EmersonWRITES SPINE 2017-18 by EmersonWRITES

SPINE VOLUME 8, 2017-2018

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 • 2017-2018 • Volume 8 • February 2018

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 diversity of 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 Emersonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;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 college-style courses held on Emersonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;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 Algonquin Regional High School Belmont High School Boston Arts Academy Boston Green Academy Boston Latin Academy Boston Preparatory Charter Public School Bridgewater-Raynham Regional High School Brookline High School Community Charter School of Cambridge Cristo Rey Boston High School Dorsey High School East Boston High School Excel Academy Charter High School Frederick Pilot Henderson K-12 John D. O’Bryant School of Mathematics and Science Malden High School Marshfield High School Match Charter High School Melrose High School Mystic Valley Regional Charter School Neighborhood House Charter School North Quincy High School Norton High School O’Maley Innovation Middle School Pierce Middle School Roxbury Prep High School Stoughton High School Wachusett Regional High School Weston High School (METCO) Wilson Middle School

Table of Contents

Why “SPINE”? About the Name

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Coming-of-Age 9 The Art of Brevity 23 Poetry: Page Meets the Stage 47 The Things That Scare Us: Social Justice and Change in Fiction

EmersonPUBLISHES xcvii Thank You Notes xcviii

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, Senior Lecturer, WLP Co-Founder and Curriculum Coordinator vii

Coming-of-Age This year our class focused on the coming-of-age genre, understanding it as a genre that relates to adolescent movement toward adulthood and the corresponding awakening to a new understanding of themselves and the world around them. We spent a lot of time discussing what it means to be an adolescent—to be youthful—and the big (or small) moments, revelations, epiphanies that turn young adults into adults. Our purpose was to investigate this question: What does growing up entail? In order to investigate, we read an array of short stories, excerpts from novels, poetry, and even graphic novels that fit into the coming of age genre, and analyzed these praised works in order to develop new insights about the genre and to deepen both the meaning of the text and of the world we live in. The students produced exceptional work this year, experimenting with craft and working off flexible prompts. And although we still have a long way to go from truly understanding what it means to “grow up” (because no one really knows the answer to that), we’ve developed a good understanding for the genre and what it means to write for that genre.

Faculty Bio Fion Wu is a second-year MFA candidate in Fiction at Emerson, where she teaches in the First-Year Writing Program and works as an ELL consultant in the Writing and Academic Resource Center. She is originally from Brooklyn, New York, but later moved to the suburbs of Staten Island and then Long Island, and has now found her way to Boston. Fion works a lot with the Coming-of-Age and Young Adults genres, while also incorporating language and culture into her writing. This was her first year teaching through EmersonWRITES, and she was both impressed and inspired by her super-talented students.

Marly Barros Community Charter School of Cambridge, 12th Grade This year, I enjoyed learning how to use one word and brainstorming to create a poem or story. I used this method to create this poem, which I believe can be relatable to adolescents who are coming-of-age.

Two Lives, One Difference Thought it was supposed to be all roses and gold but instead it’s branches and poverty all around. Mama wants me to be successful in a world that looks down upon those who are colored. Everyday someone dies; teen boys losing their lives. And half the time it isn’t even their fault. Cops don’t care; they have an excuse. Oh, he tried to pull out a weapon! Meanwhile the kid is begging, please don’t shoot. But the cop pulls out the gun and aims it— pulls the trigger and ends it. Another life gone, another life taken for granted. The cop plants a gun in the kids sweater. Look, I told you. Sickening, how cops get the lee way, while innocent kids die. A couple weeks later his family finds out it was a lie. The court didn’t wanna hear it— it’s a black male’s life. You know, black. The color of “monsters in disguise”. His family cries, everyday and every night, hoping that next time this doesn’t happen to someone else’s child, that racism won’t be present, that the lives of the innocent ones won’t be taken, that “black lives matter” won’t be taken as just a phrase, or meant to bring non-colored people down. Black lives matter just as much as white lives do. 11

Open your eyes, we can’t be blind to these tragedies. Stop worrying about your reputation. It’s not about whose skin tone is prettier or who’s better than who. Because “Equality” is written in the constitution. Yet, black and white can’t be on the same level ‘cause they don’t seem to fit the same description? Lives are ending and time is ticking. Make a decision because this is turning into a cycle of repetition. Marly is a senior at the Community Charter School of Cambridge, and is currently a cheerleading captain. She also loves singing and writing.

Karen Cheng Boston Arts Academy, 11th Grade This year, I learned about writing both stories and poems in the comingof-age genre. In these pair of poems, the narrator confronts themselves and the world they live in, which is something we all do as we grow up.

Lost in Self Reflection A hole in my heart— an empty space or even a crater and a gap. I still breath from my lungs as I choke on my breath that I counted as my last many times. I can’t live like this, but at the same time, I can. Just stop the beats that rivet between time and the missing piece of myself. I just can’t wait. I can’t process; I leave more thoughts as it clouds my mind. I just can’t think straight, there’s no straight answer. I can’t see for my ignorance and absence. The world has changed as I watched the world move on, go past our expectations of reality our futures. A parasite that affects all creates a negative change and inflicts damage upon everyone around its radius, impactful as it demands. 13

Colors as we name, seen as colors of our vivid mood. I see blue, calm and dreary, cold and numbing. I could feel as if I could dive and submerge into it. Blue as the sky and white as the wisps of pure clouds. White is a clarity of emptiness. A space I always find myself in. At the same time, I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t. I want to submerge into the dark. I feel welcomed there. I feel it calling for me. Whistling as an untraceable voice in my mind. I wish to know how to escape from the tribulations. I can feel it hung around my neck like a brace. I struggle without the judgment and words of others but I chose to reflect back with an unreliant thought of others as they ghost pass me with their eyes stabbing me back. I stand living and breathing, through the lens of my mind.

A Dreamerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Reality A lost dreamer who wants to sleep a little longer. In every waking moment, the desire to walk a path paved just for them. Light and fluffy. Afraid of falling out of clouds. 14

Fear of making a terrible mistake. As society judges you from around and above. Corruption of purity. The delusion creeps over; nights like these will never be comforting. A champion of the strings, They are destined to walk in the dark while other stray from their views and voices. Woken by the sin and hatred. Difference. Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s what we all see in each other. Nothing but position of opinions. The air seems thicker around difficult conversations. A person can not breathe without air but we often suffocate in our own thoughts. Tears can move a person as they strive along withering in years. There are those who choose not to look at each other equally as we should. Beyond the profiling and the manner we speak, we are born to convene with anyone around us and our mind speaks as we see it. Colors seem bleaker than a childâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s. We are either slowly losing our sights or we are beginning to be more like animals. A spoken choice nor we can validate correction as signals are given. Easily liable by expression as a language. Actions are figuratively spoken louder. But the tone of vulgar speech manages to break barriers. Reckless havoc of wars invoked in its peace. Battles that entangle the lives of the people. Yet empowered has ceased to open their eyes to see. Blinded by pride and a country behind them in their order. 15

All it took was a sacrifice of a singular person. The dreamer was granted the possible desire to become the lamb to the altar in exchange for the sake of the world. The life of theirs will lead the resolve and the revolution of change. The self development to create the love that was saturated from the start. The dream to create the world where no one needed to be slandered. A dream is a cause, not a fight as a leader, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a choice whether to stand or become forgotten. Karen Cheng is currently a junior at Boston Arts Academy, and is a visual artist. She likes online comics, watching YouTube web series, and coming up with new ideas! She lives in South Boston.

Brayeli Lara-Santana Boston Latin Academy, 10th Grade What I enjoyed most about EmersonWRITES was being able to find creativity based off just an idea, a few words even, and all of sudden feeling like I could write for hours. That is exactly the case for this piece, my very first piece for EmersonWRITES.

I Was Wrong She had the type of tight brown curls that spiraled around and around, causing you to lose your train of thought. Her teeth were as white as pearls, and her smile could light up a stage. Her eyes were chocolate brown, like milk chocolate, or hot cocoa. They’re both my absolute favorites. Her lips were okay too; I guess you could say they were as pink as I can’t really think of anything to compare them to. Just know they were pink, not like a reddish pink either, just pink. But never mind how she looked; it didn’t even matter. Not that I didn’t appreciate her beauty or anything. I mean, I couldn’t deny it, she was gorgeous—face and all, smile, hair, slim figure too. Who wouldn’t fall in love with her? She was the girl. Any guy’s dream girl. You might be wondering how we met. It’s a long, complicated story. I’m sure you have the time though. So here it goes... She was smiling, and it caught my eye in an instant. You could say it was a very compelling smile. I wanted to go up to her so badly, but had no idea what to say. She was with a friend on the other side of the store. What if she had a boyfriend? What if she was one of those girls who hated sweet, corny shit. It’s the only ‘game’ I could spit. Maybe I shouldn’t talk to her, I thought. Yet at the same time, I didn’t want to let this opportunity slip; what if I never saw her again? I mean what were the chances? Same girl, same ice cream store, same time. Ugh, I couldn’t ’t even think; god, she was beautiful. She was everything. You could tell she wasn’t snobby, or rude, or stuck up. There was grace in her laugh, kindness in her smile, faith in her eyes. She was bathed in happiness, or at least she looked that way to me. I’m very good at reading people. “Hello, I’m Jorge how are you gorgeous ladies doing today?” I said in the most charming voice I could mimic. “Sorry, but do we know you?” asked her friend. 17

“No but I would love to get to---” She cut me off before I could finish. “Yeah no, run along.” She chuckled while she spoke. Disappointment ran through me as fast as lightning flashes, and it felt like a shock to the heart. I was walking away when I realized no! Unbelievable and unacceptable. “You know what, I came here to tell you how gorgeous I know you are.” I made sure to say “know” rather than “think”; confidence could reinforce any statement. I made sure to look her right in her eyes, her stunning eyes. I continued. “How captivating you were. Besides your looks, though, I thought you to be a wonderful, polite, humble, considerate, and a caring girl. The opposite of the character you just portrayed to me. Two minutes ago, all I could think of when I looked at you was taking you out, making you smile—god your smile. It’s enchanting. I wanted to make you as happy as you were when you first walked in here, treat you delicately, nurture you. I wanted to praise you. I was hoping your heart and soul would be as beautiful as you look right now. I guess I was wrong though. You are snobby, just like all of the others, you’re not different. I expected different, though I’m not sure why. It sucks, it really does because man, you would’ve been wonderful for me, and I would’ve made sure I was wonderful for you.” I mean I didn’t say it just like that, but it was close to it. Brayeli is a sophomore at the Boston Latin Academy. She is interested in learning about health and medicine. She also enjoys sipping on coffee, watching movies and taking walks through the Common. Writing is her get-away.

Carl Orelcange Boston Preparatory Charter Public School, 12th Grade This year, I learned how to do a lot with a little. Usually with writing, I go over my head and think something too big but I learned there is a lot of beauty in simplicity. In this piece, I connect growing up to a bittersweet and nostalgic feeling.

What is Youth? Youth is when you are running on a playground. your parents are probably on the benches, distant. You’re either on your own or with a sibling, guiding if you’re older, guided if you’re younger. Youth is when you climb a jungle gym while your heart races. Left hand. Right hand. Not too high. Don’t look down. Then you are on the other side. Youth is when you throw your arms up going down a slide. The thrill rushes through you; you giggle with laughter and circle around to slide again. Youth is when you rush to the swing sets feeling excitement about the “big kid” swings, being pushed by someone you love, and grasping the chains of the set. Higher! Higher! Youth is when you scrape your knee while running, and then tripping. You are on the ground and the pain sears. 19

The wound begins to bleed. And you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to cry but this time, you just might. Your throat tightens. You clasp your knee hoping it could block out the pain, but once you get a bandage, everythingâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s alright. You get up and smile, running around the playground. Only this time, a little more scared that you just might fall. Carl is a senior at Boston Prep, and preparing to go to college to be a teacher. He loves reading, writing, and video games. On Sundays, he goes to Church. He is also a huge history nerd.

Kyaralind Vasquez Cristo Rey Boston High School, 11th Grade This year at EmersonWRITES I pushed myself to become an explorer. Through the lens of Coming-of-Age, I enjoyed analyzing adolescent experiences in a world where we often find ourselves struggling to keep up with the new movement. In the following short story, I dictate life of an inquisitive teen girl with an idiosyncratic phobia.

