dark of ages past.

Those were the words that they sung as they sprinted to their deaths, that was the creed by which they lived, by which they died. They died screaming freedom, screaming Vive la France, hoping that the words would save them, but they didn’t, because words can’t save you if you’re dead.

Vive la France.

Vive la révolution.

And the only time that they had to think to think about themselves was as they died and only then did they realize that they wanted to live. They cried out about life and in the process forgot they they deserved to live as well. They had lives as well. And they were dying in the streets, with the realization that they weren’t done, that they wanted more, that they wanted life.

And by then, it was too late.

Masha Leyfer attends Boston Latin School. She enjoys writing and hopes to make it her career. She is a strong advocate against math and all the other injustices that this world holds. She loves musicals, (especially Urinetown) and is prone to spontaneously bursting into verses of songs, bits of dialogue, or raps from Hamilton. She writes for her school magazines (The Argo, Catapulta, and The Register) and recently completed her first novel. Writing is a major part of her identity and has consumed her entire life. It’s like the mafia. Once you get in, you can’t get out.

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Alysha McDevitt

Malden High School, 10th Grade

Consumption She always wanted the kind of love that consumes you. The perfect kind everyone craved. Lovers’ eyes meet, hands touch, that magical kiss and an all-inclusive happy ever after. As she grew older, it seemed more and more people were finding love, and she seemed to be looking in all the wrong places.

Then, she met him.

Their love was different from the start. It was nothing like she thought it would be. At first, everything about them seemed unlikely, they were such very different individuals. Nonetheless, a friendship blossomed. But even as friends, there was a sense of discomfort between them; any physical contact or even lingering eye contact seemed too intimate.

As they grew closer, they silently began to fall deeply in love with each other in every way possible; from the cliche things, like their friendly eyes and smiles, to the harsher things such as their short tempers and bad attitudes.

Then it happened.

The kiss. It was nothing like she expected. There were no fireworks. It wasn’t magical; it was breathtaking and far too real to consider it magical.

It was raw and aggressive—simultaneously loving and lustful. Every day that went on brought about some kind of argument, and every day they were reminded of why they fell in love with each other.

It wasn’t love at first sight, and she learned to appreciate that it took him time to fall in love with her. It wasn’t just the smile that hid away her bright blue eyes, it was her smart mouth and the way she pretended to get mad just so he would pull her close to him. While she was smart, she had moments when she just couldn’t think straight. She was too stubborn for her own good and always had to be right. She was clingy and got jealous easily, but it was with these many flaws that he learned the immeasurable depth of her love for him.

While she loved his warm brown eyes and his smirk, she loved him in ways far deeper than that. She loved that he was always sarcastic and that he constantly picked on her. While he had a short temper, he always 43

had a little more patience with her. He never let her forget how beautiful she was to him and how much he loved her. She always knew he was by her side when she needed him, and he would do anything in his power to protect her. But most of all, she loved that every night, she went to sleep knowing that he was hers, and hers only.

Their love consumed them. It wasn’t the love everyone wanted, but it was the love that everyone needed, whether or not they knew it. Few people are lucky enough to fully experience this lovely consumption, but those who are, are not given this love, they create it. To have this kind of love, one must look deeper than physical appearances and learn to think about how a person acts, and why they do so. Love is nature’s most beautiful work of art, and like all good art, in order to fully appreciate it one must admire every aspect of it and attempt to understand it.

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Karla Mendoza

Revere High School, 11th Grade I wrote this at a time where I was at a crossroads with myself. I didn’t know how to explain my thoughts about how my church made me feel. It was all corrupt and they weren’t fair at all. I didn’t have the courage at the time to speak out because I knew nothing would change. So I wrote this piece of how I imagined the events would’ve happened.

Never Looking Back The cold temperatures seeped into my bones as I reached for the still doorknob, I couldn’t move. Was I ready to face the people seated behind door number one? Suddenly, I was looking down at myself, too scared to turn a simple knob! Too anxious for what would come next. This was the moment where all my frustration would end. I opened the door slowly to not attract attention. It’s like the door creaked in spite of me...everyone turned their heads in my direction.

“Hello, my love!” exclaimed Marge, my dance leader.

“Hey guys.” I said shakily.

“Okay, you wanted to talk to us about something important?”

The reason we were there was because I’d decided to leave the dance team and my church. Not because I wanted to stray from God’s path but because my church made that path feel like a maze. Every Sunday the frigid gym began to appear more and more vacant. The rows of discolored chairs hadn’t been filled for months now. For the one year I came back from my hiatus I just plopped down in my seat and nothing that was preached ever influenced me. It wasn’t because I didn’t heed the word but because the pastor’s message was all scattered. It never touched my heart because I didn’t understand it or even came close to deciphering it. Or sometimes he would mention problematic things that were disgusting and ignorant. I didn’t want to sit through a sermon full of hate. I am aware that you “shouldn’t pay attention to people but focus on God only” but how can I when the people guiding me to him are corrupt?

“I’m no longer comfortable here. I’m not comfortable being loud and running around just to prove to others that I love God. It also doesn’t help when people like me are called out. I can’t grow here spiritually.”

“They can be pushy,” Marge said with caution.

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I mentally rolled my eyes, of course she would defend it. My timidness quickly turned into irritation. I didn’t want my thoughts to be rejected so I called out leaders who only cared about numbers and not the actual salvation of others. Greediness and entitlement plagued the gym walls, the stage, the seats, the very ground I have danced on. It felt wrong being there every weekend. It will definitely impact me in a great way. I get to move on to a new place where I can grasp the message and where I don’t feel attacked. I’m very content because there was a point in time where church and God was the center of my life and I want to be there again.

Going to church shouldn’t feel like a chore, you should go because your heart leads you there. My heart wasn’t leading me to that gym, it ached every weekend. I know that having a close relationship with God will lead me to great things in every area of my life. I know that I never want to look back.

This is Karla Mendoza’s first year at emersonWRITES. Karla joined because she wanted more guidance on writing after taking an AP Language and Composition class at school (and not doing well). Sadly, because of obligations to an army program at her high school (JROTC) she missed some classes at emersonWRITES. Karla is planning on joining again next year because the days she did come she enjoyed it.

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Alia Ortiz

West Roxbury Academy, 11th Grade

The Getaway I could tell the minute I got in the door and dropped my bag, I wasn’t staying. The house reeked of mildew and old wood, the floors creaked with every step and the lack of lighting wasn’t necessarily helping the matter.

I began to walk around the house looking at the old family portraits and thinking about the real reason I came out here, my life was in shambles.

My mother had just passed away after a long and strenuous battle with lymphoma, and to top that off, she left me with a pile of medical bills that I could not pay. I suddenly snapped out of my thoughts when I heard a loud creak in the floor behind me. My heart felt like it was going to beat out of my chest. I held my breath not wanting to face the person or thing behind me but that wouldn’t help because I stood directly in the middle of the room.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” I heard someone ask from behind me. I couldn’t tell if they were male or female. Fear ripped through my body and I slowly turned around only to see no one there.

“Hello?” I called out, “Is anyone there?” But before I knew it I was knocked on the ground, hard. I felt my head ricochet off the ground and everything went black.

“You shouldn’t be here.” I heard the voice of a young child say to me, “Mommy doesn’t like strangers.” Judging from the pitch of the child’s voice she was no older than ten years old. I was groggy and my head was throbbing and my vision was still blurred. I tried to reach my hands to my face but I was unable to because my hands were now tied behind my back. I struggled a bit trying to free myself but every time I moved the ropes felt as though they were getting tighter around my wrists. The child was in front of me, I felt as though her bright baby blue eyes were boring holes into me. That’s when I began to panic, but the girl just laughed at me.

“You can’t leave now! You’re the guest of honor.” She screamed. Her once baby blue eyes now a chilling pitch black and her once calm demeanor very cold and harsh. By this point in time I knew that I was in trouble and there was no clear way out of the predicament, so I stopped struggling.

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“W—w—What’s y—y—your name?” I stuttered, “I’m A—” “Don’t waste your time telling us your name, it won’t matter by the end of the night.” This was the same voice I had heard earlier, but now I had a face to match that voice. “Elizabeth sweetheart, go get our house guest her party dress.” The woman ushered the young girl out of the room and disappeared into the kitchen, reappearing with a set of knives. My body went stiff, I felt the hairs on the back of my head stand up in sheer horror.

“W—what are you going to do with t—t—those?” I asked, not really wanting to hear the answer to my question. With a swift snap of her fingers the woman was now standing before me wielding a knife, my heart dropped and my breath hitched.

“HOW DARE YOU QUESTION MY ACTIONS IN MY HOME?” She said, aiming the knife at me, and with a swift flick of her wrist, I felt a sharp pain. It took me a moment to register what she had just done to me, blood trickled down my face and on my clothes. “You see what you made me do? You’re no longer of use to us.” The woman then called the girl and the two vanished, leaving me alone, tied up and bleeding.

“HELP! HELP! HELP! HELPPPP!” I screamed while trying to fight against the now painfully tight ropes. “SOMEONE PLEASE!” The wooden chair that I was sitting on fell back and snapped, the ropes that once acted like boa constrictors around my wrists were now loose enough for me to free my hands. I pushed myself off of the ground and ran to grab my stuff as fast as I could but the front door was jammed. I grabbed the remains of the chair in which I once sat and threw it out the window. But before I could make it out the window I was thrown across the room, and I saw the woman standing before me. I closed my eyes so that I couldn’t see what was next…

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Nonfiction Course Introduction In this course, we looked to our own true stories and experiences for inspiration, and we considered how to write these stories so they could leave our private journals and blogs and enter the world in ways that effectively captivate and relate to an audience. This course was unique because it was also a multilingual course, one in which we were encouraged to consider the importance of language in our work.

We found that incorporating slang, foreign languages, and our own habits of speaking into our writing allowed us to convey personal style in a deeper and more meaningful way.

By combining fiction and nonfiction, we gained a better understanding of how to effectively express our thoughts and ideas with clarity and precision. The subject matter of our individual work encompassed subjects as diverse as romantic relationships, gender norms, athletic triumphs and cultural identity, but as a class, we considered the influences of home and family and our role in shaping our own educations.

Faculty Bios Elena Cabrera is an MFA candidate in Creative Writing Fiction at Emerson, where she also teaches in the First-Year Writing Program. Elena enjoys writing both short and long works of fiction. She has previously worked in publishing, specifically reading and editing romance novels for mass-market publication.

Elena is originally from the North Shore of Massachusetts but lived in both Minnesota and Connecticut for periods of time and is happy to be living, studying, and teaching in her home state once again.

Samantha Facciolo is a second-year Fiction student in the MFA program at Emerson College. Before coming to Emerson, she taught in Montessori schools for six years. She has also tutored students of all ages, most recently through the Writing Center at English High School. When she’s not writing or teaching, Samantha can often be found doing something active. She works with special needs students and veterans through an equine therapy program, coaches Special Olympics basketball and track teams, and has twice run the Boston Marathon for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society.

Allaire Rae Conte is far from her home in the deserts of Arizona, a senior undergraduate at Emerson College majoring in writing, literature, and publishing. In between studying and volunteering with emersonWRITES, Allaire works as a florist, illustrates for YourMag, and hosts a political talk show on WECB called The Mosh. She is currently writing her memoir and praying to get into an MFA program.

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Charlie Kielt

Boston Latin School, 9th Grade

This year, I enjoyed learning how to effectively convey emotions and the narrator’s voice through my writing. In this short story, I used these tactics while also incorporating detailed descriptions to help the reader envision the setting and put themselves in the narrator’s place.

Little Cabin in the Woods When I was younger, I would spend all my time in the woods with my father, hiking and telling stories and poking strange bugs with sticks.

We would wade in streams, and climb big rock cliffs. It was always the highlight of my week, bonding together in what seemed at the time to be some infinite wilderness, where all my worries seemed to vanish into the thick brambles and never return. But my favorite memory of all was of one of the last times we visited the woods. It was winter then, with light snow covering the earth like a silk veil. After trudging through the trees in a direction we’d never gone before, we found a gargantuan cliff, soaring into the sky. I remember looking at him and smiling. It was amazing. At the base of the cliff, there was a snowless patch that I immediately ran to. It was then that I decided it would be great to build a fort, out of the small logs and sticks that little 8-year-old me could manage. My dad helped me, and after an hour, we had constructed a small cabin of sorts, complete with a roof. I was beaming the whole time, and it still remains my most vivid memory of him.

My dad passed away only a few months later, after a battle with cancer. I never went back to the woods after that. It was too sad for me to handle, especially in the third grade. But this past summer, I decided to return there, on the anniversary of his passing, as a sort of remembrance.

My bike was wheeled out of my garage, its tires filled with air, its brakes tuned to perfection. I set off down the roads I hadn’t travelled since the last time I was in dad’s ancient Volkswagen. After a torturous hour of a solid uphill climb, I finally arrived at the reservation, its front gate triggering nostalgic memories of times gone by. Having locked my bike up against a chain fence, I trudged off in the same direction I went so many years before, and after what seems like only minutes, I had once again arrived at the same gargantuan cliff that once filled me with awe. I jogged to the 51

bottom of the cliff face, and found a large pile of half decayed timber in the same spot where we had built our little fort. I grinned, and it felt like my dad was grinning too, up there in heaven.