Entering the World of Knowledge Apple. Oh, that word. What a dangerous thing to say... Growing up with no cable but an old running DVD player was the epitome of my childhood. I would go on behalf of my wearied mother in search of movie discs at the local yard sales when I didn’t feel like commuting all the way to the library. For one, I only had a unicycle. Two, I think my library card expired. Anyways, it was my turn to pick a movie for movie night. I peered at the current selection of movies we had in our box of them but to no avail. My little brother had at least watched four of them twice. Suddenly, I remembered that Jacob’s mom was holding a yard sale before they moved to the other side of town. I grab my unicycle and jet out the door. Ms. Davis was just packing up when I approached the front yard. “Wait! Ms. Davis!” I shouted. Startled, she glanced up at me out of her lenses. With no second thought, I quickly made my way over to the large selection of books. I skimmed it to only find one movie disc underneath a huge Harry Potter book. Snow White. Interesting. I always wanted to see one of those princess movies. Before I can ask Ms. Davis how much the DVD would cost she was no longer there. I read a note on the table: “Free to take, please.” I get home just before sundown and just before my little brother woke from his usual afternoon nap. The disc was kind of dusty, so it took a couple of blows before I could get it clean. It took a few tries until the DVD finally read it. ... It was the first and LAST time I watched a princess movie. Or at least anything like Snow White. Before, I was a naive and curious child. Until 21

that moment when I watched the apple scene, I became another person. The apple. The poisonous apple. The witch used it to her advantage to manipulate the princess to her liking. In some sort of way, I was like the princess. Sweet, unknowing. But I became malicious through seeking revenge on the evil witch for hurting Snow White. And it was through that apple I discovered true knowledge, and all the awfulness that came along with it. It was astonishing to see that a person would even go out of their way to hurt a person because of their own insecurities. I wondered why anyone would go to the extent to treat others with such indignity to feel better about themselves. It was like the Adam and Eve moment of the film. The wicked convinces you of its good persona through imitation of one, - hard to detect any deceit. And in that moment, you are tricked by false beauty, such sweetness that appealed to you. From the apple, the Fruit of Knowledge, they fell into deception. Like Pandoraâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; s box, we become conscious. Like Snow White, we almost lose ourselves. Like me, we become scared of apples. This is Kyaralindâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s third year at EmersonWRITES. She is an honor roll student and continues to maintain her academic integrity by joining the National Honor Society. She indulges in learning more secrets about the world at hand and sharing a deep love for animals. She aspires to study biology in college.

The Art of Brevity

Storytelling in 800 Words or Less

A story doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t always need 300 pages to develop characters, plot, setting, tension, or truth. Sometimes all you need is a few words to impact a reader. This course explored the succinct, yet evocative world of short and flash narratives. Students read and wrote fiction, nonfiction and hybrid stories, then discussed how writers make such a brief space come to life. They considered why brevity is sometimes necessary to express certain truths and came to terms with the complex, yet flexible relationship between fiction and nonfiction. This course delved into new forms, material, and themes each week in order to introduce students to the exciting world of short-form narratives. Many of the pieces submitted to SPINE developed from the multitude of writing exercises we tried throughout the course, such as thirteen-word stories, ABC stories, list narratives, and 100-word stories. Others applied knowledge from our weekly discussions on language, clarity, pace, and genre to help revise previously written narratives. Whether fiction or nonfiction, emotionally driven work consumed our classroom throughout the course and the following pieces illustrate how each student learned to convey tension thoughtfully, yet efficiently. Faculty Bios Carly Youssouf is a third year MFA candidate in creative nonfiction at Emerson College, where she is also a writing consultant at the Writing and Academic Resource Center. For the past few years, she has privately tutored middle and high school students, as well as volunteered in various literacy programs in Florida, Massachusetts, and her home state of New Jersey. She has studied abroad in England, Scotland, and Spain, and tries to backpack around the globe as often as her budget allows. Alex Ebel is a second year candidate in nonfiction at Emerson College. Originally from Texas, he has also lived In Oakland, California and New Orleans, Louisiana. He is a reader for Ploughshares. His literary interests vary from narrative journalism to personal essays and humor writing. His work had previously been published in places like The Rumpus, Hobart, Hello Mr, and Punchnelâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s, among others. 23

Jackelyne Garces Excel Academy Charter High School, 10th Grade A couple of the following poems are about going through a breakup. I tried to put my emotions on paper even though I wasn’t sure if it would work. I also experimented with a new way to write about color and how color usually means more than one thing to different people. My last poem is one I recently wrote about how so many people go through a lot, but sometimes we’re so caught up in our own problems that we ignore the different signs, and forget to help the people around us.

How To Keep Tempo Don’t use your phone. It won’t go away, but the time you spend together will end. Live in the moment. Remember all the cliche lines in songs and realize they’re all true. Feel the smile across your face, and their face, Cherish it. May you always be there to see it. Hear their words, They are the most beautiful songs you have ever heard. You come back to them over and over, Like they’re stuck on repeat inside your head. They say be careful about getting attached, But we all have different taste in music. Notice the small things. The songs you used to love to hear have turned into poorly written parodies. The once delicately composed melodies are now unauthentic, rehearsed. You pretend not to notice. Say “I love you” Maybe that’ll fix things. 25

Don’t check your phone every two seconds. The notification won’t appear no matter how much you want it to. Put your phone away and fade into the comfort of music. Let the sounds wash away all your thoughts and the mess of emotions that you are. You do not need to apologize for being sad, Or quiet, or for distancing yourself from everyone. The music does not care for apologies, It will provide comfort so long as you open your mind To things you’ve never heard Don’t think of the “what ifs,” There are too many. Grab your heart and hold it in your hands. Tell it to keep pounding to the beat of the song That pumps through your ears. Just because the song is ending, Doesn’t mean you won’t find another favorite. Say “I love myself” You cannot be fixed by the one that broke you.

Teach Her Your Blue Be her blue. One of the few primary colors That will always be there. The beautiful sky at the start of a new day, Even the dark, mysterious night so many fear without reason. Appear to her in different shades of blue, Light and dark and everything in between, Be navy, denim, and cerulean, Anyone can be just blue She needs someone who can be everything. 26

Show her that even though you are blue, There are rainbows out there. She will meet many who disguise themselves as purple, But only one will be telling the truth. It is up to you to guide her, Make your blue stronger than any color that others show her. Teach her to love herself, The beautiful and the ugly shades, They make up who we are. Just because one person didn’t realize What a unique shade of blue she is, Doesn’t mean no one will. Show your imperfections, Prevent her from making the same mistakes you did. She needs to know there are bad things out there, Shades of colors that warn of danger and fear. Shades that if she mixes with, Will make her lose her color.

Reality i dreamt you called. seeing your name on my phone screen, was enough to make my heart stop. hearing your voice again, was enough to make the tears fall. i dreamt i picked up. that you said my name, that you talked first this time, and told me you were ready to try again and i felt a smile on my face, and a happiness i haven’t felt in months. 8 months. i dreamt that you said you loved me, 27

and you meant it. and i said it back. my eyes opened, reality brought me back.

On My Skin there are marks on my skin some made by others fresh ones made by me there are marks on my skin of places i’ve been touched of places i’ve broke down there are marks on my skin that tell of when i was happy that tell of when i was numb but the marks on my skin will continue to show unless you hide them in places where no one will know This is Jackelyne’s third year at EmersonWRITES. She is a sophomore at Excel Academy Charter High School. She is interested in Chemistry and Computer Science. Although she is used to writing mostly fiction, she has recently started experimenting with poetry and hopes to continue to write more.

Shermarie Hyppolite Mystic Valley Regional Charter School, 11th Grade My first two pieces were based on a 13-word and ABC writing exercise we worked on in class. I really enjoy stories about representation and self-love and through these stories, I have been able to relate and find worth in the person I am today. For my ABC story, I decided to combine unrequited love and horror because I wanted the nature of the story to take the reader by surprise. I wrote my last story during my sophomore year. It was a submission to my school’s literary magazine under the theme of a new perspective on old stories. Following this theme, my story is based off Alice in Wonderland, but reworked.

Rich In Color They say brown girls turn gold in sunlight. That’s why I feel expensive.

No Sign of Cure Here About a year ago I fell in love with a woman around my age. Biology class was my favorite part of the day because I got to work with her as my lab partner. Crippling anxiety ate at her nerves whenever she thought about our rival school discovering a cure to Xenon, a disease that ate away at the brain. Desperation caused her to seek out test patients for her medicine, but no one was willing to risk it. Everybody knew her reputation in regards to her many lab experiments going terribly wrong. Fall came around and the university became impatient for results. Grumbling to myself, I thought about the good I could do if I volunteered my time for a good cause, while also spending time with her in the lab. Her door was left open one night, revealing a table with sharp knives and needles filled with odd liquids. Immediately I turned around, deciding that maybe I could find a different way to win her heart. Jealousy quickly clouded my mind when I thought about any other person working closely with her. Kicking myself, I took a deep breath and entered the lab. “Lisa, are you here? I have great news,” I said. Movement from the other side of the room caught my attention. 29

Noticing a glass cage in that same corner, I approached it with caution. Oddly enough, the glass was covered in a black tarp that reached the floor, so I reached up and removed it. Pacing back and forth, I could not believe my eyes. Questions flooded my mind at a million miles an hour. Realistically speaking, the body floating in what I guessed was a mixture of blood and something else might not even be a body. “Sure,” I said to myself. This is just the chemicals messing with my head. Unconsciously, I stepped back onto someone’s shoes. Very slowly I turned around and was met with Lisa’s beautiful smile. “What are you doing here?” X-labeled files were in one hand and a large bag in the other. “You’ve seen too much and now I’ll be forced to deal with you permanently. Zipping open her bag, my poor life decision to let a girl I barely knew experiment on me just because I had a crush on her hit me at full force at that moment.

How the Mad Hatter Came to Be “Come play the game that everyone is raving about,” blared the annoying little television set. “Will you be the hero to defeat Alice’s dictatorship once and for all?” Maddy could’ve sworn she had seen the same Wonderland video game only three minutes prior to this one. She couldn’t lie to herself, her inner gamer girl, and couldn’t help but be curious about the game. Lately, it seemed as though everyone owned a copy of this game but her. Even Mrs. Charleston—who was more than fifty years older than her—owned the latest video game. As she stared at the commercial, Maddy started to feel the familiar burning sensation in her head and her eyes started to water at the unbearable pain. She closed her eyes and silently prayed for the pain to pass over. Whenever she felt the burn in her head, she was supposed to take the painkillers prescribed by her doctor. Missing the daily television programs would result in harsh punishment for breaking Hartland’s main rule. Maddy was torn, she had never once missed taking her medicine, and she knew what would happen if she didn’t. Then again, if she was caught missing the daily roll in of television she was sure to be in a whole lot of trouble.’ To make matters worse, the mischievous twin boys Tim and 30

Timothy began fighting across the room. “Fight! Fight!” yelled the children as they circled around the twin boys. Maddy screeched. None of the other kids glanced at her, for even a second. The pain was becoming so much that black dots started to cloud her vision. Maddy threw her baseball hat from her head and turned off the television. But before it went black she could have sworn she saw a pair of striking green eyes staring at her from the annoying little set. She blinked and was met by her reflection staring back at her from the shut off television. Her too big purple eyes and fiery red hair seemed to stand out even more than usual in the all-white hospital room. She could faintly smell bleach and when she raised her hand to cover her nose, the machines hooked up to her tugged harder, pulling her hand back against the thin fabric of her hospital gown. “Where am I?” Maddy wondered aloud. “Hartland’s Mental Institute for the Young and Homeless,” answered a woman in a heavy British accent. She looked to be straight out of a fairytale, with hair as white as snow, there was no way a real person could look as stunning as she did. Maddy wondered why such a beautiful woman was working in a hospital. “Wait a minute, mental institute? I’m not sick,” yelled Maddy. She realized all too late that was exactly what a sick person would say. “Indeed, you are mad Miss. Hatten! Do you know why you have been taking that medicine?” The woman didn’t give Maddy a chance to respond. “Your parents were the top inventors for the Hartland Gaming Company. Don’t be mistaken by the name, that’s not all they invented. Your father was responsible for the invention of the time machine, as well as many other technical improvements to our country. If it weren’t for your parents we wouldn’t be the most advanced country in the world.” “Then why can’t I remember them then, surely I should be living in a castle if my parents are the reason this country is so successful?” whispered Maddy to herself. “Well things didn’t go as planned, when you were born, you were diagnosed with an unknown disease. The chemical fumes that surrounded your mother on a daily basis affect you. When you were born, you didn’t have first words but a first phrase, “have you any idea why a raven is like a writing desk.” Multiple tests were run on you to determine the science behind your ability but when nothing could be found you were 31

pronounced mad. Your mother created countless remedies but none of them worked except for this one, the one you are so accustomed to using. The medicine was so successful the council decided it should be handed to everyone. Unfortunately, the side effect was memory loss and thousands of Hartlanders were hospitalized because of it.” “Where are they now?” asked Maddy. “Well some either spent the rest of their lives in the hospital or they were transferred somewhere more open for them.” “What’s that supposed to mean, what could be safer than a supervised hospital?” wondered Maddy. “Well, the council couldn’t have enemies seeing how much damage the medicine caused, as a result, your parents and the affected patients were locked up. Before the council could take you, your mother left you at the front door of a foster home.” “What’s the place they are being held called maybe I cou—” “If you think visiting them is an option you are wrong,” whispered the white beauty. “At the time, your father was working on an Alice in Wonderland inspired video game where Alice would be the villain and the Mad Hatter would be the hero. Despite you being an oddity from the day you were born, you inspired you father. I believe he once said ‘All the best people are bonkers.’ Your parents never meant to abandon you Maddy.” “Are you telling me that the same game that has been playing for weeks as a commercial contains my parents in it?” “Actually, the same game commercial has been playing for years now, but since you suffer from the memory loss, you never noticed.” Maddy went to grab her hat out of frustration, but was instead was meet with her bundle of curls. She pulled her hair after she realized that she really did not remember where she put her hat or anything before the conversation with the mysterious woman. “How do you know my parents anyway? You seem to know every possible detail about them.” “That’s because I do.” The woman moved closer to Maddy so that she was sitting in the chair beside her. “I was one of the scientists that had the privilege to work for your parents. My name is Lily Waxen. I was assigned to watch over you by both your parents,” Lily finished and looked at Maddy warily. Maddy’s purple eyes widened and her mouth formed an unnatural smile. Lily grabbed Maddy’s hand and tried to get her attention. 32