Charlie is a freshman at Boston Latin School. He is a youth leader in the Boy Scouts of America, and a bassist in the BLS Dues Band and the BLS Repertory String Orchestra. In his free time, he enjoys camping, longdistance biking, and sailing, as well as writing and publishing short stories online.

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Carina Layfield

Boston Latin School, 9th Grade This year I struggled with writing a nonfiction piece that I felt comfortable sharing with others. I kept coming back to the same one before realizing that it would be a good piece to submit. I wanted to write about my love of softball because it is a constant in my life, and something I know I can count on.

Softball: A Part of Me At the crack of the bat I sprinted towards the fast approaching grounder coming to my left, and with a stretch of my glove I reached out, and scooped up the softball just in time, before making a light toss to first to get the out. I was surprised to hear clapping coming from the spectators, and even more to hear the coach from the other team shout, “Great play second base!”

My love of softball started with baseball.

My parents always watch the Red Sox games, and the first season that I really started paying attention to as well was in 2007. It of course helped that the 2007 Red Sox were an exceptional team, and won the World Series. I could name all of the players, recite the batting order, and tell anyone who asked what the standings were for the American League Eastern Division. I wanted to play baseball just like David Ortiz and Manny Ramirez. My dad was thrilled, and for my seventh birthday, he bought me my first glove. It was a tiny black one that was meant for beginners. I was signed up for a class at the YMCA, and learned basic techniques.

For the next few years, I continued to take those classes. Outside of them, I would play catch with my dad, uncles, and my brother, Owen, who seemed to have also received the baseball gene. Hours were passed in the backyard playing catch. One day, my dad said to Owen and me, “It looks like we have a Kevin Youkilis and a Coco Crisp,” noting Owen’s inherent knack for fielding grounders, and my passion for chasing down fly balls.

It wasn’t, however, until fourth grade that I got to play on a team. My best friend, at the time, was telling me about the softball league she plays in, and she handed me a flyer. Excited, I brought it home, and showed it to my parents. I was so happy when I found out that I could play.

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I got a new glove that was meant for softball, and thus began my first season. My team was called “Ellen’s House Childcare.” We were maroon colored. My coach only put experienced players in the infield, so it was frustrating to me that I never got to touch the ball, as no one was able to hit it into the outfield. Yet, I still had a ton of fun, and the next season I returned, excited to play some more.

My second and third seasons ended in championships.

My fourth season holds a special place in my heart. I had two very good coaches, Dan and John. They were encouraging, inspiring, dedicated, and truly understood how the game worked. They came up with brilliant strategies, gave me exceptional advice, and put up with all of my corny jokes. That year, we lost in the semi-finals. But I didn’t care. It felt like we had won the championship because of the positive attitudes I had been surrounded with by my teammates.

The next summer, I was invited to play in a tournament. We played three games in one day, and I successfully fielded every ball that was hit my way. At the end I could still feel the adrenaline pumping through my veins, the throbbing pain in my left calf where I had been hit by a stray pitch, the feeling of excitement as I stole home, and the pounding of my heart from the happiness I had experienced.

After that tournament, the craving and desire to play softball could not be suppressed. In September, I joined a fall league. In it I experimented a little bit. I was more aggressive when it came to baserunning, whenever I could I would take off, stealing. It gives me great joy to take a lead at third, and sprint home when the ball passes the catcher, then slide into home a split-second before I can be tagged.

Over the years my passion has changed from baseball to softball, and from fly balls to grounders. Owen stuck with baseball, but prefers catcher to any other position now. My favorite two positions are second and third base. Both feel natural to me. As much as I enjoy the feeling I get from stealing home, what I love even more is playing in the infield.

I can play any infield position pretty well, but at second I truly feel like I belong. It used to be that I found it difficult to quickly shuffle to one side and reach out my glove to catch a ball. Now, it feels completely natural.

Still, whenever I successfully field a particularly challenging ball I can’t help but smile.

What I love the most about softball is not winning, or even fielding grounders, it’s the experience I have gained through playing on a team. You can’t play softball by yourself, trust me I’ve tried, and you can’t go through 54

life without receiving and giving help. I’ve had very good seasons, and I’ve had terrible seasons, but on every team I’ve played on, I’ve managed to make at least one friend. I treasure the friendships and memories that I have made on the field, and in the end they are what matters.

During the fall season, my team only won one game, but all of us were too happy playing in the off-season to actually care, and that’s the beauty in it. Softball isn’t about winning or losing, it’s about having fun, and giving it your all.

“Great play second base!” At the sound of the other team’s coach, I turned my head and shot him a smile, before jogging off the field.

Carina is a star in the constellation Argo Navis, the Latin word for keel of a ship, the Italian word for cute, and a freshman at Boston Latin School who might have a slightly unhealthy obsession with all things Classics and Italian. She is a softball enthusiast, and a language lover.

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Michael Martinez

Weston High School, 9th Grade

My writing is a simple story, yet there is a much bigger picture. Many might not understand a lot of my writing, partly because some of my words are in Spanish, but also because the struggles that are present in the story are bigger than they might appear. This is a true story.

Apartamento “Cucaracha sucia!”

Barely lifting up her foot, Abuela took off her chancleta and flung it at the wall. Hitting it at least a foot away from the bug, we watched as he crawled behind the refrigerator. Abuela had startled him and now he was gone. But she didn’t want to accept that. Getting up from the table, Abuela limped towards the kitchen cabinet and flung open the door. She pulled out a baby blue can of Febreze and sprayed it in the direction of the cockroach.

“Mother-trucking Cucaracha!” Abuela exclaimed with her best English while she drowned the cockroach in a rose scented spray. “I wanna leave dis apartmento.”

Abuela placed the slipper back on her foot and returned to the table.

She sat down and continued to eat her Quaker Avena. The one that has a white man with a pirate’s hat as its logo.

“Abuela.” I stopped her. “Febreze doesn’t kill cockroaches.”

“No, es poison” She drank some coffee. “After spray, they dead.”

I nodded my head, pretending to believe Abuela. But the lady was probably high off of all the Clorox she would use to try to rid the apartment of all living things that were not human. But still, no matter how much Clorox she used, I would still hear the little mice running around at night.

Their noises would keep me up late, worried that if I fell asleep I would wake up with a mouse on my chest. I always slept with a blanket over my head, just in case a cockroach decided that my face would be a good place to lay its eggs.

“You know, when I was Puerto Rican.” Abuela laughed. “No! When I live in Puerto Rico, I have to wash out for di lizard. I was so scare of the lizard. Oh my goooooness.” Abuela smiled at me as she looked back on her childhood in Caguas.

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“But I no rememeber cucarachas or ratones in Caguas.”

Abuela looked out the window onto the streets of the city. “Dis here, no good.”

Michael is a freshman at Weston High School. This is his first year at emersonWRITES. He is a very proud Puerto Rican who can salsa dance very well and loves Pastelitos and Pasteles. Michael is also a born-again Christian who is friends with God, the big man himself.

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Shona Ortiz

Boston Latin School, 11th Grade Through emersonWRITES, I’ve learned that all stories are worth telling.

Nonfiction class has inspired me to explore my life and things that matter to me, and put them to paper. This piece is about the country my father grew up in, and staying with his family during my first visit there.

La Patria Guatemala City “¿Hay muchas montañas en Boston como aquí?” my cousin asks.

No, there aren’t any mountains in Boston, my mother responds in perfect Spanish, smiling at me at the innocence of the question. Evelyn’s rapid-fire Spanish ricochets off the windshield to the two of us in the back seat. I listen and understand nearly everything they’re saying, but I don’t partake.

When I was growing up, my parents were both fluent in Spanish but they never spoke it around the house. My older brother wholeheartedly rejected the language, so they never bothered with me. I study it in school and can understand it fluently, but I stumble over my words for fear of accidentally saying something that isn’t what I really mean.

Instead, I soak up the scenery, watching beautifully graffitied walls, patchy run-down storefronts, children in uniform walking in the streets home from school, and dark, stout women with baskets on their heads whiz by. Volcanoes loom in the distance, silent and ominous.

Petén It’s still dark when we get in the van the next morning at 4:00 a.m. to begin our nine hour ride. I sit next to baby Tiffany, still asleep. I stay awake long enough to watch the sun, looking larger and redder than I’ve ever seen it, tinting the many shades of green gliding by to a color there aren’t words to describe, creep up over the hills sprinkled across the horizon.

Sleep overcomes me.

I wake in a justified sweat. We’ve entered the hottest part of a tropical country with infinite climates, and the van apparently lacks AC. We stop for breakfast at an open air restaurant on the side of the dirt road. Brown 59

women with jet black hair and worker hands pat tortillas just outside, men in uniform laugh and eat inside. “¡Una abeja!” A bee seems to have drowned itself in my Horchata.

Tia Flor, my dad’s sister, talks about her son Giovanni who disappeared a few years ago on a trip to Mexico with his friends. I struggle to imagine what it must feel like to lose someone and never have closure as to what happened. Everything here is so raw and real.

Tikal Standing on top of the ruins, I can see the tops of canopies for what seems like miles. In the distance, I see the top of the ruin we walked here from, poking up from a sea of green. Tio Erwin reminds me that these ruins were built by my Mayan ancestors, as if I could forget. Back on the ground, my cousin Ivana hands her baby Tiffany to me. I carry her on my hip until the next ruin, as she plays with my hair, and I try to keep her from putting it in her mouth. A monkey swings by on vines overhead.

Lago Atitlán From where I sit in the little restaurant my aunt chose for lunch, past cobblestone streets and tin roofs, I can just barely see the lake, its blue waves lapping at the shore. Flanked on three sides by grass-covered volcanoes, I spot tiny towns tucked into the mountainside, just barely visible by their little multicolored houses.

Everyone orders the same thing: eggs, beans, coffee. Flor, her husband Erwin, and my mom talk about the upcoming elections. Evelyn watches the TV, my cousin Ivana engages in conversation with little Erwin, Evelyn’s son. In a high chair in the corner, Tiffany examines her manzana juice box. “None of the candidates are any good.” Tiffany’s stubby little fingers fumble with the box, tipping it over. “One of them seems okay, but her father is accused of committing genocidio against los Mayas.” Tiffany removes the straw from the box, throwing it on the ground. “There’s a comedian running. He’s leading in the polls. I guess people are just fed up with all the corruption.” Tiffany brings the box up to her face, touching the top with her tongue, trying to get the juice to come out of the little hole, but she can’t seem to figure it out. She looks at me, and giggles. I smile back.

She throws the box on the ground.

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Santiago Speeding down cobblestone streets in our procession of TukTuks—named so because of the sound the horn makes, but resembling rickshaws one would see in India—we pass hundreds of little booths where the indigenous people sell their crafts and wares. Beautifully patterned, vibrantly colored, intricately designed clothes catch my eye, flanked by detailed paintings of mountains and lakes, and baskets of handmade jewelry. My peripheral vision is an amalgam of deep indigos, sunrise reds, and Quetzal greens. We get out of the Tuk-Tuk to explore.

Antigua We all sit beneath an arch, waiting for Evelyn to get back. Tio Erwin tells the story of how this city, the original capital of Guatemala, met its Pompeiian fate. It was overrun by lava from the volcano that dominates the sky beyond the church, but it was rebuilt and is now a huge tourist attraction. Evelyn returns, both arms full with steaming styrofoam cups of Atol de Elote, a sweet corn drink. Here, we can walk in the streets, whereas in the new capital, we couldn’t because it wouldn’t be safe. In such a tranquil place, it’s hard to believe that where my father grew up was ridden with crime and poverty.

Isla de Flores Sitting on the floor in Tia Flor’s room so I can connect to the Wifi, I FaceTime Papi. He asks how I’m doing, and how I like his country. I ask how his day was at work. It feels odd experiencing his home country without him, but he can’t afford to take time off work, so he FaceTimes me from his apartment in Eastie. “Te quiero mucho, Dios te bendiga.” I go to bed, on my last night in this beautiful country, in which he spent the first twenty years of his life. 3,500 miles away, I’ve never felt so close to him.

Aside from writing, Shona likes to dabble in as many art forms as she can, which include drawing, painting, and playing the ukulele and guitar.

Shona will be captain of the BLS Step Squad her upcoming senior year.

She is Guatemalan, Irish, and Filipino. She really, really loves to laugh.

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Taylor Phillips

Excel Academy High School, 9th Grade This year Taylor wrote about her little cousins being born when she was in the fifth grade. The memoir is about Taylor trying to find her place in her family and if her cousins will like her when they grow up.

Hero In fifth grade my mom texted me a picture of two nearly hairless babies. I thought that she was playing with my soft side for babies like she does with baby animals. But that thought changed when my mom was taking me to the hospital to see Aunty and there in her almond arms was pale baby in blue and in my uncle’s pale hands was also a baby but in pink. I always knew Aunty was having twins and I even got to feel them move around when I touched her baby bump. But this was different somehow. I think back to when I was younger Aunty would ask me if she ever had kids would I help her, I always said yes.