“Maddy, are you okay?” Maddy cocked her head to the side and looked at Lily. Maddy didn’t know what came over her, it was as if everything she was seeing suddenly became brighter. She couldn’t quite understand it herself, but she liked it. “What if I could travel into the game and perhaps visit the Wonderland world my father created.” “I don’t know. Since you’ve been transferred to this hospital, some scientists are already aware of your mental state and have sent word to the council.” “What do you mean you don’t know? It’s a perfect idea,” yelled Maddy. “This might be the only chance I have to ever meet my parents and staying here is not a good idea.” “Fine,” sighed Lily. “When do we leave?” “Tomorrow,” answered Lily. For the first time in Maddy’s life she felt as if she were going to be around people just like her. Maddy was ready to enter the world of Wonderland, and never come back. Shermarie is a 17-year-old junior at Mystic Valley Regional Charter School in Malden. She is currently a journalist at Affinity Magazine and is the editor-in-chief of her school’s literary magazine, LIME. She hopes to one day become an accomplished editor of a fashion magazine, an author, a screenwriter, a businesswoman, and a role model for young African American kids. When Shermarie is not writing, you can find her listening to music or reading fashion articles on her phone. Every Saturday at EmersonWRITES has been a great learning experience, and she can’t wait until her next year!

Paige Lesperance Marshfield High School, 9th Grade This is an excerpt from a longer short story.

The First to Call It was the first time since the three-day-long rainstorm that the sun shone through the fat, gray clouds and reflected off the glimmering golden dome atop the State House. In the Common, people were scattered about performing different tasks. A young boy ran along the grass and his exasperated mother followed, holding two blue ice cream cones that dripped along her arms. An elderly couple stopped to feed the birds. A proper looking teenage girl sat on a rickety bench, reading from a textbook with a painful expression on her face. A fat squirrel perched on one of the many sharp edged tops of the pointy black fence that divided the Common from Beacon Street, in search of food. It was October fifth, but felt more like late August at high noon. The entire city of Boston felt like it was cooking and sizzling like strips of bacon in a red hot pan. Ray Creech regretted his choice of clothes. He stuck a hand into his cotton slate gray pants and pulled out a cloth. Wiping his sweaty forehead, Creech groaned and stopped in his tracks. “If I have to walk one more block I’ll faint,” he muttered, desperate for shade. Creech was certainly an oddity amongst the usual Bostonians. Most men walking along these parts were polished and reformed, much like one another without any distinction. They all greased their hair and parted it one way, and donned formal suits that matched their sleek black shoes. Briefcases were very common among these men, and Creech often used to wonder what was inside of them as they passed him on the streets. Often, as the men came within his reach, his fingers would twitch and he’d start to lift his arm, as he imagined these briefcases abundant with stacks of money. Creech could always use a little money. Now I’ll never sweat over money again, he thought with a mental snicker as he eyed the affluent looking, brick apartments that lined the street. He remembered her address, and knew the inside, wall to wall, like the back of his hand. Slowly, he started walking again, counting the numbers on the bricks until he reached apartment nine. He walked up 35

the stairwell and knocked twice, firmly, on the hard, black door. Creech tapped his foot until he heard the sharp steps of a person furiously hurrying to let him in. ★ said.

“When would be the best time for me to carry this out?” Creech

He was seated in a posh, olive green armchair that overlooked the Common. The sun had set, but the afterglow was still hanging in the sky, casting a coral hue over the buildings. The dome of the house looked a fiery orange, and Creech felt a shiver run through his body. Despite his tough background, seedy ways, and a past dirtier than a zoo cleaner’s, he still had some sensitivity left in his soul. He was always touched by sunsets and beautiful scenes of nature. But his peace was soon dashed by the nasally, affected voice of Mrs. DiNero, known to him as “Greta” now because of her contempt for her husband. “What was it, Ray?” She set down two steaming coffees in front of him. Creech hated coffee in the evening; perhaps one mug in the morning served as a good jolt to consciousness, but in his opinion coffee should stay put in the morning. After the usual intense, nerve-wracking days he’d spend doing his dirty work, all he wanted to do in the evening was get drunk. But he was patient with her, as he felt sorry for her situation and guilty for the role he played in it. “I asked about the time. When will this work best?” He took a sip to be polite. Greta went blank for a moment. It was as if she either forgot that she was currently hosting a felon in her home, or she was really pondering about actually going through with what they had been discussing. Then, her eyes fell on Creech’s and she grinned widely. “Sorry, Ray. I was just… thinking of Mr. DiNero’s schedule. Let’s see, he’s, of course, in Bel Air for his business tonight…. left me alone for a week to go to the West Coast…. some husband…” her voice trailed off, and she sat down in the other armchair facing his. Creech started tapping his foot impatiently. He was tired of sitting in this foolish, uncomfortable chair, waiting to talk business but only getting angry murmurs. “Oh, Ray! I know!” Creech, in the middle of taking a sip of his coffee cup, turned his eyes to her. The mug covered half of his face, and his mouth was full of 36

café au lait. “He will be arriving here tomorrow via taxi in the late morning. I’d say around nine or ten. I just remembered that because he called me the other day telling me this. I was in a sour mood during this conversation since he hadn’t called in a few days to say so much as ‘I love you,’ so I said ‘So don’t expect me to be in the kitchen ready with your sandwich?’ I told him I was going shopping and I hung up.” Creech place his cup back on the saucer, waiting for her to get to the point. “I was thinking about it today, and I honestly meant it when I said that. That I would be shopping all day, that is. I haven’t spent money on anything actually important in my life in a couple of days, and I could really use a nice pair of red heels. So don’t you think that if I were at the shoe place tomorrow in the morning, and you were here waiting for him to arrive, that it would be the absolute perfect time?” Creech nodded his head. “That sounds perfect,” he said quietly and sealed the deal with a wide grin that she returned. He stood up and stretched his arms, and shook his legs that were half asleep. “A great plan. Don’t you think this is a cause for celebration? What do you say I make us some drinks?” Nodding her head like an overly happy pet dog, Greta leaned back into her seat. “Ray, tonight will forever remain a landmark in my life! No longer will I have to deal with being left alone again, nor the harshness of my evil husband! He’ll be gone forever. No more business trips, no more leaving me alone at business parties while he flirts with younger women. None of that! And the best part? I’ll be left with the most handsome fortune you’ve ever heard of. Yes, every penny of that inherited of two million dollars will be mine. I’ve never been happier, I mean that. Ray? Are you hearing me?” Creech appeared in the doorway, holding two cosmopolitans, one of a medium pink and the other nearly translucent. “I mean, I couldn’t possibly wait another minute,” Greta continued. “Why would I want that money when he dies naturally, at an older age? What would a wrinkly, nearly dead woman do with all that cash? Why, when you can just end your husband at age forty and the rest of a long, happy life with two million dollars at your side? And we’ll do this right, right? Are you sure, Ray, that you’ve killed people and were never tried for it? He handed her a glass, but didn’t respond to her question. 37

“Just how much vodka did you put in that, Ray?” Greta chuckled, reaching for the clear one. “I’ll take it, no complaints!” “Good, because this one was made especially for you and your soon to be achievements.” “It certainly is an achievement, scoring two million from a husband’s,” she started, and putting up her fingers in quotations, finished, “death”. Creech sipped his slowly. Wasting no time, Greta downed her drink in six sips. He counted. The she slammed her frozen glass on the coaster laying atop the polished, chestnut coffee table. She lied back on the couch and sighed happily. “Ray, start a fire. I’m suddenly exhausted,” she said slurring her words. She slumped downward against the armrest, her dark red bun coming undone. Looking half awake, Greta tried to pull off her gloves. Creech smiled. “Certainly,” he cooed, “It must be from all that gabbing you’ve done. Planning is exhausting, you know.” He bent over and took her gloves from her hands, set them on the table next to her empty glass and went to the fireplace. Greta watched him stack a few thick logs on top of one another. He asked where the lighter was, and she mumbled, “In...the kitchen, Ra...” It was the last thing she remembered saying as the walls slowly enclosed on her as she felt a deep blackness cover her eyes as she slipped away into slumber in the dimly lit room. She still had her shoes on and her last thoughts were of how strangely delicious that cosmo tasted. She hadn’t felt a pang of enjoyment that strong since she bought her last pair of stilettos.

Michael Martinez Weston High School (METCO), 11th Grade My first piece is a lyric essay about my first visit to Puerto Rico. In this piece, I struggle with the cruel and fast-paced ticking of the clock and our powerlessness in changing our circumstances. Time, in the end, humbles all things. I also touch upon faith in my writing, and how my greatuncle looked to his spirituality for comfort and hope in times of sickness. I allude to my Puerto Rican culture as well as my own spirituality. My second piece is inspired by list narratives, which we began writing in our second class. It was my first time exploring this type of writing, and I had a lot of fun doing it. I enjoyed being able to explore my identity through listing out the foods I eat. A special thanks to Alex and Carly for giving me this prompt and telling me that it was perfect for SPINE. They saw beauty in a project that I barely appreciated when I first wrote it.

Manos CariĂąosas Jesus hung on the white wall of their living room. His hands must be tired, I thought to myself. They were slightly lifted above his torso in humility, totally surrendering himself, incapable of unfreezing his body in the passage of time. Totally not in control. Abuela, a preacher herself, would sing about the miracles accomplished and the pain suffered by those hands on Good Friday. There they were, before my eyes. His eyes, a tired celestial blue, followed me as my aunt gave us a tour of the house. On the kitchen windowsill, my aunt hung a white plastic bag with long bread. The pan dulce was folded in half, the crease indicating how much one should eat in a sitting. Though one could eat the whole loaf in a sitting if they so pleased. She bought it from the bakery up the road, which we made a stop at on our way from the airport. Sonny, their dog, was a tawny shade. His untrimmed fur was stained by airborne earth and Saharan dust which rose from the deserts of Africa and made its way to the Caribbean, riding warm fronts. He had some pipes, that dog. Though my aunt assured me that he was all bark by the time she found me cornered by his stench and his deafening yelps. My uncle Berto greeted me slowly, with a quick smile and a brief 39

chuckle. “Michael!” he said. “So much time it has been.” My arms gently wrapped around his loose T-shirt. I worried that I would hurt him if I embraced him too tightly. He sensed my hesitation and embraced me with divine strength. He had designed the house himself and built it with his own hands. He had set up the chicken coop outside, from where my aunt got eggs to eat every morning. He had built the marquesina, where she parked the car. He had carried in the sofas, the air conditioner, the fans, and he had tiled the floors and cemented the walls. That was all before his hands wrinkled and began to tremble uncontrollably. My uncle, pure and saintly as he was, fell victim to the slow rotation of the earth. He realized his inability to control the fastpaced rise and fall of the sun. He began to live day by day, accepting that he was made of dust, and one day would return to the earth. I learned how to shuffle the cards on my own that summer. He learned how to hold the cards in his hands without surrendering them. He resisted his pain as we sat across from each other, gently smiling whenever we met each other’s eyes and then looking back down at our cards. When my aunt woke me up for breakfast, the warmness of the sun kissed me through the high windows of the room. The coolness of the night had penetrated into the morning, and I walked into the kitchen feeling free. My uncle was already seated at the table; before him, a heavy prophetic book. “Breakfast,” he smiled as he pointed to the text. I sat across from him and smiled back as my aunt placed scrambled eggs on the table mat in front of me. Eggs from the coop aren’t that different than eggs from the store, I thought to myself as I ate that morning. That night, the radio played boleros. The trio of voices harmonized in a warm romantic melody. One that sounded familiar, but the lyrics I could not recall. Guitar strings wept that night as the hands of heartbroken troubadours massaged them. We heard all of this, but we only saw the stillness of nature as we sat in the living room. Gazing outside, through the open sliding door, we watched the firmness of the night. We felt the freshness brought upon us by a forceful mountain breeze. Still, the trees had ancient roots. Those roots had been growing too long for them waver in the wind. 40