In school we’re learning about foreshadows and Aunty was always foreshadowing for all those years and she probably never realized. I greeted Aunty then asked if I could hold one of the babies, I was then handed the baby she holding. I took a big long look at the baby.

“Mikey.”

I whispered. Mikey looked like a burrito the way he was wrapped in his blanket. The dirty blonde stuff sticking out in soft short curls. I then went to the girl one. Maddy. Maddy looked like Mikey in almost every way.

Dirty blonde soft curls, pale skin with warm brown eyes that looked like my own. Maddy latched her small chubby hands onto my index finger. I felt something inside of me click as Maddy looked up at me.

I had always wanted to be a hero, a role model, someone a kid could look up to. That was why I spend so much time in the pre-k classrooms. My younger siblings were too old to listen to me and I was the middle child so that didn’t help the situation. I looked down at the new opportunity that was in my arms. I wouldn’t have to run around the house playing pretend in a cape to be a hero anymore.

A few months into the birth of my cousins I tried to be the best cousin I could and started acting more mature. Maddy and Mikey liked being around the other twins known as my younger brother and sister. I started 63

to feel left out like they didn’t like me. I felt as if the baby twins hated me. It was as if the babies chose their favorite cousins and they wanted nothing to do with me. I knew the twins were growing up and becoming independent but why did they suddenly become dependent when they were with my siblings? I knew they were growing up but why did it hurt so much? Was it because they might be growing up to hate me?

The young twins would make grabs at my younger sibling but rarely ever at me and it scared me.

Aunty took me to the side and asked me what was wrong. I told her about how the babies didn’t like me and she got upset that I was upset about something so little as that. She asked me if I still wanted to feed the babies and I said yes. I fed Maddy and Mikey a warm bottle then changed their diapers. I gave Mikey back to Aunty and took Maddy with me for her nap. I lay her on my chest and watched her eyes flutter closed snuggling closer to me. At that moment any thoughts of them not liking me went away. How could that little face dislike anyone? I fell asleep holding Maddy in a protective hold.

A few years later the babies were not babies anymore, they were toddlers that ran around and spoke. I would kiss their cheeks and wrap them in large blankets and hold them the way I held them two years ago.

Today was February tenth, the day they were born and I bought them sweaters for the winter with my allowance. They were wearing the sweaters and saying “Thank you Tay-ah.” I giggled about their words.

“I love you Maddy.”

“I love you too, Tay-ah.”

“I love you Mikey.”

“I wove you.”

I look at Mikey and then at Maddy and hold them close to me as if they were my lifeline. They probably were.

“I love you more.” I whispered into their small pink ears just before attacking them with tickles. Their laughter made me feel warm inside.

How could I think that they didn’t like me? They loved me. I could remember the weekends when I had to go home. They would cry saying they wanted to come with me or they wanted me to stay. They would follow me around when I went outside and called my name when they were scared, sad or happy. I may not have a cape or did anything heroic to earn that title, but I am a hero to the eyes of my little cousins.

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Taylor is a freshman at Excel Academy Charter High School. Taylor has had a love for writing since she was in fifth grade. Taylor has always had an odd sense of style. Her odd style is what sparked her interest in writing.

Writing means everything to Taylor, it is how she expresses the emotions she bottles up.

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Briana Previlon

Melrose High School, 10th Grade Throughout the course of emersonWRITES, I learned how to bring feeling to my writing. It will help me for when I am writing applications to get into college. In this piece I write about how a group of girls are hiking in the backcountry of Wyoming for seven days. They face many trials and tribulations, but in the end they realized they were all in this together.

Just Keep On Trekking Trenching through the anonymous woods of Wyoming was anything but glamorous. Everyone started dragging their feet as the day went on. Every once in awhile, someone would stop and say, “I’m done!” and storm off. But we all knew they’d be back. No one could survive these woods alone. Blisters developed on people’s feet, making it quite difficult to walk. But we just kept on trekking. The animals quickly scurried away and watched in amazement as we human beings walked through their homes. We journeyed on to higher elevation. They said there would be less mosquitos the higher we went up, but boy, were they wrong. I fell several times throughout the days, but somehow I found the willpower to get back up.

Let’s not forget the time we climbed up the mountain right before a thunderstorm. As we reached the top, we looked down upon the distance we had crossed. Off in the distance, storm clouds and rain could be seen.

As they got closer, we could faintly see the lightning and hear the loud claps of thunder. As quickly as we came up, we went back down. I don’t know about you, but I was trying to live.

You could never see skies like this in the city. As you looked up, you could clearly make out the stars and moon. Perhaps if you looked closely enough, you could see the other planets. No worries about cars honking or people yelling. Just you and nature (and bugs unfortunately). Looking at the stars made you wonder if there really was another person out there.

What were they doing right now? Everyone looked at each other over the little stoves, pondering how did we end up here. City girls all from Boston, where did the time go? Out in the wilderness for six days, we trekked about 25 miles, cried together, bled together, hell, even slept in the same tents together. When that bus comes tomorrow, we will all beg our minds to 67

forget this. Deep down inside, we’ll always remember.

Briana is currently sixteen years old. She is involved in her school’s play, Les Misérables, which showcases in late April. She is also in the mock trial club.

On the weekends, she takes violin lessons. Afterwards, she participates in a chamber orchestra for several hours. She enjoys reading fiction books and listening to One Direction on a daily basis.

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Elena C. Ramos

Cristo Rey Boston, 10th Grade In my nonfiction class, Elena, Allaire, and Sam, have been teaching me to not be afraid to let others read your piece. Not so long ago, I lost a classmate, a friend, a warrior. Even though me and him were never the closest, he was still a person that everybody knew. I decided to dedicate this piece for him.

Lost Ones Freshman year I wasn’t any ordinary freshman. I got placed in another class and was separated from the rest of class of 2018 because they really wanted to make sure I proceeded to sophomore year, and in order for that to happen, I needed “extra help.” I never got to notice the students, but there was one who stood out the most to me. Not because of his one leg and his facing cancer twice and managing to still be alive, but because of his positive attitude and his effort to show up to school everyday. Damone was surrounded by all these people because we had never had a student who had gone through so much in our class. Everybody kept asking him so many questions that even I felt uncomfortable, but he was okay with it, like he was used to it. “Are you planning on getting a fake leg soon?”

“You do know this school doesn’t have a elevator, right?” I wish I could tell everyone to just leave him alone but I was always disconnected from the “other” freshmen.

The cancer that he was diagnosed with was called osteosarcoma. It was cancer IN the bones. This happens at a very young age and spreads quickly to common areas like hips, shoulders, or knees. For him, it was his whole lower body. They decided to cut off half of his left leg so the cancer wouldn’t spread more and that’s exactly what happened. He survived for the second time!

His sophomore year, well ours, he was determined to finish, get good grades and graduate with us. He was definitely on a good roll. He was in my math class and sat at my table. I always asked him how he was doing, if he needed anything, any help because I felt like I was Pythagoras or Isaac Newton. I just wanted to make sure he was comfortable and getting his work done even though me and him never had a strong relationship, I always loved to make sure people were succeeding, just like how the school 69

had helped me too. It was very strange I even got any work done, because my class was so loud and unfocused. Sometimes, I even went crazy. Weeks went by and little by little, Damone started to talk less because he was missing class again. It didn’t feel right. I just kept him in my prayers and made sure everything was okay. Later in the year 2015, we got the news that cancer missed him and wanted to be back with him. Cancer felt lonely and believed it wasn’t hurting enough people. I guess Damone’s bones were its favorite.

Damone always came to visit us and made sure we were all doing okay. Made sure that we kept studying instead of worrying so much about him. Made sure we kept him still part of our class no matter what. Made sure he was like any other sophomore and not “disconnected” from the others because of his condition.

The months kept passing and all of our administration kept mentioning how his cancer was getting worse and that this time, it might take his life. They wanted us to take precautions and be aware of how serious his condition was. We wanted to stay strong and made sure we did good on our midterms that were coming up. The midterms that sadly Damone couldn’t attend. When Mr. Scott came in to give us the news that he had been officially transferred to Children’s Hospital and only had less than a month to live, EVERYBODY was miserable, overwhelmed, and extremely heartbroken. We had to prepare ourselves, especially our class.

Damone officially passed away on January 27, 2016, two days after his 17th birthday. It was peculiar that I happened to find out in my math class. It was the first time my math class was completely silent. We didn’t know what to do because the teachers hadn’t got a notice yet but they managed to find ways to keep us comfortable and made sure we stood together as a class. Made sure we were comforted by others and safe.

This day was the day that the school came together as one and helped each other out. Not everybody knew Damone but when death happens, it reminds you of the deaths you have gone through and makes you reminisce about your loved ones.

I just want everybody to know that they’re never alone. God made us all brothers and sisters and on that day, we lost a young brother. On October 23, 2015, we lost another young brother to gang violence. On April 4, 1968, we lost a brother who died by making a difference in this world for African Americans. On April 23, 1616, we lost a brother who was the king of literature and helped us interpret this world with poems. On October 24, 2005, we lost a sister who was a big part in the American 70

Civil Rights movement and showed us that people can do anything if they stick to their beliefs. I could go on for days mentioning all of the people who impacted our lives. Of course not including family members.

Everybody needs to know that their loved ones are in a way better place than this world and are always going to be watching over no matter what.

They love you and you will always remain in a special place in their heart.

You have to know that it was their time to go and God needed them. God made us brothers and sisters, so we have to be there for each other.

Elena talks way too much for anyone to take it all in at once, but again she’s so entertaining. She’s the “bright one,” the “shining light.” She’s a soccer admirer and plays defense because she never lets her team down. She’s absolutely dedicated to her studies and is an amazing mathematician.

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Joseph Rowland

Boston Latin School, 11th Grade This year, I really began to take a serious look at nonfiction writing. In the past I have stuck almost exclusively to fiction. This class taught me how to take intangible, fleeting tufts of human memory and weave it into coherent, engaging, and, most importantly, true pieces of writing.

Rhona Besides my parents, the adult that influenced me the most was undoubtedly Rhona. In the wake of a divorce, my mom hired her to be a babysitter for my siblings and me when needed. In the beginning, it was her job to get us out of school in the afternoon. She’d show up in her unmistakable white car outside my school like clockwork, and stagger in wearing a tank top (under a jacket if it was cold out) and flip-flops (always) even though she didn’t have the body or feet for them. “There’s Rhona, my babysitter,” I’d tell my friends, if only to remind them that this was not my mother, just a lady who my mom paid to take care of me. But in some ways, she was my mom, from four to seven on weekdays at least.

After checking me out of Mt. Alvernia, she’d swing by the Baldwin ELC to scoop up my brother and sister. After that, she basically did errands with us in tow. Shopping, going to the bank, getting a manicure—it all sounds boring on paper, but Rhona always made it interesting. She was ridiculously stingy for someone who shopped as much as her. One time, she demanded to see the manager of a Christmas Tree Shop because she found a bocce ball set to be criminally overpriced. “I’m a Scorpio gal— can’t help it!” she’d tell me with a laugh.

In the summer, with Mom at work, we spent entire days with Rhona, and that meant going to a place we had never gone before: her house.

This is how we learned that she is a hoarder. The h-word was never said out loud, but that’s what she was. Stacks of VHS tapes lined the kitchen wall. An entire room was devoted to broken furniture. A depressing pile of unopened toys took up most of the bathroom.

She also hoarded pets. She had five dogs, including a Rottweiler named Leo and a Chihuahua named Raisin. Raisin was her favorite, mostly because he was small enough to ride in the car with her. Rhona loved to tell me about how she rescued him from an abusive owner. It was 73

a nice story, but I had a sneaking suspicion that she named Raisin after the round, black cigarette burn mark on his side. A thick layer of newspapers carpeted the hallway floor, catching any doggy waste before it could stain the seldom-seen hardwood floor underneath. The dogs had the run of the house, with the exception of the living room, which was set apart with a small plywood divider.

The living room contained three cats and a parrot. This was where I spent most of my time, mostly because I was terrified by Leo. I grew to love the VHS selection in there, sitting spellbound by the Rock as a scorpiontaur in The Mummy Returns while cats swarmed around my ankles. The parrot would go crazy if there were any loud noises from the TV, but it would go to sleep if you threw a blanket over its cage.

The bedroom of Christina, Rhona’s daughter, was messy like the rest of the house, but in a way that screamed “teenager.” Twilight movie posters, Seventeen magazine quizzes, and tiger-print duct tape covered the walls. Tubes of lip gloss and acne cream littered the vanity. In the corner was a blue chair shaped like a cupped hand, which Christina let me sit in sometimes. But most of the time, we kids weren’t allowed to enter her room at all. It was Christina’s sanctuary from the chaos of her mother.