Foods I Often Crave Doughnuts, Dunkin Donuts. Coffee, Abuela’s Coffee. Cafe Bustelo with crackers and cheese. American Cheese. American Food, McDonald’s Happy Meals, which I must learn to stop craving, according to my mother. My mother’s food. My mom, her name is Wandy. Not red-headed Wendy, but Wandy. Wandy’s Food, yellow rice, beans, pastelitos (both kinds), mangu or mofongo (either kind, not at the same time), really any type of Spanish food, especially off the stove of my mother’s mother. Sara, no “H.” Not Sarah Lee’s Cakes. Just Sara, my Abuela, her fritas, her pasteles, her fried chicken and vegetables, more specifically the sliced baby carrots and the soft broccoli, especially the processed white chicken. And my favorite, Abuela’s white rice. White. American? Puerto Rican? American? Both? Either? Both. Diverse grocery list. Michael Martinez is a Junior, and plans to spend his time after high school empowering others through writing, teaching, public speaking, political activism, community service, civic engagement, legislation, and law reform. His passion for writing was born out of his love of books, his yearning for wisdom, his constant self-reflection, and his admiration for the work, talents, and hobbies of his older-siblings, Albeezus, CP6, K-Mart, and Blanca. His parents, Albert Sr. and Wanda Iris have always encouraged him to pursue his passion, which is why he continues writing in his free time. His grandparents, Luis Antonio and Sara Borrero, have been a source of strength and inspiration. Michael follows the example that his grandparents set for him, which is that of relentless work, constant positivity, love for others, and faith. Michael is also grateful for the encouragement he’s received from past English teachers, such as Linda Oshman, Michael Kelley and Nancy O’Connell. English teachers are the heroes hiding in between the margins of every story.

Cecil Mena Boston Preparatory Charter School, 9th Grade This is a piece of brevity fiction amdit’s describing in detail a time of my life where I almost got suspended because of the an accident and I didn’t show integrity so all of us got in trouble (but not suspended). I chose this event to write about because it was basically the only time I got in trouble like that and I was very nervous and I wanted the audience to feel like the character.

Untitled It was four years ago when I was in seventh grade. I was in the office, having been kicked out of class, and it was crowded. A smell of sweaty kids mixed with onions went in my nose every time I inhaled. All type of kids, different grades and different ages, were in there for the same reason. I looked at the clock hanging on the wall. 12:04p.m. Lunch time. I was in the back of the room when the Dean was writing passes for the students that had been there for a while to go back to class. The office was less crowded but not quite, the Dean asked who needed to get their lunch from their locker and a girl in corner stood up. I watched them as they exited the office and I felt a wet, thick piece of food hit my face. I turned around and saw Alex in the front row laughing at what he just did. He did it again. “Stop!” I shouted. But that wasn’t enough to make him stop. As waves of anger ran down my body I took the white milk next to me and threw it directly at his head. He ducked down. The milk flew toward the Dean’s desk, spilling all over the desk and walls. His belongings and important papers were soaked. At that moment I was frightened; the Dean was a very strict man I couldn’t even think of the consequences that I was going to face once he returned to the office. Everyone looked at me and laughed and reminded me of his temper. I knew I was going to be suspended. . Cecil is in the 9th grade. She likes to write because she feels like she can express her emotions without actually saying it and she likes where her imagination goes. When she grows up she thinks she would like to be a 43

architect or a biologist and these require a lot of writing. This is her first time attending this program and she thinks it was a great experience for her to grow as a writer.

Gisleyne Valdez Boston Preparatory Charter Public School, 9th Grade Writing is a gateway for me to express emotions and the difficulties I face. I get to express emotions others display in front of me. Expressing relationships between people has helped become a better person. Writing taught me how to understand people and make things sound better than they really are. Many of my pieces deal with emotions brought to the platform by short stories or only a few sentences.

Depression My heart was numb. Endless pain. My eyes swollen, tears stained my face. Fizziness rose from my scalp, bending over my head to cover my eyes. With my pupils small and fragile, nothing could help me. Nothing. Calcification. Everything hardened in my body, lost feeling. I was emotionally drained, a personal black hole sucking me in. No spaceship was willing to rescue me, no astronaut ready to be my hero. My dark circles constantly showed, minimizing my green eyes. Holding the strength I once had flourishing inside of me, I buried my face in my hands. Sulking in the corner of my prison, my teeth decayed. No light showed, determining my life. â&#x20AC;&#x153;This is what I have become a poor girl who is doomed, no one caring for her shattered diamond,â&#x20AC;? I whispered as a tear fell. It was 3:00 a.m. and the emotions were worse. The gunshot replayed in my head a thousand times. I could almost feel the pain she went through. All the memories her and I shared flooded back to me. Just like the necklace with our picture in it.

Pureness in a Cup Ice coffee. Pure and creamy. Has my heart. And will never break it.

My Saver My heart was full of remorse. Now shattering, he filled it with hope. Gisleyne takes all the normal classes in school, but also chose Latin for her language class, which has made her better at time management. She wants to become a psychologist or a cardiologist. She also wants to share her experience about writing and what she has learned over the years.

Poetry: Page Meets the Stage Our Page Meets the Stage poetry course has been an ongoing celebration of hybridity, in all its forms. We have looked at a range of works, from the canonical and structured, to the contemporary spoken word. The hope was that our students would find inspiration in the diverse styles, themes, and contexts in which these pieces were created. Every class began with a free write, with prompts that varied wildly, from “make me afraid of an apple” to the ghostline “someday, I’ll love.” As the course developed, we incorporated viewings of performance poetry, observational exercises, and close readings of favorite writers. After the holidays, our class transitioned into a workshop, where student-produced pieces were carefully peer-reviewed. We continued to incorporate different writers whose voices were in conversation with the themes and topics being explored by our students. Ultimately, our goal has been to generate a creative space, wherein our students regarded their own writing as worthy of the page, and stage. Faculty Bios Brandon Melendez is a first-year writing instructor with EmersonWRITES and he is midway through his MFA in poetry at Emerson. Brandon’s first book home/land is forthcoming with Write Bloody Publishing. He is a National Poetry Slam finalist, Rustbelt finalist, and two-time Berkeley Grand Slam Champion. He was awarded “Best Poem” at the collegiate national competition (CUPSI). Awarded the 2018 Gregory Djanikian Scholarship from the Adroit Journal, his poems are in or forthcoming in Black Warrior Review, Muzzle Magazine, the minnesota review, Ninth Letter, Sixth Finch, and elsewhere. Marin Sklan is a second year MFA candidate in creative fiction at Emerson. Originally from California, she has spent much of the past year navigating Boston’s cultural scene, and trying to figure out what “jimmies” are. Marin has worked in both prose and poetry, and is particularly energized by the convergence of these two genres. Her literary crush is Lars Gustafsson, and her middle name is a misspelling.

Katherine Colglazier Algonquin Regional High School, 11th Grade Katherine is a Junior at Algonquin and it is her second year at EmersonWRITES. She enjoys photography and bike riding in her free time. Katherine loves poetry and received a Silver Key in 2017 for her entry in the Scholastic Art and Writing contest. In 2018 she received two Gold Keys in the same composition for her poems “The Obnoxious Mark” and “Pictures.”

The Hope in Falling Apart I think my life is falling apart. Everything is collapsing like A brick wall in my childhood home; So many memories becoming lost In the rubble. So many glass windows Shattered without given the Opportunity to sneak out of them, Glance out of them, And see the shooting star Shimmering with its ensemble Of other illuminating figures. I know everything is gone to insanity. My mind resembling a traffic light, Blinking one color, never changing. Trying to make due When my family is breaking; My friends claiming they’re too busy To deal with the crazy. So much crazy in the chaos. Crazy Like swinging 49

From a chandelier wasted On what you thought was Punch. Screaming in a field of roses Because hating God is easier Than hating Myself. Maybe my life is getting dimmer, But thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s something much bigger, Pounding in my soul, Wanting to leap out of the boundaries Of my bodyHope. Hope makes me smile at the rubble And the wilted rose petals. The misery in the broken windows, And fallen smiles That reminds me: Nothing can be as bad as this. I think my life is falling so apart The fragment pieces are turning Into puzzle pieces. Broken edges mapping out where I should go next. Slowly forming into a picture. A beautiful picture, Colors illuminating the fragments, Making peace with the brokeness; There is beauty in the sharpness 50

Of the edges That creates something more Than a weapon. But a sign, That hope is buried in the chaos. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s planted in a field of roses but Nested in thorns. The insanity swirling around Like a hurricane That floods your home. But hope is the rainbow after The storm Light reflecting on what I lost Producing fragments of vibrant colors Promising me, A new home.

Tribute to Forgotten Stories Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a story in every wrinkle and gray strand of hair. Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a memory in the balding scalp to the growing beard. But we assume they forget it. With their pills and their paper; drinking coffee, always with no cream, no sugar. Behind the fading eyes there is a galaxy of life, begging for someone to find despite their bodies being light years away. One told me about the time 51

they were a nurse; working tirelessly in the ER, trying to supply for a family And to break gender norms. Another one told me about when she was young. She would skate on the ice effortlessly, feel the exhilaration of daring one another to get closer to the waterfall. But not too closeshe claimed she always got the Furthest. She said: “It’s better to do things when you’re young because when you’re old you look silly.” No one takes you seriously; no one listens to your stories. I saw one crying and I asked why. He told me the story of his best friend since he was 10. His fondest memory, he was at the club and his friend saw a pretty girl, but he was to afraid to speak. said he had “two left feet;’ so he taught his friend how to dance so he could have his first conversation with his soon to be wife. Four girls, a happy life; died with his friend still dancing. Old souls reduced to visitors once a week; looking out the window and counting 52

the blue birds that fly by. Sitting outside reminiscing memories, wondering if they will take their last breath aloneforgotten like the stories No one ever asked them to tell.

Dandelions

A beautiful weed That infests the ground And marks the beginning of Spring. It

D S

Everywhere Until all you see are Fields of yellow. You used to pick dandelions With me, You said: “Even a weed can be beautiful”. Instead of cutting it down, Give it water; Shower it with love, Don’t pull the roots out And kill it, 53

Pick it up and wish On it. When the flower loses it’s yellow And turns white with age, Let its seeds spread So more love is made. You told me it’s a hopeful Flower And if you show it mercy, It will show you its true Beauty. You are just like a dandelion, We used to pick. You resist the cold And grow when the snow Hits your delicate petals. You survive in a world Where people want to cut You down. But when you age, You didn’t lose your beauty. When your last bit of yellow Fades, And you body decays, You told the ones who remained To make a wish. Spread your spirit to every Soul, As many blades of grass It can touch, So maybe your seed of love Can fly; And grow, into yellow hope. A dandelion. 54

Annalise Ella Englert Boston Arts Academy, 12th Grade This past year at EmersonWRITES I have learned about myself as a writer and artist. The poetry class has helped me develop my artistic intentions into pieces that reflect what I want to say, and how I feel. This year I enjoyed learning about different styles of poetry, and writing techniques that work for me.