The outdoors offered few options for us. Rhona’s yard was a danger zone; it was impossible to walk from one side to the other without stepping on a dog turd. There was a park with a complete playground directly across the street, but muggings were a regular occurrence there, and even if we were willing to risk certain harm for an hour of seesawing, Rhona was usually too preoccupied with The Young and the Restless to take us.

We had told our mother about the conditions of Rhona’s home, but she didn’t believe until she saw it one fall afternoon while picking us up.

Rhona never babysat us again after that.

A lot of my memories of Rhona and her labyrinthine house are strange and surreal. Her taking a Ziploc bag of scrambled eggs and ketchup out of her purse and telling me that it’s my lunch. An ant weaving in and out of an air conditioner vent. The sleek shape of a rat, licking its paws in the space between a Lego kit and the toilet. I realize now that these fragments are a window into extreme poverty. “I’m sorry you had to see all of that,” said my Mom when I brought it up recently, but I am actually happy that I got to see a side of my neighborhood that wasn’t all white picket fences. I wouldn’t say that the experience made me a better person, but it certainly gave me a newfound appreciation for my own socioeconomic standings, and more sympathy for those who are in situations similar to Rhona’s.

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Even after getting let go by my mother, Rhona still managed to be present in our lives. In the August before I entered seventh grade, she invited us all to the barbecue celebration of her grandson’s second birthday. That evening, she surprised me with a ceramic mug with the words “Congrats grad!� on it, since I just graduated from elementary school. The gift took me completely by surprise, and to this day it is my favorite mug.

Joseph Rowland is a junior at Boston Latin School. When he is not sleeping or at school, he can be found enjoying his waning youth or staring at the sun (with transition lenses, or course). He is looking forward to barely making ends meet as a professional writer.

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Essence Smith

Excel Academy - Orient Heights, 8th Grade This year, I joined the nonfiction class at emersonWRITES and I learned that just because you’re in a specific genre doesn’t mean that your work has to be under a label. For example, your work doesn’t always have to be traditional and as a writer, you can have your own unique writing style.

In addition, writing has always been an outlet for me and it allows me to let out all of my inner frustrations. In honor of Black History Month, I have written a poem where I recall a moment in my childhood when a little girl asked me, “Why are you so black?” The poem below is my answer to the little girl’s question.

Human My skin is mixed with the riches of smooth milk chocolate and sweet glittering gold Which shines and glistens in the Arabian sun My melanin originated from the very soil that my ancestors turned My hair is locked in tight curls My eyes are deep sepia brown I am a queen But you and I are the same Both of our veins bleed red Both of our lungs breathe the same air Both of our hearts beat Both of our eyes listen for sound Both of our eyes see the cruel world The only difference between us is the color of our skin But can’t you see that we are all the same We’re both human.

Essence is a student at Excel Academy - Orient Heights and currently plays for the girls basketball team. However, when she’s not sleeping, practicing for a game, or doing homework—she’s writing.

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Kyaralind Vasquez

Cristo Rey Boston High School, 9th Grade My first year at emersonWRITES consisted of learning new ideas and improvements to employ in my writing. I write because I enjoy expressing my opinions freely. In the following anecdote, I write about an event that is based on a real life ballet experience.

Stage Fright Madness It felt like it took place a million years ago, only it was just a year ago.

Lights are streaming white, blue, red, purple, and orange colors eagerly exploring the stage. Seconds are ticking by quickly and at the same time we’re trying to catch up to the beat of the music as it rummages through our bodies. My mind’s overflowing with thoughts until all of a sudden, everything collapses. The silence that was once so eerily quiet is broken with enthusiastic cheers of the crowd in front. Then, we are engulfed by the blanket of velvet curtains. Our faces are steaming as if we are eating a mouthful of jalapenos as we single out backstage. The tempo and rhythm of the music still rings in my ears, faintly.

Let’s take this back to a few hours ago before the dance—where my group and I had dinner at a parish. We are trembling in the bitter cold as we huddle at the front door of the parish. A nice, young priest welcomes us as he opens the door. Inside, bright, illuminating chandeliers generated a warm atmosphere. Friendly, shy faces of the students us at the table. We learn about their interests and what type of job they would want to have in the future. Loaded plates of salad, white rice, and barbeque chicken assuaged my hunger meanwhile. I could hardly eat a grain more when the priest brings out the desert. As we finish our dinner, the girls and I excitedly prepare for the big performance.

Soon enough, it’s showdown. I struggle to zipper on my leotard as I first put it on the wrong way. Finally, I stumble out of the stall, awaiting the sheepish look on my face in the mirror. I see the girls already started on their hair.

“Hey,” I whisper to Jocelyn, “Can you do a bun on my hair?”

“Sure,” she replies, “Where do you want it?”

“Right on the top, please.”

My knees are aching as I bend down for her to do my hair. It feels 79

like an endless fumble through my hair until her fingers finally manage to make a tiny, tight bun. Afterwards, we hurriedly apply light makeup onto our faces and scurry to the chapel. There, we rehearse our dance. Red, sore blisters then began to form on our feet. The agonizing pain of the early sores forces us to stop after about an hour.

It’s 7pm. I’m waiting behind the cover of the curtains. My hands are perspiring with sweat like a waterfall, and my legs are tense. I plaster a fake smile to assure my instructors that I’m okay, when I’m really not. I’ve battled with stage fright all my life. I pretend to admire my costume, black tights covered in colorful prisms at the ankles over a black leotard. We wait apprehensively and curl our toes as if to contain our excitement. Then, we get our cue. All of a sudden, it seems like a bubble burst inside of us and we are no longer full of fear but of ineradicable morale.

I did it. I actually did it. My head is throbbing, but I don’t care. I memorized the routine. Pride spills over me and I’m grinning like an idiot.

From that day on, though I don’t do ballet anymore, I’ve been encouraged to try new things, such as rehearsing at a chapel and performing the dance has inspired me to become more of a venturesome, confident person. I may have tendencies to become queasy onstage, however, thinking of that day reminded me that anything could really happen and that I should take advantage of doing more things that are out of my comfort zone.

Kyaralind is a freshman at Cristo Rey Boston High School, and is currently applying for Crimson Academy; a summer innovative program held at Harvard University. She has dark brown hair and light brown skin, and enjoys reading books in her free time

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Poetry Course Introduction Together, we explored the building blocks of poetry and spent time with it in its most ancient forms and journeyed into its newest, most current trends.

In our quest to self-define what poetry “is”, we used both physical and figurative movement to explore the many ways that poetry takes shape. Classroom examination and activities included but were not limited to: the differences between poetry forms and formats, incorporating yoga principles and how they relate to the process of composing, found poems and poetry of observation, and experimentation with music. The class continuously investigated how poetry lives outside of the classroom and how it is constantly evolving in our ever-changing world by following and mimicking its movement and shapes.

One should expect extreme honesty when reading the work of our students.

As a class, our call to write was always the question “What is at stake for you in this poem”? We are proud to say that our students always answered this call. From narrative poems that follow the accounts of historical figures, to prose poems that follow the stream of consciousness, everything written in this section meant something important to the writer, and that is what is most valuable.

Faculty Bios Jennifer Keogh is 26 years old, currently living in Providence, RI, and recently received her MFA in Creative Writing from Emerson College. She currently works in the fast-paced, action-packed environment of retail sales at American Eagle Outfitters and typically drives the struggle bus to work. On the rare occasions she is available to have free time, you might find her holed up in her room organizing and re-organizing her bookshelf, closet, or drawers. Pieces of her writing may occur to her at any moment, which results in trying to write whilst driving or walking. In the recent future, she hopes to begin a career in college admissions helping lost souls discover their paths within or without an academic community.

Breauna L. Roach is an MFA candidate in Poetry at Emerson College and a recipient of the Gwendolyn Brooks Writers Association’s Poetry Prize. Her work has appeared in the Detroit Institute of Art, Little Patuxent Review, and various other publications. She seeks to communicate across time and cultural barriers in her poems, and often focuses on blending the personal with the universal. She also teaches in the First-Year Writing Program at Emerson College. Breauna is a native of Detroit, MI, and has received fellowships from Cave Canem and Callaloo. She is a practicing yogini and has a tortoise named Sinbad. She will gladly show you pictures of him eating veggies upon request.

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Caitlyn Comm is a sophomore undergraduate studying Writing for Film and Television. This is her first year as an emersonWRITES Poetry Teaching Assistant. Her poetry experience begins and ends with a poetry contest she won in the fifth grade, for which she traced a killer drawing of the Big Bad Wolf. She enjoys writing and validation, especially when the two go together.

She has previously been published in Lunch Ticket and has recently had a script selected at the Los Angeles Cinefest. When she’s not writing, you can find her at WGBH, where she interns at the children’s television show, Arthur.

Helen Apesos

Boston Latin School, 9th Grade This year, in English class we read Catcher in the Rye, which is written in stream of consciousness. I found this style really interesting and wanted to try it out in a prose poem. This poem is about a girl and her dad going to see the most recent Quentin Tarantino movie, The Hateful Eight, and her thoughts as they leave the theater and as she and her dad drive home. This poem is about random associations, which appear to make no sense, but in the end it all circles back to one person.

Feet fetish, i once heard it was possible to have one for feet quentin tarantino does i heard i saw his new movie with my dad we drove to the theater showing it was the last day we could see it movie buddies thanks dad snow ice and blood thanks blizzard going home walk to car dad drove feet on gas pedal red light dad stop green go thanks radios on now volume up please thanks such a good song thanks hey it’s dark out street lamps inebriate rain drops on the car window thanks the decemberists are playing now great it’s january now thanks my feet get out and walk me the rain puddle wet it doesn’t know how to snow outside of the movies splash feet wet feet poor feet thanks feet home alone now thanks dad dropped me off enchiladas for dinner leftovers thanks mom made them last night dad said they look like exploded gut my dinner is a tarantino movie and somehow that makes me think of you.

Helen is a freshman at Boston Latin School. She loves watching sitcoms, drawing, and photography. Last year she had a photograph published in her school’s literary magazine, The Register. She participates in her school’s German Club, and takes pottery classes down the street from her school. In her free time, she can be found on the floor of her bedroom, with her cat, Lyra, sleeping on her chest as she listens to music.

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Marie-Helen Carr

Boston Latin Academy, 12th Grade

Over the past two years in emersonWRITES my confidence as a writer has been built to the point I could stand in a crowd of people and shout out my most personal piece. I owe this program everything I have because without it, I’d still be typing and deleting drafts constantly on my phone and thinking it was a waste of time. I found my voice in the poetry I wrote, and have been coached and guided through it so I could feel happy with each piece I wrote.

I have a habit of not speaking up for myself and then letting others speak for me under the assumption that I’m too shy rather than not feeling comfortable with speaking. In my naturally passive aggressive nature this poem is my rant in response to the label I’m all too familiar with.

Despite the inevitability of loss it still rips you apart when it occurs.

Grieving takes place in many different displays but whilst studying different cultural methods I wrote this poem as my own way of coping.

Drowning

The gerund of ‘drown’ — Drowning is quick and silent, although it may be preceded by distress.

I am accused of being too shy.

As if I choose to be petrified of verbalizing my thoughts, and intentionally feel strangled by the population of a crowded room, or enjoy my heart beating to the point of exhaustion.

The fear sounds as foolish as it feels.

I don’t enjoy being restrained by this sabotage of my own design, where the only thing muting me, is myself. I am here, I am trapped, I am suffocated, I am screaming.

Drowning in the depth of my anxieties, being pulled into this cold, isolated darkness where I sit, silent.

It’s always been like this, 85

I think it was once easier to ignore.

This hellion that’s eating me alive, pushing me towards insanity, deploying henchman labeling me quiet, or even removed.

I am here.

I am listening.

I would remind you of this if I could.

But at this point, I just don’t think I can.

And I’m sorry for that.

In Memorium You’re not gone.

You are not gone.

Your spirit lingers in the sunlight.

Your voice haunts me from the shadows.

An eerie call echoes in the night like a siren’s song, and I find myself at the foot of your bed dressed in flowers.

Your picture in one hand and a light in the other .

You are not gone.

You follow me everyday.

Everywhere.

I can feel you as a comfort on the cold nights.

You’ve become a part of me, half of me belongs to you, while the other remains cold.

You’re always here.

You never left.

You are not gone.

Marie-Helen Carr. 18. Born under an Aquarius sun and Aries moon, would rather pick flowers than fights and doesn’t exist without the help of her morning coffee. She began her love affair with words at the age of 8, is on her second year with emersonWRITES and after much consideration is now just trying to write in shorter sentences.

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Karen Cheng

Boston Arts Academy, 9th Grade I enjoyed my year here learning other forms of poetry. I never knew any other poem besides haiku and regular poems. My poem is about how sometimes people react to the differences of others. Not everyone is born to be the same and differences are what make us unique.

I Remember, Miss I remember, Miss.

When you found me.

Watching my mask on my face fall and shatter, On the cold reflective tiled floor.

Your emotions tell me everything, That’s how I live to know, How others feel.

How deeply it hurts.

I wouldn’t dare ask, Or answer that question.

What happened before?

That was not needed to be spoken, So sickly towards me.

I felt disgusted how everyone, My peers, Reacted towards Flaws.

Mistakes.

Accidents.

It’s not my fault I have ears, To hear you talking behind my back.

And feelings that I never bothered to show to all of you!

I am the definition of what is like to be a human.

I can show weakness and cry.

I can be bleeding and bruised for god sakes!

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My Determination, My Courage, My Kindness.

There to make up my flaws.

To carry me through the pain you brought me through.

I have the rights to have Respect, As a someone.

Not the like of somebody, Who’s a jerk to others.

What have I done to you, That made me deserve this much Pain.

Aside from being sarcastic and rude to the likes of you?

Calm down…

This wasn’t supposed to happen, It happens, When I see you jerks.

I mean it’s called Hatred.

Anyways, Lets Forgive and forget.

I’m meaning to say is.

Learn from your mistakes.

Learn to accept change.

To take time to ask yourself.

What am I doing wrong?

What have I missed in my life so far?

The reasons for these questions, Are the feeling chilling and shaking your spine?

Do you feel that?

You know what that’s called?

Guilt And Regret.

Don’t worry.

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Don’t you keep it inside for yourself to know.

That feeling crawls within you and drives you to Insanity.

Been there, done that, And it wasn’t pretty.

But we are people born to embrace our Differences, Our Flaws.

It’s a special quality made from the inside and out.

Karen is a ninth grader who attends Boston Arts Academy. She has been to the emersonWRITES program before for short story writing. She has also attended the Summer Ink program and had stories published twice in the program book (in 2013 and 2014). She likes reading online, anime, BBC shows, cartoons, and writing stories and poems, when she is inspired.

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Ralph Corbelle

Revere High School, 11th Grade The following poems are not directly connected, but were written in a similar mindset. They document the muddied perceptions of someone lacking in hope and thirsting for something more than what is around him. These classes at emersonWRITES have taught me how to properly workshop, and shown me the benefits of doing so.

Companion Though the waves wittle his efforts he tries his best to anchor himself deep.

The dark shackle blues of the open ocean suck up the scene in front of his eyes; chisel them into hollowed pearls.

The horizon is a muddle of chimney smoke and seizing fires.

The eruptions crowd the sky, as if bombs or warnings or hands, reaching.

They blink quickly, as if trying to draw attention.

He waves to them with his feathered fingers, flopping aimlessly up and down, sludged by the greedy waters.

Amidst all of this whirling syrup holding him suspended, he feels warm enough to sunbathe in the dark.

Heat is a weird word to utter when one’s limbs become tulip purple, but the word slips like satin from his marbled lips into the water.

The fireworks of fat hands return above, they are muddy and look as if they could strangle him; he begs them to leave him there.

He closes his eyes after looking at the shore that he ran from, the shore where his clothes lay dead— He just wants to lay dead.

The skin of the sky touches him now while his screams 91

slosh against the pillowing currents around him.

He just wants to lay dead.

He is lifted, though, plucked like a dandelion from a lively ground.

When his eyes open, He sees the bland reds and tacky blues that crowd the sky now.

He just wants to lay dead, to be taken by the sea and buried like treasure— isn’t it normal to want to be sought after?

To Ascend Is To Fall Limitless, I fall Into nothing at all.

Do other people feel a porcelain vacancy inside themselves?

Can everyone stare at an empty street and immediately feel the collision?

Is it possible to smile sadly but frown thankfully?

What am I thankful for, if not for life?

How do you keep afloat if you crave that feeling of looking to the surface of the water from below and seeing life in such a distant way?

As if you could keep making bubbles stumble up to the sky simply to wrinkle reality— You could be a god there.

“You could be a god here”, hisses the high tide.

What would happen if I ceased— simply locked myself deep under, where the only monster left is Him: the last breath creaking inside of me, begging to fly upward, as if that wasn’t always my Intention.

So I greet the reflection I see in the water with a pitiful grin, for who I see will be left to this world.

Underneath, though, is where I will be, higher than them all.

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Ralph Corbelle is a junior at Revere High School and a second year student at emersonWRITES. He enjoys reading at an incredibly slow pace, writing at an equally slow pace, and amateurly “playing� tennis.

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Amelia D’Onofrio

The Woodward School, 12th Grade Alexander the Great: This poem is about Alexander the Great and his men. It is one poem split into two parts; one part is the perspective from Alexander the Great himself and the other part is from the perspective of his men. The story of Alexander has always been interesting to me because I couldn’t understand why his men would follow him into freezing cold weather knowing that it was very dangerous.

Alexander the Great lead them in victory lead them in defeat. my men are strong, stronger than they will ever be. the world is our enemy, but the gods make the world walk on bare feet. and I push my men to make them retreat.

And His Men lead us in victory lead us in defeat. our men are strong while theirs are weak. only bones, which hath no meat. with skill, we shall beat these men who stand on bloody feet.

the meat from plundered villages is all that they can eat. into the freezing cold, onto Moscow from Crete.

I hath no glory for those who show conceit.

from ransacked villages, unnamed meat is all we are able to eat. our leader is our hero, yet he tends to show conceit.

I strive to fold them into perfect matching pleats. though if they fight with me, they are watched as they walk, alone, down the street.

but we know, the gods hath no glory for those who retreat. lead us in victory through the ravenous cold or blistering heat.

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lead them in victory. or suffer a defeat.

I am their king. my guidance is what they seek.

lead us in victory. or lead us in defeat. you are our king. your guidance is what we seek.

Topography: This poem is about a woman who is walking down the street in New York City and is suddenly confronted by a scene of a safari. She immediately thinks that she is loosing her mind because it seems that no one else can see this exotic landscape.

[Topography] The gnarled topography of the endless terrain; grass mixed with trees, scattered with bushes. It was surreal. There was no way this was here. In the middle of New York City. I had turned down 6th Avenue and… This!

A landscape that belonged in Africa, could not really be here. I rub my eyes as if it would clear the image before me.

How could this be, I ponder and hit my head simultaneously.

Perhaps the vision would fall out, but I look up to the same landscape before me.

Behind me, honking cars and talking people. In front of me, quiet, rolling heat and lazy lions. Strolling on the horizon.

Falling to my knees. Silent sobs for me and only me.

Madness overtaking me? Birds in trees make almost noiseless sounds. I’m on the ground and I can’t tell which side of my mind it is coming from. How can this be real!

I look up suddenly, an overwhelming presence obstructed my thoughts.

One lion, 30 feet away.

Five people walk behind me, unaware.

One lion, 20 feet away.

Two bikers pedal past, unaware.

One lion 10 feet away.

One tap on my shoulder.

One whisper, Run. 96

Amelia is a first-time student in the Poetry Class at emersonWRITES. As a senior in high school at The Woodward School, she hoped to improve her writing and learn new ways to express herself through poetry by taking this course. Her style has expanded to a more freestyle form than what she originally had. She is also very interested in majoring in photography in college and minoring in poetry.

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Nia Dorsey

Concord Carlisle Regional High School, 11th Grade

Puzzled She blabs on about her sudden infatuation with the architecture of your body but fails to mention the cracks which could lead to devastation

I feel as if I am in a rush to find a destination which I do not desire

The anxiety and depression of your students cannot be solved with a 92 million dollar building and cuts to the art and music programs to somehow promote the STEM program We are not allowed to have a voice because he says it is too loud because she says it is disruptive and exclusive you have not experienced the struggle if you had nothing would be too loud disruptive because everything is exclusive

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to not truly learn how but to come in contact with so many experiences that I am no longer afraid of what is to come

I have a puzzle which cannot be connected by a “hot bod” or millions of dollars or millions of opinions or a time machine

But does the picture need to truly be seen or is it better just to admire the pieces

Side Effects May Include Side effects may include But are not limited to: Feeling as if the world is falling underneath your feet but you are frozen in thought Not being able to distinguish between cool blue of loneliness and harsh red of love Finding small slits of pink on your fingertips created by a cracked phone screen and your somehow uncontrollable rant on how you don’t need him anymore 100

sleeping on the right side of the bed because you used to sleep on the left but he said the only way he could be at peace is if he was sleeping on the left side so you changed and never went back Waking up on that right side of the bed after experiencing everything and finally coming to the conclusion that He ain’t shit Nia Dorsey is a junior at Concord Carlisle High School. This is her third year in the emersonWRITES program and second in poetry. She is currently involved in two musical projects: Berklee City Music, where she is a vocalist and her band The Breakdown Lane (who aren’t very good and rarely practice) in which she is also the lead vocalist. She wishes to someday live in a cozy apartment filled with dusty books and old photographs, set in a culturally rich city but has no idea of how she will get to there but hopes it will be through writing or visually ambiguous film.

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Fatima Eddahbi

Excel Academy Orient Heights, 8th Grade Emergency Room Nights was written for my best friend about her on-andoff relationship last year and how we both felt about it. The two different perspectives reflect on how we both felt about the situation, as well as a relationship that I was trying to avoid with another one of my close friends.

My writing has really taught me who I am as a person. I’ve been able to reflect on my experiences and connect my heart with my mind through my writing.

Emergency Room Nights Living alone kills inside and out, mentally and physically, you experience a drought I didn’t wait in the room just for your emergency to be a heartbreak You know the doctor can only help your stomach ache, no sewing it together, why are you so reliant ?

Emergency means hospital, ambulance, or dying I warned you before, he was no good I just knew it from the start that he would he’s the reason you’re face is wet, alone smoking another marijuana cigarette Yet I’m always doubted just because i never let myself go, Never said yes to a guy Maybe fell in love this one time …. but, even then i knew i would never have enough bandages for this heart.

Although after he broke it, he decided to pick it up, a brand new start?

Always believed he was a gentleman internally, In the end it all depends.

He showed his true colors the moment he threw it. it doesn’t matter how many times he said sorry, baby you know that he blew it.

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The Skin I’m In is generally about defying social standards and building your own self-confidence as a woman of this generation. The beginning of this poem is just the speaker looking over standards that are set and by the end it gets to the fact that women don’t need permission to strive to success.

The Skin I’m In isn’t easy to be in blaming me for letting his inner dogs out sometimes he force me about, tryna use his bank accounts eyes full of lust, looks like he ready to pounce not going to say sorry for making my appearance count my eyes are swollen from the night before men hungover and sleeping on the floor so this is what it’s like ?

When living becomes merely the illusion of getting turnt even when it’s not friday night i thought living in lavish meant living lavishly eyes swollen and haven’t gotten what bitches call beauty sleep he wore a gold watch and yes it was fake he wasn’t even educated, he just wants to be drake double standards, higher standards no more standard setting for me rocking the lightest shade of melanin and it still wasn’t good enough i thought being woke meant waking up acceptance is a step to ignite, the inner fire on your new set of headlights journeying farther and beyond to find yourself Fatima is an 8th grader at Excel Academy Orient Heights. She’s on a basketball team and enjoys writing. She is working on producing music with her friends.

She’s also a photographer and model for a new online clothing company.

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Stephania Mejia

Cristo Rey Boston, 10th Grade

Feelings 521 somewhereinmysoul st, apt. 9 unknown 06050 you’re the sweetener for our bitter days the light to our dark alley the lullaby that puts us to sleep you have the power to move and spin us into a garden of many flowers and plants from the poison of iris to the delightful smell of a lilac willing to escape the madness, a quiet loneliness evolving deep within our soul coming face to face with a chance to more excitement now in an era of pure happiness fresh air and clear skies blocking out disruptions 105

to the everlasting passion in our veins everyday is beautiful sins feel forgiven souls feels mended no longer a prisoner to the demons hiding underneath always haunting us for our insecurities for our lack of “coolness” for our way of being woah feelings, you make us feel great but then you hurt us the promises become all broken the love disintegrates a heart wounded and scars bleeding but they are already on to the next as if “we” were just a joke a funny punchline nothing more but a joke as if giving your all just wasn’t ever enough now a broken hearted spirit, an ocean with no releasing waves everything is in black and white a playlist consisting calm melodies of depression a victim to silence 106

in its true existence but you’ll be here again so until next time feelings sincerely, stephania Stephania Mejia is a sophomore at Cristo Rey Boston. This is her second year at emersonWRITES. Poetry and music are two things she enjoys doing and inspires herself through positivity and greatness in others.

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Mercy Moncada

Cristo Rey Boston High School, 10th Grade

We Are Society Two souls, lost in a world of critique, Trying to run away from a tragic reality.

Looking around, seeing all for what it really is; a world that will kill any sign of pure bliss.

They run away, not trying to look back.

Running from all that humanity lacks.

Going to a place where they are really free not categorized if they’re not what they want them to be.

Laughing together, heart to heart. begin to think stronger in that time apart.

Looking at the world and all it has to give look at others, wondering “is this how we’re born to live”?

“People look down on the both of us.

Saying it’s not love but in fact, lust.

They see us rebel and think we’re wrong We don’t regret it though, we know this life isn’t that long” They gave each other new insights looked away from darkness and into light.

They became one when before, they were two together they were reborn; they were new.

They said “the system is corrupt, It is only a short time till all abrupts.”

Nothing’s fair in a world this dark everything has already left a mark.