The Mirror When I think of a mirror I am flooded with questions. A mirror is fragile, like myself, but nobody really does care. The mirror can take you into a different dimension, flooding your brain with images and illusions far beyond what the human eye can see, or can count. One can not comprehend vision, in a mirror reflecting on itself. In a mirror I can change myself, sweeping up my hair, while applying my rogue. Without the mirror I find myself with no backup plan- and I need a backup plan. Humans use the mirror so much that we take it for granted, but would a world without mirrors be a better place? What if we could change the mirrors powers into a way to view our interior. The part of our identities that we can not change as swiftly only because to us it is unseen. Not morphed into some colorless glass that hangs. Funny enough it is easy to see that we have a million mirrors inside with pride we watch... The reflection that is our world, and how we carry ourselves maybe it is invisible to us, We just have to have faith in the stories they tell. Not believing them can be dangerous. Wanting to change who you are can be dangerous. But so is not wanting to. 55

I can only put up with so much, and when expectations are too high I shatter into a million little pieces glimmering on the sidewalk. Shining so bright my body is outside of itself, My body becomes the mirror. They come off in different forms you know, Your reflection in a pond, or your reflection on the environment, the community you are in. A mirror is ice, When you press too hard you watch the crystals shatter Fragile as I can be. I can not put it into one thing. My thoughts are rushed and I want to fix everything I see. I always see flaws. Sometimes there are things we get so flustered over, things we have no power over. Whether it is a physical or mental mirror, the mirror wants me to make change. I can not lie and say I am satisfied. But, will I ever be satisfied? I just got a head rush. Annalise Englert is a senior dance major at Boston Arts Academy and has loved performing and writing since a young age. Growing up in an artistic household she was always inspired by the arts and was quickly enrolled in a variety of art classes including, Theatre, Singing, and Dance. She is excited to continue her artistic journey in college next year.

Abbie Langmead Stoughton High School, 10th Grade Over the course of the year, I’ve become a generally more confident person. Looking back, my writing reflects this. From the first thing I wrote for class to now, there’s less restraint to say what I really want to say.

applepicker she’s an apple picker i remember as kids we’d climb trees or, she’d climb trees. i was afraid of heights. ‘are you sure? not this time?’ I’d nod. ‘my dad says your dad was never such a baby.’ old friends, they’d say. our parents would only come home for high school reunions. we took advantage of that fact. when she’d reach the top, she’d laugh. she’d look for the perfect pink ladies. no bruises, no holes, not too big for our small hands. she’d throw me down apples and i’d catch them, dividing them into piles. the piles for me, and the piles for everyone she cares for. and I planned for next september. every time. but then came the september i waited. sitting below that tree. i couldn’t imagine being up there. the sky looped above me, i came home empty handed, empty hearted. still, i’m empty headed. 57

what can i say? she’s an apple picker. when i saw her again, when she finally came, it was to a cameo tree in a different field. the field doesn’t matter, it’s the memories there. this new tree still makes apples, just not as sweet. i plan for next september, why wouldn’t i? sure enough, she’s there again. i claim my share once more. piles for each of her loves. i always had the most, not that i’m bragging, i earned them all. after all, she’s always been my applepicker. maybe more won’t hurt. when the macintosh fall, we can plan for next week and not next year. she tells me i’m beautiful. she whispers and kisses my cheeks. no amount of apples in the world can pay for her love. the applepicker waits for me. she stays on the ground for me. that is love. she split her apples with the people she loved and i think all the apples are mine. i am her everything. she’s mine, anyways. she kisses me goodnight under the gala tree. ‘one more year, we’ve made it through.’ her hair tosses, her back to mine. the thick boots she claimed were her father’s but they fit her perfect, every year. i never called her bluff. 58

her knees were scraped bruises grace her shins. all that work, just for me. denim, pre-torn and pre-patched to make it look like she’s a hard worker and she is, just for me. her fingers falling by, careful but calloused from years of dedication, with a tarnished ring on her left hand. her jacket. it readjusts from the movement, her oversized pockets unable to hide their contents a granny smith falls from her pocket. the electric spark i get from her kisses shocks me. she splits her apples with the people she loves. me, the other me, the other other me, the people who truly matter. i was never alone, there’s a reason why she changed our field. why was i blind? am i blind still? i wanted to believe, so i did. surely, this childish naivety couldn’t last. what else can i say? she’s always got me speechless. just thinking about her, it’s hard to speak. i guess all i can say is the truth, all that i failed to see, she’s always been an apple picker. 59

Second Girl Second Girl puts her hair in brightly colored ponytail holders, Something red, or blue, or electric pink, Waiting for a shock, waiting for the thrill Of being picked, because First Girl was busy, Busy being someone else’s First Girl. Second Girl plays loud instruments, Because something as dainty as her childhood violin, Would fade her into obscurity, insecurity. And she’ll do anything to be more than Second Girl, She’s not going to be second fiddle too. Second Girl gives the best birthday presents, Trying to trade off the silver medal, She circled questions in blue pen and She now knows her skin looks better with golds Teen Vogue told her so. Second Girl keeps her Snapchat streaks, She’ll never waste the time to forget. Because the only way they’ll talk to her, Is a virtual timer, the countdown clock to A virtual achievement. Second Girl thinks in numbers, Counting the amount of times she opens her mouth, Marking the number on the tag of her jeans, Noting where she lies, how close she comes to winning, When First Girl doesn’t know she’s playing a game. Second Girl can’t look in the mirror sometimes, Because all she’ll see is First Girl’s silhouette. She’ll see the comparisons only she makes, The parallels that Second Girl loves so much, And the compromises that she hates most of all. Second Girl doesn’t want to be Second Girl anymore. 60

The line between her and her goals looks like a wire, But it’s concrete that she throws herself against. And her fragile bones don’t break on impact, So she’ll keep on trying until dents are made. Second Girl watches her shoes wear out, She watches her makeup smear, The race is far from over, And she’s so close to winning, She’s in the shadow of her superior. Second Girl is trapped, Never a best friend, never an acquaintance. Everyone says they’d rather be one person’s favorite thing, Rather than nine people’s ninth favorite thing. Second Girl, She’s just second girl, second pick, second best, never first. Abbie is a sophomore at Stoughton High School, and is a third year returning student to EmersonWRITES. Generally, her life consists of quoting musicals, trying to be vaguely poetic, and figuring out how to finish her sentences.

Ebony Smith Excel Academy Charter High School, 10th Grade This year especially, I have enjoyed exploring justice in terms of poetry. I tend to develop ideas about heritage, equality, and current social movements in my writing.

A Womanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Winter Wonderland In confined quarters, there are no candles in the corner, no radiators to be found. In here, the darkness has a family. Women live here, oppressed by the threats seeping from underneath the door. They remain inside because they are ostracized, as their dreams are locked in chains. They imagine the possibilities beyond that door; If they would have the chance to compete in a world without a market, Oblivious to how close they are to the end of this feat. They seek justice and equality, like lost spirits. A winter wonderland awaits outside. Angels are formed and men are adorned in top hats full of privilege, 63

and buttons that serve as tokens of a woman’s loveHeartless, consisting of only the cold, and seemingly pure, snow.

Hate Crimes This is not just a poem about black versus white This is a poem about negro versus negro. About rising from the same dust, except you couldn’t grow through the cracks of the concrete laid down by the crooked system. About A heartbroken mother, A confused toddler. Less than fifteen seconds on the news, More than seven shots in his wound. No arrests have been made But that’s to be expected when young brothers’ lives are cut short by someone else hoping for an initiation, a reputation. Memories and jokes are the price families pay for the negligence of the system, for the assumptions of the officers, for the hatred of the bystanders, for the jealousy of the those who cannot prosper. 64

Ode to all the Erics, All the Trayvons, All the Michaels, All the Sandras, All Ebony Smith is currently a sophomore at Excel Academy Charter High School. She is a third-year participant of the EmersonWRITES program. Ebony hopes to return to EmersonWRITES next year.

The Things That Scare Us:

Justice & Social Change in Fiction What are our fears? How are they expressed in this kind of literature? What is the significance of horror in our culture? In our course we delved into these topics and explored how to write genre fiction that is equally frightening and insightful. We focused on developing skills such as creating action scenes, world-building, character development, and describing emotional ranges. We have explored classic and contemporary writers to look at how genres such as horror and science fiction can communicate real problems within our own society, and explore human nature like no other literary genre can. In our politically-charged country, issues such as racism, sexism, intolerance, and mental health stigmas directly affect our generation and those to come. Our goal is to produce genre fiction that utilizes the skills built throughout the course to present issues and provide solutions, as well as entertain and terrify. Whatever worlds may or may not exist, there are infinitely more that can be imagined. Our students took their personal fears and used prose to build new worlds built on the fear of death, ignorance, destruction for its own sake, and of themselves. What are you afraid of? Faculty Bios Diana Fernandez is a second-year MFA candidate in Creative Fiction Writing at Emerson. Diana has worked as a teaching fellow for Breakthrough, a program which strives to educate and provide resources to motivated students in her home city of Miami, Florida. Her literary interests include gothic, horror, and science-fiction writers such as Shirley Jackson, Stephen King, and Margaret Atwood. Dianaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s goal is to utilize these genres to reflect on problems and injustices in our own society. She is currently working on a novel in the contemporary horror and magical realism genre which depicts the struggles and realities of common mental illnesses and addiction, as well as what it means to endure these struggles through the lens of a CubanAmerican character. Jayne Roberts is a second-year MFA candidate in Creative Writing at Emerson with a focus on horror and magical realism. Teaching has been a part of Jayneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s life for as long as she can remember, but this is the first year she was able to participate in EmersonWRITES. She currently works as a Marketing Assistant at Rheinwerk Publishing, and has edited two novels and several non-fiction works. Jayneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s immediate goal is to have her novel finished by the end of the year. She hopes to use her work to provide a greater understanding of the fears that at-risk groups face in society, and gain a better understanding of herself through writing. 67

Artwork by Allen Martin

Allen Martin Pierce Middle School, 8th Grade I haven’t been able to finish a story for a while. I always doubt myself. I’ll think I’m not good enough but when I come up with an idea, like the one for “Chip Bowl,” I become motivated, even though it’s difficult to finish. Anyways, do I have to finish every story I start? This piece is a work of short dystopian horror.

Chip Bowl My eyes are closed. Or maybe they’re open. I can never tell. I’m always dreaming inside my mind. I can’t tell anyone. It could be perfect. I’ll tell them that. “Are you okay?” “Yeah.” I should probably wake up. I like this world. I like my life. I open my eyes to see my mom leaning over me. “You’re gonna be late for work,” says my mother. She leaves. I like my job. What is my job? I can’t remember. I know I work for something called the “committee.” I know I like it. I’m going to work now. ---I’m home. I had a nice day. “What did you do today?” My mom asks this question even though she knows the answer. “I don’t remember.” We have dinner. Dinner was good. I can’t remember what I had. I wish I could write in my journal all the time but only my mother knows I have one. Someone told me they wished they could remember, too. It was a long time ago. I don’t remember much about it. I’m always tired, I think. Maybe I’m only tired in this moment. ---I think I loved someone, once. I had a dream about them. What did they look like? Were they nice? Why can’t I remember? My head and eyes feel heavy. I don’t like it. ---I’m bringing a tape recorder to work today. I know it’s not allowed, but 69

I’m tired of forgetting. I need to know. ---What did I do? The tape is full of screams. What’s going on? Why can’t anyone see this is wrong? It’s because we can’t remember. Why can’t we remember? We hurt them. We kill them. That’s my job. I kill people. And we forget, so we don’t care. ---There are three loud knocks on my door. “Put away the journal,” my mother whispers through the door. “People are here for you.” “Am I in trouble?” “No, Honey,” she says. “Just talk to them.” She is speaking louder now, like she is hoping the visitors will hear her. Reluctantly, I hide my journal and put on a nice shirt. When I get to the front hall there are two large men holding notebooks. They’re each wearing big suits and blue ties. They don’t look hostile but I think they’ll take me away. I fear that someone knows about the tape recorder, that I found out. “Harm, could you please excuse us?” says one of the men. “Of course,” says my mom. When my mother leaves the room I feel an overwhelming sense of dread, like they might kill me the way I killed all those people. “Harm told us about your journal,” says the shorter of the two men. “Please,” I say, “I’ll burn it. Please don’t kill me.” “No,” says the other man. “We’re impressed. Why did you think to keep a journal?” “I thought it would be the best way to remember what I do every day.” They look at each other and smile. “Harm!” calls the shorter one. “How old was he when he got chipped?” My mother calls out, “Thirteen!” The two men turn to each other and begin to whisper. “We can’t,” “I know.” Finally they turn back to me. “There’s something you need to know,” the shorter man says, watching me with serious eyes. They sit me down. “Back in the early 3000s there was a war so large that every citizen of every country had to fight. It was horrible. When the war ended, suicide rates went up by half. Our population depleted, our resources depleted, we had to do something. So a chip was created to remove bad 70

memories, and thoughts about them. The suicides stopped at the cost of our people’s minds. That’s why you can’t remember anything.” The taller man straightens his tie and stands up. “Now we’re investigating a murder.” “Who was murdered?” I ask. “What it one of the people I killed?” “We’re going to have to run some tests. You’ll have to come with us.” “Mom!” I call, anxious. “These men say-” My mother steps back into the room, maybe to say goodbye. “Go with them,” she says. “It’s safe.” I trust her. ---I jump into the back of the most antique contraption I’ve ever seen in my life. The shorter man says it runs on “electricity,” whatever that is, and that it’s called a “Tesla.” It doesn’t even self-drive. It has a steering wheel, for manual steering. We arrive at this weird building that is shaped somewhat like a pickle. Inside there are rooms and rooms. They’re all empty. We go down to the basement. It’s a dark gray room with low lighting. The room is so large that there could be an entire army hiding there and no one would notice. I sit in a chair beside shelves and desks full of equipment. Soon I’m being poked and prodded behind my ears and neck with metal scalpels and surgeons’ scissors. “It’s embedded,” says one of the men. “So does that mean.” “Yeah, we’ll have to test it sooner or later.” They say all this quietly, but I can still hear. “Okay!” I yell. “Sorry to interrupt your conversation but what the hell is going on?” The men look at each other. “So,” the taller man says, “that chip is too deep in your brain so we have to test this machine that Odis, our, I guess, friend, built for us. It’s supposed to work but we don’t really know yet. It might hurt so just brace yourself.” “Alright,” I say. “I guess get it over with.” The taller man walks to one of the desks and picks up a small metal device. I can’t describe it. He attaches things to my ears and presses a button. It’s like the loudest silence I’ve ever experienced. It feels like some is sticking a needle through my brain. 71