“Make the world a better place” says those with a whole other face.

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We all wear masks to hide the shame And turn to substances to hide the pain.

We blame society but that’s what we are.

Not everything in this world flows together like a poem.

It can be going together smooth and easy then all at once, it stops.

Look outside and you’ll see “society deception“ Yet we are the one’s creating separation by complexion.

We all try to find a place of happiness and serenity along with abundance and a hint of clarity.

Now, those two that are looked down upon still smile waiting for this world to prove maybe it’s all worth while.

Using time to embrace all, including themselves and the universe But loving all those around them and still remaining diverse.

Two souls, lost in a world of critique. hand and hand realizing they have the world at their feet; Running away together with no destination in mind.

Doing it all, in unison, taking it one day at a time.

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Hailey Norton

Revere High School, 11th Grade I have always loved the expression of truth through poetry and facing your fears. This poem highlights a low point in a romantic relationship, which everyone experiences in different ways. Dear Valentine is a fictional representation of these feelings after a break up in the form of poetry.

Dear Valentine What’s sadder than an unsent Valentine Love scribbled on both sides A lipstick mark signed beautifully Sitting there withering with the lost love it represents What’s sadder than keeping that card Looking at it every Saturday night A weekly ritual reminiscing of the days when you still felt alive A reminder that you used to be loved What’s sadder than the tears that now stain it Smudging the ink with each descending drop Tearing down a year’s worth of effort Joy gasping for air like a fish out of water What’s sadder than still being in love After all this time and feeling the heartbreak like new every day Desperately grasping onto a piece of paper trying to save a lost love Nights and nights of asking why you left What’s sadder than unanswered questions Continuously hitting your head thinking the answers might come to you Debating with yourself every night about how to bring him back Keeping a margin of hope Burning with each minute you don’t hear from him What’s sadder than knowing it’s over?

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I enjoyed learning about the subjects of a poem. Corvus Corax was written due to an interest in the raven and how it has appeared throughout many poets’ work like the famed Edgar Allen Poe. Writing without a human subject is not something I do often and it was interesting to try something new.

Corvus Corax A cloud of black feathers surrounds the church doors The clouds match their disguise, rumbling with contempt Silence is broken by expanding wings and a dead language The church is clean for the most part until a murder overtakes it Red eyes and black lies scorn the sacred ground Witnesses flee and attempt to avoid detection Their shadows resemble a smudged headline from last week’s paper that’s napping in the fireplace Their claws are catalysts, Eroding all stone in sight with alarming pace Statues of saints crumble to kneel to their hugeness Their shine doesn’t symbolize hope or a simple beauty It is their weakness and the only way to distinguish them from the night sky A long face holds a wicked grin Completely sinister and ready to swallow entirely A black hole seemingly powerful enough to devour itself and its surroundings A warning as clear as day against the background of innocence Corvus Corax Hailey Norton is a junior at Revere High School and a second year student at emersonWRITES. She is a writer at heart but also loves chemistry. When she’s not writing she is most likely yelling at her cat for jumping on things he shouldn’t be jumping on. She enjoys Shakespeare more than she should and knows the charge of every polyatomic ion.

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Abby Rose Plourde

The Woodward School, 12th Grade

This poem is about a girl who is constantly tormented by her “monsters”.

In the beginning of the poem, the girl is young and scared of the monsters living under her bed. As a teenager, the monsters become something more complex; anxiety, paranoia, depression. As an adult, she gets involved in an abusive relationship and thus calls her significant other, her “monster”.

Monsters As a little girl i was careful not to let my feet hang over the side of the bed, “the boogie monster will pull you under and eat you up.” My mother said.

The boogie monster slept beneath me: He listened to my thoughts and stole my dreams.

He crept into my head at night to see all of my fears; Leaving remnants of anxiety in my bloodstream. i dreamt of him with gray wrinkled skin wrapped around bony fingers.

Black eyes, yellow teeth and a white tongue where the smell of rotting meat lingered.

As a teenager, he would growl beneath the floor boards, grabbing at my ankles whenever i walked by.

And leaving his dirty finger prints on my white sheets, every night where i would lie.

Over time, i learned to step over his claw marks which were chiseled beneath my bed.

And i learned to ignore his presence and the constant worry that he planted in my head.

Eventually, he disappeared all together, and became a discarded childhood memory.

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Soon, instead of play dates, dolls and dressup, my life revolved around alcohol, boys and parties. “be home by curfew.” my mother would tell me “and make sure you look out for any boogie monsters out there.” i rolled my eyes. “it’s true baby, sometimes monsters don’t appear to be monsters but actually—” i laughed and said “mom, i don’t care.” ……………...

As an adult, I never believed in love.

And I laughed at those who tried to commit.

But then I met you.

And I became a hypocrite.

Your dark eyes, And brown skin.

You’re soft touch.

It all drew me in.

The second my body was molded to yours, And I was hooked.

Your presence became my drug.

Your lips were the pills I took.

You’re eyes were the wine That I sipped on, when I needed everything to feel right.

And your laughter was the cigarette I smoked on my balcony at midnight.

But when your words became louder, You started to become violent.

Some days all we’d do is yell.

Others we’d just sit there in silence.

Sometimes you would snap Leaving bruises on my skin.

But the wounds you left on my heart, Were the cuts that really dug in.

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Everything we had, Got ripped apart.

I should’ve left you, But that would’ve been too easy…too smart You were in my head, You were all my fears.

You were the fuel to my nightmares.

You were the salt in my tears.

Every night I’d go to bed, And hide under the covers from you.

Because my childhood fear, Had actually come true.

You fed off of my fear, As your way to show control.

You broke down the walls I built, And robbed me of my soul.

When I was little my mother would warn me about the boogie monster.

Saying he’d pull me under and devour me up in the middle of the night.

Never in my life, would I expect her To be right.

All the monsters in the world, Old or new They weren’t hiding under my bed, They were living in you.

Abby is a senior at The Woodward School in Quincy. She is 18, 4”10 (really short), and has long black hair. She loves art; writing, painting, drawing, and photography. She also loves playing soccer and softball. Since she has such a strong love for writing, she responded immediately to the email she received about emersonWRITES. This class has strengthened her writing and she plans to major in English and Writing at Emmanuel College in Boston and take multiple creative writing courses during her free time.

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Nadeja Richardson

Cristo Rey Boston High School, 11th Grade My poem It All Started From That Thing literally started while I was washing the dishes, listening to “Doo Wop (That Thing)” by Lauryn Hill, Her voice saying “don’t be a hard rock when you really are a gem” played in my head and the magic began. Almost every poem I write is inspired by an old school love song with empowering lines too amazing to forget. My poetry is all free verse.

It All Started From That Thing How to be a gem While genuinely we are human And every time God notices your sin, Like jesus who was crucified, you soul is condemned Imagine being crucified by the same females that hate you Same guys that tried to rob your mind Is them same guys that shaped your mentality and raped you, Same guys behind the lens of your life yellin’ “wrong cut, take two” Are the same guys you played russian roulette with, Thinking this type of life is a game too There ain’t nothin’ that can save you When society shames you, When your enemy pull out that nina point aim and try to flame you When dudes you was once rocking with get caught up and try to blame you Notice. Just a hint of melanin in your skin, And boom white man trying to hang you Ease that noose round yo throat And suicidal thoughts in yo head, Monsters in the back of your mind And demons layin’ at the head of your bed Along with the with the devil singing horrifically to your soul You are perpetually black and by darkness you are consoled Nadeja is a junior at Cristo Rey Boston; this is her second year attending emersonWRITES. She’s an aspiring singer/songwriter/poet/neurosurgeon.

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She eats, sleeps, drinks and lives music!! Nothing is impossible to her; she’s an 18-year-old star shooting fast, ready to land on the planet of fame.

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Samantha Rosa

Revere High School, 11th Grade This year in poetry class I most enjoyed workshopping. It was a valuable experience because not only were we helping to improve each other’s poems, but we were also learning to strengthen our own writing through the editing of our pieces.

It Never Was We swim past each other, Through the waves of lingering desire.

I become consumed, By your current, Churning me to one side Then spitting me out on the other.

I am left spinning in a whirlwind of foam.

The beams of yellow light don’t travel this far down so I remain in the dark murkiness colliding into jagged rocks and scraping against sharp coral, struggling for breath.

Sand, still stuck on my skin, embedded in my veins, attached to my arteries.

I try scratching each grain off with ragged nails, but I only leave trails of blood.

You avert your eyes, Never one for consolation, Lurking, Bouncing, Floating, Away from me.

The sharp teeth that graze my mind You tore chunks, The symbiosis that never was.

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The Storm Orange leaves plummeting from the branches, Glimmering white falling towards the shivering road, Trampled tulips ingrained into the dirt path, Sizzling sun beating down onto the sweating ground, That’s how long it has been since I have returned to this place.

As I approach the door, thin streams of memory strike me.

She was a caring mother

say the fuzzy slippers under her bed.

She was a loving wife

say the faithful couch cushions settled in the parlor.

She was a generous woman

say the fireflies scattered in the night air.

She began unraveling

admits the layer of grime covering the ivory keys of the piano.

She was running out of time

exclaims the cracks running through the mildew coated basement.

Once she left, there was no getting her back

cry the shattered windows of a fractured home.

She simply forgot

whisper the splintered tiles lying idle on the bathroom floor.

The willow tree sighs, waiting.

Billowing blurs of sound and color, Fragments of picture frames and perfume bottles collecting the dust of the dead, There is no clarity for the living Her disease encompassed us all, But she was the one swept away.

A swirling sky fills with dark clouds ahead, Dirt stains on my hands, Walking hesitantly towards creaking gates and decaying rooms.

I crumple to the ground before I can make it inside, My mind at the brink of a storm.

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Samantha Rosa is a junior at Revere High School and a second year student of emersonWRITES. She enjoys reading, writing, and most of all, the company of her cat. She can’t wait to one day travel the world and write about her experiences.

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Aviana Sullivan

Excel Academy Orient Heights, 8th Grade Falling Into The Flames is a reflection on the reality of how internal loverelated feelings can start out well-intentioned, but soon turn into something you don’t want to be apart of anymore. My poem follows what I have learned in terms of meaning—it’s more meaningful than it sounds.

Falling Into the Flames She was nothing.

A cold worthless soul.

Her heart rest silently.

Her eyes abide to the vacancy, A bottomless pit of misery and despair.

A parade of dread constantly running over her thoughts.

It was he who brought light into her life.

Her heart was ablaze.

An open flame that danced around.

Her soul, full of warmth and life.

Lips once lackluster Have become her most admirable feature.

Eyes, a mockery of the aurora borealis, Scorched the parade that once crowded her thoughts.

The inferno he created was raging.

The roaring flames couldn’t be tamed by anyone, but him.

She wished that someone knew he’d be the one to end it all.

She fell right into his hands, Without even wondering if He’d ever blow out the flames.

Closing the doors.

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Smoke swells in her eyes The flame was dead.

That sly smile that once ignited the flame was gone.

It was the price she had to pay.

The monsters in her came out of the dark And took her, Back to where her darkest thoughts dwelled.

This is Aviana’s first year at emersonWRITES and she is an 8th grader at Excel Academy Orient Heights. She is a dancer and participates in multiple sports including lacrosse. Aviana has also performed in a musical at the Boston Conservatory as part of Born to Perform.

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Antonio Weathers

Boston Community Leadership Academy, 12th Grade

Cartoon Mind In my life I look for clarity, locked myself in my roomleft myself to the disparity, I only sit and watch the TV screen, the picture wasn’t even clean, Analyzing these cartoons as I sit and watch them casually.

I always enjoyed watching Courage—the purple dog that loved his mother, with an old man that’s too selfish, and a woman that’s so selfless, Courage was content as long as himself and his mother was together, other than those facts—I always respected the fact that Courage stood up to his fears, I never would’ve pictured him for being cowardly.

I tried man.

God damn, the background noise of throwing pots and pans, I faced my father, called by his first name—he beat me and displayed to everyone a little boy’s tears.

Makes me think of Family Guy, a dumb father that barely knows how to treat a son or daughter, his sons wanted a connection and he never pays attention, so self absorbed—his daughter tried to speak up and he wouldn’t listen, his youngest is confused with communication deprivation, with a pet as a best friend—his mind wasn’t so simple, and he was slightly detrimental. He just wanted to be special.

It was all so familiar, except.

My mother and my father wasn’t together and that’s the only difference, My father is a disappointment, went missing for years, and my mother said, “Good riddance”.

Watching Power Puff Girls, seeing the good of a single parent, the children had responsibilities even though they wasn’t apparent, had to fight monsters—never asked a question, never wondered why they was different, Just accepted.

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The small family stayed well connected and well supported.

It all seemed so bright. (Although, they didn’t have fingers.)

Then it actually hit me, how’s it like to have a black man in the family?

Was I lucky to never inherit my father’s cruelty?

I didn’t like my mother’s boyfriend, just like Cleveland Show, another black man trying to bring stability, we was never connected—but I didn’t consider him my enemy.

He tried to stick his nose in all our bouts’. Trying to create orderstaring at us over our shoulders.

I was the Afro child, young and black, and slightly resilient, I wasn’t brilliant, but I wasn’t ignant’.

I was provocative and proud of my pigment.

The grown people tried to infantilize me, even though I wasn’t so young, I was wise. I enjoyed my bike rides.

My only moments of independence.

I’m just trying to figure out my life, I was cliff hanger from Between the Lions, stranded on a cliff, but I kept trying, was stuck, but kept surviving, continuously asked for help and no one listened.

These cartoons never left me hanging.

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Multi-Genre: Art & Resistance Course Introduction Reading and writing poetry and prose may seem straightforward enough, but when you set forth to examine the spaces in between these experiences and genres, then you’re in uncharted territory—at least, that’s what we told ourselves. As our workshop sought to push and resist against the supposed precepts of genre, intention, form, and purpose, we recorded and explored any and all obstacles we encountered.

Through discussing student pieces alongside so-called literary texts, we learned that just because something has never happened before doesn’t mean it is impossible; just because something keeps happening doesn’t mean it’s unchangeable. We’re very proud to present the following work: at times emotionally-charged, at times more political, these genre-bending pieces come from a group of artists who aren’t afraid to challenge themselves and the world around them. This course, we hope, is just one step of many in their journeys toward fuller self-expression in the neverending search for the right words.

Faculty Bios Sally Burnette is a second-year MFA candidate at Emerson, where she also reads poetry for Redivider. Her primary concern is poetry, but she also writes very short fiction and likes to blend/bend genres. She’s originally from North Carolina. She has one live cactus and one dead cactus. This is her first year teaching with emersonWRITES, and she’s lucky to have gotten to work with such motivated and talented students!

Oscar Mancinas was born and raised in Mesa, Arizona. He moved to Maine for college when he was 18 and still too young to know any better. He is entering his second year at Emerson, pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing with a fiction concentration. Writing and literature have been big parts of his life ever since he learned how to read. Within the last six years, he has gained a deep appreciation for writers (and readers) who operate successfully in more than one language, across several borders.

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Scheneider Francois

Cristo Rey Boston High School, 12th Grade

Broken She used to smile just because the sun shined or because the rain fell. She adored the rhythm the rain rhymed as it fell upon her flawless skin. When we looked into her big dark brown eyes, we saw hope, love, safety, and questions which could lead to curiosity. She was our flower that bloomed as it fed. She ran in the backyard chasing stars and dreams.

She shared everything she had with others with open hearts and kindness.

I remember our innocent days when we’d get in trouble for being kids, when she was fearless. Sometimes I think she was lonely even though she has a big family. She seemed to have it laid out. She seemed to have it all, when really she had nothing. But we all had her. We thought she was going to do great things. One day, that nothing was taken, so there is no more dreaming big. It’s all about living a life that was already dead.

Now all we know is that she stares in blank space with those beautiful brown eyes. They wander into spaces, not knowing what has been lost or what could be found. The only question they ask is what could’ve been. She doesn’t smile like she used to. Day and night all seem the same to her. Just big blank spaces that mean a big fat nothing. Happiness was no fairytale to her. It was something she desired, but she knew it was something that eats her inside the more she wants it. That kills her slowly till she takes her last breath. That’s when she knew she was broken, and some pieces will never be found again.

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Jacarrea Garraway Boston Latin Academy, 12th Grade

Being a multi-genre student was a poignant experience in my writing career, because I gained more self-awareness in the work I create and with regard to other literary pieces I read. My story Visitor’s Attraction incorporates the element of suspense, which I learned a lot about through examples we analyzed in class.

Visitor’s Attraction Ice cream drips from his fingers creating little tracks on the ground.

A mother looks behind her in aggravation as she reaches in her purse for some napkins and hand-sanitizer. The kid is oblivious to his actions. He holds his gift shop toy tight underneath his arm. The strings dangle behind him, the puppet hangs limp with a blank face. They continue walking. The kid tries to make big strides to keep up with the long legs of his mother, however, when she reaches back for his hand- he jumps back. It’s all a game to him.

The next room they visit is a Finding Nemo inspired attraction. All the marine life there resemble the characters from the movie. The kid shrieks with glee and points his finger like a dagger at the lonely clown fish. He digs his nails into his mother’s jeans. She tells to stop. He remains joyful, waving his puppet like a flag in the air.

“Nemo, Nemo!” he says. The kid pokes the glass with the puppet’s face repeatedly. The face of the puppet smashes into the glass.

“Look at Nemo,” the kid tells his toy.

A few minutes later, as people start to leave that exhibit, the mother picks him up.

“Do you have to use the bathroom?” she asks. He shakes his head but lets out a little smirk, which indicates to his mom that he probably does have to go.

“Let’s go pee anyway,” she tells him. As she carries him along in her arms, he throws the puppet on the floor and laughs. She sighs as she picks it up from the ground.

“That was not nice,” she scolds.

They enter the restroom. The mother takes him into the ladies’ side.

She opens a stall door.

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“Go pee,” she says.

“NO,” he says back.

“GO pee. We aren’t going to come back here later,” she tells him. He sticks to his guns. That’s when the mother then bends and pulls down his overalls and places him on the toilet. She steps away, closes the stall door and waits by the sinks. The boy watches her from the slit in the stall door.

After a few moments, a bit of pee trickles into the toilet bowl. He gets off and pulls his overall straps back on his shoulders.

“I went potty, Mommy,” he says.

“Don’t forget to use tissue,” she replies. He pulls some toilet paper from the side and without wiping then flushes it down the toilet. He watches the wad of tissue swirl around in the toilet bowl hypnotically until it disappears.

He ponders for a moment, then takes his puppet from the floor and places it into the toilet bowl. He flushes, then watches as the puppet suddenly becomes stuck in the whirlwind of toilet water. He keeps flushing and flushing…

“That’s enough!” exclaims the mother. “Come out and wash your hands now.”

The kid obeys. He puts some liquid soap in his hands and starts rubbing them together. His mother turns on the water for him. He looks at the stall from the mirror in front of him. She turns the water off and breaks off a few paper towels to give to him. He wipes his hands and his mother finishes off by carefully wiping his face. Once they dispose of the paper towels, she picks him back up and they exit the bathroom. The second the door closes, a small stream of water flows out of that stall forming a little trail.

The mother approaches an amusement park worker. “Excuse me, I’m looking for the Neverland exhibit. Can you help me locate it?” The man nods and pulls out a map from his vest pocket.

“It’s near the tea cups,” he begins. “Take a right past them and keep walking straight until you see this replica of a giant ship, you can’t miss it.”

The mother thanks him, and she and her son walk away.

The boy looks in awe at several attractions they pass. The mother looks at a map on one of the walls; she seems very puzzled until she looks a few feet in front of where they are standing.

“Here it is, come on, honey.” She pulls him toward the room. Inside the room, there are echoes, sounds of children and pirates singing, even plastic children hanging horizontally on strings above him. Right in the middle of the room is a huge wooden ship.

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“Wow, look at this,” his mother points.

“Remember last year for Halloween when you were a pirate?” she asks him. He nods. “That is the kind of ship that the pirates sailed in.”

They walk closer to the display. The little boy’s body spins around, like a dreidel, trying to take in all the sights in the exhibit at once.

“Stop that before you get dizzy,” his mother warns him.

He stops when he spots with telescope eyes a large treasure chest.

Whenever you see a treasure chest, there’s usually something good inside is the logic that the boy went with. His head tilts up to his mother. She’s fixated on her cellphone. In a split second, he runs as fast as his little legs can carry him.

The chest becomes larger the closer he comes towards it. Now that he can look it straight in the keyhole, he uses undeveloped muscles and lifts up the top. To his surprise the chest is filled with water. He takes a peek inside to discover his puppet at the very bottom. No matter how hard he reaches, he can’t obtain the puppet, so he puts his whole body into the rescue mission. Suddenly, he loses his balance and falls right in. The lid falls as well, trapping the boy inside.

Just another magical day at Disney World.

Jacarrea Garraway doesn’t like to mention all the accomplishments she has made in such a short amount of time. She especially doesn’t like to brag about interviewing the Dalai Lama, starting her own film organization, or even the fact that she’s going to NYU next year. No, Jacarrea isn’t like that at all.

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Caroline De Assis Gomes

Boston Arts Academy, 11th Grade

This is the accuracy of my life growing up as a teenager in America.

Everyday I suffer from not being good enough, my feminine beauty crown is being stripped off of me by every click to every post. Self-confidence is unrealistic from the view I see my body from. The idealism of beauty has been breaking me down since I was barely a teen, being an awkward 5’9 Brazilian born female who has lived in America for the past 6 years I have learned the following lessons: 1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

HIDE YOU’RE 5’9 AND FLAT CHESTED? PAY YOUR OWN BILL TALL IS BEAUTIFUL…IF YOU ARE A SUPERMODEL DUDE? YOU SERIOUSLY PLAN TO WEAR HEELS TO PROM? HOW IS THE WEATHER UP THERE? And last but not least, my favorite of them all.

6.

MAN, IF YOU WERE SHORTER I WOULD SO DATE YOU!

However, being part of emersonWRITES has taught me that one power I do have is to speak. Although I do not believe my writing to be beautiful, it helps me realize all negativity. Writing has been my own way of taking a counterpunch back at society for irking my soul.

Finding Perfection Since now all news is so easily accessible, grab your phone. A phone is a materialistic electronic item humans cannot survive without. It is the object that destroyed all human contact and organic love.

STEP 1: Turn your phone on, type in your multiple passwords and open your internet app.

STEP 2: This step is the most important one! Carefully, without worry of spelling because your phone will correct all your mistakes, type in the search bar “The perfect body” 135

STEP 3: Stare at the picture. It is what society expects you to look like. It is the ideal of beauty.

STEP 4: Get up and find the closest mirror. Notice all your flaws and the reality of your physical appearance.

STEP 5: Just cry. Sincerely drop down and bawl your eyes out until you can no longer breath. The media has assured you, you are not good enough.

STEP 6: Realize how shitty your life really is. Thoughtfully choose your next step. Because the world is certainly not telling you to commit suicide because you’re an ugly monster…But it’s not telling you not to either.

Luthien Jabar

Lowell High School, 11th Grade

Art and Resistance has been a space in which I feel free to indulge myself in experimentation without necessarily having the qualifier of a political agenda or any purpose outside of artistic curiosity and ego. That being said, here is a piece about African-American ancestry.

Why the Moon Does Not Age and the Sun Does Not Bruise she sits around the campfire, runs her tongue over the place her wisdom teeth used to be, spits bile into the flame. her family history is not one traced by trees, creating shadows of hooded figures and basset hound lullabies in the wind. she doesn’t falter or leave time for her throat to scab over. her sores are marked by the burning of the psalms and the death of an archbishop; painted bodies and rusting shackles, the sound of starving children etching visions of the sun onto their skin with spears, believing the silver would find its way to the marrow and move through them freely. these children, who sat in the sun until it split them open. hopeful descendants of the moon, they would have kept slicing until they had vertigo and the idea of falling made them sick. the children who welted trying to become the hydrophobic dog stranded at sea, the breeze that carries the scent of its rotting body 137

underneath all the grains of salt. she laughs at the thought of immortality; rust is for amusement parks and daydreams and lace, maybe even the roots of the blackberry tree; never the juices that stain hands, the fingerprints left on other bodies. every time she speaks the holy spirit appears, flames burn the trees and leave desert. but she keeps spitting until her throat is raw and laughs again; every vibration, a prayer to a god she knows does not exist. she’s learned to resist the slow burn of the sun. she sits, still, throwing up her insides; this is the story of her ancestors of caves painted in blackberry juice and mouths without teeth.

King Leopold II dreams live in village secrets where mothers walk miles to watering holes in august heat: share stories about the penguin meat men who planted gardens in the cassava fields. these men, who teach the boys to cover themselves in dye and spin until they forget what soil tastes like. no more digging for worms in the black earth-138

these boys spin and spin and spin until, hazy with color and visions of pale faces, they’re strung out on sticky skin and chipped teeth. these men, who pull the girls from the center of town, take them to the butcher’s corner. teach them to hang themselves out in the breeze, mangled and wet and scarlet. one says to grasnie, “you see mr. thibasu’s goat hanging in the window, learn how to sit, pretty and cold, like that.” dreams live in the static between the breeze, the buzzing of locusts; men who don’t know how to keep their mouths shut.

Luthien Jabar is a full-time baller and a hopeless romantic for political revolution and rustic tarts.

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Abbie Langmead

O’Donnell Middle School, 8th Grade In Him I tried to blur the lines between realistic fiction and poetry. This was a big theme in our class, Art and Resistance. It was really cool to see how other people in class and even the other pieces we read blurred those lines.

Him I stopped using his real name. It burns my throat. He’s caused me enough pain already. Eighty days or less and I’ll never have to see him again. Only eighty days. If younger me knew why I’d be counting down, she’d run. I guess I had it coming.

All I know is that it’s been long gone.