And then I see him like a dream. I’m nineteen. I walk into work. I look over and see the beautiful red and white walls. I walk down a hallway. There he is. He is kneeling on a platform. His hands are crudely tied behind his back. Two women whisper in the back of the room. “I heard he was talking about a war, but we haven’t had a war since two-thousandsomething.” “I just heard he’s mad.” My hand is guided towards a lever to my right. I pull it down. It’s like I’m following orders that I can’t question. It looks like the walls are closing in on him. I hear his bones being crushed to pieces. His blood doesn’t splatter like I imagine it will. It oozes, the consistency of caramel. I wonder, who is this guy? “Great! That’s great!” I’m back in the room with the two men. “Do you think you could do that again?” “I um” I don’t know what to say or do. I realize that I know that man. I know him. I know it. I tear myself away from the chair and run out of the basement to the closest empty room I can find. Then I sit there and I cry. I’m there for what feels like hours before someone finds me. A skinny man with a bright orange raincoat approaches me. “Hey, kid. You okay? Did you remember something you didn’t want to?” I nod. “You’re not the only one to react like this.” “Did you remember something, too?” The man twists up his face like it’s the stupidest thing he’s ever heard. “Naw, man. I didn’t have to remember because I never forgot.” He extended his hand. His arm is all cut up and dirty. “My name’s Odis.” “I’m Quin,” I say, taking his hand. He helps me up off the floor. “What’s it like to not have a chip?” “Wow. You really want answers, don’cha? Well, I still got my chip. I’m just defective.” “Oh, a defective chip.” “No, a defective Odis. My mom chipped me when I was seventeen, but it’s never really worked right,” he answers. “I know you. You’re the one who killed his dad.” The larger man with the blue tie walks into the room. “Okay, Odis, fun time’s over. I thought you were packing for a trip?” he says. “Harm called. She wants Quin back home.” 72

I start to follow him out of the room. “I know your secret,” Odis sings. I remember now. The man in the room. He was my father. But why don’t I feel anything? Why don’t I care? It’s because they made me forget. We don’t remember, so we don’t care. ---I have work tomorrow. I have decided that I’m telling everyone what happened. ---I walk into work and stand on a desk. “Hey! I have an announcement!” “Stop it, Quin!” yells a man from his desk. “The chips in our brains make us forget what we do, but I remember!” Suddenly the lights turn red and I’m dragged off the desk down a hallway, to the room where I saw my dad. But this time I’m on the platform. I hear the lever being pulled. What was I saying before? Where am I? ---Pain. It hurts. ---Am I asleep or awake? ---I must be. ---Quin is dead. Why are you still reading? Because you want a resolution? The truth is, Odis is on a taking a trip. He packed a suitcase. He’s leaving the city. Where is he going? Don’t ask me, but he has a plan. Something that will change things. Something that will make us remember. Maybe, just maybe, he can fix it. Just maybe, there’s hope. Allen has a dog named Clover. She learned how and why to kill a character in this class. Her favorite author is Stephen King and she likes historical fiction and memoirs. 73

Ahommy Mercedes Boston Prepatory Charter School, 9th Grade When I was in 4th grade, I developed this passion for writing. There was always a new idea that popped in my head and it was so easy for me to make a story. What inspired me to write this story would have to be The Maze Runner.

Dystopia “They’re evil!” Mr. Harver’s voice echoed through my head as I walked down the dark streets of Novum Urbis. I stuffed my hand in my coat and took out a small piece of paper. On it was Mr. Harver’s messy handwriting. 12 Canton St. I stopped walking and stared at the abandoned building that stood in front of me. It was a five-story brick building. Most of the windows were shattered. I glanced at the old wooden oak door and slowly put my hand on the rusted handle. I opened the door and stepped a foot inside. The street lights illuminated some corners of the dark room. The room had a strong smell of mildew and dust. Why would he want me to meet him here? I took out my flashlight and turned it on. The wall’s paint was peeling off. The floor was filled with glass and dust. I startled from the sound of footsteps outside. My first instinct was to hide, but I didn’t have enough time as the door swung open. I flashed my flashlight at the person. “Jesus,” Mr. Harver said as he put his hand up against his face. “Turn that damn flashlight off. You’re making me blind.” I let out a sigh in relief and turned off the flashlight. “Sorry.” “We don’t have a lot of time. Your parents are probably searching for you now.” Mr. Harver walked past me and made his way into another room, I followed him as he entered the room. It was a small room with no windows. There was a small wooden table in the middle with two chairs. Mr. Harver sat down on one of the chairs and I sat next to him. He took a file out his briefcase and placed it on the table. “Your parents have never told you this because it’s confidential,” he started explaining. “They were the founders of a secret organization. 75

They wanted to take down the U.S government. They were powerhungry and the only way they could’ve done that was by spreading a virus that would kill many.” I tried to process every word he said. “Wait so, my parents are the cause of all this?” “Yes.” I looked down at my folded hands that were placed on my lap. Could they really have done all this damage? “B-but why would they do that? I don’t get why they wanted power. Why are they even working on a cure if they caused this virus?” I asked. Millions of questions were swarming through my head. “Before you were born, there was conflict. The U.S. was on the brink of war with another country. People were scared a nuclear war would break out. The Government was out of control. Your parents took that opportunity to release an airborne virus that many thought was untreatable,” he continued, “People’s immune systems were shutting down quickly. Your parents had the cure all along and only people from their organization had access to it.” I felt the need to vomit at all that Mr. Harver had informed me of my parent’s vile acts. They caused all that chaos. They killed most of the world in order for power? “I know this is shocking, but we don’t have enough time. There’s more.” Mr. Harver opened up the file and slid it to me. I picked up the file and scanned through it. My lips slowly parted. My whole body turned cold as I kept going through the papers in the files. They were all the people that my parents experimented on. Most of them were children, but the last paper is what made my blood run cold. I was the start of it. I put the file down and looked at Mr. Harver. I opened and closed my mouth like a goldfish. I didn’t know what to say. I was speechless. “Your parents started all this. They’ve been using you this whole time. They injected you with the virus when you were born. The doctors became infected by it, then the patients, then the patient’s family. You didn’t die because you were immune to it. You were their main source.” Those words hit me like a truck. “You were their main source.” I was a lab rat. I didn’t have any significance to them. I felt the lump in my throat form. Before I knew it, a small whimper came out my mouth and my eyes were clouded with tears.

~ stared at my parents, the people I once loved. The people I once looked up to. My mom glanced up at my untouched plate and then at me. “Why haven’t you eaten anything,” she asked. “I’m not hungry,” I replied dryly. “Why not?” She shot another question as she shoved broccoli in her mouth. “Because I’m not.” I got up from the table and walked towards my room, ignoring my parents’ order to come back. I locked myself in my room and plopped down on my bed and stared at the ceiling. I ignored my parents banging on my door and just closed my eyes. My head was pounding, all the emotions built up inside me wanting to explode. I stood up and looked at my bookcase. I made my way towards it and grabbed the photo album that I looked at from time to time. I flipped through the pages, each picture making my heart ache. I searched for my favorite picture. It was my 10th birthday. My parents threw a big party for me at the neighborhood park. They both had their arm wrapped around me, I was dressed in a big, fluffy, blue dress, a crown placed on my brown, thick, curly hair. We all had big smiles plastered on our faces. We were so happy. They made me so happy. I closed the photo album and bit my lip to stop the tears that were forming. I held the photo album to my chest and opened the door. My parents were standing there. My mom had her hand on her hip, her eyebrows scrunched together, and her mouth in a pout. My dad, on the other hand, had a more relaxed expression. “What is going on with you? You’ve been acting weird lately.” My dad broke the silence. I glanced at them, I wanted to scream at them. Yell at them. Tell them how much I hate them for what they’ve done. They used me. They killed people. They were murderers, so how was it that I had so much love for them. The disgust and hate I tried to form these past few days could not compare to the huge love I held for them in my heart. I opened up my mouth to tell them to tell me everything, ask them why they would do something so horrific but the only thing that came out was, “Nothing.” and a small smile. 77

My mother must have noticed the sadness I held because she wrapped her arms around me. However, it felt foreign. It didn’t feel right. Nothing felt right anymore. “I’m so sorry we haven’t been able to spend time with you. It’s been more busy at the lab lately,” my mother explained as she caressed my hair. The lab? The place where they experimented on children in order to find deadlier viruses. I felt a sharp pain on my shoulder and before I had the knowledge to figure out what was happening everything turned black ~ I heard the sound of a gunshot. “He talked too much,” I heard a man say. “How could he have hacked into the system though?” I heard a familiar female voice reply. I tried to open my eyes. My eyelids felt heavy. It took me a few seconds to open them. My vision was blurry, but I could see some details. I was in a white room. It had many lights and many computers. There was someone in front of me in a chair. I couldn’t recognize them until my vision became clearer. I recognized the tousled black hair, the framed glasses, the grey beard. It was Mr. Harver. I felt sudden adrenaline rush through my body. I tried to move my hand but was stopped. I couldn’t move. My arms and ankles were tied up. I looked at my surroundings once again. I saw my parents in their lab coats, and a few more scientists. “She’s awake,” one of the scientists said. She was a young woman probably around her late 20’s. My parents looked at me. However, I wasn’t met with the familiar stare. They stared at me long and hard, their cold eyes seeing right through me. It sent shivers down my spine. They seemed distant... different. “You and little professor Harvey were hiding something from us.” My dad spoke and I felt the coldness in his voice. I swallowed as I felt a knot form in my throat. “Did you really think you could keep a secret from us?” He let out a small laugh. “For god’s sake, we’re your parents. It was so easy to see what you were up to, and may I add Harver did a horrible job at hacking into our system.” 78

I stared at Mr. Harver’s dead body and back at my parents. “You must be confused from all these lies this old man told you so let us explain.” My dad sat down on a chair and continued to speak. “We were on the brink of war. If we went to war, the whole human population would have been wiped out. We had an idiot president who would put all of us in danger, so scientists decided to use their knowledge. We made a secret organization, developed a very contagious and dangerous virus and spread it all through the world. You weren’t the only baby that started the virus. Some scientists traveled to Europe in order to inject infants and newborn babies. It spread quickly. Most of the population died and we started our own world.” Liar. He’s lying. “We weren’t power hungry. We were saving the world.” “You call saving the world killing most of the human population and lying to people about what really happened?” I spat as I felt the anger fill me. “It was better than letting a nuclear war happen,” My mother replied. “There could have been another solution to this other than killing innocent lives,” I said. “No there wasn’t. We had no choice. We did all this for the sake of this world. It would’ve been destroyed if a war occurred. Killing innocent lives was a better choice than letting a war happen.” My mother’s voice was soft and calm, almost soothing. I put my head down letting small strands fall on my face. What was going to happen to me now? Were they going to kill me? “Why don’t you tell the people what really happened though?” I asked, my head still down as I refused to make eye contact with them. “People would revolt. They would think we’re evil. It would put everything we worked for to an end.” My dad explained. It wasn’t right. This wasn’t right. The people deserved to know. I raised my head up and was met with the gun pointed at my head. My dad stared at me so much coldness in his eyes. I knew, at this moment, they weren’t the parents I once loved. The parents that held me on my 10th birthday. The parents that bought me anything I wished for. They weren’t the parents I grew to love and cherish. They were scientists. Scientists who were murders. They killed innocent people because they believed it was the easiest way to prevent a war. 79

“You have an option. We’ll erase your memories of Mr. Harver and make you forget everything he told you or you can die,” my dad said. My eyes widened. He was serious. He was willing to kill me. I looked at my mother. She leaned against the wall, her hands in her lab coat. Her face was neutral as if she’s gone through this before. I longed for her comfortable, warm smile, for the warmth and happiness they brought me. I couldn’t revolt against my parents. I couldn’t be a disgrace. I just couldn’t. I wasn’t the person Mr. Harver should have told. I wasn’t the right person. I couldn’t bring justice to this world. However, one day, someone will.

I like to write in order to disconnect myself from the outside world. When I write, it’s just me and my pencil writing whatever idea comes to mind. I have made some really crazy stories and that’s something I admire about myself; how I can think about the weirdest thing and just write about it.

Jamilet Murcia Boston Latin Academy, 10th Grade EmersonWRITES has given me a safe space to write and use my fears and life experiences to form another reality with more possibilities in life. This short story is about everyone being released from mental asylums after the president’s child was killed. It’s about redefining what is truly sane and insane, and if it even exists.

Dystopia It was once said that King Henry the VIII had redefined the church to get a once-forbidden divorce. It’s now the 3rd millennium, and history has repeated itself once again. It’s what the human mind does, when given too much power. It started with a president who had a wife named Demencia. It was said that she bore a child, with a speech impediment, autism, and several deformities that would make one stop and stare. It became a humiliation to Demencia, and she killed her own child, wringing its neck, its body flailing. “It’s an abomination. You’re insane to love it,” she told her husband. Night after night he cried, sleeping next to a woman whom he could not love. A murderer. She was a monster. She was the abomination. It was never the child. It’s also said that a president can pass an executive order, and indeed he did. “We are all creations, figures and animals of God, our lord. Before birth and during adolescence we have not sinned. We are made the way we are made and it’s time to accept that it’s perfection.” That same night, all nurses in all asylums were ordered to open all the cell doors of all the patients. Out streamed the people with autism, faces with no symmetry, their eyes and speech twisted. Out came those with ADHD, bouncing at the new freedom. And out came those disconnected from reality. Out of all let loose they were the most to fear. One had woken one night and stabbed his mother who had gone through surgery, then cut her limb from limb swearing he was going to fix her. Another had bombed a school knowing her step siblings were inside of it. Another 81

poisoned an entire dinner table during her birthday celebration. All their stories revealed the ruining of their own lives, and the trauma and emotional scars of others. But again, these are all the creations of God himself as the president had said. So out into the open the patients streamed, blue cotton thick and fluttering in the wind as they ran. “This is insane,” cried people to one another, including to the president himself. “Insane? Me? You are the insane ones, who deprived people of their freedom. You monsters! You abominations! You are the abominations, not me, not my child!” Citizens were stricken with havoc, running up and down the streets with the Asylumed (as the released patients were now called) chasing after them. Hearts thrumming, feet pounding, the sane citizens ran into homes seeking shelter. But in the shelters they planned and plotted, wielding kitchen knives for swords, bats for pummeling, and pans for shields, but also whacking. “You must protect yourselves,” the president announced through the intercom, echoing across the city. “They locked you up and looked away. They won’t hesitate to put you back. It’s destroy or be destroyed. They think they are sane, but they are not, and you must kill them, my beautiful Asylumed.” From then on, massacres began. The Asylumed sprang and killed anyone who gave them a bad eye or stared too long. Some even hid in plain view, strolling and eavesdropping. The sane, not being able to differentiate people, began killing among themselves, eliminating anyone who acted strange. From misspelling simple words, having a lisp, to awkwardly laughing, death would be brought. Obsession and fear are a powerful combination for self-destruction. Little by little, the population of the sane dropped, leaving the Asylumed with a greater majority. “It is you they must now serve, for they have taken and must now return, freedom.” And so slowly, the sane became the insane ones, subjected and forced into labor. “This is your home. It’s yours. They are at your service. This is the life that you dreamed of.” And that’s how the perfect world was formed. There were no more judgmental people to tell you how crazy you are. There was no one 82

with power enough to lock you up and deny you your natural rights as a human being. Those oppressed were given a home and protection. Those who were the oppressors were punished justly. “It’s what God wanted,” the governor said “or else he wouldn’t have allowed it.” So now reader, answer this question. How many times have you been told to stop acting crazy, or if your friends jumped off a bridge, if you would jump too? Have you been told to stop jumping on the bed? Have you been told to stop yelling, to stop drawing on the walls, to stop jaywalking and use crosswalks instead? To drive with a license, or that you must have a medical license for performing surgeries? That you must have a degree to teach, or that you must get permission to do or take something? It’s all okay in this world. Know that God believes in you. We are not born sinners. We are not born with defects. One is not better than another. We are good at everything equally. No one can declare you to be good or bad. No one can determine if you’re sane or insane. Sanity is just a word, and it doesn’t exist. Jamilet loves reading, writing, traveling or exploring, and stepping (as she’s in a step team). She also loves horror movies. Her goals are to speak her mind just as fiercely as she can write. This class has taught her how to use personal fears, and that there’s always rules in literary worlds and the more established they are, they easier it is for the reader to understand it. Her favorite authors are Jodi Picoult, Marie Lu, and Sarah J. Maas.

Bob Sherwood Stoughton High School, 10th Grade In this story, a man is hijacking a train with the intent of destroying it. The only one that can stop him: a little girl. In EmersonWRITES this year I learned many things about horror, like why and when to kill a character and how to murder someone (and get away with it).

from Train Ride Anna’s dad rarely spent time with her, but her mother was the hostess of some big party that’d been going on since the year 2135, so she was out of the question; so she could only visit her father. She knew he was an important man, and important people were always busy, but she still longed to spend even a single day with him. That day came on a warm summer day in June, during a break from school. They were going to take a train to her dad’s job in Riga. The ride would take about three hours. That meant three hours of Anna’s dad all to herself. Anna couldn’t wait for the trip. The family’s nanny packed Anna’s bags for her and walked her to the train station. Anna tried to convince her nanny she could walk there all by herself, but apparently eight-year-olds were “too irresponsible” and “couldn’t be trusted to walk a mile and a half on their own.” Stupid nanny. What did she know? Anna’s father had just arrived at the station and was waiting for his daughter, who ran up to him and hugged him tightly. She hadn’t seen him in almost a year. He had grown a mustache, something she had never seen on him. He asked her if she was ready to go. Anna nodded excitedly. They said goodbye to the nanny and boarded the train. The train pulled into Vilani Railway station, where a man of dark skin boarded with a big, heavy suitcase. He had forgotten his WeightNullifier on his desk at home. Ah well. He could use the exercise. He made sure he got a seat in the last car of the train at the very back. A woman tried to sit next to him, but he told her to shove off. No one could be in his way. The train made several more stops before the man contacted his partner at HQ. 85

“We’ve made four more stops since I got on. No one around me can see me. I can prepare in complete privacy. Give me the go-ahead when you’re ready.” “Go ahead, Juris. Make sure you wear the mask. We don’t want a repeat of your first training session. You were out for hours.” “I know, I know. Let’s do one more check. Seventeen KO gas grenades for each car plus three spares, a gas mask for me, my I-780 pistol with extra magazines, a knife, my satchel to hold the ‘nades in while I’m on the move, and my bullet-proof coat.” “Check, check, check yep, that’s everything you need. This should be a slice of pie since this is only a single-decker train. Should take you about twenty minutes. Call me when you reach the locomotive.” Although Anna would be with her dad for the whole day, she was sad the ride was almost over. Her dad would mostly talk to his co-workers once he got to his job, so Anna’s alone time with him would come to an end. She had hoped they could get something to eat before they went to his building, or maybe even watch a movie, but Anna’s dad said he had to go straight to work. After that they would have to go home. In total: six hours of dad-time. There were many people in the car Anna and her dad were in, and they were all dressed similarly to her father. They wore tan jackets with white pants, and a lot of them had medals. None of them had as many medals as Anna’s dad, however. He seemed to have the most: nine. She had never seen them all at once. Today must have been an important day. “I’m really sorry I can’t spend more time with you, honey. If I had vacation time I would see you every chance I got, but my work is too important for vacations, especially in my position. After the Grand Plan is complete I promise that you, me, and mom will spend all the time in the world together. Sound good?” “Sounds good, Daddy. I understand if you can’t spend more time with me. Your work is super important to the world’s well-being.” Anna’s dad chuckled. “You remember that line I said so long ago?” Anna nodded. After a few stops Anna had to use the bathroom. She went to the tiny room and locked the door. While she was washing her hands she heard shouting outside. There was a quiet ping; the sound of a silenced gunshot. Anna jumped in surprise. A thump came from outside of the 86

bathroom door. Juris put all of his grenades in his satchel, put on his mask, and put his pistol in its holster. The magazines went in his jacket pockets. He stood up with a grenade in hand. He pressed the button on the grenade and the gas leaked out, filling the entire car. Juris felt his way through the gas, heading towards the door. Everyone was out cold. He quickly opened and closed the door to keep too much gas from seeping out. He moved on to the next car and immediately tossed a ‘nade in. The passengers slumped forward instantly. The next five cars were just as easy. Then Juris reached the seventh car, where the main targets were. The officers of the Nazi Party were in this car and the next, conveniently grouped up. These people would all have training for a gas attack, but if Juris got the drop on them he could surprise them long enough before they reacted. He pressed the button, yanked the door open, and tossed the grenade into the car. After a count to three he opened the door again and felt his way through the car. He made it to the next door and opened it, tossing another grenade in. But when he tried to enter, the door was stuck. He looked through the window. It looked like someone was holding the door in place. They wrestled with the door for a minute until Juris finally pulled it open. He whacked the officer on the head with the butt of his pistol, knocking him down. Another officer was on the other end of the car, holding a dagger. “Don’t take another step!” He shouted. Juris shrugged and shot the man in the face. He toppled over in front of the bathroom door. Juris made his way to the next car. Anna was shaking in the bathroom, afraid someone was going to barge in and hurt her. She tried to stay as silent as possible, but every now and then a whimper would escape her lips. After longer than five minutes Anna finally decided that whoever had the gun had left her car. She tried to open the bathroom door but it wouldn’t budge. She struggled for a while trying to push the door open until it burst open and she stumbled out. A female officer was on the ground with her arm over her nose and mouth. She was laying on top of a man’s head. “Oh thank goodness someone is in here. Did the gas get to you?” “No gas got to me, Miss. Why was there gas?” 87

“Listen, I’m starting to lose consciousness I can only breathe so little for so long. Look, there’s a man gassing the train. He’s knocking us out. You have to get ‘im. Take that.” She pointed to a dagger on the ground. “Kill the man and...don’t...let him get to the front” Her head lolled back. Anna didn’t take the dagger. Her nanny said she wasn’t allowed to use knives. She stepped out of the bathroom and gasped. The whole car looked dead. She ran over to her dad’s seat. “Daddy! Daddy are you dead?” She watched his chest to see if it was moving. It was, slightly. Anna tried to shake her dad awake. “Daddy go get the bad man! I’m not allowed to use knives, so go get him!” Her dad wouldn’t wake. She tried and tried to wake him up, but she couldn’t. She looked around the car. No one else was awake. She would have to get the bad man herself. Bob has a few hobbies, but one of his favorite things to do is “eat yummy food with a good book.”

Essence Smith Excel Academy Charter High School, 10th Grade This story is a product of my work with dystopian literature.

The Fire Pit They gave us a war that nobody wanted The Earth was in total chaos. Fires erupted and the scent of smokey ash clouded vision. The warnings unheard or simply discounted Citizens were left to perish, as the Hwasong-15 missile fell. Allies ignored and the enemy taunted Fired vertically, the weapon traveled about 6,800 miles before striking New York, Washington, D.C., and everywhere else. But remember the soldiers and statesman enchanted The sun appeared but wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t seen. The people who once housed this land are now a distant memory; crushed and covered in the ruins. They gave us a war that nobody wanted Flames rushed forward and back, covering every limb, home, and brick. Orange bronze exploded on Earth, and no one could escape the massacre. *Italicized words are from They Gave Us a War That Nobody Wanted by Patrick Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Donnell. Essence enjoys everything from Shakespeare to Marvel Comics. She currently has no favorite authors, but honorable mentions include Rupi Kaur and Warsan Shire.