Maybe it was all over back when we were kids. Back before things went sour, I think. I sat next to him in science class. Instead of talking to me, though, like he always did, he chat up some dumb jerk on the other side of the room. He talked about sports (sports of all things!) He was a nerd and he knew it (I was right there!) I can hold a conversation over something more than Instagram and bubblegum. She’s pretty, I get it. I’m not, I get that, too.

Maybe it was the last day of school that year, when he straight up refused to sign my yearbook. I’m mad at you, was all he said. He thought just being seen with me would destroy his reputation or something. I realize now that that’s all he cared about. In that yearbook, I covered his face with a pink sticky note. It hurt less to pretend he was never even there to remember, I think.

Maybe it was that night when he texted me. He said it was my fault.

He said I was the bad guy. I actually felt guilty. He made me feel guilty.

You’re a failure, Cass, and I believed him. I was a failure, and I guess I failed at that, too.

Maybe it was the summer, when a friend told me that he lied the whole time. Let’s get real, he’s using you just like he uses everyone. I couldn’t believe her. She had to be crazy. He wouldn’t have done that. He’s a nice guy, I thought, he’s a nice guy. Eventually, though, I asked him. He denied it, of course, he would deny everything. My denial stayed in tact. He yelled, I yelled back.

Or maybe it was the time I tried to reach back out. Naive me didn’t 141

bother thinking about the list of wrongs, but instead the occasional rights scattered in between.

Maybe it was the time when he ripped off my friend’s idea but tricked them into thinking that they were in charge. Maybe it was when he screamed at me for things I didn’t do. Maybe, just maybe, it was the time I called him out, and it’s all my fault.

Maybe it was the time I called him a bitch. Maybe I should’ve blocked his number. Maybe I should’ve run when I still had the chance. Maybe I shouldn’t’ve expected any more from him.

Maybe I should just shut up.

Or maybe, it was years later. When there were about 120 days left.

The teacher put us in groups to practice our presentations for the first few minutes of class. Me, my best friend, and him. I worked on mine, and it was okay. She worked on hers, it was good. I figured if he still cared about me, at all, my crazy ramblings about how I remembered what he did would mess him up in front of the whole class. I knew it would work (it had to!) She caught onto what I was doing, she knew, too. We did what we had to, and waited to see what would happen.

Hi so...my name is…(Fumble. Mess up. Please! Prove me right! You still care, of course you do!) Eric Kent...and the president I researched is Richard Nixon.

He did a pretty good job.

Abbie is an eighth grade at O’Donnell Middle School, and she took the multigenre course at emersonWRITES. When she isn’t writing, she is an actress. She tries to combine both sides of storytelling in practically everything she does.

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Marina Nguyen

Boston Latin School, 11th Grade During the past several weeks, I have been exposed to different styles of writing as well as different themes in writing. I have heard many pieces that were the inspiration for this final piece that I have written. This piece itself is still an experimentation of my style. I really took a risk by writing about a theme I do not often write about, but I was hoping many can relate to this poem.

Adolescence You wanted to be a big kid, to jump from your bedroom window in the middle of the night and meet your love beneath the stars.

You wanted to drive to absolutely nowhere, but wanted to be able to drive just drive

and drive and drive with friends whose names you won’t remember in a few years.

You wanted to sing absurd lyrics with the windows rolled down.

You wanted to sit, hours at a time, engulfed in your own silence and never be disturbed.

You wanted to find the magic, to feel invincible, to be a big kid.

But you weren’t ready.

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No one told us of the responsibilities, of the worries, of the roles we would have to take, of the molds we would have to fit.

We were never told of the ones who never ate because their weight hit triple digits.

We were never told of the pressure we would face to take that cigarette and inhale.

We were never told of the struggle to be noticed, to be perfect.

And the crying.

Oh, so much crying.

We were never told of the competition to be the best, the brutal fight that sacrifices your spirit, dreams, and independence, the one thing we were suppose to gain when becoming a big kid.

Where are the hazy summer nights?

Where are the sunshine-filled days?

Where is everything we promised ourselves?

We haven’t grown one bit, and maybe there’s still a hint of hope that this isn’t what being a big kid is all about.

Congratulations, you’re a big kid now.

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Marina Nguyen is convinced that she is an actual mermaid. Well, a mermaid that walks on two human legs and does not transform when she touches water. When she isn’t spending her time doing mermaid-y things, she loves to read, possibly more than she loves to write. She likes the classics such as Tess of the D’Urbervilles and The Great Gatsby. She also likes Shakespeare, but in the least pretentious way possible. She doesn’t actually understand what is going on half of the time, but she loves the sound of his writing. It’s like how people listen to pop music nowadays, but actually have no idea what the artist is singing!

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Bria Phillips

Lincoln Sudbury Regional High School, 10th Grade During the emersonWRITES workshops, I’ve become more exposed to a variety of different works, and I’ve learned how to take a closer look into my own work. I enjoyed getting to examine my peers’ work, and I especially enjoyed having the chance to give my work to others for critique. The poem I have prepared comes straight from the heart. It expresses how close I hold my friends to my heart.

Losing It hand over her chest trying to catch her last breath it’s clear now she’s losing thoughts eat her alive every single night it’s like the angel and the devil on her shoulders got into a fight for a piece of her mind but where can she go there is no escape she can’t outrun her thoughts when will it stop for her sake and mine I hope soon because sometimes sometimes I just can’t shake the feeling the feeling that she’s not the only one the only one who’s losing something Bria is from Boston, born and raised. Writing is something she’s always wanted to get better at, so she joined emersonWRITES in hopes of pushing herself a bit further in the direction of becoming the phenomenal screenwriter she aspires to be. emersonWRITES helped her tons, and she’s looking forward to a lot more writing in her future.

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Ebony Monet Smith

Excel Academy Orient Heights, 8th Grade Art and resistance was foreign to me twelve weeks ago. But over time, I have learned that it is impossible to please everybody with your work.

Whether you sing your work or add a band in the background of your piece, your work will always reflect you. I learned that nine brains are better than one, that advice is not criticism, and that your work is only a version of you on paper.

(Done) You treat me like I’m yours but not once do you say you’re mine.

I hear from girl after girl that you hit her up on the snap with a picture that never reached my phone.

When we drive in your car the radio stays on blast but I don’t dare turn it down so you can hear the three words I thought you wanted.

I go, day by day, testing hairstyles that I think you like. Boy, you seem to run my life.

Six more words for you then I’ll be done I’ll stop caring when you start.

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Ebony Smith was born in Boston, MA, in 2002; a time in which she decided that she’d make others feel. She has her own Wattpad account, consisting of stories that she uploads frequently. Ebony recently joined this twelve-week writing program at Emerson College in hopes of becoming a better author. It was recommended by Ebony’s English teacher, who continues to help and encourage her each day. Ebony’s poems and stories cover various topics from racial discrimination to love or even hate. Her poems have a unique voice, one that’s relatable.

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Khadijah White

Scituate High School, 11th Grade Creative writing has no rules is the most important thing that I learned in Art and Resistance. I learned a lot in this class about different forms of work that helped me broaden my horizons with my writing. My poem is a great example of that. In this piece, I opened myself up to a new way of writing.

I usually write things that have one clear meaning, but this poem could mean different things to different people.

You Never Know The Girl The Girl with no laptop The Girl with no phone The Girl with no parents The Girl with no makeup The Girl with no shoes The Girl with no money The Girl with no friends The Girl with no food The Girl with no home The Girl with nothing Is Nothing But The Girl with manners The Girl with respect The Girl with morals The Girl with character The Girl with trust The Girl with patience The Girl with integrity The Girl with intelligence The Girl with a way The Girl with the cure The Girl with Nothing but the brainpower to be herself 151

Khadijah is a hardworking and creative young woman. She has many dreams and aspirations for herself and her future. Her main goal is to make her family proud while reaching her full potential. As someone who doesn’t see herself as another statistic, she plans on doing something meaningful, whatever that may be. Growing up in the city and going to school in the suburbs has opened up her eyes to many new things, things that will always give her something to write about.

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Michelle Zhang

Boston Green Academy, 11th Grade Writing is my elixir to living a healthy life. It is the mirror that I look into that helps me face something, someone, or that chocolate I am ignoring. It is healing to all the frustrations and allows me to say what I want to say. The following piece is exactly all of those things, except the chocolate, there isn’t any chocolate involved in this one. I ate one after writing this, though.

I Don’t Really Hate Anyone things I’m afraid to say that would displease God: I fucking hate everyone. sometimes I got no love for others let alone myself. shit to all giving to others you get more in the end. feeling like a dry desert and the oasis is just a delusion from a heat stroke. my love for others is sitting on the ground, they the sand, they’re dried up and easily picked up by the wind.

I’m angry and this is driven by emotion, passion. what do I do when I’m tired. people are shit, let’s admit it. but when I feel this way, when i keep my head down while shoveling the snow, i look up to breathe better and notice the soft colors in the calm sky and feel relaxed. and i pray to God He isn’t mad.

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It’s weird to write about yourself in third person. So I’m not. As Michelle, I should know who Michelle is, but I really don’t. I’m just a person trying to be kind to others so they won’t kill me.

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emersonPUBLISHES SPINE This year, emersonPUBLISHES saught to build from the great work done in emersonWRITES and explore the next step of the publishing process. We discussed the timeline of publishing an anthology from the publisher’s perspective, including submissions, content editing, and graphic and text design. We also discussed what it means to be a writer trying get published, what magazines and small presses look for, and how to give our writing the best chance at success. Lastly, we explored an introduction to Adobe InDesign and Photoshop where we brainstormed the color scheme and cover aesthetic of this year’s issue of SPINE. Themes of identity and voice led to the cover image that we hope you enjoy.

Faculty Bio Alayne Fiore is the Operations Manager & Special Assistant to the Vice President for Diversity & Inclusion at Emerson College, a second year in the MFA Creative Writing Fiction program, and a part-time faculty member in the First-Year Writing Program. She is the owner and operator of Rozlyn Press, a small press for female writers, and a volunteer screener of fiction for Ploughshares. Originally from Minnesota, she now lives in Melrose with her husband and daughter. This is her first year with the emersonPUBLISHES program.

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Thank You Notes We would like to give our special thanks to all the people who work so hard to make emersonWRITES happen and to those in the Emerson College Community who continuously support us.

Program Coordinators Mary Kovaleski Byrnes, Senior Lecturer, Department of Writing, Literature and Publishing & Curriculum Coordinator, emersonWRITES Christopher Grant, Associate Director of Student Success Adena Smith, Associate Director of Student Success emersonWRITES Faculty Fiction: Kayleigh Shoen and Cassie Title Nonfiction: Elena Cabrera and Samantha Facciolo Poetry: Jenn Keogh and Breauna Roach Multigenre: Sally Burnette and Oscar Mancinas emersonPUBLISHES Faculty Alayne Fiore Teaching Assistants Poetry: Caitlyn Comm Nonfiction: Allaire Conte

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Members of the Emerson College Community Kelly Arnold, Director of Enrollment Marketing Christina Daly, Director of Retention and Student Success Leanne DiLeo, Sr. Assistant Director of Student Financial Services Shana Healy-Kern, Sr. Assistant Director of Enrollment Data Steve Himmer, Senior Lecturer and First-Year Writing Program Director, Department of Writing, Literature and Publishing MJ Knoll-Finn, Former Vice President for Enrollment Management Maria Koundoura, Associate Professor and Chair of the Department of Writing, Literature and Publishing Ruthanne M. Madsen, Vice President for Enrollment Management Tamera Marko, Senior Lecturer, Department of Writing, Literature and Publishing Beth Parfitt, Senior Lecturer, Department of Writing, Literature and Publishing M. Lee Pelton, President, Emerson College Robert Sabal, Associate Professor and Interim Dean of the School of Arts John Trimbur, Professor & Assistant Director of the First-Year Witing Program, Department of Writing, Literature and Publishing Michaele Whalen, Vice President of Academic Affairs Sam Woodson, Assistant Director of Enrollment Marketing clvii

IN THIS ISSUE

• 2015-2016

Taylor Phillips Abby Rose Plourde Briana Previlon Elena Ramos Nadeja Richardson Samantha Rosa Joseph Rowland Ebony Monet Smith Essence Smith Aviana Sullivan Kyaralind Vasquez Antonio Weathers Khadijah White Michelle Zhang

VOL. 6

Taylor Driscoll Alex Drumm Fatima Eddahbi Scheneider Francois Jackelyne Garces Jacarrea Garraway Johnayia Howard Hawa Ibrahim Luthien Jabar Charlie Kielt Kathleen Kim Abbie Langmead Carina Layfield Masha Leyfer Michael Martinez

Alysha McDevitt Stephania Mejia Karla Mendoza Mercy Moncada Marina Nguyen Hailey Norton Alia Ortiz Shona Ortiz Bria Phillips

S P I N E

Helen Apesos Julia Carolan Marie-Helen Carr Karen Cheng Ralph Corbelle Amelia D’Onofrio Caroline De Assis Gomes Nia Dorsey Joao Dos Santos

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