Chris White Boston Latin Academy, 12th Grade I aspire to one day be a successful author, because writing and reading have always been a large part of my life. When I was as young as six years old, I’d write stories that were pages long and make people read them. Ever since then, I’ve continued to write stories and am currently writing a book. The following is an excerpt from one of my books.

from The Secretice When I woke up, I felt Elise’s warm breath on the back of my neck. It was morning. The intense storm that had taken place the night before had died down. It had left a few branches strewn around the streets visible from my window. The sun was beaming from just over the horizon. Now that the dark clouds from yesterday weren’t obstructing it, I could tell it was just after dawn. It seemed very quiet. Something felt off. No birds trilled their morning melodies to inform everyone that dawn had arrived. The only reason I had even woken up at this time was because of how early I had fallen asleep. I realized I was breathing heavily. I could feel each beat of my heart, my head beating with it. I swung myself up a bit too quickly and felt extremely dizzy as a consequence. I sat unmoving for a couple of minutes. Looking over I saw my sister was still sleeping peacefully in her spot next to me. Careful not to wake her, I wrapped the sheet tighter around her and crept out of the room. My mother stood in the kitchen cleaning dishes. The smell of eggs traveled around the room, making it known that breakfast was ready. There were only three plates on the table. Pa had eaten already and gone to work. “Good morning, Rebecca,” my mother exclaimed. “Your breakfast is ready, just come back when you want it.” She knew me. I didn’t eat breakfast as soon as I woke up. I liked to go out to the forum and come back whenever my stomach insisted I eat. “Morning, Ma,” I responded quickly while opening the bathroom door. I brushed my teeth and hair and got my bag from the entrance next to my hiking boots. Putting the boots on, I opened my door and broke free of the small wooden home. The first thing I noticed as I stepped outside was the wood and leaves that were littered out on the 91

street. There were even more than what I saw out the bedroom window. I started to head to the forum, where most of my friends and I hung out during the day. The forum was lively—even at this time—and full of people too young to work. In the center stood a tall building that touched the sky. The Mayor lived at the top of the building. Surrounding the building were small stands set up by people who hadn’t had to go to work yet. Most were yelling for people to trade for certain spices or tools. Today, I was in the mood for a little fighting. I wasn’t sure why, but I felt like I needed to blow off stress. On the way to The Arena, I expected to see the same friends as usual. I passed Phillip’s stand. He always sold clothes or blankets. He was my first choice for buying clothes from. After about ten to fifteen minutes of waving to owners of stands and trying to shove my way past the younger kids running around I got to The Arena. That’s what we called it. It was nothing from the outside, just a plain door that looked like it hadn’t been open in ages. Wrapping my fingers around the cool handle of the door, I pulled and the heavy door opened with a long creak. A small light illuminated the stairs inside. Stepping through, I shut the door behind me. The air was thick in here but I had gotten used to it. I traveled down the stairs and to another door. I could hear now the faint yelling and whooping of a fight. People could stay at The Arena for days if they brought their own food. There were cots everywhere if people wanted to stay the night. I pulled open the door and entered. The atmosphere changed suddenly and the noises got louder. The paint on the walls around me was peeling. This place was full of teenagers. Most would probably still come even after getting jobs. Walking in was like entering a new world. The clamoring of the early morning in Faction 7 was completely left behind as the dimly lit space filled with adrenalin pumped teenagers and children. I came here a lot and had a set spot with some close friends, where we could easily see The Ring. The Ring sat in the center of the huge room, a stage-like area that was elevated about six feet. The Ring was where the fights would happen. People in The Arena would bet money on who would win. Some people also held private bets between one another if they didn’t have money to bet but had food. I shouldered my way through the large crowd. People were beginning to cheer and yell, showing that someone must be going up to fight. I made my way to the round wooden table that had five people sitting at it; four guys and a girl. I grinned as I sat in my usual seat next 92

to Vincent. He glanced over and smiled. “Hey, Becks what’s up,” he asked, revealing his perfect teeth. “Yeah, not much...who’s fighting?” I glanced at the empty ring, waiting for someone to step up. “I think Iron Jaw is fighting next! He’s going up against Slips. This can only go one way! My money’s on Jaw,” the lanky guy across the table shouted confidently, jumping up. “Ray sit down! Slips is gonna win this. You can’t beat what you can’t hit,” his twin brother Jay said. They were identical, with blonde hair and dark eyes. Both were fairly tall and slender. “Jay’s right, man. Slips is just gonna tire Jaw out. There’s no way he’s gonna win this,” Ellie said, walking over to sock Ray’s shoulder. “You guys are just jealous cause you know Jaw can’t be knocked out! He isn’t called Iron Jaw for nothing.” Ray was stepping up onto the table now, holding up a fist as if he were making some sort of inspirational speech. “Jaw is strong and can’t be taken out easily. Sure, Slips can dodge but why does that matter, when he can’t hit hard enough for Jaw.” “Would you sit down, little bro. It’s not like you are using logic to back yourself up,” Jay said, attempting to pull his brother back down to his seat. “Stop calling me that! It was only by a few minutes,” he yelled while reluctantly getting down. “Matthew you’d back me up right? Jaw is gonna win this!” We turned to the small black-haired teenager at the corner of the table. His eyes were glued to the ring. Instead of answering he nodded towards the ring. The announcer was stepping up. “See! I knew Matthew was smart, he agrees with me!” Ray yelled. He clearly mistook the nod towards the ring as a nod to his question. “He was nodding towards the ring, Ray, and would you quiet down, you’re the only one yelling,” Vincent said. At that command, Ray sat without hesitation. We all faced the 16 or 17-year-old guy in the center of the ring. He clapped as he began speaking. “Ladies and gentlemen! Ruthless teens of Faction 7! Get ready for the first fight of the day! First up, we have the bag of muscles! The unstoppable force! The man who will put you to sleep faster than chamomile tea!” That drew a few snickers from the crowd. “Give a warm welcome to IRONNN JAWWW! People cheered and whooped. Loud clapping filled The Arena. Jaw stepped up, nodding 93

and waving. He blew some kisses and made a pack of girls scream even louder. Who knew it was possible for them to be even louder? He had brown hair and huge biceps. He pulled off his shirt, gaining more screams from the girls in the crowd. Ellie joined in, screaming and pointing at his abs. I laughed a little to myself. Vincent grimaced and held his face into his hand in embarrassment. The announcer clapped again and The Arena went silent and awaited the next fighter to be called up. “Next up, we have the man of impeccable movements! The man of immense stamina and quick dodges! The one who is probably one hell of a dancer with his incredible feet coordination!” More laughs broke out in the crowd. “Everyone make some noise for...SLIPPSSS!” A much smaller figure stepped up onto The Ring. He had a crew cut. Brown hair and brown eyes. People clapped and cheered respectfully, but clearly not as loud as they did for Jaw. He pulled off his shirt and stepped to his side of the ring. Ray jumped up and booed but sat down quickly after seeing Vincent give him a warning look not long after. The announcer clapped twice. “Let’s keep this fight clean. The fight is over at knockout or tap out. With that said...LET THE FIGHT BEGIN!” He clapped once more and ran, leaping out of The Ring as quickly as he could. As soon as the announcer clapped, Jaw began barreling towards Slips. Slips stood still, bracing himself. Jaw brought his right arm back, charging up for a punch. Slips continued to stand as Jaw ran towards him. Was he scared? Why wasn’t he moving? Jaw launched his fist forward toward Slips. He hit nothing but air. Slips sidestepped the incoming punch. He quickly grabbed Jaw’s outstretched arm and used his momentum against him, throwing him backward. Jaw flew off of The Ring and suffered the six-foot fall. The crowd fell silent. Some struggled to see what was happening. A few suspenseful seconds passed before Jaw slowly got up. Cheers erupted from the crowd and Ray began to do a little dance. Jaw walked up the steps to The Ring clutching his head. He stood for a second and reset, back into a proper fighting stance. Jaw’s chest rose and fell quicker now. Slips dashed forward this time. His left fist darted out and caught Jaw in the abdomen. Jaw grinned, appearing unimpressed. He brought his knee up quickly and caught Slips in the chin. Taking the blow, Slips jumped back. After a few seconds of regaining his composure, he shot forward and shoved Jaw while wrapping his leg behind Jaw to trip him. Jaw 94

crashed down hard while Slips still stood. Quick to take advantage of this fall, Slips jumped onto Jaw. He laid down one fist after the other on Jaw’s eyes and nose. After what seemed like forever, Slips got up, shaking. Jaw’s unconscious body lay sprawled out on the floor. “No way,” Ray whispered under his breath. “What did we tell you?” I said, laughing. He didn’t reply. I glanced back at the Arena and saw the announcer on stage checking on Jaw. He looked up and began waving his hands in the air to signal the defeat. The crowd erupted in a mixture of cheers and jeers. Everything went black. I suddenly felt really cold. I was isolated. Everyone was gone. All I could see was a bright light in the distance. I felt a sense of warm, unearthly energy wash over me. It made me feel light. I felt as if I could do anything. What was happening? I began to walk. My feet were moving before my brain could process it. The closer I got to the light, the larger it appeared, and the more energized and warm I felt. I noticed that the light got larger a lot faster than it should have, and I noticed that it was also coming towards me. The light was maybe twenty yards away when I saw that it was a lantern. I glared harder and could just make out a figure holding the lantern. It was as if he was there, but he wasn’t. Soon, he and I were standing a few feet apart. I could hardly make out his features. He looked very old and stood tall. A magnificently long, white beard occupied a large portion of his face and went down below his hips. “Hello Rebecca,” he said calmly. His voice was rough and slightly raspy. However, his tone was soft and friendly. “Who who are you? What’s happening? Where am I?” I asked, beginning to shake and panic. “Tiberius. Things are happening everywhere. The same place I am.” “That’s not what I meant. Why am I here? What is this place called?” I asked quickly, angry at his smart answers. “You are a girl with many questions. You’ll learn soon, everything.” He grinned, showing teeth too good for his age. “Know that we have been watching you for a while. My team and I believe you are the Secretice. I wanted to warn you to stay away from the man with the scars.” He said this quickly, then lifted his arm abruptly, and the world began to come back piece by piece. Chris’ favorite author is J.K. Rowling and his favorite book series is Harry 95

Potter. His dream is to be a successful author who travels all over the world while writing and publishing to sustain himself. His favorite color is also Burgundy.

EmersonPUBLISHES SPINE EmersonPUBLISHES seeks to build from the meaningful work done in EmersonWRITES by exploring the next step of the publishing process. We examine the timeline of publishing an anthology from the publisherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s perspective, including submissions, content editing, and graphic and text design. We discuss 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 explore an introduction to graphic design concepts where we developed the theme and cover aesthetic for this yearâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s issue of SPINE. Faculty Bio Alayne Fiore has an earned Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from Emerson College. She is Operations Manager and Special Assistant to the Vice President in the Social Justice Center and a part-time faculty member in the First-Year Writing Program at Emerson College. She is the owner and operator of Rozlyn Press, a small press for female-identified writers, and a volunteer screener of fiction for Ploughshares. Her work has appeared in Gravel Magazine, Haunted Waters Press, and ROAR. Originally from Minnesota, she now lives north of Boston with her husband and two daughters. This is her third year designing SPINE with EmersonPUBLISHES.

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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 & CoFounder, EmersonWRITES Christopher Grant, Associate Director of Student Success, Program Coordinator & Co-Founder, EmersonWRITES

EmersonWRITES Faculty Alex Ebel Diana Fernandez Brandon Melendez Marin Sklan Jayne Roberts Fion Wu Carly Youssouf

EmersonPUBLISHES Faculty Alayne Fiore, Operations Manager & Special Assistant to the VP, Social Justice Center; Part-Time Faculty, FYWP, WLP

Members of the Emerson College Community Chris Daly, Director of Retention and Student Success Angela Grant, Director of Financial Aid Shana Healy-Kern, Associate Director, Business Systems Analysis, Enrollment Technology Steve Himmer, Senior Lecturer and First-Year Writing Program xcviii

Director, Department of Writing, Literature and Publishing MJ Knoll-Finn, Former Vice President for Enrollment Management Kellie Fuller, Learning and Engagement Specialist, Human Resources Maria Koundoura, 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 M. Lee Pelton, President, Emerson College Stephen Shane, Lecturer, Department of Writing, Literature and Publishing Justin Sharifipour, Director of Enrollment Systems and Data, Enrollment Technology Carol Smolinsky, Associate Director of Enrollment Services and Support John Trimbur, Professor & Assistant Director of the First-Year Writing Program, Department of Writing, Literature and Publishing Tori Weston, Assistant Director, Pre-College Programs Michaele Whalen, Vice President of Academic Affairs EmersonWRITES Alumni Currently Attending Emerson Marcell Murray, Media Arts Production, Class of 2018 Bethany Owens, Media Arts Production, Class of 2019 Antonio Weathers, Writing, Literature and Publishing, Class of 2020 Haley Norton, Writing, Literature and Publishing, Class of 2021 Madison Wilson, Media Arts Production, Class of 2021

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